seven days of singer: day two
Try Counting Sheep
Cash/Singer, PG-13, 3,281 words.
The first time Cash ever had a dream about Singer was after the second time they ever sat in Cash’s garage and jammed together.
banner by filthyrotten
Cash is driving when Singer wakes up in the passenger seat, jerks a little. Cash knows exactly how that goes, can sympathize with waking up disoriented, skull heavy and tongue fuzzy. Singer rubs his hands across his face, glancing at Cash in the driver’s seat.
“Sleep well?” Cash asks, mouth quirked
“Shit,” Singer says. “Sorry.” He’d promised to help keep Cash awake, keep him company while the rest of the band got as much sleep as possible squeezed together on benches that were hardly comfortable but all that was available.
Cash hums under his breath, fingers tapping a beat against the steering wheel. Singer has his hair pulled back and out of his face into a ponytail. Pretty much every time Singer wears his hair like that, Cash has made fun of him. He can’t quite bring himself to do so now, remarkably. Not enough energy to tease.
“You could’ve woken me up.” In fact, that was usually what Cash did. Singer stretches, joints popping loudly.
“Felt generous, I guess,” Cash says, shrugging.
“Wow.” Singer laughs to himself. “Oh dude, I totally just dreamt that we were back in school, and passing notes to each other.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and I think we were talking about whether Andrew McMahon wore boxers or briefs. Yeah, I don‘t know.”
“Okay,” Cash says slowly, kind of like, why would he want to hear this?
Singer punches his shoulder, says, “Shut up. God only knows what of kind sick dreams you probably have.”
“Shit.” And, actually, funnily enough, Singer’s comment jogs his memory. He presses his knuckles to his forehead. “I actually dreamt yesterday that I bought you, like, a whole pool. But it was filled with Sunkist.”
Singer snorts, glancing at him. “Seriously?”
“Yep. And I’m pretty sure the tiles at the bottom of the pool were a mural of Johnson’s face.” Cash shakes his head at himself. Because, seriously, what?
Singer reaches across the space between them, patting Cash’s shoulder. “Lay off all the sugar before bed, bro. It’ll only benefit you in the long run.”
Cash shrugs him off. “But I’m not the one knocking back orange soda everyday,” Cash reminds him.
“Touché,” Singer intones.
*
The first time Cash ever had a dream about Singer was after the second time they ever sat in Cash’s garage and jammed together.
They’d faced off, acoustic guitars aimed at the other, playing old pop songs and new riffs as they came to mind. Cash had still been singing then, making up words as they moved along and, more often, making faces at Singer, just because.
Later, he dreams that he and Singer go on a road trip. In a stolen ice cream truck. They pick up the girl they‘d once fought over on the way to Arizona.
He remembers thinking that if he wanted Singer to take him seriously, actually do the band thing, he would most definitely not tell him about the dream. At the least, Singer might‘ve thought he was some kind of crackhead, backed away slowly.
The dream with the Sunkist filled pool? That’s the sixth dream Cash has ever had about Singer.
But, hey. Who’s counting?
*
Cash stares at Singer long enough, hard enough, that he makes a rough sound in his throat and drops his fork, lets it clatter against his plate loudly.
“Fucking what, Cash? What do you want?”
They’re getting breakfast at a small roadside diner. Cash is sitting across from Singer. He raises his eyebrows at Singer, expression innocent. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, 'what do I mean'?” Singer asks, voice getting louder. He looks pretty angry, but his eyes are wide and his hair is in his face. It’s kind of difficult for them to take Singer seriously when he’s upset, if only because he almost always ends up looking like a puffed up kitten.
Cash waves a hand over his own plate. “Just trying to eat, man.”
Singer huffs, stuffing a piece of waffle into his mouth. “Whatever.”
The window to the left of Cash is smudged, a little dirty. It makes the view of the parking lot fuzzy, distorts his vision of their van, as if he were looking through heat waves. It makes Cash’s head throb if he stares through it too long. Or maybe that’s just an effect of him not getting enough sleep.
Ian reaches across the table with his fork, aiming for Johnson’s pancakes. Johnson knocks his fork away with a butter knife wielded as a sword. Ian pouts.
“So,” Cash says, mouth full of food, “what do you think it means when you have a dream about squirrels, like. Going out on a boat? Or something like that.”
The table is quiet and Cash stares down at his own food, stuffing more of it into his mouth.
“It definitely means you’re pregnant,” Ian finally says. He nods.
“Uh, no,” Marshall snorts, “it means you’ve got some fucking issues.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna go with Marsh on this one,” Singer says.
Cash decides it’s probably a really, really good idea not to mention that he and Singer were the squirrels. He still flips Marshall off.
*
The music is loud. Singer ends up with his mouth damn near to making out with Cash’s ear. Cash tries not to jerk away.
“I’m going back to our room,” Singer says. His hand drops to Cash’s shoulder, probably for balance. Singer’s had a few drinks.
“All right,” Cash says. He is probably, maybe, more aware than he should be of the space--or rather, how little space there is--between them at the moment. He can smell Singer’s shampoo. “I’ll see you later.”
Singer gives him a funny look. Cash makes a funny face. “Dude, when was the last time you had a full night’s sleep? I mean, I know we haven’t had a hotel night in a while, but--”
“I’ll see you,” Cash says, pointedly. He steps back, raises his drink to Singer’s in a toast.
Singer frowns at him, but still tips their cups together. He leaves.
When Cash stumbles back to the room later, Singer is asleep in his bed and Cash falls into his own, without even taking off his clothes. He’s got maybe four, five hours until their wakeup call. He’s too drunk to remember any dreams, if he even had any, and all he can think when he wakes up is thank god.
*
“Fuuuuuck,” Cash says. “It’s fucking hot.”
Johnson wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, drags his hand over his face. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Ah, right.” Cash flicks his cigarette in Johnson’s direction. “I forgot how bitchy you get when you’re overheated.”
“So,” Johnson says. He crouches down, hand to the wall behind him, and drops to sit on the ground. He tucks into himself a little, arms between his thighs. He looks kind of stupid. “Either, I’m gonna pass out, or catch on fire. Which one do you think will happen first?”
Cash squints across the parking lot when he hears honking. He has to cup a hand over his brow. Where are his fucking shades anyway? He turns back to Johnson. “You’ll melt first, obviously. And what are you doing?”
Johnson tucks his elbows in a little tighter. “Trying not to get sunburned.”
Cash laughs. “Dude, that shit is so unavoidable at this point.” Cash takes a drag off his cigarette. “The fuck are we outside for? Oh yeah,” Cash raises his voice, getting successively louder with every word, “because fucking Singer says we can’t smoke in the fucking van!”
Singer sticks his whole arm out of the van window just so that Cash can see the rude gesture he aims in Cash’s direction. Cash groans.
“Actually, hey,” Johnson says, “you’ve been looking like shit lately.” Cash stares at Johnson until he grimaces, waving his hand holding the cigarette through the air. “That was me asking if you’re okay. Sort of.”
“Sort of,” Cash repeats. “Well, I’m sort of okay, and kind of, sort of trying not to kick certain people’s asses.”
Johnson hums and nods his head, like he knows exactly what Cash is talking about. “One of which is Singer’s, right?”
Cash points at Johnson, squeezing his fingers around an invisible trigger. “Right.”
*
The ride from New Orleans to Dallas is a long one, and they entertain themselves by asking stupid questions. Honestly, Cash is afraid that they’re a question and a half away from Truth Or Dare.
“What's the breakfast of champions?” Marshall asks.
Singer says, “Captain Crunch, duh.”
Johnson says, “Fucking pop-tarts.”
Cash says, “Fucking pop-tarts is right.”
Ian says, “Pizza.”
“That’s not a breakfast food,” Marshall points out.
“You can still eat it for breakfast, can’t you?” Ian sounds almost offended.
“Whatever.” Marshall rolls his eyes. “What’s the craziest dream you’ve ever had?” No one answers right away. “Oooh, this should be good.”
The eighth dream he ever had about Singer, they’d gone shopping at an underwater mall. He’d had to fight off mermaids while Singer paid for his shit. The mermaids had thought they were life-mates, or something equally disturbing.
“I broke into my own house just to steal my parents’ underwear,” Ian says. “Because I wanted to give it to some homeless people.”
“That’s the craziest dream you ever had?” Singer snorts. “Lucky you.” Ian shrugs and pulls a face at him.
“I don’t know, I don’t really remember that many dreams,” Johnson says.
“Yeah, neither do I,” Cash says.
“You guys are so boring,” Marshall says, catching Cash’s eye in the rear view mirror.
“I don’t hear you falling over yourself to share an answer,” Cash observes. Marshall rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Singer throws an arm around Cash’s shoulder, says, “Well, I had a dream that Cash and I topped Mount Everest.” He grins, looks proud.
Cash shakes his head, and can’t help but grin back. He tries to ignore the fact that the tips of his ears feel hot.
*
The thirteenth time Cash has a dream about Singer, he can barely remember it. All he has when he wakes up are vague impressions of hazy colors, memory of the warmth from another person‘s body pressed against his own.
It is the first time he wakes with his underwear wet from come though.
*
Cash blinks sticky eyes open in the back of the van to see Singer staring at him from far too close. He jerks back a little, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "The fuck?" he mutters.
"I've been trying to wake you up for, like, ten minutes," Singer huffs, but still doesn't get the fuck out of Cash's space. He glares at Singer, rather half-heartedly, and Singer glares back.
"You exaggerate," Cash says. He rubs a hand over his belly and chest. Singer's eyes drop to it before flicking back up to his face.
"I guess," Singer agrees, grudgingly. "But you were seriously knocked out."
Cash stares up at him for a moment, trying to blink that burn of not-enough-sleep from his eyes. He smiles slowly. "Aw, Alex, were you worried? 'S okay, baby, I know how you'd feel if I didn't wake up."
Singer rolls his eyes, starts moving, probably to leave, and Cash's hand snaps out without his permission, fingers wrapping around one of Singer's wrists. He tugs until Singer falls onto an elbow, letting out an indignant sound, pulls until he's almost on his back, and seriously, what is he even doing right now? And then he's rolling onto his side, hand turning Singer's face whose mouth is still half-open, forming questions, and kisses him.
He kisses Singer.
Cash presses his lips against Singer's, hand touching the side of his neck, and he's close enough that their thighs press together, their knees knock. He does all this and the only possible reasons he can think of as to what the fuck for are: because he's having another dream, because the van is empty, because Singer might have, just maybe, blushed when Cash called him baby.
Singer's hands grip his shoulders, and he makes a small sound against Cash's mouth, one that makes Cash's heart thump painfully hard in his chest.
It takes him a moment to realize that Singer is trying to push him away.
Cash rolls onto his back and he's probably breathing more harshly than such a little kiss merits, but then so is Singer next to him. Cash squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head into his--no, not his pillow. Singer's, maybe.
"Fuck." Cash presses the heel of one hand into his eye. He mumbles, "I'm still half asleep."
Singer doesn't say anything as he leaves, climbing over the back of the bench and slamming the door after himself. Cash presses his face into the pillow again, muffling his groan there.
*
Singer doesn't look at Cash much that night before the show, avoiding him. Maybe, if things were a little different, Cash would've thought it was hilarious that he could feel how hard Singer is avoiding him, because he sure as hell isn't seeing it as he's pretty much avoiding Singer right back.
Ian sighs dramatically, falling over sideways on the couch, where he ends up with his head in Marshall's lap. Marshall pushes the hair off his forehead. "What's up?"
"Marshall," Ian says, staring up at him with wide eyes, "why don't mom and dad talk to each other anymore?"
Cash feels his expression go from interested to pissed in, like, a half second. Johnson snorts. He can catch Singer ducking his head, hair sliding forward, out of the corner of his eye.
Marshall sighs. "Well," he says, "sometimes, people grow up and grow apart. But, hey," he says quickly, cupping Ian's face. "I want you to know that it wasn't your fault."
Johnson gives up, hands actually clapping as he cracks the fuck up. Cash grits his teeth to keep from cursing them all out.
*
"See, here's the thing," Cash says as he drags Singer into the back of the van with him. Singer's glaring, possibly because Cash forcibly and physically insisted he come to the van to talk with Cash. Cash ignores it. "I keep having these stupid-ass dreams about you and, actually, they've been happening for a while."
Singer eyes him as if he might've lost his mind. Cash doesn't blame him. "That's not my fault?"
Cash smiles a little at the way it comes out a question. "You sure?"
Singer scowls at him. "Yes."
"But, anyway," Cash continues, and Singer rolls his eyes, "it kind of really is your fault."
Singer crosses his arms, leaning back against the side of the van. He says, "Is not," seriously, as if they were actually in grade school or some shit.
Cash shakes his head. "Whatever," he says. "It's just, these dreams fucked with my head, so that's why I kissed you, okay? It wasn't my fault. No homo, and all that jazz."
Cash has the urge to tell Singer stop catching flies because his jaw drops down so quickly and so far. As it is, he just tugs on the bottom of his t-shirt, clears his throat.
"So," Cash says. "I'm gonna go back now," he says, and waves towards the door. He's just turned around when Singer yanks him back, fingers wrapped tight around Cash's arm.
"Really?" Singer says loudly. His eyes are scarily wide. Cash winces. "You kissed me!"
Cash rolls his eyes. "I believe we already got past that."
Singer splutters. "We did not! You just gave some bullshit reason that didn't even make sense."
"It wasn't bullshit," Cash says, pulling his arm away from Singer.
"Seriously?" Singer says. "You're seriously gonna lie to my face like that? Dude, I know you sometimes try not to fall asleep and now you say you have fucked up dreams about me?" Singer snorts.
Cash bites the inside of his cheek. "Not really fucked up. Just weird."
Singer pushes his hair back, still frowning. "Tell me about them," Singer says, and he sounds serious.
Cash realizes that Singer said tell me, not show me, but somewhere, somehow, the two get confused in his head so that he's closing the distance between them, leaning into Singer's space.
Singer leans back, fall on his hands, till he's pressed against the back of the bench seat, nowhere else to go. He leans back, expression wary, but he doesn't push Cash away.
So Cash kisses Singer. Again.
This time, though, this time Singer lets him. This time he kisses back.
*
They actually kiss until Cash's lips feel a little raw, and a lot tingly, until Cash is creeping a hand up Singer's shirt to press his fingers to Singer's skin, until Cash causes Singer to make this perfect sound when he sucks Singer's tongue into his mouth, until their breath is puffing hotter and faster, and then someone's rapping their knuckles across a window and Singer and Cash spring apart.
"Yo, guys," Ian says, sticking his head into the van and peering over the bench seat into the back. "We have sound check, the hell are you guys doing?"
Cash grimaces, touching the back of his head where he'd knocked against the back window in his scramble to not look like he'd just been about to have his wicked way with their singer. Their Singer.
"Nothing," Singer says, a little too quickly, and a little too breathlessly to sound true. He rubs his hand across his mouth.
Ian raises his eyebrow. "Okay," he says slowly. "Whatever. Sound check," he says again. "Now." He shuts the van door, and Cash watches him walk back towards the venue.
"Shit," Cash breathes. He's pretty sure that means Ian hadn't seen anything. He scrubs his hands over his face.
"Fuck," Singer agrees, climbing over the seat to get out of the van. Cash follows him.
Once they're standing outside of the van, Singer runs his hands through his hair over and over, tugs at the bottom of his shirt. Cash's face heats when he realizes that he's the reason Singer's hair is mussed, he did that when he'd tangled his fingers in Singer's hair.
Singer glances up at Cash through his lashes. "Right," Cash says, and congratulates himself when his voice doesn't crack. "That's kind of like a dream of you I had once. Or twice."
Singer runs his hands down his shirtfront again, straightening it, and Cash thinks Singer's seriously going to have the straightest shirt ever if he keeps it up. He might even stretch it out.
"Do you want to, um," Singer says, looking down at his shoes. "If you wanted to, you could tell me more about these dreams again later. If you wanted."
Cash can feel himself smile slowly. Ian's probably going to stomp back outside and drag them into the venue any moment. Cash really doesn't care.
"Yeah?" Cash says.
Singer huffs, rolling his eyes toward the sky. His mouth twitches a little. "Yeah, I guess."
Cash steps forward, brushing past Singer and walking towards the back door of the venue. "Even the one with the squirrels?" he asks.
Cash laughs when he hears Singer squawk behind him, say, "the hell?" and hurries to sound check. He has a feeling he's going to sleep well later.
Cash/Singer, PG-13, 3,281 words.
The first time Cash ever had a dream about Singer was after the second time they ever sat in Cash’s garage and jammed together.
banner by filthyrotten
Cash is driving when Singer wakes up in the passenger seat, jerks a little. Cash knows exactly how that goes, can sympathize with waking up disoriented, skull heavy and tongue fuzzy. Singer rubs his hands across his face, glancing at Cash in the driver’s seat.
“Sleep well?” Cash asks, mouth quirked
“Shit,” Singer says. “Sorry.” He’d promised to help keep Cash awake, keep him company while the rest of the band got as much sleep as possible squeezed together on benches that were hardly comfortable but all that was available.
Cash hums under his breath, fingers tapping a beat against the steering wheel. Singer has his hair pulled back and out of his face into a ponytail. Pretty much every time Singer wears his hair like that, Cash has made fun of him. He can’t quite bring himself to do so now, remarkably. Not enough energy to tease.
“You could’ve woken me up.” In fact, that was usually what Cash did. Singer stretches, joints popping loudly.
“Felt generous, I guess,” Cash says, shrugging.
“Wow.” Singer laughs to himself. “Oh dude, I totally just dreamt that we were back in school, and passing notes to each other.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and I think we were talking about whether Andrew McMahon wore boxers or briefs. Yeah, I don‘t know.”
“Okay,” Cash says slowly, kind of like, why would he want to hear this?
Singer punches his shoulder, says, “Shut up. God only knows what of kind sick dreams you probably have.”
“Shit.” And, actually, funnily enough, Singer’s comment jogs his memory. He presses his knuckles to his forehead. “I actually dreamt yesterday that I bought you, like, a whole pool. But it was filled with Sunkist.”
Singer snorts, glancing at him. “Seriously?”
“Yep. And I’m pretty sure the tiles at the bottom of the pool were a mural of Johnson’s face.” Cash shakes his head at himself. Because, seriously, what?
Singer reaches across the space between them, patting Cash’s shoulder. “Lay off all the sugar before bed, bro. It’ll only benefit you in the long run.”
Cash shrugs him off. “But I’m not the one knocking back orange soda everyday,” Cash reminds him.
“Touché,” Singer intones.
*
The first time Cash ever had a dream about Singer was after the second time they ever sat in Cash’s garage and jammed together.
They’d faced off, acoustic guitars aimed at the other, playing old pop songs and new riffs as they came to mind. Cash had still been singing then, making up words as they moved along and, more often, making faces at Singer, just because.
Later, he dreams that he and Singer go on a road trip. In a stolen ice cream truck. They pick up the girl they‘d once fought over on the way to Arizona.
He remembers thinking that if he wanted Singer to take him seriously, actually do the band thing, he would most definitely not tell him about the dream. At the least, Singer might‘ve thought he was some kind of crackhead, backed away slowly.
The dream with the Sunkist filled pool? That’s the sixth dream Cash has ever had about Singer.
But, hey. Who’s counting?
*
Cash stares at Singer long enough, hard enough, that he makes a rough sound in his throat and drops his fork, lets it clatter against his plate loudly.
“Fucking what, Cash? What do you want?”
They’re getting breakfast at a small roadside diner. Cash is sitting across from Singer. He raises his eyebrows at Singer, expression innocent. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, 'what do I mean'?” Singer asks, voice getting louder. He looks pretty angry, but his eyes are wide and his hair is in his face. It’s kind of difficult for them to take Singer seriously when he’s upset, if only because he almost always ends up looking like a puffed up kitten.
Cash waves a hand over his own plate. “Just trying to eat, man.”
Singer huffs, stuffing a piece of waffle into his mouth. “Whatever.”
The window to the left of Cash is smudged, a little dirty. It makes the view of the parking lot fuzzy, distorts his vision of their van, as if he were looking through heat waves. It makes Cash’s head throb if he stares through it too long. Or maybe that’s just an effect of him not getting enough sleep.
Ian reaches across the table with his fork, aiming for Johnson’s pancakes. Johnson knocks his fork away with a butter knife wielded as a sword. Ian pouts.
“So,” Cash says, mouth full of food, “what do you think it means when you have a dream about squirrels, like. Going out on a boat? Or something like that.”
The table is quiet and Cash stares down at his own food, stuffing more of it into his mouth.
“It definitely means you’re pregnant,” Ian finally says. He nods.
“Uh, no,” Marshall snorts, “it means you’ve got some fucking issues.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna go with Marsh on this one,” Singer says.
Cash decides it’s probably a really, really good idea not to mention that he and Singer were the squirrels. He still flips Marshall off.
*
The music is loud. Singer ends up with his mouth damn near to making out with Cash’s ear. Cash tries not to jerk away.
“I’m going back to our room,” Singer says. His hand drops to Cash’s shoulder, probably for balance. Singer’s had a few drinks.
“All right,” Cash says. He is probably, maybe, more aware than he should be of the space--or rather, how little space there is--between them at the moment. He can smell Singer’s shampoo. “I’ll see you later.”
Singer gives him a funny look. Cash makes a funny face. “Dude, when was the last time you had a full night’s sleep? I mean, I know we haven’t had a hotel night in a while, but--”
“I’ll see you,” Cash says, pointedly. He steps back, raises his drink to Singer’s in a toast.
Singer frowns at him, but still tips their cups together. He leaves.
When Cash stumbles back to the room later, Singer is asleep in his bed and Cash falls into his own, without even taking off his clothes. He’s got maybe four, five hours until their wakeup call. He’s too drunk to remember any dreams, if he even had any, and all he can think when he wakes up is thank god.
*
“Fuuuuuck,” Cash says. “It’s fucking hot.”
Johnson wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, drags his hand over his face. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Ah, right.” Cash flicks his cigarette in Johnson’s direction. “I forgot how bitchy you get when you’re overheated.”
“So,” Johnson says. He crouches down, hand to the wall behind him, and drops to sit on the ground. He tucks into himself a little, arms between his thighs. He looks kind of stupid. “Either, I’m gonna pass out, or catch on fire. Which one do you think will happen first?”
Cash squints across the parking lot when he hears honking. He has to cup a hand over his brow. Where are his fucking shades anyway? He turns back to Johnson. “You’ll melt first, obviously. And what are you doing?”
Johnson tucks his elbows in a little tighter. “Trying not to get sunburned.”
Cash laughs. “Dude, that shit is so unavoidable at this point.” Cash takes a drag off his cigarette. “The fuck are we outside for? Oh yeah,” Cash raises his voice, getting successively louder with every word, “because fucking Singer says we can’t smoke in the fucking van!”
Singer sticks his whole arm out of the van window just so that Cash can see the rude gesture he aims in Cash’s direction. Cash groans.
“Actually, hey,” Johnson says, “you’ve been looking like shit lately.” Cash stares at Johnson until he grimaces, waving his hand holding the cigarette through the air. “That was me asking if you’re okay. Sort of.”
“Sort of,” Cash repeats. “Well, I’m sort of okay, and kind of, sort of trying not to kick certain people’s asses.”
Johnson hums and nods his head, like he knows exactly what Cash is talking about. “One of which is Singer’s, right?”
Cash points at Johnson, squeezing his fingers around an invisible trigger. “Right.”
*
The ride from New Orleans to Dallas is a long one, and they entertain themselves by asking stupid questions. Honestly, Cash is afraid that they’re a question and a half away from Truth Or Dare.
“What's the breakfast of champions?” Marshall asks.
Singer says, “Captain Crunch, duh.”
Johnson says, “Fucking pop-tarts.”
Cash says, “Fucking pop-tarts is right.”
Ian says, “Pizza.”
“That’s not a breakfast food,” Marshall points out.
“You can still eat it for breakfast, can’t you?” Ian sounds almost offended.
“Whatever.” Marshall rolls his eyes. “What’s the craziest dream you’ve ever had?” No one answers right away. “Oooh, this should be good.”
The eighth dream he ever had about Singer, they’d gone shopping at an underwater mall. He’d had to fight off mermaids while Singer paid for his shit. The mermaids had thought they were life-mates, or something equally disturbing.
“I broke into my own house just to steal my parents’ underwear,” Ian says. “Because I wanted to give it to some homeless people.”
“That’s the craziest dream you ever had?” Singer snorts. “Lucky you.” Ian shrugs and pulls a face at him.
“I don’t know, I don’t really remember that many dreams,” Johnson says.
“Yeah, neither do I,” Cash says.
“You guys are so boring,” Marshall says, catching Cash’s eye in the rear view mirror.
“I don’t hear you falling over yourself to share an answer,” Cash observes. Marshall rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Singer throws an arm around Cash’s shoulder, says, “Well, I had a dream that Cash and I topped Mount Everest.” He grins, looks proud.
Cash shakes his head, and can’t help but grin back. He tries to ignore the fact that the tips of his ears feel hot.
*
The thirteenth time Cash has a dream about Singer, he can barely remember it. All he has when he wakes up are vague impressions of hazy colors, memory of the warmth from another person‘s body pressed against his own.
It is the first time he wakes with his underwear wet from come though.
*
Cash blinks sticky eyes open in the back of the van to see Singer staring at him from far too close. He jerks back a little, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "The fuck?" he mutters.
"I've been trying to wake you up for, like, ten minutes," Singer huffs, but still doesn't get the fuck out of Cash's space. He glares at Singer, rather half-heartedly, and Singer glares back.
"You exaggerate," Cash says. He rubs a hand over his belly and chest. Singer's eyes drop to it before flicking back up to his face.
"I guess," Singer agrees, grudgingly. "But you were seriously knocked out."
Cash stares up at him for a moment, trying to blink that burn of not-enough-sleep from his eyes. He smiles slowly. "Aw, Alex, were you worried? 'S okay, baby, I know how you'd feel if I didn't wake up."
Singer rolls his eyes, starts moving, probably to leave, and Cash's hand snaps out without his permission, fingers wrapping around one of Singer's wrists. He tugs until Singer falls onto an elbow, letting out an indignant sound, pulls until he's almost on his back, and seriously, what is he even doing right now? And then he's rolling onto his side, hand turning Singer's face whose mouth is still half-open, forming questions, and kisses him.
He kisses Singer.
Cash presses his lips against Singer's, hand touching the side of his neck, and he's close enough that their thighs press together, their knees knock. He does all this and the only possible reasons he can think of as to what the fuck for are: because he's having another dream, because the van is empty, because Singer might have, just maybe, blushed when Cash called him baby.
Singer's hands grip his shoulders, and he makes a small sound against Cash's mouth, one that makes Cash's heart thump painfully hard in his chest.
It takes him a moment to realize that Singer is trying to push him away.
Cash rolls onto his back and he's probably breathing more harshly than such a little kiss merits, but then so is Singer next to him. Cash squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head into his--no, not his pillow. Singer's, maybe.
"Fuck." Cash presses the heel of one hand into his eye. He mumbles, "I'm still half asleep."
Singer doesn't say anything as he leaves, climbing over the back of the bench and slamming the door after himself. Cash presses his face into the pillow again, muffling his groan there.
*
Singer doesn't look at Cash much that night before the show, avoiding him. Maybe, if things were a little different, Cash would've thought it was hilarious that he could feel how hard Singer is avoiding him, because he sure as hell isn't seeing it as he's pretty much avoiding Singer right back.
Ian sighs dramatically, falling over sideways on the couch, where he ends up with his head in Marshall's lap. Marshall pushes the hair off his forehead. "What's up?"
"Marshall," Ian says, staring up at him with wide eyes, "why don't mom and dad talk to each other anymore?"
Cash feels his expression go from interested to pissed in, like, a half second. Johnson snorts. He can catch Singer ducking his head, hair sliding forward, out of the corner of his eye.
Marshall sighs. "Well," he says, "sometimes, people grow up and grow apart. But, hey," he says quickly, cupping Ian's face. "I want you to know that it wasn't your fault."
Johnson gives up, hands actually clapping as he cracks the fuck up. Cash grits his teeth to keep from cursing them all out.
*
"See, here's the thing," Cash says as he drags Singer into the back of the van with him. Singer's glaring, possibly because Cash forcibly and physically insisted he come to the van to talk with Cash. Cash ignores it. "I keep having these stupid-ass dreams about you and, actually, they've been happening for a while."
Singer eyes him as if he might've lost his mind. Cash doesn't blame him. "That's not my fault?"
Cash smiles a little at the way it comes out a question. "You sure?"
Singer scowls at him. "Yes."
"But, anyway," Cash continues, and Singer rolls his eyes, "it kind of really is your fault."
Singer crosses his arms, leaning back against the side of the van. He says, "Is not," seriously, as if they were actually in grade school or some shit.
Cash shakes his head. "Whatever," he says. "It's just, these dreams fucked with my head, so that's why I kissed you, okay? It wasn't my fault. No homo, and all that jazz."
Cash has the urge to tell Singer stop catching flies because his jaw drops down so quickly and so far. As it is, he just tugs on the bottom of his t-shirt, clears his throat.
"So," Cash says. "I'm gonna go back now," he says, and waves towards the door. He's just turned around when Singer yanks him back, fingers wrapped tight around Cash's arm.
"Really?" Singer says loudly. His eyes are scarily wide. Cash winces. "You kissed me!"
Cash rolls his eyes. "I believe we already got past that."
Singer splutters. "We did not! You just gave some bullshit reason that didn't even make sense."
"It wasn't bullshit," Cash says, pulling his arm away from Singer.
"Seriously?" Singer says. "You're seriously gonna lie to my face like that? Dude, I know you sometimes try not to fall asleep and now you say you have fucked up dreams about me?" Singer snorts.
Cash bites the inside of his cheek. "Not really fucked up. Just weird."
Singer pushes his hair back, still frowning. "Tell me about them," Singer says, and he sounds serious.
Cash realizes that Singer said tell me, not show me, but somewhere, somehow, the two get confused in his head so that he's closing the distance between them, leaning into Singer's space.
Singer leans back, fall on his hands, till he's pressed against the back of the bench seat, nowhere else to go. He leans back, expression wary, but he doesn't push Cash away.
So Cash kisses Singer. Again.
This time, though, this time Singer lets him. This time he kisses back.
*
They actually kiss until Cash's lips feel a little raw, and a lot tingly, until Cash is creeping a hand up Singer's shirt to press his fingers to Singer's skin, until Cash causes Singer to make this perfect sound when he sucks Singer's tongue into his mouth, until their breath is puffing hotter and faster, and then someone's rapping their knuckles across a window and Singer and Cash spring apart.
"Yo, guys," Ian says, sticking his head into the van and peering over the bench seat into the back. "We have sound check, the hell are you guys doing?"
Cash grimaces, touching the back of his head where he'd knocked against the back window in his scramble to not look like he'd just been about to have his wicked way with their singer. Their Singer.
"Nothing," Singer says, a little too quickly, and a little too breathlessly to sound true. He rubs his hand across his mouth.
Ian raises his eyebrow. "Okay," he says slowly. "Whatever. Sound check," he says again. "Now." He shuts the van door, and Cash watches him walk back towards the venue.
"Shit," Cash breathes. He's pretty sure that means Ian hadn't seen anything. He scrubs his hands over his face.
"Fuck," Singer agrees, climbing over the seat to get out of the van. Cash follows him.
Once they're standing outside of the van, Singer runs his hands through his hair over and over, tugs at the bottom of his shirt. Cash's face heats when he realizes that he's the reason Singer's hair is mussed, he did that when he'd tangled his fingers in Singer's hair.
Singer glances up at Cash through his lashes. "Right," Cash says, and congratulates himself when his voice doesn't crack. "That's kind of like a dream of you I had once. Or twice."
Singer runs his hands down his shirtfront again, straightening it, and Cash thinks Singer's seriously going to have the straightest shirt ever if he keeps it up. He might even stretch it out.
"Do you want to, um," Singer says, looking down at his shoes. "If you wanted to, you could tell me more about these dreams again later. If you wanted."
Cash can feel himself smile slowly. Ian's probably going to stomp back outside and drag them into the venue any moment. Cash really doesn't care.
"Yeah?" Cash says.
Singer huffs, rolling his eyes toward the sky. His mouth twitches a little. "Yeah, I guess."
Cash steps forward, brushing past Singer and walking towards the back door of the venue. "Even the one with the squirrels?" he asks.
Cash laughs when he hears Singer squawk behind him, say, "the hell?" and hurries to sound check. He has a feeling he's going to sleep well later.