Fic: Close Enough (As The World Turns)
Nov. 8th, 2007 08:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosTitle: Close Enough
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: As The World Turns
Pairing: Noah/Luke
Word Count: 2,400 words
Rating: R
Summary: Futurefic at the Oscars, in which Noah is going to end up holding a naked man by the end of the night one way or another.
Author’s Note: *makes happy squeaking noises* Posted without a beta and yet I can't bring myself to care. \o/
*****
Close Enough
*****
The thing you don’t really find out about the Oscar ceremony until you get there is that it’s boring as hell.
It’s not that Luke isn’t having a good time because, seriously, Jack Nicholson is sitting right there five rows ahead of them, laughing at whatever dumb Bruce Vilanch joke the host is resorting to now. And Anna Paquin asked him to take a picture of her with her unrealistically hot date before the show started. Honestly, Luke can act like a goddamn professional screenwriter around anyone up to and including Meryl fucking Streep (and had to for the pitch for their next movie, an occasion which upon being mentioned in casual conversation still leaves Noah with a big dopey grin on his face for a good half hour) but this is pushing it.
He held Anna Paquin’s camera, for crying out loud. Which seems like a totally stupid thing to focus on, and yet. It just seems like the epitome of how completely freaking ridiculous this whole situation is.
Luke Snyder, he thinks, Academy Award nominee.
It’s possible he’s going quietly and quickly insane.
It’s also possible he’s about to throw up. Or has been for the past two hours and has just been waiting for his category to be announced so he can run to the bathroom without looking like a total idiot. It could go either way on that count.
But, yeah. The Oscars are not nearly as fun as they are when you’re at home. Last year, when they were still in the middle of filming An Uncertain Future, the two of them got drunk off Captain Morgan and cinnamon schnapps (the only bottles in their liquor cabinet, and neither one of them could remember buying the damn things) and spent four hours shouting angrily at the TV. Luke yelled for five minutes straight when Johnny Depp showed up in a dark green velvet tux. Noah nearly had a coronary when Sasha Baron Cohen won Best Actor. Luke wasn’t quite sure he could blame him on that one, come to think of it.
This, though. This is really, really fucking mind-boggling.
And you can’t rip on Samuel L. Jackson apparently attempting to dress up like Captain Jack Sparrow when he is sitting three rows ahead of you and across the aisle. Not, not even if you know he can’t reach your sorry ass from over there. He’s Samuel fucking Jackson, for God’s sake. He’ll just know.
Luke rubs his palms on his pants and tries not to fidget. There’s got to be a rule somewhere that an Oscar nominee doesn’t fidget, right? Meryl Streep probably hasn‘t fidgeted since 1972. But his palms are still sweaty and Steven Spielberg walked past him and Noah on the red carpet and this is so freaking weird he can’t even wrap his brain around it and …
Noah’s hand comes out of nowhere, warm and strong and steady, and he threads his fingers through Luke’s in one smooth movement.
And everything just goes calm. Just like that.
“You okay?” Noah whispers.
“Am I okay?” Luke nearly bursts out laughing at that, and it would have been the perfect time for it, too, the audience cracking up over one of the host’s less cheesy jokes of the night. “I still can’t believe you’re not freaking out.”
Noah shrugs, causing the black fabric fitted perfectly to his shoulders pull at them in a way that made something hot and welcome curl temptingly in Luke’s stomach. “I’m not going to win,” he says. “That helps.”
“Yeah, well.” Luke clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “I’m not, either.”
Noah doesn’t say anything, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
And see, that’s the thing. That’s what’s killing Luke right now, making him want to do a million things like throw up in Anna Paquin’s purse or run backstage and chug the first bottle of champagne he spots or drag Noah off to the bathroom and blow him until he’s the one who loses all feeling below the waist this time. It’s just …
This is Noah’s dream, right? Being a director, and being a damn good one, and having Martin fucking Scorcese (and why has every famous person‘s middle name suddenly become “fucking“ in his head?) come up to the two of them on the red carpet and shake Noah’s hand all, “I love your work.”
I love your work.
If he were Noah, he’d be dying right now.
Noah’s got heady competition, though, real names. People that even intimidate the hell out of Luke, and that’s saying something. Luke’s up against some heavy hitters, too, Emma Thompson and the screenplay for the movie Nicholson’s nominated for and the guy who wrote Tom Hanks’ last movie.
The main difference, though, is that Luke has buzz. Real honest-to-God buzz, the kind award shows like before big surprise wins. And they like him, too, it seems, the press and the fans and whatever. The small-town formerly paralyzed gay boy who falls in love and runs off to Hollywood, the baby-faced kid who drags his boyfriend back home between movies to muck stalls and swim for hours in a farm pond. People magazine did a spread on him (and Noah, of course, but mostly him). It’s surreal. His grandma bought every copy in Oakdale.
They like him, though. Not that they don’t like Noah, because they seriously do, but they also don’t make a habit of giving Best Director awards to the handsome young guy standing between Scorcese, Coppola and Spielberg at the nominee dinner.
The host makes some crack about Republicans that drags polite laughter out of the audience, and Luke fidgets again. Noah’s grasp on his hand slips from his and the next thing they both know his hand is on Luke’s thigh, too high up to be passed off as a reassuring pat on the knee.
Luke jerks his gaze up to Noah’s.
Noah tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips, and squeezes. Just a little, just enough to send Luke’s case of nerves swerving in an entirely new and familiar direction.
Luke bites his bottom lip.
And then he hears his name, and cheering, and all hell breaks loose.
*****
Later on, Luke can’t remember much of anything. He sees it later when they get to the after party and Elton John takes one look at the dazed expression on his face and hauls him to the nearest TV. Elton fucking John, who stands behind the two of them and says, “No, look, look,” as Noah drags a stunned Luke to his feet on the television screen and kisses the life out of him before shoving Luke towards the stage.
Luke’s speech is rambling and all over the place and oddly endearing all at once. It starts with the moment when he almost tries to give the statuette back to Will Ferrell (who says, “No, no, you get to keep that,” to the delight of the audience) and ends with the part where he thanks the cast, the crew, and everybody who’s so much as driven through Oakdale. In the middle is the only stretch where he doesn’t look like a flustered idiot, thanking Noah with a tremble in his voice that makes Elton smile behind them and make some quiet comment about how lovely it was.
Luke can barely hear him, not over the thrumming of the blood through his veins as Noah’s grip tightens at his waist.
Noah’s hands have been on him all night, that much he remembers, ever since he got to slip back to his seat after speaking to the reporters. Noah hadn’t won, of course -- Coppola had handily snapped that one up, and Noah had been so happy when Coppola had thanked every one of the other nominees by name that Luke had practically had to hold him down before he floated off towards the ceiling.
But, yeah, since the speech the one thing Luke does remember with absolute clarity is Noah’s hands. Always on him at some point or another, clutching onto him as they kissed in the car over to the after party, holding onto Luke’s free hand as Luke carried his Oscar into the party with the other, tight on his waist as they posed for photos and smiled for the paparazzi.
He starts to think with a dazed sort of relief that at least he has Noah around to steer him out of walking into walls like some dumbass with a concussion. It sure as hell feels like he has one.
At one in the morning they stumble out to the hybrid, Noah’s arm slung easily over Luke’s shoulder as he angles Luke towards the car. Their driver grins and shakes his head as they get in, falling into the back seat about as gracelessly as they can manage.
“A little too much celebrating?” he says.
“Not enough,” Luke mutters into the upholstery.
Noah chuckles. He knows damn well that this isn’t Luke as a drunken mess (Luke is not that guy, can‘t be, and that‘s okay) but Luke crashing from a dazed high, lost and confused and delighted all at once. His palm presses warm and welcome between Luke’s shoulder blades, and the vibration of his laughter makes Luke wriggle awkwardly on the backseat.
The car drops them off at the house, Noah hauling Luke out of the backseat and handing the Oscar to Luke before thanking the driver. The car pulls away and then it’s just them, two men in rumpled tuxes stumbling towards the front door of their small home. It should be easy enough for where they’d been all night to slip from their minds, but it isn‘t, not really.
Luke can’t stop giggling.
“We have work in the morning,” Noah points out, reaching into his pocket for the house keys.
“We have a statue of a little naked guy who says we can come in as late as we want,” Luke says, waving the Oscar in Noah‘s face.
Noah snorts as he opens the front door. “Oh, it talks now?” he says, leading Luke inside. He places the Oscar and the keys on the side table, closes the front door, and flips the lock.
There’s something between that and the moment when his hand slides into Luke’s pants, Luke’s sure of it, but he’s still drunk on surreal pleasure and he must have missed something.
“Jesus,” Noah mutters, his tone dark and wonderfully ominous as his tongue laps at the curve of Luke’s jaw. “Fucking hell, Luke, do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night in this thing?”
He yanks at Luke’s tuxedo shirt as he pants into Luke’s neck, like he’s been holding it in all night, like he’s been as dizzy with wanting Luke as Luke’s been carrying around a fucking Oscar for hours now. Luke gets it in an instant, the hungry look in Noah’s eyes every time Luke had nervously tugged at his sleeves all night, his completely inability to stop touching Luke in places not covered by an expensive Armani tux.
“Doing to you?” Luke asks, and his hands awkwardly pull Noah’s jacket away from his shoulders. He leans forward, pressing his face into the soft fabric of Noah’s shirt as his hands slide down Noah’s body, and says, “You think they soak these things in pheromones or something?”
Noah chuckles, his hand slipping into Luke’s boxers quiet and quick like some pornographic ninja move. “You really think they need to?”
Luke chokes on another sarcastic comment, breath hitching as Noah strokes him with practiced, teasing flicks of his wrist.
They kiss with an entire night’s worth of excited pent-up energy, Noah taking in the familiar and intoxicating taste that always lingers on Luke’s tongue. His fingers tighten in the fabric of Luke’s shirt as he pulls Luke closer, as if he’s not close enough pressing against Noah from chest to thighs, as if he’ll never be close enough. Out of the corner of his eye the glint of gold reflects what little light is coming into the house through the windows and he nearly comes as soon as Luke’s hand squeezes Noah’s cock through his tuxedo pants.
Luke pulls away for a sec, too long in Noah’s opinion, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “Are you getting off staring at the Oscar while I make out with you?”
“No,” Noah says immediately, but he’s pretty sure he’s blushing.
Luke laughs, leans up and traces the curve of Noah’s ear with a swipe of his tongue while his hand pulls at Noah’s zipper, yanks his pants away from his hips, and slips inside. “You know, I’ve got a few things he doesn’t,” Luke says, “like working hands,” and Noah feels a finger teasing at his balls, sliding behind them to --
Noah curls into Luke’s body and lets loose a string of curses colorful, dirty and barely coherent, roughly translating to, “Fuck me before I come just looking at the damn statue, you bastard.”
The words aren’t as poetic, or even as easy to understand, but Luke nips at his jaw and says, “I’ve got you, babe,” and drags Noah towards their bedroom.
*****
The next morning …
“We’re not putting an Academy Award in the bathroom.”
“Hey, look it up, Noah. It’s a fine grand tradition. Everybody does it. I could swear I read that Jamie Lee Curtis uses hers as a toilet paper holder.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“Are you going to hyperventilate?”
“It’s entirely possible, yes.”
“You know, we could put it in the bedroom …”
“I would blow you every morning for a month.”
“What if I want to get blown in the shower every morning?”
“I hate you. I really, really hate you.”
“So I should probably get your dick out of my ass right now, right?”
“I don’t hate you that much.”
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: As The World Turns
Pairing: Noah/Luke
Word Count: 2,400 words
Rating: R
Summary: Futurefic at the Oscars, in which Noah is going to end up holding a naked man by the end of the night one way or another.
Author’s Note: *makes happy squeaking noises* Posted without a beta and yet I can't bring myself to care. \o/
Close Enough
*****
The thing you don’t really find out about the Oscar ceremony until you get there is that it’s boring as hell.
It’s not that Luke isn’t having a good time because, seriously, Jack Nicholson is sitting right there five rows ahead of them, laughing at whatever dumb Bruce Vilanch joke the host is resorting to now. And Anna Paquin asked him to take a picture of her with her unrealistically hot date before the show started. Honestly, Luke can act like a goddamn professional screenwriter around anyone up to and including Meryl fucking Streep (and had to for the pitch for their next movie, an occasion which upon being mentioned in casual conversation still leaves Noah with a big dopey grin on his face for a good half hour) but this is pushing it.
He held Anna Paquin’s camera, for crying out loud. Which seems like a totally stupid thing to focus on, and yet. It just seems like the epitome of how completely freaking ridiculous this whole situation is.
Luke Snyder, he thinks, Academy Award nominee.
It’s possible he’s going quietly and quickly insane.
It’s also possible he’s about to throw up. Or has been for the past two hours and has just been waiting for his category to be announced so he can run to the bathroom without looking like a total idiot. It could go either way on that count.
But, yeah. The Oscars are not nearly as fun as they are when you’re at home. Last year, when they were still in the middle of filming An Uncertain Future, the two of them got drunk off Captain Morgan and cinnamon schnapps (the only bottles in their liquor cabinet, and neither one of them could remember buying the damn things) and spent four hours shouting angrily at the TV. Luke yelled for five minutes straight when Johnny Depp showed up in a dark green velvet tux. Noah nearly had a coronary when Sasha Baron Cohen won Best Actor. Luke wasn’t quite sure he could blame him on that one, come to think of it.
This, though. This is really, really fucking mind-boggling.
And you can’t rip on Samuel L. Jackson apparently attempting to dress up like Captain Jack Sparrow when he is sitting three rows ahead of you and across the aisle. Not, not even if you know he can’t reach your sorry ass from over there. He’s Samuel fucking Jackson, for God’s sake. He’ll just know.
Luke rubs his palms on his pants and tries not to fidget. There’s got to be a rule somewhere that an Oscar nominee doesn’t fidget, right? Meryl Streep probably hasn‘t fidgeted since 1972. But his palms are still sweaty and Steven Spielberg walked past him and Noah on the red carpet and this is so freaking weird he can’t even wrap his brain around it and …
Noah’s hand comes out of nowhere, warm and strong and steady, and he threads his fingers through Luke’s in one smooth movement.
And everything just goes calm. Just like that.
“You okay?” Noah whispers.
“Am I okay?” Luke nearly bursts out laughing at that, and it would have been the perfect time for it, too, the audience cracking up over one of the host’s less cheesy jokes of the night. “I still can’t believe you’re not freaking out.”
Noah shrugs, causing the black fabric fitted perfectly to his shoulders pull at them in a way that made something hot and welcome curl temptingly in Luke’s stomach. “I’m not going to win,” he says. “That helps.”
“Yeah, well.” Luke clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “I’m not, either.”
Noah doesn’t say anything, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
And see, that’s the thing. That’s what’s killing Luke right now, making him want to do a million things like throw up in Anna Paquin’s purse or run backstage and chug the first bottle of champagne he spots or drag Noah off to the bathroom and blow him until he’s the one who loses all feeling below the waist this time. It’s just …
This is Noah’s dream, right? Being a director, and being a damn good one, and having Martin fucking Scorcese (and why has every famous person‘s middle name suddenly become “fucking“ in his head?) come up to the two of them on the red carpet and shake Noah’s hand all, “I love your work.”
I love your work.
If he were Noah, he’d be dying right now.
Noah’s got heady competition, though, real names. People that even intimidate the hell out of Luke, and that’s saying something. Luke’s up against some heavy hitters, too, Emma Thompson and the screenplay for the movie Nicholson’s nominated for and the guy who wrote Tom Hanks’ last movie.
The main difference, though, is that Luke has buzz. Real honest-to-God buzz, the kind award shows like before big surprise wins. And they like him, too, it seems, the press and the fans and whatever. The small-town formerly paralyzed gay boy who falls in love and runs off to Hollywood, the baby-faced kid who drags his boyfriend back home between movies to muck stalls and swim for hours in a farm pond. People magazine did a spread on him (and Noah, of course, but mostly him). It’s surreal. His grandma bought every copy in Oakdale.
They like him, though. Not that they don’t like Noah, because they seriously do, but they also don’t make a habit of giving Best Director awards to the handsome young guy standing between Scorcese, Coppola and Spielberg at the nominee dinner.
The host makes some crack about Republicans that drags polite laughter out of the audience, and Luke fidgets again. Noah’s grasp on his hand slips from his and the next thing they both know his hand is on Luke’s thigh, too high up to be passed off as a reassuring pat on the knee.
Luke jerks his gaze up to Noah’s.
Noah tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips, and squeezes. Just a little, just enough to send Luke’s case of nerves swerving in an entirely new and familiar direction.
Luke bites his bottom lip.
And then he hears his name, and cheering, and all hell breaks loose.
Later on, Luke can’t remember much of anything. He sees it later when they get to the after party and Elton John takes one look at the dazed expression on his face and hauls him to the nearest TV. Elton fucking John, who stands behind the two of them and says, “No, look, look,” as Noah drags a stunned Luke to his feet on the television screen and kisses the life out of him before shoving Luke towards the stage.
Luke’s speech is rambling and all over the place and oddly endearing all at once. It starts with the moment when he almost tries to give the statuette back to Will Ferrell (who says, “No, no, you get to keep that,” to the delight of the audience) and ends with the part where he thanks the cast, the crew, and everybody who’s so much as driven through Oakdale. In the middle is the only stretch where he doesn’t look like a flustered idiot, thanking Noah with a tremble in his voice that makes Elton smile behind them and make some quiet comment about how lovely it was.
Luke can barely hear him, not over the thrumming of the blood through his veins as Noah’s grip tightens at his waist.
Noah’s hands have been on him all night, that much he remembers, ever since he got to slip back to his seat after speaking to the reporters. Noah hadn’t won, of course -- Coppola had handily snapped that one up, and Noah had been so happy when Coppola had thanked every one of the other nominees by name that Luke had practically had to hold him down before he floated off towards the ceiling.
But, yeah, since the speech the one thing Luke does remember with absolute clarity is Noah’s hands. Always on him at some point or another, clutching onto him as they kissed in the car over to the after party, holding onto Luke’s free hand as Luke carried his Oscar into the party with the other, tight on his waist as they posed for photos and smiled for the paparazzi.
He starts to think with a dazed sort of relief that at least he has Noah around to steer him out of walking into walls like some dumbass with a concussion. It sure as hell feels like he has one.
At one in the morning they stumble out to the hybrid, Noah’s arm slung easily over Luke’s shoulder as he angles Luke towards the car. Their driver grins and shakes his head as they get in, falling into the back seat about as gracelessly as they can manage.
“A little too much celebrating?” he says.
“Not enough,” Luke mutters into the upholstery.
Noah chuckles. He knows damn well that this isn’t Luke as a drunken mess (Luke is not that guy, can‘t be, and that‘s okay) but Luke crashing from a dazed high, lost and confused and delighted all at once. His palm presses warm and welcome between Luke’s shoulder blades, and the vibration of his laughter makes Luke wriggle awkwardly on the backseat.
The car drops them off at the house, Noah hauling Luke out of the backseat and handing the Oscar to Luke before thanking the driver. The car pulls away and then it’s just them, two men in rumpled tuxes stumbling towards the front door of their small home. It should be easy enough for where they’d been all night to slip from their minds, but it isn‘t, not really.
Luke can’t stop giggling.
“We have work in the morning,” Noah points out, reaching into his pocket for the house keys.
“We have a statue of a little naked guy who says we can come in as late as we want,” Luke says, waving the Oscar in Noah‘s face.
Noah snorts as he opens the front door. “Oh, it talks now?” he says, leading Luke inside. He places the Oscar and the keys on the side table, closes the front door, and flips the lock.
There’s something between that and the moment when his hand slides into Luke’s pants, Luke’s sure of it, but he’s still drunk on surreal pleasure and he must have missed something.
“Jesus,” Noah mutters, his tone dark and wonderfully ominous as his tongue laps at the curve of Luke’s jaw. “Fucking hell, Luke, do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night in this thing?”
He yanks at Luke’s tuxedo shirt as he pants into Luke’s neck, like he’s been holding it in all night, like he’s been as dizzy with wanting Luke as Luke’s been carrying around a fucking Oscar for hours now. Luke gets it in an instant, the hungry look in Noah’s eyes every time Luke had nervously tugged at his sleeves all night, his completely inability to stop touching Luke in places not covered by an expensive Armani tux.
“Doing to you?” Luke asks, and his hands awkwardly pull Noah’s jacket away from his shoulders. He leans forward, pressing his face into the soft fabric of Noah’s shirt as his hands slide down Noah’s body, and says, “You think they soak these things in pheromones or something?”
Noah chuckles, his hand slipping into Luke’s boxers quiet and quick like some pornographic ninja move. “You really think they need to?”
Luke chokes on another sarcastic comment, breath hitching as Noah strokes him with practiced, teasing flicks of his wrist.
They kiss with an entire night’s worth of excited pent-up energy, Noah taking in the familiar and intoxicating taste that always lingers on Luke’s tongue. His fingers tighten in the fabric of Luke’s shirt as he pulls Luke closer, as if he’s not close enough pressing against Noah from chest to thighs, as if he’ll never be close enough. Out of the corner of his eye the glint of gold reflects what little light is coming into the house through the windows and he nearly comes as soon as Luke’s hand squeezes Noah’s cock through his tuxedo pants.
Luke pulls away for a sec, too long in Noah’s opinion, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “Are you getting off staring at the Oscar while I make out with you?”
“No,” Noah says immediately, but he’s pretty sure he’s blushing.
Luke laughs, leans up and traces the curve of Noah’s ear with a swipe of his tongue while his hand pulls at Noah’s zipper, yanks his pants away from his hips, and slips inside. “You know, I’ve got a few things he doesn’t,” Luke says, “like working hands,” and Noah feels a finger teasing at his balls, sliding behind them to --
Noah curls into Luke’s body and lets loose a string of curses colorful, dirty and barely coherent, roughly translating to, “Fuck me before I come just looking at the damn statue, you bastard.”
The words aren’t as poetic, or even as easy to understand, but Luke nips at his jaw and says, “I’ve got you, babe,” and drags Noah towards their bedroom.
The next morning …
“We’re not putting an Academy Award in the bathroom.”
“Hey, look it up, Noah. It’s a fine grand tradition. Everybody does it. I could swear I read that Jamie Lee Curtis uses hers as a toilet paper holder.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“Are you going to hyperventilate?”
“It’s entirely possible, yes.”
“You know, we could put it in the bedroom …”
“I would blow you every morning for a month.”
“What if I want to get blown in the shower every morning?”
“I hate you. I really, really hate you.”
“So I should probably get your dick out of my ass right now, right?”
“I don’t hate you that much.”
