Justin wore clothes tight enough that Chris imagined they left marks when he took them off. He imagined the ribbing of Justin's shirts remained imprinted on his body, after pressing himself to a girl, and just, well, rubbing. He imagined the waistband of Justin's pants bit into his skin, leaving its mark around Justin's narrow hips.

Chris usually stopped his imagination there, though. But it was hard, when Justin pressed himself to Chris' back at a club, whispering in his ear, "d'you wanna get out of here," but just wanting to leave, and nothing more. Hard, when Justin curled up against him on the bus, mumbling against Chris' skin, "my back's really sore," but just meaning he wanted to get a massage when they got to the hotel, not asking Chris to do it for him. Hard, when they were having a perfectly normal conversation, and Justin ended up breathing lightly on Chris' neck, fingers darting at Chris' wrists, tongue darting out to wet his own lips, so damn close to Chris that he could feel the moisture without any contact.

Really, then, it was best if Chris didn't think about Justin taking his clothes off, and then taking Chris' clothes off, and pinning Chris down and pressing himself so closely to him that Chris could feel the ridges on Justin's chest and the imprints on his hips where Justin had peeled away his clothes. Because, really, it made him imagine things, things that were forbidden territory for anyone's best friend.

 

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