"We did it at your mother's house, the first time. Jesus Christ," Chris said, faking left to dodge a burning helicopter.
Behind Chris's seat on the floor, up on the sofa, Lance snorted. It was muffled by the Stephenson novel he was holding too close to his face, but it was distinctly a snort. "The fuck we did."
Chris pounded L1 repeatedly until he remembered that reload was L2. Fucking game designers. Couldn't they get together to decide what button did what and then stick to it? "No, not it it. Not the naked with the tabs into the slots it. Because my tab? Under the roof belonging to your mother? It'd be a floppy tab, and that wouldn't do either of us any good."
"We're not talking about your tab in relation to my mother or any member of her family." The sound of a page turning was unnaturally sane in the midst of the gunfire on the television. "Except in relation to her eldest son."
"You didn't tell me you had a brother. Shit, Bass. After all these years. Is he hot?"
Lance snorted again. Maybe he was congested, coming down with a nasty bug. That'd fuck up the recording schedule. "He's exactly as hot as me. Which is really quite fucking hot, come to think of it."
"Oh, Christ. It's happened." Chris hit START and turned around as the simulated carnage froze on the screen. "Your vanity's outstripped Justin's."
Lance eased into a slouch, stretching out both long, tanned arms along the back of the sofa. His blue jeans, already on the skid row side of low, loosed their grip on decency.
Frowning, Chris eyed the stretch of skin across Lance's hip. It was, conveniently, mere inches from his face. "Is there a name for that muscle? Other than the 'muscle-I-won't-ever-see-again-on-my-own-body-but-sure-as-hell-enjoy-licking-on-yours muscle?"
"We did not have our first kiss at my mother's house."
"Where, pray tell, do you think we did it?"
Lance twisted his body until something in his spine cracked. Chris winced. Right on cue, Lance smiled. "The traditional place. Front seat of your car, that night we ditched rehearsal and went to the Waffle House in Ormond Beach."
Frowning, Chris considered the likelihood that Lance was right. Unfortunately, when it came to remembering the details, Chris sucked. He sucked a lot.
"In the front seat of your '82 Celebrity. With the windows down, and one of your crappy mix cds playing, and the McDonald's bag between us."
Salt from the french fries, salt from off the ocean. Oh. Lance had looked so determined. So scared. "I think that was the only time we ever cut rehearsal."
"Rare exceptions were made for death or dismemberment. You called Lynn and pleaded a severed hand."
Chris ran said hand up Lance's calf, past his knee and thigh and into the nicely naked area around his waist. "Good thing I recovered."
"Good thing," said Lance. Pinning Chris's hand to his waist, Lance leaned over and kissed him again, nothing at all like the first time. This kiss was better. Always better. Best.
Breathing hard, Chris watched as Lance pulled away, picking up the novel and searching for his page. "I could call in tomorrow with a dislocated heart. They don't really need us in the studio. C can work his midi magic. We'll be reborn as digital creations."
"Shut up already. I'm reading," Lance said, smiling over the edge of his book.