Chris' eyes were dark, like they sometimes got, privately excited, dying to let you in on the joke.
Joey had a dreadful feeling that this wasn't gonna be funny.
Wasn't even gonna make him smile a little bit.
Wasn't, in fact, a joke at all.
The belt actually belonged to Lance, he thought, dazedly, staring at the way it lay across Chris' palm like an offering, buckle heavy and silver and kinda gothic, fitting in with whatever Lance deemed fashion these days. He probably had matching cufflinks.
"Just a little."
Joey wondered how to say that he was too strong, that he could do major damage and might not notice until later, without sounding like a self-righteous prick. "Chris," he settled for saying. "I. I could actually hurt you."
Chris' eyes glittered, and Joey reared back.
"Maybe -- maybe that wouldn't be so bad."
"No," and his grip was tightening so he shoved Chris away from him. Chris fell to the floor, half-twisted up like a wounded black cat, fingers splayed panicked on the carpet, eyes bright with betrayal. "Sorry," Joey said, stared back, not wanting to look at where the belt had hit the floor with a muted thud of leather and metal, but didn't try to help him up again.
Justin felt someone watching him, jerked round, then sighed in relief. "Fuck, Chris -- you kinda scared me."
"Sorry." Leaning in the doorway. Assessing.
Justin shifted; Chris' expression was unreadable. And he hadn't been lying to Larry King. This was kinda weird. "You want something, man?"
"Just haven't seen you for a while, is all." Chris rubbed his head, wrinkling his nose. "Plus I'm way sick of Lance's new CD," and then it was normal Chris again, a Chris who'd sought out Justin to get the hell away from Fiona Apple. Fair enough. "How's it hangin'?"
"To the left," Justin grinned, then shrugged. "Dude, I'm pretty good. You?"
Chris smiled. "How's Brit -- still firing your crotchrocket?"
Justin missed his bike, actually. Hadn't been riding for days. On the other end of the spectrum, though: "I had to buy more Kleenex from the shop in the lobby," he said, grinning wickedly. "Mah girl is good on the phone..."
"That," Chris said, delightedly, poking the air with one finger, "is why the chick in reception wanted to know if you were over your headcold."
Justin laughed. After they'd all been so helpful, too. "Yeah, well."
"She coming up some time, though?"
Justin shrugged. "In a bit," he said, then sighed. "Actually, probably not for another month. She's got wall-to-wall engagements." He poked at his phone, desultory. "So I've only got this thing."
"I've got spare batteries in my room if it ever runs out," Chris said, and Justin raised his eyebrows.
"Thanks, man. That's cool." He grinned. "Even though that sounds like a total come-on."
Chris leered. "That's right, babyface. You're welcome to wake me up any time..."
"Oh, really? Fantastic. I might take you up on that," Justin said, holding in his laughter by force of will, then pretended not to notice Chris frantically warding him off. "Mmm, some Kirkpatrick lovin' of my very own. Do you do tricks?"
A sock hit him in the side of the head. "Shut your mouth."
"I bet you look totally crunk dressed in," Justin wracked his brain; something kinky, something kinky? "PVC."
"PV-- this is going too far," Chris growled, ducking to throw the other sock as well.
"War," Justin yelled, grabbing a pair of silky pants from his open holdall in one hand, and the offending sock in the other. "Fight unto death!"
A flurry of expensive clothing later, Chris was pinned underneath him, twisting frantically, trying to shake the sleeve of a leather jacket off his cheek. "Get off get off get off get off--"
Justin grinned unpleasantly, lying between Chris' legs, holding his shoulders against the floor. He grabbed the cuff of the jacket and hopped it from one hand to the other, so the sleeve was tight across Chris' throat, effectively immobilising him. "Aha," he crooned, shifting his hands slightly and then raising up into a press-ups stance, his back totally straight, the leather flat beneath his palms. "Gotcha."
Chris was breathing shallow. Jeez, he was so unfit-- although, wait, not got a huge air supply right now, so it kinda figured. "Now what?"
His voice sounded pretty breathy, too. Maybe he should let up. "Now... you can be my slave," Justin grinned, and Chris wriggled around some, uncomfortably. "You can run behind the bus. And feed me flapjacks." He felt his grin widen. "Not at the same time, 'f course."
Chris cocked his head, although not as well as usual. "You a bit new to this slave-having game, Jup?" he said, and Justin must've released the pressure a little, because Chris looked less overwhelmed again. Coolness.
"What, and I guess you've got a million years' experience," Justin retorted, and Chris wrinkled his nose.
"Eh. Okay, fuck, lemme up, J-- my arm's going dead."
Justin pretended to muse it over, then bounced to his feet. "Let that be a lesson," he said.
A few hours later, when Chris had gone, Justin wondered what the hell was up with Chris' circulation that his arm went dead from lying on his back, and then the phone rang. Brit, baby. Thank god; he'd been about to start without her.
JC slid into Chris' lap, grinding down. Three days of covert ops, jesus. Yesterday, when Chris had come up behind him and put a hand on his hip, under his shirt, he'd thought they were all go. Course, when Joey came in, the hand had disappeared again.
It was weird-- until recently, JC'd been courting Lance, not getting the right vibe from Chris, like, at all. Then just this week, it was like someone flicked a switch, and Chris was fiercely interested, all unreadable black eyes and liquid spine. Very promising.
And finding Chris waiting for him in the dark, when all the others had gone to shower, lounging carelessly with his hands crossed behind his head? As if JC could've refused.
Chris carried on kissing him, hands sliding up JC's back, material bunching and slipping in his fingers. He was hard against JC's crotch, making JC want to suck him already, making him see himself kneeling with his back to the wall and his face tilted up obediently as Chris worked his cock deep and pulled too hard at his hair.
"Do you wanna," he started, into Chris' wet mouth, then realised he really wanted Chris to think of it himself, and trailed off. "Mmm."
"Mmm?" Chris said, hands flitting back to JC's waist, kneading rhythmically.
Maybe they should just skip to fucking. "Nothing," JC said, then wondered what the other options were-- would it be too much to ask to be tied up, so early? Probably, Chris'd do a good enough job of pinning him without. He was broad, after all. Gorgeous strength in those shoulders; make JC want to nip them with his teeth and see if Chris'd backhand him.
"What do you want?" Chris was murmuring, licking at JC's jaw, then back to his mouth. "What can I do for you?"
It wasn't quite right, but JC didn't much care; he was hard, had been since Chris had let him lead him back to his room, and the sooner they could get out these clothes, the better. "I want," he managed, thinking, strip me whether I like it or not.
"Yeah?" Chris pressed, making JC rock in his lap, thinking how fucking obvious; he wants to get fucked, okay?
"I got some stuff in the cupboard," JC heard himself say instead, "like, if you want," and felt a thrill of fear, because this was Chris, someone who knew him, not some random starfucker who wanted to make him tear up and squirm and gag on his dick while they got their friend to fuck him, or else reached round and used their fist instead.
For those guys, it was a thrill to hit him. For Chris, it'd only be the beginning.
Chris followed him to the cupboard, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"Just a little; just one thing," JC said, shivering because fuck, he was actually doing this. Fuck. Fuck.
"Okay," Chris said, husky, and JC turned round demurely with two plastic ties for freezer bags, wire under a ratty coating, perfect to bite into the skin. Chris was standing close behind him, holding out his hands; JC almost gave him the ties before realising Chris' wrists were crossed, fingertips pointing at the floor.
"Oh," JC said, embarrassed. Better go back to looking elsewhere.
Chris cocked his head, eyes bright, then straightened and dropped his hands. "Fuck," he muttered. "You, too."
Chris was listening to quiet music -- Liz Phair, ironic since he wasn't getting any -- and thinking about jerking off, thinking about Justin's hands holding a church candle, about struggling on ropes while Joey watches impassively and then gets bored and holds him still and fucks him at whatever pace Joey wants, about maybe even taunting JC until he snaps and lunges with a pretty little blade--
"You weren't gonna come to me, were you," and Chris froze, "JC had to tell me-- you know how irritating it is, gettin' second-hand information?" and his eyes snapped open, and.
"No," he choked, and Lance padded closer, hands framing the belt buckle. His fingers were already starting to draw out the fat streak of leather, a totally ornate knuckle duster glinting dully as they moved.