[ spill ]

JC comes to him in a dream, stands with head bowed in the pale light of dawn, something hidden in the curve of his palm.

"I wrote you a song," he says, and Chris turns his head to see, to hear, but it's a dream and he's falling through endless layers of nothing at all, floating above everything and everyone, brilliant silence filling his head. He breathes in, gathers and shifts and twists, tumbles over and over in never-ending spirals.

"JC," Chris whispers, but his lips don't make a sound. The name shimmers along his spine instead, wraps around his skin and then slips under, somehow, under and through, a tiny pinprick of light.

"A song," JC says again, closer this time, "for you," and when he opens his hand, a thousand words spill from between his fingers across the sky.

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