How JC Escaped... 2/2
Continued from: Part 1
All of the little things
Nobody else could understand,
Baby, I will, I will
Every once in a while, Chris wanted to stop and ask the universe when his life had become so completely bizarre. It was an empty question, though. He knew damn well that it had happened the day he decided to start a musical group with two kids from the Mickey Mouse Club. I mean, really, they were Mice. What had he been thinking?
His life was strange in many, many ways. Over the years, he'd grown accustomed to it. He could handle strange twists in fortune, and rollercoaster highs and lows, and, well, the whole Justin Timberlake Experience. But every once in a while, something really weird managed to sneak up on him and throw him for a loop.
Something, for instance, like today.
A small part of him was still feeling like he should hunt down the captain of the football team and sneer at him. Ha! The prettiest girl in school had the hots for him, for Christopher Kirkpatrick, the runt. How do you like them apples, hot shot?
But most of him was a breath away from freaking the fuck out. First, there was the spontaneous glitter, which was some really freaky shit right there, and then, there was JC--smokin' hot, prettiest-girl-in-school JC--trying to describe how he'd lost his music. JC seemed to think that it was mysterious and, quite possibly, magical, but Chris saw it for what it was: a huge, glaring warning sign.
And it killed him, killed him dead, to sit there with his arms full of warm, beautiful JC and think of the possibilities. Degenerative hearing loss? Neurological damage? Early on-set Alzheimer's? Brain tumor?
He sat and held JC tight.
#
"I think we should go to the music room," Chris said.
JC had explained about his music first, how he had lost it somehow without noticing the loss, what music was like now, and how he remembered it being. Then he had told him about forgetting the music room and how suddenly remembering what it was had filled him with so much horror and grief that he'd been sick.
"I'm scared of it," JC said. "It's stupid, but I don't want to go there."
Chris rubbed his back.
"That's not stupid, baby. I'm scared of it for you. But I think it's important. It has to be important, right? The JC Chasez I know wouldn't lose his lunch over nothing."
JC chuckled and laid his head on Chris' shoulder.
"'Lose my lunch?' How come you're not the famous lyrical genius here?"
"The world's not ready for me yet."
"Me, neither," JC said.
They sat a little longer, and Chris began to explain how there might be a clue in the music room. Maybe something had happened there. Maybe he'd fallen and hit his head. Maybe something in the room would jog JC's memory.
Maybe Chris was right.
He was still scared, but he also wanted to go down there with Chris. It had been his favorite room in the house; he wanted it back.
JC stood up and then held his hand out to Chris.
"Kiss me for luck before we go?"
#
They paused outside the music room door. JC closed his eyes and breathed deeply and tried to get a sense of what his stomach was doing. He didn't want to throw up again.
Chris shifted back and forth, a nervous rustling of sound that JC could follow with his eyes closed.
"I'm okay," JC said.
"That's good," Chris said. "That's really good. Be Zen in the face of fear, embody the calm before the weird-shit storm."
JC opened one eye and peered at him.
"Is that... 'the shit storm that is weird' or 'the storm of weird shit'?"
"Yes," Chris said.
"Ah. Thanks for the clarification."
"You're welcome, man. Any time."
Chris rocked back on his feet. Forward. Back. It was selfish, but his agitation made JC feel better. He thought, Chris is worried about me, he is scared for me, and felt warm all over. It made him brave.
"Well," JC said. "What are you waiting for?"
"What do you think? I'm waiting for you."
"So open the door for me, already."
"What am I? Your butler?" Chris said, as he reached for the knob and opened the door.
They both peered in without moving forward.
"Huh," Chris said after a long moment. "That was anticlimactic."
JC nodded, though his stomach felt like he'd been swallowing ice cubes whole. Chris stepped into the room, and JC watched him look around. It was easier to focus on Chris than on the room.
"You know," Chris said. "I was expecting it to be hip-deep in glitter in here. I was all prepared to see like... prairie dogs in sequined jumpsuits dancing on a mountain of glitter."
JC stepped through the door, and Chris looked over at him.
"You holding up okay?"
JC nodded.
The room was dusty, but it was normal, run-of-the-mill, haven't-cleaned-for-months dust. There were cobwebs on some of the shelves, and a long, furry-with-dust strand of cobweb hung from the ceiling near the stereo. It made JC feel empty to see it. He thought there was probably a space inside of him that looked just like that.
"I think you've got a family of Daddy-Long-Legs in here," Chris said from over in the corner by the vinyl records.
JC nodded.
Chris came over to him. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"This is my favorite room," JC said.
"Yeah, I know."
"That's my favorite chair." JC pointed to it.
"Oh, yeah?" Chris walked over to it, touched the furry afghan, and then grinned. "Hey, this is your porn room, isn't it?"
"Yes..."
"Guess I shouldn't touch anything, huh?"
JC rolled his eyes.
"I clean up after myself."
"I'm just saying--"
"And if you're afraid of my spunk, you really should have thought of that before kissing me today."
"Hey," Chris said. "I'm your boyfriend, I can handle your spunk."
His boyfriend?
"You're my--? Um..."
"Well, maybe I'm jumping ahead, but as your future boyfriend, the sentiment still stands. I'm not afraid of your stuff, I'm actually looking forward to becoming acquainted with it, but your old stuff? Eww. Not so much. Fresh is best."
JC shook his head. "You're insane."
"Yeah, so?"
"I like it."
Chris' smile lit up the room and melted the last of the ice in JC's belly.
#
Chris was looking for clues and JC wanted to help him, but he didn't even know what a clue would look like in this case. If he couldn't help, he could at least avoid being a hindrance, so he sat in his chair--it was such a comfortable chair--and watched Chris. Out of the way, but ready to answer questions: that was good, right?
Chris sorted through a stack of CD cases that were piled on top of the stereo stand.
"I'm surprised you didn't put these away," Chris said. "You must have taken them out the last time you were here."
That made sense, but it didn't seem like much of a clue.
"Do you remember? When were you in here last? What were you doing?"
"I... I was napping."
"Hmm." Chris wiped the dust and cobwebs from the stereo. "But you wouldn't have come in here just for a nap. You would have watched something or listened to something."
He turned on the stereo and sound filled the room. JC didn't recognize it, but Chris listened to it for a moment and then smirked.
"Wow," he said. "I'm surprised it isn't 'Computer Love.'"
"What?"
"That's Zapp & Roger's Greatest Hits. 'Computer Love' would have been right up your alley... though I suppose this is still a little kinky."
JC still didn't recognize it, but he tried to focus, to hear the words through the sound.
"You really make me," Chris sang. "You really make me, you really make me, you make me wanna scream. Make me wanna scream."
JC froze.
"'So Ruff, So Tuff,'" he managed to say after a moment.
"You got it." Chris poked through a few more CDs, then turned on the DVD player as he continued to sing. "Forget about your troubles, just get on down. Forget about your troubles..."
He'd been listening to this, and Eric had been talking to him.
And he'd said something to Eric. He didn't remember. But there'd been something weird.
Something important.
"Huh," Chris said. "No DVD in here." He turned off the player.
Eric had said something important-- No. It was how he had said it.
Then be that way, JC.
All dark and weird, and JC had thought he was going to quit.
But Eric hadn't quit.
But Eric hadn't called him, either.
Eric always called. Something wasn't right.
Then be that way, JC.
Had Eric... cursed him?
Could he have cursed him? That was crazy, wasn't it? But it would explain so much...
"Well," Chris said. "We're not having much luck here, are we? Wanna do something else?"
He couldn't tell Chris.
What would happen?
If Eric had cursed him, he wasn't going to cop to it. People didn't go around advertising that they were... what? Witches? Evil fairies? Eric would deny it, and they wouldn't be able to prove it. But if Chris believed JC, if he really thought that Eric had done something to hurt JC, he'd go ballistic. He'd go after Eric. He'd attack him and end up arrested and charged with assault, and prison was pretty much the last place a boybander should ever, ever go--even fairly tough, ex-boybanders like Chris.
No.
That wasn't going to happen.
JC wasn't going to tell him. He wasn't even certain that it was a curse.
And if it was?
Well, what the hell was Eric thinking? That JC would come begging? Crawling on his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness or whatever it took to make him lift the curse? Hadn't Eric learned anything?
JC was the boss. He wasn't some cowed little boybander tiptoeing around, listening to his handlers, and trying to make everyone happy.
He didn't have much of a career, but he was the talent, he was the millionaire paying Eric's fucking paycheck, and Eric could just fuck off back to... Evil Fairyland if he didn't like it.
There was always a surprise twist in the fairy tales, some unexpected trick to breaking a curse without appeasing the evil fairy. And nine times out of ten, the heroes just stumbled upon the answer when the time was right.
And JC figured his odds were a whole lot better than ninety percent. No one did tricky like his Chris did.
#
JC's groceries were finally delivered. Chris helped put them away, all the while mixing questions like "Salad dressing, 'fridge or cupboard?" with questions about his music and "When was your last physical?"
JC agreed that he probably should go and at least have an ear, nose, and throat guy check him out. Chris patted his ass and volunteered to check him out as well. JC handed him a package of ground turkey and asked him to make dinner instead.
"Hmmph," Chris said.
"I need my strength."
While Chris pulled out a frying pan and made burgers, JC tried to make a salad. He thought if he concentrated and moved slowly and didn't let his mind wander from the task at hand, maybe he could keep his dust from getting in the salad.
Chris hummed a bit, and poked at the burgers and sighed.
"Cows are our friends. We should eat them."
"It's not nice to eat your friends," JC said, carefully slicing a tomato.
Chris turned the flame down on the stove and pushed JC up against the butcher's block for a quick demonstration of how it could be very nice to eat a friend. Afterwards, JC asked him if he planned to do the same the next time he met a cow. Chris laughed, and JC wished for a camera.
Chris looked unbelievable, laughing with slick lips and sparkles in his hair and his shoulders glinting like he was wearing sequined epaulets. JC pulled him up off his knees and kissed him, and thought of that day so long ago when they'd been painted up to celebrate their first gold record. He wished that he had been brave enough to kiss Chris then.
"Dinner," Chris said and turned back to the stove.
The turkey burgers were good, but the salad was gritty.
#
Chris brought his laptop up to the bedroom and fired it up once JC was asleep. He was too old to be pulling all-nighters, but he didn't see how he could possibly sleep.
He sat in bed, JC snuggled all up along his side, and started searching. He knew there were games and mental exercises and things that were supposed to help slow memory loss in Alzheimer's patients. And sometimes, people with brain damage regained lost skills when other parts of their brains learned new ways to do old tricks. But there was so much more that he needed to know.
#
"Hey, baby," Chris said when JC woke up.
JC sneezed and then asked, "Don't you sleep in anymore?"
"Not today. I think I'm still on Eastern Time."
"Oh," JC said. "Does that mean you made me coffee?"
"Nope."
"You're mean," JC told him. "Almost as mean as Lance."
"Didn't your mother warn you about that?"
"Mean counter tenors? I don't think she ever got that specific..."
"About setting a precedent with breakfast in bed at the start of a relationship."
"If you make me coffee, I'll blow you."
"Bribery," Chris said, getting out of bed. "I'm disturbingly okay with that."
#
Chris was a genius.
He brought him coffee in a thermal travel mug, so it stayed hot while JC thanked him. And afterwards, JC leaned back on pillows silvered with dust, removed the mug's lid, and enjoyed delicious, sparkle-free coffee.
Chris was definitely a keeper.
#
Chris took their blankets outside and shook them out. Then, he brought them in, thinking he could toss them in the dryer and tumble more glitter out of them, but he stopped before he turned the dryer on. What if JC's glitter-dust was combustible?
Hmm... Experiment time.
He grabbed a stainless steel mixing bowl from the kitchen and went in search of an easily harvestable dust supply. He could just go and sex up JC some more, that seemed the surest way, but then he'd have to explain what he was doing.
He wondered if sexy stuff was the only thing that generated the dust. That would mean JC had been... busy jerking off everywhere in the house? Not impossible. Not even improbable, but he would have figured out the connection pretty quickly if it only happened when he touched himself. Right?
In the den, he noticed that the floor near the couch glittered more than its surroundings. He knelt down and peered under the couch. Aha! He'd struck gold!
Well... Fool's Gold or something.
He scooped up a bunch and dumped it in the bowl. He grabbed some other supplies, and then headed back outside.
The thing about the glitter was: it gave him hope. It was the only thing about this whole situation that he didn't have a rational explanation for. And, well, he'd choose aliens from Planet Sequin over sick-and-dying JC any day. Aliens could at least be negotiated with... or something.
He took the glitter to the farthest corner of the yard and stuck a sheet of paper in the bowl like a wick. Then he set it down, lit a corner of the paper on fire, and got the hell back.
He waited. The flame consumed the visible portion of the paper, then descended into the bowl and out of sight. He counted: a minute, two, three...
Nothing happened.
A delayed explosion would be a really good way to lose his eyebrows, so he waited another minute and then checked the bowl. Ash from the paper dulled the shine of the glitter, but it wasn't even hot to the touch.
So... not flammable, but maybe still combustible? Where was JC's grill?
JC came out while Chris was busy with the grill. His hair was wet and he wasn't wearing a shirt, and Chris couldn't help but admire him.
Prettiest girl in school, he thought again, and reminded himself to never say that to JC. He didn't think of JC as a girl, but the feeling of pride and wonder was the same.
"Are you making breakfast?" JC asked.
"Nah." Chris poked at the glitter again with the long-handled grill spatula. "I'm just failing to make an explosion."
"What?"
"Nothing. Did you call your doctor?"
"I have an appointment for Monday."
"Great!"
"Yeah," JC said. He walked over and peered into the bowl, then pressed a kiss to Chris' temple. "When you're finished playing mad scientist, come inside. I'll put a Pop-Tart in the toaster for you."
Chris smiled. Who else would be so calm about him trying to explode their grill?
"You'll spoil me."
"You're my boyfriend," JC said. "You can handle it."
Chris shut off the propane and followed him inside. He totally had something better to do. After all, it wasn't every day that he got to do his new boyfriend.
#
JC got a can of Pledge out in the afternoon and began cleaning the bedroom. He didn't think they'd be able to sleep in there the way it was now. It was scary how much dust he was now... what? Shedding? Exhaling? Drawing from the ether?
It would be terrifying, if it didn't feel so damn good. He wondered if it was good because it was Chris or if it was because he hadn't gotten any for so long. He told himself that it was Chris, because the thought made him happy--and because he wasn't about to go so long without again just to test the theory.
He wanted Chris to fuck him. He knew he'd love it, though he hadn't had it like that in years, not since before NSYNC. Chris would be so good, so intense and just the right amount of rough and--
God, look.
He was glittering again. He couldn't think about Chris and clean at the same time.
He wiped away the new dust, and sighed. They probably shouldn't fuck until this was over. It would be scratchy, worse than sex on a beach, and there were places that glitter should really never go.
That didn't stop him from wanting it, though.
What you do to me,
I can't explain
You're so good
JC's doctor gave him a clean bill of health.
JC wasn't surprised, because he'd been careful to think only unsexy thoughts during the check-up, mainly dead kittens, needles, and the way Justin's hair had looked when he was seventeen. He didn't want to know how medical professionals would react to spontaneous glittering. If it was something that they were prepared to handle, he would have found some trace of it on the internet.
To celebrate JC's good news, Chris dragged him into the bathroom, fingered him until he begged, and then fucked him in the shower. Twice.
He was a genius, a fucking genius, and JC wouldn't change a thing about him, not even how smug he looked later as he handed JC a bottle of Drano with a cheery, "You clogged it, you fix it, bucko."
The way Chris fucked was worth any number of clogged shower drains.
#
Chris started coining new phrases like "make glitter, not war" and "glitter me, baby." When JC teased him about needing a new hobby, he retaliated by putting on Bad Company and serenading JC with a terribly off-key chorus of "Feel Like Makin' Glitter."
Later, JC thought it was strange that Chris had been off-key.
Did he somehow hear Chris more clearly than anything else? Or did he just know him so well that his brain automatically filled in that he would, of course, sing it that way?
#
One doctor's exam wasn't enough to satisfy Chris. It wasn't long at all before he started suggesting specialists and talking about second opinions. Since JC had asked for his help, he thought that it was only right that he give Chris' suggestions a try.
And so, their lives fell into a routine of sorts. There were doctor's appointments, and bouts of sex alternating with bouts of cleaning, and there was, in between everything else, sessions of the Christopher Alan Kirkpatrick School for Wayward Music because, as Chris explained, JC's music wasn't lost, it had just gone off somewhere without him. They could trick it into coming back.
The CAKSWM--
"Cake Swim," Chris said. "I think it should be pronounced 'cake swim.'"
--was entirely unpredictable, and JC looked forward to it almost as much as he did the sex.
#
CAKSWM began one morning when JC came down for breakfast. Chris was already there, sitting at the table and fiddling with his laptop. It was making a strange grinding, growling noise.
He poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat down next to Chris. "Did you drop your laptop?"
"No."
"It sounds like its fan is broken."
"It's music," Chris said. He had to be kidding.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Listen."
JC concentrated. Either he couldn't identify music at all anymore or...
"What is this? Do I know this?"
"I doubt it. It's Goatwhore."
"It's-- It's Sunday morning, and you're listening to something called 'Goatwhore' for breakfast?"
Chris grinned.
"It's good, old-fashioned, made in the U.S. of A., death metal. Don't you like it?"
"I think I'm opposed to it on principle. Goatwhore. What kind of name is that?"
"Well..." Chris scratched at his beard. "I think they're going for the whole 'sex with Satan' shtick, but that's really because I hope it's not a bestiality thing. They've got six albums, that's really too much goat-fucking for anyone."
"Goats are our friends," JC said. "We should eat them."
Chris laughed. "You sick fuck."
#
Goatwhore was Chris' first attempt at Aversion Therapy. His theory was that if he could find at least one piece of music that was so awful that JC hated it, even in the state he was in, then they could use that emotion to unlock other, more positive musical vibes later.
The theory had merit, but JC didn't have much hope for it. Chris had always been more easily irritated by music than he was.
#
JC woke to the sound of the Bay City Rollers being piped, quite loudly, through the house. Once he'd identified them--it was easy what with the handclaps and the "S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, hey!"--he'd smiled. He couldn't get into the music, but he'd always liked those natty little scarves BCR had worn.
Chris pounced onto the bed a moment later. "Wake up! Wake up! It's Battle of the Boybands Day!"
"Couldn't they battle more quietly?"
"Are you kidding? These aren't some wimpy little, O-Town boybands. These are giants! They're loud, they're proud, they're... uh... I'm sure I had another rhyme a moment ago."
By the time his play list got to the New Kids, Chris was obviously regretting his loud, proud boyband decree. JC told him to "Hang tough," and then ran out of the house laughing. Chris chased him around the yard and when he was finally caught, JC promised to take him to the corner store and buy him earplugs.
While JC looked for earplugs, Chris wandered around the store, picking up lube, condoms, beef jerky, Pixie Stix, and one banana.
"Anything else?" JC asked.
"I'm good," Chris said, and winked at him before handing the green-haired check-out girl the box of condoms and the banana.
"Oh," she said. "Uh... just the one?"
"Well..." Chris said. "I only really need the one."
He launched into a story about his sisters and needing to teach them about safe sex and how else could he demonstrate it? She rung up his other items while laughing and suggesting that he at least try to find a less bendy banana.
"But not everyone has a straight banana, you know? What do you think, C? Should I go with a straight banana or try teaching them on a more challenging, bendy banana?"
"I think we should just pay the lady and split."
"Ba-da-bum! Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the puns of Chasez!"
JC dragged him out of the store.
"Works every time," Chris said, busy unpeeling his banana in the car.
"Making a fool of yourself?"
"Yeah. They never seem to notice all the lube you're buying while they're busying laughing at you. Want some of my banana?"
"I'll deal with your banana later."
Chris grinned. "I'm counting on it."
#
Lance frequently called to check on him, but after the third time JC reached for the phone in the middle of "making glitter," Chris put a stop to it.
He wrestled the phone from him, and planted his elbow squarely on JC's chest before answering.
"Hey, Bass, glad you called, I need you to help me with something. ... Oh, no, nothing like that. JC is fine. ... Mmm, hmm. Seriously fine, he's just got a little compulsion that I was hoping you could help me with. I think it's a 'Digital Getdown' thing."
JC tried to grab the phone back, but Chris was too well-practiced at evading capture. He rolled right off the bed and out of reach. When JC peered over the edge of mattress at him, he stuck out his tongue.
"What? ... No, I'm fine. We're all fine here, 'cept whenever JC starts getting freaky, he reaches for the phone-- Oh! A thought occurs... do you think he's trying to get it on with both of his Chris's at once?"
JC smacked him with a pillow, and they lost Lance in the scuffle. After that, Lance still called, but mini-Chris wasn't allowed in the bedroom anymore.
#
Chris came running in from a shopping trip one day and announced, "Oh my God, oh my God, JC, I found the most perfect thing ever!"
He pressed a CD single into JC's hand. It was "I'm a Vampire" by Shitting Glitter.
"I'm not listening to this," JC said.
"'Shitting Glitter,' C. Shitting Glitter. It's only the most perfect name ever. Why weren't we named 'Shitting Glitter'? We would've been huge!"
"We were huge."
"We would have been huger! And if people asked us why Justin's bandanas were so sparkly, we could've said, 'Because we wipe our butts on them!'"
JC laughed, but afterwards, he told Chris that he wouldn't listen to the CD until Chris called Justin and shared the joke with him. Somehow, Chris never got around to making that call.
#
JC returned from taking the garbage out and found Chris pouring the contents of a Pixie Stik onto a salad plate.
"You're supposed to be loading the dishwasher," he said.
"I'll do it in a moment."
"Chris--"
Chris stuck his finger into the plate of candy sugar and then licked it.
"--what are you--?"
Then Chris stuck his finger into another plate that JC hadn't noticed and--
JC grabbed his wrist. "Chris! Fuck! Don't do that!"
"It's just glitter."
"You can't. You can't do that."
"I'm just curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat! Fuck. You have no idea what that could do to you!"
"It's not like I don't get it in my mouth when we're doing other things."
"That's different," he said. "That's just a flake or two. It's not like... concentrated dust."
JC really hoped that was true.
#
Chris called Joey one afternoon and asked about some records he'd given Briahna a couple years ago. After Joey agreed to make copies of them and send them to JC's, Chris gave the phone to JC.
"Hey, Joey."
"Hey, baby. Are we talking on Chris? Do you wanna get freaky deaky?"
Lance had a big mouth.
But Joey laughed then and apologized, and they had a good chat, JC reassuring him that he was okay and Joey sharing the latest family gossip.
#
A couple of days later, the package from Joey arrived. Chris pounced on it.
"Yes! These are great, you'll love these. They're from when you were just a little kid." Chris smiled and shook the package at him. "I, of course, was a very mature, seven-year-old and I was never into this."
"Just as mature as you are now, I'm sure."
JC took the package from him and ripped it open.
"Hey! I didn't say you could open that! You should have said 'pretty please' or something."
"It was addressed to both of us." JC took the CDs out and tossed the empty box to him. "See?"
Joey had scrawled on the CDs: Seseme Disco! and Seasme St Fever. JC laughed and showed them to Chris.
Chris took the discs and shook his head sadly. "I knew I should've asked B to do it. She and Kelly have the brains in that family. Well, anyway, come on. There's a song on here that's perfect for us."
But Joey hadn't included a track listing, so Chris had to fast forward through both discs, looking for what he wanted.
"Ah, here it is!" Chris paused the track and turned to take JC's hand. "Okay, now, you stand right here."
Chris positioned him so that he was standing about a foot in front of him. He placed his hands on JC's hips, and then nudged him a bit closer.
"Yeah, good. Okay, so, you need a little background here. This song could so totally be about us. There's Bert--"
He tapped JC's chest.
"--a tall, skinny guy who can't carry a tune in a bucket and has like zero rhythm. And then there's his shorter, and much handsomer, life partner--"
He winked at JC while tapping his own chest.
"--who is just too talented for words, he's so amazing."
"I don't remember this version of Sesame Street."
"Shut up, you."
JC grinned.
"So, you see," Chris said, "this could be our song, only there's this whole thing about Bert and his pigeons, and his 'favorite' pigeon, Bernice, and we're just going to ignore that part of the metaphor, okay? 'Cause, man, if you're going to cheat on me--"
"No," JC said.
"--or if we're going to be bisexual swingers, I'd just really prefer if it wasn't with anyone pigeon-like and/or named Bernice. Okay?"
"We'll save our threesomes for pretty songbirds, yeah."
"Good," Chris said. "Then we can do this without taking the lyrics too literally."
"What lyrics?"
"Didn't I say?"
"No."
"It's when Ernie teaches Bert how to disco, and they sing 'Doin' the Pigeon.'"
JC laughed.
"No, really, it's great. If Bert can dance, you can dance. And most of Bert's lines are spoken. The only singing you'll have to do is call-and-response, okay?"
And so, they danced. Kind of.
JC wasn't dancing to the music. He couldn't feel the music. But with Chris' hands on his hips and Chris' smile getting brighter every time JC was forced to echo "Doin'... the pigeon," he couldn't help but feel Chris and move with him.
It was probably the most ridiculous thing he had ever done, and it was wonderful.
#
There was Literal Choreography Day, when Chris made up songs like "It Makes Me Ill (When You Show Me the Shape of Your Heart)."
There was Abba Day, when Chris made good use of his brand-new earplugs.
There was Role Play Day, when they reenacted the "4 Minutes" video. JC held out until Chris agreed to let him be Justin. He wore a nice scarf and Chris produced a bustier from somewhere, and they had Four Minutes to Save the World from Planet Sequin's Sparkle Ray.
JC wasn't sure how that day was supposed to help him find his misplaced music, but he hoped that they would do it again. Chris looked hot in leather and eye-liner.
There were Guess the Theme Days, and random theme-less days which were perhaps the best days of all. Chris would sit in JC's favorite chair and pull JC down into his lap, and maybe he'd play something quiet on the stereo or maybe he'd sing a little and JC would press his ear to Chris' chest and it didn't matter that nothing sounded right because he knew he could still feel love.
Is this the beginning?
Or beginning of the end?
Well I got other thoughts, my friend
JC went to doctor, after doctor, after doctor. He wasn't crazy about them even at the best of times, but he was going for Chris. He had to tell himself that more and more, as more and more of the tests they wanted required blood work.
The needles would come out, and he'd think of Chris. Only, he couldn't think of Chris without glittering a little, not these days. There were specialists all over the greater Los Angeles area who could attest to the fact that there was nothing wrong with JC beyond an abnormal fondness for body glitter.
Every time JC was given a clean bill of health, Chris did something special to celebrate the occasion. He'd give JC an hour-long massage or make a special meal or sit, uncomplaining, through a movie of JC's choice. One night, he wore nothing but leather pants and eye-liner and let JC take pictures of him.
JC loved the celebrations. In his entire life, he'd never been given anything quite like Chris' undivided attention. But... after the first few, it seemed like Chris was growing less... intense somehow. There were a few less CAKSWM sessions and a little more simply hanging out together.
It worried JC.
Maybe Chris was just losing interest in him, and JC could accept that even though he hated it. Nothing this good could last forever. But what if it was darker than that? What if it was from prolonged exposure to JC's dust? Wasn't that how things had begun with him? Slowly losing interest in his life? Spending more and more time watching the dust until he was nearly hypnotized by it?
He had to do something before he lost Chris to the dust.
#
He came home from his appointment with the third neurologist on their list, and found Chris in the kitchen, planting a small cactus in a pot of glitter. God, they still had no idea what it was or what it was doing to Chris, but Chris just kept on playing with the stuff.
"Chris..."
"Yeah?"
"You can't do that--"
You can't do that, you'll die, he wanted to say.
"--it'll die."
"No, it won't."
"Chris--"
"It won't! I'll watch it carefully. If it starts to die, I'll repot it."
JC wrapped his arm around him and watched him carefully as he tamped the glitter down around the cactus. He pressed his lips to Chris' brow and asked, "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"It doesn't matter," Chris said. "I know what I'm doing with you."
It was good that somebody knew what they were doing.
#
That night, Chris hooked his laptop up to the stereo and put an MP3 of Eric Dolphy's "Glad to be Unhappy" on repeat. JC had it on vinyl, but Chris said the record would be too much trouble this time.
He pulled the afghan off of JC's chair and spread it out on the floor, then turned down the lights and sat with his back against the chair. He beckoned to JC.
"Come be with me."
JC sat in the V of his legs and leaned against him. "This would be better if I was shorter."
"Don't," Chris said. "I like you this way." His lips brushed the back of JC's neck. "Are you comfortable? We'll be here for a while."
"I'm good."
"Okay," Chris said. "This is really simple. We're just going to close our eyes and open our ears, all right?"
JC nodded.
"Great. Can you still count beats?"
"I think so."
"Okay. The song's about to begin again. Don't worry about what you're feeling, what you're not feeling. Just count the measures."
It was a quiet jazz piece, just flute and piano, bass and subtle percussion. It wasn't simple, so much as unadorned.
JC concentrated on counting.
"Don't think too hard," Chris said. "If you can't count them right away, just listen for a while longer."
So, he just listened. And he felt the in-and-out of Chris' breath, felt it in the movements of his chest and its whisper-touch along his neck. And then he felt another little beat down by his ankles. Chris' toes were wiggling, ever so slightly, to the music. He was no more capable of sitting still while listening to music than JC had been.
He listened.
The song started again--it was only about six minutes long--and somewhere in it all, JC fell into it. The beat was there and he knew it. And he held his breath and listened.
"You're going to turn blue," Chris said quietly. "Switch to the bass line for a while, okay? Just follow the bass."
JC listened. And it got easier. It didn't feel right, but it was so close.
Chris shifted behind him, then reached around and rested his hand low on JC's belly.
"Don't look now, but you're tapping your foot."
JC had to look, and, of course, that threw him off. But it was okay. Chris was tapping the beat against his belly, and something stirred in him that was almost sex and a lot like music.
"Can you follow the flute?" Chris asked.
JC shook his head.
"I can keep the bass line for you."
JC shook his head again. He was so close, so close... He was afraid to misstep.
"Okay," Chris said. "Whenever you're ready."
He lost track of how many times the song played. Just, somewhere along the way, he'd picked up all the pieces. He knew the beat and he knew how the piano, bass, and drum were sharing their job together. He knew the story that the flute was telling. If he just put those pieces all together, he'd have it. He'd be there. He'd--
"What if there's nothing wrong with me?" he said.
Chris didn't say anything, but he curled a little more around JC, holding him fast.
"It's all right there, I can feel it. I could reach it, if I wanted it."
"Do you want it?"
JC twined his fingers with Chris'.
"I've been kind of thinking lately that it was worth it."
"'Worth it'?"
"Like if it was a trade. I lost something, and I gained something."
"Oh," Chris said. "It's not--"
"I've been thinking you're worth it. I don't want you to leave me just because I'm fixed. But I also don't want to lose you because I can't be fixed."
"Wow," Chris said. "That is so not what is happening here. For one, I'm not some sort of karmic consolation prize. If anything, I'm pretty sure I'm punishment for whatever you did in your last life, and for two-- For two, you're mine now and I'm not planning to let you go, so you can just tell the Prom King and that football guy that you're sticking with me. Okay?"
JC shifted and turned till he was kneeling, facing Chris.
"'The Prom King'?"
Chris shrugged. "It's a thing."
"I don't know who he is," JC said. "But I don't want him. No Prom King, no football guy. I want you, I want you more than I can say."
JC pressed close, wrapping himself around him tight, and Chris kissed him, hot and sweet, then hard and demanding.
"Yes," JC breathed. "Yes, yes. God. I want you more than I want my music back."
Chris jerked away from him.
"Jesus, C!"
"I love you."
Chris slumped in on himself and dropped his head to JC's shoulder.
"God, JC. I love you, too, baby. You have no idea. But you can't want me more than your music."
"Yes, I can."
"No," Chris said. "You really, really can't."
Eric Dolphy's jazz flute was still playing in the background, high and pure and soulful.
JC really kind of hated it.
#
JC was confused. When someone emphatically denied your feelings for them, when someone insisted that you couldn't love them, that was clearly a rejection. It was, at the very least, a sign that you were having a fight.
But Chris wasn't acting like they were in the middle of a fight. Chris was still acting like they were happy, new boyfriends who couldn't go for more than a few hours without sexing each other up or making each other laugh or kissing each other in the middle of cleaning house.
It was very, very odd.
If JC couldn't want Chris, then why was he making JC want him so much? He didn't have to crack stupid jokes or hold JC's hand when they watched TV or make up songs to sing while watering the glitter-cactus. He didn't have to stick around, making JC coffee and washing his sheets and giving him sweet, sweet blow-jobs.
It had to mean something, right?
JC decided that if Chris hadn't considered it a rejection, then he wouldn't either. Instead, he'd consider it a challenge. Somehow, he would prove it. He could want Chris. He would show Chris the extent of his love.
Oh, wait...
That sounded a little too much like JC was planning to show Chris the shape of his heart.
Oh, Jesus. Wouldn't Chris love that?
You could take the man out of the boyband, but you couldn't take the boyband lexicon out of the boy.
#
JC was sort of watching porn after a particularly pleasant, bad afternoon.
Chris had burned their lunch. It was only grilled cheese, but instead of just getting out more bread and trying again, he had grumped and declared all food that didn't come in a delivery box an abomination in his sight. JC had sent him out of the kitchen and ordered Chinese.
Their sweet-and-sour chicken had been good, but it came with steamed white rice. It was a minor thing, but Chris liked pork fried rice and JC preferred steamed brown.
Later, they made out in the music room until they decided there was too much glitter and too little lube to take things further. One of them could have gotten up and fetched more lube, but they were both feeling too lazy for that. And it hardly mattered when they could curl up together and watch porn.
Well, JC was a little too comfortable snuggled up with his face buried in the crook of Chris' neck to actually watch the screen. And the on-screen action must not have been doing it for Chris, because he was now listening to two--or maybe three--ladies' sex moans overlaid with the soundtrack of Chris' soft snores.
All in all, it was a seriously imperfect day, and there was no good reason for the glow of contentment that JC was enjoying.
No, not a glow... a shine...
The sparkle of contentment.
Yeah.
Or maybe the sparkles he saw behind his closed eyes when Chris fucked him in the shower. Yeah.
The porn sounds wove through JC's thoughts as he listened to Chris sleeping and thought about fucking, the deep, satisfying rhythm of it, and the way the sound of a shower would forever turn him on now. It was heat in his bones, a bass thrum in his blood. It had a melody like laughter, and the sparkles, how did the sparkles fit in? A wire brush beating against a snare? No. Against a cymbal, accenting the constant--
Chris shifted, then rolled over in his arms.
Where was he? Accenting the constant--
Chris was staring at him, a strange look on his face.
"What?"
"You're humming."
No, he wasn't, he was...
"Dude, you're humming. What are you humming?"
Fuck.
Where was a pencil? He needed to write this down.
#
Friday, December 12th--Escaped from Planet Sequin. Aliens not pleased. Fuck them. Boyfriend was overjoyed to have me back and fucked me stupid. Yay!
PS: Have idea for song.
PPS: If manager is evil fairy or perhaps in cahoots with the Sequintonians, find new one ASAP. Must avoid having boyfriend cursed.
Cruise along until we hit the back seat
Because that's where the music sounds so sweet
"I have a theory," JC said one day after Marciella and her crew had left and there were nice, fresh sheets on the bed.
"Mm-hmm." Chris made a grabby-hand gesture at him, and JC handed him a pillow. "Lift your hips a bit, baby."
"It's about my glitter--"
Chris slipped the pillow under JC hips and grabby-handed at him again.
"Geez," JC said, passing the lube down to him. "You're such a demanding lover, I don't know how I can--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Chris popped open the tube. "I don't have to do this, you know. I could always go downstairs and listen to your 'Chris is my underwater lover, he makes me sparkle' song and--"
"He makes me sparkle like the sand in the sea."
"--get myself off."
"Oh, no, please continue," JC said, shifting his hips a little more. "If it's not too much trouble."
Chris chuckled.
"So I'll just carry on, then?"
"Please do."
"If you're certain..."
"God dammit, Chris--!"
#
"So," JC said later. "I have a theory about my glitter. I think I know what it was."
"Oh, yeah?" Chris snuggled closer to him, hogging the blankets.
"Yeah. I think it was-- I think it was like my unsung songs."
"Huh," Chris said.
"I think maybe every dust mote was a husk, like a little dried memory of a single note of music, and like... when I glittered, that was when I would have been singing or dancing or just, you know, thrumming with joy and sex and love and shit."
"'And shit.'"
"Yeah, everything that makes me want to sing."
"Cool."
"Yeah." JC pressed a kiss to his forehead. "And you were right."
"Well, duh. Of course I was."
"Without my music, I couldn't want you enough."
"It was never about 'enough.'"
"No, it was. I wanted to love you with everything that I was--everything that I am--and I couldn't, not when I was missing a piece of me."
"Jesus," Chris said, rolling his eyes. "That is so disgustingly sweet."
JC didn't mind 'cause he was also grinning so hard he glowed.
"Yeah," JC said. "I'm going to write a song about it, make Backstreet record it."
"Dude, imagine the choreography for that!"
"Let me show you the shape of the missing chunk of my heart," JC sang.
"Shoot me now, I'm in love with the sixth Backstreet Boy."
"I don't care who you are, where you're from--"
Chris hit him with the pillow. JC giggled and continued to sing.
"What you did--even if it was beating me with a pillow--"
Chris smacked him with it again, even as he joined him in singing the chorus.
"--as long as you love me."
All of the little things
Nobody else could understand,
Baby, I will, I will
Every once in a while, Chris wanted to stop and ask the universe when his life had become so completely bizarre. It was an empty question, though. He knew damn well that it had happened the day he decided to start a musical group with two kids from the Mickey Mouse Club. I mean, really, they were Mice. What had he been thinking?
His life was strange in many, many ways. Over the years, he'd grown accustomed to it. He could handle strange twists in fortune, and rollercoaster highs and lows, and, well, the whole Justin Timberlake Experience. But every once in a while, something really weird managed to sneak up on him and throw him for a loop.
Something, for instance, like today.
A small part of him was still feeling like he should hunt down the captain of the football team and sneer at him. Ha! The prettiest girl in school had the hots for him, for Christopher Kirkpatrick, the runt. How do you like them apples, hot shot?
But most of him was a breath away from freaking the fuck out. First, there was the spontaneous glitter, which was some really freaky shit right there, and then, there was JC--smokin' hot, prettiest-girl-in-school JC--trying to describe how he'd lost his music. JC seemed to think that it was mysterious and, quite possibly, magical, but Chris saw it for what it was: a huge, glaring warning sign.
And it killed him, killed him dead, to sit there with his arms full of warm, beautiful JC and think of the possibilities. Degenerative hearing loss? Neurological damage? Early on-set Alzheimer's? Brain tumor?
He sat and held JC tight.
#
"I think we should go to the music room," Chris said.
JC had explained about his music first, how he had lost it somehow without noticing the loss, what music was like now, and how he remembered it being. Then he had told him about forgetting the music room and how suddenly remembering what it was had filled him with so much horror and grief that he'd been sick.
"I'm scared of it," JC said. "It's stupid, but I don't want to go there."
Chris rubbed his back.
"That's not stupid, baby. I'm scared of it for you. But I think it's important. It has to be important, right? The JC Chasez I know wouldn't lose his lunch over nothing."
JC chuckled and laid his head on Chris' shoulder.
"'Lose my lunch?' How come you're not the famous lyrical genius here?"
"The world's not ready for me yet."
"Me, neither," JC said.
They sat a little longer, and Chris began to explain how there might be a clue in the music room. Maybe something had happened there. Maybe he'd fallen and hit his head. Maybe something in the room would jog JC's memory.
Maybe Chris was right.
He was still scared, but he also wanted to go down there with Chris. It had been his favorite room in the house; he wanted it back.
JC stood up and then held his hand out to Chris.
"Kiss me for luck before we go?"
#
They paused outside the music room door. JC closed his eyes and breathed deeply and tried to get a sense of what his stomach was doing. He didn't want to throw up again.
Chris shifted back and forth, a nervous rustling of sound that JC could follow with his eyes closed.
"I'm okay," JC said.
"That's good," Chris said. "That's really good. Be Zen in the face of fear, embody the calm before the weird-shit storm."
JC opened one eye and peered at him.
"Is that... 'the shit storm that is weird' or 'the storm of weird shit'?"
"Yes," Chris said.
"Ah. Thanks for the clarification."
"You're welcome, man. Any time."
Chris rocked back on his feet. Forward. Back. It was selfish, but his agitation made JC feel better. He thought, Chris is worried about me, he is scared for me, and felt warm all over. It made him brave.
"Well," JC said. "What are you waiting for?"
"What do you think? I'm waiting for you."
"So open the door for me, already."
"What am I? Your butler?" Chris said, as he reached for the knob and opened the door.
They both peered in without moving forward.
"Huh," Chris said after a long moment. "That was anticlimactic."
JC nodded, though his stomach felt like he'd been swallowing ice cubes whole. Chris stepped into the room, and JC watched him look around. It was easier to focus on Chris than on the room.
"You know," Chris said. "I was expecting it to be hip-deep in glitter in here. I was all prepared to see like... prairie dogs in sequined jumpsuits dancing on a mountain of glitter."
JC stepped through the door, and Chris looked over at him.
"You holding up okay?"
JC nodded.
The room was dusty, but it was normal, run-of-the-mill, haven't-cleaned-for-months dust. There were cobwebs on some of the shelves, and a long, furry-with-dust strand of cobweb hung from the ceiling near the stereo. It made JC feel empty to see it. He thought there was probably a space inside of him that looked just like that.
"I think you've got a family of Daddy-Long-Legs in here," Chris said from over in the corner by the vinyl records.
JC nodded.
Chris came over to him. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"This is my favorite room," JC said.
"Yeah, I know."
"That's my favorite chair." JC pointed to it.
"Oh, yeah?" Chris walked over to it, touched the furry afghan, and then grinned. "Hey, this is your porn room, isn't it?"
"Yes..."
"Guess I shouldn't touch anything, huh?"
JC rolled his eyes.
"I clean up after myself."
"I'm just saying--"
"And if you're afraid of my spunk, you really should have thought of that before kissing me today."
"Hey," Chris said. "I'm your boyfriend, I can handle your spunk."
His boyfriend?
"You're my--? Um..."
"Well, maybe I'm jumping ahead, but as your future boyfriend, the sentiment still stands. I'm not afraid of your stuff, I'm actually looking forward to becoming acquainted with it, but your old stuff? Eww. Not so much. Fresh is best."
JC shook his head. "You're insane."
"Yeah, so?"
"I like it."
Chris' smile lit up the room and melted the last of the ice in JC's belly.
#
Chris was looking for clues and JC wanted to help him, but he didn't even know what a clue would look like in this case. If he couldn't help, he could at least avoid being a hindrance, so he sat in his chair--it was such a comfortable chair--and watched Chris. Out of the way, but ready to answer questions: that was good, right?
Chris sorted through a stack of CD cases that were piled on top of the stereo stand.
"I'm surprised you didn't put these away," Chris said. "You must have taken them out the last time you were here."
That made sense, but it didn't seem like much of a clue.
"Do you remember? When were you in here last? What were you doing?"
"I... I was napping."
"Hmm." Chris wiped the dust and cobwebs from the stereo. "But you wouldn't have come in here just for a nap. You would have watched something or listened to something."
He turned on the stereo and sound filled the room. JC didn't recognize it, but Chris listened to it for a moment and then smirked.
"Wow," he said. "I'm surprised it isn't 'Computer Love.'"
"What?"
"That's Zapp & Roger's Greatest Hits. 'Computer Love' would have been right up your alley... though I suppose this is still a little kinky."
JC still didn't recognize it, but he tried to focus, to hear the words through the sound.
"You really make me," Chris sang. "You really make me, you really make me, you make me wanna scream. Make me wanna scream."
JC froze.
"'So Ruff, So Tuff,'" he managed to say after a moment.
"You got it." Chris poked through a few more CDs, then turned on the DVD player as he continued to sing. "Forget about your troubles, just get on down. Forget about your troubles..."
He'd been listening to this, and Eric had been talking to him.
And he'd said something to Eric. He didn't remember. But there'd been something weird.
Something important.
"Huh," Chris said. "No DVD in here." He turned off the player.
Eric had said something important-- No. It was how he had said it.
Then be that way, JC.
All dark and weird, and JC had thought he was going to quit.
But Eric hadn't quit.
But Eric hadn't called him, either.
Eric always called. Something wasn't right.
Then be that way, JC.
Had Eric... cursed him?
Could he have cursed him? That was crazy, wasn't it? But it would explain so much...
"Well," Chris said. "We're not having much luck here, are we? Wanna do something else?"
He couldn't tell Chris.
What would happen?
If Eric had cursed him, he wasn't going to cop to it. People didn't go around advertising that they were... what? Witches? Evil fairies? Eric would deny it, and they wouldn't be able to prove it. But if Chris believed JC, if he really thought that Eric had done something to hurt JC, he'd go ballistic. He'd go after Eric. He'd attack him and end up arrested and charged with assault, and prison was pretty much the last place a boybander should ever, ever go--even fairly tough, ex-boybanders like Chris.
No.
That wasn't going to happen.
JC wasn't going to tell him. He wasn't even certain that it was a curse.
And if it was?
Well, what the hell was Eric thinking? That JC would come begging? Crawling on his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness or whatever it took to make him lift the curse? Hadn't Eric learned anything?
JC was the boss. He wasn't some cowed little boybander tiptoeing around, listening to his handlers, and trying to make everyone happy.
He didn't have much of a career, but he was the talent, he was the millionaire paying Eric's fucking paycheck, and Eric could just fuck off back to... Evil Fairyland if he didn't like it.
There was always a surprise twist in the fairy tales, some unexpected trick to breaking a curse without appeasing the evil fairy. And nine times out of ten, the heroes just stumbled upon the answer when the time was right.
And JC figured his odds were a whole lot better than ninety percent. No one did tricky like his Chris did.
#
JC's groceries were finally delivered. Chris helped put them away, all the while mixing questions like "Salad dressing, 'fridge or cupboard?" with questions about his music and "When was your last physical?"
JC agreed that he probably should go and at least have an ear, nose, and throat guy check him out. Chris patted his ass and volunteered to check him out as well. JC handed him a package of ground turkey and asked him to make dinner instead.
"Hmmph," Chris said.
"I need my strength."
While Chris pulled out a frying pan and made burgers, JC tried to make a salad. He thought if he concentrated and moved slowly and didn't let his mind wander from the task at hand, maybe he could keep his dust from getting in the salad.
Chris hummed a bit, and poked at the burgers and sighed.
"Cows are our friends. We should eat them."
"It's not nice to eat your friends," JC said, carefully slicing a tomato.
Chris turned the flame down on the stove and pushed JC up against the butcher's block for a quick demonstration of how it could be very nice to eat a friend. Afterwards, JC asked him if he planned to do the same the next time he met a cow. Chris laughed, and JC wished for a camera.
Chris looked unbelievable, laughing with slick lips and sparkles in his hair and his shoulders glinting like he was wearing sequined epaulets. JC pulled him up off his knees and kissed him, and thought of that day so long ago when they'd been painted up to celebrate their first gold record. He wished that he had been brave enough to kiss Chris then.
"Dinner," Chris said and turned back to the stove.
The turkey burgers were good, but the salad was gritty.
#
Chris brought his laptop up to the bedroom and fired it up once JC was asleep. He was too old to be pulling all-nighters, but he didn't see how he could possibly sleep.
He sat in bed, JC snuggled all up along his side, and started searching. He knew there were games and mental exercises and things that were supposed to help slow memory loss in Alzheimer's patients. And sometimes, people with brain damage regained lost skills when other parts of their brains learned new ways to do old tricks. But there was so much more that he needed to know.
#
"Hey, baby," Chris said when JC woke up.
JC sneezed and then asked, "Don't you sleep in anymore?"
"Not today. I think I'm still on Eastern Time."
"Oh," JC said. "Does that mean you made me coffee?"
"Nope."
"You're mean," JC told him. "Almost as mean as Lance."
"Didn't your mother warn you about that?"
"Mean counter tenors? I don't think she ever got that specific..."
"About setting a precedent with breakfast in bed at the start of a relationship."
"If you make me coffee, I'll blow you."
"Bribery," Chris said, getting out of bed. "I'm disturbingly okay with that."
#
Chris was a genius.
He brought him coffee in a thermal travel mug, so it stayed hot while JC thanked him. And afterwards, JC leaned back on pillows silvered with dust, removed the mug's lid, and enjoyed delicious, sparkle-free coffee.
Chris was definitely a keeper.
#
Chris took their blankets outside and shook them out. Then, he brought them in, thinking he could toss them in the dryer and tumble more glitter out of them, but he stopped before he turned the dryer on. What if JC's glitter-dust was combustible?
Hmm... Experiment time.
He grabbed a stainless steel mixing bowl from the kitchen and went in search of an easily harvestable dust supply. He could just go and sex up JC some more, that seemed the surest way, but then he'd have to explain what he was doing.
He wondered if sexy stuff was the only thing that generated the dust. That would mean JC had been... busy jerking off everywhere in the house? Not impossible. Not even improbable, but he would have figured out the connection pretty quickly if it only happened when he touched himself. Right?
In the den, he noticed that the floor near the couch glittered more than its surroundings. He knelt down and peered under the couch. Aha! He'd struck gold!
Well... Fool's Gold or something.
He scooped up a bunch and dumped it in the bowl. He grabbed some other supplies, and then headed back outside.
The thing about the glitter was: it gave him hope. It was the only thing about this whole situation that he didn't have a rational explanation for. And, well, he'd choose aliens from Planet Sequin over sick-and-dying JC any day. Aliens could at least be negotiated with... or something.
He took the glitter to the farthest corner of the yard and stuck a sheet of paper in the bowl like a wick. Then he set it down, lit a corner of the paper on fire, and got the hell back.
He waited. The flame consumed the visible portion of the paper, then descended into the bowl and out of sight. He counted: a minute, two, three...
Nothing happened.
A delayed explosion would be a really good way to lose his eyebrows, so he waited another minute and then checked the bowl. Ash from the paper dulled the shine of the glitter, but it wasn't even hot to the touch.
So... not flammable, but maybe still combustible? Where was JC's grill?
JC came out while Chris was busy with the grill. His hair was wet and he wasn't wearing a shirt, and Chris couldn't help but admire him.
Prettiest girl in school, he thought again, and reminded himself to never say that to JC. He didn't think of JC as a girl, but the feeling of pride and wonder was the same.
"Are you making breakfast?" JC asked.
"Nah." Chris poked at the glitter again with the long-handled grill spatula. "I'm just failing to make an explosion."
"What?"
"Nothing. Did you call your doctor?"
"I have an appointment for Monday."
"Great!"
"Yeah," JC said. He walked over and peered into the bowl, then pressed a kiss to Chris' temple. "When you're finished playing mad scientist, come inside. I'll put a Pop-Tart in the toaster for you."
Chris smiled. Who else would be so calm about him trying to explode their grill?
"You'll spoil me."
"You're my boyfriend," JC said. "You can handle it."
Chris shut off the propane and followed him inside. He totally had something better to do. After all, it wasn't every day that he got to do his new boyfriend.
#
JC got a can of Pledge out in the afternoon and began cleaning the bedroom. He didn't think they'd be able to sleep in there the way it was now. It was scary how much dust he was now... what? Shedding? Exhaling? Drawing from the ether?
It would be terrifying, if it didn't feel so damn good. He wondered if it was good because it was Chris or if it was because he hadn't gotten any for so long. He told himself that it was Chris, because the thought made him happy--and because he wasn't about to go so long without again just to test the theory.
He wanted Chris to fuck him. He knew he'd love it, though he hadn't had it like that in years, not since before NSYNC. Chris would be so good, so intense and just the right amount of rough and--
God, look.
He was glittering again. He couldn't think about Chris and clean at the same time.
He wiped away the new dust, and sighed. They probably shouldn't fuck until this was over. It would be scratchy, worse than sex on a beach, and there were places that glitter should really never go.
That didn't stop him from wanting it, though.
What you do to me,
I can't explain
You're so good
JC's doctor gave him a clean bill of health.
JC wasn't surprised, because he'd been careful to think only unsexy thoughts during the check-up, mainly dead kittens, needles, and the way Justin's hair had looked when he was seventeen. He didn't want to know how medical professionals would react to spontaneous glittering. If it was something that they were prepared to handle, he would have found some trace of it on the internet.
To celebrate JC's good news, Chris dragged him into the bathroom, fingered him until he begged, and then fucked him in the shower. Twice.
He was a genius, a fucking genius, and JC wouldn't change a thing about him, not even how smug he looked later as he handed JC a bottle of Drano with a cheery, "You clogged it, you fix it, bucko."
The way Chris fucked was worth any number of clogged shower drains.
#
Chris started coining new phrases like "make glitter, not war" and "glitter me, baby." When JC teased him about needing a new hobby, he retaliated by putting on Bad Company and serenading JC with a terribly off-key chorus of "Feel Like Makin' Glitter."
Later, JC thought it was strange that Chris had been off-key.
Did he somehow hear Chris more clearly than anything else? Or did he just know him so well that his brain automatically filled in that he would, of course, sing it that way?
#
One doctor's exam wasn't enough to satisfy Chris. It wasn't long at all before he started suggesting specialists and talking about second opinions. Since JC had asked for his help, he thought that it was only right that he give Chris' suggestions a try.
And so, their lives fell into a routine of sorts. There were doctor's appointments, and bouts of sex alternating with bouts of cleaning, and there was, in between everything else, sessions of the Christopher Alan Kirkpatrick School for Wayward Music because, as Chris explained, JC's music wasn't lost, it had just gone off somewhere without him. They could trick it into coming back.
The CAKSWM--
"Cake Swim," Chris said. "I think it should be pronounced 'cake swim.'"
--was entirely unpredictable, and JC looked forward to it almost as much as he did the sex.
#
CAKSWM began one morning when JC came down for breakfast. Chris was already there, sitting at the table and fiddling with his laptop. It was making a strange grinding, growling noise.
He poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat down next to Chris. "Did you drop your laptop?"
"No."
"It sounds like its fan is broken."
"It's music," Chris said. He had to be kidding.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Listen."
JC concentrated. Either he couldn't identify music at all anymore or...
"What is this? Do I know this?"
"I doubt it. It's Goatwhore."
"It's-- It's Sunday morning, and you're listening to something called 'Goatwhore' for breakfast?"
Chris grinned.
"It's good, old-fashioned, made in the U.S. of A., death metal. Don't you like it?"
"I think I'm opposed to it on principle. Goatwhore. What kind of name is that?"
"Well..." Chris scratched at his beard. "I think they're going for the whole 'sex with Satan' shtick, but that's really because I hope it's not a bestiality thing. They've got six albums, that's really too much goat-fucking for anyone."
"Goats are our friends," JC said. "We should eat them."
Chris laughed. "You sick fuck."
#
Goatwhore was Chris' first attempt at Aversion Therapy. His theory was that if he could find at least one piece of music that was so awful that JC hated it, even in the state he was in, then they could use that emotion to unlock other, more positive musical vibes later.
The theory had merit, but JC didn't have much hope for it. Chris had always been more easily irritated by music than he was.
#
JC woke to the sound of the Bay City Rollers being piped, quite loudly, through the house. Once he'd identified them--it was easy what with the handclaps and the "S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, hey!"--he'd smiled. He couldn't get into the music, but he'd always liked those natty little scarves BCR had worn.
Chris pounced onto the bed a moment later. "Wake up! Wake up! It's Battle of the Boybands Day!"
"Couldn't they battle more quietly?"
"Are you kidding? These aren't some wimpy little, O-Town boybands. These are giants! They're loud, they're proud, they're... uh... I'm sure I had another rhyme a moment ago."
By the time his play list got to the New Kids, Chris was obviously regretting his loud, proud boyband decree. JC told him to "Hang tough," and then ran out of the house laughing. Chris chased him around the yard and when he was finally caught, JC promised to take him to the corner store and buy him earplugs.
While JC looked for earplugs, Chris wandered around the store, picking up lube, condoms, beef jerky, Pixie Stix, and one banana.
"Anything else?" JC asked.
"I'm good," Chris said, and winked at him before handing the green-haired check-out girl the box of condoms and the banana.
"Oh," she said. "Uh... just the one?"
"Well..." Chris said. "I only really need the one."
He launched into a story about his sisters and needing to teach them about safe sex and how else could he demonstrate it? She rung up his other items while laughing and suggesting that he at least try to find a less bendy banana.
"But not everyone has a straight banana, you know? What do you think, C? Should I go with a straight banana or try teaching them on a more challenging, bendy banana?"
"I think we should just pay the lady and split."
"Ba-da-bum! Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the puns of Chasez!"
JC dragged him out of the store.
"Works every time," Chris said, busy unpeeling his banana in the car.
"Making a fool of yourself?"
"Yeah. They never seem to notice all the lube you're buying while they're busying laughing at you. Want some of my banana?"
"I'll deal with your banana later."
Chris grinned. "I'm counting on it."
#
Lance frequently called to check on him, but after the third time JC reached for the phone in the middle of "making glitter," Chris put a stop to it.
He wrestled the phone from him, and planted his elbow squarely on JC's chest before answering.
"Hey, Bass, glad you called, I need you to help me with something. ... Oh, no, nothing like that. JC is fine. ... Mmm, hmm. Seriously fine, he's just got a little compulsion that I was hoping you could help me with. I think it's a 'Digital Getdown' thing."
JC tried to grab the phone back, but Chris was too well-practiced at evading capture. He rolled right off the bed and out of reach. When JC peered over the edge of mattress at him, he stuck out his tongue.
"What? ... No, I'm fine. We're all fine here, 'cept whenever JC starts getting freaky, he reaches for the phone-- Oh! A thought occurs... do you think he's trying to get it on with both of his Chris's at once?"
JC smacked him with a pillow, and they lost Lance in the scuffle. After that, Lance still called, but mini-Chris wasn't allowed in the bedroom anymore.
#
Chris came running in from a shopping trip one day and announced, "Oh my God, oh my God, JC, I found the most perfect thing ever!"
He pressed a CD single into JC's hand. It was "I'm a Vampire" by Shitting Glitter.
"I'm not listening to this," JC said.
"'Shitting Glitter,' C. Shitting Glitter. It's only the most perfect name ever. Why weren't we named 'Shitting Glitter'? We would've been huge!"
"We were huge."
"We would have been huger! And if people asked us why Justin's bandanas were so sparkly, we could've said, 'Because we wipe our butts on them!'"
JC laughed, but afterwards, he told Chris that he wouldn't listen to the CD until Chris called Justin and shared the joke with him. Somehow, Chris never got around to making that call.
#
JC returned from taking the garbage out and found Chris pouring the contents of a Pixie Stik onto a salad plate.
"You're supposed to be loading the dishwasher," he said.
"I'll do it in a moment."
"Chris--"
Chris stuck his finger into the plate of candy sugar and then licked it.
"--what are you--?"
Then Chris stuck his finger into another plate that JC hadn't noticed and--
JC grabbed his wrist. "Chris! Fuck! Don't do that!"
"It's just glitter."
"You can't. You can't do that."
"I'm just curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat! Fuck. You have no idea what that could do to you!"
"It's not like I don't get it in my mouth when we're doing other things."
"That's different," he said. "That's just a flake or two. It's not like... concentrated dust."
JC really hoped that was true.
#
Chris called Joey one afternoon and asked about some records he'd given Briahna a couple years ago. After Joey agreed to make copies of them and send them to JC's, Chris gave the phone to JC.
"Hey, Joey."
"Hey, baby. Are we talking on Chris? Do you wanna get freaky deaky?"
Lance had a big mouth.
But Joey laughed then and apologized, and they had a good chat, JC reassuring him that he was okay and Joey sharing the latest family gossip.
#
A couple of days later, the package from Joey arrived. Chris pounced on it.
"Yes! These are great, you'll love these. They're from when you were just a little kid." Chris smiled and shook the package at him. "I, of course, was a very mature, seven-year-old and I was never into this."
"Just as mature as you are now, I'm sure."
JC took the package from him and ripped it open.
"Hey! I didn't say you could open that! You should have said 'pretty please' or something."
"It was addressed to both of us." JC took the CDs out and tossed the empty box to him. "See?"
Joey had scrawled on the CDs: Seseme Disco! and Seasme St Fever. JC laughed and showed them to Chris.
Chris took the discs and shook his head sadly. "I knew I should've asked B to do it. She and Kelly have the brains in that family. Well, anyway, come on. There's a song on here that's perfect for us."
But Joey hadn't included a track listing, so Chris had to fast forward through both discs, looking for what he wanted.
"Ah, here it is!" Chris paused the track and turned to take JC's hand. "Okay, now, you stand right here."
Chris positioned him so that he was standing about a foot in front of him. He placed his hands on JC's hips, and then nudged him a bit closer.
"Yeah, good. Okay, so, you need a little background here. This song could so totally be about us. There's Bert--"
He tapped JC's chest.
"--a tall, skinny guy who can't carry a tune in a bucket and has like zero rhythm. And then there's his shorter, and much handsomer, life partner--"
He winked at JC while tapping his own chest.
"--who is just too talented for words, he's so amazing."
"I don't remember this version of Sesame Street."
"Shut up, you."
JC grinned.
"So, you see," Chris said, "this could be our song, only there's this whole thing about Bert and his pigeons, and his 'favorite' pigeon, Bernice, and we're just going to ignore that part of the metaphor, okay? 'Cause, man, if you're going to cheat on me--"
"No," JC said.
"--or if we're going to be bisexual swingers, I'd just really prefer if it wasn't with anyone pigeon-like and/or named Bernice. Okay?"
"We'll save our threesomes for pretty songbirds, yeah."
"Good," Chris said. "Then we can do this without taking the lyrics too literally."
"What lyrics?"
"Didn't I say?"
"No."
"It's when Ernie teaches Bert how to disco, and they sing 'Doin' the Pigeon.'"
JC laughed.
"No, really, it's great. If Bert can dance, you can dance. And most of Bert's lines are spoken. The only singing you'll have to do is call-and-response, okay?"
And so, they danced. Kind of.
JC wasn't dancing to the music. He couldn't feel the music. But with Chris' hands on his hips and Chris' smile getting brighter every time JC was forced to echo "Doin'... the pigeon," he couldn't help but feel Chris and move with him.
It was probably the most ridiculous thing he had ever done, and it was wonderful.
#
There was Literal Choreography Day, when Chris made up songs like "It Makes Me Ill (When You Show Me the Shape of Your Heart)."
There was Abba Day, when Chris made good use of his brand-new earplugs.
There was Role Play Day, when they reenacted the "4 Minutes" video. JC held out until Chris agreed to let him be Justin. He wore a nice scarf and Chris produced a bustier from somewhere, and they had Four Minutes to Save the World from Planet Sequin's Sparkle Ray.
JC wasn't sure how that day was supposed to help him find his misplaced music, but he hoped that they would do it again. Chris looked hot in leather and eye-liner.
There were Guess the Theme Days, and random theme-less days which were perhaps the best days of all. Chris would sit in JC's favorite chair and pull JC down into his lap, and maybe he'd play something quiet on the stereo or maybe he'd sing a little and JC would press his ear to Chris' chest and it didn't matter that nothing sounded right because he knew he could still feel love.
Is this the beginning?
Or beginning of the end?
Well I got other thoughts, my friend
JC went to doctor, after doctor, after doctor. He wasn't crazy about them even at the best of times, but he was going for Chris. He had to tell himself that more and more, as more and more of the tests they wanted required blood work.
The needles would come out, and he'd think of Chris. Only, he couldn't think of Chris without glittering a little, not these days. There were specialists all over the greater Los Angeles area who could attest to the fact that there was nothing wrong with JC beyond an abnormal fondness for body glitter.
Every time JC was given a clean bill of health, Chris did something special to celebrate the occasion. He'd give JC an hour-long massage or make a special meal or sit, uncomplaining, through a movie of JC's choice. One night, he wore nothing but leather pants and eye-liner and let JC take pictures of him.
JC loved the celebrations. In his entire life, he'd never been given anything quite like Chris' undivided attention. But... after the first few, it seemed like Chris was growing less... intense somehow. There were a few less CAKSWM sessions and a little more simply hanging out together.
It worried JC.
Maybe Chris was just losing interest in him, and JC could accept that even though he hated it. Nothing this good could last forever. But what if it was darker than that? What if it was from prolonged exposure to JC's dust? Wasn't that how things had begun with him? Slowly losing interest in his life? Spending more and more time watching the dust until he was nearly hypnotized by it?
He had to do something before he lost Chris to the dust.
#
He came home from his appointment with the third neurologist on their list, and found Chris in the kitchen, planting a small cactus in a pot of glitter. God, they still had no idea what it was or what it was doing to Chris, but Chris just kept on playing with the stuff.
"Chris..."
"Yeah?"
"You can't do that--"
You can't do that, you'll die, he wanted to say.
"--it'll die."
"No, it won't."
"Chris--"
"It won't! I'll watch it carefully. If it starts to die, I'll repot it."
JC wrapped his arm around him and watched him carefully as he tamped the glitter down around the cactus. He pressed his lips to Chris' brow and asked, "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"It doesn't matter," Chris said. "I know what I'm doing with you."
It was good that somebody knew what they were doing.
#
That night, Chris hooked his laptop up to the stereo and put an MP3 of Eric Dolphy's "Glad to be Unhappy" on repeat. JC had it on vinyl, but Chris said the record would be too much trouble this time.
He pulled the afghan off of JC's chair and spread it out on the floor, then turned down the lights and sat with his back against the chair. He beckoned to JC.
"Come be with me."
JC sat in the V of his legs and leaned against him. "This would be better if I was shorter."
"Don't," Chris said. "I like you this way." His lips brushed the back of JC's neck. "Are you comfortable? We'll be here for a while."
"I'm good."
"Okay," Chris said. "This is really simple. We're just going to close our eyes and open our ears, all right?"
JC nodded.
"Great. Can you still count beats?"
"I think so."
"Okay. The song's about to begin again. Don't worry about what you're feeling, what you're not feeling. Just count the measures."
It was a quiet jazz piece, just flute and piano, bass and subtle percussion. It wasn't simple, so much as unadorned.
JC concentrated on counting.
"Don't think too hard," Chris said. "If you can't count them right away, just listen for a while longer."
So, he just listened. And he felt the in-and-out of Chris' breath, felt it in the movements of his chest and its whisper-touch along his neck. And then he felt another little beat down by his ankles. Chris' toes were wiggling, ever so slightly, to the music. He was no more capable of sitting still while listening to music than JC had been.
He listened.
The song started again--it was only about six minutes long--and somewhere in it all, JC fell into it. The beat was there and he knew it. And he held his breath and listened.
"You're going to turn blue," Chris said quietly. "Switch to the bass line for a while, okay? Just follow the bass."
JC listened. And it got easier. It didn't feel right, but it was so close.
Chris shifted behind him, then reached around and rested his hand low on JC's belly.
"Don't look now, but you're tapping your foot."
JC had to look, and, of course, that threw him off. But it was okay. Chris was tapping the beat against his belly, and something stirred in him that was almost sex and a lot like music.
"Can you follow the flute?" Chris asked.
JC shook his head.
"I can keep the bass line for you."
JC shook his head again. He was so close, so close... He was afraid to misstep.
"Okay," Chris said. "Whenever you're ready."
He lost track of how many times the song played. Just, somewhere along the way, he'd picked up all the pieces. He knew the beat and he knew how the piano, bass, and drum were sharing their job together. He knew the story that the flute was telling. If he just put those pieces all together, he'd have it. He'd be there. He'd--
"What if there's nothing wrong with me?" he said.
Chris didn't say anything, but he curled a little more around JC, holding him fast.
"It's all right there, I can feel it. I could reach it, if I wanted it."
"Do you want it?"
JC twined his fingers with Chris'.
"I've been kind of thinking lately that it was worth it."
"'Worth it'?"
"Like if it was a trade. I lost something, and I gained something."
"Oh," Chris said. "It's not--"
"I've been thinking you're worth it. I don't want you to leave me just because I'm fixed. But I also don't want to lose you because I can't be fixed."
"Wow," Chris said. "That is so not what is happening here. For one, I'm not some sort of karmic consolation prize. If anything, I'm pretty sure I'm punishment for whatever you did in your last life, and for two-- For two, you're mine now and I'm not planning to let you go, so you can just tell the Prom King and that football guy that you're sticking with me. Okay?"
JC shifted and turned till he was kneeling, facing Chris.
"'The Prom King'?"
Chris shrugged. "It's a thing."
"I don't know who he is," JC said. "But I don't want him. No Prom King, no football guy. I want you, I want you more than I can say."
JC pressed close, wrapping himself around him tight, and Chris kissed him, hot and sweet, then hard and demanding.
"Yes," JC breathed. "Yes, yes. God. I want you more than I want my music back."
Chris jerked away from him.
"Jesus, C!"
"I love you."
Chris slumped in on himself and dropped his head to JC's shoulder.
"God, JC. I love you, too, baby. You have no idea. But you can't want me more than your music."
"Yes, I can."
"No," Chris said. "You really, really can't."
Eric Dolphy's jazz flute was still playing in the background, high and pure and soulful.
JC really kind of hated it.
#
JC was confused. When someone emphatically denied your feelings for them, when someone insisted that you couldn't love them, that was clearly a rejection. It was, at the very least, a sign that you were having a fight.
But Chris wasn't acting like they were in the middle of a fight. Chris was still acting like they were happy, new boyfriends who couldn't go for more than a few hours without sexing each other up or making each other laugh or kissing each other in the middle of cleaning house.
It was very, very odd.
If JC couldn't want Chris, then why was he making JC want him so much? He didn't have to crack stupid jokes or hold JC's hand when they watched TV or make up songs to sing while watering the glitter-cactus. He didn't have to stick around, making JC coffee and washing his sheets and giving him sweet, sweet blow-jobs.
It had to mean something, right?
JC decided that if Chris hadn't considered it a rejection, then he wouldn't either. Instead, he'd consider it a challenge. Somehow, he would prove it. He could want Chris. He would show Chris the extent of his love.
Oh, wait...
That sounded a little too much like JC was planning to show Chris the shape of his heart.
Oh, Jesus. Wouldn't Chris love that?
You could take the man out of the boyband, but you couldn't take the boyband lexicon out of the boy.
#
JC was sort of watching porn after a particularly pleasant, bad afternoon.
Chris had burned their lunch. It was only grilled cheese, but instead of just getting out more bread and trying again, he had grumped and declared all food that didn't come in a delivery box an abomination in his sight. JC had sent him out of the kitchen and ordered Chinese.
Their sweet-and-sour chicken had been good, but it came with steamed white rice. It was a minor thing, but Chris liked pork fried rice and JC preferred steamed brown.
Later, they made out in the music room until they decided there was too much glitter and too little lube to take things further. One of them could have gotten up and fetched more lube, but they were both feeling too lazy for that. And it hardly mattered when they could curl up together and watch porn.
Well, JC was a little too comfortable snuggled up with his face buried in the crook of Chris' neck to actually watch the screen. And the on-screen action must not have been doing it for Chris, because he was now listening to two--or maybe three--ladies' sex moans overlaid with the soundtrack of Chris' soft snores.
All in all, it was a seriously imperfect day, and there was no good reason for the glow of contentment that JC was enjoying.
No, not a glow... a shine...
The sparkle of contentment.
Yeah.
Or maybe the sparkles he saw behind his closed eyes when Chris fucked him in the shower. Yeah.
The porn sounds wove through JC's thoughts as he listened to Chris sleeping and thought about fucking, the deep, satisfying rhythm of it, and the way the sound of a shower would forever turn him on now. It was heat in his bones, a bass thrum in his blood. It had a melody like laughter, and the sparkles, how did the sparkles fit in? A wire brush beating against a snare? No. Against a cymbal, accenting the constant--
Chris shifted, then rolled over in his arms.
Where was he? Accenting the constant--
Chris was staring at him, a strange look on his face.
"What?"
"You're humming."
No, he wasn't, he was...
"Dude, you're humming. What are you humming?"
Fuck.
Where was a pencil? He needed to write this down.
#
Friday, December 12th--Escaped from Planet Sequin. Aliens not pleased. Fuck them. Boyfriend was overjoyed to have me back and fucked me stupid. Yay!
PS: Have idea for song.
PPS: If manager is evil fairy or perhaps in cahoots with the Sequintonians, find new one ASAP. Must avoid having boyfriend cursed.
Cruise along until we hit the back seat
Because that's where the music sounds so sweet
"I have a theory," JC said one day after Marciella and her crew had left and there were nice, fresh sheets on the bed.
"Mm-hmm." Chris made a grabby-hand gesture at him, and JC handed him a pillow. "Lift your hips a bit, baby."
"It's about my glitter--"
Chris slipped the pillow under JC hips and grabby-handed at him again.
"Geez," JC said, passing the lube down to him. "You're such a demanding lover, I don't know how I can--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Chris popped open the tube. "I don't have to do this, you know. I could always go downstairs and listen to your 'Chris is my underwater lover, he makes me sparkle' song and--"
"He makes me sparkle like the sand in the sea."
"--get myself off."
"Oh, no, please continue," JC said, shifting his hips a little more. "If it's not too much trouble."
Chris chuckled.
"So I'll just carry on, then?"
"Please do."
"If you're certain..."
"God dammit, Chris--!"
#
"So," JC said later. "I have a theory about my glitter. I think I know what it was."
"Oh, yeah?" Chris snuggled closer to him, hogging the blankets.
"Yeah. I think it was-- I think it was like my unsung songs."
"Huh," Chris said.
"I think maybe every dust mote was a husk, like a little dried memory of a single note of music, and like... when I glittered, that was when I would have been singing or dancing or just, you know, thrumming with joy and sex and love and shit."
"'And shit.'"
"Yeah, everything that makes me want to sing."
"Cool."
"Yeah." JC pressed a kiss to his forehead. "And you were right."
"Well, duh. Of course I was."
"Without my music, I couldn't want you enough."
"It was never about 'enough.'"
"No, it was. I wanted to love you with everything that I was--everything that I am--and I couldn't, not when I was missing a piece of me."
"Jesus," Chris said, rolling his eyes. "That is so disgustingly sweet."
JC didn't mind 'cause he was also grinning so hard he glowed.
"Yeah," JC said. "I'm going to write a song about it, make Backstreet record it."
"Dude, imagine the choreography for that!"
"Let me show you the shape of the missing chunk of my heart," JC sang.
"Shoot me now, I'm in love with the sixth Backstreet Boy."
"I don't care who you are, where you're from--"
Chris hit him with the pillow. JC giggled and continued to sing.
"What you did--even if it was beating me with a pillow--"
Chris smacked him with it again, even as he joined him in singing the chorus.
"--as long as you love me."