Driving gives Chris the illusion of freedom. Especially like this-- middle of the night on some random highway in the middle of Florida, no bus, no security, no fucking entourage. Just him. Him and the guy snoring in the seat next to him.

He's why they're out here-- because JC needs sleep. They're in the middle of rehearsals for the new tour and he took a good look at JC across the table tonight, watched him picking at his chicken salad, saw the dark circles under his eyes and the way his fingers unconsciously shredded a napkin after he gave up and stopped pretending to eat, and Chris knew that he wasn't sleeping. He gets this way sometimes in the middle of rehearsals, or in the middle of recording. The creation process just makes him too anxious, too jumpy to be able to relax enough to sleep. Or so he'd tried to explain to Chris once.

He looks over at JC in the dark, passing lights flashing shadows across him. He has the seat moved all the way back and reclined half-way, sandals kicked off, one leg tucked up under him, his arms crossed over his belly. Chris likes him this way, dressed in old track pants and a faded, stretched out Baltimore Orioles t-shirt, his hair unstyled, just curly and floppy, flat in the back from sleeping in the car for the past three hours. His mouth is open slightly, and Chris is pretty sure there's a spot of drool on one side. The guy is such a dork sometimes.

JC told him once that when he was a baby his mom used to put him in the car and drive him around the neighborhood when she couldn't get him to sleep, and it had worked every time. It still works. He swears he gets the best sleep on tour buses. When JC wasn't able to sleep for a week straight back when they were working on NSA and got to the point where he could barely walk straight, Chris had decided drastic measures were called for. He'd grabbed him and put him in his car and drove him around for five hours while he slept. That's when this had started-- this night driving.

They don't do it very often, mainly because JC would never ask for it. He'll wait until Chris notices. When Chris showed up at his house at 11:30 tonight with a big cup of coffee and the Cherokee, JC looked far too grateful and didn't even argue. Chris wonders if maybe he hasn't been watching closely enough.

He shifts in the seat, scowling when pain shoots up his leg from his knee. He rubs at it for a minute, straightening his leg out as much as he can until the pain recedes. His knee is fucking shot, and he wonders sometimes, especially in the middle of a grueling rehearsal schedule, how much longer he's going to be able to dance. There are times, like at 2:45 in the morning in god-knows-where Florida, when he wishes the knee would just give out already.

The thought doesn't last long, because he feels too guilty for having it. He knows that he's the only one who has achieved this level of boredom with it all. Justin is riding high on the wave of fame and adoration. Lance is having a ball building his own little empire. JC seems to be getting better and better at writing and producing every day. And Joey. hell Joey has Brianna. The rest of it is becoming just a day job for him.

He's sick of rehearsals, he's sick of touring, he's way beyond sick of interviews and appearances and parties. Even FuMan has lost a lot of its appeal, because a large part of the excitement for him was working with Dani. Now it's an effort, working together and keeping it professional. He has more money than he can imagine spending and he's already indulged in just about every vice that it can buy and found most of them not worth the price. He's beginning to wonder if there is anything new under the sun at all.

He shakes himself out of the thoughts. He won't let himself follow this train because he knows it's dangerous. He has obligations. One of which mutters and twists around in his seat until his forehead is pressed against the window, his breath making little puffs of condensation as he sleeps. They are not obligations that he will ever regret.

He thinks maybe his choice of music, a mix cd he named Lesbians with Guitars when he burned it, is too maudlin for three o'clock in the morning and reaches over and pops the cd out, quickly finding a station that's playing Pink. He leaves it there because he figures it's highly unlikely that her lyrics will make him start questioning his life.

Fifteen minutes later, Chris has managed to banish his dark thoughts but he's yawning and the gas tank is getting low. It doesn't take long before he finds a 24-hour gas-station/minimart that looks a bit like a brightly lit oasis plopped down in the middle of nowhere by some benevolent beings. When the car stops, JC blinks and looks up, wiping at the corner of his mouth before sitting up. Fucking adorable, Chris thinks.

"Where are we?"

Chris shrugs. "Somewhere near Fort Myers, I think. Need gas and caffeine. Want anything?"

JC shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face and through his mess of hair. Chris grabs his wallet and climbs out of the car. The cooler air feels good, but his knees pop painfully when he puts weight on them. He walks around the car and starts fueling while trying to work the kinks out of his knees and back.

"Your knee's hurting?" JC asks from the passenger window. His arm is resting along the window sill, his chin propped on his arm and he's watching Chris through the side mirror.

"A little," Chris answers, looking away and leaning against the car. "Gonna need a cortisone shot before the tour." He doesn't look, but he knows JC is making a face at the thought.

After a few minutes, JC starts humming an Ani Difranco song, something that played an hour earlier when he was asleep. Chris grins and joins in, occasionally adding lines of lyrics. When the pump clicks off, he looks over to see JC smiling at him, perfectly happy to be humming in the parking lot of a gas station in BF Florida at three in the morning.

"Sure you don't want anything?"

"Nope." And that's JC, there are plenty of things he wants but very few he'll actually ask for.

When Chris climbs back in the car, JC is flipping through his case of mix cds. He hands one of the two cups he's carrying to JC. "They actually had mint tea bags, so I got you tea."

"Thanks," JC grins and sets the cds down, wrapping both hands around the cup and inhaling the scent of the tea before sipping at it. He sets the tea in the cup holder and digs into his backpack while Chris downs some of his coffee, thankful that the milk he put in it has cooled it down enough. "Here," JC says, handing over two Advil from his ever present stash of vitamins and over-the-counter remedies. What Chris really needs is a Vicodan, but that would have him knocked out before he could get them safely back to Orlando. He smiles and takes the pills, swallowing them with more coffee.

As Chris starts the car and makes his way out of the parking lot, JC picks up the cd case again. "You have some weird titles, man. I can't figure out what's on some of these. Like, Rage, Loud, I get that. But what the fuck is Green Dogs?"

"Some weird mood I was in last summer, I think. Shit, I can't even remember what's on there."

JC just looks at him for a few seconds, like he's trying to get inside Chris' head and figure him out. Chris almost wants to wish him good luck. It's not like he can figure out his own head sometimes. He thinks the cd is filled with angry, depressing songs, but he can't for the life of him remember what the title meant at the time. It probably meant nothing at all. Finally, JC looks away and pulls one out called Whiskey and pops it into the player. Tom Waits' voice fills the car and he nods in satisfaction before picking up his tea again. "We going back?"

"I'm all for heading to the Keys, but when we don't show up for rehearsal in five hours, shit will hit the fan."

"We wouldn't want that."

"Fuck no," Chris answers in the same sarcastic tone, but the urge to head South is nearly overwhelming. One look over at JC's wistful face tells him he's not alone in that impulse.

Once he's back on the highway, heading North, JC settles back into the seat comfortably, his left arm propped behind his head. Chris can feel his eyes on him for several minutes before he finally speaks, softly, seriously. "What do you get out of this?"

"Huh?"

"These drives. You must get something out of it."

"I love to watch you drool in your sleep," Chris answers in his best deadpan.

JC snorts. "Seriously, Chris."

Chris scratches at his beard and sighs. "I dunno. Sometimes I get really fucking claustrophobic in that house. Driving is good. It. I get all these thoughts rattling around, banging into each other in my head and can't shut it off. But. driving, in the middle of the night like this. I. fuck. It slows the shit in my head down."

He looks over and JC is nodding, like he understands what Chris is trying to explain. "Do you do this by yourself? Or just when I can't sleep?"

"If I did this alone, C, I probably wouldn't ever turn around."

JC is silent for a few minutes, then moves to finish his tea before laying back again and yawning.

"Whenever you feel like driving, just ask, Chris," he finally says softly, sounding like he's already half asleep.

Chris looks over at him and smiles. His eyes are closed, his breathing already deep and slow. He has one hand tucked under the edge of his t-shirt against his stomach, the other lying loosely on the center console between them. Chris reaches out and grazes his finger-tips over JC's palm, watching his fingers twitch at the sensation. There are ink stains on his index finger and thumb.

"Thanks," he whispers, not expecting any response. Instead, he finds his hand caught, JC's fingers entwining with his own and holding him there.

"Welcome," JC mumbles, then falls silent as the car lulls him into sleep.

Chris stares at their hands for a moment before turning his attention back to the road. They haven't talked about this-- this thing that seems to be happening between them lately. And that's okay, Chris thinks, because talking only seems to get him in trouble these days. And this thing feels delicate, easy to break.

As he brings his speed up to 85, passing a sign that says Orlando- 148 miles, he thinks that he lied to JC earlier. He's pretty sure he would head back to Orlando if he went on night drives by himself, because maybe there are a few new things happening there. Maybe his life is about to start getting interesting again.

~end~