We Were Young and Nearly Famous
schmoop_bingo prompt: massage - erotic
Brendon/Rick Moranis Jack Antonoff of Steel Train/fun. ~fame~, 2,157 words, unbeta'd [please point out any glaringly obvious mistakes]
As always, this is fiction. Title from Steel Train's song 'Dakota'
[I don't feel like doing the long info for a drabble, I may or may not go back through and put one in later]
It’s during the finale of a performance somewhere in the dust bowl that Brendon pulls his shoulder muscle. He isn’t quite sure why it’s different that night, but when he throws his arms into a V above his head as the last note rings out like he normally does, he feels something stretch and throb. He barely makes it off stage before the pain forces him to sit down; it’s not too awful a pain in all actuality, but combined with the exhaustion he feels from the show, it’s practically unbearable. Evan, who was watching their set from side stage, makes his way over to Brendon and asks if he’s okay. Gritting his teeth, Brendon just shakes his head no. There are feet pounding then, heading in the opposite direction, and Brendon hears Evan’s voice echo in the hall. “Medic!”
He gets an ice pack and a pat on his good shoulder from the medic, and the firm promise that “It’ll be okay, kid” from Zack. Alright, so he’s not at risk of dying or anything, but still. Motherfucking ow. He has a feeling he’ll be sore for weeks, if not for the rest of his life. Then again, he always was a whiner.
They’re on the bus that night, and every pothole jars Brendon enough that he wants to cry. Instead, he just ices his shoulder according to what he was told by the medic and pops a metric fuckton [roughly] of Tylenol every two hours. He crosses his fingers and hopes that he feels alright for the show tomorrow because he has no idea what he’ll do if he’s still hurting this badly.
The next morning, the bands and crew meet up for a quick breakfast at a roadside diner. It smells of grease and coffee; the black vinyl seats are sticky with syrup or jam or maybe just the kind of build-up that comes from having someone new sliding in and out every hour on the hour for Lord-knows-how-long. Brendon slides into an empty booth, and quickly finds himself being joined by Spencer in the spot opposite of him. Ian shows up soon after, smiling as Spencer pulls him onto the bench next to him and throws an arm casually around his shoulders. Brendon rolls his eyes at the way Ian automatically leans into Spencer and kisses his neck, jaw, lips; shouldn’t you be less touchy when you and your boyfriend are finally on the same tour for the first time in forever? He’s about to give Spencer a ten second warning to pull his tongue back into his mouth or he’s firing him, but then someone’s sitting down next to him in the booth.
It’s Jack, and his rumpled clothes and mussed hair makes it look like he was sleeping on the floor of the van. Again. He smiles softly at Brendon, reaching across him for a sugar packet, winks as he tosses it and it hits Spencer and Ian where they’re attached at the lips. The two break away laughing, and Jack waves his hands in the air a little. “Yay, victory.” Jack says mockingly as he shoots a smile to Brendon. Brendon laughs a little, wincing when he feels a tug in his shoulder.
“Evan said you hurt your back last night, you okay?” Jack asks.
“My shoulder, yeah. Eh, it hurts still. A lot.” Brendon rubs the area a little bit, half-way between illustrating his statement and trying to pull a little more of the soreness out.
“I’ve got some Icy Hot, if you want it. It‘s a hotel room tonight, come on over and I‘ll even put it on for you.” Jack offers with a wry smile. This is how it’s been the entire tour between him and Jack, and Brendon still isn’t sure what they’re doing. Are they flirting or is this just platonic teasing the way he and Ryan used to do? And if this is flirting, is Jack looking for a hook-up or is he genuinely interested? Brendon, for one, would be more than happy for it to be a legitimate attraction on Jack’s part; Brendon himself has been carrying a secret crush on Jack forever. In fact, the first time Brendon saw Steel Train, months before they’d ever even met, they’d covered “She’s So Heavy” and Brendon could barely contain himself with how sexy the whole thing was. Five minutes of Jack Antonoff moaning “I want you, I want you so bad, babe” into a microphone while wearing those painted on jeans and damn near grinding into the mic stand? Yes, yes, motherfucking yes and please.
There was more to it, though, Brendon’s thing for Jack. There’s the way Jack is passionate about his opinions on everything, whether it’s music or politics or game shows, and the way it seems like he’s getting the best out of life. He’s smart and funny, with that quick kind of humor that leaves everyone laughing uncontrollably. Jack also has this smile, this sweet, barely-there little quirk of his lips that makes Brendon feel like they‘re the only ones in on some big secret joke, like it‘s the two of them against the world. Admittedly, Jack is a monumental dork in every sense of the word, but so is Brendon, and it’s one of the things Brendon enjoys the most about being around Jack.
Brendon realizes he’s just been sitting there, probably pretty awkwardly, in the minute since Jack offered. He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Anything other than Tylenol. I think I’m about 20 milligrams away from an overdose.” Jack laughs, shrugs, and across from them is the smacking end to a kiss and Ian’s rough voice ask “Can you really overdose on Tylenol?” Brendon tunes out on Spencer’s explanation of who can take how much of what without needing medical attention, and in what seems like the blink of an eye, everyone has eaten and is ready to get going.
The show that night turns out to be pretty tough on Brendon. He hardly makes it fifteen minutes into their set before he’s having a hard time with his guitar, and the rest of the guys keep shooting him glances trying to figure out what’s up. Dallon is finally the one to come up to him between songs, hollering a half-drowned out question into Brendon’s ear. The two squint at each other and make a few vague gestures until Brendon gives up and mimes rubbing at his shoulder with a pained face. Dallon grimaces and tosses his head toward the keyboard, shrugs, an obvious unspoken question about whether or not Brendon feels like he can play something that isn’t guitar. He isn’t sure if he can manage, but Brendon gives it a shot anyhow.
Brendon is dying, pure and simple. He holds the arm attached to his sore shoulder with his good hand, and walks as slowly as possible to avoid anything that could possibly injure him. Partway to the car that was waiting to take him band to their hotel, Brendon runs into Jack.
“Oh, man. Still killing you?” Jack steps up to Brendon, touching his good arm with both hands. “Offer’s still on the table for that Icy Hot. You should try a shower, see if that helps any, and then come find me. I can text you the hotel room when we get out cards?” Brendon can’t take his mind off his pain long enough to deny Jack before Dallon comes up behind him and offers to help him back to the car. They make it outside about 15 minutes faster than Brendon probably could have made it out on his own.
Predictably, Brendon and Dallon get matching keys to a room. Dallon takes his things to their room and quickly begs off; Brendon’s about 90% sure it has something to do with the way he hasn’t stopped whining since Dallon had come to his rescue in the hall. Brendon takes a shower, the hot water dialed up just a notch above what he can actually handle, in hopes that the steam will loosen him up a bit. It does, marginally, but the pain is still pretty bad. Dressing in just pajama bottoms, ready to climb gingerly into the itchy hotel bed, Brendon checks his phone.
There’s a message from Jack that just says ‘417’; Brendon replies with ‘432’. It’s not even five minutes later before he hears a knock on the door. Jack is on the other side, looking much like he did that morning, and Brendon lets him in.
Sure enough, there’s a jar of Icy Hot in his hand.
“Did Dallon leave?” Jack asks, taking a look around the room.
“Mmm. I think I was irritating the guys.”
“What makes you think that?” Jack nods to the bed and Brendon sits on a corner, makes his hurt shoulder easy to reach.
“Spencer threatened to pull my other shoulder if I wouldn’t shut it.” Brendon hears a chuckle from behind him, feels the cool jelly hit his skin, and then there’s nothing but the gentle circles that Jack is rubbing into his skin. Brendon hums and lets his chin drop to his chest, fully intending to enjoy this as much as possible. Jack keeps going, applying that amount of pressure that is so right. It’s too good, almost too intimate, for Brendon to waste this feeling on a back injury. Apparently Jack agrees because he pulls his hands away and takes a step back. Brendon’s about to thank him for the coolness seeping into his skin when Jack speaks.
“Want me to keep going?” Brendon’s pretty sure his brain freezes. Except for how it apparently doesn’t, because he can feel his head bobbing up and down in a nod of approval, and then Jack is pushing him further onto the bed.
Brendon is laying on his stomach now with his arms straight at his sides. He’s centered on the bed with his face shoved in the pillows, and Jack moves to straddle Brendon. Oh, God. Jack is sitting on Brendon’s ass giving him a back rub; there is no way this is going to end well. Jack drags his hands slowly up and down the others back, digging his palms and fingers in just the right way.
Then, Brendon starts to hear him hum.
“I’ve got this song stuck in my head.” Jack chuckles. “Sorry. Don’t you hate when you can’t get rid of an earworm until you sing it?”
Brendon recognizes the tune a half second before the first words slip from Jack’s mouth, and oh, fucking shit.
“I want you,” the voice behind him barely sings. “I want you so bad, it‘s driving me mad, it‘s driving me mad.” The next few bars, he’s back to humming, and Brendon’s entire body is on fire. He’s so embarrassed and turned on and pissed at what the fucking chances are when Jack laughs again.
“Is it working?” He asks, and Brendon is about to nod until he realizes that he actually has no idea what Jack is asking him. He turns his head just enough from the pillow to be heard, and makes a small noise; he hopes it conveys that no, actually, what’s going on?
“Uh,” there’s a nervous chuckle from Jack, and then Brendon feels the hands on his back make their way up his spine and into his hair; his absolute fucking weak spot. And then, oh yeah, Brendon definitely knows what’s going on. Fucking… someone. Spencer probably, maybe Zack. One of them set this shit up, no doubt remembering the rants he went on about the sex-on-legs singer after that first night they saw Steel Train play.
“If I asked who told you so I could kick their ass, would you tell me?” Brendon asks, mortified.
“No way!” Jack cries out, laughing, “not if it’s working in my favor. It is, right?”
It so totally is. Rather than digging himself even deeper into his hole by blurting out the entire embarrassing history of his crush on Jack - including that one time he got drunk enough to sing a seven minute song to his band mates about strong thighs and strapping Jewish looks - Brendon just rolls onto his back as well as he can. Which isn’t very well at all, actually, and involves mostly flails and some obscenities yelled as he gets stuck in a position that further strains his muscle. But still, he makes his way onto his back, and Jack is still somehow sitting right where he was when Brendon was on his front. Brendon reaches both hands up to grasp Jack’s jaw, and tugs until they’re both stretching their necks for a kiss.
Brendon laughs, asks Jack if he saw firecrackers when they kissed, asked if they waved in the night. Jack pushes him back into the bed and kisses him until Brendon can’t even remember why he laughed in the first place.
Brendon/Rick Moranis Jack Antonoff of Steel Train/fun. ~fame~, 2,157 words, unbeta'd [please point out any glaringly obvious mistakes]
As always, this is fiction. Title from Steel Train's song 'Dakota'
[I don't feel like doing the long info for a drabble, I may or may not go back through and put one in later]
It’s during the finale of a performance somewhere in the dust bowl that Brendon pulls his shoulder muscle. He isn’t quite sure why it’s different that night, but when he throws his arms into a V above his head as the last note rings out like he normally does, he feels something stretch and throb. He barely makes it off stage before the pain forces him to sit down; it’s not too awful a pain in all actuality, but combined with the exhaustion he feels from the show, it’s practically unbearable. Evan, who was watching their set from side stage, makes his way over to Brendon and asks if he’s okay. Gritting his teeth, Brendon just shakes his head no. There are feet pounding then, heading in the opposite direction, and Brendon hears Evan’s voice echo in the hall. “Medic!”
He gets an ice pack and a pat on his good shoulder from the medic, and the firm promise that “It’ll be okay, kid” from Zack. Alright, so he’s not at risk of dying or anything, but still. Motherfucking ow. He has a feeling he’ll be sore for weeks, if not for the rest of his life. Then again, he always was a whiner.
They’re on the bus that night, and every pothole jars Brendon enough that he wants to cry. Instead, he just ices his shoulder according to what he was told by the medic and pops a metric fuckton [roughly] of Tylenol every two hours. He crosses his fingers and hopes that he feels alright for the show tomorrow because he has no idea what he’ll do if he’s still hurting this badly.
The next morning, the bands and crew meet up for a quick breakfast at a roadside diner. It smells of grease and coffee; the black vinyl seats are sticky with syrup or jam or maybe just the kind of build-up that comes from having someone new sliding in and out every hour on the hour for Lord-knows-how-long. Brendon slides into an empty booth, and quickly finds himself being joined by Spencer in the spot opposite of him. Ian shows up soon after, smiling as Spencer pulls him onto the bench next to him and throws an arm casually around his shoulders. Brendon rolls his eyes at the way Ian automatically leans into Spencer and kisses his neck, jaw, lips; shouldn’t you be less touchy when you and your boyfriend are finally on the same tour for the first time in forever? He’s about to give Spencer a ten second warning to pull his tongue back into his mouth or he’s firing him, but then someone’s sitting down next to him in the booth.
It’s Jack, and his rumpled clothes and mussed hair makes it look like he was sleeping on the floor of the van. Again. He smiles softly at Brendon, reaching across him for a sugar packet, winks as he tosses it and it hits Spencer and Ian where they’re attached at the lips. The two break away laughing, and Jack waves his hands in the air a little. “Yay, victory.” Jack says mockingly as he shoots a smile to Brendon. Brendon laughs a little, wincing when he feels a tug in his shoulder.
“Evan said you hurt your back last night, you okay?” Jack asks.
“My shoulder, yeah. Eh, it hurts still. A lot.” Brendon rubs the area a little bit, half-way between illustrating his statement and trying to pull a little more of the soreness out.
“I’ve got some Icy Hot, if you want it. It‘s a hotel room tonight, come on over and I‘ll even put it on for you.” Jack offers with a wry smile. This is how it’s been the entire tour between him and Jack, and Brendon still isn’t sure what they’re doing. Are they flirting or is this just platonic teasing the way he and Ryan used to do? And if this is flirting, is Jack looking for a hook-up or is he genuinely interested? Brendon, for one, would be more than happy for it to be a legitimate attraction on Jack’s part; Brendon himself has been carrying a secret crush on Jack forever. In fact, the first time Brendon saw Steel Train, months before they’d ever even met, they’d covered “She’s So Heavy” and Brendon could barely contain himself with how sexy the whole thing was. Five minutes of Jack Antonoff moaning “I want you, I want you so bad, babe” into a microphone while wearing those painted on jeans and damn near grinding into the mic stand? Yes, yes, motherfucking yes and please.
There was more to it, though, Brendon’s thing for Jack. There’s the way Jack is passionate about his opinions on everything, whether it’s music or politics or game shows, and the way it seems like he’s getting the best out of life. He’s smart and funny, with that quick kind of humor that leaves everyone laughing uncontrollably. Jack also has this smile, this sweet, barely-there little quirk of his lips that makes Brendon feel like they‘re the only ones in on some big secret joke, like it‘s the two of them against the world. Admittedly, Jack is a monumental dork in every sense of the word, but so is Brendon, and it’s one of the things Brendon enjoys the most about being around Jack.
Brendon realizes he’s just been sitting there, probably pretty awkwardly, in the minute since Jack offered. He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Anything other than Tylenol. I think I’m about 20 milligrams away from an overdose.” Jack laughs, shrugs, and across from them is the smacking end to a kiss and Ian’s rough voice ask “Can you really overdose on Tylenol?” Brendon tunes out on Spencer’s explanation of who can take how much of what without needing medical attention, and in what seems like the blink of an eye, everyone has eaten and is ready to get going.
The show that night turns out to be pretty tough on Brendon. He hardly makes it fifteen minutes into their set before he’s having a hard time with his guitar, and the rest of the guys keep shooting him glances trying to figure out what’s up. Dallon is finally the one to come up to him between songs, hollering a half-drowned out question into Brendon’s ear. The two squint at each other and make a few vague gestures until Brendon gives up and mimes rubbing at his shoulder with a pained face. Dallon grimaces and tosses his head toward the keyboard, shrugs, an obvious unspoken question about whether or not Brendon feels like he can play something that isn’t guitar. He isn’t sure if he can manage, but Brendon gives it a shot anyhow.
Brendon is dying, pure and simple. He holds the arm attached to his sore shoulder with his good hand, and walks as slowly as possible to avoid anything that could possibly injure him. Partway to the car that was waiting to take him band to their hotel, Brendon runs into Jack.
“Oh, man. Still killing you?” Jack steps up to Brendon, touching his good arm with both hands. “Offer’s still on the table for that Icy Hot. You should try a shower, see if that helps any, and then come find me. I can text you the hotel room when we get out cards?” Brendon can’t take his mind off his pain long enough to deny Jack before Dallon comes up behind him and offers to help him back to the car. They make it outside about 15 minutes faster than Brendon probably could have made it out on his own.
Predictably, Brendon and Dallon get matching keys to a room. Dallon takes his things to their room and quickly begs off; Brendon’s about 90% sure it has something to do with the way he hasn’t stopped whining since Dallon had come to his rescue in the hall. Brendon takes a shower, the hot water dialed up just a notch above what he can actually handle, in hopes that the steam will loosen him up a bit. It does, marginally, but the pain is still pretty bad. Dressing in just pajama bottoms, ready to climb gingerly into the itchy hotel bed, Brendon checks his phone.
There’s a message from Jack that just says ‘417’; Brendon replies with ‘432’. It’s not even five minutes later before he hears a knock on the door. Jack is on the other side, looking much like he did that morning, and Brendon lets him in.
Sure enough, there’s a jar of Icy Hot in his hand.
“Did Dallon leave?” Jack asks, taking a look around the room.
“Mmm. I think I was irritating the guys.”
“What makes you think that?” Jack nods to the bed and Brendon sits on a corner, makes his hurt shoulder easy to reach.
“Spencer threatened to pull my other shoulder if I wouldn’t shut it.” Brendon hears a chuckle from behind him, feels the cool jelly hit his skin, and then there’s nothing but the gentle circles that Jack is rubbing into his skin. Brendon hums and lets his chin drop to his chest, fully intending to enjoy this as much as possible. Jack keeps going, applying that amount of pressure that is so right. It’s too good, almost too intimate, for Brendon to waste this feeling on a back injury. Apparently Jack agrees because he pulls his hands away and takes a step back. Brendon’s about to thank him for the coolness seeping into his skin when Jack speaks.
“Want me to keep going?” Brendon’s pretty sure his brain freezes. Except for how it apparently doesn’t, because he can feel his head bobbing up and down in a nod of approval, and then Jack is pushing him further onto the bed.
Brendon is laying on his stomach now with his arms straight at his sides. He’s centered on the bed with his face shoved in the pillows, and Jack moves to straddle Brendon. Oh, God. Jack is sitting on Brendon’s ass giving him a back rub; there is no way this is going to end well. Jack drags his hands slowly up and down the others back, digging his palms and fingers in just the right way.
Then, Brendon starts to hear him hum.
“I’ve got this song stuck in my head.” Jack chuckles. “Sorry. Don’t you hate when you can’t get rid of an earworm until you sing it?”
Brendon recognizes the tune a half second before the first words slip from Jack’s mouth, and oh, fucking shit.
“I want you,” the voice behind him barely sings. “I want you so bad, it‘s driving me mad, it‘s driving me mad.” The next few bars, he’s back to humming, and Brendon’s entire body is on fire. He’s so embarrassed and turned on and pissed at what the fucking chances are when Jack laughs again.
“Is it working?” He asks, and Brendon is about to nod until he realizes that he actually has no idea what Jack is asking him. He turns his head just enough from the pillow to be heard, and makes a small noise; he hopes it conveys that no, actually, what’s going on?
“Uh,” there’s a nervous chuckle from Jack, and then Brendon feels the hands on his back make their way up his spine and into his hair; his absolute fucking weak spot. And then, oh yeah, Brendon definitely knows what’s going on. Fucking… someone. Spencer probably, maybe Zack. One of them set this shit up, no doubt remembering the rants he went on about the sex-on-legs singer after that first night they saw Steel Train play.
“If I asked who told you so I could kick their ass, would you tell me?” Brendon asks, mortified.
“No way!” Jack cries out, laughing, “not if it’s working in my favor. It is, right?”
It so totally is. Rather than digging himself even deeper into his hole by blurting out the entire embarrassing history of his crush on Jack - including that one time he got drunk enough to sing a seven minute song to his band mates about strong thighs and strapping Jewish looks - Brendon just rolls onto his back as well as he can. Which isn’t very well at all, actually, and involves mostly flails and some obscenities yelled as he gets stuck in a position that further strains his muscle. But still, he makes his way onto his back, and Jack is still somehow sitting right where he was when Brendon was on his front. Brendon reaches both hands up to grasp Jack’s jaw, and tugs until they’re both stretching their necks for a kiss.
Brendon laughs, asks Jack if he saw firecrackers when they kissed, asked if they waved in the night. Jack pushes him back into the bed and kisses him until Brendon can’t even remember why he laughed in the first place.