"My hand's cramping like a bitch," Justin was whining, though still leaning into his Carmageddon turns and flicking his thumbs into pale fleshy blurs.
"Hey, you can give up any-- any time you like," Chris muttered, then gave an indignant yelp when Justin's elbow jostled forcefully against his ribs, and the car on his side of the screen span wildly before exploding into a flame-flickering crush of pixels. "You fuck," Chris growled, sounding truly enraged, launching himself on Justin and sending them both sprawling across the room.
Lance watched tolerantly, feeling his grin widen on his face as Justin flicked them over again and tackled Chris' ribs from the prime position of straddling his belly. "I am the tickle-miester," he crowed, as Chris quaked and panted and looked like his whole body was trying desperately to hide behind his hands.
"That's a really dumb word," JC said, walking across from his bunk. "I'm gonna have to go out in the dark to find a better reception. This fucking thing..." he shook his phone irritably, then held it to his ear, then tucked it back in his pocket with disgust. "It's on my list -- first thing when we reach a city is a new phone, 'cause this one? you'd have better luck trying to shout them, I swear-- guys, are you even listening at all?"
"Yeah," said Lance, who was. He may look like he was tracking the jerking surface of Chris' chest down to where it leapt and rubbed against Justin's crotch, fabric riding up guilelessly, but he was definitely listening. He'd heard every word JC had said. And it'd made sense. Totally.
He blinked. "JC?" he prompted, looking up and trying not to sound guilty. JC was watching the Chris/Justin wrestle/torture with an amused frown.
"They," he said, with an aborted hand gesture towards them, then grinned at Chris' howl of laughing rage and waved them on. "I give up-- back in ten, k?"
There was another semi-shriek, modulating into a growl that could only be described as predatory, and Lance could imagine the delight on Justin's face. Chris must be able to feel every inch of his cock.
"K," Lance said, concentrating on not looking at them, especially not that shaking stomach and it's smooth, pale lines, most definitely not looking at the soft bulk in Justin's chinos where Chris was rocking and writhing.
Hoo, no. Catch him staring like that. JC was a better option. Make that JC's retreating back... his heels... the closed snap of the door...
Faced with no other alternative, he let himself watch Chris take a deep dragging breath and wrench Justin's hands away from him, pinning them to the floor above his head, bringing the shaking line of Justin's torso almost flat on top of him.
"People have been known to suffocate like that," came Chris' breathless voice, scathingly dignified but muffled by the fabric of Justin's loose t-shirt hanging across his face.
Justin cocked his head, caught Lance's eye and grinned. "Wouldn't wanna break all those fourteen yrold hearts, I guess," he crooned, wriggling back and pulling his wrists out Chris' grasp.
Lance blinked and almost missed it, Chris moved that fast. The moment Justin's weight left him, he flipped them over hard and half-threw Justin in Lance's direction-- way too hard in Lance's direction actually, considering the way his table shuddered and pitched when Justin's head collided with it, sending a thin barrage of hot coffee over all three of them.
"Fuck," Lance hissed, hands fisting the hard edge of the table as piercing heat sank through denim far too fucking fast.
"Fuck," Justin echoed, fainter, from the proximity of his knee. There was a low moan, and some movement near his calf, making him twitch even as the coffee shock faded. "I think you just gave me like, a lobotomy."
"No difference then," Chris said, but it was with a kinda apologetic smile, and that smile widened as it locked against Lance with the force of, hell, a Justin-sized anvil slamming into his lap. "You okay?"
Lance shook his fingers, and resisted the impulse to dry them on Justin's hair. Why the hell wasn't Justin getting up, anyhow? "Good thing I couldn't write a thing tonight," he grumbled vaguely, trying to feel protective of his laptop, and then he just couldn't stand Justin's presence under the table any more so he pushed his chair back sharply and got up.
"Ow," Justin yelled, and then Chris had laughed and dropped smoothly to his knees, one of his apparently solicitous moods lasting long enough to drag Justin out and prop him upright. Justin scowled fiercely and clamped a hand to his head, giving Chris a one-and-a-half-eyed glare. "Thanks a lot."
Chris snorted. "Second concussion courtesy of the blond," he nodded, and Lance paused and sighed and stopped checking his laptop hadn't caught the shower and went over to Justin instead.
"Uh. Did I get you?"
"If this bruises, you're gonna have hoards of baying teens after you," Justin complained, steadying himself on Chris' arm. Lance tried not to feel his grip, not even to imagine it.
"Nothing new," Chris said cheerfully, with another of those sparkly-heavy grins, making Lance feel drastically out of his depth.
Justin sent Chris a flash of sulky heat, and let go. "This fucking hurts, guys," he said, sounding probably precisely as wounded as he wanted to.
Lance looked at him, trying to seem sympathetic. How the fuck had they gotten to this point, anyway? "Lemme see," he tried, figuring he might as well put a stop to the whining as soon as possible.
Justin was shaking his head, his free hand landing threateningly on Lance's chest. "No way."
Lance glanced down at the hand before he could stop himself, feeling it send tingling sensation-waves deep across him, seeing familiar strong fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. One of the fingertips was dangerously close to a button, dangerously close to the skin behind. He looked up quickly, and Justin was looking at him slyly with his other hand still half-obscuring one eye. "Suit yourself," Lance managed, with a little shrug.
"Too dark here," Justin said, sounding totally normal, only the sliver of fire in his eyes sparking warnings in Lance's head over and over.
Lance looked at Chris, who'd lost interest and gone back to his game, pixelated light revving on his face as he aced the Arcade. "Bathroom?" he heard himself suggest, and looked back to see Justin's mouth quirk appreciatively.
"Better than this, I guess," Justin agreed, and he wasn't looking at Chris, just curled his hand into a fist and somehow a good portion of Lance's shirt was inside that fist, pulled tight and sharp, and then they were in the bathroom, Lance's ankle stinging where he'd caught it on something heavy in the dark.
The door shut, and Justin let go of his shirt, even smoothed it down, and Lance thought they were off and running and almost reached for Justin's belt, and then Justin had let go of him entirely and was peering in the mirror trying to see the top of his head.
Lance's heart thudded once, hard, like a bloated wet fish slapping onto a chopping board. He'd read it wrong? Justin had meant it when he'd said it was ruining things?
"Hey, help me," Justin said, and Lance stuffed the irate conflict aside and tried to look like he was interested in whether Justin was growing eggs.
"Where's it hurt?"
"Kinda... there," Justin said, then hissed and swayed when Lance touched the offending area just below his hairline, hands falling to Lance's waist.
Hard, savage hope rushed through him, out again just as quickly, and Lance shifted on his feet and hoped Justin had his eyes closed, head bent like that. "Sorry," he said belatedly, pulling a face, raising on his toes to see better, feeling Justin's palms like brands across his hipbones.
"Sure," Justin said, and there was no change to his voice, so maybe he couldn't see Lance's hard-on, maybe it was dark down there, or his eyes were closed, or maybe he had simply gotten incredibly better at disguising stuff.
Lance tilted Justin's head carefully, concentrating on distinguishing a bruise, not imagining he could feel long puffs of breath on his shoulder, fuck no. His hands moved up slowly with testing pressure, feeling the curves of Justin's hair pliant against his fingers, and he wished like fuck that this was three weeks ago and Justin was still in the habit of sinking to his knees, until he was imagining it, feeling hair trail through his fingertips, feeling his mouth go dry as Justin dropped down and promisingly down.
Then there was a muted click as Justin's knees went through a harsh angle and met the floor. The bathroom floor. They were on it. Standing. Well, Justin wasn't standing now -- he was nuzzling at Lance's crotch, and the familiarity was coursing over him like intrusive fire. Lance's hands were empty and bewildered, hovering numbly above Justin's head, because Justin was kneeling, and okay, time for a major reality check like right fucking now.
"Hey," Lance said abruptly, because that's basically the sort of noise he could do at this moment in time.
"Mmm," Justin said, hands smoothing out, moving with purpose.
Lance dug at his brain, tried to get something that closer resembled sense to the surface. "Thought we weren't doing this." Oh, great try.
"Changed my mind," Justin said, sounding preoccupied, fingers peeling Lance's jeans open.
"What about my mind?" Lance asked, knowing it sounded weak, hands reaching back to find the cold edge of the sink. Felt like the fabric against his dick had been hand-stitched with itching powder, he needed out so bad.
Justin flipped the waistband of his boxers down with practised ease. "I'm looking at it," he murmured, not a trace of apology in his voice, and he started sucking at the head of Lance's cock even while his hands were still working to drag his jeans down around his knees.
The sink felt even colder as a brand against his ass, and he heard his throat voice a protest that never reached his lips as Justin skimmed firm fingers up the backs of his legs and started twisting his head slightly from side to side.
Lance tried not to swear, his hands finding Justin's head on automatic, realising distractedly that Justin didn't flinch when his fingers kneaded down, that this'd been another game, another excuse to wind him up, but jesus christ Justin didn't need an excuse, hadn't needed one since he first opened that plush mouth and let it slide with wetly killing slowness exactly where he needed it, for a long, long time.
His breath was coming shorter, and he stared at the ceiling and let his weight make the sink creak ominously. Justin was good, hot and eager and good, always been good at this, even from the beginning. Even when he swore he'd never sucked anyone off before Lance -- a natural born cocksucker, Lance had whispered to him one time, just to see what he'd say, and Justin had grinned and punched him, then flattened his hand against Lance's chest and pinned him firmly to the wall and whispered in his ear, "just another talent."
There was a shift in pressure, a clever wet flick of tongue against the head of his dick, and he had to remind himself not to moan out loud. Chris liked computer games, but there were limits, there were a lot of limits on this bus, and even with his distressing habit of never causing them, Chris'd still recognise moans connected with Lance getting a decent blowjob.
His hands slid down, touching Justin's jaw, fingertips skating against the fine grain of stubble, sending shivers through his body as tiny, stippling tides.
He sighed deeply, biting his lips closed because the walls were thin, so thin, he'd turn on the shower if that wouldn't raise yet more eyebrows than were up already and damn, this felt good, strong fingers rolling gently over his balls, just enough pressure to make his spine shake like lightning.
Justin's mouth softened, pliant and sucking slow, making heat pulse heavier in Lance's veins. He went deeper, amazed Justin could do this, take him this much deeper without gagging and jerking away.
First guy Justin had sucked: yeah, right. But it was a fucking incredible illusion, he didn't mind, especially not when Justin liked showing off his virgin talent like this; he didn't mind at all.
His eyes drifted closed when Justin sucked harder again; they burnt red with concealed fluorescence, and if he'd been horizontal he'd have thrown his arm over his eyes. He swallowed, starting to rock forward, realising the sink behind him was warm now with his rubbing and writhing and basically incoherent heat.
Then Justin's blunt thumb pushed up inside him, just barely, just the tip wedging the muscle open and vulnerable and Lance felt this rush of pure goddamned need and realised he was thrashing like a teenager, panting harshly through his open mouth and clenching his fingers mindlessly in Justin's hair. His dick pulsed hard in Justin's mouth, butting deep and insistent, as the burning pad of Justin's thumb nudged up firmly and raked again at a thousand nerves.
The orgasm was almost an afterthought, his shocked body's response to enough stimulus to power Manhattan for a week. He shuddered the last of it, breath coming and going in gulps, a warm vibration feeding its way through his chest and knees.
He made himself let go of Justin's head. Justin stood up, eyes brightly glazed. "Interesting reaction," he mused, sounding smug and sly.
"You didn't get off," Lance said, wondering if he could reach out and cup the bulge between Justin's legs, figuring he'd better wait until his muscles worked reliably again.
"I want to fuck you."
"No," Lance heard himself say, and Justin frowned briefly and drew back, accusation-laced query flashing through his eyes.
"Why not?" He looked like a kid forbidden to play in the rain.
"We-- is this why you wanted to stop, before?"
Justin shrugged. "I guess."
"And if I don't let you... we stop again?" Lance asked, cautious. "It's an ultimatum?"
Justin looked momentarily shocked, appalled, then he checked himself and straightened his shoulders and met Lance's gaze straight on. "That's right," he said, shamelessly arrogant, and Lance could see it so clearly, the mechanisms of Justin's brain knowing it was a gamble he could always retract later if it didn't work.
Pity it was gonna work, really, he thought wryly. Might've taken the kid down a peg or two. "Not here," he said, a last nod to his resistant side. "You've gotta walk around complaining about the eye for the rest of the night as it is. Any more time in here and Chris'll complete that game and come find you to gloat."
Justin flashed a brilliant grin and kissed him, mouth slightly askew against Lance's lower lip, then ducked away from Lance's automatic embrace and dashed out the door. "Later."
Lance stared after him, feeling his eyebrows raise at the audacity, and then he found himself grinning and shaking his head and wondering whose turn it was on the two-man bus.
"As if -- I could do one blindfolded," Justin's voice came, cheerfully derisive, and Lance could hear the thud of Chris' fist into something or other. Probably Justin's leg.
Lance ignored the mirror for a couple of righteous seconds, then gave in and checked he wasn't visibly affected or whatever. No hearts in his eyes, check. Nothing to suggest he'd just been blown, check. Ok.
He walked out, caught his other ankle on that same anonymous heavy thing, but decided against flicking on the light.
"What was it, then?" Chris was asking, and they were back in the game, swerving with their whole bodies. JC was sprawled on the couch, sipping something from a big mug and watching the screen.
"I couldn't see anything," Lance said, standing by the table, thinking he should go get a cloth to clear up the sticky residue and actually wanting to sit and stare like JC, but not at the screen, at Justin's fingers working the keypad instead. "Might come up as a bruise later."
"Make-up'll kill you," Chris said pleasantly, then swore as his car span noisily off the road and bloomed into flames again. "That fucking turn," he muttered darkly, ignoring Justin's little whoop next to him. "I swear, my car's got a built-in handicap."
"My jaw hurts," Justin said clearly, and Lance almost choked, but Chris was apparently too busy resetting the Playstation to pay any attention.