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That last night of the tour, Trees is different.
Tyler’s shaky on the platform, brain flitting between details: the white and red flashes of confetti, pins of light from cell phones, stage beams so bright they swallow half of Josh’s face. If the drumbeats weren’t muscle memory, he’d be dropping the sticks. He tenses and shifts to the swell of the crowd. They scream louder than his pulse, sweaty and wide-eyed.
They'd gotten tattooed the night before. Tyler had tried to keep his hands from wobbling over Josh’s knee, and there’s an echoing ache in his knuckles from where he’d gripped the gun too tight. He clenches the drumsticks harder.
Back onstage, he throws a sweat-slick arm around Josh. There’s a jolt in his chest, like closing a circuit, and he can’t stop thinking about the new ink in his upper thigh.
The night passes in an eyeblink. Streetlights flicker by in the tour bus window, and the memory of the crowd’s white noise hums in his ears. The tattoo itches and Tyler scratches absently, even though denim can’t be good for the healing skin.
There’s a place in his soupy mind that wants the tattoo to stay new forever, red and irritated and hard to forget.
Josh is sprawled on the couch across the aisle, asleep. His mouth’s hanging open and there'll be creases where the seat presses into his cheek. The city’s fickle lights wash over him as they pass and he’s lit, dark, lit, dark. He’s gonna get a neck cramp, sleeping like that, but he’s boneless and serene. Tyler doesn’t want to wake him.
He’s still in the leather pants, though. Can’t be comfortable. Tyler frowns. He should let Josh rest, but he wants to see Josh’s knee, check the tattoo’s progress. God, he’d written it so big. Tyler rubs at his tired eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Josh. Wake up.” Tyler leans forward.
No response. Josh is a deep sleeper.
“Josh.”
Tyler rubs his temples.
He stands, lays his palm flat on Josh’s bicep. The warmth there gives him pause. A second of blank thought passes before he remembers that he’s supposed to be shaking Josh awake. Tyler shoves, scratches his thigh with his free hand. “Dude.”
Josh snorts, squints. He lifts both his arms sleepily before pushing them through bleach-burned hair. He seems malleable this way: tired and hot to the touch, lips barely parted. “Huh?”
Tyler’s brain is molasses. He tries to string together the right words (rest, bunks, late, you should.) What comes out is, “You should take your pants off.”
Josh blinks, slowly.
“I, uh,” he says, rising as the cushions creak, “I guess?”
“Like--I mean, those pants are hot.” Tyler bites inside his cheek. “I mean, they look hot. Warm. I thought you were too warm, maybe.”
Josh considers this with a syrupy tilt of his head. Sleep-squashed curls sag down to his brows. “I am pretty warm.”
He reaches for his belt loops and pulls. The air stills in Tyler’s throat. Josh stretches, languid, and rolls his pants off like Tyler isn’t six inches away. Tyler’s heart hammers against his constricted ribs.
It’s not Josh in his boxers making Tyler’s chest tight. It’s the tattoo--it’s Tyler’s name scrawled over his knee, that permanent mark. It looks like--feels like--owning, possessing. Just like Josh’s tattoo on Tyler feels like belonging. Tyler’s dick jumps in his pants.
“Okay.” Tyler wets his bottom lip. He’s leaning, caught in Josh’s orbit. “You should go to your bunk.”
“Maybe.” Josh runs a hand down his bare leg, fingertips probably grazing the tattoo. Tyler’s too close to Josh’s grin to be certain.
Tyler doesn’t glance down, heroically, struggling under the weight of his own curiosity. He meets Josh’s eyes. “We should have wrapped the tattoos. Gonna get infected.”
“It’s fine.” Josh lolls his head, arcs his neck back. The last streetlights flood Josh’s skin, and the bus is free, going seventy on a rural stretch of asphalt.
Tyler drops to his knees. Josh meets his mouth halfway.
The perpendicular angle is bad, but Josh’s lips are hot enough to singe Tyler’s skin. Tyler grabs a fistful of couch, hauls himself over Josh, grasps the seat tighter when their mouths align. Josh grazes Tyler’s bottom lip with sharp canines. Tyler’s elbows tremble, bracketing Josh’s sides. There’s finality in every slide of their lips--they’re tipping over a precipice. Tyler’s stomach flips. He lets himself drop so that he’s flush to Josh, so that he can feel Josh’s ribs shift with each quick breath.
It’s like the dirt and the sky are switching places. Tyler’s dizzy, buzzing with reawakened adrenaline. He runs a hand along Josh’s side to anchor himself. He's caught by an urge to be present, aware, to memorize the subvocal sounds in Josh’s throat and the feel of his warm, wandering palms. This doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke--but he needs to remember each moment, just in case.
Josh nuzzles the crook of Tyler’s neck, shifts against Tyler’s hip in a little broken-off twitch. He mouths hazy words into the join of Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler can’t hear, can’t read lips, even when they’re tracing up his jugular--especially when they’re sucking a spot at the bend of his jaw. His eyes force shut and his hips snap to meet Josh’s. It's involuntary, like he’s pulled on puppet strings.
Josh is still trying to speak. His words are almost inaudible between Tyler’s tattered breaths. Tyler swallows around the heart in his throat and leans back, pinning Josh between his knees. “What?”
It’s a crime that there’s no moonlight. Josh is a watercolor wash of shape, lacking detail. Tyler wants to know what his lips look like kissed raw. He can tell that Josh's tank top is rucked up, can see the lines of his pelvis and what they lead to. He's hard, straining the boxers.
Josh smiles, slow and lazy. “Can I blow you?”
Tyler fights a groan. His dick jerks, trapped tight against his zipper. He rubs himself through his jeans, has to take the edge off his arousal before it becomes painful.
“That a yes?” Josh reaches up and brushes over Tyler’s pocket, where he knows the tattoo is. “We don’t have to.”
Tyler bites down hard enough to leave marks in his tongue. He nods. “Please.”
Josh grins like it’s his birthday and Tyler laughs, tilts forward to rest his forehead against Josh’s. He can’t stop giggling. Josh plants flimsy kisses up and down his face. Tyler chuckles until Josh’s kisses turn leisurely, mingled with scraping hints of teeth. Josh finds Tyler's collarbone, and it’s easy for the laughter to become a hitching moan.
Tyler’s gonna have hickies. He bruises easy. It’ll be clusters of purple marks all down his neck and chest, like temporary tattoos. He nestles his face into the couch, just to the right of Josh’s cheek, tries to convince his hips to stop rolling. Josh, running possessive hands along Tyler’s backbone, isn’t helping.
Josh shifts. His lips skim Tyler’s ear. “I was gonna--I said we don’t have to, but it needs to be soon if--”
“Yeah.” Sparks shiver down Tyler’s spine with every sweep of Josh’s hands. “Just--hold on.”
“‘Kay,” Josh whispers. His fingers trace the top of Tyler’s jeans.
Tyler sits up. “How do you--how do you want to?”
Josh still has a dorky grin. “Gotta let me out.” He pats Tyler’s thigh--the little prison that Tyler had made, trapping Josh’s hips.
Tyler shuffles away. Air conditioning cools the sweat pooled at his temples. He licks his lips and goes still, scrapes his nails on the cushion. He’s been kissed sore enough that a brush of tongue is painful. It’s the kind of pain that makes him want to shove a hand down his pants.
Josh slips off the couch. He drops to his knees, a quiet thud, and pries open the button of Tyler’s jeans. Tyler hisses, bites the meat of his thumb to keep silent. His eyes squeeze shut. Josh works his pants off with quick tugs.
It’s too dark behind Tyler’s eyelids to notice Josh reaching. He only knows what's happening when Josh’s hand settles on his own, the one over his mouth. “Do you have to?”
Tyler opens his eyes. Josh has his elbow propped on the couch between Tyler’s thighs. He leans on his free hand, staring up at Tyler with blown pupils. Tyler wants to scream. Instead, he nods, mumbles into his palm: “I’ll be too loud.”
Josh lays his head against Tyler’s inner thigh. He turns until he’s kissing Tyler’s jumping muscles. “Kinda want you to be.”
“I--I can’t. I just--someone might--” Josh’s kisses change into unhurried licks, and Tyler stuffs his hand back in his mouth.
Josh smiles--Tyler can feel it against his thigh. “S’okay. Next time.” He gives Tyler’s kneecap a quick peck and stretches forward, digs his fingers into the waistband of Tyler’s tented boxers. Josh yanks until Tyler remembers to lift his hips. In fairness, he wouldn’t be able to tell up from down at gunpoint with Josh between his legs.
Tyler’s boxers hit the floor and Josh wastes no time. He grasps the base of Tyler’s dick and pulls, a short, dry stroke that makes Tyler’s chest heave. Tyler should look away--knows he’ll last longer if he does--but Josh licks carefully up his shaft and he might never blink again. Can’t risk missing it when Josh has wide eyes, short breaths, precum dripping on his chin. He shifts in place--Josh has no friction, kneeling like that, hands occupied. He’s busy stroking circles over Tyler’s inner thigh, busy holding Tyler’s cock with feather-light pressure.
Josh kisses the head. A choked whine slips out between Tyler's fingers, smooths into a moan when Josh sinks down, lips stretched. Tyler scrambles for self-control, wills his hips not to jerk. He blushes red from his ears to the top of his chest.
A lightswitch flicks on in his nervous system. Every sensation flares brighter. He’s panting, squirming with every minute shift of Josh’s mouth and tongue, but it’s barely more than a tease.
Josh takes Tyler’s free hand, balled into a fist by his side, and guides it to his hair. He doesn’t break contact, just breathes in deep through his nose, emanating a weird kind of serenity. Tyler grazes his nails along Josh’s scalp. It’s a mistake, because Josh hums, and Tyler chokes behind his hand.
The makeshift gag isn’t working. Tyler drops his hand and runs his fingers through Josh’s tousled bangs. “I give up,” he says, so quiet he hopes the words blend with the bus’ droning engine.
Josh meets Tyler’s eyes, slides into a steady rhythm.
“With you--there’s no way I can--God.” Tyler grips Josh’s hair. “No point in trying to keep it down, you’re--you’re so fucking good.”
Josh groans, sudden and wrenched from deep in his chest. His eyes fly open, and he rocks forward, back, eyelids fluttering. The motion and the sound together thrill Tyler’s fried nerves. Tyler answers with a keening moan, harsh breaths, gratuitous words. “You’re so good to me, God, you feel--you feel amazing.”
It’s a feedback loop. Pet names, curses, and whispered compliments spill from Tyler’s mouth; Josh takes him deeper, does tricks with his tongue that make white heat bloom behind Tyler’s eyes. “I’m close,” he warns, pale knuckles vivid in Josh’s hair. “Fuck, you’re doing so good. You’re so good, and you’re mine--Jesus, Josh.”
Josh grips Tyler’s thigh, hard enough that his nails leave red crescents. He inhales and swallows, works his throat, moans long and low enough to have Tyler writhing.
“Was--was glad when you agreed. About the tattoo.” Tyler’s voice is gravel. “My name on you, fuck. You’re perfect--you’re mine. Josh, oh God, I’m so close--”
Tyler’s toeing the edge, feels himself tipping, when Josh stops. He freezes, pulls off, clenches the edge of the cushion.
Tyler’s gasping. He can’t get oxygen. The absence of touch hits him like a physical thing, like a punch to the gut. Doesn’t matter, though--Josh hunches forward, both hands squeezed around the cushion ‘till it rasps. His broad shoulders shake.
Tyler shuffles until his back hits the seat. With some focus, he slows his breathing, just enough to speak. “Are you okay?”
Josh says nothing. Tyler’s so hard that it hurts, a throb keeping time with his heartbeat, but he cups Josh’s jaw and tilts his face up. He's got heated skin, glassy eyes. His rapid breath tickles Tyler’s wrist.
Tyler brushes the hair from Josh’s eyes. “Josh?”
“I, uh.” Josh’s voice is thin, cracked. “Sorry, I--I might have, um.”
“You--oh my God,” says Tyler, and he understands.
“Yeah.” Josh rises. His legs tremble. Tyler’s eyes catch on the wet spot in Josh’s boxers. Tyler swears softly, using the last bit of air in his lungs. Josh is beautiful. He’s a perfect silhouette in low light: panting, bangs damp against his face, fauxhawk mussed.
Josh drags both hands down his face. “I didn’t know I could--I mean, I’ve gotten close like that, before. I just--”
“It’s fine, oh, God.” Tyler presses against his dick. It’s still slick with Josh’s spit. “Jesus.”
Josh steps forward. He straddles Tyler carefully. “Let me.”
He sucks his own fingers into his mouth, slides them out all slow, licks a stripe up his palm. Tyler short-circuits. The image of Josh slicking his fingers burns into Tyler's brain. It's a memory with the strength of something religious, iconic.
“Josh,” says Tyler, hoarse.
Josh’s damp hand closes around Tyler’s cock. He swipes a thumb over the head, squeezes once, gently, before pulling at a fixed, neat pace. He’s relentless--Tyler realizes that it’s a beat, that Josh is drawing from the same rhythms he uses on the drums. The callouses chafe a little, an inescapable reminder that it's Josh's hand. Tyler tries not to wail. He bites into Josh’s shoulder instead.
Tyler comes hard, so fast it's like he cracked his skull, like a knockout punch. He bends forward, stomach straining, and his voice jumps an octave. It's not quite muffled in Josh’s skin.
He rests both hands on Josh’s shoulders. All his muscles shudder, and he rides out the waves with Josh as his crutch. The last shivers pass and he presses his forehead to Josh’s chest. Tyler stays like that, bowed, aligning himself with the world. The road rumbles beneath and the sky is silent above.
Josh wipes his hand on the couch.
Tyler glances to the side. There’s a sticky smear. “Aw, dude.”
“I’m sorry.” Josh’s mouth twitches. He bursts into badly suppressed laughter.
Tyler’s dragged with him, laughing so hard his abs ache. He falls horizontal on the clean side of the couch. “You’re so gross.”
Josh blows a raspberry into the side of Tyler’s neck. “Maybe. You love it.”
Tyler throws his arm over his eyes. “I kinda do, I guess.”