// finding the right hook //

- a conclusion of sorts, to the series here.

Chris is singing along the to the CD he's put on-- something JC hasn't heard before, a sharp, bright jangle of chords that jitter along his skin and make his head hurt.

"I'm trying to think," he says, not looking at Chris, but at the rush of everything outside, a steady blur that blends into one long ribbon of green and gold and blue. "So could you--"

"Think," Chris sing-songs, "think, think, think," his words rising and falling in the shape of the music, over and over, high to low, and JC can feel his jaw clench, his fingers curl into his palm.

"Chris--"

"Think," Chris trills, drawing the word out into something long and mournful, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Imagine that."

JC would laugh, because this is Chris trying his hardest to be infuriating, and mostly it's easier to ignore him. He'd laugh, like he's done a thousand times before, but not this time. This time, hot, sharp fury wins out, uncoiling through him snap-fast like quicksilver, and JC drives the heel of his boot into the front of the CD-player. A satisfying crunch, the brilliant crackle of things shattering, again and again, and when JC finally lowers his foot, the car is almost silent, nothing but his own harsh breathing echoing in his ears.

"Feel better?" Chris asks quietly, but when JC shoots a glance his way, Chris' eyes are fixed on the road ahead. "Got it all out?"

"Fuck off," JC mutters, surprising even himself when the words come out in a vicious snarl of sound. His hands are shaking and he tucks them under his thighs to keep them still. "I told you--"

"Hey man, whatever," Chris says. "The car's rented under your name."

Shit, JC thinks, a wave of humiliation crawling over him, hot and thick and prickly and he feels so fucking stupid. There's no anger left at all, gone as suddenly as it appeared, and now he just feels tired and empty. He wants to be anywhere but here, anywhere else but in this car with the one person who can draw him up, tight as a bow, and then just leave him hanging. "Pull over," he mutters, "I need to. Fuck. Pull over, okay?"

"Just when things were getting good," Chris says, sounding amused. "What are you planning to do-- walk the rest of the way?"

"Yes," JC says, even though he wasn't entirely sure that's what he was doing until the moment Chris said it. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm planning to do."

Chris makes a small sound of disbelief, but he guides the car over the side of the road then slowly glides it to a stop. He says nothing, just watches the steady stream of cars flashing past them. JC's just about to open the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle, telling himself he's not stalling, he's not, when Chris speaks.

"You're gonna replace that CD you smashed up, right? Because it was an import, and I'm sure as hell not shelling out another twenty-five bucks."

"Fuck off," JC hisses through his teeth, shoving the door open with his foot, and he can feel that same anger slipping hot and familiar under his skin as he climbs out of the car. "I can't believe that's all you fucking care about."

He stands beside the car for a moment, a thousand words tumbling around in his head, not a single one of them anything he wants to say, before slamming the door shut and walking off without looking back.




*



Thirty minutes later, and it's starting to rain. Right on time, JC thinks, and he knew it'd rain because he's seen this movie before and in this movie, it's always raining. He pushes the hair out of his eyes and keeps walking. It's humid and so far it's only a light shower, cool on his bare arms, dampening his t- shirt. Another half-mile down the road and the shower has turned into a steady fall, and his shirt is soaked through, clinging to his skin. JC tips his head back toward the sky, closes his eyes and opens his mouth, letting the rain fall clean and ozone-sharp across his tongue.

With eyes closed, he can hear the soft, steady hiss of car tires approaching then fading away again, a rhythmic pattern in the sound. A car passing by every three exhaled breaths, rushing past him at sixty-five miles an hour, and JC wonders if any of them know exactly where the road they're on is taking them.

Three more cars pass him, then a fourth, and this one slows down, pulling over just ahead of him. Chris, JC thinks, watching the brake lights flicker, the rain slicking off the trunk, Chris' silhouette through the rear window. It's Chris-- of course it's Chris-- and this is JC's cue to get back in the car.

JC really doesn't like the way this movie is going. He walks right on by.




*



"I hope you know where we're going, because I sure as hell don't." Shouted from behind him, and JC spins around, startled. Chris, his hair plastered to his head, his clothes to his body, grinning big and bright, strolling along seemingly unaware of the downpour around him. "Do you have a map?"

"We're not going anywhere," JC shouts back. He's suddenly furious-- with Chris, with himself, with everything. He doesn't know how this is all supposed to work out, but he's pretty sure this isn't it. He ducks his head against the slanting rain and walks a little faster, curling his hands into fists, willing Chris not to follow.

But Chris follows. He's at JC's shoulder now, jogging a little to keep the pace, that same infuriating smile on his face when JC glances over. "Ready to talk yet?" he asks, rain streaming down his face, tiny drops caught on the ends of his lashes.

JC shakes his head, and then breaks into a jog, too, lengthening his stride to pull ahead of Chris, his shoes slapping onto the wet grass, thankful for the rain against his skin, cooling the slow burn of embarrassment he can feel flooding through him. If Chris would just go away--

"Hello again," Chris pants, catching him up, and JC swings around, grabbing a fistful of Chris' shirt, feeling the soaked fabric bunched tight in his hand, the heat from Chris' skin underneath shimmering across his knuckles.

"Why are you doing this?" he shouts, pulling Chris close, then pushing him away again, uncurling his fingers, letting his hand drop back to his side. "Why can't you just-- just--"

"--just fuck off?" Chris yells. "Just let you run off into the sunset without me? Just leave you to hitch your way to Mexico? Which I'm pretty sure is in the other direction, by the way, so good luck with that."

"Leave me alone," JC says quietly. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Good question," Chris says, straightening his shirt, brushing a hand over his face. "I wish I knew. But I can't, so you're stuck with me. And hey, now we're even talking. This is progress."

"You're talking." JC turns away and starts walking. "I'm not--" His words are cut off by Chris' arm, snaking around his waist from behind, pulling him backward, and for a moment, JC almost loses his balance, his arms pinwheeling helplessly as he fights to stay upright on the slick grass.

"Don't make me sock you one," Chris warns, close to his ear, and JC twists himself around, trying to break Chris' hold. It's not easy; Chris' grip is strong and he has the element of surprise on his side. JC lets his body go lax, can hear Chris' breath and his own heartbeat pulsing in his throat, in his chest, equal parts exertion and anger.

"Let me go," he says, because this is ridiculous. "Let me go, Chris, or you're gonna have to be prepared to hit me, because I'm not coming with you."

"Fine." A beat, then Chris' grip finally relaxes and he lets JC move away. "That's fine by me." He steps back, and glances in the direction of the car, breathing hard. "I'm done. Off you go."

"I'll send you a postcard," JC says in the split-second before Chris's fist connects with his jaw and the world explodes into brilliant shards of sharp, bright pain.

"Shit," Chris is muttering, "shit, JC, shit," over and over, cradling his fist, and maybe it'd be funny if JC's face didn't feel as if it was going to shatter into tiny pieces. Even breathing hurts. He sits down in the wet grass, and fuck, he can't believe Chris actually hit him.

"JC," Chris says again, dropping to his knees beside him. "I didn't-- shit." His fingers trace over JC's jaw gently, over the split and bruised skin of his mouth, moving slowly, carefully. "Does it hurt?"

JC laughs, and fuck, yeah. It hurts. It hurts like a bitch. Bright copper filling his mouth, splinters of shivery silver pain when he runs his tongue over the soft, torn flesh, and when did Chris learn to punch like that? "Yeah," he says, tipping his head back to let the rain wash over his face, to drift over everything, covering it in a soft, smeary haze, "yeah, it hurts."

"Good," Chris whispers, brushing his lips over JC's, his fingers warm where they rest on JC's wrist. "It was supposed to."

JC still doesn't know where this road they're on is taking them, or even how this movie ends, but suddenly it doesn't matter quite as much anymore. Not with Chris' breath curving against his throat, Chris' thighs pressed close to his, Chris' body fiercely, stubbornly warm despite the steady downpour.

After a long moment, Chris moves away and JC watches him walk back toward the car, outlined by the headlights shining pale and watery through the drifts of rain. He takes a deep breath and lets the pain sparkle and glisten until it starts to fade, until he can barely feel it anymore.

JC gets to his feet and starts to walk.

- thank you to Lily for getting it.

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