Chapter Text
Ever since he was a child, Ivy has had a tendency to put things in his mouth that didn’t necessarily belong there.
It began with his thumb. He’d been a self-soother, his mum said; the family photo albums were stuffed full of pictures of him in various different scenarios - in his baby bath, his cot, a high chair with spaghetti dripping from his forehead where he’d thrown it all over himself - but the one thing they’d had in common was that he always had his thumb in his mouth.
He’d sucked it so much that he’d developed a small blister on the back of it; one that hadn’t gone away until he’d been around six years old, when he’d managed to stop doing it, because sucking your thumb was for babies and he was not a baby, no matter what Gareth Wyn Jones said about him from the top of the climbing frame in the school playground.
Then there was that time when he nearly choked on a drumstick lollipop was he two. Ivy actually has no recollection of this, but it’s a classic story that his parents like to pluck out of their anecdotal wheelhouse at family gatherings. The way his dad tells it, you’d think he nearly died. One minute they were standing on the side-lines watching his older brother eat the grass (metaphorically, of course) in an under 5’s rugby game while Ivy toddled around with a sweet in his mouth to keep him quiet; the next he was red faced and choking with his mum heimliching him over her knee to get him to cough up the lollipop he’d got lodged in his windpipe.
A difficult lesson was learned that day: don’t give your toddler hard sweeties.
He also liked to chew the flannel in the bathroom. His favourite thing had been to run it under the cold tap when he thought no one was around and then to try and fit as much of it as he could into his mouth. His mum used to try and tell him not to do it, warned him that it carried bacteria, but what did that mean to a child?
It wasn’t until his brother pointed out that their dad used to use the flannel to cover his bits when he was having a bath that Ivy finally stopped. He still feels a bit sick thinking about it now.
It didn’t stop him putting things in his mouth, though. Pencils, rubbers, gum, ice. His mum took him to the doctors when he was twelve and he was diagnosed as anaemic; had to go on iron tablets because he was deficient or some shit. Suddenly, every meal that he ate was being served with a side of spinach.
His grandad brought him a guitar for Christmas, and he liked to put his spare plectrum between his teeth while he was tuning it.
And then he began to go to house parties when he was fourteen, and started putting bottles of WKD in his mouth instead. At fifteen it was cigarettes. At seventeen it was weed.
That’s when he got his first girlfriend as well, and he discovered there were other uses for his mouth. At eighteen, he went to Uni and discovered he liked the taste of whiskey and coke. He also tasted his first cock, and found out he liked that too.
He doesn’t talk about that one as much.
Like most bad decisions that he makes, the idea comes from Three.
They’re standing outside the tour bus at a gas station in the middle of bum fuck nowhere in the States, on their way from one venue to the next. It’s dark, and it’s cold, and Ivy can see his breath billowing in front of him when he exhales.
They’ve pulled over because 1. They need petrol. 2. They need snacks. 3. Three wanted a cigarette and their manager got pissed at them for setting off the internal smoke alarm last time he sealed himself in the shitty tour bus bathroom with a sock over the detector like he was hotboxing, waking everyone up when they’d been trying to sleep.
Ivy doesn’t smoke anymore; he’s four months cold turkey, but fuck, does he miss the smell, taste and feel of a cigarette in his mouth, and so he’s taken to chewing gum at every opportunity he gets.
He’s on his fourth piece in two hours, which is probably fucking awful news for the state of his gut health, and he’s accompanied the lanky bassist into the blistering cold in an effort to satisfy an itch he can’t scratch by breathing in all of Three’s second-hand smoke.
It’s all a bit fucking pathetic, really.
Three has taken pity on him and is wafting nicotine fumes his way, when he says, “So you’ve seen it then.”
It’s not a question, and Ivy doesn’t need to ask what he’s referring to.
Three is, of course, talking about the elephant in the room. Or rather, the elephant trunk in the room. The elephant trunk being Vessel’s fucking enormous penis, which Ivy has seen bared on no less than three occasions this week alone.
And like, objectively, he knew that Vessel was packing heat down there - the man appears to be a grower and a shower, and is apparently allergic to all boxers and/or briefs.
And Ivy’s not a prude, by any means; he’s toured in bands before, has seen shit way grosser than a dude with his meat and two veg out. It’s not even like it’s on purpose - the first time he saw Vessel’s dick, he’d stumbled out of his bunk late one night to use the toilet, still half asleep. He’d had a few drinks before bed, so the need to piss had been rather intense in his sleepy state, and his heart had sank when he’d seen the little plastic tag switched to red to declare the cubicle as occupied.
A quick glance down the corridor had shown that Two’s and Three’s bunk curtains were drawn - Three’s hand was hanging slackly out of his because they still hadn’t seemed to invent tour buses with cubbies for people over the height of six foot and he could never comfortably fit himself inside - but Vessel’s were wide open, so Ivy took an educated guess and raised his fist to bang on the door.
“Vess?” He waited a beat and then knocked again. “Vess, are you nearly-”
Quicker than his dozy brain could have processed, the lock had flipped, the door opened, and Vessel was looking blearily out at him.
Totally naked.
Instantly, Ivy had felt ten times more awake. He looked down at Vessel’s cock without meaning to - his thick, uncut cock, hanging heavily above an equally powerful set of balls - and then he squeaked and averted his gaze, looking at Vessel in bewilderment.
Vessel, for his sins, didn’t seem to notice. “All yours, mate,” he’d said, had slapped Ivy on the shoulder for good measure on the way past as he tottered back towards his own bunk.
Ivy hadn’t turned around. If he had, he’d have been treated to a view of Vessel’s pasty white arse, and he wasn’t mentally sound enough to process that.
It also doesn’t explain why the next two subsequent times that he’s been treated to the sight Vessel’s penis, it’s when the singer had been returning to his bed after leaving Two’s when he thinks that everyone else is asleep.
In the buff.
Ivy’s got some questions.
Three is still watching him. Ivy clears his throat, snaps his gum. “Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat again. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”
“Fucking enormous, innit.” Three blows out a plume of smoke through his nostrils and Ivy leans uncontrollably towards the smell.
“Yeah,” he agrees weakly, and then, because he can’t help himself, says, “Hey. Are him and Two…?”
“What, fucking?” Three grins. “Yeah, man.”
And, like, it’s not even that shocking. When they’d first got him into the band to tour with them, he’d chocked up their closeness to some baby bulldog type shit; where Vessel went, Two went, as angry and ferocious as his mask made him out to be, all packed into a pocket-sized bag of blood and bones. That was when he’d looked, and kept looking. And then he’d clocked the way that they were always touching - a hand on the knee, a brush to the hair, a finger to the chin.
A dick to a hole, if the high pitched, choking gasps coming from Two’s bunk last night had had any indication.
It doesn’t shock him. Until Three suddenly says, “It’s not like they’re dating or anything, though; I mean, I’ve fucked them too.” Ivy’s gum goes down the wrong hole and he splutters wildly, hands flailing. “Oh, shit, mate, are you alright?” Three asks, like he’s enquiring about the weather. He’s such a fucking stoner, nothing bothers him, and it’s only when Ivy’s red faced and eyes watering that he raises his hand to slap him on the back.
The offending lump of rubbery gum goes flying, hits the tarmac with a wet splat. The two men both eye it up for a second and then Three shrugs. Neither of them go to pick it up.
“Y-You’ve had sex with Vessel and Two?” Ivy asks wheezily. His heart thuds loudly against the back of his ribcage.
“Oh yeah,” Three says, shrugs like it’s no biggie. “It’s tour, man. What happens on tour, stays on tour.” Ah yes, the sacred oath, Ivy thinks, a little hysterically. That’s until Three adds, “Sometimes Two comes over to smoke and we end up just doing it on the floor.”
“That’s not on tour!” Ivy shrieks, tone bordering on hysterical, and Three holds up his hands.
“Alright, chill out, I didn’t peg you as someone to have a problem with it,” he says snottily and Ivy rolls his eyes.
“Shut the fuck up, I’m fucking bi,” he snaps, scowling when Three fucking beams at him. “Like you didn’t know,” he mutters.
“I didn’t, but thanks for telling me,” Three smirks, reaching over to scrub his hand through Ivy’s sandy curls. He sees Ivy eyeing up his half-smoked cigarette now that his gum is newly acquainted with the pavement, and holds it out. “You want this?”
Ivy does. He really, really does. “Two will kill me.”
“He won’t know,” Three promises, careful not to singe Ivy’s fingers when he hands it over. The first lungful of smoke that he draws into his body almost makes him want to cry.
Three watches him with this smug look of satisfaction on his face. “You know,” he says suddenly, “It’s not exclusive.”
“Huh?”
“Me and Vess. Two and me. Him and Two. It’s not exclusive.” He leans over suddenly, crowds Ivy back against the bus, so the little guitarist has to gaze up at him with wide, wondrous eyes. “If you asked Vessel nicely enough, he’d totally let you suck on it.”
There’s a thump as Ivy sags against the side of the bus and Three pulls away, cackling.
“Prick,” Ivy mutters, watching as the lanky bassist clambers back onto the bus. He glances down at the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. It’s probably got two good drags worth left, and he’s not going to waste either of them. He closes his eyes and brings the fag to his lips, sucks it nice and deep and-
“Ivy!” Two hollers at him from across the parking lot. “Are you smoking?!”
“Oh shit.”
Two days later, Ivy is lounging on the sofa of their green room backstage with a lollipop in his mouth.
He hadn’t needed that cigarette, but, fuck, it had felt good to have something in between his lips, so he’s switched back to sweeties. He’s enjoying swapping the hard candy from side to side, sucking it till the softness of his cheek feels puffy and rough and then switching it back and forth.
They’ve just completed sound check, have a couple of hours before the venue opens, and there’s talk of going to grab some food from a nearby burger joint before it gets too busy for them to sneak away.
The opposite sofa is occupied by Two and Three. Two has got his feet kicked up in Three’s lap with a book spread open across his knees, but he’s not reading it. He’s more interested in watching Three wad up small pieces of paper that he’s tearing of the corner of his notebook, lining them up on the arm of the sofa to try and flick them into the bin.
So far, it’s trash can - seven; Three - two, and little paper balls litter the floor.
It’s so fun, being on tour.
“You know you’ll need to pick all those up,” Ivy points out, voice garbled by calcified strawberry flavoured syrup.
“Yes!” Three flicks another tissue bomb, and it sails into the waste paper basket. “Did you see that?”
“I missed it,” Two says, turning a page of his book.
“Oh, blow me, bitch,” Three grumbles, starts to roll another ball. Over the lip of his book, Two catches Ivy’s eye and winks.
The door opens and Vessel wonders in. “Why is there so much paper on the floor?” he asks. Three flicks the paper white cannonball and it falls pathetically between Vessel’s gigantic feet. The four of them watch it bounce to a halt and Vessel hums. “Right, that answers that question,” he says, almost to himself. He looks around at the three of them. “I’m starving, are we getting food?”
“Fuck yeah!” Three cheers, getting up so abruptly that it dislodges Two’s legs. “Ivy, are you coming? …Ivy?”
Ivy’s gaze is fixed firmly at the region of Vessel’s hips. They need to visit a laundromat; clearly, he’s reaching the end of his clean clothes because the singer’s choice of attire today is a baggy white wifebeater and a pair of grey. Fucking. Sweatpants.
Ivy’s never thought of Vessel as a fuck boy. He gets too attached to people too fast to be able to throw them away when they’re no longer of convenience to him, and any aura he might command onstage disappears as soon as you engage him in a conversation about anything even remotely nerdy.
None of this changes that fact that Ivy is ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that he can make out Vessel’s dick imprint through the shape of his trousers.
He swallows, as his mouth suddenly pools with saliva.
“Ivy!”
“Huh? Ow!” He flinches when Three taps him over the back of the head. “What the fuck, Three?”
“You good?” Vessel asks him, and Ivy flushes bright red.
“Yeah…” he mumbles, digging his elbow into Three’s skinny side when the bassist sniggers beside him.
“You hungry?” Vessel moves past him to dig his wallet out of his rucksack. It puts his crotch within a few feet of Ivy’s face – Jesus Christ, he wants to suck him off…
“Yeah, he is,” Three says, reaching over to scrub a hand through Ivy’s sandy curls.
“Mate, piss off!” Ivy snaps. Two rises to his feet with a weary sounding groan that resonates with a man much older beyond his years.
“Three, leave him alone,” he chides. “I think we passed a diner a couple of blocks back.”
“Ooh, a couple of blocks?” Three mocks, adopting a frankly dreadful American drawl. “We gonna walk down the sidewalk and get some candy as well?”
“You’re asking for a smacking,” Two warns him, and Ivy almost drops his phone. Forty-eight hours ago, he’d have thought Two was joking.
Now, he isn’t so sure, especially when Three winks at him saucily and says, “That a threat or a promise?”
Ivy really fucking wants a cigarette.
He hurriedly trapses out after Vessel, trying to block out Two and Three who are still bickering behind him. The security guard who is monitoring the door to the venue’s loading area waves them on by lazily; Ivy doesn’t miss how Vessel tucks a disposable surgical mask over his face, tucking his hood up over his hair.
They walk back a few streets, because Two is adamant that he saw a convenience store on the drive over to the venue. “Where’s a big Tesco when you need it?” Three says mournfully. He has fallen into step beside Ivy again, and wordlessly lets him take drags from his cigarette. Two cuts his eyes disapprovingly.
“It’s not far,” he says.
“You said that three streets ago,” Ivy points out, and Three swings a long arm around his neck, grinning spitefully at Two.
“Yeah, Two, what gives, mate?” he calls out. Two turns to Vessel.
“Let me slap him,” he pleads, “Just once.”
“Calm down,” Vessel tells him gently. “Look, there’s a sign for fried chicken over there.”
They file into the little shop. It’s not too busy; the kind of whole-in-the-wall joint that would have been a KFC, if only they’d been able to obtain the licensing. It’s good enough for them to look around and declare that it will do for dinner tonight.
It’s kind of funny, watching Three try to fit his giraffe like legs beneath the salt-and-peppercorn table, and he cranes his neck round to squint at the menu that is lit up above the counter. “I didn’t bring my glasses, someone read me what they’ve got.”
“Oh my god.” Two’s head is in his hands. Vessel pats his back soothingly. It was not Ivy’s imagination that his hand lingers at the nape of Two’s neck, petting the short straight blonde hairs that grow longer at the back.
He clears his throat. “What’s everyone having?”
“I’ll come with you,” Two says quickly, rising to his feet. “I might end up killing Three, if not.”
“Chicken and chips, please,” Vessel chirps.
“That.” Three smacks the table. “I want that too.”
“I might get nuggets,” Ivy muses.
“Ooh, actually, nuggets might be good-”
“Come on,” Two barks, taking Ivy’s wrist and hauling him towards the counter. There’s a short line to order, so they join the back of the queue. It makes Ivy’s chest happy; he’s missed things that are quintessentially British. He’s got his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, the drawstring of his hoodie in his mouth when Two says, “Three said he spoke to you.”
Oh shit. “Um.” Ivy looks at the back of the head of the person in front of them. Is this really a conversation they want to be having in a knock-off chicken shop? “…Yeah?”
“Mate, don’t look so scared.” The line nudges up and they take a dutiful step forward. “It’s all good.”
“Is it?” Ivy glances over at the table, where Vessel is now also sitting. He’s had to fold his equally long body beneath the table; the man spread that he’s got going on, though, is astronomical. Ivy’s mouth feels wet and he swallows reflexively.
“Yeah. We’re not, like, exclusive, or anything,” Two shrugs, his own hands in his pockets. “So, if you wanted to have a pop at sucking Vess’s dick, you’re welcome to try.” The woman in front of them turns to give them a horrified stare. Ivy smiles at her weakly, the tips of his ears flame hot.
“Fucking hell…” he mutters, then reaches out and takes Two’s arm to hold him back a step. “Wait, you… you think Vessel would let me?”
“Fuck yeah,” Two says. “He’s been wanting to have a bit of you since you were roadie-ing for us.”
“But.” Ivy’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “That was ages ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why didn’t he say anything?”
“Well, it’s Vessel,” Two points out. “You know what he’s like.”
After a second, Ivy pauses. “You make a good point.”
“Next!”
The bored, impatient tone of the college student behind the register makes Ivy jump, and he glances back over at the little table where the others sit whilst Two rattles of their order. Vessel is sitting facing him; Three is engaging him in a story, judging by the wild flailing of his arms, but Ivy doesn’t miss how Vessel’s eyes slip over to where he and Two are waiting. He sees Ivy looking, and the corners of his thin lips quirk up in a small smile.
Ivy shoots him back a grin, and then realises how fucking stupid he must look. He turns away quickly, his face hot. Two is watching him in amusement as they wait for their order to be ready. “Oh buddy, you really need to get laid.”
“I’m fine,” Ivy mutters hotly.
“Sure you are.” Two nudges him with an elbow. “Seriously. You should ask him. You won’t regret it.”
“Order fifty-five?”
“That’s us.” Ivy lets Two load up his arms with Styrofoam containers. The smell of greasy chicken and salty chips is heavy in the air as he carries them back over to the table, taking care not to spill them.
“What did you get me?” Three asks eagerly as Two sits down beside him, producing a bottle of antiseptic gel from his pockets.
“Chicken wings with extra spice, and you’ll thank me for it,” he says, his own cheeks reddening when Three lets out a hoot of joy and plants a big sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Don’t do that here,” he mutters.
“Thanks, guys,” Vessel says, reaching for his own meal. Ivy reaches for the diet coke he’d ordered, instantly taking a sip through his straw. He keeps the rubbery plastic in his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully. “Hey.” Suddenly, there’s a big hand on his knee under the table; Vessel gives it a reassuring squeeze. “You alright? You seem a little out of it today.”
Ivy lets the straw fall from between his teeth. “Y-yeah,” he stammers, “Just got a lot on my mind, lately.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Vessel asks.
“There’s a couple of things you could do to help him, Vess,” Three says, wincing when Two elbows him hard in the side.
“Dude, what the fuck.”
“You deserved that,” Ivy remarks snottily, and then leans over to steal one of Three’s chicken wings for good measure.
“Hey!” Three objects, but any of his protests die on his tongue when Ivy smacks the wing down onto the table and stuffs the wing whole in his mouth. He works around it with his tongue, wrestling the meat into his gullet before taking out the bones, totally picked clean. He pauses when he sees the three of them staring at him.
“What?” he asks innocently. “Do I have something on my face?”