Fandom: Tropic Thunder, Alpa/Lance

Rating: Content is pretty PG, but it's Tropic Thunder so it gets a T for language.

A/N: Extra thanks and love to the fabulous grevling for the beta! You are awesome.

And to fairy_tale_echo, of course, for the great and squeefully flexible prompt. I had a blast with this, thank you!

The whole thing started like this:

Alpa had just gotten back from Vietnam with a severe case of jetlag and an unexplainable urge to go straight to his massive apartment, crawl into bed, and never come out again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he would have also liked a certain former pop idol to join him underneath the covers, but that was just an optional detail. A secret optional detail.

And while he knew the chances of either one of them happening were pretty much zero, Alpa was already running on a short fuse. It didn't help when he had told his personal assistant that he expected nothing less than a pack of ice-cold Booty Sweat, a Bust-A-Nut bar, and a full entourage of scantily dressed women the moment he stepped out of the airport.

That had been over five months ago. Before Vietnam. Before Tropic Thunder. Before that what-the-fucking-hell of an adventure he had.

After drinking and eating nothing but his personal stash of Booty Sweat and Bust-A-Nuts for over a week in the jungle, those were the last things he wanted to put into his mouth. As for scantily dressed women, they would only be an annoyance for him, faux-pimp that he was. Despite his obviously straight reputation, he was very tempted to send them away in a fit of screaming rage in exchange for some peace and quiet.

Of course, with all the shit that happened while filming Tropic Thunder, he couldn't blame himself for being high strung at the moment. His mind was on other things because, and he was hesitant to admit it, he had been homesick ever since that embarrassing night in the jungle when he accidentally dropped the name of that certain former pop idol.

Alpa thought back to it with a slight smile and wince, though the latter was caused more by the fact that Jeff had offered to blow him seconds after. Luckily enough, the rest of the guys hadn't done much ribbing since they were a little preoccupied with trying to rescue Tugg from a crazy gang of druggies led by an even crazier Speedman fanboy with a rocket launcher.

A blinding camera flash brought him back to the present and he squinted beneath his stunner shades. In front of him was a swarm of reporters and fans. All of their shouted questions only encouraged the onset of a huge headache. With an inaudible groan, he dutifully took one long sip from his can of Booty Sweat and threw up a random hand sign that wouldn't get him shot by gangsters.

"Drink Booty Sweat, yo!" he hollered and earned himself several more blinding camera flashes and enough shrieking to sound like a machine gun to the head. He had enough experience from Vietnam to merit the simile.

Somewhere in the crazy mix of media and supporters, he spotted a familiar mop of spiky blond hair in the growing crowd. Alpa actually leaned into the sea of journalists to get a better look, smiling a genuine smile for the first time since he arrived in New York.

There was Lance, hanging back inconspicuously, but staring at Alpa all the same, a look of relief on his face. The former pop star spared a small wave, but didn't do anything else; a CEO who advertised his product through erotic music videos featuring lots of ass-shaking women really shouldn't be seen being welcomed back by his boyfriend.

Alpa's entourage of ladies were still fawning over his shoulders and he realized with a guilty pang that he and Lance hadn't had a real conversation in six months. He was silently grateful that his boyfriend never said or did anything that would even hint about their relationship, even if it meant going through the all extremes like secret phone calls in a bathroom stall when he was suppose to be clubbing with ten other women or visiting each other in the dead of night with the help of a ladder. (The term ladder was actually a hyperbole for limo or private jet for when Lance was in California.)

They couldn't be more than twenty feet apart. With all the cameras focused on him, Alpa was too paranoid by habit to even wave back.

But, fuck it all, he missed Lance.

Normally, he would have enjoyed the media attention, but he was tired, homesick, and had a migraine coming on. Damn right, he was feeling mighty bitchy. Hell, he almost died just a few days ago, and Alpa thought he deserved some time for himself. With Lance.

As a determined reporter waved a microphone in his face and asked rapid questions in the form of gibberish, something horrifically reminiscent of Jeff Portnoy took over Alpa. Before she could finish, he flicked his can of Booty Sweat at her head. Alpa was pretty sure he'd seen Jeff do it to a cameraman as an F-you to the general public. It seemed like a good idea now.

The effect was slightly more dramatic when the reporter fell unconscious to the ground.

After a delicate pause, Alpa realized belatedly that Jeff had done it with a crushed and nearly empty can instead of a newly opened Booty Sweat that had 10% more volume due to a promotion he signed a year ago.

"Oh, shit," he said. Like zombies, the unconscious reporter was replaced with another one. He doubted he would have enough Booty Sweat to hurl at everyone. With a sense of determination he hadn't felt since he ran for his life in Vietnam (which was only last week), Alpa stepped into the mob, looking for Lance. His girls put in a valiant effort trying to stave off the media, but in doing so, they also blocked his way. "Move it, please! Can't a man just get to his limo without--"

"Mr. Chino!" shouted a reported in his ear and was tackled aside before Alpa could even look at him.

"Mr. Chino, is it true that you sustained injuries while filming Tropic Thunder?"

"What happened in Vietnam, Mr. Chino?"

"Alpa, you can love my pussy!"

"Did Tugg Speedman really get kidnapped by a twelve-year old fan?"

Alpa ignored the questions and shoved his way through. He occasionally spotted Lance, but instead of moving closer, they seemed to get further apart.

"Hey, Chino!"

"Mr. Chino--"

For the second time in a span of five minutes, Alpa was aghast to find himself doing yet another Jeff-esque thing.

He snapped.

And while he wasn't exactly delirious like Jeff, judging by the looks people had given him, he might as well have been.

"Can everybody just back the fuck off?" he screamed, "I'm trying to get to my boyfriend."

A sudden hush fell over the mob and Alpa could practically hear his words echo in their heads. Much to his extreme disappointment, it only rooted them to the ground in stunned disbelief. Now they were much less inclined to move out of the way.

Alpa felt the beginnings of a great and wide chasm about to swallow him up, a part of his mind refusing to accept what had just happened. He stood there, mind completely blank.

But Lance-- thank fucking god, Lance-- was cautiously pushing through the gawking fans and reporters, looking a little embarrassed as a few of them silently stepped aside to let him by. Alpa was only vaguely aware of his agent fainting behind him. By the time Lance finally got to Alpa, his grin was only a little shy and bemused.

"Hey," he said and, after a moment, added, "I missed you. Welcome back."

Cameras were flashing again and there were a dozen little red recording lights blinking everywhere. It was as if the crowd had suddenly woken up. The air buzzed, getting steadily louder with questions and exclamations.

"Thanks," Alpa said.

Lance raised his brows, but didn't do much else because Alpa was suddenly leaning forward and kissing him.

To hell with twenty cameras on live TV.

"And I heard you don't have a date for the Oscars," Alpa grinned, drawing away as the reporters practically exploded around them, "And guess what?"

Lance laughed, apparently oblivious to the pandemonium, and for once did not make his usual grimace at the boy band reference.

"It's gonna be me."

End.