100 words: version jc/chris

100 words: version JC and Chris

Chris opens the door, and a slow curl of smoke drifts out, wraps him in a haze of pot and cinnamon.

A low laugh from somewhere inside, and he climbs into shifting layers of palest gray. JC's sprawled along the smooth leather seat, head tipped back to rest against the window, a smile playing along the curve of his mouth.

Closer still, and JC's fingers wrap around Chris' wrist, curl into his shoulder, lips moving against his neck. Sweet spices and sharp, bright woodsmoke shimmer in his hair, and I missed you whispered in a shiver of teeth and tongue.

JC feels words pooling in his throat, slowly gathering there, waiting to spill from his tongue in brilliant, glittering drops. He closes his eyes and they shimmer in his head, shutter-quick, black on white.

Love, he whispers, and it's pale silver-gray, shot through with pure gold, slowly drifting from his lips, twisting and curving in mid-air. Chris reaches up and in one sure movement takes it, then curls his hand around the word.

JC sees light spilling from between his fingers, sees Chris' smile, feels Chris' palm warm against the small of his back, and knows it's the right one.

freefall

Chris knows seventeen different ways to cook eggs, and he’s sick of each and every one of them.

“Then learn something new,” Justin says, flipping open his phone, already looking away, and for him it’s always been that easy.

Cool glass against Chris’ forehead and the city splayed out six floors beneath him, an endlessly-pulsing bruise of neon red and blue. Someone moves behind him, a small shift in the darkness, and Chris closes his eyes.

“You can miss us,” JC says quietly, “you’re allowed to,” and the warm skin of his wrist moves soft and slow against Chris’ belly.

Amaranth, JC whispers into the half-light. For you. A flower that never fades.

The word slips, then falls from his parted lips and onto Chris' skin, a spiral of brilliant scarlet edged with the palest gold. Velvet-soft and silent, and Chris can feel it glide over his throat, shimmer across his belly like a thousand fingertips spelling out the secrets of time itself.

How do you do that, he asks, as heat blooms inside him, a tiny coil that unfurls slowly, surely, blood-warm and safe.

I believe, JC says, laughing as he winds starlight back and forth between his fingers.

There are days when the bus doesn’t stop at all. Wheels constantly in motion, swallowing the highway beneath, a low and constant hum skittering at the edge of his consciousness.

Days like these slip sullenly into early evening; the twist of blacktop behind velvet-cloaked in blackness, thick and dusty and forgotten in the blink of an eye. And always just ahead, JC can see the shimmer of the horizon, the sky stained scarlet and indigo, glarebright with the last of the setting sun.

Days like these, he traces Chris’ body with his mouth, fingertips painting skin with trails of gold.

An art museum somewhere, and Chris can think of a hundred other places he’d rather be than here, looking at things that are strangely still and silent. Eating ice cream perhaps, sweet on his tongue, shivery-cold when he swallows. But he promised, and JC’s fingers are pulling at his impatiently, urging him on to the next display.

Ancient Roman relics, pale cool marble against his back, and JC pressed hot and close in front. "In here," JC murmurs, silent shadows swallowing them both whole.

JC shivers beneath Chris’ hands, sleek, warm skin; his mouth sweeter than any ice cream.

Pale moonlight bathes JC's skin as he sleeps. Silver like the wiretwist scar that wraps around his throat, silver like the blade that sliced deep and stripped away something beautiful.

Chris traces over ruined skin, feels JC's pulse strong and steady beneath his fingertips. There was a time he couldn't touch at all-- he'd try, but JC would pull away to curl up small and tight someplace dark within himself.

"Sing for me?"

Hoarse and barely whispered, it's the most beautiful sound Chris has ever heard. He closes his eyes and gives voice to the words JC no longer can.

The air is still and silent and he tastes the promise that thickens his tongue, pressed flat to the roof of his mouth. Scattered words, whispered softly into midnight blue, set adrift amongst the stars.

JC closes his eyes and imagines them as delicate silver-spun gossamer, tiny threads of breath clinging to the gentle curve of the horizon, there and gone in the space of a heartbeat.

Morning scarlet bleeds slowly into ink-smudged night skies, and a brush of fingertips steals his breath for the barest of moments.

"I didn't just dream you," he murmurs against Chris' lips. "You're real."

"D’you think," JC asks, head tilted back toward the deep midnight blue of the nightsky, "that life on other planets exists?"

"Hmm." Chris rolls over, trails his fingers along the arch of JC’s throat, down over his collarbone, into the soft hollow he knows will taste sweet and dark against his tongue. "You should be asking Lance that."

"I don’t want to." JC captures Chris’ fingers with his own, presses them to his lips softly. "I’m asking you."

Chris shrugs. "I’m not your guy." He feels JC’s lips quirk into a smile against his fingertips.

"Yes, you are," JC breathes.

He wakes in the middle of the night to JC's sleepwarm limbs tangled with his own. Quicksilver eyes glint in the half-light, smudge-dark lashes flutter gentlesoft against his fingertips, and Chris' belly twists with sudden fierce desire.

Smooth, flushed skin when he curls his fingers tightly around the curve of JC's hipbone, slick, wet heat when JC's mouth slips open underneath his, tongue licking inside, swallowing down softly whispered secrets.

Chris feels the breath leave his lungs in a shimmering rush and then he's floating, flying, soaring across a midnight blue sky; a thousand brilliant whitehot starbursts behind closed eyes.

memento

It's a little thing- some cheap, tacky souvenir JC picked up along the way and pressed into his hand. "For you," he'd whispered, "a memento." Hot breath against his skin, sharp and sweet on Chris' tongue, not just alcohol making his head spin.

He looks at it now, plastic cracked, brittle, paint chipped in places, worn off in others. Turns it over and over in his hand, remembering.

"It's broken," Joey yawns. "You should throw it out."

Chris shakes his head, looks over to where JC sits, and smiles. "No. Not broken," he says softly as JC looks up. "Well-loved."

JC grabs a bottle of water and takes a long swallow, then raises an eyebrow. "Skydiving? You're scared of heights, remember?"

Chris snorts and rolls over onto his back. "I'm so over that."

"Since when?" The gentle hiss of a lighter, and the sickly-sweet smell of pot drifts on the air.

"I just decided. Like, from now." Chris takes the joint from JC's fingers and grins. "I'm gonna be scared of like, jello or something."

"Ah," JC looks thoughtful. "What flavour jello?"

Chris draws in a lungful of smoke, then sighs. "I'm far too traumatised to even talk about it."

salsa, anti-christ

"You can eat it, you know." JC gestures toward the bowl Chris is staring at.

Chris narrows his eyes, pokes at the mixture warily with a fork. "Um. What is it?"

"It's salsa." A put-upon sigh, and JC sits down opposite Chris. "You said that you like it- so I made you some. It took me all morning." He frowns. "The way you're looking at it, anyone would think it was poison."

"So-- is it?" Chris remains sceptical.

Another sigh. "No. It's just- man, I'm not the anti-christ."

"Well, no." Chris grins. "But honey, you're not exactly Martha Stewart, either."

He reminds Chris of a snake when he’s dancing. Body twisting and curving sinuously, almost bonelessly, then whiplashing back again, all sharp angles and flat planes once more.

His skin is silkysmooth and bloodwarm beneath Chris’ fingers when he rubs up against him on the dancefloor, and the words he’s saying are hissed low and sly, his tongue flicking out to slick across glossred lips.

He blinks, and it’s slow and reptilian and Chris can’t look away. "Snake eyes," he whispers, and JC laughs and presses close, then closer still, twining himself round and round until the room is spinning.

He opens his eyes and the world seeps in, shades of red and orange. There's streaks of black in the corners of his vision, and when he blinks they're starbursts behind his eyes, pulsing to blood pounding in his veins. His hands are clenched fists and he doesn't know why.

"Hey." Chris' voice against his ear; Chris' hand on his, the briefest brush of fingertips against skin. JC jerks his hand away, the contact like a jolt of electricity jarring through his body.

"Don't touch me," he hisses, eyes slitted, teeth bared. "Get the fuck away. Go."

But Chris stays.

towel, stoplight, desk

When he closes his eyes, he sees himself standing at a stoplight, the road clear ahead of him. Nothing, no-one in sight. Just the low hum of powerlines, the faint itch of dust on his skin.

Chris passes him a towel, and boosts himself up onto the desk. Asks softly, "Wanna talk about it?"

JC shakes his head, wipes sweat off his face and arms. "No."

"Ok." Chris touches his face gently, brushes past. "You know where I am."

"Yeah," murmurs JC. "Thanks."

He closes his eyes again and waits for the light in his head to change to green.

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