and what's this? not MORE backstory!

[_johnny]

[london, june 1997. tuesday.]It's that sort of June afternoon that's damp but not chilly, misty but not rainy, with a determinedly cheerful sun poking out from behind the clouds now and again, trying to make the best of a bad situation. The pink roses twining through the iron fences on the grounds of Jack's school are in full heady bloom, a sign

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[__jack]

Johnny can't quite keep the enthusiasm out of his voice, and even though there's a slight pang of panic at the thought of Johnny being gone for that long this time, Jack has to grin at Johnny's pitifully excited expression, raking his fingers through Johnny's hair to push it out of his face.

"I think that's great, love. Glad this is all finally coming together for you..." Johnny's dream, Johnny's ambitions, the things he's worked for for as long as Jack's known him; Jack is torn between feeling elated and fighting off the inexplicable sadness suddenly weighing on him.

Because when Johnny goes, Jack doesn't sleep.

When Johnny goes, he goes to Amsterdam or Copenhagen or Prague for a week or two, then comes back. And Jack just smiles and lets him go, because when Johnny gets that manic glint of creativity in his eyes, he won't rest until he does something about it.

Jack will set the alarm early and wake Johnny up himself since Johnny won’t wake up with the alarm. They’ll fuck in the twisted sheets before they have to leave, before Jack drives Johnny to the airport, not in silence but in the steady stream of babbling energy Johnny emits when he's ready to work. Sheets of yellow lined paper will be sticking out of Johnny's pockets, Johnny's bags. Jack's hands will curl and uncurl on the steering wheel while Johnny's own gesture emphatically.

Jack's kids are able to tell that Johnny is out of town. They are uncharacteristically well-behaved when Jack shows up in class with red-rimmed eyes and the kind of chronic bed-hair you only ever get from tossing and turning and reaching over to find nothing there. The kids will whisper and fret; eventually they’ll ask, and even though Jack won't admit it outright, they’ll figure it out. The kids like Johnny, who waits for Jack in the teacher's lounge sometimes, or outside, by the bicycle rack. None of them remember him from the museum; those kids have gone on, grown three years, not Jack's anymore. Jack saw Johnny bump fists with one of them once though, and the kid seemed inordinately pleased with the strange salute, blushing and stammering and running back to his friends standing a little taller. Johnny does that to people.

Jack will try not to count the days until Johnny's return, but it'll be impossible with Johnny calling every night saying things like, "Just four more days, big man." Jack knows Johnny's having a blast where his is, doing what he does, and it mostly doesn't bother him, he mostly doesn't envy the other people and places that fill up Johnny's time and mind. They’ll try phone sex a few times and will find it easy, always hot and messy, and afterwards Jack will listen to Johnny tell him about the day's shoot, Johnny's softly drawling accent soothing over the slowing pound of Jack's heart in his own ears.

Johnny will look tired when Jack gets him at Heathrow a few sleepless nights later, but his weary smile will genuine--wide and crooked and permanent. Jack won't say anything, never does right away, not until he gets to kiss Johnny until people start to stare, not until Johnny's smile has changed to the one just for Jack and he's tugging Jack away from baggage claim and into the loo.

“I’m going to miss you when you go.” And he pouts to hide the real thing, which feels funny and overblown so he decides to dismiss it, swallow it down. “I might have to get a dog or something.”

[_johnny]

Johnny's laugh comes out almost like a sob, and he buries the sound Jack's mouth, kisses him until the overwhelmed feeling pressing on his chest dissipates back into joy.

"I'm so fuckin' happy, man," he says, and Jack reflects his smile, eyes crinkly and bright. "Love you so much, this is going to change everything." He shifts on top of Jack, cups Jack's face in his hands and kisses him again, deeper, fiercer. "Soon as everything's settled I'll be back and we can take a month off and just lay around and make love and drink wine..."

Jack grins, taps Johnny on the end of his nose. "Didn't we do that on Santorini? Last August?"

Yeah, Greece was all that, and Johnny laughs again, hugs Jack tightly, presses his lips to Jack's neck.

"Yeah, yeah," he says aloud, and Jack clings back for a moment before Johnny flops off of him again, drops to the floor and pulls at Jack's knees. "C'mon, c'mere," he mumbles, and drops his head to bite at Jack's denim-covered thigh.

[__jack]

Jack gladly shifts over with a chuckle (which wants to sound indulgent but comes out a little eager) and drops both legs to the floor, slumping against the backrest. Johnny gladly moves to occupy the space between them, kissing his chest through his clothes, clever fingers already working Jack's belt loose. Jack's own find the smooth thickness of Johnny's hair again, digs his fingers under the mass of it where it's warmest.

"Up," Johnny urges with a light slap on Jack's hip, and Jack obliges, lifting his arse off the sofa enough so that Johnny can tug his jeans halfway down his thigh. Johnny sits back a bit, kneading his thumbs into Jack's thighs, and Jack takes a moment to appreciate the prickle of stubble on the sharp angles of his face, darker over his lip, and the way daylight shadows it.

He pushes Johnny's hair away from his face again, tugging at the tip of it affectionately just as Johnny's hand circles his cock, already half-hard.

[_johnny]

Chief among the reasons that Johnny loves blowing Jack is because when Johnny is blowing Jack, Jack usually sprawls out, leans back, and just lets it happen, just lounges and plays with Johnny's hair.

Sometimes, in the aisle of the grocery store, or sitting in the movie theatre, or just walking down the street, Jack will reach out, get a fistful of hair and tuck it back sloppily behind Johnny's ear, and Johnny will be hard in an instant.

Once, memorably, he'd dragged Jack into the bathroom near the Picassos in the Tate and dropped to his fucking knees right there.

Johnny strokes Jack's cock with one hand, a firm tight grip that brings it up hard in a matter of minutes; bends his head and licks a little at the pale skin at the top of Jack's thigh. He bites down; Jack gasps softly and yanks on Johnny's hair.

Johnny purrs, and licks.

[__jack]

This is where Jack likes to close his eyes and lean back and just listen, oddly detached from the hot pang searing at his insides when Johnny slides his mouth down his cock. His breath hisses wetly between his teeth but he listens to the sound of spit on flesh, to Johnny breathing through his nose, to the rasp of Johnny's knees on the carpet and that of Jack's jeans against the worn fabric of the sofa.

Jack presses his shoulders against the plump cushion of the backrest and lets his head fall back against it, humming happily. He bunches a lazy handful of Johnny's hair in his fist and scoots his hips a fraction closer to him when he lets go of Johnny's hair and it brushes the tops of his thighs.

[_johnny]

Could do this forever, Johnny thinks, he loves it that much, the weight of Jack's cock, the taste of Jack's cock on his tongue, like blood and steel and salt, metallic and alive.

Johnny likes to take it slow, likes to work up and down inch by slick soft inch, until Jack's making hot little needy sounds and hitching his hips in jerky, abortive thrusts. Johnny brings his head back up, drags his tongue firmly along the underside of Jack's cock, his hand squeezing steadily around the base.

"Hold. Still." Johnny delivers another sharp bite, high inside Jack's thigh, to punctuate the warning, the soothes it with a kiss.

[__jack]

Jack's hand squeezes the back of Johnny's neck when Johnny's teeth dig gently into his thigh, and Jack doesn't bother trying to breath out normally, lets the staccato of it pass his lips as he watches the quick flashes of tongue he sees between Johnny's lips when Johnny presses open-mouth kisses to Jack's belly, to his cock.

He holds still, because Johnny said.

Johnny's hands are strong and dark and inked and bejewelled, wrapped around Jack's cock, and he can feel the slightest grooves of it, from the curves of his palm to the cooler loop of the rings. Jack groans and closes his eyes again when Johnny notices what he's looking at and brings his free hand up to wrap it on Jack too, squeezing and sliding just so.

Jack can feel Johnny's eyes on him like another pair of hands.

[_johnny]

Johnny watches Jack's face, watches the flush rise in his cheeks, his eyelids fluttering shut, watches his mouth go slack when Johnny strokes tight, twist, twist, tight just the way he likes it, yeah, just like that.

He takes his left hand, smoothes it up Jack's thigh, presses his thumb hard against the tendon high inside. Jack's knee jerks. "Look at me," he whispers, and it comes out almost harsh, almost fierce. "Look at me, baby, on my knees for you..."

Jack's eyes slit open, his teeth sink into his lower lip, and Johnny holds his gaze, holds it when he tilts his head and licks, hard, bottom to top and back again.

[__jack]

Johnny sets into a comfortable rhythm then, lips tight and tongue stroking, the silver of his rings bringing Jack that much closer. Jack groans and reaches for Johnny again, sliding both hands on his face, along his jaw.

"Don't go," he whines softly, and wishes he hadn't. But. "Don't-- don't leave me. It's too far, it's--"

He twists chunks of dark hair around his fingers and comes on a wordless gasp this time, hips still under Johnny's hands.

[_johnny]

And Johnny swallows, and Johnny gasps, and Johnny rocks forward on his knees and then back onto his heels, leans up and lets Jack just fucking yank him up up up into a kiss that tastes like salt and possession.

"Love you," he sighs against Jack's lips, "Love you so fucking much..."

Jack shakes his head. "Don't." His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and he tightens his grip in Johnny's hair for a moment, then brings his hands down to frame Johnny's face, so tight it almost hurts.

And for the first time in a long time, Johnny is scared.

"No, no, it's okay," he whispers, "it's okay, I promise, it's not long, it's not soon, it's okay, I love you."

I love you. It's okay. One thing means the other.