by WonderBoy

 

He should have said no, thank you. Or better yet, he should have had his publicist say no thank you and he could have said fuck you, if not to Puffy than at least to the television every time the video for Part Two aired. He hates that song and knows it only blew up because of Part One. But that's not really why he's pissed right now. Or why he's tempted to leave the stage area to get sick or find another green room with big gold bottles of Cristal.

His cue comes and he contemplates making the stage managers nervous for just a second by not being near his entrance. But he's too nice, he's always too nice for such behavior, and besides he doesn't want look like he's not holding it down. He wants to show that he's fine with this, fine with being asked to sing a few bars, swivel his hips, dance on stage. And he thought he'd be fine with it, as long as he never had to look Puffy in the eye. Then at rehearsal yesterday he saw Busta and his cool remove was blown.

He shouldn't blame Busta, but at least it's closer to the source. It's true Puffy would have never touched him if it hadn't been for Busta. Everyone could see that before, but even he finally figured it out. Those damn bathrobes in the video weren't just some fashion trend; they were part of the elaborate game of back and forth, play but don't speak, fuck but don't get attached, it's not real, it's not a sin if you're drunk, high, or lonely. Usher doesn't know how to play. He knows they think he's just young and naive, but he knows he likes it better when there are no excuses.

He doesn't stay on stage for the end of the song; he stands in the wings trying to catch his breath. Not that he danced that hard -- his heart is just overreacting. Then there's the big finale and fireworks and some freaky acrobat chicks but he can only see the two of them on stage play-acting. He starts to feel sick again and tries to talk himself down, then quickly turns away when he sees them heading towards him.

He goes the wrong way, away from the reception area and heads towards the bustle of crew members clad in black, hoping to find a door that will lead him outside. Since this is New York and not L.A. he can maybe just catch a cab without much trouble. He feels dangerous and out of control, or possibly just drunk and stumbling. He tries not to look like he's running away.

"Hold up, hold up, hold up, holdup, holdup, holdup," Usher hears. He isn't sure if he wants him to be talking to him or not, so he keeps walking. He feels a hand on his elbow but still doesn't turn, so he continues following close behind. They glide through people with head mics and guys carrying cables, somehow always parting perfectly to make room for the celebrities. He never stops noticing the little things.

Puffy's hand moves further up until he's gripping his tricep. Then he yanks him hard to the side and suddenly they're surrounded by black velvet. Between two drawn stage curtains, completely enveloped in the folds, Usher looks down and sees the feet continue to move, inches away from his bright white sneakers. He notices a skidmark on the right toe and considers bending over to wipe off the smudge, just to delay looking at him. But it seemed ridiculous to ignore him while standing next to him, hiding in dark folds of fabric with his chest pressing his chest against Usher's.

"Why you acting like this? You hear me calling after you?" Usher finally makes eye contact and sees him briefly trying to play the cool P Diddy, rolling the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. Usher is sick of him playing cool, playing straight. Almost as if Puffy reads his mind, he drops his tone and adds, "I'm real glad you came out to do this with me tonight."

Puffy leans in, and Usher feels his eyelashes brush against his temple, right before his lips touched his ear. "You looked reaaaal good out there."

Usher hasn't said a word to him in the past 6 hours. During rehearsal and warm-up he nodded and stared and glowered, but never once opened his mouth. His jaw is tight now and remains clinched as the tip of Puff's tongue touches his sideburn between words.

Someone yells "places!" somewhere on the other side of the curtain, right in his other ear. They jump but relax back into each other when the commotion moves away. Puffy's hands find his hips. He presses his palms onto the bones and the tips of his fingers wrap around to rest lightly his ass

"Don't be like this, man," Puffy whispers. "It ain't like that. We don't have to be like that."

Usher drops his head, then turns a little to press his cheek into Puffy's neck. He opens his mouth and inhales past the shirt collar, trying to taste him without actually touching. He touches his tongue to the back of his teeth and closes his eyes, knowing his cock will soon betray his restraint. But first, he has to lie.

"Naw, man, it's cool. I'm cool."

 

Credits: For Tiffany Rawlins (of course). Also a little bit for S.N. Kastle, because the curiosity goes back that far. Big props to Kel for assisting in edits, as well as a little local help from Diehard.