"I didn't think you'd go for this."
I haven't yet, JC thought about saying, although he suspected that he actually had made up his
mind or he wouldn't be here. He also thought about making a joke, something like, Well, you
sweet-talked me. Except that things that sounded funny in JC's head had this awful way of
sounding not funny at all when he said them; he had, like, a reverse comedic gift. A comedic
penalty. He still made jokes sometimes, but not around strangers. Not in delicate situations.
And this was a delicate situation. Maybe if he'd had his own car, if he hadn't been driven here by
a man in sunglasses with a pierced lip. Maybe if there was a phone in the hotel room; JC couldn't
see one, which surely meant that it had been removed deliberately, because even motels had
telephones in the rooms, right? It had been a while since JC had stayed in a motel, but he was
pretty sure. Maybe if he didn't know that on the other side of that curtain in its tweedy brown-
and-gold pattern there were at least three dark cars in the parking lot, occupied cars.
Bodyguards, JC reminded himself; nothing sinister about that. Just bodyguards, like Lonnie and
Big Rob. But strangers, so kind of not like Lonnie and Big Rob at all.
He didn't want to be paranoid. But it wasn't paranoid to say that his situation was just, sort
of...delicate.
So instead of saying anything at all, JC held out the envelope that had been given to him earlier in
the evening. It contained the name of the man who'd driven him, and all the right codes and
charms required to prove that JC was who he said he was -- or rather, that he was invited by who
he said he was invited by. JC's host accepted the envelope's return and tossed it aside. "I don't
know what to call you," JC admitted. Usually you knew someone's name or you didn't, but in
this case it was more like...JC just didn't know what to call him.
Don't call me anything, he thought about saying; JC could see it on his face. Don't fucking
talk, just shut up. He was a good-looking enough guy, JC realized; how funny that he'd never
really noticed that before -- that he was good-looking, or even that he looked a little bit like
Justin, only more guarded, pulled into himself while Justin sprawled and sprang his way through
the world. "Marshall," he said grudgingly, as if he'd just lost it to JC in a low-stakes game of
cards, and was more irritated than anything else by the loss. "Quit fucking staring at me."
"Sorry." The word began in JC's mouth, but ended in Marshall's, and JC found himself
unexpectedly stranded, his mouth sealed off and his lungs empty of air. His chest began to ache
immediately, and his wrist, too, where Marshall had it in an awkward grip. "No, no," he was
mumbling as Marshall lifted his mouth away. He saw the dark look pass over Marshall's face --
surprise, embarrassment, anger -- something else, too -- and JC tried to explain. He hooked his
fingers into the waistband of Marshall's jeans and leaned in against him, saying, "I don't mean no.
I mean yes, I mean I'm -- glad you found me. You startled me is all." JC kissed him this time,
slow and windless, with dry lips and the moist tips of their tongues.
"Who are you?" he demanded when JC shifted away again. There was a helpless note in his
voice, as if he didn't really expect JC to answer. "I know I know you."
JC moved a hand up to his face; he liked touching faces, liked to feel how everyone's was aligned
just slightly differently. Marshall shied back instinctively, but then seemed to realize what he was
doing and steel himself to show no fear. He let JC brush fingers across his forehead. "Do you
know what a golem is?"
"Jewish thing. Jewish monster. Something like that."
"Made from clay. And it has the name of God inscribed on its forehead to bring it to life.
Everybody does, though, that's the thing. We all have the name of our god written right on us,
written right on our faces, forever. Some people can read it."
"You can," he interpreted, heavily skeptical.
Yes, usually JC could. He certainly could now, but he was realizing a little too late that he
couldn't admit to that. Marshall Mathers would probably not appreciate being told that JC could
see fear written all over his face, even if JC meant it in a profound and mystical kind of way,
not as a taunt or anything. JC dropped his hand and smiled harmlessly. "Me? Wouldn't that be
cool? Man, I don't even know what mine would say." JC had never been able to see his own,
although he liked to guess that it said truth. Liked to hope that it did.
(One time, JC got a little drunk at a party and started holding forth on all of this, on golems and
God and his kabbalah class at the yoga center -- on music and truth and the soul. Justin pried him
away from his listeners, and he'd found himself outside, around the corner from the swimming
pool and its swampy blue lighting, with a cosmopolitan in one hand and bricks scratching his back
and Justin between his arms with his hand running hard up and down JC's thigh as they kissed.
"You sounded like such a spaz back there," Justin laughed in his ear. "God, they totally thought
you were wack." JC tried to find his tongue to apologize, but all he could seem to locate was
Justin's tongue as it swirled down his neck. "I thought it was hot, though," Justin growled into
his shoulder, his hand finally choosing one direction on JC's leg, and fortunately the right
direction. "Art, truth, all that shit. So hot...." Instead of apologizing, then, JC tried to thank him,
but that came out garbled, and Justin laughed, and JC dropped his glass on the lawn and let it all
happen just like he always did when Justin called him hot. The word inscribed on Justin was
fame.)
"You gonna tell me your name or not?"
Oh. Name. Of course, that was what most people meant by who are you. He was overthinking
again. "Joshua," he said.
"Is that your real name?"
"I don't lie," JC said, and then, because some people thought that sounded like bragging, he
smiled that helpless smile again and said, "I'm pretty bad at it."
Marshall kissed him again, quick and rough. "You're full of shit. Joshua."
"What?" He was obscurely hurt, not to be trusted by this man who didn't have any reason to
trust him at all.
"That's not the name you gave me last time, you know," Marshall said, and JC was surprised to
hear wry humor in his voice. On television, Marshall had always struck him as a singularly
unhappy and humorless person.
JC felt his face getting warm, and Marshall smiled a little wider at his confusion. "Oh. But, well,
last time was different. See, it was, I was trying. I didn't want. I wasn't. Then, I wasn't.
Joshua. Me. I wanted to be someone else for a little while. I only did it that once. But it
was...true. That one time. It seemed true. Or, like...not a lie."
It was a stumbling explanation, and maybe -- probably -- a stupid idea from the beginning. But
Marshall seemed to take it seriously, nodded as though that cleared things up, and suddenly JC
realized that for him, maybe it did. For a man who'd taken on a few new names of his own
over the years. "So we've never met. Except for...last time."
JC had wondered that himself, searched his memory many times with inconclusive results. "It's
possible; I don't really remember. We know some of the same people."
JC reached for him as he said it, but Marshall recoiled, and JC realized that the little ease they'd
had around each other was gone now, burned off like grass in a fire. Christ, JC realized, that
probably sounded like a threat. He shook his head, reached out again, and this time Marshall let
him take hold of his arm, although he watched JC's hand keenly. "I want to fuck you til you
scream," he said to JC's hand, and it sounded almost sullen, as though he were being forced to
confess something to the principal when he didn't really feel guilty at all.
He shifted Marshall's arm around his waist, and moved the other one to match it. His fingers
slipped up inside the sleeves of Marshall's t-shirt. "I'm a screamer."
"I know." He seemed to come to life, then, yanking JC against him, one hand closing on JC's ass
and the other on the back of his leg. JC lolled bonelessly forward against his chest, not broad but
solid and strong. "You are one crazy freak," Marshall whispered into his ear. "You know, I
could really jack you up. Strangle you. Whatever. They'd never find your body. I'm a rich
guy."
"I am, too," JC murmured, apropos of nothing.
His leg shoved between JC's legs, too unexpectedly to be comfortable. JC's back arched, and
Marshall kissed his throat once, quickly, then bit the side of his neck. "Who'd report you missing,
huh?" It was a snarl, it was sex, but JC understood intuitively that it was a real question, too.
Maybe Marshall really had meant more than tell me your name. "Your boyfriend? Girlfriend?
Hairstylist? Who knows where you are right now?"
"No one." Maybe he should have been afraid to admit to that, but he wasn't. Well, he really
couldn't be, could he? If JC were going to be afraid, then he'd really, in good conscience, have to
end this now. And he didn't at all want to do that. "I guess...one of my clients would report me
missing. But not for a while."
"Clients, huh?" Marshall turned, with JC in his arms, and used his weight to shove JC down to
the bed. JC bit his lip and made no noise. "Are you a hustler?"
JC smiled at that. All show business is prostitution, according to Lance. Not that Lance saw
anything wrong with that.
(He's never actually caught Lance in a lie, never heard him tell a pretty, ambitious boy that he's a
manager or a musician. Sometimes Lance infers that he knows some people who know some
people, and that's quite true, so there's nothing JC can really say about that. Lance keeps an
office, with modern art on the walls that JC picked out for him, and photos of him with
celebrities, and a giant teakwood desk that gives off the impression that he handles more people's
money than just Willa's. JC knew for ages that Lance liked jailbait, and dancers, and bright-eyed
guys with dazzling smiles and Southern accents -- liked, in fact, anything that reminded him a little
bit of Justin Timberlake. He wasn't shy about telling them they reminded him of Justin
Timberlake, either, which they tended to take as a compliment instead of a window into Lance's
emotional problems. He didn't know, until recently, that Lance had been growing silently and
steadily more jaded. He didn't know until he walked into Lance's office and saw Lance, with
great care and patience, tighten a leather strap around the arm of a thin, graceful-looking guy
whose roots were coming in blonde under his shiny black dye-job, whose pale skin was sheened
with sweat, whose long eyelashes were fluttering furiously as Lance found a vein in his arm and
slid a long needle into it. He did it with almost medical seriousness; JC was confused, thought he
was seeing some kind of procedure and couldn't figure out why the boy was naked and Lance had
that look on his face like he'd just been sucked off. When he realized, he ran, and Lance found JC
sitting in his car in the parking garage almost an hour later, still clutching the inside of his elbow
like it hurt, still shaking. Lance slid in beside him and said, "I'm sorry you had to see that. I
know needles freak you out." JC turned a disbelieving look on him; could Lance really believe it
was only, or even mostly, the needle that had freaked him out? Lance just sighed and tipped his
head back against the seat. "Hey, it's probably the safest trick he'll ever turn. If I'd given him
cash, he just would've gone and shot up with God knows whose needle." JC made a noise, a
helpless protest against that. The worst part was imagining that Lance thought he was doing the
world a favor in there. But when Lance turned to look at him, his eyes were brilliant and hard,
and JC knew that Lance knew exactly what he was doing. "Christ," he said. "Think of it this
way, C. If everyone were as sweet as you, you wouldn't be so damn special." JC didn't know
what to do about the pain in his voice except to take hold of Lance's hand and kiss it softly. The
word inscribed on Lance was power.)
In spite of the fact that the romance of prostitution was pretty much lost on JC, he found himself
grinning up at Marshall, saying, "I should say yes. You've already told me you're rich."
"You fucking well know who I am," Marshall said, his tone strangely without inflection. JC had
known enough famous people to understand that at first the fact of fame seemed like a great
blessing or a massive burden, and then it seemed like both at once, but after a while, it started to
lose all shape and definition. It became reality, so much so that you couldn't have an opinion
about it, any more than you could about gravity. Marshall had apparently been famous about that
long. "Who are you?"
>From this angle, Marshall was stronger, his hand bearing down on JC's diaphragm with a good
hundred and sixty pounds of weight behind it. JC labored to breathe. "What do you want -- to
know? I told you, Joshua, Joshua's -- my name." He eased off, letting JC gasp for air, then gulp,
as his hand kept sliding up JC's chest toward his throat. Marshall's hand maintained a careful L-
shape, suggesting to JC, at least, that if his thumb were to press into JC's jugular vein, the other
fingers would be positioned right about on top of the opposite pulse. "Why would you care?"
"I don't," Marshall said quickly, and just like that his hand was gone.
JC took advantage of his hesitation and shimmied out of his shirt. Marshall watched him
expressionlessly; he could've been here on a military assignment, observing JC's movements. The
thought made JC chuckle out loud. Talk about the new military. He drew two of his own fingers
down his chest, and Marshall's eyes followed, although JC couldn't seem to make him smile.
"I could almost just watch you," Marshall said, and JC decided he'd just have to accept that
neutral tone as a special kind of approval. The Marshall kind.
"I have all weekend."
For a moment, there was almost an expression. Oddly enough, he looked almost scandalized, but
JC might have been misreading that, what with the darkness and the odd parallel angle of their
faces. Then Marshall seemed to relax, as much as a man holding himself up by his arms could
really relax without dropping. He shook his head, and moved off onto one elbow beside JC, using
his other hand to run up the inside of JC's leg, his hand rasping against the suede. "I damn near
wish you were a hooker."
JC's mouth quirked. He was tempted to tell Marshall about Lance, or even to ask him, So what's
so great about hookers, anyway? Because honestly, JC didn't get it, but he sensed that Marshall
definitely did. Instead, he decided to play along. "If you want to write me a check, I'd be willing
to cash it. I'm redecorating. It's not cheap."
Abruptly, both of Marshall's hands closed together, ripping at the fly of JC's pants. He seemed to
be holding himself up now by means of a shoulder set and braced firmly into JC's shoulder, and he
was pulling JC's hips up off the mattress with his impatience. "Fuck a check..." he said, deep and
breathless, with another phrase coming out on each exhale. "...til you can't stand up ... twenty
dollar bill ... whore for it ... never find the body, bitch, you bitch ... hot ..." JC groaned his
happiness when Marshall quit digging his whole weight into JC's shoulder and knelt up over him
instead, which had the added benefit of making Marshall's hands a lot more useful. His left hand
groped inside JC's pants while the right tried to help JC wrest them down below his hipbones.
His hand paused, pressed between JC's legs. His thumb curled loosely around the base of JC's
cock while his fingers prodded lower, but now that they were here, Marshall was starting to look
more than just a little bit freaked. JC licked his lips, feeling like he should say something
encouraging. Nothing came to mind, though, except for cheesy porno lines, which only ever
sounded good in the real world if they came from Joey. Joey could really work a cheesy porno
moment, but JC's skills were more in the area of blushing and laughing and saying stuff like,
"Joey, I completely can't believe you said that!" No, if JC were going to say something to
break this strange deadlock, it was going to have to be something real. Something he meant.
"Do you want to take this a little slower?"
"What? No."
Unexpectedly, JC felt his temper fray; at least he was trying, at least he was trying to figure out
how to make this work, unlike Marshall. Usually people gave JC a lot of credit for trying to
smooth over people's differences, but okay, Marshall was going to be mad at him for it. "Fine,"
JC said sharply. "I just thought maybe you didn't really know what you were doing."
"Well, of course I don't know what I'm doing!" he said, which was not quite the response JC had
been ready for. "What, you think I do this a lot?"
"I -- really -- I don't know. I wouldn't know."
"I don't."
"Last time," JC said slowly, the words unfolding off of his tongue at the same time as the concept
unfolded in his brain, "was -- with me, I was -- the first. That was the first time."
A muscle ticked in his jaw; Marshall seemed to be caught between the two things he least wanted
to come across as, a virgin and a fag. He finally chose the safer route of turning the conversation
back onto JC. "Last time," he said, heavy mimicry of JC's cadences, "I wasn't even your first
that night."
"I'm not like that," JC said suddenly, a part of him wondering what he was doing, caring about
the opinions of a man whose opinions were very probably not tied to reality in any way. At least,
a man who was as off-base as Marshall about his own sexuality was probably not the type to
gather and analyze all available evidence about people before passing judgement. But JC seemed
to want, all of a sudden, for Marshall to at least have the evidence. "I mean, that was a weird
night for me, too. I don't usually like to, you know, to get involved with people I don't really
know."
"Yeah, you're real conservative. I may not be a walking encyclopedia of queer facts, Joshua,
but I can tell when I'm fucking someone who's still hot and wet inside from the last guy who
came in him. Or her. You know what I mean."
"That was lube," JC assured him. "I'm very careful about safe sex. In case you're worried."
Marshall rolled his eyes; JC couldn't tell if the tightening grip, his palm shoving up against JC's
balls, was intentional or not. "Actually, I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that you're high-
risk."
"That's interesting, because I was thinking pretty much the exact same thing after you tried to
crush my internal organs."
"What? What the fuck? When was this?"
"A few minutes ago? You were pushing down on my stomach?"
"That? That was nothing. Don't be such a pussy; I didn't hurt you."
"It kind of hurt."
"What are you, a girl? Complain to your therapist."
A rough, hot touch made it hard to answer that; part of JC's brain was grappling for indignation --
he hadn't come here to be romanced, but on the other hand, he really hadn't come to be insulted,
either -- but the other part had totally lost the thread of their conversation. JC gauged it to be just
one finger, in him not even to the second knuckle, and only uncomfortable because JC was letting
himself get tense and agitated. He needed to relax. He needed to breathe into it. Lube would be
nice, too. JC stretched his arms up above his head on the pillow and angled his hips upward. "It
would be -- just awful -- if I left here in a complaining kind of mood...."
(JC had been Justin's first, too -- not just his first man, but his first lover altogether. Whether or
not anyone, knowing them now, would believe that, it was true. JC remembered, although even
to him it sometimes seemed like a very vivid dream. Justin was sixteen, cutting his very first
album, still an unknown, except to a handful of MMC groupies. He still had hopes that Jive
would allow him to record just one of the songs he'd written, if only he could present them with
something too good to pass up. He wanted JC's help. They spent a long weekend in JC's
apartment in L.A., ordering pizza and hot wings and drinking red wine and littering the floor with
drafts of songs about love. Out of nowhere, way past midnight, Justin simply pounced him and
kissed him, ripping his headstrong way through layers of clothes like this was something that
happened between them every night. "Justin, no, no, you know I can't," JC said, trying to push
him away, but Justin just grinned and kept going, kissing JC's neck and lips and nipples until he
could hardly breathe, until he was thrusting up underneath Justin's body even as he tried again to
say, "Justin, you don't want to do this. Tony's your friend, man, you don't want...." In
retrospect, it kind of made JC want to laugh. Tony was only the first friend that Justin didn't
mind risking in pursuit of what he wanted. But he was the last and only person JC ever betrayed.
Justin didn't admit until they woke up in the morning that he'd been a virgin when he showed up
on JC's doorstep. JC never told anyone that, because he figured anyone in their right mind would
just tell him that Justin was, even at sixteen, a lying bastard. But JC had seen his eyes when he
said it; JC knew it was true. He remembered how light and warm and fragile Justin had felt,
hugging JC on his way out the door, kissing him lingeringly on the cheek and murmuring, "Sorry
'bout your boyfriend and all. It just really had to be you, Jace. I thought it over, and I couldn't
see doing anything major without you there to watch out for me." JC forgave him.)
Maybe Marshall hadn't been doing this long enough to be very familiar with the Encyclopedia of
Queer Facts, but he was either smart enough to figure out the lube thing on his own, or somebody
had tipped him. He used about the right amount, too, which surprised JC. Most guys who were
inexperienced seemed to use it like it was a decorative garnish, or like it had an SPF rating and
they were on their way to the nude beach. But it was a new tube that he was opening; he had to
break the seal.
With his eyes closed, JC could only feel Marshall stirring, trying to find a comfortable position for
the rest of his body now that he had two fingers inside JC, and the tip of a third pressing lightly,
not quite in. JC tried to shift his leg; it seemed to be in Marshall's way. Marshall's legs folded
loosely around it, the denim scratching JC's awakened skin almost painfully. JC bent his knee,
raising his thigh into the solid warmth of Marshall's hard-on, and when he couldn't move his leg
any further, the motion traveled on up his body, his hips rolling, his back arching, his head tipping
back on the pillow. Blindly, JC reached out and covered the back of Marshall's hand with his
own, rubbing it lightly.
Muscles jumped subtly in Marshall's wrist and hand, from nerves or just the unbearable tension of
holding so still. JC could feel the twitches running all the way through Marshall's fingertips, the
broad, warm pads of skin juddering lightly against JC's prostate and making him groan in
frustration, low in his throat. JC opened his mouth, and had to suck in a few clean breaths before
he could manage to speak. "Come on, 'sokay. I'm good, come on, you can. Three, I'm fine...."
"Sorry," Marshall said shortly, an iron heaviness in his voice that ran contrary to everything JC
was feeling -- his escalating heartbeat, his stretching body, his thoughts sweeping up and up,
reaching toward something. Marshall's voice caught at him and wanted to drag him down. "Not
fast enough for you? Fucking forgive me for trying to...."
"Trying to what?"
"Never mind. Forget it." He shoved the third finger in and twisted, eliciting a noise from JC that
could uncharitably be called a squeak. JC's fingers locked hard around his wrist, an instinctive
reaction. He didn't quite know whether the instinct was to tear Marshall's hand away or force his
fingers in even deeper.
Marshall growled and bit at JC's shoulder, leaning across JC so that the smell of him, light sweat
and soap and autumn charcoal, seemed to fill JC's throat and lungs. His fingers were working
roughly in JC now, rolling side-to-side and screwing further in and then partway out. He was
fighting even harder to breathe evenly than JC was, gasping harshly even though he was still fully
dressed and barely taking advantage of JC's strategically placed leg at all. "Sonofabitch," he said,
running the fingers of his other hand roughly through JC's hair. "Oh...oh, look at you...."
How he could be looking, JC didn't know, because he was also running his tongue heavily from
the marks of his teeth in JC's shoulder -- he knew that had left marks -- up the side of his neck.
JC moaned and flung an arm over Marshall's shoulder, draped down his back, as he surged up,
trying to angle his hips to help Marshall get in deep. "'M definitely the first tonight," Marshall
said with a strained chuckle, his teeth grazing the tendon that ran up behind JC's ear.
"Disappointed?" JC managed to say.
"Mm. No. Tighter is okay." JC's body jerked and lashed a little to the side, making the arc
Marshall's tongue was drawing around his ear go wide. It was easy to twist further, to catch that
tongue against his own, Marshall's mouth in a wet, open kiss. "Fuck," Marshall slurred, barely
bothering to pull his mouth away from JC's as he said it. "Where the fuck did you come
from?"
(Lance still wore a cross around his neck, although he was no longer what JC would describe as a
spiritual person, or a religious one, either. Sometimes that bugged JC. He thought that the Lance
he first met, the marketing major from Ol' Miss, deserved more respect than that, even if he was
gone now. Once, years ago, a different Lance Bass had been a believer. Out of loyalty to that
Lance, JC often thought that the new Lance should just go ahead and take off the pendant. It was
fine to change as you got older, but JC got the feeling that Lance didn't always respect the places
he came from the way JC did. That Lance was maybe ashamed, or maybe bitter. It made the
symbol seem...not innocuous. Made it seem tarnished. JC often fingered it when they were in
bed, letting the chain rasp across his sweaty palm, pressing the cross into the pad of his thumb to
leave a temporary white imprint. Once, he asked Lance right out if he was still a believer. Lance,
who usually had an answer for everything, just sighed and rested back against JC's chest. "I
guess," he finally said, dubiously, and then lowered his head to brush a kiss against the side of
JC's hand. "She said, tell me, are you a Christian, child...." he sang, half under his breath. Lance
had a beautiful voice, deep and full; he used to be semi-pro, recording voice-overs and backup
vocals to help his parents out with his tuition. He'd only gotten better since then; living around so
many singers had given him an informal training that showed in the quality of his voice. "And I
said, ma'am, I am tonight." Lance let his head fall back, finding the curve of JC's neck and
settling into it. "You kinda make a believer out of me," he mumbled, sounding shy for the first
time in ages. "The way I figure it, I wouldn't believe in a guy as nice as you if I hadn't met you.
So...even though the world is pretty much fucked up.... Well, it's got at least one JC Chasez in it.
Why not a God, too." That made JC blush, and he petted Lance's hip fondly. "My C," Lance
murmured, his low voice rolling like lazy rivers. "Amazing grace.")
Marshall's wet fingers, pulled free of JC's protesting body, slipped into the small of his back. He
flipped JC onto his stomach easily, and JC caught his breath, then let it out in a whimper. The bed
seemed unsteady as Marshall thrashed around somewhere behind him, finally getting rid of his
own clothes; JC imagined the bedframe breaking, collapsing underneath them, and he wondered if
Marshall would be pissed off enough to tear the motel staff a new one, or embarrassed enough to
want to avoid the whole thing. He was pretty sure they'd end up fucking on the mattress, to hell
with the frame, but after that. He didn't really know what Marshall would do. He knew that if it
were Lance, he'd be furious, and lecture the manager on Good Business for an hour in the
morning. If it were Justin, he'd think it was hilarious and write the place a check. Joey would be
embarrassed. But he just didn't know about Marshall.
"Don't worry, Dr. Joshua," he said dryly, and JC turned his head enough to see Marshall out of
the corner of his eye, tearing open a condom packet with his teeth and spitting out the top strip of
foil. "All safe."
"Thank you," JC said, too lazy to point out that it was as much to Marshall's benefit as his own,
theoretically. When he heard sloppy, moist sounds that could only be Marshall slicking himself
up, JC started to rise up onto his hands and knees.
Marshall knocked him easily back down with a hand between JC's shoulderblades. "Where you
are."
JC looked back over his shoulder, shaking back the hair that he still wasn't quite used to having in
his eyes. "It's deeper if-- "
"Look, don't give me directions." Still on his knees, Marshall moved between JC's legs, pushing
them apart. He slid one hand underneath JC's stomach and used the second to position his own
dick, pressing the head of it halfway into JC and then pausing. "I know what I'm doing."
"You told me you didn't."
"I told you I'm not a fag. I never said I didn't know how ass-fucking worked. You can do this
with women, too, you know."
JC nodded a little dizzily. That did explain a lot. Marshall's arm shifted to wrap around his waist,
and then Marshall's weight was pushing him down into the mattress as he sank inside JC, in one
slow, patient stroke. JC cried out, and let his head fall forward, smothering his face in the pillow.
Marshall fucked cautiously, his thrusts firm but not rushed, giving himself room to increase the
intensity later. It was almost lulling, the rocking motion, the even friction of weight and latex
against his nerve endings. He was letting JC anticipate, giving him a chance to want it just a little
harder and faster than this, but JC wasn't impatient. This was good, too. This was calm, and
luscious, and filling -- fulfilling. "God, yes," he groaned, and he meant it completely. "Yes,
that's good. Good."
The muscles in Marshall's forearm tensed; JC could feel it easily against his stomach. Marshall
raised up on his knees, stretching to fit more closely along the curve of JC's back, and the shifted
angle of Marshall's cock inside him was much better than merely good, or simply fulfilling. JC
shouted on the newly aligned thrust, but the voice seemed sucked out of him, his mouth gone dry
and raw, when Marshall's mouth sealed against his shoulderblade. JC ground up against him
helplessly; held down like this, JC didn't have too many options other than to lie there and take
whatever he was given.
That thought made him shudder.
"Holy shit," Marshall growled, running his mouth over JC's skin and leaving slick streaks of pure
pleasure behind him. "You're so fucking...God, you taste...." His clean, even rhythm was
suffering; he was just slightly off-tempo now.
His arm made a motion that at first JC took for a shiver, but he quickly realized that Marshall was
loosening his grip, sliding it out from under JC and leaving him propped up by nothing at all.
Marshall stopped thrusting altogether, suddenly busy with finding someplace to put his hands. He
settled them both on JC's arms, just above his elbows. "Is that how your boyfriend does it?" he
said, abruptly close to JC's ear. His hands tightened. "Doggie style?"
"What?" JC said, lost. "My-- What?"
"You said you don't do one-night stands. So last time, that other guy -- your boyfriend?"
JC struggled through the fog. He could sort of remember, if the blood would stop pounding in
his ears long enough to let him think. "No, that was -- he was -- a friend." Maybe. Inasmuch as
a guy who would let you go out alone on the streets of Detroit, hammered half out of your mind
and wearing, for God's sake, bronze glitter on your eyes, could really be called a friend. He'd
been pissed off with Lance about that for weeks, even though he'd never fully explained why.
Marshall was holding him down for real now, pinning JC's arms to the mattress over his head.
"Tell me what he does," Marshall ordered, biting at the back of JC's neck. His hips shoved
forward, digging JC's erection painfully against the sheets twisted underneath him. "Tell me who
he is!"
"His name is Joey," JC gasped. Spite, stupidity, catharsis? He didn't know why he said it. He
wished he didn't know why it felt so good to say.
(It wasn't love at first sight, in the technical sense. They'd actually known each other for ages,
and that was part of the problem. In JC's mind, Joey was a kid; they used to watch MTV
together and play foosball. JC was older -- not much older, but he grew up faster -- and even
though they kept in touch, most of it was by mail, and later by e-mail. JC had a little bit of fame,
very young, that left him feeling ancient, and Joey was still a dear, if distant friend, and he seemed
younger than ever. JC was fascinated by his tales of high school life, his steady girlfriend, his
choir competitions. He was almost disappointed when Joey moved to Orlando; he'd hoped that
Joey would keep having a normal life and leave show business alone. But he let Joey stay with
him anyway, until Joey found his own place with some friends from Universal. JC was still living
with Tony, then; it hadn't occurred to him, yet, that he could ever love anybody else. He was still
a lot younger than he thought he was. But a couple of years later, life was completely different in
almost every way, and he hadn't seen Joey in a long time, and when he did, it was just there. It
felt like love at first sight. It felt like JC was looking through his own eyes for the first time. It
was a party, and they danced. They drank in a booth, talked about old times. Their fingers
tangled together under the table, and their eyes begged each other and came up with no answers,
and JC went back to his hotel room and tried to call someone, anyone, who could tell him how to
deal with this. The only person he could reach was Justin, who said, "Dude, isn't that what you
said about Tony, back in the day?" JC didn't know how to explain that this was the kind of
forever that put your whole past into the shade and made every old forever into nothing at
all. "Well, you better get a move on," Justin said. "You got eighteen hours til the wedding." As
though he honestly believed that eighteen hours compared to the lifetime that JC needed. As
though it would be all right to sleep with Joey Fatone on the night before his wedding, but not
the night after. Justin's mind worked in strange ways. But because or in spite of Justin's advice,
JC went back to the club, half hoping that the party had broken up and there would only be
strangers there. Joey was standing outside the club, less than half a block from where the taxi
dropped JC off, smoking a cigarette. JC jogged up to him, his breath as thick in the winter air as
Joey's smoke, and once they were face to face, there was nothing at all to say. Joey dropped the
cigarette, ground it out, and pulled JC around the corner of the building into the shadows, and he
placed his hands on both sides of JC's face and kissed him deeply and slowly. He tasted like tar,
and Captain Morgan, and something tangy, like ketchup. JC was shivering badly, but he wasn't
cold. "I can't," JC said. Can't be with you, can't forget this, can't believe it, can't let it all go
wrong. Joey just held onto him and said, "Josh. Josh." The word inscribed on Joey, he finally
saw, was love.)
"Joey," he repeated, and groaned his relief when Marshall began to move inside him again. This
time calm and cautious was not enough, and the angle was wrong, and it made JC ache and it
made him need more, soon.
"Go on."
JC's fingers twitched, and he gripped the edge of the mattress just for something to cling to.
"Fuck you!"
"Me?" Marshall barked an angry laugh. "I'm not the cheating whore, here."
"Are you mad at me?"
"No! You think I fucking care what you do?"
"No," JC said honestly. He had plenty of people in his life who cared. That was not the lack he'd
come here to fill. "It's just...can't a guy cheat in peace?"
After a brief silence, punctuated by shallow, almost indifferent thrusts, Marshall spoke again, his
voice oddly amused, or -- even more oddly -- approving. "Yeah. Why not?" His hands jerked
roughly at JC, pulling back so that he was on his knees and JC was resting on his thighs, his legs
stretched out around Marshall's. JC turned his head; there was sweat in his eyes and he couldn't
see anything, but he leaned toward a sense of heat and found himself sucking desperately on one
of Marshall's fingers, until Marshall pulled his hand away and settled it tightly on JC's hip. JC put
his elbows underneath him and leaned all his weight forward through his shoulders.
This was what he'd come here for.
JC's muscles began to quiver much too soon; he wished he weren't so lazy about working out,
wished he let Lance badger him into lifting weights more often. His arms were shaking, but now
Marshall was giving him enough and more than enough -- enough to make it feel like flying, like
overflowing his banks, more than enough to slam his head straight into the wall if he couldn't hold
position where he was, pushing back against Marshall instead of letting himself be driven forward.
He caught the edge of a sheet between his fingers and twisted it until his knuckles ached. He
could feel Marshall's breath on his back, and sometimes the careless nudge of his chin as JC's
uncontrolled squirming made his back arch up. This was perfect, he realized, suddenly giddy, his
ears ringing with noises that he thought he might be the one making. This was everything he
needed -- lust without passion, desire without longing, and Marshall's rough hands shoving him
down harder, burying his face in the pillow and stressing his spine.
"Damn, you're-- " Marshall growled, his fingers scrabbling against the smooth, sweaty skin at
JC's hip and sinking hard into the first piece of flesh that would let him, high on JC's waist.
"Damn, too fucking pretty. Crazy. Unfucking-- " He broke off, the pace of his thrusts
staggering inside JC and then picking up again, ferocious now. Desperate now.
He raised up higher on his knees, dragged JC back tighter against him, and JC gave up completely
on holding himself up. He let his arms and shoulders sink down against the mattress, and now
Marshall had gravity on his side, fucking not just forward but down into JC, sending explosions
going in JC's skull that rained sparks out to every other part of his body. A person could get hurt
like this, right? Surely this was too much, surely people didn't recover from things like this,
weren't built for it, however good -- goddamn great -- it felt. There was only so much a
person could really take...right?
But of course, JC had been taking too much for years now. Too many men he couldn't stay away
from, too many hoarse, whispered confessions of love that never really seemed to count for
anything, too much on him and in him, and he'd never been the one who broke, or broke it off.
Only the one who took it, and went for it. I didn't think you'd go for this. Fuck, JC went for it
every single goddamn time.
Joey liked to fuck him spooned up behind JC, laugh in his ear and use his big, warm hand deftly
on JC's cock. Joey liked to tell him that they'd be together, someday, at a better time. Lance
liked to fuck JC lying flat on his back, letting JC straddle him and do all the work, his cruel and
graceful fingers scoring lightly down JC's chest and pulling at his nipples. Lance liked to call him
sweet and wonderful and special and good, when deep down they both knew that wicked and
easy and hazardous to your health was really Lance's type. Justin, yeah, Justin liked to fuck him
standing up, spontaneous and sloppy, and he knew JC's body maybe better than anyone, and he
made JC come harder than anyone. Justin liked to think he was in love with JC, which was
insane, because Justin didn't know the first thing about love, and somehow JC doubted he ever
would.
It was all wrong; all of them were too much and they asked too much from him, and JC never said
no, in fact something about their restless angst was addictive, and JC had this habit of asking them
to bring it on, to stack it on top of him. He coped, he accommodated, and he forgave them when
no one else would. Joey, Lance, Justin -- the win, place, and show of his love life. If love was
what you called it. If life was what you called it.
But the man who was driving him out of his mind now, filling him up and making him scream,
adding a new burn-mark to the inside of JC's skin every time his cock switched rhythms inside
him, this man was not likely to bother JC with his secrets and fears, and he wasn't even a little bit
likely to look at JC with mute, needy eyes and make JC promise, yet again, to figure out how to
make things better without assigning any blame. Marshall was the kind of person it was okay
to blame, for being a hypocrite, a liar, for using people, for building himself up at the world's
expense. Not too different from anyone else JC knew -- but at least he wasn't asking JC to smile
and stroke his face and put up with it.
"I'm sick of being the tolerant one," JC growled, only half-aware that he was speaking aloud.
"Yeah," Marshall said vaguely. "Me, too."
And that was funny. I mean, there was no way that wasn't funny. JC began to shake, began to
laugh, and he could feel Marshall chuckle, his chest battering lightly against JC's back. JC was
still laughing, and screaming, when Marshall gave him another handful of hard, rabbit-fast thrusts
and came inside of him, his fingers curling violently into JC's stomach and into the center of his
chest.
He almost had his laughing jag under control when Marshall pulled out of him, and JC rolled
bonelessly onto his back, neck and legs aching as he stretched them out. He met Marshall's eyes,
and saw a comfortingly impersonal kind of satisfaction there. Marshall snorted slightly and shook
his head, as if to say he couldn't be responsible for whatever loopy thing was going on inside JC's
brain, and JC slid his hand down his stomach to finish himself off while Marshall got rid of the
condom.
("I'm totally in love with him!" Justin declared, making a grand gesture with both his arms,
spattering JC's silk pants with whatever Justin was drinking. Something red. "Jace, you gotta
help me out."
"I'm trying," JC said mildly, dabbing at the dark spot. "You're not listening to me."
"You call that helping? Leave him alone, that's your idea of helping?"
"That's my idea of helping," Lance said dryly, and Justin made a silence! gesture in his
direction without looking at him. Lance just shook his head and lit another joint with his silver
antique lighter.
"No, no, no. He's so cool, he's got the sexiest eyes, I love him. Jace, come on. Tell me
everything you know about him, yeah?"
He blinked and looked down at Justin, who was suddenly face-up in JC's lap, blinking upside-
down at him with half-stricken, half-enraptured eyes. An excellently lovelorn look. A stranger
would totally buy it. "I know that he's Joey's friend," JC said firmly, "and I know that he's
straight. How is that not helpful? That's very helpful information."
"It is totally not. Lance, you tell him."
"Tell him what?" Lance said suspiciously, breathing out a thin stream of smoke and leaning over
on his side. "Fuck, Justin. In a world full of people who want to fuck you, you have to chase the
seven who don't."
Justin flashed a brief smile, a familiar smile that meant you're right and who cares? He
crooked a finger in Lance's direction. "Come here. Shotgun me."
Suddenly, JC had additional weight in his lap, Lance's forearms braced against his foot as he
levered down to press his mouth against Justin's and breathe into his lungs. JC had smoked
enough that the sight of Lance crawling across the carpet on Justin's orders didn't have any sting
to it. He thought they looked pretty, that was all -- Lance's spiky hair, Justin's curly hair at a
right angle. They made damp and breathy noises as they separated, and JC could see a flash of
tongues.
"The thing is, JC, my dearest, most fantastic friend," Justin drawled, "the thing is that any man,
no matter who he is or how straight or whatever, will fuck another man under the right
circumstances. Tell him, Lance," he ordered, flinging his arm out in the general direction of
Lance, who was kneeling attentively, right in front of JC's, but avoiding JC's eyes.
"Could be," Lance said.
Justin looked up at JC, innocent eyes, moist lips. He looked misused, deflowered. "Lance is
being mean to me. Lance is not feeling the love this evening. This was actually Lance's theory
first, so he should be backing me up on it. Which he would, if he weren't pissed off that I'm in
love with other boys."
"I think Lance can deal with that by now," JC said dryly. Of course, it wasn't true; it never
seemed to hurt Lance any less. But Justin didn't need to be told that.
"Straight boys," Justin gloated, closing his eyes. "Dirty, guilty straight-boy sex."
"You're forgetting the second half of my theory," Lance said darkly. Justin opened his eyes, and
watched Lance pass the joint to JC, still not looking at JC's eyes. "Any man will go to bed with
another man, given the right circumstances, but watch out for how they wake up in the
morning.")
He'd no sooner touched his own dick than Marshall gripped his wrist hard, pushed his hand away.
JC's heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach and quivered there, and for a moment he had a
flash of those dark cars sitting in the parking lot, of the possibility of getting hurt this way, which
had been sexy once, but now seemed...not so sexy.
But in spite of the dark scowl on Marshall's face, not at all the kind of relaxed, post-coital look
that JC usually saw, Marshall didn't do anything to him except paint a line of lube down the
center of JC's palm and up his fingers. "Thanks," JC mumbled, and reached down again.
Marshall settled onto his side next to JC, and his hand followed JC's, draped lightly across the
back of it. Hesitantly, JC took hold of himself, trying to watch Marshall out of the corner of his
eye, but it was no use. The touch felt too good, and JC closed his eyes, chewing intently on his
lower lip. He spiraled his palm slowly around and up the length of his aching cock, and the heat
from Marshall's palm hovered just over JC's hand, close enough that JC's knuckles brushed
Marshall's fingers.
"Oh, God," JC whispered, low-grade terror and elation humming in his throat, jerking himself off
desperately while Marshall's hand coiled around his and Marshall's rough, hot breath hit his cheek
in spikes. He didn't think they should be touching now. He didn't think this was right, although
it felt raw and mysterious and good, the way Marshall was riding this along with him, silently. It
complicated things, and while JC was used to things being complicated, it wasn't himself he was
worried about. He was ready to put on his pants and go, ready to make room for Marshall to
back away and tell himself whatever he needed to believe about the reasons he'd done this at all.
He expected Marshall to have a script. Everyone did.
He hadn't expected for this to be the script.
JC choked when he came, ground his teeth together and breathed in when his body wanted to sigh
itself out, and the twisted-up breath grabbed him and tried to kill him. He opened his eyes slowly,
and only then did Marshall let his hand slide off of JC's and roll onto his back so that they were
lying shoulder-against-shoulder, looking at the ceiling. JC swallowed several times, counted off
his breaths until he knew they were coming in an orderly fashion. "I should go," he said.
Marshall rolled away, facing the wall. "Car's still downstairs. You can get a ride wherever you
want to go."
JC gave a creaky laugh as he sat up. "I live in Florida. Is that a problem?" Marshall's shoulders
twitched slightly, and he grunted, acknowledging it as a joke.
He slid into his underwear, and then into his pants. The suede seemed noisy, gliding over his skin
and rustling against itself with a woodsy sound. The zipper seemed incredibly noisy. When JC
looked back over his shoulder, Marshall was still facing away. This was the script, then. Pretend
that Joshua never existed, starting now. Well, okay. This was what JC knew was coming. It's
not like this man was -- completely a stranger to him, or to anyone else.
"I really do have all weekend free," JC heard himself say.
Marshall rolled back slightly, just enough for JC to see the edge of his profile. He didn't say
anything.
They'd never find the body, JC reminded himself wryly, but he was moving forward anyway,
his knee making a velvet noise as it slid over the sheets. "You're gonna wake up in the morning
and you're gonna want to do this again."
Marshall stiffened. JC froze. Not, in retrospect, the very best thing to say. JC reached out and
smoothed a finger over the tattoo on his arm. "You can pay me, if you want," he said lightly.
When Marshall didn't object, JC slid into bed behind him, stretching out against the flushed, damp
skin of Marshall's back.
"What are you doing?" he asked, angrily, plaintively.
"Don't worry," JC murmured, feathering Marshall's ear with his breath. "I really never liked you,
and I'm not starting."
"Well...good." His voice was amused, if a little dubious. "I'm not going to be your fucking
boyfriend."
"Romance is a whole hell of a lot of work. I just thought a weekend off from it could be.... You
know."
Marshall grunted. He didn't move as JC hooked an arm over him, his elbow bent and his hand
cupping Marshall's shoulder carefully. "I'm not paying you."
"Buy me breakfast?"
"I think there is something seriously wrong with you, Joshua."
He smiled, letting Marshall feel the arc of his grin against Marshall's shoulder. In the afterglow,
JC got a lot of you're wonderful, and what would I do without you, and God, you're good
at that, and a shocking lot of I love you, JC. He didn't get much you're totally fucked up.
"You're paying attention," he said, his voice warm and wondering, and Marshall evidently found
that he had no reply to that at all.