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don't
by tiffany rawlins
Lance had been really, gloriously, effervescently high up until about ten minutes ago. Now he's just trying very hard to maintain. It's always right when he feels the bottom falling out from under his buzz that he hears Lou's voice telling him what to do. Don't slouch. Don't look at your feet. Don't giggle like a fucking girl. Don't get caught with your pants down around your goddamned knees again.
Awards shows are like high school assemblies for the rich and pretty, and he went to actual high school long enough to know that no one has as much fun as they pretend to. Not on camera, anyway. In the dressing rooms, backstage, at the afterparties, there's still fun there.
Lance is going to have fun, he's going to find something fun to do with his night if he breaks his jaw smiling. He is twenty-two years old and he has a good body. Hell, he almost has a certifiably great body by now, and he may not be sure how much he likes the pants their stylist picked for him but he is still going to get laid. He can get laid. He's good at getting laid. If his jaw's gonna hurt tomorrow it might as well be because it got used proper.
He doesn't have to sit around and drink like some miserable old man just because someone he maybe would have liked to have fucked more than once has suddenly decided that best friends should be only best friends and not sleep together ever again. He can go out and drink like the young, pretty boy he is, with a bunch of other famous kids who never learned that the way to have fun was ditch assembly altogether.
He can do this. They win another stupid award, so it's don't trip up the stairs. Don't forget to thank the label. Don't let JC talk too much. Don't stare at how Joey's stomach is so, so slim since he's been sick. Don't lean back into his warm, soft arms and try to convince him again how this time it could be different.
Just don't think.
Backstage is already more fun because there's a lot of alcohol. Lance doesn't spill his drink. Joey's gone, JC's gone, Justin's off with Britney and Chris is wandering around trying to be funny. Lance has decided not to sleep with this guy on the Entertainment Tonight crew who palmed his nipple while adjusting the mic under his shirt. He's too bony. Lance fucked this really bony guy once and it was like trying to have sex on a waterbed except way less comfortable. No resistance. Lance needs someone solid enough to push against, someone who pushes back. Someone greater than or equal to, equal and opposite forces in balance.
He turns to scan the room and his shoulder slams into Nick Carter. Nick Carter's chest, which is really quite solid, and Lance swallows the rest of his drink and says hello. Nick nods, frowns at Lance's empty glass.
"You want one?" Lance asks, holding his up. "I could --"
"Nah, it's fine," Nick says.
"I'm having another one," Lance says. As soon as he waves his hand someone in a tux has replaced it with something full and very purple. Lance likes purple. It goes well with blonde. Nick is very blonde right now, blonde and wearing cream-colored leather by Puffy and Lance thinks maybe he's still kind of high because he thinks Nick looks pretty good. Pretty hot. Pretty. Lance gulps half the drink. "You sure you don't --"
Nick shakes his head no. "I'm really having a good time, I'm fine. I mean, I don't need to. Drink."
Lance shrugs. He has to look up to talk to Nick. Like, a lot of looking up, even more than he's used to. Greater than what he's used to. "I don't think there's much we do because we need to anymore," he says, putting one hand on Nick's bare forearm. "Just cause you want to, that's reason enough. Because you can."
Nick stares blankly at him, like he doesn't understand what Lance means, then looks down and fiddles with one of the metal studs on his vest. "You make it sound simple," he says.
"It is," Lance says, watching Nick's throat as he swallows. Nick's shoulders are tight, his jaw is locked and it's like there's a wave above to break in the way he seems to hover on the edge of something loud and wet. "It can be."
Nick blinks slowly and seriously, and Lance wonders if he's supposed to be more respectful or something. Everyone crowded around and hugged when he and Aaron first showed up that night. They were all acting like someone had died. Lance thinks he probably knows better than most of the world what sucks about being a pop star. But still, if he were Nick he'd be pretty sick of conversations that start with "So how's AJ?" and end with some seasick dedication to how they all have to admit when the pressure's getting to them and actually ask for help.
Lance doesn't need help. Lance needs to get fucked, but good. He downs the rest of the pretty purple drink and a passing waiter catches his glass almost before he's swallowed. Nick is still there and he looks at Lance like he's not sure why they're even talking. But he goes willingly enough when Lance puts a hand on the small of his back and guides him out to the limo.
Nick stops once, to talk to Aaron's bodyguard. "Just an hour," he says, weirdly cool and obvious about it and the guy mirrors back Nick's calm expression with a sure nod to boot. Nick Carter may not have been the guy most likely to an hour before, but right now he seems like the best fish in the sea. Big sea. Little pond. Big fish in a little pond and when they kiss in the parked car, Lance on Nick's lap, Lance feels soft and small. He is quite sure that no one would throw Nick back.
"You fit juuust right," Lance says, hands in golden locks and his ass resting squarely on Nick's broad thighs.
"Hey." Nick holds on to Lance's shirt with a tight fist, straining buttons. Lance is really sorry he wore a t-shirt underneath because he feels pretty strongly that Nick's hands should already be on his chest. "You're pretty trashed."
Lance nods seriously. Nick is licking his lips, almost absentmindedly, and Lance lets his head fall backwards loosely. Nick holds his shirt a little tighter. "I can get it up, if that's what you're worried about," Lance says, opening his eyes and staring at the tinted glass of the sunroof. He looks back at Nick and starts humming. "Let's get it up. Let's get it on." Whatever he's on or not, Nick is maintaining a little too well. Lance really needs him to come apart. He trails his hand down Nick's chest and slides back, off his lap until his knees hit the floor. "Hmm. I could, I wonder if you..." Lance says, one hand on Nick's zipper, looking up. "I wonder if it's true."
It's true. Lance smiles in the dark, bends in and breathes deep. He loves it like this, on his knees, a guy all close and hot and his throat so full that he can barely think of anything other than the dick in his mouth. He knows the rest, don't gag, don't think it's funny to tease too much. Don't let him get to close to coming if you want him to fuck you. He swallows and sucks and there, right there, yeah, Nick is breathing so high, so short and sweet. Lance loves it like this, but it's not why he's here. It's just how they're gonna get where they're going. Don't get distracted. Don't get lost.
He eases back and Nick moans for the first time. Lance comes back up to kiss him, pushing Nick's vest off his shoulders, tugging up both their t-shirts so their bare chests press together. Nick is pale and solid and he shudders like a wind has gone through him. His fingers lay unmoving on one of Lance's pecs until Lance reaches up and twists Nick's nipple sharply. Nick raises a shivery hand to Lance's neck. He grips Lance's shirt by the collar, tugging it off and dropping it on the floor.
Lance sits back, moves Nick's hands to the button on his own pants. Nick licks his lips again and Lance shakes his head. "Not that," he says. He pulls Nick's hand around and places it on his ass, pressing back into Nick's hot, sweaty palm. He pushes, his hand over Nick's, so that his body comes forward, so that his stomach slides against Nick's cock. "I was thinking," he says, leaning in to nip at Nick's neck. "That you might want to fuck me."
He tilts his chin up and Nick bites into the kiss. Lance reaches down and pulls hard at Nick's cock.
"I thought maybe you might need to," Lance says.
"Fuck," Nick moans, and charges up off the seat.
Nick moves fast when he wants to, Lance thinks, and then there's the leather seat up against his cheek and cool against his stomach. Nick's got one knee between Lance's open legs and one foot on the floor. He yanks Lance's pants down around his calves and kneads the muscles stretched tight across Lance's shoulderblades.
Lance wasn't sure, there was a minute there when he wasn't sure he'd actually picked the right guy, that Nick knew what he was doing, but that part is clearly true, too. Nick's so done this before. Lance groans when Nick touches damp lips to the base of his back, whimpers and raises his ass in the air when Nick lets his fingernails scratch around Lance's stomach and walk down his abs. When Nick touches his dick, Lance wants to cry.
Don't cry. Don't plead. Don't let him get the best of you.
Joey said, "If you have to get drunk to let a guy fuck you, maybe you're too drunk to be fucking," but what does Joey know about any of that anyway. He's wherever he is and Lance is here, Lance is here with Nick and Nick is pushing inside inch by inch like he's gonna win an award for being careful.
"Don't be so nice," Lance snaps. "You can --"
Nick does.
Lance shouts into the calfskin seat and Nick thuds the heel of one hand on the roof so he doesn't fall. Lance tries to catch his breath and Nick asks, quietly, "What?"
Lance's mouth is stretched and squished and he can't make his lips tighten around the words so they come out soft: "Don't," he says, and Nick immediately starts to pull out. Lance pushes back. "Please don't stop."
Nick doesn't.
Lance gets out of the car first. Don't make a scene. Don't close the door in his face. Don't walk like you just got the living daylights fucked out of you in the back of a limo in the driveway of a hotel. By a Backstreet Boy, no less.
Nick follows a step behind. Lance can hear his shoes on the gravel walkway trailing after him and he thinks maybe he should turn around. Maybe he should take Nick's hand or at least touch him or say something nice. He thinks maybe the problem is he should want to and mostly he's just wondering how long this well-fucked high will last. How long till he's ready for something more, maybe a big, tall, dark boy who will want to stay the night. Who will want to do it more than once.
Back inside there's a throng of people drinking, dancing, hooking up. All the pretty people and when Lance turns around it kind of hits him like a shot that he just fucked Nick Carter.
Or, well.
Either way, Nick is flushed and his spiked hair looks like someone reached back and grabbed it while he was coming all over a backseat somewhere. Lance catches the hem of Nick's vest in his hands. "We can do that again sometime," he says, brushing his thumb against Nick's belly.
Nick steadies himself with a hand on the back of Lance's neck, but Lance sees Chris coming from across the room and steps away a little. Nick doesn't let go. He smiles and one side of his mouth quirks up more than the other. Lance hadn't noticed that before and now he kind of wishes they were still in the limo, still kissing, so he could see whether it feels different under his lips.
"We can, you know," Lance says.
Nick grins and says, "I know."
END.
Credits: For Georgina, who gives great Nick. Everyone else who indulged the "I don't like Backstreet, I just like him" delusions of hotness and then did read-throughs, including Glace, Jamie, Younger and kel. And whichever random fan snapped that picture. Thank you.
