| Title: Lightning Flashes Author: Jo Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson Rating: R Summary: Steve can't sleep. Disclaimer: Fiction, folks. But if you believe this really happened, I've got some prime real estate I wanna sell you… Notes: Written for the Two Lines Challenge. Beta (and title) by azewewish.
He sits there, curled in the seat of the bay window, guitar cradled in his lap, forehead pressed against the glass, and watches the rain streak down, the black sky twisting and wavering in the streams of water. Four in the morning, man. Getting to be a habit, but only when he's in Nashville. So he wonders why, exactly, he'd come here again. Sure, there are finishing touches to be put on the album, but it's not like he's been all that involved with this end of things. Not like it hasn't been one thing after another since before the ink dried on the contract. But, y'know, Chris had called, said hey, come out, man, let's hang, and Steve had hopped on a plane. Why? Fuck if he knows. Not like he's seen Chris much at all in months. Hell, Chris couldn't even be bothered to show up for his birthday. Or Jason's. But whatever, right? He'd called, said come, and Steve had thought… That's what he gets for thinking. He oughta know better by now. This time has turned out to be just like the last time, and it's not like Steve hadn't been expecting it, regardless of what he'd told himself. There'd been hanging out, a lot of drinking...and Chris has spent most of his time with "the girl". She really is a sweet girl who'd fit in well in L.A. Blonde and tan and perky as all fuck, and there's something about her that reminds Steve of a cheer leader. He's just calling it like he sees it. Lightning arcs, way off, and blunt fingertips slide over guitar strings, creating a soft cacophony as Steve silently counts the seconds until thunder ripples overhead. His palm covers the strings, silences them, when he hears a key in the lock. Lashes flicker and hair falls in his eyes as he turns just enough to see the door. Chris is alone when he tiptoes in, then his boot heels meet the floor with a thunk as he sees Steve. Didn't have to wait up, and Steve shrugs, fingertips flicking the strings once more, and it's couldn't sleep, y'know and Chris just nods. Chris cants his head, hair brushing his jaw as he looks at Steve, and Steve is suddenly self-conscious. He feels exposed, open, vulnerable. Strands of hair fall into his eyes again when he bends his head, focuses on the guitar. And here it comes. Ain't been sleepin' much since you got in is followed by you wanna talk, but all Steve does is shrug. There's nothing really to talk about, nothing he can put into words, because he knows better than to expect things when Chris is involved. They'd had this discussion years ago. It's not one Steve wants to get into again. Chris knows how he feels, Steve knows how Chris feels, it's not quite the same, and that's just that. No pining or drama or other bullshit, but yeah, maybe a few expectations when Steve gets a call in the middle of the night from an obviously drunk Chris and it's miss you, should come out, man. Once, before they'd had The Talk, Steve had thought that maybe there was something there. He's over that now, has been for a while, but there's still the physical side of it all. There are the times when he's there and Chris is there and there's been that one shot of Jack too many and The Talk is forgotten. Which leads to the next morning and the mumbled fuck, sorry and no harm, no foul, man while scattered clothes are gathered and they don't quite meet each other's eyes. Steve's used to it. Used to it and craves it anyway, craves the feel of Chris in him, over him, on and around him, craves the taste of whiskey on Chris' tongue, the smell of tobacco on his skin, craves the shiver of callused fingertips digging into his muscles as they move together in a drunken haze. It's always a drunken haze. Steve can't think of a single time they've ever fucked sober. Could be the problem right there, but Steve is too tired to give it the attention it probably deserves. Bare feet shift, pull a little closer to his body to make room when Chris sits down, and Steve continues to strum at his guitar. He blinks, startled, when Chris reaches over to take it from him, setting it aside, and now Steve is forced to look at Chris. To do otherwise would make it obvious he's avoiding that clear blue gaze. Been quiet and nothing much to say and could start by what's going on in that damn head of yours, and the last is delivered with more heat than Steve expected, and he stares at Chris. He's still staring, eyes wide open, when Chris leans in, tangles a hand in Steve's hair, and tugs him forward into a hard kiss that has Steve's toes curling and his dick dancing. It's over before Steve has a chance to even close his eyes. It's only then, when Chris has sat back and is glaring at him, that Steve realizes there's no whiskey in the kiss. There's smoke and a touch of copper and Steve realizes that his teeth or Chris' teeth have nicked his lip. The fuck, man, is answered with fuck you, talk to me, and there's anger now, and confusion because Steve's got no idea where this is coming from, just that it's coming and four in the morning isn't when he wanted to deal with this and he's not fucking ready and damn Chris anyway for springing it on him out of the blue. There are words said, hot and harsh, but the only thing that really stands out in Steve's head is no, fuck you, you decided there was nothing there and man, that was then, not now, and I thought…y'know what, fuck it. And no, not fuck it, not this time. Steve reaches out, fingers getting caught in Chris' shirt when he tries to stand. There's a yank, and Chris stumbles, off-balance, bumps against Steve, giving Steve just enough extra to pull Chris down into another kiss because Steve needs to be sure, and he can't be if Chris pulls away. He's not quite sure how it happens, but they end up on the floor, sharp teeth raking over a taut nipple as Chris' hand shoves down loose pajama pants, and Steve bucks into the warm fist that wraps around him. Part of his brain wonders just what the hell is happening because they're both sober and they don't do this sober, but he's got no time to process any of that. The floor's hard under his back and clothes are flying every which way, there isn't enough lube and it burns, but then Chris is inside him, moving hard and fast, and Steve rolls with it because there's an intensity there that's been missing from all their drunken collisions. An intensity in the blue eyes that lock with his, in the way Chris grips his hands, the way Steve arches up when Chris hits the right spot, and then there's black and white and lightning flashing outside the window and Steve can't breathe as everything is sucked down into a pinpoint of light before exploding so fast Steve thinks he's dead. It's quiet for a moment, broken only by harsh breathing against his shoulder, and the sweat hasn't even started to cool on his body before a soft, tired fuck you is uttered in his ear. But Chris doesn't pull away and no one reaches for clothes that are God only knows where and Steve wonders if maybe this time is going to be different.
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