Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/236812.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      NSYNC, Popslash
  Relationship:
      Chris_Kirkpatrick/Justin_Timberlake
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-08 Words: 5072
****** Dress ******
by Jane_St_Clair_(3jane)
Summary
     Chris discovered Justin and anime at roughly the same moment.
Chris discovered anime and Justin at roughly the same time. The
latter in Florida and the former later, in Germany, weirdly dubbed.  
He thinks it might have been Astroboy.  Everything they watched on
TV in Germany was surreal, like Mexican soap operas that survive in
America on their sheer confusion factor.
In their hotel rooms, Justin likes to wear just his boxers, or a
towel around his hips, and Chris remembers him like that, some
evening, watching hours of German commericals on TV and channel
flipping whenever an actual program came on.  The dream Chris had
that night had no respect for the concept of 'underage.'  Later,
when they were in Japan, Chris was thoroughly introduced to the
concept of kawaii, which his brain latched onto like a limpet.  Very
small, very pretty, very young, very sexy.  The goddamn sailor suits
he was suddenly seeing on grown women rather than Catholic
schoolgirls didn't help. Everything he knew came back to him in
Japan, but through the looking-glass.  
The female record exec they dealt with in Tokyo treated Justin like
a kitten, and he loved it. Every time she stroked his hair, he
purred.  Little whore.  He'd always flirted, but for all that the
Japanese were supposedly reserved and shit, they were actually
really touchy, and Chris wondered whether it wasn't getting out of
hand.  Once or twice, they took the subway from the downtown back to
their semi-suburban hotel instead of braving the traffic above-
ground, and the last time they did it all hell nearly broke loose.  
They were almost famous by then, but little girls weren't the
problem.  The little girls just sat on one side of the car and
watched them with big, curious eyes.
The problem was suits.  These absolutely anonymous businessmen, each
with his own raincoat and briefcase, mostly absolutely impassive
when you tried to look at them.  Right up until the moment that
Justin arched forward and shrieked, pulling one guy with him.  The
suit looked startled, but not really mad.  His hand was hooked into
the waist of Justin's jeans.
Chris and Joey just stared for the necessary few seconds for the
suit to disappear back into the depths of the subway car, then Chris
snarled at Justin not to just stand there with his ass hanging out.
That evening, in with the stuffed animals and flowers that
inevitably showed up at their hotel, there was a department store
garment box sealed with a lot of clear tape and a gold ribbon.  It
was addressed to Justin in a hand that didn't look like it normally
wrote in English.  The card was written out in Japanese, which none
of them could read.
Underneath a couple of layers of tissue paper, one of which was
actually black, was a sailor dress.  The kind they'd seen women
wearing in the street, with a too-short skirt and a short-sleeved
blouse.  There were white knee-socks and black leather shoes.  
Patent.  Very, very shiny.
There was no particular reason to assume the outfit wasn't an
innocent gift, something from a woman who wanted Justin to picture
her in it.  But not a little girl, Chris thought, holding the skirt
out.  The waist was sized too big for anyone as lithe as the girls
he'd seen watching them on the train.  Chubby fangirl, then.  Or.  
It wasn't likely, in the broad scheme of things, that a random
stranger copping a feel in a subway would go through the trouble of
tracking Justin down and presenting him with a disturbingly fetishy
dress.  Even one that looked like it might have been tailored for
him.
When he saw it, Joey said, "Dude, I love it.  Sailor Moon."
Nobody actually had to explain, even to Lance, that the dress
shouldn't be mentioned to Lynn, but it didn't get thrown out with
the worst of the fan stuff, either.  Lance and JC adopted a fair few
of the stuffed animals, Joey claimed the couple of video tapes
that'd turned out to be interesting and probably were even legal to
bring back to the States.  The flowers died and were chucked.  Love
letters to individual band members went into either the trash or
shoe boxes. Chris adopted one stuffed dog that looked like it might
have been somebody's kid-toy before she gave it to him.  He was
towing it around by one leg, half-waiting for someone to ask him
about it so he could start a fight, when he walked into Lance and
Justin's room and saw Justin lay the dress in between layers of his
clothes in his suitcase.
*
It's not until months later, in Salt Lake City of all places, that
he sees it again.  They're sprawled on the floor of the suite's
common room at one in the morning, getting Justin drunk.  The rest
of them are wasted, but there's something very special about
watching Justin get drunk off his underage ass in the most
puritanical city in America.  The tequila's progressed to body
shots, and JC's more or less flat on his back with his shirt off,
wriggling happily whenever someone licks him.
Justin licks JC's chest, drinks, and sucks on his lime.  There are
chewed-out bits of citrus all over the room.  And then Justin looks
back at Chris over his shoulder, just like Justin's totally aware
that he's crouched with his legs spread and his ass in the air.
Look out, gentlemen, the band's very own virgin/whore is officially
wasted.
Justin says, "I've got to show you this thing.  It's hilarious."
Lance looks up.  He stopped being able to focus his eyes half an
hour ago, and he's only upright now because Joey's holding him
there.  "Is this that thing from Japan?"
"Yeah."
"I wanna help."
"You can't walk."
"I got steady hands."  Lance holds them out, and it's true.  For a
boy one drink away from passing out, he's got surprisingly steady
hands.  They'd probably be even steadier if he could focus on them.
Chris says, "I'll help you."
Lance blinks.  "You've seen it?"
"I'm gonna."
The room doesn't even spin, really, when he stands.  Justin's
scrambling for his and Lance's door, bright-eyed and determined.  
Chris gets the door open before Justin hits his head against it.
He sits down on the bed and watches Justin rummage.  His side of the
room looks like a hurricane hit and left shoes washed up on the rug.  
Justin whoops and Chris has to re-focus. He's there, on his knees,
holding up the Box.  It's exactly the same as it was in Tokyo, just
a bit battered.  In it is the same dress, a bit rumpled, like it's
been taken out a few times.
"Shit, Jup, I didn't think you still had that."
"'Course I do.  It's funny."
"Yeah?"
"You bet.  Watch!"  Justin strips.  He's fast, which makes sense in
a profession where they have to change bizarre stage outfits in
under a minute, sometimes.  Justin can get his pants off without
shucking his shoes, ninety-seven times out of a hundred.  This is
easier; it's just jeans and a t-shirt, boxers underneath.  Very pale
naked skin, which is a reminder that they should all probably hit
the tanning beds one of these days if they want to keep from looking
like ghosts.  Justin pauses to grin at Chris while he's buttoning
the blouse up.  The braid-edged collar's hooked over one shoulder.  
Bare legs stretch down out of the legs of his boxers.  "It was
freaky, the first time I tried it on. Nothing really fit, but it was
like it was too big, not like it was made for a girl.  And then I
tried it again a month or so ago and I guess I'd grown into it or
something."
It occurs to Chris that this state has a fairly long list of laws
about what's going on in this hotel room.  He wonders what kind of
treatment former boy-band members get in the Utah state pen.
The socks go on before the skirt.  Silky white, not the knit cotton
Chris thinks they should be. Justin's calves look even longer in
them than they do naked.  There's no fan porn in the world as good
as this.  Chris knows he's hard long before Justin turns around to
pick up the skirt and bends, stretching his boxers across his ass
between blouse and stockings.  The skirt, when Justin shimmies into
it, is impossibly short.  It barely covers his ass in back; it
exposes the legs of his boxers all the way around.
Justin looks at himself critically in the mirror for a second, then
kicks his boxers off.  The shoes are still in the box, and Chris
doesn't doubt that they've been too small for a long time.  He
wonders what he'd be able to see in their reflection, if Justin wore
them.
"I need your help with the makeup."  Justin settles next to Chris on
the bed, offering a fishing box full of makeup.  It's not
theatrical, just a huge selection of the standard commerical stuff
they have at Wal-Mart.  The fruits of late-night store runs, proof-
positive that Justin's been buying more than sunglasses and
underwear.
"Am I going for something in particular?"
Justin grins.  "Anime chick.  Extra eyeliner, something electric on
the eyelids."
"You have stubble."
Justin smirks.  He's pulled on knee up on the bed, and Chris is torn
between telling him to sit with his fucking legs together if he
feels the need to go all commando, and maybe touching.
He gets as far as the eyeliner before his concentration breaks.  
He's drunker than he wants to admit, and he's been hard for the past
twenty minutes in spite of the alcohol in his system. Justin's
watching him, relaxed and a bit unfocussed, sticking to the blank
expression he reserves for make-up artists.  Both his hands are
braced on Chris' thighs.
Chris pushes him off.  "Fuck."  He scrambles across the room, leans
against the door for a second.  There's no noise at all coming from
the common room.  If everyone else has passed out, maybe this will
stop.  He needs to get Justin cleaned up and put him to bed.  He
needs to not get drunk with this disturbing child.  Maybe not ever
again.  Possibly just for another year or two, until Justin's legal.  
Not to drink, but.
"Dude, what's with you?"
"Go clean up, Jup."
"We're not *done*."
"We're done.  And they're done too.  We shouldn't have left them
alone with the bottle.  So go clean up and get a couple of glasses
of water and go to bed."
"It's supposed to be funny."
"It's hilarious.  I'm fucking killing myself."
"What's *with* you?"
Chris twists suddenly and catches Justin around the waist.  Still so
fucking skinny, in spite of the new height.  Hauls him over in front
of the mirror.  "Look at yourself."
One undergrown grown-up, one overgrown kid in a dress.  Messy curls
all over the place; the outfit needs some kind of hair band.  One of
those white cloth things girls were wearing when Chris was in high
school.  Virginal.
Justin's staring.  His eyes are way too big under all the makeup.  
After a minute, Chris licks both his thumbs and runs them across
Justin's eyes, smearing the black.  It's almost an improvement.
He doesn't look quite so impossible, just smeared and bruised.  And.
Justin's pupils are huge, and his skirt isn't sitting right.  Chris
wonders whether Justin's sober enough to have any control over his
arousal at all.  He doesn't seem to have much even when he's sober.  
On stage, in practice, on the bus, during meetings, during signings,
during parties, Justin: hard.  Wardrobe looks like they might cry
every time Justin ruins the line of one of their creations.  
"Oh, fuck you!"  Justin pushes, and Chris staggers back, falls on
the bed.  The little bastard's fucking strong, and he isn't used to
it, yet.  Justin's been hurting people without meaning to, lately.  
"It's just a joke!"
Chris reaches out, catches Justin's hips and pulls him in. "It's
real funny."  He pulls Justin down into his lap. Long legs frame his
hips, stockings rub against the bedspread.  Justin's naked skin is
pressed against Chris' jeans.  There's no way he can not notice
Chris' erection: it's brushing his balls every time he shifts.  Huge
eyes staring into Chris'. "Do you even get what you're doing?"
The hand that palms his erection is the most tentative that's ever
touched him.  Virgin girls about to lose it to a pop star have
nothing on a drunken Justin Timberlake.
"Chris."  It's almost a question.  It goes up at the end, like a
girl trying to get his attention.
Justin kisses him.  Deep and frantic and too fast, making it really
obvious how drunk he is.  He settles down across Chris' thighs and
rocks like the world's tallest lap dancer.  Whimpering by the time
Chris breaks them apart, rubbing his face against Chris' neck.
"Fuck, Justin.  No."
It's the evil grown-up in him making him say it.  The part of his
brain that whispers what happens to men who get caught with drunken,
cross-dressing, gotch-less, underage boys in their laps.  The part
of his brain that he's more used to listening to says that it *has*
to stop before Chris throws Justin down and fucks his baby ass.
Chris pushes him off.  Hugs himself for a minute and wills his cock
to lie down quiet.  It's not easy with Justin standing in front of
him panting, still wearing the fucking sailor suit.  The skirt's
hiked up over the tip of his cock.  Justin puts a hand down and
palms the tip of it protectively, stares even harder at Chris.  Then
he says, "Fucker," grabs his shorts, and bolts for the bathroom.
Chris thinks he hears Justin puking, but he doesn't check.
*
In the morning, Justin wanders into Chris' bedroom looking glazed,
wearing a t-shirt with his boxers.  There's still makeup on him, but
now it just looks like any night's leftovers, because Justin never
remembers to scrub off before he goes to bed.
"Hey."
He folds himself down beside Chris, on top of the covers, and goes
to sleep.  The same too-skinny mess he's always been, and somehow
Chris isn't worried.
*
Two months later, Justin's going through one of his periodic awkward
phases, and there's a new rule that they're not allowed to take him
out clubbing after the concerts until he gets over it.  So he sulks
and sits on his bed in his sweats and eats fried chicken out of
buckets and licks his fingers and swears at the rest of them when
they leave him behind.  They'll come in four or five hours later and
Justin will be singing in the shower, loud, cheerfully dirty songs
that Joey taught him over the course of a year spent travelling.  He
comes out and pretends to look surprised that they're back, just
like it isn't four in the morning, and goes to bed when the others
do.
Except that half the time Chris is still too wired to sleep,
something about the caffeine in the rum and cokes, proof positive
that he should stick to beer.  When he's not sharing a room, he can
sit up watching anime on the Cartoon Network, and sometimes he does
even if he's sharing a room with Joey, who sleeps like the dead.  
All those little girls in their little, little skirts.  Not quite
the hentai stuff that Lance showed him once, all shocked big eyes
and smothered laughter, but it's definitely sexual.
If he jerks off to it occasionally, it doesn't make him any more
disturbed than maybe ten million men in America.
If Justin catches him at it, it's only the once.
After that, it takes three nights.  In Dallas, staying in this glass
sky-scraper hotel where they can look out at most of the world,
Chris comes back early from the club and finds Justin in his room.
Wearing the sailor suit.  The skirt, the blouse -- tucked in
perfectly all around and with the collar neatly draped in the back,
the socks, new where-the-hell-did-he-find-them shoes.  The band
holding his hair back is the gold ribbon from the box.
The skirt was designed to be too short, but Justin's showing signs
of growing up to be nothing but legs, and Chris is too short to get
the classic male vantage on the situation.  All those legs.  Pale
gold hairs show where no cloth covers him.  Eyeliner, but nothing
else on his face.
Justin's cock isn't showing, which should be impossible.  He's found
something to wear underneath, on the same shopping trip as the shoes
maybe, but where the hell could he?
(San Francisco, fuckhead)
Justin says, "Shut the door, man."
There should be pictures of this.  Every little girl in America
should have a picture of Justin in drag fun-tacked to her wall.
It should be flirtier than it is.  It should be cuter.  The skirt
doesn't even bounce until the second before Justin steps in and
kisses him, and even then it's only that instinctive swing in
Justin's hips doing it.
The kiss is soft and shallow, and Justin's face is tense.  It takes
Chris a second to understand that Justin's waiting for Chris to hit
him.
There isn't anything he can say to that.  He doesn't let Justin pull
back, though.  Holds the back of his neck and touches their
foreheads together in spite of the awkward angle.  Strokes one soft
cheek with his thumb until Justin turns his head and catches the
thumb in his mouth and sucks it, watching Chris' face with newly
hopeful eyes.  
"Fuck, Jup.  Jesus Christ."  That mouth around his thumb.  Bare leg
against his thigh.  Against his hip.
He's not strong enough to do what he really wants, which is pick
Justin up and wrap his legs around his waist and fuck him against
the wall.  In spite of the illusion of the skirt and the big
innocent eyes, Justin hit six feet tall a while ago, and lately he's
unmanageably huge. This controlled prettiness he's working on right
now is an illusion just barely clinging to the surface of his skin.
On his knees, Justin is utterly obscene.
Chris pulls him up.  Drags him to the bed and lays him out on it,
waiting for him to sprawl, for the boy in the dress to reassert
himself.  Climbs on top of him and crouches and kisses him.  Settles
in and kisses him for a long time.
It's an art he's almost forgotten, because he's not a kid and he
doesn't mostly make out with the strangers who keep finding him so
interesting, since they have to get home at the end of the night,
and it's usually late when they start.  But this.  Chris wasn't a
virgin when they started touring, and he hasn't been since he was a
lot younger than Justin is now.  He's not quite sure how virginity
became their most marketable commodity, it is, and as a result it's
*right there*, all the time.  It's so close to the surface of
Justin's skin Chris can practically touch it.
And the kisses aren't anything remotely normal until Justin cracks
up.  He sprawls on the bed under Chris and roars.  And yeah, it's
funny.  Justin's big and awkward and pretty, and he's wearing a
dress that some pervert on the other side of the world came up with
for him.  He twists on the bed and manages to make it look almost
sexy.  Bends one leg up enough to show off the silk panties he
found.
Chris rolls off and pulls Justin across his lap.  Kisses him and
tries to breathe instead of just laughing helplessly.  His hand
between Justin's legs keeps touching new and more interesting skin,
and Justin keeps offering more to him.  When his hand settles
against the cloth strip at his crotch, he figures out fast that
Justin tucked it straight back, that he's hard and it has to be
hurting like hell by now.
Chris says, "Hold still."  Gropes in his pocket for the swiss army
knife he's not supposed to have, pulls it out, cuts through one hip
of the panties.  Pulls them off Justin's legs while Justin stares at
him out of huge, shocked eyes.  Justin's cock pushes out as soon as
the tension's broken, and Chris can feel him relax.  Whole body
melting against his chest.
"Shit, that's better."
"You might have to rethink the drag thing if you're that attached to
your dick."  Palming it like it isn't the most deliberate thing he's
ever done.  In Chris' lap, Justin twists and arches, whines like an
animal just from that one open-handed stroke.  When Chris kisses
him, Justin gasps into his mouth.  "You're not drunk."
"Uh-uh.  I was last time, and you wouldn't let me."
"You think that's why?"  Chris rubs his fingertips against Justin's
balls, lets him squirm with the touch for a while before sliding
down to rub at the soft skin behind them.
Justin shrugs, tilts his head in, and kisses again.  Everything he
knows about kissing obviously still isn't much, but the level of
attention on offer makes every part of Chris that wasn't already
erect stand up.  Laughter into his mouth.  And out of male-bonding-
play reflex, Chris slaps Justin's ass, or as much of it as he can
reach.
Justin arches.  It's just one slap on the hip, but Chris has had
guys who didn't react like that to the deepest, hardest fuck he
could give them.  "What, did you like that?"
"Yeah."  Blushing hard.
Chris tilts Justin in towards his body, exposing more of that baby-
soft ass to the air, and slaps it again, hard and fast.  This time
he gets a moan.  "Want it?"
"Oh man.  Yeah."
Chris nods.  He slides Justin off his lap and stands, then says,
"Take the blouse off."  White, sharp cotton almost snaps when it
hits the floor.  Underneath, Justin's chest is just barely gold-
fuzzed, framed by the white edges of the bra he's wearing.  Tight to
his chest, but somehow utterly convincing.  It's almost enough to
make Chris believe there's some flesh instead of just flat muscle
underneath.  "That too."  Bare to the waist when it hits the floor.  
"C'mon."
Bend him over the edge of the bed, rub him down from his shoulders.  
Kiss his spine, once.  Flip the skirt up.  Slap.
Justin whimpers every time Chris slaps his ass.  Whines when it
keeps on even after his skin is warm and red.  Braced over the
mattress with the skirt hiked up around his waist and his knee-socks
still on.  Crying softly, except that he growls for it in between
blows.  "Fuck, Chris, yeah.  Please."
In Justin's ear, "Slut."
"Yours."
Chris nods.  He finds the buttons at Justin's waist and lets the
skirt slide off his hips.  Just a boy in too-soft white stockings,
big-eyed wanting him.  Liquid when Chris pulls him in against him
and kisses him, jerks him hard and swallows all the sound when
Justin comes.  Strokes him afterwards while all Justin's muscles
give and he crumples to the floor and lies panting.
"Shhh.  You okay?"
"Oh *Chris*."  Big, blue eyes an inch from his, and Chris realizes
that he's going to a hell that Lance will have to explain to him in
excrutiating, Mississippian detail.
He wonders how hot Justin's ass is on the inside right now.
He can almost tell when Justin wraps around him and kisses him.  
Still boneless from that first orgasm, but even more flexible for
it.  One long, unreasonable leg hooks around Chris' hip, pulls
him down.  The baby mouth under his doesn't taste anything like a
baby should.  Justin holds him like the best girl he's ever had,
spreading and watching him.  Like he actually knows what he wants,
almost.
And those socks are still there, rubbing whispers along Chris'
jeans.  "Fuck me."
There are three and a half billion men in the world, and only Chris
Kirkpatrick will get to fuck Justin Timberlake first.  "Yeah. Okay."
Not on the floor, though.  Chris is so hard by the time he stands
that he wants to double over.  Wants to get very naked very fast.  
That's first.  Second is hauling Justin to his feet and laying him
out on his back, spreading his legs and putting his knees up.  Only
a special, loving, very gay god could be responsible for the sheer
number of dance lessons that've made Justin this flexible.
Third involves latex and clear, hotel-chilled lubricants, and
Chris' fingers, and Justin's pretty, pretty ass.  'Hot' turns out to
be an understatement, and Justin won't hold still once Chris is in
him.  Everything he says is clear, though.  Chris knows *exactly*
how this feels.  Every time it hurts he hears about it; the first
time he finds the sweet spot, he has to peel Justin off him.  In a
perfect world, one where Chris is still this rich but not half this
famous, he could introduce Justin to sex and balconies at the same
time.  Let all of Texas hear his boy begging for it.
"Chris, come *on*."
"Slut."
"Sure.  Whatever.  Biggest whore in Dallas-Fort Worth if you want me
to be, just *fuck* me!"
Justin's accent crawls all the way up Chris' nerves to his brain.  
It's there in the long breath Justin hisses when Chris pushes his
knees up to his shoulders.  And he can feel the tension building
even through heavy latex, Justin stretching to take him.
And then in, just shallowly until Justin stops crying soft animal-
sounds and mouths up to kiss him.  "Steady, baby."
"It hurts."
"Did you think it wouldn't?"
"I thought it'd hurt different than this."
"Tell me."  Still pushing, but not hard.  Justin's as slick as Chris
has ever got anybody in his life, but he's tight.  Every time he
gives, it's just a fraction of an inch, and he's panting all the
time.
"I didn't think I'd feel it this deep.  I mean, I knew I'd feel it
going in, but..."
Chris kisses him.  Slow and steady, open enough that he thinks
Justin could crawl down his throat if he really wanted to.  He gives
it a minute while Justin breathes tension out of his body, then
catches one narrow ankle and moves it from his shoulder to his
waist.  "Hold tight."  One thrust, fast and hard, to get past the
first strain of it.  The next one hits where it's supposed to.  
"That better?"
"Fuck you."
Justin's indignant.  Wide-eyed and sweating and trying not to
smile, and spread out on his back with his legs wrapped around
Chris' waist and a dick up his ass, swearing at him.
"You don't get to spank my ass and tease me both."  He's relaxed,
finally.  Breathing steadily even with Chris' weight on top of him.
Chris says, "Stop me."
Justin is, in spite of being a skinny, pretty boy, flexible, fast,
and freakishly strong.  Enough to throw Chris' weight off and hang
onto him at the same time.  Ride him and roll with him, scratching
and biting and laughing.  By the time Chris has the necessary death
grip on Justin's wrists, Justin's on top of him, twisting to get his
hands free and fucking himself on Chris' cock.  Still laughing
enough to make his stomach ripple.
He attacks again as soon as Chris lets go.  Manicured nails on his
chest make Chris grateful for the body hair he's got.  His own hands
settle into the small of Justin's back and hold him while he finds
his way through to whatever feels good to him.  Slow twists and then
just rocking.  Chris thrusts up sometimes, hard enough to make
Justin gasp, and when he settles again Justin whispers, "Yeah, it's
good."
Chris raises one hand to Justin's mouth in the last seconds, fingers
pushing between his lips.  Soft "Love ya," from Justin just before
he comes, and afterwards he lets Chris roll him down again and
finish.
As a red-blooded capital-G Guy, Chris has a perfect right to be
stupid for a while before he wakes up and registers that Justin's
still wearing the knee-socks.  He sits up and rubs the soft belly
being offered, then bends and peels one sock down.  Wonders how many
millions of people would notice if he took Justin into the bathroom
right now and shaved his legs.
Later, chewing on slightly burned room service pizza, Chris
contemplates the potential of a Justin wearing nothing but cat-boy
ears and a tail.  Maybe a collar.
He wakes up in the early morning and has to twist the lock on the
bathroom door to get at Justin in the shower.  Justin yelps at the
first touch on his hip, but he arches when Chris presses against his
side.  Kisses back when Chris kisses him, laughs while he wraps his
hand around Chris' cock and jerks him off.
He's not steady on his feet, though.  Chris half-carries him out of
the shower and dries him while he's sitting down.  Folds him into
the bedroom floor and helps him stretch until it's less than
absolutely obvious what they were doing all night.  Warm neck under
his lips when he bends Justin forward.
Eventually, he needs clothes.  While he's finding his, Justin gets
dressed out of the suitcase in the corner.  Chris turns back to ask
something and sees white, sex-stained stocking disappearing as
Justin pulls his jeans up to his hips.  Quick, sexy smile, and
Justin stretches, showing every angular line of his body before
going back to his clothes cache.
Chris trims the stubble around his goatee, and behind him Justin
leans against the toilet tank and puts on eyeliner, watching Chris'
face in the bathroom mirror.  Little flares of electric blue make
his eyes look huge.  The swept-forward hair doesn't work, though.  
It's too Lyle Lovette in his pre-Julia Roberts days, and just
because Justin isn't old enough to remember that is no reason for
him to go out in public like that.
A little makeup, a little gel, and the Justin who walks ahead of him
out of the bathroom is unreal, perfect, like watercolour art.  He
stays like that all day.  Hair twisted into small spikes, the way
Chris did it while Justin sat between his feet.  Huge eyes that
watch Chris in the elevator, reflected in the mirrored walls.
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