Ghostbusters
by northern
Part of the Big Fat Annoying Songfic Challenge. Thank you to pierson and jchalo for beta.
Do not read if your squick is abuse.
Justin is standing at the bar with a glass of what looks like it might actually be coke, chatting animatedly with two German producers. Chris thinks they are producers, but this late everyone has started to look the same to him. Red-flushed, sweaty people who are here partly for the free drinks, partly to get closer to the merchandise. The ones eyeing Justin are standing a little too close for Chris's taste, and he scans the crowd for Lynn. No sign of her.
Chris takes a deep breath. Time for the Perv Patrol
to save the innocent yet again. He hums the Batman theme to himself
as he heroically swoops down on the bad guys, disarming them with
a short excuse about the time. They disperse without too much trouble,
Justin is free, and it's another great victory for the Powerful
Perv Patrol. Chris smiles and goes back to drinking his beer.
On the way home they go in the same car, Justin and him. The others left five minutes ago, the bodyguard tells him in a calm voice when he asks about it.
The car is moving, suddenly, and the doors are closed and they're on the seat, waiting for the hotel to appear as a dark building among others through the tinted glass. Justin smiles big and leans against Chris's shoulder too unexpectedly, falling across his legs instead. Chris looks down at him fondly, thinking that the screaming girls wouldn't be too impressed right now. Justin has started laughing uncontrollably, his head buried against Chris's stomach and his knees tensing against the backrest, trying to fold himself into one tight knot of laughing boy.
When Justin's giggling subsides and his squirming seemingly takes on more of a purpose Chris quickly hauls him up to a sitting position again.
Justin spends the rest of the drive looking at him silently. Chris thinks he must be very drunk indeed to see what he thinks he sees in Justin's eyes.
Now and then there are moments, right before Chris moves and right after Justin stops moving, when Justin looks at him, quiet, slowly and almost without artifice touching a finger to his lips.
Chris always makes himself tear his gaze away. Never falling. Neverever failing.
He has promised himself never to let anyone break or dirty Justin that way. Least of all himself.
There are other parts of their relationship, of course there are. They talk, they play ball and they simply play together. It's the only normal thing they can wring out of this, and it brings them very close together.
But their closeness is coated with a layer like the surface of a pond with no outlet or inlet. A shinyslick filter superimposing everything which won't go away, no matter how hard Chris tries to wash it off.
He's not home. He's not drunk. He just wants to get his beer from the fridge and go watch the game. He'll walk right past me. I'm not interesting. He'll walk right past. I won't draw attention to myself. He won't-
"Hey, runt!"
A hand on his shoulder, bringing him to an abrupt halt, just when he thought he would be able to walk past him without anything happening. Don't get caught alone at home after work. That was rule number one, and he hadn't heeded it, and now he's been caught.
He looks up at his face. It looks unreal, blurry to him. Like he isn't really human at all, but cut-out collections of clichés. Buzzed hair and exaggerated swagger. The hand on his shoulder heavy and unyielding.
The time has slowed to taffy, and everything is unreal, the surroundings rushing by too quickly to see, snagging on seemingly random details which stand out in absurd clarity. The metal support for the shelf on the wall gleams dully and Chris studies the little imperfections and scratches around the bolt that keeps it all up while Justin's arm flashes past his face. He thinks it's Justin's arm.
It's some time after two in the morning, and Chris is almost sure he was slipped something at the party. He doesn't remember normal exhaustion ever feeling like this. He collapsed on the bed as soon as he got here, too dizzy to stand up, and Justin dropped like a dead weight down next to him.
Justin is talking about something, Chris thinks. It's probably not that important, but the fact that he can't hear anything but buzzing and tuneless melody bothers him.
There is nothing as soft as the skin of the inside of Justin's elbow - slipping satin-smooth against the back of his hand. Chris is much too drunk for this. Every time he tries to keep his mind on the here and now it slides through his fingers, like curly hair that won't tangle and snag, won't catch him and save him even when he runs his hands through it again and again.
Nothing is the way he'd thought it would be. If he
would have thought about it.
His back is uncomfortably pressed against the wall just inside their front door. His shirt is bunched up under his armpits. He's drunk. He's drunk, and he'll do nothing more than this. He'll thrust a few minutes and then go away to sleep it off, leaving him to wash it off. He won't do anything else.
The stench of stale alcohol is hot and sickening against his face. He turns his face to the side and tries to hold his breath, but the heavy thrusts press the air out of his lungs again and again and makes him breathe whether he wants to or not. The smell is spreading inside him - he can feel it taking him over inch by inch until the slick thing shoving against his stomach is barely noticeable at all.
He can't remember when he took his clothes off. There aren't any memories of how Justin wound up lying like this against him, warm naked thigh between Chris's own legs and his forehead pressed against his neck. There is no uncomplicated rationalization available.
Chris blinks at the ceiling, but doesn't look at it while he listens to Justin breathing. He can feel it, too, warm even puffs against his skin.
There is a long second when Chris tries to find a memory, any memory that proves reality wrong — but then the moment is over and he lies tense and still, accepting the full disaster of what he has done, the crashing cold waves of it running unstoppable through his mind.
The curtains are white, and the sun is leaning heavily on them from the outside, making them almost glow in the otherwise dim room.
Chris is sitting with his bare feet on the floor, looking at the bedside phone in his hands. His fingers trace the numbers, from zero to nine and back again, nice and even until they're tingling. He's been thinking for a while now, and his feet are cold.
Justin stirs again behind him, and he feels a warm hand tugging at his hip. He looks back at the boy.
Naked boy in his bed, all undone.
Chris blinks and it's so slow he's sure he won't be able to lift his eyelids again, but he is and he does and he sees Justin looking back at him.
"We don't have to call in yet, right?" Justin says. His voice is sleep-warm and unused.
Chris has forgotten about the phone in his lap. He looks at the black, outdated shape of it, feels the weight of unmade calls add up inside him until Justin slides his hand down his bare arm, takes the phone and puts it back on the bedside table. Then he scoots back across the bed.
"It's early, let's sleep, 'kay?" he says and holds the sheet up for him.
Chris wipes his palms against his thighs and sighs.
"Yeah. Let's sleep."
He feels shaky, climbing into Justin's waiting arms.