Sway
By Deirdre
December, 2005

Justin shuffles into the bus's galley, visions of cereal and milk dancing in his sleep-fuzzed head, and finds Chris perched on the edge of the small table, hands moving, two oranges and an apple spinning in a perfect arc as he juggles. It makes Justin pause; he hasn't seen Chris do this for a while, and didn't expect to see it now. The tour has whupped all their asses, even Justin's, who lives to perform.

He stands still for a moment, arms crossed over his chest, and watches the smooth movements of Chris' hands, the way his teeth bite into his lower lip as he concentrates. "JC's gonna have a fit if he sees your nekkid skanky ass on the table. You know how he is."

"My ass isn't nekkid," Chris replies sweetly. "Besides, that's sorta pot-kettle, y'know? I thought I'd have to scrub out my eyes with bleach when I saw him and Brandon--you know, that sound tech with all the hair?--using this very same table in a totally unhygienic and wildly inappropriate manner. So."

Justin makes a face. "Totally didn't need to know that, Chris." He unfolds and steps up to the cabinet, pulling down a box of Froot Loops and a bowl, then rummages around in the tiny fridge, looking for the milk.

The bus sways a little, and Justin compensates with the ease of years' experience, but Chris fumbles the apple, and it escapes him. Justin tries to catch it one-handed, but misses, and slops milk from his bowl over his wrist. The apple thumps to the aisle, and rolls up against Justin's bare foot.

"Dammit," Chris says mildly. "Bet that'll put a bruise on it. JC won't eat it now."

Justin shifts the bowl to his other hand, and licks milk from his wrist. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chris' eyes glitter behind the lenses of his glasses, then he fumbles an orange, but catches it neatly and sends it back into play with the other. The corner of Justin's mouth curves upward, just a little.

"Yeah, but you will," Justin replies, and picks it up, tossing it to Chris, who catches it neatly and adds it to the oranges again.

"Nah," Chris says. "Not after contact with your huge fungus-y feet, I won't."

With a dismissive snort, Justin leans up against the counter, and crunches his way through the bowl of cereal. It's quiet, except for the hum of tires on the pavement, the squeak of the bus as it rocks, and the slap-slap of the fruit in Chris' hands. JC's still asleep in his bunk, or he'd be blasting hip-hop. It's sorta peaceful. The sun slants in the windows, curls over Chris' broad shoulders, runs down his arms. It catches in his crazy messy dark hair, glints in his silver earrings.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm gorgeous," Chris says. "Feel free to gaze further upon my masculine beauty. I don't mind, because I'm generous, like that."

Justin blinks. He can feel warmth creep up his throat. "You only wish," he replies. "I wasn't looking at you. Just thinking."

"Whatever," Chris agrees, but he means, yeah, right.

Justin shrugs and finishes off his cereal. He rinses the bowl and spoon in the sink. They can talk circles around one another, avoiding the big sparkly pink elephant; they've been doing it for years, now. The low-level hum of tension between them is almost comfortable.

"Heads up," Chris says, and the apple sails toward him. Justin snatches it out of midair, as easily as he'd catch a softball. Chris' grin is crooked, that little smirk that the photographers always try to capture, but seldom do. "So. If you were thinking instead of looking, what was it?"

"Lots of things. I'm deep, yo," Justin says with great dignity, and then grins when Chris snorts out a laugh. Chris catches the oranges neatly, holding them in his hands, and he sits with his legs swinging slightly. He's never still, ever, not even in sleep, always running toward something, or from something, and Justin's never been exactly sure which it is.

"You're an asshole," Chris replies.

"Yup," Justin says. He stirs from the counter, putting the apple back into the fruit bowl. "But you love me anyway."

"Never said I had any taste at all," Chris says. His dark eyes flash down Justin's body, from bare shoulders to bare toes peeking out from beneath the hems of his track pants, and back up again, the look almost too quick for Justin to catch. Chris' face never gives anything away, a perfect poker face, unless it's someone who knows him well, and Justin thinks he probably knows him better than anyone.

JC would've been easy; bright, open, accessible, and up for anything or anyone. Justin knows he'd have been welcomed into JC's bed, no questions asked. Chris is anything but easy; he is smarter than anyone can guess, funny as hell, but also difficult, annoying, and Justin loves the challenge of him. He's had to earn every bit of ground gained with Chris, who never backs down, never gives in, never gives quarter, and Justin respects him for that. Justin knows all about hard work, knows that the things he has to work for the hardest carry the most value.

He's worked hard, for Chris.

"I dunno about that," Justin replies. Chris' chin lifts a little as Justin steps closer, close enough he can feel the heat of Chris' bare knees through his pants. "I think maybe you have pretty good taste, really."

"Yeah?" Chris' eyes glitter again, and something passes through them, dark and wild. His hands flex a little on the oranges, knuckles momentarily white, before he relaxes again, deceptively calm. Justin can almost feel the energy thrumming like a high-current wire through Chris, barely contained by his skin. He wants to touch it, to taste it, to feel it crackle along his own flesh. He should be afraid of its strength, but he's not. He's never feared it.

"I'm not fifteen, anymore," Justin says.

"No," Chris replies after a moment. "You're not."

Justin remembers fifteen, all coltish long arms and legs, feeling awkward any time he wasn't on stage. He remembers the fumbling kiss he gave Chris, remembers the softness of his mouth, the way Chris' arms had tightened around him a moment before gently pushing him away. He remembers how grateful he'd been when Chris had treated him no differently than before the kiss. In spite of more girls than he cares to think about, in spite of Britney, he still remembers just how sweet that one kiss had been.

"I kiss better now, too," Justin says.

"Do you?" Chris isn't making it easy, but then Justin never thought he would, anyway. Chris' head tips a little to the side, and there's that little half-smile again.

"Yeah. I do. Wanna see?" Justin steps closer, between Chris' knees, and slides a hand over Chris' shoulder. He can feel the heat beneath his palm, feel a short, sharp tremor. Behind his glasses, Chris' eyes are huge and dark. His breath is warm on Justin's cheek, his mouth, and Justin's lips feel oddly hot, and suddenly tingly in anticipation.

Chris tilts his head just enough, and his mouth slicks across Justin's. Oh, yeah, Justin thinks, because he loves kissing, the touch of one mouth on another, the taste of lips, of tongue, the sweet intimacy of it. Chris' mouth is surprisingly soft, and warm. He can feel the slide of Chris' mouth, the cling of his lips, the teasing touch of the tip of his tongue to the center of Justin's upper lip, the corner of his mouth. It's so soft, so gentle, unexpected from someone as loud, as intense as Chris.

Justin hears two muffled thumps, and then Chris' hands curl around his waist, pulling him closer. The angle is awkward, and Justin's neck twinges, but he doesn't care, because yes, finally. Justin slides an arm around Chris' waist, fingers skimming over the small of his back beneath the ratty tee shirt he'd slept in. His fingertips fit just so in the groove of Chris' spine, just above the band of his faded boxers. The skin there is smooth, tender, curiously vulnerable.

Hot, shivery sensation fingers down his own spine, and heat courses through his entire body, filling every cell with warmth. He can feel the curve of Chris' smile against his own before he licks into Chris' mouth, and god, yes, so much better. Hot and wet, overlaid with the tang of oranges; Chris is suddenly the very best anything that Justin has ever tasted. He runs his tongue over slick hard teeth, over soft inner surfaces, slides it against Chris' own clever, inquisitive tongue until he grows light-headed from lack of air.

Chris pulls away, their mouths parting with a soft, wet sound. "Sonot fifteen anymore," Chris says, and Justin's more than a little proud of the way Chris sounds so breathless.

"No," Justin replies. His heart pounds hard beneath his ribs, and blood rushes hotly through his body. Chris smells like oranges and apples and sleep sweat and heat, and he wants to tumble Chris to the big couch, pull him out of his clothes, wants to smell and taste him everywhere. His eyes flick from Chris' flushed face, to the flutter of pulse in the hollow between his collarbones, down his belly, to the heavy arc of cock beneath his boxers. Justin bites his lower lip, and looks up again. His own cock feels like an iron bar behind the softness of his track pants.

Chris looks surprisingly solemn. "It always changes things, Justin. Sex always does."

"I know it does," he replies, equally serious. "But I can't help what I feel. What I want. And I've wanted this forever."

"So have I, god help me," Chris says. He gives a little push, and Justin steps back so that Chris can slide from the table. Chris takes his hand, and tugs him down the aisle, heading for the bunks, and if the glance he sends back over his shoulder has a shadow beneath the desire, Justin doesn't say anything about it.