Couch Potatoes 4: Justin and Lance But bickering was one thing. This felt different, dangerous. Joey had slammed the door on his way out and peeled out of Chris' drive in a cloud of dust. Justin disappeared the other way, to the back porch.
"They weren't really fighting about the
movie, were they?" JC said suspiciously.
In that case, it was one hell of a movie," Chris said and ate the last pop corn. "I'll go ... make some-- fuck. Is he okay?" and he nodded towards the back. The porch light hadn't come on, which
meant Justin was sitting out there in the dark. Which probably meant he was
crying. Over a fight about whether you really could fall in love with a hooker
in one night? True Romance was a good movie, but it wasn't that damn
good.
"Um," Lance said. He'd been expecting Chris to go out looking for Justin, but he didn't seem about to. "I'll just ... go see."
It wasn't as dark as he'd thought out there, because the moon was out and almost full. Justin sat in the couch.
Chuckle. "Hey," Lance said. Justin turned his face up, and his cheeks were glittering silvery wet. He pulled a hand over his eyes and sniffled a little, and grinned sheepishly.
"Um, hi. I'm-- yeah."
Lance sat down next to him. If Justin threw a tantrum, it was usually pretty easy to calm him down. Pat him on the back and hint at his good qualities (real or imaginary), and he curled up in your lap like a cat after a good meal. This hadn't been much of a tantrum,
though. Justin hadn't even screamed, he'd just seemed to freeze up completely
for a second, and Joey had repeated, "I mean, you have to admit that it just
ain't real," and Justin had slitted his eyes and looked like he was ready to
spit right in Joey's face. and Joey just turned and left, and Justin stood
white-faced and frozen (pillar of salt, Lance thought, confused) until the dust
settled behind Joey.
And then he ended up on the couch, on Chris' old couch, the one that the dogs loved and Chris refused to throw away. Lance had puked on that couch one night years ago, when he was getting drunk for the first time, on some disgusting concoction Chris had gotten from a friend with a still. There was still a dark stain on the armrest.
Justin was leaning on that armrest now, looking otherworldly and almost ethereal in the cold light. Angel, Lance wanted to think, but didn't.
"Are you okay?" he asked. Justin blinked a couple of times and said,
"Sure. I'm cool."
"One hundred percent and counting," Lance said, and Justin snorted.
"One hundred and ten."
"What's with--" but Justin anticipated that and put up a prohibitive hand and said, quickly,
"It's personal." Then he probably realised it sounded rude, and added, "um, you know. Private. Between us. Um. Joey. And me."
"Okay."
Lance scratched his head and looked at the moon. Justin was quiet and still, and it was more than a little unnerving. It was starting to feel like the couch was growing, and Justin was moving away along with his end. Chris' old house creaked around them. A bird chirped hopefully in the dark garden. The moon continued its carefree way across the sky.
"I'm an ass," Justin said suddenly, and Lance started and almost fell off the couch.
"You are?" he said when he got his heart out of his mouth. The night did funny things to you. Really funny things. Justin was staring at him, his eyes in deep shadows.
"Yeah. I thought--" He pulled a hand through his hair, swallowed, crossed his arms. "I just..."
Lance waited for him to continue, but there was nothing. Justin just looked up at the sky, at the moon and chewed on his lower lip. Lance looked at Justin and the moonlight in his eyes and thought he should say something profound. It was a night for it, for sure. He couldn't think of anything, so he reached out over the space between them and was surprised when his hand landed on Justin's shoulder. The couch was just an old couch, not very big, and Justin was right beside him.
"It'll be okay," he said, although he didn't know what was wrong, and couldn't really say if anything was going to be okay.
"Yeah," Justin said. "I guess it will. Is that moon full?"
"Tomorrow night."
"Do you think a guy can fall in love with a hooker after one night?" Justin asked. He was still looking up. Lance felt stupid sitting with his hand on Justin's shoulder, the position was awkward, but he didn't take it down.
"I guess," he said slowly. "Maybe I'm a romantic sap, but I even liked Pretty Woman."
"You did, I remember," and Justin grinned and looked at him. Lance grinned back and said,
"hey--" and Justin said, at the same time,
"hey, Lance--" and they moved closer to each other at the same time, and hugging was cool, hugging happened a lot, it was normal, they were touchy-feely people, all of them, but with the dark porch and the moon and the silver-lined world, it felt different.
Romantic sap, he thought. You're ridiculous, but Justin's arms were warm around him and Justin was stroking his back slowly, and there was no manly patting going on. A good hug.
"What was up with Joey?" Lance's mouth asked without consulting him. Justin stiffened but didn't pull away.
"He's-- We. It was a misunderstanding," he mumbled against Lance's neck. "It was nothing."
It felt like more. It was more, because Justin and Joey had been awkward around each other for weeks, all casual talk and hard eyes, and not looking at each other, not laughing like they used to. Ever since ... well, since the last time they were all here at Chris' new house. Everyone had been really drunk, and Joey and Justin had stayed over, Lance remembered now. Chris had told him. "They just never went home. Man, we were wasted," he'd said. Nothing out of the ordinary, though.
But he didn't ask more, because Justin was still resting his head against his shoulder, his mouth warm and damp against his neck. Warm wafts of breath sent small, sneaking shivers down Lance's back.
"Oh," Justin whispered. "Oh..."
"Wha-" and then there was a movement, and Justin turning his head and Justin's hand on his neck, and Justin's mouth on his. Brief, sudden, over in a second.
"oh, sorry, sorry," Justin said and pulled away completely, all the way back to the edge of the couch. Lance's turn to freeze.
"Justin--"
"no, I'm sorry, okay. Forget it," but he looked very distant and desolate and cold, and Lance was a romantic sap, after all, no way to deny that, so he reached across the distance again and grabbed Justin and pulled him back.
"Don't be sorry," he said and cupped the back of Justin's head, fluffy curls and hard skull and tight, tight tendons in the neck. "C'mere..."
This kiss lasted longer, and Justin opened his mouth under his, eagerly, and Lance supposed he should be surprised, but he wasn't.
And the moon continued to plod along across the clear, black sky, with no clouds to hide behind, and they sat on Chris' ratty old couch and it was good; Justin tasted like tears, salty and wet, and it was like being fourteen again, because there was no urgency, no need to get down to it or start peeling off clothes, hunt for rubbers, get hands on skin. Enough to hold and kiss and then wait for the next kiss to be deeper and more.
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