#I have stuck so much innuendo and dumb jokes in this fic it's stupid

[tswwwit]

Is the portal au gonna be a dub-con ‘help im stuck’ or full-con ‘help i wanna get stuck’?/gen q

It's going to be consensual! I wanted to get a bunch of bickering and flirting in, and rest assured there is plenty. It helps that the portal is conveniently approximately phone sized and shaped and also has the ability to text! ...It's a phone.

[existentialkendall-blog]

Nostalgia Is a Drug 

Pairing: Kickthestickz Wordcount: 1.4k Rating: G. A lil bit of angst.

Summary: The Fictional Aftermath of ‘’Type number 1 into the chat if you want me and PJ to have some kind of sexy collab’’

A/N: Feedback is hugely appreciated. I know whether or not to write another fic, or whether I have typo-ed. THANKS and enjoy :) 

Crabstickz. Internet sensation, comedic genius, King of impressions. Chris Kendall drops off the grid again after promising a spectacular return.

Several phrases stand out in the online article.

Unreliable creator, disappointed fans, dying fandom, fantastic foursome. Chris closes the laptop and falls back onto the bed, staring up at the sloped attic ceiling. His phone vibrates in his front pocket and he pulls it out reluctantly, blinking for several seconds at the black and white screen before the message registers.

Stay over Friday

Chris ignores his initial response which involves sexual innuendo and the word ‘coming’. He mentally checks his schedule for this weekend. What a surprise, nothing planned.

You were serious about the collab?

PJ replies almost instantly.

Dead serious. Deadly like a venom snake Or not, we could just hang if you want, watch a couple movies

They haven’t ‘just hung out’ in forever. Even during filming Oscar’s Hotel they’d been under tight time restrictions and always surrounded by other people, never ‘just them’.

I’m not watching the good, bad and ugly again

It’s a CLASSIC

Westerns are not classics. They make my act-y senses tingle in a bad way

You loved it!

He loved the company. 2011 in PJ’s Uni room, buried under the duvet with his monstrous weighty book of film on their laps. PJ picking out the film immediately, eyes wide, convincing Chris that it’s not an average western film, it’s full of awesome one liners and cool characters. Chris giving in because the smile PJ gave him, curved wide and full of light, was worth suffering through a 3 hour film to see. When PJ quoted lines along with the actors Chris saw how much it meant to him. It was his 'The Matrix’.

You’d have it played at your funeral if you could

You’re so morbid

It’d be after the drawing planets masterclass and before cardboard for beginners

I’ll get it written into my will So, Friday?

Of course

One conversation has him smiling into his laptop, window open for train times from Harrogate to Brighton. He books the ticket and feels the first twist of anxiety in his gut.

Friday arrives slower then he thought it would. Anticipation and nerves had swallowed every waking moment. Despite looking forward to it, the implications of seeing PJ confused him. They haven’t collaborated officially for 2 years. They haven’t talked properly for 3.

The train pulls into the station late in the afternoon. His six hour journey seemed more like ten. Unlike all other times, PJ is waiting outside leaning against the metal railings, orange rimmed sunglasses on.

Chris can’t help but grin at his old friend.

Midnight. Every important conversation they have is at midnight, and then it turns into impressions and laughter and dreams about the future. Chris pushes his boot into the heap of pebbles that cover all beaches in Brighton and stares at the moon.

“It’s not where I thought I’d be by now,” the alcohol burns his throat going down and he hands the bottle of vodka to PJ. He takes it reluctantly, finger brushing Chris’ hand accidentally as he does.

“I know that. I think the whole internet knows that.”

“Yeah,” Chris laughs humourlessly, “Because the only videos I make now involve me complaining.”

PJ falls silent. He looks out at the endless undulating waves, thinks of the different frames and shots he could get with this view. He wishes he could find the right thing to say as easily.

“This isn’t what you had in mind when you invited me down is it,” Chris asks, rhetorical.

He answers anyway, “I wanted to see if you were okay-” Chris is laughing again before he finishes his sentence. He hates that question, that sentence. Are you okay? I want you to be okay. For once, if he answered 'I’m not okay’ would the world implode or would it shut the voices up for good?

“Fucks sake. Fine. I wanted to see you Chris. Spend time with you,” After meeting at the station PJ had taken him to a pizza place for dinner. They’d made small talk about movies and upcoming projects. For PJ there was stress and work on the horizon. For Chris there was unemployment and fake bravado.

From there they’d entered a corner shop and picked out a bottle, Chris explaining it with 'to talk’. Liquid courage: liquid honesty. PJ had led the way to a section of the beach that was out of the view of the brightly coloured tourist beach huts, and more towards the wind breakers.

“How sweet,” Chris mutters, digging one hand into the small stones and raising it in a handful, before dropping them to their original place.

“Yeah well,” PJ takes a long gulp and they sit in silence. He didn’t have any premonitions of what this weekend would be. Even though they’ve moved forward with different jobs and experiences, his mind still drifts to the simplicity of their earlier relationship.

“Maybe I wanted to be Jim Carrey so much that I became him.”

“You don’t have depression.”

All comedians have depression. Chris had told him that one after their 8 hour flight from L.A to London. Wrapped in a thick curtain of lethargy and jet lag, PJ had asked him to explain his theory. Using muted gestures and a range of slurred words, he’d said that comedians become comedians because they’re depressed, and they want to make people laugh so other people don’t feel as miserable as they do. Examples included Robin Williams, Jim Carrey, Stephen Fry. 'Does Stephen Fry count as a comedian?’ 'Blackadder’ 'Shit yeah’

“What you have are friends that you can talk to about this stuff.”

Chris sounds pained when he says “You know I can’t do that Peej.”

“You’re doing pretty well so far,” Even if the whole internet is concerned that he’s suicidal. Even if PJ has seen the worried tweets and the demands for an explanation.

“Does Sophie know I’m here?” Chris asks, hesitantly. Because since they met at the station he hasn’t seen her at all. Or anyone, actually.

PJ stops himself from sighing. For all the times they’ve danced around the topic, they’ve never been direct with it. But tonight seems different, like along with the alcohol, his misery might force the words out of him.

“Chris…”

“No wait. I’m not a threat, right?” Chris bites the bottom of his lip, tasting alcohol, and leaving a groove in place. He hates feeling insecure, and in front of PJ it’s somehow worse. He knows his tells, his lies, his stupid coping mechanisms. He can see right through him.

“She knows you’re here. Don’t bring her into this.”

“This,” Chris laughs bitterly, “I miss it,” He lets the nostalgic misery and wonderment that he felt since they walked to the beach enter his voice. He misses having someone there to put up with his bullshit, who saw through his act and still stuck around. He misses PJ and what they both had before it faded away.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Now he isn’t talking about YouTube or his stunted career, he’s talking about them. He doesn’t think he’ll ever move on. What they had wasn’t concrete, they weren’t an exclusive item. Perhaps to PJ they weren’t anything, just dumb kids messing around with a camera and their bodies. 

Trading kisses like they were nothing, and tweeting silly jokes like they weren’t personal. 

But when he breathes out a repeated, punctuated “I know,” He knows it wasn’t as black and white for PJ. But that’s what it is now.

“You don’t hate me?” For the stupid things I say, for not talking to you, for still making fun of us to my audience because I don’t know how else to process what we were.

“I could never hate you,” 'Not with everything that we used to have’ is how Chris hears it.

They go back to looking at the moon, the ethereal glow lighting their silhouettes.

Chris remembers their first kiss, over eight years ago. PJ had been so nervous, winding his fingers in the sleeve of his hoodie, restlessly messing with his hair. Chris thought of all the nameless men in countless gay bars in Leeds preparing him for this moment. Once they did it, they couldn’t go back because PJ wasn’t a nameless man, he was important. Chris had twined their hands together, stilling PJ’s fidgeting movements.

He’d initiated it, tilted his head to the left and closed his eyes.

When they finally kissed, PJ’s lips were soft.

He leaves the next day with a hangover and a script. While his future is uncertain those memories will always be there. Solid and real. Painful and incomplete.