Under My Skin, part 3

[solafiamma]

Part 2 is here.

 

Under My Skin, 3

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Several weeks later, Chris was able to think about Dani without having to anaesthetize himself first. Now when he told reporters they were still friends, it was actually the truth. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, or how, and he didn’t question it. It was enough that he didn’t wake up every morning trapped in the vast and ragged landscape of loss he’d been lost in for what felt like forever. 

He did know that as time had passed, the memory of that single kiss from Lance had inserted itself more and more frequently into his thoughts, smoothing over the rough edges, washing away the anger. Some mornings he woke up from dreaming about Lance’s lips against his skin, his whole body hungry and desperate. Some nights he fell asleep with the kiss replaying again and again, like sheep waiting to be counted. 

It was back again, this terrible crush that had caught him by surprise years ago. He’d thought he had it licked, but apparently it had just been lying dormant, a virus waiting until his immune system was weak before launching a second attack. It wasn’t just a crush now, though. His thing with Dani had at least taught him to recognize that basic difference. This was . . . well, it was more complicated than a simple crush. Stronger. Deeper. A fuck of a lot scarier.

He needed to figure out what to do. Or better still, have someone figure it out for him since he didn’t such a terrific track record with relationships. There was no point talking to Lance about it, not unless he wanted a re-hashing of the Perils of Rebound Sex lecture. Joey was out of the question, because if he told Joey, Lance would hear about it fifteen minutes later, and Chris would still have to endure the rebound sex sermon.

When he told Justin, Justin beamed at him, lifted him off his feet and swung him around in circles until he threatened to deposit his lunch down the back of Justin’s jacket.

“Dude! That’s. Wow. See, I told you he was right for you. Way back when, I told you. Remember? Awesome, Chris! That’s just awesome! So, have you told him?”

“I can’t tell him, J. There’s no point. He’ll just explain why it’s a bad idea. He’s got this fucked up phobia about rebound relationships.”

“Well. Okay. But you have to tell him. Otherwise, how will he know? Right?”

“I can’t tell him! I already told you. He wouldn’t listen, anyway.”

“Yeah. But you have to tell him, Chris.”

“Shut up! You’re stuck on stupid today, man. Maybe you should start eating more fish, or stop sticking your keys in electric sockets. I told you I’m not gonna tell him. Fuck off.”

“You fuck off. You’re the one who’s stuck on stupid. Didn’t you learn anything from those books?”

“Oh, fuck you and fuck your stupid fucking books.”

Chris slammed out of Justin’s room and down to the hotel bar. Maybe a few shots of tequila would clear his head.

The hotel switchboard woke him the next morning at some ungodly hour that wasn’t lunchtime, and then had the impertinence to lie and tell him he’d asked to woken. Assbrains. The world was populated assbrains.

After perusing the room service menu grumpily for a few minutes, he decided to go wake JC, because JC understood all about getting things you wanted without telling people that you wanted them. Karmic resonance or magnetic Buddhism or something such woofty thing. Something, at any rate, that translated roughly to mean that if JC really coveted a freakishly ugly fur hat with white and red piping on the sides, more often than not that hat would come to him without any more output from him than drooling over a magazine ad. Next morning, or maybe a week later, the hat would find its way to him, mysteriously appearing at the foot of his bed or underneath the coat he’d tossed down on the couch. Chris hadn’t been able, after all these years, to figure out how this happened or who was responsible. But happen it did, so if anyone could help him get Lance into his bed without having to invite him there, JC was the man to do it.

“Chris! I was just about to call. You’re late.” JC smiled at him and dragged him into the room. 

Unfortunately, the one variable he’d forgotten to factor into this equation was the fact that this was the morning they had all agreed to meet in JC’s room for breakfast and cartoons.  When JC let him in, Justin and Lance were already lounging on one of the beds with plates of bacon and eggs and pancakes, and Joey was pouring a glass of orange juice.

“Fuck. Why didn’t you guys remind me it was gonna be party central in here this morning?”

Justin threw a spoon at him, barely missing his left temple. “I just told you last night, dude. When was I supposed to remind you? When you went storming off in a huff?”

“Yes. Yes, that would have done nicely.”

“Chris stormed off in a huff?” Lance asked around a mouthful of pancake. “Why? Why was he in a huff?”

“Funny you should ask. Ow! Knock it off, Chris! That hurt!” Justin yelled as Chris threw the spoon back at him, connecting solidly with the centre of his forehead.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby. And shut your face, Timberlake, or that spoon’s goin’ somewhere nice people don’t mention unless they’re talking to their proctologist.”

JC hugged him from behind, rubbing his hands soothingly over Chris’ belly.

“Sounds like you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Grab some food, that’ll make you feel better. Look, I even ordered some chocolate chip muffins and peanut butter, just for you.”

Chris allowed JC to coax him over to the food, watching Justin out of the corner of his eye to make sure the fucker kept his mouth shut. Which was fine, except what if he’d already said something to Lance before Chris had arrived? He peered surreptitiously at Lance, but all he could see was that Diane had failed miserably in the table manners department. Apart from the fact that Lance talked with his mouth full, he’d managed to get syrup on his chin, and maybe just a little on his cheek. Not only was there was no way of knowing what Justin had said, now he had to sit here and imagine licking food off Lance’s face. Crap. Life sucked. Justin sucked. Lance sucked hardest of all.

He took three chocolate chip muffins and four sausages and headed for the other bed. Fine, whatever. He’d just eat and wait for the others to leave, and then JC could tell him how to fix this. 

It was hard to pay attention to the cartoons because every time he looked over at Lance to see if there’d been any improvement in his eating habits, or if he’d maybe gotten a little homelier since the last time he checked, Lance would whip his head round and catch him looking. Nosy bastard. When Animaniacs came on, Chris managed to settle down a bit, and only looked at Lance twice, once during the first commercial break, and once, embarrassingly enough, when Dot was singing.

”I'm the one they adore, 
I'm sweet and I'm cuddly
And small just like Dudley but more
It's a chore

To be constantly cute.”

Lance raised his eyebrows at him, grinned and looked back at the TV. A couple of minutes later, a slice of bacon landed by Chris’ knee. He ignored it. Next, a bit of pancake hit him on the cheek and stuck there. He pulled it off and ate it without removing his eyes from the TV. This was going to be a long, long morning. 

He was just thinking that a nap might be in order, when the bed dipped in that boat-ish way beds have of announcing a new boarding party. The slippy, sea-sick feeling in his stomach might have been caused by the sudden portside plunge, but the more likely reason was the physical fact of Lance, right there, kneeling beside him at first, and then, when Chris wouldn’t shift his eyes from the TV, directly in front of him, smiling his smiley smile a scant few inches from Chris’ face in what could only be considered an egregious invasion of personal space. Even worse, he wasn’t saying anything. Just sitting there and smiling like he had a secret Chris was too dumb to figure out.  

“Um,” Chris said, after rooting around unsuccessfully in his brain for a witty put down.

Lance smiled an even wider smile and edged closer, closer, closer until their faces were almost touching. He took Chris’ chin between his thumb and index finger and turned his head to the side like he was turning a page, and then his mouth was against Chris’ ear, warm and slightly sticky, whispering so softly Chris could barely make out the words.

“You can sleep with me if you want.”

Oh. Fuck. He wasn’t ready for this, he just wasn’t. Chris tried to scoot toward the other side of the bed, but he didn’t have time to extricate himself from his cross-legged position before Lance grabbed him by the knees and held him still. 

“Look. Lance. I don’t--“

“Yes. You do,” Lance whispered into his ear. “I know you do.” He rubbed his knuckles along the inside of Chris’ leg and bit his earlobe gently. “I’m not a kid any more.”

“Oh. Uh. I don’t. You can’t--“

“I’m not a virgin anymore.” Lance moved his hand up Chris’ thigh, further, further, until the tips of his fingers were pressing gently against the vee of Chris’ pants. 

“Stop it!” he whispered back. At least he hoped he’d whispered it. “Knock it off! You can’t do that here! There’s peoplehere!”

Lance laughed, low and sexy, distracting Chris long enough to quickly unzip his fly and slide a hand into his pants. 

“Fuck! Oh, shit!” Chris yelled, and that was a ridiculously amateur move because now Justin, Joey and JC were all looking over to see what was going on. “They’re going to see!” he hissed at Lance, waving his arms around frantically so no one would notice what was going on inside his pants.

But Lance just laughed again and shrugged, like he was fiddling with the TV remote and not Chris’ dick. Stupid fuck. Chris was going to tie him down and die his eyebrows lime green when this was over, he was going to scribble all over his cheeks with indelible ink, and force him to eat sheep hearts and pig bowels. Most of all, he was going to stop thinking of Lance tied up, though, because that really wasn’t motivating him to get Lance’s hands off his body and back in the pancakes where they belonged.

He grabbed Lance’s wrist and tried to wrench his hand away, but Lance just tightened his grip, and holy hell, that felt fucking fantastic. “Nooo,” he whined, not even convincing himself. He cleared his throat squeezed Lance’s wrist. “I’mserious, Lance. They’re gonna see.”

“Yeah, okay, okay. Shut up. Hey, guys?” He looked over his shoulder at the others, who were still trying to peer past Lance’s back to see what was happening. “Fuck off for a while, okay?”

“Oh, God,” Chris groaned. “You bastard asshole, could you just let go?”

“Hey, it’s my room!” JC said. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not even dressed yet.”

“Fine then. You want to watch, that’s up to you.” Lance shrugged, yanked his t-shirt over his head and started tugging on Chris’.”

“No, it isn’t!!” Chris yelped, dragging his shirt back down. “It totally isn’t, you freak!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Justin crawling across the other bed to get a better look. He reached back, scrabbling for a pillow to cover the evidence, but only came up with a handful of quilt and half a muffin.

“Oh, hey, shit!” Justin sounded shocked and delighted in equal measure. “Is his hand in your pants? His hand is in yourpants! Dude, finally!” 

And then JC had his hand over Justin’s mouth, and Joey was tugging them both towards the door, the three of them giggling like ten year olds who’d just stepped in dog poo, and really, this had to be the most idiotic moment yet in a life already replete with far more than its share of idiotic moments.

He looked at Lance and Lance looked back in a way that suggested the idiocy of the moment had entirely escaped him. He looked, in fact, perfectly at ease, like he played with other guys’ dicks in rooms full of people six or seven times a week. Maybe he did, for all Chris knew. 

The door slammed shut, and Lance grinned suggestively, hands still knotted in Chris’ t-shirt. Stupid little shit. He obviously thought he could just whistle and Chris would roll over and drool. What the hell had happened to rebounding as the eighth deadly sin? Or had that just been payback for the seven thousand times Chris had said no to him? Well. Screw that. Two could play this game.

He tilted his head back and gazed down his nose coolly at Lance. 

Lance didn’t look impressed. He just tugged at Chris’ hem and asked, “You gonna chicken out on me again, Kirkpatrick?”

“It’s not chickening out if I don’t want to.”

Lance’s left eyebrow quirked upward. “You saying you don’t want to?” He let go of Chris’ shirt and slid his left hand underneath it, a slow, hot glide of calloused skin over Chris’ stomach, curving round his ribs and up his back. 

“Uh.” Chris struggled for something intelligent to say, but Lance seemed to have sucked all the oxygen out of the room. He felt all goosebumply and incoherent, maybe just the tiniest bit dizzy. If he ended up falling over backwards, he’d probably concuss himself on the headboard, so as a purely precautionary measure, he snaked both hands around to grab hold of Lance’s ass.

“You’re not interested, maybe?” Lance brought his other hand up to Chris’ face, palm toward Chris’ lips. “Lick.”

Chris licked. He had no choice, really. The hand was going back in his pants, that much was clear, and if he didn’t lick it and Lance didn’t lick it, well, it would probably chafe. He owed it to his cock. 

Lance’s palm tasted like butter and bacon, overlaid with another flavour that Chris recognized as the taste of his own dick. That thought made every nerve in his body spasm, so he closed his eyes and kept licking, wetting each of Lance’s fingers in turn, tonguing away the last traces of syrup. He felt the briefest twinge of disappointment when Lance took his hand away, but than it only lasted a second, because having it around his dick again was infinitely more entertaining. Even his tongue had to agree.

“You want me to stop?” Lance loosened his grip and gave Chris his big eyed, innocent face. “Because I could stop. If you wanted me to.”

Fucking prick. If his hands hadn’t been so full of Lance’s butt, Chris would have yanked on his ears until he squeaked. Instead, he took a deep breath, summoned every ounce of indifference he could muster, and shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant, man-about-town sort of way, but which, he suspected, more closely resembled a convulsion. “Whatever. Suit yourself.”

“Maybe,” Lance said, releasing Chris’ dick entirely and reaching into one of his own pockets, “maybe you’d rather, oh, I don’t know, do something a little different?” He pulled out a tube of lube and a couple of condoms and slapped them down on the bed.

Bastard. Sneaky, shithead bastard. “If you think I’m going to let you fuck me after your little display in front of the guys, you’ve got another think coming. They’re going to be mocking me about that for months.”

“Well. That’s not quite what I had in mind.” Lance smiled, slow and sexy, then leaned back, grinding his ass into Chris’ hands. “But, if you’re not interested . . .”

Oh, to hell with it. Pride could wait for another day. Seizing Lance behind the knees, Chris tipped him backward onto the bed. “Get your fucking pants off.”

For once in his life, Lance did what he was told. He was buck naked and face down in less than a minute with his clothes folded in a neat little pile on the end of the bed, and he’d manage it with considerably more grace than Chris, who had gotten his pants as far as his knees and his t-shirt up to his armpits, but then stalled when his elbows were suddenly taken hostage by the stretchy fabric and wedged against the sides of his head. All he could do was wiggle around on the bed like a mud-less worm and yell at Lance to stop laughing and give him a hand. When he’d finally untangled himself from his traitorous clothes -- with absolutely no help from Lance, who was still snickering like someone who didn’t realize how close he was to having a pitcher-full of syrup massaged into his scalp and possibly even his nostrils -- he was breathless and cranky, and he was pretty sure he was going to have bruises on his biceps. So where the hell were the shoddy manufacturing standards people were always complaining about? You could hog tie a wildebeest with that t-shirt, you could tie it to your granny’s left ankle and dangle her from the Empire State Building in a gale force wind and reel her back in hale and hearty and ready to bake you a batch of toll house cookies for afternoon tea. The thing was indestructible.

He gave Lance a vicious pinch on the butt to let him know that his lack of sympathy was not going to be forgotten, but the choked, moany sound that escaped Lance’s throat drove any thoughts of immediate revenge completely out of his head. God, Lance had a fantastic butt. Chris ran his hands over it, reveling in the weight of it against his hands, the silk-smooth skin that felt all burny and beach-warmed, like maybe the sun really did shine out of Lance’s ass. It was one of the most fuckable asses he’d ever met, and he’d wanted to fuck it forever, so why the hell was he just sitting around playing patty cake with it.

He reached for the lube, but Lance shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like, “No, father” which totallycreeped him out. Daddy fantasies. Ew. 

“Hey, no, I’m not into that shit.”

Lance peered over his shoulder at him. “What shit?”

“You called me ‘father.’ That’s gross. I don’t do daddy stuff.”

“I said, ‘don’t bother.’ What are you doing back there, anyway? Why aren’t you fucking me? Get that condom on and let’s go!”

“Well, pardon me for taking a moment to slick you up, fuckhead,” Chris said, waving the lube in front of Lance’s face. “Keep your damn shirt on.”

Lance reached back, snatched the tube out of his hand and threw it across the room where it ricocheted off the mirror and into a tureen of leftover scrambled eggs. “I said don’t bother.”

“But--“

“I already took care of it. C’mon. Get busy.” He wiggled his butt enticingly.

“You took care of it? What do you mean, you took care of it? When did you take care of it?” Chris grabbed hold of Lance’s butt cheeks, parted them, and thrust an unceremonious finger into his ass. Sure enough, slippery as a greased piglet. “Oh, fuck me. You did.”

“You’re a master of the romantic moment, I have to say.”

“What the fuck, Lance? You planned this?”

“And you appear to have a firm grasp of the obvious, too.”

“What was the lube for, then?”

“Dramatic effect? Look, your finger is great and all, really, I’m enjoying it immensely, but if you don’t replace it with your dick in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to throw on a robe and go find the guy who delivered breakfast, because I think he might actually fuck me some time this century--. Ohhhh, oh shit, holy jesus!”

“There, see? Fingers can be nice, too.” Chris grinned at Lance’s writhing body. “I was always good with my hands.”

Lance gave him the bird, but mitigated it with a sobby little noise of agreement into the quilt.

“Here, make yourself useful.” Chris stuffed the condom into Lance’s hand. “Open this.”

For a second he thought Lance might be too far gone to have heard him, but then he was yanking and twisting the condom wrapper, and every time he tugged his ass tightened around Chris’ finger in a most promising way. Maybe he’d give Lance the other condom to open while he fucked him.

“For someone with so much experience, you sure suck at the details,” he said, ripping the condom away from Lance’s scrabbling fingers. “Amateur.”

Holding the wrapper between thumb and forefinger, Chris ripped it open with his teeth and slid it on one-handed. He licked Lance’s back a couple of times to get rid of the taste, long, slow swipes along his spine, and was rewarded by more of the gaspy, desperate sounds that were starting to give Chris the same high he’d felt when he’d nailed his firstollie back when he was learning to skate. His board had been a gift from Bev for his fourteenth birthday, second hand, but oh, man, he’d loved that thing. His feet had barely connected with the pavement for six months straight. It had finally met its end under the wheels of two ton semi when he’d been attempting some jackass stunt that he’d have slapped the shit out of Justin for even thinking about. He’d had a lot of boards since then, but that one had been special -- mean, sweet and sensitive to gentlest pressure. Much like Lance, he thought in amusement as Lance spread his legs wider and then moaned indignantly when Chris removed his finger.

“Okay, c’mon, you lazy fucker. On your knees.”

Lance ignored him and rolled onto his back, looking more than a little pissed. Whatever. This worked, too. But first things first. Chris stroked Lance’s dick a couple of times to keep him happy, then climbed off the bed and retrieved the lube from its nest of congealed eggs.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re driving me crazy here! I told you, I don’t need that. I’m good to go here!”

“Indulge me, okay? I’m--“

“Fine. What the fuck ever. Give it here,” Lance snapped, snatching the lube away. Chris thought he was going to chuck it across the room again and got ready to intercept, but Lance grabbed hold of Chris’ dick instead and squeezed a good two thirds of the tube’s contents all over it. “There. Happy now?”

“God damn it! That’s just. Oh, for fuck’s sake! Will you still let me fuck you if I beat the snot out of you?”

“No.”

“Okey dokey, then. Hope you weren’t too fond of this.” Retrieving Lance’s t-shirt from the edge of the bed, he swabbed most of the goop off his dick.

“Hey! Cut that out! I like that shirt!” Lance lunged forward in a belated rescue attempt, but Chris toppled him backwards and hoisted his legs in the air.

“Oh, stop whining. I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll buy you six new ones. Twenty-five. And they’ll all say, ‘ Hi, my name’s Lance Bass and I’m the most annoying lay on the planet.’”

“Yeah, well. Oh. Um. Mmm.” As Chris slid into him, the frown lines on Lance’s forehead smoothed out and his lips curved into a smile so completely, utterly, disarmingly unguarded that Chris had to close his eyes and think about Lou in a Speedo to make sure he didn’t do something embarrassing, like cry or come or break into a rousing rendition of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It had all been worth it, he thought, every moment of discomfort and embarrassment; all the months and years of holding back and looking the other way and pretending he didn’t want to string each and every one of Lance’s boyfriends up by their genitals; the two billion and four erotic dreams he’d woken from hard and sad and wracked with guilt. Every last second of self-doubt and regret, washed away by that single brilliant smile.

Now Lance’s hands were on him, though, pulling, pushing, poking, petting and Lance was arching upward and mumbling, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, oh, Chris, c’mon, move” like a mantra, and when he did, about the only thing he could think about was that Lance might suck at the details but he totally rocked at the main event.

And then it was just skin and heat and sweat, the fantastically perfect fit of his dick in Lance’s ass as Chris pounded into him, and the low, sweet soundtrack of Lance’s porny mutterings at every thrust. A full body shudder rolled through Lance’s muscles like an electric current, jolting Chris at every point of contact, and then Chris was coming, flying high, higher even that that day so many years ago when he’d sailed off his skateboard, out of the path of the oncoming semi, over the hood of the tomato-red Honda Civic with the wooden crucifix dangling from the rearview mirror and into the relatively forgiving embrace of the yew hedge on the other side of the road. 

When he could finally breathe again, Chris rolled off Lance and snuggled in close. Nap time. Sweet Jesus, good sex was more exhausting than a three hour rehearsal with new choreography.

Judging by the slant of sunlight through the window, it was late afternoon the next time he opened his eyes. Lance was lying next to him, propped up on one elbow and watching him. He was fully dressed, and he smelled like expensive soap, the visible bits of his skin glowing pink from a recent shower. It made Chris feel grubby and stinky.

“I’ll bet that screw ‘em and fall into a coma trick goes over really well with the ladies,” Lance said.

“Maybe it does. Don’t believe everything you read.”

“Uh huh.” Lance ran his hand lightly over Chris’ chest and down to his belly which was kind of a sticky mess at the moment, but Lance didn’t seem to care.

“Or everything Joey tells you.”

“Joey tells me I should stop messing about and settle down.” 

“See?”

“With you.” 

“Oh. Well. You can believe some of the things Joey tells you. One or two.”

“Okay.” Lance smiled that brilliant smile again, and Chris felt a dangerous catch in his chest and a tingling in his eyes, so he raised his leg and farted to dispel the maudlin mood. 

“Charming. So. Tell me. Now that you’re my boyfriend, who’s going to write me all those helpful letters to let me know what an ass you are?”

“I think perhaps a periodic reminder of what a great catch you’ve landed might be more in order, since you seem to have such a crappy short-term memory.” 

“Oh, right. Of course. Lucky me. I’ve managed to bag the stud who held his elementary school record for longest sustained burp three years running.”

“I make a mean omelette, too.”

“If you like them with raisins.”

“That was just the once, and I thought they were olives. I play a mean game of hockey.”

“You cheat at cribbage.”

“It’s impossible to cheat at cribbage. You’re just a lousy card player.”

“I’m good enough to know there aren’t five aces in a deck of cards.”

“I’m handsome and debonair.”

“You’re about as debonair as a package of smokies.”

“I have a lot of money.”

“So do I. And if I run out, Joey’ll give me some of his.”

“I’m good with my hands.” Chris said, and it was impossible not feel a little smug when Lance sighed happily andscooched a little closer. 

“Mm. Yes, you are. You really are. But you’re right. My short-term memory’s a bitch.” He licked a couple of lazy circles in the hollow of Chris’s neck and slid his fingers a little lower. “Maybe you better show me again.”

 

- End-