fic: feathers turn to quills
feathers turn to quills
Chris Faller/Darren Wilson, PG-13, 3,058 words. Wingfic.
Notes: Kind of weird. Title from "Medicate the Kids".
Chris Faller grows a pair. Of wings, that is.
Chris Faller grows a pair. Of wings, that is.
*
There is blood and sweat and tears. He shakes and shakes and shakes, until he thinks he might shake to pieces. He ends up vomiting over the side of his bed, with Darren smoothing his hair back from his sweaty face. He is unable to eat, unable to sleep, from the pain of a new pair of appendages sprouting from his shoulder blades. Chris would never ever want another person to see him like this, see him almost fall apart.
And Darren is there for the whole of it.
He says, let me take you to the hospital and please.
At the thought of going to a hospital, Chris may or may not have images of perplexed doctors laying him out on an examining table, of freaks and freakshows, of a boy with wings kept in a cage for all to gawk at.
Chris says, no and get out and fuck you. He never was one to put up with pain well, physical or otherwise.
"You watch too much tv," Darren will sigh and press another cold washcloth to his feverish forehead. But he never leaves.
*
It continues for a week. Exactly seven days of Chris curled in on himself, tighter and tinier than he'd thought possible. Seven days of Darren at his bedside, eyes tight and lips pressed together to keep in suggestions he knows will not be heard. Seven days of having no control over his own body. Seven days of hell.
And when it's all said and done, he's got these two new things on his back. Weak, and weaker still when he attempts to make one move. He is drained, finding difficulty in the simplest of activities.
Darren is still there.
He's there, behind Chris when he has to lay down again, exhausted from absolutely, stupidly insisting on doing his own dishes. There to trace light fingertips across the angry, tender skin between his shoulder blades. There to look on disapprovingly as Chris tries to move the wings, straining, to exercise them, he'll say.
He's still there.
But, like all things do, eventually, it gets better. Chris is back to normal, or as normal as possible discounting the stupid wings, thirteen days after that first week. He can no longer properly shower himself which is possibly more annoying than anything else, ever. He does his best, but if washing one's back was difficult, washing one's own wings is trying. The wings need to be cleaned, just like any other part of him and they end up smelling like something akin to a wet dog because he can't reach.
He has to ask Darren for help, sitting on the ledge of the bathtub while Darren stands in it in rolled up jeans, lathering shampoo up and down Chris' feathers. He blames the shivers he gets on cold air meeting wet skin.
*
He stands in front of his bathroom mirror, hands clenched tight, white-knuckled against the sink. He stretches the wings, far out, feathers ruffling. An eight-foot span. Eight feet of off-white, feathery things. There are grey-ish swirls spread evenly, and when he stands in the sunlight, blue at the tips.
Chris does not like them.
They are big and make him clumsy, cause him to knock things over, like his favorite coffee mug from the kitchen counter or the stand filled with cd's in his living room to the floor. He is disgruntled at the fact that he can't wear a shirt without stretching it horribly, without feeling terribly uncomfortable.
"I've seen you in less," Darren says, rolling his eyes.
"That's not the point," Chris will insist.
Chris wishes, not for the first time, that he had the type of connections in life that would allow him to a secret, but successful, surgery somewhere across the country by the nation's top doctors, and then no one would ever have to know that, for whatever fucked reason, Chris Faller grew a pair of wings.
Maybe he does watch too much tv.
*
Darren is the one to call Greta, among other people, and inform her, them, of the reasons why neither of them have been answering their phones all that often, if at all. And, of course, no one really believes him.
Chris listens from his bedroom, stands at the window while Darren tries to avoid arguments, insisting that Greta can just come over and see that it's not an ill-conceived joke. He also listens in when Darren calls other, closer people, listens while he explains to his own friends why he's been absent.
Darren sighs when he comes back into the room. He rubs his hand over his forehead. "Greta'll be over tomorrow."
Chris nods, chews on his thumb nail. Wishes for a cigarette. He's more surprised than anyone else when he asks, "Why are you still here?"
Chris doesn't look away from the window as he says it (coward), doesn't look at Darren, but he can imagine just fine the way Darren's mouth tightens, the way the corners of his mouth turn down. Maybe his head bows a little.
Darren's voice is low, tight, when he answers. "If you don't know, I can't tell you."
And, oh, Chris hates that, absolutely hates answers that don't tell him a goddamn thing. He lets it show.
Darren leaves then, for the first time since the day he let himself into Chris' apartment and found Chris shirtless and kneeling, straining to touch that place between his shoulder blades (hurts, fucking hurts, there's something wrong), and helped him up.
But he comes back. Doesn't look Chris in the eye as often as he did before for the rest of the day, mumbling about things he had to pick up, but he comes back.
So Chris, he orders from Darren's favorite fast food place, and he slips in Darren's favorite movie, and maybe, just maybe, they cuddle on the couch while they watch it together, Chris' head tucked under Darren's chin, legs thrown over his lap with Darren's hand tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants.
Maybe. Chris isn't saying.
*
Greta is inspired by the wings, Chris knows that much. She shows up that first day, wonder plain in her eyes.
"Can I," half reaching out, before curling her fingers, retracting her hand. Chris rolls his eyes, scooting across the floor until she can easily touch them. Kneeling up, fingers buried, running over and over the softest areas of his left wing, starting questions and forgetting to finish them. He shakes one at her, a little too much to be called a twitch, and she falls back, laughing. "Showoff."
She comes back the next day, shows him pages and pages of new music and notes, things she'd started as soon as she arrived home the night before.
"Wow." It's all he's got for her.
*
Chris tapes a list of Things He Can't Do Now Because of the Wings to his refrigerator. Partly because he is a sad, bitter person that needs to learn to move forward and not dwell on things unchangeable (as Darren puts it), and partly because he needs the reminder, especially after the third time he almost answers the door without even a coat hastily shrugged on.
*
Bob thinks they're a sign of death. He thinks Chris is dying.
He visits and brings with him a piece of paper detailing every slight he ever performed against Chris' person, every instance that he was ever untoward or might've brought displeasure to him. They sit across from one another, at either end of Chris' couch.
"I'm also sorry for the time I took your razor to try to shave my balls and I, uh, put it back," Bob reads.
Chris blinks. "Wait, what?"
Bob nods. "For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure you threw it away before you used it again." When Chris only stares at him, mouth open a little, he continues with, "And I'm sorry for the time I made out with Jen, back when you guys were still together."
Chris narrows his eyes, and eyes Bob for a moment. His right wing twitches. "No you didn't," he finally says, sure.
Bob's shoulders slump. He frowns. "I could've," he says sullenly.
"This was very sweet of you, Bob," Greta says from the doorway. Her voice holds amusement, but he knows well enough that it could very easily turn to annoyance. "But he's not dying, you know."
Bob sighs sadly. "I've heard about this. Seven stages of grief; you're in denial."
Darren mutters, "Shut up, Bobert," as he crosses the room. He tosses a piece of crumpled up paper at Bob's head.
He doesn't say so aloud, or at least not anywhere that anyone can hear, but, mostly, he likes the way Greta looks at him, at them. He likes that the way she acts around him now hasn't really changed. And she doesn't ask stupid questions about whether he can fly now (Bob), or whether he can bend over without falling on his face (Darren), or whether he'd like to go commune with the other birds in the park (Darren & Bob).
*
Chris is the type of sleeper that sprawls luxuriously, taking up far more space than his, admittedly small, stature needs. He wakes up, legs wide and an arm thrown over Darren's chest. His forehead is pressed to Darren's shoulder, and he blinks up at him sleepily. One of Chris' wings is stretched, covering both of them.
Darren laughs, murmurs, "Just like you," and he drags the fingers of one hand through Chris' feathers, just this side of too much.
"At least I don't snore," Chris whispers. He squints his eyes, staring at Darren. Darren just stares back, with his big, stupid brown eyes that always look like they're on the verge of laughter, and his stupid floppy hair over his forehead. He reaches up to trace his fingertips right around the skin where Chris wing meets shoulder.
Chris shudders hard, eyes closing tight. He can feel Darren's gaze heavy on him. Almost hear the words he wants to say. Chris thinks he's half-asleep, knows that anything he did right then would be something he'd regret, something he'd blame on slow senses and hazy morning thoughts. Darren does drags his fingers across again.
Chris flees to the bathroom. Slides down the shut door to cover his face with his hands, curse at himself.
*
"You know I love you." Features forming in the dark, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Greta, hand to his cheek. "But you're really screwing this up."
He glares at her, if only because he can't think of anything else to do.
"Are you guys living together now?" she asks. Chris tries to face away and she keeps him from turning with a hand on his jaw.
"Not really any of your business," he says, voice low and scratchy from sleep.
"Fix it, Chris." She raises her eyebrows, daring him to protest. He says nothing.
*
Chris finds that Darren is far too touchy-feely for his tastes. He's known it for quite a while--impossible not to know, especially with how long they've lived in each other's pockets, either in vans or in tour buses--and he's even accepted it, to a certain degree. But it does not change the fact that Chris himself likes his own space and his own privacy.
He does his best to explain this to Darren, with his hands held out at length, demonstrating the space that rightfully belongs to Chris and which Darren should not invade without express permission. He explains the concept of a personal bubble. He argues that his new found wings even stretch the boundaries of said personal bubble.
Darren listens carefully, nodding along in all the right places. Chris chooses to ignore the fact that his eyes are twinkling with laughter held back.
When he's done, Chris huffs out a quiet breath, ruffling the hair off his forehead. Understand?
Darren's expression is almost solemn as he rushes to say, yeah, of course, I've got it. Then he's stepping forward, grinning as he bends his head to Chris'. The tips of their shoes touch, and But I like your personal bubble better.
Chris' brow furrows and he makes a lot of discontent noises, but he still wraps his arms around Darren's waist when Darren pulls him forward, hands circling around Chris' biceps. Still presses his face to Darren's shoulder, hiding his smile.
*
None of them understand why he's not exactly warm, or even warming up, towards the stupid things and, hello, what about the shows? Tour starts back up in a week and a half.
Once, he has the thought that it's punishment for all of his sins, for every deed that was more selfish than good. Strange, ironic, yes, but still punishment. He's not usually in that head space very long before Darren is pulling him out of it, distracting him with a book, or a magazine, or a joke that should probably make Chris laugh but only really makes him blink at Darren until he flushes and mumbles, "never mind." Chris usually laughs by then anyway, just because.
Greta bites her lip, eyeing them. Darren crosses his arms over his chest, brow furrowing as if Chris were a particularly difficult puzzle to figure out, which, hey, he kind of is for the moment.
"Doomed," Chris intones. He allows himself to fall face forward into the couch cushions. Darren's big hand palms the back of his neck, fingers stroking through his hair a couple times. Chris pats his thigh.
"What if you just," Greta says, voice halting. "Tied them down?"
"With what?" Darren asks, and Chris winces at thought of rough ropes scratching against his skin for the duration of a show.
"I'd look like a hunchback," Chris says.
"You wouldn't," Greta says, over the sound of Bob and Darren snickering. There's the sound of two sharp smacks and the snickering stops. Chris rolls his eyes.
It's Bob who practically shouts, "Oh, I know!" and rushes from the room, out of the front door. Chris doesn't have that long to raise his eyebrows at Greta and Darren, ask himself what the hell, before Bob is rushing right back inside the apartment with something that looks like a belt but really isn't.
"What the hell is that?" Darren says.
"And why are you walking towards me with it?" Chris asks, turning over and crawling backwards on the couch. It takes him farther away from Bob, closer to Darren--well, Darren's lap specifically, which is a pretty awesome to place to be, not that he knows from experience, though--and Bob just follows.
"This is what'll tie 'em down," Bob says, shaking the thing at Chris. He's grinning. "And it's not uncomfortable either, I can tell you."
This is how he ends up standing in the middle of his living room with Bob strapping on some kind of harness on his torso, soft leather tight, but not too tight.
"Forgot I had this in my car," Bob mutters to himself, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on getting all the right ends together.
Chris frowns. "Why did you have this in your car? Why do you have it at all?" He waves his hands in front of him quickly, says, "No, no, I don't want to know."
Bob pushes his hands out of the way. "Don't judge me, Christopher."
"Whatever," Chris says. He shrugs in the strange harness--no, really, he doesn't want to know--and tests the feel of it. The straps pull his wings close to his body, not exactly uncomfortable, but it's not something he'd want to wear for any longer than is needed.
Greta tosses a shirt at him and he slips it over his head. He shrugs in it a couple times, tugging at the bottom of the shirt.
"Well," he says, and leaves it open.
"Well," Greta says. Her smile is playful. "I'm sorry you won't be able to perform shirtless anymore. Show off that hot bod."
"Wear a jacket, or a couple t-shirts, and no one'll notice," Darren says.
Chris shrugs his shoulders again, getting used to the feel. "I guess," he finally says.
*
As soon as they walk off the stage, Darren's hand wraps around the back of Chris' sweaty neck. He pulls him closer, nosing across his cheek and Chris closes his eyes, turning towards him.
"See?" Darren mumbles. Chris' hand goes to the side of his neck, thumb sliding over the hollow of his throat. "Everything went fine."
Chris huffs a laugh, squeezing Darren's shoulder. "I guess."
Greta gives him a significant look once he's stepped away from Darren, eyebrows wiggling rather violently, in Chris' opinion. He grits his teeth little and spins on his heel.
Darren only has a second to look surprised before Chris is pulling him down by the ears to kiss him square on the mouth. And then, actually, he still looks surprised after.
"So there," Chris says, voice only a little unsteady. As if he'd been making a point, the same point all along.
Darren's brow furrows, even as his mouth turns up, and he laughs a little. His hands cup Chris' elbows, keeping him close when he tries to take step back. "Really?"
"Really," Chris mutters, ducking his head. Right now, he's just sweaty and gross, and he really wants to take a fucking shower. He and Darren can totally have a heart-to-heart, just after he's had a shower. He may or may not mumble the last aloud.
Darren bends down to brush his lips over Chris' cheek, the corner of his mouth, his lips. "We should do that, then."
And Chris, he hadn't really meant that they should both be taking a shower, at the same time, but he's willing to follow this new course of action. He'll roll with it.
"I'm glad you figured it out," Darren says, as they make their way to the venue's showers, and Chris pushes up on his toes to throw an arm around Darren's shoulder, say into his ear, "Me too."
Chris Faller/Darren Wilson, PG-13, 3,058 words. Wingfic.
Notes: Kind of weird. Title from "Medicate the Kids".
Chris Faller grows a pair. Of wings, that is.
Chris Faller grows a pair. Of wings, that is.
*
There is blood and sweat and tears. He shakes and shakes and shakes, until he thinks he might shake to pieces. He ends up vomiting over the side of his bed, with Darren smoothing his hair back from his sweaty face. He is unable to eat, unable to sleep, from the pain of a new pair of appendages sprouting from his shoulder blades. Chris would never ever want another person to see him like this, see him almost fall apart.
And Darren is there for the whole of it.
He says, let me take you to the hospital and please.
At the thought of going to a hospital, Chris may or may not have images of perplexed doctors laying him out on an examining table, of freaks and freakshows, of a boy with wings kept in a cage for all to gawk at.
Chris says, no and get out and fuck you. He never was one to put up with pain well, physical or otherwise.
"You watch too much tv," Darren will sigh and press another cold washcloth to his feverish forehead. But he never leaves.
*
It continues for a week. Exactly seven days of Chris curled in on himself, tighter and tinier than he'd thought possible. Seven days of Darren at his bedside, eyes tight and lips pressed together to keep in suggestions he knows will not be heard. Seven days of having no control over his own body. Seven days of hell.
And when it's all said and done, he's got these two new things on his back. Weak, and weaker still when he attempts to make one move. He is drained, finding difficulty in the simplest of activities.
Darren is still there.
He's there, behind Chris when he has to lay down again, exhausted from absolutely, stupidly insisting on doing his own dishes. There to trace light fingertips across the angry, tender skin between his shoulder blades. There to look on disapprovingly as Chris tries to move the wings, straining, to exercise them, he'll say.
He's still there.
But, like all things do, eventually, it gets better. Chris is back to normal, or as normal as possible discounting the stupid wings, thirteen days after that first week. He can no longer properly shower himself which is possibly more annoying than anything else, ever. He does his best, but if washing one's back was difficult, washing one's own wings is trying. The wings need to be cleaned, just like any other part of him and they end up smelling like something akin to a wet dog because he can't reach.
He has to ask Darren for help, sitting on the ledge of the bathtub while Darren stands in it in rolled up jeans, lathering shampoo up and down Chris' feathers. He blames the shivers he gets on cold air meeting wet skin.
*
He stands in front of his bathroom mirror, hands clenched tight, white-knuckled against the sink. He stretches the wings, far out, feathers ruffling. An eight-foot span. Eight feet of off-white, feathery things. There are grey-ish swirls spread evenly, and when he stands in the sunlight, blue at the tips.
Chris does not like them.
They are big and make him clumsy, cause him to knock things over, like his favorite coffee mug from the kitchen counter or the stand filled with cd's in his living room to the floor. He is disgruntled at the fact that he can't wear a shirt without stretching it horribly, without feeling terribly uncomfortable.
"I've seen you in less," Darren says, rolling his eyes.
"That's not the point," Chris will insist.
Chris wishes, not for the first time, that he had the type of connections in life that would allow him to a secret, but successful, surgery somewhere across the country by the nation's top doctors, and then no one would ever have to know that, for whatever fucked reason, Chris Faller grew a pair of wings.
Maybe he does watch too much tv.
*
Darren is the one to call Greta, among other people, and inform her, them, of the reasons why neither of them have been answering their phones all that often, if at all. And, of course, no one really believes him.
Chris listens from his bedroom, stands at the window while Darren tries to avoid arguments, insisting that Greta can just come over and see that it's not an ill-conceived joke. He also listens in when Darren calls other, closer people, listens while he explains to his own friends why he's been absent.
Darren sighs when he comes back into the room. He rubs his hand over his forehead. "Greta'll be over tomorrow."
Chris nods, chews on his thumb nail. Wishes for a cigarette. He's more surprised than anyone else when he asks, "Why are you still here?"
Chris doesn't look away from the window as he says it (coward), doesn't look at Darren, but he can imagine just fine the way Darren's mouth tightens, the way the corners of his mouth turn down. Maybe his head bows a little.
Darren's voice is low, tight, when he answers. "If you don't know, I can't tell you."
And, oh, Chris hates that, absolutely hates answers that don't tell him a goddamn thing. He lets it show.
Darren leaves then, for the first time since the day he let himself into Chris' apartment and found Chris shirtless and kneeling, straining to touch that place between his shoulder blades (hurts, fucking hurts, there's something wrong), and helped him up.
But he comes back. Doesn't look Chris in the eye as often as he did before for the rest of the day, mumbling about things he had to pick up, but he comes back.
So Chris, he orders from Darren's favorite fast food place, and he slips in Darren's favorite movie, and maybe, just maybe, they cuddle on the couch while they watch it together, Chris' head tucked under Darren's chin, legs thrown over his lap with Darren's hand tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants.
Maybe. Chris isn't saying.
*
Greta is inspired by the wings, Chris knows that much. She shows up that first day, wonder plain in her eyes.
"Can I," half reaching out, before curling her fingers, retracting her hand. Chris rolls his eyes, scooting across the floor until she can easily touch them. Kneeling up, fingers buried, running over and over the softest areas of his left wing, starting questions and forgetting to finish them. He shakes one at her, a little too much to be called a twitch, and she falls back, laughing. "Showoff."
She comes back the next day, shows him pages and pages of new music and notes, things she'd started as soon as she arrived home the night before.
"Wow." It's all he's got for her.
*
Chris tapes a list of Things He Can't Do Now Because of the Wings to his refrigerator. Partly because he is a sad, bitter person that needs to learn to move forward and not dwell on things unchangeable (as Darren puts it), and partly because he needs the reminder, especially after the third time he almost answers the door without even a coat hastily shrugged on.
*
Bob thinks they're a sign of death. He thinks Chris is dying.
He visits and brings with him a piece of paper detailing every slight he ever performed against Chris' person, every instance that he was ever untoward or might've brought displeasure to him. They sit across from one another, at either end of Chris' couch.
"I'm also sorry for the time I took your razor to try to shave my balls and I, uh, put it back," Bob reads.
Chris blinks. "Wait, what?"
Bob nods. "For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure you threw it away before you used it again." When Chris only stares at him, mouth open a little, he continues with, "And I'm sorry for the time I made out with Jen, back when you guys were still together."
Chris narrows his eyes, and eyes Bob for a moment. His right wing twitches. "No you didn't," he finally says, sure.
Bob's shoulders slump. He frowns. "I could've," he says sullenly.
"This was very sweet of you, Bob," Greta says from the doorway. Her voice holds amusement, but he knows well enough that it could very easily turn to annoyance. "But he's not dying, you know."
Bob sighs sadly. "I've heard about this. Seven stages of grief; you're in denial."
Darren mutters, "Shut up, Bobert," as he crosses the room. He tosses a piece of crumpled up paper at Bob's head.
He doesn't say so aloud, or at least not anywhere that anyone can hear, but, mostly, he likes the way Greta looks at him, at them. He likes that the way she acts around him now hasn't really changed. And she doesn't ask stupid questions about whether he can fly now (Bob), or whether he can bend over without falling on his face (Darren), or whether he'd like to go commune with the other birds in the park (Darren & Bob).
*
Chris is the type of sleeper that sprawls luxuriously, taking up far more space than his, admittedly small, stature needs. He wakes up, legs wide and an arm thrown over Darren's chest. His forehead is pressed to Darren's shoulder, and he blinks up at him sleepily. One of Chris' wings is stretched, covering both of them.
Darren laughs, murmurs, "Just like you," and he drags the fingers of one hand through Chris' feathers, just this side of too much.
"At least I don't snore," Chris whispers. He squints his eyes, staring at Darren. Darren just stares back, with his big, stupid brown eyes that always look like they're on the verge of laughter, and his stupid floppy hair over his forehead. He reaches up to trace his fingertips right around the skin where Chris wing meets shoulder.
Chris shudders hard, eyes closing tight. He can feel Darren's gaze heavy on him. Almost hear the words he wants to say. Chris thinks he's half-asleep, knows that anything he did right then would be something he'd regret, something he'd blame on slow senses and hazy morning thoughts. Darren does drags his fingers across again.
Chris flees to the bathroom. Slides down the shut door to cover his face with his hands, curse at himself.
*
"You know I love you." Features forming in the dark, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Greta, hand to his cheek. "But you're really screwing this up."
He glares at her, if only because he can't think of anything else to do.
"Are you guys living together now?" she asks. Chris tries to face away and she keeps him from turning with a hand on his jaw.
"Not really any of your business," he says, voice low and scratchy from sleep.
"Fix it, Chris." She raises her eyebrows, daring him to protest. He says nothing.
*
Chris finds that Darren is far too touchy-feely for his tastes. He's known it for quite a while--impossible not to know, especially with how long they've lived in each other's pockets, either in vans or in tour buses--and he's even accepted it, to a certain degree. But it does not change the fact that Chris himself likes his own space and his own privacy.
He does his best to explain this to Darren, with his hands held out at length, demonstrating the space that rightfully belongs to Chris and which Darren should not invade without express permission. He explains the concept of a personal bubble. He argues that his new found wings even stretch the boundaries of said personal bubble.
Darren listens carefully, nodding along in all the right places. Chris chooses to ignore the fact that his eyes are twinkling with laughter held back.
When he's done, Chris huffs out a quiet breath, ruffling the hair off his forehead. Understand?
Darren's expression is almost solemn as he rushes to say, yeah, of course, I've got it. Then he's stepping forward, grinning as he bends his head to Chris'. The tips of their shoes touch, and But I like your personal bubble better.
Chris' brow furrows and he makes a lot of discontent noises, but he still wraps his arms around Darren's waist when Darren pulls him forward, hands circling around Chris' biceps. Still presses his face to Darren's shoulder, hiding his smile.
*
None of them understand why he's not exactly warm, or even warming up, towards the stupid things and, hello, what about the shows? Tour starts back up in a week and a half.
Once, he has the thought that it's punishment for all of his sins, for every deed that was more selfish than good. Strange, ironic, yes, but still punishment. He's not usually in that head space very long before Darren is pulling him out of it, distracting him with a book, or a magazine, or a joke that should probably make Chris laugh but only really makes him blink at Darren until he flushes and mumbles, "never mind." Chris usually laughs by then anyway, just because.
Greta bites her lip, eyeing them. Darren crosses his arms over his chest, brow furrowing as if Chris were a particularly difficult puzzle to figure out, which, hey, he kind of is for the moment.
"Doomed," Chris intones. He allows himself to fall face forward into the couch cushions. Darren's big hand palms the back of his neck, fingers stroking through his hair a couple times. Chris pats his thigh.
"What if you just," Greta says, voice halting. "Tied them down?"
"With what?" Darren asks, and Chris winces at thought of rough ropes scratching against his skin for the duration of a show.
"I'd look like a hunchback," Chris says.
"You wouldn't," Greta says, over the sound of Bob and Darren snickering. There's the sound of two sharp smacks and the snickering stops. Chris rolls his eyes.
It's Bob who practically shouts, "Oh, I know!" and rushes from the room, out of the front door. Chris doesn't have that long to raise his eyebrows at Greta and Darren, ask himself what the hell, before Bob is rushing right back inside the apartment with something that looks like a belt but really isn't.
"What the hell is that?" Darren says.
"And why are you walking towards me with it?" Chris asks, turning over and crawling backwards on the couch. It takes him farther away from Bob, closer to Darren--well, Darren's lap specifically, which is a pretty awesome to place to be, not that he knows from experience, though--and Bob just follows.
"This is what'll tie 'em down," Bob says, shaking the thing at Chris. He's grinning. "And it's not uncomfortable either, I can tell you."
This is how he ends up standing in the middle of his living room with Bob strapping on some kind of harness on his torso, soft leather tight, but not too tight.
"Forgot I had this in my car," Bob mutters to himself, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on getting all the right ends together.
Chris frowns. "Why did you have this in your car? Why do you have it at all?" He waves his hands in front of him quickly, says, "No, no, I don't want to know."
Bob pushes his hands out of the way. "Don't judge me, Christopher."
"Whatever," Chris says. He shrugs in the strange harness--no, really, he doesn't want to know--and tests the feel of it. The straps pull his wings close to his body, not exactly uncomfortable, but it's not something he'd want to wear for any longer than is needed.
Greta tosses a shirt at him and he slips it over his head. He shrugs in it a couple times, tugging at the bottom of the shirt.
"Well," he says, and leaves it open.
"Well," Greta says. Her smile is playful. "I'm sorry you won't be able to perform shirtless anymore. Show off that hot bod."
"Wear a jacket, or a couple t-shirts, and no one'll notice," Darren says.
Chris shrugs his shoulders again, getting used to the feel. "I guess," he finally says.
*
As soon as they walk off the stage, Darren's hand wraps around the back of Chris' sweaty neck. He pulls him closer, nosing across his cheek and Chris closes his eyes, turning towards him.
"See?" Darren mumbles. Chris' hand goes to the side of his neck, thumb sliding over the hollow of his throat. "Everything went fine."
Chris huffs a laugh, squeezing Darren's shoulder. "I guess."
Greta gives him a significant look once he's stepped away from Darren, eyebrows wiggling rather violently, in Chris' opinion. He grits his teeth little and spins on his heel.
Darren only has a second to look surprised before Chris is pulling him down by the ears to kiss him square on the mouth. And then, actually, he still looks surprised after.
"So there," Chris says, voice only a little unsteady. As if he'd been making a point, the same point all along.
Darren's brow furrows, even as his mouth turns up, and he laughs a little. His hands cup Chris' elbows, keeping him close when he tries to take step back. "Really?"
"Really," Chris mutters, ducking his head. Right now, he's just sweaty and gross, and he really wants to take a fucking shower. He and Darren can totally have a heart-to-heart, just after he's had a shower. He may or may not mumble the last aloud.
Darren bends down to brush his lips over Chris' cheek, the corner of his mouth, his lips. "We should do that, then."
And Chris, he hadn't really meant that they should both be taking a shower, at the same time, but he's willing to follow this new course of action. He'll roll with it.
"I'm glad you figured it out," Darren says, as they make their way to the venue's showers, and Chris pushes up on his toes to throw an arm around Darren's shoulder, say into his ear, "Me too."