Someone wrote in [community profile] siliconvalleykink 2015-09-23 10:15 pm (UTC)

FILL: Ron LaFlamme/Richard

Richard should just drink all the time. He will. He’ll do that from now on. Executive decision, hereby approved by fifty percent of the Pied Piper board, because this is how he should always feel: confident, awesome, like he could open his mouth without even thinking about it and the perfect words would just tumble out.

Like: “Holy shit, you’re wearing the fuck out of that toga.”

See? For a guy who holds his hands up to having no game at all, that must have been pretty smooth, because Ron LaFlamme isn’t looking at him weirdly or making excuses to go talk to Peter’s professional party-eye-candy. He’s smiling, actually, pausing halfway through writing down Erlich’s name on his phone to flash a grin at Richard.

“That’s sweet of you, Rich, thanks.”

Sober-Richard cringes inside when people call him Rich. Drunk-Richard loves that they’re this close already. “I mean it,” he tells Ron. He has to lean in close to be heard above Flo Rida. “I was telling my friends earlier about how I don’t have game, and I think it’s because there’s only a finite distribution in the world and guys like you are hoarding a whole Olympics to yourselves.”

“Come on, you have game, Richie. The whole college dorm look you’re rocking, like you actually took real sheets off of a bunk bed? Classic, I love it.”

Ron is such a nice person, and he has the prettiest mouth Richard’s ever seen on a guy in his whole life.

Which he proceeds to tell him, because why the fuck not. People should compliment each other more.

“Richard!” Erlich barks from behind the camera – actually his phone, but he says this is going to be an Academy-Award winning documentary one day – “Friends don’t let friends make drunken decisions re: sucking semi-co-workers’ dicks, even at the fancy kind of office party with cocaine statues. Leave the nice lawyer alone to draw up that new board contract.”

“On it, champ.” He gives Richard a quick one-armed hug, and when he did that this morning it felt weird and fake and bro-y but they’re friends now and Richard feels okay hugging him back a little bit. “Give me a call some time if you ever feel like making a sober decision about your semi-co-workers,” Ron says before he pulls away, just for him, not the camera. “If not, totally cool, either way.”

Seven or eight hours later, after Erlich’s showed him an excruciatingly embarrassing video on his phone but before any memory of the party’s returned, Richard squints in hungover confusion at the business card he finds tangled in his toga sheet, a cell number neatly printed across the back.

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