JC hates the word clique. He drawls it to himself, stretching out the i, snapping the k at the end. He says it over and over again until it loses all of its meaning but never any of its bite and sometimes he laughs because the game reminds him of simpler times.

His best friend used to say "bubblegum, bubblegum, bubblegum" over and over until JC was rolling on the ground laughing and thinking that maybe there was no such thing as bubblegum. It worked for clown and Atari and Pepsi, too, and he stops laughing every time he thinks about his life now.

He has a trick, even though he hates using it, hates being sneaky and manipulative like Lance. When it feels like he's been alone forever, and like he's in danger of withering away to nothing if one more person looks past him like he doesn't exist, he gives in and smile at Chris. The corners of his mouth tilt up, his eyes solemn and pleading.

Chris is never fooled, but he's always enchanted enough with JC's smiles, false or not, that he comes over and busily applies himself to making the fake smiles real. JC allows himself to forget that he's the freak and the arty one, the one without a clique when Chris hangs onto his back, screeching like a banshee and tickling him with rough fingers that feel like heaven scraping up and down his sides.

He tries to say friend, friend, friend over and over until it loses meaning. It never does, but he can smile at Chris and pretend.

The sky outside his hotel room is dark, and JC stares at the remainders of the sunset, an amalgation of colours that make him despair of ever really capturing what he sees onto canvas.

When he hears the rap on his connecting door, he doesn't even turn around. Chris turns the knob, and pokes his head into the room.

"We're all going to get plastered and have our way with the babes of..." Chris trails off, looking for a clue to their actual location. He finally shrugs and grins at JC.

JC looked back out the window and thinks about going to another anonymous club where they'd be paraded around like cattle and too many girls would approach them, breathless and hopeful.

"Yeah, um. I'm gonna stay in, get some sleep." He smiles at Chris, wondering who thought to include him. Mostly they don't even bother to ask anymore.

Chris looks at him carefully, like maybe he's going to say something, and JC turns away, used to being left behind, not feeling sleepy at all. He tells himself that it doesn't matter when the door clicked closed behind Chris.

JC's sound asleep with the lights still on and the TV still playing the Discovery Channel softly when Chris came bouncing into the room.

"C! C, man! What the fuck! Sleeping already?"

JC knows that Chris is in his room, knows that he should probably care, because having Chris near him is always a good thing. The bed feels soft and he was having good dreams for once, though.

"Wake your non-existent ass the fuck up!"

JC blinks, jerking back in confusion when he realizes that Chris is about three inches away from his face staring at his eyes. There's a definite urge to growl and pull his covers over his head, but Chris is dangling a baggie in front of his nose and he smells...

He sits upright, a smile skimming across his face when he remembered how they used to sit outside of whatever skanky sleazy hotel Lou had booked them in, rolling joints and talking. When he couldn't deny how much he wanted Chris, he'd stopped smoking with him, afraid of their cozy little talks and pot induced confidences.

He shakes his head. "Dude. I can't. My voice, y'know."

Chris rolls his eyes. "Do you have *any* idea how hard it is to buy weed around here?"

JC blinks. "You're a pop star. Buying pot is childishly simple for you."

"Well, yeah, okay. But I bought it for you. For us!" And Chris looks at him happily, eyes sparking mischievously. "What kind of 'Behind the Music' special will we have in ten years if we've got thrilling tales of the Discovery Channel and tepid martinis?"

"I'm no fucking saint."

Chris giggles. "The hell you're not. Saint JC, patron of all lost songwriters searching for that elusive rhyme."

JC shrugs, reaches for the baggie, looking at Chris expectantly, shaking his head when Chris produced a small pack of rolling papers. He forces himself to concentrate on what he's doing, not looking up until he finished.

Chris is laughing softly, watching cartoons on television and he settles back on the bed, lights a joint and inhales deeply before passing to JC. He tells himself that it's all just fun and comfortable and somehow rockstarrish, but two joints later, his rationalizations are wearing thin.

The covers are draped around Chris, who is leaning on JC and talking quickly and animatedly about Lance getting a blowjob from one of the O-Town guys in the bathroom.

JC just closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him, and smells Chris's hair gel and wonders if he's ever blown anyone in the bathroom of a club. He contemplates asking him if he really meant it when he said that JC wasn't in his clique. It's one of the things he hates about pot; the way things seem crystal clear and like his questions might actually have answers.

Chris pokes him, "Dude. No sleeping yet!" He's on his knees, bouncing and JC smiles at him, pictures kissing the annoyance off of Chris's face. It seems possible, and he trails a finger down Chris's face, shifting restlessly when he feels himself getting hard.

He scoots back and Chris is just watching him, confused but still smiling because when he's stoned he can't stop.

"Hey!" And Chris is pouncing, apparently thinking that JC needs to be tickled or squashed. When he lands, he's sprawled out on JC and his eyes fly open and JC closes his eyes and wishes he'd had enough balls to just say no.

Chris squirms away, and JC opens his eyes, the silence stretching between them for what feels like an infinity, until Chris crawls closer. When he trails a hand up JC's thigh, JC opens his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, but what comes out is, "Oh. Oh!"

When Chris kisses him, the pot starts to feel like a good idea. Everything's hazy and soft and Chris actually doesn't talk at all, until they're both naked and replete.

He nips at JC's earlobe and whispers, "You're definitely in my clique now."

JC laughs, because suddenly that doesn't matter to him anymore.

~end~.