GLITTER

Title: Tangled (This is a prequel, sort of, for All Discontented and Cowboy Up)
Author: Tesla
Pairing: CK/DB
Rating: R

Long light nights, long L.A. nights out after a long day in the studio and tags of music floating around in his head, sports bars and tittie bars and druggie bars, driving out to the county so he can be with people who wouldn't know what the fuck a glycol peel was, much less talk about a man getting one, fuck that shit, his aging complexion and lack of a good haircut.

Sitting in a smoky bar playing pool, getting up on open mike night and jamming with other guys with hats that they don't take off, with boots scuffed, with someone who knows what a Sooner, knows that you don't fuck with Texas, boy, a place with the Lone Star flying outside.

Anything to forget that he's a sour fucked-up bastard and he can't, he can't be any other way than the way he is. Words are for lyrics, words are for singing, for memorizing and giving back up. He does best with a script or a song sheet in his hand, because, Christ, no matter what his best intentions are, he hurts---he hurts him, the one he didn't want to hurt. I let you down, Chris thinks.

//Dave Matthews Band on the car stereo, and Chris says, "Fucking frat-boy music," just for something to say, dissin' the boys who can make money, joking, but quick flash of hurt on Big D's face, and ever since then Chris has been listening to that song in his head, the lyrics rasping in his head//

And the show was over, and he just laughed it up on the set, the day they got the news, went into Dave's trailer, Christ, just---if Chris could get a do-over, he'd not have been so glib, not have left with just a blow-job, and a "Do you feel better, big guy?" in that gotta-go-now tone. Yeah, because Chris was afraid it was over, for good, and you always leave 'em wanting more, wanting you more, play hurt. Show no weakness and no remorse. Smile and wink and take your hat and go.

//waking up in the middle of the night, he's lying with his head on Dave's belly, Dave's broad hands holding him, he wished he could live there in Dave's arms, but he couldn't, he couldn't//

If Chris says what he thinks, he'll go up like cigarette paper to the match, not even ashes left. If he once tells Dave what he thinks, it'll be like a levee breaking in a flood, he'll be begging him. Begging him to stay the night, for it to be like it used to be, begging like a sad bastard.

//Chris just shoved Dave down in his chair, and pulled down his boxers. Swatted Dave's hand from his face, because he was going to make him forget the day, forget the shit, blow his brains out his ears and let him go home and sleep. But Dave wanted words, wanted---but Chris couldn't.He couldn't.//

Head on the steering wheel of his truck, nails curling into the palms of his hands, the best thing he could do would be to stay away. Just don't call.

I let you down, Chris thinks.

Never thought his boy could show hurt like that, big damn Italian jock from Philly, and the fucking shame is that his boy would forgive him, if Chris could ask. But he can't.

"Hey, Steve. Let's go play in Chicago, after all. Might be fun."

-End (Read The Sequels)