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delctrl-archive · 8 years

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*MUSIC SYMBOL THO*

♫ – five times my muse swears it’s nota date and the one time it maybe is.— @sycophanticvisionary

1. CINEMA

“Just pick one.”

“I don’t know? I’m still thinking.”

“Look, it’s not that hard. You’re over-complicating it.”

“I’m just not sure.”

“Ryan, if you don’t choose, I’m going to choose for you.”

“All right, all right, gimme a minute, will you?!”

Easy for Joe to say; these are his selections. After process of elimination, the remaining films limit two in the same genre: Goodfellas or The Godfather III. Why is he not surprised this is something Joe likes? Ryan’s never been into gangster movies himself—someone has to force him to watch the first Godfather actually—so maybe he’s stalling on purpose, even though the line behind him is getting antsy.

“Sir, you need to make your choice soon. You’re holding up the line,” the box office clerk wheedles impatiently.

He wants to reject both options, if only because Ryan really wants to see Total Recall, but Joe isn’t a Schwarzenegger fan [how is that even possible? He’s amazing as Conan the barbarian]. Part of him wants to see Edward Scissorhands because that’s a unique concept and Nightmare Before Christmas is bizarre in a good way, even if as a kid Ryan finds it scary. But whatever, he has to decide, otherwise not only will people be pissed, Joe will probably walk out on him.

“Two for The Godfather.” It takes all his willpower not to sigh.

Glancing at Joe, the small smile on his lips tells Ryan he chooses well. That makes him smile in turn as they head to the snack bar.

“What do you want to eat?” he hears Joe ask, though he shrugs.

“You decide. I’m pretty cheap.”

Joe doesn’t argue, just orders them a combo popcorn and fishes for his wallet. It occurs to Ryan that Joe’s paying for everything and that makes his face hot with embarrassment. Does that mean—?

“Is this a date?” Ryan blurts.

It stills Joe from handing over a twenty-dollar bill, his eyes slowly sliding towards Ryan. Ryan swallows nervously, staring back with what he doesn’t realize is anticipated hope.

“No.”

Joe turns away to gather napkins as Ryan stands, deflated, watching. He doesn’t enjoy the movie as much as Joe does.

2. BOWLING ALLEY

Ryan’s probably never laughed as much as he had since getting out of prison, but witnessing someone as tall as Joe MacMillan try to toss a giant heavy ball down a laminated aisle and miss is ridiculously priceless. More than likely Joe doesn’t appreciate being the butt of the joke, but can’t say he doesn’t laugh either whenever Ryan misses a strike out—which isn’t a lot. He practically grows up on this game thanks to his dad’s company team. Ryan knows how to roll a ball before he knows keystrokes.

So, yes, it’s a little unfair he asks Joe to verse him, knowing the advantage he has, but it feels nice to be good at something again, especially against Joe MacMillan, a man who is seemly flawless at what he puts his mind to, regardless of skill level. [Ryan has seen the man’s code, and while it’s like looking at the aftermath of a wild keg party, there’s still some gold nuggets that can make a decent brewery. He may never be great at it, but he’s not unteachable.] When they decide to pause in Joe’s losing streak—he laughs again at the typical-wounded-ego pout on his face—they stop for a pizza break. Ryan carries a tray over with their huge slices and styrofoam soda cups; the one with the hot-pink crazy-straw indicates Ryan’s Dr. Pepper and the cup with lots of ice is Joe’s Coke. The fries they split. Ryan dunks his in too much ketchup, makes a mess of his shirt, and Joe just looks at him with fond exasperation when he gets more napkins.

“Do you still think you’re capable of beating me?” Ryan taunts through a grin and half a mouthful of pizza. “I mean, I gotta admit, you got spunk. Don’t think that’s good enough though.”

Joe scoffs goodnaturedly. “You’re sure of yourself. Don’t get cocky, Ryan—”

“Too late!”

“―You might be surprised. I could suddenly win this and you wouldn’t even see it coming.” Joe’s steady, self-assured voice causes doubt in any other situation but this one. Ryan’s heard it a few times when they’ve spent hours and days looking for something before finding NSFNet. That tone marks the man’s determination as well as an ace hidden up his sleeve.

Not that Ryan heeds it. There’s no way Joe can turn this around in time. There’s a little over thirty minutes of the game left and Ryan’s ahead by twenty-two. He stuffs the rest of his cheese pizza in his mouth, devours it, and slurps down more Dr. Pepper, shaking his head. “That doesn’t scare me, Joe. You’re all talk.” Ryan smirks. “C’mon, prove it.”

He’s not exactly prepared for that look Joe gives. Like he’s said the wrong thing, or maybe the right thing, to put that fire in his gaze; the way he stands so abruptly just screams You’ll regret that. Ryan watches a little dumbfounded as Joe steps into the little sitting area, food forgotten, then takes a minute to peruse particular bowling balls. He ends up choosing a shiny black one, as if it’s an enlarged 8-ball. It’s a surprise when Joe walks up, stands perfectly still, but suddenly executes a perfect throw with just the right amount of leverage and twist that sends the ball gliding across the lane, knocking down the white pins forming a Greek Church.

For a dumb moment, Ryan has the impression of pillars of an old god’s temple being destroyed by Joe MacMillan: a cannon ball come to wreck a false way of life.

The next half hour plays out similarly. Joe keeps nailing his shots over and over until he’s caught up to Ryan, who hasn’t said a word to joke or laugh at Joe’s expense. He realizes how easily he’s been played, that Joe is going easy on him earlier, and that miffs him the slightest bit. But in the end it’s Ryan who wins; as good as Joe apparently is at bowling, Ryan’s better.

“That was fun,” Joe announces on the drive home. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan answers, distracted, with his attention out of the window. He may still be a little bitter at how Joe played him. So he isn’t expecting the hand on his arm that gains his attention on the man driving instead.

“Hey, you okay?”

The concern in Joe’s words melt whatever ire builds. Coupled with that glance of caring worry behind horn-rimmed glasses, Ryan simply smiles and shrugs it off. “Yeah, I’m good, I’m good. We’re good.”

Joe smiles, small and delicate, and nods. “Good. Let’s play again sometime,” he encourages.

“It’s a date,” Ryan agrees mindlessly.

Joe’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes close off. He looks back at the road ahead, stepping on the pedal once the light turns green.

3. PARTY

Ryan’s two hours deep in Mortal Kombat, the joystick of his Nintendo 64 in danger of snapping from how vigorously he jerks it left and right, but he can’t care about that now, so close to K.O.-ing a FATALITY on Rain’s flamboyant, Japanese-purple-poncho, black death mask wearing ass. Ryan didn’t unlock Smoke as a character just to have him look pretty with his long white hair and mysticism. He’s been glued to the console ever since he buys it for himself as an early birthday present. Not even his brand new Microsoft PC has steered him from fighting fictional assassins and ninjas designed by America’s greatest video game developers.

It’s Joe’s fault anyway.

“Fault” as if Ryan’s mad—hardly. The day Joe hands this gem over in neat red wrapping paper, Ryan swears he falls in love. After replaying [and beating] Super Mario five times, he’s in need of something new; Joe delivers.

Speaking of Joe, a shrill ringing interrupts his gameplay in time for Smoke to land the finishing blow. “Yes!” Ryan praises, leaping up with arms shooting high the same moment Smoke does a victory taunt. Adrenaline plants a wide grin on his lips and he pats the wall for his phone blindly, but eventually grasps it. “Hello?” he breathes, not quite over his excitement.

“Ryan? It’s Joe.”

“Joe? Hey, man, perfect timing! I just killed it on Mortal Kombat!”

“Mortal Kombat?” Joe is genuinely confused. Figures.

“Yeah, Mortal Kombat, it’s that game you bought me a few weeks ago. For my birthday,” he tacks on just in case he really has forgotten.

“Right, I remember. I’m glad to know you’re liking it so much. Listen, can you do me a favor? I wouldn’t ask if I had somebody else, but—”

“What is it, Joe? It’s not like you to stall.”

There’s a pause, and Ryan imagines Joe’s debating telling him never mind and hanging up, but he’s happy he doesn’t. “There’s this thing I have to go to for Gordon. Business party. A lot of investors will be there—I need someone to come with me.”

“Like a date?”

“No, nothing like that. It looks bad if I go alone.” Joe is too quick to dismiss the idea, but what else is new. It no longer hurts Ryan’s feelings.

But he does chuckle to hide his scoff. “You don’t think showing up with a guy will look bad?” Ryan points out incredulously. He realizes how bad that sounds though. “Not that I have a problem with it, just—”

“Will you go with me or not?” Joe demands sharply, his voice like a cold knife.

“Sure, yeah, yeah, I’ll go. Sure. Look, I’m sorry if I—”

“Great. I’ll pick you up a six o’clock. Wear something nice.”

The line goes dead. Ryan feels like shit for putting his foot in his mouth and he knows he’s going to make it up to Joe somehow. Over the years the guy’s gotten a little more sensitive about his sexuality, the AIDS epidemic startling him into awareness and caution. Of course Joe’s never taken lightly to cracks about the gay community. Sometimes he can be downright vicious defending it.

Before Ryan has long to mope about his carelessness, he checks the clock. It’s four minutes from 5:00 PM and Joe doesn’t live far. Whatever remorse Ryan feels gets replaced by panicked annoyance at classic Joe MacMillan expecting him to break his neck getting ready in a small window of time. Ryan flicks off his television, then hops over his couch to rush down the hall towards his bedroom, shirking clothes as he goes.

He’s proud of himself when he opens the door to Joe exactly at 6:00, dressed in a starch white button-up, open maroon blazer, and black slacks. The contrast of deep red truly makes his skin glow copper. The way Joe looks him up and down slowly only adds to Ryan’s conceit. It doesn’t even diminish when Joe reaches forward to fix his black bowtie before half-smiling at Ryan. They’ll make quite the pair: Joe also looks dapper in his silver-white three-piece suit, his skin freshly scrubbed clean to give a polished peach gleam. Ryan forgets all about how much he hates parties and whether Joe admits it or not, he tries not to focus on the fact it feels very much like a date.

Ryan pretends Joe doesn’t.

4. COASTLINE

Joe invites Ryan out to the water with him. He tries to teach him to surf. It’s the first and last time he tries as they learn Ryan is stupendously awful at keeping his balance on a surfboard while the waves are rocking. He probably swallows more sea water than is healthy, but at least he coughs up some of it.

On shore Joe hands Ryan a towel that he gratefully accepts, rubbing his messy soaked hair after he’s squeezed out excessive water onto the sand dampening beneath his bum. These wetsuits make Ryan uncomfortable, a little more conservative about the skin-tight fabric than he’d like to be. He wishes he can be like Joe, who struts around in his wetsuit like he’s born to model them, or even something as simple as rolling the top half of it down, scars on display, just to lay on a towel while the sun warms them both. Joe looks mighty comfortable lounging on his back, hands atop his stomach, while Ryan imitates a drowned cat vigorously trying to groom himself. Instead of his tongue he’s got a terry cloth that’s mostly drenched—not much good for drying anymore.

“I think I’ll leave it to you from now on to be the surfing expert,” Ryan grouses, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging himself. It’s a silly attempt to heat up faster, but he’ll take what he can get.

Laughing, Joe peeks a bright eye at Ryan. “Come on, you weren’t that bad.”

Ryan snorts, tossing Joe a look as if he’s crazy. “I got booed by a water skier passing by us. I sucked, let’s face it.”

“They were kind of assholes,” Joe argues mildly.

“Those assholes weren’t wrong though,” Ryan insists.

Humming, Joe’s quiet for a second as he thinks it over. He comes to a decision shortly. “I suppose you’re right. You were pretty bad.”

Ryan sits up straighter, raising his chin, and affects a haughty air. “Thank you.”

It makes Joe laugh like he intends, yet they both go quiet afterwards. Joe tips onto his side, eyes closed, the corners of his mouth faintly curl up, Ryan staring at him for a second too long. He doesn’t want to say what this feels like—out loud—for fear of Joe shooting the idea down. Rather than humiliate himself more, Ryan bunkers down next to Joe, a respectable amount of space between them without seeming too intimate nor too distant. He tucks his hands behind his head, well on his way to relaxed. Ryan will just keep it to himself how he considers this outing to be a date as well.

5. ARCADE

Ryan has a hard time believing Joe’s never gone to an arcade to actually play on one of the machines. He knows that’s where he and Cameron almost hooked up and where he recruited her, so it possibly has a sour taste in his mouth, but he chooses a different hotspot—plus, it’s not like Joe’s life revolves around a timeline of B.C. and A.C.: “Before Cameron” and “After Cameron.” At least he hopes not. Sometimes when she’s brought up he gets this erstwhile look, one of whimsical nostalgia, but mostly wistful remembrance. Ryan has been trying since the day Joe offers home and heart to him to help remedy that ache, but it may be impossible.

The most he can do is subdue it, except admittedly this isn’t one of his better suggestions for a date.

No, not date: hangout.

Now Ryan feels bad. “We can go somewhere else if this if this is too weird for you.”

It’s not a shocker that he’s barely able to finish his sentence before Joe turns on his heel and heads back for the car. Ryan jogs after to keep up, but does give some space. Joe seems a little angry, which is probably better than his sadness. Ryan doesn’t know what to do with sad. Anger? That’s easy.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t.”

The ride to Joe’s place is thick with silence. Ryan doesn’t try to talk again, nor after they get inside and Joe handles him a little too roughly when he steers Ryan towards his closed bedroom. In the morning Ryan may have bruises from how tightly Joe holds Ryan’s wrists down or how hard he sinks his teeth in Ryan’s shoulder and he knows for certain he’ll be a little sore sitting because he asks Joe not to hold back [“Just fuck me, Joe. I can handle it.”] and that’s all Joe needs to let himself go and not treat Ryan like some breakable china doll.

In the morning Joe asks Ryan to leave and Ryan does without argument. A couple days later he calls to apologize, regardless if he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, but Joe accepts it and Ryan feels lighter. Unfortunately they’re both busy after that.

1. DINNER

Obviously he can still be surprised. “You cook?”

Clearly there’s food set out on the table that definitely isn’t store-bought frozen meals or nearby takeout. There’s some flavored rice, what he thinks is cut-up baked fish mixed with vegetables, and cheesy broccoli. A bottle of sweet red wine even stands between two glasses.

“Yes, I can cook. Why do you sound so surprised?” Joe’s a bit insulted.

Ryan ignores it as he peels off his coat. “’Cause I mean, you’re Joe MacMillan! Cooking is so… mundane.” That makes him sound like a douche, doesn’t it? “It’s just—you didn’t strike me as the type to like that sort of thing.”

Joe eyes Ryan critically, his hard stare skeptical, like he may have made a mistake. “You’re right. I don’t really enjoy it. But I thought…” He looks across the set table and examines the placement and food choice subconsciously, his hands on the back of a chair. His fingers tighten nervously. “I thought you might like it.”

“Oh, I do! I really do, you just caught me off guard, is all.” He’s quick to reassure that Joe doesn’t waste his time with this gesture. “This looks great, thanks, man.” Grinning, Ryan moves to take a seat, but is moderately amused when Joe pulls out his chair. Ryan doesn’t comment, simply lowers himself gingerly into the seat, eyes on Joe, full of unasked questions.

He follows suit while he reaches for his napkin and places it on his person properly, treating his dining room as a five-star restaurant. When he looks up at his guest, Ryan scrambles to do the same after a delayed second.

Joe smiles. “I thought we could try a proper date.”

“A date?” Ryan must have misheard.

“A date,” Joe confirms.

Nope, he hears correctly. He’s not sure what to think. “So this is a date then?” he repeats dumbly. It’s hard to believe after Joe denies all the other not-dates they’ve had.

“If you want it to be,” Joe murmurs, peering at Ryan, fixated. He holds his breath.

Understanding how serious this is, Ryan slowly smiles and he notices the tense line of Joe’s shoulders relax as he breathes. “I want it to be. I do, I really do.”

#sycophanticvisionary #.meme { style: drabble; }#{ i will go down with this ship }#{ macray make me macray }#{ also i did the opposite muse saying it wasn't a date 'cause it seems more a joe thing than a ryan thing tbh }#{ hopefully i wrote joe in character. x_x he's a tough one }

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