// low frequency //

The alley is dark and quiet, the wall rough and cool against Chris' back. He counts slowly under his breath, his voice no more than a low hum in the stillness. He gets to eight before the door to his left swings open against the bricks with a solid bang, slicing into the soft underbelly of the night. Sharp and brittle noise floods out unchecked, and Chris can see someone standing silhouetted in the spill of pale light.

"Over here," he says, and in one, two easy strides, JC's by his side.

"I told Lonnie to bring the car to the front." JC's teeth flash in the low light as he grins, the soft smear of his mouth getting wider, then wider still. "But we're back here."

"So cunning," Chris says, smiling despite himself, even though he knows Lonnie won't have been fooled by JC for a second. "When did you get so sly, C?"

"Ah." JC's hand flutters in mid-air for a moment, then falls back to his side. "You know. Right?"

"Right." Chris nods, because he can fill in the blanks, translate JC-speak into something that makes sense. "You had a good time?"

"mmm." JC's hand is on his hip, fingers moving slowly and with purpose, tracing tiny circles against the warm skin under Chris' tshirt, "better now, though."

Chris lets his head tip forward into the hollow of JC's neck, breathes him in. JC's skin is warm and damp, smells sweet with pot, tastes of salt against Chris tongue. He's humming a little, something they danced to earlier, Chris thinks, or maybe the music only JC can hear inside his head. "The car," Chris says, though here and now has its attraction too, JC's fingers having slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, his nails scratching gently over soft skin, creeping ever-lower.

"'kay," JC says agreeably, "right. In a minute," and he's rocking gently against Chris' leg, soft noises at the back of his throat, all the time in the world.

"Car," Chris says again, and this time JC seems to hear him, and moves away in a single, fluid movement, calling, 'c'mon then," over one shoulder as he moves off ahead down the alley. His legs look as if they'll tangle at any moment, send him tumbling to the ground, but he's strangely graceful when he's stoned, his movements almost dream-like as he strides along the low-lit asphalt.

Sometimes it feels like Chris can only steal glimpses of JC at the far edge of his vision, a frame just out of time, flickering and jumping in the movie reel of Chris' life. A sudden hand-clap, where Chris has only ever heard silence before.

"C'mon," JC says again, "I'll never find where I'm supposed to go without you." He laughs, a pure, clear sound, spinning around in a wild loop of arms and legs, waiting for Chris to catch up.

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