Chapter Text
Baby Götterdämmerung
I looked in the mirror and somebody blew up
I turned on my TV and somebody blew up
I learned how to lie well and somebody blew up
I learned how to live true and somebody blew up
Monster Magnet – Baby Götterdämmerung
1986. a roadtrip.
“Jason!” James winds the window down and sticks his head out of the car into the cold night. “Get your ass in the car! I wanna get going.”
“Yeah, sure,” Jason says loudly from behind the car, where he is smoking, the collar of his denim jacket popped up against the cold. He stubs the cigarette out on the ground with his foot, then he scrambles around the side of the Mustang and gets into the passenger seat. “Sorry, man,” he mumbles, closing the door.
James turns his head to look at Jason. Through the mop of curls that falls into his face, the bassist returns his look, his eyes apologetic, irises dark due to the dim light inside the car. “It’s okay,” James says after a second and starts the engine. “Let’s go.”
Ever since he joined the band after the accident two months ago, Jason has been following him, and he isn’t trying to hide it. When James leaves his hotel room to go get breakfast, Jason leaves his shortly after and walks behind him. When James plays a riff on his guitar, Jason stares at his hands and follows everything James does. On stage, when James throws his devil-horned hand in the air, Jason’s raises his just a moment after. When James voices his opinion on pretty much anything, Jason agrees with a series of tiny nods. When James downs his drink in one go, so does Jason.
At first, James laughed and teased Jason about those things, like he did with a lot of other stuff. “Damn smart of you to slipstream. As scrawny as you are, you can save some energy that way.” “I’m ordering another shot. Please don’t follow up on that, Jason. I don’t wanna drag your unconscious ass to your room.” – Of course Jason also had another shot. – But very soon, Jason’s habit started to make James angry. He finds it doglike, dependent, pathetic. It makes James feel like he has responsibility for Jason. Fuck that! That’s something James wants absolutely nothing of: having responsibility for anybody. Especially for the bassist. Especially for skinny, enthusiastic, excited Jason.
He was about ready to go tell Jason to fucking lay off, but then, one morning, James stood in the hotel hallway, anticipating the bassist to come trotting out of his room to follow him to breakfast. But Jason just didn’t. Maybe he was hung over, maybe he just wanted to sleep longer – James didn’t ask afterwards. But when the door didn’t open, James felt a pang of disappointment so strong it left him confused and irritated. That’s when he realized he missed it. Yeah, Jason trailing him makes him angry, it’s fucking infuriating, but at the same time...
And that’s why Jason is in the car with him right now.
When they arrived in Seattle yesterday for their last gig before Christmas, the tour bus passed by a car dealer. There, just behind the shop window, James saw the car. A black 1982 Mustang GT. He loved that car. So he went there right after they had checked in at their hotel and bought it without any negotiation about the price. Only problem was that it meant he had to drive the car down to San Francisco, instead of taking the plane home the next day like everybody else. And James hates being alone in a car since the accident. He needs the presence of another human being to deal with the constant, fearful tension that sleeps in the back of his mind while driving. And on top of that, he heard the weather forecast announcing nothing but rain and fog pretty much all the way down to the Cali border. So, at the after-show party, when Jason slurred that he had never even sat in a Mustang before, James’ drunken ass figured it would be a good idea to ask him to ride with him to San Francisco. Of course, Jason agreed immediately.
Between sleeping til noon, organizing band stuff, saying goodbye to the others, and buying food for the trip, James and Jason have completely failed to leave the city at a reasonable time. The digital clock underneath the Mustang’s radio cassette player shows 7:03 P.M. now. The plan is to keep going until James is too tired, then they’ll crash at a motel or hotel and drive the rest of the way tomorrow.
Inside the car, the heat is on full blast and the leather seats are comfortable. But outside, the night is dismal. It’s raining like predicted, so it’s gloomy in spite of the headlights and streetlamps.
“The weather’s shit,” James grumbles with a scowl while he drives the Mustang onto the Interstate 5.
“Yeah,” Jason agrees. “I’m sure it’ll get better though. Can’t always rain like that, you know.” In the glow of the dashboard and the low light of the streetlamps that falls into the car, James can see Jason smiling crookedly at him.
“No shit,” James says with a sigh. A moment passes, then he curses, “Fuck. I forgot all my tapes in the bus. You got any music?”
Jason grins. “He asks me if I have any music! I ALWAYS do, man!” In a sudden outburst of energy, he drums his fingers on his knees, hunching his whole upper body over the movement, headbanging with flying hair, before opening the black sports bag that sits between his feet on the ground. “So okay, you know Ministry?”
James shakes his head and focuses on the road ahead, trying to not get distracted by the display of Jason’s energetic cartooniness next to him. “No.”
“They’re really cool! I’ve never heard anything like them.” He pulls a cassette from the bag, inserts it into the tape deck and presses ‘play’.
First there is a noise that sounds like someone fast-forwarding a tape at high speed, then a fast thudding rhythm joins in.
James listens for a second, before he grimaces in disgust. “Is that a drum machine?”
“Yeah,” Jason says with a smile, nodding in time with the rhythm, staring at the radio, completely oblivious to James’ reaction.
Then a mechanical, puristic keyboard starts playing.
“What is this shit?” James asks with an impatient snarl. He ejects the cassette abruptly. “No synth-pop in my car!”
Jason lifts both of his hands in an imploring gesture and says, less mumbling than usual, “That’s no synth-pop! That’s EBM or industrial or whatever. It’s cool! Common, man, we’re not even a minute into the song!”
“Whatever that gay shit’s called,” James says with a decisive headshake, “We’re not listening to it.”
Jason shrugs. “Kay.” He takes the cassette out of the tape deck. “Misfits then?”
James nods.
They listen to the music in content silence for a while, which gives James the opportunity to enjoy how good it feels to drive this awesome car. Sure, the fact that the road in front of them glistens wetly in the shine of the headlights makes him feel uneasy. But the Mustang drives smoothly and steadily and follows all of James’ directions immediately, no slipping, no sliding. He has the control, not the rain.
James notices that Jason is looking around next to him, turning his head left and right, up and down, checking out the interior of the car, finally he reaches out and places a hand onto the matte black console in front of him. While he lets his fingers glide slowly over the surface, the low light catches sharp sinews and muscles that move under the skin. “That’s a sleek ride, James,” Jason mumbles, looking at James with a big smile while he continues to stroke his hand. “Real beautiful.”
James casts a glance towards Jason, then refocuses on the road. The bassist and his untiring enthusiasm are a mystery to him. The friendliness in his eyes and the smile seem honest enough, but are they? Maybe that’s just a show Jason’s putting up, so he will let him stay in the band. Maybe he only likes the Mustang, because James likes it. That’s the problem with Jason following him around. James just doesn’t know if that’s the truth, or Jason just pretending and kissing his ass. It feels like ass-kissing – that’s why James thinks it’s doglike. James never liked dogs.
Jason’s hand slides over the glove compartment and lower afterwards. “It’s also kinda sexy,” he adds, voice extra rough and deep. Then he laughs. With his whole body like he pretty much always does. He throws his head back, then he doubles over with rough laughter that lasts for just a few seconds. Sometimes he even winds an arm around his stomach while laughing. But not today. Maybe he’s just too exhausted from touring.
James has to laugh too, anyways. “Jesus, stop groping my car! I’m the only one doing that here.” He lets his hands glide up and down the wheel suggestively, before leaning forward and pretending to lick the middle, where the horn is. “Isn’t that right, baby?” he purrs. “I know what you like.”
Jason presses the back of a hand against his forehead and makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan, pretending to swoon. “Damn, that’s one lucky car,” he breathes with a voice much too high.
James grins. “You’re so full of shit, Jason.”
“Sure, man,” answers Jason with a grin of his own. “I trust your judgement as master shitter.”
James laughs again.
After they’ve listened to the Misfits, Jason puts on Mötorhead, which is fine by James, and they reminisce about the past concerts.
Eventually James asks, “What’s your favorite moment on stage so far?”
Jason answers immediately, voice full of excitement. “Yesterday, when we improvised our very own version of ‘Deck the Halls’! When you played that first riff, I was like, I know what he is up to, and played my thing... and it just clicked! And then the others joined and we all played as one. That was sick! And the audience was roaring the ‘Falalalala’!” He lifts his hand and grunts “Falalalala”, as if to give a demonstration. Then he continues, “Man, I felt like a hero, like Superman or whatever. It was so cool!”
Jason’s fervor manages to infect James immediately, especially because he had the same moment in mind. “Yeah, totally, man!” he nods. “You picked up on it so fast! That was insane!”
Jason rubs his knees with both hands and smiles at James, a little bashfully. “Thanks, man.” After a moment of silence, he claps his hands together and makes a noise that’s both squeaky jubilation and raw cheer. “Damn, what a concert!”
“Hell yeah!” James grins.
“But speaking of ‘Falala’... What are your plans for Christmas?” Jason asks while he leans forward and starts digging into his bag.
James’ good mood immediately disappears. Old, but always angry pain flares up inside of him, sitting like cold lead in the pit of his stomach. “Dunno,” he answers brusquely. “Stopped caring about Christmas when my mom died.” He stares at the road ahead.
Jason sits up, a sandwich in his hand, and stays silent and unmoving for a long moment. Then he mumbles, “Sorry, man, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Bullshit,” James spits, anger starting to smolder, because Jason is behaving like a dog again, “You had no idea. Stop fucking apologizing!” With an impatient flick of his hand, he turns up the intensity of the wipers. The rain starts coming down heavier now.
Jason starts unwrapping the sandwich and says nothing for another beat, watching James openly from the side. Finally, he speaks lowly, voice calm, “But I could’ve known. When Kirk and Lars talked about what they’re doing for Christmas, you said nothing. You also looked kinda... lost or whatever, man.” He bites into his sandwich and continues, mouth full, “But I forgot, so I am sorry I asked.”
James is so completely taken aback by the fact that Jason noticed his reaction that he doesn’t know what to say.
Try as he might, it’s not like James can help himself. Some things just remind him of the whole deal with his mom and it cuts into him every time, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, but it always does. And he doesn’t want to talk about it, never, so he tries to keep his reactions in check when these things happen in public, so nobody asks. He’s no actor, but he had seven years to practice. And then this scrawny dog comes roaming in, tail wagging, and just picks it up. Fucking hell!
“You’re too observant for your own good, Newsted,” James finally manages to say grimly.
Jason seems unimpressed by James’ tone. “Can’t stop it. It’s in my blood,” he mumbles through his chewing. “I’m a farm boy. I started looking after rabbits when I was six. Can’t look after something if you don’t know what’s up with it.”
James grunts, flustered by the bassist’s unperturbed demeanor.
Jason takes another bite of his sandwich, then he says, “I also took care of chickens.” He puts weird emphasis on the word ‘chickens’, drawing out the first syllable.
James looks at Jason. It’s completely impossible to ignore his broad, mischievous grin. The singer rolls his eyes, yet at the same time, he can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, I’m either a bunny or a chick, huh?”
Jason swallows and nods, still grinning. “You got it,” he teases cockily in a slur, his Midwestern twang strong. After a moment, he adds, “You want a sandwich?”
“Yeah, sure, farm boy,” James says, returning the grin now, “I’ll have one.”
After the sandwiches, it’s time to swap cassettes again. Jason puts on Judas Priest and both men remain silent for a while. The interstate doesn’t have street lamps here. James only knows that the land outside the car is flat and basically treeless since they just passed a gas station that illuminated the direct surroundings. Otherwise, the world’s wreathed in darkness and only consists of what’s in the cones of the headlights, of the Mustang, of Judas Priest and of James and Jason. There aren’t many other cars around either, so it feels to James like they’re the last two people on Earth. And since they’re the only ones left, they’re the only ones that matter, too. It’s an empowering and oddly comforting feeling. An intimate feeling, one which James doesn’t experience often.
He glances at Jason. The bassist is looking out of the window into the darkness, tapping his fingers on his knees, nodding in time with the music, lips silently forming the lyrics. He looks absolutely relaxed and at ease with himself, no doubting, no self-hate, no fear to seem uncool, just Jason being in the moment. He probably wouldn’t be the worst person to be the last person on Earth with.
And he just doesn’t come across as an ass-kissing pretender.
Fuck! Jason just doesn’t make sense.
The fact that James can’t figure out the bassist irritates him so much. How is he supposed to know if he can trust him then? Unknown variables and immutable circumstances are the two things that never fail to make James angry. So damn fucking angry. And the mystery that is Jason falls into both categories.
But before the anger is able to take hold of James, before it really starts to blaze, Jason suddenly starts singing along with Rob Halford, full force, vibrato and all, no half-assed bullshit, a fist raised, and it’s just too good and too much fun. So James grins and joins in.
Jason looks at him, returning the grin.
They both sing together, filling their small world in the car with their voices, Jason naturally picking up the harmonies to James’/Halford’s part.
“The figure stands expressionless
Impassive and alone
Unmoved by this victory
And the seeds of death he's sown.”
It’s not perfect, but at the same time, it is.
Ever since the death of his mom, James stopped being overly optimistic anyways. So the flood of negative emotions caught him and pulled him under so easily, when Cliff died on that cold road in Sweden three months ago. He doesn’t really feel genuine joy anymore and struggles to have interest in anything. Everything seems so pointless. Like why does it even matter, what kind of person your bassist is, if it can be over any second anyways? Better party hard and enjoy the moment while you still can. Basically, he has simply been too damn fucking drunk to care.
But despite all that, there are these occasions, when James is around Jason, where he just feels... Good, real good. So maybe, it does matter what kind of person Jason is.
Therefore, after the song has ended, James asks with a side glance, “So...How was growing up on a farm? Tell me about it.”
Jason’s eyebrows slip up in surprise. It’s clear that he didn’t expect James to give a fuck about his life on the farm, but he doesn’t question his request. Instead he says, “Gladly, man,” and tells him about the rabbits and chickens, about how seriously he took looking after them, and about how devastated he was when a goshawk took a chicken in his care for the first time. He tells him about the birth of little calves, about the time his gelding Huck shoved him into the horse trough, and about the smell of new-mown hay. He looks at James, accentuating his words with expressive gestures, his voice so fast and enthusiastic that it cracks, and smiles when he asks a question or makes a comment, clearly excited because he’s interested.
And James really is. Everything he learns about Jason’s life on the farm is so different than anything James experienced growing up. And the bassist has a way of telling him about it that makes James want to know more, makes him want to listen to him for a while longer. So he asks and Jason talks about it for the whole duration of Judas Priest’s ‘Defenders of the Faith’.
When it’s time to choose another cassette, they pick AC/DC, and afterwards, the conversation just dies down naturally. Jason slides deeper into the seat, yawning, while James thinks about the stories from Jason’s past.
He decides that yes, Jason is indeed a farm boy. He is straight-forward, self-assured, and down-to-earth. He laughs like he doesn’t care what people think, he knows how to drive a tractor, how to fix a roof, and how to break in a horse. He even has the hands of a farm boy: muscular and calloused, made for hard work. But, of course, it can’t be that fucking easy. Because those hands are also the hands of a bassist.
James looks at Jason, who’s fallen asleep. Despite the low light, he can see that his eyes are closed, head leaning against the window, breathing slow and regular. But even in his sleep, the crease between his eyebrows is still there. He looks serious and intense, almost like he’s in constant pain.
They put Jason through a lot of shit during the past two months of touring. But that crease and that expression almost deterred James from pranking him once or twice. Like that one time they planned to pour cold water over Jason while he slept. James and Lars had tiptoed over to Jason’s bunk, James carrying the bucket, and Lars had already drawn back the curtains. Jason lay there on his back, sleeping tightly, wild curls spread around his head, with that damn fucking expression of pain on his face. And although James was drunk out of his mind, something like a conscience raised its head and let him hesitate. In the end, while James was standing there, indecisive, Lars took the bucket and tipped the water out over the bassist.
Jason woke up with a loud gasp, shot up out of the bunk and threw his arms in front, probably to protect himself, eyes wide, lips parted. For that one moment, while he stood there in his wet t-shirt and briefs, arms raised in front of his chest, water dripping from the ends of his hair, he looked so lost and vulnerable. Then he started laughing and cursing at the same time and spread his arms to give Lars a wet hug. Of course, Lars immediately told him very seriously to cut it out. So Jason shook himself like a wet dog instead, sprinkling drops of water everywhere.
How Jason was able to laugh in this situation is beyond James. He knows that if anyone, no matter who, would empty a bucket of water over him while he was asleep, he would probably try to kill them. The last thing he would do is laugh and proceed to follow the person. Which brings James back to the question why Jason behaves this way. Fuck.
The rain is pouring now. The visibility is abysmal, the few other cars on the highway little more than blurry headlights. It makes James uneasy and he turns down the volume of the music and reduces speed to calm his nerves. It’s probably a good time to look for a place to sleep, anyways. The clock says it’s 11.12 P.M., and James is kinda tired.
A short look at Jason confirms that he’s still sound asleep. James finds it weirdly touching that the bassist trusts him and his driving skills enough to just sleep through that hell weather out there. He smiles while he changes lanes carefully to overtake the truck that’s creeping in front of him.
The Mustang is about half way past when James notices that the truck is slowly, but steadily, coming closer, driving into his lane. There is one moment when his mind refuses to believe that this is actually happening, then in the next moment, his heart starts racing and sheer terror grips him while he frantically tries to decide what to do. No room to evade to the left, so the only options are to drive faster or to brake. Drive faster or brake? DRIVE FASTER OR BRAKE?
The truck comes closer.
“SHIT!” He slams on the brake and is instantly thrust forward, withheld only by his seatbelt, air forced out of his lungs. There is a loud, bursting exhale and a hard smack beside him. But James can’t check on Jason right now, because it feels like the Mustang is about to lose grip on the wet road. The rear swerves to the left, then to the right, and when he tries to steer against the movement, the car doesn’t react. For a frozen moment, the car begins to skid. And it’s absolute horror. Then James remembers something about brakes and locked wheels and he lifts his foot off the brake pedal, since the truck is further ahead now anyways. Another horrible second passes where the car is not reacting to the steering, but then, finally, the wheels unlock and James regains control.
They were so damn lucky that there were no other cars behind them when they braked, but James can see headlights approaching from behind now, so he steps on the gas and drives onto the shoulder. There, he stops the car.
With his heart beating so fast, he can feel it in his throat and hear the rushing of blood in his ears, he turns to Jason. “Fuck! Jason, JASON! Are you okay?” His voice cracks.
His bassist groans, head lowered, hair in his face, right hand pressed to his brow. “Dunno, bumped my head,” he slurs and the fact alone that he is able to answer him lets James breathe so much easier.
He turns on the ceiling light and softly grasps at Jason’s shoulder. ”Lemme see.”
As soon as Jason lowers his hand and James sees the blood on his fingers and palm, his stomach tightens again, worry so strong it makes him queasy.
“Ah shit,” Jason mumbles matter-of-factly while he looks at his hand, then he turns his face towards James, lifting his chin. There is a cut directly parallel above his right eyebrow and since he isn’t pressing his hand to it anymore, it immediately begins to ooze blood, which threatens to run into his eye. He squints.
“Fuck!” James says breathlessly and gulps in an attempt to fight the panicked nausea, clutching tighter at Jason’s shoulder. Then he pulls his black and white bandana out of the back pocket of his jeans with his other hand and presses it carefully on the cut. Jason flinches a bit and this display of pain somehow immediately transforms James’ worry and anxiety into rage. “That motherfucker!” he growls. “Didn’t even stop to check on us!”
Jason wipes the blood off his hand onto his t-shirt, but remains motionless otherwise, letting James press the bandana to the wound. “What happened?” he says, looking at him with knitted brows, crease even deeper than usual now that he’s actually in pain.
“That MOTHERFUCKER of a trucker almost crashed into us!” James says loudly, almost yelling. “The FUCKING asshole! If I hadn’t braked, we would be dead now. We would be fucking DEAD!”
Jason flinches again and gasps out urgently, “Ouch! James, you don’t need to press so hard, man.”
That calms James down for a second. “Shit, sorry! Here,” he gestures towards the bandana with his chin, “Better you do it yourself, if you can.”
“Yeah, ‘kay,” Jason slurs and presses his fingers on top of James’ hand clutching the bandana.
As soon as James pulls his hand away, a feeling of angry helplessness threatens to seize him. Jason is hurt and in pain, because of that fuckhead trucker, and there is nothing James can do about it. He presses his lips together while he watches his bassist carefully dab at the wound.
Jason flips down the sun visor and lowers the bandana to look at the cut in the mirror. “Alright, it’s not so bad. Had it worse. It’s just bleeding so much, because it’s the forehead.”
“Motherfucker,” James grinds out through his teeth and gestures agitatedly towards the road, “I’m that close to driving after him, so I can beat his idiot ass!”
Jason doesn’t reply to that, instead he presses the bandana to the cut again. A moment passes, then he examines the passenger door. “I hope I didn’t spray blood all over your new car,” he mumbles. “Although... It would be the right kind of baptism for the car of a metal singer.” He grins at him.
James takes a deep breath. Of fucking course, Jason’s laid back about his injury and the whole situation. It’s reassuring, because that probably means he’s okay, but it’s also infuriating, since James is so fucking angry and Jason doesn’t seem to get it. He’s bleeding, for fuck’s sake! He could be DEAD now! He should be so pissed! Yet somehow, he’s joking about all of this. James doesn’t fucking get it.
But despite the fact that Jason’s grin is almost too much at the moment, James wants to stay calm, or try at least, so he looks out of the window while answering, “Yeah! Don’t worry about it.”
Through the rain, he can see an elevated red neon sign next to the other side of the interstate. He winds the blurry window down a bit, so he can see better. The sign reads Fuel to the Fire Truck Stop and there are red and yellow neon flames underneath. Maybe he can do that at least. “We need to patch you up and... And I don’t wanna continue driving tonight, so we take a break here. There’s a truck stop.”
Jason nods, his hand pressed to the bandana. “Sure, man.”
They take the next exit, which is just a couple hundred feet ahead, and not three minutes later, they arrive at the truck stop. The parking area in front is lit brightly and vast, but pretty empty, the truck stop itself a dark red, long single level building with a front porch. The facade of the right end of the building rises up to form a plain parapet and therefore vaguely resembles a saloon. The left end features a double wing door and two red neon signs informing that this is where you get to the lobby and to the restaurant.
James drives the Mustang past a gas station on the left and steers it directly in front of the left part of the building.
“Okay,” he says, after turning off the ignition. “You stay in the car and I’ll get us rooms and a first aid kit, or something.”
Jason leans back and smiles at him. “‘Kay. Thanks, man!”
James feels himself smiling back. Then he gets out of the car.
On the way to the double wing door, he looks over to the saloon part of the building. On the parapet above the porch roof, he discovers the black, painted on lettering Fuel the Fire Saloon. In one of the windows, a red neon sign promises Fine Spirits. That promise sounds so damn alluring. Now that the adrenaline has come down completely, the feeling of helplessness is creeping further and further into James. But James never JUST feels helpless. When he feels helpless, thrown around by things he can’t influence, he always gets angry, too. And he feels it rising, this irate sense of not being able to change what’s happening, feels it in how his fingers twitch, recognizes it by how his neck itches.
You could have died, it says. He could have died, too. Not much you can do about trucks crashing into your car. Or earthquakes. Or cancer. Yeah, sure, you got away. Again. But that’s just dumb luck. Next time however... Maybe you’ll survive, yes, but maybe he won’t. Maybe he won’t do the lucky thing. Nothing you can do about that. All you can do is be the witness.
All he really wants to do right now is what he has done for the last three months, which is getting so wasted that he doesn’t feel like this anymore.
The lobby is a little room with a brown carpeted floor, dominated by a huge, beige front desk that occupies the left side. A sign above the door to the right announces that this is the way to the restaurant, while a door opposite the entrance has a sign saying Private. A middle-aged, overweight lady with peroxide hair and a light blue blouse one size too small is sitting behind the desk, entrenched behind several display racks containing flyers and postcards, watching Jeopardy! on the TV that’s wall-mounted in the far right upper corner of the room.
She turns her head and looks at James when he enters. If she is put off by his Iron Maiden shirt or his silver rings, or appalled by his long, unkempt hair, James can’t tell. Her round facial features remain completely neutral as she speaks up in a voice that sounds as if she’s been smoking since she was five, “Good evening, how may I help you?”
“Hey. We need a place to stay for the night. Do you have any rooms left?”
Without hesitation, she nods. “How many rooms do you need?”
And, also without hesitation, James says, “One. With two beds.” It feels right. Jason is hurt. Maybe he has a concussion. He shouldn’t be alone during the night.
The lady nods again. “Certainly.”
James fills out the paperwork and pays for the room. After the hostess hands him the keys, he asks if they sell first aid kits, but they don’t, so instead she gives him a complimentary selection of band-aids and a small tube of antiseptic cream. Maybe she really doesn’t mind his appearance.
Eventually, James heads out and gets back in the car.
“Any success?” Jason looks at him curiously, bandana still pressed to his eyebrow.
“Yeah,” James waves with the keys. “Also got band-aids and antiseptic cream. Let’s bring our stuff to the room and take care of the cut.” He starts the Mustang. “Dunno what you’ll do after, but I’ll hit the bar. I need a goddamn drink.”
“Oh shit, yeah, a drink sounds good!” Jason slurs with a sigh. James hoped for this reaction. He would have really hated to leave his bassist injured and alone.
The rooms are in a building to their left of the parking area. It’s also a long, single level building, colored a plain white. It looks trashy though since red neon tubes have been mounted underneath the entire length of the roof edge. The whole thing basically looks like a front for a whorehouse. And maybe it is.
They have room number ten. James parks right in front of it, then he gives Jason the room key, so he can unlock the door while James gets the two sports bags with their clothes. Jason doesn’t object, but simply nods.
Once he steps inside, he flips on the light switch – the two lamps on the wall between the beds and one above the TV light up – and drops the key on a table. Then he flops down onto the bed closest to the door, lets himself fall on his back, spreading his arms, bandana in his right hand, and proclaims loudly with a big grin, “Dibs!”
James rolls his eyes, withholding a comment about Jason’s fucked priorities. Instead, he sets down the bags.
The room contains two double beds, headboards at the long side of the wall, one nightstand between them. There is also a sideboard with a TV at the wall opposite of the beds, a fridge next to it, and a table with two chairs in front of the one window next to the door. While all the furniture is faced with the same light brown wood veneer, all fabrics in the room – the blankets, the curtains, the upholstery on the chairs – are light lavender, apart from the carpeted floor which is dark blue. The walls are paneled with walnut brown wood veneer, which makes the room appear smaller than it actually is, despite the big mirror above the vanity that’s installed in an alcove at the other end of the room. Next to the vanity on the right is a door which probably leads to the bathroom. The room smells of pine air freshener with a whiff of citrus cleaner.
James really needs that drink soon, so he pulls up one of the chairs close to Jason’s bed, sits down and gestures at his bassist to come closer. “Come here, so I can take care of the cut.”
Jason sits up and moves closer, legs stretched out in front of him, hands in his lap.
Since he isn’t pressing the bandana to the eyebrow anymore, James sees that the bleeding has stopped, fortunately. But he also sees the blackish shadow underneath Jason’s eyebrow and that the upper eyelid is slightly swollen. The cut itself is above the highest point of the eyebrow and not that long. It doesn’t look very deep or wide either, which James assumes is a good sign.
Jason keeps still and looks at James’ chest while he inspects the wound.
“Okay, the lady at the front desk said you have to clean the wound first before applying the cream. So you better do that now. Then I’ll patch you up,” James says, leaning back.
“Yeah,” Jason says, rising from the bed. “My hair soaked up some blood, too.” He lifts the sticky front strands of his hair with a hand that’s also still smudged with red, dried blood underneath the fingernails. “So, I’d better take a shower. Don’t wanna scare the neighbors, you know. At least not today.” He grins.
James nods. “Okay.” He can delay his visit at the bar for a tiny bit longer.
“Thanks, man!” Jason answers with that big smile of his and pushes the Nikes off his feet. Then he proceeds to take off his clothes.
James has seen Jason naked a couple of times during the tour, in the showers after a concert, in the tour bus – it’s no big deal. But now it matters, since he’s still not convinced that the cut is all Jason got from the accident. So, while Jason strips down, James eyes him as unobtrusively as possible. He doesn’t discover any other wounds or bruises. Instead, he notices things he hasn’t seen before, because he didn’t care at the time.
Underneath his right armpit, Jason has a small mole. While he has plenty of hair on his head and some in his armpits and in his pubic area, he basically has no hair on his chest, arms or legs. James finds the scar with the bad stitch marks on Jason’s right knee that he told him about earlier. It’s from that time when Huck pushed Jason into the trough. Everything about Jason’s body is slim and muscular, taut like a rubber band ready to spring. However, as if to make up for all the straight lines and sharp angles, his butt has a nice curve and makes James want to grab it.
Fuck. James clenches his teeth. He really needs that goddamn, fucking drink.
So, while Jason casually strolls over to the bathroom naked, oblivious to James’ examination and its results, James walks over to the fridge and gets himself a mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s. By the time Jason turns on the shower in the bathroom, James already downed it and opens a beer. Taking it with him, he sits down on his bed and hangs his head, elbows on his knees, beer can in hand.
Why now? WHY NOW?
James takes a long drink and rubs his forehead.
Has been a while since he’s wanted to do something like that to a guy. So he thought and hoped it had finally gone away. That it had just been a long phase. Like the dinosaur phase people have in their childhood, or something like that. And it has never been a regular desire anyways! Towards like four guys in total. Shit. Five now.
But he’s no disco-loving, feminine-speaking, limp-wristed faggot! He... He... Doesn’t know what he is. But not that. He never even DID anything with a man! It’s just a phase! If he ignores and suppresses it like he always does, he will eventually stop feeling like this. Like he wants to grip Jason and pull him in, to press him close to his body, to kiss him, to know how his tongue feels and how his spit tastes.
FUCK!
He rubs his forehead again, violently this time, then he downs the beer and crushes the can with a hand. After he has thrown it into the trash can next to the door, Jason emerges from the bathroom, a towel around his waist and another one in a turban on his head. It looks ridiculous, but Jason doesn’t seem to care.
“Okay,” he announces with a grin, “Everything’s clean now.” He sits down on the edge of his bed, legs spread, relaxed, hands on his bony knees just beyond the hem of the white towel. “Ready to be patched up.”
James tries not to look at Jason’s naked chest, instead he stares into his eyes, noticing unsolicitedly how blue they are, and nods. “‘Kay,” he says in a clipped voice. “Just need to wash my hands first.”
Jason frowns, obviously confused by James’ demeanor, but simply nods.
James washes his hands at the vanity and uses this moment to take a deep breath. Then he retrieves the cream and band-aids from one of the pockets of his leather jacket, and reclaims the chair in front of Jason.
Turns out James has had nowhere near enough drinks to ignore what he wants to do with Jason right now. When he looks down to uncap the tube of antiseptic cream in his hands, his gaze catches on the region underneath Jason’s bellybutton, where a few wiry hairs disappear under the towel. When he looks up to carefully dab cream onto the cut above his eyebrow, his attention strays off to Jason’s pretty, little mouth as his lips begin to smile at him. When he carefully presses the band-aid over the wound, he has to fight the urge to touch Jason’s cheek afterwards. All the while trying to ignore how Jason’s blue eyes calmly follow everything he does and how his breath ghosts across James’ hand and how his naked knee meets his own through his jeans. He really should have told his bassist to get dressed first before getting so goddamn close.
But now it’s too late and James has a boner.
A feeling of frustrated inadequacy wells up inside of him, adding to what’s already simmering since the beginning of their trip and especially after their almost accident - the confused frustration, the anger, the helplessness. Now that Jason’s cared for, there is really not much keeping James from absolutely losing his shit. He feels like the violent energy inside of him will burst through his skin any second if he doesn’t get a drink now. He pushes the chair back harshly and gets up. “Gonna get that drink now,” he grinds out. Then he marches out with clenched fists.
Jason doesn’t stop him and says nothing, but James can feel his eyes on him.
He stomps across the brightly lit parking area through the rain, his heavy breath condensing in the air. It’s too wet and too cold to run around in jeans, t-shirt, Nikes and a leather jacket, but James doesn’t care. The onslaught of bad weather gives him something to fight against, gives him something to use the energy on, gives his dick a reason to go the fuck down. He breathes the cold air in deeply, juts his chin forward angrily against the rain, takes his time, before he finally walks towards the Fuel the Fire saloon. The neon signs in the windows bathe the front porch in red light.
When James enters through the glass door, country music and the smell of cigarette smoke envelop him immediately. Some heads turn and judging by the looks he gets, a lot of people in here do mind how he presents himself. The two overweight, middle-aged men with lumberjack shirts and trucker caps at the bar both eye him with an air of clear disapproval – that tells him they both think he didn’t get enough beatings when he was a kid. The couple sitting at a table close to the door, the woman in jeans and pink pullover, the man in jeans and dark blue sweatshirt, both probably slightly older than he is, interrupt their conversation and look at him warily. Well, at least the guy looks wary, the chick appears to be more curious. And the sturdy, bearded bartender looks like he’s contemplating throwing him out immediately.
James manages one of his broad, toothy grins that has already gotten him both in and out of trouble plenty of times. Faces relax and heads turn back again.
So, James heads over to the bar. As far as he’s concerned, this room here is just a regular damn bar, no saloon. The only things saloon-like about it are the rustic, wooden bar on the left and the vaguely western-themed items on top of the ceiling element above the counter – several old saddles, a barrel, a rusty washtub, a wooden ammo box and a washboard amongst other things. Nothing about the veneer tables, the chairs, and the blinking arcade games in a corner of the room screams saloon at all. Green plastic lamps are hanging above the tables, casting dim light. It can barely compete with the bright TV next to the bar, broadcasting a documentary about dingoes in Australia.
When James orders a beer and a big glass of whiskey, the barkeeper asks for his driver’s license. James shows it, fighting to keep a scowl in check, and finally, he gets his drinks. He downs the whiskey and immediately orders another one, then he walks over to a table in the corner of the room and sits down, back to the wall.
There is a bit of light-headedness crawling into James’ consciousness now, not enough to make him feel better, but it’s a start. He takes a long drink of beer to contribute to it, and leans back in the chair. While he slowly, but purposefully downs both beer and whiskey, he takes a look around. His eyes get caught on the TV for a second, where two dingoes are fighting, teeth bared, snarling, then he discovers another western-themed item in an old photo on the wall, depicting cowboys posing proudly with their rifles in front of a dead buffalo. But finally, almost inevitably, his attention is drawn to the couple at the table near the door. They’re in a deep embrace, smooching passionately, hands petting through hair and touching necks and hips, their chairs close. Although there are two more tables between James’ and theirs, and despite the country music, he can still hear the wet noises of their kissing.
It’s weird. When James tries to remember all the girls he’s kissed in his life so far, some of them have no names in his memory, some don’t even have a face or a shape. But thinking about the guys he had these goddamn urges for, he even remembers details like how their voice sounded or what their favorite band was, although nothing ever happened.
He sees how the guy’s hand brushes the chick’s tits. He could have it easy like that. Do the normal thing. Kiss a girl, pet her, sleep with her. So why does he feel like this? What’s wrong with him?
Both glasses are empty, so he rises, legs feeling a bit wobbly now, and orders another beer and another whiskey at the bar. The bartender raises a bushy brow, but says nothing and gives him the drinks, after he’s paid.
Once he’s back at his table, James’ look falls on the couple again. They’re still kissing and cuddling without a care in the world. Looks like they’re enjoying themselves. Why is that somehow not enough for him?
The man gets up, every inch out of his chair accompanied by another peck to his woman’s lips, hands releasing her reluctantly. He leans down and whispers something in her ear, she giggles, then he leaves her alone at the table.
James downs his whiskey and examines the guy while he walks over to the restrooms. Short brown hair, middle height, slim build, attractive face as far as he can tell in the dim light. James feels absolutely no desire to touch him or do other stuff. But when he looks at the chick and her curvy body, he wouldn’t mind touching her amongst other things. He feels that with women a lot, but never with men. Almost never. Only four... No, five times. He claps his hand on the tabletop angrily. But he likes chicks! So why does it keep happening?
The door opens and Jason comes in. Jeans, denim jacket, Led Zeppelin shirt underneath, mane of curly hair open and still damp. In the light of the TV, James sees the dark, worried expression on his face, crease deep between his brows, and the worry looks even more severe due to the patch above the right eyebrow. The crease smoothes out a bit though when Jason’s eyes find him and his bassist smiles crookedly.
Goddamn. James wants to kiss him.
Why? WHY?
Jason goes to the bar and orders a drink. Then he comes over to James’ table, glass in hand, walking with his back upright as he always does. When he passes the chick, James notices how she eyes him. Curious at first, then interested, then she smiles to herself, lips pursed. There’s something about Jason. Something that makes her look, makes her smile.
In the background, Dolly Parton begs Jolene not to take her man and James, who is really drunk now, wonders what it is about Jason that makes a stranger react this way. That’s important here.
Jason sits down opposite of James, thereby blocking his view of the woman, puts his glass of beer on the table and looks at him. “You okay?” he murmurs. His black eye is prominent in the light of the hanging lamp that already casts dark shadows into his eye sockets.
Maybe it’s the eyes.
“Yeah,” James says and grins as broad as he can to not give away how he feels. Usually the alcohol makes him want to grin anyways, but not this time. This time, the alcohol doesn’t help much. Okay, he feels a bit better and more relaxed too, but he’s still irritated and still confused and he still gives a fuck.
Jason tilts his head to the side, face pensive, and looks at him openly and so long that James is this close to telling him to cut it out, ‘cause that’s too fucking intense and James is still busy figuring out what about Jason attracted the woman’s attention. But before he can tell him, Jason lowers his gaze onto his sinewy hands and starts wiping crumbs off the table, slowly and without really paying attention. “Maybe you’re hurt,” he mumbles.
Maybe the hands.
James frowns. “What?”
Jason looks up briefly. “You really should’ve checked yourself for injuries, man. All you did is check for mine.” He takes a sip of his beer and brushes his curls back over his shoulder with one hand.
Or the hair.
James shakes his head impatiently. “No. I’m fine!”
Jason shrugs, but his face is skeptical when he looks down at his fingers brushing away imaginary crumbs again. “‘Kay.”
James stares at Jason, his almost empty glass in hand, and he still doesn’t know. But he NEEDS to know, he WANTS to fucking know. So he downs his beer and asks brusquely, “Why are you following me?”
Jason looks up again, faces screwed up in confusion. “What? You mean like now to the bar, man?”
“No!” James answers loudly, pissed because Jason doesn’t understand. “Why are you following me to breakfast or to the bar or to wherever?”
Jason’s face is still contorted, but it’s worried now, lips pressed together, jaw muscles tense. He returns James’ look, but doesn’t say anything.
And that’s it. He wants his fucking answer and Jason is not giving him one! James’ anger flares up and boils over, bright and hot, irrational and uncaring. He leans over the table, a hand raised, so close to grabbing the lapel of Jason’s jacket, and spits, “Listen, Newsted, you tell me now! Right the FUCK now!”
Jason winces. He takes an urgent look around and says hurriedly, raising his hands in a calming gesture, “Yeah, alright, James. I’ll tell you, man. But not here.” He gets up without waiting for James’ response and heads over to the door.
James stands up immediately as well, too angry to sit anyways, barely noticing the wary looks of the other patrons, and follows Jason.
Jason walks across the parking area quickly and unlocks the door. He drops the key on the table, shoves the Nikes off his feet, and then sits down on the lavender blanket at the foot of his bed.
James stomps in behind him and slams the door shut, then he plants himself a few feet in front of him, shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides, staring at him. Before his bassist can even open his mouth, James presses again, “Now fucking tell me! Tell me why you’re following me!”
Jason looks up at James, hands on his knees. Neither of them turned on a lamp, but in the red light which falls through the window, James sees that Jason’s face is tense, his eyes worried, but he doesn’t look scared.
“Because...” he explains, his rough voice faltering, “You’re cool and fun. I like to be around you.” He falls silent for a split second, then he adds, “All you guys are great. I’m damn lucky to be here, so I can make music and hang with you.” He gestures imploringly with both hands. “Listen, I’m sorry if I have...”
That can’t be all!
James shakes his head impatiently and interrupts him, “We emptied a bucket of water over you while you were sleeping and scattered thumbtacks on your mattress. And you like being around us?”
Jason nods vehemently, looking up in James’ eyes firmly. “Yes!” he says emphatically. “It doesn’t matter. I know that’s part of the deal, or whatever. I just love you guys.”
What Jason is saying doesn’t make any goddamn sense!
“That’s bullshit!” James growls, taking a step closer to Jason. He leans forward, his fists still at his sides. His whole body is trembling with rage. “I pissed in your Nikes and ordered you around. No way you really mean that. No way!”
“Yeah, I mean that,” Jason immediately answers passionately, his voice cracking. “None of that is important! Because at the end of the day, it’s not what you are. That’s not what I see when you sing onstage. Or when you grin when I make silly jokes. Or when you used your bandana to stop the bleeding.” He touches the patch above his eyebrow with a hand and looks into James’ eyes, openly, without any embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter that you do stupid stuff sometimes. I love you anyway.”
James stands up straight again, so abruptly that the alcohol makes him sway. For a moment, he’s completely stunned and just stares at Jason. Then he says, voice heavy, “You love me?”
Jason’s eyes widen slightly with something like fear and he stays silent for a second, just returning the look. Then he takes a deep breath and nods once, slowly, jaw muscles tense with determination.
Love? James can’t stop staring at Jason.
His bassist sits there, blue eyes intense, his jaw set, mop of curls around his head, wringing his hands, exuding nothing but fierce sincerity. So damn upright and candid. Dauntlessly just using those big words. Telling him about all those fragile emotions. Trusting him to know what they mean. Burdening him with the responsibility to know what to do with them.
Fucking careless farm boy! Why is he telling him? What the fuck is James supposed to do now? He still doesn’t understand. Something still doesn’t add up. Something’s missing. But still, James wants to kiss Jason. Still wants to touch him. All because Jason is being like this. Behaving like a dog despite everything. Turning on his back, showing James his throat, trusting him not to bite.
It’s all Jason’s fault! All his fucking fault! And James can’t deal with it, so instead he will make him pay. Get even for making James confused and helpless, for making James give a shit, for making James want to kiss him. And he will show him how fucking stupid it is to be like this.
All he has to do is bite.
James opens his fists at his sides and takes one last step forward, so he’s directly in front of Jason. He looks down at him and asks lowly, eyes dark, “No matter what I do?”
Jason has to tilt his head back to look up at him. And he does immediately, so he can return the gaze, because he doesn’t know what’s good for him. He frowns, obviously confused by James’ behavior, but slurs anyways, his eyes earnest and so damn certain, “Yeah, James. Whatever you do or say. ‘Cause you’ll still be a good man.”
James almost has to laugh then, because of how fucking clueless and ludicrously guileless Jason is. But he doesn’t –instead he reaches down with a hand and undoes the button and fly of his jeans. Sneering down at Jason, eyes narrowed, he retorts sardonically, “Alright. Then I guess you have no issues when this good man tells you to blow him.”
For a moment, Jason looks up at him with complete incomprehension. In the red light, he just sits there on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, fingers entangled motionlessly between his legs, eyes wide, lips parted, blank. Then he gets it and he knits his brows, crease deep, eyes glazing over, before he wordlessly drops his gaze onto his hands. He looks hurt. The contrast to Jason’s usual cheerful enthusiasm is so stark that James almost regrets what he’s doing.
But it’s just an almost, because James is drunk and his anger is howling in ugly, but triumphant satisfaction. He looks down at the back of Jason’s head and says derisively, “What’re you waiting for? Did you change your mind? Does it suddenly matter after all?”
“No! It doesn’t,” Jason slurs roughly, his head lowered. He sits there motionlessly for another moment, then he looks up at James again. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes are desperate, wordlessly pleading him for something.
James doesn’t know what Jason is pleading him for, but whatever it is, James won’t give anything tonight, he will only take. So he stares back grimly.
Jason looks in his face for another moment, gaze unsteady and forlorn, lips pressed together, silent and motionless. Then his features harden and become grim, and he takes a deep breath, brushes his hair out of his face with one hand and sends James one last resolute look, before he lowers his eyes onto the front of James’ shirt, where Eddie is staring at him with bared teeth.
James wants Jason to feel bad for what he is and what he said, so fucking bad, but he isn’t sure what he actually wants him to do. If he wants Jason to tell him to fuck off. Or if he wants him to try to kick his ass. Or...
But in the second that his bassist hooks his muscular fingers into the waistband of James’ jeans and touches the skin of his hips with his fingertips, James knows he wants him to do just that. His pelvis jerks forward an inch of its own accord and his hand takes hold of his bassist’s shoulder.
Jason looks up at him, eyes dark with grim determination, eyebrows knit so damn tight, wild curls framing his face, before pulling James’ jeans and briefs roughly down to his knees in one go. He stares in his eyes for one more second, then he closes one hand firmly around James’ cock, looks down at what he’s doing and spits onto the dick. Saliva drips down the tip, strings of spit red in the neon light. Jason runs his hand up and down the slick cock once, twice, before he opens his pretty mouth and leans forward to put it over James’ dick. Goddamn, he’s actually doing it.
James takes a deep, rough breath. “Fuck.” His head rolls back while he grips Jason’s shoulder tighter. The wet warmth enveloping his cock, the way the tongue wraps around it, the fingers holding the base. It feels so damn good. And then the warmth takes so much more of him and the tip of his cock grazes over something firm and James full on shivers and groans wildly. He experiences a few moments of pure bliss, where the pressure is so damn good and everything is warm and tingles. Then Jason gags and pulls back his mouth, and James looks down to check if he’s okay.
Jason’s head is lowered and he is coughing against the front of his Led Zeppelin shirt, but his fingers are still holding James’ spit slick cock firmly. Then he looks up and meets James’ gaze. His cheeks are reddened, eyes wet, lips glistening with spit and parted while he breathes in deeply. In combination with the black eye, he looks absolutely wrecked and ruined, and James is almost sorry. But Jason is so fucking sexy like this, and the expression in his eyes isn’t sad or desperate, but damn stubborn and... Aroused, and so James isn’t.
Jason is not supposed to enjoy any of this! He is supposed to feel SORRY for driving James into a corner, for holding a gun against his head, for confiding in him. He is supposed to understand his own weak idiocy. But there he is sitting on the edge of the bed on the fucking lavender blanket, blowing him and enjoying it, proving to James that he actually meant everything he said. Fuck him!
He puts a hand at the back of Jason’s head and pulls him close with rough force. “Get on with it,” he growls, glowering at his bassist.
Jason doesn’t resist. Instead he immediately leans forward and opens his mouth again, sticks his tongue out and presses it flat against the tip of James’ cock, slowly licking up a drop of precum. He doesn’t look away while doing that, but meets James’ glower with eyes full of fearless intensity. And he continues doing it when he sucks the dick deep into his mouth again.
Shit! James exhales roughly. Nothing a girl ever did to him looked like this and felt as good as what Jason is doing right now. The way he presses his tongue against the head of the cock, how he nibbles softly on the ridge below, the amount of pressure he applies with his lips, the fact he massages his balls with his fingers – a thing chicks always forget – it’s all perfect. It makes it so hard for James to stay on track of teaching his bassist a lesson. It’s just too perfect. Breathing heavily, James opens his eyes which he hadn’t realized he closed and looks down at Jason again.
His bassist is not looking at him anymore, but has shut his eyes, slowly bobbing his head up and down, one hand around his cock, the other holding up the hem of the Iron Maiden shirt, lips tight around him. He seems so sure of what he’s doing. No teeth accidentally grazing his cock, no fingers clumsily pinching his balls – just him sending undiluted, wild ecstasy through James’ veins.
Why is Jason so good at sucking him off? How does he know how to do it so well? Damn! He must have done this already. Which means he, unlike James, has experience with men... James watches Jason’s face for a second, how focused and passionate he looks in the red light while he works on his cock. For how many men has he done this already? How many men have seen this expression on his face? White-hot jealousy blazes up suddenly and burns through James’ veins, just as hot as his anger and his arousal. And although he is shitfaced, he recognizes the feeling and he knows he is so fucked now. And he knows he has no right to feel like this and he doesn’t WANT to feel like this. But he does anyway, and it’s the worst.
Then, the same thing that happens to all the other feelings he doesn’t want and can’t control happens to the jealousy and everything that it represents: it’s lacerated by helpless, yet snarling rage.
“Damn, you got practice,” James says caustically and digs his hand into Jason’s hair. “Guess you forgot to mention all the harvest hands you sucked off in the barn behind the family farm house when you told me about your idyllic life back in Michigan.”
Jason’s eyes open again and he looks up, his brows drawn together in irritation now. He pulls back slowly, tongue pressed to the underside of James’ cock, then he mumbles against the tip, rough voice full of tart irony, “Yeah, no harvest hand left our farm unsucked. They didn’t call me the Michigan motormouth for nothing.”
The little shithead isn’t even really denying it. “Not the name I’d use,” James retorts grimly. “Now put it back to work.” And he presses his hand gruffly to the back of Jason’s head.
Jason looks at him unmoving for a second. He resists the shove of his hand, frown deep, pupils wide, mouth an inch away from his cock, lips parted, jaw muscles tensing, and James can see the shiver running through him. Then he exhales harshly, breath gliding over James’ dick, fingers spanning the base firmer, and opens his mouth to let him in again. At the same time, he reaches down and puts his free hand onto his own crotch, slowly rubbing over the fabric of the jeans.
Fucking farm boy is irrepressible.
The thought stems from his anger, but this time, it’s accompanied by something soft, something like awe. But before he can think about it further, Jason deepthroats him and swallows. It looks unnatural, his whole dick just disappearing between curved lips into Jason’s mouth, but also maddeningly hot. And it feels absolutely unreal, the way the throat constricts and then MOVES around his cock. James moans coarsely, loud, and his hand loses the hold on Jason’s hair while he tries to remain standing with his buckling knees. His head rolls back again. “Goddamn, Jason!”
Jason swallows again.
Head tipped back, James pants breaths upwards against the ceiling, while his hips unwittingly buck forward an inch, mindlessly chasing the feeling of the wet grip around his cock. “God, yeah!” He feels how the throat convulses around him, can hear Jason fighting the gag reflex, raw choking sounds that vibrate up his cock. And then his bassist makes a sound that’s definitely an aroused moan and James looks down again.
Jason’s eyes are turned up towards him, cheeks wet with tears, face scrunched up while he struggles to keep James’ dick down his throat. Then he leans back to take a deep breath, holding James in his hand, and the expression in his eyes is filled with a yearning so intense and so fearless it makes James just stare breathlessly for a moment.
A kiss... He still needs that goddamn kiss. He bends forward, holds on to Jason’s shoulders with one hand to prevent himself from tumbling over, holds on to the back of Jason’s neck with the other hand to hold Jason, and presses his lips fiercely onto Jason’s.
Without missing one single fucking beat, Jason opens his lips and returns the kiss just as goddamn fiercely. He pants into James’ mouth, throws both arms around James’ shoulders and pulls him close with a powerful yank so that James tumbles over anyways. They end up halfway on the bed, James on top of Jason, one arm around the back of his neck, the other hand braced on the mattress next to his head, Jason’s arms around his back. And then his bassist wraps his legs around his hips and presses him even closer to his body.
James isn’t sure what’s exactly happening, but this kiss is like nothing else he’s ever experienced before. It’s wild and strong, it’s uninhibited and fearless, it’s all tongue and spit and pants and growls. It’s hard limbs, stubble, musky sweat, pure beauty, no fucks given, until James realizes he’s rubbing his boner against Jason’s ass through the fabric of his jeans. It’s so damn good, but he realizes another thing: it’s also so damn gay. And it’s too late. He gave up control and let loose and it’s not a phase and it’s too late to go back, now or... ever.
Jason moans against his lips, licks hungrily across his tongue and strokes his shoulder blades, and in this second, the realization feels freeing and brilliant, because it’s simply true and he’s holding Jason. But in the next second, James’ stomach clenches up and his throat tightens. The loss of control weighs so heavy, seems like a crushing weakness. Because it feels like he has allowed himself to succumb to a perverse temptation, has let this depraved thing into his life. And he has to live with his sins now, since he can’t go back. But he can’t be this weak! He is not weak! So he has to regain control. Has to show the cosmic forces and Jason and himself that he is still on top.
James pulls his head back harshly from the kiss and stops holding Jason, who lies below him, panting, with wide eyes and a soft, little smile. Then he orders his bassist with a dark look through his hair, “Turn over. I wanna fuck you.”
Jason’s lips and eyes cease smiling and the crease deepens. His legs glide off James’ hips and his look drifts off. He stares to the side for a moment, avoiding James’ eyes with an expression of helpless distress, hands roaming around aimlessly between James’ shoulder blades.
James gets impatient, because no way is Jason really gonna defy him now. No way. But before he can say or do anything, Jason takes a deep, decisive breath, his face hardens, and he looks into James’ eyes and nods grimly. Then he writhes his way up the bed from underneath James and sits up to take off his shirt.
James has no intention to undress like this is some kind of tender, loving act, instead he pulls his jeans up to his ass again, dick still standing out, goes over to the fridge and gets himself another beer while Jason lays back to wriggle out of his tight jeans. He empties the can in one go, because he still gives way too many fucks if he’s being honest with himself. And to prove he doesn’t, he burps loudly afterwards, throws the can into the trash or tries to at least, but misses, and urges impatiently, “Hurry up!”
Jason sits up when James presses and, while looking at him with the same stubborn determination he showed earlier, he stands up straight on the mattress, juts his chin forward, and, illuminated by the red neon, pushes down his briefs fearlessly to reveal his hard-on.
James doesn’t wanna look, doesn’t wanna be turned on by Jason’s wiry, hard body, his pretty, perfect dick and his endless bravery, but he is anyway. So he can only stare up at him with his mouth half open. And the spell only ends, because Jason decides to let him go by squatting down on the bed, turning around and just bending over, lowered down onto his elbows, ass in the air, chest to the bed.
The view is insane: Jason’s muscular, yet round ass, that rosy hole between pert asscheeks, his firm balls, his hard cock. But what finally makes James take a deep, groaning breath is that Jason offers himself up to him like this, without restraint, unashamed, like it’s a natural thing. And he struggles to remind himself that he is the one having the control here, not the audacious, slutty farm boy. Fuck him. Fuck him so much!
James rubs his face with a hand and shakes his head to get a fucking grip. He is so hot and sweaty by now, so he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it. Then he takes a step forward to the foot of the bed, grabs Jason’s hips and pulls roughly. “Bring your ass here, bitch.”
Jason pushes up his chest abruptly and turns his head at the name. He glowers at James over his shoulder and in this second, for the first time since he got to know his bassist, he actually looks so mad, like he’s about to give him one hell of a dressing down. However, he doesn’t do it. James returns the stare defiantly, hands on Jason’s hips, because he’s not going to apologize or take back what he said. And Jason examines him with a deep, pissed off scowl. But somewhere on the way from James’ face to his cock, Jason’s eyes first get wide, then sad, then conflicted, then desperate, and he just turns his head again, shuffles backwards so his ass is in James’ reach and lowers his shoulders again.
Huh, what? James looks down his chest and that’s when he notices he has a dark, nasty bruise reaching from his shoulder all the way down to his hip. What the... Oh yeah, the emergency stop, the seatbelt. He didn’t even realize he was hurt. He stares at the bruise for a moment, with a wild shiver running down his spine. And now that he knows he’s hurt, he starts to feel the pain too. Fuck no! He yanks at Jason’s hips. It’s not the time to think about their almost accident again. “Ass higher, bitch,” he growls instead and tries to focus on this ONE DAMN THING.
Jason immediately lifts his backside further, his sinewy back rising and falling with deep breaths, his forehead pressed into a lavender-colored pillow.
So James grips tighter, lines his cock up with Jason’s hole and shoves.
Jason pants into the pillow, loudly and pained, and curls his shoulders.
James immediately stops. Jason’s pain breaks his focus and he can’t push further anyways. Muscles contract around him and it’s so dry that the friction hurts like hell. Shit, yeah, men don’t get wet there. He didn’t even think about this part.
Jason curses, teeth audibly clenched, “Fuck! Wait...” Then he spits into his hand, reaches back in a frantic movement and rubs his slick fingers across James’ dick.
James gets the idea and spits onto his cock and Jason’s hole.
Jason pulls back his arm, braces himself with one elbow next to his head and looks back over his shoulder at James. His brows are knit tightly, his eyes dark in the shadows cast by the red light, his lips open while he takes a few deep, loud breaths.
James returns the look, bares his teeth, pulls Jason closer, and pushes again. His cock glides into his bassist slowly. The friction is not painful now, but Jason’s ass is way tighter than any pussy he has ever fucked. He groans.
Jason squeezes his eyes shut and exhales with a raw sound, his face scrunching up in an expression somewhere between pain and pleasure. In a hurried movement, he reaches one hand between his legs, puts it around his cock and starts jacking himself off. Then he turns his head to lay it onto the pillow again.
James moves his pelvis slowly, as deliberately as the alcohol allows it. His cock gliding in and out of Jason’s body looks so hot, sexy beyond any reason, and it feels like that, too, but it also feels to him like he might break something if he isn’t careful, if his dick or Jason’s ass, he isn’t sure.
Jason moans a very quiet, but still audible, rough “James...” into the pillow.
James pointedly ignores it and instead tightens his grip of Jason’s hips, continuing the steady thrusting of his dick.
Jason slurs, “Goddamn,” and reaches back blindly with his free hand, shoulders on the mattress now, and puts it onto James’ thigh.
It feels nice, the warm touch, fingers slowly stroking over his skin, the intention behind it. But that’s also the problem, because it’s way too intimate, kinda lovey-dovey, so James pushes Jason’s hand off his thigh and leans forward to deepen the rhythm.
Jason moans louder. He doesn’t try to touch James again, doesn’t comment on the rejection either, but instead digs the hand into the mattress to lift his upper body off the bed. He throws back his head with flying hair and leans back into James’ thrust, somehow clenching around him, his other hand still wrapped around his cock.
James moans. “Oh god!” Jason is unbelievable and this is insane. James’ lust-addled, drunken mind slowly stops working. Finally.
James’ dick is in deep. Jason breathes rough, staccato moans. James pulls back, leans over Jason’s back with the next thrust. “Yeah, James!” Jason’s hair tickles his nose, he grabs a handful of it and pulls. Jason tilts his head back, the line of his throat sharp, Adam’s apple sticking out. He pants loudly. James tries to go deeper, chasing the friction and pressure, pressing his pelvis against Jason’s ass. It doesn’t work. It’s frustrating. Jason stops jacking himself off and reaches back to spread himself open. Now it works. James groans. Holy shit, it’s so fucking good. He presses his lips onto Jason’s shoulder blade. “James...” Jason trembles below him. Or maybe he’s the one trembling. The ins and outs blend together. James sticks his nose into Jason’s hair. It smells warm and so good. Jason leans the back of his head against James’ sweaty shoulder. He clenches around James’ cock again. It’s unbearably good.
James doesn’t remember much of what happened after he came.
He remembers that he started to cry when Jason looked at him afterwards, the one eye still black and swollen.
He remembers Jason’s arms around him, holding him.
He remembers having problems breathing, his tears and broken sobs and pain cutting off the air.
He remembers Jason putting a hand on his chest, slurring in his ear how to breathe. “After me, James. In, now out. In, now out.”
He remembers apologizing over and over and Jason telling him not to worry.
He doesn’t remember when he fell asleep in Jason’s bed.
Jason drives the Mustang to San Francisco the next day. They don’t talk and listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s ‘Green River’.