advice over orwell and black ops ( bremon )

[Brett Garth]

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After a long day of teaching students about art (translation: pacing back and forth in front of the class and teaching them nothing), Brett was ready and willing to surrender himself completely to the couch. He wanted more than a fleeting hit and run -- he wanted a long, committed relationship.

Stomping on the gas all the way home, Brett squeaked into a parking space (most likely illegal, but he could always recruit Damon to sweet-talk the police department later) and leapt from his vehicle. Then he thundered up the stairs, no doubt waking every other occupant in the building who was home from work at this hour (which was a grand total of one, not including the landlord, whom for waking, he felt no remorse).

Not five minutes had gone by when Brett had stripped of his work clothes and changed into sweatpants, a gray Adidas hoodie, and the most comfortable, attractive, masculine monkey slippers in the history of ever and collapsed in front of the television set. He started only when he realized that amidst all that bustle, he'd neglected to power up the X-Box 360 -- his Valentine's Day present to himself two years ago.

The CoD (no, not the fish -- who cares about them these days?) introduction sequence had just started up when Brett's relaxation was halted in its tracks.

Damon was home.

And Brett didn't like the look on his face.

Without waiting for Damon to set his books or backpack down, Brett snatched a throw pillow off the couch and chucked it across the room, intending for it to strike Damon in his unsuspecting chest.

"Mindslave!" he barked. "Since you're up, fetch me some consumables!"

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WORDS ! two eighty-six (yay small numbers)
TAGS ! damon
OUTFIT ! lounge time for teacher
CREDIT ! lyrics from "The Tempest" by Pendulum, template by zeebra
NOTES ! lezz get some bremon up in this.

[Damon Thorne]

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All the way home, Damon squeezed the life out of his steering wheel. He no longer cared it it broke off of the column and rolled away. At this point, he didn't even care if he were to randomly swerve off the road. The world as he knew it was unhinging. He'd stumbled across a woman with brains, beauty, and wit. And if that wasn't unusual enough, it seemed as though she wanted nothing to do with him, even though she'd openly admitted that he was something to look at. Damon's brows drew tighter together, though he had no idea that was possible, at this point -- he thought they were as tightly woven as they could get. They remained so as he parked his car, stepped out, fumbled with his keys, ignored the goose-flesh creeping up his arms because he refused to wear a coat (despite the chilled temperatures), and made his way up the stairs to his and Brett's apartment complex. They were knitted together still when he opened the door and was immediately struck in the chest by a throw pillow.

The pillow ricocheted off him and dropped to the floor. Absent-minded or no, Lazy Brett couldn't talk Damon into doing his work for him. Damon wordlessly cocked any eyebrow. Then he let go of a long, exasperated sigh. "You have hands. Get some yourself." Holding his backpack to his chest with one hand, Damon reached behind him with the other and pushed the door shut, then returned his keys to the front pocket of his white slacks. As he did so, he caught sight of the footwear Brett wore. A chuckle escaped him. "Nice socks." Damon wandered over to the kitchen slash dining room portion of their flat and set his things down on the counter. Turning, he propped his hands on the counter behind him, leaned against it, and blurted the question he'd been meaning to ask Brett since he walked in the door. "Do you know a Yvonne? She teaches at Lumin with us, so I'm assuming you'd met her at some staff event. About five seven, blood red hair?"

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WORDS ! three sixty-seven
TAGS ! brett-a-tett-tett
OUTFIT ! oink oink
LYRICS ! "With a Little Help From My Friends" by the Beatles
NOTES ! let the bro bondage beginnnn.

[Brett Garth]

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The other man's reaction to Brett's tossing of the pillow was classic Damon.

A sardonic glare accompanied with a pregnant pause.

It was almost Allan Rickman-like, the way Damon stared at people.

Scratch that; it was quite Allan Rickman-like.

When he heard Damon's response, Brett put his best effort into looking incredulous. "Whaaat?" He stressed the "a" for dramatic effect. "You mean these things on the end of my arms are good for something other than pressing controls on a game console?". Folded his arms across his chest. Accompanied this gesture with a sharp incline of his head. "Lies."

By the time Brett had clarified the fact that he was not budging an inch and Damon would have to clothe, feed, and bathe him until the day they were both receiving sponge baths from nurses half their age in retirement homes, Damon had closed the door and commented on Brett's slippers. Just to check what he had on, Brett lowered his gaze. Two creatures bearing strong semblances to sock monkeys stared back at him from around his feet. Needless to say, he was so used to wearing them, he'd forgotten how adorable ridiculous they looked.

Then he looked back up at Damon, only to discover...

"Nice hat."

Damon had a pig on his head.

Continuing to neglect Brett's need for foodstuffs, Damon strode past his couch-ridden roommate, heading instead toward the counter. For a moment, it looked as though he might grab something for Brett.

But he didn't. He just meandered over there to set his stuff down.

"Hmph"ing indignantly, Brett shoved off the couch and crossed over to the kitchen.

As he went, Damon questioned him about a colleague of theirs. The second he heard the name, Brett knew exactly of whom Damon spoke, but he would keep the knowledge to himself until he held a cookie (at the bare minimum) in his hand. He reached the kitchen and set to work rifling through the cabinets.

Whilst rifling, Brett answered his friend without breaking eye contact with the food items in front of him.

"Let's see." He shoved past a packet of Chunky Chips-Ahoy. "Blood red hair, works with us, named Yvonne, semi-kind-of-not-really-tall-ish for a woman?" Thumbed through various frozen pizzas. "Sounds like Yvonne Navarro. She teaches English to the same kids you try and teach history." Grabbed a bag of Lay's barbecue chips and turned to face Damon. "I'd like to get some interrobang action from her, if you know what I mean." Brett waggled his eyebrows.

Then he remembered the look on Damon's face when his best friend walked through the door.

That same look that now marred his features -- the look every man knew was a bad omen.

The Look of Vexation.

Brett's eyes went wide.

"Hang on." He skirted the counter, taking hold of Damon's shoulders. "You're not falling for her, are you?"

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WORDS ! five oh three (ohno, larger numbers)
TAGS ! damon
OUTFIT ! lounge time for teacher
CREDIT ! lyrics from "The Tempest" by Pendulum, template by zeebra
NOTES ! bro bonding = win of epic proportions

[Damon Thorne]

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Same as every other time Brett brought video games into the conversation, Damon ignored him. He cursed the day the infermal contraption known as the X-Box 360 was welcomed into his domicile, but since Brett willingly paid for it himself (as well as faithfully handing over a check for his portion of the rent and groceries each month), Damon kept quiet. Besides, he would admit that video games were a great way to occupy one's mind. However, books were the same, and he prefered their quietude to the racket of shoot-'em-up games like Call of Duty. How much of that game was grounded in reality, anyway? If quite a bit of is were, especially with it being the brand-spanking-new Black Ops edition, Damon might have to politely excuse himself from the American country and start his own micronation. It was possible, and with all those shooter skills that Brett had learned from his incessant gaming, his roommmate would be the perfect one-man army to defend Damonia.

The Junior history teacher resurfaced from these thoughts the second Brett commented on his hat. Reaching up, Damon realized he was still wearing the same pig hat he'd sported since lunch. Or, more specifically, since his prank on Linsee. Of course he'd left it on for the rest of the day -- how else was he supposed to enjoy the spoils of his victory, involving quite a few odd glances and a fair amount of high fives from students he didn't even teach? Saying nothing in response to Brett's comment, he continued on his way to the counter, set down his thing, and turned on Brett, who by this point had made it off the couch and over to the kitchen. While Brett rifled through cabinets in search of a proper after school snack, Damon spat out the question nagging at the back of his mind. Social butterfly that Brett was, Damon wouldn't be surprised if he and Yvonne had already been formally introduced.

... And of course, they had. Brett recognized her with nothing more than the brief description Damon had given him (though in hindsight, blood red hair was a pretty distinct physical feature). In any case, his roommate, helpful as ever told Damon he was thinking of Yvonne Navarro. Navarro, he echoed in his mind, etching that into his memory. Then he heard Brett make some off-color remark and rolled his eyes. "Did you think of that one all by yourself, or do you have a pocket companion on punny grammatical innuendos?" Sadly enough, it wouldn't surprise Damon if the latter were true. Brett didn't leave him much time to dwell on that, however, as the bearded art teacher hastened over to Damon and grabbed him by the shoulders, inquiring as to Damon's feelings toward Yvonne.

Cheeks reddening ever so slightly, Damon adverted his gaze. He reached one hand up to snatch the pig hat off, tossed it on the counter behind him, and scratched the top of his head. He attempted to formulate a response, but the first thing to pop out of his mouth was, "I... err... uh..." Biting his bottom lip, Damon allowed himself a moment to think things through. Not much thinking was done on his part, however. He spent most of the time flashing back to that scene earlier in the teacher's lounge. The confidence she exuded when she stood over him, coffee cup tilted threatingly. Her elegant bone structure and procelain skin. And those eyes. ... Oh, those eyes. Burned forever into his memory. Shaking himself, Damon returned to the present. "I can't say at this point. We met once." He paused, allowing this time to sink in. There was no telling what Brett would do if he learned the true nature of Damon's feelings. Not that Damon had a clue what said feelings were at that particular moment, but still. Brett jumped on the idea of Damon falling for someone rather quickly. Damon added, "And she threatened to pour hot coffee somewhere it ought not be poured." Only then did he chance a glance at Brett. "So I doubt it matters if I am. Not to her, anyway."

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WORDS ! seven ten
TAGS ! brett-a-tett-tett
OUTFIT ! oink oink
LYRICS ! "With a Little Help From My Friends" by the Beatles
NOTES ! you're my muse fair x]

[Brett Garth]

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Did he have a pocket companion filled with punny grammatical innuendos? What a stupid question. This was Brett Michael Garth we're talking about. He had pocket companions of mexican jokes, black jokes, asian jokes, white jokes (yes, they exist), blond jokes, brunette jokes, Chuck Norris facts, short jokes, tall jokes, fat jokes, skinny jokes, "Yo Momma" jokes...

You name it, Brett had it in his pockets.

(Disclaimer: This excludes illegal substances, such as drugs. Do not ask Brett for Coke, because unless you mean the beverage, he will politely point you toward the nearest enforcer of the law.)

"As a matter of fact, I do. Page 8." Just to prove this fact, Brett dug into the pocket on the front of his sweatshirt. When he pulled his hand out, it pinched between its digits a pocket guide. An "aha!" escaped the art teacher. He elevated the guide so Damon could see it. "See?" Returning it to his pocket, Brett then continued on his way across the flat to the kitchen.

Then he rifled through the cabinets, found some barbecue chips, and answered Damon's question about Yvonne Navarro. Simultaneously, he realized why Damon was asking about her in the first place. The Look of Vexation told all. Just to be sure he wasn't making something out of nothing, he skirted the counter and interrogated Damon for further confirmation.

The second the history teacher took off his pig hat and scratched his head, Brett knew the answer.

It was a relief to know that Damon could feel something toward another human being.

Brett knew Damon nurtured affable feelings toward him, but Brett always assumed that that was because he was awesome. It was a commonly known fact. However, sensing the potential danger of an infatuation with Yvonne, Brett decided he must intercede. On Damon's behalf.

Not because Yvonne was hot and he wanted to ask her out himself.

He slapped Damon's shoulder with the bag of chips. "You're Damon Thorne!" Released the other man's shoulders and stepped back to allow him some breathing room. "Chicks are supposed to dig you, not the other way around."

Tearing the bag open, Brett left Damon and wandered back toward the couch. "Besides, Yvonne's got a bit of a reputation." He popped a chip in his mouth. "And I know you like to play emotionally distant, but really, you're yearning for something lasting and stable." Shrugged. "She might not be the best for you."

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WORDS ! four seventeen (ohyay back to short counts! x])
TAGS ! damon
OUTFIT ! lounge time for teacher
CREDIT ! lyrics from "The Tempest" by Pendulum, template by zeebra
NOTES ! Maniacal Brett is a maniacal mofo.

[Damon Thorne]

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After his clever question-dodging, Damon was certain of the impending earful from Brett. He waited for it -- the trademarked cocky grin, as though he'd just beaten the highest level in that bloody video game he tirelessly played, the one-liners sure to draw the ghost of a smile from Damon's otherwise dead features, and the puerile bragging that ensued the revelation of Damon's "inner-most secrets". Oh, Damon waited. But neither of these occurred. Well, there was one wry comment to which Damon cracked a smile, but apart from that, nothing happened as normal. Rather than assume the role of braggadocios five-year-old, Brett took a different approach -- and one that involved smacking Damon with a bag of barbecue potato chips (which, in hindsight, was none too surprising -- potatoes had always been Brett's weapon of choice). After the chip smack, Brett tossed off his usual one-liner, then bounced right along, offering up some bullshit excuse as to why Yvonne was... wait for it... Not a suitable option. Because she was a player. And Damon was a closet softie.

Which came as more of a surprise, it's hard to say. On the one hand, one would assume that being himself, Damon would already be aware of the fact that he secretly kindled feelings of compassion, and other such human emotions. However, one would be neglecting the fact that Damon had denied himself the luxury of such attachments since the death of... She Who Will Not Be Named. And then there was the matter of Yvonne. Having known her a grand total of forty-five minutes, and having not talked after the first ten or so, Damon couldn't truthfully say he knew her at all. While her temperament suggested she wouldn't be pushed around by anyone, and wasn't seduced so easily by the idea of another human being pushing past her coarse exterior and - er, how to phrase this tastefully - "plundering her dungeon". But books could never be judged by their covers. As far as he was aware, Yvonne could spend her weekends twirling around a pole, slowly relinquishing each article of clothing to swarming masses of the immoral (I've just thrown tastefulness out the window, haven't I?). Then Damon remembered with whom he was speaking, and deduced Brett's ulterior motive (simultaneously realizing that the art teacher had been joking with his quip about Damon's emotional neediness).

Free from the grasp of the long-haired mofo, Damon meandered toward the couch, his eyebrows raised in a delicate arch. "Damn," he offered, guarded. "You figured me out." Yanking a pillow from the couch, he lobbed it across the flat with every intention of striking his chum. Once the pillow had either hit its mark or fallen, Damon cleared his throat. "And you're sure you're not just yearning for her interrobang action yourself?" He flopped backward onto the couch, purposely stealing Brett's seat. "Before you answer that, you should know that if it's true, you're being a crap friend." Damon entreated Brett with wide, pained eyes and a pouting bottom lip. "Being a crap friend breaks the circle of trust and makes for an unstable relationship. In my weak emotional state, think of the trauma you'd cause me by lying." Then, guffawing to no one in particular, he let his gaze wander across the television screen and finished, "It's not like she'd want you anyway."

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WORDS ! five sixty-one
TAGS ! brett-a-tett-tett
OUTFIT ! oink oink
LYRICS ! "With a Little Help From My Friends" by the Beatles
NOTES ! let's move this plot along...

[Brett Garth]

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Ducking, Brett managed to avoid the pillow Damon threw at him. Instead, it knocked a metal cookie jar off the counter. The jar clanked against the tiled floor, irritating Brett's ears and causing him to miss Damon's remark. He caught the word "interrobang," however, and was able to infer from that what his room mate had been saying. "Of course I want to hit that," Brett replied, playing up his sleazy side. "Any man with eyes would want to hit that. And, if we can trust hearsay, every man with eyes has hit that."

As Brett crossed the room, he listened to Damon deride him. Calling him a crap friend. Telling him he was straining their relationship. And throwing in a quip about how such actions could cause him trauma in his fragile emotional state. Brett threw his head back, a bark of laughter tearing from his throat.

Classic Damon.

The man was brilliant.

Taking a seat next to his closet genius home boy, Brett feigned a look of incredulity. "Why wouldn't she want this?" he challenged, gesturing toward his body. "I'll tell her I'm Jesus, and I've come to 'forgive her sins.'" He accompanied the last bit with a kinky eyebrow wiggle.

After letting that sink in a moment he placed a hand on Damon's knee. The gesture was supposed to imply that serious business ensued. "Honestly, I'm trying to talk you out of this because I don't want to see you hurt." To keep the tone light, he added, "You remember what happened the last time you got hurt, remember? After that run-in with Miss Priss art teacher?" Who also happens to be a total babe, he added in his head. "All that sulking and brooding? Not cool, man. Not cool."

Sighing, he leaned back in his heat and folded his arms behind his head. "But if you really want to go for it, I suppose I can't stop you." Then a thought occurred to him. The best way to keep Damon away from Eve was to preoccupy him with some other bonny lass. And Brett knew just the one.

"But, before you try developing a relationship with a stranger, you might want to fix the one you have with Isabella. After all, we have to work with the woman until she gets sick of America and flees to England. Might as well clear the air, so you don't have to barf every time you see her face."

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WORDS ! four twenty-two
TAGS ! damon
OUTFIT ! lounge time for teacher
CREDIT ! lyrics from "The Tempest" by Pendulum, template by zeebra
NOTES ! Maniacal Brett is a maniacal mofo.

[Damon Thorne]

͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊ ͊

Graciously ignoring Brett's comment on Eve's sexual activity, Damon continued his spiel about his roommate being a crap friend, seeing it through the very last. Then his gaze flickered to Brett's face, so he could watch the art teacher process his words. Which, as it turns out, took little time at all. Rather than commenting on the whole thing at once, Brett spat out an immediate retort to the bit at the end about Eve not wanting him, no matter how badly Brett wanted her. Damon couldn't help but smile at Brett's joke. He'd never been what one might call "religious", but just about every member of the human race had seen pictures of Jesus depicted with long hair. True, Brett wasn't a brunette, but that could be easily amended. That set Damon off on a mental tangent of Brett sneaking into some woman's room and standing over her bed, dressed in a white robe, arms stretched out to heaven. When the woman woke screaming, Brett would say, "Do not be afraid. I am Jesus Christ, and I have come to forgive your sins."

Startled from this daydream by the hand on his knee, Damon resurfaced to Brett expressing how much the art teacher cared for him. Though he'd deny it, swearing up and down that it wasn't true, if anyone confronted him about it, Damon's heart warmed at the thought that someone else on the planet did sincerely care. And, despite the fact that he was nothing more than a bearded man-child, Damon was honored that that someone was Brett. Laughing wryly at Brett's following comment, then said, "Thanks, man. I would say I'd care if you got hurt, but given the fact that you suffer from chronic optimism, I'd imagine I won't live to see the day."

A sinking sensation hit it with Brett's next words. But, Damon had to admit, the bearded man-child had a point. How could Damon expect to make any ground with Eve if he couldn't even stay int he same room with a woman for more than five minutes without sparking a heated conversation with her? If there was any way to master his temper, suffering through an apology to Izzy would do it. But how best to apologize? He couldn't very well catch her in the hall -- that wouldn't prove that he could curb his anger long enough to last an entire date. Then his stomach sank even farther with the realization of what he must do. He'd have to take Izzy out. Maybe to dinner. Or a movie. A movie would be better, since there would be no pressure on them to talk, but Damon didn't feel like sitting through a crap film with a teacher he couldn't stand. It was better to go to dinner. That way, he would get something substantial (i.e., food) out of the deal. He sighed. "You win" Rubbing his brow, he then continued. "I'll take her to dinner this Friday. See if that'll patch things up."

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WORDS ! five twenty-eight
TAGS ! brett-a-tett-tett
OUTFIT ! oink oink
LYRICS ! "With a Little Help From My Friends" by the Beatles
NOTES ! YAY CRAPPOST!