Blue Moment, or, The T-shirt Story
     by Julad

     Long author's notes: I'm such a lazy fuck. I make my friends write for me
     when I can't be bothered working on something.  So this story includes
     some Chris/Justin sex by Calico, and some JoLa by Nemoinis.  The JoLa
     includes words from Wax and somebody else I've forgotten, which I was
     supposed to use in mprov but didn't, because I decided to go off and drink
     beer instead.  And most of all, Sinead swooped down and gloriously rescued
     the whole story from what seems to be a persisting case of writers' block
     on my part, by finishing two sections for me.  So, yeah.  I really didn't
     have all that much to do with it.

     This is also posted against some very good advice.  Apologies to Cal,
     Nemo, and TNL for ignoring it.  I know you're right, but it was either
     this way or never-finished-until-the-end-of-time-ever.  Hope this way will
     do.


     * * * * *

     "Who the fuck are Blue Moment anyway?" Joey said one day, hands on the hem
     of his t-shirt.

     JC shrugged, yanking at Joey's jeans, spreading his legs wide apart and
     tugging until Joey fell heavily between them.  "How would I know?"

     "It's your shirt," Joey said, pulling it off.

     "No, I think it's Justin's," JC said, and stretched back on the couch with
     his arms folded behind his head, and let Joey have his way with him,
     because Joey did it slow and nasty, and got grumpy if JC tried to
     interfere.  JC didn't have much of a reason to interfere--he didn't have
     to lift a finger, basically--except that Joey when he was horny and
     domineering was also really hot when he got annoyed and pushed JC's hands
     up to the headboard for the third time and said "just fucking lie there
     and *enjoy* it, okay?" with his face a little flushed and his hair
     starting to cling into damp, sweaty, messy spikes.  

     JC woke up again at 2 a.m., strangely refreshed.  Joey was sleeping
     silently, a dense collection of heavy arms and legs, his face buried in
     the pillow.  JC nudged him, because Joey looked dead to the world even if
     he was just dozing, but Joey didn't wake up, so he got up and retrieved
     his notebook, and brought it back to bed with him.

     "Whatcha working on?" Joey asked sleepily, a few minutes later, and JC
     realised he'd been humming aloud.

     "Not sure," he said.  "No lyrics yet."

     "Sounds nice," Joey said, rolling onto his back.

     JC tapped the pen against the paper, trying to think.  "Sing the harmony
     for me," he said.  "I can't get the melody straight."  Joey sat up and
     brushed his hair off his forehead and looked down on the page and started
     humming.  JC tried the melody he was thinking.

     "You're right," Joey said, breaking off.

     "It sounds like a minor trying to be a major," JC sighed, and Joey sang it
     again, but in E.

     "Maybe if you drop it at the end," he suggested, and resang the melody.
     JC watched him, and listened.

     He loved Joey's voice, the effortlessly soulful sweetness of it which made
     him think of babbling brooks and sun-dappled flowers and bees that didn't
     sting.  He had written seventeen songs for Joey's voice, and one of them,
     with Justin singing the lead, had nearly made NSA, but all the rest were
     somehow, when he told producers or managers that they were for Joey, too
     shallow, or not edgy enough, or charming but not the sound fans craved,
     and why didn't he offer it to Wild Orchid?  

     Another one of Joey's songs had been ditched in the first round of
     demoing, because JC couldn't bring himself to sing it well.  His head told
     him to stop trying to write for Joey because it wasn't going to happen,
     but his heart, the place his music came from, insisted that if he could
     just write the perfect song, one so good that they couldn't say no to it,
     one which demanded the carelessly offhand sincerity that only Joey could
     do, then it could make the next album, and he and Justin wouldn't end up
     singing it. 

     "What's wrong?" Joey asked, resting his cheek on JC's shoulder.

     "Nothing."  JC ripped the page out of his notebook and turned to a fresh,
     clean page.  "I just wanna try writing something else."


     * * * * *

     Justin cornered JC in the change room.  "Hey," he said, pushing him up
     against the wall, smiling possessively.  "Stay there."  He backed off for
     two seconds, and closed the door and locked it.

     "Why does everyone like to shove me around?" JC asked the unsympathetic
     air.

     "Duh, because you get off on it," Justin said, prowling back into JC's
     personal space, dragging his hands heavily over JC's chest.

     JC arched into the touch.  "I do not."

     Justin bared his teeth, lifted his knee until it was pressing up hard
     against JC's balls.  His hands pushed JC's shoulders back into the wall.
     JC writhed, lifting up onto his tiptoes, but Justin was taller now, and
     could press his thigh up and up and up until JC threw his head back and
     moaned.  "See?" Justin whispered.  "You love it."

     "I don't," JC panted, grinning.  "Really."

     "I'm gonna bend you over the table," Justin continued, "and I'm gonna fuck
     you so hard, fuck your ass until you make those hot little whimpery
     noises."

     "No, um. Stop it."  

     "And before I let you come, you're gonna have to beg for it."  

     JC stretched his neck until he could lick Justin's lips, and Justin bit
     down on his tongue and then sucked it.  "You're such a slut for this," he
     said, right into JC's mouth.  Justin dropped his knee and yanked JC's hips
     until their cocks were abrading against denim together.  "Take off your
     shirt, bitch."

     "Make me," JC panted.

     "Leave it on then, I don't care," Justin said, so JC let go of Justin's
     shoulders and gripped the hem.

     "Who is this band, anyway?" he asked suddenly, staring down at the upside-
     down faded blue letters.

     "What? Why?"

     JC shrugged, and his hips kept grinding of their own volition as he yanked
     the shirt over his head and threw it aside.  "Joey wants to know."

     "Some freakish thing Chris likes," Justin said absently, twisting one of
     JC's nipples.

     "Aha. The Britpop phase?"

     Justin put his hand down and squeezed JC's cock hard.  "Hello?  Can we not
     talk about this now?"

     "Oh," JC gasped.  "Yeah.  Sorry."

     Eventually Chris banged on the door and yelled, "fucking hurry up in
     there," and Justin adjusted his grip on JC's thighs and snarled, "say it,
     you bitch, you know you want it."

     "No," JC gasped, writhing impatiently.  A vicious thrust made his head
     spin.

     "Beg."

     "Oh god oh god oh god oh." A shuddered breath. "No."

     Gritted teeth.  "Fuck."  Harder thrusts, sharp and precise and spaced
     meticulously apart.

     "Yeah," JC found himself saying, in time.  "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Oh *god*
     yeah."  Justin slapped his ass, and JC reared up onto his elbows, trying
     to wrap his thighs around Justin's waist and get him in at the right
     angle.  

     Justin bared his teeth and JC shivered, but Justin stopped fucking.  

     JC slammed his fists on the table and called him a son of a whore, and
     told him to get on with it, and Justin just held his thighs and grinned
     like a wolf and said, 

     "Beg."

     so JC reared up and kicked, and screamed "*God*, Justin, *please*, fuck
     me," and then Justin was slamming it home, fast and furious and still with
     that unbreakable rhythm until JC could hear himself whimpering loudly to
     Justin's grunted approval, until the tsunami building in his ass and his
     balls and his cock reached breaking point, and crashed over him like
     unbearably silky lava, just as Justin's breathing started to get uneven.
     When JC slumped back onto the tabletop, Justin leant down on top of him,
     teeth sinking into his shoulder as his hips went into short, sharp,
     vicious overdrive.  JC writhed at the overstimulation, fingers scrabbling
     to grip something, and Justin said "*ha*" with every thrust as he came.

     After, Justin picked up the shirt and put it in his bag.  "You love it."

     "Do not," JC said, trying to yank his stage clothes on hurriedly with numb
     fingers and heavy, tingling limbs.


     * * * * *

     When Wade was called away to attend an emergency Innosense dancing
     catastrophe, they all promised sweetly to finish up without him.  JC took
     his place at the front of the room, and spent five minutes saying, "Joey,
     what the hell was that," and "Chris, you moron, slow the *fuck* down," and
     "Lance, stand up. Stand up. Stand *up*, god dammit!" and finally, "I
     fucking hate you all."  He stomped to the back of the room and told Justin
     to do it.

     Justin's method of leading rehearsal was to do everything perfectly, and
     then say "what's so fucking hard about that?"  Lance and Joey just flipped
     him off tiredly, but Chris shoved him aside and took Wade's position.

     "Okay ladies," he announced, draping Lance's sweater over his shoulder
     like a shawl, and bouncing from foot to foot.  "As a special treat, today
     we're going to learn one of the hip new things all the kids are doing.
     It's called the *Macarena*, say it with me girls! Mac! a! re! na!  C'mon,
     I can't hear--"

     JC stalked over and slapped the back of his head.  "Go to the corner," he
     snapped, and took over again.

     Lance was the first to give.  "I'm done.  I suck.  I don't give a shit.
     Seeya."  He squeezed JC's ass on his way out, though, and JC watched him
     go and said,

     "Yeah, um, okay, that's probably enough.  I really need some sleep, guys.
     After last night and all..."

     so Joey and Justin waved buh-bye to him as well.  

     "He's so easy," Justin said.

     "Yeah," and Joey grinned, and then stood up.  "Lance is my ride, too."

     "Hmm," Justin agreed.  They looked over at Chris, who had put Basement
     Jaxx on one stereo, and White Zombie on the other, and cranked the volume
     right up, and was jumping around and headbanging and grooving at ninety
     miles an hour in both lanes.  "I think I better stay here, though."

     "Fucking Jolt cola."  Joey shook his head sadly.  "Sure you can handle
     it?"  

     Justin grinned and bounced on his toes.  "Not a problem, man."

     "Better you than me," Joey sighed, picking up his coat and bag and jogging
     out the door.

     Justin turned to face Chris, stripped his shirt off and wiped his hands on
     it.  "You hear that?" 

     Chris paused in his bouncing.  "Huh?"  Then the music hit a bizarre
     synchronicity and he was dancing again, fluidly furious shakes of his body
     taking him around the circumference of the room in seconds.

     Justin switched off Jaxx and turned Zombie down to a gentler roar, and
     dimmed the lights.  Chris slowed down his pace and watched as Justin's
     reflection came up behind him, dancing.  "C'mon, I wanna--" he shouted,
     turning Chris around and insinuating a thigh between Chris' knees.  And
     then it was back across the room, grinding cocks together as their hips
     shook with the bass.  

     Chris tilted his head as he turned them, then flicked his gaze down
     Justin's bare chest and back to his mouth, "you wanna... ?"

     Justin raised his eyebrows; Chris was still jerking to the beat, so he
     hooked one arm round Chris' neck and dropped the other hand to Chris'
     waist, forcing him still and making his point with a prompting little nod.
     "I wanna," he said deliberately, feeling Chris's energy racing hot under
     his hands. Chris tilted his head back and bared his teeth, resisting him
     just enough to make his cock shout its frustration against the tight
     stretch of his pants, so Justin jerked him in closer, shivering at the hot
     breath tight against his neck, keeping Chris absolutely still with a
     steadily hardening grip, until the music hammered into a new song and
     Chris inhaled sharply and melted into a deliberate slide against him.

     "More like it," Justin murmured, letting his whole body rock against him
     and shoving his fingers down the back of Chris' pants to haul him closer
     with a handful of hot firm flesh, the sort of groping you could only get
     away with when your partner was further along than you were.

     Justin grinned fiercely into Chris' hair as Chris squirmed against him
     with sudden insistence.  Chris was an electric octopus, hands groping hard
     in a hundred different places as he shook his hips and sucked Justin's
     neck.  "Pretty boy," he was chanting, muttering it against slick skin,
     slipping his tongue out to taste salt and sugar, "pretty, pretty, pretty
     boy."

     It took all of Justin's strength to wedge his hands between them, get
     Chris' shirt up past their sliding chests and then untangle his arms from
     his body and tear it over his head.  In the corridors of reflection in the
     wall mirrors he could see Chris' face, fierce and ravenous, biting harshly
     into his shoulder and then laving the wound, and the hands on his ass as
     they gripped covetously.  

     A faster song, now, kicking out with a lethal bassline, and only Chris
     knew this, only Chris knew how much, to Justin, dancing was like fucking.
     And sex by himself was great, smooth and effortless and satisfying, the
     loose elasticity of his hips sending shivers up his twisting spine, but
     sex with another person was an edgier thrill of compatibility and
     logistics and balance, a challenging dance now multiplied by smoky mirrors
     and complicated by his partner's uncontrollable urgency.

     He fought Chris for the lead and lost, was forced into backwards steps and
     spread legs, reduced to clinging to Chris' neck as Chris opened their
     pants roughly and yanked them together again to grind on the spot, panting
     harshly, losing rhythm and staggering before finding it again, seeing his
     own wide eyes and wet lips as he panted, seeing the hidden expression of
     need Chris wore as he twisted his fingers in Justin's curls and yanked his
     head back.  Mirrors told the story from every angle: his own exposed neck
     and clutching fingers, his own moans echoing glassily, his own hips
     thrusting furiously in tandem with another's and then his own needy
     whimpers tangling with the greedy satisfaction Chris was gasping.  Chris
     thrust against his cock, harderfasterharderfaster as Justin shook with the
     music and the furious pounding of sex through his veins until he saw his
     own face on the verge of climax, eyes wide and mouth lax, then his own
     head dropping back and his teeth bared as he came onto his own stomach,
     and, as if in slow motion, his own liquefied body crumpling to the floor
     at Chris' feet.

     Chris looked down at him from very high up, chest barely moving as Justin
     gasped like a fish out of water.  "Dude, don't tell me you're done
     already!" He stamped one tiny foot, and bounced impatiently.

     Justin managed to struggle up onto his elbows, then flopped back.  "Ask me
     again in twenty minutes."

     "*Twenty minutes*?"  Chris looked insanely disappointed, and did his pants
     up as he started dancing again.  "Dammit dammit dammit wanna fuck wanna
     fuck wanna *fuck*," he chanted, and grooved over to the second stereo and
     switched it back on.  The sudden cacophony was vicious, but he launched
     into a new rhythm which didn't miss a single beat, head and neck and
     shoulders and arms and hands and hips and legs and feet all finding their
     own quicksilver movements to the barrage of sound.

     Joey was right, Justin acknowledged ruefully, wiping his forehead.  Chris
     plus Jolt cola was *way* too much for one person to handle.  He got up and
     staggered over to his bag, wiped off his sticky stomach with his t-shirt,
     and pulled on a sweater.

     "C'mon," he yelled, throwing Chris the shirt.  "Clean up! I'm taking you
     to JC's."

     Chris scrubbed his stomach rougly, looked briefly thoughtful, then started
     in excitement. "JC's! That's ten minutes away!"

     "And Joey and Lance are probably there," Justin added.

     Chris became a blinding whirlwind of motion, the sudden silence of two
     stereos gratefully accepting the sound of the door slamming as he flew
     out.  Justin was already feeling the renewed surge of energy as he
     followed, moving his hips in time with his heart's quickening beat.


     * * * * *

     Chris switched onto Joey and Lance's bus mid-afternoon because, as Justin
     put it, "otherwise I'm gonna kill his cheatin' motherfuckin' ass, and then
     we'll have to chop your balls off so you can sing his parts."  

     Joey said, "fine, send him over. We're bored anyway," and hung up the
     phone.  The drivers did their own cryptic radio communique involving
     numbers and rabbits and something that sounded like motorbike parts as
     they pulled over, and the door crumpled inwards and Chris clambered on,
     carrying his pillow and a pile of CDs and a bag of gummi bears.  

     "Hey," Lance said, putting his book aside and stretching.

     "Wooo, Lansten wants to get laaaaid!" Chris crowed, and jumped on top of
     him.  "How do you want it, babe?"

     Lance stretched under him, cat-like.  "What makes you think I want it?" he
     murmured, eyelashes dipping, voice an octave even deeper than it usually
     was.

     "You *always* want it," Chris pointed out.

     "Oh. Yeah."  Lance grinned, breaking his pout.

     "Oops, no, no," Chris shook his head.  "Sorry.  Do the sex kitten thing
     again."

     From the other couch, Joey laughed.  "You are *lame*, Kirkpatrick."

     Chris flipped him off.  Lance turned onto his side, and sent smoldering
     eyes in Joey's direction.  "You don't think I'm sexy?"  Joey threw the
     comic book at him.  "*Joey*," Lance purred, reaching his arms out across
     the aisle.  He lowered his voice, like black velvet curtains.  "Come over
     here."  Behind him, Chris snuggled down happily, arm slung over Lance's
     chest and sliding his hand up under Lance's soft raggedy sweater, the one
     he never wore anything underneath.

     Joey laughed and put his feet up.  "You can't seduce *me*, Bass, I know
     all your tricks."

     "Tricks, baby?" and Lance let his voice rev low in his throat.  "I don't
     play tricks."  I just wanna make you-" he trailed a hand down to adjust
     himself, "feel *good*."

     "God," Chris shivered behind him, licking his ear and groping haphazardly
     at Lance's chest. Lance writhed back into him. Joey spread his legs a
     little, perhaps involuntarily, but stayed where he was.

     "Joey wants you," Lance growled to Chris. "And he wants me too."

     Joey yawned pointedly.

     "Joey didn't get any this morning," Lance continued, smirking, "so he's
     gonna be just about *dying* for it right now."  Chris tipped his face
     down, burying his nose into what Joey knew to be the sweet, fragrant
     crease of Lance's neck.  Licking Lance there made him crazy; Joey knew
     that, too.  Joey also knew about the spot on his shoulder, and the one
     just below his hairline on the back of his head.  Chris' face disappeared,
     as he traced those spots with his tongue, until only the wild dark spikes
     of his hair were visible.  Joey made a show of poking through Chris' cds
     with his feet (Wayne Newton? whatthefuck? and ha! he knew Chris owned
     Diana Ross albums, he knew it!) until a ragged bass grunt came from the
     couch.  

     Lance had his eyes closed.  One hand was reaching back to grab Chris' hip,
     holding him hard as Lance slowly rotated his pelvis back against Chris'
     crotch like a tango dancer.  Chris pushed his forehead between Lance's
     shoulder blades and his hand skittered down between Lance's thighs.  Lance
     jerked slightly and hummed, a soft, buzzy sound.

     "Wanna fuck me?" he asked.

     "No, you do me," Chris gasped.

     "Get on top," Lance said, twisting his hips.  Chris swung up over him,
     grabbed Lance's fingers and sucked them and then brought them between his
     legs.  Joey picked up Chris' gummi bears from the table and started
     picking out all the red ones.  He had them mostly sorted when Chris
     whimpered girlishly and sat back in Lance's lap with a slow sigh.

     "I needed this," he breathed softly, and under him, Lance growled
     approvingly, watching Chris with lustful intentness.  Chris moved slowly,
     face gradually lighting up with a blissed serenity.  

     Joey checked that they weren't looking, swept all the red gummi bears into
     the sugar bowl for later, and started eating the green ones.

     "We boring you, sweetheart?" Lance said, smiling over fondly.  He brushed
     his hands up and down Chris' back, and Chris arched into it.

     "Talk to him," Chris said, eyes closed.

     Lance laughed, a thunder from deep in his chest, and dragged his
     fingernails down Chris' arms.  "I'd rather talk to you."

     "Mmm," Chris said, moving slowly, and Lance started talking in the low
     throb of a Lambourghini purring, about Joey, and how Joey wouldn't admit
     that he liked to be fucked just like this, and how Joey was sitting over
     there pretending he wasn't jealous, and how tonight Joey was gonna go to
     JC and throw him onto a bed and try to fuck it out of himself, but JC
     wouldn't fight him for long enough, so Joey would turn on Justin and try
     to top him, but Justin wouldn't let him because only Lance was allowed to
     do that to Justin, so Justin would blow Joey and then look for Lance,
     because everybody knew Lance could fuck the tops slow and nasty, the only
     way they liked it, and Lance would fuck Justin, and Joey would go to his
     room and watch pay-per-view by himself with his fingers in ass, thinking
     about what Chris was getting from Lance right now...

     Joey hated yellow gummi bears, but Lance liked them, so Joey abandoned the
     green ones and started eating all the yellow ones instead.

     Chris' eyes fluttered open to look at Joey, and then down at Lance, and a
     smile flickered across his face as they drifted closed again.  "Keep
     going," he gasped, fucking himself a little faster.  

     "Joey's gonna be thinking about this when we do the show tonight," Lance
     continued, watching Joey out of the corner of blackly sparkling eyes.
     Sweat was shining on his forehead, and his chest glistened and shook with
     the effort of holding himself still.  "He's gonna be remembering how good
     you feel right now, and how good you look, and he's gonna wish he'd gotten
     up off that couch and come over here and sat behind you, and jerked you
     off before you can make me come, and then taken me for himself."

     Joey slipped one of Chris' CD's under the cushions, where with any luck it
     would stay lost for months, because Chris would only be searching for it
     on his own bus.  Chris finally lost control, and rolled Lance over and
     wrapped his legs around Lance's waist.  Lance snarled, and fucked him fast
     and furious until they both came, gasping.  Joey picked up his comic book
     and tried to find where he'd read up to.

     They showered together, but Lance came out first.  He smelled sweet and
     clean and wholesome, damp glowing skin and wet hair.  Joey grabbed him and
     pulled him down into his lap and said, "I hate you."  He did, too.  He
     couldn't watch any hotel porn for a week, now, because Lance and Chris
     would be checking the bill, and they'd laugh at him for days if he got
     caught.

     Lance pulled on Joey's beard affectionately, all snuggles and smiles.
     "I'll make it up to you."

     "Good."

     "When you ask me real nice for it."

     "Fuck you."

     "Feel like watching a movie?"

     "Yeah," Joey said, and reached for the remote and pressed play, not caring
     what was in there when changing it would mean getting up or making Lance
     get up.

     Chris came out, smelling like Joey's shampoo and Lance's soap, wearing
     Joey's red sweater and Lance's black and red trackpants.  He threw his own
     clothes in Lance's hamper and kissed Joey's head and lay down with his
     pillow on Lance's legs.  Joey fast forwarded through the previews while
     they settled; Lance snagged the bag of gummi bears and offered them to
     Chris first.

     Chris looked in the packet, looked at Joey, and shrieked in outrage.  "You
     ate the fucking red ones!"  Lance laughed and hi-fived Joey, and Joey
     laughed because Lance hadn't noticed the yellow ones were gone, and Chris
     attacked them both with the pillow.  

     Joey's phone rang.  It was Justin.

     "JC's asleep.  I'm bored. Can I have Chris back?"

     "Nope. We're keeping him," Joey said, and hung up.


     * * * * *


     As Joey pulled into Lance's driveway, he was thinking about barbeque
     briquets.  Specifically, about whether he had enough, because Saturday's
     get-together was supposed to be at his house, and he had assured Chris
     there would be grilled Italian sausage in abundance.  Chris took promises
     made about food very seriously.  He was still considering it when he
     opened the front door and called, "hey."

     Lance appeared at the end of the hall, with the phone in one hand.  He
     beckoned to Joey with the other, and then disappeared.  When Joey followed
     him into the den, Lance was saying, "what?  no.  *No.*  Saltillo tile,"
     and from this, Joey deduced that he was talking to his Missippi
     contractor, the one who was building Lance's house.

     "One hundred and forty square feet," Lance said, in that controlled way
     that meant he was losing his temper.  "We talked about this."  Joey put
     his hands on Lance's hips and buried his nose in his hair, and thought
     about whether he should have his own guest bathroom redone.  Some of the
     tile was looking a little grungy, and the taps were leaky and starting to
     corrode. 

     "Fine," Lance growled.  "But it needs to be done by the twelfth.  Okay?
     The twelfth."  He clicked the phone off, tossed it in a chair, and turned
     in Joey's arms.  "I'm so screwed," he sighed.  "I should have gone there
     myself this time."  There was a tightness across his cheekbones that meant
     he'd probably spent the afternoon on the phone, dealing with the house and
     FreeLance and A Happy Place.

     "C'mere," Joey whispered, and pulled him onto the couch.  "I bet I can
     make it all better."  Lance sighed again, and laughed a little when Joey
     bit his earlobe.  Joey kissed him softly, and Lance moved against his
     chest, so Joey eased him onto his back and slid an expert hand up under
     Lance's sweater, ghosting across the smooth skin of his belly and chest.  

     Joey often thought about how beneath the Southern Baptist work ethic,
     Lance had a rich vein of hedonism; Joey felt he was the only one who truly
     mined it to the last glittering bit.  He knew, without even considering
     it, how to pull Lance's nipples and tongue his ear to make him shudder and
     gasp, and as he settled himself between Lance's thighs and gently urged
     his leg up to wrap around Joey's ass, he murmured, "that's good, baby,
     I'll make you feel good." Joey's mind was a pleasant jumble of charcoal
     briquets and new chrome taps, the grassy, lemony smell of Lance's hair,
     how Justin insisted on having peperoncinis on his Italian sausage, that
     sweet spot on Lance's neck that where he was so susceptible to
     kisses...suddenly he realized that Lance wasn't shuddering with pleasure,
     but squirming and pushing a hand against his chest. He lifted his head and
     focused on Lance's eyes.  Instead of being the expected cloudy green, they
     were as sharp as tacks.

     "Will you cut it out?" he said, in a mildly exasperated tone.

     Joey experienced the confusion felt by someone who thought he really was
     marching to the same drummer as everyone else.  "what?  I.  What's up?"

     "Does it occur to you that maybe I don't *want* to come my brains out
     every single time?"

     The confusion deepened.  "Um, no?"  Confusion started to give way to a
     slight feeling of being, well, *unappreciated*.  "No, I can't say that it
     does."

     Lance pulled his sweater down and disentangled himself from joey and
     withdrew to the corner of the couch, sulkily. "Well, I don't."

     "Well, fine."  Joey switched on the tv and withdrew into his own corner
     and stared at Family Ties like it was interesting or something.

     And the more he sat there, the more angry Lance seemed to get, quietly
     emitting glaring vibes of fury like some kind of red bleep on a radar
     until Joey looked over at him and yelled, "WHAT?"

     "You're pissing me off."

     "You're being stupid," Joey told him, thinking about getting up and going
     over to JC's and fucking *him*.

     "And you're pissing me off," Lance repeated.  The TV went to an ad break,
     some all-mother-type spraying white shirts with stuff that made bolognese
     sauce vanish from it.  

     "It pisses me off," Joey said, suddenly, since he was already pissed off
     and all, "that they always have to blame *Italian* food for this shit.
     Like you can't ever get taco sauce all over your shirt?"

     "What?" Lance said, looking at him in renewed annoyance.

     "Tacos," Joey announced decisively, "are the worst for staining shirts.
     Not spaghetti."

     "Right," Lance said carefully, humouring him, but Joey didn't want to be
     humoured.

     "No, I'm serious.  Tacos are stupid food, they always crack and leak sauce
     everywhere. But if you know how to eat pasta it's not a problem."

     "It's bad pasta-eaters' faults if they stain their shirts?"

     Joey pulled him over to his corner of the couch.  "Yup."

     Lance sighed, and snuggled back into him.  "You're right, you know.  It's
     not like the ads ever have, like. Chopsticks. And foodstains."

     "Exactly," and Joey ignored the fact that Lance was laughing at him,
     because Lance really had understood.  "Nobody blames a Szechuan king prawn
     when they drop it on their shirt. They say, 'gosh darn it, I'm a big ol'
     klutz with these 'ere chopsticks."

     "Okay, honey.  Eating pasta properly is an under-recognised skill," Lance
     agreed blithely, "and Italian food much-maligned by laundry-product
     manufacturers." He patted Joey's arm. "We'll do a public service
     advertisement about it."

     The show came back on, and they watched it there, Lance's breath
     feathering over Joey's arm, where Joey's arm was slung over Lance's
     shoulder and chest. Next ad break, Lance tipped his head back and put a
     sideways kiss on Joey's jaw.

     "Still mad at me?" Joey asked, and captured Lance's lips in a kiss.

     "No."

     "Wanna fuck?"

     Lance ducked his head and mumbled something, then said a little louder, "I
     just wanna..." and while Joey watched in bemusement, he carefully lifted
     Joey's arm and pushed up his sleeve.  Which allowed him to lick Joey's
     elbow. Not the tender inner bend, but the outside, with its slightly
     roughened skin over bone.  He closed his cat eyes in concentration.

     "You wanna have stupid sex?"

     "Yeah," Lance said, a little breathlessly, creeping his hands up under
     Joey's shirt.  

     Family Ties was still on, the blonde women and the stupid neighbour guy.
     That was a start, Joey supposed.  "What do I have to do?" he asked, and
     then took a guess and sucked on the bridge of Lance's nose.  Lance
     snorted, which felt really weird in Joey's mouth.  He licked the side of
     Lance's face, big messy licks, and Lance shivered and got Joey's shirt
     off, and poked him gently all up his side.

     Wriggling down so Lance was on top of him, Joey said, "that's pretty
     stupid."

     "You feel different in different places," Lance explained.  Joey pulled
     off Lance's shirt and poked him all over while Lance laughed.  He did feel
     different, springy and hard and soft and sometimes bony.

     "Hang on," Lance said, and stood up for a second to strip.  "Take your
     pants off."  Joey struggled out of them, feeling weird because he wasn't
     all that turned on, and neither was Lance, and the lights were on, and the
     tv was up really loud with canned laughter and dog food jingles.  Lance
     bent over and grabbed a condom from Joey's pants, and put it on him while
     Joey lay there, perplexed.  Lance had to jerk him gently and kiss his
     balls just to keep him hard while he got it on.

     "Why'd you stop?" Joey complained, when Lance crawled back on top of him
     and bit his jaw like a puppy.

     "'Cause." Lance wriggled back until his ass was on Joey's cock, and Joey
     held his hips and slid up slowly until he was inside, just a little, and
     Lance said, "mm," but not in a turned on way, and sat back gradually until
     Joey was all the way in.  Then he sighed.

     "Is this okay?" Joey asked, struggling to sit up, moving Lance carefully
     with him.  His cock was in a good place, tight and hot and squeezy, and he
     could feel his heart start to thud in his chest, but he was still hardly
     turned on.

     Family Ties was finished, and Who's the Boss came on. 

     "Oh, God, I used to love this show," Lance said, turning his head to watch
     it.

     "Um, fucking what?"  Joey thrust up, impatient and confused and pissed
     again, and Lance batted him away, annoyed.

     "Just let me see it for like one second, okay."

     "This is the stupidest sex I've ever had," Joey snapped.

     Lance just laughed and squirmed around until he was comfortable in Joey's
     lap and had Joey sideways so he could watch TV.  The squirming felt good,
     though, and Joey gripped Lance's buttcheeks and massaged them until Lance
     was mindlessly--absently--squeezing down on him.  

     Then Lance laughed at something on the television and Joey felt it all way
     down this dick to his toes.  "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, but
     didn't push into Lance, instead just lay there and let Lance ripple around
     him, oddly in tune with the canned laughter from the television.  Alyssa
     Milano came on and Joey turned his head to watch.  She was young and
     pouted in a pretty way that reminded him of Justin, and she moved like JC.
     "She's hot," he remarked and his dick gave a little tug and Lance squeezed
     back.    

     "Mmm, if you like the type."  Lance was still riveted by the telveevision. 

     "What type is that?"  

     Lance shot him a quick glance. "Mouthy Italians."

     "Hey!" and this time he did thrust up and Lance laughed again and hung on
     with his knees, gripping Joey's thighs tightly.  "You got something
     against mouthy Italians?"  

     Lance looked at him and smirked.  "Just the one." He clenched his ass
     gently and slumped against Joey's chest with his face towards the TV, and
     Joey decided that even though this was *incredibly* dumb sex, he wasn't
     pissy anymore.  Lance was warm and rumbled occasionally, shifted his legs
     when they started to fall asleep, and snickered at the TV in a way that
     caressed Joey's cock and made him shiver all over, slow rolls of lazy
     pleasure over the constant itch of wanting to fuck, fuck, *fuck*.  He
     didn't even get mad when Lance got up, pulling away slowly, and said,
     "want something to drink?"

     Well, not mad, *exactly*.  He rolled his eyes and thought about throttling
     Lance till his face turned blue and his eyes bugged out, but mostly just
     said, grumpily, 

     "Beer."  

     Lance wandered into the kitchen.  Joey watched Alyssa and thought about
     her pretty lips opening wide for him, and touched his own cock until Lance
     came back with beer and Mountain Dew and sat down on his lap again, his
     back to Joey's chest, squirming around until Joey grabbed onto his hips
     and lifted him up and positioned his cock and yanked him back down.  He
     tried to fuck him like that but Lance spilled his Mountain Dew and said,
     "jeez, cut it out," so Joey slumped back on the couch and let his head
     fall back and just sat there.

     "You are so fucking annoying!" Joey shouted, finally, when Lance tried to
     start a conversation about whether buying a Cadillac would be good for his
     image or not.  

     Lance started laughing, and it rumbled through his whole body and teased
     Joey's cock just enough to be irritating.  "This is fun, though, right?"

     "No. It's fucking fucked up." Joey sulked, and snuck his fingers around to
     play with Lance's cock, which was only half-hard, but got harder.  Lance's
     body started the slow muscle-trembling of arousal, and Joey was pleased.  

     Lance reached over for the remote, and started flipping through the
     channels.  Joey nearly took it and hit him over the head with it, but just
     in time Lance turned to look at him and asked,

     "which one's the porn channel?"

     Mollified, Joey said, "sixty-nine, moron," and Lance switched it over and
     let Joey push him forward over the coffee table.  Joey's pulse quickened
     only reluctantly, and thrusting was faintly painful after so long, and the
     condom's lube was mostly gone, and he just wanted to get *off*, already,
     so he looked at the bodies on the screen and fucked the ass under him
     until he did.  After Joey came, Lance pulled away and rolled over with a
     vaguely pleased groan and asked offhandedly to be sucked off, so Joey got
     down on his knees on the carpet and did it-- not quite grudgingly, because
     sucking Lance's cock was always sweet, but he didn't bother to swallow,
     either.

     Then they cleaned up and sat back on the couch, and Joey drank his beer,
     and Lance pulled a throw rug over their naked, tangled limbs and they
     watched E.R.  Even though the sex had been so lousy that Joey didn't
     really feel like he'd had sex at all, Lance's skin was warm and silky and
     bare and all around him, and it contrasted with the roughness of the
     blanket weave, and the prickle of his stubble on Joey's shoulder, and it
     all felt surprisingly, tantalisingly sensual.

     Later, after they'd climbed the stairs to bed, Lance curled around him in
     a way he didn't usually do after sex because he was usually too wasted
     from coming so hard.  In the morning, Lance joined him in the shower,
     washing his hair with tender efficiency, and smiled sweetly at him as they
     dried, and Joey thought maybe lousy sex had something going for it after
     all.  He kissed Lance after they brushed their teeth, loving the smooth
     clean freshness of Lance's mouth, and ended up having to grip the towel
     rack for balance when Lance licked the inside of his lips in a way which
     brought to mind all sorts of filthy, bizarre, lewdly sexy things.  Lance
     pulled away and reached for his shaving gel, so Joey wandered out and dug
     through Lance's pile of clothes for something clean to wear.  The Blue
     Moment t-shirt was in there, so he pulled it on, and he figured his jeans
     weren't too dirty, and was hunting for socks when Lance came in, towel
     slung around his hips, hair gelled into casual spikes.

     "Left-hand drawer," Lance said.

     "Hey. Is this yours?" Joey asked, turning to let Lance see the shirt and
     then pulling the drawer open to reveal a dozen neat bundles of socks.

     "Mine? No," Lance said.  "I thought it was yours."  He insinuated his body
     between Joey and the dresser.  "I love you in it, though."

     "Yeah?" Joey said, surprised.

     "Yeah." Lance pushed him back until he fell onto the bed.  "It's tight.
     It's see-through. It's totally hot."

     "Yeah?" Joey said again, staring up as Lance stared down at him, eyes wide
     and clear and frankly appraising.

     "In fact," Lance said, holding his towel with one hand and trailing his
     fingers over Joey's chest as he climbed up to straddle him, "if you
     wanted," dragging his fingers down to the fly of Joey's jeans, "you could
     make me come my brains out now."

     It crossed Joey's mind to give Lance the worst sex ever, to put him though
     all lousy rhythms and awkward positions and embarrassing mistakes he'd
     ever endured and *then* some, but the alternative was to make Lance so
     dazed and sated and blissed out that he wouldn't be able to string a
     sentence together for the rest of the day, and everyone would take one
     look at his glazed eyes and vacant smile and languid limbs, and know Joey
     had just given him the most mindblowing fuck of his entire life.

     And that, Joey decided, rolling Lance over and stripping away the towel,
     looking down into a slyly expectant face, would be even more satisfying.


     * * * * *

     It seemed like all he could see today was Justin crying.  There was the
     hot water system, and superimposed onto it, Justin crying.  Out the
     window, freshly dug flower beds awaiting further attention, and Justin's
     face crumpled up into a sheet of criss-crossed guilt and despair.  Under
     the soothing hum of the washing machine, Justin's choked-off whisper was
     echoing: swoosh, grind, I haven't made up my mind. Swoosh, grind, I
     haven't made up my mind.

     Joey blinked to clear his eyes, but there were other images.  A shadow-
     Chris screamed and threw a contract across the room.  Joey couldn't hear
     the words but his lips moved too clearly to deny their existence: you
     ungrateful fucker.  JC was huddled by the spare laundry basket, alarmingly
     transparent.  "It's a great opportunity for him," he'd said to Chris,
     looking wan and sick and heartbroken, and leaving a million other things
     unsaid.

     Swoosh, grind.  I haven't made up my mind.

     Lance, by the dryer, was hard-edged, but looked far too thin.  He picked
     up a pile of paperwork and a pen.  "Do whatever you want."  He was
     brutally unemotional, and his words had ended the conversation with their
     chilled finality.  "You know nobody's gonna try to stop you."

     Justin's brimming eyes turned to stare at Joey, and Joey, as he hauled
     damp clothes out of the machine, could also feel a shade of himself in the
     fourth corner, where he'd been.  "We'll support you," and his voice
     sounded so dead, so lifeless, to his own memory. "But you have to make
     your own decisions."

     And now he was washing his own clothes for the first time in three years,
     because Justin was off making his own decisions when Lance and Chris
     weren't speaking to him and JC was trying pathetically hard to be
     positive, and Joey just couldn't bear to be around them at all... and that
     meant that Justin's decision would probably mean that Joey's days of
     luxury, brief as they had been, were now numbered.

     He was throwing clothes into the basket with increasing force, until he
     had to stop and scrub the tears from his cheeks.  Because, he thought
     angrily, with Justin's face blurring before him, and JC's sad eyes and
     Chris' frenetic movement and Lance's voice echoing sharply, it wasn't the
     fucking *laundry service* that he couldn't live without.

     The shirt was there, in his hands, when he looked down--half-inside-out
     with the ragged hem trailing a thread across his wrist.  The t-shirt Lance
     had been wearing on the day he got out of the hospital.  The t-shirt JC
     had been wearing when he showed them his first Nsync song--something about
     roses and glass that Lou had rejected.  The t-shirt Chris had worn for a
     week after he broke up with Dani.

     Joey twisted it in his hands, daring himself to tear it up.  Because he
     couldn't help thinking that if Justin had been wearing it that day, none
     of this would be happening.  Chris would have thrown himself into Justin's
     lap and cried, "they can't take my JuJu away from me!" and JC would looked
     excited and said, "*whoa*, hey, get them to do one of the singles for us,"
     and Lance would have laughed, because he knew Justin knew that Nsync was
     his home and his family as well as his career, and Joey could have taken
     the contract out of Justin's unprotesting fingers and kissed him sloppily
     and said, "who do they think they are, anyway?"

     Because it wasn't like they hadn't had offers before, all of them.  Big
     fat contracts with cherries on top because they were hot and they were
     milkable, in the short term at least, and everybody wanted to cut up the
     goose that laid platinum eggs, just to get their hands on a piece of it.
     This time, though, Chris was getting jealous because of Britney, which
     pissed off Lance, who thought the relationship was fantastic because he
     only saw it in business terms, which alienated JC, because he found Lance
     repulsive when he was callous and scheming, which had led him into a huge
     fight with Joey because Joey saw Lance as their great defender against the
     rest of the slimy, shark-infested world, and JC called Joey Lance's
     brainless lapdog and Chris couldn't take any of them fighting and lashed
     out before they could turn on him.

     This is the way the world ends, Joey thought.  Not with a bang but with
     the hollow icy silence of nobody speaking to anybody else, and the sudden,
     agonising absence of a network of love you'd taken for granted, because
     you'd thought it was indestructible.  There were tears on his face,
     itching annoyingly, and he brushed the damp cotton across his face, not
     thinking about it until it was done.

     The kitchen was just a few steps away.  The phone was in the kitchen.
     Only one ring, and a quick beep.  "It's me.  Do the message thing."

     "Baby," Joey whispered, imagining his words travelling through time to the
     moment when Justin played him back, and hoping they arrived to that moment
     soon enough to make a difference, "don't do it, okay?"  He turned his head
     and looked around him, at the washer and the linen cupboard and the
     flowerbeds outside.  "We're not ready to let you go."


     * * * * *

     Chris took one look at the zebra-stripes and announced that he wasn't
     going.

     "No, I'm serious," he said cheerfully, picking up his book and heading for
     the connecting door.  "Have a good time, everyone."

     Lance took his jacket off.  "I'm not wearing it if he isn't." 

     "What? It's not that bad," JC said, checking the mirror again.

     "Dude, you look like a lion in zebra's clothing," Joey hooted.  He hadn't
     even showered yet, let alone dressed.

     "Yeah. 'Cept for the lion part," Justin added.  He stared down at his
     outfit, and then shrugged out of the coat.  Joey came up behind him, and
     nibbled Justin's neck while he undid his pants.  With a contented sigh,
     Justin leaned back into his chest, reached a hand up to curl around Joey's
     bicep and rub gently.

     "If we skip the dinner," Lance said, unbuttoning his shirt, "we'll have
     two hours to kill."  He smiled at JC invitingly.

     JC looked in the mirror with narrowed eyes.  "I guess it's pretty lame."
     Behind him, reflected, Lance kicked off his pants.  "Okay, okay. Very
     lame."

     Chris, from the doorway, smirked.  "Johnny'll kill us."

     "Your idea," Justin laughed, as Joey manhandled him past Chris and into
     the bedroom.  "You'll cop it."

     "We're the band," Chris threw back, breezily confident.  "We'll do
     whatever we want."

     "Don't wrinkle it," JC whined from the common room, and there was a Lance-
     snarl and a ripping sound.

     "You coming?" Justin asked, extending a hand.  Chris shook his head,
     gestured towards the bed and then back to where Joey could hear Lance
     telling JC to get on his knees and suck it.

     "View's pretty fine, from here," Chris said, settling down on the carpet,
     turning his head one way, then the other.

     Next door, JC protested sulkily, but cut off into sudden silence, and
     Lance murmured what a good boy he was.

     Justin shimmied against Joey's back, and put soft lips against his ear.
     "Got any good ideas?"

     A band came on the radio, sultry throbbing beats and throaty voices
     intertwining.  The sound was vaguely familiar--it flashed up softly
     glowing memories of their first travels as a band, and wandering into a
     New Orleans jazz club together.  It was a dream-like haze of candles and
     jasmine, and their combined, breathless awe at the power music had to move
     them, and the igniting of pent-up tensions like the first bolt of
     lightning through thick hot wet night air, and a soft breeze carressing
     their sprawled, sticky bodies in the hotel room, after.

     He'd have to find out who that band was.  

     Now, though, with Justin sucking on his earlobe and Chris watching
     impatiently, and JC's eager mewling next door in response to Lance's
     crooned exhortations, and about ten minutes until Johnny called up and
     start yelling, it seemed like a good idea to get completely naked.

     * * * * *
     end