Popslash FIC: Man Band (Chris/Lance, R)
Title: Man Band
Fandom: Nsync Popslash
Pairing: Chris/Lance
Length: 3600 words
Rating: R
Summary: Sort of like Lance, Chris thinks, pretty lame until you learn to figure out what all the flash is hiding, then it’s pretty much irresistible.
Notes: Thanks to audrarose and turps33 for the amazing betas!
Man Band
By Sori
Justin calls and says, “Dude, show me a hunk of man band lovin’,” but before Chris can answer someone in the background starts yelling, hey, Timberlake and Justin’s saying, “oh, fuck. Gotta go, man,” seconds before the line goes dead.
Joey calls and says, “So. Man Band, huh?” And the Man Band jokes had pretty much gotten old before the show even started so Chris nods his head and rolls his eyes and forgoes the come-back when Briahna gets on the line and starts telling him about her ballet class.
JC calls and mumbles something about all night long and tongues and a red-head and Chris grins around his cup of coffee. The call ends when JC says, “Man band, forever, yeah,” and it’s the first coherent thing he’s said in the entire ten minute conversation.
Chris decides to give in and call Lance. At least with Lance, he usually gets entertainment along with the insults.
**
Except, not so much anymore.
Chris isn’t sure what’s changed, but Lance is all smooth and polite which is pretty much Lance around strangers not Lance around friends. Chris is trying to figure out if that means something’s wrong or if they’ve grown so distant since their last phone call seven days ago that Lance is treating him like the fucking media.
“What crawled up your ass? You’re not still stressing over The Asshole, are you?” Chris has thought of Reichen as The Asshole ever since Lance first called him up months ago and said, I think I may have a boyfriend, like it was some big fucking news event.
“Fuck off, Chris. Way to be sensitive.”
“Oh, hey. I’m totally Mr. Sensitive. If I wasn’t being sensitive, I would have said--.”
“Seriously, I don’t want to know,” Lance says, and Chris can hear papers rustling in the background.
“Dude. Are you working? You do get that I’m on the phone with you, right? And that I’m calling for sympathy and shit? I’ve just spent an entire month being traumatized in boy band hell.”
“Yeah?” The papers aren’t rustling anymore but Chris can hear typing and that’s probably better, maybe, since typing is second nature to Lance and he can pretty much do it while he’s concentrating on ten other things.
“Yeah, and you say I lack sensitivity. Right. Christ, I just spent 40 days listening to Timmons tell me that Nick Lacey’s the hottest thing in pop history. I came this close to have to stab my fucking heart out with a spoon. And, man, I can tell you the story of every single time he’s had sex in his entire life. Five minutes, that’s all it’d take, which is really about the lamest thing ever. And--.”
“Okay, fine. Man Band hell. Will you shut up about it now?”
Chris thinks he should probably be offended but he can’t work up the energy for scandalous outrage. He shrugs his shoulders and grabs a fresh beer out of his fridge. There’s only one bottle left sitting on the shelf, lonely next to a jar of pickles and two packs of bologna that his maid keeps buying for him.
He hates bologna. Fake-fucking-meat.
“This sucks,” Chris whines, not even joking anymore, and possibly Lance is the only one he can actually complain to since Lance just got taken for a ride by an ex-Air Force queer looking for some easy publicity.
“Fuck,” Lance answers. And that’s one of the things Chris has always loved about Lance: he gets the value in the direct, simple proclamations.
“So, want to go on vacation?” Chris is thinking Tahiti or Jamaica; someplace with beaches, lots of legally exposed skin, and an overload of fruity drinks with umbrellas.
“Oh, yeah,” Lance says, pausing. Chris can perfectly picture Lance leaning against his desk, chin propped in his hand, eyes closed, smiling in that stupid way he has when he’s thinking not-so-deep thoughts.
Lance can probably see the lure of the scantily clad bodies.
Instead, Lance asks, “How about Mississippi? I just bought a house by my parents.”
Chris still can’t quite figure out how his hell, no somehow came out sounding exactly like, “sure. Why not?”
But it did, and okay, yeah, he can do Mississippi for a couple of days. At least it’s not his house in Orlando where he’s creeping around corners still expecting some over-the-hill boybander to jump out at him. Stupidest thing he’s ever done, agreeing to have the show at his house.
“Cool.” Lance says, and Chris can hear the grin. “So, Man Band, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up, Bass.”
**
Chris discovers that Mississippi really is the armpit of America. It’s swamp and more swamp and even the smell of swamp, and it’s fucking everywhere, until he’s thinking of hopping the next plane and hitting Tahiti Lance-free, because this is starting out as pretty much the definition of the anti-vacation.
Instead, he eats fried chicken and heaping servings of mashed potatoes with real gravy that Lance’s mom makes from scratch. When she dishes up his third slice of still warm peach pie, Chris practically falls at her feet, saying blissfully, “Marry me and I’ll worship you forever.”
She laughs, and adds a blob of real whipped cream before hitting him upside the head just like she used to ten years ago when Chris would have Lance laughing so hard at the breakfast table that he’d start snorting and spraying food out his nose. When she pulls out a bottle of excellent tequila he wants to weep in joy.
“Bass, your momma’s my favorite person ever,” he says, happily pulling down the shot glasses and chivalrously filling Diane’s glass first.
All things considered, Mississippi is way better than Chris expected.
**
Lance’s house is big and white and makes Chris think of Colonel Sanders.
“That’s Kentucky, asshole,” Lance tells him when Chris mentions the white-suit and strange beard connection.
“Whatever. Same fucking thing,” Chris says, taking another drink of beer and trying not to smile. The beer’s cold and the bottle’s wet, condensation from the hot weather because the whole state is like 100 degrees with 150 percent humidity.
He won’t even mention the big-ass mutant bugs.
Lance is sitting with him by the pool, stretched out like he never used to back in the day: lounging, spread out wide open, soaking up the sun. He’s wearing his new swim trunks, baggy and long and with weirdly awful colors that are so Lance-like in ten-years-ago-dorky-Lance kind of way and he’s grinning at Chris, not even a fake grin, but a real one with his teeth showing and his hands flapping around, talking about whatever goes through his brain at any given moment.
It’s good.
Chris thinks it may even be better than Tahiti. They’ve got a pool and cold beer and water that he can drink without getting sick, and the lounge chairs are pushed so close together that their shoulders are brushing against each other, casual and simple. And maybe after the sixth beer, Chris starts to see Colonel Sanders lurking in the shadows, but it’s only quick glimpses out of the corner of his eye.
Besides, it could always be worse; at least, he’s always liked KFC.
Tahiti will still be around in a few days.
**
“You didn’t,” Lance says, looking into the box, shocked and so obviously amazed.
“Oh, yeah. I totally did. Goes with the house, you know.” Chris beams widely.
“Kentucky, asshole. Wrong state.”
“Who the fuck cares?” Chris gets ups and bounces from foot to foot because sometimes, he totally amazes himself.
It’d taken five minutes on the internet and $50 extra for overnight shipping but he’d pulled if off. Lance was looking at the crisp white suit and black string tie sitting in the box and Chris was already trying to figure out what he could do to actually get Lance into the suit. Ten years had given him plenty of blackmail material so it was really just a matter of time.
Lance threw the lid at him and Chris would have gotten pissed if Lance wasn’t already smiling stupidly. Chris can almost see the revenge plans taking shape in his eyes.
“You’re such a moron.”
“Oh, don’t you just know it, baby,” Chris says, running his fingers through Lance’s hair and knuckling his head.
It’s not until a few hours later that Chris know he’s totally won. Not until Lance comes strolling down the stairs in the white pants with the white shirt unbuttoned half-way down, and the black string tie tossed easily around his neck. He looks like the biggest dork ever, a Mississippi nerd through-and-through; at least until he bends over to pick some books up off the floor and the white pants stretch tightly over his ass.
White pants, and they’re sort of see through and, fuck, Chris bought them off ebay and nothing from ebay should ever look that good.
And Lance doesn’t even get that there’s anything to look at; just asks if he needs another beer when Chris starts laughing at the irony of it all, and pats his back saying, “easy, breathe,” while Chris is still sort of gasping for breath.
Lance moves them onto to the couch, flopping down next to Chris, close enough that Chris can see tan skin showing through the exceptionally thin white fabric. They sit there for a while, on Lance’s obscenely large leather couch, drinking beers and fighting over the remote control. Chris is dreamily inventing new uses for bolo ties when Lance turns toward him.
“Hey, I bet if we look hard enough we could find The Making of Man Band,” Lance says, not at all casually. “I mean, I’m paying for about 2000 satellite channels, it’s got to be there somewhere.”
“I fucking hate you,” Chris says, taking away Lance’s beer and drinking it himself.
**
Bars in Louisiana are like bars everywhere else: smoky and hazy, filled with drunks and dirty floors and obnoxious music. The music’s country, which is just about some of the worst crap around, at least not counting Justin’s SexyBack song which Chris thinks will kill him if he hears one more time on the radio.
No one’s recognized them and Chris doesn’t really think anyone’s going to. They’re stuffed in a little booth in the back corner, dirty baseball hats pulled low over their eyes because, yeah, Chris is still paranoid, and these are rednecks, and he’d really like to drink his beers in peace.
The jukebox volume gets amped up and the beat is pulsing through the entire place. Even the cigarette smoke in the room seems to be rolling to the rhythm. The song’s a weird fusion of country and rap that’s making Chris contemplate giving up music forever. But bad as it is, the beat’s there, strong and steady, and yeah, it’s not quite country and not quite rap, but Chris can’t help tapping out the rhythm on his glass.
Showy tune, all flash and clubby and sparkly, made to make people pay attention to everything except the beat inside and the jazzy baseline and the pretty decent blending of two genres that just don’t work together.
Sort of like Lance, Chris thinks, pretty lame until you learn to figure out what all the flash is hiding, then it’s pretty much irresistible.
Not that he’s going to tell Lance that, especially after he wraps his hand around Chris’ fingers, holding then still and not letting them move. Chris looks up, eyebrow raised.
“I really hate this song,” Lance says, as if that explains everything. He nods his head at the waitress, holds up two fingers from his other hand and starts talking about the telescope platform he’s thinking of having built and the new band he’s going to go watch in Chicago.
And maybe he forgets his hand is still wrapped around Chris fingers because he’s talking, and his fingers are sliding against Chris’, slow and easy , up and down, and Chris can feel the ring on Lance’s finger and the callus on his hand and the weight of Lance’s thumb moving between his hand and the glass.
“Dude. You’re holding my hand,” Chris says, tugging at his hand.
“Yeah? And?” Lance asks, like Chris is maybe the biggest idiot around.
“Sure, whatever,” Chris shrugs his shoulder and leans back in the chair. It’s not like anyone’s looking into their little corner of the bar and the way Lance’s thumb is rubbing back and forth is kind of nice. Soothing. Friendly, even.
Lance just grins at him until Chris snorts into his beer.
“So, Mississippi, huh? It’s not because of The Asshole, right?” Chris asks and maybe that was a question he probably should’ve already asked but he’s been too busy eating fried chicken and falling deeply in love with Lance’s 62-inch plasma.
“Fuck, no. Are you kidding me? But, seriously, I just wanted to come home for a while. With everyone all over the place and all. You know how it is--.” Lance can’t seem to find the words because he just waves his hand around and assumes Chris will get whatever he’s trying to say.
Chris really doesn’t have a clue.
**
It’s not playoff season yet but Chris knows there’s not much better than basketball on a big screen. High-definition’s the best thing to have ever happened to sports.
Lance is being pretty good about watching with him, sitting on the couch, even closer than usual, watching the Spurs kick some serious Laker ass. There’s a rebound and a fast break and then somewhere between half-court and the hoop, Lance has his tongue in Chris’ mouth, and his hands under Chris’ shirt, his body pressed up tight and hot and hard. Chris is saying, “What the --?” and gasping as Lance fingers a nipple, scraping short nails down Chris’ stomach and through his chest hair. Chris thinks he was asking a question, saying something, because this is all kinds of new but -
Who fucking cares?
Instead, he winds his fingers through Lance’s hair, licking into his mouth, and pulling him closer until he can feel Lance touching everywhere: along his back and down his legs, into his mouth and around his waist, and it’s so much better than the best thing ever.
At least until Lance stops, pulls back and smiles painfully, like it actually hurts to move, whispering, “Fuck,” and “Chris,” and “come on”, before he’s dragging Chris off the couch and up the stairs and into his bedroom.
Where they strip off their clothes, moving and pushing and shoving each other onto the bed, all nownownow, and Chris can feel the desperation in his hands and the taste of need in Lance’s kisses, and it’s quick and fast and over way too soon.
And it’s not even really all that good, which pretty much sucks, since if you’re going to screw up a friendship with fucking, the fucking should be better than average. It’s mostly groping and an embarrassingly quick blow job, and then they’re both covered in come, breathing heavy.
Average sex really, nothing to write home about, except for how Chris can almost still see Lance smiling, small and sweet and secretive, and can almost still feel Lance’s fingers, rough and callused and fearless as they moved along Chris’ body, and maybe how Lance tastes like scotch, all smooth and slick and dark, and how he gasps and says Chris’ name like it’s the sweetest, deepest song lyric ever.
And okay, all things considered, maybe it’s mind-blowing more than it’s average. Especially later, when Chris’ deep inside Lance, thrusting lazily, hands wrapped tightly around Lance’s hips, holding tight and chanting, “Lance,” because it’s the only word he remembers.
**
The sex doesn’t really change much which probably freaks Chris out more than anything else. It’s normal and comfortable and easy in a way that Lance is never, ever easy. They give up the Play Station and play with each other. The couch is big and soft, and the back is perfectly sloped for fucking; the kitchen table is surprisingly comfortable when Lance’s mouth is wrapped around his dick; the chaise lounge breaks but the cement is pretty damn good, especially after he’d rolls Lance over, pillows his head on a pool float, and licks every inch of his body twice.
At night, Lance still flops down next to him on the couch, kicks him in the shins and calls him an asshole for no apparent reason. He still won’t cook Chris breakfast in bed and just ignores him when Chris bounces up and down whining, “Lance, Lance, Lance, I’m hungry.”
And if they don’t talk about things in between blow jobs and hand jobs and fucking, well, that’s all the better, because Chris isn’t sure what he should say anyway.
“Nice ass, Bass,” is truthful but he’s pretty sure Lance wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment, and, “I love you,’ might be true but he’s not sure he can get the words out yet and, “so, you’re my boyfriend, right?” might be almost the thing to say, but he really doesn’t want to be feeling like the girl in the whole relationship when Lance falls over laughing.
Instead, he wraps himself around Lance every night, arms and legs and necks, touching every place he can, and falling asleep sweaty and sticky and listening to Lance’s lame snores.
**
Then one night, Lance licks a long, slow stripe up Chris’ neck and casually asks, “When do you plan on leaving?”
Chris just stares, completely at a loss, wondering if there was a trick buried somewhere inside the question. Lance’s fingers are drumming against Chris’ chest, and there’s something in his voice that Chris can’t quite place; something that sounds a whole lot like nervous and not even a little bit like arousal.
“Chris?” Lance waves his hand in front of Chris’ face, laughing a little. He rolls his eyes and scratches his hand across Chris’ ribs. “Tahiti, remember? You’re still going to go, aren’t you?”
And, okay, maybe that’s actually sadness in Lance’s words, or maybe it’s Lance’s version of a hint, like possibly Lance is remembering that this little vacation of theirs wasn’t supposed to last more than a few days. It’s pretty much the last thing Chris wants to hear when’s he’s stretched out on the bed, sweaty and sated, and almost happy, and suddenly realizing that he hasn’t been thinking of Tahiti, or scantily clad bodies romping in the surf, or little umbrellas in overpriced fruity drinks.
Hasn’t, in fact, thought of those things in weeks, long before the night when Lance had leaned over the couch and kissed Chris for the first-time like it was the only first-time he’d ever wanted.
Chris’ body tenses and he unwinds from around Lance, pushing himself off the bed, feeling his chest tighten painfully, trying desperately to figure out when casual became something he no longer wanted. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do here; for the first time, unsure exactly what’s going on in Lance’s head.
“Chris, wait--,” Lance says desperately, reaching out and trying to grab hold of Chris’ hand.
Chris shakes his head and takes a step away from the bed, not able to meet Lance’s eyes. His legs don’t seem to be working quite right and he can’t find his boxers on the floor. Lance’s briefs, and Lance’s shorts, and Lance’s t-shirt, and, fuck, he’s sure he got undressed in this room so it’s not like there shouldn’t be some piece of his clothing in here.
Somewhere along the way, he’s forgotten all the things he’s learned to never forget. Keep something back and don’t assume and expect the worst, and he’s broken every single one of those rules.
With Lance.
And it’s pissing him off. It’s fucking Lance and despite the sort of weird, quasi-incestuous I remember when you were sixteen thing, Chris has possibly been thinking that this was maybe something more than anything he’s had before.
Because it was them.
Lance is looking at him, dazed and confused, and more than a little hurt, but underneath he can see something else in Lance’s eyes, something Chris wants. Suddenly, it seems so obvious really; the decision easier than he ever thought possible. Maybe he doesn’t have the words to tell Lance all the things that he’s feeling, but it doesn’t matter, because Lance has always been an expert at deciphering Chris’ shorthand.
He drops the clothes he’s holding on to the floor, and takes a running leap at the bed, slamming into Lance and ignoring everything except the feel of Lance’s body and the desperate hitch of his breath as Chris holds him down. Grabbing his chin, he forces Lance to look up.
“Good question. When’s our flight, Bass? Because, Tahiti? Man, best beaches in the world. You can fuck on the beach, and the sand is so soft that it doesn’t even chafe your ass.” His licks down Lance’s neck, biting at his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and Lance is grinning like an idiot, eyes wide, moaning and gasping out, “Chris.”
Looking happy, Chris realizes, as Lance spreads his fingers across Chris’ back and rolls up his hips.
“About time you figured things out, Kirkpatrick. You’re such a fucking spazz,” he whispers, but it’s okay, way more than okay, in fact, because he’s pushing the words into Chris’ mouth with his lips, saying nothing and everything, just winding their bodies together, closer, tight and perfect, until there’s nothing at all left between them.
Fandom: Nsync Popslash
Pairing: Chris/Lance
Length: 3600 words
Rating: R
Summary: Sort of like Lance, Chris thinks, pretty lame until you learn to figure out what all the flash is hiding, then it’s pretty much irresistible.
Notes: Thanks to audrarose and turps33 for the amazing betas!
Man Band
By Sori
Justin calls and says, “Dude, show me a hunk of man band lovin’,” but before Chris can answer someone in the background starts yelling, hey, Timberlake and Justin’s saying, “oh, fuck. Gotta go, man,” seconds before the line goes dead.
Joey calls and says, “So. Man Band, huh?” And the Man Band jokes had pretty much gotten old before the show even started so Chris nods his head and rolls his eyes and forgoes the come-back when Briahna gets on the line and starts telling him about her ballet class.
JC calls and mumbles something about all night long and tongues and a red-head and Chris grins around his cup of coffee. The call ends when JC says, “Man band, forever, yeah,” and it’s the first coherent thing he’s said in the entire ten minute conversation.
Chris decides to give in and call Lance. At least with Lance, he usually gets entertainment along with the insults.
**
Except, not so much anymore.
Chris isn’t sure what’s changed, but Lance is all smooth and polite which is pretty much Lance around strangers not Lance around friends. Chris is trying to figure out if that means something’s wrong or if they’ve grown so distant since their last phone call seven days ago that Lance is treating him like the fucking media.
“What crawled up your ass? You’re not still stressing over The Asshole, are you?” Chris has thought of Reichen as The Asshole ever since Lance first called him up months ago and said, I think I may have a boyfriend, like it was some big fucking news event.
“Fuck off, Chris. Way to be sensitive.”
“Oh, hey. I’m totally Mr. Sensitive. If I wasn’t being sensitive, I would have said--.”
“Seriously, I don’t want to know,” Lance says, and Chris can hear papers rustling in the background.
“Dude. Are you working? You do get that I’m on the phone with you, right? And that I’m calling for sympathy and shit? I’ve just spent an entire month being traumatized in boy band hell.”
“Yeah?” The papers aren’t rustling anymore but Chris can hear typing and that’s probably better, maybe, since typing is second nature to Lance and he can pretty much do it while he’s concentrating on ten other things.
“Yeah, and you say I lack sensitivity. Right. Christ, I just spent 40 days listening to Timmons tell me that Nick Lacey’s the hottest thing in pop history. I came this close to have to stab my fucking heart out with a spoon. And, man, I can tell you the story of every single time he’s had sex in his entire life. Five minutes, that’s all it’d take, which is really about the lamest thing ever. And--.”
“Okay, fine. Man Band hell. Will you shut up about it now?”
Chris thinks he should probably be offended but he can’t work up the energy for scandalous outrage. He shrugs his shoulders and grabs a fresh beer out of his fridge. There’s only one bottle left sitting on the shelf, lonely next to a jar of pickles and two packs of bologna that his maid keeps buying for him.
He hates bologna. Fake-fucking-meat.
“This sucks,” Chris whines, not even joking anymore, and possibly Lance is the only one he can actually complain to since Lance just got taken for a ride by an ex-Air Force queer looking for some easy publicity.
“Fuck,” Lance answers. And that’s one of the things Chris has always loved about Lance: he gets the value in the direct, simple proclamations.
“So, want to go on vacation?” Chris is thinking Tahiti or Jamaica; someplace with beaches, lots of legally exposed skin, and an overload of fruity drinks with umbrellas.
“Oh, yeah,” Lance says, pausing. Chris can perfectly picture Lance leaning against his desk, chin propped in his hand, eyes closed, smiling in that stupid way he has when he’s thinking not-so-deep thoughts.
Lance can probably see the lure of the scantily clad bodies.
Instead, Lance asks, “How about Mississippi? I just bought a house by my parents.”
Chris still can’t quite figure out how his hell, no somehow came out sounding exactly like, “sure. Why not?”
But it did, and okay, yeah, he can do Mississippi for a couple of days. At least it’s not his house in Orlando where he’s creeping around corners still expecting some over-the-hill boybander to jump out at him. Stupidest thing he’s ever done, agreeing to have the show at his house.
“Cool.” Lance says, and Chris can hear the grin. “So, Man Band, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up, Bass.”
**
Chris discovers that Mississippi really is the armpit of America. It’s swamp and more swamp and even the smell of swamp, and it’s fucking everywhere, until he’s thinking of hopping the next plane and hitting Tahiti Lance-free, because this is starting out as pretty much the definition of the anti-vacation.
Instead, he eats fried chicken and heaping servings of mashed potatoes with real gravy that Lance’s mom makes from scratch. When she dishes up his third slice of still warm peach pie, Chris practically falls at her feet, saying blissfully, “Marry me and I’ll worship you forever.”
She laughs, and adds a blob of real whipped cream before hitting him upside the head just like she used to ten years ago when Chris would have Lance laughing so hard at the breakfast table that he’d start snorting and spraying food out his nose. When she pulls out a bottle of excellent tequila he wants to weep in joy.
“Bass, your momma’s my favorite person ever,” he says, happily pulling down the shot glasses and chivalrously filling Diane’s glass first.
All things considered, Mississippi is way better than Chris expected.
**
Lance’s house is big and white and makes Chris think of Colonel Sanders.
“That’s Kentucky, asshole,” Lance tells him when Chris mentions the white-suit and strange beard connection.
“Whatever. Same fucking thing,” Chris says, taking another drink of beer and trying not to smile. The beer’s cold and the bottle’s wet, condensation from the hot weather because the whole state is like 100 degrees with 150 percent humidity.
He won’t even mention the big-ass mutant bugs.
Lance is sitting with him by the pool, stretched out like he never used to back in the day: lounging, spread out wide open, soaking up the sun. He’s wearing his new swim trunks, baggy and long and with weirdly awful colors that are so Lance-like in ten-years-ago-dorky-Lance kind of way and he’s grinning at Chris, not even a fake grin, but a real one with his teeth showing and his hands flapping around, talking about whatever goes through his brain at any given moment.
It’s good.
Chris thinks it may even be better than Tahiti. They’ve got a pool and cold beer and water that he can drink without getting sick, and the lounge chairs are pushed so close together that their shoulders are brushing against each other, casual and simple. And maybe after the sixth beer, Chris starts to see Colonel Sanders lurking in the shadows, but it’s only quick glimpses out of the corner of his eye.
Besides, it could always be worse; at least, he’s always liked KFC.
Tahiti will still be around in a few days.
**
“You didn’t,” Lance says, looking into the box, shocked and so obviously amazed.
“Oh, yeah. I totally did. Goes with the house, you know.” Chris beams widely.
“Kentucky, asshole. Wrong state.”
“Who the fuck cares?” Chris gets ups and bounces from foot to foot because sometimes, he totally amazes himself.
It’d taken five minutes on the internet and $50 extra for overnight shipping but he’d pulled if off. Lance was looking at the crisp white suit and black string tie sitting in the box and Chris was already trying to figure out what he could do to actually get Lance into the suit. Ten years had given him plenty of blackmail material so it was really just a matter of time.
Lance threw the lid at him and Chris would have gotten pissed if Lance wasn’t already smiling stupidly. Chris can almost see the revenge plans taking shape in his eyes.
“You’re such a moron.”
“Oh, don’t you just know it, baby,” Chris says, running his fingers through Lance’s hair and knuckling his head.
It’s not until a few hours later that Chris know he’s totally won. Not until Lance comes strolling down the stairs in the white pants with the white shirt unbuttoned half-way down, and the black string tie tossed easily around his neck. He looks like the biggest dork ever, a Mississippi nerd through-and-through; at least until he bends over to pick some books up off the floor and the white pants stretch tightly over his ass.
White pants, and they’re sort of see through and, fuck, Chris bought them off ebay and nothing from ebay should ever look that good.
And Lance doesn’t even get that there’s anything to look at; just asks if he needs another beer when Chris starts laughing at the irony of it all, and pats his back saying, “easy, breathe,” while Chris is still sort of gasping for breath.
Lance moves them onto to the couch, flopping down next to Chris, close enough that Chris can see tan skin showing through the exceptionally thin white fabric. They sit there for a while, on Lance’s obscenely large leather couch, drinking beers and fighting over the remote control. Chris is dreamily inventing new uses for bolo ties when Lance turns toward him.
“Hey, I bet if we look hard enough we could find The Making of Man Band,” Lance says, not at all casually. “I mean, I’m paying for about 2000 satellite channels, it’s got to be there somewhere.”
“I fucking hate you,” Chris says, taking away Lance’s beer and drinking it himself.
**
Bars in Louisiana are like bars everywhere else: smoky and hazy, filled with drunks and dirty floors and obnoxious music. The music’s country, which is just about some of the worst crap around, at least not counting Justin’s SexyBack song which Chris thinks will kill him if he hears one more time on the radio.
No one’s recognized them and Chris doesn’t really think anyone’s going to. They’re stuffed in a little booth in the back corner, dirty baseball hats pulled low over their eyes because, yeah, Chris is still paranoid, and these are rednecks, and he’d really like to drink his beers in peace.
The jukebox volume gets amped up and the beat is pulsing through the entire place. Even the cigarette smoke in the room seems to be rolling to the rhythm. The song’s a weird fusion of country and rap that’s making Chris contemplate giving up music forever. But bad as it is, the beat’s there, strong and steady, and yeah, it’s not quite country and not quite rap, but Chris can’t help tapping out the rhythm on his glass.
Showy tune, all flash and clubby and sparkly, made to make people pay attention to everything except the beat inside and the jazzy baseline and the pretty decent blending of two genres that just don’t work together.
Sort of like Lance, Chris thinks, pretty lame until you learn to figure out what all the flash is hiding, then it’s pretty much irresistible.
Not that he’s going to tell Lance that, especially after he wraps his hand around Chris’ fingers, holding then still and not letting them move. Chris looks up, eyebrow raised.
“I really hate this song,” Lance says, as if that explains everything. He nods his head at the waitress, holds up two fingers from his other hand and starts talking about the telescope platform he’s thinking of having built and the new band he’s going to go watch in Chicago.
And maybe he forgets his hand is still wrapped around Chris fingers because he’s talking, and his fingers are sliding against Chris’, slow and easy , up and down, and Chris can feel the ring on Lance’s finger and the callus on his hand and the weight of Lance’s thumb moving between his hand and the glass.
“Dude. You’re holding my hand,” Chris says, tugging at his hand.
“Yeah? And?” Lance asks, like Chris is maybe the biggest idiot around.
“Sure, whatever,” Chris shrugs his shoulder and leans back in the chair. It’s not like anyone’s looking into their little corner of the bar and the way Lance’s thumb is rubbing back and forth is kind of nice. Soothing. Friendly, even.
Lance just grins at him until Chris snorts into his beer.
“So, Mississippi, huh? It’s not because of The Asshole, right?” Chris asks and maybe that was a question he probably should’ve already asked but he’s been too busy eating fried chicken and falling deeply in love with Lance’s 62-inch plasma.
“Fuck, no. Are you kidding me? But, seriously, I just wanted to come home for a while. With everyone all over the place and all. You know how it is--.” Lance can’t seem to find the words because he just waves his hand around and assumes Chris will get whatever he’s trying to say.
Chris really doesn’t have a clue.
**
It’s not playoff season yet but Chris knows there’s not much better than basketball on a big screen. High-definition’s the best thing to have ever happened to sports.
Lance is being pretty good about watching with him, sitting on the couch, even closer than usual, watching the Spurs kick some serious Laker ass. There’s a rebound and a fast break and then somewhere between half-court and the hoop, Lance has his tongue in Chris’ mouth, and his hands under Chris’ shirt, his body pressed up tight and hot and hard. Chris is saying, “What the --?” and gasping as Lance fingers a nipple, scraping short nails down Chris’ stomach and through his chest hair. Chris thinks he was asking a question, saying something, because this is all kinds of new but -
Who fucking cares?
Instead, he winds his fingers through Lance’s hair, licking into his mouth, and pulling him closer until he can feel Lance touching everywhere: along his back and down his legs, into his mouth and around his waist, and it’s so much better than the best thing ever.
At least until Lance stops, pulls back and smiles painfully, like it actually hurts to move, whispering, “Fuck,” and “Chris,” and “come on”, before he’s dragging Chris off the couch and up the stairs and into his bedroom.
Where they strip off their clothes, moving and pushing and shoving each other onto the bed, all nownownow, and Chris can feel the desperation in his hands and the taste of need in Lance’s kisses, and it’s quick and fast and over way too soon.
And it’s not even really all that good, which pretty much sucks, since if you’re going to screw up a friendship with fucking, the fucking should be better than average. It’s mostly groping and an embarrassingly quick blow job, and then they’re both covered in come, breathing heavy.
Average sex really, nothing to write home about, except for how Chris can almost still see Lance smiling, small and sweet and secretive, and can almost still feel Lance’s fingers, rough and callused and fearless as they moved along Chris’ body, and maybe how Lance tastes like scotch, all smooth and slick and dark, and how he gasps and says Chris’ name like it’s the sweetest, deepest song lyric ever.
And okay, all things considered, maybe it’s mind-blowing more than it’s average. Especially later, when Chris’ deep inside Lance, thrusting lazily, hands wrapped tightly around Lance’s hips, holding tight and chanting, “Lance,” because it’s the only word he remembers.
**
The sex doesn’t really change much which probably freaks Chris out more than anything else. It’s normal and comfortable and easy in a way that Lance is never, ever easy. They give up the Play Station and play with each other. The couch is big and soft, and the back is perfectly sloped for fucking; the kitchen table is surprisingly comfortable when Lance’s mouth is wrapped around his dick; the chaise lounge breaks but the cement is pretty damn good, especially after he’d rolls Lance over, pillows his head on a pool float, and licks every inch of his body twice.
At night, Lance still flops down next to him on the couch, kicks him in the shins and calls him an asshole for no apparent reason. He still won’t cook Chris breakfast in bed and just ignores him when Chris bounces up and down whining, “Lance, Lance, Lance, I’m hungry.”
And if they don’t talk about things in between blow jobs and hand jobs and fucking, well, that’s all the better, because Chris isn’t sure what he should say anyway.
“Nice ass, Bass,” is truthful but he’s pretty sure Lance wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment, and, “I love you,’ might be true but he’s not sure he can get the words out yet and, “so, you’re my boyfriend, right?” might be almost the thing to say, but he really doesn’t want to be feeling like the girl in the whole relationship when Lance falls over laughing.
Instead, he wraps himself around Lance every night, arms and legs and necks, touching every place he can, and falling asleep sweaty and sticky and listening to Lance’s lame snores.
**
Then one night, Lance licks a long, slow stripe up Chris’ neck and casually asks, “When do you plan on leaving?”
Chris just stares, completely at a loss, wondering if there was a trick buried somewhere inside the question. Lance’s fingers are drumming against Chris’ chest, and there’s something in his voice that Chris can’t quite place; something that sounds a whole lot like nervous and not even a little bit like arousal.
“Chris?” Lance waves his hand in front of Chris’ face, laughing a little. He rolls his eyes and scratches his hand across Chris’ ribs. “Tahiti, remember? You’re still going to go, aren’t you?”
And, okay, maybe that’s actually sadness in Lance’s words, or maybe it’s Lance’s version of a hint, like possibly Lance is remembering that this little vacation of theirs wasn’t supposed to last more than a few days. It’s pretty much the last thing Chris wants to hear when’s he’s stretched out on the bed, sweaty and sated, and almost happy, and suddenly realizing that he hasn’t been thinking of Tahiti, or scantily clad bodies romping in the surf, or little umbrellas in overpriced fruity drinks.
Hasn’t, in fact, thought of those things in weeks, long before the night when Lance had leaned over the couch and kissed Chris for the first-time like it was the only first-time he’d ever wanted.
Chris’ body tenses and he unwinds from around Lance, pushing himself off the bed, feeling his chest tighten painfully, trying desperately to figure out when casual became something he no longer wanted. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do here; for the first time, unsure exactly what’s going on in Lance’s head.
“Chris, wait--,” Lance says desperately, reaching out and trying to grab hold of Chris’ hand.
Chris shakes his head and takes a step away from the bed, not able to meet Lance’s eyes. His legs don’t seem to be working quite right and he can’t find his boxers on the floor. Lance’s briefs, and Lance’s shorts, and Lance’s t-shirt, and, fuck, he’s sure he got undressed in this room so it’s not like there shouldn’t be some piece of his clothing in here.
Somewhere along the way, he’s forgotten all the things he’s learned to never forget. Keep something back and don’t assume and expect the worst, and he’s broken every single one of those rules.
With Lance.
And it’s pissing him off. It’s fucking Lance and despite the sort of weird, quasi-incestuous I remember when you were sixteen thing, Chris has possibly been thinking that this was maybe something more than anything he’s had before.
Because it was them.
Lance is looking at him, dazed and confused, and more than a little hurt, but underneath he can see something else in Lance’s eyes, something Chris wants. Suddenly, it seems so obvious really; the decision easier than he ever thought possible. Maybe he doesn’t have the words to tell Lance all the things that he’s feeling, but it doesn’t matter, because Lance has always been an expert at deciphering Chris’ shorthand.
He drops the clothes he’s holding on to the floor, and takes a running leap at the bed, slamming into Lance and ignoring everything except the feel of Lance’s body and the desperate hitch of his breath as Chris holds him down. Grabbing his chin, he forces Lance to look up.
“Good question. When’s our flight, Bass? Because, Tahiti? Man, best beaches in the world. You can fuck on the beach, and the sand is so soft that it doesn’t even chafe your ass.” His licks down Lance’s neck, biting at his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and Lance is grinning like an idiot, eyes wide, moaning and gasping out, “Chris.”
Looking happy, Chris realizes, as Lance spreads his fingers across Chris’ back and rolls up his hips.
“About time you figured things out, Kirkpatrick. You’re such a fucking spazz,” he whispers, but it’s okay, way more than okay, in fact, because he’s pushing the words into Chris’ mouth with his lips, saying nothing and everything, just winding their bodies together, closer, tight and perfect, until there’s nothing at all left between them.