The mirror in the dressing room is big enough in order for one to capture in its frame both Blake, right next to it, in the final stages of getting himself ready of the performance that evening, and Chris, sitting on the sofa in the back of the room, strumming his guitar and singing to no one in particular about being all alone.

After a few quiet verses, he puts the instrument aside and wordlessly walks up to the mirror. He places his hand near the top of Blake's back, on the place where he can see the fire and water tattoo through the white shirt Blake has put on, and his fingers begin to play around it.

If one follows the motion of Chris' fingers, as Blake does, the melody of his song continues to play out. It's why Blake is staring at the reflection of Chris in front of him, the image whose eyes are downcast and drawn to the tattoo Blake can't see.

Perhaps it's why he doesn't protest when Chris draws closer, nudges the fabric of Blake's shirt with the tip of his nose, then presses his lips against the spot where only the shirt separates him from the marked skin, while warm hands find their way under the hem and upwards, removing the cloth obstacle out of his way.

"It's beautiful," Chris whispers when Blake's upper body is exposed.

Blake has a "thank you" for occasions when he's complimented and doesn't know quite how to take it. It's a neat little arrangement he has with himself, where he means the two words he says and doesn't mean them. Right then, however, he stares on and says nothing. Chris never lifts his eyes.

The next item of clothing to go is Blake's pants and whether it was intentional on Chris' part or not, the naked figure in front of the mirror was already bent over the table, palms planted on it as firmly as possible. Chris isn't always the most gentle or patient of lovers.

His one hand is still feeling up Blake's back tattoo, but when he moves on to the arm tattoo of roots and sweetly blossoming cherries, whose scent can almost be felt when he leans in again against Blake's frame, one hand's admiring touch doesn't stop another's drop to Chris' trousers, undoing the buttons.

Blake's breath catches even before Chris makes another move, because he knows what's next and the anticipation is almost as thrilling as the deep bite to his nape, when it comes. No preparations today, they're all replaced by this declarative act. Without conscious thought, he's already spreading his legs, ready as he'll ever be.

Chris' first plunge is so determined, Blake can feel the soles of his feet losing full contact with the floor. It's a gasp or a plea that comes out of his mouth before he rotates his hips just a little, to accommodate the intrusion. Chris' hand is still on his arm tattoo, framing them together in the mirror. Blake closes his eyes and with another movement of his hips, he takes Chris in just a little bit further, gives him permission to lose control, to fuck him without mercy. Till there will be scars, till Blake's muffled cries are no longer louder than the banging noises, till Chris is no longer holding him, but holding on for balance and sanity, till his palm comes over Blake's mouth to feel the shameless moaning against it, till Chris bites down again, this time on a shoulder, and with a few quick, shaky strokes of Blake's cock, they're both coming violently.

"I really suck at this, you know," Chris tells him once he's caught his breath and while Blake is still working on catching his. "At being alone, I mean".

The radio alarm clock wakes Chris up. He curses some unspecified person's mother and then turns to his side, then reaches over and turns the volume button up. His eyes open wide and he practically jumps out of bed. This isn't his local radio.

He looks around for a second, barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of underwear, before walking over to where Blake left his lap top still running. There's a note stuck to the screen.

"Whole thing's wired and set to go, my man.
Just press play and enjoy.
Titties!"

He smiles.

The last digit of four in the lower corner of the screen changes and it draws his eyes to the battery symbol as well. Fully charged and connected to a source of power. He looks around, follows the cable from the wall back to the lap top and prays nothing catches on fire as he pulls the cord out. He waits a second and when nothing ominous happens, he lifts the lap top without closing it and walks back to Blake's bed.

Having put it down, Chris lies down on his side with the computer open in front of him, waiting for the interview to begin. Even though he knows he couldn't possibly, he thinks he catches a bit of the smell of their sex, their mixed come, from the last time they screwed like horny dogs on Blake's bed. He looks at the clock, his finger hovering over the mouse, ready to press 'play' and his left one tapping nervously against the side of the screen. A digit changes again and he hits the button. The sound pours through the speakers, so near to him that Chris can feel the vibrations running through his chest. Blake's voice. Maybe they'll ask him to beatbox on this show too. A smile crosses Chris' lips. That wouldn't be half bad. He pulls Blake's pillow beneath his head, pulls Blake's sheets up a little and even though there's no one in the house at that moment and there are few people he knows in this part of the country, he's not alone at all.