Summary: There's one thing on the list that JC needs to do.
Spoilers and/or Warnings: drug use
Original story: pining for the fjords, by joyfulseeker joyfulseeker [http://joyfulseeker.livejournal.com/60748.html]
pining for the fjords (the oxmyx mix)
"You know they're plotting against us." Justin's hushed murmur stirs the damp hairs on the back of Chris's neck and he soaks in the humidity along with the words. He flips the dart in his fingers, heavy metal going ass-over-end with the lighter plastic, and it feels like the movement draws out in slow motion.
Justin's fingers brush the soft inside of his arm, right above the elbow. Chris wants to fuck him right there, thrown across one of the sticky scuffed bar tables, beer spilling and pooling on the chipped varnish. He hears JC laugh and his fingers tighten on the dart, testing the point against his thumb.
"I'm not worried," he tells Justin. Then, almost as an afterthought, "--baby."
He hears Justin's breathing catch for a moment and smiles, aiming the dart. At the board, like a good law-abiding boy.
Later, they sit in the dark together, heads tipped so close that their hair tangles and sticks, and talk in deliberate whispers. They make plans. They don't touch each other at all.
The kinds of parties Lance has always involve a few half-naked girls, or guys, or a mix of both. He's also really fond of Grey Goose and Courvoisier -- the first of which the half-naked dollfaces drink mixed with sugary soda and the second of which they do in shot glasses with maraschino cherries -- and delicate trails of premium blow laid out like feathery canapés on mirrored trays. His parties also always involve JC, who inevitably ends up as the lazy core planet of an orgy of orbiting beauties who are desperate to impress. It's the kind of sex JC loves. All he has to do is luxuriate into the ever-rippling panapoly of firm tanned flesh eager to grasp and grope and fuck and suck him, without exerting himself hardly at all.
Lance prefers to watch.
Chris and Justin weren't invited, not technically, but they presume upon familiarity and show up anyhow with a bottle of Bushmills that they then demolish between the two of them. Lance puts line after line up his nose and when Chris and Justin go to the kitchen, standing in full view by the island as Chris sketches out the floorplan of one of the local hotels onto a pristine white tea-towel, he says, quite clearly, "We could probably take 'em."
JC tips his head back as a girl with red hair in bunches kisses her way down his chest. His eyes blip black and then refocus between one breath and the next. He doesn't smile.
"You wanna?" he says.
The words hang in the air between them, shining, and Lance tips his head to consider their shape and meaning. In the kitchen Justin is looking in the freezer for ice, his back to Chris who is contemplating his tea-towel map with one hand on his hip and one behind his head. Chris looks exhausted. Justin is moving slowly, like his joints are swollen.
Lance reaches up his hand to pluck JC's words from the air, and finds they fit beautifully in his palm.
Coffee is something Joey takes seriously. Or perhaps it's cannoli. Maybe it's both, since he rarely gets one without the other and refuses to let Lance or JC order for them. No, instead Lance and JC have to perch at one of the rickety wrought-iron cafe tables and wait while Joey flirts with the counter girl. He looks so good, though, relaxed and strong, that Lance can't find it in himself to be too annoyed. It does remind him of something he forgot, and he frowns.
JC notices. "What about Joey?" he asks, and Joey turns his head to stare at them. There's no sign on his face that he knows what Lance and JC are discussing let alone planning, but you never could read Joey's mind from his saturnine poker face. JC smiles and waves, then taps his watch, and Joey rolls his eyes and turns back to the giggling curly-headed waitress.
"Naw," Lance says after a beat or two of consideration. "Joey's a family man. It wouldn't be fair to Briahna." He can even say that without getting that stabbing feeling in his gut, now. He's proud of himself. That's progress right there.
"But Chris and Justin are definitely going down," JC says. There's a sureness to his voice for all its relaxed tone, something that Lance is glad to hear. "We'll be a trio -- we don't need those other two posers." It's a marvel that JC can sound so casual, practically brimming with levity.
Joey finally returns with a tray. He's forgotten that Lance hates that candied green stuff they dip the ends of some of the cannoli in; all three pieces are liberally sprinkled with that junk.
Picking one up, Lance takes a huge bite.
By unspoken mutual agreement, Chris and Justin haven't touched each other since that night at the bar, playing darts and making decisions. This makes them hyper-aware of everything, tiny minuscule details and butterfly-wing shifts looming large as fireworks in their senses. They have breakfast on the day slowly, for over an hour, Justin closing his eyes with the shocks of salt from the bacon, the soft custard of scrambled eggs, the crunch and chew of bread and Chris drinking cup after cup of blistering coffee and watching him. When Justin's plate is clear, he wipes his mouth and sits back primly. "When this is over," he tells Chris, picking up his own coffee cup, "I'm gonna pin you down to the bed and go over every inch of you before I even breathe on your cock, I'm gonna have you sweating and screaming and sore from how much and how long I'm gonna suck you and put my fingers and tongue and all up inside you."
Chris puts down his cup and waits until Justin's taking a sip before he says, "I'm gonna fuck you until you're begging me to stop, and then I'm gonna let you beg while I keep going until all you can do is lie there and take it."
Justin manages not to choke but he has to rub a hasty hand over his mouth and it comes away wet. They sit there for a few minutes, staring into each others' eyes, then push their chairs back and get up. The walk back to their rooms isn't taxing but it gets their blood pumping.
"We're meeting them at ten, right? Just them?"
Justin rolls his eyes. "You never remember anything. Yes, ten, and no, Joey won't be there." He stops fiddling, pauses, asks, "You're not getting cold feet on me, are you?"
Chris comes out of the other room, rearranging his shirt cuffs and tugging down his fedora. "Baby," he says, "I'm a fucking rampaging angel of vengeance." He allows them one fast, closed-mouth kiss, then swats the holster on Justin's hip. "Now saddle up and let's go do this thing."
"Yeah," Justin says. He knew when he got into this racket that he'd be killing friends, eventually.
He just didn't expect it to be this easy.