sequel to let the calendar burn
JC's other shoes are flip flops, which he argues are better suited for rainy days anyway, because when you're practically barefoot you don't care how wet you get.
Lance thinks that's the sort of logic that sounds charming and makes a crazy kind of sense when you're first in love. When you're not, it just sounds idiotic and embarrassing, like a really bad candid photo. He's in love again, still, so he smiles through being both amused and annoyed when the hems of JC's sopping wet khakis drip a puddle of dirty rainwater on the limo floormats.
JC's smiling and humming to himself, six inches and a million miles away, but he blinks and focuses on Lance when they come to a stop in front of the W. Peter's waiting under the hotel's awning, and he walks to the car shadowed by a doorman with a bright red umbrella, the gold logo cutting through the dull gray twilight.
"This is Peter," Lance says, touching JC's elbow. "From the production company," and JC smiles, relaxing again, says something like "hey" or "what's up, man." He doesn't introduce himself back, and neither does Lance. Peter knows who JC is.
Lance and Peter met two months ago in LA, and they've only made it all the way to a bed a handful of times. Peter produces adventure reality shows and thinks the cool thing about space is how there's just so much of it. Lance can't remember why he thought sleeping with him was a good idea.
The driver stops short and Lance throws his arm out like his dad used to when someone cut them off. He blocks JC's fall and just for a second JC's hair sweeps beneath his nose. JC smells like pot, pot and sesame oil, probably from Chinese leftovers he ate for breakfast. Lance wonders which he'll taste more like and settles back closer on the seat. He breathes in deeply and it's like every night they got a little stoned and ordered in food so they didn't have to get dressed and leave the room.
"Isn't everything closed?" JC asked once, and Lance shrugged and called the concierge. Because he could, and also because it would have required waking up more people for them to go out. It was simple math. JC would whine, because he had these ideas that whole continents of poor immigrants were inconvenienced by their self-indulgence, possibly because of this really bad joke Chris had made, something to do with peanuts and peasants. Once JC had only stopped frowning when Lance dipped his fingertips in the plastic tub of sweet and sour sauce and smeared it along JC's neck, slowly following the pink line with his tongue.
Peter is making small talk about the weather and lack of leg room on commercial airlines and Lance responds automatically, smiling and nodding and moving his fingers up the outside seam of JC's pants. Peter pauses mid-sentence, just enough that Lance knows he's seen the touch. He doesn't abandon his story about the sushi restaurant where he went for lunch, but when he's done he doesn't try another segue, just sighs and crosses his legs at the knee. After a minute he takes out a cell phone and over-apologizes for having to check on some urgent business.
Lance turns all his attention to watching JC, who is still staring out the window at delivery trucks on the bridge and pressing two fingers to his slightly pursed lips. He startles when Lance slides his hand onto his thigh, and then smiles absently. "Do you think that lie rhymes enough with blind?"
JC's never really fallen in love back to Lance's satisfaction. "Your standards are incredibly whacked," Chris told him once, but they all have different scales of measuring things now so that they make sense. JC wants someone close by who will at least try to answer his impossible questions, someone who doesn't grab too tight or force poetry into pop lyrics.
"Rhymes enough for what?" Lance asks.
"This song."
"The way I say it, it does."
"I like the way you say it." JC curves his shoulder against Lance's side. "Do you want to go out tonight?" he asks, lacing his fingers into Lance's.
"No," Lance says. Peter's phone bleats and JC blinks a little wildly, like he's forgotten they're not alone and he's trying to tame something, dampen his reaction. Lance can feel his stomach surge at how much he wants. He wants.
The limo banks into the long curve up to departures and Peter gathers up his coat and bag, shaking Lance's hand and JC's and promising a call just as soon as something changes.
"We'll make it work," he says, bright as an aluminum siding salesman as he climbs out. He turns back from the curb, leaning into the open door. "These things always work out eventually," he says, and then he's gone and JC is squinting like he wants to remember it all word for word.
Lance wants JC to need him as fiercely as he needs rhymes, to require Lance's touch as urgently as he scrambles for a scrap of paper to jot down a tune he catches in the wind. Lance wants JC to love him more than all the things that Lance fell in love with in the first place, and it's almost the only thing they agree on about the whole mess. Love doesn't make sense. Neither do they.
JC tucks his bare feet up under his legs on the leather seat, sandals fallen at odd angles to Lance's dress shoes. The car slides back onto the expressway and JC puts his hand on Lance's leg, turning. He kisses Lance's throat, wet and patient, hair slipping through Lance's fingers as he unwraps Lance's tie and unbuttons his shirt. The edges of his nails are smooth on Lance's chest, across his breastbone and around his nipples like fine slivers of glass.
Lance tilts his neck back and relaxes his shoulders, slouching down and tugging JC into his lap. JC tastes like hoisin and Lance smiles into his mouth, licking at the corners of his lips. JC pulls back, shifting his knees forward, and Lance breathes out hard. "God, I missed this," he says, before he can stop himself. He wants so much.
JC moves his palms down the length of Lance's chest, pushing the shirt back. "Me too," he says. He props himself up and unbuttons Lance's pants. Lance gasps at the first touch of JC's fingers inside his boxers and JC sighs into his ear. "Me too, I missed you too," he says. "More than anything, I just wanted to. This, I wanted this."
Lance laughs low and slides his hips to the edge of the seat. "Have it, please."
JC moves his hand with easy confidence and nips along Lance's collarbone, murmuring something wordless, melody winding into Lance's stuttered moans. It's easy to do this again, easy to let JC's fingers coax something quick and breathless from the space between them. He comes with a shiver and a cry.
Lance wraps his arms around JC's hips and runs his tongue in circles over JC's ear, holding him close. This is the easy part, taking all these years and using them to do it good, do it sweet and hard. JC jerks Lance's palm to his mouth and licks it roughly, shoves it down. He's not wearing any underwear, of course, and the fold of skin between his thigh and dick is as silky as the sea on a flat, still day.
JC uses his t-shirt to wipe them clean, and then he falls to the side, one leg still thrown over Lance's thighs. Lance rubs the curl of his calf and JC trails his fingers through the hair on Lance's stomach. This is the hard part, the ride back, the day after, the real world. Not because they don't know what to say, but because nothing they have to say is ever enough. They want too much. The car will stop and the week will end, and Lance will find a new project to keep himself busy and JC will find a moment of inspiration and disappear into the studio.
JC's bare foot dangles over Lance's lap and Lance skims the anklebone with the pads of his fingers, dipping into soft flesh to find and count JC's skittering pulse. "You realize it's practically freezing out," Lance says.
JC wiggles his toes in response. "I've been writing the same three lines over and over all day," he says, kissing Lance again, kissing and kissing and Lance hates the day after because he's no good at explaining to people like Chris how moments like this are almost enough for all the times in between. JC licks his jaw and asks, "Are you staying?" Lance nods. "We could just get something to eat and go to bed."
"Mmm," Lance says, cupping JC's knee and drawing JC's leg up tight against his chest. He rests his chin on top of the pile of limbs. "We could try this again," he says. It could be that easy.
JC presses his cheek to Lance's, balancing on the back of Lance's hand. "We are," he says.
END.
Credits: Title by Paddy Casey, again c/o CW's mix.