Body 
By: Rhys 

Chris wakes up suddenly, lying on a couch and not really recognising where he is, not
at first, because the settling shadows are distorting the room and he doesn't have his
glasses on. He remembers Justin ragging on him about being old and tired, and Chris
think maybe Justin was right. Chris recognises the white couch, finally, and sits up, his
knees aching. He's in the Compound, achy after a hard day's work. 

There's a note pinned to his chest, Joey's handwriting, and it says, "dude, you sleep like
the dead, so we left you behind. JC's guilty about it, but me and Justin are hungry. See
you tomorrow, bright and early, Sunshine. Joe." Frowning, Chris tears it off his shirt. 

Chris checks his watch, and it's nearly two am, which is too damn late and there's no
point in going home now, forget it. Chris thinks he should just go back to sleep, deal
with the ridicule tomorrow, but he's hungry, starving, really. 

Chris is sore from all the dancing as they try to get their acts together for the
PopOdyssey tour, and it's hard on his knees especially, which are both wrapped in
braces. That helps but not enough, and he walks gingerly down the stairs, grasping the
railing tightly. Hopefully, there's Advil in the kitchenette, maybe something to drink. 

Chris makes his way towards food slowly, not liking how quiet it is, how alone he's
become. Maybe he should just go home, not think about the fact he's supposed to be
here by seven tomorrow morning. Chris hates feeling like he's the only one in the
world. 

On the counter, in the middle of nothing, is a wrapped sandwich, topped by a block of
white paper with his name in crooked letters, a mix of cursive and printing. Lance.
Chris crooks an eyebrow but unwraps it, peering beneath the bread. Roast beef and
swiss, with a circle of mustard that actually resembles a happy face. For most people,
this would be funny, but for Chris, it's a mindfuck. 

Lance is an enigma, a presence in Chris's life that he can no longer explain. For years,
Lance was one of the guys, the kid who pulled his ass of the fire when he lost a
member of the group, and Chris was definitely the one who lost Jason. Their
personalities clashed, both too strong and set in their beliefs, and Jason didn't believe
Chris's promises that they would make it and make it big, so he left. Lance saved the
whole group, and even when Chris didn't think this strange kid from Mississippi would
work, he surprised everyone. 

Now, Lance is something different, and not even a huge different, really, just this
subtle shift, so small that no one but Chris and Lance have noticed it yet. Chris
sometimes sees it in Lance's eyes, this weirdness between them, but they don't speak
about it and simply go on in their lives, with these small things, like happy faces on
sandwiches, and pretend nothing's changed. 

It has, of course, Chris knows this, but he's almost thirty years old, and he doesn't
want to burden anybody, least of all Lance, who is eight years his junior and still new
to this world, so much younger in that way than his years would suggest. It's
unfortunate, this alteration of the old Lance into the new Lance, but it isn't something
Chris had the opportunity to stop. It just happened one day. 

Chris eats the sandwich slowly, and it's good, but of course he knew that. Lance
doesn't make bad things -- he works too hard -- and Chris admires him for that
because Chris has spent much of his life as a failure. These last few years, Chris often
passes them off as a fluke. His life before this, the poverty and the loneliness, this is
what Chris considers normal. 

When his belly is full, Chris grabs a glass of milk and begins to walk back to the white
row of couches but gets distracted by a sliver of pale yellow light under the door of
the dance studio. Chris wanders over slowly, his knees still aching but feeling better
with the movement, and pushes the door open slowly. 

"What're you doing?" Chris asks, squinting at the harsh light and holding his glass of
milk to his chest. Lance stops in front of the mirrors and pivots his shoulders, turning
to look at Chris. "Fuck, dude. Go to bed." 

Lance shakes his head and sighs, turning back to the mirrors. "Can't." 

"No?" Chris says and walks inside, shutting the door behind him. Lance shakes his
head again and strikes a pose, tries to hold it but loses it. He tries hard, Chris knows,
but doesn't get it a lot of the time. Chris thinks it might be because Lance is so out of
tune with his own body. "You're putting the weight on the wrong leg. It's fucking you
up." 

Lance wordlessly repeats the move, and it looks the same as before, but it's not. The
change is subtle, the weight where Chris said to put it, and Lance holds the position
and looks glorious before relaxing back to the ground. "Thanks." 

Chris sits down, against the mirror, and the acceptance from Lance is silent, but Chris
would be able to tell if Lance didn't want him there. Chris has spent too much time
watching that strange face, learning to see all of Lance's secrets. Someone had to do it,
back when Lance wouldn't ever voice his opinion, and Chris just never lost the talent. 

"Take off your shirt," Chris says, and Lance crooks a eyebrow, a small smile on his
lips, and Chris grins. "Perv. No. You need to see how your muscles work, need to
understand what your body's doing. With your miles of clothing, I can't imagine you
see much of anything." 

Lance shrugs but takes off his shirt, underneath is a wifebeater, and Chris whistles
lowly, likes how Lance rolls him a lazy grin and shifts the muscles in his shoulders.
Lance's body has become a thing of beauty, but he keeps it hidden from everyone,
even himself. Chris sees it, though, saw it first months ago when the change occurred,
when Chris first noticed the shift in his perception of Lance. 

Lance is on the verge of liquid movement. He's almost there, and Chris is sure Lance
doesn't even know it. Lance sees everything but himself, always has; Chris remembers
Lance crying in the beginning, because he photographed so oddly and looked like a
girl. Even now that his body is male, very male, Lance still seems to think he appears
as something different. To Chris, Lance is an image burned in his mind. 

"Sandwich was good," Chris says idly, watching Lance's arms move, like snakes
through long Mississippi grass. The skin ripples with muscle, defined and tight; Lance
works hard on his body, wants it to look better than he sees it. "Thanks." 

"No problem," Lance replies, and his breath is sharp, like he's out of it. 

"If you move your right foot up another few inches, it won't be so hard to turn
around," and Chris watches Lance do it, not even questioning anymore. Wade is
hardest on Joey, who's big and lumbering, but Lance takes it harder than Joey ever
will. "Looking good, Scoop." 

Lance turns his head sharply, and Chris smiles, nodding. Lance can't take compliments,
doesn't usually even want to hear them, but Chris gives them anyway, tries more than
ever before, just to see Lance react. The hue in his cheeks as he turns away is enough
for Chris. 

The question is, of course, does Chris say something more, like, "Lance, this thing
between us, we need to talk about it," or, "come back to my place, tonight," or does
Chris just let it go and pretend it never surfaced in the first place? It's something Chris
thinks about a lot. 

But the question, of course, never actually gets asked. 

~~~ 

An hour passes, and Lance is still dancing, still trying to move in ways that aren't yet
natural for him but will be soon. Lance is transforming before Chris's eyes -- every day
he's different -- and Chris knows that when it happens, he'll be the only one able to say
he noticed from the beginning. 

"You aren't speaking," Lance says, suddenly still and swooping up a towel from the
floor, wiping his face. Chris smiles and shrugs, but says nothing. Lance turns to him,
rubbing his skin dry, and Chris lets his eyes sweep over Lance, makes sure Lance
knows he's doing this. Lance's eyes cast down to the ground. 

"Do your knees hurt?" Lance asks, his eyes open and staring at the mirror, and from
where Chris sits, he can see the expression. Slowly, Chris nods, doesn't want to, really,
but knows Lance can just as easily see Chris's lies as Chris can see Lance's. 

"Here," Lance says simply, and sits in front of Chris, his legs crossed. Reaching his
hands under Chris's knees, Lance pulls him forward until his legs are bent over Lance's
thighs. Carefully, Lance peels off the knee braces and puts his palms over the swollen
joints. "I was reading about touch therapy. Can I?" 

Chris nods, reclined on his back and propped up by his elbows, spread open and
vulnerable, but it's Lance, so this position is somehow comfortable for Chris. "They're
don't really hurt so much as ache." 

"Sometimes that's just as bad," Lance says and tightens his hand on Chris's knees,
rubbing slowly and firmly, this determined massage that makes Chris shiver. "You
should go to sleep, Chris. You're going to be exhausted tomorrow." 

Chris looks at him. "And you're not?" 

"I need to learn these moves more than my body needs to rest. You, you have the
whole concert down pat in your mind," Lance says quietly, fingers still moving, still
sure of themselves, which is an odd divergence from the subtle hesitance in his voice. 

"I'm not old, Bass," Chris says, but he feels that way because Lance is going to stay up
all night and all day and survive on a cup of coffee. Chris can already feel the lethargy
in his skin, deep inside, where it penetrates like a fog, intangible and unstoppable. 

"Didn't say you were," Lance says, tightening his hands, pressing deep into the muscle,
and Chris's legs thump against Lance's thighs, completely of their own accord. Lance
grins to himself, and does it again, just for the reaction. "Good reflexes." 

"Cut it out," Chris says idly, his head turned towards the mirror, and he's looking at
himself, studying his face, before glancing up at Lance, who's still smiling, his thumbs
making Chris's legs jump. "Lance, go to bed." 

"No," Lance replies firmly, the word strong and lingering in the air, and his palms are
back to skating over Chris's skin, devoid of pressure. "I have to keep dancing. I have
to get this by tomorrow, or Wade's going to kill me." 

"He's such a fuck," Chris spits, shaking his head. 

"Don't be righteous on my account," Lance says calmly, and his hands are not on
Chris's knees anymore. They're trailing over the bent legs, brushing dark hair, and
Chris watches the fingers creep from ankle to calf, from thigh to hip, and back down.
Chris closes his eyes and leans further back, until he's almost flush against the ground.
"I should be dancing right now." 

Chris hums and nods. "Then why don't you?" 

Lance doesn't say anything for so long that Chris opens his eyes, focussing on Lance's
gaze, which is green like grass reflected in water, and the recognition of this thing
between them is in there, swirling. Now would be the perfect time to talk about it, but
Chris looks away and mutters, "go dance, Bass." 

Then kicks himself, because that was an opportunity, and he missed it. 

~~~ 

It's pretty blatant, the way Chris stares at Lance. Lance looks over, every now and
again, when Chris is really looking, not even blinking anymore. It's fucking four in the
morning, and Chris thinks he's allowed to ogle the man, won't even deny it if asked.
Lance doesn't say a word. 

Lance takes off the wifebeater suddenly, tosses it to the ground, and Chris stares at it
for a long time, can see that it's soaking with sweat, well-used. Lance hates sweat,
Chris knows this, but he hates being naked more, and that, in itself, is something.
Lance is staring in the mirror when Chris looks back up, pretending he's fully dressed. 

What Chris would like to do is push Lance up against the sparkling clean mirror and
kiss him. It's four in the morning, and it's the best idea Chris has ever had in his life.
Kiss the boy, who's really a child, no way around it. Twenty-two, Chris flinches when
he thinks about it, and he's almost thirty, too damn old for Lance, so leave him the
fuck alone! 

Chris pulls at his shorts, pinches his knees, just to tear his gaze away from the
half-naked Lance prancing about, trying to dance, when he just doesn't get it. Doesn't
understand his own body, and Chris doesn't know why Lance just won't open his
goddamn eyes and see what he has working for him. He's sturdy and muscular and
pretty, so fucking pretty Chris just wants to. 

Kiss him. 

"Lance." And Lance stops, turns to look at Chris, defiant already, and Chris spells it
out slowly. "Stop dancing. Go to bed." 

"No," Lance replies, petulant to the end. "You go, if you're so tired." 

"I'm not tired," Chris responds, and it's true in a way that surprises Chris. Four in the
morning, and he's incredibly awake, just pulsing with something, probably need, lust,
but something. A very, very strong urge to fold his lips over Lance's mouth and see if
he hasn't been reading everything wrong for months. "Come to bed." 

It's the wording that throws Lance, and Chris is too busy freaking out inside his own
head to realise he did something, that at least he suggested it's out there, this feeling
between them. Lance blinks, tilts his head, and Chris opens his eyes, pushing it. 

"I have to get this," Lance repeats, and it sounds lame. 

Chris pushes himself so he's standing and walks over carefully, one foot after the
other, especially when all his feet want to do is get the hell out of there. Lance steps
back, and Chris corners him between the mirror and one outstretched arm pressed to
it. Lance looks at Chris's arm, bangs his head against it, and his ear is wet and hot.
Chris wants to suck on it. 

"You want to know your problem?" Chris asks, and it's plain on Lance's face that he
really doesn't, but Chris doesn't let that stop him. "You know the steps. You know all
of this better than anyone, even JC, but you don't know your body. It's never going to
do what you want it to do." 

Lance scowls. "Fuck off." 

"I don't mean that in a bad way," Chris says, softer, gentler, because he can see why
that hurt Lance's feelings. "I just mean. You have this fucking. gorgeous body," and
Chris's voice drops, gets throaty and sexual, "and you don't use it. Why have it, if
you're so afraid of it?" 

"That is so fucked up, on so many levels," Lance says. "It's my fucking body. If I don't
have it, I'm dead. So it doesn't matter," Chris notices Lance's eyes are almost grey
right now, but wide, afraid, "that it's mine. And I use it. I try." 

"You hide it," Chris says, breathing on Lance's face, and Lance closes his eyes, sweat
dripping down his forehead. He smells like haircare products and unisex cologne, and
it's all Chris can do to not inhale. "You move like it's a chore. Like it's work. It should
be pleasure." 

"Oh, Christ," Lance mutters, and that's a big thing, saying the lord's name in vain.
Chris thinks maybe he's said too much, but Lance is almost smiling, looks like maybe
he wants to laugh. "Y'all are exactly the same. Joey says I can't dance because I'm a
virgin." 

"Well, maybe he's right," Chris says slowly, and there's the door, and it wide fucking
open, but the question is, does Chris have the balls to step through it? "Maybe that is
your problem, Bass." But Chris doesn't say anything more, fucking chickens out. 

"It's not my fault people don't want to sleep with me," and it's accusatory how he says
it, implies Chris in the whole mess. Chris snaps his head up, glares, and Lance burns a
hole right through the centre of his forehead, smoldering. "I'm not opposed to sex. I
just don't get any." 

"You should," Chris says, and it's quiet, not normal at all. 

"Yeah," Lance agrees, and touches his fingers to Chris's jaw. "So what's the problem?
This dance we've been doing for," Lance's face is calm, but Chris is twisted in a ball,
nervous because it really looks like Lance is going to end the game, "months. Years,
forever. Are you ever going to do anything but look at me and this body of mine?" 

"I didn't know. that. Didn't realise," Chris amends, then stops because no, that's still a
lie, wrong. "I'm a fucking old man, Lance. I don't have a right to," and he pauses
again, tasting the words. Lance is watching him, waiting, and Chris knows how easy it
would be to just. touch. that perfect body. "I don't know what you want me to do." 

Lance pulls Chris's arm down so it rests on the slope of his shoulder, and Chris's hand
automatically curls behind Lance, touching his back. Naked flesh, toned and young,
and almost too perfect to touch. "I want you to admit that you aren't just here for the
heck of it, that there's a reason why you're awake at four, why I let you watch me
dance when I don't let anybody see me practice, why we've been weird around each
other for so long that I can't remember a time when it was normal." 

"I'm not just here for the heck of it," Chris says carefully, sounding each word out, and
Lance nods, like he understands, and Chris thinks maybe he does, so he goes on, says
the things they need to say to each other. "Everything's changing. You are, man, god,
you're different every day. J and Jayce and Joe, they don't even realise it, can't see
beyond the baggy clothes to the place where everything's happening. I don't change,
Lance. I just get older, old." 

"I think," Lance looks at Chris, doesn't break the gaze, "that you see yourself the way
all our nay-sayers see you. The way I see you is a lot different," Lance admits, lips
drawn back in a smile, a shy little thing that causes Chris's chest to tighten. "But I can't
keep doing this with you. Either we do it, now, or we don't. I'll pretend this never
started, Chris. I don't want to, but I can do it." 

"I thought you needed to dance," Chris says. 

"I need something," Lance agrees, a single hand curling around Chris's waist and
squeezing, pulling him forward. Chris jumps but lets his body roll. "but I don't think it's
that. I think it's probably this," and his lips are suddenly dabbing at Chris's jaw, a
slightly wet tongue pressing a dot of moisture onto Chris's dry skin. 

"Or maybe this," Chris mutters, and tilts Lance's head just right so he can capture that
smirking mouth in a scorching, open-lipped kiss. Deep in his throat, Lance hums, and
Chris wants to climb inside of him. It's hot, so fucking hot, and well worth waiting for,
a thing of beauty. 

There's an unspoken agreement that perhaps the floor of the dance studio isn't the best
place to do this, and Lance folds his fingers with Chris's and waits, lets Chris tug him
out of the room and up the spiral of stairs, to the spare room used for naps and longer
sleeps. There are three beds, but they only need one. In the doorway, Lance pauses,
and Chris feels irrational fear. 

"What?" Chris asks, snaps it almost even though he wants it to sound casual, like the
fact Lance might back out isn't terrifying and unfair and wrong. Lance might be the
virgin, but it's Chris who feels the pressure, like this encounter will either make or
break Lance. They could fuck forever, but there's only ever one first time. 

"This is kind of weird, you and me," Lance says quietly, stroking the scruff on his chin
thoughtfully, "and not a bad weird, just not something I could have imagined
happening. I can't, for the life of me, figure out how it did." 

"Can I say something about destiny and shit?" Chris asks, and Lance laughs, this low
drawl of a sound that used to infuriate Chris but now drives him wild for different
reasons. "Or that you love my sexy body or something? Or that one day I woke up and
I said, hey, Chris, you fuck, look at Lance. You know you want him." 

Lance approaches Chris after that, pads slowly across the plush carpet, and Chris lets
his eyes run the length of Lance's frame, so turned on in every cell of his body. The
track pants, the last vestige of clothing, hang low, and there's a ridge of muscle, from
groin to hip, that Chris only remembers seeing on body-builders, thinking it gross and
extreme. It's sexy as fuck on Lance. 

As a supposed old man, Chris thinks he should be sleeping. It's getting on in the
morning, nearing five, and he's pretty sure they're both going to be screwed tomorrow
-- both figuratively and literally -- when Wade makes them move, but why sleep, when
Lance is offering all that Chris couldn't ever ask to receive. 

"Take off your shirt, Kirkpatrick," Lance rumbles, a secret grin on his lips that Chris
had seen from time to time, coming to life at the oddest moment. This is an odd time,
and Chris slides out of his tee-shirt, feeling horribly inadequate. 

Lance, though, doesn't seem to notice, just looks shy as he climbs onto the bed,
trusting Chris will follow, and Chris does, crawling over Lance's body and settling on
his thighs. Touching his own face, then stroking the wiry underbrush of Lance's chin,
Chris says, "you realise, it's gonna be really obvious to everyone what we did." 

"So?" Lance asks, dragging a light press of nails over Chris's shoulders, and Chris
shudders hard, dropping his face to Lance's neck and breathing deep. "who cares? It
might surprise them to know you like boys, but the rest of the world seems to realise I
do." 

"Never tried to hide it, Bass." 

"Never thought I should," Lance replies. 

Chris wants to say, well you hide everything else, but what does it matter that no one
but Chris knows Lance's body is a sculpture? Maybe it's Chris's right, maybe it's Chris's
gift from Lance. "This is so fucked up, Bass. you shouldn't be here with me." 

"Says you," Lance pushes his hips up, fights against the prison of Chris's legs over his
thighs, and Chris puts his hands on Lance's chest, holds him down. The muscles are
tight and firm, and Chris flicks his wrists, his fingers curling down over Lance's ribs.
"What is it with you and waiting? You're the most impatient thing alive." 

Chris bends down to Lance again and catches his lips in a quick, bruising, dirty kiss.
Lance thrusts again, but Chris is sturdy, heavy, and Lance can't stop him. Instead,
fingers scramble up Chris's back then slide back down, grabbing his hips and
squeezing. "I learned to wait, Bass, for you." 

"You were waiting for yourself," Lance mutters as Chris drags a tongue down the pale
neck, circling the prominent Adam's apple, which Lance hates, and that's why Chris
does it. Lance tries to push him away, looking perturbed, but Chris grabs onto Lance's
wrists and holds Lance's hands to his own chest. 

"I still think you need someone your own age," Chris says, letting Lance's arms drop
to the bed, rubbing his palms along to the soft skin to make sure they lie flat, spread.
"but I also don't much care right now what I think is best for you. I think time has
proven I'm consistently full of shit, almost as often as you." 

Lance grins and laughs lowly, eyes intense as they search Chris's face, and Chris stares
back under the veil of dark eyelashes, deliberately dragging crooked fingers down
Lance's belly, all rock hard and clenched. "Do you always talk this much during sex?" 

"Yep," Chris replies and catches the elastic of Lance's pants, tugging them down
slowly, and Lance lifts his hips, or tries to because Chris is still sitting on him.
Smirking, Chris moves back and pulls them all the way off, taking the socks on his
way, leaving Lance in his boxer-briefs. He's hard, all over. 

"Is it gonna hurt?" Lance asks suddenly, "I mean, honestly." 

"Won't hurt you," Chris replies, "Wade'll skin my balls if I deflower you tonight, when
tomorrow's your big dance day. Maybe, it'll hurt me a bit, but probably not. Been
around, you know," Chris jumps to his feet, sinking into the mattress and scrambling
out of his shorts, before folding his legs and collapsing back onto Lance's now bare
thighs. "Just for the record, you've never been blown, right?" 

"No," Lance replies, "never." 

"Good," Chris says and smirks, laying his hand over Lance's cock, hot even though the
fabric, and Lance bits his lips, pulls back a bit, like it hurts. "Handjob?" 

"No," Lance mutters, "no, nothing. I couldn't. I. just couldn't." 

Chris feels a bit sorry for Lance, so queer he can't even go for women, but it's okay
now, Chris realises, it's okay for both of them. Flicking his wrist, Chris squeezes
Lance, rubbing his fingers over the shaking body, before dipping his head, lips wide,
mouthing the swell of heat. Lance bucks his hips, and whimpers, this plaintive little
sound. "You know you're sexy as fuck, right? That I could come just watching you
writhe and shit?" 

"I'm. not," Lance mutters lamely, and his legs are tense under Chris's arms, a full body
tremble coming in pulses, and Chris really wants to take those strong legs over his
shoulders and fuck Lance until he walks funny for a week, but not tonight, not while
Chris is still learning the secrets of his body. Instead, Chris folds the briefs down and
replaces his mouth on hot, hard flesh, licking one long, painful lick before taking the
cock into his mouth. 

Lance is liquid movement, suddenly, jerks a couple times like he doesn't know what to
do, but then he's moving, rolling his hips, getting into the rhythm. Chris lays an arm
over Lance's belly, keeping him down, and tries to make it good, enthusiastic and sexy
and fun all at once. This body of Lance's, it knows how to move, just needs to be
taught the proper way. 

When Lance is hovering on the precipice, Chris stops, and watches Lance pant and
stare at the ceiling, eyes wide. Chris smiles and stretches over him, moulds his frame
against Lance, kissing him slowly, to see if he'll kiss back. Lance lifts his head, licking
over Chris's lips, and Chris smiles against the eager mouth, "kinky bastard." 

Lance laughs, low and deep in his chest, and Chris smiles at him, thinking maybe he
loves him. If he does, he won't tell Lance, at least not for awhile. That's not how they
work; they take it slow and easy, all calm and shit, which Chris appreciates because
he's usually moving so fast, running through life, and sometimes feels like he's missing
it all. 

"Will you let me fuck you, not tonight, but someday soon?" Chris asks, rocking
against the full of Lance's body, just gliding over him, and Lance is focussed on Chris's
face, nodding. Chris kisses him, sucks his tongue and tastes him inside, before
whispering, "good." 

Lance's hands carefully climb up Chris's back, pressing their mark into Chris's skin, and
Chris slides deeper onto Lance, their legs carefully tangled together, their chests
indented upon the other. The sexiest thing Chris has ever felt, and he lets his weight
settle almost completely, his elbows propped on the bed as his fingers dig into Lance's
hair. Their kisses are wet and slick, and Chris thinks the whole of Lance's body must
taste like this. Someday, Chris is going to test for truth on that thought. 

"You have anything, like hand cream or something?" Chris asks, and Lance nods.
"Back in your bag?" Again, Lance bobs his head, and Chris is up and running, buck
naked through the house. Momentarily, he worries about security cameras, but he's
never seen them so they obviously must not exist. Right now, only Lance is in Chris's
world. 

Chris grabs the knapsack, his knees throbbing, but runs back, thinking he must look
like an idiot, all shiny-sweaty skin and hard dick slapping against his thighs. 

In the room, Lance is still lying there, rolled over onto his belly, and Chris follows the
line of his body, the smooth slope of his spine, the curved rise of his ass, and it's
beautiful, honestly breathtaking to Chris, who still can't believe Lance hides this
radiance from the world. Chris thinks the world should notice anyway. 

Chris climbs onto the narrow twin bed, nudging Lance up, and Lance tilts his head and
says, "your knees?" And rubs them. Chris nods, because yeah, it's easier if he's on his
back, and Lance lets Chris slide under him, touching his hands to Chris's hips. 

"Go to it," Chris says, and untwists the cap of the cream, squirting a thin line of lotion
onto Lance's palm, spiralling inwards until there's enough. Chris folds the slicked hand
over Lance's cock, his own fingers curling around the fist, and Chris pumps Lance's
hand, once, twice, three times, just to see him shudder. 

"And then this," Chris says, moving Lance's hand between Chris's spread legs, to the
tight ring of muscle hidden almost-inside. Lance prods carefully, one finger rubbing
until Chris exhales and lets him in, "oh, fuck, but it's been awhile. Slowly, man. Just,
yeah. Try two." 

Two fingers slip inside, and Lance spreads them slightly, corkscrews into Chris's body.
Chris's eyes roll, and he laughs, remembering this, remembering when he was young
and a guy much older than himself taught him the ways of sex with a man. "Remind
me to tell the first time I slept with a guy, all right? It's funny. You'll like it." 

Lance laughs. "Knowing you, it's ridiculous, kind of like talking about the story while
I'm fingering your ass. Do you want to talk about world issues, maybe? The rising
price of gasoline? I know, let's talk about early childhood education." 

"Sarcastic motherfucker," Chris mutters but smiles, feels young inside and out, and he
pulls Lance to him, kissing that smirking face as Lance grins against his lips, his fingers
still working deep and hard. "Why don't we both shut up and you lose your fucking
virginity?" 

"Fine, Kirkpatrick." 

"Then do it, Bass." 

And then it's there, this nudge of hard flesh, and Chris goes slack, concentrating on
getting Lance in. It's touch and go for awhile, a press here, a push there, but then,
finally, Lance is inside, throbbing, and Chris knows pretty soon it's all going to explode
in a world of breathless gasps. 

"Oh my god," Lance mutters, and it's loud in Chris's head, where the mouth is opened
against his ear, breathing hard. Chris smiles and wraps his leg around Lance's back,
digging his heels into the small and pulling him in deeper. "Chris, this is. this is." 

"I know," Chris rolls his hips as Lance begins to thrust, slowly, though, a leisurely
stroll through the fucking park, and Chris knows a first time really shouldn't be any
other way. Lance's body just fits with Chris's, and Chris feels good and young and
beautiful, too. 

"I'm glad it's you," Lance breathes, shuddering already, and he's going to come, Chris
can tell these things, which is all right, because Chris is right there with him, his cock
stuck between two bellies, one hard like rock, the other warm and soft. Lance pushes
it further and wraps his slick hand around Chris's dick, squeezing. "I'm so glad it's
you." 

Chris can only mumble and agree when he comes into Lance's hand, his body
clenching and taking Lance with him, and it's all there, right there, Chris's great
understanding about his life and body and love and Lance, and how it's all tied
together now. 

It can never be cleaved. 

~~~ 

After not enough sleep, probably only an hour at most, Chris is woken up by JC's
quiet, "oh my," and Joey's, "holy jesus! J, shut the goddamn door!" Blearily, Chris lifts
his head and rubs his eyes, and Lance stirs beneath him, slivers of green peering at
Chris in slight confusion. Chris kisses the wrinkled forehead gently, not ashamed of
this, but protective of Lance. Chris draws the sheet higher up, shielding Lance from
the stunned faces. 

"Fuck, guys," Chris says, "a little privacy here or something? Close your eyes, and
Justin, toss me my pants, will you?" Justin drops to a crouch and blindly grabs the
whole stack of clothes, throwing them in the general direction of the bed and they
flutter gracefully to the ground. 

Chris dresses quickly, kissing Lance once just because he can't not, not when he thinks
he might be in love, and Lance smiles and bits his lip, putting on the same sweaty
clothes from yesterday. Chris kisses him again. "All right, guys. We're decent." 

Joey turns around first and looks straight at Lance, and asks, "hey, man, what's with
the rippling pecs, huh? Since when are you all muscle and shit?" And he walks forward
to poke him, fingers stretched out, but Chris won't have it. 

Chris steps in front of him, smiling when Lance's arms circle his waist and squeeze.
Chris says, "don't touch him. The body is mine, Fatone, you get yourself another
boyfriend,"and he grins because he can sense Lance's body breathing against him and
feels alive. 

Fin.