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This, thinks Levon, is living.
This is the way to do it. To be home, here in his own living room, pushing a tape into the VCR, and reclining back on his own couch, no grimy motel pillows behind his back--his back that he can mercifully keep bare, his robe discarded in arms reach at the other end of the sofa.
Wriggling his toes and stretching out, comfortable in his briefs and nothing more at the end of a long day. They had just gotten back from a weekend stint down in Jersey, three adrenaline filled nights in tiny clubs right off the boardwalk, a stones throw from the seaweed logged waves that crash upon the trash littered shore. Those nights are where it’s at. The sweaty, dark rooms filled with hollering drunk crowds, bodies moving to the beat, people jumping up and down and becoming a part of the show. Rick running his hands through his hair and looking around the room with wild eyes while he shouts out for help on the next line, Randy laying into his kit with a kind of ferocity that’s harder to summon on a lifted stage, looking over at Levon with a delighted grin as their snare hits lock in and they nonverbally challenge each other to snap it harder, louder, sharper. Jim’s knees slamming together as he leans back at a ridiculous angle and bends the strings further than seems possible without breaking them, a pitch that feels like it could burst through the sound barrier in such a small space. Garth looking across at Levon with a now-what-did-you-get-me-into-this-time look that tells him just how much he loves it. Richard Bell sliding his hand up the scale and his legs flailing to the side like some kind of deranged keyboard spider, his billowing tee shirt only half concealing the vibrant movement of his body.
It makes Levon feel alive to be there with them. To be so crowded together on the stage that he has to gently move Rick to the side with his hand because he keeps bouncing so close to him that he’s liable to catch a loose elbow in the hip, or at least make Levon’s stick go flying. Rick had yelled with giddy glee to the crowd as they left the stage that “I’ll see you on the boardwalk!” but of course that wasn’t true. As hot as these shows are, they’re not that young anymore. Sure, Rick will stay out all night whenever he’s given the chance, but tonight, after this weekend, Levon just couldn’t wait to get them home. Here, where it’s a little quieter, a little sleepier, where it smells like them, and Levon can hear the trees outside the barn telling him their stories, and reminding him why this is home in the first place. The whispering pines, he thinks involuntarily, and is drawn into a moment of quiet reflection. The missing piece to the dizzying joy and energy and magic that flows around the stage whenever they get up there. The sooner we get on, the sooner we can get off! Rick still exclaims every time, with a twinkle in his eye betraying the joke in that.
Levon scratches at his calf with the opposite foot, idly watching the opening credits play on another dusty western he had picked up in a video shop downtown. A clanking in the kitchen tells him that Rick has made it out of his shower, and is now wreaking havoc on whatever clutter they had left in there before rolling out to the show on Thursday night. Levon thinks again of a lifetime ago, nights after their first shows down on the Shore, rolling into a motel room as dawn is breaking, falling into a shared bed with Robbie, Richard or Rick, their sleeping arrangements rotating on a random basis, usually determined by who was out till when. It was rare for Levon to be the first of the rowdy to retire, and so he almost never ended up with Garth, who knocked out after the show and would get bunked with whoever was first to wave the white flag of surrender on another drink, or another shot at the girl across the room who might not mind a room for three that usually meant a show for one of the guys and a party for the other.
Those days are nothing but good memories, but he’s happy, now, to have his dance card filled for the evening, permanently, by the same happy bedfellow who’s making a mess in their kitchen right now. Levon’s stomach gives a tiny grumble as he considers the kitchen, and he cranes his neck back over the arm of the couch to try and see through the doorway to where Rick stands barefoot and tee shirt clad by the counter, shoving dishes haphazardly into the sink.
“Honey?” he calls, his voice a little raspy from the weekend of overzealous shows. “Will you put some of my popcorn in the machine?”
Rick looks up and nods, his cheeks red from the hot shower and jiggling when he smiles at him. “Which type? Sweet or salty?”
Levon has already turned back to the screen, his mind wandering a bit towards sleep, the recline of the couch and its comfy cushions toying with him.
“Babe!” Rick’s voice cuts through the noise. “What do you think?”
“Whatever goes best with westerns.” Levon suggests, feeling indecisive. A pause from behind him.
“Okay. I’m gonna do the sweet kind.”
A beat later Levon imagines the sugary taste of kettle corn settling on his tongue and realizes that isn’t at all what he wants. “Ricky, can you make the salty kind?”
It’s a familiar routine, and Rick doesn’t miss a beat. “Mhm!”
The buttons on the microwave (“the machine”, as Levon insists on calling it) beep out a little tune as Rick presses them, humming along like he just can’t help it.
Before long, Rick is standing over the arm of the couch, smiling down at Levon and holding in one hand, a bowl full of popcorn, and the other, the empty, crinkled paper bag that he had dumped it from. “C’mon, shift up!” he suggests, and Levon gives a little oof as he heaves himself into more of a sitting position in the corner of the sofa. Rick plops the bowl down on his lap, and begins his task of methodically shredding the bag into two pieces. He hands one side to Levon, and begins lapping at the other side himself, picking up every bit of buttery residue on the waxy interior coating.
Levon flattens his tongue along the inside of the bag, watching fondly as Rick idly watches the horses thundering across the flickering television screen while he enjoys his mini treat. “Rick,” Levon says, and holds his finished bag out to him. Rick takes it with a happy hum and goes to the kitchen to discard the two halves, although he returns quickly to the room and does a little shimmy-shimmy between the couch and table to make it to Levon’s other side, without asking him to move. The couch shifts under his weight as he plops down beside Levon, and he leans in for a big, buttery kiss over the popcorn bowl, a kiss that Levon gives him gladly and enthusiastically, before pulling back to watch his movie.
These are the best kinds of nights. To play a show, haul it home, and still have room for this in their day. Granted, it’s well past midnight, what with the late show, the long drive, and the load out, but it’s hard to unwind from the trip without a little peace and solitude. Levon is pretty much ready to pack it in, the comforting film and the much needed snack and Rick’s weight against his side just about all he needs in the whole world. That comfy weight is wriggling around like a fish though, and Levon barely gets the bowl up onto the arm of the couch before Rick’s head is landing in his lap, his long legs stretching towards the other end of the couch as he shifts onto his back and settles in. A big sunny grin directed his way is hard to ignore, and even harder to resent, and he plucks a piece of popcorn from the bowl and moves it to Rick’s waiting mouth. Rick’s lips are soft and dry at the same time, and he takes advantage of the proximity of Levon’s fingers, licking at the butter and salt that lingers there before Levon can snatch them away. It’s not like he really minds, but he’s watching the movie, and Rick is insatiable if you let him get away with it. It isn’t too long though before the popcorn is gone, and Levon is sitting there with a lapful of Rick, buttery fingers, and no shirt to wipe them on.
Although Rick has been watching the screen with genuine interest, there’s no playacting there, his quick perception is no joke. All it takes is one second of Levon holding his hand limply in the air above his face, wondering if it would be better to ask him to move, or to just wipe his hand on Rick’s shirt, or worse, the fabric of the couch, and Rick has grabbed him by the bony wrist and is pulling his hand down, down, down. Levon tries to keep his gaze locked on the television, but it’s hard to ignore the rough pad of Rick’s tongue swirling circles around his fingers, one at a time--first tiny licks and nips, and then lips, sucking them down past the knuckle, beyond where there’s reasonably any butter to be found. Levon makes the mistake of looking down, and god, those big brown eyes looking up at him pleadingly are impossible to deny. The second they lock eye contact, Rick starts bobbing his head up and down the finger he has captive, both hands now holding Levon’s palm to his face. Levon shifts in his seat, and Rick knows he has him.
With a decent amount of effort, Rick frees Levon’s hand and rolls laboriously onto his stomach, laying his cheek down on Levon’s lap and directing his efforts on his tight stomach instead, kissing softly and wetly around his belly button and in the divots of his hips, the tiny little rolls and dips created from his slumped position on the couch. Levon’s hand floats down and cards through the back of Rick’s hair, the little curls at the base of his neck, and watches his eyes flutter closed as he presses himself face first into Levon’s tummy, everything above board, as Levon is sure he’s thinking, waiting for Levon’s permission to truly derail the evening. As if it hasn’t been knocked all off kilter already. Like Levon is gonna say, alrigh’, let’s hit the hay now, sweetie. A tiny groan escapes Levon’s lips as the weight of Rick’s head on his lap and the suggestive pressure of Rick’s tongue on the waistband of his briefs gets to him good.
“Rick, Rick, Rick,” he pants, and Rick rolls back and looks up at him inquisitively. “Lemme pause the movie. Where’s that remote at?”
Rick pats his big hands down around the side of the couch, and scooches up a bit to pull the remote out from under his chest. “Here,” he says breathlessly, and Levon snatches it and slams the pause button before leaning forward and tossing it to the table in front of him.
“C’mere,” he says, while bent down towards Rick’s shining face, still looking up at him from his lap. Rick hoists himself up, with Levon’s help, to the arm of the couch, half laying across Levon’s lap, and Levon finally grabs his face in his hands and pulls him in for a real kiss, a deep and dirty, Rick-snuffling-against-the-side-of-his-face kiss. Levon’s scruffy, stubbly beard scratches across the soft, squishy skin of Rick’s cheeks and chin and Rick’s perfect plush lips give way to Levon’s tongue as they swallow each other’s voices and Rick tugs on the hair curling behind Levon’s ear.
So much has changed about their kisses since the first time, Levon thinks. Rick’s face is a lot larger, for one, and Levon’s beard is scratchier like sandpaper, and neither one of them can maintain the length of any given exploration without a little wheeze or cough here and there, but they have never stopped feeling like the world is expanding and contracting all at once. It puts a dizzy high in Levon’s brain, better than any drug he’s ever known. The little whines and satisfied hums that Rick is putting out, knowing that he’s won, and he’s getting exactly what he’s wanted, make Levon’s heart expand with love and desperation, and he’s more than half hard at this point. His dick strains against Rick’s hip, heavy across his lap, and he wriggles a bit to make sure Rick can feel it. Yeah, you better finish what you started now, boy.
Rick pulls back, lips shiny and wet and his eyes displaying that same craze that makes Levon so goddamn distracted on stage sometimes that it’s a good thing he spends most of the show staring at Rick’s ass. That is, until Rick inevitably swivels around and performs half his fuckin’ song staring right into Levon’s eyes. Sometimes Levon wants to remind him that the audience is back there, but who is he kidding? He gets off on watching Rick ride the energy of the crowd. The pride and awe he feels hearing Rick absolutely nail his vocal, watching his fingers dance up and down the fret in a way he’s never, not ever, not one damn time, seen another bass player do--it’s more than sexually gratifying. It feeds a fire in his soul, and it’s a fucking miracle that he gets to be with him every night. On stage, and here. Here, with Rick struggling himself up into his arms, rolling his weight off of Levon as he gets up on his knees and swings one leg over Levon’s thighs, sitting back down heavy onto his lap and kissing down into him, crushing his body against the back of their couch until he can hardly breath.
Rick’s added weight is a blessing from God, Levon thinks deliriously as he wraps a hand around his waist the best he can and hitches him closer, the pressure of Rick’s warm body against his bare chest more comforting than any blanket he’s ever known. Rick sits back and pants, “I’m not squishing you too much, am I, Lee?”
“It’s good, it’s good,” Levon groans, fingers scrabbling frantically at the bottom of Rick’s teeshirt, one hand sliding up under it and palming a handful of his belly, up further to his chest, cupping and squeezing and running a thumb across his nipple. “Get this off now, c’mon Ricky…”
Rick crosses his arms and peels the shirt off, diving back in, and the skin-to-skin contact of their chests makes Levon cry out and his hips surge upwards into Rick, as much as he can manage lifting them with a lap full of Danko. Rick’s balance has seen better days, however, and teetering around on the edge of the couch can only last so long, and he almost tumbles backwards off of Levon’s knees onto the carpet below. Levon grinds up into him one more time before gently pushing him back, Rick moving like putty in his hands, and wiggling his legs around to recline out along the couch. No chance, no sir, is he relinquishing his position beneath Rick, the feeling of him hovering over him too charged and reassuring and hot for him to consider sacrificing at this point. He nods his chin to direct Rick down that way, where he has less potential to take a fall, and for good measure, spreads his legs out and maneuvers Rick between them--for safety reasons, he tells himself, locking Rick’s hips between his stretched knees.
Rick is sweating profusely now, like he just got done with Java Blues, that volcanic rush hitting him over and over again while he shakes over Levon’s body. It’s almost inconceivable that they’re both still partially dressed, although Rick’s boxers are on their way down his hips, his dick slapping against the round curve of his stomach, his calloused fingers immediately hurrying up and down the length of it as he looks at Levon hungrily. Levon is straining against his briefs, his breath coming in little pants as a wet pearl forms at the front. It doesn’t take much pageantry or play anymore, not at their age. What’s more, they had been in such a rush to hit the road tonight that it was out of the venue, into the van, and hit the highway without so much as a kiss goodbye to the heat that broiled between them on stage. It’s like that every time. The eye contact, the stage lights, the thump of Levon’s bass drum and the slap of Rick’s strings winding together and landing deep in the pit of Levon’s stomach, manifesting as want and desire and need. They usually don’t make it too far from the stage before collapsing into each others’ arms, in some dressing room, or bathroom stall, or cleaning closet, or in the most dire of situations, an alley behind a club. Levon has cum into Rick’s hands in places that would make a prostitute gasp, and he would know. Somehow tonight they’d made it all the way home, all the way through respective showers, and here to the couch before it caught up to them. But oh man, did it catch up.
“Lee,” Rick groans, his eyes glassy as Levon adjusts beneath him, hands reaching up and grabbing at Rick’s hips, ass, wrist of the arm that is supporting him on the couch above Levon, anywhere he can reach. “Can I fuck you?”
Levon considers it, really considers it. Thinks about it so damn hard they might not have a second to do anything at this rate. But it’s the absolute truth when he says to Rick, “oh, honey, I’m too tired for that right now, please can you just-”
He doesn’t have to finish his sentence before Rick is diving down and kissing him into the arm of the couch, Levon’s arms flying up around his neck and his legs wrapping around his waist as Rick devours him, kissing up and down his neck and chin, chewing on the greying stubble there and the wrinkles underneath. It’s like playing, the way they move together, the solid, steady connection, the rhythm section manifesting in the way Rick slides his body against Levon’s, his dick nesting in the taut divot of Levon’s hipbone, as he pushes and grinds against him, leaking onto his side as he drools against his neck. Levon hates mess but he loves this, loves feeling Rick unravel against him, feeling remnants of him being left behind on his skin, soaking into him and filling him up the way the music does, the way Rick’s music does, a constant need in the back of his mind to feel this, to have this with him all the time.
“Mmmm, I love you, honey, I love you, I love you-” Levon’s voice feels disembodied to him, the need to sleep still playing with the corners of his mind, intertwining with the jolt of electricity that Rick puts through his body in a delicious cocktail. A lifetime, an eternity, or only a half a heartbeat could have passed before Rick is pulling back, sitting up off of him, and the lack of height and weight on his chest makes him whine loudly--but Rick looks desperate and undone and close and he can barely wheeze out his next words, his eyes waiting to catch Levon’s and reach a point of verbal communication.
“I’m sorry, honey, do you not want a mess right now? I’m gonna- I need to-” his head goes on a quick swivel, as if he’s looking around for the tee shirt he discarded, for something to spill into, but Levon shakes his head rapidly, desire washing over his body and warming him fingertips to toes.
“Ricky, no, it’s okay, please. Please please please,” Levon raises a hazy hand to his own chest and stomach and runs it across himself, indicating Rick’s canvas, and punctuating it with an involuntary jerk of his hips, his own breath running short, and fuck, he needs someone’s hand on him right now. He’s just putting his fingers down towards his own waistband when Rick nods and starts jerking off himself with vigor, his other shaking hand white knuckle gripping on the back of the couch, and Levon abandons his own need in favor of grabbing at Rick’s forearm and focusing all of his energy on watching Rick’s face pinch up in concentration, his eyes closing and his forehead wrinkling as though he’s reaching for a note that’s too high for him to hit comfortably anymore. Levon’s briefs are soaked, his dick twitching of its own accord when Rick suddenly grunts gutturally, deep, his whole body convulsing as the first wave hits him, cum shooting out across Levon’s chest. Levon’s other hand is now preoccupied with rubbing it across his stomach as he coaxes Rick on, watching mesmerized as Rick’s hand flies over his dick with a dexterity usually reserved for his old Gibson acoustic, little pants and moans pouring out of his mouth as he paints Levon’s stomach, cum pooling in his hipbones and dripping down his waist onto the couch.
“C’mon baby, oh that’s good, that’s so good. C’mon now, feel good? Alrigh’?” Levon manages to groan out as Rick comes down, metaphorically and literally, his body collapsing between Levon’s legs, his head nestling into Levon’s neck as he kisses sleepily at his collarbone with his eyes still closed. One hand idly runs across Levon’s stomach, fingers skating through the mess left there as if it’s a texture to play with and explore, and Levon can feel Rick’s frenetic energy leaving his body for the first time all evening, which is perfect, if it weren’t for one pressing problem.
“Oh, now you’re tired?” Levon manages to tease, while shifting his hips up into Rick’s side. It’s not going to take very much, after Rick’s display and his ministrations over his body up to this point, but at this point, Levon needs Rick’s hand on him. It doesn’t take any begging though, Rick’s hand sliding right down into his briefs and gripping him firmly, tugging at him while Rick nuzzles his face into Levon’s chest and kisses there through his heavy breathing. Levon buries his face into Rick’s thick hair and inhales so deep he thinks he might swallow it, his hips grinding up into Rick’s hand and he’s cumming with something between a strangled yell and a growl, the mess on his stomach complete. Rick gives his softening dick a few more tugs until he squirms and whines with the overwhelming sensation of it. Rick relents, and Levon watches him through bleary eyes as he lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks Levon off of them with the same care he had for the butter that was coating Levon’s not an hour before. Rick’s eyes are drooping fast though, and Levon pets his head softly as he recovers, but he can’t resist teasing again.
“Ricky, baby, now you made this whole mess and you wanna go to sleep? You know, I was gonna nod off before you came in here and mucked things up.”
“Mucked things up?” Rick laughs delightedly, eyes still closed. “Is that what you call that?” He turns his head up and his shining brown eyes flit open and lock with Levon’s. “And, from where I’m sitting, you did some ‘mucking’ yourself.”
Levon grumbles at that, kisses the top of Rick’s head once more. He looks over to the fuzzy lines of the tv, still frozen on some dusty saloon they had haphazardly abandoned. His eyes really were starting to close shut, the image on the screen drifting in and out of sight. But he’ll be damned if he’s gonna spend the night here, covered in all this, as nice as it was in the moment. They’re past those days, for the most part, and he was already so set on a nice clean night in his bed. He shoves Rick’s shoulder, where he lays sweating on top of him, and pinches the flesh on the back of his freckled back a little less than kindly. “Rick. You gotta carry me to the shower now.”
Rick lifts his head fully at that. “Why do I have to carry you?”
Levon presses a sweet kiss to his lips and demures a bit. “Because, you done knocked all the power outta my legs with that one, honey.”
Rick giggles, and his body shakes as he heaves himself up off the couch “Sure, that’s what they all say.”
But still, he reaches down and scoops Levon up into his arms, bridal style, only staggering back a bit when he shifts his weight into his arms. Levon winds his arms up around Rick’s neck to keep things easier for him, and casts a discerning look at the couch as he’s carted away. There’s no way around it, that’s a project for tomorrow. Not one he hasn’t tackled before.
He sits on the side of the cold tub as Rick fiddles with the tap, wiggling his fingers under the water until it’s deemed warm enough. “Okay, your highness,” he jokes to Levon, his arms flailing at his sides a bit, and Levon knows that the stickiness on his stomach from where he laid against Levon is starting to get to him too. After swinging his knees, bonier by the day, over into the running shower, and standing up into the spray of good, clean Woodstock water, he extends a hand to Rick and helps him over the lip of the bath into the tiny space there.
“We really oughta think about getting one of them walk in shower situations for us someday,” Levon muses, while running his hands up and down his belly under the erratic spigot that he keeps meaning to fix. Rick sidles up behind him and hands him the soap, before dropping a kiss onto his shoulder. “What,” he jokes, “you don’t want me in a ‘help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?’ situation in here?”
Levon turns around and wraps his arms around Rick’s waist. “Among other things.”
He tilts his head up for a kiss. Rick obliges, and then wraps his arms around Levon and sways there under the warm water, letting the air fog up around them and cradle them gently. They’re in real danger of nodding off there, holding onto each other, but the water starts to cool and the reminder of just how long they’ve been on their feet today starts to wear on them in the form of aching knees and strained lower backs--more little gifts of aging that Levon can’t help but feel pure gratitude for.
Rick is already into his sweatpants by the time Levon is toweling off his hair and wriggling into a pair of Rick’s old, outgrown pajama shorts--mostly a formality because Levon tends to struggle out of whatever he’s wearing sometime in the middle of the night, preferring the free feeling of the sheets against his thighs and sometimes, Rick’s leg brushing against his own under the covers. It makes him feel safe to touch him there, to know he’s right by his side, as vulnerable as he is. Levon leans his head out of the bathroom door as he pokes the towel into his ear to dry it, and calls to Rick in their bedroom.
“Honey, would you go turn off the tv, and put the bowl in the sink? On second thought, would you bring that tape on into the bedroom?”
Rick hums a sleepy agreement from down the hall, and pads off to oblige him. Levon is just settling down under the covers when Rick returns, and he mightily enjoys the view of Rick bending down over the little bedroom tv that neither of them could resist, and pushing the tape into the receiver. Rick settles down next to him, and Levon has to drop another little kiss onto his cheek before Rick goes rummaging into the messy side table for his glasses, stifling a massive yawn as he comes back up and slides them up his sloping nose.
Levon shifts into his side, and Rick opens his arm up to let him in under it. “Do you mind if I turn off my light, baby?”
His big round voice is drenched in sleep, and Levon scratches his chin across the cotton fabric of his tee shirt as he nods, “Go on ahead.”
In the soft, glowing yellow-y light of the tv, displaying some Southwestern scene that truthfully neither of them is following, their room looks warm and familiar, the settling dark around the screen welcoming Levon into its arms--though not as quickly as it welcomes Rick. His soft snoring rattles the bed in record time, but Levon loves the feeling of it, constant and homey, like the rocking of the tour bus beneath them, or the shake of an amplifier at his back. He is lulled to sleep by the sound and sensation only to wake a few hours later, still tucked beneath Rick’s arms, with the credits rolling across the film in front of them.
Levon shifts as carefully as he can, not wanting to disturb Rick, and clicks the red power button on the remote that is hiding in the sheets somewhere below his knee. Be kind, rewind, he thinks deliriously in his half waking state. A mental note for tomorrow, or he’ll get another hilariously angry talking to from the woman behind the clerk’s desk at the video store. He reaches over and slides Rick’s glasses off his face, impossibly fond over the fact that he had put them on in the first place, only to knock out like a light.
A gentle hand on Rick’s chest to ease him down to the pillows, and Rick only stirs a little as he reaches out for Levon in his absence. After flicking his own lamp off, Levon lies down beside him and lets himself be pulled into Rick’s arms. He wonders if he’s imagining the flickers of daylight creeping through their drawn curtains, and is pulled back to that other world--rooms so different from this one, but with the same early morning sun peeking through the blinds, the same arms wound around his body--and he gives thanks to whoever put him here for getting it so right.