Other times, though, Chris’s brain would play tricks on him. Like just now, noticing the heat of the bassist’s skin filtering through his as they were both in their underwear. This could be the perfect beginning to some bad amateurish porn short film: two friends laughing together at stupid jokes on a hot summer night, innocently grazing the other until they get entangled.
“What is it?” Marc asked.
“Nothing.” Chris cleared his throat, feeling a sudden rush of guilt and excitement equally strong.
Marc rolled onto his side to face him, propping his cheek on a palm. “I know what nothing looks like, and this”—he pointed at him with his index finger—“this is notnothing. Spit it out.”
“Nothing!” Chris lay on his back to put some distance between them. Being so close to this man, alone in a bed, with both of them practically naked, was affecting him more than he cared to admit, and he didn’t know what to do with the reactions his body was having. Especially with the constant fluttering in his chest. “I was just thinking that I’ve missed you,” he half lied.
“So fucking clingy. We’ve been together for two months straight.” Marc pulled a mocking expression. “I’m actually fed up with seeing your face.”
“Shithead.” Chris shoved his shoulder, making him fall flat on his back, cackling like an idiot. “I mean, this.” Glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, he flicked a finger between them. “Everything’s been so fucking weird during this tour. I’m just glad it’s over and we’re ourselves again.”
“I know what you meant.” Marc flashed him a playful grin.
“Fuck you.”
“Thanks.”
Silence encapsulated them for a few seconds. A few seconds during which Chris didn’t dare to move, as he could sense the bassist’s intent gaze on him. He had no idea what was going on in his head. And while a part of him was dying to know if it matched the need pulsing beneath his own skin, the other part preferred to remain in the dark. Because if they were on the same wavelength right now, there would be no stopping that. But he wasn’t sure if he was ready to jeopardize their friendship again. Not so soon, anyway.
“Want anything else to drink?” Chris asked, trying to curb the endless loop of uncertainty spinning in his head.
“Ugh, no,” Marc grumbled as he rubbed both hands over his face. “I’m at my limit. If I have one more, I won’t survive the thirteen-hour trip we have tomorrow.”
“True.”
“Feel free to pour yourself another whiskey if you think you can handle it, though,” he said in a challenging tone as he motioned to the bottle on his nightstand.
“I’d rather do something else.”
Marc turned his head, a brow raised in a cheeky expression. “Hmm?”
“I need to pee.” The guitarist sprung out of bed and locked himself in the bathroom.
Not even wanting to look at himself in the mirror and see his shame staring back at him, Chris kept his gaze down and approached the toilet. His bare feet tapping on the floor and his heart beating in his ears were the only sounds he could hear.
Although he’d tried to ignore it, as he and Marc had grown closer again, the urge to put his boundaries to the test had been breeding in his lungs like a fucking weed. The connection they’d always shared was still there. But now there was something else. Something overwhelming, like a black hole swallowing the universe around it. No matter how hard Chris tried to fight it, being close to this man ignited the embers of an undying desire he’d never imagined existed.
You need to get a grip on yourself.
After washing his hands, with his bladder empty and his head full of jumbled thoughts, the guitarist walked out of the bathroom. Marc had thrown the window open and was standing there, bent forward with his elbows resting on the sill.
“You know we’re not allowed to smoke in here, right?” Chris clipped.
“I know,” Marc said. “But I needed one and didn’t feel like going downstairs. Rather have half my body hanging outside.”
“Hand it over.”
“Didn’t you just say we can’t smoke in here?” The bassist chuckled.
“Shut up.” Chris mirrored his friend’s position and outstretched his hand to him.
“Cranky.” Marc passed him the cigarette before he turned around and leaned his ass against the windowsill, glancing up with his arms crossed over his chest. “I know you said you’re glad this tour is over, but I’m kinda dreading going back home.”
“Why’s that?” Chris blew out a cloud of smoke, keeping his gaze fixed on an invisible spot to avoid looking at his friend.
He’d rather pretend he was completely unbothered by the bassist’s presence, but his muscles were so tight under his tanned skin, darkened after spending day after day in the sun, and his long hair was so perfect, begging to be forcefully grasped in a fist... It was absurd how he’d gotten here. From being scared as fuck of his own sexual preferences, to wanting to have his friend’s mouth wrapped around his shaft, even if it was for just one night.
