Four Ways Matt Dorame Didn’t Kiss Chris Jarosz (And One Way He Did)
Matt Dorame/Chris Jarosz (mentions of Matt/Kelli Baker, Chris/female OC, one-sided Chris/Mark Kanemura) (SYTYCD4)
R for sexual situations & language.
1.
The strobe lights flash wildly throughout the club, almost blinding him as they step into Celebrities. The dancing and grinding and groping forms of men and women - mostly men, actually - are illuminated briefly in the bluish-white light, glancing off the sweat and the euphoria and the pure sex that emanates from everyone inside.
“Holy shit.”
Matt has to agree with Chris’ awestruck statement, because holy shit were those hot male models in teeny, tiny leopard print thongs up on the stairs? One of them catches his eye and gives him a saucy wink even as he’s gyrating with another model, his hands clearly gripping the other guy’s ass. Matt gulps, his throat suddenly feeling dry, his head feeling heavy.
Their curious foray into the gay subculture of L.A. had begun innocently enough at the entrance of Celebrities; Matt hadn’t even been the one to suggest entering the nightclub, and he was pretty damn sure that he was slightly more bent, if you will, than Chris was. So he’d played it cool and said “Sure!”, trying not to sound as though he really, really wanted to go in, as though he was curious, because how often do you get to go into a gay nightclub with your very straight, very male best friend - who, as it happens, has been featuring in recent dreams that leave you gasping for air - when you’re a supposedly straight twenty-something-year old guy?
But now he’s kind of regretting that he agreed with Chris’ idea to come in, because how the hell can he hide the hard-on he’s getting just by seeing all these half-naked (or even nearly-naked - he certainly can’t forget those models) men gyrating and groping and touching each other and oh my God that guy just stuck his hand into that other guy’s JEANS!
It would be difficult to explain his reaction to Chris, who, as far as Matt knows, is 100% straight. He glances across at him. Chris still seems to be gaping at the club’s models, his eyes following the path of one of them down the stairs before his gaze falls onto the two men Matt had just torn his eyes away from. The bugging out of his eyes would’ve been comical if Matt wasn’t so scared of what he’d say. Instead of saying anything, however, his expression seems to flicker with uncertainty before he glances quickly at Matt. Catching his gaze, he actually blushes, and Matt saves him the embarrassment of saying anything by motioning to the bar. This, he’s familiar with.
-
A forgotten number of drinks later - they’d lost count after the fourth nervous, manly beer, and they’d lost their strangely awkward nervousness at their situation after the third (or was it fifth?) vodka shot - and now they’re the ones on the dance floor, laughing and letting loose and feeling the music, because this is what they do, they’re dancers, and even if they’re just having a night out in a club, by God, they’ll dance.
The alcohol is making Matt’s head spin, and his tongue feels loose in his mouth. It’s the alcohol that lets his body get closer to Chris as they’re dancing, that hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Chris’ jeans. It’s the alcohol that urges him to press his body closer and to tug Chris forward.
And it could be the alcohol, and the atmosphere, and the adrenaline, and the men dancing around them, but really it’s just Matt, that lets him act on his impulse to dip his head and press his lips to Chris’.
And it could be the alcohol, and the atmosphere, and the adrenaline, and the men dancing around them, but really it’s just Chris, that lets him.
2.
Cat Deeley is wearing a pink dress with pink tights and the outfit reminds Matt vaguely of a flamingo - in fact, it looks like it might have a stuffed flamingo attached to the front. Before he can ponder any further on the dubious choices of Cat’s wardrobe assistant, she’s speaking into her microphone to introduce their dance.
“Here to show you what the Tango’s really all about, it’s Matt and Chris!”
The music begins, and he stalks across the So You Think You Can Dance stage towards Chris, who’s wearing an open black shirt and tight black pants and looking at him with a heated expression on his face. They circle each other, slow and intense, before Chris grabs hold of his waist and one of his hands and then they’re moving across the stage to the rise and fall of the song. As they complete their first lift the audience of penguins breaks out into cheers - well, loud penguin noises - and ninjas wearing striped ninja-attire flip onto the stage, karate-chopping each other and yelling unintelligibly. Their gazes are connected as the music slows and the ninjas fight around them, and then he kicks his leg up once - they turn, and he kicks the other leg up, striking the floor hard when he brings it down. The music is heated and passionate and so is their dance, and as the song continues it seems as though they’re in their own little world, the ninjas and the penguins disappearing beyond their own bubble and the intensity building as they dance together. The music reaches its final climax, and as Chris lifts him one last time, his body pressed close to Matt’s, the overwhelming passion takes over and as soon as his feet hit the ground again he grabs his face and kisses him within an inch of his life.
Then he looks down and sees he’s wearing a tiny tight purple dress with millions of sequins and something that looks like a fringe.
What the hell? He thinks, and then he wakes up.
3.
“Fuck you, Chris!” Matt feels, irrationally, uncharacteristically, like he wants to cry. He blinks back his tears angrily, determined to not let Chris see what he’s doing to him. His fists are clenched so hard he can feel his nails cutting into his palms. He hopes they draw blood, because that pain would be better than whatever is squeezing his heart and making him choke on his own words.
“What the hell is your problem?” Chris is bewildered, but he’s angry too, because what kind of a best friend drops the f-bomb on your new, exciting relationship with a really cute, smart girl? What the hell kind of a best friend does that?
“My problem?” He seethes, “My problem?” he repeats, and he wants to run across the living room and punch Chris in his oblivious face. Either that or curl into a ball and die, because he doesn’t exactly have the strongest fists in the world and because he doesn’t know what his problem is, only that once Chris told him with all that stupid excitement on his face that he’d finally kissed her, he’d wanted to go out and find that girl and shake her by the shoulders and say I had him first!
“Yeah, your problem! I thought you’d be happy for me! I never said anything when you were dating Kelli and you guys spent all your time making out on our couch. Jesus.” Chris is gripping his hair in exasperation, and when he lets go one side of it is sticking up. It looks silly and he reminds Matt of a little kid sometimes and it’s adorable and he wants to go over there and smooth it down and fuck what the hell is wrong with him?
“That… that was different!” He splutters indignantly, gesturing uselessly with his hands.
“How is that any different from this? I just kissed her! It’s not like I’m marrying her, Matt. Not like you and Kelli. I swear, she was around all the time, it was like she lived here, she was here so-”
Shut up shut up shut up, Matt thinks, and before he knows it he’s running across the living room and slamming Chris into the wall, pushing his mouth against his in a hot, hard clashing of lips and tongue and teeth just to make him stop talking. Chris freezes for a split second before wrapping his hand around the back of Matt’s neck and eagerly responding.
When he finally pulls back, Chris looks wild and bright eyed with understanding and he says,
“Oh.”
Embarrassed, Matt reaches out to smooth down the side of Chris’ hair.
“Yeah.”
4.
Matt’s humming as he’s setting the kitchen table for two for their first Valentine’s Day dinner - their first dinner together, in fact, since that horrifically awkward conversation a week ago. He’s taken out the nice silverware, and the porcelain plates, and he’s lit some long candles. There are even some roses sitting in a glass vase in the centre of the table. He adjusts the knives for a final time on the red cloth napkins, then stands back to admire his handiwork.
Crap.
It looks like something out of a cheesy romantic movie, and oh God, if that’s Chris ringing the doorbell right now, he’s going to throw up. Casting a desperate glance at the table, he runs to the door and peeks through the peephole to see Chris standing there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.
Oh, hell. He glances down at his buttoned shirt that he’d so carefully ironed the night before.
“Hold on a sec!” he calls, and Chris looks towards the peephole, confused. Matt books it back to the table, pulling his shirt off as he goes (he hears a rip and hopes the damage isn’t too severe), and frantically rips the roses from the vase, shoving them into the wastebasket as he runs into his room to grab a t-shirt. He grabs the silverware as he returns and drops them with a loud clatter into the cutlery drawer, trying to pull his shirt over his head, and throws his usual cutlery onto the napkins.
“Are you okay in there, Matt?” Chris calls, and Matt spins around with his shirt around his neck like a weird circular scarf, trying to see if there’s anything else that looks out of the ordinary.
Oh God, the candles are practically phallic. We haven’t even kissed yet.
“Yeah, just wait a moment!”
He blows them out and grabs them, almost burning himself on some hot wax, before thrusting them (oh God, he thinks to himself) into a cupboard. Shoving his arms through the armholes of his t-shirt, he decides that the plates will just have to do, and he runs back to the door and flings it open.
“Hey!” The rushing around he’d just done finally catches up to him and he doubles over, gasping for breath as the door bounces off the wall with the force he’d used to open it and hits him in the ass.
“Uh. Hi, Matt.” From Matt’s vantage point, he can see a new pair of shoes on Chris’ feet.
He straightens, clearing his throat. “Hey,” he repeats, more casually, leaning against the doorframe. Chris is standing there, and he looks faintly confused before he smiles bemusedly and says, “Your shirt’s on backwards.”
He glances down at himself, horrified, as Chris steps around him with a grin and into the apartment, unzipping his hoodie. Underneath he’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Matt turns back to the door, closing his eyes and silently smacking himself in the forehead. When he opens his eyes, he notices a vase standing beside his open door. It’s filled with daisies. When he picks it up and turns around, Chris is leaning awkwardly against the arm of his couch, tracing the pattern on the upholstery with a finger and purposefully not looking at him as he says, “I didn’t really know what you wanted me to bring. Or like, what I should’ve brought. Are those too girly?” He glances up, and a regretful look crosses his face. “Oh, God, they are, aren’t they? I should’ve brought a pack of beer.”
Everything that Matt’s been thinking about - the candles, the roses, the dinnerware - flies out of his head, and he just feels like kissing him, because if he’s not the luckiest guy in the world, he doesn’t know who is.
So he does.
5.
The night that Chris is eliminated from the show, Matt feels strangely hollow. Chris was his roommate, his closest friend throughout the time that they’d been here. It’s just going to feel weird without him around.
It’s just that there’s so much more that they need to do before Matt’s ready to let Chris go back to his normal life. Well, that’s not quite it. He’d wanted to ask Chris some things - things he’d been asking himself as of late - because sometimes, when Chris thinks no one’s looking, Matt is looking, and he sees how Chris looks at Mark.
It’s the same way, he supposes, that he himself has been looking at Chris.
So when they come back to their apartments from their post-elimination Thursday night dinner, laughing and joking with everyone else, he puts a friendly hand on Chris’ back and says, “Want some help packing?” He tries to ignore the nervous thrill that goes through his body when Chris grins and agrees, and they head upstairs to their room.
Packing doesn’t actually take all that long - he’s a stickler for cleaning, and their apartment is darn near pristine already, so all they have to do is empty the closet of Chris’ hoodies and shirts and stack them in his suitcase, on top of his jeans and sweats. When Matt goes to close the closet door, the gap where Chris’ clothes used to hang seems too large. He reaches out to pull his hangers over, redistributing them along the rail, but the closet still seems too empty.
He turns around to see Chris sitting on his suitcase, trying to zip it up. “Huh,” he mutters, “I swear I didn’t buy that much while I was here.”
“Here.” Matt goes to help him, placing his hand on top of his, and, pretending he doesn’t feel the warmth of Chris’ hand under his, zips the suitcase the rest of the way. When he looks up, Chris is looking at him with an unidentifiable expression on his face that makes him feel like he’s been torn apart or undone, his bones and blood and heart exposed. He tries to swallow inaudibly, and, tightening his hand over Chris’, raises his other hand to cup his jaw. Chris closes his eyes, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows, and Matt prays to God he won’t regret what he’s doing as he leans in to press his lips against Chris’.
That night he almost manages to convince himself that Chris isn’t thinking of Mark, hasn’t been thinking of Mark at all this whole time; because how can he be thinking of Mark when everything they do together feels so good, feels so natural, so right?
The next morning, Matt wakes up early with a smile on his face. Chris and his suitcase are already gone, and afraid that he’ll miss saying goodbye, he practically bounds down the stairs to the lobby. As soon as he gets there, however, the sight that greets him stops him in his tracks.
Mark and Chris are standing by Chris’ suitcase. Mark’s got him in a friendly hug, but Matt can see Chris’ face from where he stands, and it makes something inside of his chest constrict. His eyes are closed, and the pained expression on his face is too much for Matt to take.
He turns around silently and heads back upstairs. When Kourtni comes to wake him up, bashing him over the head with his pillow and demanding why he wasn’t downstairs to say goodbye to Chris and Chelsea, he pretends he’d overslept.
R for sexual situations & language.
1.
The strobe lights flash wildly throughout the club, almost blinding him as they step into Celebrities. The dancing and grinding and groping forms of men and women - mostly men, actually - are illuminated briefly in the bluish-white light, glancing off the sweat and the euphoria and the pure sex that emanates from everyone inside.
“Holy shit.”
Matt has to agree with Chris’ awestruck statement, because holy shit were those hot male models in teeny, tiny leopard print thongs up on the stairs? One of them catches his eye and gives him a saucy wink even as he’s gyrating with another model, his hands clearly gripping the other guy’s ass. Matt gulps, his throat suddenly feeling dry, his head feeling heavy.
Their curious foray into the gay subculture of L.A. had begun innocently enough at the entrance of Celebrities; Matt hadn’t even been the one to suggest entering the nightclub, and he was pretty damn sure that he was slightly more bent, if you will, than Chris was. So he’d played it cool and said “Sure!”, trying not to sound as though he really, really wanted to go in, as though he was curious, because how often do you get to go into a gay nightclub with your very straight, very male best friend - who, as it happens, has been featuring in recent dreams that leave you gasping for air - when you’re a supposedly straight twenty-something-year old guy?
But now he’s kind of regretting that he agreed with Chris’ idea to come in, because how the hell can he hide the hard-on he’s getting just by seeing all these half-naked (or even nearly-naked - he certainly can’t forget those models) men gyrating and groping and touching each other and oh my God that guy just stuck his hand into that other guy’s JEANS!
It would be difficult to explain his reaction to Chris, who, as far as Matt knows, is 100% straight. He glances across at him. Chris still seems to be gaping at the club’s models, his eyes following the path of one of them down the stairs before his gaze falls onto the two men Matt had just torn his eyes away from. The bugging out of his eyes would’ve been comical if Matt wasn’t so scared of what he’d say. Instead of saying anything, however, his expression seems to flicker with uncertainty before he glances quickly at Matt. Catching his gaze, he actually blushes, and Matt saves him the embarrassment of saying anything by motioning to the bar. This, he’s familiar with.
-
A forgotten number of drinks later - they’d lost count after the fourth nervous, manly beer, and they’d lost their strangely awkward nervousness at their situation after the third (or was it fifth?) vodka shot - and now they’re the ones on the dance floor, laughing and letting loose and feeling the music, because this is what they do, they’re dancers, and even if they’re just having a night out in a club, by God, they’ll dance.
The alcohol is making Matt’s head spin, and his tongue feels loose in his mouth. It’s the alcohol that lets his body get closer to Chris as they’re dancing, that hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Chris’ jeans. It’s the alcohol that urges him to press his body closer and to tug Chris forward.
And it could be the alcohol, and the atmosphere, and the adrenaline, and the men dancing around them, but really it’s just Matt, that lets him act on his impulse to dip his head and press his lips to Chris’.
And it could be the alcohol, and the atmosphere, and the adrenaline, and the men dancing around them, but really it’s just Chris, that lets him.
2.
Cat Deeley is wearing a pink dress with pink tights and the outfit reminds Matt vaguely of a flamingo - in fact, it looks like it might have a stuffed flamingo attached to the front. Before he can ponder any further on the dubious choices of Cat’s wardrobe assistant, she’s speaking into her microphone to introduce their dance.
“Here to show you what the Tango’s really all about, it’s Matt and Chris!”
The music begins, and he stalks across the So You Think You Can Dance stage towards Chris, who’s wearing an open black shirt and tight black pants and looking at him with a heated expression on his face. They circle each other, slow and intense, before Chris grabs hold of his waist and one of his hands and then they’re moving across the stage to the rise and fall of the song. As they complete their first lift the audience of penguins breaks out into cheers - well, loud penguin noises - and ninjas wearing striped ninja-attire flip onto the stage, karate-chopping each other and yelling unintelligibly. Their gazes are connected as the music slows and the ninjas fight around them, and then he kicks his leg up once - they turn, and he kicks the other leg up, striking the floor hard when he brings it down. The music is heated and passionate and so is their dance, and as the song continues it seems as though they’re in their own little world, the ninjas and the penguins disappearing beyond their own bubble and the intensity building as they dance together. The music reaches its final climax, and as Chris lifts him one last time, his body pressed close to Matt’s, the overwhelming passion takes over and as soon as his feet hit the ground again he grabs his face and kisses him within an inch of his life.
Then he looks down and sees he’s wearing a tiny tight purple dress with millions of sequins and something that looks like a fringe.
What the hell? He thinks, and then he wakes up.
3.
“Fuck you, Chris!” Matt feels, irrationally, uncharacteristically, like he wants to cry. He blinks back his tears angrily, determined to not let Chris see what he’s doing to him. His fists are clenched so hard he can feel his nails cutting into his palms. He hopes they draw blood, because that pain would be better than whatever is squeezing his heart and making him choke on his own words.
“What the hell is your problem?” Chris is bewildered, but he’s angry too, because what kind of a best friend drops the f-bomb on your new, exciting relationship with a really cute, smart girl? What the hell kind of a best friend does that?
“My problem?” He seethes, “My problem?” he repeats, and he wants to run across the living room and punch Chris in his oblivious face. Either that or curl into a ball and die, because he doesn’t exactly have the strongest fists in the world and because he doesn’t know what his problem is, only that once Chris told him with all that stupid excitement on his face that he’d finally kissed her, he’d wanted to go out and find that girl and shake her by the shoulders and say I had him first!
“Yeah, your problem! I thought you’d be happy for me! I never said anything when you were dating Kelli and you guys spent all your time making out on our couch. Jesus.” Chris is gripping his hair in exasperation, and when he lets go one side of it is sticking up. It looks silly and he reminds Matt of a little kid sometimes and it’s adorable and he wants to go over there and smooth it down and fuck what the hell is wrong with him?
“That… that was different!” He splutters indignantly, gesturing uselessly with his hands.
“How is that any different from this? I just kissed her! It’s not like I’m marrying her, Matt. Not like you and Kelli. I swear, she was around all the time, it was like she lived here, she was here so-”
Shut up shut up shut up, Matt thinks, and before he knows it he’s running across the living room and slamming Chris into the wall, pushing his mouth against his in a hot, hard clashing of lips and tongue and teeth just to make him stop talking. Chris freezes for a split second before wrapping his hand around the back of Matt’s neck and eagerly responding.
When he finally pulls back, Chris looks wild and bright eyed with understanding and he says,
“Oh.”
Embarrassed, Matt reaches out to smooth down the side of Chris’ hair.
“Yeah.”
4.
Matt’s humming as he’s setting the kitchen table for two for their first Valentine’s Day dinner - their first dinner together, in fact, since that horrifically awkward conversation a week ago. He’s taken out the nice silverware, and the porcelain plates, and he’s lit some long candles. There are even some roses sitting in a glass vase in the centre of the table. He adjusts the knives for a final time on the red cloth napkins, then stands back to admire his handiwork.
Crap.
It looks like something out of a cheesy romantic movie, and oh God, if that’s Chris ringing the doorbell right now, he’s going to throw up. Casting a desperate glance at the table, he runs to the door and peeks through the peephole to see Chris standing there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.
Oh, hell. He glances down at his buttoned shirt that he’d so carefully ironed the night before.
“Hold on a sec!” he calls, and Chris looks towards the peephole, confused. Matt books it back to the table, pulling his shirt off as he goes (he hears a rip and hopes the damage isn’t too severe), and frantically rips the roses from the vase, shoving them into the wastebasket as he runs into his room to grab a t-shirt. He grabs the silverware as he returns and drops them with a loud clatter into the cutlery drawer, trying to pull his shirt over his head, and throws his usual cutlery onto the napkins.
“Are you okay in there, Matt?” Chris calls, and Matt spins around with his shirt around his neck like a weird circular scarf, trying to see if there’s anything else that looks out of the ordinary.
Oh God, the candles are practically phallic. We haven’t even kissed yet.
“Yeah, just wait a moment!”
He blows them out and grabs them, almost burning himself on some hot wax, before thrusting them (oh God, he thinks to himself) into a cupboard. Shoving his arms through the armholes of his t-shirt, he decides that the plates will just have to do, and he runs back to the door and flings it open.
“Hey!” The rushing around he’d just done finally catches up to him and he doubles over, gasping for breath as the door bounces off the wall with the force he’d used to open it and hits him in the ass.
“Uh. Hi, Matt.” From Matt’s vantage point, he can see a new pair of shoes on Chris’ feet.
He straightens, clearing his throat. “Hey,” he repeats, more casually, leaning against the doorframe. Chris is standing there, and he looks faintly confused before he smiles bemusedly and says, “Your shirt’s on backwards.”
He glances down at himself, horrified, as Chris steps around him with a grin and into the apartment, unzipping his hoodie. Underneath he’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Matt turns back to the door, closing his eyes and silently smacking himself in the forehead. When he opens his eyes, he notices a vase standing beside his open door. It’s filled with daisies. When he picks it up and turns around, Chris is leaning awkwardly against the arm of his couch, tracing the pattern on the upholstery with a finger and purposefully not looking at him as he says, “I didn’t really know what you wanted me to bring. Or like, what I should’ve brought. Are those too girly?” He glances up, and a regretful look crosses his face. “Oh, God, they are, aren’t they? I should’ve brought a pack of beer.”
Everything that Matt’s been thinking about - the candles, the roses, the dinnerware - flies out of his head, and he just feels like kissing him, because if he’s not the luckiest guy in the world, he doesn’t know who is.
So he does.
5.
The night that Chris is eliminated from the show, Matt feels strangely hollow. Chris was his roommate, his closest friend throughout the time that they’d been here. It’s just going to feel weird without him around.
It’s just that there’s so much more that they need to do before Matt’s ready to let Chris go back to his normal life. Well, that’s not quite it. He’d wanted to ask Chris some things - things he’d been asking himself as of late - because sometimes, when Chris thinks no one’s looking, Matt is looking, and he sees how Chris looks at Mark.
It’s the same way, he supposes, that he himself has been looking at Chris.
So when they come back to their apartments from their post-elimination Thursday night dinner, laughing and joking with everyone else, he puts a friendly hand on Chris’ back and says, “Want some help packing?” He tries to ignore the nervous thrill that goes through his body when Chris grins and agrees, and they head upstairs to their room.
Packing doesn’t actually take all that long - he’s a stickler for cleaning, and their apartment is darn near pristine already, so all they have to do is empty the closet of Chris’ hoodies and shirts and stack them in his suitcase, on top of his jeans and sweats. When Matt goes to close the closet door, the gap where Chris’ clothes used to hang seems too large. He reaches out to pull his hangers over, redistributing them along the rail, but the closet still seems too empty.
He turns around to see Chris sitting on his suitcase, trying to zip it up. “Huh,” he mutters, “I swear I didn’t buy that much while I was here.”
“Here.” Matt goes to help him, placing his hand on top of his, and, pretending he doesn’t feel the warmth of Chris’ hand under his, zips the suitcase the rest of the way. When he looks up, Chris is looking at him with an unidentifiable expression on his face that makes him feel like he’s been torn apart or undone, his bones and blood and heart exposed. He tries to swallow inaudibly, and, tightening his hand over Chris’, raises his other hand to cup his jaw. Chris closes his eyes, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows, and Matt prays to God he won’t regret what he’s doing as he leans in to press his lips against Chris’.
That night he almost manages to convince himself that Chris isn’t thinking of Mark, hasn’t been thinking of Mark at all this whole time; because how can he be thinking of Mark when everything they do together feels so good, feels so natural, so right?
The next morning, Matt wakes up early with a smile on his face. Chris and his suitcase are already gone, and afraid that he’ll miss saying goodbye, he practically bounds down the stairs to the lobby. As soon as he gets there, however, the sight that greets him stops him in his tracks.
Mark and Chris are standing by Chris’ suitcase. Mark’s got him in a friendly hug, but Matt can see Chris’ face from where he stands, and it makes something inside of his chest constrict. His eyes are closed, and the pained expression on his face is too much for Matt to take.
He turns around silently and heads back upstairs. When Kourtni comes to wake him up, bashing him over the head with his pillow and demanding why he wasn’t downstairs to say goodbye to Chris and Chelsea, he pretends he’d overslept.