NOTES: Title from a great song by the Holy Childhood. Thanks to Lily for beta'ing.
AMBIVALENT BLUES
Justin's only been in the hotel suite for two days and it already looks like a frat boy's dorm room. A pile of videos by the VCR, and half are probably porn, a smaller stack of books and clothes flung willy-nilly. Lance sighs and walks around the mess to the bed. He can see a stack of magazines. Garish teen magazines with canned answers and bad writing, unread Playboys and Penthouses with what Lance assumes are sticky pages and every bit of it makes him tired.
Lance just wants to be home. Home is where the heart is, he thinks, and wonders when JC will turn that cliché into some three chord song about sex that only has solos for JC and Justin. Lance shakes his head and reaches for a magazine and waits for Justin to come back.
Girls with fake breasts peddling vodka and wrestling and cigarettes and sex smile invitingly at him from the glossy pages, and Lance wonders if he's the only man in America who actually reads Playboy for the articles. The cigarette ads make his chest itch. He sees a purple duffel bag in the bathroom and he goes to it, tossing the magazine on the bed between the rumpled pillowcases.
In the bag, he finds an opened box of condoms and a package of birth control pills, and he knows the bag is Britney's. Lance also knows that if he looks long enough, he'll find a package of Virginia Slims with a lighter tucked inside. Eventually, he does, and he fills a plastic cup with water to act as his ashtray before lighting one of the cigarettes and taking a long drag.
He doesn't even like Virginia Slims and he wishes Britney smoked cigarettes with more bite. He wants something harsh, like the Marlboro Reds Joey sometimes smokes. Something that he would feel for days on his tongue and in his chest. He thinks of the heavy weight of Justin's cock on his tongue, choking him almost, hot and rough and he stops himself. Shut up, he thinks. In the past, he thinks to himself. Long ago.
Before everything hit, in Germany and they snuck around avoiding parents and chaperones and Lou. And Lance was stupid and young, and he can see now that Justin hasn't grown up a bit and is just a brat. A brat with the most inviting hollows leading down from his hips to his cock. A brat, he repeats to himself. A brat. He takes another drag and realizes he's smoked the cigarette down to the filter and he can't feel it at all.
He empties the water down the sink and throws it all away. He doesn't bother to hide the cigarettes or make it look like he didn't root around in her things. He walks around the hotel suite and starts straightening up. He can't help himself.
The pizza boxes are stacked and placed just outside the door. He gathers the beer cans in his arms and wonders what happened to the maid service. Lance knows that Justin's very protective of his privacy, so much so that he'd rather live in filth than deal with the possibility of a stranger stealing his dirty underwear. He sometimes wonders if Justin always leaves the "Do Not Disturb" sign out because he knows that Lance will pick up after him.
He thinks about his own room, the one he shares with Chris. Chris, who can't stand to be alone, who cries at night when he thinks that Lance's asleep. Lance hears Chris call out JC's name sometimes in his sleep, and the sound haunts him. He wonders what the hell JC did to Chris, and if he can be heard calling out Justin's name, too.
He's holding a magazine away from him, ignoring the way the pages cling to each other in the middle when Justin lopes in the door. Justin just grins at the order of his room and flops down on the bed. He doesn't even bother to close the door.
"Justin." Lance rolls his eyes and thinks he has been doing this his entire life. Standing by the door as he closes it, he thinks his entire life feels like a million years. "Where's Britney?" It's been so long, he doesn't even sneer in his head as he says it.
Justin is scratching his balls through the designer jeans. Lance closes his eyes and wonders why he ever fell in love with this spoiled brat. Justin drawls, "I have no fucking idea where Britney is. Dude, I think she's fucking someone else, you know?" Justin sounds so casual and unconcerned, Lance almost throws up.
"Where've you been?"
"Out with Joey. We went to a strip club with P. Diddy." Justin sniffs the sheets. "Somebody needs to change these."
Lance sinks into a chair and presses his knees together. He rubs his forehead with his left hand, trying to remember a time when he didn't feel hollow.
"Are you cold?"
Lance looks up. "What?"
"You're shaking like Joey does when he doesn't have a drink for a couple days." Justin grins wickedly and broadly, his mouth full of white teeth, teeth that have dug into Lance's chest.
"I'm just tired."
"Come on, man." Justin pats the space next to him. "Bed's big enough for two. Or three."
"Those sheets need to be changed." Lance stands and makes his way to the bathroom again, to light another of Britney's cigarettes.
Justin just watches him as he smokes in the bathroom, carefully tapping his ash into the sink. Lance looks at his feet, at Britney's open bag beneath him, at the scattered toiletries. Small towns in Mississippi, he thinks and feels homesick, small towns he grew up near could live for a year on what all these moisturizers tubs and mascara wands and bottles of foundations cost. Justin and Britney's cache of basic needs for daily life. He grits his teeth and then sucks hard on the thin cigarette.
He looks over at Justin and their eyes meet. Lance looks away first, as always. "What," he says quietly.
"What what?" Justin says with a laugh.
"You're just looking at me, and you haven't said a word in three minutes. Which is not like you at all." Lance sighs and looks at himself in the mirror. Portrait of an idiot, he thinks. Bags under his eyes, one hand wrapped around a stupid cigarette, the other hand gripping the counter so hard his knuckles are white. He looks over at Justin, still silent. He can hear Justin saying without caring that Britney's fucking around on him over and over, an incessant beat. Spoiled brat, he thinks, to drown it out.
"Do you miss fucking me?" Justin says it quietly and Justin never says anything quietly. Lance looks up and stares at Justin, sitting motionless on the edge of the bed.
Lance makes a sound that is supposed to be a laugh, but sounds more like a sob. His eyes don't leave Justin's as he raises the cigarette to his lips. "It doesn't matter."
"And that's an answer?"
He exhales slowly and watches the smoke drift away from him. "It doesn't."
Justin is across the room and pressed against him before Lance can draw his next breath. Their mouths, Lance thinks, fit together like pieces of a puzzle, and he's got his fingers in the space at the base of Justin's neck as he tries to decide what the puzzle would look like completed.
He pushes against Lance, pushes him back, and Lance has to grip the wall to keep from sliding into the sink. Justin never kissed Lance like this before, not when they first met, not once while they were fucking.
"Ow, shit!" Lance pulls back when the cigarette burns his fingers. He runs cold water from the tap and sticks his hand into it.
Justin throws open cabinets and drawers, looking for a towel. "You're like kissing an ashtray."
"You should be used to that."
Justin holds the towel against his hand. He rubs Lance's hand through the towel and it feels rough and warm. The pain is gone quickly. Justin kisses him again. He's all tongue and smooth lips, hard and wanting and pushing Lance against the wall. Lance knows he should say stop, say, I'm worth more than this, you brat. But he decides to save that conversation for after they finish this part.
Justin pushes him and almost drags him back to the bed. Lance can smell the sheets, though, and it's Britney so he shoves Justin onto the floor. Justin tugs off his shirt and jeans. They strip each other and it's not seductive or titillating, just fast and rough. Lance thinks even the rug is plush here, as Justin falls on top of him. After the rush and the near violence of the bathroom, it takes Lance's breath away that Justin suddenly slows down. Justin seems to almost luxuriate in the feel of Lance against him again. He makes a sound like a purr. His kisses are tender and quiet and his hands move slowly everywhere. Lance can't stop himself from curling his legs around Justin's hips. He's already hard, he's been hard since the bathroom and Justin's erection rubs against his stomach.
Justin licks his finger and inserts it into Lance, using his other hand to cup Lance's balls. He rubs his thumb in a circular pattern against the skin between Lance's ass and his balls before he slides his finger out and slides his mouth around Lance's penis.
His breath is like fire and his touch is almost too much to take. Lance struggles to stay strong, to keep himself together, but he can't and he hisses Justin's name as he comes.
Justin swallows what he can and wipes his chin with the bedsheets, leaning against the bed as he looks at Lance. Lance takes a few deep breaths, finally struggling to sit up, and he's surprised when Justin's fingers wrap around his own.
Justin kisses him again. All they do is kiss for a long moment, holding hands. Then Justin moves even closer and they're almost melded together from chest to knee. Justin starts to thrust his hips a little and Lance smiles into his kiss. He lets go of Justin's hand and scrabbles around on the floor for a condom. Justin starts giggling and breaks off the kiss. He gets up and grabs one from the bathroom.
"If you hadn't been straightening up, man," Justin says. He turns Lance over with a gentle hand. Lance can feel the rug against his cheek now and he trembles, listening to Justin slide the condom on. Justin rubs his shoulders, and Lance almost purrs this time. He feels the slow kisses down his spine and the warm hands cupping his ass. Justin's tongue enters him and he can't breathe. Lance is groaning and grunting and he doesn't know what he's saying, he doesn't even know his own name right now.
Justin withdraws and Lance is panting for breath. "Don't come," Justin says thickly. "Don't, yet, man." Lance thinks about business figures, reviews calls he has to make. Justin's cock enters him slowly and then, with a grunt, Justin starts thrusting faster. Justin braces himself on one hand and snakes the other one around Lance's cock. It's all heat and friction and Lance wishes he could burn every moment in his head. Then it's wet and stars behind his eyes and they're lying in a heap on the rug.
Lance blinks and hears Justin behind him again, hears footsteps moving away and the condom plop into the toilet. He turns and rests on his elbow, watching as Justin urinates. When he's finished, he tosses another towel at Lance.
"I'll be damned."
Justin struggles into his clothes. "What's that?"
"You're helping to clean up."
He laughs, a sound that emerges from deep in this throat. "Don't get used to it."
Lance tries to soak up what's on the carpet, pushing on the towel as hard as he can. Sweat drips from his brow and lands on the back of his hand, and he suddenly stands. "I'm going to take a shower."
Justin is still in the bathroom, leaning close to the mirror, smoothing down his eyebrows and what little hair he has. "Okay."
"Did you --" Lance opens the shower door with a flourish. "Did you want to join me?"
"Please." Justin rolls his eyes. "There's shampoo and shit in there, but it's Britney's. You have to use that if you want to wash your hair 'cause that's all I got."
Lance turns the water on, hot and almost scalding. Justin comes in behind him and they move awkwardly around each other, trying to get clean. Justin steps in front of Lance after pinching his ass. The water sluices off of Justin's head and shoulders with an almost brutal force and Lance rubs his eyes. "Justin," he mumbles.
Justin turns around and starts rubbing Britney's fruity smelling shampoo into Lance's hair. His fingers feel soft on Lance's scalp. "Okay, sweetie," Justin says, giggling, "now you move this way so we can get this out of your hair and not in your eyes." Except for the giggle, Justin almost sounds maternal. When they did this before, when they were younger, they would always rush, afraid to be caught. Today they had time for even Justin to be sweet.
Then they're both clean and smell like fruity expensive shampoo and Lance knows they need to talk. The water hits his head and bounces off Justin, and it's still scalding. "Justin," he says. "What are we doing now?"
"We're taking a shower, Lance, okay?" Justin gives him the million-dollar smile.
"I mean. After this. What are we doing?"
Justin stops smiling. His face is blank. "What do you want from me?" His voice is cold.
Lance backs up against the slick tiles. "Damn it. Fuck you, Justin. How hard is it to figure out what I want?" He pulls open the curtain and grabs a towel and stomps back into the room. He's dressed again, trying to figure out how to close his shirt when he's lost two buttons, when Justin comes back into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist.
"Dude. Brit's bag is fucking soaked. What's up with you?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit, man."
"I'm going back to my room."
Justin puts his hand on Lance's elbow, wet fingers leaving marks on the thin fabric of Lance's shirt. "You don't have to."
Lance looks at the bag and fleetingly wonders if the cigarettes are ruined, too. "Your girl is coming back."
"No," Justin rubs his head with his palm. "She's not. She's --"
"Fucking somebody else," Lance finishes for him. "She's coming back."
"What am I supposed to do?"
Lance slips into his jacket and shoes. "Go be Justin Timberlake." He turns to zip up his pants, and when he turns again, he sees Justin sprawled out on the bed, flipping channels.
"Put in one of those videos."
Lance grabs the one off the top of the pile, the one with the worn cover, and pops it into the vcr. He hears Justin chuckle softly as the movie starts and he hears Justin moan as he closes the door behind him.
In the hallway, he stumbles over a pizza box and sends the beer cans flying, crashing and crinkling against the walls and each other. Instead of picking them up, he steps over them and bites his lip, and heads for his room.
THE END
Onto the sequel I Better Be Careful Or I'll Be Understood By Everybody
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