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Maybe 'Yeah' Will Be Our 'Always'

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    Chris thinks of himself as a pretty considerate dude most of the time. He knows that he's unreasonably tall, and he does his best to not take up more than his fair share of space. He knows that sometimes he goes on rants about things that other people don't really care about, and he does his best to let other people speak their piece. He knows that no one wants to hear the other dudes in their band jerking off in the van, and he tries to be quiet. He can't always be quiet, though. Every now and then, when it's been too long or when he's hit just the right fucking angle or when he's hit on a fantasy that just does it for him, he gets kinda loud.

    Now is one of those times. Chris is lying on his side in his coffin of a bunk, half curled up just so that he can fit inside. It's dark out, the first night of a two-day long driving stint. He's got his jeans pulled down just far enough to get a hand around his cock. It's only been a handful of days since the last time he did this, but, fuck, something about it right now is really doing it for him. He's gripping his cock harder than usual or his hormones are out of whack or something, and on the upstroke he lets out this embarrassingly high-pitched, dangerously loud moan. His hand freezes, wrapped around the base of his cock.

    It wasn't really loud, definitely not loud enough for Ryan and Balz to hear him up in the front, probably not loud enough for Angelo to hear him on the bench seat. It was maybe loud enough for TJ to hear him, but probably not. They're probably all asleep anyway, and the din of rubber tires against asphalt is a good safety blanket.

    It's not a good enough safety blanket from Ricky, though, because Ricky's head is approximately eight inches away from Chris', separated only by open air and a curtain made of dirty laundry. Even over the road noise and the rattling window and the air vents that Chris hates so much, there's no way Ricky didn't hear that. He's a fucking light sleeper, too, the bastard.

    "Chris?" Rick's hushed voice comes out of the darkness. He sounds breathless, which is weird, but it's probably just from being startled awake.

    Chris licks his lips and sucks in a quiet breath. He could say nothing, pretend to be asleep, will this thing away and try again tomorrow, but he doesn't, for some reason. "Yeah?" he asks back, his voice equally quiet.

    There's silence for a few seconds, then, "Are you, uh--?" Ricky doesn't finish the sentence, but Chris thinks he's been found out.

    "Uh, yeah." More silence follows. Chris' brain percolates on the information it currently has, and his hips move against his hand without his permission. A thought strikes him. "You too?"

    "Maybe."

    "Fuck." Chris gives up. He tentatively starts moving his hand again, and it startles a low groan out of him. Fuck, what's wrong with him tonight? "This is kinda fucked up, dude."

    "Yeah," Ricky agrees. His breath hitches at the end of the word, and Chris can only imagine what that means. "You want some help?"

    Chris furrows his eyebrows, which are somewhat smudged by this point in the night. "What?" he hisses. There's noise, rustling and movement and soft cursing, then Ricky's hand lands next to Chris' foot and is followed a mere second later by Ricky's head and shoulders. "Dude, what the fuck?" Chris yelps. He curls protectively around his very exposed dick.

    "Shh," Ricky hisses. One finger of the hand that's not holding him up presses against his lips in the universal signal for silence. He continues to crawl his way into the bunk with Chris.

    “What. The. Fuck,” Chris says again, with feeling. He shuffles to the far end of the bunk as much as he can, being essentially stretched out saltwater taffy in a human suit, and leans his back against his pillows. He pulls his legs up to protect his dick, which is still stubbornly hard.

    “Do you want some help?” Ricky asks again. His torso is in Chris’ bunk, the rest of him is propped up on piles of clothes and bags and food in the back of the van.

    “With what?” Chris hisses. He awkwardly pulls his pants and underwear back up over his dick.

    “The boner, dude,” Ricky whispers back, like it’s obvious, like it’s an everyday occurrence this asking to help your bandmate jerk off,” duh.”

    “Rick, are you alright?”

    Ricky creases his brows then raises one in question. “Yeah dude, why wouldn't I be?”

    “Because you’re offering to help me jack off.”

    “Yeah, you're hot.”

    “You’re straight .”

    “Says who?” Ricky asks. He starts to wriggle further into the bunk. Chris wishes that he would stay still and stop dropping world shattering revelations on him right now.

    When Ricky shimmies his whole, tiny body into the bunk, he’s got his head and chest pressed against Chris’ feet. “Well I’m straight,” Chris finally remembers to say, maybe a bit too loudly, when Rick settles on his knees. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, Chris can kind of see the bulge where Ricky tucked his hardon back in his underwear but didn't bother zipping his pants. Chris kind of can't look away, too.

    Ricky honest to god snorts at Chris’ words. “Dude, you don't have to front with me,” Rick says,” if I’m not your type it's chill.” He looks ridiculous, on his knees with a fucking hard cock and his back and head bent to fit in the minimal headspace of the van bunk. The position gives him a double chin, and Chris wants to pull him down closer just to make his face look normal. That's what he tells himself, anyway.

    “You’re a dude. Dudes aren't my type.”

    He can't be totally certain, given the less than optimal visibility, but Chris is pretty sure that Ricky rolls his eyes at that. “I’m gonna come kiss you,” Ricky says, dropping down to all fours,” and if you can say with a hundred percent certainty that you’re not into it at all, I’ll leave you alone. Deal?” He’s crawling forward now, not that there's much space to cover.

    This’ll be fine. Chris is very secure in his sexuality and masculinity, which is why he can dress the way he does and draw his eyebrows on every day and kiss his male bandmate and still be sure he's straight. That's what he's always thought, at least. “Deal,” Chris whispers, even quieter than the low volume their conversation has settled at.

    Ricky nods and shuffles forward. Chris helpfully drops his knees down so Ricky can climb over his legs. He stops with his hands on Chris’ shoulders, thighs bracketing his legs just above the knee. He keeps a careful distance between his dick and Chris’, which Chris is thankful for.

    Sitting in the quiet darkness of a van scuttling down the interstate, it seems the natural thing to do for Chris to rest his hands on the strips of exposed skin along Ricky's hips where his shirt has rolled up. “This is a terrible idea,” Rick murmurs. Chris thinks maybe he wasn't supposed to hear that, or maybe Ricky didn't mean to say it out loud. It doesn't matter, though. In the next few seconds Ricky has leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Chris’.

    There's the weird, awkward shifting and clacking of metal that Chris knows well from kissing girls who also have lip piercings. Once they get their heads turned correctly, it's no different from all the other kisses Chris has had. Ricky presses one of his hands up against the side of Chris’ neck, thumb running along his jaw, and the other wraps around Chris’ shoulders, dragging their chests together. Ricky whines when Chris’, fingers tighten on his hips.

    Chris doesn't even realize that he's leaning into the kiss until Ricky pulls away, as much as he can in the cramped space, and Chris tries to follow him. Ricky smiles a smile that he only uses when he finds something really dumb equally amusing. It’s all top lip. His bottom lip pulls into his mouth, and his top teeth cover his piercings. It makes him look younger than he already is, lights up his face even under the dark circles.

    He’s pretty sure it’s not possible considering he’s been sitting in the dark for so long, but Chris thinks he can feel his pupils dilate more at the sight. He stares up at Ricky with his mouth hanging open, too shocked for words, because he was into that, majorly. Ricky laughs, a quiet, amused thing, then bites his lip. “So what’s the verdict?”

    “Huh?” Chris asks. He’s staring at Ricky’s mouth. He knows he is, but he can't stop. He might like dudes. Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Ricky rolling his eyes again.

    “Want me to kiss you again?”

    “Yeah.” Ricky grabs Chris by the hair and tugs him up, meeting him halfway in another kiss. Chris opens his mouth on instinct, and Ricky presses closer, licks into his mouth. Chris moans again. Ricky shushes him with his lips still against his mouth.

    When Ricky stops kissing him, Chris thinks he’s going to die. His chest is heaving; he's not sure when that started.

    “Rick,” he says, breathless, he buries his face in the crook of Ricky's neck. He’s acutely aware of the fact that Ricky has shifted his legs and is more or less sitting in Chris’ lap now. Ricky reaches down, grabs Chris’ hand from his hip and moves it down to his ass. Chris instinctively squeezes, and Ricky makes a breathy moan in response. “Fuck.”

    “Yeah,” Ricky says. Chris doesn't know what he's agreeing with; maybe he's just talking for talking’s sake. He spreads his thighs wider, 'til his head isn't pressed up against the top bunk, ‘til one of his knees is hanging off the mattress of Chris’ bunk, 'til Chris can feel Ricky’s hard cock pressed against his own through two layers of fabric. “Yeah?”

    “Yeah.” Chris starts pressing kisses against Ricky’s neck to show just how much yeah he is. Ricky tilts his head to the side to oblige him. Chris might like dudes, or maybe he just likes this one particular dude. Ricky doesn't bat him away when he starts in with his teeth, though, and that's already better than about forty percent of the girls Chris has ever been with.

    Ricky tightens his fingers in Chris’ hair, and that's really good. Chris is tall and long and sort of room-filling in his existence, and he likes women. For the most part they're smaller and softer than him; they look really good spread open on his cock, faceup or facedown. Women are great. Chris loves them, but the vast, overarching majority of them expect him to be dominant, to hold them down and tell them what to do, which is fine . Chris likes that, but he also likes a certain amount of pain with his orgasms. A certain amount of pain that he almost never gets when he's not alone. Ricky is giving it to him now, letting him give as good as he's getting.

    Chris whines, arches his hips up into the pressure that Ricky is providing. “Fuck, Chris, let me,” Ricky gasps. He fumbles a hand between them and tugs at Chris’ briefs. Chris lifts his hips up and uses one hand to help shove his underwear and pants down. “Yeah.” Ricky wraps his fingers around Chris’ cock. His eyes widen when he feels the the metal there.

    Chris smiles at him around the little whine he makes. “Like them?” Ricky’s fingers run along the ends of the four barbells of the Jacob's ladder running up Chris’ cock.

    “Dude,” Ricky says. He looks on the verge of laughter, and Chris has to kiss him again before he can speak. Ricky licks into his mouth for a few seconds before he squeezes Chris’ cock and pulls away. “Dude,” Ricky says again. Chris has moved on to kissing Ricky's neck, running his teeth across the top of Ricky’s shoulder, which is distracting, but doesn't keep him from talking. “Dude, you're not gonna believe this.”

    Chris makes a questioning noise into Ricky’s neck. Ricky moves his hand down and wriggles till his pants and underwear are down around his thighs. Chris can't see what revealed; their bodies are too close together, but he thinks he might want to. “C’mere,” Ricky murmurs. He grabs Chris’ hand and guides it between them. Chris moves it to Ricky's cock of of his own accord.

    “Oh shit,” Chris breathes. There’s a metal rod running vertically through the head of Ricky’s cock. He laughs slightly and experimentally moves his hand. Ricky hums happily and presses up into the touch. “What're the fuckin odds, dude?”

    “Well, uh, fuck." Ricky kisses him again, lip rings clacking against lip rings, then pulls just far enough away to speak. "We’ve got matching face holes, so I’d say probably higher than average.” Chris bites at his jaw while he speaks. “You’re taking this really well,” Ricky observes.

    “You've got a hand on my cock,” Chris says, close to Rick’s ear. “You should be moving it.”

    “Fair enough.” They kiss again; Chris eagerly lets Ricky bite and tongue at his bottom lip and piercings. Chris starts jerking Ricky off again, but Ricky pulls away. “Wait, fuck, here.” Ricky takes his hand off Chris’ cock and takes hold of his hand. “Like this.” He wraps Chris’ hand around both their cocks on one side, tangling his fingers together with Chris’ on the other side, so they're sort of holding hands around their cocks. The metal of Chris’ ladder feels amazing pressed against Ricky’s cock, and he whines quietly. He has the best ideas.

    Ricky pushes his forehead against Chris' and cranes his neck up so he can look down between them, then pushes a bit of spit out of his mouth and lets it string down into the mass of fingers and cocks. He starts moving his hand, and Chris follows along.

    “Fuck,” Chris breathes, eyes closed. Rick’s open-mouthed panting seems to agree with him. Ricky spits again, then, now satisfied with the slickness, leans down and kisses Chris again. He threads his free hand through Chris’ hair and tugs. That makes Chris moan, low and long, into Ricky’s mouth.

    “Yeah, c'mon,” Ricky whispers against Chris’ mouth. “Fuck, 's good.” He drops his head down into the crook of Chris’ shoulder

    “Yeah,” Chris whines into Ricky’s hair. Ricky digs his teeth into the meat of Chris’ shoulder through his t-shirt, and Chris swears and bucks his hips up into the tangle of their hands. “Fuck, 'm gonna--”

    “Fuck, yeah, me too.” Ricky starts fucking their fists, possibly disregard. He speeds his hand up, and so does Chris. “Fuck, please.” He bites down on Chris’ shoulder again.

    “Fuck, Rick.”

    Chris’ thumb drags across Ricky's piercing, and that’s enough for him. Ricky whines, tightens his fingers in Chris’ hair, and comes in between them. “Fuck,” he says, voice high, when Chris doesn't stop jerking them.

    “Close,” Chris breathes.

    “Please,” Rick says into his neck,” please, Chris. C’mon.” Chris tightens his grip near painfully tight, then goes still. Ricky presses a kiss to the side of his neck as he feels Chris’ cock pulse in their hands.

    They sit there for a few seconds, gasping in air, tucked into each other. Ricky smells kinda gross, funk and unwashed clothes and dick sweat; Chris buries his nose in his shirt and breathes it in. He might like it. He’s learning about a lot of things he likes tonight.

    Eventually, Ricky reaches over into his bunk for his designated jizz-rag pair of underwear and wipes them both down. They both tuck their soft cocks back in their respective underwear. Ricky tosses the rag ones back into his own bunk, and sinks down, settles with his head against Chris’ chest.

    “Uh, Rick?”

    “I just gave you a super awesome orgasm,” Ricky says, slinging an arm over Chris’ chest,” indulge me.” Chris really can't argue with that. Even if the bunks are really, honestly not sized for two people, he lets Ricky lie on top of him. Rick’s small, anyway, it's not much of a sacrifice. Chris just shuffles down from leaning against the wall and pulls his legs up, envious of the ease with which Ricky fits in the van.

    Ricky shuffles with Chris, and ends up lying tucked against his side. Chris wonders if maybe cuddling with one of his guitarists after they jerked each other off is maybe not the best idea, but he's already in this deep. He tucks one arm around Ricky’s shoulders and the other under his own head and tries to get some sleep.