He fit perfectly underneath Greg’s chin.
Standing up, that is. And if Greg was perfectly unslouched, which didn’t come naturally to him.
He unslouched for Julian, and Julian leaned in, relaxed, rolled his shoulders, looked upwards into Greg’s big, heavy green eyes. A shy smile crept across his lips. It was all so perfect, he could barely believe it.
They were supposed to be rehearsing the bridge of a particular, raunchy encore tune that Greg sang lead vocals on. Fun kinda buddy moment with the new guy (otherwise relegated to cowbell), share the mic, call-and-response vocals. It could’ve easily been a buddy moment with anyone else, for either of them. --But it was the two of them together, and it was already more complicated than that.
Greg let out a small, easy laugh. “Y’know, we ARE gonna have to figure out how to play this straight for the rest of the guys.”
Jules felt his ears flush red. He blinked, laughed nervously, stepped away from his vocal partner. “Right. ...Straight.”
They’d already been decidedly un-straight. Nothing too serious after that one blowjob. Jules had a feeling Greg wanted to keep things on the road-- it was simpler that way, and Jules already felt like such a burden just taking up his basement the way he did-- so he promised, impulsively, hastily, early on that Greg’s house would strictly be a place for kissing and touching above-the-beltline. ...Even then, though, he left the ball in Greg’s court. Jules wouldn’t initiate. That’s all.
Regardless, Greg had been respectful of Jules’s original wishes, and half of Jules was thankful and the other half was suspicious. He could go to bed at night in his basement room and felt safe knowing that Greg wouldn’t wake him up halfway through to try and get anything out of him. He could use the shower, even when Greg was home, and not feel a constant urgency to check if the bathroom door was locked. He could exist, in Greg’s house with him, and not feel leered at or glared at. All of that was still amazing.
Yet something else gnawed at him. There was that relief, yes. But then under that relief, or perhaps beside it, was a growing anxiety. Was Greg respecting his wishes or was he just trying to let him down easy? Jules had been so thankful to have a living space free from having to measure up to someone elses’ sexual standards-- a living space with another GUY, even, and he felt relaxed-- and yet, gradually, he began wondering exactly what Greg’s sexual standards were. He tried out different kinds of flirts; lingering touches, pinky strokes, little looks. Tighter jeans (tighter. Tightest). Tighter shirts, or looser ones, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a nipple, slide across a shoulder. Longer necklaces, hanging below his chest (tucked into those looser shirts), tighter ones close to his throat.
One day, he wore one of Greg’s shirts. Jules’s favorite: a navy blue, beautifully patterned Japanese tie-up looking thing, something already more on the flowing side on Greg but practically a minidress on Jules. He was home alone, naked besides the shirt, and smiled to himself, wrapped it around him, wrapped his arms around himself, imagined Greg walking in on that exact moment, having it break through all of Jules’s stupid earlier promises, pinning him to a wall and kissing him-- or maybe Jules could swish over to the practice room, splay out on his piano showing just enough, suggesting just enough, and Greg would find him like THAT, and how the hell could he resist that??
Jules felt a burning sensation-- more sandpaper or roadburn than fire-- sear up his thighs. Shuddered. Put on a pair of jeans. But kept the shirt. Went about the day’s chores like normal; was chopping up vegetables for dinner when Greg got home. Jules had grinned for a moment, then turned to him with something more like an apologetic smile. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind me wearing this. I wasn’t going to really cook in it; I’d never want to ruin it, it’s just wonderful!” Twirled around loosely. “It’s a little big on ya.”, Greg had remarked-- but then, with a smile, pulled Jules gently into his arms. “Still looks good, though.” Kissed him on the head, then, when Jules smiled up at him, on the lips.
Jules couldn’t help but think about that, then, rehearsing this silly song with Greg. Straight, huh? He never seemed to be straight enough. He’d hoped joining this band would be something of a new start-- not that he was ashamed of being gay. He just wanted to know he could pass. That’s all. He wanted to know he could be around straight guys and not make an idiot of himself. He wanted to see if he could keep those parts of his life clean, separate, safe from one another. He couldn’t help but think he’d failed, utterly, less than a year into things.
Greg saw the moment the usual bright spark left Jules’s eyes. “Right. ...Straight.”, He’d murmured, looked off into some middle distance, and disappeared somewhere. Jules was the only person Greg knew that could disappear that completely while remaining exactly where he was.
At least at this point, Greg had gotten pretty damn good at bringing him back. He leaned over. Touched his wrist with a little smile. “Hey, space cadet!” A tease, but a gentle one. Jules blinked, with a flinch and twitch. “O-- Oh! Yeah. We-- We can roll again. I can do it. I’m good, I was just—” “—It’s fine, man! ...And hey-- maybe we don’t gotta play it completely straight… you just gotta remember to sing, at least.” Jules blushed again, prepared to burst into another litany of apologies, but Greg short circuited it with a quick, silly cross-eyed face. Jules laughed, finally began to relax, got ready to start again.
He did fine, of course. A couple more tries after that and he nailed it, even, and Greg told him so. Jules had grinned-- with an excitement shining in his eyes at first, then a sudden shyness, a reserved little laugh, a coy look. Sometimes it made Greg nervous-- how obviously Jules was attracted to him. He could tell Jules was trying his best not to truly be forward, either, but his nerves about it simply made it all the more obvious. At least he could play it cool in public, with the band. In the studio. When they were alone anywhere, though, he would toe closer and closer to a certain line, then skitter away in a half-panic. Greg wished he would just ask for something more, at this point. It wasn't like he would mind it, especially if it calmed Jules down some.
It was feeling closer and closer to a relationship anyway, even without sex. They lived together, worked together, Jules flirted incessantly with him (or, more accurately, split his time between blatant flirtation and shy, anxious retreats), laughed just a little too loud at each of his jokes, insisted on cooking them dinner near-every night (until Greg insisted on trying his hand at it a couple times a week, at least-- sure, his cooking wasn’t fancy Persian stuff garnished and plated like a restaurant chef or whatever, but it was good ol’ roasted meat n’ veggies. Seasoned damn good, too, ‘cause Carlos from his old band made damn sure he knew how to do THAT). They’d watch TV on the couch at night, gradually end up holding each other each time, and Jules would fall asleep there, like a stone, until Greg turned the TV off. Jules would jerk awake, nearly jump off him, apologize for no reason. Clearly, to Greg, there was still something in Jules that was uncomfortable with all this, even if he also painfully-obviously wanted it. He didn’t want to spook him, and it's not like he knew exactly what he was doing, either. It would make a lot more sense for Jules to initiate, anyway. After all, he was the one who insisted on not having sex in the house to begin with.
This unintentional sexual detente lasted until the band hit the road. Really, until the band could get a real hotel for the first time. At least by the first week of shows-- after a string of good performances and audience receptions; after seven encores of leaning into Greg, trying his best not to look into his eyes too much while they sang into the same microphone for those thirty seconds or so a night-- Jules was finally comfortable initiating. He’d pulled him into the first little secluded area he could find after the show, stood on his tip-toes, cupped his face, kissed him deeply on the lips, moaned. Moaned again when Greg returned the kiss, pressed his hips as close into Greg’s as he could, shuddered with pleasure and excitement at the feeling of Greg grasping his ass, sighed as he broke his kiss off, dragged his lips down Greg’s chin, across his jaw. “When’re you gonna fuck me, Greg?”
Greg hadn’t been sure what to expect-- not something this forward, though, especially after so much skittering away from his own feelings earlier, so much shyness and nerve. The way he asked that question wasn’t shy at all. There was an insistence, something on the edge of intentional seduction and sincere, frustrated desire. Greg almost felt bad for the fact that they weren’t getting a hotel for another couple gigs. He was still up for handjobs, blowjobs. He was used to that kind of thing anyway. But Jules had sighed, pulled away from him. Tilted his head up and away, slid his eyes down towards him. “I’m in an all or nothing kind of mood, sweetheart.” Paused, gave him a little smile, stroked his neck. “So two days? Whichever room works?” “I dig it.” Jules grinned, looked away, bit his lip, scurried off again.
Jules had no idea if he played it even close to “straight” the encore before Greg fucked him. He didn’t want anything straight. He wanted Greg. Even before the encore, just in their normal traded vocal parts, their harmonizing, he knew his singing was different. Less “angelic”. Stronger. Sometimes as insistent as his question to Greg a couple days ago. He couldn’t help it. He hoped no one fully knew what it meant. He also hoped, paradoxically, that Greg knew exactly what it meant.
Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Either way, Greg found a place to start kissing him as soon as he could, warmed them up nice and good before they had to break away again, do band business; had faith in each other to find one another again back at the hotel. --It was Greg’s room. Jules knocked on the door nervously; his heart leapt in his chest at the smell of Greg sweeping through that opening door-- that woodsy, piney cologne he used, mixed with two hours of sweat. Like a lumberjack after an entire day’s work. He hadn’t washed off, just like Jules had (very shyly) requested.
Jules pulled him into a kiss as soon as Greg shut the door behind them-- almost exactly where they’d left off two days ago, as if a part of him had remained there, or bookmarked it like a page in a book. He wanted him and he didn’t have to think or worry about anything or anyone else anymore, could give himself near-entirely over to the urge to breathe him in, nuzzle into his mustache, run his hands across his firm, fuzzy chest. And Greg was kissing him back, Jules was lifting his head up and Greg was slouching down again, but this time to cover Jules’s neck in kisses; Greg was feeling his (decidedly un-fuzzy) chest, thumbing one of his nipples, running a hand down his torso, unbuttoning his pants. Jules was still surprised at just how excited he was to feel Greg’s cock stiffen alongside his own, to feel Greg grip at him and grind against him, to truly know, finally, that Greg wanted him. --Well. He ALMOST fully knew.
He broke off his kiss, smiled mischievously, bit his lip, pulled the both of them onto the bed; slid his own pants down and off entirely-- which meant, outside of his untied, half-off-the-shoulders tie-shirt, he was fully nude. “D’you want me, Greg?”, He asked in a murmur. Looked into Greg’s eyes, stroked his face. Slid up close against him.
Greg swallowed thickly. He had no idea how the hell Jules could do it-- switch from that shy stray cat to increasingly-charismatic frontman to… whatever this was. He’d seen glimpses of it before, but this must’ve been “it” at full strength, and it was almost overwhelming. ...Yet, again, not truly overwhelming-- just so shockingly and unexpectedly inviting, arousing. Intense, enveloping, yes, but comfortably so. He slid a hand down to Jules’s cock (which twitched in his hand), stroked it, kissed him deep; gripped Jules’s ass, pulled the two of them even closer together, nodded wordlessly against his lips.
A nod wasn’t really enough for Julian, but it was all still early on, and there was plenty he was eager to try with him. He wanted to learn exactly what worked, what would drive Greg crazy, what would make him sigh out how much he wanted him without Jules even prompting the question. Yet the thrill, the relief, the pleasure of getting to know Greg’s body (how it all felt in or against his hands, his lips; how it smelled, the taste of his sweat, even his armpit sweat-- briefly, Jules was still a bit too shy for it), of feeling Greg’s lips and hands against his own body (the skin rough but the touch warm, careful yet confident, deliberate; a keyboardist would be good with his hands), was enough to override any insecurity or less-pleasurable frustration.
And every step was better than the last. Greg didn’t say a literal verbal “yes”, at least not yet, but he sighed and moaned and stroked his hair while Jules sucked his dick (and he took his time with it this time-- little kisses up the shaft, teasing kisses and licks along the head, playing around the surface before diving straight in); he lubed up and fingered Jules’s hole as careful-yet-confidently as he’d touched the rest of him (Jules starting for him, spreading and bending himself just so, stroking around it with an expression somewhere between a seductive smirk and a shy grin, landing firmly on seductive smirk only once Greg took over for him); he pushed his cock into him with that same careful-confidence after Jules told him, in that insistent, not-quite-desperate way, to fuck him.
Greg pushed further into him and Jules leaned his head back, moaned out his name, dug his nails into his shoulders. --Christ, he was beautiful. What the hell. Thin but lean, mostly hairless, strong shoulders, the slightest ripple of abs, a little dark mole above his left pec, another to the right of his belly button... nice little round ass. ...Nice dick. He was so beautiful and he still smelled damn good himself (his own sweat mixed with that now-familiar warm whisper of roses and spice); the more he could push in and thrust inside him the more he realized he felt damn good, too, and he sounded so damn good asking breathlessly for more-- he’d never been this close to sober while fucking another guy before. He had fun while he did it, but it was still strictly a drinking activity. He’d only had a couple beers this time, not enough to get more than the smallest buzz. He didn’t need it. The more he thrust into him, the more Jules wrapped himself around him and scraped across his shoulders and back, the more he moaned little things into his ear (sometimes just his name if Greg did something good enough) and nipped the lobe of it, the more drunk off him he got. Nothing else mattered anymore, he wasn’t worried about anything anymore, the strangeness of it all no longer registered. Jules had fully welcomed him into his odd, beautiful little alien world and Greg was going to enjoy every bit of his stay while it lasted.
That swirling feeling of bliss was cut through by Jules pulling away a little, cupping his face again, looking into his eyes (and it was clear he was lost in his own pleasures, the intensity in his long-lashed hazel eyes more of a warm constant simmer than a sudden blaze). “God, I wanna ride you, Greg.” --He didn’t have to ask twice.
Jules got his verbal answer, then, finally. He hoped he would; part of him knew he would. He’d straddled him, looked into Greg’s eyes, gave him that little smirk, tilted his hips enough to slide his ass up Greg’s cock and slide his own cock down Greg’s stomach (that smirk turned into a smile at Greg gripping those hips, sliding his hands up and down them). “...D’you want this, Greg?” He asked. Spread himself open, pressed his hole against the tip of Greg’s cock. Greg leaned his head back, groaned out a sigh. Another nod. Jules hummed out a quiet laugh. Pushed him in-- slightly (stroked that cock with his middle finger). “...Do you?”
That was enough. “God, fuck-- yes.” And he was right where Jules loved to get guys, too-- frustrated, barely on the edge of restraint, wanting him so much. It was SO hot. And he just felt safest there, really. He knew he had Greg in the palm of his hand. He wasn’t going to get hurt. Greg wasn’t going to do anything stupid to him, because he was already halfway in wonderland. And now he was on top of him, too. And he got to decide how much cock went in his ass at once. He got to decide the tempo. He got to decide whether he really wanted Greg thrusting into him as well, or not. He was in control, and Greg was still in heaven, and more in heaven with each thrust or tilt or turn downward (or upwards) Jules made. Perfect. And Jules, in turn, was more and more in control of it, until that very sensation-- combined with the very real physical pleasure of Greg’s cock inside him, filling him, rubbing and hitting against a perfect damn spot-- turned him on so much he began to get lost in his own heaven.
It didn’t matter at that point, though. Greg was more lost than him, and he’d gotten lost earlier on. Jules cumming first (and all over that gorgeous chest of his) made the most sense in every way, and that made it even easier for him to let himself go, to fully give himself over to it. It helped Greg’s cum come along faster. He recovered sooner, while Greg was still fully lost in afterglow, so he could smile, lift himself off and away from him, crash back down next to him, start playing with his hair (beautiful fluffy dark chestnut clouds of loose curls).
Greg had no idea when the hell Al would be back, but that still barely registered in his mind. Al could fuck himself for all Greg cared. What the hell. He let out a small laugh. “This is the most I’ve ever fuckin’ done with a guy.” He didn’t know why he said that out loud, but at least it didn’t lead to anything too stupid. Jules just let out another one of his strangely hot (--was it really strange? Or just strange because it was him, or strange because it was another guy--) little laughs and kissed his jaw, leaned his head against the side of his neck. “I hope I made it as wonderful as you made my time.” “You… I mean, holy shit, man.”, Greg said with another small laugh and shake of his head, “It still feels like a trip. A GOOD trip.”
“...Well, you can have another hit of me anytime that you want me. --Or any night, anyway. --And it’s the road, right? It’s okay to be a little crazy, you told me yerself!”
“Ha! I guess you’re right.”
This was still the good times. Right near the peak of the good times. Having sex with Julie was fun, hot, exciting. Showing him around various cities across the country that he’d never seen before sometimes felt like taking a lover on a date out on the town, and Jules was always so eager himself, happy to be around him and soak up every new sight and sound.
If he knew the good times were on such shaky ground, Greg would’ve soaked up even more of them in the moment himself-- but you never know in the moment, do you? All you can really feel is the moment you're in. For now, if Jules felt in control in the bedroom, Greg felt comfortably in control elsewhere. The big brother figure to Jules’s new guy. Showing him the ropes, helping him get along better with everyone else, making sure everyone else got along decently enough with him (even grumpy ol' Al). He was used to that. He liked it.
At some point, Jules didn’t need that anymore. More than that, he seemed to actively fight against it. Once it got to that point, Greg would know less and less what to do with him, what to do with himself. But until then-- the ride was still an incredible one, and while he might not have wrung every single moment of enjoyment out of it that he could, he did more than enough.