safe as houses: part 1
The thing about them-about him and David-is that it’s pretty fucking easy, being together. Neal can do that. David doesn’t really want flowers or any of that shit, and Neal doesn’t want to buy any of it, so that works. And David’s just as horny as Neal pretty much all of the time, and so when Neal wants to fuck him up against the wall of a venue, or when he wants to go down on David in his bunk, well. David doesn’t exactly mind. So it’s all pretty easy, being together.
It’s just that sometimes, sometimes Neal forgets that they’re together and not just together, and that realization makes his heart race and his palms sweat and so Neal tries his hardest to just push the thought out of his mind, push the feeling down and away until he can breathe again.
It’s a Thursday and Neal’s running a skimmer through David’s pool. There’s a lot of leaves and shit, and Neal doesn’t even know why the hell Dave has a pool, because neither of them are all that big on swimming. When the sliding glass door to the house opens, Dave walks out, barefoot and wearing Neal’s shirt, dangling two beers in between his fingers.
“Both of those better be for me,” Neal says, and he pushes his sunglasses up a little higher on his nose.
“Well, shit, Tiemann,” Dave says, and Neal can see him staring at the skin of his forearms, naked from where his denim jacket is rolled up to his elbows. David looks happy, content, and Neal likes that look on him. “Who’d have thought you looked so good cleaning a pool?”
“Screw you,” Neal says. “If I liked you any less than I do, I wouldn’t be doing this shit. You should hire a fucking pool boy.”
David looks at him. “But I’ve already got one,” he says, and Neal laughs.
“You owe me something pretty fucking spectacular for this,” he says, and David tells him, “I always come through in the clutch.”
Neal finishes skimming the pool, and the entire time he’s doing it, he watches David out of the corner of his eyes. David’s blatantly staring back at him, and Neal knows he could be more open about it, that Dave probably already knows that Neal’s watching, but Neal chooses instead to focus on the top of the water and the way it ripples as he disturbs it.
That night, Neal stays at David’s house and David thanks him for his services. He lays Neal flat on the bed and then runs his hands up Neal’s sides, starting at his hips and making his way up, guiding Neal’s arms above his head as he does so. Neal’s body shivers the entire time, and when Dave clicks the handcuffs around his wrists, Neal bites his lip so hard he almost cracks skin.
“I’m going to make you feel so fucking good, Neal,” Dave says in his ear, and Neal lets him.
Recording is-well. It’s recording, and Neal kind of fucking hates it because at the end of every day, his hand hurts like a bitch and he hasn’t even been playing for anyone-not a thousand fans, not a hundred, not a one. It seems like a waste to Neal, but he tries not to bring it up because he knows that the guys worry.
And besides, there are other things to focus on: everything went well with their stand-in guy for that asshole who Neal no longer talks about. The new guy’s name is Monty and he seems pretty cool, and sometimes, at night, Dave talks to Neal about asking Monty to join full-time. Neal always says, “Hey, that’s your call,” but Dave says that it isn’t, it really fucking isn’t, and so he calls for a band meeting.
They all wind up at some weird-ass restaurant that has an outside smoking section and a special on something advertised as a four foot beer. Neal doesn’t really care how tall his beer is so long as it’s cold and the waitress keeps them coming, but Andy really wants one and so Neal agrees to get one, too. And Neal’s feeling wild, so he gets dark ale and Kyle looks at him with a face that says, You’re not going to want to finish that whole fucking thing if it’s dark, and so Neal says, “Shut the fuck up. I will.”
When their drinks come, they’re served in these purple, plastic monstrosities and Kyle laughs, “Nice chick drinks, guys,” and Neal and Andy simultaneously flip him the bird.
David says, “Hey, lemme have a sip.”
“It’s dark ale,” Neal says, and Dave pulls a face and then says never mind because he thinks that shit is nasty.
So they talk for a bit about the merits of chicken wings versus potato skins (only Kyle pulls for the skins), the new baseball season (David says, “Maybe they’ll let me sing the anthem so we can sit by the dugout again”), and the new season of Idol (“That shit’s just lame, man. It’s so bad,” Andy says, and then Neal says, “Yeah, I don’t know what kind of asshole would be on that show willingly.” David elbows Neal in the ribs and says, “The smart kind, you motherfucker,” and Neal takes offense to that).
At the end of the night, when none of them are drunk but all of them are getting there, David asks, “Monty-in or out?” It’s unanimous, and Dave squeezes Neal’s knee underneath the table.
Sex with David, Neal knows, is something he will never get tired of. He wakes up early the next morning and he can see out of the corner of his eye that one end of the handcuffs is still locked around the bedpost from a few nights ago and also that he missed the trashcan last night and his used condom is tied off and on the floor. Neal’s sated and content and really, what’s there to complain about?
Well, for one, there’s the fucking way Dave sleeps sometimes, his limbs all wrapped around Neal, his body heavy atop Neal’s chest.
“David,” Neal says. The sun from the window is in his eyes, and he’s forced to just squint. “David, come on, move.” Dave groans and rolls over.
“What?” he says, and he sounds cranky but at least Neal can fucking breathe again.
“Nothing,” he says, and David laughs sleepily.
“Great.” He throws an arm over his eyes. “Go make me some French toast.”
Neal laughs but then when he realizes that Dave isn’t joking, says, “Oh, yeah fucking right.”
“Come on,” Dave says. “I tip real well.” And maybe it’s something in his voice, still gravelly from just having been woken up, or maybe it’s the way his bare shoulders look against the sheets, or maybe it’s the way Dave’s wrists are rubbed red and raw, Neal doesn’t really know. Either way, he gets out of bed and throws some jeans on and makes his way to the kitchen.
There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter and Neal grabs an apple, biting into it as he takes out the bread and the cinnamon and the butter. He can’t find the eggs. Neal walks back to the bedroom to ask David what the fuck he did with them, but David’s sleeping again and so Neal throws on a shirt and some shoes, grabs his wallet and keys, and heads out the door. The grocery store is only a few blocks away, and Neal gets back before David even realizes he was gone.
Later, when everything’s on the table and Dave’s sitting down in only a pair of gym shorts, Neal says, “Well, I held up my end of the bargain,” and then pours about a gallon of maple syrup onto his plate.
“Shit, Neal,” Dave says around a bite. “What do I have to do to get you to be my live-in cook? Jesus, this is amazing.” And Neal knows that it’s a joke, but there’s something in him that feels knocked sideways once Dave says that and he doesn’t know why. And even after the conversation’s changed and they’ve moved on, the rest of the day all Neal can think of is how he cooked Dave breakfast and how he went out and bought Dave eggs.
Don’t fuck this up, Tiemann, he tells himself, but he doesn’t know how to do that.
It’s a Wednesday, a vocal-tracking day, and Neal’s got nothing to do, so he heads over to Kyle’s and they jam together a bit. It’s weird because it’s just them, just the two of them, and it sounds so empty to Neal, but it’s nice, too, being able to just hang with Kyle and no one else. Kyle talks in click tracks and drum beats and cymbal crashes; Neal gets that.
Kyle says, “Dude, you’re half a beat too fast,” and Neal fixes it.
Kyle says, “What do you think about some distortion?” and Neal grabs his pedal board.
Kyle says, “Maybe put that-that riff thing-yeah, yeah, that one-put it after the bah dum dum chh bah dum chh,” and Neal can do that.
He wishes everything else was that easy.
Late afternoon comes around and they go upstairs to feed Hayden. Kyle’s in charge of making the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and Neal’s in charge of mixing the chocolate milk and Hayden is in charge of using the plastic cutter to get rid of the crusts and also, apparently, in charge of spilling the chocolate milk all over Neal’s shirt.
“Oh, fudge,” Kyle says, censoring himself. He passes Neal an entire roll of paper towels. “Gimme a second, I’ll go grab you a new shirt.”
And he does, and Neal thinks that’s pretty cool of him, but it’s one of Kyle’s striped tanks and it stretches across Neal’s chest and Neal thinks he looks pretty fucking ridiculous. Hayden says no, which is nice, and Neal leaves after dinner.
Neal gets home-well, back to Dave’s, anyways-soon after that, and Dave’s sitting there on the couch with a laptop propped up against some pillows.
“Last song tomorrow,” he says without looking up. “Should have the final album soon.”
Neal says, “Shit. I can’t fucking wait to hear it.”
“Me either.” Dave motions behind him, towards the kitchen. “Got your ice all set up. It’s in the freezer. How’s Kyle doing?” Neal goes to the fridge and grabs his ice pack, placing it on his knuckles and the back of his hand.
“He’s alright,” Neal says. “Same as-what? Two fucking days ago? Hayden’s huge though.”
“Yeah,” Dave stands up and says. “They say that happens sometimes.”
“Fuck you,” Neal laughs.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Dave says, and he’s smiling. Neal likes how that looks. “Not with how good you look in that shirt.”
Neal jerks his head. “C’mere, motherfucker,” and Dave listens to him, walks on over and stands real close, slipping his fingers under Neal’s-Kyle’s-tank top.
“Me or you?” Dave asks. Neal kisses him.
“You,” he says, backing Dave up against the counter. “I did it last time.”
“Okay,” David says, and Neal says, “Shut up.” He curls the tips of his fingers in the waistband of David’s jeans and just stands there, just kisses David too sweetly and with too much tongue, feels David grow hard against Neal’s leg not because Neal’s doing anything, but because David knows what’s coming. Neal grinds his hips against David’s just once, long and slow, and says, “Go upstairs. Wait for me. Don’t even fucking think about touching yourself.”
David nods and walks away, and Neal watches him the whole way up the stairs. He’s done this with Dave-not just the sex, but giving up control, or taking control, or trying out new things, whatever-for long enough that his heart shouldn’t be racing and his palms shouldn’t be sweaty, but Neal can still feel his heart through his ribcage and he still wipes his hands lightly on his jeans.
Neal swallows and licks his lips. He knows what Dave’s doing right now, can picture it in his head. He can see David kneeling, his head bowed, just waiting for Neal to come upstairs, to tell him what to do, to touch him. He knows Dave’s waiting to be handcuffed to the bed or blindfolded or gagged, and knowing that he wants it just as bad as Neal wants to do it…
Neal has to tell himself to calm down and not to take the steps by two.
“Mmm,” David says as Neal trails his fingers up and down his spine. “You played a lot today; your hand alright?”
“More or less,” Neal says. “Always hurts a little.”
David turns his head and looks at Neal. “I wish I could change that,” he says.
“So do I,” Neal tells him, and then his hand stills on David’s back and David leans over and kisses Neal slowly, softly, and they fall asleep pressed back to chest.
They finish recording the next day, and it’s a big deal. It’s a big fucking deal that they not only finished recording a fucking album, but they finish recording their second fucking album, and that’s the bee’s knees to Neal. When the last lick of the last of the guitars is laid and the producer says, “Alright, guys, I think I’ve got everything,” it’s like Neal can let go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Kyle says, “Anyone want to go get a drink? I’m not on Hayden-duty til tomorrow.”
None of them have been to the Flytrap in a while, not really, because they’ve been so focused on writing music and not so much on seeing other people play live. So they go, and it’s alright. They’ve got one of the few tables, and the band-some super shitty Grateful Dead cover band-is going on in the background and all they really need now is one more chair because Neal’s standing and then they’re good.
Andy says, “Oh my god, could this band possibly be any shittier?”
And so Kyle quips, “Yeah; you could be singing.”
No fight breaks out or anything though, because then Dave gets back with the first round-on him-and they all raise their glasses in a toast.
Nobody says anything.
“Oh, come on, Dave,” Andy says. "It’s your album, it’s your toast.”
Dave says, “Hey, no. Hey. It’s our fucking album, and we kicked fucking ass on it, and it’s gonna do real fucking well because we worked hard and we deserve it. The music deserves it.”
They all sit in silence for a minute and then Neal says, “Here, here,” and they all clink their glasses together and it’s going to be a good night, Neal feels, a good few days. He can feel it in his bones, or some shit.
“They’re starting to master it tomorrow and everything,” Dave says. “Just got the email.”
“So we should have it by when?” Kyle asks. “Two weeks or something like that?”
Dave says, “Yeah. And then we hit the road.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Andy says, and he kills off what’s left of his beer before standing up and saying, “Alright, who wants what?”
So it’s kind of like that; they just sit around and shoot the shit and it makes Neal realize just how fucking ready he is to tour again, how tired he is of sitting around and doing nothing.
And then someone comes up behind Neal and squeezes his hips and he almost jumps out of his fucking skin. He turns around, ready to bitch out whoever it is, but he sees a flash of green hair and he almost can’t believe it.
“Neal!” she says, and it’s her, Kira. Neal hasn’t seen or heard from her in a long-ass time, since before the Anthemic.
“Holy shit,” he says, and she smiles wide and says, “I know, right?” and then she kisses him on the lips, just a short little peck, but Neal can feel lip gloss still on his mouth when she pulls back.
“So?” she asks. “How’s everything? It’s been for-fucking-ever, Neal! And shit, you look exactly the same!”
Neal holds her away from him at arm’s length and looks her up and down, and then puts one hand under her chin as he moves her face from side to side, studying her. “So do you, though,” Neal says. “Still as gorgeous as ever.”
Kira laughs and flips her hair and says, “Thank you, thank you. Oh, but I got new ink!” And Neal has some too; of course he has, but doesn’t think to mention it. Kira takes off her jacket just enough so that he can see her bare shoulder. Her hair is still long and it gets in the way, so Neal pushes it back and looks at the burlesque dancer that she has on the side of her chest and the front of her shoulder.
“Pretty sick,” he says, and she thanks him.
It’s only then that Neal realizes that they have an audience, and so he turns back to the table and says, “Ah, sorry. Kira, you already know Andy and Kyle.”
“Of course,” she says. “Hey.” They don’t say much back, but Kyle lifts his fingers off the table in a half-assed wave and Andy nods.
“And that’s Dave, in the back. Dave, this is Kira.”
Kira says, “Hi! I’ve heard so much about you.”
And Dave smiles, says, “It’s great to finally meet you,” and then stands up and offers Kira his seat, if she’s going to be around for a while. She takes it with Thanks, and then Dave comes and stands next to Neal, reaching behind him to stick his fingers in Neal’s back pocket. It catches Neal by surprise for a second because he and David, they don’t do that kind of stuff, but Neal lets it go and looks at Kira.
She’s talking to the guys-it doesn’t seem to be awkward or anything, and so Neal listens in as she tells Andy about the best ways to make fake blood and that his haircut looks really good. Neal thinks she looks really good, her cheeks all rosy red and her smile big and wide. It reminds him of when they used to hang out and how they went to a horror movie convention and how afterwards she let him fuck her in the backseat of his shitty car. It’s too much for him, and so he says, “I’m gonna go get another drink. Anyone want anything?”
“Oh, nothing for me,” Kira says. “I gotta head out in a minute. Thanks though.”
David says, “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“I’m getting dark ale,” Neal says, and waits for Dave to change his mind. But he doesn’t, just says, “That’s fine,” and Neal walks away confused.
Kira only sticks around for a little bit after that, and right before she leaves she hugs Neal real tight.
“Bye, Neal,” she says, her arms still wrapped around his waist. Neal tries his hardest not to notice how they still fit together in the same way. “It’s been real great seeing you again.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.” And he means it, he really means it.
When he and Dave get home, Dave plays rough and Neal is just as rough back. And after Neal’s been fucked, they lay side-by-side in bed and listen to each other breathe.
As much as Neal likes kicking it with Dave and getting to fuck him in a real bed each night, he’s kind of relieved when Dave gets a call from his manager in LA a week later.
“I need to go shoot the cover art for the album soon. In a few days,” Dave tells him. They’re sitting on the couch watching a show on sharks. “And do a couple interviews. So, I dunno. I’ll be gone a week, maybe? Maybe more?”
“Yeah?” Neal asks. “That’s good though, right? We’ll get on the road soon then.”
“Yeah,” Dave says. He stretches out and puts his feet up on one armrest, his head in Neal’s lap. Neal weaves his fingers through Dave’s hair; it’s getting long. “Back to bunks and gas station food, I guess.”
Neal says, “We were made for that, though.”
“Mmm,” Dave says. His eyes are shut. “That feels good.” Neal laughs lightly.
“What?” Neal asks. “Me tugging on your hair or the thought of-fucking-HoHos and Honey Buns?”
Dave doesn’t answer him, just says, “Hey, Neal? You wanna move in with me?”
And Neal’s entire fucking body freezes, because where the fuck did that come from? He has no clue what he can possibly say that won’t end in at least one of them being angry and resentful. Fucking Dave. Fucking Dave and his ruining everything when it was all so goddamn perfect.
“Um. No,” Neal says, and he braces himself for a fight, braces himself for when Dave will get all tense and things will get awkward. For a second, Neal thinks, So this is the beginning of the end.
But then David-David just says, “Alright,” and doesn’t even open his eyes, doesn’t even pull back from Neal an inch.
Neal doesn’t say anything, but he lowers the volume on the tv and if Dave falls asleep, Neal doesn’t know, because he’s out before the next commercial.
Neal wakes up the next morning and his heart is pounding and there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch, but he’s in Dave’s bed and vaguely remembers stumbling there last night.
What the fuck, Neal thinks, because he wasn’t planning on staying the night and he did anyways, sleeping in Dave’s bed like it was his own, even after he said that he didn’t want that. He hates what it is they’re becoming, the kind of couple they’re turning into, and he hates how he wants one thing and then does another, and he hates how that makes him uncomfortable.
Dave left him a note on the end table: Out at the gym. Leftover fruit salad in the fridge. Be back at 2. And Neal thinks, Fuck that. I’m not waiting around for him until 2.
So Neal heads over to Andy’s, totally unannounced, and he thanks god that Andy’s both alone and dressed when he gets there.
“Drink a beer with me,” Neal demands.
“What?” Andy asks. “No. It’s like ten in the morning.”
“Drink a beer with me,” Neal demands again.
“Alright,” Andy says.
Neal cracks one open and feels the need to say, “David’s being weird.”
Andy just says, “Sorry, dude,” and it’s enough.
And later, when he’s halfway drunk and he and Andy have been sitting on the couch for a good few hours, Neal says, “Dave wants me to move in with him.”
Andy throws back the rest of his beer and then says, “Awesome.” When Neal doesn’t answer, he says, “Right?”
“No, it’s not fucking awesome,” Neal says. “He’s ruining everything.”
“Neal,” Andy says real slowly, “this is a good thing.”
“It’s not for us,” Neal says. “It’s not for me. He’s trying to turn me into, like, his kept bitch or something.”
“You already are his kept bitch.”
“Fuck you,” Neal says.
“Really, though?” Andy asks. “You practically live together, anyways. What’s the big deal?”
And Andy just doesn’t get it, just doesn’t get how Neal’s suddenly turning into everything he hates because Dave seems to want Neal to be something that he isn’t. It’s hard, though, because Neal likes being with Dave, likes not being alone all the time. He just doesn’t want anything more than he already has.
Part 2