By Trixie

Lance is humming along to the radio as he cuts up the last of the okra. He's listening to a local pop station mainly because he can't be bothered to pick a CD, and because it seems to be a decent background for his mood.

He's still wearing his swim trunks from the laps he swam in his pool this morning before flopping down in the sun and listening to his Russian tapes, letting the unfamiliar sounds roll around on his tongue while he soaked up the late-Spring sun. When the sun got high, he pulled on a t-shirt-an old one with the name of a bar in Berlin on it, that was huge on him when he bought it, but is now snug and the kind of threadbare soft that only a favorite t-shirt can be-and opened all the windows in the house instead of turning on the AC. It's in the 80's and somewhat humid, but there's a good breeze and he likes it warm like this. It reminds him of summer in Clinton.

His kitchen is sunny and comfortably warm, with a nice cross-breeze, and it's filled with the scent of garlic and sausage. The guys are coming over for dinner later. He grins as he drops the okra into his crockpot, setting aside about a cup to boil up later for Brianna. He can't really stop grinning and it's a little disconcerting because he's just not used to being happy like this.

But he is. Happy.

They just came off a successful tour, the group is getting the kind of respect that he knows the guys deserve, and he's leaving for Russia in two weeks. Even more significantly, for the past few weeks, he's been getting laid on a regular basis. Really, really good sex in fact. And more than just sex, but he's not ready to even think the L-word, much less attach it to what's been happening.

He's pouring the sautéed sausage and oil into the crockpot with the rest of the ingredients for Gramma Bass' Gumbo when the song comes on. La Vida Loca, and he can't help grabbing his remote and cranking up the volume. He's not much of a Ricky Martin fan, but there's something about this song when you're in the right mood that makes it impossible to not dance. He sprinkles cayenne and Tabasco into the mix and closes the lid, turns on the pot and sets a timer, then he picks up his sweating beer bottle and starts cleaning up the counter.

He does all this while dancing along to Ricky. He knows he can't move like Justin or JC, hell, not even like Joey, but he's learned to move his body over the last few years and he's come to enjoy it. Being on stage is all about the performance, being where you're supposed to be on cue, matching the steps to the words, and occasionally interacting with the audience. But this… this is fun. Moving his hips, singing along to Ricky, letting loose and feeling relaxed and sexy.

Somewhere in the third chorus, he spins around and catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Chris standing in the doorway.

"Fuck!" He has to grab the center island to keep from falling over when he gets his feet tangled up. "Chris, what the hell?"

But Chris can't answer because he's laughing hysterically, leaning up against the doorjamb. "Oh my god. That was…"

"Not meant for an audience." Lance hates that he can feel himself blushing.

"No, but…" Chris is wheezing through his laughter, tears running down his face now. "That… Oh fuck, Bass…"

"You don't know how to use a door-bell, or what?"

"You gave me a key, moron. And thank god, because fuckin' A, man." He's starting to calm down and is now standing up against the wall with a big grin on his face. "That was…"

"Chris…" Lance sighs, not really wanting to hear whatever joke is coming and getting increasingly annoyed. It's his damn kitchen, he can dance in it if he wants to.

"… the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen."

"Huh? Why are you laughing then?"

"Because, dude, it was also hysterical." Chris pushes off the wall and walks toward Lance, looking intent but still grinning. "You might have noticed by now, I've got some weird-ass kinks."

"No kidding," Lance responds dryly, but he's grinning now too. "So you have a secret Ricky Martin fetish?"

"Nope," Chris says, backing Lance up into the island, trapping him with his arms and leaning into him. "I have a Lance Bass fetish."

"Freak," Lance mutters before he's got Chris' tongue practically down his throat and Chris' sweaty hand in his shorts. He just manages to set his beer bottle down behind him without knocking it over before Chris pulls his t-shirt up and over his head, tosses it on the floor and reaches for the drawstring of his shorts, all without barely missing a beat in the kiss.

This is Chris Kirkpatrick as a lover… all intense impatience and steam-train, except when he's in the mood to tease. Then he's slow and gentle, but no less intense. It's exactly how Lance would have imagined him being, if he'd ever stopped to think about what Chris would be like in bed. He'd decided early on that to preserve his sanity he had to keep all thoughts of the other guys strictly platonic. He'd managed to do it too, until two weeks ago in New York when he and Justin had stumbled back to the hotel after partying and ended up in Chris' room sharing a joint. Justin had wandered off to track down JC with some song idea and Chris had sat down next to Lance on the couch, leaned over, and kissed him.

Now he's getting incredible sex on not just a regular schedule, but pretty much whenever they can find an empty room, or closet, or hell, kitchen counter apparently.

Before Lance knows it, Chris has him stripped and panting and hard as a fucking rock. The song on the radio has changed by now, but it's Rob Thomas and Santana, and that's good enough. He groans when Chris bites a nipple then licks over it lewdly, slurping a bit and humming.

"Jesus, fuck, Lance. Turn around."

Lance obeys because he's learned that whatever Chris wants is pretty much gonna be really good for him. Chris bites him again, not hard, just enough that he feels it, right between his shoulder blades, and then pushes against him, leaning him over the counter. Oh yeah. This is exactly what he wants. He spreads his legs to fix his balance and lays his palms flat on the smooth chrome surface of the island, waiting while he hears the rustle of Chris' short and the rip of a condom wrapper. He grins because they've both taken to carrying lube and condoms everywhere they go lately after being frustrated one too many times.

And then Chris is grabbing his hips and sliding into him and he groans and presses his forehead against the chrome counter. It's so fucking good. Chris stays there for a moment, breathing against the back of Lance's neck until Lance groans again because he really just wants Chris to move already. He pushes back against Chris and chuckles when Chris says, "Fuck me."

"I think you've got that backwards," Lance says, lifting his head up and turning to look at Chris. "But if you'd be so kind…"

Chris grins and mocks him in a prissy voice that is nothing like his, "If you'd be so kind. Pardon me," and then he pulls out and thrusts back in, one long slide that has Lance's toes curling against the terracotta tile of his floor.

"God," Lance breathes and meets Chris thrust for thrust, his skin sticking to the counter-top, his sweaty legs sliding against Chris' legs, Chris' canvas shorts scratching against the backs of his thighs, and he thinks this is good. This is, in fact, nearly perfect.

It doesn't last very long. It never does when it's like this. When Chris sucks on the back of his neck and reaches around him, grabbing his cock in a firm grip, it only takes about three strokes before he's shuddering and coming all over his expensive maple cabinets. Chris is not far behind him, chanting, "fuck, fuck, fuck," into his shoulder as he comes.

When Chris pulls out, he turns around and slides down to the floor, wincing when his ass hits the hard tile. Chris laughs and hands him his t-shirt before sitting down next to him. He slides it under himself and leans back, perfectly content to be sitting on the floor in his kitchen naked and well-fucked.

"Damn, Bass," Chris groans, leaning up against him. "You're gonna kill me."

"Keeping up pretty well for an old man," he says and is unsurprised when he gets tackled. Chris holds him down and straddles him, leaning over to kiss him, turning inexplicably gentle when he does. It's slow and sweet, and nothing at all like the previous wildness. Lance isn't sure which he likes better.

Chris finishes the kiss with a lewd lick across Lance's lips and a peck on his nose, then jumps up. Lance watches him from his position on the floor as Chris strips off the condom, ties it off, and tosses it at the trash-can, missing by about four inches. Lance makes a mental note to take care of that before anyone shows up for dinner. Chris grabs two beers out of the fridge and grins down at Lance.

"You planning on staying there forever?" he asks, handing one of the beers to Lance. Lance just nods and takes a long drink. "Come on," Chris says, nudging him with a sneaker. "Let's go swim."

That's the other thing about Chris-- he's weirdly immune to post-coital lethargy. If Lance wasn't intimately familiar with Chris' dick, he'd wonder if Chris had a Y chromosome in there somewhere. There's no use arguing though, so he lets Chris pull him up and pulls on his shorts before following him outside.

An hour later, they're stretched out in a hammock Lance has hung from a couple of trees, deep in the shade of his backyard. Chris is laying against his chest and he's talking about something. Something about Justin and golf, but Lance stopped listening a while ago because really Chris is just talking to talk. He likes the vibration of it against his sternum though.

Chris shifts a little and pokes Lance in the side. "What the fuck am I supposed to do for six months while you're off playing Buzz Lightyear?"

"Umm…" Lance isn't really sure how to answer that question because it's akin to those words he's been trying so hard to avoid. So he tries to imply what he wants, without really committing to anything. "Learn to appreciate Digital Getdown?"

Chris stares up at him for a few seconds and then huffs, elbowing him in the ribs before flopping back down on top of him. "Great. Workman's Comp better cover carpal tunnel syndrome, that's all I'm saying."

"We'll put in a joint claim when I get back." Lance grins, burying his nose in Chris' hair to hide it, and rolling that word he was so afraid of around in his head for a few minutes, getting comfortable with it and finding it pretty damn easy.

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