"They said no more sugar," Justin says regretfully. He can't take his eyes off the Pixie Stix in
Lance's fist, pink and spring green and sky blue. He should be so sick of them by now, but he's
not. His mouth waters at just the thought of them, of the fierce tang, the tiny, sharp grains that
catch on his chapped lips and the flavor that's too intense against his scratchy, over-used throat,
almost painful. Lance rattles them softly together with an evil little smile, and Justin rolls off his
low bunk and shuffles forward on his hands and knees, trying to slink under the ever-present eyes
of grown-ups who are full of helpful fucking advice, like no more, Justin, you'll be up all night.
He wants to be up all night. From the tang in Lance's candy-green eyes, he knows it, too.
Lance makes a low clicking sound with his tongue behind his teeth, teasing Justin, calling him
like a dog. Fuck you, Justin mouths. He feels unsteady as he crawls forward, the road-
roughness that much more obvious when he's this low to the bus floor.
Wanna? Lance mouths back, smirking at him. It makes Justin blush; he's working on
breaking that habit, concentrating hard and teaching himself just like he taught himself not to list
to the left when he dances and not to stare at Lance when he takes his shirt off. Not when
anyone's watching, anyway.
He hopes he doesn't look like a loser, blushing, because he thinks he's getting good at this,
otherwise. He puts his hands on Lance's knees and raises himself up, and he can look dead into
Lance's eyes now and not be the first to falter and look away. He lets himself smile very slowly,
a smile that suggests he knows more than Lance thinks he does, and he tips his head to the side.
That almost always works. Lance can't help bringing his fingers up to touch the swell of Justin's
cheekbone, and it's smooth on smooth and Justin holds his breath and tightens all his muscles,
because if he doesn't, he'll shiver and crane his neck, leaning into the touch. He'll push his face
against Lance's shea-butter scented palm, he'll lick at Lance's hand and whine for more, and
Justin's never done any of that, but he can see himself doing it. He lives on the edge of it, acting
like he's living a normal -- okay, wildly abnormal, but heterosexual -- life and knowing all the
time that he's thisclose to saying hell with it and trotting out all his best tricks to get
Lance's attention. Man's best friend, Justin Timberlake -- he sings, he dances, he begs, he rolls
over. A bargain at twice the price.
Justin's hand creeps up Lance's leg, his fingers climbing the shape of Lance's fist, over knuckles
and fingers until he gets his own fingers around the Pixie Stix and tugs, because it's not going to
be tonight. He'll go through his paces for a harmless little sugar fix tonight, but Justin has very
definite ideas about how and when he intends to come to heel for Lance, and it's not here and
now. But he can't ignore all his cravings, all at the same time. He wants that fucking candy.
"What do we say?" Lance sings, just a breath. People are sleeping on the bus all around them --
not just the other guys, who might be cool about it, maybe, but Johnny, for Christ's sake.
There's a driver, who is not sleeping, just on the other side of a curtain.
"Please," Justin says anyway.
"Think you can handle it?" Lance says. "It's not too much for you, baby?" Justin thinks
he means for it to get under Justin's skin and piss him off, and it almost does, except for the way
Lance draws it out, melodic and so sexy. Justin turns sixteen in the winter and he's not anybody's
baby. Lance can call him that, though; Justin can't quite work himself up to mind.
Not that he's gonna let Lance know that, of course.
"Think you know everything I can do -- baby?" he fires back. Justin knows it's rash.
Now if he can't come up with something Lance hasn't seen before, he'll fall behind and it'll take
him ages to catch back up to Lance.
He's won the first round, though, from down here on his knees. So there. Lance is the one who
has to kiss him, juicy and open-mouthed with his hand pressed flat to the back of Justin's head,
and Justin's mouth was watering before, but now it's all he can do to keep from drooling. He
grabs at Lance's bare arm for balance and swallows desperately. His lips are wet and everything
feels slick and open, and his heart jumps in sudden terror as he imagines doing it now,
right now, taking Lance into his mouth, the weight of the dick that Justin has measured a
dozen times or maybe more with his hand just easing wet and silky and luscious down into his
throat. Slip-n-Slide, Justin thinks. Like the game. Just that easy. Justin's fingers dig into
Lance's knees and he sucks on Lance's tongue and lips, and wouldn't that surprise Lance?
Wouldn't that make him, just for once, the one playing catch-up to Justin?
Not tonight, though. Not like this, where he's afraid to get caught. Justin's standards for the
perfect moment are getting lower day by day, but he's still committed to that much. Not when
he's afraid.
Lance rips the first Pixie Stik open with his teeth and taps some of the pink powder onto his
thumb. Justin shies away when he lifts his hand; he won't do that, it's too weird, but he can't keep
his mouth from opening anyway. Lance turns his hand and the sugar showers onto Justin's
tongue, his lower lip, onto his chin and down the front of his t-shirt. He sputters his protest, but
he licks his lips, too, trying to taste what hasn't fallen. There's candy left on Lance's hand, and
Justin tangles his fingers with Lance's and licks it off slow. Hell with it, right?
"You're so sexy," Lance rasps. His thumb swipes roughly across Justin's lips, like he's trying to
disguise how his hand is shaking. He laughs unsteadily and says, "You have absolutely no right
to be this sexy. Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?"
"Kinda," Justin says. It's always been really easy to be honest with Lance, whenever it's just the
two of them.
Lance kisses his forehead hard. His thumb brushes wetly against the corner of Justin's eye,
leaving a smear, and maybe a glitter of sugar-frosting. Justin licks his hand again, chasing the
sugar with sweat and shea-butter in layers like a sundae. Justin is better with his body than he is
with his face, but he tries anyhow to use his eyes, to show Lance that he wants but he can't, and
that it's just like this in his bright-hot, frustrated daydreams, just like this only thicker, heavier,
more insistent, the skin-salt-adrenaline taste more intense than after any performance, and uncut
by sweetness.
He makes himself moan just thinking about it.
Lance has soft, symmetrical hands -- girly hands, Justin has always thought, but they're
surprisingly strong when they latch onto Justin's face, the right one damp from Justin's mouth.
Justin leans up and they're kissing again, shoving and pulling all at once, and Justin is a good kid
who doesn't want his momma to be disappointed in him, but he doesn't know how long he can
possibly stay good, now that Lance has developed a taste for him.
They go down to the floor together, where the sounds of the engine and the road are louder than
their soft gasping. This is well-covered ground, making out with Lance, and that makes it easy to
let himself go, but at the same time Justin kind of misses the engine-gun of terror. This is better,
though, he reminds himself. This is safe. He hooks one leg over Lance's and lets Lance take his
hand and push it up over his head while he kisses Justin's neck, and fuck, he loves the hot,
rhythmic rocking of Lance's body against his so much that he doesn't know how he's gonna be
able to handle real sex. He wonders if Lance is going to keep it up long enough for him to get
off. Yeah, Justin thinks, his leg jumping higher, up around Lance's hips now; Lance seems like
he's in that kind of mood tonight. "Fuck," Justin gasps. "Oh, fuck."
Lance's free hand brushes over Justin's forehead, an affectionate touch that connects this Lance to
the one that Justin knows in the daylight world, Justin's goofy boyfriend with the sweet smile
who can't play basketball. The one who likes Justin, maybe even loves him. Puppy love, Justin
knows, probably just as temporary and trivial as anything Justin and Lance would be going
through right now if they'd stayed in high school and been normal teenagers. But it's real right
now; Justin may be a puppy dog, but that's not how he feels, and Justin thinks that probably love
is a lot like music, and feeling it is the key.
Right now, oh, he's feeling it, and when Lance suddenly stops moving, Justin's body arches up as
far as it'll go, his back coming up off the floor, practically dislodging Lance from on top of him.
"Hey, c'mon..." he says. "Why'd you-- "
"Shhh," Lance says softly, and his hand shadows over Justin's face, but instead of covering his
lips for quiet, it comes to rest over Justin's eyes. "You gotta be quiet," Lance says. He sounds
distant, almost distracted. "Stay with me, now."
Where Lance thinks he's going, Justin doesn't know. But the pressure of Lance's body is back,
digging into him just right, and there's a renewed intensity in the way Lance kisses him,
something dirty and possessive and fabulous. This is not the way to keep Justin quiet.
The tongue in his mouth, though, is doing its job. The bus sounds very loud to him and even the
slick skid of Lance's boxers against Justin's track pants sounds loud; in reality, though, they're
being very, very quiet. Quiet enough that Justin can hear the sound of somebody breathing,
somebody whose rhythm doesn't match the way Justin and Lance's chests are rising and falling.
Justin freezes. They're not alone.
"Shh," Lance says again. Justin's hand comes up, trying to push Lance's hand off his eyes, but
Lance's elbow is planted firmly on the floor and he just presses down harder with his palm and
won't be moved. "Don't even think about it. Just ignore him. Stay with me, keep your head in
it." That's what Robin always says when they're falling apart at the end of a long rehearsal, losing
their harmonies and starting to physically gravitate away from each other in search of any fucking
thing to do that's not more of this. Keep your head in it.
"I can't," Justin says. "Not in front-- "
"Sure you can," Lance cuts through, his slow and soothing rumble lulling Justin the same way it
does when Lance counts him backwards from a hundred to bring him down from the day's rush
into sleep-mode. "Nobody works an audience like you do. Let him watch if he wants. Let him
see you like I see you. Let him eat his fucking heart out," Lance adds in a tone that Justin has
never heard before, some cross between bitterness and amusement and self-satisfaction. Justin
wonders if he's looking up into their uninvited visitor's eyes while he says it. Justin wonders who
the hell it is they're performing for.
Lance kisses him again, taking his time with it, his lips barely brushing over Justin's so that
there's always space between them for the back-and-forth of their tongues to show through in
glimpses. Justin's never been this hard before, and he's not sure if it's because of the eyes on him,
or because he knows Lance is into this game and therefore Lance will go as far as he has to, do
whatever it takes to win. The thought of how far Lance will go, now that he's the one with
something to catch up to, makes Justin shake. He moves his leg up and down, slowly, strong and
controlled like a warm-up move, from Lance's hip down his thigh and back again, and then he
twists his hips. They are absolutely going to get off on this, Justin decides, as Lance
growls from behind his teeth and drops the hand from Justin's eyes to his hip, anchoring himself
there while he thrusts down against Justin. Justin wonders if he's ingested enough sugar to be
going a little bit crazy from it, sugar shock or something like that, because it's hard to believe this
is him.
Justin spends a second blinking in the dim light. He wants to tilt his head back and see if he can
see, but on the other hand, he kind of doesn't want to know. From Lance's reaction, he's sure that
it's one of the other guys, and Justin doesn't think he can handle knowing which one. If it's not a
person, it's just an audience, and Justin likes it better that way.
Well, if he's putting on a show, then Justin can do better than this. That, at least, is
something Justin's been doing longer than Lance has, and something he's frankly better at. One
time, when they thought he was asleep, he overheard the guys talking about him -- about a lot of
things, but the part that sticks with him is when Chris said, "That kid's never met a stage he can't
own," and Joey said, "Yeah, he's something else," and JC said, "I keep telling you guys, there's no
limit to how far Justin can go if he decides he's ready for it." Lance rested his hand absently on
Justin's shoulder and said, "He's ready." Lance has always believed in him; all of them have.
And he's right, they're all right. There are no limits on Justin. Not if he doesn't want there to be.
He pushes against Lance's shoulder, and just like that they're up on their knees, Lance fisting the
loose vinyl of Justin's track pants at his hips while Justin straddles Lance's legs. He puts his hand
on Lance's face and kisses him; it's okay to be the one who does the kissing this time, because
what he's saying with it is that he's not afraid. When Justin reaches down to the hem of his t-
shirt, Lance's hands follow to meet them, and they lift the shirt off of him together.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," somebody says. It's Chris' voice. It's Chris. "I'm going to hell."
Now that he knows, Justin wants to see. He turns his head just a little, just enough to see Chris
leaning against the corner of the bathroom door with his hands behind his back. Justin tries to
give him a little smile, something sexy, or maybe even just something to make it more normal
than it is, but he can't quite, and he turns his face back against Lance's neck while Lance's hands
stroke up and down his spine.
Justin's hand goes to the floor, and he feels around until he finds the lost Pixie Stix. He has this
idea, and he doesn't know if it'll work, but he's sure as hell not going to let anyone else know that
he doesn't know. He uses his other hand to grip Lance's hair gently and push his head back, and
his tongue to mark three long lines over Lance's neck, one just to the side of his Adam's apple,
the other two running parallel to it, further around his neck so that the third one runs almost all
the way up behind his ear. Lance puts one hand possessively on his ass and the other high on his
thigh, and Justin is comforted by that. He and Lance are tight, they watch out for each other. He
can do this. Justin tears open the paper tube with his teeth and sprinkles the blue-dyed sugar over
Lance's neck. Some of it falls, but some of it sticks to wet skin, and Justin licks his lips once and
then bends his head to slurp it off.
When Justin's head comes up, Lance's head stays dropped backwards, almost like he's lost
consciousness, except if he'd lost consciousness, his hips wouldn't be pressing forward against
Justin over and over. He pulls himself together slowly, opens his eyes and looks into Justin's,
and he smiles. "You're all sticky," he says, and swipes his tongue over Justin's lips. They clean it
off together, both of them licking and nibbling wherever they can reach. Justin can feel the wet
sugar residue hardening, transparent but luminous, at the corners of his mouth. He's candy-
coated now, and he's not surprised that he's irresistible. He's not at all surprised when he feels the
warmth and the solidity of Chris at his back. He turns his head and knows he's gonna get kissed.
Chris doesn't kiss him, though. He puts his hand on Justin's neck and reaches out with his other
arm, wrapping it around Lance's waist so that he's got both of them gathered up, and he leans
over Justin's shoulder and kisses Lance. Justin is too turned-on to feel rejected, though. He can't
help but wonder if that's how it looks when he and Lance kiss. He doesn't think so. There's
nothing boyfriendly about what Justin is seeing; it's just raw and real and grown-up, two men
who more than kinda know what they'd like to do to each other. Justin feels suddenly very
young. He's not often out of his depth, but for once he thinks he might be.
After he's finished with Lance, Chris turns toward Justin. Their faces are so close that Justin
thinks their eyelashes could get tangled together. Chris has dark, gorgeous eyes, and he looks at
Justin like he understands everything he needs to about Justin, but not at all like some people do,
like they've seen too much and know things they shouldn't. Justin wants to be uncomfortable,
with Chris' fingers on his throat and Chris' cock poking his ass and Chris' eyes so close, but he's
not. He's not uncomfortable at all. Hell with it, he thinks, and closes his eyes and whispers,
"Kiss me too?"
Chris leans just that last little bit, just enough to find Justin's lips like he's touching a map to
show where they are. The tip of his tongue comes out to taste the corner of Justin's mouth and
his upper lip, and then he pulls away. "What?" Justin says. "That's not a real kiss. Why can't I--
?"
"Why can't I," Chris corrects. "I'm the one who can't, J. Maybe someday." Justin's eyes
flick to Lance when he says that, but he can't see anything in Lance's face. Is this puppy love, has
Lance already figured out that they won't last? Does that thought hurt him, or is Justin just the
best of Lance's currently available options, and is he counting on something better coming along?
Justin's thought about it himself, of course -- what's down the road, maybe love at first sight or
his soulmate or something else, something that's not Lance -- but that's not all the time.
Sometimes he lets himself rest against Lance, Lance's soft fingers toying with the hem of his shirt
and the sensitive skin underneath, and think it could stay just like this. Justin doesn't like to think
the word forever, but maybe...maybe indefinitely.
He doesn't see any answers in Lance's calm, if flushed, face. "Maybe someday," he repeats to
Chris, softly.
He kisses Lance one more time before he goes, hot and nasty, but oddly casual, too, like they're
in some weird porn-movie world where that's the same as a good, hearty handshake, except
better. "Don't stay up all night," he says as he stands up. "Growing boys and all that."
Justin doesn't realize he's watching Chris leave until Lance turns his head back, his fingertips
hard and unyielding on Justin's jaw. "Not before me," he says, and it's not loud but there's no
room there for Justin to argue.
"No," he says quickly. "Of course not." It's only fair that -- maybe they both want -- and yeah,
maybe in a sense Justin saw him first, but Lance is older, Lance is more ready for this. Justin is
barely keeping up with Lance; he knows it's crazy to think for a second that he could hold his
own with a guy who's twenty-four and has lived alone and always knows where to score the weed
and has had lovers, maybe lots of them, for all Justin knows. He acts like a guy who's been with
lots of people, never shy, never the one not to chat up the cutest girl in the room because she's out
of his league. Justin can't possibly be Chris' next score, can't even remotely imagine himself that
way. He can imagine it being Lance, though.
Lance stares at him funny for a while, and then shakes his head. "No, you don't get it. I mean,
not him before me. Someday, whatever, but I'm your first."
"Of course you are." They've been boyfriends for eight months now, and in all that time, Justin
has never for one second considered that Lance wouldn't be his first. It amazes him that Lance
has considered it.
"Promise me, Justin," Lance says sternly.
"Okay, I promise! I won't lose my virginity to anybody but you, all right? God. I don't even
want to." He wasn't sure until he said it, but now he is. Nothing's changed. This is still what he
wants more than anything. It's a relief to be getting his world back into focus again, after Chris
set it spinning. Fucking Kirkpatrick. Such a troublemaker, all the time.
Lance kisses him, one arm wrapping around the back of Justin's head, the other hand sliding up
Justin's stomach and his chest. Everything's back to normal -- the desire feels the same way,
throbbing in his blood, and the frustration feels the same way too, a constant pressure all over his
body, like he's welded up into straps of iron. Lance's hand reverses its course; Justin sucks in his
stomach automatically while Lance's palm is on it, which makes his lungs burn when Lance dips
his hand under Justin's waistband and makes him gasp in all over again.
"I bet," Lance says, low, suppressed laughter in his voice as he fists Justin's cock while Justin
bites down so hard on his lip to stay quiet that he tastes blood, "that this is what Chris is
doing...right...now." That image flashes through Justin's head so clearly that he blames
witchcraft, figures Lance had to have reached in and put it there somehow, fully formed. Chris
on his bunk with his back braced on the wall, his legs spread and the arches of his feet braced on
the edge of his mattress so his toes push the curtain outward. His cock hard. His eyes open, his
face blank and intent, staring straight forward but not seeing the curtain at all. Seeing Justin
tangled up with Lance while he pumps his cock with firm strokes, not rushed but not lingering,
either, feeling the same volcanic thrill that Justin is feeling build up in his very favorite nerve
endings. He's probably imagining more than he really saw, maybe Justin getting completely
naked, maybe throwing his legs wide open and talking dirty to Lance, like now, put it in me now,
I want you to fuck me. Chris is probably breathing fast, sweat beading up on his forehead, and
his hand is probably moving faster and faster on his cock, which Lance's is not doing on
Justin's, but should be.
Justin wonders how many of them have gone further tonight than they ever expected to let
themselves, until it feels so fucking good that he can't wonder anything at all, and then he just
hooks his elbows over his boyfriend's shoulders and moans desperately into his ear and thinks
absolutely nothing as he comes except yes.
It's sweeter than anything.