Wait for the Morning, part 2/2

[harborshore]

Wait for the Morning, part 1

—

Except he's wrong again, because apparently climbing a mountain takes it out of you. He wakes up—he glances over at the clock radio on the nightstand—eleven hours later, and the room smells like coffee. Shitty hotel coffee, of course, but it's coffee, so he makes grabby hands anyway as soon as he can fight himself into a sitting position, and there it is, Bob's holding it out, he has coffee.

"Oh, fuck, amazing," he says, and can't prevent himself from making a stupid noise as he starts to drink.

Bob clears his throat and pulls back from where he was leaning over the bed to save Brian's life. "Now will you bitch less today?"

Swallowing, Brian looks up and grins. "I make no promises."

Bob shakes his head. "You're such a fucking pain, I have no idea why I put up with you."

"Oh, you love me and you know it," Brian says, still kind of communing with his mug, but when Bob fails to answer, he looks up. Bob's—Bob's turned away, packing, and the tips of his ears are red.

"Bryar, what is with you lately?"

"What do you mean?" Bob says, not turning around.

"You're—" Brian waves his free hand around, frustrated at his lack of vocabulary in the morning. "You're acting weird, uh, or weirder than usual, you're not—" He breaks off, not even sure what he's trying to say. And Bob's turned around now, mouth quirking amusedly.

"I don't know what I'm not doing, but if it's a big deal, you might want to get some more words in there."

"Oh, fuck it. Throw me my bag so I can get dressed and stop laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing," Bob says, obeying.

"I've known you for fucking ever, don't even pretend I can't tell when you're laughing on the inside." And Bob grins at that for real, a full-on smile, and his eyes are, huh, and Brian can't quite breathe.

Well, isn't this charming. He kind of wants to hit himself in the face, but he probably shouldn't give Bob any more ammunition right now. Instead, he goes to brush his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror and promising silently that Bob won't find out. He works for Bob, he works for Bob's band; this is so unprofessional, why is he such an idiot?

Spitting out the toothpaste, he yells, "Where are we going next, anyway?"

Bob's suspiciously quiet in the room, so he sticks his head out of the bathroom and repeats the question.

"Uh, well, Gerard has two ideas." Bob's hedging. Not a good sign.

"Yeah?"

"...Vegas?"

"No. No way. What is it, decadence?"

Bob nods.

"Yeah, he'll just have to get that in LA, I don't care, he can't need a picture from a casino that badly. And Vegas decadence, man, that doesn't sound at all like what you were working on."

Bob mutters something about Gerard and Ray and motherfuckers and scrolls down on his phone. "Our other option is some kind of park bench with lots of cacti," he says, deadpan.

"Lots of cacti."

Bob shrugs apologetically. "Yeah."

"Did you know you're in a band with crazy people?"

"I had some idea, yeah," Bob says dryly.

Brian sighs. "So, are we looking for a specific park bench?"

"Nah, I think he just wants one that looks authentic."

"Authentic."

"Yeah, like, old."

"I swear, one day, Gerard will learn to take his inspiration where it comes. Hey, didn't you guys say you were going to do that this time, like, lock yourselves up and write? I gave up thinking you were going to do what I told you a long time ago, but you could at least go through with an idea you came up with yourselves."

Bob's laughing at him again as they pack up and make it out the door.

"You know, my other bands respect me," Brian says and makes Bob drive, stretching out in the seat next to him, watching the road in the sunlight.

—

The cacti are, predictably, cacti, and Brian spends some time watching Bob trying to take a picture that fits both a cactus plant and a bench, but then Bob starts looking like maybe he wants Brian in the picture, and, uh, that's not the greatest of plans, so Brian takes a walk down one of the paths and checks out the desert.

It's really quiet out there, at the edge of the state park, and he sits down, kind of listening, kind of not, just staring at the sky and trying to figure out what the hell is going on with him and with Bob. No, scratch that, he's pretty sure he knows what's going on in his own head, but he just hasn't gotten laid for a while, that's all. Whatever else he is, whatever else he's managed to fuck up, he's been a good manager to that band and (mostly) a good friend to Bob.

Bob though, that's a different issue. Brian thinks about that for a while until said issue comes up behind him and clears his throat.

"You know, walking off when I have your phone is maybe not the greatest of ideas."

Brian looks up at him, feeling slow and stupid with the midday light and the desert and all the colors. "You found me, didn't you?"

"Saw which path you took. You about ready to go?

Brian looks around again. "Yeah, I suppose so."

Bob gives him a hand up, smiling, pulling him up and close. Brian finds himself looking up at Bob from a not-so-very-safe distance and coughs, backing off.

"So," he says, while they're walking back to the car, "does Gerard need more things? Because I said a day and a half, right, so maybe you could drop me off in LA and keep going if you need to?"

No answer. He risks a glance at Bob, and his mouth has gone tight. Brian swears under his breath. This band and their ability to completely ignore the fact that he has a job to do, he's just sick of it. Whatever. Bob can sulk if he wants, as long as he drops Brian off and does the rest of this stupid quest by himself. One day, My Chemical Romance might learn to write an album without any concepts or needing to stay in haunted hotels for inspiration or—Or not. But a manager can dream.

—

Bob doesn't say a word, the whole time they're on the highway. When the exits for LA start appearing, Brian mentions that Bob could take any of the next three, and Bob just nods, jaw tense. Then, when they approach the exits in question, he just passes them, one by one, and nothing Brian says or yells can make him turn the car. Finally, Brian just snaps. "What the ever-loving fuck are you doing, asshole? Could you at least—no, you missed that one too, fuck, what the hell, Bob?"

Bob's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Carefully, he says, "I don't think we're done yet."

"I don't care, I need to go home and do my job! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Bob doesn't answer and Bob doesn't answer and then he takes an exit, and then another one, and then he stops the car in a Target parking lot, gets out and slams the car door behind him, lighting a cigarette. Brian fights the door to get it open and walks over to Bob, getting in his face.

"You, could you—" he grabs Bob's cigarette away from him and throws it on the ground, "could you at least explain to me what the hell the point of all this is? Why are you being such an asshole?"

Bob grabs Brian's shoulders and turns him, pushing him against the car. He leans in, hands on either side of Brian, eyes furious. "I don't know, why do you think I wanted to get you away from LA?"

"Fuck if I know, you guys pull shit like this all the—"

Bob makes a frustrated noise and slams both his hands into the car and starts speaking, really quietly. "Three days ago, I called you and you didn't know what day it was. A week ago, I got an email that sounded like you'd gotten us confused with one of your other bands. Last Thursday, you answered the phone and it took five minutes for me to understand what the fuck you were even saying. Why the hell do you think I wanted to get you out of there for a while?"

"I wasn't—I always have a lot to do, you know that, and if I can't be fucking on all the time, then that's just, well, it goes with the territory. I have more to do now than when you were my only job."

Bob's shaking his head. "Fuck, there's busy and then there's busy. You sounded like you did that summer."

And that's—Brian pushes at Bob, he has to breathe, can't, can't, no, that's not fucking fair. He gets three steps away from the car before he has to sit down, has to get his arms up, covering his head. He's counting, in his head, counting up to ten and back down.

"Hey, hey." Bob comes up behind him, touches his shoulder. Brian just shakes his head; he's not actually going to try to talk just yet.

"You, you've got to know I don't actually think you're gonna—"

Brian laughs. He knows it must sound pretty sharp, but, uh, he's not sure how to sound any different right now.

"I," he clears his throat, "is that, do you all think that? Wait for me to, again?"

Bob's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Fuck no, fuck no." He sits down next to Brian, gets his arms to uncurl and makes him look at him straight. "You—you got through it, you did, it sucked so hard and you did it anyway, and I know you've been clean ever since, I don't think you'd, no, of course I don't. I just—look, Brian, sometimes it's okay to lean on someone else for a change, make it a little easier—"

Brian snorts, and if it's shaky, at least Bob doesn't point it out.

"Says you. You don't even go to the hospital when your leg is turning green."

"That was," Bob starts, indignant (he's taken a lot of shit for that one, Brian knows), but then he sighs. "Yeah, fair enough. But doesn't that at least make me an authority on when to stop being a stubborn son of a bitch and actually ask for help?"

Brian doesn't know what to say to that. If Bob's admitting he needs help sometimes, well, then hell might be freezing over. So he just nods and accepts the help up and they walk back to the car in silence.

When they get in, Bob looks over at Brian, mouth quirking, and fiddles with his phone. Brian thinks maybe he knows that look, and yeah. Sure enough. TATU. Fake lesbians from Russia singing techno pop in a Target parking lot, it feels like an appropriate metaphor for his life.

"So, where to now?"

"Huh?"

"What's next on the list?"

"Uh, a beach? At sunset?"

Sunset, that means he's missing an entire day of work again, and probably some of tomorrow. He tries to get upset, because isn't it just like Bob to completely ignore his job—but somehow he can't muster up the indignation, which is strange. Really strange. Nothing makes sense today.

Wait, did Bob say they're taking pictures of the sunset? Dammit. "Gerard's writing love songs again, isn't he? I thought Lindsey made him stop after that last one."

Bob coughs, turning slightly red. "No, no, I think he figured out how to write a better one? Or maybe Ray did?"

"As long as you don't let Frank write them, I think we're okay."

Bob snorts. "No whores on fire, I promise."

"Not that Leathermouth isn't great in its own way, just, it's not maybe My Chem material?"

And then they're off, because Bob likes to argue against anything that Frank does ever, which Brian knows. That's why he brought it up, because then he can spend a while talking about something that doesn't matter at all while he figures out why he's so okay with missing more work. It's possible he really is tired. Or maybe it's late-onset Stockholm Syndrome.

—

They grab some pizza on the way to Santa Barbara. Once they get there, it's not quite dark yet, so they walk around. Surprise surprise, no one in California goes to the beach in February, so they have it to themselves. Bob keeps taking pictures of Brian and Brian keeps trying to stop him—seriously, the world doesn't need any more pictures of him looking like an idiot.

"You'd think someone with camera phobia would be more understanding of other people hating pictures," he says finally, out of breath after chasing Bob and failing to get the phone away from him. And since when is Bob in better shape than him? Physical therapy must have been intense, whatever was involved in it. Brian can't believe he's not quite sure exactly what Bob had to do to get better and he opens his mouth to ask when the phone rings. Bob rolls his eyes and walks off to the side to answer. Mostly, it seems to be someone else talking at Bob, who's nodding and shaking his head and then shaking his head a lot, muttering something and hanging up.

"Was it Gerard?" Brian asks. It's a safe assumption, given the amount of talking Bob didn't do.

Bob nods.

"What did he want now? Give you instructions on how to achieve the most appropriate light blend in the sunset photo? He knows camera phones aren't all that advanced, right?"

Bob shakes his head. "No, he wanted—forget it. Come on, let's go in the water." He starts walking down to the edge of the ocean.

"Uh, Bryar, it's February. The water'll be ice-cold."

Bob's taking off his shoes and socks and rolling up his pants. His skin is really, really pale, which makes sense, because, February, uh, and it's possible Brian's thought patterns aren't making sense anymore (he feels like kneeling in the water and running his hands up Bob's legs, okay, he really must be going insane). Bob's scar is really obvious like this, and Brian realizes he's never seen Bob roll up his pants outside before.

He shakes his head to clear it. "Seriously, Bob, this isn't a good idea. You get sick all the time."

"That's Frank, not me. And since when are you such a pussy about cold? You've been in LA for too long."

"What, you want I should come home more often?" Brian says without thinking and then hears himself and stops, confused. Bob's looking—Bob's looking really intense again, Brian should know what that means but all he can think about is how blue his eyes—no, seriously. This is fucking ridiculous.

"Get in the water, Schechter," Bob says, a smile in his voice.

Brian gives in. That's it, he decides, walking down to the shore line, it has to be late-onset Stockholm Syndrome. Or possibly something more troublesome than that.

Shoes and socks off, he gets into the water, which, he was right, it's really fucking cold. The sky's beginning to turn yellow with the setting sun and if they weren't practically standing in ice, it'd be kind of, well, it'd be kind of cool, because the water's turning all kinds of colors too, with the sky.

"Did Gerard want a picture of us in the sunset or something, or is there some other reason we're freezing our feet off?"

"Shut up, Schechter," Bob says absently, holding up the phone and trying to capture the light. He's probably getting a lot of glare.

"Here," Brian gestures and gets in front of Bob, tries to angle the phone right, leaning against Bob and biting his lip because, well, Bob's really warm, and Brian's feeling kind of cold, that's all. Bob's hand circles his wrist and Brian maybe can't quite breathe, but they get the shot and he backs off, rubbing his hands on his pants to get them to warm up.

"Uh, what did Gerard say anyway? Was it about the picture?"

Bob's looking at him really strangely right now, all intense again, and Brian can't figure out if he should be backing up or stay right the fuck here, which he kind of wants to do; fine, he's not moving, then. "He said," Bob says, slowly, "that if I didn't, uh, if I didn't man up and kiss you, he'd post that video from my birthday party, you know, on our website."

Brian doesn't mean to say it, doesn't mean to at all, but somehow over these two days, his brain-to-mouth filter has completely disappeared, and he goes, "Well, we can't have that, can we?" shakily, and Bob, Bob makes a noise and reaches out and kisses him. Kisses him and kisses him. Brian can't breathe, standing in the cold water, hands caught in Bob's jacket, and he probably looks like a stranded fish, but Bob is kissing him and Brian doesn't think he should ever stop. There are a million reasons why this is insane, not the least of which is that he works for Bob, he works for Bob's band, but he can't, he can't quite get his thoughts together, fuck—and then Bob's phone rings.

Bob breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against Brian's and laughing. "Uh," he says, "I should probably take that. I'd bet you anything it's those assholes. And you know they'll keep calling."

Brian licks his lips. "We could always keep going and ignore the phone, maybe they'd get the hint."

"Hold that thought, would you?" Bob says in this voice that's only slightly darker than his normal one, but fuck.

Brian stays close when Bob answers the phone, ignoring the fact that his toes have now officially declared themselves dead. Bob wraps one hand around Brian's neck and keeps rubbing his thumb over his skin and it's really hard to—Bob's laughing.

"Shut the fuck up, of course I did if I say I did. What? You need to check? Fine. Brian?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Gerard wants to check."

Brian accepts the phone, trying not to start laughing, because he's pretty sure it'd verge on hysterical if he did. "Gerard, hi."

"So did he?"

"Did he what?" Okay, fine, this is kind of fun. Annoying Gerard is always entertaining.

"Brian Schechter, don't fucking fuck around with me, did he kiss you?" That's it, there he goes, strident and demanding and verging on shrill. Brian allows himself a victorious smile.

"Yeah, he did, actually." Is—Bob's looking at his mouth, yeah, he is.

Brian misses the next thing Gerard says, because he's sort of busy staring back, and Bob takes over the phone again, talking over Gerard and saying something about phone batteries and needing to go, and "You have your sunset photo, motherfucker, now shut the fuck up." Brian's pretty sure Gerard makes some outrageously inappropriate comment in response to that, because Bob blushes and tells him to shut up again and then hangs up the phone and looks at Brian consideringly. "Let's get to the shore, yeah?"

Brian nods dumbly, he still can't quite—Bob's still touching him, now he's got a hand on his lower back, steering him back to shore and Brian can't, he can't, this is fucking ridiculous, it's Bob. He shouldn't even—but he can't not, and Bob gets him to the car, sits him in the front seat and digs a towel out of his bag and kneels on the gravel, drying off Brian's feet and getting his socks and shoes back on. And Bob is an asshole is what he is, because that fucking smirk says he knows exactly what he's doing, hands sliding over Brian's legs and oh, he's going to pay for that one.

Brian tells Bob that, but Bob just grins, gets to his feet, and walks around the car to drive them to a hotel he apparently booked for the evening. It's only ten minutes away, or something, and Brian is maybe having some trouble thinking here.

But he has time to calm down in the car, and to decide that as much as he wants this (and he does, he really really does, he can't lie to himself about it), it'd be beyond stupid, when it could ruin his job with My Chem, when it could ruin his friendship with Bob—who looks over at him and sighs.

"Stop being stupid."

"I'm not—"

"Never mind, just wait until we get there, okay?"

In the motel room, Bob sits him down on the couch and sits next to him, clearing his throat, then gets up, then sits down again. His hands are twitching, like he wants drumsticks or something else to hold on to. Typical nervous musician, some faraway part of Brian notes while the rest of him is trying to formulate all the reasons why this is the dumbest thing they could possibly do.

"Look," Bob says finally, "I get that you think we're being idiots here and that I'm not taking you seriously." Brian's not sure how Bob can know what he's thinking—he hasn't actually said any of that yet. "But you've got to know, I've wanted this for fucking ever, and it's a really big deal to me."

And that's maybe not what he expected at all. He breathes out slowly and tries to put his thoughts together in some way that makes sense. It's really not easy.

Bob reaches out and curves his hand around Brian's neck, over his tattoo, and fuck, that's nice. "I get it if you don't—you don't even have to tell me right now, and if you don't, nothing will change, but I think you do, Schechter, Brian, I think you do, and I think we'd be—"

Brian doesn't think he's heard Bob be that open about something he wants in a long time. Possibly not since before the surgery. He should maybe, yeah, he should maybe say something back. "It's, uh, it's, obviously I want you, you're—I do, I just, I'm worried—"

Bob's smiling now, touching Brian's shoulder, thumbing over his collarbone. "It's you and me, idiot, the worst we've ever done is shout at each other in a parking lot."

And Brian can't actually help it, he makes a noise, wanting so much and unable to figure out how to say any of it. Bob grins at that, sliding his hands down Brian's back and pulling him into his lap, wincing a little. His wrists, of course.

"Idiot," Brian says, but it comes out breathy, because Bob is kissing his neck and it's, fuck, teeth and beard scraping over sensitive skin, shit, that's good, and Bob's being insistent, mouth wandering down Brian's jaw, biting at his lips. Brian kisses him back, fingers curling around Bob's shoulders and it's possible he can't remember what he meant to say. His wrists, right, Bob should be careful with his wrists.

"Handcuffs," he manages, and mentally cringes. That's not how he was going to put it.

Bob pulls back and raises an eyebrow. "You're into that?"

"No, I mean, uh, but your wrists?"

"My wrists are fine," Bob says, and demonstrates his dexterity by taking Brian's shirt off, and fuck, that's nice, it feels—he catches another wince.

He shakes Bob's hands off. "Right, that's it, I'm not explaining sex-related wrist injuries to your band, I'm just not. Hands on the couch."

Bob looks amused. "Won't that make this kind of boring for you?"

Brian lets himself smirk, slides onto his knees in front of Bob and looks up, hands moving toward the button on Bob's jeans. "I'm not complaining," he says and leans in, mouthing along the inseam.

Bob shivers, threading his fingers into Brian's hair. He's not pulling, just scratching along Brian's scalp, but Brian has to focus on getting Bob's pants open and down around his thighs so he doesn't say anything stupid.

Leaning in again, he gets his hand around the base of Bob's cock, licking up and sliding his mouth over the head. It's been a long time since he was on his knees for anyone and he'd forgotten how it felt, mouth held open and needing to remember to breathe. Fuck, but he remembers why he likes it now, and this is Bob, Brian can't help feeling like he's going to shake apart, so he focuses on the ache in his jaw, on Bob's hands, Bob's hands, holding, never pulling, fuck, his fingers—

The way Bob's looking at him feels like too much; he has to pull off to breathe, pressing down on his own dick before he can continue, biting hard at the inside of his cheek to give himself something, anything else to think about.

Bob shivers again when Brian gets his mouth back on his dick, hands tightening in Brian's hair. "So hot," he says. "Brian, so hot, I can't—so fucking much, I've wanted you so fucking much."

He scratches at Bob's hip with his free hand, means, tell me, and Bob gets it, of course he does.

"Shit," he says, "The way you, ah, look when you're too angry to yell, that's stupid, right, that I like that?" Brian finally remembers how to relax his throat and goes down further. "Fuck, Brian, keep doing that, keep—shit, yes—" Bob's breathing stutters and his hips move, like he can't help it, "Sorry, sorry," he says, hands gentling, moving over Brian's ears and jaw, smoothing over his face.

Brian wants to shake Bob out of being so goddamn careful - fucking Christ, this whole trip - so he takes his hand off Bob's dick, inhales and swallows, fighting his gag reflex. He likes this, likes the way Bob's hips come up, likes the way Bob's hands fist in his hair and hold him there; one, two, three breaths through his nose and then Bob is coming, and Brian just closes his eyes and stays.

Then he has to pull off, coughing. Bob apologizes again, of-fucking-course, but Brian just grins, as steadily as he can. "I know you're an asshole, Bryar, no need to fake it for me." His voice is shot all to hell and his lips feel swollen and bruised, but fuck, the way it felt, holding onto Bob and driving him crazy, fuck, and the way Bob's looking at him now.

Slumping down on the couch, Bob takes a deep breath and then leans forward, thumbs at Brian's lower lip. "You always have to have the last word, don't you?" He's smiling ruefully, his voice almost as fucked-up as Brian's, scratchy and low.

Brian shakes his head, trying to figure out whether he should get up or not. On the one hand, he wants, but on the other, it's kind of nice, leaning into Bob's thigh and the hand on his face.

Bob pushes himself back up and tugs at Brian's shoulders with some effort. "Come on," he says, "I want to take your pants off."

And, well, Brian's not saying no to that. He gets up and their hands tangle on Brian's belt buckle, fingers tripping over each other. Then Bob pulls down both Brian's jeans and his underwear, knocking his forehead against Brian's hip when he tugs too hard and laughing at himself. Brian grins and shivers; he did that, he made Bob uncoordinated. It's a really fucking good feeling.

"Come on," Bob says again, getting Brian to step out of his pants and straddle Bob's lap on the couch, bare inner thighs sliding over Bob's jeans. That feels almost like too much, especially, fuck, his dick, but Bob gets his hands on Brian's hips and kind of hitches him past his open jeans, so at least there are no zipper incidents.

"You could at least take your shirt off," Brian manages, hooking a finger onto Bob's collar. "It's no more than fair."

Bob obliges him, and God, he just has—his skin, fuck, Brian's kind of overwhelmed with trying to figure out where he wants to touch first. Bob's arms, or his ribs, or his back, which Brian can't even see right now. He settles for mouthing along Bob's shoulder, up along his neck and back again.

Bob says something but Brian misses it, so he pulls away. "What?"

"You should get yourself off, I want to watch you," Bob repeats, leaning forward to get at Brian's mouth, licking at his lips.

Brian's hands tighten on Bob's arms. "You just don't want to do any work," he says, trying for teasing and missing by about a mile.

"You're the one worrying about my wrists," Bob says, eyes lazy and intent on Brian's face, hands sliding down his back and over his ass.

Brian can't remember how to say a single word when Bob looks at him like that, let alone formulate an adequate comeback, so he does what he's told, pulls at his dick while Bob watches, staying so, so close, biting at his mouth and talking quietly.

"Fuck, so hot," he says, "All that ink, I've been looking at you for so long, you have no idea, I've been wanting and wanting, fuck, Brian—"

And Brian holds onto him and comes faster than he has in years, all over Bob's chest. This is mostly a dumb sticky mess but Brian is preoccupied with trying to get his breathing back under control, so he refrains from demanding they clean up right away.

Bob is nice enough to wait until after Brian has stopped shivering to crack a joke about how long he, uh, didn't take.

Brian rolls his eyes, leaning against Bob's shoulder. "It's not like it didn't take you about thirty seconds to come when I blew you, Bryar, no need to be so fucking smug." He manages to sit back up with some effort and looks at Bob pointedly. "Besides, we've had two days of foreplay, don't even try to deny it."

Bob just grins and kisses him again, reaching for his shirt to clean them up.

And they stay right there for a while, kissing lazily and figuring out where to touch each other. Like, for example, Bob shivers when Brian scratches at his hip, and Brian makes a stupid noise when Bob's hands tighten on his ass. Bob laughs a little at that, and Brian grins back, getting his hands between them to push at Bob's jeans.

"Next time we do this I'm going to get you naked for real, you know," he says.

"I was thinking you could fuck me in the morning," Bob says casually, then tips Brian off his lap and wanders off to the bathroom to brush his teeth, leaving Brian with that mental picture, Jesus Christ.

It takes him a minute to get up and follow, crowding Bob against the mirror and kissing him despite the toothpaste in his mouth. Ridiculous and messy, and they both end up laughing helplessly, but something about getting toothpaste and spit everywhere is just stupid enough that Brian thinks maybe, maybe.

—

He wakes up to morning spilling into the room and Bob pressed against his back, close enough that Brian can feel the heat coming off his skin, and Brian shivers and arches. Bob laughs into his neck and bites at the thin skin under his ear.

"Get on your back, come on," he says, sliding out from behind Brian.

Brian's still dumb with sleep and doesn't get it until Bob is sliding his mouth down over his dick, but then he curses and fists his hands in Bob's hair. Bob pinches at his hip and pulls off to say, "Mind your fucking manners," and then goes back down until his mouth meets his fist, the other hand light on Brian's thigh like a reminder.

Brian closes his eyes, loosening his grip, and lets Bob take him apart. He arches up toward him, into those hands and that mouth, and he's fighting not to say every single dumb thing he's thinking, like how gorgeous Bob's mouth is, how his smile makes Brian stupid, fucking hell, he's so, so—

When he's about to come, he tries to warn Bob by tugging at his hair, but Bob pinches at his hip again and stays down, swallowing, and that, fuck. Nothing should feel that good, warm mouth, hand twisting around the base and Brian forgets to be quiet, forgets where he is, feels held down and held close and flying, so he closes his eyes, giving in.

He opens his eyes again to find Bob's crawled back up the bed and is looking at him, eyes warm. "Freckles," he says stupidly, tracing along Bob's throat.

Bob flushes and tries to evade his hand. "Don't fucking tickle me."

Brian grins and musters up energy from somewhere, pushing himself up into a seated position and nudging Bob to lie down on his back. He really wants to give as good as he got—he doesn't think it's all that fair if Bob is the only one who gets to drive him crazy. Mostly, though, he wants to put his mouth all over Bob.

Bob squirms a little at first, then settles in, his breath hitching when Brian bites at the inside of his elbow or scrapes his teeth over the inside of his thigh. He pulls on Brian's hair like a suggestion, but Brian ignores it cheerfully and moves back up to kiss him, hands sliding along his arms.

Bob arches when Brian bites at his throat and groans, "You're a tease, you know that?"

He pulls away to say, mildly, "Shush, I'm busy here," and bends down to continue sucking a mark onto Bob's neck. He really, really wants it to show, what they've been doing. The manager in him complains about people noticing and 'the smart thing to do', but he beats his inner nagging down by reminding himself that they don't take pictures of Bob, not really, and his hair will cover it. Mostly.

"Oh, you fucker," Bob laughs, trying to evade Brian's mouth. Evidently he really is ticklish, which, man, Brian's going to have so much fun with that. He hums against Bob's skin and moves lower.

—

And that's it, that morning—that's what settles it for Brian, three hours on that bed until Bob pins him down and threatens to never ever blow him again unless he gets off right the fuck now, three hours on the sunlit motel bed with the dumb flowery bedspread, three hours when he gets to listen to the tiny sounds Bob makes when he forgets himself (like when Brian kisses and bites his way up from Bob's left knee, sliding a hand up to spread Bob's legs and get his mouth into really interesting places), three hours when he doesn't have to do anything but be there.

He thinks about that when they're driving back into LA, sunlight glancing across the road and the cars in front of them. Bob's smiling, a quiet smile, quiet and content, and Brian catches himself thinking he wants to see that again, see that so much more. They don't, they can't know anything yet, Brian's not an idiot, this business is notorious for ruining relationships, but maybe, maybe they have a shot. And the second time they get caught in traffic, Bob reaches out, kisses Brian quickly, and Brian thinks, yeah, definitely, definitely maybe.