Frank is almost elastic in his flexibility, and for all that he bruises himself like hell with the way he flings himself around, he doesn't actually bruise easily. It takes pressure and force. A lot, actually.
Mikey, though--Mikey is different. A glancing, careless knock against a surface will make color bloom up on his skin almost instantly. He hates it, generally, because it makes him seem fragile or delicate, even if only to himself. And he's not. Not in that way.
But Mikey doesn't mind at all the bruises that come to life on his knees when he sinks to them in front of Frank on concrete venue floors, carpeted hotel room floors, or gravel-rough parking lots. When Mikey sucks Frank off he thinks he can feel the bruises forming, slow and subtle, at the soft spots just under his kneecaps. He imagines them rising up to his skin, spreading out in patterns that speak to the surface he's kneeling on.
He knows that the carpeting brings fainter softer-edged marks, that the concrete leaves dark violent looking colors with sharp lines, and that tarred parking lots are a halfway point between the other two with random and dotted with indents from loose bits of terrain.
Later, after, he always stares at the bruises, pokes at them to feel them flair with faint discomfort that reminds him of how he got them. His jeans, always tight, scrape and press against them as he walks, and it's secret and forbidden, just something he knows, his own private flashbacks.
Tonight it's hard tile, in a bathroom before they go on stage, and Mikey knows the tile will leave flat, even bruises, bland and smooth and mostly unassuming in shape. Above him, Frank gasps, mutters vowels without consonants, chokes on his own breath, and rubs his thumbs into the muscles at the back of Mikey's neck. Mikey closes his eyes, takes Frank's dick in further, and presses his knees to the unforgiving surface under them.
On stage, when Mikey's playing with his knees tucked together, the muscles of his legs pull and stretch; the skin at his knees shifts over bone, make the bruises ache dully, and it's only because his bass is in front of him that no one knows he's hard, aching, leaking.
Frank touches the bruises in Mikey's bunk after the show, cups the palms of his hands over the caps of Mikey's knees and pushes at them until Mikey's panting for air. Then Frank leans down and sucks at the marks, bringing darker patches up without thought to shape or structure, and digs his teeth into captured flesh.
When he pulls away, Mikey stares at the haphazardly mottled skin of his knees, dimpled with teeth marks, and this, this is Frank's pattern and it's Mikey's favorite.
.End
Story Notes:
Written for luciamad on LJ.