JC wouldn't fuck him.

And it wasn't because JC was straight, either, because he had seen JC take guys to his room on many, many occasions; seen him slip into the alley of the club and come back with eyes glazed. And it wasn't because he didn't know. Because he knew. Because Justin had gone into his room in the tightest black jeans possible and a tiny muscle shirt that clung and rubbed. Had gone in and stood by JC's bed until he awakened, had smiled seductively and grabbed JC's hand and placed it on his stomach, lacing their fingers and leading it down to the button of his jeans, and there had been hot fingertips grazing his thigh for a second. Half a second.

And then JC had said no, just "no," and Justin had looked at him for a second, shocked, because no one said no to Justin Timberlake. No one. Hell, he'd even gotten Chris to give him half-hearted head that had quickly become enthusiastic, and he had looked down to see Chris' mouth working him over, and he had smiled and closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall because. Damn. Now that was power. And when Chris had wanted to do it again, Justin had just smiled and kissed him quickly and then shook his head, and Chris nodded curtly and looked dark-eyed for awhile, but then his eyes had seized on Lance and he had gotten quickly distracted.

And then there he was looking down at JC, JC, all rumpled and sleepy-eyed and bedroom eyed and fuck, his hand had felt good, warmburninghot through Justin's shirt, and JC was turned on and looking like he could fuck Justin through a wall, but he wouldn't do anything about it. And when Justin tried to ask why, JC just rolled his eyes and said, "I don't want to talk about this right now, Justin," like he was some spoiled little kid or something.

Justin was no kid. It had been a very long time since he'd been a kid, but JC had yet to adknowledge that, and he was sick of it. And it wasn't just that, it wasn't just to show JC that he had grown up, it was. Whatever. It could be a good bonding experience.

And fuck, was JC sexy.

If Justin really thought about it, there was probably something beyond just 'hot. me want fuck him now." Because it wasn't just that. It was the way his ribs showed through his skin, and the way his fingers held a pen, skittering it over a piece of paper, and it was the innocence that was still in his eyes, and his was his smile, and it was his spaciness, and it was Digital Getdown and it was Space Cowboy and it was even Bringin' Da Noise. It was just. Everything.

And it had been happening for awhile. Because he could still remember the stupid smile he'd had plastered all over his face when he JC agreed to join the harmony group they were putting together. And that time in Japan, when they'd stayed up all night in JC's hotel room watching movies doing the MST thing, cracking each other up and snuggling together, still kids. And even, even back in the days of Mousketeer-dom, there was always a JC-smile that made him ache just a little harder than anything else ever could, even back when he didn't know quite what that ache was.

So JC rejected him, and he went off to sulk, and found that he wasn't really sulking. He was just. He didn't even know. Because there was a new ache now, and it was settled somewhere in his stomach. And it was entirely unfamiliar, and he had no idea what it was.

Funny. Food didn't make it feel better, and neither did fucking that skinny guy with the cheekbones he'd picked up at the club. Nothing did.

So they went on, and he and JC weren't really talking, but there was nothing to talk about anyway, right? JC wouldn't fuck him. End of story. He was unfuckable. Whatever.

Maybe he would just go fuck Chris again.

But they were on the bus, and it was him and Chris and JC and hey. Maybe that was a good idea. Because then maybe JC would hear, or even see, what he was missing.

It was worth a try, at least.

So he went into the kitchen space, and JC was in the lounge, and the door was open between the bunks and the lounge and the kitchen, but he got Chris to suck him. Right there, standing in the kitchen, the scritch of JC's pen and the swish of his paper gone suddenly and uncomfortably silent.

But he didn't care because there was a wet mouth wrapped around him and ooh. Maybe he could even see JC from here. He was going to lean and see, but he didn't have to.

JC was standing in the bunk space, holding a notebook and looking at them, face carefully blank. And Justin wanted to smile and wanted to laugh and wanted to come, but there was a look in JC's eyes and hey. That wasn't lust. But it was close enough, and soon he was gripping Chris' hair and coming, hard.

When he opened his eyes again he was collapsed against the counter, hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles hurt. Chris was no longer on his knees in front of him but in the bunk space, having a very quiet conversation with JC. JC's eyes were on the ground, but Chris kept glancing back at Justin, his eyes getting wider and wider and then finally narrowing, his hand resting on JC's shoulder. Justin glared back, thinking, that's my shoulder. Fuck off.

And then JC was going back into the lounge, laughing softly, humorlessly, and Chris was moving towards Justin, and Justin closed his pants, hands still shaking, and went to follow JC.

Chris grabbed his arm. "No, J. Its just...he doesn't want to talk to you right now, I think."

And Justin had been pissed, because really, who was JC to be pissed at him for fucking Chris, because he had rejected Justin, so it wasn't any of his fucking business who Justin fucked.

And he didn't get it then, and he still didn't get it. Not until they started recording the next album and JC had new songs, loads of them, and they were all about some plastic cheating girl who he loved but could never touch.

Oh. Oh.

But by then it was too late, because JC was dating some girl who worked for a teeny magazine, and the one time Justin had tried to talk to him, really talk, with tender eyes and wishes in his head that he refused to articulate, JC had just smiled sadly and said, "Go talk to Chris, Just."

And he did talk to Chris, but that little ache in his stomach was back, and even Chris couldn't make it better. And when he went to sleep at night, it was in Chris' arms, but in his head he could see JC's smile, and JC's eyes, and JC's heart, glowing like a nightlight, hot enough to burn his hand if he reached out to touch it.