"Hey, c'mere!" Justin calls, and Trace turns circles in place in the hallway, feeling stupid. Come
*where?* The new house is the size of Trace's high school back home, laid out with all kinds of
turns and T-shapes and a rotunda at one end. The decorators have barely started with it, too, so
all the rooms still look a lot alike, and Trace can only tell them apart by the neat labeling on the
sides of the boxes in them.
"Where are you?" he shouts. If all else fails, he's got his cell phone on him; he guesses he could
call Justin for directions.
"In the closet."
Trace navigates toward the voice. "Insert obligatory joke?"
"Insert obligatory pretending you're funny," Justin answers amiably. Trace opens a closet door,
and there's nobody there. Jesus, this *house.* Eight million dollars for a place where Trace is
gonna need a guide dog to get from room to room. "Trace!"
"*Which* closet?"
There's a thumping sound on the wall right beside him, shave-and-a-haircut. Trace knocks his
reply and tries next door.
"You gotta look at this stuff," Justin says when Trace walks into the right closet with him. Justin
is crawling among the boxes. "Mom sent these; it's all stuff that's been in her attic forever. Here,
remember this?"
The tiara is smaller than Trace remembers it being, either because he's bigger now, or because
he's seeing it held in Justin's bigger, adult hands. "Be careful with that," he says, as Justin pries it
a little wider so it fits, more or less, on his head. "It's probably cheap and breakable."
"I"m not gonna break it. See, they didn't let me wear it on stage."
"I remember. I also remember you put it on at the pizza party. Dude, seriously, take it off. I'm
having bad flashbacks."
"To what?"
"I don't know, maybe all the fights I got into because of hanging out with you? I got beat up
three times in junior high by Scott Metcalf alone."
Justin rolls his eyes. "Scott Metcalf. And where is he now, you know? Living in some trailer
park and fucking somebody fat and ugly, I bet." He flashes his diamond smile and kneels up,
resting his hands on Trace's waist. "Not like us."
He means it, too, that's the adorable thing about Justin. One of the adorable things about Justin.
Trace brushes his palm lightly over Justin's face and says, "Too bad about that crack in my crystal
ball. Would've been nice to know how the story ends back when I was in the seventh grade."
"You doubted me?" Justin is smiling, but there's honest surprise in his voice, too. Justin's crystal
ball was always in working order, always showed him success and money and more praise and
more Trace in his future. Trace tries to remember when he really started to believe it all, and he's
torn between thinking *always* and thinking *not yet.* A little bit of both.
"Hey, think of it this way," Trace offers. "This way, you know for sure that I've always " He taps
Justin's nose with his finger "loved you-- " and bends down to kiss his forehead "beyond all
reason." And it's the truth, too. People think there must be a whole list of reasons that Trace
hangs on to Justin now, and maybe there is, but they never seem to be aware of the matching list
that Trace has been carrying around all his life of reasons to get the hell away -- starting with that
aluminum-and-paste trinket on Justin's head right now.
His hands curve carefully against Justin's neck, and Justin's fingers pet his wrists for a minute
before hooking into his belt. "Does *every room in the house* include closets?"
"Kinky," Trace laughs, and mostly he's laughing because by Justin's standards it *is* kinky.
Justin thinks sixty-nines are kinky. Hell, Justin probably thinks it's kinky when the candles smell
like citrus instead of vanilla. See, if Trace were the king of the world, he'd have a boyfriend who
begged Trace to do things like tie his hands behind his back, fuck his mouth, write obscene and
possessive words on his body in hidden places with permanent marker. Trace's fantasies are
mildly sadistic and fire-hot, porn-fueled images of jerking Justin off in a half-full subway car,
passing through a strobe of tunnel lights and cool darkness -- fucking him rough and wordless
with a twelve-inch dildo -- watching Justin take it from four other guys first (Trace likes to vary
the lineup, but lately it's been Nelly, Joey, the boxer on the pay-per-view porno they ordered in
Las Vegas, and Tom Welling), then being the last one in, with Justin weak and whimpery and
sloppy-hot-wet inside. Things that would freak Justin out so hard he'd need to be sedated.
It's kind of a big cosmic joke, really. Trace's boyfriend is a five-star wet dream, the honest to
Christ jerk-off fantasy on legs for millions -- he's just not *Trace's* fantasy. Well, but he's
Trace's reality, and Trace loves him something fierce the way he is, soft-focus Harlequin sex life
and all. He looks at Justin, blue, eager eyes and wide, innocent smile, the curls and the tiara, and
he can't help laughing. Justin's smile dips a little, and Trace says, "Would you please take that
off?"
Justin's eyes sparkle as he pulls off the wifebeater he's wearing. Trace rolls his eyes and reaches
for the tiara, but Justin leans back, suddenly oddly serious. "No, I wanna. Please? I want to."
Trace is bemused. *This* is Justin's kink? He can't decide if it's some nascent cross-dressing
thing, or if Justin gets off on stuff that he's won. But hell, he's the last person who's going to
crush Justin's process of getting in touch with his inner fetishist. "Whatever you say, princess."
Because it's not like he's complaining, not really. Justin is the dictionary definition of vanilla, but
hell, that's what fantasy is *for,* and in the meantime, in real life, there's an undeniably beautiful
boy down on his knees and getting naked for Trace. Trace leans against the wall and unbuttons
his jeans as Justin shimmies out of his pants, all gold-dust skin and slithery hips and defined
muscle. That kid who was too pretty for anyone's good, holy shit, look at him now, life-sized and
so ready for it, with one hand wrapped around his long, hard cock and the other hand guiding
Trace's into his hot mouth. Trace growls and wraps his hand around the back of Justin's neck.
Trace teases when he goes down on Justin, laps softly at his stomach while he squirms, uses his
thumb and one finger on the head of Justin's cock while he licks rough and slow at his balls. He
likes to make Justin's knees come up and apart, Justin's pretty voice go all shrill and whiny when
he says, *Please, Trace, come on, baby, baby, please.*
Justin doesn't do that. Justin goes for it, for whatever he wants, and when what he wants is to
suck Trace's brains out, it's not going to not happen. The only way out is to roll Justin over and
fuck him instead, and actually today Trace feels pretty willing to lean here and let Justin have his
own way. Justin, always aware of his audience, adjusts his neck, his eyes flicking up to make
sure Trace is looking down at him, at the bulge of his own cock tucked against Justin's cheek
from the inside. Trace is looking. His hand slides up to the back of Justin's head, his thumb
rubbing circles in Justin's hair. He looks so good with it shaved, but those curls feel so good in
Trace's hands; Trace is never sure which way he should be casting his vote, so it's a good thing
that Justin is naturally erratic. This way, Trace gets some of both.
Justin pulls off with a little gasp, and for a second Trace is afraid he was fucking Justin's mouth
in real life the way he was inside his head, but it's not that. Justin is fine, he just wanted to drag
his tongue along Trace's dick as he pulled away, and he does it again and again, long, noisy licks
that do almost as much for Trace with the sound as the feeling. Trace arches his head back and
groans, and suddenly the only thing wrong with this closet is that there should be a fan or an air
conditioner or something, because it's a hundred and five degrees in here, and still all he wants is
more of Justin's two-hundred-and-five-degree mouth all over him.
He closes his hand over the back of Justin's when Justin slides it up inside Trace's t-shirt. Justin
opens his mouth again and rolls his jaw unconsciously, stretching it wider in a move that always
does nice things for Trace's self-esteem. He's only gone halfway down on Trace, though, when
he pulls back again, sucking on the crown for a minute and then looking up. "Not like this," he
says raspily, and twists his hand under Trace's to tug on his shirt from the inside. "I want -- down
here with me, come down here, okay?"
There's something going on with Justin, and Trace really does want to know what it is, out of
sheer curiosity as well as concern. He tries to get down on his knees with Justin, but Justin
unbalances him, drops them both down to the carpet, and along with the wanting to talk about it
thing, Trace wants to finish kicking off his jeans and rub up on Justin's sweat-slick thigh, so he
does that, too, and kisses Justin, and says, "Are you okay? You're acting kind of weird."
Justin kisses him back harder, then kisses his neck so that the fake diamonds of the tiara scratch
at Trace's face. "That pizza party," Justin says against the tattoo on his neck. "Do you
remember? You wanted me to put it on. You put it on me."
"I think I was messing with you."
"I think you were proud of me."
"I was," Trace says, surprised that he can suddenly remember this, suddenly knows it's true. "Of
course I was. You won, didn't you?"
Justin pulls Trace's shirt off and rubs his face against Trace's shoulder. Trace scratches through
his hair gently and makes a minor adjustment to the tiara, which looks a little precarious, what
with all this rolling around. "All my life, there's been things -- things that make me happy, but it
doesn't matter, people don't -- or wouldn't -- if they knew, or when they find out -- they don't like
it. Don't like me."
"Fuck them," Trace says against his ear. "Fuck the stupid people, for real, man."
"I know, but -- I mean, I don't *care,* but -- you're different. You never changed your mind
about me."
Trace nuzzles his cheek and says, "What, because you went after stuff you wanted? That's not a
reason to like you *less.*"
"It's a little crazy, but I did want it. I wanted to win. You know, it was the first thing I ever won
that I really felt like I *needed* to win."
Trace lets his fingers play up the ridges over Justin's stomach. "I'd be lying if I said I knew why,
you know? Like some crappy piece of costume jewelry is gonna make any difference. You're
the best of everything, and if that's what you needed to let you know that, then I'm glad you got it.
But *why* you ever needed to be told that, I don't really get it. I mean, anyone with eyes could
see."
Justin rolls out of Trace's arms and onto his back. "Okay," he says, and he's breathing hard, and
his eyes have that dangerous glint, the one that means he's found something new he's ready to
chase. "This is what I want." He pulls on Trace's arms, maneuvers him so that he's kneeling over
Justin's chest. Justin folds one hand into the palm of the other, his wrists overlapping, and raises
his hands up over his head. Carefully, afraid to move too suddenly and make everything dissolve
somehow, Trace covers his wrists with one hand, holding them down to the carpet, and shifts
forward so that the head of his cock taps at Justin's lips. "Like this," Justin prompts, and his
tongue nudges Trace as he flicks drops of pre-come off his upper lip. His eyes cloud over for a
moment, and he says, "It's okay, you can just do it. I think it would be sexy like this," with a
desperate mixture of stubbornness and nerves.
"Let me just make sure I get this." It's physically painful to speak, but Trace can't misunderstand,
couldn't bear to hurt or scare Justin somehow, even if.... Well, he doesn't want to be wrong. He
wants *so* bad to be right. "Are you saying you think it would be sexy if we -- if it was kind of -
- rougher than normal?"
"I trust you," Justin says. Trace isn't sure if that means *so I know whatever you want to do to
me will be fine* or *so I don't mind telling you all my dark, dirty secrets,* but he is sure there
will be better times to discuss it later on.
Trace leans forward, putting his weight on his arms, and then sinks into Justin's mouth. He can't
see much of Justin like this, just his trembling hands, and he dips his head down to run his
tongue lewdly over Justin's palm. "Sexy," he whispers, and bites Justin's fingertips. "So sexy.
You were always so good at this. Must be because you like it so damn much." Justin whimpers,
a muffled noise that carries all the way through Trace's body.
It's strange like this, without running his fingers over Justin's hair, without Justin's hands
wandering all over his body and Justin's eyes gazing up at him. It's impersonal like this, with
Trace controlling how deep and how fast it goes, and Justin doesn't need to be anything more to
him than a hot, eager tongue and a throat that's open and relaxed. He worries for a minute about
Justin's voice, but it's all production at this point anyway, and really nobody knows what his
voice can and can't take better than Justin, so it must be all right.
It must be all right, if it feels like this -- either all right or so very, very wrong, going-straight-to-
hell wrong. Trace is afraid it's edging up into that region, into things that are strictly forbidden
because if you do them once you'll never want to do anything else again. Justin gasps for air
every time he pulls out, harsh and shallow noises, helpless noises, and Trace wants things he's
sure he shouldn't want. A blowjob from Justin Timberlake really ought to be enough for almost
anybody, especially a guy like Trace, but he wants more and suspects he may always want more,
deeper, further over the edge, anything he doesn't know if he can get from Justin or not.
He bites the inside of Justin's wrist, the base of his thumb, muttering *fuck* and *cocksucker*
into Justin's hands. He can feel Justin tense and twitchy underneath him, hear Justin's foot
scrubbing back and forth on the carpet, and he's taking it, just taking everything, and just that by
itself is maybe the hottest thing that's ever happened to Trace. Then Justin's hands move,
stretching up so that one finger can touch Trace at the outer corner of his eye, right where Justin
likes to kiss him goodnight.
And that makes it Justin, makes it really *Justin,* and Trace isn't so sure he can finish this. He
sits back on his heels over Justin's chest, which heaves underneath him as Justin takes long,
needy breaths of air with his eyes shut. They open slowly, with a flutter of lashes, and he looks
confused. Trace touches Justin's swollen mouth and says, "I would never hurt you. I would
*never* hurt you."
"I'm not scared of you." Justin tries to make it a scoff, tries to smile, but it's thin and synthetic.
He brings his hands down to settle near Trace's knees and slide up his thighs. "I just wanted to --
I thought you'd like it? I mean, I know you'd do stuff if I asked you to, and I want to. You don't
even have to ask me, it's okay."
Justin rubs his cock lightly in one hand, the other still making soft circles on Trace's thigh.
"You're sweet," Trace says hoarsely, running his fingernails over the back of Justin's forearm,
feeling the muscles move as Justin's fingers flex on his dick. "But, you know, there's no stage
here." He runs his finger over the rough edges of Justin's tiara. "It can just be real. It doesn't
have to be anything other than what you feel like doing." Justin smiles at him, and it's real, it's
*everything* real.
They roll together until Trace is dizzy, until he's banged walls and boxes with most every part of
his body, but he can hardly feel it at all. He can't feel anything but Justin's kisses, Justin's hand
stroking his dick matched by Justin's dick in his hand. The tiara comes loose at some point,
bounces off Trace's shoulder and onto the carpet, and Justin doesn't seem to notice; he's too busy
licking every part of Trace's mouth and running his hand up and down Trace's chest. Trace
comes exactly the way he's come hundreds of times before, all over Justin's stomach, with Justin
murmuring *love* and *for real* against his mouth.
When Trace can't move at all, when he's actually pretty sure he'll never move again, Justin is just
recovering from his own orgasm, wriggling sticky and restless against Trace's side. He reaches
across Trace and picks up the tiara, setting it on Trace's chest so that he can rest his cheek right
next to it and examine it at eye-level. Trace strokes his short curls affectionately. "I didn't need
it," Justin says. "I wanted it, but I didn't need it to believe anything. You believing it -- that's
what makes me believe."
"And I don't need -- whatever you think I do."
"Dude, I've known you too long for you to hide anything from me. Once you know what kind of
porn a guy keeps around...."
"Porn's just porn, Justin. You're the real thing."
Justin turns his head so his face is half-hidden on Trace's shoulder. "It wasn't, like...some huge
sacrifice," he says quietly. "I said I thought it was sexy."
Trace's heart ping-pongs around his chest for a minute, but he manages not to do anything
embarrassing, like start panting. "Well, you know," he says casually, "we could always try again
sometime. That, or other stuff. You know, it's not like we can never speak of this again." He
says the last part in a dramatic voice-over kind of voice that makes Justin giggle. He lifts his
head far enough to kiss Justin's temple, and he can feel the shift in Justin's face, the way his eyes
crinkle up at the corners when he grins his wide, beauty-pageant smile.