![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withthepilotTitle: Apocalypso; Chapter 4: Yippiyo-ay (5/10)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Word Count: 4,019
Warning: Drug use.
Author Notes: See Prologue: Kicking and Screaming.
Download: The Presets - Yippiyo-ay
Am I pleased to meet ya
Picture from the people
Something I got to teach ya
And, just like that, Chris is a star.
He knows it for sure when he wakes up one morning and spots a group of paparazzi outside his place, eagerly taking photos of him as he goes to fetch an iced coffee. A couple of them follow him all the way to the café and back. Chris can't imagine what could possibly be so fascinating about the sight of him walking down the street, but to each his own, he figures. He slurps his coffee through a straw and offers the shutterbugs a small wave before slipping back into his building. That was bizarre, he thinks.
When they're back the very next day, he gives Zach a call.
"This is starting to weird me out," he says, peering through his kitchen window curtains. The photographers are just milling around, shooting the shit as they wait for an appearance. "Who in the world would ever be interested in photos of me procuring and drinking my morning beverage?"
Zach smirks on the other end of the line. "Frappuccino or iced mocha, Chris? The world breathlessly awaits the answer."
"Eww, neither. Just plain iced coffee with milk, you know that."
"Well, I do, but no one else does. But soon, they will." Zach sighs, sounding way more nonchalant than Chris would prefer. "People love that 'slice of life' shit, Chris. All these little bullshit personal details and photos of you walking around town...they eat it up."
"I don't see why." Chris hears his toast pop up, slightly burnt—just the way he likes it—and goes about pouring himself a cup of the coffee he just brewed. He doesn't quite feel like going out for his morning joe today. "I don't know how you can be so calm and rational about something so deranged. I should be the only one who knows that you take your coffee with soy milk and two Splendas...which are gross, by the way."
"I'm aware of your opinions on artificial sweeteners, Christopher, thank you." Zach takes a bite of something that sounds crunchy to Chris' ears, which reminds him to set about spreading peanut butter on his toast. He exhales, fetching a knife as Zach continues. "You'll get used to it, I promise. They're just like gnats after a while; you learn to wave them away and ignore them."
"What? Gnats are annoying as fuck. Bad simile."
"My sincere apologies; it's a bit early for any of the gems in my simile arsenal. I promise to dazzle you with my metaphorical mastery at a later time and date."
You're quite the creature
Girl from the creature feature
Tasty, like to eat ya
Chris smiles, biting into his toast and licking a smear of peanut butter from his lips. Zach is especially sexy when he speaks as though he just swallowed a thesaurus. "I'm just going to hide out at yours from now on, man. Like old times."
"No, you can't," Zach immediately says. Chris furrows his brow at the refusal. "You don't think they're camping out here, too? You're not the only star of this movie. They can't catch you coming out of my place every morning, it'll look like—"
"Exactly what it is?" Chris laughs, but it's mirthless. He stares at his toast and thinks to himself that Zach never did take his parents up on their offer to visit. He rolls his eyes when he hears Zach sigh.
"Come on, Chris. We all have to make sacrifices. I've stopped going to the clubs altogether, personally. You never know who's going to be there with a hidden camera in their back pocket, ready to send off footage to TMZ."
"I wouldn't exactly equate spending time with each other to going to gay dance clubs to pick up guys, but yeah, no, I get it, man." Chris tries to keep the icy chill he feels running up and down his spine completely out of his voice, but Zach knows him too well and he sighs again. "No, really. I do. I'm not as stupid as I look, honestly."
"You don't look stupid at all. You look like a hunky Hollywood dreamboat and I don't want to be the one who ruins that for you."
Chris doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he just munches on his toast instead. Zach starts eating again as well, and they just spend the next few minutes like that, listening to each other chew and swallow.
"What are you eating?" Chris finally asks.
"Cocoa Puffs," Zach says, sounding guilty. Chris can't help but snicker.
"What happened to that Kashi tree bark shit you usually eat?"
"Even tree-huggers like sugary cereal sometimes." Zach keeps chewing, a bit quieter now, and Chris hopes like hell that he's blushing. They let another moment of silence slip by, and then: "I didn't mean that you should stop coming over altogether. Just maybe...not as often. Now that they're watching you."
"Yeah," Chris says softly. "Just sometimes."
"Yeah. And...hell, when we start promoting the damn thing, we'll be spending practically all of our time together anyway. And no one will know if we're sharing a hotel room besides the rest of the cast, and we know we can trust them."
"They're great," Chris agrees. He finishes his toast and washes it down with a sip of coffee. "You're right. As always."
"As always," Zach repeats. Chris forgoes the opportunity to make a crack about Zach's immodesty and gets up, tossing his now empty plate into the sink. He gulps down the last of his coffee and exhales.
"So, what do you say, can I come over?" he asks, cheerfully. Zach laughs.
"Yeah, sure. But shower first; America doesn't need the Queer Lumberjack splashed all over the cover of Us Weekly, bringing everyone down. We are in a war, after all."
"You fucking slay me. Don't make me trade your pleather pants for some privacy from the paps."
"Look at you, turning on your friends already. Are you Hollywood, or what?"
Chris goes to the bathroom, pausing to lean against the doorway. "Or what. For now. See you soon, friend."
"Until then, you beautiful creature."
Chris opens his mouth to reply but Zach hangs up before he can—which is good, because he has absolutely no idea what he was going to say.
Look, we're ready to rumble
Girlfriend, can you show me
The way that the cookie crumbles
Chris finds himself absolutely dizzied by the sheer amount of promotion they have to do for this film: morning shows, late-night talk shows, web broadcasts, web promos, radio interviews, Japanese game shows, junkets, conventions, and the list just goes on. Most days he wakes up and has no idea what country he's in, let alone which hotel. But Zach is a constant, whether Chris wakes with his arms wrapped around the older man or vice versa, or they find themselves in a tub full of dirty bath water gone cold, their fingertips and toes all wrinkly. They usually wake up—Zach rising immediately as usual, while Chris grumbles and rolls around in the covers before being coerced out of bed—and order breakfast from room service, then help each other pick out their clothes for the day. Chris often lets Zach dress him in ties, knowing he'll be on his knees later on, being led around by the same narrow strip of fabric.
"Fuck," he mumbles into his pillow one morning, feeling particularly sore around the collar. "Gotta wear a fuckin' turtleneck today 'cause of you."
"I didn't hear you complaining last night." Zach presses a kiss between his shoulder blades and sweeps a hand down his side. Chris sighs, feeling Zach's gaze burn into him, likely appraising the bruises. "They suit you," he whispers. "Like pink ribbons wrapped around a gift."
Chris hides his face, knowing he's blushing. "Pick out something nice for me," he says, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow.
"I will. Hey. Look at me." Chris turns his head to regard Zach and closes his eyes when their lips meet. A moment later, Zach is looking at him intensely and Chris is almost positive he knows what Zach is going to say until he hears, "What do you want for breakfast?"
"Um...waffles. And coffee."
"The coffee is a given," Zach says, sitting up and reaching for the phone. Chris frowns slightly at his back. After breakfast arrives and they eat, they shower separately and set about dressing each other. Zach looks disappointed at having to choose a turtleneck rather than a tie, but he does what must be done. When they're finished, he claps his hands and announces, "Yippiyo-ay. Ready to rumble?" and Chris once again finds himself making the long march to the hotel elevator, facing down the start of another long day.
"Yippiyo-who?" he chides, nudging Zach's side.
He finds that he's getting tired of this; all of this.
Girl, got to eat ya
Cooking, I got to T-bone
Hungry, I need to feed her
Thinking so nasty
Just got me feeling so nasty
It starts innocently enough. They're all enjoying the best of what their hotel bar has to offer—it's a Hilton, though hell if Chris can remember the city attached to the name—and he turns to look across the room when he feels the weight of someone's stare on the nape of his neck. His brain is fried from endless rounds of interviews all day long; most of them were spent bantering with Zach, which is never disagreeable. But sometimes the questions get repetitive, which leads to the answers getting repetitive and eventually, Chris' easy jokes and riffs sound less and less believable to even his own ears.
She's a brunette with auburn highlights, noticeable cheekbones and full lips, and when she smiles at him, it's like a gust of cool air hitting his face.
Karl nudges his side just as he's about to smile back, nodding toward the bartender. "You want another?"
"Huh?" Chris whips his head around, blinking owlishly at him.
"I'm ordering another round. If you want in, speak now before the offer is permanently rescinded, never to return."
"Oh, yeah. Why not?" Chris nods and steals another glance at the girl, who's now sipping her drink through a straw, looking elsewhere with a bored stance. He barely notices the newly opened beer and shot of whisky placed before him on the bar top. "What's with the sudden generosity?"
"Not a clue. Especially since you're ignoring me. What's got you all distracted?"
Karl lifts his shot as a cue to Chris, and they quickly down them together. Chris exhales harshly at the burn which Karl seems to simply shrug off, flicking back his hair as it falls from its previously gelled-back state.
"That girl is looking at me," Chris says. He motions to the brunette down by the other end of the bar. Karl cranes his head to look at her and smirks.
"No, she's not."
"Well, she was." Chris takes a swallow of beer, keeping his gaze on the woman. "She's cute, huh? Not that much make-up, but still pretty. I like that."
"Uh, you like Zach, last I heard. What about that?"
"Well," Chris says, picking at the label of his bottle. He thinks back to the day before the press tour started, of Zach rolling over in bed to face him and bringing up the fact that there'd be lots of starfuckers along the way, some obvious and some in disguise.
"It's not like I'm going to do anything with them," Chris said to him, and Zach smiled, looking pleased and disinterested all at once.
"I wouldn't deprive you of the movie star experience," he replied, and then shrugged one shoulder. "It's like being the killer whale at the aquarium. You're hungry, they expect you to be hungry—so they feed you."
"Are you calling me fat?" Chris smirked. Zach rolled his eyes
"Yes. I'm going to start calling you 'Shamu' when I come." Zach threw his head back, moaning loudly. "Oh, god, fuck me, Shamu!"
It was then that Chris rolled over and beached himself on top of Zach's form, lying like a dead fish. Zach laughed and wriggled beneath him.
The memory is bittersweet for Chris, now. He shrugs and looks down to the opposite end of the bar, spying Zach chatting with John in a rather lascivious manner. He's willing to bet that Zach wishes John weren't so attached to that wedding ring of his. "What about it?" he says, finally answering Karl. "I don't think he'll mind."
"You sure about that, Chris? The man seems pretty attached to you."
Chris decides to ignore that, slipping off the barstool. Lately he's been getting anything but "attached" vibes from Zach. Sure, he's affectionate when it's convenient for him, but hell, Chris can admit the truth to himself: permission to fuck other people was not at all what he wanted from Zach. Luckily, Chris has always been adept at working with the hand he's been dealt. He pats Karl's shoulder. "When a lady's going hungry, someone needs to feed her," he says.
Karl wrinkles his nose. "Is that some kind of American euphemism I'm not familiar with? Because I don't want to picture you feeding anything of yours to anyone."
Chris has to laugh at least a little at that. "Thanks for the drink," he says, and makes his way down the bar to the brunette. When he taps her on the shoulder, she looks up at him with a sparkle in her eye that negates any feigned surprise at his appearance. They nod to each other and he sips his beer before he speaks. "You need a refill?"
"Not for a few minutes yet, but you can entertain me until then."
"Good deal," he says, leaning his hip against the bar as he falls into an easy conversation. When he pays for her next drink, he looks up and locks eyes with Zach's dark gaze; he doesn't exactly look pleased, but Chris has difficulty reading his expression nonetheless. He hands his cash to the bartender and rests a hand on the back of the girl's barstool as she sips the new drink, keeping unwavering eyes on the dark-haired man at the other end of the bar. Zach nods faintly at the gesture and turns back to John; Chris lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
By the time she invites him up to her room, Zach has left the bar area. Chris takes her hand and looks for him again, as if to ask silent permission when he finds him, but he supposes that's unnecessary now. He's up to his eyeballs in a sea of hungry fish, after all, and he already has permission, from one underwater predator to another.
Keep it rocking, baby, don't try to hide it, no
Give me something and I won't try to fight it, no
All the troubles in my mind, they don't feel so bad
When you got me in your palm, sliding in your hands
He and Zach never talk about it, and given their silence, the rest of their cast mates leave it alone from that point forward, as well. Once in a while, Chris will start chatting up a pretty blond or redhead—hell, once he picked up a girl with blue and pink hair, he's not picky—and he'll get a signature raised eyebrow from Karl across the room, but he's learned to ignore it. Karl knows damn well it's none of his business, and if it's not affecting Zach's demeanor, their friends have no reason to be concerned.
Still, he wishes it would affect Zach, at least a little. He feels the sting clearly one morning at breakfast, when Zoe passes around a tabloid rag featuring many photos of one debonair Chris Pine cozying up to Insert Random Girl's Name Here. Zach grabs it from Anton's hands, looking it over and laughing loudly. He lifts a hand and lets his wrist flop forward, calling forth an entirely fey accent.
"Ooh, guuurl, that Chris Pine is such a fiiiiine piece o' man candy. How can ah get wit' him?" he mocks. Everyone laughs, even Zoe, though she reaches out and shoves Zach's arm for good measure. Karl snickers but shakes his head in a way that lets Chris know he disapproves of these shenanigans, all jokes and slutting around included.
"Shut up," Chris says, tugging the magazine out of Zach's grip. He shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth with his other hand as he scrutinizes the photos, and hopes like hell that he isn't blushing. It's not really the teasing that bothers him so much as Zach's blasé reaction, his unfunny and unnecessary remark, but he can pretend. "They didn't even get my good side," he mutters. It's the most noncommittal, lighthearted comment he can think of, at the moment. It makes John and Simon laugh, anyway.
Zach keeps his eyes on his bowl of organic granola and doesn't say anything else about it. As the conversation moves on, Chris squints closely at the magazine and decides he looks incredibly drunk.
"Pay attention, Mr. Vain," Zoe finally snaps, snatching it back.
Chris soon makes his pick-ups a nightly ritual and no one says anything about it, which Chris prefers, because it's nobody's business but his own. He never tries to speak to Zach about it, mainly because he's afraid of what he might say. He doesn't want things to be over with Zach, but the daily spells of silence and willful ignorance of the situation seem to propel him toward the drinks and the nameless, faceless women (and now, often, men—he knows it's dangerous, risking being seen with them, but after a few shots of whisky, he finds he couldn't care less). He doesn't want Zach to look him in the eye and tell him he's had enough, especially since Zach practically gave him his blessing.
The thing is, he's running on empty. And when comfort comes along, when someone is willing to keep him in the palm of his hand, he's never been one to fight it.
When you wear a smile
When you rock a frown
When you throw one off
When you coming 'round
Tonight, she's strawberry blond and sports a gleaming, Crest Kid-worthy smile that's just crooked enough to make Chris' toes tingle. She lets him buy her a few drinks and then toys with the buttons on his shirt, slipping something into his back pocket. "Room 406," she whispers as she pulls away, disappearing into the swell of the crowded room. Chris examines the gifted items after she leaves, making sure to hold them under the bar, out of public view: a key card to her hotel room and a small plastic bag filled more than halfway with white powder.
"Huh," he says to himself. He pockets the items again and makes his way to the restroom.
He's locked himself in a stall and is regarding the baggie when familiar voices enter the room. One has an unmistakable accent and the other, he'd recognize anywhere.
"So it doesn't bother you that he's never around lately?" Simon asks, as he moves toward a urinal. "We barely see him at all these days."
"He's getting out his male aggressions." Chris can detect the smirk in Zach's voice and he leans forward to hear him better. "I had a feeling he'd want to explore the perks of his newfound celebrity a bit. It's only natural."
"Forgive me if I'm being overly, ehm...honest, here. But I could have sworn he was head over heels for you. And maybe...vice versa?"
Zach exhales and Chris purses his lips, waiting for the reply. "I do care deeply for Chris, yes. And therefore...I just want him to do whatever makes him happy."
Chris frowns deeply, clutching the baggie tightly in his palm, feeling the plastic go warm. He furrows his brow and suppresses the urge to burst out of the stall, screaming, Fuck you, Zach, fuck you, you fucking fucker, fuck you FUCK YOU.
Simon zips up and goes to wash his hands. "And how are you sure all this sleeping around is making him happy?"
"I'm not," Zach admits. Chris listens to his footfalls as he moves to the sink as well. "But I take his constant absence from our room as a sign that he's at least having a good time."
"Most likely. I saw he caught quite a pretty one tonight."
"Chris can have anyone he wants," Zach says, as he walks out of the restroom with Simon, his voice drifting. "That much has always been..."
The door closes and Chris sits in frustrated silence for a few moments before undoing his belt and opening his trousers. He pushes the fabric down to his knees and forms thin, white lines of powder on the tanned skin of his thigh, bending nearly in half to sniff each one quickly into one open nostril as he presses the other closed. When he lifts his head again, his vision seems clearer, as does his mind. He pockets the leftovers and zips up, rubbing the room key between his clammy palms.
The smiley blonde is happy to see him, and the feeling is mutual, at first. Chris only manages to go down on her once before he's forced to excuse himself, however, begging off with the excuse of a massive headache. She frowns at him, no doubt disappointed by this outcome, but lets him go without a fight and—to Chris' quiet delight—without asking for the remainder of her blow. She did seem pretty pleased with her orgasm, so he supposes she might consider it a fair trade; he'd say she got gypped, but that's him.
He finds himself standing in front of Zach's hotel room—his room, too, if his disheveled suitcase lying on the floor inside is any indication—not knowing how the hell he got from point A to point B. The important thing, he supposes, is that he's here. His room key is on his person somewhere, but he feels daunted by the process of seeking it out and just knocks insistently instead. Zach opens the door in a tank top and boxer briefs and Chris' senses are so well-wired and electric right then that he can smell the familiar scent of his lover just with one waft of air from the room, permeating his olfactory nerves and his entire system. He can feel a light sheen of sweat bloom over the expanse of his brow.
Zach looks sleep-mussed but aware. "Hello, stranger," he murmurs, and his eyebrows lift dramatically when Chris reaches out to touch his long-missed mouth. He circles his fingers around Chris' wrist. "Hold up. You're tweaking. Aren't you?"
"Please fuck me, Zach," Chris whispers. His fingers are acting on their own, tracing the planes of Zach's face, attempting to regain all those gorgeous, lapsed memories. Whatever makes me happy. Don't you fucking know? "I would be ever so elated."
"Christopher," Zach sighs, slightly admonishing, but he keeps his eyes on him as he sucks a fingertip into his mouth. He tugs Chris forward by his shirt just so, and their foreheads lightly bump together. If Zach minds the sweat, he doesn't say anything; he just pulls Chris into the room and steers him toward the bed, stripping him of the outfit that, for once, he didn't choose. Chris mentally likens the return of Zach's knowing touch to coming back to a home-cooked meal—hell, coming home is more like it. Here, he knows he's in good hands. He falls back onto the mattress and arches with every caress, vaguely wondering how many kisses, how many moans, sighs and gasps it will take to show Zach that here, right here, he's happy.
When I'm feeling bad
When I'm feeling sad
Oh, it ain't so bad
When I'm in your hands
Previous: Talk Like That || Next: If I Know You
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Word Count: 4,019
Warning: Drug use.
Author Notes: See Prologue: Kicking and Screaming.
Download: The Presets - Yippiyo-ay
Am I pleased to meet ya
Picture from the people
Something I got to teach ya
And, just like that, Chris is a star.
He knows it for sure when he wakes up one morning and spots a group of paparazzi outside his place, eagerly taking photos of him as he goes to fetch an iced coffee. A couple of them follow him all the way to the café and back. Chris can't imagine what could possibly be so fascinating about the sight of him walking down the street, but to each his own, he figures. He slurps his coffee through a straw and offers the shutterbugs a small wave before slipping back into his building. That was bizarre, he thinks.
When they're back the very next day, he gives Zach a call.
"This is starting to weird me out," he says, peering through his kitchen window curtains. The photographers are just milling around, shooting the shit as they wait for an appearance. "Who in the world would ever be interested in photos of me procuring and drinking my morning beverage?"
Zach smirks on the other end of the line. "Frappuccino or iced mocha, Chris? The world breathlessly awaits the answer."
"Eww, neither. Just plain iced coffee with milk, you know that."
"Well, I do, but no one else does. But soon, they will." Zach sighs, sounding way more nonchalant than Chris would prefer. "People love that 'slice of life' shit, Chris. All these little bullshit personal details and photos of you walking around town...they eat it up."
"I don't see why." Chris hears his toast pop up, slightly burnt—just the way he likes it—and goes about pouring himself a cup of the coffee he just brewed. He doesn't quite feel like going out for his morning joe today. "I don't know how you can be so calm and rational about something so deranged. I should be the only one who knows that you take your coffee with soy milk and two Splendas...which are gross, by the way."
"I'm aware of your opinions on artificial sweeteners, Christopher, thank you." Zach takes a bite of something that sounds crunchy to Chris' ears, which reminds him to set about spreading peanut butter on his toast. He exhales, fetching a knife as Zach continues. "You'll get used to it, I promise. They're just like gnats after a while; you learn to wave them away and ignore them."
"What? Gnats are annoying as fuck. Bad simile."
"My sincere apologies; it's a bit early for any of the gems in my simile arsenal. I promise to dazzle you with my metaphorical mastery at a later time and date."
You're quite the creature
Girl from the creature feature
Tasty, like to eat ya
Chris smiles, biting into his toast and licking a smear of peanut butter from his lips. Zach is especially sexy when he speaks as though he just swallowed a thesaurus. "I'm just going to hide out at yours from now on, man. Like old times."
"No, you can't," Zach immediately says. Chris furrows his brow at the refusal. "You don't think they're camping out here, too? You're not the only star of this movie. They can't catch you coming out of my place every morning, it'll look like—"
"Exactly what it is?" Chris laughs, but it's mirthless. He stares at his toast and thinks to himself that Zach never did take his parents up on their offer to visit. He rolls his eyes when he hears Zach sigh.
"Come on, Chris. We all have to make sacrifices. I've stopped going to the clubs altogether, personally. You never know who's going to be there with a hidden camera in their back pocket, ready to send off footage to TMZ."
"I wouldn't exactly equate spending time with each other to going to gay dance clubs to pick up guys, but yeah, no, I get it, man." Chris tries to keep the icy chill he feels running up and down his spine completely out of his voice, but Zach knows him too well and he sighs again. "No, really. I do. I'm not as stupid as I look, honestly."
"You don't look stupid at all. You look like a hunky Hollywood dreamboat and I don't want to be the one who ruins that for you."
Chris doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he just munches on his toast instead. Zach starts eating again as well, and they just spend the next few minutes like that, listening to each other chew and swallow.
"What are you eating?" Chris finally asks.
"Cocoa Puffs," Zach says, sounding guilty. Chris can't help but snicker.
"What happened to that Kashi tree bark shit you usually eat?"
"Even tree-huggers like sugary cereal sometimes." Zach keeps chewing, a bit quieter now, and Chris hopes like hell that he's blushing. They let another moment of silence slip by, and then: "I didn't mean that you should stop coming over altogether. Just maybe...not as often. Now that they're watching you."
"Yeah," Chris says softly. "Just sometimes."
"Yeah. And...hell, when we start promoting the damn thing, we'll be spending practically all of our time together anyway. And no one will know if we're sharing a hotel room besides the rest of the cast, and we know we can trust them."
"They're great," Chris agrees. He finishes his toast and washes it down with a sip of coffee. "You're right. As always."
"As always," Zach repeats. Chris forgoes the opportunity to make a crack about Zach's immodesty and gets up, tossing his now empty plate into the sink. He gulps down the last of his coffee and exhales.
"So, what do you say, can I come over?" he asks, cheerfully. Zach laughs.
"Yeah, sure. But shower first; America doesn't need the Queer Lumberjack splashed all over the cover of Us Weekly, bringing everyone down. We are in a war, after all."
"You fucking slay me. Don't make me trade your pleather pants for some privacy from the paps."
"Look at you, turning on your friends already. Are you Hollywood, or what?"
Chris goes to the bathroom, pausing to lean against the doorway. "Or what. For now. See you soon, friend."
"Until then, you beautiful creature."
Chris opens his mouth to reply but Zach hangs up before he can—which is good, because he has absolutely no idea what he was going to say.
Look, we're ready to rumble
Girlfriend, can you show me
The way that the cookie crumbles
Chris finds himself absolutely dizzied by the sheer amount of promotion they have to do for this film: morning shows, late-night talk shows, web broadcasts, web promos, radio interviews, Japanese game shows, junkets, conventions, and the list just goes on. Most days he wakes up and has no idea what country he's in, let alone which hotel. But Zach is a constant, whether Chris wakes with his arms wrapped around the older man or vice versa, or they find themselves in a tub full of dirty bath water gone cold, their fingertips and toes all wrinkly. They usually wake up—Zach rising immediately as usual, while Chris grumbles and rolls around in the covers before being coerced out of bed—and order breakfast from room service, then help each other pick out their clothes for the day. Chris often lets Zach dress him in ties, knowing he'll be on his knees later on, being led around by the same narrow strip of fabric.
"Fuck," he mumbles into his pillow one morning, feeling particularly sore around the collar. "Gotta wear a fuckin' turtleneck today 'cause of you."
"I didn't hear you complaining last night." Zach presses a kiss between his shoulder blades and sweeps a hand down his side. Chris sighs, feeling Zach's gaze burn into him, likely appraising the bruises. "They suit you," he whispers. "Like pink ribbons wrapped around a gift."
Chris hides his face, knowing he's blushing. "Pick out something nice for me," he says, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow.
"I will. Hey. Look at me." Chris turns his head to regard Zach and closes his eyes when their lips meet. A moment later, Zach is looking at him intensely and Chris is almost positive he knows what Zach is going to say until he hears, "What do you want for breakfast?"
"Um...waffles. And coffee."
"The coffee is a given," Zach says, sitting up and reaching for the phone. Chris frowns slightly at his back. After breakfast arrives and they eat, they shower separately and set about dressing each other. Zach looks disappointed at having to choose a turtleneck rather than a tie, but he does what must be done. When they're finished, he claps his hands and announces, "Yippiyo-ay. Ready to rumble?" and Chris once again finds himself making the long march to the hotel elevator, facing down the start of another long day.
"Yippiyo-who?" he chides, nudging Zach's side.
He finds that he's getting tired of this; all of this.
Girl, got to eat ya
Cooking, I got to T-bone
Hungry, I need to feed her
Thinking so nasty
Just got me feeling so nasty
It starts innocently enough. They're all enjoying the best of what their hotel bar has to offer—it's a Hilton, though hell if Chris can remember the city attached to the name—and he turns to look across the room when he feels the weight of someone's stare on the nape of his neck. His brain is fried from endless rounds of interviews all day long; most of them were spent bantering with Zach, which is never disagreeable. But sometimes the questions get repetitive, which leads to the answers getting repetitive and eventually, Chris' easy jokes and riffs sound less and less believable to even his own ears.
She's a brunette with auburn highlights, noticeable cheekbones and full lips, and when she smiles at him, it's like a gust of cool air hitting his face.
Karl nudges his side just as he's about to smile back, nodding toward the bartender. "You want another?"
"Huh?" Chris whips his head around, blinking owlishly at him.
"I'm ordering another round. If you want in, speak now before the offer is permanently rescinded, never to return."
"Oh, yeah. Why not?" Chris nods and steals another glance at the girl, who's now sipping her drink through a straw, looking elsewhere with a bored stance. He barely notices the newly opened beer and shot of whisky placed before him on the bar top. "What's with the sudden generosity?"
"Not a clue. Especially since you're ignoring me. What's got you all distracted?"
Karl lifts his shot as a cue to Chris, and they quickly down them together. Chris exhales harshly at the burn which Karl seems to simply shrug off, flicking back his hair as it falls from its previously gelled-back state.
"That girl is looking at me," Chris says. He motions to the brunette down by the other end of the bar. Karl cranes his head to look at her and smirks.
"No, she's not."
"Well, she was." Chris takes a swallow of beer, keeping his gaze on the woman. "She's cute, huh? Not that much make-up, but still pretty. I like that."
"Uh, you like Zach, last I heard. What about that?"
"Well," Chris says, picking at the label of his bottle. He thinks back to the day before the press tour started, of Zach rolling over in bed to face him and bringing up the fact that there'd be lots of starfuckers along the way, some obvious and some in disguise.
"It's not like I'm going to do anything with them," Chris said to him, and Zach smiled, looking pleased and disinterested all at once.
"I wouldn't deprive you of the movie star experience," he replied, and then shrugged one shoulder. "It's like being the killer whale at the aquarium. You're hungry, they expect you to be hungry—so they feed you."
"Are you calling me fat?" Chris smirked. Zach rolled his eyes
"Yes. I'm going to start calling you 'Shamu' when I come." Zach threw his head back, moaning loudly. "Oh, god, fuck me, Shamu!"
It was then that Chris rolled over and beached himself on top of Zach's form, lying like a dead fish. Zach laughed and wriggled beneath him.
The memory is bittersweet for Chris, now. He shrugs and looks down to the opposite end of the bar, spying Zach chatting with John in a rather lascivious manner. He's willing to bet that Zach wishes John weren't so attached to that wedding ring of his. "What about it?" he says, finally answering Karl. "I don't think he'll mind."
"You sure about that, Chris? The man seems pretty attached to you."
Chris decides to ignore that, slipping off the barstool. Lately he's been getting anything but "attached" vibes from Zach. Sure, he's affectionate when it's convenient for him, but hell, Chris can admit the truth to himself: permission to fuck other people was not at all what he wanted from Zach. Luckily, Chris has always been adept at working with the hand he's been dealt. He pats Karl's shoulder. "When a lady's going hungry, someone needs to feed her," he says.
Karl wrinkles his nose. "Is that some kind of American euphemism I'm not familiar with? Because I don't want to picture you feeding anything of yours to anyone."
Chris has to laugh at least a little at that. "Thanks for the drink," he says, and makes his way down the bar to the brunette. When he taps her on the shoulder, she looks up at him with a sparkle in her eye that negates any feigned surprise at his appearance. They nod to each other and he sips his beer before he speaks. "You need a refill?"
"Not for a few minutes yet, but you can entertain me until then."
"Good deal," he says, leaning his hip against the bar as he falls into an easy conversation. When he pays for her next drink, he looks up and locks eyes with Zach's dark gaze; he doesn't exactly look pleased, but Chris has difficulty reading his expression nonetheless. He hands his cash to the bartender and rests a hand on the back of the girl's barstool as she sips the new drink, keeping unwavering eyes on the dark-haired man at the other end of the bar. Zach nods faintly at the gesture and turns back to John; Chris lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
By the time she invites him up to her room, Zach has left the bar area. Chris takes her hand and looks for him again, as if to ask silent permission when he finds him, but he supposes that's unnecessary now. He's up to his eyeballs in a sea of hungry fish, after all, and he already has permission, from one underwater predator to another.
Keep it rocking, baby, don't try to hide it, no
Give me something and I won't try to fight it, no
All the troubles in my mind, they don't feel so bad
When you got me in your palm, sliding in your hands
He and Zach never talk about it, and given their silence, the rest of their cast mates leave it alone from that point forward, as well. Once in a while, Chris will start chatting up a pretty blond or redhead—hell, once he picked up a girl with blue and pink hair, he's not picky—and he'll get a signature raised eyebrow from Karl across the room, but he's learned to ignore it. Karl knows damn well it's none of his business, and if it's not affecting Zach's demeanor, their friends have no reason to be concerned.
Still, he wishes it would affect Zach, at least a little. He feels the sting clearly one morning at breakfast, when Zoe passes around a tabloid rag featuring many photos of one debonair Chris Pine cozying up to Insert Random Girl's Name Here. Zach grabs it from Anton's hands, looking it over and laughing loudly. He lifts a hand and lets his wrist flop forward, calling forth an entirely fey accent.
"Ooh, guuurl, that Chris Pine is such a fiiiiine piece o' man candy. How can ah get wit' him?" he mocks. Everyone laughs, even Zoe, though she reaches out and shoves Zach's arm for good measure. Karl snickers but shakes his head in a way that lets Chris know he disapproves of these shenanigans, all jokes and slutting around included.
"Shut up," Chris says, tugging the magazine out of Zach's grip. He shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth with his other hand as he scrutinizes the photos, and hopes like hell that he isn't blushing. It's not really the teasing that bothers him so much as Zach's blasé reaction, his unfunny and unnecessary remark, but he can pretend. "They didn't even get my good side," he mutters. It's the most noncommittal, lighthearted comment he can think of, at the moment. It makes John and Simon laugh, anyway.
Zach keeps his eyes on his bowl of organic granola and doesn't say anything else about it. As the conversation moves on, Chris squints closely at the magazine and decides he looks incredibly drunk.
"Pay attention, Mr. Vain," Zoe finally snaps, snatching it back.
Chris soon makes his pick-ups a nightly ritual and no one says anything about it, which Chris prefers, because it's nobody's business but his own. He never tries to speak to Zach about it, mainly because he's afraid of what he might say. He doesn't want things to be over with Zach, but the daily spells of silence and willful ignorance of the situation seem to propel him toward the drinks and the nameless, faceless women (and now, often, men—he knows it's dangerous, risking being seen with them, but after a few shots of whisky, he finds he couldn't care less). He doesn't want Zach to look him in the eye and tell him he's had enough, especially since Zach practically gave him his blessing.
The thing is, he's running on empty. And when comfort comes along, when someone is willing to keep him in the palm of his hand, he's never been one to fight it.
When you wear a smile
When you rock a frown
When you throw one off
When you coming 'round
Tonight, she's strawberry blond and sports a gleaming, Crest Kid-worthy smile that's just crooked enough to make Chris' toes tingle. She lets him buy her a few drinks and then toys with the buttons on his shirt, slipping something into his back pocket. "Room 406," she whispers as she pulls away, disappearing into the swell of the crowded room. Chris examines the gifted items after she leaves, making sure to hold them under the bar, out of public view: a key card to her hotel room and a small plastic bag filled more than halfway with white powder.
"Huh," he says to himself. He pockets the items again and makes his way to the restroom.
He's locked himself in a stall and is regarding the baggie when familiar voices enter the room. One has an unmistakable accent and the other, he'd recognize anywhere.
"So it doesn't bother you that he's never around lately?" Simon asks, as he moves toward a urinal. "We barely see him at all these days."
"He's getting out his male aggressions." Chris can detect the smirk in Zach's voice and he leans forward to hear him better. "I had a feeling he'd want to explore the perks of his newfound celebrity a bit. It's only natural."
"Forgive me if I'm being overly, ehm...honest, here. But I could have sworn he was head over heels for you. And maybe...vice versa?"
Zach exhales and Chris purses his lips, waiting for the reply. "I do care deeply for Chris, yes. And therefore...I just want him to do whatever makes him happy."
Chris frowns deeply, clutching the baggie tightly in his palm, feeling the plastic go warm. He furrows his brow and suppresses the urge to burst out of the stall, screaming, Fuck you, Zach, fuck you, you fucking fucker, fuck you FUCK YOU.
Simon zips up and goes to wash his hands. "And how are you sure all this sleeping around is making him happy?"
"I'm not," Zach admits. Chris listens to his footfalls as he moves to the sink as well. "But I take his constant absence from our room as a sign that he's at least having a good time."
"Most likely. I saw he caught quite a pretty one tonight."
"Chris can have anyone he wants," Zach says, as he walks out of the restroom with Simon, his voice drifting. "That much has always been..."
The door closes and Chris sits in frustrated silence for a few moments before undoing his belt and opening his trousers. He pushes the fabric down to his knees and forms thin, white lines of powder on the tanned skin of his thigh, bending nearly in half to sniff each one quickly into one open nostril as he presses the other closed. When he lifts his head again, his vision seems clearer, as does his mind. He pockets the leftovers and zips up, rubbing the room key between his clammy palms.
The smiley blonde is happy to see him, and the feeling is mutual, at first. Chris only manages to go down on her once before he's forced to excuse himself, however, begging off with the excuse of a massive headache. She frowns at him, no doubt disappointed by this outcome, but lets him go without a fight and—to Chris' quiet delight—without asking for the remainder of her blow. She did seem pretty pleased with her orgasm, so he supposes she might consider it a fair trade; he'd say she got gypped, but that's him.
He finds himself standing in front of Zach's hotel room—his room, too, if his disheveled suitcase lying on the floor inside is any indication—not knowing how the hell he got from point A to point B. The important thing, he supposes, is that he's here. His room key is on his person somewhere, but he feels daunted by the process of seeking it out and just knocks insistently instead. Zach opens the door in a tank top and boxer briefs and Chris' senses are so well-wired and electric right then that he can smell the familiar scent of his lover just with one waft of air from the room, permeating his olfactory nerves and his entire system. He can feel a light sheen of sweat bloom over the expanse of his brow.
Zach looks sleep-mussed but aware. "Hello, stranger," he murmurs, and his eyebrows lift dramatically when Chris reaches out to touch his long-missed mouth. He circles his fingers around Chris' wrist. "Hold up. You're tweaking. Aren't you?"
"Please fuck me, Zach," Chris whispers. His fingers are acting on their own, tracing the planes of Zach's face, attempting to regain all those gorgeous, lapsed memories. Whatever makes me happy. Don't you fucking know? "I would be ever so elated."
"Christopher," Zach sighs, slightly admonishing, but he keeps his eyes on him as he sucks a fingertip into his mouth. He tugs Chris forward by his shirt just so, and their foreheads lightly bump together. If Zach minds the sweat, he doesn't say anything; he just pulls Chris into the room and steers him toward the bed, stripping him of the outfit that, for once, he didn't choose. Chris mentally likens the return of Zach's knowing touch to coming back to a home-cooked meal—hell, coming home is more like it. Here, he knows he's in good hands. He falls back onto the mattress and arches with every caress, vaguely wondering how many kisses, how many moans, sighs and gasps it will take to show Zach that here, right here, he's happy.
When I'm feeling bad
When I'm feeling sad
Oh, it ain't so bad
When I'm in your hands
Previous: Talk Like That || Next: If I Know You
