DISCLAIMER/AN: I don't own Constantine, but I do own that LustingForJohn!Chas rather than just Movie!Chas or Hellblazer!Chas. So this is one of those John/Chas (Yes, S L A S H) fics that's a little OOC because I chose to characterize Chas as lusting for John. And you know, who doesn't love that Chas?
XD Love Love!
He couldn't help himself whenever John wasn't around. He couldn't help but sit in the last chair that John had sat in, a bit of warmth still left in the chair's spine from that body that he knew so well. Moving from chair to chair had gotten all too familiar for him, and he made sure that John never saw.
He couldn't help but touch the letters that John had read; his fingerprints were probably still there, he thought, and he would touch them up and down until his own prints covered the past. He wished that some of these letters could have been from himself rather than old girlfriends and churches that were humbly asking his service. One day, he told himself, he'd write John a letter, and he did just that; but John would never see it.
He couldn't help himself when he was around this so-named person. He took in the smell of tobacco, the second-hand smoke that rose up from the blunted cigarette. Sometimes he'd pick it up and put it to his mouth just to feel the last traces of John's lips; the ones that he always watched when John was talking to him. He knew that secretly they were soft, and that some day he wanted to kiss them. He'd play the scenario out in his mind, but John would never experience it.
He couldn't help but put that glass up to his mouth and drink the last drops of the liquor that had touched John's mouth. He tasted the bitterness of it all but felt a deep connection knowing that it was the same thing that John tasted every day. His breath fogged the sides as he held it to his mouth for a few too many seconds, and he set it back down on the table. One day, he thought, he'd drink the same liquor and with John, but John would never say yes.
He especially couldn't help himself when John wasn't around. He'd talk to himself, write down his thoughts, thinking himself so fucking girly that maybe he'd just stop thinking about them. He wanted to show them to John, pull them out and shove them into his hands and wait for that wanted reply. But John would never see these secret thoughts because when they were finished being written they were burned.
Sometimes, he thought, John would catch up to his trail. He'd erase everything, though, hiding his lasts steps to wherever he'd been. He'd straighten out the sheets of John's bed where sometimes he'd just lay, looking at the other side where John's body-outline still sat. He'd burn those papers, he'd stop talking, and then eventually he stopped watching those lips.
Only John was still oblivious to Chas, and he'd do it all over again.