Work Text:
He didn’t like the way I would look at you.
Chris remembers Zach’s eyes (impossibly dark) and his lashes (impossibly long, even from across the bar), all strobe lights and sensual smile—remembers Spock-Zach looking down at him with such barely concealed happiness that it hurt Chris’ chest, a little—remembers meeting Zach’s eyes as they dissolved into helpless giggles for the third time in an hour...
How do you look at me?
~
The hotel bartender gets sick of watching Chris stare into his whiskey at around 2 am, at which point she shoos him out with a burst of rapid-fire Spanish that Chris takes to mean “Get the fuck over yourself and confess your undying love for your best friend or I’ll do it for you.” Or whatever. Probably she just told him to go to bed.
Having done the latter, however, Chris finds his brain too fuzzy with alcohol to do the former, and he falls into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
In the morning, Chris shaves in his empty bungalow, grateful for the privacy, and thinks of the last thing Zach told him after The Other, More Important Thing he said: “Are you sure you don’t want me to get that flight back, after all?” Remembering the way Zach said it—his resigned tone of voice, his refusal to meet Chris’ eyes—sends twin flames of hope and anger through his chest. Why can’t Zach believe that anyone could want him back? Why can’t he believe that Chris could, even after all their years of friendship?
Chris rinses off his razor and meets his own eyes in the mirror. It doesn’t matter. Chris is about to prove him wrong.
~
The first thing Zach’s aware of when he wakes up is the sun blazing through the picture window on the eastern side of his room—it makes him shove his face deeper into the pillow and groan, still not fully awake and unwilling to resign himself to consciousness just yet.
But then he’s struck by the unbidden memory of what he told Chris last night, and any hope he might have had of slipping back into sleep is instantly lost. He groans again, louder this time and with more feeling as he stumbles out of bed, squinting against the sunlight. He’s going to have to talk to Chris at some point, and he has no idea what to say. Hey, sorry that I coerced you into taking me along on your journey of Kerouacian self-discovery, and that I may or may not have ruined our friendship forever, but maybe we could pretend this never happened and I’ll move back to New York and we won’t mention this thrice-damned road trip ever again?
Or maybe he’ll just be normal Zach and act like a dick and make Chris so pissed at him that he’ll never want to speak to him again. Either is possible.
~
When Zach steps out of his bungalow, he finds himself suddenly much too close to the one person he needs to be at least three thousand miles away from right now. “Chris,” he sighs, ready for a tirade or, more likely, a sad, wide-eyed “I just wanna be friends, Zach…”
But Chris doesn’t look furious, or regretful, or (which would have been Zach’s third guess) amused. His shoulders are thrown back and his eyes are steady and he looks for all the world like a man about to sacrifice something precious, who’s considered every angle and decided that this is the best option, and he’s resolved himself to it fully. Zach can’t look away.
Before he can protest, Chris has pushed past him into the tiny room, and Zach, oddly speechless, follows him inside and closes the door. Chris’ eyes are silver in the light, and Zach could count his freckles, the pores on his nose, the short breaths he’s taking, if he wanted to. But now Chris’ mouth is open, and he’s saying—
He’s saying “I had a whole speech planned, dammit” and he’s scrubbing a hand over his face and muttering something that sounds like “fuck it” and then he’s stepping impossibly closer and then he’s sucking on Zach’s lower lip.
Of course, Zach thinks with a touch of bitterness. Of course, because this is how Chris tries to fix everything. But Chris’ tongue tastes like toothpaste and stale breath and some part of Zach finds this an intriguing combination and wants to see if it lasts, so he lets his mouth fall open a little wider and Chris just dives right in, cleverly bites at Zach’s lips, pulls him closer with soft deliberate movements of his jaw.
His eyes are closed, and Zach’s just about to close his when he feels Chris’ hands wrap around his waist and slide up, curling around Zach’s shoulders to fit their bodies even more tightly together—
Smiling teeth against Zach’s lips, long silky hair between his fingers at a club or in their bed or in Central Park that day they were feeling brave, and every time there’d be those hands, Miles’ hands, running up and down his back, grasping Zach’s shoulders to keep him where he wanted him and always making him feel so desired…
“Fuck,” Zach gasps, pushes Chris away involuntarily, grabs his upper arms and holds him at arm’s length. This turns out to be a mistake, because Chris’ eyes are luminous in the sunlight and Zach can’t help but imagine how much of the spit shining on Chris’ lips belongs to him. “Fuck, Chris, I can’t… I don’t…”
Chris extricates himself from Zach's hold a little too violently, avoiding his gaze. He doesn't look the least bit surprised. With a tight nod, he takes a step back, turns and crosses the room in two strides, and the door slams with echoing finality behind him.
Zach, weirdly enough, is struck by the desire to fling it open again and call after him “it’s not you, it’s me,” which would be ridiculous anyway—but even worse now, because he knows Chris wouldn’t believe him.