Chris doesn't like to admit when something's too much, and he'll especially hold onto his anger until it boils up out of him, dark and noxious as poison. JC still remembers the sound of Chris's bones cracking and plaster shattering, and he and Lance are more watchful, now. Sometimes they have to pin him to their bed and hold him while he shakes and curses, only letting go when he settles beneath them, limp and worn out, but in control again. Chris won't admit to too much, but he knows only JC and Lance together with him will be enough.

JC loves music, loves to feel it wind through him like a lover's caress. He'll be hard on stage, can fuck himself into a frenzy, and it'll be too much and not enough, until he's lost in the feel of it, of a nameless, formless thing. He needs it like he needs to breathe, until he needs them more. Needs them to touch him, to ride the pleasure with him, to ground him. They compliment each other, so it can't be too much. Just the three of them in an endless loop of pleasure, of love, of enough.

As far back as he can remember, Lance has been warned against too much. Too much food will make him sick. To much money will make him a snob. Too much free time, lazy. Too much work, a dullard. Too much, too much. He believed it until he met the other guys; still believed it, at least a little, until Chris and JC welcomed him into their bed and their hearts. Then there was no such thing as too much. Instead, there was never enough: not enough time to be alone together, not enough privacy, not enough them.