Sorta Like a Death Cab Song
ooc: written for fey_fire and the snuggle meme. Not binding but obviously set some point in the future.
The fun thing about being a rock star was getting rooms comped at nice hotels, even in your hometown. Especially in your hometown. Well, if you wanted to count New York City as Rory Stone’s home. Peter Webster used to think it was somewhat absurd to stay in a hotel mere blocks away from your own bedroom but…this was the Waldorf Astoria and this was Breaker Street.
Of course, he was supposed to be crashing in Sascha’s room for the night-once the party died down, but the keyboardist had found herself something more interesting in her estimation than her old cuddle-buddy. He would have just cabbed it on home after the drinking and dancing and general mayhem but Rory insisted he stay.
The lead singer obviously a bit more selective than the youngest member of his band, he wasn’t about to bring just anyone into the very generous bed in his suite. Peter certainly wasn’t going to argue. He and Rory had been playing a bit of do we or don’t we most of the night: dancing a little too close, hands wandering just a little too much…there may have been a drunken kiss or two in a darkened corner.
At least Peter had been tipsy. Rory may have just enjoyed the feel of hungry lips against his and a hard body under his hands. No one said anything when the two left the noise and the crowd, shutting the double-doors and locking them not so much because they had anything to hide but because they didn’t want anyone joining them. Besides, the quiet was bliss all on its own.
Peter flopped onto the bed, toeing his shoes off as an afterthought. He smiled as the Irish singer dropped next to him, just as casually. Relaxed. Comfortable. No expectations. Neither one said anything for the longest time-they didn’t need to, really. All the silly flirting and outrageous innuendo had been spoken, neither one were into making meaningless promises, their friendship wasn’t going to change because of anything that did or didn’t happen here.
As it turned out, the only thing that did happen was the two of them falling asleep, fully clothed. Sure, Peter may have inched closer and Rory then turned on his side while wrapping his arms around the shorter man, snuggling him close. Peter’s fingers may have played through Rory’s hair and across the back of his neck. Rory likely buried his face in Peter’s neck before he stopped fighting the pull of sleep and Peter would have tucked a hand into the back pocket of Rory’s jeans before doing the same.
Regardless of how they fell asleep, the morning found the pair in a tangle of limbs and sheets, agreeing that the bright sun was evil and one of them needed to get up and draw the curtains.
The fun thing about being a rock star was getting rooms comped at nice hotels, even in your hometown. Especially in your hometown. Well, if you wanted to count New York City as Rory Stone’s home. Peter Webster used to think it was somewhat absurd to stay in a hotel mere blocks away from your own bedroom but…this was the Waldorf Astoria and this was Breaker Street.
Of course, he was supposed to be crashing in Sascha’s room for the night-once the party died down, but the keyboardist had found herself something more interesting in her estimation than her old cuddle-buddy. He would have just cabbed it on home after the drinking and dancing and general mayhem but Rory insisted he stay.
The lead singer obviously a bit more selective than the youngest member of his band, he wasn’t about to bring just anyone into the very generous bed in his suite. Peter certainly wasn’t going to argue. He and Rory had been playing a bit of do we or don’t we most of the night: dancing a little too close, hands wandering just a little too much…there may have been a drunken kiss or two in a darkened corner.
At least Peter had been tipsy. Rory may have just enjoyed the feel of hungry lips against his and a hard body under his hands. No one said anything when the two left the noise and the crowd, shutting the double-doors and locking them not so much because they had anything to hide but because they didn’t want anyone joining them. Besides, the quiet was bliss all on its own.
Peter flopped onto the bed, toeing his shoes off as an afterthought. He smiled as the Irish singer dropped next to him, just as casually. Relaxed. Comfortable. No expectations. Neither one said anything for the longest time-they didn’t need to, really. All the silly flirting and outrageous innuendo had been spoken, neither one were into making meaningless promises, their friendship wasn’t going to change because of anything that did or didn’t happen here.
As it turned out, the only thing that did happen was the two of them falling asleep, fully clothed. Sure, Peter may have inched closer and Rory then turned on his side while wrapping his arms around the shorter man, snuggling him close. Peter’s fingers may have played through Rory’s hair and across the back of his neck. Rory likely buried his face in Peter’s neck before he stopped fighting the pull of sleep and Peter would have tucked a hand into the back pocket of Rory’s jeans before doing the same.
Regardless of how they fell asleep, the morning found the pair in a tangle of limbs and sheets, agreeing that the bright sun was evil and one of them needed to get up and draw the curtains.