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It starts in a bar in Sydney, after a few too many cocksucking cowboys.  The drinks, not the, uh, cowboys.

“Fuck,” Chris groans as they stumble back to their hotel room.  “I’m so fucking horny.”

It’s no surprise – he spent most of the night grinding against a scantily-clad brunette on the dance floor.  Zach had been pretty sure he was going to get asked to sleep on the floor in John and Karl’s room.  “Miss Minidress wasn’t keen on climbing the Pine tree this evening?”

“She lives with her parents,” Chris grumps, wrestling his shirt over his head.  “And before you ask, yes, she’s very legal.  She’s at uni.  But I couldn’t exactly bring her back here.”

“Honestly, I kind of thought that was your plan from the start.”

“Nah, dude, I wasn’t gonna sexile you.  We’re not in college.  Sorry, uuuuuuuni.”  He flops down onto the comforter.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to quietly hump the bed for a few minutes.”

Zach thinks he’s joking… until Chris starts to wriggle his hips in an unmistakably deliberate fashion.  “Aw, c’mon, take care of that in the shower like a normal person.”

“Can’t,” Chris says, giggling incongruously.  “I barely made it up the elevator.  I’ll crack my head on the soap dish, give myself a subdural hematoma.  Plus, I’m only, like, half-hard.  Drunkenness unmakes the man, or some shit like that.”

It’s like an activity in Highlights magazine: spot the number of things wrong with this picture.  “Wait,” Zach says, “let me get my camera.  This needs to go on YouTube.”

“Zaaa-aaach,” Chris moans, circling his hips to the sound.  “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Well, stop molesting the bed.”

“Hey, I’ll buy it breakfast in the morning.”

“No.  Cut it out.”


“Well, for starters, it’s my bed.  I claimed it this afternoon.”

“Oh.”  Chris’ hips finally stop moving.  “Can I hump my bed?”


Chris pouts.  “You’re no fun anymore.  You used to be cool, man.  You’ve changed.”

“I have not,” Zach shoots back, just a little too soused to think critically about the need to argue this particular point.  “I’m still fun.”

“Are not.  ‘Chris, don’t fuck the bed.’  ‘Chris, don’t eat an entire box of Tim Tams.’  ‘Chris, don’t try to box with the kangaroo.’”

“How was that not going to end badly?  And it’s not my fault that you have no self-control.”

“That’s, like, so not even true.”

“Uh, I know a traumatized hotel comforter that begs to differ.”

“Is that what you’re so hung up on?  Me getting off?”

“Chris, I know for a fact you jerked off right before our first interview this afternoon.”

Chris looks positively scandalized.  “You don’t know that.  There was nobody else even in the bathroom.  I checked first.”

It’s mostly a lucky guess on Zach’s part – Chris had come back into the green room looking a bit flushed, but much more relaxed – but Zach’s not about to cede his advantage.  “Can’t even make it a few hours without your own right hand,” he sighs exaggeratedly.  “So sad.”

“Bet I could go longer than you,” Chris grunts, abandoning his amorous intentions toward the bed and rolling up to a mostly vertical sitting position.

“As if,” Zach laughs.  Fuck it, he can be a valley girl drunk for one night; he’s earned it.

“You need it way more than I do.”

“What makes you think that?”

“That whole—” Chris flops his hand about in the air “—zen guru thing you’ve got going on?  Would fall apart in a second if you couldn’t wank.”

“Please.  It’s been, like, three days for me and I’m totally zen.”

Chris points and squinches one eye closed, the other staring straight down the line of his arm to… Zach’s crotch.  Which is bulging ever so slightly against the zipper.  But Chris had been fucking the bed.  Zach’s only human.  “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do anything about it.  Some of us can control ourselves, no matter how seductive the furniture.”

“Oh, it is on,” Chris blurts.  “Like Donkey Kong, my friend.  We seem to be stuck with each other for the next couple weeks, so first one to jerk off loses.”

“Loses what?”

“Respect,” Chris says, rather haughtily for someone who not moments ago was about to be intimate with a probably germ-ridden and definitely inanimate object.

“Whatever,” Zach says, rolling his eyes.  “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Fine, but no funny business in there.  God is watching.”

Chris rolls over and gets comfortable, but he sounded so much like Zach’s sixth grade Sunday school teacher just now that Zach’s not even tempted the whole time he’s in the shower.


The crazy thing is that it would’ve all probably blown over and never been mentioned again if Zach hadn’t absolutely had to take the last blueberry cake donut in the green room.

“Again?” Chris whines as Zach crams the last of the donut in his mouth.  Yeah, he probably could’ve shared a little piece with Chris, but come on: blueberry cake.

“Get your ass in gear a little earlier next time,” Zach says, only spraying a few crumbs at Chris.

Damn, but no one can scowl like Chris Pine.  It must be in the lips.  Zach is totally not going to try it the next time he’s in front of a mirror, because that would just be silly. 

“You owe me a dozen of those,” Chris growls, snapping Zach out of his lip-induced reverie.  “When you lose.”

“That’s gonna be an actual thing with us?”

“You’re damn right it is.  I want my donuts, Zach.  A baker’s dozen.”

Zach glances around at all the PAs and sound and lighting people backstage at OK! – this really isn’t the place to discuss this, but is there really a place to discuss this?  “Not that I would stoop so low as to do this, but how are we each going to be sure that the other doesn’t… you know…”  He barely stops himself from making a vaguely obscene hand gesture.  “…on the sly?  I’m not letting you into the bathroom or the shower with me.”

Chris crosses his arms over his chest defiantly.  “Too good for the honor system now?”

Zach draws himself up to his full height, which is maybe a quarter of an inch taller than Chris, but every quarter inch counts.  “Not if you aren’t.”  What is he even saying?

Chris’ face breaks into one of his angelic smiles, only there’s the slightest sparkle of evil in his eyes now.  “So we’re on, then.”

“Wait, what do I get when I win?”

“What, you don’t want donuts?”

“I want two dozen donuts.”

“Fine,” Chris says, extending his hand to shake.  But when Zach grabs it, Chris yanks him forward until their bodies are pressed together and, without letting the smile drop from his face, growls, “Baby, you have no idea what you just unleashed.”

“Five minutes to air,” says a passing PA, and Zach can’t help but think that, had circumstances been different, five minutes alone would have been just enough time.


In the history books, April 7, 2009, will go down as The Day When Zach Near About Lost His Mind on Australian Television.  Sure, Chris has been known to break out the big vocab guns before, but never with deliberate purpose.  And Zach is fairly certain that purpose is to turn him on.  And what’s worse – it’s working.  Zach never knew he was such a vapid wordslut.

He made it through the “little cuddle”; he made it through the bromance talk.  Really, Chris’s use of “cavernous” should have served as a signal flare, but Zach doesn’t catch it, and thus is completely blindsided by “sacrosanct.”  He’s nearly recovered when “moribund” comes out, knocking him back into speechlessness.  Chris just keeps going, even after Zach calls him on it and Zach is almost convinced it’s a coincidence.  Until the interview ends, and Chris leans over to whisper “That turn you on, big boy?” right in his ear.  Then the sound guy comes to collect their (thankfully deactivated) clip-on mikes and Chris just smiles sweetly, laughing like they’re sharing a harmless inside joke.  That grandiloquent fucker.

Zach manages to corner Chris outside the building as they’re waiting for their ride back to the hotel.  “What the fuck was that about?”

Chris’ eyes go wide with mock innocence.  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Zachary.”

“The hell you don’t.  What are you trying to do, get into my pants?”

Chris’ expression doesn’t change, but Zach would swear that the tips of his ears go just the slightest bit pink.  “Lovely and well-tailored as they are, what’s in your pants is your problem.  I can’t be held responsible for any activities therein.  However, if you require some, uh, manual relief and would like a few minutes alone in the hotel room, I’ll be happy to oblige.  I’ll even visit the concierge to inquire about the nearest donut shop.”

“Fuck your donuts,” Zach says – because that was a helpful mental image – concentrating very hard on not reaching down and adjusting himself.  “Your tricks only work if I happen to find you attractive.”

Chris’ eyes go soft.  “Aw, Zach, I didn’t know you cared.”

Zach snorts.  “I’m not that desperate yet.”

“The ‘yet’ gives me hope,” Chris sighs just as their town car arrives.


It’s not until they get to New Zealand that the little itch starts to turn into a real ache.  Part of it’s the accents – it’s like a hundred thousand Karls all absolutely delighted to see Zach and welcome him to their country.  It would be a really, spectacularly good thing (in his pants) if his pride weren’t on the line with Chris.

He’s utterly relieved when they check into the hotel in Auckland.  First, though they’re still sharing a suite, they have separate bedrooms.  And second, the shared living room has plenty of wide-open floor space.  In lieu of a mat, and even though the carpet’s wonderfully soft, he spreads a towel out in front of the big fifteenth story window and begins his first sun salutations in days.

He hasn’t seen Chris since last night when they got in, though the tuneless strains of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” filtering out of the bathroom are a clue to his current whereabouts.  Zach blocks it out, focusing on his breathing and how good the sun feels against his bare chest, despite the late autumn chill outside.  It really does help – the constant awareness of his dick is fading, replaced by a renewed energy throughout his body…

…and the unshakeable conviction that someone is watching him.  At first, he dismisses it as a lingering consequence of the never ending line of flashbulbs that has taken over his life so recently.  But the feeling refuses to fade, and soon Zach realizes that he can hear neither the hiss of the shower nor the eloquent lyrics of Def Leppard any longer.  A slow smile spreads across Zach’s face, and he lets out a deep, cleansing breath.

Chris has always been a bit fascinated with yoga, despite his adamant refusal to actually try it for himself.  He’s forever wanting to know what Zach gets out of it, whether he thinks the whole mystical zen thing is a crock of shit, if being flexible really makes that big a difference in bed.  Zach will discuss the first two in depth, but refuses to do more than quirk a knowing eyebrow at the last one – mainly because that’s far more sexy and mysterious than the truth, which is that it’s kind of nice, sure, but overrated, and Zach actually prefers missionary or doggy style anyway because some things are classics for a reason.

So, yeah, Zach doesn’t have a hard time imagining Chris peering around the doorway, hair still dripping into his eyes from the shower, towel slung low around—  Breathe.  Zach feels a surge of blood rush south and tries to ignore it.  Okay, so he spends a little more time than strictly necessary in downward-facing dog, but the stretch feels good, and…

Ah, fuck it, if there’s any chance this is turning Chris on half as much as it is Zach, he’ll stay in this position for hours.  True, as far as he knows he doesn’t belong to Chris’ gender of preference, but the flexibility thing does have its visual appeal, and hopefully all Zach’s bare skin on display will make Chris think of sex and not, say, shirts vs. skins basketball with the guys.  Zach smiles to himself – if there’s any justice in the universe, Chris would always be picked for skins.

Zach cycles through some of the tougher positions, staying in the inverted staff pose until he’s no longer trying to convince himself he’s not showing off.  His yoga teacher would definitely disapprove, but it makes Zach feel sexy and, oddly enough, pretty centered.  He manages to hold the eagle pose longer than he ever has before, too, since his mind’s not on his aching thigh muscle.  May be he should have Chris watch him every time he does yoga.  The thought sends a flare of heat to his groin.

He’s dying to turn around and see the look on Chris’ face, if it’s awe or fascination or… well, no reason for it to be abject lust, but god, what if it was?  Zach trembles a little in the warrior pose, realizing he’s probably pushing himself too far.  This is going to be absolutely zero fun if he pulls something and has to ice his groin.  Though, come to think of it, that might help with the bet.

But, no, the integrity of the family jewels comes even before pride, so Zach returns to do a final round of sun salutations to cool down.  He doesn’t quite hear anything, but he’s aware of a subtle shifting in the energy of the room that means Chris has backed away.

And then Zach hears a loud thump – as of a toe hitting the corner of a nightstand – and a “Motherfucker!” which confirms it.


By that night, it's pretty apparent that Chris considers Zach's totally innocent yoga workout an escalation of their little battle, because during the next round of interviews, he manages to drop in both "zeitgeist" and "aplomb."  Zach tries to bring the subject back around to Chris' self-confessed man-crush, but that doesn't seem to faze him in the least.  Zach hasn't seen Chris this determined since filming.

Zach tries to stop himself from crossing and uncrossing his legs throughout each interview.  It puts just enough uncomfortable pressure on his cock to keep him from really getting hard, but it also makes him look rudely impatient, and possibly like he has to pee.

The group splits up in the evening, with Karl off to see friends and family, and Anton and Zoe going to some Maori luau thing called a hangi in an attempt to soak up the local culture (though the thing's being held in the conference room of a hotel, so Zach has some serious doubts about authenticity).  He's hoping Chris will want to go with them, but no such luck – he's already in the hotel room when Zach gets there.  He must've taken his contacts out, because he's wearing those dorky, giant-framed glasses that make him look like a nerd's wet dream.

Oh, and he's shirtless.

"I was not expecting it to be this cold here," he groans as Zach walks in the door and is promptly hit by a wall of artificial heat.

"That would explain why it's a billion degrees in here," Zach says evenly, looking at his phone out of habit as he pulls it from his pocket.  It's good for little but the clock (which tells the wrong time) down here, but it also gives him something to look at that is not Chris Pine's naked chest.  "It would not, however, explain why you seem to be forgetting clothing."

Chris just shrugs, his muscles shifting invitingly.  "It's the most comfortable I've been all day, temperature-wise.  My nipples still won't get the message, though.  They've been hard all day from the cold.  Oh my god, Zach, look, they're like pencil erasers."

He reaches up, and when Zach sees the motion out of the corner of his eye, he makes the fatal mistake of turning to look just as Chris starts flicking a nipple with each forefinger, then proceeds through a pinching and rolling motion to flat-out rubbing.  The look on his face is Zoolander-ridiculous, but his face is hardly the issue.

Zach grits his teeth as he shakes his head.  "It's going to take more than you standing around, fondling your tits to break me, Pine," he says, praying that Chris won't pick up on the fact that he's not looking away for the simple reason that he can't look away, not even if the room is on fire behind him.

"See, that just sounded like a challenge," Chris says with a grin.

Zach glances lower at the basketball shorts Chris is wearing, but instead of being a disaster, it actually gives him ammunition.  "You know what I think?"

"No, Zachary, what do you think?"

"I think you're getting off on this more than I am.  I think you're going to go back to your room, shut the door, and jerk yourself raw, because you've spent all day working yourself up so much that you're just going to have to stick a hand down your shorts, wrap it around your cock, and yank away until you're spurting all over yourself.  And I win the bet."

Chris laughs, but Zach sees his pupils widen just a touch and he's sure it's not just his imagination this time.  "Projecting much?" Chris snorts, but a quick glance at his crotch reveals how fake his indifference is.

"Yes, that's precisely it.  It has nothing to do with the tent you're currently pitching in your shorts."

"Hey, I can control myself.  You're the one that needs the cold shower," Chris retorts, his hands on his hips now.  Zach can't help but notice that his nipples are a truly inviting shade of dark pink from all the friction.

"Good night," Zach says, turning to go.

"Aw, c'mon, you're not going to be now, are you?  It's early."

"So is our flight tomorrow.  You know, the one that goes the farthest possible distance around the earth that you can go without a spaceship?"

"You're such an old man."

"Good night, Christopher."

Chris grunts and stomps back to his room, Zach calling after him, "No funny business!"  Chris doesn't even turn around to flip him off.

Zach chuckles and goes back to his room, but when he shuts the door, it hits him – he's hard as a rock in his jeans.  Fuck.  He quickly unzips, but the relief that provides is fleeting – now he just wants more stimulation.  Well, the bet is about jacking off to completion, right?  It doesn't count if he just provides a little friction to ease the ache.  He doesn't even curl his fingers, just presses his dick up against his belly with a sweaty palm, rubs once, up and down.

God, Chris is such a douche.  Who does he think he's kidding, groping himself in front of Zach, all the while sporting a boner in his own shorts?  Zach’s gut burns with indignation and he rubs a little faster, a little harder.  Chris is just being a dick, behaving like that.  Somebody ought to teach him a lesson, Zach thinks, and his fingers curl of their own accord.  Yeah, that's perfect, right there, that's...

...officially the worst idea ever if he wants to win this bet.  Zach jerks his hand away, ridiculously ashamed of how little self-discipline he seems to have these days.  He yanks off his shirt as he marches to the bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain and turning the dial to cold.


Zach gets a much-needed reprieve the next day – if there's anything less sexy than a 16-hour flight, he thinks while picking at his gelatinous Salisbury "steak" and half-watching Step Brothers on the tiny screen, he doesn't want to know about it.  Next to him, John is deep in a Nyquil coma, snoring wetly.  Zach envies him – he can never sleep on these things, even with medicinal help.

He's just handed his tray back to the flight attendant when a big blue eye appears between the seats in front of him.  "Psssst."

"I'm asleep, Chris," Zach mutters.  Eh, it's worth a shot.

"Well, wake up.  I have a very important message for you."

His eye disappears from the gap between the seats and Zach can see him doing something with his fingers.  "What's the message?"

"This is the message."  Whatever he's doing with his fingers, he does it faster.

"Uh, still not getting it."

"What, seriously?"

"If you're using sign language, I can't see it."

"Oh my god," Chris groans, and his hands pop up above the top of the seats.  He's made a ring out of one thumb and forefinger and is repeatedly poking his other forefinger through it.  "Got it now?"
Zach rolls his eyes.  "Yes, thank you.  Now what exactly was that supposed to accomplish?"
"Well, I appreciate that you've come to expect a much higher standard of innuendo from me, but we've been on this plane for five hours, we've still got about thirty-seven to go, and I just don't have my A material ready.  But nor can I let you off that easily.  I’d have more options if we were sitting together, but alas, I'm having to improvise."
"I see."
"Yes.  So if you'll just assure me that you're unbearably aroused at the moment, I'll leave you to your, uh..."
"Catatonia," Zach supplies.
"Yeah, have fun with that.  I'm gonna try to sleep."
"And here I was half-expecting you to invite me to join the Mile High Club."
"Give me a little credit here," Chris huffs.  "Though if you wanted to retire to the bathroom for a Solo Flyer trial membership, I won't tell."
Zach chuckled.  "I'm nowhere near cracking, Pine."
"Me neither."
"Well, I guess we're at a draw, then.  Sleep tight.  Don't let the hauntingly erotic wet dreams bite."
An elevated middle finger rises over the back of the seats, then slowly descends again.


Kuwait is its own special brand of torture, but not because of the heat or the sand.  No, it's the men in uniform.

It's also a total cliché, but that's always done it for Zach.  These aren't even like the absurdly undersized fatigues that the "drill instructors" wear in porn, but Zach still manages to sport a near-permanent semi for two whole days.  It's something of a distraction.

And it doesn't help that their hotel room is tiny.  Luckily, he gets to the joke first, groaning, "God, Chris, we're practically on top of each other in here!"  Chris just rolls his eyes, but he also changes into looser pants, so Zach chalks it up as a win.

Really, the only thing that keeps him from just going ahead and jumping the nearest Private Hardbody is the soul-sucking heat.  Going from winter in the Southern hemisphere to this has his body confused enough to keep his hormones down to a low scream.  Plus, the Trek PR people would have his balls.

But once he sort of gets used to it – as much as anybody can, anyway – it’s fun.  Turns out there are a ton of closet Trekkies in the troops, particularly among the women, and Zach briefly worries for Karl’s safety when he sees several approaching him with that gleam in their eyes.  But Karl’s a big boy, and Zach hears him loudly talking about his wife as Zach goes outside.

Despite the ungodly heat, there seems to be a game of pickup football about to begin, and John and Chris are among the clump of guys standing around tossing the ball.

“Hey,” one of the guys calls out to Zach, “you wanna play?”

It’s been a while, but Zach shrugs.  “Sure.”

Chris glances up from having just caught the ball.  “You play?”

“I’m from Pittsburgh.  It’s pretty much mandatory.”

One of the other guys is from Pittsburgh, too, so he immediately calls Zach over to be on his team.  When they’ve got it all sorted out, Chris is on his team, too, both of them facing down against John.  On the one hand, Zach’s a little miffed that he won’t have the opportunity to at least try to tackle Chris to the ground and maybe wriggle against his crotch while he’s down there.  On the other, he still needs to get John back for the godawful snoring on the plane, and Chris is a powerful ally when it comes to John-centric revenge.

As if reading Zach’s mind, Chris leans over in the huddle and whispers, “You wanna take John down?”

“More than anything.”

They do, and it is glorious.  There will almost certainly be repercussions, but it’s worth it to see the look on John’s face when he realizes they’re both charging at him with no intention to slow down.  And it does take both of them – John’s a slippery bastard, and Zach’s pretty sure he couldn’t have done it alone.

That turns out to be the highlight of the game, though.  Their team gets beaten soundly, not in the least because of the two fumbles Zach gives up and the way Chris keeps tripping over both his own and other people’s feet.  They take some good-natured ribbing for it, but nobody seems dead-set on winning.

The sun’s finally going down and Zach has never been happier to be wearing SPF 3000 sunscreen than he is at that moment.  He downs most of a bottle of water in one go, then has to walk of the accompanying nausea.

Chris comes up to him, grinning, and Zach braces himself.  “Hey,” he says, “I said I played.  I didn’t say I played well.”

With a laugh, Chris says, “Nah, football’s not my game, either.  Wonder if there’s a hoop around here…”

“Hah, no,” Zach says, shaking his head.  “I can’t even pretend to play basketball.  I just end up flailing and taking people out.  In gym class, they used to call me ‘The Steel Elbow.’  Well, that and, ‘watch it, you asshole.’”

Chris chuckles, his breath still a bit labored, and it hits Zach that Chris is flushed, sweaty, breathing hard, his eyes bright…

“I’m gonna go, uh,” Zach stammers.  “Stick my head in the water fountain.  Yeah.”

Chris groans, and it does nothing to calm Zach’s incipient boner.  “God, that sounds like a great idea.”


They arrive back at their hotel room, and Chris is already asleep by the time Zach gets out of the shower.  He, too, sleeps like an exhausted, child, the long days and long flights starting to take their toll.

The next day goes by in a blur of handshaking and picture taking and autograph signing. Hours go by before Zach even thinks about the bet.  Chris hasn’t once shaken his ass in Zach’s direction or tried to deep throat a banana or anything – in fact, he looks more relaxed and happier than Zach’s seen him this whole time, and it’s even more of a turn-on than the nipple thing back in Auckland.

On the plane, Chris pulls out a book of New York Times Sunday crosswords and they pass it back and forth for the first few hours of the flight, until Zach’s eyelids start to droop and he falls asleep with a tiny airline pillow pushed gently under his head.


Even though it’s a Wednesday, the Paris nightclub is in full swing.  It’s not wall-to-wall packed, though, which makes dancing – at least, the way Zach likes to do it – a little awkward.  There’s a hot guy over at the bar that Zach’s getting less-than-straight vibes from, but at the moment, it looks like he’s catching up with an old friend, not trolling for ass.  Zach still hasn’t given up hope, though – this’ll give him some time to put together a devastatingly sexy line in his admittedly remedial French.

As for the bet, well, Chris hasn’t mentioned it in a while and they seem to have reached some kind of unspoken détente since their desert football game, so maybe they’re past it.  Even if they aren’t, they never made any specific rules about grinding against hot French strangers in nightclubs.  And, hell, Zach’s getting to the point where 15 minutes in the back alley with this guy might be worth a couple boxes of donuts.

Zach’s still trying to remember the French for “magnificently-proportioned cock” when a tall, beautiful woman comes up to him and asks “Parlez-vous francais?”

Zach says “Oui” before he can really think through the consequences, and then the woman is leaning intently into Zach’s personal space and talking excitedly (and rapidly, so rapidly) while touching Zach’s arm.  At first he thinks she’s coming on to him, but he catches what he thinks are the French words for “boyfriend,” “jealous,” and “dance” in there.  She then nods over to a group of guys in the corner who seem to be having a heated argument and ignoring everyone and everything else.  It’s not the smartest thing Zach’s ever done, but he’s bored and the guy at the bar is still talking to his friend, so Zach grins, takes the woman’s hand, and leads her out onto the floor.

European techno has never been Zach’s favorite, but he has to admit that it’s good for making everything else fade away but the primal, pounding beat.  As soon as they reach the dance floor, the woman pivots in his arms, presses her back against Zach’s front, and wow, okay, she’s not wasting any time.  Zach just goes with it, his hips following hers.

God, it’s been forever since he’s gone out dancing and even longer since he’s danced with someone this good.  She moves easily, fluidly against him and she smells heavenly, just a dash of perfume over clean skin.  If Zach were into women, this would be his type.  Despite the way she grinds against him, turning again to face him and shoot him a mischievous look after glancing back at her boyfriend, she keeps her hands above his waist, and he does the same.  He has a feeling that’s why she picked him.  Is he so gay that it broke the language barrier?

Zach has no idea how long they dance – multiple songs go by and she shows no signs of tiring.  At one point he thinks he sees Chris roll his eyes at him, but whatever.  Zach is having a blast with this woman who seems to read his body language in a way that men never quite get.  She looks as pleased as he feels, and he’s just about to try to put together a sentence to the effect of “maybe you ought to find a boyfriend who can dance” when he spies the guy from the bar out on the floor dancing.  Well, maybe “dancing” isn’t quite the right word – all Zach can see are his back and the big, masculine hand covering his pert little ass.  Zach’s a little disappointed that he didn’t get there first, but then hopeful that he can cut in.  Then Zach is just plain pissed off, because when the guy moves to the side, Zach can see he’s grinding against… Chris.

Zach’s partner immediately knows something’s off.  She looks at Zach, and he has no idea how to even begin to explain that his straight friend is dancing with the guy Zach’s been eyeing all night for the express purpose of making him horny enough to jack off first and lose a bet.  Zach doesn’t think his high school French was ever good enough to get that across.  So he just inclines his head in Chris’ direction and rolls his eyes.

The woman smiles, an oddly familiar gleam in her eyes, and starts moving them gradually over to where Chris and the other guy are dancing.  Zach spares a glance back at her boyfriend, who now has even more empty glasses in front of him and is still talking to his friends.  Yeah, she could do much better.

They stop only a few feet away from Chris and she swivels around again, this time draping her arm back around Zach’s neck and letting him rest a hand low on her hip.  Her dress is dark purple satin and feels wonderfully smooth beneath his fingertips, still cool despite the heat of her skin underneath.  She shimmies up against him and his body must really be feeling deprived, because he hasn’t gotten hard for a woman since that deeply confusing cast party junior year.  She glances back over her shoulder with a look of surprise, and Zach doesn’t have to feign sheepishness as he shrugs.  But she just laughs delightedly and strokes a finger down his cheek before turning forward again and finding the beat.

Chris finally shifts so that Zach can make eye contact while he lightly drags his forefinger down his partner’s bare arm.  In response, Chris’ eyes narrow and he leans in, breaking their gaze to rest his forehead against the other guys as the beat speeds up.  Excellent, Zach’s got his attention now.  He spins his partner around in a smooth motion, keeping his hand at her waist as he does.  Winking at him, she surreptitiously pushes down on his wrist until his hand is on her ass.  Then she snuggles into him, her thigh pushing lightly between his, and he’s infinitely glad her boyfriend isn’t paying them any attention.

They stay tightly together like that until they’ve made a full circuit and Zach can see Chris again.  He’s got his best smirk ready to go, but it’s wasted because Chris has his eyes closed and is now kissing his partner.  No, not even kissing, lightly biting and sucking at the other guy’s lips like they’re a delicacy to be savored.  Zach thought Chris had been all over the little brunette in Sydney, but that was nothing like this.  It might be most infuriating, hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.  Zach stops completely, freezing in place, and his partner looks over her shoulder to see what he’s gaping at. 

She gasps, turning back around to give him a quick peck on the cheek.  She says something he doesn’t catch, then it’s “Allez!  Allez!” and she’s shoving him in Chris’ direction.  He glances back at her and waves lamely, but she’s still shooing him with urgency.  “Bonne chance,” she says over the music.

He at least remembers that one.  “Vous aussi,” he responds before turning back to the matter at hand.  He’s not sure what exactly he’s going to do until he gets close enough to hear Chris’ partner let out a soft moan and then Zach’s shoving at Chris’ shoulder.  His eyes fly open and he releases the other guy’s lower lip from between his teeth.  The other guy gets one look at Zach, the expression that must be on his face, and takes off.

Chris looks shocked for about half a second, then pissed.  “What the fuck, Zach?  I wasn’t gonna—”

“What?  You weren’t gonna what?”

“I was just having some fun!”

“I can’t believe you would do that!” Zach yells over the music, knowing he sounds like a petulant child.  “Screw with that guy just to get to me, win this stupid bet.  Do you have any idea how shitty that is?”

“Okay, first of all, you were doing the same thing with that girl.  And second, it’s not always about you, Zach.”  Chris looks angry now, really honest-to-god angry, and that’s when it finally clicks.

The bed-humping.  The bet.  The word games.  The nipple-rubbing.  Especially the nipple-rubbing.  “You know, you didn’t have to—  If you wanted—  You could’ve just—” Zach stammers.

“What?” Chris shouts over the music, which has gotten noticeably louder.

Fuck, they can’t do this here.  Zach grabs Chris’ hand and drags him out of the club.


It’s the most awkward cab ride he’s ever taken, and if there is any justice in this world, there will be none that surpass it.  Zach tries to tell Chris to wait to even talk about it until they get to the hotel, but of course he wants to know why Zach just cockblocked him and stuffed him in a Parisian cab.  Jump cuts in movies make this kind of thing so much easier.

“Why the hell are you acting like my mother?” Chris hisses.  Neither of them is sure how much English the driver understands and by unspoken agreement they're trying to keep their voices low.  “Jesus, if it’s that important to you, fine, I will buy you all the donuts you want.”

“It’s not about the donuts anymore.  It hasn’t been about the donuts in a long time, has it?”

“What the fuck are you—” The driver’s head turns slightly and Chris catches himself raising his voice, dropping back down to a whisper.  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to get into it now.”

“Well then, when would you like to get in on it, because that guy was fucking hot, Zach, and I don’t speak a lot of French, but I’m pretty sure I was at least headed for a BJ in the bathroom.”

Just the thought of it makes Zach’s skin crawl.  The possessiveness of the thought should bother him, but it pisses him off that Chris never told him he was gay or bi or whatever, because Zach totally would’ve called dibs about ten minutes after he met Chris.

Then they’re finally pulling up to the hotel, and Zach doesn’t even bother trying to sort through the Monopoly money that they use here, just tosses a stack of Euros at the driver and yanks Chris out of the cab.  It was either too much or not enough, because they get honked at as they stumble through the front doors.

Zach makes it to the elevator before blurting out, “I didn’t know, Chris.”

Chris glares at him.  “Could you be a little more specific?  Because I’m thinking there’s a pretty long list of things you don’t know.”

“Any of it.  That you were—  That you wanted—”  Apparently, the word thing is not working for him tonight, so he lunges at Chris and kisses him square on the mouth.

There’s a horrible split-second when Chris doesn’t respond and Zach thinks he’s been wrong about all of it, that Chris was just fucking with him, but then Chris’ teeth suddenly sink down into Zach’s lower lip and he’s doing that thing again, the sucking-biting thing he was doing before and it feels every bit as hot as it looked.

The only problem is that Zach just has to stand there and take it, and he doesn’t do taking very well, except in certain very specific contexts.  So when the elevator door opens, he uses the moment to grab Chris by the front of the shirt and drag him into the hallway.  As soon as Chris gets his balance back, he grips Zach by the wrists.  “Don’t think you can just haul me around, Quinto.”

His voice is still ice cold, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that says Zach’s on the right track.  Zach launches himself back at Chris, and they stumble down the hall.  If they were hoping for that super-sexy thing where they both sort of crash through the doorway, it doesn’t happen, since Zach lost his key five minutes after they checked in and Chris keeps his in his wallet.  The time it takes for him to dig it out cools off the moment, and once they’re in and have the lights on, they end up several feet apart, just staring at each other.

Zach figures it’s for the best.  After all, he’s never even seriously considered this before tonight, and this really isn’t something that they should just jump into without talking about it first.  They’ve still got a few countries to go on the press tour, and there’s no way they’re going to be able to keep this from everyone else.

Then Chris narrows his eyes, grins crookedly, and says, “When you come first, I expect three dozen blueberry cake donuts.”

Zach has him down on the bed before Chris can even untuck his shirt.  They scrabble frantically, each trying to get the other naked first, and it turns into a wrestling match that leaves Zach’s shirt missing two buttons and Chris with a bruised elbow from the headboard.  “Fuck,” Chris groans, fumbling with Zach’s belt.  “Fuck, get these off.”

“You first,” Zach growls, fighting with Chris’ button fly, and it takes them a lot longer than it should to realize that with all the competition, there is no actual sex happening. 

Zach cracks first, stupid giggles turning into actual laughter.  “What the shit, Chris, these are the most impossible pants ever.  These are Rubik’s pants.  I need an algorithm to get you naked.”

With a groan, Chris pushes Zach’s hands away and goes to work on them himself.  “That was kind of the idea – wear pants I can’t get my hands into when I’m drunk.”

Zach’s not sure whether to be flattered that all his methods over the past few days have been driving Chris to ridiculous clothing choices or a bit concerned at how much thought he’s put into it.  “Button fly jeans didn’t save that poor, molested bed in Sydney.”

Chris grins.  “I knew you were still thinking about that.  Pants off, Zach.”  He rolls off the bed, and before Zach can even strip out of his own slacks, Chris’ voice echoes from the bathroom.  “Lube?”

“Black toiletry bag, middle pocket,” Zach says.  “Condoms in there, too.”

“Got my own,” Chris says as he comes back into the bedroom, but then freezes two steps from the bed.  “Jesus, Zach.”

“What?”  Zach glances down at his naked body.  Does he have a weird sunburn or something?

Chris shakes his head, his eyes wide.  “You’re just so fucking… I don’t even know.”  He practically dives back onto the bed, the airline-approved 3.4 ounce bottle of lube (Zach likes to be prepared) digging into his stomach.  After a little bit of adjustment, their bodies line up perfectly for the first time, Zach’s bare cock rubbing against Chris’, and they groan in unison.  Then Chris thrusts and they both shudder, Zach’s cock almost too sensitive already, and he’s immediately reminded that he hasn’t gotten off in the last three countries.

“Top or bottom?” Chris gasps against his mouth. 

Zach pauses – he didn’t really expect to be asked.  Chris’ ass is so, so tempting, but Zach’s still got enough blood in his brain to know that if he fucks Chris, he’ll last for about two minutes.  “Bottom,” he whispers, and Chris’ answering shudder confirms the wisdom of his choice.  This is definitely one of those specific taking contexts.

With one last tongue sweep of a kiss, he circumvents Chris’ next question and rolls onto his hands and knees, drawing a soft “oh fuck” out of Chris.  He expects Chris’ slick fingers pushing into him right away, but instead gets a strong hand rubbing up and down his back, the friction making Zach’s skin feel just a little raw.  It’s perfect.

Soon, though, Zach is easily taking one of Chris’ fingers, then stretching a little around two.  Zach has just a moment to wonder exactly how experienced Chris is with guys when Chris’ other hand leaves his back and reaches down to wrap around his cock at the same time the two fingers inside curl down.  The noise Zach makes sounds like a wounded animal and he can practically hear the smirk on Chris’ face as he sets up a deliberate rhythm, jacking Zach’s cock twice for every flick against his prostate.

Zach hates to say it, but it’s either admit defeat in the smaller battle now or blow all over the sheets before it really gets good.  “Sto-op,” he groans.  “Not fair.”

Chris laughs, but he pulls his fingers free, much to Zach’s simultaneous relief and torment.  “You think that’s unfair?  I’ll show you unfair.”

Zach throws a withering look over his shoulder.  “You gonna talk or you gonna fuck me?”  He sees Chris lick his lips hungrily and figures the only way he’s going to get out of buying donuts is to face forward and keep talking.

Chris, though, slaps Zach’s ass before lining up, rubbing the wet head of his cock against Zach’s slick hole.  “Oh my god, Zach,” he moans as he pushes in.  He feels huge, and the burn helps pull Zach back from the edge. 

It doesn’t last long, though – his body adjusts, and soon Chris is sinking in deeper.  Zach pushes back, impaling himself as he groans, “Yeah, Chris, shove that big, gorgeous cock in me.”

Neruda it’s not, but it seems to work, Chris falling forward against Zach’s back as he bottoms out.  “Fuck, that’s good,” Zach breathes.  God, it’s been way too long since he’s been filled like this, but he could savor it a lot better without this blazing need to come that’s making his blood pound  from his dick all the way up to his throat and behind his eyelids.  He hasn’t been hurting for it this badly in a long, long time, but even that’s making it better.

He’s about to demand that Chris start fucking him when Chris does just that, short thrusts at first, like he can’t bear to pull out long enough to thrust properly.  Zach grunts and bucks against him, and gets another hard slap on the hip for his trouble.  He’s never really been into that, but fuck if he’s not turned on enough already that it feels like a thick jolt of pleasure with a burning chaser, sinful and dark as a shot of whiskey.

“C’mon, Chris,” he says breathlessly, not quite ready to admit how close he is to begging.  “Fuck me.”

“If that’s what you want,” Chris breathes against the back of his neck, and Zach has less than a second to process the smugness in his voice before he’s being fucked hard in slow, measured thrusts that force him to lock his elbows so he doesn’t go crashing into the headboard.  Chris is up on his knees now, his fingers like bands of iron around Zach’s hips, and he’s got the angle almost perfect.  All he’d have to do is tilt down a few degrees, but Zach bites down hard on his lip to keep from saying anything, because if Chris knows how close he is, it’ll all be over in seconds.

But Chris has to be getting there, too, because his hips pump faster and he lets out a growl that Zach feels down to his toes.  He’s holding Zach’s hips so tight and high that Zach’s knees keep lifting up off the bed.  “Touch yourself,” Chris grunts on a particularly deep thrust, holding and circling his hips tantalizingly before pulling back.

Zach almost laughs, giddy from the near-complete lack of blood in his brain and the deep, delicious burn of Chris’ cock in him.  “No,” he grunts out.

“C’mon, Zach, know you want to.  Fucking jerk yourself.  Do it.”

No.”  He does want to and he can’t quite remember why it is he shouldn’t, but the only thought he’s clinging on to is that he has to hold on just a little bit longer, that Chris has to come first.

The sensation’s building fast, though, and soon it’s not going to matter that Zach hasn’t got a hand on his cock, because Chris’ grip slips just a little and he nails Zach’s sweet spot dead on.  Zach wails and Chris obviously knows he’s hit the right spot, because he does it again and again, grunting triumphantly each time he makes Zach cry out.

Zach looks down to see the sheets beneath him wet with precum and quits fighting the pleasure coiling in his gut.  It’s over, and fucking hell, Chris deserves the win.  He’s not even listening to what’s coming out of his mouth anymore, a steady stream of oh god yes Chris come on, yeah right there, fuck fuck fuck gonna make me shoot like this, I’m coming Chris, oh my god I’m coming so fucking hard—

He hears Chris’ howl just as he tips over the edge, his whole body shuddering sweetly with a hard, long-denied climax.  Chris is right there with him, yanking Zach up on to his knees as he buries himself as deep as he can.  Zach reaches down to fist himself and he’s so sensitive that a smaller second wave hits him, another bone-deep tremor that makes him clench tight around Chris as a final spurt of cum trickles down over his fingers.  Fuck, he wouldn’t be surprised if the bed is soaked down to the mattress right now.

When he opens his eyes again (he’d hardly even realized he’d had them shut), he’s still half on Chris’ lap, Chris’ arm tight around his stomach.  Chris’ nose is jammed against his shoulder and none of it is exactly comfortable, but Zach finds he’s not in the least inclined to move.

“Zach?” Chris says, lips rubbing against Zach’s cooling skin and it makes him shiver.


“You owe me so many donuts for that.”


“Last one,” Chris says, sticking his finger through the hole like an axle and wheeling it up Zach’s bare chest.  It picks up little flakes of glaze along the way, remnants of their decadent orgy of fried, sugary dough that has forever ruined Zach’s sheets.

“I can’t,” Zach moans.  “The spirit is willing, but the stomach is crammed painfully full of blueberry cake.”

“C’mon,” Chris says, snuggling closer.  “We can’t leave one little donut sitting in the box.  That’s just sad.  They write children’s books about that.  The Last Little Donut.  Why won’t you love him, Zach?”

“Why don’t you eat it?”

“Uh, because I’m already ahead of you by about three donuts and my personal trainer’s gonna whip my ass if she finds out.”

“Ooh, I know,” Zach says, brightening.  “How about you eat the donut and I whip your ass!  Then everybody’s happy!”

Chris snorts haughtily but continues rolling the donut up and down the center of Zach’s chest.  Zach’s really not hungry, but the more he looks at it…

Suddenly, Chris pops up.  “I’ve got it!  You’ve just had too much sugar.  You need something salty to balance it out.”

“Salty?  There’s nothing salty in h—  Chris, no.”

“Chris yes,” he counters, reaching his donut hand below the sheets for a few quick tugs.  “It’s good for what ails you.”

“Really?” Zach says, trying to sound dismissive, but at least three-quarters of the fun is pretending that Chris doesn’t make his mouth water until he finally can’t deny it anymore.

Sure enough, Chris whips the sheet back and there’s the donut, sitting at the base of his erect cock.

“Eat up,” Chris says, draping himself back over the pillows.  “And Zachary?  Clean your plate.”