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It Doesn't Matter What It Is	By : beautifulliar Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Nine Inch Nails Views: 1809 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Nine Inch Nails. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-It Doesn't Matter What It Is
- 1
It Doesn’t Matter What It Is

“All right,” Trent said, amused momentarily, but over it now. He held out his hand. “Hand it over.”

With a shrug, Aaron extended his fist.

Trent flicked his attention from Aaron’s fist to Aaron’s face and then back, and the twitch he’d seen at the corner of Aaron’s mouth registered—too late. Aaron snatched his fist back. Oh Christ.

“Psyche.” Aaron grinned, backpedaling—he backpedaled right into the corner of the coffee table in front of the suite’s couch. “Whoops.”

Trent leaned forward reactively, arm out to catch the bottle of water that was about to topple off the edge, but Aaron righted it and took another step back at the same time, then looked up, smirking.

“Wow, that was so funny.” Trent stuck his hand out again and gave Aaron a no-bullshit head tilt.

A beat or two passed, then Aaron’s shoulders dropped. “You’re no fucking fun. Here.” He stepped forward and made as if to hand it off, but before he had a chance to, Trent clamped his hand around his wrist, just in case he was thinking of “psyching” him again.

The bit of plastic that had emerged between Aaron’s thumb and forefinger as he’d moved forward vanished back into his fist. “Oh, so that’s how you’re gonna be. I see.” He jerked his arm to the left, then the right, but Trent held firm.

With a faint smile of his own, he lifted an eyebrow.

Aaron tried one more jerk, straight back toward himself, but it did no good.

“Maybe,” Trent said, hauling Aaron’s fist toward him so he could start working his fingers under Aaron’s thumb, “you should pick on somebody your own size, like a smurf or something.”

“Haha funny, Popeye. I think I hear your can of spinach calling. Or wait—“ He jerked his arm. “—is that Olive Oil I hear?” Then he twisted suddenly, his whole body at once, yanking Trent’s arm around in front of him as he turned. Trent pulled him backward, slamming him against him, back to chest. Aaron strained forward, holding on to the arm that held onto his, trying to pull Trent off balance, at least enough to twist his arm free of Trent’s grip, but Trent had muscle over him. With his other arm hooked around Aaron’s throat, he yanked Aaron upright. One of Aaron’s shoulder blades dug against his chest. Ignoring it, he went back to work on opening Aaron’s fist.

“Ow, hey, brah. Take it easy.” He tried to pry one of Trent’s fingers up and back.

Trent shook Aaron off his finger. “Then just open your hand.” But he wouldn’t, so Trent pried up Aaron’s middle finger.

“Ow—hey!”

“You’re doing this to yourself, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Aaron said, reaching backward, grabbing for Trent’s neck, his ear. “And now I’m doing this to you till you let me go.” He tried to twist Trent’s ear, but he didn’t get a good grip—Trent shrugged his shoulder up hard and turned his head, and his ear slipped free of Aaron’s fingers.

Trent kept working at Aaron’s fist, unbothered.

“You’re not gonna get it,” Aaron said, going slack, turning his body into dead weight in Trent’s arms. Trent shifted, trying to accommodate the change in their gravity. Aaron lifted his boots off the floor—or at least it felt like it. He probably had. Trent felt him slip down a bit, then a bit more. He tried to keep hold of him, but he couldn’t keep hold and work Aaron’s hand open at the same time. He thought about just opening his arms, letting the fucker land hard on his ass, and then stepping on his hand. That’d get it open. With enough weight….

He slipped another inch down in Trent’s arms.

Jesus Christ.

He half-stepped, half-swayed sideways, carrying all of Aaron’s weight, awkwardly—he thought if he could get to the couch, he could—

Aaron slipped another inch, then with a writhe and an abrupt half-twist of his body, he broke free from Trent’s arms. “Ha!” He launched himself forward, tripping almost immediately, his arm wrenched behind him, Trent’s hand still clamped around his wrist. He scrambled to get up, dragging Trent with him.

They stumbled into the couch together, Trent tripping on the back of Aaron’s shoes and all but falling over the top of him. They grappled and wrestled, and when they finally came to a standstill—a stalemate—they were kneeling, more or less, on the couch, face to face, abdomen to abdomen, breathing in gasps and gusts. Aaron was half backed against the back of the couch, his outer leg penned by Trent’s knee. Trent had managed to get Aaron’s arm, the one with the fist clamped tight at the end of it, up and back behind his head, elbow pointing in the air. Trent’s arm, coming up Aaron’s back, still gripped Aaron’s wrist, hard. Holding him this way was how they ended up with their belt buckles grinding against each other through their shirts. Aaron’s arm forced his head to bend forward a little, yet he insisted on leaning his torso back, probably in an effort to make the fist behind his head more difficult to reach. It looked uncomfortable.

“Ow.”

Trent watched him put his other arm behind his head to try to pry his wrist free.

“Keep in mind, brah, that if you break my arm, you’ll lose your guitarist for like six weeks. You’ll have to get Robin Finck on the cell and beg him to stop kissing Axl’s bunghole so he can come rescue your tour.”

“Yeah? Maybe I should break something less important than your arm, then. What do you say about your dick?” He forced Aaron’s arm another quarter inch down his back.

“Ahhh—Hey now, let’s not fucking go there, a’ight?”

“Give up yet?”

“Keep dreaming. I’ve still got a bucketload of ideas up these sleeves, brah. Ow. A bucketload.”

Trent grinned. His breath lifted strands of Aaron’s hair. Aaron’s breath, when he stopped holding it behind gritted teeth, hit him across the cheek.

“Can’t wait to see those ideas,” he said and reached around with his other arm. Time to get back to the work of opening his hand.

Four hands back there were too much, especially with Aaron digging into him with his fingernails. With a grunt, he pushed forward, against Aaron, and used his free hand to wrench Aaron’s free arm out of the way. Then he butted his chest right up against Aaron’s, getting as close as he could to block Aaron’s free arm from reaching back behind him again.

The new position had an extra benefit: he could see over Aaron’s shoulder now, see what the fuck he was doing.

Now it wasn’t Aaron’s breath in his face; it was his hair and, briefly, the stubble along the side of Aaron’s jaw.

“I’m gonna have to pull out my secret weapon,” he warned, trying to get his arm between them to try to push Trent away, but Trent wasn’t budging. He had two fingers pulled up out of Aaron’s fist and one of his own fingers in place to keep them from coming back down. If only he didn’t need to hold onto Aaron’s fucking wrist with his other hand, he could—

“Wait. Hold on,” Aaron said, suddenly. His mouth was so close to Trent’s head that there wasn’t any need to speak up; his words sounded more like air than speech. His fingers pressed against Trent’s abdomen.

Trent wavered between ignoring him, which would be his best bet for getting his fist open, and stopping to find out what he was up to now. His fingers stilled, but he didn’t pull back yet. He waited, muscles tense and ready to spring at the first sign of a trick, but Aaron didn’t say anything more.

His fingers pressed against Trent’s abdomen again, just a little.

Trent angled his chin toward Aaron’s ear. “What?”

Aaron shifted his shoulders and tried pulling his torso back away from Trent.

Trent couldn’t see his face yet—he’d have to give up the ground he’d gained on getting his fingers open to do that. Shit. He could have that hand open in less half a minute now: fight over, T Rez emerges victorious…. Fuck.

Keeping his grip on Aaron’s wrist, he let his other hand drop away from Aaron’s fingers. He leaned back. They were face to face once more. “What?”

Aaron tossed his hair back. The tip of his tongue poked at the corner of his mouth, then disappeared back inside. “Check this out, brah.”

“What?”

He tossed his head again. “I’m gonna get you to let go.”

“You’re gonna get me to?” Their noses were two, three inches apart. Aaron’s knee dug into the inside side of his. Block it out. Aaron shifted and their hips bumped. Trent tightened his grip on Aaron’s wrist. Aaron was suddenly playing the straight man really well—no hint of a smile, no glint in his eye.

“How do you think you’re gonna get me to do that?” Trent asked—and, he had to know. There wasn’t any question of ignoring him and going back to what he was doing. As much as he was probably going to regret it, he had to know.

Aaron’s fingers pulsed against his abdomen again, against his t-shirt. It made just the slightest tug at the front of his shirt, something he could feel all the way up at the shirt’s collar.

He had his ‘free’ hand against the small of Aaron’s back, ready to catch him at the first sign of a trick—and there had to be a trick, sooner or later. But—he had to know.

Aaron’s head tilted, just the slightest. “I was thinking….” His voice was quiet again, like when he’d said ‘Wait, hold on.’ His tongue touched the corner of his mouth again. Then Trent watched his gaze—his eyelids, actually, watched them tell him a story that traveled down his face to his mouth, and slowly back up.

Trent’s lips parted while he watched; his own gaze made a similar trip down Aaron’s face, but stopped at Aaron’s mouth. Watching that mouth, he said, “Yeah?”, intensely aware of the distance—how little of it there was—between them.

Aaron leaned forward—just a little.

The tip of Trent’s tongue pressed against the back of his front teeth.

Aaron pulled back, the same small distance.

Trent flicked his gaze up—still no glint in Aaron’s eyes—and back down, where the corner’s of Aaron’s lips curved into the slightest smile.

“You don’t think I’ll do it,” Aaron’s voice said while his lips moved.

He pulled his eyes upward again. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He felt a pull on his gaze, a need, trying to draw it back to Aaron’s mouth. He looked toward a spot beyond Aaron’s shoulder, something to draw his attention away.

As his mouth searched for words to say, he moved the thumb that held Aaron’s wrist to a fresh spot on the underside of Aaron’s forearm.

“Hey, I’m just waiting to see whether you will or you won’t….” He brought his gaze back to Aaron’s eyes, and settled his fingers—the fingers of his free hand—lightly against Aaron’s side. His fingertips rested on a fold in Aaron’s t-shirt.

The distance between them narrowed; Aaron’s head tilted, just the slightest bit.

Then Aaron’s lips grazed his.

Then hesitated.

It wasn’t what Trent had been expecting—he thought Aaron would go for the gross-out: lots of saliva, lots of dog tongue action. Probably try to lick up his nose. But this…. Mere millimeters separated their mouths. The tactile memory of Aaron’s lips glancing softly off of his echoed. Urged. Wanted. Finally, after what was surely only a second or two in real time, Aaron’s lips touched his again, cooler than Trent had expected—softer. Gentler.

Trent pressed his fingers against Aaron’s hip, just the slightest encouragement, and then, only then, he risked a kiss back—a huge risk it felt like to him in the spill of time between Aaron’s lips touching his and the response his mouth gave back. The risk, hammering at the same beat as his heart, was that any second Aaron could crack up laughing, pull away, leave him with his face burning and a voice in the back of his head saying shit, what an idiot move. Shit shit shit what were you thinking? He breathed in, his lips parting, pressing, then opening again against Aaron’s, who wasn’t laughing at him yet, not yet at least. He curved his hand around Aaron’s hip and opened his mouth wider.

Aaron didn’t jerk away at the first touch of his tongue. He seemed to open his mouth wider—no, he definitely did, and there was his tongue, too, as jumpy and erratic as Aaron was on stage.

Trent’s fingers closed, catching Aaron’s shirt, pulling. He reached deeper into Aaron’s mouth. God, it was good—and there wasn’t any hiding how he felt about this situation at this point; the evidence was jammed between them and becoming more apparent by the second.

Aaron’s free hand found its way to Trent’s side. Trent opened his eyes, caught a return look from Aaron, then they tilted their heads the other way, going for fresh angles, ‘seeing’ completely forgotten as Trent found himself swept up in all the other sensations available to him.

He leaned on Aaron.

Aaron clutched his shirt—and then tried, without much force behind it, to tug his arm free from behind his head.

Ah, shit. Trent pulled back, just a little out of breath. “As soon as I let go of your wrist,” he said, his chest heaving with his heavy breathing, “you’re out of here, aren’t you?”

Aaron, his mouth just inches away, said, “That has been the crux of my plan.”

Trent laughed, a breathy “huh”. Then he opened his fingers and dropped back, landing with his elbows propped against the arm of the couch and his “evidence” no doubt making a visible ridge line, even in the baggy shorts he was wearing. He stretched his neck back. A joint popped softly. “Fuck it. I’ve got shit to get done anyway.”

Aaron, still hardly more than a few feet away, shook out his freed arm. “Yeah, why don’t you go work on your fucking grip. Maybe next time you can crack bone or two. Look at this.” He thrust his arm out.

Angry red marks against pale skin.

“Well, if you can’t take it,” Trent said, getting up, “maybe you shouldn’t steal other people’s shit. Anyway….” he said, walking away.

“Hey.”

Trent was halfway across the room. He let the word stop him and turn him, but that was it. Aaron got to his feet and held out his hand, palm up. Palm open. “Here.”

Trent didn’t bother. He’d had enough of a headfucking for one afternoon.

After a moment of the two of them standing there, eight or nine feet apart, Aaron rolled his eyes. “Fine. Just stand there.” He strode toward him, and came to a stop an arm’s length away. He held out his hand again, palm open.

Trent made no move to take it. He didn’t even look down at it. He was all for pretending he didn’t care about it anymore. Had he cared all that much, really, anyway?

With an exaggerated sigh, Aaron leaned across the gulf between them, grabbed one of Trent’s hands, turned it palm up, and slapped his own hand onto it, the plastic rectangle pressed between their palms.

Trent watched him, unmoving.

Aaron clasped Trent’s hand, as if they were having a handshake.

Trent didn’t give much of a shit about the flash drive, really, he realized. Slowly, he closed his fingers around Aaron’s hand, forming his half of the handshake grip.

After a beat, and still without looking down, he pulled their handshake grip closer to him.

Either Aaron was going to slip his hand free, leaving him with the drive, or—

Aaron took a step forward. His lips parted, and then his attention slipped toward some spot on the carpet to the left of them. “Uh…. Shit.” He blew a stream of air through his lips.

Trent squeezed his hand, just a pulse. “It’s all right. Whatever, you know?” Trying to sound noncommittal. Noncommitted.

Aaron nodded without looking up.

With his eyes, Trent traced what he could see of Aaron’s neck, the curve of it, the tone of it. He glanced toward Aaron’s face, but Aaron was still looking down and left. Thinking. What he wouldn’t give to get a peek at the thoughts. They still had their hands clasped. He brought both their hands up till Aaron’s knuckles bumped lightly against his chest.

Aaron looked up, too—his eyes still aphotic with indecision.

There wasn’t that much space to lean through, and Trent angled his head and moved through that short distance of space, eyes open, watching Aaron, watching Aaron watch him. Their mouths met, hesitation all over again, but only for an instant.

Their hands came unclasped. The tiny drive found itself in Trent’s fingers.

Without breaking the kiss, and while glancing up with every step to make sure he didn’t steer them into any furniture, Trent backed Aaron in the direction of the couch, if only so he could toss the flash drive on the table by its arm. It clicked against the polished wood. Aaron hooked his arms around the back of Trent’s neck.

Trent held him by the hips, sucking face, swapping spit, tonguing—whatever you wanted to call it. The Taste of Aaron. The smell of him, up close, his spit and whatever gunk he’d put in his hair. The scrape of stubble against skin was already bringing on a stinging sensation—almost a hot tingle. He imagined Aaron feeling the same way—feeling the same sort of ungiving hardness urging against him, the same unmistakable maleness of the body that leaned against his.

He dragged his mouth away from Aaron’s, reveling in the scrape of Aaron’s stubble against his lips as he dragged his mouth toward Aaron’s ear, nosing Aaron’s hair out of the way, catching Aaron’s earlobe lightly between his teeth, a tug, then letting go to murmur hot breath against the sensitive whorl of Aaron’s ear: “Ever done this before?” Because it wasn’t easy to be sure, not with the way he joked, and the way he seemed so easy with the joking.

The answering “unh-uh” was so short and came in such a rush, that it was nearly a single syllable. Then: “You?”

His throat muscles tightened at the need to give an answer. He caught Aaron’s earlobe between his teeth again. Couldn’t lie—but how little truth could he get away with? He ran his tongue against Aaron’s ear, then pressed his mouth against it and said, his voice rough from the tension in his throat, “Yeah.” He ran his tongue against his ear again—something he hadn’t done in years—why? Grew up? Grew up and decided to forgo the risk of earwax taste? He could remember, suddenly, what this felt like, someone shoving his tongue in your ear: the warmth, the wetness, the sound, like nothing else. The shivers up the back of your neck.

Aaron grasped at his head—pressing, not pulling. He made a sound like air caught at the back of his throat and seemed to be trying to turn his face in, against Trent’s.

An open mouth touched Trent’s neck, down where it started to turn into shoulder. Breath…teeth. No biting, just the bump of a hard edge as Trent gripped Aaron’s back, high and in the middle, and forced his tongue behind Aaron’s ear, flicking and licking and nipping—biting, especially the neck muscle, just behind the ear.

“Ah—” Aaron said against Trent’s neck, his mouth open wide. “Ah—”—a softer sound this time, and then Aaron’s bit in; he didn’t so much pinch skin and muscle with his teeth as bite against it, breathing heavy, holding on.

Trent scraped his face over Aaron’s ear again, moving his mouth back to the opening, to that sensitive whorl. Once there, he said something that he felt was important enough to enunciate every word, in a low, rough, god-my-dick-is-hard voice: “I want to taste your fucking cock.”

Aaron’s fingers grabbed against his skull. The fingernails of his other hand tried to dig into his back.

“I want to run my fucking tongue all over your hard cock, shove it in your fucking slit, suck out all your come.” Squeezing his eyes closed like he’d been hit with a spasm of pain, he pressed his forehead against Aaron’s head. It was a spasm of fucking need. He was breathing hard—when he closed his mouth to swallow, his nostrils flared. He bit down on his lip and pushed his forehead harder against Aaron’s skull. He gritted his teeth, pushed air against them—his breathing wasn’t evening out, not a fucking bit. “I’ve gotta fucking have you,” he said with his eyes still clamped shut, with his fingers digging into Aaron’s hair, his other hand shoving down into the back of Aaron’s jeans.

Aaron had closed his mouth. He’d turned his head. He was still holding on just as tightly, though; his hand was still grasping the back of Trent’s head. “Brah….” he said thickly.

Trent turned his face downward again, let his lips brush the spot just in front of Aaron’s ear before murmuring, “Yeah?” And when nothing followed, not right away, he found himself frozen in time, still while everything around them—the couch, the tables, the walls, the ceiling—went on existing in real, measurable time oblivious to him.

Aaron rolled his mouth against Trent’s shoulder, against t-shirt. When he let out “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” his breath made the fabric burn against Trent’s skin.

Relief dragged an unexpected laugh out of him, and left him feeling…easy. Hot, like he could fuck for two hours straight then blow a wad the size of a bowling ball…but easy.

Easy.

He buried a smile in Aaron’s hair, and thought he could feel one a lot like it against his shoulder, too. He gave Aaron a kiss, right on that mess he called hair.

And in his mind, he said only one thing left to say. Thank you.

~fin~
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It Doesn't Matter What It Is