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aged
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Aged
It was nothing really big, or monumental, or life-altering. Not right away. They were in a diner and Chris looked up and said, "I really like you." Justin nodded and took a bite of his hamburger. Mustard dripped down his chin; Chris reached out and wiped it away with one finger, which he stuck in his mouth to lick clean, and they didn't say for awhile after that. *** They could all pinpoint exactly when Joey turned into a slut. It was at the beginning, in Germany, where they got their first taste of how crazy the girls went. Back when they could still mingle a little with the crowds without security breathing down their necks, it had been nice, and easy. The girls, too, they had been easy. They would come off stage and order drinks and drift around, still pumped up and tense from performing, feeling on top of the world, and it seemed like maybe German girls were the most adoring, forgiving people on the planet. They fawned over all of them, liked to run fingers through Justin's curls and thumbs down Joey's chin. They used English as a bargaining chip, dangling it as an enticing bonus whenever one managed to get one of them alone in a corner. It was like a prize, that they could utter dangerously suggestive things in familiar words that were tinged with a strange accent, and more than once Joey would exclaim, back at whatever hotel they were in that night, that it was just too much. It was wild, and this was the life. Chris never got so into it, though. It was all so exciting, he said once, the way things were just *happening* for them, that he had to push something away. It was too scary, he told Justin, to think of himself falling head first into a whole new lifestyle, without holding anything back for himself. Of himself. So when Chris got protective, Justin understood. He didn't really mind when Chris acted sort of like his mother every time his mother wasn't actually around; he didn't care too much when Chris cut him off after two or three drinks, saying it may be more available in Germany, but it still wasn't so good for him to get drunk all the time. He didn't mind because it was nice, to have someone who wasn't his mother to go to, someone he could sit quietly with, or cry to, or just talk to like a friend. Sometimes, over the years, he watched Chris and thought about how different things would have been if Chris hadn't been who he was. *** In the diner, it was late, and at midnight Chris said, "Happy birthday." Justin grinned. "You gonna spank me?" Chris snorted and lifted his glass to take a sip. "Not this year, kid. Twenty strokes would wear this old man out." Justin just swirled a fry through ketchup and shrugged. "Me, too," he suddenly said. He couldn't blame Chris for looking confused. They'd been sitting there for nearly three hours, watching snow outside the window. He wondered how long the bus would be stranded there, in the parking lot of an all-night diner, wondered if they'd be able to get out that day or if his real birthday celebration would be here, amid stained Formica counters and the smell of grease. He'd be okay with that, actually. He felt like he'd had a pretty satisfactory birthday already, just two minutes in. "I really like you, too," he clarified. Chris blinked slowly, but then shot him a wide grin. "Even though I put mayo on my fries?" "Europe really fucked you up, man. I can't believe you do that." "You're so closed minded. C'mon, just try it. Once. You know you--" "Just!" Joey called from the doorway. "What's this I hear about it being your birthday already? You let us sleep through the hour change?" Justin leaned across the table and swiped a fry through Chris's mayonnaise. "Guess I forgot," he said, chewing slowly and sliding over to let everyone else in the booth. "Just forgot." *** It had worried him when Chris changed. All of them had, over time; Lance got less timid and Joey got wilder, and JC seemed to get more and more focused on music and his obsessive drive to create it, sing it, absolutely perfect it by some standard in his head and his head alone. Chris got quieter. And Justin wondered if maybe something was wrong, for so long he wondered that, and then he noticed the details. Chris still loved to have fun, still loved to goof off at random intervals in public or private. He still put on the basic show for the cameras and audiences. It was just toned down. Mellowed, and Chris had, at some point, learned to look directly into a camera without goofing off. Justin wondered when the shield had dropped, when Chris had started being able to be upfront and honest and serious without averting his eyes like it was something to be ashamed of. He went back and watched old tapes to make sure, and there it was; if Chris was looking straight into a camera, he was almost always making a face, cracking a joke, putting up a front of consistent goofiness that was part of him, true, but wasn't everything. So Justin stopped worrying, and he thought maybe Chris had decided to let the rest of the world see what he'd always held back for himself. *** "What the fuck are you doing?" Chris demanded, using his hip to nudge Justin away from the grill. "That is not how you make hashbrowns." "They're hashed. They're turning brown. I didn't realize there was a technique qualification to it, too." "There is, you dope." Chris glanced back towards the tables. The waitress on duty was slumped in a booth, sleeping with her face hidden in her folded arms, and the cook was across from her, sideways in the booth, his head propped against the plate glass window and his mouth lax, open in the half-snore, half-wheeze of sleep. Outside the sun was struggling to make its dawning presence known through the whipping sheets of snow. They weren't going to get out that day. Not a chance. Justin didn't care. "Fine, Grandpa. Bestow upon me the wisdom of your many extra years of experience." "Shut up. Look, don't make a cake out of it. This ain't McDonald's, squirt. You gotta toss 'em around while they cook, like scrambled eggs. Then, ketchup and mayonnaise, salt and pepper, and a tiny bit of tobasco sauce." "You put that shit anywhere near my potatoes, I'll kill you. What the hell is it with you and condiments?" Justin grabbed the spatula back and shoved his way in front of the sizzling, greasy pile of hashbrowns. "And I happen to like McDonald's hashbrowns." "You lie!" Chris gasped. "Just, take that back. Right now." "No fucking way." Smirking, Justin narrowed his eyes. "And I like chicken soft tacos. And Arby's makes good anything." "I'm never speaking to you again," Chris huffed, but he was struggling not to laugh. He hadn't moved very far when Justin pushed him; their arms brushed and Justin could smell remnants of cologne and cigarettes, the cheap cloves Chris liked because they reminded him in some strange way of the parts of college he'd actually enjoyed. "Except hey. You okay? With being stuck here on your birthday?" Justin shrugged and handed the spatula back, relinquishing control of the grill. Finding a spot for his hip between the heat dials, he leaned carefully against the edge and rested his head on Chris's shoulder, his face towards the rest of the diner. Lance was typing something into his laptop and Joey and JC were out of sight, probably curled up on the floor, asleep in the cocoon of blankets and pillows they'd dragged in when the bus got too cold and the driver said there wasn't enough gas to turn the heat back on, not if they wanted to make it to the next gas station whenever they managed to leave. And the driver, he was in a back corner of the restaurant, flipping through a magazine and probably wondering how much trouble he was in for deciding to stop instead of risking the increasingly slick roads. "Yeah," he said softly. "It's no big deal, really." "You sure?" There was the scrape of metal against metal, the snapping pop of hot grease as Chris moved the hashbrowns around. "Sure. I like knowing it will be a quiet birthday for once. It's been a long time since I had that. Last time was... the tenth, I think." He lifted his head to face the other way; the shield behind the grill was spattered and stained and black, and everything smelled of grease and fire and batter and fast-food America, except for Chris and his cologne and those cloves. Justin pressed his nose briefly into Chris's sweater, taking a deep breath that he hoped wasn't too noticeable. "Twenty-two," Chris muttered. "Last time was my twenty-second. Me and my grandma, just shooting the shit over cake and beer." Justin lifted his head and laughed. "God, you are disgusting. Food is a serious thing, man. Is there anything you won't put together, or is edible the only requirement?" "That's the main factor," Chris agreed, grinning. "Someday I'll make my egg and peanut butter sandwich specialty for you." "I don't think I can talk to you anymore. You're too gross to be friends with." "You love me, just admit it." And Justin laid his head back on Chris's shoulder and sighed slightly. "Yeah, okay, I do. So it's a good sandwich?" "The best. Even better with a little paprika." "Chris!" "Kidding." Chris carefully pushed him back to turn the grill off. "Come on. These are done." *** One night Chris had come to him with a pair of scissors and just said, "Shear me, Just. Take it all off." And Justin hadn't said a word, just taken the scissors and carefully cut away each and every braid, and when he was done he looked at Chris and sort of felt like crying, because Chris suddenly looked more like the rest of them. "No shaving, okay?" he said, joking but all too serious. "I wouldn't recognize you." Chris just frowned. He hadn't smiled at all that night. "Would that be such a bad thing?" "Yeah. Yeah, it would. I need to be able to find you." Chris hadn't shaved after that. Justin didn't really know if he'd ever wanted to; the important thing was that he hadn't. And Justin got used to the short hair, the spikes, the way nothing on Chris's head moved too much or swayed or stuck out in pigtails that made him different, that had once made him Chris. He just got used to it. *** Chris kissed him by the industrial fridge, hitting the corner of Justin's mouth as he leaned to put a jug of milk back in. It was noon and the snow still hadn't stopped. They weren't getting out. He was actually hoping not. He liked this, liked the quiet and the settling calm, liked being stuck in a diner in the middle of Nowhere, New England. Liked sticking by Chris through the long night, everyone nearby but seeming far away, so that when Chris kissed him he didn't even worry about not being alone. He straightened and closed the heavy stainless steel door, and Chris was watching him silently. Not exactly waiting, not exactly ready to do anything else. Just watching, just letting Justin take his time. And Justin watched him back, kept watching even as he leaned in and said, softly, "You missed, you dumb fuck," and then kissed Chris with better aim, better purpose, better driving intent. Just a soft brush of lips, quick lick in the tiny indentation of chin that seemed perfectly shaped for the tip of his tongue. Chris shuddered a little, and his hand came up to flatten against Justin's stomach, bracing and connecting and settling himself before his lips parted and he was on a perfect course this time. His palm moved up Justin's chest, across wool knit to the smallest hint of cotton peeking out the collar, to the stretched heat of Justin's neck. Justin closed his eyes and tasted Chris's tongue; he felt cold fingers brushing the last bits of clear skin below his hair and they were sending jolts down his spine, not because of nerve but because it was just *touch*. "fuck," he mumbled, shuffling and finding places for his arms around Chris, moving Chris against the fridge. Chris's way of kissing was slow and wet and totally different from any of the girls Justin had kissed. He thought everyone kissed fast, rough, insistent; Britney had been the first and everyone after was the same, but here was Chris, taking his time like he wanted to taste every corner of Justin's mouth. And Justin was okay with that, busy with the same task. Mayonnaise was tasting pretty good, right then. *** So it wasn't big. The snow stopped around five, but by then it was getting dark and everything was going to freeze over, anyway, and the driver could finally get a clear signal out on his radio. He told them the plows would be coming through in the morning, so they were there for another night. Justin tried hard not to smile at that. Joey and JC obviously couldn't care less; they'd discovered that the cook had a decent singing voice and liked to sing old hits from the seventies, and Justin was dozing lightly, precariously propped on a stool at the counter, when Chris pulled him upright with a gentle fist in his hair and everyone started singing. The waitress-- Mary, Justin thought he remembered-- set a huge piece of cheesecake in front of him. There were lit matches stuck in all over the place, all placed in sideways so they would actually burn. Justin laughed so hard he nearly fell off the stool, but Chris held him up long enough for him to blow out the candles, and then he stuck a spoon in the slice and smeared cake against Justin's lips. It was a good birthday, Justin thought late that night, sprawled on the dirty kitchen floor with Chris on top of him, mouthing his neck while everyone slept out in the dining room. Twenty was looking to be a good year. **end** |