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‘Stay still,’ Pelle says, taking a firmer hold of Øystein’s chin. They’re in the bathroom upstairs. It’s early but they’re both awake. The house is quiet, sighing sleepily to itself. It’s cold too, that cool of early mornings that Øystein can just about remember from childhood.
Pelle’s kneeling on the tiled bathroom floor, between Øystein’s knees where he’s sitting on the bath. Next to him, he’s got a palette of black and white greasepaint. He’d brought it in a costume shop in town at the weekend. Øystein had rolled his eyes but he’s given up complaining when Pelle did something strange.
Now Pelle wanted a canvas to practice and Øystein was the only one at home. Pelle lifts the brush again carefully completing his line. He’d already painted Øystein’s face completely white, though Øystein can’t say he sees much difference in the mirror — he’s so pale already. Pelle exhales quietly, thinking. Øystein can feel the warmth of his breath on his skin.
Øystein’s in his underwear, having just woken up. Pelle’s in a t-shirt, and his underwear too. It’s unusual. He usually gets dressed before he comes out of his room, shirt or sweater covering his arms. Øystein doesn’t know if he gets cold easily or doesn’t like to see the scars.
He hasn’t asked.
Maybe he just doesn’t like the staring. Øystein finds his scars oddly fascinating, each one different, every heart-hurt made flesh. There’s something bewitching about it. But, for a frontman, Pelle’s the cagiest person Øystein’s ever met. So he doesn’t waste his breath in asking about them. He just looks on endlessly curious.
‘I won’t be able to move my face if you put much more on,’ Øystein complains as Pelle goes back to the palette. He’s bored now and teasing Pelle is the best entertainment he’s found yet.
‘Let me finish it,’ Pelle says, lifting the brush again.
‘I don’t need to hide my face, man,’ Øystein says, grinning, ‘we’re not all as ugly as you.’ Pelle flicks his ear, chucking when Øystein yelps.
‘It’s not hiding,’ he says, catching his chin before Øystein can start complaining again. ‘It’s showing, showing us as we truly are.’ Øystein eyes him, thinking about it for a moment.
‘And what are we?’ Øystein asks, smirking at him. Pelle grins at him with all his teeth; that way Øystein both hates and finds he can’t look away from. It makes him look like a skull.
‘Dead!’ Pelle declares, laughing more, ‘you get it? We’re all rotting, Øystein. You might as well dress as a corpse, you’ll be one soon enough.’
Øystein snorts, shoving him but lets Pelle continue his work. Pelle still grinning as he comes back close to him, moving his brush over to Øystein’s other eye socket.
It’s weirdly intimate, even the lightest touch. Pelle’s delicate fingertips on his cheekbone, his palm on Øystein’s thigh to steady himself, the warmth radiating off his torso onto the sensitive skin of Øystein’s inner thighs. He fits his hand around Pelle’s wrist where it’s resting on his leg.
Øystein strokes his thumb over his pulse point, revealing in the connection, in the sensation of skin on skin. He can feel the ladder of scarring as he strokes his hand down Pelle’s forearm. He likes that too. He likes the mix of texture, smooth and rough, knots of skin where it’s joined itself back together imperfectly.
‘Don’t,’ Pelle says quietly, taking his arm back. Øystein lets him go, seeing Pelle pull his arm close against his body hand in his lap.
‘Sorry, man,’ he says, keeping his voice light. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No,’ Pelle answers. His voice is flat. ‘Just don’t.’
Øystein snorts at him, embarrassed by the sudden awkwardness. Pelle’s still leaning into him to paint his face so he lifts a hand to smooth his hair instead. He pushes the thick skien of blond off his shoulder, making Pelle laugh as he gathers it into a ponytail. Pelle’s still laughing as he turns his head, nipping at Øystein’s wrist.
Pelle’s teeth are sharp and it hurts. Øystein feels a lick of heat.
‘Oh? So you’re going to drink my blood now?’ he asks, as Pelle gives the impression of his teeth a gentle lick. ‘Or maybe I’ll make you swallow something else of mine,’ Øystein adds, eyes on Pelle’s face as he smudges his fingers over his mouth. He can feel the heat from Pelle’s blush against his fingertips as he strokes them over his cheek. Pelle glances up at him, eyes dark and watchful.
So Øystein puts his hand back in his hair. Pelle sets the brush on the bath mat, stroking his hands up Øystein’s thighs. Øystein bends, pulling Pelle into him and kissing his mouth. Pelle moans, pressing back, not caring about the black paint smearing onto his mouth. Øystein pulls him back by his hair. He got paint all around his mouth and his pale face is flushed blotchily.
‘What do you say then?’ Øystein asks, feeling Pelle’s eyes on his skin.
‘You’re going to make me?’ Pelle says. He’s smiling a little and it sounds like a challenge so Øystein gives his hair a yank making him let out a soft moue of pain.
‘Shit,’ he says softening his hold. But Pelle’s eyes flick back open.
‘Yes, like this,’ Pelle says, putting his hand over Øystein’s to get him to tighten it again. So he does, pushing on the back of Pelle’s head to get him to lean down. When Øystein can feel him breathing on his bare thigh Øystein tugs again.
‘Suck me,’ he orders, yanking harder again when he feels Pelle’s giggling at the instruction. Pelle gasps sharply and goes quiet, getting to work on getting Øystein’s cock out of his underwear. His hands are warm and the feeling of them lightly stroking over his cock is almost too much.
Øystein bites his lip to keep a grunt in. They've been playing this game on and off for a while now. Pelle had started it, with his clumsy, overfamiliar affection. His ease with his body and with Øystein’s. He’d kiss and touch and suck like it was nothing. And Øystein guesses it isn’t. It’s just sex. Just his skin on Pelle’s.
Pelle’s got Øystein’s cock out of his underwear now. He spits on it before stroking with his palm, making Øystein tense where he’s still sitting on the lip of the bath.
‘C’mon,’ Øystein mutters, trying to keep the breathlessness out of his voice. He pulls at Pelle’s hair again until his head’s down enough to take his cock in his mouth. Øystein grunts, forcing himself to keep quiet as the sensation of Pelle’s wet mouth rolls over him, leaving his whole body tingling. He moans low in his chest.
He can feel Pelle’s tongue, slick and stroking over his cock, licking at the head. Øystein grunts again. Pelle’s got both his hot hands spread on his thighs, keeping Øystein in place while he works him with his mouth. Øystein can feel his fingers digging into his skin, no doubt leaving a smattering of bruises. He loosens the hand in his hair, letting him move how he likes, cupping the back of Pelle’s neck. He can feel the muscles flexing as Pelle sucks him.
Øystein can feel a flush creeping up his chest and down his thighs. He arches a little, carefully not to slip from his perch on the bath. He can feel his toes curling up on the cold tiles beneath his feet. The contrast is heady and it makes Øystein moan again. Pelle’s got a hand on his back now, supporting and pulling him closer as he swallows him down.
Øystein can see he’s flushed too, colour high in his cheeks as his pink mouth stretches around Øystein’s dick. Øystein can feel the muscles in his stomach clenching. There’s a hot, heavy feeling in his gut and he knows he’s close.
‘Pelle,’ he gasps out, ‘Pelle. I’m—’ Pelle pulls off him making Øystein groan as his cock jerks reflexively in the open air.
‘You want to do it inside?’ Pelle asks, lifting his hand to touch his mouth. Øystein watches him slide fingers in and out his mouth for a moment, his skin hot and prickling. Pelle’s eyes are on his, liquid and watchful, and Øystein knows he’s being tortured.
‘Yeah, yes,' he says, voice cracking as Pelle nearly forces his whole hand past his lips. Pelle takes his hand out and kisses him again. That’s worse. Øystein can feel his body tensing with the aching need for his cock to be touched. Then Pelle pulls back from him, swallowing his cock until the head nudges the back of his throat, and Øystein comes.
He moans arching up into Pelle’s hands, nails digging into his shoulders as the orgasm rolls over him. For a moment his whole body is hot and tense before the pleasure comes and he feels himself sinking, soft and pliant back to earth. Pelle’s mouth is still on him making him shiver, suddenly too sensitive to be touched. He shifts, making a soft noise of discomfort, and Pelle sits back on his heels.
Øystein can see his lips are wet and wonders if it’s saliva or his come. He reaches for him and Pelle lets him stroke over his lip, pushing his thumb briefly into his mouth.
‘What does it taste like?’ Øystein asks before he can help himself. Pelle snorts softly at him.
‘Bitter,’ he says, still smirking. ‘Kiss me,’ he adds with a shrug. Øystein does and Pelle puts both hands on his head, pushing his tongue past his lips. Øystein feels a jolt of heat tasting himself on Pelle’s tongue.
‘See?’ Pelle says, letting him go and settling back on his heels. Øystein nods touching his mouth. It’s not an earth shattering revelation. It’s just strange, and Øystein can’t tell if he likes it or not. His fingers come away from his face smudged in white paint and Øystein remembers what they’d been doing in the bathroom in the first place.
‘You ruined all my hard work,’ Pelle tells him off but he’s smiling. Øystein shakes his head at him, standing to crack his back and put his cock back in his underwear. There’s a thud from downstairs and a call. Øystein can already smell coffee wafting up to them through the half-open bathroom door.
Pelle gets up quickly, mumbling something about getting dressed and pads quickly back across the landing to his room. Øystein grabs his t-shirt from where he’d left it on the hook yesterday and goes down the stairs not bothering to remove the half-finished and completely smudged make-up.