Originally written for ianmcduff's [Smart Boys In Glasses] Challenge. Follows on from...

[prologue], [one]
[two], [three]
[four]

As soon as Joe finishes detailing the intricate history of the site that they are all working upon, as soon as JC can convince his traitorous limbs to comply, he makes excuses, peels himself away from Chris’ side, flees to the great outdoors and almost collapses in confusion and relief at being away from the heavy press of the leg and elbow against his own.

The air outside the marquee, beyond its canvas walls feels lighter against JC’s skin, sweeter within his lungs, and he leans groggily against one of the support struts, greedily breathing it in.

He doesn’t understand what is going on: whether he’s misreading the situation, or understanding it perfectly – and that frightens JC, makes him think about sneaking away and finding a flight and…

‘Hey, you okay?’

Lowering his gaze to the dusk covered ground, JC twitches his shoulders in a semblance of a shrug and waits until he feels the comforting curve of Justin’s hand against his skin. He sighs, leans into the touch a little, before he remembers and pulls away. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Then what’re you doing out here?’ Justin sounds bemused, the tremor of a laugh behind his words as his boots crunch against unseen gravel and he wanders around to where JC has no choice but to lift his head, look at him. ‘The alcohol’s inside, C…’

‘Maybe I don’t want to drink.’

Justin stares at him for a long moment, one eye narrowed as he frowns. ‘Is this because I didn’t tell you about the tents, still?’ he asks, his voice low and rich with something that almost sounds akin to regret. ‘Is this because you still figure I lied to you, to get my own way?’

‘Because you manipulated me, you mean?’

‘Yeah.’ He says; shoves his hands deep into the pockets of the baggy fatigues he wears, looks uncomfortable but not yet repentant. ‘That. Well? Is it?’

‘No.’

‘So…’ Justin eyes him warily, tilts his head, juts his jaw. ‘We’re good, then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Cool.’

JC sighs, closes his eyes, rubs tiredly at the bridge of his nose with his thumb. ‘Yeah.’

‘You coming back in, then?’ Justin asks, hesitates for the briefest of moments before he moves to step around JC, to go back through the flaps of the marquee, into the relative warmth of its insides. ‘Wade reckons things heat up soon as the supervisors start drinkin’ seriously…’

‘No,’ JC smiles tightly, automatically takes a pace backwards as he remembers the way in which Chris’ thigh felt against his own. His skin tingles still, aches in a way that JC doesn’t recall having felt before, makes him wonder if, come morning, it will be bruised and sore. ‘No,’ he says again, shakes his head, tries to ignore the dubious look that Justin is bestowing upon him. ‘That’s okay. Think I’ll… give it a miss, thanks, Justin…’

For a long moment, Justin stares at him, and JC cannot help but wonder if he knows the reason behind the trembling confusion that has struck him down. He shifts his weight, listens to the barely muted roar of irritation drifting out from the marquee, tries not to wonder if it belongs to Chris, and turns his gaze from the steady stare of his friend.

The sound of Justin sighing disturbs the solitude that envelopes JC in its cold embrace, is shattered completely by the noise of his voice. ‘Thought you said we were cool, C.’

‘We are!’ he cries, disturbed by the disappointment that he can hear lingering beneath the words that Justin speaks. He breathes deeply, clenches his fists tight against his sides, tries to avoid the inevitable wince that he feels ricochet through his expression as his knuckles brush against the flesh tainted by Chris’ touch, shakes his head helplessly. ‘Justin, really, we are! This isn’t about you manipulating me, okay? It’s not about the whole tent fiasco. I’m happy with the caravan, okay?’

Justin looks at him dubiously. ‘You sure?’

‘Yes!’

‘Because Wade seemed awful glad to be sleepin’ in a tent…’ Justin grins, shuffles his shoulders, ducks his head and manages to look both embarrassed and gleeful at the same time.

JC’s heart sinks.

He knows that look, recognises it well after years of holding Justin’s hand through relationships and break-ups, experiments and realisations, flings and “the real thing, man!”

He smiles wearily, unclenches his fists, lifts his eyes to the starlit skies for a moment or two. ‘I’m not surprised.’ He says softly, then: ‘I’m just tired, Justin. Can’t deal with all this manual labour in one day, you know? I’m used to drawing boards, and pens, and sliding rules – not mud, and trowels, and taking off layers one inch at a time…’

‘Sure?’

His smile warms a little at the genuine concern that he hears in Justin’s voice, then he nods, meets his gaze. ‘I just need to sleep,’ he says. ‘You should go back and…’ He hesitates, allows a wicked smile to curve the corners of his mouth a little, even if it doesn’t quite illuminate his eyes. It’s dark enough that Justin will see one, not realise the other, he thinks, and swallows thickly. ‘And flirt some more with Wade. One of us might as well get some enjoyment out of things, huh?’

‘See?’ Justin laughs, easily, his body already tilting back towards the open flaps of the marquee. ‘I knew this trip’d be a good idea for you! You’re loosening up, already, man!’

There is no answer that JC feels comfortable in giving – which is just as well, he thinks, watching as Justin blithely wanders back into the marquee, leaving him alone beneath the empty sky, surrounded by darkness and separated from the sounds of building friendships that continue to drift out through the opened flaps in the canvas walls behind him…

JC isn’t certain how long he stands and watches the shadows of clouds scudding across the sky, knows only that his bones ache with the chill of encroaching night, and that his muscles tremble with tiredness by the time he sniffs, turns, stumbles awkwardly around the edges of the noisy marquee towards the row of dilapidated caravans in which he supposes he is to make his home for the duration of the excavation.

Despite the fact that his eyes have adjusted to the gloom, JC cannot penetrate the inky depths of the shadows and he walks cautiously, listening to the vague shouts and laughs that drift through the still night air towards him, feeling his way along the marquee wall with tentative fingertips and stumbling feet. He is grateful for his caution, feels his heart thump in relief even as it scuds in apprehension and shock, when his boot knocks against something soft and malleable that hisses from ground level as he meets its resistance.

‘Jesus, fuck!’

JC stands still, breath harsh at the back of his throat as he stares blankly into the shadows that surround him, trying to decipher what… who… he’s almost fallen over. ‘Um…’

‘Can’t a man wallow in fuckin’ peace anymore?’ the voice complains, bitterness shading the words that JC suddenly realises are spoken in a voice that he isn’t certain he wants to hear.

‘Chris.’

‘What?!’

Blinking uselessly against the darkness, JC frowns. ‘What’re you doing out here?’ he asks. ‘I thought you were planning on getting legless… or, well, something like that anyway?’

‘I was.’

‘Then…?’

‘You left, you fucker, okay?’ Chris snarls, his voice reverberating with anger that JC doesn’t understand, isn’t sure that he wants to. ‘And I didn’t wanna stick around and watch Lance cosying on up to fuckin’ Wade sodding Robson, okay?’ A sigh echoes up towards JC’s ears. ‘So I left, too, ‘cept I can’t remember where I put the keys to my caravan this morning. For all I know, they could be fuckin’ buried under that spoil heap by Joe’s trench…’

JC sighs tiredly, cautiously turns until he is able to slide down onto the damp ground beside Chris, and frowns at the shadowy figure beside him. ‘You really don’t like Wade very much,’ he says softly, ‘do you?’

‘Nope.’

‘How come?’ JC asks without thinking, catches himself and feels the heat of a blush crawling along his cheekbones. ‘I mean… well… Joe said something this morning, and…’

‘And I hate the little weasel.’ Chris’ voice is stark, bland, devoid of emotion.

Somehow, JC thinks that he prefers the sound of Chris’ anger.

‘Smug little prick that he is -,’ Chris continues, flinging an arm out in front of them and inadvertently – JC thinks – catching his hand against the curve of JC’s nose. ‘Oh.’ He says, when JC inhales sharply, shocked by the faint sting of pain. He sighs, lowers his arm to absently pat against JC’s knee. ‘Sorry, man. Blind as a bat without daylight.’

‘’S’okay.’ JC mumbles through the shield of his hand, curving his fingers about his nose in an effort to determine whether there’ll be blood or not. He knows that there won’t be, but doesn’t like taking chances, cannot seem to let go of all his old habits in the blink of an eye…

‘I could kiss it better for you?’ Chris suggests, his voice abruptly light. His hand stills against JC’s knee, fingers spread about its curve, thumb almost absently stroking circles of heat against the fabric of JC’s pants.

JC freezes, feels his heart kick into anxious overdrive, isn’t certain what to do, or say…

‘Or -,’ Chris drawls after a long moment of tense, awkward silence has oozed past between them. ‘I could not kiss it better for you! Either-Or, man.’

He doesn’t move his hand away from JC’s knee, persists in stroking soothing circles against the cold joint beneath it.

‘Um.’ JC mumbles through the protective curve of his hand. Hearing the thickness to his voice, he flinches his eyes closed, drags a breath into nervous lungs, lowers his hand. ‘Why?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why?’ JC asks again, his voice soft and anxious lest Chris burst into raucous laughter at his question.

‘Well…’ Chris seems confused by the question, threads of bemusement creeping through his voice. ‘Why not, huh?’

‘You hardly know me!’

‘And…?’ Chris pauses, and JC can hear, feel him shuffling around on the scratchy ground beneath them, drawing closer to where he huddles. ‘Hold on.’ He says, and his voice is lower, closer to JC’s skin, soft breaths striking the chilled skin of his cheek. ‘I have to know you, to want to kiss you?’

‘Um. Yes?’

‘But that’s -,’

Defensively, JC narrows his eyes, tries to peer through the gloom at him. ‘What?’

‘That’s…’ Chris sighs, lowers his head slowly until he can roll his forehead against the narrow curve of JC’s shoulder. ‘Fine.’ He says. ‘Leave an old man to die alone in misery.’

Absently, JC lifts a hand, pats it against Chris' own shoulder and feels him huff out a breath at the gesture. 'Is this about Wade and... Lance?'

'No!'

'Because, I just spoke to Justin and -,'

'The boyfriend who's just a friend!' Chris mumbles darkly against JC's sleeve.

'- and he seems to be sleeping with Wade now, so...'

'Boy sure do get around!'

'Chris!'

JC feels the pressure lift from his shoulder, but not from his knee, and he sighs, stares at the blankness before him for a moment, listening to the sound of Chris' breathing directly beside his ear.

'What?' Chris demands after a moment, his voice low and close against JC's skin.

'You might take your fun wherever you can find it, but I -,' he turns his head, stills his words as he feels his space encroached upon, a warm, moist mouth descending upon his own even as the fingers that encircle his knee, tighten their grip...