Justin
wakes up and Lance is fucking him, so it must be morning.
Most
mornings when Justin doesn't have an early call, Lance wakes him up and fucks
him. Justin tries to remember when it started, when he got used to easing
into consciousness with Lance's teeth on the back of his neck or his tongue
wet and warm at the base of his spine or his dick already tight inside. It
seems like it's always been that way.
He's
sure that at some point Lance must have asked, but the thing about being with
someone forever is that conversations like that happen, things get decided,
and then they just are. It's like giving up your ground on how to sing a chorus
and ten years later the song sounds just the same on the CD. It just is. There's
a limited window of opportunity to change the things that last forever.
They
still have sex almost every day. Hands down, it's definitely the best thing
about being with a guy, the kind of thing that makes his life make sense to
the guys he knows who don't think sucking cock is all that fun. Yeah, he'll
say, but when was the last time you could fuck her just because you felt like
it, without feeling guilty or having to talk her into it or buy flowers after?
Guys get that.
The
sex in the morning doesn't end all that differently than sex they have any
other time of day, except Lance is always the one to start it. Lance decides
what he wants while Justin blinks his eyes open and tries to remember what
day it is. He's pretty sure it's Tuesday.
Lance
comes with a grunt, and before Justin can even get his knees under him, Lance
is turning him over and finishing him off with a strong, fast hand. Justin
sprawls on his back as Lance gets up and goes into the bathroom. He walks
halfway back to the bed and tosses a warm, wet washcloth at Justin's chest.
Justin drifts off again until Lance presses a hard kiss to his shoulder, pulling
the terrycloth out of Justin's clenched hand.
"Don't
forget to go through those scripts," Lance starts, and Justin tunes him
out because Lance is always leaving him some kind of instructions, but he
knows Justin well enough to have an assistant call around noon and tell him
again.
Justin
rolls his face into the pillow, sheets slung low beneath his ass like an invitation.
Lance closes the door behind him and drives to his office or a meeting or
some set somewhere. Justin doesn't really mind. Lance gets mornings. Justin
gets everything else. It works out to about equal.
*
There's
maybe going to be a Teamsters' strike and everyone's working like crazy or
not at all through the end of a long, hot summer. This woman who did makeup
on a pilot Justin filmed last month told him about this dive karaoke bar on
Sunset. Lance says he'll come by after closing a deal and in the meantime
Justin's just enjoying being pleasantly stoned and drinking cheap beer.
He
ran into this guy John, John something, who he knows from a TV movie, at the
health food store that afternoon. John is trying to get the bartender, this
chick with a really wicked tattoo all around her neck and down into the front
of her shirt, to turn on the Dodgers. "It's not that kind of bar,"
she says, twice, and finally John shrugs and walks back to Justin with his
Budweiser.
Lance
never shows up and after singing four or five songs and dancing around a little,
Justin bails. He's sitting up in bed watching Leno when Lance gets home.
"Jesus,
Justin, do you ever wear clothes anymore?" Lance unbuttons his shirt
halfway, pulls it over his head and throws it on the floor of the closet.
Justin
scratches his chest. "Well, not in my own fucking bed I don't. Where
were you?"
Lance
doesn't answer, just walks to the minibar by the window and makes himself
a drink. He doesn't ask Justin whether he wants one. Justin turns up the volume
on the TV and Leno makes a joke about the president's daughter and everyone
laughs. Lance finishes the drink in one long swallow and fixes another.
Justin
kicks the sheets to the end of the bed. "So did she at least sign the
contract?"
Lance
tips his chin to his chest, holding the glass against his stomach. "Yeah,"
he says.
"Then
what are you being such an asshole about?"
Lance
licks his lips and Justin wants whatever they're fighting about to be over
so they can fuck. In bed, Lance never takes his eyes off Justin, never even
closes them all the way except right when he comes.
"I
guess at a certain point taking off your pants in public becomes less memorable.
Even for you."
Lance
is drunk, was drunk already when he got home if he's this mean out of the
gate. These days it usually takes them a little while to get the fire lit.
"You
don't want me to sleep naked anymore?" Justin spreads his legs a little
and slouches down onto the pillows. "I thought you liked it when --"
"Christ,
you don't even know what I'm talking about."
And
then Justin remembers, something shimmery and vague and he was singing "Heartbreak
Hotel" and whatever-his-name-was, John whatever, laughed like a hyena
when Justin got up on the table to dance. Then it's possible he dropped his
drawers for a little while. It's possible someone else saw that.
Lance
tosses back the rest of his drink and sits on the foot of the bed. Justin
could reach out and touch his hip with his toe if he wanted. "Ryan probably
called you right away to tell you," he says instead. Justin thinks a
lot about whether Lance and his production partner are fucking, except he's
pretty sure he doesn't want to know.
"He
didn't have to. Someone called Julie to see if I would comment."
"Oh,"
Justin says, looking down at his stomach. "What did you want to say?"
"That
where my boyfriend takes off his clothes is clearly no business of mine anymore.
Don't worry, though. At this point I think people have come to expect worse
from you."
"If
they only knew." Justin sounds more bitter than he thought he was. "I
mean --"
"I
know what you meant," Lance says, and he stands up again, kicking his
pants onto the pile of clothes. He has to steady himself for a second with
one hand braced on the doorframe. He's really wasted and Justin can just barely
remember being fourteen and laughing as Lance did three shots on a dare from
Joey.
"Just
come to bed," Justin says, and turns away, onto his side.
Lance
flips off the lights and Justin can hear him stumble, tripping on his own
feet or the thick carpet. The bed dips when he reaches out to find his way
in the dark. He climbs in with a sigh, like he's home after a long trip, and
presses his wet face and warm lips to Justin's shoulder. "I'm sorry,"
he whispers, damp and dusky in Justin's ear.
Justin
pushes his body back, holds Lance's head to his neck until Lance sucks sloppy
kisses down his throat and rolls him onto his back. Lance's dick is soft and
heavy against Justin's thigh and Justin hasn't been buzzed for hours but he's
been getting hard since Lance took off his shirt.
Lance
spreads his hands wide and pushes his thumbs down the line of Justin's ribs,
fingers curving down and around Justin's waist. Even three sheets to the wind
Lance gives head like no one Justin has ever known. That much isn't ever going
to change.
END.
Credits:
Ivy asked all the right questions, and Jamie made sure I knew what I was talking
about. Kiefer looks
at 36 how I imagine Lance will at 30.
