the grumpy-dopey bedtime remix by
Lance is just settling into sleep, winding down from a long day of rehearsals and promo and the guys, bright lights and people everywhere and microphones in his face and "How do you like Germany, Lance?" as if thereís any answer to that, as if heís even been able to see Germany outside of what the reps have shown them, when the door to their crappy room slams open and Chris whispers "Shh!"
Oh, hell no. Thereís no way, no chance in hell Chris could be bringing someone back tonight, absolutely no possibility that Lance will pretend to be asleep while Chris and some— some girl fumble around together in the weak bathroom light on Chrisís narrow bed, less than three feet away. Ainít gonna happen. Lance rubs his face against the rough pillowcase and hauls himself up in bed, ready to let them have it, absolutely ready to face the look of embarrassment on whoever-it-isís face and Chrisís narrow-eyed frown.
But Chris is alone. "Shh," he mumbles again, weaving across the small space, apparently heading for the chair in the corner. He says something else that Lance canít make out, fumbling his ugly Guatemalan shirt thing over his head like heís fighting with it, like itís strangling him, and his bandanaís awry and his hair twisting away from his head like black snakes, and Lance realizes that Chris is three sheets to the wind and floundering hard. "Shh!" Chris says again loudly, and fuck, JC and Joey are so dead in the morning. Theyíll see exactly how bad a dancer Lance can be when they have to practice the same damn move a thousand times, swear to God in heaven above.
Chris plops down in the chair, and it doesnít seem to matter to him that itís one of those uncomfortable office things designed to make people perch. He goes boneless immediately, head thrown back and arms and legs draped and hanging, looking like heís going to flow right out of his seat onto the floor. Lance relaxes too, sliding back down into the covers, because Chris is obviously just going to pass out right there. His breathing is already slowing down, and every so often he snorts softly. Heíll have one hell of a backache in the morning, but at least Lance will be able to get some rest for a change.
Except suddenly Chris says, "Mmm," and pushes a clumsy hand down his thigh.
Now thatís interesting. For a few seconds Lance thinks about sitting up again, just to get a better look. But even though Chris is drunk, heís sure to realize heís being watched, and anyway Lance thinks he knows whatís coming. Chris is a hide-in-the-bathroom type of guy usually, not like JC and Joey and even Justin, who consider beating off to be a part of their nightly routine, like punching the pillow or praying or, in Justinís case, mumbling the words to songs. Itís the epitome of hot, totally, every damn time. Lance pulls the sheet up over his shoulder and around his ears and settles in for the show. He can see pretty well from right here, and maybe itíll even be worth it.
Maybe. Chris is starting to pant like a dog and make little whimpery noises in the back of his throat, and he hasn't even touched himself yet. It's kind of hilarious, actually. Lance slides a hand up to his mouth and smiles, watching as Chris scrubs his chest roughly like he's got an itch. If nothing else, this will be fantastic blackmail material for later. But then Chris grabs the edge of his t-shirt and yanks, leaning forward to wrench it over his head, and the bandana goes with the shirt this time and his hair straggles down into his face, and his mouth is open a little and his eyes are closed, and suddenly Lance can't breathe.
Luckily Chris flops over backwards again and the moment passes. Chris, hot? As if. As if Lance needs any distractions in his life right now. As if Chris would ever even think about— nope, not gonna happen. Lance realizes he's rubbing his fingers across his lips and tucks his hand under his arm instead.
Having his shirt off seems to wake Chris up some, and boy, Chris sure likes playing with his nipples. He runs a fingertip over one and then plucks at it, and slides his other hand up and plucks at the other one, too, and it should look ridiculous, Chris's feet planted on the shabby carpet to steady him and his upper body arched in the chair, elbows winged out as he teases himself, but it's not. Fuck, it's hot. Fuck. Chris turns his head restlessly against the back of the chair, and pretty soon the whimpery exhalations start up again, and Lance has to bite his lip and clamp his hand even tighter under his armpit.
It gets worse when Chris's thighs start tensing and lifting his hips off the seat of the chair, but it gets really bad when Lance realizes he can see Chris's cock pushing against the front of his pants, a thick ridge. Fuck. Of course, Chris picks that moment to release a nipple and palm his freshly waxed chest, and how fucking crazy is it that Lance stops breathing again just so he can hear the rough whisper of Chris's hand on his body? Crazy and stupid. But fucking Chris reaches down until he's running his fingers along his fly, runs them over the rigid length of his jeans-covered cock, and Lance's whole attention has to be on the movement of those fingers, no other choice. When Chris finally cups his fingers to grip, Lance pulls his abdomen in hard and tightens his throat to swallow a moan. He's still holding his breath, so the roaring in his head, the dizziness, it must be because— but Chris starts jacking himself slowly, just rubbing his cock up and down through his pants, and Lance has to open his mouth wide to let his chest fill up in silence, a controlled gasp. He's so fucking hard, and Chris hasn't even done anything yet. Fuck.
Chris flattens his hand and stops, pushing hard against his pants, settling down in the chair. His face is turned away as he rests, chest heaving, and one strand of his wild hair winds across his neck to curl in his goatee. Lance licks his lips, struggling mightily to stay quiet. It's almost a relief when Chris starts moving again, only really, really not. When Chris pops the button on his loose jeans finally and slides a hand inside, a noise escapes Lance's tight throat and he freezes.
But Chris is still making his own hot noises with his hand in his pants, so Lance is off the hook. Only… really, really not. Lance slides a hand down as slowly as he can to adjust himself under the covers, but the feel of his own fingers and the soft scratch of his sweatpants send a dangerous thrill up his spine, and his hand has to go into his armpit again. There's no way he's wanking while Chris is doing what he's doing, three feet away. That way lies madness, Lance is pretty sure.
If this isn't madness already. Chris is writhing in the chair, touching himself and groaning, and pretty soon the hand comes out of the pants and the zipper comes down, and Chris pushes his jeans and boxers to mid-thigh and his cock bounces up, raring to go. He's uncut. Lance thinks about how he knew that, of course he did. He knows that stuff about everybody, he does, he's the guy who— Chris pats himself a couple of times and then goes for it, one hand tugging at his balls, the other lifting to the swollen glistening tip, to grip and rub and pull right away. Lance loses track of everything he thought he knew and realizes his fingers are in his mouth.
His fingers taste so salty when he pulls them out, flickering his tongue over the tips. They go straight to Lance's crotch and he doesn't even try to stop it, and he groans at the warm damp slide but Chris doesn't hear, because he's really going at it. It's so fucking hot, of course it is, the way he's working himself furiously, curled up in the chair, making a series of choked noises, each one closer to sounding like a word. Fucking hot and fucking way too near, and Lance wishes he could close his eyes.
Finally Chris groans out something a lot like Lance and drops his head and comes, pumping into his hand and gasping like he's in pain, and Lance feels a shock right through him all the way to his cock.
What? Just… what?
Chris mumbles, "Shh," when he's done and claps a hand over his mouth, but it's the wrong hand, and he ends up licking his fingers and his lips as he sprawls there in the wooden chair. It's finally all too fucking much for Lance. "My turn," he says, his voice deep and silky smooth in the quiet room, and Chris gasps and turns his head and whips his hand down to clutch himself protectively.
"Lance," he blurts, high-voiced and panicky.
Lance grins as wickedly as he knows how and for once, Chris seems unable to think of another word. At long last Chris nods, and his face begins to fill with an expression of unholy glee, that little kid look like isnít this the coolest fucking thing in the world, that look of his that always makes all the bullshit and noise and people and exhaustion worth it for Lance. Maybe it really is the coolest fucking thing in the world. But itís clear right away that Chris doesnít know where to go with this. Pretty soon his head is swinging back and forth, back and forth, eyes flickering between Lanceís face and Lanceís cock, standing up out of his fist in the crumpled sheets, hard and more than ready to go. Actually, Chris is beginning to look kind of green.
Thatís okay. Lance is absolutely positive now that he can figure out a way to make things work for both of them. He gestures impatiently with his non-cock hand, and Chris pushes himself up out of the chair with a groan and lurches toward the bed, clutching his pants around his waist.
"Just so you know," he mumbles, "Iím kinda drunk."
"Youíre kidding," Lance says.
Chris falls onto the bed next to Lance and shoves him over against the wall, making himself comfy with his head on Lanceís shoulder and one dense leg across Lanceís tingling thighs. "Okay, smartass, go," he says, his beery breath wafting over Lanceís neck and somehow right down his spine to his balls. "See if you can out-stud the master."
"How could that even be possible?" Lance says.
"Fuck off!" Chris says, obviously pleased, and he clamps an arm across Lance's chest. Luckily, Lance is ambidextrous that way. He switches his cock hand, and Chris settles in even closer.
"I mean it, Chris," Lance says, roughening his voice a little, tilting his head to look Chris straight in the eye. "But Iíll try."
"You better remind me of this in the morning," Chris whispers fiercely.
Lance tightens his hand and pulls up, and his hips want to lift off the bed and his thighs are trembling, ready to push, but Chris is heavy and warm against him, holding him steady. Chris whispers "Fuck yeah," into his neck, and his balls tighten up and he can't stop a moan, and itís going to be really fast, anyway, but so, so good, the best ride of all, all of it.
"I will," Lance gasps, "I will, I will, I will."