by Calico

Lance twirled by and winked, and Joey felt a treacley little growl rise in his throat, and Chris called him on it.

"You angry with Lance?"

"No," Joey said quickly, thinking that actually, yes he was, why couldn't Lance just quit with the coyness and come crawling into his bed already?

"You wanna bed him?" Chris asked sharply, and it struck Joey that he should've stuck to anger, petty anger that was easy to shrug off.

"No," Joey said, and Chris grinned.

"That, my friend, sounded way unconvincing."

"I don't know what you're--"

Chris laughed, standing back and pointing at him that it was clear to everyone who was the mocker and who the mocked, making them look like some insane slapstick parody from the 40's.

Joey laughed too and grabbed Chris' arm, because they were in a hotel foyer and there were mirrors and chrome and shit and it felt overly public. He nodded to the bemused-looking chick at reception and stalked over to the elevator, manhandling Chris inside and enjoying suppressing him that much too much.

"What's the deal?" he demanded, hitting the button with the heel of his hand, and Chris' eyes gleamed, laughter melting away.

"You like Lance, Lance likes you -- what other deal?"

Joey's eyes narrowed. "Lance likes me."

"Hello the flirting," Chris drawled, then rolled his eyes. "dude, you are sloooooow."

"Lance flirts with everyone-- Lance flirts with you, Chris," Joey protested, wondering if he could be right, if all the bedroom eyes were actually deliberate.

"You sayin' I'm not flirtable?" Chris demanded, drawing himself up, eyes still grinning.

Joey laughed, feeling excitement and pearling heat kindling in his stomach. "Not at all, Kirkpatrick. I'd do ya."

Chris brought his quickly hands up between them, holding his fingers in a warding cross. "Save it for Lance."

The elevator stopped at Chris' floor, and Joey wondered again why the hell they'd been separated, but he had to go get changed so this conversation was gonna have to hold.

"Okay," he nodded, nodding and grinning and thinking jesus, Chris, you sure pick your moments, and wanting to just hug the man, "okay, cool, I can do that."

"I'll bring him up to your room tonight," Chris murmured, touching the door to keep it open for a second longer, and winked. "Room service, special delivery."

Joey raised his eyebrows, rocked by the thought of it, and wondered if Chris'd been a brothel owner in a past life. Either that or Emma Woodhouse.

Christ, he thought, combining the two and squirming away from it, then reached his floor with a soft 'ping' and hurried along to his room.


Joey got another shot from the mini bar, not bothering to check what the label read. It burned down his throat; that was enough. Chris' voice was lilting gently in the back of his brain, we're coming up, and he wondered if the elevator had stuck because fuck they seemed to be taking a long time.

He wanted music. He'd elected not to have music, because then he might miss the soft knock, and there was no way he wanted them hammering to get his attention--



See? See? Better without music, he thought wildly, heart executing a crescendo before he took a deep breath and told himself to calm the fuck down. He flicked the catch and backed up, snatching up a magazine in a semblance of detachment. "It's open."

Lance walked in, backwards, just enough stagger in his feet to let Joey know he was seriously tanked. His foot caught on the carpet and he swayed alarmingly, before turning it into a curt pirouette and stretching his arms out for balance, eyes sparkling vivid in the half-light. He looked graceless and debauched, and fuck but Joey wanted him on his knees.

"Christ, Lance," he laughed, and Lance beamed at him delightedly.

"Joey," he crooned, phonesex voice, noise reaching down and wrapping round his dick and slithering up and down.

Chris followed him in silently, kicking the door shut and moving them into the middle of the room, and Lance grabbed his arm, leaning on him as he kicked off his shoes. Joey watched him, the concentration on his face, the lip caught between his glimmery-sharp white teeth, then realised he was staring and jerked his focus up.

Chris grinned knowingly, meeting Joey's eyes and nodding deliberately. "All yours," he mouthed, sliding an arm round Lance's neck from behind and pulling him back against his chest.

Lance shifted sinuously, leaning his head back on Chris' shoulder, brilliant glossy eyes falling closed. Chris slid his hand down Lance's chest, never looking away from Joey. "C'mere," he murmured, low and quiet and amoral.

Joey looked at the vulnerable pale skin of Lance's neck, the dark gap between his careless lips, then found himself closer, moving forward with his mouth dry.

"Lance," he said softly, feeling his breath heat in his throat when Lance's eyes flicked open, huge and lazy and very, very bright. "You're smashed," he grinned, watching Lance's tongue flick over his pale pink mouth. He looked warm.

"Chris smashed me," Lance murmured, and it was drowned in a giggle only he could create, two parts air and one part happy lion. Chris' hand crept up to Lance's collar, fingers folding round the hem, bunching it in his fist.

"Let's go sit down, hmm?" he said creamily, swinging Lance round gently and pushing him down on Joey's bed. His fist uncurled, smoothing fabric across Lance's collarbones, then carding up and cupping his jaw. He leaned down, mouthed Lance's ear, and Lance made a noise in his chest that could've polished silver.

Joey watched, dick twitching in aroused surprise, as Lance nuzzled his face round and Chris kissed him for a long wet moment before drawing back unsteadily and taking a deep, shocked breath.

"Mmm," Lance said, lying down on the bed and passing his fingers over his lips, and Chris looked at Joey guiltily.

"Sorry," he muttered, going over, touching Joey's shoulder, "I didn't mean to-- fuck. sorry."

"It's ok," Joey managed, voice hoarse and sluggish; "really, you have no idea how ok it is--" That was hot, he thought distantly. Real hot, with Lance's upturned face, the lewd slide of his mouth, the tiny noises he made as Chris (Chris? what the fuck?) worked the kiss into something surprisingly earnest and nasty. Real hot. Fuck.

Chris gave a breathy little laugh, shaking his head. "It's so not ok," he said, very quietly, then nodded back at the bed, "I just sorta couldn't help myself. He's so fucking... I mean, like this... and all fucking evening he's been just looking so badly fine..."

"Mmm," Joey agreed, gaze getting lost as it passed over Lance's sprawled body again and again, then glanced back at Chris with a vague concern. "Wait. you want Lance?"

Chris shook his head mournfully. "I don't want a guy at all," he said helplessly, "just he... then. He's hot. type thing." He smirked, rueful. "Bastard."

"Heyyyy," Lance called, and Joey looked up guiltily, "you finished?"

"I'm gone," Chris whispered, and Joey nodded thankfully, getting to the bed even before the door snicked closed.

Fucking finally. He reached down, trailed the backs of his fingers against Lance's chest, up to the curve of his throat then down down down to where his shirt rode up to reveal bare skin.

Lance rolled up into him, eyes closed and spine so fucking feline it was unreal. "Yeah," he murmured, sending feathered heat up Joey's spine, making his dick throb uncomfortably. "Do it."

"Fuck," Joey said, and it didn't even sound like his voice it was so low. He shifted Lance over on the bed, making him giggle again and pant softly, then lay down next to him and worked his fingers down under the rough grip of Lance's waistband, snug against the firm slide of his stomach, twitching beneath Joey's hand.

Confidence shot through him -- this felt like any girl, reaching down and feeling her legs open to him wordlessly, sliding her skirt up and digging his fingers under damp cotton, finding her slick and fiery and yielding underneath. Just because it was Lance didn't mean it'd be difficult -- he flicked the button open with a practised thumb, getting his hand into Lance's pants, feeling shivery tremors flowing under the taut, damp skin.

Hot, soft tangly hair, and the insistent bulk of Lance's cock rearing against his touch. At fucking last. The nerves in his fingertips felt like they might burn out.

"Ahh," Lance said loudly, breath crumpling into louder pants, hips squirming, rubbing forcedly up into his palm, "yeah, c'mon, do it, do it do it--"

A talker. In that voice. Christ. Joey grinned and leaned over him, lowering his mouth until he felt Lance mumbling against it, then pressing down and shivering as Lance acquiesced hungrily and sucked-stroked-whoredhimself on his tongue.

Fuck, he thought loudly, biting at Lance's lips and tasting the endless wet alcoholic sweetness of it and scrabbling his fingers lower to get a firmer grip and start beating him off.

Okay, so he'd pictured the first time with Lance in his lap, arching back like he'd done on Chris' shoulder, his own hands angled on Lance's hips to control the pace and make him rock deeper and harder.

But-- hell. That was okay; that could be, like, the second time, right? because this was just too perfect to pass up. They had all night, he reasured himself-- although at this rate, he had about two minutes and counting. He held his breath, getting his hands back and pushing up off the bed, watching the way Lance squirmed against the air the moment he let go.

"Hey," Lance protested, frowning, lashes dark on his cheeks. "Where're you going?"

"Getting undressed," Joey muttered, liking the need in Lance's voice, the total confusion that Joey might be headed anywhere but on top of him.

"Mm," Lance acknowledged, "ok then," and wriggled lazily out his jacket, slinging it on the floor, then ran his hands lovingly down his own body, latching onto the second button of his fly and arching his hips up.

Joey watched him, hands stilled on the cuff of his shirt, totally unable to move while Lance's pretty fingers toyed with the denim stretched across his crotch. "Wait," he heard himself blurt, fierce possessiveness hot in his mouth, "let me."

A slow, delighted grin spread across Lance's face. "Mmm," he agreed, sex incarnate, "yeah, like last time."

Joey's hand veered away from Lance's, jerking back. There was a pause, Joey frozen, Lance shifting restlessly -- then Lance reached for him again and Joey caught his wrist, heart sweeping staccato in his throat, swallowing as Lance's green green eyes glided open.

Hot as hell, and then clouding quickly with confusion.

"Joey," he said vaguely, then glanced around, over his shoulder, at the mini bar, half sitting up. His voice sharpened. "Where's Chris?"

A wasp started buzzing loudly in Joey's brain, smashing around and making his vision shock and slide. "He left," he heard himself say loudly, and apparently his diplomacy was still in tact; "his room?"

Lance frowned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I'll go find him," he said sagely, adjusting himself distractedly in his pants, looking to the door. His top button was still undone.

"Stay," Joey heard himself say quickly, and Lance paused in getting up, and Joey realised how dumb that had been, how this was so clearly fucked up, and tried to rescue himself; "I'll get Chris. You, rest there."

Lance shook his head absently, making for the door, then pitched forwards and Joey caught him, staring at Lance's jacket tangled round Lance's foot.

Lance swayed, giggled up at him, the exact same sex sound, so apparently it was just Joey's perception working against him, not some manipulative intent on the part of Lance's vocal chords.

"Ok," Lance said, struggling upright, breath hot against Joey's neck, "you go get him."

Joey turned them, pushed Lance down onto the bed. Hard. He didn't want to hurt him but-- oh, but he did.

Lance didn't seem to notice.


The wasp had spawned, mutated. Joey almost thumped the metal walls in the elevator to get the itching-buzzing out his fist, almost smashed his head in to make the pulsing roaring stop.


The doors slid open with killing slowness, and Joey pushed between them before they'd finished their glide and stormed down the corridor. Chris and Lance; Chris and Lance? Chris, Chris I-don't-want-a-guy-at-all Kirkpatrick, Chris who Lance flirted with just the same as he flirted with Joey, fuck, apparently more than he flirted with Joey--

Door 87B slid open and tumult and volcano: Joey hit Chris hard in the face, and the buzz in his knuckles went away.

"What the fuck?" Chris yelled, stumbling backwards and clutching his face, and Joey stalked into the room, kicking the door behind him and barely hearing the slam over the white noise lashing through his ears.

"You're fucking him," he shouted, advancing, wanting to grab him by the collar and shake him and toss him on the floor; "you're fucking him, and you left him with me and now you're asking what the fuck?"

Chris scrambled round the other side of the bed, eyes huge and aghast and shining hard, panicked black. "Joey," he said firmly, voice hoarse and urgent, "Joey, please, calm down, look, you're bigger than me, you can smash me in completely but it won't solve a fucking thing, I swear, it'll just cause more trouble--"

"And you're good to talk about causing trouble, Kirkpatrick?" Joey demanded, hearing his voice loud and bitter and, fuck, so threatening.

Chris raised his hands, keeping the bed between them, shaking his head, "No, Joey, I'm not, just I'm thinking of you, and I know I wasn't earlier, but I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear, but if you wanna punish me, like, hurt me more, go ahead, just I don't want them to go after you after--"

It didn't sound like Chris, Joey thought, tuning him out, feeling like he was freefalling through itching twitching air. Ah, he thought, a moment later. Seemed Chris was using every ounce of his psych major to say all the right things, melodrama and self-pity and not a shred of defensiveness, making himself subservient and earnest and it should've pissed him off more to be manipulated like this, to be played so fucking well but--

But goddamn him, it'd worked. He couldn't feel the electricity in his fist, now, motivating him; the wasp in his head softened, settled, then went to sleep, gently intrusive, snoring in the bridge of his nose.

"Cut it out," he said harshly, and Chris fell instantly silent.

Joey met his eyes, seeing wariness and caution and not a small part of fear, and felt suddenly tired.

Chris stayed silent, because that was what you did with agitated giants, right? Chris? fuck you.

"Why the hell did you set this up?" he asked quietly, then felt another stab of irritation, "for christ's sake, we both know I'm not gonna hit you again so stop fucking cowering and put your hands down and, like, take a shot at explaining yourself already."

Chris made an abortive movement away from him, then sighed and folded his arms and walked slowly round the bed. "Joe," he said helplessly, and something in his voice made Joey think maybe they were getting somewhere, "hell, I'm sorry. My bad."

"I'll say," Joey said, determined not to make it easy on him.

"I just..." Chris shrugged. "I thought it would work. sorry."

I thought he'd be easier than that, Joey mimicked, silently, then felt bad. "Well, it didn't," he said acidly, and it struck him that he wasn't even comparing them, wasn't even agonising over Lance not wanting him, because actually if Lance wanted Chris then he clearly wasn't his type.

Lance and Chris. Lance, expecting Chris, thinking about Lance-and-Chris last time, and it was so unlikely, felt so fucking wrong. "What the hell is going with-- actually, fuck that, I don't wanna know."

Chris raised his eyebrows, cautious again.

"I don't wanna know," Joey repeated, realising he'd been close to yelling again.

"Your call," Chris said, with a wry smile, then winced and cradled his cheek.

"Oh," Joey said. "Sorry."

Chris peered at him, one eye half-obscured by his fingers. "Are you?"

"No," Joey admitted. Chris had surprisingly nice hands -- not as nice as Lance's, which always looked supple and clean and graceful, but well-shaped and strong. In his mind's eye, he could see their fingers entangled, Chris' skin a touch darker. "Chris, you-- fuck." Or Chris' hand in Lance's hair, like earlier, kissing him, angling his head confidently for perfect access. "This is so screwed up."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Chris said.

Joey took a deep breath, then confessed, "he didn't even know it was me."


Yeah, Joey thought, and then suddenly he could see Chris' lips moving against Lance's ear. "What did you say to him?"

Chris looked wary. "What do you mean?"

"Don't fuck me around," Joey said, hearing the growl surface in his voice again. "Earlier."

"I... told him to keep his eyes closed. Just as, like, you know. Insurance."

Joey looked away. Insurance, that by the time Lance realised he was with the wrong guy he'd be so fucking into it he wouldn't care? Oh, great plan, Kirkpatrick. Fucking perfect.

He started to say something along those lines, "no fucking wonder he didn't know it was me, you didn't give us a chance," but it was stupid, and sounded lame, and pathetic, so he gave up.

"I--" Chris said, and Joey knew he was just gonna apologise again, and he couldn't take that.

"Tomorrow he's gonna remember, too," he interrupted, and Chris made a face.

"Ouch," he repeated, then twisted his lips ruefully. "Actually, put him to bed now, he probably won't remember. I fed him pretty well."

Joey had an image of Chris easing vodka down Lance's throat, then another, of Chris' hands in Lance's hair, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, and a third, of Lance kneeling easily and opening his mouth to let Chris' dick rest on his tongue.

"I bet," he said, teeth gritted, then rolled his eyes because he knew he had to know sooner or later, and better to get it over with, right? Right. "What's going on with you two?"

Chris winced, then sighed. "One-sided shit," he said, looking regretful. "Some casual stuff, which was excellent, but now he's less casual, you know?"

Joey froze, seeing them at breakfast this morning fighting over the butter, Lance losing, and realised that Lance had been struggling with his knife because fuck, Chris was holding his hand under the table. He tried to cut it out, cut out Lance's artfully-wounded grin, and then he was imagining them in the elevator on the way up, smothered by swollen images of exactly what Chris had done to him to cause the stumbling glitter in his eyes.

"Less casual," he said flatly.

Chris looked uncomfortable. "He was just implying stuff."

He didn't want to know. "So you decided to offload him onto me," Joey said, and the fury must have been on his face because Chris veered back, hand twitching towards his cheek again.

"No," he said clearly, then paused. "Well, kinda, I guess," he admitted, raising his hands quickly again, this time more a protest than a surrender, "but not in a bad way, man; I figured you and him'd be better together, like, you know, a couple and shit, and I figured he'd see it too if you just got together, so--"

"You figured you'd pour him into my bed and hope he liked it there," Joey growled, dry and sharp like baked sand. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing hard.

"I've got Aspirin in my bag," Chris said instantly, and Joey looked up. Enough, okay? Tension was aching through his body, tired on tired on tired, and the buzzing was almost gone.

"It's just a wasp," he said quietly, and raked his fingers through his hair.

Chris squinted at him. "You get stung? 'Cause I can't see a mark, like, and surely--"

Joey cut him off with one hand, glaring at the ceiling. "Forget it." He sighed. "I guess I better go see to him."

"I'll go," Chris offered, then waved a hand at his room. "Hell, you sleep here."

"No," Joey said quickly, because Chris was nice and apologetic and all, but Lance was horny, and Chris'd proved earlier he couldn't exactly resist, and Joey really didn't want them screwing in his bed.

Chris looked at him sharply, quizzical. "Ok," he said cautiously; "fine."

So he'd go and put Lance in his own bed, and go back upstairs, and why had the hotel put them on different fucking floors? and later Chris'd wander over, just because it's late and he wants to know Lance got to bed alright and ok, maybe he's kinda hot and wants to get his rocks off, and they'll end up screwing in Lance's bed.

"Actually," Joey said, thinking cut out the fucking middleman, ok? "you go."

tt calico

introspective grim humour