Combined word count: 1518
Rating: way NC-17
Gratuitous band photos of the two of them: Tyler Jordan in eyeliner and Quentin at the drums
It always felt better to play in a place you knew, Quentin thought. The club he started playing in had his band, Ghost Universe, on deck at least every three weeks. He knew the people who showed up there. And when some band came in on a Thursday night, when he was just there to be social, it was obvious that these guys were new on the scene. The band was called Fire at the Cinema, with a pretty boy bassist, a fruity-looking frontman, a trying-too-hard sort of vibe. The drummer sucked, in Quentin's professional opinion, and the rhythm guitarist was either on speed or off his ritalin. But the bassist-- he was good. Pretty. A perfect rockstar pout and a smooth style of chording.
After their set, the band went backstage, and Quentin grabbed his drink and went to hover by the door. It sounded like there was some yelling, back there, and Quentin wasn't exactly surprised when someone came storming out of the door. That it was the pretty bassist did surprise him, though. "Hey-- hold up," he cried, following the guy a few steps behind.
The guy didn't stop until he reached the bar; finally he turned to pin Quentin with a stare. Dark brown eyes, black hair, looked like he wanted to punch someone, but still: pretty. "What do you want?" he asked, voice rough.
"I just wanted to tell you that I thought you were really good," Quentin finally said, a second delayed from staring. "When's your next gig?" The guy snorted, shaking his head and turning back to the bartender.
"There is no next gig. Fucking Sasha just kicked me out of the band. Fucking asshole douchebag singer." Quentin looked up at him, eyebrows arched, and paid for his drink before the bassist could get his wallet out. "Hey, what-- thank you."
"Come talk to me, man. If you're a free agent, I have a proposition to make." Quentin stuck out one hand, a little wet from his drink and uncomfortably clammy. "I'm Quentin. Drummer for Ghost Universe."
"No shit? I've seen you guys play a few times." The hand that took Quentin's was hot, but no drier than his own. "I'm Tyler Jordan. Tell me about this proposition."
TJ took to Ghost Universe a lot better than Quentin had hoped he would. Frank had quit the band only a few days before Quentin stumbled across the younger bassist; Tyler Jordan was willing to take risks, to riff a little, play around with the bass lines, and the songs improved with the tweaking. At their shows, the crowds started to swell.
As their number of fans shot up exponentially, their afterparties got wilder and wilder. People started showing up with kegs, joints and blunts, baggies of pills and powders. Quentin hated to drink, but he smoked and popped hydros; he caught TJ sniffing a line off a bathroom counter during one party, licked the stray powder off his upper lip and slid his tingling tongue into TJ's mouth.
Honestly, it had just started as a stage thing. There was no way TJ hadn't planned it; there was no spur of the moment way to make out with a man at a drum set. One time, though, Andy launched into a long guitar solo, and TJ let his bass hang at his waist, walking back to tug at Quentin's hair until the drummer looked up, then diving into a hot, messy, exaggerated kiss. Quentin finished the set half-cocked, wanting nothing more than to pin his bandmate into a wall and steal that kiss back, but the bassist disappeared right after their set. They didn't talk about it for weeks, but that didn't stop some very hot goofing around on stage.
Then it started to spill off the stage. TJ tended to get wasted hard at the afterparties, doing kegstands and lines until he could hardly stand up. More than once he ended up sprawled in Quentin's lap, the drummer stoned and still right there to babysit for his trashed bassist, stroking back TJ's hair as he whimpered about wanting to puke. By the time Quentin started to do more than just pet, TJ had started acting a lot more trashed than he was, playing his way into Quentin's arms and then shamelessly begging for sympathy in the form of kisses and touches. Quentin had wiry arms, strong skinny drummer's arms, and loud rooms seemed suddenly quieter whenever he wrapped them around Tyler Jordan.
Of course, that led to just making out on the couch; the messy hungry way TJ kissed on stage wasn't just for show, and Quentin found out that it was really nice to pin the younger man to the couch and make out with him for what felt like hours, even though it was probably only a few minutes. More than once, they'd broken, breathless, out of a liplock, only to find a small cluster of fans (mostly female, but more than a few male) watching them intently.
Andy bitched about it a little at first, but when he walked in on a quick mutual handjob before a practice, he shut up and never mentioned the gay again.
Their biggest show yet was at the Metro Demolition, 750 tickets and all sold out. They rocked out hard, on fire, every band member in his own groove but working together smoothly. Andy was fighting off a cold, but the rasp in his voice was electric, adding a perfect level of harshness to the songs.
TJ didn't even touch Quentin that show, just gave him flirty teasing looks across the stage; by the time they made it to the party afterward, though, TJ was already in Quentin's lap in the car. The bassist wrapped strong fingers around his bandmate's wrist and pulled Quentin off to a bathroom, locking the door behind him. "Good show," he purred, leaning up to nibble on Quentin's ear as he pushed his hand into the other man's jeans, no preliminaries needed.
"Yeah," Quentin agreed, hips pressing into TJ's touch needily. "You were on fire. The crowd loves you, you know." TJ squeezed, teased, completely unnecessarily as Quentin was already hard as he could get.
"I know, I'm the hottest one in the band," TJ said unselfconsciously, pulling his hand out to work Quentin's fly open. "They screamed pretty loud when you took your shirt off."
"That's because I was reflecting the spotlights into their eyes," Quentin joked; he let out a little sigh when he sprang free of his underwear, bobbing into TJ's loosely curled fingers. "Fuck, it's amazing that we're catching the wave. Finally. Since you arrived."
"I'm telling you, it's all about the eye candy." TJ shut Quentin up with another kiss, knocking his head back into the tiled wall. "Don't move, Q." He pinned Quentin's wrists to the wall, too, sliding to his knees in front of the drummer. "Hold still." There was a little brown packet in TJ's pocket; he pulled it out and tapped one side lightly.
Quentin watched, silent, as Tyler Jordan laid out a line on his skin, holding his cock steady with two calloused fingers. It tickled when the other man sniffed it off, tickled more when he licked where the powder had lay. When TJ wrapped his mouth around Quentin, though, it wrung a curse from his lips, fervent and shocked. "Shit! TJ!"
It wasn't the first blowjob they'd swapped, but the drug on TJ's tongue made Quentin tingle and writhe and come almost embarrassingly fast, grabbing at the wall and at TJ's hair for support. TJ spit into the sink and kissed Quentin again when he stood up, a bitter, jittery liplock. Quentin could feel the pulse beating through the bassist, fast and hard like the opening to a song, and he knew he could imitate that heartbeat with his drumsticks, write a song, no one would ever know what it was about except the two of them.
Quentin hauled his pants up, pulled TJ's down and wrapped himself around the other man from behind. One hand settled firm against his hip; the other got right to it, jerking TJ teasingly slow. "Man, I made the right call with you. You're a fucking star, baby." He thought his words would get lost in the nape of TJ's neck, sweaty hair and salty skin, but TJ moaned and thrust into Quentin's hand demandingly. "Some day, we're gonna get a record deal, it's gonna be your fault..." A tight squeeze; TJ gasped and shook as Quentin added, right into his ear, "Day that happens, I'm going to take you home and fuck you until you forget what a guitar is."
He'd had no idea that a little promise like that could make TJ freak out so hardcore; it barely took two quick, shaky thrusts before TJ was collapsing back into Quentin's arms, knees gone totally weak as he came into the drummer's hand. "Fuck," Tyler Jordan said softly, face turned up to the ceiling but eyes closed. "Fuck, Q, if I make you famous, you'd better do that."