Chapter Text
Sunny LA. Old studio that definitely has traces of coke on the sliders. Greasy black hair held back by a thin elastic band. And horny bandmates behind him.
Enter Trent. Well, he was already here. It’s more like “Enter Danny and Robin."
Let’s backtrack.
Trent met Robin first. He just sort of knew he was going to be in the band. Long black dreads, pale skin, husky-like blue eyes, and thin lips that were just kissable enough. Danny came second. Trent had known his handwriting first after receiving multiple of his letters begging for an audition. And just like with Robin, Trent knew.
What Trent didn’t know was how horny and (somewhat) closeted they were. Actually, the more thought Trent put into it, the more he realized it was more like closeted and secretive.
Closeted on Robin’s part. He never said anything remotely suspicious, but he wasn’t like the rest of the guys. He never joked about that kind of stuff and honestly seemed flustered by it. He’d stiffen, and his blood would rush to his face—an instant blush. It made Trent also wonder how fast the blood rushes to his other head.
Danny, on the other hand, was a little too open. In other words, a slut. But not really. See, what Trent learned from watching the Texan was that Danny wanted people to think he was a slut. Trent’s still not sure why, but he heard from Chris that Danny would sometimes suck on his own skin to build the illusion of getting lucky.
Now, Trent really didn’t understand that part. Danny was hot. If Trent wasn’t in the room, the girls would flock to Danny. Fuck, it was surprising to Trent himself that he hadn’t fucked Danny yet. He’s definitely come close to it a few dozen times over the tour. Regardless, Trent just refused to believe that Danny was faking hickeys and bite marks to make it seem like he gets around. He couldn’t see the younger man doing that. Danny was confident for that—too loud and charming, too handsome and holdable.
Then came the secretiveness. On tour, Chris and Danny shared a room, and that often led to conflicts over privacy. Sometimes, Chris just wanted a few hours alone to talk to his girlfriend over the phone (and stuff his hand down his pants), and sometimes, Danny wanted to rent a movie to melt his mind with tits and pretty boys (and stuff his hand down his pants)—based on what Chris said.
One night, Chris came back early. The bar sucked; the drinks tasted like they had been strained through a gym sock. The door was very obviously locked, so he reached in for the key and just as he was putting his hand on the doorknob…
“Fuck–”
Chris paused. It felt like the only real thing to do.
A groan, muffled by the wooden hotel door, followed. It was broken and strained, and nothing Chris had ever heard from his bandmate.
“A-Adam! Shit, just like that. Yeah…”
At this point in the story, when Chris was rambling about it later, Trent briefly imagined himself in Adam’s place. But this is the part where Chris—very loudly and very aggressively—announced his arrival before unlocking the door and walking in to catch a small glimpse of two dudes on the screen before the void of black took over. In Chris’ words, Danny sat on his bed in complete silence (a rarity) and flipped nervously through a magazine he picked up from a gas station. That was the biggest red flag since it was a sort of universally known fact that Danny couldn’t read to save his life, but Chris assumed the bassist was staring at the models and that the two men kissing on the screen had just been a single unfortunate frame in what was probably a very long, very heterosexual porno.
And that brings Trent to the present and the problem behind him.
There was a quiet murmur followed by soft laughter. Trent turned around in his chair, slow and deliberate. Danny and Robin quieted down with half smirks on their faces. Danny had his arm draped casually across the back of the couch, brushing just slightly against Robin’s shoulder. Robin leaned toward him, arms crossed, trying—very poorly—to look nonchalant. His mouth twitched, like he was suppressing that wider smile.
Danny said something Trent couldn’t catch. Robin’s ear went pink. There it is again—that same blush Trent noticed the first few weeks of knowing him. Robin muttered something and nudged Danny. Danny grinned.
And suddenly Trent’s brain decided this is the perfect moment to start replaying every interaction Danny has ever had with another man. And there were too many.
Danny, from the moment Trent met him, had always been friendly. The kind of friendly where he’d sling an arm around someone’s shoulders and lean in a little closely. The kind of friendly where he’d joke about kissing someone just to see the reactions. Back then, everyone laughed, but Danny laughed the loudest. The jokes no longer feel like jokes anymore.
There was that time Danny draped himself across Chris on the tour bus once, lazily tracing shapes into his arm while talking about absolute nonsense. Chris complained for ten minutes, but Danny never moved.
Trent remembered Danny calling someone “pretty” in that low drawl of his.
And then there was the Adam incident.
Trent’s eyes flickered back to Danny. He was leaning towards Robin now, whispering something that made Robin laugh quietly. Their knees were brushing against each other. Their shoulders were touching. Tiny, but it felt so deliberate.
Trent exhaled slowly because the thought that snuck into his head was irritatingly obvious. How could he have come close to fucking Danny half a dozen times on tour and never gotten that reaction—like Robin had?
Trent sighed hard and tugged the big chunky headphones over his ears. He had enough of listening/ Those sounds were so…persistent. Too fucking distracting. He shoved the faders back and glanced at the small mirror sitting on the console. “Mirror?” he thought. “Really?”
He tapped it experimentally, tilting it slightly. Could it even capture anything?
He considered ignoring it. He wanted to focus, to pretend that the couch was empty. “No,” he told himself. “That’s stupid. This is fucked.”
But he did it anyway. He set it up properly, angled just right, and stepped back. Ridiculous. Pathetic. But he could see them.
Danny whispered something low, and Robin laughed, and Trent pressed his lips together. His fingers twitched over the faders. He noticed Robin’s eyes glazing over at him, hesitation and trepidation but fading into temptation when he licked his lips and looked back at Danny.
Danny shifted on the couch, pressing closer until their lips met. Robin froze for half a second—just long enough that Trent thought maybe he would pull back—then leaned in, returning the kiss. Danny’s hand moved slowly, brushing Robin’s neck, tangling in his hair. Robin’s fingers drifted over Danny’s shoulder, gripping lightly. Their bodies pressed together on the couch, knees brushing, arms intertwined.
Danny let out a soft laugh against Robin’s mouth, and Robin laughed too, low and breathy, tugging Danny closer. Trent’s eyes followed every movement in the mirror, cataloging them: the tilt of a head, the arch of a back, the way Danny’s hand slid along the taller man’s arm.
And Trent exhaled slowly.
He should be mixing. He should be focused. Instead, he was fascinated.
Their lips parted briefly, then came together again. Danny’s arm tightened across Robin’s shoulders; Robin’s tongue dipped into Danny’s mouth.
That was it. That was the confirmation he needed. He pressed record on the device, and for the first time in a while, Trent let himself watch without guilt.