Title: Nervous in Your Own Jeans
Author: Kelandris the Mad 
Fandom: View Askewniverse, general
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob poem-fic. 
Rating: PG-13, maybe, for adult topics and a little language. Some 
kissing, heavy angst.
Status: New 
Archive: You must send an email to me and let me know where you 
intend to archive. Private archiving allowed as long as you don't 
intend to publish. Behave. 
Email address for feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequel: One-shot. Another Jay-in-a-club thang.
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Kevin Smith and the View 
Askewniverse. If I really get into this, I probably will too. Or at 
least go into hock when I walk into a video store, go into rut, and 
buy all the DVDs at once. 
Notes: Jay on drugs; seems to be a theme. :> At least this was a 
nice trip. I have no idea where this came from, either.
Summary: Jay tries to escape Bob's memory, and damn if that boy 
isn't good at tracking his ass down.

"Nervous in Your Own Jeans" 
by Kelandris 


Pretty boy
standing on the wall
uncomfortable in your own skin
nervous in your own jeans
finger in your hair

Boy with blond locks, at the edge of the silver metal floor. 
Shimmying on the sidelines, wearing greyed denim and faded black. 
Watching the lights, watching the dancers. Watching himself in the 
mirrors lining the far wall, segments of his reflection eaten by 
words he can't read.

Boy named Jay, denied a last name, didn't care to use it. Honoring 
his father was the last thing in his head. Right now, his head held 
too much of someone else to think of his father, and the tangled 
issues of love and hate and responsibility there. Right now his head 
was full of a certain bearded face, a certain pair of warm brown 
eyes, and that fast, he was on the dance floor, jiving with the 
swaying mass, feeling the pink circles Laina had passed him melting 
on his twitching tongue.

Laina and her pinks. She said she made them herself. He asked her 
once what was in them, and she just laid one finger on his lips, a 
purple-nailed finger redolent with the flavors of cloves and salt, 
sugar and citrus. "Dreams and desire, sweetness," she'd said. "Lust 
and honey. Makes the stars shimmer, kid, finest kind." And she'd 
removed her finger from his ardently sucking mouth, still smiling, 
and walked past him. Her hand grazed across his, placing something 
in the palm, and he looked down to see a silver tin wrapped in pink 
tissue paper. When he opened it, and dug through another square of 
pink tissue, he saw half a dozen small pink circles. A gift. An 
obligation. A challenge.

Jay loved a good challenge. Finest kind. 

angel on the dance floor
eating acid lollipops
to make your
skin fit better

Jay now, in the mix on the dance floor. The lemon-crystal, musky-
sweet circles on his tongue dissolved, liquified, running down his 
throat in streams of sweet fire. Blond boy moving in the crowd, 
hoping one of them, two of them, all of them will take away a certain 
pair of rich brown eyes, staring into his, staring so long and so 
hard that they just might figure out his secret. Jay's secret. The 
secret of everything. Why he lived with Bob, why he fought alongside 
him, why he fetched him beer and rubbed his feet and put up with his 
stupid John Hughes fetish. Also why he argued so much with him, 
insulted him so much, chased so many skirts around him. Staving off 
the inevitable. Staving off the admission, even to himself. Staving 
off the possibility. Of Bob. Silent Bob. His Muscle. His other 
half.

Twitching, he ran to the center of the crowd, the dancers parting 
like a secret dream, as if he'd choreographed them all. Running and 
dancing, ducking and leaping, anything to escape the thoughts 
circling in his head. Spinning, darting, moving back to the edge of 
the metal, grooving by the door, dancing by himself.

feeling like a movie star
invincible

His blood felt hot, pounding through him, as he spun on the edge 
between the black boards and the silver floor. Spinning, he was 
spinning, pulsing green lines cracking through the walls, the 
ceiling, the dance floor, invading reality. Shimmer and sparkle, and 
he could feel his hair, flying, flying...He stretched out his arms, 
laughing, looking up, and strong arms caught him, pulling his face 
down.

he is your heart
as you are his
tonight bathed in neon

He looked, and saw something true, something familiar, someone with a 
dear bearded face and a glossy black trench. He reached out, his 
hands tracing the contours of the beard, the lips, ruffling through 
the dark, dark hair, still shoulder-length after everything. All the 
thoughts, all the memories rushing at him, spinning him, making his 
hair fly out in an arc around him as his head spun around. Oh, yeah, 
he thought, fuck, yeah, let's do this. Yeah, Bob, this is a good 
dream, this is a very...good...dream...Pulling him close, he kissed 
him, free to act, free to react, free to enjoy and kiss and nibble 
and lick, from his lips across his jawline to his ears, hearing a 
gasp that sounded too loud, sounded too close, sounded too...real.

Jay, eyes like stars, pulled back and blinked, and Silent Bob was 
standing there, staring at him. He didn't say anything, he just 
shook his head towards the door. Not knowing what else to do, he 
trailed after, as always. Going home, he thought. Going home with 
Bob.

truth is always 
the hardest drug

"Oh, fuck," he said aloud.

END
(Poem from http://www.gaypoetry.com - dannyboyblue's "nervous in your 
own jeans"
****************