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heffrondriving · 2 years

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۪͙۪˚┊❛ ride on, ride on now to the other side of yesterday ❜ : ̗̀❥ james × jett ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

: ̗̀❥ RATING: T+ // WORD COUNT: 3,910 // CHARACTERS: jett stetson, james diamond, kendall knight, jo taylor, logan mitchell, carlos garcia // TAGS: one shot, angst, mild hurt/comfort, pov second person, songfic, nightclub, alcohol, partying, drunken shenanigans, references to drugs, mature language & themes, internal monologue, love at first sight or tripped-out delirium, mildly dubious consent?, alternate universe: different first meeting // AO3

: ̗̀❥ Song inspiration + lyrics from: Boy by Reol (translation)

: ̗̀❥ [Part 4 of Cupid Got Us F♡cked Up]

Hey boy, it stings My heart just can’t get used to this Strange feeling of you not being around But I know I have to go

The way the boy’s hips sway under the burning glow of the cramped room, extraordinarily gossamer and mesmerising against the hundreds of other sweat-infused bodies strobing and gyrating and writhing to the strident beat, it’s almost enough to make you forget the week-stale perfume and cosmopolitan rejection permeating every inch of your arctic-slippery skin.

The screaming is unbearable. You choke down the last drops of your Whiskey Manhattan without biting on the cherry and invite him to dance. He laughs and pulls you in to take a clumsy seat by the bar instead.

I messed up so many times But I’ll redo it however many times And everything you denied I’ll prove however many times

In the middle of wry introductions and exchanging double-edged banter about who’s better-looking (it’s obviously you, but you modestly pass up an occasional cheapshot or two as not to turn him off to pompous egotism; the truth isn’t really welcome in these hotspots anyway) and a rather passionate dad joke about his cheesy boyband career that you’re endlessly hair-riffling and fake-laughing in dangerous schoolgirl levels to, someone comes up to slap the boy in the shoulder—some lanky unattractive blond with enough eyebrows to knit ten sweaters and is definitely a thousand hitchhiking miles away from the both of your supreme leagues (though you reign more supreme, no big duh).

We’re on top of a scale, seesawing And what’s being measured is our amount of good luck I hear the sound of the end approaching

You figure the boy will easily shrug the poor opportunistic fool away, but then suddenly he’s grinning and woolly odd-face is sticking his tongue out derisively and they’re laughing together to the tune of decades-long familiarity and you feel a burst of something like inexplicable jealous rage—how dare he—and your fists clench but before you can gear them back to take a smash hit, a froofy pink drink with fancy sliced fruits in it (exactly your guilty pleasure type but you pretend to be all huffy and insulted anyway) slides between your tetchy hands and the boy’s hooded gaze slyly flits back to you.

“On me,” he says, and smiles that perfect smile, but it’s the assuring squeeze on your skinny-jeaned thigh that makes your chest explode with something like curious obsessive desire. You won’t dare.

“Having fun, my man? is this the hottest club ‘round this side of the Hollywood hills or what?!” Far from it, babe—this isn’t even an anthill worthy enough to stomp my Balenciaga Slides on, you’d retort, but you pop a complimentary peanut or two to keep your rain from their pathetic parades. You’re roasting here too, and hypocrites can’t be choosers. “Oh, and B-T-dubs, you so owe me for actually convincing the huge scary Freight Train-looking bouncer dude to squeeze us up a good couple spots on the list, even after all that bullshit chaos you just had to cause with mister line cutter outside.”

The pounding of my heart is a teasing reminder Of what’s long overdue, let’s dance In front of this intersection of our different paths Yeah, I came here just because I thought to!

“Hey, not as much as you owe me for throwing hands with the big G-man and Kellsters to let us get off band rehearsals early for the night—I swear, I’ll be digging out gnashed teeth shrapnel outta my eardrums for weeks to come!”

“Yeah, at least that’ll give you some excuse to actually clean them, huh?”

“Fuck off.”

“Love you too, buddy.”

“I know you do, idiot...hey, wait a sec. You never even introduced me to your pop-collared buddy there, ya sly dog! Ah—‘scuse me—sorry about that—how’s it going, man? I’m Ken...wait, you uh, you look kinda familiar...have I seen you somewhere before?”

For you, I always wanted to be just right for you If I just thought about how you could do anything I didn’t need any aspirations

No shit Sherlock, you’re capital Fab Fit Fucking Famous, but you’re gonna let fugly (for fuzzy-ugly) duckling figure that kiddie brain-buster out for himself. You simply turn up your chin to an elegant degree and take a snide-coded sip while he tries to make a glib comeback, but he’s thankfully cut short and dragged back by another gormless giggling blondzo, though she’s certainly a significantly prettier sight than her companion...wait, a prettier sight you’ve seen and kissed before...and once relentlessly chased for the sake of the candid cameras and paparazzi posers, even when the game was already over and she respectfully cut the first-place ribbon from your neck. This is genuinely the last place you’d expect to see a vanilla-blue valley girlie like her, and recognising her down to the bouncing Mary Sue curls and the sweet sixteen smirk sends a painful surge of Chambord up your spluttering nose.

So much for being the white swan.

And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything I even would’ve wanted to be a clown

But she thankfully doesn’t notice you, and you don’t care enough outside of the momentary culture shock to chase her down and catch up with her, either. Not when you’ve already been spared having to put up with awkward pleasantries with some passé costar. Not when she never really liked you much anyway. And especially not when you finally have your darling nightingale boy all to yourself.

Ah, has my time come already? Tomorrow is calling me I smile and wave my hand goodbye

Though, not quite; never quite yet. More flirty no-names and unfriendly faces stay in the woozy rotation, vices and vultures, drawn to the boy’s centripetal gravity just as much as you are. Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy like that, even with your blinding bravado and obnoxiously bedazzled confidence, you can’t help but wonder how in the wasted world you’re still managing to keep close attention to him and when his slipping inching fleeting touch is gonna drift away into a parallel reality (please, not sooner, not later), and why you’re suddenly burning up so much.

It’s the bright lights. It’s the copious alcohol. It’s the spinning too much and too close to the sun.

Top speed in the direction of love Ride on, ride on now, to the other side of yesterday Towards the direction of love

“Can we go home now?” someone puppy-whines from behind you and the boy, a klaxon siren intensity that makes you cover your top-hits tinnitused ears and wonder if the cops are closing in to bust in and declare the party as over (as if it wasn’t dead on arrival already when killjoy over here cried wolf). “I think I’m starting to get a serious breakout of hives from this abrasive glowstick plastic. Or it might be the toxic fluorescent dye leaking out and I’m about to have a major anaphylactic shock and seize out and die on the dancefloor to friggin’ Ke$ha telling me to lose my mind and lose my clothes in the crowd and I’m sure as Begly’s bike toast am not gonna take it off!”

“Oooh yeah nah, I wouldn’t recommend that, dude.” Tsk, tsk. You totally would, though. Might liven things up a little better, and you’ve honestly seen worse. Way, waaaay worse. Maybe even done worse if you remember right—but that’s not a fun scandal scoop saved for tonight if everyone’s out here making new one for tomorrow’s headlines. “Not the stripping part, and deffo not the dying part, either—most bigwig party animals are worse revivers than they are kissers.”

“Oh, ‘cause you’d know, huh?”

“Hey, I’m just saying. Take my advice—or don’t, whatever, it’s your body glitter-glazed funeral and we’re not gonna drag your rotting naked ass back home unless Los finds a nice dumpster to bury you in—if you think the overuse of spit and sheer sloppiness is unbearable on the second one, well...”

The saliva I’ve spit out The fallen leaves won’t return to their branches I’ve cut off any way to back down from this Farewell, my beloved days

This lukewarm quip is enough to make mister hypochondriac barker run with his tail between his hobble-hocked legs, knocking some preppy Erewhon-Organic-looking Crosby (who’s clearly trespassing on a group of Daisy Duke girls’ private plush lounge territory) over and ass-up—serves the hedge fund creepo motherfucker right!—as the perp takes his frantic tarantella to the graffitied graveyard they generously call a bathroom. Probably to seek out a steel wool pad and some hospital-grade antibacterial soap (in some depraver’s shady hovel in downtown LA, yeah, as friggin’ if—he’s more likely to find another rigor mortised body slumped a-la avant-garde exhibit in one of the stalls).

A ne’er-do-well who would Make all the noise in the world And never be satisfied

Cute as the nervous dimples and unmatched rabid geek energy were, your jaded eyes don’t follow him for very long. The boy’s stark enraptured face, thrown back to the suffocated skylights and shimmering with pure glee, wouldn’t let you. Slowing down into an astonishing descent with the taste of margarita salt on his sweetsoft lips sipping away the straight chlorine on yours—and you’re stuck waiting, watching forever, a bystander feeling smaller and smaller under the sinking settling shrieking realisation that the sky is bigger than they ever dreamed to cosmically imagine and one daring yesterday it’s all going to go dark, empty space and darkening vision.

This is the afterlife A masochist hurting themselves in longing And in the end, I lost it all without a trace What was “for you” was really always for me As soon as I made sure of it, the fading sky grew cold

This shooting star moment doesn’t last you very long, either.

“And how’s our wonder loverboy doi—woaaaaah nelly. What the hell happened to you? Jeez, I trust you to behave and leave you alone for five minutes...”

“I was just talking to this really cool-looking girl over there—she was with her kinda-scary friends but she’s got all these crazy piercings and rainbow hair and she said she liked Helmetie and thought I was kinda cute and I said I thought so too! And she asked if I thought I was cute, but then I said I meant I thought she was cute, not me. And Helmetie also thought she supertastic-cute, and she laughed and it was seriously the cutest thing ever! So we were like, really starting off on the right foot—and I swear, she was gonna be the one, dude!—but then I asked her what size her finger is and she wouldn’t even let me get to the buying a wedding ring part before, well. This whole mess.”

A pint-sized Latino soaked in what smells like Strawberry Sangria and stale hotdog water steadily trudges towards you and the boy, mopey mouth running a mile a minute with no room to spare for a shut the fuck up. You’d honestly sneer at his sorry sloshed-up sight if he didn’t just embrace the sticky spilled drink all over the both of you without a second boundary’s worth of thought nor hesitation.

Oh, broken mirror Is there anything you can salvage of me? I don’t know, sorry

His caramel cheeks are flushed Cosmo-pinker and his face is a miserable smear of nosebleeds and sobriety, but being teetotal wouldn’t explain why he’s wearing that godawful vomit-brown paisley top and a clunky sports helmet in the middle of a goddamned nightclub. Although, thinking back on all the times you almost got concussed in between getting stampeded by staggering strangers and oversensual half-lovers and snorting bullheads spoiling for a fight, he may just have the right idea. Especially if he’s gonna keep up that honest-to-badness garish haunted sofa ‘fit and trashy pick-up line streak. No matter how adorably, hopelessly, idiotically innocent it was clearly intended to be.

Hollywood don’t do subtle, and this kid was anything and everything under god’s wilted green earth and piss-yellow sunshine but.

And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything I just wanted to match everything you did

Strawberry shortcake wedges himself in between you two (practically plopped right on the boy’s lap and that venomous rage resurges but you’re all out of froofy drinks and you’re honestly feeling a bit sick and sluggish from the syrupy sweetness and that unfading acrid taste from three free shots and an accidental alcoholic waterboarding ago, so down, bitch!) and laments some more to his apparent wingman over a glucose-elevating order of Virgin Mudslide about his voodooed lacklustre lady luck.

Halfway through the hurricane glass, he gets so impossibly giddy over the thought of never finding true love tonight that his splayed limbs start to have a life of their own and his whirling seat’s rivets fly off like teeny artillery, prompting a serrated scowl from the shaved-head bartender and a rub on the back from the sympathetically exasperated boy as he mumbles something about “first Hortense, now this—why can’t we just have a nice boys out for once without it getting all screwed-up and messy, I swear to god...” and even you actually start to feel a bit sorry for him and his little project reject.

It’s so frustrating But I can’t even bring myself to cry I can’t even shed a tear

With this, boybestie’s promptly encouraged with a crumpled wadful of cocktail napkins, one Helmetie less, and a mollifying bro pat on the back to take it easy and breathe it out, loosen...er, tighten up and get himself back out there on the raucous runaway, and try again (and again and again and again by the looks of it, you’d willingly bet your overcharged tab). They’re the Hollywood super party kings of Hollywood, for crying out loud (whatever the hell that even meant—and Hollywood twice cancels the whole equation out...okay, you really need to lay down on the chasers before you become the next new-age enlightener. And also just lay down, in general), so he better stop the pervy twenty questions game and the shady cool cat act and just try to be himself this time. But maybe just not too much himself.

Hey, so I gave you the notice But the after-effects are getting to me I can’t just be calm and collected about this all And so now we’re both getting a taste of this irony

Nerve-twisting numbers or not, the boy makes a really good point. You’re never really yourself when you’re hanging out in these kinda jank joints, of infamous druggies and has-been thuggies and mostly junkied now-next-to-nobodies—when you’re there overdressed to unimpress for the free drinks and the easy-A lust and the wishy-washy escapism of being no one or everyone or anyone else at all, there isn’t any need to be yourself, after all. That’s the last thing any try-hard outsider would ever want in this silver-lined city, to be known for being yourself since there’s no riches in radical reality...but despite that, the boy himself strangely seems to feel right at home here, no fragile façade nor pity-love fable to peddle save that salvaged heart bleeding bubblegum songs and unsaid stories all over his hundred-dollar sleeve.

Well, don’t say you didn’t want to know I’m feeling on edge, give me something to spur me on

You can see lost scars peeking shyly from behind his apropos Tom Ford bomber jacket that does nothing to hide the soiled clothes of a wayward child stumbling skinning his knees in dirty wonderland, you can see the branching scars that cross his tempered face like fortune lines and coat his sweetest words with an aftertaste of berry-baby-bitter that makes him swallow his guilt a lot harder just so his perfect smile could be a little softer, if you step back and look closer to dim down the glaring migraine lights reflecting rainbows and district red lights all over his flawless skin, you can see he’s really built of nothing else but smouldering diamond bones and vicious tooth and nail ambitions and the prettiest little scars. He hides it well; but there’s no place left to hide in this cramped hellhole but upfront.

Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy, who hurt you?

Give me more of that conviction Give me more reasons to stand up again Give me however many and however many times

You don’t ask anymore. It might just be from one-too-many slips and slurries and shots of flaming sambuca, but choosers can’t be hypocrites and you hardly even recall if you exchanged names. Saying hi all the time and staying high all the time, some nitty-gritty details are bound to drop off into asterisks—like how long ago did you meet, and why can’t your hands stop blurring in front of you when the boy’s holding them so tightly it’s cutting off the blood circulation and keeping you numb to every sinking gripping aching touch, and why do you need to care about all these pointless questions? What was your name again...?

Well, whatever. It doesn’t really matter at all. You don’t need names to dance. You don’t need names to fuck. You don’t need names to remember for longer than a nascent after-hours, turning blood-red against yellowed eyes and evergreen veins. But you’re not so sure you want to forget, either.

If you can love someone More than the number of your regrets Then that love is something you should sing out loud Forget about what I promised you on that day

The silence speaks volumes. He spills half his vodka tonic on the jacket while grimacing from the lime and invites you to dance. You laugh and clumsily pull him into the floor, and that terrible twist of time leaves a lot of space for bad intentions as it slows the both of you into a phantasmic non-apropos waltz.

Wishing you well as I send you off Just one last thing to bother you with— I’m sorry. Well, then...see you again

Tired forehead to piercing clavicle. Phantom hands anchored and tracing gently-swaying hips, arching closer, grinding teeth. Broad blustered chests exploding in hazardous friction, challenging each other to thump a little faster, a little louder, a lot more painful, catching breaths catching up to the reverberating electrified drop before the raving crowd goes wild and they all fall down and you would too—god, why does everything burn so fucking much?—if only the boy isn’t holding every part of you together. You and the boy and you’re his boy but is he your boy? You’re not sure you’re not sure of anything anymore and you’re almost afraid to feel afraid to ask and it’s stupid and you’re stupid—stop acting so stupid, where’s your heavy hurting head, up there, up where, where did all your clever lies go off to, to throw up the poison and feel okay again or to curl up and die all alone in some other hypothetical hellhole where it wouldn’t be caught dead—as if you haven’t done this before.

For you, I always wanted to be just right for you If I just thought about how you could do anything I didn’t need any aspirations And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything I even would’ve wanted to be a clown

You’ve been here before, danced a million ankle-breaking steps before, fucked a hundred wasted no-names before, remembered a thousand hangover ways to wake up on the wrong side of Viva La Holy Hollywood before, but you’re one-hundred percent sure plus one that you’ve never ever done this before. Never felt anything like this before. What is this, you may ask? Why ask at all? Maybe you shouldn’t. The boy’s not looking for answers he knows he couldn’t give back. But you’re still going to ask. God, you have to ask. Even if it’s just this time. Damn whatever the hell your dizzy dirty deadly cocksure fucking ego is screaming at you in every available profane language but right now, but there’s no other time to waste than now.

Ah, I’m out of time now Turn around, turn it all around, for me now

“Are you still gonna want me tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, but I like the idea of you. And I want you, right here, right now.”

What’s for what and what’s for who? I guess I’ll know when it’s all over, huh?

No promises. Nothing different. You’ve seen this shit before, a bajillion times over. He’s good at this. He’s done this before. You’ve believed it before. But you believe in him anyway.

You don’t know what else to do. You don’t know how else to think. You can’t feel anything but the boy.

Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy, why do you hurt?

I love this good-for-nothing lifeform with all my heart And even if this isn’t the best solution I just want to be myself...ah, it’s time now

Now you’re dancing, you’re dancing, and the cramped room crashes down around you and the lasting memory of the boy falters and the stringent beat has fallen away into a senseless static rush and you’re still somehow strobing and gyrating and writhing fucking mechanical as you hold onto him for dear life and delight and dear lies and the constellated kisses on your broken neck are stinging and numbed fingers bruising hips and grinding teeth breaking hollows and everyone and their chemical friends are watching, are watching but the glitter in your bleached-blue eyes shine like salty stars reflected against ocean indigo and something slips inside your tongue sinking the unsinkable and it’s not a pastel pill or a blotter or the sun but you gag once and get swallowed whole as everything melts down into a bad trip and he’s desperately asking for your name—what was it again, tell me tell me tell me—and you’re screaming something maybe like his name beneath his slippery scarred skin spreading with cracks and heady perfume and you’re hot and cold all over and over it’s over and going under underwater and all that’s left to think about is the all-consuming idea of him, and him, and him, and maybe, and maybe you—don’t know don’t know don’t want—you want it. Right here, right now. Maybe just enough to forget nothing, everything, anything at all. Maybe you like the idea of us.

No matter how it turns out, I’m going to go now To the starting line, top speed in the direction of love

Maybe you even love the boy, in some other dying cosmic yesterday you never dreamed to imagine before and never will again, even if you escape this pretty greenyellowredblack hole and fucking crawl out of that infinite stampede and make it out alive, alive, are you alive somehow. But you’re feeling smaller and smaller and your headspace is empty and your bloodshot vision is darkening and you’re not gonna ruin it like that. You’re not gonna ruin him like that. Not tonight.

I T ’ S O N Y O U N O W —

Ride on, ride on now, to the other side of yesterday And I’ll overtake even longing itself.

#irdk why i'm posting this here but aye here's a dumb unreality-ish jamett fic i wrote last november and posted some weeks ago #i don't even know what the purpose of this either it's just. oops my brain slipped and i woke up with this and drool all over my keyboard #have some y/n!jett and vaguely dark!james??? ft. 21+ btr gang inexplicably raving it out idk how nightclubs and drinking work tbh #also i just like the way this gif edit turned out so i wanna plaster it elsewhere (<- is bad at making gifs and has abysmal expectations)#btr #big time rush #fanfic #one shot #fanfiction #james diamond #jett stetson #jamett #angst #hurt/comfort #songfic #nightclub #second person pov #not in my mirror #james diamond x jett stetson #the line that starts the whole story #nickelodeon #writeblr #stop it forever #this is just for posterity really. maybe i shouldn't be posting my fics here but i kinda want an archive of them on my blog too so sorry #no one's gonna read this anyway so it's fine by me bc i liked writing it too much :'> and i'm gonna keep writing them bc they're fun #and at this point my lack of writing skills could just shut the hell up #also p.s. i fucking hate tumblr's editing system it's so painful to use on desktop especially with all the different formatting. obehaglig #this took too long for me not to throw it out and also i don't want it clogging up my drafts anymore so blep blip bluppp

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heffrondriving · 3 years

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YOUR FAVOURITE SHADE IS NAVY BLUE [BIG TIME RUSH FANFICTION]

SUMMARY: With Los Angeles’ intense heatwaves frying their brains, James Diamond gets a bit too caught up in summertime blues, while all Jett Stetson really wants to do is to cool down. (3,455 words // Schmoop, Slice of Life, Fluff Without Plot, James × Jett)

[Part 2 of Cupid Got Us F♡cked Up]

“It makes me smile because you said it best / I would clearly feel blessed if the sun rose up from the west / Flower balm perfume, all my clothes smell like you / ‘Cause your favourite shade is navy blue”

–If My Heart Was A House, Owl City

James feels almost annoyed at how much Jett could look so impossibly damned cute.

Especially when the weather forecast gets way too hot for wearing the trademark Stetson double-layered, pop-collared, questionably-colour-coordinated, several-sizes-too-small polo shirts, and his boyfriend steals his lucky white v-neck instead.

Yes, it’s the very same shirt James wore when he and his best friends first arrived at the Palm Woods, the one that Logan accidentally sprayed fruit water all over and Kendall and Carlos had covered in goose feathers with their impromptu studio pillow fight. It had taken him forever to personally clean out the stains with every detergent soap in mama Knight’s arsenal, and he actually stretched it out and wore it down a bit, so unused he was to having to do his own laundry for once.

Time and time again, he’s advised to simply throw it away. James is technically rich and super famous now, after all, he can just get himself a new one—and heck, buy a million brand-named shirts that are far more stylish and expensive than some plain and ratty decade-old shirt.

But no matter how luxurious they are, none of them would ever quite smell like home.

Call him a sentimental coot, whatever. But to James, his lucky white v-neck still smells like ice rink one-on-ones against Kendall, and Carlos’s favourite flavour of Brain-Freeze sugary soda pop, and long snowy snaps spent shoveling Mrs. Majecowski’s walkways with Logan, and the four of them terrorising the entire neighbourhood during the winter; as they breathed in the frosty Duluth air until their lungs went numb and their heads hurt like hell and they were all hyped up and ready to go on their crazy sledding sprees and snowball fights—all whilst comfortably wrapped in the climate James was used to, the slushy cold blood that even California’s deadliest heatwaves couldn’t entirely thaw out of him.

Consequently, his shirt also reminds him of all the times he has donned it and something great happened to him. It wasn’t dubbed a ‘lucky’ shirt for nothing, after all. He has worn it during all of his Peewee hockey team victories. And when he got to move to LA with his best friends in the world to follow his superstar dream and finally make it huge as Big Time Rush. And even during the very first time James had ever asked Jett out, and he said yes.

Well, he said something more along the lines of “about damn time!”, before swooping the taller boy and brashly skipping straight into liplock territory, and giving every flabbergasted spectator in the Palm Woods lobby a heart attack. Especially his future date—the moment their charged mouths collided, it felt like James had fifty of them all at once; and his nonplussed yet ever-faithful friends had to carry him all the way to Rocque Records and get Kelly and Gustavo to call up Lita Ford, just so the guitar goddess could rock the thunderstruck boy right out of his frozen state.

But same difference, James supposes.

It has been many summers past since that one fateful day, and yet Jett still keeps on finding ways to make his heart feel electrifyingly woozy without even trying. And most times, all it ever takes is a simple ‘yes’—or something along that line—or a pilfered lucky shirt. And sometimes, if James was truly lucky, both.

But along with his also-lucky comb, man sprays, handmade bracelets from Katie-cat, and other quaint trinkets that his best friends and fans have gifted to him over the years, that white shirt has definitely been good to James. So even as it started to feel a little too tight for him to casually wear without looking like a really gorgeous untoasted burrito, he still likes keeping it around in their shared walk-in closet.

And maybe all the effort to preserve that particular memento was all worth it to see his favourite shirt on his favourite boy, leaving a brand new fragrance of home. There’s something rather enthralling about the way the slightly-oversized article of clothing drips off Jett’s prideful frame and billows out in delicate cotton tidal waves, translucent cloth barely just revealing a mischievous glimpse of the sturdy physique drowning underneath it.

It’s almost enough to make James willingly ruin his lucky shirt. Almost.

Right now, the air-conditioning is down and Jett is a human-shaped puddle on their living room floor, a mess of half-melted limbs haphazardly sprawled all over the tufted caro rug and threatening to make James slip and fall, if he isn’t careful enough. If he doesn’t watch where he’s stepping.

And maybe he won’t. Maybe it’ll give him an excuse to fall into Jett’s awaiting embrace.

Or alternatively, maybe it’ll make him crack his skull on the hard ground and send his stupid idiot brain pooling out like a spilled moron milkshake, so that he can finally get rid of his stupid infatuated thoughts and get a hold of himself.

Just what is it about Jett frigging Stetson that makes him feel so stupid?

It must be how hot it is. Or how hot he is. Of course, James will never admit that out loud, especially not to Mr. Jett ‘I’m-better-looking-than-you’ Stetson, but the strange thought still plagues him like a buzzard and makes a feast out of his broiled and sautéed mind.

Either way, he doesn’t really care to find out. At least, maybe not just yet.

He still has his pride to uphold, after all.

But then again...so much for that resolved talk of noble garbage. James doesn’t realise how long he’s simply been standing there by the apartment doorway and foolishly gaping at his liquefied boyfriend; not until Jett’s ocean eyes flutter open and he catches the brunet looking all ready for a holiday getaway and catching butterflies with his dry mouth.

“Jeez, what are you looking at me all funny for, babe? I mean, I know I just have that naturally shocking effect on everyone, but with the crazy way you’re shaking me down with your goofy eyes, I almost feel cheated for not making you pay topnotch dollar for my gunshow!”

“Just admiring the view, Jett-ski.”

“Well don’t just stand there, make yourself useful and grab a damn headshot or something and start fanning!” Jett lets out a groan as he props his feet on the long-labouring electric fan in front of him. He appears to be sinking himself deeper and deeper into the floor, entirely at risk of turning into pretty-faced precipitation and raining down on the unfortunate tenants below them. “I think your confused astronaut one’s just by the couch. And I would know, ‘cause I accidentally sat on it this morning!”

“A-ha, so that’s why it’s all crumpled up, you little bastard!”

“Not my fault your dumb ass left it there! And yeah, I just blessed your ugly weirdo headshot with an autograph of my beautiful award-winning butt—and you could get millions selling that on Ebay! So I love you too, and you’re welcome. Nowsies...fan away, level five, now! It’s the least you could do for A, getting a super awesome and valuable buttograph from the world-famous Jett Stetson, and B, getting a free VIP entrance to this,” the cheeky boy sculpts out his torso with both hands and winks, “gorgeous Jett-scape.”

“Oh yeah?” James isn’t all too impressed. “Want me to dump a bucket of ice water on you instead and turn you into a winter blunderland, hothead?”

“If it helps me to cool down, mister Minnesotie, why the hell not? Just as long as you also mop up the mess afterwards.”

“I’d love to, but I don’t wanna risk mopping you up and dumping your remains down the drain too!”

Jett pouts but doesn’t respond to the gibe, his fried brain clearly losing out to the muggy afternoon heat. The fan sends a tepid breeze that sends the rumpled buttographed photo gusting away under their couch, and also makes James’ swooped fringe wildly fly off in all directions.

Usually, this would make him instantly launch into a complaining note about how this was sooo totally ruining his hair, until his irritated boyfriend’s just short of ripping off his own scalp. But on hundred-Fahrenheit days like these, there’s really no helping the whole mangy-dog hairstyle look.

And, James doesn’t quite mind the cooler wind grazing his damp skin, and the intoxicating scent it sweeps up and carries along with it.

Jett smells like the blueberry-blast popsicles they shared that morning, a romantic sight to behold...just before they commenced having a brutal popsicle stick duel, stained their sticky clothes, matted hair, and ringing laughter with the brightest shades of blue, and ended up getting pushed into the pool by their exasperated friends. Jett smells like sweat and topical emollient and the overpowering sandalwood-patchouli infusion of James’ least favourite ‘Cuda musk; but the abrasive scent still makes it a lot easier for him to fall asleep, whenever Jett hogs their comforters and James has to shove him off the bed just to steal it back, and they both end up sleeping on the floor to keep each other warm. Jett smells like a fever dream in full bloom, and James feels haplessly lost, left wandering in the coalescing haze.

He ponders if the afternoon heat has also gotten to his fried brain.

The wheezing electric fan suddenly picks up in its machine swan song and the gentle gust and saccharine fragrance hits James once more, enveloping him in meridian memories and making him feel extremely heady, and then he doesn’t have to think about it very long.

Yeah, no shit.

So instead, James sets down his sunblock and pool noodles on the counter, casts away his unused beach towel and kicks off his flip-flops, and joins his evaporating boyfriend on the rug, gently laying his head on Jett’s sludged-up biceps.

“That really isn’t what I mean by make yourself useful! So shove it, Jimmy boy.” his acting pillow languidly complains, though he doesn’t make any moves to fend off his unwanted companion. “I know you just can’t keep your hands off me, but it’s far too hot for a cuddle right now.”

The brunet gasps in feigned surprise. “You’re really gonna turn down the softest bestest most amazingest James frigging Diamond warm cuddles in the whole wide universe, just like that? Seriously??? Who are you and what have you done to my fuzzybumpkins?!”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic. And dude, if I get any more warmer, you could literally cook a whole-ass steak on my sexy washboard abs like it’s Fabio’s pocket griller, so no frigging thanks.” Jett snorts. “And I’m willing to bet that the missing AC action is probably all you and your rowdy monkey squad’s fault anyway—ohoho, that’s right, don’t think I didn’t hear you rattling and scrambling around the air vents yesterday!”

“Okay, first of all...we’re dogs, not monkeys.”

“You’re monkey dogs!”

“And you’re just a monkey butt—”

“But am I an award-winning monkey butt?

“Not even close, ‘cause FYI, Sherschlock, all that noise in the vents was actually Buddha Bob and all the creepy itchy mice he couldn’t catch, sooo...deffo not our monkey dog squad.” James says with a roll of his eyes. “And spea-king of itches, you do know you’re gonna get painful rug rashes if you keep this up, right?”

“Oh no, I won’t get a rash.” is Jett’s flippant reply. “I always, always make sure to slather on some lanolin oil after I bathe! And I’ve bathed at least twenty times today!”

“Huh, that actually explains why you’re slipperier than a grease monkey. I could barely keep my head on your arm without feeling like I’m gonna shoot straight out of the hallway. And not for nothing, but even if you don’t get a rash, all that excess oil is gonna get your pores all clogged up too.”

“Don’t like, don’t stay—there’s the door to smack your not-blue ribbon prized flat ass with, baby!”

“Mmm...someone’s being mister crabbypants today.” With a defeated sigh, James wryly traces small circles across Jett’s chest with an index finger. “I was actually just gonna head back to the pool for another swim...but y’know, I just couldn’t bear to leave you all alone here looking like Frosty the Snowman’s abandoned fucked-up brother, you poor thing. I mean, the pool’s also probably gonna be really crowded, what with everyone trying to kill this killer heat, and I think I’ve even heard something from Kenny today about Carlitos trying to beat his previous underwater fart world record again...but still. It’s a lot better than dying of a heatstroke in a stuffy apartment. Wanna come with?”

“And have the entirety of the Palm Woods stealing a peep at this whole stunning gunshow for free?” Jett thoughtfully strokes his scruffy chin. “Hmmm...that doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually. I do love people looking at me, almost as much as I like useless world record awards. Well then! Lead the way, loverboy!”

“Actually...uhhhh, you know what, nevermind, ‘cause like,the pool’s definitely filled with sweaty superstar wannabes and snotty kiddies jam-packed in there like sardines anyway—and not to mention all the empty baked bean cans and gross pee too!—sooo, how abooout...crazy idea, but we can also just stay here and I’ll fan you all you want, babe!” titters James. “Leg day’s all done and my arm muscles do need the extra workout too, so you know—no need to say thank you, I’m just that kinda super awesome supertastic boyfriend, haha, what can I say. And yeah, you’re definitely welcome.”

“Is that so?”

With a surprising burst of renewed energy, Jett manages to take the upper hand, as he slips out to clamber atop James and promptly pins him down, making him emit a mini-scream. Jett simply smirks at his boyfriend’s startled reaction, rivulets of oily perspiration snaking down his forehead and dripping off his shoulders, and dotting James’ exposed collarbones, raised hundred-dollar Ray-Bans, and vividly rosy cheeks.

The sandy-haired boy then wraps his warm hands on James’ nape and slowly brings him up closer, their noses bumping together to a dead halt and making them laugh surreptitiously.

Their blueberry breaths feel a thousand degrees against each other and makes their vision mist over, but James feels a shot of pure ice snaking up his spine, making him shiver violently. He probably smells like frizzled nerves and cloying zinc oxide and the dusky traffic smog he picked up from outside, which is truly unbecoming of him. He’s James frigging Diamond, for crying out loud. He’s the face. The smooth charmer. The one who asked first.

The one who just couldn’t help it, the one who’s just so stupid, struck incredibly dumb for this funny-faced boy and his silliest quirks and the ill-fitting borrowed clothes that look so damn good on him.

James definitely smells like concentrated fucking shame right now.

Jett, however, doesn’t seem to mind it. Or maybe he simply doesn’t notice. He isn’t really the best at picking up such capricious subtleties—or even making them, for that matter.

But they are so close, too close, waxen legs intertwined and trickling inseparably, delicate fingers roaming against waistlines and rigid muscles and tipsily tracing vineyards all over suntanned hips, firework-crashed lungs and cascading cotton-twill and the reckless taste of honeydew saltwater making the stuffiness intensify...how couldn’t he ever notice?

He knows, he knows, of course Jett fucking knows. Why wouldn’t he? Sure, he’s such a huge idiot who can’t even rub two brain cells together to get his idioms right, and everyone in the Palm Woods—heck, everyone who owns a working television and has glimpsed even five seconds of his starring cheesy soaps and super-weird commercials—knows it, including Jett himself...but he’s so incredibly smart when it comes to making James feel like the biggest fool in the world, and it annoys the hell out of him.

Yes, Jett’s too annoying, quite potentially the most annoying boy in the world. The accomplished actor and mister backside award winner is so irritatingly flaunty and such a vain blowhard and overflowing with arrogant confidence, and he always thinks he’s some kind of leading romantic hero to the grand story of life, which means his exasperated boyfriend has to indulge him and constantly play his dumbass in distress—it drives James crazy and yet, god, he loves that, he loves all of that stupid sappy bullshit, why does he love that so much?

Why does he love Jett too much?

Even right now, the stupid pouty smile on Jett’s cherry-tint lips tells all, and James can’t help but uneasily lick his own, feeling a bit embarrassed about how sandpaper-like it was—would his boyfriend mind if it felt like he was kissing coastlines and riptides, threatening to haul him away and completely take him under?

No, no. Of course not. Jett never minds.

And with the way Jett’s indulgently peppering breezy bay kisses all over his flushed face, maybe James doesn’t, either.

“Hey happy jolly soul, I thought you said it was too hot for this shit?”

“Well, duhhh, it still is, but you obviously can’t stand my hotness anymore, either...and well, who am I to turn you down? My mind’s too screwed up to do anything else, anyway.”

“Please, you don’t need the heat as a lame excuse for that, ‘cause your mind’s always too screwed up to do anything at all, genius.”

“Wow...you out of all people are really gonna pretend to be smart and hit me with a classic Logan Mitchell line like that? Like, the very same boring blabbery-blah whatever he’s totally owned you with like a spajillion times already?”

“Oh, like you haven’t?”

“Who in this entire apartment complex hasn’t? Every time that double-dome kid opens his mouth to speak, everyone in a five mile radius gets super lightheaded from too much freaking nerdiness! It’s honestly almost enough to kill my cool vibe. But of course, I’m way too cool for that to happen!”

“Yeah, right. You’re such a swiss cheese head.”

“And you know you love it!”

The way James finds himself clinging onto the small of Jett’s back for dear life, hanging onto every vaunting word, losing sight of his spaced-out afterthoughts as he drifts into the Stetson supernova and gets swallowed up by their solipsistic universe, who was he to argue about that?

“But like, this?” Jett makes a wild motion with one hand, before vindictively slapping his palm flat on the carpet. “Shit, this heat is seriously killing my cool vibes—literally! I mean, I’m down for the glam and the showbiz and the awards and the crazy adoring fans and all, but god DAMN this Hollywood sun, it sucks big time! And damn this shirt of yours too, like it’s practically stuck to my skin like wet toilet paper and it feels all gross and yucky and soooo supes uncool!”

“And how’s that my fault?!”

“Because, James. Because. I mean, as someone who once had to tape thirty separate takes of an Angel-Soft commercial all mummified in gross and squishy toilet paper—no thanks to an utter buffoon of an agent who can’t read gig contracts for shit!—I gotta say, this is pretty much the same thing, so my comfort levels are deffo on the lowest ends right now.”

“Hey! I will not stand for such slander...” defends James, as he grabs a generous fistful of the dissed clothing and pulls its wearer closerto him, two prideful chests with butterfly heartbeats clicking perfectly into one another. “That’s my lucky white v-neck we’re talking about here!”

“Oh, so you mean to tell me that this sorry piece of wet rag is actually magic?” Jett laughs. “Well...then better count your happy stars, ‘cause I guess you’re finally due in for some good luck, diamond boy!”

Lucky, lucky him, indeed. James is so lucky to be with this annoying boy, this annoyingly perfect boy, his to annoy and admire and adore forever, a million sweltering Los Angeles summers over.

“Are you gonna stay with me?”

“I’m all yours.”

Jett smells like eternal sunshine and pure senselessness and falling in love all over again; and when Jett finally spills out of his borrowed shirt and into James’ awaiting embrace, it’s his turn to melt away.

(a/n: Yes, I know, I know, it's another tooth-destroying fluff between these two again, but thinking about their himbo boyfriend dynamics is giving me the worst kind of brain damage and I can't help but to write another purely self-indulgent one-shot of them okay, pls forgive me @_@ Also it's a summery fic because it was still during summer when I started writing this and it's the one of the only two seasons I get to experience not to mention the extreme tropical heat completely burned off my sanity so whoops. And hey, maybe the next one will be a Jett-centric kinda fic. And actually have a proper plot, who knows ლ(╹◡╹ლ) Also I have no idea how to make gifs and spent until 5 AM trying to make this awful one hahah rip me)

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heffrondriving · 3 years

Text

CUPID GOT US F♡CKED UP [BIG TIME RUSH FANFICTION]

SUMMARY: James Diamond and Jett Stetson being fluffy himbo boyfriends. That's it, that's the whole fic. (T // 2,776 words // James x Jett, Slice of Life, Idiots in Love, Domestic Fluff)

➽─{ 1 - Mr. Limp Hair and Dirty Martini }─❥

Yet another beautiful day in the city of angels. The sun was shining, birds were singing, the Palm Woods was hustling and bustling with its usual sprightly ardour, and somewhere in Apartment 3H, James Diamond was hollering belligerent threats at the top of his lungs.

“Stetson! Stetsoooon! Haul ass, right now! Living room, front and center, or you’re losing your fridge privileges for a week! A week, you hear?! That means no storage for your stinky cheeses, no digging around for my tasty midnight snacks, and definitely no chilling by its open door and racking up one hell of an electricity bill, just because your deodorant brand changed up their formula again and the LA heat keeps giving you nasty armpit stains! Do NOT test me!!!”

He heard the distinct click of a noisy hairdryer being turned off, and Jett sauntered out of the bathroom, a damp towel hanging off one broad shoulder and the half-finished curls of his dark sandy hair falling over his scrunched forehead.

“Jeez, we’re not five fucking mountains away, so what’s with all the yelling?” He complained. “You’re disrupting my beauty time...and you know I hate getting my beauty time disrupted!”

“What, the two whole-ass hours I give you for your shower isn’t enough?”

“Obviously not, because my shower time doesn’t include my beauty time, duh. Plus, I can’t even hear myself getting more beautiful with all the racket you’re causing!”

“Jett—”

“And don’t you dare say that I’m doing this just for me!” accosted Jett, pointing at James with his purple hairdryer. “I mean, yeah, I am, obviously...but I’ve also spent the last thirty minutes trying to style my hair into the perfect comb-over quiff for our super fancy-schmancy date tonight, and still—! Despite my bestest efforts, I still look more grimy greaser than rockabilly rockstar!”

Once more, he vigorously brandished the handheld electrical device with a theatrical flourish and resumed his tirade. “And guess what? You’re to blame, and that new smelly conditioner you recommended too, it’s all your fault that my beautiful hair—very much like my wild spirit and pure zest for life—has been extremely untamable lately!”

“Jett—!”

“...wait, no, I didn’t mean that in a good way, don’t get any ideas. Hey...” Jett slowly blinked as he took notice of James’ shirtless suit jacket getup. “What’s with the whole stripper hunk look?”

“Jett,” repeated James in a strained tone, “sweetiepie, honeylove, fuzzybumpkins…”

“Yes, babe?” The shorter boy answered back innocently, clearly not taking notice of the extreme amounts of sarcasm dripping off his boyfriend’s voice.

“Yeah, about that...what did I tell you about using up all of my ‘Cuda Clear Firm & Massive Hold Hairspray?”

Jett’s jaw dropped scandalously at the accusation.

“How...dare...you...” He spat out. “How. Dare. You?! Who said I’m the one who used up your stupid man spray?! Where’s your proof, huh?”

“Well, for one, you reek of ‘Cuda’s famous trademarked Manilla-Vanilla scent, I could recognise that smell for miles,” replied James as he cocked his head and gave the air a good sniff, “secondly, we’re the only ones who live in this apartment room...and third, you’re literally holding the damn spray can in your hand!”

Quick as a flash of lightning, Jett casually threw the empty canister out of the window, and the pair of quibbling tenants froze up and winced as they heard the successive sounds of a clanging can, a painful thump, and someone’s familiar agonised yells from outside.

“Sorry, Mr. Bitters!” They both called out.

“I don’t know about you, but oops! I don’t see any empty hairspray cans anywhere, fuzzybumpkins!” Jett tittered, feigning ignorance. “Which means you’ve still got zero evidence, so all the words you just said don’t prove jack shit.”

James sighed impatiently. “Listen, you stinky little liar, now I usually wouldn’t mind you nicking my hair care and beauty products—along with my specially-monogrammed microfibre towel, my Sanyoid ionised blowdryer, and my best pair of slim-fit, low-rise stretch denim jeans,” he said, pointing out one by one all the pilfered items that his boyfriend was donning, “but of course I also need to pretty up for tonight, and you don’t wanna be caught dead with a limp and lifeless-haired date, do you? Yeah, no, I don’t think so.”

“Ohhh, here we go again,” groaned Jett. “You’re not seriously gonna call the FBI and be such a huge whiny tattletale about it and get us in trouble again, are you? If we get another pair of scary federal agents knocking at our door, we’re both gonna get our well-toned butts sent straight to prison—and that cannot happen, ‘cause I’m too gorgeous to be stuck behind bars for life!”

He took a moment to flip open a compact mirror and thoughtfully smoulder at his own reflection. “Although, from what I learned from guest-starring in Teen NCSI as a loveable and roguish yet tragic bank robber, forced to turn to a life of crime to pay for his lover slash mistress’s horse-race gambling addiction, I do look absolutely stunning in mugshots AND ‘Most Wanted’ posters! That black and white photography makes my best angles pop like nobody’s business.”

“Yeah, good for you,” James groused. “‘Cause you’re the only one here who’s gonna land in jail, you dirty friggin’ thief.”

“Hah, like you don’t have a long string of committed felonies in your history, what with your meddling Scooby-doo gang of best friends making up vaguely illegal Kendall-schemes and dragging up big time fiascos every hour of every day! Oh, and b-t-dubs, I didn’t ‘steal’ anything, I ‘borrowed without permission’.”

“You used it all up!”

“Ugh, it’s like you’re not even listening to me.” Jett churlishly pouted. “Like. I. Said. My usually-smooth and shiny hair’s been all frizzy and split-endy today, and I’m gonna need all the help I can get to get it properly roped in and make it stay golden like it’s the star of the barber’s show. ‘Cause there is no way in hell I’m going out in public looking like—like that nutty caveman repair dude with the freaky-faced plunger! This is a huge crisis, what else am I supposed to do?!”

“Um, hello?” James exclaimed incredulously. “Me!”

“A bit too early for that, isn’t it, babe? Although we do have a few extra minutes to spare before our dinner par-tay, so if you’re already hungry for a snack...” Jett’s tongue clicked along with his winking and generous pointing to himself. “Huh? Huuuh??? Get it? ‘Cause, you know, I’m a snack!”

“Ugh, yeah, I get it...” The taller boy pulled a face. “And don’t ruin my appetite like that, sleazebag magoo—you know that isn’t what I meant! All I’m trying to say is, I’m here, and I could’ve totally helped you out with your hairstyling situation, if you just asked me to!”

“You didn’t think I tried? But the last time I checked in on you, you were busy being such a total weirdo idiot at your vanity table and making googly-eyes at your stupid comb!”

“Oooh, do I hear the sound of someone being jealous?” James failed to suppress his smug smile.

“Hah, how ridiculous! Me, Jett Stetson, leading star of hit CW drama show New Town High, hottest person in the Palm Woods—”

“Eherm, second hottest.”

“Tied in first place for hottest person in the Palm Woods, and the most brilliant damn actor, model, and superstar in the whole wide universe...me, jealous of a tiny plastic thing? Puh-lease, what is this, Dr. Solomon’s Supertastic Elven Beauty Surgery reality show???” Jett scoffed. “And besides, if that filthy scalp rake of yours ever upstages me from the title of being your one true love—which will never ever happen, because who doesn’t love me?!—but I have a few tricks up my sleeve on how to send it away and take over the crown…”

“Touch my lucky comb and you will die,” growled James, his voice turning dangerously low as he clutched at the mentioned item with paternal protectiveness. “This baby has saved me from dealing with one too many bad hair days ever since I was two years old, and if anything at all ever happened to it…”

He aired out his unspoken warning by menacingly cracking his knuckles instead.

“Pfft, bad hair days indeed, ya poor scamp.” Jett lazily flicked James’ unkempt fringe and gave him a cheesy wink. “Even at its most unleashed and untamable state, my hair is still better-looking than yours.”

“It is not!”

“Sheeesh, someone’s a little touchy. Hey, just because you didn’t win the awesomest hair award at the Tween Choice Awards that one time doesn’t mean you have to be so bitter about it, love.”

“Uhhh, we were both nominated for it, and also, you forgot to attend the ceremony that day, and also also—! You didn’t win it either, ‘love’! And from what I heard from Katie, you didn’t even take the loss gracefully, you big dumb crybaby.”

“That sneaky little munchkin girl is full of lies!”

“And you would know because...you’re also full of lies?”

Jett looked like he was about to object, but stopped to think about it some more and instead gave out a lukewarm shrug in response.

“Yeah, thought so.” James snorted derisively. “But like seriously though, darn that lady from Karmin, she’s super cute and talented and everything, but she just had to go and steal our thunder, and our purple rocket! But it’s fine. Whatever. I’m over it. No, really, I am. S-shut up.”

Jett arched a doubtful eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“Of course not! But don’t worry James, whatever Amy Heidemann and Nick Noonan say, you will always win the awesomest hair award in my heart. Yes, and the nominees for that obviously include me too, so you know just how much that means I adooore you,” he drawled as he fondly pressed a finger to his boyfriend’s frowning lips. “So. Do I win the title and the crown back now, or…?”

“Save your gross sweet talk for your four hundred thread-count alpaca hair pillow, Stetson—you may be a sly dog, but you’re not gonna freaking charm your way out of this one. You’re paying for your crimes against hair-manity!”

“Hmmm...how about I pay for it with a kiss instead?” preened Jett, batting his eyelids at James.

James rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “My god, you’re such a whore.”

“Says the rejected Magic Mike member. And why yes, yes I am, thank you for noticing—but remember, I’m your whore. Besides, you’re deffo getting a huge steal here, ‘cause a kiss from *the* Jett ‘Sexyman’ Stetson, is absolutely priceless.”

At last, James’ deadly serious demeanour dropped as he couldn’t help but laugh at Jett’s bizarre macking facial expressions and cringe-inducing sloppy kissy sounds.

“Damn it, foiled again!” He snapped his fingers in defeat. “You’re lucky you’re friggin’ hot.”

“Well, I’m so sorry I was born that way! Nahhh—actually, no, I’m not. Not one bit.”

“Me neither. And deal. Now pay up, hardass.”

“Un moment, my beautiful darling,” Jett excused, holding up a hand to stop James from advancing any further. He pulled out a peppermint-flavoured Big Bear lip balm from the back pocket of his not-his jeans, popped open the cap, and started liberally slathering it on his gaped mouth, while James quietly observed the fascinating ritual with dry stares and crossed arms.

With a final press and pop of his renourished lips, Jett flashed a mischievous grin at the awaiting boy. “Voilà, now I’m ready. And you better buckle up baby, ‘cause you’ve got the sole honour of getting a one-way ticket for the liplock train—destination, luuuuurve!”

“Yeah, you’re really doing a great job of killing the romantic mood here, Casanova.” James grimaced, sticking his tongue out in mock disgust.

“Just—do you wanna get paid or not?!”

“Ummm...actually, I think I’d rather get derailed and crash off a bridge and die a horrible fiery death instead, thanks.”

“Too late, we’re already leaving the station! Choo-choo!”

Jett closed his eyes and puckered up. He began leaning in closer, and closer, and closer...but as his lips were barely inches away from making their mark, James suddenly whipped out a brand-new can of ‘Cuda’s Improved Cool Clear Firm & Extra Massive Hold Hairspray from his suit jacket and spritzed it right in Jett’s face, making the startled boy emit a high-pitched shriek and stagger back in equal parts surprise and pain.

“There, now your ugly mug won’t be limp and lifeless!” the gleeful James declared, throwing the matte black canister in the air and swiping a confident hand to catch it. He then held the nozzle to his face and blew away an imaginary puff of gunpowder smoke from it, before giving the hairspray a final debonaire spin and resheathing it back in his magical jacket pocket, posing a-la secret agent style as he did so.

“Thrh trh thrrrrh!” Jett angrily spluttered as he furiously wiped down his stinging tongue with the both of his popped shirt collars. “You’re thrhe worsthth!”

“What was that, Sylvester Pussycat?”

“Thuck ith, Diamondth! You’re thrying thoo geth me killth!”

“Well, Jett, I really hope you learned the valuable lesson of being a good noodle and not stealing—sorry, not ‘borrowing without permission’—my hair products.” James nodded sagely. “Or at least, not being a rude meanie jerkface and actually replacing them when you do.”

“I hathe ‘oo tho mucth.”

“Aww, c’mon don’t be like that, babe,” the taller boy cooed apologetically. “I was just messing around.”

“Messing around, yeah right—I swear to my stunning specimen of a soul, if I die from toxic man-spray poisoning, I’m possessing your stupid lucky comb and haunting you for the rest of your blasted life,” grumbled Jett, scowling at James from beneath the golden-stitched ‘J.D.’ of the towel he was using to wipe the rest of his flustered face. “Prepare to be cursed with bad hair days for eternity plus one!”

“Don’t be such a drama queen. Anyway, our resident rockethead over at 4J told me that ‘Cuda products are actually made with organic ingredients, which basically means...some smartie mumbo jumbo science stuff about plants, bleep blap bloop, and you’ll survive, hooray!”

“I’d rather drop dead right now than go out with you for five more seconds, you Tweety-headed hack.”

“And speaking of going out, my puddy-tat,” singsonged James, “you are so not wearing that awful top for our date tonight.”

“At least I’m actually wearing a top,” Jett shot back. “Seriously, I hope you’re not planning to go out looking like...that, or you’re going alone. I absolutely refuse to be upstaged by your gigolo-looking ass!”

“Aaand there’s your jealousy talking again. God, you’re just too adorable.” James grabbed a fistful of Jett’s juniper-green polo shirt and pulled him in close, wrapping his free arm around the bemused boy’s waist as he did so. “But really babe, that hideous colour makes you and your pretty skin complexion look like a pasty piece of dry olive, and I definitely don’t wanna be caught dead by the paparazzi with a walking martini garnish.”

“Ah, yes, a table reservation for Mr. Limp Hair and Dirty Martini.” Jett tutted disapprovingly. His puffy eyes were still mildly watering, and his mouth and cheeks were shaded a raw pink from both the aerosol attack and all the ferocious scouring, and his mussed-up hair was mussier than ever, but he had broken out into a wry smile despite his deplorable condition. “That’s an admittedly great tabloid headline, I’ll give you that much...but such terrible superhero names for the hottest star couple in Hollywood.”

“Hey, at least it’s way better than El Hombre Del Flaming Space Rock Man! Sorry, Litos.”

“Or Bandana Man?”

“Shut up, whore.” James smirked. “Now, about that payment plan…do you take installments?”

“Oh, sure, suuure!” Jett paused and scratched at his head. “Whatever the hell that means. But it sounds great!”

“It should be.”

With this, James brushed back the curling wisps of stray hair on Jett’s face and gently tilted his scruffy chin up with one finger; intent hazel gaze locking with fluttery baby blues as he leaned in and breathlessly closed the small distance between them.

Long after they sealed the deal and finally called off all outstanding debts on each other, the mingling taste of spicy Manilla-Vanilla and soft peppermint still lingered on James’ electrified lips, all the way to the very end of their super fancy-schmancy (and thankfully paparazzi-free) date night. His boyfriend was certainly right about one thing.

Jett Stetson’s kisses were absolutely priceless.

(a/n: yO okay so I’ve never really written slash fics before ever, but my friend Bee and I were joking about James and Jett being OTP idiot bro boyfriends, and once I found this photo of James and David Cade (the one on the cover above), the idea entirely refused to budge from my smooth brain and I slammed this whole fic out at 5 AM, so this is what y’all get. Also, ngl I’m kinda surprised there aren’t more fics with these two together, and I shall fill that void sjsjs. Anyway, maybe I’ll be writing more random fluffy stories of our big time pretty himbos. ( ´ ω ` ) But I’m still hard-pressed to figure out an actual ship forking name for these two. Jamett??? Jatt??? I need answers-

Also, please ignore how stupidly cheesy that ending got, my sleep-starved mind was so blatantly dead when I finished writing this and it shows. Thanks for reading, and I guess also feel free to send prompts and ideas and stuff like that :>)

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