(no subject)
the academy is; rise of the fall tour series, 2005
you know how i do (3/10)
mike / william, tom, 3724 words (nc17)
-- think of all the fun you had; the finest line divides a night well spent from a waste of time, think of all the days you spent alone with just your tv set and i-- i can barely smile
Tom says, "What about this one?" pulling another shirt over his head, a black and blue striped sweater, long in the sleeves and a little weird in the neckline, but generally flattering. Nick shrugs his shoulders and Sisky outright shakes his head no, but Tom looks in the mirror and scowls. "I dunno," he debates, then looks at Bill.
"Wear the red one," William says, not bothering to look up at his book. He's almost finished and he'll be damned if he has to tear himself away from another crucial scene to examine the way Tom looks in an identically made sweater of a different colour.
If he had taken the two seconds to look up, however, William would have been met with a shy grin creeping to Tom's lips, subtle and completely unnoticed by everyone around except for Mike, who by the looks of it, could hear the smile in Tom's voice. He is laying in the small armchair, his legs draped elegantly over the side, his arms out and stretching, and his jaw clenched tightly. If Bill had bothered to look up, he would have been met with raised eyebrows and rolling eyes, and it's probably best that he didn't because he would have been reduced to giggles at the silly-ness of the situation.
Mike's jealousy of Tom is laughable, at best, and completely unjustified, but he doesn't see it that way and William isn't about to argue with him on a subject that he is clearly so touchy about.
It goes back a long way, Mike's silent, subtle not-completely-but-pretty-much loathing of all things Thomas Conrad, way back when he just joined the band and everyone they knew would praise his abilities on guitar. A silly thing to be so riled up about, sure, but not when Mike was usually the one hailed as the best guitar player to ever exist and play in The Academy. William never agreed with the masses, not out of loyalty or to be diplomatic, but because he genuinely believed that as good as Tom was, Mike was just better. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Bill spent so much of his own time being jealous of Mike that makes him truly appreciate how good Mike is.
Conveying these thoughts to his sort of boyfriend, however, always proved to be a difficult feat, so eventually he just stopped trying.
Still, that didn't stop Mike from often glancing at Tom in this reproachful way, as if Tom was a constant reminder of Mike's shortcomings. And it didn't stop him from being thoroughly annoyed at the way Tom seemed to always want to impress William. In fact, that kind of made it worse.
William reads the last few words in the paragraph and turns the corner of the page down, closing his book with a slight sigh and a sniffle. The room is silent all around him, except for the muffled sound of a crowd entering the building, the occasional shuffle of people entering and exiting the room and the sound of Tom rearranging his identically made sweaters back into his bag. No one is talking except for Nick and Tyson who are always conversing in hushed whispers about God-knows-what until Sisky says, "Did Sirius just die then?" There is a chorus of Aww's and Bill swats away Adam's hand which was moving in to pat him condescendingly on the back. They always make fun of him for reading these books, for getting so involved in them, but he doesn't care. He glances at Mike for some reassurance but Mike, who has stayed awake with him many a night reading and rereading passages in thick British accents while they fumble for the sheets, is staring at the wall behind him, completely immersed in the bright red brick that covers the room.
Tom falls lazily onto the couch, too close for William's comfort, his red and black striped sweater scratching William's forearm as he shifts over in his seat.
"Oh, come on," he says, nudging Bill in the ribs, "you know it'll only get worse from here. There's a million more characters she can kill off at this point." William doesn't see this as a particularly good conversation starter, especially considering his favourite character has just fallen through a mysterious veil and to his death, but as he opens his mouth to say this, Mike gets up rather abruptly, mumbles something about getting fresh air, and promptly leaves the room.
If three years of knowing Mike Carden didn't allow Bill to have him at least a little bit figured out by now, the two years he has spent sleeping with him sure did.
He waits for Mike to close the door behind him, but he can't allow him to get too far because he has a habit of wandering off, being found a minute before they have to go on stage and insisting he was just around the corner the whole time. Sisky yawns, stretching his arms up and over his head and somehow manages to mutter, "You know, it is kind of stuffy in here," That's his cue to give William a deeply significant look and wiggle his eyebrows in a distinctly Adam Siska way, and William's cue to nod in agreement and slowly make his way to his feet.
"Yeah," he nods, then backs away from the old leather couches, trying and failing to be inconspicuous, "It is kind of hot, isn't it?" Tom makes a gesture as though he's about to engage William is another half conversation, but Tyson bursts out laughing and, while Bill quietly closes the door behind him, everyone left in the room is forced to ask what's so funny.
The hallway is empty though much louder than the room, the sound of a crowd growing steadily anxious as they wait. Bill glances left and right and wonders, vaguely, if he should just open every door and peak in. The thing about Mike is, he doesn't like to talk. And William, well he loves to talk. Not in a girlfriend, tell-me-what-you're-feeling-so-I-can-decide-whether-we-should-be-together-forever kind of way, just in a general, how-was-your-day kind of way. The thing about Mike is, well, he keeps a lot of everything to himself. Even the small stuff, even the how-was-your-day stuff. It takes an immense amount of persuasion to get him to talk about his day, and William knows all too well how hard it is to get him to talk abut feelings.
The thing about Mike is, he'll brood for hours at a time, and if he gets into one of his strides, there's no getting him out of it.
Just as William decides to walk through the corridor to his right, he hears a familiar smoker's cough on his left. Two doors down and sitting by the open window, Mike Carden is brooding, but very handsomely so. He makes a point to close the door as quietly as he can manage, and creep up behind Mike who's eyes are closed as he flicks cigarette ash away from himself, lazily breathing out a stream of grey-blue smoke.
"When will you learn to walk quietly?" Mike asks, his words drawn out and low, like a cough is still caught in his throat.
Bill stops walking but shifts on the spot, scuffing the floor with his shoes. "Shut up," is all he can manage for now, but Mike still hasn't opened his eyes, still hasn't looked at William, so he adds, "When you stop hiding from me? Stop avoiding me, maybe?" His brain says stop being a girl, but his mouth seems to be moving all on its own now. "You never talk about anything," he complains, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and looking rather dejected.
Mike, upon finally taking notice of Bill's despondence, the way his voice sounds miserable and demure, turns and manages a weak little smile, though a reassuring one. He presses the bit of cigarette he has left into the window cill and gets up to cross the room. Another thing about Mike, and perhaps one of the more crucial things to know, is that when given the choice between brooding and William Beckett, William always wins. That's why, if he ever gets into one of his strides, there's no getting him out of it. Many have tried, and only one person has ever been successful.
"You know," Mike says, wrapping his arms around William's waist and kissing the side of his jaw in a silent apology. "We've talked about me not talking about anything before. It is That Which We Do Not Speak Of."
"I thought," William raises an eyebrow, "that was That Which We Do Not Speak Of. Or can we speak of that now, because it'd be nice, you know, to mention it once in a while without being attacked. Or--" he gasps, freeing his hands from Mike's loose grip, "Is there a new That Which We Do Not Speak Of? I'm so confused."
"No, no, that is mainly That Which We Do Not Speak Of, but this we also do not speak of." Before William can even open his mouth to speak, Mike says, "Just shut up. Just-- please, you know what this is about and I know you're going to laugh at me so don't, just stop yourself somehow because I know it's stupid and juvenile and I should really know better, but I hate him."
It takes a great deal of discipline for William not to laugh, and it's just a testament to how much he takes Mike seriously that he even keeps a straight face. "You don't hate him," William states, matter-of-factly.
"You're right, I don't hate him."
"He's like a brother to you, and to me."
"He is like a brother. Like an annoying younger brother who I want to kill."
"And you love him."
"Well, I wouldn't say love, really, but yes-- okay, yes, stop looking at me like that."
"And he is not-- look at me," William whispers, his arms resting on Mike's shoulders, fingers entangled in his hair. "He is not better than you. You are a better guitar player, and a better lyricist, and a better story-teller, and your love of Harry Potter makes you the most amazing person I have ever met." He takes a breath but ploughs on, trying to remember all the important points. "And you're a better friend, and you're certainly more handsome, and I'm not just saying this because I'm completely head-over-heels in love with every single thing about you, or because I want to get on your good side so I can get some tonight-- although that would be an added bonus-- but that's beside the point, I'm saying this because it's true and you have to stop being so worried and frustrated all the time and you have to stop bottling this stuff up so much because it all erupts at the most inappropriate of times, I think we have like, fifteen minutes until the show, and you've got me in here praising your very existence to try and prove to you that you're-- fuck," he sighs, shrugging his shoulders. "You're Mike Carden, you're my fucking world."
Mike tries not to blush too much, and fails. His cheeks turn a faint pinkish-red and he looks down to avoid William's gaze and his stupid satisfied grin. The thing about Mike is, flattery works every time. Get him alone and stop him from sulking for a few minutes, tell him how wonderful he truly is, and he's putty in your hands. William could write a list of all the times this tactic has been used, and all of the incredibly good results he's gotten from using it. He has often found that with Mike Carden, the finest line divides a night well spent from a waste of time. Knowing when to be quiet and let him rant and when to hold your hands over his mouth and tell him he's amazing really comes in handy.
"So," Mike attempts, bravely glancing up at Bill's smiling face. "You're completely head-over-heels in love with every single thing about me?" He says this as though surprised, but Bill isn't about to give him that much satisfaction by letting him boast.
"Shut up," he says, and to make sure that he does, Bill kisses him.
"Mmm-- hey, how much time did you say we have? Fifteen sounds like ample time to me." William shakes his head disapprovingly, though his hands, it seems, are working all on their own, slowly creeping up underneath Mike's shirt. Mike's jacket is laying on the old beat up leather couch against the wall but Bill won't touch that with a ten foot pole. He left his own jacket is in the other room in his bag and is glad now, because he wouldn't want to put it down anywhere here where it could become infected with some obscure small dive bar venue disease.
"More like-- well, now it's--" he pauses in between kisses, moves himself away from Mike for a split second to help him pull his shirt right off and toss it into a corner of plague, walks them both back towards the door because it doesn't have a lock and they'll be fucked if some random crew member walks in on this very special moment, and he finally finishes his sentence. "Got about ten now, but that's-- more than good, it's perfect, we've done worse in less--"
"Less time, I know, remember at the Fillmore last year? Record time, really." Mike frowns at the absent lock on the door but shrugs, lets Bill turn them around, push him roughly against it and takes that as a silent shut the fuck up.
It takes William all of two seconds to get on his knees and start fumbling with Mike's belt buckle. People are talking out in the hallway, their voices slowly seeping into the room. It sounds like Andy and Nick, and maybe Tony but William isn't really paying attention. He feels Mike's entire body tense up, his hand moves to the door handle to keep it closed, but Bill just pulls his jeans down further and presses wet kisses against his hip bone as a silent thank you for not feeling the need to wear anything underneath your clothes tonight.
Mike's fingers weave their way into Bill's hair, idly scratching at the nape of his neck, behind his ears right where he likes it. If William could formulate thoughts at the moment they would be a jumbled mess of holy-fuck-what-are-you-doing and stop-thinking-stop-thinking-stop-thinking. Mike tilts his chin up so Bill can look at him and says, "You're a bad fucking influence, you know that, right?" And he couldn't be more right. It is always at William's insistence that they find themselves in grimy venue rooms and bathroom stalls with graffiti all over, or in alleys after shows, in the back of Armor's bus mere seconds before the everyone on that tour barged in to play video games. Mike would rather take the safe routes, the far away hotel rooms and their apartment when they're back home, but Bill is more interested in the spontaneity of their excursions, the thrill of almost getting caught, the excitement of having to sneak around. Hotel rooms are all well and good, but this is how they should be-- together all the time, sneaking glances and kisses and blow jobs minutes before a show.
Secretly, William wishes that someone would catch them. He'd love nothing more than to be able to kiss Mike in front of everyone they know, but he pushes the thought to the back of his mind and smirks. "It's your fault, you know. You're so good-- mmm, so good at setting bad examples."
They give each other furtive glances and Mike tilts his head back, letting it hit the cold door behind him. Bill can only imagine how that must feel against his bare back, almost as uncomfortable as the hard floor is on his knees. His jeans are already faded and ripping in odd places and this is bound to drive them further into becoming true rock star apparel, but at least there's that.
Bill already knows that Mike is biting his bottom lip, eyes closed and waiting anxiously because-- as he's been told on many occasions-- "Getting head from William Beckett is an act that brings even the strongest of men to their knees." But as Mike's the only person who could attest to that statement, William will just have to take his word for it.
William licks a trail from Mike's hip bone to the head of his cock, feeling Mike's body shiver around him, one hand tightening its grip on William's hair and the other on the door knob, steadying him. Bill would love to be vindictive right now, would love to take his time and be a tease, but they've probably only got a few minutes left and he'd rather not waste them. As much as he loves hearing Mike's guttural moans and his quiet pleading, he'd rather not deny himself this one simple pleasure. He slides his hands around to hold Mike's hips steady, feels him move forward a little and takes him completely, not even bothering to hesitate.
As much as Mike must love this, William enjoys it even more. He can't deny that he loves hearing that first initial earth shattering moan that Mike often tries to stop himself from making, or the feeling of fingers in his hair, pressed firmly against his scalp, and he loves-- he'd fucking kill for-- the way Mike tastes; slightly bitter but sweet in the way sugar could never achieve, like the strangest concoction of honey and metal combined with his own hot saliva all coming together to press against the back of his throat. He lives for moments like these where he can eagerly hold Mike down and work his tongue up and down, dragging teeth over bare skin. Mike is muttering something like jesus-harder-christ-fuck-don't-stop but Bill can barely hear him over the sound of his own muffled moans, over the deafening silence that pulses through the room. He is sure that someone is bound to hear them, hear Mike's incredibly distinct voice muttering every version of William's name in between breathy sighs and loud pleasurable mmm's and ahh's and yes-yes-yes-don't-stop's.
Bill doesn't even care at this point if they get syphilis from being here too long, he just presses his fingers against Mike's hips, pulls him as close as possible and sucks hard and deep, trying to ignore the fact that his knees are really starting to really hurt now. Mike belts out a low, drawn out "Fuck," and someone knocks on the door.
"Mike?" a deeply annoying inquiring voice says. "Is that you? We gotta go man, where's Bill?" He keeps his hand on the door knob and manages to catch his breath.
"Yeah-- yeah one second, Bill's-- fuck, Bill's MIA, as usual, go find him." William doesn't miss a beat but he's losing control of Mike's hips now, letting himself fall into the steady rhythm Mike attempts to set, driving himself deeper into Bill's throat with every thrust. He abandons any hope of holding Mike down and lets his hands wander up over his back, digging dull nails into Mike's warm, pale skin.
Tom says, "We really gotta go, Mike, what are you doing in there anyway?" and William could kill him. He's barely able to continue, getting harder as the seconds pass and with so little time before they have to play, he knows he's going to be painfully uncomfortable on stage tonight, aching to finish the set so he and Mike can find some other dirty, deserted room and fuck for hours.
"Fuck," Mike sys, frustrated and failing to keep his breathing normal. "I'll meet you out there, okay, I'll be there in a minute--" he bites his bottom lip to keep from saying Bill's name again and then, "I'm fucking-- I'm coming okay. I'm coming, fuck, fuck, fuck."
William thinks, as Tom's confused footsteps fade into the background noise of the hallway, that at least Mike gave him that brief warning. He swallows with no difficulty at all and allows his tongue to linger as he slowly moves away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and fucking licking his fingers clean, like a trooper, really. He pulls Mike's jeans up for him and helps zip them up but before he can work on the belt, Mike's knees give out and he slumps down against the wall, gasping for air.
Bill would like to say, "You're going to get a multitude of STDs sitting on the floor like that," but all he can manage to do is smile and lick his lips, which glisten with his own spit and Mike's cum and are red and swollen now.
Mike says, in between ragged breaths, "I hate him."
--
nick and tyson, wheeler and ritter, of all american rejects fame. some stolen taking back sunday lyrics are in this one, and probably in the next one too. sorry this took so long to post, i didn't anticipate my weekend would be so hectic but it turns out those are the busiest days in my work week so i'll be attempting to post every friday from now on. and just to clear something up, this is a twelve part story so there's a lot more to come and more frequently now that i'm getting into the routine of work.
photo from theacademyis.com: december eleventh, two thousand and five