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Like most people in the entertainment industry, Sebastian has a love/hate relationship with the city of Los Angeles. Spending time here is a necessity, even if it's just to take meetings with producers and casting directors, but the entire town is a palm tree-lined snow globe of insulated crazy. From the moment he touches down at LAX until he flies back out again, he feels like a bug at the end of a particular stick, or like a prize horse right before a big race. Everyone checking out his teeth or his body, checking to see if he's wearing the right skinny tie or the newest hip designer watch or if he's hanging out at the right bars and reading for the right parts.
Mostly, he tries to avoid L.A. unless he's got actual work.
Chris, thankfully, feels much the same about the city and the toxic brand of insanity that hangs over it like an invisible blanket of smog, choking the very life and creativity out of everyone's lungs in the corporate rush for profits. Chris is East Coast through and through, so Boston it physically hurts Sebastian sometimes to see it. But, unlike Sebastian, Chris actually has a house in L.A. for the times when he does need to be here for work or those requisite meetings. A fixer-upper he'd bought in the Hills years ago as some investment or another on the advice of his agent maybe. But, instead of doing the bare minimum of updates and selling it, Chris had shelled out a pretty decent bit of money to renovate the place from top to bottom: opened up the living and kitchen area, upgraded the landscaping in the front yard, remodeled the master suite in soft colors and homey woods until the entire place resembled the summer homes at Martha's Vineyard. Everything bright and airy and welcoming and nothing at all like L.A.
And right now, sitting out on the back pool patio, with the cool breeze on Sebastian's skin and the city lights glimmering down below him in the distance, outshining the twinkling lights overhead, it's easy to see why Chris has kept the place. From this high up, with the basin spread out before him like a bright and shining sacrificial offering, it's hard not to feel like a god. Easier still to look down at the world instead of up at the stars. But that's the hubris of man all over, Sebastian muses, with the sort of melancholy he only gets when he's well and truly baked. Only human beings would strip the light from the sky, replace it with artificial brightness, and call it progress.
Chris is poised on the edge of one of the ridiculously padded lounge chairs, rolling a joint. His deft fingers make short work of separating the buds, a quick flick of his tongue to make sure the paper is nice and moist, all of it done with an ease born of long practice. Sebastian watches him from under half-lidded eyes, transfixed. On the outside, he knows he looks like he's had a couple of drinks or one hit too many. He doesn't mind the illusion, since it gives him the perfect excuse to stare without being obvious about it.
Beside him on the equally ridiculously padded outdoor sofa, Mackie is chatting amiably with Chris about the vacation he'd just come back from with his kids, about taking them to Disneyworld and Animal Kingdom. Chris rejoins with a grin and asks why he hadn't been invited. Mackie laughs, light and indulgent, promises to take Chris next time as a tour guide, and the conversation meanders to another topic.
Sebastian lolls his head back against the sofa cushions and watches Chris' hands.
Chris has great hands – long fingers, elegant wrists, smooth palms. They're expressive, much like the man himself. Chris is constantly gesturing, waving them around to make a point, constantly in motion, using touch as a ballast to keep himself centered. Sebastian is used to the casual touches in public – the hand to his knee, the slap to his back or shoulder or chest, the full-bodied hugs that linger, Chris burying his nose in the crook of Sebastian's neck whenever they embrace. Chris is expansive, exuberant. Tactile. Constantly needing to tether himself to something. Someone.
Right now, Sebastian's thinking very carefully about those clever fingers and smooth palms on his cock. About Chris tethering all of that energy to Sebastian. About the way Chris knows exactly how to touch him, how much pressure to use, all of the tricks Chris has learned over the years on how to please him.
He's thinking – he's always thinking – about all of the things he wants to do to Chris, all of the ways he'd love to take Chris apart. All of the ways he wants Chris pliant and unquestioning under his guidance and touch. Every particle in his body aches under the weight of it, a dull throb that beats insistently under his skin, a frayed rhythm of need that strains the delicate balance he and Chris have built for themselves.
A balance he wants to smash with a hammer, then pull Chris down with him in the ruins and the rubble and –
"Hey, Seb, you with us?"
Sebastian blinks the world into focus, sluggish and slow. Chris is looking at him, oblivious – always so oblivious – to Sebastian's thoughts. Chris' lips are turned up, blue eyes sparkling. He's holding up the joint between two fingers. "You up for it or –?"
"Yeah." The word sticks to the roof of his mouth. All this time, all these years later, and he still sometimes has problems verbalizing himself in the face of that smile. "Yeah," he tries again, clearer now.
"You sure about that, man?" Mackie asks, dragging Sebastian to him in a one-armed hug. "You were seriously zoning there for a minute. I know this is prime weed and all, but I know you can get the good stuff in New York, too.”
Sebastian relaxes into the embrace. Mackie is solid and warm and friendly, nothing dark or dangerous about him. Nothing about him makes Sebastian hunger and ache with a thousand dark desires. "Guess I'm just out of practice." He nods, testing the waters. "I'm good, though."
He can't stop staring at Chris' wrists. Wondering what they'd look like with finger–shaped bruises mottling fair skin.
Chris lights up the joint and puts it to his lips. Inhales deep, the smoke curling around him like a hazy halo. "C'mere," he rasps through his teeth, and Sebastian tips forward before the word's completely out of Chris' mouth.
Chris touches their mouths together, then exhales, and the sweet rush of smoke enters Sebastian's lungs. They're barely touching – Sebastian can just feel the tickle of Chris' moustache against his upper lip – but his skin lights up electric all the same, a bigger rush than the pot coursing through his system.
After a long, slow minute – after all of the smoke has dissipated – Chris pulls back with a satisfied look on his face. His lips are reddened, inviting and sweet. He hands the joint to Mackie, but doesn't move his gaze away from Sebastian.
He's smiling again, this time for Sebastian alone. That soft, slow smile that leaves Sebastian far too breathless for his own good, one rich with possibility. One that always spells trouble.
"You're brooding," Chris states, his voice deep-edged and rough with smoke. The sound rumbles through the space between them – through Sebastian – like aftershocks. Sizzling and buzzing, a hum that's louder than a roar.
"No." Sebastian shakes his head, and takes another drag from the joint when Mackie hands it to him. It doesn't do a thing to settle his jumbled thoughts or erase the ache deep in his bones for all the things he wants and will never have. His skin pebbles, the hairs on his arms standing at attention, even though it's a warm night out. "Just...contemplating."
He wonders if Chris'll buy it. Wonders why it even matters. They're not...they're not like that, and they never have been. Sure, they're affectionate, sometimes overtly so, around other people. And sure, there are a couple of people who know that they're more than simply friends – Mackie, Hayley, Scarlett – but they've never pushed it. Never tipped those scales.
Even here, in the privacy of Chris' own house, there's a distance between them. Small, but infinite. There's always a line they don't cross when anyone else is in the room, always that unspoken agreement between them.
Whatever they do behind closed doors when it's just them, it's not anything meant for the light. What they do – the ways they take each other apart – is private.
"Contemplating's just a fancy word for brooding, if you ask me,” Mackie says, with a friendly nudge to Sebastian's shoulder. "You sure you're good?”
Good is such a weighty word. One filled with expectations and rules. It's not at all a word that applies to this – this situation, this agreement, this...feeling bubbling under the surface, ever–present, but never resolved.
"Good's boring,” he says, with another shrug, and hands the joint to Chris.
Chris' eyes are luminous in the low light. His lips part, pink tongue flicking out to wet the bottom one, and Sebastian's gaze drops to it, helpless, drawn like a moth to a bright flame. The line blurring, tenuous enough that he can almost see the ends of it starting to fray.
"You wanna talk about it?" Chris asks. His voice is still the best kind of raspy, and there's a high flush staining his cheeks that disappears under the bristles of his beard. Sebastian's fingers itch with the need to press two fingers against his throat, to see if the flesh there is as hot as it looks.
"Not really," Sebastian replies, and leans in, drawn inexorably forward, heart beating furiously fast under his ribs. Restless and hungry for something he can't even name. He's crossing a boundary, breaking a covenant, and the thrill of it – the risk – revs him like nothing else. The rush unmistakable.
But Chris just meets him halfway, places a warm hand against Sebastian's jaw, rubs those long, artistic fingers along Sebastian's needy skin. And, after a moment of figuring out who's moving where and the two of them bumping noses, Chris' lips are on his, dry and perfect. Chris tastes a little like beer mixed with pot, malty and sweet, and Sebastian eagerly slips his tongue in past Chris' teeth to explore. Another rush courses through him – a first step irrevocably taken. Chris opening for him, easily following his lead, and maybe this time, fuck maybe this finally means –
When they eventually part, Chris keeps his eyes closed for another moment. His eyelashes are long, sooty, unreal. Fairy wings fluttering against pale skin.
"I..." Sebastian stops, unsure of what it is he's trying to say. Mackie is still sprawled next to them, but all Sebastian can focus on is Chris. On this moment between them, stretching out until the tension is unbearable.
"Shhh," Chris says, in a gentle voice that teases and chastens in equal measure. His breath puffs out against Sebastian's lips. "Stop thinking so much."
Stop thinking so much. The irony is ridiculous, absurd. And hearing it douses the hope that had started to unfurl in Sebastian's chest, a splash of cold water to the system. The moment, so fragile and tremulous, lost. Morphing right back into their familiar pattern. The dance that Sebastian knows by heart.
"If y'all are gonna move on to the making out portion of the night, I'll take the joint."
Chris grins and hands it over to Mackie. "Afraid of a little PDA, buddy?”
"Maybe I'm just jealous neither of y'all have ever tried to kiss me like that,” Mackie replies, with a wide, infectious, gap-toothed grin.
"Soon as I'm done with him, my lips are all yours,” Sebastian jokes, because he knows his role here, too. His rapport with Mackie is a pattern he would know in his sleep.
"Which might be a minute. Or ten,” Chris says, and tugs Sebastian to him again over Mackie's amused snort.
It's easier to let Chris pull him forward, to lose himself in the push/pull of kiss bleeding into kiss. Easier to let Chris have whatever he needs in this moment than to try to force a surrender Sebastian knows he'll never get.
***
Seven years later, and Sebastian still couldn't tell you who'd made the first move between them. Who leaned in for that very first kiss, who'd taken the initiative to push what they'd had from friendship to more. It might've been him, or it might've been Chris – the details have been lost to time and the hazy sheen of memory: always a nebulous thing, especially where Sebastian is concerned. Chris might remember the details of it, but Sebastian's never asked. It had never seemed all that important.
Sebastian does remember he was the one who had gone to his knees first. He remembers the heavy weight of Chris' cock on his tongue, the first taste of Chris' come on his lips, and how good it had felt to finally have both. To finally take something for himself, to use Chris' body for his own pleasure. He remembers Chris returning the favor the next morning, how he'd moved down Sebastian's chest and stomach with the slow drag of his tongue, and the obscene stretch of his lips around Sebastian's dick. The noisy, contented sounds Chris had made every time he'd slid down, like he'd have been happy to suck Sebastian off all day long, like he was savoring every moment, every bob of his head.
Sebastian remembers how easy and quickly they'd fallen into a rhythm afterwards. How easily they'd moved together on crisp cotton sheets at night, and then the next day on the rough mats during fight training. How easy they move together still, even after all this time, the spatial awareness between them second nature by this point. A sixth sense Sebastian knows is rare and precious.
And, the thing is, it is easy, what they have.
It's nothing they've ever talked about. Nothing they've ever labeled, even obliquely. One day they'd been co-workers and friends, and then they'd been kissing and naked and hard and trying to take each other apart with lips and tongues and teeth. And the next morning, they'd still been co-workers and friends, and that's never changed. They fuck when they're both in the mood and in the same city, and they still work together seamlessly in every rehearsal, every take, every scene. They've been an unbreakable, unbeatable tandem across three films and counting, depicting a love story for the ages.
Seven years, and Sebastian's lost track of the number of inside jokes and laughs, of early morning rehearsals and late nights filming. The camaraderie during the grueling press tours and the easiness of the banter at fan conventions. Lost track of the number of times he's had his cock inside Chris' ass, the hot, tight feel of him, how the first deep slide home always jolts through him like a punch. He's lost track of the number of times Chris has pinned him down and fucked him until he's seen stars, until he's wrung out and unable to move and still aching for more.
Sloppy blowjobs in the morning or during downtime between scenes. Slow handjobs at the end of a long, stressful day on set, both of them using each other as a release, seeking out that natural high. Seven years of too many kisses to count, marks he's left on Chris' body, marks Chris has left on his, the feel of ragged nails and sharp teeth digging into his skin. Seven years of Chris' casual touches and laughter, trading stories and quips. Seven years of implacable trust in front of the camera, the two of them so in tune with Bucky and Steve – who these men are, who they are to each other – that they've developed a shorthand that's the envy of all of their co-stars. A quick glance, a small nod, and they can change the tenor of a scene, lose entire pages of dialogue, body language and nonverbal cues doing the heavy lifting of portraying decades of history and love.
Seven years and Sebastian still couldn't say when it all changed for him. When what they have started to feel...less. Like something's missing or lacking or just beyond his reach. Like that shorthand is now a shortcut. Lazy instead of comforting.
***
The flight to Beijing from Los Angeles is long and boring, but Sebastian's gotten used to the innumerable hours in the air by this point. He still hates flying, don't get him wrong – too many memories of constantly moving during his childhood until he'd finally settled in New York – but he's done so much of it the past ten years for work that he's found his peace with it. It's not his favorite thing, but he does okay.
Chris, on the other hand, loves flying. He's like a kid: all enthusiasm, vibrating out of his seat with nervous energy. He loves having a window seat so he can gaze out at the clouds, loves talking to the pilots whenever he can about their jobs, loves the weightless feeling of being high above the earth. Up in space where it feels like every worry and problem is still earthbound. Unimportant.
Flying with Chris is a special brand of distraction – and a special brand of torture – and all because Sebastian had made the mistake one night, during The First Avenger shoot, of confessing to Chris that flying's not exactly his favorite thing. Ever since, Chris has taken to requesting that they always fly together whenever possible to each location or for the around the world junkets. He'd even put a rider in his contract that he and Chris need to sit next to each other, so Chris – in his own words – can keep an eye on him and make sure he's doing okay. From takeoff to landing, Chris sticks close by, with touches to Sebastian's back and arm and wrists, breath hot on his neck whenever Chris leans in close to start a conversation.
Sebastian knows it's just Chris' way of staying in control of his situation; that it's Chris' way of dealing with his own anxieties and insecurities by trying to control his environment and those of the people he cares for. And the idea of it is flattering, truly, that Chris considers him to be in that category. But also a little bizarre, because Sebastian has to fly plenty all on his own, and he does just fine. And, the reality is, as flattered as Sebastian is, it's still hard not to feel slightly insulted that Chris seems to think so little of his autonomy and independence. Even though he knows that's not what's really at the heart of this.
Because he knows Chris means well. That Chris is just looking out for him the way Chris looks out for all of his friends, never mind that Sebastian's never needed anyone to look out for him. Never mind that the last thing Sebastian wants is for Chris to feel responsible for him in any way.
"You good?" Chris asks, cutting into his thoughts. His breath is minty-sweet – peppermint and sugar – and Sebastian wants to close the distance between them and taste the sweetness for himself. He wonders what Chris would taste like under it. Maybe once they get to a hotel – once they get behind closed doors where it's just the two of them, where it's safe to indulge – he can see about finding out.
"I'm cool," he lies, and holds up his iPad. "Reading a few scripts my agent sent me."
"Yeah?" Chris' eyes light up. "Anything interesting?"
"A couple,” Sebastian admits.
"Go on.”
"Fuck you, I'm not telling you about them."
"Hey,” Chris says, indignant. "Why not?"
"Because they're good parts, and you might go after them yourself and I'm not auditioning after you. I gotta weed out the competition where I can." Sebastian smiles, makes sure it's wide and full. They have this, at least. Friendship and teasing and sometimes the mind-blowing sex. It'd be hubris to ask for more, and Sebastian's never been one to make demands of the universe. He knows better. Especially since what he really wants is the one thing he knows Chris can't give him.
"Yeah, sure, 'cause we're remotely in the same league, bro." Chris laughs, and slaps his knee, delighted with Sebastian and himself. "Man, I fucking wish I got the kind of parts you do."
"I didn't get offered Snowpiercer or Sunshine or Puncture," Sebastian points out. "You've worked with Danny Boyle and Edgar Wright. And Idris Elba, I mean, come on, he's the coolest man on the planet.” Chris tends to disparage a lot of his CV, but he's worked with some great actors and directors. Sebastian tries not to let him forget it.
"Yeah, but you got to work with Ridley fucking Scott, man, that dude's a fucking legend. And I haven't worked with Ian McShane or Sigourney Weaver or gotten to do Talk fucking Radio on Broadway with Liev goddamn Schreiber, either," Chris replies, with a shrug and a pointed look that Sebastian wants to bottle like sunlight and let spill over him on the days when the shadows loom too large.
It's easy to forget sometimes that Chris has his back too.
Sebastian nudges him, grateful, even though he knows better than to make this a thing. Chris is effusive and expansive and giving, and it doesn't mean anything more than what's on the outside. What they have is easy. Comfortable. Asking – wanting – more is...it's a mistake. One he's far too old to make.
"Hey," he says, instead, "if you ever wanted to play tragic and gay, I could probably make a few calls, get a few scripts sent your way."
"Nah, I get enough of that with Steve Rogers. Except he's tragic and bi," Chris concedes, with a wry twist of his lips.
Sebastian chuckles, the knot in his chest easing into something manageable. Crisis averted, one more time. "He and Bucky Barnes have a lot in common."
"Yeah," Chris says, and scrunches down until his head's resting on Sebastian's shoulder. "They do."
Every part of Sebastian's body flares white-hot with desire. Every day, it's getting harder and harder to pretend like what they have is enough.
"Well, millions of fangirls can't be wrong, right." It's easier to focus on Bucky Barnes – and his issues and history and complicated relationship with Steve Rogers – right now.
Chris gives a half shrug. "Sometimes I wonder, though, if it's the fans seeing something that we're missing, or if they're just reading too much into what we're doing and giving it way bigger meaning than anything we intended."
"Those are pretty deep thoughts for a trans-pacific flight,” Sebastian teases. "Go easy or you'll ruin your pretty boy reputation."
"Ha, as if. Besides, maybe I'm trying to distract you," Chris says, and very deliberately squeezes the meaty part of Sebastian's thigh. Not high enough to draw attention, but well above the knee.
"Distract?" he repeats, proud of the steadiness of his voice. Proud of himself for not yanking Chris to him and taking what Chris is so unwittingly offering.
"Yeah, you know," Chris continues, thankfully oblivious to the direction of Sebastian's thoughts, "distract."
"And how is it you're planning on doing that?"
"I'm glad you asked," Chris says, and snuggles even deeper into Sebastian's space like he has every right to be there. Like the heat of his body and the casual touches aren't driving Sebastian slowly out of his mind. "Because I was thinking we could finally join the Mile High Club."
Sebastian doesn't look down at Chris, even though he knows Chris is dying for him to. He can't. Everything's bubbling too close to the surface. All of the things he wants – all of the ways he wants to mark Chris' skin, to possess him body and soul – linger and echo in all of the deepest crevasses of his heart. "If you ever manage to get us a private jet, I'll think about it."
Chris laughs and turns his head to place a quick, sandpaper rough kiss to Sebastian's neck. Right where he knows Sebastian is the most ticklish. "Sure. When I start making Downey money, that'll be the first thing I'll do with it."
"You probably would, too," Sebastian replies. He risks a quick glance in Chris' direction. Chris is staring up at him through guileless blue eyes. Like he's not aware of precisely what effect his words have. Like he hasn't got the foggiest clue on the quickest way to wind Sebastian up and get him hard and aching. Like this really is just a game they've been playing for the last however many years.
"Yeah, well." Chris shrugs and settles back on Sebastian's shoulder. "What's the point of having a bucket list if I can't cross things off of it?"
"Maybe, if you're nice, I'll make it up to you later."
"If I'm nice, huh?" Chris repeats, speculative. "Is that what it would take?" Radiating need – the need to channel all of that energy into something else. The need to get out of his own head for awhile, and Sebastian knows, he knows exactly how easy it would be right now to send him careening over the edge. To adjust his own body just so, to drop his voice another notch, to give his words a little more weight. To take, just for once, instead of following the status quo.
To show Chris exactly what he's been missing.
He wants, he wants, he fucking wants – but he blinks and the fog of need lifts like a veil from his mind. He can't. This isn't the time or place – they have another eight hours of flight time, and they're all going to be stuck together in close quarters for the next two weeks during the press tour. If he says something and it backfires...
"Yeah," he answers, proud of the way his voice is still light and friendly and teasing. "Nice."
But the word sticks like glue to his mouth.
***
Hayley grips her mug of tea between both hands and sips it slowly, her expression one of total bliss. "America is lovely, but I do love filming closer to home," she says. "It's so nice to get a cup of properly brewed tea."
Sebastian gives a thoughtful hum, and sips at his own mug of coffee. "Yeah, it's just too bad you guys can't make a decent cup of coffee," he remarks, and accepts the playful shove to his shoulder.
Just beyond the video village where they're huddled together watching playback from the scene they'd just shot, Chris is conferring with Joe Johnston, both of their heads bent together as Chris articulates some point or another with an expansive wave of his hands. Sebastian idly wonders what they're discussing, but figures he'll find out sooner or later. Probably blocking for one of the upcoming shield throws. Chris is still getting the hang of it, despite the ridiculous amount of time he's spent practicing with the thing. Sebastian's spent just as much time learning all the ins and outs of his rifle during weapons training.
"How are things going there?" Hayley asks, with a nod in Chris' direction. Her hair and makeup are Peggy Carter perfect, but the impish tilt to her lips is Hayley through and through.
"Fine," Sebastian says, with a puzzled frown. "He's a great guy. Generous actor. The film's lucky to have him as Cap."
"Oh, you." This time, she smacks his shoulder, the force of it somewhat lessened by the bulk of Bucky's wool jacket. "I meant the shagging. You must know we're all dying to know what he's like in the sack."
Sebastian gives her his most innocent look. "No clue what you mean."
"Yes, you do," she primly replies. "But keep your secrets if you must. Although you're not fooling a soul. Anyone with eyes can see the way you both look at each other."
"It's not..." He blows out an impatient breath. Takes another sip of his frankly wretched coffee to give himself time to collect his thoughts. He could keep deflecting her comments, and he knows it. Despite the goldfish bowls that are film sets, he tries to make sure his private life is just that. So he knows Hayley would eventually pretend to believe him, but he also knows she'd have no compunctions in going after Chris next. And Chris has zero defenses against her particular brand of ruthless charm.
As if on cue, Chris lifts his head, gives both of them a nod and a sunny, deep-grooved smile. And, as always, Sebastian returns it with one of his own. Chris' smiles are contagious like that.
"It's not anything like what you're thinking," he finally offers. Shrugs when she just scoffs – he knows how he must sound to her. He knows how he sounds to himself. "It's...purely physical."
"Ah, I see," she replies, in the manner of someone who thinks they know more than they actually do.
"We're really just friends most of the time," he continues, because that's the truth, as far as it goes.
"Of course you are, darling." But her look is far too smug. "Of course you are."
"It's not, okay. We're not...” He sighs, frustrated. Annoyed with himself for getting pulled into the conversation. Wishing he had the right words – in English or Romanian or German – to give her.
"You're friends with shagging benefits, then?” she muses, after another small sip of her tea.
"Yeah,” he replies, relieved. "That's exactly it.”
"I see.” Then her gaze flicks over to Chris. "I wonder if he knows that.”
Sebastian opens his mouth to answer her, but they're called to take their marks, and it's easier to try to pretend the conversation never happened.
***
The thing is, Sebastian's a smart guy – at least, he likes to think he is. Smart and pretty self-aware in a way he knows a lot of actors don't allow themselves to be most of the time. He knows how he comes across to other people in normal everyday life, and to his fans. Sweetest kid on the planet, goofy and uncoordinated, the one who remembers the little things, the small details most people forget. The quiet one until you get to know him. The observer and the planner. And it's not like he's lying to anyone. He is all of those things, sometimes all at once.
But sometimes, the shell he's created to protect himself from the outside world starts to suffocate him from the inside out. Sometimes the persona feels like a lie, like another part he's playing. Only there's no director around to yell 'cut' after a successful take and no actual script to guide his words or actions. He hates it, hates that film of dissonance that coats his actions sometimes, hates feeling like he's lying to the people closest to him.
How can he want so much to let people in – how can he talk of inviting them past the velvet ropes to get a glimpse into the inner core of what makes him tick – when he won't give anyone directions through the labyrinth that is his heart?
His therapist, amazing and worth every penny, assures him this – these feelings – are normal and even okay, but still, the thought of it rankles. His job depends on finding the truth buried within a character's actions and words. How can he hope to be any good at his profession if he's hiding the truth from everyone around him, including himself?
The habits of his youth are hard to break, though, no matter how much he's grown, however many strides he's made. Some days he wonders if he'll ever outgrow the awkward, shy, out of place kid who was always so desperate to fit in, so desperate to be normal.
It's especially bad when he meets someone he likes. All of his habitual, assured personality traits and little idiosyncrasies – each hard-won and deeply loved – go out the window, leaving a clumsy twelve year-old in its wake.
Which, he knows, is where it really all started. With a full, genuine, bright smile aimed right at him like a well-timed punch to the gut. Funny how it's always the little things that fuck up even the best-laid plans. Funny how he can't remember who'd touched who first, but he's never forgotten that first meeting with Chris.
Chris... Jesus, talk about the monkey wrench throwing everything in Sebastian's carefully cultivated life into disarray. And it's not like Chris had done anything deliberately. Sebastian knows, he knows Chris has no idea the havoc he wreaks. Knows Chris would be appalled if he did know, that he'd take it upon himself to try to fix it, even though it's not his problem to fix. Not that it wouldn't change anything. From that initial table read in Los Angeles for The First Avenger, right before everyone had flown to London to start rehearsals and actual production, Chris has been...
Chris has been.
Chris, in his well-worn jeans and tight t-shirt and the days-old scruff he'd been sporting. Chris, walking up to Sebastian, with piercing blue eyes, a firm handshake, and a loud, genuine laugh at some joke, long forgotten now, that Sebastian had made to break the ice. Chris, with his own filthy joke in response that had left Sebastian dazed, stunned into silence, and a casual arm thrown over Sebastian's shoulder followed an invitation to dinner that made it clear Chris wasn't going to take no for an answer. Who wouldn't have fallen – who wouldn't have hungered – at least a little bit?
So maybe Sebastian had been a little tongue-tied at the start of it all, and maybe it had taken him awhile to climb out from under the visceral need to tie Chris to his bed and not let him up for air for at least a year. And maybe, he'd fallen back into old, bad habits, stepping back and subsuming his own wants because, well, focusing on someone else is easier. And it's easier not to get hurt if you're not putting all of yourself out there. Driving the story is nice and all, but there's a lot to be said in allowing other people to steer the journey and conversation, all the while carefully leading them into revealing more about themselves and their needs and wants and dreams without revealing any of his own.
And maybe, by the time Sebastian had felt comfortable enough to show a little more of his true self, Chris and his protective instincts had already kicked in and he'd already started thinking of Sebastian in a particular way. And Sebastian knows it's no one's fault but his own.
He knows, but knowing doesn't make any of it easier to live with.
***
Chris is gorgeous like this – thighs flexing and bunching, his chest sweat-slick and smooth, cheeks flushed with exertion – but he feels even better. Slick and tight and hot around Sebastian – so perfect, it's like Chris' ass was made for his cock. Sebastian tightens his hold on Chris' hips to keep him steady as Chris works himself down, and the slow slide, the friction every time Chris moves, is almost unbearable.
"So good," he murmurs, lifting his own hips to meet Chris halfway. "Fuck, you feel so..."
"You too." Chris slits his eyes open, lashes fluttering with the movement. "So good...'m so full of you...”
"Yeah, you like that?” Sebastian asks, pushing up just as Chris drops down, clenches his ass around Sebastian's cock in a viselike grip.
"Fuck yeah...I love it.” Chris braces one hand on Sebastian's shoulder as a ballast, but the other is wrapped firm around his own cock, stroking it lazy and slow. The slick squelch a counterpoint to the rhythmic sounds of Chris' ass hitting Sebastian's hips, every thrust pulling Sebastian deeper and deeper.
Sebastian lifts his head in invitation, and Chris drapes his body over Sebastian's as their lips meet in a messy, tangled kiss. Moans spill from his mouth into Chris', and are given back to him in the next slide of tongues. Chris is so fucking tight, a furnace around him, and it's too much, too soon, he's not ready yet. He needs a second, a breather, some time to catch his breath.
His hands flex over Chris' hips in warning. "Chris, I need –" he starts, but the words are drowned out by Chris' long, harsh groan.
"Gonna – oh God, Seb, I'm so close, fuck yeah, ‘m gonna –"
And it's easier to give in, to keep thrusting up as warm, heavy droplets of come spatter across his stomach and chest. Easier to let Chris grind down and wring his own orgasm out of him with a wordless gasp and a clenched jaw than to roll them over and slow down.
They can take their time the next round.
***
Sebastian's idly flipping through the photos in his phone when Chris wakes up with a sleepy mumble and a soft snort. When he looks down, it's in time to catch Chris wiping drool off his beard, then smothering a yawn behind his hand.
"Times'it?"
Sebastian shrugs. He has no idea. "We're still over the Pacific."
"Oh." Chris yawns again, then rotates his neck. It cracks with a pop. His face is blotchy and sleep-creased from Sebastian's shirt. It's pretty cute. Sebastian's fingers twitch to snap a shot but he tamps down on the urge. He's got enough photos of Chris. Too many, if he's honest.
Chris gestures at Sebastian's phone. "Watching anything interesting?"
"Scrolling through my pics," Sebastian says. "Didn't feel like reading or watching a movie and Mackie's still conked out, so the entertainment options are pretty thin."
Chris makes a grabby motion at the phone. Sebastian hands it over without a word – it's not like they have secrets from each other. Sure, they've gone weeks without calling or even texting between film shoots and the requisite publicity tours, but their relationship has never been defined by constant contact. They've always been the type of friends who fall right back into familiar patterns when they're together, but don't tend to stay in touch otherwise.
Chris smiles at a few of the photos – Sebastian doesn't ask to see which ones – and Sebastian relaxes against the seat. He reaches for his iPad – he really does need to catch up on a few screeners – but stills when Chris' shoulders pull back and his lips part in a soft 'oh'. Surprise and something else that Sebastian can't identify. Something dark and hungry that makes his skin feel like it's stretched far too tight across his body.
"What is it?" he asks. Heat creeps along his spine. He's not sure what to do with his hands. The recycled air in the cabin sits like lead in his lungs.
Chris just turns the phone Sebastian's way. His eyes are fever-bright, the color of a midnight sky, and the look in them... Fuck. Fuck.
It's a long, fraught moment before he tears his gaze away and looks down at the screen. Then his own breath catches.
"Oh," he breathes, the sound punched out of him.
The photo is one of him in full gear in the wardrobe tent, when they'd been knee-deep in filming The Winter Soldier. Long hair in wild disarray across his face, holding an Iron Man prop mask up to his face. His look one of intense concentration and menace.
He'd been fucking around with some of the props and waiting until his call time, goofing off the way he tends to on the Marvel films. His own method of trying to keep Bucky Barnes and all of his trauma, all of that history and weight, from seeping in too far under his skin. He hadn't heard Chris walk into the tent, nor seen him snapping the photo. What he does remember is looking up from the mask to see Chris standing there, wearing his stealth suit pants and the mesh shirt that went under the top, and looking at him like he wanted to devour Sebastian whole.
Neither of them had even cared that there'd been at least half a dozen people inside the tent with them. Sebastian would have let Chris fuck him blind right there in front of everyone on set and not even thought twice about it. In the end, they'd barely made it to Chris' trailer (the closest one) before they'd been on each other, tugging at clothing with desperate fingers and exchanging kisses that were possessive and riding just this side of cruel. He remembers how close to the edge Chris had skated, his eyes wild and touches bruising and hard.
He remembers thinking for just a brief moment that maybe, maybe, this would be it, this would be the moment where Chris finally snapped and let go, before Chris had pushed him against the wall and shoved a hand down his pants, and the thought – and moment – had been lost. Always lost.
"Chris," he says, his voice breaking into crystalline shards that sparkle in the air between them. Each one reflective and deadly. Each one capable of cutting him to ribbons if he doesn't tread lightly. God, he's so fucking tired of watching his step.
Carefully – far, far too carefully – Chris hands Sebastian back his phone. Their fingers don't so much as brush together.
"I'm gonna...stretch my legs," Chris says, then stands. He glances around, looking a little lost, then pulls himself together. Spine straight and shoulders back, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.
Sebastian watches him head down the aisle, and doesn't move from where he's frozen in place.
***
Sebastian doesn't really care if he wins any awards and plaudits or any of the usual industry recognition that comes with his line of work – sure, it's nice and all, but connecting with his audience has always been enough for him. It's enough that he knows he's a good actor.
And he knows this...persona he's maintained around Chris is a role he could play in his sleep. Flying under the radar, making sure the attention's directed elsewhere. It's a lot easier to get away with more if the focus is on other people, and he's nothing if not adaptable. Besides, he's always been the quiet one, the one who gives everyone else the spotlight. The perfect wingman in every way; always the bridesmaid, and happy about it.
Chris makes it easy for Sebastian to take that back seat, and not just because it's Chris' name above the line and the first one on the call sheet. These Marvel movies are such big projects, huge in both scope and budget, with so much money and so many jobs on the line. And Chris, well, he's got a lot to prove, and Sebastian knows how personally Chris takes his responsibilities. It's one of his most attractive qualities. And the last thing Sebastian wants is to fuck with that.
But, beyond that elusive star quality and keen sense of accountability, Chris just naturally draws the attention and focus his way. It's in the way he carries himself, the way he speaks, with his thoughtful answers in interviews and in private, in his showman's instinct for timing and his great eye for detail. In the way Chris needs to be behind the wheel and in control as much as possible. To drive the narrative so everything stays on track and he's not giving more of himself away than he means to. Most of the time, Sebastian's content to play the sidekick, the Robin to Chris' Batman (the ultimate Bucky to his Steve) and let Chris do all the heavy lifting.
But sometimes, Jesus, sometimes there's a part of him that burns so bright and hot he's consumed by the flames. And that part of him aches and wants and hungers with the need to strip away all of the layers he wears like a protective cloak around himself. That part that yearns to let Chris see into all the dark corners of his heart. All of the ways he wants to strip Chris down to his core, to his essence, and show Chris what it is he truly needs. All of the ways he wants to touch Chris and take him and –
All of the ways he wants.
But that's not who they are. It's not who Chris sees when he looks at Sebastian. It's not who Sebastian's allowed Chris to see. And maybe that's made them both cowards in their own way, both of them clinging so tight to every shred of control they can get their hands on, both of them digging so deep that they've managed to give themselves scars. Maybe, the only difference is, Sebastian knows he has them.
***
There's someone pounding at the door of Sebastian's apartment – a small flat near Pinewood Studios courtesy of Marvel that's still bigger than his actual apartment in New York. Sebastian pauses at the sink, meeting his sleep-creased reflection in the mirror with a grimace. There are bags under his eyes and his skin is splotchy along his forehead and neck. He shuffles out of the bathroom with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, and frowns at the front door for a second. Who the hell could be up –
The pounding starts again, so loud it rattles the frame, the sound booming through the living room and into Sebastian's bones. It's way too early for his assistant to arrive – he's not even due on set for another two hours – so he throws open the door with a foamy glower.
Chris, in jeans and a plain black hoodie, jerks back in surprise. His fist is raised, poised to knock again. "Uh," he says, with a sheepish smile that manages to be unfairly attractive. "Hey. Morning. I guess I, uh, you were already up?"
Sebastian glances down at himself. He's wearing grey boxer-briefs, but that's the extent of it. At least they're clean. But his hair looks like someone's plugged him into a light socket and there's sleep crust in his eyes still. And now there's toothpaste sticking to the roof of his mouth and his tongue.
"Mmfh," he replies, then turns back down the hall to the bathroom to rinse and splash water on his face and try to make himself appear marginally more human. Whatever the reason Chris is here, looking way too damn good for the early hour and Sebastian's own equilibrium, it can wait two minutes.
When he comes back out into the living area, after making a stop in the bedroom to throw on a t-shirt and some running shorts, he sees Chris' hoodie thrown over the arm of the sofa. Chris himself is in the kitchenette, cracking eggs into a glass bowl and whisking them into a light froth. The rich smell of coffee fills the air.
"Hey," Chris says, when he looks up. His smile is soft, intimate, crinkles the corners of his eyes. His ribbed tank top clings to his chest and abs, limpet-like. "Thought we could go over today's pages over breakfast before heading to set."
Today's pages. The Stark Fair-slash-Farewell scene between Steve and Bucky. Markus and McFeely had made a few revisions the night before, but Sebastian had barely glanced at them before faceplanting onto the bed. Yesterday had been a long day of running around in the snow and the mud.
"You're, uh...but you're making breakfast," he says, gesturing at Chris like somehow if he says it out loud, it'll make more sense. Chris looks far too at home in his kitchen, among his bowls and utensils.
"Yeah, you like French toast, I hope." Chris gives him another one of those intimate smiles, and mixes in a few drops of vanilla extract into the egg mixture. Sebastian hadn't even known he'd had either eggs or vanilla extract. But then, most of the time, he's either on set or in the gym. His assistant has done most of the shopping for him the last month.
"Uh, yeah. Sounds...great," he finally says with a wan smile, and makes a beeline for the coffeepot. Maybe things'll make more sense after coffee. He drinks the first cup right there at the counter, and pours another before turning to face Chris again.
"Should I...are you okay with this?" Chris gestures at the small mess of ingredients on the counter, and scrunches his nose on a wince. "Sorry if I overstepped –"
"No, it's. You're good." Sebastian summons another smile – this one small but genuine – from somewhere. He's still fuzzy as hell, but the edges are a little sharper now that he's got caffeine flowing through his system. "It's nice of you. To do this, I mean." No one's ever made breakfast for him before, but he keeps that to himself. He doesn't want to make this any more weird than it already is.
"I don't wanna come on too strong or anything, I mean, just because we're fooling around doesn't mean I should be able to just invade your space."
"You're fine. It's fine. You're not invading,” Sebastian says, after another sip of coffee.
Chris is still standing there, looking awkward and uncertain and way too endearing for Sebastian's peace of mind. "You sure?”
"Yeah, it's...nice,” Sebastian says, and goes with his instincts. Sets down his mug on the counter and steps in towards Chris to capture his lips for a quick, hard kiss. "Thanks.”
Chris moans a little when he goes to pull away, and reels him back in, parts his lips with soft sweep of his tongue. They both taste faintly of coffee, but under it, Sebastian can taste that tang – sharp, but not quite bitter – that's all Chris. He plants himself in the vee of Chris' legs, hands braced on either side of Chris' at the counter. This time, when they part, Chris looks a little dazed. It's a good look on him, Sebastian decides.
"Feel free to make me breakfast whenever you want," he says, although breakfast is the last thing on his mind at the moment.
Chris makes a small noise that might be a laugh, but noses his way along Sebastian's jaw until he hits the soft spot just beneath his earlobe. "You smell fucking amazing all the time, you know that," he mumbles, need making his voice rough. His fingers trace a light pattern along Sebastian's back under his t-shirt.
"Chris," Sebastian moans, helpless, wanting. Needing in a way he hasn't in ages. The craving he has for Chris is unlike anything he's ever felt.
Light teeth tug at the vulnerable skin of his throat. Chris pulls him in until they're practically one person, chests and groins and thighs rubbing together in delicious friction. "Let me fuck you?"
It's not exactly a question, but Sebastian moans his assent, anyway. Yes yes anything you want yes.
He molds his body to Chris', itching under his skin, down to his very atoms, every particle of his body on fire for Chris, for Chris' lips and hands and cock. Allows Chris to maneuver them both down the hall and to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake like breadcrumbs. Breakfast can wait.
***
The second they all step off the plane in Beijing and into the airport lounge, they can hear the roar of the crowd waiting for them on the other side of the Plexiglas. Sebastian remembers this vividly from when he and Ridley and Matt had come out for The Martian, the groundswell of noise and adoration that he's always associated with mega pop stars on tour. Bands like The Beatles or One Direction, or acts like Adele.
Mackie makes an exaggerated face and lets out a wordless 'wow' while Joe's busy getting itineraries from the guide the studio had lined up for them. "That's a lotta shrieking.”
Even for someone as sanguine as Mackie is most of the time, it's a lot to take in. But it's not going to stop Sebastian from giving him shit about it. "You look a little scared, man,” he says. "If all of the love is too much for you...”
"Hey, you know I'm good with the love," Mackie replies, with a big grin that almost reaches his eyes. "Don't worry about me, I'll just swim right on in the deep end and let it all wash over me."
"Then why do you have the little frown lines going on?"
"Because I'm not the reason everyone's out there yelling like Michael Jackson's come back from the dead," Mackie says, and tips his head to the left with a meaningful look.
Frowning, Sebastian turns his head, and sees Chris standing behind Joe and the security guards and publicity contingent that had met them at the gate. He's got that wide-eyed look about him that screams imminent panic attack, his face a bloodless shade of pale. Gotta be the noise, maybe, or the size of the crowd, or maybe it's just being in a totally new environment where Chris isn't in control of any of it. He's great with the fans in certain settings, loves the conventions and the meet & greets, and getting that meaningful interaction during photo ops and autograph sessions. Those sorts of appearances are safe. He can give of himself without letting it bleed him dry.
But the big events – the premieres and the flash mobs at airports or outside their hotel, and the crush of people with their demands and endless questions and bottomless wells of need, well. That's a totally different story.
Sebastian walks over, glances his fingers along Chris' wrist. Smiles reassuringly into Chris' terrified gaze. They hadn't actually talked too much since Chris had sat back down after the incident with the phone, but this Sebastian can do. He knows his part here, knows all of his lines. He can be the supportive friend, the fixed point Chris can focus on until he gets himself back together.
"You good?" he murmurs, low enough that it stays just between them. Out of earshot of the eager to please local liaisons.
Chris takes a wobbly breath, nods, then shakes his head just as quickly. "I need...Seb, I need..."
"Tell me." If it's a quiet place to breathe for a minute or settle himself or if he needs Sebastian to take point and handle the majority of the talking or...whatever it is, Sebastian'll make it happen.
Chris' glance flicks over to Joe, then Mackie, then back to Sebastian. "I need to suck you."
A shiver runs through him, the reaction involuntary and immediate. Not the time, he reminds himself. Not the place.
"Chris..." He wants – of course he fucking wants – but this isn't. It's not what he wants. "You know we can't –"
"Two minutes," Chris pleads, taking a half-step closer. The heat sizzling between them, electricity crackling in the air. "I just need two minutes. There's gotta be a bathroom or something we can duck into, right?"
"Chris." He tightens his grip on Chris' wrist, but tries to gentle his voice. "Even if I wanted to, we don't have that kinda time. Joe and Mackie are waiting on us."
"But I need –"
"I know," Sebastian interrupts, because he does know, of course he does. Chris needs a way to regain control of himself and his environment, a way to re-center himself. But this isn't the way to do it. And Sebastian can't...he can't let Chris do this. Can't let Chris start to associate him with –
"But we can't," he continues, because anything is safer than continuing his train of thought. "If you need to go splash some water on your face or take a minute, I can let Joe –"
"No, don't...you don't have to. I'll be okay." Chris is still way too pale, but the panic in his eyes has lessened slightly. It's good enough to go on. "I got this," he says, and straightens to his full height.
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Chris juts his chin out in a stubborn line – it reminds Sebastian a little of how he plays Steve Rogers – and rolls his shoulders back until he's standing straight and tall. "I'm good."
"Okay," he says, and gives Chris an encouraging smile. "When we get to the hotel, we'll relax, okay. Order in, watch some bad Chinese TV and make fun of the subtitles, whatever you want."
"Promise?"
Sebastian ignores the hopeful note in Chris' voice, ignores the flutter, gossamer light and just as delicate, in his own chest. "Yeah," he says, with a tight smile he knows is strained at the edges. "I promise."
***
Chris stands next to Sebastian and Lizzie, arms crossed, legs apart, and listens intently to Joe and Anthony as they run through the next bit of blocking they want. It's a complicated scene, a lot of moving parts and extras and stunt work and, despite all of the preparation he and Chris and everyone else have done, it's still daunting as hell. These are such big movies and so much money and time and what seems like Marvel's entire reputation as a studio is riding on them, and it's easy sometimes to get caught up in all of the peripheries instead of his job. Which is to do play Bucky Barnes with all of the emotional resonance he deserves, regardless of whatever else is going on around him.
Sometimes, he misses the intimacy of their days shooting The Winter Soldier. When it had just been him and Chris during the fight scenes. Don't get him wrong, he's thrilled to get to work alongside so many brilliant actors – people like Downey and Chadwick and Paul – but the size of it's a crazy thing to contemplate.
He starts when he feels an elbow to his ribs, and sees Chris giving him an eyebrow waggle. "You look a million miles away, Seb. We boring you over here?"
"All I gotta do is run and make sure my hair looks pretty," he replies, with a quick wink for Anthony and Joe's benefit. "That doesn't exactly require concentration."
Lizzie hides her giggle behind her hand. "Your hair should get its own billing."
"If I had any say, I'd make sure of it," Anthony says.
"You're the director," Chris points out. "I'm sure you could make a case."
"Yeah, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that," Sebastian says, with his own jab to Chris' side.
Chris just dances out of the way, eyes bright with laughter. "It's awesome hair. You should be proud of it."
"It's way too long. I look like a homeless person."
"Like a homeless person who has access to great shampoo and conditioner," Lizzie chimes in, because of course she'd take Chris' side in this.
"Don't we, I dunno, have a movie to make or something?" Sebastian asks, with a desperate look to Joe. Anthony, he knows, won't be any help. (Anthony is just as obsessed with Sebastian's hair as any of the fans that tag him on Instagram whenever it even looks like he's cut so much as a half inch off the bottom.)
"Alright, two more minutes in the A/C, then let's get back to it," Joe says.
Sebastian makes a move to follow him, but is stopped when he feels fingers running through his hair, raking along his scalp. "Chris..." he warns, not even needing to turn to know who it is. He'd know that touch anywhere.
"Come over after we wrap?" Chris quietly asks, low enough Sebastian can barely hear him. To anyone around them, Sebastian knows it looks like they're simply conferring on the upcoming scene. Another dance they've perfected by this point.
"Sure, but I'm not sure how much energy I'll have for anything other than kicking back and watching TV," he warns. The Atlanta heat and humidity are both doing their level best to sap every bit of strength out of him.
Chris just grins, lightning-fast and just as blinding. "I'm sure I can find some way to revive you."
Which...isn't exactly what Sebastian had meant. But their two minutes of reprieve are up and it's time to get back to the tarmac and pretend for a living.
***
The hotel they've booked in Beijing is an amazing work of both architecture and design. Steel beams and curved glass and marbled counters and some impressive artwork, and every room has a magnificent view of the city. Sadly, Sebastian knows this'll probably be the closest any of them get to actually seeing any part of it – although there's been a little bit of talk of them getting to take a morning before they head to Singapore so they could visit The Great Wall. Which would be great, but he's not counting on it.
The last time he'd been to Beijing, he'd had a little more in the way of free time. And he'd gotten to see The Forbidden City with Ridley, which had been a once in a lifetime event, a memory he knows he'll cherish forever. But the Marvel press machine is a little different than 20th Century Fox's, and the Captain America franchise is a wildly different animal than a prestige Awards Season film. (Not that the Captain America movies don't deserve critical praise and recognition, because they do. But Sebastian also knows it'll be a cold day in hell before a superhero movie ever gets any sort of end of the year love. If The Dark Knight hadn't been able to crack the code, then the rest of them don't stand a chance.)
"My hand is literally about to fall the hell off," Mackie complains, shaking his wrist with a grimace. They're all holed up in Sebastian's room for the moment, having just come from a lunch hosted by the studio the Russos had founded in Beijing two years ago, and dealing with yet another massive crowd of fans waiting for them when they'd pulled up to the hotel. They'd spent the last hour signing autographs and posing for selfies, and Sebastian thinks maybe they've all reached their limit for human interaction for the day.
"That's what you get for making your signature all nice and pretty," Chris says. Mackie had taken the only available chair, which means Chris is plastered against Sebastian on the bed, even though there's more than enough room for both of them to sprawl out.
"Unlike you and that chicken scratch you call handwriting, I have standards," Mackie replies, with an affronted sniff.
"'Standards,' he says. Sure, buddy, whatever you say."
"Besides, why're you complaining?" Sebastian asks. "You've been saying Sam needs more attention."
"A man can't mention having carpal tunnel now without it being a thing?"
Needling his friends shouldn't be this funny, but it's not like Sebastian ever claimed to be a nice guy. "You knew what you were signing up for when you took the gig."
Mackie narrows his eyes Sebastian's way. "Ha, signed up, I get it, you're real funny, Seabass."
"This job," Chris intones, serious and far too solemn, "we try to sign as many autographs as we can..."
"But that doesn't mean everybody," Sebastian finishes, with a grin.
"Y'all are fucking hilarious," Mackie grumbles. Chris, meanwhile, is laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking and his breath is coming in hitched wheezes. So close, Sebastian can feel every inhale.
"You could always play the Downey card next time and just blow kisses to the masses and escape," Sebastian suggests, ignoring Chris as best he can. Hard to do when Chris is practically on top of him.
"Nah," Mackie says, "I'll just pull a Tom Holland and demand someone bring me a smoothie and a hot towel."
"Such a diva," Sebastian commiserates, because making fun of Tom is still the best running joke ever.
"Anyone but him," Chris gets out, then starts laughing again. Loopy and more than a little manic, but Sebastian gets it. They're all pretty tired. It's been a long day already and they still have two more appearances later that night.
"But while we're talking about hot towels and taking it easy, I think I'm gonna bug out and go get me a massage and then take a nice, long nap," Mackie says, and stands, unfolding himself from the chair. "I'll see you ladies at dinner."
"Sounds good," Sebastian says. Chris just gives Mackie a wave, but doesn't move. The door closes behind him with a dull thud and a click.
Sebastian closes his eyes and relaxes against the pillows. A nap does sound pretty damn sweet. He'd managed a couple of hours on the flight, but it hadn't been good sleep –
His eyes fly open when he hears the low rasp of a zipper. His zipper. "What...?" He feels sluggish and more than a little slow. "What're you doing?" he asks, like it's not patently obvious.
Chris looks up at him from where he's trying to drag Sebastian's jeans and underwear down his hips. "You promised. Anything I wanted."
Yeah, he thinks, carding his hands through the spiky strands of Chris' hair. That's the problem.
"I know," he responds, carefully not moving otherwise.
Chris worries at his lower lip with his teeth, the line of his body one taut line of tension. "Can I...I need you to hold me down. Is that...can you...?"
It's so close to what he wants – and yet so fucking far away – that it takes Sebastian a moment to process it. Not a request or plea for Sebastian to take care of him. Not a desire to relax and trust that someone else will catch him when he falls. Still trying, Jesus, even now, to control every aspect of his surrender. Like a hand on the back of his head or choking on Sebastian's cock is what Chris really needs.
But, as Chris' fingers curl hot and tight over his already half-hard length, he can't bring himself to care.
***
It's stupid ass o'clock in the morning and the gym where they're doing choreography and stunt training had been a nightmare to get to, involving two subway transfers and a mad dash through the pouring rain, but right now, Sebastian's skin is buzzing with nerves and excitement, humming like a live wire. He's been waiting for this day, this film, for what feels like forever. If he and Chris and the rest of the stunt team do their jobs right, the street brawl between Captain America and The Winter Soldier is going to be one for the ages – a highlight reel in a film that's going to be a game-changer for Marvel Studios.
"Hey, man." Chris drops down beside Sebastian on the mat and hands him a bottle of water.
"Thanks." Sebastian untwists the cap and takes a long pull.
"You nervous?" Chris asks, leaning in so his breath ghosts against Sebastian's ear. They're both dressed for maximum comfort and flexibility, in sweats and tees, but Sebastian knows the reason he's shivering has nothing to do with the thin material of his shirt. Chris has been bulking out the last few months, his body in total Steve Rogers shape. The peak of physical perfection and grace. It's hard not to notice. Harder still to keep his hands to himself and not map out smooth skin and firm muscle.
"A little," he admits. He keeps his eyes on Sam, Chris' stunt double, because that's the safer option at the moment. "What about you?"
"A little," Chris replies, then nudges his knee. "But, hey, it'll be cool."
"Yeah?" He smiles at Chris' confident tone, and finally glances over. "Why's that?"
Chris grins, wide and wicked. The air around him shimmers in the unforgiving fluorescent light. "We already know how to move with each other, that's why."
Sebastian can feel the tips of his ears turning pink, but he just snorts out a laugh. "It's a little different with clothes on."
Chris throws his head back and laughs, long and loud, the way he does when he's truly tickled, his left hand smacking against his chest. He laughs like he does everything else – full-bodied, full-on, every part of him engaged. "Oh man, that's awesome. Different with clothes on, I gotta remember that," he says, through the next laugh.
Sebastian just shrugs. He wonders if he looks as embarrassed as he feels. "You know it's true."
"Yeah, maybe," Chris replies, and rubs a hand along Sebastian's back. The touch lingers, electricity sparking under his shirt. "But that's why you've got me."
"Oh I do, do I?"
"Yeah, you know that. You can count on me, Seb." His delight is a beacon, a neon sign that's always turned on.
Sebastian doesn't lean into Chris' hand, although it's a near thing. "I'm almost afraid to ask."
"Because I'll get you through it," Chris tells him, with a cocky grin. "Unless you wanna lead this dance...?"
The retort is out before he can call it back. "That'll be a fun change of pace, you letting someone else lead the way."
Chris gives him a speculative glance. "You calling me a control freak?"
"If the shoe fits..."
Chris nods again. Sebastian can practically see the gears grinding in his head. "Yeah, okay. I see how it is."
No, Sebastian thinks, you really don't. But he just smiles and swallows, his reply lodged somewhere under his ribcage. Held captive by the fluttering of his heart.
***
"So, how're you holding up?” Mackie asks Chris, once they're all inside the hotel bar and out of the insanely oppressive heat. Sebastian hadn't really thought about what the weather in Salt Lake City would be like when he'd agreed to this convention, but almost hundred degrees in September would not have been his first guess.
"Good,” Chris replies, with a slight nod. "I could use a drink, though.” He turns to Sebastian and Hayley. "You guys want anything?”
"Something with loads of vodka, please,” Hayley requests.
"Whatever you're having,” Sebastian says, and walks with Hayley over to the small lounge area that had been cordoned off just for them. He settles on one of the sofas with a heartfelt sigh. Hayley sinks down next to him, then throws her legs onto Sebastian's lap.
"Bloody heels,” she grouses, as he grabs hold of one of her feet to get at the ankle straps to tug them off. He doesn't remember when exactly he'd become her personal foot masseuse, but here they are. And he can think of worse gigs.
"You'd think you know better than to wear heels to these things by now,” he tells her.
Hayley gives him an unimpressed look, then cocks her head towards the bar, where Mackie and Chris are ordering. "Oh, you're a fine one to lecture me about doing things that are bad for you.”
Sebastian laughs. Trust Hayley to not beat around the bush. "Yeah, I dunno, I think doing him's pretty good for my health, if I'm honest.”
"Oh for...” She thwaps his arm. "You know as well as I do this hasn't been just about the sex in years.”
Which is where she's completely wrong, but trying to argue with her about it is a losing proposition, always has been. "I keep telling you –”
"– it's not like that, yes, you may have mentioned once or twice.” But her expression doesn't change. "You're far too clever to be so thick, you know.”
Sebastian wants to ask what she means, but Chris is heading their way with two bottles of beer dangling from one hand, and a collins glass in the other, filled to the brim with clear liquid and ice. "I'm warning you now, Hals, I'm stealing your masseuse from you,” Chris says, once he reaches them.
"You most certainly are not,” Hayley replies, taking the glass with a murmur of thanks, before lying back on the sofa again.
Chris hands Sebastian one of the bottles. He continues to stand over them, his face haloed by the light overhead. At this angle, his beard looks more ginger than brown. "C'mon,” Chris cajoles, "Seb flies out tomorrow morning and I've barely had a chance to talk to him.”
"Greedy thing, he's busy servicing me.”
"You guys do know I'm right here, right,” Sebastian points out, even though he hasn't stopped his ministrations.
"Not now, darling,” Hayley tells him with a dimpled grin. "Mummy and Daddy are deciding custody.”
He pinches one of her toes in warning. "Keep it up and I'll dump both of you for Mackie.”
"Say the word, Seb, and I'll take you away from all of this,” Mackie says, as he walks over to their group with his own drink in hand. "Me and you, baby, you know I got you.”
Chris gives Hayley a rueful look. "I don't think we can compete with that.”
"Damn right you can't,” Mackie states. He drops to the other sofa and pats the space next to him. "So take a load off already before you give me a crick in my neck.”
"Look, let's all just...hang out for awhile together,” Sebastian suggests, because truth be told, he's not really up for anything else. It's been a long day. Kicking back and doing nothing sounds like a really good time right about now.
He knows he and Chris haven't seen each other since the wrap party in Germany a couple of weeks ago, but he hasn't seen Hayley since she'd flown out to visit the set in Atlanta back in June. And Mackie's been filming an HBO movie in New York – playing MLK no less – with Bryan Cranston as LBJ, which sounds pretty amazing, and like something Sebastian wants to hear all about. It'd be nice to take the evening to just...catch up. The four of them rarely get the chance to do this these days. (Which, he's pretty sure, is why Chris had finally said yes to this convention – beyond meeting the fans, going to these things is a great chance to see old friends and colleagues.)
"Yeah, alright,” Chris concedes, and sits next to Mackie. "Let's hang.”
"See, that wasn't so hard,” Hayley says, then turns to give Sebastian a meaningful look he pretends not to see.
"Maybe, but I'm drawing the line at karaoke, though,” Chris says.
"Spoilsport,” Sebastian replies, with a quick wink that Chris returns with one of his own. This is good, he tells himself. Taking a night just to be friends, without the expectations for more coloring their every word.
But when Chris shows up at his door after midnight, with a hopeful smile and that half-lidded look that Sebastian still can't resist, Sebastian just pulls him inside without a word. By the time they stumble the three feet to the bed, they're both half-naked and frantically kissing, and Chris has both hands shoved down the front of Sebastian's sweatpants.
Fuck it. He can always sleep on the flight back to New York.
***
Press junkets all over the world are alike. Long and tedious and filled with the same variations of the same questions and the same jokes and remarks asked and told over and over and over, for hours, with barely a chance to pause or rest between one interview and the next. It's a lot like being a cog in a machine. Dehumanizing. Repetitious.
Still, it helps to have people with him to share the load. And it's always nice when it's a friend. Sebastian's used to having Mackie at his side for the Marvel events, taking all the space and oxygen with his particular brand of charisma and brash charm and booming voice, but this time around, for the Asian swing, they want him and Chris together.
Which is either a special brand of torture or a special brand of perfect, Sebastian can't decide. These days, it's a toss up.
The room they have Chris and Sebastian in for their interviews is odd – cavernous and weirdly proportioned, with the walls all draped with black cloths. They're on a stage of some type and the press is sitting on a platform behind the camera well, with the interpreter sitting next to them with a microphone. One of the Marvel reps is keeping a close watch on the proceedings, although Sebastian has no idea why. Mackie's the one they need to keep an eye on, and they'd (smartly, Sebastian thinks) paired him off with Joe, who stands as much chance as anyone of keeping him in line.
"They should serve beer or vodka or something at these things," Chris observes, during a small break between interviews. He's fidgeting, plucking at his knee, biting at his lower lip the way he does after he's been forced to deal with the media for awhile. All small tells, ones Sebastian knows intimately.
Sebastian snorts out a laugh. "Yeah, I don't think us getting plastered and answering a bunch of questions is a great idea. I'm already terrible at answering them sober."
"Hey, who says we'd be drunk," Chris protests, all schoolboy innocence and effortless charm. Sebastian wonders why he bothers – it's not like he's some stranger who'll be fooled by those too blue eyes.
"Gimme a break. As dumb and invasive and fucking boring as these things are, you'd be double-fisting before the end of the first round of interviews, and I'd be right there with you."
"Yeah, well, maybe being drunk would help," Chris replies, with a shrug that tries for nonchalance and fails.
"We could always try to sneak in a flask for tonight's fan event," Sebastian suggests. He's tired enough that it sounds like a good idea. Plus the thought of an inebriated Chris, who's handsy even in the best of times, would be enough amusement to distract him from all of the scrutiny. Probably too much, if he's honest with himself, but all of that foreplay and tension might be a fun way to pass the time. And he could always work in a few more lube jokes, which he knows Chris loves. Nothing overt, nothing that would fuck too much with the public personas they've both so carefully cultivated over the years, but maybe push the boundaries just a little.
Across from them, the interpreter – young and eager and studying finance at the University of International Business and Economics – gives them a helpful smile. "You are ready?" she asks.
Chris shrugs and glances at Sebastian. "I dunno, are we?”
"It's your show, Chris. I'm just following your lead here." Like always.
Chris lets out a low laugh, and leans in. Drops his voice so no one can overhear. "You're hilarious, Seb. When have I ever called the shots, even once?"
For a moment, Sebastian forgets how to breathe. White noise echoes through his ears, blocks out all other sound. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
Chris' brows furrow. "What's going on?”
"You...” The irony is ridiculous. The worst sort of painful. He digs his fingers into the leather of the armrests, and tries to temper his voice. "When are you ever not calling them? Name one fucking time."
Despite his best efforts, it comes out a lot sharper than he intends.
Chris shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"
Not the time, not the place, not the –
Fuck it. Just...fuck it. He's done. There's no way he can keep doing this, not for another day or minute. Yeah, maybe he'll fuck up their relationship, professional or otherwise, but so what. They're actors, they can goddamn well pretend. And after this week, they'll be off to different parts of the world, scattered like so much detritus in the wind. They won't even need to see each other until rehearsals start for Infinity War in the fall. Sebastian's lived with a lie for years – Chris can live with the truth for a few days.
"Not now," he says, with a pointed glance at the platform, and their expectant interpreter and the waiting media. "We'll talk about it later tonight."
There's no room for argument in his tone, and thankfully, Chris seems to pick up on it.
"Yeah, sure," he says, with a look Sebastian can't interpret. "Whatever you say."
If only, Sebastian thinks.
***
Sebastian's phone starts buzzing in his jacket pocket right as the waitress leaves the table to put in their drink order. The group he's with – all friends he's stayed in touch with from his Rutgers days – have a rule about no phones at the table, so he tries to ignore it. But when it buzzes again – and again, and again – he finally pulls it out with an apologetic shrug.
"If it's your agent, tell them to wait until tomorrow,” Karina suggests.
"If it's his agent, tell them you want another percent of the gross,” Mykhail adds.
"It's not my agent, guys,” Sebastian says, smiling, but it slides off into a puzzled frown when he unlocks his phone.
He has sixteen texts, all of them from Chris.
So I'm in New York right now.
You around?
Would love to get together if so.
Okay, who am I kidding, get together. This is totally a booty call.
I'd send you a dick pic to show you how hard I am, but you might be with your family or something.
But I am pretty fucking hard. Been thinking about your mouth pretty much non-stop since I landed.
Been thinking about how hot and wet it is and how good it feels when you suck me off.
And that thing you do with your tongue, fuck me.
Im sort of jerking off right now just thinking about it. Its hard to type with one hand just so you know.
Sebastian scrolls through the rest – each one increasingly more graphic – and prays his expression doesn't give anything away. Sure, he and Chris have flirted a bit via text before, but this is on a completely different level.
He's still frowning down at the screen when he gets an incoming call alert. From Chris.
"Sorry, I need to take this,” he mumbles to the table, then pushes himself to his feet and heads towards the door. He has a feeling he's going to want a fair amount of privacy for this conversation.
The second he's outside and in the alleyway beside the restaurant, he hits accept. "Chris, what the hell, man –" he starts, only to be cut off by Chris' long, heartfelt sigh.
"Oh thank fuck, Seb, please tell me you're in New York right now –”
"Yes, of course I am,” Sebastian gets out, frustrated, "but what the hell –”
"Thank you baby Jesus, okay, I'm texting you my hotel address right now –”
"Chris.” Sebastian glances around, but there's no one else in the alley with him, unless the dumpsters count. "I can't come over right now.”
"C'mon, I'm dying here. Like, literally dying of blue balls. I'm asking, no, seriously, for real, I'm begging for you to come over and put me out of my misery."
No, Sebastian thinks, you're not. "I'm in the middle of dinner –"
"Wouldn't you rather eat me out instead?"
"Chris," Sebastian tries again. He's got plans tonight with his friends, people he hasn't seen in months. He and Chris had just wrapped The Winter Soldier three weeks ago. Chris hadn't even warned him he would be coming to New York. He's not doing this.
"Is that a yes or a no?" Chris asks, playful now.
Sebastian sighs. "It's a fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I am not spending the rest of my night with a hard on because you're lonely and horny and think sexting me is a great idea."
"So drop by after dinner and bend me over and fuck me until I can't walk and we'll call it punishment."
It's not – not even remotely – but all Sebastian does is bang his head once against the unforgiving brick wall. "That's not what I meant.”
"Seb...” Chris' voice is so low Sebastian has to strain to hear him. He knows it's deliberate, knows Chris is manipulating him on purpose, but the intimacy still wraps around him, engulfs him like the tide. "I really need you, okay. I wasn't kidding. I've been thinking about your mouth since I got on the plane. I was hoping to surprise you tomorrow, but I can't wait that long to get my hands on you.”
He has to be the biggest sucker on the planet. Fuck, he's just... He doesn't have the words for it, really. Except that he can't seem to say no where Chris is concerned. "It'll be at least an hour, probably more,” he warns, damning himself for capitulating so easily. "And if you're asleep, I swear to fucking God, Chris –"
"I won't be, I swear," Chris promises. "And we can...you can have me however you want, okay, I just...I really fucking need you."
Bullshit, he thinks, but it's not worth the argument. Especially not when there's the extremely high probability that he'll be ending his night having mind-bending sex.
"I'll text when I'm on my way over."
"I'll be naked and ready."
***
It's the longest night of Sebastian's life. He knows he's off his A-game, knows he's not as loose and at ease with the press and the fans as he's been in the past. There's a tension rippling under the surface of his body, a riptide tugging him towards an uncharted path. That sense he gets sometimes before a difficult scene, of being both completely within himself and outside the moment entirely. Intimate, yet dispassionate.
Mackie finds him – because of course Mackie's noticed the careful way Chris is acting, the crucial bit of distance he's keeping from Sebastian, how his smile is slightly forced – and gives Sebastian a slight nudge to his shoulder between autographs. Light, friendly, nothing to see here, folks. It's insanely loud – fans shouting for him, for Mackie, for Chris and Joe, professing their love, asking questions, wanting autographs and selfies – but Sebastian hears the question in the gesture all the same.
He kicks gently at Mackie's ankle in response – their personal code for it's all good – and smiles for yet another fan, reaches for yet another piece of merchandise to sign. He owes them nothing less than his full attention and love for all the love and adoration they've so freely and openly given him. But he can feel Chris' eyes on him at every turn, the teeming questions gathering like rain clouds behind that megawatt, movie-star smile he's dispensing like candy. The concern he tries so hard to hide behind the jovial shield he presents to the world.
It's a relief when they all get inside the venue, and Sebastian's got a minute to just breathe. Dropping his own mask just enough so the weight of it's no longer choking him. And when his phone buzzes, he's not remotely surprised to see that the text is from Mackie.
Everything okay with you two?
Sebastian looks up. Mackie's standing with Joe at the other end of the stairs leading to the stage. Chris is hanging back in the wings, his own phone pressed to his ear, and talking heatedly to whoever it is on the other line. Sebastian can't hear Chris' half of the conversation, but he recognizes the pinched look on Chris' face. Under normal circumstances, he'd be at Chris' side with a comforting hand to his elbow or a private smile to let Chris know he's not alone. Under normal circumstances, he knows Chris would turn to him, drop his head on Sebastian's shoulder and let out a series of shaky breaths – and maybe he might tell Sebastian the problem, or maybe not, but at least Sebastian could give him some form of comfort.
When had that stopped being enough? When had it all changed and morphed for him, their private, easy cocoon from the world a prison now instead of a refuge? He doesn't have an answer.
We will be, he types out, and gives Mackie what he hopes is a reassuring smile. This is between him and Chris, no one else.
He gets one more text right before he's set to take the stage – If you need me, let me know – and smiles again. He's got good friends watching his back. And knowing that helps get him through the next two hours of questions and answers and photos and even more press. Another performance, another day.
He can't help the feeling of relief once the event is over and they're all on the way back to the hotel. Chris doesn't say a word the entire drive back, just stares out the window of the limo at the passing lights. Once again, Sebastian is thankful Mackie's with them, to fill the silences with humorous anecdotes and observations. Joe chimes in a few times as well, and Sebastian manages to add a couple of words here and there.
Still, he's not surprised at all when Chris follows him into the elevator and then to his floor and to his room. They don't say a word as Sebastian keys them both in, or when Sebastian grabs two small bottles of Makers Mark from the mini-bar. He hands one to Chris, and they watch each other in silence as they both drink: straight up, no ice or water or anything else diluting the taste. Just the sharp sting of whiskey on their tongues.
As far as metaphors go, Sebastian thinks, it's a pretty good one for their entire relationship.
Chris finishes his bottle first and sets it on the counter. Steels himself as he straightens to his full height. Challenge and bravado in his stance – always trying to get ahead of any confrontation, control the outcome or the fallout.
"You wanna tell me what's going on?” he asks. His voice is raspy, no doubt from the burn of the alcohol.
"That depends,” Sebastian replies, and sets his own empty bottle down. It's odd, in a way. He thought he'd be more nervous at finally getting everything out in the open, that he'd feel more of a twinge in his gut. But all he feels is a deep well of relief, his lungs filling with pure, sweet air.
No matter what happens in the next five minutes, they'll finally have true honesty between them.
"Depends on what?” Chris asks.
"Are you finally ready to listen to me? Or is this gonna be another one of those times where you act like you are and then do your own thing anyway?” Part of Sebastian knows he's not being fair – it's not like he's not culpable himself, not like he doesn't share part of the blame for the status quo. But right now, he doesn't feel like being fair.
Chris puts his finger to his chest and mimes pulling the trigger. "Ouch. Body shot right off the bat.”
"Yeah. Sorry.” He's not and they both know it. "But I'm tired of us dancing around this. I'm tired of you ignoring the elephant in the room. We've both been doing this way too long and it's gotta stop.”
"Seb, is this about...?” Chris' gaze softens as he steps closer. His smile trembles around the edges. "You wanna come out or something? Make this...make us...official?”
White noise buzzes in Sebastian's ears. His lungs contract painfully tight as spots dance in his vision. "What??”
"I mean, if that's it, if that's what... Look, I'm ready if you are,” Chris continues, with that small, oddly sweet smile that has been Sebastian's downfall from the very beginning.
"You...” He can't be hearing this right. Chris can't want – he's never so much as hinted that he's wanted –
"You want to...you want us to...?”
Chris nods; his skin looks sallow in the dim light from the lamp, but his eyes are bright, brilliant and clear. "Yeah, I do. If...I mean...if it's something you want.”
If it's something you want.
The words stop him cold. All of the air in his closed throat abruptly leaves him in a harsh, broken sigh. Disappointment flows like poison through his bloodstream, tastes like ashes in his mouth.
He stumbles back out of Chris' space, trips on his feet before he rights himself. "Jesus, Chris. You're a real piece of work sometimes, you know that.”
"What?” Chris' brows scrunch together in confusion. He looks so goddamn sincere. He's a better actor than even Sebastian had given him credit for, because he'd thought...
Christ, he'd honestly thought...
"What do you mean, what?” he retorts, the sting of it weighted by a bone deep weariness. He's just so tired.
"I mean, what. I thought you'd be happy, not –"
"Stop. Just...stop fucking talking. Stop trying so hard and... I need... You need to –" Sebastian bites back a frustrated noise, and scrubs a hand across his face. Of all the goddamn times to get tongue-tied.
Words, so often his enemy, thwart him once again. Over twenty fucking years in America, and he still sometimes trips up over the English language, especially when he's emotional.
"Seb." He can feel the air glitter, then coalesce, around him as Chris shuffles closer. As the tips of Chris' fingers brush across the back of his hand. The light touch a fiery brand that ignites a wildfire under his skin. "Just tell me what you need. I can't give you –"
He jerks his hand to his side. He can't. He won't. Not this time.
"Stop." The retort whip-fast. Biting and harsh.
Chris reels back slightly, like the sting of it's a physical thing. Maybe it is. But maybe it's just what Chris needs. That tangible something to tether him to the here and now. To the reality of who Sebastian is, not who Chris wants him to be. Maybe now, Chris will finally open his goddamn eyes.
"You need to stop," Sebastian continues, and reaches out to clamp his fingers around Chris' wrist. His own grip hard and implacable – not quite bruising, but not remotely gentle. "I need you to stop."
Chris' tongue flicks out nervously across his lower lip. "Tell me," he says, but it's reed-thin, the authority in it bleeding out until all that's left between them is a single question.
"What can I do?"
And standing there, looking at Chris, with his too bright eyes and too long lashes and those too furrowed brows – Chris, with all of that nervous, coiled energy and all of that ache and longing for something he knows Chris can't even name – Sebastian finally understands just what it is he needs to do.
"Do you trust me?" he asks, reaching up with his other hand to rub his thumb along the hollow of Chris' throat. Presses against the light, fluttering pulse until it quickens under his touch.
"Yeah." The reply is immediate. Heartfelt. So earnest in the way that everything about Chris is earnest. His life and emotions an open book, always so open. "Of course I do, you know that, Seb. We wouldn't be...here...if I didn't."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it." Sebastian tightens his hold around Chris' wrist, presses more firmly against Chris' throat. Keeps his eyes on Chris, not giving him a chance to look down or away or deflect. Cards on the table now. Everything hanging in the balance, precarious and fragile. The part Sebastian's been playing for the past seven years falling away, leaving only the core of him behind. He feels bare, exposed, naked in a way he never has been, not even in the middle of sex.
"Do you trust me?"
Chris swallows, heavy under his thumb. His breathing speeds up along with his pulse, hummingbird fast. Anticipation and nerves and a good amount of fear of the unknown. But his gaze – so wide and so blue, an ocean Sebastian could happily drown in forever – never wavers.
"Yes."
The word – and the promise behind it – reverberates through the room like a thunderclap. Settles into Sebastian's bones like gravity. One small word – three tiny letters – and everything between them changes.
Sebastian gives them both time to let the weight of it sink in. To give them both a moment to make sure they're good, that this is something they both want. He exhales slowly, one, two, three... and when he gets to ten, he steps back. Loosens his hold.
"Strip and lie on the bed.”
Chris doesn't even hesitate. Doesn't make a production out of it or try to tempt or tease. Just tosses his suit jacket to the floor, undoes his tie and unbuttons his shirt. Sebastian settles against the dresser, watches in approval as Chris toes off his shoes, then unbuckles his belt.
It's the red one – Chris' favorite. Sebastian watches it slither to the floor with interest. One day, when they're both ready, once Sebastian's made sure this isn't one of Chris' numerous attempts to try to top from the bottom, he wants to put that belt to good use. Wants to see what it would look like looped around Chris' wrists, holding his hands in place. Or maybe how it would feel in his own hands, what the red of it would look like against the smooth, white skin of Chris' ass.
Once Chris has stripped down, he takes the couple of steps to the bed. Then he stops, gives Sebastian a small, questioning look. "On my back or stomach?”
"Back.” Sebastian offers a reassuring smile – questions are okay and, right now, encouraged – and waits while Chris stretches out on the comforter.
"Like this?”
"Yeah, you're good. Now grab hold of the headboard,” he instructs. "Keep your hands right there. Don't move them until I tell you."
Chris nods. His fingers are already white from where he's gripping the slat so hard, but Sebastian doesn't bother trying to tell him to gentle his hold. He's only got one shot at this, and he's not going to waste it with frivolous orders. Nerves skitter down his spine, his heart fluttering beneath his ribs, but he keeps his body still, his voice stoic. He's waited far too long for this to give in to doubt. The fact that Chris is finally trusting him to be a safety net, a secure landing... Fuck.
It's everything.
"That's perfect," he says, allowing the praise to bleed into his tone. "You're doing so well, Chris. You're so good for me already. Now I want you to concentrate on me. Just me. My voice, my touch, what I'm doing to you, and nothing else. Empty your mind of whatever thoughts or doubts or questions you have – the only thing I want you to think about is me. You think you can do that for me?"
"Y-yeah." Chris bites at his lower lip, but doesn't move otherwise. His entire body is one taut line, ramrod straight with tension. But the need – the trust – in his eyes is a beacon, calls to Sebastian's soul like a siren's song. There is no way in hell he's letting Chris down. Not now that he has him exactly where he's always wanted him. Not now that he has Chris' entire focus and being directed at him and only him.
He removes his own jacket and shoes, loosens his tie and the top button of his shirt. Then he walks to the bed, and looks his fill. Lets Chris see the lust and need in his eyes as he rakes Chris' body from head to toe. The muscled span of his legs, the narrowness of his hips, the curve of his cock as it fills and lengthens under Sebastian's gaze. The paleness of his skin contrasting with the dark hairs sprinkled across his body. The tattoos etched in his flesh, each one meaningful, each one Sebastian knows as intimately as he knows his own name. The breadth of his chest and the arch of his throat. The beard hiding that generous mouth, the long lashes sweeping to kiss the tops of pinkened cheeks.
"You're so beautiful,” Sebastian murmurs, his voice caressing along the same lines as his gaze. "You got no idea what you do to me. What you've always done. From the moment we met, I wanted this. You, just like this. Naked and trembling and hard, all for me alone.”
"Seb...” His name is a broken plea, an exhalation. But still, Chris doesn't move. Doesn't try to deflect Sebastian's gaze or attention.
Sebastian has never been more proud of Chris in his life.
"I'm here,” he says, and climbs onto the bed. Drapes himself over Chris, bodies touching from head to toe. Every point of contact sizzles, even through his clothes. "You feel me? I'm right here.”
This close, he can see the fine stress lines around Chris' eyes, the high flush to his cheeks. Can feel it through every inch of his body when Chris lets out a shaky breath. "I feel you.”
"You gonna stay still for me?” he asks. One last chance, one last shot for Chris to call a halt.
"Yeah,” Chris whispers, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "Yes.”
"Good,” Sebastian replies, then brushes a light kiss to Chris' mouth. Tastes the faint remnants of whiskey clinging to red lips. "Now, remember. Focus on me. Just me.”
"Just you,” Chris repeats, looking up at him with those otherworldly-bright eyes and that same wanting trust. The air in the room seems to fold in, enveloping them in this small bubble of safety. Here, nothing else matters. Not their careers or personas or pasts. The now shimmers around them like the mist at sunrise. Limitless. Filled with possibility.
Sebastian lets the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. Welcomes it like a homecoming – a sailor at sea for far too long and finally, finally reaching shore. He grins, buoyant and a little giddy, and lowers his head again, taking the kiss deeper this time. Taking all of Chris' weight, too, drawing it out of him with the slow slide of his tongue and the heated press of his body.
Chris mewls in protest when Sebastian moves his lips to each eyelid, then down along the bearded slope of his jawline. Moans brokenly, beautifully, as Sebastian trails teasing kisses down the column of his throat. He can feel the rapid thump of Chris' heart against his own, the heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt. Even with the barrier in place, his own skin burns in response. He's so hard already, aching and wanting behind the zip of his slacks, but the ache is insubstantial. Unimportant.
He flicks out his tongue, laves a slick trail over the wide expanse of Chris' chest, traces each rib, then the muscled walls of his abdomen. Murmurs praise and adoration to heated skin as he works his way lower, then lower still. Chris is hard, the length of his cock a gorgeous line along his groin, but Sebastian ignores it for the moment. Just makes his way down one leg – across a quivering quad and tight calf – then back up the other, before he settles himself between the vee of Chris' thighs.
"Still with me?” he asks, and presses a light kiss to the head of Chris' cock while waiting for an answer.
"Yeah...” It's barely more than a breath, but Sebastian feels it, feels the truth of it, in the trembling stillness of Chris' body beneath him.
He parts his lips, begins the slow descent, tastes precome and salt mingled together, the perfect combination on his tongue. He's been here between Chris' legs so many times in the past, has had Chris' cock in his mouth more times than he can even count. Knows the length and width of him by heart. But this moment still feels brand new.
He lets his eyes flutter shut as he curls his tongue around the underside, mouth stretching to accommodate more and more. He feels a little drunk, every sense reeling with far too much sensation. His own small, pleased noises mixing with Chris' heaving exhales, the sparks of light behind his eyelids with every slide up then down, the way the head of Chris' cock feels hitting the back of his throat, the smell of sweat and musk filling his nostrils – and under it all, over it, through every sensation, is Chris holding still and steady for him. Open and ready and wanting.
"Seb...please...” Chris' voice is slurred, thick as honey. It sounds like it's coming from a hundred miles away when he sucks in another shallow lungful of air. "Please, I need –"
He pulls off, ignores Chris' wordless protest and his own body clamoring for more, and runs his hands along Chris' flanks. "Shhhh, it's okay,” he soothes, "I got you, it's okay." Each word soft, as gentle as Sebastian's ever been with anyone. But he doesn't stop, doesn't give Chris a chance to ask for anything else, to concentrate on anything other than what he's doing. He just lowers his head again, lips catching the crown of Chris' cock, tongue flicking out to catch a few pearly drops of precome.
He can feel it; he can feel the moment when Chris finally surrenders. Chris' breath hitches, then slows, and his body goes liquid, pliant and loose, under Sebastian's hands and mouth. Sebastian risks a quick glance up, and Chris' eyes are shut, but his face is smooth, serene. His hold is lax, but secure, against the headboard, and his throat is bare and arched in a perfect curve. An offering.
Sebastian's own breath catches, then stutters. His eyes prickle with unshed tears. A sense of pride and wonder washes over him, and he gives it free rein for a brief moment. Gives himself a few heartbeats to soar, light and expansive and dizzyingly high. But then, he takes Chris deep once again, lips a tight suction as he lowers his head. Chris' first shocked grunt is music to Sebastian's ears, the most beautiful sound he's heard maybe ever. Then Chris pushes his hips up to meet Sebastian halfway, and Sebastian gets back to the task at hand. On making Chris feel good. On the thick, familiar feel of Chris' cock down his throat.
He starts to hum, cheeks hollowing with the force of his suction, tongue sliding in time with every bob of his head. There's a bliss in this that he's missed so much, a singular hollowing out of his own needs and baggage. His entire world narrowing to a singular focal point. The body under his hands, the fullness in his mouth. All of his concentration solely on Chris' pleasure, on making him feel good. The tell-tale catch of Chris' breath, the fine tremors when Sebastian works his way down just a little more, the musky taste of precome on his lips.
He pulls off, replaces his mouth with his fingers, curling them tight around the length. Thumb dragging just under the head the way he knows Chris loves best. Watches every change of Chris' expression as he moves, waiting, waiting, watching every minute shift, anticipation thrumming through him like electricity.
"That's it, there you go,” he encourages, twisting his wrist on the downstroke, "you're so beautiful right now, Chris, so good for me. I'm so proud of you, you've been perfect...now I need you to come for me, can you do that, can you be good for me one more time...”
And Chris, he listens so beautifully, so in tune with Sebastian that it's almost like they're sharing thoughts and impulses and breaths. He comes on a wordless sound, thick strands hitting the dark thatch of hairs at his groin and stomach, spilling over Sebastian's hand. Every part of him shuddering and shivering, goosebumps dotting his arms and legs. Sebastian coaxes him through it, murmurs praise and devotion in the shared space between them. Cocoons him in safety and security, watches the changing, flickering expressions on Chris' face with a reverence that feels biblical.
He's pretty sure his own cheeks are wet.
Clouded blue eyes blink slowly – once, twice – and those long lashes flutter like fairy wings as Chris smiles up at him. His look one of wonderment and awe.
"Hey there," Sebastian says with a small, pleased smile, and lowers his head so Chris can taste the smile in his kiss. "You can let go of the headboard now, okay."
Slowly, watching Sebastian the entire time, Chris releases his grip. Shakes both hands slightly to get the blood circulating again, and lowers one to toy with the hairs on the back of Sebastian's neck. Sebastian rubs light fingers along his sides and arms, continues to press light kisses to Chris' parted lips as Chris trembles in his arms. Coaxes Chris down with easy touches and more praise murmured between each breath.
After a few minutes, the trembling stops and Chris' eyes clear. A very pretty blush creeps across his cheeks and down his throat. "Wow," he offers, sounding dazed.
"Welcome back,” Sebastian tells him, with another soft kiss. "You need any water or anything?”
"I...” Chris stops, seems to take some sort of stock of himself, then nods. "Uh, yeah. Maybe.”
"Okay.” Sebastian crawls off the bed and heads to the small fridge. His skin feels uncomfortably clammy under his clothes, but he can hold off undressing for a few more minutes. Right now, taking care of Chris is far more important.
He sits on the edge of the bed and offers Chris the bottle, slides a hand under Chris' head so he can drink. "Small sips, okay,” he instructs, and presses a kiss to Chris' hair.
Chris manages to drink half the bottle, then he hands it to Sebastian, who sets it on the nightstand. "You good?” Sebastian asks, moving his hand so he can run his fingers through Chris' hair.
"Yeeeaaah...yeah.” Chris lets his head fall to the pillow. "That was...” He stops, huffs out a small laugh. "You were...”
"You were amazing,” Sebastian tells him, heart swelling with pride. "Thank you for trusting me."
"I...I've never...” Chris licks his lips, butts his head against Sebastian's hand when Sebastian stops scratching his scalp. "You never said... I never knew you wanted..."
"I know,” Sebastian replies, conciliatory. "My fault for not speaking up. I...I guess I didn't know how to...how to open this part of myself up to you." He owes Chris – owes this moment – nothing less than his full honesty. "And even if I had been, you weren't ready to hear it until tonight,” he adds, careful to keep his tone free of accusation. They've moved past that point.
"Yeah, you...uh, you're right," Chris says, and swallows. "I wasn't. But...I mean, now that I know...if you want..."
"I do," Sebastian assures him, and rests his other hand against Chris' chest. Right above his heart. "I don't care about coming out or putting a label on this. If it's something you want, I'm good with going public, but this right here?” He presses down, counts the beats under his palm. "This is all I've ever wanted."
"Oh." Chris blinks, stunned. Then that slow, small, sweet smile that crinkles the corners of his lips and eyes spreads across his face. "Me too."
Hope starts to unfurl its tremulous wings under Sebastian's skin. "Really?" he asks. "I never...”
"Yeah, really. Sorry I've been so...” Chris scoots up, and reaches out to start unbuttoning Sebastian's shirt. He glances at Sebastian from under his lashes, tacitly asking permission to continue. Smiles his thanks when Sebastian gives it in a nod. "I guess I kept hoping if I kept a tight enough hold on...I mean, it didn't work, obviously, because I...I...” His fingers falter, then stop.
Once again, Sebastian finds himself holding his breath. "Chris? What is it?”
Chris looks down at his fingers. He's silent and still for a moment that stretches into several, and then, with a small shake, he resumes his task. Helps Sebastian out of the shirt as he looks deep into Sebastian's eyes. "You remember back when we were filming the first movie?” he asks, his hands rubbing along Sebastian's shoulders, the touch light but igniting small shockwaves along his skin. "God, must've been second month of shooting, maybe, we were still in London, it was, uh, not long after we started fooling around...and I came by your apartment to make you breakfast?”
"Yeah,” Sebastian replies, with a fond, reminiscent smile. "I remember. You wanted to go over a scene, but we wound up having sex and almost missed our call time.”
"Yeah, that was embarrassing. Your poor PA, man, I think we scarred her for life,” Chris says, with a quiet laugh. "Anyway, I remember you answering the door in your underwear, with your toothbrush sticking out of your mouth and this crazy bedhead going on, and thinking, I want to wake up to this for the rest of my life.”
Sebastian's heart starts pounding in his chest. "Ser- I...you...seriously?”
Chris nods. "I was scared to death. Here I was, fucking up a perfectly good on-set fling by falling in love, which, way to go, Evans, diving in too far too fast, just like always. And then...then I kept fucking it up by not saying anything. So, whatever it is you're feeling, whatever regrets you have for not speaking up... I've been just as bad. I've had ten thousand chances to tell you I love you and I missed every one of them.”
Happiness bubbles under his skin, effervescent and the sweetest feeling in the world. "Not every chance,” he says, with a small shrug. "Not unless this is you telling me you don't anymore, which would be a total dick move, by the way.”
Chris shoves at him, laughing, and the sound is like music. "You are the biggest asshole, anyone ever tell you that.”
"Sure, Mackie tells me all the time,” Sebastian replies, and wraps a hand around Chris' nape to pull him in, paints the words across Chris' lips. "I love you too, you know.”
Saying the words aloud feels just like he imagines winning a Tony or an Oscar would – like all of the hard work and hard years and sacrifices and mistakes were all worth it. Just for this moment of pure happiness and completion.
They're both smiling when they part, a little goofy, a lot giddy, and then Chris looks down, gives Sebastian's lap a pointed glance. "So, uh, now that we've figured out our shit - and, for the record, I do love you, then now always - were you actually ever planning on getting undressed and fucking me through the mattress or...?”
"I guess I could be persuaded,” Sebastian replies, so joyous he's effervescent, and leans in for another kiss before standing to peel out of the rest of his clothes. Preens a little under Chris' appreciative stare when he's fully naked, and laughs when Chris makes grabby hands at him.
"Come here already,” Chris says, with a beckoning look. "You got no idea how much I want to touch you right now.”
"Oh, I've got some idea,” Sebastian says, settling himself above Chris again, as Chris crosses his legs just under Sebastian's thighs to cradle him close. Everywhere they touch flares white-hot, the glow under his skin brilliant like starlight. "I'm here now, okay," he adds, the promise the easiest one he's ever made. "I've got you."
"Yeah," Chris answers, with another beautifully intimate smile that Sebastian feels all the way down to his toes. "Yeah, you do."
***