Proof
by Helen

It didn't happen after every performance. Some nights they were totally wired, and went out to clubs afterwards, dancing and drinking, and then Chris would cozy up to him in the elevator, and whisper, loudly "I'm gonna get fresh with you, Fatone," while Justin and JC rolled their eyes at each other and pretended not to notice. He liked that: Chris rubbing up against him in the hall while he searched for the keycard, being tumbled onto the bed, Chris climbing in on top of him, kissing him with abandon.

Some nights after performances, they were just too tired, and they'd fall into bed together, falling asleep before Chris finished muttering about how he was too fucking old for this, and then maybe they'd make love the next morning, slow and lazy, Chris tickling his ribs until Joey laughed and caught his hands and kissed them, palms, knuckles, Chris leaning down to lick his chest, muttering something about how what a fucking romantic he was, dude. He liked that, too.

He liked the fast raunchy sex they had in dressing rooms sometimes, liked how aggressive Chris got, biting at the fingers Joey would stick in his mouth to keep him quiet, when they had to be quiet, liked the amazing good-pain of the back massages Chris gave when he was in the mood, which almost always ended with Chris leaning down and whispering in his ear "Hey, can I fuck you? Is that all right?"

It always was.

And then there were the nights after performances when he would get out of the shower and find Chris slumped on the bed, dozing, still in his clothes, one shoe off. Chris washed his face after the performance, and sometimes he'd take a quick shower on the bus, but there wasn't enough water to do much but soap up and rinse off, especially if the rest of them wanted to take showers. He would still be covered with glitter, the glitter that Justin refused to wear after the first week of the tour because it got in his eyes, and JC swore he had inhaled some and worried about vocal cord damage, and Lance just didn't like it, and Joey hated how he could never get it off. Chris kept on wearing it, though.

"I don't know why you're wearing that crap," Justin said, but Chris only shrugged.

He wore it because Joey liked it.

Those nights, he'd lean over Chris, touch him until he woke up, because Chris didn't like to be kissed awake. "Saw this movie once, man," he'd said, one time, early on, after waking up and punching Joey in the face. "with. like. scary breath-suckers," he had said, while he dabbed carefully at Joey's lip with a towel.

Chris would open his eyes, blink a little, and nod at him, letting Joey strip off his clothes, and it wasn't that he didn't like all the other times—he loved them. Hell, he loved Chris, and he loved not being expected to do all the work, all the time, but these nights were precious to him, because the others saw how they were together, had seen Chris climb over the couch and slide down behind him, wrapping one arm around his chest and squeezing hard enough to making him grunt, had even caught them, once or twice, having sex, Justin yelling

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you guys—" and slamming the door shut while Chris quaked with laughter, but no one had ever seen Chris like this, a little sleepy at first, pliant, opening his mouth when Joey kissed him, letting Joey take off his clothes, and there would always be a moment, a split second sometime between the time when he leaned down and brushed his hand down Chris' cheek and when he pushed him back onto the bed and found his mouth, when he'd know—he'd see—that Chris would let him do anything he wanted.

Chris was normally so bossy, although there was never any reason to complain, because Chris' bossiness tended to take the form of Chris licking his ear and demanding that Joey unbutton his pants so Chris could give him a blowjob, but still. Those nights, he kissed Chris and touched Chris like he had something to prove, licking his neck and nipples until Chris was shuddering under him, arching up, wrapping his legs around his hips, and the way Chris panted against his mouth made him feel like his skin was on fire, and he could feel everything, even the bite of Chris' short fingernails on his back, but it still wasn't enough, it was never enough.

He'd mouth Chris' neck and mutter "say it—" letting Chris thrash and moan and bite his shoulder until the hoarse noises Chris made in his ear drowned out the part of him that always registered, coolly, that this was this was like a bad porno, "say it—" he'd say,

"You fucker—" Chris would pant, "s'not fair—you bastard—" and that was part of the game, too, "—fuck me," Chris would whisper, trying to get his hand in between them, but Joey would catch it, press him back, and sometimes he held Chris' hands above his head, stared at Chris while he gasped for breath, mouth open, head tilted back on his pillow, watch him licking his lips, the pale vulnerable length of his arms over his head,

"Joey, please—. I just. I want—" and sometimes it was enough, and sometimes he made Chris keep on talking, because it wasn't as though there were magic words, and he didn't much care what Chris said, just liked him like that, incoherent, clumsy, hands grasping at his spasmodically, "—hate you. love you—" Chris would mumble, and he knew there was a part of Chris that really did hate this, hated letting anyone see him like this, and Joey took it as a gift, fucking Chris until he was half screaming, tossing his head back against the pillows, scrabbling at Joey's hips, lunging fiercely against him.

Chris was usually in the shower by the time he woke up in the morning. Chris liked to sing in the shower. When they first got together he used to worry about it, used to listen carefully to what Chris was singing and try to analyze exactly what it might mean, but after a while he realized there wasn't a pattern to Chris' musical choices. He liked something with a good beat. He liked Tina Turner. Joey got used to waking up mornings after with Chris wailing "I'm your priiivate dan-saah, dan-sah for mon-ay, do what you waant me to doo." and the bed was always smeared with glitter, tiny flecks on the pillows and the sheets, glinting in the morning sun. It was a little like proof, sticking to the bed, to his skin, and then Chris would come slouching out of the bathroom and ask what was for breakfast, and that was a little like proof, too.