brooklinegirl@gmail.com
NC-17
4/2006
The sound of the road under the wheels of the tour bus made it seem like they were cloaked, careful, protected. Like they could get away with anything and no one would be the wiser. Not even themselves. Like doing it here, now, in the dark back of the bus, so late at night, meant that when the sun came up, nothing would be different. It was impossible to tell with Callum, maybe nothing would be different. Maybe this was just another part of all of it, and it was better not to look too close.
This was incredibly stupid, but Hugh didn't care. Frank was driving, Trent was drunk and passed out in one of the bunks closest to the door, and the rest of the guys were sacked out or passed out on the couches out front. Hugh hadn't had even one drink tonight - he'd lifted his chin at Callum and said, "Fuck it, I promised fucking McDonald that I wouldn't during the filming, and this is practice, right?"
Callum had smiled at him, that long, slow smile that did something to Hugh. "Practice for me, I thought." He'd taken the cigarette out of his mouth and blown smoke in Hugh's face. "You're supposed to be showing me how to be a rock n roll star, right?"
Hugh had grinned at him and stolen the cigarette out of his hand. "That's right, pretty boy. Follow the fucking leader." He had taken a long drag and made as if to tap ashes into Callum's hair, and Callum had shoved Hugh's arm away.
Hugh could still feel where Callum's long fingers had wrapped warm around his arm.
Hugh was glad he hadn't been drinking tonight, and not because he felt like he had to be fucking careful around Callum. Callum didn't talk about being sober much, he just didn't drink. Callum didn't talk about anything much, not really, not unless it was fucking late, and he was worn out, with that tired look around his eyes. That was when he'd smoke too many cigarettes and if Hugh asked just the right questions, he'd talk. Some. If Hugh could balance it, push just enough, and then know when to shut up. Then Callum would study the glow of his cigarette and not say anything, and not say anything, until finally the words would come out, and they'd be talking, slow and real and about stuff that mattered. They'd sit there, in the back of the bus, where it felt like they were cut off from anything and everything, and they would talk until it seemed like the world and the wheels revolved around nothing but the two of them.
Hugh didn't want to be drunk, because he wanted to fucking remember this. Maybe that made him a pussy, but he couldn't bring himself to fucking care. So stupid: they weren't alone, they had the band and roadies packed with them on this bus, and just a thin door between them and everyone else.
Christ, anyone could be awake, and they'd be dead, screwed, a goddamn joke. But this didn't feel like a joke, it didn't feel like a fucking joke. They made the bunks in buses like this big, for comfort and sure, for fucking groupies, and there was room, but not much. He'd known it was stupid when he'd moved from his bunk to Callum's, he'd known it even as he'd done it, his heart fucking pounding, and really fucking glad that Trent was up at the front of the backroom, snoring noisily, and really fucking glad that Callum had the bunk furthest back.
And it wasn't like this part was new. He and Callum had been doing stuff like this. Slouched in a bunk, smoking and talking and listening to music. Callum nodding his head, his leg pulled up, and his arm resting on it (christ, long fucking legs the guy had) while Hugh told him road stories. Some of them were true, some were made-up, and some had been embellished so freely and for so long that even Hugh couldn't swear which parts were real or not anymore. But it didn't matter, none of that mattered, the made-up shit was part of touring too. It was storytelling, you know, storytelling at its fucking finest, and that was what Hugh did, he wove the stories together and it was the same thing as songwriting. Or close enough as to make no difference whatso-fucking-ever.
Tonight, it was just Callum's voice low and rough in the darkness, his face was still mostly just a shadow to Hugh. They sat on Callum's bunk, smoking in the dark till they were down to the last cigarette. They passed it back and forth till it was down to the filter. Hugh watched as Callum's head tilted back against the wall of the bunk, his throat catching the fragment of headlights from the road, filtering through the curtain that blocked off the window in the back of the bus.
Then Callum shifted, and he looked at Hugh, and Hugh didn't even fucking remember leaning in, didn't remember making a decision. But he must have, had to fucking have, because he was kissing Callum roughly, had his tongue in Callum's mouth and his hand resting against the lean length of Callum's throat. Callum wrapped his hand around Hugh's wrist, just holding on, and over the sounds of the wheels against the road, Hugh felt more than he heard the moan Callum made, and fuck, oh, fuck, this was fucking dumb.
Still, he couldn't help it, he moved his fingers, stroked gently against Callum's throat, and then Callum's hand moved, clenching against Hugh's shoulder so fucking tight, dragging him down, down, the two of them shifting awkwardly, urgently, in the space of the bunk, with everyone, fucking everyone, the whole fucking band just feet away.
It was cold in the bus, it was always cold in the bus, and Callum himself was always cold, no matter what, his skinny ass holding on to no heat at all. His fingers were cold against Hugh's skin as he pushed his hands under Hugh's sweater, pulled him down tight against him. Pressed against the length of Callum's body, Hugh wasn't cold at all. Hugh was sweating and desperate and he thought he might be shaking. He couldn't stop kissing Callum, not even as he reached out with one flailing arm to drag closed the ragged curtain that provide the illusion, at least, of privacy in these damn bunks in this damn tour bus.
His leg pressed between Callum's, Hugh was panting and trying to be quiet, have to be fucking quiet, and Callum, the fucker, was grinning under him. Hugh stared down at him, at the flash of his teeth, as Callum muttered, "I am being quiet," and Hugh realized he'd said that out loud.
"Shut up, shut up," Hugh gasped, almost silently, and christ, through the roaring in his ears he could hear the soft sounds of someone talking out in the main room, out on the couches. Even in the middle of the night, there was always someone awake on the fucking bus.
Callum's fingers slid out from under Hugh's sweater.Hugh felt him fumbling between them, and pushed up, watched as Callum slid his own belt open, thumbed open the buttons on his pants. He wasn't wearing anything under them, and Hugh groaned quietly, bending forward to press his forehead against Callum's bony shoulder. The unbuttoned shirt Callum was wearing had been pushed back, and his thin t-shirt was rucked up, leaving his bare stomach, and his cock curving out of the V of his undone pants.
"Jesus, Callum," Hugh breathed, struggling one-handed with his own jeans in the dim narrowness of the bunk.
"Come here," Callum said softly, real quiet, even Hugh could barely hear him, and again, the bunk made it feel like they were shut off, private, which was dangerous, so fucking dangerous, they could not lose themselves in this. But fuck, fuck , no way of stopping now, no fucking way, and Hugh finally freed himself from his jeans - hard, rock hard, so fucking hard, felt like he could pound nails with his cock, jesus - and pressed down against Callum.
Callum arched his hips up, cock to cock, and Hugh bit his lip hard and rocked down against him. "Jesus fucking christ," he muttered against Callum's neck.
"Shh." Callum's hands clung to Hugh's hips and dragged him down close, close, like he could get any fucking closer. The air in the bunk was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, and every breath the two of them took sounded loud. Hugh's throat hurt with holding back moans, and he thought that this could be dangerous even with walls and a door, he thought this could be really fucking dangerous, all the words that want to spill out here.
"Fuck," Callum breathed against the skin of Hugh's neck. The space where their cocks slid together was slick with sweat. Hugh moved his mouth back to Callum's to shut himself up. He pressed down against Callum, and Callum felt wiry and tough beneath him, hips moving up and up, like Hugh wasn't doing him hard enough, fast enough. Hugh was sliding against him roughly, and god, he could feel the moans in Callum's chest, though Callum's tongue was in his mouth, Callum's hot breath against his face. Hugh tore his mouth away, because he had to fucking breathe, and even that felt risky, like given the chance, they'd just get louder and louder.
He pressed his face against Callum's shoulder and panted against the skin there, between his t-shirt and his neck, where it was sweaty and hot. Hugh mouthed it as he humped Callum against the bunk, wanted to fuck him through the floor, wanted to fuck him so bad.
Hugh's feet, still in their boots, toed for friction against the bunk, and he thrust desperately against Callum. Callum's hands were tight and firm on his hips, holding him down, holding him close, and jesus fuck, jesus fuck. Hugh wrapped one hand in Callum's hair, damp with sweat, and the other hand slid slick against the rumpled sheets, and he was so fucking fucking close. There wasn't any way, there was no way he could be quiet, and he bit down hard against Callum's shoulder as his orgasm hit. The twist of Callum's hips and the barely-breathed yet frantic "Fuck" in Hugh's ear told him Callum liked the sharp, stinging pain of Hugh's teeth in his skin, and that sent a jolt through Hugh and another spurt of come against Callum's hip.
Hugh's throat felt raw and he tasted salt and sweat in his mouth and Callum was shoving him over, sliding on top of him. Like Callum knew if he gave Hugh even a second, he was gonna collapse right there, and maybe the fucker was right. But this, jesus - Callum was on him, thin and wire-tight, barely a shadow against the deeper darkness of the bunk, sliding his hard cock through the come and sweat on Hugh's stomach, sliding roughly against where Hugh's cock was still fucking sensitive but it felt good.
Callum was holding himself up, his head back, his eyes shut, one hand on the bunk, the other on Hugh's shoulder. He was close, jesus, he was really fucking close, Hugh could see it in every line of his body, and his mouth went dry, just watching. Callum had his lip caught between his teeth, and he was shoving his cock against Hugh. He was gonna come any second, and it was only then that Hugh realized that his hands were tight on Callum's hips, dragging him forward even harder, like it was his own orgasm he was going after, as caught up in this as Callum was.
Hugh's mouth was open and he was panting into the darkness and when Callum's face twisted as he slammed forward, coming hot and wet over Hugh, spurting again and again, Hugh felt it like a shock to his own system, deep in his balls, like he was coming again, too.
Callum didn't make a sound as he came, and he didn't collapse forward. He slid to one side, somehow managing to do it smooth and easy. Hugh was a mess, Callum was a mess, the whole bunk reeked of sex, and - Hugh breathed a sigh of relief - he could still hear Trent's muffled snores from the bunk near the front of the room.
Callum, lying limply beside Hugh, gasped silently up at the close ceiling of the bunk. His side was pressed against Hugh's, sticky with sweat and come, and Hugh closed his eyes. "Fuck, I need a smoke."
Callum took a breath and let it out slow. "We're out."
"That's a fucker." Hugh opened his eyes, watched as Callum used the sheet to swipe at his stomach before fastening his pants. Callum shifted, lifting himself up and over Hugh, and Hugh felt suddenly awkward, all undone there on the bed, and he made up for it by catching Callum's ankle with one booted foot, so he half fell, half rolled, out of the bunk.
"You're an asshole, Dillon," Callum said mildly, getting easily to his feet.
"That a fucking shocker to you, Rennie?" Hugh lifted his chin and grinned, and Callum gave him the finger as he headed to the front of the bus. By the time he got back, Hugh had fixed his clothes and slid across the narrow aisle to sprawl back on his own bunk. Callum had a cigarette in his mouth and one behind his ear, and he slouched down on the floor in front of Hugh. "Who'd you bum those off of?" Hugh asked, staring at the pale skin on the back of Callum's neck as he bent his head to light the cigarette in his mouth.
Callum snapped the lighter shut and tilted his head back to rest against the bunk, breathing out a long stream of smoke. "Frank." The driver.
Hugh slid the other cigarette out from behind Callum's ear as Callum tossed the lighter onto the bunk. Hugh turned the cigarette over in his fingers for a few seconds before he lit it. He could feel the rumble of the wheels beneath them, and he felt exhausted, done in. Now he wanted a drink. He let his knee inch forward until it bumped against Callum's shoulder to the rhythm of the bus rolling along, and Callum didn't move away, just took another drag on his cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the darkness.
~end~