It wasn't that Lance hadn't thought about it. Of course he had. When someone was there, and he had nothing better to do, of course Lance was going to ponder things people shouldn't ponder about close friends, but he'd done it with all of them. It was mostly that Lance hadn't thought *seriously* about it.

In Lance's defence, it was Chris's fault. Completely. Lance was totally and utterly innocent. Wasn't he the one who bore the brunt of the comment on live television? "Lance is dating me," Chris said, in front of the North American public, which just put Lance on a very bad road to what Lance was pretty sure would be hell.

Mama Bass had warned Lance about people like *that* – "honey, if you're going to do this," – referring to the whole NSync deal, which she wasn't too keen on in the first place, – "you have to watch out for people – *men* – who'll take advantage of your pretty face."

At the time, he was more disturbed by the used of the word "pretty" in the whole discussion, and, honestly speaking, Lance thought she was warning him against people like his money-grubbing, megalomaniacal ex-manager. In hindsight, Lance knew perfectly well what his mother was insinuating.

It probably would have been the best time to mention something about the fact Lance might possibly – maybe – be one of those men his mom was cautioning him against. Maybe. Lance wasn't quite sure yet, pretty close but not quite at any comfortable point. After all, he was from Mississippi and that explained it all.

So. Chris's fault, really, for making Lance see things Lance shouldn't be seeing, like the fact that Chris looked great in turtlenecks or that Chris lifted with his back, not his knees, and in doing so, Chris's pants got really tight around his ass, and Lance was forced to look away and swallow loudly. Chris's fault for starting it all in the first place. On *live* television, no less.

Lance sipped at his morning coffee, reading the business section and afraid to look anywhere else. They never talked about his sex life – or lack thereof – in the business section. Stocks were nice and nonsexual, harmless. Chris could learn a lot from stocks.

It'd been almost a month since Chris set wheels in motion, putting himself firmly in Lance's mind and wholeheartedly refusing to go anywhere else. Lance even tried to get himself excited over JC, who was sexually lenient and flocked freely to any warm body. Chris was just joking – because Chris was a jokester, wasn't he? The funny man – and Lance needed to make his body understand that there would be no copulation with Chris Kirkpatrick. Ever.

Lance nibbled his toast, trying to enjoy his down time. Training and touring were still a bit away, the album was nearly done and life was perfect. Joey was renowned for keeping his fridge stocked, and the world was just great. Lance tried not to think about the fact Chris was sleeping on Joey's couch, wearing only boxers and sprawled like a lazy dog. A sexy dog, with sleep-tussled dark hair and the perfectly rippled back of a young god, that Lance had watched for ten minutes before promising himself that coffee and toast and the harmless stock index would be better than thinking dirty thoughts about the sleeping – *gorgeous* – man.

"Hey," Chris said suddenly, and Lance jumped, spilling his coffee. "Jumpy much?"

Lance smiled and shrugged lightly, like he was used to himself being a fool when JC was usually the one jumping around scared and knocking cups of scalding liquid onto his groin. "Uh. Hi. You – startled me."

"No kidding. Are you all right? The family jewels intact?" Chris asked, looking down – leering, really, Lance was sure it was leering – to assess the damage. "You probably don't want to be doing that too often, man. It's going to hurt."

The whole situation was going to hurt a lot more in another second if Chris didn't look somewhere else, those deep – *gorgeous* – eyes burning holes in poor Lance's damned soul. Lance, mopping up the last of the spill, stammered out an excuse and was off running.

Probably to church.

~~~

By the time the weekend rolled around, Lance was pretty sure the sexual thoughts about Chris were dying down. Sure, Lance still wanted to lick him from head to toe, but he'd wanted to do that to Justin, too. Once. And the fact Lance thought about doing this daily, well, it just went to figure because Chris had all but moved into Joey's house, where Lance was living but thinking about leaving just to escape Chris.

Joey and Chris were battering the Sega Genesis – "old school," Joey explained before Lance had even asked, so the world made sense – and drinking beer. It was already getting on in the night, and Justin called, saying he was sick and not going out. JC was with him, wholly suspicious of Justin's ability to nurse himself back to health. Lance, not one to go out on his own, decided to stay in and read a book. Or watch the back of Chris's head while Joey and Chris pummelled each other virtually, occasionally bringing the fight into real time as noogies and wet willies. Lance wished the behaviour had the effect of turning him off such a young-spirited man, but he found himself thinking it was kind of cute.

When Lance caught himself thinking *that* about Chris, he shook his head and immediately tried to conjure up images of Chris as a Dirty Old Man. It didn't particularly work. Lance was himself convinced for all of seventeen seconds, but it was impossible to sustain the idea. When Joey started calling Chris – "you pixie bitch!" – every time Chris won, Lance almost found himself verbally agreeing before swallowing the comment and just nodding at nothing instead.

Evidently, Chris-watching was exhausting because Lance fell asleep on Joey's leather couch, his book in his lap and his knees pulled to his chest.

And drooling.

~~~

Lance was dreaming about Hawaii and Chris wearing only a lei, offering Lance a martini and a blowjob – with Lance accepting both gifts with great enthusiasm – when Chris shook him awake, his face really too close for Lance's comfort.

"What?" Lance murmured, disoriented by so many things on so many levels.

"You're on my bed, man," Chris replied, "unless you want to share it with me."

Usually, Lance was quick-witted, but he'd been sleeping and drooling and he was – oh *god* – he was hard, and Chris was talking to him, and Lance was dreaming naughty things, and Chris just propositioned Lance, and Lance actually thought he was serious for a moment there.

"I'll move," Lance said stupidly, holding his book to his groin, thinking how clever and quick on his feet he was, but Chris grabbed him by the wrist when he moved. The book clattered to the floor, and Lance was only grateful for the dark now. "Uh. What?"

"I think we need to talk," Chris said frankly, sitting next to Lance, way too damn close. "I've obviously done something to piss you off. Care to – I don't know – tell me what the fuck it is I did? Whatever it is, I'm sorry."

"I'm not pissed," Lance offered and grimaced at how lame he sounded, but it was the best option, really, because the other two comments involved, "no, no, it's that I want to get naked with you and taste heaven," and, "it's what you haven't done – like worn a lei and given me a blowjob while I drank a martini in Hawaii."

"It's about CNN, isn't it? Joey said that was probably it. And, like, man, I'm sorry, but that ass kept heckling me, and that's cool because I can deal with it, but you didn't need to be hassled, too. Just because you don't have a girlfriend," Chris paused, "or a boyfriend."

"Uh," Lance said, "uh."

"Whatever's cool, man," Chris said quietly, his small hand – big enough for a handjob, Lance thought suddenly, and bit his lip – on Lance's shoulder. "Because, you know JC hooks up with whoever, and we're all cool with that."

"Uh," Lance said, "uh."

"And, for instance, you might not know that I had a boyfriend in college – Bobby. Cool guy, man, you would have loved him. He was a record collector but not an obnoxious one. He was a lot like you, actually, quiet and polite, really great guy," Chris said, like it was at all encouraging, but it was really the worse thing he could have said, besides, "Lance is dating me." On live television.

"He sounds nice," Lance offered, his hand on his neck so Chris wouldn't see how often he was swallowing because Chris really hadn't stopped staring at him since he sat down. "It's not really that, Chris. Well, it is," Lance stressed the last syllable, which was as close to coming out as he'd ever done, "but it's not."

Chris nodded, and Lance exhaled, sure that was the end of it, but Chris opened his mouth to speak again, and Lance braced for the worst, though part of him was also waiting for Chris to climb on his lap and lick his tonsils.

"That's cool," Chris said, squeezing Lance's shoulder, "and I should probably let you get some sleep. You look exhausted, Lansten."

And Lance *was* exhausted, and he stood up – with his book back in place – and walked stupidly out of the room.

This whole thing was *so* Chris's fault.

~~~

Lance was pretty sure, at this point in his young life, that he was clinically insane. He didn't sleep, he jerked off four times a day in the shower, and he downloaded one hundred and seventy-three pictures of Chris off the Internet. Pretty soon, Lance would be killing kittens and leaving them on Chris's doorstep – or the foot of Joey's couch, as the case was – as tokens of his undying love.

*Love.* When Lance realised his obsession might not be an obsession at all but honest to goodness queer love feelings for a bandmate, Lance had a mild crisis that involved refusing to shave for a week and eating only tofu and vegemite sandwiches. Lance would probably still be binging if Joey hadn't threatened to kick Lance out for bringing – "those fucking gelatinous cubes of evil!" – into the house.

So. Lance Bass was in love with Chris Kirkpatrick. Wouldn't Larry King be proud? And Lance was going to have to break his word to his mother, who phoned right after Chris announced to the world that they were dating to find out if it was true, and Lance had said, "Mom, no. He was just kidding. I promise nothing's going on between Chris and me. He just thinks he's funny, that's all. He's funny."

Funny. *Right.* Lance flipped through the channels, happy Chris was out partying and Lance had his brooding couch back. Joey was in bed with Justin's head cold, passed out and snoring like a bagpipe on speed, which meant Chris would probably crash at Justin's. Lance was granted a moment of sanity.

Or Lance was until Chris came stumbling in, blinking owlishly. Lance looked up just in time for Chris to launch himself in Lance's general direction, drunk off his goat, and Lance barely missed losing an eye before Chris settled on his back, head resting between Lance's shoulders.

"Lance, dude," Chris whispered, "Justin and I figured out your problem."

"My problem?" Lance asked, trying to look at Chris, but every time he shifted his head, Chris moved in the other direction, laughing. "And. Uh. Wait. You told Justin? About me? That's not – very nice of you," Lance muttered, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Lance, man, he guessed it. I was bummed, and he was, like, ‘what's up, yo,' and I'm all, like, ‘things with Lance, man.' And he guessed it, Lance, and you know what a shitty liar I am when drunk," Chris murmured, intensely warm against Lance's back.

"Okay," Lance said, if only because Chris sounded so blasted earnest. "So what did you decide?"

"We decided that you," Chris palmed Lance's chest, very intimately, and Lance was extremely glad Chris was sealed to his back, "and I should hook up like I said on CNN. Because that'd be the shit, right? And you're totally my style."

"Uh," Lance said, swallowing his tongue. All right, Lance thought, let's go over this – Chris is drunk, Chris is hot, Chris is suggesting sex, and Lance also thought, oh my god, Chris is drunk, hot and suggesting sex! "Isn't this sudden?"

"Probably wouldn't have said it on national television if it was sudden," Chris whispered, and his breath was wet and warm on Lance's neck, and Chris's hand was on Lance's belly, massaging it in circles, lifting the shirt until his fingers were like spiders on Lance's skin, crawling. "When Dani and I broke up, it opened doors, you know? And I looked at you, and I said, ‘Kirkpatrick, if you want him, tell him, because maybe he wants you, too.'" Chris paused and snuggled, furthering his cause. "So do you?"

"I do," Lance said softly, "but Chris. Are we talking – seriousness?"

"Yep," Chris murmured, his busy hand on Lance's chest, fingers alternately rubbing and rolling two very erect nipples, and Lance tried to keep his tongue out of his throat, tried even harder not to jump when Chris's other hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats. "We'll have dinner tomorrow. And we'll do each other's laundry, and I'll even fold your briefs like you like."

"Uh," Lance said, squirming, because Chris's fingers were on his dick, and holy good god, Chris's fingers were on his dick! "All right. Yeah. That's good. I. Oh. That's really good," Lance muttered as Chris pumped his fist -- tight like a *fucking* vice -- slowly. "And oh! Chris!"

And well, Lance was still pretty sure it was Chris's fault this all happened.

But Lance wasn't complaining.

Fin.

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