Running on Empty [Fic, 1/?]
Jun. 21st, 2013 02:02 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wl_fanfictionTitle: Running on Empty (1/?)
Author/Artist: ratherdance
Rating: PG-13, swearing
Main Character(s) and/or Pairings: Colin/Ryan
Summary: LA, December 19th, 1977. What are friends for if not to drive across the border and take you home?
Word Count: 1271
Feedback: Would be lovely, yes yes yes.
Disclaimer: Never happened. Even less than usual, since there's a bit of a fudging of the dates going on.
A/N: Executive producer:
wickedground . This one will go on through the whole road trip until they make it back to Vancouver.
Part I | Part II
Colin takes the second towards North Broadway and doesn’t look at him. He’s ever-careful, even after over a day behind the wheel. Keeps his eyes on the road. Ryan doesn’t mind, though. He’s enjoying his first cigarette in two weeks, and the first one in two months he hasn’t had to bum off someone. And there aren’t many people in LA who’ll toss a cig to a spindly, messy-haired 18-year-old in a ratty suit, 6’6’’ or not.
He rolls the window down a lick and watches the smoke billow around the crack. Even though it’s closing in on 11:30 pm and it’s December the fucking 19th, the City of Angels is determined to see him off in style: a stench that could knock out a cow at ten paces and an insufferable 60º.
His jacket becomes unbearable, so he holds onto the cigarette with his teeth for safety and struggles to untangle himself from it. They’re driving past Our Lady of the Angels on the 101 now. It’s all ablaze with the same garish Christmas lights strung around the whole cursed city, and he’s suffocating. He’s been suffocating for months, and the the lights have been a constant reminder of the feverish, phony winter that’s kept closing in on him like a vice, and goddammit he just can’t pull his right arm out of the stiff, itchy sleeve.
Just as he’s about to bite that first cigarette in half, two fingers are suddenly on his lips, ghost-like. He stops his thrashing cold, stays still as his smoke is taken away. Colin takes a drag. “Might be easier now,” he says, and lets the cig dangle off his lips as his right hand drops to the clutch.
Ryan can’t answer. He looks at his friend on the driver’s seat and he feels like a right asshole that there was a time he wouldn’t have called him one. There’s bags under Col’s eyes, dark on his pale face, and still they’re lighter than Ryan’s tan. His fringe is a floppy mess and his jumper is wrinkled beyond any measure of presentability, but still there’s that hint of a smile on his face. He weaves through the traffic, dark eyes shining under the streetlights as he looks out for signs to Echo Park Ave. “Biggest parking lot in the world, huh? I kind of expected worse, fabled Hollywood Freeway and all.”
“It’s nearing midnight on a Monday. Believe me, it gets worse. Bob Hope knew his stuff,” sighs Ryan. It’s the first time he’s spoken since boarding Colin’s father’s Pontiac Astre and slamming the door shut.
“You’ve driven around here, then?”
“Other people’s cars.” A couple guys had lent him their cars before fucking him over, which had been a nice gesture. After all, they could’ve just drive-by’d him for his material and be done with it. But no, they’d been companionable about it. He’d gotten a couple day trips with randoms out of the deal, at fucking least.
He’s getting antsy again and he realises he never took off his jacket.
“I’ve got a full carton, don’t worry.” Colin’s still looking at the road, and Ryan’s thankful to have been provided with an excuse to justify his frayed nerves. Smoke shakes, y’know.
“Isn’t that contraband?”
“Might be,” replies Colin, too cheerily by half. And at last Ryan laughs. Col’s smile deepens and becomes the real thing, and Ryan shrugs the jacket off his shoulders. He chucks it to the back of the car and begins searching for the promised packs, patting the rug behind the driver’s seat, his back too much of a knotty hell after months of sleeping in futons and couches and floors to let him turn and look for them properly.
Instead, his left hand finds the sleeve of Colin’s long-discarded winter coat trapped between the seats. He lets his fingers curl around it, and the lights flash by harmlessly on the windshield.
“No luck?” asks Colin. “They’ve got to be there.”
“Nevermind,” says Ryan. He leans over and plucks the half-finished cigarette from Col’s lips with his right hand. “This one’s good.” They fall into silence for a few minutes, enough for North Glendale Ave to turn into Verdugo, and as they leave Canada Boulevard to the left it dawns on him that he has no idea when Colin slept last. “Say— why don’t we park and rest a bit? This part of the city could be worse. Unlike most of it.”
“Nah.”
But those dark circles under Colin’s eyes are starting to freak him out. “Seriously man, how long have you been up?”
“Eight hours, give or take.”
“You gotta rest.”
Colin chuckles, but shakes his head firmly. “Not until we’re out of here.” And Ryan can’t find it in himself to argue, because he’s been wanting to get the hell out of LA for months now. It’s gone from a little voice in a tucked-away corner of his mind to a silent full-body scream, and he’s never said it out loud, not even when he found himself on a foul street pay phone dialing Col’s home number 71 hours earlier to ‘wish him a belated happy birthday.’
Only a friend could have refrained from calling bullshit on that one.
And yeah, he’d sounded happy to hear from Ryan. Had thanked him for the gesture, inquired about life in the warm south. And he hadn’t said anything when Ryan’s voice became more and more hollow as he turned all the shit he’d been wading through into funny stories, cocky and hilarious in their griminess, trying to force a laugh out of Col.
That was why he’d called, probably. Making Col laugh had never failed to cheer him up. And he could do with some cheering up. He’d been finding his footing, too, monologuing down the line and feeding the phone quarters he needed if there was going to be any chance of dinner, becoming more bombastic and untouchable the more he reached for that elusive sound all the way past the border, making light of the fact he’d been evicted, mocking himself for having to sleep on a friend’s couch— one of the friends who’d stolen his routines, but also one of the only people who’d take him in. And he’d been doing great, actually, he’d gone back to that sweet zone where he felt fucking hilarious, until Colin had piped up during a two-second lull. Sneaky bastard.
“Ry?”
“Yeah?”
“What would you say to being home for Christmas?”
Nothing much, it turned out. Massive knots in throats will do that to you. He’d only managed a non-committal, desperate sound, and that had been enough for Colin. In no time he’d extracted an address from him and told him to be waiting at the door by 11 pm on the 19th.
If it had been a joke, Ryan would’ve dropped dead at 11:01. He’d gone back and forth about that for a while before chastising himself for even thinking it. This wasn’t some LA fucker or his older brothers; if Colin had told him he’d be there, he would. And he was. He’d pulled up by the sidewalk at 10:58 and hadn’t even walked out the car, he’d just leaned over to open the passenger’s door and beamed at him from behind the wheel of the dark red notchback. “Evening. Care for a ride?”
His fingers tightened around the sleeve on Colin’s coat. Alright then, he’d give him until the Angeles Crest Highway. They’d sleep when the city lights couldn’t touch them anymore.
Part I | Part II
.
Author/Artist: ratherdance
Rating: PG-13, swearing
Main Character(s) and/or Pairings: Colin/Ryan
Summary: LA, December 19th, 1977. What are friends for if not to drive across the border and take you home?
Word Count: 1271
Feedback: Would be lovely, yes yes yes.
Disclaimer: Never happened. Even less than usual, since there's a bit of a fudging of the dates going on.
A/N: Executive producer:
wickedground . This one will go on through the whole road trip until they make it back to Vancouver.Part I | Part II
Colin takes the second towards North Broadway and doesn’t look at him. He’s ever-careful, even after over a day behind the wheel. Keeps his eyes on the road. Ryan doesn’t mind, though. He’s enjoying his first cigarette in two weeks, and the first one in two months he hasn’t had to bum off someone. And there aren’t many people in LA who’ll toss a cig to a spindly, messy-haired 18-year-old in a ratty suit, 6’6’’ or not.
He rolls the window down a lick and watches the smoke billow around the crack. Even though it’s closing in on 11:30 pm and it’s December the fucking 19th, the City of Angels is determined to see him off in style: a stench that could knock out a cow at ten paces and an insufferable 60º.
His jacket becomes unbearable, so he holds onto the cigarette with his teeth for safety and struggles to untangle himself from it. They’re driving past Our Lady of the Angels on the 101 now. It’s all ablaze with the same garish Christmas lights strung around the whole cursed city, and he’s suffocating. He’s been suffocating for months, and the the lights have been a constant reminder of the feverish, phony winter that’s kept closing in on him like a vice, and goddammit he just can’t pull his right arm out of the stiff, itchy sleeve.
Just as he’s about to bite that first cigarette in half, two fingers are suddenly on his lips, ghost-like. He stops his thrashing cold, stays still as his smoke is taken away. Colin takes a drag. “Might be easier now,” he says, and lets the cig dangle off his lips as his right hand drops to the clutch.
Ryan can’t answer. He looks at his friend on the driver’s seat and he feels like a right asshole that there was a time he wouldn’t have called him one. There’s bags under Col’s eyes, dark on his pale face, and still they’re lighter than Ryan’s tan. His fringe is a floppy mess and his jumper is wrinkled beyond any measure of presentability, but still there’s that hint of a smile on his face. He weaves through the traffic, dark eyes shining under the streetlights as he looks out for signs to Echo Park Ave. “Biggest parking lot in the world, huh? I kind of expected worse, fabled Hollywood Freeway and all.”
“It’s nearing midnight on a Monday. Believe me, it gets worse. Bob Hope knew his stuff,” sighs Ryan. It’s the first time he’s spoken since boarding Colin’s father’s Pontiac Astre and slamming the door shut.
“You’ve driven around here, then?”
“Other people’s cars.” A couple guys had lent him their cars before fucking him over, which had been a nice gesture. After all, they could’ve just drive-by’d him for his material and be done with it. But no, they’d been companionable about it. He’d gotten a couple day trips with randoms out of the deal, at fucking least.
He’s getting antsy again and he realises he never took off his jacket.
“I’ve got a full carton, don’t worry.” Colin’s still looking at the road, and Ryan’s thankful to have been provided with an excuse to justify his frayed nerves. Smoke shakes, y’know.
“Isn’t that contraband?”
“Might be,” replies Colin, too cheerily by half. And at last Ryan laughs. Col’s smile deepens and becomes the real thing, and Ryan shrugs the jacket off his shoulders. He chucks it to the back of the car and begins searching for the promised packs, patting the rug behind the driver’s seat, his back too much of a knotty hell after months of sleeping in futons and couches and floors to let him turn and look for them properly.
Instead, his left hand finds the sleeve of Colin’s long-discarded winter coat trapped between the seats. He lets his fingers curl around it, and the lights flash by harmlessly on the windshield.
“No luck?” asks Colin. “They’ve got to be there.”
“Nevermind,” says Ryan. He leans over and plucks the half-finished cigarette from Col’s lips with his right hand. “This one’s good.” They fall into silence for a few minutes, enough for North Glendale Ave to turn into Verdugo, and as they leave Canada Boulevard to the left it dawns on him that he has no idea when Colin slept last. “Say— why don’t we park and rest a bit? This part of the city could be worse. Unlike most of it.”
“Nah.”
But those dark circles under Colin’s eyes are starting to freak him out. “Seriously man, how long have you been up?”
“Eight hours, give or take.”
“You gotta rest.”
Colin chuckles, but shakes his head firmly. “Not until we’re out of here.” And Ryan can’t find it in himself to argue, because he’s been wanting to get the hell out of LA for months now. It’s gone from a little voice in a tucked-away corner of his mind to a silent full-body scream, and he’s never said it out loud, not even when he found himself on a foul street pay phone dialing Col’s home number 71 hours earlier to ‘wish him a belated happy birthday.’
Only a friend could have refrained from calling bullshit on that one.
And yeah, he’d sounded happy to hear from Ryan. Had thanked him for the gesture, inquired about life in the warm south. And he hadn’t said anything when Ryan’s voice became more and more hollow as he turned all the shit he’d been wading through into funny stories, cocky and hilarious in their griminess, trying to force a laugh out of Col.
That was why he’d called, probably. Making Col laugh had never failed to cheer him up. And he could do with some cheering up. He’d been finding his footing, too, monologuing down the line and feeding the phone quarters he needed if there was going to be any chance of dinner, becoming more bombastic and untouchable the more he reached for that elusive sound all the way past the border, making light of the fact he’d been evicted, mocking himself for having to sleep on a friend’s couch— one of the friends who’d stolen his routines, but also one of the only people who’d take him in. And he’d been doing great, actually, he’d gone back to that sweet zone where he felt fucking hilarious, until Colin had piped up during a two-second lull. Sneaky bastard.
“Ry?”
“Yeah?”
“What would you say to being home for Christmas?”
Nothing much, it turned out. Massive knots in throats will do that to you. He’d only managed a non-committal, desperate sound, and that had been enough for Colin. In no time he’d extracted an address from him and told him to be waiting at the door by 11 pm on the 19th.
If it had been a joke, Ryan would’ve dropped dead at 11:01. He’d gone back and forth about that for a while before chastising himself for even thinking it. This wasn’t some LA fucker or his older brothers; if Colin had told him he’d be there, he would. And he was. He’d pulled up by the sidewalk at 10:58 and hadn’t even walked out the car, he’d just leaned over to open the passenger’s door and beamed at him from behind the wheel of the dark red notchback. “Evening. Care for a ride?”
His fingers tightened around the sleeve on Colin’s coat. Alright then, he’d give him until the Angeles Crest Highway. They’d sleep when the city lights couldn’t touch them anymore.
Part I | Part II
.
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