Reciprocity
by AMuse

Check the mirror

Justin has magic fingers, magic fingers that connect to equally exquisite hands. Lance has always noticed, and has always been surprised by the affection in Justin's mannerisms. Strange, Lance thinks. Strange, that one who had learned the many faces of the business before he learned to masturbate, can still touch with sincerity. Lance loves that about Justin.

Justin's fingers, wet and sticky, thread through Lance's hair, tugging gently from root to tip, twisting, and styling. Lance can feel him breathing, chest to back. He makes noises, honey-sweet and self-satisfied, breath against Lance's cheek, admiring, "Lookin' fly." Justin giggles, and Lance watches him in the mirror. His curls are unruly tonight, but that simply cautions Lance on Justin's mood.

Justin's hands drop down, arms slide past Lance's waist, and he wipes his gel slick hands with a towel. His chin rests on Lance's shoulder before threading his fingers together, and finally resting the heel of his palms against the flat of Lance's stomach. "Hmm. they're waiting for us." Justin's voice is velvet smooth.

The world will wait forever for Justin Timberlake, and it's only been recently that Lance could relish that idea that he doesn't have to, finally.

"Let' em," Lance almost rumbles.

And Justin grins, eyes flashing impishly.

Justin has this thing when he fucks. Really, it's two things, and it's only when he's fucking Lance. Mirrors. Justin likes to fuck in front of a mirror. When Justin first asked, Lance figured it was just part of Justin's vanity, but when they were doing it, Justin never watched himself. He always watched Lance. And he wanted Lance to watch himself.

Lance thinks that just might be the strangest, hottest thing going, and maybe vanity isn't Justin's problem. Lance thinks that maybe it's his.

~..~

Feelin' so good
So good tonight
Don't you know
I'm just groovin' to the beat

~..~

The club is hot, the lighting worse, and the liquor stale. Lance wonders where Joey found it, but he's the only one that seems to mind, so he follows behind, Justin's hand at his elbow, fingers a gentle reminder.

Justin's curls are unruly. He wants to dance. Lance wants to watch. Lance likes to watch Justin. He's never really been covert about it, but it was always a wonder why Joey was the only one who knew the truth. Or maybe they all knew but Joey was the only one who mentioned it. But Lance watched Justin with languid, fixed stares and wanted him. Justin had never been exactly ambiguous about his sexuality, not while dating a pop princess and claiming virginity. And really, Lance might have believed it, had he not seen Justin going down on Chris in New York's Madison Square Garden just minutes before wardrobe. Maybe that was how Chris dealt with the harnesses. Maybe that had just been Justin all along.

That had been when Justin noticed.

Justin had always been a sort of enigma to Lance, peevish and bitchy one minute, affectionate and touchy the next. Lance was closest in age to Justin, and once upon a time that had forged their bond. But as their stars rose, and their barriers fell, Justin drew closer to the fire, and Lance just watched.

Justin is all hips. He knows he's got it all going on, the roll, the thrusting, and the liquid flow of muscle and skin. Justin's arms are long, and when he's got them above his head, he towers over everything. Lance thinks he towers anyway, but Justin can never be outdone, and there's a crowd around him. His smile is just short of plastic, shadows betray him, and Lance can see the blue of his eyes, the lock, and loaded invitation. Lance downs his gin and tonic, gags on it, but gets to his feet.

~..~

On the floor
Rockin' to the beat
Always
Sure look sweet

~..~

Justin likes to touch when he's with someone. He likes to touch and be touched. It's a little known fact, but it's something he's always allowed himself in the midst of his stardom. Lance remembers the first few times, a lazy arm across a shoulder, the bump, the returned embrace. Sometimes it was a just a hand or fingers gripping. Joey always sought skin contact, a casual thumb swipe across the neck, Chris was all eyes, and JC, well, his was on a more metaphysical level. But Justin was all about reciprocity. He needed it, thrived on it.

Justin meets Lance halfway, fingers sliding through Lance's belt loops and pulling closer. The lights flash all around, shadows casting colorful hues across their faces. People think Justin is beautiful. Lance knows it's true.

Lance lets out a breath, Justin smiles, swipes his tongue over Lance's mouth. Lance reciprocates. Justin's smile brightens, honest and pleased. He tugs Lance towards the middle. Sweat, heat, and bodies surround them. Lance simply follows, his rhythm a foil to Justin's, the roll of his hips more clever than sexy, but eliciting all the same.

Justin leans in, breath on Lance's neck, damp chin, cheek, and lips, "I love the way that you move,"

It's cliché almost, words sung a thousand times in harmony, but Justin's hands clutch, fingers as ever a reminder, at Lance's hips. Lance smiles, close mouthed, nose nuzzling Justin's cheek. The air around them can't drown the personal scent Lance leaves on Justin. And Lance's smile brightens as his mouth opens, baring teeth, then nipping at Justin's slick skin.

Justin responds, biting down on Lance's ear. Lance's hands grasp at Justin's hips. It's what Justin wants.

~..~

I'm tired of all these boring parties, baby

~..~

"You should see the bathrooms in this place," Justin crushes into the booth beside Lance and downs the remains of his warm beer.

"Yeah?" Lance is only vaguely interested in the bathrooms, as Justin's hand palms the inside of his thigh under the table. Lance swings his leg closer, squeezing against Justin's.

"Fucking shithole," he grins, and Lance laughs. "Dude, but the mirror."

Lance's breath is sharp at the intake, slow in release. Justin's up and talking to Lonnie. And Lance just follows. Following Justin has never been hard, even when it feels like he's so far behind he'll never catch up. It's the kind of thing though; by gobbling the spotlight, what Justin provides everyone else is just a little more peace, and that's something. And they can be bitter, but, then they're no different from everyone else who wants a piece of Justin Timberlake.

Following Lance can watch, gaze sliding wantonly over Justin's ass, hugged tightly by crimson leather, long legs fluidly carrying him forward. It's confident, he swaggers, and it's such a fucking turn on that Lance can hardly wait till he and Justin are safely tucked behind a closed door.

Lance watches Justin watch him, the shithole behind them blurred by the blazing blue of Justin's eyes. Justin rocks his hips, meeting Lance, and the slick slide inside the melting heat of reciprocity. Justin's fingers dig into the basin in front of them, his knuckles white and the tension filtering up his arms, through his shoulders and down his back. Lance's hand sweeps over Justin's warm skin. He leans, presses his mouth in the center between Justin's shoulders. Justin groans, pulls, and Lance's image returns to the mirror.

There are several fundamental truths of life in this business. Sex and money are one and the same, and the significance of reciprocity is bullshit. Because, this with Justin, the jagged exhale of breath as Justin comes, Lance's own fingers digging into the hollow of Justin's hips, isn't about reciprocation. It isn't about what Justin wants. It's what Lance wants, and in his vanity, Lance watches himself in the mirror, pleased and maybe just a little. broke.