They Don't Write Romance Like They Used To
[N'sync] [Chris/Justin; Chris/JC; JC/Lance] [PG-13]
So it's cutting it pretty close to the wire, but I am finally posting the last of my help_haiti ficlets! This one's for llamabitchyo, who was crazy amazing during the bidding and requested bookshop!au. I wish I could've worked that in a little bit more, but the boys were having none of it, ack. I hope this is still worth the money, though! About 2300 words.
They Don't Write Romance Like They Used To
Chris has known Lance almost twelve years now, so he feels like he has sufficient authority on the matter to conclude that Lance has the luck of the devil.
Hell, maybe Lance is the devil, or a close, attractive relative, at least; Chris has never been able to tell which is closer to the truth.
He scowls as Lance leans further over the table, practically waving his notepad under JC's nose as he says something that makes JC laugh.
Fucking typical.
"And three, two, one," Joey says, watching the scene unfurl over Chris' shoulder as he wipes the bar down. He chuckles when JC leans in. "That's my boy."
Justin barges in, then, eyes alight with excitement. "Guys! You'll never guess what happened! I went to this talk about physical therapy today, got to talking with a couple of people, and--oh, hey, is Lance hooking up with that guy already? He's only been here, what, four times?"
"Six," Chris corrects, glowering at his inventory sheet. "In two weeks."
"Sweet," Justin says, as he settles into one of the barstools, and yanks off his gloves and beanie. His curls are rumpled and wind-blown, and his face is flushed from the cold. He's beaming anyway. "Man, it's fucking freezing out. Anyway, so I was talking to a couple of people at school, and I'm considering switching majors again. Psych's been fun, but I bet I'd be awesome at sports medicine."
"What," Chris deadpans, without even looking up. "Justin Timberlake wants to try something new? Someone alert the press, because we haven't heard that one before. Jesus, Justin, do you stick to anything for more than a month?"
"Ignore him, he's just bitter," Joey says, as he reaches over to punch Justin in the shoulder. "I say go for it, man. College is the time to experiment."
"Yeah," Justin says, after a second. "Yeah, thanks, Joe. I'm just gonna go dump my stuff in the back and get the rest of the shelves sorted out."
"While you're at it," Chris yells over, still watching Lance hover over JC's table. "We got a box of new arrivals in the back. Pick a couple of hard-covers to put on display."
"Yeah, yeah," Justin calls back. "Already on it."
"Chris," Joey says, once Justin's disappeared. There's a clear note of disapproval in his voice.
Chris rolls his eyes. "What."
Joey sighs, but before he can finish the thought, Lance saunters back over to them, cat-ate-the-canary smirk fixed firmly in place.
"Got his number?" Joey asks, instead.
"Working on it," Lance singsongs, checking Joey's hip with his own as he slips behind the counter.
Chris raises an eyebrow. "Quit gloating, asshole. Starting tomorrow, I'm putting Justin on that section."
"Aww, Chris," Lance says, mock-sweetly, as he walks past Chris. "I'd be jealous too if I was single at your age."
Chris glowers at him. "You keep smack-talking the man writing your paycheck, Bass," he snaps, at Lance's back. "See how far that--hey, JC. Found a book today?"
"Hey Chris," JC says, as he slides JD Salinger over the counter. "First edition, man. Your bookstore is my new favorite place to be." He drops a couple of quarters in the tip jar as Chris rings up the cashier, and flashes Chris another warm smile as he grabs the book and tucks it under his arm.
"See you tomorrow?" Chris says, trying (unsuccessfully) not to sound too hopeful.
"I don't know, cat," JC says, with a shrug that looks almost apologetic. "Tomorrow's kind of a busy day at work. I'll be here for Open Mic night, though. That's Saturday, right?"
"Yeah," Chris says, pretty sure he's grinning.
"Awesome," JC says. "See you Saturday, then." If possible, his smile grows even warmer, then. "Bye."
"Bye," Lance says, from behind him, and Chris' smile drops.
JC looks like he's flushing as he leaves the shop.
Joey starts to say, "Chris--" and Chris glares as he turns around.
"Not a word," he warns, grabbing Joey's wet dishrag, brandishing it like a weapon, and he's surprised by his own restraint when he doesn't wipe the smug satisfaction right off Lance's face.
It takes forever for Saturday to roll around, and Chris spends the rest of the week distractedly slotting action-adventure titles in the fantasy section, until Justin sits him down and says, "Stop giving me extra work to do, jackass," and refuses to let him anywhere near the books till JC shows up again, as promised, on Open Mic night.
It's become a sort of monthly tradition at Kirkpatrick's, ever since Justin suggested it seven weeks after they'd first opened. "You need more foot traffic," he'd said, as he plugged away at his laptop. "And this is the best way to get to your target crowd."
He'd been right.
(He'd also been the first person to go up, that first night, when no one else had, and he'd been surprisingly decent, holding a beat-up, borrowed guitar and crooning to an original he'd composed a couple of days ago "just in case". (His brief stint as musician had barely lasted two weeks.)
He'd come offstage to wild applause, and a couple of whistles, headed straight for Chris' table. "So?" he'd demanded. "What did you think?"
"Not bad," Chris'd said, and watched as Justin's face lighted up in a smile. "For a jock."
The smile had been disappeared pretty quickly after that.)
And now Kirkpatrick's has a steadily growing number of regulars, which is great, and a steadily growing profit margin, which is even better.
The store is pretty crowded that night, people mingling at the bar (which, now that Chris thinks about it, the liquor license had been Justin's idea, too) and by the makeshift stage, and Chris doesn't even see JC till he's already onstage, heading for the mic.
"Hey," JC says, and Chris can't help but laugh as he winces at the feedback from the mic. Jesus, he's fucking adorable. "Sorry, let's try that again. Hey, guys, my name's JC, and it's my first open mic night."
Someone at the back cat-calls, and JC grins. "Thanks, cat. So I'm here to do a reading of my latest piece, 100 Ways. And, uh, I hope you guys like it."
Chris understands pretty much nothing JC reads that night, only knows that most of it sounds a whole lot like dirty sex poems, but he whoops and cheers right alongside the rest of the crowd after JC's done, anyway. Even gives him a standing ovation.
"I'm gonna go look for JC," Chris says, then, but there's no response, and the seat beside him is empty when he turns around. He raises an eyebrow as he glances over the bar at Joey, who's mixing something that looks like Sex on the Beach, and smells even better. "Where'd Justin go?" he asks, over the introduction to the next act.
"Said something about a test in the morning and having to cut out early," Joey says, shrugging. He sounds as convinced as Chris feels.
"Huh," Chris says. "Maybe I should check up on him."
"Chris," Joey says. "Look, maybe some space is--"
But Chris is already dialing, and Justin picks up on the first ring. "Chris?" he says, sounding confused. "I told Joey--"
"I know what you told Joey," Chris snaps, as he wanders towards the stage, keeping an eye out for JC. "But you're not technically off work yet, so I don't know why you thought--holy shit."
He finds JC all right, standing right beside the stage, making out with Lance.
Justin shows up, later. Open Mic night's been over for an hour, the bookstore cleared of Joey and customers both, and JC and Lance are long gone. "Hey," he says. "Joey called. He told me what happened."
Chris sighs, drops his hand from where he'd been running it over their impressive Dean Koontz collection. "If you're here to laugh, Timberlake, you can just--"
Justin rolls his eyes and settles on the floor beside him, shoulder and thigh warm against Chris' own despite the cold. "I brought beer."
Chris looks over at him. "Fine," he says, eventually. "You can stay."
"Gee, thanks," Justin says, drily. Then, more hesitantly, he adds, "Listen, Chris, I'm really sorry about JC, but I--"
"You gonna keep talking," Chris interrupts, already glaring. "Or are you gonna shut up and get me drunk?"
Justin glares back, and the can of Heineken he tosses at Chris only narrowly misses hitting him between the eyes.
Chris wakes up the next morning in his own bed, his head throbbing hard enough that it feels like his brain is about to leak out of his ears. "Oh god," he groans, and presses his face into his hands, trying to squelch the nausea climbing his throat.
Joey's already opening up the bar when he stumbles downstairs, a glass of what Chris recognizes as his infamous hangover cure already set on the table.
Chris downs it in one breath without preempt, then groans as he sprawls out over the counter. "You're a fucking saint, Fatone."
"You should thank Justin," Joey says, offhandedly. "He left me a note."
"Uh," Chris says, and stiffens awkwardly. Oh god, Justin. "What - did he tell you anything about last night?"
"No," Joey says, and Chris sighs in relief. Mostly because he has no idea what Justin would have said, seeing as he doesn't remember anything from the night before.
"Not like he had to," Joey adds, and Chris blinks.
"No, seriously," he says, setting his chin on his hands. "Be more cryptic, Joe."
"Chris," Joey says, patiently. "The kid's majored in pretty much every subject available to mankind, changed his hairstyle every other week since I've met him, and chooses a new human rights cause to champion almost every month. The only things he hasn't quit? Are this bookstore, and you."
Chris is hard-pressed to do any more than stare.
"Doesn't take a genius to work things out," Joey says, and goes back to setting up.
That's when Chris remembers.
"Oh," he says, and scrubs a hand over his mouth. "Oh, fuck me."
Justin comes in late that morning, looking uncertain. Chris spots him coming down the street from where he's rearranging the books in the display window, and has to work on not tripping over his own feet as Justin comes into the store.
"Hey," he says, slowly. "I guess you're feeling better."
"Yeah," Chris says. "Joey's miracle cure works wonders."
The silence is long, and awkward.
Then Justin takes a deep, deep breath. "Look, Chris, about last night--"
"Right," Chris interrupts, loudly enough that Joey glances over from where he's brewing the coffee. "Last night. I've been meaning to ask you about that. What the hell happened, man?"
"You don't remember," Justin says, flatly. It's not a question.
"No," Chris lies. "Not at all. Must've been all that fucking alcohol. But, I mean, you shouldn't take anything I say when I'm drunk seriously, you know? I don't shut up, man."
"Yeah," Justin says, after a moment, with an unreadable expression. "Sure."
Lance comes in for his shift that afternoon, grinning wide.
"I guess congratulations are in order," Joey says, as Lance goes to put on his apron.
"What?" Chris says, distractedly, tearing his gaze away from where he'd been watching Justin wiping down the bookshelves.
"JC just dropped him off at the door," Joey says. "Chris, come on, be the bigger man here. Or is congratulations too much for you to handle right now?"
"What?" Chris repeats, just as Lance saunters back into the main area.
"I wouldn't say that," Lance says, slyly, before Joey can reply. "According to J, I'm not the only one who should be congratulated th--"
"Lance, no, it wasn't--" Justin says, quickly, but when Chris looks over, he isn't looking back, and something twists in Chris' gut. "Uh. I - I'm just gonna--"
And then he disappears into the storeroom.
Lance stares after him. "Kirkpatrick," he says, then, voice low and dangerous. "You better fucking be going after him."
"Fuck," Chris says.
And then he does.
He finds Justin exactly where he knew he would be--in the biography section, curled up with Michael Jordan.
"So," Chris says, shoving his hands in his pockets as Justin tenses. "About - about this morning, I, uh--that was a pretty shitty thing to do."
"Chris Kirkpatrick, douchebag extraordinaire," Justin says, without looking up, fingering the spine of the book. "That's news to pretty much no one who knows you."
Chris is about to join Justin on the floor when he remembers the warmth of those hands on his skin, the bookshelf digging into his back, Pickle and Patterson knocked into messy disarray on the floor beside them as he hooked a leg over Justin's shoulder, and thinks better of it.
Justin does look up at him, then, heart on his fucking sleeve and his face open with so much hope it almost hurts to look at, and Chris remembers that look, too, remembers Justin laughing, mouth red and bruised and tempting as all sin, just before he buried his face in the curve of Chris' shoulder, whispering, "About fucking time."
"Let me make it up to you," Chris hears himself say, then, because he can't crush that look a second time, Jesus, he's not that much of an asshole. "Dinner, a movie, maybe even a raise."
Justin's eyes are too bright, lips parted in a mixture of confusion and wonder, and then he's grinning, swallowing Chris in his arms as he murmurs, "You're lucky it's this easy to change my mind."
So it's cutting it pretty close to the wire, but I am finally posting the last of my help_haiti ficlets! This one's for llamabitchyo, who was crazy amazing during the bidding and requested bookshop!au. I wish I could've worked that in a little bit more, but the boys were having none of it, ack. I hope this is still worth the money, though! About 2300 words.
They Don't Write Romance Like They Used To
Chris has known Lance almost twelve years now, so he feels like he has sufficient authority on the matter to conclude that Lance has the luck of the devil.
Hell, maybe Lance is the devil, or a close, attractive relative, at least; Chris has never been able to tell which is closer to the truth.
He scowls as Lance leans further over the table, practically waving his notepad under JC's nose as he says something that makes JC laugh.
Fucking typical.
"And three, two, one," Joey says, watching the scene unfurl over Chris' shoulder as he wipes the bar down. He chuckles when JC leans in. "That's my boy."
Justin barges in, then, eyes alight with excitement. "Guys! You'll never guess what happened! I went to this talk about physical therapy today, got to talking with a couple of people, and--oh, hey, is Lance hooking up with that guy already? He's only been here, what, four times?"
"Six," Chris corrects, glowering at his inventory sheet. "In two weeks."
"Sweet," Justin says, as he settles into one of the barstools, and yanks off his gloves and beanie. His curls are rumpled and wind-blown, and his face is flushed from the cold. He's beaming anyway. "Man, it's fucking freezing out. Anyway, so I was talking to a couple of people at school, and I'm considering switching majors again. Psych's been fun, but I bet I'd be awesome at sports medicine."
"What," Chris deadpans, without even looking up. "Justin Timberlake wants to try something new? Someone alert the press, because we haven't heard that one before. Jesus, Justin, do you stick to anything for more than a month?"
"Ignore him, he's just bitter," Joey says, as he reaches over to punch Justin in the shoulder. "I say go for it, man. College is the time to experiment."
"Yeah," Justin says, after a second. "Yeah, thanks, Joe. I'm just gonna go dump my stuff in the back and get the rest of the shelves sorted out."
"While you're at it," Chris yells over, still watching Lance hover over JC's table. "We got a box of new arrivals in the back. Pick a couple of hard-covers to put on display."
"Yeah, yeah," Justin calls back. "Already on it."
"Chris," Joey says, once Justin's disappeared. There's a clear note of disapproval in his voice.
Chris rolls his eyes. "What."
Joey sighs, but before he can finish the thought, Lance saunters back over to them, cat-ate-the-canary smirk fixed firmly in place.
"Got his number?" Joey asks, instead.
"Working on it," Lance singsongs, checking Joey's hip with his own as he slips behind the counter.
Chris raises an eyebrow. "Quit gloating, asshole. Starting tomorrow, I'm putting Justin on that section."
"Aww, Chris," Lance says, mock-sweetly, as he walks past Chris. "I'd be jealous too if I was single at your age."
Chris glowers at him. "You keep smack-talking the man writing your paycheck, Bass," he snaps, at Lance's back. "See how far that--hey, JC. Found a book today?"
"Hey Chris," JC says, as he slides JD Salinger over the counter. "First edition, man. Your bookstore is my new favorite place to be." He drops a couple of quarters in the tip jar as Chris rings up the cashier, and flashes Chris another warm smile as he grabs the book and tucks it under his arm.
"See you tomorrow?" Chris says, trying (unsuccessfully) not to sound too hopeful.
"I don't know, cat," JC says, with a shrug that looks almost apologetic. "Tomorrow's kind of a busy day at work. I'll be here for Open Mic night, though. That's Saturday, right?"
"Yeah," Chris says, pretty sure he's grinning.
"Awesome," JC says. "See you Saturday, then." If possible, his smile grows even warmer, then. "Bye."
"Bye," Lance says, from behind him, and Chris' smile drops.
JC looks like he's flushing as he leaves the shop.
Joey starts to say, "Chris--" and Chris glares as he turns around.
"Not a word," he warns, grabbing Joey's wet dishrag, brandishing it like a weapon, and he's surprised by his own restraint when he doesn't wipe the smug satisfaction right off Lance's face.
It takes forever for Saturday to roll around, and Chris spends the rest of the week distractedly slotting action-adventure titles in the fantasy section, until Justin sits him down and says, "Stop giving me extra work to do, jackass," and refuses to let him anywhere near the books till JC shows up again, as promised, on Open Mic night.
It's become a sort of monthly tradition at Kirkpatrick's, ever since Justin suggested it seven weeks after they'd first opened. "You need more foot traffic," he'd said, as he plugged away at his laptop. "And this is the best way to get to your target crowd."
He'd been right.
(He'd also been the first person to go up, that first night, when no one else had, and he'd been surprisingly decent, holding a beat-up, borrowed guitar and crooning to an original he'd composed a couple of days ago "just in case". (His brief stint as musician had barely lasted two weeks.)
He'd come offstage to wild applause, and a couple of whistles, headed straight for Chris' table. "So?" he'd demanded. "What did you think?"
"Not bad," Chris'd said, and watched as Justin's face lighted up in a smile. "For a jock."
The smile had been disappeared pretty quickly after that.)
And now Kirkpatrick's has a steadily growing number of regulars, which is great, and a steadily growing profit margin, which is even better.
The store is pretty crowded that night, people mingling at the bar (which, now that Chris thinks about it, the liquor license had been Justin's idea, too) and by the makeshift stage, and Chris doesn't even see JC till he's already onstage, heading for the mic.
"Hey," JC says, and Chris can't help but laugh as he winces at the feedback from the mic. Jesus, he's fucking adorable. "Sorry, let's try that again. Hey, guys, my name's JC, and it's my first open mic night."
Someone at the back cat-calls, and JC grins. "Thanks, cat. So I'm here to do a reading of my latest piece, 100 Ways. And, uh, I hope you guys like it."
Chris understands pretty much nothing JC reads that night, only knows that most of it sounds a whole lot like dirty sex poems, but he whoops and cheers right alongside the rest of the crowd after JC's done, anyway. Even gives him a standing ovation.
"I'm gonna go look for JC," Chris says, then, but there's no response, and the seat beside him is empty when he turns around. He raises an eyebrow as he glances over the bar at Joey, who's mixing something that looks like Sex on the Beach, and smells even better. "Where'd Justin go?" he asks, over the introduction to the next act.
"Said something about a test in the morning and having to cut out early," Joey says, shrugging. He sounds as convinced as Chris feels.
"Huh," Chris says. "Maybe I should check up on him."
"Chris," Joey says. "Look, maybe some space is--"
But Chris is already dialing, and Justin picks up on the first ring. "Chris?" he says, sounding confused. "I told Joey--"
"I know what you told Joey," Chris snaps, as he wanders towards the stage, keeping an eye out for JC. "But you're not technically off work yet, so I don't know why you thought--holy shit."
He finds JC all right, standing right beside the stage, making out with Lance.
Justin shows up, later. Open Mic night's been over for an hour, the bookstore cleared of Joey and customers both, and JC and Lance are long gone. "Hey," he says. "Joey called. He told me what happened."
Chris sighs, drops his hand from where he'd been running it over their impressive Dean Koontz collection. "If you're here to laugh, Timberlake, you can just--"
Justin rolls his eyes and settles on the floor beside him, shoulder and thigh warm against Chris' own despite the cold. "I brought beer."
Chris looks over at him. "Fine," he says, eventually. "You can stay."
"Gee, thanks," Justin says, drily. Then, more hesitantly, he adds, "Listen, Chris, I'm really sorry about JC, but I--"
"You gonna keep talking," Chris interrupts, already glaring. "Or are you gonna shut up and get me drunk?"
Justin glares back, and the can of Heineken he tosses at Chris only narrowly misses hitting him between the eyes.
Chris wakes up the next morning in his own bed, his head throbbing hard enough that it feels like his brain is about to leak out of his ears. "Oh god," he groans, and presses his face into his hands, trying to squelch the nausea climbing his throat.
Joey's already opening up the bar when he stumbles downstairs, a glass of what Chris recognizes as his infamous hangover cure already set on the table.
Chris downs it in one breath without preempt, then groans as he sprawls out over the counter. "You're a fucking saint, Fatone."
"You should thank Justin," Joey says, offhandedly. "He left me a note."
"Uh," Chris says, and stiffens awkwardly. Oh god, Justin. "What - did he tell you anything about last night?"
"No," Joey says, and Chris sighs in relief. Mostly because he has no idea what Justin would have said, seeing as he doesn't remember anything from the night before.
"Not like he had to," Joey adds, and Chris blinks.
"No, seriously," he says, setting his chin on his hands. "Be more cryptic, Joe."
"Chris," Joey says, patiently. "The kid's majored in pretty much every subject available to mankind, changed his hairstyle every other week since I've met him, and chooses a new human rights cause to champion almost every month. The only things he hasn't quit? Are this bookstore, and you."
Chris is hard-pressed to do any more than stare.
"Doesn't take a genius to work things out," Joey says, and goes back to setting up.
That's when Chris remembers.
"Oh," he says, and scrubs a hand over his mouth. "Oh, fuck me."
Justin comes in late that morning, looking uncertain. Chris spots him coming down the street from where he's rearranging the books in the display window, and has to work on not tripping over his own feet as Justin comes into the store.
"Hey," he says, slowly. "I guess you're feeling better."
"Yeah," Chris says. "Joey's miracle cure works wonders."
The silence is long, and awkward.
Then Justin takes a deep, deep breath. "Look, Chris, about last night--"
"Right," Chris interrupts, loudly enough that Joey glances over from where he's brewing the coffee. "Last night. I've been meaning to ask you about that. What the hell happened, man?"
"You don't remember," Justin says, flatly. It's not a question.
"No," Chris lies. "Not at all. Must've been all that fucking alcohol. But, I mean, you shouldn't take anything I say when I'm drunk seriously, you know? I don't shut up, man."
"Yeah," Justin says, after a moment, with an unreadable expression. "Sure."
Lance comes in for his shift that afternoon, grinning wide.
"I guess congratulations are in order," Joey says, as Lance goes to put on his apron.
"What?" Chris says, distractedly, tearing his gaze away from where he'd been watching Justin wiping down the bookshelves.
"JC just dropped him off at the door," Joey says. "Chris, come on, be the bigger man here. Or is congratulations too much for you to handle right now?"
"What?" Chris repeats, just as Lance saunters back into the main area.
"I wouldn't say that," Lance says, slyly, before Joey can reply. "According to J, I'm not the only one who should be congratulated th--"
"Lance, no, it wasn't--" Justin says, quickly, but when Chris looks over, he isn't looking back, and something twists in Chris' gut. "Uh. I - I'm just gonna--"
And then he disappears into the storeroom.
Lance stares after him. "Kirkpatrick," he says, then, voice low and dangerous. "You better fucking be going after him."
"Fuck," Chris says.
And then he does.
He finds Justin exactly where he knew he would be--in the biography section, curled up with Michael Jordan.
"So," Chris says, shoving his hands in his pockets as Justin tenses. "About - about this morning, I, uh--that was a pretty shitty thing to do."
"Chris Kirkpatrick, douchebag extraordinaire," Justin says, without looking up, fingering the spine of the book. "That's news to pretty much no one who knows you."
Chris is about to join Justin on the floor when he remembers the warmth of those hands on his skin, the bookshelf digging into his back, Pickle and Patterson knocked into messy disarray on the floor beside them as he hooked a leg over Justin's shoulder, and thinks better of it.
Justin does look up at him, then, heart on his fucking sleeve and his face open with so much hope it almost hurts to look at, and Chris remembers that look, too, remembers Justin laughing, mouth red and bruised and tempting as all sin, just before he buried his face in the curve of Chris' shoulder, whispering, "About fucking time."
"Let me make it up to you," Chris hears himself say, then, because he can't crush that look a second time, Jesus, he's not that much of an asshole. "Dinner, a movie, maybe even a raise."
Justin's eyes are too bright, lips parted in a mixture of confusion and wonder, and then he's grinning, swallowing Chris in his arms as he murmurs, "You're lucky it's this easy to change my mind."