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Nov. 14th, 2001
JC was a big believer in doing things that made you feel nice. Like, when he had jasmine tea, he poured it into this greenware handleless cup he’d picked up in Japan. When he was writing, he used dark, soft-leaded pencils or smooth gel pens that flowed across the page without a stutter. There were round cedar beads littered among all of his clothes so sometimes when he put them on, there would be a clean woodsy whoosh of scent when he turned. Small things like that, things that just made life a bit more pleasant. Justin called JC’s little quirks his “comfybobbles” in that half derisive-and-unconcerned, half admiring-and-adoring way that he had, and as was so often the case with mixed-around words and *nsync, the term stuck.
None of them could deny that the comfybobbles came in handy, though, when one needed to indulge in pure thought-free feeling. Lance, who was often at the mercies of his senses, was the first to succumb--to cups of tea accompanied by oatmeal cookies with chocolate melted on them, because deep down inside Lance was still all about comfort food and sweet sticky delights that made him smell like candy and childhood, like he wasn’t some grownup dealing with contracts and management and Very Important Things.
There was one particular sweater of JC’s that Chris would steal when he wanted something to disappear inside, because it was an old ribbed one with a high neck that JC had ripped the cuffs and hem of off so now there were snagged threads pulling here and there, one particularly long venting ladder down the back, and for some reason it was just about the most comfortable thing to wear in the whole wide world. JC only wore it to go shopping when he wanted to be incognito. Chris materialized in it when he was feeling icky and didn’t want to talk about it, and then later, the sweater would be neatly back among JC’s stuff.
Joey had turned out to be particularly susceptible to one comforter of JC’s that was plump enough to feel decadent and snuggly but small enough to be portable. It was covered in a dark blue sham that his mom had given him ages ago; nothing but ordinary cotton, but it was really really good cotton that got soft like dolphinskin with every wash. That was when Joey liked it best, when he was feeling unsure about himself from tip to toe, and JC never got the comforter when it was fresh out of the dryer because Joe would practically camp out, unloading it like it was samite and swaddling himself in it until it cooled down totally or he fell asleep. Sleep normally came first, though.
And the noise Justin made when JC played with his hair just so, tugging harder on the curls at the back of his head and just whisping by the front ones so there was only the merest tickle, was so unconscious and helpless and resoundingly content that even when JC was kind of tired or not in the mood and Justin came over and sprawled in his lap or at his feet, head judiciously positioned for the best possible hair-playing-with angle, there was just no resisting. And Justin was always so sweet and appreciative afterwards (if he managed to stay awake), and even sometimes made desultory but well-meaning attempts to tweak JC’s hair the way he liked it.
JC had surrounded himself with all of this stuff and picked up these habits because they made him feel good, and somewhere along the way they’d made the others feel good as well. They all grew accustomed to being comfortable with things and doing what made them happy, if circumstances permitted. So JC didn’t think anything of it when he leaned into Joey, pressing against the ploshiness of the blue comforter, and tasted the surprised warmth of Joey’s mouth.
Because that made him feel good, too.
None of them could deny that the comfybobbles came in handy, though, when one needed to indulge in pure thought-free feeling. Lance, who was often at the mercies of his senses, was the first to succumb--to cups of tea accompanied by oatmeal cookies with chocolate melted on them, because deep down inside Lance was still all about comfort food and sweet sticky delights that made him smell like candy and childhood, like he wasn’t some grownup dealing with contracts and management and Very Important Things.
There was one particular sweater of JC’s that Chris would steal when he wanted something to disappear inside, because it was an old ribbed one with a high neck that JC had ripped the cuffs and hem of off so now there were snagged threads pulling here and there, one particularly long venting ladder down the back, and for some reason it was just about the most comfortable thing to wear in the whole wide world. JC only wore it to go shopping when he wanted to be incognito. Chris materialized in it when he was feeling icky and didn’t want to talk about it, and then later, the sweater would be neatly back among JC’s stuff.
Joey had turned out to be particularly susceptible to one comforter of JC’s that was plump enough to feel decadent and snuggly but small enough to be portable. It was covered in a dark blue sham that his mom had given him ages ago; nothing but ordinary cotton, but it was really really good cotton that got soft like dolphinskin with every wash. That was when Joey liked it best, when he was feeling unsure about himself from tip to toe, and JC never got the comforter when it was fresh out of the dryer because Joe would practically camp out, unloading it like it was samite and swaddling himself in it until it cooled down totally or he fell asleep. Sleep normally came first, though.
And the noise Justin made when JC played with his hair just so, tugging harder on the curls at the back of his head and just whisping by the front ones so there was only the merest tickle, was so unconscious and helpless and resoundingly content that even when JC was kind of tired or not in the mood and Justin came over and sprawled in his lap or at his feet, head judiciously positioned for the best possible hair-playing-with angle, there was just no resisting. And Justin was always so sweet and appreciative afterwards (if he managed to stay awake), and even sometimes made desultory but well-meaning attempts to tweak JC’s hair the way he liked it.
JC had surrounded himself with all of this stuff and picked up these habits because they made him feel good, and somewhere along the way they’d made the others feel good as well. They all grew accustomed to being comfortable with things and doing what made them happy, if circumstances permitted. So JC didn’t think anything of it when he leaned into Joey, pressing against the ploshiness of the blue comforter, and tasted the surprised warmth of Joey’s mouth.
Because that made him feel good, too.