// when all you need is a knife //

rain, salesmen. 395 words
-mprov-ish, gen-ish.

*

We look like salesmen, JC says, grinning, and tugs on the end of Chris' tie. Expensive, sensible black, with a faint diagonal stripe, so very faint it's barely there at all, unless you look closely.

Chris knows there are a lot of things like that in his life these days.

*

Lance had picked the tie out for him, slipping the length of silk between his fingers absently, looking just past Chris' shoulder, and Chris had waited for the words he knew were coming.

It's not too late to change your mind, you know. Still not meeting Chris' eyes, even as he looped the tie around his neck, tucking one end into the other, the knot forming almost like magic. Chris had watched Lance's fingers moving busily, with purpose, while his own had dug half-moons into his palms, shoved into his pockets, out of sight.

I know. But I promised, he said finally, to the back of Lance's head in the mirror.

Your choice, Lance had said quietly, and stepped away again, leaving only Chris' reflection staring back at him, nothing and no one to hide behind anymore.



*

Expensive suit, expensive tie, and Chris thinks that maybe if he looks like a stranger, it might be easier to pretend that this is happening to someone else.

So what are we selling? he asks, one hand on the doorframe, almost convincing himself he's not stalling, even if he knows better.

JC laughs out loud. The illusion of happiness, of course, he answers, because aren't we always? His hand at the small of Chris' back is gentle, but insistent, guiding him through the door.

It wasn't always an illusion, Chris says, and means it.


*


It's raining and gray, and somehow that's wrong too, because a day like this should be nothing but clear blue skies and endless sunshine. He's seen enough movies, read enough books, to know that's how it's supposed to be. Fairytale romances always have happy endings, and it never, ever rains.

The seat dips as JC slips into the car beside him, shaking rain from his hair in a flurry of tiny, ice-cold drops. Fucking weather, he murmurs. I bet Justin'll be pissed.

It's just like Alanis sang about, Chris hears Joey say from somewhere faraway in the front seat, and he closes his eyes as the car moves inevitably forward.


*

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