The Itch 2/2
Jan. 3rd, 2008 11:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
randomlingSo this is the second half of the answer to this request on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fic_requests by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ravenbat
Summary: JC's been dreaming - but who's he been dreaming of?
Warnings: Boybands, RPF.
Also: Unbeta'd.
Part 1
The Itch
Part 2: Sunset Light
The sun's setting, at long last. It's just like the dream.
Sheer surprise hits him in the chest like a tidal wave, and maybe it's a mistake to try to speak right away. JC opens his mouth, but whatever he's going to say sticks in his throat. He's holding onto the door with both hands now, eyes still closed. Somehow, he doesn't know how, he's sure it's just like the dream. Neither of them is looking at the other. Neither of them dares. Not yet.
JC's fingers tighten on the door and he wonders. Can he do this?
It's so close, he's so close, close enough that JC could walk over and touch him in a second. The itch is there, worse than ever, and JC bangs his head against the door, hard enough to dislodge whatever it is that's holding him back.
Two months. Two months of waiting, and he's almost there, and he can't take the final step.
***
Even back in October, it was always winter in the dream: the bare branches of the tree, the out-of-season roses, the cold wind on the back of his neck. JC still remembers the first time he dreamed of this, how he woke up sore and bewildered and was cranky all day, remembering the strangeness of it.
It's how he knows everything, he thinks. The first time, he was standing by the door, the one that said 418, making a star-shape out of his hand. It was just a moment, but it seemed to last much longer. The twist of nerves in his chest, the sharp in-and-out of his own breath, the wood, cool and hard, under his fingertips. His feet, in socks but no shoes, on thick floral carpets.
And through the crack in the door, sunset light.
***
JC opens his eyes so he can look down at his feet in warm socks but no shoes, and at his fingertips, still in their star-shape on the door. Deliberately, he makes a fist, and then he looks through the open door at the room. At the bed.
At Lance.
He doesn't know how this works. He's known Lance all his adult life, can't imagine a life that doesn't include him, must have talked to him ten or fifteen times in the two months since this started, and never suspected a thing. How did he dream of the guy every night, dream of taking him to bed, for the love of God, and never recognize him? He knows Lance's presence like he knows his own, would recognize him at a half-glance across a crowded street, and it never, never clicked. JC feels like kicking himself.
“Hi,” he says, and it's not surprise that shows up in his voice, it's wonderment. There's something fairytale-like in this. “Hi,” he says again.
Lance finally looks at him, snapping his head around to meet JC's eyes, and the wonderment in JC's voice is reflected on Lance's face.
JC holds onto the door for dear life.
***
This scene has been behind his eyes for so long, it's just plain strange to have it in front of them at last.
At first, he didn't recognize the change: he thought they were just wet dreams, the kind of vague sex dreams he often had when he hadn't gotten laid for a while. It took a few dreams before he noticed the smell of roses, the feel of that hotel bedspread, the cold wind on his bare limbs and the fading light.
It always ends far too soon, but he still knows it's great sex, the kind he loves. Sweet and tender, and just a little tentative at first. He keeps his eyes closed, feeling hands and mouth sliding down his body, warming him through and through.
He always wakes up aching. He wants to follow through and reciprocate and curl up and stay there all night.
***
“Hi,” Lance says at last, but he doesn't move, and neither does JC. They just look at each other, and JC can't identify what he's feeling. Underneath the shock? There's a whole lot more shock, and then, somewhere under that, maybe hope.
JC doesn't know what to say, or how this is supposed to go. There are all these fractured images in his head, and he doesn't know if he has to play them out, or how this is supposed to go. The curtains are open, the bare oak tree standing outside. He glances over at the nightstand and there are out-of-season roses in a vase. Lance follows JC's gaze, and his lips quirk into a smile. “What?” says JC.
“I asked the lady at reception where she got the flowers,” Lance says.
“Sally's?”
“That's right.”
JC smiles too. “Hold on,” he says, and crosses the room quickly to close the curtains. He looks at the oak tree before he does, and when he turns back, Lance is laughing, resting his elbows on his knees, bent forward, shoulders shaking.
“This is so weird,” Lance says.
“It is,” JC agrees. But this has been their crazy lives since day one: weird comes as standard issue. JC goes over and sits next to Lance on the bed. Lance turns his head and looks at JC, still laughing. “Did you ever think...?”
Lance stops laughing and shakes his head. “No, man. But maybe... maybe, I don't know...” He's searching JC's face for something, and JC just meets his eyes, not knowing what to say. “Did you dream it, too?” Lance asks.
“Every night,” JC says. He reaches out to touch Lance's hand. Lance takes hold of JC's hand, squeezes it briefly, and then lets go, looking at him seriously. Taking stock. That's Lance, all the time, making an analysis of the situation. “I don't know,” JC says, “it's like...”
“An itch you can't scratch?”
And that's the other thing about Lance, JC thinks. He's grinning so hard he thinks he might break his jaw. He and Lance might be about as different as a couple of guys in the same vocal group can be, but they've always gotten each other. They talk in the same images and live the same language, and this time the dream's the connection, and the single beam of light on the carpet right now is the same one JC's been seeing in his sleep for the past two months.
JC's still grinning; Lance is smiling, looking pleased and expectant and warm.
Lance lifts his hand and scratches JC's cheek, just gently, with one fingernail. JC leans forward to kiss him, and for a little while now, touch will be the only language they need.
fic_requests by ravenbatSummary: JC's been dreaming - but who's he been dreaming of?
Warnings: Boybands, RPF.
Also: Unbeta'd.
Part 1
The Itch
Part 2: Sunset Light
The sun's setting, at long last. It's just like the dream.
Sheer surprise hits him in the chest like a tidal wave, and maybe it's a mistake to try to speak right away. JC opens his mouth, but whatever he's going to say sticks in his throat. He's holding onto the door with both hands now, eyes still closed. Somehow, he doesn't know how, he's sure it's just like the dream. Neither of them is looking at the other. Neither of them dares. Not yet.
JC's fingers tighten on the door and he wonders. Can he do this?
It's so close, he's so close, close enough that JC could walk over and touch him in a second. The itch is there, worse than ever, and JC bangs his head against the door, hard enough to dislodge whatever it is that's holding him back.
Two months. Two months of waiting, and he's almost there, and he can't take the final step.
***
Even back in October, it was always winter in the dream: the bare branches of the tree, the out-of-season roses, the cold wind on the back of his neck. JC still remembers the first time he dreamed of this, how he woke up sore and bewildered and was cranky all day, remembering the strangeness of it.
It's how he knows everything, he thinks. The first time, he was standing by the door, the one that said 418, making a star-shape out of his hand. It was just a moment, but it seemed to last much longer. The twist of nerves in his chest, the sharp in-and-out of his own breath, the wood, cool and hard, under his fingertips. His feet, in socks but no shoes, on thick floral carpets.
And through the crack in the door, sunset light.
***
JC opens his eyes so he can look down at his feet in warm socks but no shoes, and at his fingertips, still in their star-shape on the door. Deliberately, he makes a fist, and then he looks through the open door at the room. At the bed.
At Lance.
He doesn't know how this works. He's known Lance all his adult life, can't imagine a life that doesn't include him, must have talked to him ten or fifteen times in the two months since this started, and never suspected a thing. How did he dream of the guy every night, dream of taking him to bed, for the love of God, and never recognize him? He knows Lance's presence like he knows his own, would recognize him at a half-glance across a crowded street, and it never, never clicked. JC feels like kicking himself.
“Hi,” he says, and it's not surprise that shows up in his voice, it's wonderment. There's something fairytale-like in this. “Hi,” he says again.
Lance finally looks at him, snapping his head around to meet JC's eyes, and the wonderment in JC's voice is reflected on Lance's face.
JC holds onto the door for dear life.
***
This scene has been behind his eyes for so long, it's just plain strange to have it in front of them at last.
At first, he didn't recognize the change: he thought they were just wet dreams, the kind of vague sex dreams he often had when he hadn't gotten laid for a while. It took a few dreams before he noticed the smell of roses, the feel of that hotel bedspread, the cold wind on his bare limbs and the fading light.
It always ends far too soon, but he still knows it's great sex, the kind he loves. Sweet and tender, and just a little tentative at first. He keeps his eyes closed, feeling hands and mouth sliding down his body, warming him through and through.
He always wakes up aching. He wants to follow through and reciprocate and curl up and stay there all night.
***
“Hi,” Lance says at last, but he doesn't move, and neither does JC. They just look at each other, and JC can't identify what he's feeling. Underneath the shock? There's a whole lot more shock, and then, somewhere under that, maybe hope.
JC doesn't know what to say, or how this is supposed to go. There are all these fractured images in his head, and he doesn't know if he has to play them out, or how this is supposed to go. The curtains are open, the bare oak tree standing outside. He glances over at the nightstand and there are out-of-season roses in a vase. Lance follows JC's gaze, and his lips quirk into a smile. “What?” says JC.
“I asked the lady at reception where she got the flowers,” Lance says.
“Sally's?”
“That's right.”
JC smiles too. “Hold on,” he says, and crosses the room quickly to close the curtains. He looks at the oak tree before he does, and when he turns back, Lance is laughing, resting his elbows on his knees, bent forward, shoulders shaking.
“This is so weird,” Lance says.
“It is,” JC agrees. But this has been their crazy lives since day one: weird comes as standard issue. JC goes over and sits next to Lance on the bed. Lance turns his head and looks at JC, still laughing. “Did you ever think...?”
Lance stops laughing and shakes his head. “No, man. But maybe... maybe, I don't know...” He's searching JC's face for something, and JC just meets his eyes, not knowing what to say. “Did you dream it, too?” Lance asks.
“Every night,” JC says. He reaches out to touch Lance's hand. Lance takes hold of JC's hand, squeezes it briefly, and then lets go, looking at him seriously. Taking stock. That's Lance, all the time, making an analysis of the situation. “I don't know,” JC says, “it's like...”
“An itch you can't scratch?”
And that's the other thing about Lance, JC thinks. He's grinning so hard he thinks he might break his jaw. He and Lance might be about as different as a couple of guys in the same vocal group can be, but they've always gotten each other. They talk in the same images and live the same language, and this time the dream's the connection, and the single beam of light on the carpet right now is the same one JC's been seeing in his sleep for the past two months.
JC's still grinning; Lance is smiling, looking pleased and expectant and warm.
Lance lifts his hand and scratches JC's cheek, just gently, with one fingernail. JC leans forward to kiss him, and for a little while now, touch will be the only language they need.
