little pirate boy
***
Amazing, how this blur of energy can suddenly come to
a peaceful stop, warm, fuzzy, breathing very softly.
But you suppose that you'd be tired too, after a
performance, some interviews, and about three straight
hours of pestering your bandmates.
Justin and Lance, mostly, but Chris liked picking on
JC too. It wasn't really a matter of choice, quite
random, actually. But you liked it best when he picked
on you.
He had come crashing into your hotel room, rifling
through your luggage for an assortment of wearables,
then careened down the corridor in full Superman gear.
A cape, pajamas, an improvised boxershort hat. No,
careen wasn't the word. He flew. A grown little man
who tried to fly.
Chris had never been one to take his age seriously
anyway. It didn't always matter that he was older than
everyone else in the group, and the label "crazy and
immature" never bothered him. It didn't really matter
to anyone that he never wanted to grow up, that he
wanted to be a little boy forever. A little boy who
liked clubbing, heavy drinking, and of course, video
games.
He had kissed you on the lips when you brought home
the N64. "Joe, I love you, man!" He wouldn't let
anyone touch it. Conjugal property, he had called it,
even though you hardly ever played anyway. Justin
moped for a while, but got over it. You thought about
the kiss for a while, and never got over it.
Playful. A good way of describing him. Very fond of
games of all sorts. Some conventional, others --
tickle-Lance-in-the-ribs-till-he-cries -- not so. And
mind games. The way he smooches you so nonchalantly,
slinging that damned proprietary arm around your
shoulders at every given moment. Never following up.
You scold yourself for being so stupid, or maybe for
not being assertive enough. You, Joey Fatone,
supposedly the flirt, can't even handle your own
fucking bandmate. But you remind yourself that, maybe
this is as far as it should go. Keep the group in
harmony and all.
He was also very fond of "verbal fencing", as JC
called it. Never lets an argument down. You find
yourself getting irritated over little conversations
with him, yet after, when pissy turns to prissy, you
feel compelled to gather him up in your arms and kiss
him. The Oral Swashbuckler, the others would call him,
snickering. You never got that joke. But yeah. He was
a pirate. Hoop earrings, goatee, second nature sneer
and all.
He was a frustrated seadog, to say the least. Hardly
ever letting down his rugged exterior, keeping the
image of the tough *Nsyncer. It was good and bad. Good
when he helps stave off burly men who want to boff
Lance. Bad when involved in normal discussions and
everyday life. A little fun when you make out,
bristle-soft beard, tender-gruff pillow talk and tiny
nips and bites. It's nice when he lets it down
sometimes too, though. Like now.
Curled up against you on the couch, head against your
shoulder, one hand around your elbow, another close to
his mouth. Probably drooling a little, too. Soft,
cuddly Chris, lightning manifest in real life, a
veritable puppy when asleep. Asleep and plied with
good Italian food.
The dinner you had stuffed him with was nice. Intimate
conversation, sexual tension, a few awkward moments,
but nice, overall. He had been a bit surprised to find
a thimble in the gelato, though. You laughed at his
confusion, and he just gave up on figuring it out.
You chuckle to yourself.
"I love you, Peter," you whisper.
"Hmm..?" he mutters. "Who the fuck is Peter?"
You pat his thigh and hush him back to sleep, a bit
glad that your parents never thought to name you Wendy.
***
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