Archive of Our Own

Tonight is Tom's favorite kind of night on tour - the best kind of lazy night off. They actually managed to score motel rooms for once, which means beds instead of the back of the van or someone else's floor. He and Mark have the A/C blasting, the window cracked open, and some stupid fucking Skinemax thing playing on the TV that they'll force Rick to pay for later. The air's still humid, the window unit sputtering against it - the blistering hot showers he and Mark both took probably didn't help anything - but he and Mark are settled on top of the sheets on the bed closest to the door, their knees just barely nudging against each other. They're both down to just their boxers, the better to bask in the little bit of breeze they can get from the A/C.

The room may be shitty - it mostly smells like mold and stale cigarettes, but most of that's being drowned out by the thick haze of smoke from the joint that he and Mark have already finished. They're working on a second, just passing it lazily back and forth.

Tom feels a little like he's sinking into the bed, but the warmth of Mark's knee, the place where their still-damp skin sticks together as he shifts, keeps him grounded.

They were supposed to be sharing this room with Scott, because there's never enough space to go around, but he fucked off hours ago and told them not to wait up. Right now, Tom can't even pretend to care about where he went.

He takes another drag off the joint, inhales deeply and lets the smoke sit in his lungs - then fumbles his hand over towards Mark, blindly, as he exhales. This time, though, Mark doesn't reach over to meet him.

"Think my arms stopped working," Mark says, and Tom snorts.

"You haven't even smoked that much."

"Probably all the fucking driving. Just too tired to function."

Mark had gotten the brunt of the driving shift today, but Tom had stayed awake up front to keep him company. He hardly has room to complain. "More for me then I guess," Tom teases, bringing the joint back up to his mouth as he kicks at Mark's ankle - and he suspects that'll be the end of it, and Mark will wrestle it back from him.

Instead, Mark twists around on the bed and tries to lean up to take the joint out of Tom's hand with his teeth.

Startled, Tom elbows him in the shoulder - nearly in the jaw - and then bursts into laughter. "Dude, what the fuck are you - there's no way that's easier than just lifting your fucking arms."

"Might be," Mark teases, grin spreading across his face, and he tips his head back to look right at Tom, and - fuck.

As long as he's known Mark, Tom keeps waiting to get used to this. Just - Mark's face, and the way that sometimes just looking at him makes Tom feel like he's being punched in the stomach. Every once in a while he thinks he's finally gotten over the worst of it, and then the light catches Mark's eyes, or he smiles like this, pointed right at Tom, and Tom has to resist the urge to run headfirst into a wall about it.

Now, Mark's angled his face in the perfect way to emphasize the sharp line of his jaw, and he's fluttering his eyelashes like it's supposed to be funny, but Tom's mouth has gone so dry that he can practically feel his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"Come on, just - you put it in my mouth for me." Mark opens his mouth, and waggles his eyebrows, and Tom manages to cough out something close to an awkward laugh.

"Fuck off," he mutters, pressing his knuckles against Mark's shoulder. "You're gonna burn yourself anyways, asshole."

"No, come on, I'll hold it with my teeth," Mark insists, baring his teeth like a demonstration, craning his neck up. "I'm an expert, just - hand it over. Have some sympathy for my useless arms."

"This is so fucking stupid," Tom insists, but he sighs and turns onto his side to face Mark properly, pinching the joint between his fingers about halfway down, extending it towards Mark's face.

He has to press his thumb against Mark's lower lip before Mark finally closes his teeth around the end of the joint. By the time Tom pulls his hand back, he can still feel the phantom warmth of Mark's mouth against his skin. He presses his thumb into his own palm, trying to shake it.

Mark inhales, slowly, and then manages to exhale with the joint still held in his teeth. The smoke drifts from his mouth and floats lazily towards the window, and Tom feels almost jealous - of the joint, still there between his lips, and the smoke itself, for having been inside of Mark.

"Here," Mark grits out between his teeth, and he turns his face back towards Tom, gesturing with his chin.

"Just smoke the rest of it, I don't care," Tom offers, tipping over onto his back again.

Mark kicks him hard in the ankle, and Tom jumps.

"Fucking - ow, jesus, what?"

"Take it," Mark grumbles, knocking his chin roughly against Tom's shoulder.

Carefully, Tom takes the joint back, and this time he manages to stop himself from brushing his fingers against Mark's mouth - but he still has to get close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, and the damp of his exhale.

When he places the joint back between his own lips, Tom's more aware than ever that he's putting his mouth where Mark's just was. He can still feel the teeth marks pressed into the joint under his lip. He closes his eyes, and inhales as deeply as he can.

Thankfully, Mark waits until Tom has exhaled to say, "Just shotgun me this time."

Still, Tom is so startled that he laughs, then coughs. "What?"

"C'mon, you've done it before, right?"

"Like - with some hot girl at a party, sure," Tom offers - which makes it sound cooler than it was, considering it happened one time, she initiated, and he nearly coughed up a lung because he barely knew how to smoke.

Mark looks over at him and grins, edging into a smirk. "What, I'm not hot enough for you?"

Normally, Tom's used to playing right on this line with Mark, but whether he's just too high or too overwhelmed, he's not as quick as he'd normally be. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling and then wiggles his free hand back and forth. "Eh, you're alright."

"Is that a yes or a no, then?"

He looks again, and Mark's just staring at him, eyebrows raised, waiting him out, like it's a dare.

There's a hundred thousand reasons not to do this, but Tom can't remember any of them right now. He doesn't want to. He wants to feel Mark's lips against his, and breathe smoke into his mouth, and take his one stupid shot to do this while Mark's putting it on the table.

"Fine," Tom says, turning onto his side. "Fuck it, c'mere."

"Seriously?" Mark asks, grinning, turning his head.

"You asked!" Tom says, huffing as he flops back onto his back. "Fuck you, I'll smoke the rest of it by myself."

"No, come on, if you're serious-"

"If you're this fucking lazy, I'll do it, I don't give a shit. But you asked, you don't get to fucking make fun of me-"

"I'm not making fun of you," Mark says, his tone strangely gentle even though Tom can still hear the smile in his voice, too. "Come on. Come here."

He reaches out and tugs on Tom's shoulder until his turns back onto his side, and Tom rolls his eyes instead of looking directly at Mark's face.

"You're so fucking needy," Tom tells him, trying to cover for his own nerves. "You're like the world's most annoying girlfriend."

"You should be so fucking lucky," Mark mutters, his voice pitched low.

Tom flicks him in the shoulder and then finally glances over. Mark's turned to face him, watching him with just the hint of a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and Tom could honestly get lost just lying here, staring at him - but he'd never get away with it. He brings the joint back to his mouth and takes a drag, the longest one he can manage, then gestures Mark in and puts a hand on the side of his neck to keep them both steady.

He watches as Mark opens his mouth, then leans in close enough that their noses brush and closes his eyes. He lets his own mouth fall open, exhaling smoke, trying to push it towards Mark, and Mark leans in close enough that their lips brush, just barely. It's just a hint of warmth before Tom pulls back, watching as Mark opens his mouth again and releases the smoke that started out in Tom's lungs.

"Your technique's a little rusty, there," Mark rasps, grinning at him as he settles back onto his back. "How long ago was this hot girl at the party?"

"Oh like you could do any better," Tom answers, shoving his elbow into Mark's side.

"Yeah? You bet?" Mark answers, turning onto his side and finally lifting his arms enough to stretch.

"Bet fucking what? And you're just gonna say you did better either way when I did fucking great, so - fuck you. No."

"Come on, let's just trade back and forth for the rest of it. We can share that way."

Mark reaches for the joint, and Tom lets him take it, turning to face him as he does. For a second Tom assumes this means they'll go back to smoking normally. He watches Mark lift the joint to his lips and take a long drag - watches the line of his throat and the motion of his hand - but then Mark turns towards him, and places a hand on his face, and Tom barely has time to drop his jaw and exhale before Mark's mouth is fully pressed against his.

He knows, somewhere in the back of his head, this really is how you're supposed to do it. If you seal your mouth against the other person's it stops any of the smoke from just escaping. Still - Mark's lips are warm, and soft, and there, here, right where Tom never fully expected them to be outside of his most embarrassing wet dreams.

It's hardly a surprise that he inhales too fast. The burn hits sharp at the back of his throat and he pulls back wheezing, trying to hold himself back, but he bursts out coughing, can't stop it, and sits up to curl in on himself, embarrassed, as Mark starts to laugh.

"Jesus, you okay?" Mark asks, voice still somewhere behind him.

"Yeah," Tom rasps out, coughing again to clear his throat, rubbing at his chest. "Fuck off."

"Here, I'll get you some water."

Tom wants to tell him off again - but there's still at least a third of the joint left, and without something to soothe the scratch at the back of his throat, Tom's just going to have to pass the rest of it off to Mark. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea at this point, but considering how bad Tom just blew this, if there was anything to even blow - he'll take the rest of the weed, thanks.

Mark presses a crappy plastic cup full of tap water into his free hand, and Tom trades him the joint for it. He takes a long sip of the water, even though it leaves a faint metallic taste at the back of his tongue. It's not cold, but it's cool enough to soothe his throat, and it makes breathing a little easier.

He finishes the water and sighs, fidgeting with the empty cup, passing it back and forth between his hands. When he glances over, Mark is just sitting beside him, watching him, holding the joint like he holds his cigarettes during interviews, letting it burn down between his fingers.

"Gonna be pissed if you waste the rest of that," Tom mutters.

"I was waiting for you, dipshit," Mark tells him, kicking him in the leg. "Didn't any of those hot girls at parties tell you shotgunning's supposed to be easier on your throat?"

"They definitely made that up."

Mark's grin widens, and he scoots closer to Tom on the bed, til their hips nudge against each other and the mattress dips under their weight. "One way to find out."

This time, Mark puts his hand mostly on Tom's neck, thumb pressing against the point of his jaw, fingers curling up behind his ear. Tom's mouth falls open mostly without conscious direction, and Mark just - holds him there while he takes a long drag off the joint, watching Tom basically the entire time he does it.

Tom's starting to wonder if he fell asleep while Mark was in the shower, and he's just passed out, dreaming all of this. It would make a lot more sense. He's not about to waste the best dream he's ever had, though.

He closes his eyes this time, manages to breathe deep and exhale fully before Mark presses their mouths together again. He inhales slowly, and deeply, and thinks about how the air in his lungs was just in Mark's, and holds his breath for long enough he gets a little bit light-headed before he exhales slowly, right back into Mark's mouth.

For whatever reason, Mark's still right there, less than an inch away from him. Even when he pulls back a little more, enough for Tom to see him, he leaves his hand on Tom's neck, so Tom just stays there, watching him exhale the last of the smoke from less than a foot away.

Tom feels dazed. Not just high - more like someone hit him over the head. He can't seem to convince himself to pull back, and Mark's still touching him, from where their thighs are pressed together to the thumb against his jaw, and Tom's got to be staring like an idiot, mouth still open, eyes wide, but he can't think of a single thing to say.

"Better?" Mark asks, his hand sliding down to Tom's shoulder. Still, he doesn't pull away, or turn away.

Stupidly, Tom nods, finally closing his mouth. "Uh - yeah. Better."

"You wanna try again?"

Mark offers him the joint, and Tom clumsily takes it back into his free hand. He moves his other to Mark's shoulder - still not quite brave enough to go for his face. He checks Mark's expression, catches him watching, then turns his head to take another long drag from the joint. It still scratches at the back of his throat more than usual, but he manages to keep himself from coughing this time. He turns back to Mark and presses their mouths together fully before he exhales.

It's hard to focus on anything other than the feeling of - Mark. All the places they're touching. The way Tom had to angle his head to properly press their mouths together, Mark's nose is nudged against his cheek. Tom's pretty sure he can feel his eyelashes move. Mark's mouth is still warm, and soft, fitted perfectly against his own, and Tom manages to stop himself from letting his tongue chase the taste of the smoke in Mark's mouth, but only barely.

The problem is, he's so focused on not moving his mouth that he doesn't move at all. Mark, after a moment, pulls back - but then he just leans forward again, and breathes the smoke back into Tom's mouth.

Tom's not really sure anymore if this is still how shotgunning works, or if Mark's just kissing him. He doesn't really know why Mark would kiss him - he's too high to have any real, not-stupid thoughts about it. The sensation is nice, and maybe that's all that's happening for Mark, too - just the warmth, the brush of skin, the pressure of their thighs tucked up against each other - it feels good.

He pulls back, exhales, and opens his eyes, and Mark's still just right there, watching him. Tom should pass the joint back, but there's hardly any left anyways. He's not sure if Mark would care if he just took the last drag and leaned back in - but instead, Tom tips forward and presses his mouth against Mark's, fast and reckless.

There's a 50/50 chance Mark shoves him off, and Tom's got all his excuses ready on the tip of his tongue just in case. He's higher than he thought, maybe he's half-asleep, he just forgot to take another drag off the joint first - but when Mark does pull back, and he isn't laughing, all the words pile up on each other in the back of Tom's throat and none of them make it out.

One corner of Mark's mouth twitches up and he reaches over to pull the joint from between Tom's fingers. "Put this out before you fucking hurt yourself." Mark finds the mostly-empty plastic cup of water where it fell on the floor and uses the droplets left at the bottom to snub out the end of the joint. Then he puts the cup back on the floor and turns back to Tom.

Tom still has no idea if he should apologize or lean back in. He opens his mouth and only gets as far as, "Uh-" before he looks away, down at the bed to see that his fingers are already nearly touching Mark's. Their hands that are pressed into the bed, the ones they're leaning on, must be less than an inch apart. Hesitantly, rather than saying anything, Tom pushes his hand over, brushing the pads of his fingertips over Mark's knuckles.

"C'mere," Mark mutters - and then he takes Tom's face in both of his hands and kisses him soundly on the mouth.

If there was anything left working in Tom's brain, it just shuts down completely. All that's left is instinct, so he kisses Mark back immediately, no hesitation, hands sliding up into his hair, keeping him close.

Tom's still high enough to be floaty, the air still sticky and hazy around them, and he can't stop himself from sliding a hand down the back of Mark's neck, feeling the heat there and the texture of his skin. He wants to taste the salt there - pushes his tongue inside Mark's mouth instead, tastes the lingering stale smoke from the joint. Some part of him thought Mark would set the pace, keep things slow and steady, but the more Tom pushes, the sloppier the kiss gets, the more he digs his fingers in against Mark's shoulder - Mark just meets him there.

One of his hands has moved to Tom's waist, and Tom can feel the press of fingernails digging into the skin just over his ribs. Mark sucks on his tongue, and tugs at the back of his neck to kiss him even deeper somehow, and Tom is already so hard that he can feel it, almost dizzy from the blood rush.

When he finally pulls back from the kiss, gasping, Mark's mouth smears over his jaw, down to his neck. There's sweat beading all down his thigh, where it's pressed against Mark's, the heat between their bodies only getting worse - so Tom hauls himself upright enough to throw a leg over Mark's hips and straddle his lap, kneeling over him.

Mark's hands land on his hips, just over the waistband of his boxers, and Tom blinks down at him, looking at him properly for the first time since they put out the joint. Mark's lips are red, already kiss-irritated and damp with both of their spit, and Tom falls forward to kiss him again, can't resist the sight of his slightly opened mouth.

It also keeps him from thinking about Mark's eyes - past the big, dark pupils and the bright, bright blue around them, there was something soft. Something that didn't just feel like Mark was high and horny - but Tom knows better than to think about that.

He wraps his arms around Mark's shoulders, and scoots forward on his knees to settle better in Mark's lap - still panting into Mark's mouth, sharing breath at this point, more than kissing.

One of the hands Mark had on his hip slides down to the hem of his boxers, right where his thigh meets his ass, and familiar calloused fingertips slip under the fabric just to press against the skin there. It's really just the inside of his thigh, but Tom shivers anyways, realizing how oddly sensitive he is in a place no one ever really touches.

His mouth falls open, shaping the start of Mark's name, but he thinks better of it and presses his lips against the hinge of Mark's jaw instead, dragging his lips and then his tongue over the skin, finally tasting the salt there and enjoying it more than he probably should.

Tom kisses his way down Mark's neck, down to his collarbone, and then bites there, probably a little too hard, but Mark just grabs at the back of his neck, digs his fingers in and groans, so Tom takes it as a good sign. He moves to the other side, presses his teeth there, too, and bites another kiss against Mark's shoulder, one of those places he always finds his eyes catching when Mark takes his shirt off during a show.

If he had the time, if Mark would let him, Tom would trace every single line of muscle on Mark's body, from his neck down to his calves, mostly with his tongue.

As it is, once he's soothed the sting of his bite on Mark's shoulder with a kiss, he can't resist moving down far enough to tuck his face under Mark's arm, nosing up towards his armpit until Mark swats at him and laughs.

"Stop it, you freak," but he's smiling as he says it, Tom can hear it even before he flicks his tongue out for another taste of Mark's sweat. He knows - he knows it's fucking weird, but sometimes Mark even lets him get away with this on stage, when he's actually truly gross. Now, freshly showered, Mark mostly just smells and tastes a little salty - barely a trace of the familiar musky smell Tom knows probably too well.

He thinks he heard somewhere once that your own sweat, your own cum, it's all supposed to smell a little bit good to you, even if it's rancid. He's wondered, more than once, if he's just been around Mark so much the same thing has happened in his brain with Mark's weird, familiar smells.

When he pulls back, Mark's still smiling at him, just a little, and his hand turns gentle as he places it back on Tom's neck. "You're so fucking weird," he mutters, but it comes out soft, and fond, and - dangerous, frankly, for Tom.

He just smiles back, shrugs, and settles back into Mark's lap, hitching forward against him, eyes fluttering shut at the pressure when his dick bumps up against Mark's stomach.

"Yeah," Tom sighs out, starting to rock back and forth in Mark's lap, barely even thinking about it. "Probably."

Mark's hands clutch at his thighs, fingers digging in tight enough to slow his motion, and he feels a twitch beneath his hips, right against the space behind his balls, enough to tell him he's been grinding thoughtlessly right over Mark's dick. It makes his own dick twitch in his boxers, warmth spreading through the pit of his stomach.

He's not sure if Mark could, but Tom could get off like this. Especially right now. He clenches his thighs tight around Mark's hips, and Mark finally groans and falls back against the bed, scooting back and dragging Tom with him.

"Fucking - come here. Get down here," Mark groans, grabbing at Tom's shoulders, and Tom really can't do anything but settle on top of him, fully, knees still on either side of his thighs, elbows now on either side of his shoulders, hovering over him.

"Like this?" Tom asks, teasing a little bit, unable to resist - but Mark's clearly had enough, and he tugs him down, hard enough to make him lose balance, and then he's just fully on top of Mark, skin to skin all the way down their bodies, just flimsy fabric between their hips.

He's lucky he didn't knock his head into Mark's nose or something - but he didn't, and now there's only about an inch between their mouths, noses brushing, and he can feel the way Mark's stomach moves underneath him with every single breath.

He kisses Mark again, slow and messy, probably a little too generous with his tongue, but Mark just bites at his lip and lets him, grabs at the back of his thighs again, and this time when Tom presses down, seeking friction, he can feel Mark, hot and hard against the line of his own hip.

It's obvious this is the moment to pull back, to get them both out of their boxers, to give his best shot at a blowjob or something - but honestly just this is so good, he doesn't want it to end. The soft press of Mark's stomach, the grip of his hands, the slick sweat between their thighs, all of it is warm and good and Tom likes the ways all the sensations stack on top of each other.

He pushes his hips down, shudders with it, pants against Mark's mouth, and then just keeps going, steadily finding a rhythm. Mark starts to match it, to arch back up against Tom's body, and when he groans again, pressed right up against Tom's lips - that's apparently all Tom needed. He comes in his boxers, grinding down hard as he does, fingers digging in against Mark's shoulders, his whole body tensing up under the pleasure that radiates out from the pit of his stomach, each pulse of it washing over him until he's trembling, barely still holding himself up at all, sprawling out over Mark's body as it fades.

"Fuck," Mark chokes out under him. "Was that-"

Tom's brain flicks back on enough to remember he should be embarrassed - that he should reciprocate, or do something, because that wasn't exactly an impressive performance - but before he can get very far, Mark's sliding a hand in between their bodies and palming at Tom's slowly softening cock, feeling the damp spot in his boxers.

"Fuck, Tom," he groans - and Tom's cock gives a desperate little twitch, and then Mark arches up against him and comes, just like that.

As they both catch their breath, Tom shifts, just a little, trying to get some of his weight off of Mark - but Mark still has a hand wrapped around one of his legs, and he doesn't get very far. He ends up still half on top of Mark and half beside him, now in the perfect position to hide his face against Mark's shoulder, and the bedding just above it - so he does.

"Gotta get up in a second. Get a washcloth or something," Mark mutters, bringing a hand up to brush it over the top of Tom's head.

"Yeah," Tom mumbles, already half-sleep.

"Me, I mean, not - you can stay here."

"'Kay," Tom agrees, more sigh than word.

He tries to force his eyes open, tries to stay awake long enough to wait for Mark to leave the bed, to make sure he doesn't go sleep in the other one, to make sure everything's okay - but it's late, and he's warm and pleasantly worn out, and he can still taste Mark on his tongue - and that's how he falls asleep.

He's not sure if it's the light that wakes him up or something else, but when Tom finally opens his eyes, the bed is empty, and the sheets beside him aren't warm anymore. He would wonder if he really did dream everything if he couldn't find the plastic cup on the floor with the burnt out remains of the joint - and he'd wonder if Mark really had gone to the other bed if it wasn't still neatly made.

As it is, Tom finally turns his head and finds Mark smoking just outside the window at the front of the room. It feels silly to assume, but Tom wonders if Mark opened the curtains just so Tom would still be able to find him out there if he woke up. They were closed last night - but he probably just wanted to let the light in this morning.

Climbing out of bed, Tom pauses for a moment to stretch, then goes over and knocks on the window. Mark jumps, but he barely glances over his shoulder before he flips Tom off and turns back around.

It should be funny. Tom tries to smile - but the moment drags on, and Mark just stands out there, finishing his cigarette, staring into the distance. He's not sure why he thought once Mark knew he was awake, he would snub the rest out and come back in. Maybe he'd say something, do - something. He doesn't, though. Tom stands there for a minute, watching the line of his still-bare shoulders, but when Mark keeps ignoring him, he forces himself to turn away.

He knew last night that the best case scenario, if he was lucky, was that Mark might fool around with him now sometimes he if couldn't find a better option on tour. He knew it was even more likely that whatever happened last night would be brushed off, written off to the weed and forgotten about until they got drunk or high or crossfaded and had a chance to be alone again, and maybe then he'd get another chance at it. Maybe.

The one thing he hadn't really thought about was this part - silence and early morning chill and the nausea that's twisting his stomach up in knots.

There's still no sign of Mark coming inside, so Tom goes over to his bag and starts digging for his clothes. By the time he manages to find a clean shirt and tug it over his head, he can hear the door open behind him.

"Sorry," Mark says as he steps in. "Woke up and needed a smoke." He goes over and pulls the curtains shut, and Tom still doesn't get a chance to look at his face.

"It's fine," he mumbles back. He's tempted to keep staring, but Mark doesn't seem too interested in looking at him, so Tom looks over at the wall, then down at the floor. "You see Scott yet?"

"Nah, he hasn't come back. I don't think he's going to. Probably slept somewhere else. Maybe he just crashed with Rick once he was done for the night, who fucking knows?"

"Yeah." Tom goes back to fidgeting with his bag, taking longer than he needs to just to repack everything he yanked out, double-checking all the zippers.

"Look," Mark says behind him, "We can just - you can skip over the whole - we don't have to talk about it. I know you were high-"

"I wasn't that high," Tom grumbles, mostly in defense of his own honor. He's not exactly a lightweight, at this point.

Mark pauses, and sighs. "I know you weren't - just. The point is I'm giving you the out, Tom, just fucking take it. Just - let's skip the shitty conversation about how we've been on the road too long or whatever, and we'll go see what we can dig out of the vending machine for breakfast, okay? And maybe next time you go to a party you'll actually know how to shotgun." With that, Mark comes up and tries to elbow him gently, but Tom pulls back from the touch.

"Fuck you," he blurts out - he's angrier than he expected to be, all of a sudden. His face is hot with it, his hands clenched into fists tight enough that his nails are biting into his palms.

"What?"

"Look if you wanna-" Tom turns around, finally, to stare Mark down. "I don't give a shit, okay, what you wanna tell yourself. If I'm just some cheap fucking substitute 'cause you can't get a girl to touch your dick, whatever, I don't care - but don't tell me what I was gonna say and act like - I wasn't even that high! I knew what I was doing, it's not like it was an accident. I didn't trip and fall on your dick - I kissed you on purpose. If you regret it, just say that, you don't have to say a bunch of dumb bullshit about how you think I feel. I'm not 17 anymore, okay, I wasn't kissing you for practice."

That leaves Mark speechless. He blinks a few times, opens his mouth and then closes it again, and finally just shakes his head.

It takes about that much time for Tom's tired, frustrated brain to catch up with his mouth. He realizes how fucking - obvious everything he just said was, and has to resist the urge to bite off his own tongue. He feels exposed, and embarrassed - but even worse, he feels stupid. So fucking stupid. There's no way Mark isn't smart enough to put together the pieces of what Tom just said. So much for maybe next time, if he got lucky. So much for trying to play it cool.

"Whatever," Tom finally says, turning for the door. "Let's just-"

"Tom," Mark says, grabbing his wrist. It's enough to stop him, but not enough to turn him back around. "What were you gonna say?"

He tugs at his wrist, but Mark only tightens his grip. "I don't know. Something - fucking stupid, probably. It doesn't matter, I've said enough stupid shit for one morning."

"All you ever do is say stupid shit."

Tom huffs out a breath that's not quite a laugh. "Exactly."

"Would you fucking turn around and look at me?"

"Why?" Tom asks - mostly to stall, because he can feel the sting at the back of his eyes, and can't let Mark see. It's bad enough to act like an idiot because he didn't like the way Mark tried to let him down easy - it'd be a thousand times worse to fucking cry about it.

"Just - I wanna talk to you. Fucking turn around."

Tom does, keeping his head ducked down, and Mark lets go of his wrist. He misses the warmth of it immediately, but just rubs his own wrist awkwardly against his shirt to try and chase the feeling away. "Fine, so - talk."

"The - shotgunning at the party dig was maybe a little much. I'm sorry."

Something creeps up in the back of Tom's throat, and he desperately swallows it down. "I don't - whatever. I sucked at it, it's fine. I don't care."

"You got the hang of it eventually."

And that's the whole fucking thing, isn't it? Tom's always just going to be some kid Mark feels a little bit sorry for, and Mark will always be older, cooler, more handsome, less awkward around girls - if it wasn't for the way they write music together, Mark never would have chosen Tom on purpose.

Last night was half the weed and half pity, probably, and it was still the best sex of Tom's entire pathetic life. Whatever he thought he saw in Mark's face, felt in his touch - of course he was wrong. Stupid.

"I changed my mind," Tom chokes out. "Let's fucking - skip this part. Let's just go to the vending machine-"

"Tom, stop it-" Mark grabs his arm, further up this time, and tugs hard enough to physically stop him from turning around.

"You said we could fucking skip this part, you were right, let's just fucking-"

"I thought I knew what you were gonna say! Obviously I didn't."

"Okay? And you made your fucking point - you were high, we've been on the road too fucking long, and no one's touched your dick in like a hundred years-"

"I'm not that fucking desperate, Tom, I know how to jerk off."

In any other moment, it would probably make Tom laugh. Instead, he just stops, glances up at Mark and finds him already staring back. "Well, obviously," he says, since Mark seems to be waiting for some kind of answer.

"So - you were right. That was bullshit, and it was a stupid fucking thing to say. I'm sorry. I figured I could beat you to it or whatever and it would be - faster, I don't know. Easier."

Nothing about any of this is fucking easy. "It's fine, don't - whatever. I wasn't trying to make a big fucking deal out of it, just - you don't have to lie to me. I can take it if you just be honest and say 'That sucked, let's never do it again.'"

"You-" Mark's hand tightens on his arm enough to hurt a little, and Tom looks up to find his eyes wide, almost startled. "Is that what you would say or - you think that's what I was gonna say?"

"I know it wasn't - you don't have to be so fucking nice about it, Mark, I'm not a girl. I know it was kind of shitty, you don't have to pretend it was the best sex of your life-"

"It was," Mark says, although he looks as surprised as Tom feels, as soon as the words fall out of his mouth.

"What - Mark, don't be fucking stupid-"

"Okay - technically, maybe not, but - I can't remember the last time I came in my fucking boxers. It was so - it was easy. I don't know that I've ever had sex where it just felt - easy. And maybe this time, was - messy, or whatever, but next time could be good, right?"

"Next time?" Tom asks, blinking like it's going to clear his ears as well as his vision - like it's going to change what Mark just said.

"Well, I - yeah. I thought - maybe."

Tom opens his mouth and closes it again. Nothing comes out.

"Fucking-" Mark flusters, abruptly, going pink around his ears. He lets go of Tom's arm. "Jesus, Tom, if you don't even wanna do it again, why would you-"

"No - fuck, of course I do," Tom blurts out, desperate and a little embarrassed by how long it takes him to get the words out. "I just don't - why do you?"

"I just think it could be good," Mark answers quietly. He keeps his eyes on Tom for a moment, then looks away, over towards the door.

"I mean it was already pretty good," Tom admits - and Mark's mouth quirks up a little, but he doesn't look back over. "It actually probably was the best sex of my life, but like - I figured my bar was pretty low, compared to whatever you had going on-"

Mark laughs at that, and his eyes are lit up when he turns back to Tom. "I mean, you said it, not me."

Tom kicks him in the leg, gently, just with his bare foot, and then flops back onto the bed. "Just for that you better get me some good shit from the vending machine."

There's a pause, and Mark lingers by the door. "You know we've got hours til soundcheck," he finally mutters, taking a step back towards the bed.

Lifting himself up on his elbows, Tom catches Mark staring, eyes moving up his body til they land on his face.

It still doesn't feel real, feels like maybe he hit his head yesterday, like he could still blink and all this will disappear - but right now, he reaches out, and hooks a finger in Mark's belt loop, and glances up through his lashes. "Yeah?"

"I mean, unless you want me to get breakfast first," Mark offers, grinning, turning like he's going to leave before he gets snagged by Tom's finger on his belt loop and playfully staggers back, stumbling into the bed and then landing on top of Tom, just barely propped up on his hands. "Cause I mean, I can go do that and come back-"

Tom, over-eager, over-obvious, and too happy to care, wraps his arms around Mark's shoulders and pulls him down into a stupid, smiling kiss.