Fic Exchange, for withoutmaps

[skyfalling]

Recipient: audreysrev
Title: It's a Seattle thing
Author: iridescentglow
Pairings: Cash/Marshall, Ian/Cash/Marshall
Rating: R (for sexual situations)
Disclaimer: Despite being based on real people and situations, all of the action is fictional.
Word count: ~9,500
Summary: Shortly after joining the band, Ian finds that he feels left out. Meanwhile, Cash and Marshall cross the line from "just fooling around" to "something more".

Note: I don't know what Singer or Johnson's girlfriends' names are (and I don't really want to know), so in this story, they are Camille and Becky. For the sake of the plot, I have excluded any girlfriends that Ian, Cash and Marshall might have. Quoted lyrics belong to Andrew McMahon/Something Corporate.

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It's a Seattle thing

Part one - Ian

"So it, like, rains a lot in Seattle… right?" Marshall asked seriously. He leaned forward slightly, waiting for Ian's reply, his face slack and earnest.

Before Ian could reply, Cash cut in with, "'Course it rains a lot, douchebag!" He smacked Marshall across the chest. "What, did you do a search on wikitravel? Pull up a bunch of fun facts?"

"Shut up! I'm interested." Marshall seemed momentarily caught between irritation and amusement. "I thought the rain thing might be a myth. I don't know. I've never been there." A second later, he gave in and started laughing.

"Yeah, it rains a lot," Ian said, just in case Marshall really did want to know.

Marshall nodded, but Ian sensed that his attention was already beginning to unravel. Cash had stolen Johnson's drumsticks and was using them to poke Marshall in the ribs. Marshall shoved him away. Cash shoved back, harder. Marshall dissolved into another fit of laughter and Cash grinned, resuming the drumstick-poking. Neither of them seemed all that interested in continuing the conversation about Seattle and its rain or lack thereof.

Ian sat back and watched the play-fight escalate. It was a lot like watching a pair of grade-schoolers. He smiled. It was the same kind of smile that he had been wearing a lot recently: genuine, but a little strained.

The Cab were good guys. Ian wouldn't have joined the band if he didn't think so. They were warm, friendly and obviously having the time of their lives. (In Seattle, Ian had known a lot of people on the scene who liked to act as if recording/touring/the whole music biz was a big chore. Anything that wasn't a cover shoot for Rolling Stone was a waste of time. Ian much preferred The Cab's enthusiasm to all that world-weary cool.) They were good guys, but Ian didn't exactly feel like one of them yet. It had been a few months and he still felt… separate. He also couldn't stop referring to them as "The Cab" in his head. The other four guys in the studio were The Cab and he… wasn't. Not yet, anyway.

It wasn't that The Cab weren't trying. Since he joined the band, the other guys seemed to be accumulating information about him. Singer asked what his favorite flavor popsicle was. Since then, he always brought him a cherry popsicle when he went to the store. Cash asked what his favorite bands were and, accordingly, switched up the playlist that constantly blared in communal areas. Johnson asked if Sex and Violins was urban-baroque-metal. (When Ian gave an astonished no, he said, "I was just judging by the band name, dude!") Marshall's question about Seattle seemed to belong to the same line of clumsy interrogation.

The trouble was, The Cab were easily distracted and the interrogation never really went anywhere. Questions about Ian's life in Seattle usually got as far they did today. There were always play-fights or epileptic dance routines to Kelly Clarkson or lengthy in-jokes about people at Liberty High School. Ian was inevitably left at the sidelines, thinking, what about me?

They were in the process of recording their album in California and the intense periods of playing were offset by hours where there was nothing to do but goof off. Cash was definitely the master of goofing off. Ian watched as he tried to shove one of the drumsticks in Marshall's ear. The fight was most definitely on now. They both stood up and began swatting at each other, like bears wrestling. Marshall successfully stole one of the drumsticks, so that he and Cash each had one. They used them to fight, lightsaber-style, dorkishly blowing out air through their mouths to make the sound effects.

It was usually Cash and Marshall who ended up in these fights (not to the death, but until something more interesting came along). Johnson was too laid-back. He didn't care enough to fight back when Cash came at him; he just waved him away and went back to texting his girlfriend, Becky. By contrast, Singer seemed to care a little too much. Whether such play-fights brought up old animosities, Ian couldn't tell, but Singer inevitably ended up red in the face and cranky after Cash delivered the smackdown on him. Of course, Cash never delivered more than a friendly slap on the back to Ian.

Ian sighed. He reached over and grabbed one of his guitars. He strummed a melody that had been rolling through his head all day. The act of playing temporarily blotted everything else out of his mind. It was much easier to ignore the screams of laughter from Marshall and Cash. Eventually, they took their play-fight outside and left Ian alone with his guitar. He ignored the slight heaviness in his bones - a feeling he was beginning to recognize as loneliness - and strummed more forcefully.

A few minutes later, Ian pushed aside his guitar and got up to pee. As he walked through the corridors of the studio, toward the bathroom, he almost didn't notice Cash and Marshall. They weren't yelling at each other anymore, not pushing or shoving. They stood very close together and seemed involved in a miniature version of their earlier play-fight, swatting at each other using their hands. They were too absorbed in whatever they were doing to notice Ian hovering at the other end of the corridor.

Cash dug his fingers into Marshall's hair and tugged his head to one side. Marshall made a little aah noise in the back of his throat. There was no more name-calling between them, just sighs and grunts. Marshall made his retaliation, pushing Cash back against the bathroom door. His hand lingered, molded against Cash's chest. Cash reached out, hooked a finger through one of Marshall's belt loops and pulled him toward him. Together, the two of them tumbled through the door into the bathroom.

Ian thought: well, okay then. He went outside to pee in the bushes.

*

"What's up with Cash and Marshall?" Ian asked Johnson a few days later.

Johnson paused to consider. "I don't know about Marshall, but I'm pretty sure Cash's mom dropped him on his head as a child," he said with mock-seriousness.

Ian laughed. It had been a long day of practicing and his fingers were stiff and painful as a result. The laughter felt good. The rest of the band had gone out to get some food, while he and Johnson had chosen to stay at the house. They were stretched out on the sofas, watching MTV. Those girls on the The Hills sure did like to cry a lot.

"Seriously," said Ian. "What's going on with them?"

It wasn't like he'd been thinking about it a lot. It was just a niggling question at the back of his mind. When he'd seen Cash and Marshall disappear into the bathroom, it had looked pretty incriminating. Yet, the next time he saw them together, everything was normal. Cash called Marshall a douchebag, a motherfucker - and Marshall replied in kind. They didn't touch the way they'd done in the corridor. However, Cash's eyes followed Marshall more often than not, and Marshall's biggest, brightest smiles seemed always reserved for Cash. Ian wondered whether it was an open secret, but one that he still hadn't been let in on.

Ian half-expected Johnson to reply with, dude, what? or nothing! jeez! However, Johnson was silent for a long moment. He reached over to grab a handful of Cheez-Its from the box. "Hell if I know," he said at last, mumbling because his mouth was full.

Johnson chewed slowly, apparently still considering Ian's question. He swallowed and then spoke again. "If it makes them happy, right?" He paused, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. "Cash is way happier since Marshall joined the band."

Ian nodded, absorbing the information. The two of them lapsed into silence. Johnson reached over and turned up the volume a couple of notches.

"So anyway," Johnson continued, as if the last few minutes hadn't happened, "I know we're supposed to be on Team Lauren or whatever, but I always end up hoping Heidi will bitch-slap her, just once."

*

Singer was laying down vocals at the studio. The upshot of this was: being the center of attention (combined with the pressure to perform) had sent him into a hyperactive jag. He hadn't become insufferable, exactly, but none of the rest of The Cab seemed inclined to stick around and watch Singer puff up (alternately) with ego and frustration. Ian stayed longer than the rest, trying to give enthusiastic thumbs up when Singer hit the right notes and look suitably sympathetic when he didn't. Eventually, all the sympathizing made Ian hungry and he wandered off to make himself a sandwich.

Ian passed Johnson asleep on the couch (late night - phone sex or Wii, Ian wasn't sure which). As he walked along the corridor to the kitchen, he heard voices. By a process of elimination, he realized it must be Cash and Marshall.

"You're doing it wroooong," Cash drawled. "Not so slow."

A pause. Then Marshall's reply:

"Yeah? And you're a fucking dick."

"That's kind of my point," said Cash.

Ian heard the sound of them both laughing.

"Shut up, okay?" said Marshall. "I can't do this if I'm laughing. It's not exactly something you can multi-task at."

"I believe some people are particularly good at multi-tasking, dude."

More laughter. Ian approached the kitchen door, which was ajar. He figured the two of them were trying to cook something. A few months of living with them had taught Ian that The Cab and cookery did not mix. In fact, Ian was the only one who could make an omelette without causing a kitchen fire.

"Asshole."

"We'll get to that."

Ian pushed at the door lightly. To his surprise, he caught a glimpse of bare ass. He stopped. Stared. Cash and Marshall had ceased talking and now Ian could see why. Marshall was on his knees before Cash, giving him an enthusiastic (if unpracticed) blowjob. Cash's cock was deep inside Marshall's mouth. Marshall made a groan like he was planning to come up for air, but Cash grabbed him by the hair, holding him in place.

The time for teasing was apparently over. Cash was close to coming and he wasn't about to let Marshall's lack of expertise screw up his orgasm.

Ian found that he couldn't bring himself to leave just yet. The air was thick with sexual tension. He felt a pull in his groin, an unbidden sympathy for Cash's position. The volume of Cash's breathing increased fractionally. He was close. So close. Then, suddenly, Marshall gasped, falling away from Cash. Ian could almost taste the bitter warmth that was filling his mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," Cash said, sounding not at all like his usual, wisecracking self. He sounded sated, calm.

"Fuck, yeah," Marshall repeated with a grin. With the shock wearing off, he seemed absurdly pleased with himself.

Ian withdrew, hiding behind the door. He counted to twenty and then entered the kitchen, trying his best to look nonchalant. Cash was still buttoning his pants and Marshall looked flushed. Other than that, they lounged casually against the counter. If they were nervous or embarrassed to have been almost caught, they were hiding it pretty well.

"Hey Ian," said Cash, "make us an omelette?"

*

Ian tried to forget about Cash and Marshall and whatever friends-with-benefits deal they had going on. It wasn't really his business, after all. He took a few days off and flew home to Seattle for a visit. He even entertained thoughts of staying for good. However, when his plane touched down in Southern California, he found that he was glad to be back. The recording studio and rented house didn't feel like home, but the sight of the four guys ambling towards him across the tiled airport floor made his heart lift unexpectedly.

On his first night back, Ian sat on the warm tarmac outside the studio, watching the sun slide from the sky. Singer approached him slowly, with a look of slight trepidation on his face. He held a cherry-flavored popsicle out in front of him, like a ceremonial offering.

"I brought you this," said Singer.

"Yeah, thanks." Ian reached out and took the popsicle. It was warm and red goop was beginning to ooze down the stick.

"Good trip?"

"Great trip. I saw my old band…" It had been weird, actually. He had stood in the crowd while they played, feeling awkward, displaced. His replacement was pretty terrible.

"You still like us, better, though. Right?" said Singer, making his American Idol-winner smile. He was prone to statements like this. He tried to be jocular like Cash, but he wasn't tough enough. The result was a neediness that showed in his jokes.

The goop from the popsicle was rolling down Ian's fingers now. He paused to lick them clean. Ian had eaten more cherry popsicles in the last few months than in the whole eighteen years preceding them. "Sure," he said in answer to Singer's question.

Singer frowned, like he wasn't sure whether to believe him.

Ian exhaled and then said, "Not to sound ungrateful, but uh, I've kind of grown to hate popsicles. You know you can always buy me a Snickers bar from the store, though."

Singer's eyes widened and then he started laughing. Ian couldn't help but join in.

"This whole situation's kinda weird, huh?" Singer said.

Ian nodded. "Bands are like families. But with families, you don't suddenly lose one brother and gain a new one." He paused to consider. "Well, maybe with step-families you do. So I guess bands are like step-families. Crazy, incestuous step-families."

"Hey! Little less with the crazy," Singer said with a grin. "And we're not exactly incestuous."

"What d'you call Cash and Marshall?"

"Mostly, I call 'em dumb and dumber," said Singer.

Ian tossed his popsicle onto the ground. It melted slowly into the tarmac, forming a pool of what looked like strangely pink-colored blood.

Ian said idly, "Do you think they're just screwing around or…?"

Singer's eyes widened again, but this time he did not laugh. "They're not screwing around or. Or. Anything." Singer dropped his voice to a whisper. "Cash isn't gay. He's, like, the least gay person I know. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. But." Singer stopped talking abruptly. Then he finished decisively, "Cash is, like, my best friend."

Ian was surprised. Not at his outburst on how gay or not-gay Cash might be, but at the declaration that Cash was his best friend. It was Brendon that Singer spent hours on the phone to; his girlfriend, Camille, who he adored to an extent that it was nauseating. Singer and Cash talked about their old rivalry often and with a bizarre amount of glee. They almost seemed inclined to perpetuate a myth that, deep down, they still hated one another, but put their differences aside for the sake of the band. But Ian realized suddenly that he'd read their relationship wrong completely. Singer considered himself closest to Cash and was, presumably, upset at any suggestion that his place in Cash's life might have been usurped.

Ian also realized, belatedly, that Singer's views on sexuality must be pretty fucked up. Happy-go-lucky as he was, he wore the scars of years of needling comments. His appearance made it easy to jump to conclusions: there was the long hair, the fondness for flat-ironing, the skinny wrists, the tendency to burst into Disney songs. Any gay pride march would welcome him with open arms, but most public high schools wouldn't be so accepting.

By contrast, Ian entered the music scene in Seattle early in his teens. Instead of school, his formative experiences happened in dingy clubs that pulsed with music. From the myriad of people that he met (all achingly hip; all extremely open-minded), he learned that there was gay and there was straight and there were a few thousand shades of gray in between. His first kiss was from a drag queen, because she took pity on him for being fifteen and still so green. He dated girls and boys, and found that he liked boys a little bit more. (Music remained his one true love, of course.) He never came out, because he never felt like he was in a closet to begin with.

"Sure," Ian said, still deep in thought. He was non-confrontational by nature and Singer seemed uncomfortable enough already. "I guess I got the wrong idea."

"Yeah," Singer said, frowning slightly.

There were both silent for several seconds, watching the final colors of the sunset.

Singer found his smile again and said, "Snickers next time, right?"

Ian grinned and nodded.

*

Later the same evening, after the sun had set and Singer had headed back to the house, Ian ambled through the darkened corridors of the studio. He was usually scrupulous about accounting for the whereabouts of all his guitars, but he couldn't remember where he'd left his acoustic guitar. It was the beautiful, well-worn one that his dad had given to him for his sixteenth birthday. Even though he claimed to prefer electric guitars - the sheer power and noise that they produced - the acoustic was his favourite to play late at night. It had the ability to sound hushed, almost numinous. Other people downed pills to help them sleep; Ian needed his acoustic guitar.

As he approached the main practice space, he heard a melody being played on a keyboard. The notes were interrupted by a brief squabble.

Cash's voice: "You messed up that note. Doofus."

Ian heard the keys pressed harder, more emphatically.

"Yeah?" Marshall replied sarcastically. "I'm sorry I'm not Andrew Mc-Mo-HAN."

"It's Andrew McMaaaaaaaahon, you dick."

Ian realized the song that Marshall was playing was 'Konstantine' by Something Corporate.

"I can stop playing anytime, you know…." Marshall said.

Cash's voice was quieter now. "Don't stop," he said.

By the time Ian reached the threshold of the practice room, he had slowed his pace, treading very softly. He realized that he had unconsciously fallen into the role of voyeur, peering around the doorframe at Cash and Marshall. He rolled his eyes at his own behavior, feeling ridiculous. Something stopped him from walking into the room and interrupting, though. If the scene in the kitchen had been charged with sexual energy, this one felt charged in a very different way.

Floodlights outside, whose beams filtered in through the windows of the studio, provided the only light to the room. The result was a beautiful, shifting half-light. Marshall sat at the big, piano-style keyboard. Cash was jammed in next to him, following the movements of Marshall's hands with his eyes.

Marshall continued to play and Cash remained silent, until-

"And I had these dreams that I might learn to play guitar. Maybe cross the country, become a rock star…"

Cash half-sang, half-spoke the lyric. It was clearly not a result of any real desire to sing. Ian got the feeling the words were physically pushing out of his mouth.

Marshall smiled in response - it was one of those big, beaming smiles that made Ian ache inexplicably. Cash leaned in slowly, closing the distance between them. He kissed Marshall's cheek, the corner of his mouth. Marshall turned his head and their lips met full on.

To his credit, Marshall managed to continue playing for a couple of bars after they started kissing. Then his fingers began to hit the wrong keys, providing a discordant counterpoint. The two of them broke apart for a moment to laugh. Then they resumed kissing, sans soundtrack.

Ian knew that he was intruding on a private moment, but he couldn't tear himself away. He realized faintly that he had underestimated Cash and Marshall, assumed wrongly the extent of their relationship. He watched as Marshall used his hand to cup Cash's face, urging the two of them closer. These weren't the perfunctory kisses of friends who preferred masturbating with someone else's hand instead of their own. They were deep and lovely kisses.

Ian finally summoned the presence of mind to leave, padding softly back down the corridor. He thought about continuing his search for his acoustic guitar, but decided against it. He suspected that not even playing would successfully clear his head, which felt static-y with half-formed thoughts and feelings.

*

Part two - Cash

"So, d'you think Ian's ga-you think he's into guys?" Cash wondered aloud.

He decided to put the kibosh on the gay word. It's not like he and Marshall had sat down and precisely defined their feelings, attaching neat little labels to everything, before they started fooling around. It was a lot more organic than that. It was a lot more driven by a very real (but undefined) desire to just get into Marshall's pants already.

"I don't know," Marshall said, but his voice was serious, as if he were really giving it a lot of thought. (Cash maybe liked that most about Marshall: how fucking earnest he could be about the dumbest things.) "He is from Seattle," Marshall concluded.

The two of them were hanging out in the main practice space. A lull in the recording process had caused everyone else to scatter, leaving them alone. Recording an album seemed to involve a lot of waiting-around-for-things-to-happen, Cash had noticed. He had also noticed that Marshall made an excellent distraction from the boredom.

"So?" Cash said.

"Well, I don't know," said Marshall. "Isn't it the kind of place where you just… follow your heart?"

Cash burst out laughing. "Do you know anything about Seattle? For real."

"Not really." Marshall made a face and then joined in with Cash's laughter. "I'm just guessing."

"Maybe you're onto something, though," said Cash. "You know Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl were totally fucking."

Marshall stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Totally." It took a lot of willpower to keep a straight face. "It's a Seattle thing," he added. "All the rain and… plaid. It makes you horny."

It took Marshall a glorious five seconds to twig that Cash was bullshitting him. Then he let out a yelp of outrage at being deceived and threw a Goldfish cracker at Cash. It bounced off Cash's forehead. The spat escalated. They used the remainder of the crackers to pelt one another. Marshall attempted to retaliate by tackling Cash. However, the fight ended with Cash pinning Marshall to the floor. Their fights usually ended that way and Marshall never seemed too bothered at the outcome.

"I guess we should test him," said Cash, his shortness of breath showing in his voice.

Marshall wriggled slightly in an attempt to free himself from Cash's grasp. Then he slackened, acquiescing to Cash's dominance. However, he wasn't exactly the passive Medieval maiden, willing to give up completely. His gaze wasn't wide and boyish anymore. His eyes were intent as he lifted his chin, angling his face so that it was closer to Cash's. "What d'you mean?" he asked.

Cash smiled mischievously. "Alex Marshall, I put this challenge to you."

*

It would be a good way to kill the time, Cash reasoned. It would be fun to push Ian's limits a little. Ian still remained somewhat of an enigma to him (to them all). He had a nice smile and he was good at using it to deflect. If it was possible, Ian was even more polite than Marshall. (Marshall, who had, memorably, once asked if Cash would mind jerking him off, please and thank you - not those words exactly, but close to it.) Smiles and politeness: they were good things to have, Cash figured, but they could also be annoying as hell.

Marshall took to Cash's challenge with an amusing degree of commitment. His first approach wasn't exactly subtle:

"You don't have a girlfriend, right, Ian?" Marshall asked over breakfast. (Breakfast = popcorn at two p.m.)

Ian smiled. "Nope."

"But in the picture-"

(The picture was a source of covert interest to them all. Ian had tacked it to the wall above his bed, as if he were a prisoner or a sailor. It was the only evidence of pre-Cab Ian they had to work with. He wore leather pants, a shirt soaked through with sweat and his hair was in even greater disarray than usual. His arm was slung across a girl's shoulders. She was petite, brunette, with a slight don't-fuck-with-me snarl. Cash often wondered what was going on in that picture. Where were they? Who was holding the camera? Cash wished he could crawl inside that picture, just to take a quick look at the old Ian in his natural habitat.)

"She's just a friend," said Ian.

Marshall looked deflated because his line of questioning had failed to yield results. He scrounged in the bottom of the bag for more popcorn. Cash took pity on Marshall and decided to help him out.

"That girl in the picture's hot," Cash said.

"Hm? Oh yeah, Ali. She's hot, I guess." Ian gave another non-committal smile.

"You two used to date?" Marshall chipped in eagerly.

"Date? I don't know if you'd call it that," said Ian. "Is there any popcorn left?"

Marshall handed over the bag of popcorn. While Ian wasn't looking, he made a face at Cash, as if to say, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Cash shrugged. Ian obviously wasn't going to be prodded into giving up his sexuality status.

There was a short silence. Then Marshall sat up straight in his chair, very suddenly. Cash could almost see the light bulb appear over his head.

"Hey Ian, you know Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl were fucking, right? Is that, like, a Seattle thing?" said Marshall, speaking very quickly and earnestly.

Ian stared at him. Cash, meanwhile, had to duck down and pretend to retrieve something from under the table, because he was overwhelmed with the desire to laugh. Once out of sight, he slapped a hand over his mouth. His body shook with unreleased laughter.

It took Ian a moment to form a reply. At last, he said, "I don't think there was any real… evidence of, like, a relationship. And Nirvana weren't actually from Seattle. They were from Aberdeen. It's a couple of hours south of Seattle. Dave Grohl is from the Midwest, anyway."

Trust Ian to know his rock history.

"So, to answer your question," Ian continued, still sounding faintly confused, "no, it's not a Seattle thing."

"Oh," Marshall said in a very small voice.

Cash had to leave the room very soon after, because he felt another wave of laughter rising up inside him and he wasn't sure he could contain it this time.

*

"I did my best!" Marshall exclaimed.

"Yeah, you're a real boy scout," Cash said lazily. "Isn't that their motto? Do your best."

It was later in the day and the two of them were hanging out in the kitchen. Marshall was fiddling with the rings on the hob, letting them flare with bright flames and then allowing them to die. He seemed to be psyching up to use them to actually cook.

"It's be prepared," he said after a pause.

"Oh shit, Marshall." Cash choked on his laughter. "You really were a boy scout, huh?"

Marshall glowered.

"When I said you should find out what Ian's into, I was thinking of a more… hands-on approach," Cash said slyly.

He half-expected Marshall to balk. But as Cash watched his expression change, he saw that the boy scout merely appeared curious. Marshall chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"Hands-on, huh?" Marshall said slowly.

"Hands anywhere you like," Cash said.

He met Marshall's gaze for a long moment. A ripple of tension passed between them. When they had not-discussed labels for their non-relationship, they had also not-discussed its terms and stipulations. Cash wasn't exactly ready to exchange promise rings and say I love you. But - he realized suddenly - he also wasn't ready to let go of the feeling of ownership he had over Marshall.

"I don't mind sharing," Cash continued. "Sharing's kinda fun. But-"

"Yeah," Marshall cut in quickly, "I get it. Sharing's a temporary thing." He took a step closer to Cash. "But you and me. That's not so temporary."

"Not so temporary," Cash echoed.

With a slow exhalation of breath, Cash realized that their non-relationship had just gotten its first stipulation.

"Tell me what I can do with my hands," Marshall said in a low voice.

"You can do anything you like with your hands," said Cash.

The two of them stood for a moment, facing each other. Marshall tended to slouch, but he was still a few inches taller than Cash. Their bodies were close, but they stopped just short of touching. It was usually Cash who initiated contact between them, but this time he waited for Marshall to make the first move.

Cash felt the shiver of anticipation in Marshall's body as he reached for him. Marshall pulled open Cash's jeans and slid his hand past the waistband of his boxers. Cash wasn't bullshitting: Marshall was good with his hands. Over the past few months, they'd fallen into a nice routine. Handjobs and makeouts: there were definitely worse things. They had reached the point where they knew each other's moves completely; there was no mystery as to how and when they would get each other off. Practiced handjobs accompanied by messy kisses. It was wonderfully simple. However, Cash also realized that he was ready for change: it was time to shake things up between him and Marshall. Cash's thoughts began to fizz, dissolving into nonsense as Marshall quickened his strokes on his cock. He nipped at Marshall's bottom lip and gave in to his beckoning orgasm.

Funny how they never seemed to use the kitchen for cooking.

*

Later, Cash lay on his bed, thinking. He wasn't big on contemplation, but lately his head had been feeling more full of stuff than usual. (He liked his head nice and empty, thanks very much.) He was glad that Singer was elsewhere and he had the room to himself.

Cash shared with DeLeon, Marshall shared with Johnson, and Ian had a room to himself. It had seemed like the obvious solution when they'd moved into the house and now it was just the way things were. As a result, it made Cash's non-relationship with Marshall a little more fraught with annoyances. They had slept together - in a bed, involving actual sleeping - exactly twice, during a weekend that Singer had been away visiting Camille. Other than that, their encounters took place wherever was convenient. Cash sometimes thought it would be a lot easier if they could all switch rooms so that Marshall would be his every night. Proximity was definitely tempting. But the idea also made him uneasy; maybe the normalcy that the situation would bring to their non-relationship would also make it less exciting, less fun.

Cash always thought about his thing with Marshall as beginning on the day that the third Alex joined the band. It wasn't exactly a big fanfare occasion, since Marshall's place in the band was practically a lock, so only Cash was dispatched to give him the news. Marshall produced a big smile when Cash told him. His eyes lit up and he looked so thrilled, so completely without guile, that Cash almost leaned over and kissed him. It would have been cheesy, though, to kiss him at that moment. It was too obvious, like something a girl would do - or something that only a girl could get away with. Regardless, Cash still counted that day, the almost-kiss, as the beginning.

Their real first kiss was, reassuringly, much less dramatic. It happened at night, in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. They were standing next to a dumpster, talking about Hannah Montana (it was a disposable conversation, but one that Cash could still recall almost word-for-word). Then, the balance shifted imperceptibly and Cash found that his impatience finally outweighed his fear. He grabbed Marshall and kissed him. Marshall's surprise melted away easily, with only a slight stutter. There was an endearing lapse in the kissing when Marshall broke away to set his Slurpee on the ground and free up both of his hands. As a result, Marshall's hands were cold against Cash's skin, so Cash could pretend that this was the reason for his slight shudder when they resumed kissing.

Cash recalled the way that Marshall had gradually come into focus in his mind. That's the way it felt, like a camera slowly focusing. Two years ago, Alex Marshall had been a kid he knew from school; a blur on his peripheral vision. Even a year ago, he'd still been hazy; someone interesting to Cash, but never all that important. Over the last few months, as they'd progressed slowly from kissing to touching to handjobs to blowjobs, the frequency and intensity of their contact had increased. Marshall had become someone that Cash thought of more and more, squarely centered in his mind's eye; a sharp, full image.

Almost without realizing what he was doing, Cash's hands strayed down his body. He rubbed absently at the bulge in his jeans. As he gave in to the temptation to jerk off, tugging his pants down and reaching for his cock, Cash was still thinking about Marshall.

Cash had always considered it kinda dumb to think about the person you were seeing when you jerked off. What was the point in fantasizing about someone whose reality you already knew? When he'd been dating Stephanie Groves - a petite blonde who had a strange, braying laugh and gave excellent blowjobs - he used to make a point of centering his masturbation fantasies around her best friend, Morgan Starr - who was snooty and headed to Brown - just because it was his mind and he was allowed to think about whatever he liked.

Yet Cash found himself imagining the fingers that wrapped around his cock were Marshall's and not his own. He imagined the weight of Marshall, half on top of him; the warmth of his breath as he leaned in to kiss him. Oh, fuck. What was the point in fantasizing about someone when you could get them to suck you off an hour later? This was creepy, this was definitely creepy. This was definitely not the kind of thing that Cash Colligan usually did.

*

That evening, Cash decided that he needed to talk to Singer. A real talk. Man to man. Or something. Cash was steely with determination as he went looking for Singer. He found him in the den at their house. Singer had his cell phone glued to his ear and he actually seemed to be cooing. Cash rolled his eyes covertly.

"Hey man, can I talk to you when you get a minute?" he said.

"Baby," Singer said into the phone, "Cash wants to talk to me. He looks intense." There was a pause and then Singer laughed. "Yeah, you're right." He took the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Cam says you look constipated when you're in an intense mood."

Cash made a face. "Tell Camille thanks a bunch," he said, emphasizing her name sarcastically. He resisted the urge to reach over and smack the phone out of Singer's hand. Thankfully, it did seem like Singer was at last getting ready to hang up.

"Speak to you soon," Singer said into the phone. "Yeah, me too… me too… love you… yeah, same… me too… love you more… bye… yeah, bye…"

Cash made gagging noises, pretending to strangle himself. If being in a relationship turned you into a needy puppy dog who required ten minutes just to end a call, Cash was having second thoughts. Finally, Singer said one last loveyou and snapped his phone closed.

"What's up?" Singer asked Cash. However, before Cash could reply, he stood up, patting down his pockets. "Think I might go to the store. You want anything?" He patted his pockets again. "You seen my keys?"

"Listen, can I talk to you a second?" Cash said, irritated.

"Sure… I'm listening," Singer said in his most distracted voice. He began roaming the room, apparently looking for his car keys.

"Okay." Cash rocked back on his heels and took a deep breath. "I want to tell you something. But don't make a big deal or anything."

"No big deal… sure," Singer said, turning away from Cash and tossing the cushions off the couch.

"For fuck's sake!" Cash exploded. "I'll help you find your keys in a minute. Would you straight up listen to me?"

Singer turned slowly to face Cash. He looked suddenly apprehensive.

"Oh my god," he said in a low voice. "Do you have Hepatitis?"

Cash was caught off guard. "What?"

"I heard you can get Hepatitis from dirty needles when you get a tattoo," Singer said.

"No, I do not have Hepatitis! Jesus."

"Is it drugs?" Singer said in the same hushed, anticipatory voice. "Are you an addict?"

"Alex, we share a fucking room! We spend almost all day together! Don't you think you would have noticed me shooting up?"

"Oh, I guess," Singer said in his normal voice. "What's the matter then?"

"Nothing's the matter! I just want to talk to you. Is that so weird?"

"Uh, yeah, actually," Singer said, scratching his chin.

"Fine, well, just listen and don't say anything." Cash took another deep breath. He waited a moment to be sure that Singer wasn't going to interrupt him again. When Singer only stared back at him, Cash said, "Me and Marshall, we're… I don't know how to say it. We're… Fuck. We're seeing each other. We're… together. Like that."

Singer just continued to stare at him.

Cash waited.

Singer stared.

Finally, Cash said, "This is the point where you say something."

"Heather Roberts!" Singer burst out.

"What?"

"Heather Roberts," Singer repeated. "You never liked her at all, did you? You only went after her to spite me!"

Heather Roberts was the girl they had fought over at school. Neither of them had seen her since graduation. She'd turned into almost a mythic figure since, only mentioned when they talked about the band's genesis. But there had been a six-month period when Cash had burned seriously hot for Heather - the real Heather, not mythic Heather.

"Yeah, I liked her. I liked her a lot!" Cash paused, suddenly realizing where Singer Boy's convoluted thought process had taken him. "Just because I'm seeing a guy now doesn't mean I've never had feelings for a girl. What the fuck?"

"Oh." Singer deflated. "So you're not really gay."

"I don't know," Cash muttered, because he really didn't know. "I guess right now I'd say I'm bi. Maybe. Fuck. I have no idea. I just thought you should know. Or… something. I guess it's a big thing. And I guess you're supposed to be my best friend."

There was a long pause, where Singer resumed his staring.

Then, without warning, he launched himself at Cash, flinging his arms around him. The hug didn't last more than five seconds and then Singer extricated himself from Cash just as suddenly.

"I'm glad you told me," Singer said, a mite tremulously. "It doesn't change anything between us."

Cash grinned. "Why the fuck would it change anything? You're still a stupid fuckwad."

"Love you, too, asshat. Can I go to the store now?"

"Yeah, you can go," Cash said. "Your car keys are on the kitchen table."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier? I fucking hate you."

Cash smiled beatifically as Singer wandered off his find his keys.

*

"I don't know how to seduce anyone," Marshall said, frowning.

Cash snorted. "Yeah, right. You seduced me."

Marshall looked affronted. "I didn't."

"You mean that cocktease routine you had going, where you'd flutter your goddamn eyelashes like a girl and tell me how much you liked my bass-playing. That wasn't seduction?"

Marshall was obstinate. "No."

"Fine," said Cash. "Your natural personality must be cocktease. That still means you're all set to seduce Ian. Just be yourself and wait for him to fall onto your dick."

The two of them we loitering in Ian's bedroom. It seemed like the best option as a venue for what they had planned. They'd left Ian at the studio half an hour before, but he'd indicated that he would be home soon. Cash wondered briefly if it was skeevy to lie in wait for Ian like this. He pushed the thought away and refocused on Marshall.

"So I'll hide in the closet and you… you work the Alex Marshall magic," he said.

"You'll be in the closet," Marshall repeated and Cash caught the trace of a smirk.

The closet was basically his only option. The room was sparsely decorated. He could either hide in the closet or under the bed. The closet would be roomier and give a better view, so he was choosing to ignore its connotations.

"Yeah, I'll be in the closet," Cash said and stared hard at Marshall. The smirk was fully-formed now. "And you-" Cash crossed the room and grabbed Marshall by the shoulders. "You can shut your fucking mouth." He kissed Marshall hard. It was very much an open-mouthed kiss, but Cash felt he had nonetheless conveyed the sentiment.

When Cash heard footsteps on the stairs, he broke away from Marshall. "Oh, shit," he muttered. Half-falling in his haste, he scrambled across the room and shut himself inside the closet.

Through the slatted door of the closet, Cash watched as Ian appeared in the doorway.

Marshall, who still seemed a little dazed, said, "Hi, Ian."

"Uh, hi, Marshall." Ian paused. "What's up?"

Cash figured that was a polite way of asking the more obvious question: what the fuck are you doing in my room?

"Not much."

"You know this is my room, right? Yours is the one down the hall," Ian said, smiling slightly.

"Yeah… I mean… Johnson's in there. Talking to Becky. So I thought I'd… hang out and wait for you," Marshall said. "Is that cool?"

It wasn't the smoothest lie (although Johnson did, in fact, spend approximately ten hours a day on the phone to his girlfriend), but it was better than Cash would have given Marshall credit for.

"Yeah, that's cool." Ian finally moved away from the doorframe and into the room. He closed the door behind him.

"Hey, could you teach me that chord progression?" Marshall asked. "You know, the one you were playing yesterday… I'd really like to learn it."

Inside the closet, Cash rolled his eyes.

What followed was, in Cash's opinion, pretty fucking boring. Definitely not worth being shut inside a closet for. Ian grabbed his guitar, which was leaning against the wall. He played the chord progression and then handed the guitar to Marshall. After Marshall failed to play the piece correctly, Ian played it again. Then he handed the guitar back to Marshall so that he could practice. This back-and-forth continued for several minutes.

Finally, Marshall, perhaps realizing his seduction plan had gone awry, said, "Why don't you show me how to do it… but, like, on the guitar. You can position my fingers or whatever."

"Sure," Ian said slowly.

Cash watched as the two of them settled on the bed. Ian slid into place behind Marshall. The guitar rested in Marshall's lap. Ian reached around him, nosing over his shoulder and positioning his fingers over Marshall's.

For the first time, Cash's interest was piqued. Free to stare, he examined the way their bodies fitted together; Ian's long fingers; the proximity of Ian's mouth to Marshall's neck.

With Ian guiding his hands, Marshall finally played the piece correctly. He let out a delighted cry of, "Yeah!"

"Great job," Ian said in a low voice.

There was a long pause. The two of them remained entangled, but neither of them resumed playing the guitar. Cash watched as Marshall turned his head, angling his body toward Ian. Cash realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to exhale.

They were close enough to kiss now, but Marshall wasn't going for it. Marshall seemed to have lost his nerve. His gaze strayed from Ian to the closet door, briefly skittering over the place where he knew Cash must be watching from. Marshall had definitely lost his nerve.

Cash felt deflated, yet oddly relieved. He waited for the two of them to break apart. He wondered vaguely if they should order a pizza.

Then, to Cash's surprise, Ian leaned in and kissed Marshall.

Somehow, the fact that they had answered the central question - is Ian Crawford into guys? yes or no? - slipped Cash's mind completely. He could only watch agape as Ian and Marshall kissed. Not only were they kissing, but they were speeding toward groping, too. If Marshall had been initially surprised by this turn of events, he quickly adapted. They paused to get rid of the guitar and find a more mutually-beneficial position. Ian pressed Marshall down onto the bed. They were still kissing enthusiastically. From what Cash could see from the closet, Ian was really good with his tongue. Marshall certainly seemed to be enjoying himself; the keening noises he made when he was turned on were getting progressively louder.

Watching his sort-of-boyfriend get groped by his bandmate was less straight-forwardly exciting than Cash had hoped. Maybe he was not cut out for being a voyeur after all. It was a lot like getting socked in the chest, actually. He felt intensely, irrationally jealous. Admittedly, from the depths of that jealousy came a weird sort of desire. He felt turned on, but not in a way that was easily recognizable from his everyday erections. The closest thing he could think to compare it to was the way he had felt after Heather Roberts had dumped him. She'd gone out with DeLeon for two weeks and, for those two weeks, Cash had been transfixed every time he saw the two of them kissing in the school corridors. Not that Cash had ever felt that way about DeLeon. Obviously, he hadn't. Not really.

"Hey, Cash-"

Cash was startled to hear his own name. It was even more unexpected that Ian would be the one to say his name.

"Hey, Cash," Ian said again. Suddenly, he and Marshall were no longer kissing. He sat up, while Marshall remained spread out on the bed. "You wanna come out?"

Busted. So busted.

Cash didn't know what to do except open the closet door and step out into the room. Ian seemed appallingly at ease with the situation, while Cash felt acutely embarrassed. Marshall just looked confused. There was a long silence.

"We wanted to find out if you were into guys," Marshall said vaguely. "And, uh… I guess…"

"And what were you going to do with that information?" Ian asked. "Once you found it out, I mean." He was smiling. He obviously found the situation funny, while Cash was still lodged in a state of awkwardness.

"We didn't really think it through that far," Marshall said, still sounding as if he'd been struck over the head with a mallet and there were cartoon birds flying around his head.

"Sorry," Cash said, which felt like the wrong sentiment to express, but his brain wasn't exactly working correctly.

Ian shrugged. "It's cool."

Then Ian levered himself up off the bed and headed for the door. Marshall looked a little disappointed to see him go. Cash couldn't begin to guess what expression must be showing on his own face.

"You know if there are any eggs left?" asked Ian. "I'm hungry."

*

Cash's feeling of awkwardness was not, as it turned out, something that could be washed clean by a shower. The next morning, he woke up feeling like there was an elephant in the room that no one else could see. Ian seemed maddeningly indifferent - although Cash thought he saw him smirk once or twice (he couldn't be sure). When Cash tried to talk to Marshall, he only shrugged and said, I don't know a lot.

("You think what we did was shady?" Cash asked in a low voice.

"I don't know," Marshall said.

"You think Ian hates us?"

"I don't know."

"You think everything's gonna be weird from now on?"

"I don't know."

"You think this milk has gone bad?"

"I don't know.")

Everything continued as normal. They went to the studio and then came home. However, recording felt more like a job than usual and Cash found himself unusually on-edge that evening. For the second time in as many days, he decided to lie in wait for Ian - but this time, alone. In Ian's room, he sat on the bed, bouncing slightly with restless energy. It was hard not to be here and think about the previous day; Marshall's slack expression of wanting, the sight of Ian's hands rubbing over his cock. Marshall. Ian. Marshall. Ian.

He would strenuously deny it if interrogated, but Cash had jerked off to the memory of Marshall and Ian on this bed. That morning, in the shower, the water had run tepid and then cold, while his skin had remained flushed and hot. He'd tried to think about Morgan Starr instead. Then he'd brought out the reliable stand-by: Angelina Jolie, dressed in leather. When that didn't work, and with growing desperation, he'd tried to conjure the image of the cute redhead who sometimes delivered pizza to their house. But when he came, he was thinking about Ian's fingers around his cock.

As his wait lengthened, Cash's restlessness turned to something like mania. He wondered if it would be funny to hide in the closet again and burst out once Ian entered the room. In the end, he just sat on his hands and stared at the door. Finally, it opened.

"Hey, Cash." Ian did not sound surprised to find him in his room.

"Hey, Ian." He thought about extending the charade and exchanging more pleasantries, but in the end, his mouth spit out the question that was troubling him. "You pissed at me?"

Ian took a seat on the bed, next to Cash. There were six inches of space between them.

"Not at all," Ian said slowly.

"You're not?" Cash let out a single laugh - one that sounded pretty manic to his ears. "I hide in the fucking closet and set up my boyfriend-" He caught himself at the word boyfriend and rephrased awkwardly, "My-my Marshall to put the moves on you. I mean, Jesus. I don't even know you-"

Cash's final statement hung in the air. He regretted it immediately. Of course he knew Ian. Ian was their guitar player. He was from Seattle. He liked cherry popsicles and Marilyn Manson and Slash from GNR. But-

"Yeah," Ian said. He did not seem offended, just thoughtful. "It's weird, joining this tight-knit group of people-people who are supposed to be your friends, like, instantly. But you don't really know them. Friendship, real friendship, it takes time. It takes experience. You have to go through stuff together. Good stuff. Bad stuff. Fucking weird stuff." Ian exhaled hard. "You treat me with kid gloves, Cash. You all do. You don't even realize you're doing it. But." He sighed, as if he'd run out of steam; as if the topic were depressing him.

Like moisture on a rainy day, realization seeped slowly through Cash. Ian was right, of course. They all referred to Ian as their friend so often that they'd forgotten he wasn't, not really. He was an amicable acquaintance; someone they all liked a lot, but didn't really know.

"So, no," Ian continued quietly, "I'm not pissed at you. At least if you're hiding in my closet, it must mean we're a step closer to being friends."

Cash grinned suddenly. "What kind of friends do you have, Crawford?"

"Maniacs." Ian's voice was slow, amused; almost a drawl. "Fucking nutjobs. Screw… loose."

They were both silent for a long time. It felt like a comfortable silence.

"Hey, Ian," Cash said suddenly

"Yeah, friend?" Ian replied, a hint of mocking in his voice.

"Have you ever fucked another guy?"

Ian laughed. "I guess we're being candid with each other now?"

"Have you?"

"Yeah," Ian said. "I mean, of course." He scratched his fingers through his hair, then he turned to look at Cash. He met Cash's gaze dead on. "You haven't, I take it."

Cash felt himself flush. "I've fucked girls, okay? Plenty of girls." His voice dropped to a mutter, "That's pretty much the same."

Ian paused to consider Cash's statement. "No," he said, "it's different. I mean, it's not. But. It is."

"That really clears things up, thanks," Cash said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Ian grinned. "Glad to help. Anyway, aren't you and Marshall there by now? I figured you would be. I mean, you seem pretty into each other. From what I've seen."

"You fucking douche!" Cash exclaimed. "You have been spying on us. I thought I saw you last week."

Ian held up his hands. "Guilty."

Returning to Ian's previous question, Cash said, "Marshall's kinda inexperienced. I don't wanna freak him out, y'know?"

"Marshall's the one that's inexperienced, huh?"

Ian was smirking again. Cash wanted to smack that smirk right off his face. Or maybe just kiss it off his face. Whatever worked. He watched as Ian reached over and pulled open the drawer of his bedside table. He retrieved a tube of what looked like shower gel or… oh. Casually, Ian held out the tube to Cash.

"Here," he said.

"What?"

"If you're gonna fuck me," Ian said evenly, "you're gonna need some lube."

Not knowing what else to do, Cash took the lube. His cock - traitorous as always - got interested in Ian's suggestion real quick. Cash's mind, however, took a couple more seconds to process Ian's words. During those seconds, Ian took the opportunity to get a whole lot more naked. He pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion and then began unbuttoning his pants.

Cash took a deep breath. Clearly, this was what friends did for each other in Seattle. And Ian was his friend. So it would be rude to turn down his offer. Ian and Marshall weren't the only ones who were polite - Cash could be, too.

Oh, fuck it.

Ian's pants were now unbuttoned, so Cash had easy access when he reached over to grab his cock. It wasn't the smoothest move Cash had ever made, but it got the job done. Soon, the two of them were a writhing mass of limbs, horizontal on the bed. Ian was, as Cash had suspected, a good kisser. The process of exploring each other's bodies, finding out where to touch and grope, was a fun one.

As a result, Cash was only half-aware of the sound of the door being pushed open.

"Oh," a voice said.

Cash angled his face toward the door, although Ian continued to nuzzle into the curve of his shoulder, licking kisses down his neck and then sucking on his collarbone. Marshall stood three feet away, with his hand still resting on the door. His face was a mess of emotions. He seemed surprised, a little hurt, but mostly just confused. Cash felt a pinch of guilt: maybe this was not the sort of thing you were supposed to do when you had a boyfriend (-was that what Marshall was, his boyfriend?). Cash pushed the thought away. It was his relationship (yes, relationship) and he would make up the rules.

In the doorway, Marshall hesitated and then turned away. Taking a step back into the hallway, he began to pull the door shut.

"Well, don't leave," Cash called out. "It's no fun if you just leave."

Slowly, the door swung open again.

"You want me to stay?" Marshall asked, sounding uncertain.

"Of course we want you to stay. Right, Ian?"

"Right," Ian echoed. "And y'know, everyone but me is wearing way too many clothes," he added mildly.

Cash motioned for Marshall to come closer, which he did, slowly. Cash disentangled himself from Ian long enough to reach out and grab Marshall's shirt. He pulled him close. "Doofus," he murmured against his lips.