“I believe in magic,” JC says one day, completely out of nowhere, in the middle of an interview.  He says it during the briefest space between being asked about his favorite color and his musical influences, and the statement effectively silences the room for at least three seconds before Chris is all over it, going on about pulling rabbits and other various items out of his pants.  No one is sure exactly what JC means, but after two years together they’re used to him saying odd things or picking up days-old conversations without notice.

“Why did you say that?” Justin asks, afterwards, back at the hotel.  He doesn’t seem mad, exactly, but there’s an intensity that speaks of something deeper than a passing interest.  JC doesn’t ask him what he means; he’s already noticed the way Justin’s eyes have been following him speculatively, relentlessly, all day long.  JC, who has always felt as though it’s some kind of honor to explain things to Justin, is happy to provide answers for anything Justin wants to know.

“I met Brian Transeau last night,” he confides.  “We talked-“  He cuts himself off and hugs his knees to his chest while he gathers his thoughts.  “Oh my God, J, we talked about music and he had so much to say.  It makes so much sense, that when you get that perfect sound it can be this spiritual thing, just like anything else in nature.” 

“What does that have to do with what you said in that interview?  So you think you can…what?  Make…?” 

JC shrugs.  “He says that it can happen, and I believe him.  Everything he said, I just really heard him, you know?” 

“You guys were high,” Chris interrupts from the other bed, where he’s been pretending to nap.  “I saw what you put in your mouth, dumbass, and I wouldn’t trust anything you think happened after that.” 

JC brushes him off with an annoyed sound, but Justin’s eyes are wide and full of censure.

“I know what I saw,” JC insists.  “And he was on another plane.  He got there,” he adds wistfully.

“But he, even if he did…what he does is so different than what we do, C,” Justin protests.

“Not so different, J!  Remember that time in the studio when the sound guy started crying?  It was because of us, because of our sound.”    

Justin nods slowly.  “But…”

“You don’t believe me; it’s all right,” JC says, and he means it.  They should all believe what they want, especially Justin, who is always being told what to do and who to be.  “But you should, you should believe in something, okay?”

Justin squints up at the dim light fixture above the bed.  “I do,” he says after a minute.  His voice is firm and decided.  “Myself.  I guess I believe in myself.” 

***

The first time it happens, no one believes it except for Lance, who normally doesn’t believe anything that isn’t right there in black and white and verifiable by a trusted attorney.  He’s got shotgun, which means he’s in charge of distributing the coffees, and when Chris makes a too-sharp left turn, coffee leaps out from the cup and onto the back of Lance’s hand. 

He doesn’t cry out, not even when the cups fall from his fingers and bleed a mud-colored stain all over his thighs. 

“Fuck, fuck, Lance!”  The words tumble from JC’s lips as carelessly as the spilt coffee when, without thinking, he reaches up from the back seat to touch the red, scalded hand.  Lance jerks away with a pained cry.    

“Stop,” Lance snaps through gritted teeth, just a gasp of sound that dies away when he catches sight of the smooth pale fingerprints in the places where JC’s fingers have made contact.  JC sees, too, and is still trying to puzzle out what’s just happened when Chris says, “What did you do?” and jerks the wheel again when he drifts over the broken yellow line.  

“Nothing, I didn’t, I just wanted to…uh, are you okay?”  It’s not welcome but he doesn’t even wait for an answer before cradling Lance’s hand in his palm the way he’d wanted to the first time; the way he’d felt drawn to touch him as soon as he’d seen the burn.  When he moves his hand away there is nothing to see, just Lance’s perfect golden skin and splatters of coffee on the white cuff of his sleeve. 

JC shrinks back into the back seat while everyone looks at Lance’s hand; at the sudden absence of what had just a few seconds ago been a bright, painful burn. 

“Do I need to pull over?” Chris asks.  He eases up on the accelerator as they near an exit. 

“No,” Lance answers slowly.  He flexes his hand, then rubs it on his pants.  He glances quickly into the back seat at JC, who avoids eye contact.  “I’m fine,” Lance tells Chris.  “But we’re going to need more coffee.”

***

Joey didn’t see what happened, but he’s prone to believing pretty much anything Lance tells him so it’s not long before he sidles up to JC backstage.  JC isn’t sure what he wants at first, but Joey stands there and there and waits for long, strange minutes until JC turns to him and rubs his forehead softly, until all of Joey’s tension melts under his touch.    

How do you do that?  JC can see the question, just there on the tip of Joey’s tongue.  Most of them don’t like to talk about it, all for their own reasons, especially Justin.  It’s subtle, but JC sees the way that Justin stays away when he’s sick or injured, how he tracks JC with his eyes to make sure he only comes so close and no closer.  It’s almost like an accusation, the way Justin acts as though JC is doing something wrong by just existing. 

JC knows that Justin is wary of JC’s gift, but that wariness is exposed as something more than simple caution one night when Justin drinks far too much and stumbles back to the hotel room that he and JC are sharing.  JC wakes when the door opens.  Chris is trying to be quiet as he steers Justin over to the bed, but Justin always spills his secrets when he’s drinking, and he talks nonstop from the door to the bed, where he collapses and takes one brief moment of silence before slurring, “Chris?” 

“Yeah?”  

Now that he’s more fully awake, JC opens his eyes just a sliver so that he can see Justin on the other bed, staring up at Chris.  “What did it feel like?”  Justin clutches at Chris’ sleeve and refuses to let him go, pulling him down until he settles on the edge of the bed.  In the dark, JC can see Justin’s hand fumble down to the bare skin of Chris’ leg where it comes to rest on his knee, which has been as good as new ever since JC laid hands there a few weeks earlier.  “Tell me,” Justin demands.  JC doesn’t recognize what’s in his voice, and something about it makes him clutch the blanket in his fists, waiting, barely breathing. 

“Please,” Justin begs, but Chris just makes an aggravated sound. 

“Ask him yourself.”  He looks down at Justin with something that most people would call pity, but JC wouldn’t call it that; not pity for Justin, who has the world at his feet.  Still, JC doesn’t like the look and he presses his fingers to his lips, dreading what he’s about to hear. 

“I can’t,” Justin says tragically, every word soaked in bourbon.  “I can’t, can’t-“  It makes no sense, and JC wishes he hadn’t heard any of it.  He doesn’t want to know that Justin is this afraid of him.  He doesn’t understand it, and he doesn’t understand what Chris does next, either.  Chris acts so quickly that it almost doesn’t register, one blink- one quick blow- and Justin is holding his nose and moaning, blood already seeping between his fingers.  “Chris!” Justin yells into his hand, and JC bolts out of bed. 

It takes a second to untangle himself from the covers, but when he’s free, he stands near the bed and tries to get a good look at Justin.  “Chris!  What did you do?”  When he speaks, Justin looks up with bleary eyes that immediately fill with panic.

“No!” Justin tries to crawl to the other side of the bed and succeeds in leaving a trail of smeared blood across the white pillows.  He’s trying to get away from me, JC realizes.  He feels numb; stopped short by his own lack of understanding.

Chris gestures to Justin, his face grim.  “Do it, okay?”  He watches with his arms folded across his chest, so calm while JC can hardly get a handle on what’s happening. 

“No,” Justin says again, hiding his injured nose behind both hands. 

And Justin is a mess, but JC touches him anyhow.  It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?  The whole time, JC is filled with the sense that something is wrong, something other than the fact that Justin is hurt.  It doesn’t feel right, but he does what Chris asks and with both hands, JC cups Justin’s cheeks and brushes his thumbs across his swollen nose.  It’s exactly how he heals the other guys, but none of them have ever carried on the way J does; tears wetting JC’s unsteady fingers until he has to stop and wipe them on his jeans.  There shouldn’t be anything ugly about sharing his gift, but he can’t deny the doubts that threaten to swallow him whole. 

“What’s the problem?” Chris says softly, as though he knows fully well and has just been waiting for JC to figure it out. 

“I don’t know,” JC half-lies.  There’s no time to face off with Chris when Justin is so hot and miserable under his fingertips, so distraught that JC doesn’t get it right until the second try because of the way Justin keeps wrenching his face away.  When it’s done, JC steps back and looks uncertainly at Justin.  He doesn’t know what’s going on, only that he’s hurt Justin by doing something unwanted, something that brings pleasure to most people but makes Justin cry with deep, heartbreaking sobs that go on and on.  JC thinks he can still hear it even when he’s retreated to Chris’ room with two walls between them.

***

They spend some time speculating about why Justin reacted the way he did, but no one seems to know for certain.  “Probably the booze,” Joey guesses the next day, while Justin is still sleeping.  They’re congregated in Joey’s room, but it feels more like hiding. 

“No,” JC says, unable to pull himself out of this sullen, angry mood.  “It was me.  He didn’t want me to do that.”

“He needed it,” Chris argues.

“He didn’t want it,” JC snaps back. 

“Stop.”  Lance says, and they stop, but only because no one knows what else to say.  JC decides to let go of the anger and is left with just the memory of Justin’s plea, playing on an endless loop, over and over until JC’s head aches with unrest.  Tell me what it’s like, and please, and I can’t, echo relentlessly, all contradicting Justin’s anguished response to actually finding out. 

The thing is, JC thinks as he sits on the bus and stares into a blank notebook, Justin could have just asked.  He could have, but he had said I can’t, and JC doesn’t know what to make of that, or of the weird tension between them that won’t seem to go away.

***

The tension, of course, is because of JC’s hands.  They’re only hands, flesh and bone like any others, but JC can feel the guys’ eyes on them all the time.  If it were anyone else he’d be self-conscious, but since it’s these four, he just smiles to himself and goes about his business.  If they want his hands, they’ll tell him, and until then they can look all they want.  He wishes, sometimes, that there were some way of knowing what Justin thinks about when he looks for so long, his eyes tracing every bend of JC’s fingers while JC pretends not to notice, all the while torn between an apology and an offer of more.  It’s only the knowledge that he’s already overstepped a boundary that keeps JC from making that offer, because--he’s not sure how he knows but he knows—something exists inside Justin that he could soothe if he were just allowed to try.   

He feels it now, while he writes in his notebook, quickly at first and then slower, more self-conscious as he comes to an awareness of Justin’s eyes on him, lazy and unguarded from where he lays on the far side of the sofa.    

“I’m sorry,” he says without looking up.  If he’s careful, maybe Justin will stay. 

“I know.  Fucking Chris,” Justin says, and JC lets Justin do that, put the blame on Chris.  They both know it’s not really Chris at all.  It’s JC’s hands, and the way he’d used them on Justin.  But it’s still nice to pretend.  It’s comfortable, being able to look at Justin over the top of his notebook and smile without feeling the full force of Justin’s accusation.  “I was just pretty fucked up,” Justin says casually.  His expression is anything but casual. 

“Been there,” JC says cautiously.  He traces the title of his song, over and over until the ink bleeds through the paper onto the next page.  “You’ve seen it often enough.” 

“Yeah,” Justin snorts.  “So, you writing something for us?”  For me is the unspoken question, because JC’s songs always end up in Justin’s voice. 

“Maybe.  You can see it soon,” JC replies.  He wants to show Justin now, but not until he can change things around a bit and make it a little less obvious, a little less about him.  He shares almost everything with them, but there are a few rare things he keeps to himself.  What he thinks about Justin is one of them, and how he really feels about his gift is the other.  Two small secrets that no one would want to hear, anyhow. 

***

Justin sprains his ankle a few weeks later, and JC looks on, wordlessly accepting, at the bandage that wraps Justin’s ankle during the entire healing process. 

***

“How do you know?” Chris asks him when they’re alone in a hotel elevator.  A few days earlier JC had saved a woman; touched her chest after she’d collapsed without warning.  “Where to touch people?  How’d you know it was her heart?”

JC shrugs and closes his eyes, feels the pull of his stomach when the elevator lurches suddenly upward.  “I just know,” he says.  No one’s ever asked him about it before, not counting Lance, who had just asked him that morning if he could heal a physical deformity.  JC is pretty sure that kind of thing is out of his realm, especially if Lance had been talking about his nose, which Lance obsesses about but JC thinks is perfectly fine.  But Chris is asking something different, something JC is pretty sure is real. 

“My hands just go there,” JC explains.  The pull is magnetic, almost, the way his hands are just drawn to the place where they’re needed.  It had been instinct to save that woman, a stranger, which is why JC is so devastated a few months later when Joey is hurt during rehearsal and he does nothing but stand there, blood rushing to his head as quickly as it rushes from Joey’s wound. 

It makes him sick to look at, he can’t even imagine touching it, that raw open spot that makes him dizzy and Lance, oh God, Lance has his hand on it, sticky dark skin on skin.  He can’t do it, he can’t, and it’s somewhere in this frantic line of thought that he realizes—he can’t. 

***

***

***

They spend so many years not talking about it that it’s easy to forget.  The biggest change is in the way that Justin relaxes around him, is suddenly draped over him all the time, warm and solid as though he’d never left.  This Justin is even better than the old one, because this one is a fully developed young man, and JC is vain enough to appreciate the value of having the most wanted boy in the world hugging his neck and shouting secrets into his ear. 

Once they’re on hiatus, it’s even easier not to think about that strange gift he’d had so long ago.  He goes almost three years without thinking about it at all, until he opens the front door one night and Chris is standing there with a far too innocent smile and what JC knows to be his lucky traveling hat. 

“Are you, uh…I thought you were recording?” JC asks, even as he leans in for a hug. 

“Taking a break.” 

“Are you going somewhere?”  JC eyes the hat suspiciously. 

“Yup.  We’re going to visit a long lost friend.” 

“Justin?” 

“So I’m not the only one he won’t talk to.”  Chris’ face darkens, and JC wishes he hadn’t said anything. 

“No, no, it’s not that he’s not talking to me so much as that we just haven’t talked.  It’s- we’re cool, Chris.”  He knows that Chris hates it when they don’t keep in touch within the group, and JC is sure that he’s on good terms with Justin.  He thinks.  It has been a while. 

“Whatever.  It doesn’t matter.  Joey and Lance are already there, and I guess you should know ahead of time that this is a mission of mercy.” 

JC shakes his head and smiles at Chris one last time before leading him into the kitchen.  He takes two bottles of beer out of the refrigerator and gives one to Chris.  “Now, what are you talking about?” 

Chris doesn’t mince words.  “Justin is totally fucked up,” he declares with confidence.  “Totally fucked in the head, which I already suspected, but then Cameron told me, and well—when a chick like her is passing judgment on your mental state, you know it’s time to take a good look at yourself, y’know?” 

“Do you want me to call him?” 

Chris sighs.   “He’s not answering his phone, C.  Do you get why I’m here?  Why I paid a shitload of money to put a hold on recording and come here?  He’s not just in a pissy mood, or blowing us off.  He’s, he hasn’t left the house in weeks.” 

“So, he’s sick, or something,” JC says, nodding thoughtfully.   “Okay.” 

“You could say that.”  Chris gives JC a meaningful stare until JC catches the meaning of his words and steps back in shock.

“No.  I’m-”  JC looks up as Carlos and a group of people let themselves in the front door, making plenty of noise with their shopping bags an oblivious conversation.  “I don’t do that any more,” he hisses.  “I tried, I can’t, and even if I could, do you remember last time I did that to him?”

“He was just a kid.  It freaked him out a little.  He thought you could read minds or something.”

“I can’t.”  Just the idea of it makes JC’s stomach hurt. 

“It’s better than the alternative!  He needs professional help, JC.  Do you want him to go through that?  It’s worth a try,” Chris insists, and before JC can muster a fresh batch of excuses, a final, “You’re coming.”

***

Later, while Chris is distracted by all the beautiful women that Carlos seems to trail behind him, JC sneaks away to his studio, where he sits on the floor up against the wall and holds the phone tightly to his ear.  Brian actually picks up for a change, and JC beats around the bush for a few minutes before Brian says, “Look, are you okay?  You sound weird, man.” 

Ignoring the uncomfortable fluttering in his stomach, JC takes a deep breath through his nose and says, “I just wanted to ask you something about what you said a long time ago.  Like, almost ten years ago.  It’s uh, it’s weird, man.  We were in this club, and we were talking about…”  It sounds ridiculous, and JC suddenly doubts the legitimacy of all the things he thinks he made happen. 

“Oh, dude.”  Brian is laughing on the other end of the line, and when he stops laughing, he says, “I hope you didn’t take anything I said seriously.  I mean, I was doing some serious shit back then, you know?  I was pretty confused for about five years, there.” 

“Uh…yeah.”  JC swallows hard.  “But some of the things you said kind of made sense.” 

“Yeah?  Like, did I tell you that if I found the perfect harmony I could like, crack into other universes?  Or some bullshit like that?”  Brian sounds infinitely amused, and JC hangs up with the feeling of being ruthlessly, senselessly swindled. 

***

JC has ridden shotgun with Chris hundreds of times over the past ten years, and every time he glances over at JC a certain way, JC knows that Chris is thinking of that first time when he’d had wiped the burn clean off of Lance’s hand.  It’s a reminder he’s not sure he wants, but Chris won’t seem to let him forget it. 

And Chris won’t let him get out of this, either.  It seems like there’s nothing JC can say to deter him that Chris hasn’t already heard.  His mom and Trace, JC protests, not wanting to step on toes, but Justin has long since sent them away, having convinced them of his stability and given them a charming explanation so they would leave him alone for as long as he wanted. 

“I heard something about him canceling some promotion stuff,” JC says suddenly.  “But I thought it was just…”

“Bullshit?”  Chris shakes his head and it’s only then that JC sees the tight, grim line of his mouth.  “No.  He canceled that; he had to.”  Chris is trying not to cry, he realizes with a flutter of panic. 

“Why?”   

“Because he’s…”  Chris pauses for so long that JC can’t bear it; each second emphasizing the severity of Justin’s problem.  “…sick.” 

JC nods with determination.  He wants to help, but it’s been so long, and he’d made such a mess of things last time.  “I don’t know if I can.  Maybe it wasn’t even real,” JC warns when they pull up in the driveway; one last, desperate attempt.   

Chris doesn’t even bother answering. 

***

JC can’t remember a time he visited Justin when Justin didn’t greet him at the door This time it’s Lance who meets them in the foyer.  He’s worn and disheveled, a look JC hasn’t seen on Lance in years, and he takes in Lance’s unkempt hair and wrinkled slacks while Chris throws their bags into the hallway.  Lance tells them what’s been going on, his familiar voice slow and steady as he describes how since Chris left to go get JC, Justin has refused to eat, refused to talk, and only taken one phone call—from his mama, during which he put on quite an act to keep her unworried and as far away as possible. 

Joey is on the couch, cradling a bag of ice against his jaw when they walk into the living room and Lance peers down at him over the back of the couch; lifts the ice and then carefully puts it back in place.  When Joey whimpers, Lance smirks and rolls his eyes.  “I think you’re okay, Joe.  Say hi to Chris and C.” 

JC pauses next to the couch.  “What happened?” 

“He doesn’t know when to quit,” Lance says at the exact time Joey replies, “Justin’s a psycho.” 

“I warned you to get out of the way.” 

“I didn’t think he’d take a swing at me!” 

“With his knee?  It was an accident.”  Lance pats Joey’s knee.  “Justin’s…not feeling very well,” he explains, then turns to Chris.  “Did you tell C about…”

“Most of it.”  Before JC can ask about the rest, Chris throws himself onto the loveseat and quickly blurts, “Justin looks like shit so don’t be freaked out when you see him.” 

“Really bad,” Lance adds pointedly.  “And he won’t be happy to see you.  Nothing personal.  He didn’t want any of us here, but I paid off about thirty people who saw him break down outside a club, so he doesn’t really have a say anymore.”

“What do you mean, he broke down?”  Justin isn’t big on public displays of emotion, and JC can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Justin cry.

“Just like last time,” Chris sighs.  “Except, this time you weren’t there to work your magic.” 

“Shut up,” JC mutters.  “I didn’t, I don’t- there’s no magic.  I told you, I can’t do it anymore.”

“You can’t do it?”  Lance frowns.

“He can,” Chris insists.  “Here, practice on Joe.  Do his face.” 

It’s an awkward reminder of what happened last time he tried to do it, and JC’s stomach churns nervously at the thought of trying again, trying and feeling the loss of something he’d never felt truly at home with in the first place.  “I don’t know. I don’t, look.  I’ll try it on Justin but I don’t, you know, want to…in front of you.”  

“Then how the fuck are you going to do Justin, then?” Chris demands.  “You can’t hold him down all on your own, and believe me, he’s not gonna go along with it.” 

“No way, man.  You can’t expect me to do it while you’re holding him down.”  The whole thing suddenly seems kind of illegal. 

Chris takes a deep breath in an exaggerated attempt to keep his cool. “If we get him the kind of help he needs,” he tells JC, “Everyone will know.  He’ll be a fucking joke.” 

Lance steps between them, his expression pleading.  “And JC, I’ve seen him.  If he doesn’t get help, he’ll turn into a joke anyhow.  People can’t see him like this.” 

“We had to literally wrestle him into the shower just for some basic hygiene!  You think he’s going to let you, of all people…” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” JC asks uneasily.  It just confirms what he’s always suspected. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Chris sighs.  “I guess it depends on whether or not you think we want what’s best for him,” he says quietly. 

JC folds his arms over his stomach and paces around the TV room a few times.  It’s a bad idea, but the alternative is worse, and Chris is right.  This isn’t fun.  They wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t absolutely necessary.  After all, Chris is being kept away from something important, and Lance…well, Lance always has something going on.  Joey’s responsibilities are less urgent, but JC figures that spending time with his family is probably preferable to lying on a couch with a pack of ice on his swollen face. 

"I have to be alone,” JC finally says.  “I don’t want anyone else in the room.”  

“You’ll do it?”  Lance asks, but Chris jumps in with a shake of his head. 

“There’s no way.  I told you, he won’t let you.  You need us in there to make sure he stays put.” 

“To hold him down,” JC says flatly.  He hates how it sounds. 

“Yes.”

“It’s the same as tying him down,” he says, and can’t believe he’s even thinking it.  “Holding him, tying him…strapping him down like they would in a hospital.  It’s all the same thing.” 

Lance steps back.  “You’ve got to be kidding.” 

“It’s not any worse,” JC insists. 

Lance sinks onto the sofa at Joey’s feet, making eye contact with Chris that remains steady until Chris turns his face into the loveseat cushion.  JC can hear the sounds of the dishwasher running and a tv upstairs, the sounds of a normal house.  A safe house.  This house, however, is anything but.  “Who the fuck can decide something like that?” Chris asks weakly. 

“We could…vote.”  Lance doesn’t sound any more eager than Chris to make a decision. 

“I vote no,” JC says suddenly, because he can see it in his mind and it’s not something he could ever do.  He just knows, instinctively, that if they do that to Justin, there will be no healing at all.

***

The room has only one lamp in the corner, a dim glow filtered through a gold beaded shade.  Justin is right where Chris said he would be, lying in the middle of the bed, the covers a rumpled mess at his feet.  He’s completely motionless except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, which proves he’s not completely at rest. 

JC shuts the door behind him and walks around to the side where Justin’s face is turned.  He kneels to get a better look.  “Hi,” he says softly, but Justin doesn’t open his eyes.  Even in the poor lighting JC can see how pale Justin is, and his beard is long past stubble.  JC almost reaches for the soft, ruffled mess, and catches himself just in time. 

“I fucking knew it was you,” Justin says listlessly.  He doesn’t move or open his eyes.  “I was taking a nap, you know.” 

“Sorry.”  JC tucks his fingers into his pockets, just in case. 

“Don’t think I don’t know why you’re here.” 

“Oh.  Is it okay?” 

“Does it matter?” 

JC thinks it matters, but asking permission leaves him wide open for Justin to refuse.  “Can you…what’s wrong, J?” 

“Nothing,” Justin grunts, then sighs deeply, relaxing into the mattress.  “Fuck,” he curses again, softly. JC can see a scattering of bruises on his biceps, one on his forearm, stark against the otherwise pale skin. 

“What happened?” 

Justin shrugs and makes a face to dismiss the marks that make the blood rush to JC’s head; too much anger and concern with nowhere to direct it. 

“They thought I needed a shower; I didn’t.  What, Joey didn’t show you his life-threatening injury?” 

“Uh, yeah.”  According to Chris, JC is supposed to be grateful they’d gotten Justin to finally bathe himself, but standing here faced with these dark smudges of violence, JC isn’t so sure. 

“Did you…do that thing to him already?”  Justin finally blinks up at JC with dark, shadowed eyes.  In the dim light there’s almost no blue left.

“No,” JC answers.  It’s meant to sound reassuring, but emerges as a shaky whisper.  Not the best for inspiring Justin’s confidence, but Justin has never had confidence in this gift to begin with.  “I thought you didn’t believe in it, anyhow.” 

“I don’t.” 

JC nods and settles onto the side of the bed with the most space.  Justin makes his feelings clear by shifting away from JC.  “What do you believe in, then?”  They’ve already had this conversation, years before. 

“Nothing,” Justin says dully, and it sounds like he means it.  The answer is so different than last time.

“Not even yourself?”  JC forces a smile even though it’s really not necessary.  Justin is past the point of caring about niceties. 

“Especially not that,” Justin says angrily, with a hint of the child he used to be.  JC knows Justin enough to know when he means something and when he’s just talking for the hell of it.  Justin means this.  It’s odd to see him like this; odd and fascinating, a completely new side of Justin that JC never knew existed.  A bitter, older side. 

“They said you’re depressed.  That you canceled that Mtv thing with Snoop Dog.” 

“Not depressed.  I just want to be left alone.  I mean, do you have any idea how many people are hanging on me every single fucking day?” 

“Uh, yeah, I think I can imagine.”  Obviously.  It’s not a problem exclusive to Justin, but JC never thought Justin would be the one to fold like this.  He’s handled it so well for so long…and maybe that’s the heart of the problem. 

“I’m tired.”  Justin sags into the soft, deep comforter and shuts his eyes again.  His lethargy is completely different from anything JC had expected to come up against.  Where is the fighting, desperate fear from last time?  With a sudden heaviness in his chest, JC climbs onto the bed next to Justin. 

“Did you take something?” 

“Mm.”  Justin grunts, which could mean anything, but probably means yes.  Just in case, JC puts his palm to Justin’s forehead and feels the cool, dry skin.  Without intent he doesn’t feel a thing, but as soon as he thinks about it there is a strong pull, drawing him back toward Justin. His hand jerks away immediately and he sits back, heart pounding in his throat.  He can do this.  He hadn’t known, hadn’t let himself think about it, but the ability is still in him, somehow.  It’s back, and it scares him in ways he has never understood enough to even attempt telling anyone.

Justin is still waiting.  “Did you do it?  Already?”

“What?  No.  No, no, I’ll tell you, okay?  I’m gonna do it in a second.”  He’d be crazy not to try it now while Justin is soft and mellow.   

“’kay.” 

“And…you should probably keep your eyes closed.”  He isn’t being a drama queen; he really doesn’t like people watching him do it, not even the person he’s healing.  It’s odd, considering the things he lets people watch him do onstage.  Here in this room alone with Justin, JC is more self-conscious than he’s ever been before a crowd. 

Justin’s long eyelashes flutter for a moment as though they might open.  JC holds his breath, waiting, praying, until they still against Justin’s pale cheeks.  “You don’t have to do it.  You want to,” Justin says, and though his expression is hard, it’s not completely unforgiving.  

Is he supposed to admit to something?  “I’m sorry.”  He drags his gaze away from Justin’s face and lifts his hand over Justin’s chest, the first place it seems logical to start.  Just as he’d hoped, his hand thrums with an immediate attraction.  Slowly, he reaches for the curve of Justin’s chest only to find that his hand is being drawn up toward Justin’s scruffy neck.  The feeling blossoms into a warm, urgent glow when JC experiments by holding his hand over Justin’s belly, just a few inches above. 

The need is everywhere.  Before, the injury had always made itself known in one isolated location, but now JC doesn’t know what to do first; it’s as if the sickness is coursing through Justin’s entire body.   

“Holy, uh.  I mean…are you- never mind.”  JC glances nervously at the door, and then settles up onto his knees next to Justin.  Justin isn’t hurt like the others had been; he’s sick, and that’s what makes this different.  That’s what makes JC pause and grope around for a shaky, weak echo of the confidence that normally serves him so well, with one hand braced on Justin’s bony knee and the other traveling a path over Justin’s torso.  He still doesn’t touch; not yet. 

“Doing it now,” he murmurs, and presses his hand against Justin’s shoulder.  It’s as good a place to start as any.  Judging by the tingle that darts up through his wrist, it’s already working, coming back as though it hasn’t been over three years since he’s done it. 

It’s been even longer since he’s done this to Justin.  There are so many differences from last time, and JC notices them all.  This time there’s no struggle, for one thing.  Without the flailing and fighting, JC is able to let himself feel where his fingertips go, feel the smooth cotton of Justin’s t-shirt and the layer of muscle underneath.  The pull is more responsive to bare skin; he finds this out when he accidentally brushes against the bare slice of skin above Justin’s waistband.  With this in mind, he flicks the hem out of the way with his fingers and moves them slowly, steadily across Justin’s belly, leaving trails of energy in their wake. 

The energy shifts, and with that shift everything is suddenly changed.  A channel is open and the view is crystal clear, as though Justin has just come into focus nothing sits between them.  Just as quickly, JC is shot through with a wave of guilt; old guilt, carefully cultivated guilt, threaded through with bright, startling ribbons of longing.  The combination is familiar, but he can’t tell if it’s his guilt or Justin’s.   

“Is that you?” he says softly, or maybe he doesn’t say it at all.  In the end it doesn’t matter because the answer is in Justin’s eyes; it belongs to Justin, all of it.  The despairing emotions aren’t comfortable, but out of curiosity JC tastes them anyhow, drags his fingers through their cloudy, complicated history.  He finds them fascinating because they’re part of this new Justin, the one that’s been intentionally kept hidden.  He wants to stay there, except- no.  JC stops for a second, blinking until he’s out of the place he never should have gone.  No matter how good it feels to finally see Justin again, that’s not why he’s here. 

Reluctantly, he pulls back and breathes deep, tries to concentrate.  He still isn’t used to doing this, so he’s even less prepared for the way Justin bites his bottom lip and lifts his hips, then slides his body in a way that shifts his crotch right into the palm of JC’s hand. 

JC jerks his gaze down to his hand, and then back up to Justin’s face, which gives away nothing.  Even when JC shifts his hand against the hard ridge of Justin’s penis, Justin’s breathing remains steady, his eyes clear and fixed on JC.  Slowly, JC relaxes his hand, which tensed up the second it moved there, and curves his palm to fit around Justin, to give Justin that pleasure, because isn’t that why he’s here?  Justin hasn’t said as much but JC knows, he can tell that for whatever reason--maybe payback, maybe something else entirely-- Justin wants JC to touch him this way. 

“Is this…” he doesn’t remember the last time his throat closed up like this; tight and nervous, refusing to cooperate like he’s some idealistic eighteen year old on a doomed audition.  Instead, he lets his thumb drift lower to graze the swell of Justin’s balls.  “You want this, right?”   It seems like an eternity, waiting, listening to Justin’s jagged breath and his own heartbeat surging in his chest.  Justin doesn’t have a reply, but his eyes go heavy-lidded as he watches JC from beneath his lashes, watching with something less like accusation and more like anticipation.

In an attempt to buy time JC moves his hand up and down the shape of Justin’s erection, pressing a little harder each time, imagining what he might like if it were him being touched through his jeans like this.  But the jeans…JC considers the barrier for a second before choosing action, taking a deep breath and tugging Justin’s pants open.  When he reaches inside, he wraps his hand around Justin and lets his fingers adjust to the feel of bare skin; the incredible heat in his hand. 

His attention is on where he’s touching Justin, but JC can’t look away from his face, from the way he wets his lips with his tongue and swallows hard before murmuring, “Please.”  It’s obvious what he means, and liquid heat spreads low in JC’s belly at the way Justin’s hips shift restlessly on the bed, ruining the covers and creating a gentle rub of friction between his dick and JC’s fist.  Tension lies in every line of his face, and JC won’t deny him; not when he’s supposed to be helping.  It’s not hard to figure out what might feel good; a few strokes from top to bottom and Justin is quivering, completely silent in the suffering that JC knows isn’t suffering at all.  

JC pauses for a second, readjusts his grip and drags his fingertips across the smooth, soft skin in the hollow of Justin’s hipbone.  He doesn’t know why, but he’s compelled to comb gently through the soft tangle of hair, up and across his trembling belly.  While he pets with careful fingers, Justin settles under his touch and it’s only when Justin’s legs fall open, straining against the confines of his jeans that JC begins anew, this time with purpose.  He uses the task to cover his own shock, because the way Justin is starting to move, the way he’s opening for JC…what he wants seems unmistakable. 

It’s like jerking off, the burn in his forearm, the feel of a cock in his hand, but the slip and slide of his hand does nothing to soothe his own discomfort.  This is about Justin, but JC is aware of what a mess he is, his face burning hot, erection already leaking in his pants, and shaking so much harder than can be accounted for by simple excitement. 

His wrist begins to ache, but JC doesn’t stop.  He keeps going, the rub of thumb under and over the tip, again and again, watching Justin lose himself in it—losing himself in it.  It’s incredible to see him writhe against the blankets until they’re hopelessly tangled, and after a certain point JC no longer has to do all the work because Justin is pushing himself into JC’s fist, heels digging into the mattress, and hips flexing up at a speed that makes JC’s cheeks, his neck, his whole face stinging hot..  He knows how it would look if someone walked in; the demanding urgency of Justin’s thrusts, the occasional glimpse of dick head, red and swollen where it pushes through the tunnel of JC’s fist, but he doesn’t care and doesn’t think Justin does, either. 

Justin is a wreck; lovely and damp and flushed, but he’s still so distant, and JC isn’t sure what more he could want when he shouldn’t be wanting any of this to begin with.  That knowledge doesn’t stop Justin from wanting, though, and it doesn’t stop JC either.  With a broken sound that comes from nowhere, JC falls on Justin and kisses the sweetly lush, wet mouth and revels in Justin’s nearly inaudible exclamations of pleasure.  For a moment, Justin is the one taking JC’s weight, supporting him, the only solid purchase JC can find with his knees sinking into the bed and his mouth sealed to Justin’s.   For a moment, he almost forgets that he’s was the one helping Justin here, and not the other way around.   

***

Slowly, JC raises his head and backs away from the softness of Justin’s lips.  Justin’s breath is right there, hot and erratic against JC’s mouth.  All signs of Justin’s hostility have disappeared, and JC can no longer feel the strong pull of sickness every place he touches.  It’s diminished, but not gone. 

“Close your eyes.”   A whisper is all that’s needed; they’re so close.  He doesn’t think he could manage more.  When Justin obeys, JC takes Justin’s face in his hands and feels the pull, feels the power in his hands to make sure Justin is never in this position again.  As it happens, he studies Justin’s face.  He looks terrible but beneath the scruffy facial hair, his skin is young and smooth.  With his eyes shut the dark circles are barely visible, and as a result of his recent orgasm, his cheeks are flushed with color.  He focuses on Justin because he can’t think about himself right now.  He can’t think about the way his hands are shaking no matter how hard he presses them to Justin’s face, or about the way his erection is crammed into the front of his jeans, so inappropriate and so uncomfortable that he could cry. 

He rolls off of Justin when he’s finished, completely exhausted.  A quick pass of his hands over Justin’s body reveals that there’s nothing left to do, so he carefully pulls Justin’s underwear up over his slim hips and snaps the elastic at his waist, lightly but enough to make Justin open his eyes. 

“I think it’s done,” JC tells him.  His lips feel hot and chapped when he speaks.  Justin’s jeans are a lot harder to fasten than they were to unfasten, and that’s just not fair because JC thinks he’s earned the chance to run the fuck away, but first he’s got to make sure that Justin is comfortable.

“So, sorry for everything,” he says to the shadow of himself that the lamp casts on the wall.  There’s an enormous wet spot on his jeans where Justin…  He forces himself not to look down, not to touch it, as he edges toward the door.  “I think it worked,” he adds, and lets himself out. 

***

Chris knocks three times on the bathroom door before Lance joins him, and at that point JC knows he’s got to say something.  “Just a minute,” he snaps.  “Can’t I take a shower without getting interrogated?”  He figures that’ll make them properly ashamed, but the knocking continues and finally he puts his hand on the doorknob and says, “Fine.  You can come in, but bring me my bag first.” 

He’s already in the shower when they return.  His hand keeps returning to his half-hard cock, idly thinking about finishing it off, but not with Chris and Lance in the room.  “Did you see Justin?” he asks before they can start asking questions. 

“Yes.”  Lance sounds strange, so JC peeks out of the shower.  Chris is standing near the sink, unmoving, and his fingers are pressed to his closed eyelids.  Lance hugs Chris, sudden and hard, and says something low into his ear that makes Chris laugh a weak, watery laugh.  Then, just like that, things feel something like normal again.  JC retreats back into the shower and soaps his body thoughtfully while he waits for them to say something. 

“He’s not even mad,” Chris finally says.  “I thought he’d fucking hate us forever, but he doesn’t.  And he came downstairs.  He danced,” he whoops loudly.  “Like this!”  JC peeks out again just in time to see Chris shake his ass at Lance, then on Lance.  “JC, man.  You did it!  I can’t believe it.  Now is the perfect time to tell you that I had no idea it would really work.  Was it hard?” 

JC tips his face up into the stream of hot water.   “Not really,” he says, and lets his lying mouth fill with water.  “I’m kind of tired,” he adds.  And it’s true; he feels weak enough to curl up right there in the shower and sleep.  “Really tired,” he amends. 

“We’ll go.  Chris just wanted to tell you the good news.  And to see if you were all right.” 

“Which he is,” Chris says impatiently. 

“So he says from inside a mysterious middle of the afternoon shower.”  Lance has always been far too suspicious for his own good, but he still takes Chris and leaves JC in peace.   

***

He sleeps for a few hours and when he goes downstairs everyone is talking and laughing in front of the tv.  They’re taking up most of the good places to sit, but Justin scoots over on the love seat and calls out, “Sit here, C!” 

JC can’t think of a good reason why he can’t sit there—or why he doesn’t want to—so he pretends everything is fine and sits on the small space that Justin has made for him.  Justin, who had looked so small and still in the upstairs bedroom, is back to taking up all the space around him.  He doesn’t seem to mind that his thigh keeps bumping JC’s or that everyone is staring at them both, maybe looking for traces of what exactly had happened in that room upstairs.  Eventually, Chris stops looking and just asks outright.  

“You back with us now, J, or do we need to sic JC on you a few more times.” 

Justin flips him the finger with an awkward laugh, and then after a few seconds says, “Yeah, I’m…I don’t know how to explain it, exactly.  It felt like everybody was all…like I totally fucked you over.”

“Me?” Chris blurts.

Justin shrugs and shifts closer to JC, fingers flexing nervously until they hook onto the cuff of JC’s sweater.  “Not just you, Chris; all of y’all.  And then I didn’t know how to fix it and I didn’t know what to do next and it was just easier not to do anything.” 

“It was more than that,” JC tells him.  When he turns his head, Justin’s face is right there, thoughtful and soft as he looks back at JC.  “You were sick.  I felt it,” JC insists.  He licks his lips and then regrets it, when Justin’s eyes drop to his mouth and remain there just long enough for JC to register what looks like dawning fascination; a lingering, unfocused interest.  He’s thinking about before, JC realizes, and doesn’t know how to make him stop. 

“And what’s all this shit?” Chris demands, but there’s no bite to it.  “The loser who hasn’t left his house in a month is worried about me, who happens to be a-okay and looking fine?”

“I don’t know.  It was like I couldn’t think.” 

“You can think now,” JC assures him.  He doesn’t hold Justin responsible for what happened in that bedroom.  Justin wasn’t even himself; he’s just admitted that he wasn’t thinking clearly.  It shouldn’t sting, but JC swallows against his suddenly tight throat and edges away from the warmth that he didn’t ask for in the first place. 

JC recognizes what he sees in Justin’s face, recognizes it from his own troubled history of trying to fiigure out what to do with Justin, how to be with him and without him and not be hurt.

“I can’t believe you let him do it,” Lance says, breaking the silence. 

Justin shrugs, but wears a pink tint high on his cheekbones.  “It wasn’t so bad.”  That could mean a lot of things, and JC doesn’t like how everything is suddenly so complex and uneasy, unlike the rest of his life.  What he wants is to open a beer and play video games and shake this seriousness that he’s been wearing like a cloak ever since Chris showed up at his door. 

The others eventually go to bed, but Justin doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, and neither does JC. 

“Hey,” Justin says, when they’re gone.  He nudges JC playfully with his shoulder.  “You’re quiet.” 

Justin has pulled an afghan over their laps and JC picks at it; insinuates his finger into a gap between the tightly looped yarn.  I don’t know what to do about you,” he admits.

“It’s not your job to do anything.” 

“Then why do I feel like it is?  I can’t stop…”  There’s more, but he trails off because that sums it up neatly.  He can’t stop; not where Justin is concerned.  Something inside JC has always sought after Justin, needing to know what was in his head and knowing, always, that although what he found might not match his own thoughts and feelings it would always, always complement them.

“JC,” Justin says sadly.  “It’s not all on you.  I’m the one who brought you here.” 

“You didn’t want-“  

“-I wanted it this time,” Justin interrupts.  “I was just a kid, before.” 

JC snorts.  “You were never just a kid.” 

“JC,” Justin says fondly, right before he turns to lean his head on JC’s shoulder, one arm snug around his waist.  If he’s got something else to say, he doesn’t let on.  They sit like that for several minutes, until they’re both warm and cozy with shared body heat.  It feels like an extension of what had happened earlier; another form of healing, another kind of intimacy that they can share.  “You, uh.  Found out something about me today, I guess,” Justin says suddenly.  “Is that okay?  I know it’s not fair to ask, but look; I really need to know.” 

JC thinks on it for a second, then realizes that Justin has been waiting to ask and is probably worried, maybe even scared about the answer.  “No, it’s okay,” he says quickly.  “It’s, whatever, right?  You obviously needed, um, that, and I’m, you know…happy to-“ he catches himself before he can make some kind of open offer, when that’s exactly what he wants to make.  Because it had been his place to touch Justin; maybe not his responsibility, but it had been something he’d been working toward for years, even if he hadn’t known it.  “I liked it,” he says softly. 

“Me too,” Justin says, on a breathless exhale of relief, and then no one says anything, moves, barely breathes, for a very long time. 

***

“When you kissed me…”  Justin finally lifts his head from JC’s shoulder and makes eye contact for the first time since they made their confessions.  “I don’t really remember much, but I remember that.  You kiss…”  He trails off uncertainly.

“Yeah?”  JC’s stomach tightens with anticipation. 

“Like this.”  Justin’s mouth is just as soft and wet as before, and he’s being too generous because JC knows he hadn’t kissed with this much care, upstairs in Justin’s bed.  He knows that he’d been rough and blind with bewildered lust, and that he’d attempted nothing like the gentle slide of Justin’s tongue against his own.  He tries to make up for it, now, by trailing his fingers down the sensitive skin behind Justin’s ear until he gets a shudder and a gasp. 

“You’re lying,” JC says, and presses his smile to the bearded curve of Justin’s jaw.  “I didn’t.  But I will,” he promises, and then sets about making it true.