mickeym

Trying to make my brain work to actually work on the things I need to write. This wasn't what I meant to write, but hey--go with what works, I guess :)

It's The Little Things. Chris/JC.

Chris thinks about the little things in his life.

Sometimes, it's too easy to get swept up in all the big things happening to him, to them, and Chris has to stop and remind himself of the little things.

As close as Chris is to the others, he's that much closer to JC; spends his nights wrapped in JC's embrace, legs and arms twined, breath mingling as they inhale and exhale in unison.

Friends for years, lovers only more recently, but each moment is one Chris cherishes. He's stored hundreds away in his memory, takes them out one at a time when pressure builds, when stress presses in hard on him. Each memory bleeds into another, though, and he has to be careful not to glut himself on them.

Little things.

The way JC's hair curls against his face when it's damp from sweat.

His eyes crinkling up when he smiles big and wide, joy bleeding from the inside out.

His voice, raised in song, or just a regular speaking voice. Words that come slowly, getting lost sometimes when JC struggles to explain what's on his mind, what's in his head, but that pour out of him like a torrent, when the music speaks to him.

Their voices joined together, in harmony.

The soft snores JC makes when he's boneless with sleep, whether tucked into bed, or slumped against Chris on the couch.

Hips that swivel and shimmy when JC's out on the dance floor, arms raised above his head, head thrown back as the music flows through him. Chris swears he can see the beat pulsing along JC's skin, when he's lost in the music and the moment.

JC's eyes, whether shining up at him, or staring down hungrily, blue swirling into gray, shifting into both and neither. His eyes move from predator to prey and back again just as easily, and both leave Chris breathless and wanting.

His feet. Chris really likes JC's feet. They're long and slender, and the second toe on the right foot that's just a little bit longer, and a teeny bit crooked. He loves the toe ring, loves that JC feels comfortable enough in his own skin to wear it – comments and criticism be damned.

The high-pitched giggle whenever Joey wrestles JC down and tickles him.

His intensity. His passion. The drive and desire to be the best, that matches Chris' own.

JC. Chris loves every bit of him, every little thing that makes up the man.

He shifts and JC snorts and wiggles closer to him, and Chris smiles, runs one hand slowly down JC's back, feeling the bumps of vertebrae under his fingertips. "Wanna go to bed?" He whispers, the words barely there, puffs of breath that stir JC's hair.

He loves the longer hair, too.

"Mmm," JC mumbles. He curls into Chris, then mutters something about mushrooms and Dalmatians, and Chris laughs silently, a shiver rippling through him and into JC, sound, but not.

JC, asleep against him.

It's another small thing, another moment to horde away and bring out when he needs something to cheer him up or remind him how good he has it.

They don't need to move. Later, JC will wake up and they can get into bed, and wrap around each other, share kisses that build slowly as they taste and touch and caress. Later, JC will enter him, sliding in slow and deep, and Chris will hum with pleasure, skin prickling with need and want. They'll lose themselves in each other, in the feelings and the moment, and when it's over they'll sleep again, curled against each other, two halves coming together to create something whole and perfect, and beautiful.

Something made of lots of little things, that add up to something big: love.

~fin~