GLITTER

Title: All Disconnected & Cowboy Up (A pair of drabbles, sequels to Tangled)
Author: Tesla
Pairing: CK/DB
Rating: R

I'm a fool, Chris thought.

I have a band, friends, gigs. I have a life, now. And yet, here I am, waiting like a fool for my boy to get to Chicago. Pacing around the
hotel, drinking.

At the Friday night reception, a fan asks, "Do you drink, Chris?"

"Like a fish," he laughs, and lets them buy him beers as he goes from table to table.

He can only blame himself for how things are. Something---maybe it's just being from fucking Texas, being a southern man---won't let him say anything to the guy, won't let his guard down, even when he's giving head, for fuck's sake. Lets his boy leave with those hurt brown eyes.

Chris never realized how much he was counting on coming back for the sixth season. And how angry he could feel at the suits, those fuckers, his boy Dave had fucking knee surgery and still didn't miss a scheduled day of work. He remembers the tremor in Dave's voice at the wrap party, and Chris wants to break things. Fuck someone up.

Instead, he just fucks himself up, gets hammered. Thinks about James and Alex standing around Dave, protectively, between shots. Like they were shielding him from the red-eyed redneck with the mean mouth. Thinks about how badly he wanted to say something, anything to Dave, how he never knew what to say that would bring that goofy smile.

He didn't realize that Dave was in the house, until he saw the security. Dave was signing autographs, and Chris went to him like a running back on the first play.

"Man, you look like a surfer. Ain't right for a Philly boy to look like that," Chris says, draping his arms around Dave's shoulders, his lips almost
on Dave's ear.

He doesn't think Dave is going to do anything, with his manager and security and the wide-eyed fan there, big fan of Kane, Chris recognizes her, but then Dave leans back into his hands and turns his head, so Chris' nose actually bumps his cheekbone.

"Fuckin' redneck," his boy says, grinning. "You wouldn't know a surfer if one slapped you upside the head. Don't make me kick your ass. Go sign some autographs, don't disgrace me."

"As if," Chris says, squeezing his shoulders.

Dave grins, and Chris manages not to be a fool.

---------------------

When Chris walked on stage after Dave's introduction, they gave each other a manly embrace. The fans screamed. Chris ground his hips against Dave's, stretched up to put his arm around Dave's neck. He didn't give a fuck if Jaime saw it or not, but she didn't. Dave was just as hard as Chris.

Dave looked good enough to eat, had done all weekend, with the bronze of his tan and the blond hair. Chris could lick his arm like a Popsicle, lick a lot else.

It was one reason he stayed drunk at the con. Helped keep the craving down.

He craved Dave like a crack whore craved a rock. Or eight.

When he heard Dave say, "Well, that's Hollywood, that's the way things happen," Chris' throat and eyes burned with rage at Them having the nerve to fire his boy.

So Dave really was assuming the risk, following Chris to the restroom. Chris turned, quick as a snake, and backed Dave against the door.

"I *will* fuck them up," he growled, taking Dave's face in his hands. "I will."

"No," Dave began, but if it was Don't say that, Don't be like that, Chris didn't ask. He pulled Dave's face to his and kissed him hard and mean and Christ, he's missed that mouth, missed Dave.

And Dave must have missed him, too, because his hands are all over Chris' sweat-damp shirt and they stagger together to the nearest stall, and barely get their dicks out of their jeans before they're humping together like teenagers.

As Chris comes into Dave's hand, he says into that sweet mouth, "I will. I will."

-End