They got drunk on New Year's Eve and Joey kissed everyone, even their moms, and it was pretty damn funny. And later on, coming out of the bathroom, feeling drunk and floaty, because next year, next year, they were gonna head back to the States, and everything was great, everything was cool - Lance pulled him over and kissed him.

In the corridor, and the heat hadn't been turned up in the ratty apartment that belonged to one of Chris' punk friends, a pale German guy who got blitzed early on and passed out on his sofa, Chris sitting under him, patting his hair and laughing, so they all wore sweaters and Lance kept his coat on, Lance who was always too cold, Lance with his flushed face and bright green eyes. His mouth was beer-sour and rum-sweet and when Justin staggered against him, surprised by the heat of his tongue, Lance pulled back and smiled, a slow toothy smile. "Happy New Year, Just."

Then Justin realized his hands were on Lance's coat, clenched so tight that the collar was wrinkled even when he let go, stepped back with his mouth still wet and his heart still pounding. Lance grinned and Justin licked his lips, wondered if he would get kissed again and someone opened the door. Noise and light flooded in, someone shouldered past them on the way to the bathroom, and Justin's hand went automatically to his mouth, wiped it clean. Lance stopped smiling and said, awkwardly, "Joey, you know."

"Oh," Justin said. "Um. Happy New Year, Lance." They stood for another moment in the corridor, facing each other and then the guy walked back past them again and Lance clapped him on the shoulder, went back to the living room, left Justin in the corridor with his eyes shut, his knuckles pressed to his mouth hard enough that there were little moon-shaped marks the next morning. He couldn't remember how he got them.

After that, it was eight months before Lance kissed him again. They'd snuck out clubbing and in the cab back to the hotel, Lance leant over in the dark and kissed him. For a second, Justin was painfully aware of the driver's mirror, the cabby's eyes on them, and then Lance's hand slipped up his t-shirt, scorching hot on his stomach, and Justin closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

Ten dollars and eighty-five cents of Lance's tongue swirling in his mouth, Justin sliding down the vinyl seats, under Lance, legs tangled and hands over the curve of his back, the stiff, gelled spikes of his hair coming undone in his hands as they kissed, as Lance whispered "Baby, oh baby," and it sounded good. Sounded sexy and dirty in the back of a taxicab with the city outside and Lance grinding against him.

But then the cab stopped and Lance slid back, effortlessly, easily, as if he hadn't been whispering "wish you were on your knees, want to lick you, oh do that, do that again," and when he said "C'mon, the others'll be waiting," his voice sounded normal.

Chris and Joey were at the curb. Justin stopped in front of them. He could see Lance's back as he strode into the lobby, not looking back, just an easy fluid swing to his hips, his hair a little mussed. Justin swallowed and tugged his t-shirt down.

"Hey," Chris said. "You okay? Have a good time?"

"Yeah," he said. He wondered how dark the cab windows had been, if Lance did this to all the guys. "It was okay."

There was a third and a fourth and a fifth time, all when Lance was drunk and it was late. Justin took to sipping Cokes at the clubs just in case, so he could remember to say at the end of the evening, when they were splitting up to take cabs or later the limos back, "hey, I'll go with Lance, no prob."

They rehearsed their dances for hours and Lance would take off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, stretch and grin across the room at him. At photo-shoots, they would fool around, laughing for the cameras, and then freeze with fixed smiles. He would feel the print of Lance's hands on his skin for the rest of the day. The weight of him as he leaned against his back.

This doesn't mean anything, he told himself and signed up for the two-person bus with Lance because, "you snore, JC and someone's gotta keep Chris calm, Joey." In the mornings, Lance was the same as always. Hair stuck up in weird spikes and quiet, a sweet calm quiet that meant Justin could growl his way through breakfast, as grumpy as he wanted and Lance would just pour him more coffee, leave him alone with a smile. Sometimes, they'd get popcorn and hang out watching films while the others went clubbing, and Lance was good for that. No stupid comments, he'd be into the film and when he did speak, it was always interesting.

When he thought of Lance, he didn't think about the kisses, the wet open-mouthed kisses with tongue, the ones that made his spine curl, hot, heavy drugging kisses.

He thought of Lance asleep at night, on his bunk. He didn't always pull the curtains, and Justin who could never sleep after a concert, had to burn off his energy somehow - Justin who'd come crashing onto the bus from the other one where Chris, JC and Joey would still be making noise, Justin would stand there and watch him. Watch him breathe. His hair was soft without that gunk in it, the bleach had left it babyfine and soft.

It didn't mean anything, and it only happened because they were drunk.

Then in Orlando, Lance caught his wrists when he tried to shimmy across the backseat of the cab, and shook his head slightly. Frowned and said, "Justin, no."

"What. What," he said and his wrists hurt because Lance was squeezing them too hard, hurting him. He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn't think what to say and Lance rushed on, saying in brisk, clipped words, no accent, no drunken slur, "This isn't a good idea. I mean. We're just fooling around, right? You're wasted, Justin, you, you don't know what you're doing."

He'd had three orange juices and a coke. He felt like he was drunk, dizzy sick and about to throw up. "I do," he said. He didn't, he didn't know what he wanted, only that he kept watching Lance on stage, in rehearsal, all the time.

But Lance was shaking his head and saying, "No. It's not, it's not gonna be like this." and Justin didn't know what to say because this, this Lance would remember tomorrow morning. He'd thought that Lance didn't remember, that it had blurred, and that all the other times, when Lance had come down the next morning, just-Lance, the night before vanished and only Justin had known looking across the table at Lance drinking his coffee, that he'd been hard and silk-slippery in his jeans last night, that he'd tongued the curve of his ear, left a hickey on Justin's collarbone. Justin never bit, never left a mark that Lance might wonder at the next morning, and now. Now when Lance looked at him calmly in the back of the cab, repeating "It was a mistake," he thought he should've. Should've drawn blood, left a scar, something.

"Okay," he said and his voice was high and breathy. "Fine."

Lance let go and Justin tried to hit him, fingers curled into a fist, but just before his knuckles broke Lance's lip, his arm was caught again, twisted around so hard he had to bend with it, clenching his jaw in pain.

"You gonna hit me, Justin?"

"Fuck you." The streetlights were gold, the neon all the colours of gems. Ruby, sapphire, flash of emerald, all the colours sliding over Lance and when the limo slid to a silent stop, the shadows made his face sharper, hollowed cheeks and silver streaks in his hair. It had rained and the windows were dappled, the light shimmering in as if they were underwater, sound slowed down to thick, heavy sighs.

"No." Lance said sharply when Justin tried to touch him again. "Not anymore."

The next morning, he woke up with a headache and lay in bed until Chris came up and pulled the blankets off him and poured a cup of ice water over him. Joey gave him asprin and JC had made breakfast so it was edible for a change.

But Lance was sitting at the table, yawning and stretching because he'd just gotten out of bed too. "Lazy bastards," Chris said and sat Justin next to Lance.

Lance gave him a sleepy smile and passed him the sports section. He tried to read it but gave up when Lance started reading out quotes from yesterday's interview, laughing slow and deep. He pushed his plate away and leaned against Lance, bent over his shoulder to the words blurred black and white. His wrists throbbed and he was hard under his sweatpants. Lance didn't move but kept on reading.

"Heart-throb of the moment, Justin Timberlake-" and Lance turned his head just a little so they were inches apart. His breath was coffee-sweet and Justin would have bent his head, would have kissed him then and there except they were in the kitchen with the others, the sun shining through the windows and Lance's hair was gold, brilliant gold.

Something wrenched tight and painful in Justin's chest. He slipped his hand under the table, across Lance's knees, to the soft flannel V of his pyjamas, a hurried, desperate scramble that ended with Lance's thighs slamming together, his hand grabbing Justin's and twisting his fingers back.

"What?" Chris said impatiently. "Read the rest of it."

Lance stared at him for a moment, unsmiling. His eyes were flat dark green and he didn't blink. Justin stood up suddenly, rattling the table. "My head hurts, I'm going back to bed," he muttered and fled.

Up the stairs and there was an echo, a light one-step, two-step as familiar as all the dances they'd been practicing. He spun round on the landing and Lance bent gracefully, caught his hand and they were about to dance, a swirl to the left, kick with your leg, shimmy and glide, people, glide like you damn well mean it.

There was a thrumming where their hands met, a kind of electric current racing through his body, and he had time to think: this is what we sing about. This is what it feels like. Then Lance stepped onto the landing with him, still holding hands, still looking at him. They were so close Justin could lean into him, the same height this month, and if Justin moved, if he leaned into him, they'd be groin to groin, mouth to mouth. He could feel the heat from Lance's body radiating through him. The grooves of his fingerprints where Lance rubbed his thumb along the back of Justin's hand, the hand that was still hot with pain and the narrow bracelet of bruises from the night before. When Lance touched them, lightly, lightly, Justin's mouth opened and he leaned closer. Leaned helplessly, fell against Lance.

Whose hand caught him square in the chest. Inches apart and Lance's face was solemn and grave. He was beautiful, staggeringly beautiful. Justin couldn't breathe. The air was thick and wet, his lungs were burning because he couldn't breathe, Lance was so fucking beautiful.

"I love you," he said as Lance said "We have to talk."

"Come to my room," Lance said and stepped past him, not looking at him. He didn't let go of his hand though, and Justin held on tight as he stumbled after him.

Lance's room was at the end of the hall, the smallest room because Lance liked it that way. Everything was scattered, not like Chris' explosion of junk, but pushed into little heaps, tottering piles of CDs and magazines covering the floor. His bed was unmade and seemed to fill the room entirely.

He'd been in here before. When the others were out, not really touching because he wasn't that much of jerk, just looking. Sitting on the bed. Trying really hard to keep his hands on his knees.

They sat on the bed and Lance kept Justin's hand in his, spreading his fingers flat, rubbing their palms together in slow hard circles. Sometimes he would thread his fingers, paler because Lance did not tan well, always had to wear sunscreen, long pale fingers with manicured nails, the clear polish hard and smooth where his nails ran lightly over Justin's knuckles.

"This is, this has been my fault, Justin. I shouldn't have -" Lance paused and Justin could hear the rest of the sentence, a faint tinny echo in his head. Led me on, he wanted to finish for him, kissed me. Unzipped my pants and flicked your tongue over me, when you were drunk, when we were drunk and laughing, and the next morning, you leant against me through the meeting, your arm slung round my shoulders.

Justin kept his hands still and didn't try to kiss Lance. He didn't look at him while he whispered, "I thought you liked me."

"I do. I do. But, Justin, we've just been fooling around, you know? It doesn't mean anything."

There was a heavy, hollow feeling in his stomach. He swallowed and his throat hurt. "Why do we have to stop?"

"It's just -" Lance sighed and turned his hand around so they were both palm-up, nestled together with Justin's fingers bent round his. "We'll end up doing something stupid and get caught, and Lou will kick my ass. It's not worth it."

"I love you," he said and there was no pause in the words, no hesitation because they were true. He loved Lance utterly. "Of course it's worth it."

"Jay, you don't love me. This is, this is just us messing about, you know?"

"I love you," Justin repeated and clung onto Lance's hand, dug his fingers in so he wouldn't let go. "I need you. The rest of it doesn't matter."

"You're sixteen, Justin. You've got no idea what you're talking about."

Lance pulled his hand free and stood up. He was breathing heavily, rubbing his hands roughly against his thighs, looking away from Justin. "You've got no idea what you're talking about," he said. This time, his voice trailed off at the end, and his hands curled into fists.

"I wanna be with you, Lance."

"Jesus. You ever been with a guy, Justin? Your parents know you might like boys? I don't think so. This is a stupid idea. It was a mistake, and fuck it, stop looking at me like that!"

Justin blinked and wiped his eyes. "I wanna be with you," he said and tried to touch Lance's shoulder, to still the trembling. "Please."

A mistake, a mistake he knew when his head hit the wall with a teeth-jarring slam. When Lance yanked down his sweatpants and ground against him, bent and bit the arch of neck and shoulder, a hard vicious bite that bled into the painful pleasure of Lance's hips thrusting roughly against him. "This is what you want, huh?" Lance asked and pushed his chin up to lick his throat so any reply Justin could make was choked off. "You want me to fuck you, put you on your knees and fuck you. You even know what that is, what it might feel like, Justin?" And his voice was a low rumble against Justin's ear when he said "No, you don't. You don't know jack about this."

Then the door opened behind him and Lance shoved him out. He stumbled and picked himself up in time to see Lance in the doorway, flushed and snarling, Lance so angry he wasn't Lance, wasn't his Lance but some stranger who slammed the door shut and had left toothmarks on his collarbone, bruises on his wrists.

Four days later they opened for Janet Jackson. Lance stopped speaking to him, and Chris didn't say anything. Chris who was always in their faces, always asking questions. Just looked at him sometimes and made sure he got home okay. Re-arranged the bus schedules so Lance and Justin would never be on the same bus together.

They went clubbing after concerts, and Lance never went in the limo with him, never danced with him, touched, kissed him. Justin got drunk and tried to yell at him, but ended up throwing up over JC.

Joey took him back to the bus, made him coffee and sat on the edge of the bunk, waiting patiently until Justin had stopped crying. He hated this, the messy jags of tears and snot and gulping to breathe because everything would knot up, dark and angry inside him.

"You want more coffee?" Justin shook his head. "Okay. I'm gonna tell you some stuff and you're not to tell JC because he'll bust me for it." Joey patted him absently through the blankets. "Maybe it'll help you get over this."

"I love him, Joey."

"I know. I know. Okay. You know how we called your vocal coach when Jason quit and he said Lance would make a good bass? Not technically true. Um. There was some stuff going on, down there, with Lance and he had to leave pretty fast. Problems with his parents. Anyway, he knew JC from way back, and he called him, wanted to crash at his flat for a while, get a job here. So JC told Lou, Lance auditioned, and he got the job."

Justin sorted through this in his head. He knew the interview drill, the way they had to chime in with their quick 'n' easy bio's. His mom was supposed to have come up with the name for god's sake. "I don't get it," he said, frowning. "Why's this a secret? Why can't I know?"

Joey grinned at him, and he knew he sounded like a brat, but still. JC was always doing that back on the set, keeping him out of trouble but not letting him in on the real stuff. "Yeah well, Lou thought getting kicked out of home for being gay might not go down so good with the girls."

"Oh. Okay. I get that. But, I mean. It still doesn't make sense, Joe." Then Joey's hands were smoothing back his hair and he was a feverish kid again, being soothed by his mom. He shouldn't have drunk so much. Maybe he'd get it then. Why Lance wouldn't look at him, why Lance was so angry with him.

"This is something I'm telling you once, okay? And you're not gonna tell JC or Lance I told you." He nodded and Joey sighed. "Fuck. Okay. This is a big thing for Lance, the band. I mean, it's a big thing for all of us, but even if there wasn't a band, we'd be doing other stuff. I'd be acting, you and JC would be singing somewhere else. Chris, fuck knows what he'd be doing, but he'd be cool. For Lance, it's more than that. It's really important to him. He doesn't want to risk it."

"Even for me?" Justin kept very very still as if he could halt the answer, halt the pain of what he knew Joey would say.

"Yeah, kid. Even you. He's given up a lot to be here." Something flitted across Joey's face, a split-second and if Justin hadn't been desperately watching, desperately hoping, he wouldn't have noticed.

"What?" he said. "What is it? You're not telling me something. What is it?"

Joey looked at him for a while before he answered slowly. "You're underage, Justin. JC's always been watching out for you, and that's good. There wasn't anyone watching out for Lance. The job's cost him a lot, okay?"

"Lou?" he said and he could barely hear himself.

"It was a long time ago." Joey didn't look at him when he said this. "It's over. Give Lance a break, okay?"

Joey pulled the curtain across his bunk and Justin lay in the dark, listening to his footsteps, the soft shush of the bus door closing. Listening to his own panicked breathing.

Three months went by, and he slept with Britney and a bunch of other girls, and there was a roadie who wore cut-off jeans and faded t-shirts, who helped fit his headset on and gave him a blowjob backstage during soundcheck. Paul was dark and muscled, and when they kissed afterwards, he tasted of Justin and nothing else.

He stopped flinching when Lou patted him on the shoulder.

Lance started talking to him again, about where they were going for lunch, stupid gossip, and they even watched a couple of films together. With the others around. They went out and Justin would have a beer. Chris taught him how to play pool and Lance was useless at it, drunk most nights and laughing as he missed the balls.

Lance, Lance with the hot wet kisses and breathy drawl, Lance at night, silver and strange, that Lance slowly faded. Sometimes he thought he didn't remember what the kisses had been like.

He turned seventeen and they had a quiet party. Lance gave him a sweatshirt that was a little too big, but an amazing shade of green, and really soft. He wore it a lot, then Lance started sleeping with Joey, and he stopped.

"Don't, don't do this, Lance." His voice was loud, and he knew he was whispering, but in the still of the room, above the silent slow stripping of Lance's clothes - shoes pushed off, and now his jeans coming down, his skin glowing in the faint light of the bedside lamp - Justin could only close his eyes and softly say, "Please. Don't."

But Lance said his name again and touched his face with cold, trembling hands, touched him hesitantly and when Justin looked, Lance's eyes were huge and glittering. They were frozen, Justin stretched out on his bed where he'd been napping, worn out from a day of publicity, strange food and everything too small, too cute, too Japanese, and Lance, Lance leaning over him with alcohol on his breath and naked, utterly naked. Not moving, his hand on the pillow, against Justin's face. If he turned, he could press his mouth against that palm, breathe in the smell of Lance, the heady dark scent of cigarette smoke and aftershave, musk and pepper.

Lance who'd knocked on his door and when he shouted "It's unlocked", opened it quietly and leaned against it, saying nothing but staring at him.

Justin had opened his mouth to speak, because wasn't he going out with the others, sampling Tokyo nightlife? That had been hours ago, he realized belatedly, the alarm clock blinking "3:24 AM" at him.

"Lance?" he said, surprised. Joey's room was down the hall, and this didn't hurt. It really didn't hurt. Lance'd fallen asleep on Joey's shoulder on the plane ride over, head slumped and the neck of his sweater pulled low. There was a hickey on his collarbone and Justin had looked at it for a long time, thinking "This doesn't hurt." It was a small, dark hickey, and he wondered if maybe it was a bruise, if it wasn't from Joey after all. Then the pilot announced they were landing, and Joey shook Lance awake gently, dropped a quick kiss on his forehead, and Lance smiled up at him with sleepy grace and Justin knew that the hickey was the shape of Joey's mouth.

"You know. I still love you."

Lance was drunk. This was clear from the way he swayed, broad hips and careful steps over to the bed. The way he tilted his head to the side, the way his hands rose and fluttered down again, as if he could pull the words he needed from the air, shape them from nothing.

"I can't bear not touching you. I think you're beautiful. You're so fucking gorgeous, it hurts to look at you, Justin." Lance was at the side of the bed, and Justin was awake, startled wide clear awake.

"Joey," he said. "Joey. Joey."

Lance shook his head, and closed his eyes, screwed them tight as though he had a terrible headache. Shook his head and when he opened them, he looked like he ached. Fever-bright eyes and flushed. "Just friends. Nothing more. I'm with him, and I think about you. I keep thinking about you."

Justin said nothing when Lance was naked and kneeling next to him, almost touching, almost kissing. He didn't say anything when Lance lay his head on the pillow and murmured, "I keep trying to cut it off and be friends and how do you do that? Do you miss me? Did you love me?" His breath was hot on Justin's ear, and he had one hand resting flat on Justin's chest, not moving, just there. A hand on his breastbone, over his heart.

"Was it, was it Lou, is that why you didn't want to be near me?"

And Justin could not bear it, could not bear the quiet pain. He turned and wrapped his arms around Lance, rocked him close, one hand cupping his head, the stiff spikes scrunching under his hand, the other hand rubbing slow sweeps across Lance's shoulders. "Sshhh," he said while Lance cried. Hot tears on his shoulder, soaking into the pillow. "Sshhh. I love you. Oh, Lance. Lance."

They kicked back the blankets and crawled under, pulled them up to their chins. Justin wiped Lance's face with his t-shirt and then took it off, wriggled out of his boxers so they were both naked. There was something strange, like the feeling right before a show, the nervous thrill of a Green Room, of backstage, in lying here, their hands joined and their feet touching, shyly, under the sheets.

"I love you," Lance said. Justin turned his head, pressed his mouth against Lance's hand, and kissed him there. Left a trail of kisses down Lance's arm, down his body. Then they were fitted together, heat and the silk-satin of skin on skin, the way Lance tasted. He had never forgotten, he had never ever forgotten the way Lance kissed, open and hungry, slow and sweet.

In the morning, he was afraid to wake Lance. He hadn't pulled the curtains the night before, and the city lights had sparkled, neon-green and bright pink. Half of Lance had been gold and shadows in the dim lamplight, and half had been silver and glitter from the window. He had been frighteningly beautiful.

Now he was handsome. His hair had loosened in the night, flopping down his forehead. He breathed evenly, little snuffles at the end of each breath. Justin propped himself up on his elbows and watched him sleep. Sunlight dappled on the bedsheets, and the room was warm and quiet.

"Hey," he said when Lance woke up. He waited.

"Hey you," Lance replied and brushed his hand over Justin's. "Good morning."

Justin untensed and took Lance's hand. "Yeah."

They hadn't done much the night before. Kissing, and touching, but it had been so damn good simply to touch after so long. To have Lance's hands run up and down his back. Twine their legs together and shift under the blankets so they were spooning. Breathing and licking and tasting and kissing. Endless, drug-deep kisses that broke off so one of them could whisper, "I missed you. Used to watch you get changed, when you weren't looking." so the other would smile in the semi-dark and say, "I have a photo of you in my wallet. The photoshoot in Michigan, remember?"

Now, when Lance slid his hand down Justin's side, rib to hip to flank of lean thighs, there was a sense of purpose. They didn't kiss, but lay with their heads on the pillows, looking at each other while below, under the covers, they touched.

Lance leaned closer so their foreheads knocked gently. "Oh fuck," he said. "Do that again." Justin's hands were slippery and he kept losing his grip, getting tangled in the damp curls and the smooth strength of Lance's thighs. The way the muscles there flexed and shifted beneath his skin when his hips bucked.

"Push back the sheets," he said hoarsely. They kicked, unable to let go even for a second, and then Lance looked down and shuddered, dug his fingers into Justin's hips, and came.

"God," he whispered afterwards. Justin grinned and Lance laughed and covered his mouth with one sticky hand. "Not you. You're good, but not you." Then Justin licked his palm, licked him clean, his tongue working between Lance's fingers, sucking them in and Lance whimpered.

"I'm gonna -" Lance rolled him over and two hands were holding Justin down, pinning him to the mattress which was good because Lance was sucking him and he was thrashing under that mouth. Raising his head to watch and being lost because Lance was looking at him, green eyes steady and calm while his mouth, his kiss-reddened mouth swallowed Justin's dick. Tongue running along the side, swirling at the tip and Justin threw his head back and panted.

Sticky afterglow, and Justin wanted to ask the hotel staff to not change the sheets the whole time he was here, just leave 'em messed up and damp, smelling of sex and Lance.

He buried his head against Lance, yawned and said, "Let's not go down. We'll have room service breakfast and the others can do the interviews."

"Hmmm?" Lance was tracing lazy spirals on his back. "What?"

"The interviews," Justin repeated patiently. "We got, oh fuck, magazines and a TV station in the morning, there's a record company lunch, meet and greets all afternoon. Why? What's wrong?"

Lance had pulled away, sitting up against the headboard and looking past him at the window. Squinting because the sun was coming through now, summer-early and strong. "Nothing," he said and then looked back at Justin and said, "Nothing. Just the schedule," and his voice wasn't cracking anymore, so Justin let it go. Let it go when Lance's hand stroked his hair, winding a curl round his finger. "You're beautiful," Lance said and Justin kissed him again, ignoring the strange tone in Lance's voice when he kissed back just as hungrily.

"Go shower," Lance said at last. "I'll get a change of clothes and steal breakfast from Chris' room for us, okay?"

When JC knocked on the door forty-five minutes later, and said, "Hey, you're late. We're all downstairs for the interview already," Justin was long dry, but still undressed.

"Is, uh, are Lance and Joey down there?" he managed.

"Yeah. Chris caught them necking in the elevator, so he's making me sit in between them the whole day." JC grinned. "You missed a good night last night. There was this really good club, and I met Shonen Knife."

"Yeah?" Justin said as he pulled on his jeans and fished a t-shirt out of his suitcase. "I should've gone."

JC was on a girl-kick and sleeping with their interpreter, a pretty woman with bleached hair and six inch platforms that made her just about reach JC's shoulder. She translated his answers first, and because Justin was so quiet - "headache," he mumbled and kept his shades on, drinking coffee and nodding when the others spoke - Justin was the last to be quizzed.

SuperGirl magazine, and the reporter was nice, the photographer didn't shoot blinding flashes off, everyone was friendly, and it was nice, really fucking nice.

"Okay! And she would like to know, Mr Timberlake, if you could describe your ideal girlfriend."

"She'd be someone honest," he answered. They had crib sheets for this, polled prepared answers from Lou's marketing people. He had about twenty adjectives he was meant to use. "Someone I could trust."

They waited for the rest of his answer. He sipped his coffee, and the interpreter smiled brightly and rattled on in Japanese. The journalist nodded and replied.

"Also! What would you describe your kisses like?" Joey guffawed, and Chris started making smooching noises. Justin always got these questions. Chris and JC had spent ten minutes trying to explain Riddle though, so fair enough.

"Um. Good. I hope. I like long kisses, you know? But not on a first date. I think it's better to wait, to get to know each other first."

"Oh!" She sounded surprised and Justin thought she might even clap her hands together, she was so damn happy. Might've been the way JC was looking at her, or maybe she was just unnaturally perky. Perky breasts and plastic smile, and he was suddenly, violently angry.

"But, you know what," he said leaning close, looking at her intently. From the corner of his eye, he could see Lance, Lance who he hadn't looked at, who had waved casually at him as he walked out of the elevator with JC, Lance who had been rough-housing with Joey all the way through the last three interviews, Lance's eyes, those wide green cat-eyes, widening and he knew he was going to say it.

"Lance is the best kisser in the group. When Lance kisses you, it's like the whole world fucking disappears. He tastes like sugar and heat and sex." He smiled with his mouth tight and his eyes narrowed. "You can print that. He gives great head too. Joey should know, too."

Then he was up, striding out of the room as fast as his legs could take him. There was a lot of noise behind him, might have been JC trying to quiet the interpreter, the photographer snapping pictures, but Justin didn't slow down. His face was burning and he thought if he stopped, if he didn't keep on moving, didn't break into a run, he would start screaming.

"Justin!" Hand on his shoulder and he wheeled round, not thinking as his fist swung. Bam, and Joey was on the ground, looking up at him, rubbing his jaw.

"I hate you," he ground out before he spun and started running.

JC came up later with a takeaway bag of McDonald's, and they sat on his bed and Justin ate steadily. His hand throbbed.

The bed had been made, new sheets pulled taut and clean-smelling. No wrinkles, no dent in the pillow to show where Lance had lain. He wore the green sweatshirt that he always took with him, even though he'd stopped wearing it. It fit now, the sleeves just the right length.

"Did you sleep with Lance?"

He nodded. JC sighed.

"I thought. I thought it would be different this time."

"Oh, Justin." JC was good to hug, had always been good to hug. Bony, but with arms that didn't hold too tight, just loose and calm around him, saying nonsense words and at the end of it, smoothing back the hair from Justin's face, kissing him on the forehead the way his mom used to.

"Oh, baby," JC said. It didn't sound sexy or stupid. Tired and a little worn, a little sad. "Sometimes it just doesn't work, you know?"

He apologized to Joey, and Joey shrugged and said, quietly and not looking at Justin, but past him, that it didn't matter anyway. Joey started sleeping with groupies again, and Chris complained loudly about the bus arrangements, and made sure they switched a lot.

The tour was huge and there was no time for anything but practise, soundcheck, interviews and miles of interstate highways. He got used to insomnia. When he had the two-man bus with JC, they would share a bunk, and Justin could sleep.

Then Lance fell ill.

"Hey, I'm gonna get a drink," he'd said and when he didn't come back after five minutes, Chris went to his dressing room.

They came running at the screams. The long slow moment of Lance stretched out grey and shaking, shaking like he was electrified, his back arching and his head turning from side to side.

Hannah, the medic on duty, pushed past them and barked, "Stay away! " while she turned Lance on his side and deftly re-arranged him, head forward and legs bent. There was a shout being carried on behind them, voice to voice picking it up. "Call the hospital, 911. Get an ambulance. Hurry." and the surge behind them of the crew, a spike of fear and noise rising and crashing like the distant screams of an audience.

Then they were pushed to the side as a gurney whipped by, paramedics talking in a foreign language to Hannah. Then they were wheeling him out and Justin gasped and tried to move but Joey had caught his wrists in an iron-grip and whispered "No." His voice was thick and when Justin blinked, folded back against the wall on trembling legs, he realized they were all crying. JC had wrapped Chris up in a hug and they were the only ones left in the dressing room.

The room stank of vomit and there was a giant wet patch in the center where Lance's water bottle had spilt over. "Lance," Justin said, over and over. Joey nodded and pressed his hand to his forehead, trying not to bawl. "Lance," he agreed. "Oh fuck."

"Lou's on his way," someone said in the background. "He wants to talk about re-arranging tonight's concert."

"Cancelling it?" Joey asked.

The stage manager shook her head and studied the floor. "Um. Maybe doing some different songs. Might need to make an announcement too."

Chris' voice shook. "You can tell that bastard -"

JC touched his shoulder softly. "Tracy, tell him we went out for lunch, okay? You know which hospital he's at?" She nodded. "Okay, we're gonna change to plain clothes and Danny can drive us there. You don't have to tell Lou we're having lunch at the hospital cafeteria."

She smiled weakly. "Be ready in ten minutes. You better tell him to get well from all of us, y'hear?"

Chris had cornered the doctor, and JC stayed with him to stop him from attacking the poor woman. "One at a time," the nurse said, arms crossed at the door to the ICU.

Joey said, awkwardly, "Um. You go first. You know."

"Sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

Justin pushed the doors open. They closed with a slow double-thump, and inside it was cold, the air intensely cold and sharp, as if they were high up a mountain. There was almost no noise in here. Faint steady beeps and pings of machines, the woosh of air pumping into lungs and the murmur of other visitors.

Lance looked like he was asleep. Tubes on his hand, one running through his nose, and he looked terribly, terribly pale. He'd bleached his hair again and Justin wanted to touch him, to make sure he was real, solid, but he wasn't sure if he was allowed to. If it was safe.

"Lance?" he said instead, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Lance opened his eyes and smiled a little. "Hey. All of you here?"

"Yeah, but they're only letting us in one at a time. How you feeling?"

"Tired. Like I could sleep forever."

"Don't say that." Everything blurred for a moment. Wobbled and then came back into focus. He blinked, surprised. Oh. He was crying. "Don't say that, okay."

"'Kay."

Lance's eyelids had fluttered down again. Brown lashes on pale skin, and his bottom lip had torn, toothmarks from where, Justin realized, he must have bitten hard.

"I'm gonna, I'm gonna get the others," he said, backing away. "I'll get them." He couldn't stay in that room, he couldn't leave. The air was choking, poisoned with disinfectant and Lance didn't look at him, or say anything. He halted at the door. Lance didn't move. The beeps jolted, the steady rhythm he'd been hearing, the same rhythm he'd fallen asleep to, skipped a beat.

And another. A nurse pushed past him and he grabbed the cold metal rail of someone else's hospital bed. Then a doctor, and if he turned his head, he knew he'd see Joey and Chris and JC arguing with the nurse outside, staring through the glass panels.

At Lance. Lance who was twisting, turning and dying. All the machines gone crazy as Lance thrashed on his bed and the doctor shouted at the nurse and another doctor came, blocking Lance from his view. He wanted to say, hey move, move out of the way, but he couldn't speak. He couldn't move.

He called his mom from the little garden outside the cafeteria. JC and Joey were sharing a cigarette and Chris was on his fifth cup of coffee.

Afterwards, he didn't remember what he'd said.

"Diane's on her way," he told the others. Chris looked up from shredding the styrofoam cup.

"Good. That's good. Lance'll like that. Stacey?"

"My mom's calling her now."

"Okay."

He pushed in between JC and Joey and took a drag from the cigarette. Joey took it next, and with his other hand, rubbed Justin's shoulder. "S'going to be alright, Curly."

"Yeah," he said. He closed his eyes. He could see Lance thrashing still. He hadn't touched him. He wished he had touched him. He wished he'd said something.

Lou turned up at the hospital in the afternoon. They'd all filed through the ICU again, five minutes each. Lance was drifting in and out. Diane hugged them tightly and Justin's mom sat next to her in the waiting room, handing out tissues and talking in a low voice.

"You need to get back by six o'clock, boys."

They turned slowly. Lou filled the doorway. He looked grave, the way he did at contract time. "You got a concert to put on."

"Cancel," Joey said.

"Lance wouldn't want you to disappoint the fans."

"Refund the fucking tickets, you mean."

Lou smiled genially. "Car's waiting round front. You've got twenty minutes to get there."

They got on stage in the end. It was almost like an extra sense, an awareness of all the spaces that Lance should have been in, their clear high voices soaring loose without Lance's bass to anchor them. Move to the right and Lance should've been there, smiling and counting the steps under his breath, because he was still the worst dancer.

The harnesses went out and Lance's seemed to fly the furthest, no weight holding it back, no-one swooping and smiling down at the audience.

"Mom," he said, fiddling with his can of Coke. He wanted to have something to hold onto, someone's hand to hold, to get him through this.

They'd moved Lance to his own room today. Just an IV drip that he complained itched like hell, and more flowers than a florist's. Justin had waited till they were all leaving, and at the door he'd turned and stepped back in. Said "Lance," and then quickly, quickly because Lance was watching them leave, too exhausted to sit up anymore, but on his side, watching them, with his head on the pillow, looking like he had that night. Quickly, he'd said "I love you, Lance. I'm gonna love you for a long time. It doesn't matter," he'd swallowed, "It doesn't matter if you can't love me the same. Because I love you, 'kay." Shut the door and leaned against the wall outside, trembling with fear.

Now he was sitting in the cafeteria while Stevie smeared mashed banana over his face. Lynn had given up keeping him on the high-chair and was concentrating on catching what he flung out with glee. "Yeah?" she said, distractedly.

"I think I'm um. Bisexual."

Lynn put the spoon down and wiped Stevie's face clean. She folded up the napkin, once, twice, into tiny quarters. She didn't look at Justin while she packed Stevie's junk away into the diaper bag. Toys, his bib, the little sunhat.

"Mom?"

"Give me a sec, honey." Calmly she zipped the bag shut and looped it over the handles of the stroller.

"So. Is this, is this a new thing? A phase?"

Justin shook his head. Lynn sighed. "You know, JC talked to me about this."

"What?" His head whipped round to where JC was talking to Chris, sketching out notes on napkins, then back to his mom. "JC told you I was gay?"

"I thought you were - " she paused slightly. "Bisexual."

"What did JC say?"

"You know JC, sweetie. He went on about diversity and tolerance, and how you were exploring your identity." Lynn snorted. "Took thirty minutes before I could figure out what he was saying."

"When was this?" His voice was a squeak and he knew he was blushing bright, bright red.

"Last year. Justin, I sorta guessed. Diane's told me about Lance and how difficult it was for him. I promised myself, I'd be there for you. So." She leaned across the table and took his hand. "I'm here for you."

A week later, Lance came back on stage, and the tour went on. His mom started reading PFLAG books and leaving embarrassing pamphlets around, but at least she didn't mail him boxes of condoms, the way Joey's mom did when she got upset with him over the National Enquirer.

And Lance, Lance was okay. He never mentioned what Justin had said, and after a couple of days, Justin stopped expecting him to.

He slept with JC instead.

That had started out casually. Too much to drink and JC was the only one who would listen to him go on about Lance without rolling his eyes. Even JC got sick of it eventually.

"Have you gotten laid since then?" he demanded.

"I'm not interested in anyone else," Justin snapped.

"You're eighteen and you haven't had sex for nearly six fucking months." JC stood up unsteadily. He put his beer bottle down on the table next to the empties. "You know what the problem is?"

"I don't have a problem." Justin said. Something had shifted in the air, and he wasn't sure what.

"Yes, you do." JC stabbed the air with his finger for emphasis, leaned closer and stabbed Justin in the chest.

"Ow, fuck. That hurt." Justin tried to push him away, but the bus might have swayed, or JC might have, and his lap was suddenly full of lanky skinny JC, sweetly drunk and laughing so happily that Justin couldn't help but laugh as well.

"You need to get laid," JC said at last, looking up at him with over-bright serious eyes. "You gotta move on, you know?"

"I don't -" and JC kissed him, a sloppy gentle kiss that was nothing like Lance's, nothing at all like Lance's. He had stubble and he licked the length of Justin's throat, the rasp of it left a heat-bright trail.

They kissed less and fucked more. JC talked, and Justin didn't, but JC would just turn him over, with a lazy slow grin, and that was enough.

In Atlanta, they had two concerts, so he snuck out with his hat pulled low and just one bodyguard. At the Borders, he stalled for a while, then ended up bribing Sammy into buying the books for him while he skulked among the magazines.

"Hey, um. JC. You wanna try something new?" he asked when JC rolled into the bunk with him, still jittery and sweaty from the concert high.

"Like what?" Busy hands, busy tongue and Justin had to hold him back with one hand while he fumbled under the pillow for what a chortling Sammy had bought for him from the pharmacy.

"Um. Sex."

"This is sex." JC peered at him. "What, you've been shopping?"

"Condoms. And um. Lube. This is supposed to be the right kind. For, you know."

It was strange how terribly awkward this was. JC could whisper things, slip his fingers to places Justin couldn't even mention. With girls, it had been different. Everything was obvious, part A into part B. Though, according to the books he'd been frantically skimming, he'd missed out on some stuff there too.

"Oh. Oh!" JC took the lube and squinted at the label. "Okay. Yeah, this is the right brand."

"So, you've -"

JC grinned. "Yes. You wanna go under or top me?"

"Jesus. Can you just say that?"

JC leaned in close and leered. "Top me, baby. You wanna be my big daddy?"

Justin laughed helplessly and then, then JC had the tube open and was slicking him up, hot and wet and gasping. One condom tore, and then he had it on and JC was under him, squirming and saying filthy, truly filthy cheap porno things that made him want to shut him up, only by fucking that dirty, sweet mouth, and he was there, and it was. It was different. Tight and hot, the way a goddamn volcano was a bit of steam, this was more, more. JC's hips were just right for holding onto, for slamming against, and it was, oh god, it was sex, hot wild wet sex, and he saw stars when he came.

He was still shaking when JC returned with a washcloth and cleaned him up. JC'd pulled on a ratty bathrobe but he hadn't washed. The bunk stank of sex and sweat, and Justin's head was pounding. Every time he let his breath out in another dry hitch, his head throbbed harder.

"Can I have some aspirin?" he whispered.

JC nodded and left the curtain open this time. Some of the sex-smell had cleared away when he came back, and Justin sat up cautiously, swallowed the pills and drank the water. JC smoothed the blanket down and sat on top.

"So." JC said. "I'm guessing it's not about me. 'Cause I know I'm good in bed." JC smirked and Justin smiled a little.

"Um. It's -"

"Lance."

"Yeah."

JC shrugged. "Okay. We can still sleep together. Just no kissing. And keep those hands to yourself, Timberlake." Justin fell asleep to the sound of JC snoring, arms wrapped around him, his steady warmth lulling him to a deep, dreamless sleep.

In the morning, JC kissed him before they got off the bus. He tasted of mint toothpaste and looked at him intently, then said, "Hey. We're still friends, right?"

So now he wasn't sleeping with JC, and Lance was still not really talking to him. JC started sleeping with one of the wardrobe women, and Justin switched buses to Chris and Joey. He didn't get enough sleep but he did kickass scores on the Playstation.

JC and Lance shared a bus. Justin tried not to think about it too much. Sometimes they would look at each other a certain way, or they would go off and have lunch alone. Just the two of them. It really wasn't that big a deal.

He hung around wardrobe a lot and chatted to Marcie who was small and pretty and stammered when JC came in. She seemed happy, and that was good. Not for any particular reason, just it was nice to see JC and her together.

"Switch buses with me tonight." JC was jumping from foot to foot, bouncing from way too much pre-show energy.

"What? Why?"

"One night. Chris is helping me with this surprise for Marcie. Joey won't switch, so I'm begging you, man. Come on."

"Why won't Joey switch?"

JC paused mid-bop. "Lance snores."

"You snore."

"Yeah, but musically. Lance is like a train. Come on, come on, Curly. I really like Marcie."

Later, running on stage, he realized that it would've been simpler for Chris to swap with Lance and that JC had set him up.

"This wasn't my idea." Lance walked past him to the bathroom. He didn't look angry, just strangely blank. There had been an argument outside the buses ending in Lance shoving JC and then Lonnie had picked him by the scruff of his jacket and locked the bus door behind him.

"Fine." Lance slammed the door shut.

Justin turned on the TV and thought about calling JC and yelling at him. Or telling the bus driver to pull over so he could swap with Chris. Not Joey, because Joey would end up screwing Lance, and JC probably already was. He wanted to punch someone. He settled for throwing the remote across the bus. It didn't even break.

Lance came out after a while. He seemed calmer, but he didn't look at Justin as he set up his laptop on the kitchen counter. "Your turn," he said. Justin slammed the door over the whine of the modem.

The bathroom smelt like Lance. Gel and shampoo, the stupid hypoallergenic soap he carried around with him, panicking when he had to use normal soap. Toothpaste rolled up from the bottom; bastard had even hung his towel up.

After his shower, he poked his head out of the bathroom and looked left and right fast. Lance's back was to him. Good. Quietly, he slipped out, the towel wrapped as tight as he could around his waist, but still painfully obvious. He really didn't want to take a ten-minute shower and be overheard.

"Justin?"

He froze. "Yeah?"

"Um. You hungry? I could cook something."

"Okay."

"Hot or cold? Tell me what you want."

The towel shifted, terrycloth sliding rough and dry across him, almost painful but not quite. He bit his lip and tried to think coherently. "Anything. Anything you want."

In his bunk, he struggled into a pair of boxer-briefs and threw a pair of thick, roomy sweatpants over that. Scowled and pulled on a long baggy t-shirt.

The microwave was on and Lance was slicing olives on the countertop, humming under his breath. Sailing, and Justin joined in on the chorus. Lance looked over his shoulder and smiled swiftly.

"Can I help?"

"Hit stop on the microwave, and just sorta stir the pasta. Then hit the button again for another 3 minutes."

He laid out plates and got a couple of cans of Coke for them. Lance shifted slightly as Justin slid past him, the tiny kitchen dance they'd all learnt. Chris and Joey had a routine, complete with juggling of condiment jars. It was nice. Familiar.

Lance finished with the olives and scraped them into a bowl along with half a block of butter and several tablespoons of minced garlic. He frowned and prodded the butter with a spoon, then put it into the microwave. The pasta was left to finish on the countertop.

"Couple more minutes," he said. They leaned against the countertop, still humming. The last chorus, and Justin sang it, Lance mmm-mmming below him.

"We sounded good tonight," he said. At least he meant to say that. Something neutral. What came out instead was "Are you sleeping with JC?"

Lance turned slowly. "What?"

"Are you. Are you sleeping with JC." His face was red, the tips of his ears burning, and he folded his arms, gritted his teeth and didn't look away.

"No. I haven't slept with anyone since you."

Lance stared back and for a moment, for a dangerous tilting moment, Justin thought they might hit each other. Pick up a knife and just fucking carve into each other. Break their faces, smash themselves down to blood and tears and bone.

The microwave dinged softly. Again and again. The dings seemed to get louder, closer together like an alarm clock that wouldn't shut up, wouldn't just leave them the hell alone. Lance didn't take his gaze off Justin as he raised his hand and slammed the heel against the microwave panel.

The door popped open and the smell of butter and garlic filled the kitchen, rich and warm. It smelt like home, like Joey's kitchen, or his mom's.

"Hey, hey," he said and stepped forward. Lance was half-shaking, he could see now. His knuckles were white because he was gripping the countertop hard, and he wasn't staring Justin down. He was staring because he couldn't look away.

"Oh baby," he said and wrapped his arms around Lance, gathered him in and rocked him gently. Lance didn't really cry, just buried his face in the crook of Justin's shoulder. He felt fever-hot. His arms were rigid at first, but then he breathed out, a long deep sigh, and they snaked around Justin's waist and held on tight.

"Can't breathe," Lance said after a while. Muffled because Justin was stroking his hair, pressing him close. They pulled apart a little, wiped their eyes and smiled at each other. The kind of thin, trembly smiles that come just before people laugh a little, cry a little.

"We should um. Eat."

They poured the butter over the spaghetti and ate it, leaning against each other on the bench. They didn't talk, but under the table, Lance's feet rested on top of Justin's, bare toes wriggling against each other. In Tokyo, they'd lain side by side and Lance had caught one of his feet between his own, rubbed them like firewood or something. It had been weird, but good.

They cleared their plates. There was some butter left in the bowl, so they picked out all the olive left and some of the little garlic bits too. Their hands were butter-slippery and Justin caught Lance's fingers, laced them together and kissed him, butter-flavoured kisses and their hands slip-sliding over each other.

"I missed this," Lance said quietly. "I missed just being friends with you. I mean, I missed you, the other parts. But this was the hardest. Staying away from you."

"You didn't have to, you know." Justin leaned back but he didn't let go of his hand. "I was waiting for you."

"I didn't want to fuck things up," Lance said and Justin shut him up with another buttery kiss. Later, they could have the long meaningful conversations. Not now.

"Will you," he whispered as he touched Lance's face, left butter over his cheeks, licked it up with his tongue. He found Lance's ear and whispered, "Will you forget this tomorrow?" and then he relearned the swirl of Lance's ear, the way he shivered when he nipped at his lobe, at the skin behind his ears, while Lance said over and over, "No. No."

He pulled him up, up against the wall. He'd wanted to do this for a long time, mapped it out in his head while he was in his bunk, wondering who Lance was sleeping with now. Replayed Tokyo until it was a blur, all those taxi cabs fused into one long, glorious kiss. When JC was sprawled out on the bunk, Justin would look up and think, this is what Lance will look like when I give him head.

And now, he couldn't think beyond hands scrabbling at his t-shirt, dragging it up. They broke off their kisses to pull his t-shirt off, yanking open Lance's shirt, pushing down their pants, and then skin to skin, and Justin felt like a cat must, a giant cat rubbing and purring because Lance was heat and warmth and petting him all over with soft hands.

They kissed and the taste of butter was fading. Salt and heat and the flavour of him. It was different this time, and it took him a moment to figure out what. No alcohol, no sharp tang after the kisses. And Lance looking at him, a wide open smile, the toothy kind he gave only when he was drunk these days.

"Turn around," he said and fumbled for the bowl of melted butter on the counter. One hand scooping it up and then pressed against the curve of Lance's back. Hot, golden butter dripping down his spine, rivulets over his ass, trickling down the backs of his thighs.

He bent his head and licked along the vertebrae, tracing each knob. Lance moaned and moved under him, arching and stretching, saying his name.

He hadn't meant to, but he was on his knees and Lance caught his hands, held them against his ribs where he could feel beneath his fingertips, the beat of Lance's heart. If he concentrated, maybe he'd hear the skip of his murmur.

He slid his tongue down the cleft, along it, tasting butter and the round smooth curve of Lance's ass. Lance let go of his hands and braced himself against the wall. "Justin, are you gonna -" and that dissolved into a moan when Justin's hands were on his ass, pushing him open enough for his tongue to find the narrow crease down the center. Velvet soft and buttery, hot under his tongue and leading down to where Lance groaned harder, as if he were in pain, his knees buckling and he was pushing against Justin in short, jagged thrusts.

He licked at first, then leaned in and lapped, rough strong strokes back and forth. Held onto Lance's hips and didn't let him loose, not when he squirmed and said "Oh god, oh god, stop, it's too much, oh god, Justin." There were a hundred tiny folds, curled up tightly and under his tongue, they loosened. Stretched taut and he was inside, butter slick and tongue-fucking Lance.

Prostate, he thought wildly, but there was no time, and he wasn't exactly sure where it was. JC had shown him, but he didn't know what to do now, except breathe and fuck Lance with his tongue. It was the wildest, hottest thing he'd ever done, kneeling naked in the bus kitchen with Lance bent over and gasping out his name because his tongue was flicking around the edges of his ass, thrusting inside.

Lance shuddered and Justin could feel him come, the tight strong spasms against his tongue, like a woman, only harder. When Lance flung him against the wall, sweaty and wild-eyed, grabbed his dick and said, "I'm gonna lick you like that, Timberlake, I'm gonna fuck you," he thought he would explode. When Lance kissed him and whispered into his mouth, between desperate, hungry tonguing, "I can taste myself on you," all he needed was that last slide of Lance's hand on him, and he came.

They left the dishes in the sink, went to Lance's bunk and fell asleep, spooned up together. In the morning, Lance was gone.

The bus had stopped, and Justin rubbed his eyes. Swung his legs slowly over the side of the bunk. Maybe he's in the shower, he told himself. He wasn't.

The kitchen was empty, the dishes washed and put away. There wasn't even a note.

He sat down for a while and tried very hard not to cry. He mostly succeeded.

"Hey." The door opened and Lance was standing there, pushing his sunglasses up and squinting at him. "We're gonna eat at Danny's today. Chris wants waffles, made us pull over early. I didn't want to wake you yet."

"Oh?" he said and tried not to sniff. "How come?"

Lance smiled. "You're a grumpy bastard in the morning, Justin."

Somehow that made sense, made him feel better than if Lance had gone on about how beautiful he looked sleeping, or some crap like that. It was something Lance might've said years ago, when they were first in Germany and Justin was always the last to wake-up, really wake-up. Even JC was better at breakfast than him.

At Denny's, Joey grinned like a loon at them and JC made them sit together. Lance flirted with the waitress and asked for extra butter. He slipped the packets into Justin's pocket and held his hand under the table.

"So, Curly, you gonna move your stuff out of our bus?" Chris hooked an arm round JC and kissed him loudly on the cheek. "This one's a better sex slave anyway."

"Yeah," he said while JC told Chris to fuck-off, he had better taste, thank you. "If that's okay with you."

"I'd like that," Lance said, not smiling but he squeezed his hand under the table and Justin smiled.