fic, Lost: And He Left My Heart With Vertigo (Boone/Charlie), NC17, for un_love_you
Title: And He Left My Heart With Vertigo
Characters/Pairing: Boone/Charlie
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: come on, you really think such stuff wouldn't be canon if Lost was mine?
Word count: 4200
Spoilers: pre-series, so none apart from the basic biography of the characters.
Summary: This groupie is a he and usually he-groupies choose Liam. Not him. When there are any he-groupies at all. In his head, Charlie has been calling this bloke His Prettiness since he set eyes on him backstage.
A/N: for un_love_you #4, I need to want you. Thanks to the mostly awesome dustyirish2003 for the quick and great beta-ing job with this one. Title stolen from a Bon Jovi song even if the whole thing came pretty much as flash while I was listening to Guns n' Roses. Won for Best Slash Fic at lost_fic_awards, October 2008.
The wall of his dressing room feels hard and cool against his back as Charlie is shoved unceremoniously against it; he’s barely able to think that this is really bloody weird, or at least as weird as it gets for him in the whole having-sex-with-groupies business before two hands are taking his leather trousers quickly down and thinking straight stops being a priority.
Now, it’s not that Charlie hasn’t always had his share of groupies; sure, it was a share smaller than Liam’s, but that really wasn’t a problem. Meant less time spent in the confessional, though he thinks that with this one he’s making up for lost time. He figures he’ll have hours of material worth confessing when this is over. Also because, well, this isn’t his usual kind of groupie. Not at all. He should have imagined that in America things couldn’t be exactly the same as in England. Or Europe. Or whatever.
A couple of lips which are too plump and full and soft and pink to be actually real hover dangerously close to his aching cock; then they wrap around it, taking it in, deep, and Charlie moans desperately, squirming against the wall, desperately trying to say something which isn’t oh fuck.
He fails. Nothing else comes out of his lips and oh God, he has to push his hips forward now, he just has to, and he looks down and God, he still can’t believe that right now he’s being given head by this... this bloody groupie or whatever who is way prettier than any groupie he has ever fucked and than any groupie Liam has ever fucked and who had gone straight to him and followed him to his dressing room without giving Liam more than a look.
This groupie’s hair is of a warm chestnut brown shade and it’s soft, it feels so good and silky under Charlie’s fingers when his hands grip it as he thrusts harder; this groupie’s eyes are enormous, of a deep blue that Charlie can compare only to the crystal-clear blue of the Atlantic Ocean he had seen in Ireland on a particularly sunny but chilly day; this groupie’s shoes are discarded in a corner and Charlie can barely make bare feet out in that same dim light, along with low jeans ripped in a couple of places and an over-sized Woodstock t-shirt. This groupie’s cheeks are in a perpetual deep, red flush that becomes even deeper as Charlie keeps on helplessly fucking that bloody pretty mouth; this groupie is a he and usually he-groupies choose Liam. Not him. When there are any he-groupies at all. In his head, Charlie has been calling this bloke His Prettiness since he set eyes on him backstage.
He moans incoherently as that pretty, pretty mouth adjusts to his rhythm and there’s a moment in which a flick of tongue accompanied by those goddamn blue eyes opening up for a second, a pretty fucking wicked glint passing over them, brings spasms all through his body. He shivers and curses and thrusts harder, unable to look down, his hands gripping spasmodically on soft, damp hair before he mutters something he can’t decipher himself before coming inside His Prettiness’ mouth, hard, so hard, he can’t ever remember something such as this, a sort of blinding light exploding beneath his eyelids and God he’s swallowing down and Charlie, as he tries to stand even if his knees threaten to give way, thinks he’s done for tonight. Really.
Then he opens his eyes, sees the pink tip of a tongue showing up and licking something sticky and translucent over His Prettiness’ lips and as he feels his cock stirring he realizes that maybe he might not be done for tonight, after all..
His Prettiness’ hair is messed up, his neck damp with sweat and that over-sized shirt too; his cheeks are so, so, so flushed, the blue eyes are glistening still and those jeans are so tight that it takes a look to see that he has something to take care of, too. And Charlie thinks that he’d be bloody glad to do the job, also because some signs of definitive interest downstairs follow that scattered thought just after he formulates it.
The corner of those soft, full lips cracks up in half a smile.
“So what, now?”
The accent is soft, definitely not from New York. Or at least it’s not similar to all the roadies that have been around them for the three dates here in New York City. He wonders what is this guy doing here, if it isn’t even his city. Not his business, though. Now he really wants to know just a couple of things. Just a couple.
“Couple of questions first.”
“You go.”
“First... mate, I’d really like to, uhm, know your name. Guess you know mine, it’s a bit unfair. Right?”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right. I’m Boone.”
“Good. Nice to meet you, mate. Really,” he says trying to regain his breath. “I know you already know mine. Not to get weird, y’know. And... well, second thing, I really hope that you’ve got condoms, mate. I really do.”
His Prett... pardon, Boone, laughs then, a soft, deep, genuine laugh and Charlie feels himself flushing and oh God, this is so worth three trips to the confessional. Maybe even four. Suddenly Charlie needs, physically needs to touch him, oh, he wants it, or he needs to want it maybe, or whatever the bloody fuck it is, he doesn’t even know now. He thinks his brain is going into short circuit. Boone’s hands are on his knees when he raises his head and winks at Charlie, sending a new rush of blood straight to his groin. Fucking bloody tease, Charlie thinks, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. No way he couldn’t be conscious of it.
“I think I have one. Maybe even two.”
Boone reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, takes out two transparent packages, nods and throws Charlie one. He grabs it with shaking fingers. He still doesn’t get how is it that Boone hasn’t gone Liam’s way. He just can’t have not gone Liam’s way. Hell, the groupies Charlie gets half of the times are disappointed or even slightly upset because Liam can’t take more than five people, but this one guy is just staring at him right into his eyes and oh damn, his knees are so going to give out.
“Something’s troubling you?”
Boone raises an eyebrow and Charlie has to give it to him. He’s pretty bloody perceptive. Way too bloody perceptive for your usual groupie and suddenly it clicks with him.
Liam takes stuff. Charlie has never found proof that Liam uses anything stronger than good old Mary Jane, not until now, but the usual groupies? Usually they’re all more or less stoned. In different degrees, true, but still stoned. And even more when they get out of Liam’s dressing room, but whatever. This guy isn’t stoned. Not at all. Suddenly Charlie thinks that he won’t go around telling all of his friends that he had sex with this famous guy in his dressing room. Also, he looks pretty young. A bit too much.
He goes the safe route.
“Uhm, well, not to ruin things because I really wouldn’t want to and I swear I’ll shut up in a second, but are you legal?”
Boone laughs again and the activity downstairs increases. Fuck.
“Well, maybe in this country I wouldn’t be allowed to have a drink, maybe, but in your country, I’d be. Also, the girls that your brother took in his room? Man, definitely not legal under every standard.”
Oh, damn, Charlie thinks. He so needs to try to talk about it with Liam. For fuck’s sake, Charlie’s not even twenty-three and maybe he could get away with seventeen-year old girls, but Liam isn’t and... oh fuck. Then again, if His Prett... Boone would get drinks in England but not here he has to be older than eighteen and younger than twenty-one and sincerely, eighteen is good enough. He knows what he wants more than Charlie does, actually. Probably. Whatever.
Boone comes nearer, oh-so-nearer and now he’s right in front of him and Charlie can feel his breath over his lips and God, he wants to kiss him right here and now. Not that only, sure, but that’d be the first point of the list. List that would probably be short and go like, one: kiss the bloody hell out of the guy, two: throw him on the nearest flat surface; three: take care of business for the both of you, but he doesn’t do it still.
“But that wasn’t your problem, was it?”
Pretty damn bloody perceptive, though answering with that sentence whispered in your ear and a leg rubbing against your thigh doesn’t really help you answering coherently. Like hell.
“I was... just... uhm... wondering...”
“What?”
“I mean... usually... you know, people always go to Liam first and well, you barely looked at him and that’s pretty... uhm, pretty bloody strange for a DriveShaft backstage and...”
Two hands find his waist and electricity jolts run down Charlie’s spine. Oh, fuck.
“See, I think you’re missing a point here. I’m not here because I do it with any group that comes playing in this club. To be honest, this is actually the first time I'm doing this whole backstage business. I mean, not the same sex business. I do that pretty often, actually.”
Charlie swallows and nods while Boone’s cheeks flush again; God, and now why is this forming a sort of knot in his stomach? The guy looks embarrassed, fuck it. Embarrassed when he did that before?
“But, I always go here in the evenings, whoever plays. And let me tell you, your music is not my style. Not your ...famous stuff anyway.”
Charlie has an idea that it’s a polite way to tell him that You, All, Everybody sucks, but it’s not like he can argue. He doesn’t like it much himself, these days.
“So, I attend lots of concerts. And your brother might be prettier than you and stuff, but he steals your lines half of the time...”
“How the hell did you...?”
”A look at your face is all it takes. Shut up and let me finish. So, I was saying, he steals your lines, he only eyed the pretty girls in first row and maybe still gives a damn about the music, but not as much as you do. Am I right?”
Charlie doesn’t answer and just nods, swallowing down again. God. This bloke is bloody perceptive.
“See, you are completely different. You might not be as... let’s say glamorous as he is, but I don’t give a fuck. Also, he’s really not my type.”
“Why, and I am?”
“Surely more than he is. And finally, I prefer blonds. Now, are you satisfied? Because you know, I
kind of reached my limit. With talking, I mean.”
At this point Charlie decides that this is too fucking much and his hands suddenly are on Boone’s face and those lips are on his, so soft that for a second he thinks of sugar melting under his tongue as he traces them; then his back slams against the wall again and God, as Boone’s tongue plunges inside his mouth he can just moan desperately as he tastes a bitter flavor. Charlie can only moan into the kiss and push his hips forward while his hands find a place beneath Boone’s shirt, on the small of his back. As soon as Boone’s initiative slows down and his head falls slightly down, damp hair underneath Charlie’s chin, he realizes that his left hand has done the trick.
He keeps on rubbing his fingertips slightly over Boone’s skin, feeling him practically squirming under his touch, a curse escaping his lips when he isn’t moaning helplessly; he wonders whether he’s just found a sensitive spot or if the callouses brought by his bass playing have something to do with it. Maybe both of the things. But as soon as his hand drops for one second, Boone’s face is again in front of his, blue eyes sparkling and Charlie figures that it isn’t that strange, if he’s holding his breath.
“See? Your brother... your brother doesn’t even play the guitar. Doesn’t really do the trick, right?”
It’s the tone that does it. It’s low and whispered right there in his ear and Charlie takes a couple of seconds to eye the distance between the wall and the couch before pushing Boone in that direction, away from the wall; he hopes he did his maths right as he practically throws him down, but thankfully he did and they both land on the couch. Charlie raises the Woodstock shirt a bit, taking in a nicely built frame, his hand touching the toned muscle on Boone’s stomach before a pair of hands is on his tie taking it off along with his jacket. But he doesn’t take the shirt away.
At one point they’re both on their knees on the couch, Charlie unfastening Boone’s jeans while he tries not to lose the condom between his fingers, his own leather pants already discarded in some corner of the room; he’s so hard that it physically aches and it doesn’t take more than a look when Boone’s jeans are discarded to see that he’s in good company.
For a second he curses himself because he realizes that if someone has any kind of lube that person is probably Liam, but God, Boone’s teeth are there grasping his skin and oh fuck, he figures the bottle of hand lotion discarded on the ground is going to be good enough and as Boone nods and whispers front he just answers something that he hopes sounds like yes before Boone falls back on the couch. Charlie’s hands shake like he never felt them shaking as he brings the corner of the condom’s package to his teeth and manages to take it off without doing any damage. Good. Well, Boone had said he had another one, but retrieving it now? Definitely no. And fuck, how is he supposed to be quick if Boone chooses just this bloody moment to spread his legs oh-so-slowly he doesn’t know but it seems like ages before he finally is done. He grabs the lotion from a hollow space between cushions where he had thrown it in before, opens it, squeezes as much as he can into his hands; Boone nods and Charlie slips the first finger in, his breath hollow, the air so incredibly hot.
He can feel each single drop of sweat running down his neck when he pushes a second finger and Boone spreads his legs a bit more, a moan escaping his lips but not really anything close to pain. And Charlie had figured he’d have been more tight than he actually is, but after all, he said he had already done the same sex business. Yeah, must be that.
“Is it... fine?” he blurts out at one point, feeling how lame of a question it is.
“Fuck, yes. Just do it already, won’t you?”
Charlie nods again and goes for the lotion again but Boone is faster than he is; after he squeezes something like half of the bottle on his palm he pushes Charlie so that he’s resting on top of him and his hand goes straight to Charlie’s cock and fuck, Charlie bites his lip hard enough to draw blood because he can’t allow himself to come just now, thought the temptation is hard. Fucking hard.
Thankfully Boone senses the problem and doesn’t push it; his hand goes to the back of Charlie’s neck, among his hair, slick with lotion and Charlie figures something else, too, and then the thought is just too much. It’s not like he has any reason to wait right now and so he carefully positions himself as his hands grip the cushions and Boone’s ankles hook around his legs.
Slipping in is easier than he had thought even if he’s still nervous as hell and he can see his arms physically trembling; but Boone has barely grimaced and he’s really not that tight, but he stops anyway to adjust himself and let Boone, too. He doesn’t know how much time he stands still, but then Boone nods and he gives the first slow push, then a second and fuck, the words oh my fucking God have gone through his head so quickly and in such a number of times in such a short time that he doesn’t have a doubt that the first thing he’s going to confess next time is having broken the First Commandment in the worst possible way and all over again.
Then Boone curses as soon as Charlie tries to increase the rhythm and it’s followed by a loud, hopeless moan; from the way Boone’s hands grip his hair Charlie figures that he’s doing this right after all and then Boone’s mouth finds his as Boone’s hips push forward. It still tastes faintly bitter and Charlie really doubts that he’ll be able to keep on much longer; his hand comes in between their bodies covering Boone’s cock as those lips open up and let out a blissful moan while Boone throws his head back, leaving his neck exposed for Charlie to kiss. As he comes against his hand, hard and fast, his ankles gripping Charlie’s legs so hard that it hurts, Charlie barely feels his own orgasm rushing through his body before it hits him hard. He closes his eyes as he gives a final push and comes inside Boone, harder than he can remember coming for a long time, something he could refer to as stars exploding behind his eyelids, his head spinning so fast that he can’t actually get a grip on it. It seems to last a long stretch of minutes even if he knows it can’t possibly have and he can only feel Boone’s warm skin against his chest and his own sheer pleasure before he just lets himself fall down, completely spent.
He figures it’s a while before he gets enough of a grip to open his eyes and pull out; he throws the condom near where he thinks the trash bin should be and moves a bit, scooting over the couch. Boone opens his eyes soon after and pulls himself up in a half-sitting position, the shirt falling loosely over his frame and leaving most of his left shoulder exposed. His hair is messy and covers half of his face, his lips are red and swollen, their corners pulled up in a very satisfied smile; Charlie gets distracted for a second in order to grab some tissues he has spotted on the ground. He gives Boone the packet wordlessly, then takes one for himself and cleans his hand.
“Fuck.”
Boone’s voice is hoarse, but it definitely sounds satisfied.
“In the good sense or the bad one?”
“The good one. Did it seem like I wasn’t enjoying myself?”
“Hell, no. Definitely not. Are you one for cigarettes... you know, after?”
“I don’t smoke. Do you?”
“Not really. Guess I’d have if you did.”
“The occasional smoker?”
“Guess you could say so.”
Boone nods and stands up, wincing for a second; then he retrieves his discarded jeans. Charlie hadn’t really realized in the heat of the moment that he hadn’t had any underwear to take care of. He feels his cheeks heating up. God, now he’s getting embarrassed?
“Hey, mate?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’d prefer it, but... well, there’s a shower that way. Maybe you'd like one? I have to take one myself anyway and it’s still a while before we have to go.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“Yeah, don’t worry about that. Usually Liam never leaves before three.”
“In that case, I’ll take you up on the offer.”
Boone’s lips crack up in a small smile again before he heads barefoot to the door Charlie pointed at before; when it closes, Charlie puts on his trousers and his discarded, dirty shirt and gets out of the room, passing in front of Liam’s.
This isn’t definitely one night where partying ends before three A.M. He sighs and heads to his sound checker dressing room; he’s already gone as usual, so Charlie just goes to the bathroom, fixes himself a quick, warm shower (his sound checker never has one, he knows from experience), wraps himself up in three or four towels when he’s through.
Then he takes a look down the corridor and when he sees that no one is coming (not, especially, their manager, thank God for small favors) he runs to his dressing room, shutting the door behind him and picks up the bag he uses usually to bring his own clothes. He’s the only one that does it around here, but still, he prefers it this way.
He takes out a pair of nice, clean jeans and a flannel shirt; all of his eyeliner has gone with the shower and he really doesn’t look so glamorous anymore, if he ever looked glamorous. His hair is wet, but the weather is warm and he figures it’s going to get dry in a small while.
Boone comes out of the bathroom soon after, his hair also wet; a few bangs are plastered against his forehead and a couple of droplets of water run through his face, but for the most part he’s already dressed. He’s just lacking the shoes he left in the corner of the room. Charlie registers that maybe Boone had used some eyeliner too, before, because his face has a natural look that it somehow lacked before, but then again, it was the heat of the moment and it just makes those eyes stand out more.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself, mate.”
Charlie can feel the nervousness in his own voice; he doubts that Boone is ever going not to notice.
“So, are you going?”
“Yeah. Liam can get to the hotel on his own. I’m not waiting two bloody hours or whatever it takes.”
“I wouldn’t wait, either. And don’t worry if you’re not as glamorous as you were. Glamorous is not your style anyway.”
Charlie can’t help smiling at that. He puts his dirty clothes back in the bag, sees if there’s anything around which wasn’t when he got in and then he sees that the condom wasn’t exactly in the trash bin. He picks it up again and throws it away.
“I never felt too suited for it, either. Why, this suits me better?”
“Pretty much.”
Boone comes closer as Charlie opens the door.
“Mind if I go with you until the exit?”
“Oh, no. Sure.”
They pass Liam’s dressing room in a hurry, pretending not to hear any noise coming from inside it.
“Listen, can I... no, I guess I can’t.”
“What?”
“I think... no, really. Some fantastic sex isn’t enough to get this personal.”
Charlie’s brain gets stuck on fantastic sex.
“Oh, but you can. If you want to say that You, All, Everybody sucks, go ahead. It’s... you know, I don’t like it myself either, but you know. One gets attached.”
“Well, it’s not that. You had some really good songs. Especially that one where you were singing near the end.”
Charlie blinks as they get near the club’s back door. What? That song is in the set list because Liam needs a break before the last two songs and the encore; sure, he loves it, he wrote all of it and he likes to sing it, but...
“I mean, this is not your usual style, but you are way better than it. Why don’t you just... go solo, try some... songwriting songwriting? I know I’m not in any position to suggest such a thing and not when you’re so successful, but after... I’d do it. Shit like that You All Everybody song just holds you down. I’m sorry. I just... I guess it was offensive and...”
“No, it’s alright. Really. I... just, it’s flattering. What you’re saying, I mean. I swear I’m not offended or anything.”
They’re out on the street by now; Boone’s half-dry hair blows in the fresh breeze as his cheeks slightly redden again and he smiles in relief.
“Glad you aren’t. Just... I thought it was really good.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Well, guess it’s been... a pleasure?” Charlie says, trying not to laugh. Boone does, though, and Charlie has to follow him there.
“Oh, definitely.”
Boone extends a hand and Charlie shakes it, even if he’s feeling a bit awkward; he never shook hands with a groupie his whole life, but Boone isn’t exactly your usual groupie, right?
As Boone turns away and heads down the road, Charlie can’t resist it.
“Hey! You said that DriveShaft was not your style, before, didn’t you?”
Boone turns back, facing him from afar.
“Not really!”
“What’s your style, then?”
“Simon and Garfunkel, man. It just happens that you don’t get much fun behind the scenes, with the
whole acoustic songwriter business.”
“Didn’t you just say I should go solo and try the songwriter business?”
“Yeah, but I’m sure you’d be an exception.”
Then Boone winks and he’s gone as he turns a corner; Charlie finds out that he can’t shake that bloody grin from his face as he walks back to the hotel. It’s still there as he gets into his room.
Okay, maybe he’s just going not to confess his wild night this time.
End.
Characters/Pairing: Boone/Charlie
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: come on, you really think such stuff wouldn't be canon if Lost was mine?
Word count: 4200
Spoilers: pre-series, so none apart from the basic biography of the characters.
Summary: This groupie is a he and usually he-groupies choose Liam. Not him. When there are any he-groupies at all. In his head, Charlie has been calling this bloke His Prettiness since he set eyes on him backstage.
A/N: for un_love_you #4, I need to want you. Thanks to the mostly awesome dustyirish2003 for the quick and great beta-ing job with this one. Title stolen from a Bon Jovi song even if the whole thing came pretty much as flash while I was listening to Guns n' Roses. Won for Best Slash Fic at lost_fic_awards, October 2008.
The wall of his dressing room feels hard and cool against his back as Charlie is shoved unceremoniously against it; he’s barely able to think that this is really bloody weird, or at least as weird as it gets for him in the whole having-sex-with-groupies business before two hands are taking his leather trousers quickly down and thinking straight stops being a priority.
Now, it’s not that Charlie hasn’t always had his share of groupies; sure, it was a share smaller than Liam’s, but that really wasn’t a problem. Meant less time spent in the confessional, though he thinks that with this one he’s making up for lost time. He figures he’ll have hours of material worth confessing when this is over. Also because, well, this isn’t his usual kind of groupie. Not at all. He should have imagined that in America things couldn’t be exactly the same as in England. Or Europe. Or whatever.
A couple of lips which are too plump and full and soft and pink to be actually real hover dangerously close to his aching cock; then they wrap around it, taking it in, deep, and Charlie moans desperately, squirming against the wall, desperately trying to say something which isn’t oh fuck.
He fails. Nothing else comes out of his lips and oh God, he has to push his hips forward now, he just has to, and he looks down and God, he still can’t believe that right now he’s being given head by this... this bloody groupie or whatever who is way prettier than any groupie he has ever fucked and than any groupie Liam has ever fucked and who had gone straight to him and followed him to his dressing room without giving Liam more than a look.
This groupie’s hair is of a warm chestnut brown shade and it’s soft, it feels so good and silky under Charlie’s fingers when his hands grip it as he thrusts harder; this groupie’s eyes are enormous, of a deep blue that Charlie can compare only to the crystal-clear blue of the Atlantic Ocean he had seen in Ireland on a particularly sunny but chilly day; this groupie’s shoes are discarded in a corner and Charlie can barely make bare feet out in that same dim light, along with low jeans ripped in a couple of places and an over-sized Woodstock t-shirt. This groupie’s cheeks are in a perpetual deep, red flush that becomes even deeper as Charlie keeps on helplessly fucking that bloody pretty mouth; this groupie is a he and usually he-groupies choose Liam. Not him. When there are any he-groupies at all. In his head, Charlie has been calling this bloke His Prettiness since he set eyes on him backstage.
He moans incoherently as that pretty, pretty mouth adjusts to his rhythm and there’s a moment in which a flick of tongue accompanied by those goddamn blue eyes opening up for a second, a pretty fucking wicked glint passing over them, brings spasms all through his body. He shivers and curses and thrusts harder, unable to look down, his hands gripping spasmodically on soft, damp hair before he mutters something he can’t decipher himself before coming inside His Prettiness’ mouth, hard, so hard, he can’t ever remember something such as this, a sort of blinding light exploding beneath his eyelids and God he’s swallowing down and Charlie, as he tries to stand even if his knees threaten to give way, thinks he’s done for tonight. Really.
Then he opens his eyes, sees the pink tip of a tongue showing up and licking something sticky and translucent over His Prettiness’ lips and as he feels his cock stirring he realizes that maybe he might not be done for tonight, after all..
His Prettiness’ hair is messed up, his neck damp with sweat and that over-sized shirt too; his cheeks are so, so, so flushed, the blue eyes are glistening still and those jeans are so tight that it takes a look to see that he has something to take care of, too. And Charlie thinks that he’d be bloody glad to do the job, also because some signs of definitive interest downstairs follow that scattered thought just after he formulates it.
The corner of those soft, full lips cracks up in half a smile.
“So what, now?”
The accent is soft, definitely not from New York. Or at least it’s not similar to all the roadies that have been around them for the three dates here in New York City. He wonders what is this guy doing here, if it isn’t even his city. Not his business, though. Now he really wants to know just a couple of things. Just a couple.
“Couple of questions first.”
“You go.”
“First... mate, I’d really like to, uhm, know your name. Guess you know mine, it’s a bit unfair. Right?”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right. I’m Boone.”
“Good. Nice to meet you, mate. Really,” he says trying to regain his breath. “I know you already know mine. Not to get weird, y’know. And... well, second thing, I really hope that you’ve got condoms, mate. I really do.”
His Prett... pardon, Boone, laughs then, a soft, deep, genuine laugh and Charlie feels himself flushing and oh God, this is so worth three trips to the confessional. Maybe even four. Suddenly Charlie needs, physically needs to touch him, oh, he wants it, or he needs to want it maybe, or whatever the bloody fuck it is, he doesn’t even know now. He thinks his brain is going into short circuit. Boone’s hands are on his knees when he raises his head and winks at Charlie, sending a new rush of blood straight to his groin. Fucking bloody tease, Charlie thinks, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. No way he couldn’t be conscious of it.
“I think I have one. Maybe even two.”
Boone reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, takes out two transparent packages, nods and throws Charlie one. He grabs it with shaking fingers. He still doesn’t get how is it that Boone hasn’t gone Liam’s way. He just can’t have not gone Liam’s way. Hell, the groupies Charlie gets half of the times are disappointed or even slightly upset because Liam can’t take more than five people, but this one guy is just staring at him right into his eyes and oh damn, his knees are so going to give out.
“Something’s troubling you?”
Boone raises an eyebrow and Charlie has to give it to him. He’s pretty bloody perceptive. Way too bloody perceptive for your usual groupie and suddenly it clicks with him.
Liam takes stuff. Charlie has never found proof that Liam uses anything stronger than good old Mary Jane, not until now, but the usual groupies? Usually they’re all more or less stoned. In different degrees, true, but still stoned. And even more when they get out of Liam’s dressing room, but whatever. This guy isn’t stoned. Not at all. Suddenly Charlie thinks that he won’t go around telling all of his friends that he had sex with this famous guy in his dressing room. Also, he looks pretty young. A bit too much.
He goes the safe route.
“Uhm, well, not to ruin things because I really wouldn’t want to and I swear I’ll shut up in a second, but are you legal?”
Boone laughs again and the activity downstairs increases. Fuck.
“Well, maybe in this country I wouldn’t be allowed to have a drink, maybe, but in your country, I’d be. Also, the girls that your brother took in his room? Man, definitely not legal under every standard.”
Oh, damn, Charlie thinks. He so needs to try to talk about it with Liam. For fuck’s sake, Charlie’s not even twenty-three and maybe he could get away with seventeen-year old girls, but Liam isn’t and... oh fuck. Then again, if His Prett... Boone would get drinks in England but not here he has to be older than eighteen and younger than twenty-one and sincerely, eighteen is good enough. He knows what he wants more than Charlie does, actually. Probably. Whatever.
Boone comes nearer, oh-so-nearer and now he’s right in front of him and Charlie can feel his breath over his lips and God, he wants to kiss him right here and now. Not that only, sure, but that’d be the first point of the list. List that would probably be short and go like, one: kiss the bloody hell out of the guy, two: throw him on the nearest flat surface; three: take care of business for the both of you, but he doesn’t do it still.
“But that wasn’t your problem, was it?”
Pretty damn bloody perceptive, though answering with that sentence whispered in your ear and a leg rubbing against your thigh doesn’t really help you answering coherently. Like hell.
“I was... just... uhm... wondering...”
“What?”
“I mean... usually... you know, people always go to Liam first and well, you barely looked at him and that’s pretty... uhm, pretty bloody strange for a DriveShaft backstage and...”
Two hands find his waist and electricity jolts run down Charlie’s spine. Oh, fuck.
“See, I think you’re missing a point here. I’m not here because I do it with any group that comes playing in this club. To be honest, this is actually the first time I'm doing this whole backstage business. I mean, not the same sex business. I do that pretty often, actually.”
Charlie swallows and nods while Boone’s cheeks flush again; God, and now why is this forming a sort of knot in his stomach? The guy looks embarrassed, fuck it. Embarrassed when he did that before?
“But, I always go here in the evenings, whoever plays. And let me tell you, your music is not my style. Not your ...famous stuff anyway.”
Charlie has an idea that it’s a polite way to tell him that You, All, Everybody sucks, but it’s not like he can argue. He doesn’t like it much himself, these days.
“So, I attend lots of concerts. And your brother might be prettier than you and stuff, but he steals your lines half of the time...”
“How the hell did you...?”
”A look at your face is all it takes. Shut up and let me finish. So, I was saying, he steals your lines, he only eyed the pretty girls in first row and maybe still gives a damn about the music, but not as much as you do. Am I right?”
Charlie doesn’t answer and just nods, swallowing down again. God. This bloke is bloody perceptive.
“See, you are completely different. You might not be as... let’s say glamorous as he is, but I don’t give a fuck. Also, he’s really not my type.”
“Why, and I am?”
“Surely more than he is. And finally, I prefer blonds. Now, are you satisfied? Because you know, I
kind of reached my limit. With talking, I mean.”
At this point Charlie decides that this is too fucking much and his hands suddenly are on Boone’s face and those lips are on his, so soft that for a second he thinks of sugar melting under his tongue as he traces them; then his back slams against the wall again and God, as Boone’s tongue plunges inside his mouth he can just moan desperately as he tastes a bitter flavor. Charlie can only moan into the kiss and push his hips forward while his hands find a place beneath Boone’s shirt, on the small of his back. As soon as Boone’s initiative slows down and his head falls slightly down, damp hair underneath Charlie’s chin, he realizes that his left hand has done the trick.
He keeps on rubbing his fingertips slightly over Boone’s skin, feeling him practically squirming under his touch, a curse escaping his lips when he isn’t moaning helplessly; he wonders whether he’s just found a sensitive spot or if the callouses brought by his bass playing have something to do with it. Maybe both of the things. But as soon as his hand drops for one second, Boone’s face is again in front of his, blue eyes sparkling and Charlie figures that it isn’t that strange, if he’s holding his breath.
“See? Your brother... your brother doesn’t even play the guitar. Doesn’t really do the trick, right?”
It’s the tone that does it. It’s low and whispered right there in his ear and Charlie takes a couple of seconds to eye the distance between the wall and the couch before pushing Boone in that direction, away from the wall; he hopes he did his maths right as he practically throws him down, but thankfully he did and they both land on the couch. Charlie raises the Woodstock shirt a bit, taking in a nicely built frame, his hand touching the toned muscle on Boone’s stomach before a pair of hands is on his tie taking it off along with his jacket. But he doesn’t take the shirt away.
At one point they’re both on their knees on the couch, Charlie unfastening Boone’s jeans while he tries not to lose the condom between his fingers, his own leather pants already discarded in some corner of the room; he’s so hard that it physically aches and it doesn’t take more than a look when Boone’s jeans are discarded to see that he’s in good company.
For a second he curses himself because he realizes that if someone has any kind of lube that person is probably Liam, but God, Boone’s teeth are there grasping his skin and oh fuck, he figures the bottle of hand lotion discarded on the ground is going to be good enough and as Boone nods and whispers front he just answers something that he hopes sounds like yes before Boone falls back on the couch. Charlie’s hands shake like he never felt them shaking as he brings the corner of the condom’s package to his teeth and manages to take it off without doing any damage. Good. Well, Boone had said he had another one, but retrieving it now? Definitely no. And fuck, how is he supposed to be quick if Boone chooses just this bloody moment to spread his legs oh-so-slowly he doesn’t know but it seems like ages before he finally is done. He grabs the lotion from a hollow space between cushions where he had thrown it in before, opens it, squeezes as much as he can into his hands; Boone nods and Charlie slips the first finger in, his breath hollow, the air so incredibly hot.
He can feel each single drop of sweat running down his neck when he pushes a second finger and Boone spreads his legs a bit more, a moan escaping his lips but not really anything close to pain. And Charlie had figured he’d have been more tight than he actually is, but after all, he said he had already done the same sex business. Yeah, must be that.
“Is it... fine?” he blurts out at one point, feeling how lame of a question it is.
“Fuck, yes. Just do it already, won’t you?”
Charlie nods again and goes for the lotion again but Boone is faster than he is; after he squeezes something like half of the bottle on his palm he pushes Charlie so that he’s resting on top of him and his hand goes straight to Charlie’s cock and fuck, Charlie bites his lip hard enough to draw blood because he can’t allow himself to come just now, thought the temptation is hard. Fucking hard.
Thankfully Boone senses the problem and doesn’t push it; his hand goes to the back of Charlie’s neck, among his hair, slick with lotion and Charlie figures something else, too, and then the thought is just too much. It’s not like he has any reason to wait right now and so he carefully positions himself as his hands grip the cushions and Boone’s ankles hook around his legs.
Slipping in is easier than he had thought even if he’s still nervous as hell and he can see his arms physically trembling; but Boone has barely grimaced and he’s really not that tight, but he stops anyway to adjust himself and let Boone, too. He doesn’t know how much time he stands still, but then Boone nods and he gives the first slow push, then a second and fuck, the words oh my fucking God have gone through his head so quickly and in such a number of times in such a short time that he doesn’t have a doubt that the first thing he’s going to confess next time is having broken the First Commandment in the worst possible way and all over again.
Then Boone curses as soon as Charlie tries to increase the rhythm and it’s followed by a loud, hopeless moan; from the way Boone’s hands grip his hair Charlie figures that he’s doing this right after all and then Boone’s mouth finds his as Boone’s hips push forward. It still tastes faintly bitter and Charlie really doubts that he’ll be able to keep on much longer; his hand comes in between their bodies covering Boone’s cock as those lips open up and let out a blissful moan while Boone throws his head back, leaving his neck exposed for Charlie to kiss. As he comes against his hand, hard and fast, his ankles gripping Charlie’s legs so hard that it hurts, Charlie barely feels his own orgasm rushing through his body before it hits him hard. He closes his eyes as he gives a final push and comes inside Boone, harder than he can remember coming for a long time, something he could refer to as stars exploding behind his eyelids, his head spinning so fast that he can’t actually get a grip on it. It seems to last a long stretch of minutes even if he knows it can’t possibly have and he can only feel Boone’s warm skin against his chest and his own sheer pleasure before he just lets himself fall down, completely spent.
He figures it’s a while before he gets enough of a grip to open his eyes and pull out; he throws the condom near where he thinks the trash bin should be and moves a bit, scooting over the couch. Boone opens his eyes soon after and pulls himself up in a half-sitting position, the shirt falling loosely over his frame and leaving most of his left shoulder exposed. His hair is messy and covers half of his face, his lips are red and swollen, their corners pulled up in a very satisfied smile; Charlie gets distracted for a second in order to grab some tissues he has spotted on the ground. He gives Boone the packet wordlessly, then takes one for himself and cleans his hand.
“Fuck.”
Boone’s voice is hoarse, but it definitely sounds satisfied.
“In the good sense or the bad one?”
“The good one. Did it seem like I wasn’t enjoying myself?”
“Hell, no. Definitely not. Are you one for cigarettes... you know, after?”
“I don’t smoke. Do you?”
“Not really. Guess I’d have if you did.”
“The occasional smoker?”
“Guess you could say so.”
Boone nods and stands up, wincing for a second; then he retrieves his discarded jeans. Charlie hadn’t really realized in the heat of the moment that he hadn’t had any underwear to take care of. He feels his cheeks heating up. God, now he’s getting embarrassed?
“Hey, mate?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’d prefer it, but... well, there’s a shower that way. Maybe you'd like one? I have to take one myself anyway and it’s still a while before we have to go.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“Yeah, don’t worry about that. Usually Liam never leaves before three.”
“In that case, I’ll take you up on the offer.”
Boone’s lips crack up in a small smile again before he heads barefoot to the door Charlie pointed at before; when it closes, Charlie puts on his trousers and his discarded, dirty shirt and gets out of the room, passing in front of Liam’s.
This isn’t definitely one night where partying ends before three A.M. He sighs and heads to his sound checker dressing room; he’s already gone as usual, so Charlie just goes to the bathroom, fixes himself a quick, warm shower (his sound checker never has one, he knows from experience), wraps himself up in three or four towels when he’s through.
Then he takes a look down the corridor and when he sees that no one is coming (not, especially, their manager, thank God for small favors) he runs to his dressing room, shutting the door behind him and picks up the bag he uses usually to bring his own clothes. He’s the only one that does it around here, but still, he prefers it this way.
He takes out a pair of nice, clean jeans and a flannel shirt; all of his eyeliner has gone with the shower and he really doesn’t look so glamorous anymore, if he ever looked glamorous. His hair is wet, but the weather is warm and he figures it’s going to get dry in a small while.
Boone comes out of the bathroom soon after, his hair also wet; a few bangs are plastered against his forehead and a couple of droplets of water run through his face, but for the most part he’s already dressed. He’s just lacking the shoes he left in the corner of the room. Charlie registers that maybe Boone had used some eyeliner too, before, because his face has a natural look that it somehow lacked before, but then again, it was the heat of the moment and it just makes those eyes stand out more.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself, mate.”
Charlie can feel the nervousness in his own voice; he doubts that Boone is ever going not to notice.
“So, are you going?”
“Yeah. Liam can get to the hotel on his own. I’m not waiting two bloody hours or whatever it takes.”
“I wouldn’t wait, either. And don’t worry if you’re not as glamorous as you were. Glamorous is not your style anyway.”
Charlie can’t help smiling at that. He puts his dirty clothes back in the bag, sees if there’s anything around which wasn’t when he got in and then he sees that the condom wasn’t exactly in the trash bin. He picks it up again and throws it away.
“I never felt too suited for it, either. Why, this suits me better?”
“Pretty much.”
Boone comes closer as Charlie opens the door.
“Mind if I go with you until the exit?”
“Oh, no. Sure.”
They pass Liam’s dressing room in a hurry, pretending not to hear any noise coming from inside it.
“Listen, can I... no, I guess I can’t.”
“What?”
“I think... no, really. Some fantastic sex isn’t enough to get this personal.”
Charlie’s brain gets stuck on fantastic sex.
“Oh, but you can. If you want to say that You, All, Everybody sucks, go ahead. It’s... you know, I don’t like it myself either, but you know. One gets attached.”
“Well, it’s not that. You had some really good songs. Especially that one where you were singing near the end.”
Charlie blinks as they get near the club’s back door. What? That song is in the set list because Liam needs a break before the last two songs and the encore; sure, he loves it, he wrote all of it and he likes to sing it, but...
“I mean, this is not your usual style, but you are way better than it. Why don’t you just... go solo, try some... songwriting songwriting? I know I’m not in any position to suggest such a thing and not when you’re so successful, but after... I’d do it. Shit like that You All Everybody song just holds you down. I’m sorry. I just... I guess it was offensive and...”
“No, it’s alright. Really. I... just, it’s flattering. What you’re saying, I mean. I swear I’m not offended or anything.”
They’re out on the street by now; Boone’s half-dry hair blows in the fresh breeze as his cheeks slightly redden again and he smiles in relief.
“Glad you aren’t. Just... I thought it was really good.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Well, guess it’s been... a pleasure?” Charlie says, trying not to laugh. Boone does, though, and Charlie has to follow him there.
“Oh, definitely.”
Boone extends a hand and Charlie shakes it, even if he’s feeling a bit awkward; he never shook hands with a groupie his whole life, but Boone isn’t exactly your usual groupie, right?
As Boone turns away and heads down the road, Charlie can’t resist it.
“Hey! You said that DriveShaft was not your style, before, didn’t you?”
Boone turns back, facing him from afar.
“Not really!”
“What’s your style, then?”
“Simon and Garfunkel, man. It just happens that you don’t get much fun behind the scenes, with the
whole acoustic songwriter business.”
“Didn’t you just say I should go solo and try the songwriter business?”
“Yeah, but I’m sure you’d be an exception.”
Then Boone winks and he’s gone as he turns a corner; Charlie finds out that he can’t shake that bloody grin from his face as he walks back to the hotel. It’s still there as he gets into his room.
Okay, maybe he’s just going not to confess his wild night this time.
End.