"Fuck," Chris says, and repeats it,
"fuck," like no one hears him the first time. Joey looks up from
his magazine, frowning, and Chris just stares back, "fuck."
"Do you wanna go talk to him because
I don't."
Chris stands up and walks to the
window, watching Lance and Justin play basketball. Or Justin play
because Lance just kind of stands there and looks pretty, losing.
"Someone has to talk to him," Chris says, gesturing bleakly down the hall.
"I'm. We don't do shit like that, Joe. Him and I, we don't."
"Lame excuse," Joey says. "Leave
him alone, then. You know his room's his sanctuary, anyway. Don't
go there if you're not prepared to deal, man."
Chris grunts and presses his head
against the window. "He's crying, man. I can hear him."
"Then go talk to him."
Chris nods and walks down the hall
slowly, knocking gently on the door, his knuckles scrapping against the
smooth word. Inside, it's suddenly quiet, and Chris knocks again,
knowing JC's heard him. "Jayce," he says, "open up."
There's a long moment of silence
before a bleak, "it's not locked."
Chris twists the doorknob between
his fingers and opens the door slowly, peering inside. The curtains
are drawn, and it's mostly dark. The room's completely streamlined,
all soft angles and flowing motion, decorated by JC himself and completely
him in all regards.
"You all right?" Chris asks
feebly, trying not to look at the mottled, red face because crying makes
Chris uncomfortable, which is why he rarely does it. JC shakes his
head, the tragic artist, and Chris walks to the bed, stepping through the
sea of crumpled paper.
JC rolls his head slowly, pulling
at his loose pants, like he tends to do when he's being watched, and Chris
looks to the floor, wondering why he even asked when JC's so obviously
not okay at all. The problem with Chris is he only knows how to comfort
through laughter, and JC stopped laughing days ago.
"You're a good songwriter, JC," Chris
finally says, sitting next to JC and stroking his hair with gentle touches,
doing it until JC leans into it a bit and looks up, teary-eyed.
"Isn't that an oxymoron?" JC
asks, trying to smile, but it comes out crooked and ugly, and Chris inwardly
winces, not prepared for self-abuse. "Songwriter and JC?"
Chris wants to hit him when he says
it, wants to grab the boney body and say that the outside world doesn't
know shit, but he just wraps his arms around JC and holds him. Sometimes,
Chris has to be the mother because they're all so alone in their world
of fame and fortune that they need loving comfort. Chris is the oldest;
it's Chris's job.
Chris doesn't really hug JC all that
often, and when they do, they tend to stock up on them all at once so they
won't miss each other too much in between the weeks where they don't touch
at all. Chris doesn't know why this is. He just knows it's
the way it's always been. They're not letting go, and it's a tight
hold, desperate and longing.
"I love Space Cowboy," Chris says,
like it's some sort of powerful affirmation, that it'll make JC's world
all right, and JC smiles into Chris's shoulder, ready to be modest and
strike it down, but Chris continues, "no, man. I really do love it.
The stuff you do, the stuff you write for us, I love it all the best."
JC sniffs loudly. "But it's
not very good."
"Bullshit," Chris says with enough
tenderness that JC snuggles in further and begins to feel soft and pliant
in Chris's arms, not like the sharp mass of angles Chris felt upon first
touch. "You're too hard on yourself, Jayce. You're doing this
for you, man, not those people out there. They don't understand you
like we do."
JC nods, and Chris kisses the top
of his head. It seems like the thing to do, but JC tenses up immediately,
scared of this sudden change. Chris doesn't know why he does it,
or why he's not moving his lips away, just keeps them buried in the wild
hair and breathes deeply. It's just something he needs to do.
"You're a great writer," Chris repeats,
his hands stroking JC's back, smoothly up and down and waiting for the
body to melt again and grow acquiescent in his lap. "We wouldn't
know what to do without you, Jayce. We love you."
And while Chris is saying we, his
brain is thinking I, and he's not sure what to make of that, just that
it seems right in his mind. He loves all of them, but in this moment,
he loves JC the most, shut in JC's sanctuary and holding him tight.
Fin.
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