Hannah (teapirate) wrote,
Hannah
teapirate

the beast and dragon adored (3/3)

Part One
Part Two

Liebgott pretends that he can’t remember the one night stand. Malarkey always pesters him for details, but Liebgott assures him there’s nothing remarkable to tell. He’s a good liar.

It was the night of their graduation, and George Luz predictably threw one of his huge parties in celebration. Liebgott, however, was late.

By the time he finally arrived, it was already growing stale. Everyone was already drunk, save for one person, whose sharp, sober blue eyes seem to find Liebgott’s without even trying.

“Who invited you?” Webster intones, sidling up next to Liebgott as he fishes in the refrigerator for an unopened beer.

“Jolly ol’ St. Luz himself,” Liebgott says, standing up to look Webster in the eye. He tries not to flinch at the proximity. “Come to spill another drink on me?”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, liebling. It was an accident.”

“Fuck that,” Liebgott snaps, “you hated me the minute you saw me.”

He can still feel Webster’s eyes on him as he stomps away, elbowing the fridge shut with a harsh slam.

There are footsteps behind him. “I don’t hate you.”

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Why can’t you take a hint and leave me the fuck alone?” Liebgott shoves Webster in the chest. His back hits the wall.

“Why were you late?” Webster asks quietly. Liebgott glares at him before stalking away down the hallway, kicking the back door open and heading over to the pool house. There are pockets of people standing around the pool, laughing, or swimming, but Webster ignores them as he chases after Liebgott.

He grabs his wrist, spinning him around; Liebgott throws off his arm with a scowl but not quickly enough to hide his face. Webster corners him against the wall of the pool house, hidden from view.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Why the fuck do you care?”

Webster doesn’t have an answer. “Was it Dike?”

“Maybe it was, so what?”

“Well why did he do this?”

“Why does he ever do it? Who the fuck knows -- probably ‘cause he’s stuck in the goddamn closet and I’m not!” Liebgott snarls. The lights in the pool rinse his face in sea-green, color rising and falling in little waves as the people behind them create ripples in the water. Webster swallows.

“Come inside, I’ll clean you up,” Webster says.

Liebgott looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

“Fine, bleed to death, see if I care.” This should be the part where he leaves Liebgott standing alone against the wall, but he can’t quite bring himself to move.

Liebgott sighs and pushes Webster away, but surprisingly opens the door to the pool house.

“Ladies first,” Liebgott says, gesturing inside. Webster rolls his eyes but obliges. The pool house is completely empty and pitch-black. His hands move along the walls, searching for a switch. He finally comes across a lamp, which at least gives him enough light to see.

“Here, sit down,” Webster says, gesturing to a wicker-backed couch, while he heads to the kitchen for a rag and some water. When he returns, Liebgott is still standing by the door.

“Why did you even come?” Webster asks flatly, walking towards Liebgott, who stands frozen against the door. It’s almost scary to Webster -- how dark his eyes are, how little he reveals -- but he comes closer anyways. “Why not just go home?”

Liebgott doesn’t answer, swinging Webster around so that the door pushes uncomfortable against his back, and before he can protest or blink or even think, his mouth is covering Webster’s, searing hot and near-painful, teeth sinking into Webster’s lip as if he’s been waiting to do so for weeks, his hands running over Webster’s face and hair and body as if he can’t decide which he wants to hold more. When he finds his wrist, he yanks the wet rag out of Webster’s hand and throws it the floor with a wet smack.

Webster, not one to be bested, reciprocates violently as soon as he gets his wits about him. He wraps his hand around Liebgott’s neck, rubbing his thumb over the constantly-bobbing adam’s apple until it’s raw, devouring his mouth, despite the cut. Webster wrenches one of his arms behind his back and spins him around, face to the wall.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he pants into Liebgott’s ear, “I don’t ever want to talk about this.”

“Then fucking stop talking,” Liebgott snaps, allowing his head to be pulled back as Webster covers every inch of jaw with kisses and sharp, painful bites that make Liebgott hiss and whimper and almost fall to his knees if it weren’t for the hand clenching down on his wrist.

He shakes himself out of Webster’s grip easily and tears his shirt off. Webster mimics him obediently, ripping off his pants until they’re both facing each other, completely naked.

“You’re even scrawnier than I imagined you.”

“How is it even possible for one boy to have so much hair?”

“You look like a little boy.”

“Cute love handles.”

“Somehow though, you’re just so sexy, I don’t understand--”

“Your cock is fuckin’ huge.”

Webster lifts Liebgott up so his back is to the wall, and Liebgott has no choice but to wrap his legs around his waist. Liebgott draws two of Webster’s fingers greedily into his mouth, and Webster searches out Liebgott’s entrance when he’s done, holding him up with one arm and using the wall as support.

“Been workin’ out?” Liebgott says crudely, mouth so obscenely red and swollen that it almost looks painful. Webster kisses him hard, bruising him more, and in one careful push, he replaces his fingers with his dick, swallowing all of Liebgott’s whimpers with wet, open-mouthed kisses, trailing across his jaw and down his neck when the groans relax. It’s like Webster knows the precise moment he’s hit his prostate because his eyes turn dark and lecherous and his smile filthy as Liebgott throws his head back, fingers tearing viciously into Webster’s hair. Neither of them breathe a word; Liebgott bites at Webster’s shoulder and cants his hips forward furiously, demanding more. He grabs Webster’s hand and folds it around his dick.

They come at nearly the same time, Liebgott’s splashing all over Webster’s stomach and his own. When Webster feels it’s safe, he drops Liebgott to the ground, who stumbles shakily over to a couch and lies down.

Their eyes meet in the dark, the silence between them writhing with a thousand, muddled thoughts -- Webster dresses and leaves before he dares figure them out, leaving Liebgott naked and alone in the strange dark.

--

It’s never taken Liebgott longer than five minutes to write a song. He figures if the song wants to be born, it would fall into place organically, no force required.

He sits with his guitar in his lap and fingers through different chord progressions until he lands on one that feels right. He’ll play them through and hum a melody until the melody takes shape in words. He usually sketches out the barest of lyrical skeletons beforehand and fleshes it out as he finds the melody, scribbling them onto whatever scrap of paper is nearest. He relies on the basic songwriting blueprint -- verse, bridge, chorus, verse, chorus -- because that’s what he knows. Sometimes it’s completely free verse.

Today he’s writing and he can’t get a certain image out of his head. Webster’s face -- the sharp wit of those blue, blue eyes and the pink, wry twist of his mouth and the crop of scruff that always clings so determinedly to the strong slope of his jaw -- standing out amongst the crowd at one of their very first shows back in high school, when they were still Band of Brothers, a motley little crew of miscreants that no one took seriously.

Liebgott remembers all the times he caught Webster staring -- his eyes always on him, from the back of the class or in the hallways or from the audience. He thought it was creepy, then, but a tiny part of him also thought it strangely flattering. A deeper part of him knew that when Webster stared at him, it wasn’t just an obsessive hatred like he pretended. When he insulted him, it meant something else entirely. When they finally fucked, it wasn’t empty, cavalier relief but a foregone conclusion, a calculated explosion that was orchestrated from the very beginning.

Their skin is only ragged now, rubbed raw after all these years, chafing angrily at every mention, every newspaper article, every song lyric mistakenly heard on the radio. They’ve become threadbare, dragged over their own stubborn feet and their own stinging wounds for years now and Liebgott’s tired. Deja vu is exhausting. It’s against every fiber of his being to break first but maybe this time, breaking would be more like winning, after all.

--

The weekend finally arrives.

The Last Patrol has their sound check before Currahee to ensure that they have enough time. Everything goes smoothly enough, until Currahee shows up half an hour early to watch. Webster acknowledges them with a nod and nothing else, shooting a glare at Lipton for good measure, who just looks at him helplessly.

Nixon immediately goes over to greet the band when their check is over. Not to be outdone in a display of good breeding, Webster soon joins him, sidling up next to Liebgott, who stiffens considerably. Liebgott’s wearing a sleeveless shirt that makes his arms look especially long and sinewy, but it’s his face that really seems to take Webster’s breath away. It’s hard to define what precisely it is that makes Liebgott’s face so utterly attractive to him -- perhaps it’s the way it wears cruelty. The meanness he puts on is always in direct conflict with how inherently pretty his face is, with his pale skin, the sharp, sunken cheekbones, the dark, obscene mouth and those sharp, piercing eyes. The delicate balance between the invincible thing he wants to be and the soft thing that he is, the way he fights with nature to become untouchable -- when all it does is make Webster want to touch him more.

“You guys ready?” He smiles.

Malarkey nods so enthusiastically that Webster decides it must be sarcastic. “Oh, yeah!”

Webster’s smile falls a little. “So. Currahee. How’d you guys decide on that name? Didn’t you used to be Band of Brothers?”

“Yeah, but...none of us are actually brothers. It felt tacky,” Muck says seriously, stuffing a handful of olives into his mouth.

“Oh. I thought you guys were going for irony, or something.”

Skip just blinks at him.

“So what does Currahee mean?”

Liebgott speaks up, licking his lips so slowly that Webster swears it must be deliberately teasing. “It means ‘We Stand Alone Together.’”

“Oh? In what language?”

“Cherokee.”

Nixon almost spits out his beer laughing. “Cherokee? Who the fuck is Cherokee?”

“No one’s Cherokee, we just liked the name!” Guarnere says defensively, and Nixon throws his hands up in surrender.

“Fine, okay, great -- Currahee, wow. So what is your music like nowadays?”

“I don’t know,” Liebgott shrugs. “Good.”

Webster and Nixon smile privately to each other. “Just...good?”

“Well, I don’t know how to describe it!” He says defensively.

“Alright...that’s okay, that’s okay,” Webster soothes him, exceedingly patronizing. “Well, we can’t wait to hear it!”

Liebgott scowls at him, and Webster feels a twinge of regret. He probably could have hidden his sarcasm better.

“C’mon guys, let’s do our sound check,” Liebgott orders, shooting one last, acerbic look at Webster over his shoulder. The rest follow him, looking either indifferent or way too interested in the strange tension that’s arisen.

Five minutes later, there’s an over-mic’d howl and a clash of out-of-tune guitars. Webster leans against the bar counter, settling into watch with a small smile. Liebgott’s wearing the same Alice Cooper t-shirt that he used to wear in high school and shorts that cut off at the knee that are almost sinfully tight; it’s like remembering why he originally fucked him in the first place, until Webster tunes into what he’s listening to. Terrible, so-called punk music with positively disgraceful lyrics and a lead singer who voice is really only fit for drunken karaoke and maybe -- on the rarest of occasions -- talking dirty. They truly sound awful. With some help, maybe, they could get their act together. Their enthusiasm partially makes up for it, and Webster can admit that their particular style of music is more about an attitude than technique anyways, but for this show, Webster feels responsible for them.

When the song ends, Webster directs the sound technician, “Lower the volume on the singer’s mic, and less reverb on the amps.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Liebgott asks, straight into the mic.

“Turn off his mic,” Webster orders.

“I said,” Liebgott shouts, jumping off the stage and stomping over to Webster, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping you,” Webster says shortly, drawing his face much too close to Liebgott’s for emphasis. Liebgott scowls in that pretty way that sharpens the cut of his cheekbones.

“Well I don’t fuckin’ need your help. This is the way we’ve always done it.”

“And how far has that gotten you?” Webster asks, leaning down so he meets Liebgott right at eye level. “Listen, Joe. I’ve had a record deal since the day I graduated high school. That little show I played in this very bar last week? We had trucks full of kids drive from thirteen hours away when they found out about this little show, just to see us. We’re practically legends in this town. Fuck, I practically own this place. And you? Well, you’re in the same exact spot as you were back in high school. Joe Liebgott, the little punk that no one took seriously, too busy misbehaving or fucking around in your band that was more like one long, pathetic prank instead of the real deal. You want people to take you seriously? Listen to me.”

Liebgott licks his lips and puts a patronizing hand on Webster’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. Webster refuses to wince. “Listen, Web. I don’t need people to take me seriously. Unlike you, I put stock in what I think of myself instead of relyin’ on other people to do it for me. ‘s far as I’m concerned, I get to make music with my best friends everyday. Sure, I gotta have a couple of other jobs on the side, so what? I don’t need to be famous. I don’t need everybody’s fuckin’ approval. And you? Mostly I just feel fuckin’ sorry for you. You know what, I didn’t want to play this gig to begin with because I hate your fuckin’ guts and your attitude and everything you stand for. But now? I think I’m gonna. ‘Cause to be honest with you? This place could really use a little Joey Liebgott-style misbehavior. I just wish you’d get the fuckin’ stick out your ass. Maybe then you could even join in.”

Webster opens his mouth to argue, but Liebgott cuts him off with just a look. “I know you’re scared of confronting what you are but Web, this is fuckin’ serious now. You can’t live your whole life like an uptight piece of shit just because your scared of what people’ll think of you. It doesn’t matter. Why the fuck do you think it matters? Have a little more goddamn self-respect. Once you get that, other people just follow. Trust me. I know what the fuck I’m talkin’ about.”

A muscle jumps in Webster’s jaw and his mouth tightens, fighting to gape open in shock but he refuses to let anything other than apathy onto his face. Hundreds of words try to make purchase in his throat; fuck you, how dare you, anything, but in the end what it comes down to is fuck me. How is it that the little shit that Webster should be least intimidated by -- the scrawniest, most inferior little thing the world could possibly dig up -- is always the one to make Webster lose his words?

Liebgott walks away to clear the stage and Webster curses to himself. It’s high school again; Webster wins and charms and succeeds and no one calls his bluff or dares to touch his heart. Then the bratty little Jew with the mean smile and the bony wrists and the pretty face and the stupid Alice Cooper t-shirt comes along and Webster loses. Again.

No, Webster decides. This is the last fucking time.

--

Norman Dike lives in a one-room apartment downtown next to an abandoned gas station and a McDonald’s.

He isn’t hard to find. Webster raps on the door with a heavy fist. A minute later, Dike appears in the doorway in a half-open bathrobe and a bowl of cereal in his hand.

He opens his mouth like he wants to speak but David cuts him off before he gets the chance.

“Go to the press.”

Dike just gapes. “What?”

“Go to the press. Tell them I’m gay. Hell -- tell that I’m still fucking that little Jew if you want. I don’t care. I want you to.”

Dike splutters like a fish. “Why?”

David ignores him. “You know what? Save it, actually. Why make you do the work? You’re obviously so comfortable sitting on your ass. I’ll do it myself.”

He kicks Dike’s door closed and returns to his car, dialing Lipton’s number.

“Hey, Lip?”

“Yes?” Lipton asks hesitantly. “Is everything okay? Shouldn’t you be at the bar?”

“It’s fine, the show doesn’t start for another two hours.”

“Shouldn’t you be off...I don’t know, brooding somewhere then?”

Webster sighs into the phone. “Look, Lip, I have something I need to do. I want the press to run a story about me.”

“...okay? Like a promotional sort of deal?”

“Sort of. It will certainly garner attention, perhaps some unwanted.”

“Alright, what is it?”

“Tell them the guitarist of The Last Patrol is gay and he’s fucking the lead singer of Currahee.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“I don’t know...make some extra cash for the tip, finally have enough money to buy Speirs a ring, fuck, I don’t know, just do it.”

He can practically hear Lipton blushing on the other end of the phone. “David, this could be bad...”

“Of course it could.”

“What about your parents?”

The smile that breaks on Webster’s face is clean, a smile that isn’t patronizing or sarcastic or secretive; it’s clean of all impure intentions, all secrets, all ulterior motivations. “What about my parents?”

“Okay, if this is what you really want...”

“It’s what I want.”

“I can probably get it in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you tonight.”

He snaps his phone shut and braces himself on the hood of his car. His hands are trembling, in the best of ways.

--

Liebgott sings shirtless. Sweat runs down his chest and his abdomen and his back in skinny rivulets, slicking him up like Webster’s most embarrassing sex dream. He has more energy than his body can contain, screaming into the mic until he’s red in the face, crashing to his knees and singing to the floor, diving into the crowd with his arms splayed out like he’s strung on a cross.

The audience absolutely devours it. If Webster said he was surprised, he’d be lying.

They don’t sound good. They’ll never sound good. But Liebgott was right; they’re misbehaving and it’s working. They’re not following the rules. Their guitars are out of tune; Skip knocked over half of Malarkey’s drum set when he tried to jump on top of him. Guarnere broke two strings and potentially a finger and kept playing anyways. Liebgott kicked in a speaker, got an audience member thrown out, and laid on the stage rolling around in his own sweat for five entire minutes, just howling into the mic and making obscene pelvic movements.

“Well, Nix. This might actually be a hard act to follow,” Webster whispers, and it isn’t sarcastic.

Nixon laughs. “Whatever, dude. Just get wasted. It’s easier.”

They have one song left.

“David Webster,” Liebgott slurs into the mic. “This next song is for David Webster. Does everybody in this room know him? They should. They really fuckin’ should.”

Webster swallows and hides his face in Nixon’s armpit, despite the fact that it smells like a burrito. He misses half the song because his ear is swallowed in Nixon’s sweaty side, but what he does hear is barely discernible to begin with. He knows he rhymes ‘fight’ and ‘bite.’ He’s also fairly sure that he hears the phrase ‘hatefuck,’ though that could have been ‘suck,’ not that that’s any better. Also ‘unconscious,’ and potentially ‘knife.’ David frowns. Liebgott could either want to fuck him or kill him.

When the song ends, Webster stomps over to the stage.

“One second,” Liebgott says, throwing back a giant swig of water. “What?”

“What the fuck was that song about?”

“What, the one I just played?”

“Of course the one you just played.”

“Well, you.” He scowls at Webster like it should be obvious.

“Okay, but...could you, I don’t know, read me the lyrics or something? I couldn’t really figure out what was going on.”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

“I’m sorry, but how is it my fault that you shriek instead of sing?”

Liebgott offers him his bitchiest expression. “It’s about high school, dipshit.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know...lots of shit! Everything!”

“You fit your entire high school career into one song?”

“Okay, so it’s about...I don’t know, the band and stuff!”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean which one...this one, fuckwit!”

“I happen to know that you were also in a KISS tribute band.”

Liebgott turns white, but recovers quickly. “You stalkin’ me?”

“No, just disguising my feelings with mockery.”

“Well, I happen to know you were the number one poetry contributor to the school Lit Mag.”

Webster narrows his eyes. “You know what? I was going to apologize for throwing bottle caps at you during your shows but I think you just handed me a reason not to, so thank you.”

“You fucker.”

“That’s still not as bad as when we threw a baby bottle filled with red Kool-aid at you when you sang ‘Beth.’”

“You fuckin’ asshole. It took weeks to get that stain outta my clothes.”

“You deserved it for defiling my ears with that filth.”

“No one made you go!”

“Of course I had to go, I could never miss out on an opportunity to take out my troves of teenage angst on some lesser species.”

“You know what? People thought we were the shit okay, I got laid by the hour after those gigs.”

“Desperate sluts don’t count.”

“Hey, what about you, huh? You fucked me.”

Webster flinches. It’s strange to hear it out loud. “I fucked you out of pity,” he says hoarsely.

“You fucked me because I’m adorable and I sing like a demi-god.”

“Wrong. You’re scrawny and you sing like what Johnny Rotten would sound like if he ate a fence of barbed wire and then vomited all over a microphone.”

“Well you had a ridiculously hairy chest for a teenage boy and you came in like, three minutes.”

“...I was trying to get it over with.”

Liebgott bites on a smile. “You loved it.”

“Wrong again. You’re on a roll tonight, liebling.”

Webster has stepped in much too close. He’s hardly a breath away. In fact their lips are practically touching. Liebgott’s eyes can’t help but flicker between his eyes and his mouth. “We could do it again.” It comes out without even thinking.

“Do what?” Webster swallows, but he doesn’t move away.

Liebgott smirks, searching Webster’s eyes for any hint of unreturned feelings. He finds nothing but yearning. “Fuck.”

Webster ducks his head, and Liebgott swears his cheeks are a little redder. Webster fights off a smile, but it remains in his eyes, even as he chides, “If my life has really plummeted that depressingly far down hill that you are the only offer I receive tonight then yes, I suppose we could do that.”

“Great. My apartment, 11 o’clock.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cool, see you then,” Liebgott winks, disappearing into the crowd with his arm thrown over Malarkey’s shoulder.

Webster watches him leave, breathing for the first time in what seems like hours. It feels like the first freedom he’s had in years.

His eyes never leave Liebgott’s for the entirety of his set. It’s the best show they’ve had in years.

--

At 11:15, Liebgott hears a knock on his door.

“Were you serious before, about me coming over, because I took it seriously--” Webster babbles the minute the door opens, looking flushed and breathless. His eyes look brighter than they have any right to be, and Liebgott stares into them like he’s found something.

He pulls Webster inside and has him pressed up against the door almost before it even shuts. Webster’s mouth falls slack against his, caught by surprise but soon returns the kiss with fervor, burying one fist into Liebgott’s hair -- which slips through his hand like water -- and holding him by the waist with the other. They stand for a moment against the door, foreheads pressed together, catching their breath.

“You’re late,” Liebgott breathes, and he feels Webster smile against the side of his jaw, which turns into a quick bite.

“Only by a little bit,” Webster whispers, mouth moving softly over the red indent on Liebgott’s jaw.

Doesn’t feel like a little bit, Liebgott can’t help but think. It isn’t 15 minutes, it’s years. Years stolen by stubborn hatred and prejudice and fear. Liebgott runs his fingers over Webster’s new calluses, the worry lines around his mouth, the scar on his shoulder that Liebgott wasn’t there for. Webster’s fingers mimic his movements with Liebgott’s shorter hair, his thinner mouth, his bonier wrists, and the scar on his neck. He folds their fingers together and feels the heat between them; hands that heal and hands that bruise.

“I don’t even know why I’m here, you’re wearing a goddamn Alice Cooper t-shirt -- this goes against everything I believe in...” Webster whispers.

“Shut the hell up and fuck me,” Liebgott orders.

“Bossy,” Webster says, rubbing his thumb along Liebgott’s mouth. “I want you to suck me first. I’ve waited too fucking long.”

Liebgott raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

Webster moves in to mouth at the crook of his neck, tongue dipping into the hollow of Liebgott’s collarbone and biting down on the slim curve of his shoulder.

Liebgott drops to his knees and undoes Webster’s belt. He’s not wearing underwear. “Going commando?” His smile is filthy.

“Oh stop, it’s not like it was pre-emptive. I always play shows commando.”

“Your fans know that?”

“Only the groupies.”

“Oh, please, you don’t have groupies.”

“Sure we do. They’re just not skinny or Jewish enough for me.”

Liebgott just bites into Webster’s hip as response, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down his flesh until he reaches his dick.

A car horn screams outside when Liebgott finally puts his cock in his mouth. There is a thick wash of light from a nearby lamp that rinses Liebgott’s face in gold and shadows; Webster tucks his thumb into the hollow Liebgott’s cheek makes when he sucks, pressing hard enough to maybe hurt, but Liebgott doesn’t complain, just glares up at him in warning. He traces the underside of Webster’s cock with his tongue then closes his mouth around the head, and Webster tangles his fingers in Liebgott’s hair, gently guiding him. When Liebgott’s eyes meet his -- deliberate and dark and sweet and heavy -- Webster feels a pressure mount quickly. His skin feels tighter, hotter, and his knees feel weaker, like they want to collapse. Liebgott sucks harder, head bobbing rhythmically, his eyes never leaving Webster’s and all of a sudden the pressure shivers at the cusp of a breaking point. “Stop, fuck, stop, or I’ll come,” Webster warns, and Liebgott slides off his cock with an obscene pop.

“Fuck me,” Liebgott repeats, his voice absolutely wrecked, and there is no room for argument. He pushes Webster down onto his couch and straddles his hips. Webster drinks in the sight of Liebgott sucking his own fingers into his mouth then reaching back and pressing them inside himself.

“You have a condom?” Webster asks shakily.

“Look in the drawer,” Liebgott directs, fingers sliding out of himself. Webster reaches back and feels around for the packaging. He finds one eventually, and quickly rips it open and slides it onto himself.

“You ready?”

“Is that serious question?” Liebgott raises his eyebrows. He braces his hands on Webster’s shoulders and lowers himself down.

“Careful,” Webster warns, holding Liebgott by his hips to guide him down slowly.

Liebgott rolls his eyes but allows Webster to help, wincing a little when he’s finally seated.

“You okay? Does it hurt?”

Liebgott just leans down and grabs either side of Webster’s face, kissing him possessively. He lifts himself up again and then back down, harder this time, and Webster cants his hips up to meet his thrusts. They build a careful rhythm, Liebgott breathing curses into the corner of Webster’s mouth, catching his groans.

“Harder,” Liebgott orders, and Webster obeys without question, taking a firm hold of Liebgott’s hips and thrusting so hard that Liebgott’s head falls back, biting down on a scream. Webster’s mouth latches onto Liebgott’s neck as he continues to pound into him.

“Shit,” Liebgott growls, fingers digging into Webster’s scalp as he holds on for dear life. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...” he cries out, and his body convulses as his come covers Webster’s stomach.

Webster throws Liebgott onto his back, changing positions quickly as he continues to pound into him. Liebgott squirms under him, and Webster’s grabs onto his arms, holding him still and burying his face into Liebgott’s shoulder as he rides out his orgasm.

They stare at each other, flushed.

“That was the worst orgasm I’ve ever had,” Webster says breathlessly.

“You are a terrible fuck,” Liebgott returns with a grin.

Webster leans down and cups his face in his hands, feeling soft cheek give under the press of his thumb. He kisses Liebgott slowly this time, a little more gently, smiling when he feels Liebgott’s hands folding together at the nape of his neck.

“So what’s for breakfast tomorrow, liebling?”

“...you fucker.”

--

Webster is rudely awakened at 6 AM by “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.” It’s his Speirs’ ringtone.

He gently moves Liebgott’s head off his chest and grabs his phone off the nightstand with a scowl. “What the fuck do you want at this ungodly hour?”

“Look at the morning paper.”

“...what?”

“Page 11, left corner.”

“I’ll fucking kill you for this...” Webster grumbles, kicking the sheets off and stumbling over to Liebgott’s front door. The paper is sitting on the welcome mat. He grabs it quickly and lays it out over the kitchen counter, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he flips to page 11.

There, in the left corner, bears the headline: “Local musician comes out of the closet.”

“Oh.”

“Care to explain yourself?”

“Yeah, hang on.”

Webster skims over the article.

“Our town’s own David Webster, of popular local band The Last Patrol, recently came out of the closet, joining the ranks of hundreds of other gay musicians.

“He said he finally felt ready. I’m not sure what the push was, but he seems much happier with his new freedom,” Band manager Carwood Lipton said.

He has even found love in other local musician, Joseph Liebgott, singer of Currahee, another local band who recently opened for the Last Patrol at a concert at Toccoa Bar. Both bands...”

Webster tears his eyes away from the article. “Yeah, I might have told Lipton to give this story to the local paper.”

“Why?” Speirs demands.

“Because it was going to happen anyways, thanks to Norman Dike, and I figured I might as well do it myself.”

“And did you ever think about what this might mean for the band?”

“Sure I did. And then I realized I didn’t give a shit. I’m tired of being worried of what everyone might think all the time. I’m tired of being so fucking scared of tarnishing my precious reputation. I’m tired of my parents, I’m tired of the pretentious bullshit, and I’m tired of not respecting myself enough to tell the goddamn truth. I’m gay. You know that, my friends know that, I know that, and it’s time for everyone else to know too. Not because I’m obligated to tell them, because I’m not, it’s my fucking business, but because it doesn’t matter. I’m sick of letting this one little thing hold me back. Admitting the truth about my sexuality has made me feel more free than I’ve felt in years. I feel good, Speirs. I feel really, really good about this.”

Webster hears a cough behind him. He whips around, caught off guard, and finds Liebgott leaning against the door frame with mussed-up hair, a sleep-lazy grin, and more pride in his eyes than Webster’s ever seen. He returns it, and beckons Liebgott over with a wave of his hand.

“Okay,” Speirs says. “I’m happy to hear it.”

“Me too,” Webster says, holding his arm out so Liebgott can press into his side. Liebgott kisses him immediately, too rough for this early in the morning but Webster isn’t complaining.

“David, are you...where the hell are you?” Speirs asks.

“Speirs, I’m going to have to call you back.” Webster hangs up and lets his phone drop as Liebgott pins him to the counter.

Has found love in other local musician, Joseph Liebgott?” Liebgott reads over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“That...might have been a little pre-emptive, but--”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m ready for round two.”

“But I’m hungry, you said you’d make breakfast--”

Webster’s complaints die in his throat as Liebgott’s mouth attaches itself to his chest, teeth scraping over a nipple. “You’re my fuckin’ breakfast.”

“Oh.”

Once again, little Joey Liebgott is the one who makes Webster lose his words.
Tags: fandom:bandofbrothers, fic, fic: the beast and dragon adored, pairing:webgott
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