"Lance!  Practice!  Bathroom!" 

Lance slides off the bed, already humming when he hears Joey's shout from down the hall.  This is one of the few things about living in this house that he actually enjoys, and he doesn't want to miss any of it.   

  Lance looks forward to the times when someone announces that they'll be gathering in the bathroom for an hour, two, as long as it takes to fine-tune their parts.  It's different than regular practice, mostly because there's no way that Lou can fit his fat ass inside to watch them so there's no threat of failure or disapproval.  This is important to Lance, who feels the critical eyes on him at every practice and performance.  He knows that Lou doesn't think he's good enough but all of that is absent when the five of them crowd into the small, shabbily-tiled room at the end of the hall. 

  He hurries down the hall to the bathroom and finds a place to stand near the bathtub.  Everyone shuffles around to accommodate another person and Lance ducks his head, smiles because he's pressed up shoulder to shoulder with Joey, close enough to catch the coconut scent of his expensive shampoo.  After two months of these sessions Lance is used to the scents that each of them carry; the cigarette smoke that clings to Chris' clothes even though Lance knows he doesn't smoke, Justin's strong soap and heavy cologne that his mother gave him for Christmas.  JC is the one who varies the most, sometimes soap, oranges, or sweat, depending on what he's been doing. 

  JC counts, "One, two, three-" and nods pointedly at Justin, who flashes a wide grin and begins to sing.  Joey joins in toward the end of the verse and his eyes close as he sings, his expression blissful.  Lance turns his head partly to watch Joey and partly to feel the vibration of the voice that rings out so clearly.  They're that close together, he can feel all of them and knows that when it's time for his part, they'll be able to feel him, too.  It's nothing like the rehearsals for his old show choir and when he tried once to explain it to one of his friends from home, he couldn't.  It ended up sounding sort of creepy, actually, but it's not.  In this room, he feels a part of something. 

  Justin's voice cracks at the end of the second verse.  He bleats out a terrible, hilarious note and the shocked expression on his face is too much, they all fall apart laughing. Chris and Joey cling to one another, filling the room with their loud, bright laughter, but JC just covers his mouth with his hand until things calm down.  He doesn't like to laugh at people but they can all see the way his eyes are crinkled up in amusement. 

  After Chris tires of re-enacting Justin's mistake they start again, this time with a different song.  The atmosphere is playful today, giddy, and Lance watches Chris this time, nervously, because it's times like this that things get out of hand.  He likes Chris, he does,  but sometimes Chris has a way of pushing things from a good time into utter chaos, pushing a joke into a debacle that leaves someone pissed off, embarrassed or crying. 

  Usually, that someone is Lance. 

  He watches Chris with a wary eye, keeping enough attention on the music to come in at the right moment.  Chris is supposed to join him on the chorus, just the two of them for a few rare measures, and when Chris begins to sing, his eyes automatically seek and meet Lance's. 

  At first it's typical, the way they're watching one another in order to stay together.  Lance relaxes into the familiarity of it all but as the reach the peak of the chorus, that innocuous sense of pleasure is betrayed when he finds himself pinned by a dark, dangerous gaze.  Chris' eyes hold him deliberately, pointedly, like they're intent on probing Lance until they've pulled out every secret that he's ever wanted to keep. 

  Lance's voice catches and he stumbles over his part which draws a frown from Justin, puzzlement from JC.  What is Chris doing?  It looks like he's only singing but the way his voice sounds, the way he moves his mouth makes Lance blush hotly.  His stomach clenches and he recognizes the feeling, vaguely, from after the homecoming dance last year when his girlfriend had first slid her hand down the front of his pants.  Heat and intimacy, only this isn't the right setting and it's all suddenly too much, too close, too sexy.  Lance breaks the connection the only way he can, by untangling his voice from Chris' and dropping his gaze to the floor. 

  Chris continues alone with a questioning arch of his eyebrow and Joey nudges his shoulder.  "Why'd you stop?" he whispers, then sings quietly into Lance's ear, the part that Lance hasn't forgotten.  He shivers at the unnecessary prompting, stares down at Chris' shoes.  Any minute now someone is going to call an end to this scattered song, and they'll want to know-

  "-why the fuck your face is so red?"  Justin stares at him, fascinated.  "Did you forget the words again?"  Lance can tell that Justin, who never misses a cue, finds that idea deplorable. 

  "No, I-"

  "Forget it," Joey says.  "This just ain't meant to be.  I've got a date in half an hour, so how about we pick this up tomorrow?"  He squeezes Lance's wrist lightly and throws a mock-punch at Justin, who's perched on top of the toilet.  When Justin throws his weight to the side, dodging the punch, he topples off and sends the lid to the tank crashing to the floor, a million shards of porcelain that gleam white against the dark navy tile.     

"Help!" he yelps, clinging to the shower curtain, stretching the limits of the wire hoops that loop the mildewed plastic to the bar. 

"Oh, I'm so outta here," Chris grumbles.  JC is already skittishly pacing the hall.  Lance ducks out before anyone can say anything, and as he leaves he can hear the sharp crunch of porcelain under Joey's shoes.

  ***

After that, Lance approaches the bathroom practices with reluctance instead of the enthusiasm he'd once had.  He's always thought of the situation as warm and creative; now he can't believe he's never noticed the things that make it incredibly uncomfortable.  It's one thing out in the living room or even practicing in the warehouse but here in close quarters everything seems to suggest sex, from the orgasmic manner in which JC flutters his eyelashes to the way Justin moves his hips.

He finds a large gouge in the floor tile and stares at it as much as possible because it's much safer than to risk a glance at Chris, whose voice, to Lance, seems to dominate the room.  The one time he does muster a casual look in Chris' direction, Chris gives him a slow, knowing smile, smoothly singing his line- girl, if I could touch you and Lance shivers, jerks his head away because it's as though he has been touched, the whole thing is like being in the backseat of a car on a steamy Mississippi night, tangled limbs, all hot and bothered, nowhere to move away.  He starts to feel self-conscious all the time, too, worrying that Chris or one of the other guys will sense what he's thinking. 

Eventually, Lance's roaming thoughts aren't limited to practices. When Chris comes into their bedroom late one night and starts getting ready for bed, Lance finds himself watching surreptitiously from the bed where he's pretending to sleep. 

Chris has sleek, black hair that's longer on top and hangs in his face when he tips his head in any direction.  Lance likes it a lot, admires the way that it falls forward when he bows his head.  His own mother has never let him wear his hair any longer than it is right now, especially not in the style that Chris has his because that was how the skaters back home wore theirs.  Burnouts.  After running his fingers through his tangles a few times, Chris pulls his t-shirt over his head and throws it in the direction of the hamper and when Lance finds himself staring at the expanse of naked skin in the mirror, he realizes that this is completely out of hand because he's looking at Chris, finding him sexy when they're not even in the bathroom.  There's no excuse for his thoughts or the pull that he feels to get to his feet, stand behind Chris, touch the smooth skin on his back. 

No excuse at all.

  ***

  "Bass!" 

Lance jumps and presses a hand to his chest.  From his bed he scowls at Chris, who's just burst into the room and sent his heart skittering like mad.  He doesn't reply because judging by Chris' mood, he won't have the chance before Chris starts in. 

"I mean, what the fuck?"  Chris paces alongside the bed, glowering at Lance the entire time.  "What is it about my singing that offends you so much?  Do I sound like a girl?  Do I not have minty fresh breath?" 

"Um.  What?"  Lance wishes the door were open, that someone might come by and rescue him from the scrutiny of the most unpredictable, excitable person that Lance has ever met. 

Chris swings a finger his way and jabs it in the air.  "Like you don't know!" he scoffs.  "You won't even look at me when we sing and half the time you fall out during my part.  Ever hear of a little thing called eye contact?" 

Lance frowns and let his textbook fall from his fingers onto the bedspread.  He definitely isn't going to get any studying done, now.  Not with Chris jumping around like a caged animal.  "What, you can't talk, now?"

"No. I mean, yes.  I can talk.  I just…it's none of those things.  I like your voice." 

"Well, gee, thanks for your approval, Lance.  I guess now I can keep my two jobs that both happen be SINGING PROFESSIONALLY."  

"I, uh.  Yeah.  I know, of course, Chris."  Lance tries to backtrack back to the point where Chris hadn't been yelling at him. 

"Then what the fuck is it?  You're acting weird in there." 

"Nothing," he says quickly but Chris leaps onto the bed and bounces up and down, sending Lance's school things onto the floor.  "Stop it." 

"Tell me or I'll stay here, I'll never get up and you'll never graduate from high school and become a big star." 

"It's nothing," Lance insists, but Chris has brought it up and made him think about it.  Now all Lance can think about is the crowded, humid bathroom and Chris' mouth opening, pulling Lance in with his sweet velvet voice.  He still doesn't feel like talking about it because Chris has ruined it for him.  Instead of the music being a thread that connects them all, he's somehow twisted things so it runs like barbed wire through only the two of them. 

"Liar." 

"Okay, okay."  Lance shifts away from Chris' knee, which is poking him in the thigh.  "I.  It's just…"  A small lie never hurt anyone.  "JC." 

"C?" 

"Yeah, he's always so, um…you know." 

"He's.  Oh.  Ohhhh."  Chris thinks about this for a brief, painful moment and then slaps his leg, hooting with laughter. "Ha! Oh, that's priceless."  He nods exuberantly and Lance smiles weakly in return, still wary.  Chris is still likely to jump on him without notice.  "I guess we're all used to it now but yeah, Justin was a little freaked out by the Chasez enthusiasm at first.  He even refused to stand by him for the first six weeks but Lance, dude, you've gotta calm down.  It's not gonna jump out of his pants and attack you, I promise."  Lance turns bright red at that image.  He tries to be cool like Chris but doesn't really know how.  

"Okay," he says.  "It doesn't really bother me that much anymore, anyhow." 

"Sure, baby," Chris says knowingly.  "Whatever you say." 

  ***

  "Um, Lance?" 

Oh no.  Lance closes his eyes with painful awareness.  Chris had only left their room twenty minutes ago, and here's JC, hovering in the doorway with timid knock and sheepish expression.  The *blabbermouth*, Lance can't believe that Chris would actually say anything to JC. 

"Come in." 

JC closes the door behind him, for which Lance is grateful.  As much as he doesn't want to have this conversation, he wants it overheard by one of the other guys even less. 

"I, uh.  God.  Chris told me about, and I'm really um.  Sorry if I…" 

"No, it's okay," Lance says quickly.  He isn't going to get any studying done, and if his grades fall his mother will bring him right back to Mississippi, which might not be a bad thing considering how badly this seems to be turning out. 

"But…"  JC crosses his arms against his chest and frowns at Lance, a blush high on his cheeks.  "No, no it's not.  Because you used to act differently, you used to sing *with* us and now you're just…um.  Not really there.  I had no idea that I made you so uncomfortable but I promise, I'm not- I don't-"  He scratches the back of his head and shrugs at Lance, obviously mortified. 

It's terrible to see JC so embarrassed over something that isn't even really his fault, and Lance hates himself for lying, for causing this situation that doesn't have to exist. 

"JC, wait.  I'm sorry.  It's not…it's not you."

"Chris told me-"

"-I know, and…" he presses his palm against his face.  "Ugh.  JC, it has nothing to do with you.  It's about Chris…sort of.  He just came in here freaking out about how I think he's a bad singer and I had to say something, so I just said…I lied.  I'm sorry."  It's a rotten thing to do, Lance doesn't know how he could've thought it was all right to say something like that about someone behind their back.  He thinks that this is a good example of why he doesn't do things like this. 

"What?"  JC sounds skeptical, but like he wants to believe.  "So you're saying it has something to do with Chris.  Chris bothers you?" 

"Not exactly." 

The rest of JC's discomfort seems to ease away and he lowers himself onto the bed.  "Okay," he says slowly, "So it's not my- it's not me that's bothering you." 

"No.  I'm really sorry about that.".  He's screwed everything up, he's alienated Chris, and now JC…probably the rest of the guys, too.  "It's just…it's just so close in there.  Confined, you know?  I'm just.  Not used to being so close, I guess." 

"You're claustrophobic?" JC guesses, his face scrunched up in concentration.  Lance knows he's not making much sense. 

"No, it's.  Can I ask you something?"  he asks, and JC nods encouragingly.  With a nervous glance to ensure that the door is still closed, he asks, "When we're in there and you get- you know…" 

JC blushes and nods again, curtly.  "Oh," he says suddenly, then laughs uneasily.  "You're talking about it being close in there.  I get it now.  Um, yes.  It is, and…so, yes.  It's all right, though," he says, finally regaining some composure.  The set of his shoulders relax and his grin is conspiratorial, eager.  "You think it's sexy, huh?  Or just Chris?" 

"All of it," Lance confesses, and picks at the bedspread.  "Mostly Chris, though.  He looks at me-"

JC interrupts sharply.  "-Is he messing with you?"

"No, no.  It's like, his eyes, and he's right there and, um.  The music, and…"  he shrugs helplessly.  Even though the words are rushing to get loose, he's reluctant to share the details of what happens to him when he's near Chris. 

"Yeah, I know."  JC laughs again and then sobers, looking directly at Lance as he tries to explain.  "It's a deeply personal thing we're doing in there.  Someone's always touching you and…all of you are so beautiful when you're singing.  You too, Lance," he adds pointedly when Lance shakes his head, denying his part in that beauty.  "I think it's natural to feel confused about all of it." 

His sincerity makes Lance feel marginally better about the situation, especially since JC has just listed off half the things that make Lance feel so wrong for noticing. 

"Thanks," he tells JC and finds himself wrapped up in one of JC's famous clinging hugs that leaves him a little sore but a lot less alone. 

  ***

Lance is sure that he's never been more humiliated.  The time he'd wet his pants in the fourth grade had been embarrassing and he'd thought that he'd die the time he fell off the risers during a choir performance, but those experiences were nothing compared to right now, standing in his small, shared bedroom trying to work the pants for tonight's show up over his hips. 

They'd all gotten new clothes for this gig, picked out by some woman Lou had paid, and Lance had waited until he had the bedroom to himself to actually put them on.  They're tighter than anything he's ever worn and definitely like nothing anyone back in Mississippi would've ever worn.  In a stroke of painfully bad timing, he's lying face up on the bed, wiggling his hips and pulling at the pants when Chris comes in the room. 

Chris walks right up to the edge of the bed and stares down at him with an expression of glee, probably because he knows that this is something with which he can mercilessly tease Lance for the next few months; Chris' mind works that way.  Lance gets to his feet as gracefully as he can and yanks at the zipper.  Thankfully, it grates closed and he manages to meet Chris' eyes with less mortification than he would've felt about thirty seconds earlier. 

"Problems?" 

"Uh, yeah."  He wrenches the button through it's slot and tugs at the waist.  His dick is trapped uncomfortably and he's afraid to even look down.  It's probably hideous.  "These pants.  I can't wear them." 

"Why not?" 

Lance gapes at Chris.  "Are you serious?  They're too small!  And, the material, it's…" he gestures helplessly at the pants. 

"Leather," Chris says, and strokes a thoughtful finger across the waistband.  "More like vinyl, actually.  Did they give you a belt?" 

Chris is obviously not getting the gravity of the situation, because a belt isn't going to solve the problem of wearing ridiculous too-tight pants. In public. "No, but I don't.  Chris, these pants are.  Everybody's gonna laugh at me."  He turns longingly toward his closet where he knows the black dress slacks and white button down shirt from the last gig are hanging. 

"Nobody's gonna laugh," Chris assures him.  He's still staring at Lance's pants.  "You should see what they've got JC wearing.  Trust me, you got off easy." 

"Why, what are you wearing?" Lance asks, trying to peek at the garment bag that's draped across Chris' bed. 

"I got off even easier."  Chris shrugs.  "They're not gonna even try and make me all sexy…guess they know a lost cause when they see one." 

"I-" Lance is about to say something in argument because he's never heard Chris talk like that before and it definitely can't be true but when he steps forward, his balls are painfully constricted.  "Oh. Um."  He freezes. 

"What?" Chris turns, tips his head curiously at Lance. 

"They…hurt."  It's embarrassing, but Chris just laughs and walks a slow, appraising circle around Lance. 

"You commando under there?" he demands, and Lance nods miserably, chancing a glance down.  His package looks huge, embarrassingly prominent and he can't help but drop his hands down to cover himself. 

"I tried it the regular way first, but the elastic was so much higher than the pants."  

"You've gotta move around a bit, do some knee-bends or something.  It'll stretch a little.  They'll still be tight but you'll be able to…" he eyes the front of Lance's pants with amusement.  "breathe." 

It sounds reasonable, and Lance has seen Chris wearing similar clothing, so he lifts his knee gingerly and then bends over at the waist, hands flat on the bed.  He holds the pose for a few seconds and when he straightens again, the pinch has eased considerably.  When he turns to get a look at Chris' outfit, Chris is gone. 

Lance pulls on the blissfully plain t-shirt that's been chosen for him, uses the restroom and when he comes back to the room Chris is inside, speaking with JC in hushed tones.  Lance doesn't mean to eavesdrop but the pants are foremost in his mind and he wants to make sure that Chris isn't making fun of them.  He'll refuse to wear them, he decides, if anyone says anything. 

"I can't take it, C," Chris hisses to JC.  "It's like, everywhere I go.  Like a Boy's School porno or something, twenty-four seven."

Lance can hear JC's muffled laugh, probably hidden behind his hand.  "I know," he replies, and Lance hears the rustling of clothes.  They're changing into their new outfits and Lance leans forward, peeks in to see  JC standing in front of the full-length mirror giving himself a doubtful once-over.  "This outfit is…" he trails off, then sighs loudly, going back to the topic at hand.  "Listen, just go easy on him, okay?  He's questioning things right now, and you can be a little…" 

"What?" Chris shrieks, and shoves JC from his place at the mirror.  He strikes a pose in his entirely black and unremarkable outfit, juts his chin out defiantly.  "A little too sexy for my own good?" he demands, dark and sultry.  "A little slice of heaven on earth?"  JC falls back onto the unmade bed and makes sounds of disbelief. 

Lance doesn't know what it means, but he doesn't have time to think about it before Justin is pushing past him, opening the door and hollering at everyone to get moving.  On his way out, he stops and stares at Lance.  "Dude, nice pants," he says, breaking up into giggles.  At first Lance scowls but then he sees that Justin is wearing the exact same thing. 

  ***

Lou pulls the van into a Shell station and turns off the ignition, twists halfway around in the seat to look them all over.  Smoothly, because Lou is nothing if not smooth, he goes on to tell them that they're performing at a private party as a favor for a friend.  But, he cautions, there will be record executives present so they should give their best performance possible and be polite to everyone.  Just before he gets out of the van, he adds that each of them will be getting two hundred dollars, which makes it their first paying gig ever. 

After he's gone, Joey and Justin high-five and fall all over one another with excitement but Lance's joyful grin fades when he sees the tense, furtive glance that Chris and JC exchange.  Chris should be the happiest of all of them because he's always broke, but he just sits silently until a few minutes later when he leans forward and thumps Justin on the head. 

"Where's your mom?" he demands.

Justin bounces on his seat.  "Visiting my aunt.  All weekend," he boasts. 

"Whatever.  Listen, I'm supposed to keep an eye on you so you'd better stick close all night.  If I have to come looking for you I'm gonna be pissed, Timberlake." 

"What?  No!"  Justin looks to Joey for support, who shrugs, and then to JC, who only stares out the window, shoulders stiff with tension.  "You're kidding, right?"

"I'm not kidding."  Chris sees Lou inside, paying for the gas.  "You'd better be with one of us at all times, you little shit."  Lance and Joey frown at his tone but JC watches intently, his eyes glittering with an unspoken stake in the conversation. 

"I'm not a kid!"

"You are!" Chris growls, and slaps his hand down on the back of the seat, effectively scaring Justin into silence.  "You have no idea how much of a fucking kid you are!  Now shut the fuck up and don't argue.  Here comes Lou."  

The van shifts and sinks when Lou settles his weight into the driver's seat and for once, no one snickers.  No one says anything.

***

The party is boring, Lance thinks, mostly comprised of middle-aged men in suits accompanied by beautiful young women half their age.  It's an easy show because they're doing slow songs with no dancing, as though he'd be able to dance in these pants anyhow.  No one is paying much attention to them when they do sing, so it's low pressure and under different circumstances they'd be having a good time.  They're not, though, because what happened in the van is lingering between them and ruining everything. 

Lance spends the time between songs trying to figure out what's happening.  JC is aloof and unpleasant to everyone who approaches him, even Lou's friends, and Chris looks like he could kill someone. They make it through all their songs but the host extends a friendly invitation to stick around and enjoy the party.  Joey doesn't think twice, disappears into the crowd and Chris clamps onto Justin's shoulder, hard, to keep him from following.  Normally, Chris would be out picking up girls with Joey so in an attempt to create some kind of peace, Lance sidles up to Chris. 

"Hey. I can keep an eye on Justin if you wanna go have fun." 

"Fun?"  Chris snorts, exasperated, and  Justin glares at Lance, mortally offended.  "Right," Chris says nastily.  "Leaving Justin with you, that's supposed to reassure me?  Riiiight, Bass.  That guy over there'll come up and say, 'hey, wanna get out of those uncomfortable pants?' and you'll go, 'Gee, thanks mister!  They're awfully tight-"

"-Chris!" Lance interrupts.  He's followed Chris' gaze over to the man in the suit who'd winked at him halfway through the show.  Lance hadn't thought anyone else had noticed but he's not stupid, not nearly as clueless as Chris' ridiculous imitation seems to suggest.  "Stop it," he finishes weakly.

"Watch yourself," Chris warns, and tugs Justin off toward the buffet table. 

The ride home is equally silent. 

***

"How did you know that?" Lance asks, when they're back home and shut inside their bedroom.  Chris strips off his clothes and hunts around for a clean t-shirt.  

"Know what?" he asks, squinting at Lance in the near-darkness. 

"About that guy.  What he was thinking."  It's been bothering him for hours but he hadn't wanted to make a big deal out of it; he'd always thought he was the only one whose thoughts operated on that level and it had shocked him to know that Chris sees things like that, too. 

Chris shrugs, then pulls on a baggy white t-shirt.  "I just knew.  Lou's doing a lot for us but he's got other stuff going on.  I don't want Justin to know." 

"He doesn't," Lance assures him, because Justin is really furious with Chris right now and Chris doesn't deserve it.  His face looks so worn and frustrated, Lance thinks that it must feel like a terrible burden to feel so responsible for the entire group. 

"Ah," he hisses as he finally peels off the awful vinyl pants.  The insides of his thighs are red and tender, nearly as red as the t-shirt he's wearing.  He'd wondered earlier why he didn't just tell Lou that they were too small but now he realizes that no one denies Lou anything, not even Chris, because of what Lou is doing for them, what he's capable of doing for them, what he's promised to do for them.

"Jesus!" Chris gives a low whistle when he gets a look at the damage, and Lance doesn't even care that he's sitting nearly naked on the bed because it burns, really stings, and the whole night sucked.  No one is speaking to one another and his image of Lou, who he's always seen as some sort of perfect benevolent figure, is considerably altered.  He wants to cry, wants to go home, but Chris doesn't need to know any of that; Chris has enough problems of his own.  "Hold on," Chris says, and rummages through the mess of his top drawer.  I've got something…" Lance watches as he pulls out a blue container with embossed leaves on the label.  He sits next to Lance on the bed when he unscrews the lid it releases a fresh, botanical fragrance into the air.

"This'll help," Chris offers, and dips his fingers into the pot.  "Just use about this much…and like this."  Lance twitches when Chris touches his leg with careful slick fingers, smoothing over the raw area.  His eyes fall shut and he sighs with relief because it really does help. 

"I-"  Chris says, and when he doesn't continue, Lance opens his eyes.  Chris is looking at sore patches on his legs, his glistening fingers held out indecisively.  His mouth is open in what might be a protest, might be an insult, but Lance doesn't want to hear either.  He wants Chris' hand back on him, soothing away the hurt, and even though it's probably not fair to Chris, he leans back with his hands braced on the bed, lets his legs fall open just a bit more.

"Thanks," Lance whispers even though there isn't anything to thank him about yet, as though his words alone can persuade Chris to touch him again.  

"Lance," Chris whispers back, his brow furrowed with confused concentration.  He meets Lance's eyes and there are questions but his fingers dip into the pot again, fumble around and slide wet and cool from Lance's knee up his thigh.  Slowly, they paint sensual trails of pleasure on his skin and when they curve around to the soft inside of his leg it makes Lance tense, shiver and gasp.  

He shouldn't have made the sound, Lance thinks, because Chris freezes for a long moment during which he stares at his hand and Lance tries desperately not to move.  It's hard though; he wants so badly to fidget because he knows that Chris can see his hard-on pushing against the thin material of his t-shirt. 

"Lance," Chris says, a clear warning.  He's rethinking things and that's not what Lance wants, so even though he's the kid who doesn't argue with anyone, whose sexual experience is limited to one groping night in the back of a car, he finds a boldness that he didn't know he had and spreads his legs even further.  He watches Chris' face and arches his back just- so-

And sure enough, those dark, hot eyes turn even darker, the hesitance completely disappearing as Lance's t-shirt rides up revealing everything that he normally tries to hide.  Lance is glad for the relative darkness because he's got to be blushing now, he can feel the hot rush spreading through his face, neck…further down.  He feels so open, so ready and new and says, "please," over and over until Chris is kneeling between those widespread legs. 

Lightning skitters across his skin, originating in his balls where Chris' fingers are cupping, slippery and there's no mistaking that lone finger that's probing further, slipping beyond the rest and Lance falls back onto his back, gasping loudly this time because he knows that no matter what he does now, it won't make Chris stop.

"Shit, Lance," Chris finally chokes out, and Lance knows that it isn't put on because the hands that were up until now so steady are shaking even as they go back to the container for more wet stuff and Lance reaches out with both arms for Chris when he feels what he's doing next. 

"Yeah," he breathes in a voice that's doesn't even sound like his, it's so porn-like, and even more porn-like is the unfamiliar sensation of a finger probing, pushing, sliding inside him and suddenly he's pushing against it, instinctively seeking more of Chris, more of this. 

He'd thought that he'd felt Chris before in the bathroom when they were connected by only the music but that was nothing compared to now with Chris fucking slowly in and out with his finger, and Lance braces his heels on the bed, groans and wants to be kissed. 

He opens his mouth intending to ask "Do you want to kiss me?" but with Chris' finger up his ass and the tense, tortured way he's looking at Lance it just seems more polite to say, "Do you want to fuck me?" 

"God," Chris groans, and surges forward, lying on top of Lance.  Lance gets his wish and they kiss desperately, sloppily for a few minutes until Chris pulls back and pants against his neck.  "You think I'm going to fuck you after spending the entire evening bitching about all the other perverts who want to do the same thing?" 

"You're not a pervert," Lance protests.  Nope.  He knows who the pervert is here, and it definitely isn't Chris. 

There's a long silence with Chris' face buried against Lance's neck, a long silence during which Lance thinks he might have fallen asleep.  Finally, he whispers a broken, "You're seventeen."

"Old enough," Lance insists, and later, when they compromise and he's fucking deep inside Chris, he thinks that this feels so familiar because the way Chris is looking at him is the exact look that had disturbed him so much in the bathroom, and Lance knows that he was right all along.