By Trixie

The studio is a fucking mess, Chris thinks, surveying it from his sprawl against a leg of the piano. The piano itself is covered in JC’s scraps of paper and old coffee cups, as is the keyboards, the little table and the couch. Pretty much every flat surface is covered in the detritus of JC in the throes of writing. Which is why he’s on the floor and there’s a pizza box spread out between them, the picked over carcass of a large pizza with everything on one side of the open box, the other half holding the remains of JC’s haphazard joint-rolling.

And JC is giggling-- spread out on the floor, still giggling over Chris’ latest additions to the list-in-progress that he likes to call “101 Things Lance Bass Can Do in Zero-gravity That He Can’t Do on Earth.” His old t-shirt is pulled up on his belly and his track pants are low on his narrow hips, like always, and there’s just an expanse of tan, flat, quivering belly for Chris to look at. Chris thinks this must be just about the best way to spend a Wednesday afternoon on hiatus.

Except that JC is supposed to be writing. And Chris is supposed to be going over dissolution papers for Fuman that the lawyers sent him. And really, he’s been distracting JC way too much for the last two weeks, and it’s already 3:30 and they haven’t actually gotten anything done yet today. With a sigh, he pulls himself to his feet.

“Dude, I have to get out of here.”

“What?” JC says, squinting up at him. “No, don’t go yet.”

“You need to write and I need to get a hundred different things done. Seriously, man. I’ll uh… be back tonight.” He nods decisively and forces himself to move toward the door.

“Chriiiiiiis,” JC say, drawing his name out and adding several syllables that it isn’t meant to have. Chris turns to see him flip over and push himself off the floor, all arms and legs, clumsy and graceful all at the same time. “Fuck all that,” he says and crosses the room, grabbing Chris by the shoulders and pinning him to the wall next to the studio door.

Chris blinks and giggling, floppy, stoned JC is gone. The squinty eyes are open and intense, blue like a storm, and JC is leaning into him, holding him in place. “Fuck all of it,” he says again and his voice is deeper, softer now. “Fuck my songs and fuck your bills and legal papers and fuck Johnny and his stupid appearances. Just…” he leans in and kisses Chris, steals whatever breath Chris had left in his lungs. “Just fuck it all and stay here. Right here, man. And…” he leans in and licks a path up the side of Chris’ neck, making him shiver, and then bites down on his ear, hard. “Let me fuck you.”

Chris’ hands are flat against the wall, but he pushes his body forward, making as much contact between their bodies as possible. He breathes deep, smelling the warm, sweaty, pot and pizza scent of JC and thinks, yeah, yeah that’s exactly what he wants to do.

“Okay,” he says, and nods, his cheek rubbing against wild curls. “Um, sure.”

And then JC is kissing him again, pushing into his mouth and taking possession of his tongue while his clever fingers are popping the buttons on his Levis. Chris buries his hands up under JC’s t-shirt, feeling warm soft skin stretched over hard ribs and the knobs of a flexible spine. But then JC is pushing him away, turning him around and pushing him up against the wall, sliding his jeans and boxers down over his ass. Chris pushes against the wall, pushes back into JC, groans and shudders when JC sinks his teeth into the back of his neck.

He puts his forehead against the cool acoustical tiles of the wall and sighs, because everything else is hot. Hot and there isn’t much air, but it’s good, it’s all good because there’s lube and a condom, and how the hell does JC just makes those kinds of things appear when he needs them? And then there’s JC, and he’s inside Chris and Chris pushes back, pushes against the wall, tries to fuse them together with sweat and sex and something altogether different.

“Christ,” he breathes, following the hard, deep thrusts of JC’s hips. JC’s hands move from his hips and they’re trailing across his torso, up across his nipples, and it’s not gentle, it’s hard and possessive, and really the hottest fucking thing ever. Then that hot fucking hand is around his cock and he’s coming all over the fancy tiles and JC is groaning against his back, his mouth wet and open against the top of Chris’ spine.

When it’s over, JC licks up into his hairline and whispers, “stay,” and Chris says, “yeah,” and laughs, feeling a bit hysterical, and says again, “yeah, I’m not going nowhere.”

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