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"Jesus!"
Chris reached for Justin's face, but Justin flinched back, his eyes flickering briefly before returning to the flat stare that Chris was unhappily accustomed to.
Chris settled for scrutinizing the cuts and purpling bruises, committing each to memory, trying to determine which would scab and which would scar, marks of defiance that Justin would wear proudly, and yet never mention.
"Lookin' at 'em won't fix 'em," Justin sneered.
"Can I?" Chris asked softly.
Justin's face tightened for a brief moment. Then he shrugged, a careless lift of thin shoulders, and Chris hurried for the towels and alcohol before Justin could change his mind.
"I don't get what you're trying to prove," Chris said a few minutes later, dabbing gently at the streak of blood cutting across Justin's eyebrow. Justin didn't respond, but hissed at the sting and sizzle of the ethanol. Chris shook his head. "Who was it this time? That Carter kid again?"
Justin snorted. "If Carter's recovered enough to show his face, I'll buy him a fuckin' cup of coffee." A mirthless chuckle escaped him. "He's gonna be lying low for years, man. Nah, it was - shit, careful, that fuckin' - it was that big Italian asshole."
Chris tried to remember. "The one with the girl?"
"Yeah, and the kid."
"Shit, a kid?" Chris frowned. "That's not cool, J."
Justin shrugged again. "He fuckin' started it. Don't bring your bitch and your baby if you're gonna try and steal my fuckin' corner. Fuckin' sympathy play, whatever, man, I could give a shit, you're still gonna get your ass kicked."
Chris winced at the harshness in Justin's tone. He couldn't help himself - every time Justin came back to the room cut and beaten and oozing blood, the arrogant fuck-it-all attitude notched up that much more, Chris was thrust back years, to the first time he'd seen Justin, shivering by the back of St. Simon's on Bloor, too young and blond and delicate to survive on his own. These days, Chris wasn't sure who was under whose wing.
"Hey boys, dinner's on me!" The flirty sing-song of JC's voice died away as he flounced into the room, and froze. His hand flew to his open mouth, the grease-stained Burger King bag dropping to the floor.
"Turn a good one?" Justin didn't turn to look at him; Chris was still wiping away the dirty red smears from under his eyes. He wasn't always willing to let Chris patch him up, but when he was, he always sat still for it, like his patience was a gift he was giving to Chris.
"Oh, baby." JC clucked his tongue, his face creased with worry that Chris was still learning to keep locked down. Justin didn't respond well to it, and Chris was getting increasingly desperate for those rare moments of good interaction that they used to share all the time. You had to be hard to stay alive out here, but you only hardened so much before you broke. Chris had seen it before, and he never wanted to see it with Justin. The vulnerability behind the shit-eating grin had diminished over the years, but Chris thought he could still see a glimmer of it from time to time.
JC wasn't going to pull it forward, though, he thought, watching JC flutter anxiously at Justin, retrieving the bag of fast-food, asking Justin if he wanted water or anything, sighing over the ragged tear in Justin's shirt. Justin answered him in grunts, his whole body tensing when JC ran a finger down his swollen right cheek.
"Baby, you'd be so pretty, if you'd just stop this crazy brawling thing."
Justin glared at him over Chris' shoulder. "Pretty like you, so I can hustle? I'll stick to fucking slinging, thanks."
"You sling yours, I sling mine." JC sounded slightly affronted, but he didn't push the issue. He was flighty as fuck sometimes, but he always shared whatever food he could afford, and Chris was grateful that Justin's prickly abrasiveness hadn't run him off, like it had with Jason and Lance. He saw those kids around now and then, and they always asked how he was doing, but they never asked about Justin.
"There," he sighed. The washcloth in his hand was stained pink, but Justin's face was clean. His eye was already blackening and his nose was almost definitely broken again, but when Justin flashed a tight smile at him, Chris thought, not for the first time, that he'd be happy to clean Justin up for the rest of his life. Well. Maybe not happy. But he'd take what he could get.
While they ate, JC sprawled on the bed and Justin and Chris sat cross-legged on the floor, their knees not-quite-but-almost touching. JC told them about the john he'd pulled - "Thirty for a handjob, and honey, this one's coming back."
"I've seen your dick, it ain't that great." Chris laughed at JC's horrified face.
"Bite your tongue, you! You should be so lucky!"
"Yeah, guess I should," Chris demurred, thrilling at the slight nudge of Justin's foot against his thigh.
"Damn right you should!" JC tossed a wadded-up napkin at Chris. "Don't knock 'til you've tried it - and it's been so long since you've tried it, it's like you never have."
Justin's foot pulled back and Chris coughed. "Ancient history, C."
"Offer's always open, baby."
Chris could practically feel the stony chill of Justin's expression. Quietly, without looking at him, he held out his cup of Sprite, and Justin bent to sip from the straw, his eyes fixed flatly on JC. He may have won the fight with Fatone, but Justin's instinctive territoriality never really stopped flaring up. Chris wanted to put a reassuring hand on Justin's shoulder, but he knew how that would play out, so he refrained. When Justin lifted his lips from the straw, Chris took a sip. The plastic was still warm from Justin's mouth.
"Well, darlings . . . " JC stretched and rose from the bed. "No rest for the wicked, isn't that what they say?"
"That's what they say," Chris agreed, and JC squeezed his arm, dropping a kiss on the top of his head before fluttering his fingers at Justin and leaving, with a promise to stop by tomorrow with some Advil, if they wanted.
"I don't want his fuckin' Advil," Justin grumbled as soon as the door closed.
"You'll want it tomorrow," Chris told him, suddenly tired of all the drama. It was like every week blurred into the next, nothing changing, except for the shell that was slowly and steadily encasing Justin. He was tired of the streets, tired of Justin fighting others and himself, tired of the illegal and often fruitless busking he got picked up for every few months - music school was never much more than a pipe dream for him anyway, and Toronto was threatening to leech any desire to sing, threatened to swallow it up in the bleak scramble for food and shelter. He used to sing to Justin sometimes, when things seemed less bad - things didn't seem that way very much anymore, and he wondered if Justin even noticed his silence.
"We're gonna leave," he said, so abruptly that Justin actually turned and looked at him. "This is bullshit. We're gonna make Wade loan us one of those fucked-up beaters in his yard, and we're gonna get the hell out of Dodge."
"Yeah? Where we gonna go?"
Chris shrugged. "Does it matter? Somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere but here." He snapped his fingers. "I got a cousin in Detroit. We're gonna go to Detroit. I'm tired of this shit."
"Detroit's a fuckin' black-hole waste, nothing there that ain't here." Justin's tone was still flat, but his eyes were flickering again, and Chris grabbed at that, latched onto that, as he grasped Justin's arms, pulling him up and over to the bed.
"Haven't you heard, America's the land of opportunity," he said into Justin's neck, and Justin tilted his head back just as he had years ago, sliding a rough hand into Chris' hair, pulling him closer even as his lips lifted from his teeth in a sneer.
"America's crap, Detroit's crap. Why go anywhere? C's here."
"C'll survive. I'm thinking about us." Chris worked his mouth around to the front of Justin's throat, sucking lightly, his hand skating down to the fly of Justin's thread-bare jeans. "One week, maybe two, we'll lean on Wade and we're outta here."
Justin's hand covered his, long fingers slipping between Chris' shorter ones, and together they eased Justin's zipper down. Justin sighed, sounding oddly young, sounding just right, when Chris reached in with a firm and gentle grip. "You think we can do that?"
Chris kissed the cut on Justin's chin, flicking his tongue along it, alternating with the strokes of his hand. "I know it."
Justin's hand moved to rest on the back of Chris' neck as his hips arched ever so slightly. "I'll lose all my cred here," he whispered, and then he hissed out air as Chris brought his palm up to his mouth, licked it wetly, and wrapped it back around Justin's cock, setting a faster pace, slick and hard, how he knew Justin liked it. Justin's leg shifted, moving between Chris' thighs, and he rubbed against it, grinding on the hard muscle, his nose full of Justin's scent, sweat and dirt and copper. Justin's fingers were moving, kneading along the tension in Chris' spine as he thrust into Chris' hand.
"Fuck your cred, and fuck me," Chris growled, and just like that, he was flipped onto his back, Justin looming over him, tugging his jeans off. Justin was always fierce, always ferocious, but his eyes were more than flickering as he bent his head and licked hungrily, messily, between Chris' legs, pushing at Chris' thigh, pressing it back as he slicked Chris up with his hotly wet mouth and tongue. Chris grunted desperately, pushing back at him, needing him, and there it was, there it was, the emotion raw on Justin's face, breaking like a wave on the shore as he slid greedily into Chris, fitting Chris' leg over his shoulder and pressing in, thick and full, and Chris could feel him everywhere.
"Say yes," he managed, his fingers gripping Justin's upper arms so tightly that it was probably going to leave bruises matching his face, but Chris didn't care. "Say yes," he repeated, squeezing his ass tightly around the thrusting heat of Justin's cock.
"Shit, shit . . ." Justin's eyes slipped shut, the exertion beading sweat on his forehead. "Okay, okay, if you want, okay, just, please . . . "
"Yes," Chris whispered, and craned his neck to suck at the underside of Justin's jaw, and Justin shuddered, and said yes, and came in a convulsing shiver of wet warmth, pulsing in Chris, breath coming in hitched gasps as his head fell to Chris' shoulder. He was still inside when he jerked Chris off with a sweaty, grasping hand, so rough, so fine, that it only took a minute, and Chris was coming too.
"Yes?" Chris asked again, against Justin's ear, and Justin nodded, and it was like he was that fifteen-year-old again, ready to follow Chris' instincts, ready to trust him. It was a good feeling, and Chris wrapped his arms around Justin, suddenly hopeful, suddenly happy. His smile felt like it was all around him, when Justin's arms stole around his waist and held him tight. It was going to be alright. He hummed a little, then a little more, an older song, Simon and Garfunkel, and to his surprise and pleasure, Justin came in on the verse, his voice scratchy but strong.
" . . . I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains . . . "
And Chris knew, yes. It was going to be alright.