Jameson // Metallica

EIGHT LETTERS

Jason breathes slow and deep; the damp heat of his own respiration becomes trapped against the pillow that is shoved beneath the side of his face. It is quickly becoming uncomfortable, but the still moment in which he has ended up is precious enough for him to suffocate in his own carbon dioxide, if that's the price that must be paid. There is no force on the face of the planet that could will his muscles to move now.

He tries to pay attention to the sensations that move along his bare back, but his eyes stubbornly refuse to open and his body is sated and weak. Sleep looms dangerously close, but he keeps it at bay with thoughts of the past hour. Seemingly tangible recollections flash through his brain--a kiss that still tingles against his throat, long hair that tickles and skates maddeningly across his chest--and these are enough to tighten his stomach and send his heart into the same tachycardic frenzy that it had been in during the act itself. The reaction serves to keep him awake enough to enjoy what is happening now.

A single digit flows across his back, using his skin as canvas for invisible marks. A calloused fingertip loops easily around one shoulderblade, and then slides downward fluidly in a series of arcs and lines. One blunt fingernail scrapes lightly beside his spine, and he's too tired to shiver when gooseflesh breaks out over his entire left side.

Jason inhales sharply and does his best to muster the energy to speak.

"Was that my name?"

His voice is rough gravel, probably having something to do with the gross overuse it had suffered in the very recent past. It causes an irritating tickle in his vocal chords and he clears his throat reflexively.

James' voice sounds almost as weary, although Jason imagines that he can hear the smile come through hand-in-hand with the single spoken word.

"Yeah."

Jason smiles back, even though James can't see it.

For several minutes, the whir of the climate control system and the occasional rustle of sheets as James moves his feet are the only sounds in the dark room. James' finger picks up its rhythm once again--a slow, calculated script--and Jason is nearly asleep by the time the hand lies flat and still on his back. The lack of movement wakes him up a little, but trying to force his synapses to fire with any sort of accuracy is proving difficult.

"That one was longer."

"Mmhmm."

"Seven letters?"

"Eight."

"Hmm. 'Fuck off'?"

"That's not very nice."

"Exactly."

"Anyway, that's only seven letters."

"Oh. 'Fuck off, J'?"

James snorts. "Come on."

"I give up."

"You can't give up."

"Mm. Do it again. Slower."

James pauses for a moment, apparently considering the request, before obliging. Once more, he drags the pad of his finger along Jason's back, over smooth skin and defined muscle, re-tracing his previous path with an even slower, more deliberate cadence. When finished, his hand rests comfortably against Jason's lower back.

"Oh, shit. I know what it said."

Time skips a few beats before James replies. Jason thinks that maybe James is holding his breath, and is too tired to try and figure out why.

"What, then?"

"It said, 'Jason, I know you're fucking exhausted, go to sleep.' Right? Right?"

Jason can nearly feel James rolling his eyes in the dark.

"Fine. Go to sleep."

"You, uh.."

"What?"

"You gonna stay?"

"I'm not gonna be here in the morning, if that's what you're asking."

"Until then, though?"

"Just go to sleep, Jase."

Jason does, but not until he feels James lie down and stretch out against him.

__________________________________________

After Jason closes the door behind himself, he leans heavily against the wall. The hallway, carpeted in its ugly purple and green geometric pattern, does nothing to curb the nauseous vertigo that roils in his head and stomach.

It's amazing, he thinks, how many of his life-changing moments have taken place in hotel rooms. Whether it was a cockroach infested hole in the wall, or a five-star penthouse suite, it didn't matter. That's not what made the difference.

Before he can realize it, his subconscious conjures the picture of laying in bed with James, all those years ago. A hotel room. A game they had played. The rare, tender touch of James' fingers against his skin. James had insisted that he wasn't going to spend the night, yet he'd woken Jason up with his snoring at nine o'clock the next morning.

Jason pushes off the wall and stands in front of the door he's just exited. Puts his hand against it. Tries to listen to the people on the other side, but can only make out garbled voices. Neither of the voices belong to James. James didn't speak much the whole time. He'd glared; and when the glare failed to keep Jason quiet this time, he'd turned his back on the room like a sullen child and pretended not to be listening. Jason imagines Kirk behind the closed door, still curled up crying in the corner. Lars would no doubt be on the phone by now, talking about contracts and auditions.

Jason takes his hand off the door, straightens his spine and marches to the elevator.

Again, he thinks about a game they'd played more than ten years ago.

All that time, and Jason has never figured out what James had written. James never said it out loud.