Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/29582.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Andy_Hurley/The_World
  Character:
      Andy_Hurley, Joe_Trohman, Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump
  Additional Tags:
      Van_Days, Road_Trip
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-12-16 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 16295
****** You're a Good Man, Andy Hurley ******
by missmollyetc
Summary
     If you want this, you're going to have to let it take you.
Notes
     Welcome to the hazy universe of March – May of 2003, where Andy
     hasn't quite signed on for the long haul, and Fueled by Ramen hasn't
     come calling yet. Ah early days of band formation, how you twist my
     brain in knots.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Entry tags:
            bandslash, fob
BANDSLASH FIC: You're a Good Man, Andy Hurley (1/2)
Title: You're a Good Man, Andy Hurley (1/2)
Author:
[[info]]
missmollyetc
Pairing(s): Andy/the world?
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): I have a headache.
Summary: If you want this, you're going to have to let it take you.
Author's note: Welcome to the hazy universe of March – May of 2003, where Andy
hasn't quite signed on for the long haul, and Fueled by Ramen hasn't come
calling yet. Ah early days of band formation, how you twist my brain in knots.
Author's note (2): Thanks to Dira ([[info]]dsudis ) for the title, and also for
assuring me that this story does not, in fact, spell the sad disintegration of
my mind. And for kicking my ass on the timeline. BECAUSE OMG. My beta rules!
\o/
 
 
 
 
The problem with touring, besides the usual loss of money, was that personal
moments never lasted as long as you needed them to. Someone always came in at
the wrong moment, or just never left for there to be a moment in the first
place. He'd gotten used to it after awhile, learned to take his privacy and
comfort where and when the opportunity presented itself. A few years gigging
around Chicago and drumming with bands that never played out seemed to have
eroded his resistance.
Andy brushed his hair back off his forehead and out from behind his glasses. He
readjusted his grip on his plastic bag. Life held a supreme irony when you
slept in the parking lot of a K-Mart, but had to walk twenty minutes there and
back to the nearest convenience store anyway. Well, maybe if they'd dared to
park during store hours there wouldn't have been any irony, supreme or
otherwise, but that wasn't the point.
"Dude, this is not like you," Pete said, following behind him. His sneakers
slapped against the curb as he jumped onto the asphalt parking lot.
Andy shrugged, slowed a bit for Pete to catch up with him, and angled them
towards the van. The dim penumbra of a street light shone on the front grill,
but Andy would bet every cent he had (one hundred and thirty two at last count)
that nobody was up in the front seats. In fact, if the gleam in Joe's eye had
held true to form, nobody was even upright.
The thing about Joe was that he was a pothead. Not your casual splif on the
weekend kind of guy, but the sort of person who perused headshops where they
knew him by name. In fact, if toking ever became an Olympic sport, Joe would
gladly have given up his professional status in order to smoke up for America.
Andy, though he didn't partake, had nothing against Joe's entirely valid, if
stupid, lifestyle decision. He was the replacement drummer, possibly their
newest member, but even though he and Pete had history, he'd been in the scene
long enough to know when to avoid getting into philosophical debates. Joe made
it to practice on time, had a goofy sort of niceness to him, and he almost
never bogarted the Fritos until after Andy'd eaten his share. It was more than
he could say for some people.
He and Pete swung around the side of the van, and stepped up into the barkdust
bordering the lot. A hedge poked through the hole in the back of Andy's jeans,
scratching his skin. He opened the back door and held his breath.
Patrick's feet popped out over the bumper, clad in low-rise sneakers with no
socks. His ankles looked particularly vulnerable, his skin reddened at the hem
of his jeans. An inarticulate bass mumble came from the blurry darkness where
Patrick's head should be. Joe, sitting slumped against the side of the van,
giggled.
"…How long were they in there?" Pete asked, and if Pete fuckin' Wentz was awed,
Andy knew it was time for a regime change.
They'd been on the road for three days, and Andy'd just opened the door on
Joe's sixth hotbox. He readjusted his glasses with a feeling of triumph.
"It's like…" Joe said, apparently continuing a conversation, "it's like we take
the plant into us through the smoke and--" His right arm swung out from his
lap, hand flapping. "--then we become the plant. I am one with nature, here,
Pa—hey guys!"
Smoke billowed out into parking lot, curling grey tentacles around Andy's waist
and sinking beneath his clothes with an earthy, overly familiar stench. It was
like nailing down the last piece of evidence at a murder trial. He'd tried
breathing through his t-shirt collar, tried sitting near an open window to
escape the smell, but nothing worked. The smell of weed was ingrained in his
clothes, his skin, and even in his fucking drums by this point. If Joe wanted
to kill his body with carcinogens then fine, what-the-fuck-ever, but Andy was
damned if Joe was taking him with him.
Joe grinned, sloppily happy. The neck of his t-shirt was stretched out past all
hope of recovery. His chin dipped to his chest and bobbed up again, eyes at
half-mast.
"I hate you," Andy said.
"Now—now, c'mon…" Joe said. He fell out onto the asphalt, weaving on his feet.
His arms raised chest-high, palms pushing out in front of him.
"Jesus fuck, Trohman," Pete muttered to Andy's right.
He reached down and tugged Patrick into a sitting position by the wrists.
Patrick's soft, fine hair fell into his eyes, greasy strands sticking to his
forehead. His face was flushed. His tongue flickered out over his full, red
lower lip and Andy looked away. Fucking jailbait was Pete's thing.
"Hi," Patrick said.
"Man, I really think you're overreacting here," Joe said.
Andy hummed a little, pulled the first bottle out of his bag, and aimed the
Febreze.
 
***
 
Two hours later, the sun was peeking out from the clouds, and Andy had all the
windows in the van either unrolled, or propped open. Patrick and Joe were still
in the back, taking shelter behind various bits of equipment, with Pete
pretending to navigate from the passenger's seat. Andy had taken the map away
from him thirty minutes ago, upon discovering that it was in fact a map of
Wisconsin and not Illinois. He took the exit off the highway to avoid the toll
with the enormous line, and stepped on the gas. They had a touring schedule,
damn it, and if the schedule said Hugo to Decatur to Wheaton before ten, then
they were fucking driving from Hugo to Decatur to Wheaton before ten. He stuck
his arm out the window, enjoying the breeze.
"Seriously, two whole bottles?" Pete asked.
He propped his feet up on the dashboard on the passenger's side, knees almost
to his chin, and buried his hands in his hoodie. He looked remarkably less than
worried about being on tour—again, still—with a no-name basement band after
losing Arma Angelus, but that was Pete all over. He was like cracked Teflon,
nothing stuck unless you hit him just right. Andy glanced into the rearview
mirror, eyes gritty with lack of sleep. If he squinted, he could see the top of
Joe's damp, blond head leaning against an amp.
"I like to be thorough," he said.
"What the hell is 'Freesia' anyway?" Patrick asked.
His voice scraped out from behind the driver's seat, raw with smoke inhalation.
Damn it. Andy switched hands on the wheel, picked up his water bottle from the
floor, and tossed it over his shoulder. He saw Pete grin out of the corner of
his eye.
"Thanks, man," Patrick said.
"It's a flower," Andy said. "Kind of like a lily."
"An evil lily," Joe said, raising his voice over the engine.
"What happened to 'I am one with nature'?" Patrick asked.
Pete cackled, beating his hands on his knees. Andy put both hands on the wheel
and thought dark thoughts about contact highs.
Fabric rustled behind him, grumbled curses trailing from the back of the van up
to the space in between the two front seats. Joe's face pushed into Andy's
peripheral vision. He smelled like an entire field of fake flowers, but Andy's
nose twitched as an acrid tendril of smoke broke through the chemical barrier.
"Not cool, man," Joe said. "Do I bother you about that weird fake meat you eat?
Or how bad it makes you fart?"
"Does my 'weird fake meat' make Patrick's eyes swell? Does it shrivel my
lungs?" Andy asked. "No. It doesn't, and—"
"How the hell did you even smoke that much weed while we were at the store?"
Pete interrupted, twisting his entire body to look at Joe.
His foot knocked into the stick, and Andy punched his knee. He steered them
back onto the right side of the road, flipping off the asshole driving on the
left who was leaning on his horn.
"Watch it!" he said.
"The fuck ever, killjoy," Pete muttered, tucking his feet under him.
He leaned against the door, looking down his nose at Joe's sheepish grin. Joe
leaned closer, making a show of going to Pete's side of the front. Andy rolled
his eyes.
"Brought the hookah," he said.
"Dude," Pete said. He ruffled Joe's hair, tilting the kid's head up. "I
suddenly remembered why I love you."
"I thought it was because Joe's mom--" Patrick began.
"Tollbooth coming up!" Andy interrupted. "Everyone whose pupils still look like
the bad choices picture in an after school special, please return to the back
of the van."
Joe snorted. "Like the guy in the booth isn't on meth."
He settled down sideways, slinging his arm up onto the edge of Andy's seat,
elbow poking Andy in the ass.
"Stay away from my mother, Wentz," Joe said. "Or I'll tell Patrick's mom you've
been corrupting her baby bo—ow! Patrick, no kicking!"
The back of Andy's chair shook heavily, rocking him forward into the steering
wheel. He grinned as Pete turned completely in his seat, hanging off the
armrest and swatting at Joe's head. Joe ducked away, pushing off with his elbow
and disappearing from view.
"Get him, Patrick!" Pete yelled. "Defend my honor!"
"What honor?" Joe shouted. "I've got more—oh, you little shit, that was my
hand, you and your strangely sharp teeth are so dead--"
Patrick growled, and Andy leaned out the window. He dumped his last bit of
change into the bucket. The tollbooth guy pressed the button. The bar raised
and Andy drove on through the gate.
 
***
 
Downtown Wheaton was small, but nicely laid out, with tiny shops surrounded by
clean sidewalks and young trees. Unfortunately, the streets weren't necessarily
well-named, and after the fifth turn around, Andy pulled the van up to the
nearest clear space and made everyone walk to the venue. Patrick and Joe were
growing boys, after all. Exercise was good for them. And today Pete just wanted
to have people stare at him, which they did in large groups of well-put
together young kids from the local place of higher education. Despite the cold,
Andy was tempted to take off his coat, just so they could see his tats. Wheaton
was either named for the college, or the college was named for the town, but
either way Andy didn't think Pete should smile quite so widely at the phrase
'Christian co-educational.'
"Missionary chicks," Pete said again, as near to reverently as he could get
when not talking about Patrick.
He pressed his palms together, shaking his fingers to the sky and tilting his
head so the sun shone on the tan column of his neck. The top points of his
thorn necklace peeked out from his v-neck shirt. The eyeliner around his eyes
was particularly thick today, flicking up at the corners of his eyes.
"Thank you," Pete murmured.
He reached behind him, slinging an arm around Patrick's rounded shoulders and
tugging him close. Andy ran a hand over his mouth and shook his head, watching
Pete--for want of a better word--cuddle Patrick against his side as they
walked. He'd been in bands with Pete before, but this level of touchy-feely
didn't even meet Pete Wentz's definition of normal. Patrick stumbled forward,
caught off balance, and Pete grinned at Andy over his shoulder, toothy and
free. Andy's mouth curled upwards before he'd even thought about smiling back.
Joe laughed, colliding with Andy's back. He wrapped a strong arm around Andy's
shoulders and squeezed.
"Forgive me already, Hurley," he said. "I can't let Patrick get all the
lovin.'"
"That's what--"
Andy reached over and put his hand over Pete's mouth. "Later, Pete," he said.
"We'll take you to an Improv Night somewhere."
Pete licked Andy's palm. Andy grimaced, but let go as Patrick broke free onto
the bike path to avoid walking into a newspaper kiosk. Joe slid his fingers to
the back of Andy's neck, clutching briefly.
"Hey look," he said, breath puffing against Andy's ear. "Isn't that the place?"
Andy wiped his hand on the side of Joe's hoodie, and looked up the street. The
bar sign read "The Alib" with a hole where the last 'i' should have been. For
the first time, beer cans lay crushed on the sidewalk, and a bottle lay in the
dirt by the curb.
"Oh, yeah," Patrick said. "This looks like our kind of venue."
 
***
 
"You sure you're all old enough?" Bernie, the bar manager, asked again.
He crossed his slab-like arms over his chest and squinted at the top of
Patrick's baseball hat where it was visible over Andy's shoulder. Patrick
nodded his head, the brim of his cap hitting Andy on the shoulder. Andy
shrugged, hooking his left hand over his opposite elbow. Pete glanced over his
shoulder back at them. He stepped to the side, resting one hip on a barstool.
"You've seen our i.d.'s, right?" he replied. "You wanna see them again?"
Bernie sucked his front teeth, looking them over like he didn't let fifteen
year olds into his bar with worse fake i.d. cards than Patrick's every damn day
of the week. Andy pressed his lips together to stop them curling over his
teeth. You couldn't back down to management, not until you could both walk away
without looking like a bunch of wusses. Pete put his hand in his pocket,
digging his wallet out and flipping it open with a roll of his eyes that
accentuated the eyeliner surrounding them. When he grinned, it flaked a little
on to his cheeks. Joe moved up a step, rubbing a hand through his hair and
glancing at Andy from the corner of his eye.
"Here it is," Pete said, holding his arm out, wallet open.
He held the plastic pictures holder open with his thumb, the edge of his nail
touching the corner of Patrick's i.d., with the back of Joe's pushed above it.
Andy reached into his back pocket for his own i.d. and grinned despite the
annoyance. Apparently, Pete always had the i.d.s since Fall Out Boy's inaugural
tour, when Joe had left his wallet in a public restroom in Hyattsville, and
Patrick kept messing up and giving people his school i.d. Pete was many things,
but he always had his friends covered.
Bernie grunted, possibly checking to see if anything other than mothballs would
fall out of Pete's wallet. Andy snorted. He'd have a long damn wait.
"Look, Bernie, can I call you Bernie?" Pete asked. "We're already here, we've
got the equipment, you've got a stage--kind of--and your boss is my second
cousin. What do you say we push past the bullshit?"
He put his wallet back into his pocket, angling his stance to accentuate the
tight curves of his hips in his girl jeans. Bernie's eyes narrowed. Andy
resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Right," Bernie said finally. "You can park around back."
He shrugged the rounded mass where his shoulders should be and turned around to
lumber back to the bar. Joe looked at Pete, grinning.
"You've got a cousin who owns a bar?" he asked.
Pete smirked. "Let's talk about it outside," he whispered.
Andy rolled his eyes.
 
***
 
"Well, at least he wasn't holding out on us," Joe said, shifting his grip from
one to both knees and settling his back against his amp case.
"Oh, shut up," Patrick said, walking by with his guitar in one hand and
dragging Pete by the shirt collar with the other. Pete twisted in Patrick's
grip long enough to flip Joe the bird, and then they disappeared out the back
to find Pete's pick up cable.
"Hey, some things are sacred!" Joe called after them. "And free access to booze
courtesy of the loving bonds of family is one of them."
Andy flipped the toggle on his hi-hat closed, securing the cymbals to the
stand. He stepped on the pedal lightly, clicking the two cymbals together a few
times to make sure they were loose, but not too far apart. He sat down on his
chair, judging the distance, then rose to shorten the stand. The memory lock
had broken about a month ago and he hadn't come up with the cash to fix it yet.
"You know what's sacred?" he asked. "That amp. How about you set it up so we
can play our set and then you can get back to polluting your body?"
Joe groaned. "Are you like this in all your bands, or are we just special?"
He stepped into the clear area reserved as band space and stacked the amp up in
the nearest corner. Pete sidled up to him with his hands full of cords and
dumped the mess at Joe's feet. Behind them, Bernie and the waitresses were
setting up the bar. Andy smelled limes being cut and heard the clink of
glasses. It would have been relaxing if he hadn't just driven straight through
heavy traffic on three hours sleep.
"Don't you know, Troh?" Pete asked, scratching the back of Joe's head. "Andy
only hurts the ones he loves…"
Joe raised his left hand over his head, middle finger raised. "You see a ring
on these fingers, Hurley? No nagging until after the honeymoon."
"I thought you liked it rough," Patrick said, stepping up to the drum kit.
"Andy, I've got your crashes?"
Patrick held up the cloth bag Andy kept his smaller cymbals in and passed it
over the small tom, in between cymbal stands.
"Thanks," Andy said, taking the bag.
Patrick nodded. He looked over to the bar and put on his guitar, settling the
shoulder strap into a more comfortable position. His hands automatically rested
on the fret and body, absently picking out an E chord.
"How badly do you think it would go if I asked for a drink?" he asked.
Pete laughed. "They grow up so fast! First you can't get them off the hookah,
and then they're asking for--" He cupped a hand over his mouth and leaned
forward. "--liquor," he finished on an exaggerated whisper.
Andy and Joe snorted at the same time and looked over at each other, startled.
"Jinx!" Pete howled, pointing. "You can't talk until someone says Andy or Joe!"
Andy looked over towards the bar. Bernie was glaring. The waitresses had
stopped setting up in favor of watching Joe rolling on the floor, cackling.
Pete frowned. "What?" he asked.
Patrick covered his eyes and sighed loudly.
"Sound check?" Andy offered.
 
***
 
A decent crowd for a Wednesday, mixed ages ready to let it all go and fuck
anyone who got in the way. Even Bernie started to look human, which Andy
counted as a minor victory for touring bands everywhere, a joy somewhat blunted
but the two girls giving Pete the eye during 'Pretty in Punk.' If they were a
day over sixteen Andy would play Blink 182 covers for the rest of his life. He
smacked the ride cymbal and brought his left stick down for the fill. Patrick's
voice cracked in half so bad he missed the last chorus. Andy winced.
God, they sucked. Really, really sucked. From the top of the set to halfway
through 'Switchblades and Infidelity' when Joe spun like a top, got his heel
trapped in a cable, and fell ass over teakettle into a table full of what
looked like truckers. Fortunately, they were just drunk enough to find that
hilarious and Joe played the rest of the song on top of their righted table,
swinging his hips like a stripper while the crowd moshed around him.
Okay, so they weren't the best band out on the road. Andy attacked the opening,
five stroke roll snarling underneath Patrick's riff and straight into Joe's
intro. Pete screamed into the mike, the audience howled back, and Andy felt his
lips pull back from his teeth. They were getting better.
 
***
 
"We need to get him a playmate," Patrick said. "I mean, not the Playboy
kind—although maybe 'cause I don't think he'd ever stop smiling—but just like,
Joe's too high to be much use and I'm…too sane and I don't know, maybe if you
and I took turns? Because he tried to do body shots off Bernie and I just don't
think I can live through that again."
Andy shrugged and held out his non-bleeding hand. Pete got funny around people.
He leaped first and kissed later and it only meant something when he wanted it
to. Nothing lasted in the scene, not bands, not respect, not even friends if
you waited long enough.
Patrick sighed, and took the bandage tape and scissors from Andy's fingers, and
returned them to their medical duffel, which was really a side pocket of
Patrick's backpack where Pete'd drawn a red cross. Andy smoothed the tape
around his knuckle and pressed the end tight to seal the bandage closed. He'd
popped a blister during the last set and, first off, he'd drummed so hard he'd
gotten a blister after all these years, but secondly, he'd drummed so hard he'd
popped the fucker on stage and hadn't noticed.
"At least it was juice," Andy said. "He used to do this thing with tequila and-
-"
Patrick held up his hand. "Okay, see, I kind of want to encourage you to talk
since you generally have this strong, but silent thing going on? But never
finish what you were about to say. I just don't find the thought of Pete Wentz
mellowing with age all that comforting. And he's already told me about
the…thing, and I had to sleep with the light on a few times."
Andy moved closer, bumping Patrick away from sink with his hip. The cuff of
Patrick's jacket brushed against his side, soft enough to make him shiver. He
hoped somebody'd remembered to pick up his shirt when they'd left. He'd kind of
lost track of the damn thing again.
"Hey," he said. "I was there. How'd you think I feel?"
"Lucky to be alive?"
Andy laughed. Patrick smiled, and his eyes gleamed. Andy caught himself wanting
to stare and looked away. He stuck his hand under the tap. Patrick twisted the
cold water knob for him.
"You're gonna be cute when you're older, you know that?" Andy asked, watching
the water swirl in his palm. Dried blood rose off his palm, tinting the
surface.
"You and Pete, man," Patrick said, still leaning in close.
"Me and Pete, what?"
Andy looked up, leaning his head back to avoid smacking himself on the brim of
Patrick's hat. He opened his palm and the water splashed into the bowl of the
sink. Patrick smiled, raising his pale eyebrows. He reached out and carefully
pushed Andy's glasses back up his nose with a finger.
"I demand the return of Patrick Martin Stumph!" Pete yelled through the
bathroom door. "Unhand my singer, Foul Teetotaler!"
The crowd--there was always a crowd around Pete--shouted its drunken agreement.
A couple of fists hammered on the thin wood, shaking dust off the lintel.
Patrick stepped away and Andy crossed his arms over his chest. Water dripped
down his side, trailing down his ribs to the waistband of his jeans. He
shivered in the cold.
"Drinks are on Joe," Pete continued. "Some chick stuffed a five dollar bill
down his pants!"
Patrick snorted. He grinned down at his shoes, and Andy flicked the brim of his
hat.
"Hey!"
Patrick put his hand up, resettling his headwear until it sat low on his
forehead again. He'd been growing his hair out as long as Andy'd had known him,
and it was just starting to brush the middle of his ears. Andy put his hands
up, shrugging.
"It was there," he said.
"Uh huh," Patrick said, already turning around to unlock the bathroom door.
"Just for that?"
He opened the door and stepped back. Pete, fist still in the knocking position,
fell into the bathroom with a girl on his back. Noise poured in behind them,
canned music from the loudspeakers and people shouting to be heard, or just to
be shouting. Fuck, but the Alibi must be some kind of hotspot. It felt like the
entire town was outside the door, all craning their necks to see inside.
Pete grabbed Patrick by both shoulders for balance, laughing into Patrick's
face until Patrick shook his head and began laughing right back. Pete's face
was flushed, glistening with sweat. Behind him, Andy could see the crowd
milling around the bar, bouncing between tables in groups. He rubbed the back
of his neck, unsticking the pieces of his hair matted to his skin by sweat. He
brushed past Patrick and tried to leave the bathroom, moving in close to Pete.
Typically, Pete filled up all the available space, playing chicken with his own
body. Their lower bodies caught and slid across one another.
Same old fucking Pete, always pushing for more even when long exposure should
have erased whatever about Andy had briefly interested him. Andy didn't give
him the satisfaction of noticing. He side-stepped into the bar and stretched
his arms over his head, cracking his spine. The girl on Pete's back fell off
and stumbled against him, winding her arms around his neck and sticking her
rum-soaked mouth against Andy's. She tasted awful, like teenage rebellion
chased with a cheap cigarette, but Andy opened his mouth anyway. He wrapped his
arms around her trim waist and pulled her tightly against his body.
Rough fingers prodded him to the side, depositing him and the girl, who really
did have some nice curves, against the nearest wall. The bass speakers
vibrated, turning the walls into drums themselves. Andy rode the beat, kissed
the girl, and closed his eyes.
 
***
 
The girl, named Anne as it turned out, had an empty basement, parents visiting
out of town, and a closet full of clean linens. After the parking lot, Pete
accepted so fast you'd have thought he'd been making out with her, rather than
Andy. Although, knowing Pete, that could have been true as well. The house was
old, moss growing on the roof and a tree covering where the front window should
have provided a view, but it was warm, bug free, and had a stocked kitchen.
Andy closed Anne's bedroom door behind him as quietly as he could and tiptoed
backwards into the upstairs hallway. A door opened behind him, and a rush of
humid air greeted his back. He turned around, blinking a little in the sudden
light. Pete stood in the doorway of the bathroom, one hand on the knob and the
other dragging his blunt nails across his wet head. Pete moved forward, leaving
the light on in the bathroom. Water dripped down the sides of his face to his
shoulders, curving along his collarbones. He smelled like a florist's. He was
wearing a pair of jeans opened at the button, and very clearly nothing else.
Pete raised his eyebrows, eyes flicking past Andy's shoulder. Andy tucked his
hands in the waistband of his pants behind his back and lifted his chin.
"…Shower gel," Pete whispered, suddenly leering. "Best damn thing ever
invented."
He flicked his hand, spraying Andy with droplets. Andy blinked, shaking his
hair off his face.
"I'll add it to the list," he said. "You leave me any hot water?"
"Well…if I'd known you wanted a shower we could've shared, dude," Pete said.
"You makes your bets, you takes your chances."
"Asshole."
"Bastard."
Andy narrowed his eyes. Pete's smirk wavered, but recovered. He leaned forward
and wrapped both arms around Andy's waist, slipping them in under Andy's arms.
He thumped Andy on the back and put his lips against his ear. The heat of his
body began to seep into Andy's front. Andy moved his hands to his sides as Pete
jostled them into the wall. Damn it.
"A royal bastard!" he crowed as quietly as Pete ever got. "You could be the
duke of earl! Come on, I have to go tell Patrick."
"I think he's asleep," Andy said, eyeing a cobweb by the ceiling.
"Really?" Pete asked, settling a little into Andy's body.
Warm, damp muscles pressed close to him with familiar pressure, daring him to
push Pete away or give in to the cuddling. He just…was more Pete-like on this
tour than Andy'd ever seen him. He turned his head and rested his forehead on
Andy's shoulder, slick tufts of dense hair brushing against Andy's jawline. He
yawned and hot breath rushed over Andy's chest. His fingers rubbed at a knot in
the small of Andy's back.
"You smell like a girl," Andy mumbled.
"Well, so do you," Pete said. "Ain't it great?"
 
***
 
The next day, Patrick chewed his lip for a full six minutes while Pete sat
across from him, buried in his hoodie at Anne's kitchen table. Joe knocked his
fist against Andy's shoulder in lieu of saying 'good morning,' but Anne sent
them off with toast and coffee, looking closer to eighteen than seventeen for
which Andy thanked whoever might have been around in charge of that last night.
Really, he looked at anything that brought him closer to the legal age limit as
an unlooked for gift around Pete. The first couple of hours in the van were
pretty quiet. Whoever'd owned the van before Pete had ripped all the seats out
except for the two upfront which was great for hauling around equipment, but
not always so hot for any person just trying to catch a ride. Patrick lay
stretched out in the back in a pile of sleeping bags, and Pete'd put his
headphones on and curled up with his head on Patrick's stomach. Every time
Patrick started snoring, Pete head-butted him.
Joe refolded the map on his lap and pointed through the windshield. "Go West,
young man," he intoned. "And then take the second right."
Andy nodded. He followed directions, letting the sound of the road passing
under the tires lull him. He yawned, reaching up and covering his mouth.
"Hey…how's—how's your boo-boo?" Joe asked.
Andy glanced over. "Huh?"
Joe gestured, indicating the entire expanse of Illinois highway out their
windshield. "You know, your red right hand."
"…I don't think that means what you think it means," Andy muttered.
"Inconceivable!"
Andy snorted, ducking his head to hide his grin with his hair. Joe beat a
rimshot on his thighs and laughed. Patrick grumbled in his sleep behind them.
"Shh!" Pete hissed.
Andy shook his head. Joe laughed again and sat back in his seat, crossing his
arms over his stomach and sticking each hand in an opposite sleeve of his navy
blue satin jacket. The sky outside the van was iron grey, flat with clouds and
probably a dose of smog. No matter where he went, Andy could always see the
haze of exhaust in the air. He rubbed his thumbs against the steering wheel and
tried not to think of his own contributions to the problem.
"So…how is it?" Joe asked. "Your hand?"
"It was just one blister," Andy said, shrugging. "No big deal."
"Well, no, but come on man," Joe reached across to poke him in the shoulder.
"You were an animal up there."
Andy cursed his red hair and tried to avoid the rush of heat he felt growing
beneath his shirt. Compliments, even small ones, always did that to him, tying
up his tongue and making his face flush like a stop light. Joe's head bopped
back and forth, periodically revealing the dark roots at the crown of his head.
His cropped blond dye job was turning orange as it aged.
"Literally maybe, you aren't related to the muppet, right?" he asked. "Of
course not, that only happened the one time I dropped acid."
Andy looked over, slowing down to let another car into the lane.
"You take acid?" he asked, shoulders tensing.
Joe chuckled, sliding down enough to put one foot on the dash. "Nah," he said.
"I didn't like the trip, you know? But the girl I wanted to be seeing had some
and she had, like, the biggest rack and I thought, hey why not? And then I
found out why not."
He shrugged, tucking his hands away again. He chewed the corner of his mouth,
licking his bottom lip. Andy cleared his throat.
"Yeah," he said. "Well, you know, I'm straightedge so…"
"So you never…" Joe asked, pointing his chin in Andy's direction.
Andy tightened his hands on the wheel and punched the gas until the van lurched
past the semi weaving in the right lane. Fucking truckers. He glanced in the
rearview mirror, and then over to the passenger's seat.
He knew Joe through Pete, in that way that the entire Chicago scene knew a guy
'through Pete.' They'd said hello at shows a few times, driven to shows in the
same car, and wound up bailing Pete out of whatever disastrous situation he'd
joked his way into together a time or two. Apart from that, Joe was just a
goofy kid Andy could recognize in a line up. Most guys in the scene said they
were cool with straightedge, and then got all defensive when they had to spend
time around someone dedicated to it. Nobody ever seemed to care that it was a
personal choice, not a license to preach, but Joe sat quietly, mildly even. His
big, dark eyes watched Andy, wide mouth curling at the edges. He twisted in his
seat, leaning against the door and letting his legs drop to the floor.
"You know I used to keep edge?" Joe asked. "I got into it, man, the whole nine
yards."
"Yeah?"
Joe nodded, weaving his fingers together over his stomach. "Big time, but I
kind of…I mean, I still don't drink, but all the shows I went to--"
"Following Pete around with your big man crush," Andy broke in.
"—I kind of only ran into the hardcore straightedge kids who beat guys up for
smoking in the parking lot," Joe continued, grinning. "And really, I couldn't
just say no to something if I've never even tried it. What's that going to
prove? So I tried it, and what's so bad about smoking a little pot? I find it
relaxing. Beer's kind of nasty though. Tastes like soap."
Andy snorted. A little pot? Traffic slowed on the curve and Andy followed suit,
letting up on the gas. He leaned back in the seat, buying himself time. Joe sat
patiently waiting for his answer. He looked…comfortable, solid and only
slightly wild.
"I've tried out shit," Andy said, "and now I don't. I used to get in a lot of
trouble."
"Huh," Joe said.
Andy frowned. He looked out the windshield. A dirty, grey plastic bag, caught
by the handle on the guardrail, bulged with air. It hadn't been right for him,
but his way of life didn't dictate the actions of others. Unless it involved
recycling, because he was going to beat that into Pete Wentz's thick skull if
it took holding him down and using a bat. If his last lab jived with that
article he'd seen in the Plain-Dealer, then Andy was at least going to make up
for the damage the van did to the ecosphere in some way. He'd spent his youth
breaking things because it made him feel powerful, his adulthood should contain
reparations for those mistakes.
"I was an asshole," Andy finally muttered. "You could talk me into anything and
I'd do it one better. I've got better things to do with my time."
"Okay," Joe said. "Duly noted."
Andy felt his shoulders start to hunch again, but Joe didn't say anything else.
When he looked over, Joe smiled. He snuggled down into his satin jacket and
started humming "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall." This was the least punk punk-
rock band Andy'd ever been in, and that included fucking Minich's Project
Rocket.
"You need the map, dude?" he asked.
Andy shook his head. His shoulders came down from his ears, slowly. Joe nodded.
"Okay," he said. "I'm gonna take a nap."
Joe closed his eyes. Slowly, his breath evened out into the occasional snuffle.
Behind him, Patrick tried to snore, grunting when Pete's head collided with his
belly. Andy turned his attention back to the road. His hand wavered over the
radio dial, but he brought it back to the steering wheel. It was…the quiet was
nice.
 
***
 
Andy had played some bad sets in his career, but the Knights of Columbus
Community Hall in Burkitt was a new low. The 'stage' was a circle in the back
of the room cordoned off by masking tape on the floor, half the roof was a
collection of tarps from recent remodeling, and five people came to listen.
Correction: four people, and the building manager who was wearing large green
earmuffs and had fallen asleep in a folding chair at the back during "Growing
Up." Oh, irony.
At least they'd let them park the van nearest the side doors at this hall. The
parking lot was well lit and clean, and—small favors—Andy didn't think he had
to worry about being mugged for his shoes like when he'd toured with
killtheslavemaster. He slammed the door on the van and dragged both hands
through his hair, yanking on the ends until his eyes squeezed shut from the
pain. The muscles in his back complained, protesting even when he let his arms
fall back to his sides.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, and planted both hands on the van.
He bent forward, arching his back and trying to stretch the cramps out. He bent
lower, setting one foot out behind him for a lunge, and groaned as something
popped and loosened near his waist.
"You're still doing that, huh?" Pete asked.
Andy straightened and twisted right to face the door. He crossed his arms over
his chest, shrugging. He clenched and unclenched his hands, wiggling his
fingers to loosen them up. The spring air, only just thawed, made him shiver.
"I'm thinking of taking up Yoga," he said.
Pete grinned, lightening fast and just as charged. "Does that mean I can take
pictures of you in a leotard?"
"Dumbass."
"Motherfucker. Come on, come back in. Joe's got a surprise for you."
Light from the lamp over the door reflected off the metallic silver sharpie
Pete had dug up to color his nails with and he scrubbed his hand over his head.
He licked his lips and swaggered the two feet it took him to walk from the side
door to the van. He stood in front of Andy and put his hands on Andy's
shoulders, leaning in until Andy could have kissed him, if he'd wanted. Instead
he shrugged Pete off and ignored the sudden flat line of Pete's mouth.
"Is it the t-shirt he stole from Anne?" Andy asked.
Pete made a face, screwing up his nose like a six year old. "Dude! How'd you
hear about that?"
Andy leaned back against the van, lifting his right foot to rotate it in the
air. His ankle popped. "We live in a van, Pete. I know what size boxers you
wear."
"Ah!" Pete raised one finger. "But, grasshopper, you still have so much left to
learn about my underwear."
Andy laughed, more a huff of surprised air than a sound, but it made Pete's
face light up, which was, unexpectedly, the nicest thing Andy'd seen since
they'd pulled into the gig.
"Come on," Pete said, suddenly grabbing him by the wrist.
His callused fingertips rubbed against Andy's pulse point, dragging against the
thin skin. Andy licked his lips. The ache in his shoulders twisted its way to
his throat and flexed.
Pete tugged on Andy's wrist, leading him away from the van by one arm. The
light from the door lamp shone on the dark 'x' Pete had slashed across the back
of his hand before their set.
"You're different," he said, abruptly stopping.
Pete stopped as well, and turned around. His eyelids drooped as he cocked his
head. Andy found himself avoiding looking Pete in the eyes and focused on the
slope of his nose instead.
"Guess so," Pete said, "but you know what they say about rolling stones, right?
I mean, I can't let moss grow on me. Sitting still's the first sign of decay,
and--"
"Pete," he said.
Pete's nose wrinkled again. Andy shifted his gaze and saw the dark skin under
Pete's eye ripple at the corners. He moved forward when Pete yanked at him,
rebounding a little when their bodies collided. With his other hand, Pete
pushed the door open. He walked backward over the threshold, leading Andy into
the hall.
"I'm having fun, Andy Hurley," he said as a shadow swallowed him up. "Remember
fun? Now get inside this hall and show proper appreciation for Joe's ill-gotten
gain."
 
***
 
Naturally in the world according to Pete Wentz, while touring in a rusting
death trap full of naïve youth (and Andy), the appropriate planning step was to
schedule two gigs in neighboring towns and then space the rest of them so far
apart they had no choice but to drive the entire fucking day and well into the
night. Stopping only for the obligatory call to Patrick's mom to assure her
that Pete hadn't killed and eaten her youngest son also got them time for
bathroom breaks and caffeine refueling. Andy'd been on worse tours, hell he'd
been on worse tours with Pete, but they'd run out of loose change for the tolls
by mile marker eighteen. This sent them off the grid and onto back roads, some
with more asphalt than others. Andy put both hands on the wheel and ran through
the touring schedule in his head, counting down the miles. His eyes were narrow
slits behind his glasses, eyesight so prone to blurring anyway that he almost
threw the cheap fuckers out the window. Instead, he moved into the passenger's
seat and fell asleep to the sound of Patrick singing 'Muskrat Love' under his
breath as he drove.
He woke up to cold air on his left side and dawn skulking through the
windshield. He opened one eye and squinted at the driver. Joe looked over at
him, holding a lit cigarette out the open window. Some chick had given him a
pack with her phone number on it back in Wilmette, and he'd been working his
way up to a full blown addiction every since. He yawned, rubbing a hand over
his chin stubble. The van gently began to run into the next lane, and Joe
slapped his hand back to the wheel.
"Go back to sleep," he whispered. "Pete's turn next."
Andy grunted. The busted air conditioner/heater coughed heat into his face like
opening an oven, and then shot icy spears up the legs of his jeans. He pulled
up the hood of his sweat jacket and tucked his hands under his arms. He could
feel the road rumbling beneath him, an endless reverberating murmur that sunk
into his body and realigned his bones.
Behind him, Andy could hear their tangled, messy pile of sleeping bags and old
clothes sliding together beneath Pete's breathy snores. Somebody turned over,
bumping into a case and grunting softly. Joe's fingers tapped against the
wheel, softly and then with hard smacks. Andy took a deep breath and let it
out, settling deeper into his seat as the van drove on.
 
***
 
Monotony was the number one killer of all tours. People thought it was the
drinking, or the drugs, or even the groupies, but those were just the symptoms
of a crushing schedule where eating and sleeping were secondary to playing and
driving. Andy'd known a guy who taken up knitting to combat the sheer,
unadulterated boredom. He'd even gotten a pretty nice scarf out of it before
Chris had given up the hobby because a small van, Pete, and knitting needles
were just a bad situation all around.
Since he didn't smoke, or drink, Andy had no other option than to indulge
himself with people who smelled better than anyone he'd been close to for the
past two weeks. He'd actually gotten to sleep for four uninterrupted hours
before the gig too, so Tim the bartender was just the blowjob he'd been looking
for.
Tim had strawberry blonde hair, worn long on top and short at the nape like a
true scene kid, and strands escaped over the sides of his head, tangling over
his blue eyes. His pink mouth, full and glossy with spit, slid off Andy's cock
as Andy pulled him up for a kiss. Nicotine stained his taste, almost hidden by
the plastic taste of the condom. He pressed Tim back against the bathroom stall
door, hand inching up his thigh and around into the open zipper of his slacks.
He shook when Andy grabbed his dick through the hole in Tim's boxers, drawing
out his slick cock and started jerking him off. He circled the head with his
thumb, pressing up on Tim's circumcision scar. Tim's hips pumped, legs
spreading for balance.
Andy bit down on Tim's lower lip, tugging it into his mouth and sucking on
rhythm with the thrust of his hand and the stroke of his thumb. Tim moaned,
clutching at the back of his neck and dragging his nails down Andy's spine.
Andy arched closer, kissing his way down Tim's cheek to his neck. He felt
sloppy, heated through with the pulse of Tim beneath his hands.
Tim's head whipped to the side, body shuddering through orgasm and abruptly
slumping against the stall. He took a deep breath, licking his lips. Andy
chuckled and Tim grinned. His hands rubbed along Andy's biceps, tightening as
Andy withdrew his fingers.
He stepped back, stripping the condom off his dick, and tying off the end of
the rubber. Andy cleaned himself up on a bunch of toilet paper, pulling his
jeans back to rights as Tim adjusted his own pants. Andy tossed the toilet
paper and condom into the john and pulled the handle.
"You guys sounded good out there," Tim said, tucking his hair behind one ear.
"Yeah?"
Andy rolled his shoulders, taking a deep breath and exhaling. He adjusted his
glasses, running a hand over the top of his head to dislodge some of the sweat
gathered at his crown.
"Hell yeah," Tim said. "You think I do this for just any drummer?"
He unlocked the stall door, smiling, and stepped out into the men's room. Andy
laughed and followed Tim out. They kissed once more before leaving the
bathroom. Tim still had half his shift to get through and Andy needed to put
his kit back in the van before Joe packed the amps on top of Andy's cymbals.
Around him the midnight crowd swirled, basement party kids pretending to be
adults in a dive bar above ground. The music pumped through some quality
speakers, though, a DJ spinning hardcore decks over by the remains of the
band's set up. Bodies brushed against him, hands clapping on his shoulders, as
he wove his path towards his drum kit. Someone grabbed his shoulder, spinning
Andy to the right and trying to drag him off. He planted his feet and pulled
away, cocking a fist at—
"Patrick?" he shouted.
 
Part_Two
***** You're a Good Man, Andy Hurley *****
The club's one strobe sliced across them, highlighting the flush on Patrick's
face, the empty glass in his hand. Andy let the crowd push them against each
other, reaching out to poke Patrick in the chest. His post-sex buzz faded a
little at the harsh flash of Patrick's eyes beneath his hat.
"You save any of that energy for the next town?" Patrick asked, baring his
teeth.
"What?" Andy stepped closer. "What the fuck are you talking about, man?"
"You!" Patrick shouted, gesturing between them with his glass.
The bottom thunked against Andy's stomach, and Andy fought the urge to step
back. Patrick's temper wasn't something to be taken lightly, but it usually had
a starting point. What had Andy done?
"What about me?" he asked.
The DJ changed discs, loud to eardrum bursting, and the crowd around them
screamed its approval. Breathing room disappeared as bodies crashed into Andy
from all sides, strangers back to sides and Patrick at his front. Patrick's
glass slammed into Andy's stomach as they rammed into each other.
"Son of a bitch!" Patrick swore into Andy's shoulder. "Just fucking great…"
Andy shook his head and tried to figure out which way led to the back of the
club. A particularly hard riff resounded off the walls, sending the strobe
light dancing across the room and Andy saw his chance. He broke left, grabbing
Patrick by the shirt and dragging him through the crowd.
Elbows knocked into him, bodies caught in the rush of illicit touching and
throbbing bass lines. Andy gritted his teeth, and pushed through. The fire door
at the back was propped open with a broken piece of curb, the alarm installed
next to it covered in so much tape it almost didn't look like an alarm at all.
Andy plowed through the door, ignoring Patrick's cursing and stopped outside.
Pete and Joe were leaning against the van, almost out of the reach of the alley
lamp, touching all along the sides of their bodies with their arms crossed over
their chests. They looked up at Andy and then at each other. Pete stood away
from the van, palming the side of Joe's neck as he moved away.
"What's up, guys?" Pete asked. "They didn't start playing Ace of Base, did
they?"
"The Swedes are a powerful people," Joe observed. "I wouldn't mock."
Andy breathed deep, coughing at the cold, sharp tang of the night air, and
forced his hand to let go of Patrick's shirt. He flexed his fingers at his
side. Patrick smacked him in the shoulder as he walked by.
"Asshole," Patrick said, "I didn't want to leave."
"What the fuck is wrong?" Andy asked, jerking his hands to the sky. "I didn't
do anything to you!"
"No! You didn't!" Patrick yelled.
He threw his glass against the wall, and spun around, stumbling backwards from
the spray of glass shards. His shoulders hunched all the way up to his neck,
fists at his sides. Andy lowered his chin, stepping forward.
"What the hell is your problem, Stumph?" he growled. "You needed help reaching
the top shelf, or something?"
"Oh, yeah, short jokes aren't ironic in this band," Joe said. "Guys?"
Andy turned his head slightly, keeping Patrick in view in case he decided to
rush him. The first time he'd ever met Patrick, he'd tackled Pete from behind
and tried to grind Pete's head into the recording studio carpet for a reason
they never specified. The muscles in Andy's back bunched, coming back from
their post-coital relaxation with a vengeance.
"What's going on?" Pete asked, stepping in between them.
Patrick laughed, a harsh, discordant little cackle that scraped over Andy's
hearing, and threw his hands up in the air.
"Nothing!" he said, stomping away down the alley. "Abso-fucking-lutely
nothing."
"Aw shit," Pete said, turning and jogging after him.
Andy crossed his arms, clenching his jaw. He uncrossed his arms, rubbed his
hand over his mouth, and concentrated on breathing normally rather than
shouting in frustration and…guilt? What the fuck. Pete caught up to Patrick at
the mouth of the alley. Joe stepped closer as the two up ahead disappeared
around a corner.
"He's not running away to home, right?" Joe asked.
He wrapped one hand around the back of his head and stared at his sneakers.
Andy shook his head, trying to shake out the headache threatening to clamp on
at his temples.
"I have no fucking clue," he said. "I don't even know what set him off."
"Really?" Joe asked. "So…nothing--happened?"
"Yeah, no--" Andy said. "What?"
"No—I mean, yeah," Joe said.
Andy walked over to the van and kicked the back tire, hopping back a little
when his foot rebounded. Joe followed him, close enough for a bit of body heat
to jump ship from him to Andy.
"I don't know," Andy said, looking up at the clouded night sky. "All I did
tonight was play drums and get laid."
"Uh huh, I—you got laid?"
Joe's voice rose so far on the last word that Andy stared. Joe stared back. His
eyes popped in his thin face, mouth hanging just a little open.
"Yes…" Andy said, nodding slowly and firmly resisting the urge to kick the
ground and look away. "It's fun, you should try it."
Joe sputtered. "I have—wait a minute, with who? Did Pa--I didn't see you
leave."
It was sort of funny that Joe would have been watching him in the first place,
or that he thought he could have kept track of Andy in that sprawling mess of
the club behind them. Joe moved closer again, fingers twisting in the hem of
his jacket. Andy shrugged, and then shrugged again, enjoying the feel of his
muscles resettling.
"With Tim," he said. "The bartender who kept not serving Pete? I liked his
taste."
"That one?" Joe asked. "And…really? The blond? The pudgy one?"
"He was not pudgy," Andy said. "Just because someone doesn't automatically
conform to the artificial standards of a consumer driven, fashion obsessed
autocracy--"
"Whoa, whoa," Joe said, pushing his palms against the air. "I take it back,
okay?"
"Yeah, well, I still don't see what the problem is."
"Hey," Joe said. "Is there…I mean, it's just that…Patrick's got an encyclopedia
of music in his head and he knew you did that thing with Vegan Reich, and--"
Andy reared back to put some weight into his punch, but Joe ducked, arms held
out to the sky.
"And we weren't really thinking you were that hardcore, but you gotta be
careful around some guys," he said, tripping over his words. "Because I have
gotten into serious shit just complimenting some dude's concert shirt, okay?"
"I was a fucking session drummer," Andy said. "I did some work on the reunion
EP."
He sighed, and put his hands on his hips. He stared at the door. Music pumped
out through the opening, hard-edged and fast paced, but all Andy felt was a
slow dragging weight on his chest he couldn't seem to dislodge. Joe started
shifting his weight from his left to right foot and back again, biting his lip.
"Sorry," he said.
Andy nodded, looking off down the alley. "So you two thought I was some kind of
homophobe?" he asked.
"I think Patrick had a couple," Joe said. "He's kind of a lightweight."
Andy's headache bloomed across his forehead. Joe's hand fell on his shoulder,
squeezing the muscle with a warm palm. Andy pinched the bridge of his nose,
unseating his glasses.
"Joe, I have no idea what bizarre alternate universe I have slipped into," he
said.
"Maybe a good one?"
Andy looked up, letting his hand drop to his side. Joe kissed him, holding Andy
in place with the hand on his shoulder. For a minute, Andy leaned forward into
Joe's warmth, let Joe's other hand curve over Andy's waist. Joe's mouth moved
over Andy's lips, lush and knowing, pressing deeper to flick the tip of Andy's
tongue with his own. Andy's breath stuttered in his chest as his mouth opened
for Joe's tongue. All the heat in the world seemed to come from Joe's hand at
Andy's waist, in the cup of his palm over Andy's bicep. His thumb idly swiped
back and forth over Andy's skin. He stepped closer, humming in the back of his
throat, and Andy broke free.
He pushed Joe off him, away and towards the door, before stumbling back into
the side of the van himself. The cold metal seared his back, mocking him after
Joe's easy heat. Joe inhaled, licking his lips, and swallowed. Andy covered the
empty spot on his waist and looked away.
Joe moved around to block his view. "Come on," he said.
A slow grin built on his face, making his eyes spark. Andy pressed his lips
together.
"I don't do that," Andy said, watching something bright and hot die in Joe's
eyes. "I've been in too many bands to do that."
Joe looked away, ducking his head and clearing his throat. "Right," he said.
"I…"
Andy wracked his brain for something else to say, something funny or smart or
off-putting at the very least, but the only words that came to mind was 'kiss
me again. Please, kiss me again.' and that was just stupid. He didn't—he had
plenty of sex, on the road and in Chicago. He didn't need a touring fuck buddy
as well, especially in his—in Pete's band. So Andy stood in the alley, rubbing
his arms for warmth, and watched Joe as he walked back inside the club.
 
***
 
Andy packed his kit up in silence, head bent over each case and bag so he
wouldn't have to look at Jo—anyone while they stowed all the gear away. Pete
and Patrick came back to the alley a good twenty minutes later, looking much
calmer. Well, Patrick looked calmer. Pete just looked tired. He carried himself
oddly, maybe a little too quiet as they headed out onto the next venue. Andy
stuck himself in the passenger's seat, downing a coke so he'd stay up for his
turn at the wheel.
Joe and Patrick were behind him, or rather, they were lying on the floor behind
him, whispering to each other until even that sound died away. The scenery went
from green to grey to dull brown around them as they sped down the interstate.
Andy didn't turn around and Pete didn't turn on the radio and it was all very,
very quiet.
 
***
 
At the next available truck stop, Pete pulled the van over and forced everyone
into the Laundromat on the excuse that he smelled more people in the van than
were actually inside it. Which was just rich, but he bundled his backpack,
Joe's duffel, and the shirt Patrick had been using as a blanket up in both arms
and stamped off past the double glass doors, trailing dirty clothes behind him.
Andy slipped down onto the asphalt with his own backpack on one shoulder and
followed him inside, picking up Pete's trail as he went.
The Laundromat was empty; the only sound came from the waiting area where a
small tv blared a Spanish language soap opera to absolutely no one. Patrick and
Joe made a beeline for the waiting area, grabbing two seats directly across
from the television and sprawling out. Andy jingled the coins in his pocket.
They had just enough change left over from the last gig (where they'd had an
actual tip jar) to pay for two washers and a dryer. Pete immediately dumped
every bag he was carrying out onto the floor and began separating the whites
and colors. He held up a white jersey with red sleeves.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"Put it in colors, let the washer sort it out," Andy said.
He squatted next to the pile, wrinkling his nose, and pushed a pair of plaid
boxers to the side. Pete grabbed at clothes with both hands, shaking them out
and tossing them into one pile or the other. The top of his head looked greasy
under the harsh fluorescent lights. Andy squinted, trying to ease the strain on
his eyes.
"Patrick kissed me," Pete said, without looking up.
Andy sat down. He pulled a shirt from the pile into his lap, light blue and
stained with sweat—clearly one of Patrick's. His throat felt tight, drying as
it closed.
"Oh?" he managed, twisting a loose thread around his thumb.
Pete nodded at the clothing pile. "He did," he said. "We were just walking. I
was trying to get him to calm down and he said something about bartenders and
then the next fucking thing I know he's slamming me against a wall and—I'm
thinking, oh shit he's gonna go for my neck this time--but he kissed me."
Andy put his arms around his calves, drawing his knees into his chest. He took
a breath and let it out. The space under his ribs seemed oddly hollow. His
glasses slipped down his nose. He pushed them up with one hand.
"You're not…usually this bothered by hot boys kissing you," he said quietly.
"Yeah." Pete looked up briefly, mouth quirking into something like a regular
smirk. "But…Andy, it's Patrick."
"…Yeah."
Pete's hands clenched in the clothes, knuckles whitening with tension. He sat
back on his ass and looked at Andy. Andy bit the inside of his mouth,
shrugging.
A crooked curve bent Pete's lower lip, dragging the rest of his face into a
lop-sided smirk. Andy curled tighter to his knees, flexing the muscles in his
arms to keep his body molded in place. He rested his forehead on one knee and
then turned his head.
"Maybe it's a trend," he said. "Joe kissed me."
Pete's eyes popped open wide. "Seriously?" he whispered, glancing around.
He scooted closer, crab-walking through the clothes until he could put his head
closer to Andy's. His breath smelled like Cheetos.
"When?" he asked.
"Pete."
Pete covered Andy's mouth, thick eyebrows drawing together. "Shh!" he
commanded. "They'll come over."
Great, he was hiding from his—from Pete's singer and guitarists in a
Laundromat. With his bassist who was pretending to be a twelve year old girl.
Andy ignored the rolling in his stomach and removed Pete's hand. He licked his
lips. "
"Fine," he whispered back. "We'll both talk as quietly as possible, okay?"
Pete nodded, inching closer. He tugged on Andy's sleeve, briefly dipping
beneath the hem of Andy's hoodie to scratch his skin lightly. Andy pulled away
and Pete clasped his leg below the knee. Andy decided not to make an issue of
it.
"…He kissed me once, too," Pete said.
"When?" Andy raised his eyebrows.
"Last year, when Dan left his Dear Pete letter with my fucking mom, that eco-
terrorist pansy."
Truly, the dissolution of Arma Angelus was the gift that kept on giving. Pete
jiggled Andy's leg with his hand, digging his fingers along the inside seam.
Andy batted him away, but moved to sit cross-legged.
"It was…I mean,"--Pete rolled his eyes—"I'm not twelve all right? Stop that
with the eyebrows, I'm not, but, it felt good. It felt like he cared. Like I
could just be there, with him, and the outside wouldn't matter for a really
long time."
Andy coughed, swallowing. His cock twitched in his jeans.
"Yeah, that's…that's a good description."
"Plus, he does this thing with his tongue I want to learn."
The side of the washer made a nice, resounding sound when Andy scooted back to
hit his head against its metal side. Pete scrabbled forward on his knees,
batting Andy away from the machine and glaring.
"Knock it off," he said. "You're gonna hurt yourself."
Andy sat up, resting his back on the washer and clasped his hands together in
his lap. "You're one to talk," he snorted.
"Screw you, man, I'm not the one fucking his way across two states."
Pete's glare flattened, growing more resigned as Andy stared at him. Pete sat
back, kicking Andy's ankle, and scattering the clothes even farther. Andy moved
a pair of jeans out from under his ass and threw them at the nearest other pair
of pants.
"People named Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third have absolutely no room to
be throwing stones," Andy said. "You can shove your moral indignation right up
your ass."
"I'm not indignant," Pete said. "I'm…I don't care that you prefer the company
of strangers to the people who actually want to fuck you on regular basis. Why
should I care about that?"
He put his hands over his face, scrubbing hard while Andy tried to convince his
eyes to stop staring, or his mouth to close. He pushed up from the floor using
one of the washers for leverage. Pete stayed on the floor, rumpled and grey.
"Can we just do the laundry?" he asked, hoarsely. "Andy, I really, really just
want to be wearing something clean right now."
Andy's mouth snapped shut. He swallowed.
"We, um, we don't have any soap," Andy said.
Pete laughed. Andy flinched, stepping back.
"Well," Pete said. "Maybe a run through in some water will work."
He stood and began to gather the clothes from the floor. After a moment, Andy
helped him. Now that they were standing, he could see Patrick and Joe dozing in
front of the television, their heads leaning against each other. He held out
one of Patrick's t-shirts, waiting for Pete to grab it. Their fingers didn't
brush when Pete took the shirt. Andy's hands fell to their sides. He shifted
his weight on his feet, rocking up onto his toes and falling back again. Pete
moved around him, picking up clothes and smashing them down into the washer.
"What was it like?" Andy asked, when Pete had bent down to pick up some socks.
"What was what like?" Pete asked, quietly, straightening up.
"…Kissing Patrick."
Pete shrugged, putting his back to Andy. He dropped the socks in the washer and
slammed the lid shut. His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the metal. He
reached into his pocket for change and put four quarters in the machine. He
twisted the dial, waiting until the washer began to churn to turn around, and
lean against it.
"It was like that time with you at the airport," he said. "It was like finding
my place."
Andy looked down at his shoes, rubbing his right sole against the top of his
left sneaker. He raised his hands and dropped them again, only to bring them up
and leave them hanging in the air.
"That was five years ago," Andy said.
Pete shrugged. His hands disappeared in the pockets of his hoodie, stretching
the cotton fabric tight over his stomach. The remnants of his eyeliner bled
into dark moons around his eyes.
Andy didn't know what to do, how to move. He heard Joe's sleepy giggle meander
across the room and jumped like it'd been a gunshot. Pete's stare burned into
Andy's brain, focused, alive, and when had he last seen that look offstage?
Hell, when had Pete looked at him like that ever…except for that one night
waiting for Sean O'Keefe to get his bags.
"You never said anything," he said finally.
Pete shrugged. He tried for a grin, but the only expression on his face that
stuck was carved from exhaustion.
"You laughed."
Andy startled. "No, I…you make a career out of kissing boys! You kissed two of
them the same night!"
"After you laughed!"
Pete smacked him in the chest, rocking Andy back on his heels, and from there
the momentum just seemed to flow. One second Andy was getting shoved, and the
next he was doing the shoving. Pete fell back into the washer, and Andy stepped
into the space between Pete's knees. He stared into Pete's face, at a loss for
what to say. He looked like Pete, sleek like a bullet and twice as likely to
fuck you over. He was beautiful, even if Andy hadn't let himself look too hard
since the day he'd realized Pete might stay around far longer as friend than a
fuck. A rush of adrenaline electrified Andy's muscles, begging him to step
back, to take a moment and think. Pete's head tipped to the side, and Andy lost
his train of thought.
"Don't you just get tired of it?" Pete asked. "The whole scene, the whole…it's
all just bullshit and posturing and then going back to do it all over again.
Boys in bands crawling all over each other in dirty vans they can't afford, and
it never seems to mean what it should."
"It's the same all over," Andy said.
Pete's mouth crumpled a little, falling at the edges and drawing lines down his
face. The famous Wentz smirk died stillborn, and Andy realized the dark circles
hanging beneath his eyes weren't leftover make up. He hadn't seen Pete asleep
once since they'd left his mom's house.
"Does it have to be the same here?" Pete asked.
Behind them, the washer banged into overdrive, while a shouting match rang out
from the tv. The skin of Andy's fingers tingled as he slid his palms down
Pete's neck to his shoulders, drawing him in and pressing their foreheads
together.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "Your band's doing okay. That's all you can
hope for, isn't it?"
Pete stood motionless, then clamped his arms around Andy's waist and dragged
him in close. His head tilted, mouth opening. His tongue slid along Andy's
bottom lip before retreating. Andy shuddered.
"This is going to work, do you hear me?" Pete whispered fiercely.
Pete vibrated against him, like an engine suddenly pumping with fuel, heat
pouring off him and into Andy. Andy's cock stiffened, rose against the barrier
of his jeans.
"You're my drummer," Pete said, smacking a kiss on Andy's lips. "Stay."
Andy felt something shift lower in his stomach. He cleared his throat. He took
a deep breath and let it out in a rush. Pete closed his eyes briefly, a grin
flitting across his face as he tilted forward again. Andy pushed into the kiss.
Heat flowed into his veins, a floodgate of want he hadn't let himself feel in
years, and Pete moaned his approval. Their teeth clashed, mouths breaking
apart, and Andy pressed his mouth against the sharp curve of Pete's jaw. He
took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Yes," Pete hissed. "Andy, I…please."
Andy nodded his head blindly. Pete's hips bucked. His hands scrambled beneath
Andy's shirt, calluses scratching against Andy's back. Pete kissed his cheek,
then his ear, thrusting his cock into Andy's, hard enough for Andy to feel--
"What the fuck?" Patrick asked.
Andy froze, and felt Pete tense against him. Andy dug his fingers into Pete's
upper arms. He raised his head, turning to look over into Joe's bizarrely
pleased face. Patrick stared next to him. Pete's face whipped around his
shoulder and then back to Andy. Andy tried to step back, give him and Pete some
distance, but Pete's hands clenched on his back and Andy stopped trying to move
away.
Joe looked from Andy to Pete and back again. "I think it might be gay porn."
"No one gets naked if I can't watch," Patrick said.
"It is not gay porn!" Andy snapped.
"Yes, it is," Pete said. "What did you mean 'watch?'"
He shifted his hips, erection still pressing against Andy's thigh. Slowly, a
blush blossomed from the exact centers of Patrick's cheeks. Andy licked his
lips, glancing from Patrick to Joe and back to Pete. The washer clunked again,
shaking at it ran through its cycle.
"Joe?" Patrick asked, barely turning his head away.
"Better than Plan D," Joe said. "We don't even know how to make a mickey, much
less slip Andy one."
"What?" Andy asked.
"All right," Patrick said.
He walked forward, stopping only when Andy and Pete's bodies blocked the way.
His hand slid up Andy's arm from the elbow to the wrist, tracing a path up to
Pete's neck. Andy swallowed, staring at the way Patrick's thumb swept a line
along Pete's skin. Against him, he felt Pete's cock jump. Patrick leaned in,
staring into Pete's eyes from the moment he was far away to the second their
foreheads touched. His mouth worked, tongue flicking out to lick his lips.
"All right," he whispered, repeating himself.
Patrick tilted his face, bumping their noses together, and kissed Pete on the
mouth. Pete's eyes fluttered shut, muscles tensing and then abruptly relaxing
in his entire body. He murmured into Patrick's mouth, letting Andy hold them
both upright.
It wasn't a deep kiss, there wasn't any tongue, or moaning, or anything like
Andy--through many an unwilling viewing--had come to associate with Pete
kissing. Patrick simply put his lips against Pete's mouth and held there,
petting the side of his face, until Pete started to shake. The shaking was new.
Andy pulled away--or tried to--and Patrick broke the kiss.
"I am so fucking tired," he said, "of people going insane and being depressed
and moping around the van. No one in this band can even spell stoic, and if you
move one more inch, Andy Hurley, that isn't toward me, I will forget that Pete
still thinks I'm virginal."
Pete sputtered. Joe laughed. Patrick leaned in again and kissed Pete quiet,
stroking through his short hair until Pete almost…it sounded like purring. Also
new. Then, while Andy was distracted by the…purring, Patrick Stumph stopped
kissing Pete and reached for him.
"Hi," he said, breathing across Andy's mouth. "Is this okay?"
"Um?" Andy managed.
"Oh, that's hot," he heard Pete murmur.
Patrick's hand came to rest on Andy's neck, idly rubbing his fingers along the
rise of muscle. Patrick's mouth pressed tightly to his, opening to nuzzle at
Andy's lower lip. Patrick sighed and Andy's jaw fell open, allowing Patrick to
lick his way past Andy's teeth and along the top of his mouth.
The air heated, condensed into liquid against his body, parting as Patrick's
hand drifted across his collarbones and held, flattened, at the center of his
chest. Andy held onto Pete, hooking his hands into the back of Pete's jeans,
and groaned.
"You know," Patrick said, pulling back and nudging Andy's chin with his lips.
"If you like blonds so much, I'm really accommodating."
Pete raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"I…" Patrick blushed again, but grinned through it this time.
"Patrick's a big ho," Joe said. "How about we take this show some where's
else?"
Joe raised his eyebrows at Andy and Andy raised his right back. He tightened
his hands on Pete's biceps. Patrick made another noise, lower than the first.
 
***
 
The night air was crisp, shot through with the smell of gravel and a faint
whiff of detergent. Pete held his hand the entire time it took to walk from the
aisle of washers and out to the van. Their palms were sweaty, pressed together
skin to skin. Andy shook his head, trying to ignore the pounding rhythm of his
own blood. He felt the brush of Pete's body against his own as if they were
already naked, and twitched as the heat of Joe's breath left his neck when Joe
stepped around him. Patrick hummed to his right, and Andy tapped an open roll
on his thigh with his free fingers. It wasn't--fucking Pete. You joined his
band and suddenly everyone wanted to play grabass. Here he was in Podunk,
Nowhere, USA, climbing into the back of a van with his—with his bandmates and
they were going to have sex. Or he and Pete were going to fuck, and Patrick and
Joe were going to watch. What the hell?
"Shit." Andy stopped moving.
In front of him, Joe opened up the backdoors and climbed inside the van, with
Patrick following him. Patrick turned and sat facing Andy, letting one of the
instrument cases support his back.
"I wish you'd stop thinking," Joe said, as he pushed the sleeping bags into a
rough nest.
Andy blinked, shuddering as Pete's hand clenched in his. He winced. What the
fuck? What the hell was he--they--doing? Exhaustion, terror, lust slammed into
his stomach, and burrowed deep. He took a step away, but Pete held on to him,
refusing to give Andy the breathing space he needed to fucking think.
"Damn it," Patrick said.
He reached up, grabbing his hat and tearing it from his head. His hair lay
smashed to the top of his head, widow's peak fully on display.
"Pete," Patrick said. "Andy, just…just look at Pete."
Pete moved forward, retaking the ground Andy had gained, and put his other hand
on Andy's chest. His fingertips just brushed Andy's collarbones. He raised his
head and met Pete's dark eyes. Pete released Andy's hand, following the path of
his arm up to the elbow before latching on again and tugging Andy against his
body.
"I don't—it doesn't have to mean anything if…" Pete trailed off in a rasp. He
coughed. "I mean we're all just coming into orbit with each other, right?
Planetary alignments on rusty shocks and you…I don't want you to become Pluto,
okay? I'd miss you too much."
Andy shook his head slightly, and the light slid from Pete's face. His eyelids
drooped, as the muscles in his face tensed. Andy's stomach twisted, a muscle
flared in his chest and began to ache. He…
"Oh, fuck me," he muttered. "Fucking--don't…"
He wanted this. He wanted Pete to smile and Patrick to kiss him again and Joe
to make room for him in that stupid mound of tangled sleeping bags. He wanted
this band, whatever it was Pete was trying to say. Actually, knowing Pete, he
wanted it in spite of what Pete was trying to say.
He slid his hands around Pete's neck, burying his fingers in Pete's short hair
and bringing their mouths together. Pete opened for him immediately, wrapping
his hands around Andy's back to hold their bodies together. Andy hooked his
fingers in Pete's waistband, yanking Pete close. He wanted to rush, to be
careless, to bite instead of lick his way into Pete's mouth, chasing that
clever tongue. Pete groaned at the first touch of Andy's teeth to his lower
lip. Andy chased the reverberation of that groan inside Pete's mouth, pushing
so hard Pete's head tilted backwards.
He heard the van springs groan, and then a body pressed up against his back. A
second set of hands slid around his waist, fingers sliding over Andy's fly. His
cock stiffened, pushing against his zipper.
"C'mere, c'mere," Patrick muttered, licking the juncture where Andy's neck met
his shoulder.
Andy's head fell back. "Son of a bitch."
He let his body sway. He hissed, thrusting up as Patrick's hand shifted and
pushed underneath his waistband, fingers sliding down Andy's skin to rub at his
cock. Pete rocked against Andy's thigh, cock hard through his tight jeans. He
mouthed the other side of Andy's neck.
"You are going to have such a hickey," Joe said.
Andy cracked an eyelid open, and found Joe perched at the open doors of the
van, pants open. His long fingers pulled at his cock, rubbing slick fingers
over the flushed head and stroking the shaft. He leaned against the van, biting
the thumb of his unoccupied hand, and grinned, eyes dancing.
"Fuck," Patrick said, and let go.
He stepped up onto the bumper and climbed into Joe's lap, tipping them both
back against the sleeping bags. Joe laughed, then moaned, and Andy saw his
hands cup Patrick's ass, digging into the muscle.
"Pete," Andy whispered. "Pete, did you—can you see this?"
Andy pressed his cock against Pete's thigh, while Patrick swore at his own
jeans.
"I hate the scene," Patrick said. "And I hate the Gap."
"You got those at Target, motherfucker," Pete said against Andy's neck.
He licked a path up to Andy's ear, sucking behind the shell. Andy groaned,
burying his hand into Pete's hair to hold him in place. With his other hand, he
flicked open the button of Pete's jeans, sliding the zipper down by pushing his
hand into the fly and grabbing Pete's cock at the base.
"Fuck," Pete moaned. "You have been holding out on me, Hurley."
Pete's hands skimmed his lower back, ragged nails scratching lightly while Andy
shivered and hissed. His muscles strained, pushing him further into the hard
plane of Pete's body, denim rough and constricting between them.
"Hey, guys—Pete!" Patrick called. "Oh, yeah, right there Joe…Andy! The—the
cops…get in the van, damn it, and fuck me."
Sparks flew through his veins; air sizzled where it met Andy's skin. He pressed
his mouth against Pete's hoodie because he couldn't not; wetting the cotton as
he kissed along the cotton seam until his tongue tasted the hollow of Pete's
throat. He took a step blindly, stumbling off the curb and smacking the side of
his knee into the bumper. Patrick's hand pulled at his sleeve, grabbing at his
ankle as he maneuvered himself into the van.
Pete followed, crawling in after him and closing the van doors. Darkness
covered them all, only partially alleviated by the parking lot lamps outside
the windows. Andy saw Pete swallow heavily, saw the way he perched on all fours
as if he could pounce forward or disappear all together, and reached for him.
Pete fell on to his chest, fumbling Andy's pants open and then shoving his
jeans and underwear down his thighs. Their cocks slid against one another,
slick with precome. Andy shuddered, bucking beneath him, and their legs
entwined. Blindly, Andy stuck his hand out to the side, gripping hard when he
felt a guitarist's calluses slide against his palm. He kissed the side of
Pete's face, licked the sweat at his temple, and then leaned back as far as he
could, tugging Patrick closer.
Pete pushed at Andy's shoulders, rearing back to straddle Andy's thighs, so
that he could bite the soft underside of Patrick's jaw. Patrick shuddered,
knees spreading for balance as he wrapped an arm around Pete's back. Pete's
hand wandered down Andy's chest to the open vee of his pants. He took hold of
his cock and Andy's, drawing them together in his palm and gripping tight.
Andy's eyes rolled. He thrust up, and Pete moaned, even as Patrick covered his
mouth with a kiss.
"Yes, fuck, Patrick," Pete muttered. "My…oh God, Andy, can you see this?"
Joe appeared over Patrick's back, lean and naked in the half-light. He kissed
the rounded joint of Patrick's shoulder. His hands slid beneath Patrick's t-
shirts and down to stroke a familiar hand over his cock.
"There needs to be a lot more naked people in here," he said.
"Later," Patrick said, thrusting into Joe's fist. "Lots—later."
"Promises, promises," Joe said, grinning.
He kissed Patrick's shoulder again and skimmed around his body until his head
was lying on Andy's chest. He curled forward and kissed the hollow of Andy's
throat, coming up with his weight on both hands to either side of Andy's head.
Their noses brushed, then their lips, slowly left to right and back again.
Someone's fingers hovered over Andy's forearm, just above the scales. Pete
tightened his fist, dragging a thumb around the head of Andy's cock and Joe
swallowed the resulting moan, drinking it down and replacing Andy's breath with
his own. Andy's head swam. He raised his head and Joe's hand cupped the back of
his head. The air in the van warmed, pressing in a bit against his chest.
He waved a hand in the air, and Joe caught it, bringing both their hands to his
cock.
Somewhere above him, Patrick moaned. The sound resounded through the van, deep
and rich like chocolate on the tongue, like the opening moan of a song and Andy
found the beat of his blood matching the tone of Patrick's moan. He drove his
hips up to meet Pete's in counterpoint, kissing Joe while their joined hands
twisted over his cock, hard and slippery in their entwined grasp. Every thrust
swelled from Patrick to Pete and into Andy's body like a wave, breaking when
Joe's lips tore from Andy's mouth on a groan.
Andy gripped Joe's shoulder, keeping him within kissing distance, and licked
the taste of Joe from his lips. Joe bit his neck and Andy shouted, body arching
up from the floor. Joe's tongue slid over the bite, wet and lewd like the very
best kind of promise. Andy tilted his head to the side, watching Pete sucking
on Patrick's fingers like they were his cock. Patrick moaned again, shuddering
with his head tilted to the ceiling, slack mouthed.
Pete switched hands, then twisted his hand on the new down stroke, thumb in
Andy's circumcision scar, perfectly callused fingers tracing the veins in his
cock. Andy whimpered, closing his eyes as he thrust into Pete's grip. He could
feel his cock sliding against Pete's, feel every jerk and pulse of movement
between them and Andy rode the swell of movement again as it broke over him in
a wave, a perfect rolling beat like the ocean.
Joe broke his view, shifting Andy's focus to the warmth pouring from Joe's
curved frame. He sucked a bruise on Andy's throat, nuzzling his t-shirt collar
away from his skin. The light made his pale skin glow, and Andy tightened his
grip on Joe's cock to see him shudder and bask in the vibration of Joe's growl
as it throbbed against Andy's body.
"I really do like you, you know," Andy said against Joe's ear.
He felt Joe smile, saw a blush creep up the sides of his neck and grinned
through the rising tide of pure fire searing his body. Joe lifted his head and
kissed him, sliding his tongue inside Andy's mouth. Andy sucked once, hard, on
Joe's tongue. His heels dug into the sleeping bags, slipping in the slick
material. Pete's hips pounded against his own, their cocks driving against one
another as Joe slid his hand down Andy's chest, pinching his nipple through his
shirt. Andy moaned as Pete groaned and Patrick hummed in counterpoint, a
strangely musical rumbling bass that shook Andy to the bones.
Joe disentangled hand from Andy's and pounded against the floor, only partially
muffled by the sleeping bags. Andy pumped his hand, nails tracing a path down
the vein on the underside of Joe's cock. He felt Joe thrust, finding purchase
above him. He wailed and jerked forward on all fours now.
"Jesus, Patrick," Pete said. "You just—"
"He can take it," Patrick said. "He likes it."
Joe moaned, rocking forward. His lips dragged down Andy's forehead to his mouth
and held there, whimpering. Hot liquid burst out onto Andy's fingers, sliding
down to his wrist. Patrick's voice went high and cracked, spinning off into a
hiss. Joe's throat pumped as he swallowed. He dropped his chest flat to the
floor, head falling next to Andy's, and, finally, Andy could see Patrick's hand
deep in the cleft of Joe's upturned ass. His eyes widened, jerking from Joe
still writhing on the floor and up the path of Patrick's hand to where he and
Pete were tangled up together, kissing while Pete jerked Patrick off with one
hand. Andy's hips stuttered, falling back and forth, up into Pete's grasp as
far as he could manage. He reached out, gripping Pete's knee and digging his
nails into the denim as the heat, the rhythm of Pete grinding against him, and
the pulse of Joe's breath against Andy's neck ratcheted his pulse to the
breaking point.
Andy's heart hammered in his chest, beating itself to pieces against his ribs.
Patrick broke free of Pete's mouth, licking his lips and staring as Andy
writhed on the floor. He reached out, grabbing for Andy's free hand and holding
on as Andy arched his back and came.
"God, yes, yes, yes," Pete said, hips jerking erratically.
Andy watched Pete's face screw itself in knots. Pete's eyes rolled in their
sockets, first watching Joe, then fixing on Andy, then Patrick and then
reversing direction. His hand loosened, letting Andy go, and thrust against
Andy's hip instead, shaking while Patrick shuddered in Pete's grasp and Andy
absorbed the aftershocks and tried to catch his heaving breath before it
escaped him.
Joe started to whine, high and strained. He shivered and shuddered, curling
over Andy's chest and hanging on while Patrick drove his fingers into his ass.
Andy put an arm around his back holding him close while Joe whipped himself
into a frenzy all over again, abruptly freezing and then slumping forward.
Patrick removed his hand, and Joe moaned. Above him, Pete shuddered and
whimpered, his hips thrust up and held. He moaned into Patrick's mouth, and
slumped forward, forcing Patrick to take his weight even as he coaxed Patrick
into coming over his fist. He moaned as he came, and the vibration of it made
Andy close his eyes and shudder.
"My golden ticket," Pete murmured. "Where the hell'd you learn this?"
Patrick put both hands at Pete's waist, gently pulling him off Andy's thighs
and to the floor. Joe crawled over Andy's body, settling on Andy's other side.
The sleeping bags stuck to Andy's sweat soaked skin, and the air pressed closer
even than Pete as Patrick laid him down. Pete immediately took Andy's hand
again, his dirty hand, dragging it to his mouth and cleaning off Joe's spunk.
Andy swallowed, twitching while Pete's tongue laved his fingers. Patrick
chuckled, lying down on Pete's opposite side and throwing his leg between
Pete's knees.
"He's good, isn't he?" Joe said.
Andy's eyes popped open. He looked from Joe to Patrick while Pete choked. Joe
grinned, pressing his smile into Andy's bicep.
"Trohman?" Pete said.
Andy thought back to all of Joe's shirts with the collars stretched out, and
the wet gleam of Patrick's mouth the night he'd doused the van in Febreze. His
cock twitched against his thigh.
"Jesus, Pete, who'd you think got rid of the virginal problem?" Patrick asked,
grinning.
"I feel slightly betrayed," Andy said. "I joined a brothel and no one told me."
"We sent you an e-mail," Joe said.
"Actually, that was to your girlfriend," Patrick said. "Remember? She printed
it and TP'd your house."
"So that's why you can't go to Mrs. Trohman's house anymore," Pete said.
Patrick blushed. Joe grinned.
"Best band ever," Pete said.
He smirked, but his eyes shone in the half-light of the parking lot. Andy began
to be aware of the cold night, but it was warm tucked into the sleeping bags
with a body on either side of him. He licked his lips and nodded as Joe rose
above him.
"Talk later," Patrick said.
He went to one elbow, leaning over Pete to touch his lips to Joe's. Andy saw a
quick flash of tongue, and heard a hum of approval from Pete before Patrick
pulled out of the kiss and leaned down to kiss Andy on the lips. He grinned as
he lay back down.
"Me next time, okay?" he asked. "Can't let Trohman have all the fun."
Andy laughed, feeling sleep hook claws in his muscles. He didn't even wince
when Patrick pulled his glasses of his head and folded them up somewhere above
their heads. Joe wiped his messy hand on Pete's jeans, leaning over to kiss
Pete good night before settling back on Andy's side.
"I think I should have all the fun," he said, yawning. "I know what to do with
it."
Joe rubbed his feet over Andy's ankle and laughed.
"Sleep now," Patrick said, glaring.
Joe grinned, stretching his arms over his head. "I love it when he gets ticked
off."
Andy nodded slowly, watching Pete and Patrick melt together. Joe put his hand
low on Andy's belly and rubbed in slow circles. Andy looked out the window. The
sky—what he could see of it—was still pitch black.
"We're down for the night anyway," Joe whispered as the other two's breath
began to even out. "Rest."
"The gig…"
"I promise," Joe said. "The way Pete was speeding? We're ahead of--" he yawned,
blinking his doe eyes. "Ahead of schedule."
Sleep tugged Andy's eyelids down, travel and sex pushing him to the floor and
keeping him there. "Oh," he said. "I…um."
Joe put his head on Andy's chest. "Later Hurley," he whispered.
Andy let himself fall.
 
***
Morning smelled like old sex and Patrick's socks. Andy woke with an armful of
bandmate and decided not to mind. Sometime in the night, Joe had shifted them
until Andy lay flat with Joe sprawled against his chest.
"He's like a puppy, isn't he?" Pete whispered.
Andy looked over. Pete's hair stuck up on one side of his head, spiked with
sweat. Their next stop definitely had to be someplace with a sink, at least. He
had an arm around Patrick's shoulders on the opposite side. He grinned and Andy
smiled back slowly.
"I just…this is weird," Pete said. "I'm right that this is weird, aren't I?
Because I've never had sex with this many bandmates at the same time."
"I am right there with you," Andy said. He paused, unwrapping one hand from
Joe's back and feeling exactly how sticky and not in his pants he was. "I'm too
old for this again, Pete. Tell me you aren't fucking around."
"I can be good," Pete said, biting his lip.
Andy squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get blood into his brain. "You are
good. You're Pete Fucking Wentz and I'm Andy God Damn Hurley," he said. "Why do
things like this just happen around you? Four damn bands…"
He waved his hand and Pete grabbed it. "I've been in more bands than God," he
said. "And I've lost every fucking one of them."
Andy nodded. Lines formed around Pete's eyes, touring lines, the kind you got
when you'd been in every shithole in three states, looking for gold and only
getting older. Andy'd been around a time or two himself. Joe shifted on his
chest, muttering in his sleep, and Andy automatically held him closer. He
sighed. Fuck.
"All right," he said.
Pete kissed his palm twice, holding Andy's hand to his face like a lifeline.
"This one's gonna work," he said. "This one's gonna work."
"Stop that," Patrick said, scratching his face against Pete's chest. "Didn't
Joe tell you guys to stop thinking yet?"
"I thought I had," Joe said, yawning. "But Pete's powers of angst are too
strong."
"Fuck you, Trohman," Pete said.
Joe lifted his head. "Yes?"
Patrick groaned. "Now you've done it," he mumbled. "Why do you think I keep
getting him high?"
Andy choked. "What?"
Patrick grimaced, raising his head slowly from Pete's chest. "Oops?" he tried.
Pete cackled, smacking a kiss to the side of Patrick's head. "You keep Joe high
to stop him from molesting you?"
"No," Patrick protested. "I mean, not always, but…I need to recover,
sometimes."
Andy groaned. Pete burst into laughter, burying his head into Andy's neck and
shaking with the force of it. Joe pushed up from Andy's chest.
"It's a fair trade," he said. "Sometimes he even springs for the weed."
"You know…" Andy said.
"Yeah?" Joe asked, grinning.
"If you keep using pot so much, you're going to develop a tolerance," Andy
said.
Joe pulled away, sitting up and scuttling away on his ass. His mouth fell open,
just as his eyebrows disappeared into his hair.
"You lie," he accused.
Andy shook his head. "True fact, my friend. I know these things."
Joe scooted back further. "Pete!" he yelled. "Your drummer's scaring me!"
"That's why we brought him," Pete said, leaning over Andy. "Scare you straight,
boy! Just lay back and think of England."
"That's what I always say," Patrick said.
"That's it," Joe announced. He got to his knees, straightening his clothes and
tucking himself away. "We're getting the laundry and then I am driving us to
the nearest IHOP where one of you horrible people is buying me waffles. I don't
care who, as long as there are waffles in my future."
"And why should we do that?" Patrick asked. "You have the short term memory of
a Lhasa Apso."
"A noble creature," Pete muttered. "I'd like a dog."
"Laundry! Waffles!" Joe announced. "Patrick?"
"Oh, fine," Patrick grumbled, getting up and fixing himself to rights. "But
you're buying your own eggs. I draw the line at animal products."
Pete giggled. Andy ran his free hand over his face, consigning the arm under
Pete to the abyss of pins and needles. He reached down to adjust himself,
pulling his jeans up from around his hips and back where they allowed for blood
flow. Pete slung a leg between Andy's and settled into place as the backdoor
opened and Patrick jumped out with Joe at his back. The door slammed shut. Andy
put his nose to the top of Pete's head and went to sleep.
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