Adrenaline and energy pulsed across the stage, fueled by the screaming crowd and flashing lights. This was their tenth city of their tour and it felt like each crowd demanded more and more of them compared to the previous crowd.
It was simultaneously exhausting and satisfying.
The Police Surgeons had enjoyed relative success across the country, but after an appearance on a late night talk show in which Lucien-narcissistic bastard that he is-stripped from the waist up, muscular chest on full display, as he strummed on his guitar and sang his heart out, lips practically making obscene love to the microphone.
As if that wasn't enough to skyrocket them to popularity across the world, a group of fans had latched on to the friendship and on-stage chemistry between Matthew and Lucien, spawning fan clubs and message boards all speculating on the nature of their relationship.
Lucien had gotten wind of the speculation and had been absolutely fucking delighted. And so, on this tour, had fed into it, much to Matthew's frustration.
It shouldn't have surprised him, not really. Lucien was the energy and soul of the band-bouncing around on stage, hips thrusting in time to the music, rolling around on the floor, stripping in the middle of the show in the of the moment. A true rockstar.
Matthew, though, was the bassist of the band-providing the steady beat of each song, guiding melodies and the pace of the show. It was Matthew who was steady and certain, keeping an eye on Lucien and making sure he didn't cross a line.
Perhaps it was these dueling personalities that the fans had caught on to, the desire to see wild and calm, fire and ice, guitar and bass, clash. So Lucien gave them what they wanted.
The first few cities was nothing too terribly out of the usual-Lucien stripping and rolling about on the floor. And then, with a cheek sashay across the stage and a wink at the crowd, had hooked his arm around Matthew's next and brought him in close so Matthew's face was pressed to his bare chest.
The crowd exploded.
During the next stretch of cities, Lucien upped the ante, drawing questioning eyes and raised eyebrows from their drummer, Alice, and their tour manager, Jean.
Lucien was playing to the crow, rocking his hips and flexing his pecs in time with his guitar strums-all the usual. And then, he sauntered over to Matthew's corner of the stage, dancing around the stationary bassist, and rubbing himself against his body teasingly.
Matthew suddenly found himself very grateful to have a bass slung low over his hips as his leather pants grew a little tighter and he turned to glare at Lucien, willing his fingers to not miss any frets or string.
Instead, Lucien had winked at him, turned to the crowd as if to say 'watch this' and then leaned over and licked his face-broadside of his tongue sweeping up from jaw to temple. Matthew's breath caught in his throat and he hoped no one noticed the way he missed a stroke downward, the baseline beat coming a half-measure too late.
But Lucien appeared unaffected-already running and sliding across the other end of the stage and into the screaming arms of their fans.
The same fans who had videoed Lucien's antics; the same fans who uploaded said video to YouTube; the same fans who zoomed in on Matthew's shuddering frame and half-closed eyes; the same fans who captured on video Matthew getting visibly aroused by Lucien's actions.
Lucien teases him about it for the entire bus ride to the next city-sitting closer to him and purposefully sticking his tongue out, exaggeratedly.
Matthew pushes him to the side and tells him to fuck off before retiring to his bunk. He overhears Jean and Alice talking to Lucien in hushed, scolding tones. "Don't tease him, Lucien."
He doesn't sleep at all that night and he hates himself when the fingers of his left hand ghost over the side of his face where Lucien had licked a stripe over his skin and his right hands takes himself in hand, already hard and aching. It only takes a few, quick strokes to bring him off to the thought of Lucien licking the rest of his body and rubbing himself against his crotch.
It's becoming a problem.
So here they are in the middle of their tour, the crowd is going absolutely insane with each shake of Lucien's hips, and Matthew fights the urge to run from him as he works his way across the stage, eyes dark and teasing.
Lucien licks him again, this time nipping at the fleshy part of Matthew's ear as well. It sends shudders through Matthew and he completely misses the third chord of the harmony, shaking fingers stumbling over the strings.
If anyone noticed, it isn't mentioned. Not then and certainly not after the show. Mostly because he hasn't given them the opportunity.
They've cleared out after the show, still bouncing from heel to heel as the adrenaline of the show works its way out of their system. Perks of being a rockstar include free alcohol on hand whenever needed and they're not strangers to taking part. The scotch and whiskey flow freely between them with Jean and Alice favoring sherry instead.
It's here-in the happy space of buzzed on alcohol and adrenaline-that Matthew finds himself stewing on Lucien's growing onstage antics. And he finds himself mad. Angry that he's so affected by his friend and bandmate. He wants control back and he's going to get it.
While the roadies pack up their gear (Jean overseeing everything and Alice packing her own drums-she refuses to let anyone else touch her babies), Matthew grabs Lucien's arm and drags him into their temporary dressing room, closing the door with a soft click behind them.
Lucien downs the last of his whiskey and plops the empty glass on the vanity before leaning against it, crossing his arms over his chest, eyebrow raised challengingly. "You missed a couple of chords out there, Lawson."
Matthew splutters, "Yeah! Because you had your fucking tongue in my ear."
Lucien shrugs unapologetically. "I'm not going to stop, so you might as well get used to it. It brings more attention to us, Matthew. The ends justify the means."
He pushes himself up off the vanity and leans close to Matthew, "So get used to it," he whispers before tilting his head to the side and deliberately licking a long, wet stripe up the side of Matthew's face, teeth grazing over the curve of his cheekbones.
Matthew's heart is thumping hard in his chest-adrenaline and arousal all rolling in one-and he snaps.
Fisting his fingers in Lucien's hair-curls slicked back with sweat and gel-and holds him still, his eyes dropping to the glisten of saliva on Lucien's bottom lip. "Don't tell me what to do," he growls.
And then he's yanking Lucien forward, his mouth slanting over Lucien's. It's hot and heated, all tongue and saliva and open, gasping mouths. Matthew's tongue sweeps over Lucien's mouth, taking in the taste of him-whiskey and mint and Lucien.
He half expects Lucien to freeze beneath him; shocked that Matthew has called his bluff and pushed the envelope between them. Instead, Lucien is just as needy, growling low in his throat and bucking against him. Matthew shudders as Lucien's fingers drag themselves down his neck, the thick calluses earned from years and years of guitar playing feel rough on his skin and he wonders if Lucien feels the same way about Matthew's fingers.
They're stumbling backwards and Matthew finds himself pushed back against the dressing room door, caged in by Lucien's arms. Lucien sets to work on his neck, nipping at each straining tendon and sucking marks across his skin. There will be red and purple patches there tomorrow morning-evidence this is real.
The feel of Lucien's body against his is better than any fantasy he's ever had and he wonders how much of his is real-genuine-and how much of this is a haze and alcohol and adrenaline and the need for post-show release.
Matthew knows his answer, but Lucien, as always, is a mystery.
He decides to allow himself this moment and he enjoys every stroke, every kiss, every growl. Reaching between them, he cups Lucien through his trousers, squeezing and stroking lightly. Lucien jerks and thrusts into Matthew's touch, his mouth slanting back over his and nipping at his bottom lip.
Matthew pulls away from the kiss, still stroking Lucien's cock, and nips at his jaw, teasing. His voice is low and rough, "What's wrong, Lucien?" He squeezes lightly. "Sounds like you might miss a note, might miss a beat."
Lucien's thrusts are out of sync and erratic, just desperate and seeking. He growls at Matthew's teasing and realizes he's lost the upperhand here. His own hand wanders between their bodies and reaches for Matthew-his own cock hard and aching and encased in leather trousers.
Fingers trail over Matthew's hardness, deliberately rubbing the heel of his palm against the length of him. "Fuckin'ell," Matthew groans out, hips shamelessly grinding into Lucien's touch.
It's all happening fast and hard and they're both overwhelmed. This is leaps and bounds away from stripping down on stage for a crowd. Here, in this room, there is no crowd, no videos, no fans. Just them.
The sounds of their heavy breathing fill the room and there seems to be no room for talking or kissing, just shamelessly rubbing against the other, pushing the other further and further into the haze of pleasure.
Matthew fights the urge to turn around and having Lucien push into him from behind. Instead, he settles sharing his breath with his best friend and front man and there comes a moment when hands aren't enough.
Lucien stops touching him and Matthew nearly whimpers with the loss. But he's there, then, pressing him further against the door and rocking his hips against Matthew's, their cocks rubbing together-only leather trousers separating them.
Lucien buries his head in Matthew's neck, his warm breath condensing against his skin and leaving wet patches. They are lost in the ageless dance of rhythmic thrusting, each movement bringing them higher and higher.
Matthew's hands are fisted in Lucien's thin shirt, releasing him and then curling into his hair, tugging at the strands. He's so, so close and he just needs one, two, three more strokes and he's coming in his pants, a long, groaning, "Fuck!" accompanying it. And then Lucien is shuddering and twitching in his arms and he knows Lucien followed behind.
Wet, warm sticky fluid settles in his trousers uncomfortably, slowly dripping down his legs. It's dirty and hot and all because of Lucien.
Their actions hang between them for a moment, both of them unspeaking. And then Lucien is stepping away, hair mussed from Matthew's fingers, and eyes almost-bleary eyes and lazy from pleasure. There's a predatory grin playing about his lips and Matthew wonders what it would be like to have that look greeting him every morning.
Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to confess his feelings now-maybe it wouldn't break them. He thinks about the songs they could write about this, thinks about the leaps they could take on stage.
Lucien rubs at his mouth and runs a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell, that's one way to work out post-show adrenaline, eh?"
Matthew's heart sinks to his stomach, cold rushing through him. Whereas he had been contemplating a love confession, Lucien had only seen this as a quick fumble between mates, both mutually working off a little adrenaline.
Before he can say anything, there's a rapid series of knocks at the door and Jean's voice filters through. "We're loaded up! Let's go, boys."
Lucien grins at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Talk about good timing, eh? C'mon, Matthew."
And just like that, as if nothing had happened and their trousers were not coated in their own fluids, he walks out the door, breezing past him.
Matthew closed his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to bury the hurt and disappointment, and he followed Lucien out the door and onto the tour bus.
It was all just a show.