Couch Potatoes 2: JC and Joey "Mnhhhh..." he groaned, and Joey pulled back his hand.
"Were you asleep, man?"
"No." He uncurled his legs and stretched languidly. Joey curbed the impulse to tickle him. "Yeah. Whatever. I'm not now."
JC seemed to stretch for an inordinately long time. Joey thought he heard vertebrae pop. Springs groaned in the old couch. He grinned and said, "I lost my virginity on this thing, you know."
"What?"
Joey looked around for his beer. It turned out to be empty. Whatever. "When it was still in Chris' old apartment. Back before everything. Don't know where you were at, but Chris threw this party, and for some reason a bunch of chicks kinda busted in and someone started doing the limbo. One of them ... fuck, can't remember her name, I can't, but anyway, she wasn't wearing any underwear, you know? And she was bending backwards like so?"
Chuckle. "Sounds like a Joey story, all right."
"Yeah. Well, I had to tell her about it. I was drunk. So after everyone had passed out or something, we did it on the couch in the middle of the room. There were people everywhere."
JC yawned and grinned a lopsided grin. "You're such a slut."
"I guess." Okay, beer would be good. But then he'd have to get up, and JC had somehow slumped onto his arm after the stretch, and his head was heavy and his breath warm on Joey's neck. "Hey. Do you think--"
JC shook his head without lifting it. His hair feathered over Joey's skin. "Oh no. Oh no, no--"
"They couldn't hear shit with the music and all, dude."
"I'm not fucking on this couch, Joey. I just will not."
"JC--"
"Not even if it's got sentimental value. It reeks," but he was edging closer nevertheless, somehow adding points of contact without actually moving very much.
"Pfft. Not like you ever minded that."
"Did too. Do too. I don't like smells."
"Don't you remember my old Cadillac?" He'd given JC a blowjob in the back seat at one point. Those were the days.
"Don't remind me. Eugh."
"Hey--" and he turned his head and caught a kiss, and two, and more. JC had been drinking screwdrivers. Joey couldn't smell the couch, and JC's hands were already creeping under his shirt, so chances were he wasn't smelling it either.
It might have been four am already, but they'd started late. He pulled JC closer, into his lap, almost, and the sofa groaned, and Joey groaned along with it when JC squirmed and bit his lip.
JC was heavier than that girl had been - Karen? Was that her name? Maybe not. Christine? Clarice? - but Joey had gained some muscle since then, and he didn't have to overexert himself to flip them over and get JC on his back.
JC had closed his eyes again, and when he threw his head back, the hat fell off. Joey swept it off the couch. Why was JC wearing Justin's hat anyway?
"hmmm, um," JC said indisctinctly and pulled Joey down. Joey didn't caw in triumph, even though he wanted to. JC was easy when he was drunk.
Getting jeans and underwear off was a hassle. The sofa was softer than it should be, and it seemed to suck them down into a disorderly heap of limbs. It had been distinctly firmer when Joey had pushed KarenChristineClarice's thin skirt up and slid his hand over smooth, firm thighs. He had a short image of JC in that dress, a flowery summer dress, a slinky, spaghetti-strapped thing that was barely there and so easy to get out of.
How weird was it that he could remember exactly what her dress looked like - red with little white and yellow flowers, a really ugly pattern, but a pretty dress anyway - but couldn't for his life remember her name. She'd said it, he knew that for sure, because they'd talked for a while before and after, but it had just slipped his mind somewhere along the way.
"JC," he said, maybe to make sure that he'd remember the name, which was ridiculous, because he'd known JC since before he lost his virginity, and that girl had just been the first of many, and JC was pretty much one of a kind. Joey thought he could probably talk JC into wearing a dress, even. Not that it would be necessary.
"Joey," JC said and lifted his hips and shimmied out of his jeans and shorts. His teeshirt was pushed up to his armpits, and it looked silly and somehow hot, and Joey just tugged off his own shirt and leaned down and pressed hot skin against hot skin. A soft, warm breeze stroked his back and legs and made his hair tickle his forehead. They kissed again and moved together, not too fast, not too hard, because this sofa had been around since Chris first moved down here, and it protested all sudden movements.
Joey had a hand down between them, a little awkwardly, because there was a broken spring somewhere just under JC's hip, and they dipped down there, but it wasn't bad, not bad at all, and suddenly JC opened his eyes and said, "um, we're kind of in public, man," but he didn't stop moving his hips under Joey, and he didn't look like he minded.
"Yeah, and it's like four in the morning. Unless the mailman decides to come around back--" and JC hmmmmmed and arched and said,
"Aren't we famous enough? It'll be like--" and a gasp, and a thrust that was a little too enthusiastic for the couch, because it creaked cantankerously under them, "--persecution-- there'll be paparazzi in every bush--"
"What are you talking about?" JC seemed to be thinking along some sort of personal, secret thread, but that was nothing new; Joey was used to JC's half-coherent, half-formed ideas popping out mid-conversation, mid-meal, mid-afternoon-nap, mid-intercourse. His mind seemed to follow some sort of meandering beaver logic, damming up here, letting through there, building canals and moats and artificial lakes. Frustrating if he was trying to make a point, simply entertaining when it didn't really matter, like now.
He thought about holding back and doing it slow and proper, fucking JC, but it seemed like too much trouble when the night was this hot and JC was this silky-smooth and sweat-damp and softly smiling, and Chris might have lube somewhere, but it would mean getting up, and just like a beer wasn't necessary, fucking wasn't either when they could just slide around like this. The sofa groaned and the wind caressed Joey's back along with JC's hands. He licked JC's throat, tasted hot and salt and felt his pulse with his tongue.
"F-fuck--" JC breathed, and Joey caught his mouth again and pushed him down into the couch, into the creaks and groans and the broken springs and tufts of dog fur, and JC panted into his mouth and clawed at his back, and one of Joey's legs slipped off the couch and he actually stubbed his toe on the uneven boards of the porch. "Hey," JC said and pulled at him, and they slipped slick and slippery against each other and it was starting to feel pretty damned hot, all sorts of hot, panting hot, sweaty hot and just-about-to-come-hot.
JC hissed and arched up against Joey and his hands were on Joey's ass, kneading and digging into the muscle, and just then the music fell silent between songs, just ended in a rumble of drums, and Joey pushed his tongue deeper into JC's mouth and silenced the cry. He was struck with a perfect flash of déjà vu, and remembered that the girl's name had been Claire, and he'd muted her whimpers with his mouth, too, and she'd bitten his lip just like JC did, and he came with a short grunt and some distant but spectacular fireworks.
"Whoo," he mumbled into JC's neck when he could breathe again.
"Whoo," JC agreed. "And euww, this couch stinks."
"Bitch bitch bitch."
"It does. I think Busta's, like, pissed in this corner." But JC was smiling lazily, and his eyelids were heavier by the second. JC was all about fuck-sleep-clean-up-later. Joey pushed himself up and tried to look energetic and efficient. JC looked wet and messy and delicious, and just falling asleep out here in the gentle breeze didn't seem like such a rotten idea.
Except there was always a mailman, or a milkman, or maybe Chris would poke his head out the back door and ask them if they wanted to play musical chairs now, at oh-dark-thirty am, because that was something Chris might come up with when he was drunk.
"Dude," Joey said. "Dude, you have to..." but JC was asleep under him, his face soft and relaxed, one hand curled loosely in the hem of his teeshirt. He'd dropped off right in the middle of pulling it down. Fucking adorable, Joey thought and rolled off him, landing gracelessly on the floor.
He draped JC's jeans over him, covering the important bits. The result was endearingly debauched. He laughed and found his own clothes. He was thirsty. He remembered that he and Claire had tiptoed through the quiet house and found a forgotten bottle of ginger ale in the fridge and shared it through a whispered conversation.
But the house wasn't quiet now, and if he went inside, he'd be pulled into some sort of nonsense game by Chris and Justin, and JC would be asleep out here, half-naked and post-coital, and maybe Joey wasn't all that thirsty, after all.
He pulled on his pants and shirt and sat down, rearranging JC's bare legs on his lap. He could just sit here for a while and wait for the morning or the party to end, whichever came first.
JC shuddered and murmured softly in his sleep, and Joey leaned over and pulled down his teeshirt. The couch sighed under them.
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