Pete had no illusions that Joe wouldn't go back to the heterosexual lifestyle of glamour and ease, but if he was careful about it, it could very well be a while before he did, and that was the goal, so far as Pete was concerned.
For their second time, Pete kissed Joe long and hard, laved at his nipples, got him to the point where just about anything would have felt good, and then undid the clasps of their jeans, pressed their cocks together.
Joe gasped, "Pete, yeah," and Pete kept their bodies close, kept his mouth on Joe's, kept Joe from looking down. There wasn't a lot of skin on display, but it seemed unnecessarily reckless, to have Joe looking at another cock when he didn't strictly need to.
Joe came so hard his knees buckled. Pete held him up.
There was a point where Joe finally convinced Pete--despite all of his best arguments--to let him try cocksucking.
Joe was horrible at it, but enthusiastic and terribly proud of himself when Pete came.
Pete cleaned him up and gave him the most mind-shattering blowjob he could manage.
Joe rolled over to give him a sated grin and say, "You could use fingers, you know. I've had some girls do that. It's fun."
He sounded proud of that, too.
Pete kissed him. "Okay."
As it turned out, Joe really liked fucking Pete, which was convenient, since the last time Pete had been as turned on by anything as the feeling of Joe's cock up his ass was probably when he was ten and first figuring out how good his own hand could feel on his cock.
What was inconvenient was that Joe seemed to feel that Pete should return the favor. He said, "No, seriously, it feels really good, you should try it."
Pete tried explaining that yes, he had tried it, and yes, it was quite nice, but he just preferred things this way.
Either pot gave someone indomitable strength of will, or Joe was just the most persistent motherfucker Pete had ever met.
Pete finally gave in when Joe said, "You know, I bet I could get Mikey to fuck me."
Joe knew how to play dirty.
Pete half-heartedly said, "Iero owns Mikey's cock," but he really wasn't about to take the chance that a) Joe would actually ask, and b) Frank would feel like helping a guy out.
He sighed and said, "Fine, but if you don't like it just remember that's fine because you like the other stuff."
Joe blinked at him rapidly, but that could have just been a side-effect of the high.
Pete waited until they had an overnight, so that he could have an actual bed to work with. He was stealthy in his approach: three fingers during a blowjob, enough to get Joe good and stretched and eager. Joe liked fingers.
As it turned out, he liked Pete's tongue up his ass even more, which was what Pete followed the fingers with.
Pete said, "I could make you come just from this," his voice low and as tempting as he could make it.
"Not what you promised," Joe said, clearly unmoved by Pete's fairly generous offer.
Pete sighed and rolled a condom on himself. He tucked a couple of pillows beneath Joe's hips and worked the head of his cock into Joe. Joe took a steep breath.
Pete said, "Am I--"
"If you stop I'm telling Patrick you're the one who stole his Doc Martins."
"I don't even fit in Patrick's shoes."
"He'll believe me anyway."
He would, Pete knew. It was like something Pete would do. How was it that Joe could be so fucking out of it three quarters of the time and then suddenly come into lucidity right when it was most inconvenient for Pete? His life would be so much easier if he didn't love Joe anyway. Asshole. Pete pushed gently forward.
Joe's breathing was a little shallow, and Pete rubbed at the small of his back, said, "Deep breaths."
Joe listened, and things got easier. Pete slid slowly down, down, until he was completely in. He waited, petting softly along Joe's back, his hips, before adjusting his angle slightly, and dragging himself back just a couple of inches.
"Oh. Fuck," Joe said, making every syllable and a few additional ones completely clear.
"Good?" Pete ventured.
"You've been holding out on me, you complete shit."
Pete leaned in, gliding along the prostate again.
Joe made a noise that sounded vaguely like, "Guh."
That was more like it. Pete took things slowly, carefully, paying attention to the things Joe liked most, to the ones that allowed him a return to coherence. When Pete knew he absolutely couldn't hold out any longer no matter how many times he closed his eyes and thought disgusting, erection-killing thoughts, he wrapped his hand around Joe's cock and set up a counterpoint rhythm to the one he already had going. He tried, tried to control himself until Joe had come, but it just wasn't going to happen, not being in Joe for the first time, not with Joe splayed out in front of him and making happy noises. Pete was, you know, human, perhaps even more human than most.
Pete made a sound, a whimper or a plea or something and came, hard. Joe liked Pete's noises. Pete already knew this, but if he hadn't, the fact that his sound caused Joe to come as well would have tipped him off.
When he could, Pete rolled out of bed and grabbed washcloths. He was taking his time cleaning Joe, touching Joe, when Joe cocked one eye and said, "How long were you gonna keep that all to yourself?"
Pete shrugged. Joe was a weird straight boy.
Joe was also, as it turned out, a greedy straight boy. At first Pete thought it was just the novelty of being fucked, but as time went on it was clear that Joe just liked having a cock up his ass and it wasn't as if Pete didn't like providing that cock, it was just that, as much as he enjoyed it, he was sort of a fan of getting fucked himself. But Pete was not going to quibble, not when Joe kept finding him after shows, or in the mornings when he woke up, or just randomly in the middle of the day and talking with him and kissing him, and sometimes poking his fingers into the hem of Pete's jeans and dragging them gently over the inked skin of Pete's belly.
Joe was a really nice temporary boyfriend and Pete could be equally as nice, could totally make Joe languish for a bit before he remembered that he liked things Pete just couldn't provide.
About the third week in, Patrick asked Pete for help putting on a tie for a date--Patrick was a gentleman like that, even if he tried not have people notice--and asked, "You okay?"
Pete smiled. "I already thanked you for helping him with the eyeliner, stop fishing."
"No, I mean. I mean...you look tired."
"We're on tour." Of course he was tired. Everyone was tired.
"Pete-tired. You seem Pete-tired."
Pete looped the tie and pulled it through and straightened it neatly around Patrick's neck. He smirked, "Maybe it's just all the sex."
"Maybe," Patrick said, sounding not at all like he planned on letting it go. He looked at himself in the mirror and said, "Thanks."
It wasn't that Patrick had really expected Joe and Pete to be able to function as a unit without any interference, but it would have been nice.
He tried the simple approach first. He asked Joe, "Is Pete having nightmares?"
Joe offered him half his joint. Patrick debated, but shook his head. Joe shrugged and took another drag. "No, he sleeps hard. It's good."
"Huh," Patrick said.
Joe rolled slightly toward him. "Huh?"
"Just, he's seemed a little ragged lately, you know?"
Joe looked past Patrick at something, or maybe nothing. It could be hard to tell with Joe.
"I was just wondering if something was on his mind?"
Slowly, like he was trying to pay attention, Joe asked, "Did you ask him?"
Patrick said, "You know Pete."
Joe frowned. "Sometimes."
Patrick patted Joe's shoulder. His work here was done.
Pete woke up to find Joe watching him. Joe looked sharper than usual, but it was morning, and sometimes Joe forgot to put a joint by the bed and then was too lazy to get up and get it until he absolutely had to. Pete said, "Hi."
Joe said, "Patrick said you were tired."
Pete sighed. "We're on tour." Why had nobody else but him noticed this? It was totally their job.
"I think he meant sad."
"I'm not sad." Pete wasn't. He'd been sad a lot in his life. It didn't feel like this.
"Okay," Joe said, sounding like he was listening to Pete, which was nice. Joe listened. "But you do seem a little...quiet."
"That's just 'cause I'm not whining," Pete said with a self-deprecating twist of his lips.
Joe brushed some of the hair from Pete's face. "Mm, not arguing with me either, anymore. You let me have my way a lot."
"Patrick shouldn't have to notice that part. You get quiet when you're scared. That's sort of the type of thing a boyfriend should see, huh?"
"You see fine," Pete said, somewhat belligerently.
Joe just ignored him. Joe also did that, when what Pete was saying wasn't really worth listening to. "What's got you scared?"
"I'm not scared."
"You suck at lying. Your voice changes pitch."
"Maybe you just have bizarrely reactive ear drums."
"I've been in a rock band for a while now, I don't have ear drums."
Joe had a point.
"What's scaring you?"
"None of your business."
"Maybe you should date someone whose business it is when you get all freaked out."
Pete felt the color leave his entire body.
Joe blinked. "Whoa, hey."
"If you wanna break up with me, that's fine, but you're not gonna put it on me."
Joe frowned and said, slowly, "I think I found what's scaring you."
Pete inched away from him, but Joe was having none of that. He hauled Pete back and squeezed him up in his arms. "You gotta stop thinking I'm not so in love with you that the first pair of tits I see is gonna distract me. It's sort of unattractive. Also, it makes me feel like a dick."
Pete burrowed into Joe. "Um. Oh."
"I think you forgot to say."
"I didn't forget to say, dipshit. I thought it was obvious."
Maybe it had been. Pete sometimes missed the big stuff.
"That's why you haven't been arguing with me?"
"You don't really like conflict."
"For someone really smart, you're sort of a moron," Joe told him.
"So, what sorts of things have we not been arguing about?"
Joe said, "Maybe start with the most important."
"Could you sometimes fuck me? Because I really like that part too."
Joe flipped Pete over and bit into the flesh of his shoulder. "How does now sound?"
Pete mewled. "My schedule's wide open."