fic. huh? weird.
so here is the jonas brothers fic i've been working on for exactly one week.
you guys... this is the first piece of writing i've finished in FOUR years! poem, prose, anything. this is totally rough, unbetaed, and i'm terrible at writing porn, but whatever. i'm just so happy to have finished something.
this is sort of in response to onelittlesleep 's 'Lovebug' ficlet prompt from last week. but i write super slowly, and this turned into something much longer than a ficlet, so...
Title: F-Stop
Pairing: Nick/Joe
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3170
Disclaimer: So, so made up. Also, terrible abuse of commas and semicolons.
Joe steals the camera.
He can't help himself. He falls in love with it. Sure, all the props for the shoot are totally awesome and the clothes rock. And as far as he's concerned, there's no such thing as too many takes for that one shot during the transition bridge where Nick twists away from the camera and Joe straightens his cuffs, steps up, grabs that badass old-time microphone and fucking wails.
But the camera is his favorite. The weight and heft of it, looking down into to the sight, the click of the shutter that is so much more satisfying than any digital camera could be. They don't let him use the real one in rehearsals, which is annoying and mildly insulting.
It's too old and delicate, and apparently the crew has decided it's Joe's mission to lose their security deposit to the prop company, and all the props he uses should be locked in a closet whenever they aren't filming.
This particular development occurred sometime after Joe surfed his costume rack down the hallway. With all the clothes still on it, which he though really added to the creativity of the venture. With Joe buried in all the itchy wool sweater vests, tuxedo jackets and pleated khakis, it kind of looked like the costume rack had had enough of its life of servitude and was making a break for freedom.
And it must have been a new rack, because with just a couple good shoves of his foot, Joe shot all the way down the hallway.
And then, unexpectedly and totally by chance, into the stairwell and down the first flight of stairs.
"No accident, my friend," Joe corrects Kevin, when he's trying to explain to their parents how Joe ended up underneath 20 items of clothes and a metal rack at the bottom of 15 concrete steps.
"That there was pure serendipity."
***
The next time Joe comes into the prop room, the table that normally holds his props is empty, and the name card that used to say JOE now reads CONAN THE DESTROYER. Joe takes a Sharpie from his pocket and signs the card 'Peace, love and always wear a glove, Conie.'
Nick wanders in, his Gibson slung across his chest, and leans his hip against the table. He eyes the new name card and snorts under his breath, but hands Joe his Diet Coke for a sip.
Joe's totally cool with who he is and the role he plays in this indelible triad he and his brothers have created. It's who he is- playful, impulsive, goofy. He knows none of them would be able to enjoy their crazy lives half as much if it wasn't for him.
It's just weird sometimes, to be trusted less than his baby brother.
"It didn't even break," Joe offers.
Nick nods, and picks out a few bars of 'Get Back'. Smiles up at Joe, lets him drape himself against Nick's warm back, reach over his shoulder and strum.
***
So, the first time Joe gets to use the camera is when they start shooting the scene on the yacht. It's a beautiful day, and the year has been so crazy, it's been ages since Joe got to hang out by the ocean.
The smell of it is all up in his nose, and he can feel the salt spray on his face, even through all the makeup.
He's struck by an intense, almost irresistible urge to dive straight over the side of the boat into the blue water. But stupid Kevin, who Joe swears can read his mind sometimes (but only for purposes of evil, like ruining any fun ideas Joe comes up with), shoots him an "I will smother you in your sleep with your own far-too-vast scarf collection" look when he sees Joe leaning a little too far over the railing.
It takes forever to get those scenes finished. The wind seems determined to ruin every shot.
Camilla's hair keeps blowing so completely over her face that everything but her mouth and chin get obscured. Kev's hat sails entirely off the boat at one point and they have to break for the costume lady to find a replacement. Nick's carefully parted and shellacked hair keeps breaking loose and swirling into a wild birds nest on top of his head.
"You look like Eraserhead," Joe comments, standing off to the side as three makeup techs cluster around Nick.
"Yeah," Nick retorts, "Well, you look like Jeff Goldblum."
"Oh, snap! Just wait 'til the alien invasion comes and see if I save your ass then."
Nick grins, but he's in professional mode. Joe knows he could make as many jokes as he could come up with about Nick's hair containing more product than the population of the former Soviet Union had access to in a year, but he won't get Nick to mess around.
It makes Joe feel like Nick could almost be old enough to be his character in the video; old enough to watch friends get married, help them move into their houses, go to war. Old enough to leave Joe behind.
It makes him want to grab Nick, mess up his hair, shove his face in Joe's armpit, fart on him or something. He doesn't like how different Nick looks to him; a distant, older stranger.
***
Joe watches every shot he's not in through the faded lens of that old camera.
He feels like he can see just how the video will turn out through that lens, all the images Nick imagined and described to him in the dark of their room months ago solidifying now into an awesome reality.
Joe's life is so cool.
When the shoot wraps, it's one in the morning and delirium set in hours ago. Joe walks right to his dressing room still holding the camera in his had. He's learned from experience that if you walk with purpose (and are a rock star worth millions), no one will question where the fuck you think you're going with that. He slips it in his backpack and goes to pull Nick from behind the drum kit still set up on stage.
They pose for each other in the hotel room, giggling and silly, snapping pictures with an empty camera, pictures they'll never see again.
Joe poses for mug shots, face forward and screaming a silent psycho scream into the camera; sideways with a middle finger snuck up by his jaw, his bicep flexed ridiculously. Nick jogs around the room like Rocky, while Joe prompts him like in Austin Powers.
Joe wants to take a Superman picture, so he makes Nick take running leaps at the bed and launch himself, arms and legs stuck straight out, and tries to snap the picture at just the right time. Nick smashes ridiculously onto the bed each time, rebounds into the wall once, bounces with a squawk entirely off and onto the floor in a jumble of limbs. Joe's stomach hurts from laughing and his laughter almost sounds like sobs.
There is a moment on the fifth try, the split second when the shutter clicks down, where Joe can see the picture that would develop on film.
Nick, flushed and easy. Laughing and looking like the 16-year-old kid he should be, suspended in horizontal flight.
Joe sits down on the bed. Nick's spread-eagled across the mattress now, his head dangling upside down over the side, trying to catch his breath. Joe puts the camera down carefully next to him on the bedspread. He watched Nick's chest rise and fall, wants to feel his heart beating, just for a second. He follows the impulse and lets his hand rest on Nick's chest.
Nick looks up at him, stops breathing. His eyes are dark and serious and open and honest, and Joe's throat closes tight. He feels like he might throw up.
"Aw, Nicky," he says, flexing his fingers in Nick's shirt.
"Joe," Nick starts, his voice cracking a little, like it used to back when all this first began.
Joe goes to take a shower.
***
Joe comes out of the bathroom a half hour later, rubbing his hair with a towel. He had to lather, rinse and repeat three times to get all the product out.
Nick is sitting propped against the headboard, guitar in his lap. His head jerks up when Joe comes in.
"What do you think about doing a cover of 'All the Young Dudes'?" he asks.
"I think that'd be pretty awesome. I mean, I guess as young dudes, it is our responsibility to carry the news, right?" Joe plops down next to Nick on the bed, slings the towel across the room, cheering a little when it lands on a lampshade.
Nick laughs. "Guess so."
Nick plays the intro softly, hitting a chord wrong here and there and cursing under his breath. After he messes up one too many times for his own standards, he trails off and they sit for a minute, finally feeling the fatigue hit like a ton of bricks. Joe tugs idly at a string coming off his shorts.
He lets his head roll heavily onto Nick's shoulder and thinks about how it used to be skinny and narrow, uncomfortable to lean on. Nick starts playing again, haltingly, and Joe picks out the bars of 'Lost Cause' and hums along.
"Baby I'm a lost, baby I'm a lost, baby I'm a lost cause," Nick whisper-sings.
And it's so late and so quiet it seems like a waking dream, and Joe drifts a little, here in this room, just the two of them.
***
"Joe," Nick is whispering. "Joe."
It's dark in the room, and they've slid down in the bed. Joe's arm is draped across Nick's chest, his knee touching Nick's thigh, his chest pressed against Nick's side.
"Huh? You okay?" Joe presses his head further into the warm space between Nick's neck and the pillow. He yawns, and fights the heavy draw of sleep.
"Yeah." Nick stops then for a minute, and then continues hesitantly. "Do you- Sometimes, I don't even remember what life was like before."
"Before what, Nicky?"
Joe can feel him shake his head, feels his hot cheek brush against Joe's forehead.
"Before all of this." Nick gestures vaguely at the spacious hotel room. "Sometimes I can't even remember- God, I can't remember who I was before this, before the band. I don't even know if I'm a real person anymore, Joe, or just a character in one huge never-ending show!"
Nick's voice catches, rough and unsteady, and Joe feels his stomach twist. He sits up, grabs Nick's wrist.
"Nicky..."
"Am I real, Joe? Please, tell me I'm real. You're the only person I feel real around anymore. I can't- I can't, Joe."
Nick's words are tumbling out one on top of another, and he's breathing in shallow, hitching pants. Joe can see Nick in his mind, as clear as the day it happened, lying in that hospital bed asking if he was going to die.
He feels a dark, sharp anger rise in his throat, and his hand clenches around Nick's wrist and he pulls, hard.
Nick's body jerks forward and their forehead knock together, and then Joe is grabbing Nick's shoulders, his back, trying to get a hold on him, and Nick, Nick is fighting him. Shoving Joe, throwing elbows and knees and shit, Joe thinks he might be crying, but it's hard to tell over the cursing.
"Nick!" Joe grunts, catching an elbow in the gut, not letting go. "Nick, don't ever think that! You're my brother, you're always my brother, that's always the same!"
Nick shakes his head hard, and tips his head down against Joe's collarbone. Joe's got his arms around Nick now, tight like a restraint. Nick's body is taut and quivering and Joe thinks he could try to bolt.
Nick mumbles into Joe's neck, "Joe, I- everything is so crazy, and our lives are so far from normal... I get afraid its making me not normal. I- I'm not right."
"What are you talking about, Nick?!" Joe's palms are sweating and the room feels close and hot and so far away from the rest of the world.
Joe threads his fingers through Nick's hair, still stiff and tacky from the shoot, and pulls his head back so he can see his face.
Nick's forehead is creased with worry, his eyes too bright, and he looks wild, uncontrolled, and needful. Joe is frozen, his hand still clenched in Nick's hair, holding his head in place.
Nick's eyes flick down to Joe's mouth and his tongue flicks out to lick his lower lip. He makes a broken little sound in the back of his throat. Joe can't stop staring at his face, Nick looks agonized, torn apart, and its making Joe terrified down to his very bones.
"Joe, " Nick whispers, and he hasn't heard this voice from Nick since he was a little kid, waking up scared from a nightmare.
Joe leans forward, presses a dry kiss to the corner of Nick's mouth. He really just wants to calm Nick down, anchor him, reassure him that Joe's here, he's always here. Nick's hot, humid breath puffs against Joe's cheek, and his cock pulses in his sweats. Joe doesn't move away, can't move at all, just stays there, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air.
When Nick speaks, his lips brush against Joe's.
"Joe. Okay, Joe? This is okay?"
This is so wrong. This is everything Joe promised himself he would never do, every dark thought he said he'd never ever act on, because... because there are an infinite number of reasons why he won't do this, reasons he went over and over at night for months. Joe thought he was done with this, thought he had confronted and dealt with this particular demon and conquered it. Or at least gotten it under control.
Joe realizes now he was kidding himself. He doesn't have it under control. Not at all.
"Yeah," Joe breathes, and then Nick has turned his head half an inch and sealed his mouth over Joe's.
He's kissing Joe like its the only thing keeping him alive, licking into his mouth with a slick burning tongue, biting his lower lip, pushing Joe down onto the bed. Nick's hands are everywhere, mapping Joe's chest, yanking his shirt up over his head, pressing bruises into Joe's shoulders.
Joe feels drunk, feels like his brain has the spins. He thinks his organs might start boiling if he gets any hotter. He's hard, so hard, and he's dying for some kind of friction. His hips are twitching, his fingers still in Nick's hair, clenching convulsively.
He pulls, hard, and Nick's head comes up. Joe holds him at arms length, tugging a little, and Nick doesn't even wince, just stares back at Joe, pupils dilated, mouth red and wet, hanging open with his heavy breaths.
"Don't, Joe. Please. I need... something." Nick's voice is low, rough. "I need to feel like I'm really here."
Joe can count on one hand the number of times he's said 'no' to Nick in his whole life. He's not going to say it now.
"Okay, Nicky. Okay." Nick releases a huge shaky breath, and a little of the tension drains from his shoulders, but he's still trembling. Joe flips them over, settles his body over Nick's, pressing him into the mattress. He drops kisses down Nick's neck and chest, bites his collarbone lightly. Nick lets out a wavery moan, and Joe puts his hand over Nick's mouth.
"Shh, quiet, okay Nick?" Nick nods jerkily, and Joe reaches down, tugs at Nick's pajama pants. Nick kicks them off and uses his foot to push Joe's sweats down around his ankles. He hooks a calf around the back of Joe's leg. Joe's arms give out and he falls on top of Nick with an 'oomph'. Their hipbones click together and Joe can feel Nick's erection slide against his.
Nick thrashes his head on the pillow, and Joe's eyes roll back into his head and he thinks he might die from it all.
"Joe, c'mon, c'mon, move," Nick groans, and grabs Joe's hip. "C'mon, it's good, yeah?"
Joe nods and tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He strokes his hand down the side of Nick's face, wipes away a bead of sweat and leans down to kiss him again. He rocks his hips down against Nick's, hears Nick's breath catch and does it again.
Nick's legs spread and draw up underneath his, and their dicks slide agonizingly together. Joe rocks steadily into the cradle of Nick's pelvis, listening to the sounds he makes, until Nick's face contorts and he grabs Joe's bicep, locks his thighs around him and shudders until he's boneless.
Joe buries his face in the sweaty crook of Nick's neck and pushes against him, faster now, and God, its so much better than he ever imagined. Nick holds onto him until Joe's mind goes blank and white and he comes, shaking and panting.
***
They lie like that for a while, their chests rising and falling in a disjointed rhythm until it starts to get really sticky and Joe flops off onto his back. They use their discarded pants to clean up.
Joe keeps expecting a crushing wave of guilt to crash over him at any second. It should. He just totally took advantage of Nick, didn't he?
But it doesn't happen. He feels tired and wrung out, but good. Nick turns his head toward Joe and smiles, this sweet little smile, and Joe just feels so happy that he could make Nick feel better, that he could give him what he needed. Joe smoothes down Nick's hair affectionately, gives his hand a squeeze, and Nick closes his eyes.
Joe falls asleep almost right away, like he always does after he comes. He wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later. It's just starting to get light outside. He gets up to take a piss.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Nick's still asleep. He's lying on his back, one hand resting on his chest, the other arm flung out, reaching towards the side of the bed that still hold the imprint of Joe's body. Nick's head is turned toward that side.
In his sleep, Nick looks his age. His face is smooth, clear, still holding a little bit of that baby softness in his cheeks. He looks happy.
Joe picks up the camera. He takes his time looking through the viewfinder, fiddling with the dials for the focus and shutter speed.
He snaps a photo.
If there were any film in the camera, he would save the picture to show to Nick. To remind him who he is. To remind Nick that Joe knows who he is, knows what he's about, knows where he's going.
But Joe doesn't need the picture to do that. And that's kind of the whole point, isn't it?
you guys... this is the first piece of writing i've finished in FOUR years! poem, prose, anything. this is totally rough, unbetaed, and i'm terrible at writing porn, but whatever. i'm just so happy to have finished something.
this is sort of in response to onelittlesleep 's 'Lovebug' ficlet prompt from last week. but i write super slowly, and this turned into something much longer than a ficlet, so...
Title: F-Stop
Pairing: Nick/Joe
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3170
Disclaimer: So, so made up. Also, terrible abuse of commas and semicolons.
Joe steals the camera.
He can't help himself. He falls in love with it. Sure, all the props for the shoot are totally awesome and the clothes rock. And as far as he's concerned, there's no such thing as too many takes for that one shot during the transition bridge where Nick twists away from the camera and Joe straightens his cuffs, steps up, grabs that badass old-time microphone and fucking wails.
But the camera is his favorite. The weight and heft of it, looking down into to the sight, the click of the shutter that is so much more satisfying than any digital camera could be. They don't let him use the real one in rehearsals, which is annoying and mildly insulting.
It's too old and delicate, and apparently the crew has decided it's Joe's mission to lose their security deposit to the prop company, and all the props he uses should be locked in a closet whenever they aren't filming.
This particular development occurred sometime after Joe surfed his costume rack down the hallway. With all the clothes still on it, which he though really added to the creativity of the venture. With Joe buried in all the itchy wool sweater vests, tuxedo jackets and pleated khakis, it kind of looked like the costume rack had had enough of its life of servitude and was making a break for freedom.
And it must have been a new rack, because with just a couple good shoves of his foot, Joe shot all the way down the hallway.
And then, unexpectedly and totally by chance, into the stairwell and down the first flight of stairs.
"No accident, my friend," Joe corrects Kevin, when he's trying to explain to their parents how Joe ended up underneath 20 items of clothes and a metal rack at the bottom of 15 concrete steps.
"That there was pure serendipity."
***
The next time Joe comes into the prop room, the table that normally holds his props is empty, and the name card that used to say JOE now reads CONAN THE DESTROYER. Joe takes a Sharpie from his pocket and signs the card 'Peace, love and always wear a glove, Conie.'
Nick wanders in, his Gibson slung across his chest, and leans his hip against the table. He eyes the new name card and snorts under his breath, but hands Joe his Diet Coke for a sip.
Joe's totally cool with who he is and the role he plays in this indelible triad he and his brothers have created. It's who he is- playful, impulsive, goofy. He knows none of them would be able to enjoy their crazy lives half as much if it wasn't for him.
It's just weird sometimes, to be trusted less than his baby brother.
"It didn't even break," Joe offers.
Nick nods, and picks out a few bars of 'Get Back'. Smiles up at Joe, lets him drape himself against Nick's warm back, reach over his shoulder and strum.
***
So, the first time Joe gets to use the camera is when they start shooting the scene on the yacht. It's a beautiful day, and the year has been so crazy, it's been ages since Joe got to hang out by the ocean.
The smell of it is all up in his nose, and he can feel the salt spray on his face, even through all the makeup.
He's struck by an intense, almost irresistible urge to dive straight over the side of the boat into the blue water. But stupid Kevin, who Joe swears can read his mind sometimes (but only for purposes of evil, like ruining any fun ideas Joe comes up with), shoots him an "I will smother you in your sleep with your own far-too-vast scarf collection" look when he sees Joe leaning a little too far over the railing.
It takes forever to get those scenes finished. The wind seems determined to ruin every shot.
Camilla's hair keeps blowing so completely over her face that everything but her mouth and chin get obscured. Kev's hat sails entirely off the boat at one point and they have to break for the costume lady to find a replacement. Nick's carefully parted and shellacked hair keeps breaking loose and swirling into a wild birds nest on top of his head.
"You look like Eraserhead," Joe comments, standing off to the side as three makeup techs cluster around Nick.
"Yeah," Nick retorts, "Well, you look like Jeff Goldblum."
"Oh, snap! Just wait 'til the alien invasion comes and see if I save your ass then."
Nick grins, but he's in professional mode. Joe knows he could make as many jokes as he could come up with about Nick's hair containing more product than the population of the former Soviet Union had access to in a year, but he won't get Nick to mess around.
It makes Joe feel like Nick could almost be old enough to be his character in the video; old enough to watch friends get married, help them move into their houses, go to war. Old enough to leave Joe behind.
It makes him want to grab Nick, mess up his hair, shove his face in Joe's armpit, fart on him or something. He doesn't like how different Nick looks to him; a distant, older stranger.
***
Joe watches every shot he's not in through the faded lens of that old camera.
He feels like he can see just how the video will turn out through that lens, all the images Nick imagined and described to him in the dark of their room months ago solidifying now into an awesome reality.
Joe's life is so cool.
When the shoot wraps, it's one in the morning and delirium set in hours ago. Joe walks right to his dressing room still holding the camera in his had. He's learned from experience that if you walk with purpose (and are a rock star worth millions), no one will question where the fuck you think you're going with that. He slips it in his backpack and goes to pull Nick from behind the drum kit still set up on stage.
They pose for each other in the hotel room, giggling and silly, snapping pictures with an empty camera, pictures they'll never see again.
Joe poses for mug shots, face forward and screaming a silent psycho scream into the camera; sideways with a middle finger snuck up by his jaw, his bicep flexed ridiculously. Nick jogs around the room like Rocky, while Joe prompts him like in Austin Powers.
Joe wants to take a Superman picture, so he makes Nick take running leaps at the bed and launch himself, arms and legs stuck straight out, and tries to snap the picture at just the right time. Nick smashes ridiculously onto the bed each time, rebounds into the wall once, bounces with a squawk entirely off and onto the floor in a jumble of limbs. Joe's stomach hurts from laughing and his laughter almost sounds like sobs.
There is a moment on the fifth try, the split second when the shutter clicks down, where Joe can see the picture that would develop on film.
Nick, flushed and easy. Laughing and looking like the 16-year-old kid he should be, suspended in horizontal flight.
Joe sits down on the bed. Nick's spread-eagled across the mattress now, his head dangling upside down over the side, trying to catch his breath. Joe puts the camera down carefully next to him on the bedspread. He watched Nick's chest rise and fall, wants to feel his heart beating, just for a second. He follows the impulse and lets his hand rest on Nick's chest.
Nick looks up at him, stops breathing. His eyes are dark and serious and open and honest, and Joe's throat closes tight. He feels like he might throw up.
"Aw, Nicky," he says, flexing his fingers in Nick's shirt.
"Joe," Nick starts, his voice cracking a little, like it used to back when all this first began.
Joe goes to take a shower.
***
Joe comes out of the bathroom a half hour later, rubbing his hair with a towel. He had to lather, rinse and repeat three times to get all the product out.
Nick is sitting propped against the headboard, guitar in his lap. His head jerks up when Joe comes in.
"What do you think about doing a cover of 'All the Young Dudes'?" he asks.
"I think that'd be pretty awesome. I mean, I guess as young dudes, it is our responsibility to carry the news, right?" Joe plops down next to Nick on the bed, slings the towel across the room, cheering a little when it lands on a lampshade.
Nick laughs. "Guess so."
Nick plays the intro softly, hitting a chord wrong here and there and cursing under his breath. After he messes up one too many times for his own standards, he trails off and they sit for a minute, finally feeling the fatigue hit like a ton of bricks. Joe tugs idly at a string coming off his shorts.
He lets his head roll heavily onto Nick's shoulder and thinks about how it used to be skinny and narrow, uncomfortable to lean on. Nick starts playing again, haltingly, and Joe picks out the bars of 'Lost Cause' and hums along.
"Baby I'm a lost, baby I'm a lost, baby I'm a lost cause," Nick whisper-sings.
And it's so late and so quiet it seems like a waking dream, and Joe drifts a little, here in this room, just the two of them.
***
"Joe," Nick is whispering. "Joe."
It's dark in the room, and they've slid down in the bed. Joe's arm is draped across Nick's chest, his knee touching Nick's thigh, his chest pressed against Nick's side.
"Huh? You okay?" Joe presses his head further into the warm space between Nick's neck and the pillow. He yawns, and fights the heavy draw of sleep.
"Yeah." Nick stops then for a minute, and then continues hesitantly. "Do you- Sometimes, I don't even remember what life was like before."
"Before what, Nicky?"
Joe can feel him shake his head, feels his hot cheek brush against Joe's forehead.
"Before all of this." Nick gestures vaguely at the spacious hotel room. "Sometimes I can't even remember- God, I can't remember who I was before this, before the band. I don't even know if I'm a real person anymore, Joe, or just a character in one huge never-ending show!"
Nick's voice catches, rough and unsteady, and Joe feels his stomach twist. He sits up, grabs Nick's wrist.
"Nicky..."
"Am I real, Joe? Please, tell me I'm real. You're the only person I feel real around anymore. I can't- I can't, Joe."
Nick's words are tumbling out one on top of another, and he's breathing in shallow, hitching pants. Joe can see Nick in his mind, as clear as the day it happened, lying in that hospital bed asking if he was going to die.
He feels a dark, sharp anger rise in his throat, and his hand clenches around Nick's wrist and he pulls, hard.
Nick's body jerks forward and their forehead knock together, and then Joe is grabbing Nick's shoulders, his back, trying to get a hold on him, and Nick, Nick is fighting him. Shoving Joe, throwing elbows and knees and shit, Joe thinks he might be crying, but it's hard to tell over the cursing.
"Nick!" Joe grunts, catching an elbow in the gut, not letting go. "Nick, don't ever think that! You're my brother, you're always my brother, that's always the same!"
Nick shakes his head hard, and tips his head down against Joe's collarbone. Joe's got his arms around Nick now, tight like a restraint. Nick's body is taut and quivering and Joe thinks he could try to bolt.
Nick mumbles into Joe's neck, "Joe, I- everything is so crazy, and our lives are so far from normal... I get afraid its making me not normal. I- I'm not right."
"What are you talking about, Nick?!" Joe's palms are sweating and the room feels close and hot and so far away from the rest of the world.
Joe threads his fingers through Nick's hair, still stiff and tacky from the shoot, and pulls his head back so he can see his face.
Nick's forehead is creased with worry, his eyes too bright, and he looks wild, uncontrolled, and needful. Joe is frozen, his hand still clenched in Nick's hair, holding his head in place.
Nick's eyes flick down to Joe's mouth and his tongue flicks out to lick his lower lip. He makes a broken little sound in the back of his throat. Joe can't stop staring at his face, Nick looks agonized, torn apart, and its making Joe terrified down to his very bones.
"Joe, " Nick whispers, and he hasn't heard this voice from Nick since he was a little kid, waking up scared from a nightmare.
Joe leans forward, presses a dry kiss to the corner of Nick's mouth. He really just wants to calm Nick down, anchor him, reassure him that Joe's here, he's always here. Nick's hot, humid breath puffs against Joe's cheek, and his cock pulses in his sweats. Joe doesn't move away, can't move at all, just stays there, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air.
When Nick speaks, his lips brush against Joe's.
"Joe. Okay, Joe? This is okay?"
This is so wrong. This is everything Joe promised himself he would never do, every dark thought he said he'd never ever act on, because... because there are an infinite number of reasons why he won't do this, reasons he went over and over at night for months. Joe thought he was done with this, thought he had confronted and dealt with this particular demon and conquered it. Or at least gotten it under control.
Joe realizes now he was kidding himself. He doesn't have it under control. Not at all.
"Yeah," Joe breathes, and then Nick has turned his head half an inch and sealed his mouth over Joe's.
He's kissing Joe like its the only thing keeping him alive, licking into his mouth with a slick burning tongue, biting his lower lip, pushing Joe down onto the bed. Nick's hands are everywhere, mapping Joe's chest, yanking his shirt up over his head, pressing bruises into Joe's shoulders.
Joe feels drunk, feels like his brain has the spins. He thinks his organs might start boiling if he gets any hotter. He's hard, so hard, and he's dying for some kind of friction. His hips are twitching, his fingers still in Nick's hair, clenching convulsively.
He pulls, hard, and Nick's head comes up. Joe holds him at arms length, tugging a little, and Nick doesn't even wince, just stares back at Joe, pupils dilated, mouth red and wet, hanging open with his heavy breaths.
"Don't, Joe. Please. I need... something." Nick's voice is low, rough. "I need to feel like I'm really here."
Joe can count on one hand the number of times he's said 'no' to Nick in his whole life. He's not going to say it now.
"Okay, Nicky. Okay." Nick releases a huge shaky breath, and a little of the tension drains from his shoulders, but he's still trembling. Joe flips them over, settles his body over Nick's, pressing him into the mattress. He drops kisses down Nick's neck and chest, bites his collarbone lightly. Nick lets out a wavery moan, and Joe puts his hand over Nick's mouth.
"Shh, quiet, okay Nick?" Nick nods jerkily, and Joe reaches down, tugs at Nick's pajama pants. Nick kicks them off and uses his foot to push Joe's sweats down around his ankles. He hooks a calf around the back of Joe's leg. Joe's arms give out and he falls on top of Nick with an 'oomph'. Their hipbones click together and Joe can feel Nick's erection slide against his.
Nick thrashes his head on the pillow, and Joe's eyes roll back into his head and he thinks he might die from it all.
"Joe, c'mon, c'mon, move," Nick groans, and grabs Joe's hip. "C'mon, it's good, yeah?"
Joe nods and tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He strokes his hand down the side of Nick's face, wipes away a bead of sweat and leans down to kiss him again. He rocks his hips down against Nick's, hears Nick's breath catch and does it again.
Nick's legs spread and draw up underneath his, and their dicks slide agonizingly together. Joe rocks steadily into the cradle of Nick's pelvis, listening to the sounds he makes, until Nick's face contorts and he grabs Joe's bicep, locks his thighs around him and shudders until he's boneless.
Joe buries his face in the sweaty crook of Nick's neck and pushes against him, faster now, and God, its so much better than he ever imagined. Nick holds onto him until Joe's mind goes blank and white and he comes, shaking and panting.
***
They lie like that for a while, their chests rising and falling in a disjointed rhythm until it starts to get really sticky and Joe flops off onto his back. They use their discarded pants to clean up.
Joe keeps expecting a crushing wave of guilt to crash over him at any second. It should. He just totally took advantage of Nick, didn't he?
But it doesn't happen. He feels tired and wrung out, but good. Nick turns his head toward Joe and smiles, this sweet little smile, and Joe just feels so happy that he could make Nick feel better, that he could give him what he needed. Joe smoothes down Nick's hair affectionately, gives his hand a squeeze, and Nick closes his eyes.
Joe falls asleep almost right away, like he always does after he comes. He wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later. It's just starting to get light outside. He gets up to take a piss.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Nick's still asleep. He's lying on his back, one hand resting on his chest, the other arm flung out, reaching towards the side of the bed that still hold the imprint of Joe's body. Nick's head is turned toward that side.
In his sleep, Nick looks his age. His face is smooth, clear, still holding a little bit of that baby softness in his cheeks. He looks happy.
Joe picks up the camera. He takes his time looking through the viewfinder, fiddling with the dials for the focus and shutter speed.
He snaps a photo.
If there were any film in the camera, he would save the picture to show to Nick. To remind him who he is. To remind Nick that Joe knows who he is, knows what he's about, knows where he's going.
But Joe doesn't need the picture to do that. And that's kind of the whole point, isn't it?