Keep The Lights Off
Keep The Lights Off.
1,886 words. The Cab. Gen - pre-GSF.
For dawn_afterglow . Happy early birthday? eheh.
Tonight, it’s not a hotel night and like, that’s okay. Would be if the rain wasn’t this violent, wasn’t hitting the windows of the van like the feet of kids in a mosh. The thunders crashing loud enough that the floor shakes underfoot, tyres skidding on the wet road and the lightening illuminates the van in bolts and flashes, like a bug lamp, alarm clock, car headlights.
Singer’s like, he’s not scared of storms, not of crashing noises or violent lights, it’s just, just different at home. It’s easy to not pay attention, tucked away in bed beneath sheets and pillows, television blaring downstairs and his baby sister crying in the room next door. There’s no way to shut it off in the van though, no mute button or background noise to drown it out and Singer piles himself into the back, buries himself beneath his blanket, forehead pressing against the cold metal rim of one of Johnson‘s kick drums.
The others are all awake still, active and lively, piled into the middle of the van talking about which Jennifer Anniston movie is the best to watch with a chick you want to screw.
“I swear it’s The Break-up,” Cash says. “Because you look like, way better by comparison and girls are always sorta weepy when it ends. Weepy girls wanna fuck, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re such a douchebag,” Marshall replies and Singer can’t even see him, but he knows Marshall’s rolling his eyes.
Cash and Ian both laugh, loud and braying in a way that echoes off the roof of the van. “At least I know it, dude,” Cash says, and the grin’s audible, tangible and there’s a snort from Marshall, another giggle from Ian and Singer thinks - thinks -
“Guys, I’m gonna pull over,” Johnson calls from the front. “This is insane, I can’t even see where I’m going.”
There’s a groan from one of the seats in front of Singer, low and grumbling and it’s Cash all over. (Singer knows this, knows it because when Cash got hammered that time just after they’d gotten signed, he’d talked about sex and Maroon 5 and otters and how much he hates to stop because it will always feel like going backwards. Then he‘d totally hurled all over Singer‘s new converse sneakers. He didn‘t talk to him for a week.)
The van slows into a parking lot and if Singer looks up, he can see the big Wal-Mart sign illuminating the black night sky like a neon halo. A modern day saint until the lightening erupts in the distance behind it, and Singer turns on his side, buries his face further into the crappy cotton of Ian’s Bratz pillow.
Johnson pulls to a stop and there’s movement in the seats, bare hands and feet squeaking against the windows, scraping against the floor of the van. Singer hears Johnson climb out of the front seat, squash between Ian and Cash and it’s lucky they’re all so little. Singer can’t really imagine Gabe and Ryland, Alex, Vicky fitting quite this easy (Nate probably could).
“Is Singer asleep?”
There’s a scoff somewhere in front, followed by, “That’s all Singer does, man; eat, sleep and sing. I honestly don’t know why he doesn’t weigh 300 pounds and look like fucking Pavarotti.”
Ian says something too quietly for Singer to hear, and they all laugh, but it’s hidden beneath a new crash of thunder that echoes around Singer’s head, catches in the cells and bounces off the bone. He shivers hard enough to hurt and he pulls the blanket up around his neck, tries to hide beneath it like he did when he was little after he‘d seen the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
There’s shuffling in the seat in front of him, humming underneath Ian’s chatter and when Cash calls, “Singer,” over the back of the seat, Singer just curls more away, bites his lip and forces his face into Ian’s pillow because, like, he’s not fucking scared of the storm, but that’s totally the way Cash will take it.
There’s more movement, sounds of socks rubbing against the fabric of the seats and Singer hears Cash climb over the back of the chair, say, “Sing,” just above Singer’s ear.
“’ck off.”
Cash laughs a little, and there’s more shuffling until Singer feels freezing fingers sneaking down the back of his shirt. He swears, squirms away, but Cash is always persistent, and Singer ends up bolt upright, blanket down around his thighs and Cash’s smug face much too close to his.
“What the fuck is your problem?” and like, Singer, he didn’t mean for it to sound so fucking mean, but he’s tired and edgy. There’s something churning in his belly, bleeding through his intestines and he feels too hot and too cold all at once.
Cash pauses for a beat, says, “I’m the one with the fucking problem?”
Singer growls a little and he knows it’s stupid, because people always tell him it’s like, like a fucking kitten but he can’t help it and it just makes Cash laugh again.
Marshall says something in the middle that makes Johnson snort and Ian hyperventilate a little with laughter and Singer just scowls, hunches his shoulders and generally tries to look as small and dismal as possible. He hates this right now.
Cash stops for a minute, furrows his brow and reaches a hand to Singer’s forehead. “You alright, dude?”
“Fine,” Singer spits, only there’s another clap of thunder that breaks through the sky like fucking firecrackers and Singer, he jumps, hard enough to be obvious. Cash is an asshole, obviously, because he totally laughs and says, “Dude, you’re such a pussy.”
Singer’s not violent normally, but this makes him lash out in the dark, try to hit Cash in the head, but Cash will always be faster (stronger) than him, and he catches his wrist too easily. “Hey,” and Singer growls, throws himself back down onto the pillow.
“You guys alright?” Ian says and Cash makes some comment about Singer just being a little bitch and he sits bolt upright again to hit him and Cash grabs him around the shoulders, pulls him tight until they’re chest-to-chest. The blanket is totally off now and like, Singer has to try really hard to care, because it was nowhere near as warm as Cash is right now.
“Dude, relax,” Cash mumbles against the side of Singer‘s face, but he laughs when he says it, so Singer just tells him to, “fuck off.”
“I’m comforting you, man.”
“You’re making fun of me,” there’s another bolt of lightening that flashes through the van and Singer goes tense and like, fuck, he doesn’t even mean to, but Cash just holds onto him tighter, moves to wrap his arms tight around Singer’s little waist, and they’re hugging properly now, firm and warm, and when Cash buries his face in Singer’s neck, he says, “I’m not, man.”
It’s not like Cash is always a total douchebag, but it still surprises Singer when he like, actively isn’t one. Cash is breathing into his neck, and Singer feels like he’s vibrating, inhaling hard enough that his throat hurts and Singer’s not dumb, but he’s nineteen and he can feel something right now that isn’t tangible, that he can’t hold onto or pinpoint, and he doesn’t know what it is.
Suddenly there’s another hand, hot and heavy on his neck and Marshall’s breath warms the underside of his jaw. “You okay?”
Singer sort of nods, because like, it’s not even a big thing. It’s not, and he doesn’t even know when Marshall moved into the back with them, but Cash and Marshall are both touching him, holding on in a way Singer doesn’t quite understand but kinda figures he could get used to.
Cash lets go enough that Marshall can fit in behind Singer, his chest solid against Singer’s back, his legs either side of his waist, thighs, body and he pulls back until Singer’s lying on him. It’s weird though, new, and like, Singer knows he’s narrow, knows he’s not like, not big-man-broad, but he’s never felt so small, sprawled against Marshall who’s taller and broader in a way that Singer always forgets. Lightening flashes again, and Singer can see Cash’s face, grinning and it’s like, it’s softer than normal and it’s only a second, hardly there at all before Cash drops himself straight on top of Singer with an oof.
There’s a shuffle somewhere to the side, and Ian’s climbing over the seat in front of them, rolling over the top and falling straight on top of them. Singer thinks he could totally be like, crushed in two minutes, but Ian’s hand’s on his waist, curled just above his hip and the calluses scratch his skin in all the right ways, makes him draw a breath too hard, cold night air crash against his teeth. Marshall laughs at something Cash says, breathing into Singer’s neck and this is not -- he doesn’t know what this is.
“This is so gay,” Johnson says, but he’s climbing over as well, slower and quieter than Ian and Cash, and he gets around to curl into Marshall’s side.
“But warm, dude,” Cash says. “Fucking cosy.”
Ian makes a noise of agreement and tightens his fingers against Singer’s hip and like Singer’s not really sure how any of this happened, but he likes it in a way that makes him uncomfortable, makes him grimace a little and squirm between Marshall’s legs and Marshall makes a noise underneath him that sounds suspiciously like a groan.
“What are you doing?” Marshall mumbles into Singer’s hair and just above him, Cash chuckles against Singer’s neck, says, “Don’t give the kid a hard-on, Sing.”
Marshall hits Cash’s back. “I‘m nineteen, I‘m sorry my dick doesn‘t differentiate between guy and girl asses grinding against it.”
“I was not fucking grinding,” and it totally comes out as a squawk and that wasn’t even like, fucking intentional at all, but Marshall just buries his face in Singer’s hair, fingers tapping his ribcage like they’re the keys of his piano.
Singer pauses, waits a beat while Marshall moves a little, squeezes his legs tighter against Singer’s thighs and right, he thinks. Right, because this isn’t even just comforting or for warmth and it isn’t stupid gay jokes, it’s like, it’s almost intimate and that just makes the sweat pool at the small of Singer’s back and that awkward tingling return to the pit of his stomach, his intestines, chest.
“Ok, guys, I totally feel better now and like, you can all go,” he can feel Marshall laugh underneath him, some voiceless thing that shakes the pile and Cash pinches his side for it. Ian’s snoring is sort of all the answer Singer needs to know that like, no one’s moving and he’s totally gonna wake up stiff and aching and too hot and they‘re probably all gonna be inappropriately like, excited.
“You’re so stupid,” Cash mumbles, half asleep now, and he kisses Singer on the cheek, smiles again and Singer like, he can’t really stop it, smiles enough back that Cash presses fingers to the space on Singer’s belly where his shirt has ridden up, just beneath his navel and Singer’s not even sure, but he thinks maybe he is.
1,886 words. The Cab. Gen - pre-GSF.
For dawn_afterglow . Happy early birthday? eheh.
Tonight, it’s not a hotel night and like, that’s okay. Would be if the rain wasn’t this violent, wasn’t hitting the windows of the van like the feet of kids in a mosh. The thunders crashing loud enough that the floor shakes underfoot, tyres skidding on the wet road and the lightening illuminates the van in bolts and flashes, like a bug lamp, alarm clock, car headlights.
Singer’s like, he’s not scared of storms, not of crashing noises or violent lights, it’s just, just different at home. It’s easy to not pay attention, tucked away in bed beneath sheets and pillows, television blaring downstairs and his baby sister crying in the room next door. There’s no way to shut it off in the van though, no mute button or background noise to drown it out and Singer piles himself into the back, buries himself beneath his blanket, forehead pressing against the cold metal rim of one of Johnson‘s kick drums.
The others are all awake still, active and lively, piled into the middle of the van talking about which Jennifer Anniston movie is the best to watch with a chick you want to screw.
“I swear it’s The Break-up,” Cash says. “Because you look like, way better by comparison and girls are always sorta weepy when it ends. Weepy girls wanna fuck, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re such a douchebag,” Marshall replies and Singer can’t even see him, but he knows Marshall’s rolling his eyes.
Cash and Ian both laugh, loud and braying in a way that echoes off the roof of the van. “At least I know it, dude,” Cash says, and the grin’s audible, tangible and there’s a snort from Marshall, another giggle from Ian and Singer thinks - thinks -
“Guys, I’m gonna pull over,” Johnson calls from the front. “This is insane, I can’t even see where I’m going.”
There’s a groan from one of the seats in front of Singer, low and grumbling and it’s Cash all over. (Singer knows this, knows it because when Cash got hammered that time just after they’d gotten signed, he’d talked about sex and Maroon 5 and otters and how much he hates to stop because it will always feel like going backwards. Then he‘d totally hurled all over Singer‘s new converse sneakers. He didn‘t talk to him for a week.)
The van slows into a parking lot and if Singer looks up, he can see the big Wal-Mart sign illuminating the black night sky like a neon halo. A modern day saint until the lightening erupts in the distance behind it, and Singer turns on his side, buries his face further into the crappy cotton of Ian’s Bratz pillow.
Johnson pulls to a stop and there’s movement in the seats, bare hands and feet squeaking against the windows, scraping against the floor of the van. Singer hears Johnson climb out of the front seat, squash between Ian and Cash and it’s lucky they’re all so little. Singer can’t really imagine Gabe and Ryland, Alex, Vicky fitting quite this easy (Nate probably could).
“Is Singer asleep?”
There’s a scoff somewhere in front, followed by, “That’s all Singer does, man; eat, sleep and sing. I honestly don’t know why he doesn’t weigh 300 pounds and look like fucking Pavarotti.”
Ian says something too quietly for Singer to hear, and they all laugh, but it’s hidden beneath a new crash of thunder that echoes around Singer’s head, catches in the cells and bounces off the bone. He shivers hard enough to hurt and he pulls the blanket up around his neck, tries to hide beneath it like he did when he was little after he‘d seen the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
There’s shuffling in the seat in front of him, humming underneath Ian’s chatter and when Cash calls, “Singer,” over the back of the seat, Singer just curls more away, bites his lip and forces his face into Ian’s pillow because, like, he’s not fucking scared of the storm, but that’s totally the way Cash will take it.
There’s more movement, sounds of socks rubbing against the fabric of the seats and Singer hears Cash climb over the back of the chair, say, “Sing,” just above Singer’s ear.
“’ck off.”
Cash laughs a little, and there’s more shuffling until Singer feels freezing fingers sneaking down the back of his shirt. He swears, squirms away, but Cash is always persistent, and Singer ends up bolt upright, blanket down around his thighs and Cash’s smug face much too close to his.
“What the fuck is your problem?” and like, Singer, he didn’t mean for it to sound so fucking mean, but he’s tired and edgy. There’s something churning in his belly, bleeding through his intestines and he feels too hot and too cold all at once.
Cash pauses for a beat, says, “I’m the one with the fucking problem?”
Singer growls a little and he knows it’s stupid, because people always tell him it’s like, like a fucking kitten but he can’t help it and it just makes Cash laugh again.
Marshall says something in the middle that makes Johnson snort and Ian hyperventilate a little with laughter and Singer just scowls, hunches his shoulders and generally tries to look as small and dismal as possible. He hates this right now.
Cash stops for a minute, furrows his brow and reaches a hand to Singer’s forehead. “You alright, dude?”
“Fine,” Singer spits, only there’s another clap of thunder that breaks through the sky like fucking firecrackers and Singer, he jumps, hard enough to be obvious. Cash is an asshole, obviously, because he totally laughs and says, “Dude, you’re such a pussy.”
Singer’s not violent normally, but this makes him lash out in the dark, try to hit Cash in the head, but Cash will always be faster (stronger) than him, and he catches his wrist too easily. “Hey,” and Singer growls, throws himself back down onto the pillow.
“You guys alright?” Ian says and Cash makes some comment about Singer just being a little bitch and he sits bolt upright again to hit him and Cash grabs him around the shoulders, pulls him tight until they’re chest-to-chest. The blanket is totally off now and like, Singer has to try really hard to care, because it was nowhere near as warm as Cash is right now.
“Dude, relax,” Cash mumbles against the side of Singer‘s face, but he laughs when he says it, so Singer just tells him to, “fuck off.”
“I’m comforting you, man.”
“You’re making fun of me,” there’s another bolt of lightening that flashes through the van and Singer goes tense and like, fuck, he doesn’t even mean to, but Cash just holds onto him tighter, moves to wrap his arms tight around Singer’s little waist, and they’re hugging properly now, firm and warm, and when Cash buries his face in Singer’s neck, he says, “I’m not, man.”
It’s not like Cash is always a total douchebag, but it still surprises Singer when he like, actively isn’t one. Cash is breathing into his neck, and Singer feels like he’s vibrating, inhaling hard enough that his throat hurts and Singer’s not dumb, but he’s nineteen and he can feel something right now that isn’t tangible, that he can’t hold onto or pinpoint, and he doesn’t know what it is.
Suddenly there’s another hand, hot and heavy on his neck and Marshall’s breath warms the underside of his jaw. “You okay?”
Singer sort of nods, because like, it’s not even a big thing. It’s not, and he doesn’t even know when Marshall moved into the back with them, but Cash and Marshall are both touching him, holding on in a way Singer doesn’t quite understand but kinda figures he could get used to.
Cash lets go enough that Marshall can fit in behind Singer, his chest solid against Singer’s back, his legs either side of his waist, thighs, body and he pulls back until Singer’s lying on him. It’s weird though, new, and like, Singer knows he’s narrow, knows he’s not like, not big-man-broad, but he’s never felt so small, sprawled against Marshall who’s taller and broader in a way that Singer always forgets. Lightening flashes again, and Singer can see Cash’s face, grinning and it’s like, it’s softer than normal and it’s only a second, hardly there at all before Cash drops himself straight on top of Singer with an oof.
There’s a shuffle somewhere to the side, and Ian’s climbing over the seat in front of them, rolling over the top and falling straight on top of them. Singer thinks he could totally be like, crushed in two minutes, but Ian’s hand’s on his waist, curled just above his hip and the calluses scratch his skin in all the right ways, makes him draw a breath too hard, cold night air crash against his teeth. Marshall laughs at something Cash says, breathing into Singer’s neck and this is not -- he doesn’t know what this is.
“This is so gay,” Johnson says, but he’s climbing over as well, slower and quieter than Ian and Cash, and he gets around to curl into Marshall’s side.
“But warm, dude,” Cash says. “Fucking cosy.”
Ian makes a noise of agreement and tightens his fingers against Singer’s hip and like Singer’s not really sure how any of this happened, but he likes it in a way that makes him uncomfortable, makes him grimace a little and squirm between Marshall’s legs and Marshall makes a noise underneath him that sounds suspiciously like a groan.
“What are you doing?” Marshall mumbles into Singer’s hair and just above him, Cash chuckles against Singer’s neck, says, “Don’t give the kid a hard-on, Sing.”
Marshall hits Cash’s back. “I‘m nineteen, I‘m sorry my dick doesn‘t differentiate between guy and girl asses grinding against it.”
“I was not fucking grinding,” and it totally comes out as a squawk and that wasn’t even like, fucking intentional at all, but Marshall just buries his face in Singer’s hair, fingers tapping his ribcage like they’re the keys of his piano.
Singer pauses, waits a beat while Marshall moves a little, squeezes his legs tighter against Singer’s thighs and right, he thinks. Right, because this isn’t even just comforting or for warmth and it isn’t stupid gay jokes, it’s like, it’s almost intimate and that just makes the sweat pool at the small of Singer’s back and that awkward tingling return to the pit of his stomach, his intestines, chest.
“Ok, guys, I totally feel better now and like, you can all go,” he can feel Marshall laugh underneath him, some voiceless thing that shakes the pile and Cash pinches his side for it. Ian’s snoring is sort of all the answer Singer needs to know that like, no one’s moving and he’s totally gonna wake up stiff and aching and too hot and they‘re probably all gonna be inappropriately like, excited.
“You’re so stupid,” Cash mumbles, half asleep now, and he kisses Singer on the cheek, smiles again and Singer like, he can’t really stop it, smiles enough back that Cash presses fingers to the space on Singer’s belly where his shirt has ridden up, just beneath his navel and Singer’s not even sure, but he thinks maybe he is.