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"Took long enough." Pete mumbled, watching a figure scurry down the hotel steps, a furry bundle with coat clutched tightly around it.
He punched at the knob on the door and let the rising window slowly cut off Keith's feet, legs, torso. When it reached his head he drew his finger back, leaving a small crack from which he could narrow his eyes at Keith's guilty puppy face. Half an hour late and the meter running.
"I barely had time to do me hair and smash the TV in," Keith grumbled as he slunk in through the opposing door. He slammed it shut behind him and had hardly settled back onto the seat before the car took off in a lurch. It pulled away from the curb and Keith jabbed his thumb against the control until the window was fully open and the brisk city air swirled in. He stuck his head out to ogle himself in the side mirror, fussing with his mop.
"Didn't even get to take a piss," he turned and shouted back into the car, voice whisked away with the whipping breeze as the car built speed.
Pete shivered and curled his lip disdainfully. "You could've set an alarm."
"I did," Keith snapped.
Pete looked out the other window, tapping his fingers on the armrest.
There was a tap on the glass, and he jumped. "What?" Pete called. The driver lowered the glass to halfway and yelled over his shoulder.
"—head in!"
"Eh?" Pete leaned forward and cocked his head. "I can't—"
"Shut the damn window!"
Pete grabbed a handful of Keith's trousers and pulled him back in. The driver used his override to roll the window up as Keith kicked and squirmed. His fingers came away from the glass at the last second—there was a hiss of air, then silence.
"Can't let anybody see you," the driver said sternly, turning one last time to peer over his shoulder. "Last thing we need's a mob before takeoff."
Keith scoffed. "Let 'em mob. I'll piss on all of them."
"Ugh." Pete's nose scrunched with disgust. "We should've left you."
"He behaves like a child."
Pete startled at the sound of the driver's voice, clipped and irritable from the front of the car. He exhaled and flashed a polite smile, wondering if it might have been a poorly made joke.
"I think what you boys need to learn is a little respect." The driver's steely eyes stared back in the rear-view mirror. "You delinquent types don't know how to be a serious part of society."
"I've had about enough out of you," Keith sneered. He pressed a button on the radio console and the partitioning glass raised itself once again, cutting the driver off from the two of them in the backseat. At least, they were cut off sonically—the driver's eyes continued to flash between them and the road, silent and judgmental.
"I was about to," Pete huffed, sitting back into the seat. He reached for the cigarettes in his jacket pocket by instinct, then shied away as he felt the scrutiny of their watcher. Best behavior, then.
"He was getting a bit fresh." Keith twitched with irritation, fidgeting in his seat. "I really do have to, you know."
"Smash in the television, every time?" Pete rolled his eyes. "I mean, Christ, did we raise you wrong? That's right, isn't it—I was a bad influence, it's all my fault?"
"Piss."
"Fuck off."
For the moment, there was an amiable enough silence as they both stared at the floor.
"How long's the drive?" Keith asked, reaching over to prod at Pete's leg.
Pete shrugged and flicked him away. "Dunno. Few minutes."
"At what speed?"
"The limit, I reckon? I don't know."
"And how fast do you suppose we're going now?"
Pete glanced at the window and realized he hadn't felt the car in motion for several minutes. "Hey," he called, lowering the glass a few centimeters. "How far are we from the airport?"
"Better part of an hour, once we start moving. Might've been less if we left on time." The driver's voice was professional but with enough of a hint of irritation that Pete did not feel compelled to press.
"An hour," Pete echoed, leaning in at Keith's shoulder. He spoke lowly, quiet enough that the cacophony of honks and pedestrian chatter around the car kept their conversation private. "You can wait an hour, can't you?"
Keith groaned and kicked at the seat back as if he meant to scuff the leather. Pete smacked at his leg.
"Stop that."
"Let me out, I'll run back to the hotel."
"I don't think he'll like that."
"Don't give a fuck what he likes." Keith rattled the handle on the door, but nothing happened. He rattled it harder, channeling his discomfort into a tantrum. Pete wished he could join him—forget all his responsibilities and kick and scream at everything that stood in his way, but he kept the anger tightly buttoned up, letting it churn and stagnate within him. His hand shot out to still Keith's, grabbing him by the wrist.
"He's got the bloody child lock on," Keith whined.
"It's inhumane, isn't it?" Pete sighed. "So let's get to the airport and Kit'll sack him."
The car lurched into drive and traveled a few meters before halting again. The driver blared the horn, and somewhere outside someone shouted in response.
"Hope we crash."
"Let's just be good, and then it's not our fault, yeah?" Pete shook Keith's wrist for emphasis, on the verge of begging. "For once, let's just be good."
Keith protested and squirmed, eyes flashing guiltily to the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of the driver's diligent face.
"Here, have a drink." Pete bent forward to pull a bottle of beer from the ice bucket on the floor in front of their seats and handed it off. "Just relax."
He took up his own bottle from the cupholder in the door and tipped back the last mouthful—it had been rather a long wait and there was nothing to do but sit and drink and stew.
Keith made to pop the cap off by catching it on the armrest, but managed to think twice, and used the proffered bottle opener instead. He took a long, cold drink, then lowered the bottle and shivered. "I shouldn't have this," he said, with an unusual sense of clarity. Then, pointing, he added, "Gimme the bucket."
"Oh, no." Pete hoped his tone conveyed enough warning to dissuade Keith from that line of thought. "Forget it."
"I'll dump the ice out."
"Where?" Pete rapidly pressed on the window controls, to no avail. "Not all over the back of the car."
"Down his shirt, then." Keith glared and stuck out his tongue towards the front, where he was courteously ignored. "Maybe he'll let us out."
"So we can do what, walk all the way to JFK? Down the side of the road?"
Keith shrugged, nursing his beer. "Could ring Kit."
"Have you got any change for a phone?" Keith shook his head sadly, slumping back in his seat. "Neither have I. You want to walk up to a stranger and tell them who you are? They'd laugh at you if they thought you were having them on and spit on you if they believed it. You've got a reputation."
"Pete," Keith whined.
"And what if we do get mobbed, even by fans? They'll rip me right apart. Are you going to run? Look at you." Pete prodded at Keith's side. "Gone all squidgy."
"Pete, Christ—" Keith curled away from Pete's touch. "Fine, I'm not stupid. But I've gotta take a leak, alright? Fit to burst."
"Stop drinking, then." Pete frowned as Keith took another swig.
"For my nerves." Keith wiped a sleeve across his mouth. He glanced down at the bottle in his hand and suddenly sat up a little straighter. Then he raised the bottle again, threw his head back, and gulped the rest down in one long drink, throat bobbing with every swallow.
"I think you must be stupid," Pete huffed. "You do it to yourself, you know."
"No, look," Keith gasped, lowering the bottle. He pawed at his wet mouth again. "It's empty."
"Yeah, you great lout, 'course it's—"
"Hold it for me." Keith shoved the bottle in Pete's direction, and by instinct, Pete accepted, holding it at arm's length. Keith slumped a bit in his seat, creating a flat plane of his thighs and stomach where he could easily tug his belt free of the leather band, pull it tight to one side until it came unbuckled and the two sides fell away from each other.
Pete winced. "Oh, no."
Keith grinned and waggled his eyebrows, flitting his eyes in the direction of their supervisor in the rear-view mirror. They were concealed from the chest down, the mirror's angle too high for the driver to see Keith easing his zipper down.
"What if you miss?"
"I won't if you line it right up."
"Me?" Pete made a sound of protest, nasal and weary, wishing very much that he had forced Roger to draw straws with him rather than gracefully accepting the more challenging roommate assignment. Then at least he might have had a chance at a world where he was already on board the aeroplane, sitting back in those plush seats, watching a cute hostess sway from side to side down the aisle, perhaps cracking open a nice, cold—
Pete flushed red as he realized he'd been staring at the open front of Keith's jeans, still holding the empty bottle in his hand. His gaze jumped to Keith's face, pink and shameful in his own way, pleading guiltily with his eyes and bitten lips. Keith squirmed a little in his seat, and his hands trembled slightly where they hovered above his thighs, waiting for the go-ahead.
The state of him, Pete thought—Keith shivered a little, his complexion pallid and damp with sweat, disheveled and generally unwell. The glass was cool under Pete's hand, and he lowered it to rest on the seat by his leg. That beer had probably been his breakfast, though the day was creeping into the afternoon, and who knows what he'd gotten up to the night before. All things considered, there really was no way Pete could expect the man to aim on his own, especially not in the back of a stop-and-go vehicle. It has to be me.
Pete took a deep breath and forced himself to shrug casually, trying to ignore the pressure-sting of warning beginning to build within his own body. "Go on then."
"You mean it?" Keith nearly cried out with relief, shoving a fist down the front of his shorts to free himself.
"Yeah, but be careful, alright? And I don't want to watch."
"You have to," Keith begged. "You have'ta tell me when to stop."
"Fucking—"
"You have to—I can't do it, I know I can't."
"I know you can't," Pete exhaled, worn down. "Here—"
He began to subtly scoot closer on the bench, worming his way in Keith's direction. He didn't dare look for the driver's eyes in the mirror, not until he'd gotten close enough to stop. Then he checked, briefly—they were focused on the road, thank heavens. Pete swirled his thumb around the rim of the bottle nervously.
"Now?" Keith held himself in one hand; the other was curled into a tight fist on his thigh.
"Give it a minute in case he sees."
"Can't wait a minute."
Pete waited another ten seconds, but they were unbearably slow. Best to get it over with.
"Alright," he said. "Hold still."
Pete gingerly lined the bottle up. His fingers were wrapped around the bottle neck, trying to stay well away from touching Keith's—he swallowed and looked away forcefully, casting his eyes towards the window.
"Watch it!" Keith gasped. "Almost—"
Pete glanced back and saw that he had pushed the bottle away by accident. If Keith had been any further gone, he might have… Pete shuddered at the thought. Steeling himself, he shifted a little closer and held the bottle flush against Keith's tip.
Keith whimpered, and that was as good as asking.
"Go on," Pete said, trying not to sound too impatient. He was too afraid to check whether they were being observed in the rear view mirror, knowing that he would be unable to cope with an affirmative answer.
Keith was deathly silent for a moment, holding his breath, and then there was a sound like that of rain on a tin roof, the muffled plinking of droplets hitting first the hard, resonant surface and then each other, splashing and bubbling.
The force of the stream made the bottle vibrate slightly in Pete's hand—disgusted, his instincts told him to pull away, but that was impossible. Pete risked a glance at Keith's face. His eyes were shut tight, mouth parted in a plush little O. Distracted for a moment, when Pete looked back down at the bottle, the rising line of liquid made him panic.
"Stop!" He hissed, unable to do anything but hold the bottle steady and hope that Keith could get a hold of himself in time. "Stop, stop— now!"
Keith yelped, his whole body tensing. The hand around his cock tightened and then relaxed, helpless—the battle was inside him. He shivered, and a wave of pleasure seemed to wash over him, as though in the act of cutting off the flow prematurely he had achieved a kind of orgasm.
Pete lifted the bottle morosely, realizing that the angle he needed to hold it at meant that it could only be filled halfway before threatening to spill over his hand. He rooted around for a loose bottle cap and twisted it over the opening as best he could. He wrinkled his nose—there was a scent, perhaps not noticeable to those who didn't expect it, but it was there, fresh, salty, foreboding. Left alone, it was only a matter of time before it morphed into an evil reek. The glass was warm against his palm and he bent to shove it into the ice bucket, nauseated at the thought of it causing the ice around it to melt at doubletime.
"Can I have another?" Keith asked meekly. He hadn't put himself away yet, which Pete found to be on the whole presumptive and incorrigible.
"Absolutely not," Pete chided. "I think that should tide you over."
"Please," Keith begged. "One more? It hurts."
"I don't care if it hurts so bad your cock falls off."
Pete laid his hand flat on his knee, feeling contaminated although he hadn't touched anything—or had he? He wasn't sure now. In his haste, an errant drop had perhaps slipped from Keith's cock onto his fingers as they brushed by. They didn't feel damp, but it hadn't been much. He fought the temptation to bring his fingers to his nose and sniff.
"Wanker."
"Put that thing away," Pete snapped.
Keith pouted, but tucked himself away obediently. Another awkward second passed and then the car lurched forward. They were off again, this time it seemed for good.
Pete spilled out of the taxi almost before it had come to a complete stop on the tarmac. Still, it was a race to beat Keith to the top of the steps, and they hit the door simultaneously, shoving at each other all the way down the aisle to the toilet. Keith won out by a narrow margin—he'd played dirty, wriggling like a beast and pinching at Pete's sides. The door slammed shut and Pete was left leaning against to it, arms crossed and huffing with irritation as he listened to Keith's triumphant piss.
Roger looked up from where he sat across from John, playing a game of cards. He plucked a beer bottle off the table and raised hit to his lips, pausing at the last moment to lock eyes with Pete over the rim.
"So you finally made it. Care for a drink?"