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King Crimson were a method band.
This was well-known to anyone who'd heard of or seen them in the months following their breakout concert in Hyde Park, of course; each member of the outfit were exceedingly talented in their craft, as if imbued, even if only for the time spent with their instrument in hand, with some divine influence. They all believed that to be silly, however, fully confident of their hard-earned musical acuity, acquired through the means of extenuating practice.
Method was something that required extremely keen rationale.
It baffled Greg, then, that some of them were so completely clueless when it came to one of the simplest forms of human interaction: flirting.
He had just watched throughout the past hour as his bandmate, one Robert Fripp, fumbled his way through attempt after attempt of scoring with a girl and securing one to take home. As he spectated from across the room, back pressed against the bar counter, sucking down gin and tonic until he'd worked a buzz, Greg came to three conclusions:
- Robert was completely hopeless when it came to flirting.
- And that just wouldn't do, heavens no. He was in dire need of somebody’s guidance, or else he'd pass away without having hooked up at least once in his life.
- Out of all the people he was acquainted with, Greg knew himself to be the best flirt, so he should be the one helping Robert out.
His lips pursing in reaction to his train of thought, Greg barely noticed as a lovely rosy-cheeked blonde sidled up to him and began to become very well-acquainted with his personal space. Although he wished for nothing more than to chat her up until she was charmed enough to accompany him and hail a cab to the closest motel, the singer couldn't help but keep peering over her teased locks and out into the sea of faces mingling in the bar to maintain that frizzy head of hair and those circular glasses in his line of sight.
After a few more minutes of awkwardly trying to make conversation with the third and final target of his affections that night, a beautiful young lady who clearly fit the “flower child” stereotype, Robert gave up, sighing and simply shooing away the girl he'd been trying to speak with as he gathered his things to leave.
Greg's eyes widened as he took notice of that, and he quickly excused himself away from the conversation the blonde had struck up with him— he supposed his absent gaze and lack of interesting answers had already given it away to her that he was somewhat distracted, since she didn't seem very surprised.
Greg made his way through the crowd, mumbling out ‘sorry’s and ‘excuse me’s whenever he'd have the occasional brush-up against somebody, but his eyes were set solely on the back of the guitarist’s head as he followed him out of the bar.
Greg was lucky enough to find that the band leader wasn't a very fast walker— he managed to catch him just as he slipped out of the front door and made his way down the small staircase which led into the bar.
Greg reached out, gripping Robert’s wrist. His voice was loud in the relative quiet of the night, the only background noise the muffled music from within the establishment. “Leaving so soon?”
The sudden grab made Robert jolt and turn to face Greg, his eyebrows raised. Due to his surprise, he stumbled on the two final steps, pulling his bandmate down with him, the two of them still on their feet solely due to sheer luck. Greg could see under the dim street lights that the guitarist’s cheeks had a flush to match his own, which meant he'd also been drinking. After the small tumble, he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish, visibly trying to formulate an answer.
“Yes. If you'll allow me, that is...” Robert's voice was monotone as usual, and there was no slur to his words, but Greg could hear the slightest bit of a waver, and that was the only thing that gave away any amount of intoxication. Robert tried to pull his wrist away from the singer's hold to no avail.
“I'm kind of knackered myself,” Greg said conversationally, disregarding the way Robert's brow furrowed in frustration as he continued to shake his arm with increasing intensity in an attempt to dislodge the taller man's hand. “Shall we call for a cab back to the hotel?”
“The two of us?” Robert sounded baffled. “I'd rather be alone.”
Greg's response: “You don't mean that.”
“Do, too.” An indignant sniffle. “Don't you have more drinking to do, Gregory?”
Ooh, snippy. In his infuriating good humor, the bassist remarked: “And risk showing up late to practice tomorrow, or, heavens forbid, not show up at all? Please. Come on, Bobby. Let's go.”
A tremble in the otherwise firm downward turn of Robert’s lips, a roll of the eyes. Greg knew he'd won. His grin, subtle at first, widened, making his bandmate scoff in mild annoyance. “...Fine.”
Greg finally released Robert's arm and they made their way to the curb. As he stood with his hand raised on the side of the road, waiting to attract a driver’s attention (Robert had made the argument that he should be the one to do it, seeing as he's the taller one between the two of them), the singer's gaze roamed up his bandmate's body, taking notice of his little tics. Robert kept rubbing his hands together and his nose kept twitching, like that of a rabbit, obviously suffering from the cold drafty night. The resemblance made Greg chuckle.
He couldn't keep the laughter from his voice as he asked, “Would you like my jacket?”, just for the guitarist to answer by elbowing him lightly in the chest.
After a while of waiting, a vehicle finally pulled up. Breathing out a collective sigh of relief, the two musicians piled into the back of the cab, and Robert, after fishing out a couple of crumpled bills from his pocket and placing them in the driver’s hand, gave directions back to the hotel where the band had been staying.
Greg had expected it to be a quiet ride back to the hotel, since Robert wasn't much of a talker. He leaned his head against the car door window and watched as they passed through the city, taking in the idle atmosphere of the streets late at night. Everything was shrouded in darkness, the few exceptions being neon signs and open windows through which the singer could peek into bedrooms, living rooms— the barest glimpses of the lives of individuals who he would never meet.
Greg was on the verge of being lulled to sleep by the comforting drone of the vibration of his head against the window when he felt a tugging on his sleeve.
His gaze drifted to the man sitting beside him. “What?” He inquired, simply, only to be reprimanded by Robert— a brief grimace and hiss that made it understood to him that he should lower his voice. He whispered “What?” again, and was rewarded with the guitarist leaning in to grant him his answer.
“Back at the bar, Greg…” the man seemed shy as he spoke in hushed tones. “How much of me did you see, exactly?”
Greg had to bite his tongue to stop himself from replying with “ Interesting question, ” something that he knew his bandmate would immediately find a sarcastic slight, but it was. It was the type of question where what he said in response could make or break the following interaction. He found himself at an impasse, then: would he admit that he'd been watching him from across the room the moment they set foot within the venue, and risk Robert seeing him as some sort of pervert, or worse, making the guitarist paranoid about how he was perceived, or sell himself short to preserve his dignity, and face the possibility of being caught in a lie?
Greg decided selling himself short was the safest decision. “... Not much.”
It was evident through the guitarist’s mildly pained expression that the answer hadn't comforted him in the slightest. Greg sighed, before tacking on more information to his reply for the man’s sake. “Caught the tail end of your talk with that chick. The one with auburn hair, bit of an overbite, and, you know…” As his sentence trailed off into silence, he raised his hands to his chest, making a vague cupping motion, and then a squeezing one. That immediately made Robert bristle and bat at Greg’s hands so he'd put them down, earning him a quiet laugh in response to his mildly aggressive reaction.
“You didn't do that bad, really,” Greg couldn't stop himself now that Robert had brought it up. He tipped forward into his bandmate’s personal space as he spoke. “If you'd just managed to keep her attention a while longer, I think you could've scored. And what a score it would've been.”
“Greg, stop it.”
“And maybe if you had given her some space. You know, they like it when you let them talk—”
With astounding control of the volume of his voice, Robert hissed out “Drop it, man, seriously!” hastily. Greg figured the man’s face was probably quite red by then, and it was his luck that the car’s interior hadn't any lights on. He tended to forget that, behind his austere exterior, Robert was quite a sensitive man, and not very receptive to ribbing.
The singer felt a bit bad then, so he decided to back off without making much of a fuss. “Alright, I'll drop it, I'm sorry.” He mumbled as he rested his head against the window again, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
As he chanced a glance his bandmate’s way one last time before focusing on the outside world once more, Greg saw the shaky set of Robert’s silhouette as the guitarist chewed on his nails.
As it happened, the band’s tour management had been particularly stingy that season, redirecting most of their funds towards their P.A systems and instrument maintenance. Although that was quite favorable during shows, elevating the group’s public profile because of the consistency of the quality of their performances, it did make for quite the dip in group morale in between them— each member had to pay out of pocket for his own booze, cigarettes and other substances, not to mention the lack of privacy and general nuisance brought upon by the burdensome circumstances of every adult man's biggest fear: sharing a room.
Greg kicked himself mentally as they stepped into the lobby. He'd forgotten that he and Robert were rooming together for the night, crammed into a small bedroom with two twin beds, and only recalled the fact when he realized that the guitarist hadn't pressed a button for a different floor once they'd entered the elevator. Although the level of intimacy inherent to the occasion wasn't uncharted grounds between the two seeing as they weren't unused to cohabitation, especially with each other, the current atmosphere wasn't the best for it. The ride up to their floor was quiet and awkward, the singer unsure if he should once again try to broach the topic that'd been halted by Robert's protest within the cab.
Greg petted his pockets once they stood in front of the door. Finding them strangely empty, he asked: “You got the keys?”
Robert nodded, pushing him aside so he could unlock the hotel room door himself. After stepping inside, he flipped the light on, and padded over to his bed. Greg followed, shutting the door behind them and then watching as he wordlessly untied and removed his shoes.
Robert laid back after doing so, his back hitting the stiff mattress, causing him to let out a soft exhausted groan. He removed his glasses, placing them beside him where he lay, and closed his eyes.
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Going to bed without a shower?”
“I— you can go first, if you'd like.” The drowsiness seemed to be overtaking Robert already. “Just don't use up all of the hot water.”
Despite that, Greg continued to stand in front of the door. Although the idea of a hot shower before climbing into bed seemed quite pleasant, there was a more immediate concern at hand: Robert's wounded ego.
Greg walked towards the bed. “Can I sit with you?”
Robert made a noncommittal sound, turning onto his side and making space for the singer to sit. Greg did, and laid a hand on the guitarist's shoulder.
“I wasn't joking when I said you didn't do that bad, you know,” he said, finding no other way to start the conversation.
Robert groaned, clearly not wanting to take any part in it in the first place. “You said those things with the intention to upset me.”
“Upset you? God, Bobby, no.” Greg winced. “Annoy you slightly, yes, maybe, but not upset. I'd like to think you know me better than that.”
He hoped he sounded convincing. After a few minutes of quiet, Robert said, slowly, “I just don't know how you do it.”
That roused Greg's curiosity, seeing as Robert not knowing something was a rare occasion. “What do you mean?”
Robert turned over to face Greg. “Ever since I met you, since the very first moment, your reputation has always been that of someone who's extremely lucky with the ladies. And at first, I attributed that solely to your very good looks, or maybe your musical skill,” Robert vaguely waved one of his hands as he spoke. He was rambling drowsily, most likely not processing what he was saying in its entirety. “but I don't find myself lacking in either of these characteristics, so what gives? Perhaps your voice is what sets you aside from the rest. Girls like to go for singers, don't they? You’re just one of the best to boot… Come to think of it, that might help…”
Greg couldn't believe his ears. He was oddly impressed by the way Robert made compliments sound like insults, and then flattered as he fully registered the fact that the guitarist particularly thought of him as good-looking, and held his voice in such high regards. Although he was quite self-confident, that felt good to hear. Especially from someone as reserved as the man laying next to him.
Instead of making a big deal out of it, even though he wanted to— his biggest urge at the moment was to pry further about Robert’s opinion on him, but he could not name why— Greg shrugged his shoulders. “May I try and take a guess?” he intoned, only slightly ironic.
Robert sighed. “Do whatever you like.”
“I agree with you, yes.” Greg spoke carefully, measuring his words so as to not scare his bandmate off. “You’re not missing any of that, but what you are missing is a bit of boot camp.”
“Boot camp?”
“Yes. Come on, up.” Greg gestured, then pulled his bandmate up so that he sat against the headboard, despite his confused protests.
“Greg, what are you—” Robert was aghast as his bandmate proceeded to smooth down his crumpled up clothes for him.
“I'll give you some pointers,” Greg grinned as he straightened the lapels of the guitarist's jacket. “You'll get better at flirting and picking up chicks.”
Robert scoffed as Greg placed his glasses back on his face. “Are you sure this is necessary?”
“Aren't you curious about how I do it?” Greg tilted his head, dropping his hands onto his lap. “I can teach you.”
Robert pursed his lips. They sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other.
The guitarist was the first to break the silence. “I find it hard to believe that your tactic for picking up women is to stew in complete silence and uninterrupted eye contact.”
The deadpan delivery of that statement amused Greg, startling a laugh out of him. He felt overwhelmed with fondness towards Robert and his awkward demeanor. “You're correct. That's not my approach to it at all.”
Another minute of quiet passed, and the guitarist bowed his head. “Gregory—”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my name is?”
Robert froze, watching speechlessly as the singer swept his hair to one shoulder. For the first time that night, much to his surprise, Greg got a laugh out of the man, and not vice-versa.
Robert cleared his throat, a sheepish grin flashing on his face for a fraction of a second before his usual neutral expression returned. “Fine then. What's your name?”
Greg was thoughtful for a moment. “... Lola,” he smiled, bright as a sunbeam, trying to embody the lighthearted, feminine energy that emanated from the name. “My name's Lola. What's yours?”
“Lola,” Robert seemed stumped, but something else appeared to take place, and it strengthened his resolve to indulge the singer, then: this was no longer just a way for Greg to teach him how to score, but also a setup for a game, a game which both parties would stop at nothing to win. “That's a nice name, Lola. Very… Very nice.”
Robert stood up from the bed and walked towards the hotel room’s mini-fridge. He crouched to open it, searching for the bottle of £10 wine Greg had bought and managed to stash into his travel luggage without arousing any suspicions from management or the rest of the band. “Shall I buy you a drink?”
Greg bit his lower lip to hold back his chuckle, perching on the edge of the bed. “Yes, please. I'll have what you're having, handsome.”
Greg did not see, but heard the faint snort coming from the guitarist upon receiving the compliment. He suppressed a snort of his own as he gazed at Robert’s backside as he poured them two glasses of the cheap beverage. Not a lot going on back here, but…
Robert walked back to the bed, sitting besides Greg as he handed the man his drink. Greg retributed the favor with a short “ thank you ”, receiving a nod in response. They sipped from their glasses while trading sideways glances.
“You—” Robert started, before choosing to only speak after he'd drained his glass. He tried again: “You look quite nice tonight, Lola.”
Greg raised his eyebrows and nodded gently, as if to say “go on”. The man continued speaking, although he could tell he'd run out of words soon enough. “My name's Robert. I’m a guitarist. I…” he let out a baffled chuckle, amused at himself. “I'm out of lines.”
Greg laughed, resting a hand on his bandmate's shoulder. “Is that all you usually tell girls?”
“I haven't kept the attention of one long enough to tell her much more than that, it's not my fault.”
“You've got to lay it on thicker with the compliments,” Greg’s hand trailed from Robert’s shoulder to the scarf tied around his neck, fixing it up just so. He gestured towards himself. “I do understand feeling shy, but the ladies put in effort to fix themselves up before going out. You need to pay the due attention to that.”
The guitarist nodded vigorously. “You look good, Lola. That hair and that… dress you've got on,” rather boldly, he placed a hand on Greg’s velvet-clad leg. It was shaking to the point of being ridiculously noticeable. “Quite stunning, if you don't mind me saying so.”
“Ah… Better.” Greg smiled, pleased with the outcome of Robert's effort— he was looking to be quite a fast learner. The singer twirled a lock of his hair around his finger. “You really think so?”
“Yes,” was the other man’s reply, shortly followed by “I'm not sure what else to say, now.”
“Just talk with her, ask her where she's from. I meant it when I said birds like it when you let them speak.” Greg hummed. “And compliment her, really, lay that stuff on thick. And then, after all of that, you've got to make it clear what you're really looking for.”
Robert blinked. “Although I find it's the most straightforward approach, it's not very polite to just say ‘I want to have sex with you’.”
“Oh, no, you can't just say it like that!” The singer chuckled. “You usually say something like this…”
Greg's hand drifted down the front of Robert's shirt, and he hooked a finger into the guitarist’s belt loop. He pulled the man closer using the leverage he got from that, and bent forward to whisper in his ear. His lips touched the curve of Robert's earlobe as he spoke, and his voice had dipped to its lowest register.
“We really ought to get out of here, you know, baby. I've got a bottle of wine back at my place begging to be opened. As for your legs…”
A beat of silence. Even after he said the line, Greg felt no real desire to pull away from Robert’s personal space.
“Are you… Are you usually that crass?” Robert asked, sheepishly. He spoke as if there was something constricting his windpipe, urgency tinging the words which seemed as if they didn't want to come out in the first place.
Greg pulled away to face him— his face was a bright red, lips pursed into a trembling thin line. The singer's eyes widened upon realising that the man was actually flustered . From a bad pick-up line, no less.
“Well, it depends.” Greg tried to keep cool, but he felt his body unintentionally mirror Robert's own reaction. The back of his neck felt hot and clammy. “Some girls like nasty, some girls like sweet. It depends on the groundwork you lay out beforehand. Now, see,” Greg motioned towards the hand that Robert had laid on his thigh a moment before— he deliberately did not point out how the fingers resting against it had clenched and were definitely going to leave a wrinkle on the fabric— as he spoke. “You went mostly for sweet. Nice dress, stunning, and so on. Your come-on’s got to be sweet, too.”
Robert nodded. “I see.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “Go ahead and try, then.”
“I…” Robert was thoughtful for a few long moments, his eyes drifting away from Greg down to a spot on the bedding. Before long, however, he sighed, and faced Greg again, this time visibly much more self-assured, and staring right at him. “Lola, you're a nice girl. Pretty, sweet… What do you think, uh, what would you say to a night of keeping me company?”
A night of keeping me company. How cute, Greg thought. It seemed nearly innocent, chaste, a way of skirting around the actual matter involved for the sake of both parties’ dignity.
“That sounds nice, love.” Greg couldn't help but feel endeared at how, rather than discarding them outright, Robert had incorporated his eccentricities into his manner of flirtation. He was nothing if not authentic, after all.
“ And scene ,” the singer announced, beaming. Despite that, the guitarist’s gaze was still intense, set solely on his face. “See, that wasn't so difficult, right?”
“I suppose not.” Robert cleared his throat. “Greg, I—”
“Yes?”
“What about,” the guitarist winced as he spoke. “What about what happens after?”
The question and its implications made Greg feel winded. “Oh?” He inched towards the guitarist, moving closer until their knees were touching. “What about it?”
“It's mutually agreed upon between us that you're much more experienced with it than I am.”
Of course Greg knew what Robert was asking for by stating this. Of course he knew what it meant for the relationship established between them. He wasn't going to give that fact away quickly, though.
Prodding Robert about it was much more fun.
“Yes,” Greg nodded, suddenly intensely fixated on the flush high on Robert's cheeks, and the way the man seemed to want to squirm right out of his skin at that moment. “That is true.”
“And in this situation, you've placed yourself as a mentor of some sort for me.”
Greg nodded once again. He was curious to find out how many times Robert would accept a vague affirmative answer and a nod in response to his thinly veiled plea before realizing the singer wouldn't respond as expected unless faced with bluntness, or, at the very least, some form of sincerity.
As it turned out, not very long.
“I think it'd be… an incomplete mentorship if you didn't instruct me on what happens next.” Robert's hand lifted from Greg’s thigh to seize one of the singer's own hands.
“Mmm.” Greg’s thumb found the back of Robert’s hand and stroked the salience created by one of the veins running across it. The guitarist shivered in response, full-bodied. “Yeah.”
“Greg, stop it.” Robert's hand was clammy, the tips of his fingers were hot to the touch. “Please just—”
In the blink of an eye, Greg had shook Robert's hand off his and slid onto the guitarist's lap. With the new position, he managed to run the sole of his boot up and down the gentle slope of Robert's calf. The man gave the most interesting reactions— more shivers wracked through his body in response to the friction, obstructed as it was by a layer of fabric.
“Gr—” Robert started, as he felt his bandmate's weight settle on top of him.
“Lola,” Greg corrected. He wrapped his arms around Robert's shoulders as he peered down at him. “I'm not done teaching you yet, am I?”
Robert shook his head silently. Greg flashed him a silly, disarming grin in response.
“That’s what I thought. Hey, you're good with foreplay, right?” Greg asked. “At the very least?”
Robert scoffed. “What kind of question is that?”
“Well, you ought to know how to handle it if the chick gets handsy with you while you're still in the place. So that she doesn't just shag you right then and there, but also doesn't get bored before you've reached the room.”
Robert nodded, taking in the information. “That makes sense, yes. How am I supposed to do that?”
The singer bit the inside of his cheek, considering, for a second, how far he could take it at that moment without startling his bandmate— not just that, but his friend , probably the one he held closest to himself at that time— away. The two of them were aware of what was happening, of what their future decisions would entail. And Greg would've been lying to himself if he said he hadn't thought of what it’d be like to get to know Robert even more intimately. And he'd be lying to himself another time if he said it hadn't become a topic of, at the very least, minor obsession for him as of late.
How connected do two people have to be for their specific type of intimacy to bridge over from the musical to the physical? For what it was worth, the two men had already bared pretty much all that was personal to themselves to each other. Greg doubted that Robert had ever allowed for another man to see him out of his depth, face flushed and unaware of how to get someone to sleep with him, and he also held the same doubt for whether Robert had ever allowed for anyone but him to watch as he messed up the same guitar parts over and over and yet kept trying as he practiced for hours.
“You really…” Greg's mouth felt a bit dry. “You should kiss me, I think.”
Robert's reply was a curt nod. “Oh, okay.” The way his gaze flitted from Greg’s eyes to his lips betrayed his nervousness.
“You can usually get a kiss in while you're still there,” the singer explained, although he felt more like he was just using up air, as he leaned in, gently nudging Robert's nose with his own. Their lips were only inches apart. He couldn't help but feel like he was teetering on the verge of something very dangerous. “Under the streetlight, or in the cab—”
Robert interrupted Greg's explanation, which was quite quickly becoming aimless rambling, by pressing their lips together.
All of Greg’s worries melted away right then and there, replaced only by one thought: Why hadn't I thought to do this before.
They traded chaste kisses over and over, sealed lips on sealed lips, for a while, until Greg realised the way the guitarist was shaking— it was evident he wanted more. What could Greg do other than give more? He took the initiative and deepened the kiss, and bit at Robert's lower lip, asking for entry.
In response, Robert nearly shoved his tongue down Greg’s throat in his urgency.
Greg found out rather swiftly that Robert wasn't all that great a kisser. He was clumsy and used a lot of teeth— to the point of Greg’s lower lip smarting a little bit, because the skin had been broken and the blood licked off— and took a great liking to sucking on Greg’s tongue once the man's lips had parted fully, which did surprise the singer to an extent. The wire rim of Robert’s glasses bit into Greg’s skin just slightly when their faces were pressed flush together.
Greg, for his own part, tried to be as proactive as possible while handling someone who was clearly equal parts inexperienced and over-excited. After assisting the guitarist on where to hold onto— placing Robert’s hands on his waist— he took to pawing at his shoulders, then sliding his hands down his clothed back and up his shirt, cold palms making contact with the guitarist’s warm sides, startling him for a fraction of a second.
This went on for several pleasurable moments, until the pressing matter of Robert's mediocre snogging abilities appeared once more in the forefront of Greg's mind. Although the singer’s judgement was already clouded by the simple joy of conquest, and by the euphoria of having the man he'd pined after for the last couple of months in his bed, it certainly would not do if he allowed Robert to pleasure him crudely simply because it was him doing so. What kind of mentor would that make him?
Greg’s hands slipped out from underneath the guitarist's shirt and he pushed at his chest gently, to no avail, although he knew that was, to some extent, his own fault as well— he couldn't find it in himself to stop kissing him, not even for a second. Eventually, after a moment of deliberation, he had to grab a fistful of the guitarist’s hair to pull him away, tearing a small startled noise from the back of his throat as they separated. They caught their breath, Robert wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand as the rise and fall of his chest steadied. He seemed bashful.
“Birds don't like it when you kiss like you're trying to eat them, Bobby,” Greg said gently, feeling an enormous fondness for the man beneath him. He pet Robert's scalp where he'd just yanked at it, apologetically. “Try again, a little slower this time, yeah?”
“Okay,” Robert’s hands drifted upwards to clutch the back of Greg’s head and pull him back down so that their lips would connect another time. He kissed Greg slow and deep— the singer could tell that he was counting the length of each breath he took inside his head. As they separated, Robert’s voice was soft as he asked: “Is that better?”
“Yeah,” Greg felt slightly lightheaded. That was a definite improvement, for sure. “Better, yes.”
He took the opportunity to gently shove Robert so that he’d fall back against the mattress. The guitarist went down willingly.
Greg climbed on top of him. He balanced himself on his forearms, which he’d placed each on either side of the guitarist’s head.
“Want to kiss you more,” Greg said softly, gently pressing his lips to Robert's cheek, then tracing them along his skin until he reached the corner of his mouth. Despite this, he deliberately lifted his face when Robert shifted to meet him with a little smarmy grin. “Would like to do even more than just that, too.”
“You should do so, instead of just saying it.” Robert replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Greg couldn't see it, but he could feel the haughty roll of the man’s eyes as he said that. He laughed softly and dipped his head to slot their mouths together, feeling the curve of the man’s faint smile pressing against his.
Greg let Robert lick into his mouth as he wished, but held the reins by not allowing the guitarist to deepen the kiss too soon, hands drifting to hold his face, setting a leisurely pace for them both. His skin prickled with desire as he pulled away, chest heaving.
“Help me get my jacket off,” Greg said. Robert nodded and sat up, promptly removing the man's jacket and placing it besides them on the bed. “Good. Undress me. Be gentle.”
Despite the shake in his hands, Robert managed to untuck the shirt Greg had on and, after a few moments of struggling, unbutton it successfully. He pushed it off Greg's shoulders, but instead of sliding it off completely, he stopped for a moment to rake his fingertips along the bare skin before him, cataloguing every square inch of it. His hands inevitably found the subtle curve of the singer’s chest, the soft muscle and fat, the light dusting of hair there, the way it had become flush with blood to match the complexion of the singer's face.
Greg chuckled, amused and flustered in equal proportion, as one of Robert's thumbs flicked a hardened nipple, and then leaned down to briefly sink his teeth into the skin, leaving a small, red dent, mostly out of curiosity, or perhaps the need to bite down on something. It seemed as if his reaction had startled Robert back to attention, because the man then helped him take off the shirt completely.
Before Robert could proceed further, Greg took his face in his hands, kissing him deeply. In response, the guitarist pushed him down so that he'd be the one lying on the bed this time, and kneeled between his legs, before delving back in for more.
“Let me,” Greg gasped between kisses. His hands shot upward and found Robert’s scarf, but deliberately avoided it for the time being. Instead, they made their way towards his jacket, and pushed it off his shoulders, urging him to remove it. As Robert obeyed his unspoken command, Greg busied himself with undoing the guitarist’s belt buckle.
Robert's body jerked as the singer's fingertips grazed his zip— that simple action brought attention towards something he’d deliberately been avoiding directly acknowledging, but it was difficult to circumvent it any further, what with his brain basically at the mercy of the blood flow directed downwards at that point. Robert groaned softly as Greg’s hands dipped beneath the waistband of his jeans and the singer helped him shimmy off the denim. He was left only in his favoured mesh blouse, satin scarf and briefs. Although there were still a few clothing items left to be removed, Robert already felt like much of him had been revealed and was now vulnerable to Greg's scrutiny.
Greg had held back the whole night, but now he felt like he couldn't. As him and Robert resumed their previous activities— snogging like a couple of lovesick hormonal teenagers, albeit this time in varying states of undress— he reached out and grabbed a handful of Robert's slight behind, groping it as they kissed, the two of them growing increasingly more aggressive and uncoordinated as the guitarist's body began to react more and more to the stimulation.
Greg let out a soft noisy sigh when Robert ground down sloppily against his own clothed crotch— it was just a few slow rotations of the guitarist's hips, evidently calculated to be near imperceptible, but they were very much perceived. And they gave away everything Greg needed to know, because his grip on the guitarist’s flesh only tightened, consequently making him bear down more of his weight and rut more intensely.
Robert couldn't suppress a noise of his own, moaning softly against Greg's mouth. Greg smiled up at him. “Feel good?”
“Yes,” Robert sounded utterly breathless. It made Greg want to bite into him, especially when he slumped forward and rested his head on Greg's shoulder. “I, mmm, feel incredible.”
Robert ceased his movements and groped for Greg's own belt buckle, but stopped before he found it, deciding to pay attention to something else. The guitarist hummed softly as he ran his knuckles along the bulge in Greg's pants before properly squeezing it, causing the man beneath him to let out a soft, delighted little moan. The bastard sounded so damn satisfied with himself, and he was.
“Let me suck you,” Greg said, finally. He batted Robert's hand away from him, though not unkindly— he just didn't want to lose himself in the sensations before he managed to show the guitarist everything he had to offer. “That'll feel even better.”
“Um,” Robert balked. Perhaps the vulgarity of the request finally gave him pause and made him come to terms with how baffling it all was. How had they gotten there, again? Something about sleeping with a woman Robert had met at the bar, but the guitarist's mind and body had already freed itself from that pretense long ago. “Alright.”
Robert sat back and waited for Greg to sit up as well. He chuckled softly as Greg reached out and grabbed his face, kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek. Couldn't suppress a laugh, tinged with both embarrassment and ticklishness, as the singer pressed his lips to his jawline and then traced down his skin with kisses until he stopped at the scarf tied around the base of Robert's neck.
“I like this on you,” Greg said as he undid the knot of the scarf and removed it from the guitarist’s neck. “Makes you look regal.”
“I should assume you like it on me. You bought it, after all.” Robert deadpanned, but Greg could pick up the good humor in his wording. “I do like it as well. That was a well-spent twenty-five pounds.” The man recollected, fondly.
Greg made quick work of removing Robert's shirt, instructing the guitarist to raise his arms so he could pull the garment over his head, revealing his hairy chest and soft belly. After he was done stripping Robert to his boxers, he splayed his hands over the man's collarbones and gave him a quick peck on the lips before pulling away.
“Come here.” Greg shifted backward and got off the bed, kneeling on the hotel room floor. The guitarist followed him and settled on the edge of the bed, watching speechless as he slid between his legs.
Upon being faced with the pale expanse of Robert's stomach, Greg had felt winded. Now, as his gaze drifted towards the tent in the guitarist's underwear, and the quickly spreading stain at its peak, he felt all of his hair stand on end.
Robert peered downward, lips pursed. “Is everything alr—”
The guitarist gasped, his body curving in on itself, as Greg's lips came in contact with his clothed erection. He squeezed his eyes shut, savoring the feeling of the wet heat seeping in as the singer licked a stripe up his shaft through the fabric.
“Oh, Christ…” Robert stifled a moan by biting his lip, his hands clenching against the bedspread. He dropped his head, trying to steady his breathing. Although he liked to think himself to be the last to admit that physical pleasure made him weak, what he felt at the moment was so overwhelming that, if asked right then, he'd have no other choice than to tell it as it was.
Greg pulled away for a moment, redirecting his attention upward to Robert's stomach. He kissed wet and open-mouthed, and nipped a trail up to the man’s navel. He sunk his teeth and sucked a dark mark into the flesh right next to it— nobody would see. His gentle touches coaxed quiet groans from the guitarist, who, although at first tried to contain himself, let his mouth fall open and was now reacting much more freely, even if he still seemed quite shy.
Greg returned to the initial target of his attention, finally. He kissed the tip through the fabric softly before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Robert's briefs and tugged, the guitarist's hips lifting to aid him in finally stripping him completely nude. The underwear was tossed off somewhere— Greg wasn't paying much attention to that detail at that moment.
Robert allowed Greg to steady his hands on each of his thighs, and they glanced at each other for a moment. Greg raised his eyebrows. In response, Robert reached out and touched his cheek with his hand, cradling it, rubbing his thumb against it gently.
Greg sighed and turned his face to nuzzle Robert's palm, and then pulled away. He lowered his head and kissed the head of Robert's dick, once, softly, before spitting on it and then finally taking it into his mouth.
“Oh,” Robert took hold of the back of Greg's head with both hands, hips jerking as the man bobbed his head up and down slowly, the slick heat driving him mad. “God, Greg—”
Robert's voice broke off into a keening whine as his two hands clasped together over Greg’s soft hair. Greg took it in stride, controlling his intake of breath as the guitarist rutted into his mouth with frantic little spasms of his hips. He didn't even twitch as Robert's dick hit the back of his throat, he was so committed to the man's pleasure, but he did moan faintly, and the vibrations made the guitarist let out a variety of delightful noises, a myriad of slurred “oh, that's nice”s and “that feels fantastic, it feels incredible”s and “I’ve never had someone do this for me before”s that Greg knows Robert can't even tell he's letting slip.
The heat simmering low in Robert's gut built up gradually, becoming so intense the guitarist's chest was heaving, pleasure lancing sharply up his spine like lightning. He was struck, then, with the urgency to not let this moment end so soon. He sniffled softly as he disentangled his fingers from Greg's hair and gently pushed the man off him, although it pained him to do so.
Greg panted, drool dripping down his chin as his eyes flitted upwards to face Robert. The lenses of the guitarist’s glasses were faintly foggy, and he was flushed from his cheeks down to his chest. His lips, in particular, were reddened and slightly puffy from prior kissing and nibbling. He looked a complete mess, broken down to his barest essentials. It made for an extremely endearing sight, and such a harsh contrast from the stone-faced guitarist sat upon a stool, exuding only cool rationale, that was the only facet of him that the rest of the world got to see.
Greg felt a twinge like that of a hunger pang right between his lungs, some sort of longing that gradually bore him empty the longer he beheld the raw sort of beauty Robert currently emanated. Despite himself, he felt a distinct want to covet the guitarist, keep the part that'd just been laid bare for him impervious to all harm.
“I thought you wanted to finish,” Greg said, removing one of his hands from Fripp’s thigh so he could wipe the spit smeared on his chin.
“I do,” Robert's nose twitched like it had earlier that night. “But I want to with you. So come on up.”
Greg lifted himself and climbed back onto the bed. He then proceeded to tackle Robert, coaxing a startled groan from him, and initiating a short-lived moment of playfighting. The two men rolled around on the bed together, locked in a struggle for who would come out on top, limbs clashing as they pushed and shoved against each other, until the verdict was settled: Greg came out on top, a leg wedged between Robert's knees and the guitarist's wrists held above his head, captured in the firm grip of one of Greg's hands, the other one clutching the bedclothes closest to his squirming body.
With the other hand, Greg hurriedly undid his belt and removed his pants. He didn't think he could delay giving himself some attention any longer.
Greg leaned down and kissed the curve of Robert's neck before putting his lips to his ear. “Want to fuck you now,” he rasped. He smirked upon feeling the way the guitarist shivered while being told that. “You want that too?”
Though the position which he was in favoured otherwise, Robert's gaze strayed anywhere but in the direction of Greg's face as he sheepishly said “Yes,” trying to muffle the word into the pillow.
Greg liked that, but he wanted it to be said to his face. His vacant hand gripped Robert's face, turning it towards him, making the guitarist gasp. ”Yes?” He repeated, only slightly mean.
One thing Greg had learnt that night was that, despite his usually stubborn attitude, Robert knew when to heel when it was advantageous to do so. “Please,” the guitarist's eyelashes fluttered. Greg felt an aching in his gut, and one even lower than that. “Please—” the words seemed so foreign to him, they were weak as they were forced out of his throat. “Please. Fuck me.”
Greg needn't be told twice. He grinned, shimmying off of his underwear, freeing his own erection, and then leaned over, hands searching the bedside table. He found it strangely lacking what he was looking for. He decided to then slide open the drawer, and was overcome with frustration.
“Damn it.” Greg groaned in anguish. He hadn't planned that far ahead, and there was no lubrication available. He knew he hadn't packed it in his travel case, either. Upon realizing this, the guitarist frowned.
Robert whined lowly in protest as the singer separated their bodies further. Greg noted that his hands had stayed in the same place even after he was released. “Can’t you, I don't know, use spit or something?”
“And risk hurting you?” Greg said through a laugh, though he understood and also felt Robert's desperation. He watched as the guitarist contorted his body, pressing his sensitive skin against the duvet, squeezing his thighs together.
That gave Greg an idea.
“Hey,” He tilted his head as he sidled over to Robert again. “Think I figured out a way to still do you.”
Greg's fingers roamed down Robert's sides, stopping for a second to grip the firm flesh of his ass, before reaching the tops of his thighs. The guitarist gently swayed his body, trying to lean into the touch.
“Lift your legs for me.” Robert, albeit slightly confused, obeyed, and Greg gently aided him with settling his feet over one of the singer's shoulders. Greg wrapped an arm around Robert's knees, hugging his legs to his chest and slotting his front with Robert's behind.
“Oh,” Robert's eyebrows raised as he realized what Greg was going to do.
“Yeah,” was the only thing he said before he spat on his hand and slicked himself up, and then thrust into the tight gap between Robert's thighs.
“Oh,” Robert exclaimed again, this time as if the sound had been punched out of his chest, his mouth falling open and forming a delicate little O shape Greg knew he'd be seeing in his dreams from that night onward. “Oh, fuck—”
Greg hadn't figured Robert would be the noisy type while being shagged at all, but as he snapped his hips back and forth and let himself chase the high of slick friction between the man’s legs, building a pace which increased in intensity little by little, he’d come to find out just how wrong he'd been to assume that. Although they were mere hiccups of sound in between the guitarist's laboured respiration, small gasps and squeals escaped him, so much so that he seemed as if he'd run out of noises to make soon.
As he focused on grinding out his own release, the searing heat in the pit of his gut only intensified by the reactions coaxed out from the soft, inviting body beneath him, Greg’s eyes slid shut. He bit his lower lip to stifle his own hums and groans, so that his ears could pick up Robert's whines and irregular breathing better, clearer— the hand that wasn't clutching one of Robert's thighs to keep his legs up found itself kneading the flesh of the guitarist's side.
“Greg,” Robert breathed out as his hands gripped and twisted in the bedsheets. With a particularly rough responding thrust, Greg forced a moan from deep within his chest. He'd been leaking steadily onto his own stomach, sticky and warm, but he felt himself reaching the peak again, like he had when Greg's mouth had been on him, and he was unsure if he could stop his body this time around, but he needed more. He needed a hand around him, something to take the edge off and get him there, but he couldn't loosen the hold he had on the duvet. “Touch me, please, I can't— not if you don't—”
Greg's eyes flew open, and he leaned in, his grip on Robert's legs remaining firm so that his thighs were still squeezed flush against each other as they were forced against the guitarist's stomach. Robert moaned, softly, arching his lower back to press the most of his body against Greg's own.
“What do you mean?” Greg's lips ghosted Robert's cheek. He rotated his hips harder, grinding against the guitarist roughly enough to make his whole body twitch. “Yes you can, come on, don't give me that.”
“Can’t,” Robert turned his face to meet Greg’s. Their lips touched, but they didn't kiss, just shared the same air. Robert whined, low and breathy, as he hurtled closer and closer towards his orgasm. “Oh, God, fuck—”
Robert’s orgasm blindsided him, and he let out a brief moan as he coated his belly and chest hair with his release. He felt, alongside the immense euphoria coursing through his body in waves, weak, winded, his body now limp and supported by the singer, and that feeling of something like complete helplessness, which he'd never felt before in his life, bordered on being intoxicating.
“See?” Greg grinned, his own body beginning to cave into pleasure. He clumsily pulled Robert even closer, so their sweat slick skin wasn’t separated where it previously had been. The guitarist felt a bit crushed, left to squirm underneath a weight bigger than his own, but that instance of being overwhelmed only turned him on further. He whined softly, every sensation in his body magnified tenfold. Greg kissed Robert briefly, just to feel the vibrations of the man's muffled sounds. “I told you you could.”
Robert nodded, humming. He could feel Greg losing touch with the rhythm he'd come to establish, abandoning full rotations of his lower body in favor of irregular jackrabbiting movements that drove Robert's body slightly upward along the bed with the force of each forward thrust. The guitarist felt like his brain was melting and leaking out of his ears.
If just having him do this to my legs feels like this, Robert thought for a fraction of a second, imagine what it would've been like if he'd been inside me.
He felt lightheaded. He decided to distance himself from that concept at the moment, save it for another time— he paid close attention to the tells of the singer's face. He was getting close, so close, but wanted to delay it, Robert could tell. That wasn't fair, not when Robert was laying beneath him, splayed out and raw just like that.
“Come on,” Robert weakly parroted Greg's own words, his voice breaking. His hands finally lifted from the bed to cradle the man's head. “You’re so good for me, come on—”
Greg groaned loudly, burying his face in the crook of Robert's neck. He pushed himself the furthest he could go between the guitarist's legs without forcing them apart and came in long stripes over Robert's stomach and groin, but some of it got on his thighs as well, tacky and hot. Their bodies felt like liquid heat as Robert dragged Greg up by the back of his head, hands digging into the soft locks of his hair, and brought him up for one hot, wet and deep kiss, that seemed like it went on forever, until Greg pulled away so he could catch his breath.
Greg then proceeded to collapse over the man, making him wheeze and forcing him out of his lax orgasmic state.
“Get off of me!” Robert protested, although he sounded fond, rather than put upon. He clawed at Greg's back, leaving faint red marks, as he attempted to wrestle the man off of him. A few moments and one muffled plea of “Gregory, I am asphyxiating” later, Greg laughed and sat up, facing the guitarist with a sated grin.
Robert's face, for its own part, had already returned to its usual state of conveying mildly annoyed neutrality. “Never do that again,” the guitarist said as he sat up and proceeded to stretch his limbs, groaning. He felt sore all over, his back in particular smarting a little bit after he'd been held in a stress position for so long. “You'll smother me.”
Greg chuckled. “Right then. My apologies, Our Fearless Leader.” He yawned. “ Now I'm tired.”
Greg stood up, raking his nails along his chest, scratching an itchy patch of his skin, now irritated by all of the sweat. “Going to take that shower now.” He looked back towards the bed, tilting his head. “Coming with?”
Robert's eyes narrowed. “... I don't think I should.”
Oh, for fuck's sake. “ Robert, seriously.”
The guitarist sighed, took off his glasses, and climbed off the bed as well. “Fine.”
The two men entered the bathroom and stepped into the shower box together. Robert stood behind Greg— they'd agreed that Greg would wet his hair first.
Something was bothering Robert, making him chew at his abused lower lip. He nudged the back of Greg's hand before the man turned on the shower spray.
“Gregory,” Robert started, but remained quiet for a few seconds after bringing the man's attention towards himself, in search of the proper words to say. “Promise me that nothing between us has changed, or will change, after tonight.” His voice was weak, which he could excuse due to prior events, but his tone was plaintive, so clearly sentimental it vaguely made him wish he'd choke right then and there.
Greg turned towards him, eyebrows raised as if the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. “Of course not, Bobby. You know, many men like us do this. It's alright.”
Robert was shocked by how easy Greg was taking it. “Oh.” Was his only response, for words had escaped him.
After a few moments of silence, Robert spoke again. His hands had taken to wandering along his body, suddenly cold as he awaited the warmth of the shower spray, and one of his fingertips had grazed the mark left near the dip of his navel. “You were awfully careful with where you left marks on my body. Are all the women you see usually this lucky?”
The dryness of the remark made Greg laugh, and, furthermore, made something stir within him— a need to leave visible evidence that Robert had been his, at least for that night. “You're right, I was careful.”
Suddenly, but with surprising lack of force, Greg pushed Robert against the wall of the shower, and dipped his head to suck a dark mark onto the skin right below Robert's Adam's apple. Robert squeaked in surprise at just how fast the touch of Greg's lips came and went.
“There we go,” Greg muttered as he pulled away with a smug expression. “A souvenir.”
Robert knew he should've been fuming. How would he hide that? What would he say in case of interrogation about the whereabouts in which he'd acquired such a mark? He should've been irate, but all he could do, baffled as he felt at that moment, was laugh, soft and raspy. The sound echoed within the walls of the shower. “God, you think you're hilarious, don't you?”
Greg turned around once more and turned on the shower. “It's different, Bob. I know I am.”
Robert rolled his eyes, but, despite his better judgement, approached the singer and rested his head against the singer's back.
***
“What's up with Robert?” Peter asked Greg, who was tuning his bass. “He's oddly easy-going today. Almost seems happy, he didn't even lecture me about that nonsense of not moving his guitar around without warning him first.”
“Dunno,” Greg shrugged, eyes not rising from his instrument. “Perhaps the lad struck it lucky last night, who knows.”
Peter shrugged as well, making a noncommittal noise, and walked away, searching for his own gear as the band prepared to rehearse for the next gig.
Robert stood in the corner of the room, fixing his scarf. He was very worried about it slipping below the desired height it was in, for reasons unbeknownst to the rest of the band— or, at least, to most of them.
Robert felt like biting Greg’s head off when the singer flashed him a knowing look as he tightened the fabric around his neck. He wondered vaguely if, should he concentrate his energy into it really hard, the man's head would explode.
Well, no matter. All of those worries went away as he sat at his stool, managing to suppress a wince. He gazed up at Greg one last time, watching the man plug in his bass guitar, before focusing on his own instrument. Time to focus on what really mattered.
As he strummed the strings that began the song, already enraptured from the get-go, Robert missed the way Greg looked at him as if he'd hung up the moon and the stars in the sky.