Catharsis
by Tink

***

JC thinks he may be dying.

Even though the doctor that they rushed into the hotel said otherwise, JC knows that he's dying. Even though he felt a big, comforting hand on his forehead and Joey's low voice saying "I think his fever's down", JC just knows he's dying.

He's dying, and he wants to be at home so badly that warm, fat tears leak out of the corners of his closed eyes and he sniffles into the pillow, and wishes for snow.

He's just so fucking hot, is all. So hot, and dry, and he wishes he would at least sweat a little so his skin wouldn't feel like it was scalding his own fingers, and no matter how many Advil/Tylenol/Aleve/Bufferin they've given him, his head continues to try to push his brain out of his forehead.

And the tears keep falling.

***

"Is he still crying?"

"Yeah. Even in his sleep, I think. The pillow's all wet."

"Is he still mumbling that weird shit from before? About snow, and .. whatever it was?"

"Naw, he's been quiet for a couple hours. But he's just so hot. And when he looks at me, he doesn't see me. His eyes are all glassy, the way Kirkpatrick's get when he's hammered. Ouch, you fuck! Get off!"

Lance watches them wrestle, and worries.

***

He thinks Lou is there at one point, and wonders in his muddled, feverish brain how Lou got into his hotel room in Little Rock without getting caught by the others, and so he starts to raise his voice so that someone will come and take Lou Pearlman away.

JC shouts in what he hopes is a commanding voice that Lou is a dirty piece of shit and how dare he walk in here like he's king of the fucking castle? Just get the fuck out of my sight, he yells, and when Lou reaches down to grab his flailing arms, JC hits him right in his bulbous nose and feels a marvelous sense of satisfaction. Even more so when a drop of blood spatters on to JC's white sheets.

Ha, JC thinks, gotcha.

And when Lou is mysteriously gone and only Chris remains in JC's room, JC doesn't know why Chris's eyes are watering and he's holding a towel to his face. JC thinks maybe he and Lou got into it while Chris was removing Lou from the premises. JC reaches toward the towel with concern, but Chris shushes him and backs away.

An hour later, JC comes fully awake in a tepid bath with four pairs of worried eyes on him, and one pair of hands holding a washcloth to his forehead.

"Chris," JC says hoarsely, "your nose looks fucked up."

***

"So, whatsit, like flu or something?" Justin is always nervous around sick people. It is characteristic of his youth, to be unsettled by anything less than perfect health.

"I guess," Joey shrugs. "'Member his makeup girl had it a couple weeks ago?"

"Remind me to thank his sick ass," Chris yawns, and lays his head on Joey's solid thigh. "Didn't want to sing tonight anyway. Or last night. Or tomorrow." It's the last leg of the tour, and all of them are drawn. All of them only want to be somewhere where the sheets aren't scratchy industrial-load washed and the towels don't smell burnt like the dryer.

They are all slightly envious of JC.

***

It is dark, because JC had mumbled to Justin in one of his more coherent moments that the light hurt his eyes and could Justin please turn it off before his temples exploded? Justin had hastily knocked over the lamp in his rush to click the light off, and it has been blessedly dark ever since.

The ray of light that cracks into the room is like a sliver in his finger, a tiny jab of ouch, and then the door is closed again but JC can feel the breathing.

He can't open his eyes - not that there's anything to see, because it's dark - and so he calls out random names instead.

"Joe? Chris?"

"Me," Lance answers, and JC lets the smooth southern vowels slide comfortingly around his ears.

Lance, JC thinks, can you make me feel better *please*, can you make this headache go away and make the dizziness stop and make it just not be. so. damn. hot.

JC knows he hasn't spoken aloud and thinks about maybe crying a little bit more because of the futility of trying, but then suddenly the bed dips and there is a cool body next to his. Easy, comforting fingers in his unwashed hair, combing it back from his hot forehead, soothing the throbbing away even if just momentarily, and JC draws a shuddering breath and slumps against the medicine that is Lance.

"I feel like shit," he manages to whisper, because it suddenly seems vital that someone knows exactly how miserable he is. JC prides himself on his stoicism, his maturity in the face of flash, cash, and trash, and leaves the complaining to Justin, who will never have a real complaint in his life but tries to make some up anyway.

But all at once, JC wants someone to know he feels like he's been hit by a train.

"S'just the flu, darlin'," Lance drawls, and again JC lets the honeyed vowels curl their way around him.

"Sucks," JC mumbles, and turns more fully into Lance's side, not caring that Lance's skin is turning warm now instead of cool like before, because JC just wants to smell the gingerspice that is Lance's t-shirt.

"It does suck," Lance agrees from somewhere above him, and JC likes the rumble of Lance's voice under his ear. "But we postponed the show. That doesn't suck."

"S'Justin pissed?" JC knows that out of all of them, Justin is the one who would perform following a limb amputation.

"Course," Lance laughs. "But not at you. I think he was sorta worried, in his own lame way. Then Chris said he'd take him out, so he was cool."

JC doesn't want to talk about Justin anymore because his headache is finally receding a little, and he wants to concentrate on that instead. That, as well as the fact that Lance's fingers in his hair feel delicious, and JC burrows deeper and snakes one arm over Lance's taut stomach.

Lance heaves a sigh and slumps down lower on the pillow so that JC finds his face buried in the crook of Lance's neck, the very same spot that JC remembers seeing more than one angry reddish-purple mark appear after watching Lance leave Joey's room at four in the morning. And then JC has to shift uncomfortably at that thought, because maybe it's the fever or the proximity or his own fucking twisted impulse, but JC wants to know if Lance makes any noise when he gets a hickey.

Or when he gets a blowjob.

And then JC squeezes his eyes closed so hard against that image that his headache returns with a "ha! I'm back!" and he grunts against the pain. Lance looks down with concern.

"Y'all right, Jayce?"

JC just grunts again, because he certainly is not All Right, anyone who is All Right definitely does not suddenly want Lance in the way that he wants Lance, and JC presses his lips together tightly and blames the headache.

But now Lance's lips are on his hairline where he has smoothed back JC's hair, just a light press that JC can barely feel, and JC remembers his mom doing that exact same thing when he was young, to check for fever.

JC feels his lips part of their own accord and he leans up slightly, so slightly that he hopes Lance doesn't notice but he wants him to anyway, and feels Lance's cool mouth slide from his hairline to his forehead to the very edge of his eyebrow. So JC tilts up a little more, at an angle this time, and Lance's lips are on his cheek, not kissing, just touching, and it isn't enough so JC finally *moves* and then there is a cool, perfect mouth against his own and JC thinks briefly again of snow.

Against his mouth, JC hears him whisper, "This is bad. You're sick, you barely even knew who I was when I walked in, Jayce, I don't think -"

But JC rolls his hips against Lance's leg and he knows Lance can feel the hard-on inside his cotton basketball shorts, and Lance swallows so hard that JC can hear it. And JC wants to hear more, he wants Lance to make noise, the same kind of noise he imagines Lance makes when someone is sucking on his neck, or his dick.

JC wants to hear it, but even more, JC wonders what kind of noise he himself will make when -

And then JC is groaning between his teeth because Lance has pushed him on his back, his shirt all rucked up nearly to his collarbone, and Lance's soft hair which doesn't really look soft but *is*, is tickling his navel and Lance is making his tongue flat and licking the sweet spot right above JC's cock.

No headache here, JC thinks, and then there is wetness and slickness and jesuslovin'*friction* on his aching cock, and JC wonders dimly why the others didn't give him a little bit of this medicine three days ago. JC arches into the hotness and slams his hands down onto the rumpled sheets, thanking good God almighty and Justin Timberlake that they both saw fit to bring Lance into *N Sync.

JC has no idea where Lance learned to suck dick, but he is good at it and JC tries to keep back his impending climax, if only to draw out the pleasure for a little longer, but Lance is too good at what he's doing and JC whimpers in the back of his throat.

It builds and builds and then lets go, and JC shudders once, twice, and comes with a jerk of his hips and a hissed breath, and feels Lance grin against his dick before he gives him one last swipe with his tongue. JC thinks vaguely that he ought to reciprocate, after all, Lance was good enough to try to make him feel better, but when he reaches for him, Lance gently pushes his arm back down and crawls up the bed to lie next to him.

"Just sleep," he says, and JC thinks maybe Lance calls him 'honey' but he isn't sure because his eyelids are so heavy and the sheets smell like ginger and sweat and a little like sex and he sleeps.

***

JC's fever breaks during the night, and in the morning the sheets are drenched and he is alone.

~End