Easy Come, Easy Go

Easy Come, Easy Go
by Helen
What makes me treat you the way that I do
It must be love baby
That's why I'm so good to you

1. My love is a mountainside.
The man enters the building through the back entrance, and walks down the wide grimy hallway, past the kitchen and the laundry to the service elevator. He walks briskly, and only punches the elevator button once, even though it takes some minutes for it to arrive. On the fifth floor, the elevator stops, and a maid gets on, pushing a laundry cart. He nods at her, and they ride in silence to the eighth floor. She gets off, and the elevator continues up to the fourteenth floor, where the man gets off, and walks down the hallway, past rows of identical doors. Near the end of the hallway, the man stops, shrugs his shoulders a few times, and then knocks on the door. He shifts slightly on the balls of his feet, like a batter watching for a pitch, and when he door is opened, there is a gun in his hand.
He shoots once. The gun has a silencer. Before the body can pitch forward into the hallway, he shoves it back into the apartment, stepping inside and swinging the door shut behind him.
There are screams, cut off by another shot, a soft sharp sound. There's a body on the couch, a broad red splatter of blood and bone on the wall above the end table, blood speckling the carpets and the floor. The man tucks away his gun, and reaches behind him to slip a large envelope and a knife out of a special holder between his shoulder blades. The knife is a butcher cleaver, sharp and heavy. He puts it down on the table, and then opens the hall closet, rifling quickly through the coats. He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the inside of the closet door, and rolls up his shirtsleeves before putting on a heavy, full-length raincoat, buttoning all the buttons and flipping up the collar. He closes the closet door and crouches down by the body, bringing the knife down in one clean blow.
He drops the coat on the floor next to the body, and then goes into the kitchen to wash his face and hands and the knife, drying it carefully before sliding it back into the holster. He puts on his jacket and steps into the empty hallway, flipping the full envelope into the mail chute on the way past. He rides back down in the elevator, which stops on the fourth floor, letting on a bellboy, and stops again on the second floor to let him off. The man leaves out the back, the same way he came. The whole thing takes perhaps twenty minutes; it would have been fifteen without the hand, but it was a special job. He charged extra.

By the time he got back to his apartment, the tiredness was starting to set in. He drew a long breath when he opened the door, starting to unbutton his jacket one handed. Music was playing, and Justin was curled up on the couch with an album cover in his hands. He put it down when he saw Chris, unfolded himself from the couch, came across the floor to kiss him, take his jacket, hang it carefully in the hall closet.
"A bath," Chris said, and Justin smiled and kissed him again, drawing him down the hall.
The water was almost scaldingly hot, and they sighed in unison when they sank down into it, the water lapping gently near the edges of the tub. Chris leaned his head back against Justin's shoulder, letting Justin wash his chest and arms, and sing in his ear, the same song he was listening to when Chris came in. He put his hand on Justin's knee, under the water. When they were done, Justin got him a towel, and then they went to bed, Justin wrapping his legs around Chris' waist and whimpering when Chris licked his neck.
"Kitten," Chris called him. "Dollface."

* * *
They woke up at eleven, and went down to the club, because Chris had some business with Joey. The Monteleone Lounge was a dim busy club downtown. The bar was mobbed most nights, men tucking bills into the uniformed bartenders' hands, and a steady trickle of waiters moving between the bar and the long curved row of booths along edge of the dance floor, the seats upholstered in sleek burgundy leather. Chris walked briskly down to Joey's booth, leaning across the table, grinning, to shake his hand, and then sitting down, making room for Justin to slide in next to him.
Chris had a scotch and ordered a rum and Coke for Justin. JC was already in the middle of his set, and Chris and Joey talked quietly under the music, and Justin turned out, slightly, away from them, to watch JC, his drink forgotten. In a half hour, before JC was finished, Lance would come out and sit down with them, talk to Joey on the other side of them. He would sound tired; Lance sounded tired a lot. After, JC would finish his set and come down, and Chris and Justin would stand up to let him in, next to Joey. Joey would kiss him, and turn back to talk to Lance, one absent hand on JC's thigh.

2. It stands so firm it can calm the tide.
"Just make sure he's taken care of," Joey had said. "Gets home safe, has enough spending money, that kind of thing."
JC's apartment was in a building Joey owned. Lance wasn't sure how that happened, only that he was away on business for a month, and when he got back, JC was singing at the club, most nights, and going home with Joey after. Lance shook his hand, soft and bony, and went into the back room; he didn't know much about music.
He didn't expect JC to last long
When JC was done with his set, he'd come down and sit next to Joey, slide in next to him, his sharp shiny suit, his flushed cheeks. Joey didn't talk to him much, Lance noticed. Joey was conducting business, always. He was a good boss, and a fair boss, and didn't fuck around. Lance had always liked that, even back when he was running errands and calling Joey's uncle Mr. Fatone. One afternoon, Joey had come into the back tiny office where Lance worked and asked if he wanted to go to lunch. Lance had called Joey Mr. Fatone, then. Now he said "Hey, Joey," and was one of the few who did, but in his head, Joey was still Mr. Fatone.
Joey didn't talk to JC at the club, but he touched him: his cheek or his neck, or one hand around his waist. When JC was singing, Joey watched the stage occasionally, nonchalantly, nodding to himself, satisfied. He left the club with JC on Thursdays and Sundays; Fridays and the Mondays, there was always spring in his step. Word was, JC was a hell of a lay.

* * *
The first time, Joey stopped him, one hand on his wrist. "Can you drive JC home tonight?" he said. "I have some things to take care of." His eyes slanted sideways towards Chris, who was slouched back in the booth, lighting a cigarette.
"Of course," Lance said.
The car was very silent, and dark. JC looked out the window, hands quiet in his lap.
"I liked your songs, tonight," Lance said, to break the silence. JC turned in his seat, and even in the shadow, Lance could see that he was smiling.
"Any one you liked in particular?" he said.
"I—" Lance said, who hadn't listened, exactly. It hadn't sounded bad.
"oh," JC said, but he didn't sound offended.
"I'll walk you up," Lance said, when they got to JC's building.
"That's not necessary," JC said. Lance got out of the car, and walked around to the sidewalk.
"I'll walk you up," he said, and JC stared at him for a second, and then nodded. He lived on the third floor, and they walked up the carpeted steps in silence. At the door, JC said, gravely.
"thank you," and went inside, closing the door quietly behind him.
Lance drove JC home for almost a year.

3. My love is an ocean roar
"Who the fuck are you?"
The kid blinked in the dim light then straightened up, pushing himself away from the wall. "I'm—Ricky sent me," he said.
"Ricky sent you," Chris said flatly. Fucking Ricky, and he remembered now that he'd set up something, but the job had driven it out of his mind, so that was his fault, but it wasn't his fault that he had this lanky pretty kid on his hands, because Ricky knew what he liked, and he didn't like them underage. He liked them little and dark haired and not too young, all three of which this kid was definitely not.
"I can do whatever you want," he said. He shifted anxiously on his feet. "I mean. there's nothing I don't do or anything."
"Yeah, I bet there ain't," Chris said, shaking his head and unlocking the door.
The thing was, the adrenaline was starting to kick in, and he was feeling restless; the kid looked sideways and flicked his tongue slyly across his lips. Chris let him in. He dropped his keys on the table and took off his jacket, pouring himself a drink and sinking into an armchair before turning around to see the kid slouched in the doorway of the living room.
"How old are you, anyway?"
"Who are you, child protective services?" the kid said sulkily. "Nineteen," and he was probably lying. When Chris' eyes flickered towards him, his face changed, eyes widening slightly. "look, I just really need the money," he said softly, "so—" And Chris had to hand it to him—for not being his type at all, the kid had a pretty mouth. He came across the room and slithered down between Chris' knees and unfastened his pants, and gave Chris a sharp victorious grin before bending his head.

* * *
Ricky was apologetic the next time they spoke.
"You gotta understand, Mr. Kirkpatrick," he kept saying, "it was a one time only thing. I didn't have anyone, and I didn't want to stand you up, but it won't happen again."
"mm," Chris said. Ricky was a jackass, but he was afraid of Chris, which was convenient.
"I can send Ben over tonight," Ricky said. "half price, even, 'cause I feel bad, about."
"What's that kid's name?" Chris said.
"Kid—oh, you mean Justin?"
"Justin. send Justin over."
Ben was a sullen little fuck, who rarely smiled, and had stolen fifty bucks from his wallet once.

* * *
"Hi," Justin said. He leaned the doorway and flashed a movie star grin at Chris.
"Come in."
"I guess," Justin said, sauntering after him down the hallway to the bedroom, "you decided I—"
"Take your clothes off," Chris said. Justin shrugged, and complied, stripping his shirt off over his head, toeing off his shoes, pulling his pants off and draping them over the chair. He wasn't wearing any underwear.
"Siddown," Chris said. He turned briefly, casually, away, and when he turned back, there was a knife in his hand. Quickly, he twisted back Justin's head, pulling his hair roughly, and laid the blade of the knife along his throat.
"The first thing you need to understand," he said, "is that I don't want any backtalk."
"okay."
"that clear?"
"yes," Justin whispered.
"Okay, then." Chris put the knife back in the drawer and slid it closed. He put one knee on the bed, and Justin slid back, and parted his legs a little.

Lance drove JC home every night that Joey didn't take him, JC quiet in the passenger seat.
"Do you, um. Mr. Bass?" JC called after him one night.
"yes?" He turned, and walked back up the hallway to JC's door.
"Would you like to come in for coffee?" JC smiled at him. He'd already taken off his overcoat and scarf, and as Lance watched, he loosened his tie, a little, and rubbed the back of his neck.
"I'm expected back at the club," Lance said.
"oh." JC ran a hand through his hair. "I just. I have a hard time getting to sleep after I sing.".
"well. I have to get back," Lance said.
"of course," JC said. "I understand."
"You can call me Lance," he said, and touched the back of JC's hand, quickly, before walking away. In the car, he wondered why he'd done it.

* * *
"Can you pick JC up something for his birthday?" Joey said. "Something nice."
He bought JC a watch, slender, but chunky, with an intricate silver face, and his initials engraved on the back, and Joey smiled, and clapped in him on the shoulder, and said it was perfect. JC wore it all the time.

"I been thinking about getting a dog," Chris said.
Joey laughed, and even Lance smiled quietly, looking down at his drink. "What makes you think you could take care of a dog?" Joey said.
"thanks very much," Chris said.
"You know I don't mean nothing by it," Joey said, signaling casually for another round of drinks. "I'd kill a dog, if I had one. Lance, now," he took a sip of his drink. "Lance would give the dog baths and remember to take it for walkies—" He sounded amused, but there was a dry edge to his voice. Chris shrugged. Lance lit a cigarette and looked up at the stage.

When Lance picked JC up for the club, JC was usually waiting for him in the lobby, or just coming down the stairs, but this time, JC opened the door for him, smiling.
"you're early," he said, motioning Lance inside.
"It's freezing in here," Lance said, and JC's smile faltered a little. He was wearing a thick sweater, and a scarf.
"Well, my heater is." He shrugged. "y'know."
"The super should take care of that," Lance said, as JC pulled off the sweater and put on his jacket.
"I know." He put on his overcoat and hat, and opened the apartment door. "I just don't like to bother him, is all."
Lance followed him down the hallway. "Is he bothering you?"
"No," JC said. "of course not. No." He twisted his head, and smiled again.
Lance waited until JC had seated himself in the car to say. "Wait here."
"What?" JC said, but Lance had already turned. "Lance, don't."
"Wait in the car," Lance said.
He was back in fifteen minutes, buckling himself calmly into the car before saying "The heat will be fixed when you get back tonight."
"You didn't have to do that," JC said.

* * *
It was so easy for Joey, Lance thought, watching him bent solicitously over JC, stealing a sip of his drink, and whispering a joke in his ear. JC laughed, and looked up at him, and Lance thought about his cool, empty apartment, the expensive furniture, black and grey and chrome, and wondered how hard it could really be. He had a lot of money, and looked sharp, and powerful, he knew. He thought about what it would be like to get back from the club and have someone waiting for him, sitting up in the bed, and smiling sleepily, kissing him, whispering that he'd been missed, and he thought he wouldn't really care too much if it were a lie.
Tomorrow, he thought, he'd go out, wear a nice suit, meet some people.
JC's apartment was tiny and cluttered with mismatched furniture, sheet music and album covers, magazines and the odd pack of cigarettes or chocolate bar, empty teacups and broken spined novels, the scarves and butterscotch candies JC used when his throat was sore, half full boxes of record player needles, a photograph of Joey and JC in Atlantic City, a soprano saxophone and a mandolin, lush unkempt plants in the windows. The bedroom door was rarely closed.
JC turned, and smiled at him, and said "you're taking me home," and turned back to Joey for a moment, kissing his cheek, and Lance thought about the way JC would touch his hand in thanks when he dropped him at the door, thought about how JC would ask him in, and take off his jacket, and unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt, the pale skin at his throat, his mobile mouth, and knew he wouldn't go out. Not tomorrow night, not ever.

Chris was a good tipper. He had Tuesday nights, and sometimes Justin had to wait in the hallway for a half an hour before Chris showed up, leather jacket, dark glasses, creases around his mouth. Those nights he wanted to fuck Justin hard, and then he'd get up and make himself a grilled cheese sandwich. He usually made Justin one, too, which Justin learned to choke down quickly because Chris usually wanted him again after that, pushing Justin' s head down to his dick, or pulling Justin down on top of him in a chair, gripping his hips tightly.
Other nights, Chris would already be home when he came, padding to the door barefoot, black pants, old short-sleeved undershirt, and those nights he liked it slow, wanted Justin to strip off slowly, had him do all sorts of things, jerk off in front of him, and the first few times there was that awkward moment when he had to tell Chris that it would be more if he stayed. Chris looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before saying
"d'you get more? or just Ricky."
"I get more," Justin had said. He didn't really enjoy being naked when the john wasn't. When he was with some turned on john who wanted to fuck him, that was one thing, but he hated sitting on a couch without any clothes on with Chris idly touching his nipples and watching television. It didn't show, he didn't think.
Still, Chris tipped really well, throwing a hundred on the bed one morning while he was getting dressed and saying "buy yourself something nice, kid." Once he said "buy yourself a new shirt, I'm sick of that one." and Justin did. Chris wasn't bad. He liked normal, easy stuff, and didn't care if Justin was in love with him or not. Once, early on, while Justin was wiggling underneath him, reaching for his face to pull him down for a kiss, looking up at him adoringly, Chris pulled back, sitting back on his knees. "cut that out," he said. "I don't want that."
Chris probably did something illegal to make that much money, but Justin didn't care; he did, too. Chris was a good tipper.

"You're a slut," Joey said, his eyes red-rimmed in a splotchily pale face. He'd banged on JC's door until JC had woken up and let him in, sitting him down on the couch, and wrapping a blanket around him. Joey didn't have a coat on, and the shoulders of his jacket were wet from the rain.
"what's wrong," JC said. His feet were cold.
"nothing," Joey said. "come here."
"not while you're—Joey, come on," JC said, and squirmed out of his grasp.
"you slut," Joey said. "fuck you."
"don't—"
"You think I couldn't find fifty people who sing better 'n you?" Joey said.
"don't say things like that—"
"I'll say whatever the fuck I want," Joey said.
"Let me call Mr. Bass," JC said.
"You're afraid to be with me," Joey muttered.
"Joey, please—"
"You fucking call him," Joey said, and lurched to his feet. He fished a small address book out of his breast pocket and flung it down on the coffee table, and then he went into the bedroom, and JC heard the creak and sigh of bedsprings.
Lance showed up quickly, impassive and neat, as though it weren't 3 am. His eyes flickered over JC's thin pajamas, the haphazardly buttoned top, his bare feet, and JC wrapped his arms around himself, and felt suddenly self-conscious.
"He's in the bedroom," he said. Lance sighed.
"I'm sorry about this, really," he said. "did he hurt you?"
"no. no. I don't think. He wouldn't," JC said, and Lance smiled, faintly.
"I don't think he would either." There was a long silence, broken only by the low snores coming from the bedroom. "I'll just. um. then," Lance said, turning towards the bedroom door.
"thank you for coming," JC said.
"anytime," Lance said.

* * *
"He's afraid of me," Joey said, in the elevator.
Lance opened his mouth, and then closed it. JC's voice had been shaky on the other end of the line, jolting him awake.
"I shouldn't've done that," Joey said. He was silent, as a few floors ticked by. "I said things."
"You'll fix it," Lance said.
"I wanted." Joey sighed and shoved his hair back off his forehead.

* * *
When Lance turned the key in the ignition, the jazz station he'd been listening to, JC's favorite station, echoed through the car,
"—orry, for being so untrue—" Lance flicked it off, guilt settling in his stomach like a cold hard stone.
"Remember how we used to go out?" Joey murmured, slumped back in the seat.
"Sure," Lance said.
"We should do that again, sometime."
"sure," Lance said.
When he first moved up, he and Joey used to go out most Saturday nights. There hadn't been much of a social scene in Mississippi, and Joey showed him where to buy the right clothes, and what kind of drinks to order. He helped Lance meet girls, although it never seemed to go anywhere once he was alone with them. Joey could make things happen, make people fly towards each other and apart like a magnet, spinning around everyone he encountered into brighter, better, louder versions of themselves. No one ever did anything without expecting something in return—that was business, Lance had learned, and everything was business, even leaning against the bar at Joey's uncle's club and drinking late into the night, even when he drove Joey home, and Joey turned to him with shining eyes, before he got out of the car, and patted his cheek.
"You're a good friend," he said. All Joey had ever seemed to want was someone to reflect his brightness.
There was only one thing he had ever asked for. "You're with me," he asked, the day he came in and put a loaded pistol down on Lance's desk. Lance looked at his face, his dark serious eyes, his hand on top of the gun, and reached out and put his hand on top of Joey's.
"Tonight, then," Joey said. Lance nodded. Joey leaned down, and kissed his cheek.

Justin cancelled that Tuesday, leaving a message with Chris' answering service. The girl read it off in a chirpy alto: Justin couldn't make it, but would be there the following week. He called Ricky to tell him not to fuck around with Justin's scheduling, but Ricky said Justin was supposed to be at his place, right then.
"I don't know what to tell you," he said.
"yeah," Chris said. "What's his address?"
"Look, I—I can send someone else around, if—"
"I want his address," Chris said quietly, and there was a long strained pause on the other end of the line, before Ricky sighed, and started talking.
Justin lived in a slender high-rise tenement, which might have been graceful and modern once, but was, by this time, tired, the concrete grey and dank, cluttered with tiny balconies. Chris rapped hard on the door, and when there was no answer, picked the lock. Justin was sitting on the couch eating a candy bar and holding an icepack to his eye, and when Chris opened the door he stood up in some alarm, holding his hands up in front of him.
"Take it easy," Chris said.
"I didn't. I wasn't blowing you off," Justin said, and Chris considered saying "You're damn right you weren't," but then Justin lowered his hands, and he saw the yellow and purple splotched bruises down the side of his face, the cut lip, the black eye.
"sorry," Justin said, and gave him a tight little smile.
Chris cleaned the scrapes on his hands and on his ribs again, because Justin had done a haphazard job, and threw out the candy bar. "you shouldn't be eating shit like this," he said. Justin didn't argue. His clothes were strewn around the room, and he had an old black and white television in the corner. Chris sat down and they watched a sit-com rerun, the characters barely recognizable through the snow on the screen. At the end, his eyes fixed on the rolling credits, Chris said
"Do you want to move in with me?"
"um," Justin said. "You mean like you'd be my pimp?"
"No," Chris said sharply. Justin flinched. "no, no. you only have sex with me."
"oh," Justin said. "well—"
"I can buy you nice clothes and things. records. whatever you want," Chris said.
"Ricky," Justin said softly.
"I'll take care of it," Chris said.

Joey took JC out to a nice dinner, the week after, and only had two glasses of wine.
"I'm sorry," he said, and JC didn't bother to pretend he didn't know what Joey was talking about. "You want more bread?" Joey asked.
"I'm fine," JC said.
"I shouldn't. it's just you're the only person I—"
"It's okay," JC said.
"I got you something," Joey said, and pulled a small wrapped package out of his breast pocket. It was a slender silver cigarette case, with a clever spring latch, and when JC opened it, there was a small folded piece of paper that said, "I'm sorry," in Joey's clumsy scrawl
"You like it?" Joey asked
"I. thank you," JC said.
Joey drove him home, and slid to his knees on the floor by the couch, between JC's thighs and kissed him, gently, fingers sifting through his hair, and stroking down his back.
"I should go," he said.
"no," JC said, "stay," and bent to kiss him again.
The first time he pulled out the cigarette holder, though, he looked up and caught Lance staring at him, on Joey's other side, his eyes glittering slightly in the low light of the club, a trick of the light. He knew Lance had picked it out.

It wasn't the money, because he'd almost always had too much money. He watched other whores spend it on drugs or clothes or fancy places to live, and he'd thought it must be the thing to do. Once or twice, he bought horse or dope or some new clothes, but that was just business. He ate at diners, the afternoon special, and kept candy bars around for when he got hungry; johns sometimes got a kick out of taking him out to some fancy restaurant, and he put up with it, but the food didn't fill him up any differently.
For a while, Ricky made him share with some new kid, who was stupid, and talked too much, stole his shit, and tried to kiss him once, twining his arms around his neck, and pinning him back against the sink, and later on he cried, and said he missed his girlfriend, and Justin told him he was a stupid little shit, and that the girl was probably fucking someone else right then.
"You're a fucking piece of work," Ricky said, later, and slapped him.
"yeah, yeah," Justin said.
He'd thought it might get boring, fucking Chris all the time, but at least it would be a new kind of boring. Chris was sleek and sharp and much too cool to ever fall in love with him, and Justin admired that. It had occurred to him only recently, while he lay in bed with some john stroking his side, face pressed against his back, that it was boring fucking people he felt nothing but contempt for. Lately, he'd been trying to keep himself awake by answering every question he was asked honestly.
"You must really love fucking," some john or another had said to him, a few weeks ago, one clammy hand on his thigh.
"I can take it or leave it," he said, and bit his lip to keep from laughing at the expression on the guy's face.
"who the fuck do you think you are, you fucking little punk," Ricky had said, and hit him some, and then fucked him, but Ricky was like that. Justin thought he was an idiot.
The last guy Justin had been honest with had backhanded him, knocking him back against the wall, and then dropping him to the ground, crouching down to slap him again while Justin gasped for breath. After the guy left, he rolled to his knees and pressed his thumb carefully against the corner of his mouth. The blood on his hand made him laugh, a little; when he saw his face in the mirror, his swollen mouth and blue-black eye, he felt strangely exhilarated.
"This don't mean," Chris said, unlocking the car door for him, "that I give a shit about your sad sad story."
"right," Justin said. When he was trying to squeeze sympathy money out of people he told them he'd been in an orphanage. Ricky came up with that. His parents lived on a farm just outside Macon. He called them once or twice a year; his mother didn't talk to him, but his father would get on the telephone and tell him about the price of corn, or hogs, until he remembered why he'd run off in the first place, and said he had to go.

JC called him just after lunch, one afternoon.
"I—hello? Lance?" JC said.
"Is something wrong?" Lance said.
"Well, no," JC said. "well, yes—my sink is leaking, and it's really, very—" There were some drips and splashes in the background, and then JC said. "It's just I don't really have the money to, um, pay for a plumber, and I was wondering if—"
"You know Joey will pay for that," Lance said.
"yes," JC said quietly. He sighed. "I wanted to make sure."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Lance said.
When JC was on stage, he wore tailored suits, cut snug to his body, but not tight. At his apartment he wore old khakis, frayed at the seams, often turned up a bit at the ankle, because JC almost never wore shoes inside. He wore old undershirts and crumpled blue button-downs, sleeves rolled up. JC always made him coffee, offered him cookies, and at first Lance said it was all right, but he really ought to be getting back, but then it started to seem a little rude, the full pot of coffee, JC's smile a bit wider than merely polite. They sat at the kitchen table, and the coffee was good, hot and strong, and JC talked about singing, sometimes, the songs he was thinking about adding to the set. He asked Lance's opinion even though Lance didn't know much about music. They talked about politics, a little, and current events. JC had a little television in his living room. He said he watched the news, and quiz shows, and that he didn't usually know the answers. They didn't talk about Joey.

Chris cleared part of the closet and a drawer for Justin, and then checked his watch and said he'd be back in two hours. He was back, in two hours exactly, and found Justin with the cabinet open, looking at his record collection.
"um," Justin said, starting to stand up. "it's okay if I—" he gestured towards the records.
"sure," Chris said.
"Did you get something to eat?" he said, and when Justin said no, made him a large roast beef sandwich with a bowl of coleslaw on the side. "You can make yourself something if you're hungry," Chris said, and got himself a beer from the refrigerator.
"I wasn't sure," Justin mumbled, through a large bite of roast beef.

* * *
In the dark, Justin said "do you. um." and reached blindly for Chris, hand landing on his elbow.
"Jesus Christ," Chris said. "You look like—. go to sleep."

* * *
The bruises were fading on this cheek, although still feathered pale yellow and blue over his ribs, when Chris finally fucked him. The grace period had made him nervous, like Chris might change his mind now that he was there, and Ricky could be counted on to be spiteful if he wanted to go back. Now that he was in Chris' big swank apartment, with the soft couches and the meals Chris cooked every night, pork chops and baked potatoes, green beans. It was weirdly domestic, except for the way Chris would disappear for a few hours at a time, often in the middle of the night, and the way that Chris didn't seem to be in love with him.
"yeah, you just wait a few months," Ricky had sneered when he'd gone by to drop off the key to the apartment. "He'll get sick of your mouth."
"I doubt it," Justin had said.
"He thinks you're a sweet kid who caught a bad break, but you—"
"okay," Justin said, and turned to leave.
"you're a fucking slut," Ricky said, "who took it from anyone who had a few bucks, and there ain't nobody who likes thinking their little boyfriend fucked—"
Justin stepped outside into the light, letting the door slam close behind him.

"You can come over more often," JC said, once, early on. Joey was nuzzling his neck sleepily, one hand curled across JC's belly.
"No, I. I'm expected at home," Joey he said softly, pulling JC closer against his chest. "I don't see the kids enough as it is."
"oh. you have a family?" JC said.
"You didn't know?" Joey said, and JC shook his head.
"I'm sorry," Joey said. "It's not. we don't. she doesn't like me very much," he said finally.
"I'm sure that's not true," JC said. Joey laughed, mirthlessly. JC kissed him, wrapped one arm around his neck, and Joey sighed against his mouth.

4. It's grown so strong that I can't let you go.
Chris bought him stuff: dimestore novels and cashmere sweaters, and gave him money at what seemed like random intervals, digging his wallet out and pressing fifteen dollars, or fifty, or once two hundred dollar bills into Justin's hand. Sometimes he just left it on the bedside table on Justin's side of the bed. Justin kept most of it, in the corner of his bureau drawer, underneath his socks.
"keep me company," Chris said, in the doorway of the bedroom, at the end of the first week, when he was still getting used to it. Justin thought it was a euphemism, at first, when he stepped into the room and found Chris stripping to his undershirt and shorts. He took off his clothes, then, crawled under the covers to Chris, and Chris slid a hand down his back and over his ass, but then he sighed, and his eyes slipped shut. In a few minutes, Justin felt Chris' breathing deepen. When he woke up, it was dusk, and Chris was already dressed, seated on the edge of the bed putting on his shoes.
"I'm going out for a few hours," Chris said.
The bedroom was dim, and Justin still felt disoriented by sleep. Chris patted his hand briskly and stood up, walking over to the mirror and looping his tie around his neck.
"Aren't you worried about—I don't know. Leaving me here. With your stuff—" his voice petered out as he realized he'd somehow asked a stupid question.
"not really, no," Chris said, adjusting his tie, before turning around. He looked amused. "Should I be?"
"No. no."
"Good. I'll see you in a few hours."

* * *
He wasn't stupid, and it wasn't his business, so he never asked, not when Chris left, not when he came home, and walked straight into the bathroom, jerking his head for Justin to come with him, and dropped his tie on the floor, and then his shirt. Justin ignored the tired way Chris moved sometimes, and the quiet clinks of buckles and metallic clanks in the other room when Chris got dressed, and the brown stains under his nails. He sat behind Chris in the bath and let Chris slide down his chest and close his eyes, and he leaned down and put his cheek against Chris', and went to bed with him after, because that was his business.
Chris brought Justin to the club when the bruises were entirely faded. He had tossed a shirt in his lap and told Justin to get dressed and they drove downtown in Chris' big black car. He'd never been there before. In the parking lot, Chris said
"This is Joey's place. He's. Just. keep your mouth shut, and act nice."
"right," Justin said, and followed Chris in the doors and down to the dance floor. It was a nice kind of place; not the kind of place anyone would have taken him. There were clusters of men by the bar, and couples on the dance floor, women in smart cocktail dresses and pearls. Justin slid into the booth next to Chris, folding his hands, and, when Chris began to talk intently to Joey, wondered why he'd been brought along. Then a slender man stepped up to the microphone onstage, and smiled quickly down at what seemed like their table before saying "This is called Love is Where you Are." He began to sing, eyes half closed.
Chris had to ask him twice if he was ready to leave.

"Stay for coffee," JC said one day, like he always did, leaning in the doorway, and Lance tipped forward and kissed him, pulling JC flush against him when he didn't object. JC's arms came up around his neck, and pulled him inside, and he kicked the door shut behind them, breathing shakily already. He ran his hands down JC's sides, and pressed JC's mouth open with his tongue, and felt him moan breathlessly. "This isn't—" he tried to say, once, but he knew he was gone, already, JC pushing a hand between them to unbutton his jacket, pushing it off Lance's shoulders carelessly, kissing him again and again, eyes closed, rapt. They made love on the sofa, Lance's shirt open, his pants unbuttoned and crumpled, JC perched in his lap, kissing him constantly, as though he feared that letting Lance open his mouth would ruin things.
"I should go," he said, before it got light outside. JC's skin was flushed, incandescent, and he was sprawled on the couch, naked. He didn't say anything when Lance stood up and tried to straighten his clothes.
"well," Lance said, and JC stood up. He pulled an afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped it around his shoulders.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
"yes," Lance said, but what he really meant was I love you.

"Just a few more minutes," Joey said, and touched his hair, and then got up and left him in the booth with Chris. Chris shrugged, and lit a cigarette. JC used to think he didn't talk much to anyone, but then there was Justin, who would curl his head down to hear a quiet comment from Chris, and smile.
"It's none of my business," JC said abruptly, already feeling the flush creeping up his neck.
"It probably isn't," Chris agreed. Chris always looked the same: dark suit, hard mouth. He had a way of saying things that made JC feel like he was being made fun of. JC didn't like him.
"Justin," JC said. "He's, um." He hadn't planned this. "He's just a kid," he said weakly. Chris stubbed out his cigarette.
"He was a whore before he moved in with me," Chris said, with a small brittle smile. "He's pretty, huh. Wouldn't've thought you the type to be taken in by that."
He remembered how it was when he'd first gone to the club. Joey had been tucked in a back booth, alone, drinking a scotch. He had looked tired, but he'd waved a hand at the stage and said
"sing a song, then," carelessly, and it was the best chance he'd been given in weeks. Joey had smiled at him when he'd finished the first song, a smile that lit up his whole face. After the first night, when JC had worn the only suit he had, a shabby, shapeless suit he'd bought second hand, Joey had taken him shopping, and waved away JC's nervous offers to pay. He hadn't had very much money.
"work clothes," Joey had said. "I want you to look real upscale and sharp for the club." After, he'd taken JC to a diner, and bought him lunch, and smiled, and said
"so, you just got off the bus from Wisconsin, right?" and JC ended up telling him everything, working nights to get enough money to come to town, and the gradual grinding failure as his money ran out, his rat trap apartment in a part of town where cars slowed down when he was walking home, pulled over, asked if he was busy tonight.
"well that's just. you shouldn't be living down there," Joey said, and within a week, JC had a small cozy apartment that overlooked a park.
"This is too nice, Joey," he'd said, "I can't—" and Joey looked a little dismayed.
"Let me help you out," he said. "It's not. Look, if it makes you feel better, I'll take it all out of your salary, okay?"
"I guess."
Joey grinned, and pushed the bread basket towards him. They'd eaten lunch together every day that week.

* * *
"well, this is real nice," Joey said, when he came up to see JC's apartment. He walked around to look out at the view. "maybe I could come up here sometime," he said. "just to sit."
"sure, of course," JC said. "anytime."

* * *
The next time, Joey had brought him flowers and pressed a hesitant kiss on the corner of his mouth. Joey was kind, and handsome, and JC was grateful, and Joey's fingers were deft on the fastenings of the clothes he'd bought.

"um," Justin said, the first time Chris came back from a job that had gone bad, coat pulled tightly closed across his grey shirt, which had dark wet patches when Justin took the coat off his shoulders.
"Under the sink," Chris said, nodding towards the bathroom before walking into the kitchen, unbuttoning the shirt. When Justin flung the doors of the sink cabinet open, there was a first aid kit, scissors and gauze and little butterfly bandages, disinfectant. He grabbed it and half-ran down the hallway to the kitchen, where Chris was leaning against the sink, awkwardly swabbing off a long cut over his ribs with some wadded up paper towels.
"I got—" Justin said, hanging uncertainly in the doorway. Chris nodded. There were bruises already forming on his shoulder and down one arm.
"Look, I can," he said, waving his hand vaguely at Justin.
"no, it's um. No," Justin said, and even though he'd never done it before, he got Chris to sit down in the chair by the kitchen table, and wiped off the ragged edges of the wound with alcohol, Chris wincing silently above him. It was a long cut, but not deep, curving slightly over Chris ribs and ending a few inches above the waistband of his pants. When Justin risked a glance upwards, carefully patting the last of the butterfly band aids into place, Chris' mouth was knit together in a tight hard line.
"done," Justin said.
"okay," Chris said, and stood up. He stopped in the doorway, and turned, halfway, one hand on the doorjamb. "thanks," he said.
"that's. you're welcome," Justin said. He heard the bedroom door click shut. Then he rinsed out Chris' shirt, and put it in a bag for Mrs. Razinsky. He took a cloth and wiped the small red spots on the sink and floor, through the hallway, the brownish handprint on the wall, the front door.

* * *
"so," Chris said. He served himself some mashed potatoes and handed the bowl to Justin.
"you don't have to say," Justin said. He spooned a dollop of the mashed potatoes onto his plate.
"I kill people," Chris said. Justin put down the bowl and stared at the table.
"you don't. I don't—"
"It's my job," Chris said quietly.
"okay." Justin picked up his fork and started in on the peas, eating quickly. They were his least favorite part.

* * *
"bed?" Justin said softly, after he had washed the dishes and put them away. He touched the back of Chris' hand. Chris looked up at him, mouth twisting a little. After a meal, Chris would be hot and slow inside him, one steady hand on his hip. He'd press his face against the small of Justin's back, and mumble 'baby,' but not loud enough to hear. He'd make Justin turn over for a kiss, after, and mutter something about how he was too damn tall, and they'd fall asleep tangled together.
"it's my job," Justin said, and ran his fingers up Chris' arm, where he had rolled back the sleeves to cook.

"Come in," JC said, smiling at him happily. Lance looked down at the carpet in the vestibule; he had a headache.
"JC."
"we can—." He leaned forward and touched Lance's cheek with questioning fingers.
"Look, I—" Lance said, and looked at JC and then away, down the hallway, sighing. "We can't—we just. Joey—" He hadn't been sleeping well.
"Joey asked you to drive me home," JC said. "You—"
"No one has to know," JC said.
"Jesus Christ," Lance said, and stepped inside. "What happened to your first piano player?"
"He..what?" JC said. "He broke his hand."
"I broke his hand," Lance said.
"you—. why?"
"Joey thought he was getting too friendly with you."
"but. He wasn't—I—." He turned away from Lance, and fumbled his jacket off, hanging it on the peg by the door. "how could you do that?"
"because it's my fucking job, JC."
"okay," JC said. "I thought." He shrugged, and looked at the floor.
"I'm sorry," Lance said.
"You should. go, I guess," JC whispered.
"No, I'm sorry," Lance said, and reached for him, sliding one arm around his waist and pulling him in for a kiss, feeling JC's hand tentatively on his face, thumb sliding down his cheek.

He started going across town on his lunch hour to see JC, ten minutes in the shiny Cadillac Joey had gotten him after five years with the organization, for thirty minutes in JC's arms. Sometimes there was traffic and they didn't have time for more than a blowjob in the vestibule, or half a dozen fervent kisses, but it was enough. Sometimes, if he knew Joey would be out of the office, he'd go by in the morning with doughnuts and coffee, and catch JC still in bed, languid with sleep. He stopped by the odd rehearsal, always with a reason, but JC said he had to stop.
"It's. how you look at me," he said.
"I can't help it," Lance said.
"I know." JC said, and, as though it had only just occurred to him. "What will we do?"
"We'll go away," Lance said. Go someplace where no one knew them, and he would work in a store, and JC would find a job doing something, and make music on the weekends. Lance would buy him a piano, he said, smoothing JC's hair off his forehead, and they'd be happy together. A bedtime story, and they both knew it to be one. Sometimes JC told it back, curled up against Lance's back and stroking his hand over his shoulders.

* * *
They couldn't go out, but Lance could come over and make dinner for him, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, gnocchi and marinara sauce, nothing he wouldn't make for himself at home. JC would come up behind him and put his chin on Lance's shoulder, and Lance would let him taste the sauce. JC put on old quiet records, and half sang along, and they washed the dishes together after, and maybe even watched television a little bit, pretending as though they had all the time in the world, as though they didn't want to go straight to bed, because Lance had to leave soon, and couldn't even stay the night, although he did sometimes, wrapped around JC, clutching him against his chest. Mostly, he left at two or three in the morning, when it was pale and misty, the moon low in the sky.

"you," Chris said, pointing. He'd slowed down his car and cranked down the window to look at the hustlers leaning languidly against the wall. It had been a long time since he'd picked anyone up off the street; years, since he had started making enough money to have jerks like Ricky send guys to his apartment.
He chose quickly, almost at random, jabbing his finger at a little blond one on the end, who got in the car with alacrity.
"hi," he said softly.
"what's this gonna cost me," Chris said, pulling around the corner and parking. He still hadn't forgotten how to do it.
"blowjob is fifty," he said, and then snuck a sideways hopeful glance at Chris' expensive suit. "sex is a hundred, and we can go someplace for—"
"blowjob's fine," Chris said, pulling the fifty out of his money clip and tucking it into his hand.
He was good; maybe better than Justin, and Chris leaned back and closed his eyes and said "yeah, hurry it up."
"My name's Andy," he said, after, still hopeful, taking his time with arranging his clothes.
"You think I give a shit what your name is?" Chris said.

* * *
When he got home, Justin was asleep on the couch, a true crime novel Chris had bought for him drooping out of his fingers, the record player arm lapping gently against the center of the record. Chris took a shower, and then woke him up and fucked him, Justin's eyes half-open and sleepy while he smiled and sucked on Chris' fingers. Chris pulled out, and said "turn over," one hand already under Justin's hip, urging him onto his stomach.
"no," Justin said, resisting. "no, Chris," and struggled upright, pushing Chris back on the bed surprisingly easily, swarming over him, straddling him, sinking slowly down, big hands on either side of his head until his eyes, deep and wide and blue, were all Chris could see. Chris moved restlessly, opened his mouth to tell Justin to get off him, but Justin leaned down and cupped his jaw, kissing him, and Chris hands came reluctantly up to his thighs, the slight hollows in Justin's hips where the skin was so soft against his thumbs, and Justin sighed and twisted above him and buried his face in Chris' neck, panting softly and Chris stared at the ceiling and held Justin's hips and thought of all the things Andy hadn't known to do.

"This is a new one," JC said, and smiled down at him. JC had said before that he couldn't really see the audience from the stage with the spotlight in his eyes, but Lance smiled back at him anyway, before Joey sat down heavily next to him.
"There's some trouble with Baltimore," he said.
"What, again?" Lance said. "I thought that got taken care of."
"Each time I see a crowd of people—" JC sang.
Joey shook his head irritably. "so did I."
"So—what, there's shortfall?" Lance said.
"and they're getting fucking mouthy on the phone, giving me the run around."
"hm," Lance said.
"Just like a fool, I stop and stare—it's really not—the proper thing to do—" JC was leaning into the microphone and singing with his eyes shut.
"You want me to go down there?" Lance said. Joey leaned back in the booth and lit a cigarette, offering the pack to Lance, who took one as well.
"I suppose," Joey said. He took a long drag off the cigarette.
"but maybe you'll be there—"
"No, you know, I'm tired of this," Joey said. "I'm going to send Chris down there to do a job, and then you'll go down after."
"I go out walking after midnight—long the lonely thoroughfare."
"You're sending Chris?"
"it's not the time or place to look—for you—"
"You don't think that's necessary."
"Your decision."
"I just don't need this bullshit," Joey said. "I—" he broke off and signaled to a waiter, who brought them espresso in tiny cups.
"you said your arms would always hold me—you said you lips were mine alone to kiss—"
They sat in silence, until Joey had finished his coffee. "good, then," he said. "I'll talk to Chris tomorrow."
"okay."
"now after all those things you told me—how could it end—like this? "
"I can't have people I don't trust in my organization," Joey said.

He thought about how he used to feel, before JC, before any of it, and couldn't remember. He used to go home, and make himself a scotch to drink while he made dinner. He used to eat at the kitchen table, and then get up and wash the dishes. He used to watch some television, or maybe do some work, and then go to bed. Some nights, he went to the club, but usually only when he had business.
"Your private life is your own business," Joey had always said. He had thought he was content, because he hadn't been able to think of anything he wanted.
"someday if all my prayers are answered— "
"about JC," Joey said, and Lance turned to him, the delicate handle of his of his espresso cup suddenly clutched tightly in his fingers. "He's good, you think? You've been coming to the club a lot more."
"I'll hear a footstep—on the stair. "
"I. yes," Lance said. "He's, um. A good singer."
Joey leaned back and smiled expansively; he was in a good mood. "this is a good one," he said. "this is the best one he's done yet."
"with anxious heart—I'll hurry to the door—and maybe you'll be there."
"You ever been in love?" Joey asked.
"once," Lance said.

* * *
He had some money saved up.
He kept his own accounts as carefully as he kept Joey's, and the nights that he couldn't sleep he'd get up and look at them, the fat ledger he kept in his desk drawer, but the answers were always the same: not enough, not yet. He didn't dare tell JC he was planning anything, but he began slowly transferring money from one account to another, a slow but steady trickle. JC would laugh at him; JC would say they didn't need money. JC would want to leave tomorrow.

5. My love is longer than forever.
In the afternoon, The Monteleone Lounge was dark and quiet, small shafts of sunlight coming through the windows, JC onstage in khakis and a sweater.
"I have some things to take care of," Chris said, and set off purposefully for the back of the club. Justin slid into the back row of tables, and sat down, watching avidly as JC sang Love Letters and How Deep is the Ocean
"slower, I think," JC said at the end of the second one, and his pianist nodded. "Can we bump it up a half step, maybe?" JC added. He sang the first verse of the song again, and then stopped.
"hm," he said. He and the piano player had a discussion too quietly for Justin to hear.
"Well," JC said then, standing up. "What do you think?"
"um," Justin said. He hadn't known JC could see him.
"come on, then," JC said encouragingly. He seemed different than he seemed at night, curled up against Joey's side in the booth.
"I guess," Justin said hesitantly. "I liked it the first way better."
"mm," JC said.
"But I don't know anything," Justin said. "I'm just—"
"You're Mr. Kirkpatrick's boyfriend," JC said.
"I. yeah," Justin said.
"you sing?"
"I'm not very good," Justin said.
"You ready?" Chris said from behind him
"sure," Justin said.
"stop by any time," JC said lightly. As they left, Justin heard him start singing, again, lightly, quickly.
"How much do I love you; I'll tell you no lie—"
"can I um. is it okay if I come down here?" Justin said.
Chris shrugged. "I don't care what you do."
"How deep is the ocean—how high is the sky—. How many times—in a day, do—I—think—of you—"
They could hear JC all the way down the hall, as they passed by the glassed offices in the back.

* * *
He had a lot of free time with Chris. At first, he had just slept a lot, curling up in Chris' bed, or on the couch, dozing, waiting for Chris to want him to do something. Chris was gone a lot in the afternoons, though, and after a while, even his album collection got boring. Justin bought himself a bus pass and started going down to the club to see JC rehearse. JC liked having an audience, and liked to have someone to ask questions about tempo, and sometimes he'd have Justin sing, so he could sit in the back booth and see what it sounded like. They always sang love songs.

* * *
"Where were you?" Chris said. He was half in shadow, drinking a cup of coffee.
"At the club," Justin said.
"Maybe I didn't make it clear before," Chris said, his voice calm. "but if you want to stay here, you can't have a boyfriend."
"I wasn't—"
"don't lie to me," Chris said. "Just. Get rid of him."
"I wasn't—I was watching JC," Justin said. "I helped him with his set, and I wanted to hear." Chris put the coffee cup down, watching him warily, and Justin sat down next to him on the couch and tipped his head slightly against Chris shoulder. "How was it, then," he said.
"It was great—it was really really good," Justin said. He slid lower in the couch, sighing a little, and Chris let his hand come to rest on Justin's thigh.

* * *
He liked JC. JC taught him to read sheet music, and lent him records, and smiled a lot, like he was just being nice for the hell of it, for no good reason, and this was interesting, at first, and then he got to like it.
"your friend JC's worried about you," Chris mumbled, after they'd finished doing it one night. "thinks I'm exploiting you."
"he's not my friend," Justin said, "and he don't know shit about me."
"mm," Chris said. And then, "you got a pretty smile." He put the tips of his fingers against Justin's stomach.

* * *
He was out for a walk in the morning, getting bagels from the deli at the end of the street, because Chris liked them, and would kiss the back of his neck, his breath smelling of yeast and poppy seeds, when he heard the shout behind him.
"hey, hey, Justin," the guy said, and Justin turned, and had to grasp a moment for the name.
"Tom," he said uncertainly.
"Tim," the guy said. He didn't seem offended. He grinned and pushed his hair out of his face, and said "just finishing up a job up here." His clothes were tight and shiny, and slightly crumpled, wrong for a Sunday morning. "so what's going on," Tim asked.
"I'm. bagels," Justin said, and held out the bag.
"oh, yeah, I heard you moved in with some guy."
"yeah." Justin shrugged.
"cozy."
"I guess." They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Justin added, "he's not so bad, or anything. He, um—," he thought of how Chris would wander into the kitchen in his threadbare robe and smile at him, thought about how Chris would lean back against him in the bathtub that night and mutter that he didn't sing half bad. "it's okay," he said.
"yeah," Tim said sourly. "I bet he fucks you, and calls you baby, and buys you shit, and you're all horny for him 'cause some asshole who wants to fuck you every night is as close as you ever came to someone giving a shit."
"I'm gonna be a singer," Justin said.

* * *
"do you like doing. being," he asked once.
"it's not something you like, or don't like," Chris said.

* * *
Chris took him out to an old airstrip and taught him to drive.
"Get in the car," Chris had said, and driven them far out to a deserted field, cracked tarmac, and for a moment, Justin had panicked, wondered how he had forgotten that Chris was dangerous, had a gun and a knife on him right now, even though he'd been relaxed on the way up, joking and flipping through radio stations.
"What is—"
"Go around," Chris said, opening the door. "I'm teaching you how to drive."
It was the first thing he'd been expected to learn in some time that wasn't sex. He wasn't good at it. Chris' car lurched and the engine seized ominously, and Justin kept saying
"I'm sorry, I—"
"You'll get it," Chris said. "I might need you to be able to drive, sometime."
They stopped at a deli for lunch, on the way back, sat outside and ate sandwiches at the little tables, and it felt normal, Chris in shirtsleeves with a smear of mustard on the corner of his mouth, families, kids running around on the grass. Chris grinned at him, and Justin could see the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the sharp, fine lines of his face, the sheer darkness of his hair and eyes; he didn't see Chris in full daylight much.
"What're you thinking of?" Chris asked, pushing the rest of his chips over to Justin.
"nothing."
"Joe says they're looking for a new custodial guy for the afternoon," Chris said, casually, drinking the last of his Coke.
"oh," Justin said
"some cleaning and maintenance," Chris said. "in the afternoon."
Justin shrugged.
"while JC rehearses," Chris said.
"oh—"
"I told Joe I'd ask if you were interested."
"I—thank you," Justin said. "thanks, really—"
Chris shrugged. "it's not a big deal; maybe you can at least start paying your keep around here."
But when Justin tried to give him the fifty dollar bill Joey gave him at the end of the first week, Chris pushed his hand away.
"keep it."
"but—"
"look, you think I care about fifty bucks? It's peanuts. Keep it; buy something for yourself."

"come up," JC said, after they'd kissed for ten minutes in the car, JC's hands creeping up his thighs and under his jacket.
"You know I can't."
"I know," JC whispered, and kissed him again, hungrily, and Lance couldn't help kissing back, sliding his hands into JC's hair, and feeling JC shiver and put a hand on his chest.
"I'll come back later," he muttered against JC's mouth, and felt it curve into a smile.

* * *
He let himself in at 2 a.m. JC was asleep, curled up in bed, but the lamp on the bedside table was on. Lance took off his jacket and draped it over the armchair in the corner of the room, and then leaned over JC to wake him, stroking a finger down his cheek. JC helped him undress, sliding into his lap and pushing him back onto the bed, kissing him, and loosening his tie, pulling his shirt out of his pants, and when Lance slid his palm down JC's stomach, curling his hand around the smooth jut of JC's hip, JC shuddered and pressed his mouth against Lance's throat, laughing huskily.

* * *
"I could come by tomorrow night," Lance said after, kissing the corner of JC's mouth lazily.
"I. Tomorrow is Thursday," JC said.
"Joey," Lance said.
"mm," JC said, pressing closer, wanting to put his head on Lance's shoulder. Lance gathered him closer, one hand on the soft skin of JC's hip.
"I love you," Lance said. He kissed JC's temple. "I love you."

6. And endless as the march of time
He didn't mean to see them. He was just trying to do a good job, even though when Mr. Fatone had seen him on his knees the first week, scraping chewing gum off the bottom of a table, he shaken his head, and said
"Don't kill yourself, kid."
"I."
"What do you drink," Joey had said. "rum and Cokes? You should drink vodka martinis; that's a man's drink." He walked behind the bar and motioned for Justin to sit down on the other side. He fished a drink mixer from underneath the bar, and made Justin a drink, crouching down for a moment and coming up with an olive on a toothpick, winking as he dropped it into the martini glass.
"Gets lonely in the afternoons here, sometimes," he said, and pushed it across the counter, pouring the rest into a glass for himself.
"thank you," Justin said. Joey smiled. "Look, Mr. Fatone, I—"
"Never really figured Chris for the settling down type," Joey said, sipping his drink. "seems to like you, though."
"oh."
"that's funny," Joey said. "the way things work." He didn't seem to expect Justin to say anything, so Justin took a cautious sip of his drink; he didn't like new things. It was very strong.
"You want some peanuts?" Joey asked.

* * *
He was sweeping the narrow back hallway, between the dressing rooms and the stage, when he saw them. It happened quickly. He turned the corner, and saw JC leaning back against the wall, and Mr. Bass touching his waist, head tilted a bit, smiling down at him, and then they were both staring at him. He ducked back around the corner, but he could hear them, Mr. Bass' voice, quick and low, and then JC.
"—take care of it," he said, and then there were quick footsteps, and he came around the corner. "Justin," JC said.
"It's. I'm not. I won't."
"yeah?" JC looked up at him, solemnly.
"yeah," Justin said. JC smiled at him, a bright soft smile; Justin thought for a moment he would hug him, and shrunk back slightly against the wall. JC nodded, and started to walk away.
"I think you're stupid," Justin blurted.
"what do you know about it?" JC said sharply, turning.
"I just—"
"no, really," JC said. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it slowly, his hands shaking a little. "You, of all people, have something to say about love."
"I didn't mean—"
JC's shoulders slumped a little. "no, I'm," he shrugged, one shouldered, and leaned back against the wall, taking a long drag of the cigarette before handing it to Justin.

* * *
"Justin," Mr. Bass said, behind him, as he was leaving.
Justin stopped.
"Look," Mr. Bass said. "You shouldn't have seen that."
"it's none of my business," Justin said. He shrugged, ill at ease. "If you want to—"
"Shut up," Mr. Bass said. He pushed Justin a little, gently, three fingers in the center of his chest. He was shorter than Justin, and had to look up at him, and for a moment Justin wanted to laugh. It must have shown in his eyes, because Mr. Bass grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the wall, hard enough that he had to gasp for breath. "you don't know how I got to where I am in this organization," he said, his voice quiet and low.
"don't threaten—" Justin said. Mr. Bass' fist tightened on his shirt; Justin could feel the sharp uneven brick digging into his shoulderblades.
"I'll threaten you as much as I want," he said. "I don't give a fuck who your boyfriend is."
"Fine," Justin spat. "I don't give a fuck who your boyfriend is, either."
Mr. Bass smiled a little, grimly, and then nodded, and walked away.

"What do you like to do?" Chris asked, running his fingers down the center of Justin's back. Justin sighed, and turned onto his side, snuggled in a little towards Chris, put his head on Chris' pillow.
"Why does it matter?" he said.
Chris nodded. "You don't have to tell me."
Justin shrugged. "I'll tell you. I just don't really get why it matters now."
"Because you live with me now," Chris said.
"So it's different."
"Different than fucking some punk with a smart mouth?" Chris said. "yeah."
Justin smiled at that, a sharp fleeting grin, and slid down a little in the bed, one hand wrapping around Chris' waist. When he had been silent so long that Chris thought he was asleep, he said "I pretty much like what you do."
"I said you didn't have to tell me," Chris said, tiredly.
"I'm not making it—you think you're the only guy ever wanted me to move in with him?" Justin said. "You think that was the worst I ever got beat up?"
"still got that smart mouth, though," Chris said, after a moment.

* * *
He thought sometimes, maybe he could get a job like JC's, and get his own place. He thought about being up on a stage, singing, with Chris leaning back in his seat, one hand loosely on his glass, looking up at him. At the end of the night, Chris would give him a ride home, and he would ask if Chris wanted to come in for a while. When he thought about the future, Chris was always there.

"What's wrong?" Joey said, leaning down to kiss the side of his neck.
"nothing," JC said.
Joey fumbled with his shirt, and kissed him, hard, pressing him back against the wall. His breath was hot and sour. "You don't have to drink so much," JC said. He shook Joey's hand off and unbuttoned the shirt himself, turning, and walking into the bedroom.
"Oh, you're too good for me, now, aren't you?"
"I'm not. Joey, just—"
"No, it's fine. You'd be fucking starving in a ditch someplace if it weren't for me, and—" his voice was bitter and sharp, and JC sighed and sat down on the bed. "You're angry at me," Joey said.
"no, I'm not," JC said.
"I'm sorry," Joey said. He'd stripped down to his underwear, and slid onto the bed next to JC, kissed him on the cheek. "I'll make it up to you." He pressed JC back on the bed and kissed him, hands sliding greedily over his hips. "Caro," he murmured, nudging JC's knees apart. He was heavy. JC closed his eyes and slid lower in the bed, let Joey put a hot hand on his thigh "if I didn't have you," Joey said, "I'd be all alone."

Justin started getting there early so he could finish up cleaning right as JC was getting there, and that meant he saw Mr. Fatone, a lot. He was almost always at a booth, doing something. For a guy who'd hired him to keep his club clean, Mr. Fatone wasn't too concerned with Justin doing his job. He'd wave Justin over, and say
"I bet you never had a Tom Collins," and make him the drink, his big face crinkling with pleasure when Justin took his first sip. Once he gave Justin a packet of liquorice. He made Justin nervous, and not only because Chris had come home after one of Joey's jobs and vomited in the bathroom after telling Justin to get the fuck out.

* * *
Chris squinted at him that night, at dinner, and said "You look like a whore," as though he'd only just noticed.
"no shit," Justin said, after a momentary gaping silence. "I might get to do a song down at the club," he said, when Chris didn't say anything else.
The next day, Chris brought him home a set of cufflinks, and that weekend he took him to a department store and had him fitted for several suits.
Johns had bought him things before—plenty of times, and this was nothing different. Chris expected thanks, and Justin didn't need to be prompted, curling up along his back in the empty elevator of their building, pressing a kiss into the warm skin of Chris neck, and Chris leaned back against him, stroked Justin's wrist with his thumb. Justin kissed him in the hallway, while he was unlocking the door.
"hm," Chris said against his mouth, tilting his head up, and ran his thumb along Justin's cheek before turning the key in the lock.
They kissed again in the foyer, Chris holding Justin's waist loosely in his hands. Justin had to slump down the wall and twist his head low to be able to kiss Chris, but he'd been doing it for so long it had become habit, and felt comfortable to him, a part of the way he kissed. Chris kissed his mouth, and pressed a series of kisses to the underside of his jaw, breathed "baby" against his throat, and Justin shivered and reached blindly for him, the customer is always right,
"Let's go to bed," Justin said softly, hands already sliding under Chris' jacket.

7. My love is a deep blue sea
"What are you like with Joey," Lance wanted to ask, but never did. JC was hungry with him, stronger than he looked, arching his back and folding his legs underneath him. His skin was warm, and when JC was heaving and squirming underneath him, sometimes Lance felt like it was the first time he'd been warm since he'd moved north, when he'd met up with Joey's uncle on business, and it had seemed like a good idea. After, JC would wrap his arms around Lance and press small kisses to his cheek and the underside of his jaw; even in sleep, he held tightly.
"I thought we could go away for the weekend, maybe," JC said.
"mmm," Lance murmured. He smoothed JC's hair back off his forehead and ran his thumb along his jawline, kissed him slowly.
"so, y'know. Maybe Niagara Falls, or."
"you know we can't."
"Why not?"
"Don't be stupid, JC." JC stiffened and pulled away from him. "oh, what," Lance said. "This isn't one of your goddam songs. This isn't—"
"I know," JC said. "You think I."
Lance sighed, and shook his head. "I shouldn't've."
"Maybe I could—I could stop—"
"You can't," Lance said. "but I—"
"You fucking belong to him until he gets tired of you," Lance said. "Do you understand?" He rolled out of bed and started to get dressed, jerking on his clothes. "Why did you even—why did you have to get mixed up in all this in the first place?" He knotted his tie efficiently.
"I wanted to sing," JC said.
"Oh, you wanted," Lance said, almost sneering.
"No," JC said. He grabbed Lance's hand. "I wanted to sing," he said, again. He shrugged, and turned away, dropping Lance's hand. "maybe you should go."

"okay, go," Chris said, and Justin swung the unloaded gun up quickly,
"wait, no," Chris said, "don't do this—" Justin swung the gun down again, uncertainly, and Chris stepped forward and grabbed his free arm, swinging him around and forcing him to the ground, shoving two fingers up against his temple "and bang," he said. "you're dead."
"oh, but—"
"What's the first thing I said," Chris said, not letting go of his arm, which was twisted up behind him.
Justin sighed. "Don't let them talk."
"Right. Jesus. Never let anyone talk. That's the first best way to get yourself killed."
Justin tilted back his head, and Chris fingers slid from his temple to his lips. Justin opened his mouth a little, let Chris' fingers slip inside, and Chris' grasp on his wrist loosened.
"You want to try again?" Chris said, pulling back.
"Not really, no," Justin said, and caught his hand, kissing it. Chris pulled it away.
"You don't have to be like this," he said.
"This is how I want to be," Justin said.

JC didn't look at him at the club. Lance had called him several times, but JC wasn't picking up his telephone, either, and Lance didn't want to leave a message with the answering service. After JC's set, he slid into the booth next to Joey and tipped his head against his shoulder, closing his eyes almost all the way. Lance heard Joey say "you okay?"
"just tired," JC said. Joey kissed the side of his hand, and said "you want to wait on tonight, then?"
"No," JC said. "No, you should. come back with me," he said.
"really?" Joey said, a small smile on his face.
"'course," JC said.
"too good to me," Joey whispered, quietly enough that Lance could barely hear it, and JC laughed, resigned.

* * *
It was a week before he drove JC home again; Joey had gone back with him every night.
"JC, please," he said, and JC looked at him blandly, and reached for the radio knob. "oh, that's it, then?" Lance said. "please—I'm sorry, JC, I—"
"That's what Joey always says, too," JC said.
"I'm not him."
"You're a mistake," JC said. "I don't—" he sighed, and turned to look out the window. Lance pulled the car into the parking lot behind JC's building and stopped, turning off the ignition.
"Let me come up," he said. "please, JC—"
"I don't. that's not a good idea." JC started to get out of the car, and Lance caught his wrist and said "I've been saving money."
"what?"
"I started putting aside money for us to go away, we could—" Now that he'd started, the words tumbled out of him, endless, "we wouldn't have to hide for long—just lie low for a year or two, and. we could go someplace warm; you'd like that, right?"
"You. You've been," JC pulled his hand away from Lance.
"You don't. forgive me," Lance said stiffly. "It was presumptuous."
"No," JC said. "no." he slid into the car and across the seat, and wrapped one arm around Lance's neck, kissing him. It was a warm night, and he wasn't wearing his coat. Lance slid his hands down his body, kissing him back carefully. "We can—when can we go?" JC asked. He kissed Lance's jaw softly, unbuttoning his suit jacket and slipping his hands inside.
"soon," Lance said. "three months, and I'll have enough—" JC kissed him again, tongue in his mouth, starting to pull frantically at Lance's shirt.
"come up," he said.

* * *
They kissed in the elevator, Lance's mouth on JC's throat while JC whispered about how much he'd missed him, and Lance wanted to be gentle, but JC's mouth was wet and trembling under his, and Lance fumbled with his belt, and dropped JC back on the bed, sliding his hands up JC's thighs.
"oh," JC said, and arched convulsively, and Lance wanted to say that he was beautiful, wanted to say so many things, but JC was reaching between his own legs with sticky fingers, his eyes fluttering closed, and Lance fell to his knees beside the bed and pulled JC off and down on top of him, and JC cried out, loudly, and pressed his face into Lance's shoulder.
"I'm hurting you," Lance whispered, and tried to slow down.
"no, no," JC said, and his spine curved under Lance's hands.

* * *
JC's cheeks were still flushed when Lance pulled gently away from him and stood up to get dressed.
"I've got to," he said, pulling on his jacket and leaning down to kiss JC again. "business."
"three months," JC said.
"yes," Lance said. He pulled the coverlet up a little, and stroked a thumb over JC's bare shoulder.

* * * "looks like you lost a button," Joey said, touching his sleeve.
"oh." Lance said, twisting his arm around. His left cuff button was gone, the cuff gaping open. "hm," he said. "I must have—caught it on something."
"don't make things like they used to," Joey said lightly. "did you do those projections?"
"those. yes, of course," Lance said.

"hm. you're singing soon," Chris said, "right?" He wrung out the washcloth one-handed.
"mm," Justin agreed. He tilted his head back against Chris' chest, and slid down in the tub, resting his feet on the opposite edge, wiggling his toes a little.
"you need anything?" Chris said.
"no," Justin said. "I'm all set." He smiled up at Chris until Chris bent down to kiss him, and then lifted his arm up and curled it around Chris' head, holding him in place for a long minute. The washcloth dropped into the water with a muted splash while Chris slid fingers down his jaw, and over his collarbone.
"I'm thinking," Chris murmured, kissing him again, "that I'm not going to teach you any more of the. with the guns."
"why?" Justin made a low sound of pleasure when Chris pressed his lips to the soft spot below his ear, tilted his head. Under the water, the tips of his fingers grazed Chris' thigh.
"you don't need to know that stuff," Chris said softly, right up against his ear. "you're gonna sing."

Mr. Fatone liked to talk. About what was happening in the papers, or the bars he liked in Atlantic City, poker, and the right kind of car to have. He liked to talk about his children.
"You want to have kids?" he asked. His face was floridly red, even though it was early in the afternoon.
"I don't. probably not," Justin said. Joey never talked about his wife, even though Justin had seen her once, at the club, pale and composed, silent at Joey's side.
"It's good to have something to love," Joey said. "kids—they just. They don't just stop loving you for no reason." He stopped talking then. "You'll have to drive me home," he muttered, and stood up with a massive effort.

* * *
"I bet you think my job's a piece of cake," Joey said. "sit around in the club all day, have people act real nice to me."
"I—" It was just starting to rain, and the streets were slick. The windshield wipers weren't getting the rain off the glass, but when he turned up the setting, the wipers squealed sullenly against the glass.
"Sometimes," Joey said. "I have to do things I don't want to do."
"oh."
Joey pressed a hand against his forehead. "It's business," he said. "It's not. I want to be, but. It's fucking business," he said again. "It's always a mistake to let personal bullshit get mixed up in business. That's my advice for you. You know what I mean?"
"I guess," Justin said, steering carefully. Joey grunted, and lapsed into silence, flicking on the radio and going through half a dozen stations before turning it on.
"Chris at home tonight?" he said, finally.
"yes," Justin said.

* * *
"Justin," JC said. He blinked at him, his wet sweater, soaked hair, and opened his door a little wider. "come in."
"I can't."
"What's wrong?"
"Mr. Fatone," Justin said. He'd taken the bus from Mr. Fatone's house, uptown, and run from the bus stop. "He knows."
"Did you tell him?" JC said.
"no," Justin said. "no, I. He. I don't know."
JC went white and still, clutching the door, still.
"I have to go," Justin said. "I—I can. Chris,"
"yes," JC said, already turning toward the bedroom door.

8. It's grown so strong that I'll never be free.
He picked the lock because Lance was too smart to open the door to him, knew what he did. Joey should have hired outside, Chris thought, but he wanted the job done right, and he trusted Chris. He held his gun loosely in his hand, and swung the door open, and there was no one in the vestibule, so he walked quietly down the hallway, peering in the empty living room, and to the bedroom at the end of the hallways. He tapped the slightly open door with his fingers and it swung open. There were suitcases open on the bed, bureau drawers haphazardly open, around the room, clothes draped over the back of a chair, and JC was packing quickly, mouth grim. He saw Chris first.
"No," he said, as if his heart was already broken.
"Chris—" Lance said. He had his shaving kit in his hands. Chris shook his head and swung his arm up and shot.
"no," JC said again, and threw himself across the room, shoving Lance sideways into the chest of drawers. The bullet spun him around and dropped him on the floor and Lance made an odd, awful sound, and flicked his gun out of its holster, shooting blindly at Chris once, and then again. Chris took another step forward and kept shooting doggedly, emptying the gun, hitting Lance in his shoulder, his knee, the forearm of his gun hand, his stomach, the force of the bullets knocking him backwards, onto the narrow space of carpet between the bed and the wall.
In the silence that followed, Chris walked forward quickly, sliding into a kneeling position next to Lance, cocking his gun against Lance's forehead.
"wait," JC said. He pulled himself awkwardly to his knees and crawled over to Lance. Chris' mouth tightened, but he pulled the gun away.
"oh," JC said, and put his hand on Lance's cheek. He leaned down and kissed him, slowly, one hand smearing blood along Lance's cheek and in his hair. When he lifted his head, his lips were wet with blood.
"I can drive you to the hospital," Chris said, and JC blinked at him as though he'd forgotten he was there. "you weren't supposed to—" Chris said weakly.
"go," JC said, absently, and turned back to Lance, pulling his jacket closed and buttoning it, smoothing the lapels. He slid his fingers down Lance's arm to twine their hands together, leaning over him. Lance's eyelashes fluttered slightly, and JC smiled, and bent down, kissed his cheek. "we're almost packed," he said, and then whispered something in his ear too quietly for Chris to hear.
"okay," he said, then, and slid down to the floor, pulling Lance's lax arm around him, pressing his cheek against the bloodsoaked shoulder of Lance's jacket. Chris pulled himself up, gripping the bedpost, and then cocked the gun. JC didn't look at him, only moved closer to Lance, pressing his lips quickly against his throat.
"Give me your hand," Chris said, and when JC reached for him, wrapped his hand gently around the gun, folding his forefinger carefully over the trigger. JC's wrist shook when Chris let it go, but he held on; Chris straightened, and wiped his bloody fingers on the coverlet. He was at the end of the hall before he heard the gentle click of the silenced gun.

"not mine," Chris said, smiling tiredly up at Justin. "let's just, um." He followed Justin into the bathroom, tugging off his jacket and dropping it on the ground, sitting heavily on the toilet to unlace his shoes while Justin ran the bath. His fingers were clumsy, and he was still working them loose when Justin turned around.
"Let me," Justin said, and slid down between his knees, undoing the laces easily before kneeling up to help Chris off with his jacket. His face changed when he saw Chris' shirt, wet, and rusty with blood, stuck patchily to his chest.
"Chris—" Justin said. "This is—" He pulled the shirt down off Chris' shoulders, and looked up at him. "Chris, we have to—this is. We have to go to a hospital."
"baby, I can't just—"
"We'll say it was an accident," Justin said hoarsely. He felt as though he were screaming, but the words would barely come out loudly enough. "We'll say we were cleaning guns and they went off."
"I'm fine," Chris said. "I just." He looked down and started fumbling with his belt. "I'm just a little tired," he mumbled. He ran his fingers along Justin's jaw, and smiled at him with dim eyes, and said "just. let's take a bath, and then we'll go to bed, right?"
Justin blinked, and cleared his throat. "okay," he whispered. He helped Chris take off his shirt and pants, and then pulled off his own, quickly, pulling Chris to his feet, letting Chris lean on him as they walked slowly across the bathroom floor. Chris left a smattering of blood across the white tile, and Justin's hands and leg were smeared with it, but he ignored it, half lifting Chris into the bathtub and sliding in behind him, anchoring him securely against his chest.
"hm," Chris said, and tilted his head back. Justin dropped a kiss on his mouth, and reached for the washcloth, swirling it through the water and squeezing it over Chris' shoulders and chest.
"We're going to bed after," Chris said. "You're my favorite thing."
"sh," Justin said, and slid his lips into the hollow behind Chris ear. "I have a song I want to sing you." He cleared his throat. It was harder without JC on the piano, and he started too high, but Chris didn't seem to notice, sliding down against him, and sighing.
"easy come—easy. Go," Justin sang, quietly, lips brushing Chris' ear, "that's. the way. If love must—have its day. Easy—" his voice faltered a little, and cracked, but JC had always said to keep singing, "—let it. go." He took a long shuddering breath, and started the next verse. "No remorse, no reg—" He stopped, gasping quietly for breath.
"that's the end of the song?" Chris asked, after a moment.
"yeah, that's. yes." Justin said.
Chris was smaller than he was, but heavy, and Justin almost dropped him, getting him down the hallway to the bedroom, putting him on the bedspread to dry him off before sliding him in between the sheets. He'd changed them that afternoon. He pulled the covers up over Chris' shoulders, and then thought better of it and pulled them down a bit before making another trip to the bathroom, pulling the plug on the pinkish water, and wiping the blood off the bathroom floor with Chris' shirt, which he put carefully in a plastic bag, and then in the hamper. He got the first aid kit and went back to the bedroom, wrapping Chris shoulder with gauze, and taping a big square of gauze over his stomach. He smoothed his hair back from his forehead, and pulled the covers up, carefully, and then got the extra comforter out of the trunk at the end of the bed, and put it over Chris, too, tucking it around him.
He dressed in his best clothes, the suit Chris had gotten him when Justin had said that JC had asked him to do a song with him, onstage, and a tie. He got Chris' backup gun out of the bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed next to Chris to load it.

He waited in the parking lot, leaning up against the wet brick of the building, shivering in the rain. It seemed like a long time, waiting in the rain, thinking about Chris alone in bed. After midnight, it began to rain harder, the raindrops pelting on the pavement. Joey came out the back door alone, walking slowly, a little unsteadily, across the parking lot, his head bent against the rain. Justin slipped out and followed him, waited until he was unlocking his car.
"hey—" Justin said, and then had to say it again, because no sound had come out the first time.
"Justin—" Joey turned, and opened his mouth to say something, smiling, a little. When he saw the gun, his face looked heavy and old. "hey—" he said gently, and Justin ignored his trembling hands and fired, Joey's body thudding heavily back against the body of the car, an expression of faint surprise on his face. He crumpled sideways, facedown onto the pavement. Justin dropped the gun, and stepped back, and then turned and ran. The rain had already begun to wash the blood from the car.

At home, Justin undressed, dropping his raincoat in the vestibule, and pulling off his clothes as he went, dropping them in the living room and hallway. He went into the bathroom and washed his face, and then flipped open the medicine cabinet, pawing through the bottles until he found the green one. He took two, in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror, and then walked into the kitchen and fixed himself a glass of milk, and a roast beef sandwich, with the last of the horseradish. He sat at the table and ate the sandwich, and then he washed the plate he'd used and put it in the drain board, and wrote "horseradish" in careful block letters on the grocery list Chris kept on the refrigerator, because Chris always complained that he couldn't read Justin's handwriting. He carried the glass of milk into the bedroom and touched Chris' face. He kissed him, twice, bending over and then sitting on the bed, one hand around Chris' wrist. He took two more of the pills, and then four more, gulping at the milk now. He took another six, and then crawled under the covers with Chris, kissing his shoulder, trying to hold his hand. Chris didn't move. Justin reached across him, and took six more pills, and then poured the whole bottle out onto the bedspread, the small shiny pills skittering into the dips in the blanket, and swallowed them, methodically, until he had finished the milk.
He tried to put the glass on the bedside table, but he missed, and it fell on the floor. He thought Chris wouldn't like that, when they woke up. He thought, when they woke up, he'd have to distract him a little, and clean it up. The edges of his vision were shiny, and blurry, but Chris didn't feel as cold anymore, and Justin curled a leg around him, because Chris had always hated to be cold, wanted Justin to nap with him in the afternoons to keep him warm. He liked to put his hands on Justin's stomach, and press up against his back, nuzzle his shoulder blades, a little. Justin thought, when they woke up, that he'd tell Chris he loved him. He'd been meaning to say so, but he hadn't found the right moment. not yet.

a whole boatload of thank-yous: especially to Julad, connoisseur of fine cheese, and Nemo, for reading. Kaelie for the club name, Jess and Missi and Schuyler and Sabine and Emmy and Synchronik and Cecilia, and every other random person I accosted, for letting me whine, and Dacey, for being patient about the little shoes.
song notes: All the songs Justin and JC sing are jazz standards, of which there are many versions. I listened mostly to Diana Krall while writing this; some might find her interpretations somewhat schmaltzy, but I appreciate them for their unashamed sentimentality. In order of appearance: Gee, Baby, Ain't I Good To You, Cry Me A River, Love is Where You Are, Maybe You'll Be There, Love Letters, How Deep is the Ocean, and Easy Come, Easy Go. The section titles are from My Love Is

[stories] [front] [e-mail]