Rating: PG-13 for cussing!
Pairing: Nick/Tyson, DUH.
Word count: 2.018
Disclaimer: If you found yourself by searching your name? Leave. Please. I BEG YOU.
Summary: It's stupid, their fight. Tyson knows this, but he still throws down his napkin and storms out of the nice little restaurant Nick took him to, all the while muttering and hissing nasty words to himself, words his mama would wash out his mouth with soap for.
Tyson recalls their fight and stuff that happens on New Years Eve.
Author's note: First fic in a while, kids! Beta'ed by my darling, aboutademongirl. ♥ Dedicated to the epicness that is Nick and Tyson [who should leave if they're reading this, jus' sayin']. ♥
It's stupid, their fight. Tyson knows this, but he still throws down his napkin and storms out of the nice little restaurant Nick took him to, all the while muttering and hissing nasty words to himself, words his mama would wash out his mouth with soap for.
He hasn't been this angry in a long time, and Tyson feels a lot like he could explode at any given moment. Thinking back, he doesn't even remember what he got so angry about, but it was somehow related to something Nick said and how he said it, to the anxiety caused by the tour being over and shit.
Before he knows it, he's at home, with no idea as to how he got there, slamming doors shut and letting out angry screams. He storms into their shared bedroom, grabs Nick's pillows and his blanket, and throws them down the stairs.
As he stands, fuming, looking down at the rumpled sheets, he contemplates pulling down his pants and pissing on Nick's stuff, but, luckily, Tyson isn't that mad. He grabs a glass of coke and empties it over them instead, because that's just nasty, and he knows Nick won't be sleeping peacefully tonight. It's probably the worst he can do without Nick punching him in the face.
Tyson nods to himself with a satisfied grin on his face, before he turns around on his heels and walks back into their bedroom. It looks empty in there, and his heart aches at the thought of sleeping alone at night.
He thinks about maybe apologizing and letting the evidence of his anger vanish, simply stuffing the blanket and pillows into the cleaner, but, of course, at that very moment, Nick chooses to walk into the house.
Saying that Nick is really fucking unamused or even infuriated doesn't quite cover it, and Tyson can't help but bring his hands up to his ears when Nick lets out what sounds like a really angry roar.
“Ritter, what the fuck were you thinking?!” Nick yells as he tramples up the stairs. He bursts into their bedroom, and the door slams against the wall with a crash.
Nick grabs Tyson by the arms, shaking him as he hisses, “Are you completely out of your fucking mind?” Tyson isn't some fragile young thing, but, apparently, Nick is a lot stronger than him when he's pissed, and his arms are actually starting to hurt.
Tyson knows this is probably the moment where he should sink to his knees, look pretty and beg for Nicky's forgiveness, choking out sobs and tears, but, instead, he straightens, hitting and clawing at Nick's arms to throw them off him.
“Don't fucking touch me,” he snaps, brows furrowed and jaw set tightly.
The look on Nick's face isn't something Tyson ever, ever wants to see again. Nick's whole face seems to soften, and Tyson watches with a cold expression on his face as Nick's eyes fill with tears. The guitarist swallows hard.
A voice in the back of Tyson's head screams and wails at him to fucking look at him, you goddamned fucking idiot! Look at him and fucking tell him you're fucking sorry!, but Tyson shakes it off and brushes past Nick, his bony shoulder brushing roughly against Nick's own as he storms out of the room. Tyson can practically hear Nick wincing in pain.
He doesn't stop, doesn't go back and apologize. He jumps down the stairs, grabs his jacket and leaves the house, slamming the door shut behind him. Now that he thinks back, he's kind of surprised the door still works and doesn't have at least some marks on it. When he checks, it's as good as new.
By the time Tyson returns, the sun has been gone for hours and it's dark outside. Tyson fumbles with the keys, and it takes him a while to get the door open. He quietly closes the door behind himself. Nick is nowhere to be seen, and while Tyson thinks he should be glad (at least this way, neither of them will be able to start another fight), his heart feels like somebody's wrapped a fist around his heart and is squeezing with all their might.
He stumbles forward, hand clutched to his chest, face scrunched up in pain. “Dammit,” Tyson mutters, pressing his eyes shut.
It takes a few minutes to compose himself, but then he toes off his shoes, kicking them into the little corner he and Nick deemed 'the shoe corner', and tip-toes upstairs. Tyson pushes open the bedroom door, and there Nick is.
His lead guitarist sits on the bed, face held in his hands. He looks so, so tired, like he aged several years during the time Tyson was gone.
Tyson wants to apologize, knows he needs to, but, instead, he leans against the door frame and crosses his arms in front of his chest, waiting for Nick to say something.
Nick breaks the silence. “You can have the bed.” He gets up and avoids looking Tyson in the eyes as he brushes past, angling his body away from Tyson so they don't touch.
This is not what Tyson wants, but, of course, he doesn't reach out to touch Nick, doesn't pull him back into his arms... doesn't tell him he's sorry and I love you, please forgive me.
Nick leaves the door open, and Tyson closes it before he drops onto the bed. He knows that if he isn't able to sleep tonight, it won't be because of his insomnia.
He spends night after night lying there, awake awake awake. The bed is too cold, the room is too big, the noises are too loud. Long story short: Tyson misses Nick, but he's too fucking proud to apologize.
Tyson doesn't know how he makes it through those nine days they don't talk for without having a nervous breakdown (even worse than the one he had when they recorded their latest album). They don't even look each other in the eyes. He feels like he should run outside, barefoot, in just his boxers, hair a fucking mess, wailing and crying and throwing a fit for everyone to see, so that everybody knows just how fucking much he misses his Nicky, and how goddamned stupid he is.
The days seem to drag on, but then it's New Years Eve, and he finds himself standing in their bathroom, trying to do something about his hair. He puts on a white shirt, throws on a nice looking jacket, even though all he wants to do is hole up in his room and wait until he fucking dies, but, hell, his friends expect him to be out there, partying. When Tyson meets up with them, he barely has the energy to wave and fake a grin.
During dinner, Tyson sits at the far end of the table, with Nick right beside him. In his head, he curses out the fucking moron that decided this would be a great idea, but on the outside, he smiles, even snaps a picture and tweets about it.
Damn Twitter, he thinks. Somehow, he recalls their fight involving that damn site. He lightly shakes his head, before stuffing his phone back into the pocket of his pants.
Digging his fork into his food, Tyson barely resists the urge to drop his face into one hand, huffing out a heavy sigh, before exclaiming, “Fuck this. It's not a party if Nick and I aren't making out.”
But he doesn't.
When he manages to put some of the food onto his fork and even gets it into his mouth, a foot suddenly slides next to his, the tip of it touching his ankle.
Tyson leans back casually, trying to peer under the table to find out whose foot it is. He barely avoids spitting out his food.
It's Nick's foot against his ankle, and fuck Tyson if this doesn't put a smile on his face. He settles back into his chair and finally digs into his food with gusto, pretending he doesn't know a thing when Nick shifts beside him, his foot slipping slightly under the bottom of Tyson's pants.
From then on, it kind of feels like Tyson's looking at this party from a totally different angle, and the smile that crosses his face is a genuine one.
He wanders around, starting up conversations, joking around with people. Everything feels like it’s almost back to normal, and he’d be lying if he didn’t like it. There’s just one thing missing, Tyson knows, so he politely excuses himself to look for said thing.
It's twenty-eight minutes to midnight when Tyson finds Nick, standing in a corner all by himself, drink in hand.
“Hey, you,” Tyson says quietly, leaning one shoulder against the wall next to Nick.
Nick ducks his head, then tilts it to the side to look at Tyson shyly. “Hey, yourself,” he answers, before bringing his hand up to mess with his own hair.
They're quiet for a while, and Tyson looks up, back at Nick.
“You got-” he starts, lifting his hand to pluck at a lonely strand of Nick's hair that's sticking up. The second his hand reaches its destination, Nick's shoots up, wrapping around Tyson's wrist.
“I miss you,” he whispers, an edge of desperation to his voice. “I... I can't stand it anymore. Please, Tyson.”
Tyson feels his throat tightening, and gulps hard. He wants to say something, even clears his throat and takes a deep breath to start, when a shout interrupts them.
“Thirty seconds 'til the New Year!” Parker, one of their friends, yells, excitedly waving before making his way to his girlfriend.
Tyson's face lights up, and he grabs Nick by the hand, twisting his fingers so they entwine with Nick's, and pulls him to the middle of the room. “C'mon, Nicky!” When Nick plants his heels to the ground, bringing them to a stop, Tyson practically squeaks indignantly.
“What're you doing, Ty?” Nick hisses, a confused look on his face.
“Five!” the crowd starts.
“Something I should've done days ago!” Tyson tries to explain.
“But what...?” Nick still doesn't seem to have grasped Tyson's train of thought, and he tries to wiggle out of Tyson's hold.
“Just wait and see!” Tyson calls over the noise, a grin on his face.
Nick lets out a sigh, his free hand dropping to his side as he pulls a face. “Tyson, would you please...”
As soon as the clock hits twelve and the fireworks start behind them, Tyson grabs Nick and pulls him in, pressing their lips together.
A surprised noise leaves Nick's mouth, but he brings up his free hand to hold on to Tyson's face, and Tyson can feel his lips curving into a wide smile.
As if from a distance, Tyson hears cheering, but fuck it, it's New Years Eve, people could be cheering for the fireworks instead of for them.
While Tyson licks into Nick’s mouth, he listens to the fireworks being lighted, hears the sounds the make as they race into the sky before exploding, lightening the sky in pink, green, yellow and other colors he really can’t think of.
Bringing his hand up, Tyson curls it around Nick’s neck, the tips of his fingers catching on the hair at the base of Nick’s neck.
When they part what feels like hours later, Tyson slowly opens his eyes, sheepishly blinking at the people surrounding them with their cameras and cellphones still in the air, aimed at Nick and him.
“About fucking time, too!” someone yells, clapping Tyson on the back so he stumbles forward, straight into Nick's arms.
Nick presses his face into Tyson's collarbone, before mumbling, “Happy New Year, fucker.”
Tyson has the feeling that not only is 2010 going to fucking rock, but it's going to be one of the best ever.