Originally, this was written for ianmcduff's [Smart Boys In Glasses] Challenge, but the submission deadine came and went last month, and I'd left the disk that this was on... elsewhere. Didn't find it until this afternoon whilst I was hunting for a clean shirt, and voila!!!

This isn't finished, is very definitely a WIP, but eh.

"Eh," I say.

And loudly so, whilst praying that a few of my former colleagues never, ever, ever find this... (*cackles*)

[Prologue]
JC likes his routines. He likes the soothing comfort of everything ordered within his life, of knowing where he will be and what he will be doing on any given day of the week. It reassures him, keeps him focused, provides him with structure in a world that he fears is inherently disorganised.

Of his routines, JC thinks that Friday afternoons are his favourite. He has classes at the local college until five-twenty, when he shoulders his bag and makes his way off campus, across the town to the Harless Family Diner, where he eats a dinner that consists of a bowl of mild vegetable chilli and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, pith removed. Every Friday afternoon, for as long as JC can remember, he’s eaten dinner at the Diner.

He can remember his parents taking him there when he’d not long moved across the country to the small suburban town where they lived, can remember them telling him to order absolutely anything that he liked from the menu, remembers, too, the awe that he’d felt at the pristine chrome and red pleather interior and the sense of security that had filled him within the warm building. After that first time, it was a regular family treat – JC, his parents and Lynn Harless’ locally famous home-style cooking – until his younger siblings were born and his mom had begun to stay at home to look after them, leaving JC alone in his father’s company. His father would meet him from school, walk with him to the Diner and buy him a hotdog and fries to eat whilst they talked about where their lives were heading.

Some of JC’s happiest memories are of sitting in one of the Diner’s back booths, listening to his father talk about baseball and algebra. Although his father no longer accompanies him to the Diner, and the hotdog and fries have long been espoused for more adult-like comfort food, the routine of actually walking to the Diner, pushing open the heavy swing door and taking his place in one of the back booths, sliding onto the over-stuffed bench-seat remains unchanged. JC finds its presence in his life familiar, necessary, and he entertains visions of being eighty years old and still spending Friday afternoons eating chilli and drinking fresh orange juice with the pith removed.

He uses the Diner frequently throughout the week, calls in to grab a quick cup of coffee on his way to class, or to pass on messages from his mother to Lynn about church meetings, but it is Fridays that are most important to his life. The Diner itself forms an intricate part of his life, is embedded into virtually all of the important memories that he holds most precious, and sometimes – if he is in a particularly philosophical mood – he will find himself likening it to the security blanket that he used to carry with him everywhere as a very little boy.

Heaving open the heavy swing door, JC walks into the steamy warm atmosphere and waves a greeting to Lynn, standing behind the counter pouring coffee for one of the elderly men whom he hopes, one day, to emulate in some ways. He doesn’t wait to be drawn into conversation about how his studies are going, nods his head politely at the elderly man who has known him since he was seven years old, and slides into one of the back booths, rearranges the packets of sugar in their tiny bowl until they are colour coordinated, and thinks about how lucky he is.

He sits patiently, aware that either Lynn or Justin, her seventeen year old son, will bring his never-changing order across to his table when they have a moment to do so, and watches the traffic crawl past outside the plate glass window beside him. Everything is familiar to JC, softly reassuring in the face of those things that he absolutely cannot prevent from changing, and he breathes steadily, smiles serenely, is grateful for everything within his life.

‘Someone looks happy.’

JC turns his head at the sound of Justin’s voice, his smile twitching from serene to twitching happiness, and watches as his bowl of chilli and glass of juice is set before him. ‘You joining me?’ he asks as Justin hesitates beside the table, casting nervous glances back towards the counter where Lynn is still serving customers. ‘Or are you too busy?’

‘Momma said I can take my break now.’ Justin says and grins a little as he flops down onto the bench seat opposite JC’s. For a moment, they eye one another speculatively, until Justin fakes a lunge for JC’s glass and cackles merrily as he is successfully fended off.

JC cannot help but derive pleasure from Justin’s happy company. They have known one another practically forever – JC can remember peering into Justin’s bassinet whilst his parents chatted to Lynn over their heads – and occasionally unknowing customers mistake them for brothers, seeing only the similarity of their hair and eye colours, and the hazy likeness to their jaw lines. Occasionally either JC or Justin will correct the mistaken assumption, but often they don’t, neither ultimately caring what anyone thinks of their friendship’s base. Smiling contentedly, JC begins to eat his chilli, listens to Justin detail some of the customers who have visited the Diner since his shift began a few hours earlier.

‘How’s the chilli?’ Justin asks after a little while, causing JC to glance back down at his half-eaten bowl.

‘It’s good.’ He says. ‘You want some?’

‘Maybe later.’

He narrows his eyes, stares at Justin in surprise. It is the first time in living memory that Justin has ever turned down an offer to share his food – most times, he thinks with a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, Justin doesn’t even wait to be invited, simply grabs a spoon and tucks in. He peers closely, takes in the bright glitter to his friend’s eyes, the faint sheen of pink that tinges his cheekbones, the way in which he absently chews on his lower lip as he thoughtfully returns JC’s stare. ‘You feeling okay, man?’

‘Yeah.’

It isn’t until that moment that JC notices the nervy glances that Justin keeps throwing in his Momma’s direction. He frowns anxiously, feels his hand tighten around the cool surface of his glass and his eyes start to skitter between Justin’s face and the back of Lynn’s head. ‘Okay,’ he says, and his voice is a throaty mass of uncertainty. ‘What’s wrong?’

Justin blinks at him for a few seconds, then seems to understand JC’s sudden agitation. His smile is slow and smooth, the look in his eyes both friendly and nervous at the same time.

JC swallows uneasily. ‘Justin.’

‘Nothin’s wrong -,’ he soothes without hesitation. ‘I just…’ His face twists into something akin to a thoughtful grimace, before it relaxes out into a vaguely nervous expression. Beneath JC’s wary gaze, Justin rolls his shoulders into a shrug, then lifts a hand from where it fell against the bench seat when he sat down. Gently, a sheaf of papers held reverently between his fingers, Justin sets his hand back down against the tabletop. ‘I just…’

JC waits patiently, lifts his glass and takes a long swallow of juice, swirling the smooth tang of the liquid around in his throat as he watches Justin closely. He already knows what Justin is going to say – can see it in the expressions that flicker through his eyes and over the surface of his expression: hope, fear, confusion, longing, excitement…

Justin has fallen in love.

Head over heels, heartfelt declarations that this is it, that this is the way in which he wants to spend the next fifty years or so of his life, no turning back, full throttle, pedal to the metal, gunning down the highway of the road marked “Life” for a town named “Archaeologist”.

JC knows that it’s not the first time that Justin has decided on a career, sworn that he’s going to remain faithful to it for eternity before being distracted by something that sounds better, or has a higher salary – but this is the first career idea that as actually remained in the arena of possibility for longer than a month. It is also the first career that Justin has studiously researched into. He knows that Justin has gone to the town library, read journals, checked out books on excavation techniques, even delved into the pool of resources upon the Internet, because he has been kept abreast of developments of his friend’s infatuation on a near-weekly basis.

A month earlier, whilst surfing the Internet, Justin had found what he persists in claiming to be “the perfect site” for him to learn the rudimentary skills of excavation upon. JC has spent hours listening to him talk about the site’s history, how fantastic it will be when he manages to talk his Momma round into letting him go, what a great opportunity the entire experience will be for him and his burgeoning career in archaeology – yet he has managed to remain ignorant of all other details concerning this allegedly perfect site and the great opportunity that it apparently presents.

‘The details came through, then?’ he asks quietly, dreading Justin’s reply even as he tilts his gaze towards the papers that are being proffered.

‘Came this morning.’ Justin looks almost startled as he, too, looks down at the papers in his hand. ‘I wasn’t expecting it so quickly, y’know?’

JC shrugs. Sometimes the speed with which life moves at takes him by surprise; mostly, though, it doesn’t. He reaches out a hand for the paperwork, obtusely intrigued, made curious by the fact that he knows so little despite having been bored to tears by Justin’s discussions concerning it. Also, he thinks, he wants to know when and where Justin is intending on spending the majority of the summer.

‘I just… I don’t think Momma will let me go.’

His eyes flicker quickly up to Justin’s face even as his fingers slide about the edges of the paperwork, and JC frowns at the doubt that he sees in the usually confident face before him. ‘If it’s such a great opportunity, Justin,’ he says, carefully, ‘then I’m sure she’ll be as thrilled about it as you so obviously are!’

He tries to smile, tries to sound reassuring, but his voice falters a little in genuine shock as Justin inelegantly thrusts the papers into his grasp before dropping his head into his hands. A moment passes before Justin looks up, mournful eyes regarding JC steadily.

‘Not alone, she won’t.’

Beneath the intensity of Justin’s gaze, JC struggles to grasp hold of his wandering thoughts. His face feels instantly tight, whilst his heart thunders precariously beneath the vague protection of his rib cage as he stares, wide-eyed and bewildered, back across the tabletop.

‘You don’t know that!’ he says, brightly, the smile that he forces to curve his mouth tight and false upon his face. He turns his gaze away from Justin’s, starts to run it down the densely typed words that litter the surface of the uppermost sheet of paper that he holds. ‘I mean, I’m sure she won’t want to sta-,’

Even as his words still in his throat, vocal chords frozen in astonishment, JC is dimly aware of Justin’s head dropping a little lower between his hands across the table from him, of being watched intently as he stares down at the paperwork. He can feel the thin sheets start to crumple a little between his fingers, so tight is his grip upon them, and he makes a conscious effort to relax his hold a little, to turn his head away from the black type and meet Justin’s eyes once more.

‘Yeah.’ Justin says and his voice is pitched low, desperate. ‘You see why my Momma won’t let me go alone now, JC?’

‘It’s in England.’ He says, then: ‘It’s in England?’

JC watches as Justin nods his head, a slow smile forming upon his mouth and spreading across his face, framed still by hands that are too large for the wrists that secure them to his body. JC sees the continued expectancy within the eyes that stare back at him, and he isn’t entirely certain as to its lingering presence. Deep down, he knows that Justin is right; Lynn Harless won’t allow her only child to go to England on what everyone secretly suspects is just another of Justin’s passing fancies – but he doesn’t know what he is supposed to say to the obviously eager young man sitting opposite him.

He frowns. ‘Jesus, Justin… couldn’t you find something… anything… I don’t know… a little closer to home, maybe?’

‘Not like this, no.’

‘But it’s in England!’

Justin’s smile falters a little as he shrugs his shoulders, lowers his hands to the tabletop. His fingertips skate anxiously, delicately upon the Formica surface, and he looks down at them, watching them move. ‘I know.’ He says softly, defeat creeping into his voice, startling JC with its very presence. ‘That’s why I didn’t say anything definite about it until the paperwork came through.’

Feeling impossibly old, vaguely hating himself for having displaced Justin’s natural arrogance, for having brought defeat into his friend’s eyes, JC turns his attention back to the paperwork, furrows his brow in concentration as he skims through it. ‘It’s just an excavation, Justin.’

‘No!’

The outraged squeak is pitched low enough not to divert Lynn’s attention away from the customers seated at the Diner’s main countertop, to bring it skittering towards their booth, but still it startles JC away from the papers in his hand. He stares quizzically at Justin, waiting for the inevitable explanation behind the furiously soft outburst.

‘It’s not “just” an excavation, you dork!’ Justin snaps, the affectionate smile that curves his mouth belying the harshly irritated sound of his voice. He reaches across the tabletop, flicks the end of JC’s nose with the tip of his index finger. ‘It’s not. Nu-uh!’

‘Then what is it?’ Absently, JC rubs at the end of his nose. ‘Because I thought you just wanted somewhere to go grub about in the dirt and pretend to learn about the past – and I’m pretty sure you can do that a bit closer to home than in England, Justin. I mean… England?’

‘Well, see…’ Justin begins, then pauses. Frowns even as he places his fingers against his temples and starts to rub small, slow circles against the skin there.

JC waits, patiently, lifts a spoonful of his tepid chilli to his mouth and chews on it thoughtfully as he ponders the distinct unease that he can see within Justin’s shifting. Just as the chilli begins to slide down JC’s throat, Justin sighs, heavily.

‘See, it is just an excavation.’ He admits, reluctantly. ‘I guess. If you want to get, y’know, technical about it…’

Silently, pointedly, JC arches an eyebrow, continues to watch Justin.

‘The site history’s really not that unusual, and the reason behind the excavation itself, is pretty straightforward, really…’ Justin explains, his voice slow and thick with reasoning that means virtually nothing to his silent, waiting audience. ‘But it’s in England, JC. England!’

‘Yes, I can see that, Justin, but -,’

‘Where they believe in archaeology as opposed to anthropology!’ Justin’s voice contains a desperation that JC can’t recall ever having heard in its depths before. Usually, he thinks, Justin doesn’t want for anything quite so urgently as he seems to want to attend the excavation whose details JC still holds in one hand. Usually, Justin gets whatever he wants – within reason – and virtually on a silver platter. He is an only child and a good friend, both beloved and spoilt. This time, however, JC knows that it’s not as simple as previous occasions – and he knows, too, that Justin recognises, or realises this fact for himself. He stifles a small sigh, watches as Justin seems to almost sag in his seat, his shoulders slumping down and inwards, towards his chest, the expression upon his face abruptly one of loss and longing.

‘I’m sure you can find an excavation a bit closer to home, Justin.’ JC says gently. He shrugs his shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable with the situation that devolves from his routines. ‘It’s not just an English thing.’

‘It just seems like it’d be more real over there.’ Justin admits after a brief moment of tension-thick silence between them. ‘Because that’s where it was… born, or… something.’ His body heaves upwards as he inhales deeply, then blows out a steady rush of air. ‘I don’t know, JC; it’s just… England. And archaeology. The two just… sort of… well, in my head, they… they just fit. Together. You understand, right?’

JC opens his mouth to say that no, he doesn’t understand – then he catches the glimpse of needy hope lurking behind the brash attempt of explanation in Justin’s eyes, and he knows that he cannot destroy the trust for comprehension that has been placed in him. He shutters his mouth, dips his head into a brief nod, hopes that Justin doesn’t recognise the lie within his vulnerable eyes.

‘Great!’ Justin says, and there is renewed enthusiasm in his voice that causes JC to lift his eyes from the tabletop, to skim his gaze warily across his face. He sees the broad, beaming smile and the optimism that gleams from Justin’s expression – and he sighs, silently, hopelessly. ‘I knew you’d understand, JC – I knew if anyone would understand how important it is to chase your dreams, it’d be you!’

Weakly, JC smiles, nods his head, feels his eyes widen with desperation as he cants nervous glances around for any sign of Lynn signalling that her son’s break is over and that he needs to return to serving customers. He finally locates her standing by the soda fountain, cooing over two little girls with pigtails, and he knows that his desperate, silent pleas for assistance in deflecting Justin’s enthusiasm are going unanswered.

‘See, if Momma knew that someone she trusts were going with me, then she’d let me go. No problem.’ Justin’s eyes are bright with expectation as he stares across the tabletop, and JC can feel his resolve weakening with each steady flutter of girlishly long eyelashes. ‘She just needs to know that someone she trusts is going to go with me.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And, well, you understand dreams, right, JC?’

JC frowns, suddenly feeling as though he’s missed an important segment of their conversation. He ponders Justin’s question for a moment, thinking about the dreams that he used to have for his future and how they have yet to be realised. He remembers how he used to want to be a football player, a star on both field and home-room, but how that dream was dashed when it became clear that he lacks confidence in his own abilities. ‘Yeah,’ he says, and his voice is tight with brisk emotion. ‘Yeah, I understand dreams.’

‘And you get how much it hurts when they don’t come true.’ Justin says gently. He knows all about JC’s dreams of playing quarterback, of dating pretty, popular individuals, and he knows, too, how they were dashed by neuroses.

Uncomfortably, JC shrugs, takes another swallow of juice in an effort to clear the lump from his throat.

‘I just…’ Justin sighs, lowers his gaze unexpectedly to stare at the paperwork that JC has placed between them. ‘I just know it’ll hurt so bad if I can’t at least try for this, JC.’ His eyes skitter upwards to meet JC’s. ‘And Momma trusts you, JC; you know she does – she’ll say “yes” if she knows you’re going with me…’

‘What about school?’ JC asks, trying to be reasonable, to point out the reasons why Justin cannot have everything that he wants from him. ‘What about my classes, Justin? I can’t just ditch them so that you get to grub about in the dirt for a few weeks.’

‘It’ll be summer break.’ Justin says firmly. ‘You won’t have classes, JC. And you know as well as I do that you always have your work completed way ahead of schedule.’

JC shrugs again, feeling as though a dangerous undercurrent is pulling him along. He suddenly resents the fact that Justin is his closest friend, that he has confided so much within him… that Justin knows him so well.

‘Think of it as a vacation.’

JC sighs. ‘A vacation.’

‘Yeah! A few weeks away from home, meeting new people, doing new things… it’ll be like an adventure!’

A shudder unfurls the length of JC’s spine as he listens to Justin’s imploring tone, realises that he cannot extract himself from the promise that his friend believes him to have already made, the plans that Justin thinks he has already agreed to. He realises, dully, that the only way he can convince Justin that he’s presuming too much, is by destroying a tangible part of their friendship – and JC doesn’t think that he’s quite ready to do that. He thinks about his routines, about how he cannot function properly without them forming the integral part of his daily life – and then he realises that, even if he does agree to go with Justin, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it will come to fruition.

Lynn can still refuse to allow Justin to go.

Hope spiralling giddily inside of him, JC places his glass firmly down onto the tabletop and smiles crookedly at his excited friend. ‘Okay.’ He says quietly, already trying to think of ways in which to back out of what he is about to do. ‘Okay, I’ll go with you…’

‘You will?’ Justin gapes at him, then grins, his face flushing with joy. ‘Oh, JC, that’s fantastic! Thank you so much! Momma’ll say I can go now, I’m sure of it!’

JC’s smile trembles a little beneath the onslaught of gratitude and relief that he can see in Justin’s expression, yet he manages to cling to it, bravely doesn’t think of what he will do if he cannot wriggle his way out of the deal that seems to have been struck.

‘You won’t regret this, JC,’ Justin promises, his eyes bright with adoration as he beams across the booth at him.

All that JC can do, is silently hope that Justin is telling him the truth…