Pairing: JC Chasez/Justin Timberlake
Warning: Angst. Adult content. Graphic male/male sex. I think that just about covers it.
Note: I get the impression that people could use a little distraction from the recent happenings, so maybe this will be enough to take your mind off things for at least a few minutes.
Summary: Wherein JC is, uh,... not JC.
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, don't imply. Don't read if you're underage. Thanks.
Justin shot up in the bunk, hitting his head at the low ceiling. He cursed, folded the letter again with trembling hands. Wiped his forehead dry. Closed his eyes.
He could do this. Just a letter he had to read. No problem. Just a letter. Nothing dangerous. It wouldn't bite him. Sheets, see? Just a letter. A text written with a normal pen. He had watched it himself, had JC seen writing it. Just a letter. He owed it to JC to read this. So he could do this. For JC.
Just a letter.
Yet he was still staring down at the papers in his hands as if they were about to transform into a deadly reptile the second he averted his eyes.
Speaking of JC...
With a sharp intake of breath, JC's body went rigid. He tossed to the other side, one of his arms hitting Justin in the chest. It slid downwards, downwards until one hand came to rest on Justin's waist, gripping it almost painfully. It was only when JC was settled comfortably in Justin's lap that he returned to his peaceful slumber, one arm still slung around Justin's waist as if clutching an oversized teddy bear.
If Justin had to describe their position with one word, then he would have chosen "awkward". Maybe not for JC - in fact, JC looked extremely comfortable -, but definitely so for Justin: When he had sat up, he had slid higher on the mattress so that his back was partly pressed against the wall. Only that the ceiling didn't allow him to sit up fully; he had had to curl into himself so that it looked like some stretching exercise. And now that JC was using him as his human pillow, laying down again was rather difficult if he didn't want to wake him up. Which he didn't, because JC had hardly slept during the last few days.
Cautiously, Justin shifted a little, tried to slide down without JC waking up, and to his surprise, JC let go long enough of his waist to settle on Justin's chest instead. Which was much better, considering that they were both comfortable now. Well, as comfortable as possible when sharing a way too small bunk - although with JC sprawled half over Justin, it didn't even feel all that cramped anymore.
Justin allowed himself a minute of stroking JC's hair, but the letter in his left hand seemed to cry out to him; the longer he ignored it, the louder it cried.
He took a deep breath.
Tangled one of his hands in JC's hair to calm himself.
Unclenched the fingers that were clutching the letter.
Closed his eyes in order not to see the words.
Opened one eye again.
The letter was still a letter and not a deadly reptile.
Opened the second eye.
Took another deep breath.
And finally started reading.
in some ways, this letter reminds me of the only other one of that sort I ever wrote to you. Do you remember? We were both so pissed back then. You because you thought I was acting like a jerk. And me because, well.
Not that we're fighting now. We were, but right now, while I am writing this letter to, or maybe rather for you, you're holding me to make it easier. It works, a little, but it's still hard.
God, Justin, this is so hard for me, having to write it all down, and if it were anyone else, if you weren't the one asking me for it, then I wouldn't do it. It's like having to relive this all over again, you know? Like a horrible nightmare, and then you wake up, glad that it's over, but the next time you fall asleep, there it is again. And again.
I wish it were only a nightmare.
And I know that I'm beating about the bush, Justin. I know. But as long as I'm writing about other things, I don't have to think about that night and can pretend it never happened. It's so much easier.
Damn you, Justin! Why do you have to make me remember?
I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just... God. I know that the only reason you're making me do this is because you care. I know it. But that doesn't change the fact that I don't want to remember. Not now, not ever. And I also know that trying to forget is not the right way to deal with it, that it would backfire in the long run, it's just that... It seems easier now.
I gave you my word, though. And I won't let you down.
Here we go.
I want you to close your eyes for a moment and recall that night, Justin. How much do you remember? Can you still see the dark alley behind the club? Can you still hear the rain spluttering on the cobblestone pavement? The bright circle of the next street lamp, too far away to really lighten the exit?
I do. All I have to do is close my eyes, and it's there. I can even smell the garbage cans around the next corner. Like it's burned in my head. I can still see myself leaving the club, I remember the sound of the door when it fell shut behind me. The way the rain soaked me because I stood there for a moment - maybe that was my mistake, that I didn't leave immediately.
I also remember the sound of the door when it opened again and that guy walked out, about a minute after I left. I didn't even turn around to look who it was until he suddenly slammed me against the wall. Out of the blue. Hurt.
He said a few things, called me a few names. I don't think I said anything in return. All I remember is being pressed against that wall and how cold it was and that I could feel every little crack on my back through my T-shirt.
Maybe I should have said something, but for some reason I thought it would be safer to just let him talk, and then he would go away. The second mistake, I guess, because instead of calming down, he became more furious with each passing second and pressed me harder against that wall. One of his hands was against my chest, and it felt as if I couldn't breathe anymore, and I was paralyzed and he just applied more and more pressure. Totally trapped, like in a press. No way out.
I don't know what it was that made him do it, but at some point, he decided that crushing me to death just wasn't enough, and that's when he started stroking my sides with the hand he didn't use to hold me in place. I started struggling, I think, but he had me pinned against that wall so tightly that it was no use. He even laughed at me. Said I should stop fighting what I wanted anyway.
I didn't want it, Justin, I swear I didn't.
It was... God, it was embarrassing and scaring and awful, and I just wanted to get away, but I couldn't because he wouldn't let me, started rubbing against me, all the while asking if that would turn me on, and if I wanted him to shove his dick up my ass. I said no and begged, I begged him to stop, Justin, and that just made him laugh even harder, and then suddenly I felt him undoing my zipper and he pushed his hand in my pants and started squeezing me and it hurt, Justin. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't, and...
I don't know. It was painful because he was, he... He wanted it to hurt, you know, and it did, and I don't know why, but I still got an erection. Physical reaction, that's what you said. Maybe you're right, but at that point, I probably started to cry. I don't really remember if I did because it's all like a big blur, but I know that he didn't stop squeezing and rubbing me, and then he got his second hand free because he didn't have to hold me in place anymore. It hurt too much to move, you know?
He used that hand to push two, maybe three fingers inside of me. Could have been a knife and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. I don't remember having an orgasm, either, all I know is that there was a sudden wetness in my pants, and that I thought it was blood.
How do you say that? It could have been a great deal worse? I guess that would be the right way to describe the arrival of those fans. They came out of the club, and he disappeared the moment he heard the opening of the door. Probably waited somewhere near to catch me as soon as the fans were gone, but I walked with them and they waited with me until I got into a cab.
Do you know how hard it is to act normal sometimes? But I tried, I really did. I smiled and gave them autographs and as far as I know, we even talked some. Can you believe that I was able to talk about the new album? I don't think I've ever been more glad to have our fans. He probably didn't even know who I was, so he thought that as soon as they were out of sight, he could come and get me, but you know our fans and how clingy they are, so of course they stayed with me until I was safe in that cab.
I guess I owe them, even though they don't know it. Wish I could remember their names.
The rest of the night is like a nightmare you only remember distinctly. The only moment that clearly stands out in my mind is when I got into my hotel room and looked at my clothes. I was so convinced that there would be blood, and to see that there wasn't, that it was actually semen... It might sound strange, but that was even more of a shock for me.
If there had been blood, then it would have been easier to convince myself that it wasn't my fault, you know? Like, there would have been visible harm, not only mental. And I probably shouldn't wish for something like that, but I still wish it had been blood.
Sometimes, physical pain is much easier to take than mental pain.
Sure, my body hurt a little, there was a slight bruise where he had been holding me, but nothing serious.
And the semen was sticking to me. I tried washing it off, but even after the fifth shower, I still felt it, and I couldn't get rid of it.
I don't think I would have had that much difficulties in washing blood off.
You pretty much know the rest, don't you? I didn't sleep that night. I cut myself off from all of you. I didn't sleep the next night, either. I was ashamed. I tried sleeping the third night, but after one, at most two hours I always woke up to my own screaming, so I gave up in the early morning hours. I don't know why nobody heard me.
When you trapped me in that elevator... I guess it was a good thing you did.
And I'm sorry I hit you. I know you're saying that it's okay, but it isn't. No matter how much I hurt, I didn't have the right to hurt you, Justin. I'd tell you to hit me in return, but I know you'd refuse, so all I can say is that I'm sorry and it won't happen again. Never. I promise.
I just realized that you most likely want to know what he looked like, don't you? But it was dark, like I said, and when the fans came out and the light of the door would have fallen on his face, he was already around the corner. So all I know is that he was tall and had dark hair. Longish, I think.
Justin, if you find him, can you promise me one thing? I don't want this to go to the police. I don't want strangers asking me about that night, what he did. I don't want the tabloids or the fans finding out, and they would. You know they would.
I don't think I am strong enough for that.
I am going to sleep now. Maybe, after writing all of this down, I'll be able to sleep again without having nightmares. Although I doubt it.
Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you. I don't even want to think about it.
For what felt like hours, Justin just laid there, eyes shut tightly, only distantly aware of the tears that were leaving salty traces on his face. His whole body felt numb and exhausted, the way it sometimes felt after an especially long rehearsal.
It wasn't until he had calmed down enough to release his tight grip on the sheets that he noticed that there was something missing.
JC still hadn't told him the reason why he had said that Justin was the one to blame.
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