Archive of Our Own

They’re talking over his shoulder, something about homophobia, something about religious trauma, something about needing to eat real food instead of handfuls of popcorn and stale nachos, but he’s too transfixed by his reflection perched on the dressing-room vanity to join the camaraderie. Sometimes, he gets in moods where a single infectious word beats itself around his head. Right now, it’s “velveteen.”

If he were to vocalize this—which he does, under his breath, on a loop that could exhaust his jaw—each of the nine letters would catch in his throat, not due to the presence of the number nine—he does find it strangely ironic here, at the end of everything—but due to how that word scours up the memory of his favorite bedtime story. That little rabbit hops into the forefront of his mind, so vivid he can picture it on the vanity tabletop. 

Well-worn and fraying seams, the toy desired nothing more than to understand how to be real. All those trials, and all it required was compassion. That little rabbit, well-worn and fraying seams, felt love, at the end of everything—and in his chest, seeping into his stomach, he wonders if it’s love he’s indulging in as he gazes at his reflection.

He’ll never admit how often he lurks online because, these days, whether or not anybody believes him, it’s seldom. He’s deleted most of his social media apps, set time restrictions on others, and spends his free time zoning out to various match-three puzzle games—games that fulfill his need for competition without the opportunity to harm others. He, Josh, and Mark have a group message; he receives what’s relevant, even though he knows those apps kill Mark. Despite this, Mark’s a good friend, and he willingly subjects himself to brain rot.

“They’re going crazy over your socks,” Mark said, at the start of tour. “They’re trying to say it’s because they’re red, but I know what they really mean in their dirty, filthy minds.” 

And he supposes he couldn’t really blame them; he did catch himself pulling up the hems of his socks often as he sat at B-stage, during the Clancy World Tour. Maybe this ritual enchanted them as much as it did him. It was a stim, it was restructuring his form, it was a necessity—whatever reason fit the day, his fingers found his compression socks and returned them to his calves. He only regretted ditching the brace for his broken fibula a little. 

When Mark approached him a month ago, phone in hand, he assumed the worst and began planning a to-do list of numbers to call—lawyers, security, other agencies he’d have to contact if this was another case of an asinine fan invading his privacy—yet, once Mark’s phone came into view, and the screen showed an art piece of him in a black leotard and red tights, black paint applied and an almost despondent look on his face as he discarded his white shirt with a delicate kick of his foot, his heart quickened for a very different reason. 

“That’s not socks,” he said. 

“No, that is not socks.” Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Josh had an idea.”

Laura knew where to look. He trusted her to drape him in whatever she envisioned, as long as it was ultimately comfortable. He was getting older; he couldn’t afford anything less. 

He thinks there’s love in these seams. His thumbs find a home on the ones below his armpits, where he wraps his arms around himself. His reflection doesn’t appear nearly as despondent as that piece of fanart. Something else lingers here, cracking edges, egg shells, an oozing that may decorate these walls if he were to exhale too loudly. Small—he’s small, his reflection, one heel popped off the dressing-room carpet as he pivots to the side and catches Josh’s eye. 

Josh has him covered—always—and he approaches with an eagerness that rivals his own pup’s once upon a time. “I got you, Ty,” he says, and places a hand on Tyler’s shoulder while the other plucks the zipper at the base of Tyler’s neck and drags it down to about mid-back. He turns around, attention on Mark again. “I mean, if anybody gives you shit about this, you can just insinuate you got loads more on all those hard drives.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mark says, slumping in a nearby chair and tapping away on his phone. “That’s what I need: an insinuation that the entirety of the band’s archives is full of porn.” He pauses, seems to consider the validity of this, and then returns to editing the clip they just shot—intended to be the cut away into the dressing room after their final show tonight, where Josh inquires if Tyler wants to say anything else to their fans on camera, and Tyler, unbothered and undressing, declines and wanders off screen. 

They filmed many takes, each one a bit easier once all the giggles fluttered out their systems. Mark was the worst by being the most professional. It reminded Tyler of their early years, videos of guitars and violin bows. “I can’t take you seriously—”

Josh returns to Tyler. His grip tightens, his fingertips reaching Tyler’s collarbone, like he’s steadying Tyler. Tyler feels sturdy enough, feet planted and his arms over his chest. His reflection tells this truth, too, etched in the hard muscle of his thighs, the slight dip of his waist, the flat panel of his stomach. He isn’t bloated now, as he tends to get these days, hasn’t eaten since breakfast—a Red Bull and a cinnamon roll with too much icing. When he draws in a breath, he watches the leotard’s fabric mold to his ribcage.

Josh stops the zipper at Tyler’s waist, where the red tights begin. “Yeah?”

Tyler nods. “Yeah.” He eases out an arm.

Mark says, “Dude, is it cool if I’m jealous of your ass?”

“Are you sexualizing me?”

“I believe the appropriate word in this scenario is ‘fetishize’—and, like, sure, whatever.”

Josh claps a hand on Mark’s knee. “Let’s eat. Tyler, when you’re ready, we’ll head out.”

Tyler says, “Why don’t we get something delivered?” but he’s speaking to a closing door. He doesn’t let this get to him, no matter how much it capsizes a clump of ice into his gut, instead choosing to revert to removing himself from this leotard. 

Laura swore it would fit him—and it does. He, however, required assistance shimmying it on. 

Josh helped. 

Tyler had the tights under control, and Josh cracked a joke about missing out on watching Tyler slide into them, since Tyler, without needing to inform Josh of this—because, after all these years, Tyler’s body is as familiar to him as his own—opted to go commando. It was meant to be a quick video. Anything under the tights would create creases. The illusion would shatter. He wasn’t supposed to wear these for long. 

So, Josh held that leotard open for Tyler to step into, allowed Tyler to playfully dig his fingers into Josh’s hair during this, and Josh did not make direct eye contact with Tyler’s crotch. 

“What a gentleman,” Tyler said, and Josh spun him around, smacked his ass, and zipped up the leotard. 

“Thanks, babe.”

The leotard hangs from Tyler’s waist. He’s panting, inspecting the red lines popping along his biceps from the leotard’s armholes straining against his skin in his jostle to strip. He catches a spot of black paint here, too, his right arm, somehow, just a thumbprint—and he glares at his hands. He’ll need to reapply the paint later, for the show. Washing his hands before meals and after hitting the restroom removes the paint enough for the fans to notice—but they always notice the littlest things, for better or for worse. Lately, he thinks it’s been for the worse. 

He decides to keep the paint on his neck, at least. That’ll save them a few minutes this evening. 

He starts toward the clothes he ditched on a table in the corner, out of the camera’s view. Black sweats, a gray Ned hoodie, a nip of nostalgia in his piece of shof ball cap—the morning held fog, and the venue was air conditioned. He and Josh rolled out of bed past their alarm. They would end the day like they started.

Tyler glances at his reflection again. 

There’s only a sliver of it this time, from his spot by the table—his backside, of course; the slight slouch of his shoulders; the arch of his spine; the dip of the small of his back; the handfuls of flesh that make up his ass. He can still feel the sting of Josh’s palm on his right cheek. Hooking his nails into the sleek material of the tights, he pads to the vanity. 

When he was younger, he wore similar garbs, with less skin showing—they were just as tight, clinging to his hips and accenting them in galaxy or geometric patterns. T-shirts draped his torso, sometimes to his thighs, sometimes to his waist; and when he lifted his arms, he flashed his stomach—and Josh would always grab at it. Tyler would squeak and tug down his shirt, and Josh would laugh. “Sorry,” he’d say, without meaning it at all. In the van, late at night, he was gentler in his exploration. When Tyler stretched, then, Josh’s fingertips hovered, and his eyes were wide. Tyler’s eyes, too—he gnawed his lip and nodded his head so quickly he figured he’d catch a case of whiplash if he didn’t learn Josh would never tire of touching him like this. Even now, disbelief hits him like secondhand smoke. 

Standing in front of the vanity now, he presses a hand to his bare stomach while he drops the other to lay on his thigh. He dares not venture inwards, doesn’t even feel compelled to do so. He’s studying his face, his shoulders—the California sun treated him well the past few days. Ohio will greet him with rain and seasonal depression soon enough. He’ll nest. He’ll tie his hoodie strings and wear two pairs of socks. He’ll rot his teeth from hot chocolate. 

Jenna shakes his phone to light, two soft vibrations—Mark sent some pics, the first text says. Then, My pretty pretty baby

Thankful the paint doesn’t smear along his phone screen, he taps out his response—y’know how to put one of these on solo?

If the fans already assumed he wore an ensemble such as this under his costumes, would it be so terrible if he tried it out for himself, see if their fantasies were rooted in the real world? Dancers performed like this all the time, albeit with more elegance and hair gel—he could be their foil, if only for tonight. 

just need it over my arms, he sends as follow up, after watching the typing bubble remain for a minute. 

The bubbles falter, then come back full force, only to result in Did you pee first?

He’s worn jumpsuits before, outfits that require him to unpeel the top half to access the bathroom. The structure of this current article is an obvious detriment—too many moving pieces. With the top half still by his waist, he pops into the en-suite bathroom. 

He returns to a paragraph.

Bodysuits like that are usually stretchy. It can feel tight but it will move with you. Don’t worry about ripping it. Go easy and slow. One arm at a time. If the fabric gets a little twisted, you can start over. The zipper is easy too. I know you’ve been working out those muscles. Bring it up as far as you can go, starting at the bottom. Then pull it up the rest of the way by reaching over your shoulder. You can pinch the bodysuit to lift it up closer to you. 

Another text comes through—Debby heading your way—and two tentative knocks drum along the door. 

He answers in a routine deadpan, “Hey,” which his visitor reciprocates before lightly shoving past him into the room. Her eyes do not stray, and she provides no resounding questions—she plops down in the chair Mark previously occupied and urges him forward with a wave. 

He says, “Sorry,” because there’s something about being in her company that pulls him into these moods. He knows it’s irrational, but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t lean into it from time to time—because there’s something about being in her company that amps up his bratty behavior, and he knows she’s as into it as he is. 

“Oh, shut up,” she says, and spreads her legs a little wider to give him more room. 

Standing on his knees, he turns until he’s facing away from her. 

She wastes no time placing a hand on his back, fingertips cool from whatever beverage she was holding before popping in here. She keeps her hand there for his skin to acclimate, for his mind to center itself, and then she’s reaching around to his front and grabbing the leotard. 

“Which arm?”

“Right.”

She brings up the right shoulder of the leotard and holds it out for him. 

They work in silence, his chin tucked into his chest and her hands a cradle along his flank. She’s deft, in tune to his neuroses in a way that only Josh would know, and he supposes this makes sense—Josh and her gossiping about him, like how he and Jenna do about Josh, late at night, when they can’t sleep. 

Do they share the same stories? Does Josh suspect how often Tyler touches the tattoo on his thigh when he particularly misses him—or how often Jenna’s lain her head on his stomach and traced those letters with her nails, her teeth, her tongue? He told Josh, once, that he regretted carving his name so large and so deep into Josh’s knee. That was how it felt to love Josh, though—does Josh know that? That something is wrong with him? And Josh chooses to love him anyway?

This was Josh’s idea.

Tyler presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. 

Behind him, Debby says, “Have you considered not overthinking whatever you’re thinking?”

“Oh, shut up,” he parrots, dropping his arms unceremoniously by his sides. He picks them back up soon after, crossing his arms over his chest, as she straightens out the leotard’s hem along his hips. She pauses, he nods, and she continues over his ass, down between his legs. 

“How does that feel?” she asks, barely above a whisper. 

“Okay.” He fidgets in place to turn without knocking into her legs. Somewhat successful, only catching her ankle on his descent to the floor, he pulls his legs into the criss-cross applesauce position. Before he has the chance to say more—not like he was going to in the first place, with the way his ribs feel like they’re choking him—Debby offers, “Well, I think you look hot.” 

She presses two kisses to her palm. 

On reflex, he does the same to his. 

Then, together, their hands meet. 

He doesn’t comment on how his paint might transfer to her skin, and she doesn’t comment either. She smiles at him, lingering her fingertips on his, and says, “You look like yourself, too, but you already know that, don’t you?”

*

All bright smiles, Josh finds him in a hallway. “Was just looking for you. C’mere—follow me—”

They traverse staircases, wander past locked doors, and emerge on a small balcony skimmed by sunlight. Along the concrete, Josh has unfolded a thick blanket, plaid, something that reminds Tyler of their mismatched-pattern detour during the throes of Trench. Atop the blanket sets a greasy Taco Bell bag and two Baja Blasts, catty-corner in a drink tray; and carefully placed next to their blanket, already flickering and mixing with the traces of the afternoon air, a candle resides. It smells like sugar cookies, like cinnamon—preparation for holidays at home and sticky fingers from baking and laughing too much.

Josh says, “So, we did end up getting something delivered.”

“I can see that.”

Josh sits first. He takes Tyler’s hand and helps him down, absently squeezing his hand and rubbing the side of his index finger. “They somehow ran out of regular shells, so we had to get the, like, Doritos one.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what they had going on. Mark ordered.” Matching Tyler’s smirk, Josh passes over two tacos and a fistful of napkins. “Are you okay?” Josh asks, and squints across the balcony, past the railing and at the horizon line—ghosts, impressions, ants, nothing of concern. “We can go inside if the sun starts getting unbearable,” he says, picking through the bag for his own tacos, “but I thought, since we’re in the shade, we should be good. I just—I dunno—I thought we could have this time to ourselves right now. Gonna be very… a lot later.”

Tyler bumps his knee into Josh’s. “I appreciate that—even if we’re eating these Doritos tacos.”

“Mark ordered—”

Tyler leans over, rubs his cheek on Josh’s shoulder, then shoves half of his first taco into his mouth. 

From his peripheral, Tyler sees Josh roll his eyes, enamored as ever, and bites into his meal. He scrunches up his nose after he chews once and sticks a hand into the bag. By the handful, he deposits a variety of sauce packets on the span of blanket in front of their knees. 

While Josh snatches the Diablo packets for himself, Tyler jams in another portion of his taco and sorts the remaining sauces by flavor. They aren’t equally portioned, but he doubts the employee filling the order cared much to ration. Tyler thinks about setting each of these along the railing and smacking them to see how far the insides go. To him, it would make sense for the spicier ones to be more dense. Instead of testing his hypothesis, he remains sitting, remains shifting his weight bit by bit closer to Josh—trying to pretend Josh doesn’t notice and that he doesn’t notice Josh noticing.

Mouth full, Tyler says, “Speaking of Mark,” as if a stretch of time and them peeling away the wrappers on their second tacos hadn’t transpired, “are there any updates on the USB?”

Josh waits until he finishes chewing before responding. “Not really. Lindsay’s pretty bummed out. I mean, I am, too. It sucks. Are we stupid?” He shakes his head. “Don’t answer that.”

“I don’t think we’re stupid,” Tyler says quietly, pushing a small pile of shredded cheese to the center of his palm. He washed his hands, and here’s the cheese, graying on his skin, disappearing down his throat. He reaches for his Baja Blast. “I don’t like to think it’s our fault that our fans are disrespecting us more now. Seems like it’s happening everywhere, just this general sense of… entitlement. But, yeah, you’re right—it sucks.”

“How are you doing with all that?” Josh licks Diablo sauce off his thumb and grabs his drink, swapping his thumb for the straw. He slurps. 

Tyler watches him swallow. “It sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like… waiting for your car to break down. You keep hearing these noises, and there’s pieces dropping off in your driveway, but the check-engine light hasn’t come on yet, so you just… keep driving. You take note of the smells, if you see oil spots. And you have people behind you in the road flashing their brights at you, and you’re just like”—Tyler waves a hand, wishy-washy, yeah, yeah, yeah—“‘thanks for that; I’m aware.’”

“And it’s like… going to the best mechanic in town, and they’re telling you nothing’s wrong, but you keep going back to them because there’s just no way, dude. Do you hear that death rattle?”

“More like, yeah, you’re going to the only mechanic in town because all the other businesses have mysteriously closed, and they’re also following you home every night and pouring sugar in your gas tank, stuffing nails in your tires, and sticking their business card in your glovebox when you’re sleeping.” Tyler grinds his teeth into his straw. When he looks over at Josh, he catches Josh doing the very same. “I just wish,” he whispers, “that some of them would get the message that we can’t stand them anymore. I’m so tired, Josh. It hurts bad.” 

“They call it ‘center mass’—that part they aim for.” Josh removes Tyler’s empty cup and replaces it with his own, two-thirds of the way still full. He brings the straw to Tyler’s mouth, and Tyler takes it in without hesitation, lapping at the impressions Josh’s teeth left. 

“One more show,” Josh says, “and those festivals next year. We can do this.”

Tyler nods, gulping down the rest of the drink and setting it aside in the cardboard tray. His smile is slow to punch up his cheeks. “Unless I break all my bones tonight.”

Josh dives down and lays kiss after kiss on Tyler’s left leg, from his ankle and up to his knee and down again. “Don’t you dare.”

“Gotta kiss me more, then. All over. Protect me. What are you doing? Hurry up. There’s two hundred and six bones, and the show starts in—”

Lunging forward, Josh wraps his arms around Tyler’s waist, sends him onto his back, and snuggles in right between his legs. He nuzzles his nose into Tyler’s neck, against the place where the hood on his sweatshirt parts just enough for him to burrow his way inside. To hell with the paint on Tyler’s neck—their dressing rooms carry baby washcloths and sensitive body wash, and Josh is warm here, and Tyler is, too, so warm and so safe.

*

When Jenna asked him if he wore the black paint on his neck to cover the hickies and bitemarks Josh gives him, he thought she was joking. He slowly turned to look at her, churning in his gut, and responded with a somewhat media-trained response about his insecurities.

“So, you’re insecure about what people might think if they find out you’re fooling around with your bandmate?” She was painting her nails, nonchalant in revealing her intuitive revelations to him as if they didn’t just spend the last hour and a half rolling around on the sheets, the carpet, the bathroom floor. 

In his silence, she returned his gaze, and he caught a resounding fright attaching itself to her eyes, her mouth—she quickly screwed the lid back on the nail polish bottle and pushed it so far across the coffee table he anticipated it would tip over the edge and spill. This was her way to divert her attention, to let him know that she was for him, always; and she lay her hands on his and said, “Whatever you have with Josh, I don’t mind. I thought—I thought you knew I knew.”

He broke, bowed his head. 

She set her hands on the curve of his skull next, fingertips a light pressure to avoid matching the ends of his hair to her nail polish. He wouldn’t care about that, if a little of that cotton candy made its way into staining his scalp. 

“I won’t bring it up anymore,” she whispered, and he said, “No, it’s better like this.”

Now, when she’s available, Jenna dabs paint into the last couple bare spots on his neck; and, now, she makes no jokes when it’s just the two of them together in his dressing room. There is no audience, no need to present themselves as a nuclear family to the masses; there is only him, his partner, and his two other partners in the next room over, knees knocking and toes touching under their kitchen table forevermore. 

Still, she fashions a small quip—“It’s like I’m dolling you up just to whore you out later.” She presses her palm to his chest, that bodysuit, right over his left pectoral muscle, and squeezes. Her thumbnail grazes his nipple. “You’re just so—”

He arches into her. “Want me to howl on stage again?”

“You want me to knock you up so bad,” she says, and applies a final stroke of paint to his throat. “I’ll let Josh know I don’t want you walking straight for at least a week.”

*

He knows this is also more of an inside joke at this point, for the online chatter from their fans to paint Laura’s employment as something akin to Tyler turning a blind eye and tossing credit cards her way—and it is that, a little, when it comes to the vintage pieces and the numerous thrift stores she’s materialized into over the years. Since he isn’t an expert on brands, labels, or designers, he sends her guidance on his comfort levels regarding the fabric and the silhouettes he finds interesting. But her devotion and his utmost trust in her doesn’t curb those infractions circling their dynamic; he’s discovered their fans are now more preoccupied with social media clout disguised as genuine love, and they would rather indulge in crafting their own narratives with half-baked theories full of misinformation than adopt any sensible degree of perceptiveness reserved for a thoughtful audience. 

On more than one occasion, he tells Laura he can call off the dogs—whatever that means, really, these days—though they both know acknowledging the behavior will only make it worse. She says she can handle it, sunglasses on her face, flashing her rings. They aren’t our friends. Now—give Mama the credit card.

If it weren’t for her, he’d be on stage in those galaxy leggings and a sheer shirt he scavenged from a Forever 21 bargain bin. 

She accommodates. 

The shirt she presents him is sheer. With the vanity bulbs backlighting her, it’s like he can see straight through the article. “This one’s got ties, too, like last night’s,” she says. “Thought we could have them hang down the back of the shirt instead of the front—you remember the pics of the model wearing it on the website?”

So many websites and spreadsheets and word documents—he remembers them all. “I like that.” One at a time, he props his feet on the coffee table to tighten the laces on his boots. He’s got on his pants, belt stabbed, the affectionately coined frankenjacket tossed behind him on the couch, and the leotard on display—however, like this, him slightly turned toward her with the zipper along his spine out of her sight, the bodysuit could pass as the compression tank he normally wears under his shirts. 

Nothing escapes her. She’s keeping a straight face, yet I see you dances in her eyes, which Tyler tries not to meet directly and ultimately fails when he goes to take the shirt from her. They stare at each other, him timid, fingers curling around air, a fear response like he’s going to get scolded, and her… proud, he thinks, barely shying the smile from her face—and that smile, it reaches everywhere.

She says, “Made sure to piss beforehand?”

“Yeah.” He followed Jenna’s careful instructions and secured himself inside—and he knows it’s nonsensical to believe he feels the zipper’s teeth on his skin; this, too, provides a sense of security.

“If you gotta go between songs, I’ll—”

“Thanks,” he says, and matches her smile. She’s seen him in worse positions before, with various people, in various states of undress. 

“All right.” She slings the shirt’s detachable collar over her shoulder, then bunches up the shirt itself in her hands so she can work it over Tyler’s head with minimal paint transfer. He’s careful as he maneuvers his arms through and holds up his hands once they push past the sleeves—Bishop sleeves, he remembers this now, too. They were meticulous in their planning, texting pictures and links and ideas. And the detachable collar—a statement hides in here, bated breath, pick it apart. They had so little time. They did what they could. He hopes it was all worth it, at the end of everything. 

He looks at their reflections, Laura fixing the collar, walking around him to do so. And there’s love here, as well, tunneling in these seams, in all the outfits she presents him. 

A few weeks ago, she showed him a TikTok of him standing on the crowd, during the Milwaukee show. The caption of the video read, “who dressed him like a masc lesbian,” followed by a heart emoji. His chest tightened at that, and she said, “Would it be okay if I shared this on Instagram? Was gonna add something like ‘and you all ate it up.’ I won’t if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“No,” he told her. “Go ahead. I’m—I like that.”

That’s what he’s started telling her when all other words fail: I like that. She understands. Yes, she’s seen him in worse positions before, with repressed tears on his waterlines, in dressing rooms and tour buses and hotels. I like that, he can say now, his heart skipping and the need to cry caused by something other than old trauma. I like that. I like that.

“Give us a spin,” she says.

Flourishing more than necessary, he completes the twirl in a low bow, his weight on his good leg, and kicks up the heel on his bad one. Through his eyelashes, he looks to her and shows off his teeth in his kindergarten smile. He can hear the crowd roaring—I don’t care what’s in your hair; I just wanna know what’s on your mind—

“So dapper,” she remarks, clapping. “So regal. So beautiful. How does it feel? Anything need adjusting? I’m sure I can safety-pin a few things if we need to.”

He regains his composure, the big smile scurrying to his eyes, where it will stay for the night. “I’m okay.”

*

And he is—he’s okay, mostly. He’s gripping the collar of his t-shirt and pressing the inside of it to his mouth. He’s walking heavy, his boots slapping the floor as if he were a duckling trying to keep up with its mother. And he’s peering into the camera on Mark’s phone and saying, “Thank you, guys. It was an amazing tour. Crushed it.” 

He hadn’t practiced what he was going to say for the intro of this video, and he hopes his tone isn’t too exhausted or deadpan. Even if it is, the circumstances call for such reactions, never mind their fans jumping at every chance to accuse him of being selfish, ungrateful, or an asshole—without reason—or, God forbid, that he somehow hates Josh. 

Lovely Josh, kind Josh, everything-that-Tyler-isn’t Josh—he speaks to Mark’s camera like a world-renowned reporter on the frontlines of a natural disaster: all facts, no funny business. “Last night of the tour,” he says, stopping in his tracks to devote his attention to this simple act while Tyler plunges into his dressing room. “Second night in LA. So much fun—”

The door to Tyler’s dressing room shuts behind Tyler with a finality that pitches his heart up to his throat. He stands there in the center of the room, arms slack by his sides, sweat along his hairline. 

He breathes. He breathes. 

Mark’s editing skills will imply Josh walks in on him undressing, and Tyler will act as though this is an every-day occurrence—mostly because it is. He can hear Josh continue to speak—“I guess we’re gonna go home now”—as he sinks his full weight in the chair both Mark and Debby relaxed in earlier. And, like the video will imply, Josh does, in fact, walk in on him undressing. Unlike the video will imply, Josh witnesses him undoing the laces from his boots and kicking the shoes as far as his ankles allow. They fly under the coffee table. 

Mark follows Josh, going, “Yeah, I think that’s great. We don’t need to do another take.” 

He and Josh crowd Tyler, Josh staking claim on the back of the chair, palms pressed to the upholstery and leaning in so close to Tyler that Tyler hears his lips parting when he smiles, and Mark on Tyler’s left side. He angles his phone to the pair of them, first showing the video they shot a moment ago, then quickly flipping to the video from this afternoon. After he applies the proper transitions, it’ll get the job done. 

“That’s awesome,” Tyler says, curling his toes. From a distance, wavering focus, the tights can be mistaken for his red socks. He grabs his shirt collar again, yanking the article up and over his head. “Do what you need to do first,” he tells Mark. “Got a feeling there’s gonna be lots of sad posts tonight, so, like—”

“I’ll make this a priority.”

Within his shirt, he tries to whittle his inhale a normal one, and it ends up scuffing on his nostrils, his throat, croaking out an anxious sort of cough that sends Mark to the door and calling over his shoulder, “I’ll get y’all some water.”

To Mark, Josh says, “Appreciate it.” To Tyler, he says, “Wanna lean back for me with your head looking up?”

“I’m okay.”

“I know you are. You’re doing this for me.” 

A hand on each side of Tyler’s jaw, Josh guides his head. 

Tyler’s got his shirt balled up in a fist, the other gripping the arm of the chair, and he lets his body go slack as Josh sets the base of his skull on the firm material of the chair’s back. 

“Here we are,” Josh murmurs, looking down at Tyler. If the chains on his necklaces were any longer, they’d be bumping into Tyler’s nose, into his mouth. 

He chokes as if they’re down there already.

Josh’s hands press in deeper, just for a heartbeat. “Careful. Take it slow.” When he nods, Tyler nods with him. And when he smiles, Tyler slings his arm up and around Josh’s shoulders and wrenches him down to smash their mouths together. 

Josh accidentally bites Tyler’s lip, and Tyler pulls Josh in deeper so he can do it again, which he does, he does, snaps to the wide arc of Tyler’s bottom lip and then to the corners of his mouth—rougher here, snagging his canines and dragging Tyler’s head to the side as he curves his hand around to cup the bottom of Tyler’s chin. He holds Tyler in place as he regains his composure, stiff back and breathing as ragged as Tyler is. 

Tyler’s eyes drop to Josh’s chest, watching him heave, knowing he isn’t much better himself. It’s like he’s scraping up a cliff side, bleeding cuticles and perforated tongue. 

With a soft, “Yeah, you’re okay,” Josh squeezes Tyler’s throat and takes a step away from the chair, just in time to avoid Mark waltzing in on them—not like he hasn’t done that before. 

Tyler can’t read Mark’s expression; Josh steps into Tyler’s line of sight and offers his thanks for the water. When Josh turns around, and Tyler can lock eyes with him again, water bottles populate his arms, enough for them to get three each. Josh places them on the coffee table after passing one to Tyler.

At least he has the forethought not to gulp down half the bottle in a single sitting—he unscrews the cap with care and adjusts his inclined position to stretch his back, to roll his shoulders. He’s still got a mean grip on his t-shirt, but he’s not as skittish now, not as nauseated—if that was true nausea wrecking havoc within him. He knows it all goes back to the post-show nerves where, even now, his body acts as though he’ll never be allowed on a stage again once he walks off. Tonight being the last night of the tour compounds that. Guest appearances and upcoming festivals can only do so much to fend off the prey-animal response of his body. 

Josh sits on the arm of Tyler’s chair, drinking his own water and talking to Mark, who’s sharing photos and videos he’s uploaded to their social media accounts during the show. Tyler watches half-heartedly, elbow digging into the space next to Josh’s thigh and his fingers skimming Josh’s bare back every time he goes to take a drink. He loses count every time he fixates on the goosebumps that pimple at his touch. 

“They really loved the sunglasses bit,” Mark says, “and that little fall you do after ‘Chlorine’ always makes them go wild.”

“You reckon they know that’s about creative burnout?” Tyler muses, switching the water bottle to his t-shirt hand so he can use the other to keep prodding at Josh’s goosebumps. Eventually, he’ll get used to Tyler’s skin. For now, Tyler enjoys the cold chills Josh tries to stifle when Tyler not-so-absently runs the sides of his knuckles across the width of Josh’s back. 

“Whole thing’s about burnout,” Tyler continues. “You think they picked up on that?”

“I think they pick up on things that don’t really exist most of the time,” Mark replies, locking his phone and tucking it away into his pocket. “You know how it is. They anoint someone as their figurehead, no matter how wrong they are or how many times we gently course correct, and just run with it.”

“Evil,” Josh mumbles, then looks over at Tyler. “They’re probably saying how the band’s over forever right now, and then Mark’s gonna drop the video—”

“—and they’re never gonna stop talking about my thighs,” Tyler says, and spanks the outside of his leg. “What a perfect end to the tour.”

Mark tuts. “That’s the real evil in this venue tonight.” 

“Is that… homophobia I hear?”

“Okay,” Mark says, “I’m uploading your sex tapes to TikTok,” and walks out the room without another word. 

This time, when the door to his dressing room shuts, Tyler’s heart remains in his chest. And he’s sitting, raising his arms to give Josh a safe landing as he slowly scoots backward and settles in Tyler’s lap the best he can with his legs swinging against the chair. There’s still sweat along Tyler’s hairline, too, but Josh has never minded that, especially when he pours buckets himself. 

His eyes on Tyler, he tosses off his hat and scrubs his hand across his scalp, producing flyaways and a drizzle that decorates Tyler’s face. Out of habit, Tyler licks his lips. He hides this by taking another drink. He crushes the empty bottle against the side of his head and flings it somewhere. It might hit the wall, maybe a table, who cares; he’s got his eyes on Josh now, too, and there’s nothing better than having Josh all over him after a show. 

“Favorite thing that happened tonight?” Tyler asks, bracing his hand on Josh’s neck. He doesn’t squeeze. He just pets, his thumb over Josh’s throat, and transfers traces of the paint across his skin. 

Josh closes his eyes, then breaks out into a smile. “The crowd split for ‘Tear in My Heart,’” he says, “when you were explaining the rules, and you just started… babababa… like a little lamb.”

Tyler does squeeze Josh’s neck now.

Josh doesn’t stop smiling. “Also how you handled the ‘Ride’ kid was sweet—making everybody stay quiet.”

“Things are too loud, sometimes,” Tyler says.

“Are they right now?”

Tyler shakes his head. 

Josh sits up. He yanks on the paracord hooked onto Tyler’s belt loop. “Do you want them to be?” But even he can’t commit; he’s faltering as soon as he flitters around the implication of dominance right now. Maybe he sees something in Tyler’s face, the way his attempt at smiling results in a slight part of his lips and a faint blush along his cheeks. Tyler’s heated, his cheeks that first culprit, then his neck, under his arms. 

Josh dips his head to press a biting kiss to Tyler’s bicep. “I’ll make this a quickie.”

“We’re not that young anymore.” 

“I know. Lemme turn off the big light,” Josh says, getting off Tyler’s lap. 

“The vanity,” Tyler interjects, more hushed than he intends. “I—I think—I can go over there—”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sit there.” 

Where he once imagined that rabbit hopping onto the tabletop, he now positions himself. The wood—or wood-like material, based on whatever it is that this venue prioritizes—holds him well enough. It creaks a little. It creaks a lot. Tyler wiggles out the end of his belt and unbuckles it, lets the strip of leather hang. The lightbulbs along the vanity mirror catch on the metal as he works it from his pants.

Ceiling light gone and the door safely locked, Josh steps in front of Tyler and into this post-show routine. Starting with Tyler’s belt, Josh takes it from him, winds it up, and sets it aside somewhere Tyler can’t see. He doesn’t hear it hit anything, and he doesn’t have time to worry; Josh’s hands are on his hips, thumbs dipping into his waistband. 

“You’re somewhere else,” he whispers, kissing Tyler’s shoulder. “Tell me where.”

“Take off my pants.”

Slow—Josh’s fingers creep down Tyler’s waistband, and his palms cradle Tyler’s ass. Slow—Josh pauses, his head tilting, his lips quirking. Slow—Josh says, “Oh.”

And he never completes the smile. His body moves in totality—dropping to his knees along with the sliding down of Tyler’s pants and Tyler’s feet gracing the ground. Josh takes each of Tyler’s calves and lifts them, one at a time, to remove the black trousers. They disappear into the dressing-room darkness. 

Tyler looks at Josh. 

Josh looks at Tyler’s thighs. 

“Can I?” he asks, and Tyler says, “Please.”

Shifting his knees beneath him, Josh places his hands on Tyler’s thighs—slow here, too—and squeezes the muscle, squeezes them just enough for Tyler to straighten out his legs, to feel his strength flood to those hands and allow them to become his pedestal. He keeps a grip on the vanity, fingers slipping along drawer handles. 

His body’s shedding a new layer of sweat, and he wouldn’t have it any other way—deodorant stains on the leotard, perspiration pooling between his toes and his legs, where Josh is mouthing, where Josh is splaying his tongue, where Josh is kissing and kissing and groaning. 

“Didn’t mean for this to be a sex thing,” Tyler spits out.

Josh drags the tip of his tongue over the fabric protecting Tyler’s cockhead. “Most people use talcum powder for that,” Josh says, “if this was a sex thing.”

Tyler almost stutters, And what do you know about leather and latex and rubber? but Josh stands up before he can get anything out other than a pathetic, wet hnngh. 

Josh places his hands on the small of Tyler’s back, fingers laced, fingers warm. 

Tyler knows his posture isn’t the best, knows he should be looking at Josh, but he finds it’s simpler to tip forward and speak into Josh’s neck—“Is this okay?”

“Of course.” 

“Can you—?”

“Yeah.” 

Without needing further instruction, Josh hooks his palms beneath Tyler’s thighs and lifts him onto the vanity tabletop again. 

Wood’s creaking more. Tyler shifts his weight, and he glances at Josh before he pulls his legs up onto the vanity, too. The need to be coy at their age long gone, Tyler lets his legs fall open and his heels touch.

Josh places his hands in that space, palms flat on the tabletop and nudging closer to the vanity, as if he isn’t already as close as this piece of furniture allows. 

“Look at you,” he sighs. 

“I’m looking.”

Josh tucks a fingertip under the leotard’s hem that cuts into the junction of Tyler’s groin and thigh. His eyes flick to Tyler.

Tyler nods, swallows. 

Josh pushes in a second finger. A third slips, and he inches into the leotard, skims along the leggings. “You’re so wet,” he says, and Tyler has to close his eyes and bite down on his lip to keep himself from tumbling face-first off the vanity. 

Josh’s fingers do no more than stroke along the place where Tyler’s pubic hair would breach the leggings’ fabric if it were any thinner, cheaper, but it’s enough for Tyler, right now, to relish in those heavy fingerprints on him, to hear Josh breathing, to replay Josh going, “You’re so wet,” over and over in his head. 

His head—for the second time today, Tyler drills the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Paint be damned, he grinds in his palms and whispers, “Do you remember those videos we used to watch when we were, like, twenty-three?”

All those years ago—he can never forget those years even if amnesia knocked him out—he slouched in that van, late at night, and leaned his head on Josh’s as Josh slept on his shoulder. And those nights—he had his phone’s screen brightness dimmed. Mark had called shotgun, and Michael liked to drive at night. What else was Tyler supposed to do? It’s not like he was touching himself—not like he wanted to anyway, with Josh’s arm slung across his lap, with Josh waking with a hushed, “Oh,” with his phone tuned to a muted video of two women in stockings and sharing a strapless dildo. 

And honest to God—if God cares about what he’s up to these days—Tyler doesn’t know how he stumbled upon this niche pornography genre or why it spiraled into a guilty pleasure that ached his stomach and forced him to hide in rest-area bathrooms—and, no, he wasn’t touching himself, then, either; he was sick, he was so sick, and maybe he did touch himself—he was sick, he was so sick—

And he’s sick now, maybe—he has his hands to his eyes and a slick part in his lips, and Josh, his voice tentative, says, “It’s been a while. Show me what you want me to do to you.” Then, “If you’re comfortable. I—I just assumed that, since you brought it up, you wanted me to—”

“Yeah,” Tyler whispers. He runs his palm across an eyelid before dropping both hands between his legs. They just hang, his elbows on his knees, his head tilted so his crown freezes along the mirror. When he sniffs, he spies Josh reflecting that movement—a single nostril wrinkling, an eye accompanying it, an absent sort of gesture that reminds Tyler that, no matter the distance that tries to sneak upon them, Josh will never require additional details or a guidebook on how to be with Tyler. They’ve been down this road before, paper maps fading along the creases, an old GPS on a low hum. They know. He knows. He knows. 

In the videos, he—and Josh, too, sometimes—watched, the women tended to start at their feet; and though neither he nor Josh are strangers with this particular body part, Tyler is hesitant to bring it up now, even when Josh’s hands curl around his ankles, even when Josh’s thumbs trace along his insteps.

He whispers again—“Sweaty.”

Josh says, “You’d know I’d wring out a towel of your sweat into my mouth.”

“Gross.”

“And you’d kiss me right after it.”

“Yeah.” Tyler places his right foot on Josh’s sternum, then crawls it up, up, up Josh’s torso until his toes prod Josh’s chin. “Wanna, like, say this first—as hot as it is to get me so wet you can rip holes in these things and fuck me through them, I do kinda want to keep them intact.”

“We’ll have to get you another pair,” Josh decides, tilting his neck down to peck Tyler’s big toe. 

Tyler pushes Josh’s head back up—eye contact. 

Josh swallows under his sole. 

He returns his toes to Josh’s mouth.

And Josh, obedient pet, opens. 

Under Tyler’s gaze, he pulls his tongue across the pads of Tyler’s toes, to the right, to the left, and back again, just a careful shaking of his head, his hips pinned into the vanity, his hands neat behind him. The bulbs around the mirror do nothing to alleviate his puffy pupils. They were created for this single purpose. 

Tyler sinks his leg toward his chest, urging Josh closer; and, as intended, Josh dips in. He presses kiss after kiss from Tyler’s heel to the ball of his foot. Each one is wetter than the last; by the time Josh reaches Tyler’s toes, he’s making eye contact and drizzling drool onto each digit. He’s jabbing his nose to the arch of Tyler’s foot and inhaling, smiling, biting, biting, biting. 

“How do you need me?” he whispers. His kiss to Tyler’s big toe sends Tyler’s heart to his throat, and his teeth lightly yanking at the fabric sends it to Tyler’s own teeth. 

Tyler whines, enamel grating, and shifts his weight to his right side. Glancing behind him, Tyler lowers himself the rest of the way—a tight endeavour, but he manages. 

Stretched out on his side the best he can with what he’s given, he squeezes his thighs together and angles the small gap between them at Josh. There’s just a pinprick of light showcasing this feverish slot where Josh places his hand.

And he’s slow here, too, so slow, much too slow—he holds Tyler’s testicles. Eye contact again, those wide pupils and a spot of drool on the corner of his mouth—Josh curls his fingers into a delicate fist. “You wanna come like this?” he asks, using his free hand to pull down his pants. “Jenna told me—”

“This first,” Tyler urges. “We haven’t—”

“It’s been a while,” Josh repeats, another smile breaking out. He runs his thumb across Tyler’s cheekbone. “Might be kinda rough up here like this, but we could try to scissor—”

Tyler bangs his head against the mirror. “This first,” he groans. “This first—this first—this first—”

And how could this be anything other than muscle memory, too, at this point, at the end of everything? Josh knows where to lay his hands—one on Tyler’s hip and one on his kneecap—and he knows what angle to edge his cock between Tyler’s thighs—the head against Tyler’s testicles, then rotating so it meets Tyler’s own—and he even knows the tone of voice he should adopt—hushed and desperate, like they’re in the back of the van and racing on a high that assured them they would never experience this again. 

Back then, they all piled in that van and slept muggy and uncomfortable, windows cracked to let in the Midwest midnight and ragweed and pollen. Rolling over while sleeping shook the whole vehicle, and snoring ended up as text alerts and inside jokes. But back then, there were dreary nights where the rain gave them refuge—and so did their friends’ insistence on lounging on reclined seats and forging makeshift blanket forts by clipping up ratty bedsheets in an undertaking to offer personal space and the perfect backdrop for shadow puppets. Tyler and Josh occupied the back of the van. Tyler said it would be easiest to escape back there, if someone tried to break in. “You don’t understand,” he tried to explain to them once, at Waffle House. “I need to know the exit signs—”

And back there, back then, Tyler succumbed to Josh’s hands and his mouth. He ignored the shame, and he ignored his fevers—he thinks Josh was into it, amused at how worked up Tyler got when he finally allowed himself to show Josh how horny he could get. Josh grew up Christian, still claimed to be, like how Tyler claims to be, even now, but there was a point in each of their lives, before they met, where Josh made the conscious decision to loiter his eyes where Tyler dared not. And by merely acknowledging that he had to look away inflamed an ire in Tyler’s gut. 

But Josh, his voice hushed and desperate, he told Tyler, “Let me know if you ever feel like I’m, like, preying on you—”

“What if I’m into that? I—I mean, I don’t know what I’m into, but what if I liked that?”

And Tyler, equal parts hushed and desperate, said, “I think if we just stayed mostly clothed, and you just, like—you know—stuck it between my thighs, it wouldn’t… count. It’s not like you’re, like, inside—and it’s not like I don’t want you inside me, but it’s like—you know? Don’t look at me like that—”

Josh is more controlled now. He knows about pressure points and how fucking is more about the rhythm than how fast someone can go. And he knows about Tyler—his Tyler, forever, always. 

Tyler assumed he was the one who had a mean streak for possession and liable to explode at Debby brushing her hand against Josh’s when passing him a plate of food at a holiday dinner—and he was, at one point in his life, liable to explode at such things until Debby’s touch felt intentional on his skin, more so than on her husband’s; and she smiled at Tyler, softer, a gesture he analyzed to be one she only reserved for him, not out of pity or obligation but a kind of devotion that Tyler still struggles to comprehend. 

But when Josh has him folded over like this, something clicks within him, and he’s a talking toy on depleting batteries, programmed to only utter “mine, mine, mine.”

Tyler watches Josh’s cockhead smear pre-come across the leggings. The tights were already pretty smooth, and the added lubrication brings Josh’s white knuckles into the picture. Tyler has to claw his fingers into the vanity to keep himself rooted. “Just like that,” he says. “Use me. I’m just a hole for you—

“So fucking pretty—”

“Just a pretty hole—all for you, all for you—”

“Use me,” Josh says, gripping Tyler’s hips and flipping him onto his back. “Here, here—” He has to kick his pants all the way off and has to awkwardly lean over Tyler to present the correct platform, but as soon as Tyler’s mind winds down and he zeroes in on claiming Josh’s thigh, it’s easy. Rutting like an old dog was a friend who would never leave him. If he had nothing, he would still have this. 

He pulls Josh down, on top of him, as much as he can, and fucks up and into Josh’s thigh. Over the years, he’s sure he could have perfected his technique and molded himself into a sight more desirable as he withers in front of his partner; though, if there was anywhere, other than on the stage, he’d prefer to lose himself with abandon, he’d prefer it to be here, in front of his partner, who knew to cradle him and cherish him and help him rock if he lost his momentum and grew agitated. 

Josh keeps him close, an arm beneath the small of his back and his other maintaining an illusion of a sturdy foundation. With a slight jolt forward, Josh sets a knee on the tabletop, inspects the weight of it, then shakes his head and, instead, gathers Tyler to his torso—a swooping gesture that careens Tyler’s head and stomach to other places in this room. And his leg, his shin—

Most days, Tyler wouldn’t consider himself someone who gets lightheaded. Tonight, it takes a couple seconds for him to regain his sight, and Josh waits for him to catch back up. “Sorry,” he whispers, and readjusts his hands, their position—Tyler upright and balanced on the edge of the vanity, Josh with his knee out and poised right between Tyler’s open legs. “Thought you’d get a little more friction like this. Don’t think we can scissor up there.”

Tyler blinks a few times. He digs his teeth into the side of his cheek. And his leg, his shin—

“Tell me where you are now,” Josh says. “Do you need to lie down?”

“I’m okay—”

“Okay.”

“Just my leg,” Tyler mumbles. “I’m still good to go.”

Josh nods once. Looking down, Josh carefully scoops Tyler up and off the tabletop. Tyler helps the best he can, situating his feet on the ground, spinning around to face the mirror—and he watches their reflections, how Josh’s brow furrows and his teeth nibble on his lip, how Tyler’s own apprehensions show up in his ribcage, how they breathe together: somewhat constricted and somewhat free, a pair of starving lovebirds. 

“Don’t really think I’m gonna last long,” Tyler says. “It feels like—like I’m soaked through already.” 

He and Josh reach around to grope his cock through the leotard at the same time. Tyler smiles, too embarrassed to meet Josh’s gaze in the mirror. He knows he’s flushing pink, even down his chest, sprouting across his thighs. 

Josh unzips the leotard. 

So different from this afternoon—Josh steadies Tyler by a hand to that zipper and his other grabbing that dip in Tyler’s waist. And Tyler still isn’t bloated, stomach somehow content with Taco Bell and that handful of protein-rich food they had from catering. He made a joke about pigs eating slop. Josh deadpanned an oink that nearly made Tyler’s sparkling water shoot out his nostrils. 

Like with Tyler’s pants, Josh’s body accompanies his discard of Tyler’s clothing. He takes this slow, has to—everything is sticking to Tyler; it’s as though this leotard is a second skin, and he’s shedding his chrysalis. “I guess I should’ve used talcum powder,” Tyler says, and Josh, with his fingers snug in the drenched armpits of the leotard, says, “I’ll show you how to use it next time. Latex, too. It’s better to shower while wearing the latex suit—makes it easier to remove, when you’re all done.”

Tyler rubs his cheek against his shoulder. “I’d like that.”

The leotard peels away, unveiling what, on first glance, looks to be heat rash across Tyler’s chest, but he knows it’s just the endorphins that punch up his skin when Josh touches him. Beads of sweat sail down his sternum and snuggle into the waistband of the leggings. As Josh removes the leotard from Tyler’s good leg, Tyler works on unrolling the tights. 

And he is soaked, his pre-come and perspiration shifting the leggings’ fabric to a darker crimson. After he gets them past his groin, an involuntary moan hisses from his lips. 

Josh chooses this moment to press his palm to Tyler’s back and thrust him into the vanity tabletop. And despite the knock causing Tyler to black out for a second, he knows love lurks here, in the lines of his frame and the hesitant draw of these saturated articles encasing his once-and-future injured shin. Josh molds them into a cushion he stations beneath where Tyler’s pain radiates the most as he pitches this leg onto the vanity. The angle Tyler’s lying isn’t the best—the vanity’s edges cut into his soft spots—but Josh takes the leotard for this purpose, fashioning it into a small quilt he stuffs under Tyler’s lower set of ribs. 

Elevated now, his hips hover, as does his groin, and every drag of movement sends Tyler’s cock into the leotard. 

He sets his cheek on the vanity tabletop. Nose-to-nose with his reflection, he looks up at Josh—Josh with a smile and a condom in his teeth and a tube of lubricant in his fist. “Don’t worry,” he says, ripping open the foil. “This is just for the extra lube. I’m gonna take it off and come inside you.”

“Thanks, man.”

He hadn’t heard Josh dart to his backpack in the corner to retrieve these items, but he also can’t hear much when his heart’s racing. 

Josh forgoes the pressure of his fingertips in order to bury himself inside Tyler quicker. Last night, this morning, whenever it was, they were catching slippery toes on hotel-room bedsheets and tying pillow-case wrists to squeaky headboards. Tyler was relentless in his post-show mania, still hellbent and feeling as if those ghost-like tendrils from his shirt followed him. 

Laura said he was enchanting. Mark called him a fairy-and-ghost dual-type Pokémon trainer. Josh fucked him like he was blessed to do so until the end of days. 

And here, now, at the end of everything, Josh continues to fuck him like he’s never going to get another chance. And, tonight, he’s slow, he’s warm, he’s safe, he’s got a hand in Tyler’s hair and the other propping up his bad leg, and he’s that run-down toy again—“Mine, mine, mine.”

“Yours,” Tyler replies. “Yours, yours, yours—fill me up, make me yours. Give it all to me.”

He forgets about his leg. He forgets about catching his breath. He forgets about swallowing the saliva in his mouth. He watches Josh watch him in the mirror; they’re blissed out, wet cheeks, swollen lips. Along his scars—fresh and ancient, manmade and natural—and his old tattoos, love curates those seams, and Josh handles him as if he wields a matching set prone to collapsing at Tyler’s own unraveling. 

Were they cut from the same cloth? Was it red thread that connected them? Does Josh see him as nothing more than that little velveteen rabbit whom he shared so many bedtime stories? Well-worn and fraying seams, will that unconditional glint of admiration in Josh’s eyes when he turns to Tyler, even now, at the end of everything, be as routine as Tyler’s neuroses? Will it dim? Will it fester? Will Tyler spoil if left out in the rain? And does Josh know, again and again and again, that something is wrong with him? 

Again and again and again, Josh chooses to love him. 

At the end of everything, Josh comes inside Tyler, and Tyler comes inside that leotard. 

“Is this real?” Tyler asks, chin twitching as Josh darts from view to slide his tongue from Tyler’s perineum to his tailbone. 

“You and me both. We’re real.” Josh kisses each notch of Tyler’s spine. “We’re real. We’re real. We’re real.”

“How do you know?”

Josh covers Tyler. “Because I love you. Always.”