Sometimes, Lance will sit Justin down in front of him and search him for imperfections. They’re hard to find, because this is Justin Timberlake, after all, and he’s spent almost half his life being unceremoniously stripped of them, with bleach and makeup and lessons from photographers on how to smile so his mouth doesn’t look uneven.

It is, though. Uneven, one side of his perfectly curved upper lip imperfectly higher than the other side. Justin always smiles when Lance makes him do this, but will quiet, his face melting into a blank slate, lips going slack and naturally baby-pouted, if Lance shushes him. Justin was made for the camera, and he’s able to shift emotions in a second, from joyous to sorrowful to numb. If you tell Justin to model for you, to shut up and just let you adore him, he’ll fall into this still, dreamy state of disconnection to his own perfect body.

His nose is…undeniably big. It’s not JC’s nose or anything, but yeah. Flared nostrils and a nose too big for his face. His eyebrows are bushy, like fucking caterpillars crawled onto his face, and his jawline is even, but way too high for his face. The baby-fine hair on his chin looks like pubes half the time, as Chris is so fond out pointing out. His ears are strange and twist outwards at the top.

But even with all of this, and the fact that he snores like a freight train, and is obsessed with self-help books, and always goes flat on that one note during the chorus of No Strings Attached, which apparently only Lance can hear, he’s still perfect. All the little imperfections come together to make Justin, and he’s too perfect to be imperfect, too perfect to be real.

Too perfect to be his. When he’s done searching, done looking for imperfections which don’t exist, Lance will silently and turn around and let himself collapse onto Justin, let Justin’s arms come around him and admire the muscles. Pick at the thick dark fucking monkey hair on his arms, look at his gigantic hands pressed flat on Lance’s not-so-flat belly, and sigh.

And Justin will kiss him, and lick the back of his neck, and when they fuck he’ll whisper into Lance’s hair, like he always does, “Lance, I love you, I love you, you’re perfect.” And Lance will think, no, we’re perfect. You’re perfect. I’m perfect because you love me, you love me.



Picture from songbirds.