It started while Lance was in the shower, being pounded with warm, slightly metallic-tasting water, happened somewhere after shampoo and soap, but before he stretched a hand out to grope blindly for his conditioner. By the time he'd turned off the water and was towelling off behind the shower curtain, there was a definite chill in the air. When he came out of the steam-foggy bathroom into the bedroom, it was even more obvious.

He shared a room, of course--all of them did, there wasn't money yet to have separate rooms. JC was his usual roommate, originally picked by his mom because he was old enough to satisfy her that he was responsible and would be careful with her baby. She'd told him as much, right in front of Lance, and JC had spent fifteen minutes nodding earnestly to whatever she said, jiggling one leg absently and making funny faces at thin air whenever she turned to Lance to make a point. Lance stared at the floor and tried not to listen to his mom telling JC "you won't bring any girls up here, will you? He's just a boy, remember. And no drugs."

When she'd gone to talk to Johnny about schedules and venues and time off for Easter, JC had given him a hug and told him not to worry about it. Lance, still beet-red and speechless with embarrassment, had hugged him back so hard JC yelped and started laughing. Lance had decided then that it might end up being okay, even though he'd really barely spoken to JC before now.

The next night, his mom had flown back to Clinton, and JC had taken Lance out to his first club, just the two of them. It was a small blues club with a quartet of musicians on piano and harmonica and sax and accordian that played mostly 80's-style arrangements of old Billie Holliday songs. Lance rested his elbows on the bar and sipped the beer JC had bought him, a sweet, potent dark ale that was heady but not enough to make him drunk, and watched out of the corner of his eye while JC sang along, soft under the music. It was the best night of Lance's night.

There were two beds in their room here, both twins--Lou's cheapness, Lance thought resentfully, at least hadn't extended to making them share a bed. JC occupied the farthest one, closest to the window, his stuff a casual mess on the floor and the cheap pressboard table next to the bolted-down, burned-out lamp. Once again, another veritable palace, Lance thought glumly, and shivered his way into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Touring. Whoo. Sometimes he wished with all his heart he'd stayed in Mississippi, where it was warm and comforting and everyone spoke with easy drawls, not like these German growls and grunts, where he was always cold and lonely, three thousand miles from home.

JC stirred from under his mound of covers, and his face appeared from beneath the sheets, nose slightly red from the headcold he'd been fighting all week. The club that night had been damp and mildewed and reeked of smoke and weed, and JC had started sneezing before they even began their set, blowing his nose at every interval and having to have his make-up refreshed three times. Chris had swiped a roll of toilet paper from the men's room for him, because JC had run out of kleenex in the van on the ride over.

The concert had gone okay, even so. It was so loud, Lance could barely hear Chris singing in his ear, so he didn't think anyone had noticed that JC's voice was a bit scratchy and couldn't hit the higher notes. His dancing, normally light and precise, supple and energetic, had been slowed down, heavier, full of effort and corrected mistakes, but Lance didn't think anyone but him would have noticed that. Even sick, nobody moved like JC could.

Lance loved watching him.

When the concert had ended, JC had all but collapsed in the van afterwards. Lance had given him the first shower when they got back, and he'd expected him to be asleep, but JC's eyes were open. Lance crawled under the blankets, wincing at the cold clammy feel of them. His skin crawled at the thought of who else had slept there. His toes encountered a spot stiff with substances unknown, and he curled his feet up protectively. God, this place was a dump. He couldn't wait until they started making enough money to sleep in real hotels, not these crappy roadside motor inns.

"Lance?" JC said softly, the ugly bedspread heaving and making plastic-y sounds as he turned over to face Lance's side of the room. The dim glow from the bathroom highlighted his face, made his eyes gleam and lent shadows to his cheeks and the hidden curve of his throat.

"Yeah," Lance said, kicking irritably at the sheets to get them free of their military tuck under the mattress.

"Did something happen to the heat?" JC sounded like hell, Lance thought with concern, hoarse and stuffy-headed. Chris, the only one of them even remotely familiar with written German, had gone out earlier that week for cold medicine, but JC hated taking it, said it gave him a headache and ruined his voice. Lance had been making him drink fluids non-stop for four days straight, though, and that seemed to help. A sweating bottle of water sat next to the bed, shedding water onto the peeling veneer of the nightstand.

"I guess," he said wearily. It was really starting to get cold. Outside, the snow lay ten inches deep, filthy from the road dirt and crusted with ice, and the temperature was nearly fifteen below zero, Celsius. Lance didn't know what that was in real degrees, but he knew it was bitter enough to burn your face if you walked outside without a scarf. JC muttered something Lance's mom would have disapproved of, and Lance felt something like a smile tug at his face.

"Are you cold?" JC always got chilled the easiest of any of them, and it was worse when he was sick. Lance had spent the past week bringing an extra sweatshirt everywhere, just so he could take it off and hand it to JC, see JC's grateful smile as he pulled it on. They hadn't fit too badly, considering.

He heard a frustrated sigh, and a long pause. "Yeah," JC admitted, and Lance nodded and slid out of bed.

"Move over," he said, and JC shifted over without a word, holding up the covers so that he could get in. He wriggled until he was comfortable, then felt JC come back towards him, cold narrow feet edging beneath his legs, one long arm across his chest, lean body tucked up against the line of his torso. The bed was hard and narrow, but the blankets were blessedly thick, and already Lance could feel JC softening, easing into the warmth. He'd been rooming with JC a long time, but this was the first time he'd slept with him; the sensation was unfamiliar, somewhat startling, but oddly comfortable. He thought he might sleep well tonight.

"Thanks," JC whispered, squeezing lightly, and Lance hummed quietly in his chest. He didn't mind. The bed was warm from JC's body, and the sheets were crumpled and smelled faintly of JC's sweat. He breathed deep, smelling shampoo and toothpaste, sweet and minty, light inside his mouth. It tasted summery, reminded him of home.

Lance turned his head so that JC's hair was soft and warm against his mouth, feeling protective and shyly affectionate.

The irony of the situation hit him, and he smiled.

"S'okay," he whispered back. "Go to sleep."

JC murmured something against his arm, and Lance felt him slowly relax, sinking gently into sleep. Within minutes he was snoring softly, his cold making him whistle faintly when he breathed.

Below his waist, his cock stirred, breathed heat, and he froze, eyes wide into the darkness and groaning silently. Performances usually made him hard, an involuntary reaction to the adrenaline and energy and activity of a show. The guys teased him about it, but not too badly--bad jokes about his "lance" for the most part--but Chris and Joey remembered what it was like to be seventeen, and Justin was even worse. Some days, Justin got hard just getting his make-up put on for their first show of the night, and would disappear to jerk off before the second or his costume wouldn't fit right.

Lance didn't have that much of a problem, but it wasn't pretty usual to end the evening vaguely aching and tingly, like his skin was a little too tight. Normally he just ignored it all and it went away, or he found a safe place to jerk off--Joey's room if he and Chris were going clubbing, maybe, or the bathroom if no one was waiting for it. It wasn't a big deal, usually.

Tonight, though? Deal. Big deal. JC moved in his sleep and edged even closer, murmuring something that sounded like "honey," or possibly "baby," and all his muscles tied themselves into knots.

JC almost never teased him when he got hard, just smiled and ruffled his hair, gave him one-armed hugs after shows when he was wired and turned on and couldn't stop fidgeting. Lance wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he thought he liked it. Maybe liked it a lot. It was just one of those things, he supposed. He deliberately didn't dwell on the fact that the nights he got hard were usually the nights JC did well onstage.

He tended to think of jerking off in utilitarian terms, like brushing his teeth before bed, or washing his hands after using the bathroom. It wasn't really sexy in his mind, not like the smooth full curve of a dancer's breast under her shirt, or the casual, affectionate way the guys kissed girls at the clubs they went to, kisses full of tongue and roaming hands, or JC's sleek grace when dancing, the slice of skin that showed when his shirt pulled up in the middle of Here We Go.

Usually, he tried very hard not to think of all the ways he found JC sexy.

Tonight, though, he'd just hoped to get to sleep right away--they had a photo shoot tomorrow morning at eight, and an interview after that for some Swedish teen magazine, before they hit the road for tomorrow night's venue. He hadn't thought it was important to jerk off tonight, but pressed close to JC, feeling the steady pulse of breath against his neck, feeling his firm warmth all up and down his body, he was beginning to reevaluate that.

He waited another half-hour, feeling the tick of the clock matching his pulse. JC's chest moved steadily as he breathed, and Lance shivered, feeling his cock filling out, the nerves slowly waking to become a presence in the back of his head, insistant and prickly. He grumbled under his breath, shifting to ease the cramp of constriction, and stared at the obscured ceiling doggedly.

He wasn't going to do it. He wasn't. JC was three inches away, for crying out loud. He'd never even *thought* about jerking off if anyone else was in the room--especially not *JC*. JC shifted in his sleep, his arm slipping a few inches lower, and Lance trembled, fire streaking down his spine at the warm gentle pressure. Behind his eyes, white light obscured his vision, and he found himself panting silently.

Against his will, he edged a hand down to carefully rub his cock, feeling scoured by the soft material of his sweatpants. His hips arched, and he forced himself to lie still, tentatively stroked himself again. JC was so warm next to him, long legs and long arms and folded around him, breathing peacefully. His hair was short, soft against Lance's skin. The room was utterly silent except for JC's snores, and the muttered tick of the clock.

It was wrong. God, it was so wrong, but he couldn't stop. He made himself keep his hand out of his pants, used every shred of will he had left to lie still, to stay quiet, but he couldn't stop touching himself, feeling overheated and raw, like his whole body was reacting, responding. His head pounded, and his legs were rigid, knees locked to keep them still. His fingertips actually hurt, he was so turned on. He felt a single tear trickle down his cheek; it felt *so* good, *so* right. It was wrong, but he cried because it was perfect.

He'd never realized that he wanted this so badly.

He didn't know if he'd ever be able to look at JC again.

He could feel it starting, throbbing in his chest with pulses of near-pain the closer he got to coming. His hips tightened, and he began to shake helplessly. His hand moved faster, feeling the wet head through his pants, finding the spot underneath that always worked to bring him off fast. He concentrated on it, just wanting this to be over, desperate to end this heaven-hell of wanting and guilt and unwished-for pleasure. His hand moved harder, faster, and then was flattened against his cock as long fingers wrapped around them, holding him still.

Lance froze, feeling JC stir next to him, and wanted to die.

"Lance?" JC said sleepily, gently, and the hand left his cock, groped up to find his shoulder, petting him softly. Lance felt dizzy, his eyes hot and swollen, and he couldn't breathe. "Lance, shhh. It's okay," and JC was moving, was stroking his sure calm hand back down, moving over Lance's body, slipping beneath Lance's hand to curve around his cock. Lance gasped, felt his whole body jolt.

"Shhh, baby," JC murmured again, warm breath on his skin, hand moving in slow, careful patterns, and Lance shivered, jerked, felt his hips lift and follow. JC kept talking, quiet peaceful words, and Lance shuddered helplessly into his climax, feeling his sweatpants dampen, sweat breaking out all over his skin. JC leaned into him, all around him, toothpaste and shampoo and sweat, comforting and soft, like a kiss, and he felt the last spasms work out under JC's flexible body, clever hand.

The aftermath was a blur, JC pulling him close when he tried to run, wrapping wiry arms around him, whispering reassurances into his hair. He felt a warm swipe of tongue on his cheek, then across his lower lip, and he whimpered a little, the first sound he'd made since it started.

"Go to sleep," JC whispered. "It's okay, Lance."

In the morning, when JC woke up, Lance was already up and dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. When JC opened his eyes, Lance met them squarely, shaking on the inside.

Fifteen minutes later, as JC rummaged for a clean pair of pants to wear, Lance lay back down on the mussed bed, smelling their combined sweat, the musky traces of come. His mouth was wet, felt puffy and heated, and he watched JC as he moved around the room, feeling dizzy and elated. He felt sexy, in a way he'd never felt on stage, or at a club. JC found his pants, sat down to pull on his sneakers, turned and smiled at him, and Lance smiled back. JC continued to pack, and Lance watched from under lazy eyelids.

He'd always loved to watch JC move.

Fin