“We all do. You may pretend to be shallow and that all you care about is music and sex. But there’s depth in you. And although your face easily shows when you don’t like someone, you never voice the way you feel, especially not when you’re struggling. Like when you took care of your mom and sister by yourself after your father left. You never asked Luca, Erik, or me for help. Didn’t even accept it when we offered.”
“Leah’s dad was there.”
“Yeah, but he was also looking after her at the time.”
Chris winced.
“I have no idea what caused such distress, but I’d bet they’re probably the reason you hardly let people in.”
“And you want me to let you in so you can fix me?”
Chris knew Marc was just trying to tell him he was there for him, but he couldn’t help it. Putting up his walls was a habit he’d mastered over the years. Maybe he subconsciously didn’t want to be hurt, and this was his way of protecting himself, like Leah had said. Or maybe deep down, as kind-hearted as the bassist wanted to think he was, there was only an empty shell, and he didn’t want anyone to see the ugly in him.
“No. I don’t think you need fixing.”
“You’d be the first to tell me that.” Chris snorted, looking to the side.
“Hookups get bitchy when you dump them. Don’t take their words to heart.” Marc offered a knowing smile, then put on a more serious expression again. “But yeah, nah. I don’t think you need fixing. Even if you’re loud, contradicting, and so fucking annoying.” He got closer to him. “Though, if I’m being completely honest, this type of stuff makes me feel like the worst friend. I don’t know you as well as I thought I did, or maybe I’m just not trustworthy enough for you to rely on me.”
“It’s not that.”
“I wish you’d share more with me… I’d like to get to know the real you,” Marc rasped.
Chris swallowed. “My scars… there’s not a big story behind them. They’re the result of me struggling when I was a teen; with how my father expected me to be like him and I kept disappointing him. With how he slowly became this ill-tempered asshole who gaslighted and belittled the three of us without us even realizing it. Later with my sexuality and with how I could never really connect with anyone on a deep emotional level… Everything was chaos inside of me, and that was the only way I found to cope with it all and be in control of something.”
“And you don’t need it anymore?” Marc’s gaze moved up for a second, fingers brushing away a strand of Chris’s hair.
“Not since after I gave myself to the debauchery of wild sex.” Chris smirked as his heart shuddered. The intensity in Marc’s eyes as he stared at him was making him feel cozy and desperate for one of his rough palms around his neck. “Besides, I have the band now, too.”
“And me.”
Uncrossing his arms, Chris gripped both sides of the bassist’s waist and drew him closer, until their bodies were flushed together. His heart went rampant as their tongues swirled, chasing the pleasure that came with every caress. Marc was an insanely good kisser. And those lips, so plump and soft, always screaming at him to bite them, were impossible to ignore.
Between a pull of their mouths and a panting breath, as Marc’s hand reached for his nape, the guitarist moaned. And soon, what had started as a tender gesture of affection became vicious need. Irrepressible. Dark. Unfiltered. The urgency in the way they were touching each other was so strong it burned his skin and pierced his soul.
Chris wanted to devour this man. To swallow him whole, literally and metaphorically, so no one could ever steal him away. He wanted to be used by him. To hurt him and be hurt. It was so fucking daunting and stimulating. He’d never felt more lucid in his entire life.
His dick twitched, fighting against the taut fabric of his jeans when Marc’s cock grew harder, too.
“I want you to fuck me so bad right now…” Chris husked in one of the seconds their mouths weren’t glued together.
“I want to fuckyouso bad right now,” Marc parroted.
“Why don’t we just sneak out of the party and go to your apartment?”
“Because that’d be too obvious and, according to our last conversation about this”—he ran that wicked tongue along his throat—“you’re not ready for them to know.”
“Fuck…” Chris grinded Marc’s hips over his and bit his bottom lip, feeling like melting.
At this moment, he didn’t care who knew they were fucking. He was still afraid of their friends’ opinions, but how good would it be to do whatever they wanted without having to hide?
Someone cleared their throat, bursting the bubble of lust they were trapped in. Both men snapped their heads towards the sound while putting some distance between them, only to find Søren standing there with a cig in one hand and his Zippo in the other, smirking at them.
“Sorry to interrupt you, guys,” he said, the cigarette between his lips as he scraped the flint of the lighter, “but I needed to poison myself.” A cloud of smoke came out of his nose, the ridiculous grin on his face not going away.
“What?” Chris snapped at him. His heart was beating wildly under his ribs and the cold had settled in his veins, but his snarky personality was bigger than the uneasiness.
“Nothing.” The Norseman chuckled, crossing one arm under the other. “We were wondering how long it’d take for you to get together.”
