Pairing: Chris and Joey
Words: trendy; jet; console; chick
The thing with Chris was, he was deeply sentimental.
He didn't like to admit to it, because he didn't like to admit to any kind of weakness: Chris' image of himself was that he was tough, and could take on the world and defeat it, if necessary. But it was obvious to anyone who really knew him.
It was obvious to Joey that Chris had not taken Busta's death well, or his grandmother's, or the end of Fumanskeeto, and that all three things happening together was like September 11th all over again, only a personal September 11th, just for Chris, and there were no trendy red-white-and-blue banners to buy to reassure him that life went on and that everyone supported him.
Which was why, he knew, they suddenly had a mohawked band member, and he was missing the jet that was supposed to be taking him back to New York. Chris needed help, and he needed it from his friends. And, technically, yeah, there were two more of those available in Orlando who could do the job just as well, or for that matter, with Joey, but he was here by himself, because Chris needed him.
Now if only Chris was aware of that.
Chris slapped a game into the Playstation console and sat back with the controller. "You gonna play, Joe?"
"You okay, Chris?"
Chris looked at the controller, then at the TV, and back at Joey. "Um, yeah? Is this a trick question?"
"Chris..."
"Joey..."
He sighed. "I'm worried about you, man."
"About me?" Chris looked amused. "What for? What'd I do?"
"Well, your hair, and..."
"My *hair*?" Chris raised his eyebrows, and Joey felt stupid. It all made sense in his head, but it was hard trying to find a way to get it out without alienating Chris. Sometimes he could really feel for JC. "You're really a chick, aren't you?"
"Yes, because I have huge tits."
"Well, you do, but the guys and I agreed not to say anything about it."
Joey cuffed him on the head. "Shut up."
"Make me."
He sighed again. That would inevitably lead to a wrestling match with Chris. Joey wished Chris could be a little more like Lance, who would talk about what was bothering him, if he was prodded enough. But Chris wouldn't. His heart was too soft, and consequently, protected too well. Chris was good at protecting the things he cared about.
Joey gave in, launching himself from the couch in a surprise attack, grabbing Chris around the neck and rubbing his knuckles in his hair. Chris growled and squirmed, prepartory to launching his own counter-offensive.
When Chris needed comfort, he rough-housed. It didn't seem like much in the way of comfort to Joey, but it was what Chris would accept, what he needed, and in the end, was why he'd stayed.
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