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It’s not that Joe doesn’t like it when Andy sings.
Joe loves it when Andy sings. Loves the way his whole body sort of shifts inward when he does it, loves the little smile he gets on his face, loves the sound of his voice, really, Joe loves it.
Joe just doesn’t love it as much when Andy’s doing backup vocals on a song that Joe wrote.
So while they’re sitting in the studio working on Death Valley, and recording Andy’s voice under Patrick’s because Patrick says it “flows better” than when they just layer his own voice over and over, Joe’s kind of picking at a thread on his jeans trying to distract himself from the fact that Andy’s soft, sweet, fucking incredible voice is sliding over words he wrote for Andy.
Okay, ‘for Andy’ is an exaggeration, more like ‘for any idiot who’s ever fallen in love like he did with Andy’ but still. He’s listening to Andy singing, having to hear “but don’t take love off the table, yet” over and over and over while Patrick gets everything just right, and Pete tries not to strangle him because “Goddamn it Patrick it’s fine will you just leave it” “No, Peter, it is not fine, and I will not fucking leave it” and trying really, really hard not to focus on Andy’s voice, and it’s been going on for about twenty minutes when he realizes that he’s basically created a hole in the knee of his pants, which, wow, when the fuck did that happen.
“Joe!” He jerks his head up, and Patrick’s kind of scowling at him from under the brim of his stupid fuckin’ fedora, and Joe just shakes his head.
“What?” Patrick rolls his eyes, and jerks his head toward the soundroom.
“I need you to go in with the guitar and do it with him, it sounds wrong.” Joe blinks a few times, and then shrugs, and gets up.
“Yeah, fine.”
Pete catches his eye on the way out, and he’s making that face, that “I know something’s up but I’m not gonna ask because wow you’re glaring a lot” face, and Joe shrugs, the very specific “everything’s not fine but it’s okay leave it alone” shrug that makes Pete nod just incrementally.
They really need to work on how often they speak with their faces instead of their words, it’s kind of creepy.
-0-
Inside the booth, it’s actually easier, because he can just focus on the guitar, can let himself get lost in the music and ignore the fact that Andy’s hands are folded in his lap, and have new tattoos, tattoos Joe hasn’t seen yet, hasn’t touched, or tasted, yet. If he’s staring down at the strings and only pays attention to the pressure of his fingers against them, he can’t look up and see that Andy’s hair, which is so much different, now, lets him actually see his eyes, bright green and stupid and perfect and stupid, and goddammit he just missed the C.
This is gonna be fun.
-0-
It’s not that they’re not talking. It’s just that they haven’t talked.
Since before they started recording again, Andy has not spoken to Joe outside of hangouts with the other guys, and it’s driving him fucking crazy.
Because they’d recorded together, before. Before Patrick had called them and asked them to come out to the house, and before Pete had started frantically texting him every day until he’d agreed to do it, they’d worked together, and it had been great.
Not, like, Fall Out Boy great, but great. Seeing Andy, being with Andy, talking to Andy. It had been something resembling enough.
And that last night, when they were done recording, after everything was over, one of Joe’s ciggarettes had set off the fire alarm, and the water had come pouring down on them from all sides, and Andy was laughing, and happy, and perfect, and Joe had kissed him, pressed him up against the wall with his hands cradling Andy’s face because he couldn’t pretend he didn’t want to, anymore.
And it wasn’t a surprise, or something. They had fucked, before. That wasn’t anything new. They had fucked, before, and Joe had gotten a glimpse at real fucking beauty, had gotten to run his tongue over miles of tattooed skin and feel Andy’s hips under his thumbs more times than he could count, but they hadn’t done what Pete and Patrick did. They’d never needed giant blowouts and screaming fights, they’d never had that as a part of who they were.
They were just Joe, and Andy.
JoeandAndy.
Whatever. No “no strings attached” because there were strings attached, they just never decided what those strings were, never talked about it.
So when, two days later, Andy dropped off the face of the map, not a call or text or fucking smoke signal saying what had happened, and began a bought of months of absolute radio silence, Joe hadn’t thought anything of it.
Hadn’t had the right to.
And it’s not that Joe begrudges him the ability to have a life. Just because Joe’s a grouchy old stoner who never does anything doesn’t mean Andy has to be, but that doesn’t make it sting any less that he hasn’t actually “hung out” with Andy in over a year.
Which, of course, isn’t helped by the fact that he’s fucking head-over-heels in love with him, but whatever.
-0-
They’re halfway through their third attempt at the second chorus when Patrick stops them to fuck around with something on his computer, and Andy turns to him.
“We’re never getting out of here, are we?” He asks, smooth and simple as ever, and Joe tries not to balk as he shakes his head, grasping for some kind of reply, because they haven’t talked, like, at all, in months, and he can’t even process this. He settles on;
“Probably not.” Andy shakes his head, and takes a sip of water, his fingertips drumming some erratic beat on his knee.
“Wonderful.” He mutters, and rubs his free hand over his face. “At least I’ll die happy.” And Joe has to laugh at that.
-0-
The session feels better after that. Patrick makes them all do the song together, and Andy throws a stick at Joe’s head when Joe asks him if he wants to do lead vocals for this one. (He dodges, but only barely, and he smiles in a way he hasn’t in too fucking long.)
And it’s not so much that Andy forcibly shoves Joe into his car when they stumble out of the building four hours later, once Patrick has finally achieved perfection in his recordings, as it is that Andy gently guides him into it and then shuts the door behind him. He knows why, he’d come with Pete, and now Patrick and Pete are going back to Pete’s place to do...whatever it is that they do. And it’s not so much that Joe’s stomach does a somersault as it is that it gently kicks him until he has to hold his breath to keep from screaming as Andy starts the car in silence, and backs out of the lot.
They drive like that for a while, with Andy staring calmly out the front window and Joe trying desperately not to let the nervous energy pumping through his system eat him alive, until they reach Joe’s house, and Andy, Andy doesn’t stop outside, Andy pulls in the driveway and stops the car, and sits back in his seat, like he’s getting ready to stay there for a while, and Joe just sits perfectly still and silent with his eyes fixed on the dashboard because what the fuck else is he going to do?
Until Andy speaks, and then Joe knows he’s fucked, because his voice isn’t soft and stoic, anymore, it’s clear, and sure, and it’s a voice he only ever uses for Joe.
“Don’t take love of the table, yet, cause tonight it’s just fire alarms and losing you.” He says, and it’s not a question, but it hangs in the air like one, and Joe bites the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the fact that his heart is pumping harder than the bass on Andy’s drumset.
“Uh.” He says, like the fucking scholarly motherfucker that he is. “Well….yeah.”
It doesn’t need to be said that the words were written about Andy. He knows, and now Andy knows, and they both fucking know, and Joe's hands are fists, now, because if Andy’s bringing it up then there’s something important about it, even if there wasn’t, before. Because Andy doesn't bring things up if they're not important.
There’s a beat of silence that stretches on for what feels like fucking ever and then Andy says;
“Hard times come, good times go.” And if Andy’s going to talk in only quotes for the rest of the night Joe’s gonna have some problems with this conversation, and there isn’t enough air in this fucking car, and his head’s spinning, just a little bit, just enough that he can’t control what comes out of his mouth next.
“I’m not me without you.” It’s sudden, and blurted, like water being released from a dam for the first time, but it doesn’t feel smooth as Joe grabs for the door handle and scrambles out of the car because it’s too fucking hot in there.
And maybe if he can get inside this will be over, and Andy won’t have to look at him like he’s a fucking creep, and he won’t have to think about the fact that he’s exactly the same kind of idiot that Pete is, the kind that falls for someone like a ton of bricks and then writes shitty songs about them instead of actually talking about his fucking feelings. He stumbles toward the house, tripping over his own feet, and tries as hard as he can to get to the door, makes it right up to the front step, but then there are hands on his arms, spinning him around, and Andy’s holding him there, holding him steady, and the ground might be falling out from under him but Andy’s fingers are firm and secure on his biceps, and that’s all that could possibly fucking matter.
His chest is twisting itself into knots and he’s amazed by the fact that he’s even still standing because he’s pretty sure his knees gave up on him about a minute ago, but here he is, stock-still and staring at a pair of fucking gorgeous green eyes and fuck if he didn’t miss that. He missed it so much, and that’s not even scratching the surface of the things he misses about Andy, and if he were any more of a fucking functional human, he could maybe explain that, but--
“I’m sorry.” Quiet, but concise, and spoken with all the sincerity it possibly could be, that one sentence makes every single thought bouncing around Joe’s head grind to a halt. Andy’s looking at him, wide-eyed and as serious as can be, gripping him just tight enough to keep him upright.
“I’m sorry.” He says again, and Joe just shakes his head, because what could possibly have happened, here, that Andy would think was his fault?”
“Why?” He asks, and immediately winces internally at how wrecked his voice sounds, but Andy, ever the drummer, doesn’t miss a beat.
“I’m sorry I left. And I’m sorry we stopped talking.” He takes a deep breath, and presses his mouth into a tight line, and Joe can see the edge of his jaw shifting, wants to press his lips against it and memorize the way it moves under his mouth, but Andy keeps going. “And I’m sorry I never told you before that I need you, because I do.”
And right about then is when Joe loses every last bit of his grip on reality, because Andy leans up, and molds their mouths together, and Andy’s hands are sliding up to frame his neck, and his own fingers are curling tight into Andy’s t-shirt, and this can’t be real because if it is, he’s the happiest man on earth, and that just sounds ridiculous.
But eventually, Andy pulls back, rests their foreheads together, and when Joe breathes in he tastes mint and metal and Andy.
“I love you.” He gasps, and it’s not so much that he’s crying as it is that his chest has finally loosened enough that he can breathe.
Andy grins, that special, stupid, perfect fucking grin that might be the best thing Joe’s ever seen, and strokes his thumbs over the sides of Joe’s neck.
“I love you, too.” He murmurs back, and then, as an afterthought. “...Asshole.”
Joe pokes him in the ribs out of habit, and Andy laughs, soft and light, and fucking incredible, throws his head back and laughs, and Joe can’t help it if he leans down and licks a stripe up the cobra on his neck, like it’ll feel different under his tongue than it did before, and Andy certainly doesn’t seem to be complaining, because his fingers tangle in Joe’s hair and he levers himself up by his elbows to wrap his legs around Joe’s waist, lets himself be pressed against the door while Joe bites down gently on the junction of his neck and shoulder.
They make it inside, somehow, but not all the way to the bedroom, because seriously, fuck whoever the dude was that invented stairs, and instead Andy pins Joe to the carpeted floor of the living room, with his hands pressed hard against Joe’s sides, and his lips travelling down his neck, sucking bruises wherever he can reach. (Bruises Joe will see in the morning, run the tips of his fingers over, and feel whole.)
“I wanna see your animal side.” He half-sings, half-rasps against his skin, and Joe shivers as Andy’s hips grind down against his, hard, and fast, and fucking perfect. “Let it all out.” And fuck, he's singing the words, Joe's words, Joe's words written for him because Joe remembers the way Andy's teeth felt on him, remembers every nip and bite and sharp tug littered across his chest, and as his shirt comes off, and Andy slips down, mouthing at his ribs, he can't believe he ever lived without it. Can't beleive he made it an entire year without the quiet, guttural way that Andy breathes against him when he slides his fingers beneath the wasitband of the drummers jeans and palms his cock through his boxers.
Joe comes embarrassingly quickly, but it becomes significantly less embarassing when Andy does the same almost immediately after, still sitting astride Joe, hard and panting with Joe's hand buried in his pants. He leans down, and presses quick little butterfly kisses over Joe's face, skimming over every bit of him he can reach, and Joe's chest fills with the kind of warmth he can only imagine comes from being with someone you really fucking love, since it only ever blossoms when Andy's around.
They somehow stumble to the bedroom, shedding clothes and shoes as they go, and fall into bed wrapped around each other like the pair of fucking lovebirds that they are, and if Pete walks in the next morning to find Andy’s head pillowed on Joe’s chest, and Joe’s lips pressed into Andy’s hair, he certainly doesn’t say anything.
(He says a lot of things, mostly about how gay it is, but he’s smiling to wide for anyone to take him seriously.)
And that’s just...it. It’s just them.
Joe, and Andy.
JoeandAndy.
Whatever.