"I don't know," Lance said, standing in the doorway and watching Justin's eyes in the mirror. "It'd be different, at least."
"Different in a good way?" Justin balanced his razor on the edge of the sink and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. "Or different like the time you said, 'Well, she's different,' when Chris introduced us to that girl he met at two in the morning in front of the WaWa in Philly?"
Lance had liked that girl. She'd told him her name was America, asked for a Jack and Coke, and then they'd spent forty minutes discussing the life of Warren Buffett before Chris got fed up and took her back to his room to fuck. "If you're looking for fresh blades, there's three in my bag."
"No, I got it." By cramming the toothpaste onto the middle shelf and putting the painkillers next to the condoms, Justin forced the cabinet door to close. Lance resisted the urge to tell him he was doing it all wrong. "You didn't give me an answer."
"Well, I haven't seen it yet. What's there to say?"
Justin sighed. He sounded like his mother when he did that. Lance didn't say anything about that, either, which was, he thought, a sign of remarkable intelligence and maturity. They had another month of studio time booked, too. Lance thought it prudent to lay down the rough vocals before instigating their next screaming match.
And then there was the sex. Justin was at his most eager when it was one of his tracks they were recording that week. Strings had been the best sex they'd ever had, but this album was putting that to shame.
If Justin ever decided to do a solo album, Lance would need to see his guy about getting some Viagra.
Justin squinted at his reflection, cocking his head. "I'm gonna do it."
"Okay."
"I need the scissors first."
Lance went into the kitchen, which was nice enough as far as kitchens in apartments went. Having money this time around and the backing of a shiny new label like Jive meant having someplace decent to come back to when they escaped the studio. There was a pair of sharp scissors with green grips in the drawer next to the stove.
Justin was sitting on the toilet lid when Lance returned. The look he gave Lance, the way he dangled his hands between his knees and tapped out staccato rhythms on the tile with his bare feet reminded Lance of why he wanted to spend every night he could in the same bed as Justin, even after the recording was over.
"You do it," Justin said, bowing his head. "Just get most of it, then I'll do the rest."
Lance combed his fingers through Justin's curls and began to cut.