The first time Ryan asks, JC says, “Oh, hey.  No, thanks, thanks anyway.  You’re not really, uh, my type, you know?”  The squinty-eyed smile is probably his way of letting him down easy.

Ryan looks down at the promo picture in his hand, at the five trendy, smiling young men and thinks that he’s exactly JC’s type.  He tells JC so and stares at his own reflection in the dressing room mirror, then JC’s, to make his point.   JC meets his eyes with understanding and shakes his head.  

“No, man.  I’m not that…egotistical.”  His voice is full of laughter. 

Ryan pauses, stranded in a moment of uncertainty.  They’ve hit it off from the beginning,  so he doesn’t know whether or not to believe this alternately mellow and hyper guy with the lean hips and powerful voice.  Keeping it professional is always a good idea, so he nods and presents JC with the obligatory gift basket—along with a personal note, just in case. 

***

Ryan supposes that in the end, he has Christina to thank.  Sometime in mid-July they add another area to the set; a den-style setting that offers a more intimate interview forum, and Christina is the first to try it out.  He expects it to be successful- at this point in his career, he knows anything he ventures is likely to be a success- but what he doesn’t expect is for Christina sit back with her skirt hiked too high for any amount of decency and to spill a wealth of petty jealousies over Britney.  She isn’t bitter, exactly; her attitude is more tired than angry, but in a twist of irony, when the headlines come out she’s overshadowed yet again because they all read about Ryan and his gift for reaching people. 

When he sits down with Britney a few months later, it doesn’t take much prompting at all before she’s blinking earnestly and saying, “I wish I had Christina’s voice, but I don’t.  I work with what I have, and if that takes a little extra flash and bang-“ she gestures with her arms, and Ryan glances out at the crowd.  They’re hooked, silent, waiting reverently for the words.  “-then I do what can to make up for my weak points.” 

“Well, whatever you’re doing…it’s working,” he tells her.  He squeezes her knobby knee and the audience is on their feet, thrilled with the dish.  They love Britney, but they love broken celebrity even more, which is why they love Ryan the most. 

When the trend continues, he’s touted as the therapist to the stars, Hollywood’s very own celebrity confessor, and everyone loves him.  He doesn’t have time to think about what that means until a few months later when he invites JC to return to the show and JC’s people call right back, saying that there’s nothing JC would like more. 

When JC comes on the show there’s a contest winner, but she’s overexcited to the point of tears, sobbing and clutching Ryan’s arm with her sweaty, pinching hands.  JC, she keeps chanting hysterically, JC, and Ryan knows a bit how she feels.  It’s a little horrifying when she grabs for JC, but he just croons softly at the girl until she can look at him without shrieking. 

He gets JC into the interviewing den and while they’re getting their seats, Ryan’s producer’s voice is in his headset telling him to take it down a notch.  That’s easier said than done, because JC has just finished a sweaty rock-star set that’s got the frantic sway of his hips burned into Ryan’s mind. 

“Anything you want to get off your chest?”  Ryan is only half-joking when he asks.  Some guests just aren’t the confessing type, and Ryan feels that they’re on shaky enough ground without him harassing JC for drama.  Besides, the audience is hysterical at his presence alone. 

JC’s eyes are bright as he wipes some sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand.  “Well,” he says, and takes a second to wave at some screaming girls holding a sign that definitely won’t be shown on camera.  “Actually…”  He drags his words out in an adorably goofy way.  “There’s this person who’s been kinda crushing on me and I keep turning them down, but now I’m thinking about saying yes.”

Ryan pauses.  Smile, they’re saying into his headset, and right, he knows that, always smile.  He isn’t sure what to say so he smiles his way through the sudden roar of the audience and by the time it’s over, he’s congratulating JC and moving on to talk about the album.  He wants to show that he’s been doing his research, JC’s tawdry tangled lyrics on endless repeat for the past six weeks, but he pauses again, unable to think of anything to say that doesn’t involve the word silky. 

Backstage, JC touches his arm and talks quietly into his ear while Ryan nods and listens, speechless after so many years of words and words, anything to fill the airwaves.  Ryan, with his carefully schooled white-bread chatter, isn’t anything like JC, whose language has style and edge, and he absorbs all of it. 

An intern comes in to tell JC his car has arrived, and Ryan can sense that he’s running out of time.  “I’m having a party,” he says suddenly.  “Tomorrow night.  I’d love for you to come.” 

JC ducks his head and smiles too sweetly to be true.  “And I’d love to come,” he chirps, and Ryan is suddenly flushed with warmth.  Silky; JC had said so himself. 

***

Ryan knows he’s supposed to be all apple-pie wholesome and reassuringly sexless, and while it’s made him richer than he ever imagined possible, it sometimes works to his disadvantage.  The only women interested in him are teenaged girls who like to imagine him as their prom date, and the kind of guys he wants to hook up with look at him like…well…the way they used to look at JC.  Like a Mickey Mouse club danceboy who couldn’t fuck his way out of a paper bag. 

The problem with looking like he would never get his hands dirty is that no one ever gives him the opportunity to do it, and he knows that JC is still on the fence because why wouldn’t he be?  Ryan is determined to change his mind, because despite popular opinion, there’s nothing he would like more than to get positively filthy with JC, spread his legs and get fucked every which way by those lethal hips. 

JC doesn’t even show up until 2 AM.  He arrives in a black SUV and immediately maneuvers himself onto the dance floor, throwing his hips around until everyone is watching with envious admiration.  His jeans keep sliding down too low to reveal the arc of his hipbone, but he’s too joyful to care.  It’s the perfect chance to show JC another side of himself, and Ryan slides into place behind JC, hands on JC’s hips, and he’s a pro at not letting his uncertainty show.  When JC casts a startled glance over his shoulder before his face relaxes into a slow, appraising smile, Ryan smiles back, moving the best he can and wishing he was daring enough to slide one hand down to JC’s thigh.  It’s just a thigh, but JC is a strangely valuable commodity right now and it’s too soon to risk ruining his chances.  

“C’mon,” JC says suddenly, and pulls away from the dance floor.  Ryan follows him out back to the relatively empty patio. 

“You cut your hair.” For a man who talks for a living, it’s a sad attempt at conversation.

“Yeah, it was…a thing.”  JC smiles as though there’s more to the story and Ryan laughs as though he gets the joke.  “I saw you in that magazine,” JC says.  “The one where you were all…”  He waves his hand and leans toward Ryan with some kind of intent.  “A friend of mine did a shoot like that a while back.  You looked good.  Different.” 

Ryan is up for arguing that point, but there’s suddenly a strong, wiry body pressing him against the side of his house and a mouth on his neck, a slick hard swipe of tongue and then brutal suction that Ryan knows is going to leave a mark.  Yes, thank you is in Ryan’s head, and fuck me, but there isn’t time for words when JC hitches his hips forward, shocking pressure on his cock that’s embarrassingly, noticeably hard in his jeans.  “I like your party,” JC says.  His voice is earnest but his eyes are a conflict of lust and reservation. 

“My bedroom is upstairs,” Ryan manages.  He wants to put his hand underneath JC’s shirt but even with their dicks rubbing against each other, it feels like he doesn’t have the right. 

“This is fine,” JC mumbles, wet and hot on his skin.  He starts a rhythm that beats against Ryan’s hips and this is so not what he wanted because the press, press, nasty grind is sending him down in a landslide of heat and he’s going to come in his pants.  It’s not even a matter of if, it’s a matter of when, how long he can hold out while he finds out that JC kisses with more teeth than tongue and he makes the same sounds when he’s in heat as he does on stage. 

He’s still shuddering and panting for breath when JC pulls back and smiles, unfinished and yet still supremely satisfied looking.  “Gotta run,” he says with only a hint of apology.  It’s only then that Ryan notices someone standing in the shadows with the posture of someone who’s been kept waiting. 

“Call me,” he breathes, far too late. 

***

The next time Ryan is out he’s approached by Justin, and yeah, maybe he’s used to celebrities now- after all, he’s one of the elite and would do well not to forget it- he’s still shot through with the thrill of recognition…as well as one degree of separation from JC.  In fact…he glances around the VIP room because maybe JC is around here somewhere. 

“Hey Seacrest,” Justin says with a little too much intensity.  “I’ve got a confession for you, and I don’t even have to go on TV to let you in on it.   People have been talking about a friend of mine lately.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.  He’s been hanging around with somebody whose discretion is for shit.” 

“I-“  He pauses.  “Didn’t realize that.”  It’s not like there’s much to tell.  JC never returns his calls and the few times they’ve met up it has always ended up the same way as the first; a few hurried gropes that combine the beauty of relief with murderous frustration.  Every encounter leaves him a little more sure that he’ll never really get inside, but he keeps trying because silky, JC says, and Ryan doesn’t believe everything he hears but he believes this with everything he’s got, which is all at once the world and not nearly enough.