an *mprov is a story written in realtime, via the *mprov chat room, in which participants throw a series of things at you which you must use in said story. But Tan and I cheated, because we are intimidated by chat rooms, so I'm using an 'i'. improv. note: I have no idea what a swingline is.
"Panéd. Landed. The time has landed. Time? Sooource? Source, force. Forces have landed. Um."
Chris groaned into the pillow. "What're you tryin' to rhyme?"
JC looked down at the man beside him and grimaced. "I didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry." Chris pushed himself up and over onto his back, laughing. "What the hell kinda song is that? 'I didn't mean to wake you up, sorry-- the forces have landed.'"
JC laughed. "It's our new USO song. You don't think it's a good idea? Figured we could get Lance in heels and a sailor skirt."
Chris shook his head, looking horrified, covering his eyes with heavy hands. JC's smile softened, and he sat his notebook down on the bedside table. Brushed his foot against Chris' calf.
"I know that I take you for granted."
Chris took away one hand and blinked at the other man. JC said, "That's the line I'm rhyming." Chris sat up and said, "oh." JC shrugged.
"Granted. Landed. Pomegranate. Ranted. Planted?"
"Planted," JC frowned, considering. "I know that I take you for granted. I know . . that you suffer from the doubts that I've planted?"
Chris chuckled. "Heavy. Lemme see your notebook." He took it when JC handed it to him, and flipped with a lover's expertise to twelve pages from the back and read, while JC settled back against the pillows and watched him.
"What's a swingline?" he asked.
"It's the part of the song that connects the bridge and final verse."
Chris smiled and shook his head. "Fruit." JC grinned.
After a minute, Chris turned to the front of the notebook. He said, "You still have 'em?" and the other man went still and said, "yeah. I mean-- they're there. and." Chris shook his head, meaning, hey. "It's cool."
"There're alot of these, man," he said, after minutes more, and JC shrugged uncomfortably.
"Big love, y'know?"
"Still?" Chris asked, without looking up.
JC brushed his foot against the other man again. "We talked about this before, baby."
Chis didn't answer, but read from the notebook in front of him.
"glinting, too soon, already / moved and moving / me, with your / big hands, big smile, / big glinting / heart of gold, heart of / plastic."
JC said, "Yeah. '98, right?"
Chris said, "Yeah." Then he grinned. "That was a fine year for Justins. Good crop, that year."
JC took the notebook away from Chris, then, and shut it and set it back on the bedside table. "That's what I hear."
"I didn't mean it like that."
JC looked up sharply-- because he was laying down, now, and Chris was sitting, gazing down at him in dark eyes. "No, hey. Neither did I."
Chris chuckled and shook his head, settled back down beside JC, slid an arm around him, pushed his mouth onto him, and then drew back, a little. "My favorite thing about Justin," he murmured against JC's mouth, "is everybody's favorite thing about Justin. His hair. 'Cause it always smells like that imported baby shampoo that nobody else, anywhere, uses. Y'know?"
JC nodded slightly, brushing his mouth across Chris'. "I'm not in love with Justin anymore," he said. Chris leaned into JC's offered kiss, before pulling back to look into the younger man's face.
"Yeah, you are. Me, too. But, fuck, man-- it's fuckin' _Justin_, and so is everybody in the whole goddamn cable-accessible world. Which is why it doesn't mean anything to him. Which is why it doesn't mean anything to _you._"
JC's hand came up around to pull at Chris' head, the soft spiky dark hair. "Is that why it doesn't mean anything to you?" he said.
Chris resisted JC's tug long enough to say, no. And then there was a long, deep kiss, and Chris rolling, pressing down on top of him. When he drew back, he was straddling the other man, one hand on the headboard, the other on JC's chest, holding himself up.
He looked down into the face beneath his, straining upward, mouth open, eyes open, book of forgotten love poetry on the bedside table, hands always moving-- and said, "This is."
me