The Hours Everyone Else Throws Away (Nick/Tyson) 4/4
Back to Part 3.
Tyson can't help but kiss Nick. There's something about the moment, about Nick singing, in person, the words Tyson has fallen asleep to for weeks and weeks on end. He finds himself swaying in without meaning too, and the logical thing to do is kiss Nick, so he does.
Nick kisses back and Tyson tries to remember what Gabe had shown him. But everything leaves his head except for the here and now, the feel of Nick's lips against his own, tongue sliding against his own, the hardness of the guitar pressed between them.
Tyson almost stumbles over his own feet when Nick takes the guitar off and leads him towards the sofa. Somehow Tyson ends up on his back and there's a moment of panic because even if Gabe hadn't told Nick about his friend Ty, the minute man, Nick's about to find out.
He tries to think about other things, things that aren't Nick's lips on his, his body pressed against Tyson's side, hands on Tyson's chest. And all he can think about is what Nick might be thinking right now. He's suddenly sure that Nick is thinking about lying like this with Gabe, and how he can't compare. Nick's hand slides lower and Tyson is sure Gabe never blew his load the moment someone touched his dick. He's pretty sure Nick's going to laugh at him.
"I know I can't compete with him," Tyson blurts out, just as Nick runs a finger along the bare patch of skin between waistband and t-shirt hem. "Gabe," he gasps when Nick asks who he means and starts to undo Tyson's pants. For a moment he can't think about anything but the feel of Nick's fingertips brushing against his bare skin. He has to force himself to breathe, to clear his head. "I know I'm not as charismatic as he is. I'm just a goofy guy who-"
But Nick doesn't let him continue. He looks at Tyson like he's insane, but also like he's perfect and Tyson can't help but smile, can't help but believe him when Nick tells him he's hot.
A surge of want rushes through him, and with it a boost of confidence. "We gonna get this show on the road, or what?" he asks suggestively.
When Nick wraps his hand around Tyson's dick, he gasps, but it's different than before. He's not sure if it's the laugh he'd suppressed when Nick had seen he was going commando that makes it easier, but he sends a silent thank you to Chris, wherever he is right now.
"You were saying?" he whispers against Nick's mouth.
Nick doesn't say anything else though. He's busy pushing up Tyson's t-shirt, pushing down his pants.
He lets go of Tyson's dick and slides off the sofa, and Tyson makes a noise of protest that makes Nick laugh. "Don't worry," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
He's kneeling on the floor beside Tyson, and Tyson can't help but reach out and touch, thread his fingers in Nick hair. He likes the way Nick presses his cheek into Tyson's touch. And then he leans in. Tyson tries to take his hand back, but Nick reaches up and holds it there until Tyson gets the idea. His hand slides down, thumb resting against the side of Nick's neck, and so he feels it in his hand too, when Nick opens his mouth and licks up the length of Tyson's dick.
Tyson gasps, and then gasps again when Nick licks his lips and swallows him down. He feels Nick's throat work, and his arm moves along with Nick's motions, up and down, slow and languid and perfect.
Tyson can't even begin to describe how it feels. He's only had this done to him once, but Ryan hadn't appreciated the lack of warning when Tyson had come, half in, half out of Ryan's mouth, about 10 seconds in.
He bucks his hips up. Nick pulls off and looks up at him and grins.
"Easy tiger," he says, and places one hand on Tyson's stomach, holding him down. The extra touch, extra sensation, makes Tyson want to close his eyes and lose himself in it, but he can't take his eyes off Nick. Nick's clever fingers, the ones he'd watched wrapped around the neck of a guitar, are wrapped around his dick, and it's such a beautiful sight that Tyson has to stop himself from pressing up into Nick's mouth again.
He wants more though, more and more and for it to never stop. It's like a new song that you hear and it feels right, the ones you put on repeat and play over and over and over again, and it's so perfect but not enough, you never want it to end because being wrapped in the song is a happy place to be.
Tyson stares at the way Nick's eyelashes rest against his cheek, at the redness of his lips, and he wants to kiss them.
"Nick," he says, and Nick opens his eyes, slants them towards Tyson, dick still in his mouth, and for a moment Tyson thinks he's going to ruin everything and come right there on the spot. "Come here," he says, and Nick sits back. Tyson gasps against the sensation of his spit-slicked dick in the cool air, and Nick stands up.
"Is this okay?" he asks, grasping the hem of his t-shirt, and Tyson wishes there was a more emphatic way to nod without looking like an idiot, because nothing has ever been as okay as this before.
"Please," he says, and sits up to help Nick with his belt buckle. His hands are a little shaky when he undoes the zipper, and Nick's hands land on top of them.
"We don't have to do anything else," he says. "I don't have to...I could just-"
"No," Tyson says. "I want this, Nick. Fuck. So bad." He's not even sure what 'this' is, other than that it's Nick, and that's what he wants more than anything.
"Good," Nick says, and when Tyson tips his head up, Nick leans in and kisses him. He tastes like Tyson's precome, and Tyson likes it, the very faint trace of himself in the corners of Nick's mouth, like he belongs there.
"Do you," Tyson pulls away, then pauses. "Are you going to fuck me?"
Nick shakes his head. "Not tonight," he says, and Tyson feels a stab of disappointment. It must show because Nick laughs. "I don't have anything with me, do you?"
Tyson shakes his head, and he wishes he did, so much. He thinks he should probably have asked Chris for some- he seemed the type who'd have a wide selection of lube in his back pocket.
"Then next time," Nick says, and Tyson believes him completely that there'll be a next time. With Ryan he'd always been sure each time would be the last, that Ryan would get sick of fucking someone who couldn't hold on more than a minute at most. With Nick it’s different, somehow. Better, more certain, more secure. Tyson likes that.
“Next time,” Tyson echoes and kisses Nick again.
When the kiss ends, Nick pushes his jeans down, and Tyson can't help but laugh.
"What?" Nick asks, folding his arms across his chest. He glances down, following Tyson's gaze, and frowns.
Tyson grins at the boxers Nick is wearing. He's pretty sure there's a hundred Marvin the Martian's printed on them, and he thinks back to being in the van with Chris, how he'd had to take off his own dorky boxers.
"Nothing," he says. "I think these are cute."
Nick's cheeks colour for a moment. "Shut up," he says, and pushes them down.
Tyson shuts up. He licks his lips and hesitates for a moment before reaching out. He rubs his thumb over the head of Nick's dick, listens to the sound Nick makes, the faint moan. He watches the way Nick's head tips back, neck stretched and begging for Tyson to kiss it, when Tyson wraps his hand around the length and squeezes gently.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Nick gasps, when Tyson relaxes his grip. "We need to...you need to be more naked, okay?"
Tyson nods and kicks his pants all the way off, one sneaker flying off across the room as he flails. He shrugs out of the hoodie, Nick's hoodie, and leaves it lying beneath him on the sofa.
Nick climbs onto the sofa, one knee at either side of Tyson's thighs and pushes Tyson's t-shirt way up, up under his armpits. Tyson struggles for a moment to get it off as Nick kisses a line up Tyson's chest.
"Um, help?" Tyson asks, just before Nick's teeth graze over a nipple and he gasps. "Nick," he says, breathlessly. "Please?"
Nick laughs and shucks Tyson of his shirt, then returns to his task. Tyson closes his eyes, focuses on the points of contact between them- hot mouth on his chest, hand on his shoulder, thighs pressed against his thighs, a brush of a foot against his calf and, if he arches up just a little, he thinks he can brush his dick against Nick's hip.
"So impatient," Nick whispers when Tyson arches up even higher, until he feels the head of Nick's dick drag wetly across his stomach.
"Yes," Tyson whispers back, and reaches his hands up to rest on Nick's hips. "Can you blame me?"
Nick leans up until they're nose to nose. "I don't think I'm going to last long," he says, "not if you keep talking like that. Keep looking like that."
Tyson laughs, hard, body shaking. He's never had those words spoken to him before- it was always Tyson who pre-emptively apologised- and from the way Nick's looking at him, he has no idea why Tyson is so amused. Tyson is grateful to Gabe for not sharing his secret, even though he's not sure why Gabe would keep it to himself other than his horrible, sneaking suspicion that maybe Cash was right about the guy.
"That's okay," Tyson says after a moment. "I know exactly what you mean." he laughs some more, body shaking, until Nick settles himself on top of Tyson, and Tyson falls immediately silent. Nick's lined them up perfectly- if Tyson presses his hips up, Nick's dick is right against his own.
"Ready?" Nick asks, when Tyson stops biting his lip and opens his eyes.
Tyson nods, and there's a momentary pause. He wonders if Nick is counting himself in, trying to work up what rhythm to use. Will it be a frantic fast rock n’ roll beat, an off-beat rolling swing style or the gentle slow dance of a waltz? He likes that he doesn't know, that he's going to get to try all of these things with Nick, that he's sure there are as many ways for them to have sex as there are songs flitting through Nick's head right now.
The music they'd started to play when they arrived in the studio ends, and Tyson thinks that someone should get up and press play again, as the room descend into silence. Normally a lack of music makes Tyson feel on edge, jittery, nervous. It’s why he’d made a beeline to put it on the moment they’d entered the studio and Nick had been distracted by the guitars. Tyson had needed it then and the spark of panic flares in his chest when he thinks maybe he needs it again now. But then Nick grinds down, and Tyson gasps Nick's name, against Nick's lips, and pushes back.
The silence in the room isn't so unbearable now, not with the moans and gasps and sounds of body contact that fill Tyson's ears. For one corny moment he thinks that it's like they're writing their own song, their own unique song, right at that moment. That each press of fingertips is a new chord, that each moan is a bar of melody.
And then Nick makes a wonderful strangled noise into Tyson's ear and says, "Fuck, Tyson," and comes. Tyson pulls his head away enough that he can see Nick's face, the tension and then slackness in his jaw, the way his eyelids flicker and his mouth is wet and parted, and it's too much. Tyson's not been holding on, not like he usually has to try to, but he couldn't hold on now if his life depended on it. His grip tightens on Nick's waist and he arches up, moaning when he comes, the wave of sensation washing over him, Nick's body warm and firm on top of him like an anchor.
When Tyson can think again, he knows it's never been like that before, not with Ryan, and not under the covers of his bed by himself, in the darkness.
"Okay?" Nick asks, face pressed into Tyson's neck, hand splayed across Tyson's chest, damp with sweat.
Tyson doesn't know how to put into words just how okay he is, so he hums happily. He feels Nick's mouth curve into a smile against his neck. "You?"
"Fuck yes," Nick says, and Tyson grins. "Do you want me to move?" Nick asks, and Tyson doesn't reply, just wraps his arms around Nick and holds him in place. He knows it's probably gross, that they should get up and try and clean off as much as possible, that that was the thing to do. It's what he'd always done with Ryan- dealt with the mess straight afterwards- but right now he wants cuddles, and Nick seems happy to oblige.
“I have a couple of the mix tapes you made Gabe,” Tyson confesses into the quiet.
Nick doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Oh yeah?”
Tyson nods. “Yeah. A couple. Dozen. Whatever. They’re good. I like them.”
“Kinda douchey, huh?” Nick asks, and Tyson shakes his head.
“It’s an art,” he tells Nick. “Making mix tapes. You have to know your music- not just know it, I mean, but feel it. You do that. And that song you played-”
“It’s nothing much,” Nick interrupts.
“It’s something,” Tyson replies firmly and Nick turns his face into Tyson’s arm and doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling. “You wrote it?”
Nick nods, not lifting his head. “It’s just…I was just messing around. It’s not done. I can’t come up with the words to say what I want to say.”
“I think it says a lot,” Tyson tells him. He hesitates, focuses on his breathing for sixteen counts and then says. “I wrote some.”
Nick lifts his head. “You write lyrics?” he asks, curiously. “Can I see them?”
Tyson shrugs. “Maybe. And yeah. I…sometimes. That song you played. I listened to it a lot, on that mix. It made me think in lyrics.”
Nick smiles at him. “You finished my song for me?”
Tyson makes a face. “No finished. Just…wrote down what it made me feel. And the words seemed to fit.”
“Show me?” Nick asks, sitting up. “Sing it for me?”
Tyson hesitates, wishing he hadn’t said anything. It had been one thing to make up the lyrics, to show them to Ryan who’d never heard the song, had no attachment to it, but he doesn’t want to risk ruining this beautiful thing Nick’s created. He doesn’t want Nick to hate it.
“Please,” Nick adds, and Tyson feels suddenly brave, lying there beside Nick in the comfortable silence.
“Okay,” he says, and opens his mouth, hoping he can do justice to the tune, but is interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing.
Nick reaches for Tyson’s jeans.
“Leave it,” Tyson says, even though he knows it’s Cash, recognises the cheesy ringtone he’d programmed in for himself.
“Hey, it’s cool,” Nick says, rolling off Tyson so he can reach them and pull the vibrating phone out of the pocket. Tyson misses the warm press of Nick’s body immediately, but takes the cell out of Nick’s hand.
“Hey Cash,” he says. He feels a momentary pang of guilt at sounding so resigned when Cash yells, “TYSON! Oh my god, Tyson!”
Tyson pushes himself up until he’s sitting, Nick scrambling out of the way as Tyson grabs onto the back of the couch for leverage.
“What’s wrong?” he says, a surge of worry running through him. Even though Chris and Mike had promised to look after him, Tyson can’t help but automatically worry about Cash, wondering what mess he’s going to have to go and clean up.
“Tyson! Oh god Tyson! Why aren't you here?”
Nick’s hand rests reassuringly on Tyson’s arm.
“Stop being a dick,” Tyson snaps. “What’s wrong? Where are you? What happened? Cash, talk to me.”
“PETEY!” Cash yells into the phone. “WE FOUND PETEY!” And then he hangs up.
“Did you-”
“I heard,” Nick replies, reaching for his own phone. It’s in the pocket of the hoodie, bunched up at one end of the sofa, but he manages to extricate it.
“Hey,” he says into the phone a moment or two later. “Where are you?”
He looks over and grins at Tyson. “Wanna go and see Where’s Petey?” he asks, and Tyson is already reaching for his shirt.
He’s not sure what he did to deserve this best night of his life, but he’s willing to keep doing it if he gets more nights like this, with Nick.
~~~
“Why aren’t you here already dude?” Mike answers the phone.
“Where are you?” Nick demands, and Mike rattles off an address and tells him to hurry.
Nick turns back to look at Tyson. Part of him wants to say ‘Fuck Petey’ and press Tyson back onto the sofa and do it all over again. He wonders for a moment if he’d have considered missing a Where’s Petey? show to spend time with Gabe, let alone fuck him. He doesn’t have to think for long. He already knows that answer.
He gives Tyson the choice, but Tyson is already pulling on his shirt. Nick grins and tugs on his jeans, absently snapping his gum. It takes him a moment or two to realise he hadn’t been chewing gum before. He considers offering it back to Tyson but he’s not sure if it’s too weird.
“Stop looking all hot and half naked,” Tyson says, as Nick pulls his shirt onto his arms and moves to slip it over his head.
“Huh?”
“It’s kinda dangerous to try and zip these up with an erection,” Tyson points out, wriggling his tight pants up his thighs.
“Need a hand?” Nick asks, laughing, and Tyson stops wriggling and gives him a look.
“Dude,” Tyson says, turning away a little. “I just said I don’t want a hard on.”
Tyson does the pants up and then pulls them on, and Nick lets his head tip to the side so he can pause and watch as Tyson shoves a hand down his pants to rearrange his junk.
“Stop smirking,” Tyson says, without looking up, and Nick smirks even harder.
“Why are you going commando in those pants anyway?” he asks when Tyson finishes fiddling with himself, and Tyson glances up and looks a bit embarrassed.
“Chris said…” Tyson says and trails off, and Nick can’t help but laugh.
“Is that what you were doing in the van with him? Fuck, I should warn him about trying to get the pants off guys I’m interested in!”
Tyson stops rearranging his balls and lifts his head to look at Nick. “You’re interested in me?” he asks, with a smirk. Nick can tell he’s kidding, but he wants to make it clear.
“I don’t have fantastic sex with just anyone, you know?”
“Fantastic?”
“Shut up,” Nick says. “I’m not going to stay here and stroke your ego when there’s Where’s Petey? to listen to.”
“I have something else you can stroke instead,” Tyson leers, pulling on Nick’s hoodie.
“Later,” Nick promises. He shoves his feet into his shoes and takes Tyson’s hand.
“Ready?” he asks, and lets Tyson lead him outside. He glances at poor, injured Lady Strange, and hopes that someone will be able to fix her in the morning.
Typically, there is not a cab in sight, so he tugs Tyson towards the subway.
“Here,” he says, pulling his Metrocard out of his pocket and handing it to Tyson, who takes it and slides it through the turnstile.
The sound of an approaching train fills the station and Tyson shoves the card back at Nick.
“Come on!” he says, and Nick grins and slides the card. He stops smiling when the machine reads ‘Insufficient funds’.
“Fuck,” Nick swears, and Tyson turns to look at him, the lights from the train starting to light up the platform.
“Fuck,” Tyson says. “I don’t have a card.”
Nick glances towards the card machines, wondering if he can make it in time.
“You go on ahead,” he says. “I’ll catch up.” He starts to move away, to get a new card, but Tyson grabs his hand.
“Just jump!” he says. “Come on!”
Nick hesitates. There’s no one around, and what’s the worst than can happen? And yet, he can’t stop himself from hesitating. Nick is the sort of guy who gets kicked out of classes because he’s bored, who stays out past curfew to see if his parents even notice, who drinks underage because he really likes beer and doesn’t think something’s going to magically happen to him in three years to make him mature enough to handle booze better than he does now. But this is a whole different thing.
The roar of the train is closer now- it’s going to pull up to a stop in front of them at any moment, and still Nick hesitates.
Tyson’s face falls a little, and he starts to pull his hand back. And Nick doesn’t want that. He wants to be with Tyson, to go where Tyson goes, which right now is to see the best fucking band on the planet.
“Okay,” he says, and climbs over, letting Tyson pull him through.
They stumble onto the platform, and Tyson wraps his arms around Nick’s waist to steady him. They’re both laughing, Nick’s heart thumping in his chest from the adrenaline. He lifts his head and kisses Tyson, just as the doors to the train open, and they step inside. It’s empty, apart from a drunk guy down the far end of the carriage. He’s singing to himself, but the sound travels.
“When I strut down the street I can hear its heartbeat…”
Nick grins when the guy notices them. He stares at Tyson as he sings “Don’t that man look pretty,,” and Nick grips Tyson’s hand a little harder, trying not to laugh.
Tyson seems to be taking it as a compliment though, humming along as the train rattles towards its next destination. They slide on the plastic seats, thighs and elbows bumping, and for a moment Nick considers getting on Tyson’s lap, giving the guy down the other end a show, to see if the rhythm of the train rocks them closer together or apart.
But the drunk guy is stumbling over his words. Tyson smiles at Nick and looks down the train.
“They ride the line of balancing, hold on by just a thread,” Tyson sings, and the drunk dude sits up.
“Yeah man!” he shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “Don’t stop!”
“It’s too hot in these tunnels, you can get hit up by the heat,” Tyson sings, and the drunk guy joins back in.
They sing through the rest of the verse, and Nick tucks a leg underneath himself so he can twist his body to watch Tyson sing.
“It’s so hard to be a saint in the city!” Tyson finishes and the drunk guy starts clapping.
“Yeah! Woo! Long live the Boss!” he says, getting to unsteady feet as they train rolls into a station. He stumbles out on to the platform and tips his hat in their direction as the train speeds off.
“Wow,” Nick says, and Tyson looks a little embarrassed. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
Tyson shrugs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I just do it for fun.”
“You don’t sing with a band?”
Tyson shakes his head. “I’m probably not good enough. I’ve never really sung in front of anyone before. My dad gets to work with amazing musicians all the time, so he wouldn’t want to hear me and Ryan never seemed very impressed, just asked me if I could sing something folksy instead of hair metal for a change.”
“Ryan has shitty taste,” Nick says, then shakes his head realising how that must’ve sounded. “Shit. I didn’t mean in you.”
Tyson shrugs. “You’re probably right. We’re totally different, too different to have worked. I guess…if I was the melody, he was trying to put words to me that didn’t fit. And I think if the only way you know someone is through other people’s words…that person doesn’t always live up to the expectations you set for them.”
Nick thinks about what Tyson had said, about how he’d been listening to Nick’s tapes for as long as he’d been making them for Gabe. They’d been Nick using other people’s lyrics, others melodies to explain how hurt he was, how lonely, how confused. He wonders if he’s as much of a disappointment to Tyson as it seems Tyson is to Ryan.
“And sometimes they surpass them,” Tyson adds as if sensing his thoughts, and reaches out to squeeze Nick’s hand.
Nick can’t help but smile.
“So”, he says. “Ever think of joining a band? Like, our band maybe?”
Tyson laughs, but not meanly. “With the shitty music you play?”
“We could play other stuff,” Nick shrugs. “I’ve written things.”
“I know,” Tyson says. “You should play for me again sometime. Properly. I won’t interrupt by kissing you.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Nick asks, then gives Tyson a level look. “I’ll play for you, I’ll show you my songs, if you’ll consider giving them words. And singing them.”
Tyson smiles. “Deal,” he says immediately, looking pleased, like he’s the one who’s gained something here.
Nick’s pretty sure he’s the lucky one though.
The train rattles to a stop and they hurry up and out onto the street.
“Come on,” Nick says, excitement buzzing along his skin, knowing they’re so close.
The sky is lighter now, in the way it gets just before it starts to think about letting dawn happen. Nick wants to pause and look up, to watch the sky change, but Tyson’s hand is warm in his, pulse throbbing in his fingertips, and there is awesome music happening somewhere close.
They join the small crowd of people entering a building and run up the stairs. It’s a long way to the top, but Tyson’s hand is on Nick’s ass, urging him upwards.
“Ty!”
Cash throws himself at Tyson, shoving Nick out of the way.
“Are you pissed at me?” Cash asks, and Tyson rolls his eyes at Nick over Cash’s head, and nudges him towards the stage. “I’m never, ever gonna drink again,” he adds and Tyson makes a sceptical noise.
Nick looks for the others, but they find him first.
“Dude,” Mike throws his arm around Nick’s shoulders. “You almost missed it.”
He nods towards the stage, where techs are setting up. Nick takes a moment to watch as someone checks the wing nuts on Andy H.’s cymbals, and smiles. He allows himself the briefest of daydreams, his band- whatever they’re calling themselves these days- up there on a stage, playing to a crowd like this. Excited people, traipsing across the city to gather together to hear music that keeps their hearts beating. He’s not sure that dream will ever be real, but he’s got the start of something real here with him now.
Nick turns to look at Tyson, who has appropriated beer from somewhere. Nick takes one off him gratefully- with his truck out of commission he can finally taste the sweet, sweet nectar. He pauses and spits his gum out onto the floor, and takes a swig.
He smiles at Tyson over the top of the bottle as he swallows.
Someone swears loudly beside them. Nick looks over and it’s one of the guys from We Are The Alexes (You Will Be Assimilated), glaring at the sticky mess on the bottom of his shoe.
“Gross,” he complains, picking at the gum, and Nick tries to look innocent.
“Alex!” Cash shrieks, and throws himself into the guy’s arms. It takes approximately .3 seconds for him to catch Cash and start making out with him. It’s not the same Alex as before- Nick’s pretty sure this one is the drummer, but neither of them seem to mind.
“Ew,” Tyson says, nodding at where the Alex Cash had been kissing earlier that night is standing, watching Cash and Alex make out and licking his lips thoughtfully. “I do not want to be around to clean up that mess.”
“Come on,” Nick says. “I reckon we’ll get a better view over there.” He nods towards where Bitchy Guy is standing with Mike and Chris, against a support at one side of the roof.
They head towards them, but another guy gets there first.
“Spencer!” he exclaims. “What’re you…you’re back in the city?”
Bitchy Guy- Spencer, apparently- tenses a little. “Hey Brendon,” he says, and Nick recognises him as the lead singer of Pretty Boys Named Bren. He remembers the way Spencer had stared at him in the club, and he’s pretty sure there’s a history there. A long, not perfect history, judging by the look on Spencer’s face.
“You should have called me,” Brendon says, scuffing the toe of one sneaker against the concrete. “I missed you.”
Spencer’s face softens and he takes a step towards Brendon, then another until there’s barely a foot of space between them.
Nick looks at Chris, who is watching them. Nick’s known Chris for long enough to know he’ll joke and act like a dick to hide his feelings, so he’s expecting him to be making some goofy face, but he’s watching Spencer and Brendon with a small, sad smile. Nick wonders how much Chris had liked Spencer. Before Nick would have shrugged it off, insisted that it was impossible for someone to become that important to you in the space of one night, but Tyson’s arm is brushing up against his own and Nick can’t help but glance across and smile. When he looks back at Chris, Chris is looking away, and so Nick looks over at where Spencer is reaching out and taking Brendon’s hand.
Brendon leans in and says something in Spencer’s ear, and Spencer hesitates, then turns to glance back at Chris and Mike.
Chris grins. “Go and enjoy the show,” he says, voice light, and Spencer ducks his head a little and smiles.
“Thanks for a great night,” he says, and then looks over in Nick’s direction. He grins when he sees Tyson, and nods. “Told you.”
Nick’s not sure what he means, but Tyson grins at him. Then Spencer and Brendon are pushing their way through the crowd, and Nick hurries the steps it takes him to get to Chris’s side.
“You alright dude?” he asks quietly, and Chris laughs.
“Me? Yeah, it’s cool.”
Nick looks at Mike, who’s frowning a little.
“Jesus fuck, stop looking at me like my puppy dog died,” Chris elbows Nick in the ribs, hard. “Shouldn’t you be off fucking your new girlie here in some dark corner?”
Tyson flips Chris off, and Chris laughs and winks. Then he looks over at Mike, who grins back and hooks an arm around his shoulder.
“Hey, wanna see my balls after the show?” he asks Mike, grinning, but Nick thinks he still looks a little bit sad around the eyes.
Mike doesn’t laugh. “I always want to see your balls,” he says seriously.
There’s a beat as Chris stares at him. “Um. Really?”
Mike raises an eyebrow and Chris grins.
“Woo!” he shouts, pumping his fist in the air. “Come on Petey! Let’s get this fucking show on the mother fucking road!”
Nick raises an eyebrow at Mike, who just shrugs, and gives Chris a fond look.
The noise around them suddenly intensifies as the band come out on stage, and Nick turns his attention away from his soon-to-be-fucking friends and oh god, he’s going to have to insist on rules about fucking in the van. He watches as the band mess with their microphones, and then someone says Tyson’s name.
It’s Ryan.
“I thought you’d be here,” he says, and Tyson turns to him, turns away from Nick.
“Ryan,” Tyson says, sounding resigned. Nick takes a step back, away, and then another. He’s not sure why, but there’s something about Ryan that’s intimidating. Maybe it’s how sure of himself Ryan is, how he seems to just be, not caring about the people around him. Nick works hard to blend in with most things in life, but Ryan stands out, whether he means to or not.
“Are you ready to make up?” Ryan asks. “I asked around, figured you’d be here. I knew you liked this band so. I listened to you. Here I am. I think we should talk.”
He holds out a hand to Tyson and Nick watches Tyson stare at it. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do here, whether he’s supposed to fade away, back into the crowd so he can be nothing more than a brief dalliance for Tyson to think back on at some point in the future, or whether he’s supposed to push Ryan away and tell him to keep the fuck away from his man. So he does neither, just stays, just watches, and tries to swallow over the lump in his throat.
~~~
Tyson stares at Ryan’s hand. Ryan’s hands are long and slender. Artists hands, he thinks, made for creating, for sculpting. It’s what he’d done to Tyson, or tried to do. Tyson’s pretty sure none of it was intentional, but for the first time in a long time, the first time in years, Tyson thinks he’s ready to stop being Pygmalion’s statue and to start shaping himself, whoever that might turn out to be.
Tyson glances at Jon who’s standing and watching them in that quiet way he has, not giving anything away, which might be the problem. Tyson’s not sure how to explain to Ryan that he’s always thought Henry and Pickering were the ones meant for each other, anyways, so he just offers Jon a small smile and shakes his head.
“No,” Tyson sighs, shaking his head sadly. “I’m not ready to make up. There’s nothing to make up over.”
“But-”
“This is just…we’re nothing, Ryan,” Tyson continues. “Although friends would be nice. We should try that, because I don’t think we have been.”
Ryan’s forehead is crinkled and Tyson can tell he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what else to say to make him listen.
“You’re not in love with me,” Tyson tells Ryan. He doesn’t say he’s not in love with Ryan, because he’s pretty sure he never has been, that no one here thinks that, at least not anymore. Ryan stares at him for a long moment and then nods slowly.
It’s a relief, finally having Ryan seem to understand. Tyson steps down off Ryan’s shaky pedestal with a smile and reaches out a hand backwards. It encounters nothing but air for a long moment, and then warm calloused fingers slide across his, press against his palm.
Tyson smiles and turns to look back at Nick, who looks happy even though he’s not smiling. Then his eyes slide past Tyson, to Ryan.
“I’m sorry,” Nick says, even though Tyson’s not, so he doesn’t know why Nick should be.
Ryan stares at Nick. “You’re the guy from the club earlier,” he says. “You’re in that gay band. Right? Cock something.”
Nick nods. “Something like that.”
Ryan nods thoughtfully. “You guys could be good, you know.”
“I know,” Nick says. He looks at Tyson and gives him a pointed look. “We will be, anyways.”
Ryan nods absently and turns his attention to the stage as the band finally stop messing with their mics and instruments and they greet the audience.
“Who is that?” he breathes and Tyson follows Ryan’s gaze to where it’s resting on the bassist who’s regaling the audience with an amusing anecdote that he can’t quite hear over the roar of the crowd.
“That’s Pete W.,” Tyson explains. “He writes the words. You should listen. I think you’ll like them.”
Ryan doesn’t tear his eyes of the stage, but he smiles anyway. “Thanks,” he says.
Tyson has the strangest urge to say thank you for everything, even the shitty stuff, if it was part of the path that lead him here, to this rooftop in this city on this night with this boy’s hand in his. He doesn’t though. They’ve never had that sort of relationship. It had been comforting attention, not comforting touches. Not like the one resting in his hand right now.
“Come on,” Ryan says, grabbing Jon’s arm. “Let’s get closer.”
And then they’re gone, through the crowd, probably right up to the stage, if Tyson knows Ryan at all. It’s strange watching him go, not knowing if they’ll ever speak again, although Tyson had meant it, about being friends. Being friends wasn’t always easier than being lovers, he was sure, but he suspected things with Ryan would be complicated no matter what flavour of relationship it was.
“That was…” awkward, Tyson is about to say, turning to Nick, but Nick is grinning at someone across the throngs of people. It takes Tyson a moment to pick out who Nick was raising his eyebrow at, but then there Gabe is, hand in the back pocket of his boy from earlier that night, other arm around the waist of Travie, the bouncer from the Mercury Lounge.
“Huh,” he says and Nick turns back to him, laughing as he shrugs.
“I know, right? Only Gabe. He looks happy though, don’t you think?”
Tyson smirks in reply and Nick nods at Gabe once more, then turns his attention fully back to Tyson. Tyson notes how he does that, how he turns his body towards Tyson and not toward the stage even though their favourite band in the whole world maybe ever are mere seconds away from launching into a song.
Tyson tries to guess what they’ll play first, if it’ll be his absolute favourite song, or his secret favourite song. He knows either of those will make the night even more perfect, and suddenly he realises he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want perfection anymore, whatever that even means. He just wants smiles and laughter and music and heat and soft words and Nick. Definitely Nick.
“Want to get out of here?” he says, and watches the surprise wash over Nick’s face.
“Right now?” he says, pointing at the stage. “We’ll miss the band.”
“I don’t care,” Tyson says.
Nick doesn’t even hesitate, just nudges him towards the stairwell, back down from where they’d just come. The door to the stairs closes shut quickly, but not quick enough to stop the first note sneaking through the gap and into their ears.
Tyson wonders if it’s going to bug him later, if he’s going to try and figure out what that song was, if he’s going to spend hours on YouTube, watching clips and wishing he’d stayed. But right now he doesn’t care. He just wants the feel of New York under the rubber bottoms of his sneakers, Nick’s hand in his and the early morning sunlight just peeking through the buildings as they make their way towards Penn Station.
They walk because they can, footsteps creating the rhythm pounding through them. Tyson likes that they don’t have a soundtrack provided for them right now, no list of songs decided by the performing band or what the media want them to hear during advertising or even on their own iPods, songs carefully selected for a purpose or not at all, the ultimate shuffle playlist. There’s nothing pre-existing, not right now, no tunes older than they are, none that have been in the top 40.
Tyson wonders, hopes, wishes that Nick had been serious about wanting him to sing in the band. It’s not that he’s never wanted to, far from it. He’s just been waiting for the right thing to come along and maybe, just maybe, this is it. It feels more right than anything else, any of the other offers or Ryan pushing him had ever done. And he’d like to hear Nick’s songs, to play them, to sing Nick’s words back at him. He wonders if Nick will write a song about him, one day, and what it’ll be like to form the words in the very mouth he’s singing about.
Tyson’s getting ahead of himself, he knows, but that’s what New York is to him. Nothing but possibilities, nothing but new beginnings and what might be. And this morning it looks even more promising than usual. Even if things don’t happen the way they’re happening in Tyson’s head, it’ll be interesting. Worth it.
Either way, he figures, they can start making their own soundtrack, their own playlist now.
Penn station is quiet, for New York at this hour. Tyson has no money left, so Nick buys them two tickets, to Hoboken. Tyson likes that, that Nick is taking him home, even if he’s probably only doing it because it’s easier, that way.
The train is mostly empty. No one in their right mind tries to leave New York, unless they have to, and most choose not to do it at the crack of dawn. It’s quiet enough that once they’ve had their tickets checked, Tyson can lean across and kiss Nick with more on his mind than a simple kiss.
Nick kisses him back and smiles into it.
“Later,” he says, and Tyson laughs and decides to hold him to that promise.
~~~
Tyson’s laugh isn’t musical in the slightest. Nick’s not sure if he’s right to be surprised by that, after hearing him sing, but it’s just not. He likes that though. It’s a laugh he could find himself falling in love with.
He’s been breaking Tyson up into parts in his mind through most of the train journey so far, thinking about how he could fall in love with that voice, or with those hands, or with that ridiculous fashion sense or with the cheeky but dirty sense of humour. He’s pretty sure he’s already fallen in love with Tyson’s eyes and with his hips and with the way he smiles at Nick like just looking at him makes him happy. Pulling him into pieces makes it easier to ignore the way that all signs point to Nick falling head over heels even more than he already is. Considering it’s been less than a day, he suspects the thought should scare him more than it does.
“Alright?” Tyson asks, and Nick nods and thinks about how it’s the weekend, how he’s going to spend it making Tyson sing to him, how many hours they’ll spend sprawled in Nick’s bed, and also maybe in Tyson’s, how many phone calls from Mike and Chris he’ll have to ignore to avoid hearing about how stupid he was for skipping out on the show, even though Nick thinks it’s one of the best split second decisions he’s ever made, and how many calls he’ll have to make to get them to come over to try out a new song that’s writing itself in his head as he sits in the rocking motion of the train, Tyson’s elbow brushing against his as he sways in time.
The train follows a bend and Nick peers out of the window, back towards the city. He has to lean over Tyson to do so, but neither of them mind.
He can’t see much, but it doesn’t matter. He knows it’s there, the city and everything it encompasses.
‘Thanks,’ he says silently. And, ‘see you soon’.
Then he sits back in his seat, smiles at Tyson who grins back and squeezes his hand, and lets the train take them home.
Tyson can't help but kiss Nick. There's something about the moment, about Nick singing, in person, the words Tyson has fallen asleep to for weeks and weeks on end. He finds himself swaying in without meaning too, and the logical thing to do is kiss Nick, so he does.
Nick kisses back and Tyson tries to remember what Gabe had shown him. But everything leaves his head except for the here and now, the feel of Nick's lips against his own, tongue sliding against his own, the hardness of the guitar pressed between them.
Tyson almost stumbles over his own feet when Nick takes the guitar off and leads him towards the sofa. Somehow Tyson ends up on his back and there's a moment of panic because even if Gabe hadn't told Nick about his friend Ty, the minute man, Nick's about to find out.
He tries to think about other things, things that aren't Nick's lips on his, his body pressed against Tyson's side, hands on Tyson's chest. And all he can think about is what Nick might be thinking right now. He's suddenly sure that Nick is thinking about lying like this with Gabe, and how he can't compare. Nick's hand slides lower and Tyson is sure Gabe never blew his load the moment someone touched his dick. He's pretty sure Nick's going to laugh at him.
"I know I can't compete with him," Tyson blurts out, just as Nick runs a finger along the bare patch of skin between waistband and t-shirt hem. "Gabe," he gasps when Nick asks who he means and starts to undo Tyson's pants. For a moment he can't think about anything but the feel of Nick's fingertips brushing against his bare skin. He has to force himself to breathe, to clear his head. "I know I'm not as charismatic as he is. I'm just a goofy guy who-"
But Nick doesn't let him continue. He looks at Tyson like he's insane, but also like he's perfect and Tyson can't help but smile, can't help but believe him when Nick tells him he's hot.
A surge of want rushes through him, and with it a boost of confidence. "We gonna get this show on the road, or what?" he asks suggestively.
When Nick wraps his hand around Tyson's dick, he gasps, but it's different than before. He's not sure if it's the laugh he'd suppressed when Nick had seen he was going commando that makes it easier, but he sends a silent thank you to Chris, wherever he is right now.
"You were saying?" he whispers against Nick's mouth.
Nick doesn't say anything else though. He's busy pushing up Tyson's t-shirt, pushing down his pants.
He lets go of Tyson's dick and slides off the sofa, and Tyson makes a noise of protest that makes Nick laugh. "Don't worry," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
He's kneeling on the floor beside Tyson, and Tyson can't help but reach out and touch, thread his fingers in Nick hair. He likes the way Nick presses his cheek into Tyson's touch. And then he leans in. Tyson tries to take his hand back, but Nick reaches up and holds it there until Tyson gets the idea. His hand slides down, thumb resting against the side of Nick's neck, and so he feels it in his hand too, when Nick opens his mouth and licks up the length of Tyson's dick.
Tyson gasps, and then gasps again when Nick licks his lips and swallows him down. He feels Nick's throat work, and his arm moves along with Nick's motions, up and down, slow and languid and perfect.
Tyson can't even begin to describe how it feels. He's only had this done to him once, but Ryan hadn't appreciated the lack of warning when Tyson had come, half in, half out of Ryan's mouth, about 10 seconds in.
He bucks his hips up. Nick pulls off and looks up at him and grins.
"Easy tiger," he says, and places one hand on Tyson's stomach, holding him down. The extra touch, extra sensation, makes Tyson want to close his eyes and lose himself in it, but he can't take his eyes off Nick. Nick's clever fingers, the ones he'd watched wrapped around the neck of a guitar, are wrapped around his dick, and it's such a beautiful sight that Tyson has to stop himself from pressing up into Nick's mouth again.
He wants more though, more and more and for it to never stop. It's like a new song that you hear and it feels right, the ones you put on repeat and play over and over and over again, and it's so perfect but not enough, you never want it to end because being wrapped in the song is a happy place to be.
Tyson stares at the way Nick's eyelashes rest against his cheek, at the redness of his lips, and he wants to kiss them.
"Nick," he says, and Nick opens his eyes, slants them towards Tyson, dick still in his mouth, and for a moment Tyson thinks he's going to ruin everything and come right there on the spot. "Come here," he says, and Nick sits back. Tyson gasps against the sensation of his spit-slicked dick in the cool air, and Nick stands up.
"Is this okay?" he asks, grasping the hem of his t-shirt, and Tyson wishes there was a more emphatic way to nod without looking like an idiot, because nothing has ever been as okay as this before.
"Please," he says, and sits up to help Nick with his belt buckle. His hands are a little shaky when he undoes the zipper, and Nick's hands land on top of them.
"We don't have to do anything else," he says. "I don't have to...I could just-"
"No," Tyson says. "I want this, Nick. Fuck. So bad." He's not even sure what 'this' is, other than that it's Nick, and that's what he wants more than anything.
"Good," Nick says, and when Tyson tips his head up, Nick leans in and kisses him. He tastes like Tyson's precome, and Tyson likes it, the very faint trace of himself in the corners of Nick's mouth, like he belongs there.
"Do you," Tyson pulls away, then pauses. "Are you going to fuck me?"
Nick shakes his head. "Not tonight," he says, and Tyson feels a stab of disappointment. It must show because Nick laughs. "I don't have anything with me, do you?"
Tyson shakes his head, and he wishes he did, so much. He thinks he should probably have asked Chris for some- he seemed the type who'd have a wide selection of lube in his back pocket.
"Then next time," Nick says, and Tyson believes him completely that there'll be a next time. With Ryan he'd always been sure each time would be the last, that Ryan would get sick of fucking someone who couldn't hold on more than a minute at most. With Nick it’s different, somehow. Better, more certain, more secure. Tyson likes that.
“Next time,” Tyson echoes and kisses Nick again.
When the kiss ends, Nick pushes his jeans down, and Tyson can't help but laugh.
"What?" Nick asks, folding his arms across his chest. He glances down, following Tyson's gaze, and frowns.
Tyson grins at the boxers Nick is wearing. He's pretty sure there's a hundred Marvin the Martian's printed on them, and he thinks back to being in the van with Chris, how he'd had to take off his own dorky boxers.
"Nothing," he says. "I think these are cute."
Nick's cheeks colour for a moment. "Shut up," he says, and pushes them down.
Tyson shuts up. He licks his lips and hesitates for a moment before reaching out. He rubs his thumb over the head of Nick's dick, listens to the sound Nick makes, the faint moan. He watches the way Nick's head tips back, neck stretched and begging for Tyson to kiss it, when Tyson wraps his hand around the length and squeezes gently.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Nick gasps, when Tyson relaxes his grip. "We need to...you need to be more naked, okay?"
Tyson nods and kicks his pants all the way off, one sneaker flying off across the room as he flails. He shrugs out of the hoodie, Nick's hoodie, and leaves it lying beneath him on the sofa.
Nick climbs onto the sofa, one knee at either side of Tyson's thighs and pushes Tyson's t-shirt way up, up under his armpits. Tyson struggles for a moment to get it off as Nick kisses a line up Tyson's chest.
"Um, help?" Tyson asks, just before Nick's teeth graze over a nipple and he gasps. "Nick," he says, breathlessly. "Please?"
Nick laughs and shucks Tyson of his shirt, then returns to his task. Tyson closes his eyes, focuses on the points of contact between them- hot mouth on his chest, hand on his shoulder, thighs pressed against his thighs, a brush of a foot against his calf and, if he arches up just a little, he thinks he can brush his dick against Nick's hip.
"So impatient," Nick whispers when Tyson arches up even higher, until he feels the head of Nick's dick drag wetly across his stomach.
"Yes," Tyson whispers back, and reaches his hands up to rest on Nick's hips. "Can you blame me?"
Nick leans up until they're nose to nose. "I don't think I'm going to last long," he says, "not if you keep talking like that. Keep looking like that."
Tyson laughs, hard, body shaking. He's never had those words spoken to him before- it was always Tyson who pre-emptively apologised- and from the way Nick's looking at him, he has no idea why Tyson is so amused. Tyson is grateful to Gabe for not sharing his secret, even though he's not sure why Gabe would keep it to himself other than his horrible, sneaking suspicion that maybe Cash was right about the guy.
"That's okay," Tyson says after a moment. "I know exactly what you mean." he laughs some more, body shaking, until Nick settles himself on top of Tyson, and Tyson falls immediately silent. Nick's lined them up perfectly- if Tyson presses his hips up, Nick's dick is right against his own.
"Ready?" Nick asks, when Tyson stops biting his lip and opens his eyes.
Tyson nods, and there's a momentary pause. He wonders if Nick is counting himself in, trying to work up what rhythm to use. Will it be a frantic fast rock n’ roll beat, an off-beat rolling swing style or the gentle slow dance of a waltz? He likes that he doesn't know, that he's going to get to try all of these things with Nick, that he's sure there are as many ways for them to have sex as there are songs flitting through Nick's head right now.
The music they'd started to play when they arrived in the studio ends, and Tyson thinks that someone should get up and press play again, as the room descend into silence. Normally a lack of music makes Tyson feel on edge, jittery, nervous. It’s why he’d made a beeline to put it on the moment they’d entered the studio and Nick had been distracted by the guitars. Tyson had needed it then and the spark of panic flares in his chest when he thinks maybe he needs it again now. But then Nick grinds down, and Tyson gasps Nick's name, against Nick's lips, and pushes back.
The silence in the room isn't so unbearable now, not with the moans and gasps and sounds of body contact that fill Tyson's ears. For one corny moment he thinks that it's like they're writing their own song, their own unique song, right at that moment. That each press of fingertips is a new chord, that each moan is a bar of melody.
And then Nick makes a wonderful strangled noise into Tyson's ear and says, "Fuck, Tyson," and comes. Tyson pulls his head away enough that he can see Nick's face, the tension and then slackness in his jaw, the way his eyelids flicker and his mouth is wet and parted, and it's too much. Tyson's not been holding on, not like he usually has to try to, but he couldn't hold on now if his life depended on it. His grip tightens on Nick's waist and he arches up, moaning when he comes, the wave of sensation washing over him, Nick's body warm and firm on top of him like an anchor.
When Tyson can think again, he knows it's never been like that before, not with Ryan, and not under the covers of his bed by himself, in the darkness.
"Okay?" Nick asks, face pressed into Tyson's neck, hand splayed across Tyson's chest, damp with sweat.
Tyson doesn't know how to put into words just how okay he is, so he hums happily. He feels Nick's mouth curve into a smile against his neck. "You?"
"Fuck yes," Nick says, and Tyson grins. "Do you want me to move?" Nick asks, and Tyson doesn't reply, just wraps his arms around Nick and holds him in place. He knows it's probably gross, that they should get up and try and clean off as much as possible, that that was the thing to do. It's what he'd always done with Ryan- dealt with the mess straight afterwards- but right now he wants cuddles, and Nick seems happy to oblige.
“I have a couple of the mix tapes you made Gabe,” Tyson confesses into the quiet.
Nick doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Oh yeah?”
Tyson nods. “Yeah. A couple. Dozen. Whatever. They’re good. I like them.”
“Kinda douchey, huh?” Nick asks, and Tyson shakes his head.
“It’s an art,” he tells Nick. “Making mix tapes. You have to know your music- not just know it, I mean, but feel it. You do that. And that song you played-”
“It’s nothing much,” Nick interrupts.
“It’s something,” Tyson replies firmly and Nick turns his face into Tyson’s arm and doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling. “You wrote it?”
Nick nods, not lifting his head. “It’s just…I was just messing around. It’s not done. I can’t come up with the words to say what I want to say.”
“I think it says a lot,” Tyson tells him. He hesitates, focuses on his breathing for sixteen counts and then says. “I wrote some.”
Nick lifts his head. “You write lyrics?” he asks, curiously. “Can I see them?”
Tyson shrugs. “Maybe. And yeah. I…sometimes. That song you played. I listened to it a lot, on that mix. It made me think in lyrics.”
Nick smiles at him. “You finished my song for me?”
Tyson makes a face. “No finished. Just…wrote down what it made me feel. And the words seemed to fit.”
“Show me?” Nick asks, sitting up. “Sing it for me?”
Tyson hesitates, wishing he hadn’t said anything. It had been one thing to make up the lyrics, to show them to Ryan who’d never heard the song, had no attachment to it, but he doesn’t want to risk ruining this beautiful thing Nick’s created. He doesn’t want Nick to hate it.
“Please,” Nick adds, and Tyson feels suddenly brave, lying there beside Nick in the comfortable silence.
“Okay,” he says, and opens his mouth, hoping he can do justice to the tune, but is interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing.
Nick reaches for Tyson’s jeans.
“Leave it,” Tyson says, even though he knows it’s Cash, recognises the cheesy ringtone he’d programmed in for himself.
“Hey, it’s cool,” Nick says, rolling off Tyson so he can reach them and pull the vibrating phone out of the pocket. Tyson misses the warm press of Nick’s body immediately, but takes the cell out of Nick’s hand.
“Hey Cash,” he says. He feels a momentary pang of guilt at sounding so resigned when Cash yells, “TYSON! Oh my god, Tyson!”
Tyson pushes himself up until he’s sitting, Nick scrambling out of the way as Tyson grabs onto the back of the couch for leverage.
“What’s wrong?” he says, a surge of worry running through him. Even though Chris and Mike had promised to look after him, Tyson can’t help but automatically worry about Cash, wondering what mess he’s going to have to go and clean up.
“Tyson! Oh god Tyson! Why aren't you here?”
Nick’s hand rests reassuringly on Tyson’s arm.
“Stop being a dick,” Tyson snaps. “What’s wrong? Where are you? What happened? Cash, talk to me.”
“PETEY!” Cash yells into the phone. “WE FOUND PETEY!” And then he hangs up.
“Did you-”
“I heard,” Nick replies, reaching for his own phone. It’s in the pocket of the hoodie, bunched up at one end of the sofa, but he manages to extricate it.
“Hey,” he says into the phone a moment or two later. “Where are you?”
He looks over and grins at Tyson. “Wanna go and see Where’s Petey?” he asks, and Tyson is already reaching for his shirt.
He’s not sure what he did to deserve this best night of his life, but he’s willing to keep doing it if he gets more nights like this, with Nick.
~~~
“Why aren’t you here already dude?” Mike answers the phone.
“Where are you?” Nick demands, and Mike rattles off an address and tells him to hurry.
Nick turns back to look at Tyson. Part of him wants to say ‘Fuck Petey’ and press Tyson back onto the sofa and do it all over again. He wonders for a moment if he’d have considered missing a Where’s Petey? show to spend time with Gabe, let alone fuck him. He doesn’t have to think for long. He already knows that answer.
He gives Tyson the choice, but Tyson is already pulling on his shirt. Nick grins and tugs on his jeans, absently snapping his gum. It takes him a moment or two to realise he hadn’t been chewing gum before. He considers offering it back to Tyson but he’s not sure if it’s too weird.
“Stop looking all hot and half naked,” Tyson says, as Nick pulls his shirt onto his arms and moves to slip it over his head.
“Huh?”
“It’s kinda dangerous to try and zip these up with an erection,” Tyson points out, wriggling his tight pants up his thighs.
“Need a hand?” Nick asks, laughing, and Tyson stops wriggling and gives him a look.
“Dude,” Tyson says, turning away a little. “I just said I don’t want a hard on.”
Tyson does the pants up and then pulls them on, and Nick lets his head tip to the side so he can pause and watch as Tyson shoves a hand down his pants to rearrange his junk.
“Stop smirking,” Tyson says, without looking up, and Nick smirks even harder.
“Why are you going commando in those pants anyway?” he asks when Tyson finishes fiddling with himself, and Tyson glances up and looks a bit embarrassed.
“Chris said…” Tyson says and trails off, and Nick can’t help but laugh.
“Is that what you were doing in the van with him? Fuck, I should warn him about trying to get the pants off guys I’m interested in!”
Tyson stops rearranging his balls and lifts his head to look at Nick. “You’re interested in me?” he asks, with a smirk. Nick can tell he’s kidding, but he wants to make it clear.
“I don’t have fantastic sex with just anyone, you know?”
“Fantastic?”
“Shut up,” Nick says. “I’m not going to stay here and stroke your ego when there’s Where’s Petey? to listen to.”
“I have something else you can stroke instead,” Tyson leers, pulling on Nick’s hoodie.
“Later,” Nick promises. He shoves his feet into his shoes and takes Tyson’s hand.
“Ready?” he asks, and lets Tyson lead him outside. He glances at poor, injured Lady Strange, and hopes that someone will be able to fix her in the morning.
Typically, there is not a cab in sight, so he tugs Tyson towards the subway.
“Here,” he says, pulling his Metrocard out of his pocket and handing it to Tyson, who takes it and slides it through the turnstile.
The sound of an approaching train fills the station and Tyson shoves the card back at Nick.
“Come on!” he says, and Nick grins and slides the card. He stops smiling when the machine reads ‘Insufficient funds’.
“Fuck,” Nick swears, and Tyson turns to look at him, the lights from the train starting to light up the platform.
“Fuck,” Tyson says. “I don’t have a card.”
Nick glances towards the card machines, wondering if he can make it in time.
“You go on ahead,” he says. “I’ll catch up.” He starts to move away, to get a new card, but Tyson grabs his hand.
“Just jump!” he says. “Come on!”
Nick hesitates. There’s no one around, and what’s the worst than can happen? And yet, he can’t stop himself from hesitating. Nick is the sort of guy who gets kicked out of classes because he’s bored, who stays out past curfew to see if his parents even notice, who drinks underage because he really likes beer and doesn’t think something’s going to magically happen to him in three years to make him mature enough to handle booze better than he does now. But this is a whole different thing.
The roar of the train is closer now- it’s going to pull up to a stop in front of them at any moment, and still Nick hesitates.
Tyson’s face falls a little, and he starts to pull his hand back. And Nick doesn’t want that. He wants to be with Tyson, to go where Tyson goes, which right now is to see the best fucking band on the planet.
“Okay,” he says, and climbs over, letting Tyson pull him through.
They stumble onto the platform, and Tyson wraps his arms around Nick’s waist to steady him. They’re both laughing, Nick’s heart thumping in his chest from the adrenaline. He lifts his head and kisses Tyson, just as the doors to the train open, and they step inside. It’s empty, apart from a drunk guy down the far end of the carriage. He’s singing to himself, but the sound travels.
“When I strut down the street I can hear its heartbeat…”
Nick grins when the guy notices them. He stares at Tyson as he sings “Don’t that man look pretty,,” and Nick grips Tyson’s hand a little harder, trying not to laugh.
Tyson seems to be taking it as a compliment though, humming along as the train rattles towards its next destination. They slide on the plastic seats, thighs and elbows bumping, and for a moment Nick considers getting on Tyson’s lap, giving the guy down the other end a show, to see if the rhythm of the train rocks them closer together or apart.
But the drunk guy is stumbling over his words. Tyson smiles at Nick and looks down the train.
“They ride the line of balancing, hold on by just a thread,” Tyson sings, and the drunk dude sits up.
“Yeah man!” he shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “Don’t stop!”
“It’s too hot in these tunnels, you can get hit up by the heat,” Tyson sings, and the drunk guy joins back in.
They sing through the rest of the verse, and Nick tucks a leg underneath himself so he can twist his body to watch Tyson sing.
“It’s so hard to be a saint in the city!” Tyson finishes and the drunk guy starts clapping.
“Yeah! Woo! Long live the Boss!” he says, getting to unsteady feet as they train rolls into a station. He stumbles out on to the platform and tips his hat in their direction as the train speeds off.
“Wow,” Nick says, and Tyson looks a little embarrassed. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
Tyson shrugs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I just do it for fun.”
“You don’t sing with a band?”
Tyson shakes his head. “I’m probably not good enough. I’ve never really sung in front of anyone before. My dad gets to work with amazing musicians all the time, so he wouldn’t want to hear me and Ryan never seemed very impressed, just asked me if I could sing something folksy instead of hair metal for a change.”
“Ryan has shitty taste,” Nick says, then shakes his head realising how that must’ve sounded. “Shit. I didn’t mean in you.”
Tyson shrugs. “You’re probably right. We’re totally different, too different to have worked. I guess…if I was the melody, he was trying to put words to me that didn’t fit. And I think if the only way you know someone is through other people’s words…that person doesn’t always live up to the expectations you set for them.”
Nick thinks about what Tyson had said, about how he’d been listening to Nick’s tapes for as long as he’d been making them for Gabe. They’d been Nick using other people’s lyrics, others melodies to explain how hurt he was, how lonely, how confused. He wonders if he’s as much of a disappointment to Tyson as it seems Tyson is to Ryan.
“And sometimes they surpass them,” Tyson adds as if sensing his thoughts, and reaches out to squeeze Nick’s hand.
Nick can’t help but smile.
“So”, he says. “Ever think of joining a band? Like, our band maybe?”
Tyson laughs, but not meanly. “With the shitty music you play?”
“We could play other stuff,” Nick shrugs. “I’ve written things.”
“I know,” Tyson says. “You should play for me again sometime. Properly. I won’t interrupt by kissing you.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Nick asks, then gives Tyson a level look. “I’ll play for you, I’ll show you my songs, if you’ll consider giving them words. And singing them.”
Tyson smiles. “Deal,” he says immediately, looking pleased, like he’s the one who’s gained something here.
Nick’s pretty sure he’s the lucky one though.
The train rattles to a stop and they hurry up and out onto the street.
“Come on,” Nick says, excitement buzzing along his skin, knowing they’re so close.
The sky is lighter now, in the way it gets just before it starts to think about letting dawn happen. Nick wants to pause and look up, to watch the sky change, but Tyson’s hand is warm in his, pulse throbbing in his fingertips, and there is awesome music happening somewhere close.
They join the small crowd of people entering a building and run up the stairs. It’s a long way to the top, but Tyson’s hand is on Nick’s ass, urging him upwards.
“Ty!”
Cash throws himself at Tyson, shoving Nick out of the way.
“Are you pissed at me?” Cash asks, and Tyson rolls his eyes at Nick over Cash’s head, and nudges him towards the stage. “I’m never, ever gonna drink again,” he adds and Tyson makes a sceptical noise.
Nick looks for the others, but they find him first.
“Dude,” Mike throws his arm around Nick’s shoulders. “You almost missed it.”
He nods towards the stage, where techs are setting up. Nick takes a moment to watch as someone checks the wing nuts on Andy H.’s cymbals, and smiles. He allows himself the briefest of daydreams, his band- whatever they’re calling themselves these days- up there on a stage, playing to a crowd like this. Excited people, traipsing across the city to gather together to hear music that keeps their hearts beating. He’s not sure that dream will ever be real, but he’s got the start of something real here with him now.
Nick turns to look at Tyson, who has appropriated beer from somewhere. Nick takes one off him gratefully- with his truck out of commission he can finally taste the sweet, sweet nectar. He pauses and spits his gum out onto the floor, and takes a swig.
He smiles at Tyson over the top of the bottle as he swallows.
Someone swears loudly beside them. Nick looks over and it’s one of the guys from We Are The Alexes (You Will Be Assimilated), glaring at the sticky mess on the bottom of his shoe.
“Gross,” he complains, picking at the gum, and Nick tries to look innocent.
“Alex!” Cash shrieks, and throws himself into the guy’s arms. It takes approximately .3 seconds for him to catch Cash and start making out with him. It’s not the same Alex as before- Nick’s pretty sure this one is the drummer, but neither of them seem to mind.
“Ew,” Tyson says, nodding at where the Alex Cash had been kissing earlier that night is standing, watching Cash and Alex make out and licking his lips thoughtfully. “I do not want to be around to clean up that mess.”
“Come on,” Nick says. “I reckon we’ll get a better view over there.” He nods towards where Bitchy Guy is standing with Mike and Chris, against a support at one side of the roof.
They head towards them, but another guy gets there first.
“Spencer!” he exclaims. “What’re you…you’re back in the city?”
Bitchy Guy- Spencer, apparently- tenses a little. “Hey Brendon,” he says, and Nick recognises him as the lead singer of Pretty Boys Named Bren. He remembers the way Spencer had stared at him in the club, and he’s pretty sure there’s a history there. A long, not perfect history, judging by the look on Spencer’s face.
“You should have called me,” Brendon says, scuffing the toe of one sneaker against the concrete. “I missed you.”
Spencer’s face softens and he takes a step towards Brendon, then another until there’s barely a foot of space between them.
Nick looks at Chris, who is watching them. Nick’s known Chris for long enough to know he’ll joke and act like a dick to hide his feelings, so he’s expecting him to be making some goofy face, but he’s watching Spencer and Brendon with a small, sad smile. Nick wonders how much Chris had liked Spencer. Before Nick would have shrugged it off, insisted that it was impossible for someone to become that important to you in the space of one night, but Tyson’s arm is brushing up against his own and Nick can’t help but glance across and smile. When he looks back at Chris, Chris is looking away, and so Nick looks over at where Spencer is reaching out and taking Brendon’s hand.
Brendon leans in and says something in Spencer’s ear, and Spencer hesitates, then turns to glance back at Chris and Mike.
Chris grins. “Go and enjoy the show,” he says, voice light, and Spencer ducks his head a little and smiles.
“Thanks for a great night,” he says, and then looks over in Nick’s direction. He grins when he sees Tyson, and nods. “Told you.”
Nick’s not sure what he means, but Tyson grins at him. Then Spencer and Brendon are pushing their way through the crowd, and Nick hurries the steps it takes him to get to Chris’s side.
“You alright dude?” he asks quietly, and Chris laughs.
“Me? Yeah, it’s cool.”
Nick looks at Mike, who’s frowning a little.
“Jesus fuck, stop looking at me like my puppy dog died,” Chris elbows Nick in the ribs, hard. “Shouldn’t you be off fucking your new girlie here in some dark corner?”
Tyson flips Chris off, and Chris laughs and winks. Then he looks over at Mike, who grins back and hooks an arm around his shoulder.
“Hey, wanna see my balls after the show?” he asks Mike, grinning, but Nick thinks he still looks a little bit sad around the eyes.
Mike doesn’t laugh. “I always want to see your balls,” he says seriously.
There’s a beat as Chris stares at him. “Um. Really?”
Mike raises an eyebrow and Chris grins.
“Woo!” he shouts, pumping his fist in the air. “Come on Petey! Let’s get this fucking show on the mother fucking road!”
Nick raises an eyebrow at Mike, who just shrugs, and gives Chris a fond look.
The noise around them suddenly intensifies as the band come out on stage, and Nick turns his attention away from his soon-to-be-fucking friends and oh god, he’s going to have to insist on rules about fucking in the van. He watches as the band mess with their microphones, and then someone says Tyson’s name.
It’s Ryan.
“I thought you’d be here,” he says, and Tyson turns to him, turns away from Nick.
“Ryan,” Tyson says, sounding resigned. Nick takes a step back, away, and then another. He’s not sure why, but there’s something about Ryan that’s intimidating. Maybe it’s how sure of himself Ryan is, how he seems to just be, not caring about the people around him. Nick works hard to blend in with most things in life, but Ryan stands out, whether he means to or not.
“Are you ready to make up?” Ryan asks. “I asked around, figured you’d be here. I knew you liked this band so. I listened to you. Here I am. I think we should talk.”
He holds out a hand to Tyson and Nick watches Tyson stare at it. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do here, whether he’s supposed to fade away, back into the crowd so he can be nothing more than a brief dalliance for Tyson to think back on at some point in the future, or whether he’s supposed to push Ryan away and tell him to keep the fuck away from his man. So he does neither, just stays, just watches, and tries to swallow over the lump in his throat.
~~~
Tyson stares at Ryan’s hand. Ryan’s hands are long and slender. Artists hands, he thinks, made for creating, for sculpting. It’s what he’d done to Tyson, or tried to do. Tyson’s pretty sure none of it was intentional, but for the first time in a long time, the first time in years, Tyson thinks he’s ready to stop being Pygmalion’s statue and to start shaping himself, whoever that might turn out to be.
Tyson glances at Jon who’s standing and watching them in that quiet way he has, not giving anything away, which might be the problem. Tyson’s not sure how to explain to Ryan that he’s always thought Henry and Pickering were the ones meant for each other, anyways, so he just offers Jon a small smile and shakes his head.
“No,” Tyson sighs, shaking his head sadly. “I’m not ready to make up. There’s nothing to make up over.”
“But-”
“This is just…we’re nothing, Ryan,” Tyson continues. “Although friends would be nice. We should try that, because I don’t think we have been.”
Ryan’s forehead is crinkled and Tyson can tell he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what else to say to make him listen.
“You’re not in love with me,” Tyson tells Ryan. He doesn’t say he’s not in love with Ryan, because he’s pretty sure he never has been, that no one here thinks that, at least not anymore. Ryan stares at him for a long moment and then nods slowly.
It’s a relief, finally having Ryan seem to understand. Tyson steps down off Ryan’s shaky pedestal with a smile and reaches out a hand backwards. It encounters nothing but air for a long moment, and then warm calloused fingers slide across his, press against his palm.
Tyson smiles and turns to look back at Nick, who looks happy even though he’s not smiling. Then his eyes slide past Tyson, to Ryan.
“I’m sorry,” Nick says, even though Tyson’s not, so he doesn’t know why Nick should be.
Ryan stares at Nick. “You’re the guy from the club earlier,” he says. “You’re in that gay band. Right? Cock something.”
Nick nods. “Something like that.”
Ryan nods thoughtfully. “You guys could be good, you know.”
“I know,” Nick says. He looks at Tyson and gives him a pointed look. “We will be, anyways.”
Ryan nods absently and turns his attention to the stage as the band finally stop messing with their mics and instruments and they greet the audience.
“Who is that?” he breathes and Tyson follows Ryan’s gaze to where it’s resting on the bassist who’s regaling the audience with an amusing anecdote that he can’t quite hear over the roar of the crowd.
“That’s Pete W.,” Tyson explains. “He writes the words. You should listen. I think you’ll like them.”
Ryan doesn’t tear his eyes of the stage, but he smiles anyway. “Thanks,” he says.
Tyson has the strangest urge to say thank you for everything, even the shitty stuff, if it was part of the path that lead him here, to this rooftop in this city on this night with this boy’s hand in his. He doesn’t though. They’ve never had that sort of relationship. It had been comforting attention, not comforting touches. Not like the one resting in his hand right now.
“Come on,” Ryan says, grabbing Jon’s arm. “Let’s get closer.”
And then they’re gone, through the crowd, probably right up to the stage, if Tyson knows Ryan at all. It’s strange watching him go, not knowing if they’ll ever speak again, although Tyson had meant it, about being friends. Being friends wasn’t always easier than being lovers, he was sure, but he suspected things with Ryan would be complicated no matter what flavour of relationship it was.
“That was…” awkward, Tyson is about to say, turning to Nick, but Nick is grinning at someone across the throngs of people. It takes Tyson a moment to pick out who Nick was raising his eyebrow at, but then there Gabe is, hand in the back pocket of his boy from earlier that night, other arm around the waist of Travie, the bouncer from the Mercury Lounge.
“Huh,” he says and Nick turns back to him, laughing as he shrugs.
“I know, right? Only Gabe. He looks happy though, don’t you think?”
Tyson smirks in reply and Nick nods at Gabe once more, then turns his attention fully back to Tyson. Tyson notes how he does that, how he turns his body towards Tyson and not toward the stage even though their favourite band in the whole world maybe ever are mere seconds away from launching into a song.
Tyson tries to guess what they’ll play first, if it’ll be his absolute favourite song, or his secret favourite song. He knows either of those will make the night even more perfect, and suddenly he realises he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want perfection anymore, whatever that even means. He just wants smiles and laughter and music and heat and soft words and Nick. Definitely Nick.
“Want to get out of here?” he says, and watches the surprise wash over Nick’s face.
“Right now?” he says, pointing at the stage. “We’ll miss the band.”
“I don’t care,” Tyson says.
Nick doesn’t even hesitate, just nudges him towards the stairwell, back down from where they’d just come. The door to the stairs closes shut quickly, but not quick enough to stop the first note sneaking through the gap and into their ears.
Tyson wonders if it’s going to bug him later, if he’s going to try and figure out what that song was, if he’s going to spend hours on YouTube, watching clips and wishing he’d stayed. But right now he doesn’t care. He just wants the feel of New York under the rubber bottoms of his sneakers, Nick’s hand in his and the early morning sunlight just peeking through the buildings as they make their way towards Penn Station.
They walk because they can, footsteps creating the rhythm pounding through them. Tyson likes that they don’t have a soundtrack provided for them right now, no list of songs decided by the performing band or what the media want them to hear during advertising or even on their own iPods, songs carefully selected for a purpose or not at all, the ultimate shuffle playlist. There’s nothing pre-existing, not right now, no tunes older than they are, none that have been in the top 40.
Tyson wonders, hopes, wishes that Nick had been serious about wanting him to sing in the band. It’s not that he’s never wanted to, far from it. He’s just been waiting for the right thing to come along and maybe, just maybe, this is it. It feels more right than anything else, any of the other offers or Ryan pushing him had ever done. And he’d like to hear Nick’s songs, to play them, to sing Nick’s words back at him. He wonders if Nick will write a song about him, one day, and what it’ll be like to form the words in the very mouth he’s singing about.
Tyson’s getting ahead of himself, he knows, but that’s what New York is to him. Nothing but possibilities, nothing but new beginnings and what might be. And this morning it looks even more promising than usual. Even if things don’t happen the way they’re happening in Tyson’s head, it’ll be interesting. Worth it.
Either way, he figures, they can start making their own soundtrack, their own playlist now.
Penn station is quiet, for New York at this hour. Tyson has no money left, so Nick buys them two tickets, to Hoboken. Tyson likes that, that Nick is taking him home, even if he’s probably only doing it because it’s easier, that way.
The train is mostly empty. No one in their right mind tries to leave New York, unless they have to, and most choose not to do it at the crack of dawn. It’s quiet enough that once they’ve had their tickets checked, Tyson can lean across and kiss Nick with more on his mind than a simple kiss.
Nick kisses him back and smiles into it.
“Later,” he says, and Tyson laughs and decides to hold him to that promise.
~~~
Tyson’s laugh isn’t musical in the slightest. Nick’s not sure if he’s right to be surprised by that, after hearing him sing, but it’s just not. He likes that though. It’s a laugh he could find himself falling in love with.
He’s been breaking Tyson up into parts in his mind through most of the train journey so far, thinking about how he could fall in love with that voice, or with those hands, or with that ridiculous fashion sense or with the cheeky but dirty sense of humour. He’s pretty sure he’s already fallen in love with Tyson’s eyes and with his hips and with the way he smiles at Nick like just looking at him makes him happy. Pulling him into pieces makes it easier to ignore the way that all signs point to Nick falling head over heels even more than he already is. Considering it’s been less than a day, he suspects the thought should scare him more than it does.
“Alright?” Tyson asks, and Nick nods and thinks about how it’s the weekend, how he’s going to spend it making Tyson sing to him, how many hours they’ll spend sprawled in Nick’s bed, and also maybe in Tyson’s, how many phone calls from Mike and Chris he’ll have to ignore to avoid hearing about how stupid he was for skipping out on the show, even though Nick thinks it’s one of the best split second decisions he’s ever made, and how many calls he’ll have to make to get them to come over to try out a new song that’s writing itself in his head as he sits in the rocking motion of the train, Tyson’s elbow brushing against his as he sways in time.
The train follows a bend and Nick peers out of the window, back towards the city. He has to lean over Tyson to do so, but neither of them mind.
He can’t see much, but it doesn’t matter. He knows it’s there, the city and everything it encompasses.
‘Thanks,’ he says silently. And, ‘see you soon’.
Then he sits back in his seat, smiles at Tyson who grins back and squeezes his hand, and lets the train take them home.