Copyright February 9, 2002-August 22, 2004 by Matthew Haldeman-Time

Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex

Pairing: Chris Kirkpatrick and/or Lance Bass and/or JC Chasez

Disclaimer: The young men who comprise *NSYNC are their own people.  The author has not met anyone here described, nor does the author mean to suggest that these people act this way in real life.  This writing is a work of fiction.  I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: Thank you, Diamond, for trusting me and sharing with me.

Notice: There's an interview on "Rosie" where Chris says that he's not afraid of anything.

        He was fucked up.

        That night, Chris realized that his primary focus wasn't the tour, wasn't the concert, wasn't work.  His primary focus was his personal drama.  For the first time in his life, the show wasn't overshadowing everything else.

        The second they hit the hotel, he pulled JC aside.  "Come to my room."

        "Okay," JC said, and glanced at something behind him.  Not something.  Someone.  Lance.

        JC went to his room with him.  He locked the door and paced, burning off nervous energy.  "I have to get my head back together.  I'm going to start fucking up more and more shit, and we can't afford that."

        "What can we do?" JC asked.

        "Make Lance straight again."

        "He never was straight," JC said to his back as he paced.

        "He can pretend," Chris said.

        "He shouldn't have to," JC said.

        "It's not hard," Chris said.

        "It's hurting you," JC said.

        "I'm not pretending!"  Chris faced JC, hoping that volume would get his point across.  "I'm straight!  I'm straight, I'm straight, I'm hetero-fucking-sexual!"

        JC just looked at him.  Like JC was waiting for something.

        "What?!" Chris demanded.

        "Why does it matter?" JC asked.

        "Why does what matter?  Everything matters!"

        "Why does it matter whether someone's considered to be gay, or straight or bi?" JC asked.  "Why does it matter what I call myself?  Why does it matter what label everyone else slaps on me?  The feelings I have, I'm going to have no matter what I consider myself to be.  Lance was attracted to men before, and he's attracted to men now, and he'll be attracted to men in the future.  Whether you thought in your head 'gay' or 'straight' when you looked at him, inside, he was having the same feelings.  You call yourself straight, but you've had sexual encounters with three different men in one month."

        "I don't - - that doesn't count!" Chris protested, knowing how ridiculous it sounded even as he was saying it.  "I don't want guys, I-"

        "But you have sex with them," JC said.

        "I told you, that guy, Mark, that was a test," Chris said.  "You don't count," he added.

        "What about Lance?" JC asked.

        "He tricked me," Chris said quickly, angrily.  "He seduced me.  He's a fucking whore playing fucking games, and-"

        "He's a whore?" JC asked.  "Because he had sex with his best friend?"

        "I'm not his best friend!" Chris shouted.

        "Doesn't that make you a whore, too?" JC asked.

        "He has sex with everybody!  Anybody with a dick is welcome to-"

        "That makes every woman you've had sex with a whore," JC said.  "That makes me a whore."

        "He's a whore because it doesn't fucking matter to him!  None of it matters!  It's all games and sex and sex games!"

        "How do you know it doesn't matter to him?" JC asked.

        Damn it, this was frustrating.  Chris couldn't believe no one ever understood anything he said.  "It doesn't," he said sharply, willing to explain just one final time if someone would just listen to him.  "He doesn't care about you, he doesn't love you, he doesn't care about me, it's just sex, he's using you, he-"

        "But how do you know that?" JC asked, like it was a reasonable question.

        "It's Lance!" Chris exclaimed.  "He uses people, he betrays them, he..."  God, it was all so damned clear in his head, why couldn't he put it into words?  "You don't know Lance," he finally said.

        "You're mad at him because he has meaningless sex," JC said.  "You think it doesn't matter to him who he has sex with."

        "It doesn't," Chris said.  He was irritated that they were still talking about it, but at least JC was finally grasping some of the basics.

        "Then it matters to you?" JC asked.  "Having sex with me, with Lance, that matters to you?"

        "He tricked me," Chris said.  "He fucking - - no, it doesn't matter, it doesn't count, it was a fucking trap."

        "If it was a trap, you didn't know it was," JC said.  "So while it was happening, it mattered to you."

        "No," Chris said firmly, immediately.  "I did it for you."

        "If it didn't matter to you, why should it matter to him?" JC asked.  "If you're having casual, meaningless sex, why can't he?"

        JC was getting everything confused, and now Chris's thoughts were jumbled, and nothing sounded right anymore.  "Shut up," Chris said, sitting on the foot of the bed.  "Give me a minute."

        "I can't make Lance straight," JC said.  "I don't want to make him straight.  He is who he is.  He's gay, Chris.  It's part of him, and I love him for it, and he shouldn't have to hide it."

        "You love him for it?" Chris repeated, disbelieving.  Hell, never mind, it was JC; JC was a freak.

        "I love him for being gay, just like I love him for being a man and having green eyes and having five fingers on each hand.  Being gay is part of who Lance is.  If he were straight, I wouldn't love him any less or any more.  If his blood type were B positive, I wouldn't love him any less or any more than I do now."  JC frowned.  "His-"

        "It's A," Chris said.  He didn't even have to think hard to remember that.  He knew everything about Lance.  Or, he had.  Before.  There was a large flaw in JC's theory, though.  It seemed pretty likely that JC wouldn't love Lance as much if Lance were straight.  Wouldn't be loving Lance with his dick, anyway.  Chris closed his eyes, dropping onto his back.  "I.  Hate.  Everything," he said in self-imposed darkness.

        The mattress shifted as JC sat down beside him.

        "How can you say that you love him?" Chris asked, eyes still closed.  "How can you trust him?"

        "He's Lance," JC said.

        Yeah.  Lance.  Not all that long ago, Chris would have understand what JC meant by that.  Would have said the same thing himself.  "It's Lance," he would have said, as though that explained it all, as though the very Lanceness of Lance summed up everything.  It was as simple as being three years old and believing that Santa Claus would manage to whip the elves into shape and get the reindeer moving and somehow bring presents to everybody, everywhere, all at once, simply by virtue of being Santa Claus.  It was self-explanatory.

        Chris had never really believed in Santa, though, and he didn't believe in Lance anymore, either.

        "Chris."  JC's fingertips grazed his hairline.  "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

        He could do whatever the hell he wanted.  Lance was doing whatever the hell Lance wanted, regardless of everyone and everything; why couldn't he?  Chris opened his eyes, sitting up and reaching for JC in one move, tumbling JC flat on the mattress, pinning him down.  "I'm going to make out with you until I'm so hard the soles of my feet hurt," Chris said, looking into JC's eyes.

        JC looked cautious.  "Are you sure?"

        Was he?  Chris checked.  "Yes," he decided.  He was sure, he was sure as hell.  He kissed JC's perfect mouth, determined to do what he wanted, take what he wanted, get out of life everything he could.

        It was good, it was dizzyingly insanely good, and Chris knew he should have started doing this years ago.  Kissing, slow and steady kissing, memorizing every inch of JC's mouth, making himself completely at home there.  Impossible to keep his hands to himself, touching JC wherever he could, stroking JC's back, JC's ass, JC's thighs.  JC's chest, JC's arms.  Through clothes, under clothes, on skin.  JC's body was tight, slender, muscular, hard.  JC's hair was soft, and tangling his fingers in JC's hair meant ruining JC's hairstyle, but JC would live to primp another day.

        They didn't crash around the bed, but they rolled in one direction, then in another, shifting against each other, sometimes on their sides, sometimes taking turns being on top.  JC's hands were all over him, not to get him off, but to learn, to explore, and Chris couldn't help but lean into JC's touch, into the intimate stroking of JC's hands.  He was hard, so hard the aching throb of it was becoming a constant he could almost ignore, like a bad toothace he'd learned to live with.  Achieving climax was less important than staying in this moment for the rest of his life.

        Kissing, nuzzling, and JC's stubble wasn't a turn-off, wasn't an irritation, it was hot.  It was hot, everything was hot, hot like JC's mouth on his neck, hot like JC's hips rocking subtly against his, hot like JC's quiet, drugged moans, hot like - - no, nothing was as arousing as JC's tongue in his ear.

        Hours, they'd been making out for hours when JC breathed his name and rubbed a hand on his dick through his cruelly tight jeans.  "Tell me what you want," JC whispered, tongue tracing the shell of his ear, dick hard against his thigh.

        He wanted JC to suck his dick.  No, he didn't.  He wanted to suck JC's dick.  No, he didn't.  He wanted Lance to suck his dick.  No, he didn't.  He wanted to watch Lance suck JC's dick.  No, he...  Well, maybe.

        He wanted to fuck Lance while Lance sucked JC's dick.

        He realized that he must have stopped kissing JC, because JC was looking into his eyes and stroking under his chin.  "What is it?" JC asked, concerned, curious.

        Chris felt very twitchy, but he also felt weirdly safe with JC.  JC didn't understand anything, but JC also didn't judge him for anything.  "You don't believe anything I say, do you?"

        "I believe that you believe everything you say," JC said.

        It was solidifying for the first time.  "You really think I'm..."

        "Gay," JC finished for him.  "I think you're either gay or bisexual, if you want labels."

        "I'm not a faggot, JC."

        "I didn't say that," JC said.  "I'd never say that.  You're the one investing in words like whore and faggot.  You're the one who's degrading Lance and degrading sex and degrading me." JC's tone was oddly soft, and he was making no move to pull away.  "I think you think you don't know Lance anymore, but that's only because you think he wasn't being honest in the first place.  If you were being honest the whole time, then he knows you as well as you thought you knew him.  He knows you better than anyone else does.  And he thinks you're gay."

        Lance.  The name sent a fast burn of hatred through Chris's system.  He was sick of that damned name and sick of that damned person, and he was going to take care of it tonight, immediately, now.  He twisted free of JC and got up, heading straight for the door.  He was ending the bullshit and ending the drama and ending the endless frustration.  Lance was hellbent on destroying Chris's life, so Chris was hellbent on getting Lance out of his life, once and for all.  He burst down the hallway, calling for Lance.  JC was right behind him, saying his name; Chris turned.  "Which room is he in?"

        "I don't think you-"

        "Which room is he in?!" Chris demanded.

        "I'm right here."  A door opened; Lance was rubbing a tired hand over his hair, dressed in boxer-briefs and a T-shirt, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed.  "What do you want?"

        Chris knew better than to have this scene in the hallway, at least, so he stormed Lance's room, pushing past Lance to get inside.  JC followed him in, and when Lance closed the door, the three of them were alone.

        Chris didn't want to do this in front of JC, but once Lance was gone he'd make JC understand.  Lance was turning on the lamp by the door, looking a little more awake and a lot more tense.  "What?" Lance asked tightly, crossing his arms over his chest.  "If you woke me up for more of your bullshit, you can save it and tell me in the morning."

        "Fuck you," Chris said.  "I want you out of my life, and if that means out of *NSYNC, then you're out."

        "That's not an option," JC said.

        "Chris-" Lance began.

        "I don't ever want to hear you say that again," JC said.  JC was looking seriously offended, almost wounded, and Chris felt bad for hurting JC's feelings, but JC was going to have to take one for the team.  "I mean it," JC said.  "That's fucking - - I don't ever want to hear it again.  I don't want to hear anything anybody leaving the group, I don't ever want to hear anything about faggots or whores or any of it.  You can say what you have to say without saying that."

        "That is what I have to say," Chris said.  "I want him gone."

        "Chris, I don't know how to explain this to you," Lance said.  "It's not your decision.  We're on tour right now.  We have contracts.  We have deals made.  Joey and Justin might want to have some input.  And I don't want to leave.  I'm not going anywhere.  You're going to have to learn to deal with me, one way or another."

        "You-"

        "Are you really so threatened by me that you're going to break up the group?" Lance asked.  "You'd risk everything we have, for that?"

        "Everything we have?" Chris repeated.  "There's no we!  There's no us!"

        "I meant the five of us," Lance snapped.

        "You're not one of us!" Chris shouted.

        "I'm not one of you?" he asked Chris.  "Because I'm gay?  JC's gay!  You're gay!  Joey and Justin are outnumbered, if-"

        "I'm not gay!" Chris shouted.  "How many times do I have to say it?!"

        "Until you stop wanting dick!" Lance shouted back.

        "I don't - - fuck it!  Fuck you!" Chris shouted, and pulled his fist back, slamming it forward and connecting with-

        Fuck!

        Fuckity fucking fucking fuck!  "Are you okay?" he asked JC, tugging on JC's elbows until, "Jesus."

        "Fuck," Lance said, getting a good look.  "Chris, get some-"

        He was already on the move.  "Yeah."

        "Put it-"

        "I got it," Chris snapped, taking the ice bucket over to the sink, running a washcloth under the tap.  It almost reminded him of before, when they'd been the perfect team, Lance's practicality and his life experience, Lance's business sense and his common sense.  Lance had been the first person in his life who'd realized that he actually did have common sense; he just refused to use it.  But that had been before.  They weren't the perfect team anymore.  They weren't the perfect anything anymore, except maybe the perfect enemies.

        Lance brought JC into the bathroom, pushing him down to sit on the closed toilet.  Chris handed JC the makeshift ice pack, crouching down in front of him beside Lance.  "I'm sorry," Chris said.  He couldn't believe he'd actually hit JC.  He felt like shit.  "It was a mistake, it was a huge fucking mistake, I'm sorry."

        "You wouldn't be apologizing if you'd hit Lance," JC said, pressing the washcloth below his left eye.

        Of course not.  He'd been trying to hit Lance.  He'd been aiming right for Lance.  But JC had stepped in, and Jesus, the cheekbone, of all places to hit JC.  Chris gingerly rubbed his knuckles, wishing that if he'd had to hit JC anywhere at all, it hadn't been in the face, and not one of those perfect cheekbones.  JC was so beautiful it was dangerous to look straight at him.

        He hadn't wanted to hit JC.  He'd wanted to hit Lance.  Lance, the filthy fucker who had one hand on JC's knee and the other hand on JC's shoulder, and was gazing at JC like-

        -like-

        Chris shoved Lance hard enough to knock him out of his crouch and onto the floor.  "Leave him alone!"

        Sprawled there on the floor, Lance looked at him like he'd gone completely off his rocker.  "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Lance asked, without even bothering to raise his voice.  "Did you forget to take your medication again?"

        "Fuck off," Chris snapped, fed up with dealing with the filthy fucker.  "Can I get you something?" he asked JC.  "A doctor?  Tylenol?  Back to my room?"

        "I'm staying here," JC said.

        Here?  With Lance?  No.  No!  JC was his!  His now, his finally, his forever.  "I'm sorry," Chris said, trying to say it with his eyes, his face, his entire body.  "I'm sorry, JC, it was an accident, it was a mistake."

        "You said that," Lance said, sitting up now, curling a hand around JC's calf.  "If you keep the ice on it, that should help," he told JC.  "We're going to have to put some make-up over it in the morning.  And we'll have to come up with a story for it."

        "Accident backstage?" JC suggested.

        "You fell in the bathtub and hit the soap dish," Lance said.  "You're just glad you didn't knock out any teeth.  If they push, we'll cover for you."

        It was really pretty fucking interesting, how easily and quickly Lance could come up with a lie like that.

        "Okay," JC said.  His elbows were on his knees, the washcloth still pressed to his face.  "I can say that.  I might look like a klutz, but I'll work it out."

        JC wasn't a klutz, JC was powerfully graceful.  Chris couldn't believe that now JC had to lie, to cover up for him.  Lies, there were lies everywhere, betrayal everywhere, too much of it to tolerate, so much he couldn't breathe.  But the truth, sometimes the truth was worse.  Sometimes, lies were better.  Easier.  Easier to face, easier to take, leaving everyone involved better off.  Ignorance was bliss.

        Because Chris knew the truth, knew about how JC had really been hurt, knew what Lance and JC did together, and he was fucking miserable.  He'd be happier if he didn't know.

        He'd be happier if it weren't true.  He had to make it untrue.  Somehow.  It didn't matter how, just somehow, in any way possible.

        "JC," he said.  "I want you to come back with me to my room."  Seduction, Lance used sex and seduction and manipulation; maybe he should do the same.  "We can finish what we started," he said, putting his hand on JC's upper arm, feeling the hardness of muscle through JC's sleeve.

        "You hit him, you're threatening to break up the group, and you really think that's attractive?" Lance asked.

        Chris loved JC more than Lance did.  He needed JC more than Lance did.  Lance could go find some other guy to fuck; Chris was going to be miserable with JC.  Lost without JC.  Loving JC, admiring and respecting JC, gave him a sense of purpose, a sense of stability.  When he had JC close, he felt a little less lost, a little more grounded, a little less afraid.

        He wasn't afraid of Lance.  He was afraid of losing JC.

        He was afraid of losing JC the way he'd lost Lance.

        Lance was lost.  Gone.  A traitor and a villain.  JC wasn't lost, not quite yet, and Chris was going to fight for this one.  Fight dirty if he had to.

        He hadn't fought for Lance.  He'd been too shocked, too betrayed, too horrified.  Lance wasn't worth fighting for, anyway.  JC was.  Chris squeezed JC's arm until JC looked at him.  "I love you," Chris said, blocking out Lance, focusing in on JC.  He could say anything to JC; JC was safe.  Terrifying, but safe.  "He'll never take care of you.  He'll never love you.  He'll never need you."

        "I'll also never lock you in a box and keep you from living your life," Lance said.  "Chris, are you seriously thinking that JC likes the idea of being locked up and protected and taken care of?  He wants to be out there, experiencing everything.  Have you ever met him?"

        "You'd be surprised how easy it is to think you know all about someone when you barely know him at all," Chris snapped.

        "You'd be surprised how easy it is to think you know yourself when really you're full of shit," Lance said dryly.  He rose, taking the washcloth from JC's hand, taking it to the sink for new ice.

        Chris seized the opportunity to shift directly in front of JC.  "Come with me," he said, trying to break through the new distrust in JC's eyes.  JC had always trusted him, always, and he didn't like this.  Lance, it was Lance's influence, Lance was fucking up every good thing in Chris's life.  "Come back to my room.  We can finish what we started.  We can talk.  I'm sorry, JC, let me make it up to you."

        Over Chris's shoulder, Lance handed JC the washcloth full of fresh ice.  "JC's staying here.  You can leave any time you want."

        "Maybe he should stay," JC said.

        "No," Lance said sharply, quickly.

        Lance had said no, and had meant it; Chris had to say yes.  But he hated the idea.  "Here?" he asked JC.

        "I think that being separated is going to make things worse," JC said.

        "I don't think that things can get much worse," Lance said.

        "The filthy fucker has a point," Chris said.  He'd barely gotten the words out when he heard, with too-controlled anger, "My name is Lance."

        "No," Chris said, pushing himself up to his feet, looking Lance in the eye.  "No, I hate you, and I hate your name, and I'm not - - my best friend was Lance, he was young and fun and brave and smart.  Now 'Lance' is this hot gay party guy hanging out with celebrities and getting laid all of the time."

        "You used to be fun, too," Lance said.  "Now you're just bitter.  But the part of me that hasn't given up hope yet still wants to be your friend, and maybe even lighten up some of that bitterness."

        "Friend?" Chris demanded.  "You don't want to be my friend, you want to suck my dick!"

        "You want to fuck me," Lance said.  "I think we're even."

        "I-"

        "Shut up," JC said, standing suddenly between them.  "Shut up," he repeated, looking right at Chris, glaring around his icepack.  "I'm not here for another round of this.  Chris, Lance isn't going anywhere.  He's not leaving.  He's staying right here, in the group, in our lives.  You're going to have to learn to deal with him.  I don't care how angry you are or how homophobic you want to be, you can't keep saying all of this shit.  We're all staying here tonight, because things will get worse if you have time off by yourself.  I'm taking this washcloth to bed, and I'm going to sleep."  JC walked out of the bathroom.

        Chris looked into Lance's eyes.

        A stranger stared back at him.

        Before, Chris would have made a comment about JC "taking this washcloth to bed," because that sounded ridiculously funny in retrospect, and Lance would have encouraged him with back-up and laughter, and he would have made another comment, because making fun of JC was way too easy to pass up, and Lance would have been laughing and joining in and sharing the moment with him.

        Things weren't like that anymore.  Never would be again.

        Lance followed JC.

        Chris wasn't staying.  He absolutely was not staying.  He wasn't staying in this room with JC and Lance; he wasn't sleeping in the same bed as Lance.  If he couldn't take JC back with him, then he'd go alone.

        He didn't want to leave JC behind in the enemy camp.  He didn't want to surrender JC to Lance's hands.  But JC wasn't budging, and he couldn't stay.  Chris exited the bathroom, intending to walk out.  He'd be alone, and afraid for JC, and hating everything, but he'd be safer there than here.

        JC was dropping back against the pillows, kicking his feet under the covers.  Lance, beside the bed, was stripping out of his shirt.  Like anyone wanted to see Lance's naked upper body.  Like anyone was remotely interested in, in, in any, any of, of that-

        Chris jerked himself around, his back to the rest of the room, facing the bathroom doorway, squeezing his eyes shut, curling his hands into tight fists.  He was breathing too hard, too loudly, too quickly.

        The soft low murmur of Lance's voice, intimate.  No words, just the sound of it.  Chris wanted to put his hands over his ears.  He was losing control, he had to get a grip, he had to - - one plus two was three plus four was seven plus five was twelve plus six was eighteen plus seven...

        ...plus thirty-eight was seven hundred forty-one.  Chris opened his eyes.  Better.  Under control.  He opened his hands and turned to face the bed.

        JC was on one side, naked to the waist, possibly further but the rest was under covers.  His hand was resting on Lance's hip, his eyes closed.  He was asleep, the washcloth under one cheek, probably soaking the pillow.

        Lance was on one side, propped on an elbow, facing JC.  Watching Chris with unreadable eyes, fingers stroking through JC's hair.  Lance was touching JC, but looking at him, and that was wrong, that was wrong, no one could touch JC and be that close to JC and be touched by JC, and pay attention to anyone else.

        If Chris left, JC would be alone with Lance.

        If he stayed, he could keep something from happening.  He could protect JC from Lance.  If he left, who knew what would happen tonight, or in the morning?

        Already barefoot, Chris climbed defiantly onto the bed, getting in behind JC.  He got in under the covers and wrapped his arm around JC's waist, pulling JC back against his body.  JC shifted against him, getting comfortable.  Not naked, wearing underwear.  Lance was, too, but Chris wasn't going to think about his hand brushing the soft cotton of Lance's boxer-briefs, warmed by Lance's body heat.  Chris held onto JC, lifting his head from the pillow to glare at Lance.

        "Grow up," Lance said, and got out of the bed.  Not naked, wearing underwear, a sight Chris had seen, by now, possibly a million times, but Chris didn't want to look, averted his gaze, looked down at JC's shoulder.  Maybe Lance was getting up to leave the room, but Chris highly doubted it.

        Darkness descended.

        Lance came back to the bed.  Rustling as he shifted, getting settled.  The light brush of fingertips across Chris's cheek, and Chris flinched, pulling back.  Lance chuckled, but it was that sarcastic chuckle, the one Chris absolutely fucking hated, because the old Lance, his Lance, had never sounded like that.  His Lance had been happy, because he'd been sure to make Lance happy.  Parties and celebrities and sex aside, Chris knew that, ounce for ounce, Lance had been happiest with him.

        Things had been different back then.  So different it hurt.

        "Sex doesn't count in the dark."

        Chris's arm tightened around JC.  He hadn't heard Lance right.  Lance hadn't said that.  Hadn't meant that.  It was...  It had been before, before, and Joey had said something about some girls only having sex in the dark, with no lights on, like if he didn't see them it didn't count.  Chris and Lance had kept it as a running joke for months, and Chris still thought of it sometimes.  And now, here, this room was dark, and Lance had said that, but it didn't mean...

        Shifting, rustling, and...

        ...and Lance was moving, and Lance was prying his arm from around JC, and...

        ...and he was so fucking hard...

        ...and Lance's mouth was so fucking wet, and so fucking hot, and so fucking good.  And Lance was moaning softly around his dick in that hot, low tone.  And Chris wanted to fuck Lance's mouth, come in Lance's mouth, come on Lance's gorgeous tanned skin, come in Lance's gorgeous tanned body, come and never stop because at least when they were fucking, they were together.

        Chris wakened, shuddering, sweating.  Jesus.  Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  He was, he, he hadn't...  Lance was asleep on JC's other side.  JC was asleep, too, shifting slightly in his arms to-

        Fuck.  He'd come in his pants.  He'd had a fucking wet dream and come in his pants.  Something was wrong, seriously wrong with him, he had to stop this.  And now his choices were: try to go back to sleep wearing cum-wet clothes, take off his pants and underwear and then face humiliation in the morning, or sneak out and go back to his room with no one the wiser.

        He was too old to be having wet dreams.  But it didn't mean anything.  Lance gave insanely good head, and his body knew that.  That was all.  That, and Lance was fucking with his mind.

        Chris sat up.  He'd leave.  Fine.  Let Lance have this round.  Let Lance wake up alone with JC.  Chris could lose the battle and still win the war.  He had to.  He had to.

        "Where are you going?"

        Chris froze, half-off the bed.  Lance was sitting up on JC's other side, and the room was dark but Chris knew the expression on Lance's face, knew the focus in Lance's eyes and the set of Lance's mouth that accompanied that tone of voice, because he knew Lance.  He'd known everything about Lance, once.

        But he didn't know everything, anymore.  Didn't know all of Lance's secrets anymore.  Didn't know all of Lance's thoughts anymore.  Couldn't predict Lance's reactions anymore.  So he tested.  "Sex doesn't count in the dark."

        Silence.

        Chris's eyes had adjusted well enough to the darkness that he could tell that Lance was looking at him, but Lance wasn't moving.  Lance was thinking.  Judging.  Calculating.  Chris was sitting up this time, awake, not going to fall asleep.  Whatever came next would be reality, not a dream.

        "If I suck your dick, you're going to use it against me in the morning.  If I don't do anything, you're still going to hate me.  I can't win, and I'm tired of playing games I can't win," Lance said.  "I'm not doing this with you anymore.  You won't even admit what it is you want.  You're trying to break up the group, you hit JC, you're starting to lose control."

        "I was aiming for you," Chris said.

        "Stop acting like a victim," Lance said.  "Stop crying to yourself about how betrayed you are.  You've done more to me than I've ever done to you.  You've rejected me, you've isolated me, you've done everything you can to make me feel like an outsider among my own best friends.  I've lost the best friend I ever had.  Now you want to take JC away from me, too."

        "He's not yours," Chris snapped.  He wasn't bothering to keep his voice down; JC could sleep through anything, and only wakened when he sensed that someone was deliberately trying to rouse him.

        "He's my lover," Lance said.  "He's my boyfriend.  We're in love with each other.  This is the first real relationship of my whole life.  I finally feel close to someone again, I finally feel good about myself again, I finally have someone I can share myself with, and you're trying to take that away from me."

        "You're using him for sex.  JC's too good for you."

        "I'm in love with him," Lance said furiously.  "You can go to hell."

        "I'm in hell!" exploded from Chris with painful intensity.  "It's hell watching you with him, it's hell watching him with you, it's hell knowing you want him, it's hell knowing you're fucking him, it's hell not-"  Chris wrenched himself into silence, wanting to punch Lance for making him say things he didn't want to say and feel things he'd never wanted to feel and admit things that shouldn't be true and shouldn't be faced.

        "It's hell not being with you," Lance said.  Maybe he was saying it for himself, or maybe he was finishing Chris's sentence.  Maybe both.  Maybe even though they were strangers and enemies, they still thought and felt the same things at the same times, just like before.

        Sex didn't count in the dark, but words did.  Chris had learned that with Lance a long time ago.  They'd play and tease and joke all day, but in the quiet, in the dark, that was when the truth came out.  Alone in the dark they'd had private conversations, secret conversations, honest conversations about everything that was right and everything that was wrong and everything that they wanted to be true.  Chris had never had conversations like that, honest and deep and real, and he'd never expected to have them in a hotel room in Germany with a teenaged boy at night.  But he'd learned about himself, and about Lance, and about life.  Words counted in the dark.  It was hell not being with Lance.

        A hell he couldn't stand any longer.

        "Why did the chicken cross the road?"  It was their joke, their old joke, laughed over in private, whispered in public, shared silently with a glance, a smirk, a roll of eyes.  If Lance answered him, if Lance didn't answer him-

        "To get away from Justin's crazy fans," Lance said.

        Hope blossomed within Chris, linked to the old, familiar ache of longing.  He wanted to get back what they'd once had, but that wasn't possible anymore.  Things were too different.  Lance wasn't Lance anymore.  Sure, Lance knew the lines, but this wasn't his Lance, this was new Lance, grown-up Lance, adult and confident and gay and in love with JC.

        Chris didn't know what he wanted.  There were things he just wasn't willing to do.  But he had to do something.  "We can't do this here."

        "Do what?" Lance asked.

        "I don't know.  Come on," Chris said, getting up from the bed.  He walked to the bathroom, and whene he stepped inside, Lance was right behind him.  In the dark, he closed the door.  No light, pitch black, and when he put his hands out Lance was there.  He found Lance's mouth, slipping in with his tongue, and Lance kissed back naturally, easily, like he'd been expecting this, which wasn't fair, because Chris was surprising himself.  Lance's skin was smooth like satin, warm under Chris's touch.  Lance was moving in against him, thigh pressing to thigh, hip pressing to hip, and the slide of Lance's tongue in his mouth, the intimate stiffness of Lance's nipple under his thumb, the quiet aching noises from Lance's throat couldn't distract Chris from the fact of Lance's dick stiffening against his hip.

        Chris couldn't believe that he was doing this.  He was frightened and exhilirated and so aroused that he wanted to devour Lance whole and alive.  The warmth of Lance's hand, the press of it against his lower back, made Chris unable to bear the thought of Lance not touching him.  Lance's other hand cupped his nape, fingers sliding up into his hair, and Chris found himself trying to wrap around Lance, trying to mate with Lance through kissing, trying to ensure permanency.  If this ever stopped, if this moment ever ended, if he ever had to stop kissing Lance and loosen his embrace and let Lance go, Chris's world would end.

        Lance was moaning, soft aching sounds that made Chris kiss him harder to get more.  Chris was backing him against the sink, almost bending him back over it, hands slipping up inside the legholes of his boxer-briefs to cup his ass.  Lance groaned, arching back until his head touched the mirror, and Chris's mouth went to his nipple, sucking on it, licking over it, teeth nipping gently.  Lance moaned, hands tightening on Chris's shoulders, blunt nails dragging across Chris's skin.  Lance was a moaner, a groaner, making low, sexual noises whenever anything felt good, and the constant sound of Lance in heat was doing lewd things to Chris's brain.  The sound of Lance being aroused was arousing Chris, and the hotter things got the more Chris lost himself to passion, to heat, to Lance's flushed sexuality.

        He kissed his way down Lance's chest, stroking Lance's ribcage with his hands, stroking Lance's navel with his tongue.  He cupped Lance's hips in his hands, and the barrier of cloth was unbearable; he tugged on Lance's underwear, going down on his knees, kissing the taut, naked flesh of Lance's thigh.  Lance was rubbing him behind one ear, sending shivers down his spine, making him moan, and he nuzzled-

        The light clicked on.

        Sex didn't count in the dark.

        In the harsh fluorescent lighting, Chris saw exactly what he was doing.  Reality, in the brilliant glare of light, was shocking, and he jerked back, falling onto his ass, horrified.  He'd been on his knees in front of Lance starting to pull down Lance's underwear with his mouth barely an inch from Lance's - - Chris dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, wanting to rid himself of taste, of memory, of truth.

        Lance straightened, stepping away from the sink, tugging his boxer-briefs up the rest of the way.  "How'd you wake up?" he asked JC.

        JC looked like he didn't know what to say, or what to think, or where to look.  He ran his hand through his hair, flustered, embarrassed.  "My pillow's wet and freezing.  The ice.  Melting.  You-"

        "It doesn't look that bad," Lance said, one hand cupping JC's face, inspecting.  Chris made himself look; there was a dark blur of bruising across JC's cheekbone, but it wasn't as bad as he'd expected.  "Make-up should cover most of it," Lance said.  "Come on, back to bed, we only have an hour of sleep left."

        "I'm sorry," JC said.  "I didn't know - - I wasn't thinking - - I was half-asleep and-"

        "It's okay," Lance said.  His thigh, firm muscle, tanned skin, slight dusting of hair - - Chris's mind couldn't stop replaying the moment, licking it, and his tongue remembered the feet of it, the faintly salty taste of it, wanted to do it again, and again, and again.  Too much he hadn't tried, too much left unfinished.

        Chris felt sick about what he'd done, physically nauseous, his mind rebelling against the very idea.  But the memory was fresh, and strong, and sweet, and more than perfect.  Making out with JC on his bed only hours ago, and burning heat with Lance right there only minutes ago - - they were completely different experiences, in mind and body.  And yet they were similar, similar in how right the moments had seemed, and how wrong it had felt to stop.  Similar in how erotic they'd been, and how different when compared to all previous experiences, all previous people.

        JC and Lance.  Everyone else, everyone he'd ever been with - - JC and Lance brought forth the strongest response, sexually and emotionally.  The heat, the passion, the force of his desire.

        But JC, JC was untouchable, not meant to be touched, only for looking.  He didn't want to soil JC's physical perfection, enigmatic sexuality, or creative genius with his pawing hands.  JC was too special, too beautiful, too out of human reach.  JC was supposed to be inaccessible.  Chris didn't want to ruin the myth with his own reality.

        And Lance.  Lance was...  Chris didn't know what Lance was anymore.  He didn't want to know, either.  He wanted Lance out of his life so he'd never have to think about it again.  Out of sight, out of mind.

        He was out of his mind.

        Lance was driving him out of his mind.

        JC was driving him out of his mind.  No one could be that amazing to look at or that bizarre to talk to or that overwhelmingly sexy, sex oozing from every pore, sex pulsing from every move.  JC was a unique blend of contradictions, and Chris couldn't look at him without wanting to put him in a museum somewhere for being that crazy.

        JC didn't even realize how unique he was.  He knew who he was, what he thought, what he wanted, what his motivations were; he just didn't realize the impact that he had on people.  That was a good thing, though; JC wouldn't have been JC if he'd realized how wildly stunning every single fucking thing about him was.

        JC was incredibly fascinating, even taking into account how badly he rambled when they let him.  Which they did sometimes, because they wouldn't have been very good friends if they'd cut him off every single time he spoke.  Chris and Lance had used to have JC conversations together, seeing how long and detailed they could make the simplest explanations.  Chris always won, mostly because Lance would be laughing too hard to keep up.

        Chris stood.  He noticed on his way up that Lance and JC were holding hands, or rather that JC's fingertips were stroking Lance's palm.  JC was looking at him, though, and he looked at JC right back.  "I'm sorry that I hit you."  He wanted it to be offiical that he hadn't intended it, and that he regretted it happening.

        "I know," JC said.  "It's okay."  He seemed to be entirely over it, making it a non-event, which eased Chris's guilt.  Chris wanted things between himself and Lance to be so bad that the other guys would ease Lance out of the group, but he also didn't want that to affect his friendships with the other guys, or the group's performance as a whole. Which, clearly, inevitably, it was doing.

        There was no way to get rid of Lance without damaging the group.  Excising an entire fifth of a whole didn't allow for a clean getaway; it was too much to lose.  For the good of the group as a whole, Lance had to stay.

        Besides, the fans might miss him or something.

        And that whole vocal harmony thing might be a little off without him.  They'd have to replace him, but what were the chances of finding anyone to fit their personalities, their musical styles, and their fans?  Besides, Lance was one of them, part of their history.

        Maybe he'd been harping on Lance leaving because it was impossible, because no matter how hard he fought and kicked it could never happen.  Maybe he wouldn't have been as quick to bring it up if there'd been any chance of it happening.

        Which meant...what?

        "You look like shit," JC said.  His free hand, the one that wasn't on Lance, rose slowly, the light pressure of JC's thumb passing down Chris's cheek.  JC was studying him, eyes focused, gaze careful but nonjudgmental.  "Come back to bed."

        Back to bed.  With JC.  And Lance.  Even though he'd just come from there, Chris couldn't really make his mind comprehend the idea.  JC was inviting him for sleep, not sex, but Chris couldn't imagine crawling into bed with JC and Lance without trying to get laid.

        He didn't know what was wrong with him.  It wasn't like, he wasn't, they didn't, he - - but JC was different, and Lance was a faggot dicksucking whore, and Mark had been just a test.  It wasn't like...  He didn't want guys, or anything.  He wanted JC, but didn't everybody?  That didn't mean anything.  He sure as hell hadn't wanted Mark, and he didn't want Lance, either, he just, it, he just, Lance gave great head.  And he'd proven with Mark that it didn't matter whose mouth he was fucking; a blowjob was a blowjob, regardless of gender.

        So.  He wanted sex with JC, but that wasn't his fault.  And his dick was interested in Lance, because Lance gave great head.  Everything made sense.  Everything was normal.  Nothing to worry about.

        JC was right; it was time for Chris to get his ass back in bed.  He was tired; he was exhausted.  Too much stress.  Too much bullshit.  Too much pressure.  He'd just collapse, and let everything else take care of itself for a while.

        Chris stepped past JC, going straight for the bed.  He stripped along the way, dropping his shirt, his jeans, his cum-stained underwear.  He climbed right under the covers and dropped down, closing his eyes.  God.  Life sucked.  He had this constant anger burning through his veins, he had fear screaming in the back of his skull, he had dread rolling through his stomach, and none of it ever went away.  It almost disappeared when he was making out or getting laid, because his body's other needs and drives took over.  But as soon as the sexual moment passed, the anger and fear and dread came raging back in, stronger than ever.

        An arm slid around Chris's waist and he tensed, opening his eyes as a lean male body pressed against his back.  It was JC, just JC, spooning up behind him, and Chris tried to relax.  JC's hand splayed across his stomach, chest against his back, thighs against his thighs, and JC was tight everywhere, hard everywhere, firm, muscular, masculine.  Not hard in the, where the, not hard there, just a little interested behind soft cotton snug up against Chris's ass.  JC kissed the back of his neck, a soft brush of soft lips, and then he felt JC's forehead rest against his shoulder.  He closed his eyes again.  He could accept this.  If JC wanted this, then he could do it.  It wasn't that bad, really.  Intimate, but nice, sort of making him feel supported.  Cared for?  Cared about.

        More shifting, rustling behind him.  Lance, he could assume, spooning up behind JC.  He could see it, in his head, how they looked, the three of them together.  Wrong, he thought, they had to look wrong, three guys in a bed, too many people, not enough women.

        Maybe it looked wrong, but it felt right.

        And with the tick of each passing second in JC's arms, the anger in his veins lost heat.

        Then he ran smack into bus time.  After one second of hesitation, he steeled his spine and hauled himself onto JC and Lance's bus.  He went to the lounge in the back and sat on the bed, kicking off his shoes, stretching onto his back.  God, what he wouldn't give for some solid hours of sleep.

        He heard voices, JC and Joey.  Joey was just there to get something; he left, and Lance arrived, and the bus was on the move.  Eyes closed, Chris listened to snippets of conversation punctuated by seemingly random noises as JC and Lance moved around the bus.

        Then, clearly, "I found him."  JC, sounding...interested.

        A pause.  Lance, careful, dry, "You did."

        "I always liked watching Chris sleep," JC said.  "It's the only time he ever holds still."

        "He's not asleep," Lance said.  "He's faking."

        "How can you tell?"  JC sounded surprised.

        "His toes aren't curled," Lance said.  "He curls his toes when he sleeps."

        "Doesn't that give him cramps?" JC asked.

        "Yes," Lance said.

        Chris curled his toes.

        JC laughed.

        The mattress dipped, and Chris opened his eyes just a slit, peering through his lashes.  Lance was sitting on the bed.  "What do you want?" Lance asked.

        Chris closed his eyes again.  "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

        Lance sighed.  "To get away from Justin's crazy fans.  Chr-"

        "Why don't chickens have any ears?"

        Hesitation.  "They used to, but they all ripped themselves off and ran away to escape JC's rambling."

        "Hey," JC said.

        "Why did the chicken pretend it was a statue?"

        Chuckle.  "Because Joey fucks anything that moves."

        JC laughed.

        Chris loved the sound of Lance's chuckle.  Low, kind of sexy, definitely special, because Lance didn't laugh at just anything.  And he loved the sound of JC's laughter, because it was always a little too hard and a beat too late.  JC always got the joke after everyone else did, and then laughed harder than anyone else had, but that was JC, with his own kind of timing, his own sense of humor and his own sense of style and his own sense of everything.  JC was a little off the mark in everything he did, which was what made him special, what made him fascinating, what made him JC.

        And Lance, his quiet chuckle, Lance was a little subdued, a little quieter, a little less.  Chris loved that, too, because everyone else was so much, so big and loud and flashy, that sometimes it all got to be too much.  But Lance did his own thing in his own time, and sometimes he was in the spotlight, and sometimes he was the flashy party boy, and sometimes he was the businessman, but he kept his own pace, kept his own counsel, and maybe slow and steady won the race, and maybe still waters ran deep, and maybe the quiet businessman and the hot gay party boy shouldn't have fit inside the same body, but Chris knew better.  Lance was deep, Lance was a labyrinth inside, and he'd figured that out way before anyone else had even suspected it.  Words counted in the dark.  And with Lance, a lot of truth came out without any words at all.

        Chris opened his eyes and Lance was there, right there, studying him, meeting his eyes with a calm, deliberate expression.  Quietly defensive.  Privately ready for an unexpected attack.  He couldn't blame Lance for that, since he'd been all about the attack lately.

        Chris sat up, pulling into himself, studying Lance in return.  Sex appeal was a strange thing.  An ephemeral thing, if that meant what he thought it meant.  JC and Lance were two of the sexiest people he knew, no contest, no question.  Holding a conversation with JC could be a sexual experience, and Lance, Lance was just fucking hot.  Looking at them, talking to them, watching them.  The way they concentrated, the way they talked, the way they smiled, the way they moved.  Sex, sex, sex.  But they were different as hell.  He couldn't even pinpoint exactly what made them that sexy, compared to everyone else.  Why was one calm look from Lance's eyes so fucking hot, when one look from Justin's eyes brought to mind, "I wonder when we're going to get to eat today?"

        Confidence was sexy, but Joey was confident.  A good body was sexy, but Justin had a great body.  What made JC and Lance so sexy Chris couldn't be in the same room with them without reacting to it?

        Maybe he was sexually attracted to them more than to other people because he was emotionally invested in them, too.

        He was emotionally invested in Justin, though.

        But not that way.  Not this way.  Not like...not like this.

        Chris swallowed.  "I think I'm going to be sick."

        "What's wrong?" JC asked.

        "Now I don't even have to touch you to make you throw up," Lance said.  "That's flattering."

        "What are you thinking?" JC asked, sitting on the foot of the bed, watching him with great attention.  JC looked concerned, but mostly focused, clear blue eyes looking into him, trying to understand.  Wanting to understand.

        "He's thinking he's trapped on a bus with gay guys and he's terrified of someone thinking he likes it," Lance said, and started to rise.  "Let me make it easier."

        "No."  Chris's arm shot out, hand latching onto Lance's wrist.  Flesh, bone, wrist, forearm, naked skin, lightly tanned skin, golden hair.  The hair on Lance's arm was sun-bleached, matching the bleached shade on Lance's head.  Lance's natural hair color was darker, like his roots, like the hair under his arms, the hair around his dick.  Lance's dick.  He'd had it in his hand, naked, hot, hard, wet with pre-cum, pulsing in his hand, and...

        Chris wanted to let go.  Pull back, or shove Lance away, or, or...

        He pulled Lance down again, pulled until Lance gave in and sat on the bed again.  Let go and didn't like it.  His hand was empty.  He wasn't touching Lance.  He didn't like not touching Lance.

        He couldn't stand touching Lance.  He couldn't stand not touching Lance.  He couldn't stand anyone but himself touching JC.  He was homophobic and jealous and confused, and he was starting to figure out what was wrong with him, and he was terrified of that knowledge, and he was terrified of himself, and he was starting to question every emotion he'd ever had.

        He had to talk to someone.  Someone who really knew him.  Someone he could trust.  Someone who would tell him the truth.  Someone he'd actually listen to.

        Someone who really knew him.  Lance.

        Someone he could trust.  JC.

        Someone who would tell him the truth.  Lance.

        Someone he'd actually listen to.  Chris looked at JC, and JC was still the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, which was strange, because that was supposed to be true of movie stars of Playboy bunnies, not his own best friend whom he'd personally seen shave his armpits.  Guys just didn't do that.  It had been oddly fascinating, too, because JC's underarms had suddenly been smooth, so smooth, like a woman's, only JC's arms were lean and hard with muscle, and Chris had sort of wanted to touch, but he couldn't just go around stroking other men's armpits, so he hadn't.  Joey had, only Joey had tickled, and JC had laughed and twisted away in a very graceful, sexual, fascinating motion...

        Chris looked at Lance.  Lance knew him better than anyone did.  Lance had learned, discovered, guessed, everything about him, years ago.  Lance had known him then, and Lance knew him now.  He hadn't changed.  Lance had changed.  Lance had grown up.

        Chris had never grown up.

        Maybe it was time to start.

        He was afraid.

        Lance had done it.  Lance hadn't seemed afraid at all.  Lance-

        No.  That wasn't true.  Lance had been scared.  He'd seen it, he'd known, Lance had been so scared it had shivered in the air, but Chris had been too worried about himself to spare a second to think of Lance.  Lance had fidgeted, and Lance never fidgeted.  Lance had been afraid to meet his eyes, nervous, tense, and Lance's voice had shook over the first few tries.

        Chris could remember thinking that whatever it was, it would be okay.  Whatever had Lance scared, they'd take care of it.  Even if it was big, and it had to be big, they'd find a way.  The two of them, the five of them, hell, he'd do it all by himself if he had to.  Except he wasn't alone, he was never alone anymore, he was never going to be alone again, because he had the four of them.  He had Lance.  And Lance had him.  And this had to be big, if Lance couldn't meet his eyes and didn't want to tell him about it, but he was eight years older than Lance was, right, so even if Lance couldn't handle it, he could.

        He'd told Lance most of that, that it would be okay, that unless there were five dead bodies stashed in Lance's suitcase it would be okay, that even if there were five dead bodies it depended on whose they were.  And they could always blame it on Joey, anyway.  He'd kept going, kept talking, and he'd ruffled Lance's hair, and Lance had finally given in and smiled, a real smile, an amused "you're absolutely crazy and I think it's great" smile, and things had calmed down.  Lance had calmed down.  Chris had tugged on Lance's shoelaces and watched Lance compose himself.  The fear was gone, then, and when their eyes met there was trust shimmering all through the green, and Lance had said...

        Lance had been scared, though.  Afraid of his reaction.  Afraid of his rejection.  And he'd proven the fear correct, proven the trust wrong.  Lance's original instinct had been correct, and he'd made Lance trust him, and he'd betrayed that trust.

        He'd betrayed Lance.

        Not the other way around.

        He'd been the traitor.  He'd been the bad friend.  He'd abused Lance's trust.  And then he'd acted betrayed, and horrified; he'd tried to turn the others against Lance; he'd been a complete asshole, over and over again, and never tried to hide any of it.

        Lance had been afraid.  But Lance had done it anyway.  He'd been rejected and betrayed and turned away, but he'd done it.  And he'd done it alone.  By himself.  What Chris had never had the courage to attempt, Lance had pushed through not only alone, but while facing outright, undisguised rejection, hatred, and scorn.  Lance had come out.  Lance had grown up.  Chris had never tried either one, and was fighting the very possibility of it, kicking and screaming.

        And now, here Lance was.  All grown up.  Mature, masculine, tanned, gorgeous, confident, fearless.

        Chris felt as unworthy of Lance's friendship as a dead, squished bug scraped off a windshield.  "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice sounded funny, sort of choked-sounding, but he didn't have time to clear his throat, he had to get the words out.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

        Lance didn't so much as blink.  "For what?"

        "For betraying you and yelling at you and ignoring you and rejecting you and hitting you and saying I wanted you out and telling the guys you're gay and acting like an asshole and stealing your socks and trying to take JC away from you and - - no, I don't know if I'm sorry for that, I still don't know how I feel about that, I want him for myself and I'm pissed as hell that you've touched him, but not because you're evil - - and I'm sorry for calling you names, I'm a bastard - - but because I'm jealous."

        "Jealous of me, or jealous of him?" Lance asked.

        "I don't know," Chris said, "don't make me think about that.  I can only handle five major revelations in one minute.  I'm sorry."  He took Lance's hand, squeezing it.  "I'm sorry," he said, with as much emphasis as he could, staring into Lance's eyes like he could make Lance understand by psychic transmission.  "I'm sorry, for everything."

        "No, you're not," Lance said.  He started to pull his hand free; Chris grabbed on with both hands, gripping tightly.  "Even if you are, you can't say 'I'm sorry' and have everything be okay again.  I don't even know what you want me to do."

        "Forgive me," Chris said.  He rose onto his knees and inched his way closer.  "Forgive me."  Lance was eyeing him with unveiled skepticism.  "Forgive me," Chris said, and holding Lance's hand wasn't enough.  He let go and wrapped both arms around Lance's shoulders, pressing his cheek to Lance's and closing his eyes, holding on tightly, aware of the desperate pounding of his own heart.  "Forgive me."

        Lance's arms circled his waist.  "Chris," he said, and his voice was uncertain.

        "I love you," Chris whispered.  God, god, Lance, "I miss you," and his voice was breaking, and his heart was breaking.  "I miss us.  I miss everything about us.  I hate that I ruined everything.  I want it back.  All of it.  Some of it.  A piece of it.  You."

        "You don't know what you're doing," Lance said, and Chris heard it in his voice, that he was giving in but trying to fight it.  "You don't know what you're saying."

        "I'm hugging you," Chris said.  "I'm asking you to forgive me.  I'm saying that I love you, and I miss you, and I want us to be us again."

        "You don't know what you want," Lance insisted.

        "Help me figure it out."  God, it felt good to be this close to Lance, it felt right.  Lance's chest was against his, Lance's arms around him strong and secure, Lance's cheek right against his, Lance close, intimate, his.

        All grown up and all for Chris.  He'd had that thought before, and it hadn't been true then, and it wasn't true now, but he wanted it to be.  Wanted, wanted, wanted it to be true, wanted a lot of things to be true, wanted Lance to be his, wanted Lance.  Chris turned his face against the soft skin of Lance's neck, tightening the circle of his arms around Lance's shoulders.

        "Chris," Lance said, his voice layers of soft, tense, scared.

        Chris's knee was digging into Lance's thigh, and that couldn't be comfortable, so Chris moved it, shifting, straddling Lance's body, in Lance's lap.

        This was good.

        "Chris," Lance said.  His voice was irritated, but it was fake; underneath, he was still tense, nervous, resistant.

        No, this was good.  This was so good, Chris felt like it was something he should have started doing long ago.

        "Fine, I forgive you," Lance said.  "Get off of me."

        Chris rubbed his forehead against Lance's neck.  Lance shivered; maybe his hair tickled.  "Do you really forgive me, or are you just saying that?" Chris asked.

        "Does it matter?" Lance asked.

        Chris gave that question some actual consideration.  "Yes."

        "I don't want to forgive you," Lance said.  "I'm furious with you.  But I can't help it, I forgive you."

        Chris was tempted to ask why, because he knew he didn't deserve to be forgiven, and that was awfully quick.  But if he asked why, Lance would have to explain, and explanation might lead to reconsideration, and Lance might take it back.  So Chris didn't ask; he just said, "Thank you."

        "Good," Lance said.  "Now get off of me."

        Lance meant it that time, and Chris was already on shaky ground, so he moved, letting go of Lance and sitting back in his previous spot beside Lance.  He wondered if hugging JC like would feel just as good.  But, no, he didn't have to wonder.  He knew.  Hugging Lance had felt like coming home.  Hugging JC would feel like bathing in sexual energy, drowning in sexual electricity, being enveloped by a million tiny jolts of sex! love! worship! desire! awe! wonder!

        He didn't know how JC made it through the day without being molested.  Or molesting himself.  How did JC live inside his own skin like that?

        "What do you want?" Lance asked.

        It wouldn't hurt if he touched a little.  Chris put his hand on JC's wrist, tugging lightly on JC's leather bracelet.  "Me?" he asked.  He hadn't been looking at Lance when Lance had asked the question, so it was conceivable that Lance was asking someone else.  Not likely.  But conceivable.

        "If you're not going to take this seriously, I'm not going to bother," Lance said.

        When did he ever take anything seriously?  But that wasn't a very good argument, was it?  It was time to grow up. Time to start taking things seriously.  "I want you to be my friend," he said.  He fiddled with JC's turquoise bracelet.  "I want JC.  I don't want to take JC away from you, I just don't want anyone but me to go near him.  Maybe you can borrow him on alternate Thursdays."  Fiddling with JC's bracelets was giving him time to look at JC's hand.  JC's weight was resting on his palm, fingers spread slightly on the mattress for balance, and it was making Chris want to lick JC's fingers.  Suck on JC's knuckles.  That had to be wrong.

        He was thinking, too, about JC and Lance on alternate Thursdays.  About Lance sucking JC's dick.  Lance's head in JC's lap, Lance's hand wrapped around JC's dick, Lance's mouth working that magic, JC moaning, wracked with pleasure, hand sliding down through Lance's hair.  About Lance fucking JC's body, their naked bodies moving together, muscles straining, sweat on flesh, Lance pushing JC through ecstasy, Lance's hard erection pounding into JC's perfect, tight ass, JC-

        It was unbearable.  It was too much.  Too hot.  He couldn't stand the thought of it taking place; he couldn't stand the thought of it not happening.  If he was Lance's friend (and he wanted to be), if he loved Lance (which he did), then he couldn't take that away from Lance. And if JC wanted it, he wouldn't deny JC anything.  But the idea of that happening, it made him hurt and fight somewhere deep inside, and he didn't understand why.

        Because he wanted JC all to himself?

        "You want me to be your friend, and JC to be your possession," Lance said.

        "I'm willing to share," Chris said, stroking the backs of JC's fingers.  "With you," he added.  "Sometimes."

        "You don't want Lance to be more than just a friend?" JC asked.

        Lance knew him.  Lance would know if he lied.  He trusted JC.  He didn't want to lie to JC.  "More like a friend I have sex with," he said.  JC had a really nice manicure.  His own nails didn't look nearly that good.

        "If you want me," JC said, "and you want Lance, and I want you, and I want Lance, then maybe it would be easier if we-"

        "No one's ready to go there," Lance said.

        "I am," JC said.

        "Chris isn't," Lance said, like it was certain and final.

        Chris was coming to some fast conclusions, and they were scaring the shit out of him.  His mind reeled away from the idea of, of, of that.  God, that?!  An open relationship, maybe, where they casually shared each other's beds for a while and maybe even hung out with other people.  A sort of understanding that between Chris and Lance, JC was communal property; and on nights JC was tired, they'd just screw each other.  Something like that.  Not, not, JC couldn't even mean that, it wasn't...it...

        JC's hand turned, fingers sliding between his.  "Chris."  Chris dragged his gaze up to meet JC's eyes.  "I'm ready."  Fine, but JC was bizarre anyway, JC's entire view of sex was skewed, and it didn't surprise him that JC was ready, but he was normal, and he wasn't ready, and he wasn't going to be ready, not ever, not for that.  Five major revelations in one minute was one thing, but this was too much.  "Are you ready?"

        No.  No.  No.  Not ready to commit to that, not ready to admit to that, not ready to accept anything like that into his life.  The word "gay" being applied to him was frightening, the idea of embarking on an actual relationship with JC was terrifying, and JC wanted him to do this?  Of all things?  He couldn't imagine ever having a relationship with JC and Lance, or ever having sex with JC and Lance, or ever - - he couldn't handle the idea of having sex or a relationship with one guy, and JC wanted him to try two?  At once?  No.  No way, not ever, not in this lifetime, not while he was Chris Kirkpatrick.  Maybe if he got reincarnated as, say, someone gay and open-minded and sexually ambitious and eager for emotional commitment, then he'd go for it.  But until then?  He was not gay and not open-minded and not sexually ambitious and not eager for emotional commitment.  After this conversation, he was determined to be straight and ready to be boring and prepared to die unloved and alone, thank you very freaking much.

        Except, well, he kind of wanted to be with JC.  Which required emotional commitment and sexual ambitiousness, all on its own.  And he kind of wanted to be Lance's best friend again, which required further emotional commitment.  And he kind of wanted JC and Lance to have sort of a chance to be together, too, under his strict supervision, since he was possessive and jealous.  And he also kind of wanted to get Lance into bed again.  So, putting all of that together, JC's idea seemed like a horrifyingly huge step, but also the perfect solution to his problem.

        "No," he said, "I'm not ready.  But I want it anyway.  And if I want to grow up, I have to..."  He hesitated.  JC's eyes were encouraging.  JC's hand squeezed his reassuringly.  "Growing up means facing what's hard and accepting life's challenges and becoming who you're going to be.  I've fucked up a lot of things.  I've denied a lot of things.  I don't know who I'm going to be, exactly, but if anyone can help me figure that out, it's the two of you."  He lowered his gaze to where his hand was linked with JC's.  "I love you," and he lifted his gaze again, to make sure JC got that.  "Not in the 'just friends' way, either, I mean I'm in love with you, the way you're in love with me.  I was full of bullshit every time I denied that, but you figured that out, didn't you?"

        JC smiled.  "Yes."

        He tried saying it again.  "I'm in love with you.  And I think," he forced it out, "I think I'm gay."  No, that wasn't right, that wasn't true.  "I am gay."  He closed his eyes.  Okay.  The world wasn't ending.  The bus wasn't crashing over the side of a cliff.  Lightning wasn't striking his bones, and large birds of prey weren't diving down to peck out his eyes.  Just to be sure, he opened his eyes again.  Everything was just as he'd left it, normal bus, the three of them on the bed together, Lance beside him, JC in front of him, JC's eyes such a clear blue he felt like he could see forever.  He got bold.  "I'm gay and I'm in love with Lance."  No crash, no lightning, no birds.  Just JC's smile, like JC was happy, like JC was proud of him, like JC was a little turned on by him saying that.  "I don't know how this happened," he admitted.  "I don't know how love ever happens."

        "It happens just like this," JC said, and kissed him.

        Oh.  Nice.  Chris opened his eyes, shivering a little.  "I'm not ready for this," he confessed.  "I wasn't ready to be a celebrity, either, and I wasn't ready to be a multi-millionaire, and I wasn't ready to perform live in front of thousands, occasionally millions, of people.  But that's all worked out all right.  I'm not ready for this, but I want it, and I can do it.  I want it," he repeated.  "And you've been quiet for way too long," he added, looking at Lance.  "You're over there thinking of reasons this won't work."

        "You're not ready," Lance said.

        "We just covered that," Chris said.

        "Yesterday, you threw up when I licked your ear."

        "I was drunk."

        "And homophobic."

        "I'm working on getting over that," Chris said.  "I think that more exposure to gay sex would help."  God, maybe he was drunk right now, too.  His mouth was operating without his brain's supervision.

        "Fine," Lance said.  "Get on your stomach and I'll fuck you."

        Chris tensed despite himself.  "You're trying to freak me out," he said.

        "It's working," Lance said.

        "I'm new at this," Chris said.  "Give me a break."

        "I'm not doing this," Lance said.  "I'm not going to have to worry about what I can do and what I can say and how you're going to react.  You're not ready for any of this."

        "You're not in love with me," Chris said.  It actually hadn't occurred to him.  He'd sort of vaguely assumed that since Lance was into guys, and they'd had sex, and there had been that thing in the bathroom last night, and they'd been close before, and with JC and everything...  But Lance wasn't in love with him.  Lance was in love with JC.  Maybe Lance wanted him, but maybe even that was more about sex than any actual romantic desires.  Because Lance had never said anything about being in love with him, never suggested, never hinted.

        Well.  That threw a wrench into his plans, didn't it?  So.  They could share JC, then, still.  Except he wanted Lance.  Damn it, he was in love with Lance, and if he had to share JC with Lance but not get Lance at all for himself, even a little, then...

        But even a little wouldn't be enough.  He'd want more.  He'd want all.  All of Lance, all of the time.  All of JC, all of the time.  There was no way to make that happen unless he had both of them at once.  Sexually, emotionally, chronologically.

        But Lance didn't want that.  Lance wanted JC's love.  The only thing Lance wanted from him was friendship, assuming that Lance wanted anything at all from him, which-

        "I'll give you head."  What?  What was he saying?!  He wasn't prepared to put, to, he couldn't, fuck!  The idea of it was giving him brain cramps.  But, oh, there had been that thing last night, where he'd been kneeling in front of Lance, and he'd been licking Lance's thigh, and he'd sort of nuzzled, um, and his, yeah.  If JC hadn't interrupted, God knew what he would've done.  Hell, he knew what he would've done, and it wasn't tap dance.  "I'll give you head," he said to Lance, and this time, his brain and his mouth were working together.  Lance thought he wasn't ready, but he was ready.  He was willing to try to be ready.  It didn't matter if he was ready for it or not, because he was going to make it happen.  "If you'll try to give me a chance, I'll try to be boyfriend material.  I'll give you head.  Whenever you want it.  Except on television."

        "You don't have to make promises to prove yourself," JC said, shooting Lance a look full of heat and reproval at once, which must have been hard to do.

        "You're really desperate," Lance said, leaning back on his elbows.  God, that was fucking hot.  Lance had this way of posing, lately, that was hot as hell, like he was waiting for someone to come along and lick him.  Chris considered volunteering.  "I'm surprised you can even think of putting your mouth on my dick."

        Chris was beginning to be surprised he'd ever not thought of it.

        "Chris is admitting a lot," JC said.  "This is hard for him to go through.  It was hard for you, too.  And I watched Chris reject you, I watched the two of you become strangers to each other, I saw all of the pain and all of the longing and all of the missed connections.  You've been tearing apart the group and tearing apart each other and tearing apart yourselves.  I know how much you love each other.  I know how much I love you.  I know there's a lot of anger and resentment and pain between you, but I know you can get past it.  You love each other so much I can see it every time I look at you."

        Chris glanced at Lance.  Lance turned red and looked away.

        "If you've been through this much pain, and you're still this much in love, I know you can make anything work."  JC's voice became firmer, his gaze going from earnest to deadly serious.  "I won't let you be apart again.  I don't think I could take it, and neither could you."

        Apart again?  No.  Chris couldn't go back to that.  Forward, they had to move forward, closer together.  He'd fucked things up badly, very badly, so badly he'd come within a breath of losing Lance for good, forever, irretrievably.  That couldn't happen again.  He was going to get Lance back, and keep Lance, for good.

        A touch at the back of Chris's neck, JC's fingers sliding into his hair.  Chris couldn't believe JC was this invested in his friendship with Lance.  Chris couldn't believe JC was this invested in him.  "I love you," JC murmured, lips brushing his cheek.  JC's fingertips ran along the rim of Chris's ear, which was very shivery-tingly-making, and he leaned closer, murmuring, "I wouldn't say no if you wanted to give me head."

        Chris kissed him, because he was too temptingly close, because he was rubbing his fingertips up Chris's nape, because the invitation to suck JC's dick was shockingly captivating.  "Okay," Chris whispered, and the lick of JC's tongue sent arousal surging through his body.  "How's right now?"

        He didn't actually get an answer, because suddenly Lance's hands were on his biceps, pulling him back, separating him from JC.  "You're going too fast," Lance said.

        "I thought you were pissed off because I wasn't far enough into this," Chris said.

        "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you're not ready for all of this," Lance said.  "You can't just dive into a three-person relationship without warning.  Sex is one thing, but don't start making commitments you're not ready for."

        "I know what I'm ready for," Chris said.  Time for the dramatic voice.  "You have no idea what I'm capable of."  Lance was right, he was trying to jump headfirst without even checking to see what he was landing in.  Caution would be wise.  Too bad he refused to use his own common sense.  Also too bad JC was the same way.  But he trusted Lance to look out for them.

        Lance did that smiling despite himself thing.  "You don't even know what you want," he said, but it sounded like he was giving in.

        He couldn't resist; he wrapped his arm around Lance, drawing Lance closer to his body.  "What do you want?" he asked, and he meant that a dozen different ways, but he trusted Lance to know that.

        "I want to tell you that I'm in love with you, without being worried that you'll throw it in my face," Lance said, his hand rubbing slowly up and down Chris's side with just the right pressure.

        Chris gazed into Lance's eyes.  He didn't know what to say.  No; for the first time in his life, he didn't want to say anything.  Lance was in love with him.  Lance wanted to be with him.  They could be friends again, close again, together again, only more this time, deeper, closer.  He wouldn't throw that in Lance's face, wouldn't throw it away, wouldn't throw it anywhere.  He'd keep it, treasure it, celebrate it.  Revel in it.  Revel, revel, revel.  He wanted Lance to revel, too, to feel safe with him, to trust him.  "No throwing," he said.  "I promise, if I ever throw anything, it won't be that."  His left arm still around Lance, he shifted his balance off of his right arm so he could raise his hand and touch Lance's face.  He stroked Lance's cheeks.  The dusting of hair on Lance's chin.  "I'd never throw anything in your face.  I love your face."  His fingertips traced the long arches of Lance's eyebrows.  The soft curves of Lance's mouth.  He loved Lance's eyes.  Lance's jaw.  Lance's Adam's apple.  Lance's neck.  Lance's, hmm.  Chris tilted his head to one side, leaning in, letting his eyes drift shut as he planted a kiss on Lance's neck.  Licked up a little.  Kissed right under Lance's jaw.  Licked over a little.  Kissed right beside Lance's voicebox.  Licked down a little, sucked gently, tried nibbling.  This was very nice, very good, and Lance had started to make soft anxious noises deep in his throat like he was being tortured in an unbelievably good way.  Chris liked that, wanted more of it, so he put his hand on Lance's fly, tugging down the zipper.

        Lance groaned, hot and deep and right in his ear, and then licked his ear, sucking on his earlobe, pushing him down onto his back.  God, Chris couldn't take that, that wasn't even close to, oh god, fair.  Lance was, no, no, no teeth, oh god, he shuddered, pushing his hand down the front of Lance's pants, moaning because it felt good and Lance's dick was hot in his hand and Lance was groaning in his ear and he'd never heard a sexier sound in his life.

        Lance was moving, shifting, more beside him than on top of him, relieving the pressure of his thigh against Chris's dick, but that was wrong, Chris liked that pressure, loved that pressure, wanted to shower that pressure with expensive gifts because it felt good and was giving him something to rock his hips up against, so he started to turn, his hips seeking Lance's body.

        But he was being held down, hands were pinning him down.  He opened his eyes just as JC's hands unbuttoned his fly, and he blinked, trying to change what he was seeing, sure that wasn't happening.  Lance kissed him, and he turned further into Lance's kiss, eyes closing, and he didn't need to see to know what was happening, because his fly was open, and his underwear was being pushed down, and his dick, god, his dick was in JC's hand, his, god, god, Jesus, his dick was in JC's mouth, and he squeezed harder than he'd meant to, and Lance groaned, kissing him harder.

        Steady, steady motion over his dick, steady suction from JC's incredible mouth, steady pumping of his hand over Lance's dick.  Lance was moaning, sharp and shocked on the downstroke, low and heavy on the upstroke, and the sound of it rolled thick and hot through Chris's veins.  It was impossible to focus on the wet suction of JC's mouth dragging ecstasy out through his dick, impossible to focus on the hard heat of Lance's dick in his fist, impossible to focus on the brutal, wicked slide of Lance's tongue in his mouth.  There were too many sensations at once, too much to feel, too much to accept, and he wanted to stop and take off some clothes - - his, Lance's, JC's - - so that he could get more skin against skin, but the naked heat of Lance's dick against the naked flesh of his palm was more than he could bear.

        Lance groaned his name, hand tightening in his hair, mouth dragging across his before finding that spot just beneath his jaw, hand sliding down his neck, down his chest, twisting his nipple.  He moaned at the shock of pleasure, panting by Lance's ear, pushing his free hand down through JC's hair, speeding his other hand on Lance's dick, pumping faster while JC sucked harder, and Lance was moaning his name in pornographic tones and pulling on his nipple and sucking over his pulse so hard he could feel his blood pounding faster, or maybe his heart was just racing from sheer sexual overload.

        Lance tensed against his body, teeth shockingly sharp against his skin, fingers twisting his nipple hard just as a hot, wet spurt shot over Chris's hand.  Lance groaned, shuddering, the sound of it racing down Chris's spine, the feel of Lance's shudder rolling through his own body.  Lance was coming, Lance was coming, and Chris moaned, knowing he was pulling JC's hair but unable to relax his hand, unable to relax his anything, too hard and too close and JC was, JC, Lance, JC's mouth close and wet around his dick, Lance's soft sated moans, JC's throat swallowing his dick, Lance's hand stroking his stomach, JC's, JC, oh, ah, ah, ah, ah!  Chris came hard, trying to lock his muscles so he wouldn't slam his dick down JC's throat, making ungodly moaning sounds from somewhere deep inside, feeling a wild whirlwind of ecstasy rip through his body, right through his brain.  God, god, god, god.  He couldn't even breathe.

        Chris blinked his eyes open, a little unsure.  Had that just happened?

        Lance gave him that small, amused smile, the one where the corners of his mouth twitched up slightly but there was a lot of humor shining in his eyes.  "You can let go now."

        Let go?

        Lance tapped the back of his hand, still smiling.  Chris looked down and, oh.  He released his grip on JC's hair, smoothing it a little in apology.  JC stroked his pelvic bone, which made him shiver, and then crawled up over him.  JC looked normal for someone who'd just given him fantastic head - - a little red on the mouth, but normal.  Chris wondered if he'd look that normal when he started giving head.  He wondered how soon would be too soon to start practicing.

        JC was sort of kneeling over him and sort of lying beside him, and didn't even seem concerned about the flexibility involved in that.  Chris took a long moment to check reality and make sure that he was actually sandwiched between JC and Lance, JC draped across his thigh and one hip, Lance pressed to his side and stroking his chest in soothing, heat-spreading patterns.

        JC's fingers drew a line down his neck.  "Did you know Lance is a biter?"

        "I'm not a biter," Lance said.

        "He bites down when he comes," JC said.

        "Really?" Chris asked.  He tapped on Lance's lips until they parted, and looked at Lance's teeth.  "Don't ever reach orgasm while you're giving me head."

        Lance gave him a dirty look.  "I'm not a biter."

        "He's a biter," JC said, running his hand down over Chris's thigh, rubbing in an extremely distracting way.  There was, oh, that was JC's hard-on digging into Chris's hip.  Chris looked at him; he looked pretty calm, watching his hand on Chris's thigh, fingers skirting dangerously close to interesting territory.

        "Did you want to get off?" Chris asked.

        "JC has two modes," Lance said.  "Aggressive and laidback.  If he wants it, he'll let you know."

        That sounded pretty much like JC's typical behavior.  When JC was on, he was on, and when he was relaxed, he was relaxed.  Chris wondered how to turn JC on, because he was very interested in the idea of JC being aggressive.  "Do you want to get naked?"

        JC met his eyes and smiled.  Chris couldn't look away from the blue of JC's eyes, but he was terribly aware of the hand sliding further down his thigh, pushing down his pants.  "Yes," JC said, and kissed him like he was a rich, ten-course meal and JC was very, very hungry.

        With the imprints of Lance's teeth on his neck, and JC's claw marks on his arms, Chris settled in comfortably against Lance.  JC was beautiful to hold, but too bony to make a good pillow.  Chris wrapped around Lance, Lance wrapping around him in return; JC spooned up behind him, yawning against the back of his neck, fingertips tracing the lines of his pelvis.

        Being on the road was one thing, but being on the road and having a lot of fantastic sex was something else entirely, and Chris was exhausted.  He was just falling asleep when something occurred to him.  He opened his eyes, so close his lashes brushed Lance's chest.  "We're going to have to tell Justin and Joey about this."

        "It would be a good idea," Lance said.

        "How badly are they going to freak?" Chris asked.

        "They'll be surprised," JC said, "but they'll understand."

        "They'll be shocked off their asses," Chris said, "and they'll freak."

        "They'll be surprised," JC said again, more firmly this time, "but they'll understand.  They know that Lance and I are together, and..."

        "And what?" Chris asked, waiting for the rest of it.

        "And they know you're gay," Lance said.

        "What?" Chris asked.  He would've sat up, but that would have required moving, and being tucked tightly between JC and Lance was too good.  His voice conveyed his shock well enough.

        "I told Justin," Lance said.

        "You what?!"  Okay, so he'd told Justin (and Joey, and JC) about Lance, and it was true, and it would spare him having to tell Justin himself, but - - "You what?"

        "You were passed out on his bus, and he wanted to know what was going on," JC said.  "Things have been tense lately, and-"

        "You've been acting crazy and throwing the whole tour off," Lance said.  "You threw a fit and changed buses and drank so much you passed out, and Justin wanted to know what the hell was wrong with you.  I told him.  We also told him you've had sex with both of us."

        "By now, he's told Joey," JC said.

        Chris didn't know how to react.  "How'd he take it?"

        "He didn't believe us at first," JC said.  "He was surprised.  He probably has a lot of questions."

        "Justin's going to be weird for a while, but he'll get over it," Lance said.  "Joey's going to be surprised, but he'll accept it, and in a few days he'll act like it's been this way forever."

        Yeah.  Joey was good like that.  Justin would be fine once Chris talked to him about it.  "We're three-fifths of the group," he realized.  "We have an alliance.  We can take over."

        "This isn't 'Survivor,'" Lance said.

        "We could run this group," he said.  "We have Joey and Justin outvoted.  We can make sure we get all of the solos.  We can make all decisions go in our favor.  We can-"

        "Go to sleep," Lance said.

        "We can control the future of *NSYNC," Chris said.  The possibilities?  Endless.  "We can get rid of those horrible silver outfits.  We can order Joey to stop fucking all of the dancers.  We can take the group in a whole new direction!  How do you feel about becoming a metal band?"

        JC leaned forward and kissed his cheek.  "Go to sleep," JC whispered.

        Chris closed his eyes.  Okay, no metal.  Punk?  He tried to picture JC with a mohawk.  Lance's fingers touched the spot that JC had kissed, then stroked down to his chin.  Lance's thumb rubbed along his jaw.  JC was warm all down his back.  "I love you," Lance whispered.