Fiction: Best Laid Plans

[solafiamma]

Best Laid Plans
Part 5

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

The house smells stale and empty in spite of the overlay of Mr. Clean left by the cleaning service JC employs to come by every week even when he's away. He hates returning to find layers of dust on his furniture and spider webs creeping across the ceiling, but the lingering scent of cleaner can't mask the fact that nobody's been living here for a while. It makes JC feel lonely, so he heats a couple of pizza pops in the microwave, puts them on a plate and carries them through the house, from kitchen to living room to his bedroom upstairs and back again. By the time he's completed the circuit, the house smells like home again and he can relax. It's four in the morning. Too early still to call Chris, so he pours a glass of wine, flips on the TV and curls up on the couch to eat the pizza pops.

When he wakes up, it's light outside, there's a pizza pop wedged between his chin and the pale blue linen arm of the couch, and someone's pounding on his front door. He rubs his face to get rid of the worst the mess and stumbles to the hallway to find Lance leaning against the door frame, looking bored but determined.

"Lance! What are you. I mean, how did you know I was here, dude? And I thought you were in Mississippi."

Lance raises his right eyebrow in surprise. "I always know where you are."

"Yeah, but-"

"Are you going to ask me in or are we going to talk on your front porch so all your neighbours can find out what a slob you are." He nods disapprovingly toward the tomato mess that JC can feel on his chin and neck and shoulder. "Gross."

"Oh. This. I. Fuck it. I need to pee. Come in. Why don't you make us some coffee while I grab a shower."

When he gets back downstairs, there's a pot of coffee waiting, along with croissants, a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and a pitcher of orange juice.

"Wow, hey, this looks fantastic. But I don't know, man. Those eggs've gotta be bad by now. I haven't been here for weeks."

"I brought them with me. I brought everything except the coffee. I haven't eaten anything out of your fridge since that time you tried to convince me that those green lumps in the potato chowder were spinach dumplings."

"Huh." JC pours himself a coffee and starts shovelling eggs and bacon into his mouth with gusto. "So, really. How did you know I was here?"

"So, really. I always know where you are."

"You're pretty scary sometimes, Lance."

"You too, man."

"Well, it's really cool of you to come over and make me breakfast, anyway. Thanks, cat."

"You're welcome. The breakfast's just a side benefit, though. The real reason I'm here is to stop you making even more of an ass out of yourself than you already have."

"Um. Huh?"

"How's the big romance? With Shorty."

"Fine. It's just fine, thank you for asking. Can you pass the pepper, please?"

"There's enough pepper in the eggs already. Don't try and change the subject. I'm asking how the great plan is working out."

"And I said, fine. It's working out just fine. Things are starting to come together."

"It's not going to work, JC. Not in a million years."

"It is so going to work. It's working already. Just. You know. Slowly. Look, I don't want to be rude, Lance, but you shouldn't be so negative. I know you mean well, but it doesn't help, and besides, how can you possibly know what will work and what won't? You can't know that, dude. And anyway, it's not like you have such a terrific track record with relationships yourself."

"My track record with relationships is just fine, thank you very much. I know what I want and nine times out of ten, I get what I want. Because you know what? I ask for it. This thing you're doing? It won't work. And you want to know how I know this? I know this because I know Chris."

"Chris? Chris? " JC squeaks. "How did you. I never said it was Chris."

Lance rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and you're so subtle, I should never have been able to figure it out. Even if I hadn't known before you called Joey, even if you hadn't called him Shorty, and even if you haven't been mooning after him for the past however many years, I think the fact that you've been stalking him with insane phone calls and a boatload of weird presents might have given it away."

"Chris told you?"

"Apparently."

"He said the phone calls were insane?"

"Not exactly. I'm paraphrasing. He was a little less diplomatic."

"Sometimes it's hard to talk to Chris on the phone, you know."

"Yeah, tell me about it. In person, too."

"Oh, hey now. But, yeah. So is he pissed off?"

"Nah. Just a little freaked out. He thinks you're either trying to apologize for something or you're trying to butter him up so you can ask him to do something he'll really hate."

"He hasn't figured out the plan, then?"

"See, JC, even if he does figure out your plan? It won't make any difference. Your plan is stupid."

"You're just being mean because you're jealous. You don't want this to work, and I can totally understand. But, Lance, that was years ago. Don't you think it's time to let it go?"

"Huh? Okay. I have no idea what you're talking about. Why would I be jealous?"

"My thing with Chris. I figured it out, Lance." He stares pointedly at Lance and makes coming together, snapping apart gesture with his hands, but Lance is still looking at him blankly.

"About you and Chris, dude. I figured out that you used to have a thing for Chris way back. I don't know how far you guys took it, but I know that when things didn't work out you insisted on sharing the bus with Joey so you wouldn't have to be around Chris."

"Yeah, okay, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. It never occurred to you that I insisted on sharing a bus with Joey because I wanted to be around Joey?"

"Well, no. No it didn't. So it didn't bother you when the thing with Chris didn't work out, then?"

"Listen. Listen to me, here. I never had a thing with Chris. Or for Chris. Never. Ne. Ver. My thing was for Joey. Always."

"Oh. Oh! You and Joe? That's so cool! But you never said anything. How come you never said anything?"

"Well, a) because it was it wasn't anybody else's business, and b) because maybe I figured that moving in with him and spending all my time with him and sitting in his lap every time I got the teeniest bit drunk would possibly have been enough of a clue."

"Right. Okay. A lot of stuff makes so much more sense now. But, oh, man, fuck, this must be really hard for you then."

"What must be?"

"Joe. Kelly. The engagement."

"Why?"

"Well, I just. When did you and Joe break up, then?"

"Who said we broke up?"

"But. Oh. Oh. I see. You mean? Oh, wow. Dude. That's. Huh. Does Chris know?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Justin?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Kelly?"

"Why don't you ask her?" There's a definite edge to Lance's voice, and he's clutching his fork so tightly his knuckles are starting to whiten.

"No, sorry. Sorry. None of my business, I know. I just. I can't even begin to imagine how you kept this a secret for so long."

Lance shrugs. "We did everything but send out engraved invitations, C. It was hardly a secret."

"But you guys aren't exclusive, right? 'Cause, cat, I've seen you getting with friendly with other dudes, and, well, there's Jesse, and I'd hate to see you cheating on Joe."

Lance doesn't say anything this time, just folds his arms across his chest and looks at JC as like he's waiting for something. JC recognizes that look, it usually precedes rebuke as sharp as knives.

"Sorry. That was out of line. I know you'd never do anything to hurt Joey."

"Fine. Great. I'm so glad I have your blessing. So the point of all this is, my poor little heart isn't going to be crushed if you hitch up with Chris."

"Right. I see that. Except. Then I guess I just don't understand your problem with my plan."

"Other than the fact that it's asinine, you're ignoring the most important factor. You're talking about Chris. Chris. Symbols and gestures and hints are just not going to work with him. He needs words-"

"But I'm talking to him. Every day. I call him every day and-"

"Explicit words. Not freaky shit about falling off the universe. Because you really should have figured this out by now, man, but Chris is congenitally incapable of making the first move in a serious relationship. He just can't do it."

"You're wrong, Lance. Chris has always made the first move. With me, anyway. Always."

"That's just sex."

"Yeah, but-"

"That's just sex. It's not the same thing at all and you know it isn't. Chris doesn't have issues with sex. He sees someone he wants to get naked with and he just goes for it. If he gets shot down, so what? It's just sex. It's not like there's any chance he's ever going to have to go home alone if he doesn't want to. But anything more? Scares the living shit out of him. It doesn't matter how many hints you drop or how many times you bend over for him, if you don't tell him you want more, that's all you're ever going to get."

"So, you're saying he's incapable of having a relationship that isn't just about sex?"

"No."

"Are you saying he's only interested in one night stands?"

"No."

Are you saying he's better off alone?"

"No."

"Are you saying he's still fucked up about the thing with Dani? That he's like, permanently scarred?"

"No."

"Then what are you saying, Lance?"

"I'm not speaking in code, for fuck's sake. I'm saying you need to ask him. I'm saying if you don't you're going to be having sex with him once a year for the next fifty years. I'm saying he's always going to be too scared to be the one to take that risk."

"Hmm." JC tosses this around in his brain for a few minutes, thinks about everything he knows about Chris, about how far his plan has gotten him so far. "Well. Okay, fine. Supposing I see your point, which maybe I kind of do. A bit. What if I ask and he freaks out? I mean, I don't do that kind of shit very well either, you know. In case you hadn't noticed, it's not like I'm the frickin' poster boy for happy long-term relationships over here."

"He won't freak out."

"But what if he does?"

"He won't. But if he does? Move the fuck on."

"You've talked to him about this, haven't you?"

"If I had, I wouldn't be telling you about it."

"But-"

"Just like I won't repeat anything you've said to me about Chris."

"But I want you to, man. Fuck. That would make things so much easier."

"Yeah, and if I'd wanted a career in mediation, I would have become a hostage negotiator. Look. This is your problem. I'm just telling you how to fix it, and that's all I'm doing."

They argue about it over a second pot of coffee, or rather JC tries to argue, but apparently Lance is finished with the discussion because he just shrugs every time JC introduces a new point and says, "Yes, well, you know what I think." JC finally gives up when Lance's voice starts sounding pinched and impatient, and they spend the rest of the morning catching up on families and favourite manicurists and other people's sex lives.

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

For the rest of the afternoon, JC broods about the relative merits of Lance's advice and his own plan. By evening, he's accepted that Lance almost definitely knows what he's talking about, because Lance usually does. He picks up the phone about thirty times to call Chris, but can't quite bring himself to dial. What's he going to say? It's all very well for Lance to natter on about being direct and just asking for what you want. It's easy for him. He has Joey. And Joey's stupid plan probably worked with Lance, just like it did with Kelly.

He pulls out his notebook to help him get his thoughts in order, so he doesn't' make a complete fool of himself when he finally does get hold of Chris. The next time he glances at his watch, it's past midnight and all he's written in the notebook are three poems, one about hairy arms and the other two about having sex when you've had too much coffee. He stares at the phone for what feels like five minutes but turns out to be closer to an hour.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just do it," he mutters to himself, grabbing the phone and punching Chris' number in before he can chicken out again. "Just fucking do it."

"Mm, yeah, what?"

"Chris?"

"C?"

"Yeah. I, um." Just do it. Just do it. Just do it. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, dude. It's fine." Chris yawns noisily, makes a few throat clearing sounds and yawns again. "Wassup?"

"I just." JC listens to the silence stretch out between them like fishing line, imagines it leaving his phone and floating along the tide to Chris' phone, wrapping itself around the two of them, and it's a cozy feeling, this feeling of being connected even when nothing is being said.

"Did you just call to breathe at me, or was there something you wanted to say? If you just want to breathe, that's cool, but let me know so I can go back to sleep, 'kay?"

"Oh, sorry. Sorry. I called because, "do it, do it, do it, "Well, I've given this a lot of thought, and, and, I think." Shit. He can't do this. "I think. Dude, I think there's a prowler in my house."

"What? A prowler? Fuck. You call the cops?"

"Um, well. Not yet."

"Your security company?"

"Uh-"

"Jesus fuck, man! Call the god damned cops! Right now!"

"Yeah, okay, but. I was kind of hoping maybe you'd come over."

"Dude, I'm in Orlando. By the time I get there, you're going to be tied up in your closet and all your shit's going to be in the back of a truck heading for Canada."

"Oh, no. No. I'm in Orlando, Chris. Didn't Lance tell you?"

"Lance? Isn't he in Mississippi? Look, whatever. I'm on my way. Call the cops right now or I'll slap the ever loving fuck out of you when I get there."

Well, that's just perfect. Chris is on his way, and he's tired and grumpy and worried, and he's going to arrive expecting to find a sea of blue uniforms swarming all over JC's shrubbery hunting for thieves and possible kidnappers. He's going to be so pissed off, he'll probably never even speak to JC again, let alone be his boyfriend. Lance is right. He's an idiot.

A few minutes later, the door flies open and Chris leaps into the foyer wearing orange and green striped pyjama bottoms, a purple t-shirt with what look like teeth marks in the left arm pit, and no shoes. He's swinging a tire iron above his head and his eyes are fierce and he looks hot as hell. In the good way.

"Whoa, wait, watch that thing!" JC leaps back from the doorway, slamming his hip into the hall table in his haste to get out of range. "Fuck! Ow! Damn it Chris, that fucking hurt!"

"Where are the cops, man? Aren't they here yet? Why the fuck am I paying taxes if you can't even get a cop when you're being murdered in your bed?"

"Um."

"You complete tool. You still haven't called them, have you? What the hell are you thinking? You could have been killed, man. Killed dead!"

"Well, not really. I mean, I would have called except, you know. About the prowler? I may have been mistaken."

Chris lowers the tire iron and narrows his eyes at JC. "Mistaken? As in, you thought you heard something but you really didn't because it was just your air conditioner kicking in, or mistaken as in you heard something but then you didn't so you figured you were wrong, in which case we should probably have a look around anyway, just in case."

"More like mistaken as in I didn't hear anything and you shouldn't worry about it because the prowler was really more of a metaphor than, like, an actual thief or killer or whatnot."

"A metaphor? A metaphor? You dragged me out of bed and got my adrenaline pumping so bad I thought I was going to have a fucking stroke just for a metaphor? A metaphor for what, you frickin' spaz?"

"You want some Tea? Hot chocolate? Glass of wine, maybe?"

"The prowler was a metaphor for you doing an impression of a Denny's hostess?"

"No. I just thought it might be polite to offer you something, since I got you out of bed and all."

"You're just too damned good to me, Chasez. So, the prowler?"

"Can we maybe change the subject?"

"Not fucking likely."

"Look, there wasn't a prowler. I apologize for misleading you. Now let's just drop it."

"You said the prowler was a metaphor. A metaphor for what?"

"I hate you. And will you put that tire iron down before you hurt somebody?

"I'll smack you with it if you don't tell me."

"Oh, fuck it. The prowler was a metaphor for, I don't know. Driving."

"I think I'll smack you, anyway. Driving? Driving where? You're hurting my head, dude."

"Just, whatever. Driving. You know how when you get behind the wheel of a car really late at night? And you're out on the highway, and there's almost no one else on the road? And you start driving really, really fast, and then something happens in your head, there's this, like, shift in your brain, and it's like you're part of the car and the car's part of you, and it's like this total perfect rush? Even better than drugs?"

"Um, okay, yeah."

"Well, then."

"Well, then what?"

"Well, then, that's the metaphor."

"Well, then, you're a moron. That doesn't make any sense at all. None. Do you even know what a metaphor is?"

"Of course I do. Maybe I didn't go to college like some people but I know what a fucking metaphor is. And it does too make sense. You're just being obtuse."

"Then explain it to me. How does a prowler become a metaphor for driving?"

"Uh. Oh. Yes, I see your point. I guess maybe it's a bit more complicated than that. Okay, say driving is, like, a metaphor for something you really, really want to do, but the only way you can actually do what you want to do is to do this other thing, which is, like, you know, calling your friend and telling him someone's trying to break into your house. Then the prowler would be a metaphor not so much for driving as for, um, a car key maybe? Yeah. That works, I think. You get it?"

"Head still hurts, dude. So, the thing that you really, really want to do would be . . .?"

"You."

"You want to do me?" Chris snickers. "Cool. Go to town, man." He flops down onto the carpet, spreading his arms and legs wide and executing a couple of lewd pelvic thrusts. "Next time, though, could you maybe just ask?"

"No, that's not it."

"Oh, terrific. Thanks so much." He hauls himself back up into a sitting position and glares at JC. "Could you maybe make me that hot chocolate, then? I might as well get something out of this."

"No, no. You're missing the point. Again. Of course I want to do you," JC says, kneeling in front of Chris and stroking his knees reassuringly. "I always want to do you. It's just. What I really want is for us to be, like, together."

"Yeah, okay."

"No, I mean together together. Like Joe and Kelly. And Lance. Like Joey and Kelly and Lance. Except just you and me."

"Sure."

"I mean, we wouldn't even have to be totally exclusive if that's not what you want, but I want us to be, you know, a thing."

"Okay, sure."

"That's it? Just 'sure'?"

"You were maybe expecting me to get down on one knee and propose?"

"Well, no."

"Good. Because I think lying on my back and waving you toward my important bits was just as meaningful. But if you're planning on whining like a little girl about it all night, I could be possibly convinced."

"That really won't be necessary. It's just. You could be a bit more enthusiastic about this. Or act a bit more, I don't know-"

"Surprised?"

"No."

"Grateful?"

"No."

"Delighted?"

"No. Well. Actually, yes. This was really hard for me, you know. Being the one to say all this shit. Really hard. You think you're the only one with relationship issues?"

"You think it was easy for me? Eight fucking years waiting for you to step up? Jesus porkin' Christ, man, a guy could get a complex."

"You've wanted this for eight years?"

"To hook up for real, you mean? Like boyfriends? Fuck no. That's just in the last few months. No, dude, I'm just talking about sex and waiting for you to make up your spazzy mind about whether you were interested or not."

"Oh, hey. I always wanted to sleep with you, Chris. Always. And anyway, Lance said you didn't have issues with sex. He said when you want someone you just go for it."

"It may have escaped your notice, but sometimes Lance talks out of his ass. Although, fine, in this case, I guess he's mostly right. Because, if you recall, I did go for it. Repeatedly. In spite of a distinct lack of encouragement from you."

"What lack of encouragement? I slept with you every time you hit on me."

"Well, gee, thanks so much. Your charity was much appreciated."

"Oh, shut up. That's not what I meant at all. Besides, you want to talk charity, you only ever slept with me to cheer me up."

"That's just stupid. What do I look like, Mother fucking Theresa?"

JC snickers. "I'm pretty sure that's not how Mother Theresa cheered people up, Chris."

"What? Oh, I guess not. I'm probably going to hell just for even saying that. So, if you thought I was just sleeping with you to cheer you up, which I don't know where the fuck you'd ever get an idiotic idea like that anyway, you big flake, then what? It never occurred to you that I might need cheering up?"

"Well, sure, but that's not how I cheer people up. When someone's feeling down, I do other stuff. Like rub their back or make tea or sing songs to them."

"Whereas I, apparently, nail them to the mattress. I'm just that sensitive."

"Oh, fuck off."

Chris pokes him in the stomach and pouts at him. "Well, I could certainly use some cheering up right now, I tell you. And I'm you're boyfriend now, so you've got, like, obligations."


"You want a back rub?"

"No."

"You want some tea?"

"No, and I don't want to hear you sing, either." He reaches for JC's hand, lifting it to his mouth. "Let me say it again, nice and slow for all the dorks in the room. I want you. To cheer." Chris bites JC's thumb, not very gently, licks his palm until it's shiny wet with spit , then slides JC's hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas. "Me up. Oh, fuck, yeah, just like that."

JC laughs as Chris sprawls back on the carpet, making himself comfortable. "We could go upstairs, you know," he says, squeezing Chris' dick affectionately. "To my bedroom."

"Nah, I'm good. This is more convenient anyway, 'cause I'm probably going to want that hot chocolate when we're done." He reaches up to grab hold of the curls at the back of JC's neck and pulls him down until their mouths are almost touching. His other hand is moving over JC's body, unbuttoning his shirt, caressing his ribs and stomach, coming to rest at the waistband of his jeans. "Unless, of course, you're worried about your carpets."

"No, no. Here's fine," JC gasps. "It's perfect."

Before he stops thinking altogether, JC is able to form two coherent thoughts. The first is that Chris was right. Lance does talk out of his ass sometimes, because JC's plan has totally worked, in spite of all the nasty things Lance had to say about it. The second is that Chris probably isn't going to be happy when he finds out he's going to have to do a 7-11 run for the hot chocolate JC's promised him.

The End

Feedback (including constructive criticism) much appreciated. Please leave a comment or email me at sola_fiamma@yahoo.ca.