the_drowners: Slow down, you're taking me over... | Manics Slash

untitled(editing)

lyricreference — Sun, 23 Jun 2013 06:34:11 GMT

Pairing: Nicky/Richey
Setting: Mostly 1991/onward but a few flashbacks to uni and such
Rating: somewhere around pg-13 for now
a/n: I'm sorry that some of the paragraphs are messed up/not indented or spaced properly, I always have issues with livejournal. I decided to write something in 2nd person and really enjoyed it, so this is just your usual glamour twins mush. Enjoy.

1991
Nicky is drunk. He’s the cute sort of drunk, not like you moping around your college dorm a few years back. You have decided to stay sober tonight, even though it’s a night for celebrating. Word has it that the photo-shoot you and Nicky did a few hours before is going to make the NME cover- the cover! Everyone involved went out to the bar, Nicky loudly telling anyone who may or may not be interested that you two are going to take over the music industry, his frequent and sloppy hugs and touches getting the attention of a few narrow-minded onlookers. You look down in embarrassment every time your ruined chest statement is mentioned. You’re just as excited as him, though. Everyone seems to love you guys, and even those that hate you give you encouragement. At least you’re getting noticed, and it’s so much fun. Sean spills beer into the lap of a businessman- it really is an accident, but Philip drags all of you out, says it’s time to go. As if you’re children, like your silly actions are catching up to you and you need to be monitored. You can’t stop giggling as Nicky leads you out the door, having decided that your smaller frame is the best thing to aid his balance. His fingers brush against your neck and you tell him to fuck off, his hands are cold, but he only blinks at you. You don’t mind, anyway.


Back in your shared room, you watch as Nicky sits down at the tiny desk, swamped in makeup and notebooks, and spins himself around on the stool. He stops, catching his breath, mumbling a question. He’s smiling, eyes lowered, cheeks flushed, and once again you’re confused. Confused only because Nicky is probably the most beautiful, yet ridiculous person you’ve ever met, spent so much time with, endured. Even when he’s acting out, or drunk, or getting all of you in trouble, your stomach goes in knots as if you’re thirteen years old. And when he gets serious and calm, you want to be close to him, listen to his ideas and take pictures of his mouth. The way your pulse goes into overdrive should probably make you upset or annoyed, but it doesn’t. You’re spoiled. Spoiled because you know he loves you, because he’s told you almost too many times, shown it in public so often that you’re not sure if the questions about his sexual orientation from others are jokes or not. You don’t care if he returns some of the feelings. The way you blink too much when he’s shirtless, terrified of staring, yet appreciating every second. You’ve been with girls, you’ve been around enough girls to last you a lifetime. They’re alright, but it’s Nicky at the front of your mind, when you have sex, when you’re alone. You haven’t even seen all of him, but what stays in your memory is enough to excite you more than anyone else- but at least he cares for you, and that’s enough.
“Riiich!”
“What?” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
“I said, I hope you’re not too upset you didn’ pull last night.” He’s teasing you, a smirk forming and reaching his glassy eyes.
“You said it was awful, anyway.”
“Yeah, but…” He shrugs, small bruises on his collarbone moving up and down, and you wish you could kiss him there. You deserve it more than that girl, anyway.
“I s’pose I got my share of marks, huh?” You enjoy laughing at yourself, at your bad habits.
Nicky giggles, shaking his head at you and stands up, stumbling over to the bed and falling onto it. He takes his shoes off and tosses them at the wall, and someone yells at him to quiet down. “C’mere. The ceiling’s spinning!”
You sigh and reluctantly lay down beside him, listening to his useless chatter, drunken giggles. You’re not even quite sure what he’s talking about at this point, but he seems to be amused, and so are you. He turns on his side to face you and suddenly tugs at the collar of your t-shirt, eyebrows coming together in concern. Before you can say anything he gently kisses the letters, and you flinch because it stings, but his mouth is so soft and he’s never done that anywhere below the side of your face, the top of your head. It’s usually platonic.

       He ruffles the mess of uneven hair on your head, making it stand up even more than usual.
“I should probably go to sleep before I do something stupid.” He tells you solemnly. He’s not sober yet, and his sudden seriousness makes you smile, makes you want to grab him and tell him he’s already being stupid, climb on top of him, kiss him until he jokingly whines about germs, asking where your mouth has been. Until he’s too out of breath to worry. Your mouth hasn’t been anywhere particularly exciting.
You laugh and nod, taking your jeans off and rolling over, denying yourself the fun of staring at him for one night. At least he’s there, in bed with you.
~~~
The two of you should not be allowed to share a bed. You, specifically- should room with James, with Sean. In a sleeping bag on the floor, listening to Nicky’s quiet breathing from a safe distance. On the living room couch. In your parent’s home, in the van. Somewhere safe.

          Your thought process, (what exists of it, at least,) is muddled with these ideas, brief excuses and answers for being so fucking dense. It’s early. Early for you, for young men trying to get used to a lifestyle more rock n’ roll than they’re used to, a lifestyle their teenage selves would have wanted. You squint at the sheet over your eye and wonder if this is your fault, or if you can blame it on your subconscious. Sometime during the night, you were dreaming, maybe- it wasn’t you, but you ended up entwined with him, and just like in your photos you can’t figure out where one ends and the other begins. Not your fault. But you fucked up. Somewhere between deep sleep and being half-awake, as you are now, you pulled him closer, your sleeping brain being greedy and wanting more than just fantasies for a while. You are completely on top of him, his left leg forcefully nestled between the two of yours, which you are not going to think about, arms flung around the side of his ribcage and left shoulder, the majority of your face resting in his neck.

You are not going to move.
With sudden clarity your anxiety lifts, and you are never leaving. This is an accident, you realize, not your fault, and you are going to take advantage of the situation. Besides, he cuddles closer to you when the nights are cold, anyway. You were not in control, and not about to move now. You’re hardly even awake. You sigh as quietly as possible and feign sleep, enjoying the warmth of his neck.

A few weeks later, he corners you as soon at the others leave. You had just gotten some water and were planning on sitting down somewhere, relaxing a little- but he takes the glass out of your hand, pushes you against the wall. Gives you kisses on your cheeks, and you squirm and blush, frowning in mock-annoyance.
“Get-”
“James told me.” He’s trying not to smile and failing miserably, hands at your shoulders. “He told me and you’re a fucking bastard liar.” He smiles, kissing the end of your nose, now.
You are worried, excited, and terribly confused.
“What….? What do you mean, what did he tell you?” You frown up at him, even though he seems far from angry. What did you do, what did James say? Your brain seems to be using all of its power to ignore the obvious. You feel like you’re being taunted in a schoolyard, and you would very much like to know what’s next, if you’re going to get your face beaten in or not. Metaphorically, of course. Nicky’s too soft.
He drops his hands from your shoulders, standing at a more normal and comfortable distance, now. “He told me you’ve been pining after me for the last…two years? Three?”

He is actually preoccupied with the exact date. You stare at some spot past Nicky’s shoulder. You feel sick with embarrassment.
You never told him. Never told James and now this. You’re not sure if Nicky is taunting you or not, if this is a cute game for him, a reason to become even better friends. All that writing you do and it turns out it doesn’t matter, what you put on paper and what you keep hidden in your head. Does everyone know? Have you looked like a complete fool this entire time?
He laughs at the expression on your face for a moment, and kisses you full-on this time. Too quickly for you to think about it, for it to sink in that his mouth is pressed against yours this time, not in your hair or on your forehead. It’s soft and too real. You let out the breath you were holding through your nose and respond immediately, hands finding his curved waist by themselves, years of fantasy and reality, scenarios and simply being around him finally adding up to something. You know where to rest your hands, places on him you love to touch as friends, places you would love to hold him while kissing, as- you gleefully remind yourself- you’re doing now.

He doesn’t seem to intend on stopping. A part of you wishes he would, so you can explain yourself, apologize, reprimand him both for talking to James about you and for not doing something sooner- that is, if he feels the way his kisses are showing. He isn’t stopping, even though last time you checked, there are only a few different ways you can kiss one person simply on the mouth.
Apparently he doesn’t care, because he keeps doing it, over and over, and you have to gently push him off of you, make him look at you, (he’s staring at the floor, suddenly shy again,) and explain.

“I’ve wanted to do that since…University, kinda.” He manages, catching his breath and messing up your hair again, but the act has an affection to it that wasn’t there before. His hand lingers at the side of your head, stroking your temple and moving the strands this way and that. He quickly stops, taking his hand away and smiling at you close-lipped. For once he doesn’t have much to say.

Dinner is as usual, hurried and loud, Terri reminding all of you to please try to turn off the Sega and radio beforehand- (Which you hardly ever do). You can feel Nicky’s eyes on you off and on and don’t look up, face burning. You know he’s paying attention now, gaze covering every part of you. You’ve seen him do it, to girls at the pub when you went out all the time when you were younger. Boys too, now that you think about it. Nicky likes everyone when he’s drunk, and more boys approached him in those days anyway, with how he dressed.

All of you get drinks and crowd the living room later, The Sega set up on the tiny TV brought from the flat you used to share with Nicky, MTV on the main house set. It’s loud again, and Nicky swiftly pulls you into his lap, arms wrapped decisively around your waist, making it impossible to move. Not that you want to. You play a few games against Sean, quickly giving up as Nicky won’t stop yelling in your ear. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on his hands, covering your own whenever possible. The two of you are usually close, but not like this. No one asks questions. Nicky rests his chin on your shoulder as. nd kisses the side of your neck as you toss the controller aside. You stare at the TV, self-conscious and excited.
You fidget and squirm in his lap, silently asking if you can leave.

Back in your room you watch as he sits down on the bed, looking nervous again and pats his lap, an invitation which you eagerly accept, straddling him and finding the courage to kiss him again, much harder and deeper than you dared to out in the rest of the house earlier. You pull his lower lip into your mouth and fight the urge to sigh, pulse and thoughts still on overdrive now that this is finally happening. Your fingers twist themselves into his hair, tugging from the back of his head and holding him to you. His heart is racing more than yours, and his hands move over your upper body with nervous excitement. Even as you get sleepy you want him closer, and you let your hands slip under his t-shirt, mold themselves around his sides as you lay down. You feel his steady breathing on your forehead and he mumbles something along the lines of “G’night, pretty boy”, and you grunt and roll your eyes at him but it makes your stomach flip. His fingers are in your hair and at the back of your neck and you’re ecstatically happy.

A few days later, it gets to be too much. The close proximity has your active mind on high-speed, and his too, it seems. You are sitting next to him one afternoon, instruments and papers and books tossed aside, because you keep finding his tongue slipping between your lips. He giggles and turns away, tries to focus, but it doesn’t work for long, and it seems there are more important things at hand. The discussions you’ve had, early in the morning, flood your mind. The things he’s said he would like to do. You could barely hear him, voice low, shyly admitting these things with his hand covering his face. Things that made you worry your bottom lip and ask him to please stop, because your face was warm and you couldn’t look into his eyes because he was suddenly voicing some of your post private thoughts.

His eyes flick up and down, down for much longer, and he blinks quickly, trying to compose himself. You nod, and it’s a request as much as an answer, and you stare in disbelief as his hand moves to the front of your jeans. You smile at how terrified he looks- he’s the one with experience with other boys, not you. But there he is, sitting next to you, spare hand clinging to your waist. He scoots closer and kisses your cheek, mumbling something in your ear about how he may not be very talented at this sort of thing. You don’t have a proper response, smiling shakily at him instead, the only thing on your mind being his right hand, and his uneven breath in your ear. It occurs to you that if he wasn’t lying earlier, he may have been waiting for this too.
“Richey?” He removes his hand and you hold back a noise of protest. He’s wringing his hands, face looking more concerned than lusty and you want to laugh at him again. You’re the strange one of the group? “Is…can I?” He’s frowning at you, but as his gaze moves back to your lap his face relaxes, eyes wide. You chuckle and remove your shirt, un-buttoning your jeans. You’ve waited actual years thinking about this, and the time comes and he’s shier than you’ve ever seen him, than you thought was possible from Nicky.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” You kiss his fingertips and place his hand at your waistband, squirming with anticipation because you’d really like this to not go so slowly. This isn’t a groupie, this is Nick, and with your bad experiences and pathetic sex life thus far, you’ve never been so eager with anyone before. His fingers dance over your scrawny hips and over your stomach past your belly button, moving down beneath your boxers, and you try to breathe evenly.
You turn and bite his shoulder as to not disturb the entire house.

The first week, you’re not there. You feel like a teenager, (if your teenage self got any action), your mind is further away than usual, if possible. The others tease you relentlessly, and your comebacks consist of mumbles and laughs and weak shoves. Gigs don’t matter because you don’t play anyway. Gigs are a chance to dance around and taunt Nicky in front of an audience with your hugs, to get drunk and throw things and turn down sexual offers from strangers because you have no use for them. Because in one week you’ve convinced yourself that Nicky’s mouth is one of the greatest sensory things you’ll ever experience. You lay your head in his lap in the van, breathing steadily against his thigh and ignoring the bumps in the road.
Love bites appear across your neck. You don’t do much to hide them. A journalist makes a snide comment and you blame it on groupies. Everyone wants to fuck you. You’re Richey James, you’ll make everyone believe you sleep around, share your body like you share your cuts with the public. You figure you’re a spectacle, can do whatever you like. It’s hilarious. All you want to do is stay indoors and hold Nicky. Not much else, really. He looks you over one night, stares at the dark spots on your neck. Makes a quiet sound of approval and tells you you’re beautiful, his eyes quickly moving between your face and neck. You would much rather stay inside.
James laughs for what you consider to be too long when you fill him in. It’s recently started to become a habit that the two of you go out to the bar together, and as you expected, conversation turns to the recent change in dynamic between you and Nicky. You give him some more details- as many as you’ll allow, because there are parts you know James wouldn’t care about, that you’re sure would be ruined if you shared them with anyone but yourself. You try your best to cooperate when he again mentions that he noticed your attraction to Nicky early on- that fucker, and he didn’t notice Nicky’s? Nicky is good at hiding things, he reminds you. All of that showing off is good for something. James pushes his beer aside and gives you a teasing glance.
“University?”
       Of course.

1985

       Your life has started moving more quickly than you thought possible at the time. Everything is happening at once, and between horrible band practices, schoolwork, and Nicky being there more than before, you can’t keep your mind quiet.
       That’s the problem. Nicky is the problem, even if you won’t admit it to yourself. You do on rare occasions; barely let it break the surface. Not even that. You’re embarrassed, ashamed to the point that your lust- your love, because he is your best friend, after all- consists mainly of feelings rather than coherent thoughts. But it’s there, even if you do your best to push it aside. He teases you, putting on the faintest traces of eyeliner in your dorm. Noticeable but not enough to get bothered for it.
“Why don’t you ever go out?”
      You huff at him push aside a mound of clothes to sit next to him on the bed. “I do. I go out with you guys all the time.” Although you rarely drink. Watching Nicky make a fool of himself in public is enough entertainment as it is- and you mean this in a sincere, platonic sort of way.
Nicky gives you a look that reeks of annoyed teenager. “I mean with giiirls, Richey! All you fucking do is sit around here with your books or beg me to stay in with you and listen to records! Have you ever even tried going on a date? I don’t think you have.” He turns away from you again, messing with his hair.

His horrible, ever-changing ugly hair. You don’t have the heart to tell him it looks stupid. Most of the styling he does to himself makes him look like a complete idiot, but you find yourself smiling for much too long at every strange thing he does. You are baffled as to how he gets any girls at all. Aren’t you the only one to find him attractive? When he pouts at you or stumbles over things when drunk your insides seem to jerk around, and the warm feeling often quickly turns to nausea as you realize what it means. Because you absolutely cannot feel that way for Nicky. Because you already have enough to worry about. Because the fuckers next-door won’t shut up at night and it would be nice to not lie awake analyzing every heart palpitation as well.
By your third year of University you are allowing your memory to grab on every time he exposes any skin or falls asleep on your shoulder or whines to you about something. It only makes you more frustrated, makes you try harder to stay normal. And Nicky? His main goal in life by age nineteen appears to consist of being as cuddly as possible with you. You hate him sometimes. Really.

For You (Nicky/Richey)

lyricreference — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 06:15:20 GMT

I keep trying to get rid of that code thing at the start of those few paragraphs, but it doesn't work, then it tells me some other formatting thing is wrong. Sorry.

Rating: idk
Summary: fairly mild (Probably??) pain kink fic. Nicky and Richey change things up and try something new. Nicky gets awkward, and I can't seem to end these like I was able to a few years ago, sorry for the smut let-down.
Disclaimer: This is fiction, I obviously don't own the Manics and don't have anything to do with them, blah blah

“Nicky, wait.” Richey’s quiet voice interrupted him as his hands stroked his shoulders, teeth at his throat as per usual, when they ended up like this. As they’d been ending up lately. For the past few months. Hands never to themselves, even more so when they were able to escape to a hotel room while on tour.
“Hm?” He moved back a little to look at him, not yet shirtless as he lay on the bed, hair everywhere just from wandering around the city- no gigs until the next day, he assumed Richey was glad about that.
“I wanna try something.”
Nicky had been distracted, and Richey quickly moved out of his grip before he could do anything. Suddenly he was being pulled, and pushed downward onto the bed. Richey sat beside him, watching as Nicky blinked in confusion.
“I thought you were the one who liked…this sort of thing? Come on, you’re being ridi-Ooh..” Nicky stopped talking to let out a sigh. All Richey had done was lean down to bite at his collarbone, fingers already harshly pressing into his hips, trying to keep him still.
“I wanted to see how you’d react, but I guess that’s pretty obvious.” Richey was smirking as he moved to sit on Nicky’s thighs. He had always been gentle with him, saving anything even mildly rough for himself. That was just the way they did things.
Nicky shifted on the bed, suddenly very interested. Richey seemed to have momentarily forgotten about him, so he had to tug on his hand to get his attention. “Rich...again…” He mumbled his request, almost embarrassed at this new turn of events.
“What?” Richey smiled, fingers gently messing with his hair, touching his face. Nicky opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was so new to this, even after countless nights of Richey’s voice pleading with him on the same terms…
“This?” Richey’s face remained blank- how did he do that? As he quickly dug his fingernails into Nicky’s hipbones, forcing a gasp from Nicky, his eyes falling shut. He could only nod, glancing up to see Richey ever-so-gently feeling over the front of his jeans, a look of delight on his face. He tried to move towards his hand, needing more contact, but Richey was quickly focused elsewhere. Nicky’s breathing became increasingly more ragged as Richey continued, leaning down to leave a trail of angry bite marks across Nicky’s collarbones, his crotch now pressed up against Nicky’s from this new angle. He let out a whimper as Richey’s nails moved down his sides, the pressure in his jeans nearly uncomfortable. Suddenly it stopped.
He reached for Richey, trying to pull him back, but his hands were shoved away, being pinned at his sides.
“Are you alright?” The concern in Richey’s voice was obvious, despite keeping up his forceful act.
Nicky nodded, biting his lower lip. “Yeah, ‘course, just…” He struggled under Richey’s firm grip. It was his fault he was this hard, if Richey wouldn’t do anything, he would have to just-
“You’re sure?” Nicky was just about to force out a reply, and ask him to please get on with it, when he felt the gentle scrape of teeth over his nipple.
“Ye-ahh…?” Goddamn his voice for cracking.
Richey gave a more genuine smile. Nicky was probably having a hard time with this too, probably a bit confused, it not being normal for him, but certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. Nicky swore he saw Richey’s hand quickly move downward to tend to his own arousal a few times, while he had been so focused on this new-found pleasure.
“Does that mean you’ve had enough, then?” He sat back, smiling down at Nicky, that gentle, soft touch returning. Nicky reached up to tease at Richey’s waist, he wanted to kiss it, or his lips, or-
“Nick.”
He jolted in surprise. “Hm?”
“I asked you a question.” Nicky felt teeth at his neck, Richey mumbling against his skin.
“Oh! No..?” Nicky said quietly, trying desperately to keep his composure.
“No what?” Richey looked on the verge of laughing.
“I….” Nicky paused, catching his breath, suddenly at a loss for words. He wanted more of what had already been inflicted, but he was confused, and another part of him quite literally wanted them to carry on as they usually did, none of this slow torture business how Richey liked.
Nicky shook his head. “Nah, but…Rich? Could you please just…y’know, get this over with?” He smiled, squirming uncomfortably underneath Richey.
His expression changed, leaning down to kiss him, all lips and soft touches this time, as he usually was, a hand finally reaching inside Nicky’s pants to touch him. “Of course.”

Short fics?

lyricreference — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 00:03:10 GMT

Two fanfics that I wrote within the past few months. They're both pretty short and tame, and similar, so I just put them under the same post. Disclaimer: Fiction, my imagination, etc. I don't own these two, blah blah
Enjoy.
#1

“Rich? Does it make is odd that we always sleep in the same bed? There are two in this hotel room. In every hotel we stay at, actually, but here we are, and…you kicked me a moment ago, actually.”

“What? No. Go to sleep.”
“Says the one that’s…what was it that you told the interviewer? You like guys as much as girls? Or was that a joke?” Nicky poked at what he figured was Richey’s shoulder.

“I don’t care, ask me in the morning.”

Nicky sighed. Richey had somehow gotten more attractive since they’d left school. These feelings kept on coming back, it seemed. If Nicky would stop being so stubborn, he would admit to himself that he did, in fact, think of Richey as more than a best friend at times.

“Fine.” He teased, leaning over and kissing at Richey’s neck.

A joke.

Nicky gently pushed Richey over, so he could get his head onto the same pillow. “I’m the one they always made fun of for it, yet here you are, getting the guys!” His fingers found Richey’s lips, much to his delight. “What’s it like?”

“Nice.” Was the reply.

“Only ‘nice’?” Nicky knew he was pushing it, but didn’t necessarily care. He smiled to himself as he felt Richey kiss his fingertips. “Hey, I know I’m…well, your bandmate and all, but do you think I could be an exception?”

“To what? I don’t have rules about who I’m attracted to.”
Nicky felt the familiar hand move along his shoulder.

“The one that says you aren’t allowed to feel that way about your mates.” Nicky was smiling as he talked. He knew they were both being complete idiots.

            “You’re just Nick, it doesn’t even count, really. Well, you know I just really like your friendship anyway, so-“
            “Where are you?
            “What?”

Ah, here we go.

Nicky kissed him.

He kissed him multiple times, to be truthful, ignoring the faux-annoyed sighs he received in-between. “You can be really difficult, you know.”

“Mh.” Nicky rested his face on the smaller man’s chest, trying to kiss at any part of his neck he could reach, closing his eyes again. “I’ll go to sleep now, okay?”

Being in the same bed wasn’t the problem. They’d done that before. Much more experienced in the whole “sharing a bed with your male friends” area than most. That part was fine.

Everyone in the band seemed to be a bit agitated, however. It was one of their first tours, and the boys had been overly excited, wanting to have some personal space this time, different rooms. But, no. Nicky and Richey to one small hotel bed, James and Sean in the other. As before.

Nicky dived onto the side of the bed that Richey wasn’t sitting on, having already pulled a t-shirt and pajama bottoms on. He was far too jumpy from their gig to sleep just yet, but Sean wanted to turn the lights off, (at which Richey threw his book at him,) so they reluctantly got under the covers.

“Nicky?” He opened his eyes just a little, seeing Richey starting at the wall, looking nervous.

“Yeah?” He tried to prop himself up on his pillow for easier conversation, but failed.

“Thanks for being my friend.”

“Anytime, Rich. Go to sleep.”

“You’re just, really great, and funny-“

“I’m a twat.”

“A funny one. And just, you’re nice to have around, and quite pretty, you know-“

“Oh, I’m pretty to you now?” Nicky laughed, getting a playful smack in return.

“Shh!” Richey smiled briefly, before looking serious again. “I mean it.” He fidgeted, gaze not lingering on Nicky for long.

Nicky frowned. What…?

“How do you mean?” He pushed Richey’s mop of hair out of his eyes, more of a gesture of friendship and his own frustration to see Richey’s face as he spoke than anything else.

“I mean I kinda fancy you.” He sighed, now avoiding Nicky altogether.

Nicky blinked. Oh. Well then.

He had never really had much preference in gender, to be honest. But at the same time, had never considered Richey. Not once.

But here he was, sharing a bed with him, looking absolutely terrified at what he’d just admitted. Nicky had to admit he was good-looking. More than that, even. A little experimenting with his beautiful friend couldn’t hurt.

“Sorry. Forget it, g’night Nick.” He closed his eyes, face a little bit red.

Nicky laughed.

“Don’t fuckin’ laugh, I’m allowed to…say things.” Richey’s eyes were still shut tightly.

“One question, Android.” Nicky searched for Richey’s wrist, grabbing ahold of it. “How can you ‘kinda’ have those feelings for someone?”

“I dunno. Shut up, Nick, it’s not a big deal.” He frowned.

“Same rules that apply to weird friendships and stupid ideas?”
“What?”

“This would be great publicity, y’know. The flamboyant guys of the band….In a relationship.”

“Shut up.”

“God, Richey, I was kidding!” Nicky squeezed his wrist, fingers finding the smooth skin of his palm. He scooted closer, pressing a kiss to Richey’s cheek. “To use your words, you’re kinda pretty yourself.” He moved closer, fingers finding their way into Richey’s mess of hair, pushing it aside, and stopping to rest on the side of his face, deciding to leave little kisses all along his jaw and neck, shushing him when he began to giggle, although not necessarily concerned about the other two sleeping in the room. He had almost forgotten about them. He made his way over to Richey’s mouth, holding back a sigh as they kissed; briefly, for the first time, but it was nice, nonetheless.

Reality (Nicky/Richey) 3/4

lyricreference — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 04:22:29 GMT

Same ratings and such as the other parts. Livejournal kept telling me it was too long?

January, 1994:

It was completely bizarre. Having someone do that.

Richey kept quiet, Nicky calmly pressing his lips down, kissing over the cuts that were partially healed.

So…weird.

Places where he’d quite obviously cut himself, places that he’d used as an outlet for something else entirely, the opposite of what Nicky made him feel. He remembered clearly what it had felt like to drag the razors across, but now felt Nicky’s lips in those places.

They felt so soft.

It was too weird.

Something as comforting and familiar as Nicky’s mouth, barging in on places he’d purposefully harmed, it- it didn’t make sense.

The two things on the same level, it didn’t feel right, but-Nicky was trying to do something right.

When he cut himself, he rarely thought of Nicky. He thought of…not much, really. Anticipation, maybe. Occasionally, the fact that he could simply not do it. That never really happened though. If he was that close to a solution, he didn’t back out. But it helped, and here were Nicky’s lips, that were the same thing to him.

Helpful.

He closed his eyes. He felt embarrassed.

1992:

Nicky stared at the table, bored.

They’d come out to the public a week ago, and, well…every interviewer, it seemed, needed their own personal confirmation.

Every radio station and magazine and TV show that cared about them.

“So, in last week’s NME, you guys were on the cover again, but for a different reason than just your fame. Nicky, Richey, you’re in a relationship now?”

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

“Mhm.”

He nodded. Casual. These morons saw it coming.

“How do you think the fans are taking it?”

“I don’t think they care.” Richey smiled.

“What do you think this means for the future of the band?”

“I think it means our hotel arrangements might be different.” Nicky bit his lip, suppressing a laugh.

He was so sick of these people. The entire band was, really. Hardly anyone had any negative opinions. Their fans were wild and open-minded enough as it was from the beginning, the only people that seemed to care were the press- and even then, only for publicity reasons.

It was all pretty ridiculous.

May, 1994:

“Rich, come here.”

…….

“Richey.”

Nicky sighed, going over to where Richey sat on the couch in their shared apartment, kissing his cheek, trying to keep their spirits up. “Do, um…do you think…could you do something for me?”

“Hmm?”

“Come to bed without the drinks tonight, yeah? Please?” Nicky was getting desperate.

“I dunno.” Richey shrugged. “I’m scared to.”

“You’ll be okay, really.” How could he promise that? “I’ll stay right here, your head won’t feel shit in the morning, it’’ll be okay.” He pulled Richey closer. “If…if you can’t sleep, I’ll stay up with you, okay? Just stay here?”

Richey sighed. He wanted to please Nicky, really he did. “Fine. Sure, whatever.” One night wouldn’t hurt.

“When was the last time you-“

“I don’t fuckin’ know the answer to any of those questions.” He was being rude, but part of him didn’t care.

The last time he’d been eating properly? The last time he’d hurt himself? Been genuinely happy and satisfied with the way things were going?

“Can we just go to bed?” He moved himself closer to Nicky now, giving in a little. “I’ll be okay, promise.” He got up, keeping his hand firmly in Nicky’s, leading him over to their bed. He could do it, at least for one night.

Reality (Nicky/Richey) 2/4

lyricreference — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 04:20:13 GMT

Warnings: language, common Manics-fanfic triggers
Rating: Somewhere between pg-13 and NC-17/R, not quite sure?
Disclaimer: Fiiiictionnnnn
Pairing: That's obvious
Again, click the title and not the other link.

November, 1993:

“What do you want?” Nicky immediately regretted his wording. He didn’t know what to say, really. “I mean. Just. What…how can I-”

Richey was shaking his head, silencing him. “It’s fine, Nick. Really.” He was smiling, actually.

They’d been mostly quiet that night, both huddled together in one of the two provided beds in the hotel room. Nicky was going through an internal fight with himself-should he mention the fact that more cuts and small burn marks were appearing on his Richey’s arms, should he even be trying to talk with him? Or should he keep holding him, kicking at the TV remote to turn off the bad local channels, and continue kissing Richey’s cheek?

They had been doing just fine. But Nicky couldn’t keep quiet.

“I’m okay right now, really.” Richey spoke reassuradely. “It feels like a more positive thing than a problem, sometimes. Why should everyone worry when it’s helpful?” He laughed bitterly, upon realizing the answer to his own question.

Nicky barely smiled, as he received a kiss under his chin.

Because you’re destroying yourself, you idiot. Nicky pursed his lips, keeping the thoughts inside.

“I’m okay right now.” He repeated, momentarily looking up at Nicky, after staring into space.

What an odd guy.

Nicky sighed, curling his arms more tightly around him, despite Richey’s whines of “You’re gonna crush me, you cunt” and the small pushes he recieved against his chest. He was smiling, that was what mattered.
“Too bad.” Nicky laughed, loosening his grip and pressing a definitive kiss to Richey’s brow. “I want-"

“You do help, shut it.”

Nicky sighed. “You say that, but…I wish I could do more than this. All I do is say a bunch of useless crap and hug you.” He laughed quietly. “It doesn’t seem to do much.”

“It does, sometimes.” Richey’s eyes were closed, face relaxing as he leaned into Nick. His fingers lingered at the back of Richey’s neck, gently feeling his now-shorter hair. Of course it did nothing but make him look more beautiful. Nearly anything would.

“Love you.”

Nicky’s heart felt as if it had lurched forward in his chest. He hadn’t heard that in awhile.

“I love you too, Rich.” He pulled the body closer to him as he laid back, forgetting about the covers and their clothes.

1992:

“Nicky.”

“Hmm?” Nicky rolled over, clumsily looking over at Richey, who had ended up beside him in the bed. Richey, who he’d just had wonderful sex with, and enjoyed it all immensely.

“Save it for the morning?” He sleepily traced his fingers over the others’ shoulder, down his side…so nice. Everything was.

Richey was shaking his head, unable to stop smiling. “No, I...please? Nicky. What is this? Is this going to be a regular thing? Are we going to keep getting girls? Are we going to just end up this way every so often?”

Nicky smiled. Richey was completely serious, words slow and tired, curious.

“I think you’re being silly, and that sex hair looks great on you.” Nicky fought back a smile. He didn’t have the mental capacity to answer serious questions at the moment.

“Do you wanna keep doing this? Not casual sex, I mean. Sort of, continuing this, ah-”

“I’ve never seen you struggle with words.” Nicky smiled. “But, yeah, I’d like that. You’re not easy to let go of.”

Richey used the last of his energy to press an excited kiss to the bassist’s chin. How ridiculous, dating one’s band-mate. It was risky, stupid, reckless-the media would flip, James and Sean would be even more annoyed by them, most likely-but he was prepared.

He nearly felt like he was going to be sick with relief and giddiness. He loved Nicky, really. Loved him. But that would have to wait.

1992:

“So.”

Nicky glanced to his right, where Richey was staring into his cup of black coffee, suppressing a smile.

“I’m not surprised, Nicky. All we ask is that our room can be a little…well, not right next-door next time.” James grimaced.

“Yeah, okay.” Nicky was embarrassed, to be honest. It had been so private, but it was their fault for choosing a hotel room, he figured. He was only a little bit ashamed. Only a little.

“He was good, if you’re wondering.” Richey mumbled, not looking up.

“Not really, but thanks.” Sean left the breakfast table, leaving the rest of them amongst the other hotel guests downstairs.

“Just…make sure none of this interferes with the band.”

“Mhm.” Nicky reached over, trying to pull Richey’s sunglasses off of his face without dropping them into his mug. He was received with a playful slap.

“My eyes look bad this morning.”

Nicky huffed, shaking his head at James.

“Good luck with that one.” James motioned towards Richey, rolling his eyes.

Nicky smiled, instead resting his arm over Richey’s shoulders. “Thanks James, we won’t need your help.” He kissed his cheek, just for show.

November, 1993:

Nicky pulled on his boxers, trying to towel off his hair as he left the tiny hotel bathroom. There was Richey, already fully dressed and-

Oh.

Sitting on the bed, hand teasing himself through his jeans, eyes vacantly focused on the opposite wall.

“Am I interrupting?” Nicky smiled.

Richey had been basically sexless for months. It had been all tears and cuddling, anything but being aroused. This was certainly a sight for Nicky, who had been torn between being as nice and comforting as he could lately, and trying to have a wank every now and then, a little sad that he had a perfectly lovely guy that could have been participating, but wasn’t.

Ceasing for a moment to stare, Richey quickly shook his head, taking a moment to lick his lips and really focus on him.

Nicky had a perfect body.

Jaw, legs, everything. As much as he loved it the other way around, he used to just adore getting Nicky into a position of compromise. When he was the one gazing up at Richey, encouraging him, letting him taste every bit and tease and see for himself what drove him crazy. Richey groaned out loud at the thought.

“What is it?”

He was brought back to earth by Nicky, now sitting on the bed next to him, watching him with a look of total impatience on his face, obviously trying to hide it.

“You, of course.” Richey smirked, reaching up with his free hand and dragging his thumb across the bassist’s lower lip.

“I’m glad you finished showering when you did, I-“ Richey stopped to catch his breath, taking off his shirt.

“You what?” Nicky leaned forward, lightly prodding at the front of Richey’s jeans. “Why do you still have your pants on, I don’t…”

“Wanted to make it last.” Richey mumbled, harshly grabbing Nicky’s hand now, biting down on his lip as he felt the familiar fingers do the work he’d previously been drawing out for himself.

“Richey.” Nicky’s breath hitched in his throat, just taking the scene in. His Richey, sitting there, just- “Lay down.”

Richey did, smiling up at him, hand now down the front of his pants.

Nicky sat there for a moment, watching Richey: eyes open and locked on his, seemingly getting more benefit just from Nicky’s presence alone. He arched his hips just a little, making Nicky mutter a quiet “fuck” under his breath.

Richey glanced over, blinking. “You alright over there?” He laughed, reaching over and hooking his fingers into Nicky’s boxers. Nicky nodded, shivering at Richey’s fingertips. Suddenly they were gone, replaced by his lips at his collarbone and chest. Nicky gave up altogether and laid down, gripping Richey’s waist and holding him in place above him. He felt bites and soft kisses, jerking up towards Richey, sighing. Sometimes he understood how Richey enjoyed a little pain in bed. Not as much as him, but- “Again.” He blinked, hand wandering to Richey’s jeans, struggling to open them. Richey was restricting himself, Nicky needed to touch him, he-

His hand was slapped away, Richey laying down fully on top of him now, the sudden pressure on Nicky’s groin making it hard to breathe. He kissed Richey, gently nipping at his lower lip, tongue tracing the inside of his mouth just barely. He moved quickly, hands getting at the button on Richey’s jeans before he could stop him, dragging them down his hips. Nicky let out a small noise of appreciation, despite biting down on his lip. He gently pushed Richey off of him, leaning over to lick at a damp spot at the front of Richey’s now-tight boxer shorts. Richey tensed, hips automatically moving in the direction of Nicky’s mouth.

It was going to be a nice morning.

June, 1994:

Richey looked like shit.

Well.

No, not really. He looked beautiful, as gorgeous as always.

But in other terms, horrible.

Not just the rest of the band, but the public, the fans, any person on the street would most likely deem him sick and sad, a mental case, needing some sort of immediate help. The situation was fucked, really. Nothing helped.

Nicky reached over, it being one of those times where he was too worried to try and hold him, brushing his grown-out hair away from his eyes.

“You’re scaring me.” He swallowed, reaching for Richey’s hand under the covers.

“How?” Richey blinked, knowing damn well the answer. What else was he supposed to say? That he knew? That he actually didn’t want to worry Nicky, that he couldn’t help it, that he felt like (he assumed) Nicky did, fed up with himself yet concerned? But of course, not all the time as compassionate as Nicky felt. Obviously, considering the state he’d gotten himself into.

“Sorry?”

That wasn’t supposed to be a question. He wasn’t a teenager. He was supposed to be a functioning adult, none of this immature self-hate bullshit.

Oh well.

Nicky bit his lip, giving in and awkwardly pulling Richey a little closer, his left arm over his shoulders, kissing the end of his nose. “What do you want us to do? I-I don’t know what to suggest, Rich, everything seems so impossible.” He took a breath.

“Have you thought about trying…getting help, you know, going…somewhere?” He frowned. It sounded wrong, horrible, coming from him. What had he done?

Richey was quiet for a moment. “I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. They’re all idiots at those places, Nick. But I don’t wanna….I’m not suicidal, you know that. You know, right? I don’t want to die or any of that. It’s weird, but it makes sense, like, all of this shit, it’s preventing me from that, I’m alive, it’s all cool.”

His eyes were closing, more asleep now than anything. Nicky was onto something, he never talked this much about things, not recently.

“It’s not fucking cool, Richey.” He surprised himself, even, but continued. “It’s just as hard for us, I-I know you know that, but I don’t… WE don’t know what else to say to you. You’re going to be okay. Can you just tell yourself that? The world isn’t out to get you.” He swallowed back tears, touching Richey’s face. He was still there, it was comforting for Nicky to feel him, and know that.

Richey laughed. “I know. I’m sorry too, really. Everything just gets too much, then I think other things will help, but of course they don’t, you know, that’s how it is, and…”

Nicky nodded. He’d heard it all.

But it still didn’t make sense. It probably never would, to him. He had never been in that position before, somewhere so low that various forms of harming himself made things feel better. It didn’t register in his mind as something logical. It made no sense, how could he help Richey? He felt sick just thinking about it all.

“Do you think you’d get through it better alone?” He licked his lips. He didn’t want an answer, what the hell did he just suggest? Of course he didn’t feel like he was any help, but he didn’t want- no. That wouldn’t do.

No.

Richey vaguely realized he was shaking his head, fingers limp in the moment before were now curling onto Nicky’s, not being able to breathe properly.

No, what an idiot. He wouldn’t have the nerve, not now, not in this fucked-up time, no no no no.

Not that it didn’t make him more childish, being so attached to another person. Nicky seemed like one of the few left, really, the few people he loved and trusted. There were others, yeah. But Nicky mattered so, so much.

“I don’t think so.” He was able to calmly answer, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down. Nicky was not leaving him, he was merely making a suggestion. For his own lost benefit.

“Sometimes, you help.” Did he? “Or, I feel like you could. And, just, I like writing stuff for the band still, and you, and- you’re always there. That’s good enough, right?”

Was he even making sense?

He frowned, closing his mouth.

“Okay.” Nicky let out a breath, Richey taking the chance to move closer, awkwardly falling on top of him, moving his arms around his shoulders and neck, shoving his face close to him.

“Hey there, I’ll need some circulation to move in the morning.”

Richey smiled, holding him tighter.

Everything was awful. That was no glimmer of hope, just because he’d smiled. Nicky was simply a nice person to have around. That was all.

December, 1992:

“Why aren’t we still drunk? It’s fuckin’ freezing.” Richey grinned, kicking at clumps of ice and snow on the sidewalk. Why was that something to smile over?

Perhaps he was just giddy.

“This is where those damn coats would have come in handy, you know.” Nicky smiled, too cold to reach out to him, jumping in place instead. Although it had been cold when they’d first gone out, the temperature had dropped considerably during their time at the pub, and snow had taken over every surface, the air now a burden to them. They now walked away from the pub, searching for a better way of getting home than walking. Nicky leaned to the side, kissing Richey’s cold cheek, yet keeping his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. Poor guy.

“Nicky!” Richey suddenly ran ahead of him, towards a bus stop sign. “Two more minutes of this shit!” He read the schedule. Nicky caught up, digging around for change.

They excitedly climbed onto the bus, Nicky smiling and thanking the tired-looking driver as he paid, both of them scrambling for a seat as it took off. He leaned into Richey, sighing and taking comfort in his warm neck that had been protected by his coat collar, hands gripping his as they made their way home.

He was too tired to bother answering the grumbles of the fellow passengers, not in the mood for comebacks on remarks about their sexuality. He was well past used to it, anyway.

There was a bus stop not far from their flat, the boys feeling even more triumph as they reached the door. Richey ran to crank up the themostat, feeling thankful that their bed was near one of the radiators. Nicky took his clothes off, grabbing a blanket off of the bed and grabbing Richey, pulling him towards the couch. “Do you want tea?” He was about to get up.

“Nah.” Richey shook his head, keeping Nicky there, holding onto him.

Nicky giggled, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Did you know that you’re cute when you’re drunk?”
“I probably look ridiculous.” Richey smirked.

Nicky shook his head. “No, back there you didn’t.”

“Nicky.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m falling in love with you.” Richey was smiling. “That sounds stupid, but really, I am. Or, I do love you already. That’s what I should have said.” He looked over, making Nicky grin.

“I love you too, okay?” He lifted his head up to press a kiss to Richey’s lips. He was wonderful. “You’re perfect. And cuter than you think. And your mind is great. And shit, look what you’ve done, you’re turning me into a teenager again!” Nicky kissed along his jaw, laughing.

“You always were.” Richey kissed him, pulling him down on the couch. “Can we sleep here? I don’t wanna move.” He was already pulling Nicky closer, closing his eyes in a lovely sleepy sort of way that made Nicky want to never, EVER move from that couch. He shifted a little so that he wasn’t crushing him, and nestled his head against Richey’s shoulder. “Yeah, ‘course we can.”

November, 1992:

It was all so insane, so much fun.

Another largely successful show.

Richey ran up behind Nicky just minutes after he’d put his bass away and they’d gotten backstage into a private corner, hands latching onto his hips, lifting himself up on tip-toe in order to bring his mouth next to his ear;

“I think you should fuck me again.”

He smiled, feeling Nicky stop whatever he was doing. Success.

Nicky, on the other hand? His mind was racing. He had momentarily forgot about their current situation; he’d seen plenty of girls eyeing Richey, couldn’t he have just…? No. No, they had each other now. He’d almost forgotten.

Richey smirked. “I think you should find a place backstage. Or in the van. Or anywhere. If not, I could always get you back there in the dressing room, get you against a wall, you wouldn’t say no, would you?” He traced patterns along Nicky’s sides. “I could just suck you off, you could get a little rough with me…we’d both get off in different ways, it’ll work out well.”

Nicky closed his eyes for a moment. This was still fairly new to him, but wonderful, needless to say. And the guy certainly had an amazing mouth.

They had ended up in the dressing room at this point-“Here again?” Nicky had laughed, before Richey had pressed his mouth against his.

The feeling of Nicky’s fingernails digging into his hips as he held him did nothing but increase his need. He wanted marks, the positive kind. He wanted people to know it was Nicky, to pull down his pajamas the following day and show Nicky himself, even- ‘Look, look what you did. Look, Nicky. Your teeth did that, your fingers, right there. You left that scratch before kissing over it, but it’s still there, I still loved it. We were so into it, look what happened.’

He wanted that.

He kissed Nicky over and over, pulling them closer by his beltloops.

Nicky’s brain was on overload. The combination of Richey’s hand down his pants, and watching Richey squirm against the wall, content from the work of Nicky’s hands at his hips and chest pushed him over the edge. He leaned forward into Richey’s grip, moving his hips and allowing a quiet noise of approval escape from his mouth, sighing and kissing Richey’s chest. “Doesn’t…doesn’t take much with you, hmm?” Richey was quickly getting there. Nicky smirked, lightly biting down on his shoulder. “I'll fuck you later, how’s that?”

That, and the work Richey had just been doing on himself was all it took. “You…you better..” He mumbled, moving away towards his suitcase for clean clothes.

“I will.” Nicky pulled him back, kissing his cheek now, smiling at his face, still flushed and a bit out of it, blinking at Nicky happily. “You wanna wash up?” Nicky led him to the tiny dressing-room shower, taking the rest of their clothes off along the way.

Reality (Nicky/Richey) 1/4

lyricreference — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 04:08:30 GMT

Hey, I re-made my account and that same fic has a title, this time.
Same ratings, same warnings (Which included pg-13 and that strange in-between rating for makeouts and such, language/trigger warnings/etc) Click the title rather than the cut link because LiveJournal is confusing for me.
Enjoy.

1992:
Richey smirked to himself, (much to the delight of the audience,) as he kept his eyes fixed to the screen. He leaned over to his right, lips brushing Nicky’s hair.
“In case you weren’t already aware, you looked gorgeous in that video.” He felt Nicky’s leg twitch as it rested against his under the table, and smiled. It had only been a few months since the release of the music video, and the fans, (and Richey) were still caught in the aftermath. He received a small noise from Nicky in return.

“Shut up.” Nicky smiled slowly, glancing over at him. “God, Rich...look at you.” He was nibbling on his own lower lip in concentration, hardly paying attention to the interviewer.
Ah, of course, there it was. A repeated question about them: the racy video, the girlishness, the whole lot. Richey grinned into the mic. “He’s probably a better fuck than the groupies.” He ignored the crowd’s screams. “I dunno, Nick, what do you think?” He gave his astonished bandmate no time to answer. He was kidding, he thought.
Possibly joking.
Still.
“I think I’ve given up on girls for now, hm?” He gave an open-ended glance to the crowd of applauding fans.
He saw James shake his head in amusement out of the corner of his eye, Sean’s expression hidden by his sunglasses.
They hadn’t actually voiced any of it out loud. Sure, there was pointless flirting, touching, and whatnot. They’d never said anything, though. But Richey knew better.
He approached Nicky in the dressing room, an hour before their gig. James and Sean had gone out to the bar, leaving them to do themselves up before the show, as usual. Nicky was doing his eyeliner, occasionally swearing as it smeared, his shoulders hunched up underneath his horribly thin shirt. Too beautiful. Richey ran up behind him, hands finding the surprised bassist’s waist, resting a chin on his shoulder. “I think that interview went well.” He gave a chaste kiss to Nicky’s neck.
“Fuck off.”
“Mm, nope.” Richey pressed his lips to his earlobe. “I know you better than that.” He inched his fingers along the fabric, until they touched Nicky’s bare sides. Lovely. He resisted letting out a sigh, smiling at Nicky’s frustrated expression in the mirror. “C’mon.” He mumbled against his neck, leaving tiny kisses as he spoke. “Everyone knows we looked hot together. Fuck me if I don’t know it.” He chuckled at the expression. “Did you know that I’ve wanked just to thinking about you?” He’d reached the very end of Nicky’s collarbone now.
“Will you STOP?!” Nicky tossed down the pencil, standing up. “Christ, Rich. You’re acting like you just-“
“What?” Richey took his shaking hands in his own. “You’re acting like a stubborn idiot. Fuck, Nick, you’re perfect, yanno? It’s not my fault I’m being seen as a pansy, I couldn’t-I couldn’t try to stop being attached to you. Not that I’d care, I mean.” His hands had moved back to Nicky’s waist, fingers clutching to the beltloops.
Nicky stumbled forward, Richey leaning up onto his toes to meet his lips. It wasn’t half as angry as Richey expected. A bit awkward, of course, being un-planned, and all. They tried again, hardly finishing the first, Richey holding Nicky in place, fingers shakily touching his hips. He tried to move back, but Nicky persisted, petting his hair as he continued to kiss him. “Everything about you’s beautiful.” He mumbled, emitting a smile from Richey.

“Shush.” Richey stepped backward, letting Nicky gently press him against the door.

“But...you’ve been just-I’ve wanted you for ages, really.” Nicky kissed his cheek. “You’ve just been there all the time, and I couldn’t say anything.”

Richey silenced him with another kiss, nibbling on his lip. He allowed himself to be toyed with for a moment, letting Nicky enjoy his new freedom, kissing at his neck and jaw, smiling as if he’d had one too many babychams. Richey sucked in a breath as Nicky nipped at his throat, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
“You’ve wanked to me, huh?” Nicky kissed him underneath his ear, hands on his shoulders. Richey nodded. “Lots.” He smirked, gripping Nicky’s hip with his nails, drawing a gasp from the taller boy. “Once almost when you were there…at Philips’. But I didn’t. You came in drunk or something, no shirt on.” He rambled, eyes fixated on Nicky’s shocked face. He brought him in closer, leaning upward to taste the smooth skin of his neck, flicking out his tongue. “Gorgeous.”
“Mmh.” Nicky was busying himself with Richey’s shirt, un-doing the buttons and attaching his mouth to the other’s collarbone. On a whim, he picked him up, quickly and awkwardly carrying him over to the couch, and setting him down, blinking furiously as large brown eyes gazed up at him, teeth biting into a bottom lip. God.
Richey pulled Nicky down on top of him, lifting up his hips to grind against Nicky’s. He sighed as Nicky finally discarded his shirt, feeling how fast his heart was beating against his. With a push and some scrambling, he got Nicky on the couch. He landed in his lap, happily sitting on his thighs, enjoying the view very much. “Fuck, Nick…the things I could do to you..” He ignored the slight warmth in his cheeks at his boldness, smiling as Nicky shivered. He moved his finger from his jaw, down his neck and chest. “Any ideas?” Richey smirked, leaning down to kiss Nicky’s lips again, lingering there and groaning happily in the back of his throat.
Nicky stared up at Richey, thoughts completely muddled. He blinked, mouth agape, vaguely noticing the tips of Richey’s fingers at his lip.

“I meant what I said earlier..” Nicky stared as Richey talked. “You are completely fuckable…” He jumped as one of Richey’s wandering fingers reached the top of his jeans, about to protest: Richey was that one, he might die that year if he didn’t get to do anything more with him- when a hand grabbed his already aching crotch, making him gasp.
Richey smiled happily, fingers now moving up and down Nicky’s thigh. Nicky was getting more vocal at this point, mumbling things along the lines of, “Touch me,” and “Fucking tease, why don’t I just get off on my own, then?”
“No.” Richey kissed him slowly. “Please stay here…it’s taken me ages to even get you to this.” He grumbled sarcastically. He shifted somewhat uncomfortably, crotch pressing against Nicky’s now. Richey sighed, stroking Nicky’s sides. “But, if you insist…” Richey sat up more, taking his hands away. “By all means, go ahead. Have a wank. I’ll be glad to watch.” His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip.
Nicky had hardly been listening, long fingers lingering around the bulge in his trousers. “Nick.” Richey smiled, gently taking his hand away, kissing his knuckles. “You can do that any day…but now I’ve got you.” He dragged his fingertips alongside Nicky’s jaw, letting out a small and happy sigh. He suddenly dipped his head, bending over to kiss Nicky’s left nipple, fingertips hooked into the waist of his jeans.
“Oh.” Nicky’s lips fell open as he felt Richey’s teeth there, looking up at him through heavily-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful..” He mumbled, stroking up and down Richey’s thigh, watching as he shivered, biting his own lip in anticipation. “You want me to touch you, Rich?” He stroked over his sides, humming in approval as Richey gazed down at him, dark hair hanging in his face. He got a brief nod in return, eyes closed.

“Answer me, Richey.” He experimentally dug his nails into the other’s side, receiving a low groan.
“Yeah, please.” Richey choked out, pressing their mouths together again, licking over Nicky’s bottom lip.
Nicky reached over, fingers gently squeezing at the front of the smaller boy’s jeans, loving the gasp that he got in return. “Nick…” He moved forward into Nicky’s hand, grinding against it until Nicky nearly felt as if he had to look away, it was too much.

“Is that…am I doing-?”
“Yes Nicky, shush.” Richey leaned on Nicky’s shoulder, pressing his lips in and trying to keep quiet. His jeans were getting uncomfortable. He nipped at his shoulder, feeling Nicky’s chest rise with his quick intake of breath beneath him. “Mm, Nicky…” Richey was making his way down his chest, teasingly avoiding his nipples, but leaving small kisses everywhere, fingers stroking up and down the bassist’s sides. “I think you’re perfect.” He mouthed at the denim, the feeling of warm breath there making Nicky shift his hips on the couch.
Richey suddenly tugged at Nicky’s shoulders, so that they were both sitting up, Nicky wrapping his arms around Richey’s waist to hold him up as he settled into his lap. Richey had the worst sort of smirk on his face, so Nicky bent his head, biting at his protruding collarbone, absolutely loving the way Richey reacted, nearly flinching from the pain, but letting out a small gasp and a moan nonetheless.
He let his fingers wander a bit, moving along the insides of Richey’s thighs, pinching and rubbing, feeling the guitarist squirm. “’S good…” He mumbled, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Nicky tried to control his breathing, feeling the tightness in his jeans increase as he watched Richey. “Hm..we should do something ‘bout this…” A hand traced the aching lump in Nicky’s jeans, making him hold his breath for a moment.

“No, no, it’s-it’s fine.” His voice broke. “You. I’m okay, you’re-“ He looked up again, but Richey was all focused on him again, forgetting his own masochistic pleasures.

“You, ah-you ever screwed around with guys before?” Nicky flinched, the question sounded stupid coming from his mouth. Richey only shrugged, fingers picking at the button on his jeans.

“Thought about it.” He smiled, managing the button and zipper, thumbs moving over Nicky’s hips now, making him shut his eyes.

“That’s all?” Nicky smirked.
“Mmh. There are some gorgeous guys out there, though. You being the most so, in my opinion.” He moved back so that he was sitting on Nicky’s lower thighs, tugging at the fabric and giving a kiss to the skin below the elastic of his boxers.

“Don’t be such a tease!” He grumbled, trying to look as forlorn about the situation as possible.
“Don’t be so impatient.” Richey replied calmly, tongue diving below, moving along his hipbones in such a way that his impatience nearly made Nicky get up and leave, that or force Richey’s mouth lower-neither of which seemed like such a smart idea. Nicky huffed, busying his hands along Richey’s smooth back and sides, using his nails at just the right times so that Richey’s moans vibrated against him.
September, 1995:
“Nicky.”
“Sleep.”
“No.”
Nicky flinched as he felt the blankets shift off of him part of the way, fingers touching his face in a manner that was supposed to be friendly, but felt to Nicky like the most intrusive thing he could imagine.
“Fuck off, c’mere.” He kept his eyes shut, fumbling blindly for the other body that was somewhere in bed with him, pulling it against his chest, sighing. “Go back to sleep, Richey.” It was more of a command than a suggestion, for he knew that if Richey continued with whatever plans he’d been going off on when he’d woken him up, that he would leave the bed. That wouldn’t do.
“No. You gotta get up now.”

He felt faint laughter against his neck, and smiled tiredly. “Why’s that?”
“’Cause I woke up an hour ago, I’m done waiting around. And we’re going into the studio, and I’m bored, and I refuse to make your coffee for you. And your eyes are nicer when they’re open.”
Nicky snorted, shaking his head. He let a hand keep Richey close, gliding up and down his back. “Right.” He studied the face that was resting on his chest. The same huge brown eyes, now bright and aware. The same lips, smiling lazily at him now. He’d grown out his hair again in the months after shaving it off, letting it come back in brown, just below his ears.
“You’re pretty.” Nicky mumbled childishly. In his state of not quite being awake, that was the best thing he could come up with.
“I think you are.”

He felt his face being kissed, just under his left eye, and tried to move out of the way. In reality though, he was grateful every morning, every one like this one. Richey had come a long way, he felt lucky to be holding the crazy bastard right then. Sure, he wasn’t quite- well, he was Richey, of course. But in his terms, he was great. He was still relatively small, yeah. Some of the lyrics he handed Nicky still caused him irrational worry. He would still find himself being woken up at 2 AM by the guy, his odd thoughts apparently being more important than the sleep of both of them. Overall, though, he was fantastic. Sometimes he kept things to himself, others not. He would voice things to Nicky, out of the blue: memories, lame things he’d said in the past, brief wantings to pick up a blade again, a substance. But really, he was so perfect, at least in Nicky’s eyes. He was healthy, in Richey terms. He was on some new sort of medication (that he admittedly took about 3/4ths of the time,) but it seemed to be helping. He fought with his therapist, and complained to the rest of the guys about it afterward, but was okay. No, more than that. He was a slightly damaged, yet mostly happy guy.
Nicky was in love. Of course, he always had been, to some extent. But now, it seemed to have been intensified.
“If you don’t wake up properly, I’ll have to use more extreme measures.” Nicky was brought back to the present with a grin from his boy, a hand quickly trying to pull down his boxers-
He swatted his fingers away, laughing. “Not s’morning, Rich. I’m awake. Promise.” He sat up, hand taking ahold of Richey’s, who’d jumped out of bed. He finally stumbled out himself, standing in front of Richey, arms immediately falling back around his waist. “Mmh.” He leaned over, kissing the bare shoulder, smiling at the arms wrapping around his hips.

“We have t’be there at noon, right?” He mumbled.
“Yeah. Shower for the both of us, Nicky. Your hair looks like shit, and I feel like joining you.”

“Thanks.”

A Winter's Tale

joelywire — Sat, 01 Sep 2012 19:05:09 GMT

Title: A Winter's Tale
Rating: Pg-13
Pairings: Nicky/Richey, Sean/girl, James/girl
Summary: A collection of memories from one Christmas holiday in particular with the Manic Street Preachers.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Christmas. A time for joy, a time for being with family and friends, exchanging gifts and just, being together. And this was etched into Richey’s concentrated mind as he stormed round the department store, looking for bright, happy decorations and festive food to lighten up his and Nicky’s flat.

James and Sean were away visiting family for a week or so, so this Christmas was just Nicky and Richey together in their flat. Nicky hated Christmas, absolutely despised it, but Richey wasn’t going to let go of this opportunity, an excuse to spend quality time with his best friend without having to ask. For Nicky hadn’t spent much time at all with him these days, which hurt Richey slightly, but also made him even more determined to attack their home with fairy lights, a big bright Christmas tree and glitter.

He returned home laden with bags, and his arms gave way, thus dropping them on the floor. Nicky had his Dyson out, frantically hovering around, dressed in a leopard print apron, hair gripped back. He sighed when he heard the bags hit the floor.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked irritably, hating any sort of mess.

Richey knelt down and began to take the contents out of the bags. “Well since it’s the fifth of December I thought I’d, y’know…make the effort.”

Nicky stared in disbelief as Richey spread out the decorations across the floor.

“I got these glittery ball-balls – as soon as I saw them I thought of you,” Richey giggled. “We can hang them on the Christmas tree.”

“What Christmas tree?!” Nicky exclaimed, horrified, one hand on one feminine hip.

Richey smirked, “I’ll be right back.”

If that was Nicky’s reaction at a set of decorations, you could imagine what he was like when Richey returned from the car lugging a 7-foot Christmas tree, leaving a trail of pine leaves behind it. He looked so proud – but Nicky was beside himself.

“Oh, Rich, look! Look at all that crap on the floor!” he cried, gesturing to the pine leaves.

“You can get the Dyson on that,” Richey said carelessly, propping the tree up against the wall. “I’m gonna get the food into the kitchen, then we’ll get the bucket and get the tree done.”

Nicky groaned and collapsed onto the sofa, feeling faint and panicked. This wasn’t his idea of Christmas! Not all this…bother. Just a nice glass of wine on the day, and a crisp sandwich, maybe some hoovering, and then James’ meal with everyone in the evening. Not a bloody tree that was close to falling apart and all sorts of crap on the floor!

“Oh God…” he mumbled to himself, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

Richey returned ten minutes later with a bucket. “Gives us a hand, Nick, will yeh?” he muttered, lugging the tree with all his might across the room.

Nicky half-heartedly positioned the bucket and Richey placed the tree in, before securing it in place with soil.

“Right then, are you going to help me decorate?” Richey grinned at him, face flushed from all the effort.

“I’m gonna hoover up all this…” Nicky muttered, voice trailing off, like a grumpy old man. He seized the Dyson, and winced as the leaves crackled as the fail proof hoover sucked them up.

“I’ll wait then,” Richey said, voice raised over the roar of the hoover.

Nicky sighed, and continued. Richey wasn’t going to take no for an answer – it was obvious the only reason he’d done this was to spend time with him. But Christmas wasn’t Nicky’s idea of having fun – Richey could’ve just asked, and they would’ve done something else, something better then this!

But Richey had sweetly made a lot of effort to simply be with him, being the good-natured, caring person he was, and Nicky couldn’t act like this towards him the whole holiday, just because he didn’t get his own way.

Nicky turned off the hoover, and put it back in the cupboard. Richey was slumped on the sofa, sipping at wine, flicking through a magazine. He looked up hopefully when Nicky returned, this time smiling.

“Shall we?” he gestured to the tree.

Richey leapt up and threw his arms round Nicky’s neck, grinning against his chest. Simply knowing that Nicky was trying to have a nice time was more than enough to satisfy him.

Nicky smiled in return into Teddy’s hair.

Let it Snow

Nicky awoke to something wet, cold and extremely painful hitting his face, and exploding all over him. He cried out and leapt out of the two’s bed, now freezing in just his boxers. He cried out again, a lot louder this time when he realised he had just been hit by a rather large snowball.

“Teddy, you bastard!” he growled, pulling on his dressing gown and dashing out of the room, absolutely furious. By the slam of the door and the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, echoing through their block of flats, Nicky assumed Richey had legged it, knowing full well how pissed off he’d be about this.

He wasn’t happy or joyful about how it was snowing outside, heavily, how a two-foot thick layer of snow had coated the city, or how there were little kids around the streets building snowmen, laughing and having the time of their lives. No, Nicky felt the opposite, wet, cold, tired, and generally not in the mood. He’d persevered with Richey’s plans, just for the sake of being a good, well, boyfriend, but now Teddy had crossed the line. He was prepared to sue him if he caught pneumonia from this prank.

Richey was nowhere to be seen when Nicky had escaped the flat block. He looked around, glaring, growing angrier by the second.

“Show yourself, you cunt, I’m not in the fucking mood!” he shouted, moving forward, peering round the corner of the block.

He then felt a sharp, cold pain against the back of his head and he yelped, whipping around on his heel. He caught a quick glimpse of a white leg disappear behind a nearby tree, and he growled as he ran towards it, preparing to give Richey the biggest punishment he’d ever had.

He dived round the tree, and cried out as he caught another large snowball to the face. Richey had already sprinted far, far away by the time he had recovered, giggling madly.

The next twenty minutes was spent looking for the bastard, while feeling on edge and on the constant look out. Another snowball was a pneumonia guarantee, and Nicky was sure by this time that Richey was in a carefree, playful mood, oblivious to the fact that he was causing him overwhelming pain.

He came round to the front of their block of flats, out of breath, teeth chattering, hugging his dressing gown tightly to his body. He was absolutely miserable, and fucking furious with Richey. Surely he’d have realised by now how much Nicky was suffering?

“Oi!” someone shouted, from above. Nicky looked up, and saw Richey stood on their balcony, looking perfectly dry and warm, grinning down at him. Nicky couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Oh, wait until I get my hands on you, you…you cunt!” he bellowed, stomping his foot like a little kid.

Richey retreated back into their flat, and Nicky ran inside.

He kicked open the door, fists clenched, stormed inside, and into the living room where Richey was…oh.
Nicky gasped at what lay in front of him. Their large oak table had been polished so much that it sparkled (much to his delight), and draped in bright lights and glitter. Two candles were lit in the middle and…the food! There was an assortment of crisp sandwiches, jam sponges with custard, plates piled high with pancakes and syrup, stacks of buttered toast, a kettle full of hot tea, jam tarts and various other pastries, Christmas puddings and oh, it looked so wonderful. All of Nicky’s anger had soon disappeared and he was speechless as Richey emerged from the kitchen, dressed in Nicky’s leopard print apron, a Christmas cracker party hat on his head and a strand of tinsel around his neck.

“Is it safe to come out now?” he asked, grinning sheepishly. “I’ve ran you a hot bath, complete with incense and candles, then you can join me here for breakfast.”

Nicky didn’t say anything – he couldn’t – but allowed himself to nod and be taken into the bathroom, where Richey slowly undressed him, kissing his neck all the while he was doing it. The bath was incredible, and he felt great, the thought of catching pneumonia all nonsense now. He wouldn’t mind having snowballs thrown at him, while he was clad in just underwear and a dressing gown, if this is what he’d return to afterwards.

His clothes had been set out on the bed for him, when he had got out of the bath, fresh faced, satisfied, his fingers all wrinkled. He pulled his pink jumper over him and smiled with content at how fluffy and warm it was on the inside.

Richey was sat at the table, looking slightly nervous when Nicky walked in. He’d done his makeup, eyeliner bringing out his gorgeous doe eyes. He hadn’t started eating yet though. One thing Richey knew a lot about was manners and politeness.

“I’m sorry I attacked you with snowballs, I had to get you out of the house for long enough so I could do all this,” he said quietly, looking scared that Nicky would turn on him.

Nicky just smiled, lifted Richey’s face up towards his gently, and then kissed him tenderly. “You’re forgiven,” he said softly, smiling.

Little Drummer Boy

Sean had had the worst Christmas ever so far. His family had gone out of their way to humiliate him, whether it was by using his long hair as an excuse, or his height, or the fact that James was always getting the girls and he’d never had a single one. He avoided any eye contact with his uncle, which would trigger a painful and long period of time where he’d be repeatedly teased and mocked.

James looked sympathetic at times, but didn’t do anything about it. It was a rarity that he didn’t laugh along with the others. So Sean was spending most the festive holiday out of the way, going for long walks in the countryside they were staying by, reading, visiting the small, quaint village about two or three miles down the road and having cream teas at the posh tearooms, or drinking down the local pub. He hardly minded being alone anyway – the locals were friendly enough, a lot of them would join him at the bar, or walk through the country lanes with him as he made yet another visit to the village. James felt lonely a lot of the time without his cousin, who was purposely acting sour towards him (not that James could blame him). He had nothing else to do except work on new songs, play his guitar and drink with his uncle – who, after a while, grew rather loud and annoying. But then again, James probably deserved all that he was getting for not helping his cousin, who was obviously having a shit time.

Sean wandered through the village, peering into shop windows absent-mindedly, snug in his thick winter coat and woolly hat. There wasn’t really anyone around, but the shops were still open and he was keen to get to the warm, cosy atmosphere of the tearooms.

This thought alone made him increase his pace, and he was completely taken by surprise as he stormed around the corner and crashed into someone, causing them to fall back into the snow and drop all their bags.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry!” Sean croaked, kneeling down and helping the person up. The person was a lady, with delicate features and long, auburn hair. She was extremely pretty, and her embarrassed smile as she got back her balance was enough to make anyone’s heart melt. Sean snapped out of his daze and picked up all her bags. The lady started to shiver.

“Oh God, let’s get you inside, I’m so sorry,” Sean stuttered.

“It’s alright, honestly,” the lady giggled. She took one of the bags from Sean’s arm and held out her hand. “I’m Frances.”

Sean took her hand and shook it gently. “Sean,” he muttered, overwhelmed by her lovely charm.

“I know,” Frances laughed. “You’re from the Manic Street Preachers. I love your music!”

Sean grinned like an idiot and blushed, which made Frances laugh harder.

Ten minutes later, they found themselves in the tearooms, Sean’s heavy coat draped over Frances’ delicate shoulders. A pot of hot, steaming tea was placed between them and Sean, being the gentleman, poured for both of them.

“So what brings you to this small, isolated village?” Frances asked.

“I’m here with family for the festivities,” Sean replied. “What about you?”

“I moved here a few days ago. I’m just getting settled in.”

Sean’s hopes plummeted. “With your partner?”

“With ma mum,” Frances laughed.

Sean’s hopes rose again and he laughed with her.

The two of them had a great time that afternoon. After their stomachs were full with scones, jam and cream, Sean helped lug Frances’ bags of shopping back to her new cottage, about half a mile outside the village. The cottage was lovely and cosy, especially once the fire was lit. A small Christmas tree had been placed in the corner, which made the room look like something from a Christmas card. Frances made toast and brought in some marshmallows, which they roasted over the fire.

“I should get going,” Sean said, after they had eaten every single marshmallow, although he wished he could stay with her there forever.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Frances said, standing up and fetching his coat and hat. “I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” Sean nodded. “In fact…would you like to meet later on tonight, for a drink? At the local pub?”

Frances beamed, cheeks glowing pink. “Definitely. At eight o’ clock?”

“Alright, I’ll see you then,” Sean smiled, blown away by her astounding beauty.

“Okay, drummer boy,” Frances laughed cheekily, closing the door as he stepped out into the cold winter snow.

Sean couldn’t stop smiling to himself the entire walk back.

Winter Wonderland

“Come on, it’s just down this road,” Richey insisted, tugging at Nicky’s arm.

The Glamour Twins had decided (well, Richey had decided) to go and find the ice skating rink which had been recently set up in the town centre. Nicky wasn’t exactly keen, but he was willing to give it a try, for Teddy’s sake. The two had been wandering around for an hour in the cold, trying to find this bloody rink which probably wouldn’t be much fun anyway. But Richey was as keen as ever to find it, and very cheerful, skipping along through the snow like a small, excited child.

“Here it is!” Richey cried suddenly, as they turned a corner.

Nicky couldn’t deny that the scene before them looked astonishingly lovely. Behind the rink was a twenty foot Christmas tree, caked in snow and glittery decorations. The rink was all lit up, emitting a warm, silvery glow against the dark, cold evening. The rink was busy, but not so much that it was impossible to move around on it. Suddenly, Nicky was keen, probably even keener than Rich, to have a go.

“Shall we?” Richey asked, before reaching up and kissing Nicky on the jawbone. Nicky grinned down at him. “Absolutely.”

Ten minutes later and they were on the rink, slipping over and having the time of their lives. Nicky didn’t even care that he had a wet bum from falling so many times. He was just glad to be with an incredibly happy Richey, a version of him that hadn’t been around for a long time.

“Nicky look, I’m getting quite good at it!” Richey cried, setting off a little too fast and crashing into the barrier at the opposite end.

Nicky wept with laughter. “Yeah, of course you are,” he smirked, sliding over and helping him up. Unfortunately, but to their amusement, Nicky slipped over trying to take Richey’s weight and they ended up in a giggly heap on the floor, people walking by staring and pointing, after realising it was the Glamour Twins from the Manic Street Preachers. But neither of them could care less that Richey was lying on top of Nicky and fans had gathered, now taking pictures, pictures which would no doubt end up in the papers.

“Shall we attempt to move?” Richey snorted, pushing against Nicky’s chest to help himself stand up.

Nicky groaned. “Careful, Rich, you oaf,” he said breathlessly.

Richey looked around at the growing crowd of passers-by who had gathered round the ice rink, shouting their names. Neither of them were surprised, really. They had made quite a scene, dressed up in their leopard print coats – Nicky had tipped half a tub of glitter over his eyelids and on his cheeks, and Richey had weaved tinsel through his feather boa, which was draped elegantly over his shoulders.

Nicky grinned at the fans. “Shall I pose?” he smirked, soaking up all the attention.

Richey slid over, and snaked his arms around Nicky’s waist, and the two posed together, messing up each other’s hair, pouting and kissing each other on the cheek in a sexual way, which seemed to please the ever-growing crowd a great deal.

“This’ll make the front page tomorrow,” Nicky chuckled, sweeping Richey off his feet suddenly and carrying him bridal-style as he spun around on the ice.

Richey shrieked as Nicky struggled to stay stable. The crowd had begun to cheer again.

The next morning, Richey was awoken by Nicky shaking the paper frantically in front of his face. “Look who made the front page! I told you!”

The Most Wonderful Day of the Year

This was James’ time to shine. It was Christmas day, the 25^th of December, and all that was to him was the yearly opportunity to cook, and to impress. He was responsible for preparing five roast dinners – not including his own – and for hosting the gathering, at his own house, successfully. One of the roasts was for his new girlfriend, Kate, who he’d had for six months, and was an absolute joy to be with. Although he had said this many times before, he was positive that this time, she was different from the rest. He had no doubts in his mind that this relationship would work out. And to prove this, he had bought a very expensive engagement ring, which he prayed to God she would accept, and agree to marry him. If the meal went down well, then that would be the icing on the cake.

Kate and Nicky were already there, and so was Sean and his new chick, Frances, but Richey was nowhere to be seen. Although he’d probably show up in time, Nicky was still beside himself with worry. The only thing James was really worried about at that moment was getting those roasts bloody perfect and Kate’s acceptance of the ring.

“Aw, James, can’t we open the presents now?” Kate called from the other room.

“Not until after the meal!” James snapped back, kicking himself for sounding so rude and so, un-host like.

After chopping up the vegetables, and whacking the turkey, potatoes and Yorkshire puddings into the oven, he called everyone to the table and poured them drinks, before returning frantically to the kitchen to check everything was running smoothly. To his delight, it was, and he returned to the table again and took his seat.

“How long’s dinner going to take?” Sean asked impatiently.

James swallowed. “Not too long. We can talk about something to pass the time?”

“What shall we talk about then?” Frances questioned, which made James increasingly more stressed. He hadn’t done any research on this – how on earth does a host come up with an interesting subject which can kill time and keep everyone occupied?!

“I don’t wanna talk, I wanna drink,” Nicky put in, sounding slightly drunk.

“I’ll get us some more drinks then, shall I?” James said quickly, standing up.

“Can we play a drinking game?” Nicky asked.

James frowned. “I don’t think-”

“Ooh, I’m up for that,” Frances grinned eagerly.

“Same here,” said Kate.

Sean simply nodded, for the sake of keeping his treasured girlfriend happy.

James stuttered – it wasn’t at all appropriate to get shit-faced before a big meal which he’d put a lot of effort into, a meal which they’d probably puke back up again later on.

“Let’s go into the living room, shall we?” Nicky asked before he could speak, taking the whole bottle of wine and vodka from the middle of the table and standing up.

The girls laughed and followed him through, Sean hanging onto Frances like a newborn puppy. James sighed and crossed to the kitchen, where he got himself some water. So Richey was nowhere to be seen, and his other guests had decided to get terribly drunk at an important occasion, an occasion which meant a lot to him.

“Fuzzy duck.”

“Does he?”

“D-duzzy fuck- aw shit!”

The circle of guests, sat on the living room floor, collapsed in already drunken laughter as Nicky was forced to down yet another shot of vodka. He found it difficult to swallow himself from laughing so hard.

“Right, Kate, you start again,” he slurred.

“Ducky fuzz- no, wait! Fuzzy duck!”

The sound of laughter from the other room drove James over the edge. He had tried so hard with this, how selfish and thoughtless were his guests to drink themselves stupid while he was working his arse off in the kitchen, preparing a perfectly decent meal which they were just going to puke up! He slammed down his wooden spoon against the worktop and stormed into the living room.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing – you think you can come round here and play a fucking drinking game while I’m trying to – I can’t, oh honestly!”

Halfway through ranting, Nicky had somehow managed to stand up and remove all his clothes, pretending to strip tease, wrapping his feather boa round James’ neck and kissing his cheek. The others had collapsed in laughter again, which angered James even more. He shoved Nicky backwards into the wall, pulling the boa violently off his neck and returning back to the kitchen.

“This is a disaster! Nothing can make this night any worse,” James groaned to himself, running his hands through his hair.

Unfortunately, the night had just gotten worse, for there was a crackling sound, and then the house was suddenly in pitch darkness, followed by cheers from the living room. James cried out in anger, grabbing his lighter as a makeshift light. He opened the oven to find it wasn’t humming anymore. The fire on the stoves had also disappeared. The entire electricity supply had been cut off. So the meal was down the fucking drain.

Before James could react, there were loud high-pitched screams from the living room, and the sound of a vase smashing against the floor. The next thing he knew, his guests had joined him in the kitchen and shut the door behind them, looking absolutely terrified. Kate ran over and threw her arms around his neck.

“James, I think your house is haunted,” Nicky cried hysterically.

“We heard the door open, and then someone came into the living room and shut the door behind them – we couldn’t see anything there, and it couldn’t have been you, so I think there’s a fucking ghost in your house!” Sean gabbled, clinging onto Frances, who had started to sob.

“Okay, everybody calm down,” James snapped, still incredibly pissed off. “Are you sure it wasn’t just you lot being drunk?”

“Positive,” said Kate, pale-faced. “I swear on my life, James.”

“Alright, alright. Let me try and get these lights back on again,” said James, confidently leaving the kitchen. He miserably opened up the cupboard under the stairs where all the wires were, and began to fiddle, holding his lighter up with one hand. If one guest was missing, the others all drunk, the electricity had been cut off, the meal ruined and his house was now supposedly haunted, then there was no doubt in his mind that Kate would turn down the engagement ring. The evening had gone completely tits up, and there was nothing now that could make it better.

After a small tug at one wire, the lights finally flickered back on, triggering sighs of relief from the kitchen. To check if there were actually any ghosts in the living room, James opened the door and peered around the doorway. Nope, nothing had changed. The room looked exactly the same; it was just the others being overly drunk.

“My house is not haunted,” he said bluntly to his pale-faced guests after returning to the kitchen.

After somehow managing to get everyone back into the living room without too much persuasion, James decided to give up on the meal, and brought in some crisps and bread for everyone to sober up on.

“Why don’t we open all the presents?” Kate suggested, as James’ heart started to pound faster.

“Without Richey?” Nicky asked, his mouth full of crisps.

“Well it was Richey’s fault for not being here,” Sean said simply.

So everyone in turn began to open their presents, slightly more sober now, to James’ relief.

“Wait,” Sean said suddenly. He gestured to a large present in the corner, which was absolutely huge. “Does anyone remember that being there?”

Everyone looked up, and realised they hadn’t noticed the large present that had seemed to appear out of thin air. For how long it had been there in the corner, none of them knew.

“That definitely wasn’t there when you all got here,” James said, standing up, and approaching it. “Here, it has a tag on it – it’s addressed to Nicky!”

“What?” Nicky’s eyebrows rose, as he stood up and stumbled over to it.

“It doesn’t say who it’s from,” said James, examining the tag once again. “You’d better open it, Nick.”

He stood aside as Nicky gingerly took hold of the wrapping paper and begun to rip it apart, feeling surprisingly frightened. What could it be? The wrapping paper had caught on something and was refusing to rip anymore, so Nicky tried a different method and ripped open the top – and before he could continue he had been blown backwards by an explosion of noise and confetti.

The others stared in shock as confetti sprung out of the top of the present, like a mushroom cloud from an atomic bomb, and an air horn was let off, forcing them all to cry out and cover their ears. And before they could react, Richey had wrestled his way out of the wrapping paper, dressed as Santa, holding sparklers in each hand, a large painted sign round his neck reading ‘NICKY – BE MINE’. Nicky could only stare in shock as Richey stumbled, out of breath, straightening himself up. There was a moment of silence as everyone took in what had just happened – and then Frances and Kate began to clap. Richey grinned as the others joined in too, everyone except Nicky.

“Do you not like it?” he croaked, sparklers extinguishing in a poof of smoke, looking suddenly like a guilty little kid who had been caught in the biscuit tin.

Nicky began to stutter, and ended up throwing himself at him and planting a large kiss on his lips, which Richey happily returned. Everyone cheered again.

“Merry Christmas,” Richey chuckled, cuddling him.

“How on earth did you pull that off?!” James cried.

“Well, apologies, James, but I had to fiddle with the electrics round the side of the house to cause a distraction,” Richey explained breathlessly, for Nicky was clinging onto him tighter than necessary. “My parents wrapped me up and helped me in here. But everything’s working okay now, right?”

“Everything’s working fine,” James smiled, suddenly realising that he didn’t need a big, successful meal to make him happy. “But since we’re on the subject of romantic gifts…I’d like to give you, Kate, one more.”
Kate raised her eyebrows as James reached into his jacket pocket and fished out the small box, which held the diamond engagement ring, the key to his and Kate’s future together. Everyone gasped, as he took her hand and gently helped her stand up, before kneeling down and opening the box, to reveal the ring. Kate’s hands flew to her open mouth as James smiled shyly.

“Kate, I wanna spend my life with you. I think you’re absolutely beautiful and brilliant and kind and…oh God, I’m not very good at this. But just – would you do the honour of marrying me?”

James bit his lip hopefully as Kate stared down at him, looking half astonished, half terrified. She remained like that for almost a minute, everyone silent and the atmosphere full of tension. James was beginning to think that she might burst into tears and turn him down, but his heart lifted when a smile danced across her features and she started to nod slowly.

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you,” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Everyone cheered and clapped – Nicky had even burst into half-drunken sobbing – as the two embraced, and James finally felt satisfied and fulfilled, that him and Kate could begin a new life together, something he had wanted ever since he had met her.

As the clapping died down, and Nicky’s sobs resorted to occasional sniffing, Sean asked, “What are we gonna do about the food? I’m starving.”

Richey smirked up at Nicky. “I think he has something in mind, don’t you, Nick?”

Nicky nodded. “Oh yes,” he said firmly. “Give me five minutes.”

Five minutes later, they ended up around the table, tucking in at an assortment of crisp sandwiches Nicky had skilfully prepared. James much preferred that they had the roast he was so determined to perfect, but now he had Kate as his future wife, he couldn’t really say he minded what they ate. And to declare his love for her on Christmas day, in front of his good friends and band mates that he cared so much about, was the cherry on top of the icing. He didn’t even care now that the evening, at first, had gone completely wrong. Things always looked up, and to have Kate agree to marry him was the perfect way of turning the evening around.

“I’d just like to say,” said Nicky loudly over everybody’s munching, taking Richey’s hand, “that I love you all. You lot seriously make my life.”

Richey reached up and kissed Nicky tenderly on the lips, which set off a chain-reaction – Frances kissed Sean, and James kissed Kate.

What a perfect ending to the 25^th of December.

hewillwaituntil — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 08:17:52 GMT

Title: The Fragments - end of Part I
Rating: PG-13 - R for canonical triggery content.
Pairing: Nicky/Richey. 2nd person POV (Nicky's).
Author: aslongasitlasts under a new pseudonym.
Warnings: Probably exploits every Nicky/Richey cliché in the book. I also think I've written them both explicitly gay for each other here, so in case it may be misleading - sorry.
Disclaimer: This story is all made up. I have no idea about the real lives of anyone in the Manics, only what they've let through the publicized media. The title belongs to the Manics, the story isn't necessarily inspired by the song Fragments.
A/N: I wrote this taking place on their first Japanese tour.

There's something honestly sad and desperate about Richey's boredom. You say it to yourself time after time; Even though you're certain you don't need a reminder of any Richey-fact, there's still a part of you - an involuntary part of you - that keeps nagging you about it, that says 'I've told you' every time he starts slipping away from you or even seems like he's beginning to detach from the rest of the world. It's where he hides his loneliness, his fear of being abandoned, his feelings of failure and inadequecy you and James and Sean have struggled so much with understanding because neither of you have felt that way about him, but you know it's so real and painful to him. You sometimes blame yourself for not thinking about him more often, even though you know it isn't true. He's your best friend. You feel it in your heart, you feel it physically - he's part of you, it's almost like missing a limb if he's not around you in some way; You don't ache for your missing limb, not really, it's more like you can still feel him if he isn't there. It's always been that way.

Tonight he called you to his hotel room because he couldn't sleep, and there wasn't anything he found watchable for him on any of the TV channels your hotel had to offer. You tell yourself it's as good a reason as any to go see him - to be honest, just the fact he wanted to see you is enough for you. Besides, you're relieved he chose to call you when he could have gone on much more destructive routes - he trusts you, right? His voice sounded a little cracked up and dry when he asked you over, and your caregiving urge is telling you you're doing the right thing by obliging. It's good for your sense of well-being, if nothing else. "You know that she's half-crazy, but that's why you wanna be there..." -Leonard Cohen. You're not that much of a Leonard Cohen fan, so you chuckle inwardly that you remember that lyric now. It seems appropriete.

You knock on the door, wondering why you're rapping a rhythm onto it - he's extremely attentive when he can't sleep, he probably heard your footsteps coming from afar. The first thing you notice is that he hasn't dressed down from the gig tonight, the hints of it are still there visually and aurally - the makeup, stale sweat, hairspray, mixed with a scent you can't define but you recognise distinctly as 'Richey', and you don't mind you're greeted by this wonderful sensual attack, you're even excited by it. He treads down softly as he lets into into the room, landing back on the bed feather-like. It's like he oozes magic, you tell yourself, but his expression is listless. The first contact he makes is turning on his side to face you, staring at you like some demetented, beautiful dark angel wrapped between white sheets.

"You don't mind if I try to go back to sleep?" He chimes, and you assert that you do not. You wish you told him that you want to hold him in his sleep, you think he'll be happier in your arms and he could truly relax if he'd just let you take care of him, but you never say it. "Aren't you cold?" you ask him, trying to point to him that you're feeling rather chiily without turning the conversation to you. "Yeah, a bit." He says in an afterthought. You realise he might've not let the fact he's cold register if you hadn't asked him. You frown back protectively. You can tuck him in now, and sit on the bed until he falls asleep, or you could crawl into bed with him like you used to do in Philip's house - it seems like it's been a long time since you did that. The question is what Richey wants you to do, and you're not sure you know the answer. You settle for crawling under the blanket and putting your arm around him from the back. He responds by pressing his back closer to your chest. You can tell he likes it.

You start getting a michevious, but playful, streak - you stroke his ribcage and tickle his side. His breath seems to hitch as you reach his lower abdomen. "No, no, no..." he pushes you away - verbally but not physically, yet. Something's wrong, you tell yourself. You know what a reflexive, amused "no" would sound like, the kind that would be accompanied later with "You're crazy and I love it" as you go further in exploring Richey's body - that's not it. Nor is it "No, wait a minute, I don't want to be on the recieving end of this, why don't you let me do the touching now, Nicky?" - you'd have liked it as much.

He doesn't want to play. It's the first sign something isn't as it always is, he never unwelcomed touch; Not from you, at least, you believe there were others he might've said no to, but his physical relation to others isn't something you talk to him about in particular. It's just common knowledge between everyone in the band and the tour crew. You have a theory about it - it's not the real Richey you know that invites strangers back to the hotel, it's his façade, the famous guy, the 'band guy' who does it - and he's obliged to do it. Which is all the more reason not to bring it up in private.

Feeling chilly now, on the inside rather than on the outside, you pull your hand back, and then you 'get' it. Your hand is covered in blood. You run to the bathroom, to wash it in cold water. Only when you come back from it, you realise you might've sent him the wrong message - like you're uncomfrotable with him or appalled because he does that. You know you're not, but you weren't showing to him how you feel about it in an appropriette manner either.

You glance at him from afar as you walk back into the room, he seemed to have calmed while you were gone, laying on his side with his breath stabilised. You were feeling shaky and unconfident earlier, but it diminishes when you see he's doing fine, back to the old Richey he was before something had started to pull him away from you. You stroke his hair - that full, naughty little mop that's so hard to resist not to pet.

"Mmm." He says, not begrundingly, but you can tell he's reflecting on something. His mind is still working non-stop. "Remember," he says in his soft-spoken velvety voice - which reminds you you haven't really spoken that much tonight, you could listen to his voice in lengths, if you were consulted on the matter - "when we were little, and we used to tussle around in the mud and playfight, and we only stopped when it started to get dark? Yeah, well." - He ends it like that, bitterly with no conclusion - as if faulting himself for something.

You think you might have a clue what he's trying to say. You shouldn't jump to conclusion, but your mind is quicker than you will it to be. Some people think it's just your mouth that you can't control, they don't know the half of it, it's everything inside you you can't control, you just manage to keep it at bay. You feel that some of his negativity may stem from his experience of transitioning from childhood to adulthood, feeling like he'd been reluctantly thrown or fell into the latter. And at the center of it there's the subject of sexuality, which he views from the cynicism of someone who's read a lot about it. He hasn't experienced more positive sides to it the way you did. You just want to have a heart-to-heart with him, to try to convince him there's nothing wrong with wanting to be loved by someone, and showing your feelings in a physical way. Richey understands feelings, his sensitivity is part of what attracts people to him, he just doesn't connect emotions with sex but you think it's just a matter of time until it happens. There's another, really obvious matter in the way now before you get to have 'the talk' with him.

"When I said in that interview I don't know where I stand with Rachel, I meant it..." You say breathily.

He glances back at you vulnerably. "It's none of my business." He says. You flinch. You weren't expecting this kind of reaction. And it so is his business, he doesn't know how much. He doesn't 'get' it yet.

He sits up, shaking his head. "I don't mean it that way. You two are good for each other. Don't screw it up, Nicky. I really don't want to hear more," he says tearily. So maybe he does understand what you're thinking - and you thought you were being subtle about it.

"Look, Rich, I'm not going to apologise for what I feel about you. Do you think I'm being unfair? You always say you can only love one person for life. Can't you see what I'm offering you? You wouldn't want me to be with anyone else." You raise your voice, you hear it get thinner and croakier as you do. But you've just exposed your feelings to him, you're not going to let him get away with it so easily.

"I do." He says evenly, more determined than before. "I want you to do what's good for you, and I want you to have the kind of life you want. You deserve it. You made your choice a long time ago, that's why I said I'm not going to interfere. You love her, that's why it can't happen."

So now it's you against the deamon in Richey's mind, the one that tells him you don't love him more than anything in the world, the one that tells him he's not good enough for a lifelong relationship - even though you've already known him all your life.

"Choices can be unmade," You whisper to him. "What if it were just us?" - You kiss him with no further adue.

my (extremely long) manics fanfic! part 3

joelywire — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 09:34:30 GMT

This is the final part, thanks ever so much for reading.

April, 1994

Nicky couldn’t take it anymore. Richey wasn’t going to get away with not answering his phone calls that easily. Yes, he was upset, he was in a bad way – but that wasn’t an excuse to make your friend worried sick. Nicky sped to Richey’s flat in his car, anxious, and scared at what state his glamour twin was in. But no matter how bad Richey was, Nicky would undoubtedly make some tea, get him to eat something, and talk to him. They hadn’t seen each other since the band had returned from Thailand, where Richey had cut his chest with a set of knives a fan had given him before a show. Nicky hadn’t seen him eat in weeks, and he looked skinnier and more sullen every time he’d made an appearance, which worried Nicky like hell. And he wasn’t going to be ignored any longer.

He parked the car outside of Richey’s block of flats, wincing at the general grey colour of the flats and its surroundings. No wonder Richey was feeling this bad, living in such a depressing, dull place like this.

Guessing the flat number, he knocked, fully prepared to continue knocking until Richey opened the door. There was no reply the three or four times he did it, until he flicked open the letterbox and shouted through it, “Rich, open up, it’s me.”

The sight of Richey when he opened the door was enough to make anyone cry. His cheeks were sunken, there were large dark circles under his eyes (definitely not make up), and he was so skinny he looked as if anyone could snap him in half with minimal effort. He looked pale, peaky and generally sick, arms covered in burns and cuts. Nicky just wanted to throw his arms around him, shake him and tell him how stupid he was being, causing himself this much pain and not telling anyone what the problem was, not letting anyone help him. And it killed Nicky to think that maybe he was a motive to Richey’s actions.

“Oh, Rich…” Nicky sighed heavily.

Richey hung his head, sheepishly, obviously feeling guilty, as he stepped aside to let Nicky pass.

The flat was messy, clothes thrown carelessly all over the floor, dust gathering on all the shelves, and mugs of half-drunk tea scattered randomly around the living room. There was a large pile of dirty dishes in the sink, looking like they’d been there for weeks, maybe even months, and the cupboards were bare. Richey looked guilty again as he watched his friend disgustedly inspect the flat.

“Right, I’m going to clean this place up,” Nicky said firmly, taking his coat off and throwing it down on the sofa. “You can’t go on like this.”

When Richey spoke, his voice was husky and weak. “No, seriously Nick, it’s okay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous!” Richey snapped. “This is my flat, if I don’t want you messing around with it then you don’t.”

“And you’re my best friend and you should give me the right to help you, if you wanna be a good mate,” Nicky snapped back, growing more and more frustrated with him by the second.

“If you want to be a good mate you should leave me to it.”

“To what? Do you honestly expect me to believe you will sort this place out anytime soon? No offence Rich, but look at yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richey glared.

Nicky didn’t even bother to reply, knowing full well Richey knew what he meant. “I’m going to the shops, I’ll get some cleaning stuff, I’ll sit you down with a cup of tea and we can talk while I clean up the flat. I’m sorry Rich but I just cannot tolerate this. Especially from someone as intelligent and strong as you.”

And before Richey could protest, Nicky had grabbed his coat and slammed the flat door behind him.

When he returned, Richey was out on the balcony, smoking. Nicky fixed him a cup of tea, having to wash the mug before using it, and gave him a quick reassurance hug from behind before returning inside to start cleaning. It took a good hour and a half before it looked somewhat acceptable. Richey gave him a small smile once Nicky had collapsed onto the sofa beside him.

“Well done,” he said quietly.

“Thanks very much,” Nicky laughed softly. “Do you feel better now?”
Richey nodded. “Yeah. I do. Thanks for doing this, Nick. You honestly didn’t have to.”

“Oh trust me, I did. It wouldn’t have done you any good, having to get through this whole flat by yourself.”

“It was my own fault it ended up like this,” Richey admitted. “And I’m certain I could’ve done it by myself.”

Nicky raised his eyebrow. “I believe you.”

“Well you should,” Richey frowned.

Nicky glanced up at the battered old clock on the wall, which he was surprised to see actually working.

“I’d better go soon,” he said, patting Richey’s leg, which made both of their hearts flutter.

“How come?” Richey hadn’t intended to sound as bothered by this as he really was inside. He instantly regretted saying it, sounding weak and desperate again.

“Rachel’s cooking tea, I’ve got to be back by five,” said Nicky, looking and sounding like a ten year old, which made Richey smirk.

“Wives, eh,” he said venomously, this time meaning to sound sarcastic and pissed off. Rachel probably knew about what he was going through, and how much he needed Nicky.

“Rich…”

“No, it’s okay,” Richey said exhaustedly, rubbing his eyes, which, to Nicky, looked sad and empty. This time a year or so ago, Richey was almost a completely different person. And seeing him now contrast with the old Richey undoubtedly tore Nicky apart. Which made him both want to leave and stay even more.

“I’ll stay for a bit longer.”

“No, it’s fine, you have a faithful, loving wife to go home to,” Richey said quietly, looking well and truly drained of all energy and happiness. He looked about a day or two away from collapsing, pale skin clinging to his bones so tightly he was dangerously close to becoming a (barely) living skeleton. Nicky swallowed, bile forming in his throat. His stomach churned. He leapt up and ran to the bathroom, where he violently threw up, seemingly, his entire stomach.

Richey sighed, rubbing his face in his hands. With effort, he pushed himself up off the sofa and got Nicky a glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, handing Nicky the glass, who was sat leaning against the bathtub, looking ten years older.

“It’s okay,” Nicky said, sipping the water, and wiping off the sweat that had formed on his forehead.

“This is all my fault, isn’t it?” Richey whispered, sliding down next to Nicky.

Nicky swallowed. “I just don’t understand why you won’t let anyone help you, Teddy.”

Richey’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t been called that in a long time. It seemed like a completely different lifetime, a nickname for a completely different person. A faint memory in the past.

“No one can help.”

“You don’t know that,” Nicky took his hand before he could stop himself.

“I do,” Richey nodded.

“Well try and explain. To me,” Nicky squeezed his hand, desperate for some form of explanation.

“I just want…I want things to be how they were. But they won’t ever be like that again.”

“Like what?”

“Like back in the early days of the band…when we were at university. I felt somewhat happy, not entirely satisfied, but happy. Then when the band got good and successful…my dreams…they came true.”

Nicky looked down at his lap, not needing an explanation to know what Richey’s dreams were.

“I was fulfilled. I thought nothing could go wrong. But then it was like a rollercoaster. My emotions and feelings were all over the place. Unfortunately they happened to end on a sad note, which led me to be like this.” He gestured to his broken body, hidden underneath an oversized jumper.

“All because of me.” Nicky whispered this to himself, but Richey heard him.

“I shouldn’t have been so…needy. I tried to get over you Nick, when you got with Rachel, but those eight long months, my feelings for you remained the same. Unfortunately. Since you announced your love for her...each day has been a massive effort, a massive drag. I was looking forward to getting my flat here so I could be away from everything. But I just feel even worse.”

By now, Nicky was close to opening the floodgates again. He had no idea what to say, how to make Richey happy, without either divorcing Rachel and getting back with him or just simply removing himself from Richey’s life. And he knew either option was an impossibility, which meant Richey couldn’t be happy. He’d never be like the old Teddy Nicky adored and had fun with, writing lyrics and getting drunk together. Those silly, hilarious times they had dressing up for gigs with glitter and eyeliner, white Levi’s and Adidas trainers. Cuddling in the bed they had to share at Phillip’s. Posing as the Glamour Twins, shooting the ‘Love’s Sweet Exile’ video. Studying together at university, being so proud of each other with their shared politics degrees. And all of that, which had disappeared, just a slight trace of the old Richey left behind in Nicky’s memories, was all due to his own selfish, stupid actions. And that simple fact was more than enough to tip Nicky over the edge.

Richey wrapped his bony arms around his best friend as he began to sob. He would’ve cried too, relieved that he could finally cry with someone, not taking out his emotions by himself through self harm and starvation, but there was simply nothing left to cry out. Richey had done all the crying, and no matter how hard he tried no tears would form.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky repeated over and over again, never being able to express through words how sorry he truly was, but trying desperately anyway.

Richey didn’t respond. What could he say? Nothing. He knew Nicky was sorry, and that neither of them could do anything to help. There was a part of him that wanted to punch Nicky’s lights out for making him feel this way, feel this low and this lifeless, like there was nothing worth living for anymore. But a very small part, for Richey’s love for the man completely overpowered any other feelings, whether they were of hate or not.

Richey’s jumper was soaked now from Nicky’s tears, which kept on coming.

“Nicky, you have no reason to cry,” Richey croaked. “You’re so, so happy. You’ve got loads of opportunities ahead of you – you can start a proper family. You have a wife that adores you. You’re healthy, and content. So please don’t cry…”

“I’m not happy, and I’m not content,” Nicky sobbed. “I’m neither of those things knowing you’re feeling like this constantly. It’s awful. I can’t do anything to help. You’re my fucking best friend. And I caused all this shit.”

“You’ve gotta start thinking more about yourself.” It physically pained Richey to say this, when he so desperately wanted to confirm that yes, Nicky had caused this, that he wanted Nicky to feel terrible about it, that maybe the reason he was feeling so guilty was because he adored Richey with all his heart – all of it – and he would divorce Rachel and begin to gradually rebuild trust and a relationship with him…no. Richey was thinking too unrealistically now. Back to reality.

Nicky sniffed. “How can you say that, Rich? After all I’ve put you through?”

Richey took a deep breath, and with a lot of effort against what he really wanted to say inside, said, “Because you deserve to be happy.”

End.

Author’s Note: I believe Richey is still alive, and nothing will persuade me otherwise unless there is proven evidence. Richey was stronger than that, he never contemplated suicide. I believe he is abroad somewhere, living life in peace. :-)

hewillwaituntil — Tue, 28 Aug 2012 23:15:56 GMT

Title: The Fragments (preview of part I. I'm keeping my submissions short for personal reasons.)
Rating: PG-13 - R for canonical triggery conent.
Pairing: Nicky/Richey. 2nd person POV (Nicky's).
Author: aslongasitlasts under a new pseudonym.
Warnings: Probably exploits every Nicky/Richey cliché in the book. I also think I've written them both explicitly gay for each other here, so in case it may be misleading - sorry.
Disclaimer: This story is all made up. I have no idea about the real lives of anyone in the Manics, only what they've let through the publicized media. The title belongs to the Manics, the story isn't necessarily inspired by the song Fragments.
A/N: I wrote this taking place on their first Japanese tour.

There's something honestly sad and desperate about Richey's boredom. You say it to yourself time after time; Even though you're certain you don't need a reminder of any Richey-fact, there's still a part of you - an involuntary part of you - that keeps nagging you about it, that says 'I've told you' every time he starts slipping away from you or even seems like he's beginning to detach from the rest of the world.

It's where he hides his loneliness, his fear of being abandoned, his feelings of failure and inadequecy you and James and Sean have struggled so much with understanding because neither of you have felt that way about him, but you know it's so real and painful to him.

You sometimes blame yourself for not thinking about him more often, even though you know it isn't true. He's your best friend. You feel it in your heart, you feel it physically - he's part of you, it's almost like missing a limb if he's not around you in some way; You don't ache for your missing limb, not really, it's more like you can still feel him if he isn't there. It's always been that way.

Tonight he called you to his hotel room because he couldn't sleep, and there wasn't anything he found watchable for him on any of the TV channels your hotel had to offer. You tell yourself it's as good a reason as any to go see him - to be honest, just the fact he wanted to see you is enough for you. Besides, you're relieved he chose to call you when he could have gone on much more destructive routes - he trusts you, right?

My (extremely long) Manics Fanfic! Part 2

joelywire — Tue, 28 Aug 2012 21:33:57 GMT

January, 1993

The time had come. Nicky couldn’t deal with this anymore. It was spiraling out of control – he had decided who he wanted to be with and no matter how hard he tried, re-assessed the situation, or attempted to figure out a way around it, nothing could change his mind.

Richey, between now and that emotional night, had been perfectly happy. Nicky and Rachel had drifted much to his delight, and he and Nicky were closer than ever. They played their ‘Glamour Twins’ roles, dressing up in leopard print and makeup, standing back to back onstage, posing in a mock-embrace for the cameras – but behind closed doors, back at their flat, they’d cuddle up together, fall asleep entwined.

Nicky had pushed Rachel to the very back of his mind, so Richey could be happy and carefree, to make up for how shit and small Nicky had made him feel. They had almost completely stopped talking, Rachel acting a little sour with him after he had given his almost full attention to Richey. Nicky had hoped she’d understand, but who would in this fucked up situation he’d caused?

But then, it happened. Nicky had stayed in the flat while Richey had gone out for a drink with his university friend, Nigel. He had been absent-mindedly watching television when the phone rang, and the caller turned out to be Rachel. She had asked to come round immediately, and he, expecting her to attack him, and rant about how broken-hearted she was, accepted. He dreaded the worst – and was totally caught off guard when she threw her arms around him and kissed him, as soon as he had opened the door. From that moment, he had felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders – that as long as he had her, then everything would be alright, no matter what life threw at him. They spent a short evening together, until Nicky was forced to lie, saying that Richey would be simply pissed off if he came home to find the two having sex in just the next room, not heart-broken and betrayed. So she left, and then Richey came home, and gave him the biggest hug ever, which tore him apart.

So that had lead Nicky to this present moment, where he was waiting for Richey to come home, anxious and terrified. He had no idea what to expect, for both his wording and Richey’s reaction. He had told himself a million times that she is what he wanted. He loved Richey with all his heart, but in a completely different way. And he couldn’t explain in what way, but he knew for sure that he wanted to be with Rachel.

“Alright, Nick?” Nicky gulped as he heard him shut the door and cross the kitchen, probably to put the kettle on. “You up?”

“Yeah,” Nicky replied, intending his answer to be a lot louder than it actually was. He cleared his throat.

Richey came in with a steaming mug of tea. He collapsed down next to Nicky and rested his head on his shoulder. “I am so tired,” he yawned.

“Mm.”

Richey sat up, and looked at Nicky questioningly. “Are you okay?”

“Just thinking… we need to talk…”

Richey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his face suddenly paler. He looked down at his lap, nodding, probably dreading what was to come, as Nicky, heart beating furiously, figured out what exactly he was going to say. What was the point though, of trying to word something differently, when he could just be blunt and come out and say it? It would save a lot of hassle, and serious thinking, and if he tried to word it and over complicate things it would probably end up coming out not the way Nicky wanted it to.

“I’m not in love with you, Rich – I love Rachel and she loves me!” Nicky blurted out, before he could stop himself. Richey looked up at him, with an emotionless expression. His face had gone white, eyes glazed over – he looked almost insane. Little did Nicky know that inside, everything was falling apart, his heart was hurting, and he felt like he was going to be physically sick. Suddenly everything ached, like he had walked a hundred miles. All he wanted to do was sleep for years.
Richey’s facial expression forced Nicky to elaborate. “I mean- I still love you. But you’re not who I want to be with. You’re my best friend, Rich…I just don’t have those feelings, that’s all-”

Nicky was cut short, as Richey leapt up, and stormed into the bedroom. Nicky, mortified, heard the cupboard open, and then Richey’s chest of drawers. He couldn’t bear to look at what he was doing, but he stood up and crossed the room anyway, peering round the doorway.

Richey had his suitcase opened in front of him, throwing in his clothes carelessly, bunched up and unfolded. Nicky shook his head frantically, heart plummeting. “No Rich, don’t leave, please? We can sort things out…we can get through this! You’re still my best friend, I swear, I love you, but I just…Richey, please!”

Tears were rolling down Richey’s face, but he didn’t speak a word, and neither did Nicky, for there was nothing else he could say. It was obvious his glamour twin wouldn’t be persuaded, not in the slightest.

But how can I be surprised at his reaction? Nicky thought, tears beginning to form in his own eyes. I fucking broke his heart, twice now.

“Rich, please…” Nicky whispered, as Richey stood up, suitcase in hand, and walked straight past him, making sure to shove him fiercely with his shoulder. The last thing Nicky heard before the door slammed was a small sob.

Nicky didn’t know what to do with himself from that point onwards. The evening ended in him weeping on his bed, which felt so empty and wrong without Richey beside him. He wondered what Richey was doing – and couldn’t bear to think what was running through his mind. If he had thrown himself in front of a lorry, that was Nicky’s fault. If he’d taken an overdose, or gotten alcohol poisoning, that was also Nicky’s fault. He could be doing anything now to take out his heartbreak and anger, probably something reckless and dangerous, and it was all Nicky’s fault.

September, 1993

Richey had forced himself through eight hard, long months. He hadn’t stuck around with the band after any gigs, for fear of seeing him and her together. He’d put on a brave face for the fans and the press though, keeping up with the Glamour Twin image with the love of his life, his only reason to live. He thought he could cope with it, that soon his seemingly undying love for his best friend would fade, that he’d find someone new – but no. It had been eight long months, and his feelings remained the same.

But every day was a massive effort now. Things were different. Nicky and Rachel were due to marry in a couple days, and Richey was asked pleadingly to attend as the groom’s best man. If his feelings for Nicky were more of hatred then love, he’d have turned and spat in his face. But simply knowing that Nicky would be overjoyed to have his best friend, whose heart he broke and who he put through a lot of shit, beside him when he married, was enough for Richey to accept the offer. Seeing Nicky happy with her was almost more than he could handle. But it’s only a few days, Richey had told himself. Then you don’t have to pretend.

After Richey had stormed out of his and Nicky’s flat, he’d gone to his parents’, extremely drunk and miserable. They’d taken him in and from that point on, he’d lived with them, his mother keeping him sane, until shortly after the wedding when he was due to move into his new flat in Cardiff. Richey couldn’t wait, but at the same time was anxious, and admittedly, a bit frightened. He wasn’t used to being so far from people he knew, and from Nicky and the band. And it was the first time in a flat by himself. He hoped the move would help clear his head, and time away from Nicky would help him get over his seemingly undying love. But he still wasn’t going to lie to himself that he wasn’t scared.

The whole day of the wedding, from start to finish, was just a massive push, the last one, powered by an extreme amount of effort. Nicky looked so happy, and there wasn’t any trace of doubt in his face when he said his vows. Richey gazed at him from the side, trying desperately to look glad for him, but even he could tell his smile looked tragically fake. He spotted James looking at him at one point, facial expression concerned, and almost sympathetic. Richey smiled at him, showing no real emotion, and gazed on. He didn’t look at the couple when they were announced man and wife, and kissed passionately, leaving the guests cheering as they skipped down the aisle. Richey didn’t follow them in a hurry; he kept to the back of the crowd.

“You alright, Richey, mate?” James asked, appearing out of nowhere.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Another false smile.

“Rich, listen, I…”

“I’m fine, James. Honestly. I’m happy for them,” Richey insisted. “I’m just a bit anxious about the move to Cardiff, that’s all.” But if he had had his way, he would’ve confided in James, burst into tears there and then, and told the whole story of what happened.

“Oh. Right,” James nodded, obviously not believing him. “Well, shall we?”

They walked down the aisle together and out into the yard, where they saw Nicky and Rachel being photographed by a hired professional, the guests throwing confetti at them. Nicky was laughing, arm draped around his bride, while she blushed, grinning at the floor. Richey’s face sagged, wishing on anything that that was him stood there, instead of her, the one who had won his love’s heart. Then she looked up, and saw Richey stood there, unfortunately at one of the rare times he let his real emotions show, and gave him a smug, ‘I won’ smiles, like a child gives their sibling when they’ve gotten away with the crime. She looked away again, and beamed sweetly at the camera. A tear formed at Richey’s eye and rolled down his face, understanding now that this was all just a competition for Nicky’s heart. And he had tragically lost it.

Before anyone could notice, he wiped his cheek furiously and left, throwing himself into his car and driving back to his parents’, who were still at the wedding. He let himself in, and started to pack his suitcase, tears spilling over. He couldn’t handle anything anymore. He just hoped to God that bitch treated Nicky like a god, which he so rightly deserved. But Richey just had to get away from everyone.

December 1993

Richey finished his cigarette, and stubbed it out on his forearm, wincing at the pain, but quickly ignoring it and throwing the remains on the floor.

He was stood outside the hospital, where the Manics’ manager, Philip, had just passed away, sadly defeated by cancer. It affected Richey, but he didn’t dare show his sadness. He let it out by causing himself pain and being alone instead. It was a much more subtle and better way to do it, opposed to spending time with the rest of the band, all awkward embraces and sympathy for each other. He was honestly glad that he had his Cardiff flat now, for he could go back to it and read and spend time alone. Nicky wouldn’t offer to accompany him – he had a wife to go home to. They hardly spent any time together now like they used to, being very busy with the band, and when they weren’t Nicky was with Rachel. Richey couldn’t say he minded. The awkwardness that would’ve hung between them, like a dark cloud, would be unbearable for both of them, and would most probably have erupted in either tears or a fierce argument.

He heard footsteps approaching behind him and he turned around. James looked expressionless and lifeless, his big brown eyes like two empty pits. His face was unreadable, and Richey couldn’t tell whether he was about to burst into tears or a fit of rage.

“Are you alright?” James asked, coming up to him.

Richey nodded, fishing out another cigarette from his pocket. At that sight, James lit one too, and they smoked in silence, hearing the busy traffic faintly in the distance.

“Where’s Nicky and Sean?” Richey asked.

“Inside still. I think we might leave soon. I hate hospitals,” James murmured.

“What are we gonna do now?” Richey asked after a long pause.

“Carry on,” James said firmly. “It’s what Phil would’ve wanted.”

Richey finished his cigarette, and not wanting to horrify James, no matter how tempting it was, threw the end on the floor and stubbed it out with his foot. Nicky and Sean came out then, Nicky’s eyes slightly red. Richey smiled sympathetically at him, but didn’t dare make eye contact. Things between them were never going to be the same again.

“Does anyone want a lift?” Richey asked quietly, as the four of them crossed the car park.

“Oh, would you mind, Rich?” Nicky asked, his voice cracked.

“Not at all,” Richey replied distantly, dreading what was to come, and wishing he’d never said anything.

After being patted on the back supportively by James and Sean, Nicky climbed into the passenger seat. Richey opened the car door.

“Rich, you alright?” James muttered so Nicky couldn’t hear.

Richey nodded, and climbed in as well.

The journey was quiet, Nicky looking over at him occasionally, probably terrified that he was going to start crying or have a breakdown.

“Rich, what’s that on your arm?” Nicky said suddenly, making Richey jump.

“It’s a cigarette burn,” Richey said shortly, not bothering to try and cover it up.

“What did you do that for?” Nicky asked, his facial expression terrified.

“I don’t know.”

“Well it’s bloody stupid.”

Richey pulled into Nicky’s road, and parked outside his house. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked, slightly impatiently. He couldn’t wait to be alone.

“Rich…” Nicky whispered, tears forming in his eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Richey asked, resting his hand on Nicky’s shoulder, even though it was painful inside to make physical contact with him these days.

Nicky shook his head, tears spilling. “Rich, hold me,” he said, his face crumpling, this time being his turn to let the floodgates open.

Richey had seen Nicky cry drunkenly, but never seriously. Nicky was known to be happy and easy going no matter how shit his teenage years had been, stuck feeling alienated all his life. It was what he was famous for. Seeing Nicky in this state was something completely new.

If Richey had his way, he’d tell Nicky to get out of the car and seek sympathy and reassurance from his wife. But knowing chances like these were a rarity, and always would be from now on, made him seize the chance. He took Nicky’s arm, and pulled him into the backseat, where he could properly hold him. Richey rocked him, but didn’t say anything. A cruel part of him wanted Nicky to cry, to experience how Richey had been feeling ever since they’d met.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky apologized after a while.

“What for?” Richey asked, almost sarcastically.

“For being a heartless twat,” Nicky let out a sob again. “And you definitely don’t deserve it after what you’ve been through…”

Richey swallowed, refusing to get himself worked up in a state in front of Nicky again. He’d promised that there would be no more tears, no more making himself look weak and so, in love.

“Well, what could you do?” Richey muttered. “You love her.”

“But I love you, too.”

“In a different way,” Richey said quickly. “That’s what you told me.”

Nicky sniffed.

“You love me in a different way, don’t you, Nick?” Richey squeezed him in a frustrated manner.

There was a long pause, and Richey could almost hear the cogs in Nicky’s brain working. After a while, Nicky nodded. “Yeah. That’s right,” he said. But he didn’t move, still cuddled into Richey’s chest.

“Well that’s what you told me,” said Richey, heart aching at the thought, an ache that had haunted him for months.

“I’m sorry for crying,” Nicky said, changing the subject. “I’m such a pussy. I need to man up.”
It was meant to be funny, but neither of them laughed.

“I’d better go,” said Nicky, sitting up. Richey’s arms fell to his sides, everything happening too fast for his liking.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said. They looked at each other for a moment, not knowing whether to leave it at that or embrace. Richey, not able to bear the tension, patted Nicky sympathetically on the shoulder. He smiled, gave him one last look and got out of the car, hurrying into his house without a backwards glance.

My (Extremely Long) Manics Fanfic! Part 1

joelywire — Tue, 28 Aug 2012 21:29:34 GMT

Title: Untitled
Rating: Adult concepts..?
Pairing: Nicky/Richey, slight Nicky/Rachel
Disclaimer: My first fanfic, I hope everyone likes it. I'm sure a lot of this never happened, and I doubt Rachel was as evil as I made her out to be in this. Sorry if it offends. Pretty clean, but depressing and sad. Richey and Nicky's relationship from the start.

“I want somebody to love me,” Richey said honestly to the interviewer, a small smile on his face. There was a pause, and then Nicky howled with laughter beside him.

“I love you, Rich,” he grinned, leaning against him.

Richey laughed with him, but inside wondered, heart pounding fiercely, whether Nicky meant it, not just as a joke. For there wasn’t one single thing in the world Richey wanted more than his best friend and band mate, Nicky Wire. He worshipped the ground he walked on, the air he breathed. Just seeing the man in front of him lit up his day instantly, no matter how bad it had gotten. They were best friends, but Richey wasn’t satisfied with that. To hold him in his arms, forgetting everything else and blocking out the shit that was usually thrown at them, was Richey’s perfect idea of true happiness.

Richey and Nicky’s relationship had always been one of the few highlights of Richey’s life. The day they met, something clicked – and from then on, the two were inseparable. Writing lyrics together was always a joy, fusing together their shared passion for left-wing political angst. Nicky had always gotten confused over Richey’s seemingly meaningless lyrics, brow furrowed in concentration, frowning slightly, and Richey watched him, amused. He’d spend hours re-reading them, trying to make some sense of them. Richey would go to the shops for an hour, come back, and Nicky would still be there.

Their relationship didn’t take long to form, either. They had so much in common – politics, leopard print clothing and feather boas. Not to mention the large quantities of eyeliner and eye shadow they carefully applied, side by side in their shared bathroom, sharing one chair. Richey got the hang of it faster than Nicky did, Nicky’s hands being larger, Richey’s smaller and more nimble.

Nicky wrapped his feather boa around his neck, once the makeup had been perfected. He struck a silly pose in the mirror, as Richey made the finishing touches to his eyes.

“How do I look?” Nicky laughed.

“Fabulous, darling,” Richey mumbled in a jokingly camp voice, before muttering ‘fuck’ as he clumsily smudged his eyeliner.

“While you’ve lost the hang of it, I’ve finally got the hang of it,” Nicky giggled.

Both of these enjoyable activities together were carried out long before their relationship unexpectedly moved forward, shortly after the release of ‘Love’s Sweet Exile’. Richey was secretly over the moon, containing his delight and excitement by not screaming out the news to everyone he knew. Nicky, on the other hand, was confused, and slightly worried. Was it possible to love two people at the same time? His relationship with Richey had grown at university, but now he had gained his politics degree and the days spent with Richey studying were just happy memories in the past, he had started talking with his ex, Rachel again. They were on and off, but after promising each other it was officially over just before Nicky had begun university, miserable and lifeless, this broken promise had seemed to bite Nicky fiercely on the ass. Richey simply believed that Nicky and Rachel were all in the past, forgotten, Nicky all his now.

The two stumbled drunkenly into their shared flat, collapsing in a heap of giggles on the sofa. They had been out drinking, celebrating their latest gig which had gone extremely well. They had forgotten what the original source of all the laughing was, although it was probably something the opposite of funny if they were sober. Their laughter died down quickly, leaving the two practically in an intimate position, silent and out of breath.

Nicky, with a lot of effort, pushed himself up off the sofa.

“I wanna cuppa,” he slurred.

Richey shook his head, and pulled him back down. “Stop making excuses,” he said slowly.

“What are you on about, Rich?” Nicky giggled. “This drink’s gone to your head, mate.” He tapped Richey’s forehead playfully.

Richey took Nicky’s finger quickly, before he could take it back, and lightly traced it down his nose, across his cheek, and then to his lips. Nicky made no sign of protest against this move. It was only when Richey began to kiss his fingertip that Nicky spoke.

“Richey…” he began.

His glamour twin shook his head slowly. “Don’t act like you don’t want it,” he said softly.

“I do, but…”

“But what?”

Nicky sighed, and continued to helplessly watch as Richey continued to kiss each of his fingers now, then his hand.

And then Richey looked up at him, gazing deep into his eyes. Nicky gazed back, giving up lying to himself that he didn’t want this. Their lips met, and from that moment, everything was clear. Both of them equally wanted this as much as each other, it was only the haunt of Rachel that left Nicky feeling terrible afterwards. Nicky and Rachel weren’t together, but things were developing. The flirting and all the looks, signals that had triggered relationships before. Rachel was a lovely girl, Nicky adored her with his heart – well, half his heart. The other half belonged to the pale, forlorn angel that was Richey Edwards. His love for Richey was different than his love for Rachel. It was a complicated, foggy love, a constant presence of it hanging between them in the air. But a love he never dared to discuss, in case Nicky said something that gave away his obvious feelings for Rachel.

Richey on the other hand, adored things the way they were. He thought the only reason Nicky didn’t bring up the subject every time they cuddled in the hotel bedroom, was because there was nothing to be said. The nights spent clinging to each other, and the way Nicky gazed into his eyes, said enough, Richey thought. That they were perfect for each other, and they would live long, happy lives together.

Nicky’s love for Rachel, on the other hand, was clear, and if Richey hadn’t had a strong hold on half of his heart, things wouldn’t be complicated. But they were, and that was all due to Nicky’s helpless weakness for his best friend. If only he had stopped Richey on that evening, explained the situation between him and Rachel. But Nicky could imagine Richey’s reaction. He didn’t want to imagine it, but it haunted him and made him think that letting this fucked up relationship move forward was the right thing to do. Seeing Richey in pain because of him was more than Nicky could handle.

But no one could deny that the two’s bond was really something special. No one had to notify James and Sean for them to know the two were more than friends. Sean strived to keep out of the situation, playing on one games console or another, while James worried for them, especially Richey, knowing full well hearts would be broken and tears shed. He had a slight feeling that Rachel was in this situation somewhere, when Nicky left band practice early, not telling any of them where he was going. Sometimes Richey would accompany Nicky to town out of boredom, forcing Nicky to announce who they were meeting. Richey would look hurt, but covered it up with a smile and a nod. He’d then be off with Nicky all evening, refusing to explain what was wrong, although both of them knew what the reason was.

But what could Nicky say? That he was sorry for meeting his ex for a coffee? He was entitled to spend his free time in any way he chose, and it definitely wasn’t Richey’s place to tell him differently.

Nicky returned to the flat after another coffee with Rachel. He had left a note for Richey, which he found had been screwed up and dropped (or thrown) on the floor. He frowned at this, but chose to ignore it, praying to himself deep inside it wasn’t Richey who had screwed it up out of hurt or anger. It wasn’t long after he had collapsed onto one of the beds that he dozed off.

He woke up to hear Richey’s laughter, the slam of the door. He sat up to go and embrace him, but stopped short when he heard another set of footsteps, another laugh. A lady’s laugh. Nicky quickly laid back on his pillow and shut his eyes tight as Richey and this lady ran giggling into the bedroom.

Nicky subtly clamped his hands over his ears desperately, mentally and physically preparing himself for what he was about to endure. He felt hurt, angry, confused, a toxic mixture of emotions clouding his already foggy mind. How could Richey do this to him? Was it revenge, a stab at him for meeting Rachel? Nicky wasn’t having sex with her, for fuck’s sake – Richey was practically cheating on him! His fingers weren’t enough to block out the noise though, for he still heard the creaking of the bed and kissing. But then that stopped, and he heard silence. The room was silent. He lifted his head slightly to see what was happening. Richey was on top of this girl, but he had stopped kissing and touching her. He looked over in Nicky’s direction, shook his head frantically and rolled off of her. He collapsed onto his knees on the floor and began to sob, strangled sobs which stabbed at Nicky, turning his stomach.

After Nicky had shown the girl out, apologizing to her disappointed, flushed face, he returned to Richey, who was still in a sobbing, half-naked heap on the floor. Nicky scooped him up into his arms and laid him gently down on his bed.

“Rich…” Nicky started.

He was soon interrupted, for Richey threw his arms around his neck and hugged him close, and so tightly, Nicky couldn’t breathe, but Richey didn’t seem to care.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed into Nicky’s ear, his voice cracked, and so fragile.

Nicky climbed onto the bed, and held Richey for hours it seemed, shushing him gently every time he let out a strangled sob. Nicky’s heart was breaking into pieces, knowing that Richey’s reaction to him and Rachel’s relationship was going to be a lot worse than this. He had no idea what to do, what to say, or how to go about it. He was stuck in a horrid love triangle, and there was no way out. And Richey’s heartbreaking sobs proved that he only had eyes for Nicky, and no one else. Nicky owned his whole heart. And that made him feel even worse.

After that occasion, neither of the two mentioned it. If anything, they were too busy with the band to mention anything. Richey continued to play the guitar badly, but he was the perfect image for the group. He should’ve been having the time of his life in a now popular rock band – he knew this – but he felt as low as ever. Rachel had started to occasionally sit in the recording studio and wait for Nicky, or just simply watch them, and Richey was sure he could feel his heart breaking. The last thing he wanted to do though was talk to Nicky about it, because he knew if he did, Nicky would confess things that could potentially break them up. It felt absolutely shocking that every time he and Rachel smiled at each other, Richey was gradually losing his best friend more and more.

Nicky could almost feel the tension in the air between the two people that meant the most to him in the whole world. The small glares they gave each other when the other wasn’t looking, made his stomach turn, and when they subtly competed for Nicky’s full attention made him want to yell in their faces at how childish they were being. But at the back of his mind, he knew that this mess was all his doing, so really he should be shouting at himself for not sorting it out before things grew worse.

“Would you like a cuppa, Rich?” Nicky asked, as soon as they returned to their flat after a long, tiring day.

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Richey said distantly, removing his coat.

Nicky watched him quietly sigh, face tinted with sadness. He was incredibly beautiful on this particular day, eyeliner perfectly shaping and bringing out his chocolate brown eyes, hair ruffled. The sight of him made him cross the room and wrap his arms around his waist.

Richey didn’t protest, but didn’t hug him back. He stood hard as stone, and up straight.

“Bad day?” Nicky asked into his neck.

Richey sighed deeply. “No, it’s been absolutely great,” he snapped.

Nicky pulled away, and looked at him questioningly, eyebrow raised. Richey glared back at him.

“Hey, hey,” Nicky said softly. “Don’t look at me like that, Rich. It breaks my heart.”

“Join the club. Welcome to my life,” Richey said in a choked voice, tears threatening to spill.

“No, no, no!” Nicky took hold of his hands – which were now clenched into fists. “Come and sit down, we’ll talk about it.”
Richey let him pull him down onto the sofa.

“What’s on your mind?” Nicky asked him, taking both of his hands.

“It’s nothing,” Richey muttered, gazing at his lap. “Really, really nothing.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Nicky said. “You’ve been acting sad lately, I don’t know what’s-”

Something then triggered inside of Richey, like a switch had been flicked.

“Don’t fucking give me that, Nicky, you bastard!” he cried. Nicky began to stutter, but he continued, “I wasn’t born fucking yesterday – you know full well what’s wrong with me and you’ve done fuck all to help me out! I thought you were my best friend! It’s piss poor!”

By this point, Nicky was staring at his lap, one-hundred per cent guilty with nothing to defend himself. Richey watched him, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky mumbled.

“What?” Richey snapped into his ear.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky looked into his eyes then, full of regret and self-loathing at what he’d done. The impact this had made on his best friend made him look evil, sub-human! “I’m wicked, absolutely vile. And I’m sorry. I’ve done a terrible thing, alright, and I don’t know what to do!”

“Well I hope it drives you to madness,” Richey said, “and gives you a little insight into my world. Do you even fucking care?”

“Of course,” Nicky whispered, tears spilling down his face. “You’re my best friend.”

“Well treat me like one then!” Richey said voice high-pitched with frustration.

“What am I supposed to do, Rich? Let you control what I do, all day every day? I have my own life; I have the right to do as I please without you clinging on,” he cried desperately, turning around and running his hands through his hair.

Richey stood, tears building up, huffing and puffing like a small child in a tantrum, frustrated at not knowing how to make his true love simply understand. He watched Nicky as he crossed the room, poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one.

“You’re breaking my heart,” Richey stuttered.

Nicky looked at him, eyes glazed with sadness. “What do you genuinely want, Rich?”

“I want you to be mine, not hers! I want to hold you in my arms every night, laugh with you, and kiss with you, I want you to tell me that you love me…” By this time, the floodgates had well and truly opened, and Richey was sobbing uncontrollably. “I wanna be yours. I love you Nicky. And nothing can persuade me otherwise….”

Nicky stood helpless as Richey collapsed onto the sofa, crying his heart out. His beautiful, fragile best friend suffering terribly because of his cruel actions. With this thought in mind, Nicky dropped his glass, and it shattered against the floor as he hurried over and took Richey in his arms, cradling and rocking him, tears spilling down his own cheeks, not knowing what to do, what to say, or how to make Richey happy. His sobs didn’t get worse, but didn’t get any better – he was completely miserable, broken hearted, and helplessly in love.

How could I be so selfish? Nicky thought, tears continuing to leak down his face. So self-centered, focused on a woman who – in the long run – could never be compared even slightly to Richey.

Richey had stopped sobbing now; just snuffling and whimpering occasionally, out of breath from his breakdown. He was slightly embarrassed, and felt humiliated – he must’ve looked so vulnerable and weak. Nicky tightened his grip around him, resting his chin softly in Richey’s hair.

“Do you believe me now?” Richey muttered, voice catching.

Nicky nodded firmly, squeezing him, to confirm that he truly did.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, rocking him again. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

Richey didn’t reply. It was obvious that Nicky meant what he said, that he was completely convinced of the pain he had caused him. This meant that Nicky would give him what he wanted.

Richey looked up into Nicky’s eyes.

“Kiss me, Nick,” he said, his eyes red, black makeup smudged, so full of emotion, weirdly looking even more beautiful than usual.

Nicky leaned down, and tenderly pressed his lips against his best friend’s. Richey’s arms snaked up around him and his hands tangled into his hair, desperately, like he never wanted to let go. They shifted so Nicky was on top, not enjoying the experience as much as he should, a small part of him thinking of Rachel and how he was leading her on, letting their relationship develop again. She was a sweet, lovely woman and she thought the world of him, would never hurt him, would go out of her way to make him happy…

Nicky pulled away.

“What?” Richey whined.

“Rich…”

“Don’t do this, not now,” Richey took hold of his face frantically and looked deep into his eyes. “You want this, Nick!”

Nicky sighed, and studied his face. He looked desperate and impatient, and hurt – once again – by Nicky’s actions. This thought alone drove Rachel completely out of his mind, and he, more forcefully this time, pressed his lips against Richey’s, trying to block everything else out and make this broken boy happy for once.

The night ended in clumsy, but passionate sex – which Richey probably saw as love making – and then the two fell asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted by all the emotion and the tears. Nicky’s guilt about Rachel had returned to him and haunted him until he fell into an uneasy sleep. Richey, on the other hand, fell asleep happy, hopeful and relieved, convinced that now Nicky was truly sorry, that also meant he loved him and was all his too.

Twin Beds

hollowromance — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 12:26:43 GMT

Title: Twin Beds
Author: Me, obvs, much to my embarrassment
Rating: Like G, probably. There's (both implied) sexual longing and violence (not self-violence)
Warnings: None
Pairing: Nicky/Richey
Word Count: 3423

Disclaimer: A work of fiction. None of the events ever happened.
Author's notes: Hiya all, I know it's not very busy round here lately, but I thought I might as well post just in case anyone is reading. I'm not writing as much fan fiction as I used to (desperately trying to "grow out" of the habit but, god damn it, it's just too fun), but I still have a fairly large back-log of Nicky/Richey stories I need to pawn off somewhere, so I may still post occasionally. Hope you're all well. General warning of how terrible this is- it's fairly plotless, unbetaed, (barely proofread tbh I am so so sorry) rambly, disjointed, abstract and entirely sex free. But hey, it's better than nothing?

Nicky doesn’t like touring. And continually referring to it as a ‘necessary evil’ isn’t doing much to help alleviate the strain, as it doesn’t change the fact that it has not a single redeeming feature. No television. Never really knowing the city you’re playing in, or indeed even what city you’re playing in. Sitting with your head between your knees on the long, cramped journeys from venues to hotels, hotels to venues, each more dismal and decrepit than the last, fighting back waves of motion induced nausea. Nicky spends these journey silently and fumingly making long, internal lists of everything he despises about the whole process, each more extravagantly petulant than the last. He glares sullenly out the window through sunglasses he doesn’t need, omnipresent and ill-fitting, as the cities flash by and blur together into one turgid grey palette of colour and noises and sickness, sountracked by Sean incessantly bleeping his way through the latest hand-held Sega distraction, and the sound of James and Richey cackling conspiratorially and chain-smoking their way through endless packets of cigarettes. Nicky scows. Coughs obviously.

Richey, in whatever unremarkable hotel room they were inhabiting whichever unremarkable night, would sometimes appear mystified as to why Nicky hated it all so much.
Each night, without fail, Nicky would collapse, groaning theatrically onto one of the inevitable twin beds. Richey would rub the small of Nicky’s back in thoughtful circular motions and Nicky would wail off a seemingly unending collection of everything that was bothering him that day, anything that had annoyed him, ranging from aching legs to Sean leaning into him when they went round corners too sharply.

“Deliberately” he whines. Richey nods sympathetically. This particular night, their room is drab, but otherwise completely interchangeable with the one last night. And, presumably, the one tomorrow as well.

Nicky didn’t think it was Phil’s he missed per se. Home comforts on the whole, perhaps. Television on tap, endless supplies of crisps, knowing that the bathroom you were using was at least half-clean and indeed, not bumping into foreign walls every time you tried to find it upon waking in the night.

Nicky wondered if he was getting old prematurely. His knees did cause him a lot of grief after all, more than should be expected of a man in his early twenties. Because the second-biggest (he had, after all, all the time in the world to think about this) aspect of life-at-Phil’s Nicky missed was the stability that came with it. The glorious routine. And surely, Nicky mused, that was very ‘old man’ thing to long for. He was sure almost every other man his age would jump at the chance for the rock’n’roll lifestyle Nicky was supposedly leading.
Although once you stripped the romantic assumptions away, Nicky though sourly, the reality you were left with was a lot less glamorous. Getting heckled by audiences of thirty, losing more money from booking gigs than you gained from actually playing them… and all that- because of the arrangement of the inevitable twin beds- without the promise, just one tangible truth he could cling to, one that would make all the boredom and hardship worth it, no matter how bad the day was and how demotivating the gigs were, it would be alright if he just had that, fuck everything else, just that, please, please, please- just one solid immovable fact, that Nicky would drift into unconsciousness with the warm, slumbering body of his best friend beside him.

That couldn’t be promised on touring.

Which of course, Nicky had decided was the primary, most painful thing he had to come to miss about life-at-Phil’s.

“Nick?”

Nicky jolts slightly, then looks over his shoulder, blinking at the man who studies his face so calmly, who raises an eyebrow questioningly, despite him being the only person in the world who knows Nicky as well as he does… even better, Nicky sometimes fears, than Nicky knows himself.
Nicky turns away, mumbling unintelligibly into the pillow. The exposed skin of his back where his shirt has ridden up burns when Richey’s cool fingertips brush and make contact. Nicky shifts, hopefully imperceptibly. But the movements are too sudden, too unsubtle, and Richey withdraws his hand as if he has been scalded, hurt flashing in eyes before disappearing as quickly as it appeared. He keeps his face studiedly neutral of all emotion, before walking quietly across the room and lying down on his own bed, thousands of miles away, across a desert of cheap laminate flooring and threadbare rug. Nicky watches from the corner of his eye as Richey opens a book, quickly become absorbed, pearly blueish lids visible over downcast, black-framed eyes. Nicky could watch for longer. Nicky could watch all night.

Nicky hated the twin beds. Hated their appearance in every hotel room he and Richey ever had to inhabit. Every single one. Taunting and omnipresent. It’s the name that grated on him the most. Twins. Twin Beds. Twin Beds for the Glamour Twins. Twin beds, named so mockingly, he had decided. For the fact of the matter was, Nicky was adamant, with himself at least, Glamour Twins don’t sleep in Twin Beds, Glamour Twins sleep wrapped in each other’s arms. Or at they would do, if Nicky had his own way. If every night was like Phil’s, where the pure, beautiful coincidence of cramped quarters meant they had effectively no choice but to do so. Nicky sometimes worried if that was an unhealthy way to think, that if Richey knew what he was thinking half the time, he’d recoil in horror, or worse, smile warily whilst inwardly reflecting on how creepy hi ex-best-friend was… But regardless, whatever Richey thought, or didn’t think, or plain ignored, Nicky knew Glamour Twins certainly did not sleep apart in cold, hard single beds, especially those placed across the achingly large, dark chasm of a hotel room floor.

Sometimes, Nicky got drunk. Or rather, Nicky got drunk occasionally, but sometimes he only got tipsy. Nicky can’t act, but he could certainly exaggerate inebriation if needs be. He’d stagger clumsily, teetering artistically in his worn trainers, empty bottle, in one hand, the other resting effeminately on his hip.

“You” he would carefully slur, at the sight of Richey lying prone underneath the sheets “are in my bed.” Nicky would wink, extraordinarily exaggerated fashion, his face collapsing sideways like a broken crème brulee.
“No, this is my bed.” Richey would humour him. “You’re drunk.”
“N’am not” Nicky would declare, before diving fully clothed underneath the bed sheets to join his best friend. Richey would squawk in protest, Nicky would shush him, and eventually they’d fall asleep, Richey’s hands clasped loosely around Nicky’s neck, Nicky’s hands on Richey’s waist, breathing and soft and rhythmic, cheek against cheek, forehead against forehead.

Nicky would get concerned that Richey was cottoning on. Nicky knew Richey well, he knew Richey was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them.
“You aren’t really drunk, are you, Nicky?” he said one night. His tone was a little scathing, but only mockingly so, as if he were daring Nicky to contradict him.
“Yes I am!” Nicky protested, clinging tightly to Richey’s shoulders, half-closing his eyes in a determined fashion.
“… No you’re not.” Richey sighed, as if upset. “You’re just… making excuses.” There was a pause. “I should you push you out of bed for it, if I’m honest”
“No, don’t! I am drunk, I swear!” Then a little fearfully “you aren’t really going to kick me out are you?”
Richey laughed musically in Nicky’s ear, and a shiver raced down his spine. “Of course not. That would require an ounce of self-respect.” Nicky wove his fingers through Richey’s hair and gripped his hand tightly as they drifted off to sleep.

Nicky was making excuses. He knew this. And now Richey did too. He hated himself for it, hated himself for not being able to trust Richey not to reject him, or laugh in his face. He hated himself for not even being able to consider that Richey might be feeling the same. He hated how fake, and false and, and… silly it felt, playing such a ridiculous game with someone who was meant to be his best friend. But somehow, he struggled to stop the façade.

That didn’t mean he didn’t try. And as he predicted, Richey didn’t try and make it any easier for him. Maybe he was hurt, that Nicky just couldn’t come out and ask him. Or maybe he was just playing power games. Either one was reasonable to assume. “Why don’t you just sleep in here” Nicky had stammered one night, trying nonchalance but failing miserably, ending up sounding more pleading and pitiful than anything. Nicky wondered if Richey derived satisfaction from that, but if he did, he didn’t show it, just looked over at him blankly.

“Why would I do that?” Richey pulled a face. “When I’ve got a perfectly decent to bed to myself right here?” Richey’s eyes dared him to come up with a reason.

“’cause…” Nicky fumbled desperately “…I… don’t know. It’s what we do?” He winced.

“Any night” Richey sniffed “spent free from your sweaty, clammy clutches is a blessing I count dearly.” Nicky scowled. “Besides” Richey continued. “You aren’t, ah, drunk, shall we say.” He looked smug beneath the bed sheets of his own bed. “So it just seems…” -he thought of the right word- “unnecessary.” he finished. With a smirking finality, Richey stretched himself quite deliberately along the length of the bed on the opposite side of the room, looking at Nicky’s reaction coquettishly from under his eyelashes.
“It’s unnecessary washing” Nicky near spat, wondering how Richey could be so cruel, and wondering why he was still trying. “Think of the…dolphins.”
Richey laughed, a laugh with a sharp razorblade edge and the abrasive tone of dismissal. He returned himself to his book. Nicky wondered if it were all a game to him.

But there were nights when the tables were turned, of course, and Nicky would quickly forget any festering feelings of resentment he harboured towards Richey.
Nights where Nicky stared anxiously and unmoving at the ceiling, listening intently to the quiet, stifled sounds of Richey’s near-silent sobbing. Something felt like it was tearing a hole in the pit of his stomach every time a strangulated choke made it’s way across the room, not just for his friend’s pain, but also at his ridiculous pride. Of course, it was Richey all over that he would rather lie alone weeping pitifully to himself than ask Nicky for support. Nicky hated him for that.
“Richey” he whispered, one time he had caught him at it. No reply. “Richey” he had tried again slightly louder. Sometimes his voice cracked with heartbreak; sometimes it didn’t
“What?” Richey swallowed. Nicky could practically hear him inwardly berating himself for waking him up.
“Are you…okay?” Words that couldn’t extend far enough.
“Nightmares” Richey lied.
“It’s… all in your head, Rich. I promise.” He had meant it. He wished Richey could see that that was true.
Nicky heard the soft pad of Richey’s bare feet on the worn carpet, and a slim apparition clothed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt- my t-shirt, Nicky realised- appeared at the foot of his bed, cheeks streaked with tears, eyes rubbed red and sore and blackened with make-up.
Nicky wordlessly pulled back the covers, and Richey slid shivering between the sheets, letting himself be folded into Nicky’s embrace. He wet Nicky’s bare shouder with hot, salty tears, and bruised his arm from clutching so tightly.
“I’m sorry” Richey mumbled into the shampoo-smelling nape of Nicky’s neck.
“No, I’m sorry” Nicky said thickly, and ran his hands up and down the length of Richey’s arms, across his chest, through his hair. “I wish I could make it all go away for you.” He had meant that too.

Richey, Nicky sometimes dared hope, perhaps felt guilty for those nights, and whilst Nicky knew he had no reason to do so, it often mean Richey would repay him, something Nicky could never refuse. Sometimes, it seemed like they needed fewer excuses than normal to end up together. Sometimes Nicky went to bed first, and waited for Richey to approach him. Often he didn’t, but sometimes, just sometimes he did. And that, Nicky knew was progress. Even if, he had decided, it was just Richey being nice to him.
One time, Nicky had come out the bathroom, and squealed in fright when he saw Richey’s angular features smiling serenely at him from the pillow he himself had planned to sleep on.
“You’re in my bed” Nicky echoed.
“No” Richey pouted “I’m in our bed”
Nicky grinned, heart leaping, and clamoured in to join him, trying to ignore how pathetic he must look.
“What’s wrong with your own” He had asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not as creative as you when it comes to such excuses. How does too cold sound? Hmm? Too hard?” He blew his fringe upwards derisively. “Whatever. I don’t care.” He yawned. “Hug me, Nicky” Nicky obliged happily.

But Nicky certainly wasn’t the only person Richey played games with, if that indeed was the case.

There would be times when Nicky, lying prone and anxious in bed, waiting (always the one waiting), for Richey’s return. 1am. 2am. Sometimes Richey didn’t come back all night, and despite Richey’s flippant “oh, get something else to worry about. I’m a grown man” the morning after, it didn’t stop him. 3am.
Nicky needed to see Richey before he went to sleep. Needed to know that he was safe. TV blaring. Cup after cup of coffee. 4am.

There would be times when Nicky would tense involuntarily at the long-awaited sound of Richey’s footfall coming up the corridor, because this time, they carried a spiteful, cruel echo, the tap of women’s shoes, sometimes their shrill, lecherous laughter. Nicky’s vision would flash red and white, and it was irrational, he knew it was irrational, she hadn’t done anything, and neither had he, not really- but still totally and completely irrepresive all the same.

They’d stagger in, strange interchangeable with wide wet mouths and shining, scrabbling talons. Even stranger was the apparition on their arm, Nicky’s supposed best-friend, soul-mate, metamorphosed into a blank-faced spectre of himself who smiled woodenly and allowed himself to be moved as ever she wished, and who’s eyes never, ever sparkled in the same way as they did when he was hanging onto Nicky’s arm…

Sometimes, Richey would fuck them. Sometimes, he’d start crying, and Nicky would berate himself for the feeling of relief he’d get when he did, but it was only because he knew the girl would have to leave, even before the lust had dimmed from eyes, and finally, he and Richey could be alone, and Nicky could take him in his arms and he’d cry and cry and Nicky would soothe him, the only person who ever could.

But sometimes Richey would fuck them, and Nicky would stare at the ceiling, from his end of the room, twisting the bed-sheets about his legs, biting his lip until blood and tears sprang in equal measure. He’d taste the iron and copper with a dry tongue, and close his eyes so he didn’t have to see the way Richey’s lips would part when he came.

“There’s something wrong with you, you know that?” Richey was picking his nails, sitting cross-legged on his own bed.
Nicky massaged his bruised knuckles and ignored him.
“She didn’t deserve that.”
Nicky looked up sharply “shut up” he said thickly.
“I didn’t think you’d ever do something like that Nicky.” Richey continued as if he hadn’t been told to stop. “I can’t tell if I’m impressed or disgusted.”
Nicky bit his tongue until it drew blood.
“She didn’t deserve that” Richey repeated. “Especially not from a man who co-wrote Little Baby Nothing.”
“Shut the fuck up, Richey, I’m warning you.”
Richey laughed humourlessly. “Tell me that she deserved it, then. I don’t think you can. You’re not a bad man, Nicky. Far from it. You know she didn’t deserve it.” It was almost playground banter.
“She didn’t deserve you.” Nicky spat. He stood up and stormed into the bathroom.
The tap hissed as Nicky tore wildly at the knob. He ran his hand under the jet of cold water until it went numb, and then some more. Blood swirled down the plug in thin ruby ribbons.

Richey was standing, leaning against the wall, a lit cigarette pursed between his lips when Nicky finally emerged.
“You aren’t suppose-“ Nicky decided against it. Richey inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, cheeks caving in on themselves, giving his face a peculiar, skull-like appearance.

“When are you going to grow up, Nicky?”
Nicky didn’t answer.
“When are you going to be able to say all the things you want to say to my face?”
Another beat of silence..
Richey laughed softly. “I thought as much. I just wish I knew why. You know I’d never reject you. Is it embarrassment?”
Nicky opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out.
“Well. I don’t care. If you’re not brave enough, then I’m certainly not. But I hope you’re aware that you’re running out of your shit attempts at excuses. I don’t like being treated like some fucking dirty secret you have to sweep under the carpet and pretend it isn’t actually happening.”
Richey took a final drag on the cigarette, before putting it out on the already scarred wooden dressing table top. Nicky flinched as the wood smouldered.
“I’m going out” Richey said. Passing Nicky, he placed a dry-lipped kiss upon the cold, sweaty plane of his cheek.
“You’ve got to work out where you stand Nicky. Who I actually do deserve. Where you want to be.”
Richey disappeared into the night, leaving his word hanging like pearls in the air.

***

Standing in hotel lobbies had never been a favourite task, but at least they normally booked ahead. Nicky could remember disastrous attempts at trying to book rooms on the spot, when the impeccably coiffed, yet tired looking woman at reception would look directly at Nicky and ask, not even bothering to hide her boredom “double or twin beds?”, and Nicky replied before he could stop himself “double.”

James and Sean looked quizzically at him, Richey studied the floor. Nicky was unable to tell if it were fury or embarrassment radiating of him in burning waves.

“uhm. I mean… there’s two of us. Double room. Single bed. No, single beds. Two single beds… twin beds…” Nicky trailed off hopelessly. The woman clicked her tongue. “Twin beds?”

The words felt like acid on Nicky’s tongue when he spat them back at her “Yes. Twin Beds.”

“Alright.”

Or, even, that time, the time Nicky came closest to believing in a God when the receptionist said apologetically “I’m sorry, but the only double room we have left has a double bed. Do you mind?”. Nicky had trouble containing his glee, but remained collected outwardly, even tried rolling his eyes in a martyred fashion, -“I suppose.”- as if he didn’t want to kiss the tired stranger standing before him for letting him off fumbling for another awkward, terrible excuse that evening- for giving them no choice.

***

The van speeds on. Nicky imagines pulling up before their hotel for the night, and Richey getting up from where he sits with James and sauntering over to Nicky, smiling shyly, and them walking with their suitcases up to the lobby together. Richey squinting in the fluorescent light, but greeting politely whoever stood behind the desk.

And when James and Sean have arrived, she looks up the reservations and says, “two double rooms, both with twin beds?” and for once it won’t matter that it’s not Phil’s, that it’s not an accidental double bed, that they’ve used the taboo, terrifying phrase, that Nicky doesn’t have an excuse as to why they should spend the night cocooned together under cheap polyester bed-sheets- because he knows it’s not like that anymore, no more flimsy, transparent excuses are needed, and “Twin Beds” or not is irrelevant, because Nicky wants to be with Richey and Richey wants to be with Nicky. That night, there’d be no “mine and yours”, but only Richey’s pale, pouting face upon a pillow drawling “what?? Don’t you mean our bed?”.

Nicky and Richey stand together in front of the lift leading up to their floor. Richey slips his hand into Nicky’s.

Release

avskum — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 05:34:34 GMT

Title: Release
Author: memememe
Rating: PG-13? NC-17?
Warnings: BDSM-esque, kink?, blood
Pairing: Richey/James
Author's notes: After the 4 real incident. I remember watching or reading some interview/documentary where James says something about how he thought Richey had something in him that he didn’t have. I took this to be 1) insanity, 2) self-control, 3) ambition. Another interview I read had Richey stating that he thought cutting/self-injury in general was sexual in nature. This could be literal or not, but in this little fic it's literal. I felt like there was a lot of unused potential here; don't get too exited. It's worth a laugh. Also, this was kind of hard to write since kink isn't much up my alley.

“I take it you spent the night with him?” James asked Nicky over the phone. “That’s why you were late to the venue today?”

“Well, I bloody couldn’t leave him alone in A&E. It was full of screaming children and the walking dead,” Nicky replied in his defense. “And yes, it was nearly 5am when I got to sleep. And it doesn’t matter much since we had to cancel anyway.”

“You’ve got to stop coddling him. If he can gash himself up, he can handle waiting alone to get sewn back together. There’s no reason why he’s got to interfere with our lives. I actually wanted to play that show. Sean too.”

“Christ, James, could you be any more insensitive? I just wanted to make sure he was ok. It was brilliant, ya know, you should have seen everyone’s face. But c’mon, not something everyone does.”

“You wanted to make sure he didn’t do anything else. Got it. We should make you a shirt that says ‘SUICIDE WATCH’ across the chest.” James sounded terse.

“Ha-fucking-ha,” Nicky spit back.

“And I suppose he’s at your flat now. Curled up in a bathrobe with tea, reading a nice little book in an armchair.”

“Piss off.” Nicky slammed the phone onto its receiver. He glanced over at Richey who was in fact napping on the sofa, wrapped in a bathrobe, a book beside his bandaged arm, cup of tea resting on the floor.

***

James placed the phone onto the receiver and glanced over at Sean who shrugged his shoulders.

“What are you staring at? I told you Nicky would be taking care of him,” offered up Sean.

James scoffed and walked into the kitchen. Of course Nicky would be taking care of him. Richey has become Nicky’s little pet, always following him around, hanging on his shoulder, tugging at his hand, petting his hair. It was almost sickening. But what did it feel like? To cut yourself? What was the appeal? Richey’s face had been so calm, so serene afterward.

It couldn’t hurt to try. After all, he just wanted to know what Richey felt. Maybe it could help him understand better. James picked up a paring knife laying on the counter. He examined the blade; just a simple, stainless steel blade. He pressed it to the skin on the inside of his forearm. Nothing happened. He pressed a bit more and dragged the knife across his skin. A slight burning sensation followed, but there wasn’t any blood. He tried again, frustrated. Still nothing but a slight scratch with a drop of blood at each corner. He tried again just above the scratch; he drew the knife faster across his wrist, a quick, hard flick. A thin line of blood oozed out. He threw the knife into the sink. He didn’t feel anything but disgust.

***

Two days later, Richey’s arm felt a bit better. It wasn’t as swollen and the pain was starting to reside. Nicky had been keeping a good eye on him, making sure he took paracetamol for pain and had enough warm liquids. The loss of blood had made him feel drowsy, but he spent the past days cuddled up with Nicky, dozing off.

Nicky had told him how James was being a “big meanie” on the phone a few days ago, and that James just didn’t understand. Richey supposed not, but felt uneasy about the situation. He didn’t want to be the one to cause problems between anyone.

Now that he was feeling better, he decided it was time to visit James for a chat.

“Where are you off to?” asked Nicky as he noticed Richey putting on a jacket and his shoes.

“Out for a walk. I’ve been cooped up in here for days. My legs are going to fall off if I don’t walk.”

“Just let me finish hoovering, I’ll grab my jacket too.”

“I think I just want to walk alone.”

Nicky stood dejected with the vacuum in hand. Richey bounced over and gave him a kiss.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

***

James heard the doorbell ring. He sighed, turned off the TV, and walked to the front door. Richey stood outside shivering. It had started to rain. What the hell did he want?

“Hey, come in.” James held open the door.

Richey stepped in. They stood looking at each other uneasily.

“Listen, I’m sorry I made us miss that show. I didn’t expect it to go so far... the cuts... that deep, I mean.” Richey tried to apologize.

James bit his lip and looked at the floor. “Well, it was inconsiderate, but, eh, I know what you were trying to do. Prove we’re real. I get that. It was for all of us, not just you.” He spoke rather nonchalantly, as if reciting memorized lines.

Richey nodded, acknowledging the silence with a cough.

“Oh, come on in, sit down, warm up. Have a beer.” James motioned for Richey to follow him into the living room.

James walked back from the kitchen with two beers. He handed one to Richey, then sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. Richey noticed the two cuts on James’ arm when he gave him the beer. They were too close and too straight to be anything accidental.

“Thanks, James,” Richey opened the can and took a sip. He paused for a second. “Now, what’s happened to your arm?”

“What? Oh, my arm. Uh...” James, obviously caught off guard, couldn’t think of an excuse. He took a pull from his beer and gazed into the air.

“Did you... do it to yourself?” Richey asked, head tipped to one side, curious.

James looked back at him, blinking. He sighed. “I wanted to see what it felt like. Why you do it.” He put his head in his free hand.

“What did it feel like?”

“I don’t know,” said James.

Richey reached out and took hold of James’ arm, he turned it upward so that he could examine the tiny cut. What was he supposed to say? Don’t do this? He didn’t want to be a hypocrite toward one of his best friends, nor did he feel he had the right to tell James what to do.

“Do you want to do it again?” Richey asked.

“What?” James looked up from his arm that was still being held by Richey.

“Do you want to do it again?” Richey repeated, staring straight into James’ eyes.

“I... I don’t know. I didn’t feel much of anything,” James tried to reason. He wanted to know where Richey was going with this?

“Nothing?” Richey asked.

“No, not nothing. Just, um...” James bit his lip.

“What? Go on...” Richey leaned forward, looking very much like a cat watching a goldfish.

“I can’t do it to myself. But...” James trailed off. “No, no, it’s ridiculous. It’s completely ridiculous and unhealthy. No.”

“What is? The cutting or something else?” Richey placed his hand on James’ knee. He was now inches away from his face. James was speaking in a whisper anyway, but he looked cute in his confused, thoughtful state. “James?” Richey whispered into his ear, lips grazing the lobe.

James shivered. Having Richey’s mouth so close to his almost made him ache. He turned his face to look at Richey’s, but found Richey’s lips on his own before he could turn completely. He paused for a second, but gave in to his urges and continued to kiss Richey back. James had only kissed a bloke once before, years ago. After all, this was Richey; not some rent boy. What’s wrong with kissing a friend? James tried to rationalize his thoughts, but no matter what, he felt at odds with himself.

Richey broke the kiss, smiling at James with his face slightly tilted downward. This made his eyes look extraordinarily large, even without make-up.

James leaned back in to kiss Richey.

“Oh, you’re eager!” Richey giggled.

“I can stop... if you... want,” James mumbled between kisses. He sat down his beer on the floor. Richey did the same.

“No! No, you’re so... rough. With your mouth at least,” Richey tried to explain. “I mean, you’re not dainty at kissing. I can tell you mean it. I like it.”

James licked his lips and pounced on Richey, who smiled and pretended to fight back.

“Ow!” Richey’s face became serious. James, shocked, sat up. “You bumped my arm,” Richey sat up, rubbing the bandages gingerly.

“You alright?” James straightened his shirt and sat back at the opposite end of the sofa.

Richey nodded, but didn’t say anything. He sat staring at their drinks nestled by each other on the floor.

James, who began to feel awkward about the situation, reached over to get his beer.

Richey slid over and stopped James’ hand. James froze; Richey stared him down in the eyes.

“Do you want to see?” Richey nodded toward his arm.

James swallowed. He was curious after all. “Sure.”

“I want you to take off the bandages.”

James was oddly excited by this idea. Perhaps it was ‘unwrapping’ Richey. It was as close to undressing Richey that James had ever came to.

“Tell me if I hurt you again though.” James scooted over to Richey’s side, took his arm in his hands, and began to gently unwrap the bandages. Richey stared up at James, who noticed, but chose to focus on Richey’s arm. This made him nervous enough.

“Christ, Richey... That’s going to take ages to heal.” James looked up at Richey, who was still staring at him.

“James, you’re pale.”

“Did it... hurt?” What else could James say in this situation? He still felt stupid for asking. Of course it did.

“A bit, yes.” Richey grabbed a hold of James’ right hand and placed it on top of the stitches. “I meant it though.”

James sucked in his lower lip and with his fingers barely touching Richey, began tracing the “4,” the deepest cuts.

“What did it feel like when you did it? I mean, were you thinking anything? Afterward?” James kept tracing the letters absentmindedly.

“I was thinking, this is the only way I can prove my point. Which it was. Afterward, I felt invincible.” Richey watched James touch his arm; he felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach, leading to his crotch. He leaned over, lifted James chin with his left hand, and kissed him.

James relaxed this time, opening his mouth to allow Richey’s tongue to find its way in. They kissed on the sofa, James running his hands over Richey’s face and arms, careful not to irritate or tear any sutures.

Richey brushed his hands up James’ shirt. His skin felt warm and hard over his muscles; he broke their kiss to lift James’ shirt over his head. Richey tossed the shirt onto the floor next to their beer. Richey ran his hands over James’ taught abs. “I’ve always been jealous of your body. It’s perfect,” he whispered.

James inhaled. Hearing those words from Richey was overwhelming; he felt the same about him. “You’re the one who’s perfect. I wish I had your body and your mind.”

Richey pushed James back into the sofa. He began kissing him on his neck. James moaned; the tickling sensation of Richey's lips on his neck worked its way down to his crotch. He felt himself growing hard.

Richey felt it too. He smiled a wicked little grin, then slowly began tracing his lips and hands down James' chest, rubbing James' skin just above the waist of his jeans, playing with the button just above the zipper. He licked around James' navel.

James couldn't stand Richey playing around any longer; he'd only wanted this for years. Finally Wire seemed to have lost control of his pet. He sat up, making Richey rest his head in James' lap. James lifted Richey's face to his. James searched his face; he looked lost, either in pleasure or fear, James couldn't figure out.

Richey layed back into the sofa, motioning for James to come with him. James, now on top of Richey, began to pull off Richey's shirt. Richey adjusted himself so that James could slide the shirt over his uninjured arm and head, then he himself pulled it over the unbandaged arm.

James looked at Richey with a lust Richey hadn't seen for quite a long time; even Nicky didn't look at him like that. It was almost frightening. Richey swallowed and reclined, allowing James to unbutton and unzip his own jeans. James wriggled on top of Richey, trying to pull off his jeans. Richey placed his hands on James'. He shook his head slightly at James, who stopped, wondering if something was wrong.

"Kiss me more," Richey said, nearly in a tone that demanded it.

James obliged, pushing his tongue into Richey's mouth, feeling their warm, wet tongues mingle. James then felt Richey's hand moving around between their hips. He kept on kissing Richey's pouty little mouth.

Richey pulled James' hand down toward his, placing something small and warm in it.

"Use it on me," Richey whispered to James.

James assumed it was a condom and sat up to look at what was in his hand. It was a single edge razor blade.

"Rich... what?" He looked confused.

Richey nodded coyly. "Just, cut me a little. On my chest." He paused. "Please."

James stared, slack-jawed. "Rich, I can't do that."

Richey swallowed. He looked like he was about to cry. "Please, it... turns me on. It doesn't have to be deep. Just run it across my chest." His eyes begged. "I want you to do it. It's ok..." Richey smiled, acting as if it were no big deal.

People do this shit all the time, don't they? Thought James. He sensed Richey's sadistic playfulness and bent down over Richey again. "Ok, slut."

Richey grinned. He lifted his head to kiss James.

James kissed him back, then slid down Richey's torso, craning his neck above Richey's chest. He held the razor in his right hand, and placed it gently on Richey.

Richey inhaled deeply, causing his chest to rise. He closed his eyes. The now cold blade tingled on his skin.

James felt his cock stiffen again; seeing Richey in this sort of ecstacy made it hard to control himself. He drew the razor across Richey's pale chest, watching a thin red line of blood seep up in the blade's wake.

Richey shivered. His body went numb except for a slight electrical buzz in his fingers, toes, chest, and cock. "James, more."

James felt Richey grow aroused. He bit his lip and made a second cut parallel from the first.

Richey's breathing grew faster and more shallow. "Just.. a few more."

James continued. He felt Richey reach back down between their legs and undo his own jeans. James, excited and curious beyond all hell, made a third cut.

Richey pulled out his own cock and began stroking himself. "Oh, James, just a- AH! Just a few more."

James made a fourth and fifth cut, a bit deeper and longer in his excitement. The blood began dripping down Richey's chest. James reached for Richey's face with his free hand, pulling it nearer to furiously kiss him.

Richey's ecstatic breaths were too much. James, who hadn't been kissed back like that since he was 15, forgot the fact he was in a compromising situation cutting up his best friend. He dropped the razor on the sofa and began to tug off Richey's jeans, but had to sit up to do so. He wanted him. James crawled back from Richey, peeling back the tiny white jeans with him. James' face lingered over Richey's navel. He knew what he wanted to do, but felt he was crossing some unspoken boundary doing it. Should he ask? Richey hastened James' decision by pushing James' head lower, just so his face was inches above his cock.

James swallowed. He wrapped his hand around the base of Richey's cock. He hadn't ever given head before, and felt his nerves pull tight. "I guess I just..." James put Richey's solid cock in his mouth. He felt Richey tense, a slight moan escaping his lips. Finally, watching all those porno flicks as a teenager came into actual use; James mimicked the memorized tongue movements, flicking the tip of his tongue against the head of Richey's cock, then moved his mouth lower, covering Richey completely, sucking with tongue. James' concentration was broken when he heard Richey moan a bit louder. He glanced up at Richey whose blissful expression encouraged James to quicken his pace, his head bobbing up and down.

Richey watched his cock slide in and out of James mouth. This wasn't exactly what he had expected when he woke up this morning, but it was a pleasant surprise, to say the least. One thing was missing though; Richey fingered the razor that had fallen next to his shoulder on the sofa. He bit his lip in anticipation. When James' closed his eyes, Richey pressed the razor on his own chest, slowing drawing downward toward his navel, his orgasm building the longer and deeper he cut. When his hand met James' forehead, an internal firework display of an orgasm shuddered through his body. James froze and looked up, alarmed from Richey's hand. The second Richey's cock slid out of his mouth and he saw the trail of blood, a steady spurt of cum landed on his surprised face.

James heard the sound of a a door opening. "Helloooo? Anyone home? The front door is unlocked. James, is Richey here?" Nicky's voice echoed from the hallway. James and Richey froze, staring at each other. Cum dripped down James' chin. Nicky stepped into the room. His jaw dropped.

hollowromance — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 13:38:45 GMT

Title: i actually did have one but I forgot oops.
Author: Me
Rating: Everyone
Warnings: None really.
Word count: Just over 800
Pairing: Nicky/Richey
Author's notes: Shittily-written, un-beta-ed one-shot where absolutely nothing happens, neither plot nor porn sadly. Basically, it's Nicky being all longing, and not much else. It seems a bit dead round here so I thought I'd try and revive it with a fic AS I HAVE NO WHERE ELSE TO GO, and I have a silly number of stories of this ilk that need a home. FD hates my guts and I would use Tumblr but I have stupid rl friends on their who don't necessarily need to know how much of a pervert I am. But yeah, basically. I am going to continue spamming in the vain hope there is an audience out there somewhere, and perhaps the epic direness of my writing will inspire some of you to write something too, just to save the_drowners from becoming bad!fic central ;)

The curtains hs only been half-heartedly tugged closed when the pair has collaspsed into bed that evening, and moonlight was filtering in through the gaps, bathing the room in a soft, grey half-light. Everything was thrown into sharp relief; shadows were darker and deeper and the walls seemed to glow slightly with an eerie, resplendent whiteness.

Nicky's eyes were shining too. He lay on his side, his back to the wall, his half of the shared single bed. He blinked slowly and often, his breathing shallow and regular, so as not to wake the boy still sound asleep beside him.

Nicky had been restless for weeks now, finding it more trouble than usual falling asleep. Finding it more trouble than Richey, even. Even if the tell-tale aroma of his pre-bedtime vodka still hanging bitter and cloying in the cool, still air betrayed that his sleep was far from unaided.

Nicky sometimes wondered if he preferred Richey is his sleep. Richey finally succumbing to relaxing, even if only when unconscious, his face softened and his limbs limp. Only the occasional twitch or murmur showed that perhaps Richey's mind, even when supposedly at rest, was never fully rid of whatever haunted him whilst he was awake. Nicky wish he knew, knew fully, what was going on in Richey's mind, at any given time. When his eyes grew dark and dull and seemed to stare past him into a world Nicky couldn't see. A world Nicky wasn't sure he wanted to see. And maybe that was why he couldn't help, Nicky sometimes bitterly thought. He was just too scared. Too scared to ask what was wrong, in case he found out.

Nicky blew upwards into his fringe as quietly as he could. Richey stirred slightly in his sleep and Nicky froze, heart hammering. He wasn't immediately sure why. Nicky could've easily been asleep, to anyone watching, thus also to anyone who might wake up. Apart from his eyes of course, wide and unblinking, their ordinarily blue colour reduced to almost black in the darkness. Still conspicuous, though, gleaming in contrast to the grey of their surroundings; shining and orb-like... a reflection of the full, white moon, hanging suspended in the thick impenetrable blanket of the night sky.

Apart from Nicky's lingering gaze he was, to all intents and purposes, asleep.

Richey had fallen asleep with his back to his friend. Or perhaps he'd turned over during his slumber. Nicky couldn't remember. He could remember turning away from him... not the other way around. Easier to stare at a blank wall than at your best friend, whether he be tossing and turning or quietly contemplative, if you wanted to fall asleep quickly. Nicky only wished he could block out the sound of Richey breathing too, as well as the exquisite silhouette of his profile as he lay staring at the ceiling. Every sigh, every caught breath only served to steal Nicky ever further away from the prospect of a good seven hours. Sometimes he wrapped a pillow around his head, which initially offended, ("is my snoring that bad, Nicky?") then started to amuse his bed-mate. He stopped doing it so often though. It seemed rude, but he couldn't of course tell Richey the real reason behind why he spent the nights staunchly facing the wall trying to block out evidence of all others present. The only other present.

But regardless, Richey was now asleep, with his back to Nicky, for which Nicky was grateful for. Somehow, his staring felt easier to justify this way... felt less intrusive this way. Eyes lingering on your best friend's back was less weird than eyes lingering on your best friend's face, his neck, his bare chest. Surely. Despite this, Nicky couldn't help noticing the creamy whiteness of the exposed skin, almost porcelain with the wash of moonlight... the silky tendrils of soft black hair that was caressing the nape of Richey's neck. Surely they tickled. Richey's breathing was low and almost inaudible, but Nicky could see his shoulders rise and fall almost imperceptibly with each breathy exhalation.

Nicky didn't know how long he'd been watching Richey for. Time seemed to slow down when Nicky was awake in this odd, forgiving period of the night. He could've been awake for hours. And certainly, when he blinked he could still see a image of Richey's form superimposed behind his eyelids. The sharp angle of his shoulder, he soft dip of his waist, where his ribs stretched taut the ivory skin of his torso with the delicate vulnerability Nicky always came to associate with Richey. When he was asleep at least.

Nicky's hand was inches away from the small of Richey's back. He wondered what would happen if he were to -cautiously, cautiously, slowly and gently- place he hand, palm down on the base of Richey's spine, the perfectly subtle downward arch just above where Nicky could see the waistband of Richey's boxers.

Would he even wake up?

Nicky stayed silent and still. All he was aware of was the hammering pulse in his eyelids, the sweat on his forehead and the two of them breathing quietly in unison.

Devil in the Details II

avskum — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 03:24:42 GMT

Title: Devil in the Details II
Author: moi
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Once again, fairly melodramatic. There's talk of blood. Someday I'll write a happy fic, I promise!
Pairing: Nicky/Richey
Author's notes: This leaves off directly from “Devil in the Details” with Nicky who put Richey in the shower to revive him after he passed out drunk. Some sort of psychological co-dependence thing going on here. An unsatisfying ending... but how to end it?

“Nick, your make-up...” Richey whispered again, looking down at his hands turned palm up.

Nicky sniffed. “You can fix it later.” He looked around the bathroom, at the broken glass, and tile scattered on the floor. A little bit of Richey’s blood remained spotted on the wet floor. His emotions fluctuated between rage, concern, and helplessness. Nicky turned his attention back to Richey, who sat slumped in the tub, a dejected child who was caught sneaking candy. “Are you hurt?” Nicky asked, eyeing Richey’s arms and chest, trying to discern any new, accidental cuts from prior self-inflicted ones.

“No. Don’t think so. Doesn’t... matter.” Richey sputtered. Richey noticed a pin-sized shard of glass lodged into his thigh. Nicky’s eyes followed Richey’s gaze, concerned. Richey, still quite drunk, leaned back with closed eyes, resting against the side of the tub. He sighed. I don’t have the energy to move, he thought.

“Rich?” Nicky put his hand on Richey’s shoulder, gently shaking, but more like rubbing it. “Maybe we should... um... take that out. There might be more too.” Nicky insisted, yet with a tone of hesitancy.

Richey nodded slightly, opening his eyes only to little slits. He felt Nicky’s other hand on his knee. I don’t want to move...

“Um. I can’t touch... that.” Nicky said, squeamish at the thought of pulling glass from Richey’s leg.

Richey sat up, shook Nicky’s hand from his shoulder, slipped the glass from his leg, thus drawing a tiny line of blood, and let the drop back into the tub. Richey looked up at Nicky. He looks sad now. “It’s ok. I can’t feel anything... too gloriously... drunk.”

Nicky frowned, knitting his eyebrows together. He can’t keep doing this to himself. Nicky put his hand on Richey’s face, turning it toward him. His eyes were glassed over, tinged red, but still gorgeous. “Richey, I love you so much. Just let me help. Is there any more glass in you?”   

Richey shrugged and hiccuped. “Don’t know.”

“Let me look then.”

Richey obliged; Nicky’s hands felt good against his skin, grazing over his cold, weak body.   “No, doesn’t seem to be any stuck in your skin. This cut though,” Nicky’s left hand paused on Richey’s right hip at a shallow gash, “it’s still bleeding some.” Nicky’s right hand rested on Richey’s face, his palm completely covered his cheek.

Richey nodded, but barely. “It’ll be ok. Let’s go back to bed,” he mumbled as he attempted to get up. His hand slipped on the ledge of the tub and he flopped back.

Nicky tried to catch Richey’s fall, but it happened too fast. Richey, in a strange turn of mood, giggled and held out his hand for Nicky to hold. Nicky grabbed on to his wrist, his fingers closing from tip to tip, and pulled him up. Richey stumbled over the ledge, crashing into Nicky, their faces close.

“Nick, I can’t walk,” he slumped down onto the floor, still holding onto Nicky. How embarrassing.

Nick grabbed a towel to wipe Richey’s small wound with. He hoisted Richey into his arms, careful not to step on any glass, and gingerly stepped back to the bedroom. Nicky laid Richey onto the unmade bed and wrapped him in a white blanket. Richey, yawning, folded himself up into a fetal position, tucking his knees into his chest.

“Nick, cuddle me.”

Nicky, who hadn’t heard these words for months, felt like he was putting a child to bed, but couldn’t help but be grateful that Richey actually wanted him. He crawled up next to Richey, spooning him. He’s so thin. I can feel his fucking spine against my stomach. Nicky shuddered and wrapped his right arm around Richey to pull him closer.

Richey wriggled against Nicky. I feel a bit better. Perhaps it was the vodka, or the sight of the shard of glass, the gash from the fall, or Nicky being Nicky, but he felt, at this moment, alright. A rush of warmth overtook Richey.

“Nick, move over.”

Nicky, confused, did so.

Richey rolled onto his right side to face Nicky and moved to kiss him simply on the mouth.

I can’t believe this is happening now. Now of all times. He’s mad! Nicky, confused at the sudden affection from Richey, felt overjoyed. This hasn’t happened for weeks! And it hadn’t. Richey had been even more withdrawn and secretive, so even this kiss alone was reason for celebration.

Richey pushed his tongue into Nicky’s mouth, which tasted a bit like sleep, but Richey didn’t care. He realized that for the first time in days, weeks, whatever time had passed, he wanted Nicky. Richey traced his hands across and down Nicky’s warm back, ending up gently squeezing his soft ass.

Nicky’s eyebrows shot up. Nah, he can’t want that... Nicky’s thought was interrupted by Richey, who had sloppily propped himself up over Nicky. Nicky shifted onto his back to gaze up at Richey, whose bloodshot eyes retained their shine. He’s still beautiful. Nicky pulled Richey on top of him so that he sat facing Nicky, just below his belly button.

Richey, feeling a little queasy from the movement, closed his eyes and breathed in deep. Nicky watched Richey’s chest rise and fall. Strangely, he found it turned him on. Maybe it’s the sign that he’s still alive, literally breathing, that is turning me on. But Nicky wasn’t able to contemplate his reason for arousal any longer. Richey had scooted down Nicky’s torso, barely hovering above Nicky’s legs, and was fumbling for Nicky’s half hard cock.

Nicky noticed this odd behavior; it just wasn’t how Richey was in bed; he was usually precise, almost mechanical. “Rich, if you’re not feeling well...” He reached up to push a strand of hair from Richey’s eyes. Nicky wavered between hope and doubt. Please, don’t stop, he wanted to say, but knew he shouldn’t.

He wants this. It could feel good for me. It would feel good for him. I want to feel him feeling me feel him, thought Richey. He nodded, a slight twinkle in his eyes. “I’m wonderful.” He rubbed Nicky’s cock from outside his jockey shorts. Richey could feel Nicky’s cock stiffen underneath his hand. The thought exited Richey, but he couldn’t feel himself become physically aroused.

Nicky held onto Richey’s waist, holding him in place. It felt so good to have Richey tease him; he was as hard as he could possibly get. He reached for Richey’s cock, wanting to reciprocate, but found him completely limp. Nicky opened his eyes to look up at Richey who was gazing at his own hands massaging Nicky’s cock. Richey had an almost frightened expression on his face.

“Richey?”

The was no verbal reply, but Richey pulled down Nicky’s underwear a bit to lick playfully below his navel.

Nicky shivered from the touch. Why isn’t he hard though? Nicky pulled on Richey’s cock in an attempt to excite him.

“Rich, what’s going on?

“Shh. I can’t get hard. I’m too...” Oh fuck. I don’t want to deal with this. I want to forget myself. 

“Drunk?” Nicky interjected.

Depressed. “Yea, too much drink,” Richey lied. He wanted to feel, to love Nicky, but his mind wouldn’t let him. What a shame, my cock in Nicky’s ass could make me feel better, Richey joked to himself, knowing it was only a superficial “better” that he could have felt.

Nicky struggled to sit up on his elbows. This just doesn’t feel right. He’s not all here. He could see Richey having an internal dialogue.

Richey slipped his hand inside Nicky’s underwear, causing Nicky to lay back again. He massaged the tip of Nicky’s cock with his thumb, stroking the soft skin. Richey lowered himself inches above Nicky’s chest, his hand still stroking Nicky. I need to forget myself. This is for Nick. “I want you to take me,” Richey whispered into Nicky’s ear.

Nicky, despite his better judgment, felt his stomach drop, kissed Richey’s cheek, and whispered back into his ear, “I want you.”

Richey quickened the pace of his stroking, properly wanking Nicky now. He watched Nicky’s face change from relaxation to pleasure, his mouth slightly open, lips barely touching.

“Rich, if you keep this up, I’m going to come soon!”

Richey stopped stroking Nicky, ran his hands through his long hair, and nuzzled his face against Nicky. Richey then rolled onto his stomach. “I’m ready if you are.”

Nicky swallowed, it had been ages since Richey let him fuck him. It usually happened when he was in a particularly masochistic mood too, thus causing Nicky some alarm. Nicky put that alarm into the back of his mind, allowing his body to take over. He slid up behind Richey, who had his face and still wet hair buried in a pillow. Nicky stroked himself, sending a shiver up his spine. He pulled down Richey’s boxers, exposing his smooth and pale backside.

Nicky bent down and kissed each cheek while rubbing Richey’s back.

Richey propped himself up, bending both knees forward, his ass raised up into the air.

Nicky couldn’t stop now. He must really want this. The thought of Richey offering himself up to him to do whatever he pleased with excited him beyond his wildest dream... besides, this was his wildest dream. Nicky licked his index and middle finger on his right hand. He spread Richey’s ass, rubbing his fingers around Richey’s hole, sliding both fingers in.

Richey tensed for a moment, for it had been a while since anything had been in him, then relaxed, feeling Nicky’s fingers sliding in and out, twisting around. Richey reached for his own cock, but still found it hanging half erect.

Nicky, who stroked himself with his left hand while finger fucking Richey with his right, couldn’t handle it any longer. He got on his knees behind Richey, but realized his lack of lubrication.

“Richey, I need to get some lube from the nightstand.”

“No, I want to try without,” he whispered. I want to feel it all the way.

Nicky, who in his ordinary mind would have thought twice about Richey’s request, allowed his sex-crazed mind take over.

He leaned over Richey, guiding his head in slowly, pulling out, and pushing in a bit deeper each time. He had to push harder than usual, but the tightness felt better than it ever had before.

Richey hid his face in a pillow. It’s white pain, he thought. It hurts so much the pain burns white. He grimaced, squeezing both eyes shut as hard as he could.

Nicky’s little moans caused a twitch in Richey’s groin. Fucking finally! Richey bounced into rhythm with Nicky’s thrusts. He pulled the pillow out from under his face and turned his neck to look at Nicky, mouth open, chin slightly jutted out. It was his “fucking” face. Richey licked his lips, panting for breath. The pain hadn’t subsided yet.

“Oh Rich,” Nicky squeezed onto Richey’s thin hips, accidentally rubbing the wound from the broken bottle. Nicky didn’t notice. “Oh Rich, you’re so tight.”

Richey inhaled sharply through gritted teeth, yet with a smirk, replied, “Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re so big.”   Nicky grinned, grinding into Richey.

Richey’s cock was finally stiff; the combination of Nicky pounding him and the physical pain it caused elicited arousal. Richey reached down to stroke himself, but before he could barely get a grasp, he felt Nicky quicken his thrusts. He’s going to come already. And Nicky came with one long, drawn-out moan lingering between a sigh of relief and absolute ecstasy. Richey felt goosebumps on his arms... it was a lovely sound.

Nicky collapsed on Nicky’s back, the force pushed Richey flat onto the bed. Nicky rolled off Richey onto his side. He pulled Richey’s face toward him to plant a sloppy kiss onto his mouth. “I love you, Rich.”

I suppose he wants me to say the same. I do love him. Nicky is my everything. I can’t say it though; what if I’m wrong about how I feel for him? Richey snuggled into Nicky’s chest, wiping a bead of sweat from Nicky’s brow. He kissed Nicky on the forehead.

“I think I can sleep now,” is all Richey could say. “I feel... content. With you here, I feel content.”

Nicky smiled. I made him feel better.

I made him feel better, thought Richey. He's not worried anymore.

[to be continued]

New fic (and writer)

hollowromance — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 18:40:06 GMT

Title: Generic R/N fic
Author: hollowromance
Rating: PG-13? It's very tame sexually but it's a little bit angsty sooo....
Pairing: Nicky/Richey
Warnings: Language, bad writing, dialogue-heavy, completely un-beta-ed so quite possibly spelling mistakes, misused punctuation, etc; length, terrible characterisation, unsatisfying ending, I'm not really selling this am I? But no, nothing to make a fuss about.
Summary: This is an exploration of possible feelings between the pair once Richey had finally moved into his flat by Cardiff Bay shortly after Nicky got married (according to my sources, this is how it went, anyway.) I worry that perhaps I've interpretated the time-line wrong, and I think I've implied Nicky is only just-married in the fic when I think it could've been months in real life. But hopefully it doesn't matter too much.
Word Count: 3500 approx.
Author’s Notes: I used this timline for reference, but all 'historical' mistakes are my own. I'm also a new poster to this wonderful community and have been reading your equally brilliant fics for a while now, so wanted to try one myself. Hi! *waves madly* I apologise, because I'm nowhere near as good as you lot on here, but I hope you appreciate nonetheless. I will start commenting now too! :3 I haven't written slash fiction in over a year, and this is my first ever attempt at Manics-fic on the whole, so I'm a little shaky. I do hope to improve my dubious, um ~skills~ though! Sorry if formatting comes out didgy, I shall try and rectify it is it does so.
Disclaimer: This never happened. It's all lies. No offence intended to those involved. Etc.

There hadn’t been a call, despite what he had said. Nicky knew two days wasn’t long, not long at all, but Richey had promised. “As soon as everything’s wired up” he’d said, “you’ll be the first to know.”

Of course, it would be easy for Nicky to presume that in all the organisation that comes with moving, Richey simply hadn’t found the time to call just yet. It was plausible.

But James had called that morning.

“Have you heard from Rich?” he said uncertainly.
“No… he said he’d call when- why, have you?”

“He phoned me up last night. Sounded… odd.”

Warning bells had already stared pealing in Nicky’s mind. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” James said quietly. “Just a bit sad.”

“‘Just a bit a sad’? What’s that supposed to mean? Sadder than usual?”

“I just expect it might be hard for him. First time on his own after all.”

Nicky sighed. “Why are you telling me this, then?”

“Well, I asked him if he’s spoken to you. ‘Cause I know it makes him feel… better. Normally. But he said he hadn’t.”

“No… he’d said he’d ring me first.” Nick’s hurt was fortunately being consumed by a familiar, gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach.

“Maybe you should ring him.”

“I’m going to go and see him. Today.” There was a pause. “Unless he told you he didn’t want to see me.”

“He didn’t say that.” Another pause. ”Just that he didn’t want to disturb you anymore.”

“What?”

“I know, I know, and I told him he was being stupid. But he was adamant that I shouldn’t say-”

“I’m not going to say anything… but thanks James”

Like I need an excuse. He’s my best friend.

*

Nicky could only dimly remember the number of Richey’s new flat, and second guessed himself as soon as he’d tapped on the assumed door.

“Who is it?” A familiar monotonous lilt. Nicky sighed in relief.

“It’s me. It’s Nicky.”

“Oh. …Just a second.”

Nicky could hear the rattle of bolts being pulled across the door, then it creaking open and suddenly Richey’s pale face, eyes huge, dark and wary appeared in the crack. “What are you doing here?” It didn’t sound impolite, just suspicious.

“Seeing you! You’ve got it locked like Fort Knox, I see.” Nicky tried joviality.

Richey smiled tightly as he let Nicky in. Nicky surreptitiously scanned both his friend and the room for any signs of anything unusual, anything James could have picked up on that had given him cause for concern… but there was nothing. Nothing obvious in any case. Richey, clad in an oversized burgundy jumper and his pyjama bottoms looked tired and bit far-away, but on the whole, well enough.

“Do you want to sit down?” Richey sounded stilted any awkward, but Nicky wondered if he was imagining it.

The sofa was virtually the only piece of furniture set up in what Nicky guessed would one day serve as the living room. Richey obviously hadn’t been joking when he’d said it would take ages for him to unpack. Boxes were stacked in perilous towers against the walls, although books and magazines and various other items were scattered about the floor, and a television stood quietly in one corner.

“Jesus, Rich. How do you live like this?” Nicky asked. “Do you want a hand sorting this lot out?”

“I’ve only been here a couple of days!” Richey said defensively. “I’m taking it slow.”
Richey too slumped onto the sofa, pulling a cushion out from behind him and wrapping his arms around it. He sighed, his eyes fixed blankly onto the wall opposite. Nicky opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He knew Richey should be the first to talk. If he did at all.

“Nick” he said suddenly, breaking Nicky out his reverie.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve offered you a drink.”

“Oh… No, it’s fine. I’m not… thirsty.” There was a searing awkwardness horribly obvious in the air, one Nicky couldn’t place, and was certainly unused to. Him and Richey on their own, even when Richey’s eyes lost their sparkle, and he wrapped his arms around himself and wouldn’t speak in anything other than monosyllables… even then, it was never like this.

He took a deep breathe. “How are you finding it, Richey love?” he said gently. Even as the words left Nicky’s mouth, Richey seemed to visibly relax.

“As I expected.” Richey shrugged, cryptically. He blinked, one, two, three times in quick succession.

Nicky sighed. he’d been audience to Richey’s presumably most recent tearful, drunken phone call. Only semi-coherent but it had been easy enough to pick up Richey’s general feelings about finally moving out of his parent’s house. Or rather, moving into his own flat.

“N-Nicky-” he’d choked “I c-can’t be on m-my own. I can’t. Please b-believe me. I’m not being stupid, I-I can’t-”

Nicky had shushed a reassured and sat at his kitchen table until the small hours massaging his forehead and prayed that this would all pass. That Richey was just, yet again, over reacting.

Looking at him now, it seemed perhaps that that was the case. he at least wasn’t sobbing and shaking in a corner of the room. But Nicky new Richey well, more so than anyone, he thought, and this disconcerting quietness and the glazed, distant look in his eyes were enough to illustrate that things were not quite… right.

“Maybe you should sort this mess out.” Nicky tried. “Might make you feel… better. I don’t know. It would me.” He added.

Richey looked at him. Bemused and sardonic, but his gaze somehow still made Nicky’s face burn up and all of sudden he blushed and ducked his head. Richey smiled properly for the first time since Nicky’s arrival.

“Aw, Rich” Nicky said softly, his tone halfway between hopeful and sad, turning sideways on the sofa so as to look Richey full in the face. “I want you to be happy, I do. You’ll be okay won’t you? Here, I mean.”

Richey’s face resumed it’s deadpan expression. “Yeah.” His voice was small.

Barely a heartbeat of silence, and Nicky stood up, agitated and in desperate need of something to do to put them both at ease. Why can’t you make him feel any better? “I’m going to make tea” he said decisively. A pause. “You have got the electrics working, haven’t you?” Nicky doubted he’d be able to do that by himself.

“Yeah.” Richey was staring at nothing again, all traces of his smile gone from his face, grasping his bony elbows through his jumper. Nicky wondered what he was seeing. He left the room before he had time to contemplate.

*
Richey was curled up onto the sofa, chewing at his nails. He could hear Nicky clattering about in the as-yet-unused frigid, tiny kitchen, the hiss of taps, a muttered “bollocks” followed by a clang as he dropped something onto a work surface. Richey smiled to himself, a warm rush of love surging round his chest. he rested his head on the arm of the sofa… before the smile slid resolutely of his face. Nicky would leave, he knew. He might be here now, filling the hollow, dark flat with his smiles and stupidity, radiating a sort of warmth Richey knew he’d never find in another person… but he’d been gone soon. Half an hour. Maybe less. Back to being a husband. Back to Rachel. But away, away from Richey. They always leave. You knew he would eventually. Or you were stupid to think otherwise. Stop letting it get to you.

*

“He-re!” Nicky trilled, walking unsteadily back into the room, a steaming mug clasped in each hand. “You’re gross Rich, I had wash them both.” he sniffed.

Richey smirked, and received his mug wordlessly, before taking a cautious sip of the milky concoction. He wrinkled his nose.

“Bleugh, Nicky, how much sugar?”

“Three.” Nicky said, grinning. “Although” he added with a wink “you’re sweet enough already.”

Richey grimaced and shook his head. “You’re… terrible.”

“And you are running low on supplies, my Richey. I’ll run down to the shops for you later if you want… if you don’t want to go out. Or I can get Rachel to-”

Richey winced. “It’s okay Nicky, honestly.” He swallowed. “I can’t have you two pandering to my every whim. you’ve got your own lives to lead.”

“It’s not ‘looking after’ Richey. you’re still my best friend. You’re part of the life I leave.”

Richey sighed. “But you’re married now.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t have friends.” Nicky tried his best to sound incredulous, but his heart was beating far too fast. What did marriage mean, exactly? He thought it would be simpler than it actually was. He understood being with the woman he loved forever… that was easy. But apparently there were unspoken rules too. Especially ones concerning best friends and bandmates.

As if he were reading his thoughts, Richey muttered under his breath “Bet she doesn’t know you’re here though.” It was quiet enough, Nicky could pretend he didn’t hear it. He covered up the silence by needlessly banging his cup down on the floor, tea sloshing over onto the already filthy carpet. Nicky grimaced. Then stood up, and proceeded to poke his way through the open boxes nearest to him, still not looking at his companion.

“Oi.” Richey said reproachfully.

“Jesus, Rich.” Nicky said, as if Richey hadn’t interjected. “You’ve barely unpacked at all have you?”

“Hmm, it’s almost as if I don’t want to be here! Fancy that.” Richey snapped sarcastically. Then he sighed. “Sorry.”

“And I see you’ve got all the important stuff out” Nicky continued, gesturing at a pile of video tapes and CDs “yet you haven’t unpacked your clothes…” he trailed off. Nicky was frowning at something out from between the pages of a book. He bent closer “Hey” he said. “This is mine.”

“What is?”

“This” he was holding up a polaroid photograph.

Richey stood up faster than Nicky’s brain could immediately process, spilling hot tea down his leg as he did so, all in his haste to get to where Nicky stood as quickly as possible.

“Give it back, it’s mine!”

Richey made a desperate swipe at the photograph but Nicky held it arm’s length above his head.

“No, no, it’s definitely mine” he said, squinting at the image. “It’s- for fuck’s sake Richey, calm down, stop jumping. I’m not going to take it off you!”

Richey scowled, his cheeks scarlet, tears of frustration threatening to spill.

“Hey, hey, hey” Nicky said quickly. “I’m sorry Rich. I was just- here” he thrust the photo back into his friend’s hands. Richey wiped his arm angrily across his face, and stamped back towards the sofa. Nicky followed anxiously.

“I’m sorry Richey” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you… I was surprised, was all. I’d wondered where it had gone.”

Richey sat staring intently at the photograph he held between his trembling hands. Nicky sat down beside him and cautiously lay his head on his shoulder. To his immense relief, Richey didn’t shove him away as he could’ve done, but let him stay there, quiet and still. They both looked at the polaroid.

“It was taken at Phil’s house, remember?” Nicky’s voice was soft. Richey nodded.

It was nothing special, a slightly out of focus photograph, and one of those terrible turn-the-camera-round-and-smile jobs that are rarely flattering. But Nicky could remember it clearly; Richey’s cheek against his, the feeling of Richey’s warm, slender, bare legs entangled with his own under their shared duvet, Richey’s breath on his neck, them both laughing at something neither of them could remember now. The dizzying flash of the camera, the stars it induced, Richey’s grin widening as his face inched closer…

“I remember it all so well…” Nicky whispered.
Richey made a small, unintelligible noise, like a suppressed cough. Nicky was startled to see tears trickling down his face.

“Oh Richey.” Nicky croaked “Please, please tell me what’s the matter. I want to help you.” I can’t leave you like this.

“Nothing.” Richey sniffed, turning his head away again.

Nicky caught him gently on the chin and turned him back to face him. “Look… James-“

“James?” Richey narrowed his eyes. “What has James got to do with anything?”

Nicky bit his lip. “James rang me earlier. Don’t be angry with him. He was worried.”

“James! I told him not to!” Richey scowled. “Traitor” he muttered darkly under his breath.

“But I don’t understand why.” Nicky said

“Why what?”

“Why… you rang him and not me. Why you don’t want to ‘disturb’ me anymore.” Nicky swallowed, worried he was being petulant for being hurt. “And why he felt the need to ring me afterwards.” Nicky finished. What did you say to him Richey?

“…Oh.” Richey looked even more unhappy. “Nothing that would’ve upset him.”

“But something did!”

“No… I told him I was missing you… that’s all.” Richey looked shame-faced. Nicky didn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved.

“But why didn’t you just tell me you were missing me?” Nicky was incredulous. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I do! Nicky of course I do. You’re my best friend. But I can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t impinge on you life anymore!” Richey burst out, louder than either of them were expecting. “Yours and Rachel’s. I’ve got no right to ruin it for you.”

Nicky shook his head, hair whipping round his face. “I need you Rich, can’t you understand that?”

“I need you too Nicky, but… this will kill me.”

“What will Richey? Nothing’s going to kill you. I won’t let it.” Nicky clasped Richey’s hands and the polaroid fluttered to the floor. Something snapped inside Richey, and in the future, when Nicky would replay this moment over again to himself in his head, he fancied he heard it snap too. The floodgates opened. Richey was sobbing into Nicky’s chest and Nicky was pressing his hands so hard into Richey’s fragile back he was scared he was hurting him.

“Knowing that I’m here alone, more alone than I’ve ever been before” Richey sobbed “And you’re with her. When we had that” gesturing wildly in the vague direction of the fallen photograph “and now we can’t have anything… That we wrote together and slept together and grew up together and now… and now we can’t… I’m so selfish Nicky, I don’t know how you’re not sick of me, I’m sick of myself… but I don’t want this. I don’t want you to leave.” Nicky had to strain to catch Richey’s words now. “Oh Christ, Nicky, I just can’t do it. I love you. I love you so much I want to scream from it.”

“Ssh, ssh, Teddy, ssh.” Nicky whispered. He wasn’t all that shocked to find tears on his own cheeks. They fell and clung onto the strands of Richey’s hair, glistening like early morning dew. Nicky rested his chin on Richey’s head, whilst Richey continued his muffled howling into the fabric of Nicky’s shirt.

In all their years spent together, touring together, sharing hotel rooms, sharing beds, sharing every last part of themselves with the other and never wanting it any other way… after all that time and t was the first occasion Richey had ever told Nicky he loved him. Properly. Soberly. Meaningfully. Nicky’s head hurt. He didn’t know what to do.

“I love you too Richey. But you know that. You’ve always known that. But we’ve never done anything about it… If we had” Nicky swallowed “… maybe things would be different now.” Richey sobbed harder. “But they aren’t. They’re how they are.” He gently peeled Richey off of him. Richey looked up at him bleary and tear-stained. Nicky stroked a thumb across Riche’s cheeks, traced his fingers across his mouth, still as pink and pouty as the first time he’d noticed him in that way. “I love you Richey” he repeated “but I can’t…oh, how can I leave you like this?” Nicky felt something crack inside his chest. He was horribly certain it was his heart breaking.

“Don’t then.” Richey said simply. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“W-what?”

“Don’t go. Stay with me. Stay here. We can lock the door and never go out again. Forget all that… shit.” Richey waved his hand the view outside the window.

Nicky held onto Richey for a long time without replying. How could he leave? Leave his brilliant, beautiful, broken Teddy here? Alone? In this grey room with the grey carpet in this huge, grey building overlooking the grey car park with the grey of Cardiff bay beyond, surrounded by the grey, grey sky. Nicky was scared that if he left him, Richey would get greyer and greyer himself, eventually fading into the walls until he vanished completely. He couldn’t bear the thought.

“Richey, do you trust me?”

“Yes” Richey was squeezing Nicky’s hand so tightly Nicky was unsure if he ever intended to let him go.

“Then please believe me when I say I’ll always be here for you. But… I can’t always be here.”

“…Rachel.”

“I’m married Richey. Like you said.”

“But you love me.”

“I do, I do, of course I do.” But I love her too” he said seriously.

Richey snorted tearfully. “That’s not how love works. It’s one person. For ever. You’re mine.”

“I don’t fucking know how it works! And neither do you. But I loved you first. I’ll love you last. I’ll always love you. Forever.”

Richey swallowed, clinging tighter. “Don’t go. Please, please don’t go.”

“…I have to.”

“We’ll never be with each other again, will we? Not… properly. Not like we were. Not like… here.” He picked up the polaroid. “It’s never going to be the same.” Nicky didn’t reply. Couldn’t. “Kiss me, Nicky.”

“Richey…”

“Don’t you want me anymore? You said you always would.”

Nicky kissed him. It was clumsy, partially done to stop him talking, and Nicky had to suppress the guilt at what he was doing. Richey’s arm snaked round the back of Nicky’s neck and pulled him down on top of him, twisting the fabric of Nicky’s collar ineffectually in his hand, kissing with a desperate, tearful ferocity that Nicky knew all too well. Nicky pulled away. Richey closed his eyes, and breathed out underneath him, his eyelashes fluttering, lips trembling and Nicky caught a glimpse of the angel he knew and loved more than words could express. Nicky kissed him again, a proper kiss this time, with teeth and tongues and knotting his fingers in Richey’s hair whilst Richey’s moans reverberated down the back of his throat, his bony fingers digging painfully into his waist and shoulder as if desperate to stake a claim on the man he knew was no longer his.

They pulled away, gasping, tears yet again staining each of their cheeks, although this time neither men were sure if they were their own. Richey looked up at Nicky with eyes filled with a profound sadness they both knew would be almost impossible to solve. But neither of them spoke.

“Richey love. I have to go now. You know I do.” He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to return his breathing to normal.

“I know.”

They both sat up. Neither of them moved.

“I… will you be okay? Here on your own for a while.”

“If you promise to come back for me. Sometimes.”

Nicky tried a smile. It didn’t feel right. “Of course I will Richey.”

Nicky wasn’t sure if Richey believed him.

Nicky wasn’t sure if the door closing behind him echoed in Richey’s ears with the same ominous finality as it did in his own. He hoped not.

*

Nicky’s legs were shaking as he walked back down the deserted corridor. He could feel his heart beating a violent tattoo in chest and he wondered whether the people in the flats surrounding could hear it too. In fact, he was sure they must, it was getting louder, practically echoing… What the fuck is happening, am I having a heart attack…?

Footsteps. Oh.

Richey was running up the corridor towards him, panting slightly, hair still mussed, lips still swollen, clutching something in his hand.

“Rich-”

“I just wanted to give you something.” He shoved the polaroid into his hand. “Take it.”

“No. I want you to have it.”

“It’s yours, you even said so.” Nicky opened his mouth to argue, but Richey continued on regardless. “I want you to have it anyway.”

“No, I’ve got loads of us together like that.” Hundreds. “Keep it.”

“No.” Richey said defiantly. “I need you to have it. Because” he stood on tip toes and kissed Nicky on the cheek. “I want you to return it to me. If you really want me to have it, you’ll return it to me.” He breathed out, a little wobbly, but more composed than Nicky had witnessed since he’d first arrived at the flat. A small smile. “The next time you’re here.”

Devil in the Details

avskum — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 02:49:48 GMT

Title: Devil in the Details
Author: avskum (me!)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Possibly triggering. It is slightly dramatic in parts, but c'mon, it's a Manics community!
Pairing: Nicky/Richey
Author's notes: This is my first fanfic! I'm terrified! Anyway, more to come if you wonderful people like it. This is fairly soft in terms of what goes on sexually, but part II will definitely go a bit... deeper, shall we say?

Late GATS era, flashback to GT, back to GATS. It starts out rather dramatic, but the slashy bit makes up for it, in my humble opinion.

The rain that tapped against the window wasn’t loud enough to hide the sound of Richey’s sniffling as he slipped into bed. He buried his face into the pillow, trying not to wake Nicky, who seemed to be sleeping soundly based on the pace and shallowness of his breathing.

Nicky was awake though, only facing the wall, his lips pursed, brows furrowed, wondering if he should let on to Richey’s crying, or carry on forging sleep. It was well past 2am, as Nicky himself had gone to bed around then. What was Richey doing up all night?

It wasn’t that this was an unusual occurrence; Nicky had woken up to Richey’s sobs for the past week or so, thus causing Nicky some more worry. He knew Richey had a hard time falling asleep, but this was extreme even for him. Another cause for worry was that even though they’d been sharing a bed together, they hadn’t slept together for weeks.

Nicky sighed unconsciously, causing Richey to tense up. Well, now he knows I’m awake, thought Nicky. My cover is blown. He reached over the pillow Richey had placed between himself and Nicky, resting his hand on the small of Richey’s thin back.

“Rechy?” Nicky whispered, moving himself up to rest on the pillow against Richey. 

Richey sniffed, wiping his nose against his forearm, upset Nicky was awake. “Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

“Nick, I’d rather... just sleep...” and it was true. He’d been trying to sleep for days, only managing a few measly, unsatisfying hours of semi-conscious snoozing. Everything was getting on his nerves, even Nicky.

Nicky sighed again. “What’s going on?” 

Richey fought back a wave of tears, feeling foolish for crying in front of Nicky, and feeling foolish that he cared so much about it. It wasn’t that he had pride, or maybe he was holding on the last shards of dignity he had, but it was just pathetic to cry in front of Nicky like this. 

“Rechy, c’mon...” Nicky rubbed Richey’s back, feeling his knobby, protruding spine. Nicky frowned again. How long has it been since I’ve even seen Richey eat?

Richey rolled over, facing Nicky, his eyes bloodshot from drink and the strain of crying. “I’ve just not... felt well lately.” His voice faltered toward the end of the sentence. He tried to choke back a sob, but he coughed and the tears over took his body.

Nicky tossed the pillow to the floor and scooted closer to Richey. He wrapped his arms around his distraught friend, lover, and whispered back, “It’s ok to cry... just let it out if you need to.” Nicky smoothed Richey’s dark brown hair, wiped away a few never ending tears, and kissed his cheek. He found a tear trawling down his own cheek, too.

Richey tensed, not wanting his sympathy, but held on to Nicky like a child clings to a teddy bear. How he wished he could sleep, or stomach food, or turn off his mind with something simple like a film or book, but nothing helped. Well, almost nothing. Cutting and burning still held some respite, but Richey knew it was a dead end trap. He felt ashamed for needing an escape from himself. Why couldn’t he deal with life like the other guys? Even Nicky who held the same nihilistic beliefs could get along happily... was still living at least. Richey felt like he poisoned everything he touched. Everyone who loved him would end up catching his disease. 

“Rech... Rechy, calm down, love.” Nicky cooed into Richey’s ear. What can I do to make him feel better? All I have are words. “Rechy, you know I love you, right? Whatever’s happening to you, whatever you feel, I’m always going to be here for you.”

Richey clung onto Nicky, his body overcome with sobs. The things Nicky said... they made him confused. He liked the fact that Nicky loved him; it was comforting, yet he also felt guilty. He certainly cared for Nicky, adored Nicky, but could never say he would always be there for Nicky.


Nicky remembers it perfectly; two years ago, they were happy. The whole band was happy. They felt like paupers rising up to the ranks of royalty, yet kept running off their mouths, drinking, fucking, carrying on like before. Millions of eyes were set upon them. Needless to say, it was an exciting time. Despite their apparent outward hatred of everything, all four had hope for something.

He had came on to Richey first, after an amazing show where people were starting to sing along, and not as many bottles were thrown onstage. He and Richey had played smitten for the camera, had explicated the “all rock ‘n roll is homosexual” slogan, but it was all for show. Behind closed doors there had been nothing more than a wink or shared giggle over the day’s shenanigans. Nicky found himself wanting Richey, the oblivious, sexless, androgynous beauty.

Nicky had the intention of getting Richey drunk, which he didn’t have to try hard at at all, as Richey could do it himself, and give him a kiss. To see what his reaction was. Nicky had rationalized to himself that if Richey flipped out, he could blame it on drink.

He had found Richey in a private bathroom of the venue they had just played, fixing his makeup in graffitied mirror. 

“Rech, can I come in?” he asked, just to make sure.

Richey opened the door for him. “Christ, Nick, your make-up is a mess,” he smiled as he spoke. Nicky’s insides fluttered.

Nicky looked into the mirror; it was true. He looked like a cross between a panda and a victim of a drunken pub brawl, eyeliner smeared down and across his eyes. He smiled. “Yeah, but it suits me, ya know?”

Richey shrugged his shoulders, a half smile lilting on his doe-like face. He held up a cotton ball soaked in make-up remover, stepping up to Nicky, his face close, inspecting the flawed makeup, and gently wiped the cotton underneath each eye, then reapplied a thick line above and below each eye. “It suits you, but you’re beautiful without it too,” said Richey plainly, looking Nicky in the eyes.

Can’t he see this is torture for me? He must...Christ... thought Nicky. He’s so fucking beautiful. The curve of his nose, the round brown eyes, little arched eyebrows, even the mole on his cheek... Nicky swallowed and blinked.

Richey stood back, and looked at Nicky. “There, all better.” He turned to face the mirror, adjusting his own smeared raccoon eyes, but stopped when he felt Nicky’s hands gently fold around his waist. Richey looked down toward the sink, his vodka tonic on the ledge. He took a deep pull, set it back down, and looked up at the mirror, seeing Nicky’s face just behind his.

“Rech, you’re just so... cuddly,” Nicky stammered, feeling embarrassed the second the words left his lips. Cuddly? Really?

Richey closed his eyes in thought, Yes, this is ok. He’s my friend. What’s so bad about experiencing physical feeling with a friend? He seems to know what he’s doing, I’m not taking advantage, he's not taking advantage. No one is going to get hurt in this situation. Plus, I want it.

Richey placed his hands over Nicky’s, still wrapped around his waist. Nicky’s hands were warm, a few nails had cracked and bled on his right hand. Just like Nicky talks the loudest, he tries to play the loudest too. Concerned, Richey took Nicky’s right hand off his waist and ran it under cool water, then dried Nicky's hand on his shirt, and kissed the broken nails. He looked back up into the mirror, Nicky’s face was resting against Richey’s shoulder, his eyes partially open, lips grazing Richey’s neck. Richey reached up to touch Nicky’s face.  

“So are you. You’re cuddly too. Fluffy even!” Richey quiped, petting Nicky’s bouncy hair. Nicky smiled a close-lipped grin. Like a damn Cheshire cat too smitten to open its mouth, thought Richey, his heart doing a flip.

Hearing these words of encouragement, well, at least they weren’t words of “what the fuck are you doing!” Nicky backed up, turning Richey around to face him, and pressed him back against the sink. Nicky felt like he was going to vomit, not from drink, but from absolute nerves. Richey stared a deer-in-the-headlight face back. Something in his eyes said, “do it. Do me,” so Nicky held on to the back of Richy’s soft head, and pulled himself in for their first real, private kiss.

And ah, how it felt so much different than faking it for the camera!

The instant Nicky’s lips met Richey’s, he could feel Richey relax. He seemed to become more vulnerable. No, not vulnerable, but willing. He wanted Nicky to do whatever he wanted to him. There wasn’t any strain or worry, just a wonderful feeling.

The kiss continued longer than Nicky had expected. Richey nibbled and sucked on Nicky’s bottom lip, feeling the soft flesh between his teeth and tongue. Nicky inhaled sharply, feeling a twitch in his groin.

“Rech, uh...” Nicky nervously interjected the kiss, backing up slightly. He wasn’t expecting an erection so soon, and hadn’t thought much about what he would do if he did get one in front of Richey. Sure, he had thought about it, alone, in his room. But at this moment, he didn’t think he’d even get past giving Richey a kiss; he’d expected a slap in the face, not this.

“Shhh...” Richey cut him off, lips still grazing Nicky’s. Now that it’s happening, I don’t want to stop. Richey stepped forward to Nicky, pushing him against the tiled bathroom wall, on tip toes, to kiss him again. He stopped mid kiss, feeling the growing hard-on in Nicky’s white jeans press against him, just above his own tingling crotch, thanks to their difference in height.

Richey flashed an almost wicked grin; Nicky had a look of terror in his eyes. No amount of Babycham could have prepared him for this. 

“Do I excite you?” Richey hissed.

Nicky nodded, dumbfounded, his eyes wide. Hell, if I’d known he’d gone along like this, I wouldn’t have bothered getting drunk. He was also amazed at how quickly Richey went from having the innocence of a child to the perversion of a seasoned prostitute.

Richey lunged for Nicky’s mouth again, meeting Nicky’s warm, flickering tongue once their lips met. His hand made its way down Nicky’s chest, lingered above his navel for a second, as if in hesitation, then plunged downward to Nicky’s strained jeans. He ran his hand across Nicky’s erection, playfully stroking along Nicky’s shaft. Nicky closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. His mind shut down, and Nicky unzipped his own jeans, stuffing Richy’s hand down the front.

What a horny devil, thought Richey. He didn’t mind though, he’d wanted this too. He’d have made the first move if he didn’t think he would’ve caused some chaos between the band. Even though he’s known Nicky for years and years, he didn’t want to ruin the relationship between everyone in the band. It would have been selfish. But now, fuck, who cares about the band? Richey glanced down at his hand wrapped around Nicky’s cock, which was fairly big, compared to his own at least. Why think about that now? Richey, embarrassed by his masculine shame, continued stroking Nicky, who was now watching Richey touch him.  

Maybe I should touch him... thought Nicky, squinting his eyes. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Just what feels good to me I’ll do back, I suppose. Nicky, while still in awe of the evenings proceedings, unzipped Richey’s jeans, reaching for his friend’s cock. Richey fit entirely into his fist, but Nicky has unusually large hands, anyway. Richey moaned, parting his lips ever so slightly, face tilted downward. He looks like a goddamn angel.

“Rech, do you want to go back to our room?” Perhaps that’s a better place for this, for what I want to do to him.

“Naw, here is... fine.” The space between the “is” and “fine” released a shudder from Richey.

Nicky nodded. He didn’t care where they were either. It just seemed like the appropriate, polite thing to ask. Nicky watched Richey’s face. I can come just watching his face. And that was all well since Richey had long forgotten to tend to Nicky’s aching cock, being lost in the grip of Nicky.

Richey, as if suddenly awoken, stopped Nicky from touching him. Nicky froze, terrified he did something wrong.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” Richey stated, matter-of-fact, as he got down on his knees in front of Nicky.

Nicky almost laughed. You have no idea... True, he had though he would be the one getting Richey off, not the other way around, but being blown by an angel was nothing to complain about.

Richey looked up at Nicky as he pulled Nickey’s jeans down to his ankles, taking his leopard print panties with them. Leopard panties? Richey looked up questioningly.

“Hey, they’re silky!” Nicky reasoned.

Richey shrugged, then rubbed his hands up and down Nicky’s lean legs. He began kissing him, on the inside of his thigh, just above Nicky’s left knee, moving upward toward his cock, which stood nearly straight. Hands still on Nicky’s thighs, Richey licked his lips, pushing his lips around Nicky.

Nicky inhaled sharply the second Richey’s lips touched him. He looked down at Richey. “Rechy... ah...”

Richey looked up, mouth still full of Nicky. Does he not want this? Richey asked himself. Their eyes met, and he could tell that Nicky was enjoying it. Richey cupped his right hand around Nicky’s testicles, rolling them softly in his hand. He flickered his tongue against the underside of Nickey’s shaft while Nicky remained stuffed in his mouth.

Christ, has he done this before? He’s had to.. “Aah-ahhhh!” Nicky moaned, overwhelmed.

Richey shoved Nicky’s cock in as far as it would go, sucking deeply, as with his throat, feeling Nicky pulse in his mouth. This went on for a few minutes. Richey's mouth was starting to get sore, but he kept on.

“Ah, Rech, I’m gonna, I’m gonna....” Nicky tried to verbalize a warning, unsure if Richey wanted a mouthload. He balled his hands into fists, clutching dark strands of Richey’s hair. I’ve gone to heaven, I’ve gone to heaven, thisangelistakingmetoheaven, I’ve.... “AHHH!” Nicky moaned.

Richey looked up, watching Nicky’s face. All he could really see was the bottom of his chin, as Nicky had his head thrown back. Richey felt Nicky ooze into the back of his throat. He swallowed, not too keen on the taste, but enjoying the idea of having Nicky inside him. He gave Nicky’s cock one last lick, and wiped his mouth on his shirt.

Nicky sank down to the floor, panting. “Rech, I...”

“Shh,” Richey placed a finger up to Nicky’s lips. “Did you... did you like that?”

Nicky smiled a very toothy grin. I went to heaven! “Rechy, you have no idea.” He reached out to hold Richey, who cuddled up in his lap.

“Hey Nick, your make-up is a mess again! Let me fix it.” Richey started to stand up, but Nicky held onto his hand, keeping him down.

Nicky smiled. "Ah, but it's your turn!"

Richey smiled. That devil.

And so now Nicky finds himself holding onto Richey in their shared bed, comforting his broken friend. What went wrong? he wonders. Maybe if I cared for him more, maybe if I spent more time with him... anything. 

Richey coughed. He’d been smoking too much lately, nearly 30 cigarettes a day, or something close. Nicky always saw Richey with a cigarette in his mouth. It was starting to show not only in his health, but on his arm, which was covered with round, blistered burns.

Nicky ran his hand over Richey’s arm, gently, so as not to burst any blisters or cause pain. God knows Richey doesn’t need anymore pain. “Rech, love, just...”

Richey pulled himself away from Nicky and walked out of the bedroom, into the bathroom, judging by the slam of the door.

Nicky sighed and held back a battery of tears. Why won’t he let me help him? What can I do? Maybe it’s not about me. I just want to make him happy again. Make him smile like when we were kids, like our first time together...

Nicky heard glass break. He started upright in bed. “Richey?!” He yelled, walking toward the bathroom. He pushed open the door. Richey had passed out near the sink, a broken glass shattered across the floor and underneath Richey. Nicky knelt down to pick up Richey. He’s light enough that even I can carry him. And laid him in the shower, turning on the cold water in an attempt to revive him.  
Richey blinked and swore at Nicky. “What the fuck?! I was finally out!”

Nicky, suspended somewhere between sorrow and rage, knelt down on the floor next to the tub. “Take some goddamn sleeping pills then. This isn’t going to help!” He threw the bottle of vodka against the wall, causing the tile to chip where the bottle struck. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. Nicky broke down crying, his face in his hands.

“Nickly?” Richey whispered. “Don't cry. Your make-up is going to look a mess.” 

aslongasitlasts — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 18:33:25 GMT

I got told to advertise it here.

I made a random pairings generator the other night. It includes all members of The Manics and The Horrors, plus other British musicians I've either written before, or I felt like throwing in.

http://underbluemoon.weebly.com/generator-terrorists.html

Some of the suggestions might be a bit cracky, you can always refresh until you find something you like.

I'm open to any complaints or suggestions you might have.

A Season In Hooverville

ihearthoovering — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 22:14:08 GMT

Title: A Season In Hooverville. (Clever, right?)
Author: ihearthoovering
Rating: R
Pairing: Nicky/Richey.

"Are you sure about this, Rich?" Nicky inquired, gentleness creeping through his voice. Nicky always felt a bit of nervousness before he and Richey initiated their times of intimacy, as with the business of touring, and the close quarters with James and Sean made it very difficult for it to be a common occurrence. Richey nodded excessively, lust glazing over his Bambi eyes. Nicky steadied Richey's leg with slight trepidation and slid his cock in slowly. Richey winced slightly, then released a long, delicate moan. "Oh, Nick." he murmured, arching his back slightly to allow Nicky to slide in further. Nicky grinned wildly once he slid all the way in, hitting that one special spot inside of Richey, causing Richey's hips to buck up and down, enticing Nicky to pull out and push in, beginning to create a rhythm with his thrusts. Richey threw his head back, mumbling unintelligibly, his mind muddled with intense feelings of both pain and pleasure. He was surprised when he actually realized he was screaming out Nicky's name in pure ecstasy, as he was previously deaf to any sounds other than Nicky's soft grunts and prolonged moans.

"Rich... Richey..." Nicky sighed, as he began to thrust harder and with an obvious quickened pace. Richey looked up at him, a mixture of sheer love and lust in his dark eyes, awaiting for Nicky to finish his sentence. "Tell me... Tell me I'm naturally fucking intelligent." he moaned, diving down to bite and suck on Richey's neck. "You're naturally-" Richey began, unable to continue with all of the sensations consuming him. "Say it!" Nicky commanded, looking deep into Richey's eyes, thrusting harder and faster still, grinding around Richey's sensitive gland. "You're naturally fucking intelligent!" Richey cried in his smooth welsh accent, an unbelievable orgasm following. Nicky smiled, and kissed richey softly, thrusting in one, two, three more times before coming, moaning and whispering proclamations of love and adoration into Richey's ear. Their breathing steadied after a few minutes, as they softly sucked at each other's pale skin. Richey rest his head on Nicky's chest, lightly twirling his finger around a hard nipple, tenderly kissing it, then moved up to stare at his lover. A rich brown melted with a wintery blue, and Richey abruptly noticed a slight glint in Nicky's somewhat sated eyes. A mischievous smirk danced across Richey's lips, "And just what insane idea has popped up into your head, Wire?"

Nicky cackled, tickling Richey's milky thighs while kissing him. "You'll just have to find out, won't you, Richard?" he said, grinning. Richey raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow curiously as Nicky sprang out of their messy bed, trying to ignore the state of the wrinkled sheets. They had so much more to do, after all. Richey curled up into a ball and threw the sheets over him, the pillow fitting the shape of the left side of his face as Nicky sauntered out the door. He began to forget about Nicky's implied upcoming events as his eyes closed and a sexually satisfied sleep set in. The second Richey was about to drift off, he heard a low sound of wheels rolling on plush carpet. He closed his eyes tightly and scowled. "A post-sex cleaning spree again, Nick?" offered Richey. He couldn't see Nicky, but he could just sense the grin crawling across his face at that moment. Nicky tsk'd loudly, "You could say that..." he purred, snatching the sheets off of the bed, uncovering a vulnerably nude and utterly helpless Richey, whose eyes opened wide in shock, as the hum of the hoover muted Nicky's playful laughs.

Nicky took the hose in his hand and straddled Richey, pinning his arms behind his head with his free hand, whilst lightly letting the hose drift nearer and nearer to his skin. Richey shook his head defensively, pulling a pout. Nicky kissed him lovingly and allowed the hose of the vacuum to suck at the bare skin of Richey's ass for a short period of time. Richey hollered in Nicky's mouth at the sensation, attempting to plant his ass flat onto the mattress in order to escape the vacuum's strong pull on his sensitive skin. Nicky finally broke the kiss, lightly brushing the hose over Richey's nipples. "What's the matter, Rich? Don't you like to try new things?" he winked, placing the hose on Richey's groin, then sliding it back off again once he received an excited moan out of Richey. Nicky smiled as Richey's hands lingered upwards and Nicky's hair, tugging slightly, as if he was silently saying "More, more!" Nicky's jaw slacked, he exhaled slightly, "You like this, Rich?" Richey's head, which had tilted back in a some kind of bliss, curved up to look at his best friend, who had begun to grind against him fervently. He blinked as if he was attempting to rid the obvious arousal from his eyes. It was no use, he concluded, his exceedingly hard cock, already slick with pre-cum, said it all. Nicky smirked, dominance gleaming in his eyes as he neared Richey's cock with the hose. Richey's eyes widened. "Nicky, you can't... you... you can't put it on there, you know!" Nicky grinned, the hose swiftly sucking at the incredibly sensitive skin that surrounded Richey's cock. Richey threw his head back, panting, a slight sheen of sweat forming on his forehead due to the nervousness as he attempted to convince himself that Nicky was so "naturally fucking intelligent" and he knew perfectly well that vacuums and private areas do not mix well. "Turn over, baby." Nicky growled, already clutching the sides of Richey's hips, flipping him over. He examined his lover's backside with no scrutiny, lightly tracing his fingers along the silky flesh, massaging him and listening to his contented purrs of pleasure. Nicky then replaced his fingers with the hoover once again, sucking at the flesh of his ass, allowing the hose to ride along his slender curves. Nicky got up onto his knees and covered Richey's body with his own, lightly stroking richey's hard cock, grinding his own steadily growing erection against Richey's backside whilst running the hoover's hose down Richey's leg.

By this time, Richey was panting heavily, turning his head towards Nicky's, pleading with his eyes for a kiss, which Nicky gladly gave to him. "Fuck me!" Richey breathed once they broke the kiss, and Nicky threw down the vacuum hose and mounted him, whispering "gladly." into Richey's ear. The room was filled with the Glamour Twins' moans and shouts, Nicky being louder than he'd ever been on stage, as if anybody figured that would be possible. He leaned down to kiss over Richey's shoulders as Richey backed into him, making it easier for Nicky to thrust and kiss his band mate at the same time. "Come in me, Nick." Richey moaned, lifting his body up and grinding his back against Nicky's chest. Nicky breathed his hot breath on Richey's neck, which was currently leopard spotted with love bites. He kissed him there as he came inside of him, Richey's cum spurting onto his own chest simultaneously. Nicky pulled out and pulled Richey on top of him, slowly licking up his cum. Richey tugged on the vacuum cord with his foot, pulling the plug out of the outlet. He pulled Nicky's face up to his own. "I ought to hoover your intestines out!"

Nicky licked his lips. "You've never complained about being sucked off before."

James Dean Bradfield's Christmas message to Santa aged 6

blouse_lifter — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 14:54:45 GMT

This isn't slash in the least.

Happy Christmas everyone! Or whatever other mid-winter festival you enjoy.

(photo wot appeared on Tumblr)

Dere Santah, pls coud I ‘ave a guitar, pls? I wood liek wun that is black and shiny and has strings and that I can go WIDDLY-WIDDLY-WIDDLY-WEEEEE!!!! on. Pls can you also ask my Auntie Gladys not to maek me anymoor jumpers cos they are well ‘orrible. Cood you ask her to maek me a balaclavva insted pls. And stitch my naem across it pls? My naem’s JAEMS! Pls Santa also cood you ask my frend Nickolas if he can come round and play tommoro? Althoo I wood liek it if he didn’t bring his maek-up bag with him. I ‘ave sum luvly toy cars. I wood liek to play with those. And my cuzzin Shorn. We can all play cars together. And Nickolas has a frend called Richurd. Cood he come too? It will be lots and lots of fun, dere Santah. I luv you.

JAEMS. xx

And he got his Christmas wish:

prompt challenge part 2/2

lycene — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 05:25:12 GMT

Thanks for reading, everyone, your comments really boosted my confidence for this!
Hope you like.....

Nicky heard the words coming from the phone, yet it was as if his brain refused to process them. He couldn't deny that instinctively he knew exactly what he meant, yet he had to say something. Ask, yes, ask as if that might change the obvious.

'What, James, what do you mean?'

'They had him declared...well...you know. Said they needed to sort his affairs.'

A few years ago Nicky would have argued vehemently that they couldn't do that, how dare they, Richey. Is. Not. Dead. But he had come to an understanding of his own about it all. He had pushed that hole into the background and tried not to think of it. Tried not to. Was sometimes successful. Somehow, it didn't floor him, this news. He supposed he understood.

'Nicky? Are you..ok, mate?'

'Yes...surprisingly I am....I just....have something I need to do now.....'

'I know Nicky, I know.' James said as he heard the line disconnect.

Nicky made his way up to his bedroom, a sense of quiet determination about him as he opened the door. He stood at the folding doors to his oversize closet and shivered.

He wasn't sure what finally made him move, but he swore he felt a cool burst of air in the small of his back. (I thought I had that window fixed, surely I'm imagining things) He reached for the shoe box, tucked in the furthest corner, surrounded by many other boxes.

'Ok Richey, I'm ready to read now...I'm sorry I just...couldn't before.' he spoke as he opened the box, running his fingers across the worn leather. He took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed as he removed the disintegrating elastic band. He exhaled just as deeply as he opened to a random page.

"Isn't it lovely, when the dawn brings the dew?
I'll be watching over you"

His fingers traced the letters as if he were reading with them. He closed his eyes and sighed. 'oh..Richey...'

"I will be waiting all my cares are for you
Dreams they leave and die"

As he traced the letters he felt a trace of cold, like ice, make it's way from the top his finger, his hand and on to his arm. He looked around the room. There was nothing.

"I love you, yeah I love you
Just let me go"

The tendril of cold continued up his arm and made its way to his neck, dancing there, caressing along his hair line, just like Richey used to do.......

Nicky looked around the room once more, still nothing.

'I can't just let you go, Richey.... Don't you know that? You didn't have to go.....I.....was here...here for you.....'

The cold on his neck abruptly stopped.

"I'll be watching over you"

A column of cold washed over Nicky, knocking him down. It wrapped itself around him, pushing him into the bed. Nicky could barely breathe as he closed his eyes and let the cold overtake him.

'Why, Richey? Why did you leave me?'

A tear fell from his eye as the cold ran down his side in an icy caress. He opened his mouth to speak, but the cold froze his lips, darting into his mouth and back out again. The caress of cold continued to his chest, lingered there, and then gradually began to release him from its grip. He wanted to reach out for it, beg it to stay, please just stay, just a few minutes longer......but he was breathless. And in that moment it was gone.

Nicky gripped the journal to his chest. It was no longer cold. He laid like that for hours, rehashing the experience. He felt relieved, and oddly, happy. He knew what he had to do. He could do this. In fact, he needed to. They all did.

---------------------------------------------------------------

The phone rang next to James' head. He knew this call was coming. He had tried to get some sleep, but it was fitful. He was worried, very worried about Nicky. He swallowed as he answered the phone, bracing himself for the mess that was about to come.

'Nicky...'

'James, I need to see you, can you come over?'

'Of course, Nicky. Are you ok? I mean...I was worried, you know?'

'Just come over. I've got some rough chords fleshed out, and I need you......'

James wasn't sure exactly what had come over Nicky, but he knew he had to go. He felt the worry lift as he heard the chords through the small speaker. Perhaps this wasn't going to be such a bad day after all, he thought to himself as he heard the soft echo of a small laugh when Nicky hit a sour note.

As he put on his coat to go, James noticed a fresh blanket of dew, sparkling in the first light of dawn. He couldn't help but think just how lovely it looked.

prompt challenge part 1/2

lycene — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 06:46:45 GMT

Hello all,
This is my first ever manic's fic. Hope you like!

Nicky has been holding on to Richey's journals for years, but all he feels is a deep shivering cold whenever he's near them.....

Nicky decided that it was finally time. It had been years, nearly fourteen years. Fourteen pain ridden, upside down, inside out years, without his best friend, soul mate, life partner. Yes, things had become, well, cold between them, and yes, there were the drugs, the booze, the girls, and the self-harm, but...there was just...a hole. A hole where Richey once was. He could never describe it any other way.

And then there was James. Patient, understanding, James. They had a bond that was unbreakable, formed in pain, perhaps, but built out of a sort of shared understanding, loneliness, and in the end, some sort of love. I worked for them, and thankfully, today, James knew to leave him alone. Alone with the journals.

THE JOURNALS. Yes, those damn journals. They originally sat for days after Richey had given them to him, and Nicky didn't dare touch them. It was as if he knew there was a finality about them. They had always been so....well...guarded...before this. He didn't share them unless they were transcribed bits that could become lyrics, scratched onto some loose leaf, tucked into the very page they came from. They sat there mocking him (c'mon nicky you know you want to look, just loooooookkk), but he couldn't bear to do it. After Richey disappeared he blamed himself for not looking. (had i just looked, i would have seen what he wanted me to see, and i could've helped him, stopped this somehow) They became the focus of all of his avoidance of grief, with their smooth cover and stretched elastic band, bits of script, all black, some scratched out, some almost legible, peeking out from between the pages, beckoning him to read, just read. James understood, telling him he didn't need to look at them, none of this was his fault, put them away, put them away.

Nicky put them away. He put them in a shoe box. Not good enough. Put them in his closet. Also not good enough. They were never far from his mind. He wanted to know, wanted desperately to know, what made Richey want to leave him for forever, but he was scared. He was afraid of what he might find. He couldn't do it. He couldn't handle the truth, whatever it was. Either way it was his fault. Either Richey wanted to leave him, or he wasn't enough to save him. The thought of them meant he had to face his grief. And they had all agreed that there was no way he was dead. No way. He just...he just needed to go away, face his demons, and go be...whomever he needed to be. Grieving meant accepting that we was truly gone. They just weren't willing to accept that.

Many times Nicky had lingered near them, just to feel him there, but all he felt was cold. Shivering, all encompassing, cold. It started a few days after he disappeared, and it was what drove Nicky to bury them away, much like his grief.

But today, oh today. James phoned him with the news. He knew it would come some day. Somehow, coming from James it was acceptable.

'Nicky....' his voice came from down the line, 'his family...they...did it....'

If I Fell (In Love With You)

friendofidiocy — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 11:55:07 GMT

Title: If I Fell
Author: friendofidiocy/Alice (me)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nicky/Richey
Warnings: Sexytimes, un-beta'd, ramblyness
Disclaimer: Until Nicky decides to tell all, this never happened (please don't sue me, I need that money for muffins)Title and cut belong to the Beatles
A/N: Okay, so this is the first thing I've ever posted anywhere (first thing I've ever written in fact). It was thrown together over a year ago on a very boring morning, and I had since resigned it to the depths of nowhere due to awful-ness, but I just found it whilst doing a clear-out, and it's not actually as bad as I had thought. So you lovely people get it :D Anyway, suggestions and con-crit are much appreciated

They fall through the door together, laughing about nothing in particular. Nicky’s hand flails for the light switch, he then shrieks and covers his eyes as the room is illuminated. After a couple of seconds, he stops to glare at Richey who is unsuccessfully stifling laughter.
“Exactly what is so funny, Mr Edwards?”
Richey lets out a little snort, then squeals: “You’re drunk.” And collapses into helpless giggles again.

Nicky is confused. It really isn’t that funny.
“I’ll have you know that you’re drunk too. Actually, come to think of it, you’re always drunk.” Nicky takes a step towards him, staggers and catches himself on Richey’s arm.
“I rest my case.” Richey says matter-of-factly, then smiles at him, watching as he straightens up.

Nicky stares into his face, and Richey is amazed that he hasn’t noticed how beautiful he is until now. Eyeliner smudged, hair tousled by the wind, and cheeks flushed with cold. It could just be the vodka talking, but he wants to kiss him. He can’t, but he wants to. Richey opens his mouth to say something, but before he has the chance, Nicky’s mouth is against his, and his hands are around his waist and they’re actually kissing.

And it's a real kiss, with teeth and tongues and hands and emotions. Nicky pulls up his shirt, and Richey gasps into his mouth as hands run down his spine, because it’s really cold. He feels his shirt being pulled over his head, and lifts his arms to make it less awkward.

Nicky discards the garment, and pushes his tongue into Richey’s mouth, exploring the unfamiliar terrain and fighting for dominance. Entwining their tongues in an elaborate dance.

Their tongues are dancing. Richey smiles slightly at the metaphor and then allows himself to be lost in Nicky’s arms and body and hair and mouth. The kiss is deepened, and Richey can taste alcohol and cigarettes, and also, he notes, chocolate. He wants to die right now, wants Nicky to suffocate him, so that he never loses what he has in this moment.

Nicky is backing him towards the sofa, and once the backs of Richey’s legs hit the cushions, he lets them give way and falls onto his back, pulling Nicky down on top of him. They’re kissing again, unable to keep their hands in one place, and everything is enveloped by a kind of pure, wonderful, almost animal lust. It does seem surprising to Richey that this hasn’t happened before, especially as he’s not even that drunk. Nicky, however, is, and Nicky is a horny drunk.

So before long, Richey’s jeans are on the floor, and he’s tugging Nicky’s shirt over his head, because Richey is entirely naked underneath him, and he wants Nicky to be too.

He thinks that he should feel vulnerable, because in this situation, Nicky can take or do whatever he wants, but Richey knows that he won’t, because this is Nicky, and Nicky would never hurt him, because he loves him. Besides, Richey isn’t sure he would honestly care, seeing as he could have stopped this at anytime, and he‘s still lying underneath Nicky, with sweaty skin sticking to the leather of the sofa.

Hands still roaming, Richey manages to focus enough to undo Nicky’s belt, pull down his jeans, wrap one hand around Nicky’s half-hard cock, and tangle the other in his hair. He begins to pump quickly, feeling it stiffen in his hand, and kisses him quickly and roughly, before falling back onto the sofa.

Because he’s so caught up in his actions, it takes Richey a moment to notice that Nicky is prising his mouth open with two fingers, and, almost giggling, tells him that “There’s no lube“. Richey nods, and lets Nicky’s fingers dip into his mouth, sucking and slicking them, because he wants to make this easier.

As Nicky lifts Richey‘s legs, he begins thinking again, thinking that they should really have locked the door or moved into a different room, because someone could walk in at any moment and wouldn’t that be a lovely surprise for them, though he’s not so sure James would mind, because James is pretty unshockable, wait, is unshockable a word? He doesn’t care but Sean might be slightly disturbed, though at the same time, Sean is disturbed by a lot of things and actually, it wouldn’t make any difference even if they did lock the door because everyone had keys, meaning that this whole thought process was pointless -- Nicky pushes a finger into him, and there are fireworks behind his eyes and a hand around his cock.

Richey allows a slight moan to escape his lips as he feels a second finger slip inside him, stretching, preparing for what they both want so much. Ever so suddenly, Nicky removes his fingers, and it’s the head of his cock pressing at Richey’s entrance instead.

Nicky begins to push into him, and it’s so gentle, so tentative that it takes Richey a moment to realise it hurts. He’s no stranger to pain, and so is shocked when he notices himself shaking slightly. Attempting to calm himself for fear that Nicky will stop and he’ll be left on his own, Richey takes a few deep breaths, then leans up a couple of inches to breathe in Nicky’s ear: “Go faster. Please” .

Nicky quickens his pace immediately, and it isn’t long before Richey adjusts and is moaning louder with every thrust.

He’s never felt euphoria like this, he hopes never to again, because nothing can ever match the beauty, and the magic, and the perfection of right now. Richey squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them and looks up at Nicky. Head thrown back; face contorted with pleasure; mouth open to let out grunts and moans every now and then.

Richey reaches down to touch his cock, but Nicky shakes his head, pushes his hand away and takes Richey’s length himself. He slides his hand over it, and while Richey is still trying to make sense of what’s happening, his hips buck and he comes all over Nicky’s stomach.

As he clenches wildly, Richey notices Nicky’s thrusts straying from their rhythm, the grip on his hips tightening, and it passes through his mind that a condom would have been a good idea. It’s a bit late, however, because Nicky is letting out a long moan and very nearly collapsing on top of him.

Nicky slides out of him, and then they’re kissing again, limbs tangled together and hands fisting in each other’s hair before falling together in an embrace. It’s a sweaty and trembling embrace, but it’s safe and warm. Richey leans his head against Nicky’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart and closes his eyes.

The Epic

chuckjd — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 05:13:53 GMT

Title: Untitled (fondly known as "The Epic")

Author: chuckjd

Rating: up to R/NC-17, just to be safe

Pairing: Richey/Nicky (with an AU of itself with James/Richey) and hints of Nicky/Rachel

Warnings: Richey being Richey (triggering?), but that will be more of a problem later. Sex. Innacurate timelines? Insane amounts of alternate endings. WIP.

Summary: The Manics true history, through the lens of what could have happened if Nicky/Richey were real.

Author's Notes: With my obsession for research, I have done my best to write the most historically accurate Manics fic of all time. But with slash. At least more than there was in the public history. This is my first Manics fic. I started it as a part of NaNoWriMo back in 2007, never reached the goal, and was left with chapters upon chapters of detailed Manics history with bumming on the side.

Disclaimer: Not entirely brit-picked (any takers?), and lovingly looked over many times by friends, but I was the one to fix everything, so all errors are mine in the end. Also, I've used a wide range of sources for stories, and some may be be wrong. If you have a source to cite where I went wrong, PLEASE TELL ME! I want this to be as true to life as it can be being a slash fic. I've worked too hard to let the details go to waste.

( Follow the fake cut to the wordpress where I keep this beast )

x-posted