[lil author's note: this was an idea knocking around in my head for awhile, and was requested, sort of, recently. so... voila! lowkey-psycho/little-freak jules is way too fun im sorry but also im not. knife/scissor play and blood play but nothin toooo crazy, all that being said]
The band usually and unsurprisingly got its first shipment of concert merchandise-- caps, pins, shirts, and the like-- before the date of the first show of any tour. More than a week in advance of that date, most preferably: it gave the merch crew time to figure out their stall set-up, gave the promotion people something concrete to promote beyond the show itself, and gave Julian something to do, another (small) project to dive into. Ever since they were able to afford interesting-enough concert tees, Jules would pluck a couple smalls or mediums of each design-- some looked better on baggier fits-- from their respective shipment boxes, grab a pair of fabric scissors, plop down cross-legged on whatever floor was most comfortable for the task at hand, and slide those scissors down each shirt in whatever pattern or shape fit his fancy. Nate had caught him one of those first times, hazel eyes squinted and unblinking, full lips set in a focused frown, most of his black hair tied up in a messy sort of bun, and opened his mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing, before Jules answered for him. "Walt does always want us to advertise more, doesn't he?", he'd said. He hadn't lifted his eyes off of his project, his voice had been a distracted murmur. Nate had almost always felt a temptation to steal looks at Jules whenever he could. Jules, on the other hand, seemed to never need to look at Nate to know he was there.
It was the same way now, five years later. The shipment of merch had come late-- they were three shows into the tour already-- and Jules had been frustrated to the point of near-distress over it all. He always wanted things to be perfect: not just close-to-perfect, not just an attempt-at-perfect, but PERFECT. Something like that would have always annoyed him (Nate could imagine even a younger Jules pacing his room and muttering various languages of cusses about it), but this year, enough had happened that Nate could tell the edges were fraying. Jules had snatched each shirt from their boxes (resting on a folding table outdoors amidst a huddle of trailers), grabbed the scissors like a weapon, stormed into the nearest trailer and slammed the door behind him.
It was Jules's thing, the shirts. It always was. He liked having his things to do, his routines. This particular routine had already been thrown out of whack by that shipment's lateness-- Nate knocking on the door, interrupting, could have thrown things into even more unwanted chaos. The longer Nate knew him, though, the more he could tell when Jules might want him around. ...Or, perhaps, he'd just gotten good enough at making Jules want him there. And there was a desperation, an exhaustion, in Jules's stressed melodramatics this time around. He needed some kind of relief, even if he'd never ask for it. He'd needed some kind of relief for awhile, now, really-- but he'd never permitted Nate to give it to him, even when he offered. Hell, Nate didn't even know what he was thinking when he offered it to him the first time. Walt had told him Jules was "bad news" even to have as a friend. "Bruised produce, damaged goods". "You like your girls like that, Nate, and it's a pain in the ass there, too, but you can CONTROL them, at least. And I get you dig 'em in the sack. What the hell're you getting outta Julian that you can't get taking a brunette hooker from behind? NOTHING. No point to it whatsoever!"
And yet... Walt couldn't know the whole of it. Nate barely understood the whole of it himself. He'd just been drawn to him. Since forever. They met for the first time in '73-- Nate was playing, Jules was selling pot and acid, including to him. Jules had wanted more than just a transaction: he'd wanted to sing with him. Nate had laughed incredulously at the offer-- who the hell was this dude, anyway, to just pitch that out of the blue??-- but the intense, unblinking look in Jules's eyes (and the firey warmth in the brown of them, the threads of green snaking through) had burned itself into his mind. He saw that look again when Julian finally did find himself in Nate's band-- this time paired with a tiny smile. A little creepy. At some point, though, things switched. Nate was the one who couldn't help but look; Jules couldn't help but ignore it. The ignoring just annoyed Nate: there was a guy making him feel so much he'd never felt before, apparently effortlessly, and he was just... ignoring him. Yeah fucking right. Yet Jules continued to either ignore or outright reject any of Nathan's advances or offers for anything beyond professional musical partnership. If anything, Jules seemed to cling to other people the more Nate tried to reach for him. ...Until very recently, that is.
So sneaking into that trailer could have been a very stupid idea. He was compelled to try, though, just like every other time. Like something was pulling him in; like Jules himself was. He wasn't sure what he was doing, at first. He leaned against the door he'd entered and quietly closed behind him, stared at Jules's back, listened to the snipping and shredding of scissors going through fabric, the frustration in each movement palpable. Nate didn't make a single sound after closing that door; he wondered if this would be the time he could successfully sneak up on his friend (....? close acquaintance? musical partner? co-worker?), finally get one over him, but no dice.
Nate flinched as the snipping came to an abrupt halt. Julian's back and shoulders heaved with a sigh. "What do you want, Nathan?" He could tell Jules was trying to sound stern, terse, clipped, some sort of staccato, but his frustration had drawn that "want" out in a melodramatic legato.
Nate didn't even know what he wanted at first, or what he was going to say in response to a question like that. He wasn't the type to think that far ahead (Jules said he hated that about him, but Nate knew that was bullshit). He swallowed thickly, eyes darted about the room, felt a twinge of panic before he remembered the t-shirts. "So, you gonna cut one of them shirts up fancy for me one of these days?"
Nathan was going for flirtateous, but either Jules didn't want flirtateous or he read it as something worse. He slammed the scissors onto the table, and an even denser silence hung in the air for a moment. "U-Uh.... or... I... could... help... you? With yours?", Nate added nervously. That finally made Julian's shoulders relax. "There's only one pair of scissors.", He said. Nate walked over to him slowly, surveyed the work Jules had already accomplished. Two shirts, sleeves cut completely off, both cut right up the middle and made into something more like vests. The bottom of one of them had been cut into tassles, while the other had just been shaped into something less square, curved along the sides.
"Not yer neatest job...", Nate joked as he ran a finger up a half of one of the shirts.
"Intentional.", Jules replied.
"So what, I gotta zig-zag up these shirts if I'm gonna copy you, then?"
Jules finally turned to look at Nathan. There was a severe look in his eyes at first, but as he soaked Nate in, that look softened, then became almost... mischievous. "I already said there's only one pair of scissors, and I know what I'm doing. ...A model might help, though." Nate wordlessly reached for an unaltered t-shirt to put on over his own, and Jules let out a quiet chuckle. "How d'you expect me to make it fit right on ya if you have all that on underneath? Silly boy." Nate felt his ears flush at that-- the perfect excuse to lift his shirt over his head and obscure whatever other blushing might've been noticeable.
A small smile quirked up Jules's lips once Nate had finished switching shirts. "Now, all you'll have to do, Nathan... is stay perfectly still for me. Can you do that?" Julian's voice had grown deeper, smoother; it was like Nate could feel it slide into his ear, go all the way down to his dick. Nate swallowed thickly. "U-uh--"
Jules pointed the sharp end of the scissors at Nate's stomach, the small smile on his lips spreading into a grin that sent a spark of something close to manic across his eyes. Nate took another deep breath. "...Yeah. Okay.", He said hoarsely. "Good boy."
Julian held an end of the shirt straight in one hand while he slid his scissors slowly up the middle. He felt his dick throb at the feeling of the blade sliding up Nate's skin, the tension he could sense in Nate's body, that he could hear in his breathing. At some point-- halfway up his stomach, nearer to his chest-- Nate couldn't help but twitch and gasp, cringe, grit his teeth, and Jules smiled again. "...Ticklish?" Nate gulped. "U-Uh-- naw, it's-- it's fine.", He replied, only to twitch even harder as Jules continued his way up. He felt a sudden stinging, hissed at it, and Julian paused, clucked his tongue. "Oh, now look what you did. It's better to be honest with me than put up a silly tough front; you should know that by now. You could've made SUCH a mess. Hang on, I just need to finish things up here..."
He finished sliding the scissors up Nate's chest as he stared in his eyes, smirked as he made the final cut into the collar (a swell of arousal stirred in him at the sight of Nate's chest rising into his peripheral view), carefully, gently, dragged the scissor blade up his throat, rested it under his chin. Nathan would usually have a word or two for him at this point. He was someone who never knew when to shut up. Always needed to get a word in edgewise. Now, finally, Julian had rendered him speechless. He wanted to bask in it, luxuriate in it, but the line of blood sliding down Nate's chest didn't give him much time to admire his work. He closed the scissors, wrapped them in a fist, crouched down, ran his tongue slowly up that line. The salt of his sweat commingled with the metallic tang of his blood; Jules felt Nate's whole body shiver at his touch and smiled at it, knew it wasn't only a shiver of fear or anxiety but also desire-- shock at the desire, maybe even a little shame from the desire, but desire all the same. The insistent throbbing in Nate's jeans against his body made that obvious enough, but the dazed-yet-intense look in Nate's warm brown eyes sealed it. He finished lapping up Nate's blood, then his tongue followed the path his scissors had taken minutes before. Right up his throat, underneath and over his chin, and then-- a new addition to the route-- into his mouth.
Nathan was too turned on to be nervous, at that point. Or maybe he was still nervous-- he could feel Jules brush the edge of the scissor blades against the back of his neck while he kissed him-- but it didn't matter, anymore. If there were any thoughts in his head before, they'd all rushed, along with (most of) his blood, right to his dick. He hastily unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, pressed his cock into Julian's thigh; Jules hummed something between a moan and a laugh into his mouth at the feeling of it. There was something of a battle for control occurring, then: Nathan rutting against him like some animal in heat, Jules stroking and pressing that blade against his neck. Chaos and order, impulse and restraint; but only one of them was capable of drawing blood, and already had.
Jules pulled away slightly. Smirked. "I do love how excited you are for all this. I mean, it's got me excited, too! Feel." He grabbed Nate's hand, pressed it against his own erection. Nate leaned forward to kiss him with a moan, but Jules leaned away just as quickly. Pressed the scissors gently into his neck again. "Now, now. Who's the one with the scissors here, sweetheart?" Nate sighed in frustration. "D'you always need to do this mind-game shit before we fuck?", he muttered. Jules paused for a moment before his smirk transformed into a sweet smile. He leaned into Nate, looked into his eyes as if he was a girl in the front row at a gig. "Do you want sweet, Nathan?", He asked innocently. Wrapped his arms loosely around his neck. "D'you really want wine, and candles, and maybe a nice massage? Some Kenny G on the radio? Or maybe Jeff put out some adult contemporary shlock while I was away, we could put that on..." --Nate's pout had began twitching into stifled laughter halfway through it all, and he couldn't contain it by the time their keyboard player was mentioned. Jules knew Nathan well enough by now. They had similar tastes, or at least, their tastes intersected in very entertaining ways-- Nate just had too much pride wrapped up in it all to fully admit that to himself.
So Jules took it upon himself to slice through that pride like scissors up fabric. He pressed the blade into Nate's neck again. "Exactly. Blow me." "You gonna point those fuckin' things at me the entire time?" "Yes! And I'll blow YOU after." "An' I don't get the scissors." "Precisely!" Nate sighed. "Fuck you, man.", He muttered. Jules grinned. "That's the point, yes! --Ha! Scissors. Point. --Ugh, just kneel already, Nathan, sweetheart."
By then, both of them knew how to drive the other crazy with a knack that came from spending years together on cramped tour buses and cheap hotels. That driving crazy had usually been to the point of annoyance, and there was still that annoyance, that frustration, present in the both of them. Some of that annoyance, though, had been a veneer over quite a different kind of frustration. Neither of them knew exactly what to do about it. They were fucking by then, but even that seemed to be its own sort of power struggle. Nate had wanted to struggle a lot harder than this. He could only imagine what Walt would say if he knew his favorite son was on his knees, rendered a "cocksucker" not by any guy but by Julian. The lousy little queer, the conniving bitch of a faggot. Everything was upside down. --Yet, again, he realized, deep down, that he didn't really care. Everything was upside down and Jules was pressing a blade to his neck but he was also stroking his hair so gently, ruffling it a little from time to time, instructing him on how he wanted to be sucked, licked, kissed, sighing out a "good boy" when Nathan did good. And then, soon enough, Jules was the one on his knees and Nate was the one sent to a bliss so far removed from the upsidedown-ness of everything that he couldn't think of anything beyond it.
Julian always wore his re-designed tour shirts during gigs. "Advertisement", as he'd called it. There was something deeper under that, this time. Less advertisement, more quiet invitation. When Jules would wear his shirt, Nate would wear his. They'd look into each other's eyes from across the stage. Jules would smile. Nathan would know he was in for a night he wouldn't be able to predict-- and, he realized, he wouldn't have it any other way.