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Title: Second Hand By: Josey Pairing: JM/OOC threesome Rated: NC-17 “They’re jeans.” James stares at crisp blue denim trapped in layers of clear plastic. “Yeah,” he says then looks up, “Why?” “’Cause the one’s you’re wearing are getting obscene.” Sensing a level of resistance, Steve adds, “Your ass was hanging out last night, man. That’s not the image we’re going for.” “Right,” James says, yanking the things out of their wrapper and holding them up. “They’ve got fucking creases,” he gives them an illustrative shake, “fucking creases.” Steve glances up from his laptop where he’s busy typing in James’ latest tour report. “They’ll wash out,” he says with a shrug. The jeans hit him round the back of the head. “What the fuck?” he yells, snatching at them, but he’s speaking to an empty room. ** Damp evening air closes around him as he stalks up the street, head down, hands shoved in the pockets of his old, comfortable, jeans. This shit of Steve’s is getting old. Splitting with the band made sense, a fuck of a lot of sense, and James doesn’t regret that for a second. It’s this new toned down responsible thing, the whole ‘we’ thing, that’s driving him insane, ‘cause what Steve actually means when he says we, is Steve. James sure as hell didn’t get much of a say in this reinvention of himself, just a, “For fuck’s sake, man,” when he argues. Take the jeans. So, yeah, Steve’s not wrong about the ones James is wearing, they are getting a bit on the ripped side. But then Steve isn’t the one who’s gotta to wear new ones like some dickshit highschool geek. Creases and harsh cloth, stuff that brings back memories James never quite manages to leave behind. Never quite the cool kid even after Joss declared him that way. Following his feet over rough, uneven, paving stones, James turns the corner and finds himself facing a poorly lit rundown bar. He pauses, eyes narrowing as he stares at the closed door. Can he do this? Should he do it? Steve’ll go ape-shit if word gets out that James has been seen getting wrecked, but going back to the hotel at this point isn’t gonna happen. There’s a limit to how much shit he can take in one evening. He sidles up to the window and peers inside. It looks quiet, kinda dead. Only a couple of old guys in the corner watching TV. No one in there’ll know who the fuck he is and it’s a risk worth taking to feel like a real person for a couple of hours. As he pushes open the door, the taste of stale tobacco immediately slaps his addiction into overdrive. How many years has it been? And yet the cravings still get too much. Maybe he’ll smoke tonight. That’d drive Steve crazy, but it’ll also fuck his voice up monumentally and it’s already taking a battering. He sighs, resigned to staying clean of that drug at least for now, and heads for the bar. “Bottle of Bud?” he asks, tapping a finger on the counter to attract attention. The young bar tender grunts something, puts down his book and reaches into the refrigerator. “Two quid,” he says, slamming the bottle through the opener and down onto the counter top. James fishes for a handful of money and stares at it helplessly. Small change. Fuck. He hadn’t thought to check his cash flow before he walked out and the void in his back pocket says bills aren’t gonna be an option either. “I said two quid,” the barman repeats, though there’s something about his voice… James looks up and recognises the expression on the guy’s face. He was wrong. Someone in this bar does know who he is. Double fuck. “Look,” he starts hoping to cut this off before it gets out of hand. “You’re that actor, plays that vampire. The one on Buffy.” Too late. “Any chance of your autograph.” James sighs. “Don’t suppose I can swap it for the beer?” he asks, only half-joking. “Don’t see why not,” the barman says, “but you don’t want that crap.” With a grin that makes him look decidedly boyish, he digs under the counter and comes up with a totally different bottle. “My other half thinks you’re great,” he continues as he decants the thick dark liquid. Bubbles ooze up the glass creating a head that looks almost solid. “Wrap yourself round that.” The drink slides across the bar accompanied by another grin. James glares at it suspiciously. Stout; not his usually choice, but he isn’t a total novice. Sweet and smooth, it goes down a treat, so does the second, poured for him without a word. Lost in a world of his own populated by lyrics and impossible chords, James hardly notices draining the third and would probably have kept drinking if a pad and pen hadn’t been pushed in front of him. Coming back to a reality packed with fans that all want a piece of him, he picks up the biro and squints at the barman. “What’s her name?” he asks, surprised at the slur in his voice. An eyebrow raised in his direction makes his hand pause. “Your girl, for the autograph,” he clarifies. “His name’s Grant,” the barman says. It’s one of those dumb situations when your brain ends up back tracking over every fucking thing you’ve said and done and comes up empty. Had the guy given him a clue? Not a one as far as James can tell. But he’d made an assumption he shouldn’t have and now has to do something about it. “Right,” he says, rubbing his top lip with his finger. “Cool. Make it out to Grant, should I?” “How about you make it out to Grant and Laurie – that’s me by the way – and add in a thanks for a great night.” It’s tempting to slam the pen down and walk out, but James isn’t a total dickhead. He’d not do that if a woman came on to him and the last thing he wants is to get labelled a homophobe. So he laughs, “Yeah, right. Not really my type, you know.” “What a waste,” says a new voice, coming from just behind him. James spins round, finding himself face to face with blond bangs half-concealing dancing hazel eyes. Guess this must be Grant. “Look man, no offence, but I’m not into guys.” “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.” Shit. How to take a bad day and turn into a total fuck up. Steve’s company, complete with crisp new jeans, is sounding good right about now. His face must’ve said enough since Laurie suddenly laughs and Grant’s face splits into a broad grin. “Christ, it’s fun doing that. You look like someone just peed in your beer.” They were yanking his chain. Fuck! Relief spreads through James’ body leaving him kinda limp. And in need of another drink. A glass gets shoved into his hand and he downs the contents without looking, ending up choking on the whisky burn. Someone smacks him on the back and the laughter grows. But it’s not cruel, just friendly, so he joins in, eyes streaming from fumes and amusement. Grant buys another round and James sits, fading into the background as the couple chat to each other, throwing the occasional comment his way like he was just one of the gang. It’s cool. There’s something about these guys that makes James feel relaxed, safe, kinda like having friends even though they’ve only just met. At some point Laurie rings a bell and flicks the overhead lights making the two old boys finish up their drinks and wander off into the night. James makes half-hearted noises about leaving, but Laurie just locks the door, pours him another drink and keeps talking. It turns out Grant’s a guitarist too and when he passes his Big Baby to James, they share a moment of bonding over decent playable instruments. Laurie shakes his head at them and calls them sad, getting a swat from his lover for cheek. The swat turns into a wrestling match and, when Grant yanks Laurie over the bar, a kiss. Maybe it’s the alcohol, could be it’s being on the road with too many empty hotel beds and empty dreams, but James finds himself watching and for the first time wondering. He’s never found the idea repulsive, just mildly threatening and maybe that says as much as anything else. Hands are wandering, stroking over backs and asses, and, for a second, James can feel them on his own body, craves them on his own body. A firm confident touch that knows almost better than he does how to bring pleasure. He’s so busy wondering that he doesn’t notice the kiss end and Grant turn towards him. He notices the hand held out to him, the lopsided smile on Laurie’s face and a voice saying, “Fancy joining us upstairs?” Afterwards he hasn’t a clue why he takes the offered hand and follows them, has no clue how he ends up on the bed with his old ripped jeans in a heap on the floor along with his shirt and jacket. Has no clue why he kisses Grant, except that it looks good when Laurie does it. He does know that it feels as good as it looks. Sandwiched between them, everything feels good. The fingers tracing down his arms, the lips closing over his nipples, the fist around his cock that makes him arch into the touch and gasp into Laurie’s mouth. They expect nothing in return and it’s kind of strange being so damn passive in bed. Not his style. He’s used to chasing not being hunted, but he’s not arguing, not when Laurie slides down the bed and starts sucking him off. Cussing like a motherfucker, James flails and grabs the nearest thing – Grant – tugging him down into a brain-melting kiss. It’s too good. He’s gonna come too fast and there’s enough of the gentleman left to push vainly at Laurie’s head and mumble, “Now,” giving the guy a choice he doesn’t take. Laurie’s still licking his lips when Grant jumps him, pushing him back on the bed and diving in for taste. James ends up sidelined, back in the role of voyeur as the couple trade kisses and more. But he doesn’t mind, doesn’t care. Sated for now, he’s happy to lie back on the pillow and watch as they go at it, cocks sliding mindlessly through fists and across slick bellies, eyes fixed on each other and voices a rumble of need. There’s a beauty to it that James has never let himself see before and maybe now he kinda understands why the Venetian Heat thing got the fans so heated up. Shit, he’s heating up again just watching these two. Grant’s hands close around the bedstead as Laurie jerks him off. His eyes are screwed closed, his mouth open as he pants. The muscles in his belly are tense, jumping under tanned skin. James leans over and runs a finger from sternum to navel eliciting a throaty heartfelt moan that manages to get him as hard as he was before. “Wanna fuck him?” Laurie whispers suddenly. James startles. He hadn’t thought about it, but asked like that, when his dick’s doing the thinking for him, he answers automatically. “Hell, yeah.” There’s a whimper and James looks up. Grant’s eyes are half open, lazy and lustful, hopeful. As Laurie scrambles for something – lube and rubbers it turns out – James explores what’s on offer. Tight, well-muscled thighs part when he strokes from knee to groin. A wet tipped cock leaps when his thumbs brush against a soft sac. “Here,” Laurie says, pressing a foil packet into James’ hand. This bit’s easy. He tears it apart with his teeth, spitting out the tag. Laurie’s already gotten busy; fingers slicked up and deep inside Grant’s ass. Grant’s panting, restless tongue painting his lips again and again like he’s desperate. “Now,” he says, face screwing up and fists clenching and releasing against the struts. “Ready?” Laurie asks. James nods and shuffles forwards between Grant’s spread legs, fingers clamped round his dick keeping the rubber in place. Can’t be that different from fucking a girl, can it? Ah, fuck, it can. “Holy shit,” he gasps, brain switching to overload as he eases slowly into a body that manages to simultaneously push him away and pull him in deeper. So fucking different, so fucking good. Laurie’s taken up kissing duties but he got one hand under Grant’s thigh, keeping him open, making it easier. Once he’s balls deep, James tries watching them to take the edge off. Doesn’t help. They look too damn good together. Doesn’t help when Grant lets go of the bed and starts jerking off, fist flying up and down. He’s not cut, some part of James’ brain registers, before a heel digs into his ass urging him on. It gets kinda fuzzy after that. There’s hands on his back. There’s kisses, lips, tongue and teeth. There’s nails scraping his nipples and ribs, palms curling round his head to pass him back and forth. His own hand finding Laurie’s ass as Laurie’s dick finally finds Grant’s mouth. Double fucking, Grant taking it all, his body begging for more. And through it all there’s tight – so fucking tight – ‘round his cock. When he comes, he’s just one of three. They’re in this together, sweating and thrusting, shooting, ‘til they collapse in a sticky panting heap. Good. Better than good. A time out for his brain, a time out that ends with them sprawled out, sated and content. Of course this is where the awkwardness is gonna start. James isn’t exactly new to this. He’s fucked more women that he cares to remember and it’s the afterwards that gets him every fucking time. “Right,” he says, making a move when he gets his breath back and his heart’s not doing a double tango. “I guess I’d better-” “Shut up,” Laurie mutters, throwing an arm over him to drag him back down. “Only just started.” James lies there for a second, frowning, a bit confused. The silence climbs over them, burrowing between their bodies and forcing spaces where there weren’t any before. Lips attack his without warning and he ends up kissing back in self-defence, the tight curls under his hand telling him it’s Laurie who’s taking advantage. When Laurie backs off to breathe, James waits for it. This is where the clinging and the ‘it meant something to mes’ gonna starts. Why don’t people get the sex for sex’s sake thing? Instead he gets a grin and a, “You think too much.” He has to laugh, ‘cause it’s not something he’s ever accused of. Not thinking? Hell yeah, all the time. Over thinking? Not so much. But then he’s not normally in bed with two guys, so this whole thing’s kinda out in left field. Shit, what if Grant and Laurie say something. If this gets out, he’ll be toast. He can see it now, the Q and A’s at cons. Fuck, this was beyond dumb. The laughter’s more now, edging into hysterical as the effects of the alcohol wear off. But it can’t go on forever and when it dies away, James rubs his face and opens his eyes, staring up at Laurie. There’s no surprise. All he’s getting is a wry smile and raised eyebrow. “You really haven’t done this before have you?” “Um, no. Can’t say that I have.” Laurie chuckles and shakes his head. “We’re not gonna start stalking you or anything, if that’s what’s bothering you,” he says. “Fucking’s good and it’s fun having someone join us, but that’s it.” “I dunno,” comes Grant’s voice, followed by his head appearing over Laurie’s shoulder. “There’s something I wouldn’t mind getting.” “More than a fuck?” Laurie asks with a laugh and yelps dramatically when Grant thwaps him on the ass. “Just a souvenir,” Grant says, “if James doesn’t mind.” James’ mind cycles through the possibilities, ruling out signed confessions since these guys don’t seem the type. “Okay, what?” he asks when he runs out of sensible ideas. “The jeans,” Grant says with a grin. Laurie groans and throws himself back on the bed, covering his eyes with his hand. “Christ, babe, not the clothes.” “Huh?” says James. “It’s his thing,” Laurie says, “though he normally gets them through ebay, thank god.” “Clothes?” “Yeah, I collect ‘em.” Grant hops off the bed and tugs open a chest against the wall. Inside are clothes, neatly folded and bagged. He pulls one out, shucking the wrapper and laying the jacket out on the bed. “That was Leonardo di Caprio’s. I got it off ebay a couple of years ago. Cost me a fortune.” While he’s talking, he’s leaning back into the chest, obviously searching for something. Laurie stirs and sits up. “Oh god, if you don’t stop him this place’ll start looking like a jumble sale,” he says. “I’m going for a pee.” Fascinated, James watches as Grant unpacks the box. A wife beater that used to belong to Freddie Mercury, James Dean’s socks – only reputedly according to Grant – a tie Sinatra wore during a Rat Pack gig. If the clothes could tell stories, James would be talking to some of the biggest names in music and film over the last century. “And this,” Grant finishes, placing a see-through bag reverently on the top of the pile. “His treasure,” Laurie laughs from the doorway. Grant flashes him a grin. “What is it?” James asks, reaching out to touch the faintly grubby looking knitted item. He gets a smacked hand for his trouble. “Only one of Cobain’s cardies,” Laurie says, taking a seat. “And that one he didn’t get on ebay.” A faint flush creeps up Grant’s cheeks telling the tale more eloquently than words. “You fucked Kurt Cobain?” The words spill out before James can stop them. Inside there’s a huge piece of him that’s doing the fan thing. He’s fucked someone who fucked Cobain, the guy James had almost worshipped all those years ago. He shakes his head. Yeah he’s pathetic, but still. Cobain! “And you want my jeans?” to join this treasure trove of memories. ** The sidewalk radiates damp cold as James walks back to his hotel. He doesn’t get more than a sideways glance from the receptionist as he passes the desk, but Steve’s waiting, pacing, when he gets upstairs. “Where the fuck have you been, man?” Steve asks when James opens the door. James shrugs and walks past him towards his room. It’s time to get moving; they’re due in Bristol tonight. As he grabs his bag from the chair, the new jeans fall to the floor. James picks them up and holds them for a second before tossing them into the corner. He doesn’t need them. The one’s he’s wearing are perfect. Soft and worn, touching in all the right places. Plus they used to be Grant’s, and James has always had a thing for second hand. -End