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It’s not as simple as people think, being in a two-man band. It’s easier said than done.
“I just don’t understand why the fuck you thinks it’s okay to tell them to switch up the lighting without asking me first,” Tyler is snapping the second they’re within the confines of their dressing room.
Josh wipes his face with a towel, exasperated. “Because it’s not that big of a deal, dude. Like, seriously? Do I need to ask you to piss, too?”
“Fuck off,” Tyler groans, “you know damn well it’s not like that. It’s not like there are other members to ask.”
Josh tosses his towel onto the counter. “Then you shouldn’t be worried about it. It doesn’t even affect you.”
Oh, fuck this guy.
Tyler clenches his jaw. “I’m starting to think you just did it to piss me off,” he says. “Because this isn’t the first time you’ve done shit behind my back.”
“Who cares?”
“I care!” He snaps. “I care because I’m the lead singer and this shit needs to go through me just as much as it does you!”
Josh throws his arms up, almost laughing in hysterics. “Right, but if you do shit behind my back I’m just supposed to act like it’s fine, right? If you change the lighting I won’t know until the middle of the God damn show. Because you’re the lead singer, right? And you can do whatever you want.”
He meets Tyler’s scorn tenfold. “That’s the stupidest excuse I’ve ever heard.”
They stand at a crossroads, seething, waiting for the other to make the next move. Tyler doesn’t speak because he doesn’t have anything else to say that’s not a stupid swear word or a quip at Josh’s attitude. He’s at an impasse.
“So? What do you want me to do?” Josh asks. There’s no answer. Tyler’s made up his mind and he’s storming towards him in a flurry of anger and-oh. Wait.
“Fuck off,” he spits before they’re kissing. Kissing and still slurring curses at each other. Panting against each other’s mouths, sweaty hands clawing at even sweatier clothing. It’s adrenaline. Emotions and adrenaline and a secret third thing they’ll never talk about until it’s too late.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Tyler hisses against his lips, “you just piss me off.” He’s fumbling with the zipper of Josh’s jeans, shoving them down just enough to get beneath his boxers.
“Fuck you,” Josh mutters under his breath, voice rough. “Oh my God.”
Tyler’s hand is hot around his cock, and he’s not nice about it. He jerks him sloppily, dryly, trying to inflict as much pain as he can just to be a dick.
“You know you’re not in control, right?” He spits. “You never have been. God, I can’t fuckin’ believe you.” He’s huffing out curses when he drops to his knees. Josh’s hand is in his hair immediately. He glares, but does nothing about it.
Josh’s cock is heavy in his mouth. Something about them both being pissed off makes it hotter. He lets his throat get fucked, lets Josh’s hips snap up against his mouth. It hurts. He can barely breathe. But it grounds him in this moment of vulnerability. He’s the one on his knees, sure, but they both know that Josh is submitting.
They rarely argue like this. It always ends in great sex, sure, but maybe there’s something fucked up about never having a normal conclusion to these feelings.
Tyler gags, and a glob of spit rolls down his chin. Shirt damp, eyes watering. His face flushes with embarrassment, and Josh laughs at him. With time, it’s easy for him to swallow down everything Josh has to give him, but this is raw. Fast. Messy.
He glares, tears slipping down his cheeks. He’s pushing himself because he wants to.
Josh's hand tightens in his hair, and it hurts. He pulls, tangles his fingers in it. He doesn't look at him. Won’t look at him. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, his jaw clenched. Makeup smearing just slightly from the sweat beading on his face.
He grunts when Tyler pulls him closer. He’s got him by the hips, forcing proximity.
"You're-" he pants, thought lost as Tyler maintains control. "God, just relax your fucking throat," he hisses. "You’re a mess." He wants to be rough, but there's an edge of worship in his voice, a hint of adoration beneath the anger.
Tyler gags again, the front of his shirt soaked with his own drool.
Josh's voice cracks as he chokes out mindless words, hips still rocking forward to meet Tyler's eager mouth. Sweat drips down his temple, free hand clawing at the grubby green room couch for purchase. "You like this, don’t you?” He says, breathless, laughing. “Like being on your knees. You always have.” He lets out a shaking breath. “We’re not nobodies anymore and you’d still get down for anyone who gives you half a glance, wouldn’t you?”
Tyler pulls off, lips shiny with drool, with pre-cum. He coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Throat raw. He’s going to hate himself in a few hours when they’re supposed to get onstage.
“Fuck me,” he rasps, “now.”
Josh manhandles him-it’s not something he does often, no matter how much Tyler begs. He loves those fucking muscles. He loves being shoved into the mattress, face pressed against a pillow while Josh uses him.
But he’s just too fucking nice all the time. Even now he’s being too gentle. Tyler grunts, grabbing for Josh’s hand. “C’mon,” he says under his breath, forcing Josh’s hand into his hair. “I know you’re meaner than that.”
“Fuck you,” Josh breathes, but shoves Tyler’s face against the wall anyway. He’s grinning. It’s everything he wants. He wishes Josh would hit him. Make his nose bleed. Give him a fat lip. He fantasizes about it. Is that bad?
Tyler licks his lips, relishes in the taste of Josh’s fingers in his mouth. He chokes on them, tries to get them wet enough but selfishly hopes it hurts.
Josh kicks his legs apart, leans over him and yanks his pants down just enough for access. It burns, just how Tyler wants it, when his fingers slip inside of him.
“You’re a freak.” Josh says it because he can read his mind. He knows exactly what’s going through that sick head.
Tyler groans, forehead resting against the wall. “Shut up,” he says weakly, “you’re not any better.”
"Yeah, well," Josh mutters, “at least I don't lie to myself and say I’m not." His free hand snakes up to fist in Tyler's hair, wrenching his head back to expose his throat. Paint starting to bleed onto the fabric of his shirt from sweat. It’s what he wants, Josh has to remind himself. He likes the pain. The meanness.
“You wanna be limping when you go onstage,” he continues, “you’ll never admit it. But I know. They’ll know. Deep down. They’ll never say it to your face, but they’ll know.” He hisses it into Tyler’s ear, like it’s a secret. “They know exactly what you beg for behind closed doors.”
And Tyler’s a puddle. Whimpering, trying to move his hips in tandem with Josh’s wrist. “Stop,” he says, but Josh knows that means keep going.
“You’ll see it on Twitter tomorrow,” Josh says. Two fingers become three. He spits down, letting it slide down Tyler’s ass onto his fingers. “They’ll have it trending in their little circles. Probably more worried about you than anything.”
Tyler groans. “I’m ready,” he begs, “condom’s are in my backpack.”
Josh hums. “Okay.” He crooks his fingers up and makes no move to grab for Tyler’s bag or even look in the fucking direction of it.
Tyler’s breath hitches, and his hands fist against the wall. “Please,” he mumbles, voice soft.
“No way? Did I just hear a ‘please?’”
“Not funny,” he whines. “Please?”
“‘Please’ what?” Josh asks. He’s just being stupid on purpose now.
“Please fuck me,” Tyler sobs, head bowed. “Please, Josh.” His voice falls apart, cracking as he feels tears fill his eyes. He can’t be an asshole anymore because they both know how much he craves being put in his place. “Please. I need it.”
He’s caved, hard. A puddle in Josh’s hands, completely at his mercy. His gentleness is breaking through. He’s reaching for Tyler’s bag, for the condoms and lube. Keeps a warm hand on his waist to make sure he’s steady.
“You’re such a brat,” he mutters, to revive the hatred in the air, but he still takes his time when he rolls the condom on and slicks both him and Tyler up. He gets nothing but a weak grunt in reply.
“Still with me?”
Tyler hides his face. “Yeah,” he mutters. Falling into headspace. Falling away.
“Hey.”
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “Please. Please stop being nice. I need this, Josh. Please.”
A wave of embarrassment washes over him. He’s ruining the scenario. Okay. He can do that. He can be mean. He hates it, but he can do it. Silently, he’s easing his cock into Tyler and hissing under his breath, hands dragging down tacky skin.
“More,” Tyler begs, “please. Josh.” He reaches behind him, tries to tug Josh’s hand around his throat. He gets a soft squeeze that he forces into something hurtful.
“Fuck you,” Josh laughs in reply, holds him by the hips with his free hand hard enough to bruise because that’s what he wants and Josh is nothing if not a sucker to Tyler’s fucked up woes. He leans over, impossibly close, rutting into him. Hand sliding up his throat to squeeze his face, muffle his whines.
“Yes,” Tyler cries, eyes squeezed shut. Gurgling out nonsense. “Fuck. Fuck, Josh.”
Huffing against his throat, Josh smears paint over himself. His face. His hands. It’s melting off of Tyler with every burning touch. They’re both covered in it. Fingerprints dragging over Tyler’s cheeks, his lips. He tries to keep them both quiet, keep them close to stifle the sounds of their skin slapping and Tyler’s incessant whimpers.
Josh snakes his hand down and takes Tyler’s weeping cock into his hand. He barely has to do anything. The poor fuck bucks up into this fist, rolls back against the cock inside of him. Blissed out, tears welling in his eyes. Josh slips his fingers between his lips and Tyler bites down on them as he cums with a strangled sob.
“Jesus,” Josh mutters, swallowing thickly, “you need it that bad?”
Tyler chokes on his fingers, spit drooling down his chin. He holds Josh’s arm in place, tries to take them deeper. Sucks on his fingers until he’s red in the face and Josh feels his skin start to prune.
“Freak,” he mumbles, wiping his hand on the front of Tyler’s shirt. He locks his fingers with Tyler’s, holds him while he fucks him. “You’ve been wanting it, huh? Asking for it?”
Tyler nods, sniffing, “please. Please.”
He’s so pathetic. Horribly so. Josh almost feels bad for him if it weren’t for the fact that he started all of this. Maybe on purpose. Maybe he’s just that desperate for a firm hand to put him in his place that he needs to act out in order to receive it.
“I’m gonna cum,” Josh hisses under his breath.
“Let me suck you off,” Tyler rasps. “I want it.”
“Again? Before a show?”
“Josh,” he whines, head bowed.
Oh…well, who is he to deny his boy?
So Josh pulls out, slips the condom off and Tyler’s already on his knees. Hitting the floor so fast he winces at the impact. Swollen lips smeared with his own body paint wrapping around Josh’s cock without a second thought. Big doe eyes, wet lashes fluttering. He gags, forcing himself down until his nose presses into Josh’s happy trail, but still keeps his watery eyes up, eyebrows knit together.
“Oh, Tyler,” Josh says, “Christ.”
Tyler takes it all because he’s a good boy at heart. He wants to be good despite the façade he puts on of being a brat.
“Oh my God.” Josh braces himself against the wall behind Tyler, sweat rolling down his forehead. It’s so fucking hot in this room. “Fuck. Fuck.”
Tyler’s a mess. Josh can barely look down at him because if he does he knows he’ll lose it all right there. He’s so fucking pretty. He swallows everything Josh has to give him and more until he’s being pulled off by shaking hands.
“Sorry,” he finally says, sitting back on his haunches. “I’m sorry. For being an asshole.”
Josh runs a hand over his face. “It’s fine,” he pants. “Just-get up. We…it’s time to go.”
It’s an awkward transition, from lovers (?) back to bandmates. They make it work. They have to.
And later that night, photos of Josh with black fingerprints smeared over his body begin to circulate on Twitter.