The Itch 1/2
Jan. 2nd, 2008 11:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
randomlingOkay, this is the first half of the answer to this request by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ravenbat on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fic_requests, because I'm evil.
Summary: JC's been dreaming - but who's he been dreaming of?
Warnings: Boybands, RPF.
Also: Unbeta'd.
The Itch
Part 1: Turn Your Head
He has the dream again on the plane.
It doesn't get any less weird, that's for sure. It's the things he knows that he shouldn't – which store the roses came from, the route he took to get here – and the things he doesn't know that he should. The cold winter air on his neck, when he's been sweltering all day in LA. Sunset light, pink and orange, slanting through the crack in the curtains. It's so clear; he could write a song about it.
This time, JC is facing the window. He can see the other man out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt off. JC wants to turn his head, to see his face, but it's always the same. It's like there's a weight on his neck, holding him in place, staring out of the window at the bare branches of an oak tree.
In the dreams, they don't talk. Sometimes they sit there, not looking at each other, silence heavy in the air. Other times, there's a bedspread thick and soft underneath him, and the other man's body warm above him, all hands and tongue, and JC doesn't dare open his eyes for fear of waking up. He always does wake up, gasping, far too soon. Once there was the slamming of a door, and a quiet noise, just like someone, someone he knows, makes in his throat when he's annoyed, and JC was almost there, almost, almost knew who it was, and then he woke up with a start, feeling like he wanted to reach deep into his brain and scratch.
It's every night now, every time he dozes off in a cab; every time he closes his eyes, he's back there. The hotel room, the sunset, the oak tree and him. And no words. No words at all.
JC's finally jolted awake as the plane starts its descent. He stares out of the window at Roanoke, Virginia, as they come in to land.
***
He rents a car to get to the hotel, mostly to avoid falling asleep again on the way there. Driving feels good, wakeful, normal, but it's still there, in the back of his mind, the itch he can't scratch. It's the who-why-what-the-hell that's been rolling around his head for the past two months: lazily at first, then gathering momentum and speed, like a hamster rattling its wheel faster and faster.
Round and round. He feels, just a little, like he's going crazy. Because it's not insane, not at all, to fly to Nowheresville, Virginia, on the basis of a recurring dream. It's not insane that he's driving down unfamiliar streets, but he doesn't need a map or directions – left turn here, third right, left again into the parking lot – to get where he's going. He just knows. He's a salmon swimming home.
He chokes down a laugh at himself – so corny – before stopping the car. Getting out, cold wind hits him hard on the back of the neck, and he turns up the collar of his jacket automatically before blinking at himself. It's sense-memory that's not. Dream-memory. Winter cold: no snow, but the crunch of ice under his feet. He heads for the hotel door, pushing his way into a blast of warm air and an old-fashioned reception hall, all flocked wallpaper and floral carpeting, where a middle-aged woman looks up at him expectantly.
She doesn't seem to recognize him at all, which, thank God. Explaining even half of this to a curious fan would be ten kinds of fun.
He smiles at her, and she smiles back, and they share professional facades quite easily as he says, “I'd like to rent a room, please.”
She looks down at her computer as he approaches the desk. “Single or double?”
He thinks back to the dream and says, “Double,” before shaking his head to clear it. Stupid. “Is Room 418 free?”
She hits a couple of buttons and consults her screen again. “I'm sorry, sir. 418 is taken today. Would you like the next-door room? I can give you 416 or 420.”
“By who?” says JC, blinking.
“I'm sorry?”
“Who's renting Room 418?” He's already digging for his wallet – it's just wrong. He needs that room tonight, it's got to be tonight. Maybe whoever it is will take some cash to switch rooms.
“I'm terribly sorry, sir,” the receptionist says, “I can't give out information about our guests.”
JC blinks and snaps himself back to reality, putting the professional smile back on again. “Of course. I'm sorry. I'll take whatever.”
***
He ends up on the 4th floor anyway, room 407, and he's on the wrong side of the building. He can't see the bare oak tree, or even the sunset: the window faces north. He lies on the bed, and it's all wrong, he shouldn't be here, lying on an empty double bed at four in the afternoon, staring out the window at the expanse of parking lot and the slate-grey sky. He should be in another room, where the sun is setting, and someone is waiting for him.
The itch is back, niggling uncomfortably in his head. Round and round.
He could kick something. He's close, he's so close, but he's missing the key. The vibe isn't right, the atmosphere or something: darkness is already closing in. The moment's passing, and he's doing nothing, just lying here and waiting for something that isn't going to happen. In the dream, too, he's doing nothing, and that's wrong too: he's not talking, not responding, not turning his head.
JC closes his eyes. Turn your head, he thinks, turn your head.
He looks at his watch and only a minute's passed, but it felt like eternity: the weight on his neck, pressing down, pushing, as he tried to turn his head. JC could see him, sitting up, back straight, looking away, but he couldn't do it. He wasn't strong enough.
JC swung his feet off the bed and sat up. If he couldn't do it in the dream...
Turn your head.
***
418 is across the hall and down a few, and JC pads down the carpeted hallway, wearing his socks but no shoes. It didn't even occur to him that 418 is taken, that maybe that's not a bad thing, that maybe there's someone in there, waiting for him. That's where it happens, whatever it is; it's the place.
He should have gone to that store, the one where he's supposed to buy the roses.
Instead, here he is, outside the door. 418. He's cold all of a sudden, winter wind from nowhere on his neck. He raises his hand and knocks. There's no response, and it's not until after he's dropped his hand again that he notices the door's ajar.
He makes a star out of his hand, the way he used to when he was really little, pushing open the door of his parents' bedroom in the middle of the night. It takes a minute, nerves constricting his chest, and he takes a really deep breath and closes his eyes and pushes on the door. Not hard, but hard enough that it gives way under his hand, slides open. He hears the noise as it moves across the thick carpet.
He doesn't dare open his eyes. But he can't close his ears, and he can't not recognize the voice that says, “Is it you?”
Part 2
ravenbat on fic_requests, because I'm evil.Summary: JC's been dreaming - but who's he been dreaming of?
Warnings: Boybands, RPF.
Also: Unbeta'd.
The Itch
Part 1: Turn Your Head
He has the dream again on the plane.
It doesn't get any less weird, that's for sure. It's the things he knows that he shouldn't – which store the roses came from, the route he took to get here – and the things he doesn't know that he should. The cold winter air on his neck, when he's been sweltering all day in LA. Sunset light, pink and orange, slanting through the crack in the curtains. It's so clear; he could write a song about it.
This time, JC is facing the window. He can see the other man out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt off. JC wants to turn his head, to see his face, but it's always the same. It's like there's a weight on his neck, holding him in place, staring out of the window at the bare branches of an oak tree.
In the dreams, they don't talk. Sometimes they sit there, not looking at each other, silence heavy in the air. Other times, there's a bedspread thick and soft underneath him, and the other man's body warm above him, all hands and tongue, and JC doesn't dare open his eyes for fear of waking up. He always does wake up, gasping, far too soon. Once there was the slamming of a door, and a quiet noise, just like someone, someone he knows, makes in his throat when he's annoyed, and JC was almost there, almost, almost knew who it was, and then he woke up with a start, feeling like he wanted to reach deep into his brain and scratch.
It's every night now, every time he dozes off in a cab; every time he closes his eyes, he's back there. The hotel room, the sunset, the oak tree and him. And no words. No words at all.
JC's finally jolted awake as the plane starts its descent. He stares out of the window at Roanoke, Virginia, as they come in to land.
***
He rents a car to get to the hotel, mostly to avoid falling asleep again on the way there. Driving feels good, wakeful, normal, but it's still there, in the back of his mind, the itch he can't scratch. It's the who-why-what-the-hell that's been rolling around his head for the past two months: lazily at first, then gathering momentum and speed, like a hamster rattling its wheel faster and faster.
Round and round. He feels, just a little, like he's going crazy. Because it's not insane, not at all, to fly to Nowheresville, Virginia, on the basis of a recurring dream. It's not insane that he's driving down unfamiliar streets, but he doesn't need a map or directions – left turn here, third right, left again into the parking lot – to get where he's going. He just knows. He's a salmon swimming home.
He chokes down a laugh at himself – so corny – before stopping the car. Getting out, cold wind hits him hard on the back of the neck, and he turns up the collar of his jacket automatically before blinking at himself. It's sense-memory that's not. Dream-memory. Winter cold: no snow, but the crunch of ice under his feet. He heads for the hotel door, pushing his way into a blast of warm air and an old-fashioned reception hall, all flocked wallpaper and floral carpeting, where a middle-aged woman looks up at him expectantly.
She doesn't seem to recognize him at all, which, thank God. Explaining even half of this to a curious fan would be ten kinds of fun.
He smiles at her, and she smiles back, and they share professional facades quite easily as he says, “I'd like to rent a room, please.”
She looks down at her computer as he approaches the desk. “Single or double?”
He thinks back to the dream and says, “Double,” before shaking his head to clear it. Stupid. “Is Room 418 free?”
She hits a couple of buttons and consults her screen again. “I'm sorry, sir. 418 is taken today. Would you like the next-door room? I can give you 416 or 420.”
“By who?” says JC, blinking.
“I'm sorry?”
“Who's renting Room 418?” He's already digging for his wallet – it's just wrong. He needs that room tonight, it's got to be tonight. Maybe whoever it is will take some cash to switch rooms.
“I'm terribly sorry, sir,” the receptionist says, “I can't give out information about our guests.”
JC blinks and snaps himself back to reality, putting the professional smile back on again. “Of course. I'm sorry. I'll take whatever.”
***
He ends up on the 4th floor anyway, room 407, and he's on the wrong side of the building. He can't see the bare oak tree, or even the sunset: the window faces north. He lies on the bed, and it's all wrong, he shouldn't be here, lying on an empty double bed at four in the afternoon, staring out the window at the expanse of parking lot and the slate-grey sky. He should be in another room, where the sun is setting, and someone is waiting for him.
The itch is back, niggling uncomfortably in his head. Round and round.
He could kick something. He's close, he's so close, but he's missing the key. The vibe isn't right, the atmosphere or something: darkness is already closing in. The moment's passing, and he's doing nothing, just lying here and waiting for something that isn't going to happen. In the dream, too, he's doing nothing, and that's wrong too: he's not talking, not responding, not turning his head.
JC closes his eyes. Turn your head, he thinks, turn your head.
He looks at his watch and only a minute's passed, but it felt like eternity: the weight on his neck, pressing down, pushing, as he tried to turn his head. JC could see him, sitting up, back straight, looking away, but he couldn't do it. He wasn't strong enough.
JC swung his feet off the bed and sat up. If he couldn't do it in the dream...
Turn your head.
***
418 is across the hall and down a few, and JC pads down the carpeted hallway, wearing his socks but no shoes. It didn't even occur to him that 418 is taken, that maybe that's not a bad thing, that maybe there's someone in there, waiting for him. That's where it happens, whatever it is; it's the place.
He should have gone to that store, the one where he's supposed to buy the roses.
Instead, here he is, outside the door. 418. He's cold all of a sudden, winter wind from nowhere on his neck. He raises his hand and knocks. There's no response, and it's not until after he's dropped his hand again that he notices the door's ajar.
He makes a star out of his hand, the way he used to when he was really little, pushing open the door of his parents' bedroom in the middle of the night. It takes a minute, nerves constricting his chest, and he takes a really deep breath and closes his eyes and pushes on the door. Not hard, but hard enough that it gives way under his hand, slides open. He hears the noise as it moves across the thick carpet.
He doesn't dare open his eyes. But he can't close his ears, and he can't not recognize the voice that says, “Is it you?”
Part 2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-01-02 11:50 pm (UTC)2 - Wow, you read FAST! I'm still noticing errors and editing!
3 - Mwahahahaha.
4 - Yes, there's going to be more. And soon. I'm writing it now.
5 - Mwahahahaha?
no subject
Date: 2008-01-02 11:53 pm (UTC)2. Um... yep ;o)
3. *blows raspberries*
4. THANK GOD. I was about to die from ficus interruptus
5. *licks you*
no subject
Date: 2008-01-02 11:55 pm (UTC)(Yes, yes, I'm writing.)
no subject
Date: 2008-01-03 12:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-03 12:02 am (UTC)Licking ME, however, doesn't help me concentrate on typing?
no subject
Date: 2008-01-03 12:03 am (UTC)*licks your keyboard*
no subject
Date: 2008-01-03 12:08 am (UTC)OK, I'm now not responding to comments for a little while in order to finish Part 2 before it's a totally ridiculous hour.