NOTES AND DISCLAIMERS: All made up. For entertainment only. Inspired by the satellite footage of the Atlantis promo interviews. Includes lines from said interviews.

TWENTY MINUTES

Joey knocks on the door and says, "Guys, we have twenty minutes before we have to start and we still have to get in make-up. Twenty minutes." He hears Joey walk away, clomping down the hallway, away.

Justin looks at the table and takes his cell phone out of his pocket, puts it down. On top of the sheets with the notes from the publicists and Johnny, the ones that say "inspirational, not patriotic" and "stress that the show is intimate." Justin grimaces. There are other notes, about talking up the Atlantis hotel. Justin doesn't need a note about that. He remembers dolphins and sunshine and.

Lance's hand, hot against Justin's stomach and Lance mumbles in his ear, "Twenty minutes." He takes his phone out of his pocket, too, and sits it next to Justin's. "Turn them off."

Justin's wearing khaki jeans, thin and soft and Lance pulls them down around Justin's knees. Lance rocks his hips against Justin's bare ass, no underwear here. Justin laughs and Lance licks a hot trail along Justin's throat. "Anytime," Justin hums. "Anyplace, I don't care who's around."

"Nineteen minutes," Lance says. "Get on the table."

Justin bends over, grabs the sides of the table. It's pretty narrow, he thinks. Comparatively narrow. He's not going to put an analyzation on the width of the table, he's just happy he can get a good grip. Nineteen minutes ticking away and he knows. Lance will make it count.

He hears a click and then the ssssssshick of Lance's zipper coming down. "You lockin' the door?" Justin's voice sounds high, thin. He wanted to sound more in control, but then again. He doesn't give a shit. "Anytime," he sings under his breath.

Lance is back behind him and Justin feels the heat of him first, and then Lance slaps his ass. Lance says, "Eighteen minutes." Lance, hard, against Justin's ass.

And then Lance drops, kind of mumbles low in his throat, bumps his nose on the small of Justin's back and flicks his tongue fat and wet. One, two fingers in, and Justin has to shift, sort of bang his elbow against the table because the edge is digging into his stomach and fuck, Lance is doing things back there that are just obscene.

Sweat beads on Justin's lip. He feels himself flush pink. Lance reaches around and takes Justin's dick in his hand. "It's the first time we're home for Thanksgiving in five years. How does it feel?"

It feels. Justin opens his mouth to say "Fuck you" and "God damn it, do it" and all that comes out is this moan, rising and keening because Lance and his fingers, twisting and Lance's dick, hard and hot against Justin's butt and not fucking inside yet.

Lance says, "That's a good answer." He's panting a little and Justin tries to grin. He's not exactly sure why he's been doing this, this fucking thing, with Lance ever since the tour ended, ever since September. Lance's gotten so fucking hot, for no reason, Justin guesses, since it didn't help the movie, but Justin appreciates the new fat free body and the suddenly sharp face. Appreciates.

A-preciates. Lance pushes against him and all Justin can think is "appreciate." He appreciates how Lance is fucking hung, how Justin feels full and fuck, he has to sit down for the next three hours and it's gonna hurt. Justin appreciates everything right now.

Lance draws his hand back and produces a condom from somewhere. Must be from his shirt pocket, Justin thinks, and then thinks, thank God. Lance sticks it between Justin's teeth a little, the condom, and holds it while Justin tears it open so that Lance's other hand can keep doing what it's doing. It works like clockwork except it's nothing like clockwork at all because that's a cliché and there's not a fucking thing about this that doesn't feel brand new.

"Fif-teen minutes." Lance pronounces all the syllables and this time Justin says, "You fucking bastard, fucking fuck me, you fuck."

And Lance does.

In and out, friction, hard, stretching and almost hurting but nothing hurts that feels this good and Justin just keeps swearing. He thinks that's what he's saying. He can't hear himself, just the blood rushing in his head and the low grunts Lance makes right on the beat.

Justin can't think. Heat, bright, satellite of love, bum bom bom, David Bowie. Denniz PoP. He thinks, Denniz PoP. If Denniz PoP came back to life, would they even want his reanimated corpse to produce for them? Taking it to the next level. Zombies probably qualify as the next level, though. Justin hopes he's not saying this out loud.

"Fucking hot," he says. Lance takes his hand away from Justin's dick and Justin whimpers. Lance giggles like the fucking devil he is. Lance almost slams into Justin, and Justin groans from the way his stomach is pressed into the fucking table. Fucking Lance. Justin doesn't want it to end, ever.

It ends, though. Lance shudders and then turns Justin around slowly. Justin almost cries, bites his lip and he still must not be thinking clearly because there's no way Lance just fucking stopped.

Lance pulls Justin's pants up carefully. He zips them up and pats Justin on the cheek. "Ten minutes," he says, and kisses Justin so lewdly that Justin thinks he'd let Denniz PoP's reanimated corpse produce every song they ever record until the end of time if Lance would just fucking get him OFF. "And we still have to get in make-up."

Justin blinks and he's in make-up and he's thinking about blue balls and fuck anyone who says you can't die from it. They're sitting in their chairs, and fucking Lance in his fucking sweater and tight jeans and Justin is either going to kill him or hump him right in front of Alex or Adam from Boston. He says to Chris, "I hate these satellite things."

Interview one, two, three, Justin is still hard. Because Lance is just sitting there, radiating calm and it's not in any way fun to be sitting right after getting fucked in the conference room. Not fun, but Justin thinks he needs that to happen again. He needs to rewind and this time, Lance will get him off.

He rubs his thighs, his hips, almost touches himself, and rubs his thighs again. His jeans are too tight. He says to Lance, "Did I leave my phone in the conference room?"

Lance doesn't respond out loud, just mouths, "Probably." His eyes twinkle a little and he points to himself. "I left my phone in the conference room."

Alex, Adam, whoever it is, asks a question and Justin says stuff about Tim McGraw, inspirational songs and the intimate nature of the special. Intimate, it's a clinical word, something found in his self-help books but it makes his thighs twitch. He pulls out his earpiece and pretends his mic is fucked up and stands. He's already slipping out of his jacket as he walks off the set, saying, "I need a minute."

The bathroom's there, right there, and all he's gotta do is touch his dick. He hears Lance in his ear, that growl, and he's done. He goes back and sits down, smiles over at Lance. Lance grins, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, the fuck, and says, "All better now?"

Justin mouths, "No thanks to you."

Lance looks straight at the camera and says how great Tim McGraw is. Thirteen, fourteen more interviews to go and then, he hears Lance saying, "It'll be the first time in five years we'll be home home for the holidays."

But before that, Justin is gonna get his phone from the conference room and make sure the table digs into Lance's new sculpted stomach. If Lance will let him, maybe. Justin shifts in his seat and thinks that thought will get him through this hour upon hour of annoying shit.

THE END

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