I have run you down into the ground
Spread disease about you over town

...

Do you have an opinion,
A mind of your own?
I thought you were special
I thought you should know
That I've run out of patience
I couldn't care less

-Garbage, "Special"

Rumor has a nasty way of penetrating every pore of the music industry. Justin knows when he walks into the studio tomorrow morning everyone from the sound engineers to the secretary will look at him with a not-so-quiet curiosity and a bit less respect. He doesn't care, though, not now while he's pressed against a wall in a hotel room registered to a Mr. Clean. The teeth on his earlobe do a lot to make his worries slide around his ears without entering.

At the forefront of Justin's mind is a chunk of big, blond pretty that's got him pinned to the wall with his jeans at mid-thigh and plaid cotton boxers slid lopsidedly off his hips. Nick -- it's usually "Nick," something quick and choppy with a short, high vowel that doesn't carry well -- has his hand on Justin's dick and his mouth has moved to Justin's left nipple; Nick's left, not Justin's left. Most things are about Nick. Which is strange, really. Nick's not the popular one anymore. He doesn't have the top-selling record. He's in the "washed-up boyband" that's got a few too many wives for its own good.

"Nick" -- Justin's voice catches a bit, slightly hoarse from lack of sleep. One more catch and Justin's gone; Nick gives sloppy head, but it's Nick, so it doesn't matter all that much. Why then is Nick the lesser of the two, in the opinion of the world?

Justin and Nick fuck again three days later in Nick's suite bathroom. They don't quite fit in the ultramodern mini shower stall, so Nick bends Justin over the rim of the bathtub and just starts thrusting away, hips slapping buttocks while the skin of Justin's stomach rubs against the bathtub finish. The finish won't come off, but the skin might.

Nick is the master of delayed orgasm, and while Justin has christened the pale blue tiles, Nick has only given up a few grins and maybe an involuntary "oh, Justin". He's still sliding into Justin just as furiously as before, and Justin's starting to see red, his least favorite color, in his skin around the lip of the tub. Rather than cry out, he stills Nick for a second -- an unheard-of occurrence -- and flips himself over, hooks his legs over Nick's shoulders, and braces his arms against the tub. Nick looks a bit bewildered, his choice of position denied at least momentarily.

"Okay?"

Justin grits his teeth, braces himself. Mostly breathless, he responds: "yes, fine. More." He might be really well-educated, but tonight monosyllabic words are his friends.

At the next hotel, Nick requests a bigger shower. Nick says "I want a shower you can fuck in." Management is not pleased. Management says "Mr. Carter would prefer a room with a large size shower." Two men in somber gray ties come to see him and give him orders not to say such things to hoteliers. These faceless Oxford shirts can do anything, Nick is certain. He doesn't even hear the "it's your money, Mr. Carter" anymore.

This time Justin fits, and Nick shares with him the joys of water as it slides down around and between two well-tanned slick bodies. Justin rubs Nick's hipbone with one hand and runs his other hand down Nick's abdomen. Nick pushes forward before Justin's hand gets to its intended target, and he has Justin up against the tiled wall, this time faded crimson.

Three days, again. This time they're a bit clumsier and Justin's gray dry-clean-only silk shirt is the victim of Nick's truly artful handjob while Justin is sliding his tongue into and around Nick's navel. They don't notice, of course, because what can a handjob lead to except more sex? There is a swirl of legs and rubber and mouths.

When it clears, Nick is in his perennial position, picking up Justin's legs one at a time and putting them in the air up above his head. It would strike Nick how physically malleable Justin is, but Nick's vocabulary doesn't play well with strangers, and he's sort of in the middle of something important. At least, to him, at this second, it's important.

Justin leaves his shirt and takes another, with Nick's blessing. At least, Justin thinks it's Nick's blessing. He wonders if Nick will remember saying "take a shirt; you look like a hooker without one." Justin wanted to raise his eyebrow and ask how exactly Nick would know this, but he realized he didn't want to know. He prefers the innocence of ignorance in this case.

Justin wears Nick's shirt again two days later, with a pair of cutoffs. One thing he loves about New York is that he can get away with just about anything. This publicity jaunt will be over soon and then everyone can go home to sunny Florida while Lance gets shipped on to Moscow. The boy was born with a rocket in his brain, Justin thinks. And his pants. He shakes his head ruefully -- Lance is off-limits, he has told himself. Leave the Rocket Man out of this. But for the meantime he contents himself with sex with Nick and being in the city. And, apparently, yelling at JC for turning off the air conditioning, "to save money."

"Jesus fuck, it's hot in here C. We're not the ones paying for this, so leave it cranked. I can't lose many more clothes."

Joey raises his eyebrow at Justin. "You sure? Didn't your boy have something to say about that?" He hums the first few bars of "Hot in Herre" and when he gets to "so take off all your clothes", he mimes pulling at a thong. "You wouldn't happen to be wearing one today? Gonna drop in on him unannounced?" He gives Justin a wink.

"Shut up, Joey. That was. It. Totally a one-time thing. He's got it bad for DMX, and my voice is just a bit too high for that." Justin fakes a sigh and moves over to the fan in the corner. "C!" he shouts. "Turn on the damn air!"

JC comes through the room, wringing his hands. "It's just so costly, and we can totally take a little heat, J. Think how much money we'll save the hotel. I just can't leave it..." He trails off.

"C'mere, C," Joey says. "Baby, c'mere. It's alright." JC walks toward him, wearing blue capris patterned in big white flowers and a t-shirt that's probably a shirt in name only, more like a few wisps of extremely old, faded fabric held together by JC's unrelenting naïveté. Joey reaches an arm around JC's waist, impossibly thin, and pulls him down onto his lap. Joey's hand finds JC's front and trails down to his belly. JC mewles as Joey lightly runs his fingers across JC's abdominal muscles, pausing here and there to tickle, causing JC to break into paroxysms of laughter, sliding from Joey's knees to the floor as though he were an extremely runny syrup.

Justin rolls his eyes and moves from the fan, pausing in the doorway to toss over his shoulder "I'm going out. It's too damn hot. I'm going somewhere people actually believe in air conditioning."

The heat is thick as Justin leaves the building, and he really shouldn't be walking here, on the streets of New York, alone, especially dressed the way he is in short faded cutoffs and Nick's shirt, the thong Joey mimed beneath the tiny shorts. There is only one place is Justin's mind, and he can walk there; it's only four blocks.

Sandals were probably not the best idea he thinks, but his feet couldn't stand being covered today, and the sandals he has are more like slides, walkable and heavier than the $7.99 flipflops JC prefers.

Justin finds Nick, no problem, and runs his hand through the thick straw on Nick's head. "Do you believe in air conditioning?" Justin asks as he sinks to his knees. Nick's expression is one of puzzlement, but he looks at Justin and his cares go away as he sees what's packaged before him. Looks up and down. And up again to his crotch level, where Justin has rested his head. Nick smiles.

"I almost think you dressed up for me." Nick bends, just a little, and hooks and Justin's shirt is in Nick's hands. "Hmm," he says, "this could be mine. In fact, I think it is." He laughs at something, but Justin doesn't understand what.

And then they have sex.

And then the junket in New York is over and Justin takes the heat and thickness of the weather with him to Orlando, where he comes home to an empty house and some condiments. He walks in the side door from the garage and turns on the air conditioning, then opens the pantry. And closes the pantry, making a face. He picks up his keys and makes it to the Buy Rite in under fifteen minutes. He grins at himself in the rearview mirror.

Once inside, he practically swipes the shelves clean, arm running along and grabbing bags of Doritos and boxes of cereal and canned ravioli. He notices a sale on tuna fish and purposefully takes the kind that's not on sale, just to piss off JC, who isn't even here. He also finds himself with a case of Jolt and three bags of Cheez Doodles, which he doesn't even eat. He remembers Nick saying something like "I never stay in a place without 'em long." Justin shrugs and places them on the checkout line. There's a beep and he puts it all on his Visa.

He's home now and the blast of cool air upon entering the house is welcome, a change from heat and humidity with no sense of personal space. He moves his things back into his room, and does laundry. His hands run lightly over Nick's shirt, still in his suitcase. The thong was left at Nick's.

Justin puts his phone to his ear and slides his finger over the green button. Caller ID says Mr. Clean. Justin smiles as he says "Hey Nicky, it's good to hear from you. How you been?" Nick is tinnified by the phone, his whine amplified, but Justin still feels a little shudder go down his spine as Nick responds.

"Hey J." He uses the nickname Justin uses with the guys, but somehow makes it sound dirty. "You doing anything later?" It's not a question.

"Back from New York already? I'da thought you'd be there at least another week. What were you there for, anyway?" Justin's palms are sweaty and he can't imagine why. Oh yes I can. What does he want, anyway? Some other, whispery, bedroom-voiced part of him says with any luck, he wants to give you his dick again. Another part is a bit less crude, but with Nick breathing in his ear, it's hard to hear that part.

Nick's saying something about promotions and AJ and love and support after a year of difficulty, but Justin's just interested in his inflection and the cadence of Nick's voice. Nick claims he doesn't understand most of the things they talk about in all these meetings, and the other Boys know this, but he's got to go anyway and suddenly Justin has a flash of Nicky in a suit. With glasses, he thinks. The wave of sheer want almost knocks him out, and he finds himself panting things at Nick, the understood gist of which is simply "get your ass over here."

When Nick arrives, Justin tackles him and there's an extremely violent kiss, lips mashed together and Justin's tongue running over Nick's teeth and drawing Nick's oh-so-soft tongue into his own mouth.

They make out on the couch for a while, until Nick leans in a little too far and Justin's gone, will do anything Nick asks. Nick's not too inventive, though. The sex is like fudge ripple -- pretty much vanilla (but what a vanilla) with the occasional ribbon of chocolate. Tonight's a bit of the latter. Nick does Justin on the sofa, riding up on Justin's back and leaving long, wet trails where his tongue meets the wide canvas of Justin's shoulders.

Justin lets go of a deep moan when he comes on the middle cushion of his black leather couch. He's almost unable to wipe up after himself. He just wants to bask in the afterglow, Nick-colored, around him.

Three hours later they're watching bad action movies and cheering at stuff being blown up. Nick raids the pantry and returns, grinning, with a bag of Cheez Doodles. "You remembered."

"Kinda hard to forget," Justin tosses back. "What kind of freak eats Cheez Doodles anyway?" But he returns Nick's grin and Nick sits next to him on the recently cleaned couch and things are okay.

Justin comes upon Nick unexpectedly when he has to make an unanticipated trip to the Jive office. As Justin is traversing the neutral carpeting and eggshell walls, he passes door after stylishly polished door, a few of them open with smiling faces on the phone. His head is turned to the left, and he catches a glimpse of glasses and blond and he knows it's Nick.

Nick is stuffing some papers in a manila envelope, trying to jam them in as fast as possible. Justin pauses, retreats a few steps, pokes his head through the doorway. He catches Nick's eyes, and is puzzled by the saucer-sized whites, the frozen look. He thinks of questioning Nick here, but instead simply nods and continues his not-so-merry way down the corridor toward what the guys call the "inner sanctum" of Jive, where they're only invited rarely, and usually for signatures and semi-ritualistic handshakes.

As he's leaving, Justin seemingly casually looks over his shoulder into Nick's room. It's empty now, the chairs rearranged around the conference table and the coffee pot reset on its warming pan. Somebody missed the ring of a water glass on the table, but the papers Nick was so hurriedly guarding are gone.

Nick is in the VIP waiting room as Justin is leaving, and Justin opens the door and slips inside. "What are you doing here?" he asks, voice showing amusement. "I thought they had separate Backstreet and *NSYNC days. You know, spread the joy?"

His slight sarcasm puts Nick a bit more at ease, and Nick sits down in one of the overstuffed armchairs. None but the best for the talent, Justin thinks wryly. The envelope from before is clutched in Nick's hand, and Justin is about to say something when Nick answers.

"Oh, you know, had to pick up some stuff, notes and... things," he trails off weakly, making a noncommittal gesture with his unencumbered hand. It's not the "stuff" that's got Justin worried. Perhaps it's the "... things".

"Things like what? I never knew you to be secretive, Nicky." Justin advances toward Nick, who feels himself folding back into the wall, his resistance to Justin's questions crumbling.

"Just, um, question answers and stuff. For, uh, for consistency's sake." Nick says the word "consistency" like it's completely alien, much like Justin remembers sounding out longer words in his Phonics lessons. The phone number for Hooked On Phonics trails through Justin's head.

"What, they don't trust you to come up with your own?"

Nick gets the deer-in-the-headlights look again, but recovers. "Nah," he laughs it off. "Just making sure I'm saying what they want me to say." His eyes shift floorward, and Justin doesn't buy it, not for a second.

"Nicky, look at me. Pretend I'm from, like, J-14 and my name's Jenni-with-an-I and I want to know your opinion on teenage dating. What're you gonna tell me?"

Nick just grins and spreads his hands, but he glances at the manila envelope. Justin knows suddenly that what's in the envelope are Nick's opinions, all neat and typed, with 1.25-inch margins and double-spacing. The corporate, pat answers Nick gives are his own. Such as they are. When Nick walks out the main door of the Jive offices, he leaves behind his ability to think for himself, especially on his feet. Justin's not sure whether to be horrified or to comfort Nick.

Justin sort of clumsily opts for the latter, his mouth working faster than his brain. He closes his mouth on Nick's with a kiss. Nick's still Nick, after all. Justin whispers "it's okay, just kiss me back." Nick obliges, and the subject is dropped.

They meet at Nick's next time, a place Justin's been only once before. This time it's slightly messier but feels more like home. Justin thinks that's probably because Nick is there. They have sex, of course, but this time it's a little looser, not quite the blindingly hot sex of the past dozen of half-dozen times, but a bit more leisurely, almost tender. It's tinged with an emotion Justin can't quite identify.

When Justin comes it's almost quiet, a hushed, delicate sort of "oh" that makes Nick think maybe he's done something wrong. Perhaps, thinks Justin, he's done something a shade too right. They shower together in silence, and as opposed to the now-messy bed, they retire to the couch in the basement, the coolest room in the house. Already, though, Justin's developing beads of sweat on his forehead.

Justin rarely gets philosophical after sex, but this was different, and he knows it. When he brings it up, though, Nick gives him a questioning look, and Justin knows he won't find anything in that expression of cluelessness. Nick's just kind of like that.

Justin's house is the location next time, and Nick pulls up in one of his big shiny black cars. Justin meets him at the door with a beer and a kiss, and looks quizically at Nick, who cocks an eyebrow and asks what's wrong. "Where's the pizza, Nick?"

"Oh, man! I knew I forgot something. Do you want me to go get it?"

Justin gives an exasperated sigh. "No, it's okay, we'll just have 'em deliver it." He gives Nick a sideways glance, and Justin's angry, but not excessively so. It's just... Nick was supposed to, he thinks. He sighs again to himself, slightly more resignedly.

They pop in some movies and watch shit blow up for a while, and when the pizza arrives Nick searches himself for money, but can only come up with his driver's license. Justin pays the delivery boy, slightly starstruck, and closes the door. After the movies, there is, of course, fabulous sex.

Careful as they usually are, things get messy this time and stainable things get caught. Justin is forced to throw clothes in the washer, taking two detergent tablets and tossing them in with the whites and a tiny bit of bleach. He had almost a full load to do anyway, so it's sort of okay. He'll do the colors later.

Justin isn't sure why he says the first thing. It feels like it just slips out of his mouth at an industry party. Tongues are looser in the summer, and the alcohol flows. Maybe he's mad at Nick for the events of the previous night, and for leaving the bed this morning. Frustrated and maybe a little horny and definitely a bit drunk, he tells an insider something extremely fabricated and rather longwinded about Nick and his tendency to tell not-quite-truths.

Nick doesn't have the imagination to lie, Justin tells this guy, who feigns interest for a time, but quickly grows bored with Justin's speech. As tries to break away, Justin grabs the back of his shirt and stage-whispers "I bet he sucks in bed, too." The instant he says it, Justin mentally recoils, but the damage has been done. He can't take it back without incriminating himself, nor can he seem to stop this line of slander.

When he returns home that evening to his big empty house, he immediately calls Nick. "Nicky, I'm thinking I want you in my bed as soon as possible" is gotten out before Justin's even sure it's Nick answering the phone. Luckily for him, it is and Nick is in Justin's bed applying his trademark sloppy head. Guilt drives Justin down the freeway and soon his legs are in the air. It's the best fuck Justin's ever had, and he knows it.

He wakes up the next morning with a heavy, metallic taste in his mouth, and feels like he's had Nick's ego trampled on.

They're definitely not a "rut" couple. For one thing, they can't even seem to decide on which house to use. Justin's things seem to migrate to shelves in Nick's house, and Nick's things migrate to Justin's floor. Nick never could keep things in order.

Also, Nick may not have been blessed with an active imagination (will that be sex, sex, or sex?), but he's willing to try anything. Unless, of course, it's suggested by AJ and involves any or all of large vehicles, spray paint, and the songs stylings of Eminem. He's willing to try anything, but some things shouldn't have happened the first time, let alone a second. Justin's far more mild suggestions are met with approval.

Nick slips first, oddly -- he calls Justin "hon" on the phone. Justin blinks, but continues the phonecall almost unfazed. Nick hangs up with another "hon", and soon it's the porny-sounding "baby", or occasionally the syrupy "honey", light on the tongue, but sweet. Justin usually calls him "Nicky" on the phone, and occasionally "K". He won't say "Kaos", thinks it's ridiculous. However, Nick thinks that Justin thinks it's tasteful; why else would he be so fond of licking that particular spot along Nick's spine where those letters are inked into the skin?

And he is. Oh, yes he is. The spine is probably Justin's favorite place to attack Nick, to make him whimper the way Nick's presence sometimes affects Justin. Justin's guilt hasn't yet abated, even after a week of rough-and-tumble makeup sex. Nick is happier, though. He appears cherubically clueless about Justin's little transgression, and the sex leaves him euphoric as adrenaline courses through his body. Justin moans to exorcise the guilt, but it clings to him like a soap film in sudsy water. Which is, he reflects later, the reason he makes the second blunder.

They have rules at parties: no coupling, make out with whomever you want, dance like sex on two legs, but go home and I'll be waiting when you get there. Nick sticks faithfully to these rules. He's almost petlike in his unquestioning devotion. All Justin wants, though, is a boy who can balance his checkbook by himself, and while under the influence again he says so to a similarly drunk Marshall Mathers. Marshall nods ruefully and Justin's eyebrows knit together in an expression of gorgeous puzzlement.

"Carson fucking Daly," Marshall says. "Goddamn stupid son of a bitch. Glad I left him when I had the chance. Dre's so much better. Can actually come up with his own shit. And he's not such a tool."

Justin is stunned, and sobers up considerably, but recovers with that grace that's only possible in the entertainment industry. "Well I'm not about to leave him. I mean, come on. The boy is sex on two legs. He's still Nick, and man can he fuck. But. Is it too much to ask for something in the other head?"

Both of them dissolve into a fit of drunken laughter, and not much is thought about it for the rest of the night.

Justin feels less remorse about this last slip than about the first one. He justifies it to himself by considering the damage to Marshall's image if he were exposed and realizing Marshall won't talk.

Nick's also there to take Justin's mind off his cares. The sex gets steamier while remaining exactly the same thing. Justin throws more and more energy into fucking, and Nick is happy to oblige. Which doesn't mean that he picks up on anything.

Justin tries, really he does. He leaves Nick little reminder notes, tries asking him about things he knows Jive hasn't prepared him for. Justin attempts to convince himself that Nick is really trying, but even that isn't certain. Nick is like an engine that just won't turn over. Constantly almost-catching, but never quite getting ignition.

It doesn't stop Justin from trying, though. He likes Nick, he really does, which is why he wants to get through to Nick. It just might not happen anytime soon.

The third time it's almost habit. Nick's dumb, he doesn't understand anything, blah, blah, blah. Justin spills out his whole litany of boyfriend woe. This time it's to Britney, which is almost ironic, but not quite. She actually understands more than she lets on. Higher math, probably not, but the more common-sense things definitely, and she's got a decent amount of imagination. She looks at Justin sadly, and then with a wistful grin dispels him of the notion that he can change Nick.

"Honey, women have been trying to do stuff like that for years, and it's never worked. If you can get around it, you can make things work, but I don't think you will." She shakes her head a bit and pushes her hair behind her ear. She's not wearing any makeup, and Justin wonders why he could never make it with her. Things between them are fine, but they never hit what the tabloids thought. He wishes he could get there, to that place where he thinks everything about a person is beautiful.

He's tried it with Nick, he tells himself. He really has. Nick's not hard to lust after, but he's hard to love -- a high-maintenance yellow Labrador puppy. Can he help himself, sometimes? Justin wonders.

Late July finds Justin laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan and humming catchy little hooks to himself. He's not prepared, then, for what enters his bedroom. It can only be described as a walking wet dream. What Nick has on can only be described as stretch leather, which Justin thought was a myth. He's wearing pants that can't possibly be as tight as they look, or Nick would have breathing problems. And yet, seeing is believing, thinks Justin hungrily. On top, Nick is wearing a black wifebeater and a silver shirt in some shimmery fabric that Justin can't take his eyes off of.

Justin's libido downshifts. His eyes are wide, and Nick leans nonchalantly against the doorframe and half-whispers, half-sings "I wanna go ouuuuuut tonight," and then grins a little at the side of his mouth. Oh, that glorious mouth. It's covered with something shiny as well. Justin can't move.

His brain is locked on a single track: hothothothothothothothot, and his mouth is moving in those same words. Nick walks over to him and kisses him, shutting him up. "Get dressed, club boy. Let's go."

They go to some club Nick knows about, with a highly forgettable name, where Nick assures Justin that they could have sex on the dance floor and nobody would care. Plenty would watch, but nobody would care. And there is sex, but not until afterward. Together in Nick's house, they undress each other and the bed is just too far. The hallway does the job admirably.

It's early mid August, and the humidity is oppressive. Justin spends most of his time at home, and occasionally at Nick's, going out only rarely. The few times Justin's been out of the house he's usually needed to go to the studio. He's antsy, waiting for Jive to finish the CD he's been working on since he could beg, borrow, or steal studio time. His track with Nick was nixed, but most of the other guest artists will appear. Jive, however, has decided to wait until fall to even release the first single, which is fine with Justin, as it gives him time to prepare for the inevitable press gauntlet, which he'll be running solo this time.

It's more or less a surprise, then, when Joey stops by, without JC, to alleviate the boredom they're all feeling with the departure of Lance to Russia. Justin more or less leaps on Joey, fills his ears with the "why can't Nick just be smart?" story, and waits for a specific response. Joey can't give it to him. "Dude, Jup, I understand he's not exactly the brightest bulb, but you knew what you were getting into, you know? And it's not like he's that dumb."

But Justin knows Nick is. He also knows that Nick can fuck like nobody else, and how can Justin turn that down?

There's less this time, only a little tugging at Justin's mind, a nagging feeling that maybe he's said things he shouldn't. On some visceral level he knows that he shouldn't be talking about such things, but as he tells himself, he's just fed up with Nick's sheer stupidity and he's allowed to tell other people about it as a way of venting. Of course he is.

With Justin telling himself exactly what he needs to hear, it isn't long before even this minor appeal to emotion is smothered under frustration and annoyance. A skittering of paws brings the dog around the corner and she leaps into Justin's lap, panting and licking his face. He smiles, discontent gone and playfulness returning.

"Oh, who's a good girl? Oh, yes you are!" He slips into babytalk momentarily while scratching behind her ears. She's Justin's, but originally a present from Nick. One of his few thoughtful gestures, thinks Justin.

He slips into grumbling one last time before the whole thing goes to hell, and he doesn't even notice it. Chris is over, playing with the dog, a rather wistful look in his eyes, and Justin is sitting in an armchair sipping a Corona and mumbling about Nick and his many flaws. Chris turns to him and says "dude, shut up already. If you don't like him, leave his ass. So what, he fucks like the world's gonna end. Go back to fuckbuddies, then. Eh. Just do something about it. You whine like JC when they overcharge us. You can do something about it, fuckwad." Shaking his head, he turns back toward the dog, whose greedy demands for attention are temporarily placated.

Justin thinks for a second, but he can't come up with anything that doesn't sound like an outright whine and so gives up. He rises and walks over to Chris and the dog. He rubs her tummy and she licks him. Chris rubs his tummy and he gives Chris a long look before shaking his head and going to recycle the empty bottle in his hand.

Weeks pass. A list appears on Justin's marble countertop, in the kitchen next to the black portable phone. The list is written on yellow legal pad sheets, items in alternating colors because in a fit of anger you can't be bothered to stop and choose the right color pen. Clothes. Shoes. Dog dishes. Dog. Shampoo is crossed off and re-written, with a side note: bottle more than half-full. At the top of the first sheet, scrawled in green ink it says so fucking domesticated -- whatever happened to just sex?.

Today when Nick calls, Justin takes the phone with him through the French doors onto the patio in the back. He's still wearing shorts in the middle of October. He looks absently at the pool. Clear and deep, he thinks. He feels a headache coming on. Nick continues to talk, but Justin doesn't hear him. Justin idly toys with the thought of having sex with Lance just to see if Nick would notice. Maybe only to tell me I'm doing it wrong, Justin thinks. 'No, you don't do a blond like that -- flip him over and fuck him like you mean it'. Justin's cock stirs.

Justin hates himself then, for getting hard at the image of Nick talking dirty, for putting up with Nick for so long. He strides purposefully over to the wide doors and opens them, steering himself towards the kitchen. There is a felt-tipped pen next to the phone's base, and he writes on his list my goddamn self-respect in short, vicious strokes. He heaves a sigh then, which prompts a slight pause from Nick, as though he were trying to understand why anyone would sigh while hearing his voice.

Justin hangs up then, turns off the ringer on the phone, and retreats to the couch in the TV room. He knows Nick will try to call back. Maybe he should turn off his answering machine. Or maybe change his number again. Nick will be bewildered, confused. Justin used to guilty about being smarter than Nick, but he's gotten over that; at this point he's just trying to avoid the wounded puppy look that Nick will shoot him at any future gathering to which they're both invited. Not that it'll be anything important like the Grammys or anything. Justin shakes his head at that. That was a bit low, and he knows it, but he's just so sick of wondering how Nick can be a top and a follower at the same time. One of life's little ironies, he supposes.