And you can't find your waitress with a Geiger counter
And she hates you and your friends
And you just can't get served without her
Our Father who art in Cribari
hallowed it be
Thy glass, thy kingdom come, I will be done
Ah yeah, as it is in the lounges
Give us this day our daily splash
Forgive us our hangovers
as we forgive all those who continue to hang over against us
And lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil
and someone give us all a ride home
It's not the kind of place that people would go to look for him. It's the kind of bar that makes you want to throw out your shoes the minute you leave, because the floor is actually carpet, not wood or tile, and it looks as though it hasn't been cleaned since 1973. JC ponders this for a few drunken minutes before realizing that he's not actually going to have to throw out his shoes, because the carpet will have eaten through them for an appetizer and started on his feet for the main course before he's ready to leave. Everyone else in the bar is over forty, and they haven't been staring at him. Much. And he's pretty sure that the stares he was getting were because of the glitter dusted across his cheekbones, and not because of any celebrity thing. It's not that kind of crowd.
Kind of reassuring, he has to admit. He's used to going into bars and having people fawn over him, but this place doesn't give a flying fuck. He hasn't seen the waitress in what feels like hours, and nobody's falling over themselves to buy him a drink, and he's been left blessedly alone to mope as much as he wants to.
He's hiding away in this shitty dive bar instead of his album release party. He pushed back the release date twice on his own, not because it wasn't done yet but because it wasn't right yet. Justin had finally staged an intervention and threatened to lock him in his basement long enough to let the record get to master. "You can't make it perfect," Justin had finally said, patiently. "All you can make it is real. Let it go, C. Just let it go." Coming from Justin, with his runaway album and his sold-out tour dates and his screaming fans, that had nearly been a punchable offense, but the one thing that always saves Justin in the end is that there isn't a pretentious or malicious bone in his body, when it all comes down to it. If Justin says to let it go, it's time to let it go.
And then the label spent months dicking him over, and he's still pissy about that, because that's hardly the way to boost confidence over his ability as an independent recording artist instead of one-fifth of a group. He thinks that someone might have finally pulled some strings to get it out. He doesn't think about the fact that person might have been Justin. He's not currently talking to Justin, but he's never talking to Justin at this part of the creative process, so that's okay.
All of the crap means that JC is really not prepared for waking up in the morning -- okay, in the afternoon, really -- and getting the sales figures and the first critical responses. Waiting to see if anyone gets it. He doesn't really expect anyone to get it. It's okay, really. He doesn't get it himself, and he sure as hell can't explain it.
There's a row of empty beer bottles in front of him, because of course the waitress hasn't been back to clear the empties. He's been lucky enough to get the refills in the first place. The glass he's been drinking out of has a smudged fingerprint on the rim of it, and his current bottle still has that half-inch of liquid in the bottom of it that never seems to fit into a standard glass. It's some kind of physics mystery. Twelve ounces of beer can never fit into twelve ounces of glass. If he had his notebook with him, he would write it down so he can ask Lance about it later. If Lance is talking to him this week.
His only clue that the dynamic of the bar has just changed like a stormfront blowing in is the way that everything gets really quiet for half a second, just barely a conversational blip. He's facing the door, because he's learned something from the years of bodyguards, and somehow he's not at all surprised to look up and see the denim-and-leather-clad figure walk in just like he owns the place. No one else in the bar seems to notice, but JC feels the air get a little heavier. That's just one of the things that Chris can do, without even trying -- rearrange the room the minute he walks in, make everyone readjust a little to encompass the sudden presence of Chris.
The presence of Chris heads across the room and slides into the booth across from him, casually unconcerned about little details like having his back to the door, and JC wonders if that means that Chris trusts him to watch his back or if it's just the fact that Chris has always had eyes in the back of his head. "Hey," Chris says, and slides a hand across the table to hook around the latest bottle and drain it. He makes a face, puts it back down, and tries to catch the waitress's eye. "Clearly," he says, and JC can't figure out what it is that he's hearing in Chris's voice, "I have gone horribly wrong somewhere along the line. You are drinking Budweiser. That's like, sacrilege or heresy or some shit like that. It's bad enough that J drinks Michelob, but Bud? That's unnatural."
JC runs a finger through the condensation rings on the table like he's dealing out a really crappy card game, the kind that you always bet your week's budget on and always, always lose. Or like he's arranging tracks for an album. Except his tracks can't be neat and uniform like that -- the lie's been tripping off his tongue for weeks. It's called that because of the different styles, I wanted it to have a title that matched the way it feels, but that's not it. It's called Schizophrenic because that's the way he felt in his head when he was writing it.
Pulled in a hundred different directions at once, and all of them seeming real and right. He doesn't hear the voices, but he does hear the music. Sometimes he can't let go of the music. He wonders sometimes if that might be what it's like to not be able to trust the inside of your own head, to always wonder if what you're thinking is really coming from you, or if it's something else instead.
The silence is getting heavy, and JC can feel Chris trying to pick through it for an answer. There's a hundred different things that he can say, but he settles for just sliding his glass back and responding, "I don't think it counts as heresy unless I'm, like, claiming that I turned it into beer from water."
"Right. Anyway, the Beatles already did that Jesus shit, and it didn't work out all that well for them, so on the whole, yeah, good idea to ixnay with the istchray." Chris's eyes rest on JC's hands for a minute, and JC looks down and realizes that he's apparently been in the process of picking off the labels from each of his empty bottles and shredding them for the last five minutes or so, judging by the detritus that's piled up on the table. Chris doesn't say anything about it, just picks those eyes back up to JC's face. It takes a second, but JC finally realizes what he's seeing in Chris's face, and it's anger.
The guys joke a lot about JC having his head in a cloud, and make a lot of wisecracks about JC being the last guy in the world to notice anything, but when it comes to the emotional weather of the other four, any one of them, even half-drunk, is light-years ahead of the rest of the world at noticing things. It's the sort of thing that they can't explain to anyone who didn't go through it with them. It's that knowledge that lets him see the hard edge in Chris's eyes, the one that's there behind the hard edge that Chris has always carried in his eyes and presented to the rest of the world, the one that's only there when something's gotten past Chris's skin and hit him in a place that isn't armored over yet. But it's the same knowledge that lets JC know that anger isn't directed at him, and so he relaxes just a little, even though he hadn't realized that he'd tensed up at it.
He settles for trying once again to catch the waitress's eye and just saying, "Thought you were at the release party." He's hiding out in this shitty dive bar instead of having stayed at his album release party because, and he's just drunk enough to admit it, he's scared out of his mind about how badly the album is going to go over.
Chris snorts. "Thought I wouldn't notice you ditching your own party to come off and drink crap beer in a place that's two steps away from getting shut down by the board of health, you mean. Nice try, but no dice. I punched him, you know."
JC isn't expecting that at all, hadn't even realized that Chris had overheard the same comment he'd heard, but somehow it makes perfect sense. He can't help the little flush of pleasure that spreads through his chest at that bit of news, and because it makes him feel small and petty, he frowns. "Shit, Chris, you can't just go punching people because you feel like it."
Chris seems supremely unconcerned by this statement. "I didn't punch him just because I felt like it. I punched him because he was a rude-ass motherfucker who should know better than to open his trap like that when he's drinking someone else's booze. Just consider it yet another entry in the Chris Teaches People Manners department. You look like shit. You sleeping?"
JC hadn't expected to see Chris at the release party at all, but the minute he did, he was expecting to hear that he looked like shit. That's always the first thing that Chris says when he hasn't seen someone for a while. This time it's true, though, and JC knows it. "Kinda," he says, and looks down again to the pile of dead label bits. "More or less." A pause, and Chris gives him That Look, the one that they all learned back in Germany. It still makes him cringe even after all these years. "All right, not really. Not a whole lot."
Chris shakes his head. "You can't do that shit to yourself, C. Justin told me that you haven't been sleeping well for weeks."
"Justin wouldn't know," JC says, and it's as pleasant and neutral as he can manage to make it. Chris's head snaps up, though, like a dog that's just heard a whistle that no human in the room can hear, and JC winces. Not pleasant and neutral enough. He changes the subject as quickly as he can, before Chris can ask. "How'd you find me, anyway?"
"Johnny had us all tagged with homing devices five years ago, all you gotta do is bribe Lonnie with chocolate and he'll tell you where we all are. What do you mean, Justin wouldn't know?"
Chris delivers it with a straight face, and JC has to wonder. It would explain an awful lot. "You're shitting me," he says, and reaches for his beer again.
Chris scowls. "Of course I'm shitting you, what was your first fucking clue? Come on, man, talk to me. I'm not leaving until you do."
JC sighs. He knows better than to think that's hyperbole. "Justin and I haven't been seeing much of each other lately. We've been busy, and you know that the two of us can never stand each other when we're in the middle of studio time. It's nothing big."
Chris tilts his head to the side, dark eyes studying JC's face while he mulls that over. It's as though he's testing the strength of JC's conviction, looking for the honesty behind the polite lie. There isn't technically all that much lie in it, though, and he can apparently see that, because he lets go and tries a different direction instead. "Lance was looking for you at the party, you know. He didn't get a chance to pat you on the back."
"Yeah," JC says, and bits his tongue on the retort that if Lance had bothered showing up earlier than three hours late, JC might have still been there. It's not Lance's fault that he's busy as hell, especially now that the Russians are making vague noises about a future launch. JC's pretty sure that this one is going to turn out to be as much of a disappointment as the other ones, but the last time he tried to mention that to Lance, there had been unkind words and hurt feelings and on the whole, it's just better to leave it alone. "I'll call him or something. Tomorrow."
Chris just looks at the beer. "If you keep this up, the only thing you're going to be calling tomorrow is for your mommy when you wake up with the hangover. Whatever's eating you, man, you have to let it out before it chews you up."
For half a second, he does think about letting go, just opening his mouth and dumping all of it onto Chris's shoulders -- it's not as though Chris hasn't proven that he can take it -- but there's a twisted little bit of his head that says solo is just that. Solo. No dumping on the guys, no dragging anyone in to help him get through it. "It's nothing, really," he says, and apparently there's just enough mixture of insistence and annoyance that Chris drops it.
He can feel the waves of vibration from Chris's leg jittering under the table, and oddly enough, it reassures him. He's spent years on a bus with that thrumming energy, and he's used to it by now. If they ever figure out a way to plug Chris into the wall or something, he could probably power the bus. "Yeah, okay," Chris says. "You got your heart set on that hangover, or are you planning on stopping anytime soon?"
JC snorts, and nudges the glass away from his hand. "Can't drink this shit fast enough to get drunk on it when you're trying. And service around here ain't the best in the world. If you're looking for booze, you should go back to the party."
"You should go back to the party," Chris says, and then waves a hand. "No, no, I said I'd lay off, I'll lay off. Seriously, though. People were wondering where you went."
"Am I gonna hear about it tomorrow?"
"Nah. I dropped a few words in the right ears, and everyone should think that you were hit with creative inspiration or something right about now." JC nods; occasionally, it's useful to have the reputation as the space case. "I figured you'd take off after that asshole was flapping his lips."
"It's not a big deal," JC says. It isn't; the guy wasn't saying anything that JC hadn't heard a hundred times before. The follower. The second-rater. Number one star of the Justin Timberlake backup band. He knows that Justin doesn't think that, has never thought that, but it doesn't help to ease the hurt anyway.
"You totally handled that cool, though," Chris says, and JC shrugs. "No, really. Where'd you learn that fuck-you smile?"
"Lance," JC says, and Chris nods. JC doesn't know where Lance learned the ability to tell someone to go to hell just by smiling at him, but it's a useful skill. He's not as good at it, but he's good enough to get his point across. "It's more civilized than punching someone in the face."
"But nowhere near as much fun." JC can't argue with that. "Come on, man. Let's head on home and get you to bed. Tomorrow will happen whether or not you drink yourself senseless."
Chris reaches out and wraps a hand around JC's wrist, just the sort of touch that he's gotten a thousand times before, and JC nearly has to close his eyes. He's at the stage of drunk that makes everything just that one little step sharper, and the warm pressure of skin on skin makes him want to just slide under the table, put his head in Chris's lap, let Chris run fingers through his hair and tell him that everything's going to be all right. It nearly hurts, how much he wants that, how suddenly, and he bites his lip against it.
Chris would do it, too. That's the worst part.
"Yeah," JC says, and it's not a hardship to stumble a little, pretend he's more drunk than he really is, to cover the way he wants to put himself into Chris's hands. Into anyone's hands, really, but Chris is always everyone's choice for things like this, because he raised four younger sisters and then started all over again raising four younger brothers and he always knows what someone else needs. But he can't, really. Not and still manage to stay together, not and still manage to summon the fuck-you smile when he needs it.
That's the thing that Lance never told them, when he was trying to teach it, the thing that JC had to figure out on his own. The fuck-you smile has to come from inside, from being confident and proud and on-your-own and with it and all those other adjectives that JC has been collecting over the past few years. But Chris's hand settles against the small of JC's back, guiding him outside the bar, and JC wonders if he really needs it after all.
"Okay," Chris says as they get outside. "You drive over here?"
"Nah," JC says. "Got a car to take me over. Was gonna call again when I was ready to get home." He wonders again if that's how Chris found him -- wonders again how Chris found him -- but lets it go.
"Okay," Chris says again, and nudges the small of JC's back with that hand. "Come on, I'll drive you back. Just remember the no-puking-in-the-car rule."
"I'm not that bad," JC mumbles, but he's feeling a little bit dizzy anyway. The winter air clears his head some, and he takes deep breaths as he leans against Chris's car.
He realizes when they're halfway to their destination that they're not anywhere near the way to his house. "Chris," he says, on a groan.
Chris doesn't take his eyes off the road. "Band rules, man," he says, and that's the end of that subject. Band rules mean that none of them are allowed to let any of the others sleep alone when in emotional upset. JC wonders if he'd been that transparent. JC wonders how Chris knows that Justin wouldn't be at home to take up the duty.
It isn't as though they've broken up, or anything. For one thing, that would kinda require them to have been dating first. For another, they've gone for longer periods without seeing each other. JC keeps telling himself that. It's easier that way.
Chris doesn't keep a house in LA, so they wind up at Lance's place, which is where Chris stays when he's in the area. Lance's car is in the garage already. Chris tosses his keys on the table when they walk in and yells, "Honey! I'm home!"
"I'm right behind you, no need to shout," Lance says from the doorway to the dark kitchen. He's been home for long enough to shower; his hair is sticking up in damp spikes and he's wearing only a pair of faded sweatpants that might have once been Chris's, they're that short on him. There's a hickey right over his heart, dark smudge coloring to purple, and JC feels uncomfortable looking at it, like he's looking in on some dark secret that isn't really a secret at all.
JC remembers the argument, and gets ready to make Chris drive him back to his own house. They both said some pretty awful things, and Lance is, like, the scariest motherfucker in the universe when it comes to holding a grudge. Lance smiles at JC, though, and it's a real smile. JC loves that smile. They don't get to see it often enough. "You staying the night?"
JC leans against the wall. He could stand without it, he reassures himself; it's just nice to have it there in case gravity suddenly decides to act up. "Been kidnapped," he says. "You really gotta do something about that tendency of his to run over any objections."
Being with two of the guys only makes it worse, that wish of JC's to just curl up in someone's lap and let Someone Else handle it. Lance tips his head to the side and nods. "Hate to tell you this, man, but your party kinda sucked."
That makes JC laugh. "Yeah. I know. I'm kinda fucked up, though. I should get to sleep."
Chris is still behind Lance. JC can see Lance flick his eyes down to Chris's face from JC's, and that too makes him feel like he's intruding. The two of them can have extended arguments with just tilt of head and narrowing of eyes, and it always makes JC want to bow out and leave the two of them to settle whatever it is that they're trying to communicate about. It only takes a second before they seem to come to some conclusion, though, and then Chris says from behind him, "Well, that's one option."
JC turns to look at Chris, and he has to close his eyes a little as the world swims in front of his eyes. "What's the other?"
There's a world of affectionate amusement in Lance's voice. "You can stay up a little while longer with us."
In a flash of insight, JC knows exactly what Lance is suggesting, and it's far too tempting. "I, uh. Don't know if that's the best idea in the world."
"Since when have we ever worried about that?" Chris asks, and reaches up a hand to rub at the knots at the base of JC's neck. JC's tense enough that it feels like a kick to the head from a mule, but in the good sort of way. He has to stop himself from squeaking. "Man, you are way fucking tense. Lance, this is a job for the big guns. Go and heat up the oil."
"Okay," Lance agrees, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "C, head on up to the bedroom and strip. Chris, you make sure he doesn't pussy out. I'll be along in a minute."
JC wants it so badly that he feels as though he has to make some sort of token protest. "Guys --"
"Silence," Chris says, imperiously. "Thou Shalt Not Decline A Lance Backrub. That's on the other tablet, the one that broke before Moses could get off the mountain. Up." He nudges the small of JC's back again, and JC catches himself a little before he falls over. "Don't make me carry you, I'm too old for that shit and you're bigger than I am."
JC knows better than to argue with Chris when he gets an idea into his head. He makes his way up the stairs as Lance disappears again into the dark depths of the house. He wonders if Lance really meant the smile or was just fucking with his head. He wonders if Chris is tired of playing Boyband Nanny yet. Chris's footsteps are light on the stairs behind him. "So," Chris says, "I've been thinking."
"Dude, we told you you had to stop that shit." JC knows where he's going, even semi-drunk and in the semi-dark -- they've all spend enough time in each others' houses to be able to navigate. It's tougher to be walking under his own choice, though. He almost wishes that Chris had gone first, so that he would only have to follow.
"Ha ha, you should really take that comedy act on the road, you know." Chris's hand slides under his shirt to press against his back again, small and warm, and JC lets out a puffy little breath and almost stumbles into the wall. "Nah, seriously. Been thinking that we should go out to the park tomorrow and play some Frisbee. You and me and Lance, if he wants to come. Bet you I'd totally kick your ass."
"I think I probably just wanna, like, stay home and hide tomorrow."
"Yeah, and that's why you shouldn't." Lance's bedroom is like Lance, tidy and well-organized and immaculately decorated, and JC always feels lost in it. Chris follows him in, and pulls his party clothes off, kicking them into the one out-of-place pile of clothes in the corner. JC almost protests before Chris picks up a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants -- and those are definitely Lance's, they're too long to be his own -- from the riot spread out over the dresser, which has to be his. Lance is too neat for that.
JC sits on the edge of the bed, wondering what he's doing there. It's a cozy little scene of domesticity, despite the fact that neither Lance nor Chris does the relationship thing. JC sometimes thinks that they've fallen into relationship-by-default, though. It's almost cute. "We'll see what I feel like when I wake up," he temporizes.
Chris gives him a look like he knows exactly what's going on in his head, and throws himself on the bed, bouncing once before crawling up to sit cross-legged against the headboard. Lance's bed is larger than some small European nations. "If Lance comes upstairs and finds you've still got your clothes on, he's going to be irritated," he says, and picks up a pillow from the stack of seven million to put it in his lap. "And you know what happens when Lance gets irritated."
JC shudders. "He pulls out the sarcasm."
"Yeah." Chris leans his head against the back of the headboard and watches JC with dark, interested eyes. "And yeah, the choice between sarcastic Lance and ready-to-give-you-a-backrub-Lance is like the choice between Ebola and cheesecake, as you very well know. So if I were you, I'd get rid of the clothes."
JC settles for wiggling out of the leather pants and peeling off his shirt, leaving his underwear on. Chris nods encouragingly and pats the pillow in his lap. JC takes a deep breath -- oh God, I shouldn't want this so much -- and slides over the bed to stretch out on his stomach with his forehead against the pillow in Chris's lap.
It's an automatic positioning -- two-man backrubs started as a tradition a long time ago -- and that very position is enough to start putting him in the headspace he needs. The pillow smells like Lance's shampoo, and he breathes deeply and tucks his hands up under Chris's knees. Chris makes a little tiny noise of protest and moves JC's right hand away from the ticklish spot. "Sorry," JC says, his voice muffled by the fabric.
"S'cool," Chris says, and sinks his hands into JC's hair. JC can hear himself, just a little soft sigh, and a little of the tension bleeds away as Chris begins rubbing in tiny circles. They've all got their own specialties at this, and Chris's is some kind of weird freaky voodoo power to find precisely the spots that are causing the headache. His fingernails are a little longer than they should be, but JC doesn't mind; they feel good against his scalp.
"Comfortable?" Lance asks, and JC can hear the footsteps as he crosses the room. He makes a little soft sound of assent, and the bed shifts with Lance's weight as he sits down. Two cool fingertips, slightly damp from the water Lance was using to heat the massage oil, run down JC's spine, and JC jumps a little. It always takes him a few minutes to get used to not being able to see anything but the bedsheets. "Fuck," Lance says, like a prayer, "you are tense."
"Bad week," JC mumbles. He can feel his cheeks getting red, but he pretends it's from the blood rushing to his head.
"No shit," Lance says, and JC can imagine him shaking his head. "Man, I knew it was bad when you of all people went all snarky on my ass, but I didn't know it was this bad. You do know that you're allowed to dump on us, right? That it's what we're here for? Even when we're yelling at each other?"
"Out of the habit." JC didn't mean to let that out loud, but he's already starting to slip sideways into that spot where he can give it all up and let someone else take it and hold it.
"Mmm," is all Lance says, and the bed shifts again. Chris's fingers snake down his neck to dig into the knots at the base, and JC lets out a completely involuntary moan. Lance crosses the room again, and a minute later, the room is plunged into darkness.
"You gonna be able to see what you're doing?" Chris asks. It's a soft voice, rare and precious, as though he's trying to lull JC to sleep with his hands and doesn't want to disturb the process by noise.
"Yeah," Lance says, and comes back to join them on the bed. Without a range of vision, the rest of JC's senses are starting to hit that stage of hyper-aware, and the quick brush of soft cotton against the backs of his knees as Lance straddles his thighs almost makes him moan again. "I'd rather he can relax in the dark. Hand me the bottle of oil, will you?"
It should make him feel uncomfortable, to be talked about as though he's not there, but instead it makes him feel warm and cherished, that two of his friends are that concerned about him. He's always known that they are, of course, but it's so easy to forget this connection when they're not living in each other's pockets. Chris shifts a little, one hand briefly lifting from his skin, and a moment later, Lance strokes the small of his back again. "Oil," he warns, as the first drops fall against JC's skin.
It's just over blood temperature. Lance uses some stuff that one of their personal trainers recommended, just plain unscented oil, and the room takes on the faintly bittersweet tang of sweet almond blossoms overlaid with a faint but heavy sense of warmth and slickness. Just the scent of it is enough to catapult JC back to anonymous hotel rooms and tour exhaustion and night after night of whichever of them was hurting the worst having attention lavished on him. It's a conditioned response of relaxation, and JC half-wonders if that's why Lance keeps using the same stuff.
Chris is humming something, and it takes JC a minute to realize that he's harmonizing with the sound of the fan. He smiles against the sheets, until the heels of Lance's hands run up the sides of his spine, fast and hard and almost bruising, and the smile turns to a whimper.
"So damn tense, baby. Just let it go," Lance says, as he leans his elbows right in the knots at the base of JC's shoulderblades, and leans down to press a feather-kiss through JC's hair right next to Chris's hands. JC shifts a little, balancing the weight of Lance straddling him, and makes an indistinguishable noise. Chris rocks the knife-edge of his hands over the tops of JC's shoulders. It hurts the way that everything beautiful hurts, and he can feel himself starting to come apart under their hands.
Lance has the most fucking gorgeous hands for this, all strong and sure and steady. God, it's just what he needs. JC can feel his fingers twitching as the two of them start to work the knots out of his shoulders. It's a syncopated rhythm, stretch-stretch-pull, just enough pressure to keep it from hurting too badly. He drifts for a long warm happy time before he slides back in and realizes that the sounds he's been hearing are two voices.
"Beautiful," Chris says, and "strong," Lance says, and "ready," Chris says, and "solid", says Lance. One thumb, he thinks it's probably Lance's, digs in under his shoulderblade and teases out the knot that's lying in wait there as his two friends keep murmurring words of description, of encouragement. He knows on one level what they're trying to do, speaking to that part of him that's drifting and distracted and only this close to the surface when he feels this safe. Capable. Creative. Honest. Real. It blends into his consciousness like a mantra, rumble-whisper-rumble back and forth, and what every word means in his ears is "love".
He's halfway between half-asleep and half-aroused by the time that Lance works his painstaking way down to the knots at the base of his spine, and he has no idea how long he's been drifting there. It can't be as long as it feels, because Chris hasn't started squirming yet -- either that, or the pod-people have gotten to Chris, because he's still just sitting there and running his fingers through JC's hair. Both of them are singing softly, JC realizes, just a wordless thread of nonsense-syllable harmony that weaves into his head and lifts him out of himself and leaves him feeling warm and safe and protected. It's everything he needed, and everything he hasn't been able to find in the endless days-weeks-months of being one of five.
For half a minute it feels like he's standing next to himself, at the side of the bed and looking down. He can see the ties binding all three of them together, the extent of what they're both giving to him. It's like they're offering up everything that they've got, and it floors him, that sense that there are two people who are willing to give him so much. He's out of practice at seeing that, he's used to being the one giving that, and it humbles him.
It's only a minute, and then it's gone.
"Turn him over now, I think," Chris breaks off to say, and maybe JC hears it and maybe he doesn't. Lance tugs lightly at his hips, and he makes a small soft noise. It's so much energy to summon, but Lance seems to understand, and lets him take his time in rolling over and lolling backwards against Chris's lap. He could open his eyes, but it seems like so much effort, and he's so comfortable inside of his own head where it's bright and happy.
"Let me help," Lance says, and his hands, still slick with oil, brush over JC's thighs. Dimly, he's aware of his underwear sliding down over his hips. He had a token protest earlier, but it's so much trouble now to remember why he shouldn't give himself up like that, why he spent so much time learning to be the one in control for someone else. This is all that he's wanted from the moment that Chris walked into that bar. "Baby," Chris says, and "so beautiful," Lance says, and Chris is leaning over bent double, he thinks, because someone is kissing him with the focused sort of intensity that Chris brings to things like this and it might just be upside-down. And he should be able to form the words to protest, but he's forgotten why he might even have wanted to, and then there's warm and wet and God, so good, as someone closes lips around his cock.
He may be humming too, but he can't tell, because it might just be the breathy sound of his own pleas in his ear. He's coming apart and Lance's tongue is putting him back together, giving him the bright spot to hold on to in the depths of his thoughts. It takes forever and it's over too soon and Chris catches the shout in his own mouth and breathes it back to him as everything explodes into one perfect moment of nothingness and silence and peace inside his head.
"Baby," he finally realizes that Lance is saying, "baby, come back, I need you to come back for just a minute, okay, baby? Just come back for a minute --" JC doesn't know how long Lance has been talking to him, fingertips brushing over his thighs lightly and warming his skin. He shifts a little. He'd resent Lance for pulling him out of it, but the truth is that place scares him, just a little.
"Yeah," Chris says, and strokes the side of his face gently. "JC, I hate to move you, but my knees are dying and I need to move. Come on, baby, just lift your head a little, and then you can go back. Come on." JC can hear himeself making a noise of protest, but he picks up his head long enough for Chris to slide out from under him. Chris sprawls out on one side and Lance on the other, and there's a minute of legs and arms while he can't bring himself to move until Lance and Chris have him nestled between them.
JC wants to say something, but he can't think of what he might be able to say. He moves just enough to rest one hand on Chris's back and the other one on Lance's arm. He tries to put everything into that touch, all the scattered bits of himself that have been picked up and tossed around, and maybe it works, because Chris smiles against his shoulder. "It's okay, we've got you," Lance says, and it's true. It is okay. They do have him. They know what he wants, know what he needs, and they will give and give and give until he can't help but bend long enough to let himself take it.
He falls asleep with his thoughts still quiet in his own ears, with the warm and comforting weight of someone on each arm.
[Written for the Small Change challenge.
Lyrics at top are from the album and live version, respectively, of "The
Piano Has Been Drinking (Not Me)". Thanks, as always, to SarahQ for the
kicks in the ass beta.]
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