awww yis. i wrote this in half an hour.

I KIND OF LIKE IT EVEN THOUGH IT’S PROBABLY FULL OF TYPOS.


“What’re we gonna do when the tour ends?”

Porter’s question takes Anton by surprise and he looks up from his computer screen with a small line between his thick brows and a tension to his upper lip, like he’s pursing them in his confusion. “What do you mean?” he responds and his eyes immediately go back to his computer screen, trying to ignore the way Porter shifts a little closer. It makes his palms sweat and his heart rate increase and he tries to distract himself by dragging samples across the screen, organising them. Porter always did make fun of his inability to organise his computer neatly.
“Like, are we still going to hang out ‘nd stuff?” Porter asks. He leans back into the small couch attached to the side of their bus, feeling the vibrations of the road and the engine, sweating and groaning in the summer heat.

Anton makes a sound of thought, noncommittal, and he licks his lips and drags a file into another folder while he tries to think up an answer that wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary for two boys living on a tour bus together. Two boys who have seen each other naked countless times, but never acted on it. Two boys - young men, rather, both too shy to confess the way their hearts race and their stomachs fill with butterflies the moment the other enters a room. “It’s just tonight’s our last show,” Porter prompts and Anton nods, murmurs, “I know.”
He takes a deep breath and itches the side of his face. He needs to shave. He looks at Porter, at his eyes, then his mouth and then down to the ratty, threadbare carpet of the tour bus, worn from parties and frequent dragging of drunken feet. “I’d like to still hang out and stuff, man. Like, we could have sleep-overs and stuff.”

The phrase ‘sleep-overs’ makes Porter giggle and Anton frowns at him, “What’s so funny?” Porter smiles at him and touches his hair and gets up off the couch to retire to his bunk for a nap.
“Nothing,” he says, “I just haven’t heard someone use the word ‘sleep-over’ since I was, like, thirteen.”
Anton flushes, “Oh,” and looks back down at his computer screen, trying to ignore the way Porter pulls off his shirt as he disappears into the sleeping-sector of the bus.

Porter tries to ignore the way Anton doesn’t look at him.

- - -

Joel was there, with Sonny and Ellie and Roadhog. They all had alcohol; Sonny was drinking beer, Ellie some pink, mixed thing, while Roadhog and Joel shared three bottles of champagne between themselves. Of course Porter and Anton were offered sips here and there, sips that turned to gulps that turned to competitions to see who could drink the most when their set finished. Porter’s buzzed with alcohol and Red Bull and he can hardly stand up straight. He’s leaning into Roadhog’s side as he takes the boys back to their bus; he has Anton under his right arm and Porter under his left. The pair of them are laughing and giggling about a joke Joel told some ten minutes back, and as Roadhog opens the door to their bus, Anton complains about having sore ribs.
“I’ll be back in a few, alright?” Roadhog tells them as the pair crawl up the stairs. They both nod and collapse, breathless, onto the floor. Roadhog eyes the two of them for a moment, trying to gauge the odds of one of them choking on his own vomit. He shakes his head, makes a mental note to bring as many bottles of water as he can, and repeats, “I’ll be back in a few.” He closes the door, locks it from the outside; it’d be no help for a crazed fan to find their way inside while Anton and Porter are in such a state.

The pair hardly notice Roadhog’s absence. They wheeze quiet laughter together on the floor, their hands hanging loosely above their chests and then Porter turns his head, focuses bleary, bloodshot eyes on Anton’s handsome, handsome face. “Promise we’ll still.. Promise we’ll still see each other?” he asks and Anton hums, nods, rolls onto his side and then their mouths are touching, slick and sweet with champagne and Ellie’s drink, warm.
At first, they battle for positions, writhing and rolling but Anton finds himself on top and he breathes out a happy, hot hum through his nose as they kiss. He doesn’t realise he’s practically humping Porter until he feels bony hipbones press up against his own pelvis. He shudders, moans and his efforts are renewed. He grinds harder but they can’t get enough friction through their jeans, just frustrating heat and the firm of their hard cocks. With a whine, Anton pulls away, sits up and grinds again. That’s better, but the way Porter’s nose crinkles means it isn’t good. He stands up as best he can with a liquid, nervous laugh.

“Take your jeans off?” he says and it comes out as more of a question because he’s trying very hard not to fall over. Porter does as he’s told down on the ground and even takes his shirt off. He leaves his necklaces though. That makes Anton smile as he lowers himself down atop him again. Their legs tangle, all coarse hair and lean muscle and now their cocks can touch with nothing but a thin layer of cotton to separate them. Both boys hiss heatedly through their teeth, grind harder, more desperate now. Anton kisses Porter again, slack, smooth tongues that slip and slide over one another as Anton thumbs at Porter’s nipple. He flicks it and smiles with the gasp he gets in response. Anton doesn’t quite notice it until some time after, but Porter pulls his shirt off and flings it onto the couch. They go back to grinding and whenever the heads of their cocks, peeking from the waistbands of their boxers touch, it’s electric, all sudden gasps and stuttering hips with the intensity.
It’s all wandering hands for a few minutes, all exploration, learning. Anton plays with Porter’s nipples and finds out that they’re almost too sensitive to deal with much stimulation at all and Porter learns that Anton’s nipples might as well be non-existent - unless he tongues them, or bites them. That always gets a hitch of Anton’s breath. They touch backs and bellies as they kiss, touching warm, smooth skin and learning the contours of bodies, of life beneath their fingertips. By the time they finally reach one another’s cocks, they’re on the verge of coming.

Anton pushes his own underwear down, kicks it off and Porter wriggles out of his until they’re stuck around his left ankle. Anton fondles behind Porter’s balls, at the dry, soft pucker there and he rubs at it with his finger, slowly, nervous that he’s going to hurt him. With a lick of his lips and a nervous look, Porter reaches up, slides his hand down Anton’s back and into the cleft of his ass, mimics him. Neither of them push in, they just stroke and rub until their breathing is heavy and their dicks are dripping, clear and constant. They pull their hands away from the other’s ass, and Porter wraps his hand around the both of their cocks. They thrust hungrily, moaning and gasping, and it only takes ten or eleven strokes of Porter’s warm, rough hand for Anton to break their kiss, pull away biting his lip as he spurts onto Porter’s belly. Porter takes advantage of the extra lubrication and, with a final sprint, his hand a blur, his back arches tight and strong and he comes.

Anton thinks it’s beautiful and wishes, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he could take a photo of that moment, all parted lips and furrowed brow.

They lay atop one another afterwards, half on their sides and half entangled, hands still roaming and holding, legs intertwined. They smile giddily, giggle occasionally, hold hands and kiss and touch noses and they sigh, slowly, as their eyes close in unison.

They don’t stir when Roadhog opens the door and drops all of the waterbottles he brought for them. They don’t stir when he places pillows under their heads and pulls their underwear back on for the both of them. He washes their bellies, even, and the damp, hot cloth only makes Porter squirm a little. He leaves water for them on the floor and takes a blanket from Anton’s bunkum throwing it over the two of them. He tries not to watch and smile as they nuzzle closer to one another.

He turns off the bus light and leaves, locking the door for a final time that night.

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