new fic - [ Pretender ]
Apr. 11th, 2005 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymA Timbertrick-ish thing. Not rated, 'cos I have no clue. Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
synecdochic and nopseud for impromptu betas. Note: euro-era, in case that's an issue. Also, a wee bit of Chris/Lynn.
Exhaustion. It's the defining quality to his life these days; to all their lives. Chris feels like it fits over him much like a second skin, making sleep slide right off him before it ever penetrates, kinda like rain off plastic. Curfew and bedtime have come and gone, and Chris is surprised to find he's actually too tired to sleep, turning restlessly on the narrow bed, the walls colored funny shades of white and gray from the flickering light of the television.
Besides exhausted, he's bored and horny, and almost desperately lonely, in spite of living in the pockets of four other guys, assorted moms, managers, musicians, et cetera. He's surrounded by people and he's moving through his life completely alone. Times like now, he thinks he'd give almost anything for another person's touch.
You could go find Justin. He'd be more than happy to touch you. Hold you. Hug you. Anything you want, he'd do for you.
The voice inside his head is obnoxious—mostly because it's not anything Chris wants; just something he knows Justin wants. Puppy love, a crush, an infatuation, idolization; so many names for it, until it boils down to the bare essential: trouble.
Still, when he's shifting and stuffing the pillow under his head in yet another position, for the thousandth time that night, Chris thinks about it. About the kid he calls his best friend, and that kid's feelings for him.
And he still doesn't sleep.
When the knock comes on his door, Chris isn't sure at first that he didn't imagine it. Dream it. Maybe it's a fever dream, or something borne of sleep deprivation.
Actually, it's Lynn, and he frowns at her, standing shadowed in the hallway, light playing against her face like the television still flickering weirdly behind him. He starts to ask what she's doing here; wonders what's wrong, then wonders if he summoned her somehow, thinking the idle thoughts of earlier. It's on the tip of Chris's tongue to apologize—though for what, he couldn't say—when she steps forward, pushing in, past him, against him.
Close up, he sees her eyes are swollen, puffy; if the room weren't washed in black and white like the Wizard of Oz, Chris thinks he'd see them red-rimmed.
Closer up he doesn't see her any more, just the red of her mouth, juxtaposed over the visual in his head of red-rimmed eyes. She smells warm, and like tears; when she kisses him, she tastes like them, too, rich and salty.
The salt flavor is stronger the lower he goes, and it stings the tiny cut on the tip of his tongue. Stings, the way Lynn's fingernails sting, digging into his back when he's deep inside her, body moving over hers, panting his loneliness and uncertainty out against her neck. There's more salt there, the earthy taste of sweat. It's what he remembers, later, the salt staying on his tongue even after Lynn leaves. That she tasted earthy, and made him feel, made him ache.
Chris thinks about apologizing again, but this time he doesn't know for what—or to whom.
~~~~~
Day number what-the-hell-ever of their tour-promo-bid-to-take-over-the-world. The scratches on Chris's back have long since healed, and nothing's changed or feels different, except that he's hyper aware of Lynn's presence – or absence – now. He tracks her with his eyes sometimes, and starts guiltily when his gaze chances to land on Justin instead, blue eyes following him around the room.
Sometimes, Chris wonders if he didn't imagine the whole thing; kinda hopes he did, kinda hopes he didn't. Maybe it was just another fever dream.
Justin's sulky, pouting like the kid he is; rude and snarky to everybody in general and Chris in particular, and Chris has had almost more than he can take of it. They're all tired, exhaustion glimmering over everyone's skin like sweatdrops after a long rehearsal and now isn't the time for anyone to try exercising their diva muscles. When Justin rebuffs him, all his lame attempts to goof off, clown around, for the umpteenth time over a couple of hours, Chris loses what little patience he's been clinging to, and hauls Justin out of the practice room and into what looks to be the supply closet, shoving him back against the door so it closes.
It's a gray-white world again. Dim light filters in under the door and through dingy, ragged curtains hanging over one lone window, set high up on the wall.
"Tell me," he grits out, holding Justin tighter when he squirms to get loose, "what the hell is your problem?"
"Got no problem," Justin mutters, looking everywhere but at Chris. Chris pushes him again, leaning in close enough to smell him, all salty and earthy. Damp and hot, and for just a half a second, barely long enough for the thought to even form, Chris thinks about licking Justin, there, under his ear. Just to taste.
He wonders if Justin would sting him.
"Not buyin' it, man. Tell me," Chris repeats, inching closer. Justin raises his eyes and glares at Chris.
"Stay away from my momma," he hisses finally, eyes narrowed and shining darkly. "She's—just stay away from her."
That apology Chris considered from earlier lands on the tip of his tongue again and holds there, teasing him. Taunting him. Apologize, and he'll be admitting something he doesn't want to admit, something he remembers only in black and white, like a dream. Instead he leans in even closer, feels Justin's flinch when his breath washes warm and moist over sweaty skin.
"Jealous, J?"
"Dickhead." Justin pushes against him, but his heart isn't in it. Chris knows, because Justin's enough bigger than him he could get away if he really tried. Justin doesn't want to get away—Chris knows that, too. "Get off me."
"Tell me," Chris whispers. "Are you jealous, baby?" His lips just brush over warm, damp skin, and that single touch is electrifying. It doesn't sting; it burns Chris clear to his core. "Is it 'cos I fucked her…? Or 'cos I didn't fuck you?"
"Dickhead," Justin repeats, pushing harder at Chris. He stops struggling when Chris presses tight against him, chest heaving frantically. Justin's eyes are vibrant blue in the dim, dull light, but it's the red, wet color of his mouth that pulls Chris in, holds him fast.
Justin tastes salty, too.
~fin~
synecdochic and nopseud for impromptu betas. Note: euro-era, in case that's an issue. Also, a wee bit of Chris/Lynn.Exhaustion. It's the defining quality to his life these days; to all their lives. Chris feels like it fits over him much like a second skin, making sleep slide right off him before it ever penetrates, kinda like rain off plastic. Curfew and bedtime have come and gone, and Chris is surprised to find he's actually too tired to sleep, turning restlessly on the narrow bed, the walls colored funny shades of white and gray from the flickering light of the television.
Besides exhausted, he's bored and horny, and almost desperately lonely, in spite of living in the pockets of four other guys, assorted moms, managers, musicians, et cetera. He's surrounded by people and he's moving through his life completely alone. Times like now, he thinks he'd give almost anything for another person's touch.
You could go find Justin. He'd be more than happy to touch you. Hold you. Hug you. Anything you want, he'd do for you.
The voice inside his head is obnoxious—mostly because it's not anything Chris wants; just something he knows Justin wants. Puppy love, a crush, an infatuation, idolization; so many names for it, until it boils down to the bare essential: trouble.
Still, when he's shifting and stuffing the pillow under his head in yet another position, for the thousandth time that night, Chris thinks about it. About the kid he calls his best friend, and that kid's feelings for him.
And he still doesn't sleep.
When the knock comes on his door, Chris isn't sure at first that he didn't imagine it. Dream it. Maybe it's a fever dream, or something borne of sleep deprivation.
Actually, it's Lynn, and he frowns at her, standing shadowed in the hallway, light playing against her face like the television still flickering weirdly behind him. He starts to ask what she's doing here; wonders what's wrong, then wonders if he summoned her somehow, thinking the idle thoughts of earlier. It's on the tip of Chris's tongue to apologize—though for what, he couldn't say—when she steps forward, pushing in, past him, against him.
Close up, he sees her eyes are swollen, puffy; if the room weren't washed in black and white like the Wizard of Oz, Chris thinks he'd see them red-rimmed.
Closer up he doesn't see her any more, just the red of her mouth, juxtaposed over the visual in his head of red-rimmed eyes. She smells warm, and like tears; when she kisses him, she tastes like them, too, rich and salty.
The salt flavor is stronger the lower he goes, and it stings the tiny cut on the tip of his tongue. Stings, the way Lynn's fingernails sting, digging into his back when he's deep inside her, body moving over hers, panting his loneliness and uncertainty out against her neck. There's more salt there, the earthy taste of sweat. It's what he remembers, later, the salt staying on his tongue even after Lynn leaves. That she tasted earthy, and made him feel, made him ache.
Chris thinks about apologizing again, but this time he doesn't know for what—or to whom.
~~~~~
Day number what-the-hell-ever of their tour-promo-bid-to-take-over-the-world. The scratches on Chris's back have long since healed, and nothing's changed or feels different, except that he's hyper aware of Lynn's presence – or absence – now. He tracks her with his eyes sometimes, and starts guiltily when his gaze chances to land on Justin instead, blue eyes following him around the room.
Sometimes, Chris wonders if he didn't imagine the whole thing; kinda hopes he did, kinda hopes he didn't. Maybe it was just another fever dream.
Justin's sulky, pouting like the kid he is; rude and snarky to everybody in general and Chris in particular, and Chris has had almost more than he can take of it. They're all tired, exhaustion glimmering over everyone's skin like sweatdrops after a long rehearsal and now isn't the time for anyone to try exercising their diva muscles. When Justin rebuffs him, all his lame attempts to goof off, clown around, for the umpteenth time over a couple of hours, Chris loses what little patience he's been clinging to, and hauls Justin out of the practice room and into what looks to be the supply closet, shoving him back against the door so it closes.
It's a gray-white world again. Dim light filters in under the door and through dingy, ragged curtains hanging over one lone window, set high up on the wall.
"Tell me," he grits out, holding Justin tighter when he squirms to get loose, "what the hell is your problem?"
"Got no problem," Justin mutters, looking everywhere but at Chris. Chris pushes him again, leaning in close enough to smell him, all salty and earthy. Damp and hot, and for just a half a second, barely long enough for the thought to even form, Chris thinks about licking Justin, there, under his ear. Just to taste.
He wonders if Justin would sting him.
"Not buyin' it, man. Tell me," Chris repeats, inching closer. Justin raises his eyes and glares at Chris.
"Stay away from my momma," he hisses finally, eyes narrowed and shining darkly. "She's—just stay away from her."
That apology Chris considered from earlier lands on the tip of his tongue again and holds there, teasing him. Taunting him. Apologize, and he'll be admitting something he doesn't want to admit, something he remembers only in black and white, like a dream. Instead he leans in even closer, feels Justin's flinch when his breath washes warm and moist over sweaty skin.
"Jealous, J?"
"Dickhead." Justin pushes against him, but his heart isn't in it. Chris knows, because Justin's enough bigger than him he could get away if he really tried. Justin doesn't want to get away—Chris knows that, too. "Get off me."
"Tell me," Chris whispers. "Are you jealous, baby?" His lips just brush over warm, damp skin, and that single touch is electrifying. It doesn't sting; it burns Chris clear to his core. "Is it 'cos I fucked her…? Or 'cos I didn't fuck you?"
"Dickhead," Justin repeats, pushing harder at Chris. He stops struggling when Chris presses tight against him, chest heaving frantically. Justin's eyes are vibrant blue in the dim, dull light, but it's the red, wet color of his mouth that pulls Chris in, holds him fast.
Justin tastes salty, too.
~fin~
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Date: 2005-04-12 10:58 am (UTC)