FIC: You Are Not Ill And I'm Not Dead (Doesn't That Make Us The Perfect Pair), The Used, Bert/Quinn
Title: You Are Not Ill And I'm Not Dead (Doesn't That Make Us The Perfect Pair)
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Fandom: The Used
Rating: NC-17
Word count: approx. 4,100
Summary: Bert supposes he should wonder why he likes spending his day watching Quinn circle around a sand trap.
Disclaimer: All the boys belong to themselves and this never happened.
Author Notes: Many thanks to luciamad, supergrover24 and ze_dragon for their wonderful betas. Written for The Used Multimedia Exchange at usedfic and for valerie_z who asked for Bert/Quinn, 18-year-old first time. Title nicked from Frightened Rabbit.
August is fucking hot in Provo, and Quinn's brown from mornings spent maneuvering a lawn tractor across the lushly green eighteen holes of Riverside Country Club. He pushes his sunglasses up on his forehead, blinking away the sweat that drips into his eyes, and turns the wheel of the tractor for one last sweep across the green.
Bert watches him from his perch on the stone wall that curves around the thirteenth hole. His knees are pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, an open bottle of beer hidden between his thighs. His dirty Subway polo is bunched next to him. It'll be wrinkled by the time his shift starts, but he doesn't give a damn. Worst that can happen is Ricky fires him, and that'd just give him more time to work on the band. Bert almost wishes that'd happen, but he doesn't think he'll be that fucking lucky.
Ragged strings hang from the frayed hem of Bert's black denim shorts and he twists them between his fingers mindlessly. He's not supposed to be here; he's already been thrown out of the course three times this summer, but he's bribed the grounds superintendent with a half-gram of meth and a six-pack of beer stolen from the stash Quinn's dad keeps in the back of the garage so he's not overly worried. Bert supposes he should wonder why he likes spending his day watching Quinn circle around a sand trap. He'd rather not, though.
Quinn pulls up beside him and flashes him a bright-white grin as he shuts the lawnmower down. His bleached hair is blonder from the sun this summer, and it sticks to his temples in ways that make Bert feel a bit queasy. Or something. Maybe it's just the beer. It's his third today. He hands the bottle to Quinn and he swallows as Quinn turns it up, a thin rivulet of sweat sliding down his throat.
Bert wants to lick it away.
Instead he rubs his knuckle across his nose and stares off at the white-tipped peaks of the Wasatch Range. He can make out the whitewashed Y halfway up the face of Y Mountain. Almost a hundred fucking years later and they still haven't painted the goddamn B and U yet.
Quinn hands him back the beer. Their fingers brush and Bert shivers in the heat. "You finished here?" he asks, keeping his voice light. He pushes his hair back out of his eyes. He's dyed a few strands maroon, and they glint in the sunlight. "I've still got four hours before I have to start slapping the salami and there's a cooler of beer in my trunk."
"Dad'll shit if you took the good stuff."
Bert rolls his eyes. They're both three years away from being legal, and this is fucking Utah for Christ's sake. The land of piss-beer. The good stuff either has to go through the state package stores or be smuggled in from Wyoming and Mr. Allman keeps an eagle eye on those particular shelves. He doesn't give a shit about the cases of three-two beer he keeps stacked up next to the utility room. "I'm not an idiot. So are you going to blow off the rest of the day or what?"
"Yeah." Quinn pulls the leather gardening gloves off his hands. They're stained with sweat and dirt. He drops them into the side compartment of the tractor and bends forward, crossing his arms on the wheel. The muscles in his thin shoulders flex; his skin gleams with sweat. He squints up at Bert. "Get on unless you want to walk back up course."
Bert slides off the wall and settles on the tractor seat behind Quinn. He smells like earth and grass and Quinn, and Bert rests his chin on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn doesn't pull away; he just starts the motor again and turns the tractor up the hill.
They're halfway to the clubhouse before Bert realizes he left the beer bottle on the wall.
Fuck.
***
Five miles west, up I-15, is Utah Lake.
They sit cross-legged on the hood of Bert's battered Plymouth, a ratty, thin blanket underneath them to keep the metal from burning them. It smells faintly sour, like old beer and vomit. Bert thinks he might have used it to clean up after a party a few weeks ago and tossed it in the trunk, forgetting it needed to be washed.
Zeppelin blasts from the radio and they've already gone through four beers each and a third of a bag of weed. The water glitters in the sunlight. They're half-hidden in a stand of trees--their usual spot, quiet and peaceful and not quite as likely to be stumbled upon by some fisherman or park ranger. Quinn stubs out the last joint and stretches across the hood, his arms above his head. His white t-shirt rides up, exposing a narrow swathe of tanned skin. Bert can't look away.
Quinn looks over at him. "You talk to your mom this week?"
Bert shrugs and takes another swig of beer. "For a couple of minutes."
"And?" Quinn raises an eyebrow. The sun filters through the trees above, casting shivery shadows across his blond hair.
"The usual." Bert twists his beer between his hands. "I can't come home until I'm clean and ready to get involved in the church again." He rolls his eyes. "She asked if I wanted her to set up a meeting with the ward bishop."
Quinn snorts and turns his beer up. "Dude, all of that religious crap is fucking stupid."
"She actually thinks I'd go to a Home Evening group." Bert makes a face. Torture is what he'd call that. An evening spent with straight-edge, sparkling clean Mormon kids eager to show him The One True Way? Thanks, but no. "I'd rather be a Hare Krishna."
"Krishna krishna," Quinn sings. "Hare hare." Bert flips him off and Quinn grins. "Gurur brahma."
Bert leans closer. "I really want to see you," he sings, only slightly off-key. "Really want to be with you, really want to see you, Lord..."
"George Harrison is fucking awesome." Quinn flexes his bare feet. He's tossed his flip-flops off ages ago. His toes are dirty and there's a long scrape up his left ankle that's scabbed over. "Best Beatle ever."
"Fuck you," Bert says, appalled. "Ringo, man. Ringo." Quinn just gives him a look. Bert shakes his head. "Dude. The man was Mr. Conductor for Shining Time Station when we were kids. How much more fucking awesome can anyone get?"
Quinn just takes another swallow of beer. "You are one fucked-up bastard."
"George Carlin took his place!" Bert sits up. "Man, you can't disrespect a Beatle and the man who gave us shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits."
"I think we had those before Carlin," Quinn says dryly.
Bert kicks him.
Quinn lashes back, shoving Bert back against the windshield, his arm pressed to Bert's throat. "Fucking asshole," he says with a grin, and he's so close that his hair brushes Bert's cheek. Bert doesn't know what comes over him, but he reaches up, brushes Quinn's hair back behind his ear. Quinn freezes and Bert can feel the solid thud of his heart against his ribcage. Shit, this is bad. He knows it is. He's lost his fucking mind, but Quinn's here, over him and Bert can't fucking think anymore.
He kisses him.
Quinn's mouth is soft and chapped. He tastes like sweat and grass and Bert wants more. He slides his hands over Quinn's shoulders, down his back.
And then Quinn jerks away, staring at him, his eyes wide, and Bert realizes he's fucked up.
Shit.
"Kate," Quinn says and Bert flushes.
"We're off again," he says angrily. Quinn doesn't reply. Bert pulls away, rolling off the hood of the car. "I have to get to work," he says and he won't look at Quinn. He can't.
He can still taste Quinn though.
***
They're both quiet on the drive back to town.
Bert stares out the windshield, watching the mountains and cars flash by as he grips the steering wheel, careful not to go above the speed limit. He's still half-drunk, he knows. That's the excuse they've both made, not looking at each other. Too much beer. Too much weed. Too hot. Things happen. Stupid things.
His stomach twists. Quinn's the best fucking thing that's happened to him, and Bert knows it. If it wasn't for Quinn he'd be living God knows where, strung out on meth. Hell, he'd probably be dead by now. Quinn's given him everything. Friends. A family of sorts. Music. Everything.
Bert sneaks a look at Quinn. He's turned away, eyes fixed out the window, fist pressed to his mouth. Bert sighs and turns the radio up.
Quinn doesn't say anything until they pull up outside the Allman house. He has the door half open before he glances back at Bert. "You're coming home tonight."
It's a statement, not a question, and Bert just nods, even though he's already been wondering if he could camp out on Jeph's couch for a night or two.
"Pinky swear," Quinn says, seriously, crooking his finger. Bert rolls his eyes, but he hooks his pinky over Quinn's.
"I swear, dude."
It's enough for Quinn. He starts to climb out of the car, then hesitates and looks back at Bert. Before Bert can react, he leans over and kisses him, lips hitting the corner of Bert's mouth for the briefest moment before he pulls away. He slams the door behind him, leaves Bert staring after him as he runs up the walk.
Bert touches his mouth lightly. It takes him a moment to remember to breathe.
Motherfucker.
***
Jeremy looks up when Bert walks up to the counter. "You're late, man. Ricky'll be pissed." Bert shrugs. Jeremy studies him for a moment as he shoves another pan of wheat rolls into the oven. "I thought Kate dumped you."
"She did." Bert pops a banana pepper into his mouth and chews. He doesn't bother with gloves. What's the fucking point? He pushes himself up on the counter and swings his feet.
"Right." Jeremy wipes down the prep board with a bleach-soaked rag. "So what's with the floating in half an hour after our shift starts?" He tosses the rag into a bucket. "You only do that when you're mooning over her again."
Bert glares at him. He doesn't fucking moon. Not like that at least. "Fuck off." He can still feel the pressure of Quinn's lips against his, and he shivers. Really. He's not mooning.
The bell on the door clangs before Jeremy can answer and some guy Bert remembers as being a few years above him freshman year comes in, a baby girl strapped to his chest. At least Bert thinks it's a girl. No Mormon in his right mind would put a pink bow headband on his son, he's pretty damn sure.
"What'll you have?" he asks brightly, sliding off the counter, and the baby smiles at him. Someday he wants one of those, he thinks. Maybe. He wonders what his mom would say.
Jeremy snorts and ambles off to fix the broken Pepsi machine again.
Bert breathes a sigh of relief.
***
Quinn's bedroom is dark when Bert stumbles in at two a.m. He would have been home an hour ago, but he hung out in the parking lot with Jeremy, shitting around, smoking a pack and drinking from a half-empty plastic bottle of Barton that tasted like gasoline. His throat is raw from the nicotine and cheap vodka and his stomach lurches despite him having pulled off halfway home to puke behind a dumpster out back of the 7-11, but he's got a good buzz still and that's all that fucking matters.
The room reeks of sweat and sex and weed, and when Quinn groans quietly, Bert freezes, his hand still on the door. The last time Quinn slipped a girl in through the window he called Bert to tell him to stay out later. Bert's pretty fucking sure he doesn't have any messages on his cell. He thinks. He always forgets to charge the fucking thing.
And then Quinn mumbles, "shut the fucking door, man, before my mom comes in," and Bert does without thinking, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dim streetlight that filters through the crooked blinds. Quinn's sprawled across his bed, one foot hanging off the mattress, and his hand moves slowly, almost languorously, beneath the sheet draped across his hips. His shorts are on the floor, a crumpled heap of khaki and white cotton. Bert swallows hard. His throat aches.
"I should," he starts and then breaks off, his eyes still fixed on the movement of Quinn's hand beneath the tented sheet. He licks his bottom lip. "Bathroom," he chokes out and he turns away.
"Dude," Quinn says. Bert looks back. Quinn's watching him, eyes dark in the shadows. He's warm and gold against the blue striped sheets and he looks as fucking terrified as Bert feels. But he lifts his chin and he sits up, letting the sheet slide off him.
Bert's breath catches. It's not like he's never seen Quinn naked. Christ, you can't keep Quinn in clothes half the time. But this is different and he knows it. This is for him.
Quinn's dick bobs against his thigh, half-hard, and Bert takes a small step forward. He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth. "Man," he says and he looks at Quinn helplessly. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Fuck if I know," Quinn says and then he's on his feet, next to Bert, reaching for Bert's hips. Quinn kisses him and it's better than it was this afternoon.
"You're fucking high," Bert says as he drags his mouth along Quinn's jaw. He tastes salty and smoky, raw almost, and his faint beard scrapes Bert's chapped lips.
Quinn's hands slip under his green polyester polo. "Like you're not drunk off your ass," he mumbles into Bert's sweaty hair. "I'm surprised the cops didn't follow your fumes home."
Bert snorts and he bites Quinn's cheek. "I'm not the one jacking off for a guy."
Quinn digs his chewed fingernails into Bert's hipbones. "Fuck you," Quinn says almost angrily, and Bert pulls back. Quinn's eyes are wide and too bright; his hair falls over one eyebrow, rumpled and dirty. "I'm not fucking queer."
"Yeah, nothing queer about this," Bert snaps back and Quinn flushes and looks away. Bert shoves him onto the bed. "Fuck it, man. Just go to bed."
Quinn catches his wrist tightly as he turns towards the mattress he's shoved in the corner of the bedroom.
"Jesus." Bert glares down at Quinn, but his anger quickly fades. Quinn looks strangely subdued. Almost nervous. Quinn's never nervous. About anything.
"I want," Quinn starts and then he bites his lip. He drops Bert's wrist and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up on end, slightly snarled. "Today. I..." He looks at Bert. "Come on, man."
Bert sits on the edge of the mattress next to Quinn. Lights from a passing car sweep through the blinds, sending striped shadows across their faces. "What do you want?"
Quinn just looks at him for a long moment. "You're my best friend," he says finally. "This is a really shitty idea."
"Probably." Bert looks down at Quinn's soft cock. He's never wanted to fuck a guy before, but this is Quinn. He wonders vaguely if this really does make them fucking queer or not, and then he decides he doesn't give a shit. His fingertips brush the inside of Quinn's thigh. He looks up and Quinn meets his gaze evenly, though Bert can see the faint tremble of the pulse in his throat. Quinn lets his legs fall open a bit, and Bert makes up his mind.
His thumb slips lower, sliding through the crease of skin between Quinn's thigh and his hip, and his hand shakes as his fingers skim across Quinn's balls. They're soft and a bit crepey and the curls on them are crisp and sandy brown. Quinn's breath catches.
"Just pretend I'm a girl," Bert says with a grin, and Quinn snorts. Bert wraps his hand around Quinn's dick, and it's not that different from jacking himself, he thinks. A bit of a weird angle, sitting this way, and he can't get quite the right grip that he'd like, but it only takes a few tugs before Quinn's leaning back on his elbows, eyes closed, mouth open, his cock swelling in Bert's hands.
"Jesus fuck," Quinn murmurs. His fingers twist in the sheet beneath him, and Bert pulls harder on Quinn's dick, his breath catching when Quinn groans.
Quinn is hot beneath his fingers, and Bert watches fascinated as his hand slips around the reddening head, down Quinn's shaft. Quinn's not huge, but he's thick and heavy in Bert's palm and it's not long before Bert's hard, his cock pressing against the zipper of his shorts. Thank fucking God he's not too drunk to get it up, he thinks, and then he pushes Quinn back into the mattress, rolling on top of him and straddling his hips. Bert tugs his polo off and throws it somewhere--he hears the clatter of CD cases hitting the floor and he doesn't give a fuck. Instead he leans down and kisses Quinn, drags his tongue across Quinn's bottom lip.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Bert says, but he rocks forward, rubbing his hips against Quinn's. He's never really thought about what two guys do. Ass sex, he guesses, but there's no fucking way he's letting Quinn get his dick up his hole tonight. He's not fucking drunk enough for that.
"No shit." Quinn swears when the head of his cock catches on the button of Bert's shorts, and he nearly shoves Bert off him. He's breathing hard and he fucking looks amazing spread out beneath Bert like this. Bert rubs his thumb over one of Quinn's hard nipples. It's not that different from Kate's, he thinks, except a lot flatter. He leans in and licks it once. Quinn hisses and shifts beneath him; Bert thinks that's a good sign so he licks again, this time stopping to catch Quinn's nipple between his teeth.
Quinn's muffled fuck makes him grin.
Bert likes the way Quinn feels beneath him, long and smooth and hard and flat. He can count Quinn's ribs, his fingers skimming across them, and the slick slide of Quinn's cock against his stomach makes him hard enough to fucking pop his shorts open. It's not like he hasn't hooked up before. He's had plenty of sex since he was fifteen, with Kate and other girls. But this is different.
And then Quinn rolls him over, presses him into the sheets as he reaches down between them and unfastens Bert's shorts. He jerks the zipper down, pushes the faded black denim down over Bert's hips along with his Superman Underoos. Bert's cock slaps against Quinn's hip and Bert groans. Fuck.
"You're fucking taking too goddamn long," Quinn says breathlessly. He rubs his dick against Bert's and the smooth, slick friction makes Bert stop breathing for a moment.
Quinn ruts against him, their cocks sliding together, and he kisses Bert eagerly, all tongue and teeth and hot breath. Bert knocks his head against the wall, arching beneath Quinn because fucking Jesus Christ, who knew a dick could feel so goddamn good? He pushes up into Quinn's thrusts, twists his hips. His shorts bunch beneath his ass, and he reaches down to squeeze his balls against Quinn's.
"Shit," Quinn groans and he raises up just enough, tilting his hips so he can look down and watch their cocks together. "Come on, man. Jerk us."
Jesus. Bert grabs their cocks, his fingers barely curling around both of them. He pulls, roughly at first, and Quinn's face scrunches when Bert's fingernail scrapes over the base of his dick. He swears and Bert winces. "Sorry, man," he says apologetically and Quinn just rolls his eyes and wraps his hand around Bert's.
They move, more against each other than together, neither of them really quite certain who's supposed to be taking the lead here. It takes a few minutes before their hands and hips and dicks are in rhythm and when Quinn pulls their fingers up over the heads of their cocks, then back down their shafts, Bert slams his shoulders into the mattress with a shout.
Quinn grins down at him, his hair falling into his eyes and Bert grabs the back of his neck, jerking him down into a rough kiss. Quinn tastes like Jack and weed and Bert licks along the sharp ridges of Quinn's teeth. Quinn bites him, sucks at his tongue, scraping his teeth along the underside as he rocks his hips forward. His fingers are slick against Bert's; his brown shoulders tighten and flex. He's fucking gorgeous.
And then Bert's coming, his body shaking, his hips jerking and bucking against Quinn's. Come leaks through his fingers, dripping stickily on his stomach, and he smears it down Quinn's cock with his next stroke. "Come on," he whispers in Quinn's ear and he bites the lobe, tugs on it with his teeth. Quinn moans. His hand slips away, catches him as he lurches forward, his cock heavy against Bert's softening dick.
"Yeah," Quinn gasps out. He throws his head back. Bert leans up, swipes his tongue along the side of his salty-slick throat and Quinn shudders.
Another quick jerk of Quinn's cock and Bert pushes him back against the mattress, rolling on him and staring down in delight as Quinn grabs at the sheets wildly. Spunk spurts over Bert's tight fist. Bert can barely breathe as he watches. It's nothing like seeing a girl come, feeling her clench wetly around his fingers or dick. He likes this. Likes the tremble of Quinn's flat stomach. Likes the warm mess that smears across his hand, Quinn's dick. Bert drags his fingers through it and lifts them to his mouth. Quinn tastes salty-bitter. Almost like he does, but not quite the same. Bert licks his fingertips again, a delicate flick of his tongue against skin. He thinks he likes the taste.
Quinn lies beneath him, gasping, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. He runs his hands over his face. "Jesus fuck," he mumbles and Bert laughs. Quinn shoves him off; Bert spread-eagles across the bottom of the bed. He shoves his shorts and underwear down his legs, kicking them across the room, then toes off his Vans. They thud against the floor. He stretches, luxuriating in being naked. The air conditioning blows across his skin, goosepimpling his arms.
"That was fucking awesome," Bert says, wiping his hand on the sheet. He drags a corner of it up and rubs it across Quinn's stomach, cleaning off the come. Their come. He laughs again.
"It wasn't bad." Quinn grins and he rolls over, his ass up in the air as he digs in the drawer of his nightstand. Bert can't stop himself from leaning over and licking across the pale skin, his tongue just barely dipping into Quinn's crease. Quinn yelps and kicks back. Bert hits the wall with a cackle and grabs Quinn's foot. He bites at his ankle and nearly gets his teeth knocked out.
Quinn has a bag of weed in one hand; he sits up and rolls a joint carefully, only losing a dusting of broken leaves in the rumpled sheets. They'll find them later. He lights up and takes a slow drag, then hands the joint to Bert. They're silent for a moment. Bert breathes out a stream of smoke. "So," he says finally. "Doing this again?"
The air conditioner rumbles in the vent. Quinn shrugs and reaches for the joint. "Maybe." He looks at Bert out of the corner of his eye. "If you want."
Bert settles next to Quinn, his hair catching on the corner of the pillowcase. He presses his back against the wall. "I might." He leans over and brushes his mouth against Quinn's. He breathes in the weed.
"Cocksucker," Quinn murmurs, but he doesn't pull away.
"Next time," Bert promises with a grin against Quinn's lips as Quinn groans. He slides down, lays his head against Quinn's shoulders. He could get used to this he thinks. Maybe.
He closes his eyes and sleeps.
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Fandom: The Used
Rating: NC-17
Word count: approx. 4,100
Summary: Bert supposes he should wonder why he likes spending his day watching Quinn circle around a sand trap.
Disclaimer: All the boys belong to themselves and this never happened.
Author Notes: Many thanks to luciamad, supergrover24 and ze_dragon for their wonderful betas. Written for The Used Multimedia Exchange at usedfic and for valerie_z who asked for Bert/Quinn, 18-year-old first time. Title nicked from Frightened Rabbit.
August is fucking hot in Provo, and Quinn's brown from mornings spent maneuvering a lawn tractor across the lushly green eighteen holes of Riverside Country Club. He pushes his sunglasses up on his forehead, blinking away the sweat that drips into his eyes, and turns the wheel of the tractor for one last sweep across the green.
Bert watches him from his perch on the stone wall that curves around the thirteenth hole. His knees are pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, an open bottle of beer hidden between his thighs. His dirty Subway polo is bunched next to him. It'll be wrinkled by the time his shift starts, but he doesn't give a damn. Worst that can happen is Ricky fires him, and that'd just give him more time to work on the band. Bert almost wishes that'd happen, but he doesn't think he'll be that fucking lucky.
Ragged strings hang from the frayed hem of Bert's black denim shorts and he twists them between his fingers mindlessly. He's not supposed to be here; he's already been thrown out of the course three times this summer, but he's bribed the grounds superintendent with a half-gram of meth and a six-pack of beer stolen from the stash Quinn's dad keeps in the back of the garage so he's not overly worried. Bert supposes he should wonder why he likes spending his day watching Quinn circle around a sand trap. He'd rather not, though.
Quinn pulls up beside him and flashes him a bright-white grin as he shuts the lawnmower down. His bleached hair is blonder from the sun this summer, and it sticks to his temples in ways that make Bert feel a bit queasy. Or something. Maybe it's just the beer. It's his third today. He hands the bottle to Quinn and he swallows as Quinn turns it up, a thin rivulet of sweat sliding down his throat.
Bert wants to lick it away.
Instead he rubs his knuckle across his nose and stares off at the white-tipped peaks of the Wasatch Range. He can make out the whitewashed Y halfway up the face of Y Mountain. Almost a hundred fucking years later and they still haven't painted the goddamn B and U yet.
Quinn hands him back the beer. Their fingers brush and Bert shivers in the heat. "You finished here?" he asks, keeping his voice light. He pushes his hair back out of his eyes. He's dyed a few strands maroon, and they glint in the sunlight. "I've still got four hours before I have to start slapping the salami and there's a cooler of beer in my trunk."
"Dad'll shit if you took the good stuff."
Bert rolls his eyes. They're both three years away from being legal, and this is fucking Utah for Christ's sake. The land of piss-beer. The good stuff either has to go through the state package stores or be smuggled in from Wyoming and Mr. Allman keeps an eagle eye on those particular shelves. He doesn't give a shit about the cases of three-two beer he keeps stacked up next to the utility room. "I'm not an idiot. So are you going to blow off the rest of the day or what?"
"Yeah." Quinn pulls the leather gardening gloves off his hands. They're stained with sweat and dirt. He drops them into the side compartment of the tractor and bends forward, crossing his arms on the wheel. The muscles in his thin shoulders flex; his skin gleams with sweat. He squints up at Bert. "Get on unless you want to walk back up course."
Bert slides off the wall and settles on the tractor seat behind Quinn. He smells like earth and grass and Quinn, and Bert rests his chin on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn doesn't pull away; he just starts the motor again and turns the tractor up the hill.
They're halfway to the clubhouse before Bert realizes he left the beer bottle on the wall.
Fuck.
***
Five miles west, up I-15, is Utah Lake.
They sit cross-legged on the hood of Bert's battered Plymouth, a ratty, thin blanket underneath them to keep the metal from burning them. It smells faintly sour, like old beer and vomit. Bert thinks he might have used it to clean up after a party a few weeks ago and tossed it in the trunk, forgetting it needed to be washed.
Zeppelin blasts from the radio and they've already gone through four beers each and a third of a bag of weed. The water glitters in the sunlight. They're half-hidden in a stand of trees--their usual spot, quiet and peaceful and not quite as likely to be stumbled upon by some fisherman or park ranger. Quinn stubs out the last joint and stretches across the hood, his arms above his head. His white t-shirt rides up, exposing a narrow swathe of tanned skin. Bert can't look away.
Quinn looks over at him. "You talk to your mom this week?"
Bert shrugs and takes another swig of beer. "For a couple of minutes."
"And?" Quinn raises an eyebrow. The sun filters through the trees above, casting shivery shadows across his blond hair.
"The usual." Bert twists his beer between his hands. "I can't come home until I'm clean and ready to get involved in the church again." He rolls his eyes. "She asked if I wanted her to set up a meeting with the ward bishop."
Quinn snorts and turns his beer up. "Dude, all of that religious crap is fucking stupid."
"She actually thinks I'd go to a Home Evening group." Bert makes a face. Torture is what he'd call that. An evening spent with straight-edge, sparkling clean Mormon kids eager to show him The One True Way? Thanks, but no. "I'd rather be a Hare Krishna."
"Krishna krishna," Quinn sings. "Hare hare." Bert flips him off and Quinn grins. "Gurur brahma."
Bert leans closer. "I really want to see you," he sings, only slightly off-key. "Really want to be with you, really want to see you, Lord..."
"George Harrison is fucking awesome." Quinn flexes his bare feet. He's tossed his flip-flops off ages ago. His toes are dirty and there's a long scrape up his left ankle that's scabbed over. "Best Beatle ever."
"Fuck you," Bert says, appalled. "Ringo, man. Ringo." Quinn just gives him a look. Bert shakes his head. "Dude. The man was Mr. Conductor for Shining Time Station when we were kids. How much more fucking awesome can anyone get?"
Quinn just takes another swallow of beer. "You are one fucked-up bastard."
"George Carlin took his place!" Bert sits up. "Man, you can't disrespect a Beatle and the man who gave us shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits."
"I think we had those before Carlin," Quinn says dryly.
Bert kicks him.
Quinn lashes back, shoving Bert back against the windshield, his arm pressed to Bert's throat. "Fucking asshole," he says with a grin, and he's so close that his hair brushes Bert's cheek. Bert doesn't know what comes over him, but he reaches up, brushes Quinn's hair back behind his ear. Quinn freezes and Bert can feel the solid thud of his heart against his ribcage. Shit, this is bad. He knows it is. He's lost his fucking mind, but Quinn's here, over him and Bert can't fucking think anymore.
He kisses him.
Quinn's mouth is soft and chapped. He tastes like sweat and grass and Bert wants more. He slides his hands over Quinn's shoulders, down his back.
And then Quinn jerks away, staring at him, his eyes wide, and Bert realizes he's fucked up.
Shit.
"Kate," Quinn says and Bert flushes.
"We're off again," he says angrily. Quinn doesn't reply. Bert pulls away, rolling off the hood of the car. "I have to get to work," he says and he won't look at Quinn. He can't.
He can still taste Quinn though.
***
They're both quiet on the drive back to town.
Bert stares out the windshield, watching the mountains and cars flash by as he grips the steering wheel, careful not to go above the speed limit. He's still half-drunk, he knows. That's the excuse they've both made, not looking at each other. Too much beer. Too much weed. Too hot. Things happen. Stupid things.
His stomach twists. Quinn's the best fucking thing that's happened to him, and Bert knows it. If it wasn't for Quinn he'd be living God knows where, strung out on meth. Hell, he'd probably be dead by now. Quinn's given him everything. Friends. A family of sorts. Music. Everything.
Bert sneaks a look at Quinn. He's turned away, eyes fixed out the window, fist pressed to his mouth. Bert sighs and turns the radio up.
Quinn doesn't say anything until they pull up outside the Allman house. He has the door half open before he glances back at Bert. "You're coming home tonight."
It's a statement, not a question, and Bert just nods, even though he's already been wondering if he could camp out on Jeph's couch for a night or two.
"Pinky swear," Quinn says, seriously, crooking his finger. Bert rolls his eyes, but he hooks his pinky over Quinn's.
"I swear, dude."
It's enough for Quinn. He starts to climb out of the car, then hesitates and looks back at Bert. Before Bert can react, he leans over and kisses him, lips hitting the corner of Bert's mouth for the briefest moment before he pulls away. He slams the door behind him, leaves Bert staring after him as he runs up the walk.
Bert touches his mouth lightly. It takes him a moment to remember to breathe.
Motherfucker.
***
Jeremy looks up when Bert walks up to the counter. "You're late, man. Ricky'll be pissed." Bert shrugs. Jeremy studies him for a moment as he shoves another pan of wheat rolls into the oven. "I thought Kate dumped you."
"She did." Bert pops a banana pepper into his mouth and chews. He doesn't bother with gloves. What's the fucking point? He pushes himself up on the counter and swings his feet.
"Right." Jeremy wipes down the prep board with a bleach-soaked rag. "So what's with the floating in half an hour after our shift starts?" He tosses the rag into a bucket. "You only do that when you're mooning over her again."
Bert glares at him. He doesn't fucking moon. Not like that at least. "Fuck off." He can still feel the pressure of Quinn's lips against his, and he shivers. Really. He's not mooning.
The bell on the door clangs before Jeremy can answer and some guy Bert remembers as being a few years above him freshman year comes in, a baby girl strapped to his chest. At least Bert thinks it's a girl. No Mormon in his right mind would put a pink bow headband on his son, he's pretty damn sure.
"What'll you have?" he asks brightly, sliding off the counter, and the baby smiles at him. Someday he wants one of those, he thinks. Maybe. He wonders what his mom would say.
Jeremy snorts and ambles off to fix the broken Pepsi machine again.
Bert breathes a sigh of relief.
***
Quinn's bedroom is dark when Bert stumbles in at two a.m. He would have been home an hour ago, but he hung out in the parking lot with Jeremy, shitting around, smoking a pack and drinking from a half-empty plastic bottle of Barton that tasted like gasoline. His throat is raw from the nicotine and cheap vodka and his stomach lurches despite him having pulled off halfway home to puke behind a dumpster out back of the 7-11, but he's got a good buzz still and that's all that fucking matters.
The room reeks of sweat and sex and weed, and when Quinn groans quietly, Bert freezes, his hand still on the door. The last time Quinn slipped a girl in through the window he called Bert to tell him to stay out later. Bert's pretty fucking sure he doesn't have any messages on his cell. He thinks. He always forgets to charge the fucking thing.
And then Quinn mumbles, "shut the fucking door, man, before my mom comes in," and Bert does without thinking, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dim streetlight that filters through the crooked blinds. Quinn's sprawled across his bed, one foot hanging off the mattress, and his hand moves slowly, almost languorously, beneath the sheet draped across his hips. His shorts are on the floor, a crumpled heap of khaki and white cotton. Bert swallows hard. His throat aches.
"I should," he starts and then breaks off, his eyes still fixed on the movement of Quinn's hand beneath the tented sheet. He licks his bottom lip. "Bathroom," he chokes out and he turns away.
"Dude," Quinn says. Bert looks back. Quinn's watching him, eyes dark in the shadows. He's warm and gold against the blue striped sheets and he looks as fucking terrified as Bert feels. But he lifts his chin and he sits up, letting the sheet slide off him.
Bert's breath catches. It's not like he's never seen Quinn naked. Christ, you can't keep Quinn in clothes half the time. But this is different and he knows it. This is for him.
Quinn's dick bobs against his thigh, half-hard, and Bert takes a small step forward. He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth. "Man," he says and he looks at Quinn helplessly. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Fuck if I know," Quinn says and then he's on his feet, next to Bert, reaching for Bert's hips. Quinn kisses him and it's better than it was this afternoon.
"You're fucking high," Bert says as he drags his mouth along Quinn's jaw. He tastes salty and smoky, raw almost, and his faint beard scrapes Bert's chapped lips.
Quinn's hands slip under his green polyester polo. "Like you're not drunk off your ass," he mumbles into Bert's sweaty hair. "I'm surprised the cops didn't follow your fumes home."
Bert snorts and he bites Quinn's cheek. "I'm not the one jacking off for a guy."
Quinn digs his chewed fingernails into Bert's hipbones. "Fuck you," Quinn says almost angrily, and Bert pulls back. Quinn's eyes are wide and too bright; his hair falls over one eyebrow, rumpled and dirty. "I'm not fucking queer."
"Yeah, nothing queer about this," Bert snaps back and Quinn flushes and looks away. Bert shoves him onto the bed. "Fuck it, man. Just go to bed."
Quinn catches his wrist tightly as he turns towards the mattress he's shoved in the corner of the bedroom.
"Jesus." Bert glares down at Quinn, but his anger quickly fades. Quinn looks strangely subdued. Almost nervous. Quinn's never nervous. About anything.
"I want," Quinn starts and then he bites his lip. He drops Bert's wrist and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up on end, slightly snarled. "Today. I..." He looks at Bert. "Come on, man."
Bert sits on the edge of the mattress next to Quinn. Lights from a passing car sweep through the blinds, sending striped shadows across their faces. "What do you want?"
Quinn just looks at him for a long moment. "You're my best friend," he says finally. "This is a really shitty idea."
"Probably." Bert looks down at Quinn's soft cock. He's never wanted to fuck a guy before, but this is Quinn. He wonders vaguely if this really does make them fucking queer or not, and then he decides he doesn't give a shit. His fingertips brush the inside of Quinn's thigh. He looks up and Quinn meets his gaze evenly, though Bert can see the faint tremble of the pulse in his throat. Quinn lets his legs fall open a bit, and Bert makes up his mind.
His thumb slips lower, sliding through the crease of skin between Quinn's thigh and his hip, and his hand shakes as his fingers skim across Quinn's balls. They're soft and a bit crepey and the curls on them are crisp and sandy brown. Quinn's breath catches.
"Just pretend I'm a girl," Bert says with a grin, and Quinn snorts. Bert wraps his hand around Quinn's dick, and it's not that different from jacking himself, he thinks. A bit of a weird angle, sitting this way, and he can't get quite the right grip that he'd like, but it only takes a few tugs before Quinn's leaning back on his elbows, eyes closed, mouth open, his cock swelling in Bert's hands.
"Jesus fuck," Quinn murmurs. His fingers twist in the sheet beneath him, and Bert pulls harder on Quinn's dick, his breath catching when Quinn groans.
Quinn is hot beneath his fingers, and Bert watches fascinated as his hand slips around the reddening head, down Quinn's shaft. Quinn's not huge, but he's thick and heavy in Bert's palm and it's not long before Bert's hard, his cock pressing against the zipper of his shorts. Thank fucking God he's not too drunk to get it up, he thinks, and then he pushes Quinn back into the mattress, rolling on top of him and straddling his hips. Bert tugs his polo off and throws it somewhere--he hears the clatter of CD cases hitting the floor and he doesn't give a fuck. Instead he leans down and kisses Quinn, drags his tongue across Quinn's bottom lip.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Bert says, but he rocks forward, rubbing his hips against Quinn's. He's never really thought about what two guys do. Ass sex, he guesses, but there's no fucking way he's letting Quinn get his dick up his hole tonight. He's not fucking drunk enough for that.
"No shit." Quinn swears when the head of his cock catches on the button of Bert's shorts, and he nearly shoves Bert off him. He's breathing hard and he fucking looks amazing spread out beneath Bert like this. Bert rubs his thumb over one of Quinn's hard nipples. It's not that different from Kate's, he thinks, except a lot flatter. He leans in and licks it once. Quinn hisses and shifts beneath him; Bert thinks that's a good sign so he licks again, this time stopping to catch Quinn's nipple between his teeth.
Quinn's muffled fuck makes him grin.
Bert likes the way Quinn feels beneath him, long and smooth and hard and flat. He can count Quinn's ribs, his fingers skimming across them, and the slick slide of Quinn's cock against his stomach makes him hard enough to fucking pop his shorts open. It's not like he hasn't hooked up before. He's had plenty of sex since he was fifteen, with Kate and other girls. But this is different.
And then Quinn rolls him over, presses him into the sheets as he reaches down between them and unfastens Bert's shorts. He jerks the zipper down, pushes the faded black denim down over Bert's hips along with his Superman Underoos. Bert's cock slaps against Quinn's hip and Bert groans. Fuck.
"You're fucking taking too goddamn long," Quinn says breathlessly. He rubs his dick against Bert's and the smooth, slick friction makes Bert stop breathing for a moment.
Quinn ruts against him, their cocks sliding together, and he kisses Bert eagerly, all tongue and teeth and hot breath. Bert knocks his head against the wall, arching beneath Quinn because fucking Jesus Christ, who knew a dick could feel so goddamn good? He pushes up into Quinn's thrusts, twists his hips. His shorts bunch beneath his ass, and he reaches down to squeeze his balls against Quinn's.
"Shit," Quinn groans and he raises up just enough, tilting his hips so he can look down and watch their cocks together. "Come on, man. Jerk us."
Jesus. Bert grabs their cocks, his fingers barely curling around both of them. He pulls, roughly at first, and Quinn's face scrunches when Bert's fingernail scrapes over the base of his dick. He swears and Bert winces. "Sorry, man," he says apologetically and Quinn just rolls his eyes and wraps his hand around Bert's.
They move, more against each other than together, neither of them really quite certain who's supposed to be taking the lead here. It takes a few minutes before their hands and hips and dicks are in rhythm and when Quinn pulls their fingers up over the heads of their cocks, then back down their shafts, Bert slams his shoulders into the mattress with a shout.
Quinn grins down at him, his hair falling into his eyes and Bert grabs the back of his neck, jerking him down into a rough kiss. Quinn tastes like Jack and weed and Bert licks along the sharp ridges of Quinn's teeth. Quinn bites him, sucks at his tongue, scraping his teeth along the underside as he rocks his hips forward. His fingers are slick against Bert's; his brown shoulders tighten and flex. He's fucking gorgeous.
And then Bert's coming, his body shaking, his hips jerking and bucking against Quinn's. Come leaks through his fingers, dripping stickily on his stomach, and he smears it down Quinn's cock with his next stroke. "Come on," he whispers in Quinn's ear and he bites the lobe, tugs on it with his teeth. Quinn moans. His hand slips away, catches him as he lurches forward, his cock heavy against Bert's softening dick.
"Yeah," Quinn gasps out. He throws his head back. Bert leans up, swipes his tongue along the side of his salty-slick throat and Quinn shudders.
Another quick jerk of Quinn's cock and Bert pushes him back against the mattress, rolling on him and staring down in delight as Quinn grabs at the sheets wildly. Spunk spurts over Bert's tight fist. Bert can barely breathe as he watches. It's nothing like seeing a girl come, feeling her clench wetly around his fingers or dick. He likes this. Likes the tremble of Quinn's flat stomach. Likes the warm mess that smears across his hand, Quinn's dick. Bert drags his fingers through it and lifts them to his mouth. Quinn tastes salty-bitter. Almost like he does, but not quite the same. Bert licks his fingertips again, a delicate flick of his tongue against skin. He thinks he likes the taste.
Quinn lies beneath him, gasping, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. He runs his hands over his face. "Jesus fuck," he mumbles and Bert laughs. Quinn shoves him off; Bert spread-eagles across the bottom of the bed. He shoves his shorts and underwear down his legs, kicking them across the room, then toes off his Vans. They thud against the floor. He stretches, luxuriating in being naked. The air conditioning blows across his skin, goosepimpling his arms.
"That was fucking awesome," Bert says, wiping his hand on the sheet. He drags a corner of it up and rubs it across Quinn's stomach, cleaning off the come. Their come. He laughs again.
"It wasn't bad." Quinn grins and he rolls over, his ass up in the air as he digs in the drawer of his nightstand. Bert can't stop himself from leaning over and licking across the pale skin, his tongue just barely dipping into Quinn's crease. Quinn yelps and kicks back. Bert hits the wall with a cackle and grabs Quinn's foot. He bites at his ankle and nearly gets his teeth knocked out.
Quinn has a bag of weed in one hand; he sits up and rolls a joint carefully, only losing a dusting of broken leaves in the rumpled sheets. They'll find them later. He lights up and takes a slow drag, then hands the joint to Bert. They're silent for a moment. Bert breathes out a stream of smoke. "So," he says finally. "Doing this again?"
The air conditioner rumbles in the vent. Quinn shrugs and reaches for the joint. "Maybe." He looks at Bert out of the corner of his eye. "If you want."
Bert settles next to Quinn, his hair catching on the corner of the pillowcase. He presses his back against the wall. "I might." He leans over and brushes his mouth against Quinn's. He breathes in the weed.
"Cocksucker," Quinn murmurs, but he doesn't pull away.
"Next time," Bert promises with a grin against Quinn's lips as Quinn groans. He slides down, lays his head against Quinn's shoulders. He could get used to this he thinks. Maybe.
He closes his eyes and sleeps.