And if it sucks? I TOLD y'all I didn't do RPS.


Steve traces a drop of rainwater as it glides down the window outside. The heat’s been chased out by the summer rain, and the streets are empty. Nights in Buenos Aires are pretty busy, but here, on the outskirts in the older sections, where the architecture screams of an era long gone, the people take a break as the skies empty.

He’s here because Chris is working here. Long days filled with nothing to do but write while Chris films this scene with that starlet and changes this costume for that one. Steve tried to watch the production a couple of times, but seeing Chris hold someone else, kiss her, run his fingers through her hair like he loved her was too much. Especially on his birthday.

He’s thirty-one today. Or well, yesterday, as it’s after midnight now. Thirty-one and still hiding from his life. He told everyone where he’d be and why. He hopes they finally pick up on what’s going on between them.

He leans against the window, watching the rain splash on the ground. The door behind him opens and footsteps, light, quick, echo across the room. He waits.

Strong arms wrap themselves around his waist as a sharp chin rests a little painfully on his shoulder. It sucks, sometimes, being the taller one, but he tolerates it, because it means Chris is there. And then there’s music floating up from the sidewalk below. Soft twelve string spilling a rhumba into the night.

Chris starts swaying behind him and Steve smiles, moving with him. Then soft breath on his cheek, broken Spanish being whispered in his ear. Chris’ fingers, callused and rough, lace with his. “Te quiero. Amor.” Steve listens and a small smile plays about his mouth. “You know what that means?” Chris asks.

“I want you. To love,” he answers.

Chris sighs. “Yep. I do, you know.” He squeezes Steve tight against him and lays his lips not in a kiss on Steve’s bare shoulder. “Love you.”

Steve turns in the embrace and kisses Chris on the jaw, a soft meeting of lips and rough, stubbly skin. “I know.” He pulls back and stares into Chris’ eyes like he’d been staring into the Argentine night. He blinks. “Got another word. Cuidado.”

Chris frowns. “Be careful? Why?”

“You’re the big Hollywood Guy, Chris. I’m just warnin’ ya to be careful.”

Chris smiles, that big careless smile and says, “Don’t care ‘bout Hollywood out here with you. Fuck em. Fuck em all.” He leans up and kisses Steve full on the mouth. Steve thinks he tastes of lipstick and peppermints. It’s not a bad combination. Well, he could do without the lipstick.

“Then be careful with me, Chris. I’m...new to all this. Love you to distraction. Can’t play without you right there. Can’t write, can’t sing. Need you.” He takes Chris’ face in his hands. “If it ain’t real to you, don’t start.”

Chris doesn’t say anything else, just takes Steve by the hand and pulls him, hard and fast to the bed. The studio room echoes with the sound of his boots on the hard wood floor. Steve’s barefoot, and the warmth of the wood, the heat of Chris’ ferocity warm him, raise goosebumps on his flesh. Chris pushes him down onto the bed, tugging the white cotton sleeping pants off in a rush. Steve winces when the drawstring waist scrapes over his hips.

“Cuidado,” he hisses.

“Shhh. Sorry. Just..have to have you.” Chris lays down over him, denim scraping at Steve’s skin, and kisses him again. “Want you to know...to feel it down deep...just what you mean to me.”

“Then show me.”

“Yeah.”

There’s no more sound from them but the rending of clothes and sheets. The squelch of sweat slicked skin as they tumbled over each other, touching every inch and tasting every flavor of the body beneath them. Sometimes it’s Chris, with his thick thighs on either side of Steve’s hips, thrusting down hard, muscles grasping at Steve’s cock as though he can’t get enough. Then Steve turns them over and lifts Chris’ legs over his shoulders and pounds into him, grunting in satisfaction when Chris moans and mewls under the assault.

There are no words, only sounds, rough and vowel, hanging in the air like a liturgy to their passion. It’s the sounds that drive Steve close to the edge: the sounds of Chris coming, tiny staccato grunts. Then the warm fluid of Chris’ release against his skin sends him plummeting. He’s gone, lost in the feel of Chris’ muscles grasping at him, squeezing him, and he comes, the sound a deep legato moan that empties his lungs and fills the studio with melody.

He collapses onto Chris’ chest, lips and tongue tasting the salt of sweat. “This was a good idea, coming here for my birthday.”

Chris runs his fingers through Steve’s long hair, calluses pulling at individual strands, sending little fissions of intensity to Steve’s scalp. “Yeah. Glad you came down, bud.”

“Bud?” Steve laughs.

“Steve.” Chris kisses his chin, his cheek, his mouth. “Happy Birthday,” he pauses. “Baby.”