In a mood, Chris was in a mood. Justin was no fun at all, little tiny sniffles and somehow he was dying, and Chris banished to the back of the bus because “bawl baby” was apparently the rudest name Justin had ever been called. As if. He could think of twelve worse without even trying, and pretty soon Chris would unleash some smackdown, just head back up front and let Justin have it. Fucking… bawl baby. Chris bounced one knee five times, plotting.
“Chris.”
JC was watching him from his nest of blanket and pillows, eyes somehow sleepy and sharp at the same time, so Chris made his face stony and his voice bland, bland as pudding, completely cool.
“Yeah.”
“Just chill, man. It’s a long ride.”
JC pulled an edge of the blanket over his face and a ripple passed through his whole body on the couch, kind of a settling-in stretch, but Chris wasn’t fooled. JC wanted him out of the way, too, so he could spend some “quality time” alone. Thought he was so clever. Fucking JC, all stretched out on the couch, doing god knew what under that blanket, waiting for Chris to leave. He was worse than Justin.
“I mean it, Chris.”
Chris crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes, but the JC-bundle on the couch stayed silent after that. After a few seconds of chewing his lower lip, Chris turned on the tv and the stereo and got out his cell phone for a loud conversation with Joey about nothing at all. The bundle on the couch remained motionless, except for an occasional sway back and forth when the bus took a curve. Finally Joey hung up on him with a snort, so Chris flicked off the tv, turned down the music, and just sat there and thought about things, watching JC’s still form.
JC wouldn’t let go of the edge of the blanket when Chris finally climbed aboard, made a sleepy exasperated noise and squirmed around, but Chris held on.
“JC.”
No answer, so Chris burrowed his head into the bundle until he found an ear.
“JC JC JC.”
He made a nice wet blatting noise into the ear and rubbed his beard hard against JC’s neck for good measure. That ought to do it. No one ignored Chris Kirkpatrick and lived to tell the tale.
Except suddenly the bundle erupted around Chris, arms and legs thrashing against him until he went tumbling through the air, and his back hit the thick padding of the couch so hard he made a noise, and then JC’s body hit him hard and he made another noise, a different one, because JC immediately bit him on the neck and started writhing against him.
“Is this what you want? Is this what you want?”
JC was pissed off and warm and urgent and hard. Chris opened his mouth to see if any words would come out, but then JC turned his head and no words, only sounds, all moaning, all gasping, because of JC’s slick tongue. Chris held on to JC’s ass to try to keep him still, to try to clear his own whirling head, but then JC really started to focus and move those hips in smooth tight circles, rubbing himself against Chris with clear intent. Chris felt his spine melt and start the long hot slide through his body, scary like falling down a hole, so he tore his mouth away with difficulty.
“I have no idea. What is this?”
JC stiffened, and suddenly Chris wanted to kick his own ass. Stupid smart mouth, never learn, JC in his arms finally and of course he had to freak out. Except JC stiffened again and hissed, and threw back his head and groaned, and Chris felt the hot slide start up again, thrilling and triumphant this time because maybe, probably, he had just made JC come. JC. He pushed up into JC’s sweaty body helplessly, and then harder when JC went slack and heavy on top of him, and JC made an odd thoughtful noise into his neck and rolled off.
He sat up and looked Chris over, eyes half closed and mouth swollen and hair winding all around his head, and Chris thought about putting his hands over his mouth just to be sure, but then JC smirked and put his hand on Chris’s pants, curving his fingers gently around the rigid bar of Chris’s cock.
“You’re so fucking annoying.”
“Yes! Yes, I am! Fuck, JC, come on.”
Chris lifted his hips, pushing his cock into JC’s hand, and JC laughed, a wild edge to his voice.
“No, you do it. You want so much attention, you do it.”
Chris let his hips drop.
“JC—”
JC stroked him through his pants once, then let go to pull his own shirt up over his head, to push his damp sweatpants down his legs. He used the shirt to swipe at the mess on his abdomen, glancing up to make a little face at Chris as he did, and Chris found his hand drifting to his crotch involuntarily. JC, naked and fucked-looking, dragging his blanket across the couch to wind around him, settling down with his head on his outstretched arm to watch. JC licking his lips as Chris cupped himself through his pants. Maybe this would work.
So he unbuttoned and unzipped, slid his fingers beneath the band of his boxers, found his dick and took it in hand, and waited.
He wasn’t disappointed. JC made a sound that seemed to say “Take off your pants” and “God, you suck” and “Move, move” all at once, and pushed up onto his elbow, the blanket slipping down his body. He glared at Chris and panted, and Chris gazed back as coolly as he could, considering his dick was sliding along his palm on its own. But then JC tilted his head and smiled, and lay back down.
“Chris.”
Nothing else, just that. Chris closed his eyes and opened his mouth and squeezed himself hard against the sudden heated clench in his hips. It was the sex voice. Chris was helpless against the sex voice. No one knew it, it was his secret weakness, the reason he spent half his studio time in the restroom, the real reason for most of his moods. He fumbled with his pants and boxers and pushed them down jerkily, just far enough.
“Do it, Chris.”
The sound he made was nothing like JC’s name, but he tried. He tightened his hand again and slid the other one down to his balls, and the clench turned into a push, his ass off the couch cushion, his cock into his hand. JC made sounds, too, encouraging little grunts and sighs, exhalations Chris could feel against his face and down along his spine, so he went at it fast right away, fucking his own hand. Next to him JC was moving, too, and soon he started whispering, murmuring, a heated tumble of words that made no sense at all but gathered everything in Chris’s body up and sent it hurtling toward the end, flying. Then JC tensed up just like before, and Chris lost it.
“Chris.”
Some time later through a warm haze, Chris became aware of the rumble of the bus, some kind of flamenco thing on the stereo, the sound of JC’s breathing, deep and slow, and Justin’s aggrieved voice, from the front of the bus.
“Will you all SHUT THE FUCK UP BACK THERE.”
He opened his eyes and turned his head. JC was looking at him, blanket rumpled around him, a sharp sort of expression on his face. Chris opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Maybe for a little while. You know Chris.”
JC smirked and pulled the blanket up over his face. A minute later Chris closed his mouth, and a minute after that he launched himself onto the blanket-wrapped figure again, Justin’s voice in the background sliding off the edges of his attention. Poor bawl baby, no peace and quiet for him tonight.
“FUCK.”
September, 2005
lost rooms 