Archive of Our Own

Things start getting weird in June.

They've been touring so much that Joe's used to the ups and downs, and this is just another down. He knows that. There are always stretches like this, endless towns and endless miles traveled between shows, everything getting monotonous. That's the rhythm of life on the road; for two hours every day he's a rock star doing the most exciting thing in the world, and for the other twenty-two he's bored and stir-crazy. They're rarely in any one place long enough for two meals, and he can't count the times Kevin has handed menus back to a waitress in a pit stop restaurant and said, I'm sorry, ma'am, but what state is this?

It's Wisconsin today, the halfway point between Milwaukee and Chicago. The town they stop in barely qualifies as civilization; it's just a collection of tiny houses and some roadside amenities, as random and disposable-looking as one of Frankie's old Playskool village sets.

"Charming," Nick drawls when they pile off the bus. It's so hot out that Joe's shirt sticks to his skin in less than a minute, but they've all been cooped up too long to even think about staying inside.

He wanders into the gas station convenience store and buys a popsicle and a five dollar pair of sunglasses. The girl behind the counter is probably JT's age, late twenties if she's a day, but she doesn't say anything when she rings him up. She seems more interested in the hooting of Kevin and Garbo at the magazine rack behind him.

"Have a swell day," he says when he hands her the signed receipt. She looks at it and looks at him, a flicker of recognition passing over her face, and he smiles as he walks back out into the wall of heat.

Nick's leaning against a wall advertisement for cigarettes, his fingers moving in an absent chord progression against his thigh.

"What's the haps?" Joe says, trying out his new shades. They're purple plastic with little stars at the hinges, and they make everything look neon orange.

Nick shrugs and smiles. "Thinking about a song."

Joe peels the wrapper off his popsicle and bites off the tip. "What's it about?"

"I don't know yet, I've just got a melody. I think I want to do a country song."

"Country?" Joe repeats. "What, like, a 'my heart is broken and my pick-up broke down' kinda thing?"

Nick shrugs. "Maybe something slightly less cliché, but yeah."

"You just want to make Kevin learn how to play the banjo, don't you?"

Nick laughs a little and tosses his hands up. "You got me," he says dryly.

The sunlight glares sharply off the buses from across the parking lot. They probably stick out like a sore thumb in this scrubby little town, but he doubts anyone's going to approach them. It's a little weird to look up at the sky and realize he's in the middle of nowhere, a place where no one is interested in taking his picture or tweeting about his location.

"It's so freaking hot," he says eventually.

"Pretty much," Nick says, shielding his eyes from the sun. Joe tugs his sunglasses off and slides them on Nick's face. One of the plastic arms catches on his cheek, but Nick just sits there and lets him shove them on.

"Better?" Joe says, squinting at him. They look ten times more ridiculous on Nick than they did in the tiny mirror where Joe tried them on.

"Not really. Did you pay money for these?"

"Shut up, they're awesome. You should go buy yourself a pair. They have ones with heart-shaped frames, dude. That's so you."

"Wow, how can I resist?"

Joe sucks the syrup out of the tip of his popsicle, the ice turning gray before he takes a bite. It's already melting a little, dripping purple liquid against the back of his wrist. He glances over, catching Nick in a stare, and holds it out.

"Want some?"

Nick doesn't take it from him, he just leans in and bites a small chunk off, shutting his eyes as he swallows it. It only looks slightly dirty, but Joe snickers at him.

Nick rolls his eyes.

"You're an idiot," he says. "It's purple, and it's, like, half-eaten. It doesn't even remotely look like a dick anymore."

"Man, get your mind out of the gutter," Joe says, licking up the side of it as obscenely as he can. He taps his tongue against the end of it and raises his eyebrows. "Does this make you uncomfortable, Nicholas? That's Freudian. It means you're a huge pervert."

"Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Jonas," Nick says, kicking at the gravel. "You're the one, like, going down on a popsicle."

"Going down on a popsicle," Joe repeats, snorting with laughter. He's so bored that everything seems ten times more hilarious than it actually is. "You're such a dork."

"What's so funny?" Kevin says, wandering over.

"Blowjobs," Joe says merrily.

"Right," Kevin says, holding out the word and glancing between them. His default in these situations is to pretend he knows what's going on. "I hear they were a vaudeville staple."

Joe waves the popsicle in his direction. "You want in on this? Tag-team?"

"Uh, I'm good," Kevin says. "Joe. Joe, I said I'm—"

Kevin takes off for the bus and Joe lunges after him, flecks of ice melting down his forearm as he chases him around the gas pumps. It's too hot, though, and he gives up after a few minutes and lopes back over to Nick.

"Moron," Joe says fondly, waving at Kevin as he flips them off from the door of the bus. He leans his elbow against Nick's shoulder, one of his favorite poses, and takes another bite of the popsicle. He offers it to Nick again afterwards, like he didn't just bellow take it, baby, take it while shoving it in Kevin's face.

Nick pushes the sunglasses up to the top of his head and squints over at him.

"Seriously?" he says. "After all that?"

Joe just waggles his eyebrows, but he breaks into a loud, bright laugh when Nick leans over and sucks off another piece. He really goes for it, slurping his way down and licking at a droplet that drips onto his chin. When he straightens up he's pink-cheeked and laughing as much as Joe.

They're just really bored, he thinks, and they're starting to take it out on each other.

*

"I have the hiccups," Nick says in Memphis. He flops next to Joe on the couch, his whole body hitching as he tries to swallow one down.

"Did you do the drinking upside-down thing?" Joe says absently.

Nick nods and furrows his eyebrows. "I've had them for, like, an hour. I tried everything."

"Hold your breath."

Nick rolls his eyes. "Do you seriously think that wasn't the first thing I did? I'm going to get brain damage if I hold it any more."

Joe chucks his magazine on the coffee table, unable to keep from grinning when Nick tries to hold back another hiccup. He presses his hand against Nick's sternum, like he'll be able to feel the air bubble.

"Should I call a doctor?" he says. "Maybe an ambulance? Or, wait, does the National Guard have a hotline?"

Nick bats his hand away and huffs. "Try to scare me."

"Um." Joe hooks his thumbs in the corners of his mouth and pulls them to the side, using his fingers to push up his nose. "Boo."

"I'm – ugh – serious," Nick says plaintively. Joe keeps his fingers there, blinking at him a few times. "It's the only thing I haven't tried yet."

Joe finally lets go. "The world's supply of fugly argyle sweater-vests is in danger of running out."

"I hate you."

"How am I supposed to scare you if you know it's coming?"

Nick shuts his eyes and waves a hand. "Now I don't know it's coming."

Joe just watches him for a moment. Nick's face scrunches up as it happens again, and then his mouth opens a little as he sucks in an injured-sounding breath. Joe leans in a little closer, peering at him. It's kind of funny to watch.

Nick cracks an eye open.

"You're supposed to—"

Joe closes the space between them and kisses him. It's the first thing that comes to mind; it's the last thing Nick would expect, and it does a pretty good job of shutting him up.

Nick tenses and makes a strangled noise that Joe can feel against his lips, his hands flailing up to shove at his shoulders. He doesn't move, though. Joe just leans into a little more, pressing Nick deep in the cushions of the couch and breathing warmly against his cheek. Nick makes that noise again, and in a flash of inspiration Joe digs his fingers into his sides in a sneak-attack of tickles.

Nick's whole body shudders and squirms, and his mouth falls open a little as he loses a burst of helpless laughter in Joe's face. It makes his upper lip catch between Joe's, and Joe tugs on it with a playful little grr noise as his fingers move up to Nick's pits.

Nick curls in on himself helplessly, rolling like he's trying to get away. He's pretty much trapped, though, and the noises he's making go low and impatient as he tilts his face and nips at Joe's bottom lip. It hurts, and Joe wriggles his fingers cruelly, forcing Nick's mouth open more as he huffs and giggles.

He's not totally sure what goes wrong, but somewhere between Nick's laughter and Joe's increasingly obnoxious smooches Nick's tongue winds up knocking against his lips. It's a slick, wet glide, clumsy and warm. A shock of heat hits Joe out of nowhere, making his pulse thud in his ears and his senses go a little fuzzy. Nick's tongue rubs against the edge of Joe's teeth before they break apart.

Nick blinks up at him, face blotchy and pink and a little shell-shocked. Joe swallows.

It's not the first time he's taken a joke too far, not by a long shot, but he doesn't recognize the look Nick's giving him. It's kind of reproachful and kind of overwhelmed, and the back of Joe's neck warms with embarrassment.

"Hey," he says after a second, remembering why the whole thing just happened. He grins, suddenly pleased. "It worked."

It takes Nick another moment before he catches his breath, and then he picks up one of the couch pillows and hits it over Joe's head.

"Thanks, jerk," he says, rolling away and sitting up. He shakes his head and laughs a little, cracking his shoulders.

"I live to serve," Joe chirps, tossing the pillow back in Nick's face. "What do you want for lunch?"

*

A few weeks later they play in Arizona, and Nick's practically bouncing off the walls when they get back to the hotel room.

"Come on," he says when Joe shuts down Nick's challenge to a push-up contest. "It's not that late."

"Dude, it's eleven," Joe says. "You're worse than Frankie. Do I seriously have to tire you out so you'll stop bugging me?"

Nick usually buckles when Joe pushes the age button, but this time he just digs his heels in.

"What's the problem, Grandpa?" He peels his outer shirt off and snaps it in Joe's direction. "Afraid your back might go out?"

Joe pulls his sweatshirt off with a loud sigh and Nick grins.

They both breeze through the first twenty or so, counting them off in tandem. Joe loses himself in the rhythm of it, the room quieting into white noise. When they hit thirty, he can feel his shirt start to soak through at the small of his back, breaths cutting out harsh around thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three. Nick slows a little, each flex of his arms becoming deliberate.

When Joe glances up, Nick's already looking at him. He's flushed, eyes bright, but there's something teasing about the way his mouth pulls up.

He perks his eyebrows, a drip of sweat sliding down his cheek as he breathes, "Sixty-two."

Joe matches his rhythm, arms trembling a little under his weight.

"Are we having fun yet?" he grits out, and Nick loses his next breath in a laugh, teetering for a second when he's all the way up.

"Sixty-eight," he huffs pointedly, and Joe sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. He's not going to punk out on this one, even if he was bone-tired to start with. Nick has a way of teasing out his practically-nonexistent competitive edge.

"Oh my God," he moans when they hit one hundred. He collapses face-first into the floor, laying there for a second before he rolls over. "I need water. Maybe a massage."

"How about a Y chromosome?" Nick suggests, like he's not sprawled there next to him in the same shape.

"Eat me."

Joe tips his head to the side so he can look at him, at the way Nick's chest is moving in a steady heave, his sweat-slick hair stuck to his forehead. He lays there for another minute, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, and then pads over to the mini-bar. He pulls out water for himself and a thing of juice for Nick, basking in the rush of cold air from the little fridge.

"Thanks, Mom," Nick says when he hands him the bottle. He stands up, flexing his shoulders in a slow roll.

"You're welcome, precious." Joe drops into the nearest chair and picks at the sealed cap of his water.

"I gotta say, you did pretty well," Nick says. He takes a swig of juice and smiles, eyes narrowing. "For an old man."

Joe snags a finger in Nick's belt loop and yanks him onto his lap. He crashes down in a damp pile of muscle and elbows, dropping his juice on the table.

"Don't give Uncle Joe any of that lip, whippersnapper," Joe says nasally. He furrows his eyebrows and purses his lips, squinting at him vaguely. "It's about time you learned some respect for your elders."

Nick tips his face down to look at Joe, amused. "How is this punishment, exactly? Other than the way you smell."

Joe makes sure he's got one arm securely wound around Nick's waist before he lifts his other hand in attack.

"No – nonono—" Nick starts, but the second Joe dive-bombs his stomach it gets lost in a helpless, shrieking laugh.

"Yeah," Joe says, doing his best to keep hold of him and go for Nick's pits while he flops around uselessly. "Yeah, that's right. With age comes superior tickling skills and cunning, Nicholas Jo—"

Nick gets him with an elbow in the solar plexus and covers Joe's face with his hand, scrabbling to steady himself. Joe bites at his palm and gets the advantage when Nick yelps and lets go.

"Truce," Nick pants, going pink in the face from laughing. "Truce, you – dick—"

"Language," Joe chides in a not-that-bad imitation of their mom, but he relents.

Nick's just warm, boneless weight on his lap for a few minutes there as they catch their breath.

Joe swallows, the adrenaline of that little slap-fight sparking something weird under his skin. He doesn't feel tired anymore; instead he feels alert, his senses sharp and all attuned to the feeling of Nick's weight in his lap.

"Okay, Uncle Joe," Nick says eventually. "Can I get up now?"

"I guess." He gives Nick's knee a slap. "But next time I'm telling you about my service in Korea."

Joe leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek, because that's what the geriatric relatives on their mom's side always do. It catches on the corner of his mouth, though, right where it's bowed in a smirk, and when Nick turns a little their lips skid together.

It only lasts for a second before Joe pulls back, surprised. He grins automatically, halfway through thinking up a way to laugh it off when Nick suddenly kisses him again. This time it's right on the lips, an affectionate, cushy rub.

Everything in Joe's world jerks abruptly to the side, like he just stumbled off the edge of Splash Mountain. Nick blinks at him afterwards, but neither of them vocalizes the hey, that was weird that lingers in the air.

"You can have first shower," Nick finally says, scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair. "I wanna mess around with a song. I've got something in my head I don't want to lose."

"Sure," Joe says. "Work, work, work."

"That's why I make the big bucks." Nick gets off his lap and pads over to the guitar. He slings it over his shoulder and gives it a strum, looking at Joe. "You want to help?"

"Nah, I'm beat. Not all of us are robots who don't need sleep."

Nick laughs and perches on the arm of the couch. "Your software just needs to be updated."

Joe messes up Nick's hair on his way out of the room, hand lingering at the damp side of his face for a second. Nick smiles and hums.

*

When Joe wakes up the next morning he licks his lips a few times and thinks about it.

He's kissed Nick plenty before – his cheek, his forehead, his band-aid covered knees. Affection is something they've always been able to trade easily, no awkwardness or strings attached. It's just how they work. They share clothes and eat off each other’s plates and text if they’re apart for more than a few hours. Everyone in the family has two phones, but when someone wants to find Nick they just ask Joe. They're always bleeding into each other's space and doing things that would be weird with anyone else. It's almost a survival technique in their family; Kevin's always had Dad, Mom dotes on Frankie, and Nick and Joe are – Nick and Joe.

When he thinks about it like that, it doesn't seem like a huge deal.

They stay up late after the show that night, too wired for sleep. It's the three of them for a while, until Kevin deserts and then it's just Joe and Nick.

"I can't believe I'm almost nineteen," he's saying, trying to balance a drum stick on one finger. "I mean, I know that's not old-old, but it's, like. Old. It's practically not even a -teen anymore. It's a totally useless year. What's the point? Eighteen is a big deal, and twenty is kind of cool because it's, like, twenty, but nineteen is old without any perks."

Nick's strumming the guitar gently. He does it all the time, playing little tunes as absently as Joe would bend up a paperclip or chew on a pen. When he starts singing under his breath, though, Joe furrows his eyebrows.

"You're not listening to me at all, are you?"

Nick grins and shakes his head, still tapping his foot on the floor.

"I hate you. You're my least favorite brother."

"We both know that's not true," Nick says. It comes out tinged with a melody, like it's part of the song he's plucking out.

Joe stands up, not really sure where he's going until he's across the room. He sits on the arm of Nick's chair and watches him play from that angle, close enough that Nick's elbow brushes his side.

"I was listening," Nick finally admits, glancing up at him. "And I have some really exciting news. The average person lives till eighty these days, so you don't have to buy a walker just yet."

"Thanks, brainiac," Joe says, messing up his hair.

Nick's fingers go still on his guitar as he tips his head back and smiles at him. He gives Joe's knee a little punch, and Joe suddenly wants to kiss him. The thought comes out of nowhere, shocking him even as it moves his gaze down to Nick's mouth. It's just – it's just that he's pretty sure he could. He's pretty sure Nick would let him.

It's not a very good reason to do something, but it's one Joe uses a lot.

He leans in a little, watching the way Nick's lips twitch and part as he pulls in a breath. He catches his eye then, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for Nick to pull back.

Instead, Nick meets him halfway.

Something warm pools in his stomach as the wet inner skin of Nick's lip catches on his. Nick's hands come up out of nowhere, cradling Joe's jaw earnestly, how he might kiss girls.

Seconds roll by, too many seconds, but they stay there like that. Nick's tongue touches cautiously at Joe's mouth, and before he can think it through Joe opens up for it. The tip of his tongue sweeps against Nick's in a sweet little roll; he tastes like boy spit, a distinction Joe never knew existed. His lips aren't glossy or smooth or sweet; they're rough, chapped, dented a little from the way Nick's been biting the bottom one while he plays. His tongue darts up under Joe's lip, sweeping gently against his teeth.

Joe breathes hard against Nick's cheek, struck dumb by how easy it is.

Nick just stares at him when it's over. His eyes look huge and his mouth is parted a little around his breaths.

"Um," Joe says.

Nick kisses him again, like it's a challenge – just one, and then another and another, hot little stabs of his mouth that Joe automatically returns.

When they break apart again, Nick's shaking like he needs to eat something. Joe thumbs at the side of his neck, winded by that sudden reminder of how fragile Nick actually is.

"Don't," Nick says after a second, like he can read something in his face. "Don't get like that, Joe. Please."

He tugs at the front of Joe's shirt like he's asking for something, but Joe has no idea what. He doesn't even know what he's getting like, because he doesn't know what's going on. The taste of those kisses is still lingering in the corners of his mouth, and he swallows a few times as he stares at Nick.

"What are we doing?" he finally says.

"I think they call it kissing."

"Seriously, dude."

"I don't know," Nick says, shifting in his chair. "What do you think it is?"

"Uh, I don't know." Nick lets go of his shirt and looks down at his guitar, and Joe's palms tingle with nerves. There's still enough time to walk away from this, he's pretty sure. They could just let it go and play Xbox or something, no big deal.

But for some reason he doesn’t really want to, and he gets the feeling Nick doesn't either. It's just – interesting. He's never really thought about it before, but it suddenly seems like something they could actually do.

"Practice?" he suggests.

"Practice," Nick repeats, suddenly focusing on him again.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing his hands against his knees and shaking his hair out of his face. It's the only explanation he's got, so he commits. "You know, just – like, practicing. It's not a big deal, right? We're just, like, messing around. If you don't want to—"

"No," Nick says. His voice is sharp, cracking through Joe's rambling like a whip. His mouth works, and then he smiles a little and shakes his head. "I like, uh. Practicing."

Joe laughs, breathless and nervous. It almost sounds hysterical as it bubbles up in his chest, and he thinks about hiccups and how this started out as a joke. It's definitely not funny, but he's laughing because that and touching Nick are his two default settings, the easiest things he knows how to do.

He just leans forward and catches Nick's bottom lip with his own, pulling at it softly as he watches Nick shut his eyes. It feels strangely deliberate this time. His heart beats a little harder when Nick's mouth moves, parting just enough to catch gently against his lips.

"This could get weird," Joe says afterwards, because someone needs to.

Nick looks at him, mouth wet, and shrugs. "I think it already kind of is."

*

When Nick finally rolls out of bed the next morning, though, everything is pretty normal. They shower, brush their teeth, bicker about who gets to wear the pink striped shirt that's definitely Joe's, and watch the news while they eat breakfast. Joe whistles a Lady Gaga song as he straightens his hair and Nick calls him a girl, and Joe chases him around the room with the flat-iron until Nick takes it back.

It's only when they've thrown their crap back in their duffels and are heading out to meet everyone in the lobby that Nick grabs his arm. He studies Joe's face for a second, hesitating so long that the strap of Joe's bag starts to cut into his shoulder, and then he presses a quick, warm kiss to his lips.

"I didn't know if we were going to. Again. After this," Nick says, looking at the carpet. "So I just wanted another one."

Joe drops his bag at Nick's feet and kisses him again – a solid, warm, real kiss that leaves Nick looking a little dazed.

Joe grins when he shoulders his bag and opens the door.

"You're totally the girl here," he says, leaving Nick huffing indignantly as he trails down the hallway.

It happens again when they're on the road, after everyone else has drifted off to their bunks. They're sitting on the couch in the bus lounge with the credits of a bad romantic comedy scrolling on the huge TV. The glow of the screen is the only light, so it's not as obvious as it could be, but Joe gets a shock of adrenaline when Nick leans over and catches his mouth. It's stupid and dangerous, but that only makes it better. He flicks his tongue against the seam of Nick's lips, dizzy with excitement when Nick parts them and licks back. The tip of his tongue runs against Joe's deliberately, clumsy and wet in the no man's land between their mouths.

Joe tries to regain control of his breathing when they break apart, because it's suddenly ragged and hard. He can only make out one side of Nick's face in the light from the TV screen, but he sees how the corner of his mouth creeps up slowly.

And then it happens again a few days after that, when they're doing an interview for some morning zoo radio show. The three of them are sitting in a little green room while their publicist talks to the DJs out in the hall, covering all the stuff they aren't supposed to bring up, and Kevin's phone rings. He ducks out to take it and Joe keeps talking – he's in the middle of relating this YouTube video he saw the night before – but when the door clicks shut Nick's expression changes. It's so fast, so sudden, that Joe just trails off mid-sentence.

Nick raises his eyebrows before he leans in, like he wants to be sure Joe knows it's coming. There's no way to brace himself for this kind of thing, though. He just grips the back of the couch when Nick's mouth covers his, kissing back with giddy recklessness.

It reminds him of every other time they've done something stupid together. All their little capers and in-jokes, ranging from the time they snuck onto Kelly Clarkson's tour bus when Nick was thirteen to the time Joe got Leighton Meester's number at the Teen Choice Awards and they crank called her afterwards from Nick's phone. It's like those moments they catch each other's eye during an interview and share a look over Kevin's answer, or tag-team an argument and win, or smile at each other in the middle of some song because they remember putting those words together and now they're being shouted by thirty thousand people.

It's all that and something else, something more. It's crazy.

*

On the drive to Michigan Joe and Kevin waste a solid hour debating the best way to survive a zombie apocalypse. It's an old argument, one they never get sick of.

"God, are you guys still on this?" Nick throws himself on the couch next to Joe. "It's a no-brainer. Jack a truck, drive it through the front of a sporting goods store, load up and head for the hills."

He ticks each one off on his fingers, sunlight catching on his ring.

"You're not accounting for all the pioneer cemeteries and Indian graveyards in the country," Kevin argues. "When the zombies rise, they rise everywhere."

Nick shakes his head. "I think we can handle a few low-population zombie areas. The odds are way better than in a city."

"Plus, hello, sporting goods store," Joe points out. He just spent a ridiculous amount of time laying down a completely different plan, but he's more than willing to jump ship if it means irritating Kevin. "We'll have crossbows."

"There's no line of defense in the country," Kevin says dismissively. "You need to secure a hold before you start thinking about a counter-attack."

"Fine, Kev. You secure your hold in the city, and we'll be popping hillbilly zombies Rambo-style from our stolen truck."

Nick holds his fist up, and Joe bumps it with his own.

Kevin rolls his eyes. "They hear, but they do not listen," he intones, flipping his phone open.

Joe pulls the corners of his mouth down thoughtfully.

"Do you think Jesus would come back as a zombie?"

"I'm pretty sure the zombie apocalypse presupposes a secular view of creation," Nick says, mouth quirking up.

Joe sighs and puts his elbows on his knees, tucking his chin in his hands and gazing at Nick dreamily. "I love it when you use words with all those... what are they called?"

"Syllables?"

"That's it."

Nick lifts his chin at him and winks. Joe grins stupidly, because sometimes Nick has that effect on him.

"We need to practice the bridge in 'Goodnight and Goodbye'," Nick says, settling back in the cushions of the couch and flicking the TV on. "We got pretty sloppy last night."

"Yeah, no kidding." Kevin's still gazing at his phone, but he's always up for geeking out about guitars with a captive audience. He starts going off about chords and music dynamics or something, and Joe picks up Nick's hand to distract himself.

Nick's hands look different than his; they're thicker and broader, and the tips of his fingers are all calloused from playing guitar. They've been like that for a while, but Nick's finally starting to grow into them; they don't look awkward at the end of his arms anymore – the thick, corded muscle just gets narrower at the wrist, flowing into his hand.

"Anyway, I'm psyched for Europe again," Kevin's saying. "Remember that—"

Nick's palm is dry and warm. Joe tries to figure out which is the life line, but he doesn't get very far. They all look too short for that, and when he traces one Nick closes his hand around Joe's. His gaze is still trained on the TV, but he drags his thumb along the side of Joe's fingers, slow and deliberate.

"—the castles, you know? We didn't get to last time, but I bet—"

Joe was just screwing around, but he realizes after a second that Nick isn't. He's actually stroking his fingers, rubbing at the sensitive skin between them. He twists them, rubbing back, and Nick scrapes a nail across his palm.

"—Frankie would love that. Maybe we could even—"

Joe pulls in a deep, slow breath when Nick tips his thumb up to rub at the sensitive hollow of his wrist, right where the tendon is. He tries to focus on CNN instead of the weird pull of heat in his stomach. It's not even like they're doing anything, except he knows Nick's messing with him. Right there, right in front of Kevin, he's probing at this weird little secret. It sends a frisson of heat over his skin, and he shifts around to cover it.

"—without them, and Paris? Come on—"

Nick's slow about it when he twines their fingers together, tightening his grip until they're making one fist. Nick's ring digs into his skin, and Joe shuts his eyes and squeezes back.

"—like last time, huh?"

He's only aware that they were supposed to respond to something when it takes a little too long and the room goes quiet. Kevin's just staring at him expectantly.

"Definitely," he says, too loud. Nick laughs under his breath and slides his hand out of Joe's.

"Frankie is a better listener," Kevin says, throwing his hands in the air and walking back towards the bunks.

"You are such a jerk," Joe hisses, shoving his elbow against Nick's arm. Nick keeps looking at the TV, but he smiles in a really irritating way.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says loftily.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Nick's eyes go wide when Joe leans over and kisses him, quick and dirty. He pushes his tongue past Nick's lips and catches the wad of gum in his cheek, stealing it with a tiny wet noise. It's still minty, and somewhere under that he can taste Nick's spit.

Two weeks ago that would have been gross, but the realization that he knows what Nick's mouth tastes like sends a thrill of heat down his spine. He stretches the gum between his teeth, sucking the flavor out of it and meeting Nick's gaze.

"We're gonna stop for gas in a few," Kevin calls, appearing in the doorway. "You guys want to move to the other bus?"

Nick nearly jumps out of his skin, but Joe just leans back in the couch and nods, blowing a bubble that pops against his lips.

"Yeah. Gotta work on that bridge," he says, grinning and bumping his knee against Nick's. "Right?"

Nick pulls himself together enough to nod, gaze still pinned on Joe's mouth. "Right."

Joe considers it a win.

*

They get a little rowdy after the show in Miami. It’s the same stuff they always do, wrestling around to burn off steam. Joe winds up tackling Nick to the ground, and they roll around, getting in punches and nipple twists.

But just when Joe goes left, Nick goes right, and he ends up smashing his hand into the edge of the coffee table.

"Son of a—" he hisses, sitting up to inspect his knuckles. The skin is a little torn up, but he's had a lot worse.

Nick just sits there on his knees, catching his breath and watching Joe flex his fingers.

"You want me to kiss it better?" he says after a second. He perks his eyebrows, like it's just normal teasing.

Joe holds his hand out, but instead of giving it an exaggerated smooch, Nick brings it to his mouth and carefully kisses the bend of his knuckles. His mouth is hot and cushy and chapped, a little rough on the raw skin. It makes Joe's pulse spike, all that energy from a minute before suddenly stalling in his chest, and he isn't sure if he's supposed to be laughing.

"Great, now it’s probably infected," he says. Nick grins, but he doesn't let go.

"Yeah, Joe, I gave you cooties," he says, rolling his eyes.

"Someone call a doctor," Joe groans, and Nick laughs. It's such a reassuring sound that Joe doesn't realize for another few seconds that Nick is thumbing lightly at the skin just above the scrape.

"Sorry," he says, looking down at their hands. Joe shrugs.

"I think I'll survive," he says. "But if I don't, make sure they scatter my ashes at Legoland. Not the one in California, either, the big one. Where is it? Sweden?"

Nick hesitates for a second, and then he leans forward and kisses him.

"Denmark," Nick says against his mouth. "It's in Denmark."

Joe laughs and kisses him again, mumbling, "I can't believe you know that."

He can feel Nick smiling, but neither of them lets go, stringing those kisses together around little gusts of laughter.

It settles into a rhythm after the giggles pass, happening so quietly that Joe barely notices they've shifted gears. He loses track of how many minutes go by, his brain numb to everything but the wet flutter of Nick's tongue against his lips. He likes it – likes feeling Nick pressed up against him, likes the hard muscle of Nick's back under his hand. Most of the time when he thinks about Nick he imagines him like he was a few years ago, all sharp skinny angles, but there's no mistaking him for that when they're all wrapped together. It makes him feel proud, kind of, and pleased in a way that's not entirely unfamiliar.

He stretches out on his back when they break apart, and Nick leans back on the bed.

"I'm starving," Joe sighs, splaying his arms out at either side. "You think we could get away with ordering room service?"

Nick shrugs and smiles. "I'll tell Mom my levels were off."

Joe looks over at him, lazy warmth curling in his stomach. Nick's cheeks are a little flushed, his curls falling over his forehead. He looks rumpled and happy, warm around the edges. It's funny to think that Joe could just crawl over and kiss him if he wants, or tackle him to the ground for another round of wrestling. It's not weird, he thinks. It's not weird at all.

"I want the biggest hamburger in the world," he says. Nick laughs indulgently.

*

They keep moving. The tour keeps rolling forward, and sometimes it feels like they're rolling with it and sometimes it feels like they're getting dragged along.

When Joe wakes up in the morning it's with the warm weight of Nick's arm slung around his waist. When he falls asleep at night it's to the soft staccato of Nick's breaths in the dark. And for a handful of minutes each day, stolen so quietly no one suspects a thing, he gets to feel Nick's mouth open and sigh against his own.

"I'm not tired, are you?" Nick says when they get back to their room in Boston. He peels off his sweatshirt and tosses it in a chair, going from teenage boy to rock star in the blink of an eye.

"Nope," Joe says. "Wonder what's on TV."

They end up making out on the bed closest to the door while a rerun of The Office blares in the background. Joe twists his fingers in the chain around Nick's neck, the tags clinking as he licks into his mouth and hums.

"I like this show," Joe says, and Nick laughs.

"Yeah, it's not bad," he agrees, shifting to his back and yawning. Joe bites at his elbow when he covers his mouth, and Nick snorts with laughter, rolling away.

"I thought you weren't tired," Joe says, wrapping his arms around him from behind while Nick pretends he's trying to get away. "You've awakened the beast now."

"The beast?" Nick echoes, huffing against the blankets. He hooks his leg around the back of Joe's, but it doesn't get him any leverage.

"The fearsome Joe beast," he says somberly. "Now the villagers won't be free until they satisfy his monstrous appetites."

Nick snickers and kicks his leg uselessly, trying to elbow him. "And what satisfies your appetites, Joe?"

He hadn't really thought that far, so he just nibbles on Nick's shoulder. It earns him another desperate wriggle and a barely-muffled shriek of laughter. He moves his mouth over a little, to the place where his neck is bare, and touches his teeth to the skin.

Nick's breath hitches, his shoulder jerking up reflexively. "Ugh, gross," he says, which just eggs Joe on even more.

"Mmm, delicious," he growls, aiming for Dracula and sounding more like he's French. "A virgin sacrifice."

Nick stops fighting when Joe's mouth gets softer, his pretend bites giving way to absent, light kisses.

"Huh," he says after a second, when Joe's mouth is up behind his ear. "You – uh – better not give me a hickey."

Joe laughs lightly, sending a hot gust of breath against his ear. "Way to break character, perv."

It takes a second, but he can see the sudden rush of color to the side of Nick's face. He starts squirming around again.

"You're the one who started kissing me, Joe-beast," he says scathingly. Joe just laughs again, letting him roll back over so he can straddle Nick's hips.

"Have you ever gotten a hickey?" he asks, suddenly curious. Nick looks like he's thinking about shoving him off, but he finally gives up and flumps against the mattress, staring up at he ceiling.

"Have you?"

"Um, duh," Joe says. "But I asked you first. Have you? Huh? Was Miley a biter?"

He pinches at Nick's side when he says that, and Nick jerks beneath him.

"Can we please never talk about that again?" he says curtly, and Joe grins.

"She was, wasn't she? Oh man, I bet she was a tiger. You—"

It works like a charm; Nick huffs and punches his knee and snaps, "No," before he can get on a roll. Joe shifts a little on Nick's hips.

"So you've never gotten one," he concludes, and Nick looks away and then shrugs.

"No." He tenses when he looks back at him, like he can see where this is going. "No, dude, no, you can't – Joe, seriously, someone will see—"

"Oh, shut up," Joe says dismissively. He grabs the hem of Nick's t-shirt and tugs it up. Nick's muscles all flex like he's doing an involuntary crunch while Joe looks at him.

"What—" He huffs incredulously. "Joe."

He slides down so he can get closer to it, only distantly aware that Nick's watching him with saucer-sized eyes.

"Dude, how many people see you without a shirt on? Chill out."

"That just makes it – even harder to explain," Nick sighs, but then Joe starts kissing his stomach and he trails off. His skin is extra smooth there, dusted with tiny, pale hairs. Nick really doesn't ever take his shirt off if he can help it, and that makes it feel even stranger to be touching him there, where only he can.

He drags his mouth around aimlessly until he finds a good spot. He just nips at it, scraping his teeth there lightly. Nick's so primed that he shivers without seeming to realize it, breaths going tight and funny. Joe does it again, swiping his tongue over the skin before catching it in a warm, sucking kiss.

"Joe," Nick says again, but it doesn't sound like a reprimand. He just kind of loses the word in a heavy breath, his hips twisting under Joe's hands.

Joe shuts his eyes as he works at it. Nick's skin is warm and soft against his face, and he can feel every pull of breath he takes, the way the tension in his body swells and ebbs away with each one.

He pulls back to study it after a minute, surprised at the sudden spike of heat in his stomach. It's about the size of a quarter, so dark it's almost purple at the edges.

"Holy crap," Nick says, getting on his elbows and staring down at it. "That's huge. God, Joe, you – you gave me a hickey."

"That was kind of the point, dude." He thumbs over it, wiping away his spit. It's warm to the touch from all the blood under the skin, and Nick makes a tiny noise when he presses on it. "Practice, right?"

Nick's still staring at it, a circle of pink that stands out sharply against his pale skin. He looks flushed, and Joe suddenly realizes that he's half-hard in his jeans.

"Practice," Nick says. He seems to snap out of it then, rolling his eyes and jerking his shirt back down. "Right."

*

By the time Joe stumbles out of bed in the morning, Nick's already dressed and brushing his teeth.

Joe scratches his stomach and leans in the bathroom doorway, watching as Nick rinses and spits. His hair's still a little damp, clinging to the back of his neck in black curls. He tugs at the top of it absently and leans over to study his reflection. He looks calm and collected in that way that always makes Joe itch to shake him up.

Joe launches himself in the room and catches him in a hug, chin resting on the curve of Nick's shoulder. In the mirror, Nick's face lights up with a surprised laugh.

"Gee, Sleeping Beauty awakens."

"Shut up," Joe says, not letting go. Nick reaches to grip at his forearm, fingers tucking around it. "It's not that late."

"Psh. I already ate, pumped some iron and wrote a future hit single. Did you sleep well, Joe? Did you have good dreams?"

Nick gives a little flex in the mirror, and Joe unceremoniously hoists him off his feet.

"Hey, look," he huffs in Nick's ear, cheek wet where it's pressed against his hair. "Who needs iron when I can just pump you?"

Nick laughs and Joe spins them around, staggering with Nick's weight.

"Oh yeah," he grunts, "that's working my hammies."

"Put me down, jerk," Nick huffs. He gives Joe a shove when he's upright again, but Joe doesn't back off. He can't stop touching him, so he tugs at the front of Nick's shirt and messes up his hair and leans in close enough to smell his toothpaste. His fingers come to rest against Nick's stomach, right over his hickey.

"How's it looking?" he asks, and Nick sucks in a little gasp as Joe bares his stomach.

"Okay," he says. "Um, I guess."

Nick's stomach sucks in sensitively when he touches it.

"Man, I got you good," he says, rubbing at the edge. Nick tilts his head to look down at it, then looks away.

"Yeah, you did," he says, gripping the edge of the sink. Joe grins and drops his shirt back down.

"You can't go swimming for, like, a week."

"You're such a jerk," he laughs, shoving him. Joe catches his hand and moves closer, until they're almost nose to nose. Nick raises his eyebrows a little, like a challenge, but he melts right into it when Joe kisses him.

"Are you done now?" he says afterwards.

"Nope."

Joe pulls him in tight and Nick tips his head back, waiting for it.

It hits Joe all at once, how much he wants this. He doesn't know why, but he wants to kiss Nick and shove him back against the sinks, make him laugh and then suck on his tongue. It makes his skin pull tight with something hot and dirty, all the aimless need in him starting to take shape.

Nick opens up when he kisses him again, licking at his tongue and gripping his shoulders. His fingers go tight after a second, and he pushes deeper, pushes hard into Joe's mouth, until Joe's pinned there between Nick and a hard place. When the kiss breaks off, Nick looks windblown and happy and maybe a little embarrassed. There's a flush of color in his cheeks that matches his lips.

Joe thumbs at the corner of Nick's smile where it's wet with spit.

"We're always going to be like this, right?"

"Like what?" Joe asks, straightening his collar. "Awesome? Famous? Devilishly good-looking?"

"You and me," Nick says. "Like, us."

He pats Nick's cheek, hand lingering as his fingers trace the shape of his jaw, and then leans around him for his toothbrush.

"I'm not going anywhere," Joe says, turning on the faucet and glancing in the mirror.

Nick swallows and smiles. "Cool."

Joe crosses his eyes at him in the mirror and Nick laughs helplessly, like it's a reflex, and Joe doesn't think about again for a while.

*

Joe wakes up on the bus with the vague awareness that Nick is watching him sleep. He blinks a few times, disoriented; it's still dark outside, the road rumbling under them. They aren't where they're going yet.

"What's up?" he says, voice thick.

"Couldn't sleep," Nick says simply, like that's reason enough to be sitting in Joe's bunk.

"Yeah," he says groggily, rubbing at an eye. "Me neither."

Nick smiles. Joe slides over under his covers and lifts the edge of them, and Nick only hesitates for a second before he scrambles beneath them. Two bunks down, Kevin is snoring gently, and he can pick out the sound of Frankie's wet, deep breaths.

"What's on your mind?" he yawns, rolling to his side and keeping his voice low.

"Just, you know," he says, shrugging. "The usual stuff."

"Mm-hm," Joe mumbles.

Nick looks at him for a while, mouth curling up at one side as he studies Joe's face. He sighs a little, shifting around, and then says, "I want you to kiss me."

Joe can feel his heart pick up speed in his chest, but he smiles a little. "Uh, okay."

He leans forward and pecks him on the mouth, lips warm and quick. Nick sighs when he pulls back.

"Not like that," he says, rolling his eyes. "Come on, Joe. A real one."

"A real one," Joe repeats. "What, like this?"

It lasts a little longer this time, his lips moving and catching gently against Nick's. They've done it a million times now, but Nick still pulls in a sharp, surprised breath when Joe's tongue touches against his upper lip. He opens up for it with a little sigh, letting Joe lick at the soft skin just inside his mouth.

It's light and easy, just a tease, but when he pulls back Nick's cheeks have gone pink. It takes a second before he opens his eyes.

"Yeah," he says, voice rusty. "Like that."

Joe smiles and ruffles up his hair, palming his messy curls away from his forehead.

"Your turn."

A flicker of tension goes through him, but there's nothing hesitant about the way he touches Joe's chin and plants one on him. It's harder than Joe's kiss, his mouth fumbly but insistent. He makes a little noise in his throat when Joe matches the movement of his lips, fingers curling against Joe's jaw and coaxing it open.

Joe leans into it, letting him set the pace but meeting him every step of the way. It's impossible not to, like he's hard-wired to meet the challenge, step up to the plate. Nick squeezes his shoulder and licks at the corner of his mouth, and Joe parts his lips and licks back. It's all hazy and warm, and he can almost believe that it really is just practice, like he's showing him how to do it.

"Huh," Nick says when they break apart to breathe. "That was a good one."

"Yeah." Joe swallows and laughs a little, because it's all so crazy. Nick just woke him up to make out. A rush of giddy recklessness flushes through him. "Not bad."

"More tongue," Nick says before he leans back in, and Joe huffs warmly against his cheek, but he takes the suggestion. Nick hums a little when Joe pushes past his lips and skims the edge of his teeth. His fingers curl in Joe's shirt, pulling him in for leverage when he licks back, rolling their tongues together in a sweet, wet glide.

Joe opens his eyes for a second, just long enough to get a glimpse of his furrowed eyebrows and messy curls. He looks so serious, like kissing is a problem and he's solving for x. It makes heat rise in Joe's chest, and he kisses back a little harder, wondering what the answering tug on his shirt means.

"Better?" he says, panting against Nick's chin. Nick smiles a little, his expression almost smug.

"Getting there," he says lightly. Joe knocks his hand against his chest in a half-hearted shove.

"Punk."

"Jerk."

There's a thud somewhere outside – the fridge turning on, he realizes after a beat, but Nick's eyes go wide.

Joe holds a finger to his lips and pulls the blanket over their heads. Nick laughs softly and wriggles closer, nudging his knee between Joe's. They just look at each other for a while, the faint light from the hall muted and soft through the fabric around them.

It doesn't even feel like they're still on the bus when Nick kisses him again. It's different – better, like the whole world has narrowed down to the two of them. Joe can hear all the soft, spitty noises their mouths make, each huff of Nick's breath muffled against his cheek. He sucks at Nick's bottom lip and slides his fingers back in his hair, digging down to where the curls are damp with sweat.

It's mostly instinct that makes Joe shift over and tug Nick on top of him, but Nick mirrors his movements like he's on the same page. The weight of his body sparks something low in Joe's stomach, so good and unexpected he huffs in surprise. Nick settles on his hips, arms framing his face against the pillow.

"More tongue," he says again, and Joe blinks, trying to focus through the haze of heat.

"There isn't any more tongue," he says, breaths ragged with a laugh. "That's all the tongue there is."

"Come on," Nick says, the tip of his nose bumping against Joe's. Even in the dim, watery light, Joe can see him lift his eyebrows in challenge. "Cowboy up."

Joe shakes his head, but he catches the back of Nick's neck and pulls him down again. It's almost too easy to give over to Nick's hard, demanding rhythm, losing himself to everything but the soft warmth of his mouth. Nick usually lets him set the pace, and he wonders how long he sat there thinking about this before he woke him up. Knowing Nick it was hours, and for some reason the thought makes something huge and heavy swell in Joe's chest.

He's never really done anything like this before. He's made out with plenty of girls, but not with this kind of slow-burning intensity, not with kisses that feel like they matter the way each one of Nick's matter. Every brush of tongue, every softly smothered breath seems important, special. It's all so secret and quiet, something just for them.

Nick's eyes are slow to open when Joe finally breaks that endless string of kisses, and he gazes at him without really focusing.

"We should go to sleep," Joe murmurs, mouth clumsy around the words.

"Yeah," Nick says.

"You're getting better at that."

Nick smiles and kisses him again, light and lippy, before they pull the blanket back down.

*

The summer starts to redefine itself in shades of Nick.

The sun is never as bright as when it's glinting off his hair, and the heat of the afternoon only recalls the sticky warmth of his skin in some queen-sized hotel bed. Every popsicle melting on the sidewalk is something his lips could have touched. His smile under a pair of Ray-Bans teases out the color of the sky and grass and the cars on the street.

It's crazy. It straight up makes no sense, but it's happening right before Joe's eyes. The boundaries are all starting to blur, taking new shapes that allow for so much more. He can't look at Nick without seeing all the possibilities, things they might do the next time they're alone. He watches him give interviews and thinks about sucking on his bottom lip. He watches him wrestle with Frankie on the flat carpet of the bus and only sees the sleek lines of his body pulling under his shirt. On stages all over the country Joe points at the crowd and sings songs Nick wrote for Miley, and the only thing he's thinking about is the weight of Nick's gaze on the back of his neck.

The world is moving faster and faster, calendar dates flying by like the scenery out the bus windows, but Nick moves in slow motion. Nick is solid and real like nothing else, and when their eyes meet over family dinners and prayer circles Joe's pinned down with him, still and settled.

"This is so good," Joe says in Georgia. It's another night, another hotel room after another sold-out show. They didn't even bother turning on the TV this time; they just peeled their jeans off and fell into bed like a married couple.

Nick licks at his jaw and palms at his stomach. "Yeah?"

"Just, I mean. Yeah." He doesn't know how to talk about it, so he rarely even tries. The right words slip through his fingers like loose change, rolling away every time he reaches for them. "You know?"

Nick kisses the dip beneath his lips and looks at him. He still blushes when they do this, and Joe finds that comforting.

"Yeah, I know," he says. Joe can see every pore and freckle that close, every stray hair of his eyebrows. His face is just as familiar as Joe's own, but his features have been lacquered by all this want and need. He looks good – pretty, Joe thinks, even though the word seems all wrong.

He almost misses the simplicity of the old days, but even that's starting to change. More and more he's forgetting if this is really new. Joe used to touch him all the time, and sometimes even when he wasn't touching him he'd be thinking about it. At sixteen, at seventeen, he used to watch Nick from across the room and think about how much he needed Joe to mess up his hair and elbow him in the ribs and put his arm around his shoulders.

He's pretty sure that's not normal. It's easier to see now that he's an expert on not-normal, now that he can lose hours sucking on the side of Nick's neck and not think about moving away, not even once.

They play a great show in Maryland, one of those nights when everything comes together and the energy is just right. Nick falls all over him when they get off stage, gripping his arms the second he passes his guitar off.

"That was amazing," he says. "We were on."

Joe grabs him and spins them around, getting a laugh from somewhere in the backstage crowds. They're both soaked through with sweat, but Nick's hands feel hot against his back, holding him tight as they stumble around.

"Are you guys coming?" Kevin says at his elbow. Everyone's starting to regroup, and he tilts his head toward the rest of the band.

"Yeah," Nick says when Joe sets him down. He glances over at the Living the Dream camera and tugs at the front of Joe's shirt, not quite looking at Kevin. "I just have to check my levels. We'll catch up."

Kevin just nods, already distracted, and Joe lets Nick pull him through the maze of people. It's nothing out of the ordinary – Nick usually checks them after a show, and Joe's usually there because Joe is pretty much always wherever Nick is. But he knows what's coming when Nick drags him into the small, bright room, and he can't fight the thrill of excitement when the door clicks shut behind them.

He catches a glimpse of Nick's flushed, happy face before he's being pushed against the wall and kissed.

It's different like this. The rush of adrenaline is still thrumming through his body, and Nick is sweaty and warm, muscles corded tight under Joe's hands. He feels hard and flat up against him, all sharp angles and demanding hands.

"We were awesome," Nick mutters against his lips. He flicks his tongue in hard and deep, winding against Joe's in a deliberate stab. Joe lets himself be pinned there, meeting those licks with his own. It's crazy, almost frantic, the way they're rocking against each other, like all that aimless post-show energy is sipping back and forth between them. He can smell Nick and taste him, feel him in the rush of excitement pumping through his veins. His whole body's winding tighter and tighter, and when Nick's hands skim down his sides his cock swells a little in his pants.

Joe breaks the kiss with a hot sigh, but Nick doesn't pull away. He licks at the tip of Joe's nose and laughs, fitting his hips a little closer. He has to notice it; it's unmistakable in these jeans. He just doesn't care, Joe realizes, and he kisses Nick again, tonguing at the soft inside of his lip and letting himself steep in how good it feels.

He would need the hands of everyone in the family, maybe even the whole band, to count all the reasons this shouldn't be happening. But when Nick pulls back he's grinning in a way that Joe hasn't seen in a long time, and he doesn't know which feels better – the hot, heavy warmth of those kisses or the way they make Nick light up. He tugs at Nick's damp shirt and grins back, trying to breathe out some of the shuddery tension in his limbs.

"We were awesome," he agrees, holding his hands up for a high-five. He twines their fingers together when their palms meet, and Nick touches his forehead to Joe's. It's sweaty and slick and for a minute there everything is perfect.

*

Somewhere between dots on the Missouri map, Nick corrals Joe in the studio bus and makes him work on his range. It's one of those overwhelmingly obnoxious Nick things, holding them all up to his impossible standards and pushing them until they get there. Joe puts up the usual fight, and Nick wins like he always does.

"'Little Deuce Coupe'?" he suggests when the bus rumbles to life.

"Man, I don't ever want to hear that song again. You sucked the joy out of the Beach Boys that week you listened to nothing but Pet Sounds and made us practice harmonies."

"Hey." Nick points a warning finger over his guitar. "Everyone loves harmonies."

"Not when you're the one trying to hit the high E."

"Cry harder, Joe," he says, strumming aimlessly. "Don't make me bust out the Bee Gees. Come on. 'I Get Around'. You're in charge of the claps."

"I don't know if I can handle all this responsibility," Joe says, but when Nick counts them off he jumps right in. It's not perfect, but by the second chorus he's nailing it.

"See? Wasn't that fun?" Nick cajoles when they finish, and Joe slides his shades down over his eyes.

"Would you like a carrot for your high horse?" He takes a swig of water and cracks his neck, then adds, "Let's do 'Help Me Rhonda'."

Nick smiles as he plucks it out, mouthing along with the words and nodding a little. Joe thinks it might be the most fun he's had with music in months. Nick has a way of doing that; he's always made music interesting, like his enthusiasm is contagious. You can't watch him write a song and not want to be a part of that process, that whirlwind of creativity and energy.

He wonders sometimes what it's like to be that intense, that focused, that driven. The closest he's ever felt to that is when he's on stage, pretending to be someone else.

"What is with you?" Nick laughs, kicking his foot.

"Sorry," he says. He smiles, and Nick rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "My vocal cords need to recover from the reckoning. How about dazzling me with that new song of yours?"

Nick makes a face. "It's not worth hearing yet. I can't – I don't know, it's not gelling."

Joe tosses his empty water bottle at him.

"Then sing me something else," he says. "If I have to get my Brian Wilson on, you do too. Or can you dish out the high notes but not take them? Huh? Is that how it is, Mr. Dictator?"

Nick shifts in his seat and purses his lips, but he's never met a challenge he could gracefully back down from. He tightens his G string and shakes his hair away from his forehead before he starts strumming "Wouldn't It Be Nice".

Joe settles into the couch and spreads his arms along the back as he watches him. It's almost funny how different he looks than when he's on a stage. He's not throwing himself into it – he's just letting it happen, letting the music move from his head to his fingers. There's something self-conscious about the way he shuts his eyes while he sings, his cheeks going pink. Joe wants to think about this later, when everyone is watching and the thousands of girls with Mrs. Nick Jonas written on their binders are close enough to reach up and touch him.

For a minute he's lost in the warmth of that feeling spreading slowly through his chest. And then Nick opens his eyes and smiles a little, light shining on his teeth as he sings this song, and Joe realizes that his little brother kind of has a crush on him.

It honestly hadn't occurred to him before. It's easy to think about this stuff like it's all Joe, the love in his chest getting bigger and bigger while Nick gives him a free pass on touching. But it suddenly seems obvious that it's so much more than that. This thing is happening to both of them, and when Nick smiles around his high notes and blushes, when he ducks his head so the floor gets the full brunt of his flirting – that's for Joe. He doesn't even know what to do with the idea, or the swell of guilty pleasure that comes fast on its heels.

Nick trails off when he finishes the second chorus, and Joe sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles so loud they can probably hear it on the other bus.

"Shut up," Nick says. "Are you happy now?"

"I'm ecstatic, Nicholas." Joe goes for a high-five, and when Nick gives him one he goes for more, slapping his hand until he has to slide off the couch to reach it. His wrist thuds against the front of the guitar as he tips over and presses his face against Nick's hair.

"Freak," Nick says, but he starts laughing as he shoves him, not quite pushing him away. When Joe grabs his face and kisses him, Nick fists the front of his shirt and pulls him into it.

"Come on," Joe says, falling back on the couch. "Play me something I can sing."

Nick taps his chin and starts strumming "Toxic", and they jam to Britney the rest of the way to St. Louis. Like it's any other random afternoon.

*

On their second day of shows in LA, Joe plays video games with Frankie while Nick does his homework.

He usually loves this – Frank might be the least irritating sibling Joe has – but he's distracted, impatient for Nick to finish so they can find an excuse and go mess around. It's already been two hours, and really, Joe doesn't get it. When he was in school he was always rushing through everything so he could get back to shooting hoops or writing music or whatever he deemed a better way to spend time, but Nick's different. He's slow and methodical, goes over everything again and again with the patience of a saint.

It's the same way he kisses.

Joe slouches lower in his chair. This whole thing is turning into the worst kind of bad habit. He wants too much, all the time. He kind of thought there might be a not-while-we're-at-home rule, but Nick followed him into the bathroom last night and kissed him until his lips felt hot and chapped. He wedged him against the sink and just went for it, right there where he and Joe and Kevin all brush their teeth, and then grinned and looked pointedly at the tented front of his boxers and said, "I gotta take a shower, you mind?"

Which is awesome, and Joe kind of loves it, but the whole thing is starting to feel like it has no boundaries. No limits. And when Joe's the one who's worried about being irresponsible, something is wrong.

He swallows, straightening up a little as his character goes flying off the race track and cues a neon GAME OVER.

"You suck," Frankie says mildly.

"Hey," Joe chides, ruffling his hair. "That's not nice. What do we say when somebody loses?"

"Pwned," says Frankie, crossing his eyes at him.

"That's right. High-five, dude. Good game."

Nick snickers from the doorway. "Mom's gonna love that."

"Nick!" Frankie bellows. He doesn't make a huge secret out of the fact that Nick is his favorite, but then, Joe doesn't either. "I pwned Joe!"

Nick squats down next to him. "Yeah, I saw. Awesome job."

"You wanna play? I can pwn you, too."

Nick glances over at Joe, amused. Joe catches his tongue in the corner of his mouth and watches Nick's expression go dark.

"Maybe in a little while. I need Joe to help me with my math homework right now."

"Huh," Frankie says skeptically. "Why?"

"Because otherwise I'll fail, and then Mom will pwn me."

Frankie huffs a little, but that's logic he can't argue with.

"Okay," he says, already switching to single-player mode. "But you'll play later?"

"You bet," Nick promises, already halfway out of the room. Joe drops the controller in the chair and follows him.

"Math homework?" he repeats. "Seriously?"

"He doesn't know you suck at algebra," Nick says, taking the stairs two at a time. They have to pass Kevin's room to get to Nick's, both of them slowing their strides to move past quietly. Nick's a little breathless when he shuts his door, and Joe crowds him back against it.

"I don't suck at algebra."

"You totally suck at algebra," Nick says, touching their foreheads together. He kisses him once, teasing, pulling back when Joe leans into it. He's laughing a little when Joe finally pins him to the door and licks his mouth open.

"Don't suck at algebra," he mutters, not really caring about winning the argument. He just likes the way it feels to talk against Nick's lips, the way it makes them brush together and how Nick goes a little cross-eyed trying to look at him. Nick cups the back of his neck and pulls him in tighter, tonguing gently at his bottom lip. It feels so good Joe doesn't even know what to do; he just leans against him so he can get more, get Nick to kiss him harder.

"Totally suck. You suck hard." Nick's hands grip his hips, thumbs rubbing right over the waist of his jeans. Joe muffles his voice by licking at the corner of his mouth, his breaths going shallow when Nick gets his fingers up under the edge of his t-shirt. It's just a tease of skin on skin, but it makes his brain go places it shouldn't.

He presses his hand against the door, right next to Nick's head, and glances down between them so he can see it: Nick's hands on his waist, his dick chubbing up in his jeans.

"Nice boner," Nick laughs.

Joe kisses him again, hard and deep. Nick arches against him and makes a faint, funny noise that makes Joe's skin burn. He means to say something else, to get the last word, but he gets distracted with rubbing his tongue against Nick's. The door creaks a little when he shoves their hips together and feels the jut of Nick's dick.

He breaks off, laughing against his face. "Whoa, what's that? Does Nicky have a party in his pants?"

Nick looks away, like he's trying to seem irritated, but Joe sees the little smile curling up his mouth.

"You're the one who threw it," he says, catching his own bottom lip with his teeth.

Joe laughs and kisses him again. He thinks about Frankie downstairs and Kevin two rooms away, and how they're never going to know about this. It's hard to keep secrets in their family, but this one is too huge, too important. It would ruin everything, break everyone's hearts. Him and Nick, they're going to take this to the grave.

It's pretty obvious, but the full weight of it only hits him when Nick's grinding his dick into Joe's hip. It doesn't scare him like he knows it should. For some reason the danger, the weirdness, that vague sense of guilt, all just make it seem hotter.

*

Something's off with Nick the day they play Seattle. Joe can't figure out what it is, but he's just like that sometimes. He gets all worked up about something in his head, some mistake or irritation that other people would shrug off, and eventually he's just this ball of tension.

"You guys want to do something?” Kevin asks when they pile in the hotel elevator after the show. Nick shakes his head and folds his arms, and Joe shoves his hands in his pockets.

"I'm pretty tired,” he says apologetically. Kevin looks a little put out, but he just shrugs.

As soon as the door to their room shuts, the tension in Nick's muscles melts into motion. He shoves Joe up against the wall and pins him there, one hand gripping his hair as he kisses him.

It shouldn't come as a surprise anymore, but it catches Joe off guard; he grabs Nick's waist to steady himself as the key card lands somewhere under their feet, mouth opening under the demanding press of Nick's lips. Nick makes a breathless, pleased noise, teeth catching at Joe's bottom lip before he shoves his tongue in. His hands are everywhere, digging up under his shirt and sliding down to grip his hips, hauling Joe against him every way he can.

"God," Joe breathes when Nick stops long enough to nuzzle at the side of his neck. He can smell Nick's skin, his spit, his aftershave, and somewhere under that is the perfume from girls at the meet and greet, a clash of things familiar and unfamiliar that leaves him dizzy and makes his dick flush half-hard.

"I've been going crazy," Nick mutters, tugging him back towards the bed. They land on it so hard the springs creak, and he doesn't even have time to catch his breath before Nick's kissing him again.

"Nick," he manages, shoes scrabbling against the blankets as he tries to get some leverage. He's getting hard – he's definitely getting hard, way more than just lazy wood. His whole body is staging some kind of mutiny, and he thinks Nick must be able to feel it too, but he just keeps kissing him. He's everywhere all at once, smothering him in this crazy heat.

Nick rocks down just right, and suddenly the bulge of his dick presses right up against Joe's. It's heavy and hard and unmistakable, sending a hot shock of pleasure through Joe's limbs. He got Nick that hard, he realizes. The idea rolls around in his brain, not sticking to anything.

"Oh my God," he mutters. The rush of adrenaline doesn't slow him down, though; it just pushes him, makes him grip the backs of Nick's thighs and hold him there.

They rock like that, Nick grinding down on him with sharp little thrusts. Joe's brain goes blank, lost in the white heat of it, of Nick. His eyes look big and dark in the dim light coming from the bathroom. Joe can make out the shadowy dent of his mouth and the shape of his cheekbones. They aren't even kissing anymore, they're just doing – this.

He leans up to catch Nick's mouth again, needing a buffer against this rawness, but that just makes it worse. It's too much sensation, and he needs to pull away, get out from under that relentless pressure on his dick, but he can't do it.

It hits him all at once, making his body curl and his breaths hitch. He doesn't have time to get away, shove any space between them; he just grips Nick's shoulders and shuts his eyes and comes right in his jeans.

"Whoa," Nick breathes, blinking at him. "Did—"

"Yeah."

Time seems to slow around them, stretching out as Nick touches his lips and pants. They watch each other carefully, and then Joe pulls Nick's hand away and kisses him again. His tongue rubs at the corner of his mouth before pressing in, licking against Nick's, and Nick kisses back.

It's slow at first, the knowledge of what just happened settling over them. Nick grips Joe's hip, fingers edging under his shirt as they slide back into a rhythm. He just rubs at the skin there, right over the elastic of Joe's boxers, but when they roll over a little his hand brushes down over the wet spot in Joe's jeans.

He sucks in a shocked breath through his nose, hand going tight against Joe's spent cock. It pushes the mess around in his boxers, makes it bleed through the fabric even faster, and Nick's kisses suddenly go harder, his tongue driving in deep.

Joe lets Nick slide over him and press him into the bed. He slips his hand through Nick's hair and holds him there, hips pushing up at Nick's. He can feel the bulge of Nick's cock through his pants, bumping awkwardly as Nick slots them together. Everything suddenly feels hotter, faster than ever before – his body still shuddering through the aftershocks as Nick's tongue rolls against his own and he makes a quiet, needy little noise against his mouth.

There are rules to this, he knows, rules they've never talked about but always quietly observed. He isn't sure if he's allowed to break them now that his body has gone and done that for him. Nick doesn't seem inclined to grind against him any more than this; he's just kissing him like it's all he's got, all he can do, teeth grazing over Joe's bottom lip when he shifts his face to get at him from a new angle.

Joe tugs at his hair and sucks on his tongue, pulling it in a warm, wet roll, and Nick suddenly stiffens. He moans, low and long and needy, hips jerking down like he can't even help himself. The kiss breaks off and he just pants into Joe's mouth, lips wet and slick. Joe can see his eyebrows furrow and knows it's happening, knows Nick's right there with him. He tugs him down into another one, pressing sweet, warm kisses against his slack mouth as he whimpers.

Nick slides off of him when it's over, gripping the front of Joe's shirt like it's a lifeline. His eyes are squeezed shut but he doesn't move away; he just rests his forehead on Joe's and pants warmly against his chin.

"Wow," Joe says. "That was—"

"Yeah," Nick says, voice strangled. He finally looks at him, eyes dark and guarded. "Huh."

"Are you, uh. Okay?"

Nick laughs and rolls to his back, scrubbing a hand over his flushed face. "Yeah, Joe, I'm okay."

"Well, I don't know," Joe huffs. He tugs at the tight inseam of his jeans, brain still warm and hazy.

Nick tilts his head to look at him. "We just – we just, like, did something, didn't we?"

Joe shuts his eyes. He can still feel Nick on his mouth. His body's heavy with pleasure and still completely attuned to Nick's.

"Yeah," he says, "that was something."

Nick rolls over to his elbow, his hair messed up from Joe's hands and his lips red and swollen. They look at each other for a minute, and then Nick kisses him again, light and warm. It's almost like an experiment, and even when Joe returns it he knows something's different.

*

When Joe wakes up he finds Nick on the balcony.

"Morning, sunshine," Nick says, glancing up from his phone. There's a cup of coffee on the table, and Joe picks it up and leans against the railing as he downs half of it. "We've got that interview thing at ten. We're supposed to meet Mom downstairs in a half-hour."

Joe looks down at the pool. There are already people stretched out on the lounge chairs, a few kids splashing around in the shallow end.

"Roger that," he says.

Nick leans over to smack the back of his hand against Joe's side. "Give me my coffee back."

Joe takes another sip of it just to be irritating, and hands the mug over. Nick scrunches his nose up in the glare of the sun when he looks at him.

"There's more inside. You should take a shower before we head down."

"Yeah," he says, scratching his stomach down where the elastic of his boxers cuts in. He can feel Nick's eyes on him, following him into the bathroom.

They aren't alone again until they're back on the bus. Joe opts out of family movie night in the lounge – it's a Wednesday, so it's Frankie's choice – and Nick eventually finds him in his bunk.

"I hate The Lion King," he announces, sprawling so he takes up half the bed. He leans over and breathes on the window, fogging it up and tracing an N through the mist.

"You do not," Joe says. "You made me watch it, like, eighty billion times when we were kids."

"Maybe that's why I hate it now," Nick says, adding the I-C-K with his fingertip before looking over at him. "Did you know it's based on Hamlet?"

"I know," Joe says. "I'm the one who told you that."

"Really?" Nick straightens up and shifts over next to him. "Isn't Shakespeare, like, way beyond your reading level?"

"Hurr," Joe says, slapping him upside the head. Nick ducks away and smiles, and Joe can hear the faint strains of "Hakuna Matata" floating down the hall.

They just sit there for a few minutes, and then Nick kisses lazily at his chin, his cool fingertips creeping up under the hem of his sweatshirt. They brush over his skin, nails scratching lightly, and it suddenly hits him how easy it would be to just let Nick touch him. They've practically done it already, and they've been blurring this line more and more every day. Nick could slip his hand down a little more and jerk him off, and Joe would want it. He'd want it so bad.

"What are we doing?" he says after a moment.

Nick pulls back enough to look at him, his expression unreadable.

"Practicing?" he suggests. He lifts his eyebrows a little, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth like he's fully aware of how flimsy that excuse is.

Joe looks down at their hands, at the shape of their limbs knotted together.

"Yeah, but what are we practicing for?"

Joe's seen Nick do a lot of things with sheer willpower. He turned them into a real band with it, made this whole tour happen. He turned his disease into a way to help people and connect with fans. Joe learned a long time ago to not underestimate that huge, freaky brain of his, but he's pretty sure that not even Nick can find them a way out of this.

"Right," he finally says, pulling his hand back and looking up at the ceiling. "Okay."

"Nick." Joe catches his arm, fingers tucking into the crook of his elbow. Nick tilts his head a little, close enough that Joe can make out each one of his eyelashes. He hesitates there, not closing the distance; a second ticks by, and another, and Nick doesn't do it either.

Joe guesses he shouldn't be surprised. They've always had the weird ability to be on the same page about everything.

"Look, I'm really tired," Nick says. "Good night."

Joe doesn't know how to say what he wants to say, but it's not like they can even really talk about it. Everyone else is still awake; all the reasons why this is so messed up are right on the other side of the curtain, laughing and talking and watching a movie.

"Night," he echoes.

He sits there for a while after Nick leaves, wondering what to do. The world outside his window gets brighter as they pass a town, and he blows on the glass and watches his breath form around the letters of Nick's name. His ring catches the light as he adds his own under it, then wipes it clean.

*

The next few days go by in a blur of New York shows and interviews. The album release is bigger than he could have imagined, and there's always another program to make an appearance on and some new group of fans to meet. People everywhere, surrounding them all the time, and for nearly a week they can't do anything but collapse when they finally get back to their hotel.

It's only when they get back on the road that Joe realizes how much has changed.

Nick keeps at least one step ahead of him for the whole mid-Atlantic grind, haunting the studio bus or hanging out with the band. He's never where Joe thinks he'll be, always giving him the slip when his back is turned. Joe barely noticed all the boredom and aimlessness drifting away when he was doing everything with Nick, but it suddenly crowds in again; a heavy silence drags out the hours he spends wandering around the bus, bugging his two normal brothers and anyone else who crosses his path.

"Oh my God, is that Nick Jonas?" Joe trills when Nick materializes for dinner the night before they play DC. "I'm Joe, we met at your concert in Dallas. You probably don’t remember me."

“Ha, ha," Nick says, hitting him over the head with a paper plate. "I've been working on some new songs."

"Really?" Joe steals a sausage off Kevin's plate. "I actually know a thing or two about music, maybe I could help."

Nick just rolls his eyes.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out this is the best way he can think of to cope with everything, but that doesn't mean Joe has to like it. It just makes it all feel ten times worse, because he can't pretend it's all okay and he can't keep an eye on him. He's just stuck, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Where's Nick?" Kevin asks backstage in Virginia, and it takes a lot of willpower for Joe to not snap at him.

"Dunno," he says. He’s jittery, which is never good before a show. He jiggles his leg for a minute before realizing what he’s doing, and puts a hand on his thigh.

"Really?" Kevin sounds genuinely surprised, and that brief moment of willpower leaves as quick as it came.

"Really, Kevin. Really, really, I don’t know where Nick is."

"Aw, baby girl," Kevin smarms, putting his hand on Joe's head. He’s not spoiling for a fight, though, because he doesn’t mess up his hair. "What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem," he says, jerking away. "It's not my job to know where Nick is every second of the day."

"So you've been doing it for free this whole time?" Kevin flops down in one of the chairs. "You should talk to Dad about that. Handlers make good money."

"Shut up," he says, but there's no heat in it.

Kevin looks at him for a second.

"Don't worry about it," he finally says, voice softer. "You guys never stay mad at each other for very long."

Joe doesn't miss the note of sympathy in his voice, and for a vicious moment he wants to tell him everything, let it all spill out so he can see the look on his face. He feels crazy, like Nick is still all over him, his taste hiding in the corners of Joe's mouth. It should be obvious, and he still can't believe that it it's not.

"Yeah," he says. He smiles after a second, forcing himself to flip whatever switch it is that puts him on mental auto-pilot. "We gonna kick some Virginia Beach ass tonight?"

Kevin smiles back and shrugs. "Consider it kicked."

Joe holds his fist out and Kevin bumps it, and starts telling a story about something funny that happened the night before.

Joe just sits there and watches him for a while.

They always say that family is the most important thing, and he believes that. He really does. He loves Frankie and how excited he gets about stuff, the way he lights up when Joe gives him attention. He loves his parents and everything they've done for him. He loves Kevin unthinkingly, unconditionally, but even that doesn’t touch this thing with Nick. When he tries to imagine tugging Kevin into his lap and kissing him, or throwing a leg over him and sucking on his tongue in a hotel bed, he just feels a little queasy. Like he's supposed to.

Kevin starts laughing at his own story, hands emphasizing things as he talks.

Joe made out with their little brother. He repeats it over and over in his head, but the words don’t ever start making sense.

*

Halfway between Atlanta and Cleveland something goes wrong with Nick's OmniPod.

Joe's used to seeing him check his levels; he does it about once an hour, no matter where they are or what they're doing. This time they're having a meeting with their dad in the bus kitchenette, and Nick pricks his finger almost absent-mindedly, nodding at Kevin as he sucks the tip of it. The machine beeps, and his spine suddenly stiffens.

"What is it?" Joe says, but he knows. He just knows. A cold stab of dread goes through him, sweat prickling in his pits before he can even think about how bad it might be.

"It's—" Nick shakes his head, digging the remote out of his pocket. "Something's wrong."

Everything goes to hell after that, even though they all know what to do in these situations. There's a back-up Omnipod and insulin shot on each bus, just in case, but a frisson of barely-disguised panic goes through the room as their dad locates both. Joe hovers uselessly as Nick takes the shot out and slots the tube into the needle.

"I can't—" he says after a second. His tone is steely even though his voice has gone a little breathless with nerves. "I'm shaking too much."

Joe catches a glimpse of Kevin's pale, worried face, as their dad slaps Nick's arm and gives him the injection, barely even hearing his patter of it's-all-gonna-be-okay encouragement. He fiddles with the zipper on his sweatshirt, digging the rectangle of metal into his fingertips over and over again.

They all sit there as Nick methodically eats an apple. Kevin keeps talking, and after a few minutes their dad chimes in, joining the charade that everything is normal and they're not all staring at Nick. That they're not all worried out of their minds.

"What was that sign last night, Joe?" Kevin says eventually, elbowing him in the side. He startles, trying to catch the thread of the conversation.

"Oh. Yeah. Um, someone in the front row had this huge one that said, 'The girl behind me can't see'."

Nick huffs out a laugh. "I missed that one," he says, setting the apple core on the table.

Kevin smiles, jiggling his leg. "Remember that one a few months ago? It was like – what was it? 'My boyfriend said he'd leave me if I went to another Jonas concert--'"

"—'Man, I miss him'," Joe finishes.

They all laugh, letting go of some of that collective tension.

"Still not as good as 'Who farted?'," Nick says.

"Well, what can top that?" Joe says dismissively. Nick smiles at him.

They don't stop the makeshift vigil until some color comes back to Nick's cheeks.

"I'm going to lay down," he says. "I feel a lot better, guys."

Joe sits in his bunk for another hour or so, staring out the window. He can't sneak into Nick's without getting a lecture, so he waits till everyone else goes to bed. Nick's still awake. He's just sitting there on his covers, almost like he's waiting for him.

"I was so worried," Joe says, because it's the only thing he can think to say. "God, Nick, I was so worried."

"I know," Nick says. "It's okay, though. I'm fine. It's been worse."

He knows Nick hates this part of himself; he hates being weak and he hates not being perfect. He can be touchy about it even when they're totally fine, and usually Joe just gives him space after this kind of thing, but right then he just pulls Nick against his chest and holds him there.

Nick's shoulders shudder a little when Joe kisses his forehead, but he doesn't pull away. He tips his face up, eyes shut, and lets Joe drag his mouth across his cheek until he finds Nick's lips. It's a different kind of kissing, soft and simple, the only way he knows how to channel all this huge, messy love he has for his little brother.

"Don't do that to me," he mutters, pulling him in tighter. "Don't – you can't, you just can't."

He isn't making any sense, and the words are kind of lost against Nick's cheek, but Nick squeezes him harder.

"I'm okay," he breathes. He pulls back and looks him in the eye, fingers tight around Joe's shoulder. "It's okay, Joe. Everything's okay."

Joe believes him, because he always believes Nick, but he doesn't stop hugging him for a long time.

*

Nick drifts back into his orbit after that, so easily it's like he was never gone.

They watch a lot of bad TV in Joe's bunk and stay up too late in hotel rooms talking about the future. Nick starts stealing his clothes again, wandering into breakfast in Joe's latest touristy t-shirt or his favorite blue sunglasses. He gets a driver's manual and begins studying for the test that Joe's failed three times, determined to get his license the minute he turns sixteen. Joe thumbs through it and quizzes him on left-hand turns and passing lane etiquette while they drift across the country, Nick plucking at his guitar with his feet in Joe's lap.

In Indiana they find an empty park and play pick-up baseball with half the band, and Nick keeps saying they should make a team and do it for real next summer. They talk that subject to death for a solid week, come up with a team name and positions, and eventually get bored and go back to watching bad TV.

It's all natural, falling back into a rhythm they'd half-forgotten, and if Joe squints he can almost believe the rest of it was a dream.

"Come on," Nick says in Michigan, waving him onto the studio bus. He plays him the rough copy of his country song, and Joe sits at the table and nods along.

"It's not done yet," Nick says as soon as it's over. "There's something wrong with it, I don't know. I'm still trying to figure it out."

"It's the key," Joe says. He twirls a finger in the air, motioning for Nick to loop it again, and nods as soon as it starts back up. "Totally the key. You wanted to write a country song, but it sounds like a regular ballad."

"There's going to be a fiddle," Nick says defensively. "It'll sound like a country song."

Joe leans back in his chair. He clearly remembers that random afternoon Nick told him he was going to write this, the way they'd flirted over sunglasses and a grape popsicle. It all seems so ridiculous and far away.

"The only way this would sound like a country song is if you got Willie Nelson to sing it. Transpose it to the major key."

"It's a sad song," Nick says witheringly. "If I change it to the major key it's going to be a happy song about breaking someone's heart."

"Or," Joe says, polishing his sunglasses, "there'll be a tension between the lyrics and the music. I mean, isn't that kind of the point of your lyrics, anyway? The singer is just doing his thing, and this girl's heart breaks randomly? He's not the one who's sad, she is. He's just like, 'bitch, please, get over it.'"

Nick huffs, tossing his pen in the air. It lands on the table between them. "'Bitch, please, get over it'?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Joe says, leaning over to look at the notebook in front of him. "'All I do is treat you with respect, all I ever get is attitude, what's going on?' Same difference. If you put it in the major, it'll highlight the actual problem you're talking about. The narrator is on a totally different wavelength than this girl and her problems." He pauses, grinning. "Is this one about Miley?"

Nick rolls his eyes and yanks back his notebook. He looks at it for a second, and then looks at Joe. "Major?"

"Majorly major," Joe says, shrugging.

Nick finds him backstage before the show that night. He's sitting at the side of the green room, watching Kevin teach Frankie chords on his guitar. Nick plops next to him, smiling in the smirky little way that means he's pleased with himself.

"What are you so happy about?" Joe says.

"Finished that song," he says airily.

"What, really?"

Nick laughs and bumps against Joe's shoulder. "It was the key change. It's supposed to be major."

"The happy key?" Joe steals Nick's coffee and gives him a look of exaggerated surprise over the brim. "For a sad song?"

"I know," Nick says, letting him take a swig before he takes it back. "It sounds like a really dumb idea."

Joe holds his fist out and makes some exploding sound effects when Nick bumps it.

"Lennon and McCartney, right here," he says. Nick smiles a little, picking at the plastic rim of his cup.

"Who am I?"

Joe shuts one eye and studies him. "Pre-love-in Lennon, totally."

"And, what, you're teen heart-throb McCartney?"

"Um, duh, where have you been?" He blows his hair out of his eyes. "Kev's equal parts Ringo and George. A little mysterious, a little... 'Octopus's Garden'."

"Uh-huh," says Nick. He takes a pull of coffee and hands it back to him. "So I go solo and get stalked to death, you form Wings, and Kevin gets to live in Shining Time Station?"

Joe grins. "It makes a sick kind of sense, right?"

Nick laughs and shakes his head, and Joe tosses an arm around his shoulders. Nick leans into it, fitting under his arm just right.

It's so easy. It's all so easy, like nothing ever happened.

Except when Nick looks up to wave at Garbo, the light catches right on his face and makes his lips look starkly pink against his skin, and Joe remembers what it was like to put his mouth there. Except that Nick catches him staring, and his gaze drops down to Joe's mouth before he looks away, color rising to his cheekbones. Except that Nick smells like he tastes and his voice after a night of singing sounds like his voice after he gets off. Except that when Joe shuts his eyes to jerk off at night he can remember the exact way Nick's body felt up against his own.

Except that something did happen, and there are times it's too obvious to ignore.

Nick's throwing himself around the room after a bad show in Ohio when Joe says, unthinkingly, "Why don't you sleep with me tonight?"

It's a tradition that predates all the kissing stuff by years, something they've always done when they're feeling crappy. Nick hesitates for a second, but then he shrugs and says, "Yeah, okay," and Joe lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"You're going to give yourself an aneurysm," he says when Nick settles in next to him.

Nick rolls his eyes. "You don't even know what an aneurysm is."

"It's a brain thing," Joe says, elbowing him in the side.

"You're a brain thing," Nick says, shoving him.

"You really have a way with words, dude. You're a poet."

Nick rolls over to punch him, and they scuffle as much as they can under the covers. It feels good to let go of the tension that's been hanging over them all night, and they keep it going for longer than they might otherwise.

"Jerk," Nick finally says when they're both pink-faced and breathless. Joe reaches to flick him between the eyes, but Nick catches his wrist and yanks it away. Instead of letting go, though, he wraps his fingers around it like he's taking a measurement. It doesn't feel like rough-housing anymore; it's too deliberate, too careful for that. He taps his thumb against the side, breaths gusting warm on Joe's face.

Joe's body reacts before his brain has time to catch up, reeling with a rush of heat. He blinks in the darkness, suddenly too aware of every place Nick's body is overlapping with his. He tenses, waiting for it to pass, but when Nick's hand shifts again his dick is suddenly swelling in his boxers, twitching where it's tucked against his hip.

"Your hands are cold," he says abruptly, tugging his arm back. Their legs are pressed together under the blankets, thighs down to bare feet. All it would take is Nick shifting an inch – just an inch, and he'd feel it.

Nick wets his lips absently and blinks at him a couple times.

"That's because you're hogging the blankets," he finally says, tugging at them and rolling over.

*

The tour winds down right when summer gets the hottest.

"Only four more shows," Kevin says in Pennsylvania, and for some reason it hits Joe like a punch.

The last week brings out the best in everyone, like they're all determined to go out on top, but Joe feels keyed up and out of sync with everything. It doesn't even seem real that it's almost over, their biggest tour and their craziest summer.

They do an interview in Vermont, just a small thing in the green room at the venue. The questions are mostly about what the future holds – the TV show they're going to be shooting, the next single off the new album, where they see themselves in a year. It's all routine and normal, but Joe can't quite sit still.

He's been drinking too much coffee, trying to find the energy and enthusiasm everyone's brimming over with, but it's just made him jittery and restless. He keeps sliding to the edge of the couch and then back in against Nick's side, his fingers tapping rhythms against his knees.

Nick digs an elbow into his side the third or fourth time Joe flops around, and then he just starts distracting himself with Nick.

It’s absent, not the kind of stuff anyone would really notice. He brushes the side of his hand against Nick's thigh, drags his knuckles against the nape of his neck while his arm’s stretched along the back of the couch, ignoring the way Nick tries to shrug him off. Nick finally turns and glares at him when digs his fingers into the curls that brush his collar, leaving Kevin stammering some dumb answer about their favorite restaurants in New York.

"What is with you?" Nick snaps as soon as the interview is over. Color is rising in his cheeks, splotchy in a way that usually signals a fight around the corner.

"What's with you?" he returns.

Nick's eyes narrow, and Kevin seems to take that as his cue to steer their publicist into the hallway.

"You're being so stupid," Nick says, voice pitching higher once they're alone. "Why do you have to always – ugh, what is it, Joe?"

"What are you talking about, weirdo?"

Nick presses his lips together in a tight line and just stares at him, pinning him with this look that’s way too knowing, way too sharp. Joe gives him a half-hearted shove, trying to lighten the mood, and Nick uncoils like a snapped spring, wrestling him to the floor. They roll over a couple of times, knocking into the table and the edge of the couch. Nick pins him after a minute, his mouth tense and his eyes blazing.

"I can't think about you all the time, Joe."

Joe doesn't even know what that means, the words unfamiliar and out of nowhere.

"I know," he says, automatically indignant.

"You can't just do stuff like that, okay? It's like you're always in my head, and I can't deal with it, and you keep pushing me and touching me and being – you. Just stop."

"I wasn't—"

Nick kisses him then, hard and deep. His teeth snag on Joe's bottom lip before his tongue drives in, and Joe tips his head back and lets it happen. He can feel Nick's chest shuddering against his own, the heat of his mouth wild and uncontrolled.

Joe fists a hand in the front of Nick's t-shirt, the other one finding his hip and squeezing it sharply. He's thrumming with tension and anger, and Joe hates how much he likes being the focus of all that intensity. It makes his stomach drop and his dick swell in his pants, and he tightens his grip, digging his fingernails into Nick's skin.

Nick hisses, grinding down on him and rubbing Joe's wrists against the carpet until they hurt. He's hard, too, Joe realizes after a second. He rocks up against him, the heels of his shoes scrabbling against the floor as he tries to get leverage, but he's just stuck there.

"Fuck," Nick spits, panting into his face, and then he presses his mouth to the side of Joe's neck.

He thinks for a wild second that Nick's actually going to bite him, but he just pulls at the skin in a tight suck, something he's never done before. It sends hot sparks through Joe's limbs even as he twists, hands scratching up Nick's back. There are people right outside the door, they're gambling with so much, and he doesn't care. He doesn't even care.

Nick shoves a hand between them and finds the bulge of Joe's dick, cupping his hand around it through the denim. It's so good Joe can't hold back a ragged groan, can't fight the impulse to grab for the front of Nick's jeans, too. He's never actually felt it like that – the obvious, unforgiving shape of his hard dick right under his palm. Their wrists bump together, and Nick's mouth goes slack, his breaths shuddering against the curve of Joe's neck.

"I want you all over me," Nick hisses, the words low and hot against his skin. He squeezes his hand sharply, the heel of it grinding against the base of Joe's dick. "All the time."

Joe arches up, his hips jerking of their own volition.

"Yeah," he breathes, because he knows exactly what Nick means. That's exactly how this feels, the desperation spiraling through his limbs and hitting him every time he looks at Nick these days. "Nick, we're—"

He can't think like this. Nick's dog tags have spilled out of his shirt, and they're knocking against the hollow of Joe's throat in tandem with his jagged little thrusts. It's all too much, and his dick is throbbing against the zipper of his jeans like he might just come in them again.

He pulls at the silver button of Nick's fly, popping it open and rubbing his thumb against the elastic of his boxers. It's right there, so close he can feel the heat where it's pressing out the cotton.

"Nick," he gasps again, and for some reason that snaps Nick out of it. Joe can feel the shiver that goes through his body just before he jerks back.

Nick sits there for a second, chest heaving, and then hauls himself to his feet. He turns away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and Joe sits up and watches him button his pants.

They just look at each other for a long moment when Nick turns back around.

"We're on in twenty," Nick finally says. It takes a second for Joe to remember what he's talking about – the show, the band, the thirty thousand people waiting to see them be the Jonas Brothers.

Nick holds his hand out and Joe takes it, letting Nick pull him back up to reality.

*

They get the next day off, but Nick tags along with their mom and Frankie on errands in the city.

Joe sends him a text around noon: are you still alive? It's fifteen minutes before his phone chirps with the reply.

I think so, or else the zombie apocalypse has started.

He snorts out a laugh, breathing a little easier. Do you want braaains? he writes back.

The response is almost immediate. Don't worry, I know you don't have one.

They’re piling on the bus after dinner that night when Nick suddenly says, "We should get on the studio bus, Joe." He looks over at Kevin and adds, "We were having trouble with some of our vocals last night. I think we need to work on it."

There was nothing wrong with the vocals last night.

"Yeah," Joe says, pushing his bangs off his forehead. "I noticed that."

Nick actually makes him work on songs for a while. He’s all business, forehead crinkling up in concentration as they volley verses back and forth. Joe thinks he might start to get whiplash from all the mood swings, but it's not like he can call him on it without starting another fight.

They finally call it quits around eleven.

"You want to call the driver?" Joe asks, flopping back on the couch. "Move to the other bus?"

"Nah," Nick says. "Let’s just crash here."

They’ve done it a million times, and Nick tosses it out like it’s a casual suggestion. No big deal. He kicks his shoes off and pulls the blanket off the back of the couch.

"Hit the light?" he asks, and Joe does.

In the dark, he settles on the black leather with Nick tucked up against him. He keeps his arms pulled in, but after a minute Nick turns against him, and he lets one arm creep over Nick's side. His hand settles over Nick's stomach, curled in a loose fist.

"I'm sorry," Joe finally says. "Man, I'm so sorry things are messed up."

Nick is quiet for a while, and then he says, "It scares me, how much I want to do that stuff. With you." He blows out a heavy sigh. "I thought it would go away, you know? I mean, I'm not, like, gay or something, it's not like that. I just—"

And Nick, who can spin any emotion into a best-selling pop song, seems at a loss for words. Instead he just shakes his head twice and shrugs. Joe shuts his eyes, focusing on the heavy weight of Nick slumped against him.

"I know," he says. He traces his fingertips along the side of Nick's face, where the whirls of his hair touch his temple. "I get it."

Nick tilts his head a little, his breaths brushing over Joe's neck. It's a sudden shock of heat, making his skin tingle with goosebumps and a dirty, seasick thrill tear through him.

"Why are you so okay with everything?" Nick bursts. "Why aren't you more freaked out? It's like you don't even care about any of this."

Joe sighs and slides a hand through his own hair.

"Remember when you asked me if we were always going to be us?" he says after a minute. "You and me?"

"Yeah."

"And I said we would. 'Cause we are. I'm still your big brother and I still love you, Nick. I love you so much. We're still just us, and that's how it's always going to be. It's not different now."

"Why was it different when we were – doing that?"

"It wasn't," he says. "I just never, ever, ever want to do anything to hurt you or mess you up. You're, like, the most important person in the world to me."

"I'm already messed up, Joe. This – it's not new, not for me. It's not stopping just because we aren't – whatever. I don't know how to be normal. Just hugging? Or sleeping together? Or, like, wanting to do this stuff all the time? I just, I can't even tell what's okay anymore."

Joe shuts his eyes and focuses on the sounds of the bus and the road. He thinks about all those times this summer, all those times in their lives he's looked at Nick and wanted this. It's hard to see the lines here because they've never had any; there's never been anything to cross. They've just been drifting closer and closer together, so maybe this kind of a crash was inevitable.

"It's not new for me, either," he says.

Nick tenses in his arms, shifting around like he's trying to look at him in the dark. "Really?"

"Yeah."

Nick makes a frustrated noise. "Then why can't we do it? It's not like doing stuff with girls. It's not like it's—"

Joe makes himself force out the words. "If anyone found out—"

"No one has to find out," Nick says, his voice low and firm. It sounds so simple when he says it, and Joe wishes fleetingly that he had less of a conscience.

"There's, like, a reason people can't find out," he says carefully. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Yeah, because they wouldn't get it. We've always been like this, right? And not doing it is weirder than doing it was. We're all screwed up now, and I didn't feel all screwed up when we were just – doing that."

"You can't even say it," Joe says.

"Kissing," Nick says, tone steely. "We were kissing, okay? I don't know what you even call the other stuff, but I'm not the one trying to pretend it never happened."

"I'm not doing that," he says, exasperated. "I couldn't do that even if I wanted to. I'm just really freaking scared. I don't know what I'm supposed to do if this – if I do something to make you hate me."

Nick sighs, like he's got all the answers and he's just deigning to give them to Joe one by one.

"Don't be an idiot, Joe. You're my brother. We're always going to be together, and you're always going to be the most important person in my life. Like, how could you not be? How would that even work? It's only going to be weird if I have to spend the rest of my life worrying if I'm hugging you too long or – if I say the wrong thing you're going to get all mopey and weird."

"I don't get mopey and weird," he says, because that's the easiest thing to answer. "You're the one who kept hiding from me."

"I wasn't hiding, I was giving you room to have your mental breakdown."

Joe pinches his arm and Nick digs his knuckles into Joe's stomach. He puts his hand on Nick's side, thinking vaguely about shoving him or tickling him, but once he's touching him he just rubs his fingers against his ribs.

"I just – I need you to be you," Nick says. "So I can be me. And this is part of that. I'd rather have the weird stuff that comes with doing this than all the weird stuff that happens when we're not doing it." Nick's fingers move against his arm, rubbing at the hair there. When he speaks again, it's like an afterthought, quiet and honest. "I was really happy."

It pulls up the side of Joe's mouth even as it twists his heart. Nick doesn't know it, but that's the best argument he could use. Joe could argue him into the ground if he pitched it any other way, but making Nick happy is always going to be the one thing he doesn't question or over-think.

Joe catches Nick's hand in his own and squeezes it. Nick sighs and rubs his thumb across Joe's knuckles. There's a small scar there between the first two, a kind of souvenir from the first time they rolled around on a hotel floor and started spinning everything out of control. It had all seemed really easy then. He can remember it clearly, the way it felt like all the normal things he'd always known were deepening, expanding, but not changing.

"Okay," he says. Nick's fingers go still, and the quiet tension in the room all seems to settle on that one word. "But if you want to stop – if it ever gets too weird—"

"Yeah," Nick says, shifting around. "Yeah, yeah, okay."

He swallows and touches Joe's shoulder. Joe's heart is pounding, and he thinks it should probably be harder to do this. But grabbing Nick's chin and kissing him is the easiest thing he's ever done.

"You really want to?" Nick says against his mouth, his lips still catching against Joe's. "Like, everything?"

"Yeah," he says, even though he has no idea what that might entail. He just wants this, all of it, as much of it as he can get. "Whatever you want."

He opens up when Nick kisses him again, tipping his face to the side and letting Nick's tongue push past his lips. It's better than it's been before, each sweep of lips flavored with the knowledge that Nick really wants this, that they're both really in this for good. He's been standing in this limbo for a long time, trying to figure out how much more he can take, what he has left to give. It suddenly seems like they both might be limitless. The thought makes his whole body feel hot and shaky, but he's not freaking out. It's just really, really good.

"Take your shirt off," Nick whispers, tugging at the hem. It's a little awkward to shift around and peel it off, but by the time he tosses it over the edge of the couch Nick's got the first three buttons of his own shirt open. Joe bats his hand away so he can do it, his mouth covering Nick's again as he pulls the hem of it loose from his pants.

Nick's skin is warm, and he sighs softly when Joe wraps an arm around his bare side. His other hand finds the side of Nick's face and holds it as Nick's tongue traces his upper lip and then slips inside, deepening the soft, wet connection of their mouths.

Nick's breaths gust against his cheek as his fingers work between them to open the fly of Joe's jeans.

"I just – I wanna—"

Joe nods loosely. Nick doesn't actually touch him, he just yanks down the zipper and reaches for his own, his hand fumbling between them until he shifts and Joe can feel it – Nick's dick pressed up against his own through the thin cotton of their boxers.

"God," he mutters, fingers going tight against the small of Nick's back. Nick huffs a laugh against his mouth and rocks against him, fitting them together just right. It's so good he can barely breathe, everything in his world reduced to this: Nick's mouth, Nick's hands, his brother's cock pressing up against his.

They find a rhythm like that, Joe's hips arching against Nick's every time Nick moves against him. Nick sighs a little when Joe pulls his mouth away, tilting his head as Joe's mouth moves down to the side of his neck and settles at the base of his throat.

"You still—" Nick's voice is low, shot with tension, and Joe can feel it rumbling under his lips. "—can't give me a hickey there."

"There are other places," he says. "Worked out pretty well last time."

Nick's hips rock against his, hard.

"Yeah – yeah, do it," he says. Joe can feel Nick's skin flush as his mouth drags down lower. He does it right below Nick's collarbone, fingers sliding up his back as he sucks the skin in a tight, wet roll. Nick squirms and huffs, a hand coming up to grip at Joe's hair. "I wear a lot of scarves in the winter," he offers, and Joe laughs and nips at his skin.

It's weird to think about, but he suddenly wants that more than he even knew; he wants to put his mouth all over Nick when they're at home, when they're back in the studio, when it's cold outside and Nick has to wear extra layers just to cover up all the places Joe's been.

"I'm gonna do it," he says against Nick's chin. "You'll have to start buying turtlenecks."

Nick makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan, his breaths still shuddery. He's so hot under Joe's hands, it's crazy.

"I'll give you one, too," he says. "You want one?"

"Where?"

Nick's fingers slide down between them, skimming down Joe's stomach and coming to rest at his hip, right next to the trail of hair under his belly-button.

"There."

Joe's dick throbs as Nick starts to shift down, easing onto his knees and making the leather cushions of the couch creak. He rubs at that spot before he leans in and touches it with his mouth.

"You've never given one, huh?" Joe says, his thoughts tripping back to that conversation weeks ago. He can't see much of anything, but when Nick's breaths gust against his skin his whole body flushes over with heat.

"I think I get the general idea," Nick says.

Joe's jaw goes slack as Nick's tongue moves over his skin, so close to his dick that it's easy to imagine – other things. The heat in his body is coming in waves, crashing over him between breaths, and when Nick gives that spot a hard, steady suck, his toes curl in his sneakers.

"Jeez," he manages, trying to not thrust right up into his chin. "I guess so."

Nick takes his time, working at it until it has to be good and purple, and he doesn't really pull away when he's done. He tilts his face, brushing his mouth over Joe's stomach. There's no intent behind it; it's just aimless and gentle, like he wants to touch him in a new way.

"You're gonna make me—" Joe starts, shifting around. He's not totally sure if he's trying to get more pressure on his dick or if he's trying to escape the heat of Nick's mouth, torn between the way his body's barreling towards it and the vague idea that he wants to keep this going as long as he can.

Nick stiffens a little, lifting his head.

"I want to," he says, gripping clumsily at Joe's hip. "And I want to – see it."

He hisses it like it's the dirtiest thing he's ever heard, much less said, and Joe has to fist his hand in the smooth back of the couch to keep from losing it right there.

"I, uh." He shuts his eyes and nods, trying to not let that idea take shape in his head. It's too hot; he's never going to last. "Yeah."

The open ends of Nick's shirt trail against Joe's stomach when he leans over him, reaching to turn on the lamp.

It takes a second for Joe's eyes to adjust, and then he can suddenly see it all, everything: the streaks of red his fingers left on Nick's skin, the hickey on his own stomach, the bulge pressing out the front of his boxers. The look on Nick's face is maybe the most overwhelming. It has so much in it, lingering under the sheen of sweat and the pink in his cheeks.

Nick chews on his bottom lip as they look at each other, his fingers shaking a little when his gaze finally drops down between them. He touches his palm to the curve of Joe's cock, careful at first and then harder, his fingers squeezing around the shape of it. It's so intense, so direct that Joe's breath hitches in his chest, his hands gripping Nick's knees.

"Come on," he says, not missing the way Nick's face lights up at the permission, like he was only hesitating long enough for Joe to tell him no.

Joe holds his breath as Nick's hand slides into his boxers and pulls his dick out. He cups it in a loose fist, staring at it with an open fascination that makes him look younger than he is. Joe's hips jerk up, sliding it over Nick's palm, and he suddenly tightens his fingers, gaze moving up to Joe's face.

"Like that?" he asks, pumping it.

Joe nods, pinned there for a minute in that new sensation. It's nothing Nick hasn't seen before, but there aren't any barriers or defenses anymore – this is everything, all the random moments and touches and feelings crashing together. This is more than he's ever done with anyone else.

It's almost a surprise when his heart keeps moving from one beat to the next, and he realizes it's not really that scary. It's just the two of them, just Joe and Nick, and even if he doesn't know anything else, he knows how to be half of that equation.

He grabs for Nick's shoulders and pulls him back down in a kiss, rubbing their tongues together as it all hits him. Nick groans against his mouth like encouragement, his hand moving faster. He ducks out of the kiss long enough to look down and watch it happen, watch Joe's load spatter up across his bare stomach.

"God, Joe," he mutters, his fingers touching against the head as he loses another string of it. Joe's body just keeps hitching, the shockwaves rolling through him over and over again as his brain tries to process that Nick's jerking him off, that this is Nick.

When he opens his eyes, Nick's smearing his fingers over the mess on his stomach, looking a little shell-shocked.

"C'mere," Joe says, pulling at the loose collar of Nick's shirt until he's close enough to kiss again. Nick leans into it, the swell of his dick grinding against Joe's hip as he breathes into his mouth. He has to be close – Joe can feel the tension in his shoulders, taste it when Nick sucks on his tongue.

Joe's hand is clumsy when he digs between them, heavy with the warm stupor that's settling over him. He's only just skimmed his knuckles against the hot, heavy curve of it when Nick stiffens and comes right against his fingers.

"Oh God," he huffs against the side of Joe's face. "God, Joe."

"Yeah?" He squeezes his hand, kissing Nick's cheek and the corner of his mouth. He can feel every jerk and pulse, his own body throbbing like an echo. Watching it happen, seeing the way Nick's face hitches up as it hits him, might even be hotter than Nick doing it to him.

Nick goes boneless after a moment, slumping against his side and the back of the couch. Joe watches his chest move with his ragged breaths, the light of the room catching on his sweaty skin. He kisses Nick's forehead and slides an arm around his shoulder, the motion so familiar it's almost automatic.

"Huh," Nick says.

"Huh," Joe echoes.

The bus gets quiet for a while, the silence only broken by their evening breaths. Joe concentrates on the heavy warmth of Nick up against him, the way his hand is solid and sticky against his side. For the first time in weeks he feels completely still, all the tension and confusion smoothing out into something simple and steady.

"Do you still—" Joe finally says, and Nick doesn't even move or open his eyes; he just cuts him off.

"Yeah."

Joe laughs and elbows him. "Way to be rude."

"Shut up," Nick says, lifting his head to squint at him. He smiles a little, his gaze moving to Joe's mouth and then back up to his eyes. "Just don't even ask me that, okay? I want this."

Joe studies him for a second.

"Good," he says. "'Cause I'm going to kiss you."

Nick's smile gets even bigger, and Joe presses his mouth to the center of it, soft and warm.

"More tongue," Joe says. Nick laughs and rolls on top of him, angling his face to the side.

"Good call," he says, and kisses him again.

Joe shuts his eyes as it deepens, and in that moment he can feel everything: the heat of summer, the road passing under the wheels of the bus, the weight of this thing between them. It doesn't feel like he's losing anything, and that's the weird part. It doesn't feel like he's trading one thing for another. This transition, this crazy leap, feels like the simple motion forward it's always been. One more dot to connect in the constellation of them.

-fin.