Matt's been hyped for the show all day, driving everybody crazy when they rolled into Chicago and when they went out to dinner. At first people kept telling him to not wear himself out before he even got on the fucking stage, and he kept telling them there was no way in hell he was going to stop being that fucking excited about playing in Chicago.
By the time the Smoking Popes come backstage after their set and Matt tries to climb Josh -- who is shorter than him -- and make out with Eli's sweaty but awesomely shiny t-shirt, and there are only about twenty minutes to go before the Trio hit the stage, people start believing him.
Derek finally drags Matt into the green room. Shoving him in, Derek orders him to "find your fucking Zen or something, seriously, because if you freak out and, like, climb up on my riser and bust my drums during the show I will fucking kill you," and leaves him there.
He's way too fucking wired for meditation, so Matt decides to try booze. There's Jack and Miller Lite and a few other bottles Matt doesn't bother checking the labels of before sampling them all.
His plan is to drink just enough to keep himself from climbing the walls without getting so wasted he can't play or sing. The problem is, he can hear the low, rumbling hum of the audience through the walls and doors, and the occasional shout when Steinke checks a mic or does something dorky on Derek's drums.
It gets under Matt's skin. He's so fucking stoked to get out there. He wants to head straight for the floor and get his hands on every awesome sweaty fan he possibly can.
Security will get very annoyed with him if he dives into the crowd before they play even one song, though. Something about the crowd getting rowdy enough later in the show without cranking up the chaos two seconds in.
Dudes can be a bunch of buzzkills, but they keep the fabulously whacked-out kids from flinging themselves on stage and destroying equipment so Matt tries to keep them happy.
Unfortunately the booze is not working. He's not getting wasted, which is good, but he's still struggling not to come out of his skin. The pre-show buzz is always a fantastic trip, but something about playing in Chicago -- in his hometown, in his favorite concert hall where's he's been coming to see shows since he was, like, fucking eleven -- makes it almost unbearable. In the best possible way, but still.
The noise level spikes as the door opens. Dan leans on the doorknob as he swings the door open, saying to the person following him in,
" -- going to that show? I mean...really?"
Matt would be deadly curious about what has Dan sounding so incredulous, but then he sees who Dan's letting in the room --
"Hell yeah." Bob apparently doesn't feel that his wide-eyed earnest-face is convincing enough, because he actually puts a hand over his hoodie-covered heart. "The guy is my fucking hero. I mean, I love you guys, but, come on. Paul McCartney."
Despite the fact that he knows he has got to be missing some major context, Matt bursts out laughing. As excited as he already is about the show, the surprise and extra pleasure at seeing Bob doesn't have anywhere to go except into laughing.
Bob hadn't said a word about coming to Chicago when they talked the night before. Granted most of that conversation involved smoking hot phone sex, but still.
And here Matt hadn't thought the night could get any better.
Bob's earnest expression breaks when Matt laughs, and his eyes twinkle as he glances at Matt and tries to stifle a small smile.
Shaking his head, Dan rolls his eyes at Bob. "You motherfucker." He grins, though, when he slams the door behind Bob; a second later it opens and he pokes his head back in. "And don't keep him too long, we go on in fifteen."
Bob gives a mock salute -- to the closed door, since Dan shut it without waiting for a response -- and turns to smile at Matt.
Matt crosses to Bob, still laughing. "When are you going to cut that thing off?"
Stroking his narrow, longish scraggly beard -- it looks like a sad, strawberry-blond attempt at an Egyptian pharaoh beard or some damn thing -- Bob says, "Shut up, I like it."
"It's goofy as fuck," Matt says. He bats Bob's hand away and wraps a hand around the beard, giving it a gentle tug. Then, still gently, Matt uses it to pull Bob forward, tilting Bob's head up and leaning in until their lips brush together. "But actually, I kinda like it too."
He twines Bob's beard around two fingers and slides the fingers of his free hand up through Bob's hair while they kiss. He doesn't realize he's pushing Bob backwards until Bob staggers back a step, thumping up against the closed door and grabbing Matt's waist to steady himself. He doesn't realize he's got his teeth sunk into Bob's lower lip until Bob pulls back a little.
"Ow, ow." Bob grabs Matt's wrist and gives it a shake. He's laughing as he gets his mouth free, and tries to get his beard free too. "Ow, Jesus, if you hate the beard that much you could just tell me. You don't have to yank it off."
Of course Bob doesn't comment on having his lip gnawed on. Discovering Bob's biting kink had been one of Matt's best days ever.
"Sorry." Matt slides his hand down Bob's side to tuck his fingers in Bob's waistband, and nuzzles Bob's chin. "When did you get here? I didn't even know you were coming."
Bob lets his hands drift up and down Matt's back. "It was kind of a last minute thing. Flew in a couple of hours ago. I was hoping to get here in time to hear the Popes play, but there were three gazillion people all coming to the same general area." He shivers a little as Matt trails a kiss down to the ticklish spot on his neck, and pokes Matt in the side to get him back. "Fucking Paul McCartney fans everywhere."
Pulling back enough to see Bob's face, Matt says, "You braved mobs of Paul McCartney fans just to see the Smoking Popes? Gosh, you are one dedicated fan."
Bob snorts. "It sure wasn't to see my spaz of a boyfriend. You're bouncing off the walls, aren't you."
"Fuck yes. It's Chicago, man." Matt hooks a leg between Bob's and snakes his arms around him, pressing them together just in case feeling every inch of Bob against him might cure his restlessness. It doesn't but damn it feels good. "How long are you staying? Long enough to have lots of sweaty, dirty post-show sex?"
Because he's awesome, Bob gropes back. "Well, yeah," he says, like Matt's kind of an idiot for even having to ask. "I have to fly out Wednesday afternoon but that's time enough for all kinds of things."
"Things other than sex?" Matt asks, a little vaguely. Long fingers fumbling with his belt seem to have something intriguing planned.
Pressing his mouth to Matt's neck Bob mumbles against his skin, "Thought maybe we could go to the Field Museum tomorrow?"
Matt lets his head fall back and laughs. He doesn't interrupt Bob's progress getting his belt open, but he says, "Is that what this is -- back stage hand job to coerce me into going to the museum with you?"
Eyes sparkling, Bob fights a grin. "Hey, whatever works." He parts the belt and pops the top button of Matt's pants. "But, I just -- I keep not having time for it when I'm in town, and it's been, like, two years since the last time I got to go."
"Yeah, well, I haven't been since I was ten, and I'm kinda proud of that." He'd had to go for a school field trip. He remembers being bored out of his skull and sneaking off to the bathroom and writing Misfits lyrics on the wall of one of the stalls.
Suddenly the hands on his pants stop cold. Matt frowns at them and then at Bob. He's about to voice his objection, but the expression on Bob's face stops him.
"Ten? Are you kidding? That means you haven't seen Sue!" Bob shakes his head, and it looks like he can't decide whether to feel sorry for Matt or really, really excited that he has some new geeky thing to foist on him.
Before Matt can ask who the hell Sue is, Bob grips Matt's waistband and turns them, pushing Matt firmly against the door and kissing him hard and fast. “Look, never mind about the museum right now. Just, shut up, because you have about ten minutes before you have to go on stage and I have a present for you."
Bob sinks to his knees, drawing Matt's pants zipper down as he went.
"Shutting up," Matt says on an exhale.
Tugging Matt's pants down just enough to where he can get to Matt's dick, Bob slides his hands in over Matt's underwear, palming Matt's hipbones. He leans forward and presses a soft, wet kiss against Matt's belly, then skims his lips downward.
Matt's already half hard; all it takes is the heat of Bob's mouth around the bulge of his cock to get him the rest of the way there.
Since the clock is running Bob doesn't take his time. Matt's underwear gets shoved down just far enough that Bob can get a hand in between his legs to cup his balls. A quick, sloppy swirl of Bob's tongue over the head of Matt's cock -- and Bob makes this sound, and it's like he had to get a taste of Matt before he starts, and goddamn that just makes the heat swelling through his cock so much hotter -- and he takes Matt into his mouth.
Matt lets his head fall back against the door with a thud. It's a struggle to keep still; the wet, hot pressure of Bob's mouth around his cock feeds the buzz that's already got him on edge and he wants to move, fuck Bob's face fast and hard and as desperate as he feels.
Instead he buries his hands in Bob's hair and curls his fingers, tightening and loosening his grip to the rhythm of every pull, suck and press of Bob's tongue.
Matt can still remember the first time Bob gave him a blow job. It's quite possibly the hottest thing that's ever been done to him, partly because Bob sucking dick is just smoking hot, period, but partly because Bob had never done it before, wasn't sure about it, but did it, for Matt.
And honestly, Bob's technique hasn't improved a whole hell of a lot since then -- Matt has definitely been with people with more skill in that department -- and he's never tried to take it too deep after that first time, but every sloppy, eager, passionate blow job Bob's given him are still a million fucking times hotter than any other time someone else went down on him.
Using the hands gripping Bob's hair, Matt tilts Bob's head back just a little, just enough so he can see Bob's mouth stretched around his cock, and the way Bob's cheeks have flushed deep pink. Just the sight of it has Matt's balls tightening, heat pooling fast in his belly.
Then Bob looks up at him, his eyes dark blue in the lousy green room light. His hand slides between Matt's legs again, he looks down, and he pulls Matt forward. His mouth slides down the length of Matt's cock, not stopping, and fuck there's the back of Bob's throat.
Bob stays there, swirling his tongue, hand erratically kneading Matt's balls, and then he makes this little humming sound -- a desperate sound, and Matt realizes Bob has his other hand down his own pants and he's jerking off with Matt's cock deep in his throat, and Jesus.
Heat pulses through him in a rush and a blur; Matt manages an incoherent noise, plucking spasmodically at Bob's hair to warn him, and then he's coming.
Bob pulls back a little but not all the way off, swallowing everything down, and fuck that's not something Bob ever does either, and Matt has to clutch Bob's shoulders as the orgasm peaks and his legs nearly buckle.
Eyes closed, slumped bonelessly against the door, Matt feels Bob pull off and sag forward to press his forehead against Matt's thigh. Matt can feel him shudder, hear his breath hitch, and finally feel him go still.
After a moment, Bob lurches back onto his heels. He's still breathing heavily and his face is still flushed; he smiles a little, lazily, up at Matt while he tucks himself back into his pants. Heaving to his feet, he strips off his hoodie -- he's got a long-sleeved shirt on underneath despite the fact that it's fucking August and there's a heat wave going on, the freak -- wipes his hands off on it, swipes it across his mouth, and tosses it onto the couch.
"Bob," Matt breathes. He thinks he should probably pull up his pants, but he suspects he's only still standing because he hasn't tempted gravity by moving yet. "Bob. I mean. Bob."
Bob turns to him and huffs a laugh, and then makes a face. He grabs the bottle of Jack off the coffee table and downs a good swig, and then another one, and shudders.
He must see the worry flash across Matt's face, because he waves him off before he can say something. "I didn't think you'd have time to change clothes before you go on. And. You know. You were all..." He waves vaguely, eyes traveling down Matt's body, and the color that had started to fade from his cheeks flares up just a little again.
Matt nods. "Oh yeah. I was definitely all..." He flaps a hand. "Because you were all..." He flaps the hand at Bob. The flapping makes him realize that, hey, he can move without falling over. He shoves off the wall and starts doing his pants back up as Bob laughs.
"Shit, I hope you can do better than that when you get out on stage. I don't think people came to hear you do instrumental versions of, like, Clavicle or whatever songs you're going to sing."
Matt just smiles beatifically at him. He feels so Zen he wonders if he should write to the Dalai Lama and suggest Buddhists give up trying to meditate to reach Nirvana and just have lots of mind-blowing sex with Bob instead.
He crosses to Bob and loops his arms around Bob's neck. "Thanks for my present," he says against Bob's mouth. The kiss tastes like booze and sex and Bob, which are quite possibly Matt's favorite things in the world, so, score.
But Bob breaks the kiss and shakes his head. "That wasn't your present. That was for me. This is for you."
He tugs a bundled-up baseball cap out of a back pocket, steps back and puts the cap on Matt.
"There." Bob smirks in a way that Matt knows means he looks like a total dork. "Go Cubbies."
There's a rap on the door, and then it opens just far enough for Derek to peek in. "Anybody naked?"
Matt sighs contentedly. "Nope. You just missed it. There was a bj. It was amazing."
"Didn't need to know that," Derek says conversationally. He swings the door open. "Show time."
Matt nods and leans in to kiss Bob, whose face has turned the awesome shade of red it always does when Matt talks about their sex life in public. He just grins long-sufferingly, though, and lets Matt kiss him quick and dirty.
"Going out drinking after," Matt says over his shoulder as he heads for the door. "Come with."
Bob raises the bottle of Jack in acknowledgment. "Sounds good."
As Derek steps aside to let Matt through the door, he examines Matt critically. Apparently he likes what he sees. He leans back into the room. "Hey Bob, you going to be here tomorrow night too?"
"Planning to be, yeah."
Derek grins. "Sweet."
Matt hears Bob laugh, and then a few moments later he's following Dan out onto the stage and the noise of the crowd washes over him.