Work Text:
Power Station tour, 1985
If he rubbed the pads of his fingers too hard, he half-expected static to blaze between them. The air felt so - a tangled web of electricity, a crackle ready to snake out and strike.
Heated wind blew, whistling through the gaps in the window netting through the curtains, which weren’t fully closed. The occupants hadn’t bothered to close them - such mundanity - when they stepped into the room, overcome by the sole goal their minds harboured instead.
Even in their haven, the damp scent of the summer mixed in with the thickness of their own. Even the sheets, the strewn cloth below them, they could feel the heat, frisking around their skin.
John stared up, inhaling slowly while his eyes raked over the wretched popcorn ceiling. He barely registered the unsightly decor as body warmth started to prickle its way around his ankles.
Oh.
He could only look up.
Oh. Hands.
It wasn’t his sinuses smarting this time. Toughened skin on skin, calluses on calluses. Rubbing with a jolting tenderness at John’s soles, stroking over meshed skin where the glass long gone had left that stitched scar.
John shivered.
More so when they slid up his calves - the man above couldn’t help but notice the solidness of the skin under his touching hand, unlike the scrawniness of before.
He often couldn’t tell, with John’s frame often so hidden and cloaked - until moments like now, where the taller man’s hands had reached down.
Untying, discarding and inviting him.
The invitation was accepted, welcomed, the RSVP confirmation made with a sigh as the wetness of lips traveled softly up his right thigh, complemented with the grip he found himself in.
Let another sigh slip.
The roughness, the insistence of those fingertips on his hips counterbalanced the silky trail that the mouth was guiding itself on. The sprite’s touch, yet that of a man all the same.
So very Andy.
Kisses applied so tenderly that all thoughts but those concerning them escaped, though he remained wired with the thought of what them heading upward meant.
Nothing, John realised, with a harassed groan, and a gleeful chuckle from the smaller man, deciding roguishly to skip the cliche waiting impatiently for him.
“Andy!”
The prick!
He rubbed it softly for good measure and a jolt.
You prick, sprang to mind, yet a tortured noise escaped instead.
“Got ya, didn’t I?” Andy rose up into view with a smile to rival an imp’s, grin widening at John both thunderous and blissed out, culminating in a cross between a huff and growl.
Get your head back down, Ands you idiot!
Their eyes dueled before Andy darted again down, journeying past - much to John’s dismay - and pressing a few pecks to John’s belly below.
Got some chub on you now, eh? There was more to the heaving body below him then when he last remembered, though it was soft to his lips, skin still very much milky and rippling under the slide of his tongue.
But he didn’t mention it. He didn’t need that John right now, prickly and argumentative.
It wasn’t time for thorns and an argument. Now was to revel and feel.
The notion felt desperately intimate in that moment. Them, together, where they couldn’t name a single thing about the room around them except for what they’d taken earlier. Premium stuff it was.
Leaving them with bleary eyes and bodies to taste.
Yet… it meant so much more than that. They meant so much more than that.
Surely?
Surely it was more than just a taste, but a feeling too. One that stayed even when they shut their eyes, one they could get hopelessly lost in.
John forgot how to breathe, as he felt Andy’s hand drift out to grab his, nerves high as the other man paused a second before stealing a darting kiss to his knuckles.
The fuck, Ands?!
Split second warmth. Then gone.
A moment’s innocent glow, so misplaced yet so perfect, in Andy’s eyes greeted him. A schoolboy cheek that caught John off guard, spreading pink anywhere and everywhere.
Are you blushing, girlie?!, the hazy eyes widened conspiratorially.
John couldn’t speak, opting for a lazy smile to quell all that raged below. He didn’t know what to say, about to run his mouth faster than he ran his mind. Though he was left no choice, twisting itself into a murmur when the accused brought themselves back down to lather his chest.
He wanted to tell Andy to sod off at his jibes over the newly sprouted chest hair, though failed terribly when the impish mouth played at his nipples, hardening as it bit playfully.
“Andy!”
A lovely pain, he whined and laughed, cutting through in a glorious haze.
Sweat that pooled at his collarbone fell between the other man’s tongue, tasting among the broad shoulders that lay, arching and groaning at the feeling.
One thing he could never tire of - that mouth, everywhere. Andy, everywhere, among the rumpled sheets.
Softly. Going slow.
Daring that current to arc and electrocute them, again and again.
It was daring, the basis of it all. Free drinks and free flow on their free nights, to occupy their minds.
Power Station, what Power Station?
Andy nipped sharply at his neck, exploring each inch of the skin like a map and choosing a special spot to mark the X.
Mark it. And suck, until mauve would later bloom.
Hissing through a smile, John’s contentment undeniable.
Sharing face height, the hooded eyes couldn’t lie, almost undone from the trip, though more intense in that moment than they could comprehend. Staring deeper than the small space between them could allow, though unsure of where to look.
Not sure of what they expected, what exactly they wanted to see.
Oh, to hell with it!
Sparks snapped in John as he entwined his fingers in the tangled strands, tugging them down. Slinging his foot over Andy, tugging him down closer.
Tugging that body closer and feeling it, against him.
With the meeting of their lips, and their hips, it was all that mattered.
That heady, dizzying meeting.
That faintly alcoholic, burnt lick of the cigarette, roughness undercutting the soft of their molded lips.
Gritty, yet earnest, in the way Andy always was.
Painfully so.
Blown away by the sensation of nearly nothing and just about everything, body contact turned them to crisp, high hurling them far, far away from their humid retreat.
A pulsation just then that would burn John right through. All from Andy.
Hands threaded into the depths of Andy’s hair again, he balled his hand into fists amidst the strands. Losing himself again in the burn of the touch atop his dampened skin, his moans swallowed.
Breaths dispersed into the tiniest of embers, set alight by the hot breeze, leaving ashes on the sweat-slicked sheets in its wake.
They really were each other’s tinder, ready to let them re-ignite for as long as they were willing.
To let them scorch and keep their fire alight.
Burn bright together, now and forever. Perhaps.