For clumsygyrl: Timbertrick. "I don't care if it hurts / I want to have control / I want a perfect body / I want a perfect soul / I want you to notice / When I'm not around / You're so fucking special / I wish I was special."

It was every single fucking cliche in the books: older man, younger colleague, late night, too much tequila, and the hangover the next day was swamped only by the guilt and shame when Chris woke up and realized three very important things: a). Justin was sound asleep next to him, which wasn't unusual; b). Justin was naked, which also wasn't unusual (JC had infected him with the nudist bug at an early age), and c). they were both sticky and the sheets really needed to be changed. Which was unusual. Well, the sticky thing. The sheets usually needed to be changed. And also, he was naked too.

"Oh, God," Chris moaned, and then clapped a hand over his mouth, because he really wanted to avoid waking Justin up if he didn't have to, and climbed out of bed to throw his sorry stinking carcass in the shower.

Justin was awake and puttering around the kitchen when he got out of the bathroom. Puttering around the kitchen naked, which really didn't improve the situation. "Hey," Justin said, and held out a cup of coffee. "How bad's the hangover?"

"Brutal," Chris said. He took the coffee and drank it full down without pausing for breath. Justin wasn't standing in a halo of sunlight and he wasn't golden and beautiful; he was sleepy and slightly crabby-looking and really needed a shower and there were pillow lines on his face and blanket wrinkles across his shoulder. It didn't mean that he was any less perfect. "We, uh."

"It's cool." Justin took the empty mug away from Chris. "Just a thing, right? It's okay. I get it."

"Yeah," Chris said, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. "Just a thing. Totally drunk. Never happen again."

"Right," Justin said. Chris tried to avoid looking for anything else behind the smile.

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