The Night's Settling In Your Bones (you gotta give it a go)
title: The Night's Settling In Your Bones (you gotta give it a go)
author: reogulus
pairing: Chris/Dustin
rating: NC-17
disclaimer: Don't own nothin' here.
word count: ~2500
notes: Written for the prompt here at tsn_kinkmeme under anon since my account is under-aged :( But I must post this to my journal just because this is actually the longest fic I've written in this fandom.
Title taken from the song "Move You" by Anya Marina.
The roaring crowd doesn’t make sense at first sight. Fifteen minutes ago, when Chris had just gone out for a quick coffee run, the office was but a silent honeycomb of codes and computers, habitat to dozens of busy programmers and interns. Now it looks like someone has shaken the whole place vigorously and the worker bees have all gone crazy.
It doesn’t take him long to figure things out when the numbers on the giant screen are still in motion, constantly refreshed, small but steady additions feeding fuel to the frenzy. Apparently, missing the moment and not being in the moment are no problem; Chris has to push his way through five people who want to hug him, perfect strangers and familiar acquaintances who are either laughing maniacally or on the verge of tears. None of the five bothers to give him a rational account of what exactly happened other than repeating the phrase “a million users” over and over.
Chris is in the clear for two minutes and already, the need for a sane companion is overwhelming. He looks to Dustin’s desk automatically. His friend is sitting in his cubicle, headphones around neck, paying no mind to the celebration around him. He doesn’t look much more “together” than the people around him, but at least he’s not jumping up and down on his chair.
Okay, Dustin’s spacey when there are girls watching, something’s up. Chris hurries over to Dustin’s desk, dodging the attacks of two wild-running female interns on his way. He props a hand on the desk; Dustin doesn’t even look up.
“Hey.” Chris waves his other hand in front of Dustin’s eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dustin answers timely and sounds coherent although he’s still not looking at Chris, “but everything else is not.”
Chris frowns. “Is it Mark?”
“I should’ve known,” Dustin leans forward on the desk, hands covering the sides of his head. The tangled fingers and hair make it difficult for Chris to find his eyes. “Yes, Mark screwed it up again, and no, it’s not always about him.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” Chris stretches up to look for Mark. Their CEO is sitting behind his desk, with his back to them and Chris can’t see his face. Awfully quiet and motionless, like the anchor of a cruise ship full of party people.
Then it strikes Chris. He knows what’s missing in this picture.
“Where’s Wardo? Isn’t he supposed to be here -”
“Let’s not talk about this right now. C’mon, we’re gonna be late for the party. You don’t wanna miss the free booze, do you?”
Dustin stands up abruptly and grabs Chris’s wrist, pushing the office chair back so hard it rolls out of control and squishes somebody’s foot before coming to a stop. The yelp of pain is quickly drowned by the ongoing racket and the stream of people rushing out the door. Chris joins the crowd for the fear that if he doesn’t move along, Dustin may literally rip his left arm off. He tries to ask again when they’re alone in the parking lot, but all Dustin says in reply is, “I’ll drive.”
He’s never said another word on their way to the club house. Chris rolls down the car window. The early December night air rushes in, blowing harshly on his skin even though it’s just a little chilly. He can’t remember the last time Dustin drove with such precise accordance to the speed limit. He also can’t remember the last time Dustin was this upset on the way to a party, on the way to what will be the best fucking party of their lives.
Chris closes his eyes and inhales the fresh roadside air. There’s tension building in his lungs for breathing the same air as Dustin in the past half an hour. He knows he’ll have to bear with it for another while if he wants Dustin to talk at all.
He’s always been the one who waits, anyhow.
***
It’s no surprise that the party turns out to be a drag without Mark or Eduardo. Another re-run of the Sean Parker variety show featuring drunk and under-aged interns does not interest anybody who has a history with Facebook that’s as long as Chris’s. The fact that everybody’s talking about going to some “after-party party” at a random sorority house later tonight is so fucked up that it makes him want to laugh.
Chris has never liked Sean. Truth is, while it’s evident that Sean’s been doing the job he stole from Eduardo, it’s not easy for the PR director to find his niche under the Sean’s egosystem either. He doesn’t complain because nothing good will come out of it except for some kind of irreconcilable fallout between Mark and him. Chris can see that at the rate things are going, he is dangerously close to packing his bags and going back to Harvard after Christmas, but that’s a consequence he’s willing to accept. But he stays, because he has one concern that he doesn’t like to think about when he’s getting drunk on free liquor at the bar, alone, when that particular asshole concern has run off to the restroom forty minutes ago and hasn’t returned.
Three rounds of scotch later, his phone buzzes. The rustle of the fabric of his pants pocket against his skin feels unreal in such an un-feeling place. He pulls it out, an insignificant illuminated screen produced under the ridiculous lighting.
From: Dustin
i'm sitting in the second floor bathroom drinking coronas in the shower. do not find me.
Chris smiles little. He assures himself that he’s tipsy enough to only see the last two words before he climbs up the stairs, right thumb dabbing on the keypad.
softy.
***
Dustin’s sitting on the edge of the porcelain tub, Corona in hand. His plaid shirt is unbuttoned all the way; his neck appears to be unnaturally flushed, providing quite a nice contrast to his dark green T-shirt. Chris closes the door behind him. There are several beer bottles at his feet, lying around in no particular pattern.
Dustin gives him a half nod, “I told you not to come.”
Chris walks over to his side and snatches the bottle from his hand. “Stop taking beers from chicks, you idiot.”
Dustin looks up, right into Chris’s eyes. He never looks Chris in the eye unless he’s about to offer some bullshit explanation for his actions or he’s drunk.
“I don’t take anything from the chicks here, man. You know I’m not like that dickhead Sean Parker.”
Right. He did tell Chris about this in a drunken stupor in freshman year back at Harvard, about why he always goes for older girls at parties even though they are much harder to impress. He fears it will be bad karma, since his sister, who is seven years younger than him, will someday end up at a wild college party where she will try to fit in by masking her nervousness. There’ll be plenty of stupid guys hitting on her all right, Dustin said in a slurred speech, restlessly rolling in bed, I just hope she hangs out with some real good friends who’ll really watch out for her, y’know? Like…you and me.
Chris remembers listening to his heartbeat in the dark at the time. How it had just speeded up for no apparent reason and it made him flex his fingers and curl his toes because they had, all of a sudden, gone cold.
(Yeah, just like you and me…and Mark and, that Brazilian dude who dropped him off tonight? He seems like a real decent guy, y’know, totally down with taking a completely drunk stranger back to his dorm…)
“Chris?”
Chris blinks. “Yeah? Sorry, it was the scotch. What did you say?”
Dustin tugs at the collar of his T-shirt irritably. “I didn’t say anything. I just wanted to let you know that you were really lucky to have stepped out before Wardo came in.”
“So he did come.” Chris sighs and sits on the rim of the tub next to Dustin. “Tell me what happened.”
“He found out that Mark had screwed him over, the whole diluting shares thing and whatnot. And now Wardo is no longer a part of Facebook. And he’s probably gonna sue Mark for fucking him up. And I don’t know why the hell I didn’t see it coming earlier, when we were still at the poolside house, when Mark forgot to pick him up at the airport, or even before that, when we were still at Harvard and they never had a normal, calm conversation after meeting Sean Parker in New York and that whole bullshit story about the chicken -”
“Stop it, Moskovitz. We both knew something was wrong when Mark took Wardo’s name off the masthead.”
Dustin bends down, buries his face in his palms and lets out a frustrated sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know, then.”
It’s in moments like this that Chris feels his decision to hang around in California for a little longer is a good idea. “Don’t give yourself the guilt trip.” He rests his hand on Dustin’s jeans. There’s a stain that’s still moist and smell of beer, but he is undeterred, “You’re not the only who had bear witness to that five minutes today. We’re just like anybody else who’s been in that room today, really - we have no idea what exactly caused this to happen.”
Dustin lifts his chin up and smiles a sad, disoriented smile. “I guess we never had a place between those two, huh? They could scream at each other till god-knows-when and no outsider would understand everything.”
Chris sighs, “You’d think something like that would be special enough to last.” He looks to the left and sees Dustin looking back at him. There’s something in those intoxicated eyes that makes him want to get closer. He flexes his hand that’s still resting on Dustin’s thigh subconsciously.
He hasn’t expected Dustin’s leg to twitch from the movement of his fingers. The shock paralyzes him in silence, every nerve end in his finger turning into a live wire. He can hear Dustin’s breathing.
“Yeah, it’s just…the regret, I guess. It’s killing me.”
“Right, that, and the shitty beer you’re drinking.” Chris has just realized that he’s still holding the beer he’s taken from Dustin. He hurries to bend down and line it up with the others, but Dustin grabs his hand before he can put it down and lifts it up from the beer stain. His warm sweaty palm is rubbing against Chris’s cool skin.
He leans in, and Chris tries hard to keep still. There’s no window in this bathroom. Their alcoholic breaths mix in the stale bathroom air and Chris knows he doesn’t really give a damn this time. He can see the same sentiments in Dustin’s eyes, the same feeling starts to surface like the tip of an iceberg. Chris knows there’s still something Dustin’s struggling to hold back, but at least Dustin’s allowing him to see it.
“No, I’m not talking about them. I mean, the regret thing, it’s not about Mark or Wardo or anybody else. Do you think if they’d…If they’d made something out of what they had…”
But Chris cut Dustin off with a soft “shush” and pulls him close by the neck. He whispers at Dustin’s ear, his lips trembling from something other than speech.
“We will never be the same as them, Dustin. You’ve had me at second floor bathroom.”
It isn’t till half a second later that Dustin bites into his lips and the beer tumbles out of his hand simultaneously.
***
Chris Hughes closes his eyes.
The absurdity of this insane pleasure is beyond words, beyond feelings, beyond the alcohol, the remorse and everything that went wrong in the past twenty-four hours. The wait is over, and now that it’s here he feels lost. Dustin feels too warm against his skin, the fire to his moth. Too desired, too needed. Chris sneaks a cool hand up Dustin’s T-shirt after his own hoodie has been stripped off. Dustin deepens the kiss and Chris strokes the small of his back. The words they never said are translated into actions, their bodies become mediums of communication. They shudder at each other’s touch with escalating eagerness.
“Damn it, hold still.” Chris curses under his breath. After a series of forceful pulls, he unfastens Dustin’s belt and strips off his pants and boxer briefs. He hears Dustin swallowing a moan before he kneels down.
He carefully laps around Dustin’s cock, trying hard to block the memory of the last time he gave head to a guy, the odd time when he was drunk and sad and feared Dustin would never come around. Dustin’s looking down at him through his eyelashes. There is a rim of wet glimmer around the corner of his eyes, of lust or guilt or both, and Chris knows nothing else matters anymore.
He moves his mouth to the base of the shaft, slowly going up and down. His right hand is wrapped around Dustin’s dick, twisting counter-clockwise at the same time. Dustin doesn’t bother to hold back anymore; his sighs and groans are deafening to Chris’s ears, though he knows the music outside the door is much louder. Fortunately the night is long and silent here, in this pathetic cubicle of a haven, settling in their bones and making them one.
Chris removes his lips from Dustin’s tip and stretches up to tongue his navel. Dustin lets out a muffled cry. His eyes are red and bloodshot; his hands are half-fisted, helplessly hanged at his waist. Chris paces himself, enjoying every curse, every word of begging Dustin throws at him in a breathy voice.
“Faster, Chris, please,” Dustin tugs at Chris’s hair, arching himself into Chris’s mouth, Chris’s touch. Chris squints at the bright fluorescent light above them; his free hand reaches down into his own loose waistband to stroke himself. He’s become unbearably hard at Dustin’s plea, but he isn’t going to let it finish yet.
He stands up straight, corners Dustin against the wall and teases the vice-president’s earlobe with his tongue. “No regret, right? You said it yourself.” He grinds against Dustin’s groin, hips to hips. Chris sees his own flushed complexion in Dustin’s dark pupils, and he bites into Dustin’s lips for a bruising kiss without hesitation.
The dark blue fabric of his jeans is wet with Dustin’s precome and his own, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. He shoves it out of the way and shakes his underwear loose, thirsty for direct contact. Their dicks rub against one another, and it feels too good for Chris to restrain himself from moaning into Dustin’s mouth.
“I want to you to come with me,” Dustin breaks away from the kiss and lets out a hasty request, and for the first time tonight, takes initiative by holding their shafts close together in both hands.
Before Dustin starts stroking, Chris looks into his eyes again. There is a moment of clarity, when all the fear and frustration are cleared up and gone. He laces his fingers with Dustin’s free hand and closes his knuckles tightly.
And once more, Chris does what Dustin’s told him with all his heart.
end
author: reogulus
pairing: Chris/Dustin
rating: NC-17
disclaimer: Don't own nothin' here.
word count: ~2500
notes: Written for the prompt here at tsn_kinkmeme under anon since my account is under-aged :( But I must post this to my journal just because this is actually the longest fic I've written in this fandom.
Title taken from the song "Move You" by Anya Marina.
The roaring crowd doesn’t make sense at first sight. Fifteen minutes ago, when Chris had just gone out for a quick coffee run, the office was but a silent honeycomb of codes and computers, habitat to dozens of busy programmers and interns. Now it looks like someone has shaken the whole place vigorously and the worker bees have all gone crazy.
It doesn’t take him long to figure things out when the numbers on the giant screen are still in motion, constantly refreshed, small but steady additions feeding fuel to the frenzy. Apparently, missing the moment and not being in the moment are no problem; Chris has to push his way through five people who want to hug him, perfect strangers and familiar acquaintances who are either laughing maniacally or on the verge of tears. None of the five bothers to give him a rational account of what exactly happened other than repeating the phrase “a million users” over and over.
Chris is in the clear for two minutes and already, the need for a sane companion is overwhelming. He looks to Dustin’s desk automatically. His friend is sitting in his cubicle, headphones around neck, paying no mind to the celebration around him. He doesn’t look much more “together” than the people around him, but at least he’s not jumping up and down on his chair.
Okay, Dustin’s spacey when there are girls watching, something’s up. Chris hurries over to Dustin’s desk, dodging the attacks of two wild-running female interns on his way. He props a hand on the desk; Dustin doesn’t even look up.
“Hey.” Chris waves his other hand in front of Dustin’s eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dustin answers timely and sounds coherent although he’s still not looking at Chris, “but everything else is not.”
Chris frowns. “Is it Mark?”
“I should’ve known,” Dustin leans forward on the desk, hands covering the sides of his head. The tangled fingers and hair make it difficult for Chris to find his eyes. “Yes, Mark screwed it up again, and no, it’s not always about him.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” Chris stretches up to look for Mark. Their CEO is sitting behind his desk, with his back to them and Chris can’t see his face. Awfully quiet and motionless, like the anchor of a cruise ship full of party people.
Then it strikes Chris. He knows what’s missing in this picture.
“Where’s Wardo? Isn’t he supposed to be here -”
“Let’s not talk about this right now. C’mon, we’re gonna be late for the party. You don’t wanna miss the free booze, do you?”
Dustin stands up abruptly and grabs Chris’s wrist, pushing the office chair back so hard it rolls out of control and squishes somebody’s foot before coming to a stop. The yelp of pain is quickly drowned by the ongoing racket and the stream of people rushing out the door. Chris joins the crowd for the fear that if he doesn’t move along, Dustin may literally rip his left arm off. He tries to ask again when they’re alone in the parking lot, but all Dustin says in reply is, “I’ll drive.”
He’s never said another word on their way to the club house. Chris rolls down the car window. The early December night air rushes in, blowing harshly on his skin even though it’s just a little chilly. He can’t remember the last time Dustin drove with such precise accordance to the speed limit. He also can’t remember the last time Dustin was this upset on the way to a party, on the way to what will be the best fucking party of their lives.
Chris closes his eyes and inhales the fresh roadside air. There’s tension building in his lungs for breathing the same air as Dustin in the past half an hour. He knows he’ll have to bear with it for another while if he wants Dustin to talk at all.
He’s always been the one who waits, anyhow.
***
It’s no surprise that the party turns out to be a drag without Mark or Eduardo. Another re-run of the Sean Parker variety show featuring drunk and under-aged interns does not interest anybody who has a history with Facebook that’s as long as Chris’s. The fact that everybody’s talking about going to some “after-party party” at a random sorority house later tonight is so fucked up that it makes him want to laugh.
Chris has never liked Sean. Truth is, while it’s evident that Sean’s been doing the job he stole from Eduardo, it’s not easy for the PR director to find his niche under the Sean’s egosystem either. He doesn’t complain because nothing good will come out of it except for some kind of irreconcilable fallout between Mark and him. Chris can see that at the rate things are going, he is dangerously close to packing his bags and going back to Harvard after Christmas, but that’s a consequence he’s willing to accept. But he stays, because he has one concern that he doesn’t like to think about when he’s getting drunk on free liquor at the bar, alone, when that particular asshole concern has run off to the restroom forty minutes ago and hasn’t returned.
Three rounds of scotch later, his phone buzzes. The rustle of the fabric of his pants pocket against his skin feels unreal in such an un-feeling place. He pulls it out, an insignificant illuminated screen produced under the ridiculous lighting.
From: Dustin
i'm sitting in the second floor bathroom drinking coronas in the shower. do not find me.
Chris smiles little. He assures himself that he’s tipsy enough to only see the last two words before he climbs up the stairs, right thumb dabbing on the keypad.
softy.
***
Dustin’s sitting on the edge of the porcelain tub, Corona in hand. His plaid shirt is unbuttoned all the way; his neck appears to be unnaturally flushed, providing quite a nice contrast to his dark green T-shirt. Chris closes the door behind him. There are several beer bottles at his feet, lying around in no particular pattern.
Dustin gives him a half nod, “I told you not to come.”
Chris walks over to his side and snatches the bottle from his hand. “Stop taking beers from chicks, you idiot.”
Dustin looks up, right into Chris’s eyes. He never looks Chris in the eye unless he’s about to offer some bullshit explanation for his actions or he’s drunk.
“I don’t take anything from the chicks here, man. You know I’m not like that dickhead Sean Parker.”
Right. He did tell Chris about this in a drunken stupor in freshman year back at Harvard, about why he always goes for older girls at parties even though they are much harder to impress. He fears it will be bad karma, since his sister, who is seven years younger than him, will someday end up at a wild college party where she will try to fit in by masking her nervousness. There’ll be plenty of stupid guys hitting on her all right, Dustin said in a slurred speech, restlessly rolling in bed, I just hope she hangs out with some real good friends who’ll really watch out for her, y’know? Like…you and me.
Chris remembers listening to his heartbeat in the dark at the time. How it had just speeded up for no apparent reason and it made him flex his fingers and curl his toes because they had, all of a sudden, gone cold.
(Yeah, just like you and me…and Mark and, that Brazilian dude who dropped him off tonight? He seems like a real decent guy, y’know, totally down with taking a completely drunk stranger back to his dorm…)
“Chris?”
Chris blinks. “Yeah? Sorry, it was the scotch. What did you say?”
Dustin tugs at the collar of his T-shirt irritably. “I didn’t say anything. I just wanted to let you know that you were really lucky to have stepped out before Wardo came in.”
“So he did come.” Chris sighs and sits on the rim of the tub next to Dustin. “Tell me what happened.”
“He found out that Mark had screwed him over, the whole diluting shares thing and whatnot. And now Wardo is no longer a part of Facebook. And he’s probably gonna sue Mark for fucking him up. And I don’t know why the hell I didn’t see it coming earlier, when we were still at the poolside house, when Mark forgot to pick him up at the airport, or even before that, when we were still at Harvard and they never had a normal, calm conversation after meeting Sean Parker in New York and that whole bullshit story about the chicken -”
“Stop it, Moskovitz. We both knew something was wrong when Mark took Wardo’s name off the masthead.”
Dustin bends down, buries his face in his palms and lets out a frustrated sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know, then.”
It’s in moments like this that Chris feels his decision to hang around in California for a little longer is a good idea. “Don’t give yourself the guilt trip.” He rests his hand on Dustin’s jeans. There’s a stain that’s still moist and smell of beer, but he is undeterred, “You’re not the only who had bear witness to that five minutes today. We’re just like anybody else who’s been in that room today, really - we have no idea what exactly caused this to happen.”
Dustin lifts his chin up and smiles a sad, disoriented smile. “I guess we never had a place between those two, huh? They could scream at each other till god-knows-when and no outsider would understand everything.”
Chris sighs, “You’d think something like that would be special enough to last.” He looks to the left and sees Dustin looking back at him. There’s something in those intoxicated eyes that makes him want to get closer. He flexes his hand that’s still resting on Dustin’s thigh subconsciously.
He hasn’t expected Dustin’s leg to twitch from the movement of his fingers. The shock paralyzes him in silence, every nerve end in his finger turning into a live wire. He can hear Dustin’s breathing.
“Yeah, it’s just…the regret, I guess. It’s killing me.”
“Right, that, and the shitty beer you’re drinking.” Chris has just realized that he’s still holding the beer he’s taken from Dustin. He hurries to bend down and line it up with the others, but Dustin grabs his hand before he can put it down and lifts it up from the beer stain. His warm sweaty palm is rubbing against Chris’s cool skin.
He leans in, and Chris tries hard to keep still. There’s no window in this bathroom. Their alcoholic breaths mix in the stale bathroom air and Chris knows he doesn’t really give a damn this time. He can see the same sentiments in Dustin’s eyes, the same feeling starts to surface like the tip of an iceberg. Chris knows there’s still something Dustin’s struggling to hold back, but at least Dustin’s allowing him to see it.
“No, I’m not talking about them. I mean, the regret thing, it’s not about Mark or Wardo or anybody else. Do you think if they’d…If they’d made something out of what they had…”
But Chris cut Dustin off with a soft “shush” and pulls him close by the neck. He whispers at Dustin’s ear, his lips trembling from something other than speech.
“We will never be the same as them, Dustin. You’ve had me at second floor bathroom.”
It isn’t till half a second later that Dustin bites into his lips and the beer tumbles out of his hand simultaneously.
***
Chris Hughes closes his eyes.
The absurdity of this insane pleasure is beyond words, beyond feelings, beyond the alcohol, the remorse and everything that went wrong in the past twenty-four hours. The wait is over, and now that it’s here he feels lost. Dustin feels too warm against his skin, the fire to his moth. Too desired, too needed. Chris sneaks a cool hand up Dustin’s T-shirt after his own hoodie has been stripped off. Dustin deepens the kiss and Chris strokes the small of his back. The words they never said are translated into actions, their bodies become mediums of communication. They shudder at each other’s touch with escalating eagerness.
“Damn it, hold still.” Chris curses under his breath. After a series of forceful pulls, he unfastens Dustin’s belt and strips off his pants and boxer briefs. He hears Dustin swallowing a moan before he kneels down.
He carefully laps around Dustin’s cock, trying hard to block the memory of the last time he gave head to a guy, the odd time when he was drunk and sad and feared Dustin would never come around. Dustin’s looking down at him through his eyelashes. There is a rim of wet glimmer around the corner of his eyes, of lust or guilt or both, and Chris knows nothing else matters anymore.
He moves his mouth to the base of the shaft, slowly going up and down. His right hand is wrapped around Dustin’s dick, twisting counter-clockwise at the same time. Dustin doesn’t bother to hold back anymore; his sighs and groans are deafening to Chris’s ears, though he knows the music outside the door is much louder. Fortunately the night is long and silent here, in this pathetic cubicle of a haven, settling in their bones and making them one.
Chris removes his lips from Dustin’s tip and stretches up to tongue his navel. Dustin lets out a muffled cry. His eyes are red and bloodshot; his hands are half-fisted, helplessly hanged at his waist. Chris paces himself, enjoying every curse, every word of begging Dustin throws at him in a breathy voice.
“Faster, Chris, please,” Dustin tugs at Chris’s hair, arching himself into Chris’s mouth, Chris’s touch. Chris squints at the bright fluorescent light above them; his free hand reaches down into his own loose waistband to stroke himself. He’s become unbearably hard at Dustin’s plea, but he isn’t going to let it finish yet.
He stands up straight, corners Dustin against the wall and teases the vice-president’s earlobe with his tongue. “No regret, right? You said it yourself.” He grinds against Dustin’s groin, hips to hips. Chris sees his own flushed complexion in Dustin’s dark pupils, and he bites into Dustin’s lips for a bruising kiss without hesitation.
The dark blue fabric of his jeans is wet with Dustin’s precome and his own, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. He shoves it out of the way and shakes his underwear loose, thirsty for direct contact. Their dicks rub against one another, and it feels too good for Chris to restrain himself from moaning into Dustin’s mouth.
“I want to you to come with me,” Dustin breaks away from the kiss and lets out a hasty request, and for the first time tonight, takes initiative by holding their shafts close together in both hands.
Before Dustin starts stroking, Chris looks into his eyes again. There is a moment of clarity, when all the fear and frustration are cleared up and gone. He laces his fingers with Dustin’s free hand and closes his knuckles tightly.
And once more, Chris does what Dustin’s told him with all his heart.
end