Joey, Chris thought darkly, would pay for this. Dearly.

He entertained visions of putting raw liver in Joey's practice shoes, and wondered if he could get any from the hotel kitchen---how did you say liver in German, anyway? His brows drew down as he thought. Die Leber sounded right. But raw? Hmm. Roh, or ungekocht, maybe. The kitchen staff would be able to figure it out. The hotel personnel already thought they were weird, so his request shouldn't faze them that much.

JC lurched against him, arms flailing as the elevator jolted to a stop. Chris caught him before he slithered to the floor, but just barely, hanging on to an arm and the front of his coat. JC's lean, angular face smiled brilliantly up at him, flushed with cold and too many beers. Oh, yeah, pretty, Chris thought, then shuffled the thought to the back of his mind when JC spoke.

"Hey," JC slurred. "Wanna sing with me?" Oh, no. Not more singing, at least of songs JC chose. He might be in a boy band, but he had his reputation and self-worth to consider. JC's breath was warm and strong with beer, and Chris thought he could probably get drunk off the fumes alone. The nylon shell of his coat made a whooshing sound against Chris' own jacket that set Chris' teeth on edge. But he swallowed his annoyance because sarcasm slid off a drunk JC like...well, something slick. Teflon, maybe. Pointless to waste the energy.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Dude. No one wants to hear Copacabana again. No one wanted to hear it the *first* time around. Take my word on this."

With a grunt, Chris set JC on his feet again, and gave him a little encouraging shove forward as the doors slid open with a protesting groan. He congratulated himself on the fact he was a big enough man not to cop a quick feel, because really, JC had a fine, fine ass. Almost as fine as his own, in fact. Oh, no, no, no. No thoughts like that about a sober JC, and *absolutely* no thoughts like that about a pliant, affectionate, drunk Chasez, who had groped him clumsily while he hauled him out of the cab. Not that his dick had minded the quick squeeze; even now, it twitched between his legs as he thought about JC's hand on him.

And well, maybe his push might have been just a bit *too* encouraging, because JC staggered out, and proceeded to trip on nothing but air. He caught himself with surprising grace, swinging around, a pinwheel of long slim arms and legs, a huge grin scrunching his face. Chris would've laughed, if he hadn't had so much trouble getting JC out of the club, into a cab, and back into the hotel.

Chris stood in the opening of the elevator, and the door nudged against him, trying to close. He bumped it with his hip. It irritated him. Mechanical things always had it in for him, from desktop staplers to the van they traveled in. Fritz had *sworn* he'd set the emergency brake, but Chris knew the van was possessed and hated him. Just because he'd pissed against it once was no reason for it to try and flatten him. "C. C. JC, wait right there. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"'k," JC agreed pleasantly, and then wandered off down the dim hallway, humming. Chris heaved a much-put-upon sigh. It was like trying to herd all his little sisters at once. He really hoped JC didn't start singing again, not because JC had a bad voice---even drunk he had almost perfect pitch---but because he hated Barry Manilow as much as JC, in his present inebriated state, loved him. He wondered if this knowledge of C's secret musical passions was worth anything in blackmail potential, but abandoned that thought, because JC was weird enough not to care if anyone knew he actually liked Manilow.

Chris watched JC a moment to make certain he didn't fall and hurt himself, or begin banging on random doors, because right now JC loved everyone and wanted them awake and happily singing with him. He didn't really feel like pacifying an irate patron after JC woke them up, nor explaining the situation again to the hotel manager in the morning.

Lou had warned him to make certain everyone behaved, or he'd book them in *really* terrible hotels until they learned to appreciate what they had. Chris wasn't certain there were actually worse hotels, but didn't really want to find out. He shook the thought out of his head, then turned his attention back to the interior of the elevator. "Bass. Lance. C'mon, dude. Don't sleep now."

From the far corner, where he leaned back against the wall, slim hands wrapped tightly around the handrails, Lance blinked owlishly at him. "'m not asleep," he protested, his voice slow and husky and deep. The hair on the back of Chris' neck rose, and a prickle of sensation snaked down his spine, and settled somewhere south of his belly button, blossoming into heat. Oh, hell. He really needed to get laid if he was skeevy enough to even think about a kid as young as Bass. He was in trouble enough without adding that into the mix.

Technically, Lance was legal to drink here, but Chris knew Diane was certain to take a very dim view of her baby boy this drunk. Way more drunk than the two beers she'd permitted him to have. And Chris knew very well how, in spite of her soft voice and southern manners, Mama Bass was not someone to piss off. Chris had learned to tune out most of Lynn's fairly constant chatter, had learned to ride the wave of her ire, because like Justin's own temper, it flared hot and fast, but subsided quickly.

Diane, on the other hand, took a long time to become angry, but once she was, it lasted forever, and ran as deep as oceans, and Chris knew exactly where Lance had gotten his slow, cold temper. Just the thought of her wrath was enough to make his balls pull up close to his body in terror and any burgeoning warm feelings for the Bass offspring fade quickly. He'd rather make it out of Germany with his genitalia intact. He was really happy with his dick and wanted to keep on using it for say, the next fifty years or so.

Damn Joey, Chris thought again, and swiped his hand through his hair. He was supposed to help watch Lance on this little Diane-approved outing, and instead, the bastard took off with a pretty redhead soon after they'd gotten to the club. Fucking Fatone and his fucking easy charm that women of any country loved. Not that he was jealous, or anything, of course not. It just took very special women to appreciate his own unique appeal.

So, left alone on babysitting duty, he'd tried to keep an eye on Lance, to steer beers out of his hands, but he'd forgotten how resourceful teenagers, and Bass in particular, could be. And he hadn't counted on JC, who seldom went out with him, getting plastered and forgetting the Basic Boyband Rule: When Picking Up, Choose Only Chicks. No boys, no matter how pretty, nor how willing. And the one he'd pried away from JC had been both very pretty and very willing, a small, slim, sharp-featured, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy. Chris felt absolutely certain he'd narrowly averted possible disaster when he'd dragged a protesting JC out of the club and stuffed him into the cab. Lou would have his ass in a wood-chipper if he allowed any of them to forget the rule. Yeah, it was a load of fun being the responsible one.

A thud and JC's high-pitched, weird giggle made Chris almost snap his neck looking over his shoulder. JC lay in an untidy heap in front of a door, apparently having lost his fight with balance. Chris really hoped it wasn't Diane and Lynn's door---now, wouldn't that suck the big one, to have the idiot wake them up and witness him sneaking a drunk Lance to his room to sleep it off? *Hell* yes.

With a sharp, exasperated noise, Chris fisted his hand in the front of Lance's coat and pulled. He almost lost his footing; Bass was either a lot heavier than his slim body looked, or else gravity simply had different rules for him. "C'mon, kid. Now. Beddy-bye and all that shit."

"'s too early," Lance protested, his deep voice way too loud for the quietness and the late hour. "Wanna party some more." But he came with Chris willingly enough, out the elevator and into the dimly-lit hallway. With Bass, he just had to keep talking and tugging, and he'd comply, easily herded, unlike a very unpredictable, quick JC, whom he'd chased down the street at one point.

"We'll party tomorrow, okay? Now shh. Be quiet, or you'll wake up your mom, and she'll kill both of us, got it?"

Lance's big, pale green eyes went comically wide, and Chris could easily see the thoughts stumble drunkenly over one another. Lance tried to bring his finger to his lips, and finally did, after it grazed Chris' nose. "Shhhhh," he said, and Chris pulled back from him, wincing at the strength of his breath. The kid smelled like a brewery, and would really regret this in the morning. No way Diane wouldn't see him hung over, but Chris figured he'd deal with it then, hoping the sight of a miserable son would trigger some sort of mom instinct and she would be too busy with Lance to give Chris a lot of trouble for it. Maybe.

"Okay, Bass, let's get C and we'll get everyone in bed and no one will be the wiser." He pulled at Lance's coat, and Lance obediently followed, wavering slightly on his feet. "And I'm gonna kill Joey in the morning, right?"

"Hey, I like Joey," Lance protested, way too loudly, and then clapped a hand over his mouth when Chris turned to glare at him. "Sorry," he slurred from behind his hand.

They caught up with JC, who sat on the threadbare carpet, and had his coat and one shoe off. He couldn't seem to figure out how to get his jeans undone. Chris sighed. "Why me?" he muttered, but didn't really expect an answer.

"'s hot," JC complained, and Lance shushed him, loudly. Chris half-turned and whacked him on the arm, glaring at him, then bent and grabbed JC under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. JC was a lot heavier than he looked, too. Chris wondered if he was getting weak in his old age, or if Lance's weird gravitational anomaly had spread to JC. He wondered what Spock would think of that theory, and grunted as JC's weight made him stagger.

JC smelled good, some sort of musky cologne beneath the overlying scent of smoke and beer, and Chris most definitely did not sniff JC's neck, just beneath his ear. Well, not on purpose, no. Not his fault JC sagged against him like his bones were made of noodles. Beneath his supporting arms, JC felt warm and firm and really...good. Chris jerked his mind away from that train of thought, and ignored his dick plumping up between his thighs.

"C'mon, C. No undressing in the hallway. Too much beauty to share with this lame-ass, old-lady wallpaper, right?"

JC evidently thought that was extremely funny, and managed a snorting giggle before Chris clapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him down the hallway toward Lance and Justin's room. Chris spared a glance behind him; Lance had managed to pick up both coat and shoe without falling on his head. Frankly, it amazed Chris, but Lance seemed to have gained that surprising dexterity and sense of balance achieved in a Zen state of drunkenness. It had always eluded him, somehow. He tended to just make a jackass of himself, fall down a lot, and then throw up. Yeah, really attractive, a drunken Kirkpatrick.

Chris propped JC up against the wall next to Lance's door and held him there with one hand against his warm, flat belly while JC attempted to work on his shirt buttons. Chris allowed it, because it kept JC relatively quiet, and he wasn't doing a very good job of it anyway; from the looks of JC's fumbling fingers, getting all the buttons undone might take awhile. Long enough, anyway, for Chris to get the door unlocked and get them both inside.

He turned to watch Lance weave his way toward them, and in that moment, JC lurched from his grasp, evidently intent on banging on the door opposite, if his flailing fist and cheerful "let's wake up everybody!" were any indications. He managed to grab one of JC's arms and pull him back at the same time catching hold of Lance's coat and reeling him in.

"Honest to God, it's like herding cats," Chris said, exasperated, and cringed when JC giggled and meowed three times before Chris muffled him again. He jerked his hand away from JC's mouth when he licked a warm, wet stripe over his palm, and wiped his hand on his thigh, ignoring JC's laugh. It was gross, but oddly also kinda of cool, and he didn't care to think about JC's tongue licking anything else at the moment. Later, maybe, when he was jerking off in the shower, or something.

Lance shushed them both loudly again, and Chris felt positively homicidal. Joey figured prominently in his visions of blood and mayhem, though both JC and Lance had important supporting roles.

"Don't wake up my mama," Lance said solemnly. "She's got a *real* bad temper."

But a drunk Lance slurred and elongated his vowels so much that Chris managed to pull him closer by the time he'd finished half his sentence. Chris pulled JC's shoe and coat from Lance's hands, and dropped them beside the door. He took Lance's hands, slim and winter-cool, and Lance's eyes brightened and his cheeks grew even pinker before Chris wrapped them around JC's biceps.

"Yeah, yeah, I *get* it, Bass," he whispered. "Now, make yourself useful. Hold on to him while I open the door. Don't let him go, got it? If you do, so help me God, I'll fucking kick you in the head. Understand?"

Lance blinked at him. "Y'all shouldn't swear so much," he said, and his accent, thickened and deepened by beer, made 'swear' sound like 'swea-ah'.

"I'll fucking work on it tomorrow, okay?" Lance blinked at him again, slow motion, and Chris rolled his eyes. Man, the kid was seriously drunk, if that flew right by him, because Lance generally was a sarcastic little bitch beneath the honeyed politeness. "You just concentrate on holding on to him. And don't let him make any more noise, okay?"

Lance's hands tightened on JC's arms, and he nodded, big green eyes focused on Chris' face. He swayed slightly toward Chris, soft pink mouth parting, and Chris put his hand on Lance's shoulder and pushed him gently upright again. JC stood unsteadily, swaying when Lance did, blinking at them both and smiling sweetly and vacantly, but at least he'd stopped meowing. Chris had learned from childhood to be grateful for even the smallest things, so he was.

Freed a moment from keeping an eye on JC, he unlocked and opened the door. He snagged the coat and shoe before entering. Justin had left the lamp on the table lit, although he'd been completely pissed they'd not taken him out with them. He was a good kid, and if Chris had been allowed to pick a little brother, he'd have picked Justin, friendly and generally good-natured and never afraid to work hard to get what he wanted.

Chris dropped JC's shed clothing on the table atop a pile of schoolbooks and notepads full of Justin's English notes and Lance's incomprehensible math scribblings. Just beyond, Justin lay asleep, covered in what looked like fifteen blankets, all pulled up to the top of his wild curls. Chris could hear him snoring, a soft little sound, almost girlish. Too bad Justin bunked with Lance all the time; he'd take Timberlake over Joey any day, because that fucking Fatone sounded like mating moose when he got started snoring.

He doubted he could get Lance in without waking up Justin, but it was worth a try. Chris heaved another sigh and stepped out the door to pull both of them inside.

And stopped utterly still in his tracks.

Because JC. And Lance. Were kissing.

Chris caught the flash of wet pink tongue as JC leaned into Lance, and damn, if it wasn't one of the hottest things he'd seen in ages. All of the blood plummeted down from his head to his dick, which stretched tightly against confining denim, leaving him just a little light-headed. His fingers gripped the door jamb hard enough the skin pulled thin and white across his knuckles.

And...just...damn.

Lance didn't seem to mind, his hands tightening on JC's sleeves, pulling him closer. He kissed like a girl, with long dark lashes brushing his pinkened cheeks, his mouth soft and receptive and sweet-looking. But when JC pulled away slightly, his breathing fast and deep, his expression changing from surprise to pleasure, the sound that came from Lance, deep and rumbling, was anything but girlish. It was adult and masculine and needy, and it arrowed straight down Chris' body and made his dick as hard as a brick.

Chris saw JC shiver, and heard his soft "oh, fuck," before his mouth closed again over Lance's, before his wiry body pushed assertively into Lance's slim one. Chris's tongue flicked out, touching his upper lip, wanting to taste, jealousy curling in his belly, but whether he was envious of Lance or JC, he wasn't certain.

After a moment, he thought it might be of Lance, because a drunk JC was as aggressive as he was easy-going when sober. He kissed with a ferocity, a surety that made a soft hungry sound rise up in Chris' throat. Heat swirled down his body, curled deep in his belly, and throbbed demandingly. He wanted to press himself close to the two of them, to slide into their intimate circle, to taste for himself JC's aggression and Lance's sweetness.

But when JC's hand slid down Lance's body and between his legs, making Lance jump and moan again, loudly, Chris blinked and came back to reality. Because, no. Hallway. Boys. Johnny. His own fine ass in a wood-chipper. *Diane Bass.*

A chill swept over him, cooling the heat tearing through him. Definitely time to break it up, no matter how pretty it was to watch or how hot to imagine himself involved in it. He stepped forward and wrapped his hand around JC's biceps, just above Lance's own white-knuckled grip. Up close, it was even hotter; he could hear the soft wet sounds of lips and tongue, could smell the musk of excitement, almost feel the heat radiating from them. His mouth watered, and his body felt drawn as tight as a guitar string with frustration and want.

"C, man...cut it out," he hissed, and when JC ignored him, Chris jerked hard, trying to separate them. Lance merely flowed with the movement, his hips rolling smoothly against JC's stroking hand. A pity he couldn't move that fluidly on stage, because something that overtly sexy would make all the girls wet their little panties. It certainly made his dick twitch, which in turn made him irritable.

"I said, break it up, you fuckers," Chris said impatiently, and grabbed JC's ear and pulled, hard. That brought a reaction; JC howled as he broke away from Lance's mouth. Chris seized him by the back of his shirt collar and with a heave, pulled them both in.

Chris closed the door behind them. Lance leaned in toward JC, mouth parted, soft and red, offering himself for another kiss, so flushed that even his ears were bright and hot-looking. Chris tried to insert himself between them, but Lance held on to JC tightly, surprisingly strong, and JC didn't seem willing to turn him loose either. Color chased across his high cheekbones and down his long throat. His eyes were dark with need and his wide mouth looked swollen and so kissable that Chris almost gave in to the urge to lean in and have a taste, so see for himself what made Lance moan and offer himself so freely.

"Lance, let go," Chris muttered, and peeled back Lance's fingers, freeing one of JC's arms.

"But you said...you said not to let go." Lance swayed toward JC, though his attention slipped to Chris for a moment. His eyes were huge and dark and sleepy looking, and this was what Lance looked like, aroused. "Don't wanna let go."

"Dudes...what the hell?"

All eyes swung to Justin, who sat up in bed, dark blue eyes wide with surprise. He looked from JC, to Lance, and finally, to Chris, who felt heat creep up his throat, into his cheeks, and out into the tips of his ears, even though he was the offended party here. JC's hands instantly dropped, and he started to pull away from Lance, his face as red as Chris' felt. They had always had an unspoken rule to shield Justin as much as they were able, though Chris thought Justin was damn mature for his age in a lot of respects, and could handle more than JC or Joey thought.

Chris separated them at last. He pushed JC down into a chair at the table, and when JC tried to pop back up, he snarled, "Stay put, you fucking moron."

Out of Justin's line of sight, JC's blue grey eyes found Lance, and darkened. "So pretty," he said softly, and licked his lower lip as if he could still taste Lance, and he probably could, Chris thought sourly. "He's so pretty, Chris."

Chris elbowed Lance aside, when Lance made a soft, longing sound and edged toward JC. He poked JC in the chest hard, ignoring the "ow, man, quit it," and said, "I have two words for you, dude. Diane. Bass. And here's another for you. Jailbait." He ignored Lance's slurred, insulted, "hey!" and continued to glare at JC. "One last word. Trust. That's the most important one."

He watched as understanding bloomed over JC's face. JC's eyes slid from his to Lance, standing behind him, leaning into Chris, and the want, the need rose from him, almost visible. But then JC swallowed hard, and lowered his eyes. "Yeah. Okay, man."

Beneath his black jeans, JC's dick looked thickly swollen, rigid, and Chris felt a wash of sympathy for him. How often did he see C actually excited over someone? Not very often at all; JC kept mostly to himself, and seldom went out with him to pick up anyone. He jerked off more than any guy Chris had ever known, himself included, but JC didn't actually have that much sex. Chris felt like an asshole for denying JC something he so seldom went after, but man, anyone else. Not Lance. Lance was his responsibility, given into his care, and he always, always took care of things entrusted to him by others.

JC would just have to deal, Chris thought, just like he did. Chris turned abruptly, and Lance slithered against him. Chris grabbed him by the waist to keep him from making a move toward JC, as he so obviously wanted to do. Figures, Chris thought, one pretty boy to another. And although he would never make a move on Lance himself, it didn't stop him from wanting to be wanted.

"Bass. Lance. C'mon, dude." He grabbed Lance by the coat and propelled him backwards, toward the bed, and Lance only took his eyes from JC when Chris set him with a thump on the edge of his bed.

"But I...but Chris...."

Chris stripped the coat from him and flung it to the floor. "No, Lance. Time to go to bed. By yourself. It's late, and you're drunk...."

"I'm lonely," Lance said, soft and low. "I'm tired and lonely and I want...I want to not be lonely anymore."

Something wrenched hard inside Chris' chest. He knelt between Lance's knees, and put a gentle hand on Lance's narrow shoulder. "I know, baby. We're all lonely like that sometimes."

Lance's eyes were huge and dark, and his wide, swollen mouth twisted unhappily. "I'm not a baby. I'm a man, and I feel...like a man." He tilted his head a little, and leaned forward, unsteadily. Chris' fingers tightened on his shoulder, and wiry muscles flexed beneath his hand. He could feel the heat radiating from Lance. His lips brushed across Chris' cheek, a whisper of a caress, and his breath was hot and moist against his skin. Oddly, it made Chris shiver. "I want things. I want to be a man with JC. With you."

Lance caught Chris' free hand and moved it to the rigid heat between his legs. Chris' eyes slid closed, and his fingers moved convulsively over the erection tenting the khakis. God, he felt good in his hand, against his palm, his dick heavy and substantial, and he wanted to feel it bare in his hand, against his skin, against his tongue. Fuck, he wanted it, wanted to touch, to be touched, to not be so alone. And here it was, a pretty, willing young man, offering himself to him. He started to pull back, but Lance's fingers circled his wrist, held him in place.

"Please," Lance whispered against his ear, and Chris quivered as Lance's tongue flicked against the rim of his ear. "Please."

Oh, want. It pounded heavily in his ears, in his veins, in his dick. He drew in a deep breath and could smell musk, heavy and male, over the light, crisp scent of Lance's cologne, over the stench of beer and stale smoke. His mouth watered, and he almost leaned in, almost licked up Lance's long, slim neck, almost slid his mouth over Lance's softly-begging one, almost pressed him down against the mattress and gave him what he wanted.

Almost.

Chris opened his eyes, shuddered and gently pulled his hand away from Lance's dick, his hand from his shoulder. Lance went very still and the pink flush drained from his soft, smooth cheeks. But to his credit, Lance didn't beg once he had pulled back, though Chris could see need and desire shivering beneath his skin. One of the things that Chris had most admired about Lance was the core of steel hidden beneath the seemingly girlish fragility. He'd never seen Lance fold like the rest of them had at various times, when the pressures had grown too great, when it felt as if they had given themselves away completely, when they weren't sure who they were anymore. Lance had always known exactly who he was. He was strong and stubborn and determined, probably more than everyone else, except Chris himself.

"You don't want me," Lance said, his voice so steady, so deep that it made Chris' stomach drop to his toes.

Chris scrubbed his hand over his eyes; yee-haw for things getting more and more complicated. He ached, and hunger zinged within him, bouncing crazily from cell to cell. "There's more than just want, Lance. There's trust, and responsibility, and I can't fuck with either of those. I just...I can't."

Gingerly, Chris slid an arm around him, and Lance leaned into him, sighing softly, seeking comfort, not sex. His breath moved warm and moist against Chris' neck. Chris ran a hand through his thick reddish-blond hair with its stupid-ass country boy haircut, and Lance curled an arm around his waist.

"Didn't know," he said, his voice rumbling low against Chris' throat. "I...never. But I." He sounded so tired, so confused. "I thought about it, but never." Lance's fingers tightened in his shirt. "But then I did, we did, and I liked it. I did."

"I know," Chris replied. And in the jumble of words, he did know, did understand. "Figuring things out about ourselves isn't easy, is it?" Lance shook his head, face hot against the side of Chris' neck, and Chris pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "You'll be okay. You're not alone, Lance. You've got me and C, if you need to talk, okay?"

Gently he untangled them and eased Lance back onto the bed, pulling off his clunky shoes, then tugging the covers over him, a pillow under his head.

"I liked it." Lance's voice dipped even lower, slowed like thick molasses. His eyes slid closed. He had long dark eyelashes, and Chris pretended to himself he'd never noticed that before. "So tired."

"Baby, you're gonna be so hung over in the morning." Chris tugged a wastebasket over to the side of the bed in case Lance had to throw up in the night, a scenario more likely than not. The corner of Lance's mouth quirked up, and Chris gave into the urge to lean forward and press a kiss there.

Lance turned his head, and his soft lips slid across Chris' mouth, opened beneath his. Oh. Just a little, Chris promised himself. Just a little taste. Lance's mouth was soft and wet and every bit as sweet as he thought it would be. It was like bubble gum and cotton candy and lemonade on a hot summer day. Too sweet...and too young. Way too young for him. Chris wondered if he'd ever been that young. When Lance tried to push out from beneath the blankets, to press closer to Chris, to wrap his arms around Chris' neck and tug him in, Chris knew he had to end it, and pulled away. Lance's tongue flicked out over his wet lips, and Chris pinched himself on the thigh, hard, and stood up.

He was so hard he hurt, and as he turned away, adjusting himself in his jeans, he saw Justin's wide, dark blue eyes watching them avidly, mouth hanging open. Surprise warred with disbelief, and fought with disgust, before he could hide the latter. Well, now, wasn't that just peachy keen and dandy. So much for shielding the kid. Chris didn't have to guess Justin's orientation; it was written vividly all over his face.

"Shit, dude, that's gro..." Justin stopped abruptly when Chris shot him a dark look. Justin cleared his throat a little, looked from Chris to Lance and back again. "Um, that's um, great, if you're into it," he amended. Color chased across his cheeks. In spite of his youth, of the goofy way Justin often acted, he was far from stupid, and knew how to flow with the circumstances.

"Yeah, J, it is. And some of us are into it. Got a problem with that?" Chris tilted his head and watched the thoughts chase through Justin's clear eyes, assessing, fitting this new development into his view of them, working through how it affected all of them personally, and as the group. Chris found reading Justin easy; all his thoughts skimmed through his eyes, over his mobile face. He had learned to shield himself in front of others, but with them, he was as easily read as a favorite book, and Chris hoped that never changed.

Justin's gaze flicked to JC, and Chris followed his line of sight. JC sat very still where Chris had left him, restlessness and hunger shimmering on his skin, his eyes hungry and hopelessly miserable. His long fingers kneaded his thighs, short nails scratching lightly at the denim, as if he still wanted to touch. Chris pretty much knew how he felt. When JC saw their attention on him, he tried on a smile, but it never reached his eyes.

Justin blew out a breath and scrubbed a big hand through his thick curls. After a minute, he grinned, the big, real smile that showed too much gum and wasn't for the fan magazines. "Nah, dude, I'm all kinds of coolness. Just, y'all could've told me, y'know? Not spring it on me like this."

Chris shrugged. "Sorry. Who knew it would come up like this?" He shifted from one foot to the other a couple of times, restlessness crawling around in muscle and bone. "So. You scarred for life, or what?"

Justin snorted derisively. "Yeah, right, Chris. You owe me for years of therapy." Chris stepped forward to smack him in the back of the head, grinning, because yeah, that was Justin's smart mouth at work, so he was fine. Justin twisted away, fending him off, and his voice dropped a little, not quite so strident as usual, as if he didn't want Lance or JC to hear, although that was stupid, given how small the room was.

"I kinda thought JC, and probably Lance, but you were a surprise." Justin drew his long legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, settling his chin on his knees. He looked pretty calm about the whole thing, and Chris felt grateful for his fluid adaptability. "You like girls, too, don't you? I mean, I've seen you kissin' and everything...."

The little snooping shit, Chris thought, but nodded. "Sometimes things aren't just black and white." Chris blew out a sigh and ran his hand over his eyes. They burned. "I'm gonna get C tucked in before he gets rowdy again. Don't let Lance like die in his sleep or anything. It was hard enough to find him."

"Okay. But man, I'm not cleaning up puke. No way. I'm just tellin' ya."

"S'okay. But, J? Keep your yap shut about everything, right? Nothin' to nobody. This is between us, and no one else."

Justin's straight, dark brows drew down in an insulted frown. "You think I'm stupid? Shit. I'm not. I know the score."

And he did, as well as any of them. Justin was no fool, and knew how to keep their dream going. He'd been in the business his entire life, and Chris thought him almost scarily savvy as to how things worked. Chris wasn't certain whether to be inordinately grateful for Justin's quick grasp of how to work things to his advantage in his limited world, or sad that he'd never really had a chance to be a regular kid.

It didn't matter now, because though they were talented and determined and fiercely protective of one another, regular, they'd never be. They were bound by countless secrets they kept from others, their loyalty to the real people kept behind the carefully manufactured images. This was just one more secret that they would keep from the outside world. Chris stepped forward, and ruffled Justin's curls. Justin made a sour face and leaned back, slapping his hand away. "Cut it out, fuckhead," he said, but it was wholly without malice, an automatic response.

"You're good people, poodleboy," Chris said. "Take care of Lance, and we'll see you for breakfast before rehearsal."

"Yeah, yeah," Justin replied, and curled back under his covers. "Just keep it down, okay?"

Chris turned back to him, and one of Justin's dark blue eyes, barely visible above the covers, winked at him. The little shit, Chris thought admiringly. His gaze slid to Lance, who had passed out once he'd gone horizontal, soft pink mouth open, snoring softly. Chris pressed his lips together firmly and turned back to JC.

"C'mon, loverboy," Chris said, and thumped JC on the shoulder. "Let's go, and let the kids sleep."

JC stood up and staggered slightly, but righted himself without too much trouble. He'd taken off his other shoe, and both socks, leaving his long narrow feet bare in spite of the coolness of the room. He often complained bitterly about the cold in Germany, but seldom wore shoes or socks, the hippy freak. In Orlando, he'd only worn shoes when forced to do so, going barefooted or wearing sandals or flipflops all the time. JC had nice feet, Chris had to admit, long and slim, unlike his own small hairy ones.

Chris pulled JC out into the hall, and tugged him, none-too-gently, in the direction of their room. Joey had the single, the bastard. Chris paused at Joey's door, debating with himself. He had an urge to beat on it and get Joey's miserable ass out of bed, scream at him and then kick him around for leaving him alone on baby-sitting duty. Because that was what a night out with the guys had turned into; Lance, who had to be watched, and JC, who apparently needed to have someone keep an eye on him almost as much as Bass.

But the urge passed; he'd pound Joey's ass tomorrow after he spent the day in torture. He was a really creative spirit, a self-proclaimed king of annoyance in his own small kingdom, and knew he could make Joey suffer humiliations galore. The thought gave him some comfort.

JC draped himself over Chris' back, giggling softly in his ear. His dark mood of before seemed to have passed like a summer storm, leaving him sunny again. Chris wished he was drunk enough to be so adaptable, but he'd hardly had anything to drink, damn his eyes. JC wrapped one long arm around Chris' chest, and blew a beery breath against the side of his neck that made Chris shiver before starting to hum something else from the Manilow collection. It sounded like "Mandy," and Chris felt the bile rise in the back of his throat at the thought of it.

"No. No, no, no, C. Don't even begin that shit again." Chris staggered past Joey's room, dragging a boneless, humming JC on his back. Fuck. It *was* "Mandy." He felt fairly certain no judge would convict him if he tossed JC down the nearest stairwell. "You couldn't like someone cool and smart like Bad Religion, could you? No, it's gotta be some geek lounge singer. You're a Philistine, C."

"I'm not from Philadelphia, silly," JC said, and hooted with laughter, clearly impressed by his own wit. Chris rolled his eyes.

"You're never, ever drinking again." They stopped in front of their door, and Chris grunted as he tried to shrug off JC, who hung on like a bad cold, humming against Chris' neck. It was kinda nice, in a weird sort of way, if he could ignore the song JC hummed. "You're too freaky when you drink."

"And bendy, too," JC offered helpfully. He rubbed his cheek against Chris's hair and sniffed at it loudly. Damn freaky Chasez. But that was nice, too. "I took yoga. Wanna see me do a handstand?"

"Maybe tomorrow," Chris said, and got the door open, wrestling them both just inside. It took a lot of energy to deal with a drunken JC, he decided, yet another reason to keep him sober. Chris wasn't up to the challenge of dealing with this all the time.

JC suddenly seemed to realize they were back to their room finally, and clung to the door facing, whispering loudly, "But, no. Don't wanna."

"Yeah, you do, honey," Chris crooned. His fingers knotted in the waistband of JC's jeans, and he pulled steadily. "Sure you do. You wanna come in and go to bed. You've had just a little too much to drink...." A

sober JC was agile and athletic, but a drunk JC was like liquid, like quicksilver. He slid from Chris' grasp, and out the door again, reeling in the hallway. Chris heaved a sigh, and pulled him back in.

"Honest to God, no judge is gonna send me to prison if I murder you," he said, his arm hooked around JC's slim waist. " I swear it's justifiable homicide. Lou would shit a brick at the headlines, but hey, that might be entertaining in and of itself. C'mon, baby, let's come in now. It's cold outside." And cold inside, but he didn't mention that little observation.

Chris manhandled JC in, and closed the door quickly before he could escape again, locking it. JC stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, blinking. "Hey, man. This is our room. How did we get here?"

"Magic," Chris replied, and shrugged off his coat. He hung in up in the tiny closet, and kicked off his clunky boots, nudging them just inside, out of the way so JC wouldn't fall over them and break his nose. It was big enough as it was, Chris thought uncharitably. Not at all like his own very fine nose, which was most definitely *not* pug, no matter what that chick from the German teen mag insisted. He remembered then they'd left JC's clothing in Justin's room, but no way was he leaving JC alone to escape again.

"Okay," JC agreed, not arguing the point. Chris stripped out of his black sweater and hung it up beside his coat. He scratched his belly through the wifebeater, then shivered and rubbed his bare arms. He hated the cold; it was too full of memories he'd rather not think about. Although he liked Europe, he would be so glad to get back to Orlando and its warmth. Preferably as an international superstar, because hey, it never hurt to dream big.

"Why did we go? From the club. Was having a lotta fun," JC said plaintively. He moved to some music inside his head, eyes closed, a dreamy smile curving his mouth. It was a pretty sight; JC had a lot of natural grace, and an innate sense of rhythm and where his body should be in relation to that. Even a little wobbly from too much drink, he was still a pleasure to watch, and Chris did so, watching the sway of his slim hips and thinking how his hands would fit just *so* over the wings of JC's hipbones. He looked up and saw JC's eyes open, watching him, his wide mouth curved into a smile that said, "ah-ha, caught you," a sexy little smile that made warmth curl in Chris' chest.

"You were having just a little too much fun, my man," Chris replied briskly, and guided JC over to his own small bed, sitting him down on the edge after pulling down the covers. "You can't pick up guys now, C. Remember that sweet little chat you and me and Lou had?"

JC made a rude sound, and a dismissive gesture that almost caught Chris in the eye. "But the boy at the club was pretty. You thought he was pretty." He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath warm on Chris' cheek. "I saw you looking at his ass. Don't say you wasn't. Weren't. Whatever."

Best not to answer that, because yes, he had definitely been checking out the boy's ass, which had been very squeeze-worthy. Chris sighed, and worked on unbuttoning JC's shirt. The silver-blue material slid slick and satiny beneath his fingers, and he fumbled with the remaining buttons. Lou hated for them to wear things like this, but JC loved soft, silky clothes and had smuggled a couple of really nice shirts in amongst all the sports gear Lou's stylists made him wear in an effort to make him look more guy-ish, more sporty.

Chris could remember when they first met, and JC had mostly worn soft shirts, and pleated, flowing trousers. His slim, graceful body had looked very good in such things, and far more comfortable than in the oversized jerseys and track pants he wore constantly now. Chris was just glad his skater boy/punkish look had passed inspection, and he got to wear pretty much what he wanted. He gave a mental shrug; he'd probably have worn what he wanted anyway, regardless of how Lou might have screamed about it. "Yeah, yeah, he was pretty."

JC flapped his arms around wildly, trying to get his shirt off, and with an exasperated sound, Chris pulled him out of it before the shirt won the battle. Beneath the shirt, he wore a wifebeater, but it was of something soft, maybe real silk, and probably kept him warmer than Chris' own thin undershirt. JC made Chris think of a greyhound, quick and whipcord lean, all long arms and legs, not an ounce of extra flesh anywhere, tight muscles moving smoothly beneath his pale skin. Chris realized he stared, and blinked, looking away.

"Lance is pretty," JC said, breathless from Chris' efforts and his own attempts to help.

Something sharp and prickly caught in Chris' chest, but he pushed the feeling away. He couldn't blame JC for thinking that, when he'd thought it himself; Lance *was* pretty, caught in that place where he wasn't quite masculine or feminine. His mind cast about for the word, and found it—androgynous. Yep, that was it.

And he really couldn't fault Lance for finding JC attractive, because he certainly did—JC who was tall and slim, sweet and gentle in ways Chris knew he could never be. JC didn't have the sharp edges that Chris had, edges that cut others so easily, edges that cut even himself at times.

JC would be good to Lance, because even though he'd said nothing, Chris knew JC liked Lance; he worked with Lance on steps and routines, everlastingly patient, breaking things down into small, manageable segments until Lance understood how each one worked with the others.

Lance wasn't stupid or graceless; he simply didn't have the background the rest of them had, and took for granted. JC didn't cut Lance any slack or baby him, because Lance would've resented that, but worked with him steadily until he improved. How often had Chris, slumped exhausted and sweating on the floor of the warehouse they used for practice, watched them move together, watched JC's slim, strong hands adjust a leg here, an arm there, or touch Lance's hip or shoulder to tilt him to the right angle? How often had he seen JC smile at Lance, and Lance's eyes light up in return?

"Yeah, well, he's pretty, but Lance is off limits until he's eighteen. Remember that, okay? He's our friend, not some random guy you can fuck and dump." His words came out sharper than he intended, but fuck it, Chris thought. .

JC tilted his head in a curiously bird-like motion, eyes wide and almost all pupils, save for the thin blue-grey ring. He grinned at Chris, like he'd discovered a big secret, and was bursting to tell it. "You're pretty, too, man."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Absolutely, C. Gorgeous, that's me." Dark, sharp-looking---but Chris was honest enough with himself to know he'd never be even remotely handsome, let alone pretty. Lance was pretty, and Chris suspected he'd eventually blossom into exotic, because his looks were just a bit too odd to be conventionally handsome. Justin was cute, but the size of his hands and feet, the strong line of his jaw, made Chris think he'd grow up into something muscular and masculine, not pretty. Joey? Nah. Never pretty, already handsome, and destined to grow even more so, the bastard.

And JC? He was something Chris couldn't really put into a category yet. The Caesar haircut didn't flatter him; it made his large nose the most noticeable of his features, and that was a pity, because really, he was a good looking guy. The photographers loved him already, cooing over his bone structure, the angles of his face, his model-thin, lithe body, and his blue, blue eyes. Not quite handsome, yet Chris somehow knew he would grow into something special, more than the rest of them.

But fuck, no use thinking about stuff like that; it didn't change anything. Chris leaned down and with a grunt, hoisted JC's cold feet into the bed, ready to tuck him in and then go to the shower and beat off until the restlessness, the hunger, stopped shivering over his skin, quit working deep within him. He thought it might take a couple of rounds, because he ached with it.

He'd hoped for a quick blowjob in the back room of the club, because he knew he couldn't leave Lance alone for anything longer or more involved, but even that would've helped. He'd thought he had a sure thing lined up, with a tall, sharply pretty brunette girl who'd liked his accent, but then JC had decided to hit on the boy, requiring intervention. So he'd gotten nothing there, and only frustration once he'd gotten back to the hotel. He felt edgy and sharp and brittle, and wanted to hurry up and get it out of his system so he could sleep, because tomorrow was another long, bone-grinder of a day.

And then the world spun as JC's long hands fisted in the front of his undershirt and pulled Chris down atop him. With surprising quickness, JC rolled over, tucking Chris beneath him in the cold, narrow bed. Chris let out a high-pitched, undignified squeak and curled up as much as he could to protect his groin when JC's sharp, bony knee grazed his upper thigh, way too close to his balls for comfort.

"What the fu--?" Chris managed to gasp, before JC's face, somehow bemused and intent at the same time, swam large in his vision, and then his mouth slid over Chris', wide and firm, lips soft, a little chapped. Chris wrapped his hands over JC's shoulders and pushed, but JC was strong, and determined, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other nestling in the small of his back, holding him firmly in place beneath him. JC's tongue, hot and wet, licked at his own, over his teeth, the roof of his mouth. JC shifted against him and slid a thigh between his, and his dick felt hard against Chris' hip.

And then he realized, whoa, hey, hot, deep, nasty kisses, a warm, firm, strong body rolling and thrusting against his own, and oh, yeah, his own dick was way happy with it, filling and lengthening and practically begging to rub up against JC. So why was he trying to get away from it? Kinda stupid to fight something that felt so good, and so he stopped struggling, and relaxed into it, sliding his arms around JC's shoulders and sending his tongue in to curl around JC's own.

He understood quickly why Lance had made such needy sounds, because he didn't think he'd ever been kissed quite so thoroughly, or so well, by anyone. Ever. And he'd kissed a lot of people. As shy and gawky and socially awkward as JC sometimes seemed, he was none of those things when he kissed, and the transformation made Chris' head spin, made him shudder. Or maybe it was the way JC's hand moved slowly over his side, cold fingers burrowing beneath the wifebeater to slide over his warm skin. Or maybe it was the hum of pleasure from deep within his chest that made Chris resonate in response, like a struck tuning fork.

Apparently, music wasn't the only thing JC did with a passion.

Chris gasped for air when JC finally let him go, his head spinning from both lack of oxygen and the sheer surprise of JC's move. And yeah, yeah, talk about zero-to-sixty---he was hard, so hard he fucking hurt, and it felt as if his zipper would leave a permanent mark against the tender skin of his dick.

"Mmm," JC hummed against his ear, which sent shivers quivering down Chris' spine. JC rocked his own hardness against Chris' thigh, which set off Fourth of July sparklers behind Chris' eyelids. Hot colors for the heat that pounded in his head: red and yellow and orange. Chris rubbed up against any part of JC he could reach, hungry, desperate for touch. "Pretty Chris," JC crooned. "Sexy Chris."

JC was lean and hard, and so warm against him, on top of him. Chris' suddenly-cold hands fluttered for a moment, unsure, then slid over JC's waist, fingers pressing into his flesh. So warm, so alive. Real, and so much better than the daydreams Chris had entertained of them hooking up. JC hummed again appreciatively, and Chris let his palms slide over the old, soft denim of JC's jeans, down over the firm, muscular curve of his ass. His fingers tightened, and he pulled JC closer, settling JC between his parted legs, arching up into him, his inner thighs rubbing against JC's hips.

And it was good. So good, to touch, to be touched, to rub himself against a willing body. A small part of his mind cringed in embarrassment for the sounds, high-pitched and breathy, that slipped from him, but the majority of his brain couldn't be bothered with that, concentrating instead on the pleasure, simple and uncomplicated, that seized him in its teeth and shook him.

JC nosed against his neck, and Chris tipped his head to the side when JC licked over his skin, a long wet slide of tongue that made him moan. The scrape of teeth, sharp and surprising, made Chris grunt and buck hard beneath JC, made his eyes flash open. JC chuckled in his ear, a low, smutty sound, and bit his earlobe, tugging at his earrings. "Wanna fuck, pretty boy?"

And any objections, any thoughts that this just might not be a good idea, took a nose-dive from the roof of the hotel. Because, damn. JC and his fucking sexy mouth, his strong lithe body, his dick that thrust down hard against Chris' own, the smell of him, male and wanting, won out easily against any logic left in his head. It didn't matter that JC had never made a move on him before, didn't matter that it was just the alcohol making him do so now, didn't matter that it was probably all kinds of wrong because of those reasons.

He'd worry about it later. But for now, all that mattered was JC, smiling down at him, all hotness and promise of sex. And Chris was never stupid enough to pass up any opportunity that came his way. Although he loathed Lou's fucking rule, he loved the band, loved the dream, and so he hadn't laid a guy in longer than he cared to remember, afraid to endanger both. But here was JC, with his broad shoulders, his big hands, his heavy weight pressing him into the mattress, his hard dick grinding into his belly, offering. All guy, hard and horny, wanting him. JC was one of them, with just as much to lose, just as much reason to keep things private, between the two of them. Stupid to pass it up.

"C'mon," he said, and fisted his hands in the back of JC's undershirt, yanking at it. "C'mon, fuck me."

JC laughed, and pulled away from Chris' clutching hands, sitting up between Chris' thighs, wobbling just a little before catching his balance. Chris shivered at the loss of his body heat, and then shivered again for a completely different reason when JC stripped off his undershirt and tossed it to the floor. The overhead light lay harsh on his shoulders, but still, JC had a beautiful body. His chest, newly waxed last week, gleamed with sweat in spite of the cold, and his nipples, dark rose, pebbled up hard. Chris ached to touch, to taste, and he sucked in his lower lip, looking up at JC, who smiled down at him. Not the slightly goofy smile he knew so well, but one that made his blood rush, made his dick throb. This smile looked dark and predatory and...considering.

JC reached down and after a second of fumbling, popped the button on his jeans, and very slowly, slid the zipper down. Chris wanted to push his hands aside and do it himself, or to make him move faster, because it was killing him. He was so hard he hurt, and his skin felt hot and four sizes too small for his body. If he didn't do something, anything, he knew he would explode.

Without any further delay, JC rose to his knees, swayed slightly and then caught his balance before he peeled his jeans down his thighs. No fucking underwear---JC had gone to the club looking to get laid, and knowing that JC had been commando all evening made a shiver of lust tickle down Chris' belly. JC knelt there, unashamed, displaying himself for Chris. Chris swallowed hard, unable to look anywhere else but at JC's hard dick, red and wet, jutting out from neatly-trimmed wiry dark curls.

He'd seen JC naked hundreds of times in dressing rooms, had accidentally caught him jerking off half a dozen times, but had never seen him like this, aroused and ready, and all for him. JC ran his fingertips lightly up the length of his dick, and rubbed lightly over the fat dark head, then brought his fingertips up to lick them. Shit, shit, shit, Chris thought, and bit his lip hard to keep from exploding at the sight of JC's tongue flicking over his fingers.

Desperate, Chris reached for him, put JC grinned and pushed his hands away. "No, man. Lemme see you. Show me."

Chris' eyes fluttered closed a second as heat curled through his body, and then opened his eyes and unbuttoned and unzipped as quickly as possible without catching his dick in his zipper, his hands shaking. He raised his ass and shucked his jeans and boxers down as much as he could. His dick slapped against his belly, red and wet and leaking, the blood-flushed head already pushing out beyond the foreskin. His thick, tangled pubes were damp, and he smelled of musk and sweat.

JC's gaze slid over him, as heavy as a caress, his mouth curved in an approving smile. Chris' dick twitched, ready for touch, ready to fuck. Ready for whatever JC wanted to do, however he wanted to do it. He watched the pink flash of JC's tongue as it slid over the full bottom lip, and wanted that warm wetness on him. He opened his mouth to beg, to demand, and nothing came out but a choked sound of wanting. Heat flushed up his neck and into his cheeks.

Dark eyes flicked up to his. "What do you want? Want me to suck you, or fuck you?"

Oh god, oh fuck, oh yeah. Fucking would require finding lube and a condom, would require time to stretch him, because it had been so long since he'd taken anyone. He'd never last long enough for JC to fuck him, probably wouldn't even last a second after he got JC's lubed fingers inside him. He wouldn't last long anyway, but he wanted something of JC before he lost it. Practicality won.

"Suck," he said hoarsely. "Suck me."

Chris saw a smile curve the corners of JC's wide mouth, and then JC scooted back, peeling out of his own jeans. For a moment he teetered on the edge of the mattress and almost fell backwards off the bed, but then caught his balance and tossed his jeans to the floor. A moment after that Chris' jeans hit the floor, the skin of his legs burning where the denim had scraped his legs as JC pulled them off roughly.

JC's hands curled around his thighs, strong fingers biting in as he pushed Chris' legs apart. It didn't take more than the barest touch; he spread them with such eagerness that he guessed he should be embarrassed, but fuck if he cared. Chris flung out his arms, fingers digging into the sheets as JC's dark head dipped down, and when he felt the slow, wet drag of tongue from his balls to the tip of his dick, he let out a gasping whimper.

"Nownownow...please, god, JC, I want...." And then he squeaked as heated wetness slid down over his dick, hot and slick and so good. JC's cold nose brushed against his belly, and Chris thrashed and thrust up helplessly, unable to resist. JC pulled away slowly, sucking hard, and Chris heard himself promising anything, begging for JC to never stop. His hands came off the sheets, and his fingers scrambled over JC's short-cropped hair, over the curves of his ears, unable to find purchase. He arched as JC pulled off him completely, trying to get back inside his mouth, where it was so hot and wet and perfect.

JC pressed Chris' flailing hands to the sheets, then hummed low in his throat, a happy sound. His long fingers wrapped around Chris' dick, pumped hard once. His mouth closed over the head and sucked strongly as his hands moved, one pushing hard down the length of his dick, the other questing between his legs, one finger sliding against him, then a sudden bright burn of shocking pleasure as it slid deep inside.

Chris yelled, his body arching high as release tore hard and fierce through him, pulled from him by JC's sucking mouth, the finger crooking deep inside him, pressing in just the right place. His vision whited out, sound muted, and he could feel nothing but the pleasure pulsing through him, from him, into JC's mouth.

He sank back down into the mattress, his muscles going lax, his heart thundering in his chest, his breath rasping in his throat. Raising his head slightly, he saw himself slip from JC's lips, still hard, dark and flushed, slick with his own juices and JC's spit. A thin trail of his come slipped down JC's chin, and JC wiped it away with the back of his hand, then licked his hand clean. For some reason, Chris found that extremely sexy, and his belly clenched hard, his dick pulsing one last time.

Chris let his head thump back against the pillow, and concentrated on just drawing in one breath after another. His whole body tingled, his blood pulsed in his veins, and his heart beat hard in his ears. Fuck, but that had been good, so good, in spite of how quickly he'd gone over. He swore he'd repay JC back, just as soon as the room stopped spinning and he could feel his fingers again. Really, he would, because Chris Kirkpatrick wasn't a selfish lover, in spite of what Abby might have said back in Orlando. He would pay JC back, with interest, just as soon as he could move.

JC slid up his body, skin moist and hot, his dick dragging against Chris' leg. He planted his hands on either side of Chris' shoulders and let himself rest against Chris, his hips rocking slightly, his dick slicking through the sweat in Chris' groin. Color chased across his cheeks, and his mouth looked soft and well-used. He dipped his head and licked across Chris' mouth, his breath hot and smelling like Chris.

Chris ran his hands up the wiry muscles of JC's arms, and wrapped his arms around JC's shoulders. He smiled up at JC, and pulled him down atop him as his mouth opened for JC's kiss. He could taste himself, sharp and bitter, on JC's tongue, in the hot recesses of his mouth, against the yeastiness of the beer JC had drank, and beneath all that, something almost sweet, maybe JC himself. When JC melted into him, Chris rolled them over, wedging them both against the wall, with himself on top. JC broke away from his mouth with a hiss, arching away from the coldness of the wall. Chris tugged at him until they were back in the middle of the bed.

"Fucking tiny German beds," Chris swore, and when JC grinned up at him, ruffled and rumpled and sexy-looking, Chris' annoyance faded instantly.

JC's fingers slipped into Chris' hair, holding him tightly as his tongue stroked against Chris' own, as his body rolled and slid restlessly beneath Chris. It made Chris think of surfing, of riding powerful ocean waves, and he smiled against JC's mouth. JC's teeth closed on his lower lip, tugging a little, before releasing him, and Chris liked the sharp sting mixed in with the pleasure; it seemed to make the sweetness more intense. His hands slid out of Chris' hair and slipped down his neck, curving over the tops of his narrow shoulders, pushing downward.

"Suck me," he said, his voice slow and heavy, his eyes dark and sleepy-looking. "Now. Wanna feel your mouth on me."

"I can do that," Chris muttered, and licked across the arch of one collarbone. Oh, yeah, he could do that. His mouth watered at the thought of tasting him, of feeling his lips slide down over JC's length, of inhaling his musk, of tasting him, hot and bitter as he came. So long since he'd sucked a guy, and he felt really glad it was JC and not some random guy breaking his long drought.

JC's skin slid smoothly under his tongue, and JC shivered beneath him, long hands kneading his shoulders, slipping back up to run through Chris' hair. He really seemed to like it, and Chris didn't mind, because JC didn't pull or yank at it to direct him where to go, what to do. Chris remembered when he'd first met JC, he'd had a lot of thick, floppy, curly hair; that hadn't lasted long once Lou had started dictating their style to them, deciding what was marketable, what was not. Maybe JC just missed his own.

JC's chest wasn't defined like a weight-lifter, but muscles slid beneath his skin as he moved, and his arms were wiry with strength. He excelled at the gymnastic moves some of the choreographers loved, was better even than Chris himself, and Chris knew he was good, flexible and quick. Chris nosed a dark pink nipple then licked at it, and smiled at the low moan that rumbled from deep within JC's chest. JC's fingers tightened a just little in his hair, not enough to hurt, and Chris took the hint. JC's nipple grew hard beneath his stroking tongue, and Chris settled in to suck at it, sending his fingers questing across JC's chest to rub and pluck at the other.

And JC loved it. His breath caught, and his moans flowed over Chris, surprisingly loud and deep. Chris had heard him jerking off before---living in such close quarters, it had been hard not to be privy to everyone's little habits---and the sounds then had been breathy and quiet. Those sounds had been pretty sexy, but he thought he liked these a lot more. He preferred his bed partners vocal; it let him know what pleased and what didn't. Who knew JC could be so loud? JC writhed under him, hips thrusting up against him, his breath hitching.

JC pushed at him, frantic. "Chris, gonna...gonna...*please*...." Chris slid down his lean body, dragging his tongue down his belly. JC's dick bumped him under the chin, and he ducked his head and sucked him in, wrapping a hand around him. JC was long, longer than he was, and thick, a good handful, a better mouthful. Chris hummed happily as he slid down as far as he could. It had been so long since he'd done this, and the taste, the heat, the heaviness of JC's dick on his tongue, in his mouth, was fucking great. The sound that escaped JC, needy and hungry, made heat flush through Chris, and even though he'd just come, his dick twitched again.

Chris curved his hands around JC's narrow hips, his thumbs brushing over the sharp wedges of hipbones, as JC thrust upward, his hands wound tightly in Chris' hair. Chris pulled back, but JC's hands tugged him back down, and he gagged as JC went too far, too quickly.

JC released him instantly, pulling his hands out of Chris' thick hair as Chris backed off him, coughing and blinking away involuntary tears. JC tried to scramble away, but Chris held him in place, leaning his weight into JC to pin him.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry," JC said, and he sounded so horrified, that Chris blinked again and looked up at him, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. JC's eyes were wide, and he grasped at the sheets, at the pillow, anything, to keep his hands from Chris, and his body felt rigid and ungiving, tight with tension. "I'm so sorry. I hated it so much when they.... I'm so sorry...."

Chris shushed him, but filed that little bit of information away to ask about later. But right now, he wanted to put JC back at ease, and to get back to sucking him, because he wasn't done having fun yet. "It's okay, Jayce. No problem. It's all good, man, really."

JC looked as if he didn't believe Chris, and Chris winked and grinned up at him before licking up his dick, a long wet swipe of tongue that made JC shiver, made JC pulse against his lips. He wrapped his hand halfway down JC, and let that be his guide, his goal. He watched JC's face as his mouth slid down to his fist, as his tongue flicked over hot sensitive skin.

JC whimpered in need, and his hands fluttered uncertainly, but he stopped trying to move away. Two more plunges down, and the tension changed in JC's body, became sexual instead of regretful. JC's eyes closed, and gently, his hands came down to rest on Chris' head again. Chris hummed his approval as JC's body arched and his head tipped back into the pillow, his expression caught somewhere between pleasure and pain.

Three more slow glides down JC's dick, and JC lost it. He shuddered and bucked hard, his belly ridging as he curled up into himself, his breath hot against Chris' ear as he came. Chris heard his soft, "oh fuck, oh fuck," but then couldn't pay any more attention as he concentrated on swallowing as much as he could. What he couldn't, he let slip out his mouth, let it run down JC's hot dick, down his own chin. JC made a little keening noise, and then all the tension drained from his body, and he let himself fall back into the mattress, struggling to catch his breath.

Chris gave him one more lick, then pulled back, his mouth bitter and sticky. Damn, but JC came a lot. He tugged off his 'beater and wiped his mouth and throat, then wiped up the mess smeared on JC. JC still gasped for breath, but the rise and fall of his chest had already begun to slow as Chris gave the undershirt a casual toss to the floor.

Weariness washed over Chris, heavy and as powerful as the tide, and sated, he wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. JC looked almost gone already, his eyes closed, mouth parted and soft-looking. His entire body looked flushed, covered in a rosy, sweaty glow. The bed was so small, and JC so long and lanky, that he wasn't sure they'd both fit. But the sheets were already warm, and JC very hot against his hand when he stroked over JC's smooth chest. He wasn't very big himself; they'd probably fit. Worth a try, anyway, because he really didn't want to climb out of this bed and into the cold sheets of the other.

Chris slipped in beside JC, who shifted with a soft sigh, turning his back to him. Chris fitted himself against JC, and yeah, he was so warm. He slid an arm around JC's waist and pulled him closer, putting his nose to the back of JC's neck, just under his hairline. JC tensed a moment, then his body sagged in tiredness. Another minute, and his muscles went lax as he slipped into sleep.

Kinda nice, really, Chris thought, and slung a leg over JC, snuggling even closer, because the bed was small. Yeah. Really small, and JC tended to take up too much of it. He had to move in close, because he didn't want to end up against the cold wall. Or to have JC pitch off into the floor. As a justification, it wasn't too bad. He'd used lots worse than that before.

He sniffed at the back of JC's neck. JC didn't smell like Lance, crisp and clean, but more like musk. Not that he'd ever gone around smelling Lance, or anything, but living in close quarters, a guy couldn't help but notice how everyone else smelled. And JC didn't smell anything at all like Lance, or Justin with his citrusy unisex cologne. He sniffed again. He smelled pretty good, actually. Chris didn't mind the musk cologne, because C didn't bathe in it, like Joey did.

JC's heart beat slow and steady under his palm. Comforting. He hadn't slept with anyone after having sex for so long, that he'd forgotten how nice it was to hear someone breathing deep and slow, to feel their warmth against his skin, to feel their heart beat against him. And Jayce smelled good, too. Bonus points for that.

He decided he wouldn't mind sharing more often, and then drifted off to sleep.

"Wha?" Chris blinked sleepily as the bed bounced and covers flew everywhere. He opened his eyes wider as he heard a thump, a sharp, strangled, "oh, fuck!" and then the light flashed on in the bathroom, and he heard the unmistakable sound of someone getting very, very sick. His belly clenched in sympathy. Throwing up was just, like, the worst thing, because it left the person totally helpless, at the mercy of his own body. He'd had enough of helplessness.

It went on long enough that Chris stirred, ready to go in and see if JC wasn't hacking up a kidney or something. He remembered a horror movie they'd watched while still back in Orlando, where one of the guys in the movie ended up turned inside out---a cool, if gross effect he'd loved. Justin had made a hilarious 'eep' sound and gone greenish---no stamina for grossness, the baby. JC had hidden his eyes behind his hands like some chick, which had been fodder for endless teasing afterward. But Lance, the analytical bastard, had simply remarked that he didn't think the spleen should go *there.* Chris wondered idly if the same thing had happened to JC when the toilet flushed, and he heard water rushing in the sink. Not dead, then. Good thing.

He brought his wrist up to his face and squinted at the numbers on his watch. Damn things were getting smaller, or he was just too sleepy to see them right. Whatever. Three-forty-seven. JC had puked pretty much on schedule. He'd bet Lance was now leaning over the edge of the bed and throwing up into the wastebasket. He wrinkled his nose and felt kinda sorry for Justin, because the room would stink after that.

The bathroom light flicked off, and he heard JC's light footsteps as he staggered back to bed. JC paused, and then flung himself back into the bed, and on top of Chris, who let out a squeak as JC's elbow caught him in the ribs.

Another flurry of arms and legs, and Chris caught a knee in the thigh. Fuck, it hurt, and would bruise. Damn JC and his bony knees and elbows. He caught JC by the arm just as JC tipped out of bed and kept him from crashing on the floor.

But was the bastard grateful? Hell no. He slapped at Chris' hands irritably. "Why are you in my bed? Get out."

His breath smelled sour, and Chris figured he'd probably be sick again before it was all over. He thought he exercised remarkable restraint by not pinching his nose closed against the smell, even though he wanted to do so. In spite of what everyone else thought, he really was a considerate guy. "Fuck off," Chris said. "It's warm here, so get your skinny ass back under the covers."

JC muttered, but slid back into bed, next to Chris. He felt prickly with cold, and goosebumps shivered over his skin. Chris sighed, and pulled him closer to share his heat with JC. He deserved a freakin' medal for that, he groused to himself, trying to find a place on JC to sleep against that wasn't bony or hard.

JC put his hands over his eyes, and nearly gouged out one of Chris' with his elbow in the process. Chris pushed it out of the way, more tired than irritated. "Why am I here?"

Chris sighed. "Like, you want Camus or Nietzschze? Or maybe some oriental dude like Confucius? I don't remember much from philosophy class, but I'll try if you really want."

"I hate you," JC replied sullenly.

He was silent for a long moment, and Chris settled back in to go to sleep, not bothered by JC's declaration, because they all said it at various times. He'd grown accustomed to it, because what was that saying? Oh, yeah. Genius was rarely recognized in its own lifetime, or something like that. He believed it, because no one had recognized his yet. They were all ungrateful bastards, the lot of them.

"Did. Did we fuck?" Chris tipped his head back and watched JC lick his dry lips, figured he was probably dehydrated. His voice sounded absolutely neutral, so he couldn't really tell if JC was upset or not. But he suspected JC might be, because JC lived a freakishly fuck-free life.

"Nah," Chris replied, casually. "You blew me, I blew you. No fucking."

JC made a thoughtful sound, and rolled over, his back to Chris. Chris waited a minute, then curled against him again because the bed was still small, and the night had grown even colder. He was, at heart, a practical guy, and there was no sense at all in wasting perfectly good body heat. JC stiffened when Chris slipped an arm around his waist, then relaxed with a huff of air. He pulled the blanket over his head because the overhead light still blazed; they'd both passed out before turning it off. Chris refused to get up out of a warm bed to do it, and simply pulled the covers over his head, like JC.

In spite of the tang of sweat and the sourness of vomit, JC still smelled pretty good. Chris didn't sniff him, though, because he thought JC probably felt freaky enough. Chris liked to think of himself as a little considerate, even if no one else thought so. He slipped an arm around JC's waist, hitched himself just a little closer, tucking his thighs up behind JC's own. JC stiffened a moment, but then relaxed back into him, and Chris fell asleep against him once more.

The next time Chris woke, his head pounded and he shivered. Damn JC, he thought fuzzily, the greedy freak had stolen all the covers, leaving him naked and shaking with cold on the mattress, pressed tightly to him, seeking heat. And why would his head hurt? He hadn't had more than a single beer to drink---by all rights, this pounding should belong to JC, not him.

It took a moment to realize the pounding wasn't in his head, but rather, against the door. Bright morning light filtered through the thin blue curtains, so it was morning, sometime. Probably mid-morning, and that meant whoever was pounding at the door---the *bitch*---was there to wake them for breakfast. Chris just wanted them to leave him alone, but that wasn't likely, so he sighed and rubbed his eye with a knuckle before moving.

Chris climbed over the JC-shaped lump, and got a grunt or two in response. He stood there on the carpet, blinking, wondering where his jeans were, then shrugged and pulled at the tangle of covers hard enough that he stole the ugly striped bedspread from JC. He wanted to yell, "what the fuck do you want?" but thought the better of it. For all he knew, Lynn or Diane stood outside the door, and while Lynn could cuss with the best of them, Diane did not, made it perfectly clear she would not tolerate it, and so no one ever swore around her if they could help it.

He wrapped the bedspread around himself and staggered to the door, jerking it open. Justin stood there fully dressed, his eyes red-rimmed and blood-shot, a very cross expression on his pale face. Chris poked his head out the doorway. Just down the hall, Lynn and Diane stood waiting for the elevator, and with them, a ghostly and utterly miserable looking Lance.

Chris' fingers fisted in the jersey Justin wore and jerked him into the room, slamming the door behind them. Justin slapped his hand away and gave him a push backward. Chris stumbled on the trailing end of the bedspread, but luckily didn't fall.

"Shit, man, take a shower. You reek," Justin said irritably, and Chris felt his eyes narrow and his mouth set into a mean shape; it was way too early to deal with this.

But then Justin's gaze slipped over him and his eyes widened in surprise. Chris half-turned and saw JC sitting up in bed, looking rumpled and hung over and guilty. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair stuck up oddly, and the shadow of beard stubble lined his jaw. Weird, how in spite of all that, he still managed to look pretty good.

"Hey." Justin's blue gaze flicked from Chris, to Chris' bed, clearly unused, to JC, and back to Chris again. His dark straight brows drew downward, and pink chased across his cheeks. "Y'all do know I was only kidding, right? I didn't really think you'd...."

"Nothing happened," JC said abruptly, his voice scratchy and hoarse. He covered his face with his long hands, and Chris saw him swallow hard, several times, as if he were trying not to throw up.

"Whatever," Justin said, and his jaw firmed, his soft pink lips pressing together, displeased. "I said I was cool with it. Don't get all bitchy this morning about it, C."

"Kill me now. No, really," JC replied. He uncovered his eyes. "I'm gonna be sick," he said, and flung himself out of bed, tripping over the covers as they trailed around his feet, but lurching back up before he fell. Chris had to admit, watching him, that JC had a fucking great body, kept hidden under all the oversized sports gear he wore. When the door slammed, and the horrible sounds of puking began, Chris blinked, realized he'd been staring, and turned his attention back to Justin. He was *not* blushing, dammit, in spite of the heat in his cheeks.

"Y'all do know," Justin said, deliberately strengthening his Tennessee twang, because he knew it annoyed Chris to no end, "that I'm not like, stupid. A whole lotta nekkid usually means---"

"In this case, it means a whole lotta nothing," Chris cut in, ruthlessly. "Serious, J. No fucking." He didn't bother to mention the sucking, which had been pretty spectacular, both giving and getting, but that wasn't any of Justin's business, anyway.

"Right," Justin said, clearly disbelieving. "Tell me this. What if it had been Lance who'd come to the door, dude? What would you have done then?" He took a step closer to Chris, and poked him hard on his bare chest, and hell if that didn't hurt. Chris slapped irritably at his hand. "You turned him down, and then you come here and fuck around with C...that's pretty cold, dude."

Chris opened his mouth to make a smart-ass reply, but then closed it, because really, other than telling Justin to fuck off, he didn't have anything to say. He couldn't say that he'd been coerced, because he hadn't, or forced, because JC couldn't, wasn't like that. And besides, the day JC could physically force him to do something he didn't want...well, it would never happen. Even Joey, big and muscular and as strong as an ox, couldn't beat him in a fight if he set his head to win.

"It's none of your fucking business what I do or don't do, Justin, so don't go around pretending that it is." Chris frowned and gave Justin his fiercest, blackest scowl, one that usually got him whatever he wanted, and right now, he wanted Justin to just shut up and get out of his face.

Justin, however, wasn't buying. Evidently, Chris had lost his intimidation power through constant exposure. Justin glared back.

"I'm just sayin'. You can't screw around with Lance and JC, 'cos it's not right. They're our friends. They're the *group.* We can't do anything to risk the group---that's what you've always said." Justin's cheeks flushed brighter and his dark blue eyes flashed. His accent deepened as he grew more intent, and he leaned in closer, his mouth set in a confrontational line.

Shit. Chris shifted from one foot to the other, uneasy. When the hell had Justin gotten taller than him, anyway? And who gave him the right to criticize what Chris did? Irritation swept hotly through him, prickled along his nerves, stomped around in spiky boots in his belly. Chris hated to have anyone dictate to him, and he hated more that it was Justin who did it. He really hated that deep down, he suspected Justin was right. Damn him.

So instead of pushing Justin back, or pulling back his fist and letting the kid have it, Chris swallowed the anger and bit the inside of his cheek, hard. "I'm not gonna do anything to risk the group," he said stonily. It had been his dream first. His efforts that had brought them all together. They had come this far, and Chris determined they would go all the way, and damn anyone to hell who dared to get in their way. "Go on to breakfast, kid. We'll be there in a few."

Justin pulled back, his mouth still set, but he knew Chris well enough to push no further. "Okay. Fine." His gaze flicked to the bathroom, where they could hear the shower going. "Diane's pissed, but Lance took the rap for you. Said he snuck away from you guys. Don't think he'll be going out again until he hits eighteen, though."

With a shrug of his shoulders, Justin straightened his clothes; he hated having them wrinkled unless he was working or playing. He stood on first one foot and then the other, rubbing the tops of his sneakers against the backs of his track pants to make certain they were clean, a nervous habit he had. Justin always had the cleanest shoes of anyone he'd ever met. Chris thought he was kinda weird that way, but they all had their strange quirks, and on the whole, Justin's was pretty harmless. Wasn't like he was an ax murderer, or anything interesting like that.

Once Justin left, Chris leaned against the door. His head ached, and he felt queasy. Uneasy. He ran his hand through his hair, and tugged at it, trying to pull out the tension, the headache, but he suspected it was there to stay for awhile. Great. He wondered if he could scare up some Tylenol or something, because he really didn't have the time for shit like this.

Their day was full, as they all were, a constant, never-ending run from one event to another, from one practice to another, from one show to another. It was, as Lou often told them, the price of making it. And though he often had to bite his tongue to keep from bitching, Chris wanted to make it, and would work as hard as it took to do so. He'd never been afraid of hard work---it had been all he'd ever known. Today after breakfast, they had a radio interview, then practice, with new choreography to learn, and then a show. At least he wasn't hung over, and for that, he supposed he could be grateful.

JC emerged from the bathroom in a billow of oceany-smelling steam, a towel wrapped around his lean hips. He glanced up at Chris, and his eyes looked tired and bloodshot. Even as short as his hair was, wet, it tried to curl. He'd shaved, and had a nick on his jaw, welling a drop of bright red. Chris would've cut his throat if he tried to shave that hung over.

"You can have the shower," JC said, and his eyes slipped from Chris. He rubbed at his nose, then went to the closet and pulled his suitcase out and set it on Chris' bed. Chris watched the flow of muscle beneath pale skin. He knew how JC tasted, how it felt to slide against him, naked skin to naked skin, how he looked, how he sounded when he came. It was kinda freaky, really, and he wasn't sure if it was freaky in the good way, or not.

He'd always considered JC attractive, sexy, had occasionally entertained visions of JC when he jerked off, but had never really thought he'd ever get to have sex with him. JC had always seemed almost as untouchable as Lance was, but for completely different reasons---Lance because of his age, and JC, because he was so self-contained---friendly, but holding himself just a little distant from all of them except Justin. It had always intrigued him a little, because the rest of them were as open as books, and JC more secretive, not so easily read. But now, he had intimate knowledge of him, which made everything different.

He watched a drop of water slip down the lean planes of JC's back, watched it slide over a sharp wing of shoulder blade. His tongue flicked out to touch his upper lip, and he had a strong urge to step over there and lick that drop of water, to follow its path back up his back. He wanted to lap at the vulnerable nape of his neck, to nose into his short wet hair, to run his hands over smooth, damp skin.

JC dropped the towel. And fuck, if Chris' dick didn't stir between his legs, if he didn't begin to get hard beneath the swath of bedspread wrapped around him. He shifted from one foot to the other, and only by a massive act of will kept from touching himself. JC's ass was small and tight, his asscheeks as hard as apples; Chris remembered running his hands over those slight curves, remembered holding on tightly as JC thrust against him. He grew harder, and swore silently at them both in English, and what German, and Spanish he knew.

All the bones in JC's spine went into sharp relief as he bent to tug on a pair of black bikini briefs. And damn him, he looked good in them; Chris had tried on that type of underwear, and had just looked like a tool. When JC reached in and adjusted himself, Chris bit his tongue, hard.

"Did I do...did I do anything weird?" JC's voice was soft and hoarse, but still, Chris jumped, partially from surprise, partially from guilt, because hey, he'd been checking out JC.

Chris unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Weird how? And that's kinda a relative term, man, given that you're weird anyway."

JC pulled on a pair of loose track pants, and Chris thought that was a crime, because he'd been enjoying the long line of JC's legs, taut with muscle. JC shrugged in a careless one-shouldered way, then pulled on a wifebeater. He half-turned, and Chris' eyes slid up from the curve of biceps and the tight nub of nipple to JC's face, which had pinkened a little. "Dunno. Just. Anything, I guess. I don't drink very often." He shrugged his other shoulder. "At least, not that much. Because. Well. Stuff happens."

And Chris felt abruptly sorry for JC, who was clearly so very embarrassed. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, and tried for an amused nonchalance to set JC a little more at ease. If it had been Joey, or Justin, he'd have landed on him with both feet, tormenting him unmercifully. Well, hell, probably JC too, but somehow, this morning, he wanted to cut C some slack. "Hmm. You sang. Barry Manilow. Lots of his stuff. Seriously, C, I almost chucked you down the stairs for that."

A faint smile curved JC's wide mouth, almost reached his blue-grey eyes. He picked up a blue and white jersey. "Sorry. My mom listened to that all the time. Kinda rubbed off, y'know?"

"Yeah, well. You also wanted to stand on your head, but I talked you out of it."

JC's head popped out of the neck of the jersey he pulled on, and he looked surprised. "I wanted to stand on my head?" When Chris nodded, JC chuckled softly and shook his head a little. "Hell. I haven't offered to do that for years." He slanted a look from beneath his lashes at Chris, a little smile curving his mouth. Something fluttered inside Chris' chest, something small and sweet and warm, and he wasn't certain what to make of it.

But he thought he liked it.

"You'd better get showered," JC said softly, reaching for his socks, neatly folded together. "Or else Lynn herself will come after us. And I really don't want to hear you guys yell at each other. My head kinda hurts, y'know?"

Chris blinked, and flashed a quick grin. "Nah. Probably don't feel like hearing us bitch at one another." He hitched the bedspread up into his arms, enough to free up his legs to walk, but not high enough to let JC see how hard his dick was. Damn thing, Chris thought, and pushed away from the door. Never had any sense at all, and probably never would.

As he passed JC, Chris reached out, hesitated, then put his hand on JC's shoulder. JC looked up, curious. "You okay, C?"

JC made a little fluttery movement with his hands, one of his socks flopping around, before he realized it, and stopped, wadding up the socks in both hands. "Yeah. I feel like shit, but I guess that's the price for drinking too much, huh?"

He could've let it go at that, but that warm little something in his chest made him continue on. He squeezed JC's shoulder. "No, dude. Are *you* okay?"

JC looked down at his bare feet, almost covered by the hems of his pants. Then he raised his head and smiled, just a little. "I'm fine, man. No worries." JC's fingertips brushed over Chris' wrist and skittered away. "We're good, right?"

"Yeah, C, we're good," Chris replied, and JC nodded and went back to pulling on his socks. Chris stumbled to the bathroom, and dropped the bedspread outside the door. The sudden rush of cold air made him shiver, and the hair at the back of his neck stood up. A quick glance over his shoulder, and he caught JC's eyes sliding away from him. The tips of his ears looked very pink. Warmth slithered down Chris' belly. The corner of his mouth curved up at the thought of JC checking him out. He liked that; after all, he'd been watching C for months.

Chris stepped into the shower. He could still smell JC's soap lingering in the warm air. Hot water poured over his head and neck, and he hummed in pleasure. JC had decided to call them good, and he agreed with it; a whole lot easier to do that than to face the fact they'd slept together. Relief swept over Chris, because he hated The Morning After Fucking talk. It sucked the big one, because as glib as he usually was, he never seemed to say the right thing after sex. Maybe that was why no one ever stuck around. Sometimes he thought it should bother him more than it actually did, but his life was too busy to dwell much on things like that. Give him simple, uncomplicated sex, because he simply didn't have time for relationships. Or Relationships, for that matter.

He jerked off in the shower, because he jerked off every morning without fail and had, since he'd first discovered he could make his toes curl by doing it. He pulled up a mental picture of a chick he'd danced with briefly last night, a small, intense dark-haired girl, but three smooth strokes later, the picture in his mind changed, to long muscular arms and legs, to broad shoulders, to big clever hands, to a wide, talented mouth. To JC, his mouth sucking him skillfully, sliding fingers deep inside him and stroking him just...so...perfectly....

Chris came hard against the shower wall, shuddering and gasping. His body hummed in pleasure. He leaned against the slick tiles for a moment, catching his breath, then turned the shower spray to the wall, washing away his come, before finishing his shower, humming contentedly.

By the time he finished, JC had gone. He dressed quickly, still humming, and bounced down the hallway and into the elevator. In the dining room, Lynn and Diane sat at one table with their driver/interpreter, Fritz. Diane gave him a stern look as he passed, but didn't say anything; Chris knew she'd get him later, in private. She was too much of a lady to scream at him in public, and he felt grateful for that.

At their table, only Justin ate with gusto, which was no surprise at all. Joey sat with coffee, looking a plate of scrambled eggs, his complexion a little greenish; evidently, he'd had a bit too much to drink, also. Chris plopped down in the chair closest, elbowing him hard in the side in the process. When Joey looked up at him blearily, Chris gave him a smile full of nasty, vengeful promise. Joey paled, and looked away, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"Your ass is *so* mine, Fatone," Chris said cheerily. "You're gonna regret ever coming to Germany. I've sworn out an Irish blood oath on you. The Kirkpatrick curse will follow you for the rest of your life. Or while we're in Europe. Whichever lasts longest."

Beside him, JC, his eyes hidden from the bright morning light by the wrap-around sunglasses he favored, said, "It's been really nice knowing you, Joe. We'll miss you." The corner of his mouth quirked up. Justin laughed and snorted milk up his nose, and even Lance, slumped pale and pitiful in his chair, grinned.

Chris laughed, and dropped a quick wink in JC's direction, glad of the support. Faint color chased across JC's cheeks, but his smile widened as he picked up the coffee and took a sip. Satisfied, Chris dug into his breakfast.

Later, Chris and Justin, as always, carried the bulk of the interview. Chris, because he was totally incapable of keeping his mouth shut, unable to resist a chance to deliver a smart remark, and Justin, because he was lively and completely charming, and the interviewers always loved him. Lance pulled out of his quiet misery long enough to answer a couple of questions, his polite, professional smile on his face, the smile he gave everyone but them. JC stayed quiet unless directly addressed, but that was nothing out of the ordinary; he had always been content to let them carry the bulk of interviews, because he became flustered easily. Joey stayed as far from Chris as possible, mainly because Chris kept grinning at him maniacally, threat simmering just below the surface. Psychological warfare was the best, and Chris was a master of it.

In the van, JC squished himself in beside Chris, who had maneuvered the seating arrangements so he could sit beside Joey and terrorize him. It surprised him, because Lance was his usual seatmate, but Lance sat in the seats ahead of them with Justin, his face pressed to the cold window, eyes closed. Justin glanced back at them, and rolled his eyes. Chris glanced over at JC, who offered him a little Mona Lisa smile, then turned his attention to the scenery outside. Chris swallowed hard against the little flutter in his stomach, the odd dropping sensation JC's smile had given him, and wondered what to say. After a moment, he decided to say nothing, and spent half the trip tormenting Joey and the other half very aware of the warmth of JC's slim thigh pressed to his.

After they'd pulled up at the studio Lou had rented, Diane, with Lance in tow, pulled Chris aside. Chris swore to himself and listened respectfully, nodding occasionally as Diane spoke quietly about responsibility, about trust, all things Chris knew very well, probably more than Diane realized.

Behind Diane, Lance looked faintly pained and embarrassed, because hey, even as nice as Diane was about the whole thing, it still sucked to be called to the carpet by your mom in front of your friends. When Diane had finished, and pulled a promise from both of them to *think* about the consequences of their actions, Lance stepped around and said, "I'm really sorry, Chris. That won't happen again."

The tone of his voice was serious; Lance, for all that he liked to laugh and joke around, was serious about most things. He was a responsible sort, and Chris figured he hated that he'd drank too much and inconvenienced his friends, ending up so hung over that practice and the show would be hell. Lance's arm slid around his shoulder and gave him a hug, a little awkward, but still warm. Lance pressed his pinkened cheek to Chris' and whispered, "I'm really sorry for what happened. Didn't mean to put you on the spot."

Chris slipped an arm around him and patted him on the back. "‘s okay, Bass. We're good, here."

Relief flooded through him; he liked Lance, but he didn't *like* Lance, and he didn't want to hurt his feelings by turning him down.. "You wanna talk, I'm here, man."

Gratitude washed over Lance's face, and Chris knew that if he'd not been drunk, he'd probably never have known about Lance's...interest...in guys. Lance held important things close to the vest, and if the redness of his cheeks and ears were any indication, he felt terribly embarrassed about what he'd done.

"Thanks, Chris, really. And...I will, maybe. Later." He squeezed Chris hard a moment, then smiled and turned away. Chris watched him offer his arm to help his mother over icy patches, the very picture of a devoted son. He was a good kid, and he'd definitely talk with him later, because he had never had anyone to turn to when he'd discovered he liked boys, and he knew just how lonely it could be.

JC startled him as he laid a long hand on his shoulder. He jumped and half-turned, his hand curling reflexively into a fist, and JC smiled down at him, not much more than a bare curve of lips. Chris lowered his fist instantly, then shrugged at his response. JC didn't take offense; they all knew he'd never hit them, no matter how he threatened.

JC's sunglasses sat atop his head, and his blue-grey eyes were kind, and surprisingly perceptive. They all called JC a dork, a spazz, and he was, but he also knew more about each of them than they were completely comfortable with, stuff they'd never told him, but that he'd picked up by close observation. Mostly, they didn't mind what JC knew, because they also knew it was safe with him; JC held secrets closely and securely.

"C'mon, man," JC said, and squeezed his shoulder. "Marc's looking for you. It's no fun practicing without you to bitch at him." JC tilted his head and his smile pulled Chris into a circle of complicity. "He's wanting more backflips."

Chris grinned, and let himself slip into the comfortable, familiar place JC offered. "What a prick. I'm a singer, not a fucking cheerleader."

JC's eyes sparkled, and his smile grew larger. "I'm a doctor, dammit, not a mechanic," he said, his Dr. McCoy accent perfected from watching hours of Star Trek with Chris and Lance, while wrestling during the commercials.

"'He's dead, Jim,'" Chris replied, and JC laughed, the big, braying laugh Chris loved to hear, because it was real.

Chris looped his arm around JC's neck, noogied the top of his head through the wool cap, and pulled him, fighting and struggling and laughing, into the dance studio.

Two weeks passed in a blur of activity: endless practices, interviews, photo shoots, and concerts. Chris leaned his forehead against the cold window, feeling tired and worn and old. His knees ached dully. Outside it snowed, huge flakes spiraling down from a white sky. Snow lay thick and muffling over everything, and traffic had slowed to a bare crawl.

Behind him, he heard the ping of his Gameboy, the murmur of some German game show on tv, and Justin's voice rising and falling with JC as they argued about the latest book Justin's tutor had assigned. It was familiar and comforting, and somehow, claustrophobic. He rubbed his eyes, and JC's laugh washed over him, curiously comforting.

Chris had been surprised at the way JC acted after that night. JC didn't really act any differently; he wasn't awkward---well, any more than normal---and if he felt embarrassed, he didn't show it. Sometimes he sat closer to Chris, appropriating Lance's place with a smoothness Chris—who was straightforward to the point of rudeness---envied. It was as if he'd never slept with him, and Chris privately thought that the normalcy was pretty weird. They should've felt uncomfortable around one another, because in his experience, sex always changed things between friends, and usually, the change was for the worse, involving yelling and name-calling and bad feelings all around. Unless maybe, the friend was JC, because JC didn't seem to understand that he should act any differently.

He worked like a dog, without complaint, laughed at his own weird humor, wrestled with Chris when Chris jumped him. When they were too tired to go out, JC would sit with him in the quiet of the evening and talk about what he wanted to do with the group, where he saw them in five years. It was something Chris loved to do, because JC dreamed big, like Chris, and was willing to sacrifice blood and sweat and time to get where he wanted. In the smaller picture, he always brought Chris water when they practiced, worked extra time with Lance---Chris didn't have the patience---and made sure Chris didn't forget to eat when he was so tired he couldn't think anymore.

He was good to Chris, and with a start, Chris realized JC had always been good to him, had always looked out for him, had always been there, a steady, solid presence. It bothered him a little that he'd always noticed how attractive he found JC, but never how JC had always been there, quiet and unassuming and geeky, but there for him.

Chris turned from the window. Joey lay draped across one of the beds, concentrating on the game in his hands, long legs and huge feet dangling off the side of the bed. JC sat Indian style on the other bed, leaning forward, his face serious as he argued with Justin something about the way the author presented the story they were discussing. Chris had often wondered if JC hadn't joined them, if he might not now be in college, finishing out a degree. He knew JC had expressed an interest in architecture and engineering, but somehow, he couldn't see him laden down with calculators and slide rules and blueprints—he seemed more the arty type, than the practical one.

But he could see him as a literature or music major—maybe both, because under his spazziness, JC was surprisingly sharp and intelligent. Chris could almost see him with his bouncy curly hair, glasses perched on his nose, and a backpack slung over one shoulder; Chris had always found that type attractive during his college years. JC'd hang out in coffee shops, and discuss the merits of his favorite authors, the symbolism of some obscure object in the story, his hands in constant motion, the way they were now. Lou had bitched about that; he said it was too faggy for JC to wave his hands around, and in public, JC usually slipped them beneath his thighs if he was sitting, or stuck them in his pockets or behind his back if he was standing. Chris hated Lou for that, because although he hadn't shown it, Chris knew it had hurt JC's feelings.

"But it's *Beowulf*---it's...it's...old, dude. Like five thousand years old, old. I don't want to read it." Justin's voice rose in indignation, because really, how dare his tutor make him read something that he didn't want to read. Justin was generally a sweet kid, but he had moments of divatude, and Chris could see one coming. Time to puncture it before it inflated his curly little head.

"Its not five thousand years old, idiot. But it is a classic. It has heroes and monsters and honor and...." JC's hands waved through the air, indicating battles with said monsters.

"Think of it like a video game, kid," Joey added, his expression still intent on the Gameboy. "That might help."

"Nah, Chris said, unable to resist. "Infant doesn't want to read it because it's not a Babysitter's Club book, that's all."

"Hey!" Justin rose to one knee and threw the book at him, and Chris caught it easily, grinning. It was so easy sometimes to jerk Justin's chain, and he never missed an opportunity. "I told you, that was only the one time, and I didn't have anything else to read, and I was bored stupid. I don't read those---they're *girl* books."

Justin's cheeks flamed dark pink, and he slithered off the bed, sulking at the insult to his masulinity. JC grinned at Chris who winked at him, pleased with himself, then threw the pillow at Justin, who let out an outraged "Hey, dude!" bounced up from the floor, and flung himself on JC, who yelped and began giggling as Justin's fingers worked industriously over his ribs. They pitched off the bed and landed with what sounded like a painful thump, tickling and pummeling one another.

Chris stepped over them, hopping to avoid Justin's wild grab at the leg of his jeans, and made his way clear of them. Restless, Chris circled the room twice, avoiding JC's wildly flailing legs, and finally came to the table where Lance sat, earphones on, ignoring everything as he studied. Chris watched the math equations flow under his pen like water, smooth and effortless. Hell. Lance did his math homework in *ink.* Who did that? He'd teased Lance on more than one occasion about being a math geek, and Lance had been insulted; he was a math *and* science geek, thankyouverymuch, and Chris should remember that.

Chris had said nothing more about the kiss they'd shared, nor had Lance. He'd offered once to talk with Lance, but he'd just flushed bright red and said he wasn't ready, and Chris had let it go. He'd talk when he was ready. After a day or so of dancing around one another awkwardly, they'd gone back to their usual rhythms, fallen into their old patterns, which had relieved Chris to no end. Lance was still his favored sidekick, the one he loved to pull pranks with the best, because Lance had a quick, inventive mind and a surprisingly raunchy sense of humor beneath the surface politeness.

He'd seen Lance and JC together at the dance studio, talking in a shadowy hallway, heads close together, bright and dark. Lance's face lifted to JC's, hopeful and yearning, offering himself for a kiss, probably for more, and Chris felt something tighten in his chest. For a moment he'd thought JC had forgotten about his warning to leave Lance alone until he was legal, but then he saw it wasn't like that at all. JC's expression was gentle and kind, but it said in no uncertain terms, 'no' even from where Chris stood, peeking out from a barely-opened door. When JC ran a thumb across Lance's high cheekbone and then stepped away, Chris ducked back inside the room and closed the door silently behind him, relieved, but still unsettled in some way he couldn't quite pin down.

Across the room, Joey had gotten pulled into the wrestling match, and his weird, high giggle mingled with JC's odd laugh and Justin's bright raucous one. Chris watched a moment, amused, and when he turned back, he looked directly into Lance's translucent, pale green eyes.

"Hey, Bass," he said, and Lance tugged off his earphones. Twangy music sounded tiny and tinny before Lance clicked off the tape player. Garth, naturally. Chris wondered if he should be disturbed that he could recognize most of Lance's music easily by now.

"Hey, Kirkpatrick," Lance replied, and his mouth curved into a casual, lopsided smile. "Bored? Restless?"

Chris grunted. Joey had gotten the upper hand, but Chris knew it was only temporary, as Justin and JC ganged up on him and brought him down, rubbing his head into the carpet as he howled.

"I'm thinkin', Maw, we should take the chilluns out and roll 'em around in the snow to cool 'em off. Just so we don't haveta pay for this here cheap furniture."

Lance blinked at him. "Why, sure, Paw," he said, thickening his accent until Chris could barely understand him, "I'm a thinkin' you might be right, there. Lemme get mah shawl and boots, and we'll git on outside."

Chris grinned, and then flinched as Lance whistled very loudly between his teeth. Like dogs, the three in the pile looked up, flushed and rumpled and bright-eyed, and Chris couldn't help but laugh at the sight. After Chris suggested going outside, Justin, who seldom got to see snow, much less playfight in it, chivvied them into their boots and outerwear, and they raced out to the park Chris had seen just a few blocks away.

Chris turned, laughing at Justin and Lance, running away bearing Joey's jeans like a banner, and Joey, in only his long johns, howling in indignation, and caught a huge snowball right in the face. Shocked, he blinked icy wetness out of his eyes long enough to see JC whirl and take off in the opposite direction, his barking laughter trailing behind him. Chris dashed the snow out of his face, dug it from around the collar of his coat, and took out after JC with an "oh, you're *so* gonna pay for that, you bitch!"

JC had long, long legs, and ran like the wind flowing over the land; under normal circumstances, Chris knew he had no hope of catching him. But the snow evened the field, so to speak; JC couldn't build up a lot of speed, alternately plowing through and leaping into the drifts like a deer. All Chris had to do was to follow in the path JC cleared.

He caught up to JC behind a copse of trees, flinging himself on top of him as JC struggled in a deep drift. JC yelled as they went down, Chris clinging with arms and legs as JC tried to buck him off. He rubbed JC's face in the snow and pummeled him for good measure, certain that JC's heavy down coat kept him from feeling his punches.

He finally took mercy on JC, who alternated between laughing and swearing vengeance, voice muffled by snow, and rolled off him, the snow crunching and groaning beneath him. JC flopped over, gasping for breath, face red from cold and Chris scrubbing it in the snow, one sharp cheekbone scraped raw, snow caked in his hair and eyebrows and eyelashes. He lay for a moment, then swished his arms and legs in big arcs, making a snow angel. Chris snorted; it was a girly thing to do; JC and Heather probably did it every year. Never mind he'd taught his own sisters the same thing---that was different, because he still didn't go around doing it.

Above him, black branches frosted with snow lay stark against the pale sky. It had stopped snowing earlier, but it felt as if it would start again at any time; the air held that peculiar stillness that promised more snow. He listened to JC swish around in the snow, listened to him breathe, listened to Justin and Lance whooping in the distance, with Joey swearing at them to give back his fucking pants *now.*

Chris turned his head slightly. JC finally lay still, arms and legs outflung; he looked happy and relaxed, his mouth curved up, and Chris could hear him humming, almost soundlessly. JC had so much music inside him that it had to escape somehow; he always hummed or sang softly beneath his breath, except when tension or worry throttled him. Chris rolled up to his knees and cocked his head slightly, studying JC, in his snow angel outline.

"All you need is a halo," Chris said, and his mouth quirked up into a grin.

"That right?" JC's face squinched into a full-face smile, and Chris wasn't certain what rolled over him, through him, but it felt needy and strong, stronger and more powerful than he was. His body moved before his thoughts, and he dropped down over JC, his mittened hands crunching in the snow either side of JC's shoulders, his knees on either side of JC's slim hips. The fronts of their coats, caked in snow, brushed against one another.

The big smile faded into something less bright, but no less brilliant, a secret smile. His eyes widened, and they were so very blue, as blue as the sky in October, all the grey washed away. Really blue...really...beautiful. Chris swallowed hard as the feeling swept over him sweet and warm, like honey, and he wanted—--he *needed*---to see if JC had that same taste.

"Chris?" JC's voice floated up to him, a whisper in a puff of white vapor.

JC's lips were cold, but when Chris licked past them, past hard slick teeth, JC's mouth was hot and wet and welcoming. Chris felt the sigh well up from deep within him. This felt so good, and he didn't want to stop. He dug an arm behind JC's neck, ignoring the cold snow sliding up his sleeve, and pulled JC closer. JC's gloved hands slid up his arms, and wound around his shoulders, tugging him down, pulling Chris against him. JC's body felt hard and hot beneath his, and Chris grew warmer with wanting the closer he pressed to JC.

He felt JC's breath, hot and moist, against his cheek. JC's tongue slid along his, wet and slick and wicked, and dipped deep within his mouth, aggressive, skillful. Chris loved it, loved JC's unabashed enjoyment, the low sounds rumbling in his chest, the hands pushing off his hood, pushing away his cap to knot in his hair and guide him to a better angle. He loved how JC's long legs wrapped around his, and urged him closer.

The world tipped and spun, and Chris found himself pressed into the snow, JC on top of him, legs still wrapped around him. And that was good too...Chris didn't mind the switch in position as long as JC kept kissing him, because, damn. It was hot, and JC seemed to know just how much aggression Chris liked, how wet and deep to make his kisses. Heat spiraled from his mouth to his chest, unspooling and flowing down to pool between his legs, and he rocked up against JC, pushing his hard dick into JC's lower belly, but they were wrapped in too much material for him to feel JC hard against him.

Then JC pushed away from him, and Chris said, "no, no, don't stop..." his arm tightening around JC's neck to keep him from pulling away. But JC pulled his hands from Chris' hair and planted them in the snow, pushing up until he forced Chris to let go of him.

JC's mouth looked red and wet, and Chris wanted to suck on his lower lip. "What? What?"

Color ran up JC's throat, chased over his cheeks. "I. I'm not." He looked away from Chris for a moment. His eyelashes were long and spiky with melted snow. Chris watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, then looked back down at Chris. "I'm not Lance," he said softly. "I won't be a substitute. That's not. It's not respectful to either of us."

Chris blinked up at him, dumbfounded; where had that come from? "Lance? What the hell? I think I fucking know who I'm with, C."

"Maybe today," JC said, and when he pushed away again, Chris let him go, surprised at the spiky hurtful feeling in his chest.

Chris watched him gain his feet, straighten his wool cap, brush the snow from his coat and gloves. He purposefully didn't look at Chris, and the spiky feeling swelled and grew. "What, you think just because I kissed him that I was using you?"

JC leveled a look at him, eyes dark, chin lifting in challenge. "You weren't?"

"Shit, C, I knew *exactly* whose dick was in my mouth, you asshole." The words were purposefully crude, and Chris felt a flush of acid satisfaction at the color that rose in JC's cheeks. "And I'm not sure I could say the same thing about you. I was *not* the only one kissing him, man." Chris pulled himself to his feet, his normal bounce hindered by the snow. "'Cause, dude, from my point of view, you were using me like you say I was using you. Don't be getting all righteous with me."

That brought JC's head up, made his eyes flash darkly. "I'm not all righteous. I was drunk and lonely and horny. It was wrong, for lots of reasons. I know that. But I. But you." He paused, and took a deep breath. "You were never...."

JC shut up, pressing his lips together tightly, as if that were the only thing that would keep his words inside. He turned abruptly, and it would've been a fucking good exit if he didn't have to flounder through the snow; it kinda ruined the drama, Chris thought. He let JC get halfway across the park before sprinting after him, running in the path JC left in the snow.

He tugged at JC, who ignored him, but Chris had the tenacity of a terrier, and wouldn't let go until JC swung around, eyes flashing dark and angry. He gave Chris a hard push to the center of his chest, and Chris staggered and went down, eyes wide with surprise. JC stood over him a moment, hands clenching and unclenching, and Chris lay there in shock, snow working down the back of his coat.

"What the fuck, C?" He expected that---or actually, worse---of any of the rest of them, but never from JC, who was peculiarly non-violent. He'd play with the rest of them, mock slaps and punches, but he never meant any of it. He wasn't capable of physically hurting anyone; it simply wasn't in him.

"Just...let it go, Chris. Leave me alone." JC's chin lifted, and then he turned and continued floundering through the snow.

And if JC wasn't capable of violence, Chris wasn't capable of leaving things alone he didn't understand or that had pissed him off. At the moment, what he felt was a combination of both things, and he didn't like it.

Chris picked himself up again and followed, determined. "Hey, you shit...you can't do that and just walk away. I ought to kick your skinny ass all over Germany for that. What were you gonna say? I was never what? What? You know I won't leave you alone until you tell me, so you might as well just give up now."

JC turned around and Chris danced back, out of reach of his long arms, unwilling to let JC push him down again. But he slipped, flailed for balance, and went down again. Some things were entirely unfair, he fumed as he lay there.

JC's gloved hands made slashing arcs in the air. "You are the most...infuriating man, like ever. You can *never* shut up and leave things alone. You're...you're...."

"Tenacious," Chris supplied helpfully. "Obstinate. Stubborn."

"Mule-headed," JC said, and pointed at him. "That. Exactly."

"I guess it's better than being the other end of the mule," Chris said, and if he hadn't been looking at JC's flushed face, he'd have missed the quirk of JC's wide mouth.

"That too," JC said. He sighed, and rubbed his hand over his face, wincing at the patch of raw skin on his cheekbone. But Chris knew he'd won; JC could never stay mad more than a few minutes---it was simply a matter of waiting him out.

"You're a fuckhead," JC said, and then held out his hand.

Chris took it and they levered him up to his feet. JC moved around him, and brushed snow roughly from his coat, quick angry swats. One swat landed on the back of his head, and Chris decided to let it go as an attempt to brush the snow from his hair. It was less annoying that way, and didn't require retaliation.

"You've said that before, so it's not like a new insult, dude. So you know I'm gonna bug the hell outta you. Give up and tell me what I wanna know. I was never...." Chris made a winding up gesture with his hand, indicating JC should quit being a dickhead and spit out what he'd started to say.

JC looked away again, and Chris followed his gaze. Joey had regained his pants, and Justin and Lance were following him, still mocking him, hooting with laughter. They were both covered in snow, as if Joey had rolled them in it while fighting.

"You were never a substitute, Chris," JC said, so softly that Chris had to listen closely to hear. "It was always you."

And then Justin threw himself on Chris with a flying tackle and as he went down into the snow yet *again,* he saw JC turn and walk back toward the hotel, with a red-faced Joey beside him. He started to say something, to stop him, and then Justin started shoveling snow down his coat, laughing like a crazy man.

Lance had pulled off his gloves and slid cold, cold hands up beneath his coat and shirts, long fingers dancing over his naked belly, his eyes bright and wicked. It took several minutes and countless snowballs before he managed to escape from them. He left them with Justin sitting on Lance, who howled in protest as Justin packed snow down his shirts.

Either Joey or JC had thought to tell Wesley where they were, and when Wesley showed up, scowling at either the inconvenience of having to track them down, or at the cold, Chris took off, knowing it would be okay to leave Justin and Lance there. Chris jogged back to the hotel, hands and feet numb, his breath a cold white cloud around him.

Once he got back to the hotel, the snow in his hair and down his clothes started to melt, and he practically squished as he dashed up the stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator. On their own floor, he passed Fritz, who was chatting up a fairly pretty girl in a maid's uniform. Evidently whatever Fritz said worked, because with a merry laugh, she went into his room. Chris wished he'd caught Fritz' line, because it must've been good; Fritz wasn't the best looking of guys, paunchy and balding, and if he could pick up, it must've been good. Chris knew he could use all the help he could get.

It was JC's turn to have the single; they'd worked out this elaborate rotation schedule that was probably a lot more complicated than it needed to be. Bass had taken one look at it and hooted with laughter at Joey's diagrams, complete with stick figures of a guy and a girl fucking when it was Joey's turn at the single, JC sleeping at his turn, and Chris jerking off when it was his time. He'd offered to make them a more concise schedule, but Joey's worked, and Chris knew you didn't fuck with schedules when they worked okay.

There. Down at the very end of the hallway, room 634. He stood for a moment, catching his breath, running his hand through his wet hair. A polite knock on the door brought a resounding lack of response. Chris knocked harder. Still no response. Fuck it, Chris thought, and pounded on the door harder, and yelled, "Open this door, you pissy bitch. I'm not leaving until you do, so haul your ass over here and unlock the door."

Still no answer. Chris scowled at the door and pounded harder. JC hadn't been back long enough to settle into a deep sleep, and so Chris knew JC ignored him. It pissed him off; he hated to be ignored. Most of his behavior was geared to keep anyone anywhere from ignoring him or taking him for granted.

"Sein dort falsch?"

Chris jumped, clutching his chest, and turned his head. A man peered from a room halfway down the hall, looking a little concerned. He offered up a cheerful smile and his mind sifted quickly through the language to come up with a suitable excuse. "Ja ist es fein. Ich vergaß meinen Schlüssel und mein...um...Zimmergenosse muß schlafen."

"Benötigen Sie den Manager?"

"Kein, es sein fein, danken Sie," Chris replied quickly with a wave of his hand. He leaned in closer to the door, the smile still plastered to his face, and said, his voice sweetly lilting, "JC, if you don't get your ass outta bed, I'm gonna be arrested here, and Lou will have us sleeping in the van from now on."

He heard the muffled sound of JC's feet stomping through the room, and then the locks snapped open. JC flung the door open, and said, "What? What? What the fuck do you want?" He wore only a pair of jeans, the top button undone. They hung low, exposing a slice of pale hip, and the front strained around his erection. Chris jerked his eyes upward, past the flush that began on JC's bare chest, up his throat, and into his cheeks, where it bloomed scarlet.

Chris stuck his foot in the opening to keep JC from slamming it again, because JC looked seriously pissed. His face was bright with annoyance, and his eyes fairly snapped.

"You just can't say something like that and then walk away," Chris said. He waited a moment, and when JC didn't say anything, said, in case JC had forgotten, "In the park. What you said."

"I know what I said," JC snapped, and rolled his eyes like he thought Chris was stupid. And really, Chris thought, irritation prickling down his spine and stomping around in his stomach, that was just the absolutely wrong thing to do, because he hated anyone to think him stupid. When he was a kid, they'd always equated his poverty with stupidity, and it had never failed to enrage him. He reined in the feeling before it swamped him, and made him do something really stupid that he'd be sure to regret later.

"Let me in. I don't wanna talk about this in the hallway."

"I'm not in the hallway," JC replied with such reasonableness that Chris clenched his fists to keep from strangling him. "And I don't think I wanna talk about anything right now. Fuck off."

He tried to close the door, and it caught on Chris' foot. Chris yelled, not because it actually hurt---his boots were too big and clunky to allow actual injury---but simply in outrage because JC had tried to slam it.

"You shit! I've gotta dance with these feet!" With every word his volume grew and his voice climbed in register until it hit notes Chris himself hadn't been aware he could reach. JC rolled his eyes and opened the door, grabbed his coat, and pulled him in. Chris grunted as JC pushed him against the wall and slammed the door with his foot.

"You make me crazy," JC said, and shook him by the coat. The back of Chris' head hit the wall, and he opened his mouth to protest, but then JC pressed close, his breath warm across Chris' face. "You're nuts, and you're gonna make me the same way."

The anger that had bubbled up in Chris' chest, red and hot, took a sudden dive downward, pooling between his legs, because JC. JC. JC was half naked, and this close, Chris could almost feel the heat radiating from him, could smell musk and sex and sweat on his skin. JC's mouth was soft and wet looking, and he wanted to kiss it, to slick his tongue along JC's teeth, to taste JC's flavor and heat.

"Yeah," Chris breathed, and tipped his head back. Need bubbled through him, and whether it was right or wrong, he wanted JC, wanted to touch, to kiss, to fuck. And from the hunger in JC's eyes, the way JC's gaze flicked to his mouth when he licked his lips, to his exposed throat, he knew JC wanted him just as much. "Yeah, I will. We'll both be crazy, okay?"

His hands reached out, stroked along the soft skin at JC's waist, just above the waistband of his jeans. Sliding his fingers inward, he smoothed a fingertip around the shallow indention of JC's navel. His skin was soft and smooth and felt hot against his hand, and muscles rippled beneath his touch. "You were jerking off, weren't you? Touching yourself, right?"

He knew he was right---JC's skin had the flush of sex, and he smelled like it, like Chris smelled when he jerked off. It excited him, to think of JC naked, of JC's hands moving over himself, of his hard muscular body arching up into his touch, of the breathy sounds he made when he stroked himself. It made his blood rush hotly, and sweat prickled at the small of his back, at his hairline, on his upper lip.

JC leaned in closer, and his tongue flicked over Chris' mouth, over the sweat on his upper lip. "Yeah," he replied, his breath warm and moist over Chris' skin. "I was. And guess who I was thinkin' about."

"Yeah?" Chris rose a little on his toes, offering his mouth, but JC skimmed over his lips, nuzzled at the skin behind his ear, into his damp hair. He shivered when he felt the warm wetness of JC's tongue on his earlobe. Heat swirled through him, burning away the cold he'd felt only moments before. "Joey?"

JC bit his neck and sucked gently, and Chris' fingers tightened on JC's bare waist as a moan escaped him. "Try again," JC breathed into his ear.

Chris felt his cold toes curl in his heavy boots. "Tell me it's not fucking Timberlake," he gasped, as JC slid a long thigh between his own, and pressed into him. Chris lost his train of thought when JC rocked slightly against him, and his fingers curled into the waistband of JC's jeans, pulling him closer. He could feel the heat of JC's skin even through his shirt and sweater.

"God no," JC said, and tipped his head to kiss the soft skin beneath his chin. "That would be like...like thinking of Tyler, and just, no. Never."

"Good," Chris said breathlessly, as JC's fingers, long and cool, slid under his clothes. He shivered and his belly clenched hard as JC stroked over his skin, working upward. "'Cause I'd have...oh," he said, as JC brushed over a nipple, and the sweet ache zoomed down his belly and into his already throbbing dick, "oh, yeah...to like, kick your ass for that."

JC's hand spread out over his chest, thumb rubbing against his nipple, thigh rocking against his groin, and Chris felt thoughts skittering away, like birds startled into flight. He felt JC's dick, long and hard, against his hip, and Chris' fingers slid over JC's hips and over the slight, tight curve of ass, squeezing tightly, pulling him in closely. JC hummed against the skin of his throat, and Chris' eyes closed when he felt the sharpness of JC's teeth. Oh, fuck, *yeah,* he liked that.

He gathered his scattered thoughts, almost impossible when most of them were centered on *more* and *harder* and *wanna be naked now.* "Lance?"

JC's chuckle against his skin tickled, and Chris squirmed against him. "Sometimes. But not now." JC licked up his neck, and blew gently on the wet skin. "You. Just you."

Chris shivered again, and started to slide to his knees. He wanted to press his mouth to JC's belly, to lick into his navel, to unzip his jeans and burrow into musky, sweaty hair, to take JC into his mouth, feel his hardness against his tongue. He wanted to taste him, to lick and suck until JC came in a hot, salty rush. He remembered how good it had been, and wanted it again, wanted it so much he ached with it.

But JC jerked his hands out from beneath Chris' sweater, and knotted in the lapels of his coat, stopping him. Muscles bunched in his lean arms, and he kept Chris upright when all Chris wanted to do was to sink to his knees. "I