bunny_sul (bunny_sul) wrote in alternativslash,
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alternativslash

Fic: Untitled #2 (Limp Bizkit RPF)

Untitled (#2)
Author/translator: Bunny Sul
Beta: TerryBolger
Fandom: Limp Bizkit
Pairing: Wes Borland/Sam Rivers (rather pre-slashy, hope it's okay here)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: this story is pure fiction and has no relation to real life; I don’t know any of Limp Bizkit members personally, this story has been written out of deepest admiration for them, and I don’t wish to harm them or their reputation. I don’t make any profit from this either.
Description: this drabble has been written for LB&LP “New Year Surprises” Fest (http://elquadra.ru/fanfiction/new-year-surprises/). Time set – after Wes’ comeback in 2009.
Originally written in Russian: http://elquadra.ru/fics/almost-touch/
A/N: 1) English is not my native language, so sorry for any possible mistakes; 2) I kindly ask you to review if you’ve read it. Because this fandom seems to be so damn rare and I’m looking for the like-minded people.))

 

 

It’s almost touching. Almost is the key since at the last moment, as if he’s come to his senses, Sam takes his hand away and puts his left arm around his own shoulders awkwardly. Trying to hide his embarrassment, this moment of weakness from bandmates, other guests, photographers, from everyone. To be sure he won’t touch strained and a little trembling Wes’ fingers.

 “A coward”, Wes thinks and hides his hands into the pockets.

 It appears to be hot here. It would be so cozy to wear a dark grey pullover: the whole world would be just as subdued and warm as it was, and Wes would be saved by soft armor of cotton and viscose. But if Wes doesn’t take it off, Limp Bizkit will lose their guitarist by the end of the evening – he’ll just fall victim to the stuffy heat.
 After the pullover problemsolved shortly and a shirt left on Wes is in hurry to join his bandmates  who are taking their sits… He has loitered just for five seconds, but Sam has already sit between Fred and Lee.

 “A slowpoke”, Wes is angrily about lost chance to have a talk and noisily moves the last empty chair back.

 They bring the band champagne. Of course they do, because Limp Bizkit are the risen from ashes rock-stars, who came to the close, crowded, pompous Christmas party. Alcohol should’ve helped, it always is encouraging, but half an hour later Wes finds himself amusing some complete strangers with stupid jokes, and Sam is lost somewhere on the opposite side of the large hall. Alone. Wes’d bet Sam’s sitting there all alone and counting bubbles in his glass.

 “An idiot”, Wes gets completely mad and drink his champagne at a gulp. It has suddenly become flat and disgustingly sour.

 Yeah, Sam’s sitting alone. He doesn’t know whether Wes is going to stay with them for a long this time. He doesn’t know whether Wes needs him. He just doesn’t know whether it worths if he  did something or it is going to end with typically adult-tired-calm-words, torn strings and everlasting chain of even more awkward moments after. After letting yourself believe and try again – and being sadly mistaking.

 “A coward”, Wes says to himself, “Borland, you’re just a coward. A descendant of the stern Vikings, my ass… Also you’re a real slowpoke. But you know what? I give you a chance not to be a complete idiot. Come on, don’t lose it. Go up to him and say something… say something right. 

And he does come up to the table Sam is sitting at.
And he really does open his mouth to say something right.
And under the intent gaze of these green eyes Wes says, “You know, today, when the city collapsed in traffic jam and I decided to get here by subway, a detail under the subway car was clanging like some Christmas bells”.
Probably, any other person would reckon Borland right among “complete idiots”. But Sam just gives him a small smile and puts his glass aside.

 

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