BACKSTORY: 13 February 1995, London

[_johnny]

mirrored from here

He comes from a place where people buy wedding gifts at the drugstore; where the course of true love is a rutted red-clay road that washes out even in a drizzle, littered with broken beer bottles and blue Wal-Mart bags. Verity of sentiment is frequently punctuated by the full-stop pop of a nose or eye-socket exploding under the

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[__jack]

There is blind comfort in the habitual and the ritualistic, and when Johnny does his very best to extricate himself from the warmth of the sheets and that of Jack's arms (it can take hours on a good day), Jack takes refuge in the things he occupies himself with when he's alone in a space meant for two. It's the things that kept him happy for years before Johnny came along, too; before Johnny, by the simple fact of his existence, became a habit a little harder to break than tea and a comfortable robe, ratty from use but ugly from the start, on a grey Saturday morning

[_johnny]

It's like when you're a little kid, right, when somebody tells you a good secret and you wanna tell so bad, man, it bounces and flips around in your gut and makes the hairs on your arms stand on end with the best kind of shiver. And when you do tell, finally, the anticipation leaves your body in a rush along with the words and it's a kind of release that's almost like coming. Except when you're eight you don't know about orgasms, but it's the same kind of feeling, childish and sexual and mainly about love and not wanting to disappoint anybody and really really wanting to please somebody and...

And all Johnny has to do it put his key in the lock and he can tell. He can share. He twitches from foot to foot, rubs at the bandage on his arm.

Jack'll be up and about by now, he'll be lapping at his tea and fussing with his papers and Johnny'll go in and he'll plop himself into Jack's lap and give him a thorough kissing, maybe a nice grope, before he shows off his surprise. Yeah, yeah, good plan, snog him off-guard and then voila.The

[__jack]

Norman Ferguson will be happy to get this not entirely justified B+ on his very much mediocre expounding of... something or another, who bloody cares when the door has just admitted a roomful of fresher air and a smiling bloke who looks an awful lot like he's been up to something. Which is moot, because Johnny's pretty much always up to something.

The grin is particularly wicked this time, and Johnny's pulling at the sleeves of his jumper like he wants to wriggle out of it, and from experience that may very well happen at any given time. Johnny's hands are empty, however, and Johnny's hair (thick and dark and longish enough to hide your face in) is intact, and Johnny is definitely up to something.

Jack stops himself from getting up and turns to face Johnny, who's only just walking into the room, entrance-like. Jack slumps into his chair cosily and eyes Johnnny with amused suspicion.

"What's going on," he tries sternly, but the spastic look in Johnny's eyes, threatening to bubble over any moment now, wrings a chuckle out of Jack.

[_johnny]

Johnny works his thumbs into his cuffs and he shrugs his shoulders; "Nothing," he answers, bright and transparent, and he grins back at Jack.

Jack, fuck, Jack whose slouch is rapidly becoming a somewhat more obscene sprawl, just... Jack. Yeah. He feels his smile soften, warm. Sometimes he thinks about getting those long lines and perfect curves on film, but mostly he's perfectly content to have them all to himself, to know they're his.

Mine mine you're mine and I'm yours yours, us it's us.

He shrugs again and stuffs his hands into his pockets, crosses the room the plan, man, stick to the plan with a long stride and stands tilting his head, just smiling smiling smiling and Jack returning the brightness watt for watt.

"Hey, big man," he repeats, and his voice is gone all husky. He steps closer, so they're just about knee-to-knee. "I got a surprise for you."

[__jack]

Jack offers a token quirk of his eyebrow in not-surprise, but the truth is that he's beginning to know Johnny enough to be aware of the fact that he'd rather, more or less metaphorically, not take the next breath than pass on what Johnny is offering, whatever it is

[_johnny]

He can't help it, it's automatic, reflexive, Jack's face is right there and Johnny's hips roll in a lazy circle as he looks down on his lover with a fondness that seems to press all the air from his lungs

[__jack]

Yeah, off the sweater goes, and Jack would laugh and say something about Johnny being unable to keep his clothes on in his presence (which would be funny were it marginally untrue) but the tingle of Johnny's spit on Jack's bottom lip is always distraction enough to allow for Johnny's next move, which is almost always a surprise, one Jack would welcome with his eyes closed were he not so preoccupied with the sudden view of moving muscles and bones under Johnny's skin

[_johnny]

It's good, it's great, it's better than great, Jack's thumb stroking in feather-light wonder over the line of the tat, and his other hand rubs possessively over Johnny's side. He wants to arch into both touches at once, he wants to taste all the things he sees shining in Jack's eyes right now.

Jack doesn't say anything but he doesn't have to - just like Johnny knew he wouldn't have to explain, like Johnny knew Jack'd see it and know and understand.

Jack breathes in, a broken sound, and Johnny lifts Jack's hand off his arm. He shifts forward, wraps his arms around Jack's shoulders to bring him up, forward, together. He presses his lips to the top of Jack's head, lets Jack shake a little and when Jack says his name-

"Johnny"

-he shakes too, they rock and they tremble with the hugeness of this tiny moment.

Johnny's lips find their way downward, kissing across Jack's brow, his eyes, his cheek, finally to Jack's mouth.

"Yours," he says against Jack's lips, and in the same breath Jack hisses, "Mine."

[__jack]

The shaky need to crawl inside, to soak this up down to its atoms, to every iota of what's making it hard to breath like this, is quickly superceded something hungry and much less delicate. Jack's fingers curl around Johnny's wrist and his teeth sink into the corner of Johnny's mouth, eliciting a groan.

Jack pulls and Johnny slides closer, bodies flush and awkwardly balanced in this position. One takes hold of Johnny chin, fingers digging into his jaw; the other tightens around Jack's wrist before releasing it and cupping the hard bulge in Johnny's loose jeans. Jack thinks Johnny's urgent moans, like these, actually taste.

[_johnny]

Everything stutters to a halt for a moment, Johnny's hands and his brain and his body and probably the traffic on the street below; a single second balanced on a razor's edge and then Johnny breathes in, swallows - suddenly all Jack's urgency is roiling in Johnny's gut. Makes the room spin, makes his skin flush, makes his fucking eyeballs feel hot, man; he moans and he scrabbles at Jack's bathrobe, fingers sliding over the fading flannel.

Jack twists and his mouth crashes into Johnny's again, his fingers tangle up into Johnny's hair and his teeth are scraping at Johnny's lower lip while his other hand, fuck, god, man, his other hand presses and squeezes just this side of too hard.

"C'mon, yeah," Johnny gasps, moans again when Jack's hand finds its way up and over and in, warm palm slipping and stroking over hotter skin. He shudders and groans and rocks into Jack's hand; the chair overbalances and they hit with floor with a loud hollow smack.

[__jack]

The impact knocks the wind out of Jack's lungs and he breaks the kiss on a breathless laugh, Johnny's weight pressing into him. The back of the chair is digging into Jack's back and he pushes away from it, up into Johnny, groaning with a smile when his erection, not so restrained by the loose material of his boxers, press into Johnny's hip.

He gives Johnny's cock--nearly fully hard already, hot in his palm--a tight squeeze and a slow tug. Johnny uhs into Jack's smile and Jack kisses the sound off his mouth, sucks him back in, fisting a handful of hair, out of their eyes, out of the way.

"Want to fuck you. Let me fuck you, Johnny..." Because Johnny's body is taut over him, tight and straining, and Jack wants to imprint it, to hold it still while he does.

[_johnny]

He hears Jack's words but they take a second, two, three to register and then Oh Jesus, oh God heat zings through Johnny's body and his cock throbs and twitches in Jack's hand. He nods and moans and quivers, and Jack's kisses are more fierce now, both of them breathing in broken gasps in between.

Johnny can't - he has tried and failed - put into words what it means that he lets Jack fuck him, that he lets Jack bend him and fold him and take him any way he pleases. But he's sure that Jack must know because he always asks: in harsh desperate tones or in warm sleepy murmurs, in half a hundred different voices and sometimes with just a touch, but he asks and Johnny can't say no.

"Yeah, yeah," he moans against Jack's mouth, "Yeah, please, fuck me, please." He thrusts hard into Jack's fist.

[__jack]

Jack pushes his fingers through the loose knot of Johnny's hair until his hand curves around the back of Johnny's neck, fast and strong

[_johnny]

He knows everything that Jack thinks because Jack's face is like glass, you can see his soul not just in his eyes but in his lips and his brow and the lines around his mouth and the ones around his eyes that crinkle when he smiles.

He knows and he feels Jack's hand, possessive on his arm, grip and release, he sees the pleading heat in Jack's face, begging for Johnny to read him right and understand.

"Yeah," Johnny says softly, "Yeah, man, c'mere, okay, it's good." Jack sighs heavily, nods and squeezes Johnny's arm again, thumb stroking over the name there.

He lets Jack manhandle him to his feet, dance them backward to the sofa while they lose layers of clothing, what feels like layers of skin, too.

"Jack," he says. Jack Jack Jack. "C'mon."

[__jack]

Despite the breathless want, Jack is laughing again, snickering in Johnny's hair as he drops his hands to Johnny's hips and presses Johnny flush against the front of the couch.

"Like this," he states a little shakily, and brings both hands around Johnny's waist to undo the jeans completely; pushes them down until Johnny's bare arse is pushing against the front of his boxers. Jack breathes in to calm the ache to take and wraps both arms around Johnny, lingering in the closeness, in the feel of his cock just pressed against Johnny like this.

Then he reaches up to push Johnny's hair away from the side of his Johnny's neck and presses his lips and teeth to the warm pulse there, half-biting before lapping slowly, then pulls away a bit to put his free hand in the small of Johnny's back and pushing. Johnny, quiet and compliant suddenly, bends over the couch, elbows coming to rest on the plump cushions.

Jack swallows thickly and reaches for Johnny's cock again, fitting their bodies together again.