Obsession, for men
by Helen
He found out because of the billboard. It was huge, and black and white with dramatic shadows, and it hovered over Times Square, and it might was well have said "JC Chasez and Justin Timberlake are fucking," Chris reflected, when he saw it, finally. Joey whistled, and slapped JC's ass.
"Shut up—" JC said, wiggling away from him. "It wasn't my fault."
On the billboard, JC leaned back against a wall with his hands in his pockets, smiling, satisfied, a thin sliver of his stomach showing between the hem of his sweater and the pants on his hips. His eyes were almost closed. Justin looked back over his shoulder, smiling, flushed. His shirt was buttoned wrong. He wasn't wearing any shoes.
At breakfast, JC said "pass the milk," to Justin, and if Chris hadn't already known they were fucking, he would have known it then. He didn't say anything about it to Joey and Lance, because it almost made it less real. Before the performance, when JC screwed up on kicking the hackey sack for the fourth time, Justin picked him up and spun him around and pretended to punch him. Because they were fucking, Chris thought.
Well, it was kind of nice, maybe, Justin and JC. They'd known each other a long time, and they looked pretty together, pretty enough to pimp Calvin Klein clothes, when the rest of them had been
"um—" Moira had said.
"We're too fat, Jesus," Joey had said, "You can say it."
"You're not fat," JC said, loyally.
Justin and JC wrote a love song together, and even though it was all about some girl who was too good for them, they sat in the back of the bus for hours laughing and working on the lyrics and shoving each other, and when they sang it together JC leaned back and looked up at Justin on the line about how she was too pretty to care about trying to look good.
In the jittery uncertain light of the bathroom on the bus, late at night, Chris looked tired: deep wrinkles underneath his eyes, jowls, messy stubble. He tipped his forehead against the glass and told himself he was an idiot.
Chris wished they'd say something, because he was happy for them, really, and fixed it so they had rooms next to each other every time and started turning Justin down when he invited him to clubs, just every once in a while, so Justin could be alone with JC. They probably groped each other under the table and smiled at each other and danced with girls and went back to the hotel room and fucked, and that was good, because Justin would be good for JC, who tended to be too serious, and to get sad, sometimes, and JC would be good for Justin, who deserved someone who was kind like JC.
Sometimes, probably, they just kissed, on the couch or curled up in bed, varied shades of golden and pink skin, twined up around each other, breathing sweet things against each others' mouths.
Those fuckers, Chris thought, and went to jerk off.
"You wanna, like." Justin hesitated. "I got this new game."
"naw, I got this stuff I'm reading," Chris said. Justin looked uncomfortable. Probably, Chris thought, he was worried about spending too much time with JC and neglecting Chris, which was sweet, but unnecessary.
"Well, I just thought—" Justin said. "You and me could—"
"Go play with JC," he said, and turned back to his book before he could see Justin turn away from him.
Later, Justin and JC were hooting and rolling around on the couch together, Justin yanking the controller from JC and saying
"You're doing it totally wrong."
JC just laughed. His shirt was sliding up over his stomach, and Justin poked his sides while JC wiggled underneath him, begging him to stop, a long lean curve against the blue of the couch, Justin leaning over him, his hand on JC's ribs oddly tender.
They didn't share a bunk on the bus, but Justin was always in JC's room in hotels, sitting on the bed, pawing through the minibar. One night when JC fell asleep in the limo on the way back from the club, Justin carried him into the hotel, one arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders, JC's mouth slightly open.
"Don't you usually do that?" Chris said to Joey, irritably.
"yeah," Joey said quietly.
They were sleeping together, but it was more than that, too, and that made Chris uncomfortable saying anything. He came into the lounge one night and saw JC curled up under Justin's arm, asleep, while Justin watched a movie with closed captions.
"why didn't you come back?" Justin said later. "I was bored."
"Yeah, well. I had some phone calls to make and stuff," Chris muttered.
"That's nice about JC and Justin," Chris said to Lance, forcing his mouth into a smile, because he'd been having particularly vivid thoughts lately about maybe telling JC that their stage makeup was tested on tiny lop-eared bunnies, or something, and he felt guilty about it.
"Nice, yeah." Lance buttered both halves of his bagel carefully, and peeled open four packets of orange marmalade and daubed it evenly over the bagel. "what's nice?"
"The. they're together," Chris said. "Where have you been?"
"No they're not," Lance said dismissively. He leaned back in his chair and began to eat.
"yeah, they are," Chris said.
"They're together?" Lance said, uncertainly.
"yes."
"and. you don't think that's a problem?"
"No," Chris said, hastily. "No, no. No. Why would I? I don't have a problem at all with—no!"
"but the band—" Lance said, fingers nervously tracing the edge of the table.
"True," Chris said. "But I think it'll be okay—they're best friends, and all—"
"I thought you and Justin were best friends—"
"Best friends—" Chris said loudly, "and they kind of belong together, don't you think? All. pretty. And things. I mean, we all saw it coming."
"I didn't see it coming," Lance said. "I only found out about it five minutes ago."
"Inevitable," Chris said, glumly. "I don't know what took them so—"
"Okay then," Lance said, eating the rest of his bagel in two large bites and gulping at his coffee cup. "I have a—um," he stood up, tugging down his t-shirt. "I'll see you later."
"Nobody wants to hang out with me," Chris told his empty plate, sadly. Then he ate the other half of Lance's bagel.
"um," JC said, "are you mad at Justin?" He was folded up on the couch, watching Chris carefully.
"What? no. no, of course not," Chris said.
"okay." JC smiled at him, and Chris sighed, and said as gently as he could,
"JC. I'm not mad."
"I didn't think you were, but. He's been kind of worried about it." JC pulled his ankles under his knees, impossibly flexible, and Chris winced, slightly. He was careful about the positions in which he put his knees.
"oh, god, JC." Chris leaned over and patted JC's hand. "I'm not—I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you guys."
"well, I."
"I'm having a personal thing," Chris mumbled, and slid lower in the couch, squeezing his eyes shut.
"well that's. do you want to talk about it?" JC asked. Chris risked a glance at him, and JC had tilted his head to the side, birdlike, and folded his hands.
"yeah, that's um. I." Chris got up and fixed himself a cup of coffee, burning his hand slightly on the pot. He didn't say anything about it. Looking at the pink welt, later, he though he probably deserved it.
"Hi," Justin said, and Chris sighed, and resisted the impulse to close his eyes. Years of watching Justin half-dressed, or half naked, you'd think he'd be used to it by now, Chris thought, but this was the fourth time this week that Justin had worn a shirt that gently outlined his chest and slid up over his stomach, and pants low on his hips, and possibly some kind of eyeliner. Chris poked himself in the eye with his forefinger, to stop himself from checking one of his best friend's boyfriend out. Again.
"Are you okay?" Justin said.
"Just fine," Chris said. "great, in fact. How's JC?" He had begun to assume that the clothes were some kind of creepy sex game, because why in god's name, he implored his mirror at night, would Justin slink all over the place like that otherwise.
"He's fine," Justin said. "Listen, Chris—"
"You guys go to the thing, yesterday?"
"Yeah, yeah," Justin said. "So, Chris—" he licked his lips, and smiled, slid a little closer on the couch. Chris slid hastily backwards. Justin's pants looked soft. Justin's skin looked soft.
"Um," Chris said.
"What is—is something in your eye?" Justin said.
"Yes," Chris said, "No," he added, when Justin leaned over him, the collar of his shirt falling open, revealing smooth collarbones and the slight smattering of freckles on his chest.
"Let me—" Justin said, putting one big hand on his knee and reaching up to cup his face with the other.
"Justin—" Chris said, a little frantically, and tried to lean away, but he had slid himself all the way up against the couch arm, and all he could do was bend oddly at the waist.
"Stop moving—" Justin said.
"Fine," Chris said bitterly, defeated, and let Justin tip his face into the light, and stroke soft, concerned fingers over his cheek.
"It's red," Justin said, after a long moment, "but I don't see anything. Does it still hurt?"
"No," Chris said, relieved, "no, you fixed it. Thanks, it's great. Thanks."
"Anytime," Justin said. He was still absently touching Chris' face. "You're stubbly," he said.
"Yeah, well," Chris said, trying to think of something to say. Justin's thumb was gentle at the corner of his mouth. "You can stop pawing me now," he said, swallowing, and Justin sat back, a crease between his eyebrows.
"Just trying to help," he said lightly, after a moment.
"Well, thanks," Chris said. "Look, it's JC."
"Right," Justin said, "So, do you want to—"
"JC," Chris said, "looks good today. Nice pants, sweetheart," he said, when JC came into earshot, and JC preened a little, holding his arms out from his body and twisting his hips, until Chris said, "all right, we get it, you're too gorgeous."
"Chris—" Justin said, leaning forward, and Chris said,
"right, go on, then." Justin slumped next to him, oddly silent, and then he laughed, loudly, and let himself be pulled up and off the couch, trailing off after JC, leaning down to whispering in each his ear. JC looked up, and then leaned his check into Justin's shoulder, one arm sliding around his waist. Justin waved at Chris, flashed him a quick smile, and then, leaned back over JC, his eyes light and luminous. Chris bit the inside of his cheek, and then spent a fifteen minutes thinking about the golden years of 1995-1998, when his jerkoff fantasies had had nothing to do with any members of 'nsync—if you didn't count JC, which Chris never did—and, as an added bonus, Justin's hair had looked stupid, now and again.
"Me and Lance are together, and stuff," Joey said.
"God, finally," Justin shouted.
"Great," Chris said, sourly.
"You don't have to be a bitch about it," Lance said.
"I'm not being a bitch," Chris said. "I'm happy for you. I'm gonna get you some Tiffany candlesticks to express my joy."
"I'm so glad you guys decided not to wait because of the band anymore." JC said, beaming a little. He patted Lance's hand.
"Well, Chris said, you know—" Lance shrugged, and then grinned, a wide sharp unhindered grin. Joey had a softly bruised bitemark directly below his ear.
JC hugged Chris, tightly. "You're the best," he said, softly, and Chris thought, a little miserably, that he damn well better be, considering he was the only one who wasn't banging a member of the most popular boyband in the western hemisphere. Two days later, he saw Nick Carter at the end of the frozen foods aisle of the grocery store, and hid, loitering in the baking needs aisle until he was certain Nick was gone. He was afraid he might ask him on a date, by mistake.
"That's cool, and stuff, that Lance and Joey are together," Justin said, settling himself down on the couch with a sandwich clasped in his hand.
"Sure," Chris said.
"'s just hard, I think," Justin said, "with someone who's not in the band, to—"
"Right, right," Chris said briskly, pretending to be fervently interested in the newspaper.
"Don't you think?" Justin said, his voice climbing a little anxiously.
"Oh, definitely," Chris said.
"Want some of my sandwich?" Justin asked, leaning forward. "It's ham, tomato and cheese."
"That's okay," Chris said.
"They're pretty cute together," Justin said.
"Who?"
"Joey and Lance."
"Yeah."
"Yeah," Justin said, a little wistfully.
"I'll take the other half of that, if you don't want it," Chris said, finally, and Justin handed the sandwich to him, wordlessly.
"So, JC," Chris said, after a moment, and then took an enormous bite of the sandwich, already regretting bringing it up.
"Hm?" Justin said.
"Nothing," Chris said, quickly.
"My house has dry rot," Justin announced.
"What's—"
"I dunno. I gotta move out while they put on a new roof, or something," Justin said. "it's gonna take six weeks or something."
"mm," Chris said. "too bad."
"yeah, so." Justin shifted on the couch. "so. yeah. I'm kinda. I don't really want to go to a hotel."
"Yeah," Chris said, slouching lower in his chair. "Sick of them after the tour."
"So, uh." Justin said.
"What?"
"Nothing, I guess." Justin shrugged.
He moved in with JC. Dry rot, my ass, Chris thought. He wondered if JC made Justin eggs for breakfast, and if Justin padded around the house in his underwear, if they kissed before JC went to sleep, Justin's hands in JC's hair, fingers stroking his cheek.
He imagined them kissing in Justin's backyard, imagined them making love with technicolor perfection, all wet warm lips and honey colored limbs twined smoothly together, the high pink flush in Justin's cheeks, fluttering dark eyelashes and professions of love, Justin pushing JC's hair off his forehead with one big gentle hand and their mouths locking together, the long line of Justin's back as he knelt between JC's thighs.
It was depressing, which was bad. It sort of turned him on, which was worse.
When Justin and Britney had first started going out, he had had to hear about it in nauseating detail. It wasn't something he cared to relive with JC, unless, possibly, there were accompanying full color photographs. Justin didn't say anything about JC, though. Chris figured it was super secret and special, and maybe they'd decided to keep it just for them, especially JC, who liked to conduct his romances in a shroud of secrecy, disappearing off to boyfriends' houses for weekends, and then lying and saying that he'd been doing his laundry. Chris had caught him in it already any number of times with Justin—JC always insisted that he'd been hanging out at the studio or going for long drives, or being a celebrity sponsor for egrets caught in an oil spill, and never fucking Justin's brains out, which Chris knew damn well he was doing.
"My friends are avoiding me," Chris announced to himself, in the bathroom mirror, and then gave up, halfway through shaving.
They had a solid month off, and Chris spent the first two weeks of it sleeping ten hours a night, watching daytime soap operas in his bathrobe, taking long showers and trying unsuccessfully to get out of physical therapy for his knee. He avoided his telephone, and told everyone that his cell phone had broken and that he was waiting for the new one to be shipped from Japan.
"You know," Lance said, "Japanese cell phones are incompatible with American networks."
"Shut the hell up," Chris said, holding the telephone against his shoulder and drizzling Hershey's syrup over a tortilla, and then putting it in his toaster oven. "You know, ever since you came back from Russia, you think you're some kind of super science nerd."
"You don't have to be so cranky," Lance said, calmly. He said everything calmly, these days. Joey was good for him.
"I have every reason to be cranky," Chris said venomously. "I'm not getting any hot boyband ass at all."
"Justin and JC would probably have a threesome with you."
"I don't want to have a threesome with them," Chris said vigorously, and then burnt his finger on his tortilla.
"Mm," Lance said.
"They're fucking gross perverts," Chris said, "and they're all into organic food, and stuff, and they probably use weird sheepskin condoms and have tantric sex all night and it's seriously not my deal."
"Fine," Lance said. "Although I really don't think they do. No one uses sheepskin condoms."
"I just wish I'd had the foresight to convince Lou to let us have six guys, or something, so I could fuck some random, yet adorable, boyband member, who wasn't any of you assholes."
"You're eating that disgusting chocolate taco thing you make," Lance said abruptly.
"Shut up," Chris mumbled.
Everyone left him mercifully alone for three days, with only five messages on his answering machine from Justin, and one from JC, who thought he'd left a shirt in Chris' car, and two each from Joey and Lance. It was a peaceful time, Chris thought, sprawled out by his pool with the radio on. He wiggled his toes and wondered if Britney would go on a date with him, but thought probably not, unless he became super famous. She'd always kind of liked him, though.
"Chris," she said, her voice soft and clear on the other end of the telephone. "I like you a lot, but we really can't talk about Justin."
"You're not over him?"
"I'm over him," she snapped. "I'm mostly over him. Pretty much. You know how it is. I kind of wish his album hadn't done so well. Is that bad?"
"No," Chris said emphatically. It was really too bad he was too old for Britney and not famous enough, because he liked her style.
"I like your style," he said.
"Is Justin seeing anyone?" she asked.
"No," Chris said.
"I don't suppose he's got, like, a weird dermatology problem where all the skin below his neck is all flaking off and nasty?" she said hopefully.
"Totally," Chris said, "Definitely. And JC's got toe fungus."
"Hey," Britney said. "I like JC."
"I do too," Chris said.
"JC is super nice," Britney said. "Even when he doesn't have to be. And considerate. And thoughtful."
"He loves animals," Chris said guiltily. "And he donates money to grass roots political campaigns."
On the fifth day, Chris was routed from the sixteenth hour of the Blossom marathon by the insistent ring of the doorbell. He hunkered down; it was probably Lance, who would burst in all on his own, after a while, and this was a very special episode. Blossom and Six were in trouble. The doorbell rang again, and then again, and Chris sighed, and got up. He puttered slowly through the house, and peered through the peephole.
It was Justin.
Chris rested his head against the door and waited for what seemed like a long time, canned laughter echoing tinnily down the hallway, during which Justin rang the doorbell twice more. He opened the door on the third ring.
"Hi," Justin said. He was clutching a dufflebag and shifting a little nervously.
"Hi," Chris said. He put his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe. "Um, JC's—" Justin rolled his eyes slightly, affectionately. "I need a break," he said.
"Right," Chris said, resisting the impulse to slam the door in Justin's face. JC was probably trying to teach him Hatha Yoga, or only letting him play X-Box games for three hours a day, so he wouldn't become a stunted individual, or some other sweet, adorable problem.
"Can I come in?"
"Whatever," Chris said, and stepped back.
"What the hell is your problem?" Justin said, following Chris inside. "I just need to stay here, and you're acting like—"
"I'm not acting like anything," Chris said, and something about the soft shape of Justin's mouth made his stomach ache, so he turned and stalked back through the door into his kitchen.
"Chris," Justin said sharply. "Chris—" He appeared in the doorway of the living room. "What—"
"Sorry," Chris said. He stared at the television screen for a moment. "Sorry, I'm an asshole."
"s'okay," Justin said. He shrugged uncomfortably, and put down his dufflebag. "Can I stay here?"
"Whatever," Chris said.
"God Almighty, what is your problem?" Justin said. "You act like—did I do something to piss you off?"
"No."
Justin laughed, his mouth twisting wryly. "Why don't you just tell me what it is," he said calmly, raising his voice over the television. "I didn't mean to do it, whatever it was, you know that, and you haven't talked to me since—
"Look," Chris said, "I'm kind of busy, here."
There was a long silence, while Justin took a deep breath, obviously counting silently to ten.
"busy doing what?" he said, when he was finished, and his voice was sharp and dark. "because it looks to me like you're busy eating chocolate syrup on tortillas and—"
"I'm busy," Chris said, turning off the television with a harsh flick of the remote, "so why don't you go home and apologize to JC and fuck each other until the cows come home and stop wasting my time."
Justin blinked, rapidly. Chris bit his lip.
"What?" Justin said.
"You heard me. Go home to your fucking boyfriend and let the rest of us get something done around here."
"JC and me. we're not."
"Justin. J. You don't have to lie," Chris said, gently. "I'm cool with it. I'm just—"
"No— Chris, we're not. We—" He took a few quick steps forward, and then one back, twisting one hand nervously behind his back.
"Don't fucking lie to me, Timberlake, Jesus."
"Chris."
"It's fine with me if you want to fall in love with JC," Chris said, standing, "but don't bullshit me about it—"
"No," Justin said. He pushed Chris and Chris overbalanced and fell back into the couch and Justin fell to his knees "no, no," he put his hands on the lapels of Chris' bathrobe and pulled him forward, murmuring "no," into Chris' mouth before kissing him, pressing him against the back of the couch. He held Chris tightly, one hand fisted in his bathrobe, but his mouth was gentle, his eyelashes fluttering closed when Chris checked, and slowly, slowly, Chris brought one hand up to Justin's shoulder, where his skin was hot beneath his thin t-shirt.
"not with JC, then," Chris said, lips brushing his.
"no—" Justin said, "I just—you wouldn't—"and Chris pushed him backward, down to the floor backwards. "ow, my fucking knees," Justin gasped.
"sorry," Chris' bathrobe gaped open, and he slid down on top of Justin, bracing himself with a hand next to his head, and then kissed him hard, tongue sliding across the corner of Justin's mouth.
They fell sideways, and Chris' hand got stuck beneath Justin's hip, and he grunted and yanked it free, rolling Justin over on top of him, and banged his head hard against the floor when Justin licked at his throat.
"Do you have—"
"I don't keep stuff in my living room," Chris said. "I mean, I wouldn't—"
"shut up," Justin said. He tugged at Chris' underwear, hand gliding around his hip and over his ass, and Chris arched his back and gasped, closing his eyes, and then opening, not quite sure he wasn't in some kind of Blossom induced wish-fulfillment state. Justin bit his neck tentatively, and nipped his shoulder.
"I tried," he murmured. "I wanted—"
"I'm an idiot, I'm sorry," Chris said. He managed to wrestle Justin's t-shirt off, and struggled with his belt for long minutes while Justin kissed him, one hand cupping his jaw, the other braced by his head. He was hard, gasping a little every time Chris' hands brushed against his cock.
"Ah," he said, a sharp soft sound, when Chris pushed his pants and underwear down over his ass, just enough, and urged him down until they were pressed hotly against each other. Justin pushed experimentally against him
"I'll squash you," he said, his breathing jagged.
"Oh, fuck you," Chris said, digging his nails into Justin's hip until he moved.
"Oh," Chris said, later.
"mm," Justin said, nuzzling his arm.
"I got splinters in my ass," Chris said.
"yeah, well, I love you too," Justin said.