Wow, this was so not how this piece was supposed to be.
It was born from a drunken night out with a friend, when we were wondering along talking about Chastine (as you do) and she thought I sad "Chastine sax" instead of "Chastine sex". And then she told me to write a fic about it. It was supposed to funny and lighthearted, with John throwing the sax out of the window, or something, but then it got quite dark, and this is what I ended up with. Oh well, let me know what you think!
It was through sheer boredom that he stumbled across them.
At first he couldn't believe what he was seeing. John's apartment may have been many things –dirty, falling down, empty, mouldy- but one thing it was not was cluttered. Which was why Chas was so surprised when he found the door, carefully concealed behind John's bed, and even more surprised when he found what was behind the door.
He had been sick of sitting by himself in John's –always John's, never his- apartment all day, Constantine off doing God knows what God knows where. He hadn't bothered to wake Chas before he left, which was an event in itself. He usually took unprecedented glee in dragging Chas out of bed anytime before nine am. Chas would have loved dearly to return the favour, but John was always up before the crack of dawn. Chas suspected some nights he didn't bother to sleep at all, but didn't dare broach the subject.
It was all still too new.
'It' was what he had taken to calling the…thing between John and himself, or at least in his head anyway. He didn't mention it at all when Constantine was around, it was easier that way because neither of them would have to deal with difficult questions and uncomfortable answers. Chas wasn't sure what they were doing. Sure, physically he was aware (how could he not be) but emotionally? He didn't have a clue.
And so there he was on a Friday afternoon, unexpected spare time on his hands and a distinct lack of inspiration.
He had been lying upside down on the bed, strangely comforted by the musky smell that clung to the sheets, evidence of exactly what 'it' had resulted in sometime in the early hours of the morning, when John couldn't sleep and only felt it fair that Chas shouldn't either. He was lazily debating changing the sheets, watching a fly's languid progress as it crawled across the far wall, when he saw a seam.
He blinked, sitting up.
A seam? Since when did walls have seams?
Scrambling onto his knees, he shuffled forward, running his hand along the seam, following its path up and along a sharp right angle. He knocked, cautiously, underneath it and was unable to stop the grin that spread across his face at the hollow sound.
It was a door.
In no time at all he had managed to shift the bed away from the wall and, after a few moments of struggle, pried the door open using the edge of John's dragon breath flame thrower.
He pulled open the door. And stared.
Junk.
Junk, clutter, useless bits and bobs.
A whole cupboard full.
At first Chas was delighted, fully intending to use this as blackmail material in the not too distant future; after all, who would have thought that John, cool, calm, existential John Constantine, had a cupboard full of junk?
But as he began to actually look at the stuff he realised slowly that it wasn't junk at all.
There were boxes filled with newspaper articles, photographs, an old high school year book. There were broken weapons, lovingly used, books, even a sack of carefully folded clothes.
Some of the stuff wasn't even old; Chas recognised a small, delicate Egyptian statue that John had picked up at Midnite's last week.
He'd proclaimed the statue worthless, and later told Chas he'd thrown it away. Chas reached for it now, his hand curving around the head, the smooth, intricate metal, warming against his palm. It may have been worthless, but it was beautiful.
He carefully placed the statue back where it had come from, and reached further into the cupboard, dislodging a shoebox at the top of the pile. He swore, watching as it fell, bursting open and showering him with random objects; worn out lighters, collector's beer caps, a large silver cross.
And a photograph of himself.
He went very still, staring at the photo for a moment before reaching for it, hesitantly, as if it might burn him.
He didn't remember John taking this photo. In fact, he couldn't remember John ever taking a photo of anyone, anywhere. Somehow a camera just didn't fit in with his image.
It hadn't been take very long ago, Chas noted, and he was obviously unaware he was being pictured, as he was half facing away from the camera, leaning moodily against the door of his cab, his hat, for once, not on his head, his hair blowing gently in the breeze.
It was slightly out of focus, taken from a distance, and Chas felt suddenly strange, knowing that John had been watching him, picturing him whilst he was unaware.
He stared at for a few moments longer then shifted his gaze to the rest of the stuff.
He should put this back. John could be back any second, and would be none too pleased to find Chas rifling through his private things.
He began to shove boxes back into the cupboard, keeping the photograph held in his hand. He picked up a stack of sheet music, and was about to toss it carelessly back inside, when he realised it was all handwritten, and in the right top corner the words 'by John Constantine' were scribbled.
He blinked.
John…wrote music?
He sat back on his heels, regarding the music a bit more closely, then turning abruptly to the next sheet, and the sheet after that.
It was all written for the saxophone. All of it.
Following a sudden suspicion, he began to rifle back through the closet, searching purposefully now. He pulled a big heavy box to one side, and there he found them, draped with an old velvet curtain.
Two saxophones. Two glorious, beautiful, perfectly intact saxophones.
He reached out to touch one, carefully, skimming his fingers across the metal surface.
He grinned. This could be interesting. Very interesting indeed.
Constantine stared, open mouthed at Chas.
"What?"
"I said I can't drive you today." Chas shrugged. "Got stuff to do."
Constantine narrowed his eyes dangerously. Chas had been acting weird all week, but this? This was the final straw.
"Look kid," he growled. "I don't pay you just to slack off whenever you feel like it."
"Actually John," Chas replied cheerfully. "You don't pay me at all."
"I let you sleep here, don't I?"
He winced inwardly when he realised how cold that sounded, as if by sleeping with Chas he was merely doing him a favour.
Chas seemed unfazed though. He simply rolled his eyes.
"Sorry. Gotta go."
"Chas!" Constantine followed him to the door. "You're not seriously just going to drive off are you?"
Chas, halfway out the door, shrugged his shoulders and carried on walking.
John stared after him. Jesus, when had Chas grown up? Only last week he was clinging to John and whining about being left in the car again.
Constantine hesitated for a moment, torn between being an adult or letting his curiosity win over.
He ran downstairs, hailing the nearest cab and leaping inside.
"Follow that taxi," he said, eyes never leaving Chas's cab, already fifty metres in front of them.
The cabbie nodded his head.
"Yessir."
It was night time when Chas finally came home.
Constantine was waiting for him, sitting at the table in the dark, as he had been doing all afternoon. He had let the slow burning rage he had experienced ever since he saw where Chas had gone grow through the hours, and now it was a burning, painful mass, just waiting to be released.
And boy, was he going to release it.
Chas stumbled coming in, and the door slammed shut behind him. Constantine didn't move, watching him through narrow eyes.
"John?" called Chas.
There was a muffled bang followed by a curse, and then the light was flipped on.
Chas started at the sight of him.
"You scared me," he said, with a slightly nervous smile. He was holding a large black bag in one hand.
John didn't move or speak, just stared unnervingly at Chas until Chas fidgeted, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck self consciously.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "You look kind of weird."
"I know what you're doing," John said.
Chas froze, his face paling distinctly.
"You do?"
"I do."
John waited. Waited for all the reasons and excuses. Stuff that wouldn't matter.
"Are you mad?" Chas asked.
Constantine didn't need to answer, his eyes darkening significantly, and Chas gulped.
"I guess I should explain."
"Yes," John agreed coldly. "You should."
To his surprise, Chas looked slightly annoyed.
"Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but it's not that big of a deal. You don't need to be so pissed off."
John stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. Not that big of a deal? That little asshole!
"Lying? Sneaking around? Being a complete idiot? No, not a big deal at all!"
Chas actually had the nerve to look angry now.
"An idiot?" he repeated. "An idiot. Well thanks a lot, John. Thanks a fucking lot. How the hell would you know anyway?"
"I've been following you, you little bastard!"
Chas glared coldly at him.
"Got a good eyeful, did you?"
"I saw everything I needed to."
"For God's sake!" Chas threw up his hands in exasperation. "It was nothing! It was just a bit of fun!"
"A bit of fun?" John repeated, voice dangerously quiet. "A bit of fucking fun?"
And he let fly.
Constantine had always known himself to be a slightly violent man, he certainly wasn't afraid to throw the first punch, but even he couldn't have predicted the strength of his reaction.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had leapt up from the chair, pushing Chas hard against the door, and wrapping his hands around his throat.
Chas's eyes bulged, his hands flying to John's at his throat, tugging them in panic, and some small part of John's brain warned him that Chas couldn't breathe, but he was too far gone to take notice, the feeling of Chas struggling desperately beneath him only causing him to tighten his hands further.
Pain exploded in his groin, and he stumbled backward, Chas's knee making its mark, as he fell against the table, gasping for breath.
Chas was coughing, bent double, still pressed against the door.
"You're fucking deranged!" he gasped. "You're a fucking psychopath!"
John felt that anger, that rage sweep through him again, and he lunged back towards Chas, but Chas was too fast for him, darting to the side and around the table.
"Stay the hell away from me!" he shouted, eyes wild, panicked.
"Can't handle the consequences?" John taunted darkly.
"It was just a fucking saxophone!" Chas yelled.
Huh?
John glared at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"What do you mean, what am I talking about? You said you knew! You just tried to strangle me because of it!"
John stared at him. What on earth did a saxophone have to with the fact that Chas was cheating on him?
"I saw you today, Chas," he said. "I saw you today with him."
"I don't know what you mean!" Chas cried.
"You're cheating on me, you little shit!"
Chas blinked, once, twice, and all the fight, all the panic seemed to leave him.
"What?" he whispered.
"Don't try to deny it. I saw. I fucking saw you."
Chas's expression had changed. His face was cold, his eyes hard, flat.
"You bastard," he said.
For the first time that evening, Constantine began to feel unsure.
"I'm not cheating on you," Chas said, lips twisting into a sneer. "But okay, if you want to know what I'm doing so bad, here."
He picked up the black bag he'd brought in with him and flung it at John. He caught it, colliding with his chest in a surprisingly painful thump.
Inside there was a saxophone and some music.
His music.
He stared at it, heart pounding, suddenly feeling very confused and very, very uneasy.
"The guy you saw me with used to be my teacher. He said he'd help me brush up. So we could play together."
John's mouth had gone dry. He didn't dare look up.
Chas walked past him, to the door. He opened it, then stopped suddenly.
"You might as well keep this," he said, thrusting something at Constantine. "It's all you'll be getting of me from now on."
He left, the door slamming in his wake.
John stared at the photograph in his hand, the one he'd taken of Chas a couple of months ago, before they'd got together. He had been using the cheap disposable camera for pictures of a recent exorcism and had come out of the house to see Chas, oblivious, staring moodily into the distance. He'd raised the camera and clicked, without even thinking about it.
He looked from the photograph to the music in his other hand. His music. That Chas was learning. For him.
Oh shit.
Chas was cold.
Why the hell hadn't he grabbed a jacket when he stormed out of the apartment? Why didn't he have the foresight to think about these kind of things?
He shivered, tucking his hands into his sleeves and hugging himself a little tighter.
He would just have to stick it out, because there was no way he was going back to John's apartment. He would stay here, all night, and then get his stuff in the morning, after John had left for work. He wasn't going to continue living with him now. Not after the asshole had accused hi of cheating and then tried to strangle him.
He sat there for immeasurable time, getting colder and colder, his bruised throat painful, until he heard the familiar heavy tread approaching the bench he was sitting on. He closed his eyes and prayed to be left alone.
"I'm sorry."
Chas didn't move. It was going to take a lot more than sorry.
"Chas."
He heard John sigh and then sit down on the bench next to him. Chas scooted to the far end.
"Don't do that," John said. "Chas, look at me." He reached to grasp Chas's arm, and Chas jerked away.
"Don't fucking touch me," he snapped, glaring at John defiantly.
He saw John's eyes dip to his sweater collar, his face going suddenly very still, and Chas reached a self conscious hand to his bruised throat.
"Jesus," John breathed, closing his eyes, his head drooping onto his chest.
Of Chas hadn't known him so well, he almost might have thought John Constantine was praying.
When John opened his eyes again, they were clear, no nonsense.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "Please come home."
Chas shook his head.
"You can't stay out here. It isn't safe."
Chas laughed bitterly. "And it's safe in there?"
For a fleeting moment John looked pained, but then the expression passed, and Chas wasn't sure he didn't imagine it.
"I deserved that," John said. "Just please come back. You can leave in the morning, do whatever you want, but you don't have anywhere to go tonight."
Chas regarded him suspiciously.
"Look, I'll sleep under the fucking table, kid, if that's what you want."
Chas suddenly felt so sad, so tired.
"How do I know you won't hurt me again?" he asked.
He wasn't that person. He wasn't the one who got beaten up. That happened to other people, to other idiots. Not him.
John looked sad and tired, and Chas realised he was about to cry.
"Fine," he said standing quickly, turning away so John couldn't see his face. "Fine."
They walked back in silence
True to his word, John slept under the table, or at least alongside it, stretched out on the floor staring blankly at the ceiling.
He'd promised himself that he wouldn't push Chas, but when Chas cried out, lost in the throes if a nightmare, he got up, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling him into his arms.
"Chas," he whispered, shaking him gently. "Wake up."
Chas opened his eyes, bright with pain and tears, and pulled John to him, wrapping their bodies together and kissing him, and they fucked and made love and it was beautiful and broken.
It was two months to the day, John realised, as he approached the bowling alley that afternoon. Exactly two months since that awful night that neither of them ever mentioned, but could never forget.
He wouldn't push Chas. Chas would talk when he was ready.
He knew Chas was still afraid, fleetingly, of his temper, but he also knew that it didn't matter how many times he told Chas he would never hurt him again; the only way to prove it to him was to show him.
So he was patient. He pretended not to see the flinches, the momentary panic. He knew they would be okay, eventually.
He climbed the stairs to the apartment, fumbling in his pocket for his key in case Chas was asleep, when he stopped.
There was music, beautiful, haunting saxophone music filling the hallway.
Silently, he pushed open the door, and in the middle of the room stood Chas, eyes closed as he felt his way up and down the keys, the heartbreaking melody filling the air.
He stopped abruptly when he saw John, blushing.
"Don't stop." John closed the door behind him. "It was good. A little sad maybe, but very good."
Chas smiled slightly, carefully placing the instrument on the table.
"Maybe later," he said.
John ordered takeaway for them that night, and afterwards, whilst Chas was reading a book, he went to the bed, pulled it forward and dug his saxophone out of the cupboard.
Chas looked up, startled, as John stood over him, saxophone in hand.
"Why do you have two?" he asked. "I've always wondered."
"One was my mother's," John replied quietly.
Chas nodded, his eyes flickering thoughtfully along the instrument.
"So," John asked. "You about ready for it?"
Chas twisted his lisp thoughtfully, then looked up with a sudden grin.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I am."
John smiled, passing the second saxophone to Chas.
Chas stood up.
"Let's jazz, Chas."
But instead of playing, Chas leant towards him, kissing him deeply on the lips, opening his mouth to welcome John's tongue inside. He pressed their bodies together, a hand reaching up to tangle in John's short hair.
"John?" he asked, when they finally broke apart.
"Yeah?" John asked against his lips, slightly breathless.
"Never say that again."
John laughed.
"Whatever you say kid. We gonna do this or what?"
And so they played.