concomitant

concomitant 
by Mare
uneasyneighbour@gmail.com
July 2003

concomitant - [1, adjective] accompanying, especially in a subordinate or incidental way

Bobbie sleeps with JC on the first date. 

Of course, he doesn't even realise it's a date until Stacy says that she's gotta go, leave for a couple of hours, got this thing that she's gotta do. 

"But hey, you two should totally stay. Stick around, have fun. Bob, y'still got the keys, right?" Stacy says and winks at JC. And even then he doesn't think much of it, until Bobbie's sarcastic "subtle, Stace." 

When Stacy leaves, they end up sitting on her futon, side by side, and he's still not too sure Bobbie likes him enough to actually do anything. The whole thing feels weird, stupid, uncomfortable, and he keeps looking down.

Her skirt is black and short and tight. She has skin-tone nylons on, her knees look glossy and sheer and he wants to touch them. So he does. And then he thinks that maybe it isn't the greatest idea, since Bobbie knows Stacy is his ex and all that. He pulls his hand away, presses his sweaty palms together between his knees and feels awkward again. 

"It's all right," she says and doesn't smile. 

The room smells like soup and noodles and Stacy's perfume. He looks at the cartons with Chinese food leftovers, chopsticks sticking out, used crumpled napkins lying around the table and says that maybe they should go somewhere else. She shakes her head no. A strand of her hair falls in her face and she pushes it away, says, "my roommate's home." 

He means to say that it's not what he meant, that maybe they should just go see a movie or something. She touches his face, her palm cold against his skin, and he doesn't say anything at all. 

He thinks that he maybe should feel weird about being set up. It's not that he minds, not really. It's just that he likes to know about these things, be warned. Instead, he feels her hand slide under his shirt, and he shivers when her cold fingers touch his stomach. She pulls at the end of his belt and he gasps because it hurts a little, just enough for his fingers to stop playing with the collar of her blouse and rush down to help hers with his zipper. She undresses herself efficiently and quickly. 

She's got beautiful long legs and he wraps his fingers around her ankle, notices small dark dots of not-yet stubble, and she missed a spot shaving, right below her knee. He touches his finger to it, slides it against the tiny sharp points of growing hair. She jerks her leg away and he looks up. There are red blotches of flushed skin on her cheekbones, and her eyes are angry and narrowed.

"It's not like I planned this," she says. 

"I don't care," he says and she looks at him, eyes laughing and kind of mean. 

"No shit," she says. Her mouth is curved in a nasty kind of smile but her voice cracks into a higher pitch. She looks away. 

"Hey," JC says, "hey, come on," and thinks of Chris for some reason, of Lou hollering at him, saying his hair experiments are getting out of control. He thinks of how Chris muttered something about braids seeming like a good idea, before he'd actually gone and gotten his head full of white nylon, and how his face had changed as Lou's voice reached ultrasonic highs, yelling for him to go get rid of it, now. Thinks of how Chris spat, "None of your fucking business," and walked away. 

So he tells her that she's nuts, that it's, actually, kind of sexy and grabs her ankle again, tight just in case, rubs the side of his face over the skin of her calf. She says, "whatever", and that he should shave himself and then tells him that his claws will leave bruises on her legs. She doesn't pull away, though. And then she is shifting again, pushing his shoulder with her hand, rushing him. He doesn't mind. 

After, she hauls her blouse from under his ass, bitches about it being too wrinkled to wear. She seems angry, but he's pretty sure she isn't. He asks for her phone number and she narrows her eyes. She says that she is quite happy to fuck Mr. Boyband just once, and watches him, carefully, when she does. And then he knows, clear as day, that she just doesn't want him to think she is easy, but knows it's a little too late for that. He smiles at her, touches her hand, watches an almost smile appear in her eyes, too. 

She doesn't give him her phone number, though. He has to ask Stacy for it, has to listen to her going on and on about how happy she is for him, how she's his friend for life. He thinks Stacy's full of shit, mostly, but he wants the number, so he nods and says, "sure", promises to mention her name to some guy Lou supposedly knows, if he gets a chance. 

When he calls and Bobbie says that he's the kind of person who'd lose the number anyway, he still knows she's glad that he called. It's in the barely noticeable catch of her voice, in the way it cracks when she laughs. They talk about nothing a while, and then he says that maybe they should go see a movie sometime. Sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow, or even tonight. He doesn't quite expect her to sound this sharp and this brittle when she says, "movie? Totally. My house or yours?" And maybe then he gets a little bit angry and tells her that she really doesn't have to talk to him if she doesn't fucking want to.

She says, "look," and pauses. He looks at his own reflection in the window of his hotel room and waits. "About the other night," she says. "I really had no idea you'd be so-."

"What?"

"Just so- stupid-"

"Oh thanks," he says, but she continues, doesn't really give him time to get properly offended. 

"- or nice. I don't know. And Stace. She didn't tell me she'd leave. I didn't, like, ask her to- Oh, never mind. Anyway, the point is, I didn't know, all right?" 

"Yeah," is all he ends up saying, "sure." It's just that he doesn't think it matters much. He thinks he sort of likes her, regardless. 

He takes her to a matinee show next week. She laughs, when he tells her about it, calls him a cheap date. He gets defensive, says that it's supposed to be a really good movie, and he wanted to see something he'd thought she might like. She admits she didn't bring her glasses then, that she can't really see anything. They end up making out in the half-empty theatre and miss most of the movie anyway. On the way out she looks in the mirror, touches a finger to her lip, says it was his plan all along. He doesn't argue. And doesn't regret it at all.



So that's how it goes, he calls and they go somewhere and she makes fun of his clothes (borrowed the shirt from one of your little dancer friends again?) and stories he tells (JC, fucking get to the point already), but she listens to him and doesn't seem bored. He likes that she laughs at his jokes, even though she says she's forgotten the beginning by the time he got to the punch line. He likes how she stops laughing when he presses his fingers to her skin. And then there's sex, which is hot and hard and good, and she knows what she wants and actually pays attention to what he wants, too. 

He doesn't tell anybody about her because nobody ever asks him anything like that, and he doesn't really know how to volunteer that sort of information. 

**

"Um. I maybe know someone," he says when the girl who's supposed to be the shrink in the video quits two days into the shoot. 

"Smart looking, C. Not just some model," Chris says. Justin snorts, and Chris looks very pleased. 

"She wears glasses," JC says even though she doesn't, usually. And all right, so it's stupid, so he walked right into that one, but he glares and before Chris has a chance to say anything, adds, "and she's smart, too. So fuck off."

Chris throws his hands up and doesn't say he's sorry. 

"Fine, fine, whatever. Tell her to be here at seven tomorrow," says Lou, who lately doesn't even yell anymore, just wants everything wrapped up quickly so that he can leave and not talk to any of them at all. 

Things are tense. JC gets tired just looking at Lance, who mostly looks afraid, and at Justin, who's just as afraid but looks mostly angry, because that's how Chris is all the time. Joey laughs entirely too much for JC to believe it's sincere. 

He calls Bobbie and, sure, she says, she'll do it. Then asks, "so they all gonna be there then?"

"'S a video shoot. So yeah."

He can tell she's nervous and offers to come get her in the morning, but she says, "No it's fine, just give me the address."

She's fifteen minutes late, which is just enough time for Chris to go ballistic because he hates when people are late more than anything else in the world, except for maybe Lou, lately. JC gets more and more frustrated, listening to Chris's dumbass insults, and so he goes to wait for her outside. 

Of course Chris wouldn't just leave him alone. He follows JC and yells, "you're fucking late," as soon as he sees her. JC wonders, just briefly, how Chris even knows it's her, but then she is the only one in the parking lot, so that's kind of obvious, really. 

"I got a flat tire, shut the fuck up." 

Chris, surprisingly, does. He looks at her for a second, spits on the ground and leaves.

"I'm sorry," she says when Chris's gone and JC smiles at her. He can tell that she'd kill for a smoke, but she is late and they have to start now, so he doesn't offer to wait. 

She's nervous and therefore angry and screws up her scene twice. And then Chris is in her face and they have the nastiest argument where he says that she's a stupid bitch and she calls him a psychotic midget. They just met, JC thinks, but it sounds like they've hated each other for a very long time. 

JC is a little afraid to get in between them, but he feels like he has to, which kind of sucks, but still, what can he do? So he tells Chris to shove it and worry about himself, and that, evidently, is the best thing to say since it shuts Chris up for good, but also the worst thing to say because then JC realises, with perfect clarity, that Bobbie and Chris will never get along. Ever. He probably should care more about that than he actually does. 

By the end of the day he's entirely too tired to get behind the wheel and just stands in the parking lot, leaning against his car. Not really waiting for anything, in particular. Or anybody. The heat is only slightly receding with the dawning sun, but it's still nice comparing to the stuffy hell of the warehouse. The sweat on his forehead feels like sticky film to the touch. 

Bobbie left earlier, hissed, "thanks, Josh. That was fun," and he violently regretted telling her that he really hates people calling him Josh. He tried to smile anyway, but mostly thought, thank god they were done and didn't have to extend the shoot again.

"So I don't like her," Chris says and JC turns around to face him.

"No. You mean, like, for real? 'Cause I wasn't sure before." 

"She's just using you."

"Since you're an expert. You don't even know her."

"Know the type." 

"Bullshit." 

He shrugs. 

"Oh you know what, go fuck yourself, Chris. Next time we get screwed you won't see me volunteering my girlfriend. Count on that, asshole." 

"You just fucking met her."

"No, we haven't just met. Since you care," JC says snidely and notices Chris wincing at that. And then, just to prove that he really doesn't give two shits about it, says, "And I really hope Dani blows you off." 

"Who?" Chris says, and JC rolls his eyes. Chris almost starts saying something, but then doesn't, looks down, kicks at non-existent rocks with the toe of his shoe. And JC gives up being mad after that, because he's not, really, and because he's tired, and because this is Chris and JC decided a long time ago who his friends are, and what always comes first. Besides, it looks like Chris can see a truce when one is offered and says, "We went out. But it's not like I got half a chance with her, anyway."

"Dude, maybe if you'd spent today actually paying attention to her instead of getting in everyone else's face-" 

"'Cause you're an expert." 

"'Cause I know the type," JC says and can't help but smile. Chris smiles back, hesitantly at first, but then says,

"smartass," and his smile stretches into a wide grin.



JC does know the type, though. Dani is totally Chris's type even if he'd never admit it. Perfectly shiny and beautiful, and everybody smiles when she walks into the room. And Chris likes that, likes good-looking people who can act like they belong anywhere, would stubbornly insist that it doesn't matter to him, but it does. JC could never really understand the appeal, but he knows what Chris likes. 

**

All the exhausting hard work, all these years, but it still feels like he wakes up in a new world one day. The whole brand new world, where he's suddenly famous. And this shiny beautiful world loves him, knows his name, his face and speaks English too, for a change. This world also has a lot more people to hate Bobbie than just Chris. He thinks it should bother him. But it doesn't, at all. 

She feels like a secret, just his. He kind of likes that he's the only one she bothers with, that he's the only one she lets near her when she's upset over something or other. That she calms and smiles when he runs his fingers through her hair. He likes how she relaxes into his touch when he says things like, "shhh, it's okay, they don't really matter." And he likes knowing that when she responds with, "fucking mascara in my eye", she really means, "thanks".

She's also there for him when he needs her, which kind of surprises him, at first. He honestly figured she'd bail, but she doesn't. Not even when things get really fucked up and uncertain. When they don't just know that Lou's fucking them over, they know, which sucks more than anything ever did before. Before, JC had never been close enough to touch everything he'd ever wanted. 

There're lawyers and long meetings when Lance stares owlishly at the wall, Justin swears in front of his mother, and even Joey is not good enough actor to do anything other than curse under his breath. Chris is the one who always keeps it together to dodge interviewers' questions, smiles the smile that's really a sneer, but looks on camera pleasant enough. He's good with words when he sees what they do to people.

He is, however, no good at all when it's just him and a blank piece of paper. Just the two of them in Chris's apartment, and Chris breaks three pencils and a pen. There's ink on his tongue and crumpled sheets with nothing on them all over the floor by the time he finally says, "fuck it. I can't, C. I just can't." 

"Okay," JC says. "Okay. I'll do it." Chris looks at him, raises his eyebrows, like he wants to ask 'are you sure?'' but doesn't and just nods. 

And JC is better at this than he ever thought he would be. It's suddenly easy for him to say what he wants, when nobody is interrupting, when it's quiet in the room and in his head. He writes and writes and doesn't really realise it's been hours until he feels Chris's hand on his neck and sharp pain in his own hand, so cramped up he can barely relax his fingers enough to put the pen away. 

"Was it like this," Chris says, "when you were in LA?" 

The pen rolls and falls under the table. JC looks at the cup of coffee Chris put in front of him-milk no sugar, the way he likes it-and says, "no man, wasn't like this at all." 

"Can I see it?" Chris asks, his fingers twisting the hair on the nape of JC's neck. It kind of hurts, but JC doesn't move. 

"Um. No, I'm not done," JC says. "And I should. Bobbie. She's probably waiting--" 

"Sure," he says and jerks his hand away. JC looks up and Chris yawns, walks away to the kitchen stretching and scratching his face. Something he drops in the sink there makes a loud lingering noise.



He drives to Bobbie's hotel, one hand on the steering wheel, another on the finished brief. It feels like Braille--he keeps brushing his fingers over the page filled with angry hard handwriting, feeling the words burning into his skin.

"You could've fucking called me," Bobbie says, and her eyes look as dark as Chris's in the dim light of the hotel room. 

"Can you not do this? Not now. Please?" JC says. She pinches her lips. "Read this for me?" 

She looks at him, silent, and then sighs. "Fine." He kisses the top of her head, and she leans into him for a second, but then twists away, muttering, "I was fucking worried, you ass." 

He watches her face while she's reading; watches her wince every time she scraps something. She doesn't say a word until she's done, just furrows her eyebrows in concentration and a deep wrinkle runs across her forehead, makes her look older. She draws arrows and scribbles something on the side of each page. He keeps looking over her shoulder, which he knows she hates, but he can't really help it, not now. She doesn't seem to mind, or doesn't say anything, at least.

The light of the desk lamp is murky and yellow, and it makes his eyes water and hurt. He feels tired, but not tired enough to sleep. "I'll type it up," she says when she sees him rubbing his eyes, "I got my laptop with me, anyway. So I could work in case you blow me off." 

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever. It's fine." 

"You're tired, though." 

She shrugs. "Nah, won't take long. Go get some sleep." But he doesn't move until she says, "here, all done," and throws him the disk. 

"Sorry for dumping it on you. And, you know. Thanks," he says and she shakes her head.

"Don't worry about it, not a big deal. I didn't really do much."

"Did it even make any sense?" 

"Yeah, it's just that-."

"You don't have to feel sorry for me, you know." It sounds bitchy, but he figures, so what. He doesn't fucking want anybody's pity, not even hers. 

"I don't. Just a little surprised, is all." She chuckles and he doesn't like the expression her face forms.

"I'm not fucking dumb. I can write about what happened." 

"Didn't say you were. And it's not what I meant." She waves her hand in the air. 

"Oh yeah, so what then?"

"It's just all the things you remember- god, every mean little detail. It's like you took notes or something, planned for this. Even back then."

"Of course I didn't. I just. I started writing this and- it was all there."

"Just like that," she says quietly. 

"Yeah."

"I never even thought you'd pay attention to things like that- that you'd even notice." 

"Um. Thanks," he says and looks at her. She looks away. 

He doesn't know what else is there to say, so he doesn't say anything, gets up and presses his lips to her temple. She turns her face to him. He kisses her, sloppy and urgent, and tries not to think about anything at all, until she shoves her hand inside his pants and he shivers, surprised at how much he suddenly wants this. 

His body isn't surprised at all, is ready and eager instead, and his cock twitches up when she wraps her hand around it. She gets up, sliding against him. Her body is warm, soft, inviting. She pushes his pants down. He hears soft thud of the buckle hitting the floor and squirms, helping her get rid of the rest of his clothes. She touches his lips with her fingers. He looks at her face, makes a meagre attempt to pull her t-shirt up, tug at the hem of it, then gives up and buries his hands in her hair. He sucks her fingers into his mouth and she stops for a second, then nods, smiles, something in between knowing and smug.

She says something, he's not exactly sure what it is, but her warm breath tickles his ear and he lets go of her. She puts her open palms on his hips, pulls him closer and yes, this is it, what he wanted. He realises that he was pushing her head down all this time. 

Her thumbs press tight into his hips-tickling sensation of skin shift over bone-and his whole body covers in sweat. He's hot all over, and his skin prickles in goosebumps when the night breeze touches his bare back. He thinks about closing the window, or at least making sure the shutters are down. She looks up again, watches his face, licks her fingers. He shivers and lets his eyes fall shut. 

Her mouth closes around his cock, he trembles and tugs on her hair and feels the moan in her throat, low rumble of sound rolling over his skin. His body arches towards her, he bucks and wishes for the wall to lean on, when she claws at his hips and he has to pull back. There's nothing but cool air supporting him, so he pushes forward again. Her grip is restricting his movements and he's not really sure if she's holding him or holding him back. It doesn't seem to matter, exactly. 

Her hands are warm, fingers saliva and sweat-slick and he opens his eyes when she traces the curve of his ass. It's like she's asking, or waiting. His knees bend and he rocks on the balls of his feet, spreading his legs sidewise, muscles of his thighs strain. There's a fleeting thought in the back of his mind that it must look horrible, ungraceful, insect-like, the way his body curves right now, opening up, searching for the way to support itself, stretching. 

He stops thinking when her fingers push inside. He bends his head to see her eyes looking up at him, huge and dark and, oh god, he says, oh. Her face seems different now, shadows cast below her cheekbones. It doesn't look like her face, and he shudders and tries to shut his eyes again, and then realises that they were closed all this time, and it's not her face at all he was seeing behind his eyelids. Then he tries to force his eyes open, feels like he has to, but her mouth and fingers just found a perfect rhythm matching the rhythm of the blood hitting the insides of his temples. There're no more faces at all, just the bright white circles exploding soundlessly as he comes. 

When he does open his eyes, finally, she's wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. And now she's the one shaking all over, looking at him, dark simmering want in her eyes. He pulls her up and into a kiss trailing down, licks the salty skin of her throat. She puts hers arms around his neck, clings to him, tight. Her legs wrap around his waist, her face dips to his shoulder. He thinks there's a bed there somewhere. But it's too far to even finish the thought, and there's just no way he could hold her upright, what with his legs gone cotton-soft, and the small needy whines she makes, sending tremors down to the pit of his stomach. He sinks onto the floor. 

He's still no help in undressing her even, fingers trembling clumsily and she pushes his hands away gets up and takes her t-shirt off. She unzips her skirt. He watches it pool around her ankles. She hooks it with her toe and kicks it to join his clothes in haphazard heap on the floor. She moves in fast jerky movements, and there's nothing graceful about her now, just desperate, hurried. 

He likes that, likes the way his body responds almost right away again. He touches himself, and maybe it looks stupid, him lying naked on the floor, watching her, whimpers escaping his throat, but he doesn't care one bit. The smug smile returns to her face and she reaches for her purse, gets a condom and throws it to him, confident sure movements. 

"There," she says, but her voice cracks. He smiles at her. 

"Hey, are you, um-You know, okay?" he says and tries to tear the foil, but his fingers are sweaty and shaking, and he has to do it with his teeth. 

"Yes."

"You sure?" 

"JC." She sort of smiles, but it looks forced, and hisses, "just hurry the fuck up." 

She straddles him and he touches her breasts gingerly, gently. She puts her hand over his, presses on it, and moans when he squeezes her nipple hard enough, cries out when he rolls it between his fingers. She eases onto him slowly-too slow-he arches up to her, but she puts her palm on his chest, holds him down, helps him push inside with her hand. 

Afterwards, he lies on the floor, her leg thrown over him and she traces patterns on his skin with her finger. His hands are locked behind his head and his body is tired, sore and relaxed at the same time. She kisses the side of his arm, her eyelashes tickle his skin and he grins at her. Her hair is messed up and a black line of smudged eyeliner crosses her cheek like a bruise. He shifts, licks his thumb, rubs it off. She looks at him, biting her lip. 

"You're beautiful," he says, because she is and because he hasn't told her that in what seems like forever. 

She touches his face, runs her finger along the line of his jaw, says, "you look like shit."

"mmm."

"We should get up."

"mmmhhhmmm"

"No, seriously," she says and snaps her head up. He watches her rise, reach for her clothes, then bend down and frown, when she looks at her knees. "Oh great. All I need is fucking rugburns."

He still smiles a stupid happy smile and says that he's sorry, that she's beautiful, again. 

She says, "whatever, asshole. Get your ass off the floor," but he can hear a smile and warmth in her voice. 

He grabs his brief and the disk on the way out and the paper feels strange, unfamiliar, feels like it he didn't write it at all. 



Everybody is in the room when they read the brief, and Justin slaps his hand on the table, says, "yeah man, this is the shit." Chris whistles through his teeth. 

"Bobbie. She helped," JC says, because he wants them to know she's there for him. He thinks, he just wants them to like her. 

"Yeah," Chris says and looks at him carefully, "So I figured."

"No, I mean. I wrote it, dude. She just. She helped," JC says, and it sounds like a lie. 

Chris rolls his eyes. JC feels a sharp pang of guilt, and he honestly means to say something else, explain, but then doesn't because everybody is talking at the same time and not really listening to him anymore.

**

The lawsuit gets settled and JC has never thought that he could really win something as big as his freedom. It's an incredible light feeling, like the world is clean and spring-fresh after the rain, and it opens up to him in every stranger's smile. 

"Congratulations," she says when he calls her, her voice distracted and empty. He hears a stack of papers falling with a rustling thump in the background and then her, hissing elaborate curses into his ear. Underwhelmed doesn't even begin to describe it. 

"You could, like--" he says, "like this is a big deal, you know." 

He doesn't want to sound all whiny, it just kind of happens that way. Of all times she chooses to be an enormous bitch, he thinks, why now? His brand new happiness feels tarnished, tainted with misery. It's so fucking unfair. 

"Oh fuck," she says as something falls again, "Jesus, JC. You're not the only one with issues, you know." And then not to him at all, "yeah, be right there." 

"Thought you'd want to come down. Celebrate." he kind of mumbles even though in that moment the last thing he wants is to actually see her. Since she's, evidently, the worst possible person to share good news with. She sighs. 

"Sorry," she says, "can't," and doesn't sound sorry at all. 

And all right, enough is enough and he's angry and wants to say something snide, cutting and nasty but nothing occurs to him at the moment other than horribly petulant-sounding "whatever." He hangs up and decides not to call her again. Possibly ever. Almost definitely never, he thinks.

She calls him later herself, but instead of apologizing, which he sort of expected, yells at him for being a fucking baby and for pitching fits and that if he thinks that she can get off work whenever the fuck she wants, he needs to get a serious fucking reality check. He doesn't know how it happens, but instead of telling her off, he ends up feeling hopelessly guilty, like all of it is his fault, like he has no right to be happy. 

"I just thought-"he starts saying.

"No, you didn't," she cuts in, sharp and cruel, "you didn't think for one second that I might have work and oh I don't know, little things, like rent and a car loan and fucking food to worry about. You never fucking think about that, do you?"

"I do. I do too. And you could just fucking ask. Like--" he says, "I could give you money for like rent and stuff, and I was gonna pay for your ticket."

"You were," she says slowly. "You were going to pay for me to come have dinner with you."

"Yeah, well. I said, it's a big fucking deal." 

"I know but. Why do you even want me-" and then she stops. "Okay", she says. "Okay." 



They don't really talk much in the car, on the way from the airport to the restaurant, but when he says he missed her, she says she missed him too. She shifts closer, puts her hand on his thigh and he figures she's not lying. Eventually, he gives up trying to come up with a good non-awkward way to do it, and just hands her the check, noticing the last minute that the ink has smudged, a little, where his fingers were pressed. She doesn't seem bothered at all, folds it carefully twice and puts it in her purse. She stretches in her seat, her eyes closed, presses fingers to her temples, and he notices how tired she looks, the dark circles under her eyes. He tries to ask her what's wrong, but she says, she doesn't wanna talk about it, or think about work. 

She obviously thinks about it during dinner, though. It's in the way she frowns and looks away and only smiles when JC touches her, or when Lance makes faces at her across the table. Strangely enough, she gets along with Lance all right, as opposed to everybody else, who she pointedly ignores, or Chris who she snarls at. Not that he doesn't snarl at her first. Not that it matters to JC, anyway. 

And besides, Chris is occupied with Dani for the most part. Until now JC had no idea how serious Chris was about her. He is, though. Serious. It's in the way he looks at her, the way his face relaxes into an easy grin when she bumps his shoulder with hers. 

Dani, JC thinks, is not all that pretty, but she looks happy and seems to spread joy to everybody around her. Her eyes aren't that big, but they crinkle up and shine when she smiles at Chris. He keeps putting things on her plate and that's how JC knows for sure-Chris always tries to feed people he really likes. JC once ate a horrible raw ground beef sandwich Chris bought him in Germany and then had to make Lynn swear to never ever tell anybody that he had spent half the night puking in her bathroom afterwards. 



"Jeez, she looks happy," Chris says, "so you like, paid her to come or something?" Dani elbows him, tells him to shut up but JC can see the smile playing in the corners of her eyes. It's late and the lobby is mostly empty. Bobbie is hissing brusquely into her cell only few steps away. He feels the furious heat of a blush wash over his face. Chris chuckles. JC tells him to fuck off. 

It's just that she has no idea how to be happy. Not even for herself, let alone for somebody else. But JC doesn't know how to explain it, or if it did any good if he tried. So he doesn't. 

**

They have a horrible relationship; everybody thinks so. Sometimes she says it herself. Sometimes he agrees. 

But it's not like they fight more than other people. Because they don't, JC is pretty sure of that. It's just that when she's angry, she really doesn't care if anybody is around and what they think of her. She yells at him, has no problem storming off mid-conversation, face angry and set, not bothering how she looks, how it all looks. 

There're always people around though, and JC always ends up being the one left to smile apologetically, say that it's nothing. That it's all his fault, and it's hard, and it's not hers at all. But no matter how he tries to explain, people mostly blame her anyway. JC even talks about it in interviews a few times, brings it up himself and says that he's hard to get along with, that it's difficult to be with somebody like him. It doesn't seem to make any difference, just makes people think he's too good for her. It also makes Chris sneer and make more fun of him than he usually does. So JC gives up trying, and start smiling instead, by the way of an answer. It works mostly the same way.

He asks her once, if it bothers her. She laughs. 

"Of course not," she says and he honestly has no idea how react to that. He watches her bite the inside of her lip, her face distort in a thoughtful grimace. He thinks that maybe she wants to find a way to explain something she is not sure she wants him to get. 

"Does it bother you?" she says.

"No. Yeah. Kind of. I mean not really, but-" he says and it's not that he doesn't care exactly, because he does, he thinks he does, he's pretty sure. She smiles. 

"Well then," she says.



And then there are other things. Like her apartment, which she hates and he loves, for instance. She would always rather meet elsewhere. His house, hotel, anywhere. Sometimes he just shows up at her door without calling, so that she can't say no. She laughs at his oh-so-stealthy ways and doesn't really complain, but she's not very happy about it either, he knows. So he brings her stuff when he comes over. Sometimes something she wants, sometimes just some odd stuff that makes her laugh, to surprise her. She likes that, so it works for both of them. 

One day he shows up with a paper bag full of apples and she just stares. "Apples?" she says finally. "Why the hell apples?"

"Why not?" he says and she lets him inside. 

It's summer and her place smells of- he can't really define the smell, but it's this clean and dry sunny scent of the hardwood floor, of somewhere where a/c is not quite good enough to cool the rooms down. The place is always dusty and she has magazines and stacks of paper everywhere, littering her desk, floor and chairs. 

He picks up one of her old college books from the dust-covered shelf, and she casts a glance at him across the room. He blushes and notices how intently she's watching him, unreadable expression on her face. 

"Taking up Psych?" she says. 

"Nah, looks familiar. I think Chris has the same one."

"Oh," she says, "right." And her mouth works like she wants to say something else but then doesn't, turns away and goes to the kitchen without another word. He follows.

She empties the paper bag into the sink, apples bouncing there like tennis balls, filling the air with tangy fresh smell. He grabs one, peels it with a tiny and very sharp knife, cuts small pieces and feeds them to her, while she washes the rest. She takes a few pieces, tickling his fingers with her tongue when she does, but then gets annoyed waiting, shakes her hands dry into his face. He laughs. She takes another apple and bites through the skin right into it, tiny drops of juice spray from under her teeth. She eats it, making horrible crunching noises. 

It's a really hot day and they end up sprawling on the floor of her living room later, the bedroom being too far and too hot. Neither of them really wants to move anywhere, so they just lie there, stretching. The hardwood feels good against his back, which hurts from all the rehearsals. She lies beside him, tips her face to his shoulder. He keeps running his fingers over the skin of her stomach, tickling her just slightly, then moves his hand under her shirt, slowly upward, towards her breasts, then over her nipples. When she sighs and shivers, he turns over, pins her wrists with his hands, and presses against her. She closes her eyes. 

They fuck on the floor. She's still half-dressed and spread out under him, her fingers smelling of apples, touching his face. His lips over hers, and she tastes like apples too, and moans his name into his mouth, gasps, and whimpers when he slides down to lick the inside of her thigh. 

Later he kisses her shoulder, she smiles, and something collapses in his throat, feels raw and good and painful all at once. She lies with her head on his stomach and he plays with her hair. The day ends outside, filling the room with bluish haze that's not any cooler than the daytime sun. 

"And they say you're using me. Morons," he says and she laughs. 

"Who says- Oh never mind. Sure I am. Your awesome head-giving, for one." 

"It's not what I meant." 

"Who cares? Not like it's not true, anyway," she says and it should probably hurt, but it doesn't, somehow. Her voice is gentle and her hand is warm against his skin. And he thinks that he'd know if she wanted to hurt him. He'd know, because she'd make him know, make sure of it. It's the way she is, the way she does things. It's not that she's exceedingly honest; it's more like she can't be bothered with lies. 

"If we both get something out of it, I don't see the big deal," she says. He really should've known better than start this, he thinks, and lets the conversation drop. His head feels heavy, his eyes fall shut and she breathes so evenly, quietly, right there beside him. 

It's the longest relationship he's ever had. Sometimes he thinks it's the best one he ever will. It doesn't feel like a bad thing at all.

**

JC thinks if this were him and Bobbie breaking up, they'd all be happy.

Maybe not openly so, maybe not right away, but they would be. Would eventually say that he's better off and smile at him, pat his shoulder. He thinks this bitterly, instantly, when he first hears about Chris and Dani's break up and then feels guilty, of course, because what does it say about him, really. But it's not like he can change the way he feels. 

He's so sick of always being compared to them- and never, of course, in a good way-that he can't help but do it himself. He can't help but think that this break-up was a long time coming, and that if Chris didn't realise it, it wasn't for lack of warning signs. But JC says nothing about that.

It only figures that they'd be touring and doing the endless string of appearances, which means that there's only so far he can get away from Chris, and only for so long. JC curses Dani's timing for the millionth time over. 

Chris is so profoundly miserable that even his being an enormous ass to everybody doesn't stop any of them from trying over and over again. His outbursts seem to be getting worse and the week Bobbie flies over to visit, JC decides to give up, because there're only so many insults he can actually take without punching Chris in the face. Also, he's kind of afraid that Justin is going to get there before him, and he'd rather not be around when it happens. It's always been hard for JC to take sides. 

He's mostly good at avoiding talking about him with her, but it's not like he can completely ignore it. He could do without her gloating but Chris and his drama seem to dominate everybody's life, or JC's anyway. Which is not something she ever forgets to point out. So they end up having a stupid kind of fight that degenerates into a shouting match of 'fine's, which she wins. Then he tries to take out his frustration on the ice machine, but it's really his toes that get it, which hurts like hell. So he tries to use some of the ice on them. And then he jumps around the hallway like a complete moron trying to get the ice out of his sock, since putting it there ends up being the worst idea he's ever had.

When he comes back to the room, she's not there. 

His heart sinks, but a second later he feels silly for the momentary panic when he sees the flickering light of her cigarette through the balcony door. It's not cold, not exactly, but she's shivering in only her sweater. He puts his arms around her, rests his chin on the top of her head and feels her relax against him. 

"You're so fucking bony," she says and he smiles. 

The noise of the city traffic below is somewhat distracting, which is nice. He buries his face in her hair and the way it smells, the mixture of cold air, her shampoo and cigarette smoke is calming, familiar. He feels almost peaceful again. 

"You should go, check on him. He's probably done with the mini-bar," she says. 

"He doesn't want my stupid fucking pity. He doesn't want to see my fucking ugly face. And he, most fucking definitely, doesn't want to hear my fucking annoying voice," JC intones grimly and then sighs. "Nah, I just get on his nerves. Let J suffer tonight. Besides, you're here." 

"Your face's not that ugly," she says, a smile in her voice. 

"Thanks."

"Your voice though-" 

"Hey!" 

She laughs. 

"He does, you know. Want you around, feeling sorry for him and shit," she says later and so quiet that it seems like she doesn't really want him to hear. 

"Um. What?"

"People who don't want pity don't usually go announcing their break-ups on national television. Especially not fucking Chris."

"Since when do you know him so well, anyway?"

"I don't. I just think that he maybe-," she stops and takes a long drag, flicks her cigarette out over the railing; he watches the sparkles die in the dark blue of the night. And then her voice drops even lower, softer, "maybe he thinks he should feel worse than he does." She shrugs, but it feels like a shiver. "So if that's where you wanna be-"

He thinks, she's letting me go, and something breaks inside him at that, something twitches in his chest, makes him feel so incredibly shitty for all kinds of reasons he doesn't want to know himself. He bends his head to look at her, but her face is guarded, controlled, he can't read it at all. He turns her around, brushes his fingers over her cheek and she closes her eyes. He kisses her face, tucks loose strands of her hair behind her ears. 

He pulls her inside and she lets him. He knows her body so well that it doesn't take him long at all to coax low throaty moans out of her. He knows just how and where to touch, how to whisper in her ear and make her shudder. She lets him do that, too. 

In the morning he hears her get up, but doesn't open his eyes. He lies on his stomach, listens to the hushed noises she makes, getting ready, and inhales the smell of smoke and perfume left on the pillow. She stops at the door right before she leaves, marches back to the bed, heels of her shoes driving heavily into the carpeted floor, and pauses. JC freezes. 

She leans over. The tip of her hair brushes his back. It tickles and he has to force himself still. She sighs and presses her lips to his shoulder. It's not exactly a kiss, just a moment of skin contact. She turns her face, her cheek rests against his skin for another second and then she's gone. 

He smiles into the pillow and doesn't turn around. 

**

She invites him to her office party, once. He goes and expects to feel like he usually does when there's a bunch of people who want to meet him, but pretend they don't care. Instead, he feels mostly out of place, and they talk about things he doesn't understand, books he never read, people he never even heard of. 

There's a guy who brings her a drink, and something passes between the two of them when their shoulders bump and he smiles at her. She smiles back. JC flinches and turns to the wall. 

"You sleeping around on me?" he asks on the drive back and she looks away. 

"You?" she says, instead of an answer.

"Sometimes." 

"Right."

"So do you?"

"Not often."

"Don't, ok?"

"Okay," she says quietly, "okay." And doesn't ask him for anything in return. 



"-nicer." Justin pauses and then his elbow jabs into JC's ribs. He opens his eyes to look at him, wipes the sweat dripping from his hair. "You listening?" 

He wasn't. "Sorry. What's that?" Justin rolls his eyes. 

"Bobbie, dude."

"What about her?"

"You ever listen to me?" 

"Sure." JC smiles and Justin laughs. JC leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. 

"Anyway, as I was saying. Bobbie. She's like less of a bitch lately. What did you do? Buy her a new car?"

"Justin."

"Kidding. Kidding, man. But did you?" he says, and JC takes a swig from his water bottle, spits it out at him. "Ewwww, fucking gross, you asshole," Justin says and tries to get him back but there's no time. Wade is already shouting for them to get back to rehearsal. 



He comes back to the hotel from the venue one night and Bobbie is sitting there with Britney. JC doesn't even recognise her at first, not until she looks up and smiles at him. Her hair is blonde. 

"Doesn't it look great on her?" Britney says. "My stylist said she has gorgeous hair. And she said-"

"Sure. Thanks Brit, for sticking around and all," JC says. 

"Oh god, no problem. We had so much fun." Bobbie grins at him, and lets Britney babble on. 

She looks like somebody else, JC thinks. Like everybody else. He never tells her that, of course. 



"No man, come on. We gotta do it. The longer you wait, and all that crap-" Joey says as he walks in, ass first, opening the door with his shoulder, his elbow pressing on the handle. There's a coffee cup balancing precariously in a saucer in his hand, piece of toast and key card in the other, and a phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. JC watches him with a mix of horror and fascination from under his eyelashes, pretending to still be asleep. Joey plops onto his bed. The cup clunks against the saucer and threatens to fall, but doesn't. JC knows that Joey is a lot less clumsy than he always says he is, but sometimes it still surprises him to see that in action. He opens his eyes fully to the sunniest of Joey's smiles. 

"There," Joey says, shoves the cup to him, and then into the phone again, "gettin' his sleeping ass up." 

JC takes the cup, and his hand shakes. The coffee collected in the saucer spills onto the sheet. Joey grins at him, mouths 'loser'. JC grins back. 

"Yeah. See ya. And no pussying out either, you hear?" Joey says and pulls the covers away from JC. He spills some more coffee, calls him an idiot and squints at the sun outside. 

"So, lunch with your brother. Two hours. Bobbie's meeting us there," he says.

"Dude, I was sleeping. What's wrong with you? Why?" 

"'Cause you gonna kiss and make up. 'S family, man. It's important," he says and JC wants to argue but Joey's already half way out the door, yelling for Lance to wait up. 

JC had a fight with his brother about a month ago, and hasn't talked to him since. Bobbie's the only one he told, and mostly because her name for his brother is 'that asshole' and she couldn't care less that the two of them don't talk. He had never in a million years expected her to sell him out to Joey. 

Joey, whose idiotic idea of a perfect family relationship is to see as many of his relatives as possible and as often as possible. Joey, whose idiotic idea of great fun is fixing other people's families, and who'd love anybody who'd help him do it forever. It's not that JC doesn't want Joey to like Bobbie, it's just that- apparently, he kind of doesn't, at all. 

JC watches the coffee stain spread further and further on the white cotton sheet. 



"I take it back," Justin says through his smile and waves at Britney, who's already passed through customs and is waving back from behind the glass. If JC weren't standing right beside him, he'd never know that Justin was talking. His face exudes nothing but perfect sunshine. JC can talk like that too; it was one of the first tricks they learned back at MMC. 

"What?" he says. 

"All of it." 

"All of what? The fuck you talking about, J?" 

"Every single bad thing I ever said about your girlfriend. I take it back."

"Um. Okay. Why?"

"She's. Well. She's like. A good influence-on Brit. And stuff," he says and turns away, but JC can see his ear turn red, blush spreading onto his neck. Lance, beside him, starts choking on his coke. It takes JC a second to realise that he's trying to stifle a fit of laugher. 

"Oh fuck. She did it. She fucking did it. I can't. Oh my god, I can't fucking believe it," Lance croaks and doesn't seem to be able to stop laughing. "Ouch, C. Tell me, you didn't just fucking pinch me." JC glares at him until he starts explaining. "Your woman seemed to somehow get through to Miss Virgin USA. And. Oh fuck. This is too fucking- Justin! Would you two cut it with the pinching? What are you, five? So yes, as I was saying- ow! Blow jobs. A good thing- And no harm no- And our boy here-"

"I get it, I get it," JC says laughing and punches Justin's shoulder, then slaps his back, then ruffles his hair. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that Britney's already gone and probably missed the spectacle altogether. Last thing JC wants is to spend half an hour listening to how Bobbie is the greatest, and how she really gets Justin, and how she helps him with the girl's perspective on all his stupid idiot problems. 

He makes an excuse to leave in a separate cab.



"Oh yeah. That'll last," Bobbie says. 

"That's just fucking mean. They still care about each other."

"That," she says, "is not even the point." She looks right at him and something in her eyes makes him turn away, look at his hands. 

He tried to explain to her, once, that it's not that easy, that there are still things connecting Dani and Chris. FuMan is just one of them. That it's not such a big deal, even. That they are going to try to keep it going, break up or not, because it's important. Important to them both. Bobbie listened to him, let him talk without interrupting him once. The more he talked though, the less convincing he seemed to sound. And less convinced, too. So he doesn't try to do it again. 

"So you don't think-" she says eventually, then pauses, starts again, "you're meaning to tell me-,"and stops again, squints at something just above his head, her eyes shining and never meeting his, her voice gone soft and quiet. It's like she's forcing herself, pushes the words out of her mouth, when she finally says, "so you don't think, Chris would be better off if she just left. That it'd be easier. For him, anyway."

"Was his idea," he hears himself saying, "he wanted it," and it sounds odd to his ears. It sounds like a lie even though he knows it isn't; he's heard Chris say it enough times. 

"Oh, I'll bet he did," she says and changes the topic. JC never brings it up ever again. 

He tells Chris about it though. He kind of knows that Chris would probably be pissed at her, but does it anyway. It's not that JC agrees with Bobbie exactly, it's just. Well, it's Chris and JC doesn't want him to get hurt. 

"What the fuck does she know?" Chris says. "Fucking miserable bitch. I've no idea how you can even stand her." 

Chris seems to hate her even more now that everybody else seems to have stopped. JC doesn't think it should make him feel better. Except that it does. 



It's just a stupid argument, but she's letting him win it, and JC is so tired of her doing that lately that he keeps pushing, just on general principle. At the end she gets really mad, wouldn't even take his hand when they get out of the limo. It's been a long time since he wanted to touch her as much as he does that very second. 

"-are you? Oh my god. Can I take a picture? Please. Oh my good!" says the girl, whose braces shine in the sun, and almost drops the camera she fumbles for in her purse. 

"Sure," says Bobbie and smiles, dips her head to JC's shoulder, links her hand with his. 

They almost never fight in public now. And it's only sometimes that JC thinks back to when she used to get pissed off and wouldn't talk to him for weeks and her answering machine said, "fuck off and die", when he'd try to call her. He used to wonder, back then, if anybody else ever called her, if she cared at all that they did. 

He misses the way things were before. He shouldn't, it's much better now, it's what he asked for, what he wanted. But he misses them anyway. 

Her hand is cold and clammy. He wants to let go, but forces himself to squeeze it instead. She lets go of him as soon as they get inside. 

**

The thing about being together for a long time is that there's a routine for everything, including breaking up. It doesn't bother JC too much when she yells, 

"I'm leaving, you asshole. Have a nice life." He's used to it. 

"No you're not," he says when he hears the door slam shut behind her, waits for the screeching sound of tires when she speeds off his driveway. And there it is, loud enough for him to wince. 

Three days later and he's not mad anymore. He misses her. Or would miss her, if he'd let this stretch for much longer, which he's not about to do. He walks around the house, looks for her things to box. They've done this before; he knows how things work between them. He'll call and she won't answer. He'll come over with her stuff, as an excuse, and she'll open the door. He'll smile, say he's sorry-he isn't, really, because he's already forgotten the reason they fought, in the first place-and she'll let him in. Except-

- except that he can't find anything of hers in his house. 

Nothing at all. Sure, he's been touring and they've only spent a few weekends here all summer, but she always used to have her things here. Why would she take them? And when?

He's sure he saw a sweater or a jacket lying around only the other day. There still- 

-just a stain on the carpet where she once dumped her wet running shoes after getting caught in the rain. 

Or was it last week, then? 

A toothbrush? 

Or maybe last month. 

He slides down to the floor and stares inside the empty cardboard box, listens to strange sounds his empty house makes and feels nothing. He doesn't know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up cold and sore in the dark, swears when he stumbles over the box on his way to the bedroom. His voice sounds alien, distorted. 

When he calls her cell next morning the number is disconnected, and he has never been stupid. He knows her. He knows exactly what this means, what she wants it to mean. It's then that it hits him-she'd left him a long time ago. He didn't even notice. It's more painful than he ever thought it could be. 

He doesn't say anything to anybody, because nobody asks and he has no idea how to volunteer this kind of information. 



He knew it wouldn't last, and Justin looks at him carefully when he misses another step, frowns but says nothing. JC catches him elbowing Chris, though, pointing at JC with his chin. And fuck, he thinks, fuck. 

"So what's up," Chris says during the break. 

"Nothing you wouldn't find amusing," JC sneers and wrings his towel on his shoes. Chris steps away, but doesn't leave. 

"I don't get off on your misery, fuckwit," Chris says. 

"Sure you don't." JC rolls his eyes. Chris laughs, thinks he's joking. JC reads relief in his face. 

"Maybe sometimes," Chris says, and JC finally looks right at him. Chris's face contorts into the concerned expression again. "So you gonna tell me or what?"

"She's gone."

"Who?" Chris says. JC stares. "Oh. Wait. What d'you mean gone?" JC says nothing, at all. 

"Oh fuck, dude. Fuck. I fucking tol-" Chris starts, and JC makes a very comfortable mental peace with the idea of punching him in the face if he finishes that sentence, and then dealing with the consequences later, when he feels human enough to feel guilty. 

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry," Chris says instead. 

"Sure you are."

"I am too," Chris says and looks like he is. He puts a hand on JC's shoulder, his thumb presses to JC's collarbone, slides down JC's sweaty skin. JC shivers and wriggles away. 

"Fine. You're sorry. I feel so much better now. You fucking saved my life," JC says and knows it's not fair. He couldn't care less if he tried. 

Chris leaves him alone until they have to go back to finish the set. 



A couple of days later, Justin picks up where Chris left off, barges into the bathroom, hits JC with the door flying open. The bus shakes and JC slams his palms into the edge of the counter. It seriously hurts. Shit. 

"What the fuck, J. Knocking would kill you?" 

"Sorry, sorry, dude," Justin says, and JC wishes people would fucking stop saying they're sorry. "It's just that you've been here a while. And, like, no water. So you know. I thought-"

"Get the fuck out." And it's not like JC was hiding in here. Not really. He was just staring at his face in the mirror and trying to figure out who he reminds himself of. And then, when he did, he tried not to think of anything. He didn't realise it took a long time. 

Justin bites the inside of his cheek, cocks his head and squints at JC in the way that he probably thinks looks thoughtful and cool. Mostly Justin looks like an idiot, because that's what copying Chris usually does to people. This is not Justin's fault, JC thinks, then closes his eyes and counts. One thisisnothisfault two thisisnothisfault three thisisnothisfuckingfault four- 

"Look, C, I don't wanna-" Justin says. 

"Then don't," JC says through clenched teeth-five thisisnothisfault-and open his eyes. 

"Okay. But like. She's not even-," he starts.

JC feels the now familiar tension contract his throat. Six thisisnothisfau- Fuck this. He forces a smile and starts unbuttoning his fly. 

"-I mean like. Maybe you could-"

"Justin, in case you missed the first three hundred times. I don't wanna hear it," he says and starts pulling down his pants. "Do you mind?" 

"Oh fucking gross! Jesus. So she dumped you. Boo hoo. Doesn't mean you get be like a total asshole to people." 

"Seeing how nothing else gets you off my case. Also, good going, J. Thanks. I'm feeling much better now." JC's voice sounds whiny and high pitched, somebody else's voice. He turns to the toilet and pushes his pants down completely. 

"Oh fuck you, you fucking jerk. I was only trying-" JC can't hear the rest of it over the sound of the slamming door. He doesn't have to, to know what Justin says. JC's heard Justin say it all before, although not to him. He feels so damn tired. His knees shake. 

"Don't bother," he says quietly, pulls up his pants and leans his forehead against the mirror. He feels so desperately pathetic and sorry for himself that he figures since he screeches like a girl he might as well cry like one, too. He makes sure to lock the door first, though. In the end, he doesn't cry, anyway. Just stands there and watches his breath cloud the glass, distort his vision. 

He wishes he could hate her for all this, but mostly he just misses her. 



It's not like he doesn't see her ever again, because of course he does. Saying something is over doesn't make it so. Neither do slamming doors or dramatic exits. This is life. It has rules. His probably more than anybody else's. The only good thing about it is that he's the one who made all the rules. He just has to remember that. And live with it. In retrospect, it doesn't make anything better. 

There are his things she shows up for, because she promised ages ago. After all, she's less of a backstabbing bitch than she wants people to think. The newest PR girl relaxes, stops looking like she's swallowing questions she's too afraid to ask and fidgeting nervously during meetings. Somehow it only makes JC feel worse. 

There are Bobbie's things he goes to, also, and smiles like nothing has happened, because that's what he does, who he is. It's almost not weird at all, to stand with her outside, waiting for her to finish a smoke. It's like nothing has changed. They even talk sometimes, though mostly they don't. Sometimes, he almost forgets that they're not anything to each other these days, and grabs her hand, lets his thumb brush over the soft skin of her wrist. She always steps aside, pulls her hands away, when he does that. 

It reminds him, in an assbackwards way, of how it was with the guys in the very beginning, when they all had been stuck in Lou's dumb dream house, pretending that they'd been friends for ages, learning their parts. Sometimes JC listened to Lance's stupid school stories and pretended that he cared, that Jason hadn't been here before, that he wasn't at all afraid that tomorrow there might be somebody else entirely. 

Sometimes JC went outside with Chris, where Chris pretended that he was quitting and each cigarette was his last, and JC pretended that they had something to say to each other. Painfully awkward at first, but at some point they almost started believing it themselves. Then they pretty much forgot that it was all a lie. It stopped feeling like one a long time ago. 



It's kind of surreal that the last thing they do together is write relationship advice article for her column, but it pretty much figures. Ironic, but fitting too, in some cosmically fucked up karma punishment way. He tries to joke about it, but what comes out is awkward and stupid and not funny at all. He shuts up, concentrates on making his answers sound like truth. 

Just the two of them in her quiet office and it's a different kind of breaking-up, finality in the making. There're no doors slamming shut, no screaming, but he can feel it in every word she says, in every nervous tap of her finger on the desk. He feels tired, hollowed out and, for some reason, almost sleepy.

It's like being stuck in some weird limbo. One second he feels all cramped up and empty inside, because this is it. This is him never getting to be with her, ever. And then, the very next second, she leans in, reaches out with her hand across the desk to grab the sheet of paper he is jotting his answers on, and their foreheads touch. And because he doesn't even think before he does it, he reaches out to tuck a fallen strand of her hair behind her ear. 

"Don't," she says and shakes her head. Before her hair covers it, he catches a glimpse of her face, tears glazing over her eyes. She forces them back, ugly harsh set to her jaw. All the nasty things she's about to say flashing in her shining narrowing eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he mumbles and jerks his hand away. 

"So," she says when they've gone through all the questions and there's no real reason for him to be here much longer. 

"Um. I guess should," he says and stops, swallows. "Maybe go." 

"Yeah," she says, "you probably should." 

And neither of them moves. 

Her phone rings, and he's saved by the bell. Sort of, except not exactly. 

"No," she tells somebody, "not yet. I don't know, okay? Fine. Just give me a minute," and then to him, "I have to step out. It's just down the hall." 

He almost asks who else is here so late on a Friday night. And why. And how do they even know she's still in the office. Then remembers it's none of his business. 

"Yeah," he says, "Okay. So. I'm gonna then-" and he makes to get up, presses his palms to the handles, rises from the chair.

"It's not. I mean it is, but." She sighs. "It'll take a few minutes. Can you just. Wait, maybe? Can you wait for me? Here." she says. He sinks back into the chair again. 

"You sound like me," he says, because she kind of does, and also just to say something. 

"Sometimes." She smiles, but the look in her eyes makes him wish he said nothing. 

It hurts something fierce to recognise himself in the way she talks, in the way she moves even, in the way she touches her hair. Hurts to know that sometimes he sounds exactly like her. Sometimes, he can hear her edge in his jokes, her mocking notes in the tone of his voice. They're losing it now, and neither of them will ever be whole. It seems like she's thinking exact same thing, because she stops in front of the door, one hand paused on the door handle, presses the other to her forehead, covers her eyes. He can see her lower lip beginning to tremble. She bites on it, hard. 

"Oh fuck this," she says, "this is just too fucking much," and her whole body shudders. "Just wait for me." 

Reality comes crashing back at him when she's gone. He thinks-knows-he should just go, that if he left now, it would be better. Maybe even easier, if only a little. But then, there's this awful lingering hope. He feels it sinking its hooks into him, making his hands squeeze the chair handles harder. He knows he's a coward for it, but he waits for her to come back anyway, catches himself forgetting to breathe, listening to the sounds of her approaching steps. 

She pauses behind the door and he wonders if she's hoping that he left or if she's hoping that he's still here. She comes in, and he still can't tell. She walks into the office and sits down on her desk instead of the empty chair, slides right in front of him. He takes that as a good sign. A bunch of papers fall, rustling, on the floor.

"I don't wanna do this," he says but can't even look at her face, looks at her white knuckled hands, clutching the edge of the desk, instead. 

"Don't make it sound like it's all my fucking fault." she says and there's a familiar challenge in her voice. It sounds calm, but he hears the higher pitch in it, almost hysterical undertones. 

"That's not what I meant. I just thought that maybe we could. Maybe we could try- "

"It's like they always said, you deserve better," she says, and he knows by the now angry lilt in her voice that she means, he's not good enough. JC always had trouble arguing with that. 

"I know," he says and she jerks her head up, looks at him and knows exactly what he meant. 

"Maybe we could just try to. Like, be civil. Friends, I don't know. Maybe we could do that. Because it's like, I can't. It's just that without you-"

"Don't-"

"I don't even fucking remember how it was before you, okay?" 

"Yes, I fucking know," she says and sounds so broken that he can't even look at her, so he keeps looking down. 

Her dress is folded around her thighs, pooled between her slightly parted legs, hiked up over one knee. He means to force himself to look back at her face, but somehow can't take his eyes away from that patch of tanned skin, the small shadowed hollow beside the bone. He wants to touch her. 

He looks up, finally. She licks her lips. He inhales.

When he meets her eyes, there's nothing but want there. She's trembling, he notices, and then realises that he's shaking, too. She inhales another ragged breath and then closes her eyes and it's something he recognises. An invitation. And time stops, or accelerates, he's not really sure. Or cares. His hands are already on her, moving over her knees, under her dress. 

Her skin prickles in goosebumps under his palms as he reaches further up her thighs. She slides off the desk into his lap, pushes her body forward until it collides with his almost violently. The heat between her legs burns even through the layers of clothes. And it feels a whole lot better than good. He knew he missed her, and missed her, and missed her, but he didn't quite know just how much, until she throws her head back and bares her throat to his mouth. The way her skin smells, and a totally different and painfully familiar way her skin smells when he wets it with his tongue, makes him dizzy with want. 

He trails kisses down, licks her skin, bends his neck in the most improbable and painfully uncomfortable angle to suck her nipple into his mouth, moving the layers of fabric out of the way with his face. He's clumsy and rushing and not at all careful and yanks too hard on the flimsy material of her underwear. She gasps and he touches the already forming welt on her skin gently, before sliding his fingers inside, afraid to pause, to stop touching her for a second, afraid she might snap out of it, push him away. 

He knows what she wants, what she likes, but it's still a shocking surprise when she comes, and then comes apart shaking, grips his shoulders, digging her fingers into his skin, scratching him, bruising. Deep down, he thinks, wanting to hurt. 

"Oh god," she says, and stills motionless, rigid. And then moves away from him so quickly, his hands fist around the air where her arms have just been. She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes and, 

"Oh fuck," she says, "fuck."

And even if his body still trembles, pettily begrudging her coming and leaving him painfully hard and only half way there, he's not. The way she looks, completely undone and broken, it's just. God. She's shattered into pieces and he has never seen her like this. He did that. 

All the pain that he feels and now he knows he deserves every bit of it. She presses her thighs together, wraps her arms around herself and shivers, leaning against the desk. He doesn't know what to do, what to say, and does nothing, trying to catch his breath, slow down the blood still pumping viciously in his veins. 

"Get out," she says, "just get the fuck out." 

"Oh come on. Wait-"

"For what? You know that no matter what we say now, we'll always end up right here. You fucking know it, and don't you dare lie to me that you don't. This is what we've always been to each other. And don't fucking bother denying it." 

"Don't say that, it wasn't always like this-" 

"Neither of us wants to hear the reasons we got into this in the first place, JC." Her voice is vicious. He knows she means to inflict all the pain that she feels. "And neither of us really wants to say it out loud, either."

She's right, but.

"It's just," he says, "it's just that I missed you. So fucking much."

"Good. Because you fucking deserve it," she snaps, nasty and cruel. But then gives up, all strength leaving her at once and she slumps against her desk, closes her eyes. 

"I know."

"Yeah, well. Me too. And don't tell me it hurts, because you don't know the half of it."

"I know."

"No. You fucking don't."

"I know," he says and means it. Silence hangs between them dead and empty, broken only by the distant sounds of the office white noise and the traffic outside. 

"I'm sorry," she says, finally. And he can tell she means it this time too.

**

So, it's over. So, he got his closure. It should mean he's done with her, but it turns out that "over" doesn't mean shit, because he's still thinking about her and thinking about her and thinking about her. It comes as sharp as pain, randomly, unexpectedly turning his stomach, stinging muscles of his clenched jaw. He ignores it, until he can't. When it becomes unbearable, all he wants is to hear her voice, just once. It doesn't sound like asking too much.

He calls her. 

His heart beats in his throat too fast and too loud when he dials the number and his hands shake and he almost hangs up when he hears her voice. But doesn't, at the end. She doesn't, either. Maybe because he's calling her work. 

It goes all right. They talk about nothing and even laugh a few times. And yeah, so he knows it's bad, so he knows he shouldn't, but. 

He calls her again, anyway. It really doesn't mean anything much, he decides. 

After about four phone calls, a pretty crappy lunch, and a sort of fun dinner they end up sleeping together. 



"If we're going to do this," she says the time after the next one-or the one after that, he really doesn't know how many times it has been-staring at the ugly print on the wall just left to his head, tracing the wheel of the room-service cart with her outstretched toe, "we might as well get back together." 

He looks at her, startled. She laughs.

"It's not funny," he says. 

"Sure it is," she says, but stops laughing. He notices how the perfect gloss of the silvery surface of her toenail matches the steel of the wheel exactly. "Do you think it'd make you happy if we-" 

He doesn't let her finish, shifts out of tangled up sheets and off the bed to sit beside her, puts his hand on her thigh, and says, 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"I know," she says. "Me neither."

He swears to himself he's never gonna do it again. 



They fuck in his dressing room, when he comes to LA. 

Her teeth graze the skin of his shoulder and his knee hurts like a motherfucker afterwards, from banging into the ridge of the counter. She doesn't even stay for the show. He doesn't really ask her to, either. She leaves without saying a word, her face perfectly hollow and still, expressionless. 

He knows her cell number again and when he calls her in the middle of the night she's always alone. He slept with three other people last month, but can't remember their faces, or names. He doesn't remember feeling this lonely for a very long time. 

When she's gone he sits in the chair in the middle of the room, not wanting to touch anything, feeling like nothing can touch him. He knows he's cutting too close to the show, but keeps watching the happily-yellow display of his watch counting out minutes, unable to move. There's a harsh rapping and his door flies open, letting in an explosion of colour and sharp powdery smell of make-up. Chris half-leans in inside, holding on to the doorframe and then stops, looking surprised that he actually found JC here. 

"What the fuck C," Chris says, "we're waiting." His eyes take in JC's face, the mess on the counter, used rubber in the trashcan underneath. He pauses, his mouth works for a second. "She was here," he finally says. 

There's no question in it for JC to answer. 

"I don't get you," Chris says. 

"Since I give a fuck," JC says, not lifting his eyes off his still-trembling knees. 

"Okay, tell me. D'you like get off on being treated like shit?"

"If I did, I'd be dating you." 

Chris winces. "Y'know what, asshole. Fine. Do whatever, see if I give a fuck," he says, turns on his heels, ready to leave, then twists around again, "we're on in five, in case you still care. Oh, and Lance's worried you're sick."

"Chris," JC says when Chris's hand is on the door handle already.

"Yeah?"

"You too. Didn't you. You still. You know. With Dani." JC's voice sounds sharp, accusing. He didn't mean for it to, he doesn't think, but. 

"Fuck you," Chris says, and leaves without looking at him again. 

JC makes no promises to himself. 



Instead every time he wants to call her, he forces back the memory of her hollow face, of his own smarting knee, of the cold emptiness spreading inside him. There's this aching pain or recognition in it, the one that cuts sharper, deeper than memory. It touches him in long forgotten places he didn't know could hurt anymore. It makes him feel scared, but not in the way where he's afraid that something might happen. In a totally opposite way, where he feels like nothing ever will, like nothing ever has. 

He goes back to Orlando and lets Joey sucker him into excruciatingly loud and chokingly warm family dinners, lets Justin take him to clubs, lets Lance fill his house with people and parties and booze. They're trying to help and JC lets them. He doesn't care all that much, but it makes everybody happy, so he goes with it, and gets used to the noise and constant presence of people again. There's some sort of vague familiarity in it all, but dwelling on it makes him feel restless, uneasy. So he doesn't. 

It's not until later that it occurs to him that he is feeling okay. He's surprised that not seeing her actually worked, but there it is. It hasn't been that long, but he feels different, better. 

Free, he realises when he finally lets himself think about it long enough. It's been days and weeks of being afraid to let his mind wander, to let himself picture her face. But now, suddenly, he feels reckless ready and tries. It comes back kind of blurry, which is a little strange; it really hasn't been all that long. It makes him feel guilty, a little. But not all that much, after all. 



"Thought I'd find you here," Chris says. 

JC squints up at him from where he sits on the floor tapping out the rhythm of whatever it is that's blasting through the speakers downstairs. He and Chris, they're not fighting. They never really do. It's just that things are still a little bit weird, tense, after Chris saw JC that last time with Bobbie. But then, aren't things always weird between them? 

"It's my bedroom," JC says. 

"And your party."

"Not really."

"Lance?"

"Yeah."

"So what, you just gonna sit here?" JC shrugs. Chris slides down beside him and only then asks, "Mind company?"

"Yes," JC says and Chris laughs. He starts bopping his head to the music and the skin of his shoulder, where it's pressed into JC's, is very very warm. 

JC's always done best making up by pretending he wasn't upset in the first place. There's even some sense of petty revenge of it too, in making Chris think he'd never gotten to him in the first place. Chris never called JC on it, not once, but JC knows that's what bothers Chris most about him. It's among things they never talk about, not ever. 



He runs into Bobbie months later, in a mill of people of some bullshit industry something. 

There're still rumours about her getting her own show, but he knows nothing will come of it, because this is how things work. At first he thought she'd call. Then he meant to talk to her, offer. But she never called, and if there's one thing he's learned it's that people have to make their own choices. And that she made hers. 

She moves through the crowd, mingles, and then pauses, smiling, really smiling, at somebody he can't see. And it's not that it bothers him, not exactly, it just that before he even knows it, he's right there, behind her, touching her shoulder. She turns and her smile slowly slides off her face. 

She doesn't say hello. Neither does he. 

"I'm sorry about your show," he says and she laughs, shrill and joyless. 

"If you want, I can tell them we're, you know. It'd help if they thought that you and me, we're still-."

"I'm happy," she says and looks straight at him, the way she used to look at him in the very beginning, before everything.

"I'm just trying-," he says and his hand flies to hers in what he means to be a reassuring comforting touch. Her face, it changes instantly, briefly, looks vulnerable and open for only a second and then she steps back. His hand falls, and he shoves it deep into his pocket. She lets out a sigh. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "About. You know. All of it. It was me, not you."

"That" she says, "I've always known." 

"I'm sorry," he says again. 

"And isn't that a bitch," she says and leaves without saying goodbye. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chris turning away, calling after Justin. It's funny, JC thinks, and he didn't even realise it, but he knew Chris was watching him, all this time. JC pushes through the crowd towards them. 



The crook of Chris's arm slides around JC's neck and he flexes the muscles of his forearm just enough for it to hurt him. JC turns his face towards him and smiles. Chris smiles back, his mouth curving in his perfectly still face, looking right through JC. JC tosses his head and lets his hair brush over Chris's eyes, make him blink rapidly. His eyes redden and water. There's no time for Chris to do anything about it and the camera snaps and blinds them both. 

"The fuck is wrong with you two," says Justin, as he comes from behind, rests his arms around their shoulders, squeezes. The stubble of his cheek scratches JC's ear. JC can't see him, but he knows that Justin's mouth is stretched in the smile that never falters. 

JC says, "nothing," at the same time as Chris launches into a hissing account of JC being a pussy and a clingy asshole. The camera snaps again, and JC gloats, inwardly, that it's going to be a really shitty picture of Chris. 

"Fuck off, Chris man. Not fucking now," Justin sounds a little concerned. JC says nothing, continues smiling and biting the inside of his cheek. 

"So where's she waiting? Her hotel, yours?" Chris says and JC can almost feel the pain in his knuckles as if he'd actually hit Chris already. 

Of all the things he wants to say to Chris now, "fuck off you fucking asshole," is the only one he can barely manage. 

"Oh wait, you're just friends then, right? Because she's been such a great fucking friend all along."

"Know all about not fucking your friends, Chris?" is the last thing JC says before smiling for the camera again, a little apologetically, and making his way to the bathroom. 

Just a few people there; thankfully, nobody he recognises. He locks himself inside of the last stall, rests his head against the cold plastic and waits for them to leave. Lonnie followed him and JC figures nobody would be coming inside until he comes out. 

He's wrong. 

The door flies open, the handle hitting the wall. Chris. JC thinks about not coming out, hiding, but then it occurs to him that he's done with that. So he does some door slamming of his own, but has to grudgingly admit that it's infinitely less dramatic if done with the stall door. It doesn't seem fair somehow. He walks to the counter without looking at Chris, leans against it, presses his palms into the ridge. 

"What d'you want?" JC says, because somebody has to say something, eventually. 

"Look," Chris says and JC looks at his own reflection in the mirror. Then at Chris, fidgeting nervously behind his shoulder by the door, at his clenching and unclenching fists. 

"You were right," Chris says and in better circumstances JC would make a big show of making Chris repeat it at least twice. But not now. Now, he just lets Chris go on. "It's none of my fucking business. So can you just. Can we just, like, forget it? Because the important thing is. Because, you know I love you man, right?"

"Yeah, whatever," JC says, because he's not really angry. He's something else entirely. Though, he can't quite articulate it, not yet. But it's there, inside him, coiling up like a spring, wanting to snap. 

"So, we're okay," Chris says and looks at him, waiting. 

"Yeah," JC says, and turns to him. "Sure."

"And you're not mad?" 

He sighs. "No. Well. Maybe a little. But no. Not really." 

Chris smiles, rolls his eyes. "As long as you're sure now."

"Yeah." JC smiles back and Chris nods, comes closer, grabs his hand. 

"Great. So, friends?" 

And JC starts saying, "yeah, fr-" and looks down. Chris's fingers are still wrapped tightly around his wrist, a warm ring of his skin heating up JC's. JC says something, but only when Chris repeats after him, 

"No?" does he realise what.

And why. 

"No," JC says again and takes a step forward.


Interlude. 

He first met Chris at Lynn's house. 

He walked into the kitchen saw Chris and stopped in the doorway, not quite knowing what to do, what to say. Justin stumbled behind him, pushed him inside. 

Lynn turned off the water, turned away from the sink, put a bowl of apples on the table. 

"Help yourselves, boys," she said. "Chris, this is JC. The boy I told you about." 

JC stood there, smiling, watched Chris take a bite of his apple, put it back on the table, wipe his hand off on his jeans and extend it to him. 

"Hi," he said, "I'm Chris. J here says you can sing." 

JC read all the warnings in Chris's smiling face and his not at all smiling eyes, and "um. Yeah," he said, "yeah."



"See this," Chris said later and ran his hand through his hair, took a long drag of his cigarette and squinted at the passing by traffic, "-can't happen." 

JC didn't really see anything, but nodded anyway, sat down beside him on the steps of Lynn's porch. 

"I--" Chris started again, and his voice cracked. JC realised it wasn't easy for Chris to say this, painful even, maybe. "I don't do this shit- I don't fuck with my friends, see." Chris's face twisted and it looked like it hurt a lot. It made JC feel better somehow, though not much. 



He first met Chris the night before at the club. 

It wasn't a gay club exactly, just a place known to offer good odds at getting a blowjob in the men's room. LA had been full of places like that, but it was different here. Here JC had to ask. He asked Joey and worried a little, because he wasn't sure he could. But Joey smiled at him, gave him the address. 

"Just be careful, man, 's all I'm saying. There's all kinds there, so you know, watch out. Maybe I'll see ya there, later," Joey said, and JC sighed with relief, smiled back. 

"Never seen you around," said the guy leaning against the bar, and JC thought that was a pretty shitty one as far as pick-up lines went.

"And what? You seen everybody?" he said, then looked at the guy and stopped talking. 

"Seen enough," the guy said and touched his hand. "I'm Chris." 

And JC didn't know exactly how it happened but then Chris was standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body and JC couldn't tear his eyes from the dip of the pale skin above Chris's t-shirt where his collarbones meet. 

"Oh, hey Chris," somebody behind him said. "How's the thing going with Lou?"

"'S all good, D, all good," Chris said, wincing. He shook his head, dark hair falling in his face, like he just remembered where he was, looked around. 

"Not here, " he said, "See I got this thing. I gotta be careful, 'cause you know- " JC looked down and Chris was still holding his hand, fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist. He nodded, and didn't want Chris to let go. It wasn't that different from LA really, JC thought, where everybody's got a thing going they gotta be careful about. JC was hoping that he'd have this kind of thing soon, too. 

An air conditioner was humming somewhere in Chris's apartment but it clearly wasn't doing much, judging by how hot it was, not that JC cared. He didn't even really care to make it to the bed, pushed Chris against the wall, shoved his knee between Chris's and a hand down his pants. Chris whimpered, his eyes went wide and his mouth twisted when it pressed into JC's. Chris slid his own hand between their bodies and, "oh god," JC said, "Chris." 

"Gonna see you again, right?" JC said breathless and shuddering, kissing the corner of his mouth, sucking on his lip, coming all over his hand and touching him, touching.

"Maybe. Yes. God. That, do that again." JC did and Chris came, too. 

"Wait," he said when JC was leaving, "my number. Here." And after JC kind of figured that before was just sex talk it was nice to realise that maybe it wasn't. JC thought, he really didn't want it to be.



"Right," JC said, "sure," and closed his eyes. Chris was sitting so close that even with the cars rushing by JC could hear the rustle of the paper of his cigarette burning through, when he inhaled. 

"Since we gotta be that," he said and put his hand just above JC's knee, "friends." 

Chris levered himself off JC's leg then and went back in the house. JC felt his weight was still pressing down on him long after Chris was gone, the skin where Chris touched him still burning hot. When JC went back inside, Justin was talking and Chris was laughing. 

"Chris, you have got to stop," said Lynn and Chris looked at him, briefly. JC almost winced at the pain he saw in his eyes. "Honey, you know it's not good for your voice, for your future." 

"Also," Justin said, "you stink, man." 

"Yeah, yeah. Sure, mom," Chris turned to Lynn and grinned at her, locked an arm around Justin's neck and rubbed his hair. 

"Quit it, you ass," Justin said, laughing. 

JC offered Lynn to help with the dishes.



The house Lou put them in had a closet where JC jabbed his shoulder into a rusty coat hook so hard he almost screamed but instead bit into Chris's palm, hard enough to draw blood. 

"Fucking stray," Chris told Justin, "bit my hand right through." 

"Let me see, you fucking liar," Justin said and Chris smacked his forehead. 

"Yeah, right. 'Cause I want you to faint, fuckwad."

JC didn't have to lie about the bruise on his shoulder at all; rehearsals left enough of them all over his body. 



Germany was full of tiny rooms smelling of new carpet and old sweat, and sometimes JC could smell it on Chris's skin when they sang into the same mic during shows. 

"This. Fuck. Have to stop this-," Chris said, a day before they were going back to the States, breathing hard and rugged. He was supporting himself against the wall with an arm bent in the elbow; his palm clenched into a fist. JC bent his head, licked the salty skin of his neck, pushed faster, harder against him. 

"Right," JC said, because Chris was right, and then felt his throat collapse, as his body collapsed against Chris's. Chris moved too fast and too awkward, twisted his neck, turning back to look at JC. 

"Fuck," Chris hissed rubbing it with the hill of his palm. 

"We have to," he said again later, zipping his pants and not looking at JC. JC nodded and couldn't even stop looking at him. 

________________________________

One step and the world they so carefully constructed around each other, crumbles. JC lets it. He wants it to. 

Which, of course, isn't exactly true, but fuck it. Fuck it all, because right now there's nothing more important than the shadowed hollow of Chris's throat and the corner of his lips twitching just slightly, unsure whether it wants to curl down in a frown or up in a smile. Fuck it all to hell for now, because just a second ago JC was afraid that Chris doesn't, but he looks up, eyes dark and wide with want, and Chris wants him. JC remembers the look, the look he's never ever forgotten for one second. 

Reach out touch me, a song from long ago sings in his head, stuck in the never-ending loop. And that, really, is all he wants to do. 

His mind stops racing and falls into thick cottony quiet the instant his fingertips finally touch Chris's skin and he closes the distance between them. Or maybe it's just that his heart starts beating too fast and too loud for JC to even hear his own thoughts, slamming against the ribcage like it wants to jump out and get into Chris's. The heat of the contact is burning JC bright and right down to nothing, and he doesn't remember last time he wanted his life to be demolished to nothing this much. 

JC leans in closer, lets their bodies align and marvels for a second at how perfectly his thigh fits right between Chris's in one fluid motion, like it's all a part of choreography his body has never forgotten. JC rolls his hip in a slow tentative circle and Chris's choked whimpers send shivers down his spine. And there's this dangerous moment, where Chris can still stop him, push him away, say something. JC presses against him as tight as he can, touches his face, and watches his eyes fall shut when JC fists his hands in his hair. 

JC tips his face to Chris's, kisses the soft pale skin of his eyelids, licks the rough stubble of his cheek and then pries his lips open with his own, pushes his tongue inside. They earned it, JC thinks viciously. Paid for this moment, for this pristine bathroom with its chokingly artificially sweet smell that's probably called Natural Peach or some such bullshit, for Lonnie to stand behind the door and for never again having to say, "not here." Paid with years of concentrating on one thing only. 

It was the choice that they made, but they both paid for it with all the people they'd squashed between them, people they broke and people who broke them, people who found ways into their lives and then took parts of them with them, when they left. This is life, and it doesn't stop when you push away something you really want, it adjusts. And now JC wants it to stop adjusting. 

He wants to say all that, coherently, concisely, tell Chris, explain, but his mouth is way too busy being crushed against Chris's, his tongue tied up in the wonderful task of brushing against his tongue, his throat completely occupied letting out strained hoarse moans. Still, he almost tries but then there's the sweet sweet not-quite-pain of Chris's cock rubbing against his and JC half gives up, half decides that they both have always understood what they didn't say best.

It didn't seem at all possible until Chris grabs on to him, slams him into the wall, and brings them even closer together. His palms burn hot on the small of JC's back, crushed between him and the wall, but somehow still skating over the skin restless, up under JC's shirt and then down, pushing tugging at clothes, belts, buttons. JC couldn't possibly wish for better kind of understanding and he presses in, greedy for contact, for skin touching skin. 

He stumbles and almost falls, his feet get tangled up in something-his own pants, Chris's, he's not even sure- trying to sidestep and keep standing upright. But then Chris wraps a hand around his cock, and holy shit it feels good. JC hisses into Chris's mouth what could be either Chris or yes or please, which doesn't even matter since all words have only one meaning right now. JC wants to fall on his knees and suck, smell, taste; wants Chris's mouth on him. All at the same time, all of it simultaneously and right fucking now, but of course it'll have to wait, seeing how he can't even tear his hands away from Chris's face. So he just pushes into Chris's fist over and over, because everything else requires way too much coordination and they've just barely worked out the logistics of not falling down. 

JC wants to think that they both come at the same time, but to be honest, he has absolutely no idea, because the world goes completely blindingly blessedly blank and muted when JC does. Chris's breath is even and heavy, so he must have too, but he still doesn't seem to be able to stop moving-typical Chris. His hips push against JC's in slow wave-like rocking, which feels like tingling of the same not-quite-pain that delivers them both from mute feverish haze to lazy awareness that slowly fills in with sounds. Chris shifts his weight, slumps against him. 

"Oh fuck," he says, his breath tickling JC's throat. Chris is a heavy warm weight pushing him into the wall, and the only thing that's keeping him upright at the same time.

"Yeah. No shit," JC says into his sweaty forehead, feels a wrinkle form under his lips. 

"You know that this- This doesn't mean that we- "

"Chris," he says, "shut the fuck up," and sounds only half as irritated as he actually feels. 

Sex never solves anything, anyone knows that. Except for when it does. Except for when all you're looking for is just a hint of a maybe. He has no idea how to convince Chris of that, or why he even needs to be convinced in the first place. Weren't they on the same page just seconds ago?

"Maybe," Chris says, "we shouldn't 've. Maybe we should-"

Oh, fuck you, JC thinks, speechless. Fuck them both for being cowards and fuck all the stupid excuses they constructed together to screw themselves over into this kind of half-life. Next thing Chris'll be telling him that this friendship means too much to him, that he doesn't want to hurt JC, and JC is so sick and tired of lies, of lying to each other and to himself. How can Chris not see that of all people past present and future he'd rather Chris be the one to hurt him? That he's perfectly willing to risk it all, on account of one slight chance that Chris might end up being the one who doesn't?

Chris doesn't even look at him, moves away, starts fidgeting with his shirt, then bends over and grabs his pants from where they pool around his ankles. His shirt hikes up a little, baring a strip of pale white skin of the small of his back still glistening with sweat. JC can almost taste the warm salty taste of it filling his mouth. He doesn't want to argue, he realises, and doesn't want to try to prove anything anymore. It shouldn't be this hard. Why doesn't Chris just let him, just let it be easy for once. Chris has no fucking idea how to be happy.

And then oh, JC thinks, that. 

Chris pulls his pants up and there's a huge dark stain just left of the fly. "Oh fuck," he says and grabs handful of paper towels from the dispenser. But the paper towels seem to be the wrong kind for that sort of thing. Not the cheap hard brown paper but the white flimsy one that's supersoft to your skin, but evidently falls apart and rolls into tiny balls when you try to clean spunk off wool. JC can only see a side of Chris face, but he can see him biting his lip and notices his hands shake a little. 

"You could take 'em off and wash the stain," JC says. 

"Then they'd be wet."

"Yup."

"I need something to wear, you moron. And where-"

"Or we could just wait till it dries." 

"Here?"

"Mmhmm."

"You want to sit here and wait?"

"Yup," JC says and slides down on to the floor. He stretches his leg and kicks at Chris's shoe. Chris's face collapses and twists into something unreadable for a second. JC's heart twitches, because he can never be sure with Chris. But then Chris smiles the smile that lights up his whole face and reaches his eyes, and JC can practically feel it touch his own face, too. He smiles back. 

"Oh what the hell," Chris says and starts taking his pants off again. 

"So now what do we do, smartass?" he says, minutes later, when his pants are lying on the counter under the dryer, spunk stain replaced with much bigger water stain. JC grins at him and pats the floor. Chris grins back and sits down, leans against the wall beside him. JC shoves at Chris's shoulder with his. 

"My ass is fucking cold, for the record," Chris says.

"You could sit in my lap," JC says, magnanimously, and Chris laughs, and then bends his head, licks the skin under JC's jaw. He shivers and tries to suppress a giggle, but can't. And doesn't really want to. 

"I could," he says. And then-simple as that-he grabs JC's shoulders, levers himself, shifts his ass on to JC's thighs, wiggles tentatively and then puts one of his legs around him, lifts himself up, a little, and JC gasps, shuddering. 

Choreography, JC thinks, the body never forgets. 

"I have no fucking idea," JC says, which feels like a decent answer to the question he's not sure Chris even remembers asking. He feels Chris's lips curl in a smile against the skin of his throat and that's easy enough. And right now, in this very moment, it's perfect. 

Over his shoulder, JC can see Chris's pants slide from under the dryer into the still wet sink.