twentysomething: (idk my bff zach)
Title: His Hair Is So Big Because It's Full of Secrets

Fandom: Reboot RPS

Pairing: Gen, although it can be read Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto, if you're so inclined.

Summary: "You look like if the Sons of Anarchy had a sad little twink friend," Zach says by way of greeting, plopping down with the largest chai iced latte he could scare the barista into giving him.

Length: 800 wordsish.

Warnings: Chris Pine will never be a successful International Man of Mystery. Mean Girls.

Notes: So, [personal profile] leupagus had an awful, terrible, horrible, stinky, no-good day. This, apparently and allegedly, cheered her up.

[personal profile] twentysomething: ugh why am i posting this
[personal profile] leupagus: Because you love me?
Sent at 1:09 AM on Monday
[personal profile] twentysomething: yes.
that can be the only reason.
[personal profile] leupagus: Heee
I am love, bb
Sent at 1:11 AM on Monday
[personal profile] twentysomething: unfortunately, true.

Zach doesn't have the Madness that leads to punching paps and wearing hideous over-sized sunglasses in an attempt to hide his face, or black eyes, or coke-related under eye bags. (He wears his over-sized sunglasses because he is a hipster and he has accepted that, since the androgynous counter biscuit at American Apparel knows him by name.) But Chris does, he has it in spades, which explains but doesn't excuse the fucking mustache and 'do-rag ensemble that's waiting for him in the corner of the anonymous Silverlake Starbucks they're meeting in this week.

"You look like if the Sons of Anarchy had a sad little twink friend," Zach says by way of greeting, plopping down with the largest chai iced latte he could scare the barista into giving him. God, he can't wait until they release that new caffeine-induced-heart-attack size, whatever the fuck bastard faux-Italian thing they're calling it. Chris stares at him with large, watery blue eyes.

"I think I'm allergic to this spirit gum," he admits. Zach stares at the horseshoe mustache, drooping its way off of Chris's stupid face.

"I think I'm allergic to you, you dumb shit. Now the headlines will read "Chris Pine, Stupidly Optimistic About Skills of Disguise," not "Chris Pine, Likes Over-Priced Lattes," you twat." Zach argues fondly. Chris sighs, blowing the ends of the Hulk Hoganesque 'stache into the foam on his macchiato.

Next week, Chris seems to be wearing a mop on his head.

"I seriously cannot believe that you called me out of bed with an extremely well-waxed 24 year old to come watch you reenact Bottle Shock, you filthy hippie," Zach complains, sipping at his chai and trying to ignore the vibration of his phone in his pocket. Clingy, Avery. (Or was it Waverly? Christ, he could never get these little bastards' names right.) Chris just smiles at him, that big doofy grin that reminds Zach sadly of Noah given an extra block of walkies.

"So, you did see it," Chris says smugly and Zach hisses, but because he's a fucking actor, covers.

"Not on purpose. I was channel surfing and thought you were Scarlett Johansson. I was horrified to discover the movie was about wine, it's far too classy for you, I can't even get you to drink Arbor Mist." Zach flicks a balled up straw wrapper off the table with studied nonchalance, but Christ is still beaming like a golden retriever with below-average intelligence, anyway.

They don't manage to meet up for two and a half weeks, but Zach nearly shrieks like the time he found a spider the size of a fucking dinner plate in his shower when he sees Chris.

Chris rubs a hand thoughtfully over his abomination of scraggly beard.

"I kind of like it," Chris says, clearly thinking it makes him look intellectual with his big fuck-off glasses that he stole from Zach, but in all reality it just makes him look like he gives blowjobs under bridges for liquor money, and tells Chris as much. Chris laughs, obnoxious and delighted and talks about getting a pimp for fifteen minutes straight.

Zach goes home, orders him a kit from Molton Brown and the next time Zach gets a Google Alert that Chris has been hissing at the paps all over Santa Monica, at least he's clean shaven.

He's trying to ignore the three 17 year olds trying to get up the nerve to talk to him (he figures it's impolite to watch them fail all over each other, with shoves and giggles, he'll pay attention when they make a move) when Chris sits down across from him, hair on the cusp of needing a trim, but with no artificial or real growths on his face, no disguise of any kind.

"So, it came to my attention that I was being a drama queen," Chris says by way of greeting and Zach just settles for raising his eyebrows.

"So, you mean Zoe sent Jeff Morgan to scare you," Zach replies calmly, because Zoe had sent him several irate texts with escalating amounts of capitalization to that end last week.

"Look, he's scary okay? I wasn't sure whether he wanted to murder me or have sex with me. Maybe both," Chris hedges. "But I realize now, my disguises were not having the desired effect." Zach crosses his ankles primly. This should be good.

"Meaning, they didn't disguise me," Chris adds, as if Zach is the one who wandered all over LA for a solid three months looking like the world's worst International Man of Mystery. Zach rolls his eyes.

"No shit, Sherlock," he says, but Chris looks defeated and crestfallen and Zach is way too good for this, but he downs the rest of his berry tea with a long swallow and stands up.

"Come on loser, we're going shopping. There are fedoras and Olsen twin coke-shield glasses all over this town just waiting for you. Besides, it'll be fall soon, we should get you some trench coats, so you can look like an informant circa 1970, it'll be great." Zach injects as much sarcasm into his voice as possible, but he's smiling and so is Chris, so fuck it.

There's probably a striped tank top in this town he hasn't bought yet, anyway.


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