a/n: ehh i dont feel like explaining myself twice (already did in the author's note of my badlands fic) but basically i would literally die before i let this story go abandoned and i'm not dead so here ya go
—
Chapter 17 - Mesmerizing
The next morning, I wake up before Kellin in our Four Seasons room in Atlanta. It's a five-star hotel and probably the fanciest place I've ever stayed in. Bree sent me a message saying she booked a room for us way in advance for one night (which apparently means we're right on schedule, I guess?); it seems that after our little spa treatment today, we should prepare to move to a different location.
Deciding not to wait any longer, I grab my phone off the nightstand and dial Mike's number. Part of me isn't even certain he'll pick up, but this way is faster than sending him texts that he can ignore and waiting endlessly for him to respond. Even if he declines my call, I can still call him again and annoy him until he picks up, because that's what brothers do.
Surprisingly, after a few rings, I hear his tired voice: "Hello?"
"Mike," I say, trying to keep my own voice down so that I don't wake Kellin up. "We. Need. To talk."
Mike groans. "Is this about me and Tony? Vic, I really don't—"
"Listen to me," I interrupt, desperate for him to understand. "Listen to me if you won't listen to him. You cannot let your own problems ruin this."
"You don't understand," he says. "He's stifling me, Vic. I feel like I can't do what I want."
"How is he stifling you?" I ask. I figure it's best to get both sides of the story, even though I already have a pretty good idea of what's going on.
"He doesn't like me going out," Mike says. "He argues with me when I say I'm going to a bar or club or something. I swear I'm not hooking up with anyone; I've just been..." He trails off.
"Just been what?" I prompt, but I already know the answer. "Drinking? Drowning your sorrows in alcohol?" I know it because I've been through it myself. Our family is prone to alcoholism.
"Maybe," he says slowly, even though we both know that I'm right. "But that doesn't matter. I'm just having fun. It's not hurting anybody."
"It's hurting you, and it's hurting Tony," I tell him. "Mike, you've seen me addicted. So has Tony. Now that you're in a similar situation, he's scared for you. All he wants is for you to get help."
"I don't need any help," Mike says immediately. Typical. "I'm fine."
"Tony would not be this worried if you were fine," I say. "He's seen you drunk before. He knows your limits. It seems to me like you're going way over your limits. I'm telling you, Mike, the first step towards recovery is recognizing that you've got a problem."
"I don't—" He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. "Okay. Maybe I get drunk a lot. Like, a lot. Maybe I need to drink a lot more than I used to so I can get smashed. Maybe I've been having trouble living with myself lately, and drinking makes it easier. Okay? There. Happy?"
"So you admit that there's something wrong? That things aren't how they used to be?"
He sighs. "I used to feel good without any sort of substances in my body. I used to make Tony happy, not worried. I get defensive with him. I guess the only reason I'm not that snappy with you is because you know about these things."
"I used to get defensive, too," I say. "We all want to believe there's nothing wrong, Mike. So listen: if you truly don't feel anything for Tony anymore, then I suggest going ahead with the divorce. But if there's a larger part of you that wants to try to save your marriage, try to save yourself—even if it's hard—then I'd suggest not giving up just yet. Okay?"
Mike is silent for a moment, and then he quietly says, "Okay." I think he's going to hang up, but then, out of nowhere, he asks, "So how's that band thing going? Last I heard, you were driving up to Oregon to join some band you've never met before."
I almost choke on my breath, realizing that I haven't even told any of the guys what's been going on. I feel like I haven't really had the time, and chances are, they've been busy, too. "Um. Yeah. About that." I clear my throat. "It's a very long story, but to shorten it up...I may or may not be on a road trip with Kellin again. And I may or may not be staying in a fancy hotel in Atlanta right now."
"You—what?" Mike sputters out. "How did that happen?"
"Turns out, Kellin was the lead singer of the band I'd never met before. Remember his weird ex-girlfriend who sent us on the first road trip? Yeah, she decided that she wanted us to make up after our little fallout. And now here we are."
Mike makes a low whistling sound. "Wow. That's unexpected. How's it going with him, then? Did you two make up?"
I glance over at where Kellin is still (thankfully) asleep. "Ehh," I say vaguely. "It's complicated."
Mike snorts. "Figures. I'd ask if you need to talk about it, but my relationship advice would probably be shit."
I laugh a little. "It's fine, dude. I think it's best if he and I figure it out on our own anyway."
"Okay," Mike says. "Well, um...thanks for calling. Really."
I nod, even though he can't see it. "I'll talk to you later?" I say.
"Of course," Mike replies. "Talk to you later. Promise." Then he hangs up.
—
The "Ritual for Two" spa package is, predictably, designed for couples (which is presumably why Bree, matchmaker that she is, chose it for us). It also, of course, happens to be one of the most expensive treatments available, since it's a two-person package—though Bree insists that she's got it covered. How, I don't think I'll ever know.
I haven't been to many spas in my lifetime, but even I can tell right from the beginning that this one is high-class and that the workers are very good at what they do. The atmosphere is calm and soothing like nothing I've ever experienced, all soft lighting and lit candles. Even with Kellin and I together in next to nothing but our robes, I can't feel any sort of awkwardness or tension.
The treatment is split up into two sections: an aromatherapy massage and a facial. I don't know much about either one, but the masseuses explain what they're doing. The aromatherapy in particular helps a lot with my emotional state, especially considering how dramatic the past few days have been. It feels as if all my troubles are just washing right off of me.
Every once in a while, I glance over at Kellin, and it occurs to me just how exposed we both are, just how much of a bonding experience it really is even if we're both wrapped up in our own individual treatment. Kellin's expressions are uninhibited, and I'm sure I look the same—the looks on his face range from calm and content to something like euphoria. At one point, he and I look over at each other at the same time, and his gaze meets mine. He flashes me a wide smile, looking fearless and truly peaceful for the first time in a long time. I smile back at him, and for a few blissful seconds, we hold that moment with all we've got, neither of us sure when to let go.
"So," one of the masseuses says, "how long have you two been together?"
That snaps us both out of our mutual trance, reminding me that this is a couples' treatment. I'm relieved that they're not openly homophobic, at least, but I'm also kind of at a loss for words, caught completely off guard with no explanation prepared—how do I tell them that our relationship status is basically the "It's Complicated" option on Facebook?
Thankfully, Kellin saves me. "Um, we met a little over a year ago," he says truthfully, winking at me in a way that I could only describe as flirty.
"Hmm," the masseuse hums. "What made you decide to come here?"
Kellin and I exchange glances, unsure how to explain that most of our "deciding" is done by a devious girl named Bree. "It just kind of, uh, happened," I say with a short laugh. "Minimal planning involved."
We both come out amazingly refreshed and much more calm than before. Like Bree said, we're served a bit of champagne at the end. Kellin takes the picture while I hold the glass, and then afterward he offers to drink mine for me. "Just because—well, you know."
"Go ahead," I tell him as he posts the picture online. "I don't need it."
—
For the next two nights, you'll be sleeping in a treehouse—I've already booked your stay. At some point, take a short video called "Kellin and Vic Fight Voldemort" (even if you don't actually fight Voldemort) because I am tired of all these boring video titles.
Through a quick Google search, Kellin and I find the treehouse she's talking about. The checkout time for Four Seasons is noon, but we can't check in to our treehouse until two, so we pack up all our stuff and then decide to explore the city for a few hours. I mostly let Kellin lead, since I don't really have any ideas myself, and we find ourselves at a random pub for lunch.
"I really wanted a treehouse when I was little," Kellin says as we're waiting for our food. "Until I tried to climb a tree one time and fell down and broke my arm. Then I decided I'd pass."
I snort. "My brother did that once. I told him he was gonna get hurt, but he didn't listen. And then he fell and blamed me and said I told him to do it."
"Typical," Kellin says, resting his head in his hand, his expression turning slightly distant. I realize then that he's probably still sensitive to the mention of siblings—it reminds him that he no longer has one.
"You know," I say slowly in an attempt to change the subject, "I think she'd be proud of you. Your sister."
Skeptically, Kellin raises an eyebrow. "Proud? Why?"
I shrug. "Because you didn't let it eat you alive. Because you got to the point that you could admit everything, to yourself and to me. Because you've been smiling again. I'm sure she'd be glad to see how you looked at the spa today. How peaceful you looked." And how beautiful.
Kellin, his eyes trained on the table, glances back up at me. "Peaceful," he repeats softly, nodding. "Yeah. I did feel peaceful. And I hope I can feel it again someday."
It's around two o'clock by the time we finish lunch, but instead of checking in immediately, we figure we'll hang out for a while yet. One of the places that we end up at is the Centennial Olympic Park, where Kellin promptly runs through the "Fountain of Rings," a series of bouncing fountains in the shape of the Olympic Rings, and then calls for me to join him. After some time exploring and talking, we take our time browsing different shops downtown.
We don't check in until after dinner, but when we do, I'm kind of glad that we waited because I don't think I'm going to want to leave now that I'm here. The treehouse is made up of three compartments—a living room, a bedroom, and a deck—all connected to each other by suspension bridges and decorated with fairy lights that, in the twilight, make it look like a fantasy dream. The hosts of the place introduce themselves and give us a little tour of the whole thing; it's very rustic and filled with all sorts of intricate details and antiques, as well as stocked with wine and snacks. It feels like we're closer to nature but also secluded at the same time.
By the time we're alone, it's pretty dark outside. I'm sitting on the couch in the living room, taking in the scenery, when suddenly, Kellin comes up to me with his phone held up, as if he's taking a video. "Ready to fight Voldemort?"
I snort. "That's not something you just casually ask someone."
Kellin rolls his eyes, switches to the front camera, and says in a more high-pitched voice, "Oh my God, Kellin, you can't just ask someone whether or not they're ready to fight Voldemort."
I just laugh. "What's that from, again? Legally Blonde?"
"Mean Girls, dummy," Kellin corrects, making a dramatically shocked face at the phone camera.
I raise my hands in surrender. "Sorry, I got them mixed up. I've never actually seen either of them."
Kellin gasps even more dramatically. "Vic, I can't believe I've known you this long and I haven't forced you to watch Mean Girls yet. We'll have to have a movie night sometime. Truly a cinematic masterpiece."
He turns around and heads for the bridge leading to the bed. "Come on," he says, gesturing for me to follow him. "I've got, like, thirty seconds left and I wanna show the world this badass treehouse."
I follow him as he waves his phone around, pausing at certain features of the bedroom, such as the little desk and the bed itself, which can be slept on indoors but can also be wheeled out onto an outdoor platform under the stars and just above a stream. "Beautiful," Kellin says primly, blowing a kiss at the camera. "'Kay, I'm out." That's the moment, I assume, when Instagram ends his sixty-second video.
He sits down on the bed, humming while he captions and posts the little video. I can't help but watch as he types—everything about him pulls me to him, and though he's changed since the first time we met, the feeling is similar. He's mesmerizing.
When he's done, he sets his phone down and flops down on his back, sighing deeply. "Come try this," he says as he stretches out. "It's super comfy."
I shrug and lie down next to him, propping my head up with one hand. Admittedly, it's a fantastic mattress. "Hmm. You're right."
Kellin meets my gaze, flashing a grin that disappears a few seconds later after neither of us break eye contact. In that moment, my heart aches with want. "Kellin," I say slowly.
Kellin's eyes flit down to my lips for the briefest of seconds. Then, before I can even begin to think about what that means, he leans forward and bridges the gap.
The kiss is soft and sweet at first, but it quickly deepens, Kellin grabbing onto the collar of my shirt and sucking on my bottom lip. Breaking away, he says quietly, "I've missed this."
My breath catches—I'm not even sure how to respond. "I—um—" I stutter. "I thought we were just friends."
Kellin's mouth quirks up. "Yeah," he agrees, "we are. Friends can do this." He crawls onto my lap, his eyes shining with something new: desire. "It's called 'having benefits.'"
I wish we could maybe have something more than that, but if "friends with benefits" is as close as I'll ever get, I'm eager and willing to take it. Besides, I've missed this, too.
Kellin leans down, leaving light kisses all up and down my neck and collarbone, all while rocking himself on me. I rest my hands on his hips, and when he lifts his head up, I take the liberty of reconnecting our lips in another long-awaited kiss. Friends, enemies, lovers—no matter what we are, I'll never get tired of those beautiful lips of his.
Kellin reaches one hand into my hair, the other draped around my neck as my tongue brushes the outside of his mouth, which he opens slightly in order to let me in. I kiss him like I'm starving—I haven't felt this electrified in a long, long time.
Suddenly, Kellin breaks the kiss off, winking at me without a word as he hops off the bed. I start to ask him what he's doing, but I figure it out halfway through my question: he's closing all the doors and windows so that not even the birds will hear us.
After that, he reaches into one of our many shopping bags from earlier and pulls out something completely unexpected: a brand new bottle of lube.
The smirk on his face says it all. "I was just in such a good mood today," he says. "And so were you. So I figured, just in case..."
I just shake my head in awe. He's confusing as hell, and I'm not quite sure how far his intentions go, but I know now that I haven't been imagining the occasional frustrated looks that he gives me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
"I like the way you think," I tell him, starting to pull off my shirt. Tossing it to the floor, I add, "At the very least, now we can both say we got laid in a treehouse."
Kellin pulls his own shirt off, grinning as he sets the lube on the nearby desk and climbs back into the bed. Immediately, I pull him back down on top of me, resuming our kisses as Kellin grinds on me more roughly. We're both half-hard before long, so Kellin slides down to the end of the bed, playing with the hem of my jeans. "Just take 'em off already," I say with a laugh, starting to pull them off myself; when they're partway down, he yanks them the rest of the way off and throws them to the floor as if they're on fire, leaving me in nothing but my boxers.
Kellin pulls his own pants off, too. When he starts to climb back up and sit himself on my lap with his legs wrapped around my waist, I take the opportunity to start palming him, turning him on even more. "Why don't you show me just how much you missed this, huh?" I tease.
Kellin responds by snatching the lube off the desk and handing it to me, then taking his boxers off. He doesn't have to say anything—I already know what he wants me to do.
After opening the bottle of lube, I squirt some into my hands and spread it onto my fingers. Kellin sits down in my lap again, but he lifts himself up a little bit so that I can reach around and slide one finger into him. He tenses up at first but quickly nods for me to add a second one, all while rocking himself slightly in order to get used to the feeling. I have to go slower by the third finger, but before I know it, he's telling me that he's used to it, that he's ready for me.
I pull my fingers out and take my own boxers off now, then proceed to lube myself up. I'm getting hornier by the second now; after so long without Kellin, I need to be inside him.
When I'm ready, Kellin rests both hands on my shoulders and starts to lower himself down on me, letting out an adorably tiny squeak at first. Taking deep breaths, he moves his body down farther, and I wiggle my hips a little to make it easier on him. Slowly, steadily, he starts to ride me, making little moans as he moves.
I hold onto his hips again, letting him kiss me some more as I rock my body in time with his. In return, I lean forward and nip at a spot on his neck, reveling in his increasingly loud noises as I bite and lick at his skin, determined to leave my mark. I moan into his shoulder when he gyrates his hips—I forgot how good he feels.
"You're so hot," I breathe into his neck, both of us moving faster now. Eager to please him the way he's pleasing me, I thrust my hips up hard just as he's coming down, and he gasps, a soft whine escaping his lips when I hit the perfect spot.
"Right there," he says, gripping my shoulders more tightly. "Do that again."
Our bodies move in a rhythm, our moans mixing together until we can barely tell whose is whose. We're all sweat and sound and lips and hands, and it makes me forget everything surrounding us, both literally and metaphorically. It makes me forget all about our situation; I focus only on him, how gorgeous he is, how lucky I am that I get to have sex with someone so beautiful.
I can feel myself reaching my climax soon, and my movements become clumsier, my thrusts more desperate. Kellin grins and rotates his hips around one more time, and that's about when I let it all go and come inside of him.
Kellin is almost there, too, so once I've finished riding out my high, I reach over and start pumping him up and down, base to tip; sure enough, within a matter of seconds, I've got him moaning as he comes on my abdomen (better me than the mattress—I don't really want to have to potentially explain anything to the hosts).
"Wow," Kellin says breathlessly, lying down on his stomach. "That was...that was pretty great."
"It was," I agree, standing up to clean myself off, and Kellin follows suit.
Now that the euphoria has worn off and I can see things more clearly, I wonder if having sex was a good idea. I'm afraid it'll just make things more confusing for both of us. As Kellin and I put on some sleep clothes and get ready for bed, I have to remind myself over and over of what he said as we were kissing. Benefits, I tell myself. Sex is just a benefit of our friendship. It means nothing to him, so unless I want to be longing and pining hopelessly for him, it's going to have to mean nothing to me, too.