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Sebastian’s heart hurts. This is not a new occurrence.
Sebastian’s heart hurts and his head hurts and the whole world hurts. London’s a patchwork of clouds and sky and history and sleek modernism, stitched together by stories; the city knows how tales should work, and it hurts for him.
He says, quiet, to one of the helpful press-tour assistants, “I think I’ll just head back to the hotel, thanks…” Ahead of him Anthony Mackie and Robert Downey Jr are animatedly organizing an expedition to a curry house that seems to also be a historic pub, or possibly he’s mishearing.
The days’ve been so long. So hard. So hard to pretend.
Chris Evans, hovering behind him, says, “Yeah, I’ll head back too, kinda tired, the humidity in China, man, really took it out of me,” and then gazes at him with enough concern to belie the reasons just given.
Sebastian wants to scream. Or cry.
Sebastian wants to shout his love from rooftops just so Chris’ll know, it’ll be out there, the secret won’t tremble on the tip of his tongue…
He’s never been good with secrets. With patience.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “If you want, um, beer-infused curry.”
“I’m okay as far as curry, thanks.” Chris reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you? You look…I don’t know. Did I say tired?”
“You said you were.” He knows what Chris means. Not himself. Not quite as ridiculous and silly and exuberant as he’s been on previous days, letting himself get swept up in the bubbling enthusiasm of this press tour. He’s not hugging giant superhero shields or small children. He wants to—he does, he would, that’s him too—but.
He can’t. No energy. And Chris’s hand’s firm and tangible, gripping his shoulder.
“Not a lie,” Chris shrugs, and squeezes more. “I’ll order room service and you can come over and we’ll eat our way through one of Robert’s old movies, sound good?”
Yes. Like everything he’s ever wanted. He breathes in, breathes out. The hotel air’s crisp and cool and filtered, no commentary. He’s cold under his jacket. He’s weary and a little dizzy. Throbbing echoes in his temples, between his eyes, at the base of his skull.
He’s so fucking tired. Of pretending, of feeling, of laughing and being a friend. Being Chris Evans’ friend.
He loves Chris. Sebastian Stan loves Chris Evans. Has said so out loud, even: knowing it’d be read as a joke.
Chris is his friend. Chris treats him the way an older brother would: teasing, playing around, protective, concerned. Chris has called him a sweet kid and has burst out laughing at Sebastian’s lube-related jokes, whole body impressed, as if watching a protégé learn smirking mischief.
Sebastian’s in fact an expert on mischief. Chris somehow doesn’t know this, or at least gazes at him with amazed delight every time: when he sends Robert Downey Jr challenging videos, when he talks about KY jelly and his own thighs on the red carpet, when he pushes boundaries and gets away with it by looking adorable and bewildered.
He loves the way Chris regards him at those moments: as if Sebastian’s some rare unpredictable bit of brilliance, adding sudden iridescence to the world.
Chris is wrong, of course. But the joy in those Captain America eyes is real, and even if Chris sees him as a goofy sometimes-even-funny-on-purpose often-in-need-of-protection little brother, well—
Sebastian Stan is incapable of taking away Chris’s joy.
So he says “Yes,” because that is also true right now, that this sounds good, that being with Chris sounds good; it always does, after all. And he lets Chris steer him, hand at his elbow, out of the press bustle and through the London rattle and to an elegant lobby and into a lazy wood-panelled elevator, which wraps his aching head up in velvet silence.
Chris Evans is kind and puppyish and excitable; Chris Evans is philosophical and grateful to the world for existing and made of such care. Chris can play the piano and sing classic rock at the drop of a proverbial hat; Chris can drink like an entire fraternity party in one body and knows how to roll a perfect joint, and Chris starts hyperventilating before big interviews and premieres, anxious, shivering, overwhelmed by the weight he tries to carry. Chris is a paradox, and Sebastian could spend a lifetime exploring those complex lovely layers. Could spend a lifetime taking Chris’s weight, letting Chris take his in turn.
Chris studies him now, as their elevator drifts upward, with unhidden worry. Unashamed.
They’re staying on the same floor. Two doors down. They’ve been on the same floor pretty much this whole press tour. It’s an exquisite form of torment.
He closes his eyes, leans back against the elevator wall. It holds him up. It feels nice.
Chris has been…everything, yes, on this press tour. Everywhere. Saving him over and over, even when unnecessary. Standing fiercely over him and against his fear of flying, on a plane. Noticing a spider on his leg—and had Chris been staring at his legs? he wishes so, but he knows Chris’s anxiety catalogues every inch of their surroundings, every possible interaction—and fretting over possible arachnid nibbles. Laughing and hugging him in public. Snickering while looking up Sebastian’s lip-lick habit, which he does know about, thank you. He’d not been joking when he’d told Chris it was nervousness. His heart’d stuttered when Chris had said, grinning, well, I get red and sweaty, I think you win…
Chris has tried to catch him even when he’s in no danger of falling. Chris has gone looking for him and called him back up on the stage, saying words: right here, I got you…
For all the protectiveness, Chris has never noticed when he’s really nervous.
For all the care, Chris doesn’t care. Not that way.
Today’s been the worst. Chris had jumped up when Robert had wanted a hug from Sebastian, but had subsequently simply stood watching with an unreadable expression; Sebastian’d wanted to turn, wanted to say if you’re jealous please be jealous, if you want me please say something, if you ever want me I’m yours, please…
He hadn’t. He knows exactly how Chris feels. In Chris’s own words.
Earlier, on stage, Chris had reached over, had reached to touch his face, to brush an encroaching hair away.
Sebastian’d been too dumbfounded to react. That big hand, so close and intimate, skimming his skin—
And Chris had instantly proclaimed “Friendship!” Had proclaimed this in a tone very plainly meant to dispel any other foolish ideas.
Sebastian’s own heart had leapt at the first brush of fingertips. Had crashed back down and broken both legs on impact. He knows better. Of course he knows.
“Sebastian?”
He opens lead weights that’ve taken the place of his eyelids.
“Seb,” Chris says from inches away, large and apprehensive and careful, so careful, not spooking a skittish long-legged wild lynx. Sebastian wants to laugh exhaustedly at his own metaphors. He’s a terrible writer. “Seb? Look at me?”
“I am, you understand.”
“Yeah…no…but you…” With a flailing sort of gesture, distressed. “You don’t look good.”
“Thank you for that.”
Chris visibly winces. Sebastian silently swears at himself in three languages. Chris Evans should never be hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he offers, meaning it. “I have a headache.”
Chris’s eyes get wider. Sebastian recalls that neither of them tends to admit to discomfort; Chris has clung to a helicopter with a strained forearm, and Sebastian himself’s grabbed a motorcycle with his bare hand and is mildly famous among stuntpersons for, in their words, “always showing up and just trying to do good.”
For him to let on that he’s hurting now, then—
“It’s fine!” he tacks on hastily, a bandage that—from Chris’s expression—fails to hide the wound. “It’s only the travel, you know I hate flying, I’m tired, I might be dehydrated, that would’ve been a perfect pun if I’d thought of it sooner, Bucky and Hydra and—sorry, I’m sorry, you know, I’m just going to—go to bed, I’m obviously not decent company—”
The elevator lurches to a pointed halt. He’s babbling and his head really does hurt and he loses balance.
Chris catches him. Hands tight on his biceps. Every heroic muscle taut with concern. Long-lashed compassionate eyes searching his.
Horrifyingly, Sebastian finds himself near tears.
He shoves down the knot of inexplicable collapse. He pulls himself upright. He’s not worried about dignity. He doesn’t have any. Never been an adjective applicable to himself.
Chris deserves someone dignified. Someone less preposterous. Someone witty and charming and thoroughly empathetic and capable of deep profound insight into the human soul. Sebastian likes Tiffany songs and terrible sex-laden innuendo and overstuffed cuddly-wolf plush animals. “Um. Thank you. Again.”
“Any time.” Chris hasn’t let go of his left arm. “I mean that. Seb…you know I…never mind. Not now. Where’s your room key?”
“I’ve managed to not lose it, if that’s what you’re asking. Never mind what?”
“Come on, not now. Not when you look like—can I get you water? Painkillers? Anything? When was the last time you ate?”
And he’s a horribly selfish person for hoping, even for a single heartbeat. Chris has said: friend. Chris doesn’t want to talk about whatever this is. He should respect that.
He says, around the parade of drummers in his skull, “I had coffee?”
“Coffee’s not food even when you put that much sugar in it. Which pocket?”
“Sugar-free syrup, technically. Pocket?”
Chris pulls him closer. The hallway encloses them: infinite yet intimate, beige placidity extending off to the left and right but for now theirs alone. Chris runs a hand over his chest, his hip. Sebastian’s brain, overworked, gives up. Chris’s hands. Touching him.
He’s pretty sure his mouth’s fallen open, body flushed hot and trembling with desire, as he stands being petted by Chris Evans in the hallway.
“Where?” Chris nudges again, patting his hip.
Oh. Room key. Yes. And this lack of physical space’s nothing new. Not when they train together and act together and fall into exhausted costumed heaps for five-minute naps on set together. Chris radiates heat and sincerity, and Sebastian shamelessly cuddles up on grey days, on tired days.
Taking advantage. He knows. He’s terrible.
He also can’t help being incredibly turned on, in a funny distant through-the-headache way. Like a veil, a sheet, a silken flutter: he wants, he wants so very badly, and his body’s trying to react but is scraping the bottom of a decidedly empty barrel of energy. Good thing, in a way: Chris’s hands’re getting too close to the front of his pants, because apparently Chris thinks that’s where he keeps his room key. Any other night he’d make a joke as his heart splinters off another piece.
He means to make a joke now. He licks his lips.
Chris looks up.
Emotion aches in those eyes. Fear for him, care for him, anxious need to fix this and make this right. Chris Evans will do whatever he can to help someone else. Charity work, generosity on set, watching out for Sebastian himself on this press tour, and now—
He swallows. He sticks a hand into his own back pocket. “Here.”
When Chris goes to take the key, their hands slip, or fumble, or don’t meet quite right. Plastic tumbles. Plops to carpet.
Sebastian swears softly and dives for the key-card. Doesn’t make it. His head turns into sparkles and light.
He wakes up a few seconds later, cradled in Chris Evans’s arms in the hotel hallway.
He’s pretty sure he’s only missed those few seconds, because his key’s still on the floor and they haven’t moved except to sink to the ground. Chris hadn’t been expecting to catch him and they’re both clumsy when not focused and Sebastian has managed to not quite pass out, though the world’s grey-black and twinkling, dots wriggling through his vision. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, which is disconcerting, but when he blinks his sight gradually steadies.
“—Seb!” Chris’s voice sounds wrong. Terrified. “Seb? Sebastian, please, oh god, no, no no no, wake up, wake up—shit—I knew you weren’t fine, I knew—oh god Seb please—”
He’s being held in Chris’s lap, against Chris’s chest, on the floor. His head’s resting on firm muscle. Chris checks his pulse, strokes hair out of his eyes, begs him to be okay, pleads with him to talk. “You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay—I’m here, I got you, we’ll figure this out, please just wake up for me, and then I’m gonna get this taken care of, we’ll get you checked out, you’ll be fine, Seb, I swear—oh god, come on, come on, wake up, please wake up and look at me—”
He blinks again. Chris separates briefly into two people, haloed by lamplight, then recombines. His tongue feels fuzzy.
“Sebastian?” Chris stares at him, eyes frantic, whole body suggesting controlled panic. “Seb?” He’s got his phone out now. “I’m—shit, I was gonna call 911, but we’re in fucking London, what’s—”
“Chris,” Sebastian manages, which is exhausting, but he needs to reassure those eyes. “ ’m here. I’m okay. Sorry.”
Chris’s face gets even whiter. Horrified. “No. God, no, don’t apologize—oh fuck Seb you’re alive—”
And then Chris kisses him. Holding him with frightened strength, leaning into a kiss that’s rough and scared and tastes of tears and relief and words, babbling through the meeting of lips. Holding him and kissing him as they sit on the floor under curious hotel lights, mobile phone clutched in Chris’s left hand.
Sebastian kisses back. He needs a second to process—he’s just been dizzy enough to fall over, and he’s been caught, and now he’s being practically devoured with despairing devotion by the love of his life—and maybe he’s disoriented and this is a dream, but he’s damn well going to kiss Chris if he gets the chance. Even in a dream.
Chris stops trying to discover every inch of his living breathing not-unconscious mouth. Pulls back with heartrending tender shock. “I’m sorry—god, I just—I didn’t mean—I mean, I did mean to, I love you, but—fuck what did I just—”
“You love me?”
“Don’t sit up—!”
“You wanted to kiss me?”
“Please don’t move. Jesus, Seb. Your head…” One hand cups his cheek, strokes his hair. “I’m gonna call someone. I can’t—I can’t think about this yet. What I just—I know you don’t, you’ve never—I know we need to talk. First I need you to be okay. Please.”
“…you love me.”
“Shut up, Seb,” Chris whispers, eyes closing, opening: broken and wistful and fond. “I’m calling the front desk? And—and they can help? They’ll call a doctor or something?”
“You,” Sebastian repeats, propped up against Chris’s chest, the two of them clinging to each other under softly gold lamplight, “you said you love me. This press tour—everything you’ve—you’ve been looking out for me. Because you love me.”
“I’m also gettin’ really worried about your brain.” Chris puts a finger over Sebastian’s lips. Makes a phone call, in a tone that suggests he remains more apprehensive than he’s letting on. “They’ll be here in one minute. Don’t move.”
“I don’t want to. I’m…well, not fine…but I know what a bad headache feels like. I don’t think it’s worse. But—Chris—”
“You don’t think. You don’t know.”
“No…I suppose not…but this is important.” He tips his head up. Chris gazes down. The angle’s awkward but perfect. “You said I don’t. But I do. I always have. I love you.”
“You—” Chris stops, meets his eyes. “You—oh. Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t I ever know? Why didn’t you say—”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I thought you could never want—”
“I know, me too—I mean about you, I mean I know—”
“Okay,” Chris breathes. “Okay. We’re—we’re both here, and we’re—this is—we need to talk. Later. After you’re better.”
“I’m—”
This protest’s interrupted by the arrival of not only a physician but a nurse, two hotel managers, a Russo brother, a personal assistant, and a fascinated bellboy. Between them they get Sebastian lying down in bed—Chris refuses to let him walk, which is both insulting and kind of nice, staying in those safe arms—and enthroned amid a variety of pillows. The bellboy keeps bringing more because Chris fusses over the exact right softness.
Sebastian answers a few questions. Lets himself be poked and prodded and inspected. Drinks water. Decides where his headache rests on a pain scale. Drinks more water.
They conclude that he’s dehydrated and hypoglycemic and had too much caffeine on top of that. The nurse makes disapproving sounds when he admits to skipping lunch and having a fourth iced coffee. Sebastian apologizes meekly. He hates disappointing people, especially when they look at him in a way reminiscent of his mother’s best you’ve let me down, I’m not angry, only sad eyes.
Chris at this point goes from staring at him meaningfully to glaring at the nurse for making him feel guilty. Sebastian nearly gets whiplash at the speed of this change.
He’s given orange juice and glucose tablets and told to rest. Both Russo brothers—one very sleepily via the phone—inform him that he is not in fact a supersoldier and they expect him to rest and also they’ll take his coffee away tomorrow if they see any. Sebastian tries to argue; is outvoted. Besides, Chris is petting his hair, artist’s fingers taming messy strands, so he’s distracted.
Chris feeds him raisins and some sort of tiny sugary hard candy that he’s never heard of—a British brand—because those’re good for quick blood sugar fixes. Chris learns in consultation with the doctor that chocolate isn’t in fact the best—not as swiftly absorbed—but Starburst candies and jellybeans should work. Chris gets on the phone to the front desk. Showers of fruit-flavored candies happen.
The final verdict seems to be that he’s been less than good at self-care but he’s going to be fine. He refrains from pointing out that he’d told Chris as much, because, well, this’s mostly his own fault. He tries to apologize again, and gets shushed by at least four bodies.
He naps for a while once they all leave him alone. All does not include Chris, who’s chosen the position of watchdog protector for himself and sits at Sebastian’s bedside like he’s planning to keep vigil all night. Sebastian reaches out a hand. Chris takes it. Kisses it, lips warm on the back, over skin.
They do need to talk. But he’s awfully tired. And this, this—
This he wants. This feels easy. He can let it be easy, this once.
He closes his eyes with their fingers entwined.
Anthony and Robert show up some time later. He’s half-awake, cheek resting on pillowy coolness, hand remaining folded up in Chris’s; Chris gets the text and tries to answer without disturbing him.
“I’m awake.”
“No you’re not. Rest.”
“I’m awake now. Was that Mackie?”
“Yeah…”
“Tell them to come over, I’m fine, I can see people.”
Chris scowls. Sebastian puts on his most exaggerated sad-kitten eyes. Chris sighs and texts back, and ten seconds later a knock bounces off their door; co-stars’ve evidently been hovering outside.
Anthony Mackie says, “How’re you doing, Vanilla Ice?” and ruffles his hair. “Don’t scare us like that.”
“Embarrassed,” Sebastian admits, “but I’ll still beat you at thumb-wrestling,” and Mackie says, “Yeah, ’cause you’ll still cheat,” and punches him playfully on the shoulder. Chris bristles with outrage at this exchange.
Robert observes, “This is some kind of payback for all those threatening videos of you working out with my decapitated head, totally karma, I’m liking this,” and then conducts an intense conversation with Chris regarding the best foods for him to have right now and tomorrow morning, resulting in what promises to be a series of extravagant deliveries.
“I’m really okay,” Sebastian says. He is, mostly.
“Don’t worry about it.” Robert kisses him on the forehead. Sebastian’s heart belongs to Chris but melts a little anyway. It’s Robert. “Look, we know you’ve done press before but never anything as big as this, and so much crazy happens, this is so not even the worst, you should hear about some of my fuck-ups, seriously, not pretty. You’re small potatoes. Very cute potatoes. Okay, we’re going, you need to rest, we’ll see you in the morning, cute potatoes.”
Sebastian tries to retort “I am not a potato,” because what even, but ends up laughing too much: tired, loopy, leaning on Chris’s strength beside him.
He sleeps for a while. He opens his eyes at one point to find Chris lying stretched out on the hotel bed beside him, awake and fully dressed, shoes kicked off, gazing down at him with such adoration that Sebastian’s heart cracks open and spills radiance through his chest. Can’t contain it, this feeling. Being loved; knowing that he’s loved; knowing he loves.
He’s safe here with Chris. He feels good next to Chris. He always has.
He wishes Chris would sleep too—he’s worried—but he knows those apprehensive eyes won’t close tonight. He’d do the same.
Shadows pool around the space: contented prowlers in satin grey, settling down for bed. Lights out in this bedroom. Nighttime in London, antique and calm.
He scoots a bit closer. Nestles sleepily into long lean body heat. Chris makes a quiet startled happy sound, and rubs his back, soothing.
He wakes up at three minutes past eight in the morning—he knows the time because he can see the clock past Chris’s drowsing shoulder; it’s in a cheerily helpful spot—and lies without moving for a moment, purely happy.
Chris wakes up fully with a jolt and a curse. “Seb? I wasn’t asleep, I swear—are you okay, do you need—”
“I’m fine.” He hooks a foot over Chris’s ankle, tangling their legs. “I feel a lot better, in fact.”
“How’s your—”
“My head’s fine too. I’m a little thirsty—oh, thank you—that was impressive—no, come back here. You’re a good pillow.”
Chris says, lying down with Sebastian cuddled into one arm, tucked up against him, sipping water, “I can be your pillow for fucking ever,” and it’s partly a joke but mostly not: plaintive half-afraid hope in that Boston-bay accent.
“You said we should talk.” Light’s sneaking in around the curtains, teasing honeyed mid-morning shine. Like beginnings, he thinks. Like something easy, like first steps and sudden comprehension of balance, like yes, like they can do this, they can walk together. He sets down his water. “Do we need to?”
Chris hesitates, looking back. Pale light catches his eyelashes, his freckles. He’s beautiful, made of desire and devotion. “Do we?”
“I’m all right,” Sebastian says, “and you love me, and I love you.”
“For so long,” Chris breathes, heart picking up speed under his hand, “and I was trying to—I wanted to be here for you, I wanted to take care of you if you ever needed that, not that you need that, not that I was good at it anyway, obviously, I just—I tried—”
“We’re all right,” Sebastian says, “maybe a little slow, but we got there, and I do need you, always, I always, I was thinking how badly I wanted this to never end, you and this press tour,” and Chris starts kissing him everywhere, slow and sweet and gentle, drawn-out tender caresses of lips and fingertips and bodies rocking together. Chris pauses to admonish, “You’re supposed to be resting,” but undermines this argument by sliding a hand up under his shirt and discovering a nipple to play with; Sebastian laughs helplessly and slips his own hands down to cup that wonderful muscled ass.
Chris doesn’t let him tire himself out, as much as Sebastian protests this iron-clad rule. He considers this dynamic for a second or two, and likes it; Chris likes it too, so that’s perfect. The morning glows.
They do make out on and off because that’s a good way to keep him in bed; Chris hand-feeds him more fruit and candies and peanut-butter toast because that’s a good way to make him stop complaining about the invalid treatment plus lack of fulfillment regarding orgasms. Chris’s fingers slip into his mouth on occasion and stay there, keeping him occupied.
Nobody summons either of them for press events. Chris checks his phone; Sebastian, who cannot reach his without moving from Chris’s side, is busy being languid and beloved.
“Huh,” Chris says, “so…I’m being told to keep an eye on you all day. Like I wouldn’t anyway,” and then sticks his face into Sebastian’s stomach.
“Oh my god,” Sebastian says, dissolving into giggles—Chris’s beard tickles—“you’re literally keeping eyes on me.”
“I love you,” Chris says into his hip. “So I guess everyone knows, by the way. Mackie says they’ve been placing bets on how long it’d take. He’s up twenty-two dollars. They were less sure about you, if you were wondering, apparently I’m way less subtle. I love you.”
“I didn’t know. About you. And I love you.”
“You know now?” Chris lifts his head. His eyes ask the question, hope for the yes. “You do know, right?”
“Yes,” Sebastian says, reaching down to run fingers through his hair, “I know.”