So, JJ's memory is for shit now.
It's not all the head injuries, whatever Cleo says. It ain't like he's confused or nothin'; not wandering down the street and walking into the wrong garages like his old neighbor used to. He just… forgets, sometimes.
Just for a minute. A 'huh, what?' when John B brings up some stupid shit they pulled as kids. Or goin' all blank and cold in his head when Kie wants to talk about, like, his childhood or some shit.
She asks about that a lot; it's weird. They'll be sitting outside, and suddenly she's asking about growing up 'round his dad. Wanting to know about his mom. Or if teachers ever noticed anything, like JJ wasn't the expert at driving people's noses outta him and his dad's business. A stupid comment, a rude joke, or a dumbass question and—there. JJ Maybank don't take anything seriously, so leave 'im alone, dear, he'll ask for help if he needs it.
Not Kie though… she always wants to know how he's feeling.
And it's sweet, right? Lil weird, 'cause Kie's been a lot of ways with him but she's never been sweet before, but c'mon:
Who the fuck even knows how to answer somethin' like that?
He's what—happy? Sad? Mad? What other emotions even are there? Hungry? Pissed drunk? That one where his skin's peeling off on the inside but he doesn't feel like pukin' yet? Or the one where his legs keep pacing so JJ's gotta let 'em if he doesn't want to end up on the floor?
Do those count as emotions at all?
So, why not? Sure, JJ's happy. Most of the time. He's… not hurtin'. A little. It's all like, less. Or whatever. Up in his head.
That's happy, right?
What it is, is nuts. Apparently. Kie doesn't say that, but she doesn't need to. JJ's gotten real good at seein' the words someone wants to say. The ones that spread silent across a person's face, stretching like fresh vinyl over a billboard frame. Words like, 'you're crazy,' or 'goddamn little fucker,' or 'when I catch your ass, you ain't sittin' for a month.'
Words like that.
When JJ tried to explain the whole 'sure, I'm happy' thing, those words washed right in, landing quiet and pinched between Kie's brows. The 'you're crazy' type of words, not the rest, thank God.
Whatever. JJ should've gotten over it by now. Not the first time she's called one of his ideas nuts. Or stupid. Or looked at him like he's both.
She loves him.
JJ can't forget that.
--- --- ---
When John B stalks off through the shadowed door of the shop, JJ's stomach drops like he's dove off a cliff. A wild moment of freefall then—splat. Cold water smacking his skin red, spinning the sun below and the sand above, the choking start of a drowning until his body remembers to kick. Find the light, break the surface; hoot and holler like that split second of almost-death never happened.
"I tried my best with the blocking," John B tells him inside. It sounds calm, like he ain't even mad at all, and the surface breaks. Clear air in JJ's lungs, the path back to shore shining gold and dark under the setting sun.
John B offers him half a smile, and it feels a lot like lounging all over the Chateau. Hearing Big John's mutterings from his office, John B sprawling all over him, JJ's own heart pumping wildly out of rhythm. The smell of sound silt and hot dogs in the air. Big John loved his hot dogs.
"I know," JJ manages when his eyes adjust—John B hasn't turned the lights on and the room sits dingy in the fading light. His heart skips, the same stupid fast rhythm starting up.
Nerves must be getting to him—he really is shit at blow jobs.
"You're serious about this," John B says, no give to it. "Sucking me off."
It feels worse, somehow, having it laid out like that. Like this is somehow all JJ's idea, instead of an easy way for John B spend his anger out. 'Cause JJ might've suggested it, but that doesn't mean he's doin' this 'cause he wants to. That would be stupid. And like… Pathetic. Or whatever.
JJ fishes a smirk outta his pocket and stretches it on. It fits well enough. Little tight, maybe, but serviceable. "I pay my debts."
John B makes a face at him, a horrible twisted thing, and the smirk strains, threads popping.
'Bullshit,' John B's face says, clear as if he'd shouted. Mixed right in there with, 'Jesus Christ, why are you fucking like this,' or whatever, but JJ's not looking too closely right now.
This is about payback, yeah? Not pleasure. Just getting John B to break down this block between them so JJ stops feeling like shit.
"Do you want to?" John B asks, like ruining everything is fun for him.
JJ licks at his dry lips and tries not to glare. "Look man, you don't wan' a blowie just fucking say—"
John B crowds him against the counter. Hip to hip, crowding in until the top surface digs steady pressure against JJ's lower back. It's a heavy thing, the counter, all reclaimed wood bolted together with too many nails and near half a bottle of wood glue. They never could get the balance right, so one night him and John B nailed it straight into the floor once Sarah wasn't there to tell them not to. Whatever. It worked.
Even with John B crushing him against it, the thing won't budge, and now JJ's nailed in place just as easy.
It makes something inside him go loose.
A screw, knowing his luck. He can picture the Pogues comin' back, trampin' through the door and jostling like a pack of dogs. Sees them finding John B holding him down. He'll be screamin' or cryin' or whatever the hell'll happen when JJ finally loses it. 'Sorry,' John B'll say to their dumbstruck faces. 'I held him firm and soft how I did when we hooked up and his brain broke all over me. Hope you didn't need him for shit.'
"What else?" It's not John B's voice that drags him back, but the breathy edges of it. He hasn't sounded like that since—nope. No, nope, stop right there, you stupid little shit.
JJ huffs, tries to pretend he's meeting John B's eyes instead of looking just to the left of 'em. God, they're close. In spittin' distance. Kissing distance. If JJ burst into flames from the sheer memory of it all, John B'd catch fire right along with him. A shared pile of ashes like the front porch of the Chateau. Jesus Christ you dumbass—stop thinking about the goddamn front porch. "What else what?"
It's a weird feeling, those times when John B studies him. All focused like he's trying to figure exactly what JJ's feeling, why JJ's feeling it, and how he should feel in turn. JJ never bothers trying to tell him; they both know JJ's got no idea what's going on in his own head while it's happening.
When John B opens his mouth, it's slow. Testing. Feeling along the floor of a rotted-out porch for weak points. "What else are you willing to do to… make it up?"
"Getting your dick sucked's not enough?" JJ'd be offended, maybe, but he did say he was crap at it. So what if he thought John B wouldn't care? Thought he'd hold his head and stroke his hair and tell 'im it's okay when he messes up? God, he's gotta stop expecting John B to put up with all JJ's fuck-ups. It's ridiculous. Pathetic. Makes him mad the way that gets everyone pissed at him if he doesn't keep it tamped down enough.
Despite his best efforts, it leaks into his voice. "How fucking petty are you, man?"
John B's eyes go sharp. "I want to know how much this means to you. So, you'll suck cock, okay. Would you apologize?"
Danger Will Robinson! A flare of panic sparks under JJ's belly. "I already did."
"To everyone?"
"Leave them outta this," he snaps. "Look, if you're that mad, just hit me and get it over with."
John B leans back, and it feels so much like his bike stalling under him, that for a second JJ wants to punch him in the face. Then John B asks,
"You'd let me hit you?"
like he knows the answer. His eyes have gone dark. Finally, finally, angry. See? Just like JJ said would happen. He pisses people off when he gets like this. When he is this.
JJ thinks he starts shaking a little, but all he can think is, 'thank God.' He knew John B was pissed. Now all they gotta do is have it out. Patch it up. Better out than in, or whatever.
"What if I broke your nose?" John B goes on, relentless. "What if I wanted to fuck you again?"
He doesn't say it like he wants to. None of that 'makes me want to hold you down,' or 'you'd look so fucking hot, man,' from last time. It hurts a little, losing that.
"Would be harder to explain to your girlfriend." The smirk JJ pulled on earlier won't budge now. Too small, too tight. So JJ tries to laugh, but it sounds fake and fuck, John B could see right through to the panic surging sludgy in JJ's guts if he tried. "Jesus Christ, dude, just pick something already!"
It lands in the stifling air loud and naked. A drunken shout of 'I love you guys!' when no one else is much feeling it.
Then John B's hand is on his chin, pushing lightly, and JJ forgets anything else.
"Whatever I want, huh?" he asks slow, like a question, like he ain't already figured JJ out. His hand pushes harder before it drops.
For a blinding second, JJ thinks he fell along with it. Nothing but a puddle of limbs on the floor, that pile of ashes. Only it'd just be him burning up, this time, 'cause John B's already stepped away.
"Sit," he pats the scuffed wood of the counter, as light and firm as he'd squeezed JJ's face. "I gotta grab something," he says, and heads for the stairs.
--- --- ---
It's JJ's house now, his and the Pogues, for all he tends to forget that.
Pope likes to get water every night around 12:15, goes from the bunk room on the second floor down to the first and comes up one minute and forty-eight seconds later with a glass full. JJ knows, 'cause the eighth step down creaks like the devil. Even when JJ's sleeping, his muscles go tight as a bowline until it creaks again.
The second creak is good. Means the person is back upstairs and not busting into JJ's room on the first floor. Means he don't gotta wait for rough sleep-sounds from the couch out front to let his eyes close. Means he won't be napping through math and racking up another detention for it.
Sarah likes playin' music. So did JJ's dad. Sarah'll turn on the radio outside, 'n JJ'll scuttle 'round by the water for hours until a song comes on his dad would've skipped. Then the yard is just a yard and the porch is just a porch 'n JJ'd feel pretty stupid 'bout the whole thing if there weren't still a dent in the wall from a hammer that didn't hit JJ's head.
It could've, though.
He never forgets that.
--- --- ---
John B's been upstairs in the loft for a full minute before JJ forces himself onto the counter. It hurts, 'cause he's still bruised as shit, but he keeps his hiss under his breath, so what's the pain even matter? John B told 'im to sit, so JJ's sittin'. Don't know how he expects JJ to suck his dick from up here, but that ain't JJ's problem anymore. He did his part, he offered; it's not his fault if this whole thing goes tits up.
But maybe that's the point. Maybe John B wants JJ to fuck it up a little. Rub at his lips and call him greedy when he chokes like John B thinks it's cute or something. Like JJ's a fuck up, but John B decided to keep him around, anyway. Fuck. JJ's breath tramples itself.
It shivers through him, pins his ass to the counter. Christ, John B could really tell him to do anything, couldn't he? When they were kids, they used to dare each other to do all sorts of stupid shit. Run naked into the sound, eat an earthworm whole, swim up to that Kook boat and lick it. He remembers tryin' to rope Pope in, remembers what the kid fired back when triple-dog-dared to steal a pack of gum from some Kook lady's bag. 'Dares don't work on me.'
The phrase had worked, but it ruined the game, too.
JJ thinks about it, just flat out saying it. 'Sorry, John B, that won't work on me.' It's not like John B will chase after him, he won't force JJ to do nothin'.
But JJ's felt sick to his stomach for months now, ever since they bought the house. He thought winning the Enduro would fix it, but that went tits up. So he waits for John B.
'I'll make it good for you, I promise, just let me. You'll feel so good, babes, I promise, I promise.'
JJ rubs at the headache shining between his eyes and doesn't bother looking up at the clatter of John B coming down the stairs. He takes 'em all, like he always does, not skipping the last step like Sarah and JJ and Cleo all do. Then comes the thud thud of him walking closer, the delicate brush against the side of JJ's knee. JJ would know him in his sleep.
Something lands on the counter. Faded red plastic, missing handle: their first aid kit.
Oh.
Oh no.
"Fuck you, man," JJ says. "That's not—"
"You agreed, whatever I want. Hey." John B does that stupid thing where he grabs JJ's face. Stupid, 'cause JJ always forgets to argue once that happens. Stupid 'cause no one else their age is grabbin' at each other while still sober. Stupid, 'cause it always fucking works.
"Hey," John B says it again, and ignores JJ's glarin'. "This is the deal."
He's right, but that doesn't mean JJ don't get to be pissed. He got played. Masterfully. And then, outta all the fucked-up things John B could ask for, he decides to choose this? JJ glares harder. "It's not fair."
Neither is the crooked smile John B shoots him. "Can't play fair with you, I'll lose. You gonna back out?"
It's the fucking triple-dog-dare all over again. "Are you?" he tries, but John B only raises an eyebrow. Goddamn it. Fine. JJ huffs. "Yo, if this is what gets your rocks off, then I ain't gonna stop you. I do judge though, and let me tell you that this is me with some major side-eye going—"
He can't hardly finish before John B's hands are clamping over his mouth. He rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, we're not doing all that. When I let go, you're gonna open your mouth." What? Whatever look crosses JJ's face has John B snorting. "Yes, you are, dude. I'm not listening to you bitch 'cause no one's allowed to do nice shit to you."
It trips him right up, John B saying that. Like he thinks JJ's got a line drawn around him and a right hook ready for anyone who dares step over it. JJ ain't like that… is he? Sure, he don't like owing people shit, but that doesn't mean—
John B drops his hold before JJ can tangle it out. Maybe that's why it happens.
Or maybe JJ wants to prove him wrong. Wants to show him up. Or maybe JJ's stupider than he thought.
'Cause his mouth pops right open like it didn't need JJ's permission, just John B's.
"Wider."
John B says it as casual as, 'pass me a beer' on any other night of the summer. JJ flushes, tries to swallow the embarrassment creeping up his throat. Christ, being on his knees would be easier than this: John B staring at his lips, his face, waiting on him. He tries, but his jaw's locked tight. Tense. Fuck. Why can't he do this? Something's lodged down his throat, in his teeth, tangling from his brainstem to the core of his back.
God, he can't do this. Not even—
A finger slips into his mouth, hooks behind his teeth, pulls down, and JJ burns fever-hot as his jaw gives. No thought to it, no choice bein' made, just John B pulling his finger out and wiping the spit on JJ's shorts. "Can't ever make things easy on yourself, can you?"
JJ's head spins. His mouth's open now. Wide. Like he really is gonna suck John B off.
But John B just reaches for JJ's shirt and grabs the hem where it's half-torn out, threads bubbling loose where they're not still tangled through the fabric. He pulls it up, bunching it as he goes, and shoves the entire rucked-up mess of it into JJ's mouth.
"Close down on it."
Before he can talk himself outta it, JJ bites down.
John B looks… vaguely pleased. Fuckin' weirdo.
(If it comes out fond even in his own head… no, it didn't.)
That's about when JJ catches up to exactly what John B just did: JJ can't say shit through the shirt, and John B can see everything.
The bruises had come out overnight, all sickly yellow-green and bloody purple. JJ scared himself half to death catching glimpses in the van's mirror. Road rash trails from his heart to his left hip; nasty red where the sand burnt into his side. When John B reaches out, JJ's muscles twitch dully, an uncontrolled fluttering kind of flinch.
John B lets out a low whistle. "This is nasty, bud. You clean any of it?" he checks. "Ice it?"
JJ hadn't.
He knows better.
--- --- ---
JJ's grandma lives up the coast and while JJ was not yet man enough to take a punch, he, his dad, and his momma used to pack a big black trash bag full of clothes into the car and drive up during the first week of school.
Things were cheap then; no one vacations in the first week of classes.
One time, she bought him a suitcase, his grandma. JJ knows she bought it, even though she told his dad it was a lucky trash pick: one of the neighbor kids left it on her lawn, yes, really, goddamn boy, you don't trust your own momma no more? But JJ knew the neighbors didn't have no kids his age and the suitcase had a big blue shark face 'cross the entire front of it. That's the kind of thing the neighbor boys would scoff at, with their two whole years on 'im, but JJ was still not-yet-a-man-enough, so he goddamn loved it.
When he unzipped the top, he could lay it out on his bedroom floor 'n sit in it. It was a suitcase, so he'd make believe a trip around the world, and a shark, so he'd play at getting swallowed down whole so they could swim the whole way. Tucked in the belly of his shark, the loud-shouting of his house went distant and muffled, caught between the zipper and how far down his shark liked to swim. JJ liked it too. Peaceful. Safe.
His momma took it with her when she left, grabbing her shit off the floor, spittin' words low and angry. Not takin' one more goddamn thing from you Luke, not one more goddamn thing.
JJ watched his shark leave in the back of the car—her car, she was always very clear on that—and felt so far underwater he drowned.
By the time another week had jolted by, JJ'd grown up. He could take a punch now, the way his dad could, the way the neighbor boys who wouldn't like his suitcase did. Maybe JJ didn't like it either. Gifts are for babies. Stupid. Get taken away in the back seat. Who needs 'em? Not JJ. He can use a trash bag, like his dad. Hell, he don't even need all that. He could just, like, grab it all in his arms, stick his toothbrush in the pocket of his shorts. That's enough. Ain't like they're going 'round the world or nothin'.
It didn't matter anyway.
They never went back to his grandma's house again.
--- --- ---
Now, JJ might be man enough to take a punch, but he ain't fuckin' greedy okay? He doesn't want anything; not from John B, not from himself.
He don't need it—don't want it. 'Cause wanting means losing, and JJ's all grown up now. So whatever ache's been burning in the back of his head can fuck right off.
Nothing's changed between him and John B; that's what JJ said he wanted. Hell, he started this whole thing wanting to suck John B's dick, and look where that got him. If he lets those stupid soft hands roam all over him, pressin' at his bruises and scrubbing out his cuts, JJ's gonna get all dumb again. Start lookin' where he shouldn't. Saying crap like 'I love you, man,' and doing even worse shit like meaning it.
His dad was fucking right about him: he's always been too soft.
The thought burns up his spine, a grease fire hitting flashpoint. His shove off the counter stops hard against John B's arms shovin' him right back. Then John B's got him by the hair and his head's getting forced down between his knees.
It's a lot like what they had to make Pope do that one summer he ain't drink enough water and kept almost passing out. Or what Cleo does after she yells at 'em all to leave her alone. Something about getting all the blood in the most important places or whatever, JJ wasn't listening when Pope spelled it out.
It makes him breathe, which is when he hears how he's heaving air in all desperate-like. His blood slows, his head stops pounding, but John B won't let him up. Not even after JJ stops panting. But he's good now, right? He's happy. Stop treating him like a baby. He's okay. No shit. Like seriously, man! Okay, now fuck the fuck off you absolute fucking fucker.
John B holds him though it, and when the red haze clears and JJ stops squirming, all he can think is, yeah, okay. Fair.
Shame trickles over his skin like drops of water slipping down his back, cool and jolting. Even after John B eases back, JJ can't lift his head. He's got his hands clamped tight around one of John B's though, which is its own kind of embarrassing.
"Y'know, after you stormed off, we all got into it a little." John B says quiet. "Pope says I cover for you too much."
The shirt tastes like a hangover when JJ grinds his teeth into it, dry and fuzzy.
John B just shrugs. "He's not wrong. It's easier going along with your crap sometimes than figuring out another way for us to get through it." His free hand tousles JJ's hair, a little too tender to be roughhousing. JJ's just tired enough to let him. "You fight everything, buddy. Even when you don't want to, I think."
Bitch of it is: he's not wrong. The last few minutes proved that with all the gentleness of a fist.
JJ wants to say something stupid then. 'It ain't on purpose,' or 'I lived with my dad for years, man,' or even 'hell, I'm sorry.' But JJ's got a mouth full of tee-shirt, so he settles for squeezing John B's hand instead.
John B snorts. "Yeah, I know," he says like he really does, then something pokes JJ's hand. Small, pointed, plastic—a pen? "Hold this behind your back," he says, and when JJ fumbles it, finishes. "So I'll know if you're really fighting me or not. Hands behind your back, you're not gonna be able to punch me, but if you need me to stop..."
Drop the pen, JJ fills in and nods the best he can. John B's right; with his hands behind his back, JJ won't be able to touch him. Not to shove him away, not to cover the shitshow of his chest, not to… fight. John B can do whatever he wants, as long as JJ doesn't let go.
He thinks he might be flushing a little, the way John B's eyes flick to his cheeks and stay there. He's always liked getting reactions from JJ—
'Make you go slow, take a breath, really fucking feel it.'
—blushing or laughter or—
'They would've heard that.'
—whatever else. It makes him get all focused. Dialed in.
He bites at his lip, wet and a little chapped and so close JJ almost misses what he says.
"I'm serious. If you really can't take it, just drop it so I know. But I want—even if you've gotta fight it a little… I want you to take it."
Fuck.
--- --- ---
So JJ's memory being for shit means most days, he don't even remember why seeing John B and Sarah chasing each other up the stairs makes him feel like he left the keys to his bike out on the coffee table back home. Home when his dad was still living here, sitting on his list of the best pawn shops between them and Kill Devil Hills.
Don't get him wrong, JJ remembers everything they did—God, like it's burned into his head—but only when he thinks about them. It. Whatever.
But has these dreams, right? Not every night, not every week, but often enough he feels shitty the nights he wakes up next to Kie.
'Cause JJ might not remember, but his body sure as hell does, and getting fucked stupid into the Chateau's old couch…
Yep. JJ's body didn't forget that.
--- --- ---
JJ shifts against the counter, not sure if John B'd planned all this from the beginning, or if JJ just got under his skin the way he always does. He's not sure he cares. 'Cause when John B cracks the kit, rips open an alcohol wipe with his teeth, and presses the little square to the cuts on his ribs, JJ forgets to so much as hiss. Maybe it's that body memory, that little nudge telling him stay right here and John B will drive him outta his head with feelin' good that keeps him from leaving. Maybe it's the shirt. Or the pen. All JJ knows is he's fighting the urge to lean into the cold stinging pass of the wipe, which is weird as hell.
His eyes ache like that time he got a fever when they were kids. God, he was fucking miserable. Wouldn't let anyone near him until Big John finally got fed up and hauled him out from where he barricaded himself dry in the bathtub and forced him onto the couch next to John B. JJ might've tried kicking him, he might've threatened to run away, he doesn't remember. All he knows is Big John turned to John B, eyes flaming, and told him to 'grab tight and don't let go.'
For the next three hours, John B didn't. Scrawny arms stayed wrapped around him no matter how much JJ complained, until Big John got an entire water bottle in him, half a bowl of letter and number noodles swollen mushy and misshapen with sauce and finally fucking flu meds that knocked him the fuck out. It was easier when the care felt like a punishment, he thinks. When he didn't have no choice in it. It was just easier.
"I thought you'd fucking died."
JJ flinches for all the words dropped easy from John B's lips.
"Someone asked me why I stopped my bike. I could've won; I was so close." He pauses to pick a bit of fuzz outta the cut on JJ's arm. "But you'd gone down right in front of me. Then you got up. But if I'd kept going, you'd go down again." He snorts. "I don't think I was thinking much beyond that."
He rips open a fresh wipe packet with his teeth, runs it slow and firm over JJ's stomach. JJ shudders. Fuck.
"Cold?" John B glances up like a check-in, and whatever look he finds on JJ's face has him going still.
He runs the wipe over JJ's stomach again, purposeful, and JJ's gotta squeeze his eyes shut against the burn of his gaze. "Weird not having you talk. I didn't think you'd let me do this, but…" His voice fades out, drying tight like the alcohol trails off JJ's skin. "I guess you've always been…"
'What?' JJ wants to demand. 'Always been what?' but John B shakes his head.
"This is gonna sting," he says, and starts in on the road rash.
It hurts; of course it does. Some of the scrapes are already swollen hot with infection, achingly tender. When John B goes over those, JJ can't keep his hiss in. After that, they just fall from him, these noises, grunts and gasps all garbled 'round the fabric filling his mouth, soggy and dry all at once.
But as wipe after wipe joins the slightly bloody pile on the countertop, JJ's focus narrows in. The stinging press against his scrapes, the muggy heat of the heavy evening air, the weird pull around his jaw—it all fades out. It's just him and John B and the air between them.
John B's voice comes out oddly loud. "Don't think we're getting any cleaner than that, bubba."
JJ tries not to choke.
--- --- ---
The dreams aren't memories, not exactly. JJ'll be sleeping, whole body warm and liquid-bright like honey.
'Fuck, you're pretty,' he'll hear; no visuals, no sensation, just John B's voice in his ear and his own legs gone to water.
'You good there, bubba?'
Yeah.
'Sensitive?' he'll get asked, then, 'spread those legs, buddy,' and worse.
The one time he woke with a mess in his boxers, his dream had turned John B's joking 'wanna be a good boy for me?' into some crazy imagining where JJ said 'yes,' and never had to do another thing for the rest of his life. Just lay quiet and listen to every hazy-warm word until his body goes just as soft and easy.
'I got you, bubba,' the dream tells him, and JJ can't remember if that bit's a memory or not.
--- --- ---
For all his effort, John B must catch something in his face, 'cause he starts laughing, low and stupidly smug. "That still gets you, huh?"
It's embarrassing the way the shirt in his mouth's embarrassing. Or the way he keeps leaning into the patch job's embarrassing. The way holding the pen behind his back like this exposes his entire chest and stomach, all those cuts and bruises like they're something to show off is embarrassing as fuck.
This whole thing's so goddamn embarrassing JJ's not sure how he's supposed to look John B in the eye ever again. It makes his skin go red like a Touron's sunburn and his guts squirm with almost as much heat.
John B's eyes go dark—dilated or whatever, and the heat in JJ's guts goes solid and light like freshly baked brownies, stupid-happy and horny.
'Cause John B's always liked getting reactions from JJ, so John B's always jumped at every stupid idea JJ's ever had. Questioning. Riffing. Poking. Spinning them both up on shared emotion until they're overdosing on it.
They once laughed themselves stupid for two hours straight when they couldn't leave well enough alone. Fought until they collided, shoving and spitting, like each their anger knew it belonged to both of them together. Cried themselves out that one night they swore never to tell anyone else about. Ever.
So it really shouldn't surprise him, this feedback loop. Where he starts squirming, so John B gets all intent about it; where whatever leaks onto his face plasters across John B's own. Not after the last ten years. Not after that night on the porch.
It still does.
--- --- ---
Sometimes he cries after. Not like, as a thing, or anything. Just waking up out on the couch, or in Kie's bed, or on his own with his stupid dick hard and his stupid eyes leaking.
Kie says he's allergic to emotions, in that soft teasing voice she uses when she's letting him in on a joke. All, 'we both know you're like this, so let's have a good laugh and move on,' 'n shit. JJ doesn't know what she's talking about. It feels like he's got every emotion in him ever, all boiling under his skin until he screams from it. Or punches someone. Or offers to suck his best friend's dick. Those aren't the emotions she's talking about though, the soft opening up she keeps pushing for, so 'allergic to emotions' it is.
He wonders if she'd change her mind she sees him crying, but he never wants to be with her, or well, anyone after his dreams, and he ain't done much crying in the last few years aside from that.
He tried to a few times. Get out all the stress and the buzzing under his skin with a little sob fest, go back to being probably-happy with a few less rips in the fabric of him. But he never could manage.
--- --- ---
JJ's got no idea what his face's doing, but John B laughs at him again until JJ kicks him more or less in the gut. Then he's all pissy and rooting through the first aid kit until he finds the little tube of triple antibiotic, half empty and folded over itself.
Willing his flush down goes fine. Fine-ish. It'd really help to have John B a good three yards further out of his space and not coating his fingers in ointment. But JJ's fucking good at that repression shit Cleo and Sarah kept going on about, 'cause by the time those fingers are back prodding at his cuts, sticky and cold, JJ's got himself more or less under control.
He still can't look at John B's face.
His gaze locks on John B's hands instead. He's got long fingers, John B. Good wrists. JJ's not sure he's ever noticed a wrist before, but his brain has completely lost the plot here, so. Wrists. Fingers. The gentle curve where they skim JJ's fucked-up torso.
He drags his gaze away, lands on John B's face for half a second before dropping back down. He's not sure he's really looking anywhere anymore, like his body's quit on all the things it's supposed to do on its own, and now JJ's the one held responsible. All the breathing, the heart beating, the blinking, the blood pumping, and the digestion of yesterday's beer rests solely in his lap and he's not sure if he can keep up.
The air sits still and hot around them. Sweat beads across JJ's shoulders, his upper back, getting caught in the tangled folds of his shirt. Some dim part of him knows there's nothing normal about letting his best friend shut him up and touch him careful like this, but it's getting harder and harder to care. His mouth's gone dry. Fingers cold. Cuts stinging. Heart slow. Arm hair prickling. Dick hard. Head dazed—
His thoughts trip and stumble, jamming up against each other and knocking the whole line of 'em over. Hard. He's… he's fucking…
He's blushing, he knows. Can feel the heat seeping down his face, rising in his groin. God, how the hell did he manage not to notice? Fuck, John B hasn't even touched him, not really. Not anywhere that'd get him in trouble with Kie at least. Or Sarah. Honestly Pope'll probably be the most pissed outta anybody, 'cause he kinda hates JJ's guts right now.
John B touches down JJ's sides with both hands, pressing his bruises to check for broken ribs. JJ flinches when he reaches what's probably a bruised rib, but it's only his body feeling the pain, mind still spinning out.
How hasn't he noticed yet? Would John B say something? Laugh? Ignore it? Grind the heel of his palm against the front of JJ's shorts until he—
Another press leaves JJ curling away from the touch. Damn, that hurts. But it's not the snap-fire pain of broken ribs, so when John B hisses in sympathy and rubs at his shoulder to get him to uncoil, JJ lets himself be guided back into position. Mostly.
He keeps one leg tucked over the other, as John B goes back to working down his ribcage, steady and firm. Good. Okay. As long as he doesn't have to move, JJ will be fine. John B doesn't have to know what a freak he's being. Here John B is checking that Rafe didn't break any bones, and JJ's—what? Getting turned on?
What the fuck.
"I need to get to your back, dude," John B says quiet and the tap he makes on JJ's knee feels like fire and honey. Slow burning gold. "Lean forward."
JJ doesn't budge.
He really should, but panic makes a guy do stupid things, and JJ's current stupid looks like sitting stock still until John B stops touching him, looks down, sees the awkward hold of his leg, and—
"Really?"
Any second now, JJ's gonna burst into flames or something and take the whole building down with him, but John B snorts before he so much as starts smokin'. "That's the hold-up?" The fucker looks amused. Goddamn it, John B. "Dude, I've fingered your asshole, a hard-on's not going to scare me."
JJ stares at him, tries to signal 'dude, what the hell?' and 'dude, why aren't you freaking?' and 'dude, you're so lame,' with his eyes alone. It does fuck all, 'cause John B ain't watching his face. He steps closer, grabs JJ's knee to uncross it, and then he. Doesn't. Let. Go.
"Just spread your legs a little." He coughs, that stupid pretty flush of his seeping down from his ears. "So I can get to your back."
God, how long has John B been blushing for? The red can sit up in the tips of his ears for a hell of a long while; with his hair all curly from the humidity? He could've been flustered this whole time and JJ'd have been none the wiser.
He'd forgotten this part, how John B'd gotten just as hungry for it as he did. Easier maybe, to bury that bit. Less of a punch in the stomach when he goes off with Sarah. But Sarah isn't here, Kie neither. It's just John B and JJ and the air between them.
So JJ spreads his legs.
But John B's never made anything easy on him, not once in his life. He grabs JJ's knees and slides them wide until the muscles are jumping in his thighs and the fabric of his shorts strains taut over his dick. Then he steps in there like he's got every right.
JJ doesn't close them.
"I'm not trying to…" John B starts and stops just as sudden. He sounds wrecked,voice hitching all breathy and stupidly hot. It's impossibly, horribly more attractive than JJ remembered. "I mean. I know we've joked about it before. How you're…" He stops again, but his hands find JJ's back and prod him forward until JJ's forehead rests in the little space between his shoulder and neck.
It feels like a dream. Like sitting in a suitcase and zipping the lid.
His hands move down JJ's spine, pressing on each rib as he goes. When JJ's breath stutters, he mumbles sweet things, 'that's it,' and 'you're alright' and 'I know, it hurts, I know,' like the pain's what's got JJ's air catching instead of the steady softness of his touching.
When he reaches the bottom of JJ's ribcage without any of the flinching he's come to expect when pressing on a broken rib, John B stops, letting his hands sit heavy on JJ's back. "Alright," he says, air coming in shaky. "Alright."
JJ's not sure he would. Flinch, that is. Not even if his ribs were real busted. It all feels real far away right now, the pain. The warm ache between his legs. The mess of his head. He breathes into John B's neck like a pebble. A little beach rock. Small. Smooth 'n hard. Small. Small. Small.
Something to pick up and send flying out over the water or fiddled with in warm hands. Wet and bright with ocean sun. Dropped deep in the pocket of a pair of board shorts. Tucked in between the strap of a swimsuit and soft burning skin.
--- --- ---
Nothing hurts in his dreams. Not even the twisted and screaming part of him that can't handle that kind of painlessness in the real world. 'Cause what'd'ya mean his dad's off the island? What'd'ya mean JJ owns a home? What'd'ya mean he's supposed to be able to sit with that now, tired and happy and 'Good,' John B tells him.
Fuck, that shit'll rip you apart, y'know? You can't fucking live like that. Life ain't like that, and JJ's gettin' real tired of everyone lying to him that he can just up and move on.
--- --- ---
JJ's pulled outta his little hidden space by hands cupping his face, pulling him back. John B's hands.
John B's face then. Brows pinched together like people do when they're mad. But John B isn't mad. Not anymore; not right now. JJ's eyes flutter closed.
A tapping on his cheek. "Hey, hey bubba, look at me."
JJ does. He's so good at listening.
John B's face again. Eyes wide. "You good, J?"
Maybe. Maybe not. John B hasn't told him one way or the other yet, so how is JJ supposed to know?
"Okay," John B says, then again. "Okay. We're gonna… we gonna sit here a bit, okay?"
That one JJ knows. He nods.
The wrinkle between John B's eyebrows eases, like that time JJ woke up in a puddle of his own puke. It's relief, he thinks, that face. Relief JJ's still here.
He loves you.
Suddenly JJ's flying head over handlebars, the flat of the beach spinning huge above him, the sheer moment of it all ringing blind through his head.
There's a beat in his chest and a thump in his lungs, a race and a pulse. He's gonna crash. He's gonna die. He's gonna take them all down with him.
But the crash didn't kill him then, and after… there he was. John B. Baring down on him until he wasn't.
John B doesn't hit him now either.
"We're doin' good, buddy," he says, and something in JJ's back goes loose. Good. They're good. He can answer that one now. 'You good, J?' with good. We're doin' good, buddy. We're doin' good.
He tunes back into John B talking in this odd soft voice, like JJ's one of the birds that fell outta the big tree out front in the last storm. Like he's on top of JJ on an old couch, moving slow and deep and 'There you go. You feelin' it now? There you go baby.'
--- --- ---
According to Cleo, you can't lie in a dream.
Pope said something about deceit being a function of conscious thought and therefore impossible for the unconscious mind to perform, with a bunch more smartass shit JJ honestly couldn't keep up with.
But Cleo's explanation stuck like a burn scar—shiny, and relentless with the urge to mark it out over and over with his fingertips.
"There's no space for lying in dreams. Your head's too full up with resting to manage it. You get too relaxed and—" She blew a breath through her lips. A sharp and short kind of sigh; a knife gash. "The truth comes bleeding out."
--- --- ---
He loves you; it comes again and again, until JJ can't hear nothing else. He kinda wants to cry, or die, or be someone—anyone else, who could wrap himself in those words and live there forever.
He's dreaming. He's awake. Does it matter? He's gone.
--- --- ---
The dreams hurt like alcohol wipes scrubbing over a wound.
It kills the infection—
But God if it doesn't sting.
--- --- ---
When JJ comes back to himself, it's to the cold smear of ointment on his back, and John B's hands still on him. He'd used the wipe at some point, JJ can feel the sting under the care, but he doesn't mind. They're still good. Not mad. Not wanting JJ left alone. Not too late.
Too late for what? some part of him asks, but it's buried under John B mumbling, "There we go," how someone'd say 'finished', and the way it tugs at JJ's head. His hips hurt from sitting on the counter all this time. He's thirsty, mouth dry and fuzzy and still full.
God, this is gonna be weird tomorrow, but it's a distant tomorrow, off on the horizon somewhere, foggy and hazed.
By the time John B wipes his hands clean, JJ's face burns like fire. John B, John B eases. Eases his jaw open, eases the shirt spit-wet out from between his teeth, eases the pen outta his cramping fingers. It's bright yellow and cheap, says, 'I got my crabs from Dirty Dicks!' bold and blocky down the side.
When John B helps him off the counter, his legs won't hold him. JJ can't even feel embarrassed about it. Not with the spit-spot on his shirt resting wet and cold against his stomach, not after 'spread your legs,' so he just buries his burning face into John B's shoulder and accepts the help.
They're going towards the house. The knowledge comes dimly, foggy like moonlight on the sound. JJ stops walking, but it must seem an awful lot like his legs quit working 'cause John B keeps hauling them through the door until JJ shakes his head hard.
"Dad lives there," he mumbles, and after a long pause, John B takes him upstairs instead.
Thank God, JJ thinks. Thank God. If he'd had to explain… that. Well, he couldn't. He can't. He—
God, what is he doing?
He sits blankly when John B levers him onto the sofa upstairs. Dude's being so careful. Grabbing a blanket. He loves—JJ shakes his head.
"What are you doing?" he sounds blank too.
"Huh?"
Cold breeze sneaks in off the water, sends goosebumps up JJ's skin. He nods at the blanket scrunched and strained tight between John B's hands. "Don't get used to this. The babying I mean."
John B freezes up.
"I'm not your fucking girlfriend. You can't just baby me all the time now, dude." He doesn't say the rest of it: this was a deal. I didn't want this. This was just for you to get your rocks off. Or knock me down a peg. Get payback. Or whatever the fuck John B wanted outta this. This isn't me. This isn't you.
This definitely isn't us together.
He lo—
"What's wrong with you?" JJ watches John B's stillness jerk back to life at that. "You're being weird."
John B stares at him like he's nuts.
Then, he smiles. Tosses the blanket over his lap. "Right, 'cause tonight's been totally normal." He snorts, and JJ finds himself smiling back on some kind of fucked-up instinct. The one that has you laughing in a car wreck. After you see everyones limbs are still connected but before you go poke at the busted grille. John B snorts again and JJ actually laughs.
John B's smile goes wicked. "'Cause you didn't enjoy that at all."
The lie in JJ's mouth cuts right off, choking on the hand John B presses to the blanket… right over his still hard dick. Goddamn it.
"I didn't," he says anyway. He's not in a dream. He can lie all he wants.
John B huffs, presses down the tiniest bit. "Yeah?"
JJ's hand flies down to John B's. "Yeah," he manages. Fuck. It's just their hands, warm and heavy where he's aching. Barely even a touch, what with the blanket and his shorts. "You were the one who was mad."
Okay. So, here's the problem with challenging John B. Spitting out something brash and stupid and daring like he's not gonna call bullshit.
John B always accepts a challenge. Thrives on it. Loves 'em.
That's probably why he's friends with JJ.
So when raises his eyebrows, slow and amused, JJ knows he's fucked.
"Okay. I'm glad you told me," he says it like a joke; it is a joke the way they both know JJ's lyin'."Thanks for bein' so honest J. Means a lot."
He still hasn't moved his hand.
"No problem." JJ hitches his hips up into the combined weight of their hands. Fuck. He could come from just this.
"If you don't want me touching you like that, that's fine. Since you weren't into it," John B adds, like a dare.
"Yeah," JJ confirms, mindless with it. God, he's so close but John B won't push down again.
"You don't want me to… baby you, I won't." John B makes a face quoting JJ's words, like they don't sit right in his mouth. "One condition."
"What's that?" JJ's breath leaves him all in a rush, eyes tripping closed. Just a little…
John B leans over him. He twists his arm so his palm meets JJ's. Then he pulls both their hands away. "Then no touching that either."
God. The joke clicks into place like a trap.
JJ's eyes fly open as he jerks his hips up but it's too late. The blanket rises with him, no pressure but the air.
"Bastard," JJ hisses, and John B laughs.
"Rotten liar," he lobs back. "Just following your lead here, Js."
And that's the mess of it, ain't it? If JJ's gonna pretend he didn't like it, John B's gonna make him keep pretending. The ball is firmly, completely, and horribly in JJ's court.
Christ, he's so hard it hurts.
--- --- ---
JJ is a rotten liar. To John B, to strangers, to his family, his friends. To himself most of all.
--- --- ---
"Asshole," JJ tells him as he starts down the stairs. "You're such an asshole."
--- --- ---
JJ's happy.
--- --- ---
He can only see the top of John B's head peeking over the floor, the twinkle in his eyes, the smile dancing in the corner of his mouth. He's beautiful. The worst. JJ's gonna die. "Right back at you, buddy."
--- --- ---
JJ doesn't want anything.
--- --- ---
After John B's left, JJ stares up at the ceiling until his blood cools and the whole shorts situation quits acting up. He doesn't know when he drifts off, but he must've, 'cause it's quiet. Still. Warm.
--- --- ---
JJ doesn't dream.
Notes: