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il progetto c
il progetto c Follows Plan B and Unplanned. Los Angeles Chris wasn't stupid. He knew the dangers of walking into JC's bedroom after a night of awards and after-parties, but he was desperate. So he'd covered his eyes with one hand and eased the door open with the other, and now here he was, counting the bare feet hanging off the bottom of the bed, and there were definitely more than two. More than four even, but thankfully, Chris could stop at five, because he'd finally positively identified at least one as belonging to JC so he wasn't going to wonder if the long red hair thrown across JC's face was natural or a dye job, or why everyone's toenails were painted a sparkly irridescent pink, or where the really excellent--and vaguely familiar--tattoo work he was seeing on the other guy's shoulder and arm had been done. He just didn't want to know.
Waking JC up was a dicey proposition at the best of times. Extracting him from the morning-after of a mini-orgy was an art form appreciated by only a select few. Chris considered his options but finally just grabbed a foot and started pulling. He knew JC wouldn't really wake up but he'd follow the pull and Chris would be able to slide him out from between the other two occupants of the bed without disturbing them. JC wasn't, of course, wearing anything, but Chris had that covered, too. All he had to do was whisper, "C, man, we got that thing," and JC mumbled yeahyeahright, and struggled into the sweats Chris handed him. Chris felt a little guilty about taking advantage of a not-yet-awake JC and his work ethic, but they said all was fair in love and war, and if Chris wasn't quite ready to admit to that, he was at least ready to entertain the possibility.
Upon closer inspection in the sunny kitchen, Chris decided that he probably didn't need to know the details of the previous night. He had seen JC after some monumental binges, weekends that were quite definitely not on the wholesome boyband PR agenda, and Chris had never seen him look quite so ... used. He was managing to sit in the chair Chris had dropped him in, but he'd laid his head down on the kitchen table and stayed so still Chris thought about putting a mirror in front of his face to make sure he was breathing. Chris didn't wait for the entire pot of coffee to brew, just held one of JC's custom-designed, one-of-a-kind ceramic mugs ("dude, not only are they like, art, but they're dishwasher safe!") under the stream and placed it gently on the table next to JC's head. He waved the steam toward JC and coaxed, "JC? Baby, there's coffee..." JC sat up and whimpered and closed his eyes, but reached with unerring accuracy for the coffee. "Yeah, you know it, it's the good, not-too-expensive stuff"--JC hated to waste money on good coffee when he was too hung-over to appreciate it--"pure Colombian, hand-picked by that dude and his little donkey, you know you love him..." "Fuck. Off. And. Die." Chris winced. JC's voice sounded even worse than he looked and Chris really didn't want to know how that could happen, because JC always protected his voice. Still, they had reached the verbal stage, and Chris was pleased it had happened so quickly. Usually, hangovers made JC curl into a little ball and beg for death until someone, usually Joey, took pity on him and carried him into the shower. Actual speech quite often took a day or more. Chris shook out a handful of Advil and put them on the table next to a one of the quart sized bottles of Evian he'd found in the refrigerator, and watched in admiration as JC drained it in one long drink. Fucking amazing breath control. JC laid his head back down on the table, but fixed Chris with a red-rimmed glare. Chris smiled sincerely. JC bared his teeth. Chris refilled JC's coffee. JC sighed, "Dude, what the fuck are you doing in my house?" Chris hesitated, then figuratively threw his dignity to hell and played the pity card. "I'm here because Valentine's Day is exactly six days away and man, you know J, he takes that shit seriously, and--What?" JC was smiling, and even if it looked more than a little odd with his face smashed into the table, it was still his big happy smile, and Chris had to smile back. "You." "Yeahyeah," Chris muttered and carefully added five sugars to his own coffee. He stopped as a horrifying thought crossed his mind. "You. Um. You do know about us?" JC snorted. "He called me at four a.m. my time on New Year's Day. And who do you think heard all about it five years ago? And every time he's gotten drunk and maudlin since then?" "Every time?" Chris made himself stop thinking about all the nights JC had taken custody of a drunk Justin. "You, ah, didn't think it was necessary to mention anything to me?" "Yeah, because it would have worked out so well if I'd said 'Chris, your best friend, the one who's doing his damnedest to forget that he worked up the nerve to kiss you by conducting a very public wooing of America's Virgin Princess, hasn't really gotten over anything, and yeah, you turned him down nicely, but me and Joey and Lance can all see that you're just too chickenshit to admit what the fuck is going on, so we'll just be over here in the corner mocking you until you buy a clue.'" "Damn," Chris said after a stunned second. "You are such a bitch when you're hung-over. And...and...shit. Who actually uses the word 'wooing' these days?" It wasn't one of his better comebacks but at least he got something out on the record. JC waved his hand irritably. "One, what the hell else would you call the whole Timberlake-Spears media feeding frenzy? And, two, I wouldn't be a bitch if this idiot who calls himself one of my closest friends hadn't walked into my house and pulled me out of my own damn king-sized, extra-firm bed, a bed that, at this very moment, is probably being put to the use that I bought it for--and that sure as hell isn't sleep--because let me tell you, those two are not sitting up there waiting for me to show back up, and you'd be a bitch, too, if I had been the one doing the pulling and you were the one in bed with Ni--" Chris lunged across the table and clapped his hand over JC's mouth. "No names, no names!" JC narrowed his eyes. Chris snatched his hand away before JC could bite. Or lick. JC said, "The next time somebody calls me a spaz in an interview, I'm walking. What the fuck is your problem this morning?"
"Two words, man," Chris said. "Plausible deniability."
"Stop quoting bad movies at me," JC snapped.
"I'm serious," Chris said. "Your mom talks to my mom, and dude, given what I saw upstairs today, you want me to be able to say, 'eh, you know C, he plays it close to the vest' and have my mom believe me when she starts asking if you've found anyone nice."
JC sneered, "Yeah, like Bev would ask that."
"Ok," Chris said. "Point taken. The next time I get asked if you've stopped dicking around yet, I'll be sure to mention the matching his-and-her-and-his pedicures and how I really admire your astounding versatility in who and what you'll screw."
JC didn't say anything, just took a long drink of his coffee. Chris took that as victory, and moved on. "Ok, sorry about interrupting the orgy--"
"It's not an orgy," JC said with dignity. "It's a ménage a trois."
"Right." Chris took a deep breath and forcibly prevented himself from rolling his eyes. "Sorry about interrupting it."
JC rolled his eyes. "No, you're not, so get to the damn point and let me get back to it."
"The point is that it's Valentine's Day."
JC nodded. "You should do whatever, man. You know he'll love it if you do it."
"No," Chris said. "I don't want the pity vote, the 'yeah, it was pretty good seeing as how Kirkpatrick planned it' response. I want it to be great, period." JC was looking at him with a sort of horrified sympathy, but Chris couldn't stop. "C, I just need to know what you'd do with J--if, you know, you'd be celebrating the holiday like that with him--and I swear I'll be out of here so fast you won't even know I was here."
JC choked on his coffee. "Please. Me? and Justin?" He shuddered. "Together together? No. Just. No." JC leaned over and poked Chris. "And even if the thought didn't make me want to laugh hysterically, or, or throw up, you can't do what I'd do because that would be me and it wouldn't be you and that's what Valentine's Day should be about, not all the lame-ass prepackaged cards and one size fits all boxes of chocolate and don't get me started about the fucking diamond industry..."
Chris dropped his head in his hands. He was doomed.
Orlando
By some sort of divine intervention, JC had stopped his rant and Chris had himself a list, one that detailed the absolutely-designed-completely-and-totally-by-Chris-but-blessed-by-JC-Valentine's-Day-plan. Or, as JC had named it, Plan C. Chris really wasn't a list kind of a guy. But spur-of-the-moment could not coexist with the Timberlake schedule, so Chris adapted. But if his mother made one more crack about him checking it twice, Chris was going to call his sisters and tell them how much Grandma missed having the grandkids for sleepovers. All of them.
He had JC's overpriced travel agent, the one JC described as "Attila the Hun with breasts, but man, she knows the best way to go everywhere," on speed dial. He had Johnny's buy-in and scheduling prowess on call to keep the five days he needed free. It was too bad that he couldn't make it work for the actual day itself, but Johnny didn't have to spell out how not good it would be for J to be canceling out of things these days, so Chris had taken the first open block of time Johnny could give him and ran with it.
He had as close of a personal relationship with the vice president of marketing at Ducati's European headquarters as you could get in three days of hard selling and abject begging.
He had everything he needed, except a way to get Justin where he was supposed to be. And for that, he had said a small prayer and hit his speed dial for Lance and was now listening to one slightly drunk Mississippi boy laugh himself sick.
Chris held the phone away from his ear and counted to ten. "All I want from you is for you to get J on a plane," Chris repeated himself, slowly and clearly, just in case it had been a misunderstanding due to a bad connection that had caused Lance's extreme mirth. "That's all."
Lance seemed to be trying to stop, but kept relapsing. "C'mon, man, it has to be one of us or Lynn because he'll steamroller right over Trace, and he's not going to listen to anyone else."
"Oh, fuck, yeah," Lance gasped. "That's even better. Lynn. Want to hear you call Lynn."
"Give me a damn break, even if it's Lynn and Justin we're talking about, there's no way I'm asking my boyfriend's mother to put him on a plane so I can spend a week fucking him stupid."
Lance kept laughing and Chris finally snapped. "Two fucking days in London, Bass, and you can have the negatives from that somewhat embarrassing Vegas after-party that you're so hot to keep Mama Diane from seeing."
Lance sobered up immediately and three minutes later, Chris had a deal.
Napoli
Chris had set his cell phone to its loudest setting and picked the most annoying ring he could find, just to be certain he wouldn't miss the call when it came, all of which might have been overkill, because he nearly had a heart attack when he was jolted awake by the shrill rendition of Oops I Did It Again.
"The package is in transit." There were days that Chris worried about the hiatus and what it was doing to Lance, but he shelved that for later and asked, "What did you tell him?"
Lance laughed. "Nada. If he has any idea where he's going it's only because you booked him on British Airways instead of Alitalia so the flight attendants speak English. Have fun calming him down when he gets there."
Under normal--i.e., non-boyfriend--circumstances, Chris would have applauded Lance's attitude, but seeing as how this was supposed to be the start of his first-ever-planned romantic trip he was a little less enthusiastic. Then again, he found it comforting to know that Lance still enjoyed fucking with Justin's head.
Chris got himself dressed and to the airport, and right on schedule, Justin walked out of Customs, his cell phone to his ear, a carefully controlled "I'm pissed off, but in a public place" look on his face, and a visibly nervous British Airways rep trotting next to him. Chris wandered over and waved.
There was a second of blank incomprehension, and then Justin sighed, "Fucking Bass." Chris snickered. "Don't laugh, man," Justin said. "He's all 'yeah, man, let's party' last night, and shit, whatever actually happened in Russia, that boy can now fucking drink vodka. He still shoulda been drunk when he dragged me out of bed this morning."
Chris smiled and nodded at the airline rep, and she gratefully dropped back. Justin was still ranting. "He's smiling the whole time, but he's fucking holding my passport hostage until I get on the damn plane, he won't let me stop for anything--I've got nothing but what I'm wearing and I'm thinking I'm pretty lucky to not be sitting in some back room somewhere because he is fucking insane with the secret agent bullshit."
"Got you covered, infant." Chris took the cell phone out of Justin's hands and said, "He's fine, thanks, we'll be in touch," and closed it on Johnny's laugh while he pushed Justin down the corridor. "Your mom sent me what you need."
"My mom?" Justin stopped so suddenly Chris ran into him. "My mom?" He started to wrestle Chris for the phone. "Give it--give me my damned phone. Lynn and I need to be having some words here because I am seriously developing some trust issues with that woman."
Chris stuffed the phone in his pocket and dragged Justin out of the terminal.
"I mean, first she corrupts Trace to go along with Kuchter, and now she's conspiring with you and Lance and, you know, maybe my dad needs to be paying more attention to her because she's obviously got too damn much time on her hands..."
Chris ignored Justin and smiled at the very nice man from Ducati who was hovering over two of the five existing prototypes for the upgraded ST4s, their silvered finish gleaming in the sunlight. He accepted the keys and waited for the instant when the biker Chris had helped raise from boyhood would overcome the bitching and moaning. True, they weren't Harleys, but when in Rome and all that, and it wasn't like they weren't the world's most impressive touring bikes.
"Ohholyfuck," Justin breathed. "Those are--how did you--not 'til next year--ohholyfuck."
Chris couldn't have said it any better himself.
Vietri sul Mare
Italy, Chris decided as he waited in line to grab some breakfast, was a fucking awesome country. He acknowledged that a good part of his general pleasure on this fine morning had to do with his boyfriend's kink for early morning oral sex, but even after he mentally subtracted the fastest, nastiest blowjob he'd had since, well, since the last time he'd woken up with Justin, Chris was still in an excellent mood. How could you not love a country where the best breakfast was apparently found in bars?
Chris smiled at the woman behind the counter at the caffe and decided to try out his Italian. "Un bomboloni crema e un caffe corretto, per favore." Custard-filled donuts so big their name translated to "big bombs" and espresso "corrected" with a shot of grappa--the hell with Wheaties. This was definitely the breakfast of champions.
Chris found a small table, pulled out the first of his Aurelio Zen paperbacks, and settled back to wait for Justin to make his appearance.
Maiori
The weather wasn't the best and it was off-season, so a lot of places weren't open, but the people Chris met every morning getting his breakfast were always happy to give opinions on what to see and where to go. And if it was too cold or rainy to be out on the bikes, and they were stuck in their rooms with a couple of hours to kill before it was time to go out and hunt down dinner? Chris had no problem with carefully seeking out the best place to replace the now-faded bruise on Justin's collarbone or seeing how long it would take to get Justin arching up off the bed, hands wrapped hard around the bars in the headboard, flushed and sweaty, panting fuckChrisIcan'twaitpleasepleaseplease.
Ravello
Justin got recognized, of course, but it never became a problem, never reached the paparazzi level, for which Chris was eternally grateful, but watching their first courses end up on the floor and their waitress backing away, one hand over her mouth, eyes wide and fixed on Justin, Chris thought they might just have crossed into the realm of inconvenience.
When Chris tried to explain things to JC later, he vaguely remembered a woman introducing herself as Signora Teresa, some scolding in Italian, some apologies in passable English, and much excitement as the mess on the floor was cleaned up, but quite frankly, he'd been trying to work out if it was worth staying or if they should try another restaurant, so he might not have been paying really close attention to what was going on.
All he really remembered was everything stopping and people looking at him enquiringly. Justin was grinning and nodding, so he just smiled and said, "Si," and the next thing he knew, he was holding a baby, and Justin had jumped up to help a tiny old lady wearing all black into the chair next to him, and two burly young guys were pushing more tables and chairs together, and food and wine and people started pouring out of the kitchen. Chris was fairly certain he missed something.
Justin was laughing at him, in that private way they all had of calling each other on their foul-ups without alerting the media, but he wasn't letting his amusement slow down his food acquisition, so Chris assumed he didn't really care. He took the satisfaction he'd been getting from watching Justin actually eat more than a burger snatched from a craft services table and filed it away for future thought, even though he knew he knew what it all meant. The little boy on his lap reached up and tugged on his beard, babbling away in baby-Italian. Chris babbled back and started filling his own plate.
It took three hours of Tio Giorgio's wines and Signora Teresa's pasta ala whatever for Justin to coax their erstwhile waitress--Signora Teresa's youngest daughter--out of the her kitchen hiding place. There was much picture-taking and autograph-signing, Chris included, because she shyly produced a battered old copy of No Strings. Chris had had enough to drink that Justin's idea to call Lance, and Joey, and even JC--so she could get the full effect of a sleepy, just rolled out of bed "how ya doing, honey?" to finish off her night--sounded just fine, but wasn't so drunk as to not let the infant make the calls and take the blame.
Justin was in the happy, friendly, let-me-hang-all-over-you stage of wine consumption by the time they stood in the doorway, all the other customers long-since departed, while Chris struggled with his Italian to try to express their thanks. Signora Teresa patted him on the cheek and said approvingly, "You understand the importance of the good meal," and quelled Justin's giggle with a single look. She turned back to Chris and said, "You teach him, yes?" Her eyes were serious and Chris knew she wasn't really talking about food. He nodded and she kissed him on the cheek--left, right, left--and did the same to Justin and waved them off into the night with a fond "Arrivaderla."
It took them three wrong turns and nearly an hour to walk the ten blocks back to their hotel, but that was due mostly to Justin's sudden insistence on dragging Chris into every dark doorway they passed so they could work a little groping into the evening. Chris didn't mind at all, and he was absolutely certain Signora Teresa would approve.
Amalfi
The sun broke through the clouds to fall across the page, and Chris looked up from where he was sprawled on his stomach on the bed reading. From what he could see out the window, the whole sky was brightening and the rain was history.
"J? It's stopped raining."
Justin muttered something but didn't move from where he was draped over Chris' back.
"You want to go check out that grotto the old guy in the square was telling us about?"
Justin lifted his head off Chris' shoulder and squinted at the window. "'M good here," he said. He was; Chris could feel him relaxing more and deeper every day.
"Ok," Chris said, and Justin laid his head back down. Chris watched the town and the little strip of beach spread out beneath their window for a while before going back to trying to figure out who Zen was chasing this time.
Positano
Chris had barely touched his morning espresso when Justin appeared in the caffe, dragging a chair over to the table to sit next to Chris.
"Last day. I can sleep on the plane tomorrow," Justin said in response to Chris' arched eyebrow. He reached over and stole Chris' coffee. "Just, y'know. Probably won't be verbal for a while."
"Words are not what I value from your oral repertoire, baby," Chris leered. Justin flipped him off, but his leg stayed pressed close against Chris' so it was clearly a pro forma gesture.
Predictably enough, Justin gagged on the espresso and grappa. Chris rescued his cup and looked around for a waiter. There was no use wasting the good stuff on Justin, so he ordered caffe Americano and started outlining the plan for the last day. He didn't think Justin would have any issues with it, but if he laid it out now, Justin wasn't really awake enough to argue just for the sake of arguing and Chris would save a lot of time.
Costa Amalfi
Chris was flat-out in love and as soon as he got back to the States, he was sending an entire store inventory of flowers to that battle-ax of a travel agent to prove his devotion. She was worth every cent he overpaid her, every last "discussion" they'd had about why his plans were wrong and hers were right, every single condescending moment of every single phone call, because she was rightrightright and Chris was man enough to admit it.
Chris wasn't limiting his scope either. He was pretty much in love with everything about this day. He loved the way the road twisted and turned, the right shoulder dropping off hundreds of feet down to the water; he loved the way he recognized and remembered the villages that flashed by, Praiano to Furore to Conca dei Marini; he loved the incredible responsiveness of the bike he was riding; he loved that the weather hadn't quite turned gorgeous because that would have been clichéd; and most of all, he loved that Justin was next to him, laughing in his headset, and taking every turn of the road shoulder to shoulder with Chris.
A dark-haired woman in an Alfa Romeo caught up with them as they came out of Scala and stayed with them to play. Chris dropped back and watched Justin flirt with her; pulling alongside her, then accelerating ahead; dropping behind to chase her through Minori; laughing over the radio, "oh, yeah, she wants us, bad," until finally she slowed in the square in Cetara and kissed her hand to them as they took the final turn toward Vietri sul Mare and Salerno.
Vietri sul Mare
Chris' timing was off and he pushed a little too hard against Justin at the exact instant Justin managed to get the door behind him open. They didn't fall, but Justin staggered back until he hit the hotel room wall with a jarring thud. He grunted a little but didn't break the kiss. Chris pushed and pulled impatiently at the leather jacket and t-shirt until he could get to bare skin. Touch was good, touch was what he'd been craving for hours, the whole trip along the coast, and there was no way he was going to be able to get enough of it.
"Wait, wait," Justin panted, catching Chris' hands in his own. He stumbled to the bed, bringing Chris with him, tumbling them both onto the mattress. "I want. I want to touch you," he breathed, and that was so surprising to Chris.
Justin in control was all about the quick and nasty: the frantic, fast, so-hot-it-could-melt-glass fuck on the side of the road; or the rough, knowing hand job under a restaurant table. Chris very carefully thought that he didn't want to seem unappreciative of such things, because the memory of Justin in a tight black t-shirt and leather pants on his knees in front of Chris in the bathroom of an anonymous club was something Chris was going to be getting off on for the rest of his natural life; but he also wanted to acknowledge that he could get very used to the Justin who was undressing the both of them with exquisite care, touching and tasting every bit of Chris, whispering things into his skin that Chris heard in his heart even over the rush of blood in his ears.
By the time Justin was moaning nownowneedyounow, Chris was shaking so hard he couldn't hold onto the condom. Justin half-growled, half-laughed and tore the package open himself, smoothing it down onto Chris and reaching for the lube.
Chris had to close his eyes. His life had somehow turned into porn, into every fantasy that he'd never even let himself think about, and, just for a second, it was too much to actually see it. Then Justin sighed as Chris slid into him, and how could he not watch? It wasn't porn, it wasn't a fantasy; porn couldn't come close, and not even Chris' vivid imagination could match the reality of Justin moving easily on him, rocking slowly, and never taking his eyes off Chris. Once he looked, Chris could barely stand to tear his eyes away even to blink.
No one had ever accused Chris of being patient, but when the payoff was getting to watch the flush creep down Justin until Chris could trace a line across his abs, to hear his breath catch higher and higher with every shift of Chris' hips, to stroke along thigh and belly and feel the subtle trembling turn desperate under his hands, Chris discovered infinite reserves of self-control. He held on to Justin's hips, not letting him quicken the pace, until Justin was nearly keening with need and all Chris knew was the heat of the body around and over him and the blue of the eyes locked with his.
Napoli - Aeroporto Internazionale di Napoli
Chris stared at the package Justin dropped on his lap, until Justin was all squirmy. "It's a present, freak. But don't open it until I'm gone."
"Why?" Chris asked. "Is it gonna explode?"
Justin grunted, but since Joey and Lance had actually done that to each other more than once, Chris didn't think his question was all that out of line.
It was fairly standard Timberlake wrapping job, Chris thought, paper torn from an Italian tabloid, held together with what looked to be an entire roll of tape. There was a reason Justin always had his presents wrapped when he bought them, and Chris was looking at it.
The boarding calls rippled on around them in Italian, then French, and finally English, but it wasn't quite time for Justin's flight, so Chris wasn't paying much attention. He was much more interested in watching Justin fidget.
"It's not all that great," Justin said. "Not compared to all this." He waved his hand vaguely. "I had a really good time. Really."
Chris looked at the messy little package in his lap and up at Justin, and wanted to kick himself for taking so long to figure all this out. "Me, too," he said.
"I don't--" Justin frowned, and then started again. "I wasn't expecting it to be like this. Being with you." The look on Chris' face must have matched the sudden twist in his gut because Justin elbowed him and said, "No, I don't mean it like that, so stop freaking out. I just meant, I thought it would be different. Everyone always says sleeping with someone changes everything, but." He shook his head helplessly. "It's like it always is, but with sex, except it's better, and shit, could I sound any dumber?"
Chris arched an eyebrow. "You don't really want me to answer that, do you?" Justin shrugged, which meant he was flustered, and since Chris didn't think he should be, he smacked the back of his head to snap him out of it.
"JC said a few things to me a couple of weeks ago, and--"
Justin recovered enough to snicker. "Man, I'll bet he did. Did you really pull him out of bed with both Le--"
Chris slapped his hand hard over Justin's mouth. "I. Do. Not. Want to know who C is sleeping with. Why is that so hard for people to understand?" Chris asked. "But yes. There were people--plural people, plural genders--in his bed when I visited." Justin cackled, quietly so as to not attract any attention. Chris was certain there had been a bet involved, and that Justin had just won.
He let Justin enjoy himself a bit, then cleared his throat. "As I was saying. I annoyed the princess, and he suggested, with great pleasure, that I might have been too chickenshit to have acknowledged what was uh, clearly happening in our relationship. For years. Which kind of fits what you just said, so. I'm, I'm, sorry."
Justin looked at him for a long minute. "Ok, see, now I know that you don't listen to half the shit that comes out of your own mouth." Chris looked at him blankly. Justin sighed. "What was the first thing you told me about sex and stuff in Germany?"
Chris thought hard. "Uh, that if I ever caught you having unprotected sex, I'd kick your ass so hard you wouldn't touch your dick for a month?"
Justin looked thoughtful. "Oh. Wait, yeah, you're right. Um, second thing?"
"Lube is your friend?"
Justin rolled his eyes. "No! Jeez, I was fifteen, I was still in the theoretical phase of sex." He shook his head. "Dude, you sat me and Lance down, and told us that JC was the sweetest guy you'd ever met, but that he lived in some weird-ass world of sex where normal rules didn't apply, and that we were never, under any circumstances to ever take his advice on anything other than how to nail the person we wanted and still stay friends with them after."
Chris said, "There was alcohol involved in that conversation, wasn't there?"
Justin snorted. "Of course there was. When was there not? The point is, why are you listening to JC all of a sudden?"
"Because he was right?" Chris mumbled.
Justin blinked. "Man, I wish I had that on tape. I could get a lot of money for hard evidence of you admitting that JC was right about anything other than a dance step. Even if he is wrong about this, because if he was right, we would have happened a long time ago."
Chris opened his mouth, but had to close it after a second, because that was one of those Justin-statements, the kind you couldn't argue with--unless you were JC--because you couldn't understand them.
Justin saw the look on his face and hurried to explain. "See, I was talking to my mom about us--"
Chris groaned. "Please tell me you left out at least some details."
"Well, I might have mentioned that the sex rocked," Justin said. "But if you're worried about her knowing about how much you like the kinky shit--"
"Whoa, whoa, I'm not the one who asked for a birthday spanking."
"No," grinned Justin. "You're just the one who tripped over your own feet--twice--in the rush to lock the door."
"Show some respect, infant. Or it won't happen again."
"Won't it?"
Chris thought he should probably assert himself, to lay down the law or something, but it was all he could do to keep breathing because Justin had done that that thing he did, where he went from the kid Chris had goofed off with in auditions to the stuff of insane fantasies in the space of a heartbeat.
"Wait, we're not going there." Justin's voice was a little hoarse. "Just, stop looking at me like that, I have to sit on one plane or another for the next thirteen hours."
Chris thought it was a little unfair of Justin to be blaming Chris, but he obligingly looked away and concentrated on contracts and percentages and fine print. And when that didn't work, he thought of Lou. Naked.
After a couple of seconds, Justin said, "Right. Mom. I was talking to her about us, like PG-rated, ok? And she said that she thought the timing was good, like that I was at a place where I wouldn't resent you wanting to take care of me, 'cause, dude, you know that's what you do, to everyone, and even though I'd have known that back then, I wouldn't have been able to see past the age difference and I'd have probably fucked everything up trying to prove how you didn't have to take care of me, that I was old enough even if I didn't really feel that way. And, and she said that now I know, or at least she thinks I know how you can't take a relationship for granted, you have to really pay attention to it, and grow it, and be a part of it even if it's not right there with you all the time, and." Justin took a deep breath. "Um, that's it, I think."
Chris sorted through the Justin-speak, and finally said, "So that's a thumbs-up from Lynn?" Justin nodded, and Chris continued, "And a confirmation that you don't hold it against me for not being able to deal with actually admitting there was something there before?"
The public address system crackled to life and this time it was Justin's flight, but Justin didn't move. "No, I'm not thinking like that. What happened happened and it's part of who we are now, and all I can control is what I say and do now."
He stood up and picked up his duffle, and Chris risked a hand on his hip, thumb rubbing lightly over the bruise he'd left. Justin covered his hand with one of his own.
"Thank you," Justin said. "Nobody's ever done anything like this for me."
Chris looked up. "I've never done it for anyone. Not like this." Justin's hand tightened on his for an instant and then he was gone and up the ramp to the plane.
Chris sat alone for a second before tearing at the package. A pile of beach glass and three cups and saucers fell onto his lap. Chris picked one up and wondered when Justin had had the time to circle back to the caffes Chris had spent his mornings in. There was a note, too, long and involved and filled with scratched out words and looping arrows and drawings of two little stick figures engaging in obscene acts. Chris had just started to decipher Justin's execrable scrawl when his phone buzzed against his hip.
"I wrote this down, but I know you're whining about my handwriting already," Justin said. "Vancouver. I'm supposed to be done shooting in six weeks. Mom can ship both our boards to Whistler if you're up for it, old man."
Chris thought about how damn big that mountain was and sore he'd been after one day on a relatively small mountain in Scotland and laughed. "Always, infant. Always."
-fin-
We're all cool that this never happened, right? Good. Made it all up.
As usual, thanks to C and J for the second and third pairs of eyes; and thanks to just_justin and canalbaby for their schedules and timelines, because I never would have been able to sort things out by myself.
Travelogue notes: If you've ever done the Amalfi Coast Road, you'll realize that some of these towns aren't more than a couple of miles apart. I just figured Chris had things other than efficient sight-seeing on his mind, and the battle-ax of a travel agent (hi Joan!) rolled her eyes and booked the hotels.
Also, JC and friends were wearing PeeK's Prom Queen nail polish and body glitter. Available at Sephora. :)
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By which I mean: Yes. Wonderful fucking job. I'd be more coherent if it weren't 4AM, I swear :)
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that's my family right there all seventeen billion of them
My family, too, and the look I used to see in my nice wasp-y friends' eyes when the cousins started swarming is one of my favorite memories.
t's affectionate and romantic without being sappy
Ok, *whew*, because the last thing I wrote was way over on the not-nice side of things, and my sap-meter needed recallibration. I couldn't tell if I was going too far, just to blow out the stuff lingering from the last time.
Yes. Wonderful fucking job. I'd be more coherent if it weren't 4AM, I swear :)
Come babble at me any time! Thanks again for the lovely words.
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Also, the sex is hot.
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But I do love Italy, I have family there, and the Amalfi Coast is so gorgeous even in the dead of winter, so I quite enjoyed sending the boys there.
Also, the sex is hot.
hothotHOT boys. What's not to love?
Thanks very much; I'm so glad you liked it.
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They deserve to be happy, darn it!
I like happy boys, too. =)
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