Tending to tension by conscious intent,
declining declension, disdaining dissent;
into the dementia dimension we're sent:
we are our content, and we are content.
-- Spider Robinson

The weekly games of I Never started as a tradition back before half of them were even legal to drink, when they were alone and bored in Germany and the television wasn't even in a language they understood, and somehow it just never stopped. Even once they were split up, scattered halfway across the continent -- and sometimes, across the world -- when they got together, someone would always bust out the beer or the vodka (depending on how shitfaced they felt like getting), plunk it down on the table. There would be a loud declaration along the lines of "Never ever have I ever thought lustful thoughts about a bandmate's mother," and everyone would shift their eyes sideways and wait to see who drank. They had a lot of drinking games, and they played them all, but I Never was always JC's favorite, and he was pretty sure that the others agreed.

The usual rules of the game, at least the way Chris had learned them -- "and I was the only one of us who actually went to college, so I demand that you bow to my authority when it comes to stupid drinking games," he'd declared, years back, and everyone else had just sort of shrugged -- were that you only drank if you disagreed with the statement, and if you were the only one to drink, the person asking had to drink and you had to tell the story. At first it was surprisingly effective for learning things about each other that would never come up in a J-14 interview, stuff that took just a bit of a buzz until someone was willing to confess. It wasn't always entirely about sex -- one night they'd gone through an entire round of I Nevers about what they could see themselves doing if it weren't for the music, and Justin had drunkenly confessed to secretly wishing he felt smart enough to have been a mathematician before pitching over into Joey's lap and sleeping there for the rest of the night -- but somehow, it always wound up there.

It was never quite static. Lance had gone through a phase where he'd deliberately picked statements that everyone but him would drink for, to get everyone else as fucked up as possible in the shortest period of time. They'd ganged up on him and declared a new house rule, that if everyone but you drank on a statement you had to drink too. Lance countered with the embarrassment factor: if everyone drank, or everyone but you drank, they would go around the room and everyone would tell the one-sentence version of the story.

That rule was in full swing the night that they were all sprawled around in Chris's Orlando house, somewhere between one and two sheets to the wind. They'd all known that the connection would come back the minute they started working with each other again, but it had been so nice to find that their time off had left them with nothing more distancing than the need to catch up on a lot of stories in as short a period of time as possible that nobody had wanted to break it up by being the first to go home. Five hours after they'd put the music down for the night, Chris sat upright from where JC had been rubbing his shoulders and said out of nowhere, "Never ever have I ever had sex with someone who's appeared on People's 'Sexiest People Alive' list."

It was met with groans, but affectionate ones. Justin said, "Does masturbation count?" Lance got up to get more beer.

They ganged up on Justin for a good five or six rounds mid-game, all about sex, picking stuff that they all knew damn well that he'd be the only one to drink for. JC thought, watching Justin's ears turn steadily pinker and pinker as he stammered through the story of how Cam had given him a hand job on a ski lift five days after Christmas, that Justin would get back at them somehow, and when it was finally Justin's turn again, he was proven right.

"Never ever have I ever," Justin said, pronouncing each word with the careful enunciation of one who was far too drunk for his own good and knows it, "fisted someone else, or been fisted." His eyes gleamed with more than just the alcohol, and JC wondered, as he reached for his beer, which one of them Justin had been aiming that one at.

Joey was the first to realize that all of them but Justin had reached for their cans of beer, and burst out laughing, barely avoiding spitting out half his mouthful of alcohol. When he was done coughing, he wiped his eyes. "Damn, Justin," he said, "what'd you do, just pull the kinkiest thing you could think of and hope that someone would have to tell the story?"

Justin scowled and reached for his own beer to take the required drink. "Yeah," he said, more than a little sulk audible in his voice. "Can I help it that y'all are a bunch of kinky motherfuckers?"

"Oh, right, and you're not." Lance shook his head. "Sorry, man, not buying it."

"Well, I'm certainly not that kinky." Justin held up a hand. "You can all, uh, forego the summaries."

"Oh, no." Joey took another drink from his beer, probably to stop his throat from burning from the spit-take. "Rules are rules, man." He pursed his lips and thought for a second, coming up with a single sentence that would convey just the precise level of too-much-information to make Justin squirm without going over the top. He eventually settled on "I have dated some very, very kinky ladies, and some of 'em were of the opinion that larger is always better."

"It was a while ago, there may have been some drugs involved --" Lance's eyes flicked over each of them, as though daring them to say something, but they'd all stopped lecturing Lance when they realized that he had mostly stopped and he wasn't being stupid about it anyway. "--I was on the bottom, and I didn't really like it all that much." His face indicated that he wouldn't talk about it even if he had been expected to tell more of the story.

JC took pity on him and leaned forward. "Um. It was a while ago, there weren't any drugs involved, I was on the bottom, and I, uh, really did kind of like it. I liked it a whole lot." He frowned. "Was that two sentences?"

"Yeah, it was." Chris's eyes were hot on his face, like Chris wanted to keep asking him question after question.

"Oh, leave him alone, Chris, C's got different definitions of a sentence than the rest of us do." Joey leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling between his thighs. "What about you?"

"College," Chris said, and didn't look away from JC. "One of the guys I was seeing was what one might refer to as a 'power bottom'. I could fuck him like that for days."

JC could barely breathe, feeling the weight of it. Lance snorted. "And you were making fun of JC for not knowing the meaning of 'one sentence'?" he said, and reached for a fresh can of beer. "My turn. Never ever have I ever used games of I Never as inspiration for kinky things to do to one of my bandmates."

"Fuck you, Bass," Chris said, but he drank anyway. A second went by, and then so did Justin. JC licked his lips and tried to keep himself from shivering.

Later on, they prodded Joey (who, when drunk and nearly passed out, could be moved fairly easily, if one didn't mind the rude things being said about one's mother) into one of the spare bedrooms, and threw blankets over Lance (who, when drunk and completely passed out, couldn't be woken short of a nuclear device) and Justin (who, at any level of drunkenness, would get sick if you made him move once he'd settled). JC stumbled against Chris as they made their way back to Chris's bedroom. Chris steadied him with a hand, and JC wondered how Chris managed to always wind up being the most sober one out of all of them after one of those games. He suspected Chris of, generally, lying through his teeth.

"Easy there," Chris said, his eyes warm and heavy. "Don't knock me down the stairs."

"Sorry," JC said. "I'm just. A little fucked up. Okay, a lot fucked up. Mmm. Being around you guys again leads to a happy kind of being drunk."

"Yeah." Chris stripped his shirt over his head as he headed for the bathroom. "We should have been drinking wine, though. Red wine! So someone could make the joke."

"I'm never going to live that album down," JC said, but he said it smiling as he kicked down his pants and slumped across Chris's bed. He tipped his head backwards and hummed to himself.

"Considering the number of times you've told J to cry you a river? Nope, don't think you will." The bed dipped underneath Chris's weight as he stretched out, and JC rolled sideways to tuck one of his knees between Chris's and hook the other thigh over Chris's hips. He felt boneless and liquid, just drunk enough to be limber and loose.

"Mmm," JC said, and slid his hand up to rub the small of Chris's back. He could tell, after years of practice, what Chris's subconscious cues were, and these said that Chris was in the mood to curl up and sleep, nothing more. "There are worse fates in the world."

"Yeah," Chris said. His voice was distracted. "Hey, C?"

Chris smelled like mint toothpaste and the last lingering remnants of Sam Adams. "Yeah?"

"You never told me," Chris said. His hand pressed against the base of JC's neck, right against the one vertebra that the chiropractor could never get back into place. JC didn't even bother pretending to misunderstand what Chris was talking about; there could have only been one thing.

He bit his lip and arched up against Chris's touch. "I never thought you'd be interested."

"Yeah, well," Chris said, and took his hand away. "You were kind of really wrong."

*

Things got crazy after that, and it wasn't until four or five weeks later, when they were done with most of the vocals and JC was spending sixteen hours a day in the studio, that Chris called him up on a Thursday night and announced, "You are getting out of that studio tomorrow night."

JC squinted at the clock and was startled to realize that it was past midnight, even more startled to realize that his stomach was growling at him like it was tired of being ignored. "Chris? Oh, man, when did it get to be so fucking late?"

"We left you in that studio five hours ago and you promised you'd go home soon. It's half past soon by now, C. You gotta stop this shit."

"I've almost got it, though," JC said. His protest sounded weak in his own ears. "I wanted to have something to play for you guys when you all came in in the morning."

There was a pause, and JC could hear some water running, before Chris's voice came back. "Man, I know you're trying to prove that we can do this on our own, but you've got to sleep. You're still human. No matter if you try to convince us all that you're not. Okay, look. Tomorrow night. Out of the studio by like seven, okay? Go home, take a shower, c'mon over to my place around eight. Let me take care of you for a night. I'll make sure you remember to eat and sleep."

The thought sounded very appealing, but JC couldn't stop the token protest. "I think I can get this finished up by the middle of the weekend if I just keep working on it, Chris."

"And I think that we can afford an extra few days of studio time to keep you from having a nervous breakdown, C," Chris shot back. "Eight o'clock. Don't make me haul you home from the retakes tomorrow." He hung up before JC could register another protest.

JC showed up the next night -- freshly showered and clean all over, just in case, because Chris's idea of "taking care of JC" when he was on a creative bender often included a four-hour sex marathon, "to make sure that you're worn out enough to sleep," Chris always said, with a smirk. The house was mostly dark, and JC let himself in, calling a halloo up the stairs.

"Upstairs," Chris called back, and JC followed the sound. Chris was in his bedroom, just pulling a t-shirt over his head, and JC figured that Chris had just lost track of the time.

"And here I thought I'd be late," JC said, leaning against the door. "What, did you forget that we were --" He stopped short. No, Chris hadn't forgotten. The sheets were clean, and the toys were lying out, and there was a tub of --

Oh.

Chris noticed where JC's eyes were. "I didn't forget anything," he said, low and smooth, and oh, he probably did know precisely what sparks were fluttering in the base of JC's stomach, fear and anticipation all at once. "Did you clean up before you came over?"

JC could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. "Yeah," he said. The inside of his head was slowly but firmly insisting that the power dynamics had totally shifted, and he had to fight the urge to cross the room and put himself into Chris's hands, completely and totally, for the rest of the night.

Chris nodded. He seemed to be completely unaware of what was going on in JC's head, but JC knew better; out of everyone he'd ever slept with, Chris was the best at gauging his partner's reactions down to the last inch. "Hungry?"

"A little," JC said. The question snapped him back to reality; not some mysterious stranger standing there looking at him, but Chris. Chris, the man who'd probably had JC's tongue on every inch of his skin. Chris, who knew every last bit of him.

"C'mere," Chris said, and indicated the spot in front of him with his eyes. JC crossed the room. He didn't know if his knees would carry him the whole way, but when he got there, Chris took his face between both of his own hands and looked deep into his eyes for what felt like forever.

"Yeah?" Chris finally said, and JC was smiling before he even realized it. "Yeah," he said in response. It was that easy.

Chris's lips brushed against his own, just one chaste kiss. JC loved the way Chris kissed, like you could feel the need in him reaching out to rush over you. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

JC knew the answer, knew that Chris knew the answer -- but he also knew that Chris needed to hear it, knew that it was almost ceremonial in its formality. "Always," he said, and Chris's lips turned up in a smile.

"Okay," Chris said, and brushed his fingertips over JC's cheek. JC could feel the rasp of guitar-calluses against his skin. It could have been weird, it could have been awful and strange to be standing in Chris's bedroom and know what Chris had planned, but it wasn't even anything close; it was warm and friendly and matter-of-fact. Not at all out of place. JC could feel his head starting to swim. "You manage to get what you were working on finished?"

JC blinked a few times and tried to grab his thoughts into some semblance of order. "Um. A little. Still not quite happy with it. I mean, I'm not going to be happy with it for a while, but I'm really not happy with it, and --" Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by Chris's mouth, smooth and soft and quietly demanding. He swam in it for a long moment, just the feel of skin against skin, warm hot lips against his own. Chris's tongue swept along his lips, then slid inside his mouth, patient and steady. JC was breathless by the time Chris pulled back away from him.

"Go on," Chris said, grinning. "Not happy with it?"

JC blinked a few times. His hands were on Chris's hips, and he wasn't sure when they'd gotten there, but now that they were, he flexed his fingers and felt the tight taut denim beneath them. "Um," he managed, and then cleared his throat. "No, there's something wrong with the bass, there's this really unpleasant thumping to it, and I mean, I know we want the track to be the club song but not like that, and no matter what I do to it, I keep losing Lance's voice in the middle of all the -- mmpfh." Chris's mouth claimed his again, and this time Chris slid a hand around his t-shirt and up his back, kneading the muscles in the small of his back that hurt like hell from hunching over a control board. JC had to hold on tightly to keep from tipping over.

"I'm starting to think," he said, when Chris let the kiss draw to a close, "that you don't want me to talk about work."

"Ding!" Chris chirped. "Give that man a prize." He brushed his thumb over JC's lips, and JC couldn't stop himself from letting his tongue flicker out and taste the warm salt sweet of Chris's skin. "Is it working?"

"It's working," JC breathed. He slid his hands up Chris's sides, firm and strong the way he knew Chris liked it, and Chris rolled his shoulders and made a soft rumbling noise that sounded suspiciously like a purr.

"Good," Chris said, and put the palm of his hand directly in the center of JC's chest. He pushed, ever so lightly, just enough to let JC know what he wanted, and JC walked backwards, trusting that Chris wouldn't steer him into any of the roadblocks in the room. "Because, you know, total insult to be thinking about work while I'm going to fuck you into next week."

JC felt the laughter bubbling up from the depths of his chest, and let it fly loose. He bent his head to nip at the sides of Chris's mouth, and Chris obliged by tipping his head back and tonguing JC's lips again. "You gonna be able to back that up?" he challenged.

There was nothing like this in the world, nothing like the way that being around Chris made him feel warm and cherished, happy and loose and languid. Chris walked him back up against the bed, and he felt it hit the backs of his knees and went over willingly. Chris climbed over him and sat on his hipbones, running his hands along JC's chest. "Maybe," Chris said, still grinning. "You think you can take it?"

"I can take it," JC said, and it was like that tripped one of the hundred switches inside of Chris's head, because he was still grinning, but this time it was darker and more feral.

"Yeah?" It was a challenge and a promise all at once, and Chris leaned forward, his hands on JC's biceps, to nuzzle JC's throat. JC tipped his head back for easier access and tried not to close his eyes, because he wanted to see the look on Chris's face. "Whatever I can dish out, you think you can take it?"

"I can take it," JC repeated. With anyone else, he would have felt helpless, pressed back against the bed and unable to move. With Chris, it just felt secure. "Whatever you've got." Chris's face, tipped down to look at him, was open and aroused. He shifted his hips experimentally and could feel himself getting even harder with the way that Chris felt against him, both of them still fully clothed. Chris rocked against him slowly, and he bit back the gasp.

"So fucking pretty, spread out like that," Chris muttered, and let one of his arms go to rub his palm over one of JC's nipples. JC gasped and arched his back up against the touch. "Wanna fuck you senseless. Wanna make you come screaming my name."

"Yeah," JC breathed, on unsteady voice. "God, Chris --" He ran his free hand up Chris's thigh, tucking his thumb into the crease of denim between leg and hip and rubbing. Chris rose to his knees, pressing against JC's hand, and JC spread his fingers out over the length of Chris's erection pinned inside his jeans. "Lemme touch you. I want to touch you."

Chris rocked his hips against the heel of JC's hand, and then slid backwards. "Not yet," he said, and dropped his head again to feather his lips across JC's. "Not for a while. I told you I'm gonna take care of you tonight." His voice dropped into that register that JC only heard during sex, as low as Chris ever spoke, breathy and dark. "I've been thinking about having my fingers inside of you since that night. Been thinking about what you might sound like when I've got my fist inside of you."

JC's hips lifted against Chris without his telling them to, and he bit back a moan. "Chris --"

"You never told me," Chris said. "That you thought about it. That you liked it. You never brought it up." He slid his hand under JC's t-shirt again, his fingers seeking out JC's nipple and rolling it between thumb and forefinger. JC's breath caught. "What else aren't you telling me, C?"

It was difficult, so difficult, to summon coherent speech. "I just -- I never -- I didn't know you'd be. Interested. That you'd want to."

"Oh," Chris said. "I want to. I want to see how much you'll give me."

"All of it." JC's thumb rubbed along the patch of skin between Chris's navel and the waistband of his jeans. "Come on, Chris, dammit, please --"

"Please?" Chris slid his fingers down JC's chest, and where normally there would have been the sweet hot bite of fingernails, there was nothing but smooth fingertips and warm skin. "What do you want, C?"

"You," JC whispered.

"Me?" Chris cocked his head to one side, trying to hide a smile. "Here I am. What do you want me to do to you?"

"God," JC said. Chris always liked to play this game, to push and prod and poke until he broke past that one last little wall of reticence and the words spilled from JC's lips. Damn him if it didn't always work. "I want. I want you touching me. I want your hands on me. I want your hands in me. I want your mouth -- your hands, your mouth -- touch me, taste me, God, Chris, I just --"

Chris slid his hands up JC's chest, bringing the t-shirt with him, bunching it up at JC's shoulderblades. JC squirmed on the bed enough to let Chris pull it over his head. "I think I can handle that," Chris said, tossing the shirt aside, and licked a clean pure line along JC's collarbone. "Since you asked so nicely and all."

JC laughed breathlessly. "I mean. I wouldn't want you to go out of your way or anything." He pushed himself up on his elbows to give Chris better access and let his head tip backwards. Chris nuzzled the long column of his throat. "If you were just doing it to make me happy."

"Baby," Chris said, only serious calling someone that when he wanted to be, "there is nothing in the world that makes me happier than seeing you spread out and begging for it." He slid backwards, grinding his ass against JC's cock. JC shivered. Chris kissed his way down JC's chest, little flicks of tongue that made JC squirm, halfway on the way to tickling. The thought surfaced in the back of his head that he should touch Chris, taste Chris, do something to make Chris feel as warm and cherished and aroused as he was feeling. He let the thought go; when Chris was this dedicated, this focused on the task at hand, there was nothing for it but to lie back and enjoy the ride.

"Here," Chris said, sliding off of JC's hips. "Turn so that you're on the bed all the way." JC squirmed further up the bed, resting his shoulders against the pile of pillows. Chris took the minute that JC was moving to pull his own shirt over his head, tossing it to the side, and then settled back between JC's knees. He ran his hands along JC's thighs, radiating heat through the denim, and JC rumbled another happy noise. He felt like he was ready to dissolve, to come apart beneath Chris's hands. It had been so long since he'd given himself over to that combination of excitement and relaxation, and oh, it was just what he needed.

"C?" Chris said, and he opened his eyes again, seeking out Chris's face. The expression Chris wore was patient and fond, threaded through with self-control and interest and arousal of his own. "I can hear you thinking in there. Just shut up and let go, okay? I've got you."

"But I -- but you --" JC had to make the protest, the token protest that he didn't really want to make. Things like this were supposed to be mutual.

"It's okay." Chris hooked one of his arms under JC's thigh, curling it up and around JC's hip, sneaking his fingers underneath the waistband of JC's jeans. "I told you, shut up. If it offends your sense of fair play you can always tie me to the bed later. Much later. Once you've gotten your power of thought back." The grin that Chris gave him was cocky, like Chris was certain that whatever they did, it was damn well going to blow JC's mind. JC was honest enough to admit that Chris was probably right. The nervous anticipation doubled and redoubled in the pit of his stomach, and he drew in a sharp breath, trying to fight the urge to call the whole thing off and go out and have a nice normal dinner before coming home to mutual blowjobs and maybe a backrub or something.

"Scared?" Chris asked, with that freaky uncanny ability he had to read JC's mind. His palm nestled warmly against JC's belly, and he propped himself up with his other elbow against JC's thigh.

It was just the two of them, so "yeah," JC said, and closed his eyes again. Fantasies were one thing, but they were about fifteen minutes away from realizing one of his, and as much as he trusted Chris, that was a scary thought.

"Don't be." Chris bent his head to mouth at the button on JC's jeans, warm and damp, and JC could hear teeth-click against metal. "Do you trust me that I know what I'm doing?"

"Yeah." And JC did; that wasn't in question.

"Okay." And just like that, it was. Chris closed his teeth over the button of JC's jeans again and pulled, lips and teeth and tongue all working together, and the button parted. JC squirmed at the feel of Chris's breath feathering over his stomach and lifted one tentative hand to thread it into Chris's hair. "You want me to stop, you just say stop," Chris said, mouth still full of denim, and then slid the jeans down JC's thighs and tossed them aside.

"Chris," JC said, breathless and shaky, feeling the way his dick swayed with his heartbeat, feeling Chris's breath over his thighs. Once he was naked, it was serious again, and he let the mixture of fear anticipation arousal excitement wash over him. This time, he didn't try to fight it.

"Slow, I think," Chris said, in precisely the same tone that he would use to decide what he wanted for lunch. "Slow and steady, until I can watch you coming apart for me." He let his tongue flick out and just graze the tip of JC's cock, tasting him, and JC hissed at the touch. Chris pulled back. "Lift your hips."

JC did, and Chris slid one of the pillows under the small of his back. He rocked his hips back and forth, trying to get comfortable, and kept breathing. Chris leaned back and pulled his nightstand, rickety table on spindly legs, closer to the side of the bed. "So pretty," he said. "Tell me you want it, baby. Tell me you want me."

"I do," JC said, and wished that Chris would lick him again, wished that warm and inviting mouth would close on his cock. He loved the way Chris's mouth felt against him. "I -- Chris, I do. Please."

Chris dipped his fingers into the Crisco sitting there waiting for him. It was cold against JC's skin as Chris rested one finger between the twin curves of JC's ass. JC let his knees spread wide, and silently blessed his flexibility. "Good," Chris said, and slowly pushed his way inside.

It was good; it was more than good. 'Good', in fact, didn't even begin to cover it, the feeling of Chris slipping inside of him, slow and steady and yet still forceful and strong. There was nothing like the way that first stroke always felt, the low slow hum of your body adjusting to make room. Chris twisted his hand a little, brushing right up against that spot that always made JC see sparks, and JC bit back a moan. He flexed his hips and breathed out on a long hiss, relaxing and tensing all at once, and Chris smiled.

"Gonna make a mess," Chris said, and JC didn't care what he was saying, just focused on his voice. He pulled his hand back, then slid inside again, and JC raised his hips to meet the long slow strokes. "So pretty. Slow and steady, baby, slow and steady." He fit actions to words, adding another finger slick and cold with grease. "God, look at you eating that up."

He always forgot how much he loved this, how much he loved being spread out and opened up and made love to, until it was there for him again. He always forgot how much he needed it until he had it again. "Chris," he said, breathlessly. "Fuck, Chris, yeah, just like that. God, yeah." The fire was starting in the pit of his stomach, sending little thrills of fever straight to the core of his dick. Chris settled a little more firmly between JC's legs, leaning on one thigh, holding him pinned to the bed as his fingertips sought out all the places that would make JC whimper the most. "God, Chris, fuck me."

"I love hearing you talking during sex," Chris confessed on a breath of laughter. "God. You don't even hear yourself, do you? Just sort of set your mouth to talking without your brain in the middle of it."

"That's not very different -- from usual," JC managed, his voice thick with arousal and his own buzz of laughter. Warm and steady and oh, he felt so cherished, intense and needy. It was always so rare for Chris to focus on anything like this, so rare for Chris to rein in his attention and concentrate so fully on any one thing. When it happened it was like being in the presence of a small miracle, replete with wonder and awe. "God," JC breathed, as Chris slid his fingers free and came back a half-second later with three of them, stretching, rubbing. JC thought that if he was this ready to come apart now, his heart might not be strong enough to take it.

"Good point," Chris said, and then frowned in quiet concentration, like every bit of his attention was centered in his fingertips. JC's head was swimming with it, deep and intense. Chris's other hand stroked his upper thigh slowly, little feather-touches that mirrored the little flutters of Chris's fingertips inside JC's body. Chris's fingers turned and twisted. JC felt full, stretched, open and ready and swimming in the little sharp lightning-shocks of sensation. Chris breathed softly over the head of JC's cock, which was hard and tight and begging for it. Just a sort of absent-minded pursing of his lips, cool stream of air along JC's hot and aching cock, and JC could hear his breathing getting rougher and more ragged.

"More?" Chris asked. A bare breath of sound. JC bit his lip and nodded, pushing back against Chris's fingers, pleading with his hips and his thighs. He didn't trust his voice. "You ready?"

"Yes," JC hissed. There was starting to be nothing but Chris's hand, Chris's fingers, the pillow beneath him and Chris leaning sideways against him and the way that Chris's jeans strained and stretched against Chris's thighs underneath his leg. "Yes -- Chris --"

"Breathe," Chris said, strong and steady and so beautifully in control, and a minute later four slick fingers were pressing against him and inside of him and he cried out on a wordless note.

Heat and pressure and slick wet insistence, and it didn't hurt, not the way it had the last time he'd done this, but it was balanced so firmly on that knife-edge between pain and pleasure that just a hair more could have tipped it either way. He could feel Chris's eyes on his face, drinking in his expression, and gave himself over to Chris's hands. Chris paused just for a moment, long enough to let JC catch his breath. JC sucked in air and felt his vision starting to swim with the overload on his lungs. His fingertips were numb and he fought to take deep breaths, slow and steady, as Chris waited.

A long minute, and Chris curled his free hand around JC's cock, not stroking, just holding. JC hissed and rocked against the touch, and it was almost too much, almost. He could hear himself moaning and it sounded like someone else's voice in his ears. His thighs were tensing to keep him from pushing back up against Chris or pulling away, and his hips were twitching with each breath. Chris shifted his fingers, pulling them apart, stretching, stretching, sweet and taut and soft and hard all at once. JC could get lost in it, the way it burned and sparked and snapped in his blood.

"Listen," Chris said. JC turned his head a little more and sucked in a deep breath, his fingers closing tightly on the sheets, and oh, Chris's fingers, Chris's fingers, strong and sure and ready to hold him forever.

"You're not talking," he managed, on a sharp exhale, just as Chris drew back a fraction of an inch and twisted his fingers, just enough.

"No," Chris said. "Don't listen to me. Listen." His voice was the only bit that JC had of him, other than the fingers opening him up and laying him bare, and for half a crazy second he thought that Chris was quoting something but oh, he couldn't think of what it might be and he didn't really care. He sucked in another breath and let it out slowly, exhaling on a single G sharp. Chris laughed softly and breathed out a soft shimmery C sharp in return. "Yeah," Chris said. "Come on, baby, listen to it. Like your heartbeat. Like my heartbeat."

JC could feel it, the low slow shocks of pleasure building up inside of him like the deep dark pool of something spreading in his chest. "Chris," he said, one soft steady moan, and Chris drew his fingers back. He nearly cried out at the emptiness of it.

"Yeah," Chris said, meaningless syllable of reassurance. There was a quick second while Chris reached, and then JC could feel his thumb, slick and slippery with the grease, joining his other four fingers already sliding back. "Come on, baby, breathe, baby, come on, I wanna watch you take it. I wanna watch you feel it. I wanna watch you open up for me, open up for me, come on, baby."

Meaningless noise, meaningless syllables, and it washed over JC like water. Chris slid into him up to the second knuckle. Too much, too quickly, and he cried out, sharply. Chris let his cock go and pressed his palm flat over JC's hip, sliding back out quickly. "Shh," Chris said, and JC nearly wept at the emptiness when Chris took his hand away. "Shh. Breathe for me, C, breathe for me, it's okay, I've got you. I've got you. Breathe." A second, and more lube, and Chris brought his fingers back, sliding, pushing, taking.

Third knuckle, and he could feel it, sharp and hot and aching. It wasn't pain, just presence. "Oh," JC breathed on a single note. It caught the back of his throat and hummed there like a bird's wings.

"So beautiful," Chris said, and then shifted his weight so that he was no longer leaning sideways against JC's thigh. He pulled his knees up underneath him and knelt between JC's legs, and JC's eyes locked with his and held, and Chris lifted his left hand to brush over his forehead quickly and the room was hot and heavy and half a second of pushpainshiftyesohgod and JC took a long, shuddering breath as Chris finally slid inside him fully and then stopped, motionless and waiting.

It felt like everything in the world, like being dipped into liquid mercury and being left out to dry in the sun. His world was nothing more than body, bed, hands, dick, ass. "Shh," Chris said again, and stroked JC's thigh with his other hand. His voice sounded shaky too. "Don't stop breathing, baby, come on, breathe for me."

JC thought with one corner of his occupied mind that it was a silly command, but then he realized that he wasn't breathing, tensed up and washed over with it. He exhaled sharply, and it was more moan than breath. "Chris," he said. "Chris."

"I know." Chris was watching him like he was drowning and Chris's eyes were the only lifeline. Maybe he was. Maybe they were. "You okay, baby?"

JC took another breath, deep and slow. He was swimming in it, rocking with it, and he tried to loosen his muscles and abandon himself to the flow. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, God, Chris, I want --"

"Tell me what you want, C," Chris said, low and smooth. JC wondered just how fucking turned on Chris must be. He knew those eyes, that voice, that look, oh God that look, that heavy-lidded expression of patient concentration and pure, sweet attention. Anyone who thought that Chris couldn't keep his mind on one thing entirely had never been at the mercy of those hands.

"I -- want." JC shifted a little, tentatively, flexing his hips inch by inch and nearly whimpering at the way each little motion seemed to set up a chain reaction of sensation through his skin. The words fell from his lips; he didn't even know what he was saying. "Chris, I want -- please -- fuck me, Chris, give me your hand, touch me, fuck me, I want, please --"

Chris stroked JC's thigh again, tiny little feather-touches, and watched carefully, almost assessingly, as he shifted his hand just a fraction of an inch. His knuckles brushed up against that spot, that spot, and JC whined and bit his lip. He couldn't keep his eyes open -- too much input, too many senses -- and they closed without his even thinking about it. The insides of his eyelids were dark and warm. "Yes," he hissed again, and then lost the thread of speech, and if he was saying anything he damn well didn't know what it was.

"Go on," Chris said. "Go. I've got you." He slid further, warm hot pressure pleasure steady waiting sure. JC bit his lip and tangled his fingers in the sheets just to have something to hold and breathed, deeply and steadily. Chris pulled back and did something with his knuckles and JC bucked his hips, bit down hard enough that he tasted blood, and let himself fly loose.

It lasted forever. He lost the thread of time, of space, of anything other than the swift tiny shocks of overwhelming -- pleasure was the wrong word for it, too tame, too tamed. This wasn't tame. It was raw and hot and electric and wild like something throbbing under his skin and trying to tear loose. He didn't even know if he was hard anymore. It didn't matter. Everything was right there, inside of him, inside of him like Chris was inside of him, making love to him with fingers and knuckles and palm and wrist. He was coming apart, coming together, coming to pieces and coming to conclusions and coming to rest and coming to knowledge and coming to parts and finally all of it was falling away and he was just plain coming, with Chris's name on his lips and Chris's hand steady against his hip and Chris's fingers inside of him and Chris, Chris, Chris.

It was a long time before he was conscious of breathing again, of the bed beneath his shoulders and Chris looking steadily down at him and the way his thighs were cramping up from the released tension. "You back?" Chris asked, sitting still and motionless between JC's legs, and smiled.

"I," JC started, and then found himself laughing, great deep peals that rose from somewhere deep inside his chest and washed over them both. He felt dizzy, light-headed, hyper-aware of the shift and play of the slight breeze over his chest and the heat of Chris's body next to him. He felt enormous, immense, as though he could reach out and gather the whole world in his arms. He couldn't find the words for it, wouldn't have said anything even if he could.

"Yeah," Chris said, "you're back," and the smile was more than a little bit self-satisfied. He ran his fingers along the curve of JC's hip, and then placed his palm where his fingers had just been, flat and reassuring. "Breathe in," Chris instructed, and JC did. "And out." Chris slid his hand free on JC's exhalation, one swift move that was over before it could even begin to be uncomfortable. Chris reached for a towel, and JC nearly wept at the emptiness of it before Chris was back between his legs and carefully, tenderly cleaning him off.

Once they were both reasonably clean again -- and JC knew he should move to help, knew he should make some sort of effort, but he was so limp and boneless that all he wanted to do was sink back into the covers and nurture that boundless well of peace and lassitude in the depths of his bones -- Chris stretched out on the bed beside JC. He threw one still-clothed leg over both of JC's knees and brushed the sweat-soaked hair out of JC's eyes. JC had almost reached the point where he could form coherent words. "Chris," he started, and "That was --" he tried, and Chris just made a shushing noise and rested his head against JC's shoulder.

"You good?" Chris asked. JC could feel the length of Chris's erection pressing against his hip, still trapped behind the denim of Chris's jeans.

"Yeah," he said, and let out a long shaky breath, starting to gather the scattered threads of his consciousness. "Yeah. More than good. Yeah. I'm fucking great. God. I just -- that was --"

Chris pushed himself up on one elbow and leaned over to kiss JC. Chris always kissed like he was starving. "I know," he said. "You're welcome."

JC didn't know what the words were trying to be, didn't know how he could even begin to express it, so he just rolled over towards Chris onto one side and wrapped his arm around Chris's body, tight and needy, trying to put it all into that touch. He buried his face in Chris's shoulder. Chris's arm circled his shoulders and he just held on, for a long minute, while JC breathed against his skin.

"So," Chris finally said, after the little aftershocks in JC's elbows and knees had mostly stopped, "I'm pondering a very important question."

It was the tone that Chris used when he was about to say something outrageous. JC felt the laughter trying to come back and let it. It felt damn good. "Yeah?" he asked, pulling his head back and looking Chris in the eyes.

Chris's expression was sober and serious, but it was all a long-familiar act. "If we get up now and order the pizza, do you think we could be out of the shower before it gets here?"

JC just looked at him for a minute, and then dissolved in laughter again. "Pizza?" he asked. "You're feeding me pizza? Come on, you fucker, I so totally am worth something more classy than that."

"Pizza is a time-honored tradition!" Chris insisted. He pulled back with a last pat against JC's skin and sat up to tuck his feet beneath him. "And besides, they'll bring the pizza to us. Which means that we don't have to go out in public to eat. Which means that we'll have plenty of time afterwards to get you naked again and fuck like bunnies until dawn. Which is a very important consideration."

"Okay, okay," JC said, and stretched, long and slow and full-body. He could feel Chris's eyes on him. Chris knew, Chris always knew, precisely what to say so that it was okay. "But I'm not putting on clothes, man. You're just going to have to go downstairs and deal with the delivery guy yourself."

"We could probably get away without tipping if you opened the door just like that," Chris said. "I'm not above pimping you out if it involves free pizza."

"Where's the love, I ask you. Whoring me out for a few slices of pepperoni and pineapple." He ran his hand along Chris's arm, trying to say it without having to say it, trying to let Chris know that he knew and he was grateful beyond the limits of what words could possibly express. "Where's the love."

"Right here," Chris said, and kissed the side of his mouth.

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