|On the Bus
He didn't want to, but Chris knew right away when Justin got up from his nap. He didn't want to because it was faintly repulsive, and also faintly typical: not only was Justin, like, ten years younger than him (that was the repulsive part), but it was just too teenybopper stupid to have a crush on Justin Timberlake, pop star. It was too foolish. Chris thought maybe he should go out and buy some stickers to put on his fucking folders or something. He felt ridiculous.
Not ridiculous enough, though, to not watch when Justin came down the aisle scratching his stomach under his shirt. He had on just that and shorts that used to be sweatpants but had been cut off with scissors from the looks of it. It had been a moment just like this one, maybe two or three months ago, that had cause Chris this anguish. Justin, rolling out of bed, and coming down the aisle, plopping himself in Chris' lap and going right back to sleep.
He was famous, and good looking, and young, and rich, and Chris didn't think it was fair that Justin should be charming, too. It wasn't right. But it didn't stop him from wanting it anyway.
"What's up, dollface," Chris said. He was an imposter, a fake in the place of the real Chris Kirkpatrick, who would have said "what's up, dollface," but would not have meant "come and sit by me, dollface," and would not have felt his pulse race when Justin did.
"I shouldn't sleep in the afternoon. It fucks me up." Justin leaned over and put his head on Chris' shoulder. Chris reached up and put an arm around him.
"Yeah," Chris said. "You want an aspirin?"
"Hey, Joey," Chris said. Joey looked up from his spot in front of the tv. He and JC were watching General Hospital. They had gotten hooked a week or two ago, and now Chris had to put up with conversations like "who do you think is going to get with What's-her-name?" and "damn! I wish Mr. So-and-so would stop fucking around and realize this chick loves him!" It was enough to make you gag. "Get J an aspirin, would you?"
"What the hell are you doing?" Joey asked, but he got up and opened the cabinet. Chris caught the bottle he tossed with the hand not around Justin's shoulders.
"Here." Chris shook out two aspirin, and Justin swallowed them dry. His eyes were closed, and his hands were folded in his lap and he leaned into Chris as if he belonged there. "J," he said, "if you're still tired, why don't you go back to bed?"
"I'm not, I'm just at low energy right now. You mind?"
Chris rubbed his hand over Justin's shoulder. They stayed like that for awhile, Chris' arm around Justin, until Justin came fully awake, and stood up and stretched, and went to grab himself a coke. Chris folded his hands on the table, and did not watch Justin go, and so did not see Lance sit down in front of him.
"You're a sucker."
Chris looked up. "Tell me something I don't know," he said.
Lance smiled. "He would do it, you know," he murmured. "He likes you." Chris shrugged, and went back to staring at his hands.
"I know," he said. He did know. He'd known Justin long enough to know that if he said anything Justin would be first shocked, but then flattered. Happy. And Justin would want to make him happy too, which would mean one night, maybe two, that Justin would be everything to him, his own personal Justin Timberlake, full of laughter, and smiles, and maybe naked, and it would be wonderful. Chris sighed.
"But then what?" he said aloud. Lance just sat quietly across from him, his green cat eyes unwavering. "He'd do it because he wanted to make me happy, but it wouldn't make me happy, because I want something else, and then he'd drift away and I'd be miserable. We'd both be miserable. And then what the hell would I do?"
"You could come to me," Lance said. His fingers brushed Chris' on the table.