Here come those Santa Ana winds again...

Title: Santa Ana Wind
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mike tries to reconnect with Crispin after "Back to the Future."


Crispin isn't at the premiere. Not that Mike was looking for him specifically (except that he was, of course, scanning the crowd for Crispin's face past the champagne bubbles and the blondes in sequins), but he'd been looking forward to it, swimming through the crowds with Cris on his arm, watching him get tipsy on the champagne, rescuing him from the blondes and dragging him to make out behind a potted palm tree.

He'd been looking forward to watching him and Cris on the big screen, hands linked where nobody could see in the dark. Instead, he's stuck between Chris Lloyd (who's sniffling every few seconds, and Mike starts to worry that he's contagious), and Lea Thompson, who's almost as cute as Crispin, but whose creamy thigh he is definitely not ever going to grope outside of a set, each flash of skin accounted for and included in her paycheck.

He spends the first half of the movie glancing towards the exit, half-expecting the door to open and admit Cris's unmistakeable gangling silhouette, tuxedo-clad and flushed. But he never comes, and Mike comes out of the theater with a sinking feeling and a craving for more champagne.

In fact, he hasn't seen Cris since the wrap party months ago, and the sudden realization of his absence (or maybe it's the champagne) hits him like a kick to the chest. They'd gone to Cris's apartment that night, and Mike had pushed him against the front door as soon as they'd gotten in and given sober Cris a blowjob (alcohol, he recalls, will do that to him).

He'd woken up with a pile of cloth-backed books for a pillow, neck creaking and head throbbing, a brown afghan thrown haphazardly over his legs, jeans folded neatly next to him. Cris had driven him home in silence.

After that, everything had gone back to normal, "Family Ties" shooting and random auditions and more movies, and he'd called Cris once or twice and never gotten an answer.

*

He's been telling himself that no, he's not gonna go to Cris's house, not gonna, and it's a Saturday night and he's driving around aimlessly and figures what the hell.

Cris opens the door dressed in black jeans and a white T-shirt, the most casual clothes Mike's ever seen him in, and listens slumped against the doorframe while Mike talks. Didn't see you at the premiere, you don't answer your phone, and Crispin's nodding blankly, fingers tapping like he's not really listening to what Mike's saying, and cuts Mike off as he starts to falter: "Are you gonna come in or not?"

The place is a mess, crumpled wrappers and overflowing ashtrays set on every flat surface, layered chaos that doesn't seem like the end result of anything the Cris he knows would do, and combined with Cris's hostile indifference, it makes him uneasy. "I was thinking we could, you know, go out," surprised that he really means it. They'd stayed in Cris's trailer or Mike's hotel room during shooting, furtive and purely sexual, and it suddenly occurs to Mike to feel guilty.

Cris gives him another one of those glassy stares, like Mike's a stranger. "Okay," he says finally, and disappears into the squalor of the apartment before emerging with a leather jacket. Not that he'll need it tonight--the sun's barely setting, and there's a Santa Ana wind blowing. Mike knows it's supposed to make people crazy, and maybe that's it. Cris has lived here longer; perhaps he's in tune with the rhythm of this place. He leads Cris down the stairs, resisting the temptation to look over his shoulder to make sure the younger boy hasn't changed his mind and gone back into the apartment.

Crispin slumps down in the passenger seat, looking out the window and tapping his fingers on the glass as Mike drives. He doesn't know where he's going, doesn't know this area, and the peeling paint and thicket of Spanish signs makes him vaguely nervous, and Cris isn't telling him where to go. He imagines driving out of the city into the desert, letting the car run out of gas, sitting with Cris by the side of the road and looking at the stars and then maybe, finally, Cris will talk to him.

"You don't--" He swallows the word "love," on the tip of his tongue out of some reflex of cliché.

Cris's head swivels towards him. "Don't what?"

His eyes are too bright and he's twitchy and Mike's never heard him sound as hostile. "Jesus, Cris, what are you on?"

Cris laughs, strained and unconvincing. "I'm not fucking on anything." His head snaps away, and he hits the window. "We can go here," pointing at a tiny corner restaurant that looks like a lean-to in the middle of a crumbling parking lot.

At Crispin's insistence, they stay there to eat, sitting on concrete blocks in the middle of the parking lot as the sun goes down, Mike sipping from a soda and watching Crispin wolf down tacos like he hasn't eaten in ages, cold worry swirling in the pit of his stomach. Cris is on drugs, he thinks. The pressure of Hollywood has gotten to him early. He's just snapped. He's given up.

"Seriously," he says. "Are you...what've you been doing?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, will you leave it alone?" Cris's voice is strained and high to the point of cracking. "I'm fine, I told you. I've been busy, I've been--" He shakes his head. "Why the fuck are you worrying about this? It's a--a perfect night and we're out on a date and I don't fucking need you to worry about me--"

Mike cuts him off with a kiss. For a moment, Cris is frozen, and he thinks he's going to get hit, but then he feels slim fingers sliding up his thigh, groping him through his jeans, and Cris's mouth is opening slowly and it tastes like spice and tomatoes.

He curls a hand around the back of Crispin's neck, and is stunned to realize that Cris is actually shaking.

He pulls away. "Cris--"

"Shut up," Cris says in a wavering, strangely girlish voice, and kisses him again, his tongue squirming into Mike's mouth, his fingers fumbling with the fly of Mike's jeans.

To anyone that would see them, they're just two kids making out in a parking lot, and the thought is strangely comforting. Mike wonders how far he can push it, weighing the benefits and drawbacks of seeing if he can get Cris to give him a blowjob out here.

He squeezes the inside of Cris's denim-clad thigh. "Fuck, yeah," Cris mumbles into his mouth, and Mike lets his hand wander up further, tracing the hard warmth of Cris's cock, sliding the heel of his hand up and down Cris's erection, eking out moans and babbled obscenities from between Cris's lips.

He draws back, his hand still on Cris's fly. Cris gives him a shaky openmouthed grin, and then the smile disappears as he bites his thumb nervously. "Do you want to...uh...I think there are people watching."

Mike follows the direction of Cris's darting eyes. Sure enough, there are two girls leaning against a busted light pole, clad in miniskirts and hoop earrings, not ten yards away. One giggles and waves. "Hey, papi, you two want some company?"

"Get the fuck out of here!" Crispin screams, rising.

The giggling stops, and the girl takes a step forward. "Chingada maricones--"

Mike tugs on Cris's coat. "Uh, probably not a good idea--" Cris ignores him, and Mike has to drag him away to the car as their voices rise in a cacaphony of profanity.

Cris glowers at him as Mike peels out of the parking lot. "I coulda taken her," he mutters sullenly.

Mike lets a peal of nervous laughter escape his lips. "Sure. Yeah. Those...uh...you could have really beaten up a couple of Mexican whores. Jesus, Cris, what the fuck's gotten into you?"

Instead of answering, Cris's hand drifts over to Mike's crotch, rubbing slowly, almost distractedly, as he looks out the window. Mike floors it, and they're back at Cris's within minutes.

They barely make it up the stairs, and Cris fumbles with the lock, swearing under his breath and sweating. Finally, the door swings open, and Cris yanks Mike in by his waistband.

He shoves Mike up againt the door and presses his body against him, and Mike can feel him shaking still, feel his heart beating through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, the inward rasp of his breath. "Cris, breathe--" and Cris braces himself against the door and kisses Mike, mouth stretched to capture his lips, tongue tickling the back of his throat, and now Mike can feel Cris's erection pressed tight into his stomach.

Then Cris drops abruptly to his knees, and presses his mouth against Mike's crotch, not even bothering to unzip his fly, working his mouth over the denim stretched moist against his own erection. Breathing in slow and deep like he's smelling him, hands gripping his waistband, eyes half-closed. Mike lets his hand rest on the top of Crispin's head.

The feeling of his lips through the fabric is maddening, and Mike mutters a quiet "'bout damn time" when Cris's shaking hands finally unzip his fly, thanking God that he decided not to wear underwear today. He tightens his grip on Crispin's hair as Cris takes a deep breath and stares at his erect cock, mouth open but not touching, warm breath washing over him.

Crispin usually likes to tease him, licking him delicately like an ice cream cone, running his fingers over Mike's length, doing delicate flutters with his tongue until Mike is in an agony of pleasure, taking his time and savoring every moan. It's one of his weird little games that Mike doesn't mind losing, because he has so few and it feels so good. But Crispin clearly is not in the mood to play games today.

He takes Mike's length into his mouth as Mike yelps at the sudden wet and warmth, moving his head back and forth, moaning around Mike's cock, sucking so hard his cheeks draw in. Mike's hands curl into fists in Crispin's hair, and usually Crispin stops when Mike does that but now he just moans louder, pressing his face into Mike's crotch, his whole body swaying as his hips jut forward in rhythm with his head.

Mike comes in a matter of minutes, crying out as he thrusts forward into Crispin's mouth. When his vision clears, he's slumped against the door, legs spread out, panting, and Crispin is settled on his knees, wiping his mouth.

Cris is on his knees, and he wipes his lips and delicately licks off the back of his hand. Mike shudders, little aftershocks racing through him at Cris's half-closed eyes, his pointed tongue.

He could learn to like this new Crispin who gives him blowjobs, he thinks. Clean up the place a little, get him to stop swearing as much (and really, where had that come from?), and they could be making out in parking lots every night.

"Hey," Crispin says, "hey," and he's crawled over to Mike, "what about me?"

Mike gives him a disbelieving look. "Jeez, could you hold on a second? I'm..." He makes a weak gesture, indicating his slumped posture, his open jeans. He doesn't really even want to breathe right now. Too much effort. Maybe this new Cris is going to be more trouble than he's worth.

"Fuck you," Cris mumbles, and Mike doesn't bother to lift his head as he walks away and slumps onto the couch.

"Hey, gimme a second, okay?" Mike says, and finds the energy to zip himself up. "Jesus, I took you out to dinner and everything..."

Cris's head snaps up. "Yeah, well, who said I wanted to go with you?" He roots around on the coffee table for something. "Didn't even fucking call, just barge in here, you think I didn't have anything else to do tonight?"

"Then why'd--" Mike shakes his head. "You know what, just forget it." He manages to stand up, knees still weak, and asks what he'd really wanted to ask in the car. "You don't like me any more, do you?"

Cris bites his lip and doesn't look at Mike, and when he finally speaks, it's in the same soft, measured tone that Mike remembers, not the strained, cracking tone he's used all night. "That's stupid," he says. "Everybody likes you."

"Yeah, well, not you, apparently," Mike says, and he's cut off by Crispin again.

"They can't really help it," he says. "You make them like you."

"Oh," Mike says, and his agent's been telling him to stop running his hand through his hair when he's confused if he ever wants to be a serious actor, and that's a stupid piece of advice and he does it now. Cris doesn't move, his hand frozen on what looks like a packet of cigarettes, and Mike resists the urge to tell him he really shouldn't smoke, unsure if it'll set off another tirade, or whether they're past that now.

He goes to sit next to Cris, letting his hand rest on the other boy's thin arm, stroking lightly, letting his fingers brush against Cris's wrist, linking fingers the way he'd wanted to do at the premiere.

Cris moves his hand away, and Mike's heart falls, but then he rests his head on Mike's shoulder with a sigh. It would normally be an awkward position for him, so much taller than Mike, but he's slumped so much that it doesn't seem to matter. His nose is bumping Mike's neck, and Mike slips his hand around Crispin's back, pulling him in a little closer. "I did miss you," Cris admits, the words muffled, and Mike shivers a little as his lips move against the delicate skin of his throat.

Mike kisses the top of Crispin's head, a sudden rush of--not love, certainly, but something warm and aching--surging through his chest. He's let the hand that Cris pushed away linger on Cris's knee, and as he moves it up Cris's thigh, stroking as gently as possible, Cris starts shaking again. Mike half-expects to see tears in Cris's eyes, but then Cris lets out a moan and buries his face in Mike's neck, his tongue flickering out to delicately lick every so often.

Mike moves his hand upwards, confident enough now to tease a little, playing with the dangling metal of Cris's zipper, squeezing Cris's erection lightly. Cris's mouth opens and he feels a sharp, unexpected pain--Cris is actually biting him, hard enough to hurt. He yelps and jerks his head away. "Jesus! What was that for?"

Cris laughs a little guiltily, and licks his lips. "I just wanted a taste." He leans in to inspect the damage. "And now everytime you touch this or see it in a mirror, you'll think of me."

"Okay, but next time could you please just give me a hickey." Mike rubs his neck and makes a face when his hand comes back with a little smear of blood on it. "There's no reason to be a goddamn vampire."

Cris doesn't answer, just pulls him close again and starts nursing the tiny wound, lapping at it, soothing it. Mike can't hold back an appreciative murmur; after the initial pain, the feeling of Cris's tongue is actually quite nice. Dull ache combines with tender touching to produce a feeling that has its closest equivalent in the times his parents would put band-aids on scrapes, wipe away the tears, and administer a follow-up of hugs and cookies. But Crispin wasn't his daddy.

Well, Mike thinks, at least not anymore.

As Cris continues to kiss his neck and embrace him, Mike returns to his own explorations. He squeezes Cris's skinny thigh as he leans his cheek against the top of Crispin's head. His hair is straight and smooth and still smells nice from whatever shampoo he'd used that morning. The fractured urgency that was present during their earlier make-out session is gone, and Mike is free to take in every detail about how Cris feels and sounds and smells and moves beside him.

So when Cris leans back, bracing his shoulderblades on the arm of the couch, Mike doesn't follow immediately. He looks at him and he thinks, and he commits him to memory before stretching out on top of him. Cris looks back, his cheeks flushed with patchy spots of red, his hands moving idly from touching Mike to touching himself and back again.

Mike leans down, uses one finger to hook the collar of his t-shirt aside, and kisses Cris on the soft skin between his collarbones. Cris's breath hitches just slightly. "You want me to use my mouth?" Mike gives him a crooked smile. "I owe you, after all."

Crispin nods and lifts his hips. "Please." He whimpers as Mike travels down, kissing his chest and stomach through the thin material of his t-shirt. "Oh... please."

Mike pushes up the hem of his shirt and lingers at Cris's navel a moment, circling it with one finger, then following the light trail of hair down to the waistband of his jeans. White elastic peeks up over the top of the denim: Cris is wearing a pair of briefs. Mike undoes the button and the zipper and Cris lifts his hips so Mike can wriggle them down to about mid-thigh.

He moves his fingertips over the outline of Cris's erection, teasing him through the cotton. Cris's eyes are lidded, his lips red and wet and parted. He watches Mike, his breathing becoming noticably faster everytime Mike's mouth hovers over the tip of his cock or his hands start to slip inside his underwear.

Mike flicks the tip of his tongue out to touch the tip of Cris's cock through the fabric, then lifts his head and shoots Crispin a fleeting grin. Cris lets out a quiet whine and thrusts his hips slightly forward, a subtle demand. Mike bares his teeth and leans forward again, noting with pleasure how Cris's eyes suddenly widen.

Cris's hand moves to the back of his head, and he feels the slim fingers tighten in his hair. "Ow, fuck."

Cris relaxes his grip. "Sorry," he says, "it's just--ah--teeth there, you know..."

Mike can't help but giggle, and leans forward to lick Cris's stomach, catching a tag of skin just below Cris's navel between his teeth. Cris splays his hands in Mike's hair, kneading his scalp as Mike slowly drags his mouth down the trail of hair. He wonders whether it's entirely possible to take Cris's underwear off with his teeth.

Now is not really the time to experiment, not when Crispin is panting and wriggling under his mouth. He peels down Cris's underwear slowly, exposing each inch of creamy pale skin, licking his way to the tip of Cris's cock.

Mike takes the tip into his mouth, running his tongue around the rim, trying not to wince at the salty flavor of Cris's precum. Cris's hands move down his neck, dipping into the collar of his shirt, opening and closing and scratching his back in a desperate rhythm.

He takes his time, kneading his hands on Crispin's thighs, listening to Cris let out choking gasps as his tongue runs up and down Cris's length, tracing patterns over the head of his cock, licking him like an ice cream cone, the way he remembers Cris doing, little games that feel wonderful.

"Ah, ah, I'm gonna--" and Cris's fingernails dig into his back as he comes, then relax and slip away as he slumps bonelessly on the couch, eyelids fluttering, legs splayed.

Mike stands up and looks at him, spots of red on his pale cheeks, mouth opening and shutting like a fish, T-shirt half torn off. He licks his lips. "Do you have, uh, soda or anything--" Cris lifts a limp hand and gestures towards the fridge.

The fridge is almost empty; there's a bottle of ketchup, something brown which Mike doesn't want to identify, and a six-pack of beer with two missing. He takes two more out, wondering how Cris can stand the taste of come in his mouth, comes back and hands one to Cris, who desultorily flicks at the tab. "I forgot I had those in there."

Mike sits down next to him, props his feet up on the table over a pile of newspapers, and takes a swallow of his own, washing away the seawater taste. "Seriously?"

Cris nods. "Nic brought them over," he explains. "To help me get into character."

"What? Who's Nic? What character?" Crispin perks up, and as he babbles about some script and dead girls and popping pills, the explanation for his weird earlier behavior dawns on Mike. "Wait--you were in character this whole time?"

"Yes," Cris says shortly, and leans forward to open the beer. "Layne. He's very challenging." He takes a sip of the beer and winces, then delicately places it back on the table. "It's sort of freeing, actually. He isn't anything like me."

"I'll say. Jesus, I thought you'd gone crazy or something." Mike leans back against the couch, closing his eyes in relief. "Could you maybe, you know, have let me know ahead of time?"

Cris gives him an odd look. "And break character?!" Mike can't tell if his indignant tone is serious, and he doesn't really care.

Crazy bastard. He lets it go, and rearranges himself to face Cris. "Okay. So, uh...Nic. Who's he?"

"He lives next door." Cris looks away. "We, uh...we went to high school together, and it was sort of a surprise to see him, but it's very convenient. He comes over to read lines with me. He's quite good."

Just to read lines, totally innocent, all very professional, Mike tells himself, trying to quell the sudden stab of jealousy in his stomach, but the way Cris is looking away and blushing--again--makes it clear that the kind of acting exercises they are doing are very similar to the kind he and Crispin did in odd moments on the set, during lunch and during breaks and after the day's shooting had wrappped and they were alone.

"Yeah, he sounds great." Mike takes another pull of his beer. "So, do I get to meet this guy?" He meant it to come out light, joking, curious, but one look at Cris's face tells him that it sounded bitter.

Cris's reply is terse, clipped. "He's probably asleep right now. He's on a very tight schedule." He zips himself up and stands up. "So am I, actually," and before Mike knows it, Cris is pushing him towards the door.

"Thank you for dinner," Cris says in that same terse tone, and Mike sticks his foot in the door as Cris is closing it.

"Sure," he says, "any time," and he leans in to kiss Cris on the side of the mouth, soft and far more chaste than the open-mouthed kisses of before, but still affectionate.

Cris pulls away and closes the door. It opens again almost immediately. "I'll call you," Cris says before the closes the door again, and he sounds like he means it.