You think: goddamnit, if this is another fucking prank-- but you're the prankster, right, you're someone who'd kiss someone else just to make fun of them. Justin is a drama queen, but he doesn't have the requisite malice to fuck with people's feelings in such a deliberate way. He hasn't got the brain for it, either, you think, proving that you do have that malice.
But what does it mean? To have watched him inhale his bacardi-and-cokes all night, rub himself against every tight ass and heaving chest in the club for hours on end, and then, when you (you - you being older, by a disgusting nine years, and therefore presumably wiser) decided he'd had enough and called the car, and supported his happily giggling and bonelessly uncoordinated frame into it, watched him fall silent and pensive during the ride to the hotel, and his refusal to leave for his own floor, his own room ('Chris, man, come on, I know you got that JD on your room--' 'For emergencies only, Just.''This is an emergency, it's a party emergency, I really need to work on a splendiferous hangover--') and you think it must have been his use of the word 'splendiferous' that tilted your opinion into his favour: he was obviously serious if he was scraping the soggy bottom of his vocabulary that way.
And he hadn't touched the whiskey at all; just sat on your bed and stared at it for ten minutes while you thought disconnected thoughts about his drunk-dumb lips forming the word 'splendiferous'. And then you sighed and took his drink and downed it yourself, in a fit of pique, perhaps, and he looked up at you and grinned slowly, a heady, big-toothed, wolfish grin that you bet the fangirls really don't want to know he can produce.
And after that - well, after that it's all kind of a blur.
You don't want to think; why think, why pretend it means something to suddenly have your arms full of strangely gawky, coltish boy, his wet mouth tracing the lines of your face with drunken enthusiasm and absolutely zero coordination. He's taller than you - as much taller than you as you're older than him, maybe, if those two could be compared or assumed to cancel each other out, and you sort of wish they could, or you'll be feeling like such a short-eyes in all sorts of ways in the morning ('he could crush me like a bug, sir, I didn't take advantage, really') - and heavier, and he seems to have grown about half a dozen extra arms, and all of them are blindly intent on poking you and petting you and stroking you in every possible and impossible place. He's clinging to you like an octopus, if octopuses were tall and smooth- skinned and had dazed, heavy-lidded eyes and bodies that were a confusion of sleek, quivering race horse muscle and the remnants of adolescent knobbliness; elbows, knees, the relief of his spine too distinct through his thin tee. He sighs against your cheek, and you think, am I resisting? should I be resisting? and you're not, you're relaxing and letting him; letting yourself, too.
Your hands are looking for skin; the way this is going, the way he's drunk and eager and wanton - if this was a girl, some random pretty, blue-eyed girl, you'd be unsnapping her bra already. You settle for pushing up his teeshirt, and he gasps warm air into your ear, and his skin is burning hot under your hands, his mouth, finding yours now finally, is scorching - sweet sugar fruit candy and the sharp bite of alcohol and wild, wet heat - but his fingers are cold and clumsy on your face. You stroke his back and sides and feel shivers travel under the skin, and think again of horses.
His mouth leaves yours for long enough to breathlessly pant your name, and you feel your mouth form his - "Justin, Justin ..." - and as many times as you've said it before, it's not the same now. Justin, Just, Jup, Curly, Kiddo, Hey You and they're all spelled different but they sound the same when you're saying "Justin, would you shut up and let someone sleep here," or "Check out the legs on that one, Just," or "Are you all right, Kiddo?" Now, with his hot breath and cold fingers on your face, and his bones chafing against yours, his name is spelled the same but sounds different, just like his soft "Chris ..." is not the same name you've heard from his lips before.
And it's clear what he's offering, clear to you, but you're not sure it's clear to him: why else is this so awkward? - awkward like a couple clumsy, virginal fifteen-year-olds necking and groping in the locker room after football practice. It should be smooth, and natural, maybe with a slight softening in focus and a blue filter and a gentle acoustic guitar soundtrack; instead it's rushed, and frantic, and completely inept: teeth and elbows and nails, uncooperating clothes - you don't think your shirt will ever be the same, and you're pretty sure you tore the button off his jeans - and his trembling hands grabbing you too hard, too needily, and in the wrong places.
But you don't hesitate, because he doesn't. Maybe you should, but you can't, not when he yields under your hands and stumbles to his knees with nothing left of his usual graceful movements; it looks like he just forgot how to stand upright.
You have to help him with your jeans; he sways and leans heavily against you, his face pressed into your no-quite-as-hard-as-his belly, and his fingers hinder yours when you're yanking at your buttons, cursing buttonflies in sharp, short invectives that you really hope he understands are not directed at him.
And there - his fingers, warming up now, and his hot, hot, hot mouth, and there is no way he's ever done this before, no fucking way; he chokes at first, pulls back, tries again gamely, and you bite your lip when you feel his teeth, and steel yourself for more nasty surprises and thread your fingers through his merino wool curls. Instead, he's coping, he's doing pretty good, getting the hang of it, he's really, really trying, and the odd scrape of teeth - and this surprises you, but not in a nasty way - is actually good, exciting, new.
With his mouth and his hands and the rush building and careening out of control, it's so easy to ignore the little voice in your head that says Jesus, Chris, he hasn't done this before, he even kisses like a little kid, he doesn't know - there's a possibility that he really is a virgin and-- "Shut up," you just mutter, and thrust your hips forward involuntarily, just because it feels so fucking good, because despite his puppy clumsiness, there really is no such thing as a bad blowjob. And you slide down his throat and get two sweet, sweet, sweet seconds way down deep before remembering yourself and releasing him, and he doesn't choke this time, just pulls back and breathes harshly for a while before diving in again. And there you go again, one more time, deeper, deeper into hot, slick, tooth-sharp, and there it is - you're battered by your orgasm, maybe even taken by surprise, although this might be bullshit you serve yourself to justify coming in his mouth. He falls back with a surprised cough, and your knees buckle and you slide down the wall.
You watch him stare at you and frantically wipe his mouth. Yeah, Justin, you think with hazy detachment, the eternal dilemma: spit or swallow?
He swallows.
You blink; you didn't think he'd have the balls for that. He doesn't even look disgusted, just a little puzzled, as if he's marveling at his own brass ones. And his eyes are bloodshot, his mouth is red and swollen, and you scoot forward to catch him and taste him. He tastes different now, of course, no more candy, and the alcohol has faded. He tastes both alien and familiar. Of course.
You push him down under you and again he yields, softly and obediently. You slip your hand down the open fly of his loose jeans, inside his boxers, and feel around a little. It's been a while since you've touched anyone's dick but your own, and you take a little time to get reaquainted with the geography. Halfway through your very light poking around, he shudders violently, draws a long, hissing breath and comes all over your hand and his shorts.
You grin a little at his blush - he just sucked you off without hesitating and now he's blushing? - and wipe your hand on his soggy boxers.
"Huh," he says, a little tremulously. He sits up and makes a face at the ickiness. Stands up, graceful again, and shimmies out of his jeans and shorts. You stare at him until your eyes feel heavy and you realise that you're about to fall asleep right here on the carpet. He sits on the bed and takes off his teeshirt. You join him, peeling off your own clothes. You're crashing, the booze and the orgasm and a long day coming down on your head like the sky falling. You pull him into the bed, let him wrap his long limbs around you and prepare to float away.
His body is pliant and damp and curled around you like your own personal electric blanket. His breath fans rhythmically over your sweaty chest, already slowing and settling into a sleeping pattern. You think about how nice it is to fall asleep with someone again, how that doesn't happen much when you're on tour, unless Dani can come along for a co--
--and there's a fucking baseball bat of guilt right square in your nose, and you jerk out of your warm, post-coital happy place like someone just pushed you off a building. You haven't thought about Dani once tonight. Not once. Somehow the place she usually occupies in your brain has been overtaken by a long-legged, kinky-haired squatter.
The adrenaline rush is zinging down your neural pathways like a hit of cocaine, and you roll out of his grip, almost kicking out, pushing him harder than necessary. He mumbles something unintelligible, but doesn't wake up. You grab his shoulder and dig your fingers in, shake him hard - "Justin, come on, wake the fuck up, man!" - and he groans and opens his eyes to a crack - "Justin, you can't sleep here, get out, get out," - and finally you all but shove him out of bed. He rolls over and falls over the edge himself, with a surprised oof!.
He staggers to his feet, barely conscious, but you see a worried frown already creasing his brow.
"Hmmmh...? What. Chris?" You're bottled-up frantic and throwing him his clothes - jeans from under the bed, teeshirt from the bedside table, boxers-- ugh, nevermind, he'll have to go commando, but by now you don't give a shit, you just want him out of here, out of your sight, out of your fucking life - and isn't that a bitch right there? You almost slap yourself for being so stupid. This is Justin, you tell yourself, Justin, your buddy, your homie, your substitute little brother - Justin with his pretty, trembling mouth and his too-bright eyes and long legs and smooth skin--
You recoil, push away from the sight of him naked and sweaty and confused and Jesus Christ, something else to look at, please! The bed - a jumble of sheets, still reeking of drunk, sloppy sex-- the door! The door! You stare at the door, angry stare, biting your lip to take your mind off ... your mind and you say, harshly, "Fuck, Justin, can you take a hint? Get dressed and get out," and it comes out like contempt. You can feel his flinch through five feet of spunk-thick bedroom air. Good, you think, he gets it.
"Chris--" he says, and goddamn it, he might be drunk enough to start bawling, and that would be - that would be bad.
You make your voice a little less sharp. "Justin, be quiet. Come on, kid, I fucked up, okay? I fucked up, I was thinking with my little head." It still sounds harsh, though - angry - and it occurs to you that he might not understand, that he might misunderstand completely, this whole loathe thing you've got going. That he might think you loathe him--
Good, you think again and steel yourself. Good, 'cause then maybe he'll never do this to you again, maybe he'll never look at you with his big, moist eyes again and never touch your face with his cold, eager fingers.
You're struck by the novel concept that this whole episode might have constituted a Very Bad Idea, one of those Bad Ideas that break hearts and break up bands, and you're afraid, not just for Dani and you anymore, or for Justin and you, but for the whole band, the whole world you've made for yourself. And, as anyone could have told you, anyone who knows you: when you get scared, you get mean.
"Get out!" you hiss at him, "get out get out get the fuck out!" and you pick up his sticky boxers and throw them at him, and he shrinks back, tears swelling in his eyes, his breaths hitching and sticking in his throat. And when his face darkens and he starts crying for real, you suddenly remember that where you get mean when you're scared, Justin gets angry. And Justin is still a kid, still not completely in control of his emotions, and he's drunk, he's shitfaced, he's not at his most stable, ladies and gentlemen, and he's coming closer now, his wet face like a thundercloud, and you see his hands curl into fists, and you have time to think, contritely, Well, I fucking deserve it, before he punches you. Hard. Square in the face.
You fall against the wall, and he hits you again, twice, once more in the face and once in your solar plexus. You crumple into a wad of soggy tissue on the floor, fighting to get your breath back, biting down on the pathetic mewl that wants to squeeze out between your bleeding lips.
And there he is, his hands soft and gentle on your skin, his voice in your ear - you can just barely hear him over the roar of suspended breath - "Sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Chris, I'm so sorry--"
Well, he's not angry anymore. You're not angry anymore, he beat that right out of you. You feel ... right. Dani's vindicated, by Justin's own fists, and isn't that just freaky?
"--sssss 'igh," you hiss, clutching your cramping abdomen. "Go, go - 'm okay ..."
"Okay," he says thickly. He's still crying, of course. "If-- okay."
He dresses quietly and leaves. You wonder if you've broken something in him. This isn't your finest hour. You welcome the pain.
When you can breathe normally again, you crawl back into bed and try not to think about how it smells like him. Instead, you try to think of ways to make this up to him. You don't think you're doing a very good job. You fall asleep.
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