#bemmy

Just a bit of good old-fashioned studio makeouts.

Companion piece to [link: 'Out of Air']. Apparently Sammy gave Ben more than the 'eyes' he was complaining about.

Bemmy aesthetic

Benoit doesn't know what it is about men in masks but he can't stand it. He's drawn to The Bloody Beetroots' set like a moth to a flame. He's offstage; he's already played his set but he really doesn't want to be trapped in writhing bodies right now, and so he lurks offside, watching the Italians bounce. He doesn't mind that he can't see their 'faces' - he's got a perfectly good view of their asses. There's a thinner one, with a tiny waist and skinny, skinny legs like his own but he doesn't think he wants to fuck someone as equally bony as he is. Not when there's another, with curls plastered to his forehead - Benoit can see them through the eyeholes - with muscles thick in his arms and chub. Chub. Benoit wants to bite and lick and kiss and suck all over his stomach. Wants to jerk him off and when the masked man screams something to the crowd, he wants to have him making those noises, just for him, in his hotel room. Benoit cups his crotch and rubs it with his heel, absentminded. He doesn't even know their names and already he's got a fantasy playing inside his skull like a feature film. Their set only lasts forty five minutes and when they finally come off of the stage, into the wing where Surkin has been lurking, he claps the thicker one on the back, grins at him. "You were really great," Benoit says. He hears the man chuckle something like appreciation but for now he seems intent on getting his mask off. He slides thumbs under his jawline and Benoit watches, mesmerised, as facial hair is revealed and then a prettily shaped mouth and then eyes and curls and fuck. Benoit's hand is still on his back. The man presses his mask into Benoit's hand while he downs two and a half bottles of water. Benoit tries not to think of camels, not when he's half hard from just watching. "What's your name?" Benoit asks when the man's finished drowning himself. "Tommy," he says. He smiles and Benoit's heart falters. "I'm Benoit," he says, smiling, small and shy. "I know," Tommy tells him. "You're Surkin. I looked you up on Wikipedia when Bob told me we were playing a show with you. Benoit Heitz," he says. Benoit flushes and nods, taking a water bottle of his own when Tommy takes his mask back. He thumbs over the lid slowly and Tommy smiles, sipping his own. "Would you like to get something to eat, little one? You're very skinny." Eat? With Tommy? Tommy and his curls and his grin and his hoarse voice and his glorious ass? He fumbles with the water bottle and puts it back on the table. "Alright," he says, smiling a little. Tommy tells Bob where they're going and then they leave the venue. Tommy has a rental car, big and chunky like him and Benoit feels small and awkward in the passenger seat, all thin angles and jutting bones where Tommy is muscle, carved like a sculpture. They go through the McDonald's drive-thru and Benoit gets two quarter pounders, a large fries and a diet Coke and Tommy gets something like twenty nuggets, a burger and a chocolate milkshake. They sit in the carpark and eat and talk, families and drunken teenagers stumbling around them, seeking out the restaurant for a quick feed. Benoit's halfway through one of his burgers when Tommy hits on him. Benoit blames the alcohol he consumed on stage. "You have a good ass," Tommy had said. Benoit flushes and stuffs the rest of his burger into his mouth. "Thank you," Benoit says. He doesn't know if he should compliment him in return but Tommy doesn't seem like he's expecting anything. He swallows his mouthful and leans over, pressing a little kiss to Tommy's cheek. Nothing is 'slow and steady' in the music industry; fucking is fucking. No one's ever in one place long enough that something gradual can take place. Benoit's only been in one proper relationship in recent years and they'd fucked on their first night of meeting one another and then, when he was on the other side of the world, they would e-mail or Tweet or Facebook each other, learning and teasing. That had been nice. Maybe it will happen with Tommy. He doubts it. Bob seems too protective. "Are you and Bob dating?" Benoit asks, stuffing fries into his mouth. "We fuck sometimes," Tommy says, "But you can't tell anyone. He'd kill me. He's all like, 'Ooh no, we have to stay hushed' and shit. I dunno. I think I'm just a filler for when he can't get some ditty drunk girl on his dick." Benoit frowns around his mouthful and sips at his Coke. "That's not fair," he says, when he's swallowed everything. Tommy shrugs and starts in on his nuggets. Benoit decides to change the subject. "Where do you live when you're not working?" "Venice," Tommy smiles. "And you?" "Paris." Tommy grins. "What?" He asks, confused. "Everyone from France lives in Paris," Tommy says. He pushes the back of his seat down a little, so he can see more of the sky through the windshield. "Everyone from Italy lives in Venice," Benoit retorts. Tommy laughs and Benoit decides he wants to hear more of that sound. They eat the rest of their food, idly chatting about Paris and Italy and all the places they've visited. Surkin gets out of the car with their rubbish and puts it into the outside bin before scampering back inside; the car is warm and the air outside is chilled; he left his jacket in his hotel room. "What do you want to do now?" Tommy asks. "Do you want to come back to my hotel room with me?" Tommy smiles and nods and brings his seat back up and then they're off, Surkin murmuring directions every now and then. When they get inside, Tommy presses him against the wall and kisses him and Benoit decides he likes when Tommy's beard scratches his upper lip. "I don't want to fuck or anything," Tommy says, softly. "I want to get to know you, properly." Surkin's a little disappointed but his heart swells simultaneously; Tommy actually wants to talk and learn and maybe they'll kiss some more. They open the balcony door and Tommy presses into his sweater and Surkin shrugs into his jacket. They lay on the double bed with one another, and Benoit plays with Tommy's fingers. They talk about things like their childhood or their journey into music or their favourite animals and favourite films, until Benoit is pressed close to Tommy, his head on his chest, eyelids fluttering as he struggles to stay awake. "Wait here," Tommy mummers. He pries himself from underneath Surkin's grip and then closes the balcony door and the curtains, turns off the television and the lights and then he tucks Benoit beneath the covers after taking off his shoes for him. Tommy toes out of his own and shrugs off his jacket, left in a too-tight black shirt and he slides under the covers, next to Benoit, who attacks him with lanky limbs and sleepy kisses against his neck, little incoherent mumbles about playing more shows together and that he likes Tommy's kisses. They fall asleep like that, laced together. They'll have to see one another more often, Tommy thinks.