// vegas //

He finds the photograph tucked away in the corner of a drawer. It's starting to turn yellow at the edges, and the picture itself is blurry in that unmistakable polaroid way, colours just on the wrong side of lifelike. One corner is creased, and Chris absently straightens it with his thumb as he reads the scrawled words.

I'll know that it's you by the taste on my lips.

JC's handwriting, looping, swirling wildly underneath his profile, frozen in time against the setting sun.

"Smile," Chris'd said, and JC had laughed like freedom and kept his eyes on the open road.

+++

-lyrics from Don't Make Me Come to Vegas: Tori Amos

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