In the garden down the slope from the pool, where stone walls separated troughs of tomatoes and runner beans, passion fruit twined above strawberry beds and everywhere, there was the scent of orange and lemon from the little trees planted along the gravel paths, Justin kissed Lance.

Soft and tentative, both of them with their eyes closed. Resting their foreheads against each other, leaning together as though they might fall, breathing hard though they'd only wandered slowly down here. Talking about nothing much, Lance with a basket for the vegetables. Joey was cooking and had ordered them to "make some fucking use of that organic weirdness". They'd left the others sprawled out by the pool, Britney waving to them while JC slathered sunscreen on her back.

"Kiss me again," Lance whispered.

The ground was gentle here, soft grass clipped short by the gardeners, sun-warmed black soil that crumbled loose in Lance's scrabbling hands when Justin went down on him.

On the way back, Justin stopped and picked an orange. "What now?" he asked while he peeled it.

"I don't know," Lance replied. "What about Britney?"

Justin separated one segment and held it to Lance's mouth. The juice dripped down his fingers and Lance's chin, and Lance caught his wrist, held his hand so he could lick the skin clean, his tongue sliding between Justin's fingers.

"We're not," Justin said with a slight gasp. "We're not really together."

The peel was bright orange on the green grass and Justin was hot and sweaty and sticky with juice, everything brilliantly coloured in a summer afternoon way, vivid in Lance's mind as they made love under the wisteria.

Three weeks later, Lance stumbled down the stairs, pulling on a shirt and trying not to trip in the dark. The doorbell rang insistently. He looked through the peephole, but the porch was empty. A cab was backing out of the driveway.

He hesitated. Stalkers, but someone had to be on the approved list to get past the guards down the road. Someone who didn't call before turning up on JC's doorstop at three fucking am on a Tuesday.

Not one of the guys then. Bobbee? He sighed and pushed back his fringe, the headache he'd had that evening still throbbing after four hours of bad sleep on a borrowed bed. He didn't want to spend an hour commiserating with Bobbee over who JC was currently sleeping with. Maybe it was time he got a place of his own for L.A. trips.

He opened the door and peered out. No-one standing there. Silent street with clouds gathering. LA thunder storm coming. Maybe it was a prank, one of the neighbour's kids. Justin trying to surprise him, drag him out for a night of frantic clubbing and sex. Take him back inside, make hot chocolate and watch the rain on the giant bay windows of JC's. White leather couches and soft carpets, Justin sprawled over him, quiet breathing under the steady rain. Yeah.

"Lance?"

Britney. Uncurling from the bench at the side. Leather pants, red sequinned halter and her hair in a tangled, stylish mess, falling over her face, down her back.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure, JC's not home and Justin's not -" she looked up and pushed her hair out of her face, a practised flick. The bruises were still red at the edges, swollen until her eye was almost closed, mascara streaked down her cheek. Her lipstick had smeared too, blood from a split lip feathering down her chin instead, her lips pale and thin in contrast.

"Justin doesn't know I'm here," she said. Her voice was quiet because she couldn't open her mouth very wide, not without splitting the new scab on her lip open.

"Come in," he said and put his hand around her shoulder gently, whispered "Shh, shhh, it's gonna be okay," when she started crying. Held her in the hallway, rocking back and forth on his heels and stroking her hair. It looked silky, but it was stiff with glitter and spray. She wept almost soundlessly. He tried not to think about Stacey.

"It wasn't anything you said," he repeated.

She shook her head and winced when she lifted the cigarette to her mouth again. "He's under a lot of pressure."

"That's no excuse," he said.

JC's kitchen was different from his mother's, but the first aid kit was in the pantry, and he made coffee and pulled chairs out at the kitchen table. Still remembered how to clean her face, how to press lightly when he rubbed cream over the cuts so she didn't flinch. The bile at the back of his throat when her hands trembled and she blamed herself. If he closed his eyes, she had almost the same southern twang, roughened by smoking and crying.

"You should leave him," Lance said and mouthed her reply silently. It was my fault. I shouldn't have pissed him off.

Justin had let himself in early in the morning, maybe because once Britney was asleep in Lance's bed, he'd stayed up to leave sharp voicemails on everyone's handphone except his. He'd fallen asleep on the couch, watching the sun rise, too tired to think.

He brought a carton of orange juice and some aspirin with him, knocked softly on the door. She didn't answer, and it was half open, so he pushed it back and went in.

They were asleep. Justin spooned up behind her, his arms wrapped around her. One of her hands rested lightly on his arm. Her hair was spread out over the pillow, Justin's shaved head dark against the gold of it. Long bare legs crossed together, Britney's feet with her silver-painted toenails tucked behind Justin's knees. She still had the t-shirt he'd lent her on.

The swelling had gone down a little. The bruises were turning purple and yellow at the edges. Justin had a scratch down his cheek, thin and bright pink. Make-up would cover it easily. Britney would have to wear sunglasses for a week.

He left the orange juice and aspirin by the bed. Thought about pulling the sheet up over them, but he didn't want to risk waking them.

He watched them for a while. She didn't know that he was sleeping with Justin, that they'd made love in this bed the day before, the sheets hadn't been changed and he'd forgotten that when he'd taken her up, tucked her in, forgotten until she fell asleep, holding onto his hand. The pillows had smelt of Justin and sex, and they still did.

"It was an accident," Justin said and pushed him up against the bathroom wall. Hands fumbling at his fly and Lance was tired. Not enough sleep, too many questions and Britney refusing to leave the house, the two of them cooing and cuddling in corners while Theresa scowled at them and pulled Lance aside to demand an explanation, right fucking now, because she wasn't covering Justin's ass again.

Not after the girl in the hotel.

"Stop it," Lance said and tried to shove back, to push him off. Justin was taller, stronger and with his legs spread, with Lance pinned between him and the wall, he couldn't break free. "Stop it. I don't want this."

Justin's hand slipping down in his pants and squeezed. "Yeah, you do."

"No, I don't." He shoved harder than he meant to and Justin stumbled back. "You can't hit people and sleep with me."

"I didn't. I wouldn't hit you," Justin said, bewildered.

"You can't--" Lance smashed his fist down against the wall, trying desperately to remember what he wanted to say, what was so obvious, what was so wrong. "You can't just get angry and hit people. It's not right."

"I didn't mean to do it," Justin whispered. He lifted his hand hesitantly to Lance's arm, touched him tentatively. "We were drunk. It was a stupid fight. Please." His voice cracked a little. "I'm sorry. Please."

"It's not gonna happen," Lance said and closed his eyes so he wouldn't see Justin crying, the way his face scrunched up and his shoulders shook.

"I'm sorry," Justin gasped and leaned in against Lance again, too big to put his head under Lance's chin, like a grown cat desperately trying to nurse at its mother, pushing in, bumping his nose against Lance's jaw and all the time, crying roughly.

He patted him awkwardly on his back. Gave in and folded him close, slid his other hand round so he could rub Justin's neck, the dip of his back where the hidden tattoos were. "Shh, shhh, it's gonna be okay."

They knocked over the pile of conditioners and hairgels above the sink, dented the shower-stall door and he left bruises, finger-shaped bruises, on Justin's narrow hips.

"So," Johnny said, tapping the folder next to him. "We owe Britney a favour."

Chris glared across the table at Justin. Joey looked away. Justin cleared his throat. "Um, we talked about that. Me and Brit. She wants to do a duet with us."

Johnny nodded slowly. "That could work. Guys? Any objections?"

Lance studied his fingernails. He kept them clipped short now. Too short to leave scratches when he was with Justin.

Britney still called him everyday. It used to be JC because of MMC, but now he had her on speed-dial, and he knew she hated that Justin was cheating on her, that she didn't know who it was. She thought maybe Lance knew, or Chris, but she understood they wouldn't say.

"It hurts, y'know? He showers after sex now. Like he's worried she'll figure out he's been sleeping with me."

He murmured something comforting, quietly because Justin was asleep in the other room.

There was another fight. Scratches and bruises on her upper arms where he'd grabbed her. Britney wore longer sleeves and didn't sleep with Justin for a week. Lance stayed at her place for the week-end and screened her calls for Justin. He listened to Justin's apologies and sometimes, he wasn't sure who Justin was apologizing to.

"Is it -- is it a sex thing?" he asked finally.

Justin looked up, startled, from the photo proofs. "What?"

"Like JC. The ropes and stuff. Is it like that?"

He shuffled the contact sheets together, lined them up neatly. "No. We just fight. We get angry."

"Make-up sex?"

Justin shook his head and put the folder back on the pile, took another one down. Opened it and slid the sheets out. Leaned over them, concentrating. He didn't say anything. Lance waited.

"I can't break up with her," he said finally, stacking the sheets up again.

"I know."

"Theresa would kill me. Britney would."

"I know."

"But. If I could -"

Lance waited. His throat hurt, a sore throat maybe coming on, or something else that made him feel like he was swallowing sharp small knives.

"I want to be with you," Justin said and put his hand on Lance's forearm, undid his crossed arms, pulled him close so they were leaning against the table, bodies resting together. When he breathed out, Lance could feel Justin's heartbeat.

"I love you," Justin whispered. "I don't say that to her."

"Don't say that," Lance said and kissed him before he could reply.

There was a party at JC's, and he drank too much, giddy from the flirting, the people crushed together, laughing and congratulating them - "Duet's gonna be huge, great idea. Call me, anytime" - and there was Justin, a bottle held carelessly in one hand, the other on Britney's waist. Golden and beautiful, all of them, and Lance drank too much because Justin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand carelessly, and when he bent to whisper things to Britney, he looked across the room at Lance.

"Your mother's on the phone," he said, smiling at Britney in apology. "Better use the phone upstairs."

"Call her on your handphone," Britney shouted over the noise.

Justin shook his head and kissed her cheek briefly. "Too fucking loud. Gimme ten minutes, 'k?"

Up the stairs, around the corner. Racing down the corridor to the nearest room with a lock on the door. Up against the door, hands under shirts and nothing like hearing his own voice break, the drawl of obscenities from Justin as he slid down, left a trail of gleaming spit, tongue along his hips, the hollows, the first deep breath indrawn. Taste of salt and everything disappearing in the dark room, Justin in his mouth and the world come down to this.

"Justin?"

Her fists hammering on the door made the wood vibrate against them. At their feet, the light from the hallway spills over a little, a restless shadow moving back and forth as Britney shouts his name, thumps the door again. If she bent down and looked under the door, she'd see his dress shoes standing between Justin's silver sneakers. They were tangled together, breathing at the same speed.

When Lance unlocked the door, his hands tremble. Britney didn't notice. She was blazing, incandescent. Drunk, but not missing a beat as she tore into him.

"--which one is it? Think I don't know? Jesus christ, Justin. Your zipper's undone and you can't even keep your stories straight." She whirled and jabbed her finger at Lance. "Dragging him into this, your mother calling you? What kind of a moron do you think I am? You bastard --"

Which was when he hit her.

Smack of his hand on her cheek, open palmed, his fingers spread. Her head went a little to the side, and then he lowered his hand slowly, the muscles in his arm tightly defined, his hand clenching and unclenching in a fist. She raised her hand, touched her cheek delicately, lightly. Her mouth was open, a surprised soft "oh".

Then her face screwed up and she shouted "You fucking bastard!" and threw herself at him.

Everything was a blur, stop-motion NYPD violence. Lance weaving and ducking around the two of them, trying not to get hit by a wildly swinging fist. He got elbowed anyway, and it hurt like a motherfucker, which is why he was surprised when they kept on doing it. Justin was trying to hold her off, one hand on her forehead, but instead of comically swinging at him like a girl, a cute little kid playfighting, she was twisting his fingers back, one hard punch at Justin's shoulder and when he let go, she was back at him, nails and teeth but then a sure, fast left hook.

"Stop it!" Lance shouted desperately.

Justin punched her in the stomach.

There was something filmlike about watching Justin limp out of the room. Britney on his lap, crying with soft, heart wrenching gasps, Her t-shirt a little torn, and her hair messed up prettily. The light from the hallway made a sillouhette of Justin in the door. It'd look good on camera, Lance thought dazedly. Maybe he should say something, but he couldn't think of the right line.

"I hate him," she murmured.

Lance stroked her shoulder. "Shh," he said. "It's gonna be okay. Let's get you cleaned up."

He called JC from the bathroom. "The pink bag. With the, the fish thing on the front. It's all glittery. Yeah. Just leave it out the door, okay. No, no, it's okay. She just had a fight with Justin. Nothing like that. She needs to fix her mascara. Yeah. Where is he? Okay. Ten minutes."

Lance had found a shawl of Bobbee's in a closet, tied it round her shoulders to hide the bruises on her arms. He held her hand walking down the stairs and let go when they reached the party, when Justin caught her other hand and said "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you."

She smiled tremulously at him. Not quite looking at Justin, but up, through her lashes. As if she was shy, or flirting. He hugged her, sliding his hand up and down her back and rocking a little. They looked like they were dancing.

"He shouldn't have brought you into it," she said later, frowning over her glass of champagne. "Like, it's not fair to you. To have to cover for his sorry cheating ass, and then see that." She kissed Lance on his cheek. "I'm sorry," she said.

"It's okay," Lance told her. "Really, I don't mind."

She made them rewrite a verse for a bass, and nothing he could say would change her mind. "You've got a great voice, honey. Don't let the divas take all the lines," she said.

Justin sang Britney's part when he practised. "Love me tender, love me rough, one touch and we're through. Bitch. C'mere and kiss me." Lance grinned and hummed the chorus while he blew him in their trailer.

They weren't naked when the others came in, not truly naked. Boxers and t-shirts, freshly showered with their clothes piled up against the door. They might've been changing after a game of pick-up, or a dozen innocent things. Piled up on the couch watching E! with the volume turned down and Justin laughing at Lance's sarcastic commentary, but. Seven years and Lance froze under Justin's hand.

Joey's eyes widened and he said "I'm gonna. Brianna's outside. Yeah."

JC crossed his arms and sat on one of the chairs. "Well," he said. "I'm kinda hurt, Justin. I would've thought you'd sleep with me first. I did teach you how to french kiss."

"Shut up, C. How long has this been going on?" Chris knocked the remote out of Lance's hand and stood in front of the tv, glowering at them.

"It's none of your business." Justin threw his left arm out across Lance's chest as he tried to stand up. "Sit down. This is between me and Lance."

"And Britney," Chris shot back. "And maybe the rest of us, you fuckwit. What's gonna happen when you break up?"

"We're not going to break up. I love him."

"Yeah?" Chris leaned down, nearly snarling. "That's why you've been sneaking around? That's why you've been hitting -"

"Shut up," Lance said sharply. "Don't yell at him because it wasn't you, Chris."

The arm across his chest tightened. JC sighed softly and looked away. Chris and Justin locked stares.

"Fine. Fuck up your lives. Just don't fuck up the rest of us with you." Chris stomped out of the trailer. JC followed, brushing his hand over Justin and Lance's heads before he left, a whispered "good luck".

"We don't need them," said Justin, hugging Lance tightly. "It's gonna be okay."

Lance lay back under him on the couch. Traced Justin's mouth with his fingernail. He didn't say anything and Justin let out a breath and lowered himself, elbows digging into the couch, chest to chest. Put his head under Lance's chin so the fuzz was soft and warm there. Whispered "I love you," again. Lance rubbed his back through his t-shirt.

Wade choreographed the video. It was Chris who came up with the idea, and Britney smiled brightly across the table at him and said that yes, that sounded good.

They did the shots of the party first, all the easy scenes where they only had to wander around, singing gently while the extras laughed and danced. JC leaning against a bar while a model behind him staggered drunkenly for seven takes, twisting her ankle on the last one so they had to replace her anyway and reshoot.

The fight was set in the kitchen, why, Lance had no idea.

He knew why Chris had suggested he take the role.

"Dude, he can't dance, but he can act." Wade had nodded thoughtfully and Britney had laughed and feinted a punch at Lance. Chris slapped him on the shoulder as he walked past and whispered "She finds out, you're dead, man."

Stainless steel and stark white, every surface gleaming and polished. A slab of black marble on the table in the center, the cameras angling over it. Chalk on the ground to block out their steps, Wade standing on the side, calling "Left arm, don't cover her face!"

In the morning, they filmed the first slap. Lance stumbled over and over. They iced his cheek and Britney's hand. The tux ripped next, his bowtie hanging artfully torn, a few buttons carefully cut on his shirt.

"Down on the floor now."

One take to rip the dress, practised on cheap cloth because there weren't that many Versace cocktail gowns this colour in her size. Roll her over on top, ass to the camera, stretch your leg, Britney! Rip now! Great, perfect.

Another punch and make-up started to add blue to his cheek, a little red.

Champagne glasses piled up on a counter top and the stunt double smiled reassuringly at him. "Ready?" he whispered. She threw herself back and the glasses shattered, sparkling under the fierce camera lights.

"Honey, it's fine," she said when he apologised, helping her up out of the glass. "See? No bruises."

Britney threw herself against his stunt double. He watched the replay on the camera, Wade calling out a beat to the punches. "One-two, one-two, sing with it!" On the camera, the images were jerky and pixellated, hands swinging too fast to be clear where they landed, what they did.

"One crowd shot, let's do this before the bleeding, people."

He lay down carefully and Britney straddled him, hitching the tattered dress up. A wardrobe assistant hurried over and fiddled with a garter strap, unhooking it. Makeup dabbed blood down his nose, a little on her knuckles.

"Places!"

He turned his head. Shiny shoes, black trousers, perfectly pressed. Tuxes and long legs in stockings and expensive dresses. Everyone crowded round and gasping, four men in the middle singing.

"Cut!"

Chris wandered closer and brushed Lance's hair out of his eyes. "Hit me, baby, one more time," he murmured.

"I heard that, Chris!" Britney laughed.

Lance sighed and refused to look at Justin, even when he ran over in the next break and whispered something sweet to Britney, something that made her shiver on top of him, left her smiling radiantly. His hand had rested lightly on Lance's thigh while he spoke to her.

Close ups of her face, make-up standing just out of sight of the camera. Britney's hair fanning out on the white floor, the red blood vivid as it pooled around her, dripping down her chin. She kept on singing, brown eyes wide open, singing while she bit down on ampule after ampule of fake blood. "Love me tender, love me rough, one more touch and we're through," she crooned.

He went to his trailer and locked the door while they filmed the scene with Justin carefully cleaning Britney's face.

They meant to go for dinner as a group, but JC had taken something and was sleepy and slurring, voices behind him when he called to cancel. Joey showed up only half the time and Chris was in a bad mood that night.

Halfway through dinner, he turned and the light caught Justin a certain way. He went from Justin, one hand under the tablecloth on Lance's knee, thumb stroking his kneecap, to Justin, beautiful, heart-breakingly beautiful Justin.

He wanted to know, was Justin beautiful if you didn't love him? He'd forgotten what Justin looked like before, when they were bandmates, closer than brothers. When he could sleep next to Justin on the bus, curled up for warmth and nothing more. When he didn't want to strip him, lick him, when Justin didn't stretch under him, moaning and whispering dirty, dangerous things. Did Justin look like a normal kid, someone unremarkable? Did he glow for everybody?

Britney reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, earth to Lance! Who you looking at?"

"Justin," he said, startled. "I mean. The two of you. You look pretty together." She laughed and patted his hand. Her hair was loose, rippling over her shoulders, the colour of ripe wheat, and when she smiled, he smiled back.

"You say the sweetest things," she said.

"Sweet tooth," Justin said and grinned lazily. "Me and Brit are the golden couple. But look -" he shifted back in his chair and held his fingers up to frame a camera. "You two are blondes. All gold and cream. I could eat you up."

She giggled. "Which one of us?" Slid her gaze at Lance and pulled him closer, her small hand tracing down his arm, threading through his hair, along his jaw. "Which one, Justin?" Then Britney kissed Lance open mouthed, her tongue along his lips. Her hand on his cheek and he slipped his arm around her, tugged at her hair sharply so she gasped, hot and quiet against his mouth, gasped and let him bite at her lips, kiss her hard.

"Well?" she said, touching her bruised mouth gently. "How was that?"

"Let's get the check," Justin said.

He left Britney asleep at her house and drove to JC's at four in the morning. Lance was waiting for him on the porch. They knocked over the umbrella stand, a painting off the wall and ended up on the stairs, rugburn and bruises across Justin's thighs where the edge of the steps hit him with every thrust.

In the shower afterwards, Justin hissed at the water on his back. Lance found a tube of antiseptic and rubbed it across the scratches.

Winter came late, soft and gentle and the plants were mostly still there, a little less lush. The leaves on the orange and lemon trees glossy green and late-blooming flowers fallen on the ground everywhere.

When they walked off the gravel paths, they had to tread on them. The crushed petals left their scent all over them, clothes and bare skin. It rained and they got black mud under their fingernails, behind their knees.

Britney stayed indoors and smoked, played poker with Chris and JC. Joey cooked huge meals and called Kelly all day. No-one else came to the house, no-one left, and when they heard her scream, all the strength of her voice in that one, long cry, they looked at each other in the living room.

Lance's cheeks burnt. "It wasn't meant to happen," he said. "It was an accident."

"What, you bumped into his dick?" Chris asked.

"Shut up," JC said absently. He put down his magazine and looked calmly at Lance. "You want to go? We'll cover for you."

He shook his head. The shouting was getting closer. "I'm gonna. I'll go find them. Maybe you guys should. Um. Go out for a while."

They were in his bedroom, where the sheets were tangled at the bottom of the bed, and the wastebin had been tipped across the clean white sheets, wadded up tissue paper, poptart wrappers and used condoms.

She broke off when she saw him at the doorway. Doubled over and started crying, huge gasping sobs that sounded like she couldn't breathe. Justin was on the other side of the room, shards of a broken lamp on the floor next to him, the telephone flung next to it, the dial tone audible in the sudden quiet.

Justin didn't look at him. His mouth was stretched thin, his hands curled into fists.

"What's going on?" Lance asked anyway.

"You fucking bastards," she said, straightening up and wiping at her face roughly. She laughed and her crying made it a gulping, raw sound. "All this time. Telling me you didn't know who the fuck it was."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

"How long?"

"Not long," he said, taking a step into the room. "It'll stop."

"Damn right it will," she said, nodding fervently. "Don't you fucking come any closer."

"Brit, he loves you," Lance said. "He doesn't love me. It wasn't, it wasn't anything." He didn't look at Justin but he heard him shift, knew he was coming closer, angrier and angrier. "It was just sex. He was upset about things."

He could feel the heat radiating off her, fever bright and trembling with adrenaline. "Really?" she said. Her eyes glittered.

"It'll stop," he said. "It won't happen again."

She hit him on the jaw, an open handed slap that left his ears ringing. His face felt like it was on fire, stinging and raw. When her other hand swung out in a clumsy, rage fuelled fist, he caught her wrist automatically, twisted it back so she whimpered. He could feel the bones in her wrist grind against each other in the press of his fingers.

"He said it was you," she spat and kicked him in the shin so he staggered back, little splinters of pain along his leg, his eyes prickling with tears. She said "I hate you. I hate you," and lashed at him, her hands held like claws, nails dragging down his arm with a steady heaviness, as if she could dig deep enough and reach bone. It hurt and he swore and tried to push her off, but she sobbed and hit him harder. "He said he loved you."

When he hit her, it was nothing like the movies. Faster and slower and his hand hurt, the sound was a dull crunch and then there was blood. She didn't scream exactly, not the kind of scream he expected from her. More a gasp and a sound like a baby crying, desperate and harsh.

"Don't, don't," he heard someone say and it was Justin, Justin holding his hand, still balled up in a fist, bright red blood slicked over it, dripping down the back of his wrist. "Oh fuck," Justin whispered.

Britney was crouched on the floor, rocking back and forth on the balls of her heels, her hand over her nose, blood splashing on the floor, drop by drop. She was crying, that was the sound like a plane leaving, the steady roar in the background.

"I hate you," Lance said and swung at Justin. He didn't hit him hard, couldn't quite aim properly, his hand felt swollen and broken. Justin went down anyway, a streak of red on his cheek, glossy like paint, the red of the bruise underneath, a soft powdery red.

Finish it, he thought. Finish it. Britney, one hand fumbling out to Justin, to stroke his face while she wept, Justin staring wide-eyed at Lance.

Finish it. His hand throbbed.

On his knees, shuffling forward, the words tumbling loose, his shirt coming off with trembling fingers working at the buttons, tugging it off. Pushing Justin's hand away from his face and kissing the bruise there. Justin hissed and cracked his head against Lance's. "Hit me," Lance begged. "Hit me."

He crawled into the space between them, one arm around Britney's waist, Justin struggling underneath, legs kicking, and maybe Justin was taller, stronger, but they could hold him down, the two of them. Hold him down and hit him.

She kissed Lance, closed-mouth and tight, dragged her hand down his back. Somehow that hurt worse than the punches, the slaps. The hot quick fire of her nails and he arched his back and bit down on her lip, kissed her angrily until she opened under him, until they were both tangled on top of Justin, kissing and scrabbling at each other, at the clothes in between them, the sweat that made them stick together, glide apart.

"Hit him," she whispered, and it might've been "I hate him," but Lance thought it didn't much matter and drove his elbow into Justin's ribs. He didn't know he was shouting until she covered his mouth with her hand, shaking her head and saying his name desperately.

"I didn't mean to," Lance said, bewildered.

She sighed and bent down over Justin. His eyes were closed and he was breathing in short, shallow gasps. "Sssh," she murmured. "Oh baby." She kissed his forehead, stroked his hair. Justin opened his eyes and she kissed him again, gently.

Her dress came off easily, the zip sliding down, one strap broken already. No bra, tiny thin panties that Justin yanked down her thighs, left around her knees. Lance dragged himself up, her head on his lap, holding her hand, their fingers white-knuckled together. On top of her, Justin was long and lithe, muscles flexing with liquid grace. He held himself up on his elbows, grunting in pain when his bruised ribs brushed her breasts.

At the end, he lifted himself up, back curved painfully, looking at Lance who gripped Britney's hand tighter. She didn't complain but pressed a dry kiss on his hand. Justin thrust harder, jagged, rough jerks and Britney bit her lower lip, the cut breaking again. Lance wiped her chin with her dress.

"I love you," she said afterwards, and Justin nodded wearily and rolled off her. She was still holding Lance's hand, and when she let go, his hand prickled with pins and needles.

She was smaller than he remembered, softer. Slippery wet and fever hot. There was no friction, nothing to hold onto because when he tried, she winced with pain and so he pulled her to him, nestled her against his shoulder. Her knees against her chest, all of her folded up small and soft inside his arms. He'd forgotten how that felt, the way their breasts moved against his chest, the curve of her ass under his hands.

Justin came behind him, fitting his body behind Lance, knees to knees, same to same, and Lance kissed Britney, covered her face with tiny soft kisses. Whispered her name when he came, when Justin's hand, wet and unseen, had slid down, fingers inside and all the pain floating away, vivid clear quiet and blood rushing in his head.

He didn't want to leave her, didn't want to pull out from being curled tight around her, her hands patting his back, Britney whispering how much it hurt, how everything hurt, saying it with quiet surprise.

Then Justin crouched over them with a warm, wet washcloth. Wiped the blood from under her nose, along her cheek. The scratches on Lance's shoulder, down his side.

Held him, and rocked him, and it was like they were dancing, all three of them. Adrenaline fading and Lance's hand shook when he cupped the back of Justin's head, bent and kissed him. Britney watched and then she kissed Lance behind his ear, along his jaw while Justin moved slowly under them. When her head tilted back a little, her hand closed on Lance's again. It hurt, but he didn't pull away. He found the scratches along her arm, heavy, soft bruises under them like plums too-ripe, the scratches thin and sharp against his tongue. She said a lot of things when she came, her back stiff and her thighs tightly pressed around Justin's shoulders. Lance thought he might've heard his name.

In the car on the way to the hospital, no-one spoke. Britney shivered in the air-conditioning, her long hair still wet from the shower. Chris drove too fast, taking corners sharply, and Lance put out an arm to stop her from sliding into the door. Justin didn't let go of her hand in the E.R. while they put the stitches in.

Dusk, the scent of magnolia heavy in the air. Britney stubbed out her cigarette on the stone wall. The gravel crunched under her feet as she limped over to them. Slipped her hand into Lance's and rested her head on Justin's shoulder.

The bandages around Justin's rib were stiff and thick. Lance undid them slowly, tracing the bruises. Kissed them.

Evening light ebbing, blurring the edges. The curve of his throat when he leaned back under them. Her nails dug into Lance's wrist, and afterwards, in the shower alone, scrubbing himself clean, he could still see them, pale crescent marks. They were fading already.