Unbearable.
It's absolutely unbearable seeing JJ like this.
All languid and sex-dumb, face down on the couch like he doesn't even care John B'd just fucked him stupid into it. Bruises creeping over his collar and sending John B's blood warm and his face hot.
In hindsight, the hickies were a mistake. JJ's neck looks mauled. But John B wasn't exactly concerned with what to tell their friends when he had JJ panting under him. Kissing him hard, then claiming he hates him like they don't both already know the truth: JJ is John B's.
It'd go the other way too, if JJ'd let him. Finally take him up on the unspoken invitation to move fully into the Chateau. Accept the hug instead of shoving John B away and demanding beer when shit with Luke gets bad. Hell, if JJ ever just flat out asked him? John B'd give him anything.
But JJ's got issues from his dad, and issues from his momma, and issues from being broke and sometimes homeless in a world where people like to kick you when you're down. So JJ never asks and forces John B away when he offers; shoving at him with insults and desperately digging into any weak spots he can find. JJ's gotten real good at that.
John B gets it; he knows how this shit works. He might have JJ, inside and out, but he'll never be JJ's—JJ won't let him be.
A hand flops up from the limp tangle on the couch. "Perv later," JJ slurs at him, eyes still closed. "'m cold."
Fuck, he's so stupid. John B wants to kiss every inch of him.
Unbearable.
"Jesus Christ," John B mumbles and tugs on the shirt he'd been uselessly clinging to. "You can't even ask me to fucking cuddle without deflecting, can you?"
JJ doesn't answer, 'cause JJ's busy rubbing his face against the worn cushion under his cheek. Sleepy, stupid, soft. John B wants to gather up every part of him and scream at anyone who tries to touch them.
"You're cold, huh?" John B prods instead of going there. He gets his knee up onto the couch beside the bare skin of JJ's legs, lets himself flop heavy and warm across JJ's back. "That must be why you're all sweaty," he says, and snickers at the incoherent grumbling he gets back. Jesus, JJ's useless after sex. Good to know.
He runs his nose from the side of JJ's mouth up to his ear, sucks and kisses off the corner of his jaw until there's a bruise standing out stark on his neck. Mine, John B thinks again, helpless with it.
JJ makes a vague groan, something low and sweet. It's close enough to the sounds that slipped from him when John B stretched him out on his fingers, that John B goes hot, half-hard and aching. "Jesus Christ," he says to his dick. "Chill out."
His dick stays nestled against JJ's ass and does not listen to him.
But JJ's pretty much out at this point, so John B shifts to give himself some comfort, and leaves his hard on well enough alone.
It's weird now. Quiet. Crickets on the lawn, dull lap of the sound, the soft breath of JJ's lungs working. A bit of hair's fallen over his forehead, so John B brushes it away. Soft, like he did earlier. Halfway wishing he'd never seen the look that'd crossed JJ's face. Cracked open. Wondering. Scared as shit. Maybe then he'd never've made that promise. No changing, no losing, not a chance. Jesus. Well, there's a new regret.
Right on top of the rest of 'em.
He really shouldn't have done this. Not while Kie's been trying to make a move. It's familiar, honestly. Not the way she watches him, like she's just realized how JJ lights up like the goddamn sun when he's happy, but her hesitation. That slow-build of wondering if you could push far enough to get him to admit he loves you.
John B's never managed it, unwilling to break trust between them like that. He's… safe, for JJ.
Fuck, he's fucked up so bad.
'Cause now John B's got this unbearable warmth in his chest, watching JJ twitch under him. Quiet. Open. Christ, he let John B take him apart.
It was a fight for him. Not a fight against John B, or forget everything swirling in his head; John B would've stopped before they ever started. But JJ fought himself, clear in the ways he kept snapping, or pretending he wasn't turned on, or acting like John B wasn't the one making him squirm and flush and drip messy into his hand. All 'I haven't exactly had time dude,' like he wasn't jumping sensitive with every look or word John B gave him.
John B rolls his eyes. "You're so full of shit, dude."
Sometimes, it feels like he's the only one who sees it.
Like… okay, look. JJ's pretty, alright?
It's not a problem, not in the traditional sense. Boys are allowed to be pretty now, y'know? Some guys even try for that on purpose—hell, John B has, once or twice. But not JJ. Dude's got less taste than God gave a rabbit and never seemed to pick up how at certain parties, a certain type of guy would stare at him a certain type of way for a little too long. That John B would stare. Not just wanting to hook up (JJ's managed plenty of that with guys, girls, and probably a few in between) but wanting to crack him open a little. To make 'im drop the bullshit for once.
Because when it comes down to it? JJ's nothing but miles of bullshit wrapped tight around his soft spots. It's not that he's lying, at least, not on purpose. It's protective. Defensive. Hell, most of the time, JJ probably doesn't even realize he's doing it.
It makes John B wanna snap him in half.
'Cause John B's always been a bit of a possessive bastard. Clingy, romantic… all too-much, too-quick, and getting married on the run. The idea JJ'd let him in like that? That he'd gasp the way he doesn't gasp for anyone else? Finally ask for—no, fucking beg for something? His body gone truthful and trusting?
Well, that's the problem.
How's John B supposed to repress any of the rest of it when his best friend's handing him all that?
Like Christ, JJ's not even awake, 'n all John B can think about is what J'd let him do to him next. Would he let John B pin him face down? They'd be in a bed this time, John B's bed, and his pillows would go spit-wet from JJ biting at 'em.
If John B forced his hands flat by his face, kept him from reaching for his cock, could JJ come all over himself without a touch on his dick if he got fucked hard enough? Long enough? If John B murmured soft and sweet in his ear?
Fuck, he's hard again and not halfway neither. He twists his hips away so he doesn't end up grinding against JJ's ass and presses his eyes closed.
Would JJ let John B tie him up? Loop his wrists to the headboard so he can't get away and suck him off like that. Stuck feeling good with nothing to distract him, no deflections, no bullshit. Hell, the ways John B could tease him. Lick up the sides of his cock, touch gentle under the head; go so slow J'd chew his lips raw tryin' to keep the sounds in. J might not like being trapped like that; he tends to freak if he's not in control of himself, but he—oh fuck.
What if he trusted John B to do it anyway?
John B hisses, cock hard and uncomfortable. He can't touch himself while JJ's sleeping right there; he's got more respect than that, but the thought, oh the thought. Of JJ's eyes going wide when he finds he can't move, the way he'd turn to John B all desperate, starting to panic but never quite reaching it, 'cause John B'd be right there. Cupping JJ's face in his hands as he shudders and breathes out, 'John B, I need—'
He wouldn't be able to finish, but he wouldn't have to. John B would draw him close, safe, whisper all the sweet, comforting shit JJ'd normally deck him for right in his ear. 'You're safe. I got you. You don't have to fight. I have you, I've got you, you know I've got you,' and for once in his life, JJ would.
Just let John B hold him close when he got jittery with fear. To talk gentle, to touch him softer, to calm him down. To let John B finally fucking fix something for once in his goddamn life.
JJ stirs under him, forehead creasing, nose wrinkling up like he's smelled something sour, a tightness ticking in his jaw. It snaps John B outta the hazy golden pulse of his thoughts, slams him back into his body. Dick hard, sweat going cool, sprawled awkward over a couch far too small for both him and JJ.
JJ mumbles something incomprehensible, and John B runs a thumb over his eyebrow, traces the shape of his nose. "'s okay, buddy," he tells him, like he always does when JJ gets twisted up as he sleeps.
Then, since all his repression quit working right about when JJ said, 'Fuck. In me,' like he'd die if John B didn't… he keeps talking.
"There you go baby." A thrill rushes through him, like the first time hustling beer outta Cramer's with a fake id. God, JJ would've given him so much shit if he hadn't been half outta his mind every time John B's dared say it. Can't handle that kinda softness unless he's choking up seawater on a dinghy; or getting all the stubbornness fucked right outta him; or here, now—unconscious and unaware.
"Baby," John B mutters again and rests his cheek on JJ's shoulder blade. "What am I supposed to do with you?"
Because when John B looks at all the facts, all the shit JJ's done for him in their near decade of friendship, and all the shit he won't let John B do in return… there's really only one way to see it.
JJ loves him.
JJ doesn't want John B to love him back.
As much as those sound in opposition, John B knows how contradictions can live down inside a person. The way he loves Sarah and hates her. The way he loves his dad and wishes he never came home. The way he loves JJ and won't ever admit to it.
JJ can't take that shit, just flat out can't handle it. He'll say I love you at the drop of a hat when he gets drunk; to John B, to Pope, to Kie, Sarah, or Cleo. But say it back as more than a joke? Immediate deflection. Shocked confusion. Discomfort. Fear.
So John B's not allowed to do that either. No, he's got to listen to the slurred 'I love you, man's and the 'you're my family's and the 'if you were a girl, I'd make out with you right now's and keep his damn mouth closed. 'Cause JJ runs back to his dad's if John B says I love you too genuine, and bringing up family with him is a minefield on a good day, and the rest? Well, there's the bullshit again. JJ's made out with more boys than anyone but Kie.
If John B didn't know JJ so well, he'd push him on it. But he does, so he doesn't…he'd have to snap past all JJ's boundaries to get them together and nothing, not even dating JJ, is worth making JJ feel unsafe like that.
'You would've let me, wouldn't you?'
John B buries his groan into JJ's back. Fuck, he shouldn't have said that. JJ was right, this was a stupid idea. But John B couldn't help himself. Not when JJ was shirtless and fucking pretty on John B's bed, when his breath caught every time John B touched him. Not when John B wanted one thing in his life to be real, just for tonight.
His connection with JJ's the realest thing John B's ever known.
So he let himself be selfish, let himself forget what he's not allowed, and probably screwed JJ and him completely over in the process. 'Cause John B knows what loving JJ feels like now, he knows the taste on his lips.
Frankly? It's gonna be fucking agony pretending he doesn't.
But John B made a promise; JJ doesn't want anything to change. And no matter how much he regrets it now, John B won't go back on it. Christ, he's gonna have to pretend this whole thing never happened if he wants a prayer of acting normal.
So John B gives himself one final moment to press kisses open mouthed to JJ's spine, to trace the bruises on his skin with all the greed and pride and possession he tries not to have. To know that here in the dark, crushed together on a shitty couch, this is finally real. True.
Something like friendship. Something like love. Something he'll have in him forever and ever now.
Then the moment's over, and John B makes himself pretend.
N
Things change, but not between him and JJ. They sell the gold; they buy the land; they start the business… they make their home. Downright domestic.
It's the good life.
Whatever the hell that means.
--- --- ---
The sun hasn't yet set and John B is piss drunk. JJ sits next to him, like most times John B gets shitfaced—reeking of sweat and the motor oil still staining his arms. He, also, is drunk.
Real drunk.
Drunk, drunk, drunk.
"You should'a hit me," JJ tells him, real sincere, no bullshit.
John B quits watching the stick bug crawl over his boot to blink at JJ in the yellowed porch light. Sweat shines on his face. Blood. Dirt. Bruises. He ain't showered since the Enduro and its gross and kinda sad. John B wants to pat his dirty, stupid head.
He blinks real slow instead. "Yeah?"
JJ tilts into his side, huffs booze-breath against his neck. "'m lonely."
John B hums. "That's what happens when you do stupid shit, bubba," he tells him, and when JJ groans, he flops his hand into JJ's greasy hair. Knots snag at his fingers like they know he drank a little too much of whatever moonshine JJ dug up from the shed out back to untangle himself. "Your hair bein' clingy," John B announces loud.
JJ, rudely, does not tell his hair to stop. "You should'a just fuckin' hit me. Just. Splat!"
"Splat!" John B echoes, and laughs, and can't figure out what that means. He looks around for Pope, but Pope went to see his not-dead-dad and his not-left-mom and up and took everyone with him. Which leaves John B on his own. With JJ. And Splat. "Huh?"
A bulb burns out by the door and the yellow light goes the white and heavy shadows of the moon, the sky flipping some celestial switch. Thwop.
JJ breathes deep at his side. "Hit me dude," he says again, all rude and not-explaining. "With the bike. Should'a run me over. Just splat. You would'a won and it wouldn'a hurt too bad, so. Splat. Done." He stops there, drops his head heavy onto John B's stiff shoulder and suddenly John B gets why everyone hates him a little bit right now. It's not about the money.
It's JJ.
"You're a selfish asshole," John B tells him. "Make your hair let go." He pulls, JJ hisses, and John B's got his hand back.
"Wha's, what. Wha' do ya mean?" JJ grabs at him, clingy like his hair and John B wants to hit him for sayin' splat then holdin' tight like that. It's not fair, 's what it isn't. Fucking splat.
When he stands, the yard swirls in front of him, hazy dark and spinning. JJ tries to follow and—
Crunch goes the stick bug, guts all splat.
He thinks of JJ as a gooey brown puddle like the little buggy and pukes off the side of the porch.
--- --- ---
Here's the thing: for almost two years now, John B stood convinced he did right by JJ.
They hooked up; they moved on. No one got hurt.
As close to a success story as this kind of thing can get.
--- --- ---
When JJ pulls up, the sun glows red over the water like a cigarette butt. No one else is back yet, having mutually decided to go their separate ways until everyone cooled off. John B got Poguelandia to hole up in, because he woke up with such a hangover he walked into a wall. He got laughed at, then pitied, and finally cut a break. JJ slammed out the front door and hasn't been seen since.
"Good riddance," Pope had muttered, and Cleo grabbed his hand.
"Anger sprouts regrets," she told him, "And smoke's comin' out your ears, Pipe."
John B pokes at the shark while JJ stops his bike. Entire chunks of faded skin were missing when they found it—after hauling it back jammed sideways in the Twinkie? Scraped up doesn't begin to cover it.
It kinda looks like shit up close.
"Hey," JJ calls.
It doesn't really matter. It's still a shark, you know?
"John B?"
Can't really top that.
"A'ight," JJ says loud and kicks at the lawn. "You not done bein' pissed yet?"
John B finally looks at him. Oversized tee-shirt, messy hair; clean at least, finally. "I was never pissed JJ."
"Could've fooled me."
John B rolls his eyes; he recognizes this. When JJ gets overwhelmed, he lashes out all the emotions he can't do anything with like that'll keep him from having to feel them. It lands on John B, more often than not—perks of both understanding the why and never holding it against JJ too long. But today?
He's still got stick bug squished on his porch.
"I'm not doing this with you." He lowers himself down on the step, feeling heavy and old how he doesn't think he should at nineteen. When JJ joins him, his leg kicks out weird to the side as he walks, all tight in the hip and stiff in the knee, something not far from a limp.
"Look dude. I know," he says, and John B fights not to roll his eyes again. "I get it. You did your best."
John B watches him. "You think this is about the blocking."
Or the way JJ went at him for it. Vicious. Angry. Scared.
He doesn't help JJ get seated next to him, hissing and gritting his teeth at the soreness. "Thanks for the hand," JJ deadpans and John B grunts. "Okay fine! You want me to say I fucked up? I did! Fucked it all! Happy now?"
"If you think that'll make me happy, then you don't know shit," John B says quiet. JJ, as expected, doesn't know what to do with that. John B stares out to the water and JJ chews at the side of his mouth. It's… distracting. Even more because JJ's clearly got no idea that it is.
"I really don't want you mad at me," JJ says finally. It cracks the same way his voice did yesterday. Small. Barely noticeable. 'John B, look man—'
It might as well be a scream.
A hand presses against the top of John B's thigh. Rubs warm and strong.
"Jesus, JJ," John B mutters.
JJ keeps biting at his mouth. "I know I said I was shit at it but…" His tongue darts out over his lips like those aren't words he said years ago. Like he thinks John B could possibly remember that.
'Well, I'd offer to suck you off, but I'm kinda shit at it.'
"Lemme make it up to you," JJ says, and John B goes cold.
"By giving me a shitty blowjob. Makes sense."
It probably does, somewhere in the back of JJ's brain. JJ likes easy solutions. The straightforward shit.
And for some reason?
He's filed this under 'easy'.
--- --- ---
John B got back with Sarah. JJ hooked up with Kie.
They never talk about it.
By the time John B's rolling Sarah over on the sheets, driving into her eager and biting on the first bed that's theirs and no one else's, he's halfway convinced JJ's forgotten it.
Sarah moans and John B buries his face into her shoulder, mouths 'I love you' into her skin, and wraps his fingers gentle around her hips. She's his and he's hers. Perfect. Forever.
By the time his arm goes numb from her sleeping head on his shoulder, John B's halfway convinced he's forgotten it too.
--- --- ---
When JJ shifts his hand over to cup at his dick, John B stops him. "What?" JJ says. "It don't gotta mean nothing, just let me make it up. Nothing else will change."
Do you actually believe that bullshit? The words burn on his lips, but JJ, as always, runs one step ahead of him.
"If the girls get pissed, I'll take the heat. No risk for you, okay?" He shifts closer until John B can smell him, feel the heat of his body held right next to his own. It feels like fire, and tastes like lying on the sofa on the porch and giving back the realest thing you've ever held. "Just let me make it up."
It's such bullshit.
He stands and JJ almost tips off the stoop. "Hey! What the—"
"Stop acting like that's why you want this."
JJ goes still. Too still. John B scoffs.
If JJ wants to pretend this is nothing but some repayment bullshit, then John B will let him. Hell, he'll play along.
But it won't be this mangled playacting between them. John B won't let it be.
"I'm going inside," John B says to the smudged panes of the front door. "If you really wanna make this up, you can come with." Not with a blow job. Not with sex at all.
"Then you'll quit bein' mad at me?"
I was never pissed—John B bites the words back. He nods.
If JJ wants to make this up?
Then fine.
John B'll let him goddamn make it up.