The Evermore Song Part 2
(This one's a tad bit longer, Also Dislcaimer: I don't own any of the characters. Purely for the readers enjoyment)
Bon was in the shower. The hot water that soaked his bare skin was soothing, the taste of alcohol in his mouth was almost gone, having been replaced by heat. The dirt and filth of his room washed off, as did the memory of what he’d done, very slowly. He’d tidied up his room - threw away the cans; the plates and returned them to his kitchen; made his bed and rearranged the stacks of paper; opened the blinds, the birds chirping outside helped create a tranquil atmosphere. The fresh wind helped clear the stench of bed and the lack of cleanliness. Bon was doing his best. He had listened to Angus.
He didn’t understand why Angus had cared so much. Genuinely upset in front of him. This was the man who could raise both hands to his head and stick two fingers up, one at each side, thumbs entangled in his hair - and ninety thousand people would do the exact same. Angus could shout something into the microphone, he could jump about, and the followers, the disciples of Angus McKinnon Young, would bow down and worship. He was a god on stage, there was no denying it. Fingers floating up and down the fret-board, head banging constantly, jumping on Bon’s shoulders, jumping into the crowd, duck-walking, he never stopped, and was always full of beans. At home, he was quiet and reserved. So why had Angus suddenly confronted him?
The shower was filled with endless supplies to keep the boys in good shape. Bon was using a shower scrub to cleanse his body, and he would never have admitted how good it felt to run hands over wet skin and relish in the softness. He now understood why all the girls that took a fancy to Malcolm and Angus endlessly fawned over their hair. Malcolm had straight brown locks, but they were thick and full of life. Angus had cute curls, which appealed to almost everyone. Cliff got the girls because he was a charmer, a sensible, respectable gentleman with an adorable English accent. Phil…well, Bon didn’t know how Phil brought the girls home: he just did. It might have been his piercing eyes. Or if he paid them.
Bon had finished cleaning his body, then proceeded to do his hair. While softening his wiry hair into, surprisingly, his natural curls and waves, he closed his eyes and imagined that lean body against him, a man who wasn’t even five-foot-three. Bon didn’t even realise that he was thumbing the swollen head of his shaft, and although Angus had kissed him, it didn’t mean he wanted to go any further. Disappointment filled him, and he sighed, trying to calm himself down when he would have to see Angus in the studio later that day.
Angus…
--
The studio was only across the road and then a five-minute walk down the streets. This was their first album that wasn’t being produced by Harry Vanda, or Angus and Malcolm’s older brother George. Angus loved being in the studio: everyone in AC/DC knew that. He spent a fair amount of his time in there, and he carried constant cassettes with him. When a riff struck him, he’d record it on his tapes, tell Malcolm what he’d made, and then they’d get to work. Most of the time it worked, and they‘d have a brand new song. Bon would write the majority of the lyrics. Sometimes, it didn’t work.
Robert John “Mutt” Lange, their producer, was sitting at the soundboard with Malcolm, Cliff and Phil around him, looking downwards. Quiet conversation was made between them, deeply involved in each other, barely noticing when Angus and Bon walked in. Angus had his ever-present Gibson SG strapped to him, holding the neck in his left hand and smiling widely. The two proceeded to sit on the sofa, when Angus turned to Bon, and spoke softly.
“Ya smell really good,” Angus giggled. “I bought that strawberry shower stuff, it’s the best. Yer intoxicatin’ me, Bonny, with that beautiful scent.”
Bon chuckled a little, and Angus smiled. Maybe, just maybe, he had Bon back to normal. The lead singer was happy, polite and friendly most of the time, but for the past month he had been a stubborn, selfish brat. Small conversation ensued, with Angus glancing at Bon’s freshly-bandaged arm, looking a lot healthier. But Phil eventually turned around, narrowing his eyes at the pair.
“You two are seriously creepin’ me out,” he explained, not noticing Malcolm’s quick talk-to-him-like-that-and-you-die glare. The rhythm guitarist was usually in charge of arranging the tracks, sometimes actually writing Cliff’s bass lines as well as his own rhythm parts. Despite that, he couldn’t read musical notation. The drummer continued to speak, on behalf of only himself. “Why don’t you go practice or some shit?”
“Why don’t ya give us somethin’ to do?” Angus questioned, his joy melting into irritation, getting up slightly in a defensive manner, holding his treasured cherry guitar close.
“There isn’t much for you to do,” Cliff gently intervened, and Angus leant back. He could never be mad at Cliff. He was just too funny, and he never shouted at anyone. Angus couldn‘t bring it in himself to say any more. Bon was silent, and just shrugged. Typical. “We’re just arranging the tracks. It’s a bit boring, actually.”
“Honestly, though, boys,” Mutt stated, and Angus knew that he’d definitely have to leave now. He wasn’t scared of the producer, but he was the sort of man whose word was law and would have No Infernal Squabbling. At All. “I think the four of us can handle it. You can go and relax. It’s beautiful outside.”
Angus sighed, leaving his guitar on the sofa. but Bon simply shrugged it off, and walked out of the studio, Angus quickly following in pursuit. The sun was beating down like typical Australia, despite the fact it was supposed to be nearing winter. The sky stretched in an infinite, cloudless blue that was almost blinding to look at. Birds chirped and sang in the trees, only a few cars drove past on the dry, dusty road. Lawns of gardens were yellowing under the heat, looking pallid and sickly. They walked down the street together, but in silence. As if ashamed, as if remembering what had happened, as if Angus’s kiss had locked Bon’s lips shut.
Only when they got home did Bon say anything. Said that his arms hurt, stung more than ever this time. Instructed to sit down in the kitchen while Angus hunted for supplies in the forbidden kitchen closet, just like the days when he lived with his parents and he had hurt himself. Falling down, pushed by bullies, tripping over shoelaces, Angus was forever in the wars. Bon sighed, knowing what he would have to do. Tearing the bandage off and discarding it into the bin, shuddering at the biting air that surrounded his naked arm. Angus poured a quick dash of peroxide onto an old rag, thankful for his brother cutting up old clothes to supply the band with them. He knew how much Angus fell down, or how many fights Phil got into.
“Fuck!” Bon cried when Angus pressed down on his reddening, tormented skin. The guitarist bit his lip, but he continued. He tried not to apply too much pressure to Bon’s arm, he didn’t know how much the singer could take; his pain threshold didn’t seem very high. “Angus, Jesus--oh my God, that fuckin’ hurts!”
“It looks infected,” Angus sighed, rubbing, very gently, on Bon’s arm. The singer winced, screwing his eyes shut tight, but knowing that Angus wasn’t intentionally hurting him, he calmed down a little. “Only a li’l bit, though.”
“For real?”
“Aye. Yer gonna have to go get it checked out. Looks bad, Bonny.”
Angus set the tap running onto the rag, throwing it into the sink, waiting for a moment, and then leaving it. He placed the peroxide back into the closet, and Bon felt his arm tenderly. When the agonising stinging left him, he was taken aback. It did feel a little better, and the skin looked somewhat refreshed. Angus took a new bandage, cut it with scissors, then proceeded to wrap it around Bon’s arm for the third time.
Once he was done, he didn’t move away. He couldn’t. Bon was kissing him, and Angus could do nothing but let him in, and allow the lead singer to have his way.
--
Bon had never been this far with a man before.
After a few exhausted words, neither had Angus.
Frantic kissing, but Bon’s movements were slow. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do, his chest seizing and tensing at the thought of that fantasy…what he wanted to do to Angus…every part of him, every cell wanted to do it, but the thought of taking Angus was heart-wrenching. Innocent, little Angus, and totally destroying him…
All they’d done was immediately retreat to Angus’s room, stumbling up the stairs as if they were drunk, or teenagers having their first time. It had been exciting, adult, and real, kissing each other in a hot frenzy, praying that the boys wouldn’t walk in the house and discover what they’d been hiding for the past few days. Angus had decided to be a little tease, as always - and make Bon wait. Make him discover his true feelings, whether he wanted this or not. Angus Young didn’t give himself away to just anyone…but yet he would submit himself to Bon, ask him if he wanted to make love or to be fucked. It was rock n’ roll.
And Bon couldn’t stand it, being tormented and he was constantly on his toes when Angus was around. He’d catch the guitarist checking him out, winking, rubbing himself all over the singer when he was practicing his frantic schoolboy act, his voice suddenly lusty whenever Bon spoke to him, and the lead singer wanted to fuck him senseless. But at the same time, he wanted to actually thank him, and Bon was never good at that. The only time he meant a sincere thank-you was a quick 'Cheers' when someone bought him a drink. Angus was teasing him. Bon didn't know if he should have stood for it.
You’re such a little slut.
“Ya w-wanna…fuck me?” Angus breathed, sitting up a little. His chest was sweaty and reddening, tainted with Bon’s furious, frenzied kisses, all over his body, desperately ravenous for response. Angus was gentle with him, stroking his hair, feeling his body, spending time fussing over him like no one else could, like no girl ever did.
“…y-yeah…”
“Yer scared…” the lead guitarist whispered, kissing him on the lips sweetly, sitting up fully, his T-shirt now a white bundle in his hands. His jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped, and he quickly did them up. “…then, Bonny, we’re gonna have to wait.”
The lead singer bit his lip so hard he was sure he’d drawn blood.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Evermore Song
Three
I want to fuck you…so fucking bad, the lead singer thought, staring at the quiet guitarist who was sitting alone in the hot tub, sipping on a cocktail that was a mix of orange, mango and strawberry juice, still waiting for Malcolm, Cliff and Phil to finish arranging the album. I want to fuck you so hard. I want you to totally surrender to me…lean back, take it as hard as I give it, beg for more, loving the pain, fucking relishing in it…run my hands down your back…nngh…fuck your mouth until you choke…fuck yourself and let me watch…want to touch your…y-your…unhh…fucking drenched in your own sweat, oh God, fucking good…Angus, oh fuck, oh God OH GOD OH GOD--
“Bon, what the fuck are you doing?”
The lead singer froze, and he turned to see Phil, standing in the doorway of the living room. Bon hadn’t even noticed his presence. The French windows gave way to the garden, and the hot tub was out there right at the window, where Bon could get a good, but discreet, look at Angus. He had hoped that the other boys would stay in the kitchen, where he had occasionally eavesdropped on their conversation, but Bon was much more interested in Angus rather than what they were having for dinner.
The television was on.
Bon had to think quickly.
“I was jacking off to the fucking pizza advert,” the lead singer gasped, unable to form coherent thoughts or an excuse. It was totally ludicrous of him, and normally, Bon was not that obtuse. He could think up believable excuses on the spot for anything, but this was not the case. No way was he admitting his thoughts for Angus. “Now, if ya will kindly leave me alone, ya piece of shite--”
Sticking his tongue out in frustration and screwing his eyes up, he leant forwards over his jeans, hands beating at his length again, trying to reach that level of pleasure rather than plateau back to square one. Phil raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t really a big deal. After all, much worse things could be seen.
“I will never understand you.”
--
He was in the shower again, unable to look Angus in the face.
Bon was close to murdering the lead guitarist. He had nothing else he wanted to do other than lose himself in his dreams, his wild fantasies: and he felt dejected, staring down at his naked body, his tattoos. His cock was a little too sensitive after all the attention he’d been giving it recently. He couldn’t stop: every time he relieved himself, he had to do it again about an hour later. That feral urge, that confusing attraction. Angus had usually got on with him - they were best friends - and now he was being different. He had a shine, a warmth, something about him Bon couldn’t quite place his finger on.
Bon’s thoughts on Angus were distracted when a sharp pain rooted in his elbow and then surged through his arm to his wrist - he’d soaped it again. He scowled, knowing he would have to go to the hospital to have a doctor do it for him. But if he went to the hospital, he’d have to explain what he did, and then word would get back to Peter Mensch, their manager, and that was the last thing Bon wanted. Peter would want to talk, and then he’d probably send him to a therapist and talk, and Bon was sick of talking. Even though Peter would do anything for his boys, he was incredibly annoying at times. Bon trusted him, but not like he trusted his band. Malcolm was an excellent secret-keeper, and Cliff was a great listener, only offering advice when he sensed that you needed it. Phil…well, he could have a good laugh with Phil when he wasn’t being a stubborn ass, and he did like to talk about life when the mood was right. Many a time had they sat in the dark corner of a bar, lamenting about childhood memories, rising from the black velvet of their subconscious.
But above all, he trusted Angus.
Bon knew that Angus trusted him back.
So why is the bastard being such a fucking tease?
The lead singer sighed, poured hair products into his hands and began rubbing at his scalp, surprised by how good it felt. Now that he’d began to wash his hair regularly - wash himself regularly - he was a whole lot more confident. He felt better, and definitely looked better. He’d even started to get a good night’s sleep, waking up early, actually eating breakfast, all because Angus had kissed him, and asked if he wanted to fuck.
Bon remembered what Phil had said earlier, and took it into his own context.
I will never understand you.
Angus was in his room, staring at the piece of paper he’d been trying to create a drawing on for the past three hours. His stomach was hurting, and his throat dry. Twirling a pencil in-between his fingers, his mind was far, far away from pencil sketches. He might have been more confused about the whole situation than Bon was: he, unlike the singer, wasn’t thinking primarily with his lower half. He’d promised Bon anything. Was Angus really ready to give himself up, sacrifice himself just to stop Bon from doing something stupid?
He ran his fingers through his curls, wondering just what was drawing him towards this man. Bon was totally approachable, but because Angus had seen him at his greatest weakness, maybe there was just something pulling him closer. Making him love Bon much more than he already did.
The lead guitarist giggled quietly to himself when he glanced at the clock on his desk and noticed that it was well past three in the morning - he should have been in bed two hours before. He almost always got up early, and once he was up, he never went back to sleep until night rolled around. Pushing himself away from his desk, he turned the lamp off and climbed into bed with the aid of the moonlight.
Maybe, soon enough, something would kick Angus where it hurt and made him realise that he was supposed to be Bon Scott’s best friend, and nothing more.
“Bon, may I speak with you for a moment?”
Almost a month had passed since Bon’s self-harm, Angus’s kiss. Two weeks since the guitarist questioned him. One day since he had left him hanging there, and precisely four hours since the two had been kissing. Now, all five of the band were sitting in the living room, playing a card game, gentle blues music trilling in the background. The sky outside was barely visible from looming clouds and the beginning whispers of a howling wind.
Peter Mensch stuck his head round the door. He was a well-dressed, fine gentleman. Mature, adult grey hair, dark bushy eyebrows, and a kind face. He managed AC/DC’s affairs, booked them gigs, tours, the lot - only becoming involved in their personal lives when the boys asked him to do so. He was intensely hard-working and diligent - and he wouldn’t admit it, but his boys were the closest thing to family he had in a very long time.
“Alright,” Bon sighed, but still smiling, placing his cards side down on the table. “No peekin’ while I’m gone. I know what yer like, Phil.”
The drummer stared at him with an adamant expression on his face, as if trying to prove he wouldn’t take a sneaky look at Bon’s cards. Met with the laughter of his band, he blushed deeply, and scowled, only for the boys to laugh harder. To prevent it totally, Angus took them and placed them underneath Bon’s chair, which was his special armchair and was completely Off Limits, No Questions Asked. The boys chuckled, in a surprisingly good mood. Peter smiled as he turned away.
The manager led Bon into his office, where he was sure none of the others would eavesdrop. This was an intensely private conversation, one that Peter didn’t particularly want to have, but it had to be done. Only a few hours ago had he been contacted by a doctor, saying Bon had come to visit him. Peter wanted to know - had to know what was going on. Having made it through a horrific file of paperwork, he’d discovered Bon’s medical file at the bottom.
“Bon, I’ve received a call and a report from the hospital about your recent visit. I’m not going to ask to see what you’ve done, but they told me you refused stitches, and haven’t been back to see them since?” Peter questioned, getting right into it. It was the only way to get Bon to listen to him about the particular topic of conversation. The singer turned to stare at the wall.
“I don’t wanna go back. C‘mon, Pete, ya know how I am about them bloody things.”
“If the doctors say you need stitches, Bon, I’m going to have to advise you--”
“It’s gettin’ better!” Bon protested, almost looking up. “In a few days, it’ll be gone in the blink of an eye, you bet.” He sounded almost too eager to believe his own lie.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely positively.”
Peter turned around to face the window, since Bon refused to look at him in the eye. It was a surprisingly dismal day, even for the beginnings of Australian winter. Dark clouds in the sky were threatening rain - Peter hoped it would rain. The sound of rain made the boys seem considerably calmer, almost soothing them, in a way. Why Bon decided to be so insufferable, Peter would never know.
“…do you care to tell me why you did it?” Peter softly asked.
“It’s not yer concern, Pete, I promise. And I don’t wanna talk to some shite therapist--”
“Are you talking to someone about it? I won’t force you to talk to a therapist, but whatever this problem is, Bon, you need to get it out of you--”
“Yes. I am talking to someone.”
The sincerity and finality in his voice forced Peter to turn around and face him again, met with Bon’s big, soft blue eyes. He noticed something different about the singer - his hair and skin looked healthier, his teeth cleaner. He looked much more presentable and approachable. But the fact Bon was talking to someone made Peter cock his eyebrows in surprise. Bon was honestly talking to someone about his problems…? Normally, the singer would just write a song about it, or joke about it until he didn’t care anymore. Bon was quite the optimist usually. Peter wanted to think it was a lie, but Bon very, very rarely lied. He didn’t see why Bon would choose a time like now to lie about his feelings.
“…that’s good to know. You’re welcome to leave, now, if you want. I just wanted to check up on you. You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“I’m fine, Pete. Thanks.”
“I see that. Have a good evening - and if you see Malcolm, please tell him to come find me as soon as possible. There are some last-minute arrangements for the album release party I need to discuss with him.”
“Alright.”
Peter knew he would most likely forget - it didn’t matter, he’d just call for Malcolm within an hour, anyway. He knew there was a reason he would have done anything for his boys. Even if Bon chose not to open about his problems to him, he didn’t see anything wrong with that. He knew what Bon was like, knew who he wanted to talk to. In the back of his mind, Peter assumed that the singer was talking to either of the Young brothers. Malcolm gave mature, responsible advice and despite his outlandish, hyperactive behaviour at times, he was rather sensible. It was almost funny to see Bon Scott - the front man, the leader, the oldest member of the band, the father figure of AC/DC - talking to someone years younger than him.
The manager shook his head. Bon would be alright. He had his days, Peter knew that. At least he was getting it out to someone, and he repressed the urge to know who.
--
Bon couldn’t sleep. He’d been lying there for hours, infuriated by the sudden vicious sensation that had overwhelmed his arm, and he’d been trying to clear his mind to go to sleep. He sat up, miserably realising that it was a losing battle, and he wasn’t sleeping at all that night. His heart and brain were screaming it simultaneously, the only option that remained, and he hated it. His body stirred at the mere thought of seeing Angus again. His stomach churned, but he knew he had to go. Angus was the only one who would make it better.
It was a long, slow walk from his room to Angus’s; even though their bedrooms were located in the same area of the large house. Bon’s room was much further upstairs than Angus’s, very close to the attic, stumbling downstairs to the second landing. Maybe if he was lucky, he would just fall down the stairs. It was far too early in the morning for this.
For a moment, he considered just going back to his room and lie in bed until he passed out, but he was uncomfortable and dishevelled, now, and he just wanted the pain to stop. He knocked quickly on the door, hoping Angus wouldn’t tempt him - just make the pain better, and then let him go to sleep.
A sleepy guitarist looked out of the door as it opened, blinking at the darkness and sudden wake from sleep. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared Bon up and down. “…B-Bon?” He opened the door more to let the singer in, and he shuffled forward, eager to just sit down and be comforted. Angus was dressed as he was normally for bed: knee-length black shorts, underwear, and nothing more. The singer couldn’t help but bite his cheeks in an attempt to stifle his laughter. Angus was tiny and those too-big shorts - that obviously belonged to Malcolm - were hilarious on him. But his eyes soon drilled into every cell of skin on his upper half, taking in a figure he was familiar with but still seemed so distant. His toned abs and smooth chest weren’t just something he wanted - something he needed, something that should have been kissed and smelled and fussed over.
Angus put a hand on Bon’s shoulder. “…Bon, ya look like ya got a fever…”
“I just got all the way downstairs,” the singer grumbled half-heartedly. “It’s hot upstairs, Ang. My arm’s killin’ me something rotten.”
Angus hesitated, then proceeded to bring out his medical supplies again, wondering if he should just leave them out now, for Bon. He eyed the bandaged arm, furrowing his brow together at the different colour of the wrapping. “…ya went to the doctor?”
Bon had hoped Angus wouldn‘t notice. “And he was full of shite. Aye, I did.”
“Why do…why do ya want me to do it, then?” Angus questioned, confused. “Yer arm’s clean…?”
“H-He…he didn’t do it right, Ang,” Bon murmured, sweat trickling down his temple. “It burns like a fuckin’ bitch…it hurts…”
He’d come back because Angus had shown him kindness and concern.
The guitarist peeled the bandages back, pleased at how the cuts were coming along, and then got up to go to the bathroom. He returned with a cold, wet towel, softly pressing it against the singer’s forehead, murmuring something in Scottish Gaelic before touching Bon’s arm with it. The singer closed his eyes, feeling not pain but relief, the glacial wetness freezing the burning into nothing, consuming it until only a painless throb remained. The guitarist set the towel aside and began to spread the soothing cream over his swollen arm. Bon let himself lean forward and play with some of Angus’s russet curls, sighing at how thick it was. Angus quivered at the feeling, concentration fixed on finishing the job before he turned to look at Bon.
“Yer shy, Bon…” he said quietly. “What…do ya want…?”
Bon refused to speak and Angus nodded, before touching the singer’s jaw with focused, wide eyes. “Yer tired,” he stated, not to really anyone but himself. His hands slipped to Bon’s neck, pushing gently on dry skin. Bon leaned forward, so did Angus. The singer kissed hungrily, anxious, needing, wanting. Angus kissed him back just as hard, his stomach flying, surprised at how even more clean Bon smelt, the familiar strawberry scent flattered Angus and forced him to smile into the kiss. Bon broke away for air, nuzzling his nose against the guitarist’s, both of them giggling at Angus’s sudden motion.
For a second, Bon felt happy. Unlike any happiness he’d ever experienced. Being on stage and watching Angus shred that guitar, or singing his own silly tales, paled in comparison to this. His heart was soaring, brain was completely fried, legs like jelly, arms around Angus and only for Angus, fuck the scars, they weren’t welcome anymore and Bon knew he couldn’t reverse time, but he could make the future better for himself. For himself, for his band, for Angus. But if he hadn’t hurt himself, Angus would have never kissed him. He wouldn’t be sitting in his room, kissing, holding him. He’d be lying in bed, probably with some woman - and for the first time, that thought repulsed him.
The lead guitarist was equally feeling the same - but he knew he had to wait it out. He cared about Bon, more than he cared about anyone, except possibly Malcolm. But the idea of losing Bon, as much as he hated to think it, seemed much more worse than losing his brother. If he waited it out, teased Bon, the singer would finally unravel his secret. Tell Angus why he’d done it. Reveal his darkest fantasy. If he didn’t, Angus knew Bon would leave unsatisfied. An unsatisfied Bon might have meant he would hurt himself again, and it was all Angus wanted to prevent.
“Y-Ye…are y-ye…” Angus groaned as the older man kissed him on the neck, rubbing the soft skin there and relishing in its feel. “…B-Bon…I wanna…I wanna fuckin’…suck y-your cock…” The lead singer gasped in his kiss and the guitarist gave a groan-laugh. “I’d let ya come i-in my mouth…I’d…a-anything…for you, B-Bonny…tell me…”
“Angus--!” Bon blushed deeply, the redness rooting in his cheeks and branching outwards until he was sure his entire body was a beetroot. Usually, he would never consider turning down such an offer - but lately, he felt his sexual promiscuity narrowing down, right until only one name in his mental list remained, a brilliant white on the black velvet of his subconscious. A name he’d been familiar with since 1973. Especially since last month, when it had been darting around his mind, on the brink of exploding with questions that had no answer.
“I mean it…”
“Oh, G-God…Angus…”
“I want ya…”
The singer looked up, having never heard those words in his life. With women, it was silent. Cold-hearted, reticent, his taciturn movements didn’t seem to pay off with them. But with Angus, with someone as warm, as kind as Angus…he could talk. He could communicate, show what he wanted, what he needed, and Angus would give him it. He’d promised him anything.
“I…can’t…I’d hurt you…!”
“…don’t care, Bonny…”
Met with more kisses.
“You…you c-can’t…no one wants me, Angus…n-not like y-ye d-do..."”
Met with a desperate frown. “Bon, for fuck’s sake…! I’m fuckin’ here, tellin’ ya that I want ya, b-because I do, I fucking w-want ya…want ya…got to h-have ya…Bonny…”
Bon groaned with guilt, agonising guilt, as Angus pressed his lips to Bon’s throat, planting them upwards to his jaw line, lapping up the tears that were pooling at his chin, licking his lips to enjoy the salty taste. As they tasted each other, re-acquainting themselves, Angus absently threw the covers back and broke away from Bon, climbing underneath them, resisting the urge to put himself in a sexy, mouth-watering pose.
“Sleep with me, ya big dumb guy,” Angus whispered, dimming the light a little, hearing the howling wind rattle against the windows, the torrential rain lashing against the glass. It was soothing to be in a warm, comfortable room while the weather was horrible. “Sleep in here…with me…keep me warm…”
Bon slowly obliged, climbing under the covers, and Angus turned the light out fully. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, he generally didn’t like having other people in his bed, but Bon was probably the only exception. He pushed himself closer to Bon and the singer, instinctively, draped an arm over the guitarists’ tiny, lithe body. Angus cuddled up toward him, knowing he had to think this correctly. He had to be what Bon desired in someone. Irresistible.
“Bonny, it’s alright…” the guitarist soothed, stroking a few stray curls from the singer’s face. “Don’t listen to the rain…just listen…to my heart…and ye’ll sleep…”
It surprised Angus how still the singer was, actually trying to get back to sleep, instead of pounding his guitarist into the mattress like his heart was telling him to do. Angus eventually settled back, and occasionally, during the moments following, Bon would shuffle and pull the smaller, younger man closer. Angus was daydreaming about Bon’s voice, his curls, his lustre ways when the older man whispered into his ears.
“Do you really want me…?”
“Aye,” Angus coaxed softly, running calloused, thin fingers up his chest. “Ya know I do…I ain’t scared, Bonny…”
“B-But…I’ll hurt you…I c-can’t do that to you…”
“I’ve been through worse…ye betcha I have.”
“It’s…what I w-want to do t-to you…it’s too much…”
“Still not scared, Bon,” Angus murmured, burying his face into the singer’s chest. “I ain’t scared…”
Throughout the night, Bon often awakened, only to find Angus still in his arms. But it was still obvious, during these moments between sleep and wake, that the less scared Angus was, the more terrified Bon became.