Written for londonbelow for the 2007 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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One of the brilliantly annoying things about Dave Grohl is his ability to be
awake, loud and energetic when everyone else is asleep. Don't get me wrong,
I love the guy- let's not go into details over that now- but god, why does
he think it's a good idea to patter about a bus at stupid o'clock in the
morning? The TV's been off for a while when I hear the feet shuffling to the
excuse for a kitchen, banging around in a cupboard and a tap running. Glass
of water. The quarantine of a bus means you know what the other guy is doing
every hour of the day. Or at least, I know what Dave's doing. The bus is a
great excuse for it.
A comically loud yawn serves as an announcement of entry into the sleeping area- bedroom? Bunkroom? I could think so much better when I was actually rested. Through the tiny gap I see a shirt thrown to the floor and hear the rattle of a curtain being drawn back. Suddenly we're both jarred out of semi-consciousness by a screeching car horn and the slam of the brakes. I'm nearly thrown from the bunk and something rips as Dave swears loudly, falling down with a loud thump. I open my curtain, hoping to laugh at him on his noisy ass. He's sitting there, grumbling and cursing with a handful of curtain. The rail's come clean off in the stop and his bed's soaked with half a curtain rail in it. And I thought I was having a bad night. "Shit," I offer, watching him. He glances at me and nods, checking the state of his bed. Cringing, he rubs his ass and sighs. "How bad is it?" He shrugs, still bothered. "Not great." "Fixable?" "Not tonight," he mutters. "Uh, I'll..." He looks at me hopefully, leaning in the direction of the couch. I know the last thing I want is Dave sleeping in my bed- okay, well, not exactly, but in these circumstances it's the last- but the couch is fucking brutal and we both know that. My neck's been knotted for days after sleeping on that monster. He's too polite to ask but we each know what he'd prefer. Anyway, there's nothing weird about bunking in with your bandmate in a situation like this. We live in each other's pockets most of the time, it's just a place to sleep. That's what I fervently remind myself. Platonic. Totally and utterly platonic. That's Dave all over, that's what he means right now and there is no way in hell I can let myself forget it. Besides, I can't for the life of me say no to those big brown eyes, a little hurt and embarassed and hopeful. I roll my eyes and shuffle over, pulling back some blanket. He smiles his trademark million-watt grin that never fails to make my insides go funny, and crawls in next to me. Must. Not. Think about Dave half-naked in a bed next to me. He tucks himself in and I withdraw as far as I can, wishing that bare shoulder wasn't silhouetted against the dim light outside, that I couldn't feel the movement of his chest as his breathing slowed. Trying to keep any rushes of blood from going anywhere conspicuous and feeling far more claustrophobic than I ever have. The bunks aren't that small, or they aren't when your six-foot frontman isn't comfortably settled into what feels like most of the space. As he starts to snore softly, I think to myself how it was actually easier to sleep when he was running around making noise, rather than being tucked in oh-so-close. I lie with my eyes shut, trying to calm down, stop thinking, but of course I can't stop thinking about it. I can smell him, cigarettes and the free shampoo from the last hotel mixed with something I can't pin- just Dave. He rolls over after a while, face hidden under black shag. Making sure he doesn't touch me, I watch him, face only inches away from his, flinching as his leg brushes mine. His sleeping expression is slightly crestfallen, cute, from what I can tell in the dim light. The bus vibrates in my back, and despite being shirtless, I'm suddenly way too warm. Could be becase Dave's radiating heat, because he's fucking close and he's not wearing a lot and he's in a fucking bed with me. I never quite imagined the fantasy to turn out like this; so yeah, I've fantasised, yeah, I'm way too into Dave, yeah, this is awkward and a half. Eventually I just roll over and stare at the wall, because I know I'll never sleep facing him, even if it is nice to be able to just watch. I'm almost pressed to it, curled tightly in the corner and shoving away any thoughts of him, right behind me. Banging my head against the wall softly, I try to force myself to relax. It's his breathing, because while every fibre of my being focuses on the smallest things he does, it's slow, even, calm. Enough, only just, to lull me into sleep awhile. When I wake up it can't be an hour later, and it's because Dave is moving behind me. I've slid back from the wall and closer to him, and I can feel him shifting a hair's breadth from my back. He grumbles something, shuffling and rolling a shoulder. Then I nearly yelp as an arm lands over mine, resting idly around my chest. His hair tickles the back of my neck and he sighs contentedly, and I can't help but shake. Shit. Fuck. Lie still, Taylor. Still. I can't, though, not with fingers curled and brushing my ribs, warm air tickling my spine and that solid warmth behind me. The way, if I slid a hair's breadth back he'd be kissing my neck, he'd be up against me and I could- No. I pull away sharply, afraid and ashamed and almost hitting the wall. This wakes him, and he sort of grumbles for a few moments and patting his hand around the bed until he touches my shoulder blade, making me recoil. "Taylor...?" he mumbles. My head hurts and my eyes burn, wishing I hadn't made such an ass of myself or even better, not invited him here in the first place. Idiot. What was the best thing that could happen? The worst? "Hey... are you okay?" he tugs my shoulder gently, and then a little more insistently until I roll onto my back, eyes shut tight. "Whoa," he announces, propping himself up on one elbow when I look at him. "What's the matter?" I shake my head, trying to move away, but there's no space to move away in. His brow wrinkles in innocent concern, grip on my arm easing off. "Seriously, man. I'm sorry, was it me? What is it?" So caring, nicest man in rock. "Forget it, it's nothing," I mutter quietly, pressing the bridge of my nose between two fingers. Dave sits up a little more and the blanket slides lower, exposing down to somewhere near his middle. I stare, hating myself for it, knowing he'll see me looking. "It's not nothing, you look freaked. Come on, Tay, you're my best friend, you can tell me..." Why he thinks now's the best time for confessions I don't know, but I can't get him off my fucking back. Goddamn. He's half-naked in a bed with me and he's propped up over me looking so worried about me, he fucking knows, he has to have guessed, and he still keeps asking like he'll force me to say it, like slow torture. Fuck. He opens his mouth to ask again and I grab a handful of his hair, forcing my mouth onto his. He reacts exactly as I thought he would, eyes wide and mouth shut tight, bemused. I moan softly against his lips, savour it for the brief seconds before my life comes crashing down. Then I release him, lie back down and bite my lip hard, throat tight. He blinks stupidly at me and I look away, wet heat prickling in my eyes. Shit, I get to come out as the emo fucker as well as the fag tonight. Jesus. Way to be completetly pathetic, Taylor. It feels like hours before Dave manages to speak. "But... you can't be- I mean, you've got- god, you're... you... not me? Shit, I..." he states with exceptional eloquence. "What do you fuckin' think?" I spit, annoyed that he can't just get the fucking message and forget it. Or at least have the decency to be completely disgusted and move away. Suddenly the monster couch seems so appealing. "Taylor... I... I'm sorry. I don't, I'm not..." he apologises, but he's watching my face so carefully, and he hasn't budged an inch. Mouth still a little red and slightly wet where I forced myself onto him, apologetic but not repelling me. Fucking asshole. He scrambles for more excuses and explanations, chattering in that nervous way he does, avoiding actually saying anything, but I can feel him shaking a little, in the tight space his heartbeat is almost audible, and it's fast. So fuck, I'm already on a roll for being an idiot tonight, I sieze him again and kiss him roughly, hungry and urgent. I push his lips apart with my tongue and flick it into his mouth, so ardently he has to respond, kissing back weakly and whimpering into my mouth, gasping breaths as I refuse to stop, ploughing him down and shoving him onto his back, on top. He doesn't quite resist and god, this can't be right and it can't be real and I can tell he's not doing this entirely because he wants to, and the threatening tears break and spill. I don't stop, though, even when he places his hands on my shoulders and tries to push me away. He could if he wanted to but his tongue's pressing into mine and he's frowning hard as my eyes leak and we both taste salty. I curse at myself some more, because in three decades of doing stupid things this is almost at the top of the list but I know if I stop, let him escape, it'll all fall apart. Breathless, he manages to cough out the word "Please," ambiguous to say the least. I shut him up with another sloppy kiss, almost ripping his hair as he claws at me. "Taylor, don't, please..." he gasps, shaking his head. I leave off his mouth, working my way down his throat, lips and teeth on all the skin I can find and he tugs my hair in an effort to pull me away. I choke a sob against his chest, because I know it's so close to being all over with him but I need him, I always have, and now I'm here I feel like I'll die without him. I try not to cry against him, kissing his heart and drawing a shuddering breath. Another sob falls against his skin and I realise he's soaked with me, half-crying and half-kissing, still just as urgent and knowing he must hate me now, think I'm stupid and insane. His fingers weave into my hair a little as I ease off, sniffing, resting my head against him and trying to shut off the tears. I can't think of anything except how much I need him, and I grind my hips into the thigh I've straddled, ashamed that I'm so hard but desperate that he know. I glance up at him, eyes raw and still burning. He looks... apologetic, still. He tucks my hair back awkwardly, guilt all over his expression. "Fuck. I'm sorry," I murmur, pressing my face against him again, inhaling that scent that's so much stronger now. He starts to speak, not realising I'm apologising for something I'm going to do. More kisses weave down his body, over his torso and he recoils a little when I reach his stomach. "Taylor, no..." he insists, but my fingers creep over his waistband and I know he isn't entirely traumatised by what I'm doing. I sigh sharply and tug, and he chokes out some kind of frustrated noise. My palm spreads on his thigh, hip, and he shudders as I run my fingers over his cock. "T..." he whines, but is politely ignored as I wrap my fingers around his length. I'm going to hell anyway, and I'll be damned if I don't do this, metaphorically speaking. Jumped off the bridge already and there's no point in stopping now. He gasps when I squeeze and almost calls out when I brush my lips over the tip of his cock, both of us purring. Then I close my eyes and lick slowly. "Fuck! T, stop... no..." he tries to say as I slide my lips over meticulously, determined to savour every second of this. I'll need these details when I'm on the side of the road in wherever we are right now. The moan is smothered when I suck, holding his length tight and I can't resist more insistent, messy kissing, and god, I want to eat him alive. Always have, but as long as he's not actually throwing me out of the bunk I'll take this opportunity. So I suck like my life depends on it- fine, it does- and pump roughly, listening carefully to the sounds he makes. I hit something that must be right because his hips surge forward. "God, T!" he yelps, scrabbling at my back. I suck harder and he pulls back, trying to utter something to stop me but his heart's not in it. I comfort myself with the thought that if he really, really wanted me to go he could make me. So long as that isn't reality I'm going to stay right here though, half getting off myself on his gutteral moans. "Oh, fuck..." he growls, gripping my head and suddenly forcing me down. I oblige, taking him as far as I can and humming softly, nails dragging down his thigh. I suck again and he moans loudly, trying to speak. It only takes a few moments before he nearly rips out a chunk of my hair. "No, Taylor, I'm gonna... T..." he whines, and I hold his hips tight and swallow, because he hasn't succeeded in taking charge now and of anything I'll have this. He collapses, panting, and suddenly my head throbs with pain like an evil reminder of what I've just done. I crawl slowly back up him, too scared to do anything, to face reality. He stares at me for a while and I look back defiantly, daring him to speak. "We-" he swallows. "I mean, we're on tour... you, you always get horny on tour... we just miss... our..." He trails off, entranced as I suck his cum off my bottom lip, rolling between my teeth. And I thought I was fucking pathetic. I can't do anything but glare. "You are so fucking repressed," I hiss, sliding off him and lying with my back to him. The asshole lies there for so long, then rolls and puts his arm around me again, pulling my back against his body. Lips very nearly brushed the nape of my neck. "I..." he sighs, still awkward with me but definitely not letting go. "... I'll work on it."
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