//

Joey’s used to finding odd things in JC’s fridge. Packets of exotic spices carefully wrapped by hand—JC gets them at a little store he told Joey about once—half-empty jars of coffee, handfuls of sticky candy, plump, ripe jewel-coloured fruit, exotic leafy green things Joey has never even heard of before, let alone seen. JC went through a macrobiotic phase once, and Joey sometimes thinks he’s still scarred from the assorted wonders he’d found nestled amongst the gleaming glass shelves during a forlorn attempt to grab a simple bottle of beer.

So yes. He’s more than used to being surprised when the door swings open in his hand, and the little light flickers on, revealing the contents within.

But this. This is—well. This is something else entirely. Joey blinks, then blinks again, because—woah. Wo-ah. This is so not what he was expecting to see. At all. Ever. But even with the blinking—and he rubs his eyes as well, just in case he’s having some kind of freaky-ass hallucination thing—even with the blinking and the rubbing, it’s still there. Just sitting there.

"Uh…JC?" His voice is a lot steadier than he thought it’d be, if he’d ever thought about this situation arising, which he actually never has, because—shit. He blinks again, and then slaps his own face for good measure. Ok. Not hallucinating. But, shit. "JC!" And okay, now there’s a little panic in his voice, but that’s okay, that’s cool, because Joey figures that a little panic is fine, is good, is totally allowed.

He can hear JC moving about in the next room. Doing something. He’s not sure what. And suddenly, Joey feels it’s very important that he knows exactly what JC is doing. Call it gut instinct, but yeah—the whole needing to know thing has suddenly shot right up to the top of his list of priorities, which, until now, had only been a very short list. So short, it only had three things on it. 1) Open fridge. 2) Grab beer. 3) Drink it. Joey was perfectly fine with that list, with the order of it, with each and every item. But now. Now there’s a whole new list in his head, and right at the top is: Figure out what the fuck JC is doing. And soon.

"What?" JC’s voice, and Joey thinks his heart is going to leap out of his chest and splatter all over the floor, because holy shit. Ho-ly shit. And it sounds as if he’s getting closer, too. Okay, okay. He needs to think, and then…think….and…yes, he really needs to think. Anytime now would be good. Anytime, because JC is—

Right there. JC is right there, in his worn old sweatpants and the too tight tshirt that shows off his stomach every time he moves, and Joey’s not staring at that at all, because how wrong would that be, when he’s busy trying not to freak the fuck out? Very wrong, that’s how much. Very, very, wrong, and—

"Joe? You okay?" JC leans over and peers at Joey intently. "You look a little weird, man."

"Hmm." Joey’s nodding, because weird, yeah. Weird is pretty much a correct summation of how he’s feeling. He’s standing in JC’s kitchen, with his hand on the open door of JC’s fridge, the light spilling out onto JC’s tiled floor, and he’s feeling really very weird. "I, uh. Yes." He smiles weakly, and points toward the inside of the fridge, and wow, his hand is really shaking a lot. JC doesn’t seem to notice, just follows the line of Joey’s finger.

Joey looks too, even though he really doesn’t have to, because it’s burned into his brain already. In fact, he more than likely guarantees he’ll be seeing it for quite some time—like every time he closes his eyes, and possibly every time they’re open too. Which is pretty much all the time, really, and yes, Joey thinks, that sounds about right. But he looks again anyway, just for something to do. Other than freak the fuck out, which is an option currently storming it’s way to the top of the once-again newly revised list.

So, he looks. And yes, Justin’s severed head is still sitting there, looking right back at him.

"Hi Justin," says JC, happily. He turns to Joey, and frowns a little. "He doesn’t talk much."

Joey’s caught halfway between wanting to run for his life or asking JC why he hasn’t decapitated Justin long before now. The kid can sure talk a lot, and sometimes Joey wants to staple his mouth closed. Wanted to, he mentally amends, because now—

Oh god. Now Justin’s head is in JC’s fridge and Joey’s standing right beside JC who put it there and maybe his head is going to be keeping Justin company any second now because where the hell are JC’s hands and oh my god, is that a knife he’s holding?

"Yes, it’s a knife," JC says, smiling, and Joey realises he must have said that out loud. Oh, shit. Oh shit, shit, shit, because that—that is a really big knife—

"It’s a huge knife." JC agrees happily as he waves it gracefully through the air, and Joey yells at himself silently to stop talking out loud. Except it goes wrong somehow and he actually does yell, it's not silent at all, and JC jumps in fright and drops the knife. "Shit," he mutters, stooping down to pick it up. "What’s with all the yelling, Joey?"

What’s with the yelling? He wants to know what's with the yelling? Oh, good lord. Joey shakes his head, because, hello-- is JC not thinking clearly or something? There’s a head in his fridge. Justin’s head. In his fridge. Those words cycle round and round in Joey’s head until they’re all he can hear, can think of, can say. Over and over, like some kind of hypnotic chant. A little like the Celebrity chant but with more of a decapitation theme going on.

"You have Justin’s head in your fridge!" he yells, not bothering to even try and stop the panic, the yelling, the freaking out, and adding in some hysteria and arm-waving as well. "Justin’s head! In your fridge, JC! His head! Your fridge!" More arm-waving, and now Joey’s started yelling, it’s kinda hard to stop. He thinks maybe the hysteria and panic have a little something to do with it. Well, them and the fact JC’s picked up the knife again and is casually cleaning his fingernails with it.

"Y’see," JC says, looking up, "the reason Justin’s in there—and I’m guessing you want to know, right?"

Joey nods weakly. Asking  the reason why has occurred to him-- he just hasn’t quite gotten round to it yet, what with the freaking out and the yelling and such. Maybe he needs to start another list.

JC smiles, and twirls the knife in his hand. Pretty damn well, too. Joey’s impressed—seems JC picked up a fair bit whilst hanging out with marching bands. "Well," JC says, and he points toward the fridge again, "he’s in there by himself because Chris and Lance wouldn’t fit." He sighs. "I think they’re under the bed, actually. I stubbed my toe on Chris yesterday."

"They’re under. Chris and Lance— the bed? They’re…what?" Joey can’t stop staring at the knife spinning round and round in JC’s fingers, the light from the open fridge door reflecting off it in tiny, splinterbright bursts that cut right through him. Reality seems to have taken a huge nosedive and headed straight for the floor, because this conversation is insane and can’t possibly be happening. It can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and counts to five slowly before opening them again. When he does, JC’s still standing there smiling at him, everything in his kitchen bright and shiny and gleaming. Including the knife.

Especially the knife.

JC leans in close, as if he’s about to confide a terrible secret to Joey-- though Joey has no idea what could possibly be more terrible than Justin’s head in his fridge and Chris and Lance—under the bed? He thinks that’s what JC said. His brain doesn’t seem to be working too well right now. "Wanna come and see them? Or I could bring them out--" --JC wrinkles his nose, like he’s considering his options—"—yeah, ‘cos I’m sure they’d love to see Justin again."

"No!" And okay, Joey’s voice seems to have developed an interesting screech-like quality to it, and it’s never done that before. Not even when he fell onto the bar of Chris’ bike after borrowing it and riding through some really dodgy cobbled streets back in Germany. He’d whimpered a bit, and had trouble breathing, and then there’d been the whole watering eyes deal, but even with balls that felt like they were swelling to the size of cantaloupes, there’d been no screeching. But now? Oh yeah, Joey figures he’s more than making up for it.

"Screech much, Joey?" JC says, brow creased into a frown, and hey, totally your fault, Joey thinks, but he doesn’t say it of course, due to the fact he’s still screeching. And probably not likely to stop anytime soon, really, if he’s being honest.

"Don’t even--" he manages, and JC lifts up a hand. Thankfully the one without the knife in it.

"Dude, no. I’m just saying. You’re being kinda loud. There’s no need for it."

And okay, if that’s not the stupidest thing JC’s ever said in his entire life, Joey doesn’t know what is. Though, the thing about Space Cowboy really being about the triumph of the human spirit comes pretty close. But anyway, right now he’s more concerned about the fact JC’s reaching past him and into the still-open fridge to pick up—oh, god. Joey doesn’t want to look, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from where JC’s wrapping long fingers round Justin’s head and---

Joey can’t ever recall passing out before, but he thinks now might be a good time to start, because —and okay, is JC licking Justin’s face? Joey blinks, once, twice—and yes, yes he is. JC’s tongue is licking long stripes down Justin’s face. Joey adjusts his list of priorities once again—be violently ill first, then pass out. He groans softly, and JC looks up at him, and grins.

He fucking grins, then stretches out his arm, holding Justin’s head— oh god, his head- toward Joey. "Y’know what?" he asks, and Joey could swear his grin is getting wider by the second. This really can’t be happening— but it is. It really fucking is. JC licks his lips, and the grin nearly takes over his entire face. "He tastes," he says slowly, "more than just a little….waxy." And then he doubles over in helpless giggles, letting Justin’s wax head slip from his hand to roll merrily along the kitchen floor.

"You. He. You." Joey’s brain is misfiring all over the place, even if part of him is impressed JC held back his hysterical laughter even this long. "You," he tries again, making a supreme effort to get the words out, "are going to get such an ass-kicking, I can’t even tell you—"

"Gotta catch me first," JC sputters, slipping past Joey and off out the door. "And shut the fridge door!" he calls back over his shoulder, still braying with laughter.