don't worry about this

"Did both of your parents just die?"

"Yes," Joe cries, drawing his shoulders up high and frowning with his mouth open, pretending to sob. He dips his spoon into the pint of ice cream he's holding and takes a bite through the fake tears he's shedding. He plays the part for several seconds, then lets his shoulders drop and his expression return to normal. "Alright, that's a wrap."

Zubin watches him reach forward to click the button on the camera that stops recording. "That's all we need?" he asks, and Joe nods.

"Yes. Cue laugh track, cue generic outro song, cue credits." He powers the camera off and discards the mostly empty ice cream container next to the plate of hot dogs beside the grill, then pulls open the door leading into the house and disappears inside.

Zubin catches the door before it closes and peers into the house. "Hey, what's the rush?" He follows Joe inside and down the hall, and Joe glances back at him, then waves him off.

I'm just going to the bathroom," he says, and he throws open the bathroom door wildly, nearly slamming it behind himself after he enters.

Chuckling, Zubin stands in front of the door and calls, "You went to the bathroom ten minutes ago. What are you doing?" His curiosity isn't stifled by any regard for privacy, so he closes his fingers around the knob and turns it, then pushes the door wide open and instantly wishes he didn't, his breath catching in his throat.

Joe is standing at the opposite end of the bathroom, facing the door, one hand gripping the edge of the sink while the other hand holds his substantially hard cock through the fabric of his shorts. His face is flushed, and in that regard, Zubin mimics him unintentionally, his own blood rising to his cheeks while his fingers twitch on the doorknob. For whatever reason, he can't find the will to move, frozen in both moritification and shameful interest.

Flustered, Joe stares at him and barks, "What the hell are you doing?"

Zubin's grip on the knob tightens, and he stutters an overwhelmed response, his gaze settled below Joe's stomach. "I didn't realize you were--why are you--are you planning on, um--" He purses his lips and collects his thoughts, tearing his eyes away from Joe entirely. Voices sound down the hall, alarmingly close to the two of them, and Joe sighs impatiently, his shoulders slumping.

"Zubin," he exhorts, "either leave or get in here quickly, because I need you to close the door."

The voices around the corner crescendo, and Zubin chooses to shuffle inside the bathroom, cracking under pressure. "Right, right." He closes the door and stands there awkwardly with his hands clasped together behind his back. He glances several times at Joe's crotch but fights hard to look away, a dizzying, constant shifting of his gaze.

Joe puffs his lips out and stares shamefully at his hand wrapped around his clothed cock. "I hate hormones," he mutters.

Zubin swallows and watches Joe's dick twitch in his hand, his erection not flagging despite having unexpected company. "You can't--" Zubin clears his throat. "Are you going to masturbate in someone else's bathroom?"

A whine pushes past Joe's lips, and the hand that was on the sink comes up to cover his mouth, embarrassed at the accidental noise. He drags his fingers over his lips, then scratches at the stubble on his chin and lets his other hand slip away from his cock, the bulge in his shorts painfully obvious now that Zubin is actively looking, unlike five minutes ago during filming. "I don't have much of a choice," says Joe. "It--It won't go away."

As the cogs turn in Zubin's mind, his eyes raking over Joe's body and beet red face, he realizes he has the upper hand here, that Joe is rightfully embarrassed and Zubin should be laughing and poking fun at him. "Kinky," he teases with a smirk.