Work Text:
The sound of the bass reverberated through the arena, Flea’s fingers dancing across the strings with effortless precision. Anthony’s voice rang out, deep and smooth, like it had always been, cutting through the air, connecting with the crowd. But there was something different tonight.
They were good. No, they were great—on the surface. The crowd was screaming, the lights blinding, and everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place. Yet, there was an ache. A subtle emptiness that had been gnawing at Anthony ever since Flea had made the call. The call that brought John back.
They had played without him before. They had thrived without him. But it wasn’t the same. The music had never been the same. The connection wasn’t there. John was the missing link, the fire that fused their raw energy into something greater. Flea could never explain it. It wasn’t just about the notes or the riffs—it was the space between them. John filled it with something unpredictable, something fragile, yet bold. And no matter how much Anthony tried to deny it, he missed it.
The band was almost complete again. And Anthony could feel it in every chord, every beat, but also in the way his pulse quickened when he saw John step onto the stage.
John.
The show had been fucking electric so far. Every song hit harder than the last, every scream from the crowd sent fire through his veins. This was their thing, their place, their temple.
And John—John was right back where he belonged.
Anthony had been careful. Had kept himself in check. Had made sure that having John back in the band didn’t mean falling back into that. Whatever that had been.
But then, between songs, John did something. Something small. Something harmless.
Something that wrecked him.
John unbuttoned his fucking shirt.
One button.
Two.
Three.
Slow, casual, like it was nothing.
And Anthony felt the air leave his lungs.
He gripped the mic stand hard enough to snap it in half.
The silk slipped apart, revealing smooth, pale skin—skin that Anthony hadn’t let himself think about in years. John wasn’t even paying attention, the bastard. He was focused on adjusting his strap, rolling his shoulders, like this wasn’t—like this wasn’t—
Anthony swallowed. His throat was dry.
The stage lights cast a soft glow on John's chest, and there it was—proof that time had changed things, but not everything. His body was still beautiful. He still had the same sharp collarbones, the same delicate dip at his stomach.
He should not be looking.
But he was.
And then John looked up.
And he saw.
For a moment, they were nowhere else. Not on stage, not in front of thousands. Just them. And Anthony knew—knew that John felt it too, because his fingers twitched at his side, and his expression shifted just enough for Anthony to see it.
That little jolt of realization.
That fuck, I just did something, didn’t I?
Yeah. Yeah, he fucking did.
Anthony’s chest ached.
His grip tightened on the mic.
Because, God, he wanted to be angry. Wanted to throw a glare, make a joke, pretend it didn’t shake him to his fucking core.
But all he could do was stare.
And then, because John always had to make things worse, he fucking exhaled. A slow, steady breath through barely parted lips, like he’d just let go of something deep inside himself.
Anthony’s stomach flipped.
He needed to look away. Needed to breathe, to move, to do anything other than stand there like a man seeing the sun for the first time.
So he did. He blinked. Forced his gaze somewhere else.
=*=
John was somewhere between a trance and a dream, lost in the way his fingers knew exactly where to go even after all these years.
It was halfway through the set when the heat started getting to him. It had been creeping up for a while—the adrenaline, the stage lights, the way the music swallowed him whole—but suddenly, between songs, he felt it unbearable. His silk shirt clung to his skin, damp at the collar, sleeves stuck to his arms. Without thinking, he reached for the buttons.
The fabric loosened, cool air hitting his chest. It felt good. Like breathing. Like coming up for air after drowning for too long.
He rolled his shoulders, exhaling, eyes cast downward as he adjusted his guitar strap. He barely noticed the way the crowd’s energy shifted—until he looked up.
And locked eyes with him.
Anthony was staring.
Not just looking—staring.
Mouth slightly open, eyes dark and unreadable. He was still gripping the mic stand, still standing there like they were in the middle of a song, but there was a moment—just a flicker—where he wasn’t there at all.
John’s fingers twitched at his side.
For a second, time folded in on itself. They weren’t on stage, weren’t in front of thousands of people. It was just them. Just like it had always been.
And then Anthony’s throat bobbed.
His gaze flickered down—barely, just for a split second—before snapping back up. And something passed between them. Something unspoken, something dangerous.
John felt it like a punch to the ribs.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew what Anthony was seeing. What he was feeling. But for the first time, after months of rehearsals, of carefully avoiding anything that might feel like the past—this was the moment John realized he had let something slip.
He had spent every rehearsal in long sleeves, every soundcheck covered up. He had built walls without thinking, shielding himself not just from the crowd but from him.
And now, in this one moment, with three undone buttons, they were gone.
Anthony blinked. Looked away.
The moment was over.
The next song started.
But John felt it in his bones—this wasn’t over. Not even close.
=*=
The second the dressing room door clicked shut, Anthony pounced.
“The fuck was that?”
John was already on the couch, one arm draped over the back, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers. His silky shirt was still open, hanging off his shoulders like it belonged there. Like he hadn’t just spent an entire show pretending it meant nothing.
John took a slow drag. Exhaled. Didn’t even look at him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Anthony barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Bullshit.”
John finally met his eyes, and fuck, there it was—that look. That quiet, steady gaze that had always driven Anthony insane. Like John had already figured him out and was just waiting for him to catch up.
But not this time.
Anthony crossed the room in two strides, yanking the cigarette from John’s hand and crushing it into the nearest ashtray. John huffed but didn’t stop him. Just watched.
“You did that on purpose,” Anthony accused. His hands were on his hips now, shaking, his whole body still wired from the stage, from John, from that fucking moment.
John’s brows pulled together. “Is this about my shirt?”
“Yes,” Anthony spat. “No. I don’t fucking know.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “You don’t do that, John. You never do that.”
John leaned back against the couch, rubbing at his temple. “Jesus, man.” He let out a breath, tilting his head back. “It was hot on stage, Anthony. I’ve been doing this for years—you think it was to mess up with you? That I was thinking about you when I did that?”
Anthony’s pulse jumped.
John took a deep breath, his gaze dropping before he spoke, the pain clear in his voice. “We’re not what we were back then anymore, Anthony.”
He shouldn’t have felt that twist in his gut. That sharp little pang of something like—like hurt.
Because maybe—maybe for a second—he had wanted it to be about him. But John was right. They didn’t have that anymore. Still, since John returned to the band, the first time Anthony saw his face, or heard his voice—it was still there. Because he never stopped wanting it. And now, he just wanted to let it out. He still wanted John, in every way possible.
He scoffed, tilting his head, sizing John up like he was a puzzle missing a piece. “Then why are you still sitting like that?” His voice dropped, almost curious. “All spread out, shirt hanging open, looking like you—”
He stopped himself.
John’s breath hitched as he rolled his shoulders, half-heartedly attempting to cover himself, avoiding Anthony’s gaze—on his eyes and body. A flash of memory hit him, reminding him of the days when riled Anthony up with his body, and Anthony didn’t mind. Anthony had liked it. The thought sparked a flicker of pride in him, knowing he still had that effect on Anthony.
But as the realization hit him, John understood—he didn’t have that privilege anymore. The kind of unspoken connection they once shared, that deep pull between them, was gone. They weren’t lovers anymore, just bandmates. They made music together, nothing more. And the weight of that truth sank in, leaving him with a hollow ache where something deeper used to live.
Anthony saw it. That flicker of hesitation in John’s eyes. A crack in the armor.
A confession without words.
Anthony took a slow step forward. Then another.
He didn’t stop until his knees hit the edge of the couch, until he was towering over John, hands braced on the armrest beside him.
John’s gaze flickered down to Anthony’s mouth, then back up again.
And that was it.
The dam broke.
Anthony didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.
He just took it.
His hands found John’s jaw, his mouth crashed down, and it was—goddamn.
It was instantaneous.
Hot, urgent, everything.
John made a noise in the back of his throat, soft and helpless, and Anthony swallowed it whole. His fingers dug into John’s skin, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as he deepened the kiss, drinking in every shaky breath, every quiet exhale.
And John—John—was right there with him.
Falling. Tumbling.
Anthony kissed like a man who had just realized he was starving.
John felt it. Every inhale, every push and pull, the desperate edge bleeding into Anthony’s touch as if he were afraid John might vanish between his fingers.
But John wasn’t going anywhere.
Not now.
Not after this.
Anthony’s hands were on him, holding him, thumb swiping along the sharp edge of his jaw before sliding lower, pressing into the hollow of his throat. Testing. Feeling. Taking.
And John let him.
Because—fuck.
This was Anthony.
Anthony, who had spent six years pretending he was fine, like John’s absence hadn’t left a crater in the middle of his life. Anthony, who had let him back in but never like this.
John knew what this meant.
He knew.
Because Anthony didn’t do anything without meaning.
And the way he was kissing him now—hard and slow, almost careful—was the kind of truth neither of them had dared to speak.
John’s head tipped back against the couch as Anthony moved closer, hovering over him, pressing in, chasing the heat like a man drawn to fire. Their lips parted, just enough for a breath, and John opened his eyes to find Anthony staring at him.
His pupils were blown wide. His chest rose and fell.
John swallowed.
“…You gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”
Anthony’s throat bobbed. He was still breathing hard, still leaning into him, but his expression had shifted. Something cracked open between them, raw and bleeding.
“You,” Anthony said. His voice was hoarse. “You’re on my mind, John.”
John’s stomach tightened.
“You always are,” Anthony admitted, quieter this time. “You think I don’t see you? You think I don’t—” He cut himself off, exhaling through his nose, shaking his head like the words weren’t forming fast enough. “Jesus Christ, you did that on purpose—”
John let out a breathy, startled laugh. “I didn’t—”
Anthony’s hands flexed against him like he wanted to shake him. “You unbuttoned your shirt.”
John arched an eyebrow. “Yeah. It was hot.”
Anthony groaned, dropping his forehead to John’s shoulder. “Fuck you, man.”
John titled his head slightly, letting the weight of Anthony against him settle in his bones. It was stupid, so stupid, but it felt good. Like home.
“Didn’t know you still got that worked up over me,” he murmured.
Anthony stiffened.
John almost regretted saying it—until Anthony lifted his head again, and God.
That look.
That heavy, real look.
It locked John in place and pinned him down without a single touch.
“Of course, I do,” Anthony said, voice low. “You think I ever fucking stopped?”
John’s breath hitched.
He had no answer for that.
Because Anthony—Anthony never said things like this.
He showed it, sure. In the way he played, in the way he looked at John across the stage, in the way his body always found its way too close whenever they were in the same room.
But words?
Words were a different beast.
And now, Anthony was staring at him like he wasn’t afraid to say it.
Like it had always been obvious.
John wet his lips. His mouth was dry. His pulse was loud in his ears. “Then why didn’t you—”
Anthony made a frustrated sound, his grip tightening. “Because you fucking left, man.”
John flinched.
There it was.
The past, laid out between them, still raw, still aching.
“I'm sorry," John murmured, dropping his gaze, hoping Anthony didn’t see the vulnerability creeping through him every time they talked about his departure. It had nothing to do with Anthony, not really. It was just him—and the voice in his head—watching their world fall apart.
Anthony tilted John’s head to meet his gaze again, “hey, look at me. You’re here now, we’re good, we’re all good.”
Anthony and the others had said it—that they were all good, no personal resentment, nothing like that. But it was always on a professional level. He didn’t know if he still held a place in Anthony’s heart.
John let out a slow breath, steadying himself. "And now I’m here too?" His hand brushed the left side of Anthony’s chest, where his heart was located.
Anthony’s fingers curled against his skin as if testing the weight of those words and the timid touch resting on his bare chest.
Then—
“…Yeah.”
A beat of silence.
John wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, he was kissing Anthony again, pulling him in by the back of the neck, fingers threading into his damp lock, and—fuck.
Anthony melted into him.
Like the fight had drained out of him, leaving only this.
And John took it.
Took his lips, took his warmth, took the way Anthony’s hands held him like he wasn’t just real—
But his.
Again.
And this time?
John wasn’t going anywhere.