Red Hot Cool
by Betty Plotnick
(Written for Alicia's Sparkly Garbage challenge. My song was Milk, and the pairing is for Alicia's birthday. Happy birthday!)
Adrenaline and the power-rush do funny things to all of them, to everyone, so they sort of
understand. Justin likes to go out afterward, and if he can't, he'll tackle Chris and roll around
with them til one or the other or both are bruised and weak as newborns. Joey likes to go out,
too, and if he can't, he'll make the party come to him. Lance doesn't usually get too spastic, but
he can't sleep for hours; he'll stay up half the night playing contract bridge online, his heel tapping
on the leg of his chair, humming "Celebrity" under his breath, except that the staccato sound of
"Celebrity" makes it not a hum, but a soft hammering sound, little half-grunts to the beat of the
music. Very sexy. Chris is pretty hyper, too, but not so you'd notice the difference.
"I'm wired," JC tells him one night, climbing over the bus furniture, rolling from one shoulder to
the other against the wall, testing the texture of the ceiling with his fingertips. "I'm hot, and I
can't settle down, and I'm bored."
"Welcome to my world," Chris says.
Justin comes out of the shower, towel around his shoulders, JC's red sweatpants on and nothing
else. Cruel. JC's pants. Except that really they are Justin's sweatpants, but he never wore them
until after they broke up; JC never let him, before. They're comfortable, worn thin but still warm,
like they carry body heat invisible inside the fibers. Like when coals go black again and look
harmless, but really they're hot to the touch, and fall in half if you touch them, throwing sparks
and bloody red in the center? Like that. Red, red hot, and he puts his fingertips in his mouth and
sucks on them protectively. They feel a little burned. Just from looking at Justin.
Chris jerks his thumb toward JC and says, "Would you please fuck this man? He's too big to be
bounding all over the bus; he's gonna break something."
"Justin's bigger, and he bounds," JC says, hoping to distract Justin from whatever he and his
fierce frown are about to say to Chris.
"Yeah, and Justin breaks things."
Hearts, JC wants to say, but he looks at the fresh buzz of Justin's hair, the shape of his arms, the
slope of his waist, and he's surprised to feel his heart not-broken in his chest. It's going like a
generator, and his hips are swaying side to side, restless and seized by distracting sense-memory,
and he is hotter than before, and harder, too, but he doesn't feel like anything at all is broken.
Justin, JC thinks at him, and smiles. Goodbye, sweetie, bye bye bye.
Justin catches sight of JC's grin and stares at him a second, doubtless wondering what the fuck it
means. "JC and I broke up," Justin grumbles, talking to Chris but casting a last, nervous glance
back at JC before he drops onto the couch and out of sight, except for his calves and his feet
hanging off the edge.
"I remember. It was a Very Special Episode of Road Rules: The PopOdyssey cast. You ate four
bags of Oreos and threw up in the hallway. I got all verklempt. It was worse than when Chandler
broke up with Janice the second time." One of Justin's feet vanishes, and Chris pitches forward
on the floor, over his own knees, with a pained whine.
"It's Ross and Rachel, though, really, isn't it?" JC says. "They go back so long, and they're both
really important, in the credits and everything."
"I liked Janice," Chris insists, and then yells in his best psycho-Jersey-girl voice, "Chandler!
Chandler Bing, OH MY GOD!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Justin yells back, in his own voice, and rolls off the couch and onto Chris. JC
slides down the wall, starting to giggle, and he can't stop for almost twenty minutes. Afterward,
his chest hurts and his face hurts and he is dizzy and still hard, and even a shower doesn't calm
him down, because the whole bathroom smells like Justin's skin and aftershave, and he gets jumpy
again, jerking off too enthusiastically and thinking about the way Justin used to bite his face, hard
and careful, and JC slips and feels a muscle in his leg twinge dangerously as he scrabbles for
footing.
Weak, he thinks to himself as he creeps past Justin's bunk, with the soft sound of Justin's awake-
breathing snaking out to grab him. So weak, because he would do it, in a hot second he'd let
Justin fuck the craziness out of him, push him back down to his baseline after the show had shot
him up into orbit. A little dignity would be nice, but nothing drops his vital signs like a really
good orgasm. It's okay, he is really okay and getting more okay with Justin's decision, but in the
back of his mind -- or maybe someplace else, heart or belly or balls -- he still doesn't think it was
really fair of Britney to push this *now.* Sure, fine, things are different than they used to be, she
wants exclusivity, and JC can understand that, has always known that someday Justin would
choose. But he isn't any *use* to Britney, now, on tour. It's very Marxist; Justin is goods and
services that should really be distributed according to need.
"I'm a sexual socialist," JC announces to Chris, who is still up playing his Tony Hawk game.
"You're a freak," Chris says. "And I mean that in every possible way."
"Do you think I should get a prescription? Tranquilizers?"
"Yeah, C. I think you should take more drugs. Because you don't have an addictive personality
at all, and plus we're not in the news nearly enough."
"I said, prescription."
"I know, I said you should. What could go wrong?"
"It kind of hurts," JC says. The energy, the intensity, the things that get fed to the crowds and
falling out of love and living four feet off the ground and on the move. He doesn't know how to
explain what *it* is, but maybe Chris knows.
Chris looks over his shoulder at JC, his eyes still rimmed with stage makeup. "Don't do it, C.
Not for a way out."
JC crouches down behind Chris and wraps his arms around Chris' neck, ignoring the
melodramatic gagging noise he makes. "Okay, I promise," he says, and then butts his forehead
against the side of Chris' head while Chris bats ineffectually at him. "Wanna be my new Justin?"
he proposes, grinning again.
"Oh, *how* I don't," Chris says, managing to get a hand on JC's chest and push him away. "You
boys gotta stop hitting on me. It's workplace harassment, is what it is."
What JC needs, he decides, is to go out more. He's young and single and attractive and famous,
and he thinks he should be enjoying it more, especially since he has all this extra energy. Only he
doesn't really want to go out with Justin, because it's the smallest sliver of awkward, especially if
JC is going to decide to hook up, which he thinks might be the point of going out when he's
wired after concerts. Chris doesn't like to go to any of the same places that JC does, and JC
knows that Joey always ditches whoever he goes out with; Joey is more your ride to the club than
your companion, and JC already has a limo. Lance doesn't usually go out.
JC thinks that Lance should go out more. Lance is young and single and attractive and famous,
and JC thinks he should be enjoying it more.
"Please?" he says, laying his cheek on top of Lance's head. "I know you want to. If you won't
do it for you, do it for your adoring public."
Lance smiles slightly; JC can see the reflection of it on the screen of his laptop. Lance drums his
fingers on the arm of the desk chair and seems to forget to answer JC. "I'm kind of in the middle
of something," he says when JC opens his mouth to try again. There's a spreadsheet in front of
him, with numbers that all have decimal points.
"It can wait," JC says. Numbers never go anywhere; they're always still yours to deal with in the
morning.
"You can wait."
"I can't," JC says, and it's true. He might die in the meantime. The strumming, thrumming sound
in his head might become too much; he could burst a blood vessel, or his heart could simply get
up and walk out of his chest, still beating like a stampede of gazelles, thousands of tiny, sharp
hooves on the dry ground. Do gazelles move in herds? JC thinks they do. Africa is so big;
there's room for everything to live in herds, and he's pretty sure from cable tv that they do.
"You're going to," Lance says. He thinks it's funny. He's a crocodile. Toothy, and lurking in
cool water, and you think he's slow but he isn't. Justin is a cheetah, and Chris he thinks might be
a hippopotamus, because it's such a funny word that you think it'll be a funny animal, and it is,
until it kicks you to death. He thinks that Joey is a warthog, but he wonders if he only thinks that
because of the Lion King. He's wondering which characters from the Lion King they would all be
when Lance says, "When I'm done here, okay, C?"
He reaches around Lance's body -- just to mute the screen, not turn the computer off, because his
life is still worth something to him, even in this state. He's giggling with almost no sound, just his
breath ruffling Lance's barely-damp hair. It's a game. JC is stubborn. He loves his life, except
for three hours after a concert, when he feels like he's wasting it, locked in place, killing time
when he should be having it all.
Lance's arms come up, and he grabs JC by the forearms. His hands are smooth and cool, and JC
doesn't expect them to be very effective at this, because he's used to Justin's big hands and
Lance's don't seem like that, but Lance is strong, and his hands come together easily. Slam,
together like he's clapping, and they slide, raising the hair on JC's arms, and JC's wrists are
sandwiched together and held up over Lance's head. JC stares down at Lance's upstretched
arms, with the sleeves of his t-shirt slipping backwards to expose skin and muscle. JC always
thought he had a thing for Justin's arms, but it's possibly just arms, in general.
"Wait," Lance says again, and the word is stronger than his hands.
He lets go then, thinking that JC has the message. And he does, JC gets it, but Lance doesn't see
that it's not that easy. Lance still thinks that JC is in control of himself, but the problem is, he's
not. Not when his blood is running juicy-hot through his veins like this.
JC puts his hands on Lance's shoulders and sinks his thumbs deep and low into the back of
Lance's neck. Lance sighs, and tilts back into it, just a tiny bit. He's a rat's nest back here,
everything snarled up and wiry-stiff. He presses in, rhythmically, and Lance's sigh becomes a
grunt, and he's reaching up and fumbling his glasses off with his eyes closed.
Poor Lance. He shouldn't get this knotted up after a show. He doesn't know how to take care of
himself at all. JC slides his hands forward, cresting Lance's shoulders, pushing down Lance's
chest.
It's all Lance's fault for not listening, anyway. JC tried to tell him, the whole reason he came here
is that he can't wait when he's like this. He can't *not.*
Lance is good at one thing -- well, more than one thing, but this one thing he's better than good
at, and it's striking while the iron is hot. There's a crash and the rush of the world upending, and
it's confusing and violent and the chair is caught somehow between them and then thrown loose,
and JC goes freefalling down, but he doesn't let Lance get away, and he doesn't think Lance is
trying to, anyhow.
He's on the hotel floor, against the foot of Lance's bed, and Lance is kneeling between his legs.
Lance is closer than usual -- higher than usual, too; his head is bent, and still he's looking down at
JC, breathing downward onto JC's face. JC can't find his own hands, but Lance's are right
*there,* one of them fisted in the back of JC's shirt, the other hooked into his waistband. He
drags JC up, and JC thinks he's won, although he didn't realize that he was even in the running
for *this.* It's like winning a lottery when you didn't even buy a ticket.
The bed shudders underneath him, and Lance's fingers slip between his, staggered with his like
the black and white keys on a piano, only more neatly and perfectly, one by one. Lance is
symmetrical like that. Lance is systematic. JC shudders underneath him and closes his eyes.
"You're a big pain in the neck sometimes," Lance says, and his palms are brushing over JC's; he's
doing something that JC can't see, something intriguing.
"I'm love and sweetness," JC says, trying to sound alluring. He's not sure what alluring sounds
like; he doesn't usually need to try for it. He doesn't think he needs to try for it now, but he
wants to anyway. He wants to know how much he can shift and push Lance, and in what
direction. Lance is heavy on top of him.
"You're a big. Pain. In the neck," Lance repeats, and JC starts to let his eyes drift open to see if
Lance is smiling at him, but then his eyes fly open so hard it hurts instead, as something happens
over his head, something cool and fierce. He arches his neck so he can see. Lance's fingers are
astonishingly deft as he contorts the pillowcase into a second knot around JC's wrists, just as
precise and intricate as the first one. Lance was probably a Boy Scout. JC is surprised that he
doesn't know for sure.
JC wants to ask, What are you doing? He can't seem to speak, though. He tries to pull his hands
apart, and he can't do that, either. The pillowcase is wide, smooth cotton, nothing thready or
sharp or hurtful, but it's not going anywhere, either. Resourceful Lance.
And anyway, JC is pretty sure he knows what Lance is doing.
Lance moves away, and JC's hips try to follow, but he can't arch far enough. Lance is really far
now, and JC's spine is complaining, and he has to fall back again. "What are you doing?" he says,
because now he's not so sure.
"Working," Lance says. He puts his glasses back on and sits down, with his back to JC.
"Bastard," JC gasps out. He feels like those little birds that sit in the open mouths of crocodiles.
Why don't the crocodiles close their mouths, make little bird shishkebobs on their long teeth?
Dental hygiene, as JC recalls. He's not sure what Lance's excuse is, but it probably isn't related
to flossing.
He never thought Lance was cruel for not touching him before. It's all so unexpected. His hips
rise up again, looking for Lance's hard stomach to push against, and he whimpers when he
doesn't find it. "Lance," he says, a whisper that he draws out like a taffy pull.
"I'd rather not gag you, C," Lance says. He sounds indifferent; he'd *rather* not, but it's a
preference. He'd do it. He would do it, and it wouldn't really matter that much, and JC inhales,
hard. It might be a gasp, if he's feeling honest with himself. He scrubs his back against the
blankets, and scratches them with his toenails. He's so fever-full of energy and imagination that
he knows he won't live through this. He could stand up and walk out, but who would he ask to
untie him? There are plenty of candidates, and JC doesn't love the idea of any of them.
And if he walks out, who's to say Lance will let him back in again?
Well, JC knows one thing. He can't just lie here and wait. He brings his hands slowly up and
back down in front of him. His eyes get dizzy just trying to trace the coils of Lance's knots. Boy
Scout, surely. JC rubs his wrists together, trying to shimmy out of the pillowcase, but the knots
seem to tighten as he fidgets. Do they teach *that* in the Boy Scouts? Maybe he should have
joined.
Lance is typing, just carrying on with his life. It's annoying.
Or, not annoying. More like hot.
JC has his fingers curled around his dick for a good two minutes before he realizes that he can do
that, easy. He can reach himself. He stares at the back of Lance's neck, willing him to turn
around. It doesn't work. JC unzips his pants with his left hand and tries to bring his left hand up
to his mouth at the same time. Habit. That doesn't work, either, and he feels stupid for not
remembering. He pulls his hands up together and licks both of them, palms and between each of
his fingers, and palms again. He thinks that would probably work by itself, if Lance would turn
around turn around turn around and watch him, *bastard.*
It doesn't matter. He doesn't need Lance.
All he needs is his own touch, fast and hard, just the smallest bit too dry to be comfortable.
That's almost the best part -- that it doesn't feel quite right, that it's not how he would usually do
it. It keeps Lance burned inside his eyelids, because Lance, this is Lance's fault. Lance is doing
this to him, and JC is suddenly panting, straining. He wants out of his pants, but that's work, and
it means he'd have to remove his dick from the natural cup of his bound hands, which are hot and
have fingers that twitch and quiver constantly against tender skin.
His own breathing seems louder than before. It is louder than before, but also, there's suddenly
no other sound in the room. No click of keys. JC opens his eyes to slits. Lance is turned just a
little, tiny bit at the waist in his chair. His elbow is on the back, and his cheek rests on his fist.
He's facing a wall, not looking all the way back at JC, but JC is sure he can see green. Lance's
eyes slanting covertly. Lance watching.
JC throws his head back and then focuses, bringing all the electricity in his body into a hard,
straight line down his backbone, the mainline. The force of it brings him surging forward, and he
comes up on his knees, suddenly sweating.
"Stay down," Lance says. He's quiet, but JC can't miss it. Can't ignore it.
Fuck you, JC thinks, and then, come here and make me. That's a good thought, good all over:
Lance pushing him down, Lance's knee maybe on him so he can barely breathe, until Lance slides
forward and puts his cock to JC's lips. Already, JC almost can't make his lungs open up the way
they're supposed to, and he's just thinking about it.
He opens his eyes all the way. He licks his lips and tries to think of a way to make Lance
understand that he can't wait, can't, it's nothing personal, he's just not himself right now and he
needs to burn it off.
Lance isn't moving at all, not even tapping his foot on the leg of the chair. He's still and
controlled. He says *stay down* like he knows what he's asking. He probably doesn't. But if he
does? Or maybe, if he could? If JC could teach him?
JC lays himself back down. He closes his eyes again and tries to think like Lance. Patient.
Watchful, waitful. Cool as the deep blue ocean. He starts to touch himself again, slow.
Dangerously slow. It makes him ache worse than no touch at all, and he has to stop. He brings
his hands up to his mouth and puts the pillowcase between his teeth, a temporary gag, just to keep
himself from swearing or begging. The urge passes quickly, and when it's gone, he wants to get
off worse than he wants to fly apart. The rest is easy.
After, he's so calm, so incredibly mellow. Even the warm stickiness turning to cool tackiness on
his abs, where slithering around made his shirt ride up, can't disturb him. Nothing drops JC's
vital signs like a really good orgasm. He puts his hands over his head, elbows bent. The backs of
his fingers rest against the warmth of his hair and the chill of the naked pillow.
He hears the clicking begin again, slowly. JC hums happily, turning his face against his arm.
Lance is sweet and funny and dependable, the way he always, always finishes what he starts. JC
loves Lance.
JC opens his eyes and the room is dark. Lance is sitting beside him, his fingers breaking apart the
knots as easily as he put them together. JC eases his arms apart reluctantly, feeling the pillowcase
slide away, hot where his skin has been touching it, cool where it hasn't, and he shivers and
extends one arm. It aches a little, at the elbow, but he doesn't care. He drapes it all the way over
Lance's lap and puts his hand on Lance's hip.
Lance touches his hand. It's nice. Even when he lifts JC's hand and moves it away, it's a nice
touch, friendly. "Go to bed, C," he says.
JC rolls on his side. He nuzzles right in underneath the hem of Lance's shirt, putting his face on
the smooth skin of his waist, right where it's not quite his back and not quite his side. It seems
like a hidden place, a nameless, secret place, and it smells green and beachy and delicious.
Lance's breathing jackrabbits.
JC pushes up on his elbow and pulls at Lance. Lance comes down on his back, wrong-way-side
on the bed, and he's looking up into JC's face. He looks like kisses, so JC bends down to kiss
him.
He gets Lance's thumb instead, pressed to his lips while Lance's fingers smooth against his cheek.
"No, we're not going to," Lance says. It's quiet but firm, and if it didn't trail away at the end like
Lance can't finish, it would sound very sure.
"Why not?" JC asks him.
"Because you're Justin's ex-boyfriend?" Lance's tone that implies that only the stupidest man in
the world wouldn't know that in the first place. JC is fairly sure he picked it up from Chris.
JC thinks, So what? And he fills in the so what in his head, in Lance's voice, and Lance is wrong,
he knows it. Justin won't be jealous; he might be a little sad, but mostly he'll be happy for JC,
and he'll tease JC a lot, him and Chris, and maybe he'll say Damn straight when Chris says At
least he's not spazzing out all over the place every night. After, secretly, Justin will check up on
him, poke and prod until he's sure that JC is pleased by this, and well-treated and well-rested.
JC takes Lance's hand in his and moves it away firmly. It's such a waste to explain anything to
Lance. Lance is not a listener. "One," JC promises. "Just one, a little one."
It's more than three hours since the concert ended, and JC has had an orgasm and a nap and he's
a whole new man. He puts his lips against Lance's and rests them there, cool and peaceful, and
he feels the blood pulsing in him, washing steadily like the tide, not out of control. Lance looks
tense, but JC can't do anything about that unless Lance asks.
Lance kisses back. Not a lot. Just enough that JC can feel soft wetness, where a moment ago
there was nothing but Lance's dry lips. JC draws back, enough that Lance can tell him if he wants
one to be two, if he wants go to be stay. Lance is breathing heavily, but he sets his mouth in a
stubborn line and says nothing. JC sits up, laughing. Lance is not a crocodile. He's a mule.
"I'm coming back tomorrow," JC tells him, as he gets off the bed.
"Dammit, JC," Lance says.
"You promised you'd go out with me."
"Well, maybe I don't want to anymore," he says, waspishly.
JC laughs again. He can't believe that just a couple of days ago, he was considering tranquilizers,
as if he could ever need or want to feel more tranquil than right now. Nothing hurts, nothing at
all. He may live forever. "Then I guess we'll stay in." Lance flips him off, but it's the only move
he makes. He doesn't even really lift his arm.
Lance is patient. Lance is thorough. Lance always finishes what he starts, and he's good at
waiting for the perfect moment.
JC is exactly the same way.
JC is wired after a concert. He vibrates, like his whole body has become nothing more than so
much sound equipment, channeling music unbearably loud and too low for the human ear to hear.
He can't stop moving, can't think, can't do anything but reel giddily around the room, songs
pooling underneath his tongue, sweat crystallizing on his skin, ready to go again, or to bite
something, or explode. Sometimes he starts laughing and can't stop.