Toddy: I taught him everything he knows.

Victor: That's why he has so little left.

 

Their real problem wasn't that Lance was the kind of pretty that made grown men swoon. Their real problem was that Lance seemed convinced that all he had to offer was the pretty smile he flashed grabby German VJs long after anybody else would have slapped them.

Chris thought it was like this strange Southern belle thing where Lance tried to look harmless and act dumb to fit in. Chris was pretty sure Lance hadn't learned it from Diane. Diane had been smart enough to try to keep Lance the hell away from all this. Chris was a little afraid he'd learned it from Justin.

Chris felt like the biggest kind of asshole for the fact that he'd stopped trying to protect Justin about twelve seconds after they'd met. There just wasn't much he could tell Justin about how the world or the music business worked that he didn't already know. Spilt milk and all that and Chris couldn't help looking at Lance and thinking there was something left to save.

Lance drew lazy eights on his knee, and Chris tried again. "But he was looking at you like --"

"Maybe I didn't mind," Lance said, and glanced up. "Maybe I liked it."

"Maybe?"

Lance let the moment pass with a half-smirk that made Chris think he was already too late. "Maybe I just like it when Justin gets all crabby because nobody's askin' him the questions."

"Maybe," Chris allowed, and Lance smiled for real. Chris reached across the bed to touch Lance's arm. "This isn't, you know. About guys. That's not what's --"

"Yeah," Lance said. "I know." He leaned in a little and Chris sat back. Lance shifted away and crossed his arms.

Chris said, "It's easy for things that seem friendly to get outta hand, I know."

Lance stood up but didn't leave, like he was waiting politely to be excused from the worst pep talk ever. Chris waggled his hand toward the door. "Go already. I think we've done enough for one day." He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

"I'm not stupid," Lance said, with a determined edge to his voice, like he knew something Chris didn't.

"No kidding," Chris said under his breath. Pretty and polite and about a million times smarter than Chris. Who cared if he could dance, the boy was a dreamboat.

"Chris," Lance said, and Chris blinked and sat back up. Lance was leaning in the door, halfway out to the hall. "Thanks, okay? Thanks anyway."

Chris nodded and Lance closed the door behind him. He dreamed of bleached-blond announcers with square jaws and long, slender mics. They were all named Dieter and held up cue cards with Lance's name on them. Lance wore a white satin dress and ruby slippers and waltzed across the stage like a ballerina.

 

 

When it happened again, and worse, Chris decided that all their problems could be solved by giving Lance a good talking to. Lance wasn't stupid, but he wasn't harmless and he wasn't Justin, either. He didn't quite know how to charm himself out of the corners he'd backed himself into, and he was missing whatever made Justin so cocky and so sure, bone-deep, that he'd always have a dozen protectors waiting in the wings.

Lance had gotten into the business too late to be innocent and too early to be jaded, and Chris knew he was just trying to figure himself out, but there were only so many times he was going to get off that easy. The pretty boy needed a little roughing up. It was for his own good. Chris' job was to do things for their own good before someone else had to do it for them.

Chris hauled Lance into his room to tell him how it was. "I thought we'd talked about this," he said. "About there being, you know. A line. And then you go and cuddle up to that guy like he's gonna give us a gold record if you're friendly enough."

"He just put his hand on my knee, Chris, it wasn't --"

"Your knee?" he barked. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

"He wasn't --"

"He was too."

Lance edged away, flinching, and Chris realized his fist was clenched. And raised shoulder-height, level with Lance's jaw.

"Oh hell," he said, and sagged against the wall. Maybe he didn't understand the kind of talking-to a boy like Lance would need. "Just don't tell me you liked it," he said, softer.

Lance gave him a hard stare. "I like people noticing me."

Chris sighed and tilted his head back against the plaster. He really sucked at saving people from themselves. "This just isn't some farmboy grope behind the barn on your summer vacation. It's not even a bar in Berlin where you get felt up on your way to the can, it's live television. You know there's a difference, right?" Chris squinted across the small room.

Lance jerked his chin up. "The difference bein' you thinkin' you're in charge of where I put my knee?" The madder Lance got, the more his accent weighted the words.

"I didn't say you couldn't --"

Lance rose and walked fast to the door. He had his hand on the knob when he said, "You explain where I'm supposed to meet someone who doesn't just like me for bein' pretty, Chris, and I'll be happy to tell everybody else to go to hell."

And then Lance was gone, the door slammed rudely behind him, and Chris banged his head against the wall. "Wasting your time, man," he said to himself. "You're just wasting your time."

 

 

Lance even sulked like a Southern belle, in that mean sugar-coated way where he could all but yell that someone was an unbelievable asshole, do it with a smile on his face, and then say thank you. He was classy like that.

"Oh, Chris wouldn't approve of that," he said, when Justin crowed about how a girl in the front row had yanked down her tube top in the middle of "God Must Have Spent." Her tits had Justin's initials written in black marker and Chris had already handled the situation by chasing Justin around the dressing room and nailing him in the head with a steady stream of the stuffed animals that had been thrown on stage.

But still Lance said, "Oh, better keep your hands inside the moving vehicle, C, or Chris will have to child-lock the windows again." Or, "You're gonna wax your chest, right, Joey? Chris checked to make sure you got the permission slip and everything."

The more sarcastic he sounded, the more he pissed off he clearly was, until finally one night in some crummy bar Joey pulled Chris off to the side and hissed, "Look, I don't know what the hell you did to him, but this is your thing to fix."

"He's gotta grow up sometime," Chris said, shoving Joey back. "I'm sorry if I'm the only one who's willing to tell people things they don't want to hear."

"Yeah, well tonight you can swap rooms and listen to him cry his fucking enlightened self to sleep." Joey poked his shoulder. "Just. Fix him."

 

 

Lance had locked the chain on their door long before anything that might resemble curfew, which was taking the whole revenge thing to new, entirely unsubtle levels of annoyance. Chris had to knock three times before Lance answered, and even then it was only after Chris had pounded his fist and yelled, "Open up, you little bitch, I'm trying to apologize."

"You're such an asshole," Lance said. He was wearing a white wifebeater and blue gym shorts. He looked like he should be playing field hockey.

"Yeah," Chris said. "But you knew that."

Lance shook his head. "For real, Chris, you're such a dick sometimes."

"I know. I'm not disputing the facts at hand."

Lance raised an eyebrow. Chris never thought anything even remotely related to the word delicate, he just put one hand up on the door frame and tried to look like less of a prick. Lance still hadn't let him all the way in. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes," Lance said. "I know that."

"Okay, yeah, I'm done saying sorry. You wanna go out?"

Lance eyed him carefully, like he was waiting for Chris to say he'd been joking, or like he thought he deserved a more specific apology. But Chris had said he'd been a dick, that Lance hadn't done anything wrong, that it wasn't about the guy thing. He didn't know what else to offer except, "C'mon, we'll go down to the Reeperbahn."

"Really?" Lance tamped the excitement down fast but it was there, right under the disbelief.

"Yeah," Chris said. "Let's go. We'll put your Bourbon Street stories to shame."

 

 

It was long after their Lou-dictated, never-enforced curfew by the time they left. Lance changed into black pants and this green t-shirt that was both too tight and too flattering for Chris' tastes. He didn't say anything, but he must've thrown some kind of look because at the last minute Lance grabbed a black turtleneck sweater out of his bag and pulled it on in the elevator.

Everyone was out on the streets, gender-bent whores flashing their mixed goods, guys in chaps with their asses hanging out. The Reeperbahn made Mardi Gras look like a Disney cartoon, and Chris smiled, relaxing a little. Sometimes it was fun being the one who knew how to get in trouble. Better Lance get in trouble there with him than on the airwaves with some asshole.

He paused on a corner to light a cigarette and a boxy blue car that had been circling for parking flashed its brights at them. When he looked up, Lance was leaning against a brick wall, propped on one elbow like something out of one of those ads in the back of the free papers. The car's headlights flicked on and off again, making an offer, and Chris threw his match down, grabbing Lance by the elbow.

"Could you just try to be slightly less --" Chris muttered, ducking into the nearest club.

"Less what?" Lance tugged his arm away, like he didn't even get what he looked like when he cocked his hip like that and smiled blankly at the passers-by. "Less what?"

"Less pretty," Chris said, blinking in the smoky haze. This was a bad idea. This place had too many dark corners for Lance to disappear into, and maybe Chris had given up on the whole swooping savior thing but it didn't mean he was gonna throw Lance to the wolves, either.

Lance touched Chris' stomach, just for a second, getting his attention. "You think I'm pretty?"

"You're." Chris narrowed his eyes. He didn't think he could handle a hangover, nine shows in the next six days and being on Lance's bad side again. "You're a very handsome man, Lance Bass. Is that the right answer?"

Lance frowned. "Not like that. Like. Pretty."

Chris sighed and abandoned his search for a waiter. The club wasn't dangerous so much as it was lousy, more dark corners than people to hide in them. "You say that like it's a bad thing. I'll have you know we've come a long way on that pretty face of yours." He turned around and walked back out, Lance on his heels.

"But I'm gonna." Lance swerved around a drunk couple clinging to each other in the middle of the sidewalk. Chris slowed down, finishing his cigarette, and when Lance caught up with him, he said, "Chris, I'll grow out of it, right? It's just baby fat. Right?"

"You're eighteen, not five, so, no, you'll probably always be this pretty." Chris knew where they should go. He knew the perfect place. He took off down the street. "You should learn to love it now and save yourself years of embarrassing attempts to grow facial hair and get your nose broken, or whatever it is you pretty boys do when you're convinced you have to look like the Marlboro man."

Lance stopped walking and Chris didn't even notice at first. He turned around and waited and stared and finally used the international symbol for get your ass over here. "I don't want to always be the pretty one," Lance said, enunciation tight, and it was like Chris had never apologized at all.

Chris took a step backwards but Lance didn't follow. The door to a bar flew open with a crash and a roar and people surged around them. Chris got pushed into Lance, right up against him, and still Lance didn't look up.

"Lance." Someone jostled Chris in the ribs and he steadied himself with a hand on Lance's thin wrist. "Lance." Chris brought Lance's head up with a finger to his jaw. "You're not pretty."

"Thanks," Lance said, bitterly. "That's just great. I don't even have --"

Chris cupped Lance's cheek, silencing him, and leaned in to speak in his ear. Maybe he just hadn't found the right thing to apologize for yet. Fix it, Joey said. Fix him. "You're beautiful, okay? Okay?" Chris pulled away when he felt Lance nod, his face moving against Chris' hand.

Lance's cheeks were flushed and he shoved his hands in his pockets. The crowd thinned to a trickle. Chris could see him biting down a smile.

"We're not talking about this anymore," Chris said. "We're leaving. I know the perfect place to go."

Lance put his hand out like the good Southern gentleman he was when he didn't have his head up his ass acting like a girl. "Lead the way," he said. Chris tucked his hand in Lance's elbow instead. Two guys in a sea of sexual deviants and Chris thought they'd be pretty safe if they could just stick together.

 

 

It had taken Chris about a month into their first stay in Germany to realize that the tall, beautiful women at his favorite hole-in-the-wall bars were all lesbians. Which hadn't stopped him from starting conversations with them, because it was actually kind of reassuring that the reason he hadn't really gotten anywhere wasn't anything to do with him, specifically. And sometimes they had cute gay friends, which as far as he was concerned was just a bonus. He hadn't entirely realized how many gay guys worked at theme parks until he was across the Atlantic and every boy he met wasn't queer.

"She is adorable," Nicola said when she saw Lance, and Chris had his mouth open for some pronoun correcting when she pinched Lance's cheeks and Lance actually grinned. Maybe she meant it in the gay way. And then Nicola was talking about shows and singing, fast and so accented that Chris lit a smoke and wandered off for beers instead of trying to keep up. Lance was surely safe among the Amazons.

When he came back, Lance was gone. "What did you do with him?" he asked Katja, Nicola's girlfriend, and she just stared at him questioningly.

He tried it in German, and still she shrugged and said only, "Ich weiss nicht." Five minutes in a lesbian bar and somehow Lance had managed to get himself into trouble. Chris pushed back out of the booth but Katja grabbed his arm. "She's fine," Katja said. "Ihr geht's gut."

"Well, what is that supposed to mean?"

"They're all right," she said in English.

"No, I know that," Chris said, trying a French exhale and failing miserably. He could smoke, but he was not a cool smoker. And German lesbians were babes, but sometimes they were really dense. "He's fine and dandy. But where --"

"There," she said, nodding to Nicola coming out of a side door, followed by this butch chick in a tuxedo. Chris was somehow reassured that there were, in fact, German lesbians who did not look like Cindy Crawford. It was kind of a high-pressure gig otherwise. Maybe he should start a fan club for short mannish lesbians. He could be their ringleader. They could trade mailing lists.

But, man, Joey was gonna kill him if he'd lost Lance in the most infamous red-light district in Germany. "Where is my -- Lance, my friend, where is he?" Chris asked, and then Nicola and the butch chick sat down at their booth, except the butch chick was actually Lance. Wearing a tuxedo, and a long cream scarf tossed over one shoulder. And eyeliner. "Oh, Jesus," Chris said.

Lance smiled and his scarf cascaded like a slow-motion water ride from his neck, pooling in vanilla folds along his arm. He pointed to the full beer on the table. "Is this mine?"

"No," Chris said, and drank it.

"It's okay," Lance whispered, putting his hand on Chris' thigh. Nicola and Katja were speaking quickly and softly in German, and Chris had no idea what they were saying, but it was not okay. It was not okay. Whatever it was.

"When did our little walk on the wild side go black tie?" Chris finally managed, waving a waitress over and ordering another round.

Lance glanced at Nicola and bent close to Chris' ear. "She thought, she said she thought I was one of your lesbian girlfriends. Do you sleep with lesbians a lot?"

"Sadly, no," Chris said, and when Lance's warm breath faded back from Chris' face, he sat up fast, dislodging Lance's hand. "Wait, what?"

"They're having some kind of drag show, Chris," Lance said patiently. "And I was, I was tryin' to tell her, you know."

"You're a manly man of the highest order. Possibly a Nordic manly man."

Lance elbowed him. "Well. Yeah, sort of. But she started taking off my sweater, and then she just. I think she was confused. What's the German word for Adam's apple?"

"Gefickt." They were so fucked.

"I don't think that's it," Lance said seriously. "And anyway then she was like, put this on, let me do your makeup, come be in our show."

"You know, some people actually know how to say no. Nein." Chris squinted. Lance was. Pretty was so not the right word for how he looked, because under the eyeliner and a deep stain on each cheek that Chris was pretty sure wasn't rouge, Lance looked. He looked strong and sure of himself.

"But she's your friend," Lance said. "I didn't want to be rude."

"And look where that got you," Chris said. "We really have to work on this tendency you have to be so obliging."

"We really have to work on this tendency you have to be such a pain in the ass," Lance shot back.

The waitress set two more pints on the table and Chris dove into his like it was warm milk. Spilt milk. Lance was just way too far gone to save. He didn't particularly feel like crying about it, but it was all a little weird. Somewhere between giving Lance a good talking to and making him cry, Chris had apparently decided that it was someone else's job to protect them from each other. Maybe Joey's. But Joey wasn't there, so they were just fucked.

Chris reached for his wallet and the waitress shook her head and pointed at Lance, saying, "Hers are free."

Lance beamed and Chris shook his head. "Ten minutes ago you're ready to cry over being too pretty and now you're, what. Ready to chop it off?"

"Chris," Lance said sharply. "I think." He looked pointedly around at the mish-mash of genders all packed into the little, dark room. "I think some people here might be a little offended by that. And I'm not, I just --"

Chris sighed and Lance squeezed his leg. It wasn't reassuring. It really wasn't reassuring that Lance seemed to be able to tell that Chris had given in to the inevitability of the entire crazy scheme pretty much as soon as Lance first sat down.

"This place is fun," Lance said simply. "I'm glad we came here. Do you want to get dressed up, too?"

"No."

"C'mon."

"Maybe you didn't notice, Lance, but no one has mistaken my hairy mug for a girl's since I was, you know, twelve."

"Nicola wanted to draw a beard on me with eyeshadow, but I said no."

"Oh, so it is in your vocabulary after all," Chris said.

Lance paused and half-turned in the booth so he was facing Chris. "Are you really mad about this?" His eyes were a little watery and they looked soft, the thick blue smudges that lined his lids making the green irises darken into a deep oceany color. Lance's hand moved to Chris' thigh and he pet Chris softly, calmly, like Chris was a rabid dog. "I thought. I thought maybe..."

Chris wasn't mad. Find me someone who likes me for more than being pretty, Lance'd said, and there they were. He shook his head at Lance and sighed. That was what he got for touching Lance's face and telling him to be one with his prettiness. That was why he shouldn't talk. He just shook his head and took another drink.

Lance smiled and the petting turned into a long, smooth stroke up Chris' leg and back down again. "Can I have a cigarette?" Lance asked coolly.

Chris jerked back. "What? No. Nein."

"It's for the show. We're, I think we're all doing this Dietrich thing. It was kind of hard to follow what she was sayin', she talked so fast. But I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to sit there and look cool and smoke and try to join in on the chorus."

"No," Chris said. He crumpled the empty pack on the table. He hadn't yet ruled out the possibility that this whole thing was just Lance playing a joke on him.

Lance shrugged and finished his beer. "Whatever. I think you're just freaked out because this is kind of hot. This whole thing."

"What? What whole thing?"

Lance just smiled and ran his finger around the rim of his beer stein. "You're just freaked out. You'll be fine. You'll get used to in a minute. But you know who would really, like, actually hate this? Jan. Jan would hate this."

Chris hated evil record company assholes even more than he hated old blond German VJs who liked to put their hands on Lance. Jan had his own fiery level in Chris' hell. Lance just smiled, though, and so Chris sang "Jan Jakob Jingleheimer Schmidt," just like he always did, even when it was just Lance trying to change the subject.

Lance smiled and Chris realized he was wearing lipstick, too, his mouth dark and plush against creamy pale skin. Chris didn't know why anyone would dress Lance up as a girl pretending to be a boy and then paint him like a two-dollar whore. But it was kind of hot. Lance put his hand on Chris' leg again, then leaned in and sang softly against Chris' cheek, "Whenever we go out, the people always shout."

"Jan would really hate this," Chris whispered, because Lance was right there, so there was no need to shout. Lance only grinned wider and Chris felt the cool slide of lipstick along his cheekbone. Nicola clapped loudly and Chris jumped, knocking his jaw against Lance's nose. She pointed to a line of girls in tuxes doing an admirable job of swaggering onto the stage and pulled Lance out of the booth. "Showtime!" she said, and Lance took her hand and joined the parade.

Chris had spent more than his fair share of time watching Lance skip his way from one side of a room to the other, but he didn't think he'd ever seen Lance strut before. He sort of looked like he'd just gotten laid, actually, and when he spun back around and winked slow and sultry in Chris' direction, Chris sunk down in the booth. Lance looked like he'd either just gotten fucked or was waiting to be. No way was he man enough to save Lance from himself. Too late for anyone involved to cry innocent and Chris gulped down another beer as they took their places.

They sang the song from "Morocco," just like Chris knew they would, and Lance had managed to bum a smoke somewhere along the way but all he really did was wave the lit cigarette around, lounge in a round-backed chair and nod along with the music. He took his cues well, though, smiling and grinding back when one of the girls in a dress straddled him for the last chorus.

Katja threw back her long hair and laughed in delight. "She is beautiful," she shouted across the table, and then put two fingers between her lips and whistled loudly.

Chris almost sprained his wrist he clapped so hard. He didn't have to always be such a pain in the ass. Lance was being all manly and enjoying himself and maybe if anyone needed a talking-to, it wasn't Lance.

Katja touched his arm and said, "She really likes only men?"

Chris watched Lance bow and then curtsy and then bow again with the other girls. "Yeah," he told Katja, and she shook her head, pouting.

"You're a lucky man," she said, "finding such a pretty girl in a bar full of dykes."

"Yeah," Chris said. One of the girls was pinching Lance's cheek and running her hands through his short blond hair. "That's. I'm lucky."

Lance came back glowing and when Chris said, "Good job, man, that was really something," he laughed and socked Chris in the shoulder.

"Give a girl a real compliment," Lance said, rolling his eyes and tossing his scarf back.

"Uh," Chris said. Lance liked to be noticed, and God knew Chris had been noticing pretty closely. "That was pretty hot," he admitted, and Lance beamed, flopping down beside him. Chris raised a hand to tease Lance's spiky hair back into place. Katja and Nicola started making out across the table, which was kind of hot, too. A girl in red fishnet stockings started playing a piano and warbling in Portuguese as Lance finished his drink. He switched his glass from one hand to the other and somehow became more attached to the idea of pawing Chris non-stop.

Chris had one more beer and let himself trail his fingers down Lance's shirt where the ruffles were tucked behind a black satin cummerbund. Lance smiled, looked straight at Chris, and batted his eyes. He was wearing mascara, too, pretty black lashes flickering back and forth every time he looked up at Chris and then back down at where they were almost holding hands on the table. Chris slid his fingers under Lance's jacket, around his side, and left them resting against the damp cotton on his lower back.

Lance bent into the curve of Chris' arm, resting his head on Chris' shoulder.

"You tired?" Chris asked, rubbing between Lance's shoulderblades.

"No," Lance said. He didn't sound tired, or drunk, and Chris wasn't really drunk either, he just felt like it.

"You wanna go?"

Lance tilted his head and kissed Chris on the cheek in a flash. "Yes," he said. "Lemme go change."

 

 

Somehow Lance looked like more of a man out of the tuxedo, though the eyeliner and the black turtleneck sweater were clearly some specially concocted ensemble intended to make Chris forget any problem he'd ever thought they had.

Lance kissed him for real the minute they were in the cab, running his hands down Chris' ribs and pressing their lips together like he dared Chris to tell him to stop. Chris was pinned to the seat, Lance holding his waist and pushing him up into the kiss like he thought if he let go Chris might try to escape.

Chris wasn't drunk but he felt more like it with every minute, and Lance was moving with way too much coordination to not be deliberately shredding all of Chris' admittedly limited reserve. He licked his way across Chris' chin, dragged his tongue along the edge of a day's worth of beard, humming and digging his fingers into Chris' sides.

Chris pulled back. "You're. Lance, is this a joke? You should tell me now if this is a joke. It's not going to be as funny in a minute or two."

Lance blinked, wild green flashing as the cab passed in and out of a tunnel. "A joke?"

Chris shook his head and their noses bumped. "Lance. Lance, what are you doing, Lance?"

"I haven't gone and forgotten my name, if that's what you're worried about. Chris." Lance was twisted around and braced over Chris, elbows on the vinyl seat on either side of Chris' head. He was beautiful and smirking and he said it again, "Chris," low and scratchy. Chris bit at Lance's lower lip. Lance laughed against Chris' mouth and said, "I don't know. Maybe I like you."

"Maybe?" Chris asked, pushing forward to sit upright. He squared his shoulders and smiled at Lance.

Lance clambered up, straddling him, and Chris put his hands around Lance's back, holding tightly as they careened around a corner. Lance dipped his head and sucked one of Chris' earrings between his teeth. "I do," he breathed, and Chris held his face in his hands and kissed him hard.

Chris buried one hand in Lance's hair and Lance moaned, squeezing Chris' hips between his thighs. Chris bucked up and Lance ground his body down. The cab bumped over uneven roads and they pushed against each other like they were just trying to keep their balance.

Chris didn't want them to fall or anything, and the car kept starting and stopping again with almost no warning, so he slouched back against the long seat and pulled Lance down to cover his body. Chris thought Lance had given the guy the name of their hotel but he wasn't really sure. He didn't really care, because Lance's mouth was warm and wet on his neck, on his ear, along his collarbone. Chris didn't want to think too much about what that mouth might feel like on other parts of his body, but just thinking not to think about it made everything even warmer and wetter than it already was.

There was a long squeak and a clunk like a transmission being dropped onto cobblestone, and Chris sat up, dizzy. And then there was a hotel, and cabfare that Lance paid out of Chris' wallet, which he took from Chris' pants, which he returned with a slide and a squeeze to Chris' ass as he pushed him out of the car.

 

 

It wasn't like Chris never had sex, but it had been a while since he'd slept with someone he knew he was going to see again. And even longer since he'd gotten so much as a good grope from someone that determined to make the experience an unforgettable, impossible-to-resist-a-repeat-performance kind of thing. Lance was out to impress. Chris was not complaining.

Chris' shirt was somewhere on the floor. So were his pants. Lance's slacks had barely made it intact into their room. The sweater was heavy enough that it almost broke the lamp on the nightstand when they pushed it over Lance's head and off out of the way. Lance's too-tight green t-shirt was pushed up into his armpits and his makeup was smeared on Chris' pillowcase.

Chris traced each of Lance's pretty, perfect nipples with his tongue, back and forth and back again, and Lance moaned and arched like Chris had discovered a new civilization. "Oh my God," he kept saying, except every third or fourth time he stretched the "my" into "mahhh" like a whore from Gone With the Wind or something.

Chris kissed around Lance's bellybutton and Lance raised his hips off the bed with a sigh. Chris tugged Lance's boxers down and off, too, and sat on his knees between Lance's legs. Lance's thighs were strong but shapely, like they were still surprised to carry so much muscle, and his stomach was flat and smooth. His long chest was soft, and almost entirely hairless, and his arms were pale. His dick was hard and twice as grown up as the gentle planes of his face, and Chris wouldn't have blamed the entire international staff of BMG if they'd wanted a piece of this.

Not that he'd have let them have it.

"What?" Lance said, leaning up on his elbows and trying to take his shirt the rest of the way off. He looked like he was trying to tie himself up.

Chris pushed the fabric over Lance's head and bent down, settling himself in the crook of Lance's hip. He kissed Lance like he was on national television, like some stage manager was trying to get their attention but they were big enough stars to take all the time in the world, however long they needed to get it right.

Lance wrapped a leg around Chris' waist, jolting them into alignment, and Chris said against Lance's neck, "I was supposed to save you."

"From what?" Lance slid his hand over Chris' back and shoved his underwear down around his ass.

"You know. Yourself. From the legions of men willing to take advantage of your prettiness." Lance laughed and dug his short nails into Chris' back, pushing their dicks together. Chris said, "The legions of other men."

Lance stilled suddenly and relaxed like he knew the answer. He put his hand on the back of Chris' neck, kissing him slow and deep. "I've done this before," he said, breathing hard.

Chris had figured that part out. "So have I," he said.

Lance smiled so wide and beautiful that Chris felt his breath catch. "Well, that's good, because I am so not patient enough right now to explain how this works."

Chris put a finger in the middle of Lance's chest and kissed one delicate eyebrow over and over. "I know how this works," he said.

Lance rolled his neck and groaned when Chris licked his Adam's apple. "Then do it already. Please." Lance was so fucking pretty and polite to boot. He was a total dreamboat and he was begging Chris to touch him. Chris thought maybe that was the part worth saving.

 

END.

 

Credits: So much Victor/Victoria in my formative years. German by Jae Gecko. Read-throughs by Dafna, kel, Jamie, Younger and especially JaeW, who all did their best to save me from myself. Freakysparks walks like a man, and all the rest of the genderfuck is, as always, for/from Ray. Soundtrack by George Michael, "Something to Save." All these games that you play / Don't tell me how a man should be / Some would say if you knew / You wouldn't be here with me.

feedback

home