The first time Travis meets William Beckett he reminds him of this cross between a grasshopper and a stork, just with more hair--he's all long legs and sharp angles, flinging his long arms out at the crowd, gesticulating and flailing his limbs when he sings. He turns gawky into graceful and vice versa, that's what Travis thinks the first time he watches him perform, and he wants to scribble that down to remember for a song someday.

And it's not like the dude stops that offstage, either. The first time they hang out--and also the first time they smoke up together, which is the same night--Travis spends most of the time giggling and sometimes even clapping his hands in fucking delight, because Bill is one entertaining fellow. He just never stops performing. He's always throwing an arm out before he goes into some random-ass speech, or posing for a camera, or flopping around melo-dramatically just because he can. It's like--it's like his limbs are so long that he can't possibly keep them folded up for too long, he has to keep them moving, keep them extended and out.

"You look like Jack Skellington," Travis tells him halfway through their second bowl. "All bones, you know? You're like, like a cartoon. Only you're claymation."

"You know, Pete said that exact same thing to me when we met?" Bill tells him seriously, covering Travis's hand with both of his own. "That exact same thing. Except he never called me a cartoon. Just, you know, Jack Skellington."

"Pete's a pretty smart guy sometimes," Travis says, and idly wonders if Bill is going to take his hands away anytime soon.

When they record "Naked Peekaboo" Bill passes out in Travis's lap, his head on Travis's thigh and his hair fanning out over Travis's legs. He's got one leg stretched out and one knee bent in close, pressing against Travis's leg, and Travis is pretty sure that Bill is going to get drool on his pants. Right over Travis's crotch, judging from where his open mouth is (he's snoring), and Travis should probably be grossed out by that or, you know, care at all, but he can feel exhaustion and booze pounding at his temples. He leans back against the wall to go to sleep, and whoops--there's no actual wall behind him. So instead he falls backward until his head hits the carpet, and that hurts a little but not enough to keep him from passing blissfully out.

When he wakes up, it appears that Bill has inched his way up Travis's body during the night (morning, whenever they fell asleep), because his cheek is resting against Travis's sternum and he's got his leg hooked over Travis's waist. His arm is stretched up so that his pit is practically in Travis's face, and again, why isn't he grossed out by that?

Travis can hear the Butcher groan loudly from a few feet away, his hangover probably kicking in. And it's probably gonna hit Travis, too, unless he's still drunk. Either way he's distracted by Bill waking up, stirring. His leg moves, rubbing over Travis's pelvis, and Travis feels the muscles in his stomach jump a little.

"Morning sleeping beauty!" Travis croons, and William's head comes up. He squints bleerily at Travis through a curtain of hair.

"Mmrf," he says, or something like that, and lays his head back down. Travis wants to shove him off (and get to the toilet, because oh yeah, *there's* that familiar hangover nausea), but finds himself threading his fingers through William's tangled hair instead.

The first time Travis actually touches Bill deliberately, as opposed to touching just happening as a byproduct of Bill climbing all over him, it's because--well, it's still Bill's fault. The night before, he'd been stumbling around drunkenly ("I wasn't *stumbling,* I was explaining that movie Wedding Crashers through interpretive dance," Bill insists) and had crashed into a table, or a bookshelf, or the edge of a bead; something blunt and hard, and now when he yanks up his shirt there's a horizontal purple bruise criss-crossing his hip-bone.

"It's a battle wound," Beckett says, yanking his pants down slightly to show off the rest of the bruise down his thigh. They're in a hotel outside of Albuqerque, Bill sprawled and spread out on the bed and Travis sitting cross-legged next to him.

"Awww, baby," Travis says, mock sympathy, and it's just play-acting when he reaches out his hand to brush his fingers over Bill's hip, the bruise. But he likes the way the skin feels under his fingertips, likes the jut of Bill's hip in his palm. And then it's just--he's sort of rubbing, and his hand is angled so that his fingers are pointing down towards Bill's dick, and Bill just smiles and wriggles a little bit, like Travis was supposed to do this all along.

Travis watches as his hand slides southward, his fingers dipping beneath Bill's jeans (he's not wearing underwear), and thinks, huh. And then his wrist begins to hurt from the forced angle and he uncrosses his legs, moves so that he's lying next to Bill. His hand still down Bill's pants, and Bill doesn't say anything, just hums a little. He sounds pretty happy about it, so Travis slides his hand the rest of the way down and wraps his fingers around Bill's cock.

Bill's not hard yet, just getting there, and when Travis tugs on his dick Bill makes this little 'oh' sound and his eyes close. They *flutter* closed, even, because Bill is the kind of person who has eyelashes that actually flutter, and Travis isn't sure when he started noticing William Beckett's fucking eyelashes, but he thinks it has something to do with why he's jerking him off.

Bill starts pushing his dick into Travis's hand once Travis really gets going, sexy little pumps of his hips every time Travis slides his hand down to the base of his cock. Then it's stroke up, squeeze and watch Bill's hips undulate, his neck arching back a little. He's leaking pre-come into Travis's palm and it makes it go faster, this slick friction slide, and that's when Bill spreads his legs and plants his feet, fucking Travis's fist, getting his whole body into it. It's one of the weirdest, hottest things Travis has ever seen.

Travis is quickly beginning to get his own erection to take care of, but he doesn't want to reach down and touch himself yet. For one because he sucks with his left hand, and for another--fuck, he doesn't want to take any of his focus off of Bill. Bill is still energetically participating in this, his hips levering off the bed, his lips parted, gasping slightly on each upstroke. His hips snap up, faster and faster matching Travis's rhythm, and Travis thinks gawky into graceful as Bill comes, his spunk landing in strands on his shirt, on Travis's fingers. It's a little wet and sticky but not icky, and Travis wants to scribble that down, too--he could fill a whole notebook with rhymes about Bill Beckett.

"Mmm," Bill says, and wriggles around on top of the blankets. "That was *lovely.*" He grabs Travis's hand off of his dick, twining their fingers messily together, getting his own come on his hand.

"Yo, nasty," Travis says, laughing, and Bill laughs to before grabbing Travis and rolling them until Bill is on top, straddling him. Travis goes with it, even lets Bill grab both his wrists and hold them up above his head, pinning him.

Bill grins down at him, and with his hair falling heavy on either side of his face, he looks a little crazed.

"Traveez," he says in an exaggerated accent, and then he's, fuck, *grinding* down. Travis moves to grab Bill's hips on automatic, but Bill pushes his wrists down against the bed. And it's not like Bill is actually strong enough to hold Travis's hands down, but he goes with it anyway.

"Yeah," Travis manages to grunt out when Bill grinds again, the friction hitting him right *there.* "Man, you've gotta--I need--" Travis doesn't know what the fuck is coming out of his mouth, but it makes Bill lean down, bite Travis's bottom lip and grind down harder. Swiveling his hips and rolling against Travis, giving him a fucking *lapdance* like Travis has gotten from chicks before.

It feels so surreal, Travis thinks. Another rhyme. Bill is grinding on him with zeal and it doesn't feel quite real even though it's a good deal, and then oh shit, Travis is coming. In his *pants,* no less. Bill hasn't even touched him, aside from his wrists and his tongue in Travis's mouth. It's kind of embarrassing.

Bill hums into Travis's mouth and Travis wants to figure out what he's humming, if it's an actual song or just something random. Maybe it's Naked Peekaboo. That would be pretty full-circle and cool, actually, and the thought makes Travis grin.

He shakes his hands loose of Bill's grip, ignores Bill's whine of protest and settles his hands on Bill's hips, stroking his bony, nonexistant ass. "That was hot," he says. "You've got, like, porn moves and shit, Becks."

"Oooh, you know it," and Bill shimmies his ass in Travis's hands. "What should my porn star name be?"

"Beckett the Bodacious," Travis says. "Blowhard Bill." He scoots further up on the bed so that he can sit up, lean against the headboard and have Bill in his lap. Both of them are getting sticky, and a shower sometime in the future would probably be a good idea, but right now Bill just settles himself on Travis's lap, leaning in to nose at Travis's neck. Travis has noticed Bill's fascination with his neck tats before, and if Bill feels the need to trace the ink with his tongue, Travis is no man to stop him. He leans his head back to give Bill better access.

He runs his hands down the back of Bill's thighs to his calves, over his bended knees. Bill stops necking him to change positions until his long-ass legs are wrapped around Travis, his ankles crossed behind Travis's back, and one of his heels is digging into Travis's spine but Travis thinks he can live with it.

"I'd be one of those classy porn stars that only does black and white films and artsy shit. Artistic nudes, yeah?" Bill whispers in his ear, and Travis squeezes his hips and laughs.