Work Text:
When his cell phone rings for the seventh time in as many minutes, JC sighs and picks it up off the nightstand. A quick glance at the display tells him that it's Joey's cell this time, and although he's tempted to let it ring through to voice mail again, he heaves another sigh and hits the connect button, raising the phone to his ear.
"Justin, can you please just respect the fact that I really don't want to talk to you right now?"
"Dude, how did you know it was me?"
JC shakes his head wearily, closing his eyes. "I don't mean to be rude, J, but haven't you insulted my intelligence enough for one day?" Christ, enough for the whole year.
"I'm trying to apologize, man, if you'd just answer your phone-"
"I answered," JC snaps, "and I'm not hearing anything like an apology. But like I said, I don't really want to talk to you right now. So give Joey back his phone and go find someone who wants to listen to you. Like Wade, maybe." OK, that was a little nasty. But fuck, he's more than entitled.
"Wait, wait!" Justin sounds a touch frantic. "You have the wrong idea, yo, seriously! I'm sorry you walked in on that, but it wasn't what it looked like."
"No? What was it then?" Silence meets his question, and he chuckles sourly, bitterly. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
"C, listen." Justin sounds unhappy, his voice halting and hesitant. "I know . . . I know it looked bad."
"No, J, you listen," JC hisses, suddenly enraged all over again. "You asked to see what I was working on, I showed you, whatever. But what the fuck gives you the right to take it to Wade and fucking pick it apart with him?"
"We weren't-"
"The fuck you weren't! I saw you, dude, fucking writing all over the page, I saw Wade pointing shit out to you . . . " He pauses for a breath, his chest tight with fury. "That's my music, man, those're my songs. You wanna work with me, that's one thing. You wanna take my stuff, my stuff, and work it with Wade? That's fucked, man, that's so totally fucked."
"That's not what it was," Justin says plaintively, and JC's so tired of that little-boy voice, he can barely resist the urge to hurl the cell phone against the wall.
"Fine," he grits out between clenched teeth. "Then I'll ask you again. What were you doing? What the fuck were you and Wade doing with my fucking work? Explain it to me, J."
"We were high-"
"'Cause that's an excuse?"
"No, listen, I was . . . we're getting pretty tight, and . . . I wanted to see if . . . " The level of distress in Justin's tone is racketing up, but JC really doesn't want to hear how tight Justin and Wade are getting, doesn't want to hear how Justin would rather write with Wade than with him, Christ, like he needs more reminders of how Justin's seeming to need him less and less. They used to hang out all the time, they used to talk about everything. But Justin will hardly look at him in the eye these days. He doesn't get it. It's hurtful, and in more ways than one.
He had been so pleased when Justin had asked to look at the music he was working on. He knows Justin's getting more and more interested in songwriting and producing, and for a brief moment, he had allowed himself to think that maybe this was what they needed to bring them in touch with each other again, that the creative process would recement their friendship, strengthen them somehow.
But walking into Justin's room today, seeing him and Wade on the bed, heads close together over his notebook - his notebook - giggling and scribbling on the pages - his stomach lurches at the memory. Wade had looked up, still giggling, and had tried to shove the notebook under Justin's chest, but Justin's laughter had died immediately, his eyes growing wide at the anger and sick betrayal that JC feels must have been scrawled across his face like a banner. A half-hearted cry of protest had followed JC when he had turned and stalked out of the room, and the phone calls had started a few hours later - long enough for Justin to sober up, JC guesses. He shakes his head again, not really listening to Justin's stumbling words.
"Justin, what happened?" he says abruptly, cutting Justin off. "We used to be good, man, what happened to us that you ever thought that was cool to do? When did you stop knowing me, man?"
Justin makes a choked-sounding noise. JC's heart stutters, but he continues. "I work with you every day, but lately, man, it feels like you're a million miles away." He's holding the phone so tight, it's got to be bruising his fingers. "You work hard and I know it, kid, I got nothing but respect for you. You owe me the same, don't you think?"
"I . . . I respect you . . . C-" Justin sounds sick, like there's a frog in his throat, like he can't talk right. "- JC, you have no idea . . . "
"I guess I don't. Not if that's how you show it."
There's that sound again, part whimper and part gasp, and suddenly someone's knocking on the door, pounding on the door. JC rises leadenly to his feet, tossing the phone on the bed. He wishes he could just ignore it, ignore him - but fuck, he's never been able to ignore Justin, not even when he really wants to.
When he opens the door, Justin flies into the room, catching him by the arm and dragging him over to the table. He's got JC's notebook in his hand, and he slams it down on the table, flipping it open and turning the pages so fast JC's afraid they're going to rip.
"Look at that." Justin jabs a finger at the page he's finally found, his own loopy, messy handwriting intersected with JC's neater lettering and notations. "Look what we were writing, look." His cheeks are bright red and his eyes are glittering, and JC's almost glad to look down at the page, because that's about as desperate as he's ever seen Justin look.
He reads the writing there, then stops, goes back to the top of the page, reads it again. And again. And again. He can hear Justin breathing next to him, and it's loud like a waterfall in his ears. He reads it again.
"See?" Justin sounds small and defenseless now, the intensity drained out of him. "It was . . . I wasn't reworking it. I was, like . . . "
"Analyzing," JC breathes.
"Yeah." JC hears a rustling, and he looks up, and Justin's on the edge of the bed, bent nearly double at the waist, forearms resting on his knees, face hidden by his hands. "Wade knows that I . . . I mean, he's known for awhile that . . ." He inhales sharply and pulls himself upright, forcing himself to look at JC, who forces himself to look back. "We were really high, and I had your notebook, and I forget who suggested it, but we were looking for . . . for messages, like. Hidden, or whatever."
"In my songs?" JC stares. "Messages - to you?"
Justin's face is crimson, and he bites at his lip. "It's stupid, man, I know, you don't have to say anything about it." His gaze drops to the floor. "It's just, like, a crush or whatever," he mutters. "I didn't want to say anything. I'll get over it." He glances back up. "But I shouldn't have shown your stuff to Wade without asking first, and we shouldn't have been doing that anyway, and I'm sorry. Like, really sorry."
JC's world suddenly has all these little shimmery edges to it, and it's making him feel strangely unbalanced, like everything he thought was focused before just got a lot brighter and sharper. He blinks. The world stays crazy.
"You're weirded out now, huh?" Justin hangs his head. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't want you to know. I'll get over it, I totally will . . . " He trails off, and he's clearly waiting for JC to say something, but JC can't talk, not with his heart in his throat. He settles for moving to the bed, kneeling in front of Justin, taking his face between his hands, looking him in the eye. Justin tries to flinch away, but JC holds him still.
"Please, C," Justin whispers helplessly, "please don't hate me. We're still good, we can be good again. I'll get over it, I promise."
"Don't do that," JC tells him, and he almost doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice, it's so wavery.
"What?" The question on Justin's lips is echoed in his eyes, along with a sudden, bright flare, beautiful in its hopefulness.
"We're good." JC pulls Justin's face down to his. "Don't get over it," he murmurs.
"No?"
"No."
He leans in, Justin's breath warm on his face, and fits his mouth to Justin's, soft and gentle, like old friends, like new lovers. Justin's lips move under his, yielding to the easy pressure, parting for his tentative tongue, and returning the kiss with a delicate hunger that JC could never have guessed at.
JC's thumbs stroke down Justin's cheeks as he lightly pulls Justin's tongue into his own mouth, and suddenly Justin's on the floor with him, his arms curving around JC's shoulders and back, drawing him close with a quiet moan. JC's eyes try to slip shut, but he keeps them open. He's tasting Justin, sweet and salt together, and he wants to see what Justin looks like when he's kissing him. Did he think Justin's mouth was warm? No, it's electric, not just warm, but hot, and wicked, and grinning, and glorious.
He pulls back for a moment, but Justin follows his movement, fiercely recapturing his lips, his chin tilting under JC's fingers. "Don't you fucking go anywhere," he mutters against JC's mouth, and JC has to smile, because he's not going anywhere, not until he knows everything there is to know about kissing Justin, how he tastes, how he smells, how he groans with fervent heat - Christ, he never knew he wanted this, but it feels right, it finally feels right.
And when JC's cell phone starts ringing, he lets it go to voice mail this time - discovering and rediscovering Justin is more important, right now.