It feels good. It always feels good, but Nick misses those days when it burned like a rocket entering the atmosphere, consuming and defiant. He moves down Chris's back with reverence, sampling the smoothness of his skin with lips parted. Chris squirms.
“C'mon, Nicky. Do it.” Chris's voice is breathy, wanting, but Nick can hear it, the impatience, and he wonders if it's because Chris has an early call in the morning or if he's just that ready to feel Nick inside him. With a sigh, Nick does as he's asked, coming a scant five minutes later. Five minutes after that, Chris is asleep, turned on his side facing away. Nick wonders if this feeling in his chest, this tragic and resigned thing swimming around, is loneliness.
* * *
The words hurt, flung at Chris's head like daggers thrown from a practiced hand. He bats them away with daggers of his own, blue eyes flashing.
“I'm too impulsive, too quick to anger. Not accepting enough of your friends. Anything else, Nicholas? Oh wait, I rely too much on my dad for advice. Never mind that he was a director, mentored plenty of actors, and has loads of experience and advice to keep me from falling on my face. I'm so sorry; I thought that you might have benefitted from his insight, too. By all means, forge your own way and fall flat in the mud. I haven't cut the umbilical cord. Yet another fatal flaw.”
“All I'm saying, Christopher,” spit like a curse, “is that perhaps the growing up would be more convincing if you managed to do some of it on your own.”
Heat floods Chris's face, his eyes narrowing and deadly calm. Nick flinches involuntarily. Chris knows he needs to control himself. He's getting “that look” on his face again. But his mouth has gone and detached itself, marching into Nick's personal space and pulling the pin on a verbal hand grenade.
“Just because I didn't have to grow up without a father doesn't mean I haven't grown up, Nick.” Detonation. He regrets it as soon as Nick's face freezes, stunned. He deserves the quiet “fuck you” whispered with precision straight into his soul. He deserves the slammed door, the screeched tires. He deserves to be left for that one.
He doesn't see Nick for three days. He expects to never see him again.
* * *
This guy is everything Nick is not. He's blonde, green eyed, talks constantly about himself, and Chris is wondering why he's standing here, pretending rapt attention. It's the gravity defying ass, Chris remembers, ordering them both another round. The guy's white teeth clack against his beer bottle and he barely stops to swallow before continuing on about the difficulty of running a marathon, how much of a boot camp he went through to reprogram his mind into believing he could do it.
Nick always just knew he could do things. He simply did them. He never bored me with how he got there, no matter how hard it was. God, I miss him.
This guy is no Nick.
Chris smiles, asks the right questions, knows he's got the runner stud hooked. They go back to the guy's house and Chris asks if he's got wine when he's offered a drink. Runner Stud calls out from the kitchen, “I hope you don't mind it out of a box. It's all I have. Didn't have time to go to the market.”
Chris smirks but calls out that it's fine. He's too busy looking at the bookshelves. Stephen King. Dean Koontz. Steve Martini. Does this guy read anything deeper than made-for-TV miniseries in print? Oh, here we go. Classics. Catcher in the Rye. Gulliver's Travels. Grapes of Wrath. Shit, Chris read all that in high school.
So he's no Lit major. I'm here to fuck him, not marry him.
Runner Stud comes back into the room, dimming the lights and handing Chris his glass. It's swill, sickly sweet and cloying. Thankfully, Chris has enough of a beer buzz that he can down it without gagging and refuse the refill. He's on Runner Stud in a second, hands on his hips, tongue in his mouth. This guy has no technique. Slobbery, all tongue, no lips, no sensuality at all. It's like kissing an overeager puppy. Still, that ass, it begs to be played with. Except Runner Stud keeps pulling Chris's hands back to his waist. After the third time, he stops drooling on Chris's neck long enough to say he's not into anyone touching his ass. He's a top all the way. It's said proudly, but Chris hears snooty, as if no one should deign to touch such perfection. Chris's last reason to be there evaporates.
“Look, you're a nice enough guy, but I'm just coming out of a bad breakup, and I don't think I can do this. It was fun and good luck with your next race.” Chris is glad it's warm outside and his keys are still in his pocket, that he's still dressed. No stopping on his way out the door to gather a jacket or shoes he never took off. Seems Runner Stud isn't the only one who knows how to run.
That guy is definitely no Nick.
What Could Be
The craft services table is always a good place to see who has a scene to film that day, and Nick has avoided it since the Marine Corps sequel began filming. He'd been overjoyed when he signed on to play a drill sergeant for this installment, getting to work with Chris for the first time. Now, he fears the project will fail, that he's not a good enough actor to pull off the epic friendship their respective characters share that will define the film. But he can't avoid it anymore, nor can he hole up in the makeup trailer as he's done for meals the previous two days since production began. He can't risk feeling faint on a completely empty stomach and keep his head in the game. This is his career.