Southport (, Connecticut)

by julia

*

Written for the Slash Across America Challenge, and only finished about, oh, a month late. eek! Thanks to Shireen for her wonderful beta, as always.

A note: this story in my mind is JC's fantasy. Characterization is there but slightly skewed. Also it's a relatively self indulgent experiment with the overuse of parentheses and multiple perspectives and smut. And there's also a bit of indulgence with allusions. So I went a little overboard, and wrote a story just how I wanted to. So. There you go.

*

This had been JC's idea. This was a real tour, he thought, finally. And he was sick of hotel rooms, sick of the kind of luxury found in the ones they could afford now. Complimentary this and that and the other that would show up on the bill, complimentary kissing of asses if you tipped the right way. Or smiled a little extra long at the room service boy. Or let him blow you. He wanted to feel the places they were touring in a different way, get the sense of them from a sometime home to people and from their dirt. Fine wines were easier to get, fine homes were more difficult. But he was insistent and Lance sighed (JC was the only one who had not laughed in his face at his latest, very public, brilliant idea) and said he'd work it out. And he did, three times of which this was the last, just before the part of the tour that this time around was very literally the home stretch.

It was spring now; sleepy and sunny and lazy in Southport. The houses here were grand and gracious, a far cry from the garish palaces in the newest parts of Orlando. The home that had been procured for them was not so much huge as finely crafted and furnished in a style not gaudy but solid; they all began exploring it together as was their wont. Dark woods abounded, the chairs and floors had been there forever but were oiled and soft to the touch.

It was also morning, as they always had to leave on the bus almost immediately after each show and go on to the next city. That was part of Lance's plan. By dawn, when they were still asleep, they had arrived at the home, and would have most of the day to themselves before leaving for the venue. It was ridiculous, really, to rent a house for a day. Sometimes JC wondered (and worried) if they were paying a month's rent for a day of freedom. Lance never let him ask.

Here a tall white fence surrounded the small but elaborate garden and the heavenward thrust of old time New England was everywhere. The exalting incline of pristine columns in front of the huge wooden door drew one's eye to the sky.

At the back of the home, through several hallways and past the kitchen to the right (Joey had found the refrigerator fully stocked, and chuckled when Lance wove fingers around his waist and turned him around as the door closed to press him against the metal), was a carefully wrought iron door. Justin watched as JC's face changed and his fingers traced the rough edges of the pattern. Chris was already pulling away, trailing Lance and naturally pulling Joey along with him into other rooms and hallways, up the lightly creaking stairs. Today they were two and three, another day it might be an inverted or convoluted set of those couplings. That this was understood and accepted among the five, there were patterns, and favorites but most of the time they were all too busy to read that much into them. They were looking forward to the long summer ahead, but maybe in looking forward to November and December studio time, repeated in interview after interview they were looking up, over, and away from the time apart. Today they were together, and without a conscious thought about the future they gripped each other more firmly. Justin's gaze gripped JC's profile, outlined in the light coming through the bars.

JC's mouth opened slightly, he maybe wanted to say something, but Justin trailed a finger down his arm and it was all decided. "Open it," Justin whispered, like it was a present from him, but then Justin had a way of making everything he said sound that way.

There were six dates left and days have been spent drinking in dens or singing in front of fireplaces (a cold snap on an Iowa farmstead in March), but now the eager bite of spring was in their large open eyes and time was on their side. Miles of day, the sun barely clipping the top of the fence, turning it true white from shadowed blue. When Justin's fingers met JC's the tips were large and warm and intertwined with JC's readily. It was encouragement enough and JC nodded slightly and reached his unoccupied hand to the handle. It gave with a slight grind, red rust, and the scent hit him first. The dizzying ripeness of the roses bred in the hothouse mixed with blooming orchids in the moisture.

As they stepped inside, Justin lagging slightly behind to see his friend's reaction, JC reached for a long arching stem of mature orchid, stroking the white flesh of the petal with a sigh.

"Soft?" Justin asked hoarsely, for here, alone together, for the first time in a long time he thought of God. Maybe seven months and fourteen days. And now it was in grace and not in terror. He shuddered but JC erased his mind's path or redesigned it.

"Like you." JC brushed knuckles and then lips against the lobes of Justin's ear. "See?" He brought their united hand to the flower.

"Yeah," the boy (not anymore I know I know but I still remember you that way) breathed and pulled at the shirt that was sticking heavily to JC's skin. It came off easily, once they were working together and not against each other, and Justin stripped his own off without hesitation.

Justin sat gently, testing, on a blank area on the long wooden table covered with pots. It was dirty and warm, and his fingers spread open upon it. JC twined fingers around Justin's damp neck, and pulled him close, Justin's chin tilting up from his seated position to meet JC.

The wonderful thing about Connecticut was that when the heat and the moist of the greenhouse became too much (Louisiana, Georgia, Mississippi, this tour had not been kind to the South), their foreheads pressed together, open mouths swollen but unwilling to come closer than this current state of shared breath. They quickly reached that point, sweat curving and shining over the crevices of JC's chest, moistening the frayed waistband of his jeans. Justin's eyes darted over JC's shoulder to another door. Loathe to lose contact, understandably-Justin glowed among the draping deep green vines hanging from the rafters of the greenhouse-JC followed him closely.

The younger man turned once his hand had reached the ornate knob, gold curls mussed beneath the luscious wisteria that had grown onto the outer structure of the green house. Lavender on golden skin, tiny petals fluttering to his shoulders like temperate and delicious smelling snow. It was easy to place him in some bacchanalian fantasy of ages past with vine leaves in his hair.

But Justin's end would be the French little death, and not a literal one. JC smiled at the thought. Justin's set of mouth showed his impatience with JC's staring; his sins were weighted and lust more than overcame narcissism. A hand came away from where it rested on Justin's flat lower belly, curving open. An invitation. JC gladly accepted, his bare feet crossing the clean concrete.

So yes, what was wonderful about Connecticut was that when the greenhouse door was opened (Justin glanced back and behind the iron outline the floor was littered with clothing), the breeze from the harbor, cooled to perfection, hit exposed skin without hesitation. Where the greenhouse was heavy and wet, the gardens were light and airy and tickled him everywhere.

The grass was utterly green, warmer than the air where the sun struck the blades, and JC wasted no time in sprawling over a particularly sunny spot. His eyes squinted at the brightness and the world burned red behind his eyelids.

His arms were opened wide, his shoulders and the insides of his arms sparkling where remaining drops of dew kissed his skin.

"Don't sleep yet, baby" came out in that singsong Justin imagined would be used for nursery rhymes but filtered into JC's brain as sex, and JC felt the warmth in his belly grow more insistent. A shadow, the return of cool (Justin would like that, thought JC. Or not Justin but the ones who held Justin's lacey train) air, and the warmth became a real weight as he felt the perfect curve of Justin's ass settle into his waist. A knee on either side of his middle, the heat that returned was indirect, absorbed from the sun and released, if reluctantly, by Justin's skin. Justin pushed his hips forward to acknowledge JC's busy hands that had been pulling at his belt and fiddling with the button and zipper.

Where JC sighed quietly in contentment at the new places his skin could touch, Justin began his whispering. He wasn't loud, not now, out of necessity, though there were times… He liked to talk, liked to hear himself (Chris would say, "Is that such a surprise?") and liked to feel JC respond to the words.

"Can you feel the grass growing underneath you? Maybe when, I think perhaps, when I'm fucking you," as he trailed fingers across the skin below JC's waist, along the bone of his hip, "you maybe will."

***

Chris saw the claw footed tub behind the door and needed, immediately, the hot water on his sore knees. Shows almost every night were wonderful (JC had hardly enough time to come down between them, leading to some odd glances at his happily glazed face by venue employees) but Chris was not 25, wearing braces in Germany. Now the only braces were holding up his knees, and he stepped towards the relief of hot water.

Joey murmured something about being back in a minute, and slipped off to find the door behind which Lance had disappeared.

Clothes came off quickly, and as was his nature he let them fall to the clean dark tile, noiseless under the thunder of hot water rushing through aging plumbing. JC probably would have gone for the delicious smelling glass carafe of soap that was set on the floor, filling the tub with light bubbles, but Chris breathed in the pure plain steam (better than honey on tired vocal chords) and stepped carefully into the embrace of clean liquid. He knew this was his way, this was his style. The windows were open here too and when the water was turned off, the air was filled with the utter normalcy of rustling leaves in the light breeze, and yes, chirping birds.

Chris thought that he had almost forgotten that noise, the way it mixed with the moving drip and swish of water as he settled into the tub. But now it filled his brain, that, the press of his shoulder blades against the cold metal edges of the tub, and the sweet give of his knees, softening in the enveloping heat.

Then as he stilled and laid his head back on the plush towel he had found already curved over the end of the tub, whispers carried from the open window that faced the back gardens. A voice light and airy and also dark and raw.

"See, see when I lick here," the wind changed and then switched back as Chris listened intently, "here your thighs shake, ah there," a gasp.

He was hard already from the stream of words over the window sill. Of course they knew, from glances and brushings and once a deep kiss with Justin pinned against the wall in the back of the bus that Chris had interrupted, looking for the Madden cartridge. But this: the quiet stream of words continued, sometimes intelligible and other times harsh careless sighs of vowels and consonants. He could feel the part of his body above the level of the water start to sweat.

Footsteps. Chris's eyes opened and Joey was there, crouched beside the tub. Glad and slightly embarrassed at being caught with closed eyes and held in breath, his head cocked to catch Justin's words. He lifted a finger to his lips, but Joey grabbed it and licked it and took it in his mouth. It was very good news to be naked in front of Joey. Joey knew just what to do.

He just grinned, at first, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and dipped a hand in the steaming water. Chris bit his lip and bucked upward, gently with the easy motion of the liquid surrounding him, toward the friction. Joey drew away with a smirk. He shed his clothes while Chris looked on impatiently because Justin ("You are far better-fuck, too good-from the inside for your own good") wouldn't last that much longer.

But Joey was settling into the other end of the enormous tub, making a low sound at the temperature. "Jesus, we're going to boil away, Kirkpatrick."

"Maybe," Chris replied, and Joey circled a hand around him and lowered his head. Chris decided that baby-skin and blue eyes were really overrated when compared to Joey's stubble against his thighs mixing pain with the blissful torture of hot wet pressure and the dark shine of Joey's eyes looking up at him. Sinfully hot, but overrated.

Joey's head moved rhythmically up and down, to the dual tune of branches swayed by the harbor winds and the finally incoherent sighs of the men on the ground below. Chris thought disjointed thoughts: they must be getting dirty, tiny grains of dark moist earth trickling across smooth skin, for one. And also that Justin had strung together words for longer than Chris would have thought possible before disintegrating into high harsh breaths that were barely audible even as they echoed in the bathroom.

It was nice, this. Chris felt utterly weak in the embrace of the water and Joey's palms cradling his ass. The air hit his wet skin when he felt Joey pull away for a moment, and lick with his wide warm tongue. "God," Chris gasped, realizing suddenly that his voice was alone as it hit the tiles and bounced back to his ears. (Justin rested his full length on top of JC. JC's eyes flicked back to Justin's from where they had rested over the taller man's shoulder on the tips of the masts of pristine sailboats, visible over the fence's jagged pattern. Even as Justin kissed him, slowly in his satiation, he could hear the slap of water against the sides of the boats as they bobbed in the harbor.) He crumpled completely against Joey.

Joey licked his lips and then smiled at Chris' expression, for it could really only be described as beatific despite the word's incongruity with previous actions. He slid out from underneath Chris, Joey could be graceful when he needed to be, and wound a thick towel around his waist.

He wandered down the hall, which was light and dark in turns depending on whether the doors had been left open during their whirlwind tour of the estate earlier in the morning. Joey walked towards the room where he had left Lance, green eyes drooping after staying up to make the final arrangements for their day at the house. He had brushed Lance's hair from his forehead and thought, this is why I love Lance most. Because most unexpectedly he sometimes is like this day, long and lazy and warm everywhere you touch him.

Now, as Joey pulled the door open, he was brought to a halt by Lance's reflection in the mirror on the wall to the right of the bed. Joey couldn't see Lance yet, directly, but he watched the play of moving light on Lance's slightly distorted features and thought that this was when you should call a mirror a looking glass.

He considered asking a kitten who dreamed it all?, like Alice, but he pushed the door open slightly more and Lance was blinking at him, awoken by the whine of hinges and meeting his gaze in the reflection.

"What? What are you looking at?" Joey asked, and it was better than asking a kitten, it was asking Lance.

"You're looking in my mirror," came the low response from the bed, still hidden by the door.

"But at you, not at me."

Joey stepped into the room, closer to the four-poster bed, and thought that Lance was like a looking-glass book, so much more complex seen outside of a mirror's sharp confines. Lance looked at him and his lips turned, but he did not sit up.

Instead Joey sat on the bed beside Lance, and Lance distractedly lifted a hand to Joey's waist and tugged at the towel. It fell away, causing Joey to hiss at the slight friction. But even with his arousal obvious, in the pink of his skin and elsewhere, Lance only curved a hand onto the softness of Joey's upper thigh. Joey closed his eyes-here urgency had no place and there was time more than anything else.

Connecticut was where he could spoon behind Lance, kiss the pale curve of his shoulder blade and trace a finger down the side of his chest and only hear Lance's deep, contented sigh and feel him settle closer in response. Later, later, his body echoed, to quiet itself.

A breeze shifted the hairs on Lance's arm. It dried the drops on Chris' forehead as he pulled a thick terry robe over his shoulders. It made Justin curl his hand tighter round JC's waist, where they were folded over one another asleep on the creaking swing in the garden. It stirred sated boys and muslin sails and warm grass and the brackish water most of all.