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not real, made up, purely intended for entertainment

Wide Eyed and Legless

by Pen

There was somebody in bed with him when he woke up.

Somebody... familiar.

"Oh, shit," Lance thought. "I did it again."


Legal here or not, Lance's mom had not approved the suggestion that her—as Chris obnoxiously put it—'little boy' might be permitted to drink beer when they went out. And, truth to tell, Lance was okay with that. He had tried the beer, of course he had, with Chris and Joey as in-house enablers, sneaking bottles into their hotel bedrooms when the moms weren't looking, but he didn't like the taste very much. Maybe it was because it was German beer, the other guys complained that it wasn't the same as it was back in the States, but Lance suspected it was because it was beer.

Lance thought the restrictions would be eased once Diane went back home, but she and Lynn had obviously come to an agreement about, about all sorts of things, it turned out, and while having Justin's mom around might not be quite the same as having his own mother there, the rules didn't change a whole lot.

Then Justin turned sixteen, and Lynn decided he was old enough to manage without her. And, presumably, that even if Chris was all kinds of crazy, he was also trustworthy, and besides, JC would never let Justin go drastically off the rails. Personally, Lance was pretty sure that Justin had always been old enough to manage without Lynn, and at the same time, never really would. Either way, though, she went back to the States.

So suddenly, there they were in Germany with no maternal eyes upon them, and Lance was allowed to drink all the beer he wanted.


Still, he didn't have to drink beer, not when there were all kinds of more tempting possibilities available. At the first possible opportunity, Lance... discovered that Germany wasn't quite as liberal with its liquor as he'd thought. He wasn't allowed spirits while he was under eighteen, and the German barmen in the clubs they visited were every bit as adamant about ID as the bartenders at home. At least, they were when it came to Lance. Joey said that one look at his enormous green eyes had them convinced he was an innocent lamb who needed to be protected from the evils of drink.

"Never mind," JC said encouragingly, as Lance scowled over his Jack-free Coke. "We can make it a thing. It'll be more special, having it make a difference when you have your birthday."

"Yeah!" Joey chimed in with enthusiasm. "We've got the release party for the single. It'll be your birthday, so you can drink whatever you want!"

"'Cause we're bad, bad boys who can party," said Chris, sardonically. "Let's raise some hell. The record company's execs will love it."

"I wasn't really thinking of the release party," JC said. "That won't be much fun. But we can go out after. Find somewhere cool, you know? For Lance's birthday."

The idea of making Lance's birthday a Thing for some reason appealed to all the guys, and hey, party, Lance was okay with it too, even though he was still a bit aggrieved over not being able to drink the kind of alcohol he actually thought he'd enjoy. Well, not in public. In private, he cajoled Joey into sneaking a bottle of vodka up to the room they were sharing—it didn't take long, Joey was a complete pushover and Lance was really good at making the big, pleading eyes—so that he could 'practice' before the big day. Lance had a feeling that Chris expected him to get completely drunk on the first sniff of spirits, and life was always sweeter when he could get the better of Chris. So he practiced.

The big day arrived at last, and there was an avalanche of lovingly-inscribed glitter-covered heart-bedecked cards from the fans, and terrifying gag gifts from the other guys, but mostly it was a lot like any other day—being wholesome to interviewers, and stuff. The five of them made nice, smiled at all the industry suits and the handful of aspiring celebrities who attended their release party, then went obediently back to their hotel at pumpkin time and changed into proper clubbing clothes for the rest of the night's entertainment.

JC chose the nightclub. Chris, despite protesting loudly that JC couldn't be trusted with these delicate matters, decided after a few minutes inside to give it his seal of approval. Why Chris needed to make any kind of deal over it, Lance could not understand. It was a nightclub, it was dark, noisy, expensive and full of scantily dressed German girls. The likelihood of Chris not approving was fairly small. What surprised Lance, in fact, was that JC had picked this one, which didn't seem to have a particularly obscure or nightmarish selection of music, or wildly bizarre decor, or scary patrons. Chris was (though Lance made it his life's mission never to admit this out loud) quite right—JC could not be trusted in these matters.

Turned out, though, that they served the most amazing drink here, something called Dragon's Breath. So JC said. Lance's German wasn't good enough to translate. But he was enchanted when the barman poured the drink—rum and something excitingly named Firewater—and then set it alight. Fire! Blue fire! In his drink!

"The really cool thing," JC explained, "is that it burns off the alcohol, so you won't get drunk." JC hadn't quite grasped the point of being allowed to drink spirits, Lance felt.

But the Dragon's Breath was brilliant, really, the most brilliant drink ever, with the fire, and all. He couldn't at all understand why Joey didn't want one. Joey was boring. Chris was boring too. He just looked at it, opened his mouth, closed his mouth, and ordered something else. And flatly refused to buy one for Justin, only Justin didn't mind either because Justin wanted to drink something that didn't have all the alcohol burned off. Go Justin. But JC was the best. JC liked Dragon's Breath just as much as Lance. Dragon's Breath cocktails were the best drink ever. Fire! In his drink! This was the best bar ever. Nightclub. Whatever. The best.


When Lance opened his eyes next morning to the merciless forty-watt glare of the bedside lamp, he had, besides a feeling that his brain was about to implode, a strong memory of nakedness. Really good nakedness. And there had been... rubbing, and licking, and hands on his ass, and slipperiness, some of it very odd-tasting, and it had been. Extremely enjoyable.

And there was a very familiar head on the other pillow.

Why was JC in Lance's bed?

There was probably a logical explanation for the rubbing. And the slipperiness. And JC. If Lance's brain could manage not to dribble out through his nose, he might figure it out. For now, though, just get things into focus... there was water, next to the lamp. And pills. Mysterious pills. But Mom said, no mysterious pills for Lance. Pills bad. Death, and, and badness. Mom said.

Right now, death didn't seem like the worst thing that could happen. He took the pills.


Yep. Definitely familiar. There was something about spending years in the company of four particular people, meant that whatever stupid thing they might have done to their hair this time, the little tuft visible between pillow and bedsheets was still familiar.

I should know better by now, Lance thought.


"Someone else can take him tonight," Chris stated with finality.

"It can be someone who's not me," JC said hurriedly.

"What's the matter, your shoulder getting worn out?"

"You know what, I really—I just, I like Britney. I mean, I know she—and group solidarity and all that, but I knew her when she was, like, ten, and really, she's still just a kid, and I don't think I wanna spend another evening patting him on the shoulder and telling him she was totally in the wrong and it wasn't his fault and he's allowed to be miserable."

"Man, 'C, you really know how to have a good time," Chris observed. "At least he comes to me for bitching sessions. But I'm not doing it tonight."

"I tried to tell him there's plenty more chicks in the sea... only, um, last time," Joey said, "he wasn't really interested. I mean, we went out to a club, and he had all these women all over him, I thought that would cheer him up, but he wasn't really into it. It's not exactly a good time, going out with someone who just wants to sulk."

"Oh, for God's sake," said Lance. "I'll take him."

"Where? I mean, what are you going to do with him?" Joey asked. "Sure, it's your turn, but I don't see what you can do that we haven't tried already."

"I'll get him drunk," Lance said.

"That doesn't exactly help," JC pointed out.

"Sure it helps." Lance was a great believer in the power of alcohol. "If he's getting drunk, he'll be enjoying himself."

"And next morning—"

"Next morning, if he's hung over, he'll be too busy being miserable about that to be miserable about Brit," Lance said, ruthlessly. Chris and his suspicious glare could just deal. His plan was perfectly sound—okay, so a night's drinking wasn't going to solve all Justin's problems, but it'd help him forget about them for a few hours, and that was pretty much the best any of them could do for him right now.

So he took Justin off to a great bar and introduced him to the best cocktails in the world. Lance had figured out some time ago that 'burning off the alcohol' was of, hmm, limited utility when it came to cocktails comprised in equal proportions of Firewater and 151° proof Bacardi. He did not, however, propose to share this information with Justin, who badly needed to be very, very drunk. Dragon's Breath was remarkably efficient at getting people very, very drunk.

The program was carried out according to plan. Justin was indeed very, very drunk when Lance had him poured into the limo, and still drunk when they got back to Justin's house. It wasn't easy to maneuver six foot one of sloppy-limbed Timberlake inside and up the stairs, particularly since Lance had not stinted on the Dragon's Breath cocktails himself. But he managed. He even remembered which of the many identical doors led to Justin's bedroom, and was very proud of himself when he opened it first time. He pushed Justin backwards onto Justin's immense white bed and pulled off Justin's sneakers, then fumbled open the zipper of Justin's leather pants.

"Dude," came an interested voice from the vicinity of the pillows. "You gonna blow me?"

Well, now.

He was supposed to be cheering Justin up, wasn't he?

Somewhere in Lance's brain was a lurking conviction that at some point, this would be seen to be a bad idea. Then again, here was six foot one of liquid Timberlake spread out on the bed, and the more Lance thought about blowing him, the better he liked the notion. So he tugged at the leather pants, and Justin wriggled, and eventually the pants were on the floor, Lance was on the bed, and Justin's bare, skinny legs were spread wide. There remained the problem of Justin's thong, and his large hand which kept stroking over the promising bulge under the thong and frankly getting in the way of Lance's earnest efforts to remove it. However, the incentive was strong, and at last the ridiculous scrap was kicked onto the floor. Lance sighed happily. Good nakedness. There was a T-shirt still, but T-shirts didn't count.

He batted Justin's hands clear, and applied himself to Justin's dick as it filled nicely, rolling upwards against Justin's thighs and on to his stomach. Justin was making some very agreeable noises. Lance thought he was doing well with his mission to make Justin feel better. This was definitely working, besides being a lot more fun than bitching about Britney or listening to Justin whine. Lance was a very smart man.

Lance's dick was also clamoring for some action, so he struggled one-handed to push his pants and boxers out of the way, and straddled one of Justin's legs, humping it as he licked and sucked and swiveled his tongue over the dick in his mouth. Justin's dick was maybe the most delicious thing Lance had ever tasted. Justin's balls were good, too. He lavished them with loving attention, holding Justin's shimmying hips down into the mattress so that he could take his time. Lance hadn't a great deal of experience at this, but he knew what he liked and he liked what he was doing.

He was caught by surprise when Justin's hips stilled, his stomach tautened, and his dick jerked in Lance's mouth. The sudden taste of ejaculate was, no, not actually his favorite thing, but, okay. Lance swallowed manfully, and, figuring he should do the job properly, took care to lick Justin's dick and belly clean of any stray spatterings.

As Lance rose up on his knees, Justin's eyes widened. "Dude," he said again. "You, wow. Show me. Wanna see." Not quite what Lance had had in mind, but possibly Justin's co-ordination was not at its legendary best right now. Lance spread his knees wide apart and started stroking himself, and Justin lay there beneath him, watching with riveted blue eyes the motion of Lance's hands moving on his own very hard dick. Conscious that he was putting on a show, Lance did his best to keep it slow, make it last, but with mostly-naked Justin staring up at him and licking his lips, well, there was a limit to human endurance, was all.

There was an indignant mew from mostly-naked Justin as Lance's come landed on his T-shirt. Lance muttered something which might have sounded like sorry, and helped Justin struggle out of the defiled garment. He dumped it straight in the trash basket—no way Justin was ever wearing that again—and went back to the bed. Justin was mostly asleep, now, so Lance stepped out of the rest of his clothes, hauled the covers over both of them, and settled in.

He awoke to the sound of drumbeats. Then there was a percussive rattle, and a clunk.

The drumbeats, Lance deduced after several painful minutes, were from his own pulse. Arguably, it was good to know he was alive... The rattle and the clunk didn't seem to have internal sources. He risked opening an eye.

A shadow at the end of the bed gestured at him.

Lance rolled sideways—woah, brain loose inside skull, ow—and discerned a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. Two pills already on the bedside table. Thank you, God. He took the pills and drained the water glass.

The shadow at the end of the bed materialized into Chris Kirkpatrick, stone-faced and accusatory as only Chris Kirkpatrick could be. Lance groaned.

"I let myself in," Chris, in a furious whisper.

"Hi," said Lance, weakly.

"You were supposed," Chris hissed, "to make him feel better. Not—not—"

"Did." His brain was throbbing, Lance thought. "Did feel better."

"Yeah? Maybe he did, but how the fuck is he going to feel when he wakes up?"

Fair point. Lance tried to look pitiful, but his eyes hurt when he opened them wide, so he flopped back and let them close.

"Get up, you fucker! Come on! Get dressed and get out of here before he does wake up!" Chris, who was evil and heartless and a fiend in human shape, bustled Lance out of the bed, into his clothes, and out of Justin's bedroom. Once out, Chris let his voice rise to everyday volume, which was just cruel. Who was Chris to say Justin shouldn't have sex? And why was it suddenly all Lance's fault? Lance protested, or tried to, but Chris was not interested in the facts. He prodded Lance into his car, and drove him home.


He lay back, and stared morosely at the ceiling. It was not his fault, he was sure... okay, fairly sure it was not his fault. Dragon's Breath and bandmates, apparently a dangerous combination, and he definitely remembered there being a bottle of Firewater last night, and a bottle of Bacardi.

Which meant that there ought to be Tylenol around here somewhere, and a glass of water.


"This is nice," Lance admitted, looking around the suite. He was, in fact, impressed, not so much with the suite, because when you were Lance Bass you'd stayed in more than your fair share of fancy hotel suites, but with the fact that Joey had taken the trouble to arrange it. Lance had expected separate rooms, but this was better. They could sit here in comfort and talk about what exactly Joey liked and which were his favorite parts of Vegas, figure out the finer details of his bachelor party without either of them having to put his shoes back on to go back to his own room after.

Joey did seem a bit nervous. Pre-wedding jitters, probably. He was ready to settle down, but after the freedom Kelly had allowed him for all these years, actual marriage was bound to feel constricting. He'd be fine. "C'mon, Joe, let's head downstairs and have a drink."

"I thought we could maybe do that here," said Joey.


"Yeah. I got them to stock the refrigerator."

Lance stared in amazement as Joey pulled two out two bottles, set glasses on the countertop, and poured Firewater and 151° Bacardi in roughly equal proportions. Then Joey picked up one glass and knocked back about half the contents.

"Jesus, Joe!" Lance snatched the glass from him. "Are you out of your mind? Do you know how strong that stuff is? Dammit, you're supposed to set fire to it first." Blue flames flickered. "Just, let the flames go out before you drink any more, okay?"

"Oh. Right." Joey coughed, serve him right, the moron. "It's just, there's this thing I want to ask you about, and it, um."

"Needs some Dutch courage? Since when do you need to get drunk before you can talk to me about stuff, Joey?"

Joey accepted his now-extinguished glass and took another hearty slug before replying. "See, Kelly and me, we have this arrangement."

"Well, you are getting married in six weeks," Lance said.

"Yeah. No, what it is, is, we're getting married." The Dragon's Breath was obviously having an effect already. "Real deal, death us do part and all that. Forsaking all others. You know?"

"Marriage, yes. I get that. I think it's great."

"Yeah, it is. It's great. Thing is, though..."

"You and Kelly?" Lance prompted.

"Oh. Right. Arrangement. A deal. Because we're getting married." Joey's glass was empty already. Oh, what the hell, Lance thought, pouring more. Joey obviously wasn't going to be able to talk about whatever it was until he was well and truly drunk.

It took a while, because Joey was a big guy, but ultimately he was no match for the Dragon's Breath. He folded onto the couch next to Lance and draped a heavy arm over Lance's shoulders. "Iss like thish, this," he said. "Six weeks to go. Arrangement. Not gonna mess around after, but 's okay before. Anything we want."

"O-kay." Lance was beginning to get the idea, and a slightly nauseous feeling. It sounded like Joey wanted him to arrange some kind of debauched entertainment—it had to be pretty damn extreme if Joey couldn't talk about it unless he was drunk. Lance had watched with veiled disapprobation for years as Joey hooked up with a parade of big-breasted women. Sometimes two (or was that four?) at a time, and on at least one occasion that he knew of, there had been three women in Joey's bed, and all apparently very happy. Of course, Lance didn't know what they actually *did* behind closed doors, maybe Joey was totally vanilla and only got his variety in shades of blonde, brunette and auburn, maybe Joey's idea of something off the wall was, oh, someone who'd tie him up and cover him in whipped cream.

Lance wouldn't bet on it.

So he was seriously beginning to worry about what exactly was going to be required. Lance had an internet connection. He knew what was out there.

"I always wanted to try it. You know. So. Will you?"

"Sure, Joey. You know that."

"You're a great guy, you know? I love you, man. You're the best."

"Yeah, yeah. I love you too." He waited expectantly. "So... what exactly is it you want?"

"Oh, man, the whole thing, you know? I mean. I wouldn't ask anyone else, but you do this stuff all the time. You'll make it good, won't you?"

"What, Joe? You're going to have to give me something to work with, here."

"Oh. Okay." Joey struggled to his feet, and dropped his pants. "Should we go, you know, bedroom?" He waved an arm, took a step, and fell over. "Fuck."


"Come on! Bedroom's more comfortable. I mean, not to say the couch is bad, but you don't want to know the price of these rooms, and seriously, man, cleaning bills. We should do this in bed."

"Wait. Wait. We—" Lance could practically feel his eyes popping.

"You know what, you have a really great ass. Don't think I didn't notice, even before Chris said anything. Do you like my ass?"

"Of course I like your ass, Joe, I like all of you. I just, I wasn't expecting—"

"But you will, right?" Oh, dear Lord, now he was doing the sad puppy eyes. "You do wanna... you do, don't you?"

Well. Possibly. "Joey, are you seriously saying you want to have sex with me? Because that's what it sounds like, and—"

Joey fought his way out of his pants, struggled to his feet, and tugged Lance's hand. "That's right, that's exactly right, c'mon, Lance. Never tried it before, can't do it when we're married, gotta be now."

"Wow. Joey. Wow. Um. So let me get this straight." Joey, still hauling him towards the bedroom, giggled. Giggled! "You know, if you had to get this drunk before you could even ask, are you really sure about this? Really, really sure?" Because sex was all well and fine, but Joey was his best friend.

"Yeah, I'm sure. And I'm not that drunk."

A matter of opinion. "So you want, what? You want me to blow you? You want to fuck me?"

Joey's face lit up. "You know what JC says, never turn down a blow job. I bet he never did! So yeah, that'd be great. And I definitely want you to fuck me. Never have another chance to try that. Been thinking about it for ever."

Lance must have a friends kink, he thought. This was such a bad idea, and yet...

They were through into the bedroom now. The bed was vast and enticing. Lance decided to make one more heroic effort. "You know," he said, watching as Joey wrestled with his shoes, "you could get Kelly one of those, um. With a strap." He pantomimed helpfully, but possibly was a shade optimistic about the size, as Joey's eyes opened very wide.

"No! That's nasty! Not doing that. 'Sides, it'd be all hard and plastic, don't want something that hard in my ass."

Apparently Joey frequented the cheaper kind of sex shop. Lance made a mental note that perhaps Kelly would appreciate something pretty in glass as a private wedding present. Or at least, someone should explain to Joey the difference between plastic and silicone. However, this was not the time. As Lance's dick felt like it would rip right through his pants any second now, Lance didn't think a lecture on relative hardness was going to be useful, besides, he wouldn't want to be fucked with a strap-on either.

Joey was down to his boxers now, and apparently Little Joey was feeling the enthusiasm too. Lance moistened his lips, suddenly extremely nervous. But Joey stood up, and grinned excitedly, like he was on the brink of doing the best thing ever, and Lance couldn't help but smile back and drop to his knees.

Joey was still asleep, snoring mightily, and it seemed unkind to wake him up to what was undoubtedly going to be one hell of a hangover. Lance groped blindly at his bedside, swallowed the pills and downed the entire bottle of water. His head felt swollen and vaguely numb.

After a few minutes, he felt marginally better, head-wise, though his limbs were still shaky from last night's exercise. However, Joey's snores were enough to propel him out of the bed and back to the lounge area.

A figure loomed from the couch.

Lance shrieked.

After an instant of terror, he recognized Chris, and gasped with relief. Then, he realized that it was Chris, and tensed up again.

"You are the fucking limit, Bass."

Chris had magical powers, apparently. Why was he here? How the hell had he even found them? Lance had no clue, and he wasn't up to fighting back this morning—this afternoon—so he got another bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator and sat meekly on the couch opposite Chris to receive his chastisement.

"I get here and discover that two of my supposed best friends are in Vegas without even telling me," Chris said in a voice of unaccustomed and deadly calm. "And then, I find that you," and he actually pointed straight at Lance, who blinked, "are up to your old tricks. Fuck, man, he's getting married! You should know better!"

"I didn't, I mean, it wasn't—"

"But no, you just had to get him drunk and into bed, didn't you!" The incriminating Firewater and Bacardi bottles, heavily depleted, were on the low table between the couches. "I told you before. You should not get drunk and have sex with the other guys. It's just—you just don't get to do that! It's not that I don't understand you wanting Joey's dick, you must have been dreaming about him fucking you for years, but seriously, what the hell?"

Lance would have explained exactly how wrong Chris was about that, but Chris gave him no chance.

"You, my sex-obsessed friend, are getting out of here right now. Don't even think of arguing this one. Maybe if you aren't around he won't realize what he's done when he wakes up."

Only if he's lost all feeling in his ass, Lance thought. Joey had been remarkably enthusiastic. In fact, if Lance could get to his Blackberry, he'd definitely set himself a reminder about buying Kelly a nice harness. It could be Joey's wedding present. He had a strong feeling that Kelly could make Joey shut up and bend over. But his phone was in his room, and right now Chris was glowering at him and pointing to the door, and there was no point trying to fight Chris in this mood. When Chris was this determined, he was a force of nature. Nothing short of a hurricane would divert him.

"Can I at least get dressed first?"


So where were the pills, and his glass of water?

Lance sat up, bewildered. Something about this situation was very odd. Very odd. He stared suspiciously at the familiar head on the pillow next to him.

Chris turned around, threw back the sheet, and looked at him interestedly.

"There's no pills," Lance said. "Usually, there's Tylenol."

Chris's eyes rolled. "That's because I'm a lot nicer than you deserve." He watched carefully as Lance thought about that. "So, why do you need Tylenol?"

"For the headache," said Lance.

"And does your head hurt on this fine sunny Florida morning?"

Lance considered, and was surprised. "I don't have a headache."

"Give the man a prize!"

"But wait. Why don't I have a headache?"

"Why would you?"

"Because I, there was, you had Firewater and 151° proof Bacardi. That stuff is dangerous. I know."

"You sure do. Which is why..?" Chris paused, and looked expectant, like a third-grade teacher.

"Is why... we didn't drink any?"

Chris moved suddenly, and Lance was flat on his back with Chris blanketing him. There was good nakedness. "We also didn't drink any," said Chris, "because, if you remember, I said I didn't want any stupid excuses about being drunk and not knowing what we were doing."

"And what were we doing, exactly?"

"You don't remember?"

The way Chris's hips were pressing against his own made a lot of things clear. However...

"I, um. Not sure." Lance repressed a grin, and tried to look innocent.

"In that case," said Chris, "I'm gonna have to remind you."

"That would be very helpful," said Lance.

So Chris did.

"I thought," said Lance, as they sat (a little cautiously) on the seats at Chris's breakfast bar and ate pancakes, "you said you didn't approve of me having sex with my bandmates."

"I said you shouldn't get drunk and have sex with the other guys," said Chris.

"And yet," said Lance.

"You don't listen, do you, Bass. I said, you shouldn't get drunk, and have sex with the other guys. This time you did it right."

"I didn't get drunk." Lance was pretty sure he understood, now.


"And I had sex with you."

Chris beamed.


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