mickeym

Chris/JC. R-ish. No nasty warnings, like last time *g* Thanks to

jchalo and

pierson for letting me bounce the idea off them, and for beta.

Follows Substitute. It will probably make more sense if you've read that, first.

He licks his lips once, and you remember soft kisses, just a few, once in a while. Remember the taste of his lips, the way his tongue slid against yours.

He's a dark spot, black set against grey. You stand still in the early morning light and stare out toward the water, trying to distinguish cloudy dark grey from the fog rolling over the water. You miss the Pacific, and it's year-round warm, welcoming blue. The Atlantic in winter depresses you.

The sand is cool against your toes where it trickles in between skin and the rubber of your flip-flops. There was a time you weren't allowed to wear them at all; now you wear them as often as you want, because you control what you do.

Mostly.

He's hunched in on himself, pulled into as small a ball as a fully-grown man can manage. You hate seeing him like this; hate the way it's become more the norm than not.

You've stepped quietly, haven't said a word, but your hand no more than hovers over his shoulder and he snaps, "Don't touch me."

He's all in black – again – and you wonder if he changed clothes this morning. Or showered. Or anything. He was gone when you woke up; the only indication he'd even been there at all was the fading scent of his cologne. It's still very early; you feel as if you never went to bed at all. You certainly didn’t sleep much, tried to stay awake so you could feel his hand tangled in your hair, so you could hear his slow, steady breaths. He never leaves until you're asleep, and you always try to stay awake. It never lasts, because you're worn out from the emotions released, from the physical exertion. Worn out from fucking a stranger. You wonder what her name was. Chris usually asks, but unless you ask him, he doesn't say. You know he saw her out. He always does.

You settle yourself beside him and draw your legs up, a mimic of his pose that's more silent protest against the chill blowing off the ocean than anything else. He's so quiet. So withdrawn. You can remember when things like last night at least eased the tension a little, gave you both a bit of surcease. When the morning after let you both smile, let you lean against each other a little, a shared memory of something almost tangible. Lately, the last few times, it's harder to smile. Harder to touch at all.

There's no surcease now; you want him as badly this minute as you did last night, or a week ago, a year ago, five years ago.

You wonder sometimes if you're in hell, wanting something you can't have so badly that you ache with it.

"Chris—"

He looks at you then, his eyes red from smoke and drink, and not enough sleep. They're ringed with dark shadows that pull the life from them, take away the sparkle you remember. You wonder what you look like to him, if he sees the changes the same as you. He licks his lips once, and you remember soft kisses, just a few, once in a while. Remember the taste of his lips, the way his tongue slid against yours. His voice is low, so soft you hardly can hear him over the thunder of the surf against the shore.

"I can't do this anymore." He stretches one hand out, just a little, and you want so bad to lean into that touch, to feel his fingers on your skin. He pulls back before you can, and the ache in your chest increases until you wonder what a heart attack feels like. If it would be a kinder, quicker way to die than by bits and pieces, like this, crushed by emotions. "I want…so much, C. Want you so much. I can't. Even like last night…it hurts too much now. Hurts to not be the one touching you."

You nod, numb to everything except the pain radiating through you. It does hurt. Vaguely you think love isn't supposed to hurt; it's supposed to be a good, happy thing. Something to share and rejoice in. Not to turn from, to hide away from eyes that might judge and condemn.

"I don't know what to do." You don't mean to say it out loud, but there it is. You don't know what to do. You're not hurting each other, exactly. Hurting for each other. And it's not like you can break up; you have to go out with someone before you can break up with them. You and Chris have never had that chance. Never had the luxury of anything but a few kisses, a touch here and there…and a shared fuck with an anonymous stranger when you couldn't push the need away any longer.

Five years of substituting someone else, of wanting and never having, and nothing to show for it. You blink against the sting in your eyes and grip your fingers tightly together, squeeze your knees closer to your chest.

"I don't know what to do," you mumble again, staring out at the ocean. You can't look at him. If you do—the world may end. You twist the bracelet knotted around your wrist, thinking about when Chris tied it on, last summer, the smile on his lips small compared to the one in his eyes. "I don't. I can't stop. Don't want to go on, can't stop. I—." It's hard to force the words past the lump in your throat, and they come out in a rough whisper, lost in the pounding surf. "I need you."

I love you.

You've never said it. Not even casually, like you tell the other guys. 'Love you, man', is a phrase very common among the five of you…but never between just the two of you. It's always there, pulsing strongly between you, but always unvoiced.

This time, he touches you. One light stroke of his fingers down your cheek. You turn into the touch, starved for it, wanting that and so much more it feels like fire licking at you. "JC—"

You'll never know what Chris was going to say. You don't want to hear what he could say, and you're afraid of what he might say, and you don't know what to do. What to say. You twist around and kiss him, desperately, mouth sliding wetly over his. His lips are chapped, and cool, and you can taste salt from the ocean spray. Salt, and Chris, and he's stiff against you, mouth frozen from shock until you lick again, and again and he softens against you. Relaxes. Sighs and slides his arms around your neck, bringing you close against him.

"I can't stop," you whisper, licking the words into his mouth. You don't know if he hears them before they're swallowed, disappearing into the kiss. His hands tighten on your shoulders; he's shaking against you. "Can't," you say again, mouth moving, licking, sucking, tasting. You taste him, musky, salty, skin cooled but warming.

"No," he sighs, the word rough, hungry. You feel it ripple through you. Feel it swirl through the ache inside you, rending it apart. He strokes down your back and up under your sweatshirt and your skin prickles with goosebumps, with fire and ice and oh, god, this is why you never started. You can't stop. You don't want to stop. You won't stop. You tip him backward, slide over him. His eyes are hot now, shining. Sparkling. "Need you," he whispers, fingers scrabbling at your back. "Please."

You kiss him again, slick and wet, deep and hungry. So much wanting for so long; it's as if a dam burst inside you. You say his name, whisper it into his skin gently, then bite it in, teeth and fingers and tongue working to brand him, to mark him. He moves beneath you, rubbing, shifting, and you hold him close, gasping through the pleasure that sears through you.

This time, he's holding you tightly against him when you call his name, and his voice echoes your cry, calling yours.

~fin~