Chapter Text
Sid thinks the kind of music The Pacific creates is ostentatious. They are anarchy in music form, angry guitar riffs and angrier lyrics – hardly the type of music that his mother would have his good Southern son listen to. Eugene likes it because it puts him through medical school; all his rage and frustration at the education system absorbed by their unforgiving drum solos. As soon as he learns they’re going to play in Boston, he purchases a ticket and makes sure to have his schedule cleared.
The Pacific’s newest drummer is a mouthy New York native called Bill. He’s been a touring member for over a year, until he’s finally given the full title of ‘band member’ just last week. He’s getting mouthier since, posting pictures of an annoyed Snafu and stupid polls on his Twitter. The Pacific has had so many line-up changes in the past that it’s so hard to keep up. At one point, Flo, Burgie’s fiancée, fills in as their bassist for two whole months, until she’s replaced by Hamm with two m’s. Hamm quits just three weeks ago; Eugene hasn’t had time to check the updates, see who the new bassist is.
The media likes to chalk this phenomenon up to Snafu’s general personality – unlikable, abrasive, antagonistic. Likes to blame Snafu for the instability of his band. By anyone’s standards, Snafu Shelton isn’t a typical leading man. He’s not charming, he doesn’t want to please the crowd. He never wants to answer any questions straight. He gives exactly zero fucks to all the things that he’s supposed to do to become a well-loved rockstar, and that frustrates the media. They want to see a new Freddie Mercury, some kind of tempest with the voice of an angel – instead they have Snafu Shelton, hunched over his piano and growling into his mic like he wants to start a war. Despite how badly the media writes it up, their songs remain on the charts for weeks, and their fans stay devoted.
Snafu’s fans, particularly, are very devoted. Instead of pushing fans away, Snafu’s general disregard for pleasantries turns a bunch of people online on – Eugene will never probably be able to unread the some of the most obscene comments he’s read about Snafu, but god, he isn’t blind. Snafu’s kind of alluring in pictures. Something about that deep-set eyes, his messy curls, the way he talks so slow like the world both exhausts and amuses him in equal measure – it’s hard to imagine that he isn’t somebody’s cup of tea.
In person, when he’s singing not a foot away from Eugene, Snafu’s attractiveness doubles in its intensity. It’s one of their slower songs, Snafu on piano and all alone, spotlight on him. His signature military green leather bomber jacket is draped over the piano, long since abandoned about half a song ago. That thing is the ugliest thing Eugene has ever seen, and it only makes sense that Gucci designers custom-made it for him. It’s the jacket that Snafu wears to The Pacific’s first Grammy event, and he hasn’t let go of it since – even if they don’t come home with any awards.
He’s now left with sheer white t-shirt, clinging to his body with sweat, no care in the world as he sings soulfully into the microphone. After about an hour of jumping up and down – there’s even a moshpit, at some point – the crowd eases and loosens up to the sound of his voice.
The first song ends, and the crowd cheers for him, wanting more. Snafu takes a sip from the beer perched on top of the piano. There’s a grand piano that no one ever uses back in Eugene’s Alabama home. His mother used to play, and she cares for the piano like it’s her own child. She would disapprove of Snafu littering the top with red solo cups of beer. He gingerly puts it back, and punches in some keys that don’t really sound like a song.
Snafu isn’t looking at the crowd when he speaks. “Have y’all ever been in love?”
His voice booms across the large venue – all of 10,000 people, and they all cheer back a chorus of yes back at Snafu. A girl shrills, “I love you, Snafu!” and Snafu snorts into his microphone.
“You love me?” he says. “Boo, you ain’t even know me.”
The crowd goes nuts at that.
It’s the last thing Snafu says, before he launches into his next song. It’s a little jazzy, showcases more of his voice than any other songs. The crowd melts into it, swaying and singing along, and Eugene has never felt more in awe of a man than he is at that moment.
God, Snafu is amazing.
-
Later, when the last note has long since rung out, Eugene goes to have a smoke just outside of the venue, sharing his lighter with three other twenty-somethings in leather jackets. Eugene feels a little under-dressed, if he’s being honest, in his black jeans and worn-out denim jacket. They all wear make-up, even the one guy with an undercut – just a tiny flick of black eyeliner along his lash line, but still. Dressed to nines in a show where they sweat out.
“Thanks,” one of them passes his lighter back. She’s taller than Eugene in her platform boots, her lipstick blood red. When she sucks in around her cigarette, it leaves a ring of red around the white perimeter. She eyes Eugene curiously. “Who are you here for?”
The question is a little off-putting – the way she phrases it doesn’t sound right. But Eugene assumes it probably means who his favorite member is. “I don’t really have a favorite member, really,” he says, because admitting that he mostly comes here to watch Snafu perform shirtless for nearly an hour feels a little shallow. “Their music is amazing.”
“So you’re not picky,” the guy with black eyeliner says.
“Um, guess not?” Eugene replies.
“You’re probably going to be Snafu’s type,” the first girl notes. She reaches out to push back his hair, and Eugene nearly recoils – the touch of a stranger is always unwelcome. But she doesn’t take note of his discomfort. “There, you look better.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Eugene says.
“Cheer up, honey. Honestly, it’s a compliment,” one of the two girls says. “God knows I want him to take me.”
“Amen,” the guy with eyeliner echoes, blowing out his smoke with a smirk.
Then it clicks to Eugene. The nice clothes, the make-up – they’re groupies. He feels his cheeks redden with embarrassment. He’s read about the stories, the crazy after-parties the band throws, drug-induced and sexual. He always dismisses those stories as sensationalized, but faced with actual groupies, he doesn’t know what to think.
“Oh, look, there Chuckler is,” the guy with eyeliner says. Eugene follows his line of vision, and sees a severe-looking man walking towards them. He has on a t-shirt that says, in capital letters, security. Chuckler takes in the sight of all of them, two girls in blood-red lipstick, one absolutely beautiful guy with eyeliner, and Eugene. “Hi, Chuckler.”
Chuckler grunts something unintelligible. “You guys ready?”
“Yeah,” the first girl throws her cigarette to the asphalt, snubbing it out with the heel of her boots. “Lead us the way.”
This is Eugene’s last chance to clarify the situation – tell the whole group that he’s genuinely here for the music, that he’s not a groupie.
Eugene doesn’t take it.
Chuckler holds out his palm. “Phones,” he says, and adds, pointedly, to the first girl, “All four of them.”
Eugene feels a sense of absurdity settles in as soon as he hands out his phone. God, what is he doing?
“You’ll get them back after you’re done,” Chuckler says with an air of casualty that lets Eugene knows this isn’t Chuckler’s first rodeo. How long has The Pacific been inviting in groupies to their post-concert festivities? Chuckler motions for them to follow him. “Stay close and don’t draw attention to yourself, or you’re out.”
This is really happening, then.
Eugene follows behind the three original groupies – god, he needs to learn their names, it’s starting to feel rude referring them as groupies in his head. He doesn’t know what compels him to do this, and a tiny part of him feels a little dirty. He’s a pediatrician, for god’s sake. His mother would faint if he ever finds out that her good, god-fearing son is following a security head to a secluded place where he’s hoping to be fucked by a band member. But there’s another part of him that’s bigger and louder, that sees Snafu and feels something in his stomach stir, and somehow that part wins.
He’s just hoping that his face isn’t plastered all over tabloids the next morning.
-
Chuckler leads them to the backstage through a series of twists and turns that have Eugene believing that he’s not going to make it out by himself. Walking into the so-called party is a bit anti-climactic; he half expects to be welcomed by a complete display of debauchery when he arrives, drugs on the table and orgies already halfway through. Instead, he’s welcomed by the sound of laughter, the faint clink of glass like the sounds of a restaurant. The band’s not the only one enjoying the party. In the corner of the room, he sees Flo and Burgie, cuddling on a loveseat, watching as Bill and Snafu – god, there he is – argue over… is that monopoly on the coffee table?
“Chuckler!” the new bassist bounces over. Eugene remembers his name from when they all introduced themselves earlier – Jay with a French-sounding last name, the newest addition to the touring member of The Pacific. He eyes the four of them, curious but not unwelcome. “This is them?” he asks to Chuckler, and as soon as Chuckler nods, breaks out into a smile. “Bill and I are in the middle of something, if you’d like to join us.”
“Hey,” Bill waves at them, that half-smirk that he so often wears stretched over the mouth of a bottle. “You spotted the nicest looking ones, Chuckler.” Chuckler only grunts in response, and leaves the room at once. Door closed, Bill straightens up. “Come here. Take a seat. All of you.”
As they walk closer, Eugene confirms that indeed, they are playing monopoly.
The two girls take their seat sandwiching Bill, who looks pleased about it. Jay occupies an empty armchair next to Bill, and the guy with the eyeliner follows him, sitting nearly half on his lap.
“Be the judge, alright, girlies?” Bill says, looking to the left and right. “'Cos shit’n’ass here is cheating, but he won’t admit it.”
“You’re just a sore loser, Bill Leyden,” Snafu says. “Fuck this shit. I ain’t playing any more of this game with your sorry ass.” Snafu stands up, and immediately catches Eugene’s eyes. Eugene holds his breath – up close, he can see that Snafu’s eyes aren’t grey; they’re a light blue, a little dark in dim light, but beautiful all the same. Then the moment is broken, and Snafu shuffles past him to make his way to the bar.
Eugene finds himself rooted to his spot, unsure if he should follow along and sit next to Bill in what tiny space is left on the loveseat, or be an uncomfortable thirdwheel to Burgie and Flo. He hopes that it doesn't show that he's hopelessly nervous and so far out of his comfort zone. He doesn't think he can even go back to his comfort zone after this.
He sits next to Burgie, who has Florence on his lap.
"You look like Bambi," Flo notes as soon as he sits down. He notes a hint of an accent in her voice. "So clueless. Your first time?"
Eugene laughs, hoping it eases the pounding in his chest. "Is it so obvious?"
"Have a beer," Flo suggests. "You don't need to be nervous – most of them who come here, they don't always end up having sex. We just talk for the most part. We love company, the more the merrier."
Burgie offers Eugene an unopened bottle, his smile is kind. How is he so... matter-of-fact with this? How many times have they invited overeager fans backstage that they're treating this as normal? Eugene's head is about to burst from all the questions, the pure absurdity of the situation. There he is, living out scenarios that only happen in movies, and he can't stop freaking the fuck out.
He accepts the bottle gratefully.
"What's your name?" Flo asks.
"I'm – " Should he give his real name? "Eugene."
"You don't sound like you're from Boston," Burgie comments.
"Yeah, I – I'm from Mobile, Alabama. Came here for work."
"What do you do?" Flo asks.
"I'm a pediatrician," Eugene answers.
Burgie's eyebrows raise, visibly impressed. Eugene feels his stomach warm at that; though it could be just the beer. "Nice," Burgie smiles. "You love kids, Doctor?"
"You have to, right?" Flo says, leaning forward. She still has her arms around Burgie. It should be awkward that he's having a conversation with a girl sitting on her fiancé's lap while she mildly flirts with him – can he say that they're both flirting with him? Because Burgie is licking his lips, and Eugene is sure it's not due to dehydration.
"Well," Eugene swallows. "It's hard not to love them, you know? They're – the future of our world."
It sounds like some bullshit someone would put on their tinder bio to impress their dates, but maybe Eugene is trying to impress Flo and Burgie.
Flo grins, cat-like, and looks at Burgie. They seem to be communicating something with their eyes, and Eugene feels he's being intrusive, so he turns his head the other way.
To find Snafu is staring at him.
Bill and Leckie are smoking and joking with the groupies – they’ve started a new game of monopoly, and somewhere in the course of the five minutes that he spent talking to Burgie and Flo, the girl with the boots is sitting on Bill’s lap.
And Snafu is staring at him.
Eugene holds his eye contact as he brings the rim of the bottle to his mouth. He takes two big gulps, and Snafu continues his stare, blowing out a perfect ring of smoke.
"Oh, dear," he hears Flo sigh, turning around to face her. She puts her hand on his cheek, and pats it twice. "We would've loved to have fun with you some other time."
Without missing a beat, Burgie adds, "But it looks like you're already spoken for."
Burgie nods at Snafu's direction with meaning. Eugene looks back at him, but Snafu's turned away.
"Go chase him," Flo says.
Snafu looks up, and when their eyes catch again, Eugene puts down his beer bottle.
Snafu straightens up, putting out his cigarette on the coffee table, nearly burning the fake dollar bills set aside by Leckie in favor of making out with the Eyeliner Guy – Eugene hopes he gets to learn his name, and the two girls, before the night ends.
However the night ends.
Snafu walks back to the bar. Eugene follows him.
The party isn’t just for the band – there are roadies, music execs, some special guests. They pay him no mind as he approaches Snafu, too busy talking and getting drunk to notice some plain-looking white boy in a denim jacket slithering up behind him – that, at least, comforts him even just a little. He is really going to try to get laid with the lead vocalist of The Pacific.
Sid is going to lose his mind.
“Can’t help but notice you staring at me the whole time,” Eugene says, praying his voice reflects the bravado he’s trying to channel instead of the beating of his heart.
Snafu’s smile is almost mocking, a little bit of teeth showing. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “Maybe I just like to watch the new groupies get all nervous.” Eugene flushes, and Snafu watches him fidget from the rim of his cup, satisfied. Eugene has a feeling that Snafu feels like he’s winning, like his goal ever since he lays his eyes on Eugene is to make him as uncomfortable as possible. It’s fortunate that Eugene is very competitive.
Later, when he’s at home after all this ends, he’ll wonder where the fuck all that unearthed confidence comes from. Right now, Eugene grins back at him and says, “Well, maybe I want someone to pop my cherry.”
It’s incredibly cheesy that it’s almost disgusting, but Snafu’s mouth quirks a little, like he’s fighting hard not to smile. “Really,” he says, slow like honey. “How exactly do you want it?”
“I’m up for suggestions,” Eugene says. “Although – I would say I’m more often on the giving end of things.”
What the fuck, Eugene Sledge. He really is a groupie.
Snafu lets out a breath. For the first time, that cocky edge to his smile vanishes, replaced by something a little more uncertain. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says. “I’m not some kind of hero that you worship. You got some fantasies, fucking a rockstar, but at the end of the day, you’ll find that you won’t like me. As much as I want to, I think you’d better off with someone else. Threesome with Flo and Burgie, I don’t know –“ he rakes a hand through his curls. “But not me.”
“But I want you,” Eugene says, searching for Snafu’s eyes.
Snafu’s eyes are unreadable. Eugene hopes he’s not stepping over a line, hopes he’s not pushing, but he knows Snafu wants this as much as he does when he mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and drags him away from the party.
The hallway is deserted – at this hour, even the janitors must’ve all gone home. Half of the lights are off, and Eugene finds himself relying solely on Snafu’s lead for direction. He is fully aware of what the following events will be, and he can’t quite pinpoint what exactly are his feelings about this whole situation. The only thing he knows is that he will have to contemplate this long and hard when he gets home, preferably while drunk.
Snafu stops at a door with a printed paper that says his name on it. With ease, he fishes out an access card and pushes the door open, letting Eugene take in the bare walls of his dressing room before crowding him to the wall.
“You remind me too much of someone I know,” Snafu says into his ears.
“Yeah?” Eugene breathes. It’s hard to, when Snafu’s mouth is mere inches away from him. “He a redhead?”
“But you’re much prettier,” Snafu promises. He brings one hand to trace Eugene’s bottom lip, and Eugene resists the urge to open his mouth, to suck in Snafu’s fingers. “I’m gonna kiss you,” and he does. Snafu’s hand resting on his jaw, Eugene snakes an arm to grip the back of Snafu’s neck, opening his mouth and letting Snafu lick into it. He has no idea how he expects Snafu to kiss – never lets his attraction to the man go more than simple appreciation of his face and his voice, but it’s only right that Snafu kisses like this – a little bit rough and urgent, just like all of his songs.
Snafu curses when they pull away, lips spit-slick and hanging half-open. Eugene wants to kiss him again, nearly drunk with the burning need to lick into his mouth. "You," Snafu says, almost accusingly, pulling Eugene closer. "I gotta know your name."
"Eugene." Unlike with Burgie and Flo earlier, Eugene has no hesitation about giving up his real name. That probably says a lot more about him than it does about Snafu. He's essentially fulfilling his fantasies – one where somehow, what they're doing here matters, when he knows that he can't have been the only one. Or the first, really. Snafu's string of broken hearts is often plastered on tabloids. Yet Snafu has been the one to ask for his name.
Eugene doesn't want to read too much into that, so he just whines until Snafu kisses him again, just as hard.
"Need to suck you," Eugene pants between kisses.
"Fuck." Snafu sounds like he's been punched. His eyes are darker than Eugene remembers. "Yes, yes – you can."
Eugene is almost embarrassed by how fast he drops to his knees. He thinks he should have a little more dignity, show not too much – and all thoughts of that nature fly out the window as soon as he frees Snafu from his tight-fitting jeans. Snafu hisses at the contact of cold air against his bare cock, and Eugene finds himself enthralled. He takes Snafu in one hand, tongue darting out to lick experimentally at the head of Snafu's cock.
Above him, Snafu lets out a choked off groan.
Encouraged, Eugene keeps going, licking up and down his shaft, playing with his balls teasingly. Snafu's hands fly to the back of his head, fingers tangled in his strands, gripping just hard enough for it to be on the pleasurable side of pain. Eugene can't help but moan, overcome with the need to take as much of Snafu as he can down his throat, heat settling down in his stomach. He’s aware that he’s painfully hard, and yet all he wants is to make sure that he looks at Snafu in the eyes as his mouth sinks down on Snafu's cock, engulfing him fully.
"God," Snafu's head thumps back against the wall, fingers tightening.
Eugene hollows his cheeks and sucks, from the base all the way to the head, repeating the motions until he can do it with his eyes closed. He tries to swallow him more, fighting against the gag reflex that threatens to end this far too early, until his nose us buried in the soft hairs on Snafu’s lower abdomen. Snafu starts to move his hips experimentally, and when Eugene’s response is to moan around his cock, he quickens up his pace, fucking into Eugene’s mouth in earnest. Eugene lets him, keeps his mouth open, saliva dripping down his chin and onto his jacket – lets him, even as he’s struggling to breathe.
"Look at me," Snafu says, out of breath and almost as if he's in awe. Eugene does, hoping the tears that are starting to form in the corner of his eyes don't make him look pathetic. Snafu eases his cock off, intending to give Eugene time to breathe, but Eugene won't let him. He grips Snafu's thighs, stopping him, and something in Snafu's eyes changes. He releases Eugene's hair, tipping up his chin gently. "Do you want to go on?"
Eugene nods – as much as he could with Snafu's cock in his, anyway.
"God, look at you," Snafu moans, pushing his jaw backwards so he can look at the bulging of Eugene's throat. "Taking it so good."
The heat in his stomach travels all over to his body. Snafu's hand is now on the back of his head, pushing him forward to meet his thrusts. He has half a mind to regret not taking off his clothes, or at least his denim jacket – he doesn't even want to know how messy he looks right now. The sound of Snafu hitting the back of his throat repeatedly is the most obscene thing Eugene has ever heard in his entire life, and he opens his mouth in a silent plea to give him more.
His voice is going to be ruined tomorrow. He doesn't care.
"I'm gonna come," Snafu warns, the movement of his hips halting for one terrible second before Snafu realizes that Eugene wants him to come down his throat, isn't gonna let go, and that seems to undo him. His back arches off the wall when he comes, and Eugene closes his eyes and he feels his mouth fill with Snafu. He tastes bitter and a little unpleasant, and this time when Eugene chokes, he pulls away in an attempt to steady his breath.
"You're so perfect," Snafu says, crouching down to Eugene's level to embrace him, ease him as Eugene coughs, out of breath and flushed all over. There are streaks of come down Eugene's chin, bits that he couldn't swallow, and Snafu wipes it off with his white t-shirt.
"So good, so perfect," Snafu keeps murmuring, pressing kisses to his neck, forehead, and shoulders. He pulls Eugene up, turning them around so Eugene's now the one pinned to the wall. He keeps his arms around Eugene’s middle, and it feels like it's the only thing that keeps Eugene from sliding off completely. "Gonna take care of you now," Snafu says into his neck, sure hands working at the opening of his belt.
Eugene lets him push his jeans and briefs down to pool around his ankles, closing his eyes as Snafu's tight fist close around his cock. Moans fall from his mouth as Snafu jerks him off, forehead pressed against the wall and Snafu’s teeth grazing his shoulder blades. The release feels too much, with his throat still raw from before, and the sensation has his knees buckling.
"I got you," Snafu says, catching him readily. “I got you.”
He’s never felt like this before – like he’s been taken apart so thoroughly. His whole body feels weak, boneless, only capable of leaning against Snafu for support. He helps him onto the couch, lying him down on the soft decorative pillow so gently, Eugene feels like he’s a baby. His chest is still heaving, and the lights feel suddenly too bright so he puts one arm over his eyes. He attempts to calm his racing thoughts.
Faintly, he feels Snafu cleaning him up with a wet cloth – is he using the discarded white shirt from before? Where does the water even come from? How does he look right now? – but it all feels as if he's watching it all happen from underwater.
When sleep comes for him, he embraces it.