The Deal

 

(sequel to Please)

 

 

by silveryscrape

 

 

 

 

One night Chris has a good dream. He’s warm in their bed, wrapped around JC, sleepy and cozy and mellow, laughing to himself because he’s in bed dreaming about being in bed, knowing it and laughing about it. Fucking weird. But JC is in his arms, dense and warm and melded to Chris all along his body, making his little sleep noises, and that can never be bad. A wonderful dream.

 

JC was perfect tonight, all remote and sexy. In control. He took a long time tying Chris up, smiling a gentle, abstracted smile, concentrating hard as Chris moaned around the gag and tried not to lose it too badly. Just remembering makes Chris smile in his dream and push his face into JC’s sleep-damp hair to inhale. He thinks he did lose it, really, remembers endless sensation and color and coming back to himself shaking and gasping. JC telling him how amazing he is, how proud he is that Chris belongs to him. All the usual stuff. He’s a lucky, lucky man.

 

Dream JC murmurs and arches back against Chris’s body, and suddenly it’s the best dream ever. Awake JC is extra-strict about some things. When they first started this freaky deal between them and talked it all over, JC made himself very clear. Christopher, I don’t do that, he said, giving Chris a hard look. You’ll know what I want, because I’ll tell you. And even though Chris sometimes wishes he’d loosen up a bit, well, that’s JC and that’s what he wants. Or doesn’t want. Too bad Chris thinks about it so often.

 

But in a dream it’s not wrong, is it? This dream JC in his arms, he wants it. He’s rubbing against Chris, making little yearning noises in his throat, spreading his legs and jerking every time Chris pushes his cock against the warm cleft between his legs. And god, Chris really wants it, too. That perfect ass, driving him crazy every day, JC’s so fucking gorgeous and Chris wants him every way he can all the time.

 

When he presses the head of his cock against JC’s hole experimentally, JC groans and pushes back with his whole body. Presses his ass up against Chris’s cock, panting out “yeah, lube” in a strangled way Chris has never heard from awake JC before. It makes him snort into JC’s neck, the crazy realism of dream logic that demands he lean over JC’s body to reach the lube. Lube! As if. But JC makes a hair-raising noise into the pillows when Chris pushes over his back to reach the bedside table, so Chris thanks Morpheus or whoever for the wonderful gift of detail. The gods love him.

 

JC freezes absolutely still when Chris pushes into him. So tight, lube everywhere and so slow because Chris figures dream JC’s not used to this either, and JC whimpers a little but Chris can’t tell if it’s pain or what. He draws a comforting hand down JC’s body. Every muscle in JC’s body seems to be tight, pumped and quivering, and the hair on JC’s body bristles under Chris’s stroking hand. To his great surprise when he gets there, JC is hard. His cock jumps into Chris’s hand, but JC really does sound like he’s hurting when Chris presses deeper, unable to stop. Until he starts that hissing thing he does, drawing in each breath as though he’s touching fire, moaning “Chris come on do it” and Chris is in heaven at last. 

 

He tries hard to take it easy, to take it slow and make it last. He wants it to be good for JC and he thinks it is, JC’s like fluid rippling against him every time he surges forward into that beautiful, tight heat, the backs of his thighs are starting to melt and JC’s wailing into the pillow and it’s, fuck, he wants to live in this dream. JC starts jerking hard into his hand, coming hard in a warm and silky explosion, and Chris laughs, low and dirty, because he can feel it start to roll over him, too. So fucking good. JC’s still making noise as Chris pounds into him, finishing up and jerking uncontrollably, and Chris is keening himself and sobbing for breath. When he starts to slow down and come down, shivering with the aftershocks, he rubs his face against JC’s shoulder and mutters, “god, JC, you’re so fucking amazing” and JC gasps.

 

“Christopher,” he says. Shrugs against Chris’s weight on his back. With a shock that hits him like a dash of cold water in the face, Chris realizes that JC’s crying.

 

JC’s awake. He was awake and Chris was awake, really, and JC’s underneath him crying into the pillow. Chris is still balls deep in his ass but JC said, he can’t, but JC, oh shit.

 

Horrified, Chris pulls out as gently as he can, but JC makes a wounded sound and curls up on the bed with a hand over his face. He’s trembling, and he lets Chris tuck the covers around him and hold him gently and stroke his hair, whispering how sorry he is and how he didn’t know and how much he loves JC. JC calms down eventually. His breathing evens out. Then he gets up and shuts himself in the bathroom and the look on his face is enough to twist Chris’s stomach up into knots. Chris can hear the shower go on for a long time. JC goes straight into the sitting room when he’s done in the bathroom and doesn’t come back all night.

 

At dawn Chris gets dressed and goes out. He buys some fruit and pastries, stuff he thinks JC will like, and gets them some coffee and a paper. He hopes that they can talk about it today, that JC will allow him to apologize again or something, but it’s hard to imagine that, remembering the stark look on JC’s face. He hopes he’ll be able to throw off this numb feeling when they talk. He needs to be on top of his game, if JC lets him talk.

 

JC doesn’t answer when he calls out tentatively from just inside the door of the suite. Chris carries the pastry bag along as he walks around looking for him. All the rooms are quiet and empty.

 

His bags are gone, his clothes out of the walk-in closet. He’s gone.

 

Fucking classic. Chris sits for a long time on the messy, unmade bed in the quiet room, holding the paper bag in his lap. Then he packs up and leaves the hotel. 

 

It takes Chris a few weeks to track JC down. The guys are no help at all, surprisingly, and it’s a little spooky to Chris that JC hasn’t gone to his usual support system like he does when they fight. Carlos just shrugs verbally. “Sorry, man,” he says. “I haven’t heard from him. That’s kind of odd, though. We had some things last week that he totally called off. Tell him to call me, all right?” Chris feels a chill as he snaps shut the phone. JC may forget to check his messages or check in once in awhile, but he never cancels PR. It’s not in him.

 

Finally, some of Chris’s people in Orlando give him the head’s up. JC’s at a hotel in the city; not even at his place in Winter Park, but at a hotel. In a hotel bar, more precisely, partying like it’s 1999, what the fuck. Chris books a flight. No way the little fucker’s getting away with this, getting away from him like this.

 

He makes it into town in the middle of the night and goes straight to the hotel, exhausted and still pissed off. But at the door to JC’s suite he stops cold. What the hell is he doing? If JC wants to throw it all away over a mistake, let him. A mistake that wasn’t even a mistake, clearly, huh. Fuck him. Chris wants to laugh meanly at that one. But he’s paralyzed by the sight of the suite door, or something, and he can only stand there and wonder what to do.

 

Besides. They have a deal.

 

Finally he knocks. And keeps knocking when no one answers, pounding on the door again and again and again until he hears a muffled “what?!” from the room and the door is thrown open violently.

 

JC looks like hell. Hair sticking up all over his head and he hasn’t shaved or slept, Chris can tell. His face closes up when he sees Chris. He turns and walks back into the suite without a word. But he leaves the door ajar so Chris follows him inside.

 

The place is trashed. JC obviously hasn’t let a maid near it in some time. Clothes and towels are draped over couches and chairs and trays of uneaten food sit around on tables. Chris tries hard not to look for signs of someone else, like clothes or, or, maybe condoms or something. Whatever. JC’s standing over by the opened curtains in the dark room, looking out at the city lights with his stiff back to Chris. After a minute he turns around.

 

JC looks at him as though they’ve never met. Cold. Just that slight smile he puts on in public, his public face. Chris can feel his anger rising. JC’s treating him like a fucking fan.

 

“Chris,” he says in a light voice, as though saying hi to a shop clerk. Chris just looks at him. He doesn’t have a clue what to say. He only knows he doesn’t want JC to see how angry he is. He’s not sure why. He looks at JC steadily.

 

When Chris doesn’t answer, JC blinks and licks his lips. Shifts from foot to foot. Shocked, Chris recognizes a JC he hasn’t seen in years, a JC from long before them, someone who used to laugh with him about all the craziness, who used to come to him for advice on how to be JC from *Nsync. It’s been a long time since JC’s been this unsure of himself.

 

“Chris,” he says again in that casual voice. Then he looks down and adds quietly, “Christopher,” and takes a deep breath.

 

Without hesitating, Chris answers, “JC,” not even attempting to keep all the anger and love and sorrow out of his voice. JC glances up at him and then away, lifting his chin, his eyes narrowed. It’s another JC thing from the past. He’s trying not to cry.

 

Chris immediately goes over to JC and kneels, head lowered. He thinks it’s the right thing to do, but when JC makes a pained noise deep in his throat, something in his chest twists like it’s trying to get out. He realizes he’s actually fucking scared. JC is motionless. Chris stops breathing.

 

Then he feels a tentative touch. JC’s fingers, barely there, curve around his head and Chris can feel his chest filling up with a crazy light. JC presses gently, threading his fingers through Chris’s hair. Chris leans against him, shuddering, grateful. Home.

 

But after a minute of cradling Chris’s head to him, JC backs away. Chris looks up at him. His face is drawn and he has shadows in his beautiful eyes. He bites his lip. Then abruptly he’s on his knees, too, hugging Chris to him roughly, burying his face in Chris’s neck, gasping. Chris throws his arms around JC and just holds on tight.

 

“It’ll be okay. It’s gonna be okay,” he whispers.

 

JC stays silent for a long time. Finally he whispers back thickly, “are you... how do you know that?”

 

Chris strokes his hair. “It always is. Right?”

 

“Yeah.” JC sounds unsure. Chris swings him gently from side to side.

 

“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

 

“Yeah,” JC says again, this time a little surprised.

 

They stay wound around each other until JC relaxes and lets out a huge sigh. He rubs his face against Chris’s neck as he moves away. Chris says, “I know you didn’t just wipe your nose on me,” and JC huffs out a tiny laugh. He looks at Chris briefly from glowing eyes. Maybe it really will be all right.

 

Chris gets up, pulling JC after him. He gets them ready for bed like he always does. JC watches him move around the hotel room, sleepy-eyed under the covers. When Chris is done he pulls him into bed. Wraps Chris around him like a blanket, arranging his arms and legs just so.

 

“Good night, JC,” Chris murmurs.

 

JC says, “mmmm.”

 

Chris starts to speak again, but JC interrupts him.

 

“Sleep now, Christopher.”

 

JC sounds groggy, halfway there himself. Chris smiles and puts his head down.

 

 

 

 

The end.


 

January 2004 



 

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