"Jayce, get me another beer, yeah?" Lance calls, sprawled out on the floor, tilting his head to an ungodly angle to swallow the last of his old one. He's playing Sonic II again, and Chris wonders what about this game's captured his attention so much, and then admits to himself that he's just watching Lance's gorgeous hands.

And the smooth line of his back.

And his ass.

"Catch," JC calls, and Lance rolls up onto one elbow and shakes his head violently.

"No way," he says, "I don't want it all exploding, do I?" and beckons JC over instead. JC goes, and Chris pokes him as he passes;

"Can I get a beer here too?" JC's eyes are hot when he looks down, and Chris swallows. "Actually, scrap that, I'm gonna... I'm just gonna," and he gets up, walking conspicuously round the couch to avoid contact.

"Thanks," he hears Lance say behind him, and when he looks round he can see Lance's face upturned, and JC's obscuring most of him but it looks a lot like in three seconds Lance's gonna open his mouth and JC's gonna give him something meatier to suck than a bottle of beer, and then Lance glances over at Chris and Chris looks away quickly, hoping the stuff in his head wasn't written all over his face.

Stuff. He half-shakes his head incredulously. If he could write down what's going through his head right now, he'd have a fucking pornographic masterpiece. Though at least he should feel happy about one thing -- whatever Lance saw, it isn't as bad as what's actually going on there.

When he looks back, JC's sitting on the couch, swiping his toes over Lance's soles, and Lance is wriggling irritably and kicking back at him, and they're both wearing socks so it's not gross or anything, just playful.

Gross. Because that's what Chris'd think it was if JC's skin's naked against Lance's skin. Uh huh.

"You know that dream I had," Joey says, far too close to his ear.

Chris leans away, peering at him warily. "Uh."

"The dream," Joey says, and his voice is dark and luxuriously promising. "You woke me up. Me and Brit and that chick of Lance's. I just remembered something else about it. Brit's tongue--"

Chris clamps his hands over his ears, "I left the thing on! shit! It'll go blue!" and scampers from the room.

"...hi--ah! fuck!" Chris exclaims, jerking back in alarm because what the fuck, Lance, JC, kissing, what?

"Chris," JC murmurs, against Lance's lips, drawing back briefly to slant Chris an acknowledging glance before returning to the task at hand. Which is Lance. Hello, JC? Jesus. Talk about a missed memo?

"Ok, I've got the patent on jokes and that's a good thing since y'all aren't funny," Chris says, watching helplessly; their hands are by their sides, heads tilted together, patient and prim and strangely intense, and there aren't even tongues, not that he can see, just open mouths and the tender slide of lips and fuck but this shouldn't be sexy, shouldn't be shouldn't be.

It is.

They look like beautiful young men, British sweethearts in Oxford, eyes closed, enjoying every blissful press of mingled breath and soft mouths.

As he watches, frozen, he sees the pink tip of JC's tongue glide sweetly into Lance's parted lips, and Lance grins, teeth baring to nip playfully in defense, and Chris spins on his heel and stalks out the room, mind vibrating with the pure glistening clarity of JC's tongue breaching Lance's mouth; just a little, just slightly; just faintly, gently depraved.

He pulls the door closed roughly behind him, swinging round to rest against the wall, head thrumming, hot all over. Once the ring of the door slamming fades from his ears, he can plainly hear them giggle.

The voice on the other end of the phone is deeply incredulous. "Three days? That's all?"

"Yeah."

"And-- are you kidding? just to swap? Eighty bucks?"

Chris almost laughs. Honestly, baby, it's small cheese to me. "Yeah. But your boss doesn't find out, y'hear?"

"Ok," the guy says, quickly, like Chris might change his mind. "Done."

Joey's channel-hopping, head tilted, flipping through slowly. Chris grins as the porn he left playing happily in the vcr flicks into view; Joey freezes, then speeds away, double time.

Sitting next to Chris, Justin coughs. "dude," he mutters. "What was, uh. that."

"What's what?" JC demands, looking up from his iBook. He's more fidgety than usual, but still pretty cool. More than the rest of them, at least. Chris thinks, snarkily, that JC's used to being perpetually aroused.

He's considered more than once that maybe JC wears the clothes he does to scare himself limp every time he sees a mirror. Although given the obnoxiously tight pants JC's been wearing for the last three days, Chris has a feeling that'd be kinda counter-productive.

"Yeah, what channel was that?" Chris asks innocently, and Joey raises his eyebrows and glances at them all, one after another.

"You want me to go back to it?"

"What was it?" JC says again, and Joey sighs and thumbs back to the happy -- oh, ever so happy -- couple. Chris restrains his own grin as JC inhales sharply; yeah, that's what he'd thought. JC's just the type to bury himself in other stuff to avoid thinking about sex.

They all stare in silence for a couple of seconds; Chris feels his tiny grin widen a little. He knew this was gonna be good when he set the tape to play before the rest of them pile in. It's pretty decent porn, not too squelchy. Just right to make Joey horny, not to mention the others. As for himself: it's ok, boys and girls -- he's not much into the het schtick right now. Not when there're pretty bandmates kissing idly in corners.

Uh. He shouldn't have thought about that again.

"Oh, give it to me harder," warbles the woman onscreen, throwing her arms over her head to grab the edge of the rocking kitchen table. Predictably, her plumber obliges.

"Oh, fuck, that's mine," Chris says, like he's only just realized. Justin jumps next to him; a quick glance in his lap tells Chris exactly what he wanted to know.

"What the hell are you guys watching?" comes Lance's voice, over the televised panting. Joey hits the stop button, and Chris looks round. Lance is standing in the doorway, looking worryingly breathless and delectable.

There's no way he'll be able to floor Lance with het porn, but hopefully...

Chris slithers onto the floor and crawls to the vcr, popping out Rough Trade II and sticking it back on their makeshift shelf.

"Uh, Chris' porn," Justin says, and Lance laughs and says,

"Surely that's counter productive," before glancing down at his phone and grinning and saying, "anyway, so Danny's temp-ing for a while and he's waiting for me outside -- you want me to make the check out to JC?"

It's not that Chris wasn't expecting Lance to round on him. Just that he wasn't expecting it to happen while Lance looks so... post-coital.

He was waiting for the kettle to boil when Lance stalked onto the bus, mouth looking used, eyes bright, color high.

"There you are," he growls, striding into the kitchen, and Chris takes one look and ducks past him, under his arm. Not gonna be backed into a cupboard by this one, thankyouverymuch. Making the mistake of breathing, he realizes the air by Lance tastes of fresh sweat, and then he notices Lance's collar's deeply unbuttoned and there's a red crescent on his sternum and--

"Me? I've been here all along--"

"Bullshit," Lance says, and because he's right Chris doesn't bother protesting beyond making his eyes large and hurt. "I've just been talking to Danny."

Talking. Riiiiiiight. "Mm," Chris says, when Lance glares at him accusingly.

"He's fucking only staying two more days, y'know. Because... well, can you tell me what happened?"

"No?" It comes out, Chris notices disgustedly, as a squeak.

"Oh, that's interesting-- I mean, I wonder who else'd bribe a guy to swap with him for three days with eighty bucks, just now, just right now as--"

"Ok!" Chris squeaks, then clears his throat. "Ok, ok. Ok. I did it."

"I know," Lance says, closer, and Chris finds himself thinking of a lime popsicle -- one of those bright green ones -- melting on a sunny day. His mouth's dry. "Well, you got what you want..."

"Mh," Chris manages, backing away, distraught when Lance prowls after him.

"So now, do I get what I want?"

Chris' knees hit the arm of the couch and he sits on it suddenly. What, uh, what does Lance want? "What's that?" he asks, clearing his throat again.

Lance opens his thighs decisively with both hands, stands between them, ducks his head, then bites Chris' ear. "Guess," he says, and Chris realizes just how dumb he was to alienate the one guy with the voice that could sculpt steel.

"Ahhhh."

JC's grin is kinda sickly. "He's not."

Chris has one hand clamped over his stomach. "He's not," he confirms, swallowing, looking round the room. Justin and Joey were going all out on Sonic II, determined to beat Lance's high score, and now they're frozen on the floor with looks of absolute horror on their faces.

"Ah, fuck, yeah," drifts over them, and it's unmistakable; Lance, moaning, fervent expletives tumbling from his bunk.

"This isn't happening," Joey mutters, and JC's got his hand over his mouth, eyes bright blue and glazing fast.

"That fucker," Chris hisses, and Lance moans loudly, rhythmically, the sound adhering to the core of Chris' dick with wicked aim. "I'm gonna fucking kill him."

"Ah, ah--"

"Dude, he's gonna kill us," Justin breathes, and his hands are folded over his stomach, fingers twitching in time to the sound of Lance ostentatiously jerking off.

"ah," Lance mumbles, "fuck that's tight," and Chris' mind fills with images of fucking, of men fingering themselves and being fucked and having dicks pushed into their mouths and goddamn if Lance doesn't figure in every picture.

"Fucking stop that," Chris calls, heart in his throat. It sounds so good. So good. Oh, god; oh god. His thoughts. move to. the beat. Lance sets.

"Mmm, aw, fuck, yeah," Lance gasps, and that's it, that's too loud and clear and fucking sexy, and Chris gets up and storms through to the bunks, yanking back Lance's curtain and then freezing, dead, once more.

Lance is naked, one knee bent up, one hand wrapped round his cock, the other buried between his legs; his whole body's rocking, smooth and beautiful, and his hands move in perfect time to the growly little noises from his throat. He opens his eyes, still moving, staring lazily up at Chris; "mmmm, hey, yeah, Chris; you wouldn't just lick me, would you?"

"No," Chris hears himself say, and he's kind of amazed he can even formulate that much, and then Lance thrusts up hard and groans loudly, and Chris is staring at the dark red of his cock, at the clear slickness at the head of it, can't help but flash that into his hand, the thickness, the curve against the inside of his fist--

"Please," Lance is breathing, "I'm close, and that'd just... c'mon, I can tell... ah, fuck... I can tell you want to..."

He has a feeling he wants to suck it more than he's ever wanted anything before. He can almost feel it against his lips, velvety warm and heavy, tasting like Lance's groans sound. "No." Because if he does, he'll come. It's that simple.

Lance grins at him, and his mouth's like all the best things of a man and a woman meshed together, the pink and the wet and the flash of tongue and the perfectly smooth lips because Lance always uses lip balm even though he wouldn't touch an Nsync one if you paid him, and Chris suddenly knows that if he sinks his aching cock into that mouth it'll swallow him down and smile against his stomach and make the world end in a rush of liquid heat, and fuck but he wants that, wants that so much-- "Please," Lance says again, and then slowly, delicately licks his teeth, making both invitations shockingly clear.

Chris looks over his shoulder; he can't see the other guys, but he knows they're there, waiting in horror for it to stop, for him to reappear...

Lance is maybe the sexiest guy he knows.

Chris' hand slides down his stomach, finds the button of his pants, the sensational ache of the bulge beneath. Lance's eyes follow the movement, glinting in the shadow of his bunk, and Chris realizes that what with the height of these things, if he just gets out his cock and stands there waiting, Lance could wriggle to the edge of his bunk and lie on his side and suck it like that, barely having to move.

His thumb shifts, circling the button, and Lance's hand speeds up briefly and Chris' brain suddenly clicks that Lance has got his own fingers inside him, moving inside him, and that's so fucking hot he can't believe, and then the button's between his thumb and forefinger, sliding so easily out of its hole, and he can hear his own breathing almost as loud as Lance's. Jesus christ.

"Yeah, c'mon," Lance whispers, spreading his legs further, and Chris looks down and sees Lance's fingers disappearing and he wants to touch, wants to feel the thick elastic of the muscle giving under his fingers, feel the heat of him clutching as he pushes inside. "Chris."

"Fuck, I want you," Chris mutters, sounding fierce even to his own ears, and Lance's eyes close in something like pain, opening again flaring hotly;

"Fucking do it, then," he hisses, and Chris reaches out slowly, fingers trembling, reaching down past Lance's cock, watching as Lance catches on and nods wordlessly and slides his own hand away.

Chris holds his breath; he wants to pull Lance half out his bunk and hold his legs spread wide and aim his cock at that tight little opening, rubbing against the slickness of it before pushing forwards and hearing Lance moan and feeling Lance wriggle impatiently because he needs it deeper now now now and then sliding right inside-- and then his fingers brush hot wetness and the memory slams into him -- the bet -- and he wrenches back, jerking the curtain closed, pressing his hand hard into his chest and trying to get his blood to shut the fuck up.

Shit, that was close.

He swallows, staggering away from the bunks, towards the guys. Fuck. Fuck. He can't get Lance's body out his head -- the pink tongue, the quaking stomach, the voice, for chrissakes, the voice that could charm a dozen snakes before breakfast--

He stops dead.

What the fuck? Because if he walks away now, obviously Lance is gonna give up and let him rest. Because he hasn't been waiting for this for months. Because ten grand really fucking matters to his bank account.

Uh huh.

He spins and hot-foots it back down the corridor, tugging open Lance's curtain feverishly, receiving a hundred-watt gleam of smug greeting in return.

Chris comes out of the back smiling. Joey swallows; he knows that smile. Him and Chris have helped each other out before, nights when the girls aren't biting and they can't be bothered to find a bigger pool to fish in, and that smile's the exact same one Chris gives him the following morning.

Of course, it's only been a half hour since Chris disappeared to shut Lance the fuck up; only half an hour since it went suspiciously quiet, to the point where Justin suggested they'd strangled each other and Joey felt inclined to say that yeah, they were probably squeezing something; only half an hour of sitting here trembling because fuck, Chris interrupting Lance jerking off and giving him a talking to, that's pretty damn hot, knowwhatI'msayin'.

He'd found himself straining to hear the telltale panting until he was imagining it in stereo, the jagged little whispers that Chris makes when he's getting close, the wet noises of Lance's mouth doing wicked things that no good mommy's boy should ever even think about, the slow hushed groans of incredulous enjoyment.

Now, staring at Chris getting a piece of white paper out his pocket and smoothing it thoughtfully, he realises he wasn't imagining nearly as much as he'd hoped. His stomach's competing for the World Wide Knot-Tying award, apparently; each stubborn fucker in his stomach's laced through with heat, made pretty with sparkling energy. It borders on art. And agony.

Chris hands his check to JC without a word and flops down on the couch with a contented sigh; Joey takes one look at his face, relaxed and smug, and wants to hit him.

Or fuck him.

Well, both would do.

"That took a long time," Justin says, evenly.

Chris grins, vulpine. "Felt pretty damn quick, to me," he says, and his voice has got that Just Got Laid quality to it that makes Joey's teeth itch. "Hey, Lance," Chris calls, tilting his head back; "I've lost one of my socks-- can you see it?"

There's a moment's shuffling, then Lance wanders out and stretches hugely, lean and infuriatingly sated. He's... also smiling. Jesus. Could they be more obvious? "Yo," Lance says, sitting down next to Chris and dropping a sock in his lap.

"That's not mine," Chris says indignantly, and Lance hooks an arm round his neck and hauls him sideways across his lap;

"Donnnn't complain," he growls, unforgivably playful, and Chris widens his eyes.

"Oh, ok," he breathes, and Joey sees Lance's hand move up Chris' leg, sees Chris arch comfortably against him, finds he can't look away from them. Chris sits up to put on his sock and then grins around the room. "Y'all look so tense," he announces, then lies down ostentatiously across Lance's lap; Lance's hand settles back against his thigh, thumb stroking lightly against the material.

"Can you blame us for lookin' tense?" Justin grits out, and Joey glances away long enough to practically see the wild heat rolling out from Justin's direction, then back, to where Chris is swinging one foot idly, and Lance has started playing with his hair.

The game suddenly feels uneven, and he wonders how, given his partial inability to think right now, he's ever gonna entertain an entire stadium of teenagers tomorrow night.

"And here we are, the long-awaited interval in the First Show of Abstinence," Chris says, talking imperiously into his banana. "And they have six minutes to get changed, but the three remaining contestants are showing considerable inefficiency with their zippers, due to, oh yes, the very same penile amplification that has been present through the whole show--"

"Give it a rest," Justin mutters, wrestling with his jeans, and Joey realizes that although they're very spacious if Jup happens to get excited onstage, the actual waistband's pretty tight. And Justin's erection's definitely causing problems. And that thought doesn't make Joey want to drop to his knees and give him a hand, no it doesn't.

"Tempers are fraught," Chris rambles, then sidles up to Joey, "ah, Mr. Fatone, do you have any advice for Mr. Timber-Timber, having successfully tucked your own erectile tissue away?" and holds his banana out to Joey to talk into.

"Give it a rest," Justin growls, snatching the banana and throwing it across the room.

"I wanted to eat that!" Chris yelps, diving after it.

"uh, guys?" JC says, from the corner. "I think I'm stuck."

Joey doesn't mess up any steps, and it's a miracle. Predictably, one of them's managing to work it -- the girls who happen to catch Justin's eye keep blushing crazily and can't stop staring at his dick -- but Joey's just concentrating on coming in at the right note and holding it without screaming I haven't jerked off in so long it should be illegal into the crowd. JC doesn't seem to be any different.

Joey smirks, as they bound offstage at the end, thinking: go figure.

Justin looks bleak, and he's gritting his teeth a lot.

"Say what?" Lance demands, when Justin mutters something and storms off to the showers. Lance raises his hands sharply, palms out; "whoa, girl," he calls after him. "Who looked up your skirt?"

"Anyone looking up Justin's skirt would see one helluva big angry cock," Chris says helpfully, and Joey doesn't really manage to laugh, because fuck, if anyone looked up Joey's... uh, pants... well, it wouldn't be suitable for family viewing.

"Give him a break," Joey says, and his voice comes out as hoarse as the laughter, and suddenly he needs to beat off right now, get the show out his system, get some rest--

"Yeah, cut him some slack," JC says, and he's practically vibrating, all the spastastic fun of the fair hammering round his thin body with no chance of anywhere else to go. Joey almost feels sorry for him until he remembers himself.

"So Justin's not gettin' no relief; that's not my problem," Chris protests; "don't tell me he don't know how to whip it out if it's all too much. He can always write the check after." He flicks a grin at Joey, then nods at JC, "Anyway, I dunno what you're so fired up about-- surely you're used to getting it up onstage," and then JC's smiling nastily and Joey swallows.

"I'm used to dealing with it afterwards," JC purrs, "but obviously now, I can't," then tosses a sharp glare round the room. "So don't fucking irritate me tonight, and I'll be just fine."

"What about wet dreams?" Justin demands, the next morning.

Joey laughs and gives him a deliberate once-over. "Did the happy fairies come in the night, junior?" and then joins in the laughter again when Justin scowls at him. It feels good to laugh. Not the sensation he's really chasing, but by this point, he's taking all he can get.

"No, you ass-wipe," he insists, and folds his arms. "It's just, like. Dude, this is getting painful. And I wanna know if I should be, like, trying to wake up if a dream goes. you know. the right way." He shifts, uncomfortably, and Joey decides he'd pay quite a lot to know what Justin dreamed about last night.

"I think wet dreams count," JC says, suddenly. Joey glances across at him, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah?"

"Otherwise," JC explains, kinda sharply, "you're gettin' release when the rest of us aren't." He laughs, shortly. "And that's just unfair on so many levels."

"Feelin' the strain, Jayce?" Chris drawls, leaning across and blowing impudently on JC's neck. He looks like a particularly mischievous fourteen-yearold torturing some poor geek who dared answer three questions in a row.

"Whatcha doin'?" Chris demands, looking around expectantly. "Why aren't you ready?"

Joey glances at him sourly, and his stomach cramps violently. Jesus fuck, Chris is fucking wearing eyeliner, and a sleeveless dark red shirt with black glittery streaks that makes him look like something out the glam rock scene. The totally edible section of the glam rock scene. Joey almost wants indigestion tabs, he's suddenly strung so tight. "I'm not going out."

"The hell you're not," Chris says dismissively, and then his eyes widen. "Wait, you seriously not? It's Friday night, Joe, in case you haven't noticed--"

"I can't go," Joey says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I just. ugh."

"Why's Joey not ready?" comes Lance's voice, and Joey looks up to see he's got fucking eye makeup as well, just a smudge of dark green, matching his thin snakey belt. Between the greens, a sheer black shirt that's cropped above his belly button. Joey thinks that if he saw them walking down the street he'd either flee or beg.

"I'm not going," he says, and flops down onto his bed, wanting them to take their glittery bodies away from him as soon as possible. "I. Ha. You'll think I'm crazy."

"What?" Chris says, and then Joey feels the bed tilt and Chris' is crawling on top of him, ducking down to bite his ear, smelling of rusty oceans and mulled wine. "Please, Joe, come with us..."

The smell's driving him crazy, making him dizzy. "I don't know how to go out without sex at the end of the night," he blurts, keeping his eyes tightly closed.

"You're right," Lance says, "I think you're crazy."

Joey laughs shortly. "C'mon, guys-- look at you. I can't hang with you for hours and dance with you and get drunk and then go home and, like, just go to sleep, can I," and he wonders if this is sharing way too much, "so I just wanna stay here. I know my limits." He laughs again, and it sounds kinda harsh. "My limits are very much here."

"Hmm," Chris says, and Joey pushes insistently at his shoulders until he slides back onto the floor. "Well, hell, flattery will get you anything. C'mon, Lance, let's take our virile irresistibility out to da club," and then the door slams behind them, and Joey rubs his face with his hand.

He's gonna have to change the sheets. He can't sleep in a bed smelling of Chris, not if he wants to wake up pure.

"That's right, baby... Yeah, perfect... oh, yeah."

Joey freezes, then raises his eyebrows. Distressingly-noisy Lance is in his bunk, ok-- but Chris is in the beanbags, nestled up with a book that makes his hands look tiny, reading briskly through wire glasses. Joey's spent the last ten minutes trying to work out how he can ask Chris to suck his cock without taking off those glasses, and wound up miserable because he wouldn't last three seconds. And he's not planning on asking to lose.

"Yeah, yeah," Lance rumbles, and Joey swallows; fuck, is Justin in there with him? The images totally aren't welcome in his brain, but they swarm his defenses: Justin lying on his back with Lance's cock skating against his open mouth; Justin bracing his feet against the ceiling of the bunk to let Lance spread his ass with two thumbs sliding deliberately inside; Lance on his hands and knees with Justin's face between his legs.

He looks back at Chris, who's smiling faintly at his book. Fucking orgasmed-out bastard. It's almost insulting, Chris' complacency when Lance is -- oh, fuck -- panting softly, making Joey's hands itch to grab those sleek shoulders and push firmly down and feel the compliance in Lance's knees as he folds obediently and takes Joey's cock graciously into his sinner's mouth--

"I'm rolling you on your front," Lance says, louder, and Joey almost groans; what, phonesex? That's so last season, so JC. He thought Lance would have more taste. "No, no, you can't move your hands, remember," Lance adds, an aural smirk; "not until I untie you," and Joey actually does growl, deep in his throat, mouth arid.

He thought Lance would have more mercy. Lance must know this is killing him -- for christ's sake, he's admitted the sight of Lance beating off makes his thought process dry up, and it's just not fucking fair of Lance to use his weaknesses against him.

"Oh, yeah," Lance says, and it's so approving that Joey feels furious that Lance isn't aiming it at him, can remember the slick glide of Lance's tongue against his cheek when Joey gets a hand round Lance's cock and starts jerking, remember identical approving yeahs crawling liquid across his skin. "And I'm holding your hot strong thighs in my hands, pushing them right apart, and now I'm sucking your balls until you're ready to cry--"

Chris has laid his book aside.

"--yeah, beg for it, uh huh--"

Joey stares at the ceiling, wishing desperately that his bunk wasn't right next to Lance's, wishing his headphones were here instead of under his pillow. Fuck. Fuck. Dread curls in his stomach; it'd be too fucking easy to give in, to go and throw Lance's phone at the opposite wall and get Lance's hands and--

"uhhh, yeah..."

---and, fuck! Deep breaths, man. Deep breaths. He wipes the fantasy off his brain, over and over, and then abruptly there's no thoughts left to distract him from the sensational raw need that's smouldering red and jagged all across his brain.

"yeah, yeah, like that, mmm-- and now? I'm gonna rim you until you scream."

"When you're done," Chris calls abruptly, and Joey swallows because he sounds turned-on again, no longer complacent, determinedly composed, "you're gonna do all that shit to me, y'hear? Or I'll... I'll beat you in the head."

"You still reading?" calls Lance instantly, then there's a pause, and a muttered "mmh, just a sec."

Joey glances over, and Chris is grinning at him, the white glitter of his teeth shocking compared with the black glitter in his eyes. "I can safely say I ain't been reading for the past forty seconds."

"For chrissakes get in here, then," Lance growls, and as Chris scampers past he mutters

"open invitation, man," and Joey closes his eyes in agony because he's not gonna go with them, he's not, he's not.

"So, Superman," Lance drawls, the following morning; "you crumbled, yet?"

Joey laughs, feeling a smug well of pride in his chest. Last night was hell, but this morning he's happy he didn't give in. "Nope."

"Hoo, he will soon," Justin predicts, then tilts his head at Joey, eyes sparkling. "No offense, Joe, but--"

"No! Lots of offense," Chris interrupts: "how the hell are you still in, when I'm ten grand poorer and you're the resident flirt?"

"I wanted you," Lance reminds him, and Chris makes a show of mulling that over before shrugging.

"Point," he concedes, leaning back into Lance's arm.

"I'm thinking, maybe he's all talk and no play," Justin says, and Joey opens his mouth to protest when Lance says,

"No, he's definitely got play; I should know," and grins at him. Crookedly. Images flicker viciously through Joey's head, of Lance on his knees, curling up and stroking the backs of his thighs and gagging, once or twice, which Joey felt faintly guilty about enjoying at the time.

Now? The thought of tangling his fingers in the back of Lance's pretty hair and guiding his mouth to exactly where he wants it, pushing into the wet furnace of his mouth and carrying on pushing, hips jabbing insistently until Lance is gasping hot air and squirming frantically and swallowing convulsively as his body tries to get free? Fucking show him where to sign.

"Yeah, well, make good on that later, huh?" he manages, and Lance's eyes glint like a green glass bottle containing L'eau d'Ego, looking smug and expensive.

"Oh," he breathes, and Joey feels it against the back of his neck even though Lance is right fucking across the room, "I will."

JC has a new bad habit, Joey notices, and it's nothing so harmless as refusing to eat crusts on Tuesdays.

"If we sleep together... will you like me better," JC croons to himself, proving Joey right. Somehow, he didn't realize JC knew so many Garbage songs-- although he knows it now, given he's had Hammering In My Head stuck in his brain for the last two days, just choice phrases twisting seductively in JC's new voice, the one he uses to bind teenies to him in enthusiastic adoration-rich slavery, the one that pours into Joey's ear like so much crisply melted chocolate.

Justin, luckily, doesn't seem to know many sexy songs.

As JC chuckles to himself and breaks into Janet's Would You Mind, Joey thinks that small mercies still leave the giant thumpin' super-lack-o-mercy to haunt him. Day and night. Oh, god, the nights.

When Lance swans up to him before rehearsal, hips gliding silkily into his space, Joey has a feeling he gulps audibly. He feels relieved he's already gotten changed. He feels extra relieved his dancing gear's got lots of room to manoeuvre.

"What's up?" he asks, trying not to sound strangled, and Lance smirks and reaches for-- hey, hey! "Keep your hands off the goods, Bass," he growls, twisting his hips out the way, uncomfortably aware that there's suddenly a lot more goods down there for Lance to grab.

"Ooh, I'm impressed," Lance says pleasantly. "You sure you haven't been beating off on the side?"

Joey blinks, then sends Lance his best injured look. "What's this-- you don't trust me?"

"Why the hell should we trust the sluttiest guy in Nsync?"

Joey laughs. "You can talk," he says, because there's him and Chris and that Danny guy and also, Chris has told him about Lance and JC, which might or might not be making Joey periodically think bad thoughts about videocameras depending on how strongly in denial he's feeling right at that moment.

Lance glances sideways, then at the ceiling, then licks his lips quickly and gives Joey a little smirk. "Point."

Somehow, having Lance confirm it makes it worse.

"...But I'm already out," Lance adds, and then his hand's on Joey's shoulder and he's leaning in; "and I know how much you like it, so unless you're cheating or having problems down below then I'm guessing you must be in a pretty big mess of agony by now."

Joey tosses him a grin that even feels vicious inside his mouth, trying to keep on the fun side of the joking-fucking line. "You're tellin' me."

Lance's tongue flicks over his top lip, exactly how Lance once did after sucking Joey off successfully enough to make him see stars. "Well, Fatone, just as soon as you're out for real," he murmurs, and Joey's teeth click together because he realizes he's been breathing through his mouth all this time, "...you come find me, y'hear? We can celebrate your loss together." Lance apparently has no regard for the line whatsoever.

Chris wanders into the room, and Lance squeezes Joey's shoulder before strolling over and laying a brutal little kiss on Chris' mouth. Chris' hands come up startled, then settle on Lance's shoulders, one moving up to stir circles in his hair. It evolves, deep and thorough and nasty. Jesus. Joey wonders if he makes this much noise when he's kissing.

"Guys, are you," Justin calls, jogging in, then stumbling as he sees the men in the middle of the room, narrowly missing smacking into the stack of chairs Joey draped his jacket over. "Hey," he growls, after staring open-mouthed for a couple of seconds, "break it up," and Lance draws back and smiles around guilelessly. Joey would laugh, if he wasn't so furiously turned on.

"Hoo, yeah, a few more like that and I'll have got value for money," Chris announces, and Joey, staring at Lance's wet red mouth, almost finds himself agreeing.

"Time," JC calls sunnily, spinning into the room and smacking hard into Justin, knocking him into the chairs. "Ow!"

"Shit," Lance says, helping them up, slipping one hand under Justin's wifebeater, the other stroking solicitously up and down JC's hip, and Joey's not even surprised when ten minutes later Wade comments on how they're not dancing too great.

"Like, aren't you even concentrating?" he demands, when Justin fucks up a turn that Chris picked up minutes ago.

He can.

He can just do it; it's not like his shower isn't private, for chrissake. And surely, one little orgasm, that's not too bad -- just enough to let him dance properly and look round a room without risk of spontaneous combustion; just enough so he can face off JC's little swiveling hips without itching to plunge his hands into his pockets, or resist the fucking unholy calling of Lance and Chris who seem to have developed a knack of making out against every wall Joey wants to walk past.

His hand slides down, soap-slick and groping his chest for support, feeling his heart patter away like a child's deep inside-- and then he remembers the blithe grin as Chris handed in his check, and he twists the water on hard and cool. No fucking way.

He dries off, allowing himself two brief squeezes of the towel round his cock. It's hard; big surprise. Pictures are spinning feverishly in his brain, Lance's kisses, JC's up-tilted ass, the looks that Justin and Chris keep sharing like they might just drop to the floor and screw right there-- Two squeezes becomes five, and he wrenches his hand away before things get totally out of control.

He shares a little pained grin with himself, then realizes he's seen that same grin on JC all day; in fact, he has a feeling the hotel won't be losing much hot water tonight to the three of them, all things told. Another day; fuck. The bad thing about turning out moral is the way he's still carrying most of his blood around at waist-height. Fuck. He cleans his teeth roughly, stares down at his cock in mute hopefulness, then shakes his head and pushes back into the other room.

And almost comes on the spot.

Lance is on his bed, naked, knees up, legs spread.

Chris is lying next to him, stroking Lance's cock, kissing him slowly; as Joey watches, Chris' tongue pushes deeply into Lance's mouth, dark pink and wet, and Lance's lips part to take it, twisting slightly, welcoming. Joey stares at them, and then Chris' hand lifts off Lance's cock and slides down over his balls, and Joey's mouth goes dry as he sees two of Chris' fingers pushing into the dark center of Lance's body as easy as butter.

Lance mutters something and arches up, wriggling his ass at Joey, and now he can see the glisten of something against the pink, realizes he must be totally lubed up and ready to go, and then Chris' fingers slide out again and, without pausing in kissing Lance, Chris' beckons Joey over, and Joey goes.

Justin knew something was different when he woke up. He just... he could tell. The groans coming from Joey's room for most of the night were a clue.

"It's down to the two of you," Lance says, and Justin glances at Joey, at his sated smile and loosely spread legs. Justin hasn't felt how Joey looks in what feels like months. Bastard.

"Ok," JC says, and his voice is cracked like he might not be able to sing, and Justin realizes that shit, there's just him and JC, and that makes it personal. He's not preening for the crowd any more-- just for the one man, thanks. Jesus.

"Ok," Justin says, and his own voice sounds thick and dusty, and then the call comes from Wade that if they don't get their asses down in the next three minutes he's gonna bring in O-Town and coach them to perfection and then wear an Nsuck hat to every awards ceremony he can.

As Justin reaches the door, JC pushes past him, and the firm curve of his ass skims against Justin's cock like the sudden glance of sunshine off a dirty window.

It's not aggressive or anything. The stakes have upped, though. No doubt about that.

"Flip," Wade says again, and Justin grits his teeth. He thought he'd managed to avoid this move, but nooooooo, Wade wants to try something new so they're starting with something old.

He tenses, then sighs. "Gimme a run-up, ok?"

"I've got six hours of footage that says you don't need a run-up," Wade snaps, then raises his hand when Justin starts to protest; "Fuck it, never mind. Chris, get over here."

Wade flips. Chris flips. Wade and Chris flip in tandem across the room, and then Chris walks nonchalantly back to his starting point and Justin swallows, hard. He just-- he can't. His center of gravity's moved, and as lame as that sounds, he can't get the dull fizzing energy in his stomach to coalesce into bright bursts of flip-propelling vigor and that seems to be that.

"Ok, take it from the top-- Justin, I need a double flip by next week or your ass is gonna be so chewed out you can't sit down, y'hear?"

Justin nods as the music starts, trying to look meek, then levels his gaze at himself in the mirror and sees a horny bratty teen glaring back. Fuck.

Though at least JC's just as bad. Right?

He kicks, drops to his knees and glances at JC, then skitters from foot to foot and feels the spin come almost naturally; JC's hard, and looks pained, but it's not enough to form consolation. He's gonna have to do something about that, he thinks, and as soon as possible, because man, this is getting insane.

"Dude," Chris mutters, when Justin slots into place behind him for the pelvic-jabs-with-high-knee-sweeping-five-six-and-sink-and-spin; "Watch it with that thing. We gotta be professional right now, you dig?"

Justin tilts his head, staring at the reflection in the hotel mirror, then wonders what is says about him that he's got the clothes on hand to make him look like something from Boysluts.com, then decides it doesn't matter, because, as Lance would say, it's all about coordination.

He wonders what Lance will think of this outfit, then wonders if it's a good idea at all. He likes it, but... Hmm. He runs a hand over his hip, then down, fingers stirring the ragged edges where he cut off his Levis two summers ago. He's grown since then, and the wayward threads of soft, faded denim tickle high up his inner thighs.

I'm wearing shorts, he thinks, then swallows. Not exactly, are they? But he remembers JC's eyes following the twink in hotpants all across the street in LA, so he figures it's as good a plan as any. He's walked around in them a little; it's fine, and looks amazing, except that the seam pressing against the crack of his ass makes him shiver from time to time.

He tried them on with underwear, and that looked wrong. So.

"You dirty little whore," he hears, and looks up in the mirror; Joey's leaning against the doorframe behind him. He didn't hear the door open. Fuck.

He swallows again, realizing that, what with the mirror, Joey can see him from all sides. "It's, uh. JC. I know he likes--"

"He couldn't not," Joey says, and Justin shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other and then realizes hotly that that made Joey, watching his ass, smile a little and tilt his head. Shit. He starts to shift again and cuts off, stricken.

"Um."

"Very pretty. Aren't you gonna twirl for me?" Joey says, still smiling.

Justin freezes, then gives himself a mental thwap: idiot! He approves, so play it up. "Sure," he says, composing his voice smoothly, then turns and pads on bare feet into the center of the room. His shirt, filmy and clinging, makes a tiny noise when he moves. "Like what you see?"

Joey straightens, giving him a slow once-over. "Oh, yeah," he says, and walks towards him, and Justin realizes that in terms of a victory, maybe these clothes aren't the best choice. Not if they make Joey take his hand and tug him closer, then spin him deftly and catch his hips in both hands, pulling him back against Joey's broad chest, his hard thighs. "Yeah, I like it very much," Joey mumbles into his hair, then ducks his head and licks the back of Justin's neck.

His tongue's soft and wet, and makes Justin go taut all over. He takes a deep breath, Joey's hands like brands on his hipbones; he's staring down, and his cock looks huge, bulking out the denim and sweetly distending the button, and he can feel the scritchy ice of Joey's beard on the back of his neck and it makes him shiver, and then Joey bites down just above the collar of his shirt and grinds his hips forwards, and Justin shudders and pushes away. He's breathing hard.

Joey grins, delightedly. "Oh, not as easy as you look."

There's movement at the door, "Though, that would be difficult," and Justin jerks round to see Lance leaning there where Joey had been, arms folded. Lance grins at him, come-to-bed eyes, then swings his gaze round to Joey instead. "C'mon. Chris wants you."

"Ok." Joey smacks Justin hard on the ass as he passes, and Justin grits his teeth hard to prevent from gasping. "See ya later, Justin."

Ok. The shorts are not gonna work.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Chris demands, but Justin's ready this time, ready with a fuck-me grin and a purred,

"Don't even pretend you don't like it," because he knows clothes, ok, and knows this is a good choice. The shorts, they brought exactly the response he wanted, but he couldn't deal with it -- he's a man, though, and he can admit that and move on.

So he's moved on to... this. If the waistband was any lower, anyone could tell if he was a natural blond. "I won't," Chris says, shaking his head; "jesus, boy. I could eat you alive."

"You won't, though," Justin murmurs, looking around for JC, smiling at him brightly. "What do you think?"

His nipples are tight, because this shirt's... well ventilated, and he's only bothered to do up one of the six buttons -- but it adds to the effect, so he doesn't matter. Frosted dark green's good on him, too. He looks arty-- in the same way that a pre-Raphaelite model would look arty if she were standing on a street corner with a collar around her neck.

JC stares at him for a second, then exhales softly. "Very nice," he says neutrally, then clears his throat.

"Want some water?" Justin asks quickly, closing in on him, liking the way Chris backed up for him with his hands raised and eyes dark. JC puts both palms on the table like he's about to push up and flee, then cringes down when Justin leans over him. "You look thirsty."

"I'm thirsty," Chris says clearly.

"Get yourself a drink, then," Justin says sharply, one hand on the back of JC's chair, the other placed on the table right next to JC's, thumb stirring against JC's wrist. JC jerks back, brushes his neck against the inside of Justin's elbow, jerks forwards again like he's had an electric shock-- and Justin grins to himself and leans closer.

"I want you to get me a drink, and feed it to me," Chris says plaintively, then pauses, and adds, "or, y'know, you could just drink it. Through a straw. Two straws. Uh, slowly," and JC laughs shakily.

"That'd be... yeah, shut up, Chris, I thought you had a side-bet on me winning," and Justin straightens, turning, surprised.

"You're betting on JC?" He folds his arms when Chris doesn't answer immediately, eyes narrowing. "You are. Fuck. Chris!"

Chris' wide eyes spark with fear, and then he looks Justin up and down, fear fading, and a slow grin spreads across his face. "Not if you walk round like that," he murmurs, lifting one hand as if to touch Justin's sleeve, then dropping it again. "A couple more days? Jesus, kid. Look at you."

Justin chews the inside of his cheek, still concerned that Chris might have anything but the highest confidence in him. "Hmm."

"JC doesn't stand a chance," Chris says, and ok, Justin smiles, that's decisive enough. He's mollified.

"Yeah," he says, turning back to JC; "you don't stand-- oh, fuck."

Apparently, JC's smarter than he looks. What with no longer being anywhere to be seen, and all.

Justin hovers round the bar, searching for JC in the crowd. He had a knot of girls earlier, and one of them had enough spiky red hair that Justin could easily keep track of them, but now she's dancing with a blond man and Lance said JC was on the move instead.

He swirls his thumb round the top of his beer bottle, just in case JC's watching from afar, then smirks to himself and licks his fingertips. No reason, but it's not like anyone watching's gonna know he doesn't have salt on his hands, or condensation, or sweat.

He'll wait another five minutes here, then move on. Maybe JC's in the little room, with the dark corkscrews of smoke and the hulking tattooed man sitting with his silky scrap of redhead jailbait in the corner. For a moment, Justin plays that through his head, of JC sinking to his knees and rubbing his face against the guy's crotch, frustrated tears streaking the dull hot leather, inky fingers sliding into his perfect coif, and then he takes a long pull of beer because shit, not supposed to be thinking anything like that.

Think about Joey's socks. And the spittle at the edges of Wade's assistant's mouth when he was shrieking that they were late for the third rehearsal in a row. And... family?

He catches sight of JC, drinking, in the corner, the lean slant of his throat making Justin's mouth water. Then JC looks at him, directly at him, and wipes his mouth, and not even lurid sense-memories of the moldy yogurt curry found in the broken fridge last summer can make his hard-on disappear.

On the way back home, JC opts to go in the second limo. Actually, Justin remembers, JC was the one who arranged for a second limo in the first place. It's kinda cool, in that it implies that JC doesn't dare spend time in a confined space with him.

On the other hand, like, how the fuck's he supposed to seduce a guy who won't even breathe the same air? He's good, but not a miracle worker.

Of course, there's always the possibility that JC will succumb to something else. Justin permits himself a smirk. Riiiight. Like, because JC's constantly coming into contact with sexier stuff than him.

"What's so funny, huh," Lance demands softly, sitting opposite Justin, eyes bright in the darkness. Justin wonders how shiny his teeth are in this light, then realizes that maybe Lance was just watching his mouth really closely, and swallows.

"JC," he says, and hears a long sigh from Chris; he looks over, then frowns. From what he can see, Chris is asleep next to him, slumped down -- dangerously close, but unconscious. Meaning him and Lance are, in every way that matters, alone in the limo. Together.

His brain wants to say something about contradictions, but he's cut short when Lance licks his lips. "Yeah," he murmurs, and Justin thinks that maybe the low voice's in deference to Chris, and maybe it's because Lance knows it makes Justin's knees weak. "I been thinking a lot about him, too."

Justin blinks, tries to look nonchalant. "Uh, yeah?"

"Mmm," Lance says, then flashes a bright smile; "there's something about the way he's constantly hard that makes me... hungry, you know?"

Justin shifts in his seat. "Uh huh," he says, and realizes that he's just exacerbated the problem.

"What about you?"

Fuck. And it's Lance, too, who can smell a lie a mile off. "Um," he offers, trying to buy time, then gives up. "Yeah, actually. It... it does," he says, trying not to think about it, about what it'd be like to suck JC, feel his air cut off, taste the musk for hours after. There's a pause, then Lance chuckles, breaking smoothly into a low laugh when Justin says, "what-- hey, what?" and folds his arms in hopeless defense.

"Oh, man," Lance manages, and his voice's trembly with amusement. "Oh, christ. This is just... Jup, I meant, what are you thinking about JC..."

Justin replays what he said, followed by what he should have said -- he's such a dork, tonight -- and swallows again. Hard. Twice. "I was thinking he's a dork," he says quickly. "Tonight he was. Um, and yesterd--"

"Not thinking about how his cock made you hungry?" Lance purrs, and Justin does his best to look outraged;

"No! He's not, I'm. No."

"Bullshit."

Oh, god. Lance's voice is dropping; Lance's knees are opening; Lance is leaning forwards with his wrists crossed across his knees, a little smile on that face, totally fucking charming. "It's not bullshit," Justin says, hopefully.

"I bet you'd suck me right now, if it wouldn't make you shoot in your pants."

Oh god. "No," he lies, hoarsely; "no, no, I wouldn't."

But it's Lance. "You think you could do it? Get me off, without coming yourself?"

"Easily," Justin says rashly, "but I'm not gonna, 'cause Chris might, uh, might wake up and surprise me, and trick me into coming, and, like, that's fifty grand, yo."

"You can afford it."

Good point. Shit. "It's about honor, man." That's vaguely true, at least. Right?

Lance sits back, spreading his legs wide. In the dimness, Justin can just make out the shape of his erection if he stares real hard, and he finds his whole body wanting a closer look, wanting to touch, to explore. "Fuck honor," Lance bites off, stretching out one foot to trace the side of Justin's leg.

Justin twists away, bumping his thigh against Chris, and looks down in panic. Shit; Chris is so not asleep.

"You're not asleep!" Justin accuses, and Chris' eyes flash.

"I wouldn't miss a show like this, you fighting between making good and fucking honor," Chris tells him, light glinting off his teeth, then shifts languorously and grabs Justin's hand, pulling it into his lap. "Or what, it's not a fight at all, you're just waiting to get your hands on some real excitement..."

Justin snatches his hand away, but not before he's vividly memorized exactly how hard and thick and twitchy Chris' cock is in his involuntary grip.

"You insulting me, Kirkpatrick?" Lance demands, and the low voice, it's definitely for Justin's benefit, no two ways about it.

"What do you think?" Chris murmurs back, and Justin wants to put his hands over his ears except then he'd probably feel the vibrations through the seat or something and he really doesn't wanna concentrate on his ass right now. "I'm better quality than you, that's for damn sure."

"Hmm," Lance snarls, and then Justin's blinking, because Lance has slithered off the seat opposite and onto the seat next to him instead, then reached across and grabbed Justin's far wrist and twisted him deftly onto the floor, and now Justin's kneeling in front of Chris and Lance with head spinning and cock dangerously hard. "I think," Lance says, sounding only faintly breathless, "Justin should decide."

"Hey," Justin protests, and tries to get up, but Chris leans over and presses his shoulder down so his knees dig firmly into the hard floor, and takes his other hand in the process, and the words sizzle to death in his throat.

"Yeah," Chris says, "that's a pretty good idea," spreading his legs, and then Justin's got the restricted solid heat of a cock against each hand, and Lance threads their fingers together while Chris merely cups himself through Justin's palm, and Justin ducks his forehead to the leather seat with a low moan, because this is so not happening, right. Right.

He's just imagining that he's got his left hand in Chris' lap, his right hand in Lance's. It's just a joke that they're both hard, and grinding up gently, their own hands keeping his grip tight. It's merely a very vivid dream that the effort of keeping his own body in check is making his forehead damp with sweat, making his eyelashes ache.

He knows in the back of his mind that the only way to escape this and stay in the competition is to go on the offensive, to give better than he gets-- but when he starts squeezing, shifting his knees further apart for balance and biting down on his lip, Chris turns to stone beneath his fingers and Lance clutches at his hand and breathes out a moan. It's kinda not conducive to clear tactical thinking.

Maybe I don't wanna beat JC that much, he thinks wildly, starting to grind his palms in, fingers stretching up to squeeze and explore. Chris is thicker, but Lance isn't letting his hand have enough freedom to find the tip of his cock, so hell, who knows-- and suddenly, all Justin wants is to be sitting on it, feel the warm silken iron of it rubbing underneath him, maybe even inside him, and if he can suck Chris' cock at the same time and feel his mouth absolutely filled then that'll be cool too.

"Ah, fuck, you were right," Lance murmurs, and Chris gives a breathless little laugh and thrusts his hips up gently.

"You doubted me?" he says, and Justin's broken out in sweat all down his back, and then the intercom chimes and Justin tugs back in alarm, then almost tumbles backwards onto the floor when they don't stop him.

"Shit," Justin mutters, realizing they've stopped, that he's got a chance to get away. That's good, right?

The intercom chimes again. Chris punches it. The chauffeur says, "We're here," and Justin looks up, swallowing.

"Yeah, ok, let Jup out," Lance says clearly, not looking at him.

Chris stares back at Lance, breathing audibly through his mouth, and they're one of the most fucking gorgeous things Justin's seen all year. "Then take us round the block again," Chris adds, and the door clicks and Chris' foot stretches over to push the catch, and Justin's caught in the face by a sweep of brightly cold air.

He crawls for it. "I'll... see you guys tomorrow," he says, turning and lowering his feet to the ground.

"Mmhmm, yeah," Chris calls, and Justin feels pretty happy Chris ain't looking at him right now because jesus fuck he could do without knowing ten things he's thinking. He stands up on unsteady legs, gravel tilted uneven beneath his feet as Lance leans in; he sees the flash of skin as milky hands tug open Chris' pants and guide his dick eagerly into Lance's mouth, and then he's slamming the door closed before any passing journalists can see, even though that wouldn't happen since they're staying in a private hotel that's got a warrant to arrest trespassing hacks, and all.

The car sleeks away, tires scrunching on the gravel like the last remnants of Chris' groan lingering to haunt him; he watches it go, one hand folded protectively over his crotch, the other wiping on his stomach to try and get the impression of a solid warm erection out of his sense-memory. They're going once round the block, huh?

Well, he doesn't care. He's got a nice cold unfamiliar bed to go to. What could be nicer.

"I can't go anywhere," he confesses, and JC sighs. They've called a truce, just for half an hour, and locked themselves away in the bathroom on the main bus. JC's sitting in the bottom of the shower because he doesn't trust Justin; from the look Justin's reflection's got on its face, Justin's not surprised.

Calendar firms would pay millions to bottle the sexual aggression that's rolling off him right now.

"Me either," JC agrees. "They're... always there."

Justin fiddles with one of Lance's sample shaving gel bottles, flicking at the cap with his thumbnail. "Making out," he says.

"I've walked in on them fucking twice now," JC says glumly, and Justin glances at him.

"Yeah?" He hasn't had the pleasure. Pleasure? Something like that.

"Joey and Lance, yesterday. Chris and Lance, before." JC's lips twist, and Justin tries hard not to fixate on them. So pretty. "I'd be scarred for life if it wasn't so fucking hot."

Justin's nodding before he realizes, then sees that JC's not looking, and clears his throat. "Yeah."

"And then there's you," JC says abruptly, and scrubs a hand through his hair. "I hate you."

"I hate you too," Justin says, as close as he'll come to admitting that just being in the same room as JC's making his blood go hectic. "And your fucking mouth," he hears himself add; "pretty," and then makes himself stop.

"My mouth -- dude, your mouth," JC retorts, and then starts laughing, "aw, shit," and Justin laughs as well, until his chest hurts, because it's ludicrous, what they've devolved to.

"This is so weird," he manages, and JC's quaking in the bottom of the shower cubicle, head buried in his hands. Justin feels like a teenager, smoking pot or something. He's not sure why. "Half hour's up," Justin says, to see what JC'll do.

JC looks up sharply and turns pale, unless it's a trick of the light. "Uh, well. Lemme out, then," he says, nervously, and Justin wonders if he really looks that predatory, then glances in the mirror again and realizes he does. Sheesh.

"You're free to go," he says, waving one hand at the door.

JC gets up guardedly, lingering in the shower. Justin wishes for a moment that it could be remote controlled, that he could douse JC with a healthy sheet of water to teach him not to dawdle, then realizes he'd be all wet and his shirt would cling transparently and he'd probably breathe hard, and decides he's lucky it's not.

"What is this, you want me to go first or something," he says, trying to sound frustrated rather than turned on. As ever.

"Yep," JC says, shameless, and Justin makes a show of rolling his eyes and stalking out the room.

He lingers, though. Just round the corner, where JC'll walk by briskly if he's true to type today-- ah, yeah, he thinks, a few minutes later, and he reaches out in perfect time and catches JC's arm and pulls him close and kisses his mouth-- and misses, as JC twists frantically free, lips brushing a disturbingly silken cheek instead. He must've just shaved, and there's no reason that should be erotic, except that it is.

"You fuck," JC hisses, rubbing at his cheek like it stings, eyes glowing blue-black.

"Sorry," Justin says insincerely, deciding it was worth it; JC glares and then tears off down the hall, and Justin's left with the icy breath of aftershave on his lips, bitter when he licks them, and realizes it probably isn't worth it after all.

And, he's just admitted that he likes JC's mouth.

Fuck.

The towel begins to blur before his eyes, sweat drizzling round his chest from where it tickles all the dimples in his back, dripping off him. Justin's lost count of how many pushups he's done now, he just knows the frothing arousal in his stomach's still there, so he's not done, not done, not done--

When he collapses onto the towel, finding it damp, shoulders ringing with a pale, bitter exhaustion that recurs all down his body in little eddies of terrific burn, his cock rubs sweetly against the floor through his sweats. He doesn't have the energy to groan.

"Yo, Justin," he hears, fuzzily, and shifts uncomfortably. His bed's incredibly hard; his skin's so sensitive it feels like he's lying on terrycloth-- oh. "Whatcha doing?"

He moans pitifully, opening his eyes and seeing the base of the couch far too close, and then Chris' little sneakers step into his vision, turning into those sturdy hairy legs that Justin'd love to have wrapped round his waist -- no he wouldn't, stop thinking that, stop it! -- and then there's a creak as Chris slumps down. "Fuck."

"You been sleeping on the floor?" Chris demands, reaching out with one foot and toeing Justin's shoulder. "You'll get a cramp."

"I've got a cramp," Justin growls, trying to take deep breaths and ignore the stabbing pains; "why the hell d'you think I'm not moving, yo?" He's also got a hard-on.

How original is that.

"C'mon, up and at 'em," Chris croons, and Justin laughs shortly.

"No, really, Chris-- I can't move."

Chris snorts, and Justin manages to tilt his head up enough to glare at him. Yeah, the fucker's laughing. What a huge surprise.

The fucker's also watching him, the amusement in his eyes undercut with appreciation, and Justin remembers he was working out without a shirt and while that's just kinda gross to his stuck-to-the-towel ass, apparently Chris thinks it looks pretty good.

And oddly, just considering that Chris might be thinking about touching him, maybe rolling him over, maybe just licking his shoulderblades and spreading his legs, just the idea of that makes Justin feel vaguely vulnerable and instantly aroused.

"Sorry, Jup," Chris says, and his voice is low again, speculative; "hey, you in real pain? You want a massage or something?"

"Pretty much absolutely not," Justin says, thinking that a backrub in this condition could leave him ten grand poorer; "I'll just lie here, thanks. And, uh. think about stuff."

Chris laughs again. "Well, you got ten minutes before JC gets back from his run and we haul anchor, so if you want to get off this bus at all..."

JC, running. Gleaming, probably; all slippery with sweat, limbs loose, mouth a little open. Panting. "No," he says, and his voice is kinda croaky, but that's just because he's just woken up, uh huh. "I'll just stay here."

"Justin, Justin! You won!" Chris yells, bounding into the room and jumping on him, kissing him soundly on the cheek, waving a bit of paper in his face.

"No way!" Justin yells back, and the images are in his head, JC capitulating at last, grabbing himself and stroking hard and making that face as he comes at last at last at last--

"See, see," Chris is growling, biting playfully at his shoulder, and Justin realizes it's a check he's waving, a check for fucking ten thousand dollars from his very favourite Joshua, and then Chris' hands are sliding possessively down his body, one hand cupping his erection while the other slots into his back pocket, and fuck, that's good, yeah, that's exactly what he needs. The world goes shimmery and Justin's hand comes up to Chris' shoulder, instantly short of breath, panting,

"fuck, yeah, harder, like that, yeah, yeah--"

"What the hell are you doing?" Lance demands, and Justin freezes and thinks shit, is Chris not supposed to eat away from home? and then Lance is chuckling and going, "you opting out, Just? pressure too much for you?" and Justin has just enough presence of mind to shove Chris off him;

"JC's not out?"

The world's spinning lazily round his head, pulses of heat arrowing in from the corners of the room to strike into his erection, again and again and again.

"Nope," Lance is saying, and then his eyebrows raise and his gaze sweeps to Chris; "oh, you fucker, you didn't--"

"He did," Justin says, wishing he had the discipline to pounce on Chris and demand apology without grabbing that blissfully efficient hand and pressing it right back where he needs it. "He totally did." He wipes his face with his hand, taking deep breaths.

"That's so cruel," Lance admonishes, crossing to Chris, hooking an arm round his neck and pulling him in close. "Just because you're bored..."

"I'm not bored," Chris says promptly, leaning into him, then licks a slow path up his cheek, adding, to Lance's temple, "I'm horny."

"Fuckin' come to me, then," Lance says, all wide eyes and wide grin and white teeth and one hand roving down Chris' back.

"Pfft, I've had you," Chris teases, and slants his gaze at Justin. "And, like, look at him. He'd fucking do anything for a lay."

"I would not," Justin protests, but it's too late, Lance is looking at him with that slow Southern appraisal of his and Justin's overly aware of his trembling body, of his dick, the way it feels huge in his chinos.

Even huger when Lance stares at it for a long, lingering moment, then grabs Chris' hand and pulls him towards the door, still staring at Justin's groin, even fucking licking his lips as Chris purposefully overtakes him and then tugs him out of view.

Justin takes another deep, deep breath. His whole torso shudders lightly as he lets it out, and he forces himself to stop staring at the door. He sees something white on the floor, bends to pick it up. A check. Ten thousand dollars. Signed, in JC's floral scrawl, J. R. Gullible Timberlaid.

You'd think that, with the bass voice, the noises which Lance makes during sex would carry the furthest. That Justin'd be able to hear them anywhere, vibrations rumbling up into his brain, the low purr that's distinct from everything in the world except perhaps earthquakes. That even when Justin'd clamp his hands over his ears, he'd still be able to hear the cello groans curling through the air as Chris did whatever Chris did to make himself un-horny again.

In the dream, they are singing I Drive Myself Crazy on the red couch at Madison Square Garden, and JC's shirt is soft and green and the earpiece wire tickles the back of his ear, and he's staring at the back of Lance's neck in something like confusion as Justin breaks off his solo and prowls back from the edge of the stage, Chris and Joey turning in unison as well.

He looks around in confusion, sees the light covered in cellophane -- why, why -- and then that Justin's loitering in front of him, face monochrome in shadows that hadn't been there a minute ago.

Lance takes up the verse, not even glancing over. Lance's voice sounds different, multifaceted like light shining through crushed glass, and he can hear his own voice twisting through it, hear all of them there, strands of sound tangling in flawless synchronization. The crowd roars, and JC can't breathe; Chris and Joey are both kneeling on the floor, hands sliding over his feet. He's barefoot, and they're warm, and the couch feels like latex beneath his soles; he feels his balance dip and parry to keep him perched safely on the arm.

Safely?

Everyone's watching him, and it's making his blood race; he's watching Chris and Joey as they smirk at each other, eye contact simmering until the air between them is glassy and substantial with heat. Chris' hand moves first, sliding up the back of JC's leg, but Joey's soon catches up, until the backs of his knees are being simultaneously petted like a dog.

He tries to push them away; Joey ducks back, but JC's thumb smudges Chris' eye makeup, and Chris just smiles, pinching the back of his knee, then stroking warmly again.

He tries to ask them what they're doing -- there's an audience out there, man, and Lance is singing all our parts -- but they're too busy smiling at each other to say anything back. Instead, their grips turn to stone and they tug down hard; JC gasps in pain as his ass hits the suddenly-unforgiving flat of the couch, then almost swallows his tongue when Justin steps over Joey's legs and leans over him with a white, white, obscenely white smile.

He tries to speak again -- dude, what the hell? -- but Chris and Joey are pulling his legs apart, and now Justin's got a knee on the couch, sliding up close to his crotch, and the smile's blinding him, and his lungs are full of grains of salt.

"Love it," Justin murmurs, and he's somehow gotten hold of JC's hands, threading their fingers and holding them above JC's head, wrist to wrist and blood-warm. He almost shrieks when Chris and Joey start licking his ankles, those blankety wet trails sending fire racing up inside his skin.

He struggles, trying to get his hands free, and then Justin's leg touches his cock and Justin's mouth slants against his cheek, and Joey and Chris pull him down a little further, just enough to make him squirm against Justin's knee.

Fuck, he thinks, but doesn't dare open his mouth to say it, because then Justin'll kiss him for real and that's no good at all. Justin laughs like he hears it, tiny warm walls of air that sink through his cheek and trickle down the inside of his throat, and then Justin's mouth is moving; down, down, a crystal heat of teeth and tongue that pierces his shirt and almost makes his chest dissolve.

He mourns the loss of Justin's knee -- because its pressure was making him insensible with stimulation, but also because he's afraid of what comes next.

He mustn't come.

"Love it," Justin repeats, and Lance picks up that instead of JC's line, then skips back to the song when Justin reaches JC's cock and JC grits his teeth so hard they almost shatter. It's torture, and he's wriggling on the hard couch in something like anguish -- but not quite anguish, because it's also the most welcome sensation all year, and he can't help but quietly groan, Lance's voice blasting him gently with too-familiar words.

Chris and Joey bite down in tandem, crab-pincers of bony heat crunching against his ankles, and JC kicks out and then half-squeals in frustration because no one seems to notice, and Justin's sucking him, now, for real, and Lance has almost finished singing his solo and the audience are screaming even though JC's not said a word.

He tries to thrust up, and Justin's hands disappear, letting him wave wherever he likes but pinning his hips with uncompromising palms. JC starts struggling, not sure why his hands seem to glance off Justin like a negative-negative magnetic charge -- yeah, he took physics a while, thanks very much -- but unable to catch his breath and take stock of the situation.

Justin's mouth is as wicked as his shuddery thrusts, and it doesn't help that JC's been dreaming about it for the last four days. JC kicks out again, feeling the aching roar in the pit of his stomach, and then Lance has taken Chris' place and Chris is behind him and hooking the towel round his neck, hauling him back against the couch and humming in his ear.

Lance isn't singing, but the beat's still going in his head, and even though he can't breathe he knows he has to come in with his chorus, knows it like he knows how old he is, like he knows Justin's favorite color and Lance's list on Why Men Suck pt.3 --

--and then the couch is the one on the bus where he saw Chris grinding in Joey's lap yesterday, and Lance's voice starts up again, soaring slick earth in his fists, and then the microphone in JC's hand is melting away and he's just clutching at air and then he feels the blanket crushed between his fingers and he's slamming awake, adrenaline making his body fizz.

He's thrown the covers off, his legs are splayed wide with one overheated foot dusting against the floor, and Justin's a kneeling supplicant on the floor gently lapping at his thigh. "You fucking cunt," JC hisses, scrambling back on the couch and demanding of his brain why on earth he'd let himself doze off in front of the football, and Justin's hand on his knee is warmer than either Chris or Joey in the dream.

"Let me, please," Justin mumbles, and the licking becomes kissing, Justin's lips working like he's trying to pick up crumbs, moving steadily up to where sensation dims because he's kissing JC's boxers; "please, I wanna suck you, I've been thinking about it all day," and when JC's hands fall to Justin's head, Justin nuzzles into them and starts squeezing his knee.

"Get off of me," JC says, trying to push him away and finding to his horror that he's stroking instead, "this is so below the belt," stroking Justin's soft cheeks and the firmness of his jaw, "you've gotta stop, fuck, please, stop," and then unable to prevent a low moan when Justin's lips press into his erection through the too-thin fabric of his boxers.

"I want you," Justin mutters into the cloth, and his hot breath seizes JC's cock and infuses it with pleasure, making JC squirm and thrust upward and need Justin's mouth more than any single other thing in the universe, bar none. "Please, just let me," Justin adds, tilting his head sideways and opening his mouth wide, working it steadily against JC's cock in a slow slide up towards the waistband of his boxers.

JC hisses and drags his fists against the unforgiving buzz of Justin's hair, gotta push away, please, got to, and then Justin reaches his waistband and slides his tongue wet-lewd across JC's stomach and JC squirms round under him and bucks up and tumbles them both onto the floor.

"You're a fucking cheat," he's gasping, trying to get some space between them, and Justin groans loudly and rolls onto his back, throwing his hands above his head and closing his eyes and splaying his legs wide. He looks like he's done ten laps of the new stage and his mouth's still that infuriating red, and now JC can imagine it opening against his cock and swallowing him down and--

He tries to cut off the thought, failing dismally, aching all over and wanting nothing so much as a nice uncomplicated out-the-game guy to come and push him across the couch and sit on his cock and let him pump briskly into him to his heart's content for all of the three seconds it'd take him to come.

He tries to cut off that thought as well, but coupled with trying not notice that he doesn't seem to want a nice uncomplicated out-the-game woman to come finish him off, plus trying not to notice the solid-looking bulge of Justin's cock, and also trying not to notice how it makes his mouth water, he's almost relieved when Justin takes breath to speak.

"Dude, when this is over, you're gonna let me finish that, right?"

He's no longer relieved. "Yeah," he says helplessly, then swallows and almost chokes with the dryness. Fuck. Needs a drink.

"Good. 'Cause I'm not lying, man-- I've wanted to do that since forever," Justin breathes, and JC wonders if Justin knows how much this isn't helping, and then Justin adds, "well, since Danny first did it to me," and JC's brain fills with Lance's friend and his pretty pretty mouth and Justin's big hands messing up perfect dark hair and fuck, he does not need these pictures right now.

"I'm gonna. right. Is the bathroom free?" Cold shower. Please. Right fucking now.

"I'm just gonna lie here and think about how Chris and Lance and Joey are having a big ole party of orgasms while I walk around with it pinned under my belt half the time because otherwise I'll ruin way too much nice clothes, and then I'm gonna work out exactly where my checkbook is because I might need it in a hurry."

JC's checkbook is in the shoebox at the bottom of his bed with a check for $10,000 already made out. All he needs to do is sign it. "You're a total prick for trying it when I was asleep," JC says, staring at the ceiling and refusing to picture Chris and Lance and Joey's orgasm party, and almost succeeding.

"I waited til you woke up to do anything more than lick your knee," Justin says, and shrugs. "You got all hot and bothered by yourself. Anyway, there's nothing in the rules..."

The thought of Justin watching him wake up is-- right, cold shower. Now. "New rule, ok -- nothing when we're asleep," he says, standing up, still not looking at Justin sprawled out invitingly on the floor. "I'm gonna have a shower."

He walks out without waiting for an answer, then wishes he'd clamped his hands over his ears when Justin's voice calls after him: "dude, don't you worry 'bout sleeping, y'hear? By tonight you'll be curled up round me purring like a Lance that got the cream, just see if you ain't."

JC thinks briefly about replying, then realizes he has absolutely nothing to say.

Jesus fuck, his brain screams, when the cold water blasts over him and hurts with the unpleasantlness of it. He turns off the water and leans against the wall, shivering and gritting his teeth and trying not to laugh.

It's not even funny. Just, he's always heard of cold showers but never actually tried it, and now he knows why-- because they're fucking excruciating. His heart's going hard, like he's having sex, but his cock's definitely less insistent than it was thirty seconds ago.

How do people in Alaska ever procreate? he wonders absently, and then he can't resist reaching down and holding his cock, feeling the weight in his hand and the little dutiful sparks of pleasure and the defeated ache of his balls coming to terms with the way they're not gonna empty themselves for a while longer yet.

He thinks experimentally about Justin, feels a twitch go through it. Actually, that's faintly relieving as well -- asleep, but not dead. Success. Oh, and yeah. Alaskans wear those fur things. Plus, never underestimate huddling for warmth.

He turns on the water again, setting it to pleasantly lukewarm and reaching for the shampoo. This is