By Trixie

The hotel corridor is quiet when Chris stumbles off the elevator, Mike following him silently. It annoys Chris because dammit, it's not that late, only about 2:30. But Freddy-the-Fuck is in town and Lance disappeared with him right after the show, Joey is trying to fight off the flu, and JC had gone to the club, but promptly disappeared with a set of red-headed sisters. The fucker.

More than anyone, he's annoyed at Justin. Justin, who's been busy moping and sulking and just generally sucking over the whole break-up with Britney. Justin, his usual playmate on boring tour nights like this, had stood in the middle of the bus, swaying with the road and rubbing his forehead. "Chris," he'd said, "I just don't feel like going out. I wanna just take a bath and chill or something."

So Chris had gone out alone and come back the same way, with added intoxicating substances in his blood stream. He briefly considers knocking on JC's door and interrupting whatever bizarre sex thing he's up to these days, but discards the idea in the "I just don't want to know" pile. Instead, he waves Mike off and pounds on Justin's door, deciding two weeks is way too fucking long to mope over that girl.

It takes a few minutes and half the chorus of Hey Jude before he hears some stumbling and muttering, and the door flies open, and Chris is falling face first into a half-naked Justin.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Justin carefully props him back on his feet, then turns and walks away. Chris ignores the annoyance in Justin's voice and follows him in, kicking the door shut behind him.

"I'm booooored."

"You're drunk, is what you are."

Chris looks around the room, cataloging the slightly rumpled bed, vanilla-scented lotion bottle and box of Kleenex sitting on the bed-side table, Justin wearing nothing but a pair of track-pants, and the tv playing some real-estate investment infomercial, which is exactly the kind of thing Justin despises. Chris grabs the remote off the bed and hits recall. He's not at all surprised when the porn channel comes up.

"Timberlake, you jerk." Chris tosses the remote back on the bed and sits down, scooting back to make himself comfortable. "You stayed home to whack off when you could have been out with me picking up real chicks? Did you forget you're single now?"

"Man, it's too much fucking trouble sometimes."

"Yeah, you and Chasez have the same kind of trouble. I know how hard it is to walk into a room and all."

"Fuck you, Chris." But there isn't much heat behind it and Justin reaches into the dresser and tosses Chris an Altoids tin, which Chris is happy to discover has a couple joints in it, then pulls a book of matches off the bed-side table and crawls up on the bed next to Chris.

Two joints, a bag of pretzels, most of The Naughty Nurses from Nantucket later, and Chris has settled in with the perfect balance of alcohol-buzz and pot-high and he's laughing at the funny voices Justin has been adding to the now-muted soundtrack. Fuck clubs and chicks, this is much more fun, he thinks.

"So, seriously, J. Why the hermit act? When last we talked, you were all about being the ex-Mr. Britney Spears and ready to live the life of the single popstar. Now you're sitting around in a hotel room jerking off to bad porn?"

Justin shrugs and takes a drink of his beer. He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, but Chris waits. Justin doesn't really keep things in, but sometimes it takes him a while to actually talk about it. And anyway, Chris is much better at waiting for Justin than most people know.

"We were together for a long time," he finally says, fingers smoothing over the slick fabric of his track pants. "It seems like a lot to just throw away."

Chris sighs and says the thing that he absolutely does not want to say, but sometimes Justin just needs permission to do what he plans to do anyway. And as much as it's like driving bamboo under his own fingernails, he's always had a hard time denying Justin anything. "Why don't you just forgive her. If you love her and want to be with her, you should just be with her."

"She fucking cheated on me, Chris."

"Yeah, and you've gotten plenty of blow-jobs from random girls, not to mention your little dirrty indiscretion that we don't talk about."

"But those don't count. She slept with one of my best friends. For like two months, Chris. It's different."

Chris rolls his eyes and flops back on the bed. This is what he gets for raising the kid around Joey has-a-nice-girl-back-home-but-it-shouldn't-keep-him-from-having-fun Fatone and JC sex-and-love-are-completely-different-things-and-labels-are-so-bourgeois Chasez.

"Whatever, man. Either you don't want to be with her and you get on with your life or you do want to be with her and you kiss and make up and live happily ever after on the cover of People. But make up your mind, dude, because this tour is getting really boring, really fast."

Justin squints at Chris for a few seconds, clearly trying to decide whether the subject needs more discussion or not, then smirks down at him. "And as we all know, it's all about you."

"Fuck, yes," Chris replies with a grin and a long-suffering sigh. "How many times do I have to tell you people that?"

Before Justin can reply, Chris is up and pouncing on Justin, pinning him down to the bed and chanting "me, me, me, all about me" as Justin laughs. When Justin gets enough breath to say, "Alright, I get it, fucker. Get the fuck off of me," he gives up, but not before pulling down Justin's sweats to smack him on the ass.

And whoa. Holy shit, Chris thinks, just before he's thrown off Justin's back and Justin is up off the bed and across the room.

"Justin?" he asks, slowly. "Are you wearing pink lace panties or did I smoke some really bad weed?"

"Fuck," Justin mutters, adjusting the waist of his track pants and rubbing his left hand against his hip. "It's not. I'm not."

"Hey," Chris is quick to interrupt him, sitting up and scooting to the edge of the bed. "Whatever, kid. I am the last person to judge anyone for their kinks."

"It's not a kink!" Justin paces the room twice before stopping in front of the dresser, the tense muscles of his back clear in the mirror behind him. "It's. They're Brit's. She left them a while back and I stuck them in my bag and found them tonight. I." He turns around, pressing his hands against the dresser and looking down, eyes closed. "I just missed her is all."

There's a pink lace edge peeking above his waistband along his left hip and Chris's mouth is suddenly dry as a fucking desert. There's a lot of history here, dangerous history, because in the beginning, Justin was a really talented kid who followed Chris around like a puppy dog and then he was his best friend, until Chris woke up one day around the time Justin was nineteen and realized that his feelings were a fuck of a lot more complicated that that. Judicious use of denial and avoidance has served him well in the last couple of years and he knows he really shouldn't fuck with that balance.

He considers getting the fuck out of the room, or at least sitting on his hands till this urge passes. But he's drunk, and that's as good an excuse as any, so he stands up and takes three steps forward.

"I know it's weird," Justin mutters, "but..."

"It's not weird," Chris says quickly, then reaches out the last six inches and touches the slice of pink. "It's kinda sexy."

Justin's eyes fly open and he stares at Chris in the mirror. In for a penny, in for a pound, Chris thinks, trying not to hear his grandmother's voice in his head, and steps forward the rest of the way, right up against Justin's back, never looking away from the wide dark blue eyes in the mirror.

"Chris." A whisper, but Justin doesn't move, so Chris breaks eye contact and breathes on a spot right between Justin's shoulder blades, watching him shiver.

"You might as well make it count, right?" He slides his fingers under the edge of the pants, lace rubbing against the back of his fingers as he pushes them down and kisses where he'd breathed.

"Oh, Jesus."

"No, just Chris." And Justin laughs at that, his back loosening up a little, but he still sounds a little wild, a little freaked, so Chris doesn't give him a chance to think, just pushes the pants down all the way and mouths his way up to the back of Justin's neck.

Justin steps out of his pants, kicking them aside, giving Chris tacit permission, before closing his eyes and leaning back into him. When Chris shifts, dragging his fingers up over the ridges of Justin's abs, he can see Justin's fingers in the mirror, white against the dark wood of the dresser top. The room is silent and Chris feels like he's holding his breath, moving in slow motion, waiting for Justin to come to his senses and push him away, tell him to take his drunk ass to bed, and pretend this never happened.

Instead, Justin whispers, "God," and moves restlessly against Chris, pink lace rubbing against the front of Chris's jeans. Okay, so no pushing away going on here. Encouraged, he drags his fingers back down and over lace, tracing the bottom edge of the panties from Justin's hips, down the hollow above his thighs, and back up over his dick. Justin groans and Chris grins against the back of his neck.

He must have really taken a bath earlier in the evening, because he smells clean and like the fruity aromatherapy bubble bath that he likes to use. He's such a girl sometimes, Chris thinks, and has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the thought. Instead, he cups Justin's dick, barely contained inside the small panties. They're the sorta boxer-y kind, square-cut and stretched to their limit over his hips, but Chris has no idea what they're called. He just thinks they're incredibly hot.

When Chris doesn't do anything else, Justin pushes back against him, then turns around, grabbing Chris's face and kissing him, forcing his tongue into Chris's mouth. He tastes like pretzels and pot and his kiss is sloppy and wet, but with the kind of single-minded focus that Chris expects from anything Justin does. He pulls away just enough to place a sucking kiss against Justin's collar-bone and take in the view from the front. He doesn't get much of a look because Justin's pulling Chris's shirt off, walking him backwards towards the bed and pushing him down.

And oh yeah, this is a much better view, he thinks, crawling back on the bed. Chris remembers a night a few years ago JC had put black eyeliner on Justin, trying to convince him to wear it to a club. Justin had ultimately washed it off, but Chris jerked off to the image of those eyes and lips and the halo of blond curls for weeks and he's never forgotten it. There's very little softness, girlishness, left in Justin these days, but that doesn't lessen the sheer obscene beauty of pink lace stretched across Justin's dick.

Justin pulls Chris's boots and jeans off then slinks up the bed, stopping above Chris on all fours and looking down at him with a grin.

"Fuck," Chris says, because it's pretty much the only thought he's able to form, and Justin chuckles. Fucking chuckles at him and that kind of pisses Chris off, but not for long, because he's got miles of skin and a few inches of pink lace above him and he's not about to waste that.

A hand around Justin's neck, and he pulls him down into a kiss, his other hand free to slide into the panties and grab Justin's dick. Justin is warm and damp in Chris's grip, and when he squeezes, Justin groans into his mouth and pushes against his hand, before lowering himself down on top of Chris.

Chris has no idea how long it lasts, but it seems like they make out for ages, kissing, rubbing against each other, his hand on Justin's dick, Justin's hands all over him. The thing is, Chris is bisexual, but only by the strictest definition, because he likes women, likes them so much that it rarely occurs to him that there's something else on the menu. He's only gotten with guys occasionally, and in between he always forgets just how good this is, how much he likes the hard, strong bodies against him and someone else's dick in his hand. But there are women and there are men and then there's Justin Timberlake, and he's a category all to himself in the smorgasbord of Chris's sexuality. Which makes this all a monumentally bad idea, but whatever, there's no way Chris is going to stop now.

When Justin's thrusting gets more frantic, Chris backs off, rolling them over. Justin doesn't want to let go of his mouth, but Chris pulls back, holding Justin still. "You got condoms and stuff?"

A little line forms between Justin's eyebrows and he frowns at Chris. "Um. Chris, I don't..."

"I know." Chris interrupts him. "But I do. If you're interested."

Justin's face smoothes out and the frown is gone, replaced by fever-bright eyes. "Fuck yeah," he says and licks his lips. "The overnight bag in the bathroom. Inner pocket."

When Chris comes back, Justin has spread out on the bed comfortably, panties still on, and Jesus fuck, it's like Christmas and New Year's and a Grammy, all rolled into one. Pulling off his boxers, he climbs onto the bed and straddles Justin's hips, sitting back until he can feel the lace on his ass. He grinds down and laughs when Justin groans and grabs his thighs, holding him in place.

He drops the condom and lube on Justin's chest and moves back just enough to pull the panties off, down Justin's long legs. They're damp and warm, but much less interesting than what's laid out in front of him, so he tosses them on the bedside table and moves back up Justin's body, stopping him when he tries to turn them over.

Condom and fingers and lube and before he knows it, he's lowering himself down, onto Justin's dick, watching Justin watch him and on the scale of hot it tops just about everything he's ever done since letting Jerry Turner jerk him off in his grandmother's barn when he was twelve.

"Fuck. Chris." Justin gasps, his fingers digging painfully into Chris's thighs. His hips come up off the bed, pushing into Chris, and Chris bites his own lip. It's been a long time since he's done this and it's just this side of too much pain, but he places a hand against Justin's abs, holding him still, letting himself get used to it.

A few deep breaths and it's okay, so he pulls up a little and leans over to kiss Justin, before sitting up again and letting Justin thrust up into him. They fight against each other's rhythm for a moment, but not for long because they've been singing and dancing together for too long not to be able to adjust.

Less than two minutes and Justin gets frustrated with the pace. He grabs Chris by the hips and sits up, carefully flips them over, and Chris digs his fingers into Justin's forearms and wraps his legs high around Justin's back. Then it's hard and fast and their breathing and grunting are loud in the room, punctuated with Chris's, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. God, harder. Fuck."

Justin comes first, and fuck that's pretty, then leans over to kiss Chris again, deep and wet and desperate, fingers sunk into Chris's hair and the skin of his lower back. Eventually, he pulls out and away and moves down to take Chris's dick in his mouth. Justin's not very good at this, but it takes barely anything at all, and Chris is coming in his mouth, and it's so fucking good, Chris feels like the top of his head's going to blow off.

When Chris gets his breath back, Justin's laying next to him, head propped on his hand, grinning down at him with the stupidest smug grin on his face.

"That was pretty good, yeah?" he asks, and Chris is forced to reach up and push him over with a hand on his face, causing Justin to cackle in laughter.

"It wasn't bad," Chris says in his most non-chalant voice, then yawns.

By the time Justin turns off the light and pulls a blanket over them both, Chris is nearly asleep. Justin curls up against him, his face tucked into Chris's neck, and whispers, "Thanks, Chris."

When Chris wakes up, there's a slice of light leaking in between the curtains and it does nothing for his headache. Sitting up and pushing the blanket off of him, he forgets about the pain in his head in favor of the pain in his ass. Fuck, it's been a long time since he did that, and he's going to be paying for it all day. He's alone in bed, but he can hear Justin singing a Diana Ross song in the shower.

And he remembers. He remembers the panties and the sex, and he remembers all the reasons why this was a horrible no-good very bad idea.

"Fuck." He slaps himself in the forehead, wincing when that just makes his head hurt more, and rubs his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, getting up and hunting down his pants and t-shirt.

He's pulling on his boots when Justin walks out of the bathroom, wrapped in one of the plush hotel robes.

"You're awake!"

"Um, yeah. I gotta go get showered before Melinda starts making wake-up calls."

"Fucking radio interviews this morning," Justin nods in sympathy, but steps in front of Chris when he tries to make for the door. "Dude, chill a minute."

So Chris sits back down on the edge of the bed and watches Justin sit down in a chair across from him. He sinks down in the chair and stretches his legs out, fingers playing with the robe's belt.

"We should, like, talk about this. Right?" he asks, not looking up at Chris.

"J, I know you like to talk about shit, but." Chris takes a deep breath, tries to figure out the best way to make this conversation as short and painless as possible. "What's to talk about, man? We had sex. It was fantastic. We don't really need to make a big deal out of this, right?"

Justin rubs his hands over the soft robe against his thighs a few times and then looks up at Chris. "No. No, no big deal." It's suddenly impossible to read him, and that scares Chris more than anything. "Good fun though, yeah?"

"Yeah." Chris stands up, tucks his hands in his jean pockets and tries to decide if they're done. "I gotta..."

"Yeah." Justin crosses his legs and runs a hand over his head. "I was thinking, though, you know? I think you were right last night."

"About what?"

"Brit. Maybe I need to talk to her. Maybe. Maybe I should see if we can work shit out." He shrugs and doesn't look at Chris.

Chris feels like he's standing in the middle of a mine field here, ready to step in the wrong direction and lose a few limbs. More than anything, he wants to tell Justin to call his mom, let her give him advice. Or Joey, because he's always been the one who can manage to say the right thing when Justin or Lance are in need of that big brother thing. So he asks himself, what would Joey do, and goes with that.

"Kid, you should do whatever feels right to you. You got good instincts. If you think you should work things out, then you probably should." He steps forward and lays a loud kiss on Justin's forehead. "But right now, you need to get dressed so you can go sell us some albums, and I need a fucking shower in the worst way."

Justin grins up at him and looks more comfortable suddenly. "Yeah, alright. Go. You kinda stink, dude."

Chris is almost out the door when Justin stops him. "Chris?" He turns around and looks at Justin. "Thanks. For. For everything, man."

Chris just smiles at him and leaves, closing the door carefully behind him. "Yeah, I'm a fuckin' saint," he says, heading for his own room and wanting nothing more than a shower and half a bottle of Advil. "And a complete fucking idiot."

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