Your Horoscope Today
by Lar

Sun is in 05 Degrees Cancer.
You tend to be quite generous, giving, loving and caring, but only when your own needs for emotional support, love and security have been met.

Steve's not ever going to not be there for Chris. He's sure that Chris knows this, sure that it's as obvious as the fact that Chris will keep on breathing without Steve having to remind him to do it. But even so, when Steve's phone goes unanswered, Chris gets pissed off. Because Steve is supposed to be there when Chris needs him, even if it's just a stupid fucking question he wants to ask.

When Steve gets in that night, there are 8 messages on his cell phone and three more on his home answering machine. All of them are from Chris. The last one, on the cell, Chris sounds petulant and spoiled, asking where the fuck he is and how stupid is he that he's not carrying his goddamn phone, since that's the point of having a cell anyway.

Steve hits redial, grinning to himself when it doesn't even get through an entire ring tone before Chris picks up.

"Havin' a bad day?"

Chris hesitates and Steve can see the expression on his face as clear in his own head as if the boy was standing here in front of him. He's probably blushing, and rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. Steve can hear that embarrassed grin in his tone when Chris finally says something.

"Yeah, somethin' like that."

"I just got in. You comin' over or you gonna stay there and have yourself a good long tantrum?"

"Oh fuck you, Steve."

"Bring beer."

Chris shows up half an hour later with a case of Bud longnecks and a bag of Thai takeout. They sit on the couch and swear at the game, the refs, the coaches, the players and whatever moron is doing the play-by-play commentary. When the food's gone and the game's lumbered through to its sad and inevitable fucked up conclusion, Chris yawns widely and slumps over on the couch, head on Steve's shoulder. Steve lifts his arm, and after a grunt of complaint about having his comfortable position disturbed, Chris slips down further. Stretches his legs out on the couch and lets his head rest on Steve's thigh. Steve's hand finds a spot on Chris's shoulder to curl around easily enough and they both fall asleep that way, the TV a white noise of ESPN in the background.


Rising Sign is in 16 Degrees Virgo
You are supercritical about how you appear to others.

Chris doesn't really mind so much when people write him off as a pretty boy. Of course, lately, no one's called him that. Not since he let his hair grow out, not since he went back to smoking. Now they tend to call him other things - "redneck" when he's had maybe half a bottle too much of Jack or a six-pack too many of Bud. Him and Steve and Dave at the bar, laughing their asses off over something that only makes sense through the foggy cloud of alcohol soaking into their brains.

Of course, he wasn't too happy the night Dave told him he'd looked like shit more often than not lately. That phone call ended with Chris inviting Dave to shove his fashion advice up his ass. It wasn't until much later that he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and thought maybe Dave wasn't talking about his t-shirts.

A few days later, he showed up at Dave's house, his face clean-shaven, with his hair pulled back and still sleek from washing. Charged up on a couple nights with eight hours of sleep that he didn't have to coax his body into with booze and maybe half of one of those pills he had lying around from when he fucked up his knee a couple years ago. Chris's jeans are worn through at the knees. His carefully selected t-shirt was hard-put to be called decent about five years ago.

Dave said he looked good. Chris said, "Damn right I do. Asshole." And then he pushed Dave up against the door and kissed him hard enough to make his own bottom lip swell.

They didn't make it up the stairs, and the t-shirt fell apart when Dave tugged it up a little too enthusiastically. Chris left the next morning wearing one of Dave's uglier shirts and a hickey on his neck that matched the one on his hip.

The shirt's still hanging in his closet, a too-bright reminder of the fact that sometimes he ought to listen to what's being said instead of just hearing the words.


Moon is in 17 Degrees Libra.
You tend to overlook other people's faults and you would rather give in than fight.

Dave is a stubborn prick. Chris knows this much about him. He's stubborn and self-centered, and he's got a tendency to say what he thinks without much considering how it's going to come out sounding. No filter between his brain and his mouth and some of it stings. Some of it hurts like hell, especially if he's talking about Jamie around Chris and saying how much he loves being with her. When he does that, Chris will usually find himself an excuse to go somewhere else, remember an appointment with Eric or a call he has to make, and he'll go be somewhere that he doesn't need to be reminded that he's not number one with Dave.

He's thought about calling him on it; Chris has played it out in his head. Him and Dave and Steve, and maybe James or Branden or who the hell ever happens to be in town and hanging with them. There's Dave showing off a picture of Jaden and there's somebody asking about Jamie. And there's Dave starting to say she's great, man, she's so amazing. She's beautiful and she's hot and she's perfect, none of which Chris is about to deny. He likes the woman, she's sweet and she's great with the baby and she makes Dave happy. Then again, Chris is pretty sure he makes Dave happy, too. Knows he does, damn it, and in this place in his head where he's working it all through, he tells Dave not to start on the Jamie-Worship again.

Don't wanna hear that, ok?

And every time. Every damn time, his brain provides him with a picture-perfect image of Dave's reaction. The smirk he gets when he's pissed and about to tell you just what an idiot you are. The chuckle that goes with it. And the words, which Chris can pretty much imagine would come out making him sound like some crazed jealous bitch.

What are you, my fuckin' girlfriend?

Yeah. Just like that.

So Chris never says it, leaving instead when the talk turns to how much Dave loves his wife. No sense fighting it when in the end it'll be him who goes home alone anyway. He'll end up in his truck smelling like Dave and sex and sweat, hoping that the scent lasts long enough to transfer to the sheets on his bed. Sometimes that makes it sting a little less, thinking that Jamie might be sharing the pillows with Dave, but she's smelling Chris on his skin.


Mercury is in 10 Degrees Cancer.
Your thinking becomes quite unclear when you are emotionally shaken try not to make major decisions when you are upset.

"You fucking bastard," Chris says as he slams the bottle on the table and hears something crack. Bottle, table, maybe his own hand, he doesn't much care right now as he looks over at Dave. "You're unbelievable, you know that? Unbefuckinglievable."

Dave, to his credit, looks embarrassed and guilty as hell. Chris couldn't really give a toasty fuck about that, though. Not since last night, when he walked into the bar and found Dave there in the back booth. Bad enough Dave brought him to their bar and then sat him in their booth, but when Chris got closer, he had seen that Dave's hand was moving under the table and James looked like he was about three strokes from shooting right there. Chris can see all of that right now, even though Dave is trying to explain about how he didn't mean for it to happen, it just sort of did. How there was all this time on the set with James, and how it rolled over into time off the set with James and-

"And so you did what you do with everybody off the set, right? You fuckin' him, too?" Chris hates the break in his voice that he can hear when he asks, hates that he knows how he looks -- the same way he did last night, stunned and raw and laid open to the bone.

Dave doesn't answer fast enough and really, that's all the answer that Chris needs.

"Fuck you, then. You an' James, you go have yourself a good time. On set, off set, you can fuck him on the goddamn desk in the middle of the goddamn take for all I care." Chris takes the bottle that's still sitting on the table in front of him, knocks it off and then slams out the front door, leaving Dave standing in Chris's house, covered in the shards of the JD bottle.

Chris comes home the next day and the house reeks of whiskey, the stain of it splashed on the wall and the tile where it dried in puddles. He sweeps up the glass, and refuses to think about any of the reasons for the house being so damn empty that he's actually grateful for the sound of the shards crunching under his boots, anything so he won't be reminded of how he's alone again.


Venus is in 02 Degrees Gemini.
You love to play the field and thus find it difficult to settle down and make any deep emotional commitments.

Steve's used to being the rebound guy. He's been there so often that it's not even a question in his mind anymore. This time it's Dave, last time it was... well, last time it was Dave, too. And sometime in the past it was Vince, or Nick, or Kelly. There've been a few others.

It's not like Chris shows up and fucks him and leaves. Maybe that's the difference. Not that he doesn't fuck him, though.

Chris shows up, usually drunk and pissed off. He'll rage and complain and get his hurt out the best he can, until it's trickled down to nothing more than this gutted expression on his face as he looks over at Steve.

Sometimes, he'll stand up and pin Steve to the wall, kiss him with a mouth that's hard and a tongue that's slick as it snakes into Steve's mouth. His hands will be rough as he yanks at clothes and he'll push until Steve is just as rough back at him. Like he needs it to be as physical as he can get it to be, all his energy burning up in grunting, sweating, skin slapping skin until they both collapse wherever they end up, exhausted. Those are the times that Chris will fall asleep on him so fast that they end up sleeping there because Steve can't be bothered to move them, or to wake Chris up when he's worn himself out with everything before the fucking.

Usually, though, Chris just sits on the couch and waits for Steve to come to him. Waits for Steve to slip in next to him on the cushions and push his hair back from his face and say something, anything. Steve's never sure if Chris is listening to what he says, because he's always staring at Steve's mouth, no matter what. Staring and licking his own bottom lip and just waiting for the kiss that he needs but won't ask for.

Steve loves Chris too much to ever make him ask. He doesn't make him wait, and he doesn't mind so much that there's never really been a time when it was just he and Chris together, the main event, instead of this painful collection of pieces when the other parties are over. In a way, he feels better knowing that he's the one that makes Chris better, makes him stop hurting, even if it's just for a little while.

So there are kisses, slow and soft, on a mouth Steve can trace with his tongue from memory. There are hands that draw off Chris's clothes one piece at a time and retrace the cut and curve of muscle and bone he knows so well. Chris's hands are never still long, and they know Steve's body, too. They remind Steve that no matter how shattered he is, Chris isn't the kind of lover to lie there and be the only one who's feeling anything. Chris has never been a selfish lover, not in the act itself. He seems to get as much pleasure from hearing Steve groan as he does from the heat of Steve's mouth on his body. And Steve knows where to put his mouth, how to kiss just there, where to run his tongue and when, to make sure that they both end up smiling. Those are the times that Chris stays awake after, long enough to get into bed if they haven't made it there before then. Long enough to let Steve spoon around him and tell him to get some rest and that everything is going to be okay.


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