User: jenish (posted by fizzyblogic) Date: 2008-03-18 07:13 Subject: You Smile So Wide (And I Don't Need Anything) Security: Public Tags: fandom:bands:aar, nick/tyson

You Smile So Wide (And I Don't Need Anything)
{All-American Rejects RPS // Nick/Tyson // R // 100% untrue & disclaimed // for Rhi, happy birthday darling ♥}

Nick liked Tyson.

This, he knew within hours of meeting him. They’d been talking a little, Tyson and the guys in the band, and he seemed like a nice kid so Nick thought, yeah, I like this dude.

It was a few months later, when Tyson was over at Nick’s place getting another bass lesson, that Nick was hit with it. It felt a little like being run over by a phantom truck, and he just knew: he liked Tyson. As in, thought he was funny, enjoyed his company, found him rather attractive, kind of wanted to slam him against a wall and make out with him a whole bunch. It wasn’t the first crush he’d had on a friend, and for a while it was okay. He was used to the pointless crushes by now; he was surrounded by guys, some of them funny and cute, some of them stupidly hot, all of them straight and liable to beat him to death and bury him in their back yard if he ever came on to them. He had made his peace with this some time ago, and resigned himself to a life of either pretending to like girls, being alone or getting the fuck out of the Midwest.

Whatever he did, he had to finish high school first.

It took the next two years for Nick to come to terms with the fact that his crush on Tyson wasn’t going to go away. That it was something kind of huge and really awkward and intensely inconvenient, because Tyson – crush entirely aside – happened to be Nick’s favourite person on the face of the earth. He liked the kinds of movies that were simultaneously awful and hilarious, he could make a mean bacon sandwich the morning after some serious alcohol was consumed, he knew exactly what to say to make Nick laugh until he thought he was going to die, no seriously, really this time, Ty, quit it or I’ll stop breathing. He was the best concert buddy ever; Nick could still hardly believe Tyson hadn’t been to a concert before he started taking him to them. Well, not since he was born, and of all the badass births there could ever be, Tyson’s had to be the coolest. Frankly, Nick would have a huge crush on him just on the strength of that, and his propensity to break out into classic rock at the oddest moments while drunk, stopping to say something about it not being bedtime yet and giggling. Nick still hadn’t worked out quite why the fuck he did this, but it was insanely cute.

Luckily – unluckily – Tyson was an affectionate drunk. Though a more accurate term would be flirty drunk. This caused Nick uncounted opportunities for a whole lot of physical contact, which Tyson seemed to be really very okay with (kill, bury in back yard, don’t make a move, Ty’s dad has a fucking shotgun in his house) – and this in turn gave Nick uncounted, endless and sometimes painful boners. Thankfully, Tyson never seemed to notice; either he was too drunk, or Nick made sure they were positioned in a way that Tyson would never feel it, or maybe Tyson did notice and just didn’t say anything.

Nick repaid this kindness in beer. Lots of beer.

College seemed like a good way out. He could put some fucking distance between himself and his increasingly obvious and fucking annoying crush, and yeah, maybe an advantage would be not having to see Tyson sucking face with his girlfriend, because wow, yeah, that wasn’t exactly a picnic. Tyson never asked why Nick didn’t have a girlfriend. Nick sort of made a point, sometimes, of saying that there just weren’t any girls around that he was interested in. Which was true. (He left out the rest of the declaration, which was that there was this one guy he was very, very interested in, who was hot and funny and talented and awesome and did he mention hot? But. Kill. Back yard. No moves.)

Turned out he was entirely wrong about college. He got drunk a lot, the frat guys were really nice to him and he made sure to never come on to a single one of them; happily, even while utterly and completely wasted, he still had survival instincts. So he spent the majority of his time partying it up with the other dudes, avoiding classes and homework and all that college shit that happens at college, and he missed Tyson so fucking much. There had never been a time, since he was fifteen years old, that Ty was not less than a half hour away. Ty was just … there, always, at Nick’s locker at school or meeting up after Band or hanging out at the weekends or playing the bar and getting bought drinks and escaping fights and always Ty, always right there and now he was so far away it felt like an arm had been hacked off.

One of the guy’s girlfriends, this amazingly gorgeous woman Nick knew he would have been crazy about if he’d swung that way, she got drunk with him one night and somehow wheedled it out of him. He blamed feminine whiles. He never breathed a word about the crush, though, just that he missed his best friend; she totally sympathised and they swapped best friend stories until the sun came up. They fell asleep tangled together and when Nick woke up his arm had gone numb and his neck was stiff but he felt a little less … like something was missing.

A week later, he packed up his shit, quit college (it really wasn’t all he’d hoped it would be, they made you do work and shit) and went home to make his career in music. His parents weren’t pleased, but his sister called and all she said was, “So I hear you’re an academic failure, little brother.” and he almost sagged against the wall in relief at the affection in her voice. He told her about his plans to be a guitarist, how he and Ty had their band and they were going to try and make it when Tyson was done with high school and there was this silence and then she said, “So the plan is to be a famous guitarist … in two years’ time?”

“Yes,” he replied, panicking.

“Okay. You know you can come stay if the folks ever get sick of you, right?”

Nick didn’t know whether to be grateful or worried, but he settled for the former and left the latter until later. (Later turned out to be four o’clock in the morning for two weeks, but she never said anything else so in the end he stopped worrying.)

Tyson was beside himself when Nick got back. He’d gone over there without saying a word about being back, about quitting, and the look on Ty’s face was worth every second of not telling him. When Nick said he was back for good, he thought Tyson might explode. As it was, he did a cartwheel.

No, really, an actual cartwheel. Nick hadn’t seen anybody do cartwheels since he was six. Granted, Tyson’s wasn’t a full cartwheel, he sort of folded in on himself half way through and landed sprawled out in the yard, but he grabbed Nick’s ankle and pulled him down too and then rolled them sort of into one entity and hugged the living fucking daylights out of him. “You’re back, you’re back, you’re really back?”

“I’m really back,” Nick confirmed. His chest was expanding.

“Thank fuck, I had this whole thing planned.” Tyson made no move to sit up or stop the contact, and Nick was so fucking happy to see him he cuddled closer. “I was going to just show up sometimes, as a surprise, and crash at your place for a weekend or blow off school for a few days. I was gonna eat all your food and watch all your porn. There was porn at college, right?”

Nick didn’t want to shatter any illusions. “Tons of the shit. Mostly lesbian, some art house, very tasteful.”

Tyson scrunched up his features in disapproval. “Who the fuck watches tasteful porn?”

“College students,” Nick supplied, deadpan. “The really pretentious ones who’ve lasted until like, junior year. They talk only in bullshit and eat a lot of granola bars.”

Tyson looked scandalised. “Granola bars?”

Nick just nodded sagely, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s this whole thing.” He kept it up for another five seconds before cracking up and laughing, “I am totally shitting with you, man, nobody ate granola bars. Except the cockroaches. And I am not joking about those.”

“They really do watch dirty porn in frat houses?” Tyson asked, hope written all over his face.

Nick snorted. “When they’re not making it right outside my damn bedroom door, yeah.”

So Tyson was pleased he was back – in fact, he barely let him out of his sight for two months, “Just to make sure you don’t run out on me again, man.” – but Tyson was still sucking face with his girlfriend.

Nick got a job at the guitar shop. He went back to giving lessons regularly, he and Ty wrote a bunch of new songs that sounded pretty good, and they played the bar. They got drunk a lot together, when Tyson wasn’t busy, and it was just like always.

Then Tyson’s girlfriend dumped him and Tyson wouldn’t say why or even talk about it at all. He just said it, “So I got canned today,” and Nick said, “What the fuck?” and Ty just held up a handful of beer bottles and motioned with his other hand for Nick to open them. They got drunk, Tyson especially so, and he was quiet. It was unusual, but it somehow wasn’t uncomfortable either. Nick didn’t know if he should say something or stay quiet too, but the alcohol coursed through his system and he just started talking, just about nothing, and by the end of the night Tyson was smiling again so he figured maybe he helped somehow. That was all he really wanted to do, all he knew he’d be allowed to do; help. So he did.

Tyson said it, when Homecoming came, when they played in front of everyone and she was there with her new boyfriend, at the end of the night Tyson turned to him and he said, “Thanks, Nicky. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

They were alone in the band room and Nick’s mind flashed up images of the day he’d got kicked out of Band, because anything was less bizarre than the tone of Tyson’s voice. It sounded a little like a goodbye and a lot like a door closing. “Hey,” he said, throat thick with a dread he couldn’t quite shift, “no problem. What friends are for, right?”

Tyson nodded. Tyson hugged him. Tyson didn’t touch him again for a week after that; he stopped getting quite so drunk, started talking about hot girls on TV again, and Nick felt cold. Physically cold, like he couldn’t stop shivering, like Tyson was his own personal heater and someone had flipped the switch to ‘off’.

They had a job to do, though, songs to write, a fucking record deal, a fucking label to please, an album to get ready, and Tyson suggested his grandparents’ cabin for a week. They could write songs, take some booze, have their own little party in the middle of nowhere. It sounded like total bliss.

Nick was dreading it.

When Tyson came to pick him up, he pulled him into the kind of hug that squeezes and grasps and it’s okay not to let go for a while. Tyson didn’t let go, and Nick melted. He tried not to, tried really fucking hard, but Tyson hugged every piece of fondness he felt for Nick into him and it was amazing. Nick stopped shivering for the first time in weeks, was warm again, and then Tyson stepped away but the warmth stayed.

By the time they got to the cabin, Nick had prepared himself as best he could. He had rules (remember: whatever you do, no matter how incredibly hot Tyson is, do not make a move) and deflection techniques (always keep your body tucked in a way that he cannot feel the boner, even if you’re cuddling fit to get into each other’s skin) and he felt good about this. He was going to survive this. He could spend a week alone in the middle of nowhere with the guy he’d been nuts about for five years, the guy his last ever wet dream had been about, the guy who was the reason he’d snuck to the bathroom at lunch break sometimes to jerk off – yeah, this could totally work. As long as they worked hard, got really fucking wasted and Nick kept his pants on, everything would be fine. He already knew Tyson looked stupidly adorable first thing in the morning, with his hair a total mess and his cheek creased from the pillow and his eyes bloodshot and his movements stiff and oh fuck, seriously, Nick was so totally fucking screwed. Screwed six ways to Sunday and eight to the rest of the week.

The first three days, they did a lot more partying than actual writing. They made up drinking games to do with the forest and watched terrible horror movies about cabins in woods, Tyson laughing when Nick got spooked at three in the morning by shadows and night birds. “I’ll protect you from the evil harmless branch scratching at the window,” he said, voice a caricature of bravery, yanking Nick into his lap.

Startled, Nick almost fell out of it. “Fucker. If we’re horribly axe-murdered in our sleep, I totally get an I told you so.”

Tyson laughed again. His grip didn’t loosen. “You’re a damsel in distress, Nicky. I’ll save you.”

“What are you, the hero?” Nick’s heart pounded against his larynx. He looped his arms over Tyson’s neck, hoping it wasn’t going too far. Tyson didn’t seem to mind.

“Duh,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m heroic and brave and true. You’re a damsel. It’s my job to rescue you.”

Do I get a kiss? Nick thought, thrill flaring somewhere under his ribcage. “Whatever,” he snorted. “You’re a knight in shining armour.”

“Am too,” Tyson protested.

“You don’t have anything shiny, let alone a suit of armour, dumbass.” Nick flicked him on the ear for good measure.

“Hey. I’ll have you know I have skills. Ninja skills from the government.”

Nick laughed. “How’d you get those?”

“I’d tell you,” Tyson said, face lines of seriousness, “but I’d have to kill you.”

They started actually writing the next day. Nick woke up to the smell of scrambled eggs and toast and the sound of Tyson humming. He stumbled into the kitchen and knocked back a glass of water. “Hey,” he said, voice shot through with sleep still.

Tyson was sitting on the ratty old couch, guitar on his lap, legal pad perched on the curve of it. He was practically vibrating, music running through him like a tuning fork. “Woke up with a tune in my head, think this could really be something.”

Nick grabbed the instant coffee jar from the cupboard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, what do you think of –” He played some notes on the guitar. Nick listened, head to one side, as he filled the kettle.

“It’s good, I like it. Yeah, you’ve got something there.”

“Want to help me out with it?” Tyson looked up, over. “Kind of need two for this.”

Nick’s heart flipped. He thought absently about making pancakes. “Sure, just let me wake up first, okay?”

Tyson nodded, pencil tapping against the paper. He hummed something to himself and then stopped. Nick watched as Tyson’s entire body went still for three seconds, and then he seemed to reach some sort of internal conclusion, or perhaps the next part had come to him; he leaned over the pad and started scribbling.

Nick made himself some toast and coffee and sat next to Tyson, who was still writing. He picked up the first sheet of paper; there was a line of scribbled notes, a part of the page drawn like a stave, and a cluster of letters, then lines and lines of words underneath them.

“They need work,” Tyson said as Nick read through the lyrics. He looked up as Tyson handed him another few pages. “I haven’t got them right yet.”

“These are – these are good.” Nick had music in his head. He picked up the other guitar and tuned it up, staring absently at the pages as Tyson scribbled more beside him. Nick began picking out the tune on his guitar. He had a few ideas, hanging like mist at the back of the chords, so he tried them out.

Tyson was staring at him when he looked up. “Yeah,” he breathed, though Nick hadn’t even opened his mouth to ask what Tyson thought. “Yeah,” he repeated, “that’s – yeah.”

Nick looked back down at the pages, pleased. “Um, and I thought maybe –” He played a few notes of the chorus, but changed the chord slightly so the progression was a little different, and added one or two extra flourishes to the sound. Tyson sat up straighter.

“Dude,” he nodded, picking out the same notes on his own guitar, “dude, yes.”

Nick smiled down at his guitar, playing with the notes, shaping the song, and Tyson started to sing under his breath. The cabin filled with sound, their sound, the song they were writing, and Nick knew it then, like getting hit in the chest with a phantom truck again and just knowing: he loved Tyson. No matter what happened, no matter how far this went, he wanted it. He wanted everything, the late nights laughing themselves breathless, the song-writing sessions that could go on for days, the shows in the shitty clubs with shitty sound equipment where half the people there probably want to punch you in the face – he wanted tours cramped together in some shitty van Tyson’s dad said he’d sell them, he wanted to write albums and albums with Ty, guitar notes falling like raindrops, he wanted the ever-present fear that he’d do something to fuck it all up and clue Tyson in on how he felt. He wanted to be there when Tyson was sucking face with some model, when Tyson was a rock star banging the hot groupies, when Tyson got his heart broken and needed someone to distract him or just to drink with him. He wanted to be there for all of it, for everything, and he knew that he’d only ever be a spectator but he’d always be there. The alternative – a life not at Tyson’s side – was unthinkable.

They got the song half-done that day, sections of it almost finished, a lot of it needing work, and they only stopped because Nick’s stomach growled louder than the guitar strings so they made some popcorn and something beefy Tyson’s mom had given him for the microwave, because Tyson was in a beef mood, and they talked about the song as they waited for it to cook.

The sun was thinking about setting when the microwave pinged, and Tyson opened a couple of beer bottles and suggested they head out to the porch. So they ate dinner and drank beer and watched the sun set and they didn’t talk about the song at all, just about random shit that didn’t really matter. Nick built a titanium-shelled bubble for the memory, cupping it slowly and carefully before laying it in there and sealing it away under the label ‘the perfect evening’.

“You ever think about the stars?” Tyson asked at one in the morning, when they’d gone back inside because it was freezing. He slung one huge blanket over both their shoulders and got practically into Nick’s lap.

“The stars?” Nick repeated, shifting a little so his boner didn’t hit Tyson in the leg. (Ty had been doing these weird stretches for half an hour, making tiny sounds, and it was very distracting.)

“Yeah, you know, like – all these giant balls of gas, huge explosions in the middle of nothingness, so far away the distance is measured in years it takes light to get here – fuck, you know, light – and all we see is this tiny little thing in the sky, smaller than a firefly.” Tyson craned his neck and tried to see out of the window.

Nick eyed him. “Is there pot in this beer? Are you high?”

“Pfft.” Tyson leaned back into Nick’s body space and punched him a little on the shoulder. “I don’t have to be high to get existential.”

“Yeah you do, you’ve been like this drunk once before.” Nick tried to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching too much.

“I’m not high, dude.” Tyson shrugged. “Just thinkin’.”

“Okay.”

Tyson didn’t say anything else for a minute, he just smiled and curled up. He was fitted mostly into Nick’s lap, so Nick automatically put his arms around Tyson’s body to hold him steady; Tyson wriggled closer, more comfortable, rubbing his head for a second affectionately against Nick’s clavicle.

“What, you being a cat now?” Nick snorted, but he tightened his grip a little. Tyson settled, closer than he’d ever been, arms looped around Nick’s waist.

“Comfy,” he mumbled, head finding a space on Nick’s shoulder, so that his breath tickled against Nick’s neck. His heart thumped wildly as Tyson nestled closer to the pulse point, and when Tyson moistened his lips to speak again, the tip of his tongue flicked very slightly against Nick’s skin. Nick closed his eyes. “Nicky,” Tyson murmured. “Nicky Nicky Nicky. Nobody pays attention to me like you do.”

“Sure they do,” Nick murmured back, sounding a little hoarse. He swallowed. The tone of Ty’s voice was languid, sleepy, but definitely creeping towards a danger zone.

“No,” Tyson murmured, even more sleepy, “I mean, you. You notice shit. Remember stuff. Favourite – favourite, I don’t know.” He shifted even closer, if that were possible. “Favourite everything.”

Nick tried to keep his voice even. He shrugged. “I’m your best friend, Ty, that’s what they do. Remember shit.”

“Mmm,” Tyson exhaled. “You got wood.” He giggled.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit, Nick hadn’t realised how far Tyson was sliding into his lap. “Oh,” he whispered, trying to get more sound into it but failing, trying to shift but unable to move.

Tyson reached to pat his elbow. “It’s okay. So’ve I.”

Nick tried not to make a noise, and luckily all that escaped was a very small fraction of a sound. He covered it by clearing his throat. “Want some more beer?” he asked, slightly desperate.

Tyson shook his head as best he could, tucked so far into Nick’s body. “Gonna sleep,” he mumbled, barely forming the words. “You,” he breathed out, “sleep,” and he trailed off.

“Ty?” Nick jogged him a little, but Tyson just snuffled and clung on. “Ty? You really asleep, or are you faking?” No answer, only clinging, and oh, fuck, wow, Tyson really did have wood too. Fuck. “Ty?” Nick tried again, quieter.

Tyson made one of those soft sounds that he only made when he was really asleep, not pretending, and Nick thought about getting up somehow, disentangling them so he could go … somewhere he wouldn’t be sharing body heat with a Tyson sporting a boner, because seriously now, that was just not fair in the slightest. He tried to move, but Tyson made soft sleep-distressed sounds and shit, they sounded a lot like whimpers. So Nick stayed put, pinned to the floor on the blankets they’d laid out, holding Tyson steady and contained, Tyson still clinging on though his grip had slackened, and Nick just stroked fingertips down Tyson’s back and watched him sleep.

At some point in the night they must have moved, rearranged themselves, because Nick woke the next morning lying stretched out on the blankets. He didn’t open his eyes at first, just letting the memories of the night flow back in, and realised that Tyson was lying next to him, almost as close as before.

Closer, maybe, because he was moving very gently against him and it felt like – it felt like –

Nick woke up, fast. He didn’t open his eyes, was careful to keep his breathing as even and deep as he could, because Tyson was hard and Tyson was rocking against him and the minute Tyson woke up he had to think that Nick was asleep because otherwise they would have the most awkward moment ever and Tyson would probably never touch him in any way again. So Nick just lay there, concentrating on breathing as though he were still fast asleep, while Tyson moved against his thigh and Nick got slowly harder and harder. He hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable when Tyson woke up, but it could easily be explained away; morning wood, like Ty’s was, he had to be dreaming about some girl, thought Nick was some girl – Nick wondered for a second if he dared risk maybe kissing him, just a little, but concluded it would be pretty fucked up. Instead, he made a tiny sleep-sound he’d once heard himself make on a tape Tyson had recorded when bored in the middle of the night.

Tyson just rocked a little harder against him and … he whimpered. Nick made the sound again, because he always did it in threes if the tape was anything to go by, and Tyson whimpered, definitely that time; Nick made the sound the third time, and Tyson rocked harder against his thigh and moaned, so quietly it was almost inaudible, “Nick, fuck.”

Nick’s heart skipped a beat and it took him a second to remember to inhale. He hoped he hadn’t made any indication of being awake, but Tyson was still whimpering and definitely rocking against him now and maybe, just maybe, Tyson wasn’t asleep. Maybe he wasn’t dreaming.

Maybe he didn’t think Nick was a girl.

“Please,” Tyson breathed, and fuck, fuck fuck fuck a single word should not be that hot, but Tyson practically panted it at him, “don’t wake up, Nicky. Fuck.”

He definitely didn’t think Nick was a girl.

There was movement, and Nick felt Tyson roll further over him, so their bodies overlapped. Tyson rocked against Nick’s hip, and it felt so fucking good; and when Tyson’s hip came into contact with Nick’s boner, Tyson sucked his breath in and then moaned.

He went still for a second. Nick realised that Tyson was probably afraid he’d just woken him up, so he made the tiny sleep sound again, reassuringly. Maybe he should open his eyes, maybe let Tyson know he was awake, but what if that made Tyson stop? Nick really really did not want Tyson to stop, so he breathed evenly and made the sleep sound two more times. Each time, Tyson rocked a little bit harder, a little bit faster, burying his nose in Nick’s clavicle and drinking in a breath.

“Please,” Tyson repeated, panting, and it was all Nick could do not to arch at the sound, “please don’t – fuck, Nicky.” He rocked against him, hips twitching the movement, and then he rolled away suddenly.

Nick risked cracking his eyelids just to see where Tyson had gone. He had rolled over onto his side, back to Nick, shaking and shuddering. Then he let all his breath out in one go, stretching out from where he’d been curled over on himself, and rolled onto his back.

“Shit,” he muttered, and Nick shut his eyes tight again because fuck fuck fuck he’d just seen Tyson come, come right in his fucking pants, and it had been Nick’s name he said right before.

Nick heard a groan and – too late, too fucking late – realised it was him. Tyson went still. Nick tried to stop himself, tried to play it off as a sleep-groan or something, but when he opened his mouth again what came out was a small, moaned, “Ty.”

Tyson’s breathing went shallow. “Nick?” he whispered, just on the edge of hearing.

“Ty, fuck,” Nick exhaled, almost as quiet.

There was a slight rustle and Nick felt Tyson roll closer. “Nicky?” he whispered, only a fraction louder, and a few seconds later Nick felt something touch his stomach.

His eyes flew open. Tyson retracted his hand like he’d been burned, but Nick groaned, “Don’t stop.”

Tyson hovered his hand over Nick’s stomach, splaying the palm, less than an inch above the skin. “You want me to?” he whispered.

Nick’s heart thumped. He didn’t want to be buried in the woods, but Tyson had just fucking come after moaning Nick’s fucking name, so maybe Tyson wouldn’t actually kill him. At this point, he wasn’t sure he’d say no even if Tyson had a gun within arm’s reach; Tyson was looking down at him, so soft, hopeful, hesitant, with his hand so close, and Nick arched up to meet it and panted, “Yes, please.”

“Fuck.” Tyson brushed his hand against Nick’s skin, moving the shirt aside, skating his fingertips over it. “Fuck,” he breathed, and Nick bit his lip and arched and really, it shouldn’t feel this good, Tyson just touching him; Tyson had touched him a lot before, but never like this, and Nick tingled all over, squirmed, and groaned.

“Shit, Ty, please. Please.”

Tyson moaned, carefully undid Nick’s pants and slid his hand inside. Nick arched up off the floor, and the second Tyson’s hand touched his cock, had barely time to wrap around it, Nick came.

“Fuck,” he growled, hands grasping at the blankets, “fuck, Ty.”

Tyson fastened his mouth onto Nick’s clavicle and bit gently. He smoothed the skin with the flat of his tongue, moaned, “Fuck,” and then rolled on top of Nick and kissed him.

It wasn’t like any kind of kiss Nick had had before. It wasn’t like any kiss he’d seen Tyson have before, either. It was desperate, breathless, tripping over each other’s mouths and tongues in a push-and-pull struggle, grasping at each other with their hands and their lips and everything else. Their legs tangled at the thigh and Nick let out a hoarse groan.

“Fuck,” Tyson panted, shaking against him, getting hard again, “fuck, please, will you – fuck, Nick, fuck.”

Nick moaned, rolled them over, and got Tyson’s pants undone. He pulled Tyson’s shirt off – smoothed his hands over the expanse of chest and fuck, he was going to come back to that and pay attention to it – and shoved Tyson’s pants and underwear down past his knees. Tyson grabbed his discarded shirt and cleaned up the come that was drying on his skin, blushing slightly, but Nick was too busy staring at Tyson’s cock to notice much else. “Can I …” He tentatively reached for it, brushing his fingertips over Tyson’s navel.

Tyson hissed his breath between his teeth. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered, and Nick brushed his fingertips up and down the shaft of Tyson’s cock, watching it harden. His mouth watered.

Nick put his mouth back to Tyson’s, kissing him slower, surer. “Ty,” he breathed, “if I do anything you don’t want me to –”

Tyson grabbed the back of his head and kissed him deep. “What you’re doing right now?” he murmured, angling his hips up against Nick’s hand. “That’s pretty fucking good. That, I want that.”

“What about,” Nick kissed him, tasting, savouring this, “what about now?” He slid down Tyson’s body and pressed a line of kisses down his chest, over his hips. Tyson arched.

“Fuck,” he exhaled. “Please, Nicky, please.”

Nick breathed against Tyson’s cock, licking his lips. “You want me to?” He looked up at Ty, who was looking back as though half convinced he was dreaming.

“Oh fuck I do,” Tyson nodded, urgent. Then he reached one hand and ran a fingertip through Nick’s hair. His voice was soft when he said, “I really do.”

Nick pressed a kiss to the shaft. Tyson twitched, but settled his palm in Nick’s hair as Nick got into a comfortable position between Tyson’s thighs, half propped up on one arm. “I don’t really,” Nick breathed, flicking his eyes up to lock with Tyson’s, “know what I’m doing, so – if there’s anything you want me to do, just say.”

Tyson bit his lip. “Just fucking blow me, okay, Nicky?”

Nick let out a small sound. “Been wanting you to say that for fucking ever,” he muttered, and finally, finally, he sank his mouth onto Tyson’s cock.

Tyson threw his head back and groaned. The hand in Nick’s hair flexed and gripped; not tightly, just enough that Nick noticed. Then Tyson let go again and Nick started sucking. It felt … it felt so perfectly right Nick was almost knocked over by it. Just, having Tyson’s cock in his mouth, sucking and lapping and licking at it, twisting his wrist, shifting around to see if he could free the other hand and touch along Tyson’s thigh with it; making him make those noises, whimpers and sighs and moans and snatches of words, and Nick thought that now he’d heard what Tyson sounded like during sex there was no way he wouldn’t fuck him, fuck him so hard and so often, fuck him so much he wouldn’t be able to walk, just to hear those sounds and feel Tyson fall apart underneath him.

He hummed a little, deep in his throat, and Tyson undulated. Nick couldn’t smile with his mouth so full, but he hummed again, rippling a sound of pure pleasure through Tyson’s body, and Tyson’s head went back and he yelled, inarticulate; Nick’s mouth filled as Tyson came. He pulled off, keeping as much as he could in his mouth, and hunted around for a tissue. In the end, he spat out into Tyson’s discarded shirt, figuring it had already been used to clean up once that morning.

“Holy shit,” Tyson said as Nick settled back against him, pulling him close and trailing one hand up and down Tyson’s arm. “Hey,” he added, after a minute, “why are you still wearing clothes?”

Nick felt his cheeks get a little hot, but he grinned. “Waiting for you to take them off?”

“The wait is over!” Tyson announced, and yanked Nick’s shirt off; Nick was laughing as he tossed it away.

They finally returned to working on the song much, much later, and when they’d polished up the verses a little Tyson leaned over and kissed the corner of Nick’s mouth. Nick smiled and said, “What was that for?”

“You looked so cute, I just had to.” Tyson ducked his head a little, which was so fucking adorable Nick could just – then he remembered that he could, so he leaned in and kissed Tyson properly, a slow, languid kiss.

“I know what you mean,” he breathed, and Tyson smiled against his mouth and pulled him closer.