Isosceles "Shut up, Chris," JC says, and Justin's outside the door and can't stop listening, "no, really. Shutup, it wasn't. It was good. When did you last get laid?"
And Chris laughs and there's the sound of someone hitting someone else's shoulder, and Justin can see the scene in front of his eyes: Chris loves ragging on people for stuff like that, and when he does it to JC, JC always giggles helplessly and blushes, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.
"But Nick Carter? He's such a brat, man. Boy Wonder," Chris says, and someone else, Lance, of course, mutters, "like we don't have enough of that already."
Justin decides to stop listening, then. He doesn't need to hear this. Then JC mumbles something, and Justin doesn't move away from the door, after all.
"You're making even less sense than usual, dude," Chris says, and JC says,
"I said it's not, um. It's not the same thing at all," and his voice is a little lower than usual, Justin thinks, maybe a little deeper and with a strange timbre to it. Like, maybe satisfaction.
"So, how good was it? He rock your world, baby?" Chris says, and Justin thinks, shutupshutupshutup, but Chris has never known when to shut up, especially not when he's drunk. "He fuck you 'til your eyeballs bled?"
"I'm not gonna tell you, that would be-- that'd be, like," JC says, but then he adds, "heh. Yeah."
There are hoots and someone whistles, and then Joey's voice rings out over the racket, "Infant! Where's the beeeeer!"
He's still holding the sixpack he picked up. He puts the cans down on the floor and yells, "I'm going home!" and escapes to his car and his own home where he can't listen in on any conversations.
It's not something he thinks about all the time. Just a lot of the time, because it's annoying to be rejected, especially by someone like JC, who can't string a coherent sentence together and still refers to people as 'cats'. He couldn't even articulate the rejection. He pushed Justin back with hands that shook a little and mumbled, "It's weird, it's just too weird," like that explained anything. Justin had his hands on both sides of JC's head, and he could still feel JC's mouth on his. JC had kissed him back. For five seconds. "You're like, my. My. It'd be weird, man."
It made no sense, and Justin tried to explain that, but JC's the world's most stubborn guy and he just shook his head dumbly and backed away. And things are different between them now. JC pretends it's not, but Justin can feel it.
And now JC's fucked Nick Carter, who's big and a little clumsy, and totally can't string a coherent sentence together either.
Justin sits on his bed and wishes he'd taken the damn sixpack back with him. The last thing he wants is to be sober while he's picturing Nick Carter naked, and now he has no beer, but Nick is naked and fucking JC in his head, and nothing to be done about it.
He lies back and tries hard to turn his thoughts into something more like a fantasy, one starring JC and himself, but Nick's tenacious, stuck in his frontal lobe like a big, smirking phantom.
JC's hot, though, JC's always been hot, even when they were in the Mouse Club and JC was Justin's dorky older friend, the only older friend Justin had that he wasn't entirely in awe of, because JC wouldn't know cool if it hit him over the head with a two-by-four.
JC's hot, and Justin thinks they'd be hot together. He's been jerking off a lot since JC told him it'd be too weird, and it's not weird to him, only right now it's plenty weird, because Nick keeps butting into the fantasy. Nick's big and awkward, he's always thought, but if he could rock JC's world--
"I am not jealous of Nick Carter," Justin says out loud, but he's thinking about JC pushed down underneath Nick's body, and Nick's big hands gripping JC's wiry arms.
It was his mother's idea to have a barbecue, and it was just too late to call it off, even though Nick - and just about everyone else in the world, it seems - was invited. So Justin plays host and smiles at Nick and points him to the food and doesn't curse out loud when Nick leans over JC and says something that makes JC laugh.
It's entirely possible that he has too much to drink, but what's a man to do? He feels stupid, because he's jealous of Nick Carter, and he feels even more stupid because Nick is talking to JC like nothing's happened, when after Justin kissed JC they can't even be in the same room without killing the conversation.
He stops for a second and looks around, and he doesn't know half these people; friends of friends of friends, business people, the other guys' business acquaintances. Why's he having this thing, anyway?
"Nice party, Justin," JC says next to him, and he drops his beer on the lawn. It foams and sparkles on the perfectly mowed grass. "Sorry," JC says.
"Whatever," Justin says. He can't think of anything else to say, since he can't say "Why did you fuck Nick Carter instead of me?" That would be a bad move.
He sees Nick disappear into the house. Justin's house, and there's no way Nick Carter is going to be snooping around Justin's stuff without Justin present, so he says, "Got stuff to do," and leaves JC standing by the drying pool of beer.
Outside was simmering and hot, but inside is cool and white and clean and empty. Nick stands in the middle of the entrance hall, on the shiny marble floor. He turns when Justin comes in, and he's smirking, of course.
"That's a lot of marble, Timberlake," Nick says. "Very ... R. Kelly."
"Thanks," Justin says, even though he knows Nick didn't mean that as a compliment.
"Wanna show me around?"
Fuck, no, Justin thinks, but he says, "Sure."
He really has had a lot of beer, he notices when he walks up the stairs and it seems like the steps are avoiding his feet. He staggers, just once, and Nick grabs his elbow and says, "whoah, watch it."
Justin jerks his arm back and squints at the steps and walks the rest of it without mishap. "The bedrooms are up here," he mutters and waves his hand.
"How many?" Nick says, as if he's really interested, which he's probably not. He's looking at Justin rather than the house, and Justin suddenly wants to ask him how he got JC to sleep with him, if he just stared at him like that until JC lay down on the floor and spread his legs.
"Six," he says and walks on and ignores the beer buzz singing in his ears and the unbidden image of JC face-down on the floor and Nick licking his neck and pushing his legs further apart with his knee.
In the hall outside the bedrooms, he bumps into Nick for no reason, and there's Nick's hand again on his elbow, and he's not entirely sure who made the decision, or why, but it feels a lot like he just blinks and the world shifts, and then he's already pushed Nick against the wall. There's a second of what the FUCK?! when he just stays there with his hands on Nick's shoulders, before Nick has time to wipe the surprise off his face, and then Nick moves, a lot faster than Justin thought he could, and then Justin's with his back against the wall, his own damn wall, in fact, and there's just no way--
Nick kisses him, and Justin kisses him back for seconds, minutes, hours before it even occurs to him to push Nick away.
"What the fuck!" he snaps into Nick's face, but Nick is grinning and his mouth is wet and maybe Justin can see, just a hint, a little hint, of why JC would go for this.
"You started," Nick says innocently. "Wanna finish it?"
"This is the master bedroom," Justin says and nods at the door. His tongue feels a little slow and he really is drunk, that's a good excuse, I was really wasted, man, so I said, sure thing, and he says, "Okay," and pushes the door open.
It's all a little unclear in his head, how he ended up here, why he's here, in his own bedroom, with Nick's hands on his shoulders, pushing him down, and why his knees buckle so easily when he should be telling Nick to fuck off. His bedroom is white and cool and clean like the rest of his house, and the carpet is soft under his knees. He's never been on his knees in this room before. He's thought about doing it, sucking JC off here; he's thought about sucking JC's cock in every room of his house, and every room of JC's house, a lot of other rooms, too, but here he is, sucking Nick Carter's cock. Doing a good job, too, he thinks. Of course he's doing a good job; never let it be said that Justin Timberlake gives lousy head. Nick leans against the wall and his hands skid over Justin's head, not finding anything to tug on, but Justin is sure that Nick would yank at his hair if there were curls there still, and the thought isn't as disgusting as it should be. He even regrets it a little, shaving it off. Nick has big hands, though, and he cups the back of Justin's head instead and it's the next best thing.
"Fuck!" Nick says, a little choked, and bucks his hips hard, rudely, and comes.
Justin leans back on his heels and wipes his mouth, and Nick looks down at him with a lazy grin that still manages to look like a damn smirk, and says, "So, if I fuck Chris, too, do I get a rimjob?"
Justin swallows with a gulp and shoots to his feet and punches Nick in the face.
He figures he'll get hit back, because that's what usually happens if you hit someone like that, hard and aimed right at the jaw, and Nick falls back against the wall, but he doesn't take a swing, just rubs his jaw, wipes his split lip and says, "I guess not."
"Fuck you," Justin says, because that's all his beer-drenched brain will come up with in the way of insults. It doesn't have much effect.
"Sure," Nick says, gently, and Justin's fist itches where it doesn't smart, itches to rearrange Nick's soft, pretty face and especially Nick's soft, pretty mouth with its hard, nasty smirk.
Then Nick pulls him in, fearlessly even though Justin's sure he's scowling like a madman, and kisses him, just a teeny bit gingerly, and Justin tastes metal. Nick slips a hand down between them, and Justin's anger loses momentum and scatters on a breeze of beer and heat that zings little arrows into his groin. He's lost control of the situation again, he figures, because he can't stop his hips from shimmying against Nick's hand, or his hands from skittering over Nick's shoulders and chest, or his tongue from sliding into Nick's mouth, too eagerly. Oh, well, but I'm really drunk, he thinks. And maybe JC knew what he was talking about.
He tries to think about JC when Nick pushes him down on the bed - his bed, his big, soft, white bed that smells of fresh laundry because the maid changed all the sheets this morning. JC pushed into the white feather cloud of Justin's bed, and no Nick Carter anywhere, but Justin on top instead, JC looking up at him with his eyes crinkled in a smile.
Then Nick pushes Justin's teeshirt over his head, and he is a lot bigger than JC, bigger and softer everywhere, because JC is small-boned and wiry and sleek, and Nick is a big lumbering giant next to him, bigger than Justin and heavier. Maybe not stronger than Justin, because he probably doesn't work out, ha! most certainly does not work out like Justin does, but strong, anyway. And he is pushing Justin's legs apart with his knee, and Justin fights it until Nick strokes his chest, his nipples, and down, and then his legs just slide apart all on their own.
Right, so beer makes me horny, whatever, Justin thinks and arches his back a little when Nick unbuttons his fly.
"I guess you're all bottom boys, then," Nick says absently and slips his hand into Justin's jeans.
"We're-- not," Justin grits between clenched teeth, but he feels a little stupid, cause who's got his legs spread like he can't wait to get some of that?
"JC wasn't as whiny about it, though," Nick says, and Justin stops himself from saying fuck you again, since that would just be repetitive and maybe counterproductive, and says,
"Would you shut up about JC," and Nick laughs and squeezes his cock, just fucking deliciously, but he does shut up after that.
A little later, when he's got his face pressed into the cool, white, clean pillow and he's sweating and can't stop squirming because the sheets are cool and clean and aren't giving him enough friction and Nick's rough but not quite rough enough, it occurs to him that he'd been so sure that JC would be the first person to fuck him that he forgot that it hadn't happened yet.
He's never going to tell Nick that this was the first time. Not even if it's good, good and hot and dirty, even though he's pretty sure he's going to beg if Nick doesn't move, like, immediately, right this second. He's not surprised that he likes it. JC said Nick was good. Nick is good.
Nick pulls him up by the arcs of his hipbone, fingers digging deep into the muscle, grinding against the bone, and Justin follows and he's happy about the pillow, that he can muffle any begging and moaning in its fluffy whiteness, because he's ready, so ready now, and there's just that little sharp pinprick of regret that it's not JC, and then Nick grabs his cock, soft palm and rough calluses on the fingertips, and Justin comes all over his white, clean sheets.
It takes three, four, five more thrusts before Nick comes, and it's almost too much, a hint of pain, but it feels like it's the orgasm that just went on and crossed over into some sort of full-body hypersensitivity, and the sheets don't feel cool or clean anymore, but rough and dirty and blood-warm, and Nick's hot and sweaty and heavy on his back, and his head isn't feeling the beer anymore, but he's not sober, either.
Nick breathes damp heat on his neck. Justin lies still and concentrates on catching his breath. He wouldn't know what to say, anyway.
Then he remembers where he is, what's going on, and that gives him the energy to roll over, pushing Nick off his back. "I have a party to host," he says, and feels just a little smug that his voice doesn't break or sound more breathless.
"Hope you can still walk," Nick says, but he doesn't sound as obnoxious as he could. Just lazy and sated and bedroom-husky.
Justin doesn't dignify that with an answer, and he gets up without wincing. The bed is a sweat-and-spunk-soaked mess now, and Concha will look at him with her sharp peppercorn eyes and raise her eyebrows and mutter to herself in Spanish when she changes them.
He thinks he can still get the last word, though, so he pulls his clothes back on quickly - but not too quickly, of course - and says, "Well, that was nice. I'll see you around," and leaves Nick sitting on the messy bed.
He can't go back out immediately, though, because he's breathing a little too quickly and his legs feel like they'd rather not carry him, and now that no one's watching him with piercing eyes, he is wincing.
He ducks into the hall on the other side of the staircase, and of course JC's standing there, looking lost in his usual JC way.
"Oh, hey," JC says and smiles a quick smile. "I was just gonna, um. What have you--"
He breaks off, and Justin is sure he can see the exact moment when a light goes on in JC's fuzzy brain. For some reason, it annoys him to see JC grin knowingly. It annoys him, hell, it makes him absolutely raving furious, and he's already punched Nick today - his knuckles still feel a little raw - but he really has to clamp down on the urge to make JC number two. Instead he grabs JC's arms and shakes him, hard. His arms are thinner and harder than Nick's. Justin shakes him and JC says, in little gasps between rattling teeth, "Wh-- what-- what are you--"
Justin lets him go, because it's not making him feel better; in fact, he feels a little like he might cry, and that would just be too much for one day, that. So he doesn't cry, and he doesn't ask JC why he slept with Nick Carter. He doesn't even tell JC that he slept with Nick, too.
JC rubs his arms for a while. Maybe he's sore. Maybe he'll have bruises from Justin's fingers. Justin stares at JC's hands rubbing JC's thin, hard arms.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, and JC hugs him. He rests his head on JC's shoulder and JC strokes his head. He's pretty sure JC has no idea what he's sorry about. |
