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Guess he wants to play (a love game)

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"I'm drunk," Chris says, and Tom doesn't struggle to believe him, as his brow is beaded with perspiration and the tie knot is even more crooked than the last time Tom tidied it up. "Let's play."

It's understood that Tom's tipsy as well, though, as anyone more clear-headed of him would have gone along with Chris, wished him a good night and arranged for two pills at the reception for the next morning; Tom stops at the first point of the list, but he chooses to ask him instead, "What game?", right in front of Chris' room.

"I want to kiss you."

Tom arches his eyebrows - he's not sure to have understood what Chris said, he thinks: just after a couple of seconds, he realizes he has understood exactly what Chris said, and many other moments later he gets he has hesitated too much in order to say no or are you out of your mind or please don't. (There's one thing that Tom's unsure about, actually: if he would really have given Chris a sharp, negative answer.) Chris leans his lips onto Tom's, just for a second or two, enough for Tom to feel the strong aftertaste of liqueur in Chris' breath, not enough for Chris to look for Tom's tongue and find it was ready to taste and be tasted by his one.

"See?" Chris says, seconds and maybe minutes after that clumsy attempt of a kiss. "Just a game."

Tom, again, is not entirely sure Chris's right, but wishes him goodnight and follows the carpet designs to find back his own room. He calls the hotel reception and requests two painkillers for the next morning - and, an instant later, he asks they bring two of them for Chris, too.

*

Their agenda is packed with promotional stages and interviews and premiere parties; Tom does his best to keep himself as sober as possible, and he succeeds, but sometimes he's just as drunk as Chris, and in these moments he can't help but play at Chris' game. Tom guesses - correctly - he isn't a great player, nor he knows exactly about this game's rules (or what this game even is), but he doesn't resist the way he should, and Chris somewhat likes that clueless, helpless look into his eyes, so neither of the two actually complains about the behavior of the other one.

*

"I'm going to take off my shirt."

Tom chuckles - damn the after parties, damn the bartender, damn the toasts, damn anything was in the stem glass he took after the finest champagne flute - but he doesn't ask for an explanation of this: the room isn't that hot, Chris has not drank as much as him this time, and all of this does look too much like the cheapest plagiarism of that famous Pretty Woman scene in the hotel room. Tom chuckles, and nods, and he keeps swinging his leg as an inaudible music kept playing until a moment before and Chris undresses slowly, one button of the jacket after another. Suddenly he staggers as he tries to put the shirt on an armchair, and Tom gets up too fast for his state as well, and they falter together and laugh.

Chris' skin looks and smells like he basked half-naked in the sun all the time along, instead of being compelled underneath silk shirt and twill jackets and ties like the one Chris's rubbing against Tom's wrist.

"What are you doing?" Tom says, his voice still soft and dried up but slightly louder; he's not frightened - he's high and he's tight but he's not afraid, not even of Chris, and he's still somewhat aware of where they are and how much... interesting Chris can look bare-chested. Even if he's not sober at all, Tom's question is honest-to-God. Maybe he's even curious about it.

"Just playing."

"Playing what?" Tom insists, and Chris doesn't help but giggling.

"Wondering how you would look with your wrists fastened. With a tie."

"Oh." Tom moves his hands closer to each other. "Here. Do that."

Chris hesitates. He sticks his tongue out to dampen his dry lips once, and twice, and he swallows and Tom looks sincerely fascinated by his shaking pummel; and then he knots his tie around Tom's wrists, taking advantage of every single inch of it to ensure them behind his back. Tom's shoulders and arms are barely tense below the white cloth, but Chris isn't that drunk either, and he can look at them. He unfastens the second button of the shirt, the first still tied, and looks at the flushed skin he has just revealed for a long moment, before he pushes Tom with a hand and makes him fall on the king-size bed behind him.

"How do I look, then?" Tom murmurs, somewhat enjoying the fluffy sheets under his weight; he doesn't even try to release himself, even if he starts to feel uncomfortable with his hands and arms pressed between his own body and the mattress - he just looks at Chris and looks the way Chris is looking upon him.

"It's quite dreamy, isn't it?" Tom whispers, giggling at the tone of his own words as they sound slick and even a bit sentimental; he already knows he will need a couple of headache pill, tomorrow, but Chris' arms are warm and Chris' waist is warmer and the deepest recesses of Tom's heart keep repeating leave me here, leave me alone, so whatever.

Chris doesn't leave him alone. The warmth of his skin is stronger as he climbs the bed and towers over him, his body wider and more strapping than Tom's one, and he unbuttons Tom's shirt and oh, when did the room get so scorching hot all of a sudden?; Chris kisses him, and the kiss doesn't resemble the one Tom has kept into his memories for so long, and Chris' hands run down Tom's body and touch him as far as they can.

A moan escapes Tom's lips, a sound he doesn't even recognize as he hears it, but he feels like he was wrong as he didn't contain it in time; Chris looks pleased, although, and Tom is quite sure he looks puzzled at his eyes, so he tries for the first time to get rid of the tie locking his wrists - and he fails. Chris' teeth sink in his shoulder, their clutch strong enough to scratch his skin and make him cry, and everything Tom can think about is here it goes, he's going to wrecking me, and I don't even want him to stop; but Chris' hands are gentle onto his skin, as to try to contrast the possession he has just marked into Tom's skin, and Tom cares even less about his thoughts and even more about Chris' hands smoothing their way along his body. It doesn't look like a game anymore, but not even like a nightmare. The trousers get tangled down to his ankles before Tom can't even realize about his bitten, burning shoulder, or his aching wrists and forearms, or his throbbing erection that - he's sure, he's so much sure about this - should be absolutely clear to Chris. "No," Tom whispers, trying to escape Chris' groping, just to open his own mouth wider and hail his tongue ardently; "no," he manages to say again, even less convincing, "stop, Chris, you don't know what you're doing."

"I do," he replies calmly, and Tom's gaze focuses a little on him. "Just tell me to leave, and I'll do."

"I..." Tom arches suddenly, as Chris' hand caresses him through his shorts, tracing the lines of his hardon, and he can't ask Chris to stop, he can't without feeling himself a liar; "I won't," he admits, ignoring the blood flushing up to his head, "and this is your room. It's me that should go out, in that case."

It's Chris' time to giggle, and Tom smiles feebly just for a moment, but he pants and whimpers as Chris' strokes get faster and deeper, above and under the thin cloth of his underwear, and he comes way sooner than both of them wanted, shaky and wheezing into his grasp, still tied and silently begging for him to stay.

"I don't think I'm that good-looking right now," Tom says, looking for his own self-consciousness; he's almost naked and exposed and dirty of his own pleasure, and tied, and he's trying all out to keep an image of Chris naked and exposed and dirty of his own pleasure and tied out of his mind. Chris looks firmly into his eyes, and grins, and waits for Tom to collapse, exhausted, overcome with sleepiness.