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JJ drags Pope out to the water and Pope watches him surf.
The sun ripples over the wrinkles in the water and the way it looks makes Pope want to jump in. He doesn’t, though, just settles on watching JJ, predicting each easy lean of his back, each twist of his arm. He looks golden. Pope just wants to know what he’s thinking. It’s the one thing Pope can’t ever get down.
They don’t usually do this. JJ’s usually not dragging Pope to the water, but to some party in someone’s backyard. Pope won’t say he doesn’t like this more.
JJ runs out the water and puts down his board, flopping down next to Pope. JJ’s eyes are distant, gaze not quite there. Water droplets cling to his skin. Sand’s sprinkled down his legs. Pope wants to stop staring, he does.
JJ asks suddenly, “Do you ever think about leaving?”, and Pope stares at him again before responding. He can’t help it.
“Um, well … all the time. We’re supposed to love it here, like, unconditionally, as Pogues, but… All the time.”
Pope doesn’t ask why JJ’s asking. He doesn’t ask if he’s high; Pope knows he’s not. He recognizes the mood JJ’s in; he’s like this rarely, only when it’s just the two of them. It scares him how introspective JJ gets. It’s like reality hits him hard and fast, only when everything’s slow and the music’s off and there’s no weed or beer or girls, nothing to distract himself with, when there’s only Pope.
JJ takes time before stating, “Leaving fuckin’ terrifies me,” and Pope feels something swell in his chest. “I know you have like, plans for your future, big plans, but … I don’t. We both know that. But I wanna figure it out, and I, like, I need you for that. I don’t think I can live like this for my entire life.”
Pope scoffs, says, “Yeah, right,” and expects a chuckle but JJ doesn’t say anything. Pope looks over at JJ and JJ’s still looking out at the water, squinting at something he’s trying to articulate.
“Pope, you keep me here, make sure I don't run off too far. If it was just me and JB, I’d be in fuckin’ jail by now, man. I need you, I mean it.”
Pope knows JJ needs him, of course he does, but – it’s jarring to hear aloud after it’s become Pope’s fucking daily affirmation, hanging over him loud and demanding. That’s why his heart jumps, no other reason. And it irks him to hear JJ act like his recklessness is entirely a burden, because yeah maybe it is a little, but also, he’s fucking brilliant. He’s so great and he doesn’t realize it, and Pope thinks that’s what infuriates him most, because it makes him even greater.
JJ’s presence alone inadvertently brightens a room. Honestly, it might be brighter than the sun, if Pope’s the judge. And then JJ looks over at him with such intensity that Pope’s sure JJ’s brighter than the sun and a million more. He doesn’t know if he wants to squirm out of his skin or get closer. It doesn’t seem like any distance’ll quell the feeling stirring in his chest.
The moment’s over when JJ shoots up, looks Pope square in the face, and pointedly states, “Let’s go get high.”
“Today was eventful.” Pope says, him and JJ sitting on the floor, lit blunt between his fingers.
JJ scoffs. “We didn’t even do anything.”
“Yeah, well, eventful to me,” Pope says more truthfully than he’d like as JJ motions for the blunt. “Oh. Shit, sorry, I always hog it.”
“You’re good,” JJ mutters in quick forgiveness, taking a hit. He concedes, tacking on, ”Yeah. We need to do that more.”
There is nothing humorous in the tone in which Pope remarks, “What, go on dates?” so it makes sense that neither of them laugh.
JJ says, voice light as a feather, “Yeah, maybe,” and then he’s leaning in, on Pope’s lips so quick that Pope doesn’t get the chance to inhale.
The kiss isn’t anything passionate. Just warm and kinda dry and tastes like weed. But JJ knows what he’s doing, and it’s obvious; every touch seems practiced, every movement in his lips adept. Pope tries to kiss back, but he lets JJ do what he’s doing, and admittedly, it’s great.
Pope slowly pulls away when JJ starts sliding his absent hand up Pope’s thigh. Pope clears his throat involuntarily, watches as the flush drains from JJ’s cheeks, watches as his face goes from hazy to apprehensive to plainly guilty, an open book.
“Fuck, dude, um,” he runs a hair through his hair, “I uh … I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
When Pope doesn’t say anything, JJ adds, thinking out loud, “It doesn’t even like, make any sense that I did that. Like, I’m not even nearly high enough. I’m sorry.”
It stings, the way JJ writes it off, but Pope laughs anyway. Says, “Never heard you say sorry that much.”
If JJ’s shoulder’s could drop any lower, they would. He exhales before shooting back, “I only said it twice.” He says it absently, just watching Pope’s face. The curl of JJ’s lips is an apology, relief.
“Still,” Pope shrugs. He's still buzzing.
“Not even when I broke into your house at 3 am?” JJ asks, his gaze fierce. Pope fights not to squirm under it.
“Still,” Pope repeats, knowing JJ must’ve said sorry to Pope’s dad about 17 times that night. Pope has to brace himself before admitting, “Um, I’m not … I didn’t hate that. I liked it.” Pope says it vaguely on purpose because he’s scared, not that JJ’s in any place to make fun of anyone’s vulnerability right now (he’d do it anyway), but he’s afraid JJ didn’t really mean it, the kiss.
JJ’s eyebrows shoot up, and he seems to have the same concern, asking, “Do you mean that? You’re way higher than me.” (which, no, Pope’s not.)
“Of course I mean it,” Pope says too fast. “Not that I’ve been thinking about it or anything –”
“-- Okay. Can I do this?” JJ asks, leaning in and cupping a hand to Pope’s cheek, thrillingly and uncharacteristically tender. Pope can see through the confident front, JJ’s nervous as shit, but Pope can’t say he isn’t either.
And despite himself, the words, “Yeah, you can,” come to Pope easy.