Dryer
by Helen

Chris heard the door open dimly, as if it were happening very far away, and then he heard JC saying

"Oh, god,"

"Get out," Joey said roughly, without lifting his head.

"Sorry," JC said, and the door swung shut, and Chris thought that he should probably be worried about that, about JC seeing them now, Joey without a shirt, leaning over him, one hand braced on the top of the dryer next to his thigh, the other hand at the small of his back, sliding restlessly higher, his own shirt completely off except that the cuff was still trapped around his wrist, the rest of the shirt hanging off the side of the dryer from where he was clutching Joey's forearm, the sleeve dragging in the dryer lint on the floor, his other hand on Joey's waist, and kissing, of course, they were kissing, had been kissing since Joey had met him in the vestibule of Justin's house and stared at him for a moment before saying, quietly,

"I missed you—"

They'd kissed in the hallway, and again on the stairs, Chris stumbling backwards and almost falling before Joey caught him, and Chris wasn't quite sure how they had ended up in the laundry room, but the dryer was still rumbling with a load, and it was warm, and Joey had half-lifted, half-pushed him onto the dryer, running quick affectionate hands over his thighs before starting to unbutton his shirt, stopping halfway through to yank his own off and drop it on the floor, and it must have been JC's laundry in the dryer, Chris thought, and then Joey cradled his jaw in his hands and tipped it back and kissed his throat and his shoulder, whispered against him

"Forget him, shh," and he didn't care, didn't care anymore.