// this is mine //

[ you will never know until you're standing in my shoes ]

The first time anything happens, they’re both drunk and sweaty, and it’s fast and fumbled and urgent, out clubbing after a show in Berlin. JC’s hyped and wild-eyed and he can’t stop moving, dancing, talking; swears he can feel the energy fizzing through his blood.

"The crowd," he says, slinging an arm round Joey’s neck, "the crowd, man—did you hear them? They went totally fucking crazy, they were insane—"

"Yeah," Joey’s grinning back at him, his smile fuzzed at the edges from the beer, "yeah, they were." And then he’s pressed against JC somehow, and maybe it’s from the surge of bodies on the dancefloor or maybe it’s something else entirely, but his thigh is slipping between JC's and there’s heat shimmering off him in waves JC can feel burn through to his bones.

"Joey," JC breathes, "JoeyJoeyJoey", -chants it over and over, licking it into his skin, tasting sweat and salt and beer, twining round Joey like a drowning man. "c’mon, c’mon—"- the two of them stumbling through the mass of people to somewhere dark and quiet. Joey pulling his head back, Joey’s tongue in his mouth, and then, oh god, Joey’s hand slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, warm fingers jerking him roughly. JC sucks in lungfuls of air because Joey’s all he can smell and taste and feel, and when Joey sinks to his knees, there’s nothing but warmth and wetness, his hips fucking forward helplessly to the fireworks in his head.

The first time anything happens is because somehow, it was always going to.

*

Nothing happens again for a long time, and sometimes JC thinks maybe he only ever imagined it. A long time spent watching Joey from a distance, wondering. Watching him smile and charm all the pretty girls and boys while something dark and spiky slips under JC’s skin and holds him tight.

"No--I want this one," Joey says, holding up a shirt, and the stylist laughs and shakes her head in exasperation. Joey looks over at JC and grins, gives the thumbs up, and JC can’t help but smile back. Joey’s got his way once again.

"I like this one better," JC says after the shoot is over, the earlier thrum of activity now nothing but a low buzz, just a handful of people left drifting about. He slips the shirt through his hands, the fabric cool and silky as it passes over his fingers. "It’s more you."

"You’re more me," Joey breathes against JC’s neck, and by the time they find an empty room with a door that locks, JC’s rocking against Joey’s hip, biting at his lips, pulling at his clothes and all the watching and waiting is over.

*

"I’ve never—" Joey breathes in, the rest of his words lost in the slow, careful glide of JC inside him.

"I know." JC’s pressed close against Joey’s back, watching the ripple and shift of muscles, running hands over the flushed skin. "Relax, man. It’s all good." He rolls his hips slowly, hears Joey draw in another breath, feels the gentle arch of his body beneath him.

"Oh god," Joey murmurs, "I didn't know-- been waiting so long, C-- oh, god--"

"Shhh." JC leans forward; brushes kisses over Joey's shoulders, reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together as he thrusts his hips gently. And this, this single perfect moment, is all he's ever wanted.

Joey cries out when he comes, and JC comes a moment later, while he’s whispering Joey’s name.

*

"You look happy."

JC looks up to see Chris standing there, grinning at him. "I do?" He glances back across the room to where Joey’s dancing with a small group of girls. In true Joey-style, he’s pulling faces, hamming it up. He looks up and sees JC watching, waves his bottle of beer in a mock salute. JC raises his own bottle in return, smiling, but Joey’s attention is already elsewhere.

"You do." Chris slides into the booth across from him. "You really do, man. Things good with Joey?"

JC feels the smile spread across his face, and he’s helpless to stop it. "Yeah," he says softly. "Things are really good."

And they are.

*

Joey tells him first, before he tells the others. He can’t even look JC in the eye—looks at the floor, the wall—anywhere it seems, but at his face.

"She’s, uh. She’s pregnant," he says, and it sounds flat and dull and rehearsed somehow—like he’s been waiting all his life to say those lines.

JC blinks, and it's slow-motion and super fast-forward all at once. "Which one?" he asks, and Joey's eyes widen even as his face pales. He shifts, and still can't seem to look at JC.

JC slaps him then, across the face—he has no trouble at all looking in Joey’s eyes, sees something flash in them with the sharp crack of his palm, and something small and bitter curls up in his belly.

"That’s what happens when you fuck girls," he says quietly, and the look on Joey’s face almost makes it worth it.

*

Everything’s the same, and nothing is different.

JC glides through his days on autopilot and if he doesn’t stop to think then it can’t hurt and things will be just fine. It’ll all be just fine.

"He asks about you a lot," Chris says, handing JC another bottle of beer. "And I tell him he should call you and ask all those stupid questions himself. I mean, I’m supposed to ask you shit like, are you eating? Are you getting enough sleep? I’m thinking Joey thinks you’re a twelve year old girl." He flips the cap off his beer and JC watches him take a long swallow, then run a hand across his mouth. "Are you a twelve year old girl? Are you doing all that eating and sleeping stuff? He said he’d punch me if I didn’t ask."

"I eat. I sleep." JC takes a drink of his own beer, closes his eyes and tilts his head back so he can feel the sun on his face. He can hear Chris setting his bottle down beside him. "You can tell him that."

"You could tell him yourself." Chris’ voice from above him somewhere, and when JC opens his eyes again, Chris is letting himself out through the gate. "Call him, you stubborn fuck," he yells out, lifting his arm and waving without looking back.

And JC could call but he won’t and he doesn’t, because somehow when he wasn’t looking, his whole world shifted and everything changed.

*

Joey calls him.

"I fucked up," he says, and JC wants to laugh, if he didn't think he might never stop. Over the phone he can almost pretend that nothing has changed, that things are exactly the same as they ever were. Almost.

"I miss you," Joey says, and he sounds like he’s a million miles away, instead of somewhere close enough for JC to drive to.

"No, you don’t." JC watches the pictures moving on his tv screen, tries to read the lips of the newsreader. Something about death and pain and suffering. It’s always about that in the end. "You just miss the idea of me."

"That’s not—"

"It was a bad idea." He cuts him off before Joey can tell him what it’s not because he already knows it’s not a lot of things any more, and maybe it never was. He snaps the phone closed and tosses it to the floor, watches it skitter across the tiles, then come to rest against a pile of books. He half expects it to ring again, but it just sits there and remains stubbornly silent.

*

Joey watches him at the awards afterparty, every move he makes, and JC can feel his eyes even when he can’t see him.

"Did you guys make up?" Justin, breathless in his ear, eyes wide. "Because the way he’s looking at you—"

JC shakes his head. "No. It’s not gonna happen, J. Give it up already."

Justin opens his mouth to say something, but JC cuts him off with a look. "Go play with your pretend girlfriend." He can see Britney across the room, her head thrown back and she’s all bleached hair and teeth and nails and braying plastic laughter.

Justin leans close again, hisses in his ear. "You’re a fucking asshole."

"So?" JC shrugs and drains the last of his drink, feels it burn the back of his throat. He motions to the bartender with his glass, turns his back on Justin. "It’s not like you didn’t already know."

Justin says something JC can’t quite hear, but he can guess. He takes a swallow of the fresh drink placed in front of him, and when he turns around again, Justin’s long gone. But Joey—Joey’s not. JC knows he’s still around somewhere, watching.

He skirts around the dancefloor, brushing past all the faces smiling at him—people who think they know him, all about him, but they have no fucking idea. None at all. And there—in a dark corner, out of sight from almost everyone else, there’s Joey. Leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed, one hand slipped beneath the skirt of the girl licking at the corner of his mouth.

"Interviewing babysitters, Joe?" JC swirls the drink in his glass, watches the amber liquid spiral and tilt. Some spills over his hand, and he sucks it off his fingers.

"Fuck off, C." Joey’s eyes flicker open and he stares at JC over the girl’s shoulder. "This is none of your business." He dips his head and whispers something to her and she laughs softly, turns slightly to watch JC with sleepy, smudged eyes.

Something dark and fiercehot slides through JC, and he blinks, then smiles. "Hey," he says quietly, "that’s no way to talk in front of a lady." He reaches out to trail his fingers along soft, scented skin; moves closer and presses against her hip and when he feels her body shift in response, his smile widens. "That’s it," he says softly, slipping the words into her ear, "c’mon now."

One fluid motion and her arms are around his neck and they’re slipping through the crowd and JC doesn’t need to see Joey’s face to know what it looks like. She’s pressed close to him, soft and female and more than willing to do whatever he wants.

In the limo, the streetlights flash across her face in rainbow bursts and JC knows she’s trying not to watch him, but she’s looking away just a moment too late. He lets his head fall back against the soft leather seat, closes his eyes. "Where d’you live?" he asks, and hears her soft inhale of breath.

"I’m not. I’m staying with a friend, and—we can’t—I thought—"

"Hey." He twists his head to look at her, and she’s wide-eyed and her smile is a nervous twitch across her lips. "I don’t know what you thought honey, but I’m not going to fuck you. I was just making sure he didn’t get to, either."

The limo glides to a slow halt outside the hotel, and JC climbs out without looking back. "Take her home," he says to the driver, and makes his way up the steps two at a time.

*

The last time anything happens, they’re both stone cold sober, and it’s fast and awkward and not really how it’s supposed to end at all.

Joey opens his door and just stands looking at him, and JC thinks if ever there was a time he could read his face once, he can’t anymore. Not now. Maybe he never really could. Maybe all he ever saw was only what he wanted to be there.

"She’ll be home in a few hours," Joey says, "we've got plenty of time to talk." He moves aside slightly, and JC walks past, already knowing that there'll be no talking-- it's just an excuse. One last excuse neither one of them believes.

As soon as the door is shut, Joey’s hands are tightly curled round JC’s arms, pulling him close, fingers fiercely twisted in his hair, his tongue hot and thick in JC’s mouth. JC’s body responds almost instinctively, and this time-- this last time-- he doesn’t fight it.

They don’t make it to the bedroom or even to the couch, end up pressed against the unforgiving angles of the kitchen counter, Joey’s fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick, tiled surface as JC thrusts into him, again and again. "Slow down," Joey gasps, "slow down, slow down," but it turns into a low moan when JC’s teeth scrape across his shoulderblade, and when JC bites down hard, Joey arches and cries out, his body shuddering under JC’s hands.

Heat gathers in the pit of JC’s belly; he blinks the sweat from his eyes, snaps bruised hips forward one last time and then he’s coming too, teeth slicing into his bottom lip so he won’t say Joey’s name. He can still hear it in his head over and over, but now it’s nothing but a slowly fading echo that tastes of slick and bitter copper.

"JC—" Joey starts to say, but JC moves away before he can hear the words, because no matter what they are, he knows they’re nothing he wants to hear. He stoops down to pick up his clothes as he leaves the room, and he’s buttoning his shirt when Joey touches his arm.

"She looks like you." JC tilts his head toward a framed picture of Briahna on the bookcase. It’s a candid shot—she’s dressed in pink, curls haloed in the sunshine, laughing into Joey’s face, her fingers tiny where they rest against his jaw. "She has your smile."

Joey picks up the picture and looks at it. "Everyone else thinks she looks like Kelly," he says softly. "Even me."

"Hey, well." JC finishes buttoning his cuffs. "I’m the one who sees things in people that no one else can, so what the fuck would I know?" He zips up his jeans, pulls on his jacket, suddenly cold despite the sunshine that’s slanting into the room. "Just making conversation, man."

"We should—"

"No, we shouldn’t." JC looks Joey straight in the eye. "Believe me, Joey. We really shouldn’t."

Joey grabs his arm, and his fingers are curled tight enough to whiten his knuckles. "C—wait—"

JC shrugs off his hand, swallows down the taste of copper that rises thick and sudden in his mouth. "No," he says, softly. "That was it. You made your choice, Joey. This is mine." He looks at Joey, and there’s nothing in his face that he recognises anymore. "This is mine."

He closes the door softly behind him as he leaves.

The last time anything happens is when it finally ends. And somehow, somewhere deep inside, JC always knew it was going to.

*

He still lets Joey touch him, sometimes. An arm slung around his shoulders onstage, pulling him close, and JC turns and smiles and the ghost of memory carries him through, his head in the crook of Joey’s neck, his body still fitting against Joey’s like a secret. Joey smiles back, big and bright and JC knows he wants to believe it’s all this easy, this simple. Once, JC wanted to believe that too. Now, he knows better.

And so JC laughs and sings and dances and lets Joey touch him, because out here, he belongs to everyone. The girls who scream and cry and reach out to him paid for their ninety minutes with sticky fistfuls of cash, and JC’s never been one to back out on a deal. Joey’s still trying to buy his way back with hastily whispered promises and fingers curled tight around JC’s hips, sweat licked off his neck, a brush of teeth against his collarbone, but  his is a strange currency JC no longer understands--the slick copper taste of him not that of metal, but of blood.

*

 [ just how much you can love someone and how much you can lose ]

- lyrics by Tara Maclean, written for As Daylight Fades- a JoeC Challenge

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