Ficlet - Odd Man Out
Oct. 20th, 2003 12:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymOdd Man Out. Chris/JC (Chris/Justin-ish). Soft R. (I guess).
I found this lurking on my hard drive in several different stages -- seriously -- and decided to play with it this morning, and see if I could make something out of it. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silveryscrape for betaing for me. *hugs*
Not mine, not real, just for fun. Enjoy!
Like every other time, it starts with music.
Sometimes it's punked out stuff, sometimes it's hip-hop. Occasionally it's oldies, like the Beatles or the Temptations. Usually it's whatever Chris has handy with a good, thumping beat that's heavy on the bass.
Tonight it's Billy Squier, a blast from the past.
*Stroke me, stroke me*
You don't even have to close your eyes; they slide shut the minute the music begins. You've been waiting for this, waiting for days, hours, minutes, however long since the last time. Conveniently this time it's night time and you're already in your bunk, tired of Playstation and TV and movies and the company of the other two on the bus.
Waiting to touch, to feel, to hear.
Waiting for them. For him.
Soft wet sounds, not quite sucking, but suction applied, and the low, breathy pants and sighs that accompany sloppy kisses. Kisses applied to lips, to throats, teeth flashing when they bite down, tongue wet and dark pink, flashing lewdly in a smile, licking at the bites.
You feel disconnected from your hand as you touch yourself, stroking over your tingling lips – tingling as though you could feel the kisses you can only hear – licking at the tips of your fingers, before sliding them down your throat, streaks of damp following, igniting your skin.
Words, his words, his voice, fire your brain, ramping up the intensity of everything you feel.
"Just like that…mmm, god. 'S good, baby…so good…"
More slick, wet sounds, open-mouthed kisses; you've seen them do it a hundred times. A thousand times. Endless, countless, each kiss slaying you, filling you, making you dream about them. Lips and tongues and teeth and one of them tilting their head back, the other -- him, probably – lapping as he moves lower, hands stroking gently, then harder, teasing firm flesh beneath loose, soft clothing.
The CD track changes to Springsteen and you shiver as the music winds its way into your brain and down through your body, combining with the electricity weaving through you. Heat sparks behind your eyes as your hand moves, strokes; it's almost auto-pilot, because while you know you're jerking off, you're focusing on them, on the sounds from the other bunk.
Another track change, something harder, nastier; you don't recognize it, can't place the artist. But you feel it all the way deep inside. Feel each beat in time with your heart, with the pulse pounding within you. Your hand is sticky damp, your body sweaty. You can hear them over the music, a faint chorus of moans and snarls. Tonight is JC topping; you've learned over the months – endless months, never a break – to tell from the sounds, and the way each looks the next morning.
You think, speeding up your pace, biting your lip to keep from coming until you hear the higher pitched noises, that you'd give anything in the world to trade places with JC. You would qualify it with 'one night', but you're not stupid. One night wouldn't be enough.
Chris' voice is naturally light; when he comes, it soars. You think sometimes of a bird rising gracefully, swooping and soaring again. It's like that. Even snarled out, you recognize it, hear the pleasure he's feeling. It streaks through you whitehot and painful, sizzling your atoms until you can't think, can't focus, can only feel.
When you come back to yourself, your hand and belly are sticky and chill and it's quiet all around you, save for soft rustles of sheets, low breathy sounds, and the hum of wheels on the road. You blink fast until the sharp pain fades into a muted glow, and fall asleep listening to nothing.
~~~~~
Two shows, three days, same city. You like the longer concert runs, because you get to stay in a hotel for a few days, get to stand on ground that doesn't shift and vibrate beneath your feet. It gives you all a chance to break away from each other for a few hours – or longer, if necessary – or to do things together you can't do while on the bus.
You don't have to hear more than the first few strains of the song to know who it is, and while most days you're fine with the Ramones, today--no.
"Chris. Dude. Not again. What's with all the seventies and eighties shit lately, yo?"
Chris rolls his eyes at you. "Look. My day, my choice, so deal, huh?"
"But—Rock and Roll High School again?" You glare at the boombox for good measure, then shake your head. "Can't we listen to like, something else? Anything else? The Beatles. Beatles would be good, man."
"You dissin' my musical choices?" He has you in a headlock before you know what's happening, knuckles scrubbing roughly over your head 'til you squirmed and struggled, cursing at him. When he finally lets you go, your head's throbbing uncomfortably. You rub it gently and glare at him, resisting the urge to stick your tongue out when he cackles, "So, are we playing or are we talking, baby-doll?"
Woo. Battle cry. "Gonna whoop your ass, little man."
And damn, but you're glad for the recent growth spurt that lets you look downward when you say that. He grins, wolfishly, and you remember the braces that once gleamed dully against his teeth, not so long ago…but ages past, too.
He flips you off and grabs the ball. "You wish."
And so it went.
Basketball is fun with Chris, even if it's just one-on-one, shooting some hoops. Actually, especially when it's just one-on-one. He never lets you get away with shit, and if he ever suspects you're letting him get away with anything, he calls you on it in a second.
And he's tireless. Relentless. It's actually almost as much fun to watch the ball fly effortlessly from Chris' fingertips through the hoop, as it is to do it yourself.
Sometimes you miss his braids – though you'd sooner eat the basketball than tell him that – and the way they would flop all around, unless he tied them back or wore the bandana. You know your own choice for bandanas reflect on Chris' fashion habits of the past. It was, you suppose, just another form of the idol worship you've displayed over the years that the others tease you about.
Chris is cool about it, though; he never teases you. Not about that. Anything else, sure. Your life is fair game to him, as his is to you. But there are a few spots, mutually unspoken hands-off areas. Your continuing…obsession, infatuation, whatever, is one of them.
Lance calls it a crush. You told Lance to fuck off, and you weren't really nice about it, either. It's a tender spot. Not sore, exactly, but. Pressing against it isn't one of your favorite pastimes.
You will never have Chris. Not as more than big brother/best friend you have now. You can't have him; it would throw off the balance the two of you have perfected over the years. And you know he isn't in love with you. That's reserved for JC. No, Chris loves you, flirts playfully with you, plays with you, comforts you…but he isn't now and never has been, interested in you in a physical sense.
You know, because you'd asked him once. Teasingly, making a joke out of it, but he understood the seriousness behind it. And he answered accordingly.
"I love you, Jup. I'll always love you, dude. But—you're my little brother, man."
And you have to be content with that. Have to let it be enough.
Watching him now, running around the court like he's on speed, dribbling the ball teasingly, you think it really is enough. Yes, you'd like more, sometimes. When you feel lonely, or alone; when need is a physical ache inside you. When you have to sit on the couch and watch him and JC lean into each other. They're not blatant in front of you—not intentionally. But you're one and they're two, and sometimes you wish you were part of the two.
Especially when the music starts up on the loneliest nights.
But there's something to be said for unfulfilled longing; for wanting something you know you'll never have. And even if you're the odd man out sometimes, what you have with Chris is perfect in its own right. Maybe even musical, in its own way.
~fin~
I found this lurking on my hard drive in several different stages -- seriously -- and decided to play with it this morning, and see if I could make something out of it. Many thanks to
silveryscrape for betaing for me. *hugs*Not mine, not real, just for fun. Enjoy!
Like every other time, it starts with music.
Sometimes it's punked out stuff, sometimes it's hip-hop. Occasionally it's oldies, like the Beatles or the Temptations. Usually it's whatever Chris has handy with a good, thumping beat that's heavy on the bass.
Tonight it's Billy Squier, a blast from the past.
*Stroke me, stroke me*
You don't even have to close your eyes; they slide shut the minute the music begins. You've been waiting for this, waiting for days, hours, minutes, however long since the last time. Conveniently this time it's night time and you're already in your bunk, tired of Playstation and TV and movies and the company of the other two on the bus.
Waiting to touch, to feel, to hear.
Waiting for them. For him.
Soft wet sounds, not quite sucking, but suction applied, and the low, breathy pants and sighs that accompany sloppy kisses. Kisses applied to lips, to throats, teeth flashing when they bite down, tongue wet and dark pink, flashing lewdly in a smile, licking at the bites.
You feel disconnected from your hand as you touch yourself, stroking over your tingling lips – tingling as though you could feel the kisses you can only hear – licking at the tips of your fingers, before sliding them down your throat, streaks of damp following, igniting your skin.
Words, his words, his voice, fire your brain, ramping up the intensity of everything you feel.
"Just like that…mmm, god. 'S good, baby…so good…"
More slick, wet sounds, open-mouthed kisses; you've seen them do it a hundred times. A thousand times. Endless, countless, each kiss slaying you, filling you, making you dream about them. Lips and tongues and teeth and one of them tilting their head back, the other -- him, probably – lapping as he moves lower, hands stroking gently, then harder, teasing firm flesh beneath loose, soft clothing.
The CD track changes to Springsteen and you shiver as the music winds its way into your brain and down through your body, combining with the electricity weaving through you. Heat sparks behind your eyes as your hand moves, strokes; it's almost auto-pilot, because while you know you're jerking off, you're focusing on them, on the sounds from the other bunk.
Another track change, something harder, nastier; you don't recognize it, can't place the artist. But you feel it all the way deep inside. Feel each beat in time with your heart, with the pulse pounding within you. Your hand is sticky damp, your body sweaty. You can hear them over the music, a faint chorus of moans and snarls. Tonight is JC topping; you've learned over the months – endless months, never a break – to tell from the sounds, and the way each looks the next morning.
You think, speeding up your pace, biting your lip to keep from coming until you hear the higher pitched noises, that you'd give anything in the world to trade places with JC. You would qualify it with 'one night', but you're not stupid. One night wouldn't be enough.
Chris' voice is naturally light; when he comes, it soars. You think sometimes of a bird rising gracefully, swooping and soaring again. It's like that. Even snarled out, you recognize it, hear the pleasure he's feeling. It streaks through you whitehot and painful, sizzling your atoms until you can't think, can't focus, can only feel.
When you come back to yourself, your hand and belly are sticky and chill and it's quiet all around you, save for soft rustles of sheets, low breathy sounds, and the hum of wheels on the road. You blink fast until the sharp pain fades into a muted glow, and fall asleep listening to nothing.
Two shows, three days, same city. You like the longer concert runs, because you get to stay in a hotel for a few days, get to stand on ground that doesn't shift and vibrate beneath your feet. It gives you all a chance to break away from each other for a few hours – or longer, if necessary – or to do things together you can't do while on the bus.
You don't have to hear more than the first few strains of the song to know who it is, and while most days you're fine with the Ramones, today--no.
"Chris. Dude. Not again. What's with all the seventies and eighties shit lately, yo?"
Chris rolls his eyes at you. "Look. My day, my choice, so deal, huh?"
"But—Rock and Roll High School again?" You glare at the boombox for good measure, then shake your head. "Can't we listen to like, something else? Anything else? The Beatles. Beatles would be good, man."
"You dissin' my musical choices?" He has you in a headlock before you know what's happening, knuckles scrubbing roughly over your head 'til you squirmed and struggled, cursing at him. When he finally lets you go, your head's throbbing uncomfortably. You rub it gently and glare at him, resisting the urge to stick your tongue out when he cackles, "So, are we playing or are we talking, baby-doll?"
Woo. Battle cry. "Gonna whoop your ass, little man."
And damn, but you're glad for the recent growth spurt that lets you look downward when you say that. He grins, wolfishly, and you remember the braces that once gleamed dully against his teeth, not so long ago…but ages past, too.
He flips you off and grabs the ball. "You wish."
And so it went.
Basketball is fun with Chris, even if it's just one-on-one, shooting some hoops. Actually, especially when it's just one-on-one. He never lets you get away with shit, and if he ever suspects you're letting him get away with anything, he calls you on it in a second.
And he's tireless. Relentless. It's actually almost as much fun to watch the ball fly effortlessly from Chris' fingertips through the hoop, as it is to do it yourself.
Sometimes you miss his braids – though you'd sooner eat the basketball than tell him that – and the way they would flop all around, unless he tied them back or wore the bandana. You know your own choice for bandanas reflect on Chris' fashion habits of the past. It was, you suppose, just another form of the idol worship you've displayed over the years that the others tease you about.
Chris is cool about it, though; he never teases you. Not about that. Anything else, sure. Your life is fair game to him, as his is to you. But there are a few spots, mutually unspoken hands-off areas. Your continuing…obsession, infatuation, whatever, is one of them.
Lance calls it a crush. You told Lance to fuck off, and you weren't really nice about it, either. It's a tender spot. Not sore, exactly, but. Pressing against it isn't one of your favorite pastimes.
You will never have Chris. Not as more than big brother/best friend you have now. You can't have him; it would throw off the balance the two of you have perfected over the years. And you know he isn't in love with you. That's reserved for JC. No, Chris loves you, flirts playfully with you, plays with you, comforts you…but he isn't now and never has been, interested in you in a physical sense.
You know, because you'd asked him once. Teasingly, making a joke out of it, but he understood the seriousness behind it. And he answered accordingly.
"I love you, Jup. I'll always love you, dude. But—you're my little brother, man."
And you have to be content with that. Have to let it be enough.
Watching him now, running around the court like he's on speed, dribbling the ball teasingly, you think it really is enough. Yes, you'd like more, sometimes. When you feel lonely, or alone; when need is a physical ache inside you. When you have to sit on the couch and watch him and JC lean into each other. They're not blatant in front of you—not intentionally. But you're one and they're two, and sometimes you wish you were part of the two.
Especially when the music starts up on the loneliest nights.
But there's something to be said for unfulfilled longing; for wanting something you know you'll never have. And even if you're the odd man out sometimes, what you have with Chris is perfect in its own right. Maybe even musical, in its own way.
~fin~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 10:04 am (UTC)I always curse when I read good fic. It's a kink.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 05:49 am (UTC)Seriously tho', thank you :) I'm very happy you liked it! *hugs*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 10:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 10:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 11:06 am (UTC)Much, much goodness here. Beautifully written, marvelous turns of phrases, longing, love, *realness*.
Mmm.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 11:12 am (UTC)wow
just wow
I really don't know what else to say.
the last paragraph says it all.
wonderful :o)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 12:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:25 am (UTC)Thanks, honey :)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 12:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 01:07 pm (UTC)poor, hurting Justin...wanting so much, and just having to make do with little stolen moments. ouch.
so good, honey. thankyou :)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-20 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:37 am (UTC)