Love the Love You Have
she's got the rhthym and i can't forget
All it takes is that one look across the room during the release party, and he knows he has to have her.
She's grinding on Stephen, drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge of her glass as she sways her hips. They used to dance like that. They used to do so much.
"Dude, you're staring, and it's kind of fucking creepy."
He jumps in his seat, his own drink practically spilling all over him as John sits down beside him. He settles quickly, and goes back to staring.
It's like a drug, like a sickening candy laying heavy in your stomach. And I want more.
"Whatever."
"Doesn't look like whatever to me. You know, it wouldn't be a crime if you danced with her."
John is right. It's not like she's some gate-crasher or desperate groupie or something. They invited her, and she came willingly. What's the harm in a dance?
Brian drains the remains of his drink, leaving the empty cup behind as he wobbles (had that been his first drink? or his fifth?) over to her, now abandoned by Stephen.
"Hey Chels. Dance with me?"
She smiles, just as tipsy as he is, and nods. Their album is long over; a fast paced dance song has just begun.
"Yeah, alright."
----------------------------------------------------------
Brian doesn't much remember how long he danced with Chelsea, or how many drinks they consumed together afterwards.
No matter what happened, all he knows now is that both his shirt and her dress are on the floor, her lips are on his neck, and his hands are cupping her breasts.
He groans as his fingers knead them, slipping past her bra to touch her more intimately as innocent sounding mewls escaped her lips.
They shouldn't be doing this, it's so wrong. She has a boyfriend somewhere, and they two of them are broken up, and her hand is sliding inside his boxers, her nimble fingers wrapping around his hardness...
----------------------------------------------------------
He wakes up the next day with a killer hangover and Chelsea's panties trapped underneath his shirt. He ambles into the bathroom of their hotel room, splashing cold water on his face. He can still smell her perfume on his skin, still feel her writhing and moaning underneath him. Maybe it wasn't such a mistake.
"She left."
John walks in, stretching his arms above his head and making his way toward the shower.
Brian's frowns. "Left?"
John shimmies out of his boxers and steps into the warmth of the shower. "Voiceover work."
He would be lying if he said his heart didn't do summersaults.
----------------------------------------------------------
They see each other again three weeks later by accident.
Brian is walking down the street, fingers twitching slightly in the cold morning air, itching for some sort of latte. He bumps into someone on the way, and can't help but look them over when they refuse to move.
"You...what are you...did you come here to see me?"
Her cheeks, already pink from the cold, go a shade darker.
"I just...yeah, maybe."
All thoughts of coffee are abandoned.
"You're cold. Come back up to hotel."
John, once again his roomate, is gone, out for breakfast with everyone else, meaning there is no one there to hear the sound of a belt hitting the floor and Chelsea's content sigh as Brian's nakedness presses against her own.
----------------------------------------------------------
Really, should he be depressed?
He knew it would happen eventually, seeing her in some tabloid or on the cover of some teen mag. It's a blog, actually, with her arms draped over the boyfriend, a brief paragraph about the dress she's wearing and what a nice couple they are. The post is from two days ago, the picture from a week prior. The day after he brought her up to their hotel room.
"Are you ever going to leave that computer?"
"Mhmm."
"We have to leave for the venue in twenty minutes."
"Mhmm."
"I'm thinking of having sex wtih Stephen."
"Mhmm."
John groans, tossing a pen cap at Brian's head. "Newsflash, your downer attitude sucks. We're in a new city! New opportunities, new experiences, new restaurants, whatever. Hell, if you want, we can skip out after our set and I'll take you out on the town for a night of no females."
Deciding he's tortured himself enough, he shuts his laptop off and stretches.
"Sure."
----------------------------------------------------------
He was doing well, so well. No blog cruising, no watching Fish Hooks re-runs to hear her voice, nothing but having fun with the band (he even drunkenly made out with Jess for a bit) and focusing on songwriting.
Then they played a show in her hometown.
And yeah, he had hopes that maybe she wouldn't show up.
"Chelsea, Chelsea, tell me you love me..."
As if on cue, he can see her out of the corner of his eye, slipping into the small club they're playing that night, wearing a pale lavender dress. He tries his hardest not to trip over the lyrics as he thinks about that same dress on the floor while she moaned his name and begged him to go faster.
The song, and with it their set, ends. Josh thanks the crowd and Stephen snatches up a bra thrown onstage while everyone else shuffles offstage. He plans to just head outside and be on his way, until a petite figure with all too familiar blonde hair pulls him into a corner and begins kissing his neck.
And for once, he pushes her away.
"Go back to your boyfriend Chelsea."
"Brian..."
"No. You're so pretty and perfect and you just...go be with him. I don't want to help you cheat anymore."
"Nobody's perfect! I'm not a damn Disney princess Brian!"
Things are silent for a moment.
And then, laughter. From the both of them, for the irony of the statement.
"You really think I should be with him?"
Brian leans forward, and for a second she thinks she'll end up in his arms again tonight. His kiss lands on her forehead.
"Go home, Chelsea."
----------------------------------------------------------
Sitting on the couch once they arrive home, Brian feels the weight of someone sitting beside him. Skinny tattooed feet prop themselves onto the coffee table beside his own, and a carton of something is held in front of him, along with two spoons.
"What's this?"
"Pistachio."
"Pistachio?"
"It's a coping method. You don't even have to worry about your voice, it's vegan."
Brian takes the offered spoon, tossing the lid of the carton onto the coffee table. John pushes his glasses up his nose.
"For what it's worth, she kind of looks like the fish."
Brian can't help but laugh, scooping out a spoonful.
"Yeah, she does."
She's grinding on Stephen, drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge of her glass as she sways her hips. They used to dance like that. They used to do so much.
"Dude, you're staring, and it's kind of fucking creepy."
He jumps in his seat, his own drink practically spilling all over him as John sits down beside him. He settles quickly, and goes back to staring.
It's like a drug, like a sickening candy laying heavy in your stomach. And I want more.
"Whatever."
"Doesn't look like whatever to me. You know, it wouldn't be a crime if you danced with her."
John is right. It's not like she's some gate-crasher or desperate groupie or something. They invited her, and she came willingly. What's the harm in a dance?
Brian drains the remains of his drink, leaving the empty cup behind as he wobbles (had that been his first drink? or his fifth?) over to her, now abandoned by Stephen.
"Hey Chels. Dance with me?"
She smiles, just as tipsy as he is, and nods. Their album is long over; a fast paced dance song has just begun.
"Yeah, alright."
----------------------------------------------------------
Brian doesn't much remember how long he danced with Chelsea, or how many drinks they consumed together afterwards.
No matter what happened, all he knows now is that both his shirt and her dress are on the floor, her lips are on his neck, and his hands are cupping her breasts.
He groans as his fingers knead them, slipping past her bra to touch her more intimately as innocent sounding mewls escaped her lips.
They shouldn't be doing this, it's so wrong. She has a boyfriend somewhere, and they two of them are broken up, and her hand is sliding inside his boxers, her nimble fingers wrapping around his hardness...
----------------------------------------------------------
He wakes up the next day with a killer hangover and Chelsea's panties trapped underneath his shirt. He ambles into the bathroom of their hotel room, splashing cold water on his face. He can still smell her perfume on his skin, still feel her writhing and moaning underneath him. Maybe it wasn't such a mistake.
"She left."
John walks in, stretching his arms above his head and making his way toward the shower.
Brian's frowns. "Left?"
John shimmies out of his boxers and steps into the warmth of the shower. "Voiceover work."
He would be lying if he said his heart didn't do summersaults.
----------------------------------------------------------
They see each other again three weeks later by accident.
Brian is walking down the street, fingers twitching slightly in the cold morning air, itching for some sort of latte. He bumps into someone on the way, and can't help but look them over when they refuse to move.
"You...what are you...did you come here to see me?"
Her cheeks, already pink from the cold, go a shade darker.
"I just...yeah, maybe."
All thoughts of coffee are abandoned.
"You're cold. Come back up to hotel."
John, once again his roomate, is gone, out for breakfast with everyone else, meaning there is no one there to hear the sound of a belt hitting the floor and Chelsea's content sigh as Brian's nakedness presses against her own.
----------------------------------------------------------
Really, should he be depressed?
He knew it would happen eventually, seeing her in some tabloid or on the cover of some teen mag. It's a blog, actually, with her arms draped over the boyfriend, a brief paragraph about the dress she's wearing and what a nice couple they are. The post is from two days ago, the picture from a week prior. The day after he brought her up to their hotel room.
"Are you ever going to leave that computer?"
"Mhmm."
"We have to leave for the venue in twenty minutes."
"Mhmm."
"I'm thinking of having sex wtih Stephen."
"Mhmm."
John groans, tossing a pen cap at Brian's head. "Newsflash, your downer attitude sucks. We're in a new city! New opportunities, new experiences, new restaurants, whatever. Hell, if you want, we can skip out after our set and I'll take you out on the town for a night of no females."
Deciding he's tortured himself enough, he shuts his laptop off and stretches.
"Sure."
----------------------------------------------------------
He was doing well, so well. No blog cruising, no watching Fish Hooks re-runs to hear her voice, nothing but having fun with the band (he even drunkenly made out with Jess for a bit) and focusing on songwriting.
Then they played a show in her hometown.
And yeah, he had hopes that maybe she wouldn't show up.
"Chelsea, Chelsea, tell me you love me..."
As if on cue, he can see her out of the corner of his eye, slipping into the small club they're playing that night, wearing a pale lavender dress. He tries his hardest not to trip over the lyrics as he thinks about that same dress on the floor while she moaned his name and begged him to go faster.
The song, and with it their set, ends. Josh thanks the crowd and Stephen snatches up a bra thrown onstage while everyone else shuffles offstage. He plans to just head outside and be on his way, until a petite figure with all too familiar blonde hair pulls him into a corner and begins kissing his neck.
And for once, he pushes her away.
"Go back to your boyfriend Chelsea."
"Brian..."
"No. You're so pretty and perfect and you just...go be with him. I don't want to help you cheat anymore."
"Nobody's perfect! I'm not a damn Disney princess Brian!"
Things are silent for a moment.
And then, laughter. From the both of them, for the irony of the statement.
"You really think I should be with him?"
Brian leans forward, and for a second she thinks she'll end up in his arms again tonight. His kiss lands on her forehead.
"Go home, Chelsea."
----------------------------------------------------------
Sitting on the couch once they arrive home, Brian feels the weight of someone sitting beside him. Skinny tattooed feet prop themselves onto the coffee table beside his own, and a carton of something is held in front of him, along with two spoons.
"What's this?"
"Pistachio."
"Pistachio?"
"It's a coping method. You don't even have to worry about your voice, it's vegan."
Brian takes the offered spoon, tossing the lid of the carton onto the coffee table. John pushes his glasses up his nose.
"For what it's worth, she kind of looks like the fish."
Brian can't help but laugh, scooping out a spoonful.
"Yeah, she does."