Jon's fist pounded the mattress. With a groan he opened his eyes hoping that would chase the image out of his head. He so didn't want to think about it....
Burying his head in the pillow he inhaled the faint smell of washing detergent and an anonymous hotel bed--hotel beds all over the world smelled just the same, whether it was Australia, US, or...England.
He did _not_ want to think about England.
Late afternoon sun bathed the uninviting room in a warm glow, giving it a surreal gold tint. Jon considered getting up and opening the blinds all the way, but that seemed like too much work. His hand idled on the white bedspread smoothing away the wrinkles, then moved to pick at the threads hanging off the bottom of his cut off shorts. The faded blue of the denim seemed more intense in this light.
Everything seemed more intense. Even the color that had burst behind his closed eyelids a moment ago was a much deeper green than the one Jon remembered from--
Shit.
Where was Richie when Jon needed him?
It wasn't Jon's fault that he was all horny and Richie was out, doing an interview, something or another.
Richie. Yeah, he would think about Richie. That should keep his mind busy and off...that other thing.
Eyes closed again, he pictured Richie on stage--shiny yellow spandex encasing his shapely ass and thighs, leaving almost nothing to imagination--playing up the crowd and throwing Jon looks that said, "I want to fuck you right here, right now." Richie in the shower--his chocolate-like tanned body covered with suds--tilting his head up into the stream of water. Richie on the bed--the intense brown of his eyes glistening from across the mattress--kneeling down, then crawling towards Jon, his purple cock bouncing between his legs.
Jon rolled onto his back. He imagined Richie's strawberry-red lips hovering over his face, then dipping in to suck the air out of his lungs.
He gasped.
Richie's lips broke away from the kiss to nibble at Jon's jaw, then slid down his neck, to his chest. Jon imagined himself looking down at the mass of dark hair scattered on his chest.
Yeah, dark hair on his chest--that was what he wanted. None of that...other shit.
In Jon's fantasy Richie's tongue flicked out to lick a path from one nipple to the other and then back--wet cat licks marking Jon's pale skin as Richie's territory.
Jon slid his finger into his mouth; his teeth scraped against the skin as he pulled it out coated with saliva. He dragged the finger across his chest brushing it against his nipple the way Richie's tongue would have. His fingers pinched his nipple just as Richie's teeth bit down on it, drawing a low groan from Jon's throat.
Arching his body Jon saw Richie slowly moving his head lower. To give Richie--and himself--access, Jon's hand slipped to the waistband of his shorts. He worked the button out of its hole, tugged the zipper and forced the fabric down his hips. His already hard cock sprung free, ready for Jon's hand--ready for Richie's mouth.
Back in the fantasy, Richie's hair tickled Jon's stomach. His tongue worked its way into Jon's belly button, probing inside it the way it always drove Jon crazy. He wanted this tongue lower, on his cock, and Richie complied, licking and nibbling his way down, following the path of blond hair on Jon's abdomen.
Jon's finger touched the tip of his cock at the same time the tip of Richie's tongue touched it. Then both, Richie's mouth and Jon's hand, closed around Jon's cock and began working on bringing Jon to climax.
Yeah, that felt good.... Jon felt a little guilty about not waiting for his lover, but who knew when Richie was going to be back. And he was desperate to distract himself from...that other stuff.
Jon's hand on his cock increased the speed, and so did Richie's mouth in his fantasy. Jon shoved his fingers into Richie's hair and grabbed a handful of those dark curls. Richie looked up. His lips were busy working a crazy rhythm on Jon's cock and his green eyes smiled at Jon and--
Shit. Again.
Richie's hot mouth was sliding up and down Jon's cock, making delicious sucking noises. Richie looked up--his green eyes filled with desire sparkled from behind the honey-colored strands--
Shit shit shit.
John wanted to stop, scrub those green eyes and honey-colored hair off his mind, but it was too late. His cock took over his brain demanding completion and Jon lost control over his fantasy. He just needed to come.
He bit down on his lips and a groan of pleasure escaped his lips. With a few more strokes, a few more pushes of his hips, Jon came, his seed spurting all over his belly and chest.
For a few moments he lay still, taking in what had just happened.
His hand lazily smeared the sticky mess around his belly, while his mind presented him with yet another image of Lars: smacking his lips, his pink tongue running up and down Jon's cock, licking it clean.
Dammit. Shit. Shit. Fuck.
It'd been over two weeks since the gig in England and Jon could not get Metallica drummer out of his head. He tried to reason with himself that what had happened in the dressing room that day didn't matter. That it was nothing. Just an incident. The combination of stress and too much energy was what had brought it about. That things happened on tour.
But if it had been just a "thing", how come he couldn't stop thinking about Lars? How come that ever since the Dressing Room Incident he couldn't stop wondering....
Jon swore again as it became clear to him that the only way to solve his green-eyed problem was to...confront it.
He cleaned himself up with the end of the sheet, then jumped off the bed and strode into the bathroom where he stuck his head under the faucet. He winced when the cold stream cascaded down his head and shoulders, washing away the post-climactic haze.
Straightening up, he shook the water out of his hair, then flattened both palms against the bathroom mirror. He stared at his ruined, dripping hair--that was also Lars's fault.
Lars and his fucking green eyes.
What the hell was he gonna do about that?
He could start by asking Doug--their road manager--to find him Lars's phone number. Then he could pick up the phone. Make the call. Keep it cool. See what happens.
Maybe nothing would come out of this conversation, or it would be a total disaster, and then Jon would be able to stop thinking about Lars and things would go back to normal.
Shit.
Reaching for the towel to wrap his wet hair, Jon realized that he didn't want things to go back to normal. That he wanted those green eyes to look at him again with the same passion they did in that dressing room in England.
And Jon didn't even like green.
Sometimes life was just too fucked up....