All that you're making of me (Evanstan fanfic)

Chapter 1: Now

now: Sebastian

They arrive at the Winter Soldier premiere separately. Interviews beforehand. Different places.

They arrive at the premiere within five minutes of each other. They're both wearing grey. Chris looks up and smiles and Sebastian wants to run across the red carpet and kiss him, wants to throw arms around him and feel the scratch of that beard on his own skin and taste the sunlight of Chris's lips.

They arrive at the premiere under an exuberant late-afternoon sky, clouds playing tag with the wind and the setting sun, the flash of camera-bulbs and car-mirrors in the distance. Sebastian doesn't in fact run across the carpet. But he does walk fast.

Chris waits, and grins, and puts an arm around him the second he's within reach, drawing him close. "Missed you."

"We're sharing a hotel room," Sebastian says, "you saw me this morning," and curls into Chris's warmth more closely, breathing in crisp woodsy cologne, familiar skin, security. He wouldn't say he's been nervous, precisely, all day. Only tense. On edge: the world not quite right, without Chris at his side. But now it is right. And all the quivering nerves settle, soothed.

"Yeah," Chris rumbles, voice tangible, resonating through all the places they're standing so close. The camera-flashes pop. Taking note. "This morning. Too long. Interviews together from now on, 'kay?"

"Împreună." Sebastian leans into the voice. The warmth. The arm over his shoulder. "Together. Yes. I missed you, too."

"You look amazing." Chris's other hand wanders over to rest on his hip, casual and quietly protective and overjoyed. "I want to peel that suit off you later. How're you doing?"

"I'm fine, thank you...very much in favor of suit removal...and our bed, I quite like our bed...are you trying to put your hand down my pants in public?"

"No one's looking at us. Robert Redford just got here. We could skip the movie part and go find our bed." Despite the teasing—and the teasing hand—Chris's eyes are just a bit concerned. Thinking about a phone call, two years ago; thinking about fear and pain and a desperately bandaged night. Chris had held him then too. Tea and promises. Classic Bill Murray comedies in bed, and strong fingers wrapped around his.

"I didn't say I objected to your hand down my pants. You may continue." He walks fingers along Chris's arm: forearm, bicep, collarbone. Real. "We shouldn't skip the movie. Our premiere."

"Ours," Chris says. "Yes." The exploring hand, out of sight behind Sebastian's back, squeezes a hip, just hard enough to speak volumes: mine, yours, us, thank you, I want you, I love you.

They don't say the words aloud. Too many microphones. But it's all there nonetheless. And Sebastian smiles.

now: Chris

Sebastian's smiling at him. Chris wants to cry, a little: not from hurt, or if so only from the kind of hurt that comes along with too much joy. His heart aches with it, impossibly aglow.

Overhead, the wind chases clouds merrily across the sky. The sun sends lowering rays to sparkle off glittering dresses and camera lenses. The red carpet, in New York City. Glitz and glamour. Nothing approaching the beauty of the man at his side.

His grip on Sebastian gets a little tighter. Can't help it. Holding on.

Sebastian doesn't appear to mind. Only leans in more, smile echoed in those eyes, soft and fond. "Feeling possessive, are you?"

"Maybe a little. I did miss you."

"Yes, you said." Sebastian's eyes dance. Happy, healthy, safe. Not scared. Not injured. Not afraid of being unwanted. Not now. Chris shoves down the swell of burgeoning emotion. Wants to kiss him everywhere. And then realizes that Sebastian's humming, very very quietly.

"—that's my song! I mean. The one you wrote. For me. It is, right?"

"Da. I thought you could use the reassurance. Better?"

"If by better you mean inappropriately timed erections," Chris says, which is also true, as true as the undeniable fact that Sebastian knows precisely what he needs, every moment the emotions threaten to get too overwhelming. Sebastian's perfect. Chris needs him like water. Like oxygen returning to long-deprived lungs.

Both eyebrows go up. Excitement in the pale blue oceans. "I believe we've got time to find a men's room. Can you be quiet, if we do?"

"Can you?" He sneaks his hand lower, under soft suit fabric. Rubs his thumb over inviting skin. He in fact loves hearing Sebastian come apart for him, screaming his name, begging for more, babbling in English and Romanian and a few other languages, words falling out as Sebastian forgets to be shy and sweet amid the onslaught of delirious pleasure, Chris's hand on his cock and Chris's cock buried in his body...

That's an extremely inappropriate erection, now. And the cameras're swinging back to them. Damn.

Sebastian looks at him with absolute wicked delight. "Very likely not. You may need to put a hand over my mouth."

"...oh good God."

"Twenty minutes."

"Closest men's room. Come on." He doesn't move right away, though, despite the words. Lingers there, his hand on Sebastian's waist, Sebastian's eyes shining at him. The moment sings like crystal, drawn out and timeless.

Very hushed, very private, not for the cameras, he breathes, "I love you, you know."

And Sebastian says at almost the same time, so the words mingle in the air, "Te iubesc, always, you remember that one, I think."

"You love me," Chris says.

"Yes. Always."

"Always," Chris agrees, and they escape the red carpet and the cameras and the curious clouds hand-in-hand.

They're only two minutes late, in the end. Chris can't bring himself to care. Not with the new pink marks visible at Sebastian's collar, the ragged well-used catch in that eloquent voice, the deep-seated satisfied thrumming through all of Chris's bones.

After they tumble into their seats—tripping briefly over Anthony Mackie, who grumbles, "Seriously, you two couldn't wait until the afterparty to get kinky? Now I'm gonna spend the whole movie wondering which restroom's safe to walk into, come on"—Sebastian reaches over, not quite looking, and takes his hand.

Chris wraps his own fingers around the offered ones, in the theater dimness, and holds on. That's a language, too. Not contained in words. But one they share.

Always.