|| architect ||

"Who would you be?" Chris asks, and it's the same old question he hears in his head, over and over again. "If you weren't you, if we weren't us, if all this never happened -who would you be?"

His words hang there, seems to drift like smoke in the air, until JC breathes them in, deep inside. Chris can see them swirl inside his eyes, a strange ghost haze, flat and dull. Then he blinks and it's gone, nothing but blue-gray there again, and Chris thinks maybe he imagined it. Maybe it was never there at all.

"Who would I be if I wasn't me?" JC stretches lazily, body bowed upward, sharp angles and bruisedark smudges around the curve of his hip. He smiles, no more than a quick quirk of his lips, runs a finger along Chris' arm slowly. "Maybe I'd be an architect." His fingers curl around Chris' wrist, gentle pressure and a slight sting of nails, and Chris watches the way his skin seems to ripple under the touch. Then JC dips his head, and when he speaks his breath is hot against Chris' neck. "I'd like to design buildings," he murmurs, and even though he's close, so very close, he sounds thousands of miles away. "Beautiful buildings. Tall and elegant."

Slicksharp teeth graze his collarbone and Chris can't help but shudder. "These buildings," he says, and his voice catches as JC bites down again, harder this time. "What are they for? Are they-"

"They're not for anything." JC sits up, pulls back and away, and there's something in his eyes Chris can't quite read. "Not for anything at all," he says again, quietly, and his hands flutter along Chris' side, tiny little brushes of heat, there for just a moment, then gone as quickly. "Just to look at," he whispers, suddenly close again and Chris can see there's nothing strange in his eyes now, not a thing.

*

He finds the book a few days later, half-buried under a haphazard pile of newspapers and magazines. Pages and pages of fantastical buildings, twisted spires, bright mosaic-encrusted walls, delicate and spindly towers stretching toward the sky. Beautifully detailed, intricate and almost other-worldly.

"Gaudi," JC says softly from behind him, and Chris jumps, the book slipping from his lap. JC stoops down and picks it up again. "He was Spanish. He died suddenly before he could finish building everything he wanted to." He sits down on the sofa, curls himself round Chris, flicks idly through the pages. "His designs defied the laws of nature-they almost looked like they couldn't exist, but they did. They still do."

"They're surreal," Chris says, pointing to a picture of a house that looks as if it's been sculpted from thick spirals of white icing, smooth curves studded with richly-detailed iron balconies. "Like something you'd see-"

"In a dream." JC closes the book, and smiles. "I do. I dream of these. In my head- I see them. They challenge what we're taught, what we believe. Imagine creating something like that-something that defies all we know."

"You dream of buildings." Chris grins. "So you were serious when you said you'd be an architect?"

"I just want to defy nature," JC says, rolling over to drop the book softly back onto the floor.

*

Chris wakes and there's moonlight slanting into the room, bright and sharp and cold. The other side of the bed is empty, the sheets barely even wrinkled. He sits up, sensing movement somewhere in the room and then JC's voice startles him, his heart thudding in his chest.

"Jesus, C-"

"I couldn't sleep." JC slips out of darkness into sight suddenly, his skin pale and glowing in the half-light. He's naked, sleek and shadowed, and Chris feels his belly twist with desire as JC draws closer, moving slowly like a dream.

Maybe he is a dream, Chris thinks, and he blinks once, twice- but JC's still there, crawling up onto the bed slowly and that same pale skin feels cool and smooth against his own as JC twines around him, sighing softly. Strange chemical breath, and Chris' belly twists again- with dismay this time. He knows but doesn't want to know, and it's been days now, and he'd hoped-

"What did you take?" he asks, and JC giggles softly, smiles and tips his head back to rest against Chris' chest, his eyes slipping closed. Chris wants to shake him, slap him, do anything to get a reaction. Anything instead of this maddeningly dreamlike absence. Instead, he wraps his arms round JC, holds him close. He can feel the pulse under his skin, flutterquick and thready. "JC?"

He's silent for a long moment, and then his eyes flicker open. Chris sees them glint dully, watches JC's smile widen and knows he's lost somewhere inside his own head. "I dreamed about them," JC says quietly, sitting up and twisting around until he's facing Chris. "All the buildings -I dreamed about them. I dreamed that I built them- and they're real. I made them real." His body twists again; he slips from Chris' arms, stands at the foot of the bed, swaying slightly.

"JC- c'mon. C'mere." Chris tries to grasp his arm, pull him back down, but JC's just out of reach, walking over to the window, arms wrapped around himself, fingers moving restlessly against his sides.

"All the people," he says, and his voice is barely a whisper, "I made them real, and people went into them, and I tried to tell them." One hand flutters up to tug absently at his hair, and Chris wonders if he's even aware he's doing it. "I tried to stop them. I tried-- I did. I called out, but I couldn't. They couldn't hear me."

"Hey." Chris slips off the bed, moves over to where he stands, but JC shifts away again, moving like quicksilver in the moonlight. Chris hears him draw in a deep, shuddering breath, can smell whatever is gliding under his skin, pulsing through his blood, holding him tight. He tries again, gets a little closer this time, before JC flinches and steps back, bringing his hands up reflexively.

"Don't," he hisses softly, backing away slowly until he's pressed to the wall. "Please don't touch me. You can hear me, can't you? They wouldn't listen to me -and I killed them. I killed them, Chris. All of them."

"No." Chris forces himself to stand stock-still, hands clenched in loose fists by his sides. "No, JC. It was just a dream. You didn't kill anyone-"

"They went into the buildings." JC's voice is still no more than a whisper, his breathing harsh, and Chris has to strain to hear the words. "I tried to tell them it was too dangerous- they were just to look at. No one was supposed to get close. They were just to look at." He's pulling at his hair again, strands wrapped around his fingers and Chris wants to slap his hand away, tell him to stop, but he doesn't. Stand still, he thinks. Just stand still. He looks right into JC's eyes but sees nothing in them he recognises. "I killed them," JC whispers, his voice dull and oddly flat, and anger flares in Chris, sharp and sudden.

"No. You didn't-"

"I did." JC lunges forward, and his hands wrap around Chris' biceps, fingers tightly curled into flesh. "They looked, but they didn't see. None of them could really see."

"I can." Chris keeps his voice calm, even. "JC-- I see you. I always have."


*

"I want to be a punk." Cool metal is pressed against Chris' fingertips, and when he looks down, he sees the dull glint of scissors. JC smiles, then leans back against the wall, watching Chris closely. "Cut my hair off for me, man."

His eyes are sharp and focused, and he doesn't look high, but it's getting harder and harder for Chris to tell. Or maybe he's just getting better at hiding it. Chris pushes the thought away, turning the scissors over and over in his hand.

"I can't cut all your hair off," he says, but even as the words leave his lips, he knows it's a battle of wills he's already lost. These days, JC doesn't even bother to argue, just stops listening and does what he pleases anyway. Chris figures there are worse things he could have asked for, rather than a haircut.

"You can." JC's tongue flicks across his lips, a tiny, reptilian movement. "You'll need to use clippers to finish off," he says quietly. "I want it all gone."

Chris hesitates, and JC's eyes flicker, then fix on him intently. "All of it," he says again, and Chris nods.

JC sits perfectly still, his eyes slipping closed not long after Chris starts snipping off the tangled curls, his breath ghosting soft and warm over Chris' hands.

By the time he's finished, the floor is littered with soft drifts of hair, and the man sitting before him is familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Chris feels his belly flare with a rush of thick, liquid desire as he traces his thumb over the strange new geography of JC's face, along the slope of his cheekbone, down to the soft swell of his lips. JC's mouth opens to allow Chris' thumb to slip inside, and there's warm, wet heat together with the tiny sharp sting of his teeth.

"Punk boy," Chris whispers softly, and JC grins, his hands curling round Chris' hips, pulling him closer.

"Take me dancing," JC says, licking the words into Chris' mouth, and he tastes cinnamon and smoke across his tongue, feels sleek muscle and bone shifting beneath his fingers.

*

notes: I had the idea of a JC who is inventing, then re-inventing himself, trying to find something that fits. this JC is pretty fucked up, and I'm not sure how to fix that quite yet. so, this-- it's rough in places, and I suspect there will have to be some stuff taken out, other bits added in-- when, once again, I figure out what the hell is happening. for a while there, every time I opened up the file and started to type, all that happened was JC attempting to throttle Chris in his sleep, so, uh, yeah. it's been languishing on the HD for a while now, and I really would like to finish it one day.

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