New story: [ Never Go Back ] - Chris/JC
Mar. 21st, 2004 09:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeym[ Never Go Back ] Chris/JC. R-ish. AU.
I got the idea for this story listening to Dan Fogelberg's Same Auld Lang Syne, and it's been three months in the making, and several rewrites over to get it to this point. I have to give big, big props to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silveryscrape, synecdochic, and jchalo for beta duty extraordinaire. Also many thanks and hugs to lilysaid for advice and handholding. I can't tell y'all how much I appreciate the help and input.
Hope you enjoy the story :)
You wonder why you thought it was a good idea to come home for the holidays. You’ve worked so hard to get beyond this town, this place, your past. You’re a successful musician, you’ve made something of yourself; yet coming here, coming home, reduces you once again to an uncertain boy, hungry and aching to get out and away.
The first few days, when it’s just your mom, dad, brother and you, are fine. Even the addition of Heather and her family is fine. But the rest of the family descends on the house on Christmas Eve, and you need an escape after just a few hours. You mumble an excuse about needing to run out for something, and grab the closest keys – your dad’s – before anyone can say anything.
Christmas Eve, and most every store is beginning to close up for the coming holiday. Shoppers look frantic and clerks look harried and tired, and you can almost feel everyone’s anticipation of a break, however brief. You wish it were a break for you, but really, it feels like you’re mired, waiting for your head to break above the muck so you can gasp in another breath.
You can’t ever really go back, or go home. You ought to remember that, by now.
Things haven't changed much in the time you've been away. You always forget that, no matter that you come back once or twice a year; you always expect things to look different. To be different. But the high school still looks forlorn in the gloom, without the bustle of students and teachers, and the mall is too-bright with Christmas lights and taillights, and the main strip of town makes you think of a Hollywood hooker, tired and old and overly made-up, ready to give it up for something new.
Your town has grown up, and you feel that now. Feel lost, looking over it, like you really don't belong here any more.
It's raining, sort of. Rain mixed with snow, though the raindrops look a lot more solid than just water. As you drive aimlessly around town it changes over, slowly, until big, fat flakes are drifting down lazily, then faster and heavier. The sky and air around you are thick with frosty white when you finally pull into the grocery store parking lot, and it makes you smile a little, watching people ducking past you, flakes clinging to their collars, hoods, hair.
You do like the snow. It makes things seem a little more holiday-ish and a little less surreal. It never snows in Southern California, and mostly that’s good, but sometimes you miss it. You stand at the bank of windows just inside the grocery store and watch it for a few minutes before turning in and grabbing a basket. You don’t really need anything, just a break from assorted family members asking about your hypothetical girlfriend (why don't you/can't you find a nice girl to settle down with?), your career (nice music, but can’t you make it, y’know, a little slower? Not so loud?), your house (we’d like pictures, if we can’t come and visit you).
The store is mostly quiet, just a few people actually buying things now, and you wonder how long before they close, until you lose your refuge and have to go home. You decide you’ll wander the aisles until they throw you out.
You round the corner of one aisle and stop abruptly to stare at the man standing in front of one of the frozen food cases. The past ten years are gone in the blink of an eye, and you’d know him anywhere, even though his hair is short and spiky now, and not the longer dreadlocks-and-funky-braids he’d worn in high school. He’s still short, a little stockier than you remember, but beautiful. So beautiful. New earrings – a second set, both pairs silver hoops. The chain around his neck is familiar enough to make your heart skip a beat and your stomach tighten up, because you gave it to him. Gave it to him on a night a lot like this one, only a long time ago, when you were both young and you thought love lasted forever, that nothing could ever separate you.
The cool solid weight of your pendant – his gift to you on that same Christmas – burns against your chest. Or maybe the burn is inside; hot, tight emotion you’d swallowed down years ago and thought long past.
You follow him down the aisle, hanging back just a little to study him, drink in a face, a figure you hadn’t thought you’d see again and for a long time hadn’t wanted to see again. Your mind swirls with pictures and words, with memories of a conversation held in the early spring just before graduation, when you’d already decided you were leaving no matter what.
"Please, Chris. We can go out there together, get a place—"
"I can’t leave, JC. I can’t abandon my family like that."
"You said you wanted to go, too. That you want something more, something different." It wasn't even goodbye yet, but it felt like it.
He turned away from you, eyes dark and sad before you couldn't see them any more. "I do. But I can't. And that's that, man."
He wanted out, but wouldn’t leave his mom and sisters, so he was doomed to be stuck here forever, and you couldn’t make yourself stay. Not even for love. In the end you weren’t sure which one of you betrayed the other; maybe both, maybe neither. It didn’t really matter any more; it was so long ago and so much had happened since then.
He stops again, this time in front of the frozen vegetables, and you watch him study them - all the bags of peas, beans, carrots – and try to remember if you’d ever seen Chris voluntarily eat vegetables.
His face is the same, if older, and you wonder if his eyes still light up when he smiles. That’d been one of the things guaranteed to make you smile; when Chris looked at you and grinned, it reached all the way down inside him and shone outward, brown eyes sparkling like a bit of sunshine trapped inside. It always put you at ease, made you feel more comfortable.
Two weeks of walking home together, talking casually, careful, calculated brushes of his hand against yours and yours against his. Nervous. You were so nervous; wanting something so bad you could taste it. And then you invited him into your house, into your living room, and you stared at him, standing just inside your front door, the sun bright and hot behind him and he was so close.
"I’m gonna kiss you." His eyes shone brilliantly, the light sparking within and twinkling out, and you couldn’t remember your name much less anything else. You nodded and he cupped your face and leaned in. It was just a brush of his mouth against yours, at first; soft and warm and so gentle, and you sighed, breathed out slowly then deeper when he licked at your lips, tasting you.
You'd never had a boyfriend before Chris, but after that one kiss – your first kiss – you didn't ever want another one.
"Chris? Kirkpatrick?" You tap him on the shoulder finally, hesitantly, smiling uncertainly when he turns, fumbling and dropping the bag of vegetables in his hands. He stares for a moment, still looking even when he leans down to pick the bag up, and you see the moment recognition hits.
"JC? Oh—my god." Yeah, his eyes still light up, surprise and amusement widening them before a smile splits his face. "Dude, you’re home for the holidays?" You nod and step just a hair closer, anticipation and uncertainty clenching your stomach tight, burning inside you. “It’s good to see you, man.” And Chris – always Chris, always glad to see people – steps forward and meets you halfway, pulls you into a hug that leaves you aching for more and wanting to turn and run away.
"Hey, man." You mutter the words and cinch your arms around him tightly for a moment before making yourself let go, the urge to cling rising up hard and fast. "God, it’s been—"
"A while," he says succinctly, tossing the veggies into his cart. He reaches in and pulls another bag – carrots – out, tosses them in, too. "You, um. This isn’t your first time back, is it?" It’s not hard to see he’s doing the math, the many years you’ve been gone now.
"No." You shake your head and shuffle after him when he moves further up the aisle. "I try to get back a couple times a year. Doesn’t always work, but."
"I’ve seen your albums in the store." Frozen waffles, orange juice, and you glance at his hands, looking for a ring. Nothing there. "You’re doing pretty well."
Question? Statement? You study his face, trying to decide, and settle for a nod. "Yeah. It’s not bad. The fans are cool—I love ‘em. Traveling gets to be hell, but yeah. It’s all good."
"That’s cool." He looks tired; his eyes sparkle at you, but you see something in their depths that makes you wonder what his life is like. What’s going on in it. You stand there in awkward silence for a moment, then he smiles. "I’m really glad it’s going so well for you."
Briefly you think about how it was supposed to be going well for both of you; a singer-songwriter duo, living and loving and making music.
He touched your arm as you walked past him, back stiff, eyes forward so you didn't have to look at him. He didn't love you, not enough anyway. You stopped anyway, your traitorous feet pausing mid-step.
"Not even a goodbye, JC?" His voice was soft; he sounded sad. Resigned. You kept your back to him stubbornly, hating that you wanted to turn around and throw yourself into his arms, beg him – again – to come with you. The silence spread out, elongated, if not-sound could do that. You heard a soft sigh, maybe your name, and his hand, warm on your shoulder. "Take care, C."
You didn't turn around. You couldn't.
"Thanks. Um. How ‘bout you? What’ve you been doing?" He’s ambling toward checkout now, and you realize some of the lights have gone out. They must be getting ready to close.
"Eh." He gives you a lopsided grin and shrugs. "I keep busy."
"Yeah?" You help him stack the groceries on the belt, then step back and smile sheepishly. "Um. What—what d'you do?"
"I'm a teacher." You know you look surprised, because he laughs. "Not what you expected, huh?"
"Not really, no. I thought—" You tuck your hands in your pockets and shrug awkwardly. You have no clue what you were actually going to say, because you have no clue what he'd thought about after graduation. The two of you only ever talked about music and songwriting, so really, you shouldn't be surprised, because there could've been anything else. "That's cool, though. I'll bet they love you." You think Chris probably makes a fantastic teacher. The oldest of five, with infinite patience when it came to things kid-related. "What subject? I—"
"Elementary school. Music teacher." He rocks back on his heels, eyes gleaming. "There are days I go home with a headache the size of Texas, dude, but it's so worth it. I really love it."
Little kids. And music. Wow. You kind of process that, watching the customer in front of you bicker with the cashier over the price of something. "Why?"
He shrugs. "Seemed like a good idea. After you—after graduation, I spent the summer trying to decide what to do. I started taking classes at the community college that fall, undeclared major but thinking psych. Emily got sick that winter—bad sick, man. We weren't sure she was gonna make it for a while. And the only thing that made her even a little happy was listening to me sing or play the guitar for her. When she was strong enough to do stuff again, I started teaching her how to play herself…and it just. It made sense. Y'know?" He grins at you again and warmth washes over you, makes you feel like a senior in high school again, doing something wonderful and forbidden. "And Saturday nights I play guitar for the local club band. It gets me out, keeps me busy."
"I—guess." You follow him forward when the line moves, watch the cashier scan the items quickly and efficiently. It's weird, being here. Doing this. Talking to him. You're suddenly hungry for information, wanting to know everything he's done for the last ten years. "Um. Are you—do you have anyone you're, um. Seeing?" That gets the first frown you've seen from him since spotting him in the frozen foods. "Oh, uh. I'm—sorry?"
"Nah, s'cool. Just—not here." And he falls silent, watching the cashier with dark eyes.
It's not a comfortable silence. It feels sharp, glittery, like shards of glass. You remember times when you could be with Chris and be silent, and it was comfortable; soft and warm around you, almost like a shield. Now it hurts.
"So, um. Do you have some place to be? Wanna get a drink?" He has three bags in his cart, and you think that's really not enough groceries if he's feeding a family. And if he has a family, you probably shouldn't even consider a drink, but you want…you want. To see him, to chat, to catch up. And you realize belatedly, you're no more immune to that dark gaze than you were ten years ago.
"Yeah. I—yeah. I'd like that." You follow him out into the snow and grin when he stops in the middle of the parking lot, grocery bags dangling from his hands, and turns his face upward toward the sky. It's snowing heavily now, the flakes big and fat and falling frantically. He looks ridiculous and beautiful all at once, standing there with snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes and goatee, melted snow sparkling in his hair. You clear your throat and he smiles at you, teeth white and even and you have a flash of metal against enamel, the contrast of silver and white.
"I can't eat a damn thing, man." Chris pushed the plate away and frowned. "Braces. They hurt."
"Aw, man, you shoulda told me." You leaned forward and pecked a quick kiss onto his lips. "We got some applesauce in the fridge—you want some?" The look he gave you was so grateful you were embarrassed you hadn't thought of it beforehand. You knew he'd had an appointment that morning; you skipped first period to go with him.
His kisses, much later, after homework and wrestling, and guitar playing, tasted of apples and cinnamon.
You want some applesauce suddenly; right now, in fact. You can almost taste it. Can almost taste him. Maybe a drink isn't such a good idea. "I doubt there's gonna be anything open," you begin. Chris frowns, then shakes his head.
"I have some stuff at home, I think. Beer, for sure. Want to come over? I need to put stuff away anyway." He gestures at the bags, and you think this is a really bad idea even while you nod your head.
"I'll follow you, I guess." You wonder how long you can be gone before your family gets weird. You wonder if you should call them. Your cell phone is at the house, tucked away in your suitcase. Oh, well. You're a grownup; you can disappear for a couple of hours without it being a big deal. Hopefully. And Nana and Grandpa will keep everyone entertained anyway; they don't need you for that. "Where're we going?"
"I live over on Peake, off the by-pass." Chris waves and heads toward a pick-up. Nice, new, black pick-up that looks so unlike what you'd ever pictured him in that you blink at it. "Just follow me. I won't turn suddenly."
"I know where Peake is," you mumble, pretty sure you do know. Maybe. Maybe not. Well, hopefully, he really won't turn suddenly.
You hum along with the Christmas carols playing on the radio and keep Chris' taillights in sight. He's good; he doesn't turn suddenly, gives you plenty of lead with the signals and brakes. He's not far from the grocery store, though you don't remember this apartment complex. Not that you knew a lot of them, growing up, but this one seems new. It's pretty; brick and more brick, the buildings staggered, with lots of foliage – or what will be foliage when spring arrives – and trees. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys, disappearing into the white still swirling down. Here and there, dotting bits of color into the monochrome of black tree trunks and grey-white sky, are Christmas lights, hung around windows and doorways. They twinkle greenredgreenred, some blinking and some not.
It's cozy. You haven't even stepped foot into an apartment – into Chris' apartment – and it feels more like home than your parent's house, or your own place out in LA.
You wind through the complex slowly, until Chris stops, beeps his horn, and waves you forward. If you squint you can see a small group of spaces labeled 'Visitor'. Well, that you are.
No lights hang around Chris' windows or door, though he has a wreath on the front.
"My mom," he says, making a face. "She thought I wasn't festive enough." He pushes the door open and switches on a light as he steps inside. "It's kinda messy; I haven't had a chance to really clean it up this week. But—mi casa es su casa, dude."
Your first thought is: bachelor pad. Because if Chris had a—someone, there would be someone else here. And he probably wouldn't have his mom trying to make his place festive. He wouldn't say 'I didn't have a chance'.
The thought of him being alone doesn't make you happy, though. Someone like Chris should have someone. Should be happy and loving and—with someone, though thinking that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. You step further into the apartment, giving a cursory look, then a more thorough going-over. Tiny Christmas tree on a small table, haphazardly draped with lights and ornaments, and a couple of small gifts underneath it. Fireplace, looking cold and dark and lonely with no fire snapping and popping in it.
"Sit down, man. Make yourself at comfortable. Gotta get these groceries put up. I got some beer—you still drink beer, right?"
You mumble something that sounds like 'yes', but keep walking around the living room, peering at the pictures on the wall and scattered over most of the flat surfaces. You recognize Chris' family in a lot of them; feel amazement when you realize—
"Is Molly married?"
"God, yeah." You turn to see a mixture of exasperation and fondness on his face, in his smile. "Her and Kate both." The smile turns upward, grows bigger. "I'm an uncle, man. Three times over."
"Wow, really? Congrats." You step closer to the one wall and look—sure enough, a couple of pictures of Chris with a small, dark-haired boy, and an infant, and others of him holding a little girl with dark blond curls, wearing a happy smile in all of them. Some wedding pictures. Graduation pictures. A picture of the two of you, from some time early in your senior year, possibly right around homecoming.
You stare at it, amazed at how young you – both of you – look there. Young and unconcerned, like the world was yours for the taking. You remember, vaguely, feeling that way, believing it was all going to come together for you. You reach up and trace over the picture, smile at the way you're both cuddled up close against each other, heads leaned together, holding hands between yourselves. Chris looked as happy as you'd ever seen him. You did, too.
You had more privacy at your house, but more of a chance to be together, to touch, at his. And a bunch of younger girls who thought you were the cutest couple they'd ever seen. You thought you were, too.
"Smile for the camera, JC. You too, Chris. God, you guys are so serious all the time! And hold hands. That's too cute, when you do that."
"Shut up and take the picture, Molly." Chris wiggled beside you and grinned when his sister stuck her tongue out at him.
Eight months later that was gone – as gone as you, on the first bus out of town, the weekend after graduation.
"Hey." Chris moves a lot more quietly now than you remember, and he's practically right behind you before he says anything.
"You kept a picture of—of us?" You don't jerk your hand away, but you want to. He nods and his eyes linger on the picture before he looks back at you and hands you a beer. You take a drink, enjoying the way the bitter taste spreads over your tongue and washes down the back of your throat, cold and refreshing, but warming all the same. "Why?"
Chris shrugs. "Don't you have any pictures up? Of us?"
"I—" You frown, thinking about it, then smile. "Yeah, actually. Remember when we went to the carnival? The one at the lake, right after our junior year started?"
Long, lazy day in the sun, and a whole day spent together, just the two of you. Swimming in the lake, then hitting the carnival up after the sun dropped.
You made out when the Ferris Wheel stopped at the top, with the lights from below twinkling dimly, your sunburn a dull ache behind the pleasure of Chris' touches.
You can almost feel the heat now, both the sunburn and his hands and mouth on you. You feel flushed, actually, and wonder if you're blushing. You're thankful the lamps in Chris' living room aren't really bright.
"God. I think I peeled for weeks after that." Chris taps his nose then yours. "I think you peeled for a month. At least."
"We were so sunburned," you agree. "But that kinda happens when someone loses the sunscreen—" You mock-glare over the rim of your bottle, willing the heat in your cheeks away, and Chris rolls his eyes at you.
"Dude, I swear it was there, and then it wasn't. Honest!" He laughs into his beer, and it's a warm sound, one that makes you feel lighter just hearing it. "Hey, do you remember Joey Fatone?"
You raise an eyebrow. Maybe you don't come home much, but you still remember the people you hung with all through school. "Yeah?"
Chris steps toward you, reaches past you, pointing. "He and Kelly got married like, five years ago. That's from their wedding. I was best man. It was really nice. Outside thing, with a luau theme for the reception."
You grin. "That sounds like Joey."
"It was really cool – they had a pig roast and all kinds of stuff. The wedding was awesome. They got a little girl now." He points to another picture.
"She's a cutie." More pictures of Chris' family, a couple of shots of him in a baseball uniform. "Dude—you play baseball?"
"A charity thing. Mom's church was doing it to raise money for…something. I can't remember what it was now. Someone's medical expenses not covered by insurance, or something. Anyway, she volunteered me."
"Moms are good at doing that," you mutter, taking a step back. Chris is a warm presence right behind you and you feel heat – that want from earlier – flare through you. "Were you any good? Didja raise the money?"
"I kinda sucked most of the time, but I got a couple of hits in. It was fun. We had a chili cook-off and stuff, too. Fun day. And yeah, we raised like, over a thousand dollars." He squeezes your shoulder once, fingers warm and firm, and you shiver lightly before stepping away. He meets your eyes, and there's something there you can't read, can't decipher. It makes you sad, because there was a time when you could read everything about Chris. He straightens the picture of the two of you then gestures toward the couch. "Seriously, man. Have a seat. Or—maybe the fifty-cent tour, first?"
"Yeah, that'd be good." You can smell him, all around you, and your head buzzes with it. "Hey, I didn't say, but—you look good. All…grown-up. I like—" You gesture at his hair. "The dreads were cool, but that's—I like that. It suits you."
He…beams at you. That's the only word you can think of that fits. His eyes go dim and uncertain at first, and then it's like a light flashes inside them, inside him. "Thanks." He winks at you, then. "I got this professional image to maintain, y'know."
"Uh-huh." But you both smile as he walks you through the quick tour – kitchen, with a small laundry off it, half-bath in the hallway, small room off the living room he says he uses as a study, then his bedroom with a full bath. Chris has more pictures in there, and some on the walls; not just photos, but art pictures. A couple of tasteful nudes, a couple of landscapes. One photoscape that looks weirdly familiar, but you can't place why. It's not until you see a matching picture on his dresser, of Chris on a surfboard, that you hoot with laughter. "Dude—Rocky Point!"
"God." He gives a fake groan and covers his face. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that."
You pause in the middle of reaching for the picture to toss a smirk at him. "Not remember? I couldn't ever forget. Chris. Man. Our senior trip! And you surfed! And you were so, so—"
Sexy. He was sexy on the surfboard, all white teeth flashing a grin at you, dark head disappearing under the waves when he wiped out, then bobbing to the surface a few moments later. He swam to shore, body moving effortlessly through the water, and you could see the joy on his face as he got closer. It made your chest tight and achy, especially when he stepped close enough as he walked past to brush his fingers against your back, a liquid caress up your spine before it was gone.
"Bad." He clips the word off, but he's grinning too, and you shake your head at him.
"I dunno that 'bad' covers it, man." Actually, there was nothing bad about it, any of it, and you feel that like a vibration running through you, little whispers of electricity, or maybe the ghost touch of fingers sliding over your skin.
"It's gonna have to," he growls. "Anything else will crush my frail ego and self-esteem." He makes a silly little pouty face when he says it, and you laugh – really laugh – for the first time all evening. Day. Maybe all week. Chris doesn't help, making little faces at you, and humming the theme song from Hawaii Five-O under his breath.
"You're a dork," you say finally, when you can talk without sputtering or giggling. "An absolute dork. Funny I'd think ten years would change that."
"Heh." Chris takes a step back when you push off the bed, then looks at you. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot." And he pulls you into a tight hug, arms circling your waist and holding you close. You pull against it at first, but he doesn't loosen his hold, doesn't let go. It feels good to be held; even better to be held by him, and you bring your arms up hesitantly, then wrap them around him and hug back, just holding on for a moment, letting the warmth and quiet seep into you, calming you. He always was good at the calming and comforting.
"You idiot," he told you, holding you close. "You should've said something." You sniffled once, and raised your hand to wipe at the damp streaks on your face. He was faster, fingers warm and gentle on your face, breath warm when he came close enough to brush kisses over your face. You closed your eyes and sighed, pushed aside the throbbing in your body for the comfort he offered.
"I didn't think it would hurt that much," you said softly, nuzzling back at him. "Fingers didn't."
"I like to think my dick's bigger than my fingers, dude." But he kissed you and cuddled you some more, and then the cuddles turned to caresses, and the silence in your room was swallowed up into soft gasps and moans, and the quiet hiss of skin-against-skin.
You still throbbed and ached, but it was a dull, warm glow now. Your parents didn't go out of town very often, and even less often did they take your sibs and let you stay home. You were going to make the most of your time.
You think he brushed a kiss against your forehead when he finally lets go.
"What—what was that?" You stammer the first word and curse yourself silently, but Chris just gives you another smile, soft and warm.
"You missed our class reunion, man. Ten years last summer. We had a big to-do in July. Picnic and games, and then a dinner and dance, and some other stuff. Saw a bunch of people I hadn't seen in forever. Lots of hugging. Lot of people asked about you, and telling me if I saw you I needed to give you a hug."
Huh. You snag your beer off the dresser and glance once more at the picture there before following Chris back into the hallway and out to the living room. "They asked you about me?"
"Yeah." Chris takes your bottle and makes a face at the warm glass. "Let's get fresh ones. You in a hurry?"
You think about your family over at mom and dad's, doing the requisite Christmas traditions – things you normally enjoy but which felt so mind-numbing this year – and shake your head. "Nah, man, I'm good."
"Cool." Another pair of bottles appears, and you take one, take a swallow and close your eyes to let the coolwarm feeling wash over you. When you open your eyes, Chris is watching you, a strange expression on his face. "So, um. Why'd they ask you? About me, I mean?"
"Beats me. Maybe, y'know, 'cos we were always together, for more than half of high school?"
"Mutt and Jeff." You like the tingle zipping through you and wonder with dismay when you got to be such a cheap date. Not that this is a date. No. But—only your second beer, and you're buzzing? Maybe you should party more. Or something. "Was it Joey who nicknamed us that?"
"Hey, it's Mutt and Jeff, gracing us with their presence!" Joey raised his beer bottle and grinned when you and Chris dropped down onto the beach blanket. The sand was cool beneath the blanket, the warmth of summer fading fast as fall rolled in.
"Fuck off, Fatone." Chris rolled his eyes while you snorted.
"I can't help it if you two call that naturally to mind." He passed you both a bottle of beer then looked away when you leaned in and kissed Chris. "Okay, maybe something else comes to mind."
Chris smiled against your mouth.
Chris snorts. "I'd forgotten about that. Yeah, I think it was. Junior year." He sets his beer down and turns it in circles against the kitchen counter, then looks up at you. "Y'know a lot of the kids we went to school with knew we were together."
You can't keep the surprise out of your voice. "They did?"
He nods. "Well, maybe not a lot, but it seemed like it, from the people asking me about you." He gives you a look, and god, you could drown in those eyes. Remember drowning in them. His voice is soft, the words pinpricks of cold against the alcohol warmth in you. "How come you didn't come back?"
"In general, or for the reunion?"
"Either. Both." Chris shrugs. "Whichever you're comfortable answering." You sigh, because you'd known this was coming. If you hung here long enough, it was inevitable. "Hey, here, sit down." He gestures again to the couch and this time you go, sinking onto it then sprawling comfortably. It's a really nice couch, the cushions soft and thick, made of some nubby material.
"I come back, Chris," you say carefully, once you're settled. "I told you that at the store. I see my parents at least once a year, here."
"Here. But no one's seen you around."
"I don't go out a lot. I'm here to chill and unwind and hang with my folks." You swallow part of your beer quickly, feel the buzz intensify then settle into a soft, muted sensation rippling through you. It's nice, because it drowns out the other emotions starting to creep through you.
"What about the reunion? What about your friends?"
"I was on tour." It's not a complete lie; you spent most of last summer touring, but you could have made it back for a few days if you'd really wanted to. You'd carried the reunion notice around for almost two weeks before making the decision. You just didn't want to.
You looked through all four of your yearbooks the night after you got the announcement. Traced your fingers over Chris' pictures and read the promises of friends to stay in touch and 'never ever forget!'.
The paper crumpled nicely in your hand and made a soft thump when it hit the rim of the plastic trashcan.
"What about your friends, JC?" You wonder if you only imagine you can hear 'what about me', right after that.
"It seemed…I don't know, Chris, okay? I was kind of trying to leave everything behind."
"Yeah." He falls silent at that, leaving just the sound of breathing in the room, in harmony with the hum of the refrigerator, and the wind blustering outside the windows. It's not a comfortable silence; it wraps around you, thick and suffocating. You're not sure what you should say, or could say. Ice slivers slide through you when you think about all the times the two of you didn't need words to communicate, and now you can't even manage with those.
"So. Um." You clear your throat and drain your beer, watch Chris' eyes flare hot. It makes you want to move around, so you get up, stare at the pictures some more. There are several with people you don't recognize at all, and you point at the nearest one, a small gold-framed picture of Chris and a blond woman. "Who's this?"
He hesitates just a moment, the barest flicker of—something, washing over his face. "That's Dani."
You think that flicker probably should warn you off, but you persist anyway. "Dani?"
"Ahh, I forget…you were gone." You sit again, opposite Chris, and try to relax. "I met her my senior year of college. After you, I had…two fuckbuddies and one boyfriend that didn't work out, and I was kinda burned out on guys. Thought I'd try playing for the other team." He snorts at your look of astonishment. "Hey, it sounded good in theory, okay? And it worked—I liked her anyway; she was a cool chick and we had a lot of fun hanging out together. She liked the girls, mom adored her, and I didn't even have to think about dick to get it up for her. So, y'know, it worked out. We got married the year after we graduated." He takes another swallow of beer which reminds you of the one warming in your hand.
Married. Whoa. You can't look at him right now; instead, you look down, focus your attention on the small hole in the knee of your jeans, then the slicksolid feel of glass against your skin. You turn the bottle around in your hands, thinking about Chris with someone else – with several someone elses – and realize you're warm in a way that has nothing to with the alcohol. Prickly-warm, an uncomfortable feeling. Because you can all-too-easily picture him kissing someone else, the way his hands would cradle their face like he used to touch you. How his mouth would get a little red and swollen after kissing. How he liked to snuggle and watch TV. If you had to name the one thing you missed most with Chris, initially, and over the years, it would be snuggling. And the way he could always make you laugh, even when he annoyed the hell out of you.
You don't want him to be lonely, but you don't like the idea of him snuggling with someone else. And that makes you squirm internally, because you have no right at all to feel that way. Chris isn't yours – hasn't been yours in years. By your choice. You swallow roughly and force yourself to meet his eyes.
"So…but--?"
"What?" He frowns.
"I hear a 'but' in there."
"I—it didn't work out. There was a lot of—" He hesitates and looks away, then back. "A lot of stuff, man."
He smiles and you think it's a little sad. "We had some different ideas and dreams, and it just—I tried. And she tried. But in the end, we really worked better as friends." Another drink of his beer, tipping his head way back to drain the bottle. You think there's maybe a lot he's not telling you, not saying, but you don't feel comfortable enough to ask. He shrugs. "I still see her sometimes, here and there. We don't hate each other. We just—it didn't work out."
"Chris. Man." You wish you knew what to say. Or do. No, you'd like to hug him, but you're not sure that's appropriate. You feel all awkward, wanting to comfort him somehow, not knowing how recent this pain is, or anything. Instead you set your bottle on the coffee table and try to convey sympathy just by looking at him. "I'm really sorry. That—I can't imagine."
"S'okay. It's been…we split two years ago. So it's not…it doesn't hurt like it used to. But," he laughs harshly, and gets up from the couch. You watch him disappear into the kitchen and reappear again with two more bottles. "I never really thought about some of that stuff before, y'know? Never figured I'd see myself dating a woman, much less getting married. And the rules are all different. And maybe I could've tried harder, maybe she could've. I don't know." He uncaps both bottles and hands you one of the fresh ones. "So I'm not seeing anyone right now, 'cos I know sure as hell I'm really not up to the girl thing, and it's kinda…I teach elementary school. And teachers are supposed to be asexual, I guess. Or non-sexual. In any case, I'm leading a nice, quiet celibate lifestyle right now."
That uncomfortable heat is back again, icyhot fingers sliding down your spine. Gladness he's not with anyone, and self-disgust for even thinking it. Instead of saying anything you snort, mostly at the idea of Chris doing anything quietly – but at the celibacy, too.
Chris smirks when you snort. "Hey, it's a time-honored tradition of single men everywhere. Lotta porn, lotta hand-action." You nod and clink your bottle to his; wash down the bitter taste of loneliness and want with more beer, and revel in the fuzzy heat that spreads through you.
Bottles clinked together when Chris knocked against them, shifting closer to you. "You taste like beer, man." Chris licked your lips and smiled. You laughed and tried to sit up; felt the world tilt under you. You grunted when Chris landed on top of you, breath warm and beery, moist against your mouth.
"Could be because you've been passin' 'em to me all night?" Oh, yes, down on the floor was much nicer. Nothing tilting around you.
"Yup. Get you drunk and have my way with you." He wiggled against you and you giggled. He was as drunk as you were. It felt so good to be drunk together, to laugh and be silly. You didn't want senior year to ever end.
You're both quiet for a few minutes but the silence this time is comfortable, just two friends hanging out and drinking. There's a small clock on the mantle over the fireplace and you're surprised to see it's nearly seven already. It feels like it should be both later and earlier than that. Chris pokes you and you startle.
"So, hey, that's my sad story. But what about you, dude? You haven't said much about the lifestyle of the rich and famous Joshua Chasez, and all the wonderous things out in—California, right?"
You make a face at him and stare down at your beer for a moment, like the mysteries of life are hidden in the depths of the bottle. "Yeah, LA, actually. And there's not much to tell, really. I write, I record, I tour."
"So glamorous. That was what you wanted to lure me away to?" Chris arches an eyebrow and you literally bite your tongue to resist the urge to stick it out at him.
"It's more than that. But, I don't. I'm not all into partying and stuff—I like to go out, yeah. And I've done all the 'partyboy' stuff --" Your face turns red remembering the morning you woke up after trying blow for the first, and only, time, with two guys in bed with you and memories of doing things the night before that made you both incredibly horny and embarrassed all at once. You're still glad, to this day, that the floor by your bed was littered with used condoms, or you'd probably still be freaking out. "But that's not the big thing, y'know? I got a house in LA, and it's nice, but not like…ostentatious." Chris rolls his eyes at you and you reach out and smack his leg lightly, grinning. "It's not. It's a house. Four bedrooms, two baths. I turned one bedroom into a studio, and I write there most of the time. I have a pool—"
"And a pool boy?" He waggles his eyebrows lecherously and you laugh.
"No. Jesus. I even clean my own pool. Sometimes. When I remember." You're not so good with that stuff, always, so you do have a pool service now. But you still clean it sometimes, just to prove you can.
"You like it out there?"
"Yeah, I do. It's—it takes some getting used to, at first. It's so much bigger than here, and warm, and I love being close to the beach. But I miss the snow sometimes."
"Why would you miss the snow?" Chris looks puzzled, and you laugh.
"Because I don't have it. I mean—it's like when you quit smoking, and you miss the idea of smoking, just because you're not doing it anymore."
"You smoke? Smoked?" Now he's staring at you, one eyebrow raised, and you flush.
"For a while, I did, yeah. Kinda…I tried not to, all the time, but I got up to where I was going through a pack like every day, and that was way too much."
"That shit is so bad for your voice, C."
"Dude, I know." You kind of growl at him and he smirks. "Believe me, this is not news, okay?" You wouldn't mind a cigarette right now, actually. But it's a low-level craving; one you've become accustomed to having if you're drinking. Which is also partly why you're buzzed at the moment, because you quit partying for the most part when you gave up smoking, since you couldn't seem to drink without craving cigarettes. "Anyway, don't try and tell me you never smoked, Chris Kirkpatrick. I know better than that."
"Me?" Such an innocent face, and you don't buy it for one minute.
"Yes, you. Actually, I think you're the one who tried smoking when we were still in school." Your turn to smirk at him when he flushes.
"Yeah, okay, all right. But I never did a pack a day!" He tugs on his earrings and cocks his head. "You got any drug problems I should know about?"
"Not even." You snort. "Dude, I really live a dull lifestyle by celebrity standards. Not sayin' I don't smoke up once in a while, but I think probably half of LA does that."
"Yeah, here too." There's a gleam in Chris' eyes that makes you feel almost high just looking at him. "I don't but once in a while, 'cos you never know when someone's gonna decide the teaching staff needs to do a piss test – but college? Hoo, yeah."
"Well, yeah. Pot, beer, pizza and a little studying thrown in for good measure, right?" You wish, sometimes, that you'd gone to college, too. You're really happy where you are in life, and with what you're doing; but once in a while that wistful little voice speaks up.
"Something like that, yeah." Chris cocks his head. "What?"
"What, what?" You drain your beer and set the empty down.
"You looked like you wanted to say something."
You shrug. "Just sometimes—y'know. Not regrets, but. I kinda wish I'd done the school thing, sometimes. But I love what I'm doing." You wish you could say that louder, more confidently. You do love what you're doing, a lot. But there are things you wish were different. Chris stares at you for a minute and you watch the easy smile slide from his face, replaced by something that looks tighter, harder.
"Yeah," he says softly. Quick as it came, it's gone, the relaxed smile back, and his eyes warm. But it stabs you anyway. "Easy to see why, man. You got, what, four albums out?"
You nod. "Working on a fifth right now. Well, writing for it. Nothing'll happen for a while yet. My manager wanted me to do the 'Greatest Hits' thing, but…nah. Why put out the same songs? I'm having a great time writing, hashing out melodies and stuff. I really love that as much as anything. Well, and doing the mixing and tracks – there's nothing like a soundboard and just. Freedom. I can decide what sounds best, and how it should be, and man. I love the producing angle of it as much as I like singing."
Chris smiles at you. "That's obvious, dude. You're lit up like my little tree. All, kinda, sparkly." He gestures at your bottle. "Want another?"
"You tryin' to get me drunk, Kirkpatrick?"
He laughs. "Yup. All part of my wily plan. Ply you with booze then have my wicked way with you." He stands up and leans over for the bottle, and you settle your hand on his arm, blink up at deep brown eyes that are shining, at a smile that reaches down inside you.
"Really?"
"Would it work?" His smile deepens and his eyes shine with a gentle, teasing light. You wonder if he feels it, the pull that's still between the two of you. You shift forward, curl your fingers tighter on his arm and you can feel his warmth, his heat. He's closer; did he move? "Not really," he whispers. "But if I was, would it?" The words are just puffs of air across your lips, and you're not sure you can answer, because you don't remember what the question was. You lean up, closing the distance between you, and anything you might've said is swallowed down, disappears into the press of his mouth on yours. It's barely a kiss, more just a touch, but you feel it deep inside, an electric shock of sensation.
Chris pulls back and blinks at you. "JC?"
You're not sure what he's asking but you nod anyway. Whatever he wants explodes in your brain, makes you want to clutch at him, hold him close.
He makes a soft noise in his throat and presses closer, and you lean back pulling him with you. You remember this, how he felt against you, how he tasted. His mouth is warm but cool, and his tongue slick and teasing, testing the soft spots in your mouth. You taste the slight bitterness from the beer tonight and it's like the bubbles are still there, making your tongue tingle and burn with each touch.
You slide your arms up around his neck to bring him closer, and Chris cups your face with one hand, the other threading through your hair, holding your head while he kisses you harder, hunger moving from him to you and back again. You think you moan when he pulls away enough to suck on your lower lip, dropping little biting kisses along the line of your lips, licking at the corners of your mouth until you're panting, opening for him again, desperate to have his mouth on yours.
You end up on your back, couch soft and cradling beneath you, with Chris' weight pressing you down. His jaw is rough with stubble beneath your tongue, your lips, and you love the scritchy feeling, love how tender your mouth feels after you kiss and lick there. The kisses move from fast and desperate to lazy, deep and soft, making your head spin pleasantly.
When you don't think you can breathe but can't bring yourself to care, Chris draws away, props himself up on one elbow to remove his weight. His breath is warm against your mouth; feels like waves of heat against sensitive skin. His mouth is swollen, red, and you want to lick his lips again. You settle for tracing one finger over them, his smile echoing yours.
"What're we doing?" You ask quietly, watching him. His eyes are soft and liquid in the dim lamplight.
"Has it been that long?" You hiss and lean up to kiss him again, just a quick peck, before relaxing back. Chris muffles his snort against your throat, and the vibration zigzags into your bloodstream, bubbling effervescence all through you. You're high on just the sensation of his body against yours. "Kissing, dude. Making out. All the cool kids are doing it."
"I know what we're doing," you mutter, searching his face. "But—what're we doing. We—this is. We shouldn't."
"We can stop." He makes a motion backward and you clutch once at his sweater, then release him.
"I just—" You're not sure what to say. A moment ago you were all into kissing him and now—you feel like you've done something wrong. Or are about to. You're not sure what you want. Him, but—things are so different. Aren't they?
"It's kinda weird," he says softly, and you nod. It is. If you'd thought about it, you honestly could say you'd never expected to kiss Chris again. Ever. "But it's. I missed it. Missed—you." Chris touches your mouth with his fingers, strokes over your face gently before drawing away. You miss his warmth when he shifts off you and stands up. You sit up slowly, then stand too, aware again of the silence between you. Of the things that you've said, and the things you haven't said. "You could stay," he whispers, finally. "Tonight, tomorrow, however long."
"It's Christmas." Your voice sounds hoarse. You can't stay. At least not…no. You can't. You have to go home to California in a few days, and work on your album and remember why you love it out there, without Chris. "I—"
"Christmas. Yeah." He blinks and turns away from you, eyes dark and shadowy. For one brief, insanity-filled moment you wonder if he would go to California with you.
You don't ask; madness begets madness and you're already obviously insane. Coming here for a beer or three was a mistake. Playing catch up was a mistake. Kissing him has made you want more, and that's something you can't have. He has his life and you have yours and—
And. There's always an 'and'. Or a 'but'.
"I should go," you say finally. Your beer bottle is on the coffee table, and you bend, reach for it, freeze when he says,
"--leave it. I'll get it." You nod and step around the couch, head for the door.
He's quiet behind you, but before you can open it, Chris pushes you against the door, kisses you once more, a hard, biting kiss that softens to gentle, reassuring, offering. A kiss of promise. "Stay," he says one more time. "Even just for tonight."
You shake your head once and press 'I'm sorry' and maybe 'I love you' into his skin with your mouth, then reach behind you for the doorknob. The air outside is cold; breath-stealing, bone-chilling cold, with a wind that whips your hair into your face as soon as you turn into it. The snow has turned back to rain, and it makes you think of tears as you huddle into your sweater and hurry for your car.
The bus chugged along slowly, making its way – taking you away – across the country. It rained most of the trip, and you watched it, head leaned against the window, the glass fogging up from your breath. You felt cold and empty inside; even the anticipation of living and fulfilling your dreams couldn't warm you.
When you closed your eyes, finally, two states later, all you could see was Chris.
It took months to not see him every time you turned around; to not hear his voice in your dreams at night.
You stop at the end of the sidewalk and look back at Chris' apartment, at the festive door with its wreath on the outside, and cheer and love and hope on the inside. What was this, tonight? Chance? Fortune? An opportunity to realize you've moved on to bigger, better things? Or a moment to understand what you've left behind? Maybe a chance to understand what you could still have?
You could stay. Tonight, tomorrow, however long.
You saw something in his eyes tonight that's been missing in you since you walked away ten years ago.
There's still a lot you need to talk about, the two of you. Things to work out, things to work through. Maybe nothing will come of it. Maybe nothing can come of it. But maybe it can.
The rain is cold where it slides down your neck and you think again of Chris' warmth. You're moving again, feet stepping, and you're halfway to his door before you really realize yes, you're doing this. He answers on your second knock, dressed now in ratty t-shirt and sweats, and he looks wary, uncertain. Maybe a little hopeful.
"JC?"
"I don't even have your phone number, Chris. I." You feel sixteen again, wondering if the cute, goofy guy you've known since junior high might feel the same way you do. "Um. Do you…can I…I'll call you. Tomorrow. If you give me your number. And we can—" You swallow roughly. "Okay? Please?"
It takes a minute for him to process what you've stuttered out; you see the exact moment it hits, because his smile blossoms like spring, the heat of the sun behind it, knocking away the chill of the rain. "Yes."
You think as you step inside, maybe you can never go back, but sometimes you get to try again.
~fin~
I got the idea for this story listening to Dan Fogelberg's Same Auld Lang Syne, and it's been three months in the making, and several rewrites over to get it to this point. I have to give big, big props to
silveryscrape, synecdochic, and jchalo for beta duty extraordinaire. Also many thanks and hugs to lilysaid for advice and handholding. I can't tell y'all how much I appreciate the help and input. Hope you enjoy the story :)
You wonder why you thought it was a good idea to come home for the holidays. You’ve worked so hard to get beyond this town, this place, your past. You’re a successful musician, you’ve made something of yourself; yet coming here, coming home, reduces you once again to an uncertain boy, hungry and aching to get out and away.
The first few days, when it’s just your mom, dad, brother and you, are fine. Even the addition of Heather and her family is fine. But the rest of the family descends on the house on Christmas Eve, and you need an escape after just a few hours. You mumble an excuse about needing to run out for something, and grab the closest keys – your dad’s – before anyone can say anything.
Christmas Eve, and most every store is beginning to close up for the coming holiday. Shoppers look frantic and clerks look harried and tired, and you can almost feel everyone’s anticipation of a break, however brief. You wish it were a break for you, but really, it feels like you’re mired, waiting for your head to break above the muck so you can gasp in another breath.
You can’t ever really go back, or go home. You ought to remember that, by now.
Things haven't changed much in the time you've been away. You always forget that, no matter that you come back once or twice a year; you always expect things to look different. To be different. But the high school still looks forlorn in the gloom, without the bustle of students and teachers, and the mall is too-bright with Christmas lights and taillights, and the main strip of town makes you think of a Hollywood hooker, tired and old and overly made-up, ready to give it up for something new.
Your town has grown up, and you feel that now. Feel lost, looking over it, like you really don't belong here any more.
It's raining, sort of. Rain mixed with snow, though the raindrops look a lot more solid than just water. As you drive aimlessly around town it changes over, slowly, until big, fat flakes are drifting down lazily, then faster and heavier. The sky and air around you are thick with frosty white when you finally pull into the grocery store parking lot, and it makes you smile a little, watching people ducking past you, flakes clinging to their collars, hoods, hair.
You do like the snow. It makes things seem a little more holiday-ish and a little less surreal. It never snows in Southern California, and mostly that’s good, but sometimes you miss it. You stand at the bank of windows just inside the grocery store and watch it for a few minutes before turning in and grabbing a basket. You don’t really need anything, just a break from assorted family members asking about your hypothetical girlfriend (why don't you/can't you find a nice girl to settle down with?), your career (nice music, but can’t you make it, y’know, a little slower? Not so loud?), your house (we’d like pictures, if we can’t come and visit you).
The store is mostly quiet, just a few people actually buying things now, and you wonder how long before they close, until you lose your refuge and have to go home. You decide you’ll wander the aisles until they throw you out.
You round the corner of one aisle and stop abruptly to stare at the man standing in front of one of the frozen food cases. The past ten years are gone in the blink of an eye, and you’d know him anywhere, even though his hair is short and spiky now, and not the longer dreadlocks-and-funky-braids he’d worn in high school. He’s still short, a little stockier than you remember, but beautiful. So beautiful. New earrings – a second set, both pairs silver hoops. The chain around his neck is familiar enough to make your heart skip a beat and your stomach tighten up, because you gave it to him. Gave it to him on a night a lot like this one, only a long time ago, when you were both young and you thought love lasted forever, that nothing could ever separate you.
The cool solid weight of your pendant – his gift to you on that same Christmas – burns against your chest. Or maybe the burn is inside; hot, tight emotion you’d swallowed down years ago and thought long past.
You follow him down the aisle, hanging back just a little to study him, drink in a face, a figure you hadn’t thought you’d see again and for a long time hadn’t wanted to see again. Your mind swirls with pictures and words, with memories of a conversation held in the early spring just before graduation, when you’d already decided you were leaving no matter what.
"Please, Chris. We can go out there together, get a place—"
"I can’t leave, JC. I can’t abandon my family like that."
"You said you wanted to go, too. That you want something more, something different." It wasn't even goodbye yet, but it felt like it.
He turned away from you, eyes dark and sad before you couldn't see them any more. "I do. But I can't. And that's that, man."
He wanted out, but wouldn’t leave his mom and sisters, so he was doomed to be stuck here forever, and you couldn’t make yourself stay. Not even for love. In the end you weren’t sure which one of you betrayed the other; maybe both, maybe neither. It didn’t really matter any more; it was so long ago and so much had happened since then.
He stops again, this time in front of the frozen vegetables, and you watch him study them - all the bags of peas, beans, carrots – and try to remember if you’d ever seen Chris voluntarily eat vegetables.
His face is the same, if older, and you wonder if his eyes still light up when he smiles. That’d been one of the things guaranteed to make you smile; when Chris looked at you and grinned, it reached all the way down inside him and shone outward, brown eyes sparkling like a bit of sunshine trapped inside. It always put you at ease, made you feel more comfortable.
Two weeks of walking home together, talking casually, careful, calculated brushes of his hand against yours and yours against his. Nervous. You were so nervous; wanting something so bad you could taste it. And then you invited him into your house, into your living room, and you stared at him, standing just inside your front door, the sun bright and hot behind him and he was so close.
"I’m gonna kiss you." His eyes shone brilliantly, the light sparking within and twinkling out, and you couldn’t remember your name much less anything else. You nodded and he cupped your face and leaned in. It was just a brush of his mouth against yours, at first; soft and warm and so gentle, and you sighed, breathed out slowly then deeper when he licked at your lips, tasting you.
You'd never had a boyfriend before Chris, but after that one kiss – your first kiss – you didn't ever want another one.
"Chris? Kirkpatrick?" You tap him on the shoulder finally, hesitantly, smiling uncertainly when he turns, fumbling and dropping the bag of vegetables in his hands. He stares for a moment, still looking even when he leans down to pick the bag up, and you see the moment recognition hits.
"JC? Oh—my god." Yeah, his eyes still light up, surprise and amusement widening them before a smile splits his face. "Dude, you’re home for the holidays?" You nod and step just a hair closer, anticipation and uncertainty clenching your stomach tight, burning inside you. “It’s good to see you, man.” And Chris – always Chris, always glad to see people – steps forward and meets you halfway, pulls you into a hug that leaves you aching for more and wanting to turn and run away.
"Hey, man." You mutter the words and cinch your arms around him tightly for a moment before making yourself let go, the urge to cling rising up hard and fast. "God, it’s been—"
"A while," he says succinctly, tossing the veggies into his cart. He reaches in and pulls another bag – carrots – out, tosses them in, too. "You, um. This isn’t your first time back, is it?" It’s not hard to see he’s doing the math, the many years you’ve been gone now.
"No." You shake your head and shuffle after him when he moves further up the aisle. "I try to get back a couple times a year. Doesn’t always work, but."
"I’ve seen your albums in the store." Frozen waffles, orange juice, and you glance at his hands, looking for a ring. Nothing there. "You’re doing pretty well."
Question? Statement? You study his face, trying to decide, and settle for a nod. "Yeah. It’s not bad. The fans are cool—I love ‘em. Traveling gets to be hell, but yeah. It’s all good."
"That’s cool." He looks tired; his eyes sparkle at you, but you see something in their depths that makes you wonder what his life is like. What’s going on in it. You stand there in awkward silence for a moment, then he smiles. "I’m really glad it’s going so well for you."
Briefly you think about how it was supposed to be going well for both of you; a singer-songwriter duo, living and loving and making music.
He touched your arm as you walked past him, back stiff, eyes forward so you didn't have to look at him. He didn't love you, not enough anyway. You stopped anyway, your traitorous feet pausing mid-step.
"Not even a goodbye, JC?" His voice was soft; he sounded sad. Resigned. You kept your back to him stubbornly, hating that you wanted to turn around and throw yourself into his arms, beg him – again – to come with you. The silence spread out, elongated, if not-sound could do that. You heard a soft sigh, maybe your name, and his hand, warm on your shoulder. "Take care, C."
You didn't turn around. You couldn't.
"Thanks. Um. How ‘bout you? What’ve you been doing?" He’s ambling toward checkout now, and you realize some of the lights have gone out. They must be getting ready to close.
"Eh." He gives you a lopsided grin and shrugs. "I keep busy."
"Yeah?" You help him stack the groceries on the belt, then step back and smile sheepishly. "Um. What—what d'you do?"
"I'm a teacher." You know you look surprised, because he laughs. "Not what you expected, huh?"
"Not really, no. I thought—" You tuck your hands in your pockets and shrug awkwardly. You have no clue what you were actually going to say, because you have no clue what he'd thought about after graduation. The two of you only ever talked about music and songwriting, so really, you shouldn't be surprised, because there could've been anything else. "That's cool, though. I'll bet they love you." You think Chris probably makes a fantastic teacher. The oldest of five, with infinite patience when it came to things kid-related. "What subject? I—"
"Elementary school. Music teacher." He rocks back on his heels, eyes gleaming. "There are days I go home with a headache the size of Texas, dude, but it's so worth it. I really love it."
Little kids. And music. Wow. You kind of process that, watching the customer in front of you bicker with the cashier over the price of something. "Why?"
He shrugs. "Seemed like a good idea. After you—after graduation, I spent the summer trying to decide what to do. I started taking classes at the community college that fall, undeclared major but thinking psych. Emily got sick that winter—bad sick, man. We weren't sure she was gonna make it for a while. And the only thing that made her even a little happy was listening to me sing or play the guitar for her. When she was strong enough to do stuff again, I started teaching her how to play herself…and it just. It made sense. Y'know?" He grins at you again and warmth washes over you, makes you feel like a senior in high school again, doing something wonderful and forbidden. "And Saturday nights I play guitar for the local club band. It gets me out, keeps me busy."
"I—guess." You follow him forward when the line moves, watch the cashier scan the items quickly and efficiently. It's weird, being here. Doing this. Talking to him. You're suddenly hungry for information, wanting to know everything he's done for the last ten years. "Um. Are you—do you have anyone you're, um. Seeing?" That gets the first frown you've seen from him since spotting him in the frozen foods. "Oh, uh. I'm—sorry?"
"Nah, s'cool. Just—not here." And he falls silent, watching the cashier with dark eyes.
It's not a comfortable silence. It feels sharp, glittery, like shards of glass. You remember times when you could be with Chris and be silent, and it was comfortable; soft and warm around you, almost like a shield. Now it hurts.
"So, um. Do you have some place to be? Wanna get a drink?" He has three bags in his cart, and you think that's really not enough groceries if he's feeding a family. And if he has a family, you probably shouldn't even consider a drink, but you want…you want. To see him, to chat, to catch up. And you realize belatedly, you're no more immune to that dark gaze than you were ten years ago.
"Yeah. I—yeah. I'd like that." You follow him out into the snow and grin when he stops in the middle of the parking lot, grocery bags dangling from his hands, and turns his face upward toward the sky. It's snowing heavily now, the flakes big and fat and falling frantically. He looks ridiculous and beautiful all at once, standing there with snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes and goatee, melted snow sparkling in his hair. You clear your throat and he smiles at you, teeth white and even and you have a flash of metal against enamel, the contrast of silver and white.
"I can't eat a damn thing, man." Chris pushed the plate away and frowned. "Braces. They hurt."
"Aw, man, you shoulda told me." You leaned forward and pecked a quick kiss onto his lips. "We got some applesauce in the fridge—you want some?" The look he gave you was so grateful you were embarrassed you hadn't thought of it beforehand. You knew he'd had an appointment that morning; you skipped first period to go with him.
His kisses, much later, after homework and wrestling, and guitar playing, tasted of apples and cinnamon.
You want some applesauce suddenly; right now, in fact. You can almost taste it. Can almost taste him. Maybe a drink isn't such a good idea. "I doubt there's gonna be anything open," you begin. Chris frowns, then shakes his head.
"I have some stuff at home, I think. Beer, for sure. Want to come over? I need to put stuff away anyway." He gestures at the bags, and you think this is a really bad idea even while you nod your head.
"I'll follow you, I guess." You wonder how long you can be gone before your family gets weird. You wonder if you should call them. Your cell phone is at the house, tucked away in your suitcase. Oh, well. You're a grownup; you can disappear for a couple of hours without it being a big deal. Hopefully. And Nana and Grandpa will keep everyone entertained anyway; they don't need you for that. "Where're we going?"
"I live over on Peake, off the by-pass." Chris waves and heads toward a pick-up. Nice, new, black pick-up that looks so unlike what you'd ever pictured him in that you blink at it. "Just follow me. I won't turn suddenly."
"I know where Peake is," you mumble, pretty sure you do know. Maybe. Maybe not. Well, hopefully, he really won't turn suddenly.
You hum along with the Christmas carols playing on the radio and keep Chris' taillights in sight. He's good; he doesn't turn suddenly, gives you plenty of lead with the signals and brakes. He's not far from the grocery store, though you don't remember this apartment complex. Not that you knew a lot of them, growing up, but this one seems new. It's pretty; brick and more brick, the buildings staggered, with lots of foliage – or what will be foliage when spring arrives – and trees. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys, disappearing into the white still swirling down. Here and there, dotting bits of color into the monochrome of black tree trunks and grey-white sky, are Christmas lights, hung around windows and doorways. They twinkle greenredgreenred, some blinking and some not.
It's cozy. You haven't even stepped foot into an apartment – into Chris' apartment – and it feels more like home than your parent's house, or your own place out in LA.
You wind through the complex slowly, until Chris stops, beeps his horn, and waves you forward. If you squint you can see a small group of spaces labeled 'Visitor'. Well, that you are.
No lights hang around Chris' windows or door, though he has a wreath on the front.
"My mom," he says, making a face. "She thought I wasn't festive enough." He pushes the door open and switches on a light as he steps inside. "It's kinda messy; I haven't had a chance to really clean it up this week. But—mi casa es su casa, dude."
Your first thought is: bachelor pad. Because if Chris had a—someone, there would be someone else here. And he probably wouldn't have his mom trying to make his place festive. He wouldn't say 'I didn't have a chance'.
The thought of him being alone doesn't make you happy, though. Someone like Chris should have someone. Should be happy and loving and—with someone, though thinking that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. You step further into the apartment, giving a cursory look, then a more thorough going-over. Tiny Christmas tree on a small table, haphazardly draped with lights and ornaments, and a couple of small gifts underneath it. Fireplace, looking cold and dark and lonely with no fire snapping and popping in it.
"Sit down, man. Make yourself at comfortable. Gotta get these groceries put up. I got some beer—you still drink beer, right?"
You mumble something that sounds like 'yes', but keep walking around the living room, peering at the pictures on the wall and scattered over most of the flat surfaces. You recognize Chris' family in a lot of them; feel amazement when you realize—
"Is Molly married?"
"God, yeah." You turn to see a mixture of exasperation and fondness on his face, in his smile. "Her and Kate both." The smile turns upward, grows bigger. "I'm an uncle, man. Three times over."
"Wow, really? Congrats." You step closer to the one wall and look—sure enough, a couple of pictures of Chris with a small, dark-haired boy, and an infant, and others of him holding a little girl with dark blond curls, wearing a happy smile in all of them. Some wedding pictures. Graduation pictures. A picture of the two of you, from some time early in your senior year, possibly right around homecoming.
You stare at it, amazed at how young you – both of you – look there. Young and unconcerned, like the world was yours for the taking. You remember, vaguely, feeling that way, believing it was all going to come together for you. You reach up and trace over the picture, smile at the way you're both cuddled up close against each other, heads leaned together, holding hands between yourselves. Chris looked as happy as you'd ever seen him. You did, too.
You had more privacy at your house, but more of a chance to be together, to touch, at his. And a bunch of younger girls who thought you were the cutest couple they'd ever seen. You thought you were, too.
"Smile for the camera, JC. You too, Chris. God, you guys are so serious all the time! And hold hands. That's too cute, when you do that."
"Shut up and take the picture, Molly." Chris wiggled beside you and grinned when his sister stuck her tongue out at him.
Eight months later that was gone – as gone as you, on the first bus out of town, the weekend after graduation.
"Hey." Chris moves a lot more quietly now than you remember, and he's practically right behind you before he says anything.
"You kept a picture of—of us?" You don't jerk your hand away, but you want to. He nods and his eyes linger on the picture before he looks back at you and hands you a beer. You take a drink, enjoying the way the bitter taste spreads over your tongue and washes down the back of your throat, cold and refreshing, but warming all the same. "Why?"
Chris shrugs. "Don't you have any pictures up? Of us?"
"I—" You frown, thinking about it, then smile. "Yeah, actually. Remember when we went to the carnival? The one at the lake, right after our junior year started?"
Long, lazy day in the sun, and a whole day spent together, just the two of you. Swimming in the lake, then hitting the carnival up after the sun dropped.
You made out when the Ferris Wheel stopped at the top, with the lights from below twinkling dimly, your sunburn a dull ache behind the pleasure of Chris' touches.
You can almost feel the heat now, both the sunburn and his hands and mouth on you. You feel flushed, actually, and wonder if you're blushing. You're thankful the lamps in Chris' living room aren't really bright.
"God. I think I peeled for weeks after that." Chris taps his nose then yours. "I think you peeled for a month. At least."
"We were so sunburned," you agree. "But that kinda happens when someone loses the sunscreen—" You mock-glare over the rim of your bottle, willing the heat in your cheeks away, and Chris rolls his eyes at you.
"Dude, I swear it was there, and then it wasn't. Honest!" He laughs into his beer, and it's a warm sound, one that makes you feel lighter just hearing it. "Hey, do you remember Joey Fatone?"
You raise an eyebrow. Maybe you don't come home much, but you still remember the people you hung with all through school. "Yeah?"
Chris steps toward you, reaches past you, pointing. "He and Kelly got married like, five years ago. That's from their wedding. I was best man. It was really nice. Outside thing, with a luau theme for the reception."
You grin. "That sounds like Joey."
"It was really cool – they had a pig roast and all kinds of stuff. The wedding was awesome. They got a little girl now." He points to another picture.
"She's a cutie." More pictures of Chris' family, a couple of shots of him in a baseball uniform. "Dude—you play baseball?"
"A charity thing. Mom's church was doing it to raise money for…something. I can't remember what it was now. Someone's medical expenses not covered by insurance, or something. Anyway, she volunteered me."
"Moms are good at doing that," you mutter, taking a step back. Chris is a warm presence right behind you and you feel heat – that want from earlier – flare through you. "Were you any good? Didja raise the money?"
"I kinda sucked most of the time, but I got a couple of hits in. It was fun. We had a chili cook-off and stuff, too. Fun day. And yeah, we raised like, over a thousand dollars." He squeezes your shoulder once, fingers warm and firm, and you shiver lightly before stepping away. He meets your eyes, and there's something there you can't read, can't decipher. It makes you sad, because there was a time when you could read everything about Chris. He straightens the picture of the two of you then gestures toward the couch. "Seriously, man. Have a seat. Or—maybe the fifty-cent tour, first?"
"Yeah, that'd be good." You can smell him, all around you, and your head buzzes with it. "Hey, I didn't say, but—you look good. All…grown-up. I like—" You gesture at his hair. "The dreads were cool, but that's—I like that. It suits you."
He…beams at you. That's the only word you can think of that fits. His eyes go dim and uncertain at first, and then it's like a light flashes inside them, inside him. "Thanks." He winks at you, then. "I got this professional image to maintain, y'know."
"Uh-huh." But you both smile as he walks you through the quick tour – kitchen, with a small laundry off it, half-bath in the hallway, small room off the living room he says he uses as a study, then his bedroom with a full bath. Chris has more pictures in there, and some on the walls; not just photos, but art pictures. A couple of tasteful nudes, a couple of landscapes. One photoscape that looks weirdly familiar, but you can't place why. It's not until you see a matching picture on his dresser, of Chris on a surfboard, that you hoot with laughter. "Dude—Rocky Point!"
"God." He gives a fake groan and covers his face. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that."
You pause in the middle of reaching for the picture to toss a smirk at him. "Not remember? I couldn't ever forget. Chris. Man. Our senior trip! And you surfed! And you were so, so—"
Sexy. He was sexy on the surfboard, all white teeth flashing a grin at you, dark head disappearing under the waves when he wiped out, then bobbing to the surface a few moments later. He swam to shore, body moving effortlessly through the water, and you could see the joy on his face as he got closer. It made your chest tight and achy, especially when he stepped close enough as he walked past to brush his fingers against your back, a liquid caress up your spine before it was gone.
"Bad." He clips the word off, but he's grinning too, and you shake your head at him.
"I dunno that 'bad' covers it, man." Actually, there was nothing bad about it, any of it, and you feel that like a vibration running through you, little whispers of electricity, or maybe the ghost touch of fingers sliding over your skin.
"It's gonna have to," he growls. "Anything else will crush my frail ego and self-esteem." He makes a silly little pouty face when he says it, and you laugh – really laugh – for the first time all evening. Day. Maybe all week. Chris doesn't help, making little faces at you, and humming the theme song from Hawaii Five-O under his breath.
"You're a dork," you say finally, when you can talk without sputtering or giggling. "An absolute dork. Funny I'd think ten years would change that."
"Heh." Chris takes a step back when you push off the bed, then looks at you. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot." And he pulls you into a tight hug, arms circling your waist and holding you close. You pull against it at first, but he doesn't loosen his hold, doesn't let go. It feels good to be held; even better to be held by him, and you bring your arms up hesitantly, then wrap them around him and hug back, just holding on for a moment, letting the warmth and quiet seep into you, calming you. He always was good at the calming and comforting.
"You idiot," he told you, holding you close. "You should've said something." You sniffled once, and raised your hand to wipe at the damp streaks on your face. He was faster, fingers warm and gentle on your face, breath warm when he came close enough to brush kisses over your face. You closed your eyes and sighed, pushed aside the throbbing in your body for the comfort he offered.
"I didn't think it would hurt that much," you said softly, nuzzling back at him. "Fingers didn't."
"I like to think my dick's bigger than my fingers, dude." But he kissed you and cuddled you some more, and then the cuddles turned to caresses, and the silence in your room was swallowed up into soft gasps and moans, and the quiet hiss of skin-against-skin.
You still throbbed and ached, but it was a dull, warm glow now. Your parents didn't go out of town very often, and even less often did they take your sibs and let you stay home. You were going to make the most of your time.
You think he brushed a kiss against your forehead when he finally lets go.
"What—what was that?" You stammer the first word and curse yourself silently, but Chris just gives you another smile, soft and warm.
"You missed our class reunion, man. Ten years last summer. We had a big to-do in July. Picnic and games, and then a dinner and dance, and some other stuff. Saw a bunch of people I hadn't seen in forever. Lots of hugging. Lot of people asked about you, and telling me if I saw you I needed to give you a hug."
Huh. You snag your beer off the dresser and glance once more at the picture there before following Chris back into the hallway and out to the living room. "They asked you about me?"
"Yeah." Chris takes your bottle and makes a face at the warm glass. "Let's get fresh ones. You in a hurry?"
You think about your family over at mom and dad's, doing the requisite Christmas traditions – things you normally enjoy but which felt so mind-numbing this year – and shake your head. "Nah, man, I'm good."
"Cool." Another pair of bottles appears, and you take one, take a swallow and close your eyes to let the coolwarm feeling wash over you. When you open your eyes, Chris is watching you, a strange expression on his face. "So, um. Why'd they ask you? About me, I mean?"
"Beats me. Maybe, y'know, 'cos we were always together, for more than half of high school?"
"Mutt and Jeff." You like the tingle zipping through you and wonder with dismay when you got to be such a cheap date. Not that this is a date. No. But—only your second beer, and you're buzzing? Maybe you should party more. Or something. "Was it Joey who nicknamed us that?"
"Hey, it's Mutt and Jeff, gracing us with their presence!" Joey raised his beer bottle and grinned when you and Chris dropped down onto the beach blanket. The sand was cool beneath the blanket, the warmth of summer fading fast as fall rolled in.
"Fuck off, Fatone." Chris rolled his eyes while you snorted.
"I can't help it if you two call that naturally to mind." He passed you both a bottle of beer then looked away when you leaned in and kissed Chris. "Okay, maybe something else comes to mind."
Chris smiled against your mouth.
Chris snorts. "I'd forgotten about that. Yeah, I think it was. Junior year." He sets his beer down and turns it in circles against the kitchen counter, then looks up at you. "Y'know a lot of the kids we went to school with knew we were together."
You can't keep the surprise out of your voice. "They did?"
He nods. "Well, maybe not a lot, but it seemed like it, from the people asking me about you." He gives you a look, and god, you could drown in those eyes. Remember drowning in them. His voice is soft, the words pinpricks of cold against the alcohol warmth in you. "How come you didn't come back?"
"In general, or for the reunion?"
"Either. Both." Chris shrugs. "Whichever you're comfortable answering." You sigh, because you'd known this was coming. If you hung here long enough, it was inevitable. "Hey, here, sit down." He gestures again to the couch and this time you go, sinking onto it then sprawling comfortably. It's a really nice couch, the cushions soft and thick, made of some nubby material.
"I come back, Chris," you say carefully, once you're settled. "I told you that at the store. I see my parents at least once a year, here."
"Here. But no one's seen you around."
"I don't go out a lot. I'm here to chill and unwind and hang with my folks." You swallow part of your beer quickly, feel the buzz intensify then settle into a soft, muted sensation rippling through you. It's nice, because it drowns out the other emotions starting to creep through you.
"What about the reunion? What about your friends?"
"I was on tour." It's not a complete lie; you spent most of last summer touring, but you could have made it back for a few days if you'd really wanted to. You'd carried the reunion notice around for almost two weeks before making the decision. You just didn't want to.
You looked through all four of your yearbooks the night after you got the announcement. Traced your fingers over Chris' pictures and read the promises of friends to stay in touch and 'never ever forget!'.
The paper crumpled nicely in your hand and made a soft thump when it hit the rim of the plastic trashcan.
"What about your friends, JC?" You wonder if you only imagine you can hear 'what about me', right after that.
"It seemed…I don't know, Chris, okay? I was kind of trying to leave everything behind."
"Yeah." He falls silent at that, leaving just the sound of breathing in the room, in harmony with the hum of the refrigerator, and the wind blustering outside the windows. It's not a comfortable silence; it wraps around you, thick and suffocating. You're not sure what you should say, or could say. Ice slivers slide through you when you think about all the times the two of you didn't need words to communicate, and now you can't even manage with those.
"So. Um." You clear your throat and drain your beer, watch Chris' eyes flare hot. It makes you want to move around, so you get up, stare at the pictures some more. There are several with people you don't recognize at all, and you point at the nearest one, a small gold-framed picture of Chris and a blond woman. "Who's this?"
He hesitates just a moment, the barest flicker of—something, washing over his face. "That's Dani."
You think that flicker probably should warn you off, but you persist anyway. "Dani?"
"Ahh, I forget…you were gone." You sit again, opposite Chris, and try to relax. "I met her my senior year of college. After you, I had…two fuckbuddies and one boyfriend that didn't work out, and I was kinda burned out on guys. Thought I'd try playing for the other team." He snorts at your look of astonishment. "Hey, it sounded good in theory, okay? And it worked—I liked her anyway; she was a cool chick and we had a lot of fun hanging out together. She liked the girls, mom adored her, and I didn't even have to think about dick to get it up for her. So, y'know, it worked out. We got married the year after we graduated." He takes another swallow of beer which reminds you of the one warming in your hand.
Married. Whoa. You can't look at him right now; instead, you look down, focus your attention on the small hole in the knee of your jeans, then the slicksolid feel of glass against your skin. You turn the bottle around in your hands, thinking about Chris with someone else – with several someone elses – and realize you're warm in a way that has nothing to with the alcohol. Prickly-warm, an uncomfortable feeling. Because you can all-too-easily picture him kissing someone else, the way his hands would cradle their face like he used to touch you. How his mouth would get a little red and swollen after kissing. How he liked to snuggle and watch TV. If you had to name the one thing you missed most with Chris, initially, and over the years, it would be snuggling. And the way he could always make you laugh, even when he annoyed the hell out of you.
You don't want him to be lonely, but you don't like the idea of him snuggling with someone else. And that makes you squirm internally, because you have no right at all to feel that way. Chris isn't yours – hasn't been yours in years. By your choice. You swallow roughly and force yourself to meet his eyes.
"So…but--?"
"What?" He frowns.
"I hear a 'but' in there."
"I—it didn't work out. There was a lot of—" He hesitates and looks away, then back. "A lot of stuff, man."
He smiles and you think it's a little sad. "We had some different ideas and dreams, and it just—I tried. And she tried. But in the end, we really worked better as friends." Another drink of his beer, tipping his head way back to drain the bottle. You think there's maybe a lot he's not telling you, not saying, but you don't feel comfortable enough to ask. He shrugs. "I still see her sometimes, here and there. We don't hate each other. We just—it didn't work out."
"Chris. Man." You wish you knew what to say. Or do. No, you'd like to hug him, but you're not sure that's appropriate. You feel all awkward, wanting to comfort him somehow, not knowing how recent this pain is, or anything. Instead you set your bottle on the coffee table and try to convey sympathy just by looking at him. "I'm really sorry. That—I can't imagine."
"S'okay. It's been…we split two years ago. So it's not…it doesn't hurt like it used to. But," he laughs harshly, and gets up from the couch. You watch him disappear into the kitchen and reappear again with two more bottles. "I never really thought about some of that stuff before, y'know? Never figured I'd see myself dating a woman, much less getting married. And the rules are all different. And maybe I could've tried harder, maybe she could've. I don't know." He uncaps both bottles and hands you one of the fresh ones. "So I'm not seeing anyone right now, 'cos I know sure as hell I'm really not up to the girl thing, and it's kinda…I teach elementary school. And teachers are supposed to be asexual, I guess. Or non-sexual. In any case, I'm leading a nice, quiet celibate lifestyle right now."
That uncomfortable heat is back again, icyhot fingers sliding down your spine. Gladness he's not with anyone, and self-disgust for even thinking it. Instead of saying anything you snort, mostly at the idea of Chris doing anything quietly – but at the celibacy, too.
Chris smirks when you snort. "Hey, it's a time-honored tradition of single men everywhere. Lotta porn, lotta hand-action." You nod and clink your bottle to his; wash down the bitter taste of loneliness and want with more beer, and revel in the fuzzy heat that spreads through you.
Bottles clinked together when Chris knocked against them, shifting closer to you. "You taste like beer, man." Chris licked your lips and smiled. You laughed and tried to sit up; felt the world tilt under you. You grunted when Chris landed on top of you, breath warm and beery, moist against your mouth.
"Could be because you've been passin' 'em to me all night?" Oh, yes, down on the floor was much nicer. Nothing tilting around you.
"Yup. Get you drunk and have my way with you." He wiggled against you and you giggled. He was as drunk as you were. It felt so good to be drunk together, to laugh and be silly. You didn't want senior year to ever end.
You're both quiet for a few minutes but the silence this time is comfortable, just two friends hanging out and drinking. There's a small clock on the mantle over the fireplace and you're surprised to see it's nearly seven already. It feels like it should be both later and earlier than that. Chris pokes you and you startle.
"So, hey, that's my sad story. But what about you, dude? You haven't said much about the lifestyle of the rich and famous Joshua Chasez, and all the wonderous things out in—California, right?"
You make a face at him and stare down at your beer for a moment, like the mysteries of life are hidden in the depths of the bottle. "Yeah, LA, actually. And there's not much to tell, really. I write, I record, I tour."
"So glamorous. That was what you wanted to lure me away to?" Chris arches an eyebrow and you literally bite your tongue to resist the urge to stick it out at him.
"It's more than that. But, I don't. I'm not all into partying and stuff—I like to go out, yeah. And I've done all the 'partyboy' stuff --" Your face turns red remembering the morning you woke up after trying blow for the first, and only, time, with two guys in bed with you and memories of doing things the night before that made you both incredibly horny and embarrassed all at once. You're still glad, to this day, that the floor by your bed was littered with used condoms, or you'd probably still be freaking out. "But that's not the big thing, y'know? I got a house in LA, and it's nice, but not like…ostentatious." Chris rolls his eyes at you and you reach out and smack his leg lightly, grinning. "It's not. It's a house. Four bedrooms, two baths. I turned one bedroom into a studio, and I write there most of the time. I have a pool—"
"And a pool boy?" He waggles his eyebrows lecherously and you laugh.
"No. Jesus. I even clean my own pool. Sometimes. When I remember." You're not so good with that stuff, always, so you do have a pool service now. But you still clean it sometimes, just to prove you can.
"You like it out there?"
"Yeah, I do. It's—it takes some getting used to, at first. It's so much bigger than here, and warm, and I love being close to the beach. But I miss the snow sometimes."
"Why would you miss the snow?" Chris looks puzzled, and you laugh.
"Because I don't have it. I mean—it's like when you quit smoking, and you miss the idea of smoking, just because you're not doing it anymore."
"You smoke? Smoked?" Now he's staring at you, one eyebrow raised, and you flush.
"For a while, I did, yeah. Kinda…I tried not to, all the time, but I got up to where I was going through a pack like every day, and that was way too much."
"That shit is so bad for your voice, C."
"Dude, I know." You kind of growl at him and he smirks. "Believe me, this is not news, okay?" You wouldn't mind a cigarette right now, actually. But it's a low-level craving; one you've become accustomed to having if you're drinking. Which is also partly why you're buzzed at the moment, because you quit partying for the most part when you gave up smoking, since you couldn't seem to drink without craving cigarettes. "Anyway, don't try and tell me you never smoked, Chris Kirkpatrick. I know better than that."
"Me?" Such an innocent face, and you don't buy it for one minute.
"Yes, you. Actually, I think you're the one who tried smoking when we were still in school." Your turn to smirk at him when he flushes.
"Yeah, okay, all right. But I never did a pack a day!" He tugs on his earrings and cocks his head. "You got any drug problems I should know about?"
"Not even." You snort. "Dude, I really live a dull lifestyle by celebrity standards. Not sayin' I don't smoke up once in a while, but I think probably half of LA does that."
"Yeah, here too." There's a gleam in Chris' eyes that makes you feel almost high just looking at him. "I don't but once in a while, 'cos you never know when someone's gonna decide the teaching staff needs to do a piss test – but college? Hoo, yeah."
"Well, yeah. Pot, beer, pizza and a little studying thrown in for good measure, right?" You wish, sometimes, that you'd gone to college, too. You're really happy where you are in life, and with what you're doing; but once in a while that wistful little voice speaks up.
"Something like that, yeah." Chris cocks his head. "What?"
"What, what?" You drain your beer and set the empty down.
"You looked like you wanted to say something."
You shrug. "Just sometimes—y'know. Not regrets, but. I kinda wish I'd done the school thing, sometimes. But I love what I'm doing." You wish you could say that louder, more confidently. You do love what you're doing, a lot. But there are things you wish were different. Chris stares at you for a minute and you watch the easy smile slide from his face, replaced by something that looks tighter, harder.
"Yeah," he says softly. Quick as it came, it's gone, the relaxed smile back, and his eyes warm. But it stabs you anyway. "Easy to see why, man. You got, what, four albums out?"
You nod. "Working on a fifth right now. Well, writing for it. Nothing'll happen for a while yet. My manager wanted me to do the 'Greatest Hits' thing, but…nah. Why put out the same songs? I'm having a great time writing, hashing out melodies and stuff. I really love that as much as anything. Well, and doing the mixing and tracks – there's nothing like a soundboard and just. Freedom. I can decide what sounds best, and how it should be, and man. I love the producing angle of it as much as I like singing."
Chris smiles at you. "That's obvious, dude. You're lit up like my little tree. All, kinda, sparkly." He gestures at your bottle. "Want another?"
"You tryin' to get me drunk, Kirkpatrick?"
He laughs. "Yup. All part of my wily plan. Ply you with booze then have my wicked way with you." He stands up and leans over for the bottle, and you settle your hand on his arm, blink up at deep brown eyes that are shining, at a smile that reaches down inside you.
"Really?"
"Would it work?" His smile deepens and his eyes shine with a gentle, teasing light. You wonder if he feels it, the pull that's still between the two of you. You shift forward, curl your fingers tighter on his arm and you can feel his warmth, his heat. He's closer; did he move? "Not really," he whispers. "But if I was, would it?" The words are just puffs of air across your lips, and you're not sure you can answer, because you don't remember what the question was. You lean up, closing the distance between you, and anything you might've said is swallowed down, disappears into the press of his mouth on yours. It's barely a kiss, more just a touch, but you feel it deep inside, an electric shock of sensation.
Chris pulls back and blinks at you. "JC?"
You're not sure what he's asking but you nod anyway. Whatever he wants explodes in your brain, makes you want to clutch at him, hold him close.
He makes a soft noise in his throat and presses closer, and you lean back pulling him with you. You remember this, how he felt against you, how he tasted. His mouth is warm but cool, and his tongue slick and teasing, testing the soft spots in your mouth. You taste the slight bitterness from the beer tonight and it's like the bubbles are still there, making your tongue tingle and burn with each touch.
You slide your arms up around his neck to bring him closer, and Chris cups your face with one hand, the other threading through your hair, holding your head while he kisses you harder, hunger moving from him to you and back again. You think you moan when he pulls away enough to suck on your lower lip, dropping little biting kisses along the line of your lips, licking at the corners of your mouth until you're panting, opening for him again, desperate to have his mouth on yours.
You end up on your back, couch soft and cradling beneath you, with Chris' weight pressing you down. His jaw is rough with stubble beneath your tongue, your lips, and you love the scritchy feeling, love how tender your mouth feels after you kiss and lick there. The kisses move from fast and desperate to lazy, deep and soft, making your head spin pleasantly.
When you don't think you can breathe but can't bring yourself to care, Chris draws away, props himself up on one elbow to remove his weight. His breath is warm against your mouth; feels like waves of heat against sensitive skin. His mouth is swollen, red, and you want to lick his lips again. You settle for tracing one finger over them, his smile echoing yours.
"What're we doing?" You ask quietly, watching him. His eyes are soft and liquid in the dim lamplight.
"Has it been that long?" You hiss and lean up to kiss him again, just a quick peck, before relaxing back. Chris muffles his snort against your throat, and the vibration zigzags into your bloodstream, bubbling effervescence all through you. You're high on just the sensation of his body against yours. "Kissing, dude. Making out. All the cool kids are doing it."
"I know what we're doing," you mutter, searching his face. "But—what're we doing. We—this is. We shouldn't."
"We can stop." He makes a motion backward and you clutch once at his sweater, then release him.
"I just—" You're not sure what to say. A moment ago you were all into kissing him and now—you feel like you've done something wrong. Or are about to. You're not sure what you want. Him, but—things are so different. Aren't they?
"It's kinda weird," he says softly, and you nod. It is. If you'd thought about it, you honestly could say you'd never expected to kiss Chris again. Ever. "But it's. I missed it. Missed—you." Chris touches your mouth with his fingers, strokes over your face gently before drawing away. You miss his warmth when he shifts off you and stands up. You sit up slowly, then stand too, aware again of the silence between you. Of the things that you've said, and the things you haven't said. "You could stay," he whispers, finally. "Tonight, tomorrow, however long."
"It's Christmas." Your voice sounds hoarse. You can't stay. At least not…no. You can't. You have to go home to California in a few days, and work on your album and remember why you love it out there, without Chris. "I—"
"Christmas. Yeah." He blinks and turns away from you, eyes dark and shadowy. For one brief, insanity-filled moment you wonder if he would go to California with you.
You don't ask; madness begets madness and you're already obviously insane. Coming here for a beer or three was a mistake. Playing catch up was a mistake. Kissing him has made you want more, and that's something you can't have. He has his life and you have yours and—
And. There's always an 'and'. Or a 'but'.
"I should go," you say finally. Your beer bottle is on the coffee table, and you bend, reach for it, freeze when he says,
"--leave it. I'll get it." You nod and step around the couch, head for the door.
He's quiet behind you, but before you can open it, Chris pushes you against the door, kisses you once more, a hard, biting kiss that softens to gentle, reassuring, offering. A kiss of promise. "Stay," he says one more time. "Even just for tonight."
You shake your head once and press 'I'm sorry' and maybe 'I love you' into his skin with your mouth, then reach behind you for the doorknob. The air outside is cold; breath-stealing, bone-chilling cold, with a wind that whips your hair into your face as soon as you turn into it. The snow has turned back to rain, and it makes you think of tears as you huddle into your sweater and hurry for your car.
The bus chugged along slowly, making its way – taking you away – across the country. It rained most of the trip, and you watched it, head leaned against the window, the glass fogging up from your breath. You felt cold and empty inside; even the anticipation of living and fulfilling your dreams couldn't warm you.
When you closed your eyes, finally, two states later, all you could see was Chris.
It took months to not see him every time you turned around; to not hear his voice in your dreams at night.
You stop at the end of the sidewalk and look back at Chris' apartment, at the festive door with its wreath on the outside, and cheer and love and hope on the inside. What was this, tonight? Chance? Fortune? An opportunity to realize you've moved on to bigger, better things? Or a moment to understand what you've left behind? Maybe a chance to understand what you could still have?
You could stay. Tonight, tomorrow, however long.
You saw something in his eyes tonight that's been missing in you since you walked away ten years ago.
There's still a lot you need to talk about, the two of you. Things to work out, things to work through. Maybe nothing will come of it. Maybe nothing can come of it. But maybe it can.
The rain is cold where it slides down your neck and you think again of Chris' warmth. You're moving again, feet stepping, and you're halfway to his door before you really realize yes, you're doing this. He answers on your second knock, dressed now in ratty t-shirt and sweats, and he looks wary, uncertain. Maybe a little hopeful.
"JC?"
"I don't even have your phone number, Chris. I." You feel sixteen again, wondering if the cute, goofy guy you've known since junior high might feel the same way you do. "Um. Do you…can I…I'll call you. Tomorrow. If you give me your number. And we can—" You swallow roughly. "Okay? Please?"
It takes a minute for him to process what you've stuttered out; you see the exact moment it hits, because his smile blossoms like spring, the heat of the sun behind it, knocking away the chill of the rain. "Yes."
You think as you step inside, maybe you can never go back, but sometimes you get to try again.
~fin~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-03-22 05:07 pm (UTC)You saw something in his eyes tonight that's been missing in you since you walked away ten years ago.
Eeep. This broke me. But the ending put me back together.
*happysigh* Brilliant.
}:)
no subject
Date: 2004-03-24 01:14 pm (UTC)