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The trouble with sharing a dressing room is that someone is in the way. It’s never just Chris and Tom. Maybe all their handlers know that it’s not the greatest of ideas (rumors, rumors, must be careful about spreading rumors). Not that Tom (or Chris for that matter) would utter one complaint about having to share with Mark. He’s great--they all get along really well. And, truthfully, it’s been fun with the three of them. A new element, a new friend.
But sometimes, like right now, he’s sort of the fly in the ointment.
Except, because he’s such a good guy, it’s almost as if he can read the atmosphere. When Tom’s leg jangles a little too much from where he sits perched on the edge of the couch, when Chris’ tap, tap, tapping of his fingers on the wooden end table becomes a little too much, he politely excuses himself with the claim of making a phonecall.
Once the door had clicked in place--Tom could see the lock had been turned and that meant the world--silence descends over the room. That leg had stopped shaking, the blunt nails stopped scratching against the wood every few taps. Had a pin dropped in the building nextdoor, they could’ve heard it as if it’d been right in front of them.
Tom moves first, long legs propelling him down the length of the couch. Chris shifts, turning into him easy and not a second is wasted before one fluid motion has Tom straddling over his lap. Mouths crash together in a kiss that’s more teeth than lips. A snap against the soft flesh here, a pull and tug there. Tenderness has no place here right now. Not now. Hands move easily over bodies they know as well as their own. Feeling the swell of muscle or the jut of bone. Yes there, just there.
A catch of breath. A low moan that vibrates in the back of a throat. Fed into the mouth of one, volleyed back with another. It doesn’t register who makes the sound first or even any following. Sometimes Tom can’t even tell who did what--it just happens and they devour each one like it’s simultaneously the first and last time they’ll ever get them.
They finally break away, foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other as if it was a life source. They’re tired and have been ping-ponged around the world in a matter of days--so it just may very well be a force they need. They’re here and together, feeding off of each other. Bleeding into one another and yearning for that support that only they can give.
Tom’s fingers slip between them and brush over Chris’ lips. “I’d wondered where the rest of my tea went.”
The laugh Chris gives is nearly soundless and ghosts over Tom’s lips like a secret. “Sorry.” Wholly unapologetic.
“Liar.” Not that he missed it really, or didn’t know it was Chris who finished it while he’d been down in makeup. “Guess that is just another thing you owe me.”
Chris just shrugs, his hands sliding over Tom’s hips, fingers locking together at the base of his spine. This isn’t the first time he found himself on the end of a debt to Tom. He never really minded them as it usually spelled something good for himself as well. Sometimes Tom was relentless in his teasing during those paybacks. Still fun, but Chris could only take so much.
He pulls back just a bit, both hands placed on either side of Chris’ face. His thumbs stroke lightly over golden skin, eyes taking on a contemplative look. Typically, that didn’t always bode well.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Then: “I know what you can do for me.”
Blue eyes dart to the clock on the wall. “Not enough time for that, Tom.”
His laugh is smooth, rolls off his tongue so easily. It’s too infectious and Chris can’t help but laugh along with him. “No, not that.” He leans in, taking another kiss. Slower this time, tongue stroking languidly into Chris’ mouth. Remapping it as if he doesn’t already know all the lines and ridges. It speaks of tender promises but holds the edge of deviousness that hints at Chris not getting out of this easily. Not that he minds. When they break apart this time, Chris can hear the smile in his tone before he even has a chance to reopen his eyes to see it. “Not yet.”
“Well...” His hand moves around, splayed over Tom’s stomach. Underneath, he can feel the hitch of breath and then feels it stutter over his cheek. Repeats, “What?”
Tom’s hands move, sliding over broad shoulders and up his neck. Lithe fingers slip into the soft blond hair at the nape of his neck and move up, but are quickly impeded by the now ever present bun. “Wear your hair down.”
Chris’ brows raise in question, having not really expected that in the least. “...Alright.”
Tom smiles the sort of smile that’s reminiscent of the cat getting the canary. He’s careful in removing the little band, pockets it and then returns to slide his fingers through the golden strands uninhibited. Short nails rake over his scalp and Chris’ eyes fall closed. The sound he makes shakes Tom to his core and he groans in response, uttering a choice curse before kissing him again. Their lips slide together easily, fitting in quickly as if it’s an old practiced motion. Tom fists a hand in Chris’ hair and rocks himself forward. Grinds himself down hard and feels that jolt of heat shock his system and pool warm and burning between his legs.
Chris breaks the kiss with a gasp of his name followed by a snapped, “--fuck.” He blinks, rapidly, trying to clear the haze. “Tom.” Stern. Sort of. Except Tom can hear that edge, his voice becoming a bit thick around the edges and desire curling through each letter.
Tom pushes again, rolling his hips in a way that’s way too obscene this early in the morning. He hums in response, a question, innocence painting his face. What? He’s not doing anything.
The time on the clock just laughs at Chris’ plight.
His hands--strong hands, Tom knows them well and every inch of his body knows what they feel like--grip tightly at Tom’s hips. “Don’t.”
For a moment, silence wins again and they stare hard at each other. The desire is there, sparking bright and electric between them. Chris wants to give in and Tom wants him to give in even though he knows it’s impossible. He gives a smile before leaning in, lips brushing against Chris’ ear when he speaks; low, wanton. “Don’t...” Another forceful grind of his hips and he can feel Chris getting hard under him. “...what...?”
A warm puff of air tickles across Tom’s skin. This isn’t all that fair. “Tom.” He tries again, but it’s even less stern than before and it’s nearly murmured. His own name sounding like a caress. Unintentionally, it sends a shiver straight down his spine.
He shifts back, going in for a kiss, but doesn’t quite give one. Chris just closes his eyes and tries to pretend he’s not as turned on as he really is. “I’m tacking on another debt.”
Chris laughs softly, bumping their noses together and taking a kiss of his own. Short, sweet, not fully innocent. “Fine. You always--”
But a sharp knock on the door interrupts him. They’re ready on set. Damn. Tom slides off his lap, straightening himself before heading to the door. Chris is quick to rake his fingers through his hair to get some sort of order. Catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and thinks the little kink at the end looks stupid. He wants to put it back up, but he won’t. Tom’s hand is on the doorknob, but he leans over for one last kiss before they leave the sanctuary of the room. “You owe a bit more for denying me, you know.” And he smiles in a way that sends a shiver down his spine, then he’s out the door without so much as a cursory glance back.
Chris looks at his reflection again. It’ll be fine.
-----
Except that during the show, Tom suddenly had a guitar and Chris was cursing the jackass that gave it to him. Is this damn thing over yet?