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They probably should've stuck around in the ring for longer, done some big reunion spectacle, or messed with Kip and Penelope and Miro a little more. At least flip them off or something. They could've poured that champagne over Miro. Getting doused with champagne sucks, Orange knows it. So sticky.
Orange stood there expectantly, waiting for Chuck to take the lead. All he did was grab the champagne, drink from it and then pour some into Orange’s mouth — that was nice. But then he was slipping out of the ring, walking away and nodding Orange along, so Orange followed. He couldn't blame him, he was excited too, to be with Chuck again. Alone.
He trails him eagerly into the parking lot now, pleased that Chuck doesn't bother stopping to shower and change before they leave, heading straight for the car in his cake-covered tux, rambling like he always does. Orange barely processes what he's saying, but it makes him smile anyway. It's been so quiet the past few weeks without him.
Orange tunes in a little bit once they're on the road, and it turns out Chuck's talking about going to some bar, weirdly — needing bar fries and well whiskey to wash the taste of the protein shakes Miro's been making him eat out of his mouth.
“Not the hotel?” he asks.
“Nah,” Chuck says, “bar, right? We should go out.”
Orange stares at him for a few seconds, trying to figure it out. Chuck's covered in cake. He's normally the one badgering Orange to shower and change his clothes(every day, even when they're not dirty). And now he wants to go out with frosting in his hair? Orange is pretty desperate to get him in bed, and he knows if he feels like this, then Chuck's feeling it magnified by ten. And he can see it in Chuck's nervous energy, the way he keeps fidgeting in his seat and won't shut up for more than three seconds. But he keeps saying they should go out, and Orange starts to get it.
A few weeks must have been enough to close Chuck off just that little bit, he guesses. Just enough that he has to pretend he's not dying to get them alone somewhere, together. Like he's embarrassed of... Orange doesn't even know what. Nothing. It's so ridiculous, he can't help but roll his eyes, hidden under his shades. But he smiles anyway, not having it in him to be annoyed right now, just sighing and letting Chuck go on for another minute.
“I mean, just back to the room? What would we even, like— that wouldn’t be fun, right—”
“Chuck,” Orange says simply, staring at him until he finally turns his head and looks at him. “Let's go to the hotel,” and Chuck's still quiet so he adds, “I want to.”
“Yeah, alright,” he finally says, turning back to the road. “If you wanna.”
--
Chuck snatches up the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand the second they get into the room, taking it with him into the shower, and Orange sits on the bed, waiting for him. It's so nice just to be in the same room as him again, feeling it in the air. They've got all night together, and then tomorrow, and then they'll go back home and be together there, too. He feels a little restless thinking about it, wondering if he should've caught a nap while Chuck showers, so he wouldn't have to wait like this. Maybe he should've gotten in the shower with him. But he didn't really get any cake on him, and Chuck will probably make him shower later anyway, after—
He hears a soft sputtering laugh and turns to see Chuck standing in the doorway, looking at him.
“You’re just… sitting there?” he says, his face cracking into a grin. “Is that all you’ve been doing?” Orange shrugs a shoulder, smiling back even though he doesn’t know what’s so funny. Chuck shakes his head, laughing again, walking over to the bed to sit down next to him. Orange folds a leg up onto the bed and turns to him, Chuck staring back at him for a second before moving his eyes away.
“Uh,” Chuck starts, looking past him, searching. “You wanna play COD or something?” he asks, nodding at the PlayStation set up under the TV.
Orange almost laughs. He wonders sometimes if Chuck knows what his face looks like when he says things like that. His eyebrows are all scrunched up, eyes darting over to Orange’s and then away again, flicking around the room. It’s like he wants Orange to know he doesn’t mean it. Maybe he does. Orange doesn’t know. He doesn’t get why Chuck has to act like this, why he has to fake it all the time. Or, well, he gets it. But it still doesn’t make sense.
He doesn’t really mind it, though. He’ll be the one to say it every time if he has to.
“No,” he tells Chuck and climbs onto his lap, winding a hand behind his neck.
“Whoa, someone’s wound up,” Chuck says instantly, twitchy, the start of another rambling fit. “Geez, a few weeks away and you’re already—”
“Shut up,” Orange says, finally pressing their lips together, and Chuck does.
Chuck’s tense for a second before melting into it, relaxed and eager in that honest way he has to be when his mouth’s too occupied for him to say dumb things. His hands come up to cradle Orange’s waist, stiff but fanned out, clutching him and feeling huge.
A lot of times, when they kiss like this, Chuck will flinch away if Orange slips him some tongue, break off the kiss and complain about it being too wet, move his attention to getting them both naked. He doesn’t complain this time, though. He just groans, parting his lips more, his hands sliding under Orange’s shirt and up his back, heavy and slow.
It’s kind of crazy how easy he is. That whole show of pretending he doesn’t want it, and all it takes is a kiss for him to start pawing at Orange frantically, panting against his mouth. Chuck slings an arm around his waist to lift him up and tip him over onto the bed, pressing his face into his neck and mouthing against his skin sloppily.
“God,” he breathes, “I’m gonna fuck you for like, three hours, dude.”
“Three?” Orange asks, laughing softly.
“Three minimum.” Orange laughs again and Chuck lifts his head to smile down at him. “What, you think I can’t? Now it’s four.”
“Oh nooo,” Orange says dryly, “hate that.”
He relaxes and lets Chuck work their clothes off, watching him fumble over it, all giggly and stupidly eager. It makes Orange feel the same, like it’s been a year and not just three weeks. But he can’t remember the last time they were away from each other for more than a few days, so any span of time longer than that might as well be an eternity, really.
And jerking off is really hard, he’s learned. He’s missed having someone to take care of him. Having Chuck to take care of him.
And Chuck does that, just like always, pulling off his shirt and shoes and both of their pants, working him open and staring down at him the whole time, intent, like he’s waiting for some sign that he’s doing it wrong.
By the time he’s ready, Chuck's huffing from the effort, slow as he maneuvers them around. So visibly worn out, but not complaining about it — calling Orange a baby or a princess or whatever, half-heartedly threatening to never touch him again if he doesn’t do something. None of that; he's quiet instead, just looking down sweetly through his heavy lids, and it makes Orange feel…
It makes him feel. He wants to smooth his thumbs over the dark circles under Chuck's eyes and wipe them right off. He wants Chuck to never be tired again.
Without thinking, he's pushing at Chuck's shoulders, hard enough and probably unexpected enough that Chuck actually moves with it, eyes wide and confused while Orange tips him over onto his back and climbs onto his lap.
“What’s up?” Chuck asks, faint concern in his voice, leaning up on his elbows until Orange pushes him to lay down flat again.
“I wanna…” Orange starts, a little lost now that he's here. But it can't be that hard. He knows where all the parts are supposed to go.
He waits for Chuck to make fun of him, for being so slow and awkward while he looks down their bodies searchingly, trying to figure this out. Chuck’s quiet, though, just watching with his teeth digging into his lip and his hands resting lightly on Orange’s hips.
He gets it, eventually, lifting up and sinking down onto Chuck’s length carefully, and everything seems much simpler then, with their bodies slotting together like usual. He still feels clumsy about it, but Chuck’s tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut like it’s something special. He rolls his hips experimentally and Chuck gasps instantly, so it's easy to keep the movement up, wanting more of that.
“Jesus Christ,” Chuck groans, once he gets a good rhythm going. His hands tighten on Orange’s hips and he keeps prying his eyes open only to slam them shut again a second later.
“Good?” Orange asks, self-conscious in a way he's never really been before. He just wants to know he's doing it right.
“Fuck— yeah, God, you… fuck,” Chuck babbles, nothing like his usual dirty talk. Orange misses it a little, the way he’ll ramble like an idiot, narrating the whole thing or talking like they’re in a porno. But this is good too. It's really good, actually. The helpless look on Chuck's face, like when he's busy playing a video game or watching a movie and Orange slides a hand over his chest or along his thigh. It always makes him feel a little smug, how Chuck will squint at whatever he's doing for a minute or two before sighing, giving up. It's the same thrill he gets now, knowing every movement he makes is rolling through Chuck’s body, taking him apart.
So it’s not too bad. His thighs kinda hurt after a while, but it's worth it for the look on Chuck's face, all breathless and amazed. It makes Orange feel a little crazy, and when Chuck reaches for his dick, he bats him away without really thinking about it, taking himself in hand instead. His head's rushing with this conviction that Chuck shouldn't have to do anything tonight, and suddenly, jerking off doesn’t seem so hard. Suddenly, with Chuck under him and inside him, it seems easy.
He knows he's going slow, though, slower than Chuck ever goes when he's on top. So he figures that's why Chuck flips them over after some time, probably tired of it, wanting something harder and faster. But he doesn't speed up once Orange is on his back. He doesn't move at all for a second, just dipping down for a long, slow kiss. And then he's picking up the same lazy pace Orange had set. It doesn't make sense, but it's nice, now that he can close his eyes and go boneless, letting Chuck take care of him.
“Orange,” Chuck murmurs against his mouth. Orange hums in response, tightening his grip on his shoulders. “Orange,” he says again, like a prompt, so Orange opens his eyes. Chuck’s expression is everything — sweet, serious, lost. It’s almost too much to look at. His lips part, and Orange waits, but nothing ever comes. He winds his hand into Chuck's hair and Chuck just makes a helpless noise, burying his face in Orange’s neck.
They’re so close that Orange can’t even wind a hand between them to stroke himself, doesn’t even need to, rubbing up against Chuck's stomach. Chuck’s breath hot against his ear, his teeth against that spot behind Orange’s jaw. That’s all it takes to send him over, shaking and clinging through it, and then Chuck’s with him, groaning and cursing, pressing in deep and holding him tight.
He feels a little braindead after, nerves all fuzzy and lit up, and Chuck's slumped against him, probably feeling the same. It's nice. Orange gets a good few minutes of peace before Chuck’s pulling out, and then another few before Chuck's poking at him to shower, you weirdo and then sighing and giving up, like always, dragging Orange into the bathroom himself, like always.
Chuck holding him up in the shower, shampooing his hair, rinsing him off — it's all things they've done a hundred times before. It feels special now, though. But normal, too, in the sense that he kind of can't believe it was ever different, before he knew Chuck, and after he was away for three weeks. Hard to think he ever did this on his own. It seems impossible.
Chuck leads him back to the bed, lays them both down and tucks him in against him. Orange curls up to him like usual, an arm and a leg slung over him, his head on Chuck's chest and Chuck's hand in his hair.
“Hey,” Chuck says after a few minutes. “Sorry about this whole thing, y'know.” Orange just hums. He knows it's hard for Chuck to talk like this, serious, and even harder for him to hear something serious back. But, “just thought it wouldn’t matter if I fucked up,” he goes on, so maybe it's a different kind of night. Maybe he needs more than Orange shrugging him off. “I fuck up all the time— shut up, I do,” he says quickly, when Orange starts to lift his head. “But it fucked stuff up for you, too, so...” he trails off. “That’s not what I wanted. Sorry, man.”
“It’s fine,” Orange says, meaning it. “M’glad you’re back.”
“Yeah,” Chuck sighs, sounding doubtful. A minute passes, Chuck’s fingers sliding through his hair, and Orange waits for it. “You're gonna get tired of it one day,” he finally mutters. “Me doing dumb shit.”
“I don't care,” Orange huffs. “I'm dumb too.”
“Yeah?” Chuck laughs. “Then you'll get tired of... this,” he says vaguely, “my fuckin' pity parties. Having to tell me you don't hate me all the time.”
“Yeah, probably,” Orange says easily, knowing it’ll make him freak out a little. He lets it hang there for a few seconds, Chuck’s hand stilling in his hair. “I’ll find something else to tell you.”
“Like what,” Chuck asks, voice carefully even.
“Love you,” Orange sighs, like it’s just a breath he’s letting out. He closes his eyes finally, letting all his muscles go lax, melting against Chuck as he stiffens underneath him.
“Hey, what— hold on, don’t—”
“Shhh,” he says, patting Chuck’s chest. “Sleeping.”
“Asshole,” Chuck says under his breath. Orange lies there for a while, a little smile stuck on his face. Long enough that Chuck’s probably figuring he’s asleep when he murmurs, “me too.”
“You too what?” Orange asks, loud enough to make Chuck jolt.
“Fuck off,” he grumbles, flicking Orange on the ear. “Go to sleep.”