Fiction: Best Laid Plans 2

[solafiamma]

Best Laid Plans
Part 2
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Since then, JC has had sex with Chris a total of seven times. They don't talk about it. They've never talked about, but they don't really need to. It just kind of happens, and then suddenly everything's back to normal. None of those awkward moments of wondering if the person is going to stay the night, no strained conversation over the cereal the next morning. They just slide right back into the regular groove of their friendship. Sometimes Chris leaves after the sex, sometimes he stays the night. Even when he does spend the night, though, he's always up before JC, and never talks about anything weird when JC finally drags himself down to the kitchen in search of coffee. Which is kind of weird in itself, really. It's like Chris just dropped by to help him with his taxes and then stayed over when it took longer than he'd expected. Except that he'd never ask Chris to help him with his taxes. Lance, maybe -- well, Lance definitely -- but not Chris. But if he did, they'd probably talk about the taxes the next morning, at least in passing.

It's always Chris who initiates the sex, too. JC has wanted to, has had every intention on several occasions of being the one to get things going. The problem is, he doesn't know how. It's really, really stupid because if there's one thing he's never uncomfortable talking about or asking for, it's sex. He knows Chris better than he knows his own family, he's sucked his dick, he's had his tongue in Chris' ass, for god's sake. It really shouldn't be such a stretch to make the first move once in a while.

For some reason, though, he just can't seem to get the proposi tion out of his brain and into the room. He'll be right on the edge of asking, rolling the words around in his mouth until they feel sweet and right like Werther's candies, and then Chris will raise his eyes, and JC will have to swallow them back. Or he'll reach out to give Chris a good grope, hoping a non-verbal approach might be a little easier, but he'll panic at the last minute and have to yank his hand back or pretend to be swatting a fly away from Chris' crotch or something. He doesn't know if Chris is fooled, not really. He'll look steadily at JC, maybe hint of a laugh hovering beneath the surface, but he'll let the moment pass without comment.

At first, JC figured it was just some random thing, like one minute they'd be talking about football and feng shui and the next minute they'd be rolling around on the bed or under the kitchen table. Since then he's come to believe that there are rules at play. The problem is, JC doesn't know what they are. Chris made them, Chris keeps them, and so far, by sheer luck, JC seems to have kept them as well. He thinks the most important rule is that they're not allowed to talk about it. Maybe. That might not actually be one of the rules at all, but when it gets right down to it, he's too nervous to put it to the test. Another rule might be that Chris is in charge of their sexual agenda, at least of the when, where and how often. Or again, maybe not. Another theory JC hasn't been willing to test. He might only have sex with Chris once a year, but there's a lot he's prepared to do to not screw that up.

It's different now, though. If Chris is going to be his Kelly, JC's going to have to figure out the rules, or maybe make some new ones.

Over the years, the only common denominator JC has been able to untangle from all their sexual liaisons is his own state of fucked-up-ness. Chris only ever seems to put the moves on him when JC is in the middle of some kind of emotional crisis. Before the hiatus, it usually happened at some point during one of their tours, because there's always been a point during any tour when JC overloads on the combination of excess stimulation and too little time alone. It'll start just like it did in Germany, with JC retreating into sleep whenever he can and getting snappy and impatient when he can't. After the first couple of times, Chris became pretty adept at making his move before JC actually reached his limit and threw a tantrum. . Pre-emptive sex, is how JC thinks of it.

When they went on hiatus, JC figured that would be it for a while. He was kind of sad, and he tried really, really hard to make some kind of a move, but kept chickening out at the last minute. In the end, he wasn't able to do more than ask Chris if he wanted a back rub. Chris said yes, of course, because JC gives fantastic back rubs, but it hadn't progressed to anything more exciting than Chris falling asleep on the carpet in JC's living room.

Then several months ago when JC was still working on his album, stalled at that point in the creative process when he thought everything he'd done so far was complete crap and would never get to where he wanted it to be, he bumped into Chris at a party. Chris knew immediately that something was wrong. He could always tell when JC was unhappy, when any of them were, for that matter, even if he pretty much sucked at guessing what was causing it. You just couldn't hide that stuff from him, although god help you if he caught you whining about it. Anyway, Chris asked him what was up and JC started explaining how the song he was currently struggling with was feeling damp and heavy and thick like cream of wheat when he was looking for a crisp, light cola-ish vibe. Chris finally rolled his eyes, yanked him into the washroom and did very rude and wonderful things to him while impatient people yelled and banged on the other side of door.

The trick, then, JC decides, must be to make Chris feel needed. If he feels needed enough, maybe he'll just keep hanging around and having sex with JC, and eventually he'll realize that he might as well just stay. And JC won't have to actually say anything. It'll just, like, happen. All by itself.

The more JC thinks about it, the happier he is with his plan. It could work. It really could. He just needs to figure out how to let Chris know he's needed without coming across as needy. This is going to take a bit of thought. It's not as though he can just whip an emotional crisis up out of thin air. And it needs to be convincing, because Chris is pretty shrewd. He's not going to get all faked out just because JC makes a sad face or two at him.

After an hour or two of deep thought, JC realizes his plan is possibly going to be a bit more complicated than he anticipated. The thing is, JC is really quite self-sufficient. There just aren't a lot of things he needs from other people. Sure, when the group first went on hiatus, he'd felt a bit lost without the guys to provide a framework for his days, just like he always did when they took a break. He spent a ridiculous amount of time on the phone talking to Justin about his album, to Lance about his cosmonaut training, to Joey about New York and Kelly and the difference between being singing and acting on stage, and to Chris about everything in between.

As the hiatus went on and on, he started to feel oddly vague and blurry around the edges, as though he were experiencing life through the wrong end of a telescope. The line between being awake and asleep seemed closer than ever before to disappearing entirely. He realized finally that he needed to work, needed it like eating and breathing. That's when he decided to make his own solo album. Since then, he's managed to build a routine which, yeah, might seem somewhat haphazard and eccentric to some people, but it works for him. He's productive, he's creative, he's making music and trying to promote himself, and he can even do interviews without worrying too much about saying something the guys will tease him about later. Well, they still tease him, of course, but it doesn't bother him, he doesn't very often regret the things he's said. Except for this relationship thing, he feels pretty firmly in control of and content with his life. What exactly is he supposed to convince Chris that he needs?

He decides to leave the idea to percolate in his head for a few days and makes a note in his planner to get back to it next week. In the meantime, he'll just relax and let his subconscious take over the planning. He'll have to swear off sex during this planning phase as well, partly because it would be too distracting but also because it just feels like the right thing to do. This means that he'll have to stay away from booze, too, and drugs, because otherwise he won't have the will power to say no if someone starts flirting with him. So, no bars, clubs, or parties, and probably no restaurants either, but whatever. It'll be like a mystical experience. All the great mystics were celibate. He's pretty sure.

After three days and nights of trying to plant subliminal messages in his brain and keeping himself pure, he doesn't know whether his subconscious is getting any benefit, but his conscious mind feels like it's about to pop like a pinata. This abstinence thing is just messed up.

When Justin calls with an invitation to go clubbing, JC almost swallows his tongue trying to accept before Justin can change his mind.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Several hours later, they're on their fifth or sixth or maybe seventh drink, sprawled in a booth in the VIP lounge. JC's morosely checking out all the people he'd consider going home with if he wasn't being good, and he's feeling decidedly irritable

"S'up, dude? You're all depressed and shit. If you weren't up for this, you should have said. We could've caught a movie or something. Or just chilled at my place."

"No, sorry. I know I'm shitty company tonight. I've just got a lot on my mind right now."

"The album?"

"Oh, no. No. I mean, that's a drag, sure. Doesn't help. But this is. Um. Not that. It's kind of personal."

Justin doesn't push it, just nods and looks out over the dance floor. Maybe he's hurt, or maybe he's just interested in the dancers, JC isn't sure, but even with the alcohol floating around his brain he knows it would be a really bad idea to tell Justin about the whole Chris thing. That would be asking for all kinds of layers of complication that he can't cope with right now. He feels bad, though, thinks he was maybe a bit too abrupt. As he's trying to think of a way to make it up, it occurs to him that maybe Justin can actually help with this. He is Chris' best friend, after all. Maybe JC can get some pointers from him without actually giving anything away.

He pokes Justin with his foot to get his attention. "It's just that I'm a little worried," he yells over the music. "About Chris."

Justin's attention snaps back immediately, like JC's just set himself on fire. "What do you mean? What's up with Chris? He never said anything."

"No, I know. I'm just. Well, don't you think it's time he found someone? Settled down a bit? don't you think maybe he's a bit lonely?"

"Oh." Justin looks at JC and blinks a few times as he processes this. "Oh. Yeah. I guess. Sure." He takes another swallow of his drink. "So, why now? I mean, why are you worried about him now? He's been single for like forever. Has he said anything? He hasn't said anything to me." He sounds dubious, like nothing short of serious drugs and a lobotomy would ever convince Chris to confide anything in JC before he'd run it by Justin. It pisses JC off a little bit. If Chris is going to be his boyfriend, he'll have to tell JC some stuff first. Won't he? Justin will just have to get used to it. Maybe not right now, though.

"Well, no. Not really. Not as such. But he just seems. I don't know. Kind of ready. Don't you think?"

Justin nods thoughtfully. "Yeah, you know, he kinda does. Huh. I've been so caught up in my own shit that I haven't really been paying attention. But I think you're right, dude. He's like way ready. And, you know, he's not getting any younger. If he wants to have kids, he's gotta be hooking up with someone real soon. Or, you know. He'll be all impotent and shit. I mean there's Viagra, but that just helps you get it up, right? I mean, it doesn't actually do fuck all for your sperm count and whatever. Does it?"

"Kids? " JC squeaks. Good god in heaven, he hadn't even considered kids. If Chris wants kids, there's no chance at all of him being interested in JC. Except, well, maybe they could adopt or find a surrogate mother or something. Would they be allowed to adopt? Two guys? This isn't the kind of stuff JC is really up to date on because frankly, the whole idea of having kids would never have occurred to him in a million years. If Chris wants them, though, well, they'll just have to find a way. Maybe if they moved to Canada and got married they'd be allowed to adopt. But Chris probably wouldn't want to move to Canada. It's kind of cold there, even if the people are really nice and polite. Except when they throw stuff at Justin, of course. Maybe those hadn't been real Canadians, though. They could have been tourists or something. And there's always a few bad apples. Nobody's every thrown anything at JC when he's been in Canada.

But kids. JC likes kids. He does. They can be entertaining and fun, and it's really cool how they just say whatever's on their minds and how they're so logical even when they seem totally illogical. The thing about kids, though, is that if you have them, you suddenly have to be responsible in a whole different way. You have to get up at ungodly hours and go to school concerts even when the sound of twenty or thirty voices all singing off key makes you want to fill your ears with boiling wax. And you have to watch your language, and pay attention, and deal with rude teachers who think your kids should go to bed earlier and pay more attention in class. His mother used to complain a lot about dealing with rude teachers.

"Justin, does Chris want kids? Like, a lot?"

"A lot of kids?"

"No, I mean does he want them really badly?"

"Fuck, I dunno. I don't know if he wants them at all."

"Wouldn't he have told you, though? Since you're his best friend?"

"Uh huh. Sure. We would have talked about it right after we discussed what colour dresses the flower girls would wear at his wedding."

"Isn't there usually only one flower girl?"

"Do I give a shit? That's why I leave those conversations to you."

"What are you saying?"

"Just saying that you're much more closely acquainted with your feminine side than most chicks I know, that's all."

"That's just not true. S'not true at all."

"Whatever you say, Mr. I-love-candles-and-incense-and-flowers-and-interior-decorating."

"Oh, shut up. One interview, man, one stupid interview and you guys just can't leave it alone. Besides, you wear pink. A lot. And you're a big, mushy, romantic sap. That's pretty girly."

"Whatever, dude. You wear pink wayyyy more than I do. And Jean-Claude Van Damme is a romantic sap, too. Nobody calls him girly."

"For real? He is? You're just making that up."

"No, I swear." Justin smiles at him. "Total sap. The big VD himself."

JC is pretty sure Justin's full of shit and just trying to win the argument, but if they don't get back on track he's going to forget the whole point of the conversation.

"So. Chris." He looks at Justin pointedly. "I thought we were trying to help Chris here."

Justin looks abashed. "Right, sorry. So what do you think we should do? Find him a girlfriend?"

"Oh. Um, well." JC can't think of a good enough reason to dismiss the idea out of hand but, god, this is just getting worse and worse. First the kid thing, and now Justin's setting himself up as Chris' yenta. "But, um. We couldn't just set him up with any old body. We'd need to find someone with that perfect blend of special, unique qualities that will work for Chris. This is going to take some time. A long time."

"I know what Chris likes." Justin says impatiently.

"Yes, but--"

"He likes good-looking women. Women with a sense of humour."

"Yes, but--"

"Intelligent women. Women who like dogs."

JC sighs. It's true. Chris does like good looking smart chicks who laugh at his jokes and put up with his dogs. But that's not so bad. JC fits all of those qualities too, except for the being a chick part which, whatever, because Chris likes the same things in guys. But the rest of it? Sense of humour? Check. Smart? Check. Good looking? Well, yeah, check. He's not too modest to acknowledge that he's good looking and Chris obviously doesn't find him hideous or he wouldn't have slept with him every year since they've known one another. Only once a year, granted, so maybe Chris doesn't find him all that good looking, but he wouldn't have slept with him at all if he thought JC was homely. The first time could have been a pity fuck, but after a while Chris would have figured out that JC didn't need anyone's pity to find someone to fool around with, so. And dogs? Well, as long as someone else is responsible for feeding and walking them, he loves dogs. He's just too easily distracted to have any of his own.

"Yes, okay, and--"

"He likes women who aren't clingy and neurotic."

Okay, JC's not clingy, not at all. In fact, in the past he's even had to be reminded on occasion that he's actually in a relationship. He's like the total antithesis of clingy. He is maybe just the tiniest bit neurotic though. Possibly. Well, people have said. Some people. Most of the people he knows. Perhaps his complete lack of clinginess cancels out the neuroses, though. That would only be fair. Even if it doesn't, he's still ahead, still scoring 90% on the "perfect for Chris" scale. Or maybe not. He's never been very good at working out percentages from fractions.

"Um, J? What percent is five out of six?"

Justin stares blankly at him. "Huh?"

"If you get five out of six on a test, what percent would that be?"

"Um," Justin squishes his eyes shut in concentration for a minute. He's no Lance, but he is pretty good at doing shit like that in his head. "Eighty-three percent. What the fuck are you talking about? What test?"

"No test. It just kind of went through my head and I wondered, is all." Good. Eighty-three percent is still pretty good. Well over a pass, anyway.

"Okayyy then. Are we still talking about finding someone for Chris or have we moved on to the math portion of this conversation?"

"Sorry." JC does his best to look apologetic, but it doesn't really matter because Justin's already off again.

"So. What've we got?" Justin has that feverish look to him that he always gets when he's excited about a new project. "Let's see. Do you have some paper and a pen?"

"No." JC very carefully doesn't look at his satchel, propped on the chair beside him. He knows he has at least three pens and two notebooks in there, but enough is enough. His only hope is that Justin will have forgotten the whole conversation by the next morning.

"Okay, whatever. Doesn't matter. This is what we have so far. We're looking for a chick who's good looking, has a sense of humour, is intelligent, likes dogs, and isn't clingy or neurotic. Right?"

"Um. Okay, yeah. But probably a bit neurotic is okay, as long as she's like, totally not clingy. Life if she's the anthis-. Uh, ansithi-." JC decides that if a person's going to say "antithesis" at all, it probably shouldn't be after six or ten drinks. "If she's, like, the opposite of clingy."

Justin stares at him for a few seconds, thinking about it. "I don't know, man. I don't think we should be trying to set him up wi--"

"Me either," JC mutters.

"--with some neurotic chick. He's got enough of his own neuroses to worry about without having to put up with someone else's."

"He can handle it," JC says with more confidence than he feels. "Oh, and he likes curly hair."

"No he doesn't. Well, maybe he does, but he likes straight hair, too. I don't think hair is really a big thing for him either way."

"Well, he likes hair that isn't really short, anyway. Something he can grab hold of when--" JC realizes it might be better not to complete that thought. "Um. You know. To grab hold of if, say, she starts to fall off a bridge or something."

"You are maybe the weirdest person I know, dude. I think we'll just leave hair off the list. Anyway, I've got enough to work with. Just leave this with me. I'll have him all married up and settled down before you know it,"

JC feels miserable. This evening has been a total bust. Worse even. Justin with a project is like a runaway train; he's just going to roll right down those tracks until he gets what he wants and JC can't think of a single way to stop him. He's obviously going to have to accelerate his own plan, or Chris will be engaged by the end of the week.

An hour or so later, when Justin decides it's time to call it a night, JC tells he's going to stay on for a while, do some thinking. Justin, of course, interprets "thinking" as a euphemism for trying to get laid, so he just winks, gives JC a hug and tells him to hang on to his pants this time.

JC orders another drink, pulls out one of his notebooks and a pen and settles in to formulate his strategy. At the top of a blank page he writes "Chris." That doesn't seem like much of a title, though. He spends the next half hour jotting down and then crossing out possible titles.

Getting Chris. Too hitman-ish.

Operation Chris. Too James Bond.

Chris: The Operation. Too ER.

Marrying Chris. Too domestic, and besides, it brings up the whole Canada thing, which JC doesn't want to think about right now.

In the end, he rips the page out of his notebook, tears it into tiny pieces and starts again on a fresh page. He writes "Chris" in the top margin and underlines it twice. Beneath it he writes

Phase 1:

He stares at this for another half hour, during which time he orders two more drinks and eats a bowl of peanuts to sop up the alcohol. He needs to keep his head clear.

At two in the morning, JC underlines everything twice, adds a sun in the top left corner, a star in the top right corner, several exclamation points and an asterisk, and finally, in the bottom third of the page, draws a mailbox, one of those old fashioned kinds you see on farms with the little red flag you can lift up or push down to let the mail dude know whether you've got mail to be picked up. He studies the mailbox critically for a few minutes and writes "JC" on the side in fancy script. After another moment's thought, he adds Chris. He glances back up to his plan at the top of the page and, wow, it's like the mailbox has just delivered a brilliant idea directly to his brain. It's so obvious, he doesn't know why he hasn't thought of it before now.

After a protracted struggle with his pants pockets as he tries to retrieve his cell phone and finally remembers that he left it in the satchel, JC dials Chris' number. A woman answers and yells at him in some language that might be Korean, or possibly Ukrainian. She answers three more times before Chris finally picks up and grunts, "Wha . . .? "

"Cat, your maid is like totally rude."

"Wha . . .?"

"I'm just saying. Why is she here in L.A. with you instead of back in Orlando? Oh, man, wait, was that, like, your, um date?" JC doesn't want to actually use the word "girlfriend." That would just be asking for bad luck.

"Uh . . ."

"Hey, whoa. You're sleeping with a chick who doesn't even speak English?" That would probably be okay, though. How serious can it be if Chris can't even talk to her. Unless maybe Chris is just tired of having people not appreciate his uniquely horrible jokes and has decided to go out with someone who couldn't realistically be expected to appreciate them in the first place. A foreign chick would be perfect for that. Things are just getting way too complicated. It's starting to give him a headache.

"What the fuck, man? Who the hell is this? And why are you speaking in tongues on my phone at," there's a pause followed by another grunt, followed by "at three in the morning? Fuck. I was just about asleep."

"Oh, uh. Sorry. Chris, it's me. JC."

"Uh huh. You okay, dude?"

"Sort of. It's just. I'm in a bit of a, sort of a. Well. I kind of need your help."

"Lost your pants again?"

JC laughs politely. What else can he do? Getting testy with Chris now will just screw everything up. "Um. No, not really. I mean, no. I have my pants. But I'm in a bit of a situation and, and I thought maybe you could help me out if, you know, you're not too busy. Which, I mean, yeah, I guess you're sleeping, but I like really, really need you right now and it won't take too long and the foreign chick will probably understand. You can tell her I'm like family or whatever. If you speak her language, that is."

"What the fuck are you talking about? What foreign chick? There is no foreign chick. I wasn't even dreaming about a foreign chick."

"The chick who keeps answering your phone, dude. She doesn't understand a word I say, so I figured she was from, like, Korea or something."

"There's no foreign chick, you moron. No one's answering my phone except me. Are you drunk?"

"Kind of, yes. I think so. But not, like, unpleasantly drunk. Just a bit, um. A little bit tipsy. Teeny bit. I can still, like, walk and stuff." JC's guessing at this part. The floor does seem to be a long way from his eyes right now, and it's tipping ever so slightly towards the left which he's pretty sure it wasn't doing a few minutes ago. "And I can talk without slurring my words. Most of them." Which is true if you don't count words like "antithesis" and JC is inclined not to.

"Right. Sure. So what's up, C?"

"Huh? Oh. It's just. I was out with Justin and I had a few more drinks than I meant to and now I can't drive myself home, so I was wondering if maybe you could come get me?"

"Why can't Justin take you home?"

"Oh, no, he can't. He left. Ages ago."

"And you can't take a cab because . . . ?"

"Oh. Oh, right. No. Well, you see, I kind of locked my wallet in the car, so I don't have any credit cards. Or money. Or anything."

"You lost your car keys?"

"Yeah. Um. Not so much lost, exactly. It's just. I locked them in the car, too. They're in there with my wallet. My keys and my wallet. And I already tried to call everybody else and nobody's answering, so."

"Nobody except the foreign chick who appears to be haunting my phone."

"Yeah. I guess."

Chris sighs dramatically into his ear. It's kind of sexy, JC thinks, even if it does sound a bit grumpy. "Fine. Whatever. Where are you, you big flake?"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“So how did you pay for your drinks?” Chris asks as he steers JC out of the club toward the parking lot. “Because you obviously didn’t stint yourself.”

“Hmmm?” JC is holding onto Chris’ arm, partly because Chris smells so good, like clean sheets and warm skin, and partly to keep himself anchored. Without that connection, he thinks he might just drift off into the night like ninety-nine red balloons. It takes him a few seconds to focus on Chris’ question because he’s too busy sniffing him and enjoying the whoosh of cars as they slide by on the wet streets. It must have rained while he was inside, or maybe the street cleaners have just passed. It looks really pretty either way, thousands of bright lights reflected in the glittering pavement, all blurred and smeary and vaguely Christmas-y in a distant, memory-viewed-through-the-bottom-of-a-glass kind of way.

“The drinks,” Chris repeats. “How did you pay for them?”

“Huh? With my cred--. Um. I had some money. In my pocket. Some cash. You know. But it’s all gone now.” He pulls his pockets inside out to demonstrate, stumbling as he tries to shove them back into his pants. Chris brushes his hands away, holds him still and tucks the pockets back himself.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Look is your car going to be okay where it’s at?”

“Huh?” JC’s trying to come up with a plausible excuse for pulling his pockets out again so Chris will tuck them back in, because, mmm, Chris’ hands are warm and toasty and they totally belong in JC’s pants. “My car?”

“Yeah, your car, dude. Where is it?”

“It’s at home. Where else would it be? I thought. Didn’t you bring yours?”

“Well, yeah, but--. Oh, fuck it. Let’s get you home.”

By the time they get to his place, JC can barely keep his eyes open. He knows he’s supposed to be doing something, that at some point this evening it had been very important to ensure that this scenario unfold pretty much exactly as it is, in fact, unfolding, but all he can think of as Chris hauls him out of the car, into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom is that if he doesn’t find a soft place to lie down really, really soon, he’s just going to have to make do with the next horizontal surface that stays still long enough for him to throw himself on it. But maybe he’ll pee first.

“Bathroom,” he whispers to Chris. Not that it’s a secret or anything, but he’s so tired he doesn’t want to do anything to wake himself up.

Chris whips him around, doing interesting things to the pattern of light and shadow on the walls and worrisome things to the contents of his stomach which lurch alarmingly toward his throat.

“Do what you gotta do, man,” Chris says as he pushes JC into the gleaming porcelain whiteness of the bathroom. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’ll come get you.”

As he’s staring at the toilet bowl, trying to decide whether or not he needs to puke, JC remembers what he’s supposed to be doing. And really? Other than the fact that he feels dizzy and his eyes are starting to ache from having to look at the blinding array of mirrors and chrome fixtures he’d been stupid enough to have installed in his bathroom, things are going pretty well. Chris is here, he obviously knows JC needs him because, well, because it’s obvious, and he’s not even grumpy which he always is when you wake him up, so, yeah. The plan is in motion, it’s ticking along like a well-greased engine, and all JC has to do is sit back and let it happen, because that’s what you do when you have a plan this brilliant, you let it work for you.

He feels a little less complacent a few minutes later when he’s tucked up in bed so tightly that his arms are pinned to his sides and the quilt is almost touching his nose. Chris stripped him down as soon as he emerged from the bathroom, in a quick, efficient way that wasn’t sexy no matter how hard JC tried to make himself believe this was all just part of some kinky nurse-patient fantasy that Chris was playing with.

When Chris kisses his forehead and heads toward the door, JC squeaks, “You’re leaving? Now?”

“Yup. That’s the idea. I’m gonna crash in your spare room, okay? Just holler if you need anything.”

“But, but, wait.” JC struggles to free himself from his bed, but all he can do is wiggle his fingers and toes. “Wait, god damn it, I’m stuck. I can’t even move!”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be moving. You should be sleeping. Now close your eyes like a good little drunk boy and shuffle off to Buffalo, or the Land of Nod, or wherever.”

“No! You can’t leave me like this! It’s not funny. What if I get sick?” JC realizes he’s whining, which, as a seduction technique pretty much stinks. And he’s also threatening to throw up, which if there was ever anything guaranteed to empty a room of potential bed partners, throwing up and the potential for throwing up would have to be right at the top of the list. “I mean with a headache or something. My stomach feels fine.” He smiles what he hopes is an appealing, un-nauseated smile and tries again to escape from his bedding.

Chris disappears into the bathroom and comes back waving a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. He puts the pills and the water on JC’s nightstand and pulls the wastebasket a bit closer to the bed. “There. If you need to puke just lean over the side of the bed and give ‘er,” he says, loosening the covers fractionally, enough so that JC’s pretty sure he can turn over if he tries really hard.

“But, I. You can’t leave. I’m. I’m. I’m naked.”

Chris looks down on him for a few seconds, all dark and thoughtful and crow-like, head tipped to one side, eyes sharp. It makes JC want to close his eyes and offer up a prayer, he wants Chris so bad, but he can’t look away because if he does Chris will leave, just disappear in the blink of an eye.

Chris doesn’t leave, though. “Naked?” he says slowly, reaching for his belt buckle. “Why, yes, Chasez, I do believe you are.”


Part 3 can be found here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/sola_fiamma/21338.html#cutid1