Title: Revel
Author: Nakeno

Disclaimer: I do not claim to know the people who play these copyrighted characters or anything about their privates lives. So this is all bullshit. I don't own them. I don't own anything, actually. No, for real... I'm still making payments on this computer. So don't sue.

Rating: R. Maybe. There's an orgasm... what do orgasms rate?

Characters: Christian, mentions of Chris Jericho

Pairing: Christian/Jericho... only not.

Summary: Chris has gone out to get dinner, leaving Christian alone in their hotel room with a SHIRT...

Written to:
"Effigy" by Natalie Merchant
I'm an effigy
A parody of
Who I appear to be
Put your flaming torches under me
I'm an effigy
A parody of
Who I appear to be
Put your flaming torches under me
I'm an effigy
A parody of
Who I appear to be
Put your flaming torches under me
Endless [ so far in myself ] follow me...

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He knew he shouldn't. Knew he shouldn't like the way a child knows they shouldn't go digging in the depths of their parents' closets for unwrapped Christmas presents.

There is silence so loud it hums in his ears. Just him in the room, the two beds. Separate. Always separate with that few paltry feet between them that seemed to shrink yet expand all at once in the smallest hours of the night while Christian lay awake and Chris did not.

There were always those little moments of purity. Those little kernels of true self when Christian Cage didn't have to hide from anyone but himself. And who would do such a silly thing in the cover of darkness?

He shouldn't. Maybe he wouldn't... He probably would by the way his fingers itched with it.

There on the bed that wasn't his, Chris' property lay spread out: royal purple duffel bag; thin, curling cord of a pair of headphones by a small discman; a bandana and a freshly shed... shirt.

Lying there. That synthetic sheen catching the light in pinpricks that shattered into dazzling glitters of silver. Not because it was moving, but because he was. Across the room. Like a raven fixated on all that shine.

It would catch along his fingers, that smooth material, he knew. Knew what it felt like when it was over toned skin, warm body, strong bone. Knew what it was like to hug such a thing, to have Chris hug back.

So fine, so sheen. So like the way his hair caught in the light. How those shaped lips would pull back on one corner and show him the barest hint of teeth. A rogue, a delinquent. Crystal buttons where eyes should be with that glaze of sweetest blue. So *Chris*.

And that *smell*. His smell. All *over* it.

Both hands now... both hands and fists full of slip-slide material as it presses, still body-warmed, to his nose and he *breathes*.

How long from here to the lobby? How long from there to up the street to gather up a cold-cut dinner with extra pre-packaged meat? How long would Chris be...?

His hands tremble with the thought of it, heart races with the inspiration of something so sinful, something so dirty.

He *shouldn't*, but one of his hands are no longer in Chris' discarded shirt. No, it isn't. Now one hand is tracing, moving down his own shirt covered chest.

Over and down, what an easy thing it is to ease back among the smell of Chris' things, the smell of *Chris*. All around him. It makes him dizzy. So dizzy, so needy, so *hard*.

He might tease himself, draw it out until his muscles clench and his body quivers with the tightness of his desire.

But, no, not this time. Not now. His own shirt goes undisturbed save for the small motion that brushes the hem aside to expose the copper button on his jeans. The sharp tap of a blade's tip against glass; that's what that sound is when those jeans snap free. The metal zipper grits its way open soon after.

His hand clenches in that shirt. His nose draws it in. That heady, potent scent that causes his blood to rush and his head to grow light right there on his shoulders.

Yes, oh, and his hand does feel good. It's a hard squeeze in such tight jeans, but they keep their height on his hips because he doesn't bother to push them down. He's jerking and feeling and *throbbing* in his own grip now.

How Chris' fingers might feel here... When his fingers do this. A gasp. When his fingers do that... A moan.

All taken in. All muffled by that shirt that makes sweat prickle over his scalp.

Chris, God, yes, *Chris*.

His own breath is hot as it pushes back at his eager lips and chin from where he exhales it, sharper and quicker each time, into that bit of cloth.

Just cloth. Just material stitched and sewn but...

Oh, how he aches, how he arches there in the fully lit room on that creaking hotel bed. That scent in his nose, in his mind, and he could feel the phantom brush of spun gold over his cheeks. Where Chris' hair might touch him if the other were...

The thought makes him grit his teeth and curve into the strength of his own touch.

The jagged edge of the zipper saws at his wrist and he strokes faster. He twists and groans and calls out to a person who was not there save for in the barest traces of some cologne Christian could not name if asked.

Such a dirty, awful thing he's doing and he would flush with shame in the same way he's flushing with pleasure now if someone were to know. But they wouldn't. They couldn't see him now. Couldn't see the way he revels in this debase act, the way his mind supplies a ghosting touch he has no memory of in that kind of intimacy. Chris would never touch him like this. Would never, could never and, God, such a bad thing that has him so good. He cries out for more.

He is with his shoes still on, pushing into the edge of the bed, marking up that nice sheet and Chris' name breathed into Chris' shirt and he's gonna cum. Just like this. Chris all around him. In every sense but physical.

How he wants this. How he wants *more* than this. He curls up on himself until his stomach is so tight he's sure it would have to wrench itself to one side before doubling up on itself anymore, only it doesn't and he's so fucking hot with it. His brow is creased in such a manner that it hurts, eyes squeezed shut, aching-tight and there's nothing left to do but hold on.

And how he does. And how he lets go. How his whole world snaps loose as if it had been in the cradle of a slingshot all this time. How he cums rasping Chris' name, so hard and hot, convulsing, thrusting tightly into that hand that isn't his own anymore. He's no longer holding Chris' shirt, but Chris himself in those few painfully brilliant seconds before everything fades away into nothing but a fantasy again.

It's a slow thing for his eyes to focus on the ceiling above him. His cheeks are burning; scalding to a normal touch he figures. Perspiration dusts his skin, glistens in the overhead lights where his shirt has rode up his torso, exposing a thin slice of his stomach and back for no one to see. His hand is still deep in the open 'V' of his jeans and his fingers are coated with the liquid evidence of how real a thing his want for that man is as he allows his body to stretch out.

Christian sits up with a partial grimace, trailing that slippery, gaudy shirt down his front. He takes a breath, Chris' scent is still there even as he feels his lungs relax, trying to level his breathing once more. How liberated he felt in such a debauched act a moment ago and now how bound in strips of humiliation.

The colors of the room feel different to his eyes. As if someone had touched down on the brightness but had upped the contrast.

He decides that's reality sinking back in and lets it.

He really ought to go clean up but he wants to sit and mull in his own taint. Study it, know it, wonder how long he can keep it to himself.

An objective camera lets him imagine how he might have looked from another's view as he replays the events of the past few moments over in his head.

When the time comes that waiting is no longer an option, Chris will be back soon, he pulls his hand from his jeans. Sticky and stiff. There's his smell now... There's a small red band along the underside of his wrist now but it won't take long to fade.

Christian considers it, notes it, commits it to memory before finally getting to his feet.

His face is still stained with his efforts and then his chagrin. He shuffles to the bathroom quietly. Doesn't even have the nerve to look at himself in the mirror...

He leaves the shirt where he found it.

-The End-