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It was raining again, like it had been for the last six days. Chris was perched upon the windowsill watching the world outside, eyes alert, body slender and easily poised like a cat. The sky was blurry and pale, ugly like a bruise, and the tense air inside the flat was not much better.
Only twelve days ago, Chris and Jonny had admitted their feelings for each other inside the cramped cab of Jonny’s car. They had kissed and it had been heaven. Chris was anxious every minute now, stealing a kiss and a caress whenever he could – but their two weeks together, alone in the solitude of Jonny’s apartment, was nearly up. Two days, and everything would come crashing down around them as they began touring again, began interviewing, promoting their second album – whoring themselves out to the media and fans. Not that this particular act of prostitution was terrible: Chris loved performing live, though it made him nervous, and interviews were bearable as long as he had the other three with him.
But… something was different somehow. Chris dreaded returning to his old ways. The thought of getting up onstage or facing the reporters armed with questions about his injuries, that dark and bloody night, made him physically sick. To Chris, it seemed unlikely he would live through a day of it.
And now he had the burden of Jonny with him. Well, it wasn’t Jonny who was the burden; it was himself. Now that the two of them were admittedly in love – “an item” – there wasn’t a minute of the day when Chris wasn’t thinking about being with him. Even if they were in separate rooms, Chris yearned to tangle his fingers with Jonny’s, to pillow his head on Jonny’s broad shoulder, to press a light kiss to those rosy, pliable lips. Something about Jonny was addictive – once you started, there was a point of no return. That point usually came quickly.
Chris’s favorite time of the day had to be mid-morning, when the flat was still quiet and the light was turning from honey into gold and the air was calm and warm. He would pad silently around the kitchen, wearing nothing but his dark linen pants that served as pyjamas, and brew coffee. Sometimes if he woke up earlier than normal – Jonny didn’t usually rise until about nine-thirty or ten, and Chris’s habitual time was eight – he’d eat dry cereal and draw moustaches on the people in the newspaper as he read it. Though Chris had a flat as well, full of his own junk and distinctively his own place, somehow Jonny’s flat felt more like home than anyplace Chris had ever been. Jonny held firmly to the “what’s mine is yours” way of seeing things, and he trusted Chris completely.
Thus, as the last few days of the two weeks approached, returning to their old routine was not the only thing on Chris’s mind. He was thinking of asking if he could move in with his blonde bandmate. It was a heavy question, with all sorts of possible consequences. Chris wanted to keep their relationship secret, but their living together might raise questions (mostly because Guy and Will both had separate flats as well – what business did Jonny and Chris have living together then?). Plus he and Jonny had only been ‘together’ for less than fourteen days, hadn’t even had sex (at least not yet), and were both slightly scared by the prospect of the future.
They had, however, lay in bed together, their bodies pressed flush and their foreheads touching. Chris knew the exact texture of Jonny’s skin, the curves of his muscles in his arms, the soft wetness inside his mouth. He knew nearly all of Jonny’s extra-sensitive spots. He knew where Jonny was just slightly ticklish. He knew the location of the scar that Jonny had suffered when he had fallen off his roof at eleven years old. And he knew that Jonny’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled – but only if it was a sincere smile. Chris knew Jonny’s every emotion, and it was comfortable that way. And he knew Jonny felt the same way.
Rain splattered against the window and Chris blinked, clearing his head. He stared down at his hands and the untouched guitar at his feet, berating himself silently – his plan had been to write at least one song before they resumed touring. Something to appease the fans. But nothing would come out. He struggled with the words – sentences, melodies were running through his head but they always slipped through his fingers no matter how he tried. It was frustrating. It made him feel sick and restless. He had to get something out. He had to do something… anything. He needed to move.
The sound of Jonny’s footsteps from a far room made him itch to run to the blonde guitarist, but instead he waited, sprawled out like an expectant queen upon her bed. When he heard the footsteps stop and start again haltingly, he thought Jonny must have been in the sound room, straightening the instruments. The throaty strum of guitar strings confirmed his suspicion. The footsteps continued, nearer to the sitting room, where Chris waited impatiently.
Cold breeze emanated from the windowpane. Chris flattened his palm against the frigid glass, heaving a sigh and watching the outside world move silently, sluggishly. The tiny cars below, and the even tinier people – a colony of ants and their expensive ant-cars, that was how it looked from Chris’ eighth-floor view – moved of their own accord. Chris glanced away, and saw Jonny standing quietly at the other side of the room, watching him.
“What do you want, Buckland?” Chris asked in a mock-irritated voice.
Jonny’s mouth curved upwards in a lascivious grin. “Take a wild guess,” he quipped, stalking on deliberate feet towards the prone figure of Chris.
The tall fair-haired singer tugged him down and they met in the middle, mouths locking and bodies cupping one another. Jonny’s deft hands skirted over Chris’ long torso, feeling the calm warmth of his skin through the soft fabric of his sweater. They drew back from each other, nuzzling gently like scared young lovers, then plunged in again, tongues brushing tentatively and the wetness of their mouths a thrill.
Chris cupped the back of Jonny’s head, pulling him closer. There wasn’t an inch of space between their bodies, and soon their passion sparked faster and brighter until the fire was unstoppable.
Chris’ shirt was up, over his head, and tossed into a far corner in seconds. Jonny’s fingers worked blindly at the buttons of Chris’ jeans as he straddled his hips, the nearly ticklish feel of his bare skin on the fabric of Jonny’s shirt making him squirm and grin as he drank hungrily from his mouth. Jonny finished with the tedious buttons and the waist of Chris’ jeans drooped around his slim hips, and the elastic of his boxers was revealed.
Chris tugged impatiently at the other man’s shirt, mewing in impatience and taking small, gentle nips at the skin of Jonny’s neck. The guitarist tipped forward slightly as he shed the shirt, lying Chris on his back, willing and waiting before him. He attacked the pale, supple skin with eager teeth and curious tongue, running his hands up and down the curves he had already memorized a thousand times before. Chris arched up gracefully, his head thrown back and his breath gasping in and out of his chest, a rhythm slightly mismatched to that of the gentle gyrations of his hips.
Jonny chuckled, his warm breath making Chris squirm and inhale sharply. He grinned deviously, taking a nipple in his mouth and laving it laboriously while gently circling the other with the pad of his thumb, the way he knew would make Chris moan and beg for more. Indeed he did do that, his long arms snaking up and down Jonny’s back, breathy pleas falling enticingly from his lips.
Jonny silenced him with a severe kiss, their hands traveling all over each other’s bodies questioningly. They pressed harder into one another; all thoughts of tomorrow and the future were forgotten as passion melded their bodies and trashed their reservations. Chris’ lips were wet and soft, warm and inviting, and Jonny couldn’t get enough. Cheekily, Chris spread his thighs slightly, moaning as Jonny’s hand slid between the apex and caressed his erection through the thick fabric of his jeans.
Suddenly, Chris jerked up into a sitting position and held up a hand. Despite his heaving chest and flushed cheeks, his face was quite serious. Jonny thought the sight would’ve been comical, if not for the fact that his jeans were extremely tight around the crotch right now, and getting uncomfortably tighter as he watched Chris’ slender chest rise and fall seductively.
“Er… Martin?”
Chris puckered his lips a moment in a thoughtful look, then sat up and cleared his throat. “I can’t go on until… well… until this is cleared up.”
Jonny blinked slowly, as if once his vision cleared Chris would be sprawled out before him, moaning wantonly once again. “Until… what is cleared up?”
“Well, I mean… I… I didn’t want to interrupt… er… that…” Chris made a perplexed face, rubbing his temples frustratedly. “It was very nice and all, but I really need to just… well… I just can’t… I mean, tomorrow, it’s all over and everything goes back to normal – but I don’t want normal! I don’t want it to be the way it was! I want it to be…” He paused, taking a shaky breath, and gestured around him at Jonny’s messy flat. “I want it to be this.”
Jonny’s eyebrows arched in something akin to disbelief. “This?” he asked incredulously, his eyes raking the scattered junk. “You’re kidding me.”
It was obvious Jonny didn’t see what Chris saw in all of it. Chris saw home; he saw security and love. He saw a couch he could sit in, nestled in Jonny’s lap, at night after a good gig in a small club. He saw the kitchen table he’d make dinner for, and he wouldn’t even complain about having to cook as long as Jonny put the dishes away. He saw threadbare rugs for making-out sessions, he saw a squeaky bed for sleeping held tightly in Jonny's arms, and he even saw a good space against the wall where his piano could fit.
“Jonny…” Chris took another breath, chewing his lip briefly before going on. “I want to live with you.”
It took a second to register, but the reaction was so unexpected that the tears Chris had been holding back for so long finally spilled over. Jonny’s face broke into a beaming smile and he tackled his lover to the floor, nuzzling the warm skin of his neck and laughing happily.
“You mean it, then?” he asked breathlessly, cradling Chris’s head in his hands. “You really want to stay here?”
Chris nodded, sniffling and smiling. He wiped away the tracks the tears left on his cheeks. “Sorry for getting so broken up,” he laughed, “but I’m really chuffed… I mean… I thought you’d say no.”
Jonny smiled, gently at first, then wider. “Deny you? Never. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.”
“That’s good to know,” Chris laughed, kissing the beaming guitarist playfully. “I suppose tomorrow I should get my stuff, yeah? And then… I don’t know. I’ll cook dinner or something, to celebrate.”
Jonny’s smile turned devious as his blue eyes traveled to the doorway of the bedroom. “Hm… What do you say we start the celebration early?”