Archive of Our Own

This is what Josh knows: it’s hot, and they are broke. 

Of course, they’re never really not broke, but this time is different. They pooled their cash before the show - Tyler and him, and Mark, and Michael - and even with the $44.29 in the band checking account, there’s no way they’ll be able to afford a motel room tonight and have enough left over for gas in the morning. 

And then there’s the heat. 

By the last few songs of their set, Josh can feel sweat starting to trickle down the backs of his knees; his shirt was a casualty of the first half, long gone in the stifling air of the venue. He’s trying to focus on Tyler’s voice, delivering his nightly Trees speech to the assembled crowd, but he can’t help letting his mind wander forward to the inevitable sleepless night ahead of him, sticky in the stillness of the van. 

“We’ve given you everything we have,” Tyler is saying, lingering on the three opening chords in a rhythmless loop, “and you’ve been great.” 

It’s mostly true - they’ve had better crowds this tour, but they’ve also had worse. For a city they haven’t played before, not to mention one so far from home, New Orleans has welcomed them with relative enthusiasm. 

“Thank you so much for having us. We have one last song for you, but first - we have one thing to ask.” 

Josh’s ears perk up. He was the one who resisted, the first time Tyler pulled this stunt, wary of the intentions of anyone who would open their doors to total strangers, even if their generosity was born from a sort of one-sided connection to Tyler’s lyrics, giving the false impression of intimacy. But tonight…

“If anyone is willing to let us stay at their house overnight,” Tyler says, to a smattering of laughter from the crowd. “I’m serious here - there are four of us, and if anyone has a basement that you’re willing to let us crash in, please come up and speak to - Michael, can you wave?” 

From next to the stage, Michael leans out and gives a mechanical wave. 

“Please come talk to this guy after the show, if you can help us out.” 

As always, there are a few scattered cheers from female fans in the crowd, but Josh knows better than to get his hopes up. Responses like these are more often a sign of flirtation than of an actual offer. 

But a crowd is a crowd, and Trees is Trees, and not even the heat can wither the magic of their finale. Tyler presses a tacky hand to Josh’s back as they bow, and then the crowd is thinning out, and they begin the tedious work of breaking everything down. 

They’ve loaded the piano and the drum kit out, and they’re fighting to coil up the last of the wires when Josh sees the stranger approach. Really, the first thing he notices is his shadow - a long thing, cast by the house lights and stretching over the stage.

“No one has a basement.” 

Tyler catches Josh’s eye, straightening up. A silent negotiation passes between the bandmates; Tyler was the one to ask the question, so he will be the one to talk to this guy. 

“What’s that?” Tyler asks, his voice friendly, but cautious. 

“You asked if anyone had a basement you could crash in, but houses don’t generally have basements here,” the stranger goes on. “Below sea level, and all that.” 

There’s a slight accent to his voice, Josh realizes - not the full-on twang of the other Southern states they’ve passed through, and nothing like the venue manager’s odd Cajun vernacular. Just a gentle lilt, a wide extension of his vowels that seems to fit the stranger’s soft rasp.

Tyler nods, making a noise of understanding. 

“Ahh, yeah, alright,” he says, gesturing in conceit. “No, yeah, that makes sense.” 

Josh catches his eye again, and they both look down quickly. This is how it’s always been, ever since they became a two-piece band: every interaction an instant inside joke between them, everyone except each other deemed an intruder into the sanctity of their friendship. Him and Tyler versus the world. 

“I, however, have two spare bedrooms, which you are welcome to. That is, if you don’t mind sharing with each other.” 

This reclaims both of their attention. 

A glimmer of hope makes itself apparent in Josh at the prospect of a bed - no, not even that - a shower, just a shower would be worth it. But as always, Tyler is the real arbiter of their decisions, and Josh can only wait for his verdict, sweating in place. 

Tyler turns to face the stranger properly, as if he’s seeing him for the first time. A smile works its way onto his face, and Josh doesn’t miss the way he looks him up and down, his head rolling back to account for the stranger’s height. 

“I have to check with our tour manager,” Tyler says, “but that would be amazing, man. Thank you so much.” 

Josh watches him shake the stranger’s hand in thanks, and then indicate for Josh to follow him.

In reality, tour manager is a generous name for the jack-of-all-trades role that Michael fills when they tour: chauffeur, hauler of heavy things, and the only one who can be counted on to handle their finances responsibly. 

“I’m completely down,” Michael says, when Tyler relays the stranger’s offer. “Did he mention if we can use the shower?” 

But Tyler ignores the question, speaking so that only they can hear. 

“I think… I don’t know, I can’t shake the feeling that I know this guy, like maybe I’ve seen him before.” 

“What,” Josh asks, “like on a mass murderer wanted poster?”  

Tyler brushes off his joking tone. “No,” he says earnestly. “I don’t think so. His voice is familiar.” 

Michael shrugs, and sighs. 

“I don’t see anyone else jumping at the chance to host us,” he says, gesturing to the nearly empty venue. “So it’s the serial killer, or the back of the van in 95 degree heat.”

Josh turns back to face the stranger where he’s been patiently idling, tapping out a text to someone on a flip phone. The stranger looks up at him, smiling kindly; now that Tyler has mentioned it, Josh registers that there is something familiar about the the set of his dark brown eyes, and the long line of his nose. He tries to search the man for red flags, but other than the fact that he’s a bit older than them - maybe in his mid-thirties - he seems friendly enough. 

Josh faces Tyler again, and fixes him with a pleading look. 

“Alright,” says Tyler. “But if we all die, my mom gets the 44 dollars in the band account.” 

And just like that, it’s settled. Directions are relayed, the last of the gear is packed away, and the five of them step out, young and invincible, into the warmth of the September night. 

*

In the parking lot, Josh sees the realization hit Tyler. 

“Holy shit,” he says to himself, stopping in his tracks so that Josh nearly walks into him. Michael is swinging the back doors of the van shut, Mark already in the front seat. 

“What?” 

Tyler peers at the stranger, idling nearby in his own car, and then turns to Josh. 

“I just figured it out. I think that’s Paul Meany. Mutemath,” he adds, when Josh only stares back blankly. “The guy from Mutemath, the main guy.” 

And as soon as Tyler says it, that soft, rich voice contextualizes itself in Josh’s mind. He can’t remember ever seeing a picture of the guys in Mutemath, though he’s sure he must have; he couldn’t even have recalled their names, if pressed. But Tyler seems certain. 

He hangs back by the van while Tyler approaches the other car, close enough to feel the blast of air conditioning when the driver’s side window rolls down.

“Sorry,” he hears Tyler say. “I just… I realized I know who you are. You’re Paul, right? You’re in Mutemath.”

The stranger - Paul - ducks his head in deference, smiling lightly. 

“Holy shit,” Tyler says again, looking over his shoulder at Josh, as if to ask, are you seeing this? “I had a poster of you, back in my room at my parents’ house. I mean - well, a poster of your band, I mean. Sorry, this is… this is weird, I’m being weird.” 

It occurs to Josh abruptly that Tyler is properly flustered. Starstruck, sure - but there’s more to it than that; something in his easy laughter, and in the way he’s holding himself. Something that sparks a flutter of jealousy in Josh’s stomach. 

“Not at all,” Paul says, shaking his head. “I’m the one who should be… you guys, I mean, you were amazing up there. Incredible.” He extends a hand to indicate Josh too, and Tyler turns, as if only now remembering that he’s holding up their departure.

Tyler chews at his lip briefly, eyeing Josh, and then Paul. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but a few of the crowd work things we do… I mean, I hope you don’t feel like we copied anything from you, but…” 

Paul smiles broadly, raking a hand through his hair. “I noticed,” he says simply, voice low. “I’m honored.” 

Tyler thanks him again, and they retreat together - but not before Josh detects the fading remnants of a half-smile in the corner of Tyler’s mouth. 

*

Side by side in the van’s bench seat, neither of them say much. Josh lets his eyes fall shut, and it feels like only minutes later that Michael is killing the ignition, and they’re stepping back into the evening’s cloying humidity. 

The house they’ve pulled up to is relatively modest, close in size to the one Josh himself grew up in. But more importantly, it’s the home of someone who has made a life for himself on the back of his music - maybe not a luxurious one, but comfortable. A career. 

Neither he nor Tyler has to say it out loud; there’s a look exchanged between them that says it all. They’d die for this. 

There are two rooms, Paul explains to the assembled group, overnight bags slung over each of their shoulders; one in the house proper, and one with a separate entrance, above the garage. The division is easy, after more than a year on the road together. Mark and Michael know to give the bandmates space, whenever the circumstances allow; sometimes, Josh even wonders if they might suspect that something less than innocent is going on behind closed doors. 

Josh doesn’t mind letting them wonder. It certainly isn’t a secret from Mark or Michael that Josh is queer - but it isn’t something they talk openly about, either. The possibility of their assumptions feel to Josh like an edge in his favor, solidifying his place among the group. He’s never bothered to correct them. 

It’s agreed upon that Tyler and Josh will shower in the main house, before settling in the room over the garage. Tyler lets Josh go first, and he lets the water run to the cool side of lukewarm, relishing the feeling of sweat and grime sluicing off of him and down the drain. He tugs on the change of clothes he’d tossed into a bag, and while he’s brushing his teeth, cracks open the door so Tyler can slip in behind him. 

“Hurry up,” Tyler says, without any real animosity. “I’m so sweaty.”

Tyler turns the shower handle, and Josh hears him yelp at the temperature of the water.

Spitting, Josh rinses his toothbrush, and turns to face his bandmate, silently casting him with a knowing look. 

“What?” Tyler says, pausing with one arm under the spray.

Josh smirks at him. “You were starstruck back there.” 

Tyler sniffs, appraising him, and Josh wonders if he’ll deny what he saw - the small smile, the blush, as he walked away from Paul’s car - or if he’ll own up to it. 

“Fine, I was starstruck,” Tyler concedes, chin tilted up in defiance, as if challenging Josh to probe further. “What about it?”

A pause.

“You were flirting,” Josh says. 

It’s a step over an invisible boundary between them - the first acknowledgement, however implicit, that Tyler is anything other than straight. Knowing full well the extent of Tyler’s religious upbringing, it’s a line that Josh has treaded carefully; he’s seen the way Tyler looks at other guys, of course he has - he’s seen the way Tyler looks at him, sometimes, when he thinks Josh isn’t looking. But he doesn’t know if Tyler knows that he knows. 

Christ - he doesn’t know if Tyler knows. 

Expressionless, Tyler shakes his hand dry and yanks off his shirt, tossing it onto the closed toilet lid. He’s turned up the temperature on the shower, and the hot water fogs the mirror, thickening the air around them. 

“Fine,” Tyler says, eyes locked on Josh’s. “I was flirting. What about it?” 

The words hover between them, stretching into a prolonged silence. Neither of them address the obvious. That they’re young. That they’re beautiful. That they’re attracted to each other - and that nothing has come of it. Not yet. 

The sound of a door closing somewhere else in the house snaps the tether of their gaze. 

“I’ll wait for you,” Josh says, and lets himself out of the room, a puff of steam following in his wake. 

*

It’s plain to Josh, as they follow Paul up the steps running alongside the detached garage, that this is a well-trodden path. Fairy lights spiral around the railing, and under Josh’s sneakers, the center of each step is lighter than the wood around it, evidence of long-term use. 

At the top of the stairs, Paul fumbles briefly with a ring of keys, and then unlocks a shabby looking door, admitting first Josh, and then Tyler.

Josh is taken aback. The space they’ve stepped into appears to be half-bedroom, half-studio. In a far corner, a long desk supports an array of audio equipment, surrounded by an organized chaos of CDs, notebooks, and various instruments propped against each other and peppered along the wall. Juxtaposed with this charming clutter, the pull-out sofa bed against the other wall paints an oddly austere image. 

Blessedly, an ancient air conditioner whirrs in the single window, emitting a continuous stream of cool air. It rustles the edges of the posters covering the wall, the photos and maps and other miscellany rising above the keyboards, arranged in a way that obviously required great effort in its attempts to appear effortless. 

“There’s a bare bulb, if you want that on,” Paul says, indicating a light fixture at the peak of the ceiling, and then the two lantern-shaped lamps glowing orange on the desk and bedside table, “but it’s kind of harsh. These are nicer.” 

Tyler turns in a slow circle, and Josh can tell that they’re thinking the same thing. Even dimly lit, the room Paul has brought them to feels deeply lived-in, a stark departure from the grungy predictability of roadside motels, or the mildewy barely-furnished basements that have constituted the bulk of their accommodations this tour. 

After weeks of living sparely, this room - this night - feels to Josh like a strange dream. It’s as if they’ve been lured over the wall into a fairyland, between the haze of their exhaustion, and the faint sound of music in the distance, carried in on the hot night air, until Paul lets the door swing shut, and all is quiet again. 

“This gonna be alright?” Paul asks gently. 

“Yeah,” he and Tyler say in mesmerized unison. Tyler adds, “thank you.” 

They leave the rest unspoken: it’s evident that they were chosen for this space, instead of the guest room within the house; that this room is a small piece of Paul’s soul, into which their performance tonight somehow earned them the right to enter. 

Unbidden, Tyler plucks a cassette from a stack on the windowsill, holding it up for Josh to inspect - License to Ill by the Beastie Boys. 

“Dude.”

Paul laughs, accepting the tape from Tyler. “I’m not much of a collector, but that’s probably the one record I could sell if I ever needed to eat. Oh - wait a minute,” he breaks off, gingerly removing a CD from the bottom of another stack, and handing it to Tyler. 

His eyes brighten, and again, he holds up the cover to Josh. 

“Reset,” Josh reads. And printed above it, in stretched block letters - MUTEMATH.

Paul watches Tyler for his reaction, and Josh watches him watch. On another person, this oozing of cool confidence might bother him; but on Paul, it’s natural - and, Josh has to admit, a little intoxicating. The room, the CD…they’re being wooed, Josh understands, and it’s clear that Tyler doesn’t mind. 

“Their first EP,” Tyler says softly.

Paul leans back, lanky against the desk, legs crossed and long fingers splayed out against the edge of the wood. 

“Please, keep it,” he says. “I have a few more.”

Tyler regards Paul with obvious reverence, and something about this unguarded exchange both captures Josh’s attention, and simultaneously, exhausts him. 

While the other two trade another round of creative compliments, Josh begins to flip through some of the other cassettes with mild interest, noting a few more rare recordings, and some of his own favorites among the pile. He picks up a cassette of Transatlantacism, and the hard plastic shell falls open in his hands, revealing contents very different from the advertised album. 

“Oops,” Josh says dumbly, interrupting the other two mid-conversation and holding up a neatly rolled joint between his thumb and forefinger. 

Tyler shoots him a wide-eyed, accusatory look, but Paul only laughs. Stop staring at his lips, Josh chides himself - but he can’t help it. Paul’s face is an arrow, pointing to the strange, elegant shape of his mouth. 

“Hey, I mean… I’m sure you guys are tired,” Paul says, straightening up from his perch against the desk, “but I’d be down to light one of those up and keep chatting, if you’d like, seeing as you’ve already found my stash.” 

This, finally, is a language Josh can speak. 

“I’m down,” he shrugs. 

Paul’s eyes turn to Tyler, who looks between the two of them. He chews at his bottom lip, expression somewhere between nervous and reproachful. 

Carefully, Josh adds, “But Tyler doesn’t smoke.” 

It’s a three-player game of chess, and Josh has moved his pawn into the action. He hopes Tyler hears the ultimatum hidden just below the surface, asked in their wordless way of speaking: how far are you willing to let this go? His piece is placed; it’s Tyler’s turn. 

“But I could,” Tyler says.

Paul’s grin is a mile wide. 

From somewhere, a lighter is produced. Josh’s eyes follow the motion of Paul’s veined hand, cupped around the joint as he lights it, shielding the flame from the ineffectual sputter of the air conditioner. He takes a drag, pauses, and then holds the joint out to Tyler, turning his head to exhale a tidy cloud of smoke. 

Tyler accepts the offering like it’s venomous, something with teeth or a stinger that could strike at any moment. He holds it away from him, letting it burn for a beat too long. Josh moves automatically, plucking it from his fingers and bringing it to his own lips, inhaling deeply. 

There hasn’t been money or occasion for indulgences like weed on tour, and Josh feels the familiar lightness wash over him right away, smoke warm in the back of his throat as he exhales. 

Next to him, Tyler’s silence is a distress signal that Paul intercepts. 

“Hey, hey,” Paul tells him, with his odd way of talking, all shoulders and neck. “There’s no pressure. I could… if you’re worried about it, I could shotgun you.” He says the last part with a grin - earnest, despite the implications of the offer. 

The silence between them is taut, ready to snap. Somehow, Tyler already looks high: face flushed, eyes glazed, his lips parted slightly as he looks between of them. But Josh is in his element - this is someone he knows how to read. He can tell that Tyler is steadily powering down, systems overwhelmed, just as easily as he can tell that beneath the layers of reservation, this is something Tyler wants to do. 

Josh also suspects that his hesitation is less about the drug itself, and more about not knowing how to act; not wanting to cough, or appear inexperienced, in front of this older guy that he’s clearly trying to impress.

And Josh also knows this: his inhibitions are down, and he really, really wants to put his mouth on Tyler’s.

“I’ll do it,” Josh offers quietly.

Paul responds with a quiet “hmm?” - but Tyler’s eyes haven’t left his. 

“Okay,” Tyler says. 

Josh swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Accepting the joint, Josh takes a hit for himself first, holding it in his lungs. If they’re going to cross this line, his nerves need all the help they can get. 

He takes a step closer to Tyler. 

“Ready?”

A nod. Tyler’s trust is a thing he’s earned, and right now Josh is glad for it. 

He brings the joint to his lips again. Josh is grateful for the time limit imposed by the smoke cooling in his mouth; do it now, or waste the hit, and the night, and the raw magic of this moment. Do it now, or risk the chance that he never will. 

Pressing himself into Tyler’s space, Josh touches three light fingers to the underside of his jaw, coaxing Tyler to part his lips, just in time for the arrival of Josh’s mouth. He breathes, and Tyler breathes, and Josh can suddenly think of nothing but the mingling of their spit, the microscopic parts of him that will now become parts of Tyler, indelible proof of this little intimacy. 

It’s almost, almost, a first kiss. 

“Well,” Paul says mildly, “shit.” 

If Tyler’s cheeks weren’t pink before, they are now. Even in the low light, Josh doesn’t miss the movement of Paul’s hand, or where it reaches, or what it adjusts. He doesn’t blame him. 

In their inaction, the joint has burned out. Josh holds it out to Paul, who smoothly relights it. 

“So,” Paul asks, gesturing between the two of them with a finger. “I gotta ask. Are you guys…” 

He trails off. A beat too late, Josh catches on to what he’s asking.

“Oh,” Tyler says. 

“Oh,” Josh says. 

“No,” they say in unison. 

But it’s too late. There’s no - and then there’s no, but it’s always been there, a constant possibility, part of our chemical makeup. No, but it’s something that’s been waiting to happen. No, but I want to, I want to, I want to. 

Another joint is lit, and the realization hits Josh belatedly: he’s high. Really, they all are, even Tyler - a little lazier, a little looser than the world outside. It’s only them, and this room, and this strange New Orleans night, and Josh has never wanted to kiss Tyler as badly as he does right now. 

Detached as he is from the rational part of his brain, Josh is still sober enough to know that it wouldn’t be a simple thing, to kiss his best friend. It’s too big, too risky; too much to lose if he gets it wrong. 

But there’s another pair of lips in this room, with no strings or feelings or bandmate attached. And Paul - God, was he this pretty at the beginning of the night, or are his features - the dip of his cupid bow, the firm set of his jaw - only now assembling themselves into an elegant whole, in front of Josh’s hungry eyes? 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Josh announces ungracefully, not giving either of them time to reply before he’s drifting forward, tilting his head back and letting his eyes flit closed. 

Paul accepts the kiss like he’s been waiting for it, responding hastily with a hand on the back of Josh’s neck. Slow and warm, it takes nothing at all for Josh to hand over control and let himself be kissed. 

It’s not like any other kiss he can remember; Paul is entirely unhurried with him, his movements easy and intentional. But Josh’s heart races regardless, quickened by the thrill of kissing someone new, and handsome, and older - and also by the knowledge that Tyler is watching it happen. 

They break apart reluctantly, and all three of them hover for a moment, unsteady. Josh is already preparing a wisecrack, something to spare Tyler from his own inhibition - but Paul is a magnetic force, and Tyler seems all too willing to be pulled into his orbit. All Josh can do is watch, helpless and transfixed. 

Tyler doesn’t so much kiss Paul as crash into him, pressing himself up to reach for Paul’s lips again and again. For his part, Paul takes Tyler’s enthusiasm in stride. Josh watches, amazed, as Paul somehow calms Tyler’s body with the steadiness of his own, one arm braced on Tyler’s chest, leaning back from his chasing lips until he learns to approach slowly; until control rests, once again, entirely with Paul. 

The transition is seamless, natural. Who is this stranger, who after less than an hour, seems to know them better than they know themselves? 

A soft, helpless whine escapes Tyler’s parted lips the moment Paul pulls away. The sound makes blood rush instantly to Josh’s crotch, leaving him briefly dizzy. 

He knows what comes next. 

Paul moves past Josh, lowering himself to sit on the foot of the bed and crossing his ankles out in front of him. Eyes fixed on each of them in turn, he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to. He’s giving them their moment. It’s up to them now. 

Tyler breathes his name, once, like a prayer. “Josh.” 

In this dim room, everything suddenly seems so simple. Somewhere in the back of Josh’s mind is a catalog of reasons why kissing his bandmate is a bad idea, but he can’t remember any of them right now. 

And anyway - they’re already inches away from each other. Tyler’s already drawing nearer, eyes trained first on the floor, and then on Josh, glistening with intention. It’s far too easy to tilt his head, to feel Tyler’s unsteady exhales on his upper lip before the dam breaks, and they’re kissing. 

Once they’ve started, their prior hesitation feels as distant as the venue, or as home. They’ve come too far to turn back. 

Kissing him feels oddly familiar, and Josh can’t make sense of why, until Tyler’s tongue presses sloppily between his lips and it hits him: he’s practiced this a hundred times, in the safety of his fantasies. This kiss is a scene from the late night recesses of his imagination, playing out in real time, as if it’s a role Josh has studied for. 

Tyler’s a greedy kisser, but Josh finds that he doesn’t mind. He’s breathless, and lightheaded, and deeply, deeply turned on - not just by the insistent warmth of Tyler’s hard-on against his thigh, but because he can feel Paul’s eyes on them, like a physical presence, watching. 

Josh pulls away. A thin rope of spit connects them briefly, then breaks. 

Wordlessly, he moves to sit next to Paul on the bed.  

The message is plain: neither Josh nor Paul will be the one to stop this from going further. It’s Tyler who’s left standing, with the power to move forward or retreat; Tyler, wide-eyed and dazed, who will be the deciding factor. 

Equally apparent from their vantage point is how hard Tyler is, straining in his sweats. He advances cautiously, face flushed and breaths heavy. Josh reaches up a hand as he nears, unsure what he’s offering; but Tyler takes it, lacing their fingers together, a comfort and a crutch. 

“Tyler,” Paul says. 

His name sounds different in Paul’s mouth, the first syllable longer, an ah that only turns into an ee at the last possible second. 

Tyler’s breath hitches. “Yeah.” 

Paul extends a hand, grazing a thumb over Tyler’s hipbone, making him shiver. 

“Can I?” 

And Tyler - he looks right to Josh, searching his eyes for the answer. Protectiveness and lust flood Josh, and he has to fight off a cloud of arousal in service of the former. 

“Your choice, Ty,” Josh says, squeezing their twined fingers - I’m here. “Yes, or no - but you’ve gotta say it.” 

Tyler’s gaze drifts back to Paul in slow motion. Transfixed, he nods. 

With permission given, Paul doesn’t miss a beat. The hand on Tyler’s hip moves lower, and then lower still, into the valley between Tyler’s legs. And then abruptly, he changes direction, dragging a cupped hand over the full clothed length of Tyler’s bulge. 

Josh looks up on instinct, just in time to see Tyler’s face transform: eyes rolling back, jaw hanging loosely open, an approximation of Paul’s name tumbling from his lips. Josh isn’t sure where he fits into this yet, other than as a lifeline for the crushing grip of Tyler’s hand - he just knows that he wants them, both of them, badly. 

Whether from the weed or his arousal, Tyler’s barely holding himself upright, and he stretches out a hand, bracing himself against Paul’s shoulder. From beside them, Josh watches Paul snake a muscled arm around Tyler’s waist, dipping his hand into the back of his sweats and squeezing the swell of his ass. 

“Fuck,” Josh and Paul say at the same time. Words seem beyond Tyler; with a broken moan, he leans in, slotting his legs between Paul’s, and carelessly starting to hump at his thigh. 

It might be one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to Josh, and he’s only watching. He’s acutely horny now, his own dick straining against the confines of his underwear. Eyes still glued to the clumsy motion of Tyler’s hips, Josh tucks a hand into his waistband, palming himself through his boxers. 

And there it is again, that fluttering in his stomach - the nascent thread of jealousy, not just of Tyler, but of both of them. He needs desperately to touch them, or to be them - or he’s going to die. Josh squeezes around his dick, and lets out a low groan. It’s genuine, not at all contrived, but it’s also intentional in its timing. A reminder - I want this, too. 

The noise gets Paul’s attention - but Tyler is lost in rhythmic pleasure, too deep to surface. It’s not at all impossible, it occurs to Josh, that Tyler could come like this, just from friction, right before Josh’s eyes, and the thought pulls another groan from his throat, truly involuntary this time. 

Paul seems to have the same thought. With both hands firm on his hips, he stills Tyler’s movements, earning a frustrated sound in response. 

“Shhh,” he hushes sweetly, pressing the pads of his thumbs into Tyler’s hip bones. “Not yet.” 

He turns to look at Josh, pupils large in his dark, glinting eyes. 

“Look how hard your friend is for you,” Paul says to Tyler, like it’s nothing. “Are you going to help him out?” 

Josh means to offer some smooth reply - he really does - but he can’t make his mouth move. 

“Yeah,” Tyler whispers, dazed. 

Reeling, Josh tries to choke back a groan, but the sound is wrenched out of him in full force as Tyler drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, settling between Josh’s legs. 

“Oh - God,” Josh stutters, before anything has even happened, “Ty.” 

Tyler moves with enthusiastic speed, faster than Josh’s addled mind can process. The drawstrings of his pants are loosened, and Josh just barely has the wherewithal to lift his hips before Tyler is pulling him out of his boxers and taking Josh’s cock into his mouth.

It’s far from the first blowjob he’s received, but this is Tyler - Tyler - and Josh has to remind himself to keep breathing. For all his eagerness, it’s clear that Tyler doesn’t quite know what he’s doing; but his instincts are good, and Josh has spent too much time fantasizing about his mouth for it to really matter.

And anyway - Tyler has always been a quick learner. 

He finds a rhythm, bobbing his head and grasping the base of Josh’s cock, squeezing just slightly. Josh has to fight to keep his eyes open, unwilling to miss even a second of this feeling, sharpened by the warm presence of Paul on the bed beside him. 

If this is a dream - and Christ, Josh thinks, it feels like one, the kind he’d awaken messily from - then he’ll gladly stay asleep forever, just so that this doesn’t have to end.

Josh can’t help it; he tangles a hand in Tyler’s hair, guiding him gently up and down, cautious not to hit the back of Tyler’s throat and overwhelm him. It doesn’t much matter, though - they’re both overwhelmed, both breathing heavily, the steady rush of air through Tyler’s nose joining the torturously wet sound of his mouth moving on Josh’s cock. 

Beside him, Paul looks on with rapt interest. Unlike the other two, Paul’s demeanor is one of utter composure. His arousal is obvious and unhidden, tenting the front of his loose pants, but it takes nothing at all to see that he’s in complete control - of himself, and of them. 

Somehow, there’s still a smoking joint between his fingers. Paul holds it up, bringing the tip to Josh’s mouth; disoriented, Josh tries to take a hit, but he’s too flustered, and smoke pours out of his mouth and nose, burning. Before he can even catch his breath, Paul’s kissing him again, hungrily - both of their mouths on him now. 

Kissing him is nothing like kissing Tyler. Paul’s nose presses bluntly into Josh’s cheek, then trails down the side of his neck, followed by the sting of teeth. He’s not gentle, but he isn’t rough, either; just commanding. Sure of himself. Josh is putty in his hands, and it’s clear that Paul knows it. 

Just as Paul is beginning to work a mark into his throat, Josh feels Tyler pull off. He wills his eyelids up and finds Tyler sitting back on his heels, gulping in air, looking up at each of them in turn. It’s difficult to find the words, and they feel unwieldy on his tongue when he does, but Josh burns with the need to praise him, to offer the encouragement he knows Tyler will be seeking. 

“Ty, that was so good,” he says. “You’re doing good.” 

Tyler closes his eyes in a prolonged blink, like he’s absorbing the praise. Automatically, Josh flicks his eyes in Paul’s direction. He’s not trying to tell Tyler what to do, but somehow Tyler intuits his thoughts and repositions himself in front of Paul, looking up at him; looking wrecked.

"Oh,” Paul murmurs, smiling. “My turn?” 

And so it is. 

Fingers trembling, Tyler undoes first his belt, and then the button of his fly. He’s fumbling, slipping; Josh reaches a hand across Paul’s lap to help, popping the button and dragging the zipper down, as Paul hisses at the sudden friction. 

They’re a team, working together. Josh dips his fingers into Paul’s waistband and tugs downward, and Tyler reaches into his underwear, freeing his cock. 

For a frozen moment, all Josh can do is stare. A silent conversation passes between him and Tyler, because amidst all of this, they’re still best friends, and it has to be done. 

Paul is big. A lot bigger than Josh, cock veiny in a way that matches the girth of his hands. A mix of apprehension and arousal flashes over Tyler’s face, and Josh empathizes, flooded with the same heady rush. 

“Shit,” Paul murmurs. “I don’t even have to do anything, you two are so…” 

But they never find out what they are - because Josh is already dropping swiftly to his knees, curling in to lick a long trail up the underside of Paul’s cock, drawing another hiss from him. Immediately, Paul’s hand reaches out to grasp a fistful of his hair, guiding him to sink further down. Josh does everything he knows how to do - slackening his throat, and flattening his tongue - but there’s more to swallow, so much, his eyes watering, his breaths short…

And then, someone is nudging gently at his side. Paul spreads his legs to accommodate the presence of another body, and when Josh pulls off, Tyler is already leaning down, taking Josh’s place in the warmth between Paul’s thighs. Josh watches him part his red lips, sucking indulgently on the head of Paul’s dick, and then - eyelashes casting long fluttering shadows over the apples of his cheeks - sinking down as far as he can go. 

Paul groans. “That’s right.” 

What are we doing , Josh thinks wildly to himself; each fighting to impress, or please, or earn the attention of this man they barely know? But there’s no time to dwell on it. This is the angle that he wasn’t afforded before: Tyler’s mouth wrapped obscenely around Paul’s shaft, rivulets of spit escaping the seal of his lips, eyes heavily lidded and face flushed as he bobs up and down. 

Josh is entranced, hypnotized by the sucking sounds issuing from their point of connection. But then the spell is broken, halted by an instinctive pang of concern that rises in Josh as soon as he hears Tyler gag. 

He presses a light hand between Tyler’s shoulder blades and the other to his jaw, helping him ease off. His slack lips are glossy with saliva, and Josh means to ask if he’s okay, to tell him to take his time, but he surges with the sudden need to kiss him, and he does that instead, rising up on his knees and drawing Tyler in close. 

This time, there’s no restraint. The kiss is sloppy, and desperate, and Josh all but forgets that they’re being watched, or that they’re braced between another man’s legs. He has been wanting to kiss Tyler like this for too many months to count, and he isn’t going to waste the chance to indulge now, licking and nipping his way around Tyler’s mouth. 

When Tyler starts to grind against his upper leg, Josh pushes right back into his erection, and it’s only when Tyler sobs into the crook of his neck that Josh understands, really understands - this is not something they’re going to do only once. This isn’t a line that he and Tyler can un-cross. 

Reality bleeds in a little, and Josh pulls away, turning sheepishly back to Paul. 

Paul, who is leaning back on one arm, lazily jerking himself off. 

“Don’t stop on my account. This…” he pauses, pointing between the two of them, “is fascinating.” 

The way Paul touches himself, the curvature of his fist moving on his cock, shifts the energy in the room. He is unquestionably, intuitively in charge. Somewhere along the way from kissing him, to kissing in front of him, to fighting for their mouths on him, an agreement has silently been reached: 

They’re his for the taking. Both of them. 

And Paul knows it. 

“Clothes off.” 

He doesn’t have to say anything else - they’re already on their feet. Josh stumbles a little stepping out of his pants, too caught up in the sight of Tyler’s shirt coming off, and then his sweats, and then finally, his underwear. 

Josh has seen Tyler’s dick before, of course, but not like this. Not hard and red and leaking, lilting a little to the side, somewhat thicker than Josh would have guessed, and so, so goddamn pretty. 

Paul stands, peeling off layers, until he’s naked from the waist down. He points, motioning to the spot on the bed that he just vacated. 

“Sit.” 

It’s not bossiness, really, or even control. He’s simply giving easy directions, knowing they’ll be followed. 

He’s right. Eagerly, Josh and Tyler sit. 

There’s no script for this, no clear roadmap other than their instincts; and yet as Paul approaches, looming over them, Josh knows what they’re about to do right before they do it. They fall in, like it’s what they’ve been heading towards all along: Paul’s dick, hard and straight between them, and Josh and Tyler’s mouths on either side of it, messy and wet. 

They don’t speak. Their mouths know what to do, tongues flattened and pressed along the length of Paul’s shaft while he fucks his hips forward, leveraging himself with a hand tangled in each of their hair. Periodically, Josh’s lips slide against Tyler’s, and somehow this is what feels filthy. After everything; this is what feels sinful.  

And Josh would do it forever. Despite the ache growing in his jaw, he’d stay here, pressed close to Tyler, listening to the overlapping chorus of their long nose-breaths, every once in a while glimpsing Tyler’s watering eyes.

They’re a mess; there’s spit glistening on Tyler’s cupid bow, on his cheeks and jaw, and Josh can tell that he’s in a similar state. He tries to take a mental picture, to preserve this version of Tyler, so far from anything he has ever let himself imagine. He’s intoxicated by it. He can’t get enough. He wants to ruin Tyler, to get ruined with him - anything, as long as it leads to this: Tyler looking wrecked, and desperate…and slutty. 

While Tyler tends to Paul’s shaft, Josh moves back to tongue at his slit, tasting salt and bitterness. He has to strain his eyes to look up, but when he does, the image is worth it - Paul, his head tipped back and jaw clenched, lips spread wide enough to display his very back teeth. 

“That’s it, boys,” Paul growls. “That’s good."

Josh doesn’t expect the words to send a pulse of precome rolling down his thigh, but he’s too far gone to question it; just another revelation he’ll process when he isn’t naked on his knees. 

Moving in opposite directions, he and Tyler are on a collision course, mouths almost meeting and then parting again and again, until they catch up to each other, making out untidily around the pink head of Paul’s dick. Instantly, Paul starts to fuck into the space between their lips, fists like vices in in their hair. It hurts - but somehow, it’s utterly safe, too. They have each other. 

They also have Paul. It’s not like Josh is particularly experienced, but he’s had enough sex to know that it’s the mark of a good top, this careful anticipation of their every need, and response to their every move. The moment Josh begins to pull back, the fingers in his hair loosen their grip, freeing him.

Instantly, Tyler retreats too. Josh can tell that Tyler was waiting for his cue; aching, but too competitive to be the first one to stop. 

It’s so completely him, such a Tyler thing to do, that Josh can’t help but laugh. A second passes, and then laughter trickles through all three of them, each delighting in this little absurdity. The weed has lowered their defenses and heightened their levity, and somehow, everything feels at once entirely funny, and entirely serious. 

Paul’s hands become instruments of comfort in their hair, stroking first through Josh’s curls, and then the tousled strands at the crown of Tyler’s head. It’s tender - unexpectedly so. Josh lets his eyes droop shut for a time, drunk on this small act of care. 

“Okay,” Paul says from above, and Josh blinks his eyes open again. “Be honest with me, before we all do something stupid, and someone ends up hurt.”

There’s something addictive about how he talks, Josh thinks; the way he shakes his head for emphasis, and the way his lips form each word. Paul pauses, stepping back enough to take them both in at once. 

“Have either of you actually bottomed before?” 

Given that he’s naked with the taste of Paul’s cock still on his tongue, the question shouldn’t make Josh’s heart leap into his throat. But as he’s quickly learning, anything that comes out of Paul’s mouth, in Paul’s voice, has the power to make blood rise to his cheeks and heat pool in his stomach.

At least it’s an easy question. 

“Yeah,” Josh answers. “Yeah, I have.”

Two pairs of eyes slide liquidly to Tyler, who looks first to Josh, and then Paul, and then - and then - nods.  

“Ty,” Josh says. 

“What?”

“Don’t lie.”

“What - I have!” Tyler seems genuinely surprised, and makes a show of looking affronted.

Quickly though, his facade melts into a timid blush. 

“Just once.”

Just once.  

Josh reaches for words, but finds himself speechless, thought after thought igniting in his mind, then doused on the way to his lips. He needs to ask Tyler a thousand questions, and he needs to kiss him senseless, and he needs, he needs…

Shaking his head, Paul only laughs lightly

“I’m gonna let you two unpack that another time.”

A hand is offered to Josh, and he lets himself be pulled to his feet, stumbling a little into the anchor of Paul’s crooked arm. Still solid, Paul’s erection grazes his hip, and his lips graze Josh’s ear, and Josh shivers at the feeling of Paul speaking only to him. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, nudging his head in Tyler’s direction. “I’ll be gentle with him.” 

Josh shivers again. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Paul agrees. “Can you do something for me? Can you get - in there, the bathroom,” he breaks off, turning to point out a door that Josh had assumed was a closet. “Lube and condoms. Top shelf of the medicine cabinet.”

Josh hesitates. 

“Okay,” he says for a third time, quieter than he intended. He doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding the way he feels - a little cast off, a little secondary. He’s probably wrong. 

He turns, but not before Paul has already moved away to lean into Tyler’s ear, whispering a long string of something. 

The supplies are easy to find, and Josh returns to the sight of Paul smirking and Tyler blushing furiously, looking up at Josh from underneath heavy eyelashes. 

Paul holds out a hand, and Josh approaches, dropping the lube and condoms into it. 

“What did you say to him?” Josh wonders, not bothering to cover up the defensive edge to his voice. He’s afraid of ruining things, but he’s even more afraid of finding out that he’s been unnecessary all along; that his role in this arrangement will be as an accessory to the real event - Paul and Tyler, Paul-and-Tyler, and then, forgotten, him. 

Paul sets the condoms aside, but hands the lube to Tyler. 

“I told him to prep himself.” 

Josh is a broken record, spinning, helpless. “Okay.” 

“Because,” Paul goes on, fingers interlocking with Josh’s and squeezing, keeping him there - “I’m going to be busy prepping you.” 

The spinning stops, and he wavers, dizzy. 

“Oh,” Josh says. “Oh, I - alright.” 

He can feel his blush spreading, rivaling Tyler’s, he’s sure of it. He can breathe - he can - but only if he makes himself; in, and then out. 

Paul registers his surprise, and a sideways smile creeps onto his face, tugging on half of his mouth. 

“Gonna let me fuck you, Josh?” 

In, and then out. 

“Yeah. Yeah, please.” 

The back of the couch serves as a makeshift headboard for the pull-out mattress, and Paul settles himself against it, finally tugging off his shirt. He pats his lap, and Josh crawls into it willingly, shuddering when their dicks brush. 

Next to them, Tyler kneels, watching, with his lip tucked under his top teeth, hand coated in lube and moving lightly around his dick. 

Paul tilts his head at Tyler, and murmurs - “Hey.”

That one word, it’s the only incantation he needs. No I thought I told you to… or do what I said, or any form of outright command. Just that alone, just hey, has Tyler humming a chastened “sorry” and rolling onto his side, reaching lubed fingers behind himself. 

Oh, Josh thinks. This is happening - they’re really about to witness this, to see the other fucked and filled, both of them. An hour before, they were just friends, not even properly out to each other - and now Josh is watching Tyler slick up his entrance and sink a finger into himself, unable to look away. 

A long-fingered hand takes him by the chin, turning his face.

“Man,” Paul says under his breath, both hands flat on Josh’s cheeks now, “you’ve really got it bad for him, huh?” 

Josh’s instincts lunge toward a protest, but with the evidence of Tyler’s effect on him pressed directly into Paul’s abdomen, Josh’s defense is dead on arrival. He’s too turned on to form a sentence, or breathe, or do anything other than attempt a few pathetic ruts in Paul’s lap, searching for any available friction.

“I get it,” Paul says.

He has the lube bottle uncapped in his hand, making careful preparations behind Josh’s back, without taking his eyes off of him for a moment. 

“He’s so pretty like that. Look at him,” he tells Josh, and Josh does, and Jesus, he has to clench every part of his body to keep from coming all over Paul’s stomach. Already, Tyler is working up to a second finger, but it’s not just that - it’s his face, screwed up in concentration, with one cheek pushed flat into the mattress, eyes glassy and staring up at them, unfocused. 

“Paul,” Josh finally manages. “Paul.” 

“Mmmm,” Paul responds, already knowing what Josh was going to ask for; already giving it to him. 

It’s been a good while since anyone’s done this for him, especially recently, being out on the road - but Paul takes his time, fucking him on one capable finger, pressing and curling to open him up. Lowering his head to rest on Paul’s shoulder, Josh squeezes his eyes closed, afraid to let himself look at Tyler; afraid of what will happen if he does. 

The crook of Paul’s neck is a respite. Nestled this close to his skin, each of Josh’s inhales are amplified, drowning out everything except the crescendo of his own pleasure. 

The way Paul is holding him, curled into his chest…it’s too intimate for a stranger, or at least it should be. It should feel odd, Josh thinks, too much and too fast - but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the weed, or the strange magic of these small hours, but he feels entirely, euphorically safe . He trusts Paul with him; and even more improbably, he trusts Paul with Tyler. 

Two fingers stretching him now - and they’re long, reaching nerve endings that Josh is certain no one has found before. Without meaning to, he finds himself moving on Paul’s thighs, lifting himself up and down, ignoring the strain in his stage-tired hamstrings. 

And then the pressure inside of him changes, everything white hot and tilting as Paul’s fingers search and crook and knead at his prostate, sucking the air out of his lungs until he’s quaking and gasping in Paul’s grip, his grip on Josh’s waist the only thing keeping him from floating up and away. 

“Good,” is all Paul says, dragging out the whispered word. “Gooood.” 

Tyler reciprocates with a strangled sound of his own, and Josh pries himself away from Paul’s damp skin to risk a glance at him, winded all over again when his eyes lock onto three of Tyler’s fingers, moving steadily in and out of his slicked hole. 

“Fuck,” Josh moans, in a voice he doesn’t even recognize. 

Paul holds Josh still with one hand, gently pulling out of him with the other. 

“I think he’s ready for ya, don’t you?” 

Josh blinks. “For me?” 

“I told you I was going to start him out easy.” Reaching down, Paul runs his clean hand through Tyler’s disheveled hair. “You want that, don’t you? For your friend to fuck you?” 

Tyler’s blissed-out eyes drift up at Paul, and then at Josh, dazed. Cheek moving against the sheets, he nods. 

A string of choked expletives leave Josh’s lips, and he collapses onto Paul’s shoulder again - but Paul is already redirecting him. 

“Lie down,” he tells Josh, tapping his hip twice. Josh does as he’s told, stretching out in the center of the bed so that he and Tyler are face to face. He can hear Paul fiddling with the condoms behind him, and he seizes the moment to quietly check on Tyler.

“Hi,” Josh says. 

Tyler huffs out a whine. “Hi.”

“This is…” Josh says, “Ty - you want this?” 

“Josh, I… I fucking…" he babbles, unfocused. “I’m so hard, fuck, I want this. I need - please.” 

“Okay,” Josh quiets him, leaning in to bump their foreheads together, both of them clumsy with need. “Okay Ty. You can have it. Gonna take care of you - we both are.”

Right on cue, Paul’s hand makes itself known on his hip again, reaching around to roll a condom onto his dick. He follows it swiftly with lube, jerking Josh languidly a few times to spread it over his length. It’s strangely intimate, this little ritual of preparation - like he’s a tool in Paul’s hands. 

“Over, baby,” Paul instructs Tyler, who is quick to comply, rolling onto his other side and pressing himself back against Josh - his best friend, his naked ass, warm in Josh’s hands - Jesus. Inching forward, he grips the fleshy curve of Tyler’s ass cheek, letting the tip of his cock brush up against his entrance. They both jolt at the contact, shivering through twin gasps. 

They have long since passed the point that Josh has ever let himself imagine. Before tonight, before this very moment, it felt impossible that he would ever really find himself here - aligning himself with Tyler’s hole, feeling his head being swallowed up inside. 

How long would it have taken them to get here on their own, without the divine intervention of this beautiful stranger? Josh wonders if they ever would have.

Everything, everything, is bathed in warmth. Paul’s hand on his hip, and Tyler’s back, flush with his chest; the room around them, the air itself - the smell of weed, and wood, and early autumn. 

With an arm thrown around Tyler’s chest, Josh keeps him close as he bottoms out, as he starts to gently move in him. It’s for both of their sakes, this slowness. Even if it’s true that Tyler has done this once before, Josh knows firsthand that it’s a difficult feeling to adjust to, and he’s determined to take his time. His thrusts are slow at first, and shallow - more of a gentle rocking together than anything else - and they find their rhythm this way, bodies joined, sighing and vulnerable. 

But too soon, Paul’s hand on Josh’s hip curls forward, stalling his movements. Tyler doesn’t stop, still grinding back onto Josh obliviously, huffing at his lack of motion - but realization crashes down around Josh, and he sucks in a searing breath, heartbeat rushing in his ears as Paul coaxes his leg upward to make room for the lubed length of his dick, sliding over his hole. 

If asked tomorrow, Josh will deny the sound he makes when Paul begins to penetrate him. With his own dick already enveloped in heat, the feeling of being filled is insane, skirting the edge of too much. It’s not that Josh hasn’t taken a dick this size before - he’s pretty sure he has - but the layers of stimulation aren’t just additive; they compound, building on each other to a peak of intensity that Josh didn’t know one body could hold. 

“Good boy,” Paul says into his ear, a whisper that’s only for him. And then, louder - “Good, that’s good, both of you, fuck.”

Only now, as Josh bucks helplessly between them, does Tyler seem to understand what has changed, responding with a faint “please” - an appeal to anyone and no one. Paul extends an arm over Josh, reaching out to drag his nails over Tyler’s hip, a wordless reassurance. 

To his credit, Paul falls into the rhythm Josh has already set, instead of imposing his own. With every thrust, he buries himself a little deeper, giving Josh’s body time to accommodate his length. Nevertheless, a carnal part of Josh wants to beg him not to hold back, to tell him that he can handle it - that he wants it hard, and unforgiving - but the sensible side of him, the one that’s still tethered to earth, is relieved by the merciful pace. 

All three of them moving together, it’s like Paul is fucking Tyler through Josh. Each drive of Paul’s hips sends Josh’s rolling forward, plowing into Tyler with the force of their shared momentum. 

And Tyler - it’s like something has snapped in him, releasing everything still held captive behind what’s left of his chaste exterior. The room reverberates with his noises, moaning and crying out loud enough that Josh is sure he can hear the strings on some of Paul’s instruments humming slightly - or is that just the static droning in his own head? 

Either way, Josh presses a sustained kiss to the back of Tyler’s neck, doing his best to soothe him even as he’s being split open from behind. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, or if he even does - but he’s drowning somewhere off the shores of delirium, and he doesn’t let himself care. 

Somewhere in Josh’s flooded mind, he registers Tyler saying something, too quiet or too muddled to catch. 

“What?” he asks, with effort. “What, Ty?”

“Josh," comes Tyler’s voice again, breaking through the fog. “Josh, I need… more, can you…” 

Anything Josh thinks. “Anything, anything,” he says.

“Touch me.”

And Josh knows that Tyler’s hand is free, that he could touch himself if he wanted to, of course he could - he’s asking for Josh’s hand; for Josh’s touch. There is no universe in which Josh could deny him this, or anything else. 

Josh fumbles his way to Tyler’s leaking dick, finding it with his fingers. He thinks about what Tyler asked him - not to jerk him, or to get him off, but to touch him - and he tries to touch Tyler, to really, tenderly touch him, taking care to make sure that everywhere he places his hand, he means it. That he’s not just touching a thigh, or a crease, but Tyler’s, Tyler’s. 

He lingers on Tyler’s balls, and feather-light on the base of his dick - and then finally puts him out of his misery, gathering the precome pooled at his tip and starting to stroke him in earnest. Tyler’s erection stiffens in his hand, fully hard again after the overwhelm of penetration; a fresh pearl of fluid beads over Tyler’s head, and Josh swipes his thumb out to catch it, tugging at him again, making Tyler shudder and tense, 

Josh breathes out an oath at the feeling of Tyler tightening around him. Behind him, he hears a sharp groan from Paul too - a chain reaction that doubles back on Josh, washing him with seeping heat. He’s pulled in two directions, Josh’s body chasing the edge of his climax while his mind digs in its heels, unwilling to let this end. 

“Paul,” he warns, or pleads, or both. 

But Paul’s only response is to tighten his arm around Josh’s torso, holding him steady as he’s dragged under the surface of his orgasm, pulsing inside Tyler, and clenching around Paul. It’s immediately overstimulating, and Josh writhes as much as the press of bodies allows, choking on a string of throaty moans as he fills the condom. 

“That’s right,” Paul soothes into the nape of his neck, hand stroking Josh’s hip again and again. “Good, Josh.” 

Eyes closed as he comes down, Josh tilts his head to one side, hoping that Paul will take the invitation - and he does, lips and teeth sucking a delicate mark into Josh’s skin. 

And here is Tyler’s hand - reaching back behind Josh, searching for Paul.

“Please… please…” Tyler chants. 

“It’s okay, Ty,” Josh tells him. “Hold on.” 

He’s trapped, tucked between them like this, unable to pull out until Paul does - but he’s too boneless to do anything about it. 

Tyler tries again anyway. “Please, I want… Josh, I can do it. Tell him…”

And all at once, Josh understands. He nudges back into Paul, who shifts enough for Josh to pull out slowly, wincing as Paul does the same.

He rolls over, inches from Paul’s face, speaking only to him.

“He wants you to fuck him,” Josh says. 

Paul runs his tongue over his bottom lip, breathing out a single hah.

“He can take it,” Josh adds quietly, and Paul sobers, tucking an unruly curl behind Josh’s ear. 

“I know he can.” 

Paul props himself up on one arm, looking over Josh to meet Tyler’s watery gaze. 

“Need you to say it,” he says, even as he’s already pulling off one condom, reaching behind him for another. “Need you to ask me.” 

Tyler whines, burying his face in Josh’s shoulder - self-conscious, or simply seeking familiarity. Still, he says - “Fuck me.” 

Paul tears open a new condom with his teeth. “You want me inside of you?” 

“Yes.”  

It’s a foregone conclusion; Paul is rolling the condom on, slicking himself with lube - but even still, he leans close to Tyler, speaking softly. “You trust me to do what you need? What I know you need?” 

It isn’t a game, Josh knows; Paul is really asking - willing and able to take Tyler apart, but only at his own request. 

Determinedly, Tyler nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

Josh pulls back, coming to sit at the head of the bed. Paul fills the space he vacated, approaching on his knees - and like it’s nothing at all, flips Tyler onto his stomach, and enters him. 

For all his babbling earlier, Tyler is nearly silent as Paul fucks him into the mattress. The pace is unforgiving, one of Paul’s hands splayed on Tyler’s back, the other braced on the back of the couch. Somewhere in Josh’s mind, he knows he should do something other than stare - but he’s frozen in place, hypnotized by the ruthless motion of Paul’s hips, the strain of his thighs, the momentum that Tyler’s body absorbs like a shockwave with every new thrust. 

It’s only when Tyler finally does make a sound - a choked grunt interrupted by an inhale - that Josh snaps back into himself. He peels off his own condom, forgotten and sticky, and shifts downward, curled at a diagonal to Tyler’s head. 

Tyler’s eyes are squeezed shut, but they flutter open at Josh’s touch, a light brush of his hand over Tyler’s sweaty forehead. 

“Good boy,” Josh tells him, before he can get too far in his head about it. A crease appears between Tyler’s eyes, and the corners of his mouth tug down, as if to cry - but he only whimpers, a tiny high-pitched note. Josh strokes his forehead again, running his fingers through his hair, over and over, soothing. “Look how good you’re taking him.” 

For a moment, Josh really does look. Paul has slowed his pace marginally, but he makes up for it with depth, pulling nearly all the way out and then snapping his hips, driving his cock into Tyler again and again. An hour ago, this would have seemed greedy, even brutish - but after everything, after Paul has handled them with such care, tender and generous at every turn, it’s easy to see this dominance for what it is: something given, not taken. Something kind. 

And Tyler - Josh feels almost guilty thinking it, but he looks meant for this. He finds Tyler’s hand, and Tyler wastes no time crushing it in own. Again, that expression takes over his face, features screwing up and then releasing, eyelids fluttering open, a life cycle of overwhelmed pleasure that only breaks when Paul switches his angle and Tyler’s voice jumps an octave down, breaking open into a sustained groan. 

Hands clutching Tyler’s waist, Paul draws back onto his knees. His face contorts into a toothy wince as his thrusts slow and then stutter, becoming erratic. It’s the first time all night Paul has appeared to lose even a moment’s composure, tumbling gracelessly towards climax - but just as quickly, he wrenches back control, swiftly pulling out of Tyler and flipping him back over. 

When Josh plays the next moment back in his head tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, it will render in slow motion, each movement a hundred years long - but in reality, it’s merely a matter of seconds. Paul tearing off his condom, crawling up Tyler’s body until he’s kneeling over his ribs, jerking himself off; Tyler, wrecked and boneless and tearstained, opening his mouth for him; and Josh, in the middle of it all, captive witness to the come that lands on Tyler’s tongue, and chest, and cheek. 

Paul is immediately attentive, not a moment lost. He rolls onto Tyler’s other side, noses at his hairline, pressing a kiss to his temple as Tyler swallows, and swallows. Josh’s attention turns southward, reaching for Tyler’s dick - but he finds it sticky, softening, in a mess of his own come. Untouched, and undone. 

From above, Paul offers a hand to Josh, an invitation that he takes, settling by Tyler’s side. The transition to comfort is seamless. Paul rubs wide circles into Tyler’s chest, and Josh doesn’t hesitate to join the tangle of limbs, nestling his nose in Tyler’s hair and trying to restart his own heart. 

For a while, they only breathe - the rise of their chests synchronizing, and then straying from each other, overlapping. Josh only wishes he could see them from above, the strange and huddled shape they make, sweaty, lovely. 

“Woah,” Tyler finally says, his voice wrecked, but reviving; he smiles, and then Paul smiles, and then finally Josh, the single syllable returning them all to themselves. 

Paul seems to take this as a sign of Tyler’s fog clearing; he peels himself away, heading for the bathroom.

In a few minutes, he will return with washcloths, one for each of them; they will clean up, and laugh at themselves, and press fingers to each other’s hickeys, feigning apologies - and then Paul will pull the top sheet over all three of their bodies, and they will sleep.

But for now, in the brief space of time when it’s just the two of them, Tyler rolls over into Josh and hugs him, hard. It’s a hug that says I’m yours, that at the end of the night, this one and the next one, it’s going to be you and me. 

It’s different with no one watching, the lack of an audience eliminating any lingering uncertainty that their intentions were sincere. This is real - even in the clarity of post-orgasm, even now that the weed has left their system - and it will still be real when they escape this fairyland and its strange, enchanting music; when they cross state lines, and play in new cities, and when they return home. 

Tyler doesn’t say anything - neither of them do - but from the way he tucks an arm under Josh’s shoulder, in the way he kisses him, unhurried and at peace - somehow, Josh knows that he knows.

*

They wake up to the sound of Tyler’s phone buzzing its way across the floorboards. Josh is immediately disoriented, squinting his eyes against the light infiltrating the half-drawn blinds. 

There’s no sign of Paul. But Tyler - Tyler’s curled into him, an arm slung over Josh’s middle, his head tucked neatly into Josh’s shoulder. 

The air conditioning has been left on all night, and the room is chilly, the top sheet barely enough to keep Josh warm if it weren’t for Tyler - and when he pulls away, reaching down to pick up his phone and slide the call open, Josh is surprised at how intensely his body registers the loss of his presence. 

“Hey, Michael,” Tyler says blearily. 

The sheet has slipped, exposing the curved side of Tyler’s upper thigh, paler than the rest of him, and Josh stares at it while he speaks. 

“It’s -” Tyler pulls the phone away from his face, checking the time, maybe - and then returns it to his ear. “Shit, sorry. No, I know.” 

Tyler’s eyes slide to the door, and Josh raises his eyebrows in the universal sign for what did he say? 

“He is?” Tyler says, explaining nothing, but laughing lightly. “Oh, okay. No, we are… we are, God.” 

And then the call is over, and Tyler tosses his phone onto the sheet, and looks at Josh for the first time since waking. He’s quiet, Josh thinks; Tyler has never been a morning person, but he’s perfectly present now - waiting, maybe, for Josh to speak first. 

“What was that about?” Josh asks. 

Tyler rubs his eyes. “He says we should get on the road, and, uh… that Paul is, I guess, heading up here with coffee in a minute.” 

Josh hesitates. 

“And that last part?” 

Tyler grins sheepishly, head ducked. 

“Just - to make sure that we’re decent. I think…” he breaks off, shaking his head. “Yeah, I think they know, or suspect…” 

“Yeah,” Josh agrees, smiling too now. 

For a prolonged moment, they just look at each other, wide-eyed and meaningful.

Did we dream that?  the look says. 

No, the look replies. 

Hastily, with half smiles, they tug on the clothes they dressed in several lifetimes ago, when this had only been a pit stop, and the stranger only a coincidence, an unremarkable twist of fate. 

But something keeps replaying in Josh’s head, needling him. Yes, Tyler had said, yes, I have - just once. 

Without looking up, Josh says, “Who was the other guy?” 

It takes Tyler a second to catch up, but he does. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh - it was just a hookup, during college. Nothing…”

He pauses, lifting his eyes to Josh’s. 

“Nothing like that.” 

They’re going to have to get better at saying these things out loud, Josh knows - it’s far too easy to let everything go unspoken, communicated in the silent language of their friendship. 

He’s never been good, really, at saying exactly what he means; and neither has Tyler, without putting it in a song. But after last night, anything feels possible. 

Anything feels worthwhile, if it leads to Tyler. 

*

In the driveway, while Tyler roots around in the storage space at the back of the van, Paul types his number into Josh’s phone. The contact name is simple and unassuming - Paul Meany. 

“And you’ll give it to Tyler,” he says. Not a question, but an understanding that anything of Josh’s would be Tyler’s too, by default; that anything of value, they would share. 

Tyler emerges from the van, producing a shrink-wrapped CD, and handing it out to Paul. Josh thinks of the Mutemath CD tucked into Tyler’s backpack, and he understands this exchange for what it is - the vulnerable bartering of musicians; art for art. 

“It’s only three songs,” Tyler says, obviously self-conscious, “but they’re our first professionally-produced tracks."

“Three is a good number,” Paul says, and Tyler smiles. 

They part ways without fanfare or ceremony. A nod of the head, a wave of thanks - the same goodbyes that Mark and Michael each give, before they duck back into the familiar world of the van, and the GPS reads out the estimated time of their arrival in Memphis, and the tour rolls on, like this was just one more stop. 

“We didn’t get murdered,” Mark says once they’re out of the driveway, “so at least there’s that.” 

Michael laughs his agreement. “You know, if nothing else, these random people's houses are going to make for some good stories someday, when we can afford five star hotels.” 

This is how they all tend to talk about the future. Tyler has told Josh before that it’s part of how he knew right away that Mark and Michael could be trusted with his dream, the same way he knew about Josh - this shared certainty that they would make it, driving them forward, keeping them moving. 

“Good party stories,” Mark adds.

Josh doesn’t dare look at Tyler, sure he won’t be able to keep a straight face.

“ Well,” says Tyler, “maybe not all of them.”

On the bench seat, their knuckles brush together, low enough that the others aren’t likely to see - but not concealed, either. 

No, Josh thinks, no - not all of them. 

This one will be theirs.