even if i don't want him, i'm not going to let anyone else have him
Cleaning up gmail, I found this beginning of a JC/Justin story I started in November 2004, probably for chopchica. Oh, little just-discovered-the-big-bright-world me.
He didn't tell anyone, and anyone who mattered would probably be able to tell anyway, but he was intensely proud of this one. It was the kind of pride that swelled quietly inside of him, the kind of pride that made him feel like he actually knew what he was doing. He acted like he always knew - you had to, if you were him - but he could feel it now, the certainty of accomplishment, and he wondered who would be able to see it in his face.
He wasn't quite ready though, because the last track was giving him all sorts of problems. It wasn't the lyrics, because they were the truth, and he couldn't get them any more perfect. It wasn't the music, because he could feel that melody in his bones and those harmonies bubbling up out of his skin, and it was perfect too. The only thing he could think of was the production, the physical mechanics of laying the song down, and he really didn't want that to be the problem. This kind of song, he wanted to produce by himself. He wanted perfection there too, and he was the only one he could trust with that.
This song, this last track, there was no way he was going to leave it off the record. In his mind, it was already slotted for the eighth cut, and it wouldn't be a single, but he didn't need any more autobiography on the charts anyway. This one wasn't bitter and it wasn't sad - it was just honest, and if there was anything he was tired of in his life, it was insincerity, which had hounded him like a dog for years. And this time, he thought, he'd say something in the notes. Not a tell-off or an explanation, but something. She deserved that much.
But it just wasn't coming together in the studio, no matter how Justin played with the levels, or added or stripped vocals. "I don't understand," he complained to JC one night, calling him late from the studio while he fiddled with equalizer bars and listened to his own voice loop over and over and over.
"Well, what's not working?"
"If I knew, I could fix it." Justin inched down the treble distortion, frowned, inched it back up. He sighed into the phone. "You wanna come by tomorrow around 1? I'll take a break, we'll catch some lunch."
He hadn't wanted to break-up over long distance nights again - he remembered Chris commenting dryly on the fortuity of the label picking up both his and Brit's cell bills - so he had stayed in LA for the whole thing this time, the arguments and the aftermath and Cam's forced smiles. He had known how to do it this time, and the circumstances weren't even comparable, they had been so much better, but it had still been just as fucking hard - maybe harder, even, because there wasn't a clear reason for it, no fingers to point, just the dissolution of emotion, slow and inexorable and incredibly, incredibly wearying.
So he had found himself hanging out more with JC, since he was in town and could actually commit to cups of coffee on a semi-regular basis. He hadn't really spent all that much time with JC since the end of the last tour, and while they had both changed, it was still familiar company, it was still him and JC, fighting over the remote, and ordering iced tea with lemon squeezed in but no slice, and it wasn't like they could just fall back into their old patterns, but there were new patterns that Justin liked just fine, like all this talking. They had talked before, of course they had. But it was different now. And it was good. Really good.
1:30 the next afternoon, and they decided to stay in Burbank for lunch, this little Ethiopian place just around the corner from the studio, because he could buy into expensive restaurants, but Justin still got a kick out of eating with his fingers, ripping at the bread to scoop the sauces into his mouth.
"So," JC said around a mouthful of lamb, "you get anywhere on that track today?" Justin considered pretending like he couldn't understand JC with his mouth full, but he wasn't feeling all that playful, so he ended up shrugging instead, feeling the grimace twist his face all on its own.
"Not really. Shit." He wiped his fingers on his napkin fiercely, wishing he could blot up the blockage on his brain as easily. He looked at JC, who was watching him with a mixture of amusement and sympathy - empathy, actually, he supposed, because he wasn't going to need to articulate his frustration, not to JC. "It's just, I want it done."
"I know," JC said, and he heistated for a moment before lightly tapping the back of Justin's hand with a finger. Justin raised an eyebrow - JC being careful meant he thought he was about to tread lightly. That much, at least, hadn't changed.
It had been kind of interesting actually, over the last five years, to watch JC think he was being careful. It had been right around Justin's 18th birthday that Justin had started noticing that, and the restraint hadn't grown any more obvious over time, but it hadn't lessened either. Justin didn't feel bad about it. He supposed he realized that if he ever offered, JC would take him up on just about anything. He had even considered it once or twice, thinking rather clinically about what it would feel like to have JC's hands curve around the small of his back, JC's lips pressing against his neck. He had maybe even jerked off to those thoughts once or twice, letting the grip of his hand feel like a vise of warm skin that wasn't his. But there had been Britney, and then there hadn't been Britney, and then there had been Cameron, and he had never done a thing, never said a word or let a hand linger in any way that might lift that slightly guarded look from JC's eyes.
Everyone was so fucking careful, he thought savagely, forcing his hand still under the gentle touch of JC's finger. If he was going to break, he would have done it two Grammys ago. This wouldn't be the thing that ended him, the goddamned weight of his unfinished business, the completion of the work that would bring him something better than platinum statuettes, something tougher than JC's kid-glove attraction. Something he had fought for just as hard as it had fought to come out.
"I've got to get back," he said abruptly, feeling the force of his thoughts in his words, barely regretting it. JC would understand. He reached for the check.
JC reached out, lightning-quick, and suddenly and softly gripped Justin's wrist, squeezing it insistently. Justin blinked. JC squeezed again. "Let me hear it, J. Let me help." Justin shook his head and tried to pull his arm away, but JC's fingers were like iron. "Show it to me," JC repeated. "C'mon, what do you say?"
"I say no." JC was supposed to get it, that only Justin could do this right. JC shouldn't have to be told. "Let me go, man."
"I want to try to help."
"I don't need your help!"
"I didn't say you needed it, I said I wanted to give it, man." JC tugged on Justin's wrist, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It couldn't hurt."
It couldn't help, Justin wanted to say. You'd have to be deaf not to love JC's voice, and you'd have to be an amateur not to appreciate his skills at the mixer, but there was no way JC would be able to produce the track that Justin couldn't even coax out of himself. JC's creativity was coming from somewhere strange these days, somewhere major-chorded and syncopated and wild, but somewhere that was still as guarded as his smile. As his smile usually was. And that couldn't translate over to where Justin needed to be. Not all the new patterns were ones that Justin could follow.
"Play it for me." The smile was still hiding beneath the surface of JC's face, and for a moment, Justin saw steel in the glint of his eyes. It threw him. "Let me work it. You'll like it."
"I won't," Justin protested, finally yanking his wrist away and rubbing at it. Christ. He was going to have bruises.
JC's hand remained outstretched over the table, and he turned it to the side in an unmistakeable gesture. "I bet you will."
"You bet? What do you bet?" Justin asked, a touch snidely. Like this was something to fucking bet about, like he was in the mood for this, no matter how intently JC kept on looking at him like that.
"Anything you want," JC answered, very seriously, and Justin repressed a shiver. "Anything I want. I spin your track and you like it, you do anything I want. You don't like it, I'll do whatever you want."
"You just want your name on my record." But JC's eyes stayed focused and bright, and his hand stayed extended, and despite everything that pride in his heart was screaming at him, he found himself reaching out to grasp JC's hand. "You get a week."
"Two weeks."
'Ten days," Justin countered, and JC nodded. They shook hands over the remnants of their lunch, and JC's grip was rough and firm. His eyes never flickered or softened or shuttered, and Justin's hand was warm by the time it was released.
He didn't tell anyone, and anyone who mattered would probably be able to tell anyway, but he was intensely proud of this one. It was the kind of pride that swelled quietly inside of him, the kind of pride that made him feel like he actually knew what he was doing. He acted like he always knew - you had to, if you were him - but he could feel it now, the certainty of accomplishment, and he wondered who would be able to see it in his face.
He wasn't quite ready though, because the last track was giving him all sorts of problems. It wasn't the lyrics, because they were the truth, and he couldn't get them any more perfect. It wasn't the music, because he could feel that melody in his bones and those harmonies bubbling up out of his skin, and it was perfect too. The only thing he could think of was the production, the physical mechanics of laying the song down, and he really didn't want that to be the problem. This kind of song, he wanted to produce by himself. He wanted perfection there too, and he was the only one he could trust with that.
This song, this last track, there was no way he was going to leave it off the record. In his mind, it was already slotted for the eighth cut, and it wouldn't be a single, but he didn't need any more autobiography on the charts anyway. This one wasn't bitter and it wasn't sad - it was just honest, and if there was anything he was tired of in his life, it was insincerity, which had hounded him like a dog for years. And this time, he thought, he'd say something in the notes. Not a tell-off or an explanation, but something. She deserved that much.
But it just wasn't coming together in the studio, no matter how Justin played with the levels, or added or stripped vocals. "I don't understand," he complained to JC one night, calling him late from the studio while he fiddled with equalizer bars and listened to his own voice loop over and over and over.
"Well, what's not working?"
"If I knew, I could fix it." Justin inched down the treble distortion, frowned, inched it back up. He sighed into the phone. "You wanna come by tomorrow around 1? I'll take a break, we'll catch some lunch."
He hadn't wanted to break-up over long distance nights again - he remembered Chris commenting dryly on the fortuity of the label picking up both his and Brit's cell bills - so he had stayed in LA for the whole thing this time, the arguments and the aftermath and Cam's forced smiles. He had known how to do it this time, and the circumstances weren't even comparable, they had been so much better, but it had still been just as fucking hard - maybe harder, even, because there wasn't a clear reason for it, no fingers to point, just the dissolution of emotion, slow and inexorable and incredibly, incredibly wearying.
So he had found himself hanging out more with JC, since he was in town and could actually commit to cups of coffee on a semi-regular basis. He hadn't really spent all that much time with JC since the end of the last tour, and while they had both changed, it was still familiar company, it was still him and JC, fighting over the remote, and ordering iced tea with lemon squeezed in but no slice, and it wasn't like they could just fall back into their old patterns, but there were new patterns that Justin liked just fine, like all this talking. They had talked before, of course they had. But it was different now. And it was good. Really good.
1:30 the next afternoon, and they decided to stay in Burbank for lunch, this little Ethiopian place just around the corner from the studio, because he could buy into expensive restaurants, but Justin still got a kick out of eating with his fingers, ripping at the bread to scoop the sauces into his mouth.
"So," JC said around a mouthful of lamb, "you get anywhere on that track today?" Justin considered pretending like he couldn't understand JC with his mouth full, but he wasn't feeling all that playful, so he ended up shrugging instead, feeling the grimace twist his face all on its own.
"Not really. Shit." He wiped his fingers on his napkin fiercely, wishing he could blot up the blockage on his brain as easily. He looked at JC, who was watching him with a mixture of amusement and sympathy - empathy, actually, he supposed, because he wasn't going to need to articulate his frustration, not to JC. "It's just, I want it done."
"I know," JC said, and he heistated for a moment before lightly tapping the back of Justin's hand with a finger. Justin raised an eyebrow - JC being careful meant he thought he was about to tread lightly. That much, at least, hadn't changed.
It had been kind of interesting actually, over the last five years, to watch JC think he was being careful. It had been right around Justin's 18th birthday that Justin had started noticing that, and the restraint hadn't grown any more obvious over time, but it hadn't lessened either. Justin didn't feel bad about it. He supposed he realized that if he ever offered, JC would take him up on just about anything. He had even considered it once or twice, thinking rather clinically about what it would feel like to have JC's hands curve around the small of his back, JC's lips pressing against his neck. He had maybe even jerked off to those thoughts once or twice, letting the grip of his hand feel like a vise of warm skin that wasn't his. But there had been Britney, and then there hadn't been Britney, and then there had been Cameron, and he had never done a thing, never said a word or let a hand linger in any way that might lift that slightly guarded look from JC's eyes.
Everyone was so fucking careful, he thought savagely, forcing his hand still under the gentle touch of JC's finger. If he was going to break, he would have done it two Grammys ago. This wouldn't be the thing that ended him, the goddamned weight of his unfinished business, the completion of the work that would bring him something better than platinum statuettes, something tougher than JC's kid-glove attraction. Something he had fought for just as hard as it had fought to come out.
"I've got to get back," he said abruptly, feeling the force of his thoughts in his words, barely regretting it. JC would understand. He reached for the check.
JC reached out, lightning-quick, and suddenly and softly gripped Justin's wrist, squeezing it insistently. Justin blinked. JC squeezed again. "Let me hear it, J. Let me help." Justin shook his head and tried to pull his arm away, but JC's fingers were like iron. "Show it to me," JC repeated. "C'mon, what do you say?"
"I say no." JC was supposed to get it, that only Justin could do this right. JC shouldn't have to be told. "Let me go, man."
"I want to try to help."
"I don't need your help!"
"I didn't say you needed it, I said I wanted to give it, man." JC tugged on Justin's wrist, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It couldn't hurt."
It couldn't help, Justin wanted to say. You'd have to be deaf not to love JC's voice, and you'd have to be an amateur not to appreciate his skills at the mixer, but there was no way JC would be able to produce the track that Justin couldn't even coax out of himself. JC's creativity was coming from somewhere strange these days, somewhere major-chorded and syncopated and wild, but somewhere that was still as guarded as his smile. As his smile usually was. And that couldn't translate over to where Justin needed to be. Not all the new patterns were ones that Justin could follow.
"Play it for me." The smile was still hiding beneath the surface of JC's face, and for a moment, Justin saw steel in the glint of his eyes. It threw him. "Let me work it. You'll like it."
"I won't," Justin protested, finally yanking his wrist away and rubbing at it. Christ. He was going to have bruises.
JC's hand remained outstretched over the table, and he turned it to the side in an unmistakeable gesture. "I bet you will."
"You bet? What do you bet?" Justin asked, a touch snidely. Like this was something to fucking bet about, like he was in the mood for this, no matter how intently JC kept on looking at him like that.
"Anything you want," JC answered, very seriously, and Justin repressed a shiver. "Anything I want. I spin your track and you like it, you do anything I want. You don't like it, I'll do whatever you want."
"You just want your name on my record." But JC's eyes stayed focused and bright, and his hand stayed extended, and despite everything that pride in his heart was screaming at him, he found himself reaching out to grasp JC's hand. "You get a week."
"Two weeks."
'Ten days," Justin countered, and JC nodded. They shook hands over the remnants of their lunch, and JC's grip was rough and firm. His eyes never flickered or softened or shuttered, and Justin's hand was warm by the time it was released.