(no subject)
Yet more Pinto, written during some awards thing that Pine was in and Quinto wasn't.
I have a way of ambushing people by slapping porn all over the comments on their journals. Then I slink back to my corner and turn red and promise myself I'll never do it again. Sigh. It doesn't work. Sorry, withthepilot.
The problem with Chris, Zach reflects, is that for a professional actor he is shit at hiding frustration. Case in point: Chris, hunched over the dresser, battling his cuff links with teeth and elbows. He looks genuinely goddamn angry at the things. "No, really. I've got this," he says, which distracts him just long enough that one cuff link gets away and bounces between the dresser and the wall.
"Shit," says Chris, "fuck. Fuck. I swear to god this isn't the first time I've worn a tux."
"Who usually puts them on you?" Zach doesn't bother to keep the smirk out of his voice. Okay, so he's a little bit jealous-- who doesn't want to present at the Oscars?-- but at least he isn't going to hit the stage looking like he wants to choke a bitch. Chris seems to be doing his best to burst a blood vessel, scowling thunderously with his hand jammed in the crack between dresser and wall. Sweat is beading up at the nape of his neck. Zach grins. "Or do you just tie them around your waist like a fanny pack?"
"Shut the fuck up, asshole." His tone isn't teasing at all. He is genuinely fucking angry at Zach, and just like that Zach's angry at him too, because he offered to help already, and Chris is treating him like he treated the paparazzi, and because goddammit Chris is going to get up on stage in front of the whole country with a fucking scowl on his face like a petulant toddler, while Zach is forcing himself to smile over dinner miles away.
Zach is halfway across the room before he knows it, grabbing Chris's wrist and wrenching it out of the crack. Chris hisses and makes as if to hit him, so Zach lifts an eyebrow at him and yanks the dresser away from the wall. "It's easier if you aren't having a temper tantrum," he says. "You need to learn to act like a fucking adult, Chris."
"What the hell," begins Chris, but Zach cuts him off.
"This is an opportunity," he says, "and I don't care how traumatic the paparazzi thing was, you're going to get the fuck over it. I am trying really hard to be happy for you, Chris."
Chris is trying to pull away from him. "You're in my space, man," he says, trying to sound lighthearted, but Zach can hear the stress in his voice, and it's killing him. He's been trying to pretend like things can be okay again, like nothing ever happened, like they were never maddeningly, tantalizingly close. It's easier to pretend this than it is to imagine there was never jealousy, that they hadn't been almost relieved when their careers pulled them apart.
And now here they are, in the same hotel with Greg and Zoe and god knows who else, Zach hasn't seen them all because he's been with Chris, just pretending. Chris's pulse is racing under Zach's thumb. God fucking dammit.
Zach shakes himself out of it. "I'll back off, okay." He doesn't let go, but Chris stops fighting him. "Just... smile, all right? Pretend, if you have to."
"That's your forte," says Chris, and then clamps his mouth shut again so hard his jaw muscles stand out.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Pretending. You just... you don't show what you're thinking, okay? That's just what you do. That's not me."
Zach's grip is tighter now than it was, and he has to remind himself to relax. Chris's wrist is wrapped in his fist, which is the most deliberate physical contact they've had since... since. Calm down, Zach. "I'm an actor, Chris. You are too. That's how it works."
"No it's not. That's how you work. I don't, I can't do this stuff that you do, sit with Madonna and look fucking bored, I don't know. You're better at this game than me."
"What was I supposed to do with Madonna?" Zach switches to a sardonic falsetto. "Oh my gawd, Madge, I have every album you've ever released? Maybe she likes not being fawned over every once in a while."
Chris says something muffled, choked. Zach squints at him. "What?"
"Did you fuck her?" It comes out strained, almost broken, but quiet enough that Zach can still barely hear.
"What? Fuck Madonna? What the fuck, Chris? You know better than that."
"No, no I don't, actually. You're so fucking stuck on keeping secrets, you want everybody to think you're straight, what the hell? How do I know what you're going to do?"
This catches Zach with his mouth open, a blow that leaves him speechless and almost nauseated. He closes his mouth, opens it, closes it again when he realizes he can't think of anything to say. Finally he sputters: "That's not-- I'm not-- that isn't what I'm trying to do," but it's too late and Chris has the upper hand. Now Chris is in his space. Oh, god, oh god.
"Hell, maybe that would work for me too, you think? Maybe I'll just go--" he shoves Zach with his free hand-- "to the Oscars--" and his other hand is free, wrenching Zach's wrist-- "and find some girl, some starlet with too much skin showing, and I'll bring her back here and fuck her until everyone can hear her screaming through the wall, is that what you mean? Would that avoid rumors enough for you?"
Zach is gasping, tears stabbing in the corners of his eyes, and everything is horrible. He wants to hit Chris, throw him down and beat him until he stops saying these things, until that tux is a bloody mess and everything is somehow better because Chris is not going to fuck some girl tonight. I'm going crazy, he thinks, and Chris opens his mouth to say something else and Zach doesn't want to punch him so he kisses him.
The first thing Chris does is bite his lip, hard, and then Zach shoves his tongue between Chris's teeth and prays that Chris doesn't bite again but by now it doesn't matter because Zach is untucking Chris's immaculate shirt and slipping his hand under it to press against his skin finally, finally and Zach realizes that Chris is groaning and kissing him back.
It's another shuddering half-minute before Zach pulls back, just long enough to gasp out: "I made a mistake, Chris, I was wrong, I'm so sorry--" and to be cut off by Chris's mouth practically slamming against his. Chris is crying, great hungry sobs that he's trying to smother in Zach's mouth. It's like a knife twisting through Zach's ribs, the realization that this is why Chris was angry. He has been such a fool.
Then Chris's clothes are half off, and Zach's pants seem to have come undone, and Chris's warm hand-- the one Zach was crushing, earlier-- slips under Zach's belt and follows the skin around until he's grasping Zach's ass, grinding against him. There is desperation in this; their arms are tangling around each others' bodies, grabbing and pressing and holding because this is home. This is what they should have been doing all along, rumors be fucked. Chris is hard against him and Zach is hard too, aching with desire and half-realized loss, and when he snakes his hand between them and wraps his fingers around their cocks-- holding them together, so close they seem to overlap-- and Chris lets out a cry and bucks his hips up, Zach is almost undone.
"Don't," he grits out, words failing him in the unbearable goodness of Chris's chest crushed against his and the sweet, delirious friction between them. "Don't, oh god, Chris, please, don't you dare bring anyone else here-- Chris, fuck-- tonight or ever--"
Chris's earlier sobs have dissolved into darker sounds, moans and bitten-off grunts that spill from his swollen lips like obscenities. Zach can't look at him; he's too beautiful. Instead, he buries his face in Chris's neck, lips moving against the taut surface where the muscle stretches from his jaw to the pit of his throat. "Mine," says Zach, beyond any shame or fear or memory of that earlier rejection. "Mine--" and there was no awkward kiss before, no painful Talk, no cowardly Zach slinking away with his reputation intact. "Mine," and he sinks his teeth in, bruising just enough to know that his mark will stay, and Chris shudders and tenses and pulses out his surrender between them, and Zach cascades into bliss with him until they are both clutching each other for support and there is no difference between the two of them and they are whole at last.
When Zach sees Chris on the stage, hours later and wearing a different (unstained) tux, Chris is smiling. It's not a polite, public smile. Chris is radiant with joy and hope and excitement, and Zach finds himself smiling back through the blinding lights that obscure him from the man he loves, open and real. There is no more pretending.
I have a way of ambushing people by slapping porn all over the comments on their journals. Then I slink back to my corner and turn red and promise myself I'll never do it again. Sigh. It doesn't work. Sorry, withthepilot.
The problem with Chris, Zach reflects, is that for a professional actor he is shit at hiding frustration. Case in point: Chris, hunched over the dresser, battling his cuff links with teeth and elbows. He looks genuinely goddamn angry at the things. "No, really. I've got this," he says, which distracts him just long enough that one cuff link gets away and bounces between the dresser and the wall.
"Shit," says Chris, "fuck. Fuck. I swear to god this isn't the first time I've worn a tux."
"Who usually puts them on you?" Zach doesn't bother to keep the smirk out of his voice. Okay, so he's a little bit jealous-- who doesn't want to present at the Oscars?-- but at least he isn't going to hit the stage looking like he wants to choke a bitch. Chris seems to be doing his best to burst a blood vessel, scowling thunderously with his hand jammed in the crack between dresser and wall. Sweat is beading up at the nape of his neck. Zach grins. "Or do you just tie them around your waist like a fanny pack?"
"Shut the fuck up, asshole." His tone isn't teasing at all. He is genuinely fucking angry at Zach, and just like that Zach's angry at him too, because he offered to help already, and Chris is treating him like he treated the paparazzi, and because goddammit Chris is going to get up on stage in front of the whole country with a fucking scowl on his face like a petulant toddler, while Zach is forcing himself to smile over dinner miles away.
Zach is halfway across the room before he knows it, grabbing Chris's wrist and wrenching it out of the crack. Chris hisses and makes as if to hit him, so Zach lifts an eyebrow at him and yanks the dresser away from the wall. "It's easier if you aren't having a temper tantrum," he says. "You need to learn to act like a fucking adult, Chris."
"What the hell," begins Chris, but Zach cuts him off.
"This is an opportunity," he says, "and I don't care how traumatic the paparazzi thing was, you're going to get the fuck over it. I am trying really hard to be happy for you, Chris."
Chris is trying to pull away from him. "You're in my space, man," he says, trying to sound lighthearted, but Zach can hear the stress in his voice, and it's killing him. He's been trying to pretend like things can be okay again, like nothing ever happened, like they were never maddeningly, tantalizingly close. It's easier to pretend this than it is to imagine there was never jealousy, that they hadn't been almost relieved when their careers pulled them apart.
And now here they are, in the same hotel with Greg and Zoe and god knows who else, Zach hasn't seen them all because he's been with Chris, just pretending. Chris's pulse is racing under Zach's thumb. God fucking dammit.
Zach shakes himself out of it. "I'll back off, okay." He doesn't let go, but Chris stops fighting him. "Just... smile, all right? Pretend, if you have to."
"That's your forte," says Chris, and then clamps his mouth shut again so hard his jaw muscles stand out.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Pretending. You just... you don't show what you're thinking, okay? That's just what you do. That's not me."
Zach's grip is tighter now than it was, and he has to remind himself to relax. Chris's wrist is wrapped in his fist, which is the most deliberate physical contact they've had since... since. Calm down, Zach. "I'm an actor, Chris. You are too. That's how it works."
"No it's not. That's how you work. I don't, I can't do this stuff that you do, sit with Madonna and look fucking bored, I don't know. You're better at this game than me."
"What was I supposed to do with Madonna?" Zach switches to a sardonic falsetto. "Oh my gawd, Madge, I have every album you've ever released? Maybe she likes not being fawned over every once in a while."
Chris says something muffled, choked. Zach squints at him. "What?"
"Did you fuck her?" It comes out strained, almost broken, but quiet enough that Zach can still barely hear.
"What? Fuck Madonna? What the fuck, Chris? You know better than that."
"No, no I don't, actually. You're so fucking stuck on keeping secrets, you want everybody to think you're straight, what the hell? How do I know what you're going to do?"
This catches Zach with his mouth open, a blow that leaves him speechless and almost nauseated. He closes his mouth, opens it, closes it again when he realizes he can't think of anything to say. Finally he sputters: "That's not-- I'm not-- that isn't what I'm trying to do," but it's too late and Chris has the upper hand. Now Chris is in his space. Oh, god, oh god.
"Hell, maybe that would work for me too, you think? Maybe I'll just go--" he shoves Zach with his free hand-- "to the Oscars--" and his other hand is free, wrenching Zach's wrist-- "and find some girl, some starlet with too much skin showing, and I'll bring her back here and fuck her until everyone can hear her screaming through the wall, is that what you mean? Would that avoid rumors enough for you?"
Zach is gasping, tears stabbing in the corners of his eyes, and everything is horrible. He wants to hit Chris, throw him down and beat him until he stops saying these things, until that tux is a bloody mess and everything is somehow better because Chris is not going to fuck some girl tonight. I'm going crazy, he thinks, and Chris opens his mouth to say something else and Zach doesn't want to punch him so he kisses him.
The first thing Chris does is bite his lip, hard, and then Zach shoves his tongue between Chris's teeth and prays that Chris doesn't bite again but by now it doesn't matter because Zach is untucking Chris's immaculate shirt and slipping his hand under it to press against his skin finally, finally and Zach realizes that Chris is groaning and kissing him back.
It's another shuddering half-minute before Zach pulls back, just long enough to gasp out: "I made a mistake, Chris, I was wrong, I'm so sorry--" and to be cut off by Chris's mouth practically slamming against his. Chris is crying, great hungry sobs that he's trying to smother in Zach's mouth. It's like a knife twisting through Zach's ribs, the realization that this is why Chris was angry. He has been such a fool.
Then Chris's clothes are half off, and Zach's pants seem to have come undone, and Chris's warm hand-- the one Zach was crushing, earlier-- slips under Zach's belt and follows the skin around until he's grasping Zach's ass, grinding against him. There is desperation in this; their arms are tangling around each others' bodies, grabbing and pressing and holding because this is home. This is what they should have been doing all along, rumors be fucked. Chris is hard against him and Zach is hard too, aching with desire and half-realized loss, and when he snakes his hand between them and wraps his fingers around their cocks-- holding them together, so close they seem to overlap-- and Chris lets out a cry and bucks his hips up, Zach is almost undone.
"Don't," he grits out, words failing him in the unbearable goodness of Chris's chest crushed against his and the sweet, delirious friction between them. "Don't, oh god, Chris, please, don't you dare bring anyone else here-- Chris, fuck-- tonight or ever--"
Chris's earlier sobs have dissolved into darker sounds, moans and bitten-off grunts that spill from his swollen lips like obscenities. Zach can't look at him; he's too beautiful. Instead, he buries his face in Chris's neck, lips moving against the taut surface where the muscle stretches from his jaw to the pit of his throat. "Mine," says Zach, beyond any shame or fear or memory of that earlier rejection. "Mine--" and there was no awkward kiss before, no painful Talk, no cowardly Zach slinking away with his reputation intact. "Mine," and he sinks his teeth in, bruising just enough to know that his mark will stay, and Chris shudders and tenses and pulses out his surrender between them, and Zach cascades into bliss with him until they are both clutching each other for support and there is no difference between the two of them and they are whole at last.
When Zach sees Chris on the stage, hours later and wearing a different (unstained) tux, Chris is smiling. It's not a polite, public smile. Chris is radiant with joy and hope and excitement, and Zach finds himself smiling back through the blinding lights that obscure him from the man he loves, open and real. There is no more pretending.