Chris thinks they're pretty good at this. They arrive at hotels and restaurants separately, they never take the same taxi, they never interview together, and hell, they never, ever get photographed meeting outside of work. It's probably a lot more precautionary than is strictly necessary, because dude, Karl is married and has kids, and Chris can't even step out for coffee with a friend-who-happens-to-be-female without half the world population knowing about it ten seconds later.
But yeah, Karl is married and has kids, and the paps love Chris despite his best efforts in not bathing, shaving, or changing clothes for a week, so discretion is the word of the day.
And then one little mistake. Well, okay. A big one. A big white one.
It's kind of sort of not really his fault. Zach just has the keen eyes of a fashionista and the big blabber mouth to rival Joan Rivers.
Chris is sitting down in the studio, with personal assistants rushing around him and he's being attacked on one side with a giant powder puff and on the other with hands clipping a mic to his collar, and somewhere in the back of his ADD mind he's just a little freaked out by the fake background that looks like they're looking out over the New York skyline instead of something that looks like someone's garage. It's not something he ever gets used to.
Then Zach, who's sitting next to Chris being mauled in the same way except he takes it with more grace because he is used to it, just chilling in that too cool for school Zach way that Chris can never copy, looks over and does a double take. Then another. "What the hell are you wearing, princess?" he asks.
"Huh?"
Zach wrinkles his nose and reaches over to flick at Chris's collar. "Whose shirt are you wearing, Mister Pine? That isn't yours."
Now Chris realizes what the hell he's talking about and goes beet red. He'd completely forgotten about this interview and he'd overslept and just grabbed any white shirt off the floor because white shirts are just white shirts, except when it comes to Karl's shirts, apparently. It's open-collared and very Rico Suave, and Chris is a retard because he's only noticing it now.
Okay, he's an actor, lying is part of the job. He can play this out. "What're you talking about?" he says. "This is mine."
Except he can't, because this is Zach. "Unless you had an acid-inspired epiphany of Ten Commandment proportions and finally got a fashion clue, then no, it's not."
"Like you're one to talk, you confused urban nerd-hipster-whatever wannabe."
"Deflection, young padawan, is such a petty tool." Zach sits back and endures hairspray, then opens his eyes and leans forward again, a predatory gleam in his black eyes. Chris resists the urge to lean away. "Now that I think about it, that shirt looks familiar." He gave Chris a wolfish grin, and thoughtfully scratches his cheek with a finger. "Hmm, I wonder where I've seen it?"
"Oh, fuck me," Chris mutters, and is just barely saved by the sudden bustle of cameramen and producers and the interviewer stepping purposefully towards them, hands outstretched.
The interview goes off well enough, considering that Zach keeps bumping Chris's knee with his own every time the interviewer asks what it's like working with the rest of the cast, and Zach keeps putting just the slightest pause before saying Karl and doing that yo' bro' shoulder lean just a smidge more often than usual.
The host doesn't seem to notice anything amiss because she seems to have a boner going for Zach and Zach's always been one of those handsy, tactile people anyway, but Chris is going to fucking murder Zach. Chris watches CSI and NCIS all the time, he knows how to get rid of a body. In fact, plotting in loving detail how he's going to stuff Zach's body into a dumpster out behind the studio because the garbage truck picks up every Wednesday is what lets him take Zach's little unsubtle nudges and grins with a placid smile on his face, and even pat Zach on the head a couple of times.
Zach squawks as he smacks Chris's hand away, then fussily fixes his hair. At least now he's glaring at Chris suspiciously, instead of leering and doing those caterpillar eyebrow waggles.
After the interview, Chris escapes. Once he pushes out the side exit he pulls out his crackberry and starts texting furiously.
Chris: (12:11pm) OH GOD HE KNOWS
URBINATOR: (12:13pm) Who? What?
Chris: (12:13pm) ZACH. ABOUT US.
URBINATOR: (12:14pm) Oh. So?
Chris: (12:14pm) so??? resident gossip queen?
URBINATOR: (12:16pm) Not to the public. He can keep a secret.
Chris: (12:17pm) yeah, but!!!
URBINATOR: (12:17pm) Don't worry, we can buy him off. With donuts.
Chris: (12:18pm) he doesn't eat donuts.
URBINATOR: (12:19pm) Oh, he will.
Chris: (12:19pm) that sounds incredibly sinister.
URBINATOR: (12:20pm) I'll make him an offer he can't refuse.
Chris: (12:20pm) omg. you channeling the godfather, why is that so hot?
URBINATOR: (12:20pm) Because you think everything's hot. btw. I want my shirt back. It's my favorite shirt.
Chris: (12:21pm) why should I? free shirt. you can keep mine.
URBINATOR: (12:22pm) You got yours from Target. Mine's Armani.
Chris: (12:22pm) exactly.
URBINATOR: (12:23pm) Don't make me leave a horse head in your bed.
Chris: (12:24pm) fight you for it.
URBINATOR: (12:24pm) I'll be over at 4.
***
Zach doesn't let him off the hook that easily. He keeps buzzing Chris's apartment until Chris finally answers and yells, "I know where you live, asshole!" into the intercom. The next buzz comes thirty seconds later and Zach carols, "Pizza delivery man, you ballsack," accompanied with a text message that says open up you can't avoid me plus there're paps staring at me, rescue me plz.
Then another: you don't want them thinking we're fucking, so let me in already.
Then, when Chris doesn't answer the next buzz immediately: boo, you whore.
Chris has to cave. By the time Zach reaches his door, Chris has his best pissed-off face on but Zach just shoves a pizza-box into his stomach and steps into Chris's apartment like he owns it.
"Get out," Chris says. After a moment's thought, "Leave the pizza."
Zach pats him on the cheek. "You know, the more pissy you get, the more I'm convinced you and the sexy Mister Urban are fucking like randy baboons."
Chris sighs and leans against the door. "He's coming over in an hour."
"HA!"
"Zach—"
"I'm hurt, dude. We're BFF and all and you don't even tell me you're tappin' that? I didn't even know you wore the same size."
"It's supposed to be a secret," Chris says helplessly. "For obvious reasons."
"Hm," Zach says, like it's just occurred to him. Then he looks at Chris and he's got that intense Sylar look that means he's going to lecture Chris, and Chris just knows the next sentence out of his mouth is going to include the words married and what the fuck and are you crazy?
Instead Zach throws Chris for a loop, saying, "If you didn't want to tell me for the reasons I'm thinking, I'm not going to judge anybody here, Chris." He shrugs. "People live their lives, you know? And pfff—this is Hollywood. Thank god for that and Miracle Whip."
When Chris works his way through Zach's jumpy chipmunk logic and finds his voice again, he replies, "Miracle Whip is nasty," because it's easier than talking about the other stuff. Oprah he isn't—and Doctor Phil, Zach isn't, thank god.
Zach's plopped himself on Chris's Ikea couch, and now he nearly chokes on his slice of pizza. "Blasphemer!" he gasps, in between coughs. "I'm so going to unfriend you on Facebook."
"Oh, the tragedy." Chris rolls his eyes. "I'm going to sit in my tub and sob while listening to Depeche Mode."
Zach's saying, "Your taste in food sucks, but at least your music doesn't," when the doorknob rattles with a key. Zach has enough time to give Chris an oooh look in before the door opens.
Karl hikes an eyebrow. "Well, hello," he says, totally deadpan, staring at Zach sprawled on Chris's couch, one foot up on the cardboard box that's masquerading as a coffee table. Karl, as always, looks fucking awesome, even in worn Levis and unshaven. Chris is pretty sure that's a superpower. He swallows his pizza with a dry click and goes looking for water.
"Bitch is early," Zach drawls and gives Karl a companionable wave. "Shall I deduce that the quixotic Mister Urban has a key of his own?"
"Don't hurt yourself there, Sherlock," Karl says, his eyebrow now aimed at Chris. Chris shakes his head at him silently over his cup, and then gives him an expressive eye roll towards Zach that means I couldn't get rid of him so if you're going to Godfather him, do it soon.
Zach looks back and forth at the two of them. "Whoa. All these meaningful looks. I hope you're not planning on murdering me, because Zoe knows where I am." He stretches his arms over the back of the couch, obviously very pleased with himself. "I'm like a ninja, always two steps ahead."
Chris throws a packet of parmesan at him. "You told her?"
Zach catches it with his mouth, that show-off, and says, "No," after spitting it out. "But she isn't stupid. I've been telling her since forever that nothing's happening between you two and just because she's a fag hag doesn't mean she can go around assuming everyone's fucking each other. So the two of you owe me fifty bucks."
"Get out," Karl says.
"I'm serious," Zach protests, and crabs backwards along the couch as Karl gets closer. "Dude, I'll have you know that a Kiwi beating up an American is a hate crime!"
Karl stops just opposite Chris. "If I beat you up, it'll be because you're an idiot, not an American," he says, and bats away the parmesan packet Zach flings at him. "Has this been in your mouth?"
"Like that's the only unhygienic thing that you've touched," Zach quips, that salacious grin back on his face.
"Quinto," Chris says warningly, and then Karl grabs Chris's shoulders with both hands and bends him over the kitchen table. Chris sees the kiss coming from miles away but he makes no move to stop him. Which is kind of weird, because he's been freaking out quietly all day and right about now is the time to have the freakout of the century. But Karl tastes vaguely sweet and minty, like he's been chewing gum, and Chris chases after it, losing himself into it even with Zach's electrified silence beating on his awareness.
Karl lets go of Chris's mouth with a pop, leaving Chris breathing heavily and blushing so hard he's sure he's going to have a hemorrhage. "If he won't get a clue and fuck off, he can watch," Karl says loudly in between little biting licks along Chris's brow-bone. He pushes himself between Chris's thighs and thrusts once, meaningfully. There's a strangled noise from the couch area.
Or he'll try to make it a threesome, Chris amends, because this has gone beyond the oh this is weird zone and into surreal. But he can't get his voice to work as Karl starts unbuttoning his—actually Karl's—shirt and does that wet, messy, tickly thing against Chris's adam's apple that simultaneously makes him want to giggle like a schoolgirl and sends heat slipping into his crotch and um, okay, hello erection. Karl looks down and moves away just enough to get a hand on it through the denim and shoots a look off to the side, and he's got an evil little twist of a smile going on his face as he grips the outline of it and he's not even looking at Chris. He's doing some sort of macho staring contest with Zach while palming Chris's dick, and okay yeah, surreal.
It's gone very quiet. There's only the soft rasp of skin on denim and Chris's harsh breathing because somehow it's hot being rubbed off in front of his best friend by the guy who's been sort of his boyfriend since the second month of shooting and even made hotter though it makes no sense with the quote Three can keep a secret if two are dead chasing its tail in circles through his head. Then Karl turns back and tongues Chris's temple, tongue rasping along Chris's eyebrow, and Chris can't help but lean into it, all caution and awkwardness blown away by the need to have that hand in his pants, now. He's not usually such an impulsive guy, but all this secretiveness and being suddenly found out is a heady mix, and fuck Zach anyway. He moans and scrabbles at Karl's shirt and belt.
"If you wanted me to leave, all you had to do was ask nicely," Zach finally says, and he sounds hoarse and a little bit wobbly, and he's lost that self-satisfied purr he's been pulling all day, which suits Chris right down to the core.
"Don't let the door hit you on the ass," Karl says casually, as Zach hot-steps across the living room—practically fleeing—and gropes blindly for the doorknob. Karl grips Chris a little harder. Chris hisses and hitches his hips up higher. The table creaks beneath them.
"All right—just—stop that until I can—god," Zach babbles as he fumbles with the deadbolt. "It's like watching my sister having sex—ew—"
"Sister?" Chris gasps in indignation, pushing himself up, but then Zach's out the door with a "Use protection!" trailing behind him like vapor. The door slams.
They look at each other for a long moment before Chris relaxes into a sprawl over the cluttered table, letting his head go back, and he starts laughing. It's more than a little hysterical but the laughter won't stop coming from deep in his gut, rooted somewhere in the sheer adrenaline and embarrassment-laced weirdness of the day, and soon his sides are aching. Karl's a lot quieter, just huffing a low chuckle like he does, ducking his head into his chest.
"Oh my god," Chris finally gasps. "That was classic."
"Teach that little wanker to butt in," Karl replies.
"I can't believe you're being this suave about it," Chris says now, slowly. Karl's always suave. Chillax is Karl's middle name, even when he's in the most retarded movie ever that involves miles of skin and about five seconds of plot and he manages to pull it off anyway. It must be a superpower.
"Hm," Karl says. He moves his hand, and Chris reorganizes his priorities again.
Superpower.
***
They're on the couch because the bedroom might as well be a zillion miles away when Chris has a determined Karl dragging his stubble along the curve of his hip and Karl's hands are doing something very interesting south of the border. Chris is damn near bent over the couch, ass in the air. He's got a stale Cheeto crushed under his cheek, and he's making all sorts of unsexy, unmanly noises that go into the range only dogs can hear when Karl twists his finger just so.
Something buzzes underneath Chris's knee and when it won't fucking stop even after he slams his knee a couple times into where he thinks it is, he whines into the cushions. Karl stops that maddening exploration and Chris gets sort of beside himself.
"You gonna get that?"
Chris babbles a blue streak and jerks his hips up. He's the master of non-verbal communication, so his meaning is blatantly obvious. He'd taken a miming class in early college, not that he'd ever admit it to anyone that you know, he didn't have plans to kill immediately after.
"Power Rangers, Chris?" The fingers pull out. "What are you, five?"
"Fuck, fine!" Chris scrabbles around in the cushions and blankets and pillows. Goddamn Zach had gotten ahold of Chris's phone one very drunken night last week and changed the ringtone, probably in retaliation for Chris making fun of the ears. Chris hadn't quite gotten around to changing it to something else, and now Go, go Power Rangers! blares unmuffled as he pulls it out.
It's Zach.
"Hey, tell Karl that if he has the key to your place, shame on him for not making you get better furniture. I mean, Ikea?" Zach says cheerfully with no preamble whatsoever, unlike civilized people.
"I'm in the middle of something, I'll call you back," Chris grits into the phone, and hangs up on him.
The phone buzzes, and Chris sees one more text message before he flings it against the far wall: Holy Kiwi foreplay, Batman!
"We're going to have to do something about that boy," Karl observes.
Chris knows Zach will keep their secret, but— "Dumpster," Chris grunts. "Later."
Dumpster. Dumpster sounds good. Yes.