Beach Dog 'verse fic: Wondermutt
Wondermutt | R | 7,000+
Prequel to Found Days, Longer Than The Road, and Plays Out Like A Drum.
Kevin/Mike, Quinn/Bert, Butcher/Sisky, Gabe/VickyT, Blake, Bill, Lissa, Sam, Eddie & Mab, Zack, Brendon & Spencer
A guest-bands band deserves a story of stories. Scenes from the Wondermutt festival tour.
A/N: see Beach Dog’s timeline. I’m back in this world because of my new-found love of NCIS (Mark Harmon --> Summer School --> Wondermutt --> Beach Dog) and if you don’t get that reference, you should watch Summer School and pay close attention to my favorite little throw-away scene. End quote-ish thing that isn’t a quote is bastardized from the movie, because that beach dog totally parallels this Beach Dog, in ways that are smarter than me. Herein lies sex, babies and very little rock n’ roll. Oh, so self-indulgent, sorry.
June - August 2012
Kevin has never been so tense about a performance in his entire life. He might throw up. And then Brendon will kill him, because he won’t be singing with his hips, whatever the heck that means. Kevin hadn’t really known what to make of the demo, at first - their song has a Bollywood flavor, and the lyrics are more bitter than sweet, despite the title More With Honey - but he’d been genuinely surprised when they’d shown up for their first session and Brendon had told Joe he’s got the ‘ah, ah, ahs’ in the refrain and he’d asked Nick if he could play the zither and then he’d looked at Kevin with a completely straight face and said, “I’m gonna need you to sing this with your hips.”
And now that’s all Kevin can think about, because recording is one thing - they could do it over and over until they’d had it perfect, and he’d only had to deal with Brendon and Spencer frowning at him in this really horrible I’m-worried-this-will-be-a-disaster way. He’d done his best, and it sounds good, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to let Brendon down on the whole movement thing, because now that he’s really thinking about it, he’s kind of doing the exact opposite. Joe had called him a robot at sound check. He’s going to freeze up there, he just knows it.
“Why so glum, chum?”
Kevin looks up from his shoes. A willowy guy with awesome hair and a toddler clinging to him - she’s clutching his shirt and giving Kevin the biggest big eyes of all time, like Kevin’s all her pony wishes combined, and will possibly give her ice cream and rainbow sprinkles if she just widens her baby blues at him enough - is staring at him curiously. Kevin’s only met about half the bands touring with them so far, and this guy hasn’t been in one of them.
“Um.” Kevin bites his lip.
The little girl leans toward Kevin and bounces and says, “Hi,” and practically leaps out of the guy’s arms and Kevin almost isn’t fast enough to catch her.
“I’m Bill,” the guy says, unconcerned. He gives up custody of the girl like it’s nothing, like she didn’t almost fall to her death, and the girl says, “Come see my babies?” and plays with Kevin’s necklace and kicks her foot hard enough into Kevin’s hip to make him wince.
Bill says, “We’ll see your babies later, Samantha.”
Samantha gives him a solemn nod, narrow-eyed, like she doesn’t really believe him. She says, “Daddy.”
He crosses his heart and says, “Promise, kitten.” Then he smiles at Kevin and says, “She’s two, I have to bribe her to use the toilet,” like this has anything to do with anything. “She has so many dolls, it’s a weakness. They say the second one’s easier, but only because you spoil them more.”
Kevin doesn’t think that makes sense, but he’s kind of lost in this entire conversation.
“So. Jonas.” Bill leans a hip up against the wall next to him, and then Samantha starts squirming like a hooked fish in Kevin’s arms; she slides down his leg and then takes off along the corridor. Bill calls after her, “Go find your Uncle Gabe,” like having toddlers run all over venues by themselves is perfectly normal.
At Kevin’s incredulous look, Bill shrugs. He says, “Gabe’s around the corner, she’ll be fine,” then looms even closer to Kevin and says, “Now, Jonas, your expression is entirely too disheartening for the start of a festival tour. What’s going on in that fuzzy little head of yours?”
“Nothing,” Kevin says.
“Sure, nothing,” Bill says. His narrowed-eyed look is eerily similar to Samantha’s.
Kevin sighs. He says, “It’s just that-Brendon wants me to sing with my hips, and-” He cuts off at Bill’s earnest nodding.
“I see, I see,” says Bill.
“Glad one of us does,” Kevin mutters. He kicks his sneakers, making them squeak on the linoleum floor.
Bill taps a finger to his bottom lip. “You perform with your thighs, Jonas, it’s an affectation of guitar players everywhere. You only have to worry about humping your instrument.”
Kevin feels his face heat, resists the urge to press his palms to his cheeks, because what?
Bill stares at him, speculative; the silence drags on longer than Kevin’s really comfortable with. Finally, Bill says, “I have a solution.”
Kevin blinks. “You do?”
“I do. I even think you’ll like it.”
That sounds really ominous, but Kevin’s getting desperate here; they pulled the opening act, and Kevin has just under two hours left. “Okay?”
“It can’t be explained in words. Well, it could,” Bill amends, “but it’s more fun not to.” He smile gets a little evil at the corners, Kevin manfully resists the urge to run away and hide forever.
“Okay,” Kevin says again, just because he feels like he should.
Bill glances at his watch. “Give me about an hour. He’ll come find you.”
“Who?” Kevin asks weakly, but Bill’s already walking away.
*
When Kevin first balks at singing lead, Brendon pulls him aside and tells him it’s a love song about not being in love, and that’s the only thing Kevin’s comfortable with about this whole business - that’s exactly something he wants to tell the world.
*
Roughly forty minutes before they’re set to go on, Kevin’s hyperventilating into a paper bag that smells like cheese doodles and cat. It’s not really helping.
He’s hiding in the tiny, dank bathroom that’s attached to their dressing room. There’s a single fluorescent bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling, and it’s making a buzzing sound, a constant electrical hum that’s slowly driving Kevin insane. He’d leave, except the guys from We Were Promised Jetpacks are out there, and Kevin doesn’t feel like freaking out in front of guys with really cool accents right now. Plus, Joe’ll laugh.
He’s thinking about his chances of successfully hiding in the bathroom all night - nearly nil, with Nick involved, he’d probably just take off the door hinges - when there’s a knock at the door. A quick, hard knock, and it’s only at the unfamiliar voice saying, “Jonas?” that he remembers Bill, and Bill’s promise, and how it’s probably a very bad idea to let whoever that is in, but he figures he might as well do it anyway - it can’t make his mood any worse, right? He just hopes Bill’s plan doesn’t include crack cocaine.
Kevin takes a deep breath and opens the door a couple inches - a guy with a shark grin and gleaming eyes leans into the doorjamb.
He says, “Hey, kid. Wanna let me in?”
Kevin doesn’t really want to let him in. Kevin thinks he just might eat him if he lets him in, but then the guy doesn’t give him much of a choice, just flattens his palm on the door and shoves.
“Um.” Kevin twists his fingers together and takes a step back.
The guy-“I’m Mike,” he says, before slinking in and closing the door behind him. There’s an ominous snick as he slides the lock home.
The bathroom feels even smaller, with Mike looming over him. Kevin says, “Hi?” and Mike’s shark grin gets even sharkier.
And then he palms Kevin’s hips and pushes him up against the sink and drops to his knees. Kevin is frozen in shock and terror that isn’t really terror - he can feel his entire upper body get hot, it’s only a matter of time until his whole face is bright red.
He should be protesting, but he just dumbly opens and closes his mouth as Mike works open his belt and then his pants and then, like, tugs them down his thighs, along with his underwear, and Mike gives him this evil little look up under his eyelashes before, cheese and crackers, swallowing him whole. He was so right about the eating him thing.
Kevin chokes on a yelp.
Mike laughs, and the vibrations almost make Kevin bite his tongue in half.
He’s had sex before - he’s been married before, and maybe they hadn’t been all that adventurous in bed, and maybe Danielle had kind of hated going down there, but it’d happened. Kind of unenthusiastically or whatever, but it’d been a mouth, and Kevin hadn’t had any right or inclination to complain really, but. But this is, like-Kevin doesn’t even know. He’s having trouble thinking, because Mike is using his tongue.
Mike’s really, really good with his tongue.
Kevin’s head is stuffed with white-noise, so it takes a minute to realize that’s him making those horribly embarrassing high-pitched sounds, but Mike’s hand moves down to his balls, and it takes less than a second for Kevin to admit that he doesn’t care. He grabs hold of the sink to keep from fisting Mike’s hair, and Mike slides a forearm over his stomach to keep him pinned and still, and Kevin thinks the greater concern is the way the bones in his legs are melting.
He says, strangled, “Wait,” only he doesn’t know what he’s telling Mike to wait for, and he feels a tightness in his belly and his toes start tingling.
Mike pulls off and Kevin pants hard and watches himself slowly slide out of his mouth, he can’t help it, and Kevin’s half embarrassed and half so turned on he’s not really sure he’s seeing straight, that this is actually happening.
Mike says, “Relax,” and smiles into his hipbone and, like, starts jerking him off, and Kevin lasts maybe five seconds before coming all over his hand.
*
Kevin has moments of freaking out on stage, only they’re mainly about Mike, and how Mike had just gained his feet and tucked Kevin away and kissed the corner of his mouth before saying, “Later, Jonas,” and leaving the bathroom - Kevin had stood there, stunned.
The rest of the time it’s like he’s on autopilot, and before he knows it, Brendon and Spencer are out on stage, and Nick’s awkwardly holding a zither, and Joe has a tambourine, and Kevin has a spotlight, and he closes his eyes and lets the world know he’s doing okay.
-----
Quinn thinks this is the stupidest tour they’ve ever been on - not the strangest, but definitely the butt-fuck dumbest - but it pays, the fucking Jonas Brothers are bringing in massive crowds that hang around and gawk, and Quinn gets to watch Bert make a tool out of himself over Maja Ivarrson. And also Blake Sennett, which is kind of weird, but not entirely unexpected.
Entertaining as hell, too.
Quinn’s pretty sure Sennett’s gonna break down and punch Bert in the throat any day now. Quinn’ll fuck him up for that, sure - since Bert’s got too much of a man-crush to punch Sennett back - but he’ll still get a good laugh out of it first.
“How’s Pinsky?” Quinn says.
Bert’s hunched over his cell phone, giggling like a pre-teen girl. He says, “Fuck off, you’ll scare him away,” and kicks out absently at Quinn’s shin. A tinny voice shouts out of the cell, “Stop calling me, asshole!”
“Having fun?” Quinn asks, arching an eyebrow.
“It’s just a matter of time,” Bert says. He slaps his cell closed and grins manically up at him. “I’m a persistent bastard.”
Quinn doesn’t even bother asking Bert what’s just a matter of time - he gets the feeling that Bert has no idea either, and it probably isn’t important anyway. Bert’ll be happy with an acknowledging kick to the groin; Quinn blames his obvious derangement on his childhood. Good thing bat-shit crazy is an okay look on him.
“If you put off being a persistent bastard ‘til later I’ll buy you coffee. I won’t even spit in it,” Quinn says, crossing his heart.
Bert sticks his tongue out and says, “Your spit tastes awesome,” but he shoves his cell in the back pocket of his pants anyway.
*
Quinn doesn’t know who the girl is - the honey blonde with the huge tits and the homespun dresses - but she makes Quinn think of sex and apple pie. Sensible church pumps have never been one of Quinn’s kinks but he’s thinking of making an exception. She looks sweet as a bunny with the button-up sweaters to match.
She’s not with the tour, he doesn’t think, because he doesn’t notice her until Chicago, until she’s hugging Smith and hooking her arm through Urie’s and does a little skip-step and presses a kiss to his cheek, just outside the Beach Dog bus.
“Greta,” Bert says, talking through a giant bite of hot dog. “A hush puppy or something. Those sweaters, man, I’d like to eat through all her pearl buttons.”
Quinn ignores him, because sometimes that’s best.
“Greta,” Quinn says, staring at her from across the parking lot. He wonders what she’d look like naked. And covered in honey. Or, like, possibly wielding a leather whip. Hmmm.
*
Bert kicks him in the ass and shoves him right into Greta’s path, because Bert is an asswipe and also Quinn’s best friend.
Greta salutes him and calls him ‘sailor’ because Quinn’s too much of a fuckwit to manage his name when she grins down at him. And also he can kind of, almost, look up her skirt. If he tilts his head a little.
She arches her eyebrow, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking of doing, but doesn’t lose her smile.
Quinn tries to come up with something to say that isn’t, I love you, and, I want to shove my face between your thighs - he figures neither of those would go over real well.
He manages a short and spastic, “Hi,” right before Bert tackles him and scrapes, like, the entire one side of his body along the asphalt - his skin burns with road rash and his jeans rip along the seam - and Quinn retaliates later by making Bert swallow his cock. He sticks his thumb in there to make sure he doesn’t use his teeth.
*
Greta is way out of Quinn’s league, and probably fucking Smith, anyhow.
“Greta’s way out of your league,” Bert says. He’s got his face stuffed in Quinn’s armpit, and Quinn hasn’t showered in five days and hasn’t changed his shirt in at least that many.
Quinn grunts. His eyes are closed, he’s tired, and Bert bites his pec, hard, and Quinn has to twist his fingers in his hair and yank to get him off - he’s like a rabid cat, all pay attention to me and foaming at the mouth.
“If I help you with Sennett will you lay off about Greta?” Quinn says. It’s pathetic, but sometimes the only way to deal with Bert is to bargain.
Bert squints up at him, one eye and then the other, chin digging into Quinn’s chest, like he’s giving this serious fucking thought. He says, “Maybe,” and burrows back into Quinn’s side, hand hooking onto the waistband of Quinn’s jeans, knuckles tight along his belly.
-----
“VickyT, light of my life, heart of my heart-”
“No,” Victoria says. She blows a zerbert on Eddie’s stomach. Gabe can tell by the gleam in his eyes that Eddie knows for sure he’ll be able to get away with any and everything until his dying day - he’ll be a mama’s boy, a mooch, a waste of space, exactly the kind of dude Gabe’s always wanted to be, and Gabe figures he won’t begrudge the fruit of his loins that happiness.
Mab, on the other hand, is already a squirmy handful. She stares at Gabe warily over the Gucci clutch she cleverly stole from her mama. She has the corner in her mouth, and lets it go long enough to say, “Da,” at him.
Gabe promptly forgets whatever he was trying to coerce Victoria into doing. It’s so sad; Mary Beth has him wrapped around her pinky toe.
It’s like she’s a puppy, but so much better than a puppy, because she has his eyes and grabby hands and Victoria’s way of commanding attention instead of demanding it. She’s going to be hell on boys. Gabe’s actually kind of looking forward to it.
He shifts on the couch and something jabs at his ass and oh, right-“Victoria,” he says, lifting up to dig the little box out of his back pocket. “Queen to my king.”
“We’ve been over this,” Victoria says absently, still not looking at him.
He thumbs open the box and purses his lips. “But you don’t know the question.” Stretching out his legs, he pushes a toe into Victoria’s lower back, right where her shirt rides up, leaving it bare.
She tosses a glare over her shoulder-and freezes.
Gabe’s gratified by her stunned expression - he’s pretty much told her never ever, even when she’d been nearing the end of her term. He’s still not exactly sure why he’s had a change of heart, but the way her face lights up is totally worth anything.
She hefts Eddie into her arms and knee-walks toward him across the thin rug. “That,” she says, “is gaudy as shit,” but she’s smiling.
“That isn’t a no.” He rubs a thumb over the sparkly diamond; the platinum band is etched like a cobra, and there are two rubies fashioned on either side, like eyes.
“No,” Victoria says slowly, “it isn’t.”
Gabe refuses to acknowledge the slight trip-skip of his heart, fumbling over the no before the it isn’t sinks in. Because that’s a yes. Gabe might’ve been more nervous than he’s let on. “Good,” he says.
She quirks an eyebrow at him, then waves her left hand in his face. “So?”
Gabe makes a big, elaborate show of slipping the ring on her finger - the rubies look fucking awesome, winking up at him - and says, “Formally, Victoria, will you do me the honor of becoming my blushing bride?”
Behind them, Mab shrilly shouts, “Da!” and Victoria doesn’t even flinch; years of touring have honed her mothering skills, this twin business should be a piece of cake.
“Formally, Gabe,” Victoria says, smirking, “Yes.”
*
That night on stage, Gabe serenades her with Chaka Khan, because Gabe knows how to treat the ladies right. Victoria flips him off, but her eyes are shining.
*
Eddie is almost always awake whenever Gabe sneaks in to see them after shows. Mary Beth is out, soft lashes on soft cheeks. Eddie’s playing with his feet, making little humming noises to himself, and he stares at Gabe when he peeks over the edge of the crib at him. He chews on his toes and stares and Gabe thinks he’s never loved anyone as much as he loves Eddie and Mary Beth.
He feels hands on his waist, and then Victoria’s pressed up along his side, head on his shoulder.
When he catches sight of her, Eddie’s smile is brilliant.
“He’s eating his feet,” Victoria says.
“He’s bendy,” Gabe says. He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Like his mom.”
Victoria jabs him with her elbow.
Gabe drapes his arm around her and noses the top of her head and he knows that he loves her, but he thinks they never would’ve gotten this far without Mab and Eddie, and that’s probably why he’s put a ring on her finger, and probably why she even said yes. And that’s okay. He’s in it for the long haul, no matter what happens.
“I’m gonna start a family band,” Gabe says, imaging Eddie behind a kit and little Mab with a guitar bigger than her entire body - because Gabe’s a fucking visionary, he’ll start ‘em young - and then he kisses down Victoria’s cheek and murmurs into her mouth, “We better get on the fucking ball, though. We still need a bass player.”
-----
“I’ve got six words for you guys,” Sisky says. He does jazz hands, because he’s been hanging out way too much with Brendon fucking Urie. It’s kind of funny. “Epic prank war with Kris Allen.”
“I’m out,” says Mike. Probably because the bulk of his time on tour will be spent stalking Kevin Jonas. This has been the plan ever since Brendon’d told them the Wondermutt roster, because Mike’s hilarious crush on Kevin Jonas is legendary.
Butcher actually thinks about it, though. Not because it’s a good idea, but because it’s a fucking disastrous idea, and Butcher’s pretty sure he wants a front row seat.
“Kris Allen,” Chiz says, skeptical. “Lovely little Christian boy.”
“He hangs out with Adam Lambert, I think I’m safe,” Sisky says. He widens his eyes. “We should freeze all his underwear.”
What Butcher likes best about Sisky, besides his willingness to experiment with hairstyles and magic markers and cliff diving, is the fact that he’s not-so-secretly still fourteen years old. Butcher finds all the hero-worshipping toward him charming. Charming. That’s a great word for Sisky. Along with goofy and borderline socially retarded; it’s why everyone always thinks they’re boyfriends.
“I’m in,” Butcher says. He feels a little warm-fuzzy inside when Sisky beams at him, but whatever.
*
Kris Allen calls Sisky ‘Adam,’ and after the first prank - when Kris Allen had just ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Dude, you got me,” with this tiny little half-smile that had pretty much made Butcher think of kittens and rainbows; he thinks the effect on Sisky had been tenfold, if the dreamy haze in his eyes had been any indication - Kris Allen basically decides that joining forces with Sisky would be a whole lot more fun than getting back at him.
Butcher beats the shit out of his drums at sound check and ignores Bill’s what-the-hell stares.
Butcher does not feel left out. At all.
*
Butcher holds Sam in his lap and gives her his sticks and he thinks this is probably as close as he’ll ever get to fatherhood, but that’s okay.
“She’s cute,” Kris Allen says, because Kris Allen is unfailingly polite, it kind of makes Butcher want to punch him in the face.
Butcher’s not normally violent. He’d be more worried if he hadn’t already recognized and embraced the fact that his anger stems from total and complete jealously.
“Thanks,” Butcher says, just as Sam takes a two handed grip on one stick and starts banging on the hi-hat. She’s sort of happily screaming, too. He thumps his kick drum and tells Sam she has a calling, a duty to grow up and drum like awesome and be his little protégé, and it’s just a bonus that Bill will probably find that frustrating.
Kris Allen keeps his smile, hands tucked in his pockets, because Kris Allen is a motherfucking robot, this is what Butcher thinks. He looks like he wants to say something, but Sam just gets louder; there’s a possibility Butcher might go deaf, but he doesn’t think he’d mind - Kris Allen’s smile goes sheepish and he shrugs with one shoulder and walks away.
*
“Why are you being a bitch?” Sisky says, squirming into Butcher’s bunk and, like, flopping on top of him.
“I’m never a bitch,” Butcher says.
Sisky presses his face into Butcher’s bare chest and huffs out a - hot, damp - breath. “You’re on the rag, dude,” he says, muffled, and Butcher smacks the back of his head and says, “VickyT will kill you.”
“You’d protect me.” He shifts and grins up at Butcher and Butcher’s hand just sort slides down to his nape and sits there. “Right?”
Butcher says, “It’s VickyT, she’d rip right through me to get to you,” but what he really means is yes, and he’s pretty sure Sisky knows.
*
Butcher is sunbathing on top of the bus roof; he’s got the legs of his short-shorts pulled up and twisted at his hips, and he’d be naked if Nick Jonas hadn’t yelled at him that one time. He isn’t going to admit to being bullied by a Jonas brother, but Mike’s still trying to get into Kevin’s pants, so Butcher figures he’d do his brother a solid and stick to Nick’s good side. Nick’s clearly the man of the family.
“Butcher.” Bill’s head pops up at the end of the bus, by the ladder. “I’ve brought you a pirate. He’s handsome, I’m hoping he’ll cheer you up.”
Butcher sprawls back and closes his eyes. “I don’t need cheering up,” he says.
“Of course you do. You’re shaving.” Bill has this theory that the longer Butcher’s beard is, the more content he is with life. He could be on to something.
Butcher cracks an eye and sees a sandy-haired dude standing next to Bill; lean, with square shoulders and a brow that looks way too serious to be on a pirate. “Who’re you?”
“Mike Boggs,” the guy says, leaning in to shake his hand.
Butcher quirks his lips and takes it. Boggs the pirate has a nice smile, it kind of transforms his whole face, but Butcher doesn’t think he’ll do anything for his beard.
*
“You’re hanging out with the We Were Pirates dude a lot,” Sisky says, pouting.
“You’re hanging out with Kris Allen a lot,” Butcher says. Pointedly.
Sisky says, “That’s different,” and stares down at his feet.
“How?” He wants to be defensive about it, but really he’s just curious. Like how water bombing Billie Joe and Maja is different from Sisky and Kris Allen hiding a walkie talkie in Ryland’s bunk and pretending they’re talking to him from beyond the grave - which is pretty genius in its simplicity, Ryland had freaked the fuck out.
Sisky shrugs, then grins up at him, goofy. “Just is,” he says, and Butcher figures that’s all he’s going to get from him.
Butcher throws an arm around his shoulders, herding him toward the food tent. “Maybe we should just hang out with each other then,” he says, and he’s absolutely not holding his breath, waiting for Sisky’s answer.
Sisky jars him with an elbow, and lets Butcher tug him in closer, arm ringing his neck. Sisky’s palm lands on Butcher’s stomach and he says, “Maybe we should.”
-----
Mike has a hand down the front of Kevin’s pants, the other curled around Kevin’s neck, and Kevin’s pupils are blown, and Mike really wants to rub off on Kevin’s thigh but he doesn’t, because that isn’t their thing. He figures at some point this’ll get reciprocal - he’s fucking hoping it’ll get reciprocal - but for right now he’s content enough to just get Kevin’s limbs to relax, to stem the panic that seems to creep up on him before every performance, like he’ll somehow fail Brendon and Spencer and the whole world if he doesn’t get their Beach Dog song just right.
Kevin makes a sound, makes this tiny sound in the back of his throat and then he’s reaching out blindly and curls his fists into the front of Mike’s shirt, and Mike doesn’t know if it’s just the moment or something more, but he arches into Mike and presses their mouths close together, lips hovering and hot breath ghosting, drying out the chapped skin, and Mike is ninety-five percent sure Kevin doesn’t even know what he’s doing, that he’s almost kissing Mike; that he’s millimeters away from kissing Mike, and Mike can’t help himself - he angles his head down and makes it official.
He loses his rhythm when Kevin’s tongue licks across his mouth, and then his teeth press into Mike’s lower lip, and Kevin’s better at kissing than Mike would’ve thought, given his repressed youth.
It’s almost a surprise, when Kevin jerks against him, comes all over Mike’s hand, the bottom of Kevin’s shirt, and it’s always too messy this way, but Mike likes watching his face, the expressions, the glaze of his eyes, and he’d be more upset that he missed that moment if Kevin hadn’t still been giving Mike these long, sucking kisses and if his hands hadn’t migrated up to grasp tightly at Mike’s hair.
“You,” Kevin says, soft and breathless, and then, “Sorry,” when he glances down between them, watches Mike swipe his hand on his own t-shirt, tops of his cheeks pink and sweaty from exertion just as much as embarrassment.
“Not a problem, kid,” Mike says, and he wants to laugh. He wants to bite into Kevin’s throat and press their hips tight together, but he backs up instead.
Kevin looks lost for half a second before he shakes it off and smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though, and that’s the only reason Mike moves back into him, lifts his arms and leans his elbows onto Kevin’s shoulders, grounding him with that weight and the length of his body, pressed lightly all up along him, the tile wall nicely cool on Mike’s forearms. He tips their foreheads together and says, “Later, Jonas,” and he means it - not just next concert, but later, he’ll happily let Kevin do whatever he wants, whatever he’s ready for.
Kevin relaxes; Mike can feel his breathing steady out.
Mike’s not a fucking girl, so he’s not going to talk about how much of a giant crush he’s been harboring for Kevin going on a year now - Bill or Sisky’ll give it up without even being asked, probably, if Kevin really wants to know in actual words - but he noses Kevin’s temple and syncs their breaths in the last quiet moments before someone starts wondering where Kevin is, and he thinks Kevin’ll get the gist of it anyway.
*
Joe Jonas is about as threatening as a box of kittens; Mike tries not to grin when he pokes his finger into Mike’s chest and says, “You hurt him and I’ll kill you.”
There are very few people that Mike is intimidated by, and none of them are floppy-haired Disney kids.
He says, “Okay.”
Joe’s eyes narrow. “I’m serious.”
Mike finally smiles. “I’m sure you are.” He knows he’s taunting him now, but he can’t help it. Joe’s like a box of kittens wearing hats. Fancy hats with bows.
Mike thinks he’s been hanging out way too much with Urie, Sam and Lissa.
Joe glares at him so hard that Mike sighs and runs a hand over his hair and says, “Listen.” He drops his arm, cocks a hip and thinks about all he doesn’t want to say, least of all to Kevin’s brother. He ends up with, “I’m going to try not to.”
Joe doesn’t look like he’s buying it, but that’s not Mike’s problem. Mike doesn’t need Joe to believe anything he says.
He also doesn’t need Nick and Frankie to believe him later, even though Frankie puts all of his eleven years as the family baby into the hissyfit he pulls when Mike refuses to say much more than he did to Joe - he’s really going to try, he’s going to do his best here, but Mike’s best is admittedly shitty when it comes to relationships, and nothing is ever guaranteed.
Nick looks at least a little satisfied, and Mike thinks that’s more from Mike’s honesty than anything else.
Frankie kicks him in the shin, which hurts like a son of a bitch.
He’s just lucky he’s Kevin’s brother.
*
“What the fuck is this?” Mike says, exasperated, because in the past two hours he’s dealt with Joe, and he’s dealt with Frankie and Nick, so he doesn’t need Urie giving him big-eyes and a fucking pout, just because he thinks Mike’s a douchebag. “I’m not a douchebag.”
“I know,” Urie says, nodding. “I know, Carden, I totally know that, but-”
“No,” Mike says, and “If Kevin has a problem with this, he can talk to me himself,” because he’s starting to get the impression that maybe Kevin’s put everyone up to this, like he wants Mike to back off.
Urie does jazz hands. “No,” he says, “Nooooooo.”
“Well then, what the fuck?” He’s not telling Urie his intentions here. He’s not saying anything about love and ponies and tiny adoptive babies to Urie, and probably never to Kevin either.
“You just-you come off a little like you want to eat Kevin,” Urie says. He sounds serious, and not at all suggestive, and Mike is suddenly having trouble keeping a straight face.
Everyone is out of their crazy minds.
*
Mike finds Kevin sitting on a bench at a picnic table, just out of the halogen glow of a street light. He climbs up on the table and leans on his knees and watches Kevin sneak peeks at him from the corner of his eye.
Mike tugs on one of his curls.
Kevin bites his lip.
Mike slides his hand down and cups his chin, thumb pressing into his smile mark. He says, “Anything you want, kid. I’m gonna be hanging around for a while.”
-----
Bert McCracken is really fucking annoying. He calls him ‘Pinsky’ and ‘Joey the rat’ and never by his real name, just to be an asshole - Blake has contemplated what to do about it, and the most he can come up with is avoiding McCracken at all costs, because it’s not like Allman wouldn’t fuck him up if he tried to punch McCracken, and it’s not like McCracken would care either way.
Avoiding McCracken would be easier if he hadn’t somehow gotten his cell number, though. He tries to ignore the calls, but McCracken’s persistent, and ignoring him basically just makes it all worse.
“Blake has got to be the most faggot-ass name outside of Quinn,” McCracken says when Blake picks up after nearly twenty minutes of ring-tone, pause, ring-tone. Blake thinks, scarily, that McCracken’s voice sounds almost fond. “I think we should stalk Ivarrson together. Or that dude, the drummer from Green Day.”
“Tré?” Blake says. There’s a sense of the surreal surrounding this entire conversation. Fuck, this entire tour.
“Yeah, him. We can-it’ll be awesome.” In the background, someone yells, “Be more fucking normal!”
Blake can hear McCracken’s breathing, rapid and panting, and it’s starting to really weird him out.
Jenny is making faces at him across the bus lounge.
Stalking isn’t really part of Blake’s repertoire, but maybe it’ll get McCracken off his back. Yeah, he’s not buying it, either. He pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Fine,” anyway.
*
Stalking Ivarrson feels an awful lot like stalking Allman. McCracken has his hair slicked back, an ugly, stained tie hanging loosely around his neck, and he’s wearing a t-shirt that might have been white once, but looks brown-beige in the sunlight.
They’re sharing a bag of microwave popcorn, sitting on a low, stone retaining wall, and directly across from them is Allman, looking like some sort of trapped fox while Greta Salpeter grins up at him.
“I can’t tell whether he wants to get away from her or not,” Blake says.
McCracken says, “Who?” like his eyes aren’t trained on Allman, like he doesn’t flinch every time Allman laughs.
Blake says, “Never mind,” and tries to flag down Jenny with a wave and desperate eyes. He still doesn’t know about Allman, but Blake’s mostly trapped by the death grip McCracken has on his track pants.
Jenny just smirks and tosses her hair over her shoulder and ignores them. Jenny is clearly the devil. She’s no longer Blake’s best friend.
*
McCracken somehow tricks Blake into hiding in a venue bathroom. He crowds close and breathes on him and goes for his belt, and Blake realizes that while this whole thing may’ve started out being about him and about McCracken’s weird obsession with him and the fifty freaking phone calls a day, it is no longer about him - it’s about McCracken’s fucked-up issues with Allman.
“This is, like, fucking transference or something,” Blake says, batting at McCracken’s hands, but McCracken’s some kind of human-shaped octopus and it takes him literally ten seconds to get Blake’s pants down around his thighs.
This is so going to come back and bite him on the ass.
*
“I’m thinking this is a bad idea, my friend.”
Blake blinks up at Saporta - he’s got one baby strapped to his front, the other peeking out over his shoulder, tiny fist tangled in his hair. “Grade A, man,” he says.
Allman has been making threatening noises around him and McCracken looks like a kicked puppy. Blake doesn’t know how he even got into this mess, or what is actually happening, because Blake hasn’t done much beyond mild tandem and random stalking and letting McCracken blow him - and McCracken’s good, which is probably why he let it happen twice.
He’s not feeling great about it, but he doesn’t think that warrants all this. Allman’s eyes say maybe one day Blake’ll wake up in a puddle of his own blood and vomit, or not wake up at all.
“You should get a baby,” Saporta says.
Blake gives him a blank stare.
Saporta nods. “Dude, they’re like armor, they’re like kryptonite, you can get away with anything holding a baby.”
Blake says, “I’ll think about it.” Mostly just so Saporta will go away.
“See that you do.” The baby in front stares at Blake with freaky eyes and one second she’s calm and the next she’s screaming, “Mamamamamama,” or something, and Saporta just kisses the top of her dark head and says, “Babies are totally worth it.”
*
Blake approaches Greta. He approaches Greta from a secret angle, because Allman is everywhere these days, and just because he’s conspicuously out of sight right then doesn’t mean he won’t jump out of nowhere and bludgeon Blake to death with a tire iron.
“It’s okay,” Greta says, like she has eyes in the back of her head.
Blake freezes.
Greta glances at him over her shoulder. “I locked them in their bus bathroom. It’s kind of sweet, how they’re soul mates and all, but I was getting tired of all the obliviousness.”
“Um.” Blake thinks they’re talking about McCracken and Allman, but he’s not one hundred percent sure.
“Oh.” Her eyes go wide and she turns to grasp his arm. “Oh, please tell me you don’t have a thing for Bert.”
“I don’t have a thing for Bert? I mean,” he clears his throat, “I really don’t have a thing for Bert.” Nodding, he adds earnestly, “Thank you.”
She squeezes his wrist once before letting go. “No problem, sugar. You seemed a little stressed.”
Blake says, “Allman’s like Hobbes, only without the cuddly stuffing.”
Greta has a laugh like an angel. Or something else lovely and awesome.
Blake is kind of dumbstruck. He says, “Saporta told me to get a baby,” which doesn’t make a lot of sense in the context of this conversation, but his brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders - Greta has amazing breasts, and she’s standing really close.
Greta laughs louder, cheeks pinked, and she snorts once and claps a hand over her face and laughs some more.
Blake is completely charmed.
And possibly doomed. He figures he’s got a fifty-fifty chance of Allman being too busy making out with his boyfriend to kick him in the face for stealing his girl.
He’s totally willing to risk it.
-----
When Pete had shown up mid tour, he’d shown up with a posse of Greta and Patrick and Ashlee and Pear, and Zack has his hands full with Lissa and Sam - because Sam always wants to be wherever Lissa is - so he doesn’t really need Pear, who Lissa hates with all the fiery passion a four-year-old can have. It’s like a three-ring circus with clowns and incontinent dogs and braying donkeys, and none of the fun stuff like cotton candy and girls in skin-tight leotards.
Zack only thinks about quitting once.
Greta is his saving grace, because when she’s not off with Allman or Sennett or Brendon she’s working fairy magic over all the kids. It’s kind of eerie, how big-eyed and quiet they get whenever she’s reading them a story, or getting them ready for naps or bed, or just standing there, quietly glowing with serene, infinite patience.
Zack would think about marrying Greta if he wasn’t already in love with the tiniest toddler ever who liked to yell in his ear and sing songs about dead kangaroos - he’s going to kill Saporta - and ride on his back like a clingy little monkey.
He’s long ago resigned himself to never having a life of his own.
*
“I’ve come for my second born,” Beckett says, stepping up onto the Beach Dog bus.
Zack says, “Good luck,” because Lissa and Sam are holding hands and playing with a Cabbage Patch Kid that Lissa calls Junney even though its birth certificate says Carlotta Susannah - Zack knows way too much about things he’d be happy never knowing about. Lissa gets loud when things don’t go her way, and Sam starts crying when Lissa gets loud. It’s barrels of fun.
Add Pear to the mix and everyone might just start screaming.
Beckett eyes the kids, then Zack, then the kids again. He says, “I shall come back later. And possibly send Christine instead.”
This is a wise move. Even if it means Zack has to put them all down for naps by himself.
*
The Saporta twins are monsters. Hideous, manipulative monsters disguised as adorable babies. They are also not Zack’s responsibility, but apparently he’s running a daycare now, so nobody but him cares.
“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Zack says.
Eddie stares at him blankly, one fist stuffed almost entirely in his mouth, drool slowly making its way down his chubby arm.
They’re both crawling, but luckily Eddie’s too lazy to do much more than scoot.
He’d had to cage Mary Beth an hour ago.
He’s seriously going kill Saporta.
Kill him so dead.
*
Every night Brendon sings Lissa a lullaby, and Zack face-plants onto his bunk. He goes boneless the instant his head hits the pillow, and he listens with half an ear, Brendon’s voice a soft hush, Lissa humming along.
He blames the stupid, silly smile on exhaustion and closes his eyes.
*
Lissa gives Zack a long, rambling, half-incoherent lecture on the finer points of caterpillars. She calls them fuzzies, and mostly Zack’s pretty sure she’s just telling him that they’re shy, curled up in a protective ball.
All day, she drags over anyone who happens to walk by. She pokes at them with a surprisingly gentle finger and she’s sad when they have to leave to go back to the bus. She climbs up on Zack’s lap and knocks the back of her head into his chest and plays with his fingers and Zack winces a little when her heel kicks into his knee.
They watch Diego and Zack knows she’s going to have nightmares about the puma again.
He knows he’ll wake up to her calling for Brendon, or maybe crawling into Zack’s bunk, whispering about pumas under her bed and squirming into the space under his arm, against the back of the bus, knees jammed into his ribs.
Zack remembers dating. He remembers sex and watching TV shows that didn’t include at least one puppet. He doesn’t have any regrets, though.
Lissa’s kind of, definitely the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him.
But he’s seriously making Brendon give him a raise.
-----
Brendon is sad and not sad to see the last concert of the tour.
The Sounds are finishing up their set, and Brendon watches the light show from behind the amphitheatre, body slowly unwinding. He feels like he’s been tense for months, has been tense for months, even though this festival has gone a hell of a lot smoother than last time. He taps his fingers on the edge of the bench, head tipped back - the stars seem enormous in New Mexico - and doesn’t realize he’s humming until Spencer drops down next to him and says, “We should put that on our next album.”
Brendon grins and the hum turns into a song about Beach Dog being the coolest, even though Spencer’s a huge dork.
Spencer punches him in the arm half-heartedly. He slumps down and stretches his legs out and says, “I’m so tired.”
“Glad it’s over?” Brendon asks. He feels a twinge in his chest, like Spencer’ll wake up one day and think this is too much work, even though he knows Spencer will never be like Brent.
Spencer shrugs. “Happy to start again.”
Brendon gets that. He likes the beginning, when it’s just theirs, when it’s just them. He likes the rest, too, though, when it’s more than that.
He flexes his fingers on the wood and sighs and leans into Spencer’s side and says, “Yeah.”
This isn’t my dog. It’s a beach dog.
Prequel to Found Days, Longer Than The Road, and Plays Out Like A Drum.
Kevin/Mike, Quinn/Bert, Butcher/Sisky, Gabe/VickyT, Blake, Bill, Lissa, Sam, Eddie & Mab, Zack, Brendon & Spencer
A guest-bands band deserves a story of stories. Scenes from the Wondermutt festival tour.
A/N: see Beach Dog’s timeline. I’m back in this world because of my new-found love of NCIS (Mark Harmon --> Summer School --> Wondermutt --> Beach Dog) and if you don’t get that reference, you should watch Summer School and pay close attention to my favorite little throw-away scene. End quote-ish thing that isn’t a quote is bastardized from the movie, because that beach dog totally parallels this Beach Dog, in ways that are smarter than me. Herein lies sex, babies and very little rock n’ roll. Oh, so self-indulgent, sorry.
June - August 2012
Kevin has never been so tense about a performance in his entire life. He might throw up. And then Brendon will kill him, because he won’t be singing with his hips, whatever the heck that means. Kevin hadn’t really known what to make of the demo, at first - their song has a Bollywood flavor, and the lyrics are more bitter than sweet, despite the title More With Honey - but he’d been genuinely surprised when they’d shown up for their first session and Brendon had told Joe he’s got the ‘ah, ah, ahs’ in the refrain and he’d asked Nick if he could play the zither and then he’d looked at Kevin with a completely straight face and said, “I’m gonna need you to sing this with your hips.”
And now that’s all Kevin can think about, because recording is one thing - they could do it over and over until they’d had it perfect, and he’d only had to deal with Brendon and Spencer frowning at him in this really horrible I’m-worried-this-will-be-a-disaster way. He’d done his best, and it sounds good, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to let Brendon down on the whole movement thing, because now that he’s really thinking about it, he’s kind of doing the exact opposite. Joe had called him a robot at sound check. He’s going to freeze up there, he just knows it.
“Why so glum, chum?”
Kevin looks up from his shoes. A willowy guy with awesome hair and a toddler clinging to him - she’s clutching his shirt and giving Kevin the biggest big eyes of all time, like Kevin’s all her pony wishes combined, and will possibly give her ice cream and rainbow sprinkles if she just widens her baby blues at him enough - is staring at him curiously. Kevin’s only met about half the bands touring with them so far, and this guy hasn’t been in one of them.
“Um.” Kevin bites his lip.
The little girl leans toward Kevin and bounces and says, “Hi,” and practically leaps out of the guy’s arms and Kevin almost isn’t fast enough to catch her.
“I’m Bill,” the guy says, unconcerned. He gives up custody of the girl like it’s nothing, like she didn’t almost fall to her death, and the girl says, “Come see my babies?” and plays with Kevin’s necklace and kicks her foot hard enough into Kevin’s hip to make him wince.
Bill says, “We’ll see your babies later, Samantha.”
Samantha gives him a solemn nod, narrow-eyed, like she doesn’t really believe him. She says, “Daddy.”
He crosses his heart and says, “Promise, kitten.” Then he smiles at Kevin and says, “She’s two, I have to bribe her to use the toilet,” like this has anything to do with anything. “She has so many dolls, it’s a weakness. They say the second one’s easier, but only because you spoil them more.”
Kevin doesn’t think that makes sense, but he’s kind of lost in this entire conversation.
“So. Jonas.” Bill leans a hip up against the wall next to him, and then Samantha starts squirming like a hooked fish in Kevin’s arms; she slides down his leg and then takes off along the corridor. Bill calls after her, “Go find your Uncle Gabe,” like having toddlers run all over venues by themselves is perfectly normal.
At Kevin’s incredulous look, Bill shrugs. He says, “Gabe’s around the corner, she’ll be fine,” then looms even closer to Kevin and says, “Now, Jonas, your expression is entirely too disheartening for the start of a festival tour. What’s going on in that fuzzy little head of yours?”
“Nothing,” Kevin says.
“Sure, nothing,” Bill says. His narrowed-eyed look is eerily similar to Samantha’s.
Kevin sighs. He says, “It’s just that-Brendon wants me to sing with my hips, and-” He cuts off at Bill’s earnest nodding.
“I see, I see,” says Bill.
“Glad one of us does,” Kevin mutters. He kicks his sneakers, making them squeak on the linoleum floor.
Bill taps a finger to his bottom lip. “You perform with your thighs, Jonas, it’s an affectation of guitar players everywhere. You only have to worry about humping your instrument.”
Kevin feels his face heat, resists the urge to press his palms to his cheeks, because what?
Bill stares at him, speculative; the silence drags on longer than Kevin’s really comfortable with. Finally, Bill says, “I have a solution.”
Kevin blinks. “You do?”
“I do. I even think you’ll like it.”
That sounds really ominous, but Kevin’s getting desperate here; they pulled the opening act, and Kevin has just under two hours left. “Okay?”
“It can’t be explained in words. Well, it could,” Bill amends, “but it’s more fun not to.” He smile gets a little evil at the corners, Kevin manfully resists the urge to run away and hide forever.
“Okay,” Kevin says again, just because he feels like he should.
Bill glances at his watch. “Give me about an hour. He’ll come find you.”
“Who?” Kevin asks weakly, but Bill’s already walking away.
*
When Kevin first balks at singing lead, Brendon pulls him aside and tells him it’s a love song about not being in love, and that’s the only thing Kevin’s comfortable with about this whole business - that’s exactly something he wants to tell the world.
*
Roughly forty minutes before they’re set to go on, Kevin’s hyperventilating into a paper bag that smells like cheese doodles and cat. It’s not really helping.
He’s hiding in the tiny, dank bathroom that’s attached to their dressing room. There’s a single fluorescent bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling, and it’s making a buzzing sound, a constant electrical hum that’s slowly driving Kevin insane. He’d leave, except the guys from We Were Promised Jetpacks are out there, and Kevin doesn’t feel like freaking out in front of guys with really cool accents right now. Plus, Joe’ll laugh.
He’s thinking about his chances of successfully hiding in the bathroom all night - nearly nil, with Nick involved, he’d probably just take off the door hinges - when there’s a knock at the door. A quick, hard knock, and it’s only at the unfamiliar voice saying, “Jonas?” that he remembers Bill, and Bill’s promise, and how it’s probably a very bad idea to let whoever that is in, but he figures he might as well do it anyway - it can’t make his mood any worse, right? He just hopes Bill’s plan doesn’t include crack cocaine.
Kevin takes a deep breath and opens the door a couple inches - a guy with a shark grin and gleaming eyes leans into the doorjamb.
He says, “Hey, kid. Wanna let me in?”
Kevin doesn’t really want to let him in. Kevin thinks he just might eat him if he lets him in, but then the guy doesn’t give him much of a choice, just flattens his palm on the door and shoves.
“Um.” Kevin twists his fingers together and takes a step back.
The guy-“I’m Mike,” he says, before slinking in and closing the door behind him. There’s an ominous snick as he slides the lock home.
The bathroom feels even smaller, with Mike looming over him. Kevin says, “Hi?” and Mike’s shark grin gets even sharkier.
And then he palms Kevin’s hips and pushes him up against the sink and drops to his knees. Kevin is frozen in shock and terror that isn’t really terror - he can feel his entire upper body get hot, it’s only a matter of time until his whole face is bright red.
He should be protesting, but he just dumbly opens and closes his mouth as Mike works open his belt and then his pants and then, like, tugs them down his thighs, along with his underwear, and Mike gives him this evil little look up under his eyelashes before, cheese and crackers, swallowing him whole. He was so right about the eating him thing.
Kevin chokes on a yelp.
Mike laughs, and the vibrations almost make Kevin bite his tongue in half.
He’s had sex before - he’s been married before, and maybe they hadn’t been all that adventurous in bed, and maybe Danielle had kind of hated going down there, but it’d happened. Kind of unenthusiastically or whatever, but it’d been a mouth, and Kevin hadn’t had any right or inclination to complain really, but. But this is, like-Kevin doesn’t even know. He’s having trouble thinking, because Mike is using his tongue.
Mike’s really, really good with his tongue.
Kevin’s head is stuffed with white-noise, so it takes a minute to realize that’s him making those horribly embarrassing high-pitched sounds, but Mike’s hand moves down to his balls, and it takes less than a second for Kevin to admit that he doesn’t care. He grabs hold of the sink to keep from fisting Mike’s hair, and Mike slides a forearm over his stomach to keep him pinned and still, and Kevin thinks the greater concern is the way the bones in his legs are melting.
He says, strangled, “Wait,” only he doesn’t know what he’s telling Mike to wait for, and he feels a tightness in his belly and his toes start tingling.
Mike pulls off and Kevin pants hard and watches himself slowly slide out of his mouth, he can’t help it, and Kevin’s half embarrassed and half so turned on he’s not really sure he’s seeing straight, that this is actually happening.
Mike says, “Relax,” and smiles into his hipbone and, like, starts jerking him off, and Kevin lasts maybe five seconds before coming all over his hand.
*
Kevin has moments of freaking out on stage, only they’re mainly about Mike, and how Mike had just gained his feet and tucked Kevin away and kissed the corner of his mouth before saying, “Later, Jonas,” and leaving the bathroom - Kevin had stood there, stunned.
The rest of the time it’s like he’s on autopilot, and before he knows it, Brendon and Spencer are out on stage, and Nick’s awkwardly holding a zither, and Joe has a tambourine, and Kevin has a spotlight, and he closes his eyes and lets the world know he’s doing okay.
-----
Quinn thinks this is the stupidest tour they’ve ever been on - not the strangest, but definitely the butt-fuck dumbest - but it pays, the fucking Jonas Brothers are bringing in massive crowds that hang around and gawk, and Quinn gets to watch Bert make a tool out of himself over Maja Ivarrson. And also Blake Sennett, which is kind of weird, but not entirely unexpected.
Entertaining as hell, too.
Quinn’s pretty sure Sennett’s gonna break down and punch Bert in the throat any day now. Quinn’ll fuck him up for that, sure - since Bert’s got too much of a man-crush to punch Sennett back - but he’ll still get a good laugh out of it first.
“How’s Pinsky?” Quinn says.
Bert’s hunched over his cell phone, giggling like a pre-teen girl. He says, “Fuck off, you’ll scare him away,” and kicks out absently at Quinn’s shin. A tinny voice shouts out of the cell, “Stop calling me, asshole!”
“Having fun?” Quinn asks, arching an eyebrow.
“It’s just a matter of time,” Bert says. He slaps his cell closed and grins manically up at him. “I’m a persistent bastard.”
Quinn doesn’t even bother asking Bert what’s just a matter of time - he gets the feeling that Bert has no idea either, and it probably isn’t important anyway. Bert’ll be happy with an acknowledging kick to the groin; Quinn blames his obvious derangement on his childhood. Good thing bat-shit crazy is an okay look on him.
“If you put off being a persistent bastard ‘til later I’ll buy you coffee. I won’t even spit in it,” Quinn says, crossing his heart.
Bert sticks his tongue out and says, “Your spit tastes awesome,” but he shoves his cell in the back pocket of his pants anyway.
*
Quinn doesn’t know who the girl is - the honey blonde with the huge tits and the homespun dresses - but she makes Quinn think of sex and apple pie. Sensible church pumps have never been one of Quinn’s kinks but he’s thinking of making an exception. She looks sweet as a bunny with the button-up sweaters to match.
She’s not with the tour, he doesn’t think, because he doesn’t notice her until Chicago, until she’s hugging Smith and hooking her arm through Urie’s and does a little skip-step and presses a kiss to his cheek, just outside the Beach Dog bus.
“Greta,” Bert says, talking through a giant bite of hot dog. “A hush puppy or something. Those sweaters, man, I’d like to eat through all her pearl buttons.”
Quinn ignores him, because sometimes that’s best.
“Greta,” Quinn says, staring at her from across the parking lot. He wonders what she’d look like naked. And covered in honey. Or, like, possibly wielding a leather whip. Hmmm.
*
Bert kicks him in the ass and shoves him right into Greta’s path, because Bert is an asswipe and also Quinn’s best friend.
Greta salutes him and calls him ‘sailor’ because Quinn’s too much of a fuckwit to manage his name when she grins down at him. And also he can kind of, almost, look up her skirt. If he tilts his head a little.
She arches her eyebrow, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking of doing, but doesn’t lose her smile.
Quinn tries to come up with something to say that isn’t, I love you, and, I want to shove my face between your thighs - he figures neither of those would go over real well.
He manages a short and spastic, “Hi,” right before Bert tackles him and scrapes, like, the entire one side of his body along the asphalt - his skin burns with road rash and his jeans rip along the seam - and Quinn retaliates later by making Bert swallow his cock. He sticks his thumb in there to make sure he doesn’t use his teeth.
*
Greta is way out of Quinn’s league, and probably fucking Smith, anyhow.
“Greta’s way out of your league,” Bert says. He’s got his face stuffed in Quinn’s armpit, and Quinn hasn’t showered in five days and hasn’t changed his shirt in at least that many.
Quinn grunts. His eyes are closed, he’s tired, and Bert bites his pec, hard, and Quinn has to twist his fingers in his hair and yank to get him off - he’s like a rabid cat, all pay attention to me and foaming at the mouth.
“If I help you with Sennett will you lay off about Greta?” Quinn says. It’s pathetic, but sometimes the only way to deal with Bert is to bargain.
Bert squints up at him, one eye and then the other, chin digging into Quinn’s chest, like he’s giving this serious fucking thought. He says, “Maybe,” and burrows back into Quinn’s side, hand hooking onto the waistband of Quinn’s jeans, knuckles tight along his belly.
-----
“VickyT, light of my life, heart of my heart-”
“No,” Victoria says. She blows a zerbert on Eddie’s stomach. Gabe can tell by the gleam in his eyes that Eddie knows for sure he’ll be able to get away with any and everything until his dying day - he’ll be a mama’s boy, a mooch, a waste of space, exactly the kind of dude Gabe’s always wanted to be, and Gabe figures he won’t begrudge the fruit of his loins that happiness.
Mab, on the other hand, is already a squirmy handful. She stares at Gabe warily over the Gucci clutch she cleverly stole from her mama. She has the corner in her mouth, and lets it go long enough to say, “Da,” at him.
Gabe promptly forgets whatever he was trying to coerce Victoria into doing. It’s so sad; Mary Beth has him wrapped around her pinky toe.
It’s like she’s a puppy, but so much better than a puppy, because she has his eyes and grabby hands and Victoria’s way of commanding attention instead of demanding it. She’s going to be hell on boys. Gabe’s actually kind of looking forward to it.
He shifts on the couch and something jabs at his ass and oh, right-“Victoria,” he says, lifting up to dig the little box out of his back pocket. “Queen to my king.”
“We’ve been over this,” Victoria says absently, still not looking at him.
He thumbs open the box and purses his lips. “But you don’t know the question.” Stretching out his legs, he pushes a toe into Victoria’s lower back, right where her shirt rides up, leaving it bare.
She tosses a glare over her shoulder-and freezes.
Gabe’s gratified by her stunned expression - he’s pretty much told her never ever, even when she’d been nearing the end of her term. He’s still not exactly sure why he’s had a change of heart, but the way her face lights up is totally worth anything.
She hefts Eddie into her arms and knee-walks toward him across the thin rug. “That,” she says, “is gaudy as shit,” but she’s smiling.
“That isn’t a no.” He rubs a thumb over the sparkly diamond; the platinum band is etched like a cobra, and there are two rubies fashioned on either side, like eyes.
“No,” Victoria says slowly, “it isn’t.”
Gabe refuses to acknowledge the slight trip-skip of his heart, fumbling over the no before the it isn’t sinks in. Because that’s a yes. Gabe might’ve been more nervous than he’s let on. “Good,” he says.
She quirks an eyebrow at him, then waves her left hand in his face. “So?”
Gabe makes a big, elaborate show of slipping the ring on her finger - the rubies look fucking awesome, winking up at him - and says, “Formally, Victoria, will you do me the honor of becoming my blushing bride?”
Behind them, Mab shrilly shouts, “Da!” and Victoria doesn’t even flinch; years of touring have honed her mothering skills, this twin business should be a piece of cake.
“Formally, Gabe,” Victoria says, smirking, “Yes.”
*
That night on stage, Gabe serenades her with Chaka Khan, because Gabe knows how to treat the ladies right. Victoria flips him off, but her eyes are shining.
*
Eddie is almost always awake whenever Gabe sneaks in to see them after shows. Mary Beth is out, soft lashes on soft cheeks. Eddie’s playing with his feet, making little humming noises to himself, and he stares at Gabe when he peeks over the edge of the crib at him. He chews on his toes and stares and Gabe thinks he’s never loved anyone as much as he loves Eddie and Mary Beth.
He feels hands on his waist, and then Victoria’s pressed up along his side, head on his shoulder.
When he catches sight of her, Eddie’s smile is brilliant.
“He’s eating his feet,” Victoria says.
“He’s bendy,” Gabe says. He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Like his mom.”
Victoria jabs him with her elbow.
Gabe drapes his arm around her and noses the top of her head and he knows that he loves her, but he thinks they never would’ve gotten this far without Mab and Eddie, and that’s probably why he’s put a ring on her finger, and probably why she even said yes. And that’s okay. He’s in it for the long haul, no matter what happens.
“I’m gonna start a family band,” Gabe says, imaging Eddie behind a kit and little Mab with a guitar bigger than her entire body - because Gabe’s a fucking visionary, he’ll start ‘em young - and then he kisses down Victoria’s cheek and murmurs into her mouth, “We better get on the fucking ball, though. We still need a bass player.”
-----
“I’ve got six words for you guys,” Sisky says. He does jazz hands, because he’s been hanging out way too much with Brendon fucking Urie. It’s kind of funny. “Epic prank war with Kris Allen.”
“I’m out,” says Mike. Probably because the bulk of his time on tour will be spent stalking Kevin Jonas. This has been the plan ever since Brendon’d told them the Wondermutt roster, because Mike’s hilarious crush on Kevin Jonas is legendary.
Butcher actually thinks about it, though. Not because it’s a good idea, but because it’s a fucking disastrous idea, and Butcher’s pretty sure he wants a front row seat.
“Kris Allen,” Chiz says, skeptical. “Lovely little Christian boy.”
“He hangs out with Adam Lambert, I think I’m safe,” Sisky says. He widens his eyes. “We should freeze all his underwear.”
What Butcher likes best about Sisky, besides his willingness to experiment with hairstyles and magic markers and cliff diving, is the fact that he’s not-so-secretly still fourteen years old. Butcher finds all the hero-worshipping toward him charming. Charming. That’s a great word for Sisky. Along with goofy and borderline socially retarded; it’s why everyone always thinks they’re boyfriends.
“I’m in,” Butcher says. He feels a little warm-fuzzy inside when Sisky beams at him, but whatever.
*
Kris Allen calls Sisky ‘Adam,’ and after the first prank - when Kris Allen had just ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Dude, you got me,” with this tiny little half-smile that had pretty much made Butcher think of kittens and rainbows; he thinks the effect on Sisky had been tenfold, if the dreamy haze in his eyes had been any indication - Kris Allen basically decides that joining forces with Sisky would be a whole lot more fun than getting back at him.
Butcher beats the shit out of his drums at sound check and ignores Bill’s what-the-hell stares.
Butcher does not feel left out. At all.
*
Butcher holds Sam in his lap and gives her his sticks and he thinks this is probably as close as he’ll ever get to fatherhood, but that’s okay.
“She’s cute,” Kris Allen says, because Kris Allen is unfailingly polite, it kind of makes Butcher want to punch him in the face.
Butcher’s not normally violent. He’d be more worried if he hadn’t already recognized and embraced the fact that his anger stems from total and complete jealously.
“Thanks,” Butcher says, just as Sam takes a two handed grip on one stick and starts banging on the hi-hat. She’s sort of happily screaming, too. He thumps his kick drum and tells Sam she has a calling, a duty to grow up and drum like awesome and be his little protégé, and it’s just a bonus that Bill will probably find that frustrating.
Kris Allen keeps his smile, hands tucked in his pockets, because Kris Allen is a motherfucking robot, this is what Butcher thinks. He looks like he wants to say something, but Sam just gets louder; there’s a possibility Butcher might go deaf, but he doesn’t think he’d mind - Kris Allen’s smile goes sheepish and he shrugs with one shoulder and walks away.
*
“Why are you being a bitch?” Sisky says, squirming into Butcher’s bunk and, like, flopping on top of him.
“I’m never a bitch,” Butcher says.
Sisky presses his face into Butcher’s bare chest and huffs out a - hot, damp - breath. “You’re on the rag, dude,” he says, muffled, and Butcher smacks the back of his head and says, “VickyT will kill you.”
“You’d protect me.” He shifts and grins up at Butcher and Butcher’s hand just sort slides down to his nape and sits there. “Right?”
Butcher says, “It’s VickyT, she’d rip right through me to get to you,” but what he really means is yes, and he’s pretty sure Sisky knows.
*
Butcher is sunbathing on top of the bus roof; he’s got the legs of his short-shorts pulled up and twisted at his hips, and he’d be naked if Nick Jonas hadn’t yelled at him that one time. He isn’t going to admit to being bullied by a Jonas brother, but Mike’s still trying to get into Kevin’s pants, so Butcher figures he’d do his brother a solid and stick to Nick’s good side. Nick’s clearly the man of the family.
“Butcher.” Bill’s head pops up at the end of the bus, by the ladder. “I’ve brought you a pirate. He’s handsome, I’m hoping he’ll cheer you up.”
Butcher sprawls back and closes his eyes. “I don’t need cheering up,” he says.
“Of course you do. You’re shaving.” Bill has this theory that the longer Butcher’s beard is, the more content he is with life. He could be on to something.
Butcher cracks an eye and sees a sandy-haired dude standing next to Bill; lean, with square shoulders and a brow that looks way too serious to be on a pirate. “Who’re you?”
“Mike Boggs,” the guy says, leaning in to shake his hand.
Butcher quirks his lips and takes it. Boggs the pirate has a nice smile, it kind of transforms his whole face, but Butcher doesn’t think he’ll do anything for his beard.
*
“You’re hanging out with the We Were Pirates dude a lot,” Sisky says, pouting.
“You’re hanging out with Kris Allen a lot,” Butcher says. Pointedly.
Sisky says, “That’s different,” and stares down at his feet.
“How?” He wants to be defensive about it, but really he’s just curious. Like how water bombing Billie Joe and Maja is different from Sisky and Kris Allen hiding a walkie talkie in Ryland’s bunk and pretending they’re talking to him from beyond the grave - which is pretty genius in its simplicity, Ryland had freaked the fuck out.
Sisky shrugs, then grins up at him, goofy. “Just is,” he says, and Butcher figures that’s all he’s going to get from him.
Butcher throws an arm around his shoulders, herding him toward the food tent. “Maybe we should just hang out with each other then,” he says, and he’s absolutely not holding his breath, waiting for Sisky’s answer.
Sisky jars him with an elbow, and lets Butcher tug him in closer, arm ringing his neck. Sisky’s palm lands on Butcher’s stomach and he says, “Maybe we should.”
-----
Mike has a hand down the front of Kevin’s pants, the other curled around Kevin’s neck, and Kevin’s pupils are blown, and Mike really wants to rub off on Kevin’s thigh but he doesn’t, because that isn’t their thing. He figures at some point this’ll get reciprocal - he’s fucking hoping it’ll get reciprocal - but for right now he’s content enough to just get Kevin’s limbs to relax, to stem the panic that seems to creep up on him before every performance, like he’ll somehow fail Brendon and Spencer and the whole world if he doesn’t get their Beach Dog song just right.
Kevin makes a sound, makes this tiny sound in the back of his throat and then he’s reaching out blindly and curls his fists into the front of Mike’s shirt, and Mike doesn’t know if it’s just the moment or something more, but he arches into Mike and presses their mouths close together, lips hovering and hot breath ghosting, drying out the chapped skin, and Mike is ninety-five percent sure Kevin doesn’t even know what he’s doing, that he’s almost kissing Mike; that he’s millimeters away from kissing Mike, and Mike can’t help himself - he angles his head down and makes it official.
He loses his rhythm when Kevin’s tongue licks across his mouth, and then his teeth press into Mike’s lower lip, and Kevin’s better at kissing than Mike would’ve thought, given his repressed youth.
It’s almost a surprise, when Kevin jerks against him, comes all over Mike’s hand, the bottom of Kevin’s shirt, and it’s always too messy this way, but Mike likes watching his face, the expressions, the glaze of his eyes, and he’d be more upset that he missed that moment if Kevin hadn’t still been giving Mike these long, sucking kisses and if his hands hadn’t migrated up to grasp tightly at Mike’s hair.
“You,” Kevin says, soft and breathless, and then, “Sorry,” when he glances down between them, watches Mike swipe his hand on his own t-shirt, tops of his cheeks pink and sweaty from exertion just as much as embarrassment.
“Not a problem, kid,” Mike says, and he wants to laugh. He wants to bite into Kevin’s throat and press their hips tight together, but he backs up instead.
Kevin looks lost for half a second before he shakes it off and smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though, and that’s the only reason Mike moves back into him, lifts his arms and leans his elbows onto Kevin’s shoulders, grounding him with that weight and the length of his body, pressed lightly all up along him, the tile wall nicely cool on Mike’s forearms. He tips their foreheads together and says, “Later, Jonas,” and he means it - not just next concert, but later, he’ll happily let Kevin do whatever he wants, whatever he’s ready for.
Kevin relaxes; Mike can feel his breathing steady out.
Mike’s not a fucking girl, so he’s not going to talk about how much of a giant crush he’s been harboring for Kevin going on a year now - Bill or Sisky’ll give it up without even being asked, probably, if Kevin really wants to know in actual words - but he noses Kevin’s temple and syncs their breaths in the last quiet moments before someone starts wondering where Kevin is, and he thinks Kevin’ll get the gist of it anyway.
*
Joe Jonas is about as threatening as a box of kittens; Mike tries not to grin when he pokes his finger into Mike’s chest and says, “You hurt him and I’ll kill you.”
There are very few people that Mike is intimidated by, and none of them are floppy-haired Disney kids.
He says, “Okay.”
Joe’s eyes narrow. “I’m serious.”
Mike finally smiles. “I’m sure you are.” He knows he’s taunting him now, but he can’t help it. Joe’s like a box of kittens wearing hats. Fancy hats with bows.
Mike thinks he’s been hanging out way too much with Urie, Sam and Lissa.
Joe glares at him so hard that Mike sighs and runs a hand over his hair and says, “Listen.” He drops his arm, cocks a hip and thinks about all he doesn’t want to say, least of all to Kevin’s brother. He ends up with, “I’m going to try not to.”
Joe doesn’t look like he’s buying it, but that’s not Mike’s problem. Mike doesn’t need Joe to believe anything he says.
He also doesn’t need Nick and Frankie to believe him later, even though Frankie puts all of his eleven years as the family baby into the hissyfit he pulls when Mike refuses to say much more than he did to Joe - he’s really going to try, he’s going to do his best here, but Mike’s best is admittedly shitty when it comes to relationships, and nothing is ever guaranteed.
Nick looks at least a little satisfied, and Mike thinks that’s more from Mike’s honesty than anything else.
Frankie kicks him in the shin, which hurts like a son of a bitch.
He’s just lucky he’s Kevin’s brother.
*
“What the fuck is this?” Mike says, exasperated, because in the past two hours he’s dealt with Joe, and he’s dealt with Frankie and Nick, so he doesn’t need Urie giving him big-eyes and a fucking pout, just because he thinks Mike’s a douchebag. “I’m not a douchebag.”
“I know,” Urie says, nodding. “I know, Carden, I totally know that, but-”
“No,” Mike says, and “If Kevin has a problem with this, he can talk to me himself,” because he’s starting to get the impression that maybe Kevin’s put everyone up to this, like he wants Mike to back off.
Urie does jazz hands. “No,” he says, “Nooooooo.”
“Well then, what the fuck?” He’s not telling Urie his intentions here. He’s not saying anything about love and ponies and tiny adoptive babies to Urie, and probably never to Kevin either.
“You just-you come off a little like you want to eat Kevin,” Urie says. He sounds serious, and not at all suggestive, and Mike is suddenly having trouble keeping a straight face.
Everyone is out of their crazy minds.
*
Mike finds Kevin sitting on a bench at a picnic table, just out of the halogen glow of a street light. He climbs up on the table and leans on his knees and watches Kevin sneak peeks at him from the corner of his eye.
Mike tugs on one of his curls.
Kevin bites his lip.
Mike slides his hand down and cups his chin, thumb pressing into his smile mark. He says, “Anything you want, kid. I’m gonna be hanging around for a while.”
-----
Bert McCracken is really fucking annoying. He calls him ‘Pinsky’ and ‘Joey the rat’ and never by his real name, just to be an asshole - Blake has contemplated what to do about it, and the most he can come up with is avoiding McCracken at all costs, because it’s not like Allman wouldn’t fuck him up if he tried to punch McCracken, and it’s not like McCracken would care either way.
Avoiding McCracken would be easier if he hadn’t somehow gotten his cell number, though. He tries to ignore the calls, but McCracken’s persistent, and ignoring him basically just makes it all worse.
“Blake has got to be the most faggot-ass name outside of Quinn,” McCracken says when Blake picks up after nearly twenty minutes of ring-tone, pause, ring-tone. Blake thinks, scarily, that McCracken’s voice sounds almost fond. “I think we should stalk Ivarrson together. Or that dude, the drummer from Green Day.”
“Tré?” Blake says. There’s a sense of the surreal surrounding this entire conversation. Fuck, this entire tour.
“Yeah, him. We can-it’ll be awesome.” In the background, someone yells, “Be more fucking normal!”
Blake can hear McCracken’s breathing, rapid and panting, and it’s starting to really weird him out.
Jenny is making faces at him across the bus lounge.
Stalking isn’t really part of Blake’s repertoire, but maybe it’ll get McCracken off his back. Yeah, he’s not buying it, either. He pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Fine,” anyway.
*
Stalking Ivarrson feels an awful lot like stalking Allman. McCracken has his hair slicked back, an ugly, stained tie hanging loosely around his neck, and he’s wearing a t-shirt that might have been white once, but looks brown-beige in the sunlight.
They’re sharing a bag of microwave popcorn, sitting on a low, stone retaining wall, and directly across from them is Allman, looking like some sort of trapped fox while Greta Salpeter grins up at him.
“I can’t tell whether he wants to get away from her or not,” Blake says.
McCracken says, “Who?” like his eyes aren’t trained on Allman, like he doesn’t flinch every time Allman laughs.
Blake says, “Never mind,” and tries to flag down Jenny with a wave and desperate eyes. He still doesn’t know about Allman, but Blake’s mostly trapped by the death grip McCracken has on his track pants.
Jenny just smirks and tosses her hair over her shoulder and ignores them. Jenny is clearly the devil. She’s no longer Blake’s best friend.
*
McCracken somehow tricks Blake into hiding in a venue bathroom. He crowds close and breathes on him and goes for his belt, and Blake realizes that while this whole thing may’ve started out being about him and about McCracken’s weird obsession with him and the fifty freaking phone calls a day, it is no longer about him - it’s about McCracken’s fucked-up issues with Allman.
“This is, like, fucking transference or something,” Blake says, batting at McCracken’s hands, but McCracken’s some kind of human-shaped octopus and it takes him literally ten seconds to get Blake’s pants down around his thighs.
This is so going to come back and bite him on the ass.
*
“I’m thinking this is a bad idea, my friend.”
Blake blinks up at Saporta - he’s got one baby strapped to his front, the other peeking out over his shoulder, tiny fist tangled in his hair. “Grade A, man,” he says.
Allman has been making threatening noises around him and McCracken looks like a kicked puppy. Blake doesn’t know how he even got into this mess, or what is actually happening, because Blake hasn’t done much beyond mild tandem and random stalking and letting McCracken blow him - and McCracken’s good, which is probably why he let it happen twice.
He’s not feeling great about it, but he doesn’t think that warrants all this. Allman’s eyes say maybe one day Blake’ll wake up in a puddle of his own blood and vomit, or not wake up at all.
“You should get a baby,” Saporta says.
Blake gives him a blank stare.
Saporta nods. “Dude, they’re like armor, they’re like kryptonite, you can get away with anything holding a baby.”
Blake says, “I’ll think about it.” Mostly just so Saporta will go away.
“See that you do.” The baby in front stares at Blake with freaky eyes and one second she’s calm and the next she’s screaming, “Mamamamamama,” or something, and Saporta just kisses the top of her dark head and says, “Babies are totally worth it.”
*
Blake approaches Greta. He approaches Greta from a secret angle, because Allman is everywhere these days, and just because he’s conspicuously out of sight right then doesn’t mean he won’t jump out of nowhere and bludgeon Blake to death with a tire iron.
“It’s okay,” Greta says, like she has eyes in the back of her head.
Blake freezes.
Greta glances at him over her shoulder. “I locked them in their bus bathroom. It’s kind of sweet, how they’re soul mates and all, but I was getting tired of all the obliviousness.”
“Um.” Blake thinks they’re talking about McCracken and Allman, but he’s not one hundred percent sure.
“Oh.” Her eyes go wide and she turns to grasp his arm. “Oh, please tell me you don’t have a thing for Bert.”
“I don’t have a thing for Bert? I mean,” he clears his throat, “I really don’t have a thing for Bert.” Nodding, he adds earnestly, “Thank you.”
She squeezes his wrist once before letting go. “No problem, sugar. You seemed a little stressed.”
Blake says, “Allman’s like Hobbes, only without the cuddly stuffing.”
Greta has a laugh like an angel. Or something else lovely and awesome.
Blake is kind of dumbstruck. He says, “Saporta told me to get a baby,” which doesn’t make a lot of sense in the context of this conversation, but his brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders - Greta has amazing breasts, and she’s standing really close.
Greta laughs louder, cheeks pinked, and she snorts once and claps a hand over her face and laughs some more.
Blake is completely charmed.
And possibly doomed. He figures he’s got a fifty-fifty chance of Allman being too busy making out with his boyfriend to kick him in the face for stealing his girl.
He’s totally willing to risk it.
-----
When Pete had shown up mid tour, he’d shown up with a posse of Greta and Patrick and Ashlee and Pear, and Zack has his hands full with Lissa and Sam - because Sam always wants to be wherever Lissa is - so he doesn’t really need Pear, who Lissa hates with all the fiery passion a four-year-old can have. It’s like a three-ring circus with clowns and incontinent dogs and braying donkeys, and none of the fun stuff like cotton candy and girls in skin-tight leotards.
Zack only thinks about quitting once.
Greta is his saving grace, because when she’s not off with Allman or Sennett or Brendon she’s working fairy magic over all the kids. It’s kind of eerie, how big-eyed and quiet they get whenever she’s reading them a story, or getting them ready for naps or bed, or just standing there, quietly glowing with serene, infinite patience.
Zack would think about marrying Greta if he wasn’t already in love with the tiniest toddler ever who liked to yell in his ear and sing songs about dead kangaroos - he’s going to kill Saporta - and ride on his back like a clingy little monkey.
He’s long ago resigned himself to never having a life of his own.
*
“I’ve come for my second born,” Beckett says, stepping up onto the Beach Dog bus.
Zack says, “Good luck,” because Lissa and Sam are holding hands and playing with a Cabbage Patch Kid that Lissa calls Junney even though its birth certificate says Carlotta Susannah - Zack knows way too much about things he’d be happy never knowing about. Lissa gets loud when things don’t go her way, and Sam starts crying when Lissa gets loud. It’s barrels of fun.
Add Pear to the mix and everyone might just start screaming.
Beckett eyes the kids, then Zack, then the kids again. He says, “I shall come back later. And possibly send Christine instead.”
This is a wise move. Even if it means Zack has to put them all down for naps by himself.
*
The Saporta twins are monsters. Hideous, manipulative monsters disguised as adorable babies. They are also not Zack’s responsibility, but apparently he’s running a daycare now, so nobody but him cares.
“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Zack says.
Eddie stares at him blankly, one fist stuffed almost entirely in his mouth, drool slowly making its way down his chubby arm.
They’re both crawling, but luckily Eddie’s too lazy to do much more than scoot.
He’d had to cage Mary Beth an hour ago.
He’s seriously going kill Saporta.
Kill him so dead.
*
Every night Brendon sings Lissa a lullaby, and Zack face-plants onto his bunk. He goes boneless the instant his head hits the pillow, and he listens with half an ear, Brendon’s voice a soft hush, Lissa humming along.
He blames the stupid, silly smile on exhaustion and closes his eyes.
*
Lissa gives Zack a long, rambling, half-incoherent lecture on the finer points of caterpillars. She calls them fuzzies, and mostly Zack’s pretty sure she’s just telling him that they’re shy, curled up in a protective ball.
All day, she drags over anyone who happens to walk by. She pokes at them with a surprisingly gentle finger and she’s sad when they have to leave to go back to the bus. She climbs up on Zack’s lap and knocks the back of her head into his chest and plays with his fingers and Zack winces a little when her heel kicks into his knee.
They watch Diego and Zack knows she’s going to have nightmares about the puma again.
He knows he’ll wake up to her calling for Brendon, or maybe crawling into Zack’s bunk, whispering about pumas under her bed and squirming into the space under his arm, against the back of the bus, knees jammed into his ribs.
Zack remembers dating. He remembers sex and watching TV shows that didn’t include at least one puppet. He doesn’t have any regrets, though.
Lissa’s kind of, definitely the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him.
But he’s seriously making Brendon give him a raise.
-----
Brendon is sad and not sad to see the last concert of the tour.
The Sounds are finishing up their set, and Brendon watches the light show from behind the amphitheatre, body slowly unwinding. He feels like he’s been tense for months, has been tense for months, even though this festival has gone a hell of a lot smoother than last time. He taps his fingers on the edge of the bench, head tipped back - the stars seem enormous in New Mexico - and doesn’t realize he’s humming until Spencer drops down next to him and says, “We should put that on our next album.”
Brendon grins and the hum turns into a song about Beach Dog being the coolest, even though Spencer’s a huge dork.
Spencer punches him in the arm half-heartedly. He slumps down and stretches his legs out and says, “I’m so tired.”
“Glad it’s over?” Brendon asks. He feels a twinge in his chest, like Spencer’ll wake up one day and think this is too much work, even though he knows Spencer will never be like Brent.
Spencer shrugs. “Happy to start again.”
Brendon gets that. He likes the beginning, when it’s just theirs, when it’s just them. He likes the rest, too, though, when it’s more than that.
He flexes his fingers on the wood and sighs and leans into Spencer’s side and says, “Yeah.”
This isn’t my dog. It’s a beach dog.