And there wasn't really much interesting about that, except the very specific way Chris' fingers worked to rip off the old tape, and the way his wrist flicked as he taped, and the way his dreads sometimes fell in his eyes and he shook his head to get them away -- none of which actually related to the logistics to why Chris was so good at taping.
"'Cause I've been doin' it longer than you've even been alive, kid," he said, when he was done, and kicked his feet up on the couch.
"Shut up," Justin said, crossed his legs beneath him, on the shag carpet. When he moved, it stirred up the faint musk of Chris' basement. "You're not that much older'n me."
"Old enough," Chris said.
Justin frowned and sucked his lower lip in between his teeth. "Yeah, well," he mumbled, and inspected the head of his hockey stick. "Um," he said, picking at the loose end of tape, "you wouldn't want to. um."
"No," Chris said.
"Please?" Justin asked, glancing up. "I'll take you to Timbo's if you do it for me."
Chris snorted, and tucked stray dreadlocks behind his ear. "I'm not that easy, eh."
"No," Justin said, and smiled slowly, "but you are that cheap."
"Bite me," Chris said. He stretched out his hand, gesturing vaguely with his fingers. "Give it here, then."
When he took the stick, Justin set to inspecting his nails. He glanced up occasionally, not even subtly, to watch Chris' fingers wrap the tape around the bare stick, watch the way the tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration, as if he hadn't seen it enough and never would, again.
"J," Chris said, after a while, when he'd ripped off the end of the tape, and tossed the roll at Justin. "Timbo's. You, me. Now."
"Just a minute," Justin mumbled. He caught the tape, stuffed it in his pocket. "C'mere."
"Mmhmm," Chris said, sliding off the couch. "What?"
"Can we just, uh. er. Stay. here, for a bit."
Chris snorted again. "Yeah, okay," he said. He leaned over, slipping his fingers around Justin's wrist. They were cool and slightly sticky from the adhesive, and his grip wasn't hard, but firm. Justin shivered, had a hard time meeting Chris' eyes. "Then, um," Chris said, the words sighed against Justin's cheek, "you, um, want a beer?"
"Nah. 'S okay," Justin said, turning away. Chris had brought his wrist to his lips, and licked the underside. Justin bit his lip.
"Hey, hey," Chris said. He dropped Justin's hand, grabbed roughly at Justin's chin, kissed him. "Fucker," he mumbled, grinning against Justin's mouth, and slung a leg over Justin's hip to straddle him.
Justin leaned back on his hands, closed his eyes. He felt Chris' nose brush his throat, then Chris' lips passing over, followed by his tongue just below Justin's jaw. Justin curled his fingers in the long shag, tilting his head back, and Chris' tongue was hot and soft and probing along his neck, coming to rest in the hollow of his throat just above his collarbone. Justin thought maybe he let a soft sigh escape his lips, and let out an experimental moan.
Chris smiled against his throat, or Justin was pretty sure he did, and then Chris' fingers were curling around the hem of his ratty t-shirt, pushing it up, exposing a strip of pale, soft skin. Justin inhaled sharply as Chris put his palm on his stomach; his eyes fluttered open, and he was presently met with Chris' dark gaze. There was a smile playing on his mouth, and then his mouth was on Justin's, tongue pressing so firmly into Justin's mouth, it forced him down to his elbows.
Justin broke away, turning his cheek aside, breathing maybe a little heavily. Chris' hand slipped from his stomach, down to the waistband of Justin's pants, deftly unbuttoning, unzipping. Justin sucked in a sharp breath, with Chris supported awkwardly in his lap, fingers tugging Justin's pants down over his hips, his thighs, taking his boxers with them. Justin closed his eyes again, threw his head back, hips undulating arrhythmically. He felt Chris' hand brushing against his dick, only barely cancelling out the scratch of the rough shag on his thighs, ass.
He hissed.
"Fuck, can you just," Chris mumbled, and slid off Justin's thighs. Justin looked up from under his eyelashes, watching Chris slide out of his pants, just as he tugged off his own. He'd got far too much practice at that, he thought, but drew his legs up anyway, so the soles of his feet were resting flat on the carpet. Justin frowned, let his hand drift up, over his hip, eyes hooded, and then Chris slunk over, kneeling between Justin's feet, and roughly nudged his knees apart. Justin winced; Chris slid his palm down the back of Justin's thigh, eliciting a sharp spasm from Justin's hips, as he thrust unconsciously upward. Chris smirked a little.
Chris slipped his hand up Justin's shirt again, fingers lightly stroking down his ribcage. Justin shuddered, back arching, and Chris leaned forward, over him, and whispered, "take this off," tugging at the inside of the shirt.
"No," Justin said, and it came out more like a moan than a word. He slid his legs up, curled them around Chris' waist, blinked slowly up at him. "Not getting fucking rug burn for you," he murmured, and lay back on the floor -- it was really itchy, he thought.
Chris edged closer to Justin, settling between his spread legs, his cock brushing, barely touching, the cleft of Justin's ass. Justin inhaled sharply, just as Chris kissed him, roughly, and swallowed, letting his tongue ripple against Chris'. Chris placed his palm on Justin's stomach again, fingers sweeping over his navel, and Justin arched his back into his touch. Chris' hand was hot, a contrast against Justin's skin, and his stomach was hot, too, pressing against Justin's dick.
Justin's breath hitched, and Chris seized his wrist, pinning it against the floor, thumb brushing over the tendons just below Justin's palm. Justin's hips twitched involuntarily, and he felt Chris' dick slide along the crease of his ass, and it turned something inside, just under Chris' hand, made his mouth go dry. He thought he may have been murmuring, letting soft sighs, half-formed words escape his lips into Chris' mouth, but he couldn't tell, could only concentrate on the heat on his stomach, his wrist, his ass.
And then Chris' hand was gone from his stomach, and there were fingers pushing rudely inside him, making the muscles in his calves tighten, almost painfully. He closed his eyes, turned his cheek away from Chris, because he couldn't fucking breathe with the proximity. And Chris had pulled out his fingers, put a hand on Justin's hip, angling him upwards, while his other hand was still gripping Justin's wrist, making his fingers curl into the rug.
Chris' breath fanned across Justin's cheek, and his dick slid into Justin, slowly, so fucking slowly Justin could have almost sworn he felt the crackling around the edges of anticipation. Chris licked a path along Justin's collarbone, and then his pelvic bone nudged Justin's ass, and his first, tentative thrust -- but still fucking forceful, Justin thought, when he was still capable -- caused Justin's back to arch, overextend. Justin gasped, the air feeling thick in his throat, and managed enough to grab Chris' chin, make him lean forward again, more.
He knew he was mumbling, then, repeating please please please over and over, like he couldn't get enough, like there wasn't enough to get, and Chris was fucking him hard, with rapid, shallow thrusts, still holding Justin's wrist and cutting off the circulation. Justin crushed his mouth against Chris', and it was uncomfortable, and dirty, the way Chris sucked on his tongue, and then let his own tongue scrape along the roof of Justin's mouth. He curled his fingers around Justin's hip, gripped, angled. Justin's mind was a haze, of black and red and something wet and something inexorably hard and pounding, and he couldn't even really command his body to do anything more but thrust his ass harder onto Chris' dick and gasp against Chris' mouth and and let out the occasional moan to reinforce how fucking good he thought Chris was.
And then Chris let go of his wrist, brought his fingers up to trace along his jaw, his eyelids, while he still -- fucking still -- licked at Justin's lips, and Justin had no notion of how Chris could do so fucking many things at the same time, and just as he was considering maybe gripping Chris' bicep, he shuddered, let out a guttural moan, and came in time with one of Chris' thrusts, and everything was white heat, white noise.
Chris bit down on his lip, and then Justin did reach for his bicep, needing some kind of support, and he felt his ass clench around Chris, so he nudged it down, ground his hips a little awkwardly against Chris', and Chris came, letting out a long, shuddering breath in Justin's ear. Justin let his eyes flutter open, slowly, and he didn't remember the basement being that bright, before. It felt like his pupils were dilated, and it hurt, but Chris was grinning at him a little crookedly, so Justin kissed him, breathlessly, and slid off.
Chris dropped his hand to Justin's hip, hitching up his shirt enough so that his palm rested on the skin. Justin couldn't help but smile, really, and groped blindly for his underwear, still squinting, coming up only with Chris'.
"Fuck," he said, and tossed them at Chris. "Hurt."
Chris shrugged, stood up, stepping into his boxers. "Wanna go, now?" he asked, and kicked Justin's discarded pants at him.
"Fine," Justin said, shook out his wrinkled khakis. "Go change your shirt." He waited for Chris not to say anything, because he never did, and added, "it's got cum on it, you stupid fuck."
"Right," Chris said, and wrinkled his nose. "Hurry the hell up."
Justin grinned, standing up unsteadily. "No rug burn, eh," he said.
"No rug burn," Chris agreed, and sauntered upstairs.
Justin tugged on his pants; waited.
Chris was really good at a lot of things.