Social Studies

by >>Jae

Justin couldn't believe how great having sex was. He couldn't believe no one had ever told him. People always talked about how good it was, but Justin thought somebody should have been more explicit, should have told him exactly what he'd been missing.

He'd had sex before, of course. And he had thought it was good, thought it was great, but it was always awkward. Talking clumsily to girls he knew he'd never see again, trying to be nice to them, wanting to be nice to them, but not too nice because they'd have to leave after. He'd only seen one of the girls more than a few times, and even with her they were never together enough to get really comfortable with each other. He had always been in a hurry too, knowing he was always on borrowed time, worried someone would find them or his mom would return or just that morning would come and he'd have to be up early for an interview. It had felt more like stealing sex than having it.

He hadn't realized how amazing it would be to go to sleep in the same bed with someone and wake up with them and spend all day with them, knowing they could have sex any time, all the time, fast or slow or however they wanted because there'd always be a chance to do it different tomorrow. Nobody had told him it would be like this, hands braced on the tile wall of the shower with his foot resting in the soap dish, in his bunk on his belly with Chris' shirt stuffed between his teeth to swallow the sounds Chris' tongue worked out of him, rocking in Chris' lap in the dressing room in the dead hour after they got to the venue and before the sound check.

Nobody had ever let him know either how great it was to be having sex with someone who knew him. Not just someone who knew his body, although that was fucking incredible too, someone who knew to lick just the right spot at the base of his throat to make him whimper, who knew that when he shivered and arched his back he wanted it hard, who knew that when he started swearing and clutched the sheets that way that he wanted the teasing to stop and the cocksucking to start right fucking now. But there was something even more incredible about having sex with someone who knew that when he sulked and stomped around the lounge, he wanted to be wrestled to the ground and tickled till he shrieked with laughter, but when he stomped straight back to his bunk he wanted to be left alone for half an hour and then held, closely and silently. Someone who knew that he hated screwing around at the venue after the show instead of leaving right away. Someone who knew that he wanted pickles, but never on his sandwich, always on the plate.

Nobody had ever told him how much he'd love having sex with Chris.

He loved sleeping with Chris too. It wasn't just having sex with him, although Justin hadn't been able to say that with a straight face when he tried to explain it to Chris once. Especially after Chris fell on him, laughing himself, and did various dirty things to him, saying, "So it's not just that?" after each one. But he still couldn't believe sometimes that he got to go into a room with Chris every night and close the door behind them and it was just them, all night, every night, only them.

He felt a swell of pride, although he couldn't explain it, at the thought of how public it was. They were. Not that everybody knew, or that they'd ever do anything around outsiders, but everyone in the group knew, and their management, and everyone on tour. His luggage was always delivered to the room registered to Chris. The guys in security smiled tolerantly when they found Justin drowsing in Chris' lap backstage, Chris' hand tucked tightly over Justin's ribcage, Chris' head canted over to the side so he could see the TV. Lance, Joey and JC exchanged affectionate glances when Justin and Chris scuffled on the floor, the same way they always had. Almost.

It was that almost that got Justin into trouble. He hadn't even realized he'd done it. But suddenly he was lifted in the air by his collar and his belt, and Joey murmured in his ear, "Try not to feel Chris up in front of reporters for national newsmagazines," and flipped him upside down. When they left that night, JC mumbled something incoherent and climbed onto Lance and Joey's bus. Justin knew he was in for it.

"I'm sorry," he said when Chris sat down next to him. "I didn't mean it, I didn't notice. I forgot she was there." He shut up when Chris looked at him.

"That's kind of the point," Chris said. "Look, I'm not going to tell you, because I know you know you can't fuck up like that."

"I know," Justin said miserably. "I know, I just. I couldn't help it."

"See," Chris said, "I think that might be part of the problem. And it's my fault too, I shouldn't have let it." Chris stopped for a minute. "It sucks, but people are gonna say things, and think things, and. I think that the way we were all the time, I think maybe we got too comfortable. Around other people. I think maybe we have to try to be. Do you know what circumspect means?"

"Fuck you," Justin said. "I'm not five." Chris put a soothing hand on Justin's, but he pulled away. "I don't think that's very fucking circumspect," Justin said. He was shaking.

Chris sighed. "Look, I'm not saying. It's just. When you -- when we get used to being like that all the time, it gets hard to remember. We start crossing boundaries we don't wanna cross." Justin kept his eyes stubbornly on his lap. "Hey," Chris said, his voice sharpening, "I didn't make the fucking rules. It's just the way it is. Any time you want to go public, you just say the word. But I haven't heard you saying you're ready to give it all up."

Justin didn't say anything. He heard Chris sigh again. He stole a look up through his lashes and saw Chris rub a hand over his eyes. Chris looked tired. "I just. I just hate it," Justin said in a small voice.

"J," Chris said. He hooked a finger in Justin's collar and tugged. Justin didn't move. "Stop being an ass," he said, and tugged again. This time Justin let Chris pull him into his lap. "It's not so bad," Chris breathed into Justin's curls. "It's just, it's something that's private, you know? Like we know something, and nobody else can guess. Everybody's got a piece of us, or they think they do, but we'll have this one thing that's just for us."

"So I just never touch you again when anyone else is around."

"Stop being an ass," Chris said again. "Of course not. You just stop touching me like you know what I look like naked."

Justin didn't say anything.

"Look," Chris said, "think of it this way. It's like a game. We can still do all the things we used to do, we can still act the way we used to, but only we know there's, like, another level to it. Maybe once in a while someone guesses, or something, but mostly it's just us. That's the game, you know. To get as close as we can, to do as much as we want without anyone figuring out what's up."

"That's not. You're just making the best of things," Justin said.

"Well, sure," Chris said. "What do you want me to do? Cry?" Justin didn't say anything. Chris shook him a little, impatiently. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know," Justin mumbled.

"Right," Chris said, "so we do this." He shook Justin again, teasingly this time. "Come on," he said, "it'll be fun."

Chris was right. It was fun. Not at first, though. At first was Justin's phone ringing at six in the morning so one of their PR people could lecture him about how to behave in interviews. His phone kept ringing, people higher and higher up the food chain. No one was rude to him. He was the talent, after all. But some pop music management course somewhere must have included a class on 101 polite ways to call someone a fucking idiot. By the end of the fourth call telling him how hard someone had worked to cover things up, how difficult it had been to smooth things over with the reporter, how risky what he'd done had been, how important it was to think about consequences, Justin was shaking again. He had no problem defending himself if someone hit him, or yelled at him, or insulted him. But he'd been raised to value courtesy, and he had no weapons against this false politeness, these sugary voices that scolded him in soft words and reminded him how much he owed them. He felt like a toddler who'd been naughty.

When his phone rang for the fifth time, Chris plucked it out of his hands and answered it. "No, this isn't Justin," he said. "And it's handled." He listened a minute, then said, "I said it's been fucking handled," and hung up. Then he dialed another number. "Hi, Johnny," he said. "It's not Justin, it's Chris. Yeah, I know. It's been handled. Like I told whoever the hell just called, it's been fucking handled. No, no, Johnny, I would have thought you'd know better. This isn't me angry. You wanna hear me angry? This motherfucking phone rings one more time, you'll hear me angry. Great. You do that, Johnny. And one more thing. From now on, there's something Justin needs to be told, you call him. I know. I know, Johnny, you'll be on the phone all the time. That'll be a lot more work for you. I know you have other things to do for us. Well, I'll tell you what. You get on the phone right now, and remind the people who work for you, who work for us, that Justin Timberlake pays their fucking salaries, and they can adjust their attitudes accordingly, and maybe then you'll have the time to do all those other things you do for us. Great, Johnny. I'm sure you will. No, Johnny," Chris said, "you have a nice day."

Chris hung up the phone. "It's over," he said to Justin. "Don't let them get to you." Justin smiled at him.

That had been a little fun.