Work Text:
Darren stands on Chris’ doorstep for far too long, just staring sightlessly at the doorbell button he knows he doesn’t have to push. The metal of the key that unlocks that door is cool between his fingertips, but he can’t quite seem to lift his hand. He’s exhausted, down to his marrow, and every step from the car up to the door drained the last of his energy. He’s later than he wanted to be, but he’d had to shower the stench of filming off him and change into his own clothes. He would have walked right off set still in his Sectionals costume, but he’d been stopped by security and gently guided back to wardrobe. They know to look out for him, ever since he took a Dalton blazer and tie home and refused to give them back.
Out of the corner of his eye, Darren sees the yellow hue of a light flicker to dark – the upstairs bathroom light – and he finally slides the key into the lock.
Chris’ house is cool and quiet, and the entryway is dark, but the living room lights are still on. It might be late, but Darren knows that Chris stays up even later, especially when he doesn’t have an early call time. He hasn’t been on set in days and Darren’s been getting texts well into the early morning. Darren leaves his shoes by the door in a haphazard pile on top of Chris’ and hangs his jacket up next to Chris’ on the rack. He hears a soft, expectant mewing and looks down to see Brian sitting a few feet behind him, tail curled around his legs, and his knowing eyes trained unblinkingly at Darren.
“Hey, buddy.” Darren lets Brian sniff delicately at his fingers before he attempts to pet him. He made the mistake of going right for ear scritches on their first meeting and Brian refused to look at him for a week after that. They’ve come to an understanding now; Chris is first for both of them.
There’s a muted shuffle of footsteps and Darren looks up to see Chris coming down the stairs. He’s wearing worn sweatpants (Darren’s own sweatpants he left behind a year ago) and a thin t-shirt that’s become just a touch too small for him in the last few months. Chris’ skin is flushed a rosy pink, his hair is damp and tousled, and Darren aches at the mere sight of him after the day, the week, he’s had.
“Hey,” Chris says, and a curious little smile curves his mouth. He seems surprised, but pleased to see him. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” He steps up close and Darren parts his lips in anticipation. Chris’ mouth is soft and welcoming, wet as Darren angles for a deeper kiss. Chris tastes, surprisingly, of apples and cinnamon, and Darren briefly chases the unexpected flavor from Chris’ tongue.
“Yeah, I know,” Darren whispers when he finally pulls back. His lips are tingling as he sweeps his nose up the stubbled line of Chris’ jaw and inhales. Chris smells of cheap soap and expensive shampoo and Darren wants to drag his tongue up the thick tendon of Chris’ neck to see if he can taste Chris beneath it all. He waits.
“There were…too many people at my place,” he says instead and knows that Chris will understand. Darren brushes his lips across the apple of Chris’ cheek back to his mouth where he presses light kisses that are barely kisses at all. Chris’ hands close around his biceps and his thumbs dig into the muscle; Darren shivers.
“Do you want something to eat, or-”
Darren cuts Chris’ question off with another swift press of his lips and settles his hands on Chris’ waist. He’s warm, alive as Darren walks him backwards into the living room. Darren drops gentle kisses to his smiling mouth and revels in the shifting of Chris’ tight, thick muscles through the fabric of his thin shirt.
“Nope.” It’s not even a lie. He’s been up since 5am and hasn’t eaten in hours, but he’s too tired for that kind of hunger. Darren finds the edge of Chris’ shirt, pulls it up over his head, and tosses it to the side. Chris blinks slowly and drags his tongue along his lower lip as Darren slides the sweatpants down and kicks them away. He’s not wearing any underwear and the scent of him, rich and masculine, makes Darren close his eyes and breathe in deep. He’s getting closer to where he’s wanted to be all damn day.
Darren guides Chris over to the sofa and Chris’ legs part as easily as his lips as he settles down against the cushions and pillows. Chris is utterly gorgeous like this, loose-limbed and relaxed, and Darren can finally take a breath. He doesn’t want to talk about his day, or eat the leftovers from Chris’ fridge, or think about anything at all. He just wants to be for a while. Darren lays himself out over Chris’ long, naked body. His pale skin is still flushed pink and warmed from the shower and parts of him – the curve of his hip, the insides of his elbows – are still a little damp. Darren buries his face in Chris’ throat. Here, he smells faintly of salt and skin and Chris. Darren wishes he could somehow pull that scent inside himself for the long days when it’s denied to him.
“You look tired,” Chris whispers and his body shifts subtly under Darren’s, loosening, spreading wider. Darren wants to sink into Chris, meld their hearts and bones and blood together and never fucking leave. It’s never worried him, this need in his veins for the heat and the touch and the closeness of Chris’ body. It just is.
“Such a charmer,” Darren mumbles. The stubble on Chris’ throat where he hasn’t shaved in two days is rough against Darren’s tongue as he licks a long stripe up to the sharp edge of Chris’ jaw. He knows that Chris is right though. The makeup woman had clucked her tongue at him that morning and spent an extra ten minutes hiding the circles under his eyes.
“You do too much,” Chris says and his thick fingers push through Darren’s hair, blunt nails scratching softly at his scalp. Darren closes his eyes against the touch and his hips roll on their own accord. Chris makes a pleased little grunt from down in his throat.
“Impossiblé,” Darren whispers as he noses back behind Chris’ ear. He smells of shampoo here and the tang of it is sharp on Darren’s tongue.
That’s not quite true, but he doesn’t need to admit it for Chris to understand. He rarely has to say anything aloud for Chris to just get it. The need for sleep weighs heavily on Darren, urging him to just lie down and rest his bones against Chris. Soon.
Darren slides a hand down to Chris’ elbow and gently stretches his arm up over his head, guiding it to rest along the edge of the sofa. He delights in the way Chris shivers when his fingers brush lightly along the thin, almost fragile skin of his wrist and down the back of his arm. Chris is sensitive is so many wonderful, unexpected places.
“Darren,” Chris begins to say. His voice has gone a little deeper, a little huskier, and Darren can feel the growing heat of Chris, naked against his own hip.
“Shh.” Darren nuzzles into the secret warmth of Chris’ armpit. He hadn’t put on deodorant after his shower and the scent of him is muskier here, wholly boyish. The hair here is lighter than that on his forearms and legs and it’s always surprisingly soft against Darren’s lips and nose. Chris’ smell is so unique, so deeply complicated, and not the least bit delicate, and Darren wishes he could cover himself in it. He presses in deeper and Chris sighs, twitches, when Darren tongues the deep hollow where the curve of his chest starts. There’s always so much of Chris – to taste and to touch – and never enough time for it all. Perhaps, one day, there will be time.
Time for you and for me, Darren thinks. It only hurts a little.
He shifts down a bit and brushes kisses along Chris’ flushed chest. The hair is the lightest there, almost invisible, but the obvious scratch of it against Darren’s chin and lips is always tantalizingly erotic. He could spend hours – has spent hours – mapping the smooth contours of Chris’ chest. Chris shakes and shudders whenever Darren rubs his stubbled cheek over Chris’ peaked nipples and he cries out softly, beautifully, when Darren sets his teeth around the swollen, sensitive flesh. Chris’ heart is beating hard and Darren presses his ear to Chris’ sternum just to listen for a moment. But Darren has another destination in mind. Darren noses his way down to Chris’ stomach and dips his tongue into his bellybutton, just to feel the jerk of Chris’ body he knows will happen. The taste of him is always so strong here and it bursts brightly across Darren’s tongue. There’s a hint of soap tonight, and Darren licks deeper until all he tastes is Chris.
“Darren,” Chris murmurs and his fingers tighten in Darren’s hair. He shifts a little restlessly and Darren can feel Chris’ body warming beneath him. Darren could surge up, capture Chris’ mouth in a deep kiss, and line their hips up, but it’s not quite what he wants.
“Let me have this,” Darren says against the lower curve of Chris’ belly. Chris is half hard against his chin, but that’s not the point of tonight. Not really. Darren just needs to touch, to feel. He needs to let go of the burden of expectations and obligations that have been weighing him into the ground all fucking week and Chris is the only place he can do that. He wants the scent of Chris’ body to seep deep down into his own pores where it’ll never fade.
“I know.” Chris’ hand slides to cup the back of Darren’s neck and he squeezes gently. His eyes are a deep blue when Darren looks up the long, pale length of his body to his face. His lips are still reddened from their kisses but his expression is relaxed, giving. “I know,” he repeats and Darren presses his mouth to Chris’ belly in gratitude.
Darren slides his hand under Chris’ thigh and pushes gently until Chris’ leg is folded up easily against his chest. The back of Chris’ knee is a little sweaty and oddly sweet and Chris’ whole body jerks when Darren nips at the thin tendon. There are so many little places on Chris’ body where his scent gathers and deepens – behind his ear, the hollow of his throat, and the curving dip of his groin. He rubs his rough cheek against the smooth inside of Chris’ pale thigh and smiles when he feels the muscles shiver.
Darren lets Chris’ leg relax down until his foot is on the floor and his thighs are spread as wide as possible on the sofa. He leans in, buries his face in the achingly familiar crease where Chris’ thigh becomes his groin, and he’s home. The scent of Chris is thick and dark here – secret and private and just for Darren. Darren breathes in deep and slow and groans from down in his chest as the musk of Chris overwhelms him. Darren anchors himself with one hand spread over Chris’ thigh, holding him open, and the other under his ass. Darren opens his mouth and breathes hotly over the thick tendon that’s so prominent with the way Chris is stretched out wide. Above him, Chris gasps, high and breathy.
He’s too old for hickeys, or at least he should be. But there’s something about leaving a mark on Chris’ pale, sensitive flesh in a place only he will see that makes Darren’s whole body ache. He knows it almost hurts, sucking at Chris’ skin until the blood rushes to the surface, nipping until a bruise forms that won’t fade for a week. His tongue laving at the sore and tender point until he only tastes his own spit isn’t helpful at all, but he can’t stop. He knows that it’s the worst for Chris there, over the taut tendons of his groin, and that Chris feels it down into his gut. Darren knows how every pull of his lips, every dig of his teeth into tender, giving flesh, makes heat flare in Chris’ belly and lights burst behind his eyes. He’s gotten Chris off before with just his mouth on his hip and Chris thrusting into the air.
Darren thinks he could stay forever with his mouth so very intimate on Chris’ body and the scent of him all-encompassing. It’s easy; it’s uncomplicated. It’s just them and taste and touch and nothing else in the world to fuck it up.
Above him, Chris groans and his fingers twist in Darren’s hair, pulling sharply.
“Darren-” Chris’ voice is low and choked and it shivers down Darren’s spine.
Darren drags himself away from the tempting heat of Chris’ groin and hauls himself up the length of his body. Chris’ arms wind around his shoulders and pull him down with a strength that Darren is never going to get used to. Darren collapses willingly against Chris’ welcoming body and buries his face back into the curve of his throat. He thinks about trying to finally take off his own clothes, but can’t find it in him to do that much. He’s drugged on the scent of Chris in his blood and the taste of him heavy on his tongue. Chris’ long legs wrap low around his hips and one of his hands buries back into his hair, holding him in place.
He takes a slow breath and his eyes close. He knows he won’t be opening them again for hours.
“Love you,” he mumbles into Chris’ throat and he swears he can feel Chris’ pulse jump under his lips.
Chris is silent for a long moment, but it doesn’t worry Darren at all. He knows, understands, how some words are so much harder for Chris than others. He knows how he has to drag them up from where he’s shoved them down deep. But finally, just as Darren can feel sleep pulling him under, he feels the swell of Chris’ chest under his own as he takes a breath.
“Love you.”
And that’s just another kind of home, too.