“I’ve been thinking about getting my dick pierced.”

JC doesn’t bother to raise his head from his folded arms. “I’m sure I didn’t hear that,” he replies.

“Nah, you heard it.” Chris sounds surprisingly cheerful for someone who’s been stuck in an elevator for more than two hours while a storm rages outside the hotel. JC’s just glad that if they’re stuck during a storm, that they’re stuck on the level of the parking garage. Less chance of being blown out to the ocean that way. Of course, more chance of drowning if the water rises too much, and fuck, he wishes he hadn’t thought of *that.*

“Now, I know you’re just fucking with me,” JC replies, and raises his head. He squints at Chris; the dim emergency light is just barely enough for him to see Chris, stretched out on his back on the elevator floor, his feet propped up on the handrail, his head pillowed on the three shirts he’s already stripped off. He looks almost comfortable, his hands folded on his belly. Rolling his head to the side, Chris grins at him, his teeth blindingly white. Chris firmly believes in good oral hygiene. Also in good oral sex, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment.

“What, you think I’d kid about a thing like that? This is my *dick* we’re talking about, man. I take matters pertaining to my dick very seriously.”

“What I *think* is that you’re bored, and you’re just saying shit to get a rise out of me,” JC says, trying to keep his tone unperturbed, because if that really is Chris’ agenda, staying calm puts a crimp in Chris’ plans. Chris loves to see people annoyed or agitated.

His back aches a little, and he uncurls from his position, straightening out his knees, stretching his legs out along the floor. He wishes Joey were stuck with him, because Joey and Chris just amused one another with their weirdness.

A little better, but now his belly growls loudly. They’d missed lunch, and supper, and it looked as if they might miss breakfast, as well. They’d already shared the one candy bar Chris had stowed in his backpack, though Chris had argued that it was his, because JC was younger, and could last longer without food. JC had pointed out that Chris would last longer because of his greater body fat—though on reflection, he *might* possibly have said it a little less politely, because Chris had been annoying him. Maybe. Chris had called him a fucking pussy, but then had handed over half of it, because Chris couldn’t help himself, too well-trained to look after others in spite of his prickliness. Or maybe just being a prick; JC is willing to go either way with that at the moment, because both are true at any given time.

“See, this is what happens when a guy builds a reputation for himself of comedic genius and biting sarcasm. No one takes him seriously when he’s...well, serious.” Chris sounds aggrieved, but JC ignores it with the blithe ease of long practice.

“You’re not serious, so quit jerking my chain.” JC wonders if the storm has passed; insulated by the walls of the hotel and underground, he can hear nothing but the beating of his heart, and the rush of air in his lungs. And Chris’ chatter, though it’s background noise to him now, like the shush of wind in the pines, or the roar of the ocean. It’s woven into the fabric of his existence now, after so long together, as much as Justin’s braying laugh, Joey’s bathroom humor, and Lance’s country music.

He wonders when hotel security finally gets them out, if the kitchen will be open. He’d really like a cheeseburger and fries and onion rings. Maybe even a milkshake. Strawberry? Nah, chocolate. His mouth waters a little, and he checks his watch again, squinting at the numbers. Ten minutes since the last time he looked.

Chris kicks at the handrail. The heels of his black high-top Chuck Taylors against the metal handrail squeak like mice on speed, making JC’s teeth ache. “I am serious, and I’m not jerking your chain, you asshole.”

JC draws in a deep breath, holds it a moment, then lets it go, willing the tension to flow out with the breath. It’s supposed to work, and probably would in other circumstances, but he’s certain that whoever thought of that relaxation exercise originally had never speculated being trapped in an elevator, in a storm, without food, with Chris.

“Okay. Say for a minute I believe you’re serious—“

“Thank you,” Chris says with dignity.

“—and that you’re truly wanting to pierce your dick. Why, in god’s name, would you want to do that? I mean, really, it’s your *dick*—it’s only supposed to have *one* hole.” JC can’t help the shudder, and only keeps from cupping his own dick protectively by a massive act of will, because, *no.* Just no.

Chris makes a humming sound, considering. “Well, it’s totally cool. I’ve been online to the BME site, and man, some of the body modifications you see there—split tongues and split dicks and piercings of *everything*—“

JC tastes bile on the back of his tongue and swallows hard. “I’ll just take your word on it. No need to go into lengthy description, man.” A glance over at Chris shows him looking gleeful at JC’s discomfort. Now that, he expects. “I *knew* you were just fucking with me—“

“No, no, no. Sorry. Sorry. It’s reflex, hassling you. That’s all, just reflex.” Chris swings his legs down and sits with them folded, Indian-style. He’s surprisingly flexible, which always surprises JC, though it shouldn’t, having lived and worked with Chris for so many years. “Anyway. People get their nipples pierced because it looks cool *and* because of increased sensation. And man, if your nipples are sensitive, think about how sensitive the head of your dick is. You could have, like, a million orgasms a day.” Chris looks dreamy, and it’s all JC can do not to laugh at him, because Chris has always thought about sex. A lot more than the average guy, JC thinks, even more than him, and that’s saying something, because JC loves sex.

“You have like, a million orgasms a day now,” JC says. “That would be nothing new.” The guys always tease him about jerking off so much, but he’d be willing to bet that in a jerk-off contest, Chris would probably win. Those noises coming from Chris’ bunk, from the bus lounge, from the bathroom half a dozen times a day are noises of well, *coming,* and Chris’s voice is very distinctive, so there’s no mistaking who it is getting busy, especially if JC hears it while talking to Justin.

“But they’d be of higher *quality,*” Chris insists, and the whole conversation is so bizarre that JC bites his lower lip to keep from laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“So when would you be getting this? If you were getting one, that is?” He might as well play along, humor Chris; it’s better than suffering through him bored stupid, bouncing crazily off the walls. A hyperactive Chris in a confined space left a lot to be desired; he knew this well from years of touring. “You couldn’t get one while we were on tour, I’d think.”

“Well, duh, no,” Chris replies, fiddling with his necklace. “Takes six weeks or better to heal, and while I might look that stupid, I’m not. Dancing around with new stuff in my junk? Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that’s not a good idea. I’d have to do it while we’re writing the next album. Between tours. Before that sonuvabitch Wade gets hold of us.”

JC shifts on the floor; his ass is narrow and bony, and without a lot of padding, it’s going numb. “So. Who would you want to go with you?”

“Obviously, you’re out—dragging your passed-out ass outta a piercing parlor isn’t high on my list of favorite things to do. I remember how you were when we all got the tats.” JC kicks lazily at him, and Chris rolls easily away, stretching out on his side, his head propped in one hand. “Lance would pull his ‘oh mah gawd’”—the impersonation was right on target, just enough drawl and shock and indignation that JC had to grin—“on me, and while the expression on his face would be like, priceless, he’d bitch and moan too much.”

“Justin?”

Chris makes a rude noise. “He’s barely out of diapers, man. No thanks. He’s still in the ‘ohmigod, I *have* junk’ phase. I’d like, traumatize his wee little brain.”

JC chuffs out a laugh. “So I guess that leaves Joey? ‘Cos, man, I surely can’t see you asking Johnny. He’d shit a brick.”

“Joey could handle it, unlike the rest of you pussies. Hell, he’d probably even think it was cool. He did get the eyebrow done, so I know he’s not totally against the piercing thing.”

JC pulls off his last tee shirt, leaving only the ‘beater on. Hotels are always too cold for him, so he’s learned to dress in many layers; it’s also a habit left over from shows, where they’d dress in a couple of different layers to save time backstage. But he’s shed all of his shirts over the past two hours; without air conditioning circulating, it’s gotten really stuffy. “Dude. Getting an eyebrow done is *way* different than getting—“ he makes a vague gesture towards his crotch—“*that* pierced.”

Chris’ face crumples into helpless amusement. He rolls on the floor, hooting, kicking his heels against the floor and the walls. JC isn’t sure what Chris finds so amusing, but he’s willing to bet money, and lots of it, that Chris will tell him without being prompted. As soon as he finishes laughing, anyway. So he waits patiently, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with the last shirt he’d pulled off.

Finally, red-faced and sweating, Chris subsides, wiping his eyes. “Oh, that is rich, man.”

“What?” JC asks testily. He’d really like some water—a couple of bottles of it right now, and one just to dump on Chris.

“That prissy little gesture. You, who have like fifteen notebooks filled with the filthiest song lyrics I’ve ever read, stuff that will *never* see the light of day. You, the guy Wade has to tell to ‘tone it down, it’s not a porn shoot.’ It’s just hilarious. Gotta admit that.”

JC tries to hold onto righteous indignation, but the corner of his mouth quirks, because really? Chris is right. His image is wholesome, clean-cut, but the guy who lives behind it is not, not particularly. Just really good at discretion. He does have songs like that, songs he knows they’ll never be able to sing, and choreography in his hips that he’ll never be able to perform in front of their target audience. But he holds onto it; maybe in future years, as their demographic gets older, he’ll be able to perform like he really wants.

He waits until Chris has quit snorting, worn out by his own actions, lying on the floor, wiping at his eyes. “Are you finished now?” he asks, and if it isn’t quite as bitchy as Lance could get, it’s pretty close. If only he could do the eyebrow thing, it would be almost perfect.

“Yeah, I think so,” Chris replies. He blinks, and turns his head, face flushed and sweaty, his mouth still curved. His eyes are dark and warm with affection. Chris cares for them, even if he mocks them endlessly.

“So, truth,” JC says. “Are you *really* thinking about getting your dick pierced?”

Chris reaches out and touches JC’s big toe in his flip-flops. For a moment, JC has an urge to pull back, because Chris loves to tickle him almost as much as he loves annoying him, but he doesn’t think that’s what this is, so he stays in place. Chris strokes over the top of his foot, his touch surprisingly gentle. JC can see the flow of thoughts over his face; while Chris is closely guarded with others, and good at the game face in public, he’s completely open with them. But it’s too dim in here to read them clearly.

“Truth? Yeah, I really am thinking about it. A PA—a Prince Albert. And no, I know you don’t wanna know—“

“I know what it is,” JC replies. “I’ve fucked guys with them. I just don’t want one myself, man, and don’t understand why anyone would, y’know?”

Chris shrugs. “Novelty? Sensation? A desire to be different? A sense of adventure?” He rolls to his belly, and his ass wriggles a little, his hips lifting and falling as he seeks to find a comfortable place. And JC understands the movements; beneath his loose cargo shorts, Chris is hard.

“You horny little shit,” JC says with a grin. “You’re hard. Just *talking* about this made you pop a boner.”

Chris shrugs again, grins unapologetic. JC feels his own dick twitch a little, just out of sympathy, because he’s only human, and all the talk of dicks is just a little, well. Yes. And talking about it inevitably leads to thinking about it, which means visualizing it, and he knows with certainty that Chris has a fine dick. He’s seen it countless times; Chris has no modesty at all, and a tremendous love of shocking people; JC had thought Lance would quit them in the first week simply because of Chris’ antics.

But, yeah, a very nice dick, soft or hard. JC has length on him, but Chris has thickness and the novelty of foreskin, so it pretty much balances out. His tongue creeps out, flicks along his lower lip, and for a moment he thinks about a lot more than just looking. There’s always been a low hum of, well, for lack of a better word—awareness—between him and Chris, though they’ve never bothered to acknowledge it.

Chris’ fingers, warm and strong, wrap around his ankle, and JC jumps a little. Chris grins at him, and waggles his eyebrows. JC flushes, heat racing up into his cheeks, and then curling down his belly, settling between his legs. He can feel his dick filling, stretching toward the waistband of his track pants.

“What? What are you doing?”

“Leering,” Chris replies.

JC blinks, then his mouth stretches into a smile. “Leering?”

“Yeah. You know, the ‘eh heh heh’ look? The ‘wanna come to my room, boy?’ look?” Chris tips his head and does it again, grinning. It’s so ludicrous, that JC has to laugh. It doesn’t seem to faze Chris at all, but then, very little does.

“And why are you leering at me, idiot?”

“Idiot? I’m crushed, man. I’m attempting to seduce you. I’m giving you a prime opportunity to sleep with a rock star—“

“I’ve slept with lots of rock stars—way more than you have,” JC replies with asperity. Chris knows this; they get bored easily on the busses, and talk inevitably turns to sex, and who’s slept with whom.

“Hmm. That’s true—you are a slut, even more than me.” Chris pauses, considering. “Okay, I’m offering you an opportunity to become acquainted—intimately acquainted, mind you—with the fine Kirkpatrick ass, and the equally spectacular Kirkpatrick dick. Before I get it pierced.”

Chris shifts over to his side, and even through the loose cargo shorts, JC can see the swell of his dick. Dammit, he thinks, as his own dick grows stiff and rigid beneath the shiny fabric of his track pants. Chris makes an extravagant, sweeping gesture toward his own dick, like the chicks on game shows pointing out valuable merchandise, and again, JC’s tongue slips out and wets his lower lip. Chris’ smile looks brash and cheerful on the surface, but there’s something deeper, something more, in his dark eyes that tells JC Chris is more serious than he’s willing to admit.

“I have to say, you’re a pretty sweet-talker,” JC says, and shifts a little closer

“I am known for my silver tongue,” Chris replies. “But it’s the leer that gets me the hotties. Works every time.”

“It’s lethal,” JC agrees. “I fell for it like a sack of rocks, man.” He reaches out and slides his hand over Chris’s thigh, beneath the loose leg of the cargo shorts. Like the rest of them, Chris is hard with muscles gained from hours of practice, and performing. Coarse dark hair ruffles beneath his palm, and his skin is hot and sweaty. JC likes touching him, and squeezes Chris’ thigh before moving higher.

Chris rolls to his back, and his legs part easily, shamelessly. “It helps that I’m pretty easy.”

“Yeah, it does,” JC replies. His fingers find the crease of groin, and trace along it, and Chris’ leg jerks a little. “Good thing I’m pretty easy, too. Makes things less complicated.”

He pulls his hand from beneath the leg of Chris’ shorts. Chris makes a little sound of disappointment, but settles when JC’s hands go to the button and zipper. “I’m expecting at least one filthy song about me out of this, if not two. Because, really, I’m worth it. Two songs.”

The zipper slides down easily, and oh yeah, Chris likes free-ballin’. Fucking great dick, hard and red, and his mouth waters to taste it. It twitches beneath the stroke of his fingertip, and Chris hums, high in his throat, moving slowly on the floor. “Three songs, and you don’t get it pierced,” JC says, then leans down and licks slowly up the length. He sighs in pleasure; so fucking good.

“Um,” Chris says, his hands flexing on the floor, scrabbling for purchase. “Deal. Deal, already. I’m. Just, yeah.”

“Okay,” JC says, and chuffs out a laugh. He hums, to find his pitch, then pulls back long enough to tug Chris’ shorts down to mid-thigh. “All day long I dream about sex,” he sings softly, then leans down to lick up Chris’ dick, and as his hand slides down the foreskin so he can swirl his tongue over the wet, slick head, he thinks later, later, I’ll write the rest of the damn song later. Because he has a lot better things to do with his mouth at the moment.