// the killing jar //

// holding your own in a battered car /all night parties cocktail bars/ and smile when the butterfly escapes the killing jar //

It was some stupid offhand comment he made without thinking, but Chris knows JC heard it, knows from the rigid line of his body, the way he's purposely looking everywhere but at Chris' face as he leans against the wall, making smalltalk with the gallery owner. I should probably apologise, he thinks, plucking another drink from the tray that passes by, carefully balanced on the hand of some poor schmuck in a tuxedo.

He glances down at the expensive suit he's wearing, picked out by JC. Hey, whaddya know? I'm a poor schmuck in a suit too. Three swallows and the drink is gone, and Chris abandons the empty glass on the nearest flat surface he can find - some weirdly-shaped table behind him. He kinda hopes it isn't a part of the exhibition, because that'd just give JC something else to glower at him over, and he really doesn't want to--

Apology. Right.

JC's gone when he turns back around, nothing but a JC-shaped absence left where he was standing a few seconds ago. Well, shit. Chris scans the crowd- perfectly blank strangers who know everything about art and texture and brushstrokes and not a thing about real life - but he doesn't see JC anywhere. Until- there, over by the door, pushing it open, and by the set of his shoulders, Chris knows their evening at the gallery has come to an early end.

***

He's tried to say sorry twice now, but each time the words have twisted into something else in his mouth- something he knows will only make things worse if he says them out loud. Chris clicks his teeth together, traps the words inside and concentrates on watching the rain slide down the window of the limo- fat, watery drops that reflect the streetlights in tiny rainbow shimmers. JC's a rumpled figure in a suit on the seat beside him, but pressed close to the door on the other side, head turned away from Chris, forehead resting against the glass.

Chris wonders if his eyes are open or closed. He knows JC gets a headache if he falls asleep with his head against the window- and he wants to reach across to touch his shoulder, just to see. Just to make sure he's awake- but the distance suddenly seems too far, too much- and his hand stays right where it is, curled in his lap, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm.

He watches another scatter of raindrops slide down the glass, and his eyes slip closed as his own head starts to ache.

***

"The beach," he hears JC saying to the driver, and Chris' eyes flicker open- he must have dozed off for a moment, lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the car.

He glances across the seat, and JC meets his gaze, face set and defiant, and that's a look Chris knows only too well. "It's raining," he says quietly, "and it's cold. Let's just go home--"

"I want to go to the beach," JC says, his voice quiet too, but there's an undertone of cool gray steel and Chris knows it's an argument he's already lost. Anger bubbles up inside him, slick and hot and sudden, and this time he can't keep the words inside.

"I'm tired, I hate this stupid fucking suit, and I just want to go home," he snaps. "Going to the beach in this weather is totally fucking stupid-"

"Fuck you," JC whispers, hissing in a sharp breath, and Chris would give anything not to have seen the hurt that flashes in his eyes before he turns away towards the window once again.

***

It's raining harder by the time the car arrives at the beach, drops spattering the windows in staccato bursts. Chris can hear the crash of the waves when JC opens the door, can smell the tang of the sea, and there's saltspray on his lips when he licks them.

"C'mon C," he says softly, leaning across the seat to wrap his fingers around JC's arm, "this is crazy. You've made your point."

JC shrugs off his hand and climbs out of the car, the wind catching the suit jacket he wears, flattening it to the outline of his body. His hair is already slick with rain and tendrilled across his face when he stoops back down into the open frame. "I'll make my own way home," he says, and anything Chris says in reply is lost to him as JC slams the door shut with a dull thud.

"You fucking stubborn fuck," Chris mutters and slumps back onto the seat, cold and damp now from where the rain has drifted in. "Jesus, C." He runs a hand through his hair, brings his fist down hard into the soft leather in frustration. Fuck it. Just fuck it.

"Home," he snaps to the driver, letting his head fall back against the seat and closing his eyes.

"Sir," comes the carefully neutral reply, and he hears the soft crunch of tires biting into sand as the car moves slowly off.

***

Crazy fuck, wandering the beach in a goddamn storm-all because he's too fucking stubborn-

"Stop the car." Chris sits up, suddenly wide-awake. Stubborn fucker. Fucking stubborn--

"Sir?"

Chris reaches for the doorhandle impatiently. "The car. Stop the goddamn fucking car." The handle is slick and slippery from the rain, and he can't get a goddamn hold on it, it won't open, he can't-

"Wait here," he barks over his shoulder, stumbling out of the car even as it's still slowly gliding to a halt. An icy gust of rain slices through him, it's pitch black and he can't see a thing. He can hear the crash of waves to his left- he thinks- and carefully makes his way along the wet sand, peering into the darkness for any sign of JC. It hasn't even been five minutes and Chris figures he can't have gone too far, surely.

He thinks about calling out, but decides against it- convincing himself that JC wouldn't answer on purpose just to spite him. "Fucker," he mutters under his breath, eyes slitted against a stinging gust of rain. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing out here, stumbling along a beach in the freezing cold, in a stupid goddamn fucking suit and shoes that pinch his motherfucking feet, looking for JC who's just drunk enough to think that his inner artist can be set free by the rhythmic pounding of the ocean waves.

He's gonna kick his fucking ass.

Five minutes later, there's still no sign of JC, and the hot, slick anger is ebbing away a little, slowly being replaced by cold ghost fingers of fear. He won't panic, he's not going to freak out, because JC's not stupid- but fuck, where the hell is he? Chris scrubs a hand across his face, wishing he had a flashlight- anything to help him see in this fucking rain.

And then, there - just ahead of him, he sees a blur of white, and the rain stings his eyes as he tries to open them wider, tries to see. He speeds up a little, stumbling in the wet sand that sucks his shoes back down, makes him feel like he's walking through molasses. Closer still, and the breath he's been holding in without realising rushes out of him as he sees it's JC, standing with his head tipped back, jacket off, his white shirt plastered to his body. Just standing in the steadily falling rain, mouth open, tasting the icy drops, and Chris feels sudden relief slide through him, sweet and dark and secret.

***

"JC." It's spoken softly, but he knows JC hears him, even over the waves and the wind and the rain that's drenching them both where they stand.

"We don't have to go again," JC says, and Chris is close enough to see that he still has his eyes closed, his face slick with rain and seaspray. "Not again, if you don't want."

"JC, listen." Chris reaches out, touches his arm, and this time JC doesn't pull away. His shirt is icy cold under Chris' fingertips, and Chris moves closer still, wraps arms around him, holds him close. "You're cold," he whispers as he feels JC shivering against him, skin chilled and damp underneath the wet shirt. "C'mon," he says softly, "we should get back to the car, warm you up a little."

But JC doesn't move, still stands there in Chris' arms, motionless except for the shivers that pass through him in ripples. "I just wanted," JC says finally, the rest of his sentence lost in the crash of the waves just along from them. But then Chris feels his breath, warm and moist against his ear. "I just wanted," he tries again, and Chris can hear his teeth chattering on the words, "I wanted you to see what I see."

He pulls away from Chris then, twists in his arms until they're face to face, and Chris sees rain on his skin, in his hair, one drop caught in long, dark lashes. He reaches up and touches a fingertip to it gently and it spills over his skin.

When he lifts his finger to his mouth, the taste of salt makes something inside Chris feel like it's broken. "I'm sorry," he whispers and pulls JC close again, feels his heart racing in his chest, JC's wet hair slick against his neck. Then JC's mouth is on his, his lips cold and wet, but inside is warm and sweet and safe and Chris can only taste what he knows is a promise.

***

Back in the limo, and this time JC is pressed close to him, still slick and damp from the rain, but Chris can feel the heat coming from him, can see it shimmering around him in a haze.

"You're all wet," he says as JC shakes his head, tiny droplets of water splashing the leather seats, a sudden flash of teeth as he grins at Chris.

"So are you," he murmurs, shifting until he's straddling Chris' lap, sleek and wet and pulling at Chris' shirt, fumbling with buttons, pushing it off Chris' shoulders, kissing the cool, damp skin underneath. Chris reaches up to brush JC's hair back, slides it out of his eyes, feels JC moving against him as he unbuttons his shirt too, slips it off slender shoulders. He smells like the ocean, sea blue eyes, and Chris feels him deep inside himself like the pull of the tides.

"We should wait till we're at home," he says against JC's neck, and JC shakes his head again, grasping Chris' hands and moving them to the waistband of his pants.

"Please," he whispers into Chris' mouth, his tongue licking the words inside, salt-slick and urgent, moaning softly when Chris' fingers unfasten the buttons, then slip inside to wrap around his cock. "Please," he says again, and Chris starts to stroke him slowly, mouth finding his, swallowing the soft sounds JC makes.

JC moves against him like water, a dark, sleek sea creature, the pattern of the rain on the windows moving across his skin like ripples. His breath is warm and moist against the hollow of Chris' collarbone, the press of his teeth a tiny sting soothed away instantly with a sweep of rough, wet tongue. He strokes a little faster, and JC makes a tiny, desperate noise and Chris can feel his body tense. His eyes slip closed and it's like he's underwater, everything's in slow motion and he's drowning- until JC's mouth opens in a soft gasp under his, warm breath filling his lungs as JC shudders softly against him.

Chris' eyes flicker open, and JC's watching him, blinking softly as streetlights filter into the darkness of the car, tiny starbursts of colour through the still-falling rain. "Will you show me?," Chris asks, "will you show me what you see?"

JC nods, and twines Chris' fingers with his, presses them to his lips. "Yes," he whispers. "Just close your eyes."

And Chris does.

// tomorrow you'll be content to watch as the lightning plays along the wires and you'll wonder //

lyrics from Secret Oktober- Duran Duran

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