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Cracker isn’t a touchy kind of person.
A hug here, a kiss there? That’s fine. He can handle that. But outward displays of affection have never been his thing, have always seemed a little too contrived and shallow, made up for whomever is watching in the background. If the attraction is there, why force it for people who are observing?
Instead, he prefers to show his affection in different ways, in private ways—rich, romantic dinners out that end in long, languid kisses against walls and slow, steady fucks in the privacy of a bedroom.
Which is why his current predicament makes absolutely no sense.
It’s three days into the season 10 tour and Cracker is aching for human interaction. There’s banter, of course, hugs with Monet and Eureka and Asia on stage, plenty of hugs from fans at the meet and greets, but it isn’t the same. He couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since he’s found himself wrapped in someone else’s arms, felt the embrace of another man hold him tightly against his chest all night in bed just because . This lack wears on him, has formed a hollow in his chest and he’s… well he’s lonely, for lack of a better term. And maybe a little horny. Also that.
They’re in Florida (he thinks) because the air was heavy and sticky sweet when they’d stopped at that Olive Garden for dinner. The top six are sitting around the tour bus playing their hundredth round of Cards Against Humanity (at which Asia is frighteningly good) and drinking lukewarm wine coolers, which have Aquaria sent . (She’s been giggling for the past fifteen minutes. It’s a new look for her, one that Cracker doesn’t hate, if he’s being completely honest. She’s dropped that frigid bitch persona she’s adopted since Winner was tacked on to her name. It will be back in the morning. Best to enjoy the softer side while it lasts.)
She keeps insisting she isn’t drunk though, and that's getting a bit wearing.
“Child, who told you that you could hold your liquor?” Monet says to Aquaria, who launches into a diatribe about Italians and alcohol levels and something else that makes Cracker roll his eyes and turn over to face Kameron.
Kameron lies next to him on the floor of the bus, long limbs stretched out against Cracker’s body under a thin blanket, fingers lightly scratching his back, initiating the contact he so desperately needs. He leans into it, soaks it in. They’re all sisters, right? All of them close beyond measure. It’s not weird. It’s not sexual. It’s not.
Kameron’s hand finds Cracker’s hipbone, rests there, squeezes gently, and— oh, this is new. Sparks down his spine, electricity to his fingertips. But there’s nothing between him and Kameron, never has been—
“Hand check!” Asia calls (as she has been all night, mostly for shits and giggles, but this time Cracker feels guilty), and Kameron’s hand leaves his hip, but the flicker it leaves tingles long into the night.
Cracker has this thing with waking up early to write in his journal. It’s usually nothing; sketches sometimes, lines of poetry at others. He doesn’t sleep that well on the bus and he relishes the moments of quiet he gets in the early morning hours before the rest of the girls wake up and begin their day. Today he’s sketching, working his pencil over a dress design that isn’t bending to his will, no matter how many times he’s erased the curve of the skirt or the line of the bust. It’s frustrating, how he can see perfection in his head but can’t execute it on paper.
The sun is just breaking over the mountains of North Carolina when Kameron slides into the breakfast nook next to Cracker and rests his chin on his shoulder.
“Hi,” Cracker says.
“You’re up early,” Kameron responds, wrapping his arms around Cracker’s waist, pulling him close. He smells like stale cologne and old cigarette smoke and cinnamon toothpaste, and Cracker doesn’t know when they started acting like this (snuggly and close), but he certainly isn’t complaining. Because Kameron’s arms are strong and broad, and he likes the way they feel when they’re wrapped around him.
But Kameron cuddles with everyone, has been known to slide into bed with Monet for a nap, pecks Aquaria on the cheek as they pass in the corridor, pinches Eureka’s ass in the wings before she goes on stage just for the hell of it.
Cracker knows he isn’t special, knows it’s just the way Kameron is. So. He doesn’t take it too seriously. Not even the way Kameron’s thumbs rub circles on his abdomen just over his belly button as he sketches in his journal (even though it feels amazing and different and could stir something deep in him if he’d let it. So he won’t let it).
“That’s pretty,” Kameron says softly, lips brushing against his shoulder blade, stubble rough on the back of his neck.
Cracker shrugs. “It’s just an idea, but I don’t… I can’t… Get it to…”
“What if you… just…” Then Kameron’s hand snakes up around Cracker’s own, takes the pencil from between his fingers, sketches a few experimental lines on the paper. Cracker nods his approval, so Kameron’s strokes become darker, more self-assured.
The only sounds are the scratch of the pencil on paper and Kameron’s soft breath in Cracker’s ear, and after a few moments, Kameron hands the pencil off and surveys his work.
It’s exactly what Cracker wanted. Not what he had in mind, but better. Something he never would have thought of and yet…
He laughs. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Kameron shrugs. “It’s what I’d put you in. If I could dress you for a show. Just something a little… Different. Sexier.”
Blood immediately rushes to Cracker’s cheeks and he hopes Kameron’s face is far enough away to where he can’t feel the heat he knows radiates from him.
Kameron rests his forehead on Cracker’s neck, right over his pulse point, and tightens his arms around his waist.
And the air is thick, even more so than it was at that Olive Garden in Florida a few nights ago, and Cracker’s afraid to move because the moment might end and he isn’t sure he wants it to.
Then Monet yawns and someone’s feet hit the floor and Kameron pulls away with a sigh.
“I’ll start some coffee.”
Kameron always starts painting hours before the rest of them. It’s a laugh now, an inside joke between the group that while the rest of them sightsee and spend exorbitant amounts of money on souvenirs they don’t need, Kameron locks himself in the theatre dressing room and methodically paints his face.
In Chicago, Cracker joins him.
Kameron raises an eyebrow when he asks if it’s all right. “You’d rather stay in with me instead of hanging out in the city?”
Cracker shrugs. “I’ve seen Chicago."
So they sit together in the dressing room, music playing softly from Kameron’s phone and Cracker relaxes on the couch and just… watches.
Kameron is methodical. He always starts with his eyes. He’s trying out a deep maroon eye today and it’s interesting to watch his process. Fascinating, actually.
Cracker finds himself transfixed by Kameron’s reflection in the mirror; brushes blending powders into his eyelid, liquid eyeliner drawn on in thick slashes, mascara painted on in heavy strokes.
When Kameron’s eyes are finished (crimson with pinks in the corners, gold on the edges, glitter in the creases), he turns around in his seat and bats his eyes at Cracker. “What do you think?”
“You’re beautiful,” Cracker says without thinking, without taking his hand off his face, without breaking the trance he’s been locked in since Kameron started putting on his makeup.
Kameron smiles softly and straightens a brush on his workstation. “I thought you came with me so you could start early too.”
Cracker shrugs. “Maybe I came early because I’d rather hang out with you instead of with everybody else.”
“You can’t…” Kameron sighs. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“It’s true.”
“Maybe. But I can’t…” Kameron shakes his head, lowers his eyes, turns back around. “Look, just forget it."
Cracker pushes himself off the couch and slides into the chair at the station next to Kameron. His hand finds Kameron’s knee, smooth and soft, and they’re leaning towards each other to close the gap between them.
He feels Kameron’s eyelashes on his cheeks first, then his breath, then his lips as they touch his, gently at first, but then stronger, harder, needier.
Kameron’s hands are on the back of Cracker’s neck, pulling them as close together as he can, and it’s impossible. It’s everything.
Cracker can’t remember how to breathe because this… this is all he needs. Kameron’s tongue on his, his teeth worrying his bottom lip gently, the little vibrations from the hum one of them is making (right now he can’t tell who because he doesn’t know where he ends and Kameron begins and it’s delicious).
There’s a crash in the hall that startles them apart, followed by a loud exclamation of “Fuck!” and for once Cracker’s never been so grateful that Eureka is incapable of being quiet.
He risks a glance at Kameron, who sits with his head in his hands, but looks up with a smile immediately when the door opens and the rest of the girls enter the room. Kameron greets the group with a quiet, “Hey!” as Cracker licks strawberry chapstick from his lips.
Cracker paints next to Kameron that night.
Neither one of them speaks.
Aquaria’s liquor tolerance is getting lower and lower the further in they go, which seems counterintuitive to Cracker, but he can only go based on what he sees.
So they’re 10 days in by the time she pukes in her bed. (She says it’s motion sickness. Monet says it’s the half-bottle of Fireball she shotgunned. Cracker keeps his mouth shut.) And it’s… Well, it’s so unlike polished, put-together Aquaria that no one’s really sure how to process it.
Asia snaps into Tour Bus Mom Mode instantly (impressive, considering how utterly wasted they all are), but it’s four in the morning and they have a full day of travel ahead of them. So she diplomatically decides that there’s no point in doing the laundry immediately and she sends everyone back to bed with a sigh. It’s late, they’re drunk. This can wait until morning. Late morning. Afternoon, even, if necessary.
Aquaria, however, has taken up residence in Cracker’s bed. And she’s face-down and very unconscious. Which is… Well, it’s typical when Cracker really stops to think about it. But probably for the best. At least she won’t choke on her own vomit and die. That’s all they need—a dead champion less than a month after crowning her.
So he resigns himself to curling up in the breakfast nook with a throw pillow and paper thin blanket, and he’s headed that direction when Kameron’s hand finds his wrist as he passes his bunk. Cracker stops.
“Plenty of room for one tiny Jewish woman,” Kameron says softly. “If you want…”
Cracker pauses. Hesitates. Considers the situation.
They haven’t discussed their kiss from the night before, have barely spoken. They’ve been friendly, but Kameron’s been noticeably less hands-on and Cracker’s missed it, missed him.
“Beats Naugahyde and Formica.” Kameron laughs. “Come on. I don’t even snore that loud.”
Maybe it’s because he’s drunk. Maybe it’s because he really doesn’t want to sleep in the breakfast nook. Maybe it’s because Kameron’s arms are outstretched, open to him, waiting for him to fill them. Maybe it’s because he’s just tired .
“What the hell,” he mutters.
So Cracker tosses the blanket and pillow to the floor and slides into the bunk with Kameron.
He sinks into the thin mattress and into Kameron’s smell—cigarettes, cologne, cinnamon—and Kameron’s arms find him in the dark.
“We’ll have to snuggle a little,” he says quietly. “That okay?”
“Fine,” Cracker chokes out. “That’s… Fine.”
And it is. With the liquor flowing through his veins, Cracker’s world is soft and hazy at the edges, and his brain is moving slowly. So he almost doesn’t notice when Kameron’s bare feet tangle with his, and it’s almost indistinguishable when Kameron’s hands settle on his hips. Almost. Because the tingle, the electricity, is still there between them. It never really faded. It’s been there, buzzing just under Cracker’s skin, waiting for reignition.
“Okay?” Kameron asks sleepily, syllables low and soft against the back of Cracker’s neck.
“‘S’nice,” Cracker responds lazily.
They lie in silence, listening to Eureka snore for a few moments, until Kameron clears his throat. “Cracks?”
“Hmm?”
“What are we doing?”
Cracker sighs. “We’re sleeping.”
“No, I mean…” Kameron takes in a deep breath. “I liked kissing you the other night. That was… I liked it. I like… you. So I just… I didn’t know if you also liked... it.”
Kameron rambles when he’s drunk, and Cracker finds it adorable because he’s normally so measured and so deliberate. He had liked kissing Kameron, he won’t lie. But this admission feels like more it feels like a promise, like it changes things.
Sometimes, though, Cracker thinks change can be a good thing.
“I liked it,” Cracker says quietly, then he turns over carefully, cautiously, silently. Slides his hands up the strong arms that have enveloped him. “I like you.”
“So what are we doing?” Kameron asks again, voice barely audible in the night.
“This.” Cracker presses his lips to Kameron’s in a chaste kiss. “We’re doing this.”
Kameron smiles against his mouth. “Fucking finally.”
And their lips meet again with warmth and fervor as Kameron rolls on top of Cracker, slots their bodies together like jigsaw pieces finally reunited. His body is singing: arias, operas, symphonies. He feels everything in the world and nothing at all and somehow perfect all at the same time.
Cracker sighs, breathes, relaxes into the feeling of Kameron’s body covering his, Kameron’s mouth working against his, Kameron’s heart beating in time with his.
We’re doing this, he’d said, with confidence that had come from somewhere unknown to him.
They’re doing this.
Yeah. Fucking finally.