pancake! at the disco (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} focusfixated) wrote,@ 2007-09-13 17:08:00 |
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Fic -- A Night at the VMAs (Or How Joe Trohman Finally Got Into Andy Hurley's Pants.) -- One-shot.
Title: A Night at the VMAs (Or How Joe Trohman Finally Got Into Andy Hurley's Pants.)
Chapter: One-shot.
Word count: ~6,800
Fandom: Decaydance bands
Pairings: Pete/Patrick, Bill/Travis, Gabe/Ryan, Brendon/Justin Timberlake (ohmygod, I know), Brendon/Spencer, Joe/Andy.
POV: 3rd, alternating
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I know no one and own nothing
Summary: "Jesus," Andy says, looking down at his own glass of water. “Did they put something in the drinks?"
Author's Notes: I don't even know. This was spawned from a post bydisarm_d (wtf, why can't I think of fic ideas of my own accord anymore?) following the video from the VMAs where Gabe is Gabe-like & Ryan Ross is drunk. And then there was 14-odd pages of non-chronological, POV-switching, multi-pairing VMA shennanigans. Also, let's pretend RL significant others just don't exist for the moment, mmkay? Sidenote: there is no Justin Timberlake porn, here. Sorry to disappoint. I swear, I tried, but it just -- wasn't happening. xD
Title: A Night at the VMAs (Or How Joe Trohman Finally Got Into Andy Hurley's Pants.)
Chapter: One-shot.
Word count: ~6,800
Fandom: Decaydance bands
Pairings: Pete/Patrick, Bill/Travis, Gabe/Ryan, Brendon/Justin Timberlake (ohmygod, I know), Brendon/Spencer, Joe/Andy.
POV: 3rd, alternating
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I know no one and own nothing
Summary: "Jesus," Andy says, looking down at his own glass of water. “Did they put something in the drinks?"
Author's Notes: I don't even know. This was spawned from a post by
disarm_d (wtf, why can't I think of fic ideas of my own accord anymore?) following the video from the VMAs where Gabe is Gabe-like & Ryan Ross is drunk. And then there was 14-odd pages of non-chronological, POV-switching, multi-pairing VMA shennanigans. Also, let's pretend RL significant others just don't exist for the moment, mmkay? Sidenote: there is no Justin Timberlake porn, here. Sorry to disappoint. I swear, I tried, but it just -- wasn't happening. xD A Night at the VMAs (Or How Joe Trohman Finally Got Into Andy Hurley's Pants.)
Ryan smiles, slow and lazy, kind of enjoying the way there’s this split-second delay between his brain and his eyes, so that everything moves in hazy, languid motion. It’s comforting, almost, like a bubble between him and whatever’s outside. He doesn’t feel stupid, or crazy, or sick. He just feels warm and loose.
Ryan smiles, slow and lazy, kind of enjoying the way there’s this split-second delay between his brain and his eyes, so that everything moves in hazy, languid motion. It’s comforting, almost, like a bubble between him and whatever’s outside. He doesn’t feel stupid, or crazy, or sick. He just feels warm and loose.
Interrupting his alcohol-dulled musings, someone calls him over. “Hey Ryan. Ryan Ross!”
Ryan finds himself standing beside Gabe Saporta, who’s looking down at him with a cocky grin, energy radiating from his skin. He’s got – he’s got a hat on, Ryan notices. Ryan likes Gabe, kind of a lot, because Gabe’s like a spring, all tightly-coiled vivacity in a lanky frame, and he pretty much bounces onstage, smiling and looking for all the world like there’s nothing that could be more fun, ever. Ryan totally admires that.
Gabe’s interviewing him, or something. Ryan unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and tries to make it work, but it’s surprisingly heavy, and the words aren’t falling out quite right. He smiles to himself. “Stupid, Ross,” he chides, and almost giggles, then almost giggles some more because – well, the ludicrousness of the fact that he’s actually that close to breaking out into giggles.
Gabe’s still talking, and Ryan thinks detachedly that Gabe doesn’t make the best interviewer, because he’s kind of – he just takes up a lot of space. Ryan’s not sure what that means, but it’s kind of like being eclipsed by something big and shiny. He doesn’t even know if Gabe’s really listening to him, but then, Ryan probably isn’t making a lot of sense.
He watches Gabe instead, trying to keep up with his questions and smiling in the right places, except he’s feeling so pleasantly warm and buzzed, he’s pretty much smiling constantly. Gabe, he thinks, as his eyes flicker randomly across Gabe’s coat of choice for the evening – beige, instead of his usual purple, and Ryan thinks that’s kind of a shame – Gabe is sort of. Well, he looks nice.
It’s not like – Ryan doesn’t not pay attention, usually. It’s just that he’s always pretty busy with something. Words to write, pieces to compose, life to live. Ryan – he focuses. And that might just get in the way of appreciating other people and how things look. Like now, how Gabe’s skin looks all warm and kind of glows under the bright lights, and how dark his eyes are. Huh, Ryan thinks. Gabe’s eyes. There’s something he’d never really paid attention to before.
Once again, something interrupts his train of thought, and Ryan realises he’s being called away. He wonders if it’s his slow, muggy brain that’s making Gabe look sort of disappointed, or if – well. If it’s something else. He leans in for a hug (because there’s a warm liquid in his veins and he’s suddenly, inexplicably touchy) and decides that a hug from Gabe Saporta is pretty much awesome. He’s not sure why, exactly, but he’s comfortable despite the complete lack of substance on his bones, and he feels soft and clean.
Then he’s walking away, and even the very tips of his fingers feel warm.
Behind him, Ryland says, “Delicious.”
- - -
Brendon isn’t stalking. Of course he isn’t. He doesn’t do that. And he’s certainly not dithering in an empty corridor agonising over what he could possibly say to, like, this huge star if, for some reason, said huge star decided he wanted to spend his time having a conversation with him, this little dude in a band—
Jesus. Brendon isn’t nervous. He’s really, really not.
The door swings open and Brendon catches his breath. A guy walks out and crosses down the other end of the corridor, leaving the dulled sounds of a riotous party in his wake. Without giving himself the time for a second thought, Brendon follows him.
Okay, Brendon reasons. This kind of feels like stalking, now. He should probably – do something. Make his presence known. Just in case the guy turns around now and thinks he’s totally creepy. But – what does he say? This is Justin Timberlake for fuck’s sake. ‘Hey Justin!’ kind of sounds like he knows him – which he doesn’t, like at all – but calling out, ‘Justin Timberlake!’ (fuck, fuck, it’s Justin Timberlake) sounds a little formal and a lot like a starstruck fanboy. Which he isn’t.
“Jus-Justin!”
Justin turns around then, slightly surprised, the buttons loosened on his shirt, tie slipping down, suit jacket open. Yet he still looks oddly clean-cut, approachable, so Brendon just. He comes forward.
“Hi. Hi, I’m – my name’s Brendon.” He swallows. “Brendon. Urie. From Panic! at the Disco.” And oh God, could he talk in complete sentences at all?
“Hi Brendon Urie from Panic! at the Disco,” Justin drawls, sounding strangely earnest, so Brendon thinks that he might not be making fun of him. Much.
Brendon grins. “I just – wow. Hi.”
“Hi,” Justin says, again. He leans against a wall.
“I, uhh.” Brendon makes an indistinct hand gesture. “I just saw you. There.” Definitely not waiting for him to come out. “Just wanted to say hi, how’s it going.“ Brendon knows he’s not the smoothest talker in the world, but he’s not half bad (Jon was totally teaching him how!) so he wonders, now, where all his suave charm is when he needs it.
“It’s going great,” Justin says, shifting his weight to his other foot. “Just. You know. Having a good time. How’s it going in your suite? Celebrating?”
Brendon nods. Then thinks that he might need to follow that up with something if he wants to create a semblance of conversation. With Justin Timberlake. Justin Timberlake is having a conversation with him. And he’s not – he’s met famous people before. Lots of them. He kind of hangs out with them. But – and ohgod, Brendon needs to say something right about now, because the silence is kind of stretching interminably – he may or may not have had a crush on the guy at some point in his young and naïve teenage years (only two years ago, his subconscious prompts, ever-helpful) so he can’t help being a little starstruck right now.
“Okay, well.” Justin gives him a small smile. “I was just going to – walk around, get away from the noise for a moment. But I think I’d better get back there.” He doesn’t move away just yet. “They’ll probably be missing me.”
“Wait,” Brendon blurts out, then mentally cringes. He steps forward, then says, all in a rush. “I – uhh. Okay, I know this sounds really, really lame to you, but I just wanted to say that. That you’re just – you’re kind of awesome.”
“Thanks,” Justin says, and folds his arms. “You guys are pretty good, too. You’ve got a good voice.”
Brendon rocks up onto the balls of his feet. “Really?” he says excitedly. “Cool. Thanks.” The ever-excitable, ever-youthful part of Brendon’s brain is doing some kind of happy backflip and he nibbles on his lower lip to try to stop himself from grinning too much.
That’s when he notices that Justin Timberlake is watching his mouth with interest.
- - -
There’s a balcony.
It’s an okay view, Bill thinks, if you like landscapes dotted with bright lights and colour, buzzing with life and night-time madness. And yeah, it’s sort of pretty, and it would be a great photo opportunity if it hadn’t been snapped a hundred times before. Not from this exact balcony, but from plenty of others like it. In the end, it’s just another city, another show, and the worn-out, bitchy part of him hates it.
Then again – Bill takes a gulp of his drink, cold and clear and dripping beads of condensation onto his fingers – he’s probably just being a cynical, miserable bastard right now. Everyone else seems to be having fun, if the shouts and exclamations and laughter from inside are anything to go by.
It’s not his fault he’s being miserable, anyway. He was in a perfectly good mood when he arrived. Totally psyched for the performance, even if it was just a small appearance in a cramped room with a crappy sound system. It should have been nice, the lot of them there, together, partying and hopefully celebrating one of them having won something. And it’s Vegas. Sure it’s a dead, dry, desert in places and kind of depressing with its hollow, interminable lights and desperate, shambling gambling addicts roaming the city that never sleeps, but—
No, wait. Bill rubs a hand across his forehead. He can’t remember why he thought this would be fun at all. So far, the night pretty much sucks, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get any better.
“Fuckin’ Travis,” Bill mutters to the air, finishing the last of his drink and wishing he had another to follow it up straight away.
And that’s pretty much it. The reason why he’s up here, alone, staring into the night sky like some heartbroken teenager. Fucking Travis. It’s not like – they’ve got a thing, but it’s not a thing thing. Because they don’t see each other all the time, and it was never that serious to begin with. It’s just nice when they do see each other, and. Yeah, okay, Bill kind of likes Travis. A whole lot.
But he doesn’t mind when they’re off doing their own thing. They talk, message each other, make calls, stop by if they’re passing through. It’s bearable, and it’s not like Bill’s in love. There isn’t the time for that, and it just doesn’t work that way. He doesn’t mind.
It doesn’t mean that he can’t get righteously pissed off at Travis for fucking ignoring him. For, like, no reason at all.
Bill rolls the glass back and forth between his fingers and tries to stop his inner monologue from sounding like a gigantic girl. He’s not doing a great job of it so far, though, and that kind of pisses him off. He lets out a frustrated noise and taps the empty glass on the balcony railing in an irritated rhythm. Then he hears a voice, and his hand stills.
“Want some company?”
- - -
“Nobody wanna see us togeeeether, but it don’ maaaaatter, no-oh,” Pete croons into Patrick’s ear, barely audible despite his close proximity because of the sheer volume of the celebrations going on in the room. “’Cos I got yooouuu.”
Patrick shifts away a little, swatting Pete off him like an irksome fly, but he’s smiling. “I wanna see us together, Pete,” Patrick says in mock-seriousness, imitating Pete’s earlier words. “Tell the whole world, why don’t you,” he chides. Pete grins at him.
“What can I say?” he sighs. “You’ve made an honest man of me, Patrick Stump.”
Patrick laughs lightly, leaning back into the soft cushions of the oddly-squishy sofa. “Mm.” He drops a hand to the back of Pete’s neck and skirts his thumb softly across the skin. “You don’t think—“ he starts.
Pete turns his head, leaning into the touch and looks, his eyes serious, at Patrick. “I don’t think what?”
“Maybe,” Patrick says tentatively, his hand stilling for a moment. “Maybe it’s being a little obvious?”
Pete shrugs carelessly. He nudges back against Patrick’s hand, getting him to start the stroking again. Patrick does so, finger and thumb making slow, soft circles. “Dude, it’s not like it matters. People will think what they wanna think. It’s not going to make a difference.”
“Okay,” Patrick says. Pete shifts closer so his side is pressed to Patrick’s.
“Don’t worry, okay? It doesn’t matter.” He grins. “It don’ maaaatter, no-oh.”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “God. Is that, like, our anthem now? Our song?”
Pete puts his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “Uh-huh. We’ll play it at the wedding.”
“Man,” Patrick says, seriously. “I always thought I’d have something of a slightly higher musical calibre playing at my wedding.”
Pete considers this, then grins, shifting and turning around so he’s straddling Patrick’s lap. “Okay, you can choose the wedding song with your superior musical knowledge.” He hums the tune again into Patrick’s ear, then grins as he rolls his hips a little. “This can be our sex soundtrack instead.”
“Pete,” Patrick says, half-laughing, half-embarrassed, half-turned on (and it’s testimony to how good Pete is at flustering him that he doesn’t realise he’s feeling three halves of something) as Pete leans forward and starts nipping at his neck, earning a wolf-whistle from someone who Patrick thinks might be Travis walking by. “Come on,” he insists. “Someone’s going to see us.” The sofa they’re sat on is pretty secluded, hidden in a corner by strange, leafy plants in terracotta pots, but still.
Sighing disappointedly, Pete slides off Patrick’s lap, but not before leaning forward and biting gently down on Patrick’s lower lip with a grin. Damn, Patrick thinks. Pete’s just way too good at catching him by surprise. Patrick swallows.
“Later, okay?” he says, congratulating himself on being reasonable and his awesome show of will-power. “Just – there are reporters and cameras about—“
“They left half an hour ago!” Pete protests.
“They could come back,” Patrick argues weakly. It’s not like he’s trying to avoid a lapful of Pete for deliberately masochistic reasons. He’s just not sure it’s a good idea to have their shenanigans splashed across the entire web tomorrow morning.
Pete’s hand is resting on his thigh, a warm weight that’s making Patrick feel kind of light-headed and embarrassingly sappy, because, wow, is he ever in love.
“Later, then,” Pete says, pressing his fingers into the denim, an intensity in his eyes that makes Patrick breath hitch. He gets up. “Wanna go circulate?”
- - -
“Ryan Ross!” Gabe calls, reaching out to wrap an arm firmly around Ryan’s shoulders as he walks past. “How’s it going, you crazy motherfucker?”
Ryan isn’t all that drunk anymore. Okay, he totally is, because he kind of drank a whole lot more between – between some other time and now. But the point is, he doesn’t feel it. Like, he’s pretty sure he can walk in a straight line, he remembers where he lives, and he can totally focus on the Very Important Details.
Like how Gabe’s hand feels slipping down to his hip, and how good Gabe smells, and how he looks kind of ridiculously hot, even in a hat and beige trench coat.
“Mm, good,” Ryan says, realising he hadn’t yet answered Gabe’s question. “What about you?”
“Amazing!” Gabe says, and he’s pretty much shouting in his excitement, which makes Ryan smile. “Such a fucking amazing night.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ryan nods sagely. Gabe’s hand is still on his hip, thumb and forefinger pushing up the hem of his shirt, resting on his bare skin. He looks down at it for a moment, then back up at Gabe, whose face is kind of unreadable. He’s just staring into Ryan’s eyes, hand moving in small circles, something mischevious tugging at the edges of his smile.
“Hey, Ryan Ross,” Gabe says softly, and Ryan can’t remember when hearing someone say his name like that sounded this fucking hot. He swallows, and thinks he’d probably be tensing up right about now if he were entirely sober, but the point is that he’s entirely not, and he suddenly feels pretty damn confident, so he just smiles at Gabe and turns into him so their hips bump up against each other a little.
“Hey Gabe. Gabe Saporta,” Ryan drawls, then laughs a little, because coming from him, it sounds kind of stupid. Gabe grins back at him and puts his other hand to Ryan’s hip, anchoring him firmly in place. It doesn’t really look like anything much, because everyone is hugging everyone else in the room and there’s a tangle of arms and legs wherever you look, and the room is so cramped that standing this close together is kind of necessary. But Gabe’s breath is hot on his face and his eyes (those eyes) are pretty fucking intense, so Ryan figures this is – this is something.
“You’re pretty,” Gabe says, then, reaching up to tug a bit at Ryan’s curls, ruffling them. Ryan jerks his head away and raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, and also? Not twelve years old,” he answers back, stepping away from Gabe slightly but wishing he hadn’t now because he’s swaying just the tiniest bit. Gabe puts his hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“No, I got that,” Gabe says hastily, laughing and closing the space between him and Ryan again. “I definitely got that.”
“Okay.” Ryan’s now got his back pretty much to the wall, so he leans back against it and tilts his hips forward, feeling a sense of satisfaction as Gabe’s eyes widen just a fraction.
“You’re kind of being a tease,” Gabe says, finally, after a beat of silence during which Ryan trails a hand across his stomach, where his shirt doesn’t quite reach the waistband of his jeans. It’s kind of slutty, and not really like Ryan at all, but he’s really fucking loving the way Gabe’s staring down at him now, and he’s having fun like this, uninhibited and confident. Powerful.
“Yeah. That’s the point.” Ryan licks his lips and bends his knee so his foot is pressed up against the wall, pushing his hips out further.
Gabe makes a strangled sort of noise, then laughs nervously. “Seriously dude, quit it. Or, you know. Don’t.”
Ryan gets up off the wall and steps forward decisively, grabbing a handful of the front of Gabe’s shirt. “Bathroom. Now, okay?” he growls, and wow, taking control like this feels really, fucking good.
“Shit,” Gabe says, sounding almost awed. “Yeah, okay, definitely.” And he follows Ryan hurriedly through a heavy door.
- - -
“Fuck,” Brendon gasps out, hand braced on the wall, his knees kind of hurting from the pressure but the rest of him buzzing in complete elation.
“Yeah. Fuck.” There’s a pause in which all that can be heard is heavy breathing. Then Justin Timberlake’s buttoning his pants back up and holding out his hand to help Brendon back to his feet. Stumbling a little, Brendon is hauled up, then slumps back against the wall, next to Justin, fumbling with the fly on his jeans.
“So, okay,” Brendon says as they both stand there in silence. He laughs. “It was nice meeting you?”
“Yeah.” Justin shifts his weight to his other leg. “I should get back.” He turns to look at Brendon. “You’re not going to – I mean. No big deal, okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Brendon nods. “See you around.”
“See you.” Justin pushes the door open. “Oh.” He pauses. “And – thanks.”
“No problem,” Brendon says as the door swings shut again.
He counts to thirty, then walks out of the claustrophobic cupboard space, filled with cleaning equipment and miscellaneous bits and pieces; broken decorations, clipped pieces of wire. Brendon doesn’t know what’s more unbelievable. The fact that he just blew Justin Timberlake, or the fact that they did it in a cupboard.
The first one, probably.
Brendon coughs, and puts a hand to his throat. Okay, so he wasn’t expecting, like, to get the guy’s number or anything. This was totally fine. Better than fine. It was pretty fucking amazing. It’s just – it was pretty hurried. It was over kind of quickly (he asked for it faster. Brendon obliged) and Brendon feels a little. At a loss.
He gives himself a shake, then turns down the corridor to go back the way he came, grinning despite himself (guess who just gave Justin Timberlake a blowjob in a deserted corridor closet? He fucking did) but the grin drops quickly from his lips as he coughs again.
So he was maybe a little enthusiastic. And he might have maybe taken more than he should have. Which is why, right now, his throat feels kind of fucked and raw, and his voice is impressively scratchy.
Fuck.
Brendon doesn’t think Ryan’s going to kill him, because last he heard, Ryan was slowly but surely making his way through whatever was on offer at the bar (and, the lucky bugger, he had people buying drinks for him left, right and centre) so he’ll probably be too out of it to notice. Jon probably won’t kill him either, because Jon is kind and rational and won’t resort to physical violence.
But Spencer. Spencer probably would. Brendon coughs again and runs through a few melodies experimentally. He trails off halfway. Spencer is kind of scary when he gets pissed off. Brendon sighs resignedly. Both Brendon’s voice and Brendon himself are really, really fucked.
- - -
“What’s up?” Bill asks, not looking around, his hands still clutching his empty glass, wishing more than ever that he had another drink, if only to give himself something to do.
“Got you a beer,” Travis says, holding up an open bottle in one hand, an identical one in his other. He holds it out, almost tentatively, and Bill takes it wordlessly.
“Why are you here?” Bill says, finally turning around to look at Travis, leaning back on his elbows, eyebrows creased.
Travis shrugs. “What, I’m not allowed to hang out with you anymore?”
Bill scowls. “You’re deflecting,” he says, and he doesn’t even care that he does actually sound that bitchy.
“Well you’re being fuckin’ hostile,” Travis retorts, turning away from Bill to look over the balcony, down at the city lights.
There’s a beat of silence, and Bill sighs in frustration. “So, what?” he asks, testily. “Are we talking, or…?”
Travis shrugs and takes a gulp of his beer. “What’s there to say?”
“I don’t know!” Bill snaps. “You’re the one who came out here. Obviously you wanna talk about something.”
Travis doesn’t answer immediately, choosing to take a long swig of his drink instead. “Don’t get angry, Bill,” he says, finally. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Bill makes a noise of indignation and turns away from Travis, arms folded over his chest. He hates it when Travis is right like this. It’s true, anger doesn’t suit him. He’s not good at it, and he just wants to clear this stupid mess up, fast.
“You talk,” Travis says, then, without looking over.
Bill closes his eyes briefly. “Okay,” he says, hugging his arms to his chest, because he’s been out here for a while, and it’s kind of getting cold. “So, I’m pissed off at you.”
“Yeah.” Travis laughs humourlessly. “I got that.”
“Why were you – you ignored me, earlier,” Bill says, wincing at how plaintive he sounds. “I just – that’s not cool, man. I – I missed you, okay?”
Travis’ shoulders stiffen slightly. “Yeah, well.” He turns to face Bill. “You’ve had Gabe for company, right?”
Bill’s mouth falls open a little. “What – wait. This is about Gabe?”
Travis shrugs. “You tell me, man. He seems kind of into you.”
Bill almost laughs in relief. Then he does. Travis looks at him, a little confused, a little annoyed.
“You’re – you’re jealous? Of Gabe?” Bill asks, incredulous, because okay. Gabe’s a nice dude, Gabe’s awesome, Bill really likes him – he likes all of the guys (and girl) in the band. But he’s not – it’s not like that. He tells Travis as much.
“Yeah, well.” Travis shrugs, then takes another gulp of his drink.
“Travis – Travie,” Bill says, reaching out and touching his shoulder gently. “I missed you, okay? And Gabe’s been making eyes at Ross all night, so don’t worry.”
Travis raises his eyebrows. “Ryan? Shouldn’t someone – rescue him?”
Bill laughs and leans into Travis, a little tentative, pressing his forehead to Travis’ shoulder. “He’s twenty-one, now. He can probably take care of himself.”
Travis shrugs then, and reaches out a hand to Bill’s waist. “So, you and Gabe…?”
“No way,” Bill says, firmly. “It’s just – you know how Gabe is.”
“Yeah.” Travis laughs, and Bill – wow, okay, he’s pretty sure the sound is making something warm expand in his chest, and it feels so good to be here again, next to Travis. “Yeah, I know how he is.”
“So we’re cool?” Bill asks, and it sounds trite, it sounds hesitant, but Bill just wants to make sure.
Travis doesn’t answer, he just tightens his grip on Bill’s hip and pushes him gently backwards so that Bill’s back is up against the wall, slightly shielded at this angle from any prying eyes through the sliding doors leading back into the hotel suite. Then he leans down and presses his lips to Bill’s, and Bill makes a soft noise of contentment in the back of his throat, lifting his arms to wrap around Travis’ neck.
“That’s a yes, right?” Bill asks, when they break apart.
Travis kisses him again, nipping at his bottom lip. “That’s a hell fucking yeah, and hey, stop talking.”
Bill obliges.
- - -
“Dude,” Spencer says, once the performances are all over and they have a moment to breathe. “Your voice sounded like shit. You ill or something?”
Trust Spencer to get straight to the point. Brendon shuffles embarrassedly, looking at the floor. “Um. Not exactly.”
Spencer’s eyes narrow. “Okay, seriously. What?”
“I – I might’ve—“ And, God, Brendon can’t believe he’s actually going to say this to Spencer. “I might’ve blown Justin Timberlake before the show.”
Spencer’s eyes actually bug out of his head. Well. It’s an exaggeration, but it’s pretty close. Brendon almost whimpers then, and hunches his shoulders, like exposing less surface area will mean there’s less of him for Spencer to get mad at. “You,” Spencer gapes. “You – fucking, what?”
“Um.” Brendon toes the carpet sheepishly. “Is that – do you want me to repeat it, or…?”
“No, no, I heard what you said,” Spencer grits out. “I’m just finding it kind of unbelievable.”
“Hey,” Brendon says, feeling slightly offended. “I’m totally good enough!”
Spencer smacks Brendon on the arm. “I believe it happened, you idiot, since your voice was completely fucked this evening. I just – God, Brendon, how can you be so stupid?”
Brendon looks at Spencer, confused. “I – what?” He runs a hand across the back of his neck. “I mean, I know it wasn’t like, the best idea, just before the show. I’m sorry my voice sounded so – but, I mean. It’s okay. I don’t think anyone – the sound system wasn’t great, anyway.”
Spencer makes a frustrated noise. “Fuck the sound system,” he says, exasperated. “Why did you – how could you…?”
“Spence, Spencer,” Brendon says, kind of worried because Spencer’s face is now an impressive shade of red. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?!” And wow, okay, that was something that Brendon would pretty much qualify as a shriek. A few heads turn in their direction, and Spencer drops his voice. “Fucking Justin Timberlake, Brendon! What if – what if it gets out? This is bad. You complete – ugh!”
Brendon blinks, then puts out a hand to Spencer’s shoulder, pressing gently to ease some of his tension. “Dude, it’s not that big a deal. It’s not like he’s gonna tell anyone, right? I mean, no one would believe it, anyway.”
Spencer breathes hard through his nose. “Okay, but still. Brendon, you’re like – you’re just…” He trails off and makes an indistinct hand gesture, looking still pretty pissed off. “I didn’t take you for one of those starfucking types.”
“Hey,” Brendon protests. “I’m not. It just happened, okay? I only wanted to say hi—“
“To his cock?”
“Dude,” Brendon says, starting to get a little annoyed. “It’s not really any of your business anyway.”
Spencer throws his hands up in the air, the universal sign for, I give up. “Fine. It’s none of my business. Go fuck the whole of his entourage, too. See if I care.”
Brendon blinks, and something clicks. “You do care,” he says, cocking his head to the side, contemplatively.
“I really, really don’t,” Spencer all but spits out. “Like you said, it’s none of my business.”
“Spencer Smith,” Brendon says, suddenly sounding gleeful. “Are you jealous?”
Spencer splutters, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Jealous? Am I, fuck.” He crosses his arms. “You do what you want.”
“Spencer, Spencer Smith!” Brendon grins wide. “You’re totally into me. You so are.”
“I’m not!” Spencer protests, but it sounds kind of feeble.
“It’s okay,” Brendon says, putting a placating hand on Spencer’s arm. “I’m into you, too.” And without waiting for Spencer to protest again, he leans forward and kisses Spencer squarely on the lips. Spencer makes a muffled noise of surprise, but it quickly turns into a breathy moan as Brendon strokes the small of his back, their hips bumping together, kissing him hard and kind of hungrily.
Brendon pulls away, smiling, hair mussed up, lips reddened. Spencer swallows. “Okay?” Brendon says, fingers bunched in the front of Spencer’s shirt, breath hot on his face.
“Um. Yeah,” Spencer says. Then he frowns. “I still think you’re kind of dumb for doing – you know.”
Brendon shrugs and makes a non-committal noise of dismissal. “You can be mad at me again later, if you want.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I like it rough.”
Spencer feels the inexplicable urge to thank Justin Timberlake profusely for existing.
- - -
“Fuck,” Gabe groans, head hitting the back of the wall with a thunk. “Jesuschrist, fuck.”
Ryan grins up at Gabe lazily, lips red and swollen, hair mussed where Gabe’s fingers are tangling in the curls, eyes kind of hazy. It feels fucking awesome, and by the looks of things, Gabe thinks so, too.
“Come on, Ryan,” Gabe says, his fingers tightening in Ryan’s hair. “Just—“
Ryan sits back on his knees, eyebrow raised. “Ask nicely,” he says. He is really, really enjoying himself, here.
“Please,” Gabe moans, his knuckles pressed into the wall. “Please, please, please, please?” He’s not past begging. Not at all. He’ll beg more if it’ll mean Ryan will start using his fucking mouth again, because Gabe kind of feels like he’s dying.
“Good.” Ryan leans forward again, taking Gabe’s cock by the base and slipping his mouth around the length, enjoying the feel of it, hot and heavy against his tongue. Gabe hisses through his teeth, his fingers skirting across the top of Ryan’s head.
“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Gabe curses as Ryan swirls his tongue along the underside, moving his hand up and down to the same rhythm his head bobs forward, taking as much in as he can, which is, actually, quite a lot. “Ryan – ahh, I’m – you should—“ Gabe chokes off a moan, and then he’s coming hard in Ryan’s mouth, who finds himself a little surprised at the sudden heat flooding his tongue. He swallows, though, because – well. The drinks have kind of dulled his tastebuds and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Still, it’s kind of gross, but he’s not complaining. He winces a bit, then stands up.
“Jesus, Ross,” Gabe says, looking at Ryan, kind of awed, pupils blown, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin. He leans forward to kiss Ryan hard, up against the door, pushing his tongue into Ryan’s mouth and slipping a hand to his ass, pressing their hips up together. Ryan suddenly remembers that, yeah, still hard, and he groans against Gabe’s lips, rolling his hips, trying to get more friction. “Hey, hey, hang on,” Gabe says, and he pushes Ryan back slightly.
“What?” Ryan asks, plaintive, his head kind of spinning, frustrated at the lack of contact.
Gabe doesn’t answer, just reaches down and fumbles with the fastenings on Ryan’s pants, pushing them down with his underwear to his hips. The cool air hits his overheated skin, then, suddenly, there’s pressure and friction and ohgod as Gabe takes his cock in his hand, stroking it hard and fast, murmuring in his ear.
There’s a few minutes of breathless moans and Gabe’s wrist twisting at the base before stroking across the tip of his cock, and Ryan’s kind of glad he’s drunk and it takes that little bit longer for the sensations to hit him, because otherwise it would have been over embarrassingly fast, and even though they kind of need to do this quickly before people start wondering where they are, Ryan wants to show that he’s got some stamina, dammit.
It only takes a few more hard strokes, and then Ryan is coming hard, jerking against Gabe, his mouth pressed open to his neck, moaning kind of loudly and he really hopes the noise from the party out there is covering this up, because being quiet doesn’t really feel like an option right now.
There’s a beat of silence, then Ryan takes a deep, shuddering breath and detaches himself from Gabe, reaching down with unsteady hands to do his pants back up. Gabe turns around to grab some tissues, cleaning his hand up and dropping them into the toilet. Ryan snickers.
“What?” Gabe asks, with a half-smile.
“We just had sex in a bathroom,” Ryan says, feeling inexplicably amused and more than a little light-headed. The combination of alcohol and orgasms went straight to his head, it appears.
“Yeah,” Gabe says. “Kind of awesome, right?”
“Yeah.” Ryan leans up and kisses Gabe again, lips moving slow and lazy and warm. He pulls away. “So this was fun.”
Gabe grins. “Definitely.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of all the outside noise. “We should get back in there, though.”
Ryan sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “Okay.”
Gabe holds out a hand. “Come on, Ryan. Ryan Ross. Let’s face the crowd again.”
Ryan follows, grinning.
- - -
“Do you think anyone minded us leaving early?” Patrick asks, locking the door of their room behind him, then laughing as he catches sight of Pete, sprawled on the bed, already working on unbuttoning his shirt.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Pete discards his shirt and starts on his pants. “There are enough people there to keep the party going for a while. We did our bit, it was awesome, now let’s have sex, mmkay?”
Patrick shakes his head, but doesn’t protest. He walks over to the bed and kneels next to Pete, who stretches up to kiss him, pants half unbuttoned on his hips, shirt lying on the floor. “Hey,” Pete says, when they break apart, grinning. “After the show, it’s the aaafter-party, and after the paaarty, it’s the—?“
Patrick rolls his eyes. “Pete, seriously.”
“It’s the—?“ Pete repeats, unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt quickly, fingers skirting across his skin. He slips it off Patrick’s shoulders and leans forward to mouth at his neck, licking just under his ear.
“The – hotel lobby, jesus,” Patrick says, breath hitching. He pushes Pete back. “You’re so…” He trails off and Pete looks at him questioningly. Patrick laughs. “I don’t even—“
Pete grins and reaches down to tug at the belt loops on Patrick’s pants. “Inexplicable, I know.”
Patrick bites his lip as Pete undoes the zip and tugs them down off his hips. “As long as we both know it.”
“Mm.” Pete leans forward and kisses Patrick, lips slow and lazy, taking the time to stroke the skin on his back, hands roaming, tongue hot and wet. He pulls back a little. “You’re okay, right?”
Patrick blinks. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Pete lowers his eyes, fingers pressed to Patrick’s collarbone, moving in slow circles. “I dunno. I just – I don’t ask you enough.”
“Pete,” Patrick says, dropping his hands to his hips and tugging him closer. “I’m fine unless stated otherwise, okay? Everything’s great.”
“Okay.” Pete presses his forehead to the crook of Patrick’s neck. “Love you,” he mumbles against the skin there.
“Love you too,” Patrick says into Pete’s hair, breathing in the smell and holding on tight.
- - -
“So.” Joe flops down in a chair that Andy’s pretty sure was made for one in which he already happens to be sitting. He shifts up, and Joe settles himself more comfortably. Which means with his arm across Andy’s shoulders and his knee pressing uncomfortably in the side of his thigh.
“So,” Andy echoes, wriggling around a bit to try and get more room, but only succeeding in making Joe shift closer to him, taking up the space he’d just created. “What d’you want, man?”
Joe shrugs. “Ryan’s blowing Gabe in the bathroom.”
Andy raises an eyebrow. “How d’you know?”
“Walked in,” Joe says, the duh implied, his eyes wide and earnest, looking at Andy. “I mean, it could have been anyone’s knees at first glance under the door, but I kind of figured it out when I heard names in between all the moaning.”
“How long did you stay in there?” Andy asks, casting a sidelong glance at Joe. “Didn’t take you to be the voyeuristic type.”
“Just long enough,” Joe answers, quite seriously. He turns so he’s facing Andy completely. “Also, Travis and Bill were making out on the balcony. And Brendon finally cornered Spencer.”
“Jesus,” Andy says, looking down at his own glass of water. “Did they put something in the drinks? And what, are you stalking everyone now?”
Joe shrugs. “It’s not my fault I decided to wander around and they happened to be in my way.” He takes the glass out of Andy’s hands and gulps it down, ignoring Andy’s noise of protest. “Oh, and Pete and Patrick said bye.”
“Where did they—?“
“Where’d you think?” Joe wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Back to the hotel for a bit of the old wham-bam.”
Andy cringes. “Okay, seriously? Never say that again.” He sighs, making a vague gesture at the room. “This is the gayest label, ever.”
“I know, right?” Joe stretches, his arm reaching further around Andy’s shoulders. “What’s with that?”
Andy stills, then looks at Joe sternly. “Dude. What are you doing?”
Joe gives him an innocent look. “What?”
“You’re, like, stroking my arm,” Andy says, sounding embarrassingly flustered.
“Oh hey, so I am!” Joe says in mock-surprise. He grins at Andy. “So. What d’you think?”
“What do I think what?”
“Well.” Joe shrugs. “Everyone’s hooking up. How about we give you and me a whirl?”
“The fuck?” Andy says, shifting away from Joe. “What – are you serious?”
“Totally,” Joe says. And he – jesus. He actually does look completely serious.
“You’re high, man,” Andy says, sounding a little desperate as Joe’s thumb continues to stroke the skin on his inner arm. “Quit it.”
“I know!” Joe says, sounding inexplicably gleeful. “It’s when I have the best ideas.”
Andy looks at Joe, eyebrows knotted. “You best not be fucking with me, dude,” he says, finally.
Joe puts a hand over his heart. “I swear, I’m not.” He shrugs. “I just thought – you know. Since everyone’s at it, why not? I’ve been wanting to ask you for ages. You’re kind of hot, man.”
Andy coughs to hide the splutter that accidentally escaped him. “And you’re – you’ve, you know, done this… before?”
Joe waves a hand dismissively. “’Course. You don’t hang around with a bunch of dudes like this and not try anything out, y’know?”
Joe, Andy concedes, kind of has a valid point. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. If you’re up for it.”
“I suggested it, didn’t I?” Joe says reasonably.
“Fine.” Andy crosses his arms. “Okay. That’s cool.”
“Hey, relax,” Joe says, grinning, and he presses his fingers to the back of Andy’s neck, easing the tension.
“I’m relaxed,” Andy protests, but he doesn’t have the chance to say much more, because Joe leans over him and presses a kiss to his lips, warm and dry, and. Okay. He blinks.
“Okay?” Joe says.
Andy looks across the room furtively, but no one’s looking in their direction, distracted instead by Dirty engaging in some violent-looking dance-off with the dudes from Gym Class Heroes. He turns back to Joe. “Okay,” he says, then it’s his turn to lean forward and kiss Joe quickly, letting out a muffled noise of surprise when he feels Joe’s tongue swiping briefly across his bottom lip. And god, there’s no way he’s actually feeling this thrilled, is there? But then, apparently, there totally is, because his skin is tingling pleasantly, and he thinks that kissing Joe, so far, is high up on the list of Fucking Awesome Things He Should’ve Tried Earlier.
“Come on,” Joe says, getting to his feet then pulling Andy up after him. They say their goodbyes to the people in the room sober enough to pay attention, congratulate Disashi, who’s the only currently available member of GCH, on winning the award again, then make their way out.
“Dude,” Andy says, once they’re in the hallway outside their room (sharing, by default, because, well. Pete and Patrick.) “This has been a pretty awesome night.”
Joe clicks the door open, ushering Andy inside with a grin. “Yeah. And it’s about to get a whole lot better.”
