It's like looking in a mirror, Chris thinks. Some crazy ass funhouse mirror that distorts reality and shows you things you never were.

Himself, but not. Short hair and thousand dollar suit, honey-slick tongue not spinning lies just now 'cause it's too busy licking and stroking the cock shoved past lips as full and wide as Chris' own. A cock that's just as familiar as those lips.

Himself, but not. Bare chest and broad shoulders even more ripped than Chris' when he knows he's got a shirtless scene coming up. Hands cradling the Lindsey's skull, callused and rough, but somehow Chris knows they're not from playing guitar. Only the scars are truly different, and Chris wants to study them, wants to touch and taste, wants to know.

And when Eliot turns to where Chris is watching from the doorway, the eyes that pin him in place even as they pull him forward are the same eyes he sees in the mirror each day. The voice, a whiskey-rough, sex-hoarse rasp he knows as well as his own name, when Lindsey pulls off Eliot's cock long enough to say, "Get your ass over here, cowboy," before sucking Eliot down again.

Crazy ass funhouse mirror or not, Chris just has to know.