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“So, there’s only one bed.”
Flansburgh plopped his luggage down on the floor, gingerly leaning his guitar case against the wall along with the rest of his equipment. He paused and took a moment to stretch, lifting his arms above his head. Then, he considered the situation they had at hand.
They had only a double sized bed fit snugly in the cramped hotel room Flansburgh had booked. It could hypothetically fit one of them comfortably, considering that Flans had initially believed he’d be the only one staying in this room. However, the idea presented itself rather early on in his mind that they could both fit and share the bed just as well. The only issue was whether or not John would be alright with the proposition.
“Well, maybe you can take the bed. I can sleep on the floor,” he suggested, glancing at his turtleneck-clad friend for approval. Or even an objection, where John would refuse to let Flansburgh occupy the space on the stiff, damp hotel carpet. He would graciously offer a spot next to him on the bed, sparing Flans’ dignity as well as the inevitable back pain that would ail him later on.
“Hmm. Alright,” was his reply.
Flansburgh visibly deflated. And yet, it was exactly what he had expected. John didn’t necessarily owe him anything; especially when this whole hotel room mishap had surely been his mistake. It hadn’t been an intentional mistake (or had it been? Flans wasn’t quite sure when he had booked the rooms in the first place), and therefore he should be the one to make peace with sleeping on the floor. Why would the thought of sharing the bed have crossed Linnell’s mind anyhow? Sure, they had lived together, but sleeping in such close quarters was a completely different story. They’d be right next to each other, forced to share the cramped space of a dingy hotel mattress. The idea of it felt vaguely shameful, as if this hotel room would be used more than simply resting before a show. Flans had to quickly shut down that train of thought; this was nothing like that. It certainly wasn’t some scandalous late-night rendezvous. John Linnell was his best friend. Nothing more. Still, knew he had to make some kind of attempt to save his spine, if not his ego.
“Ha, yeah… oh, but, John, my back…” Flans began, eyeing the red and white upholstered carpet beneath him. “I’m not sure if that would be great for the performance tomorrow. Having a bad back, and all.”
Linnell dragged a hand down his face, rubbing beneath his eyes. He offered Flans a blank stare. “Are you implying you’d rather me sleep on the floor?” he asked plainly, his gaze now the one surveying the musty carpet. He didn’t seem pleased with the idea, and Flans quickly jumped in to correct himself.
“No, no, that’s–that’s not what I meant,” he quickly interjected, the words tumbling out quicker than he had intended them to. He shook his head and waved his hands in dismissal of the claim. “We can just… share the bed,” he proposed hesitantly. The question appeared to hang between them for a moment, and fear began to chip away at his previous confidence to even ask. Flansburgh felt as though this bordered an unknown territory between them, like overstepping a boundary that had never really been actually addressed. They had been friends for, what, over a decade at this point, and Flansburgh was afraid to ask Linnell to sleep in the same bed as him? It seemed like the friendly and respectable thing to do in this kind of situation. Perhaps Flans should’ve just accepted what he was given instead of trying to make a fuss over how they shared the bed. It was selfish to try and push his friend, and yet Flans was hoping he said yes.
Linnell’s brows furrowed for a moment. The brunette glanced at the bed, then back to Flansburgh, who continued to await his decision expectantly. He appeared to be uncomfortable with the concept. As his expression betrayed the slightest bit of discomfort, Flans quickly jumped in to correct himself.
“If–if not, you know, it’s all right. Sleeping on the floor’s okay. I’m a tough soldier,” John amended, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to brush off the wave of embarrassment that had surely flushed his cheeks a nice shade of red.
“No, it’s fine. We’ll just…” Linnell paused, thinking. “Put a pillow between us. Like a barrier.”
Flans nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Okay. That works,” he replied, an undertone of relief beneath his words. They both got a bed, and the pillow simply acted as a formality. Linnell didn’t want to make things weird. Fine. That was totally alright, and even a little expected. It didn’t bother Flans that much. Why should it? He wanted to serve Linnell, make sure he was as comfortable as possible. The hotel room was one big unfortunate mishap anyhow, and therefore Linnell had the say in how they shared the bed.
“I’m going to change,” Linnell stated matter-of-factly. Flans nodded dutifully as his friend slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Flansburgh ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight to his other foot as he stared momentarily at the closed bathroom door. Then he turned, slipping off his black cardigan and removing his shoes, kicking them off in the corner of the room. A sigh escaped his lips, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He hoped at least the bed was comfortable; it would make his efforts in sharing it less embarrassing. He wasn’t sure if he truly would’ve rather slept on the floor, especially given John’s reaction to the offer in the first place. What was Flans even thinking? He was almost entirely sure Linnell didn’t like him as more than a friend. Well, best friends. But best friends occasionally slept together, didn’t they? Not sleep sleep together, but they did at least sleep next to one another once in a while.
Flans was most definitely overthinking this. He was also tired. Very, very tired, and his brain wasn’t functioning like a normal human brain. He was worrying too much over something that mattered so little. Linnell wasn’t going to think this was weird unless Flansburgh somehow made it weird. It would be a one-time thing that they could never mention again for the foreseeable future. Not that Flans had been hoping for an opportunity like this; one room, close proximity, so close… John knew that nothing was going to come of this except him maybe slipping into the hobby of double-checking their hotel arrangements to prevent this happening a second time. Their friendship would be preserved. No line had been crossed.
He stepped cautiously towards the bed, inspecting the off-white spread, pulling back the thin blanket tucked beneath the pillows. He had slipped out of his jeans into a more favorable pair of shorts, and now sat on the bed. He heard the creak of a door opening, and out padded Linnell, dressed in his nightwear.
“So, I suppose we’ll just..” Linnell contemplated for a moment, coming over to the bed to pick one of the pillows. He just about half-crawled onto the bed, having one knee planted on the mattress. He set the pillow down right behind Flans, which essentially split the bed into two halves; not very big halves, but decently sized ones. “Like that,” he said, leaning back just enough to admire his work.
Linnell climbed into bed beside him (or, rather, on the other side of the bed and pillow barrier; Flansburgh couldn’t really constitute it as being beside him). “Right. Well..” Flans extracted his glasses and folded them, setting them on the nightstand next to him. This whole ritual felt a tad awkward. Or, just… unusual, was all. It almost seemed as though his bandmate was going out of his way to avoid any and all contact. It was slightly discouraging, as though Flans was some sort of disease that Linnell didn’t want to contract. Maybe John needed to enforce his sexuality, and this was his way of essentially shouting at Flans that he only favored women. Right, that would make sense. Flans assumed that anyhow, although some part of him still wished that maybe he wasn’t. That maybe this night could have evolved into something more; a connection, a revelation, a swap of body heat and desire, and…
Who was he kidding? What kind of sane person had those thoughts about their best friend? Jesus, Flans really needed to snap out of it. He realized he had been in the middle of saying something, and stuttered his words as he quickly mumbled, “Uh. Night, John.”
As Flans settled in for the night, it became excruciatingly clear that he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
It was silent, aside from Linnell’s soft breathing next to him. It was a nice sound. Comforting. He likely could’ve slipped into a dreamless rest if not for his mind wandering to other places. He was ashamed for even entertaining the listless ideas he often formed in his head. It was shameful, made him feel a creep. He felt especially unclean for fantasizing about John while they slept in the same bed together. It felt like a betrayal, a true line that he was crossing where he was unsure if he could ever go back.
Yet, Flans didn’t try very hard to stop himself. In fact, it was relatively easy to let his mind go to other places.
He thought maybe if things were different, Linnell wouldn’t have fallen asleep next to him so easily. The concept of a pillow acting as a barrier would have been thrown out of the window, and instead they’d be laying right next to each other, close enough to feel one another’s breath on their cheek. Flans imagined in this scenario that Linnell would whisper, so quietly he could barely hear, “I know you like me, John. I’ve noticed.”
Flans wasn’t sure if he would say anything back. He was at a loss for words, even in his own head. Linnell would reach out, fingers brushing against his face, the tips of them ghosting over his skin. His hands would drift lower, running over the fabric of Flansburgh’s shirt, and his lips would curl into a smile. “Flansy… I hope you know you’re bad at keeping secrets.”
Those surprisingly deft hands would slip beneath Flans’ shirt, exploring the flesh beneath as Linnell shifted closer to him on the bed, his lips mere inches from Flans’ own. He could feel his bandmate’s warm breath tickling his chin, could see the way John’s eyes looked up at him, framed by those beautiful eyelashes. Flans’ own breath would hitch, heart pounding against his chest like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. He’d lean forward, and…
Then the scene stopped abruptly, evaporating like mist as Flans shot up in the shared hotel bed of him and his best friend.
He found that sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead and that an uncomfortable bulge had manifested itself in his pants. Next to him, Linnell stirred, barely visible in the darkness that blanketed the room, but visible enough that a glimpse of his face caused Flansburgh’s pulse to spike. “You alright?” Linnell mumbled, his voice quiet, confused.
“Sure,” Flans sputtered, throwing the blanket off of himself and getting out of bed, causing him to nearly trip as he attempted to get his footing. He groped for his glasses on the nightstand, putting them on and blinking a couple of times. “I.. uhm.. I had a bad dream, ‘n… gotta use the bathroom,” he replied, his voice impossibly high, shuffling to the bathroom as quickly as he could in the dark.
As soon as he stepped inside, he shut the door behind him, hastily turning on the light switch and then helplessly scrambling to lock the door. When he heard it click, he let out a small sigh of relief. Unfortunately, the incessant ache in his groin had not subsided by any means. He stumbled back a few steps, eyeing the door as though Linnell was going to come barging in at any moment. He wasn’t sure how thin the walls were, but he certainly wasn’t going to return to bed with a prominent boner.
He pressed his back to the wall, spitting into his palm as he slid down his shorts and boxers just enough to be able to take himself in his hand. A fresh wave of shame rolled through him as he began to stroke down the length of his dick. A small whine was dragged out of him, and he quickly covered his mouth. He didn’t know how thin these walls were, but considering how shitty the service had been and how cheap it was, it was viable Linnell could hear him if he were too loud.
God, he was pathetic.
His mind was prone to slipping back into his more degenerate trains of thought. Linnell, on his knees before him, helping him take off his pants, fingers hooking around the waistband of his boxers. Hands searching him gently, almost agonizingly slowly. Linnell’s large brown eyes were taunting, almost, looking up at him from his spot on the floor. His dark, shaggy hair framed his face
Even in his own fantasies, Flansburgh was pathetic. He’d beg for Linnell to touch him. He craved it, his desire blocking out any sort of rationality. Linnell would oblige eventually, ceasing the teasing and finally giving into Flans’ wants.
In reality, Flans’ movements grew quicker, a little more erratic. The pleasure he garnered from this was obscene. He felt filthy, and yet he couldn’t stop. His breath had quickened, the palm over his mouth muffling as much sound as possible. His heart thundered behind his ribs, making him feel ill. He felt like he could vomit. That didn’t matter.
He came into his hand, shuddering as the orgasm filled his body with a sick sort of pleasure. He slumped against the wall of the bathroom, his main focus being on regulating his breathing. He managed to restore himself to a semi-stable state, taking his hand off of his cock and reaching for the toilet paper. He wiped his hand off, throwing the wad into the toilet bowl and flushing.
Flans pulled his shorts back up and turned on the sink, briskly rubbing his hands clean. He held them under the water for a while, attempting to completely rid himself of any remains of guilt. The evidence of his misdeed was gone, which was all that mattered to him in that moment.
Paranoia continued to gnaw at him as he turned to leave, hands fumbling with the lock in the door once more. Though, he figured if John had somehow heard him, he would’ve said something a long time ago. He turned the lights off as he exited the bathroom, stepping foot back into the room swathed in shadows. As he inched towards the bed, he could spot Linnell. He appeared unmoving; most likely asleep, if Flans had to guess.
It looked as though the cards were in his favor.
He walked quietly back to his side of the bed, taking off his glasses and putting them on the nightstand. He got back into bed, turned over on his side, and attempted to finally sleep.