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When they first fuck, Andrew is slightly drunk off whiskey and vodka and the adrenaline of a good performance. They are at an after party, the type that Andrew hates until he has a little alcohol in him. He knows Fletcher hates them too, does it for the publicity and to show Andrew off like some prize horse, and Andrew gets a little sick thrill when he refuses to be polite or charming to some so-and-so record producer and Fletcher’s hand clenches on his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.
“God, that’s fucking fantastic,” Andrew grins and downs another shot of Grey Goose at the bar.
Some girl is flirting with him, and because Andrew’s buzzed and not missing Nicole so much anymore, he engages. Leans in, lets her touch his arm, lets her give him her number. Folds the paper and slips it into his jacket pocket so she’ll see what good care he’s taking with something so precious.
The next second Fletcher is at his elbow, pulling him away, wants him to meet this reporter for some magazine, and Andrew almost punches him because he was gonna get laid, fucker.
“Andrew! So nice to meet you,” the reporter says with a plastic smile, reaching out her hand and grabbing his forcefully.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and Fletcher pinches his neck hard enough to make him yelp, if he wasn’t so used to it.
“I just have a few questions for you,” she says, taking out this tiny recorder and pressing some button and Fletcher’s hand is still on his back and the warmth is starting to get to him. He feels the need to shrug, move, dance, anything. Instead he’s standing here answering some woman’s questions at what should be a party, not some press conference.
“How is Fletcher as a mentor?” is her first question, and Andrew is tipsy enough that he accidentally lets out the snort that is stuck in his head.
“He threw a music stand at me yesterday,” Andrew replies, and he can feel Fletcher freeze up next to him. When Andrew glances over, Fletchers face is tight in irritation and his lips are so flat they’ve almost turned white.
But the woman laughs, not thinking Andrew is serious, of course. She gets a few more questions in, which Andrew always has some snarky, smart-ass reply to, before Fletcher takes him by the jacket arm and makes excuses and pulls him out of the room.
“Hey! That’s my party,” Andrew protests as Fletcher drags him down the hall and shoves him into an empty office. Or at least, Andrew assumes its someones office. There’s a desk, and a chair, and a bookcase.
“Shut up, you thankless dipshit. What the fuck was that? We practiced what you say when reporters ask you questions,” Fletcher snarls, slamming him up against the wall.
Andrew remembers. They sat for hours in Fletcher’s living room, going over every question imaginable. Fletcher had told him in exact detail what to say when, how to act when, where to go when. Fletcher always told him when.
“You’re just pissed off I told her the truth,” Andrew laughs, because he’s still high on it, always is for hours after performances. He gets off stage covered in cold sweat and hands bloody, but he’s so goddamn happy every time he could cry, fall down with the ache of smiles building his face. He never thought he could be as happy as he is, even aching and bruised and scabbed up.
“Shut up, cocksucker,” Fletcher growls, fisting Andrew’s shirt in his hand.
“Yes, peaches,” Andrew giggles, and yeah, he’s definitely a little more than tipsy, he admits.
The slap comes like a bullet, and Andrew’s head whips back to land with a dull thump against the wall. But even as his cheek stings and his head throbs he feels an excitement building in his chest and crawling through his throat, and when he looks back at Fletcher, who is glaring steely eyed at him, Andrew smiles.
“Again,” he whispers, lump in his throat built so heavy he can barely speak.
Fletcher’s eyes widen for a moment before he raises his arm, brings it forward and onto Andrew’s other cheek. Andrew gulps breath as his head snaps back again, and then he’s moving forward and his mouth is on Fletcher’s like an attack dog, violent and needy and sloppy.
Instead of pushing Andrew away like he would’ve expected if he was sober, Fletcher pulls him in and lets Andrew slip his tongue into his mouth. Andrews hands are everywhere-Fletchers shoulders, his hips, his cock. He grinds his hips up into Fletchers and bites Fletchers lip hard enough that he can taste blood.
Fletcher grunts and swings him around to the desk, and Andrew can feel the sharp edge of the wood digging into his back but goddammit he doesn’t care because Fletchers hands are on his belt and pulling down his pants and fuck, there it is. Fletcher pumps his cock in one long stroke, finger running over the slit, and Andrew whimpers, hips rising off the desk.
“Please,” Andrew slips his hand under Fletcher’s black shirt and goes for his neck, licking and nipping and nuzzling as Fletcher drags his hands down Andrew’s cock once more and pulls away.
Andrew drops to his knees and fumbles with Fletchers belt with needy, uncoordinated fingers. Fletcher knocks his hand away and undoes it himself, muttering something like “incompetent little fucker” right before Andrew finally touches his skin and then he just makes a sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat because Andrew is leaning down and swallowing him like a dying man and water.
Andrews never sucked dick before, but here on his knees in front of Fletcher, he thinks that he could come to like it. The taste of heavy, hot skin and salty pre-cum and Fletcher. He hollows his cheek and sucks harder.
Fletchers hands are in his hair, tugging and ruffling soft curls, and then tapping Andrews forehead until he finally gets the hint and pulls off. Their eyes meet for a few silent, slow moving moments before Andrew finally gets the courage to utter a stunted “Fuck me”, and Fletcher hauls him up and pushes him onto the desk.
Fletcher spits on his hand and reaches back under Andrew, and the feeling is foreign and welcome all at once. It stings, but Andrew sort of likes it, and he know it makes him a sick fucker, but he can’t help it. Fletcher hooks his finger and presses some place in Andrew that makes him see stars and he’s cursing and begging all at once.
Fletcher pulls his fingers out and positions his cock, pushes up and into him, and Andrew finally understands that no, he didn’t know true happiness, before. Because he loves drumming, is hopelessly addicted to it, but he thinks he might be even more addicted to Fletcher. A voice in the back of his mind says that Fletcher’s just as addicted, fucking obsessed with him, and that it’s probably unhealthy and all kinds of wrong, and Fletcher is older than his own fucking dad-but Fletcher is fucking him hard, then, hands pressing into the skin between Andrews ribs, and Andrew doesn’t think much anymore.
He bares his neck and lifts his hips to try and meet Fletchers thrusts, and Fletcher hits that place in him again and Andrew’s leaning in to kiss him like some sloppy fucking puppy.
“Hit me,” Andrew breathes into Fletchers neck, and Fletcher rears back and lets out something like a groan, and then Andrews face is stinging and Fletchers hand is on his cock and his thumb’s pressing under his jaw to grip his neck and feel his pulse and Andrew’s coming.
He whines, pressing his fingers into Fletchers ass, and bucks off the desk.
Fletcher takes a few more thrusts and then he’s coming too, grunting Andrews name low into his ear, and Andrew feels boneless, weightless, like the only thing that’s keeping him from flying out of this room right now are Fletchers hands on his hips.
Fletcher pulls out and Andrew winces, falling with shaky legs from the desk. They’re both a mess, Andrew knows. He can feel his hair sticking out of place from Fletchers pulling and come spatters both of them in sticky rivulets. His cheeks are probably red-he can still feel Fletchers last slap, and it’s almost enough to make him hard again.
Fletcher clears his throat and tucks himself back into his pants, reaching behind Andrew and grabbing some tissues from a box on the desk. Andrew wonders if the person who works here will be able to tell what they did; takes a kind of sick thrill in it. He is not drunk anymore.
“Next time you interview, you stick to what I told you,” Fletcher tells him as he buttons his pants, slight hoarseness in his voice the only indication of their activities.
Andrew smirks and Fletcher rolls his eyes and flicks him on the arm.
“Shut the fuck up, faggot,” Fletcher grouses, pushing him forward. “I’ll throw more than a fucking music stand at your head next time you pull a stunt like that.”
Andrew almost snorts at the irony of the insult, but holds it in. Because now he has Fletchers hand warm on his back and the imprint of his fingers on his chest, and he know Fletcher doesn’t mean it-at least, not much.
He can’t fucking wait for the next interview.