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The Perfect Shirt
By spikeNdruGenre: RPS
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters of Chris and Dave are characters, as much as the characters of Angel and Lindsey are characters. No infringement on Mr. Boreanaz's or Mr. Kane's actual lives is intended, and no actual relationship between the actors is implied.
Cracktrailer schmoop as a direct result from itsabigrock’s manip of the boys in The Shirts.
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Chris was playin’ over to the 8-Ball Bar and Grill on Friday night. His mama was so excited, she called up everyone she knew and a lotta people she didn’t.She’d finally exhausted her list of acquaintances and frowned, trying to remember the name of the new kid that had bagged her groceries at the market on Tuesday, when Chris touched her shoulder. They faced each other in the tiny kitchenette, identical grins on their faces. She reached out a rough, worn hand to brush the silky hair back from his eyes.
“I’m proud of you, son. I know this is what you always wanted—to be doin’ your music.”
Chris shrugged, uncomfortable with how much this meant to him.
“It’s only the 8-Ball. Not like it’s the Opry or nothin’.”
“It’s a start.”
And then his mama had reached for the rusty coffee can, shoved behind the jars of tomatoes she’d put up herself, and counted out a handful of change and crumpled dollar bills and told him to buy a new shirt for Friday. Her breath caught at the beauty of his smile as his whole face lit up. He kissed her cheek, jammed the money in the pocket of his worn jeans and was out the door like a shot.
Chris’ feet did a little dance on the gravel outside the trailer before heading out of the ’park. He cut through two fields to the culvert that lay beneath the highway.
He paused in the cool darkness and thought about Friday night. Oh, he knew he’d be doin’ mostly covers—that’s what was expected, and what people came to hear; but he thought maybe he could slip in one or two of his own songs, just to see.
He wondered if Dave’d come to hear him play. His heart sped up at the thought of bein’ on the tiny, triangular plywood stage in the corner, spotlight shinin’ on him while he sang and played; lookin’ up to see Dave watchin’ him play—a smile of approval on his lips and a look in his soft, brown eyes promisin’ “later”.
And then, it’d be “later”, and Chris pictured himself puttin’ his guitar in its pasteboard case and slippin’ out the emergency door to the alley for a smoke, and Dave’d be there, waitin’, and they’d go behind the rusty green dumpster with the sharp edges that could tear your clothes or probably give you lockjaw, if you weren’t careful.
As the cool night air dried the sweat on his body, makin’ him shiver, Dave’d unzip his own fly, puttin’ his large hand on Chris’ sweat-soaked hair to push him to his knees. He could feel the rough gravel makin’ its presence known to his knees as his mouth closed around Dave’s cock. . . or, maybe, Dave’d press him up against the cinderblock wall of the 8-Ball, around the corner from the parking lot on the blind side of the building where no one went, and he’d feel the vibrations of the jukebox through the wall as Dave fucked him hard. . .
Chris shook off his fantasies as he wiped the cum from his hand on a crumpled McDonald’s bag someone had thrown away in the culvert, and zipped up his jeans. It was gettin’ late, and he wanted to spend time pickin’ out just the right shirt for Friday.
Chris hurried through the culvert and came out in the wooded area behind the strip mall. He walked rapidly past A Cut Above Beauty Parlor, the State Farm insurance storefront office, the Chinese Buffet restaurant, Rinse and Suds Laundromat and the Packaged Goods store until he came to Gilley’s Men’s Apparel—Seconds and Slightly Irregular at Bargain Prices!
He’d check Gilley’s first. He wanted something special and unusual for Friday. If he didn’t find anything here, he’d have to get somebody to jump start Mama’s Corvair and go to Wal-Mart.
It took Chris less than ten minutes to find The Shirt. As soon as he saw it, he knew it was The One. It was a red and white plaid, but the white was a soft creamy shade that toned down the red some. It’d look good under the spotlight—not harsh and glaring, but not too muted, either. It had creamy white piping and plastic snap buttons that looked like real pearl ones. Chris looked it over carefully. If there was somethin’ irregular about it, it didn’t show. His mouth curved in a grin that stayed with him all the way home.
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“A little bit of Bourbon
And a broken neon sign
Once again I'm riding shotgun
To everything that's on my mind
Just a bartender
To tell my troubles to
Well, I just haven't found a way
To say, I'm so in love with you
If you could hear it in my voice
And see it on my face…”
Chris was playing his last set, when he looked up and missed a chord. Dave was here! He had come—and they were wearin’ the exact, same shirt! They looked at each other and Dave raised his eyebrows and his lips curved in a knowing smile. The smile said “We’re alike, you and me. We want the same things. And I know what else you want, and I want it, too.” Then Dave winked.Chris wasn’t sure how he got through the last few songs, and he couldn’t’ve told later what he played.
Mama came up and hugged him and told him how wonderful he’d been, and then she insisted on takin’ a picture of him and Dave together, before she had to leave ’cause Betty Jean was drivin’ and wanted to get home so she didn’t have to pay the babysitter extra. Chris told her it was fine—he’d catch a ride home with Dave or one of the guys.
Mama kept tellin’ him and Dave to get closer, and they both grinned as she snapped the picture. Before he could stop himself, he heard his mouth sayin’, “Take another one, Mama, to be sure it comes out,” and Dave put his arm around Chris’ shoulders and pulled him close as the flash went off.
Yep. It was definitely the perfect shirt.
The End
Lyrics from The Chase, by Kane.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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