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wl_fanfictionTitle: Before the Dawn
Author: Clay
Pairings: Ryan/Colin, Greg/Chip, Ryan/Greg, Colin/Jeff
Rating: NC-17 for later chapters
Summary: Greg tries not to live in the past but love and temptation have a funny way of coming back around again. Betaed by Lyndsey; original concept by Clay and Lyndsey.
Word Count: 1,870
All Chapters
Prologue
It’d been two years, and the ring of dust around the vase topping the bookshelf told in far too much detail how he’d stopped caring about such trivial things a long time ago. Not that dusting had never been an important part of his life, but when Brad or Colin dropped by and immediately started joking about hay fever or directed a withering look to the neat pyramid of empty beer cans adorning what was once his dining room table, perhaps, he thought, it was time to do some cleaning.
Greg frowned at the layer of dust and grasped the bookcase tightly, slowly lowering himself down to the hardwood floor. His socked feet slipped over the worn wax coating, and he clung a little tighter to the case, furrowing his brow. In the next moment, he had scooted the chair over three feet and raised himself upon it again before scrounging around the far left side.
Dust rose in a cloud, but he held his breath, waving his hand about his head in an effort to dispel the worst of it. There, trapped behind a long-dead fern, he saw the creamy edge of an envelope, still resting where he’d hurled it from across the room almost four months prior.
He remembered the moment fuzzily, through a haze of alcohol and something slightly more illegal, remembered the wide arch as he watched the envelope spin through the air, remembered smiling slightly at the picture it made, and of course, did not remember forgetting about the whole thing until three days ago during a chance encounter with Brad at Penny Lane.
Two days ago he’d decided to fuck the whole thing and bought a fresh bottle of Grey Goose. Yesterday, when the vodka had run dry, and he lay in bed, absently stroking Mickey’s thick fur, feeling the vibrations of each droning purr and watching a grey sky that refused to let loose even a single drop of rain, he realized that it might be good for him.
And today he climbed back down off the hard backed chair and rocked slightly on his heels before taking the ivory envelope to the couch, falling heavily on the soft, leather cushions and then simply staring at it for close to an hour, going so far as to run two fingers over the gilded “You’re Invited” emblazoned across the paper, to consider that it had been hand delivered, and that alone should have meant something, and then, as the setting sun darkened the room to a pleasant orange hue, he jammed one finger beneath the lip of the flap and tore the envelope open.
Chapter One
Two Years Earlier
He’d begun the day with a stabbing headache, the kind that left you considering carving out a chunk of flesh in the hopes that it would hurt less. Four aspirin and a very large cup of coffee helped dull the pain, but there was still a constant, rhythmic echo as the blood pumped through his temples, and he lifted one hand, pushing up his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose as the audience burst into laughter.
Greg took a step back, fitting himself into the darkness of the wings, the bright stage lights playing merry havoc with his already sensitive eyes. It was a pain in more ways than one, but he’d said he’d be there, and so he was. First Wayne, then Chip, Colin and finally Ryan took their seats along the back of the stage, and Greg couldn’t help but smile, studying them in profile. Energy, the adrenaline of the stage radiated from them all, and it was a beautiful sight that he’d never tire of.
He remembered the old days, when it was all new and fresh and exciting, and there was a part of him that longed for that, longed for the thrill of the unknown, for the taste of something different but that had always been a part of him all the same, something he was afraid they were all losing bit by bit as the years rolled on.
All of them save Chip, of course.
Chip, the reason he was there now. Chip, with his doe eyes and bright, infective energy, with his ruddy chest gleaming dully in the blue light of the moon, adorned with a layer of sweat from a long evening of slow, heady love-making, with his whispered “Please?” that had Greg wanting, needing to hear that same soft sound slip from Chip’s lips as he approached orgasm, had him so distracted that he’d agreed to whatever Chip had wanted without a thought. And so here he was, watching, waiting, craving a Jager-bomb and a pack of Cloves just to mix things up, and if those didn’t help, another pair of aspirin would do. He sighed, tipping back and forth on tired legs as the hours whittled by.
Suddenly Chip turned his head. The cameras were on Drew and the speakers poured out yet another explanation to a game they’d played more times than Greg could count. Chip met his eyes, his grin bright, bordering on manic, but genuine nonetheless. Another small movement caught Greg’s attention, and he slipped his gaze up to find Ryan had spotted him and sat watching him as well. Their gazes locked and held, Ryan’s eyes dark and intense as usual, though a mild smile softened the effect somewhat. He returned the smile, feeling his headache throbbing once more, the pain trailing down to the nape of his neck, and then he shut his eyes and turned his head back down.
A shuffle drew his attention, and Greg realized that the players were taking their marks for a game of Superheroes. He flashed Chip a final nod and a smile and stepped further back into the darkness, letting his mind wander.
There were groceries to buy and bills to pay, and in two weeks, his and Chip’s one year anniversary. He was never one much for those things, but the way Chip’s eyes sparkled when the topic arose was oddly endearing. Colin was going on about something now in that gruff, mock-angry tone that always made Ryan smirk, and then Ryan’s smooth baritone cut in, and Greg smiled. Roses. He would buy Chip roses. Yellow ones, maybe, though red were more traditional. Something about giving Chip red roses seemed off, however. There was Chip’s voice now, almost caustically happy, and Greg rested a hand against the back side of the garish gold scenery as though he could seep some of the warmth and life of the stage through the plaster. Yes, yellow, he thought on, like the brightness Chip brought into his life, not that Greg had been unhappy before. Rather, he’d been quite content sharing drinks with Drew and Jeff while Ryan and Colin curled together on a couch in one suite or another, mocking old reruns of MASH over a beer or two, while Chip or Wayne or Denny or Kathy got shit faced over a game of cards. He’d been perfectly content facing his bed alone, his hand wrapped around his dick, jerking off to images he dared not let cross his mind in the daylight hours.
There was Wayne, crowing in some braying falsetto, and Greg just flat out blocked him out, curling his fingers against the plaster, fibers finding purchase beneath his nails.
And then there was the night, one night when they’d all had a little too much to drink, when it was just the five of them from the evening’s taping, after Ryan had dragged Colin off to their room with a dark smile, after Drew had kicked he and Chip out with a blunt declaration of needing to fuck the big-titted blonde waitress from the bar, and then it was just the two of them making their ways back up the hall, and he’d felt mildly uncomfortable with Chip’s gaze riveted on him as it had been, so clear and earnest, with Chip’s warm breath smelling of Jack and Bud, ghosting over Greg’s chin with a quiet “I’ve always admired you,” and Greg had simply figured why the fuck not?
Three months later, Chip had come up behind him with his hard planed chest and even harder dick, pressed against Greg’s back and said, “I love you,” and Greg had swallowed—hard, watching their reflections in the bathroom mirror and then said it back.
That was when Chip screamed.
Greg jerked his head up, shocked back to the here and now. His breath left his lungs as his stomach sank down to his knees, sick and heavy like an old iron kettle, its contents cold and stagnant. Stage hands were rushing past him, the well of the audience rose to a mind-numbing crescendo of white noise, and yet Greg wondered if he’d imagined the sound still echoing in his mind, so startlingly real that it couldn’t possibly be so. He took a slow step out of the wings and onto the stage proper.
Chip lay on his side, one knee pulled up against his chest, hands flailing uselessly about his calf and ankle. His face was contorted into a farce of its usual self, twisted with pain. Colin and Wayne were there, crowding around Chip, layering him with light touches and soft spoken words even as hard-faced EMTs grabbed at their arms and clothes, bodily hauling them back and away. Drew was up out of his seat, just coming around the desk, and the audience was on its feet, one collective voice, but as Greg watched, the swell seemed to fall back to a muted hum. Dan and Keith were coming over now, Dan’s lips dipped down into a sour scowl, but there was actual fear in his eyes, and it made Greg’s heart trip painfully in his chest.
“What—?” he choked out, or tried to, but the dry whisper of the word scarcely left his tongue.
More people pushed past him as he returned his gaze to Chip, not screaming now, his face red and splotchy white in turns, eyes shining, lips open as he drew in heavy breaths through his mouth. Carla, the makeup girl jammed against Greg’s shoulder, and suddenly his knees buckled, then locked and he felt himself falling forward with a sickening uselessness. The cold coil of his stomach seemed to lift into his throat, escaping in little more than a muted croak, and then suddenly there was a large, warm hand on his shoulder, gripping him a little too tightly but steadying him nonetheless.
Greg reacted blindly, reaching out and clinging to his savior even as his eyes stayed locked on Chip. His fingers clawed into warm, soft cotton, circled around arms hard from bone and taut muscle and he held on tighter, needing the comfort.
But then the warm, strong body was pulling away, jerking back and removing his hands with just a little too much force, and Greg ripped his gaze away to see Ryan looming over him, his cheeks oddly pale, his lips pursed and eyes unreadable, watching Greg in return.
“I need a cigarette,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving down slightly, and then he pushed away and a moment later, he was gone.
Author: Clay
Pairings: Ryan/Colin, Greg/Chip, Ryan/Greg, Colin/Jeff
Rating: NC-17 for later chapters
Summary: Greg tries not to live in the past but love and temptation have a funny way of coming back around again. Betaed by Lyndsey; original concept by Clay and Lyndsey.
Word Count: 1,870
All Chapters
It’d been two years, and the ring of dust around the vase topping the bookshelf told in far too much detail how he’d stopped caring about such trivial things a long time ago. Not that dusting had never been an important part of his life, but when Brad or Colin dropped by and immediately started joking about hay fever or directed a withering look to the neat pyramid of empty beer cans adorning what was once his dining room table, perhaps, he thought, it was time to do some cleaning.
Greg frowned at the layer of dust and grasped the bookcase tightly, slowly lowering himself down to the hardwood floor. His socked feet slipped over the worn wax coating, and he clung a little tighter to the case, furrowing his brow. In the next moment, he had scooted the chair over three feet and raised himself upon it again before scrounging around the far left side.
Dust rose in a cloud, but he held his breath, waving his hand about his head in an effort to dispel the worst of it. There, trapped behind a long-dead fern, he saw the creamy edge of an envelope, still resting where he’d hurled it from across the room almost four months prior.
He remembered the moment fuzzily, through a haze of alcohol and something slightly more illegal, remembered the wide arch as he watched the envelope spin through the air, remembered smiling slightly at the picture it made, and of course, did not remember forgetting about the whole thing until three days ago during a chance encounter with Brad at Penny Lane.
Two days ago he’d decided to fuck the whole thing and bought a fresh bottle of Grey Goose. Yesterday, when the vodka had run dry, and he lay in bed, absently stroking Mickey’s thick fur, feeling the vibrations of each droning purr and watching a grey sky that refused to let loose even a single drop of rain, he realized that it might be good for him.
And today he climbed back down off the hard backed chair and rocked slightly on his heels before taking the ivory envelope to the couch, falling heavily on the soft, leather cushions and then simply staring at it for close to an hour, going so far as to run two fingers over the gilded “You’re Invited” emblazoned across the paper, to consider that it had been hand delivered, and that alone should have meant something, and then, as the setting sun darkened the room to a pleasant orange hue, he jammed one finger beneath the lip of the flap and tore the envelope open.
Two Years Earlier
He’d begun the day with a stabbing headache, the kind that left you considering carving out a chunk of flesh in the hopes that it would hurt less. Four aspirin and a very large cup of coffee helped dull the pain, but there was still a constant, rhythmic echo as the blood pumped through his temples, and he lifted one hand, pushing up his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose as the audience burst into laughter.
Greg took a step back, fitting himself into the darkness of the wings, the bright stage lights playing merry havoc with his already sensitive eyes. It was a pain in more ways than one, but he’d said he’d be there, and so he was. First Wayne, then Chip, Colin and finally Ryan took their seats along the back of the stage, and Greg couldn’t help but smile, studying them in profile. Energy, the adrenaline of the stage radiated from them all, and it was a beautiful sight that he’d never tire of.
He remembered the old days, when it was all new and fresh and exciting, and there was a part of him that longed for that, longed for the thrill of the unknown, for the taste of something different but that had always been a part of him all the same, something he was afraid they were all losing bit by bit as the years rolled on.
All of them save Chip, of course.
Chip, the reason he was there now. Chip, with his doe eyes and bright, infective energy, with his ruddy chest gleaming dully in the blue light of the moon, adorned with a layer of sweat from a long evening of slow, heady love-making, with his whispered “Please?” that had Greg wanting, needing to hear that same soft sound slip from Chip’s lips as he approached orgasm, had him so distracted that he’d agreed to whatever Chip had wanted without a thought. And so here he was, watching, waiting, craving a Jager-bomb and a pack of Cloves just to mix things up, and if those didn’t help, another pair of aspirin would do. He sighed, tipping back and forth on tired legs as the hours whittled by.
Suddenly Chip turned his head. The cameras were on Drew and the speakers poured out yet another explanation to a game they’d played more times than Greg could count. Chip met his eyes, his grin bright, bordering on manic, but genuine nonetheless. Another small movement caught Greg’s attention, and he slipped his gaze up to find Ryan had spotted him and sat watching him as well. Their gazes locked and held, Ryan’s eyes dark and intense as usual, though a mild smile softened the effect somewhat. He returned the smile, feeling his headache throbbing once more, the pain trailing down to the nape of his neck, and then he shut his eyes and turned his head back down.
A shuffle drew his attention, and Greg realized that the players were taking their marks for a game of Superheroes. He flashed Chip a final nod and a smile and stepped further back into the darkness, letting his mind wander.
There were groceries to buy and bills to pay, and in two weeks, his and Chip’s one year anniversary. He was never one much for those things, but the way Chip’s eyes sparkled when the topic arose was oddly endearing. Colin was going on about something now in that gruff, mock-angry tone that always made Ryan smirk, and then Ryan’s smooth baritone cut in, and Greg smiled. Roses. He would buy Chip roses. Yellow ones, maybe, though red were more traditional. Something about giving Chip red roses seemed off, however. There was Chip’s voice now, almost caustically happy, and Greg rested a hand against the back side of the garish gold scenery as though he could seep some of the warmth and life of the stage through the plaster. Yes, yellow, he thought on, like the brightness Chip brought into his life, not that Greg had been unhappy before. Rather, he’d been quite content sharing drinks with Drew and Jeff while Ryan and Colin curled together on a couch in one suite or another, mocking old reruns of MASH over a beer or two, while Chip or Wayne or Denny or Kathy got shit faced over a game of cards. He’d been perfectly content facing his bed alone, his hand wrapped around his dick, jerking off to images he dared not let cross his mind in the daylight hours.
There was Wayne, crowing in some braying falsetto, and Greg just flat out blocked him out, curling his fingers against the plaster, fibers finding purchase beneath his nails.
And then there was the night, one night when they’d all had a little too much to drink, when it was just the five of them from the evening’s taping, after Ryan had dragged Colin off to their room with a dark smile, after Drew had kicked he and Chip out with a blunt declaration of needing to fuck the big-titted blonde waitress from the bar, and then it was just the two of them making their ways back up the hall, and he’d felt mildly uncomfortable with Chip’s gaze riveted on him as it had been, so clear and earnest, with Chip’s warm breath smelling of Jack and Bud, ghosting over Greg’s chin with a quiet “I’ve always admired you,” and Greg had simply figured why the fuck not?
Three months later, Chip had come up behind him with his hard planed chest and even harder dick, pressed against Greg’s back and said, “I love you,” and Greg had swallowed—hard, watching their reflections in the bathroom mirror and then said it back.
That was when Chip screamed.
Greg jerked his head up, shocked back to the here and now. His breath left his lungs as his stomach sank down to his knees, sick and heavy like an old iron kettle, its contents cold and stagnant. Stage hands were rushing past him, the well of the audience rose to a mind-numbing crescendo of white noise, and yet Greg wondered if he’d imagined the sound still echoing in his mind, so startlingly real that it couldn’t possibly be so. He took a slow step out of the wings and onto the stage proper.
Chip lay on his side, one knee pulled up against his chest, hands flailing uselessly about his calf and ankle. His face was contorted into a farce of its usual self, twisted with pain. Colin and Wayne were there, crowding around Chip, layering him with light touches and soft spoken words even as hard-faced EMTs grabbed at their arms and clothes, bodily hauling them back and away. Drew was up out of his seat, just coming around the desk, and the audience was on its feet, one collective voice, but as Greg watched, the swell seemed to fall back to a muted hum. Dan and Keith were coming over now, Dan’s lips dipped down into a sour scowl, but there was actual fear in his eyes, and it made Greg’s heart trip painfully in his chest.
“What—?” he choked out, or tried to, but the dry whisper of the word scarcely left his tongue.
More people pushed past him as he returned his gaze to Chip, not screaming now, his face red and splotchy white in turns, eyes shining, lips open as he drew in heavy breaths through his mouth. Carla, the makeup girl jammed against Greg’s shoulder, and suddenly his knees buckled, then locked and he felt himself falling forward with a sickening uselessness. The cold coil of his stomach seemed to lift into his throat, escaping in little more than a muted croak, and then suddenly there was a large, warm hand on his shoulder, gripping him a little too tightly but steadying him nonetheless.
Greg reacted blindly, reaching out and clinging to his savior even as his eyes stayed locked on Chip. His fingers clawed into warm, soft cotton, circled around arms hard from bone and taut muscle and he held on tighter, needing the comfort.
But then the warm, strong body was pulling away, jerking back and removing his hands with just a little too much force, and Greg ripped his gaze away to see Ryan looming over him, his cheeks oddly pale, his lips pursed and eyes unreadable, watching Greg in return.
“I need a cigarette,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving down slightly, and then he pushed away and a moment later, he was gone.
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