By Mickey M.
© December 2002
You don't want to answer the knock at the door. Whoever it
is should just go the fuck away until say, January first. Or, at the very
least, December twenty-sixth. Don't mess with a man and his brooding, especially
not this time of year.
And the last time you checked, it was just past midnight,
December twenty-fifth.
Merry fucking Christmas.
You really don't want to answer the door. It won't be who
you want it to be, and you'd rather stay nicely comfortable on your couch,
scotch in hand, depressing country Christmas music spinning on your
stereo. Depressing and country
because he gave you the CD, when you asked him what he was listening to,
just before you drove him to the airport.
"What the hell is that, dude?"
"'Ricky Van Shelton Sings Christmas'," he
smiled, eyes crinkled up just a little. Nothing like JC did, but still cute.
Too cute. "He has a good voice. You'd probably like it."
"Dork. I'm sitting Christmas out this year. Not in
the mood." You'd only been partially kidding. Usually you
liked the holiday, but—not this year. Too much distance between you and the
other guys, everyone off in different directions. Even your own family was
scattered, doing different things for the most part. You wanted to blame it on
Dani – and did, for the most part, but the truth was, breaking up with her
hadn't really hurt, because you weren't in love with her. She was a good
friend, and a convenient cover/excuse, but, that was it.
He snarked at you then, something you blocked out,
listening only to the deep, slow words for the sound, and handed you the CD
with a Look. "You need to listen to it, Chris. Just once, okay?"
"Yeah, sure. Whatever."
You've played nothing else in the last twenty-four hours.
Track seven. Please Come Home for Christmas.
It might be easier if you actually told him, so
he'd know he was supposed to stay, or come back, or whatever. But you're a
chickenshit, too scared to fuck up a good friendship, and so unable to open your
mouth to say a word about it.
They're knocking again, and for just a second you imagine
it's someone from your past who's dead, and coming back to haunt you. Scrooge,
a la Christmas 2000. Maybe Bill Murray is hiding around here somewhere. You
raise your glass in a silent toast to Scrooges everywhere, and shout toward the
door, "Go away."
You drop your glass on the floor when Lance yells back,
"open the damn door, you freak."
It actually takes you a minute to make your brain process
the words, then to make your legs work, getting you up off the couch. By that
time, Lance is rattling the door handle, muttering not-quite-understandable
things on the other side of your door.
You yank the door open, still not sure you're not imaging
things. Lance is standing there, eyes snapping green fire, mouth pursed in that
expression that means he's irritated. Some of that fades as you look at him.
"What're you doing here, Bass? This doesn't look like Mississippi to
me."
"Which is good, 'cos you're definitely not my
momma." The frown shifts to a smile before he shoulders past you, a
carryall bag over his shoulder. You glance out into the night before closing
your door, but none of your neighbors seem to have been fazed by the lunatic
pounding on your door at midnight, so, good. He drops the bag then leans
against the wall, watching you. It makes your belly clench, makes the hair on
the back of your neck prickle, and you scrub your hand through it. A little
longer, and you're going to do the dreds again.
"Um, okay, so—why're you here, and not at
home?"
Lance shakes his head and sighs, takes a couple steps
toward you. "You don't get it, do you? I went to Mississippi…and then I came
home."
"Uh…huh?" You know you must be dreaming. Or
drunk. Because even though Lance's mouth is moving – and you are paying
attention this time – you don't understand what he's saying.
He steps closer, then, and you take a step backward,
hitting the wall. You can't see anything but apple-green eyes, darkened with
amusement…and something else. "Not the brightest bulb in the box tonight,
are you?" Another step presses him against you and you shiver, full body,
skin prickling with emotion, with anticipation. "I figure if I wait for
you to say something, we'll both be old…or dead."
"Hey—"
"Chris." He cuts you off with one word, with a
look, eyes dark, glittering oddly in the dim light. "I get it, okay? And—I
feel the same. Way."
You feel like he's sucker punched you, because you can't
catch your breath. Can't stop the tingling sensation streaking over your skin.
It feels too tight, too hot, like it'll crack and peel if you shift or move at
all. "Lance—really? I mean—"
"Really." He smiles, just a little, then touches
your face, slides his fingers through your hair before brushing his mouth across
yours, once, twice, then pressing harder, licking at your lips, at the seam
between them.
If it's a dream you don't ever want to wake up. You slide
your hands up his chest, loop your arms around his neck and pull him in closer,
wondering if you could crawl inside him somehow.
His kisses taste like orange juice and vodka, with a sharp
peppery taste beneath that. Over all of it is the sensation of warmth, of
comfort, of sex and passion and lust and love, and a hunger you've never quite
felt, never had aimed at you. You shiver and press closer, groan when he
presses you hard against wall, one thigh pushed between your legs.
You kiss until your head is swimming, until you can't
breathe and don't care. Your lips sting where he's bitten at them, then licked
and sucked the hurt away. Your mouth feels swollen, hot, your skin sensitive to
the slightest touch. You ache, you want him so bad, and can't believe he's
here, touching you, whispering dark, secret things into your ear. Things that
make your heart pound and your cock throb hotly behind your sweats. When Lance
touches you, fingers stroking deftly, cupping and outlining you behind the
fabric you growl and arch against his hand, then reach to touch him, shuddering
when his voice drops an octave, and he rasps, "harder" against your
ear.
You're happy to oblige him, squeezing through his jeans
until he groans and bites your neck, hips doing a shimmy you were sure only
Justin or JC could pull off. Your hips are snapping in a rhythm you can't quite
control, and it feels so fucking good you want to scream, but—
"Not against the wall," you pant, pulling back a
little and pushing against his chest. Lance blinks once at you, like he's not
sure he's hearing you right. You touch his face, stroke your thumb across his
mouth, wide, full, lips a little swollen. "Not the first time, dude."
H nods slowly, then kisses your thumb. "Yeah. I,
uh—" and then he blushes. You would swear to it on a stack of bibles.
"Lance?"
"I, um. Didn't really mean to come in
and—y'know."
You grin, a little of the humor of the situation sinking
in. "Seduce me? Pin me against my wall and freak me?"
You get a whap against the head for that, then a quick kiss. "Yes, to the
seduction. No to the pinning-and-freaking-against-the-wall thing." He
smirks. "I have some standards, Kirkpatrick."
You snort. "Coulda fooled me, dude." You gesture
at the bag he dropped on the entryway tile. "What happened to the three
bags I helped you carry?"
Unless you were mistaken, he flushed again. "It was
kind of…a last minute decision to come back here. And, um. I need to call home
and tell momma I won't be there for dinner."
"Dude. You didn't even tell your mom you were coming
back here? Where the hell does she think you're at?"
Lance tugs on your hand, pulling you back into the living
room where Ricky what'shisname was still singing on the stereo. "She
probably thinks I'm driving around looking at lights, which was what I said I
was gonna do." He shrugs and sits down on the couch, pulling you with him.
What a hardship to land, sprawling, on top of him. "I did look," he
says, tracing your face with one finger. "Drove around for an hour, trying
to decide what to do. Finally said fuck it, and called the travel agent, said I
didn't care which airline or how much, just find me a ticket going back to
Orlando tonight."
"Wow. Lance Bass spent money on me?"
You kiss his finger, then bite the tip. "I'm impressed as hell,
dude."
"You should be. I could've practically bought
a plane, for what that ticket cost me." But he's grinning, that snarky,
shit-eating grin you love so much, so you figure he's cool. He wouldn't've done
it if he didn't want to.
"C'mere." You tug on him, and shift backward, pulling
so he settles over you, resting his weight on his arms. He's still hard; you
can feel him hot and pulsing against your thigh. That's fine, you are too. You
loop your arms over his neck again, draw him down against you for a kiss. Just
a light brush of your mouth over his, but he follows you, licking, and then
it's—slick, hot, a sexy glide of tongue-against-tongue, teeth nipping at tender
flesh. You hook one leg around the back of his and wriggle upward, smiling
against his mouth when he growls.
"Chris, fuck—" He grinds down against you and
it's so good. Too good. You're not sure this was the best idea, dry humping on
the couch, because it occurs to you you'd really like to feel him,
skin-to-skin—and then he shoves back, straddling your waist, and yanks at your
t-shirt. "Off. Now."
"Bossy bitch," you mutter, but tug it up over
your head. "Yours too, dude. Not gonna be nude alone."
"Uhhuh." But he skims it up over his head, and
you catch your breath in surprise, because—holy fuck, when did Lance start
having a six-pack? You reach out a hand and trace over tight abs, ruffle though
soft, springy hair, stroke around small, pink nipples, grinning when they
pucker up into tight nubs. Lance does the same to you, fingers combing through
the thicker tangle of hair on your chest, teasing around your nipples until
you're ready to scream from the light, too light touches. "Sexy."
"Hah." But you feel like it, with the random,
reverent touches he's giving you. He gives you a wicked smile and scoots
backward, leans in and kisses your jaw, your throat, licking downward, and
ohhh—when his mouth closes over your left nipple and sucks, so gently, you
grunt and buck upward. His hands settle on your hips, holding you steady while
he licks and sucks, teasing back and forth until you're panting, fingers
threaded through his too-short hair, trying to guide him. "Lance—"
"Mmmm." Wicked, wicked tongue on your boy. It
dances like it has a mind of its own, slicking over your nipples, then
downward, wetting you down, goosebumps rising when cool air meets hot, damp
skin. As Lance moves back he pulls your sweats with him, and you lift up so the
material comes off easily. You're embarrassingly hard, cock curving upward
toward your belly, the head flushed and damp. He smiles and reaches for you,
and it's your turn to flush, feeling surprisingly awkward for reasons you don't
understand. "Chris?"
"I—" His face is solemn when he looks at you, eyes dark and
understanding. "I don't want it to be weird, y'know? This is—it could
be."
"It won't," he says softly, stroking you gently.
Such a soft touch, but it spirals through you, ripples growing large and wide
like the ripples in a puddle when a rock's tossed in. You feel each ripple
touch against your nerves, against your skin, feel the bubbles begin in your
blood. "I swear it won't, Chris. I—I've wanted it for too long." And
he's sitting there, your cock in his hand, his hair all mussed, his face
flushed and skin ruddy with sweat and arousal, and you know he's right. It
won't be. Nothing that feels as right as this could possibly be wrong or
awkward or weird. He strokes you once more, a slow stroke, his fingers curling
tightly around you, and you let out a small sound, watch him smile. "Turn
over."
You reach out and run your fingers over the waistband of
his jeans. "Take these off."
"I'm gonna." His fingers linger, brushing over
you, until you roll, moving onto your stomach. The friction of upholstery makes
your stomach clench; when Lance settles on top of you, you arch upward, then
downward, hissing at the contact. You can feel him, hot and hard against you,
small flickers of moisture as he rubs against the back of your thighs. His
mouth brushes against your ear, your neck, his voice low and rumbly, like
thunder. "Open your legs, Chris."
Ohh, god. You move, making space for him, groaning when
the head of his cock slides between your thighs, butts up against the back of
your balls. Your cock is wet and hot against your belly, and the feel of it
rubbing against the couch makes you dizzy, because the sensation is so intense.
Like you haven't had sex in…as long as you haven't had sex. "Jesus,
Lance—"
"Feels good," he groans, his voice all deep and
porn-y, and you remember teasing him about it, about the sounds he made jerking
off in the back of the bus sometimes, when you knew he thought no one knew. He
thrusts, slowly, then a little faster, biting at your neck when you squeeze
your thighs tighter together. "Chris—"
"Just, god, yeah, like that—" Oh, so good. Him
fucking against you, your dick rubbing against the couch. Delicious friction
all around. "God, Lance—"
He makes the most incredible sounds, low and thick, like
his voice is honey oozing over you. Just hearing him makes your blood boil,
even if he wasn't plastered against your back, sweaty skin to sweaty skin. He
licks at the droplets gathered at the nape of your neck, then bites you, and
you buck upward, back against him, hissing and yowling like a cat in heat. He
bites again, thrusting harder, faster, until he's fucking your thighs, his dick
sliding slickly from sweat and pre-come. Each thrust bumps against your balls,
against the sensitive skin behind them, until you're clenching your jaw,
humping upwards, backwards, then down again, rubbing at the couch.
Your orgasm starts small, starts in the pit of your belly
and expands outward, hot tendrils of pleasure seeping into your blood, twining
around your nerve endings until it's nothing but brilliant white heat slamming
through you. You yell something, howl into the cushion, and clutch your thighs
around Lance's dick, feeling his shout shudder into your bones. When he comes,
it's in four or five long pulses, thick, warm liquid slicking between you. He
slumps down on you afterward, and while you can hardly breathe, you don't care.
It feels incredible to have him there, solid, sweaty weight against you.
He snuffles against you, breath warm and moist against
your neck, and mumbles, "love you," and you think that what started out
as the worst Christmas in recent history has become the best, bar none.
You're pretty sure you're good with that.
~fin~