Three's Company.
Title: Three's Company.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Cash/Marshall/Ian.
Word-count: 2601 words.
Summary: It's all Marshall's fault, really.
Author's Notes: Written as part of the cabfic fic exchange, specifically for lordessrenegade ♥ from the following prompts:
Preferred Pairing(s): Marshall/Cash, Marshall/Ian
Kinks: first times, boys being dorky and awkward, threesomes.
Request/Prompt 1: Really, anything about Cash, Marshall, and Ian. Any pairing or all three. The shenanigans of trying to have sex while touring in a van! Hooking up in the studio! Welcoming Ian into the band! Really, I'm easy. More Cab fic = win.
They have to move quietly so that Drew and Johnson don't hear in the next bed. Even so, Cash and Ian both know they could get caught just by the soft sound of skin on skin in the silent hotel room.
Cash's hands are tangled in Ian's hair, eyes screwed tightly shut, on the edge of losing control. Ian's long fingers are wrapped half around both their cocks, thrusting his hips forward at a slow and steady pace. Neither of them will be able to come from this, it isn't enough, but they'd smoked enough after the show that neither of them could have successfully orchestrated a more private rendezvous without letting something slip. Without ending up back in the van. And all things considered, nobody gives up a motel night in favour of that mess, despite the freedom to move, to an extent, and let out the whimpers and moans they kept swallowing whole before any could escape.
Were they in the van, however, Marshall could have joined them. They hated leaving Marsh out. He was the reason for all of this. Sleeping three to a bed, however, would be impossible to explain when they could afford two rooms... and Marshall was the only boy nice enough to endure Singer's priggish grooming habits. Even Jes teased him.
It was their secret.
Cash pulls Ian closer and kisses him, hard, biting. Ian gets the message: he's unbelievably frustrated. Cash needs him to move faster or, ugh, just do something.
Johnson rolls over in the other bed and they freeze at the sudden motion. Then he begins snoring and the tension suddenly melts away. It would take a major natural disaster to wake Johnson when he's that far asleep, and Drew had driven all day then smoked the most after the show. Out cold.
Ever the opportunist, Ian disappears under the covers, his wide mouth wet making quick work of Cash's boxers. The quiet grunts of pleasure are more than enough encouragement. Holding Cash's hips down against the bed, Ian takes him in as far as he could.
They both really wish Marshall were there.
Somewhere along the line, when Ian had first moved to Vegas for all of this, someone made a crack about what the fans imagined Ryan and Brendon's relationship was like, and Ian had laughed. And then realized as he was doing so that he'd been staring for the last ten minutes at Marshall's neck, an urge to reach out and touch the fleshy part where it sloped to meet the shoulder. V-necks are dangerous for that, apparently.
Ian tried not to think about it anymore, thanks. Not until Cash bought a shit-ton of weed and threw Ian a "Welcome to the band, straight-up Vegas style!" party. He met a lot of their high school friends and despite almost everyone there still being in the twelfth grade for a little while longer, someone brought beer and pussy drinks for the girls. Even Singer got incredibly drunk.
So that might've been why Ian had passed out sitting straight up on the couch, awaking god-knows how later, slumped over on Marshall's shoulder, his face so very close to the neck he'd been admiring and therefore avoiding in the weeks since he'd been invited to join the band for real.
The music was still playing but someone had turned it down so low that it was barely audible. Just there, in the background. Some kid Ian had briefly met hours before was curled up, sleeping in the La-Z-Boy across the living room. There were voices floating in from outside on the porch, the last remnants of a well-partied night. Cash's mom had been surprisingly permissive about the whole thing; they were all so close to graduating. Ian wasn't sure if he should feel young or old at that party... it was all just so bizarre, being that far from home and what was suddenly his new life.
Marshall's shoulder was surprisingly comfortable. He was slouched down into the couch, his long legs propped up on the coffee table. Ian didn't even remember Marshall sitting down beside him. His girlfriend must've gone home-- they'd been joined at the hips, hands, lips all evening. And now Marshall was there, sleeping upright for no apparent reason other than to prop Ian up. And among the stale chips and spilled beer, even with the tang of pot smoke still in their clothes, Marshall smelled really good.
Probably tasted good, too.
Ian leaned in closer, holding up his weight on the arm of the couch, and went in for a taste. He got in one slow lick-- yeah, good, kind of salty-- before Marshall spoke up. "Dude, what?" Not asleep. Ian jerked back, startled, and almost fell off the couch.
"Uh, I'unno." He played up the drunk-slur.
Marshall helped steady him. "Go back to sleep, okay?"
And that was it.
Ian couldn't help but lean in more solidly after that, shifting his weight and closing his eyes again. He curled his legs up beside him on the couch. It isn't considered snuggling when you've been drinking, right? Marshall didn't speak again, just went back to sleep, the party still going on around them.
Cash woke them up the next morning, "Wake up, assholes!" and moved to poke at his friend in the recliner.
Ian cracked his eyes open slowly, Nevada sunshine already streaming in through the living room vertical blinds. At some point in the night, Marshall had wrapped an arm around Ian in a half-hug, and he pulled it back to himself without a word. He then tried to sit up and straighten his spine, bumping Ian with his shoulder in the process.
"Sorry," Marshall croaked, his voice broken from sleep.
Ian turned his head so that he could meet Marshall's eyes and he smiled. "Don't worry about it." His voice was rough as well, he cleared his throat. "Did you, uh," Ian paused, looked away. He could feel his face getting warm and hoped he wasn't blushing. "Did you sleep well?"
There was another long moment before Marshall answered "yeah." He brushed his knuckles across Ian's thigh. "How about you?"
Ian took a deep breath, let it out. "Great." His stomach was rolling, but he couldn't tell if it was the start of a hangover, or if he was really nervous and possibly flirting with Marshall.
Cash came back into the room and threw a trash bag at them. "Are you gonna help clean this shit up or what?" He was smiling at them broadly, but there might've been a glint in his eyes that Ian couldn't read.
Marshall unfolded himself from the couch and stood up, shaking the hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head, back-lit and glowing in the morning sunlight.
Ian was in trouble.
The first time Cash kissed Marshall, Marshall punched him. He could've broken his nose. Blood streamed from Cash's nostrils and Marshall immediately grabbed the closest thing he could find to sop it up, one of his white chequered scarves.
"What the fuck, bro?" Cash tipped his head back, stopping the blood flow, but otherwise remained his usual cocky self. As if he hadn't just pounced on his bandmate in their recording studio.
"If you wanted to..." Marshall stepped closer to Cash and leaned over him so that he could look him in the eye properly. "You could have just asked."
"Can I?" The question came out strange, nasal.
"You owe me a new scarf."
"You owe me a new nose!"
"Fuck off, Cash. You deserved that. Ask me nicely next time."
Marshall was halfway out the door and down the hall before he heard Cash call out after him: "Next time?!"
Marshall just ducked his head and smiled.
Ian did his best not to moon over Marshall. Finding yourself attracted to dudes all of a sudden is disrupting enough, much less someone in your band. But sometimes Ian's best isn't good enough. Not when he's trapped in a van for hours and hours at a time with that certain someone, even on these tiny tours, and it only made him crazier. And then the tours suddenly got a whole lot bigger, and then they were sick from the cold climate change, too far from the sun and sand, and Marshall just looked so pitiful that Ian just wanted to curl up with him and a bowl of soup.
Ian just kept offering to drive so that he could give himself something else to focus on, to look at.
Except then they had the accident, and he couldn't help but to feel guilty. Not because he was completely uninjured, although he felt kind of shitty about that, too, but because even though he was mostly focused on the road, his eyes might've wandered, just a little, to sneak looks at Marshall's face lit up glowing by his laptop in the rear-view mirror.
Nobody blamed him, of course. The black ice would have been there, regardless of who had been at the wheel. But knowing that his mind had been elsewhere was making Ian feel pretty fucking guilty about it all, and he couldn't apologize without sounding like a total douche. But maybe it would make him feel better, to get it all out in the open. Acting on life after a brush with death.
He paused outside the room where Marshall had just been stitched up, embarrassed and nervous. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, either, but he could head that Cash was already in the room with Marshall. "You're kind of an asshole, Marsh."
A surprised "Hmm?!" in response. A newly stitched mouth was probably pretty limiting as far as speaking went.
"No, no, I see how it is, bro. Smash a TV set in your face, best excuse ever to get out of making out with me."
Ian's eyes went wide. He wished he could see Marshall's expression, see if either of them was joking. The room inside was suddenly very quiet now, save for the sounds of rustling tissue paper covering the exam table.
Cash spoke again, quietly this time. He sounded disappointed. "I asked in advance and everything."
It wasn't until after everyone had their stitches out that Ian could breathe easy around his band again. Barely any limps when they walked. The scars would fade in time.
Marshall's mouth was healing nicely, too. He'd been the most careful to keep his cuts clean and had barely spoken in drives during the day so he could still sing and talk with fans in the evening. He was actually kind of miserable, it was hard for him to be that quiet, but Marshall was also nothing if not stubborn.
It was Cash who pulled Ian aside before the show one night and told him he had a plan to cheer Marshall up.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, and maybe then you'll quit making fucking moon eyes at him, too."
Ian could only manage a strangled "what?" in reply.
Cash lit a cigarette. "Fuck off, Ian. We've pretty much all noticed long ago that you've got a big gay crush on Marshall."
"No, I don't! I---"
Cash cut him off. "Bro, trust me. I'm not judging." He took a long drag. "In fact, I know straight-up exactly how you feel about him."
Ian had convinced himself over these last weeks that what he'd overheard in the hospital had all been a crazy fucking dream, since he'd noticed no signs of anything remotely romantic between them since. "Oh." He blinked. "So, what's your plan?"
"It's pretty simple, really. Day off tomorrow. We chase everyone else out of the hotel, tell them about a sneaker sale at the mall or something, then we smoke Marsh out, he hasn't had any in weeks and needs to relax. Then we make out with him."
Ian wasn't sure how to react. Cash wasn't laughing. Cash was totally serious. So... "Yeah, okay."
Cash grinned hugely. "For real? Awesome."
And this was the first time Cash kissed Ian. He dropped his smoke on the pavement and crushed the butt under his heel, then threw an arm around Ian's shoulders. He leaned in to murmur in Ian's ear "It's going to be fucking great, bro." And pecked him on the jaw.
Ian turned his head towards Cash. "It's a great idea." He inched in closer, body almost independent of his own will. Five minutes ago, Ian had no interest in kissing Cash Colligan, but with Cash's fingers twirling around a curl at the base of his neck, and promising him a blissed-out Marshall the next day, Ian was feeling particularly friendly.
Cash was staring at his mouth already. Ian just fucking went for it, diving in to meet Cash's lips before he chickened out. It only lasted five, maybe ten seconds, before they heard fannish voices and feet crunching the gravel around the corner, and they snapped apart.
Cash was grinning even harder; Ian was having trouble breathing.
They didn't so much as tell Marshall about their plan as they dragged him into the middle of it. They were pressed up close on either side, looking at something on Marsh's laptop as they passed the second blunt between them. The first had gone much too quickly.
Ian felt suitably brave. He was craving contact, wanting to initiate the whole thing now. He couldn't wait. Cash had said that it had to be Ian who started, but didn't explain why. He wondered again about the hospital and what had already happened that he'd missed out on.
Ian let a hand ghost up Marshall's back then started kneading lightly at the tendons and muscles around his neck. He can still remember how he'd tasted. Marshall's head tipped back slightly, acknowledging the touch. He leaned into Ian's shoulder a little more, and Cash couldn't help his smile. His plan was working. Also, he got to finish the weed while they were distracted. But mostly the plan.
"So, how's your lip feeling, Marsh? All better?" Ian did his best to deliver his agreed-upon lines without sounding too obvious. Or too porno.
"Alright now, I guess. I'll have this sweet scar for awhile."
Ian leaned forward, turning his whole body so that he could look at Marshall's chin. "Yeah, that looks pretty badass." Ian lifted his eyes a little, settling his gaze upon Marshall's mouth, not looking away for even a second. They let the moment stretch out until it became obvious. Ian, now transfixed, sucked his own lower lip between his teeth and let it slide out slowly. This was it, his chance.
Cash broke the silence that had befallen them. "Ian, a tiny word of advice?"
"Sure." He was in no position to argue the interruption, Cash had gotten him this far.
"Ask him if it's okay."
Marshall jerked his head around to stare at Cash. "What?!"
Cash stared right back. "The same rules don't apply to everyone?"
"I... what the fuck, Cash. What have you been telling Ian?"
"Nothing, actually."
"Nothing?"
"No." Cash nodded in Ian's direction. "Get moving."
Ian blinked, just as lost as ever. But then Marshall was looking right at him and his focus had never been clearer. "Can I?"
"Can you what?"
"Kiss you. Like, right now."
Cash cleared his throat loudly.
"And then I think Cash would also like to kiss you. We both want to. Please?"
Marshall's face turned a little pink. "Yeah, okay."
Ian grinned. "Awesome."
And that was the first time Marshall kissed either of them.
Tour continued. They continued.
They stole and shared moments whenever possible. Nobody else had to know.
###
See original comments here.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Cash/Marshall/Ian.
Word-count: 2601 words.
Summary: It's all Marshall's fault, really.
Author's Notes: Written as part of the cabfic fic exchange, specifically for lordessrenegade ♥ from the following prompts:
Preferred Pairing(s): Marshall/Cash, Marshall/Ian
Kinks: first times, boys being dorky and awkward, threesomes.
Request/Prompt 1: Really, anything about Cash, Marshall, and Ian. Any pairing or all three. The shenanigans of trying to have sex while touring in a van! Hooking up in the studio! Welcoming Ian into the band! Really, I'm easy. More Cab fic = win.
They have to move quietly so that Drew and Johnson don't hear in the next bed. Even so, Cash and Ian both know they could get caught just by the soft sound of skin on skin in the silent hotel room.
Cash's hands are tangled in Ian's hair, eyes screwed tightly shut, on the edge of losing control. Ian's long fingers are wrapped half around both their cocks, thrusting his hips forward at a slow and steady pace. Neither of them will be able to come from this, it isn't enough, but they'd smoked enough after the show that neither of them could have successfully orchestrated a more private rendezvous without letting something slip. Without ending up back in the van. And all things considered, nobody gives up a motel night in favour of that mess, despite the freedom to move, to an extent, and let out the whimpers and moans they kept swallowing whole before any could escape.
Were they in the van, however, Marshall could have joined them. They hated leaving Marsh out. He was the reason for all of this. Sleeping three to a bed, however, would be impossible to explain when they could afford two rooms... and Marshall was the only boy nice enough to endure Singer's priggish grooming habits. Even Jes teased him.
It was their secret.
Cash pulls Ian closer and kisses him, hard, biting. Ian gets the message: he's unbelievably frustrated. Cash needs him to move faster or, ugh, just do something.
Johnson rolls over in the other bed and they freeze at the sudden motion. Then he begins snoring and the tension suddenly melts away. It would take a major natural disaster to wake Johnson when he's that far asleep, and Drew had driven all day then smoked the most after the show. Out cold.
Ever the opportunist, Ian disappears under the covers, his wide mouth wet making quick work of Cash's boxers. The quiet grunts of pleasure are more than enough encouragement. Holding Cash's hips down against the bed, Ian takes him in as far as he could.
They both really wish Marshall were there.
Somewhere along the line, when Ian had first moved to Vegas for all of this, someone made a crack about what the fans imagined Ryan and Brendon's relationship was like, and Ian had laughed. And then realized as he was doing so that he'd been staring for the last ten minutes at Marshall's neck, an urge to reach out and touch the fleshy part where it sloped to meet the shoulder. V-necks are dangerous for that, apparently.
Ian tried not to think about it anymore, thanks. Not until Cash bought a shit-ton of weed and threw Ian a "Welcome to the band, straight-up Vegas style!" party. He met a lot of their high school friends and despite almost everyone there still being in the twelfth grade for a little while longer, someone brought beer and pussy drinks for the girls. Even Singer got incredibly drunk.
So that might've been why Ian had passed out sitting straight up on the couch, awaking god-knows how later, slumped over on Marshall's shoulder, his face so very close to the neck he'd been admiring and therefore avoiding in the weeks since he'd been invited to join the band for real.
The music was still playing but someone had turned it down so low that it was barely audible. Just there, in the background. Some kid Ian had briefly met hours before was curled up, sleeping in the La-Z-Boy across the living room. There were voices floating in from outside on the porch, the last remnants of a well-partied night. Cash's mom had been surprisingly permissive about the whole thing; they were all so close to graduating. Ian wasn't sure if he should feel young or old at that party... it was all just so bizarre, being that far from home and what was suddenly his new life.
Marshall's shoulder was surprisingly comfortable. He was slouched down into the couch, his long legs propped up on the coffee table. Ian didn't even remember Marshall sitting down beside him. His girlfriend must've gone home-- they'd been joined at the hips, hands, lips all evening. And now Marshall was there, sleeping upright for no apparent reason other than to prop Ian up. And among the stale chips and spilled beer, even with the tang of pot smoke still in their clothes, Marshall smelled really good.
Probably tasted good, too.
Ian leaned in closer, holding up his weight on the arm of the couch, and went in for a taste. He got in one slow lick-- yeah, good, kind of salty-- before Marshall spoke up. "Dude, what?" Not asleep. Ian jerked back, startled, and almost fell off the couch.
"Uh, I'unno." He played up the drunk-slur.
Marshall helped steady him. "Go back to sleep, okay?"
And that was it.
Ian couldn't help but lean in more solidly after that, shifting his weight and closing his eyes again. He curled his legs up beside him on the couch. It isn't considered snuggling when you've been drinking, right? Marshall didn't speak again, just went back to sleep, the party still going on around them.
Cash woke them up the next morning, "Wake up, assholes!" and moved to poke at his friend in the recliner.
Ian cracked his eyes open slowly, Nevada sunshine already streaming in through the living room vertical blinds. At some point in the night, Marshall had wrapped an arm around Ian in a half-hug, and he pulled it back to himself without a word. He then tried to sit up and straighten his spine, bumping Ian with his shoulder in the process.
"Sorry," Marshall croaked, his voice broken from sleep.
Ian turned his head so that he could meet Marshall's eyes and he smiled. "Don't worry about it." His voice was rough as well, he cleared his throat. "Did you, uh," Ian paused, looked away. He could feel his face getting warm and hoped he wasn't blushing. "Did you sleep well?"
There was another long moment before Marshall answered "yeah." He brushed his knuckles across Ian's thigh. "How about you?"
Ian took a deep breath, let it out. "Great." His stomach was rolling, but he couldn't tell if it was the start of a hangover, or if he was really nervous and possibly flirting with Marshall.
Cash came back into the room and threw a trash bag at them. "Are you gonna help clean this shit up or what?" He was smiling at them broadly, but there might've been a glint in his eyes that Ian couldn't read.
Marshall unfolded himself from the couch and stood up, shaking the hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head, back-lit and glowing in the morning sunlight.
Ian was in trouble.
The first time Cash kissed Marshall, Marshall punched him. He could've broken his nose. Blood streamed from Cash's nostrils and Marshall immediately grabbed the closest thing he could find to sop it up, one of his white chequered scarves.
"What the fuck, bro?" Cash tipped his head back, stopping the blood flow, but otherwise remained his usual cocky self. As if he hadn't just pounced on his bandmate in their recording studio.
"If you wanted to..." Marshall stepped closer to Cash and leaned over him so that he could look him in the eye properly. "You could have just asked."
"Can I?" The question came out strange, nasal.
"You owe me a new scarf."
"You owe me a new nose!"
"Fuck off, Cash. You deserved that. Ask me nicely next time."
Marshall was halfway out the door and down the hall before he heard Cash call out after him: "Next time?!"
Marshall just ducked his head and smiled.
Ian did his best not to moon over Marshall. Finding yourself attracted to dudes all of a sudden is disrupting enough, much less someone in your band. But sometimes Ian's best isn't good enough. Not when he's trapped in a van for hours and hours at a time with that certain someone, even on these tiny tours, and it only made him crazier. And then the tours suddenly got a whole lot bigger, and then they were sick from the cold climate change, too far from the sun and sand, and Marshall just looked so pitiful that Ian just wanted to curl up with him and a bowl of soup.
Ian just kept offering to drive so that he could give himself something else to focus on, to look at.
Except then they had the accident, and he couldn't help but to feel guilty. Not because he was completely uninjured, although he felt kind of shitty about that, too, but because even though he was mostly focused on the road, his eyes might've wandered, just a little, to sneak looks at Marshall's face lit up glowing by his laptop in the rear-view mirror.
Nobody blamed him, of course. The black ice would have been there, regardless of who had been at the wheel. But knowing that his mind had been elsewhere was making Ian feel pretty fucking guilty about it all, and he couldn't apologize without sounding like a total douche. But maybe it would make him feel better, to get it all out in the open. Acting on life after a brush with death.
He paused outside the room where Marshall had just been stitched up, embarrassed and nervous. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, either, but he could head that Cash was already in the room with Marshall. "You're kind of an asshole, Marsh."
A surprised "Hmm?!" in response. A newly stitched mouth was probably pretty limiting as far as speaking went.
"No, no, I see how it is, bro. Smash a TV set in your face, best excuse ever to get out of making out with me."
Ian's eyes went wide. He wished he could see Marshall's expression, see if either of them was joking. The room inside was suddenly very quiet now, save for the sounds of rustling tissue paper covering the exam table.
Cash spoke again, quietly this time. He sounded disappointed. "I asked in advance and everything."
It wasn't until after everyone had their stitches out that Ian could breathe easy around his band again. Barely any limps when they walked. The scars would fade in time.
Marshall's mouth was healing nicely, too. He'd been the most careful to keep his cuts clean and had barely spoken in drives during the day so he could still sing and talk with fans in the evening. He was actually kind of miserable, it was hard for him to be that quiet, but Marshall was also nothing if not stubborn.
It was Cash who pulled Ian aside before the show one night and told him he had a plan to cheer Marshall up.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, and maybe then you'll quit making fucking moon eyes at him, too."
Ian could only manage a strangled "what?" in reply.
Cash lit a cigarette. "Fuck off, Ian. We've pretty much all noticed long ago that you've got a big gay crush on Marshall."
"No, I don't! I---"
Cash cut him off. "Bro, trust me. I'm not judging." He took a long drag. "In fact, I know straight-up exactly how you feel about him."
Ian had convinced himself over these last weeks that what he'd overheard in the hospital had all been a crazy fucking dream, since he'd noticed no signs of anything remotely romantic between them since. "Oh." He blinked. "So, what's your plan?"
"It's pretty simple, really. Day off tomorrow. We chase everyone else out of the hotel, tell them about a sneaker sale at the mall or something, then we smoke Marsh out, he hasn't had any in weeks and needs to relax. Then we make out with him."
Ian wasn't sure how to react. Cash wasn't laughing. Cash was totally serious. So... "Yeah, okay."
Cash grinned hugely. "For real? Awesome."
And this was the first time Cash kissed Ian. He dropped his smoke on the pavement and crushed the butt under his heel, then threw an arm around Ian's shoulders. He leaned in to murmur in Ian's ear "It's going to be fucking great, bro." And pecked him on the jaw.
Ian turned his head towards Cash. "It's a great idea." He inched in closer, body almost independent of his own will. Five minutes ago, Ian had no interest in kissing Cash Colligan, but with Cash's fingers twirling around a curl at the base of his neck, and promising him a blissed-out Marshall the next day, Ian was feeling particularly friendly.
Cash was staring at his mouth already. Ian just fucking went for it, diving in to meet Cash's lips before he chickened out. It only lasted five, maybe ten seconds, before they heard fannish voices and feet crunching the gravel around the corner, and they snapped apart.
Cash was grinning even harder; Ian was having trouble breathing.
They didn't so much as tell Marshall about their plan as they dragged him into the middle of it. They were pressed up close on either side, looking at something on Marsh's laptop as they passed the second blunt between them. The first had gone much too quickly.
Ian felt suitably brave. He was craving contact, wanting to initiate the whole thing now. He couldn't wait. Cash had said that it had to be Ian who started, but didn't explain why. He wondered again about the hospital and what had already happened that he'd missed out on.
Ian let a hand ghost up Marshall's back then started kneading lightly at the tendons and muscles around his neck. He can still remember how he'd tasted. Marshall's head tipped back slightly, acknowledging the touch. He leaned into Ian's shoulder a little more, and Cash couldn't help his smile. His plan was working. Also, he got to finish the weed while they were distracted. But mostly the plan.
"So, how's your lip feeling, Marsh? All better?" Ian did his best to deliver his agreed-upon lines without sounding too obvious. Or too porno.
"Alright now, I guess. I'll have this sweet scar for awhile."
Ian leaned forward, turning his whole body so that he could look at Marshall's chin. "Yeah, that looks pretty badass." Ian lifted his eyes a little, settling his gaze upon Marshall's mouth, not looking away for even a second. They let the moment stretch out until it became obvious. Ian, now transfixed, sucked his own lower lip between his teeth and let it slide out slowly. This was it, his chance.
Cash broke the silence that had befallen them. "Ian, a tiny word of advice?"
"Sure." He was in no position to argue the interruption, Cash had gotten him this far.
"Ask him if it's okay."
Marshall jerked his head around to stare at Cash. "What?!"
Cash stared right back. "The same rules don't apply to everyone?"
"I... what the fuck, Cash. What have you been telling Ian?"
"Nothing, actually."
"Nothing?"
"No." Cash nodded in Ian's direction. "Get moving."
Ian blinked, just as lost as ever. But then Marshall was looking right at him and his focus had never been clearer. "Can I?"
"Can you what?"
"Kiss you. Like, right now."
Cash cleared his throat loudly.
"And then I think Cash would also like to kiss you. We both want to. Please?"
Marshall's face turned a little pink. "Yeah, okay."
Ian grinned. "Awesome."
And that was the first time Marshall kissed either of them.
Tour continued. They continued.
They stole and shared moments whenever possible. Nobody else had to know.
###
See original comments here.