Right Back Where I Found You
By Mickey M.
(c)June 2003

You're stupid drunk the first time you hear JC singing, by himself, to himself, only a softly-strummed guitar accompanying him.

Stupid drunk, trying to drown the insecurities looming up large and hot inside you. So much to do, to try, so many things that need to be done but your hands are tied right now. Jason, stupid fuck, leaving you all hanging. And Mrs. Bass, resisting Lynn's phone calls, and all you want to do is bury your head in the sand for a year or three. Or maybe cut it off altogether, for being such an idiot as to think you could pull this all together.

You're trying to be quiet, because if you make noise JC will stop, and you've never heard anything quite like him, singing soft and clear, sometimes lapsing into humming, harmonizing with the guitar. It makes something tighten in your chest, an ache you can't put words to, a hot but not unpleasant pain that flares bright white, then dulls down, slow, throbbing pulses when your heart beats, sending shots of color and calm all through you.

JC makes you uncomfortable, usually. You can't read him, like you can read Justin or Joey, and while you realize you're far from an open book yourself, you want - need - to know what he's thinking. What sorts of thoughts go on in his head, how he processes things. How he feels about things. What it means when his face smoothes out, when his eyes darken.

You think JC's kind of a dork sometimes, that he's overly optimistic, that his head is too full of non-essential things. In spite of the fact that Jason's left you all floundering, JC doesn't brood about it like you do. He sings his parts, dances in rehearsals, and just goes on the faith that things will work out. You don't understand how he can do it so calmly, so placidly. You feel like you're going to explode if something doesn't happen, and soon, hence the going out and getting stupid drunk.

You don't understand him at all and you don't like that.

But this, this soft music, almost like a lullaby...you understand that. And maybe you understand JC a little better, listening to him sing and play, with the shadows rippling against one another, prickles of light from the moon and stars and passing cars making things shift and meld together. It makes things so much clearer, makes some of the endless chatter in your head go quiet, and the pain of anxiety ease, and the insecurities fade.

You lean back against the wall and breathe slowly, listen to the words and feel them wrap around you. You're cradled in soft, dark, cool colors, strings of melody and emotion twining together inside you.

You're not sure how long you stand there, listening, breathing in the calm, but you drank a lot tonight and you have to take a leak, so you push off from the wall and immediately bark your shin against the coffee table that isn't where it's supposed to be. Or where you remember it being. You yelp, loudly, and feel the room pitch around you at the same time the music stops. The floor isn't where you remember leaving it, either, and you wonder as you hit it, if it'll stay put, if you stay put.

"What, Chris--what?"

Pain flares behind your eyes when light floods the room and you whimper once before it's gone, leaving your retinas burning, but blessed darkness all around you. Warm hands grasp you under your arms and haul you upright.

"Jesus, ow, JC-"

"Then stop being deadweight, man." For as skinny as he is, he's strong, and you're propped against the wall rubbing at your shin in just a moment, the memory of the floor tipping under you fading. He sniffs in your direction. "You're drunk."

You laugh and nod, slur the word out and add a rolling 'r' to it. "Druuuuunk. Good party, dude. Shoulda been there."

He's probably wrinkling his nose at you, but you don't care. You heard him sing, heard the emotions laid out raw and bare, and you understand him better now. You're still stupid drunk and now your shin throbs, but you feel mellow and relaxed in ways you haven't for months. Or at least in the week since Jason left.

"You should go to bed, Chris."

"I heard you singing." The wall is tipping so you lean over to compensate, and snortlaugh when JC hauls you back upright. Maybe it's you tipping and not the wall. "Pretty. You sing pretty. Pretty, like you."

Possibly you're even more stupid drunk than you originally thought, because, whoa, some thoughts shouldn't be let out into the light of day, and that would definitely be one of them. Except it's not light nor day, and hey, JC's laughing so maybe you're babbling out loud now, instead of just in your head.

He laughs again though, a soft, breathless sound, and tugs on your arm. "You really need to sleep, man. Gonna be so hung over in the morning."

"Maybe."

"You will." JC tugs again and you slide toward him this time, or maybe not slide, because he *oofs* when you hit against him, and then you're staggering down the hall toward your bedroom, trying not to hit the hallway walls too hard.

It's even darker in your room, because the blinds are down and closed, and you can't see JC at all, just feel his hands on your shoulders, steering you toward the bed. You giggle in unison with the squeaking of the bedsprings when you kind of collapse backward, and his giggle mingles with yours; a symphony of squeaks that make you feel relaxed and happy. You catch his hand in yours after he's pulled your shoes off. "Play for me again sometime?"

Not that he was playing for you the first time, but. Even so.

"Sure thing," he says quietly, his voice closer than it's been since you disturbed him. "After you sleep. Go to sleep, Chris."

You're not sure, but you think you feel him brush a kiss over your forehead just before the darkness yawns open and swallows you down.

You get used to waiting for those quiet moments, when everyone else is busy or asleep, and he can go to his room and bring out his guitar and pick quietly. It takes you a while to realize you look forward this; it takes longer to realize that he's aware of you lurking, creeping around, listening. He never says anything, not directly, but you clue in after a while when JC, who values his privacy and alone-time above all of you, leaves his door open in the early evenings, like he knows you'll be waiting near the hallway to listen.

You're amazed by how well he plays guitar, since you've associated him with the piano and keyboard since day one. But he makes you feel things, see things, to the point of aching, sometimes. Just from slivers of music winding through you.

You like to think he's playing for you, even when you know he's playing for himself.

The first time you're invited - when you learn maybe he is playing for you, too - is a really bad day. Lou's heard back from yet another record label who doesn't think there's room for more than one boyband at a time, who doesn't want to risk it. He hasn't heard anything back from his contacts in Germany yet, and you're tired of always waiting, always wondering. You've spent a dozen hours in a stifling, stuffy warehouse, singing and dancing your asses off, and you're hot and tired and cranky, your ears full of the roar of speakers with too much feedback and your head with your own insecurities.

JC sits on his bed, door wide-open this time, guitar in his lap as he strums softly. He sings, too low to be understood, but you don't need the words. Your chest tightens again, warm with that feeling you've started associating with the four guys who round you out, your brothers. It's hope. It's love.

You stand in the doorway listening, eyes closed as the feelings wash over you, cool and comforting, until you realize JC's stopped. Awareness creeps in, hot layered over the cool, and you open your eyes, the prickle of embarrassment rippling over your skin. JC's watching you, eyes dark and soft, body relaxed. You shift and turn to leave, uncomfortable with JC again, uncomfortable with yourself. A smile spreads across his face then, big and wide, welcoming, and he pats the bed beside him as he scoots over. "C'mon in, dude."

You shake your head. "I'm all-sticky. Sweaty. Waiting my turn in the shower."

"Eh." JC wrinkles his nose and shrugs. "I haven't showered yet either, and it's not like I've never smelled you before, man. C'mon. Sit and sing with me."

"You didn't get enough singing already today?" There are days when you're honestly tired of it, of the relentless, unending grind of sing-sing-sing-and-dance. If you're not practicing, you're performing somewhere, and yeah. But you sit down on the bed, gingerly, like it's going to shift under you, and JC's eyes crinkle up.

"This is different, man. This is relaxing." He plucks at the guitar and you grin. It's Simon and Garfunkel again. "See? Relaxing music."

You snort. "More like put-Chris-to-sleep music, dude. Know any Bosstones?" JC shakes his head, his grin smaller, but no less electric. You lie back on the bed and let the music wash over you. It's soothing. Peaceful. You close your eyes, still humming along to 'Scarborough Fair'.

JC sings then and you let yourself get swept up into it, harmonizing softly, the noises of Joey, Lance and Justin hollering for the showers and clothes, and when-is-dinner-going-to-be-ready and oh-shit-I-forgot-my-chem-homework fading into background noise. You sing or hum through all the Simon and Garfunkel you both remember, and move on to California Dreaming, and eventually stop singing and just listen to JC play random tunes. You think you should get up and shower, and maybe eat something and go to bed, but you're too comfortable where you are, and when JC eventually turns the light out and snuggles up against you still humming, you're glad you didn't move after all.

You have a permanent invitation after that, just you and JC, and a guitar.

It's a stress-relief thing, at first. An hour here or there, sometimes singing together, sometimes just listening to the other play, but always taking a break from the grind of practice, practice, practice.

You like the peaceful feeling you get when JC sings. It's a moment of calm in the maelstrom that makes up your life - that's doubled or trebled since beginning this group you've put together. It helps you center, focus, so you can be Justin's big brother/best friend, and Lance's confidant, and Joey's buddy. You're not really sure what you are for JC. You know you're friends, but sometimes it feels like more, like you have that one bit of him, of something no one else has. You're bonded together because of the group, but beyond that you've created a pocket within that's just the two of you-and you feel it acutely when you have to go for more than a few days without at least an hour or two.

Time with JC always seems to renew you; you use it to relax, recharge, to remember why you wanted to create music to begin with.

You're stupid drunk and pissed as hell and you can't slam your fists into the walls because Lou paid the deposits and it's not really your house, nothing is really yours right now. Nothing but this anger and confusion, and-

"Chris?"

Only JC would come in to face the storm down. The others probably voted for him to come; even Justin stays clear of you when you're this angry. You snarl in his direction and kick at your bed, trusting your boots to keep your toes safe.

"Chris-we're all angry. This isn't-getting drunk's not gonna help anything." He steps further into the room and shuts the door behind him. You swing around to see him leaning against it, face pinched tight, a frown hovering over his eyes. "We need to-"

"Talk?" You snap the word out and wish you had more beer. Or tequila. No, that's a feel-good drink, and you want to be mad. How dare they say Lance isn't good enough? How dare they?

"They're looking out for themselves, man. That's how the business works."

"JC-" You step closer and wonder if you scare him off or piss him off, if he'll leave. You don't want the voice of reason hanging around right now. Don't want cheerful or optimistic, or happy-go-lucky. You're angry and you want to wallow in it until tomorrow, when you all sit down to talk. "Go away, dude. Just-leave me be."

"Come and hang with me," he flips his hair back out of his eyes and you wince, because they're red and sad-looking; of course JC's upset, he likes Lance a lot - you all like Lance. But JC's spent a lot of time talking with him, working with him. Making him feel welcome and at ease. "We'll sing. C'mon, Chris, sing with me."

"No." You take a step back and lose your balance, the alcohol in your blood making everything tip and twist when you're not expecting it. JC catches you, steadies you, his hands strong and steady under your arms. "No," you say again, twisting against his grip. You want a fight, want to hit something. There's too much anger inside you, the unfairness of it making you want to cry out. "JC, no. He's-they. We can't...don't let them." He's leaning back against the door again, your weight pressing him there, holding him, and you're so close you can see the threads of grey that wind around the blue in his eyes; you can see the dark flare of pupil against soft, brilliant color.

"No one's going anywhere. Lance isn't leaving. We won't let him, and we won't let them take us without him. Relax, man." He touches you gently but firmly, hands soothing as he strokes them up and down your arms. You think maybe he's scared, too, but glad he doesn't sound like it.

You're stupid drunk, and so scared, and he's standing there staring at you like he understands you, knows how you feel, and you kiss him. Lean in and kiss him, hard, your mouth a little too rough against his, tasting lips dry and a little chapped, and then he opens for you and his mouth is hotwetslick inside, and you hold on tight to him because everything's spinning around you now and you're pretty sure it's not just because you're drunk.

He whispers your name, a quick rush of breath you swallow down as you drink him in, and the room spins dizzily again, so hot, so heady, and he's pressed hard against you, pushing you against the wall, one elbow knocking you in the side. You laugh and it sounds hysterical, ringing in your ears, and then he's kissing you sweet and slow, licking at the corners of your mouth, licking at each slick surface, tongue sliding wet and slow over yours, tasting you. Heat gathers inside you, coils tight then unfurls, tendrils of warmth snaking outward.

You whimper when JC pulls you against him, when long, slender fingers touch you, bringing you fully to aching hardness. He never stops kissing you, never lets your mouth go when you touch him back, all sounds swallowed between the two of you and kept deep inside. You feel each one as it slides through you, growls and whimpers and shrieks battling inside you. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders and back when he enters you, body hot and sweaty against yours, the silky slipslide of sweat making a delicious friction you never want to stop.

He bites your name into your throat when he comes, and swallows his own off your tongue when you shudder beneath him, thick liquid spreading slowly into a sticky patch between you.

He curls against you, afterward, his breath warm on your skin where it touches.

You realize the guitar isn't the only thing JC can coax music out of, and shiver when he kisses you once more before slipping from your room quietly, leaving you to sleep off the rest of your anger.

Later, after, everything's different, but nothing changes.

You're sure that's not possible, but you're living it. You and JC still sing together, still play together, trading the guitar between you now. In Europe, and then later, when you explode onto the scene back in the States, you need that balance, that pocket. You need the sameness, even if it fits differently.

You don't talk about that day, ever. Not a single word.

But sometimes, you'll knock on his door, or he'll crawl into your bunk, no words necessary, just a look. A shared something that extends beyond words. It doesn't happen often and it's not always sex, but it is always comforting. Sometimes you fuck, sometimes you kiss, sometimes you just curl around each other and breathe in slowly, quietly, taking comfort in the feel of someone else's skin against yours.

Dani leaves you on a chilly early winter morning. JC shows up that evening with a bottle of whiskey and his guitar and sings softly while you cry silent tears, misery leaking out of you in saltdrops. He tucks you into bed when you're too wasted and tired to move yourself, then curls around you and breathes into your skin. You slide your fingers through his hair, so much longer now than it's ever been, and let the sound and touch and scent of him relax you. There's a JC-shaped spot inside you that seems to grow a little bigger every year, and you clutch it and him protectively, wanting them close to you. Within them...within him...you find strength and peace.

You sleep with him again when he and Bobbie break up.

He's better at hiding his feelings than you are; you let misery and anger shimmer along you like a protective layer of skin, but he hides his deep inside where no one can see or touch.

Except you. Because it seems as though JC has a Chris-shaped spot inside him; the two of you fit together so well, so easily, sensing without words. You offer comfort in the form of yourself, though the others hug him and pet him and coax smiles from him. It's you he huddles against that first night, eyes red and swollen, but dry. You hold him against your chest, propped in the vee of your legs, fingers strumming gently over his chest and belly, so flat it's nearly concave. He hums softly and you smile into his hair at the thought of JC being so filled with music you can play him like an instrument and hear it.

He tips his head back against your shoulder and you smell the vodka on his breath, a rich, bitter scent.

"I think I'll miss the idea of her," he says softly. "but I won't really miss her." He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "Do you still miss Dani?"

It's summer time, but the windows in his bedroom are open, the curtains waving gently in the muggy breeze. His hands are cold against yours. Or maybe it's yours that are cold. You shrug awkwardly. "Sometimes...I miss her. I don't-not like I did at first. And I still talk to her, see her, for Fu stuff, so."

"True." He sighs quietly. "I guess. It was easy, y'know? To be with her. I didn't have to think about anything, or, I dunno. We didn't see each other a lot, so it never really got stale. But it didn't go anywhere, either." He hesitates. "I don't think I really loved her, Chris. Not like-not like I should've."

You trail your fingers up over his chest, down across his shoulder. "Love...it's a weird, thing, dude. I don't know...what to tell you. But, and I know I'm not like, the master of relationships, but you know-you know you got me. You can talk to me, any time. About anything."

He makes a quiet noise and presses back against you, almost burrowing into you. A gust of wind poofs the curtains out, sending another wave of muggy air into the bedroom. You're sweaty hot, skin sticking to JC's where the two of you are touching, and it's much too hot to be as close as you are, but. You don't care. Your JC spot grows a little bigger right then, right there. You can feel it.

He makes a different set of sounds, still lyrical, still musical, when you press him down into the mattress and kiss each inch of him. The soft, breathless sound he makes when he comes, fingers tight in your hair, makes something swell within you, bursting open in a rush of warmth and love.

Later, when it's dark in the room and everything around you is quiet, when JC is snoring softly beside you, you stroke sweaty curls back from his forehead and press a gentle kiss there. He smiles in his sleep and you fall asleep with it's echo on your lips.

LA in the spring is a lot cooler than Orlando or Miami in the spring. Far, far less humid, too. You can feel the difference as soon as the plane lands, even halfway to wasted, like you prefer to fly nowadays.

You gather your luggage in relative peace. The nice thing about flying somewhere really late - or early, as the case may be - is there's less chance of having a bunch of people scream your name and ask for autographs, pictures, et cetera. Not that you mind those, most of the time. But sometimes, like now, you have someplace you want to be, need to be, and delays aren't welcome.

He sounded so weird on the phone. Not sad, exactly. JC would never be sad about making music. Overwhelmed, maybe, would be closer to it. Overwhelmed, uncertain, cautious. Not sure if he's doing the right thing. You've wondered more than once during this vacation-that-will-not-end if you've done the right thing, winging here and there, doing this or that but never really doing anything. You and JC were the only two who didn't have concrete plans for the hiatus, and yet, now he's doing a solo album.

Fritz is quiet during the drive over to JC's house, though you catch him watching you in the mirror from time to time, when you look away from the side window and out the front. Normally you wouldn't ask him to drive you; you'd have transportation set up in advance. But this. This trip is so out of the blue, off the cuff, you didn't have a chance to think everything through.

JC needs you.

Logically, you know there are any number of people who could, might, probably are at his house, or at least close enough they can console him. You didn't need to fly across the country on a couple hours' notice. Or did you?

You kind of hate this hiatus a lot. Not because you didn't want the break, because yeah, you're enjoying your time off. But so much space in between you and the other four. In between you and one in particular. The JC-shaped space inside you feels jagged, raw. Empty. You feel empty, actually. You miss the time you spent together - all of it. Touching, singing, fucking, talking, goofing off. You miss him. And you think that maybe you're ready, finally, to say out loud what you've hidden deep, deep inside for a very long time.

It's dark in his house, but hello, it's three in the morning, too. You fumble with the key, then with the alarm code, but it's easy enough to remember; you all use your mothers' birthdates. You leave your bag on the floor beside the door - it'll be easy enough to come and get it in the morning - and head up the stairs. You've been here often enough you know your way even in the dark, just streaks of pale light where the moon shines through clouds, haze and pollution.

He's not in his bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or any of the other three bedrooms. You know he's not downstairs; it was black and silent when you let yourself in. You pause in the hallway, trying to figure out what to do, where to go. You could call his cell; actually pivot to go back downstairs to get yours, when you hear the soft sound of a guitar, just a tiny trickle of chords.

Outside. He's out on the deck.

The deck that juts off the back of the house, on the second story. You swallow and shrug and walk back into JC's bedroom, wondering why you didn't notice the gauzy curtains fluttering in the breeze the first time.

You don't recognize the song at first, so you lean in the doorway to listen, trying to remember the last time you got to do this. Flashing back on the first time you did do this. So much has changed, has happened, since then, yet here you are. Standing in a doorway, listening to JC play Simon and Garfunkel on an acoustic guitar. He sings softly as he plays, and like before, like always, you can hear the feeling he puts into it, emotion swelling through the notes.

You feel that emotion thrumming through you, hot and potent. Alive.

You clear you throat softly and try them out loud, words you're scared of, but feel so strongly. "You need me. And I need you."

He pauses, one note ringing out then fading before the song begins again. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

"No one ever said I was the brightest bulb in the box."

He laughs then, low and a little breathless. "Come sing with me, Chris."

You leave the safety of the doorway and settle yourself on the big cushion, just behind him, shifting your legs to either side of his. It could be an awkward position, except when JC leans back into you, he fits there perfectly, like he was made just for you.