4. Just the Motion, Joey/JC
20,000 Leagues Under
by Lizzie Mills
Seven times, he's said it, meant it a little more every time. Tonight will probably be eight, the way things are going. Nothing gets easier with time. The choreography isn't harder, this time, so much as weirder, and there's so much spinning that JC thinks he'll probably throw up every night for the first two weeks. His arms ache a little and thatís what convinces him it's real, they're a day from starting again.
He draws himself up in front of the mirror, arms high above his head, studies himself critically. Twenty-fucking-seven. JC bends backwards, touches his fingers to the mat and does a handstand, because yesterday he was 16 and this was his job. Though, he admits as he tumbles down, he likes it better without the ears.
Joey knocks on the door and slides in as JC's sitting in a pool of himself, lax muscles and shaggy hair, knees under his chin. "You coming?"
JC shrugs. There's acres and acres of space around them, wooden floors and mirrors that make the world shine for miles, and he's not quite ready to leave. He knows better than anyone, maybe, what's out there, what this tour will take and what he's able to give.
Joey drops behind him, lies flat on his back. JC watches him breathe in the mirrors. "Think we're ready?" he asks.
JC thinks about buses and months of hotels and sweating and dancing every night, of reading reviews off of faxes over crappy buffet breakfasts, and he's actually, physically dizzy. Seven years ago they signed the first record deal, and it's only the memory of how it was before that keeps him on the road.
Still. Spinning. He feels beaten, feels like they're trying so hard it's time to give up. Maybe they can't outgrow their old fame now. Last night they ran a reel of people mocking them, some little fat comedian wearing a dress and singing their new song, trying to wiggle like him. When it hurts, it's real, and he's not alone, maybe, in thinking they're insane.
"I don't think I can do this." Eight.
"Don't worry," Joey says, heavy hand on his shoulder. "We just gotta get back in the swing. Get moving, momentum. You know."
JC can't answer, can't speak. He rolls over, puts his hand on Joey's chest, feels him take a deep breath just before he kisses him.
+++
The beautiful thing about the buses is the soundproofing. Chris and Justin spend hours laughing, watching little girls lean out their car windows, mouths open, no sounds.
"Stop!" Chris screeches. "You're dragging my dog behind you!"
"Chris! You left your skirt at my place!" Justin yells.
"Hey, what's - that's about Lance!"
"Other side!" Justin yelps, and the two of them disappear to the back to look out the side without letters.
JC looks over at the car near them, two tiny girls half out the windows with construction paper signs fluttering against a 70 mile an hour. They must be honking, probably playing their CD as loud as it goes, screaming lyrics or something. He pressed his ear to the glass but only hears the bus rumbling, the comforting hum of machine in motion. He thinks it's like being at the bottom of the ocean in a storm, lightning, waves crashing above you and all around it's calm. Drowning, but you don't want to surface because it's just so quiet.
He hasn't written a song since April, hasn't put pen to paper once. Lyric laryngitis. There were tour details to work out, ridiculous things like costumes and fireworks taking up whole hours of his days, and he always promised Justin he wouldn't write high, so the months in Orlando were virtually wasted. Now, he's spent all day with notebook in hand and his head is swimming, he's motion sick and they aren't flying anywhere this tour. He thinks his eyeballs might fall out by the time they reach California.
Justin's laughing when he walks out and falls in front of the TV. "I swear, that sign said 'We heart Big Gay Lance,'" he giggles. "And there's a TV crew behind us. I'll bet he's having a fucking stroke."
JC sits up a little. "Do you think you could do the show blind?"
"You mean like, blindfolded?" Justin asks, rubbing his bandana.
"No, like, you can't see."
Justin shrugs and flips through fourteen channels, stops on something with seals. "Yeah. 'Cept for the landing, you know. Like, once I got started, probably."
"Momentum," JC says, and Justin nods and settles on VH1.
Twice, in Orlando, he went to Joey's, but Brianna was there, and JC will never, ever have kids. He's nursed Justin for years and now, baby's all grown and he's tired.
He covers his eyes and the reading headache lingers. With his head between two pillows, though, he can barely tell they're moving, and he pulls the shade on the window before he falls asleep.
He wakes up when the pillows disappear. "Get up, man," Chris says, pulling on his arm. "Time to go, time to sing and dance, baby."
JC groans and finds his feet, trudges out into a smile and wave in the parking lot, ducks into the elevator and finds out they're going straight to the dressing rooms. Lance is leaning against the wall like it's his last best friend, won't meet JC's eyes and JC thinks, suddenly, Lance has hated him for three or four weeks now. He thought it would wear out, once they were here, on the road again. He shakes off sleep and starts to say something about it. "You okay with me?" he asks.
Lance laughs and doesn't say anything. JC rolls his head around even though he's still a little dizzy from the bus, stands in front of the doors. "Seriously."
Lance looks up with the spark in his eyes that reminds JC that hey, Lance is maybe more popular than you now, baby, he can bring his own rules sometimes. "'Just feeling seasick, just feeling weak,'" he sneers. "Just the motion, right?"
JC shakes his head. "Is that, like, country? You're quoting country at me?"
Lance laughs again, harsh, and shoves by him into the cement hallway. They're underground, it's quiet and echoey and JC can hear Lance's grunt off the cement when he grabs his arm. "What's your deal?"
"You're fucked up," Lance growls back. "You're fucked up and lonely and homesick and you're, what, you just do this every time? Maybe you could not start this time, you know? Just, like, let him be?"
"Joey?" JC hisses. "You think I - you think it's *my* fault this never works?"
Lance leans against the wall and for a moment, just a tiny second, it's quiet, 30,000 fans above them, 20,000 leagues under the sea. Then Lance sighs. "He fucking loves you."
"Yeah," JC says, nodding, rubbing his arms. "I know."
Lance snorts. "You know shit," he says, then turns and the hallway fills with the sound of his steps and JC sliding down to the floor.
It's Chris that pulls him up, pushes him into the dressing room that's marked for him with a construction paper star. Chris kisses him on the cheek and says, "Send a cockroach over if you need anything, okay?"
Lance is a complete fucking mystery, but Chris never changes, and JC loves him for it.
They have two hours until the show, less than usual but the stage was delayed when a lighting bar slips, and Justin stops in to tell him it's raining. JC almost thinks he can hear it.
He finds Joey's dressing room, and Lance is inside, laughing until the door is open. He blinks hard and shakes his head, then claps Joey on the shoulder and walks out.
JC closes the door. "He hates me," he says softly.
Joey shrugs. "He's, you know. He's my kid."
JC nods. He wants to walk over, curl his arms around Joey and lay his head in Joey's lap. Instead he sits on the dressing room counter and frowns. Three tours, and they've done this every time, turned to each other because they're the parents, because it's a better idea than fucking boys in clubs or hotels, because Joey can make the entire world be quiet for hours at a time.
Joey nuzzles his neck and says, "You okay?"
Two months in Orlando and Joey never called, never said anything, never asked for anything. He has a family at home, and JC thinks Lance has everything wrong, wishes he wasn't so weak that he'll take anything from Joey. But Joey kisses him and it's like nothing, like they've been together for years without breaks, and JC thinks, Momentum, and kisses back. When Joey reaches for his belt, though, JC pulls back.
"I can't do this," he says. "I can't - if it's just going to be this, on the road, I can't."
Joey nods and pulls back, face flushed. He turns and faces the wall, and JC leaves. He's shaking in the hallway, and in his dressing room he swears he can hear the crowd through the walls, echoes and shrill screams and he's sobbing by the time Justin comes in.
"Hey, hey," Justin says, sitting on the floor by the couch, rubbing his neck. "C, you okay?"
"Why are you here, Justin?" he asks.
"It stopped raining," Justin says, stroking his hair. "We're - we're going to do sound check now."
The show is dizzying but JC doesn't throw up, isn't sick at all, really, except when he has to look at Joey. Justin clucks over him and sends him to bed immediately afterward.
He wants to go to sleep, bundled under sheets and unfamiliar comforters. He isn't surprised when Joey walks in, doesn't knock, doesn't need a key.
He sits on the bed, looks at him, rests a hand on his back. Joey frowns. "I wish - I wish I'd come by, in Orlando."
JC nods but can't look at him, and Joey grips his arm.
"I'm serious. I - I thought it was just, you know, just a tour thing, just a - a thing we did, you know -"
"It was just the motion, huh?" JC asks. He can hear it raining outside, and he shivers.
"Not anymore," Joey says, settling by him. He puts his arms around JC, hums into his neck. "This time, we're going to work on solid ground, baby, okay?"
"That's nine months away," JC says flatly. "I don't think you can promise that."
"Five years of missing you every time I get off a bus," Joey murmurs. "Five years of it, and unless you tell me no, I'm following you home from now on. I'm following you everywhere." He sighs, and JC bites his lip to keep from crying, keep from crying out. "It's - look, it's easier to keep doing something than it is to stop it, right? Inertia."
"Momentum," JC whispers.
"Right. So, I figure, we're going against nature every time we try and stop this, anyway."
JC rolls on to his back, looks up at Joey. He looks honest, worn out and honest and a little bit like a song. JC thinks he can write again, find his voice again if Joey can just keep the world quiet for a while. He touches his face, and Joey smiles. "It's not just - I want you, okay? All the time. Standing still." Joey whispers. JC nods and smiles when Joey leans forward. "Me loves you," Joey says, smiling broadly.
"Love you, too," JC whispers, and when they kiss he can only hear his heartbeat.