Earlier, Lance had spiked his hair up, pulled on a jacket of Joey's that made him look way older and slapped him on the shoulder on his way out. "Don't stay up!" and it was all Justin could do not to slam the fucking hotel door after him.

Sixteen. He's old enough to take a drag on the joints JC passes round, though he still can't figure out where he gets them from. He read somewhere that Holland has cafes you can buy grass in, and Europe's weird like that. Paris has royale with cheese and Germany has beer in giant jugs and Justin's not allowed to drink. Not while his mom's around, or the tour manager.

No drinking, no smoking, no girls because it's a new city every night, and his mom's in the next room. Even Chris is careful around her, but Justin's just turned sixteen and he's been on stage all evening. Girls screaming. Some hall with lousy lights but a good sound system, his name with a pink heart round it, held up on cardboard, and maybe he's signing "mit lieber, Justin" but they're girls, girls, girls.

He sighs and stretches out on the bed. Door's locked and there was that girl in the spangly top. Jumping up and down, all curves and glossy lips.

The girl blurs and he's left feeling stupid with his hand down his pants, wishing desperately that he was sharing a room with Chris. Maybe then his mom wouldn't check the pay-per-view bill. Lance says grace before meals and comes back at 4 a.m., sweaty and smelling of sex. Sex, the way Justin imagines it is. Perfume and beer and something else. Salt and sharp and sweet, all the flavours he can taste but can't name.

Once, Lance was so drunk, he stumbled into Justin's bed instead of his own, and fell asleep. Justin tells himself, as he lies on the bed with his hand in his boxers, stroking, that he didn't want to wake Lance. He was too sleepy to change beds.

Not too tired to turn around and bury his face against Lance's neck. Breathe deep and Lance had gotten laid. He'd already known when the door clicked open quietly. Lance calling his name softly, gliding in. The swing of his hips.

Lance had stirred and flung an arm back around him. Justin unfroze after a while and touched him lightly. The nape of his neck where his bleached hair was babyfine. Lance didn't move, not even when Justin was threading his hand through his hair, stroking the side of his face. Not when Justin leant close and licked his neck, licked the salt and sex and wanted to bite.

He pushes down his boxers, head turned to the bedspread, eyes closed and for a moment, he can smell Lance again, imagine that it's dark, that he's not alone, that any moment now, Lance's hands will reach out to him. He keeps his eyes shut, runs his own hand up his belly, over his chest, slick fingers spread, a cool evaporating trail on his skin. One hand at his shoulder, as if he might be turned over by someone, pulled close to them.

Slip and slide of his hand, raising his hips, and the whole world becomes this: satin soft shush of the bedspread unerneath, the rhythm as he shifts back and forth, heat and wet and one hand down to his thighs, the way he imagines it might be, pushing him apart, fingertips brushing the curve where thighs meet, where soft turns hard and -

Someone knocks on the door. "Justin?"

He's halfway to the door in a panic, when he realizes his dick's still waving around in the cold air. "Hang on!" he calls, and tucks himself back in, pulls on the nearest sweater. It's way too big for him, and as he swings the door open, sees all the guys looking at him, he realizes the sweater is Lance's.

And his hands are still wet.

Chris raises an eyebrow. Lance and JC have their arms wrapped around each other because Lance is too blitzed to stand straight, and they're laughing. Joey's not even looking at him, but keeps ducking back from the doorway to wave at someone down the corridor.

Justin wishes he was taller. Older. He's blushing and he folds his arms, shoves his hands under, and scowls back at them. "What?" he snaps.

"We're gonna watch a movie in my room. You wanna join us?" Chris says mildly.

The back of Justin's neck prickles, but he forgets to be suspicious when Lance slumps across Chris' back, one clumsy arm reaching out and running down the sweater. "S'mine," Lance says. "Looks good, Ju. Pretty." He smiles sweetly and Justin shivers.

"Okay," he says and Chris leans in and yanks him out of his room. No shoes, but the hotel's carpeted and Chris' room is just down the hall. Chris is right up behind him. One arm around him, as if Justin could lean back and rest his head on him.

They're at the door and Justin's feeling better. Wasted night, but Chris and Joey do the MST3K with the films, and maybe they'll switch to the porn channel later when they think he's asleep. No concert tomorrow, his mom's spending the day shopping and Justin gets to sleep in. Maybe he can raid their mini bar, have a beer. Cool, he thinks.

Then Chris leans past him to slot the keycard in, and his arm snakes round Justin's side, under the borrowed sweatshirt and that's Chris' tongue on the back of his ear, the cold heat licking up and down the curl of his ear, that's Chris. Chris who slides the keycard out and whispers, "You're still hard, you smell like Lance, have you ever had a blowjob?" and keeps talking while his hands cup Justin's hips, palms against the jut of bones there, rubbing small circles as Chris licks his ear, sucks the lobe, the denim of his jeans pressing against the thin cotton of Justin's boxers.

Joey shoves past them, pushes the door open. Chris' hotel room. First thing Justin notices is that it's tidy. Clothes shoved out of the way, CDs stacked up on a side table and the bed is made.

With a woman standing in the middle, wearing a little bit of black lace here, a little bit there, and lots of long dark hair. Red lipstick and he can see her nipples through her bra, the little curls escaping the side of her g-string.

"Ta-dah!" Joey says, and the woman smiles. "Happy birthday, Justin."

Lance and JC tumble past them, still laughing, still clutching at each other, and Joey leans against the open door, smirking. "Gonna unwrap her, Just?"

"Go on ahead," Chris murmurs in his ear, hot and wet, then pushes him forward, Chris' hands slipping out, snapping the elastic of Justin's boxers. He steps into the room and hears the door shut. The lights flicker then dim. Chris crosses the room, turns the stereo on. The woman starts to sway to the sound. For a long, crazy moment, Justin thinks they'll all start dancing, in step. Do a routine, break into a capella harmony.

Joey stands in front of him. He can still see the woman over his shoulder. She's dancing with Chris now, both of them smiling and her hair swings when he spins her around. Chris laughs and his face lights up.

"Okay, she'll stay the night if you want. Chris can crash in my room. She's clean, but make sure you use these," and Joey takes his unresisting hand, folds his fingers over a pack of Durex. "Her name's Kirsten, she's real nice, okay? Justin?"

Justin nods slowly. His mouth is dry. He looks at Joey and tries not to faint. The hand around his squeezes briefly. "Hey, it'll be good," Joey says. "Really good. Better than a minidisc player, huh?"

Joey'd mixed a disc to go with his present. JC was the only one who'd wrapped his gift, gone bright red when he realized his was the one with the giant bow and the teddybear card, but it was cool. Cake and a bottle of champagne and his mom had started crying when they took photos. The guys singing Happy Birthday, and telling him all the things he could do now he was sorta legal.

Like this.

Joey looks into his eyes and Justin relaxes, sure his complete and utter panic is gonna show, that they'll call this all off, he doesn't even know how to put a condom on, for fuck's sake. Then Joey nods, approval on his face, ruffles his curls and hollers, "Let's give him some privacy, guys!"

They walk out as a group, leaving Justin alone. He clenches his fists and the corners of the condom packet bite into his palm. He can't move.

The woman, the Kirsten woman, walks towards him. Slowly, like he'll startle. She's still swaying a little to the song. Marvin Gaye now, and he's grateful it's not Like a Virgin.

She's got long legs and when she walks, her breasts bounce a little, just enough that Justin wants to touch them, cup them. Then she's right up next to him, and her nipples are dark rose, the lace swirling across them, and he wants to see what they feel like. Adult breasts. Not the girls he's kissed, in cars and behind soundstages, kissed and wondered if he was doing it right, if he could slip his hand up their shirts, touch the white bras with the tiny ribbons at the center.

She smiles and her teeth are model perfect. She's pretty, not spectacularly gorgeous because her nose is a little crooked and there are tiny crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, freckles on her cheeks. But she shakes her hair back, and Justin thinks she's beautiful.

"Kir -" He clears his throat. "Uh, Kirsten." She crooks her head to the side, expectantly and Justin freezes. Lance's sweater's slid off one shoulder and the tag's irritating his back, he's got a hard on and a headache, and he has absolutely no fucking idea what to do.

Kirsten takes his hands. Long cool fingers, and she tosses the condoms onto the bed behind them, lifts Justin's sweaty hands and puts them on her shoulders. Red nail polish and her hands are just a little smaller than his. Soft, soft skin. Down, and she spreads his fingers, pushes the straps off. The lace curls slightly, the aureoles of her breasts revealed, and when she slips his fingers into the cups, guides his thumb across her nipples, he can move again.

They're heavier than he expected, heavy and soft. He expected them to be taut and firm, but he likes this better. No silicone, no padding, and when he lifts them up, fascinated, they squish, they smell of roses and taste of everything good. Kirsten's hand at the back of his head, nails scratching lightly at the nape and his scalp, leading him down. His mouth fits and he wants to lick her all over, to be just here, around this perfect tight nipple, tracing the whorls with his tongue. With his head pressed against her ribs, he can hear her heartbeat.

"Justin, come to the bed, come on," she says at last. She's breathing a little faster, but Justin can barely walk, he's so hard. She reaches around her back, unsnaps her bra and there are narrow red lines where it was, but when she lies down, hair spread out on the pillow, her breasts flatten, all curves of waist and hips and still gleaming where he licked. He climbs onto the bed beside her, puts out a hand hesitantly and strokes her. Runs a finger down the valley of her breasts, the curve of her ribs, the swell of her stomach. She has hollows near her hips, where the lace creates shadows, and he slides his hand underneath the straps, brushes his fingertips against the curls.

"That feels good," she whispers. "You can do anything you like, Justin."

She has a slight German accent, and maybe it's that, the foreignness. The way she looks like a friend of his mother's, one of the women in suits at the record companies.

"How much are they paying you?" he blurts.

She smiles at him, arches her back a little so his hand slips further south. "Don't worry about that, honey. I'm gonna give you a good time."

He wants to touch her. He pulls his hand out and looks up. There's a mirror opposite, the dressing table dragged across the room so the bed shows, a long white rectangle with the woman, a dark curve against it. Justin's hand is hovering over her, and in the mirror, he can see himself clearly. His hair's messed up and he looks like a kid, wearing a sweater that's too big, no make-up so he looks pale and tired.

He snatches his hand back, stands up. The mirror cuts him off, just scrawny legs and the woman half-risen, creamy skin and expensively-cut hair.

"Justin?" she says. They must've told her his name, called an escort agency and asked for someone, someone nice who would do this. He really, badly, wants to know how much she cost. How much they paid. More than a minidisc player? A concert ticket?

"Hey, hey," the woman - Kirsten, he reminds himself. Kirsten. She has a name - catches his hand. "Hey," she says and tugs him towards her.

"It's okay," she says. "We can just talk for a while, Justin. Get to know each other." Her voice is a low, throaty murmur and while she speaks, her index finger traces a circle on his palm. Goosebumps up his arm and he shivers. He wants to melt back down on the bed, melt against her. He's grown gawky this year, legs too long and now he knows they're long enough to slide down this woman, bring them groin to groin.

She tilts her head back so her hair falls over her shoulders. It's a beautiful move, practised and expert. Justin takes a step back, rubs his hands against his thighs. "I'm sorry," he manages as he half-runs to the door.

The door shuts with a soft swish and he winces in the bright corridor lights. Miles of subdued carpet with that special acid pattern all hotels have. Beige wallpaper and flash-frozen flowers. For a moment, Justin can't remember which hotel they're in.

He didn't bring his cardkey with him, so he's going to have to go to Joey's room. Knock on the door, wait for one of them to let him in. Then his mind kinda gives up on what happens next. Lie, tell the truth. Grab the key and run. Right now, he's thinking a quiet laundry closet somewhere.

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders like he was taught to do - go on stage, big smile, kids, look happy - and turns down the corridor.

Chris is there.

Leaning against the wall just outside the door. He's smoking, cupping the cigarette inside his hand after he takes a drag, the way he taught Justin to do on the bus. He straightens up when Justin sees him. Says nothing, but crosses the hall to stub out his cigarette in an ashtray hidden underneath some jungle trapped in a vase.

Then he crosses back to stand in front of him. Studying him. Rolls back on his heels for a moment, still watching him, not saying anything.

Justin folds his arms like he's cold or angry. Doesn't even try outstaring Chris, but concentrates on not crying. If this was the States, he'd be at a movie, he thinks. Dating someone, high school even. Mickey Mouse ears and girls who sound like him.

Everything tangles, the colours all run and he's got so much to say, he can't speak. He wants one clear thing to be angry at. For Chris to say something smart and cruel, to wipe out all the hot humiliation, the low throb of desire. His jaw aches from clenching it, his nails dig into his palms.

"I'm not, I'm not like that," he says.

Chris doesn't say anything. The silent corridor echoes with Justin's unsaid words. Virgin, john. Straight. Interested. Ready.

"I'm not. I can't. Chris, I can't," he whispers and his throat is choked, his eyes stinging. When Chris leans forward and wraps his arms round him, Justin can't fold. Can't let go of all the trembling panic that makes his legs shake and his head hot and his breath come in short harsh gasps.

But Chris just hangs on like Justin's some damn tree, and he's hugging it, resting his head against Justin's shoulder - he's taller now, with shoulders getting wider every week it seems, new shirts and new costumes, and Chris can rest his head there, his hands tight on Justin's back, just hugging him. He doesn't have to do anything but stand there, rooted to the ground, and that's enough. That's enough for Chris.

When he does bend, it's easy for Chris to bring him down, soft pats on the beck of his head, fingers through his curls, smoothing him out. "Hey, hey," Chris says and his voice is almost higher than Kirsten's smokey drawl. "Hey, Jay," Chris says, and he can hear the smile in Chris' voice when he starts singing. "Hey, Jay, hey, hey".

His neck's stiff, but he doesn't want to let go, step back and be awkward again. So with his face pressed into Chris' shoulder and asks, "How old were you?" He keeps his eyes closed for the answer.

The pats slow down a bit, then Chris drops his hand, rubs giant circles on Justin's back. "Fourteen," he says. "Backseat of her brother's car. It's okay, Ju. We just thought -"

"I want to," he says, desperately. "I want to. But I don't, I don't know her."

Chris leans his head against Justin's, not pressing down, just so that if Justin lifted his, they'd be cheek-to-cheek. He rocks a little, back and forth on his feet, a steady lull that holds them together. "That's cool. When we get back home, you can start dating, huh? That'll be cool." Against the frantic shaking of Justin's head, Chris starts to ramble. "One of them Minnie Mice, maybe? Lance says he's got some hot cousins, maybe one of the girls here, I can talk to Lou, get you some time off. No rush, kiddo, there's no hurry."

When he lifts his head finally, there's a second of knowing what he looks like, what this looks like. Sixteen year old boy, crying and struggling in the arms of a man ten years older. Little-boy curls and boxers against Chris' leather pants, dreadlocks, tattoos and earrings.

He kisses Chris instead, open-mouthed and wet. Hungry enough not to care that Chris tries to push him away at first and Justin has to use his new height, the muscles he's been building, to push back.

There's a moment when Chris' mouth snaps shut, and Justin can only drop kisses on his face, lick his jaw, shaved smooth for the evening, his hands dug deep against Chris' dreads, holding him steady. "Justin. Stop," Chris gasps and he dives in, shuts him up with his tongue. Eyes shut so he can't see Chris pushing him away. Mouth full of the taste of beer and warmth, so he can't feel Chris' fists slamming at his chest.

Moment of hesitation, velvet-long and dark, then Chris kisses him back.

Pushed to the wall and he can't stop fucking talking - "Gonna make you hot, suck your tongue, you feel good, Just. All that muscle, you ever kiss a guy before, fuck, you're gorgeous. Want you, you know that, baby, know I want you?" Split-second flash as Chris, heavy-lidded gaze and wet lips, draws back. Justin tenses; Chris looks like he's going to strike, something slow and angry burning. But his hands land on Justin's arms, fingers kneading biceps, gripping hard, pinning him fast. "D'you know I wanted you," he asks as he bites Justin's collarbone, a spasm of painful pleasure, lick of tongue and Justin bucks, moans.

"No," he says and Chris swallows that, kisses him hard. Mutters, "Wanted you all along," and then his hands are under the sweater, rough palms circling nipples, fingers trailing nail-sharp down his back, down to the curve of his ass. One long, unbroken kiss and Justin would like to wrap his legs around Chris, climb into him, knock him down and climb on top of him, like one of the chicks in JC's stash of Harlequins. Wants to get flipped around, face to the wall and Chris grinding against his back, like they do in porno flicks.

"All along," Chris repeats and it's a cold harsh shock. Justin shoves him away. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, steadies himself against the wall with the other.

Chris is breathing heavily. Doesn't say anything, just looks at Justin. Same look he's gotten used to over two years. Since the phone call and the lunch, JC hustling him along, demo tape in his pocket, and Chris hadn't played it till the end, two hours of talking and JC tapping his knee under the table, JC who made him stand up and walk around, dance a bit, but that was cool, Chris made it feel like fun.

He has to say something.

He should go back to his room. Wait for his mom. Ask her to take him home. She's warned him about this, little pamphlets left under his pillow, tucked into his study bible. No signatures for the boys in the audience, a frown when he spends too much time with the choreographer. Chris promised he would keep an eye out for him.

When he had the flu, Chris and his mom would spell each other, and that was before he noticed Lance, before he walked in on JC and the lighting guy. Wrestling on hotel beds, showering while Chris shaved when they were in a hurry, and his head hurts. He's got a fucking migraine, he feels drunk and hungover and ill. He feels like he's sunburnt where Chris' mouth has been.

He has to say something.

He opens his mouth to say: fuck off. pervert. you twisted fuck. i hate you. where's my mom. go away. go away.

Shuts his mouth. Crosses his arms to hide the trembling. Every second of silence is winding him tighter, and he's breaking. Licks his lips and Chris' gaze follows that. He can't tell if that makes things better or worse.

"How old were you?" he asks. His voice sounds off-pitch. Squeaky.

Chris blinks. Shifts from foot to foot, hands on his hips, like he's going to start dancing, fighting. Moving. Shake of his hips and Justin remembers standing outside the door just now. Chris' voice in his ear, the heat of his hands.

"Fifteen. Blow job behind a movie theatre."

Pause.

"I didn't know. I didn't know you wanted me."

And should they be having this conversation in the corridor? He can't move. If his mom and a troupe of reporters came rushing down, he couldn't move.

"I wasn't gonna. I wouldn't. If you didn't. You're a kid, Justin."

"I'm not a kid." Automatic, and then slowly. "I'm not a kid. I'm as old as Lance was. If he, if he can -"

He knows from Chris' narrowed eyes that he's negotiating blindly. Secrets he's never imagined, the glances and broken-off conversations. Lou and money changing hands, muffled arguments behind closed doors.

"Are you fucking Lance?" he demands.

Chris laughs, short and sharp. "Who the hell isn't?"

Maybe it's the laugh, maybe it's the stab of jealousy because he's prettier, he was here before Lance. Maybe it's the slow aching burn in his lungs from held breath, the knot of tight pain, the shiver when he walks because he can't even fucking walk straight.

"I can't," he says while Chris pushes him up against the wall again, one knee between his legs. "I can't do this," he says as he slides against the leather, finds the perfect rhythm. "I don't know how to," he says when Chris finds him under damp cloth and his rings are cold on Justin's skin, but this rhythm, this new beat, this is perfect. Chris spits on his other palm, switches hands and suddenly he's slick and this, this must be perfect. He's sliding, gliding and Chris kisses him quiet, fingers that taste of salt and cigarettes and something else, something he thinks he knows. Fingers in his mouth and Justin sucks, works his tongue down to the webs between, across the knuckles.

Elevator pings, soft little noise that cuts sharp through their heavy breathing. They freeze. Footsteps that come close then veer off, the clink of ice in a bucket, squeaky wheels. Knocking and a quiet "room service".

"Show me," he says when they hear the elevator doors slide shut again.

Chris nods. "Okay."

They walk hand-in-hand down the corridor. It's almost romantic. The lights overhead are too bright. All the doors look the same. Justin's watching his feet, trying not to trip. Chris keeps rubbing his thumb against his palm, and the nerves there seem to lead straight to his dick.

Then Chris knocks on a door, three beats and one slow rap. There's a pause, and Chris pushes Justin to the side, out of the fisheye view. Stands there, head cocked to the side, grinning back at the closed door. It slides open slightly, and he can hear Joey ask something, except he can't make out the words. Everything's dizzy, blood rushing in his ears and the soft swish as the door opens.

He thinks: I should be surprised.

This is what the adults do. They lie around naked in their hotel rooms, clothes piled up, drinks on one table, joints burning in an ashtray, porn on the TV. It looks like the set for a music video.

Joey has sweatpants on, but they hang low on his hips, and when he drinks from the can of beer he's holding, the muscles in his throat work. His stomach looks hard and there's a trail of dark hairs against leading down. The ties on the pants swing when Joey walks, and Justin's hands itch.

"Chris?" JC lifts his head up on his elbows, stares at them. Wide-awake and very, very naked. Justin stares back.

From here, Lance doesn't look like a girl. Not with those legs, not with that. That. He shifts against JC, bedsheets tangled between them. Sleepy eyes and the same sweet smile. "Hey, Justin. How was it?"

Chris answers for him. "Let's move the party back to my room." A hand round his waist, and Justin takes a deep breath. Leans back. Chris' whispering, "It's gonna be okay, Justin." and Joey nods, then JC gets out of bed, one long unfold of coltish legs. Lance is last, and JC helps him into a bathrobe, dressing him like he's a kid.

There's maybe five minutes of logistics; card keys and condoms, JC clearing the mini-bar out, and Lance laughing for no reason at all. Slow, phone-sex drawl, and then he's out the door, Chris walking ahead with Joey, Lance and JC next to him. JC doesn't touch him, just looks at him from the side every now and then. Which is weird because JC and he are the closest. He thinks. He thought.

Lance keeps stumbling. Justin catches him awkwardly, afraid to touch. But then Lance puts his arm around Justin, kisses him off-center on his mouth, tequila-lime and lemon. He's got the softest skin and when Justin runs his hand down Lance's side, he laughs again, slurs "Ticklish. Stoppit." and kisses him again.

Joey knocks and Kirsten opens the door. She doesn't look surprised. Justin thinks he might. Chris leans against the door and JC goes over to him. Two whispered conversations, a lot of head-shaking and Justin pays no attention. Lance tastes like sex. Maybe it's JC on his tongue, but when he swirls the inside of his mouth, when Lance makes that sound, he wants to lick him clean, watch him get dirty all over again.

The TV's on inside the room, a dubbed sitcom with the laugh track loud in the silence. Justin hears it, but he's pretty sure someone screaming wouldn't make him turn his head. Not when Lance is fever-hot and sprawled over him. The bathrobe slips down his hips, terry-rough against satin skin. He runs his hands over his vertebrae, the slide of shoulder-blades as Lance moves his arms. Chubby cheeks and broad shoulders, Lance shouldn't be sinew and muscle, strung out taut when he stretches, when he curves his back so Justin's hand slips into the hollow between his shoulder-blades, the palm-width of his neck prickling soft against Justin's hand, they all need haircuts. No time, concerts every other night, one city to the next and there's no time for everything they need.

A cool hand on his shoulder and he looks up. JC.

Still wearing make-up from the show, left on for clubbing. Glitter and pale frosted colours, lashes painted long and dark and a smudge of lipstick, a row of blue-black bruises on his jaw. Justin saw them earlier, when they were getting ready to go on stage, helped JC smear foundation over them. Now he sees they're fingerprint-size, and if he could fit his hand there, he'd have JC by the jaw, head tilted back.

Chris appears on the other side, not looking at Justin. He's untangling Lance, whispering into Lance's ear and Justin knows it's sex-talk, knows from the way Lance smiles. He tries to hold on for a moment, but Lance slips out of his grasp, falls easily to his knees in front of Chris.

JC puts his hand flat against his cheek. Cold fingers, and JC can never stay warm, used to get cold in air-conditioning, double sweaters and thermals. He's never seen him naked before and he doesn't want to look.

So maybe some part of his head and most of his body thinks this is a good idea. Chris is down to his leather pants, and Joey's stretched out on the bed next to the woman. Kirsten. And that's weird, but it's still a good weird. Because tomorrow, when he wakes up, it'll be weird but Chris wants him, and Lance will just smile, and these are things he can handle.

But he doesn't want to see JC naked. He watched Lance when they were in the other room, not JC, not JC who's so thin you can count his ribs, a narrow ass on lean legs, and below his hips, when he stands, naked in a hotel room with low lights, there are hollows below his hips, flat dimples that look like the heel of a hand might fit there, might be dragged up his back so he arches and makes that noise, the low growl that reminds Justin of a cat, and the way JC likes to have his hair combed by someone else, to lie with his head on Justin's lap and have him run his fingers through his hair. Close his eyes and purr while Justin stares at him when the others aren't looking.

He doesn't look down. JC holds his chin gently so they meet each other's gaze. "Hey," he says softly. "You don't have to do this, you know."

Sound returns because he can't see anything but JC. Mutters and a soft slick-slap, shuffle of the bed being moved on, Joey going "Yeah, oh yeah," and the little high gasps of the woman.

"I think I want to," he says.

JC looks at him for a while. "Okay," he says finally.

The tequila's on top of the TV and JC pours him a shot. He knocks it back and holds it out for another. JC pours two, and they clink the glasses before drinking. Justin smiles a little and when JC takes the glass back, he doesn't jerk in surprise at their fingers touching. Still doesn't look down.

Lance is wiping his mouth on Chris' shirt and Chris looks boneless, but when JC leads him over, stands behind Justin, hands on his shoulders lightly, as if he's being presented, Chris shakes his head, like a dog waking up, and springs to his feet.

He's danced drunk before. Soft focus and smooth, his head buzzing and his feet seemed to float. This, he's surprised to find, is similar. Everything seems synchronized. The way Lance pulls his sweater off, tugs his boxers down. The four of them at the foot of the bed, watching Joey, swaying against each other. He knows they're naked because of the heat. Only JC seems different, cool hands against his shoulders, steadying him.

Pink and white and dark hair. Kirsten lifts one leg, hooks her hand round her knee to spread her thighs. Wide, soft thighs, no muscle, no hair, just creamy skin with Joey's hand tanned against them. Joey who smiles at them briefly before returning to his work, to Kirsten's breasts and Kirsten's mouth, to the pink-purple curves between her legs. It looks different; Justin isn't sure what he expected, but not this. When she moves her hips, when Joey's fingers start touching her there, she opens and closes. Black curls that Joey pushes to the side, spreads with two fingers, his thumb rubbing circles above, the dark bruised red below opening. Opening, and she shines, and there's a hint of muscle, the way Joey's fingers get sucked in.

He can't look away, not when Chris starts rubbing against him, whispering to Lance, sexy strange things that he can overhear. Lance leans against him, takes Justin's hand and he's suddenly holding solid heat and a moment later, he realizes as Lance shimmies and murmurs, "Fuck, Justin, mmm," that he's squeezing almost-too-tight, that Lance is in his fist, and he moves his wrist, feels Lance's dick against his thigh.

"Lance, quit it," JC snaps. Joey's looking at them, Kirsten too and there's a bottle of something in her hands. JC leans past him and Justin shuts his eyes. When he looks again, he has to look down, because that's where JC is.

Down, between his legs. He concentrates very hard on the wall behind the bed. Bites his lip at the gloop of something cold and sticky-wet, then the crinkle of foil, a snap of latex, and JC's hand on his thigh. JC saying in the same soft voice, "Hey, hey. You need to watch this."

It's like a doctor or something, he thinks vaguely as JC rolls the condom on. Instructions he can't remember, and JC makes him smooth it down, holds up the rest of the packet, something about a knot, and Justin nods desperately. Nods and tries not to feel JC's fingers, cool and impersonal, curled round his dick. JC speaking and his mouth - the taste of Lance's - near him, if he bent, if he did.

He doesn't. He gets up, and Justin doesn't look away fast enough. When he climbs onto the bed on the other side of Kirsten, he knows JC is watching. He knows that JC has a dick that's long and curved upwards, a slight graceful sweep, with light brown curls and heavy dark balls. As he puts his hand hesitantly on Kirsten, he thinks of the hollows at JC's hips.

"Sweet sixteen," Joey says across Kirsten, and Justin grins back. Kirsten smells good and she reaches one languid hand up, brushes his curls back. She smiles and Justin kisses her, and she tastes good. Joey's hand reaches over to skim his back, and then someone else pressed up behind him, Chris who licks his neck and takes his hand and places it on Kirsten's ass, further, further in. "You wanna watch first?" Chris whispers and Justin shifts so they lie aligned, dick against his ass, Chris still at first then moving, which feels good too.

"Yeah," he says.

Lance crawls up to the top of the bed, curls around them all. He leans over and kisses her then the others. Kirsten stretches a little, and they shift, coming closer together. All of them on the bed, JC behind Joey, lying a little apart, leaning up on his elbows, watching.

There's a hush. Even Chris shuts up. Kirsten and Joey together, and it doesn't seem like they'll fit, it looks awkward and strange, but then she reaches down, red fingernails and the veins on his dick, the way the foreskin slides. Justin wants to lick that, the ridge and the smooth head. She guides, and Joey breathes out "Fuck," and he's in her, and they all let out a breath.

In and out, and wet. Beneath Justin's hand, the muscles in Joey's ass tighten, relax. He finds himself pulling, thrusting blindly against Kirsten's back when Joey moves, all of them in the same uncertain rhythm. A ragged beat and then Joey pulls out, someone - Chris? Kirsten? - grabs his hand and he's on top of her.

On his elbows, scrambling not to hurt her, and she smiles and spreads her legs. Ankles around his waist, wet warmth against him. Hands on his back, and when Justin sinks down, sinks inside her, they close in on him. Sweat and lube, tequila on his breath and Lance tastes of Chris now.

Skin on skin, he closes his eyes. One point of slow-burning heat. He tries to count, to slow down, but then Joey starts squeezing his ass and Kirsten does this throaty whimper and he can't stop. Hard and fast, not enough time to breathe let alone say a name.

In the little shivers of the aftershocks, the haze with Kirsten and Chris tongue-fucking, and everything honey-heavy and drowsy, he doesn't notice the switch.

Then a cool hand on his hip and he turns his head a little. Blinks. JC on the other side now, Joey disappeared under Lance. JC draws one leg up over Kirsten's, one long leg grazing his. They're almost the same height now. He'll be taller soon, but now, they fit around her, they match.

JC smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Justin slips his hand across hesitantly, touches JC's shoulder lightly. "Hey," he says and JC's smile crooks at the corner like a secret, shared joke.

"Hey yourself," he answers. "Put this on," and another packet pushed into his hand, and then his hand is pushed back, back across Kirsten who lies between them, who is wriggling against JC, not looking at Justin.

He fumbles with the condom, but Chris bends over him, smirking. "Watch the expert," and Justin thinks: I want JC to show me.

But JC is concentrating on Kirsten, seriously concentrating like no-one else exists but the woman pushing against him, one leg between his. Then she closes her eyes and shudders, a deep full-body shake and JC looks at Justin again, smiling. "C'mere," he says. His hands aren't cold anymore. They're slick and when they brush Justin's face, he smells sex and musk.

She turns and almost kisses him, but then JC's hips thrust, and she pushes her head down to Justin's shoulder, nips his shoulder and he's in, his hands tangled with JC's, and the world slows down. Sextime, each slide an hour, a split second.

He wonders briefly what it feels like for Kirsten. Then he can't think because JC grabs his hand roughly, brings his fingers down to where she's stretched taut. Murmurs, "Perineum. That's the perineum. Stroke it." Silk and tiny grooves he can trace. He repeats "Perineum," and JC flushes, thrusts with Justin's fingers against him, Justin clumsily touching his balls, the soft crease of thigh and groin. One slides in, one slides out, and they don't look at Kirsten, they don't look at the others.

JC's mouth opens when he comes, jaw clenched as if he's trying not to scream. His hand scrambles at Justin's shoulder, fingernails digging in. He says his name in a harsh cut-off gasp. Justin bites his lip and comes.

He tries to stay awake, but the pillow they push under his head is wonderfully soft. Someone kisses him, someone licks his ear - Chris, gotta be Chris - and he can hear Kirsten giggling. Something warm and rough; for a bizarre moment he thinks it's a dog, but JC has a washcloth.

He's tired and he's drunk and when JC kisses him goodnight, he thinks he whispers, "I love you," but it could be "Thanks." It could've been anything.

He wakes up a couple more times. Lance getting fucked into the pillows next to him, Kirsten sharing a cigarette with Joey, the TV switched on again. Someone shushes him back asleep. Someone pulls the blankets round him.

When he wakes up the next morning, the curtains have been pulled back. Late morning sunshine, his eyes hurt and his head aches. He groans and tries to burrow back under, but the bed smells strange and it takes him a while to remember why.

"Hey," JC says when Justin shoots out from under the covers.

He's wearing jeans and a turtleneck. Justin wants to pull it down, leave hickeys all along his collarbone.

"Hey," he says. He threads his hands together and stares at them. There's a long silence. Justin looks up a couple of times. JC doesn't move from the side of the bed where he's sitting. He's washed his hair and it's still damp, comb marks where he parted it. Sunlight on his scrubbed face, no glitter, just JC and his big nose.

"I want to-" he says as JC says "It doesn't have to-"

Justin clears his throat. "I want. I want to be like Kirsten. Like last night."

Panic flits across JC's face. "You want to be a hooker?"

"No. No." He puts one hand slowly, deliberately, next to JC's. Their fingers almost touch. "I think I want to."

JC looks at him for a while. The sun's in his face, and he's got bedhair, squinting with a rat's nest of curls, he's probably stinky as hell. He tenses and forces himself to relax. To not look away.

"Oh," says JC. "Oh. There's lots, lots of ways, you know."

"Could you -"

"Yeah." JC's thumb brushes the backs of his knuckles. Traces the sides of his hand on top of the bedspread. "I could."