zeegoeshere

Oneirology
By Zee

Summary: The study of dreams. Bert/Quinn, NC-17. 5,847 words.

Notes: Not canon-compliant, and highly questionable Neil Patrick Harris characterization. Written for sinsense in the usedfic exchange, for the request of Bert/Quinn and magic realism. I hope it satisfies! Huge thanks to helluvalot for cheerleading/betaing/listening to me gibber like a moron for two weeks about this.


*

"Man, I don't know," Quinn says. "I never really remember my dreams. Maybe that's why it doesn't happen to me."

"I only remember them for a few minutes. I mean, obviously more, now," Bert says, gesturing to the giant sea turtle. "But you know. If he weren't here, I would've forgotten the dream by now."

Quinn nods and stares at the turtle, who stares back with a yellow eye just slightly smaller than Quinn's fist. They don't know for sure if it's a he--Bert said it wasn't clear in his dream, but whatever. He's taking up most of the space in their backyard.

"He can survive without water for a while, right?" Bert says, fingering strands of his hair. "They're not like fish--they can breathe normally, can't they?"

Quinn frowns. "Dude, he's not real. He's going to disappear in a couple hours, just like all the rest."

Bert shrugs and drops his hair. "Yeah, but I don't want him to die before then." He reaches out to touch the huge reptile, smoothing his hand over his still-wet shell and then down his flipper. Bert woke up a half hour ago and his eyes are still puffy with sleep--Quinn's been awake since nine.

Bert had relayed his dream quickly once he blinked awake and saw the turtle, sopping wet outside. Apparently Bert had been riding on the thing's back in the middle of some ocean, going who-knows-where, stranded by himself. Quinn thinks that that's pretty creepy, but Bert insists that it wasn't a bad dream.

"Do you think it means anything?" Quinn nods at the turtle, which Bert is still communing with.

Bert twists his head around to look at Quinn. "Fucked if I know," he says with a sneer. "I don't know that Jungian shit. What do you think it means?"

Quinn rolls his eyes. "I think it means the acid trips are catching up with you. Or, I don't know. You're alone in the middle of the ocean, maybe it means you're lonely or some shit?"

Bert waves a hand. "I already knew that, though. I thought subconscious shit was supposed to be actually subconscious."

Quinn finds himself reaching out to touch the turtle, too. It feels wet and solid and kind of slimy, and it didn't exist before an hour ago. It's funny the kinds of things you can get used to.

"Have you started eating weird shit before going to bed, to make your dreams crazier?" Quinn says. "'Cause that's what I'd do."

"I fucking did that shit before," Bert says. "Why the fuck do you think I'm so weird in the first place?"

"You're not, whatever," Quinn says. "Riding a sea turtle isn't bad at all. Even the moulin rouge dream wasn't too crazy."

"And Nicole Kidman was fucking hot, right? Not every day you get to have breakfast with her," Bert snickers.

"Very true," Quinn says. Truthfully, he hadn't ogled Nicole Kidman too much.

"Too bad she went--" and Bert snaps his fingers, signifying Nicole's disappearance. "We coulda gone steady. I'd write her songs and shit, way better songs than Ewan McGregor did."

"Sure, you would've been the great romancer," Quinn says, rolling his eyes. Under his palm, the turtle's skin is starting to go dry.

***

Bert seems to have a lot of dreams about TV shows he watched as a kid. Elmo shows up once, as does Fresh-Prince-era Will Smith, and Wishbone the dog--who talks like he does in the show, too. He summarizes Pride and Prejudice for Quinn over breakfast.

Usually they start fading between noon and two PM, depending on when Bert wakes up. Wishbone makes it all the way to dinner, though, and because of Bert's fucked up sleep schedule, Bert and Ernie make it till dark. One second Quinn will be conversing with the latest figment of Bert's imagination, and the next he'll be looking at thin air.

Neil Patrick Harris comes down for breakfast before Bert is even up. He's wearing a shirt with a colorful print of a vulva puppet on it, and he asks if Quinn has any E.

"Not this early," Quinn says. He pours Neil a cup of coffee instead, and then one for himself and a third one. He climbs the stairs to their room--well, to Bert's room, but they're both so used to touring and recording and living in closer quarters that Quinn ends up crashing with him at least half the time.

Bert is still in bed, his body hunched entirely under the blankets. "I know you're awake, asshole," Quinn says as he sits on the edge of the bed. He can hear Neil trailing into the room behind him. "We can't spend the whole day in bed again, we've got studio time in an hour."

"You spend days in bed with him? Fags," Neil says. "Do you have any coke?"

"All I've got is weed, man, sorry," Quinn says to Neil. To Bert, "I brought you coffee in bed, okay? Just get the fuck up."

Bert makes some plaintive grunting noises, muffled by the blankets, and seems to sort of fold his body in half under there--his shins move to nudge at Quinn's side. But then Bert snuffles his way out of his cocoon, "Nnn shit, oh man," and accepts his mug of coffee, slurping it down and crossing his legs under him. His cheeks are puffy and he's giving Quinn a glazed, hungover look; Quinn drank last night, too, but Quinn woke up two hours ago and threw up twice and is now fine. Quinn can never sleep in when he's drunk.

"So what was he doing in your dream?" Quinn asks, and rests his hand on Bert's knee, still under the covers.

"Hello, I'm in the room," Neil says.

Bert cocks his head at Neil, frowning. "Shit," he says again. "It was all kind of like--blurry and weird. I think we were partying, though. Some club."

"You were harshing my buzz, is what you were doing," Neil says. To Quinn, "Is he always so much of a cockblock? Fuck."

"Pretty much," Quinn says, and Bert kicks at him.

"Cocksucker," Bert says. "You can't take Neil Patrick Harris's side over mine."

"Watch me," Quinn says, and jerks away when Bert surges forward in an attempt to grab Quinn's nipple. Quinn's coffee spills on the comforter. The damage is done, so Quinn feels all right with his decision to tackle Bert back against the headboard, even if it results in coffee in his hair. It's not like he's showered yet.

Neil comes with them to the recording studio, and Bert smokes him up in the car on the way. Quinn thinks it's kind of dumb to waste good weed on someone who isn't real and will be disappearing in a few hours at most, but Bert's trying to be polite or something.

Dan and Jepha aren't as used to Bert's dream people as Quinn is, and they're all over Neil Patrick Harris. Jeph lets him play his bass, and no one's really surprised to see that Neil's a shitty bassist. He gets even more blazed and lies on the floor on his stomach, watching them argue over drum fills and riffs. They get into a fight because Bert refuses to change the lyrics of this chorus to fit better with the guitar parts Quinn has, and when Quinn throws his hands up and turns around to stomp out for a cigarette or a drink or just some fresh air, Neil is gone.

***

Bert has always been sort of magical. Or well, that's a shitty way of putting it, but he's always brought things and events into Quinn's life that seemed impossible and nonexistent before. When Quinn was sixteen, he'd smoked up before and he drank and his friends drank and smoked, but nothing more than that--and then suddenly he met Bert and the bad drugs actually existed outside of the D.A.R.E. program for the first time. Suddenly his best friend was an addict who weighted 90 lbs, suddenly Quinn was asking his parents if it would be all right for Bert to stay for a while, and in retrospect there was nothing impossible about any of it, but at the time it was even stranger than waking up with characters from your dreams.

And then the band was signed and they were actual rock stars, and a small part of Quinn still believes that that happened simply because things like that happen to Bert, that it had nothing to do with him. And then there was Kelly Osborne, and more touring and drugs and new countries and a certain amount of fame and it seems like it has to all have stemmed from something.

Bert's always been a catalyst, that's it, that's the description Quinn's looking for. Quinn has stopped expecting anything in the ordinary.

***

After Neil Patrick Harris, it's a naked man with no face and skin that changes colors: purple then green then yellow then red then dark dark blue. He doesn't speak, either, and it freaks Quinn's shit out.

"Dude," Quinn mutters to Bert when they're across the room from the freaky guy. "What the hell did you dream about?"

Bert actually looks uncomfortable, and he shrugs off Quinn's hand on his shoulder. "It's hard to remember. I don't know. I think he was like--like an alien in my dream, or something. I think I was on another planet."

Quinn can see it vividly, Bert as the only normal human on a whole planet of face-less, color-changing people, a foot shorter than everyone else. "Weird."

"Yeah," Bert says. "It is."

***

The thing about this album that they're recording is that it's their fourth one, which means the process is almost a routine. It's not, of course, it never ever could be, but they know what they're doing and it's normal for them, at this point. Recording their first album was exciting and terrifying because it was something they'd never done before; and then 'In Love And Death' was their first try after the band got big, had so many ridiculous expectations attached to it; and then they had to make Lies for the Liars with Branden gone, and now they have Dan and this is just--just recording an album, that's all, nothing else crazy attached to it. They all think it's pretty cool.

They have studio time for another three weeks, and they're right on schedule, right where they're supposed to be. And Quinn tries not to focus on judging his own shit while they're still making it, but he can't help but think that what they're making now is several steps ahead of all the songs they've written in the past.

"Which is cool," Bert says. They're side by side on the bed, watching a telenovela at two in the morning and sobering up. "Because it's always great to improve, yeah? It's just that all those songs we wrote when our balls had just dropped, you know, we were so fucking attached to those."

"I'm still attached," Quinn says, thinking of the first time he heard Taste Of Ink on X96.

"Well, yeah, me too," Bert says, frowning a little, the expression he gets on the few occasions he bothers to slow down and say exactly what he means. "But now, with this, it's like--like we know those songs weren't the be-all end-all. We know that compared to what we're doing now, they're not that great. They weren't the best."

Quinn rubs at his bald spot. "Yeah, I guess," he says. "When you put it that way it's a little weird."

They stop talking and just watch the TV, and the next time Quinn looks over, Bert has fallen asleep on top of the covers. His eyelids are moving a little, and whatever he's seeing will show up over coffee tomorrow morning. His head lolls to the side, showing Quinn his ear and jaw, his face hidden from view.

***

One week before they're scheduled to be done in the studio, Gerard Way comes down the stairs with Bert to breakfast. The legs of Quinn's chair screech against the floor as Quinn shoves himself back, gripping the edge of the counter.

"What the fuck," he says, staring. "What the fuck?"

"It's not really him, dumbass," Bert mutters as Gerard says "Um, hi." His hair is black and long and dyed red at the top with his roots showing through, he's wearing sunglasses, and he looks pretty obviously drugged up. He's not real, not in any way.

"Get the fuck out," Quinn spits at him. "You dream about that asshole?" he says to Bert, standing up, still gripping the counter.

"No," Bert spits back, stubborn despite the evidence. Gerard coughs and rubs at the back of his neck.

"What was the dream about?" Quinn says, even though he's sure he doesn't want to know. "Tell me you were just, I don't know, beating him up or something--"

"Fuck off," Bert says. He's moving around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, banging things around. Gerard pads a few feet behind him, looking guilty as fuck. Quinn feels heat rush to his cheeks.

Quinn doesn't even know how long ago that break-up was--three years? four? a lifetime?--but the time since is never going to matter. Quinn moves to step around the counter towards Gerard, and Bert says, "He's not even fucking there, christ, just fucking ignore him," but he glances at his dream of Gerard with softness in his eyes.

And Gerard smiles at him and reaches to put a hand on Bert's shoulder, and Quinn can guess that Bert's dream wasn't violent--and in fact, it probably wasn't so much a dream as a memory. Maybe even a happy one. Quinn disliked Gerard when they were dating and has hated him ever since, but he's never tried to lie to himself about that relationship.

"Can we--" Gerard is saying to Bert, and there's no thought going into this, it's just Quinn moving around the counter into their space and curling his hand into a fist and hitting Gerard's jaw with all the momentum he can muster.

Gerard's face snaps to the side, he stumbles back, and Quinn's hand throbs from the impact, just as if Gerard were real. Just as if he were flesh and blood and it was 2004 again, and Bert yells "Hey!" and grabs Quinn's t-shirt and yanks him back just as if they were still dating. It wasn't fair then and it sure as fuck isn't fair now.

"Dude," Bert snarls at him, and Quinn jerks out of Bert's grip.

"Fuck you," he says. "He's not even really here and you're defending him?"

"He's not even really here and you're punching him!" Bert shoves Quinn's chest, backing him up against the counter. Gerard is hunched by the opposite counter, leaning away, his glasses skewed and blood at the corner of his mouth. Quinn takes a moment to feel a little smug about that, even if it's not really Gerard.

"Calm the fuck down." Bert's fingers are twisted and clenched in the front of Quinn's shirt, and Quinn realizes that he's straining to get around Bert, to get back at Gerard. He's still got adrenaline in his system. He makes himself slump back against the counter and look at Bert's face instead of Gerard's. Bert's face is screwed up tight and small; he looks tense, pissed, sad.

And then his face twists again and he just looks pissed. "So yeah, I had a dream about him, so the fuck what? Not like it's the first time."

"You guys were together forever ago," Quinn says--whines. "I thought you were over that asshole."

Quinn wants that to make Bert even madder, wants Bert to start yelling at Quinn or about Gerard (or better yet, yell at Gerard, here in the kitchen), but Bert deflates a little and shrugs. "Ask my subconscious, I guess."

"Fuck," Quinn says. He's breathing hard and jesus, he didn't actually realize that just the sight of Gerard and Bert would get to him so much. He'd given himself too much credit.

Bert lets go of Quinn's shirt and folds his arms over his chest. "No more fighting. It's not his fault that he got yanked out of my head."

"Give me a break," Quinn scoffs, but his voice sounds cheap and brittle even to him. Across the room Gerard has his sunglasses in his hand and his eyes are wide. He's looking from Bert to Quinn and then back to Bert, staring. Quinn wonders if that look in his eye is just because this is Bert's fantasy--how Bert wants Gerard to look at him. Or maybe it's just...

"I'm out of here," Quinn says, sidestepping away from Bert. "I'll see you in the studio."

"Hey, jackass--" Bert is saying, but Quinn's moving, grabbing his car keys, leaving the house.

He gets a text after he's been in the car long enough for two songs to play on his iPod. im sry u didnt have 2 go

Quinn drums his phone on his thigh and stares out the window, then flips and unflips his phone for a while before finally sending its ok. He won't ask what Bert is doing alone in the house with his eager in-love Gerard, even though he can't stop thinking about it.

Quinn drives to the nearest skate park and watches other guys zip around and fling themselves into the air and scrape their knees, until he's due at the studio. Bert comes in alone--Gerard has, Quinn guesses, disappeared into thin air. Things are fine for the recording; the other nice thing about the band being used to this process is that, amazingly enough, they've all gotten pretty good at leaving conflict and drama behind when it's time to work.

It doesn't mean that Quinn doesn't stew over Bert and Gerard for the whole five hours he's with the band. It just means he keeps it to himself, as much as he can.

***

Bert and Quinn have kissed as teenagers, giggling over doing something taboo in Quinn's bedroom, doing it for the same reason they smoked cigarettes and weed and skipped school; they've kissed for the cameras, for the shocked laughs of photographers and journalists; they've made out and groped onstage, caught up in the light and the sweat and the songs they wrote about each other. If asked, Quinn will deny that he has an approximate tally of every time.

They've never fucked or even discussed the idea--before Gerard, Bert didn't even know he liked guys, so whatever. Quinn has always known his own preferences, but he's never done anything with dick, so also whatever.

If he has a thing for Bert--no, fuck, honesty: his established thing for Bert has gone in and out over the years, and Quinn's never been sure enough of anything to face the terrifying prospect of actually doing something about it. Quinn considers himself a reasonably brave person, but there are some things that would re-shape the universe if he lost them.

***

Two days later, when Bert comes down the stairs with a wolf walking on its hind legs, he says, "I don't actually dream about him these days. Like--uh, I mean. That was the first time in a while."

Bert is looking at Quinn anxiously, with a tightness around his eyes that says he needs Quinn not to ask what he's talking about. The wolf has its paws on the counter, and it's sniffing around the fruit bowl. It looks up at Quinn and quacks.

Quinn scratches at the stubble on his chin. "What brought it on, then?"

Quinn expects his question to make Bert sad, but his face breaks into a toothy grin. "No fucking idea," he says, and laughs high up in his nose. "Isn't it weird?"

There's something hard in Quinn's throat. He coughs. "Way weird," he says. He wants to thank Bert for the reassurance, but that would be weirder.

Bert shrugs. "I never dream about people I actually, like, know."

Quinn nods. "Yeah, um, no offense, but I think it'd be weirder if you did." He nods at the duck-sounding-wolf. "I like this better than seeing your family and friends randomly here."

"Yeah, this is much cooler," Bert says. He puts a hand on the wolf's back, carding his fingers through the fur. It looks soft. Quinn wants to pet it, too, but he stays where he is.

***

So Quinn has been pussying out for the past five years (at least), but he can accept that. What he's done a much shittier job of accepting is the sight of Bert with another dude. Other girls are more okay, which is probably politically incorrect of him, but Quinn's been dating plenty of girls so it's only fair.

It's like living with constant back problems, or arthritis, or maybe diabetes. Something that's always going to really suck, but something that's normal for him by now.

And then sometimes there's a flare-up--sometimes he has to see him with him in his own god damn kitchen, years after he stopped bracing himself for that particular hurt. That's where the metaphor runs out, because Quinn can't go to the hospital for this or get a higher dosage of meds, he just has to ride it out until he can man up and deal again.

Quinn's working on that last part. He's even kind of getting there, and then one morning Bert doesn't come down for breakfast. Quinn waits until they only have a half-hour until studio call, and then he bangs on Bert's door and yells and finds that, oh, it's locked.

"Dicksmack," Quinn hollers, beginning to get actually pissed, because they have a shitload of work to do today. There's no just blowing it off. "Open your fucking door."

"Go away," Bert yells back.

"We need--"

"I'm sick! I can't do anything today!" Which makes Quinn a little concerned as well as mad, because it's not like Bert would blow off recording for a hangover or a cold or anything. Also, Bert's voice is shrill and kind of panicked. Something's got him really worked up.

"If you're sick, let me come in," Quinn says, not yelling anymore.

"Go the fuck away. Go play your fucking guitar, okay?"

Quinn rattles the doorknob and then kicks the door. "Dude, I will fucking break the door down, you know I will--"

"Hey no, fuck--" and then Quinn hears some scrambling and Bert's voice saying something else unintelligible, and another voice--closer, right on the other side of the door saying, "Oh, hey!"

He hears Bert curse loudly, his voice also close now, and then the lock is clicking and the person opening the door is... himself.

Quinn stares, and the other Quinn stares back. This guy is a little younger, a little prettier, not going bald, and the only thing he's wearing is a pair of very tight, very short, very low-riding black briefs. Quinn suddenly feels a lot more naked than he is.

"Whoa," Quinn says, and in front of him the other Quinn says "Wow." Behind the other Quinn's shoulder, Quinn can see Bert, his eyes wide and his lips pressed together.

And then the other Quinn's face changes into an expression that Quinn has not ever seen on his own face before, and his other self leans forward and puts a hand on Quinn's abdomen. Quinn can feel the touch through his t-shirt and he jumps a little. "Wow," the other Quinn says again, lower this time, lewder.

"Uh," Quinn says, and has to drag his eyes away when the Quinn in front of him cocks his hips. He stares at Bert over Quinn's shoulder, and Bert looks just as shell-shocked as Quinn feels.

The other Quinn's hand is trying to travel lower--Quinn bats it away, and is this guy purring? "I'm gonna--yeah," Quinn says, backing away. "We need to--you should get dressed," and he doesn't know which of them he's talking to. He slams the door in his own face and flees.

He gets to the stairs and stops, rocking back on his heels. This is--whoa. Bert dreamed about him last night. Part of him is gloating over Bert's subconscious being as concerned with him as it is with Gerard, but the rest of him--whoa. He turns around and heads back to Bert's room, and doesn't knock before opening the door.

He sees himself pressed up against Bert, sinuous and available with his hands roaming all over Bert's body, and Bert leaning away. Bert's eyes snap up to meet his when Quinn enters the room, and he grabs the other Quinn's wrists and holds his hands away. The other Quinn moans, and Quinn knows his own face is red.

"Uh," Quinn says again, and Bert cringes.

"He won't--won't leave me alone," Bert says in a weird, strained voice, and now he's not meeting Quinn's eyes.

"I'm getting that," Quinn mutters. The other Quinn has stopped rubbing himself on Bert and is now rubbing himself against the bed post, staring at them both with hooded eyes. Quinn wants to melt into the floor.

"Sorry." Bert's muttering, too. "It was just a dumb dream."

And Quinn remembers the realization that made him come back in the first place, oh yeah, Bert fucking dreamt about him, the kind of dream that made this kind of Quinn appear out of thin air. "Oh," Quinn says. "Bert, you--"

"Hey, stop that," Bert says, batting away the other Quinn's eager hands again. "We can forget about this, okay?" he says, looking at Quinn over the other one's shoulder. "I'll throw some pants on and then we should get going."

"The studio, right." Quinn starts watching Bert grab for his clothes, and then shakes himself a little and backs out of the room.

Quinn feels like he's hit the weirdness quota for his entire life.

***

The weird sex dream Quinn doesn't last long, thankfully, and they're able to leave him behind in the car when they go in to record. Quinn doesn't think he nor Bert could deal with the inevitable reaction from their bandmates and managers.

It feels like the longest studio session he's ever had to endure, even though they don't go over their scheduled time. Quinn doesn't fuck up too badly, but he doesn't excel either, and his mind is all over the place. He needs to talk to Bert alone, needs to ask him if he really...

He keeps his head bent over his guitar and plays the same chords over and over again until they're recorded just right. He feels like the sick loud thumping of his heart has to be audible over everything.

Bert declines the offer of going out for drinks with Jeph and Dan, as does Quinn. All through the drive back to the house, Quinn's trying to work up the nerve to say whatever the fuck it is he should say, and Bert just keeps his forehead pressed against the window.

Quinn wishes that Bert would just look at him. "I wish you'd fucking look at me."

They're only five minutes away from home. Bert starts and turns his head, staring at Quinn with his eyebrows arched. "Um, okay," he says. "Here I am."

Quinn opens and shuts his mouth, tongue-tied again. What the hell. "So--so you dreamed about me. I guess."

Bert's mouth twists and god dammit, he's looking away again. "I definitely did," he says, jaw jutted up.

Right. "It's okay," Quinn says, and tries to make his voice softer. "It's okay, really, I mean it. It's." And this is where he gets stuck, again, because what he needs to get across is too fucking huge to even fit on his fucking tongue.

Bert sighs. "If you say so, sure," he says, and his voice sounds so small, defeated. And fuck everything: Quinn is pulling over to the side of the road, parking in what probably isn't even a real parking space and yanking on the emergency brake.

Once he's set himself on this track, it's surprisingly easy to grab Bert, one hand cupping his neck and one hand gripping his shoulder. Easier still to yank him in and mash their mouths together, the kiss sloppier than any he's ever given since high school, his teeth scraping Bert's chin and Bert's exclamation of surprise swallowed by his mouth.

Bert grabs at Quinn's head and kisses back the way Quinn's experienced before, sharp and eager and nasty. He sinks his teeth into Quinn's lower lip almost hard enough to break the skin, and they're both panting when Quinn eventually pulls away.

"What," Bert says, his voice thick. "What the fuck."

Quinn wants to wave his arms and yell his frustration, because he can't believe that after this Bert still wants Quinn to try and explain in words. There are no words.

"I, I dream about you, too," is what he manages, and then he wants to brain himself because that was possibly the single stupidest thing he's ever said.

Bert's mouth falls open and Quinn buries his face in Bert's shoulder. Bert's hand comes up to pet his hair, and god, please let this really be happening. Quinn's never felt more freaked out about anything in his life.

"Yeah," Bert is saying, and Quinn can hear the grin in his voice. "That wasn't the first time, dude. That shit you saw today? That was fucking tame!" And then he fucking giggles and his hand clenches in Quinn's hair and Quinn feels far too close to combustion.

"Fuck," Quinn groans and then laughs, too. "Can we just...." It turns into mouthing Bert's neck, running his tongue over the stubble and sweat, and he has no idea if they've established yet that it's okay to do this, but he doesn't give a shit. Bert's hands are holding him so hard it almost hurts.

Bert shudders and Quinn can feel the vibrations. And then he's pushing at Quinn's shoulders, pushing him away, "Home, man, fuck let's go--"

Quinn scrambles to sit up and turns the keys too hard in the ignition, making the engine screech. And then the tires screech as he pulls away, and it's fucking difficult to make his body calm down enough to drive like a sane person. He feels more pumped with adrenaline than he was when he punched Gerard.

The thought of that makes his heart skip for a second, but Bert's arm is around his shoulders, his fingers brushing the back of Quinn's neck. And Bert is staring at him with everything exposed on his face, and really: Quinn's not worried.

They don't even bother to get all their clothes off. Quinn shoves Bert up against the wall as soon as they get in the door, Bert's shoulder bumping the coat rack, and Quinn has Bert's dick in his mouth as soon as his knees hit the ground. He chokes himself on it and Bert screams and tangles his fingers in Quinn's hair, and this is exactly where Quinn wants to be for the rest of his life. Bert's come in his mouth and pubes brushing his nose: this is it.

"No, dude, tell me," Quinn pants when Bert's on his knees in front of him on the bed, two of his fingers knuckle-deep in Bert's ass. "Tell me what we did in the dream, seriously--"

"Come on, motherfucker, deeper," Bert grits out, shamelessly thrusting his ass up against Quinn's hand. "I don't know, we did everything. All sorts of shit."

"Fucking *tell* me," Quinn says, reaching with his other hand to squeeze Bert's balls.

Bert whines and bucks and Quinn adds a third finger. "Jesus, god, yeah okay--you ate out my ass--"

"Oh, fuck," Quinn moans, and falls to let his body weight rest on Bert. His dick aches and he still can't believe he's going to fuck Bert, can't--

"Ow, you're fucking fat," Bert whines, trying to shove Quinn off. "Get off."

"Fuck you," Quinn snaps back, shoving his fingers in hard.

"Yeah, fuck me," Bert agrees, and they're both giggling like twelve-year-olds. Quinn pulls his fingers out and slicks himself and complies. He wants to record the sounds Bert is making now, the yelps and hisses that go high and cut off each time Quinn thrusts in.

Quinn just goes for it, unrhythmic and uncoordinated, the slap of his balls against Bert's ass almost as loud as his own groaning. He doesn't last long at all, and he totally expects Bert to give him shit for it. But Bert just stretches out underneath him, both of them panting, spent.

Eventually Bert reaches a hand up to slap Quinn's ass, and Quinn takes the hint and rolls off, ends up on his back next to Bert. He lets his head flop to the side and looks at Bert, who's looking at him. Both of their cheeks are pressed against the pillow, and Bert's face is red.

Bert looks like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. He hums. Quinn reaches his hand out, lets his knuckles brush against Bert's sweaty lower back. Quinn hums along with him, not the same melody, not even--Quinn has no idea what the hell he's humming. Whatever.

"Hey, dude," Bert says. "I fucking adore you."

Quinn laughs, an obnoxious barking sound. Most of him hasn't even fully processed that he actually gets to have this. "Yeah, I fucking adore you, too."

Bert nestles into Quinn's side and Quinn fits an arm around him. This part, this isn't new; they've been cuddling since Quinn was sixteen. It's the most natural thing in the world to close his eyes and feel Bert falling asleep against his chest. It takes Quinn a while--he's too fucking thrilled to pass out easily, even with his body sated and slow from his orgasm. But eventually unconsciousness wins, and when he wakes up next to Bert in the morning, the first thing he sees is a twin of himself.