"Jayce," Chris said, dropping a pair of bags on the patio table and walking over to lean over JC's shoulder, a palm pressed firmly to JC's ass as some sort of support. JC looked up and crooked an eyebrow, lying on his stomach by his pool, wearing only black shorts. "Not happy to see me?"

JC wasn't sure what to say to that, really. If truth be told, JC probably wasn't happy to see him, not yet. They'd just fucked three days ago, and the morning after mostly consisted of Chris running out of the house, screaming about missed chiropractic appointments. JC needed at least another day and a half to get over it all.

"I have photographers in my bushes, Chris," JC finally said when it should have been obvious, and Chris frowned but removed his hand, sliding it along JC's spine before pulling away completely, sitting on the patio bricks. "How's your back?"

"It's my knee, actually," Chris replied, oddly serious. "It's fucking up my back." Chris tapped his fingers over the ground, cracking his spine when he stretched. "And like, man, that wasn't some sort of fucked up excuse to get away. It was me about to get my ass kicked by that fucker of a chiropractor, whose appointments I miss weekly and calls me an ungrateful bitch whenever I do."

"I didn't think --"

Chris smirked. "Yes, you did, fu-boy." Chris bumped his head lightly against JC's ribs, and JC immediately curled, not really fond of soft hair on his skin, not when it tickled so dreadfully. "I brought lunch. Pitas. And stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Might rhyme with clot," Chris said, grinning, "or fu-pot."

"Fuck," JC replied, smiling in spite of himself, and he remembered, suddenly, how Chris felt in him, stroking deep, and shivered, suddenly, without warning. He said shakily, "and they accuse me of being a lousy rhymer."

"Just add fu to everything. Hey girl, fu-girl, be my girl, you fu-girl -- or well," Chris looked at JC, and JC stared back, absently licking his lips before realising it was sublimely sexual of him to do it and stopping it mid-swipe. "Fu-boy works, too. It's fu-bulous."

"I'm hungry," JC said stupidly because he wasn't sure what else to say. This was odd, he decided, desiring someone like this. Part of him wanted to stay lying down, sure that if Chris looked -- and he would -- he'd see some physical manifestation of queer lust, and that wasn't something JC wanted to deal with real now. Though it was really inspiring; he could write songs about this sublime sense of need.

"Inside." Chris stood up and walked into the house, leaving the glass patio door open, and JC got up, looking around for flashbulbs. None. Thank fucking god. "In the basement," Chris yelled, his voice far away, and JC followed the sound, descending into the pits of porn and illegal weed. "Dude?"

JC smiled automatically, though he didn't especially know why. "Yeah?"

"C'mere," Chris said, waving JC over with his fingers, and JC went, far more trusting than Chris deserved. Hovering in front of Chris, Chris reached out and touched his fingers to JC's boney hips, tracing the arcs. "You're fucking hot, Jayce. I wanna," Chris muttered, pulling JC closer, and JC bent into him, pelvis-first, "perform some fu-llatio."

JC laughed, trying to swallow it but letting it out. "All right," he agreed shakily, "yeah."

Chris sank to his knees, pushing JC against the wall without protest. JC breathed deeply when Chris slid his black shorts off, tonguing the inside of his thighs, wet like lava, burning. JC reached out and braced his hands against the wall, teetering unsteadily, and Chris smiled, running a slick tongue from the base of JC's cock to the head, before sucking enthusiastically.

JC admitted he never really thought about Chris's cock-sucking abilities until now -- sure, three days ago, Chris had done it too, but JC was kind of in shock for all of it and wasn't really analysing anything -- so he was able to think, idly, that Chris was quite good with his -- oh, *Fuck.* JC thrust his hips, couldn't help himself really because Chris was licking and sucking and bobbing, his fingers dug into JC's hips and holding him flush against the wall.

"Oh," JC whispered and came, slumping slightly, and Chris laughed, licking his lips and slapping JC's thighs lightly. JC sunk to the ground, crawling forward, and Chris met him in a kiss -- hot as fuck -- wet and sloppy and kinkily delicious in the way JC could taste himself.

"Smoke, eat then fuck," Chris said, laughing as JC leaned back, dazed. JC nodded, of course, and moved to put his shorts back on, but Chris grabbed his wrist. "Like fuck you are, man," Chris grinned, "don't bother."

"But I --" JC tried to protest, but Chris evened up the field, taking off his jeans and teeshirt, fucking buck-naked underneath. The thing was, though, Chris still looked normal. JC was boney and too-skinny and kinda long looking, long and gangly. "But."

"Not listening to you," Chris said, dumping out the contents of the bags. Pitas, two martini glasses, a bag of joints, condoms and lube -- JC eyed them for a long time but said to himself, hey, why not, and let it go -- a jar of olives and various bottles of alcohol.

JC walked over to the bar and got his martini mixer, blowing off the dust and came back, folding back to the ground, and Chris handed him the joint, already smouldering, and set to making the drinks, citing, "there's no fucking way you're making them. You don't understand the art of too-much vermouth."

"Bastard," JC said, teasing. It should be odder than this, sitting naked in his basement after having Chris suck his dick, smoking pot and drinking martinis. There should have been some level of bizarre present, but JC was cool with it all, didn't feel too out of place. He felt warm and calm and aroused. "What're you doing here?"

"What does it look like?" Chris replied, mixing the drinks with his fingers and handing JC the closest glass, clinking them merrily. "I came to smoke, eat and fuck. In that order," Chris added, grinning as he plucked the joint from JC's fingers, taking a long drag.

They sat there for awhile until JC's stomach started rumbling, so they ate quickly, with JC slopping all over himself and Chris nibbling lettuce off his belly, muttering about bunnies and soft, pet-worthy flesh. Eventually, they were both lying on their back, occasionally lifting a head to take a drink but mostly lying there, smoking.

"You gonna come out to the guys?" Chris asked suddenly, staring at the ceiling.

JC pursed his lips. "I haven't thought about it," he lied because that was all he had been thinking about for days, that and sucking Chris's dick, which was really in a totally different ballpark. "I'm not sure I'm actually, you know," JC added, "gay."

Chris sighed so loudly JC could feel it in his bones. "Josh, for fuck's sake."

"No, no," JC insisted, shaking his head. "Because, like, really. I could just, you know, be experimenting," and even to him that sounded lame. "Just because Bobbie said I was, that doesn't mean anything, you know? It really doesn't."

"And having my dick in your ass? How about that blowjob, Jayce? Pretty straight behaviour there, you fuckhead," Chris said, in probably the least malicious way possible, more like he pitied JC, and JC couldn't blame him. He kind of pitied himself, too. "Who do think about when you jerk off?"

JC stole the joint back, bringing that warm air into his chest. It was the second one they'd shared, or third, JC couldn't remember. "No one in particular, like, just thoughts," JC said, and that wasn't the truth either, because he thought about Chris the last couple times, and used to think about Sting wearing white, laced-up shirts. "Sexy thoughts."

"Who?" Chris repeated, slowly to go with the speed of JC's brain. "Chicks? Me?"

"Fuck you," JC snapped and jumped when Chris's hand fluttered onto his belly, fingers rubbing in deliciously smooth circles. It wasn't fair, really, it was the atmosphere of the basement. The Porn Basement. It lent well to lewd thoughts, with the black leather and spotlights and shag carpets. It was dirty, really, perverse and sexual and destined for sex.

"Me, eh?" Chris asked, and JC could just feel the smile, all hot and bothered. It was the damn basement; if they were upstairs, in the African Safari guest room, they'd -- well, they'd probably be like lions in heat, growling and biting with tight sinews of muscle shifting under the stress of activity -- but they'd be wild and untamed and couldn't help themselves.

"I guess," JC finally offered, wondering when his fingers suddenly became empty, and he stopped inhaling the vanished joint, feeling so light-headed and relaxed. "Well, yeah," JC said again, "of course, you know. After -- things."

"Things," Chris repeated, his hand splayed over JC's belly and brushing tight muscles, fingers dipped into the splotch of dark hair, fingertips just brushing JC's cock. Resisting the urge to pull his legs up and arch his back, JC took a deep breath and blinked. "You told me this wouldn't fuck up the group."

"It's not," JC said, "it won't. I'm fine, you know? Perfectly fine. Just maybe not gay."

"But definitely not platonic," Chris dipped his fingers between JC's legs, rubbing the soft skin between thigh and groin, so sharply that JC did arch, couldn't help it, really, because there were sparks in his eyes, blinding. "Because, see, I looked it up. In a dictionary."

"The one I gave you for Christmas?" JC asked, his knees bent, folded into a smaller, more compact shape, trying to fight against how *fucking incredible* Chris's hand felt. Bobbie never made him feel like this, he was sure, she never touched him to make him bend.

"Yeah, for Christmas. Dork," Chris added, but it was affectionate, strangely heady -- JC felt like he was strumming inside, a constant vibration that reached his toes. "But platonic. Free from physical desire. Passionless. Nonsexual. Pure."

"So?" JC demanded, feeling obscene. He thoughts about writing songs about the sensation, how exposed and needy he felt, how he wanted Chris's fingers to touch him where it counted. They were in the basement. It was supposed to be pornographic.

"If you're fucking yourself while thinking of me, Josh, that isn't platonic," Chris muttered and let go, pulling his hand back, and JC exhaled sharply, sitting up and needing a drink. Desperately. "Your problem, fu-boy, is you can't accept what you want."

"So sorry for, like, being in the middle of a crisis," JC said, rubbing his face and drinking deeply, reaching for more to numb the sensation. "I'm almost twenty-five, Chris. It's too late for me to suddenly start being gay --"

"Josh, you were always gay," Chris said, lying on his side now, propped up by a bent arm. "You think you're the first guy to go through this? I see you with your pretty girlfriends, and I know you fuck them, but you don't talk about them. You ditch them to hang out with us; you talk about how good one guy looks, how nice the other guy's hair is. You have posters of Sting on your wall -- five of them -- and one wallet-sized photo of Bobbie, man."

"I admire Sting as an artist," JC insisted, "and you make it sound like I'm flaming."

"Jayce," Chris said, laughing, "you are."

JC was too stoned to bother being indignant. Sighing, he laid back and rolled onto Chris, pressed against his side and lying there for a long time. Chris stroked his hair, his back, his arms, saying nothing, and for that JC was grateful. It just shouldn't have been so comfortable.

"I wanted to be straight," JC muttered, "I really did."

"It's not so bad," Chris said, "being queer. You get to fuck me, for one."

"Right," JC agreed, sardonic, but he giggled anyway, his eyes tearing up, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing harder, slowing down and almost controlling it before dissolving into hysterics again. "I get to Fu-k you."

"Fu-k!" Chris howled, "*fu-k!*"

"Yeah," JC said, giggling still, a painful stitch in his side.

"So," Chris ventured, "wanna fu-k me?"

JC looked up. "Like -- that?" JC thrust his hips a bit against Chris's leg, and Chris nodded, his eyes dark and lusty. "Um," JC said, trying to think of reason why not, and there weren't any, so -- "um, all right" -- because he was hard just thinking about it.

"Then get to it, Joshua," Chris said, batting his ass playfully, and JC crawled over to the condom and lube, picking them up and staring at them. "You don't have to," Chris said, seeing his sudden apprehension. "Your choice."

"I'm gay," JC said stupidly, his hands pressed to his temples, shocked.

"So am I," Chris replied, "no biggie."

"You are not." JC looked at Chris, to see if he was laughing, but he wasn't, dead serious in fact, which fucked with JC's mind so badly. This whole thing fucked with his mind. If he wanted mindfucking -- and he didn't -- he would go to the black-painted guest bathroom with the word ‘die' scrawled in silver across the wall. The Suicide Room. "Um. Dani?"

"Fluke," Chris said, held up by his elbows and looking hard at JC, under the surface in places JC wasn't entirely sure he wanted Chris to see. "Because, see, it was easier. I can't fuck men anymore than you can fuck men."

"I can fuck men," JC sniffled, his head buzzing.

"Right, Jayce, that's why we're both here in your basement, ashamed of ourselves." JC looked back at Chris, who suddenly seemed very old and tired, with the ever-present humour mostly swallowed by the pensive face. "We're teen idols, man, you more than me. Those girls, they want to fuck us, so it doesn't matter what we want. I learned to love Dani, and I loved her hard, and she dumped me, so there's justice for you. Fuck." Chris pressed his hand to his head. "Why are we talking about this again?"

"I can't remember," JC admitted, crawling back to Chris, "probably because of the pot and martinis, and probably because, I don't know. I used to have words," JC waved his hands around in the air, trying to find the lost ones, "but not now."

Chris hummed and bent his head back when JC draped over him, his eyes closed as he focussed on the warmth of Chris's body, the deep and intense heat his skin emitted. JC was always cold but he knew he hadn't been three nights ago, when he was curled around Chris and afraid of what he'd done.

"Is Justin still in town?" JC asked.

Chris nodded. "Kid has nowhere else to go."

"Maybe I'll invite him over for dinner one night soon," JC said, "and you," adding that in case Chris didn't realise he was naturally invited, "and like, tell him. Things. I guess," which was really the best he could do -- guessing, trying.

"I'll come out to him, too," Chris said, "and it won't be as bad."

JC nodded and tears burned in his eyes. "I really wanted to be different."

Chris sat up and shushed JC gently, drawing them together in a tight tangle of limbs, and JC cried; he really couldn't help it. It just hurt in places he didn't know existed, a numb sort of pain because it wasn't like he hadn't always known he was gay. He had. Of course he had. It just. Hurt. To admit it.

"This isn't platonic, is it?" JC asked, defeated. "I mean, we really aren't platonic, are we?"

"Couldn't be," Chris replied, mouth buried in JC's hair, hot breath searing on JC's scalp, "because we all love each other, so we're mostly in love with each other already. If you wanted platonic fucking, you should have asked a stranger. What this is, I don't know. Fucked up, for sure, but. I need you as much as you need me, man."

And that sounded nice, JC decided, lying against Chris. It sounded all right. Better than, he clarified to that scared part of him that wanted Bobbie back, it was better than all right. The best he could do -- the best he could get -- so it could be worse. It could be terrible, but it wasn't. It was Chris, and Chris was right: he was half-way in love with him anyway.

JC turned and kissed his lips to Chris's mouth, desperately because he was so craved for touch he actually wanted, and JC appreciated the scratch of Chris's facial hair, liked what it stood for and how masculine it was, just loved how it all felt against him.

The carpet was plush and soft, and when JC lowered Chris to it, Chris went willingly, his eyes heady beneath dark brows. JC paused to touch the smooth forehead, brushing his fingers across the skin and into the brown hair, kissing the face, the mouth, the neck.

JC was still dizzy from the drugs, and warm deeply inside himself, and very drunk too. The room spun whenever he closed his eyes, so he clung to Chris, desperate to hold onto him as they kissed and writhed and rubbed together, the lewd slide of skin noisy in the still and otherwise silent basement.

JC licked over Chris's chest, sucking and kissing, wanton for flesh that wasn't his own. Chris squirmed, his fingers dug deep in JC's hair, not pulling or grabbing but holding, worshipping like JC was worshipping, nibbling on Chris's hips.

It was like dancing, JC thought, tonguing the insides of Chris's thighs and loving how the hips rolled and lifted, eager for sensual touch. JC loved dancing, and this dance -- this strange union of bodies with a masculine Chris -- was the dance he was learning to love the most.

Definitely a song, he decided, going down on Chris, a song about sex thinly veiled as dancing. Like Digital Getdown, only less masturbatory, more real. More like this, JC thought, grabbing blindly for the lube, coating his finger when he found it, circling Chris's body before moving to push inside.

"Is it going to fucking hurt?" Chris asked abruptly, eyes squeezed closed.

JC looked up. "What?" Chris seemed content to pretend he hadn't said anything, but JC touched his cheek, drawing the eyes open, and Chris stared, eyes swirling black. "I thought you. I mean, haven't you?"

"Needed to trust first, you know," Chris explained, his hands on JC's shoulders, fingers digging into JC's skin, bruising and hard, maybe scared or nervous. "So. Just. You know I'm a fucking suck about pain. I was just," Chris fumbled, bright red, "wondering."

"It feels good," JC said, nodding, "I liked it."

Chris took a deep breath and relaxed again, hands sliding up JC's neck to pull him in for a kiss, and he replaced JC's hands where they had been, barely even flinching when a finger slipped inside, just closing his eyes and keeping his hand on the back of JC's head.

A second finger and Chris had his eyes open, pondering the sensation seriously, without really seeming seriously at all, and JC smiled -- laughed -- and kissed his neck, rocking against Chris's body already, fingers stroking beyond-soft skin.

"Fu-k me," Chris whispered, grinning. "Now."

Somewhere in the middle of it all, while Chris was biting down on JC's shoulder and called him delightfully foul names, JC was able to step back and realise what this was -- the words coming to him as a sort of physical poetry as his hips rolled and his back arched -- able to fully see whether this was platonic. Or not.

And it was definitely. Or not.

Fin.

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