DISCLAIMER: all made up. For entertainment only.
NOTES: Thanks to Coldplay, C from SF, and up against the wall with Lily and Tiffany, in a good way.

HABIT

JC's lost his voice from crying, from hours spent shuddering over a toilet. There was a warm hand on his back and a cool cloth on his forehead, but now they're gone and he's trying to sleep, sitting up, against the bathtub. He remembers the last thing he ate: Chinese, two days ago. He remembers his fortune, printed in red and lying on Justin's pillow: "The universe doesn't have laws, it has habits. And habits can be broken."

Justin's eating, he's sure. Not because Justin feels nothing, but because Justin would consider it important to go on, not to let things show. Justin waited two weeks to tell them things with Britney were now completely fake and he told them only in passing, in a limo from interview one to interview two. JC admired that about Justin, that reserve and now he wishes it had rubbed off somewhere in the last year of fucking and more.

JC admired a lot of things about Justin. Admired, he thinks, and opens his eyes. They're swollen and sore. He flexes his knuckles and finds that they're swollen and sore, too, fat and split open, red and raw and not quite scabbed. He lifts them to his lips. His skin is still hot, still tender. There is nothing left to admire about himself.

Joey is hard and all he wants to do is fuck someone, anyone. Next person who walks up to him wins. And it's kinda sick, and he almost feels bad because Justin left early, his face chalk white except for the bruise on his jaw JC left, and Joey should follow, make sure Justin's okay. He should find JC, make sure he eats. He shouldn't be here, listening to a thumping bass and getting turned on by every single person he sees. There's this redhead, though, stacked and tall and hot and she's grinning at him.

He winks at her and she moves towards him, lifts her arms to move though the crowd. She slides her hips, shimmies sideways, lets her breasts brush up against some blonde's back. Joey's tight against his jeans, tighter when she finally reaches him and he can see the outline of her nipples beneath her black dress. There's a door behind him, one that leads to an alley. He's used it before and he uses it again. He pushes her against the cold bricks; she pushes her left hand into his pants. Her fingers are warm and smooth and it's what he needs, and he's inside her but thinking of them.

He's done sooner than he wants, but she throws back her head and moans. It echoes through the alley and he's pretty sure she's not faking. He tosses the condom and turns around and she's gone. Which is perfect and about sums it up. He's standing with the garbage and he feels at home.

Justin's ordered room service, cobbler and ice cream and milk. It's not as good as what his grandma makes, but nothing ever is, nothing in this world even comes close. He strips down to his boxers and eats cross-legged on the bed. Nothing's on except infomercials and videos. MTV's playing "Gone". He watches and dribbles ice cream onto the bedspread.

He knows JC's one room over. He's pretty sure JC hasn't eaten, and certainly not cobbler. But Justin has a yellow and purple bruise over half his jaw and it hurts a little to eat and hurts more to sing, so he figures they're even. He remembers JC saying, "I love you" to him, JC ducking his head, looking away right after like he'd meant to say something else. And that image bleeds into JC on top of him, JC in the morning, not completely awake but still smiling at him and then JC hitting him. Justin shakes his head and pushes away the food.

On the screen, he's black and white and kissing a model. He realizes for the first time that he wasn't really kissing her at all, can't believe how uncomfortable he looks with his mouth against a woman's. He mutes the television and climbs off the bed, crosses the room and presses his ear to the garish wallpaper. Justin listens for a long time but can't hear anything. There's noise in the hall, probably Joey. He wonders if Joey's alone, then decides he doesn't care. On the bed, the ice cream has melted into a thick puddle. Justin wrinkles his nose at it, then reaches around it for the phone. He dials a number and they bring him tea.

Chris is too old for this shit. Too old for JC's drama queen act, too old for Joey's inability to keep it in his pants and far too old to deal with Justin. All of Justin's shit makes him feel like he's more than thirty and maybe something more like sixty. Chris is drunk and watching Princess Mononoke for the fifth time. He still doesn't understand the movie and he still doesn't care. He regrets every moment of his life since Justin was a baby, sitting in his apartment, smiling up at him and babbling about how great a group would be.

His life is like skidding on a patch of ice, driving sideways and bracing for the impact. Nothing surprises him anymore, not Justin's words or JC's tears or forcing a door open with his fucking shoulder and breaking them apart. He envies them, though, that they feel things like love and hate, anger, betrayal, pain. He only feels old.

Professional, they all have to be professional. One year, one fucking incredibly long year of making sure JC and Justin didn't get caught, that JC didn't slip up in interviews, that Justin kept up his obligations with Britney and the only good part about those two being over is that now he doesn't have to swallow back his jealousy at their happiness. No more looking away when Justin would make those eyes at JC, or gritting his teeth in the morning when JC would drape his arms around Justin and kiss him because he could. Maybe Lance knew more than Chris does. Lance never looked envious at the kissing, the looks, the quiet comfort JC and Justin had. Lance didn't even look surprised when JC hit Justin during that last argument. Maybe Lance is just a coldhearted bastard. Chris wants that right now. Before he watches Princess Mononoke for the sixth time.

Lance shaves slowly, firm strokes along his cheeks, gentle ones on his throat. He rinses the razor and drains the sink, then takes a few steps backwards and drops his towel. The lights are bright, unforgiving, but he looks at himself for a long time. He looks good now, he thinks, since he's lost weight and built muscle. He looks strong. He looks like a man.

He pulls on a clean shirt and a dirty pair of sweatpants, and walks into the hall, right past JC's room. He could care less and thinks that and laughs, just a little. Lance served his time, doing the right thing, remembering that someone else got there first. He did the right thing until he was asked to do the wrong thing and now he could care less. You can't always get what you want, he sings, thinking of JC, but if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need. The last line Lance sings for himself. This is what he needs.

He raps his knuckles against the door in their stupid secret knock. It occurs to him that he doesn't have to use it now, since he's the only one knocking. Justin opens the door immediately, like he's been waiting, and without even a kiss, Lance is smiling, facedown on the mattress. The bedspread is rough against his face and smells like ice cream. Justin tugs at Lance's sweats briefly before making a small sound and resting his head against Lance's back. Lance turns, lets Justin curl up beside him, and feels tears against his shoulder. He rolls his eyes and studies the wallpaper, the blue curls and the purple swirls and the green splashes. It's beyond ugly, he thinks, and JC would probably like it. Justin doesn't move. Lance bends his arm and rubs Justin's ear, but Justin swears under his breath and pushes Lance's hand away. Justin jumps off the bed and Lance thinks, I do not need this. The teacup clatters against the saucer when Justin shoves it off the bed and the pictures clatter against the walls when Justin walks out of the room and slams the door. Lance waits five minutes, hears Justin knocking on JC's door out in the hallway, and rolls his eyes again. He decides he needs to start fucking men, not boys, and goes back to his room. Justin isn't in the hallway anymore.

THE END.

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