Reading

by >>Jae

One thing about Chris, one of the million great things about Chris, was that he was easy to read. At least Justin thought so. Chris never asked for anything. But Justin could always tell what he wanted, and he tried his best to give it to him.

Chris hated nagging, mocked whining ruthlessly, would roll his eyes and walk away from complaints. The band was his job, rehearsals were work to him and he despised shirking with a clear bright contempt. That was why Jason was gone. Justin had liked him a lot, liked his easy laugh and friendly chatter, but Chris had found him lazy and "worthless, J, completely worthless. He's no use to me."

Chris lost patience easily, and with it his temper, and Justin knew he was exasperated by Lance's primness, his slow drawl, the quick blush that spread from his cheeks to his forehead and the base of his neck when he was criticized. "But he's a workhorse, Justin, I'll give him that," Chris said one afternoon, shaking his head in reluctant admiration. "Boy's not afraid to sweat." Justin had pulled a muscle the next day trying to earn the same praise.

He never got it, but Chris gave him other things that Justin valued even more. A few days a week after rehearsal, he'd let Justin ride shotgun, accompanying him on errands that Justin found slightly exotic and deliciously grown-up: the currency exchange, the Laundromat, the shabby messy apartments of Chris' many friends and acquaintances and hangers-on.

Justin pushed McDonald's bags from the seat onto the floor, ignored his seatbelt, put his hand on the roof and hung his arm out the window the same way Chris did. Chris drove carelessly, one hand on the wheel, speeding and swearing and singing along loudly with the radio. Justin sang along with Chris and knew with a pure thrill of joy that his mother would die if she could see him.

Justin trotted behind as Chris prowled through record stores, holding dusty stacks of albums as Chris mumbled and crowed over his discoveries and listening attentively as Chris explained why Bob Stinson's departure was the start of the Replacements' long slow spinout. Justin trailed behind Chris through the doors of clubs and bars, Chris taking it for granted that they'd let Justin in. Mostly they did. Justin threw up in an alley the first time he did shots with Chris' strong hands grasping his head, and obediently ate the egg McMuffin and drank the huge orange juice Chris brought him the next morning. He whimpered on Chris' couch after rehearsing through his first hangover. He read friendship in the way Chris fetched aspirin and tepid water and said "lightweight" with a quiet chuckle.

Justin adored him.

Chris told him the truth, always, even when it made Justin mad. Justin appreciated that in theory, knew it meant he was an equal, but it wasn't easy to remember when he was fighting hard not to sulk after Chris told him he was the third-best singer in the band. He bit his lip and looked out the car window and thought, you asked for it, you asked for it. "Listen, J, don't ask me if you don't want to know," Chris said irritably.

"I asked for it," Justin whispered. Chris shot him a look and Justin studied his hands, neatly folded in his lap.

But Chris' blunt honesty eased things for him, too. Justin had always been edgy around Lou, flinching away from his touch and then feeling stupid. He only really felt comfortable around him when his mother was in the room, and she couldn't always be there, and Justin was too old for that anyway. When his mom wasn't around, he liked to keep JC or Chris near him. JC stepped in front of him almost instinctively, but Justin felt Chris' eyes on him. One day at the end of rehearsal Chris and JC talked in a corner for a minute, and Justin heard JC say, "All right, but you let me handle it."

The next thing Justin knew, he was sitting in a diner listening to JC talk for a long, long time about respect and personal space and a lot of other things. He played with the salt and pepper shakers until he heard JC ask, "Do you understand what we're saying?"

Justin kept his eyes on the table, feeling sheepish. "Um, not really."

Chris laughed. "Yeah, no fucking kidding. Look at me," and when Justin did, he said, "Is Lou freaking you out?"

Justin looked down again and said, "No. I mean, not really." Chris made an impatient sound and Justin said, "Kind of. Yes."

JC said, "He hasn't. You know. Has he -"

Chris said, "Has he tried anything?"

"No!" Justin said, feeling himself blush up to the roots of his hair. "God, no."

"Yeah, well, what JC was trying to say was if he ever does, you tell me right away."

"Or me," JC said.

"Yeah," Chris said, "you tell C, and he'll, I don't know, write a strongly worded letter or something, and you tell me, and I'll cut his balls off and give them to you for earrings."

Justin laughed, and Chris put a hand under his chin and made Justin look at him. "Seriously, J, if he does anything, anything, that bothers you at all, we'll never be freaked out or mad at you. As long as you tell us the truth."

It wasn't like it really changed anything; Justin still had to stand there and let Lou talk to him and pat him on the shoulder and he still didn't like it. But Chris stood behind Lou, waited for Justin to notice him and tugged on his own earlobe, and Justin laughed in the middle of what was unfortunately a serious discussion about his vocal technique. Even though he had to listen to very long lectures on courtesy and concentration from both Lou and his mother, he felt a little less sick to his stomach whenever Lou was around, and he knew that was because of Chris.

There were things Justin could do for Chris, too, things only Justin understood about him. Chris had moods, dark vicious spells when he'd brood and snap and say mean things he'd never apologize for. His bad temper always surprised the other guys, and they cut a wide swath around Chris until they were sure he was back to normal. It surprised Justin that no one else seemed to realize that Chris' moods were predictable. The signs were so clear, he figured no one else ever really looked for them. He guessed no one else had his reasons to.

The first of the month was always a bad time, and any time he was completely broke, and sometimes talking to his family set him off. Not always, sometimes Chris would laugh into the phone until he was breathless, and when he finally hung up he'd tackle Justin to the ground and tickle him until he shrieked. But sometimes he whispered, hunching his shoulders and running his hand through his hair till it stood on end, and when he finished his face would be set in tight harassed lines. Those were the worst times. Justin had learned the hard way that sympathy was not what Chris wanted, the lesson sinking into his body as he hugged his knees and rocked himself on the steps to Chris' building, cruel words stinging in his ears. He knew now to lie on his stomach on Chris' floor or curl up in his armchair, asking no questions and carefully not comprehending any insults Chris flung his way. He waited the storm out, marking the signs that told him it was waning, and was rewarded when Chris flopped down next to him and turned on the TV and let Justin pick the channel, or grabbed his keys and drove through the dark streets, listening to Justin spin stories about what it would be like when they were famous.

Those were his favorite times, Justin thought, even though he was often still smarting from things Chris said earlier. Those late nights when he heard Chris' first startled laugh or watched the tension slowly ebb from Chris' face. He felt like he glimpsed something in Chris on those nights, something usually hidden behind Chris' cool. It was like the moment when he first understood that the squiggly black markings on the page of his book meant something. He couldn't decipher them yet, but he knew there was something to be revealed.

He didn't understand why JC found Chris so confusing, why Joey so often pissed him off without meaning to, why Lance was so scared of him. Chris was easy to read if you tried.

Or maybe Justin was just a quick study.