(no subject)
the academy is; rise of the fall tour series, 2005
monterey peninsula bike scene (8/10)
mike / william, 4637 words (nc17)
-- i wanna hate you so bad but i can't stop this anymore than you can; you've got me right where you want me, let's never talk about this again because i didn't want it to mean that much to me.
in the corner of the room there is this girl, this really pretty, undeniably charming girl, and she's getting on william's nerves. it isn't because she's cute and witty, nervously tugging on her hair and biting her bottom lip to keep from smiling too much. it isn't because she keeps looking down at her shoes and blushing. it isn't even because she's unsure of what jokes to laugh at, so she laughs at them all and probably feels silly doing so. it's because she's faking it all.
and mike should see right through this, but he doesn't. instead he smiles back at her and pulls the strap back up on her dress when it falls. he holds her drink so she can find her phone and double-triple checks that she entered his number right.
but william knows this kind of girl, this kind of pretty, undeniably charming girl, all too well.
the kind of girl who acts cute and surprised that boys even talk to her. the kind of girl who loves the band but would never imagine being able to have a friendly conversation with them. the kind of girl who sleeps with guys in bands, not because they're in the band, no, because she felt a connection that couldn't be ignored. the kind of girl who touches mike's arm with careful precision, a touch that lingers just long enough that he'll notice the lack of presence when she tucks her hair behind her ear to expose just the right amount of skin at her neck.
he knows that this girl, especially, this girl wore that dress because it's tight in the chest but the straps and too loose. he knows that all of mike's jokes are inside jokes and she wouldn't get them anyway. he knows that she's always been pretty, but not very extraordinary, so she dates aspiring musicians and artists, boys that want to change the world; that way she looks smart when she's holding their hand and supporting their art. william knows she came to this party with a friend, one of bonnie's friends, and that she's spent the whole night looking for a new musician to inspire.
and he knows that her extensions won't hold too much longer if she keeps pulling on them like that.
of course, he's not jealous. he would be, he really would be, if he and mike were still together-- if what they had could be classified as a sort of togetherness, which it can't-- which they aren't, which he made perfectly clear with his never-ending silence. he would be disgusted, if he even cared, which he most certainly does not.
and he's not drunk.
but, yes, he is drinking.
tom says, "you're drunk," and pats him on the shoulder kindly, pulls him over to the side, behind a big couch that's covered in beer and barbie doll looking girls all giggling over something stupid tyson is saying.
"you're drunk," is william's only retort, and he tries to push tom off of him but only succeeds in stumbling, knocking his elbow hard against sisky's rib and frowning at the butcher helps stabilize him. he mumbles something that sisky says is probably japanese, and is promptly steered out of the room.
the venue is a jumble of tiny spaces and a far span of hallway that takes forever to walk down. by the time they get to another small room, an empty one where tom can shove william into an armchair and the butcher and sisky can glare at him disapprovingly, bill almost wishes he had taken chad up on his offer to play the oc drinking game. a little tequila would do him good right now, or a bottle of jacks to take the edge off-- not that he's edgy, because he doesn't fucking care. all he's had are cool beers and half of a girly drink johnny refused to finish. he wishes he had passed out a few hours ago because the night has just started and he doesn't want any part of it.
"why!?" the butcher yells, disturbing the silence.
at least william isn't the only one who looks surprised and confused right now. siska quirks an eyebrow in a distinctly adam taylor siska way and tom shrugs in bill's general direction, a kind smile playing across his lips.
william coughs into a loose fist and slumps further down in the chair. "why what?"
andy crosses his arms and scoffs. "why do you have to be such a little bitch about this?" and william coughs again. "it's not like he doesn't love you or anything, but it's mike. he's just-- you know-- he likes things quiet."
on the other side of the room, siska blinks, incredulous, but waits for his turn to speak, and william should have known this would turn into a band discussion, just like what songs to put on the set list and how many cupcakes is too many cupcakes and what albums are allowed to be played in the van (because if they all have to listen to it, they all have to agree to it). he should have known the butcher would take mike's side about this because he's a drummer; he understands the necessity to bang everything and anything that stands still for a long enough time, he doesn't understand the fragility of strings and slow strums. he couldn't possibly comprehend the importance of holding someone's hand.
william, however, is currently too tired, too irritated and unfortunately too sober to say any of this with any coherency. instead he says, "fuck you, andrew. i got ninety nine problems, but bein a bitch aint one."
siska laughs and william closes his eyes, sure that before the room dissolved under heavy eyelids that tom was shaking his head slightly.
"all i'm saying," the butcher continues, "is that you should give him some time."
"time?!" sisky finally scoffs, throwing his hands up in protest. he's angry on william's behalf, and bill is grateful, he is, because if there's one thing he's given mike enough of, it's time. he's had years to deal with whatever internal issues are at hand, years to face up to it or back out, but he's done neither. the only difference now is that william refuses to wait much longer for something to happen.
tom is caught in the middle of the argument, shaking his head at sisky and the butcher at the same time, and glancing apologetically at bill, as though it's his fault somehow. mike would argue that everything is tom's fault but bill knows better than to blame anyone but himself.
the butcher and sisky have taken to insulting each other now and tom slumps down beside william and nudges him in the side. "don't be stupid, william," he whispers, and bill is glad for the quiet, the fluidity of his voice, the way words roll off his tongue through a smile of perfect teeth. "you know what you want, so go get it, and he doesn't want the same thing then there's really nothing you can do about it, is there?"
tom always had a way of making things look better despite how horrible they really were, william thinks, and opens his eyes slowly to offer a smile.
"thanks tomrad," he says, slowly, and tries to focus on the stillness of the wall.
tom nods, glances at sisky who is now in a headlock, and shrugs simply. "you have to do something," he declares.
"yeah, i have to do something," william agrees, suddenly, and stands up, but the alcohol in his system is enough so that he sits down right away and sighs. "i have to do something, as soon as the room stops-- jeez guys, quit moving around."
-
mike is outside, chain smoking with his back against a brick wall, his foot tapping to the dull, echoing beat of the music inside.
william says, "i have to do something."
"huh?"
william says, "i mean, you're an idiot, and i know that, i know that, it's why i used to hate your stupid gorgeous guts, but you're an idiot and that's why i love your stupid gorgeous guts and i have to do something right now-- right now!-- because if i don't you're gonna go back in there are fuck that girl, that stupid fake blond girl and it's not gonna be anything special, not anything at all because you'll wake up in the morning and wonder how the hell you got where you are, and mike, listen to me," he grabs mike's face in his hands, didn't even realize he had gotten that close, and presses their foreheads together. "listen to me, are you listening? you're so much better than fake blond wannabe groupie girls and you know it."
william wants a reaction, but so far all mike has done is frown.
"do you even know her name?" he asks. "do you even know anything about her other than she wants to suck you off big time?"
"she said her name's jack," he answers smartly, but william knows his brain is working out something intelligent, something witty and biting to retaliate with.
"jack is a boy's name," bill smirks.
mike frowns, frowns and frowns some more. he does this thing with his eyebrows and bites his bottom lip. he looks like he might say something to redeem himself, something to fix things, but instead he just shrugs.
it's difficult, william thinks, and strange knowing what will make a situation better. he wants to say, be with me. just be with me, that's all mike has to do anyway, just be with william in front of everyone and try not to act like it's such a painful thing to do. instead, william backs away and shakes his head.
"you know what," he sighs, "just-- i just give up. fuck this, fuck you." he starts to walk away but mike grabs his wrist and pulls him back, still he doesn't say anything, just sort of mouths a half apology and frowns some more. "i did something!" william exclaims. "and now you have to do something."
he walks back inside and slams the door behind him leaving mike alone with half of a cigarette and his thoughts, but he walks back out a few seconds later and shakes his head. neither one of them does anything besides breathe, mike still exhaling smoke, until william sighs, exasperated and kisses mike.
it isn't one of their usual, friendly, kind kisses. william slams mike into the brick wall as hard as he can, presses their bodies tightly together and holds him down. his hand is pushing hard against mike's wrist, the other brought up to his neck. william would be thinking about what a stupid idea this is if mike's knee wasn't strategically placed between his legs, pressing hard against the faded denim, his tongue working wonders in bill's mouth.
"what the fuck?" mike says, realizing what they're doing and shoving him off. "are you fucking bipolar?"
william stutters out a few responses, but settles on, "shut up, would you?" he rolls his eyes and tries to think of what he should be saying but it all sounds stupid so he fumbles around until words force their way out of his mouth.
"i get it, okay, you're not gonna hold my hand or kiss me in front of, well, anyone, and we're not about to tell everyone we know that we've been in love for the better part of the past three years." mike makes a noise halfway between protest and acceptance, a sort of pained scoff but bill prattles on. "whatever, i'm over it, but i'm pretty drunk right now, on the verge of passing out here, and it has been too damn long since i've fucked anyone so the least you can do is indulge me, just this once."
he's over being nice, being the sweet boyfriend, cute and quiet in his own william beckett way, but he just can't bring himself to care anymore. he can be vindictive if he wants to, can relish in the satisfaction it brings him to see mike comply, to see him on his knees in the cold concrete, fumbling with bill's tight jeans and the thin, weak string that keeps them on his hips.
he almost wishes this would suck, but knowing mike, knowing the way mike knows him, he's going to step it up, make this the best head he's ever dreamed about getting-- the real trick is to play it off as nothing special. usually that would be quite the incredible feat but bill's pissed off enough to fake it pretty well. he's been angry before but this is a different kind of anger, a deep frustration laced with jealousy and coated in a thin layer of disappointment.
there's a hint of sadness behind the way he presses his fingertips into mike's scalp but there's no way he could pretend not to enjoy this. it took them a while to perfect their techniques, to study each other and learn what was good and what was amazing but now william hates to say it, mike knows him too well.
mike knows exactly what william likes and how to give it to him so well there can be no room for suggestions of improvement. bill can only grit his teeth, close his eyes and bite his bottom lip to keep quiet while mike is dragging teeth over bill's skin, his tongue flicking against the most delicate part of him, and to counter william's hair pulling ways, mike scratches harshly at his hips. it's nice for a minute and then it's rough and too hard and mike's mouth is too warm and too wet for william to ignore how good it feels any longer.
but he does.
he takes a deep, hopefully unnoticed breath and says, "come on, carden, you can do better than that," sounding bored and haughty, his voice lower than usual, more scratchy and slow.
it's the taunting that does it, not that the incessant sucking didn't help, but mike forces william's hips so far forward that bill is pressed tight against the back of his throat and coming, hard, hot and bitter all at once. he may be pissed off, but he's not angry enough to not want to get off too.
mike makes a big deal out of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and standing up trying to look annoyed but william recognizes that look of accomplishment. he can't help but notice the smile creeping to mike's lips, already perfect and pouty, full and moist now, and slightly pinker than usual, william's cum beaded in the corner of his mouth.
william grabs him by the neck of his shirt and leads him further down the dark alley.
-
the butcher finally lets sisky out of the headlock he's had him in for the past ten minutes and says, "hey tom, where did bill go?"
tom just shakes his head.
-
it takes william thirteen seconds to get the van door open and shove mike inside, twelve seconds to toss all their crap to the front seats and less than ten to convince mike to get on his knees again.
he rationalizes all of the night's happenings and all of his actions by telling himself that he's drunk and he wouldn't let this happen if he wasn't-- because he and mike are not together, they're not-- and by deciding that he will blame tom conrad for jumping the gun with his advice giving. maybe just this once, he can agree with mike that it is all tom's fault. (still, he knows it isn't and he thinks, between unbuttoning and unzipping mike's jeans and pulling his own down around his thighs, that he'll have to come up with a better excuse later.)
"where's the--" mike asks, fumbling around over the seat in william's bag, but bill scoffs behind him and bites harshly into his shoulder, trailing his tongue along the jutting veins in his neck.
he whispers into mike's ear, "you don't need it," sounding snarky and cruel but he's not letting himself care right now. usually he's nice about this; it is that which they do not speak of, but which they both agree is essential to william's manliness and his ego and to keep mike in check when he gets too big-headed and full of himself.
usually william takes special care of mike in these situations. he is careful to go slow, at first, and always asks if it's okay, if it's too much or too hard or too fast. usually there are soft kisses on the back of mike's neck and his shoulder blades, william's arms wrapped around him tightly, his voice quiet and calm in his ear.
tonight, though, tonight william is all bitchy scoffs and rolling eyes, swatting mike's hands away and holding his hips steady. mike's definitely going to have bruises tomorrow, tiny fingerprints pressed into his skin, long drags across his waist where william dug dull nails into him. he isn't quite prepared when william pushes into him, quick and hard with no kindness behind it, but at least he's sucking on mike's neck hard enough to distract from the pain. he could complain, but william doesn't wait to set a pace, just fucks him roughly, his chest hitting against the back seat of the van, and he doesn't have time to think let alone tell him to stop being such an asshole.
william abandons his hips long enough to grab his wrists and hold them still, so that mike can't jerk himself off, and william isn't about to do it. he can tell that mike is painfully hard and aching to touch himself, but william's too into this now to comply. he pushes his hips forward, pinning mike between his body and the seat, still holding his hands down. he could keep this up all night, he could continue to be malicious for as long as mike continues to be stubborn, and he will, because neither one of them knows how to give in until it's too late.
he only slows down for a split second to slide halfway out and slam back in, changing the angle and the pace and completely fucking with any rhythm mike might have been getting used to.
"fuck," mike hisses, his voice caught somewhere between his throat and his teeth, "jesus, bill, fuck."
bill laughs, nips at mike's ear and sneers, "you fucking love it." he's not ready for this to be over yet but the way mike is moving against him tells him that it might end soon. mike wiggles his hand free and william just rolls his eyes. "fine, whatever cheater," he gives up, ignores the sharp jab in his rib that mike's elbow makes as he wraps his fist around his dick and strokes it quickly.
he has nothing to say but "fuck" in various different shuddered tones, and a few "bill" "william" will" "beckett's" are moaned out too.
"nah, fuck this, i'm not done with you yet," william says, suddenly, the thought occurring to him that everyone is still inside partying it up and they have ample time to continue this. mike is tensing up and about to come but william won't let him. he grabs his hand and holds it down above them, holds mike's hip with his other hand and fucks him so deep mike can feel the tiniest bit of blood in his mouth from where he's bitten down on his lip.
william wants this to last as long as it can because things are starting to get clearer now, which means he's starting to get sober now (because he really didn't drink as much as he would have liked to) and he's starting to realize that this may be the last time anything like this happens. sure, normal, sane, logical thinking william would have kissed mike nicely and gotten into a cab to go to some hotel where they could have their last hurrah on a clean bed with room service (because it's been a while since william has tasted bacon on the tip of mike's tongue, and he misses it), but normal, sane, logical thinking william does not exist in this moment and this william thinks the dirty van with its ketchup chip crums and sprite spills will do.
this william doesn't even take the time to care that if anyone walked outside for a smoke break or to go home or just to get fresh air and get away from all the sweaty, dirty, after concert bodies in the venue, they would probably be pretty shocked (or pretty amused) at the sight of two band members fucking in the back of a van that doesn't even have tinted windows or nice upholstery.
this william interrupts his own thoughts to think, fuck, i need to get off soon but not before mike, because that would give him too much satisfaction.
"bill," mike sighs, quiet moans escaping his lips, tiny beads of sweat breaking out over his forehead, dripping down his neck and under his shirt, and william knows that sound all too well. "please, please, fuck, just--" he doesn't finish his sentence because william pushes his hips forward suddenly and grins at his own ruthlessness, smirks at the way mike is begging for him to finish it because he's so close but not getting anywhere with his hands held down and his body pressed awkwardly and tight against an old leather seat.
"fuck you," william remarks through clenched teeth, "you're a fucking asshole and i'm not about to let you come all over my hand." he doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, just keeps grinding in deeper, his hips hurting with how hard he hits against mike, but it doesn't matter if he aches in the morning just as long as mike has these bruises as a reminder. he can already see his sides have been scratched raw, his wrists slight yellow in colour, a fairly noticeable hickey already developed and red on his neck.
william forgets himself, his different self, for a moment and wraps an arm around mike's chest, pulls him closer and presses a wet kiss into his shoulder. he catches himself though, just after it happens, and figures now is a good time to finish this, before he slips again.
he chooses not to warn mike of his last efforts, just thrusts his hips hard against him and fucks him into the back seat until he's shaking, gripping the leather, all slick from their sweat, and coming hard against the back with moan after moan after stuttered vowel sounds and shuddered breaths. bill's always been quieter about coming, and he's even quieter now, pressing his lips tightly together to keep from making a sound and letting go of mike as soon as he does, sliding out and moving away from him so he can pull up his pants.
he laces them up tightly and tucks his hair behind his ear. he thinks he might throw up, but he'll wait until he's left the van and is far enough away that mike won't know before he does. maybe it's the alcohol moving around in his body or maybe it's the fact that he feels vile and cruel, and still a little sad that this is how it has to end, he doesn't know and doesn't care, he just wants to get out of here with his dignity still intact, and maybe the upper hand.
"thanks for this carden," he shrugs, opening the back door before mike even has his pants all the way up. "i needed this." mike stares at him like he might say something, but as usual, stays quiet. william wishes he wouldn't. he smiles, fake and happy and completely ignoring the lingering taste of mike's skin that snuck its way into his mouth from that kiss, and says, before he slams the door shut, "see you inside."
he definitely thinks he's going to throw up, and he knows, he knows it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
--
it was incredibly difficult to write this stuff with my mom barging into my room every half hour to hug me and tell me she loves me. now that i'm back in my apartment, i guess i can write as much porno-fiction as i want.