They got into X-Factor—somehow, they got into fucking X-Factor and now, if they’re not playing their song over and over, they’re thinking about how they can tweak it, and if they’re not thinking about how they can tweak it, they’re working on promotion. There’s now band accounts on every social media platform ever.
“Fans will want to check us out, and there has to be something out there for them to find.” Damiano waves his hands, and he’s constantly nagging Thomas and Ethan’s to make stories and post selfies.
Thomas isn’t like Vic and Damiano, he doesn’t feel compelled to pout into his phone or capture his reflection every time he sees a mirror—but apparently, Thomas should “just practice.” Promo, says Damiano, is a skill like any other. You work at it until it’s second nature.
Until you get good.
So here Thomas is, phone in his face, sticking his tongue out and swiping it over his lips, trying and failing to make it sexy rather than ridiculous.
“Here, look.” Damiano stands next to him and puts their heads together. He does the exact same thing, showing his tongue, messily licking his lips, yet the moment he starts it’s like something turns on and Thomas can’t take his eyes away. His lips are so soft, and his tongue is so pink, and Thomas isn’t even gay.
Tomas tries again.
“No, no,” Damiano says.
Thomas watches his lips move, wet and glistening.
“Just, make yourself feel it.” Their heads are still together. “If you feel it, it’s gonna come out right, you wouldn’t even need to think about it.”
Feel what, Thomas thinks. “Feel what?”
“Whatever you want.”
Oh, very clear. Thomas rolls his eyes, whites flashing in the screen.
“It’s literally that,” Damiano says. “Feel whatever you enjoy feeling as long as it makes you feel like you're hot.”
Easy to say, if you’re Damiano. “What if you’re not hot?”
“Just do it. When you feel hot, you’ll look hot.”
“But—” but what if I don’t.
“Close your eyes,” Damiano says, and it rumbles in his throat a little.
Thomas does. And he’s aware of the weight of Damiano’s hand on his shoulder and the even rhythm of Damiano’s breathing. Of Damiano’s body heat where they’re near.
Make yourself feel hot.
Right. Feel like you’re Damiano—like you’re the sort of person people want to kiss. Or the sort of person that, if you want to kiss someone, they’d let you. He opens his mouth.
“No, bro. No.” Fuck. “Forget how you look. Just enjoy how people are watching you and they all think you’re hot.”
Fucking fuck it, Damiano and his “just feel hot” bullshit. “If you don’t like it, you can do your own fucking promotion.”
He pulls back. His shoulder feels cold where Damiano’s hand was.
“Aw, c’mon, bro.” Damiano grabs him by both shoulders now. “You’re so close. I know you can do it.”
Damiano’s lashes are so long, and his eyes are so brown. His lips are pink and soft, and they still glisten.
Thomas stands, clutching his iPhone, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. On his shoulders, Damiano’s palms are hot.
“Try again,” Damiano says. “For me.” His eyes are on Thomas’ mouth.
Thomas licks his lips—it just happens, he isn’t even trying. Then he sticks his tongue out and makes it nice and flat; he moves it to one side then to the other until it touches the corners of his lips, he bites and licks until his mouth glistens, open and loose like Damiano’s.
Damiano is looking—and looking, and looking. Thomas looks back and keeps going, slow and wet. Damiano’s breathing faster now, pupils dilated; his tongue peeking, too. He grabs Thomas by the back of the head, fingers buried in his hair. Thomas has only a second to think, I’ve seen him do this to girls, and then Damiano’s kissing him, actually kissing him, deeply and with tongue.
His tongue is thick and meaty and insistent; it sinks so deep in Thomas’ mouth and Thomas opens to it, licks it back, slides his own against it—not thinking, moving on instinct, just because he wants.
Damiano groans like he wants, too.
It does something to Thomas—it rumbles in his mouth, then down his chest, into his dick, and fucking fuck it, fucking figures, that the first guy—the only guy—he’d get it up for would be Damiano.
Thomas reaches for his zipper. His cell phone claters to the floor and he can’t give a single fuck because he’s hard, he’s so, so hard and he needs to be touching himself, now.
He moans when his hand slides in his boxers and finally—fucking finally—closes on his dick. His other hand grabs the back of Damiano’s head because Thomas would be fucked if he lets Damiano pull back now. And Damiano doesn’t—he keeps kissing him, just how Thomas seems to always have wanted.
He comes so hard it’s like his balls got turned inside out, tugging on himself as he pulls Damiano close by the neck, holding his mouth open for Damiano's tongue. He pants when he’s done, trying to catch his breath with his eyes closed. The world comes back to him slowly. Damiano’s still holding him by the back of the neck, but his other hand is on Thomas’ waist now, and he’s still kissing him, now slowly and gently, just the barest tugs on Thomas’ lips.
Thomas sighs and opens his eyes.
Damiano’s still there, eyes studying his face, but Thomas still grips the back of his head. He doesn’t want him to go.
Damiano’s hand slides, then, from the back of Thomas’ head to his shoulder, warm and heavy. A Thumb brushes Thomas’ neck. Thomas looks at Damiano’s pink, swollen mouth and touches their foreheads together. He gets it now—forgetting who you are or what you look like and moving how it comes to you just because it feels good. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.
The hand on his shoulder presses, then, first lightly, then insistently.
Thomas hasn’t done this either, but he lets himself drop to his knees and opens his mouth.
Of-fucking-course it would be for Damiano.