"I believe in three things," Chris was fond of saying, "money, fun, and sex. Okay, so I only believe in one thing..."

Justin thought it was hilarious, but Justin was a fan of everything Chris did. JC, by contrast, was worried.

"What about love?" he asked.

Chris' eyes darkened, and JC knew -- *knew* -- he was thinking of Dani, of her engagement. Of the wedding invitation still lying unanswered on the table of their bus.

"I love my family," Chris said. "As for the rest? I'd rather have fun."

It bothered JC, for reasons he didn't care to analyze. What if Chris' attitude meant when he met the love of his life, he passed her by? What if he already had? He watched Chris roll on the floor with Justin, wrestling, and frowned. How could Chris be happy? And what about his soulmate? There was someone out there, wandering around with half a heart, who would never be healed if Chris didn't find her.

He got up, moving to his bunk and rummaging around until he found his notebook, jotting the thought down for later perusal. Chris always brought out the lyrics in him.

* * *

Chris jumped on his back, swiping his tongue in a long, clean line, from JC's jaw to his temple. "I'm drunk," Chris whispered, and hopped off again.

JC nodded. "I see that," he said. Chris hugged him close, sliding around to press his face against JC's chest.

"You should be drunk, too," he said. "Everyone should be drunk. The world is much funner, drunk."

"I don't think funner's a word," JC said.

"Neither's unperfect, but you don't hear me complaining."

"That was an artistic decision to highlight the imperfectness of the narrator -- quit laughing."

"Sorry," Chris said. "Just. Your face." He pulled on JC's hand, tugging him towards the bar. "If you can look like that, at this time of night, you definitely need more vodka in you."

"I don't like vodka," JC said.

"Fine, then. Tequila, gin, rum, whiskey. It's all the same."

"Beer?" JC said.

Chris squinted. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't *want* to get drunk."

"I don't."

"But it's *fun*, Jayce. Look at me. Aren't I having fun? Isn't life a bowl full of pitless cherries? Isn't the room spinning round and round and wobbling?"

"Um," JC said.

Chris nodded, and turned to the bartender. "Red Bull and vodka, and the same for him."

"I don't--"

"Hush," Chris said. "I'm paying, so I pick."

JC sighed. He couldn't exactly turn away free alcohol. And Chris *was* paying, and it was only once. He could stomach vodka, for just one evening. To see Chris laughing, and clinging to his arm. Vodka was worth that, worth the jolt in his stomach, the burn in his throat, and eyes. Worth Chris squirming onto his lap, licking at his jaw again, tugging on his lip with small, sharp teeth.

Of course it was.

* * *

It was in a hotel in Denver, when JC had turned around to take his contacts out, that Chris fucked him for the first time.

He bent JC over the sink, whispered in his ear.

"You're so hot," he murmured, his fingers reaching around, scrabbling with the buttons on JC's jeans. "You don't even know. I watch you every night, fuck, C. Want you so much."

JC twisted, trying to kiss him, to catch his lips, but Chris laughed, harsh and gutteral.

"Oh, baby," he said. "Don't pretend you're in charge here. Just follow my lead, and it'll be fun, C. So much fun." He pulled JC's t-shirt off, yanking his head down for a hot, quick, breathless tug of tongue and teeth. "Gonna blow your mind," he muttered.

JC trembled, but fell silent, letting Chris bite him and push him and fuck him senseless.

When it was over, he curled into Chris' arms, pillowing his head on a sweat-slick chest. Chris smiled, ran his fingers through JC's curls.

"Thanks," he said, and fell asleep.

* * *

JC spent hours watching Chris sleep, writing epics on the way Chris' breath gently carressed his skin, the way Chris pulled close in sleep, latching onto his chest. The way Chris' hair felt against his throat as he breathed, the way Chris' eyes smoothed in happy dreams, or crinkled when he remembered his past, when he turned away and wrapped himself into a ball, kept the world at bay.

He wrote sonnets on Chris' smile, the shine in his eyes, the exact tone of his laugh when he kicked Justin's ass at Madden 2002. He wrote sagas on Chris' body language, and voice, and how, when he sang, JC could hear angels soaring to heaven.

He never showed them to Chris, though. To anyone.

They continued to sleep together -- to fuck -- to let Chris fuck JC. They continued their whatever-it-was, for days, weeks, months. Chris wasn't cheating, JC knew. They all knew, whenever someone new went to bed with them. They were a village of five, always nosing into each other's lives.

He wondered, sometimes, if Chris was the love of his life.

He knew he wasn't Chris'.

He held Chris, in Los Angeles, when they fucked on his patio after Chris had business meetings and JC produced. He watched Chris roll away, silent, his lips a tight, thin line. He heard the harsh laughter, the false cheer.

"I love you," Chris murmured, after. JC knew what he meant. He was loved, just like Justin and Joey and Lance. But he wasn't Loved. He wasn't the love of Chris' life, not now. Not ever.

The other half of Chris' heart belonged to Dani. Try as he might, he could never make Chris whole.

* * *

"Are you happy?" JC's mom asked him.

She asked him every tour, every time he came home for a visit. The group had never been easy on his mother -- JC had never been easy on his mother -- but if he was happy, that was worth it.

JC smiled. "Sure," he said.

"Sometimes I wonder, sweetie. You don't look as. Something. I don't know."

He kissed his mother's cheek. "It's fun," he said. "I'm having fun."

Karen nodded, watched him unpack. Went downstairs to cook his favorite dinner.

JC laid his pajamas under his pillow, put his dream notebook by the bed, made sure the pen still had ink in it. He carefully smoothed the wrinkles from his clothes as he slid them into his dresser, hung them in his closet. He took out his framed picture of the five of them, on the beach at Atlantis. Chris had jumped on Justin's back. Lance was ducking JC's feet, which flew wide as Joey swung him around.

He had a shoebox that he'd brought with him, filled with his poems on Chris. He had wrapped each notebook in tissue paper, along with a few carefully preserved mementoes. A check, from the time Chris convinced him to pay for dinner. A move ticket stub. A note, in Chris' dark scrawl, Meet me in the Quiet Room, an hour before showtime.

He took the shoe box up to the attic, tucked it away on his shelf, behind his shoebox from MMC.

Then he went downstairs to set the table.

"Chris called," his mom told him.

JC nodded. "I'll talk to him later," he said. The knife at Heather's seat was a little crooked.

"Joshua."

"I'm happy, Ma. I promise."

"I was just going to say you should remember the time difference. He's in LA, so you can call him three hours later."

"Oh," JC said. "Okay."

* * *

Chris met him at the airport.

"Hey," he said. "I brought a car and driver."

JC smiled. "It's only been a week, Chris."

"Yeah," Chris said. "But I wanna get laid."

JC fucked him, long and hard, as the driver circled the airport.

When it was over, he threw an arm over Chris' shoulders, and pulled him close.

"Missed you," Chris murmured, falling asleep.

JC tugged on a beardhorn.

"Thanks," he said.