Work Text:
Tyler’s not entirely sure how he ended up back in his dressing room. The last few minutes of the show were, as they always are, a blur; a smearing of color, screams torn from his throat, and a firm hand on his back—guiding him, steadying him, squeezing his shoulder when it’s all over. Backstage was a flurry of hands and headsets, fistbumps from a dozen people dressed in black, hurried pleasantries as he blindly stumbled down the corridor trying to recall where exactly his dressing room was.
He had found it eventually, grimacing at the brightness inside as he nearly tripped over the threshold. Now, he fumbles for a light switch. Flicks the room into darkness. Stumbles towards the couch, collapses onto its sunken leather.
His heart is still beating a mile a minute, synced with a drum beat, a slamming of sticks into a snare. It keeps the adrenaline thrumming through his veins, and he buzzes—throughout his body, he feels electricity, and heat, and that distinct post-show high. He closes his eyes and wills himself to slow his breathing.
There’s an ache behind his eyes. It blooms slowly, but once it plants its roots in Tyler’s brain, he can’t ignore it. Maybe he didn’t drink enough water, or maybe he didn’t eat enough before the show, or maybe—he frowns at the thought—he’d just pushed himself too hard.
He isn’t getting any younger.
Tyler remembers when his parents would complain about their pains; aging, they’d moaned, all dramatic, and Tyler would roll his eyes. He thought he’d never get to that age, anyway.
He treated his body like it was expendable, like his warranty was almost expired—a few more months, and it wouldn’t be worth it to keep maintaining a body that was meant to die.
And oh, how he regrets it now. He feels it everywhere—in his knees, his back, his head—but at least he’s not the one doing backflips off the piano.
The pulse of his headache turns Tyler’s thoughts blurry. He sees silhouettes twisting through the air, falling, spinning, landing. Feels it in his bones when two feet plant themselves on the stage next to him. Basks in the brightness of a smile, lets it warm his face, watches as the sun bounds away from him…
He must’ve dozed off, because the next thing Tyler knows he’s being awoken by noise at the door—three firm knocks, same as the ones on his back at the end of every show.
Without further warning the door opens, the hum of backstage chatter spilling in from the hall. A voice filters through the noise.
“Ty?”
There’s a flick, and the room floods with light, hitting Tyler with a concussive force.
“Dude!” he groans, throwing his hands over his eyes.
“Oops,” Josh says. He closes the door behind him, returning the room to the peace it was before. “What are you doing?”
“Resting,” Tyler whines. “Or, was— Can you—”
The room plunges into darkness, immediately soothing the ache behind Tyler’s eyes. He sighs.
“—Yeah. Thanks.”
Josh hums. Tyler hears his light footsteps approaching. He lifts his legs, allowing Josh to slide in at the other end of the couch. Drops his feet back into Josh’s lap. Lets fingers twist into the laces of his boots, untying them; feels as careful hands slide the shoes from his feet, one at a time, setting them down on the floor beside the couch. Exhales when Josh’s touch reanchors itself at his ankle.
Tyler drops his hands from his face. He can barely make out Josh’s fuzzy silhouette in the dark. He smells freshly showered, however, and his skin is still damp where it comes into contact with Tyler’s own. From the shadows hanging off of Josh’s frame, Tyler can make out a loose pair of basketball shorts and an even looser muscle tee.
“Y’know what,” Josh says, twisting his neck around, “I think your room is bigger than mine.”
“S’cause I’m the lead singer,” Tyler yawns, shutting his eyes again. He earns a pinch from Josh. “Ow.”
“Deserved,” Josh says, voice a low rumble. He slumps back onto the couch. Presses his fingers into Tyler’s ankle again, moving the pressure further up his leg.
They stay like that for a few quiet minutes while Tyler drifts in and out of wakefulness. He’s trying not to fall asleep, really—but it’s hard, with the lights off and the familiar comfort of Josh’s steady touch.
Inevitably, though—because his brain and body can never seem to agree, and cold droplets from Josh’s wet curls keep falling onto his leg—he begins to squirm. His head is hurting again, he hasn’t showered yet, and his shirt is sticking to his chest in a mixture of sweat and tacky paint.
Josh senses Tyler’s restlessness. Pauses the traversal of his touch. “What’s up?”
“I’m gross,” Tyler groans.
“Hm. I was wondering what that smell was.”
Tyler kicks Josh lightly in the stomach. “Not funny.”
“I’m not kidding,” Josh says, grin splitting his face. “It hit me as soon as I walked in.”
“Careful,” Tyler warns, “next time I’m kicking you in the head.”
Josh’s grip tightens around Tyler’s ankles, pinning them down. His damp curls fall into his eyes when he leans over, voice lilted in a half-hearted attempt at being threatening. “Yeah? Try it.”
Tyler humors him, tries to pull his legs away. It’s to no avail. He slumps, body slackening against the couch. A tired noise escapes his throat. “How are you not totally dead right now?”
“I’ll feel it in the morning,” Josh chuckles, grin audible. “C’mon, Ty. Get up.” He tugs at Tyler’s legs.
“No,” Tyler protests, but lets himself be pulled into a sitting position. Josh gets up and moves somewhere across the room, rooting around in the duffel bags they’d dumped in the corner before the show. Tyler yawns loudly.
Josh returns quickly with a package of baby wipes, the plastic crinkling in his hands. He settles down beside Tyler on the couch.
He grabs the fabric of Tyler’s shirt, lifting it slightly to expose the dip of his waist and tan skin of his stomach. Tyler’s gaze, riddled with confusion, snaps up to meet Josh’s—Josh just stares at him, brow raised, hand still fisted in Tyler’s shirt.
“…Gotta take this off,” Josh says eventually, patiently.
Tyler drops his gaze. Feels his ears go red. “Right,” he mumbles, hooking his fingers under the hem and pulling, carefully peeling off his shirt. He grimaces when it sticks to his chest.
Josh takes it from him and tosses it away, discarding it somewhere on the floor. Tyler shifts so his back faces him.
“Oh, dude, it’s like, all down your back,” Josh says.
Tyler shrugs. “Was sweaty.”
When Josh presses the first wipe to his nape, Tyler jolts, shivering at the unexpected touch.
“Relax,” Josh whispers, settling his free hand on Tyler’s shoulder.
“S’cold,” Tyler mumbles.
Josh tosses the first paint-stained tissue to the floor and begins to drag another one across Tyler’s shoulder.
It’s not the first time they’ve done this—it probably won’t be the last, either. Some shows drain all the life out of Tyler, and Josh is always there, unwavering, offering to clean up the paint that typically has Tyler scrubbing his skin raw when he’s alone.
Josh holds him delicately; not like he’s fragile, but like he’s something precious and irreplaceable. One hand clasps his shoulder while the other slides over his shoulder blade, fingers pressing in. The callouses on Josh’s hands scratch lightly against Tyler’s skin.
The pile of blackened wipes grows as Josh dips lower. As he trails down Tyler’s spine, Tyler rolls his shoulders, loosening the high-strung muscles. The tension flows out of him in a steady cascade; down his back, legs, and feet, disappearing into the ground below. Tyler allows himself to lean back into Josh’s touch.
The motions are repetitive and soothing, and Tyler feels himself slipping into a haze, lulled by the faint puffs of Josh’s breath against his neck.
Tyler doesn’t want to break the silence—it’s comfortable and holy, something special between the two of them—but his mind is making an unsolicited return to his previous spiral. He no longer feels the warmth of the sun, the energy buzzing around him; he’s just exhausted. It feels like dusk. So he says:
“I think I’m getting old, Josh.”
Josh slows his movements. “Yeah?” he asks softly.
“I’m just so—so tired, and it’s different,” Tyler rambles, “than the mental stuff, whatever—it’s, like, physical.” He stares down at his hands. “D’you get what I mean?”
Josh’s knuckles brush across Tyler’s shoulders. “I do.”
“I dunno how you do this, like, every night.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re pushing forty and doing backflips,” Tyler says, like it’s obvious.
Josh laughs lightly. “We’ve talked about this.”
“Yeah, it ‘rattles your balls,’” Tyler shakes his head, bringing his hands up into air quotes. His voice drops to a lower, more earnest tone when he says, “but I mean, seriously.”
Josh hums thoughtfully. “Have to push harder,” he offers quietly, “definitely more than I used to.”
“Yeah?”
“But, I’ll keep pushing if it means I can keep doing this. That’s what’s important, I think.”
“Don’t you get tired? Of pushing?”
Josh shrugs. “Not really. It’s worth it. I’m going ‘til I die.”
Tyler bows his head, voice wobbling when he whispers, “I don’t think I can go for that long.”
Josh sighs, but it’s not one of annoyance, or exasperation; it’s understanding, sympathy, an acknowledgement that he knows what Tyler’s been through, that it’s okay. “Then I’ll stop when you think you’re done,” he replies softly, squeezing Tyler’s bicep.
“You don’t have to stop for me,” Tyler mutters, though his heart skips at the notion.
“But I want to,” Josh says. Then, with a weak chuckle, “I can’t really do this without you, Ty.”
“Yes, Josh,” Tyler breathes, exasperated, “you can.”
“Tyler. I started this with you, and I’ll end it with you, too.”
Tyler leans forward, resting his head in his hands. His shoulders deflate. “That shouldn’t stop you from finding other opportunities,” he tries. “Other people, other bands—”
Josh removes his hands from Tyler’s back. He sounds far away when he says, “But they aren’t this, Ty. They aren’t you.”
Tyler can’t breathe. Can’t fathom the way Josh just says things like that.
“Why are you trying to sell me on leaving you?” Josh asks, gently.
“I don’t know,” Tyler says into his hands.
“You know I’d never do that.”
“I know.”
They’re quiet again, but this time it’s different. Uncomfortable. Tyler presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Wants to hit himself over the head.
“‘M’done, by the way,” Josh mutters, nudging the discarded tissues with his foot.
“Oh. Thanks.”
Josh is quiet for a moment. The air is thick with abruptly ended conversations, loose ends hanging, fraying. His voice comes closer when he finally says, “you sound disappointed.”
“I am,” Tyler says sincerely. “I— I like when you do that.”
Josh pauses. The room is still. Eyes burn into Tyler’s skin. Short, uneven breaths fan across his neck. He dares a glance over his shoulder, finding Josh’s gaze settled low, eyes fixed on the expanse of Tyler’s back. Jaw clenched. Lips bitten red.
He looks up, then, meeting Tyler’s gaze. His stare is dark. Strained. Tyler can do nothing but watch, frozen with bated breath under Josh’s scrutiny.
He expects the touch this time, but not the fluttering sensation in his chest when Josh drags a hand down Tyler’s ribs. An exhale slips past his lips.
“Like this?” Josh continues, feather-light touches down Tyler’s side, curving around his waist, up his back. His hands crest over Tyler’s shoulders, fingertips grazing collarbones.
This is fine. They touch like this all the time—softly, tenderly. They have an arrangement—it’s a basic exchange, a scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours type of thing—Josh will massage Tyler’s spent muscles with his nice drummer hands, then lay his head in Tyler’s lap while the other cards his fingers through Josh’s hair. Josh will sigh as Tyler’s nails scrape his scalp, and hum as he twists at the roots. They’d fallen asleep in that position so many times now that no one ever thought anything of it; it was normal. This is normal.
Tyler tells himself that when Josh’s hands settle on his waist. Chants it over and over in his head when Josh curls his fingers, eliciting a soft gasp from Tyler’s throat.
Josh presses his thumbs into the small of Tyler’s back, and Tyler groans. He flushes—it’s nothing more than a rumble, barely escaping his voice box, but Josh is so close he can probably feel the vibrations through Tyler’s skin.
“Good?” Josh whispers.
Tyler bites his lip and nods, a small movement that shouldn’t feel as monumental as it does. Tyler’s body burns where Josh touches him, and he feels the beginnings of a flame flickering in his chest, embers falling down, down, down into the pit of his stomach. His heart stutters, pumping hard. His breath is shallow, unintentionally matching the pattern of exhales leaving Josh’s mouth.
Tyler murmurs something that even he himself can’t comprehend. Josh leans closer, nose brushing his ear, body bracketing Tyler’s torso. “Hm?”
A clearing of the throat. A sharp inhale through the nose, and Tyler steadies himself. Repeats on a breath, “Josh.”
Josh hums, scooting closer until his chest is flush against Tyler’s back. Something like anticipation thrums through Tyler’s veins.
For what? He asks himself. This is nothing new. Nothing they haven’t done before. They used to share the back of a van, a mattress, a blanket, especially when midwestern nights got cold and the heat was shut off. Closeness was familiar, expected, even—
Lips touch the back of his neck, and Tyler nearly jumps, hand flying out to grab Josh’s wrist where it’s settled on his waist.
That wasn’t expected. This isn’t familiar. They’ve never done this before.
“Josh,” Tyler breathes, “we— we can’t.”
Josh pulls back, breath hot against Tyler’s shoulder. He sounds like he’s struggling when he responds with, “Tyler, you—”
“I what?” Tyler asks frantically, chest rising and falling at an uneven pace.
“Why not?”
Tyler’s head spins, grappling for reasons, excuses, anything that says we shouldn’t do this—but he can’t procure anything, can’t locate a feeling stronger than the heat under his skin and the hammering of his heart; nothing as important as the feeling of how right this feels, like a song he’s been crafting for a decade and finally found the melody to. He opens his mouth. Realizes he has no answer. No reason to stop, no reason why they can’t keep going with this. Feels a pit in his stomach at the revelation, but at the same time, a flutter in his chest.
“God—I’m sorry, Ty, I—we can stop,” Josh stammers weakly. He goes to remove his hand from Tyler’s waist, but Tyler’s grip on him only tightens.
They’re bandmates. Partners. Best friends.
Who is he kidding? They’re so much more than that.
“Josh,” Tyler chokes out, nails digging into the soft skin of Josh’s wrist. Leaving marks there. Giving Josh the green light, the nod, the OK. “Josh, don’t you dare stop.”
Josh trembles. “Yeah,” he answers, breathless. “Okay, Ty.”
He takes Tyler’s shoulders then, spinning him around, muttering a soft c’mere as he pulls Tyler into him. Tyler gets a good look at Josh now, and oh, how could he have turned him down? How could he have almost missed this?
Josh’s eyes are sparkling, intense, boring holes into Tyler. The flush on his face travels down his neck and disappears under the loose fabric of his shirt, illuminating the freckles on his chest. Tyler wants to touch all of it.
He reaches up to hold Josh’s face with shaking hands. Anchors himself at his jaw, flicks his gaze across his face; takes in the slope of his nose, the shadows of his eyelashes, the curve of his shiny and parted lips.
When he meets Josh’s gaze again, his eyes are wet. He looks like he’s trying to speak but the words keep getting caught in his throat.
“What?” Tyler asks gently, pulling Josh in, bumping their foreheads together. “What is it, Josh?”
“This isn’t, like—” Josh gasps into the air between them— “this isn’t just—this means something, right?”
Tyler swallows. “Yeah, Josh.”
“It’s serious?”
“Of course.”
Josh looks at him like he hung the moon. Laid the foundations of the very earth they walk on.
“Wanna kiss you so bad, Ty.”
Despite himself, Tyler blushes. “Yeah?”
Josh opens his mouth to affirm, but Tyler doesn’t let him, surging forward and colliding their mouths like two star systems conjoined. He tugs, pulling their chests flush, and Tyler feels the vibration through his body as Josh groans. He’s quick to tangle his fingers in Josh’s hair, grounding himself, using it as leverage to deepen the kiss and coerce more pretty sounds out of Josh.
“Jesus,” Josh moans, and it’s downright blasphemous. His mouth moves against Tyler’s like he’s aching to please, lips so pliant, so devout—lets Tyler take what he wants, at his own pace.
His hands never stop moving, grazing every available inch of skin, sending chills racking through Tyler’s body. Tyler feels everything; every twitch of Josh’s fingers, every breath out of his nose, every sigh into his mouth. It’s a whole cascade of feeling, and it triggers something buried deep in his brain, something that sings when Josh touches him. He realizes he’s wanted this for a very, very long time.
Tyler doesn’t notice the dynamic is changing until Josh splays a hand on his chest and pushes. He’s on his back, suddenly, with Josh hovering over him, eyes roving up and down his figure like he’s trying to commit it all to memory. It’s amazing and overwhelming and Josh looms like a stormcloud—dark and electric, imminent. The promise of white-hot lightning and heavy rain.
When their gazes connect, Tyler feels that energy surge through him, and he’s pushing up against Josh before he can stop himself. Josh meets him halfway, pressing Tyler into the couch, reminding him of his strength. Tyler keeps a hand in Josh’s hair and navigates the other to his arm, feeling the swell of his bicep, the firmness of muscle underneath his tattoo sleeve. He wants more. Needs more. Hooks his fingers in Josh’s shirt, pulls it away from his chest. Slides his hand under the fabric to graze down his torso, brushing the ridges of his abs.
“Why is this still on?” Tyler groans.
Josh shifts his weight to one arm, still hovering over Tyler as he removes the offending article and tosses it away. Then it’s all his—milky-white skin, a galaxy of freckles, the thin sheen of sweat. Tyler’s mouth goes dry.
Tyler sees Josh shirtless all the time. He sees him shivering and cold, red and sweaty from exertion, soft and peaceful when he’s sleeping; but never, ever in this context—skin against skin, desperate, for Tyler. He could have a heart attack right here, on this couch, in this dressing room, and still be happy about it. It’d all be worth it.
Josh is so fit, and fuck, he has him.
Josh kisses him again. Cradles the back of his head while doing so, moving his hand slowly down Tyler’s torso. Tyler does everything he can to meld their bodies together, to fuel the heat of the flames licking up in his stomach. Breath mingles, legs tangle, and they become one; a steady, unbroken line of contact.
Josh rips his mouth away, and Tyler tries to chase him, but then he’s mouthing at his throat, his jaw, behind his ear. Tyler murmurs praise. Knows it’s what Josh loves. Knows it’ll only make Josh kiss him with more fervor.
He pulls the hair at Josh’s nape. It draws a sound from Josh—a choked gasp right into his ear—sending a shock through Tyler that makes him feel so woozy he swears he’s about to pass out with Josh on top of him.
Josh pulls back, then, and Tyler looks at him through half-lidded eyes. They’re panting, trying to catch their breath in tandem. Chests heaving, lungs protesting.
He’s about to grab Josh, pull him back in again, but something makes him pause. He’s smiling before he can even think to stop it.
“I think—I think you missed a bit,” he grins, reaching out to thumb at Josh’s bottom lip.
Josh, breathing hard, furrows his brow and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The skin comes back stained, smeared with paint; he’d picked some up from Tyler’s neck, or perhaps behind his ear. His mouth is tinged grey.
Tyler can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. “Did you kiss an oil spill?” he manages, covering his face with his hands as he laughs. Josh buries his face against Tyler’s chest, smile pressing into his sternum.
As Tyler shakes, Josh begins to move again, peppering Tyler’s skin with small, inky marks. Fills in the negative space of his tattoos.
He trails down past his chest, ribs, stomach. Stops there, hands gripping hips, thumbs hooked through belt loops. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t push—just exists there, breathing Tyler in, savoring the taste of lips and skin.
With a lurch of his heart, Tyler realizes what he’s doing. With his head bowed, eyes closed—he’s praying. Counting his blessings. Thanking his lucky stars. Worshipping the man under him, reveling in him. It knocks the breath out of Tyler’s lungs.
“Josh,” he whispers, lifting his chin up with his finger. “Come.”
Josh drops a kiss onto Tyler’s stomach before moving back up and settling his face next to Tyler’s. Strong arms wrap around Tyler’s middle.
Tyler moves his hand from Josh’s chin to his jaw, light stubble scratching beneath his fingers. Josh’s eyes are brown, beautiful. Wide and glistening. He moves to kiss him, slow and gentle. Sinks into the warm comfort of his soul. Josh kisses back with a toe-curling devotion, gradually rolling them so he’s positioned over Tyler again. A tongue flicks at the seam of his lips. Tyler bites down, softly, teeth sinking into the cushion of Josh’s lower lip. Pushes up against Josh, hips aligned, chasing warm pressure. Feels Josh’s slow, satisfied exhale against his cheek.
When he draws back, Josh’s eyes are shut. “Hey,” he says, tapping Josh’s neck. Josh opens his eyes. “You okay?”
Josh smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Just good?”
“Tyler,” Josh says, beaming. “Come back with me?”
Tyler trails a hand down Josh’s back, feeling over the ridges of his spine. “To the hotel?”
Josh hums. “Mm. We can share. Like old times,” he says.
“Like old times,” Tyler echoes. Josh pushes his face into Tyler’s neck, rolling his hips into Tyler’s as he does so. They both gasp.
Tyler clutches Josh tightly. “Wait,” he tells him, chasing his lips. “Wanna do it right.”
—
Eventually, they get up, because Tyler’s as paint-stained as he was before all this and he insists on showering before they head back to the hotel. Josh waits for him, and when they meet up outside the dressing room, his shirt is back on and his face is wiped clean. Looking at his grin is like staring into the midday sun.
Like old times, they pull up to the hotel together, and like old times, Tyler struggles with the stupid keycard to his room and Josh has to pry it out of his fingers and help him. Like old times, they dump their things in the entryway and trip out of their shoes, collapsing onto their shared bed. Like old times, when everything was familiar, and nothing was new, and everything was expected. When they were best-friend-bandmates sharing a van and a mattress and a blanket.
This time, they do things differently. They chase something unfamiliar, try something new. They’re best-friend-bandmates sharing a bed and a breath and the blissful unexpected.