A/N: Well, my friends, this is it. The last chapter of Piers' Lament. It feels like only yesterday I was working on the first chapter and wondering if it would do well with the Nivanfield fans. Now, we're here at the last chapter of this little ficlet and I have all of you wonderful readers joining me for this final moment. Though this is the last chapter of Piers' Lament, there will be a one-shot published on July 1st called Piers' Final Lament (July 1st is his official death date, and as the title sounds, it promises to be sad). It will be independent from this fanfiction because I agree with so many of the reviewers, that part of what makes this story so wonderful is it's lighthearted tone. I don't want to ruin that by posting an extremely depressing last chapter on it, so it will be posted independently. So, follow me if you want to receive a notice in your inbox or just make sure to check back on July 1st for the final installment.
Also, I would like to invite those of you who haven't read my latest Nivanfield fic, Under Fire, to do so. If you've enjoyed Piers' Lament, you'll definitely enjoy Under Fire. So go to my profile and click on the link for it. You won't be disappointed!
Thank you to all of those who reviewed, followed, or favorited! You guys and gals are awesome!
Without further delay, the final chapter of Piers' Lament! Enjoy!
The bar is farther than I thought it would be, a small neon sign in the middle of a beaten up, over-industrialized part of downtown. There isn't anyone inside in the mid-afternoon, save a few patron drunks taking shots of whiskey to prep themselves for the damage to come later that night; they just give us a half-hearted glance before turning back to their drinks. The staff, on the other hand, looks less than thrilled at the group of rowdy BSAA soldiers sauntering in.
Lexington gives a whistle to the bar tender as he takes a seat at one of the booths, "A round of your hardest stuff for the boys and me! We're celebrating!" The man behind the counter nods unenthusiastically before counting heads and pulling glasses, filling them with a frothy beverage and having a middle aged woman bring them out to all of us. I feel really bad for her considering she has to deal with all of them. They'd given me such a rough start to my first day, what with the stare down and the laughing at my completely rational reaction to the undead. They're not sparing her any joking, either, at least not until Chris puts a stop to it with a quick, stern glare.
I take a seat next to Chris, my heart hammering away in my chest as he gives me a warm smile, "Don't look so nervous," he says like it should be really easy for me to calm my nerves when looking into those dark, chocolaty eyes, "I won't let these guys get too wasted."
"Thanks." That's not what I'm worried about, actually. I couldn't care less if the men get themselves so drunk that 'no' becomes 'hell yes' and bar stools become women. I'm more worried about myself. It's not that I'm a light weight, because that's definitely not true. I've handled kegs and funnels before, believe me, and I've played more than my fair share of beer pong. It's more that I'm absolutely terrified I'll loosen up and say something I shouldn't. Namely about a certain crush on a certain BSAA captain who is totally straight and definitely not looking for a relationship with a man. At first, a drink sounded good, but then I remembered how loose tongued I can be after a bit of the hard stuff. Just looking at Chris tells me all I need to know about his alcohol tolerance. I can sum it up in one word even.
He's freaking huge, and in more ways than one, even if some of those ways don't count towards his tolerance level. He could down every last hard bottle in this bar and still not feel anything. Powerhouses like him? They're the kinds of people you never get into a drinking contest with.
Finally, one of the cups is placed in front of me, the foam on top starting to seep over the glass. I raise a cautious eyebrow at it, glancing over at Chris, "So what exactly is this?" I'd never seen this kind of drink before. It isn't dark enough to be beer-not that the bartender would be serving beer to us in glasses-and it isn't clear enough to be vodka or any of its sister drinks. Chris, with that damn handsome face and those ever so kissable lips, just smiles at me.
"No," I hear Lexington call, "Chug it!" A resounding call comes from every BSAA soldier and I give a nervous smile, shaking my head weakly. As if that were their cue, they begin chanting a word I've heard so many times before.
"Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!" The clap of noise continues, even the other patrons joining in with a drunken slur. Damn it, I've never been good with peer pressure. One drink won't get me too buzzed. I should be fine. Taking ahold of the wet glass, I bring it to my lips and start drinking it down fast. All I can feel is the sting of vodka as it rushes through my throat, causing my eyes to water. Slamming the glass down on the table with a triumphant 'thump', the bar bursts into applause and cheer.
Heaving out a breath, I can feel Chris' warm, large hand land gently on my back. "Wow, I'm guessing you've had some practice with that?" He's giving me this charming smile and the contact of his hand against my shirt-god, if only I was shirtless right now-was enough to make heat rush downwards and a small blush cover my face. Good thing I'd just downed a whole glass of whatever the hell that was-something mixed with vodka. I could ride it off as that.
"College," is my simple reply as I sit back a little. I can see the other men downing their drinks in a similar fashion, the stupid smiles on their face lighting up the room just like their laughter is.
"That's right; you graduated from a military academy." I don't have to look at the overly sexy man to hear the smirk in his words, "I didn't think they allowed alcoholic beverages on campus. I'd never pegged you as the rule breaking kind." Then he drops his voice and leans close to me and suddenly every nerve in my body is on fire, "I wonder what other rules you've broken, soldier."
I can't move. Every last inch of my skin is burning and, despite the alcohol, I'm harder than I was back in the locker rooms. Slowly, I turn my gaze to Chris, seeing a devilish smirk growing across his face. Oh god, I'd love to see that face right before being rammed into by Chris in the no doubt dingy bathrooms of the bar. He'd just force me into a stall and turn me around, pulling everything off of me. I'd let him too, savoring the aggressive way he was handling me as well as the hot contact between or needy bodies. He'd just grab hold of my hips and-wham!-I'd have to bite back a scream of pleasure as he thrust into me again, that delicious smirk playing across his face as I look back at him.
Chris parts those lips, speaking softly, "So, you got any interesting stories, Mr. Rule Breaker?"
I blush several shades darker and hardly notice when another mug of whatever that was is placed in front of me, the empty one taken away. "I-I'm not telling you any of those stories," well, that sounded more pitiful than I'd intended it to sound.
Patting my back, he sits back and gives me a suggestive smile, "I think I can find a few ways to get that information out of you." Oh god, it's just like role playing. He just needs a cop uniform-tear away with a stringy thong-and a pair of handcuffs to get the look right. The heat I'm feeling? Yah, that's not from the alcohol. "Want me to test some of them?" It's sexual foreplay without any of the touching or roaming. It's making me painfully hard just thinking up all of the images, just listening to the way his low voice reverberates every last bit of meaning. I'd jump him if it wasn't for the dozen or so other guys here to witness it. "Well?" Damn it, he could get me to confess to anything if he keeps talking like that.
I can only manage an incredibly weak and pathetic smile, "You sure as hell can try." My brain isn't functioning anymore because it's swimming with the delicious possibilities of Chris' threats. I'd let him just throw me onto the table and do me, I'd let him do me across the bar. I'd let that sexy beast do me anywhere in any position. I'm ready for him.
My imagination screeches to a halt when Chris gives a loud shout, "Bring me 21 shots! This man is getting wasted!" The cheers of the men around me cause my stomach to drop. Chris is smiling that cheeky-sweet smile that he always wears, "What? What did you think I meant when I said I could make you?" If only he knew…He gives me a wink and I turn my head away in shame. God, I'm such an idiot. No, more like a hopeless romantic. Once again, I curse my stupid, over reactive imagination for placing me into yet another awkward moment of realization. Boy, I'd thought my hormones were bad during high school, where I'd mentally been fucked by pretty much every football player, even that bastard Kale Parker. Once I got into college, I thought the worst of it was over, what with my whole swearing off love phase. Now, of course, I'd been proven painfully-these constant erections are killing me-wrong. Stupid imagination…
Placed before me are 21 shot glasses stacked on top of each other. The men rise from their seats and gather around me like I'm blowing out the candles of a birthday cake. God, it is like a repeat of my 21st birthday. "Do I have to?" I ask, meeting a chorus of booing and hissing. I take that as a 'hell yes, you have too'. Well, so much for trying to avoid getting too wasted. Giving a small prayer to the heavens that I don't say anything I'll regret, I take the first shot glass and go. Throwing back each drink, one by one, and already I'm feeling the intense warmth of the alcohol working through my system. Even as I reach for the last couple of glasses, the world is starting to wobble just a little bit. As I take my final shot, I slam it on the table and the room erupts in cheers yet again. All the men around me are patting my back, calling for me to do it again, even some are giving me words of congratulations, though I can't figure out what those words are.
"Damn, Piers," I can barely make out from whom I think is Lexington, "You're a regular alcoholic." I'm pretty sure I gave a response, but I can't remember what. I don't think I even heard myself speak. The alcohol is catching up with me, way too much Vodka for me, and on an empty stomach no less, and everything is starting to become blurry. That's actually how the majority of my time at the bar is, just a giant blur of drinks, cheers and karaoke-I actually got up there and sang a few songs. I don't remember the songs, I just remember stumbling around, most likely looking like an idiot, and the drunken cheering that followed my terrible rendition of what was probably a Lady Gaga song. Regardless of my inebriated state, though, it was the first time in a long while I'd had that much fun. I've never been much of a party boy after college, what with focusing on my job. Now, though, I felt like I was cutting loose for the first time since I'd graduated and it felt wonderful. And even if all of the other faces are a blur, Chris' isn't. I can see that smile on his lips; see the happiness in his eyes. Every bit of him is enjoying the afternoon and evening as much as I am, and for some reason that makes my heart swell-and something else too. But, like all good times, it comes to an end.
The men are ready to go home and so am I. I'm exhausted and feeling sick-remembering I have to wake up early tomorrow and go to work makes me feel even sicker. I stumble into Chris' car, feeling nauseous as I direct him to my apartment, which is on the other side of the city. It feels like the drive takes forever, but I'm grateful that he's got some kind of annoying noise playing in the background so there's no awkward silences I need to fill with specific confessions. "Is this it?" I sense him asking more than hearing him say. I give a weak nod and what I assume is a yes-or at least, it was supposed to be a yes-and he pulls into the nearest parking spot and helps me out of the car. I walk-trip over myself-to the apartment door, all while Chris secures an arm around me. It just feels so damn good to have that strong body right next to mine. Vivid images pop into my head, ones that I remember with far more clarity than my adventure up the apartment building's stairs. He follows me inside my apartment, proceeds to take off his clothes in a very enticing manner and then drags me to my bed and does me on top of it, hammering into me as I bite down on the bed sheets to keep from disturbing my neighbors. When he brings me to my finish, he gets me worked up again, abusing my body over and over until we've both passed out on top of each other, sweaty and sticky. I'm pretty sure I've got an erection, even though I can't honestly feel it through my drunken haze. Chris continues walking, which comes to a sudden stop, pulling me to a vicious halt. I give a groggy look at him, and then at the door in front of me. The dancing squiggles are most likely my apartment number, so I fish through my pockets to get the keys.
Except they're not there.
"Sssshit," I slur out, surprisingly formed into an actual word rather than a noise that comes from my mouth. Where'd I put them? I'd had them on me that morning. I always double check to make sure I have my keys whenever I leave home. Hell, I've gotten into that habit at work.
Damn it. Chris tugged me off so fast, and I'd gotten so swept away in the moment of enthusiasm and Chris' hand holding mine that I'd left my keys at work. I'd even left my thermo mug too. Giving off a long sigh, I alert Chris to my present crisis. "What's wrong?" he asks.
"My keys," the cloud of alcohol covering my mind begins to vanish, "I left them at work…" I feel like a complete idiot, again. Once again my hopeless romanticism has caused me a great deal of trouble. I curse my unlucky stars for having been born as someone with such a sexual imagination. If I hadn't been so carried away, I wouldn't have forgotten them. There's a shift at my side and I glance over, seeing the forever attractive Chris standing there, moving to put his weight on his other leg. He looks really deep in concentration, like he's got something heavy on his mind. "What?" I manage.
"Why don't you just stay at my place tonight?" I probably went into cardiac arrest then, though I can't remember if I did because my thoughts were flying so fast I barely registered what he said. Hell, I probably would have fallen to the floor had it not been for him holding me upright. He couldn't be serious, right? He was joking. He didn't really want me to stay at his place, did he? Maybe it was some kind of test, like an initiation or something. If I said yes, I was off the team or something crazy like that. That didn't sound right, though. That sounded too cloak and dagger for someone as genuine as Chris. So it was indeed a joke. Right? That velvety voice comes through my ears, "Piers, are you alright? You're all tense now."
Shit. "I'm fine. Sorry. I'm just not feeling great."
He makes a nod like he understands and I find myself feeling awkwardly proud that I'd manage to lie to my captain in such a shocked and inebriated state. "All the more reason for you to stay at my place. It's closer than the base and it's no trouble." His smile melts my heart and causes me to finally surrender. Giving a weak motion, he helps me back down the stairs and into his car. Even as I sit down, the world swirling in lopsided circles around me, I can feel my ribs cracking from the assault my heart is giving them. There's no word powerful enough in the English language to describe the absolute terror and fascination going through my veins. Half of me is thinking, I should get drunk and forget my keys more often, the other half-the logical, not diluted in hormones and alcohol half-is thinking I'm about to die. Ever since I'd met him, I'd had less than kosher dreams about Chris every single night. If I so much as nodded off at his place, he'd know something was off with me. Then he'd figure out I was gay and extremely interested in him and the whole ordeal would become strange. I didn't want things to be strange between us. I liked our friendship/my romantic feelings are hidden from him relationship. It worked, it was simple and best of all, it wasn't strange.
Pulling out from the parking spot, he drives to the exit and gets on the highway. It's another couple of minutes of his crappy noise-now I recognize what it is soft rock music-and he takes an exit and navigates his way to a much nicer than mine apartment building. It standing, glowing in the orangy-yellow hue of the lamps around it and it looks magnificent. Chris parks and helps me up the stairs to his apartment. I really hope he can't feel my heart pounding in my chest, because I can feel it throughout every inch of my body, especially as we reach the door and Chris pulls out the keys. He unlocks it and I find myself imagining the inside before I can see it. I'd always pictured it as messy and something akin to my father's workshop back home-the 'I know where everything is, so don't touch anything' mentality. As the door swings open, though, I find myself surprised that it isn't as bad as my daydreams have made it up to be. It's more lived in than messy, though it's clear he hadn't planned on bringing a drunk person home, what with his gym bag and running shoes flopped across from the doorway.
We go inside and I soak up as much as I can of my surroundings. The living room is directly connected to the kitchen, where a small bathroom sits. There are two doors to the left of the entrance, leading to two bedrooms. One, from what I can see from my position, has been converted into an office and is messy, though there are signs that it's trying to be clean. His bedroom is beside it, but I can't see much inside of it besides a laundry basket that's half full. Sitting down on the couch with Chris' help, I glance around, catching sight of pictures hanging on the wall. There are some sitting around, too, one in specific with several people standing in it, though there's a marked out face in that crowd of people. "Wow, this is homey." I state, looking at the large flat screen TV sitting several feet from the couch.
"You sound like you're surprised," Chris chuckles as he goes into the kitchen. He comes back momentarily with a bottle of cold water. Handing it to me, he gives me another one of his warm smiles, "Go ahead and drink up. Getting hydrated before you go to bed should help your hangover."
Taking it with a thank you, I sip on it quietly as Chris kicks off his shoes and flips on a reading lamp, turning off the overhead lights. It's a pleasant amount of light, not too bright and not too dark. I relax some into the couch, feeling the comfortable cushions calling my name-but I can't give into their demands. Giving a long sigh, I close my eyes and try to relax, especially a certain part of my body that's refusing to listen. I can hear him walking about, footsteps disappearing before reappearing. He takes a seat on the couch, causing it to sag some. His voice is quieter than usual, though still just as strong, "You feeling ok?"
"Yah, it helps not to be moving…" Actually, I'm still feeling like hell, partly because of the alcohol in my system and partly because I'm sitting inside of Chris Redfield's apartment. Keeping my eyes closed, less I send a surge of testosterone into my lower body again, I decide to change the subject, "I actually expected your apartment to be a mess."
There's a soft chuckle from beside me, "That's what everyone tells me. Especially my friend, Jill."
He'd mentioned her during my interview, she'd told him how to change his phone to the vibrate feature but he hadn't understood. I'd never met her, though I imagined her to be a strong, young woman if she could boss Chris around. "You two must be good friends," I'm surprised by my tone. Wait, am I actually feeling jealous of this Jill woman? God, I don't even know her but I'm starting to get that stupid feeling inside of me that I got with Conrad-not that that was jealousy…it was definitely something different.
"We are, actually. She's over a lot and she's always commenting on how clean this place is compared to my apartment back in Raccoon City. She actually refused to come over to my place back in the day just because it was such a wreck…ah, the life of a young, busy yet carefree man. I always thought she was full of hot air, but looking back, my apartment probably should have been condemned by the city." There's a smile in his words, a fondness of those distant memories, and it all brings a small smile to my face as well. I'm finding myself less and less jealous of Jill the more he talks about her. She actually sounds wonderful, like someone I want to meet someday. "She mentions that about my desk, too," he continues, "In STARS, she had the misfortune of having a desk behind mine, so my crap was always invading her space. She'd get so mad about it, too. One time she bagged it all before I got to work and hid it in the department building." I smirk, giving a laugh, "Now, though, my desk is pristine and she's always talking about how she's so glad I figured out how to use a trash can properly."
"She likes to give you a hard time, huh?"
He shifts, leaning back, "Don't think for a second that I don't give her a tough time in return. We've become quite ornery, the two of us. It's a wonder we're still allow to work together."
"I'd like to meet her," I mention offhandedly, realizing it sounds a bit stalker-ish to be wanting to meet Chris' friends.
"Well," he states, "She works for the BSAA, so someday I'll introduce you to her." There's a smirk in his tone as he speaks again, "Maybe you'll both fall head over heels in love with each other and get married."
I can't help but laugh-mostly due to the alcohol, "I don't think that'll happen, Chris."
I can feel his body shifting, his voice telling me he's facing me now, "Never say never. Jill's a great woman and one hell of a lover, you two will get along great, I can just tell." Wait. Has he slept with her?
"Just, trust me when I say that'll never happen," I'm smirking and, though my eyes are still closed, I can tell he's getting curious. I should have just kept my trap shut and just been like, 'I guess I'll know when I meet her' or something like that. I knew getting myself drunk was a bad idea…
Chris scoots a little closer, "Really? And why's that, Piers? Are you already smitten with someone else?"
Before I can stop myself, I reply, "Actually yes." Mentally, I slap myself. Physically, my limbs feel like lead so I can't slap myself.
"Really? Who is she?"
My brain is finally registering what's going on here. I purse my lips together, not allowing a single syllable to leave my tongue. Concocting an excuse, I finally answer, "It's none of your business."
"Come on, I won't tell. I promise."
"It's none of your business, Chris."
"You really think that excuse will keep me from prying? I've got a little sister, remember?"
I'd roll my eyes if they weren't still closed and it'd cause my world to twirl in circles. "Really, you don't need to know."
"Please?" God, if only he'd ask me for sex with a tone like that. Hell, if only he'd just ask me for sex.
"I said no."
God, this is irritating, especially when I'm drunk. It's hard to keep up with all of the fast paced responses, "Because you wouldn't know him."
I freeze. Fuck. Double fuck. No, scratch that, triple fuck. There's a long silence, one that squishes itself awkwardly between us. I'm suddenly very hot and I want nothing more than to start walking home. Hell, I'd sleep outside if it got me away from this incredibly awkward situation. Chris speaks up after another minute of deafening quiet, "Did you just say 'him'?"
No lie comes to me, no cleaver use of words that would make sense, especially when he's already caught the mistake himself. There's no witty come back either, nothing I can throw at him that'll make him laugh it off, even though I'd give up anything for something as convenient as that. I realize now that getting drunk was the worst mistake I've ever made, and my subconscious is having a 'told you so' moment. Now my well-kept secret, one that I've hidden from every friend and family member since its discovery, has been revealed, and not to my parents or close friends, but to the very man it affects the most. Sucking in a deep breath, I respond, "Yes."
"That's why you don't want to talk about it," he states quietly. God, he's absolutely disgusted by me, isn't he. He's probably fearing for his life right now, what with a gay man inside his apartment. He probably thinks I'll jump him and force him to have sex with me, that I'll make him gay too. Hell, he's probably thinking every last bit of gay propaganda, believing that it's all coming true.
I can only muster a nod then, my head spinning.
"I see," Chris states. There's more silence and suddenly I'm hit with the extreme desire to cry. Just to break down and express every feeling I've had about myself since I learned I was gay in 7th grade; about how much I hate myself for it and how much I want to change it. About the way I feel so trapped because of it, like I'm drowning in a pool of emotions that I can never express because of the fear of being found out. I just wanted to spill my guts on the floor and beg for him to forgive me, but just as the tears start to come, strong arms wrap around me, pulling me close to his chest. Those arms squeeze me tightly, Chris' chin coming to rest on my head. His powerful heartbeat reverberates in my ears as I begin to sob into his chest. His grip tightens and he begins to hum quietly.
Everything inside of me comes out not in words, but in tears. It didn't even bother me that I was crying in front of-more like all over-Chris, it just felt so damn good to finally cry about it. I hadn't so much as shed a tear for myself since my junior year of high school, after what Kale Parker did to me. I'd locked it inside and focused on moving past it all. Now, though, I was finally letting it all go. All the hate, all of the disappointment, all of the anxiety. Everything was flowing freely out of me, Chris' strong arms comforting me and letting me know that it was ok. for the first time in my life, it was ok to cry.
For what feels like an eternity, we hold this embrace, my tears coming to an end and leaving me with nothing but dry hiccups as I try to calm my nerves. He's still humming, rocking back and forth softly. It's comforting, very comforting, and finally I can bring myself to pull away and look at him. I wasn't sure what to expect from him-anger, anxiety or acceptance-but I didn't get my hopes up. Looking into those beautiful chocolate eyes tell me one thing, he doesn't care. "I'm sorry," I finally state, "It's the alcohol…" It's a lame excuse, but it makes me feel better to blame it on something other than the influx of hormones I'd just experienced.
"You don't have to apologize, Piers." Chris is still hugging me, arms wrapped around me, though significantly less tight than they'd been before. "There's nothing wrong with liking a man."
I scoff and give a sigh, "I just don't want you to feel awkward or anything…I know most people aren't exactly comfortable with homosexuality."
"Well, I'm not most people. I'm perfectly fine with it. Love is love, and as long as you're not in love with a little boy, it's all good."
I can't help but smile at that, despite the disgusting mental image it brings me. "No, he's way past consenting age."
"Good, then there's no problem," that genuine, heart stealing smile crosses his face and it makes me feel better. He really doesn't care, does he? Hell, I could probably tell him my crush was on him and he wouldn't care-though I'm not ready to test that theory just yet. He releases the hug-I find myself just the slightest bit disappointed-and stands up. "Let me grab you some sheets for the couch, I like to sleep with it cold myself so you'll freeze to death if you don't have some blankets." He starts towards his room and I stand, stretching and feeling a million times better than I had walking in. Of course, crying has left me even more dehydrated than I'd started, but whatever. I walk over to his bedroom door, peaking inside as I rub the remaining tears from my eyes. Dark blue sheets are on the bed as well as dozens of pictures hanging from the wall. A small flat screen sits in the corner of his room, looking abandoned. I guess he doesn't watch TV in his bedroom all that much. He's digging through his closet, tossing out this and that, no sheets though. "Well, damn it."
"What?" I ask, surprising him.
He motions towards the closet, "I can't find my spare sheets…strange."
"Maybe a ghost is borrowing them." I smile, recalling what my mother would always insist whenever I'd lose something. It always seemed I'd lose my one of my soccer cleats and she'd always tell me that a ghost was probably using it. 'A ghost with one leg?' I'd ask, to which she'd reply with a witty, 'Maybe he's borrowing one of your sister's shoes, too'.
Chris gives me a similar reaction to what I'd give my mother back then, "Right, so why can't I find them if he's using them? Even if this 'ghost' is invisible, my sheet sure aren't."
"Maybe he's building a fort with them outside. Did you check?" This just earns a smile from Chris, who closes his closet and gives off a huff. He moves to sit on his bed, glancing around the room before dropping down to look under the bed. When he sits back up, he gives a shrug.
"I guess this means we'll have to reconsider our sleeping arrangements." Placing a big hand on his chin, he ponders for a second as I lean myself against the door frame. I almost miss it, the world tumbling viciously for a second. "Well, if you're comfortable with it, my bed is big enough, we could just sleep together."
Another moment of cardiac arrest. Did I just hear him right? I'd just admitted I liked a guy, wasn't he concerned about sleeping with me now? Forcing myself to not imagine the multiple endings to this scenario, I just look over at him and ask, "Are you sure? I don't want to be a bother."
"Trust me, its fine. I've slept with tons of people-well, it's not how it sounds. You know what I mean." I'm not actually sure I know what it means, what with the idea of a Freudian slip and all. But I dismiss it-because maybe that means I can score-because otherwise I'll be sleeping on the couch without any blankets.
"I know what you mean," I lie, "I suppose that's fine, as long it's really alright with you." I've decided I'll just have to sleep lightly so I don't end up moaning his name in my sleep. Talk about an awkward way to wake up.
With a nod, he stands and begins digging through his closet again, pulling out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Both look larger than me, but I take them politely and head into the bathroom, quickly taking a shower and ridding myself of my desires and changing into the oversized clothes. Even though their too big for me, they still smell like him and I'm instantly put at ease. He smells so damn wonderful, it takes all of my willpower to avoid covering my face with this shirt and snorting it like a drug. He's already in bed when I walk in-he looks shirtless, too-and I feel extremely embarrassed as I crawl into the sheets. I keep my distance, staying as close to the edge as I possibly can without toppling over. Chris doesn't seem to notice my issues, he's working on paperwork he most likely pulled from his office.
Laying on my side, my back to him, I become encompassed with his scent. It's all around me, on the pillows, on the sheets, and I feel safe. My entire body relaxes into the comfy mattress, my eyes sliding shut as I snuggle deeper into the pillows. I can sense the lights being turned off some time later, my mind halfway into dreaming when it happens. There's some movement, Chris getting comfortable no doubt, and then something warm against my cheek. It's quick and discreet, but none the less, it's there. Then warmth spreads all around my body as my brain begins to trail off.
Did he just kiss my cheek? It's the last thought I have before falling into my dreams.
There's a buzzing noise that brings me to my senses in the early hours of the next morning. I try to use my mind to shut it up, but it doesn't work. Damn it, I wish I was a Jedi. Sucking in a deep breath, I snuggle into the warmth around me, willing myself to try and get some more sleep. Burrowing my face, I realize it doesn't feel like the pillow I'd been snuggling into. It's soft but rough, and it's extremely warm. My heart nearly stops. It's Chris' Chest.
My eyes fly open to be greeted by a wall of delicious flesh and a perked nipple. It's tempting me to wrap my lips around it, so I back up a little, only to find that I have very little room to move. Twisting my head, I can see his arms wrapped securely around me, pulling me close to his lean body. Suddenly, I'm hypersensitive of my surroundings and I realize with horror that one of Chris' legs is draped over me as well. Worse yet, I can feel even through the sweats, that he's not wearing any pants or underwear-it's poking right into my groin, after all. Had he kicked them off in the night? Was this normal for him? Wait, when had I gotten turned around? When had Chris snuggled this close to me?
I don't even notice my hangover as my heart beats rapidly against my ribs and my morning wood gets even straighter. Heat flushes my face as I try to wiggle my way free, that buzzing sound meeting my ears again. It must have met Chris' ears, too, because he starts to stir, pulling me closer to him before mumbling some sleepy words.
"Chris…?" On the one hand, I'm enjoying being this close to him-especially since he's naked; I wish I was naked right now-but on the other hand, it's incredibly embarrassing. I shift my arms, my fingers gently brushing against those rock-solid abs and my heart melts into a puddle as my member strains some more. God, that felt so good. Shaking off the desire to trace those abs with my fingertips, I move my hands onto his chest and push on him, "Chris. Wake up."
It's nearly impossible-but I'm somehow managing-to not let my hands roam as they touch his warm skin. It's so soft and silky, yet rough from his years of military-grade work. I can feel a scar scattering across his chest and I find myself unwillingly following it with my fingers, tracing its smoothed surface. Where'd he get this scar? Did someone try to kill him by stabbing him along the chest? I glide my fingers along the puffed flesh again, savoring the way it makes me feel. I'm actually touching Chris. I can seriously die happy now, especially now that my hands are wandering along his body, my fingers finding their way to his abs and finally-God, I've wanted to do this since I met him-begin tracing the defined lines that exist there. My body is burning at the touch and I'm instantly craving more, no longer forcing myself to deny what I've wanted to do. Soon, it's not just the tips of my fingers, but my entire hand that's roaming over his chest, the friction between the two skins causing me to become dizzy. I've never felt anything so amazing in my life.
Building up the courage, I raise one hand to a perked nipple, gently and ever so lightly tracing around and over it. I watch his body rise and fall with each breath, watch my hands work their way over his incredibly attractive body, feel the way his heart beats in his chest, mine echoing in unison. It's in this single moment, for the first time in my life, I feel complete. Chris and I, together and united, and it feels wonderful...
"You look like you're enjoying yourself." Chris states coolly, and my gaze hesitantly looks up into his face. In that instant, I back away quickly, breaking through his limbed entrapment and falling off the bed and onto the carpeted floor, giving off a yelp as I hit my head against the night stand. The bed moves and Chris' head appears over the edge of the mattress, peering down at me and the heap of blankets on the floor. "Are you ok?" I can only manage a meek noise as I work to sit up, a blush covering my face the longer Chris watches me. Why is he watching me? Shouldn't he be freaked out that I was feeling him up? Rubbing the back of my head, I look at Chris before hearing that buzzing sound again. Chris disappears from his position and shifts across the bed, ducking down and clicking something before tumbling back over to my side. "Time to get up."
He states it so calmly, like he didn't just watch me feel him up and then scare me out of the bed. As he moves himself off the bed, I call out to him, "Wait." Already halfway off the bed, Chris stops and turns to look at me, an eyebrow raised and waiting for me to continue. My mind is suddenly blank as I try to think of what to say. I'm reminded of all of the cheesy romance movies I've watched, where the woman calls after the man after the big, dark secret has been revealed and she finds herself at a crossroads, admit to her feelings or let him walk away forever. But I can't bring myself to speak, I can't even form a single word in my mouth. I just sit there, gawking, and finally Chris turns around and sits on the mattress before me.
I don't even notice his nakedness as he speaks to me, "It's fine, Piers. You're going to be fine." With that, he gets up, stretches, and walks out of the room. Seconds later, I hear the bathroom door closing and the shower turning on. Even though I will myself to stand up, I can't. I'm stuck there for several minutes, my mind examining the words Chris left me with. It's fine, you're going to be fine…
Does he know?
Finally, I stand up and correct the sheets, tucking them back under the mattress and fluffing them out to rid the top of any wrinkles. I then walk over to my little pile of clothing, glancing down at them. Even from my standing position, I can smell the alcohol on them. It's a distinct 'bar smell', hardly attractive. Looking at myself, I'm reminded of whose clothes I'm wearing and I'm suddenly very warm inside. They still smell like him.
The shower water turns off and moments later Chris walks out with a towel around his waist. I guess he figures it's not exactly common decency to let your junk hang loose-not that I'd mind the show. "Oh, you made my bed," the sexy man comments as he walks into his room, smiling from the bed to me. "Thanks." I try not to stare at the moist skin that's Chris' chest. I just want to go and lick off the beads of water, just touch him again and feel that electricity. Hell, what I really wanted was for him to drag me into the shower and 'punish' me for my inappropriate act earlier. God, the images are causing me to get hard again, so I quickly shake them from my mind. I drop down and pick up my clothes, hating the smell and hating the idea of changing out of something that smells so wonderfully like Chris. Before I can exit the room, Chris speaks up, "Hey, why don't you borrow some of my clothes?"
As much as I want to say yes, there's a problem, "Thanks Chris, but we're not exactly the same size." I gesture to myself, the loose clothing speaking for itself.
"I'm sure I've got something from when I was younger, something that's closer to your size. Let me just look and see, ok?"
Giving off a sigh, I just smile and nod, putting my clothes down as I sit on the bed and watch him dig through his closet once more. It's a good view, let me just say, his bare back and that towel wrapped tightly around his waist emphasizes that gorgeous ass of his. Not to mention his legs. He's not looking for long before his phone starts ringing and he glares over at it. I watch him take a few steps, grabbing it from the night stand and clicking the answer key. "This is Chris Redfield." After hearing whoever it was on the other side, he motions a 'one minute' signal at me and leaves the room. Before closing the door, he waves for me to continue looking myself. With a solid click, he's out of the room and I'm left alone.
Standing, I go to the closet doors and begin my search. Like I'm supposed to know where he keeps his old clothes. The clothes on the hanger are his nice stuff, while the short shelves below are the things I see him wear to work, things like jeans and t-shirts, easy to tear off when getting changed into fatigues-or getting ready for sex, just saying. His shoes sit under that, though there aren't very many pairs. I push aside a row of dress shirts to reveal the further reaches of the shelf, as well as something very interesting.
The sheets Chris had been looking for. They're in plain sight should he pull back his dress shirts. Is he really that blind or is it something else? Digging back there a little more, I find a couple of small boxes, which I yank out. Written on top of them are the words 'old clothes'. Smirking, I put the box on the bed and open it up and, sure enough, its clothes. Lifting a shirt gently, I open it up to reveal a dated design, but it that far more likely to be my size. I press it to my nose, breathing in deeply. Yup, it still smells like Chris even after being boxed away for god knows how many years. Smiling into it, I put it aside and continue to dig through the cardboard box, pulling out whatever I can find that doesn't look too old. Finally piecing together an ensemble of a jacket with some band's name on it and a pair of acid wash jeans, I put it on and look at myself in the mirror attached to the interior of the closet door. I'm surprised at how closely they fit me. Was he my age when he wore these clothes? Glancing back into the closet, I'm thinking about the sheets again. They were so easy to see, why hadn't he noticed them? I refused to let my heart think he'd done it on purpose, just to get us to sleep together, but logically, I couldn't find an answer. They were right there.
Shaking my head, I pack the box back up and put it away, closing the closet door. I glance around the room, spotting a dresser on the far side. If all of his clothes are in the closet, what could possibly be in there? Blushing as I step closer to it-because, honestly, what is it men keep in dresser drawers?-I slowly pull a drawer open to reveal several pairs of boxers and briefs, all different colors. My blushing only increases as I venture a hand down to take hold of a pair, lifting it up to full view. I've never felt so perverted in my life-I'm actually doing something akin to a panty raid. I look the pair over, their dark blue hue contrasting to the white walls as I hold them up for a better look. I run a hand over them, my imagination kicking into overdrive as I picture his long, thick member to be there, throbbing with each of my gentle touches. I'd work him slowly, massaging him sensually until he's moaning and writhing under my touch, whimpering out a weak plea. I'd finally comply, pulling down the elastic hem and wrapping my mouth around his tip, sliding my mouth down as far as I can, my own member growing harder with each delicious moan that exits his lungs. God, if only he was wearing them right now.
I stop myself from imagining further, not wanting a repeat of what Chris witnessed in the locker room after my first run through the simulator. Putting the underwear down, I shut the drawer and move on to the next one. There are socks in this one, as well as scarfs-though there aren't many of them. Chris never struck me as a scarf person, so I'm curious as to why he's got some stashed away in his sock drawer. Maybe his sister gave them to him and he's too much of a nice guy to just get rid of them. That sounds about right. Carefully, I lift one of the scarfs and examine it. It's a greyish brown box-weaved scarf, soft to the touch despite the coarse weaving material. I warp it around my neck, tying the ends together and tucking them away. I stand, closing the drawer, and once again pull the closet door open, looking into the mirror. Wearing it, I feel kind of cool and best of all, it smells like Chris. I've never thought of myself as a scarf person, but maybe I can make an exception. I should buy one sometime.
Or, maybe, I can just take this one from Chris.
He wouldn't miss it. I've never seen him wear it. He'd never know it was gone. I could just borrow it, he'd never notice. For the first time in my life, I felt incredibly devious. I was actually going to steal something from Chris and take it for myself. I'd heard of boyfriends and girlfriends trading clothing items so, why couldn't I take one of Chris' things? It's a one sided romance, after all. I'm too busy smirking at myself in the mirror to realize that Chris has walked through the door, "Sorry about the phone call…"
I nearly jump out of my skin, "No, it's ok. Really." Shit, I'm still wearing his scarf.
He's looking at me, an eyebrow raised. "Checking yourself out in the mirror? Is that what young people do when they get dressed now? I just throw something on and hope it looks good." Stepping over to the dresser, he pulls open the underwear drawer and pulls out a pair, dropping his towel and pulling what looks like the blue pair I'd handled not more than five minutes ago up and over his sweet ass and thick member. I can't not watch, god it's like he's teasing me or something. He wastes no time walking over to the closet, me stepping out of his way. Chris grabs a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with a slightly repulsive saying on it. It takes him under a minute to get dressed, pulling on a pair of tennis shoes to complete his look. He does casual so well…
"I see you found my old clothes."
"I remember wearing that jacket everywhere. It was my favorite band back then. Huh, I don't remember owning that scarf, though…" My heart pounds into my chest as he furrows his eyebrows at me, trying to jog the memory of where the scarf had come from.
I quickly think up a lie, "I…brought it with me." I give him a smile, "I was wearing it yesterday. Didn't you notice?"
He continues to look at me incredulously before shrugging and nodding, "I guess I didn't. huh, well it suits you, the scarf I mean."
Was Chris complimenting my clothing? I could have fainted from joy had he not started out the door, calling for me to follow. We hurry ourselves ready, getting into the car and grabbing a quick drive-thru breakfast along the way. We're at the base in no time flat, rushing into the locker room to see the men, most hung over. They're groggy and give us halfhearted waves as we enter. I hurry over to my locker, finding my keys and mug still sitting where they'd been left. Part of me is disappointed that I'll be sleeping at my empty apartment tonight but I force myself to accept it as it is. After all, I've got some of Chris' clothes I can sleep with to pretend that he's there.
Speaking of clothes, I start to undress, pulling everything off and getting my tactical gear on. I can hear Chris talking as we get ourselves ready, "Men, we're not going into the simulator today. I got a call from the boss man, we've got a possible incident in Indonesia. I want you suited up and ready in ten minutes." It doesn't take me long to Velcro the last bit of my Kevlar on. I tuck the clothes safely away in the locker, save one item, and close it with a small click. Taking the ends of the scarf, I wrap it around my neck and tie off the ends, tucking them under the loops. I can smell Chris' scent encompass me and I give a soft smile to myself.
"Piers," I hear Chris call, "You're wearing that scarf onto the field?"
"It's like you said, Chris." I smile as I walk over to him, "It suits me." We waste no time mobilizing, everyone boarding the military plane and taking their respective seats. I sit next to Chris, who throws a quick smirk in my direction before calling to the pilot. The engines rev to life and the men strap themselves in. I can feel the nerves building inside of me. I've only trained with these men once, I've only encountered BOWs once. But, thinking back on everything, I realize that Chris is right. I'm going to be fine.