Click-click-click.

"Cone, would you put that goddamn camera away?"

The scrawny bassist considered it for a moment, tilting his head to one side. "No," he decided after a moment's pause, lifting the camera gleefully to his eye, tongue poked out in concentration as he lined up more shots.

Click-click-click.

"Damn it, Jay," Deryck growled, on hands and knees searching for his wifebeater, "we're supposed to be downstairs in ten minutes to meet Steve, and you're still in your boxers!"

"So?" Cone asked unconcernedly, thumbing the flash.

"So get dressed!" Deryck shouted, followed by a triumphant little squeal as he snagged his wifebeater from its hiding place under the bed.

"Make me," Cone taunted back childishly, capturing another picture as Deryck's head snapped up at the challenge.

Click-click-crunch! "Hey!" Cone protested as Deryck swiped the camera from his hands and sent it sailing into a suitcase. "You fucker! You could've broke it!"

"Broken," Deryck corrected absently as Cone retrieved the camera. He pulled on socks and was searching out a clean t-shirt when he spotted a random cigar at the bottom of a bag. "Hey, lookit this," he commanded Cone's attention, holding the cigar up for the other boy to see. Cone was gripping his camera protectively with an injured expression, but he left off pouting when he noticed Deryck's prize.

"Huh," the bassist acknowledged, as mystified as Deryck. "Weird. Lemme take a picture." He lifted the camera (thankfully undamaged by its fall) to his eye and flipped the flash back up. Deryck stuck the still-wrapped cigar in the corner of his mouth and perched at the edge of the bed, striking a silly pose. Cone giggled as he snapped pictures; Deryck was quite a comical sight, dressed as he was in boxers, wifebeater and socks, his unwashed hair sticking up in every direction. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, making Cone laugh, and sucked hard at the end of the cigar, his tongue making brief appearances as it danced over the plastic. Suddenly Cone wasn't so keen on taking pictures anymore. He dropped the camera unconcernedly to the floor and advanced on the diminutive vocalist.

"You know," the bassist said casually, throwing a leg over both of Deryck's to straddle his hips, "there are much better uses we could put that mouth of yours to." He smiled mischievously, plucking the cigar from Deryck's lips and tossing it over his shoulder.

Deryck grinned, running the tip of his tongue lightly along his lower lip. "Are there," he asked teasingly, snaking his arms around Cone's neck and dragging the taller boy down for a hard, satisfying kiss. Poor Steve waited for twenty minutes in the lobby before finally going to dinner without them.