solafiamma (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
solafiamma) wrote2003-08-21 02:08 pm
solafiamma) wrote2003-08-21 02:08 pm
Entry tags:
It's new! Perhaps even shiny!
Hah! Finally finished! Here it is, my first story in the popslash (or any other) fandom. It's *N Sync, TrickyFish, and maybe, possibly R-ish? Something like that, anyway.
Feedback of all stripes welcome. Leave a comment in my lj or send me a message at solafiamma [at] gmail.com.
Part 3 can be found here
Parts 4 and 5 can be found here
ETA: Part 6 can be found here
Many thanks to Budge for the beta, the encouragement and the unflagging willingness to listen to me whine pathetically whenever I hit a block. I'm also inexpressibly grateful to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
canalbaby for her fabulous timelines and sherrold_ish for her "Where the Boys Were" chronology charts, both of which saved me pulling all my hair out in frustration.
by Sola Fiamma
Chris gets to the diner early, but Joey’s already there, drinking coffee, deep in conversation with the waitress. He looks good, Chris thinks, relaxed and happy.
The diner is pretty downscale, torn red leather booths that look like they haven’t been upholstered since the late fifties, white and black tiled floor that apparently hasn’t been mopped since then either. Joey’s promised that the food more than makes up for the decor though, and since Chris has been on the road since seven o’clock in the morning to make it here by noon with nothing but a box of Ritz crackers for sustenance, he’s prepared to give it a shot.
Joey leaps out of his seat when he sees him and folds Chris into one of his enthusiastic bear hugs, almost smothering him in his armpit in the process. It feels ridiculously good. This casual grabbing and hugging and random touching is one of the things Chris has missed most during the hiatus. He’s enjoying the break, he really is, and he’s totally not ready for it to end any time soon, but the glaring absence of the other guys in his day to day life is a constant niggling blip on his happiness radar. If they weren’t spread halfway across the country, if they didn’t present a constantly shifting target, if they’d all just stayed in Orlando, it might be easier.
“Man, it’s so good to see you. I fucking miss you guys,” Joey says, echoing his thoughts.
“Me too, dude. I’m starting to get whiplash driving all over the country just to check up on you bozos.” He lets Joey nudges him into the booth, nodding frantically at the waitress when she offers him a coffee. “At least you’re all still on the same planet. I’d be totally screwed if they’d actually sent Lance to the moon or wherever.”
“Oh, hey, speaking of Lance, he’s going to join us. He said he might be a few minutes late, but he’s on his way.”
“Lance is in New York?”
“Well, he’d kind of have to be, wouldn’t he?”
“What the fuck is Lance doing here? I thought he was in Orlando. Shit.” He slouches further down in his seat, trying to look like he doesn’t want to hit Joey. This is suddenly way less fun than it was a few minutes ago.
“What? You guys fighting, or something?”
“No. I don’t know. No. Well, I’m not. So, no.”
Joey just raises an eyebrow at him and waits.
“I just. He’s being an ass lately.”
“Lance?” Joey looks shocked, like Chris has just told him that Lance is planning to assassinate the pope.
“See, I knew you’d take his side. Fuck, man.”
“I’m not taking his side, asshole. I’m not taking anyone’s side. I don’t even know what the sides look like.”
Chris glares at the formica table top for a few seconds, long enough to register that the salt and pepper shakers don’t match and that there’s a syrup smear near the napkin dispenser. He just knows he’s going to be sticking his elbow or palm into that before the meal is finished.
“I don’t know, man. He’s just being a dick.” Chris can’t really put his finger on it, but things have changed since Lance got back from Russia. Lance has changed. And it sucks because Chris had really been looking forward to having him home, to having all of his guys in the same country at least, even if they couldn’t be in the same state. Then Lance comes back, absurdly optimistic about making the April shuttle, which in his very secret heart of hearts Chris guiltily hopes will never happen, and it’s like he’s a different person, as though his absence has shaped and polished him into something bright and sharp and disconcertingly unfamiliar.
“Ever since Russia, he’s just. He’s not the same. I think he’s mad at me about something, but he won’t say anything. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”
Joey thinks for a couple of minutes and shakes his head. “You guys seemed fine at Justin’s. That was, what? Just a couple of weeks ago? You mean after that? Something happened after that?
“No, no,” Chris smacks his knife and fork together testily. “He was being weird as shit that night. You didn’t notice? Fuck, you have to stop drinking so much, Joe, you’re getting stupid with it.”
Joey laughs. “I’m not the one who ended up puking all over Justin’s feet in the driveway, man.”
“Fuck you. I had to drink. I was so tense after two hours in Lance’s company I thought I was going to pop.”
“So what was he doing?”
“Nothing. He just. Fuck, you must have noticed! He just kind of, I don’t know, he comes in and sucks up all the energy in the room. He’s like, whoosh! This great Lance vortex that just drags you in and won’t let go. And he makes everything tense, and he won’t even let me tickle him anymore and half the time he doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”
“Well, dude, some of your jokes really suck.”
“Bastard. Look, I can’t describe it. It’s just, ever since Russia, you know? He’s just all intense and annoying and it’s starting to get on my nerves.”
“I really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. He’s just fine around me.”
“I think he hates me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s stupid. Have you asked him what’s going on?”
“Of course I’ve fucking asked him. I’m not a total moron. Give me some credit.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So what did he say, Chris?”
“He didn’t say anything. He. Um. I was kind of holding him upside down and shaking him at the time and he was pretty pissed. He might not have heard me even. I would have asked again, but he stopped talking to me. He almost put my back out too, so I don’t know where he gets off being so pissy,”
“God, you’re an ass. But, you know? Shut up now. He’s here.”
And Joey is waving over Chris’ shoulder, a big easy wave, big easy smile, the smile he saves just for Lance. Chris smothers a quick unworthy flare of annoyance at Joey for dragging out that particular smile right now. After all, he’s just been telling Joey how shitty Lance is being, and okay, so Joey obviously isn’t taking the whole thing very seriously and probably thinks Chris is being paranoid and petty, and even if he does believe him, he’s going to take Lance’s side anyways because he always does, and that’s cool, but the least he could do is look a little disapproving or stern or something. Whatever.
Chris twists his face into what he hopes is a welcoming expression as he turns around. Lance is already at the table, smiling comfortably at Joey, but looking a little tense when he nods at Chris.
Chris thinks, well fuck, here we go, but he grins at Lance and then, before he can stop himself, grabs his arm, tugs him into the booth and wraps him in a headlock, holding him still for a somewhat forceful noogie.
“So, Bass! You finally dragged your ass in here! And hey! Coincidence! We were just talking about your ass! Or was it about what an ass you are? Something about your ass, anyway. Check with Joey. He’s better with details.”
Lance stops squirming and for a second Chris thinks maybe everything’s going to be okay this time, and he thinks maybe Lance is actually even smiling, but he can’t really tell because he still has Lance in a headlock and can’t see his face. At least he isn’t telling him to fuck off. But the next second, Chris’ breath rushes out of him in an urgent whoosh as the heel of Lance’s hand connects solidly and viciously with his solar plexus, and then Lance is up and away and sliding in beside Joey, rubbing his head and looking pissed.
“What the fuck,” Chris yells. Or tries to. The words come out in a pathetic, wheezy gust and he isn’t even sure that he achieved any actual, discernible words. He tries again and this time he’s pretty sure Lance can hear him, even though the volume could use some adjustment. “What the fuck, you dickhead! That fucking hurt! What’s your problem?”
Lance glares at him, a mean green glare with an edge of disdain that makes Chris want to upend the bowl of sugar into Lance’s coffee, but Lance doesn’t have a coffee yet so he just shakes the bowl menacingly, sending a scattering of sugar granules in Lance’s general direction.
“Oh, fuck off, Chris.” Lance sounds a little tired and grumpy. He’s probably no more thrilled about having to share Joey than Chris is. “Just leave my hair alone.” He pokes at his hair with his fingers, nudging it back into shape and Chris has to struggle to stop himself from reaching across the table and mussing it again.
Lance smiles up at the waitress who’s arrived with the coffee pot, and it’s a night and day moment, Lance’s face flicking from cranky to sweet in an instant, and Chris feels a great surge of irritation because he used to know how to flip that switch. Well, maybe he hadn’t known exactly how, because he’d never really thought about it much before now, but he’s pretty sure he used to be the cause of the transformation, even if he hadn’t really known what he was doing. Joey can still draw those smiles out of him; Chris seems to have lost the knack.
Lance orders a coffee and a burger and goes into a song and dance about what kind of cheese do they put on the burgers and would it be possible to substitute real cheddar for the process, and red onions for the regular onions and can he have the relish on the side and no pickle. When the waitress turns to him, Chris says “I’ll have what he’s having but just normal. None of that stupid shit.”
Joey scowls at him but Lance is busy with his coffee and doesn’t even seem to have heard. Figures. Joey orders a Reuben and when the waitress leaves, nods towards Lance and raises his eyebrows at Chris. Pretending not to notice, Chris adds more sugar to his coffee and stirs it noisily and messily. When he looks up again, Joey nods in Lance’s direction again and mouths, “Ask him.”
“What the fuck’s wrong, Joe? Got a tic, there? Knock it off, you’re making me dizzy.”
“Fuck off.”
Lance looks from Joey to Chris. “Am I missing something? Did I interrupt something?”
“Just Joey doing his Tourette’s impression. Totally insensitive and he sucks at it anyway, so you didn’t miss much. Did you change hair goo?” he adds to change the subject. “Just, your hair feels, uh, softer.”
Lance looks at him suspiciously for a moment. “Probably.”
Joey’s looking at him and trying not to laugh, which doesn’t do much to improve his mood.
“Good, good. Great. So, Joe. How’s the kid?”
This is a much more profitable deflection, and Joey keeps them entertained with the latest anecdotes and photographs until the waitress returns with their food. As she’s putting the plates on the table, slamming Chris’ is front of him with what he considers excessive force, Lance’s cell rings. “Oh, sorry, guys. I’ve got to take this. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
“Hurry back,” Chris says, and he reaches out and gives Lance’s ass a sharp pinch as he passes, and grins in satisfaction when Lance squeaks loudly into the phone.
He looks back at Joey. ‘You see? You see what I mean? He’s just weird. I don’t think it’s even Lance. I think they swapped him at Star City for some death robot and then they’re going to invite us to Russia to perform and they’ll fill the stadium with Chechen rebels and then detonate him. I think we should kick him out of the band. Just to be safe.”
“Yeah, sure, good theory, because I’m sure those Chechen rebels are just dying to see us in concert. And, um. Actually, I didn’t notice him doing anything weird. You’re being kind of a jerk, though.”
“Bite me. You’re being a jerk. What the fuck was all that twitching about? Like I really want to sit down and have a heart to heart with Lance with you for an audience.”
“Whatever. Can we at least try to get through lunch without you getting me barred from this place? I like it here.”
“And I thought you were just trying to give me food poisoning.” Chris nudges his burger and peers under the bun warily.
“The food’s great. Just try it. Best burgers in New York, man.”
Chris takes a bite and smiles. “Mmph. No shit. That’s fucking awesome. Just needs a few red onions.” He reaches over, flips the bun off the top of Lance’s burger and grabs the red onions. “Don’t tell,” he warns Joey, cramming the onions into his own burger just as Lance gets back to the table.
They both watch Lance take a first and then a second bite, but if he’s noticed anything amiss he’s not saying anything.
“So,” Lance says, “I talked to JC last night. He’s kind of pissed with you, Chris. What did you do to him?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Uh uh. He just said you guys went out to a club and you were a jerk and he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Fuckhead. That guy. I don’t know how he made it through puberty. He has no survival instincts whatsoever.”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, just. JC called me up and asked if I wanted to go clubbing with him, he’d heard about this funky place just outside LA where the house band was really awesome, played some kind of punk jazz hip hop fusion with a touch of Bauhaus around the edges or some such thing, and I wasn’t doing anything so why not, right? Well, C got the wrong address or something or maybe he’s just got a death wish, I dunno, but anyway we cabbed to this place, and from the outside it didn’t look like much, just a neon sign and windows painted black. Looked kind of grubby, but whatever, we walked in and whoa! Turned out to be a biker bar, wall to wall leather and denim, tattoos, hairy chests, hairy bellies hanging over belts, and some band that sounded like a cross between Lynnard Skynnard and the Hitler Youth marching band. You know, not really my scene but it could have been okay except, no, JC was dressed for the other place, the punk-hip-hop-goth-jazz whatever the fuck kind of place you wear black eyeliner and vinyl and lace and jeans with the ass half shredded off. He wouldn’t pay any attention to me when I tried to tell him that staying might not be such a great plan, and when I tried to drag him out he just pushed me off and sashayed his fuckin’ Chasez ass on up to the bar until he was about three deep in ’roided-out neo Nazi psychos, and started yelling at the bartender to bring him a Heineken.”
Chris pauses to take another sip of his coffee. Joey is laughing and even Lance is starting to smile, so he downs half the cup in one swallow and continues.
“Anyway, so there I was trying to push my way through all these psychos to get to him before he got himself killed, and he was just oblivious as fuck. Even when the bartender practically threw the beer at him he just nodded his polite little nod, tossed him a twenty and leaned back against the bar twitching his hips to the music like he’s looking to get fucked, you know how he does. And then this big dude - and I mean fucking humungous, this guy had to weigh close to three hundred pounds buck naked, which, you know, thank god he wasn’t. Anyhow, this mother was mean and ugly and dangerous, bald as a cue ball, tattoos all over his skull and his arms and every visible piece of skin, and chains spilling out of every pocket, hanging off him every which way. Anyway, he went up to JC and yelled over the music, ‘Hey, faggot, you might want to leave while you have the chance.’
“And you know, he yelled this loud enough that I could hear him and I was like two barstools away but maybe JC was closer to the speakers or something or maybe he’s going deaf or maybe, and I’m leaning toward this latter theory, he’s just a fucking dickwad, but he smiled his sexy little smile at the guy and yells back ‘Dance? Oh, not right now, thanks. Maybe when I finish my beer.’ And he waved his Heineken under the guy’s nose and closed his eyes and kept wiggling to the music with that same stupid ass smile on his face. The bald dude was just standing with his eyes bugging out and his face turning purple, and I could actually see the muscles in his arms bunching up, getting ready to bury that smile under a metric ton of fist. I could also see all his good buddies shifting around, getting into position to lend whatever assistance might be necessary, and I just kept thinking, “Fuck. How’re we going to replace JC?”
He shakes his head and starts stuffing fries and pickles and coleslaw into the second half of his burger.
Joey finally says, “So, what happened, man?”
“Huh? Oh, right. C. Well, I hit him.”
“Who? The Nazi?” Joey sounds impressed, if slightly incredulous.
“No. C. I decked him. I leapt across these two other biker dudes and whacked the silly fucker in the head. What?” he adds defensively as Joey and Lance, mouths full, make big eyes of horror at him. “I had no choice. It was hit him or watch him get dismembered right in front of me so I gave him a good thump upside the head and he was so surprised - because, fuck, he really is a clueless bastard - anyway he was so surprised he just went down like a sack of potatoes, just squealed and dropped. And I wasn’t taking any chances, I sat on him while I explained to the motherfucking Nazis about how he’s my cousin from Canada - from the French part of Canada - and a total pussy, but my mom is expecting me to look out for him because he’s her sister’s only kid and so, yeah. These guys may be Nazi psycho freaks, but apparently they’re all about the mom love. So they bought me a beer - not a Heineken - and I drank it sitting on JC and slapping him every time he tried to shove me off or open his mouth. Finally, one of the guys helped me yank him out into the parking lot and I dragged him into the first cab that came along and took his sorry ass home. Good times.”
“Fuck,” says Lance, “that could have been bad, Chris.”
“That’s a real talent for stating the obvious you have there, Bass. Hello?” Chris waggles a fry under Lance’s nose. “It was bad, dude. I just told you.”
Lance takes a bite out of the fry, almost taking the end off Chris’ finger in the process. “No, but really,” he continues. “He could have been hurt. Both of you. It’s just. You don’t. You didn’t. Uh, what was the name of the bar?”
“Why? You planning on checking it out? Maybe dropping by next time you’re in LA and giving them a piece of your mind? I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think you’re going to fit in much better than C.” He eyes Lance across the table. Lance is, as usual, looking kind of fresh and clean and oddly pretty, and Chris knows that maybe that isn’t quite the right way to be thinking about him, knows enough anyway not to say it aloud.
“Fuck you. It’s not like I’d go in dressed like C, for Pete’s sake.”
“It wouldn’t matter what you wore, Bass, you’re always going to be too pretty for a place like that.” Oops.
”Oh, fuck you for real, Kirkpatrick. I’ve been in tougher places than that and made it out in one piece.”
“Oh, right, yeah, sure. So you what, like, get yourself all dragged up and pose as some kind of biker chick in your spare time?”
Joey throws a wadded up napkin at him. “Jesus, Chris, shut up, already.”
“You’re an ass. You’re a complete fucking ass, you know that?” Lance must be truly pissed, cursing three times in the last minute and a half. “I wasn’t planning on going there anyway. I just asked what the damned bar was called.”
“I don’t remember. Oh, wait, yeah. It was the Hogs and Knockers Bar and Grill.”
Joey’s laughing again, shaking his head and wiping mustard off his fingers. “Oh, it was not. You’re so full of shit, man.”
“No, for real. That’s what it was called. I think I even have a book of matches or something.” Chris starts digging around in his jacket pockets, but catches Lance staring at him like maybe he’s just grown a gerbil on his eyebrow or something. “What? What?”
“I can’t believe you. So ‘Hogs and Knockers’ sounds like the name of a hip-hop jazz punk or whatever the heck kind of bar to you? I just. Why would you let him in go into a place like that, Chris?”
“I didn’t let him, I told you. Dude has a mind of his own, for all the good it does him. He’d walked in the door before I knew it and he just didn’t pay any attention to me after that. And what the fuck? You’re trying to make this my fault? I’d like to see you try stopping him from doing something when he’s got his mind made up. He’s like, he’s like, I don’t know, it’s like taking my sisters shopping. You just can’t say no to them.”
Lance looks skeptical. “You can’t say no. I don’t have a problem saying no. I’ve said no to C a billion times.”
“That’s because you’re a bitch. A mean old cross-dressing biker’s bitch.” Chris leers at him. “Bet your ass looks awfully fetching in that tight black leather miniskirt, though.”
“Fuck off.”
Lance’s cheeks have turned pink, which Chris finds pretty satisfying, and it’s also a rather good look for Lance, which Chris finds pretty confusing. “Oh, don’t be so modest, Bass. I’m sure all your biker boyfriends think so. Hey, if I was a biker, I’d be first in line to bend you over my hog and have my beer bellied way with you.”
Lance chokes on his coffee, turning his cheeks even pinker, and Joey yells “Shut up! Jesus Christ, Chris, knock it off!” As people at neighbouring tables start peering over to see what’s going on, Joey lowers his voice and says, “Let’s just save the rest of this conversation for somewhere more private, shall we?”
“Let’s. Just. Not.” Lance glares at Chris, flushes again, and looks away. “Look, I’m. Joey, I’ve got some things I need to do, so I think I’ll just.” Lance throws some cash on the table and slides out of the booth. “I’ll just see you later.” He tries to edge out of the way as he sees Chris moving toward him, but he’s not quite fast enough and Chris snakes an arm around his waist and hauls him back into the booth.
“Hey, don’t be like that, I’m just kidding around. Stay. Have another coffee. Have some pie. Have some of Joe’s fries.” He reaches over with his free hand and snags a handful of fries off Joey’s plate and holds them up to Lance’s mouth. Lance pushes them away, but he’s smiling, and he’s not trying to escape.
Joey puts his arms protectively around his food. “Keep your hands off my plate, Kirkpatrick, or I’ll be forced to remove important parts of your anatomy. And yeah, stay, Lance. I’ll gag him if I have to.”
“I really do have to go.” He starts to pull on Chris’ arm which, Chris notes in vague surprise, is still curled around Lance’s waist, hand inexplicably stroking Lance’s ribs. Chris lets him go, but not before giving him a raspberry on the side of his neck and ruffling his hair.
“Oh, gross! Get those greasy fingers out of my hair, you shithead!”
Chris is just happy Lance is fixated on the greasy fingers instead of the whole rib stroking thing. And what the hell was that about anyway? He says goodbye and gives Lance a slap on the ass as he walks away, and turns back to see Joey looking at him thoughtfully.
“What? You thinking about dessert? Because I could definitely go for some dessert.”
“No. I mean, yeah, sure, dessert, fine. But, dude, I think you’ve got a problem.” Joey’s gazing at him with something that looks unpleasantly like pity.
“What problem? Oh. You mean Lance. You finally noticed, huh? Yeah, well, I told you, man. He’s just like all, I don’t know, weird around me these days.” Chris notices the waitress taking an order a couple of tables down and starts waving his cup in the air and pointing at it. She doesn’t see him or, he suspects, ignores him, and walks back toward the kitchen.
“Not Lance, dude. You. You’re the one who’s being all weird.” Joey turns around and smiles, and the waitress comes running up with the coffee. While Joey flirts and chats about pie, trying to take an unobtrusive peek into the vee of her crisp white blouse when she bends to pour more coffee into their cups, Chris throws a couple of spoonfuls of sugar onto the remains of his burger and stirs it around with his fork. The waitress disappears in a clatter of plates and huffiness and Chris wonders briefly whether she’s annoyed enough to spit on the pie. Well, on his pie. He’s pretty sure that the worst she’s likely to do to Joey’s pie is spray her phone number on it in whipped cream.
He kicks Joey under the table to get his attention. “So what are you talking about? I’m being weird? Weird how?”
“I just mean. Well, Lance isn’t any different than usual. He’s just. Lance. Normal Lance.”
“Well, for starters, there’s no such thing as ‘normal Lance’ as you well know. That boy hasn’t been normal since he sprung all frog-eyed from his mama’s loins. I swear to god, he was born with a palm pilot in his right hand, a sack of miscellaneous styling products in his left and a big fat layer of smug all over his cute little ass.”
“Yeah, you see. That’s kind of what I’m talking about right there, Chris. This thing with his ass.”
“His ass? You’re talking about his ass and you’re calling me weird? Pot and kettle, dude.”
“No. I mean, no. Look. I wasn’t talking about his ass. I wasn’t even thinking about his ass, because, like, I never actually do. You, on the other hand, seem to be spending a whole lot of time thinking about his ass. And how “pretty” he is. And how he’d look like in a skirt. Don’t you think that’s just a little bit … strange? Even for you?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s asinine. I was just fucking with him, man, you should know that. I always fuck with him. We all do. It’s fun.”
“Yeah, but, I don’t think so, Chris. I mean, I know you’re always ready to score cheap shots off of him - “
“Hey!”
“- but this is different. For one thing, this fixation with his ass is new. You’re talking about it, you’re grabbing it, you’re pinching it, you’re slapping it. What is up with that, man?”
“What do you mean? Nothing’s up. What are you saying?”
Joey’s looking at him, sipping his coffee and just looking and waiting, like he’s just told a joke and Chris is being particularly slow to get the punch line. “What? Come on, Joe, what are you saying here?”
“I’m saying I think you want to get with him.”
“Get with him? Get with Lance? With Lance? Me? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
The waitress arrives with the pie and coffee before Joey can answer, but whatever, there can really only be one answer to that question. Either Joey is out of his mind or he’s doing some serious drugs.
On one level, Chris is genuinely shocked that Joey has managed to twist a couple of ass grabs and an admittedly poor joke about doing Lance over a Harley into a, what, a crush? An infatuation? What had Joey called it? A fixation. A fixation with Lance’s ass.
On another level, Chris’ brain is helpfully sifting through the evidence, for and against, and coming up with some interesting, if not particularly conclusive, results. The ass patting and slapping thing, well, he’s always done that, always horsed around with all the guys. There’s nothing new there, whatever Joey says. So, maybe he’s been a bit more fixated than usual today, but, hey, it’s not like he counts how many times he comes into contact with any of their asses on a given day. Law of averages, sooner or later he was bound to take it over the line.
But what about the memory of Lance that still lingers on Chris’ palm and fingertips, the warmth of ribs under the thin cotton shirt, the firm muscles of his ass beneath the layer of denim, the solid weight of him pressed against Chris’ side, all etched into sense memory so exactly that Chris can still feel the sudden shift of cloth against skin as Lance starts to laugh, can still smell the complicated blend of shampoo and hair mousse and coffee breath that floats around Lance’s head, can still feel the curve of Lance’s butt against his hand.
Joey’s not saying anything, just doing that looking wise and sipping coffee thing again, and it’s starting to get on Chris’ nerves. If the fucker is going to say stupid shit like that, the least he can do is stay in the conversation, because this is one conversation Chris would rather not be having at all, but if he is going to have it, he’s damned well not going to have it by himself.
“Fuck you. You’re an idiot. I have no interest whatsoever in getting with Lance. I’d rather fuck a cat.”
Joey just raises his eyebrows and swallows another mouthful of coffee.
“Okay, maybe not a cat. Because, ow. But you know my rules, Joe. I don’t fuck with the band, I don’t fuck the band, I don’t do anything to fuck the band up. I’ve said from day one that we can’t be doing that shit with one another because it just won’t work. We all agreed on that rule and in all these years, I’ve never broken it and I’ve never wanted to. I just don’t look at you guys that way. You’re my brothers, man. My brothers.”
Joey smirks at him. “Okay. Let me re-phrase. Dude. I think you want to get with one of your brothers.”
Chris throws a spoon at him, followed in rapid succession by the remaining the lid for the ketchup bottle, the salt shaker and the napkin dispenser. Joey just laughs and waves his arms about, fending off the missiles like Wonder Woman with a beard.
“Knock if off, you’re going to get us kicked out. Look, I’m sorry. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m just saying. Think about it, Chris. And you know something? That rule was good when the whole group thing was really new and nobody really knew anyone well enough to know what would happen if we started getting between the sheets with one another, but come on. We’re past that shit now. We’ve gone through all kinds of stuff and we haven’t fallen apart. Fuck, if we can make it through the Justin and Britney drama of the century without ripping each other’s throats out, I think we can handle you boning Lance.”
“Fuck. Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! I don’t want to bone Lance! I don’t want to bone Justin or JC and I sure as hell don’t want to bone you!” He pointedly ignores Joey’s elaborate mime of relief. “I don’t want to bone anyone who’s ever had anything to do with the band. I just want to go back the hotel and wash my ears out. And then I want to come over to your place and wash your mouth out. Jesus. And you’re paying for lunch because, shit, you’re just, you’re just an asshole and you’ve given me indigestion.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever. Forget I mentioned it. Can I have your pie if you’re not going to eat it?”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. Joey’s obviously an asshole and it’s clear that hanging around in New York with a bunch of actors and make-up people and maybe even art critics and what not is clouding his judgment, making him look at everything through gay coloured glasses or something.
Chris tells himself this, and he knows it’s true. And yet. The conversation just keeps coming back to him. He’ll be out on the golf course, lining up his shot, and he’ll hear Joey’s voice saying, “I think you want to get with Lance” and then he’ll start thinking about Lance and trying to rationalize the embarrassingly unbrotherly swelling in his shorts that thinking about Lance seems to inspire and, well, frankly his game could really do without that kind of distraction. .
It’s not like he’s never been with guys before, because of course he has, plenty of times. Guys are what he does in between women, when he’s horny but doesn’t want to commit to two or three hours of wining and dining and pretending to be interested in conversation first. Guys are filler. And it’s cool, because by and large, guys are fine with that kind of thing, or at least he’s pretty good at screening out the ones who aren’t. But he’s found that kind of sex works best when you don’t know the other guy, or you’ve just kind of met him in passing and wouldn’t, in the normal course of events, ever be likely to have occasion to talk to him again. It doesn’t hurt if he lives in a completely different state, either.
Thing is, other than being male, Lance doesn’t fit any of his criteria for guy sex. He’d be in the automatic reject pile by default even if the band didn’t have a rule about screwing one another. Which they do. Even if Chris was interested. Which he isn’t.
The whole thing is just really stupid and Joey in particular is really stupid and on crack besides. So that’s all right then, and everything should be good, except Joey’s voice won’t get the fuck out of his head.
He decides to call Lance, maybe get together for dinner or a night on the town, and put this whole thing to rest. A few hours in Lance’s company is bound to shut the voice up and put things back to normal.
When he gets Lance’s answering machine, he says, “Hey, it’s Chris,” and he’s about to say “Call me” when it suddenly hits him that the odds of Joey having called Lance to fill him in on Chris’ theoretical fixation on Lance’s ass are astronomically high. Those two are so tight that neither of them farts without clearing it with the other first. An invitation from Chris right now, however innocent, is just going to seem like a confirmation of Joey’s suspicions and if Lance goes out with him anyway it’s all going to be weird and shit because Lance will be all tense, waiting for Chris to make a move so he can shut him down, and everything will just be horribly awkward and Chris is getting a headache just thinking about it, so no.
He just says, “hey” again and adds “No need to call back, I was just looking for my, uh, thing. My, um, thing that I lost. But I just remembered where I left it, so. Yeah. See ya.”
He calls Justin instead. In fact he doesn’t know why he didn’t call him in the first place, because he knows Chris maybe better than anyone and certainly well enough to be able to confirm that Joey should yank his head out of his ass.
Justin doesn’t answer either, and Chris is routed to voice mail again. He hangs up and re-dials and after five minutes of this, Justin finally picks up. It’s a routine they have.
“What the fuck! Chris, you asshole, what do you want?”
Okay, it’s more a routine Chris has, but whatever.
“You busy?”
“Yes, I’m fucking busy. If I wasn’t busy, I would have answered the fucking phone. Fuck man, we’ve talked about this!”
“Well, it was more of a you talked and I tried hard to ignore you situation, as I recall. And hey, J, get that potty mouth under control. You’ll never meet a nice girl if you can’t--“
“What do you want Chris? Look, I’ll call you back, okay?”
“No, dude, wait. This’ll just take a sec, I swear.”
“Chriiis,” Justin whines, “Please. I’ll call you in, like, an hour. A couple of hours.”
“Sorry, kid. It can’t wait. And your idea of a couple of hours fits most people’s definition of a week and a half.”
Justin gives a long suffering, put-upon sigh and says, “Fine. Fine. But.” There’s a pause followed by some muted mutterings in the background. “Just make it fast, okay? I mean really fast, like tell me in less than two minutes.”
“Right, right. Is someone with you?”
“Uh huh.”
“No, I mean are you with someone, like am I interrupting the great Timberlake getting his freak on?”
“Fuck. Yes. And I’m sure that makes you very happy. What did you want?”
“Guy or girl?”
“None of your fucking business. I’m going to hang up right now if you don’t start talking.”
“Yeah, whatever. As a best friend you kind of suck, man. Look, here’s the thing. When I saw Joey in New York last week, he said. Well, somehow, probably because he’s such a dumbass, Joey got this fucked up idea that maybe I have this, this thing, sort of, I guess. A thing. For Lance.” He pauses and waits for Justin’s whoop of derision. “For Lance.” Pause. “For Lance Bass. Dude? Justin? Hey! Are listening to me?”
“Mmm. Nnh. Yeahhh.”
“You fucking are not, you stupid bastard. What the hell are you doing?”
“Nnnnh. Oh, God!”
“You little shit! Tell her to get the fuck off your dick when I’m talking to you!”
“Unhhh. What? Ohhhh. Look, mmm, sorry, Chris, but, oh fuck. Later man.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Part 3 can be found here
Parts 4 and 5 can be found here
Feedback of all stripes welcome. Leave a comment in my lj or send me a message at solafiamma [at] gmail.com.
Part 3 can be found here
Parts 4 and 5 can be found here
ETA: Part 6 can be found here
Many thanks to Budge for the beta, the encouragement and the unflagging willingness to listen to me whine pathetically whenever I hit a block. I'm also inexpressibly grateful to
canalbaby for her fabulous timelines and sherrold_ish for her "Where the Boys Were" chronology charts, both of which saved me pulling all my hair out in frustration. Something More
by Sola Fiamma
Chris gets to the diner early, but Joey’s already there, drinking coffee, deep in conversation with the waitress. He looks good, Chris thinks, relaxed and happy.
The diner is pretty downscale, torn red leather booths that look like they haven’t been upholstered since the late fifties, white and black tiled floor that apparently hasn’t been mopped since then either. Joey’s promised that the food more than makes up for the decor though, and since Chris has been on the road since seven o’clock in the morning to make it here by noon with nothing but a box of Ritz crackers for sustenance, he’s prepared to give it a shot.
Joey leaps out of his seat when he sees him and folds Chris into one of his enthusiastic bear hugs, almost smothering him in his armpit in the process. It feels ridiculously good. This casual grabbing and hugging and random touching is one of the things Chris has missed most during the hiatus. He’s enjoying the break, he really is, and he’s totally not ready for it to end any time soon, but the glaring absence of the other guys in his day to day life is a constant niggling blip on his happiness radar. If they weren’t spread halfway across the country, if they didn’t present a constantly shifting target, if they’d all just stayed in Orlando, it might be easier.
“Man, it’s so good to see you. I fucking miss you guys,” Joey says, echoing his thoughts.
“Me too, dude. I’m starting to get whiplash driving all over the country just to check up on you bozos.” He lets Joey nudges him into the booth, nodding frantically at the waitress when she offers him a coffee. “At least you’re all still on the same planet. I’d be totally screwed if they’d actually sent Lance to the moon or wherever.”
“Oh, hey, speaking of Lance, he’s going to join us. He said he might be a few minutes late, but he’s on his way.”
“Lance is in New York?”
“Well, he’d kind of have to be, wouldn’t he?”
“What the fuck is Lance doing here? I thought he was in Orlando. Shit.” He slouches further down in his seat, trying to look like he doesn’t want to hit Joey. This is suddenly way less fun than it was a few minutes ago.
“What? You guys fighting, or something?”
“No. I don’t know. No. Well, I’m not. So, no.”
Joey just raises an eyebrow at him and waits.
“I just. He’s being an ass lately.”
“Lance?” Joey looks shocked, like Chris has just told him that Lance is planning to assassinate the pope.
“See, I knew you’d take his side. Fuck, man.”
“I’m not taking his side, asshole. I’m not taking anyone’s side. I don’t even know what the sides look like.”
Chris glares at the formica table top for a few seconds, long enough to register that the salt and pepper shakers don’t match and that there’s a syrup smear near the napkin dispenser. He just knows he’s going to be sticking his elbow or palm into that before the meal is finished.
“I don’t know, man. He’s just being a dick.” Chris can’t really put his finger on it, but things have changed since Lance got back from Russia. Lance has changed. And it sucks because Chris had really been looking forward to having him home, to having all of his guys in the same country at least, even if they couldn’t be in the same state. Then Lance comes back, absurdly optimistic about making the April shuttle, which in his very secret heart of hearts Chris guiltily hopes will never happen, and it’s like he’s a different person, as though his absence has shaped and polished him into something bright and sharp and disconcertingly unfamiliar.
“Ever since Russia, he’s just. He’s not the same. I think he’s mad at me about something, but he won’t say anything. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”
Joey thinks for a couple of minutes and shakes his head. “You guys seemed fine at Justin’s. That was, what? Just a couple of weeks ago? You mean after that? Something happened after that?
“No, no,” Chris smacks his knife and fork together testily. “He was being weird as shit that night. You didn’t notice? Fuck, you have to stop drinking so much, Joe, you’re getting stupid with it.”
Joey laughs. “I’m not the one who ended up puking all over Justin’s feet in the driveway, man.”
“Fuck you. I had to drink. I was so tense after two hours in Lance’s company I thought I was going to pop.”
“So what was he doing?”
“Nothing. He just. Fuck, you must have noticed! He just kind of, I don’t know, he comes in and sucks up all the energy in the room. He’s like, whoosh! This great Lance vortex that just drags you in and won’t let go. And he makes everything tense, and he won’t even let me tickle him anymore and half the time he doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”
“Well, dude, some of your jokes really suck.”
“Bastard. Look, I can’t describe it. It’s just, ever since Russia, you know? He’s just all intense and annoying and it’s starting to get on my nerves.”
“I really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. He’s just fine around me.”
“I think he hates me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s stupid. Have you asked him what’s going on?”
“Of course I’ve fucking asked him. I’m not a total moron. Give me some credit.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So what did he say, Chris?”
“He didn’t say anything. He. Um. I was kind of holding him upside down and shaking him at the time and he was pretty pissed. He might not have heard me even. I would have asked again, but he stopped talking to me. He almost put my back out too, so I don’t know where he gets off being so pissy,”
“God, you’re an ass. But, you know? Shut up now. He’s here.”
And Joey is waving over Chris’ shoulder, a big easy wave, big easy smile, the smile he saves just for Lance. Chris smothers a quick unworthy flare of annoyance at Joey for dragging out that particular smile right now. After all, he’s just been telling Joey how shitty Lance is being, and okay, so Joey obviously isn’t taking the whole thing very seriously and probably thinks Chris is being paranoid and petty, and even if he does believe him, he’s going to take Lance’s side anyways because he always does, and that’s cool, but the least he could do is look a little disapproving or stern or something. Whatever.
Chris twists his face into what he hopes is a welcoming expression as he turns around. Lance is already at the table, smiling comfortably at Joey, but looking a little tense when he nods at Chris.
Chris thinks, well fuck, here we go, but he grins at Lance and then, before he can stop himself, grabs his arm, tugs him into the booth and wraps him in a headlock, holding him still for a somewhat forceful noogie.
“So, Bass! You finally dragged your ass in here! And hey! Coincidence! We were just talking about your ass! Or was it about what an ass you are? Something about your ass, anyway. Check with Joey. He’s better with details.”
Lance stops squirming and for a second Chris thinks maybe everything’s going to be okay this time, and he thinks maybe Lance is actually even smiling, but he can’t really tell because he still has Lance in a headlock and can’t see his face. At least he isn’t telling him to fuck off. But the next second, Chris’ breath rushes out of him in an urgent whoosh as the heel of Lance’s hand connects solidly and viciously with his solar plexus, and then Lance is up and away and sliding in beside Joey, rubbing his head and looking pissed.
“What the fuck,” Chris yells. Or tries to. The words come out in a pathetic, wheezy gust and he isn’t even sure that he achieved any actual, discernible words. He tries again and this time he’s pretty sure Lance can hear him, even though the volume could use some adjustment. “What the fuck, you dickhead! That fucking hurt! What’s your problem?”
Lance glares at him, a mean green glare with an edge of disdain that makes Chris want to upend the bowl of sugar into Lance’s coffee, but Lance doesn’t have a coffee yet so he just shakes the bowl menacingly, sending a scattering of sugar granules in Lance’s general direction.
“Oh, fuck off, Chris.” Lance sounds a little tired and grumpy. He’s probably no more thrilled about having to share Joey than Chris is. “Just leave my hair alone.” He pokes at his hair with his fingers, nudging it back into shape and Chris has to struggle to stop himself from reaching across the table and mussing it again.
Lance smiles up at the waitress who’s arrived with the coffee pot, and it’s a night and day moment, Lance’s face flicking from cranky to sweet in an instant, and Chris feels a great surge of irritation because he used to know how to flip that switch. Well, maybe he hadn’t known exactly how, because he’d never really thought about it much before now, but he’s pretty sure he used to be the cause of the transformation, even if he hadn’t really known what he was doing. Joey can still draw those smiles out of him; Chris seems to have lost the knack.
Lance orders a coffee and a burger and goes into a song and dance about what kind of cheese do they put on the burgers and would it be possible to substitute real cheddar for the process, and red onions for the regular onions and can he have the relish on the side and no pickle. When the waitress turns to him, Chris says “I’ll have what he’s having but just normal. None of that stupid shit.”
Joey scowls at him but Lance is busy with his coffee and doesn’t even seem to have heard. Figures. Joey orders a Reuben and when the waitress leaves, nods towards Lance and raises his eyebrows at Chris. Pretending not to notice, Chris adds more sugar to his coffee and stirs it noisily and messily. When he looks up again, Joey nods in Lance’s direction again and mouths, “Ask him.”
“What the fuck’s wrong, Joe? Got a tic, there? Knock it off, you’re making me dizzy.”
“Fuck off.”
Lance looks from Joey to Chris. “Am I missing something? Did I interrupt something?”
“Just Joey doing his Tourette’s impression. Totally insensitive and he sucks at it anyway, so you didn’t miss much. Did you change hair goo?” he adds to change the subject. “Just, your hair feels, uh, softer.”
Lance looks at him suspiciously for a moment. “Probably.”
Joey’s looking at him and trying not to laugh, which doesn’t do much to improve his mood.
“Good, good. Great. So, Joe. How’s the kid?”
This is a much more profitable deflection, and Joey keeps them entertained with the latest anecdotes and photographs until the waitress returns with their food. As she’s putting the plates on the table, slamming Chris’ is front of him with what he considers excessive force, Lance’s cell rings. “Oh, sorry, guys. I’ve got to take this. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
“Hurry back,” Chris says, and he reaches out and gives Lance’s ass a sharp pinch as he passes, and grins in satisfaction when Lance squeaks loudly into the phone.
He looks back at Joey. ‘You see? You see what I mean? He’s just weird. I don’t think it’s even Lance. I think they swapped him at Star City for some death robot and then they’re going to invite us to Russia to perform and they’ll fill the stadium with Chechen rebels and then detonate him. I think we should kick him out of the band. Just to be safe.”
“Yeah, sure, good theory, because I’m sure those Chechen rebels are just dying to see us in concert. And, um. Actually, I didn’t notice him doing anything weird. You’re being kind of a jerk, though.”
“Bite me. You’re being a jerk. What the fuck was all that twitching about? Like I really want to sit down and have a heart to heart with Lance with you for an audience.”
“Whatever. Can we at least try to get through lunch without you getting me barred from this place? I like it here.”
“And I thought you were just trying to give me food poisoning.” Chris nudges his burger and peers under the bun warily.
“The food’s great. Just try it. Best burgers in New York, man.”
Chris takes a bite and smiles. “Mmph. No shit. That’s fucking awesome. Just needs a few red onions.” He reaches over, flips the bun off the top of Lance’s burger and grabs the red onions. “Don’t tell,” he warns Joey, cramming the onions into his own burger just as Lance gets back to the table.
They both watch Lance take a first and then a second bite, but if he’s noticed anything amiss he’s not saying anything.
“So,” Lance says, “I talked to JC last night. He’s kind of pissed with you, Chris. What did you do to him?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Uh uh. He just said you guys went out to a club and you were a jerk and he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Fuckhead. That guy. I don’t know how he made it through puberty. He has no survival instincts whatsoever.”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, just. JC called me up and asked if I wanted to go clubbing with him, he’d heard about this funky place just outside LA where the house band was really awesome, played some kind of punk jazz hip hop fusion with a touch of Bauhaus around the edges or some such thing, and I wasn’t doing anything so why not, right? Well, C got the wrong address or something or maybe he’s just got a death wish, I dunno, but anyway we cabbed to this place, and from the outside it didn’t look like much, just a neon sign and windows painted black. Looked kind of grubby, but whatever, we walked in and whoa! Turned out to be a biker bar, wall to wall leather and denim, tattoos, hairy chests, hairy bellies hanging over belts, and some band that sounded like a cross between Lynnard Skynnard and the Hitler Youth marching band. You know, not really my scene but it could have been okay except, no, JC was dressed for the other place, the punk-hip-hop-goth-jazz whatever the fuck kind of place you wear black eyeliner and vinyl and lace and jeans with the ass half shredded off. He wouldn’t pay any attention to me when I tried to tell him that staying might not be such a great plan, and when I tried to drag him out he just pushed me off and sashayed his fuckin’ Chasez ass on up to the bar until he was about three deep in ’roided-out neo Nazi psychos, and started yelling at the bartender to bring him a Heineken.”
Chris pauses to take another sip of his coffee. Joey is laughing and even Lance is starting to smile, so he downs half the cup in one swallow and continues.
“Anyway, so there I was trying to push my way through all these psychos to get to him before he got himself killed, and he was just oblivious as fuck. Even when the bartender practically threw the beer at him he just nodded his polite little nod, tossed him a twenty and leaned back against the bar twitching his hips to the music like he’s looking to get fucked, you know how he does. And then this big dude - and I mean fucking humungous, this guy had to weigh close to three hundred pounds buck naked, which, you know, thank god he wasn’t. Anyhow, this mother was mean and ugly and dangerous, bald as a cue ball, tattoos all over his skull and his arms and every visible piece of skin, and chains spilling out of every pocket, hanging off him every which way. Anyway, he went up to JC and yelled over the music, ‘Hey, faggot, you might want to leave while you have the chance.’
“And you know, he yelled this loud enough that I could hear him and I was like two barstools away but maybe JC was closer to the speakers or something or maybe he’s going deaf or maybe, and I’m leaning toward this latter theory, he’s just a fucking dickwad, but he smiled his sexy little smile at the guy and yells back ‘Dance? Oh, not right now, thanks. Maybe when I finish my beer.’ And he waved his Heineken under the guy’s nose and closed his eyes and kept wiggling to the music with that same stupid ass smile on his face. The bald dude was just standing with his eyes bugging out and his face turning purple, and I could actually see the muscles in his arms bunching up, getting ready to bury that smile under a metric ton of fist. I could also see all his good buddies shifting around, getting into position to lend whatever assistance might be necessary, and I just kept thinking, “Fuck. How’re we going to replace JC?”
He shakes his head and starts stuffing fries and pickles and coleslaw into the second half of his burger.
Joey finally says, “So, what happened, man?”
“Huh? Oh, right. C. Well, I hit him.”
“Who? The Nazi?” Joey sounds impressed, if slightly incredulous.
“No. C. I decked him. I leapt across these two other biker dudes and whacked the silly fucker in the head. What?” he adds defensively as Joey and Lance, mouths full, make big eyes of horror at him. “I had no choice. It was hit him or watch him get dismembered right in front of me so I gave him a good thump upside the head and he was so surprised - because, fuck, he really is a clueless bastard - anyway he was so surprised he just went down like a sack of potatoes, just squealed and dropped. And I wasn’t taking any chances, I sat on him while I explained to the motherfucking Nazis about how he’s my cousin from Canada - from the French part of Canada - and a total pussy, but my mom is expecting me to look out for him because he’s her sister’s only kid and so, yeah. These guys may be Nazi psycho freaks, but apparently they’re all about the mom love. So they bought me a beer - not a Heineken - and I drank it sitting on JC and slapping him every time he tried to shove me off or open his mouth. Finally, one of the guys helped me yank him out into the parking lot and I dragged him into the first cab that came along and took his sorry ass home. Good times.”
“Fuck,” says Lance, “that could have been bad, Chris.”
“That’s a real talent for stating the obvious you have there, Bass. Hello?” Chris waggles a fry under Lance’s nose. “It was bad, dude. I just told you.”
Lance takes a bite out of the fry, almost taking the end off Chris’ finger in the process. “No, but really,” he continues. “He could have been hurt. Both of you. It’s just. You don’t. You didn’t. Uh, what was the name of the bar?”
“Why? You planning on checking it out? Maybe dropping by next time you’re in LA and giving them a piece of your mind? I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think you’re going to fit in much better than C.” He eyes Lance across the table. Lance is, as usual, looking kind of fresh and clean and oddly pretty, and Chris knows that maybe that isn’t quite the right way to be thinking about him, knows enough anyway not to say it aloud.
“Fuck you. It’s not like I’d go in dressed like C, for Pete’s sake.”
“It wouldn’t matter what you wore, Bass, you’re always going to be too pretty for a place like that.” Oops.
”Oh, fuck you for real, Kirkpatrick. I’ve been in tougher places than that and made it out in one piece.”
“Oh, right, yeah, sure. So you what, like, get yourself all dragged up and pose as some kind of biker chick in your spare time?”
Joey throws a wadded up napkin at him. “Jesus, Chris, shut up, already.”
“You’re an ass. You’re a complete fucking ass, you know that?” Lance must be truly pissed, cursing three times in the last minute and a half. “I wasn’t planning on going there anyway. I just asked what the damned bar was called.”
“I don’t remember. Oh, wait, yeah. It was the Hogs and Knockers Bar and Grill.”
Joey’s laughing again, shaking his head and wiping mustard off his fingers. “Oh, it was not. You’re so full of shit, man.”
“No, for real. That’s what it was called. I think I even have a book of matches or something.” Chris starts digging around in his jacket pockets, but catches Lance staring at him like maybe he’s just grown a gerbil on his eyebrow or something. “What? What?”
“I can’t believe you. So ‘Hogs and Knockers’ sounds like the name of a hip-hop jazz punk or whatever the heck kind of bar to you? I just. Why would you let him in go into a place like that, Chris?”
“I didn’t let him, I told you. Dude has a mind of his own, for all the good it does him. He’d walked in the door before I knew it and he just didn’t pay any attention to me after that. And what the fuck? You’re trying to make this my fault? I’d like to see you try stopping him from doing something when he’s got his mind made up. He’s like, he’s like, I don’t know, it’s like taking my sisters shopping. You just can’t say no to them.”
Lance looks skeptical. “You can’t say no. I don’t have a problem saying no. I’ve said no to C a billion times.”
“That’s because you’re a bitch. A mean old cross-dressing biker’s bitch.” Chris leers at him. “Bet your ass looks awfully fetching in that tight black leather miniskirt, though.”
“Fuck off.”
Lance’s cheeks have turned pink, which Chris finds pretty satisfying, and it’s also a rather good look for Lance, which Chris finds pretty confusing. “Oh, don’t be so modest, Bass. I’m sure all your biker boyfriends think so. Hey, if I was a biker, I’d be first in line to bend you over my hog and have my beer bellied way with you.”
Lance chokes on his coffee, turning his cheeks even pinker, and Joey yells “Shut up! Jesus Christ, Chris, knock it off!” As people at neighbouring tables start peering over to see what’s going on, Joey lowers his voice and says, “Let’s just save the rest of this conversation for somewhere more private, shall we?”
“Let’s. Just. Not.” Lance glares at Chris, flushes again, and looks away. “Look, I’m. Joey, I’ve got some things I need to do, so I think I’ll just.” Lance throws some cash on the table and slides out of the booth. “I’ll just see you later.” He tries to edge out of the way as he sees Chris moving toward him, but he’s not quite fast enough and Chris snakes an arm around his waist and hauls him back into the booth.
“Hey, don’t be like that, I’m just kidding around. Stay. Have another coffee. Have some pie. Have some of Joe’s fries.” He reaches over with his free hand and snags a handful of fries off Joey’s plate and holds them up to Lance’s mouth. Lance pushes them away, but he’s smiling, and he’s not trying to escape.
Joey puts his arms protectively around his food. “Keep your hands off my plate, Kirkpatrick, or I’ll be forced to remove important parts of your anatomy. And yeah, stay, Lance. I’ll gag him if I have to.”
“I really do have to go.” He starts to pull on Chris’ arm which, Chris notes in vague surprise, is still curled around Lance’s waist, hand inexplicably stroking Lance’s ribs. Chris lets him go, but not before giving him a raspberry on the side of his neck and ruffling his hair.
“Oh, gross! Get those greasy fingers out of my hair, you shithead!”
Chris is just happy Lance is fixated on the greasy fingers instead of the whole rib stroking thing. And what the hell was that about anyway? He says goodbye and gives Lance a slap on the ass as he walks away, and turns back to see Joey looking at him thoughtfully.
“What? You thinking about dessert? Because I could definitely go for some dessert.”
“No. I mean, yeah, sure, dessert, fine. But, dude, I think you’ve got a problem.” Joey’s gazing at him with something that looks unpleasantly like pity.
“What problem? Oh. You mean Lance. You finally noticed, huh? Yeah, well, I told you, man. He’s just like all, I don’t know, weird around me these days.” Chris notices the waitress taking an order a couple of tables down and starts waving his cup in the air and pointing at it. She doesn’t see him or, he suspects, ignores him, and walks back toward the kitchen.
“Not Lance, dude. You. You’re the one who’s being all weird.” Joey turns around and smiles, and the waitress comes running up with the coffee. While Joey flirts and chats about pie, trying to take an unobtrusive peek into the vee of her crisp white blouse when she bends to pour more coffee into their cups, Chris throws a couple of spoonfuls of sugar onto the remains of his burger and stirs it around with his fork. The waitress disappears in a clatter of plates and huffiness and Chris wonders briefly whether she’s annoyed enough to spit on the pie. Well, on his pie. He’s pretty sure that the worst she’s likely to do to Joey’s pie is spray her phone number on it in whipped cream.
He kicks Joey under the table to get his attention. “So what are you talking about? I’m being weird? Weird how?”
“I just mean. Well, Lance isn’t any different than usual. He’s just. Lance. Normal Lance.”
“Well, for starters, there’s no such thing as ‘normal Lance’ as you well know. That boy hasn’t been normal since he sprung all frog-eyed from his mama’s loins. I swear to god, he was born with a palm pilot in his right hand, a sack of miscellaneous styling products in his left and a big fat layer of smug all over his cute little ass.”
“Yeah, you see. That’s kind of what I’m talking about right there, Chris. This thing with his ass.”
“His ass? You’re talking about his ass and you’re calling me weird? Pot and kettle, dude.”
“No. I mean, no. Look. I wasn’t talking about his ass. I wasn’t even thinking about his ass, because, like, I never actually do. You, on the other hand, seem to be spending a whole lot of time thinking about his ass. And how “pretty” he is. And how he’d look like in a skirt. Don’t you think that’s just a little bit … strange? Even for you?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s asinine. I was just fucking with him, man, you should know that. I always fuck with him. We all do. It’s fun.”
“Yeah, but, I don’t think so, Chris. I mean, I know you’re always ready to score cheap shots off of him - “
“Hey!”
“- but this is different. For one thing, this fixation with his ass is new. You’re talking about it, you’re grabbing it, you’re pinching it, you’re slapping it. What is up with that, man?”
“What do you mean? Nothing’s up. What are you saying?”
Joey’s looking at him, sipping his coffee and just looking and waiting, like he’s just told a joke and Chris is being particularly slow to get the punch line. “What? Come on, Joe, what are you saying here?”
“I’m saying I think you want to get with him.”
“Get with him? Get with Lance? With Lance? Me? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
The waitress arrives with the pie and coffee before Joey can answer, but whatever, there can really only be one answer to that question. Either Joey is out of his mind or he’s doing some serious drugs.
On one level, Chris is genuinely shocked that Joey has managed to twist a couple of ass grabs and an admittedly poor joke about doing Lance over a Harley into a, what, a crush? An infatuation? What had Joey called it? A fixation. A fixation with Lance’s ass.
On another level, Chris’ brain is helpfully sifting through the evidence, for and against, and coming up with some interesting, if not particularly conclusive, results. The ass patting and slapping thing, well, he’s always done that, always horsed around with all the guys. There’s nothing new there, whatever Joey says. So, maybe he’s been a bit more fixated than usual today, but, hey, it’s not like he counts how many times he comes into contact with any of their asses on a given day. Law of averages, sooner or later he was bound to take it over the line.
But what about the memory of Lance that still lingers on Chris’ palm and fingertips, the warmth of ribs under the thin cotton shirt, the firm muscles of his ass beneath the layer of denim, the solid weight of him pressed against Chris’ side, all etched into sense memory so exactly that Chris can still feel the sudden shift of cloth against skin as Lance starts to laugh, can still smell the complicated blend of shampoo and hair mousse and coffee breath that floats around Lance’s head, can still feel the curve of Lance’s butt against his hand.
Joey’s not saying anything, just doing that looking wise and sipping coffee thing again, and it’s starting to get on Chris’ nerves. If the fucker is going to say stupid shit like that, the least he can do is stay in the conversation, because this is one conversation Chris would rather not be having at all, but if he is going to have it, he’s damned well not going to have it by himself.
“Fuck you. You’re an idiot. I have no interest whatsoever in getting with Lance. I’d rather fuck a cat.”
Joey just raises his eyebrows and swallows another mouthful of coffee.
“Okay, maybe not a cat. Because, ow. But you know my rules, Joe. I don’t fuck with the band, I don’t fuck the band, I don’t do anything to fuck the band up. I’ve said from day one that we can’t be doing that shit with one another because it just won’t work. We all agreed on that rule and in all these years, I’ve never broken it and I’ve never wanted to. I just don’t look at you guys that way. You’re my brothers, man. My brothers.”
Joey smirks at him. “Okay. Let me re-phrase. Dude. I think you want to get with one of your brothers.”
Chris throws a spoon at him, followed in rapid succession by the remaining the lid for the ketchup bottle, the salt shaker and the napkin dispenser. Joey just laughs and waves his arms about, fending off the missiles like Wonder Woman with a beard.
“Knock if off, you’re going to get us kicked out. Look, I’m sorry. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m just saying. Think about it, Chris. And you know something? That rule was good when the whole group thing was really new and nobody really knew anyone well enough to know what would happen if we started getting between the sheets with one another, but come on. We’re past that shit now. We’ve gone through all kinds of stuff and we haven’t fallen apart. Fuck, if we can make it through the Justin and Britney drama of the century without ripping each other’s throats out, I think we can handle you boning Lance.”
“Fuck. Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! I don’t want to bone Lance! I don’t want to bone Justin or JC and I sure as hell don’t want to bone you!” He pointedly ignores Joey’s elaborate mime of relief. “I don’t want to bone anyone who’s ever had anything to do with the band. I just want to go back the hotel and wash my ears out. And then I want to come over to your place and wash your mouth out. Jesus. And you’re paying for lunch because, shit, you’re just, you’re just an asshole and you’ve given me indigestion.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever. Forget I mentioned it. Can I have your pie if you’re not going to eat it?”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. Joey’s obviously an asshole and it’s clear that hanging around in New York with a bunch of actors and make-up people and maybe even art critics and what not is clouding his judgment, making him look at everything through gay coloured glasses or something.
Chris tells himself this, and he knows it’s true. And yet. The conversation just keeps coming back to him. He’ll be out on the golf course, lining up his shot, and he’ll hear Joey’s voice saying, “I think you want to get with Lance” and then he’ll start thinking about Lance and trying to rationalize the embarrassingly unbrotherly swelling in his shorts that thinking about Lance seems to inspire and, well, frankly his game could really do without that kind of distraction. .
It’s not like he’s never been with guys before, because of course he has, plenty of times. Guys are what he does in between women, when he’s horny but doesn’t want to commit to two or three hours of wining and dining and pretending to be interested in conversation first. Guys are filler. And it’s cool, because by and large, guys are fine with that kind of thing, or at least he’s pretty good at screening out the ones who aren’t. But he’s found that kind of sex works best when you don’t know the other guy, or you’ve just kind of met him in passing and wouldn’t, in the normal course of events, ever be likely to have occasion to talk to him again. It doesn’t hurt if he lives in a completely different state, either.
Thing is, other than being male, Lance doesn’t fit any of his criteria for guy sex. He’d be in the automatic reject pile by default even if the band didn’t have a rule about screwing one another. Which they do. Even if Chris was interested. Which he isn’t.
The whole thing is just really stupid and Joey in particular is really stupid and on crack besides. So that’s all right then, and everything should be good, except Joey’s voice won’t get the fuck out of his head.
He decides to call Lance, maybe get together for dinner or a night on the town, and put this whole thing to rest. A few hours in Lance’s company is bound to shut the voice up and put things back to normal.
When he gets Lance’s answering machine, he says, “Hey, it’s Chris,” and he’s about to say “Call me” when it suddenly hits him that the odds of Joey having called Lance to fill him in on Chris’ theoretical fixation on Lance’s ass are astronomically high. Those two are so tight that neither of them farts without clearing it with the other first. An invitation from Chris right now, however innocent, is just going to seem like a confirmation of Joey’s suspicions and if Lance goes out with him anyway it’s all going to be weird and shit because Lance will be all tense, waiting for Chris to make a move so he can shut him down, and everything will just be horribly awkward and Chris is getting a headache just thinking about it, so no.
He just says, “hey” again and adds “No need to call back, I was just looking for my, uh, thing. My, um, thing that I lost. But I just remembered where I left it, so. Yeah. See ya.”
He calls Justin instead. In fact he doesn’t know why he didn’t call him in the first place, because he knows Chris maybe better than anyone and certainly well enough to be able to confirm that Joey should yank his head out of his ass.
Justin doesn’t answer either, and Chris is routed to voice mail again. He hangs up and re-dials and after five minutes of this, Justin finally picks up. It’s a routine they have.
“What the fuck! Chris, you asshole, what do you want?”
Okay, it’s more a routine Chris has, but whatever.
“You busy?”
“Yes, I’m fucking busy. If I wasn’t busy, I would have answered the fucking phone. Fuck man, we’ve talked about this!”
“Well, it was more of a you talked and I tried hard to ignore you situation, as I recall. And hey, J, get that potty mouth under control. You’ll never meet a nice girl if you can’t--“
“What do you want Chris? Look, I’ll call you back, okay?”
“No, dude, wait. This’ll just take a sec, I swear.”
“Chriiis,” Justin whines, “Please. I’ll call you in, like, an hour. A couple of hours.”
“Sorry, kid. It can’t wait. And your idea of a couple of hours fits most people’s definition of a week and a half.”
Justin gives a long suffering, put-upon sigh and says, “Fine. Fine. But.” There’s a pause followed by some muted mutterings in the background. “Just make it fast, okay? I mean really fast, like tell me in less than two minutes.”
“Right, right. Is someone with you?”
“Uh huh.”
“No, I mean are you with someone, like am I interrupting the great Timberlake getting his freak on?”
“Fuck. Yes. And I’m sure that makes you very happy. What did you want?”
“Guy or girl?”
“None of your fucking business. I’m going to hang up right now if you don’t start talking.”
“Yeah, whatever. As a best friend you kind of suck, man. Look, here’s the thing. When I saw Joey in New York last week, he said. Well, somehow, probably because he’s such a dumbass, Joey got this fucked up idea that maybe I have this, this thing, sort of, I guess. A thing. For Lance.” He pauses and waits for Justin’s whoop of derision. “For Lance.” Pause. “For Lance Bass. Dude? Justin? Hey! Are listening to me?”
“Mmm. Nnh. Yeahhh.”
“You fucking are not, you stupid bastard. What the hell are you doing?”
“Nnnnh. Oh, God!”
“You little shit! Tell her to get the fuck off your dick when I’m talking to you!”
“Unhhh. What? Ohhhh. Look, mmm, sorry, Chris, but, oh fuck. Later man.”
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Part 3 can be found here
Parts 4 and 5 can be found here