But after a few months, the bitching and moaning got old and annoying, like a bright, obnoxious yellow -- the color of one of Chris' favorite shirts -- and he ended up fighting with each and every one of them at some point during the day. Sitting in a hotel room, he whined about the interviewer being late. He whined about the possibility of touring with Britney. And in the studio, he whined about his vocals not being loud enough, that he was just being faded out because he was too old and crass and bitter to actually be a part of a successful boyband...er...vocal group.

"He needs to get over her," Lance said, after Chris had finally stormed out of the studio.

"No shit," Justin said. "Plus he needs to get that telephone pole that's up his ass removed."

"What he needs," Joey offered, "is to get laid."

"Or at least a blow job," Justin said. "To release all that goddamn pressure that's blocking his higher brain functions."

"A blow job, huh?" JC asked. "You think that's all it will take?"

"Yeah, either that or a frontal lobotomy," Justin said.

"Okay," JC said. He stopped tinkering with he control board and stood up. "I think I can handle that."

"You... Huh?" Lance said.

"I said, I think I can handle that," JC said.

"You mean, you'd blow him?" Justin asked.

"Sure. It wouldn't be a big deal," JC said. "Wouldn't be the first time I did something like that." He arched an eyebrow towards Joey, who was then suddenly taken by a fit of coughing.

"O-okay," Justin said. "If it's not a big deal..."

JC seemed to be the only one in the room who was comfortable with the awkward turn the conversation had taken. Lance was looking off to the side, trying to look interested in the empty sound booth. Joey had recovered from coughing, but was red-faced and sitting in a chair with his eyes to the ground. Justin's mouth hung slightly open.

"So, this Friday night," JC said. We have that thing..." JC snapped his fingers trying to remember. "That thing in New York, whatever it is."

"Yeah," Lance said.

"So make sure Chris and I have a room together, or at least adjoining rooms," JC said. "Okay?"

"Sure," Lance said.

"Okay then," JC said. He walked out of the studio towards the break room, the other three staring after him.

"What does he mean, that it wouldn't be the first time..." Justin's question was cut off by Joey standing up and quickly walking out of the studio.

"Ohhhhh," Justin said, mostly to himself, but Lance patted his back reassuringly.

Their 'thing' in New York (JC still didn't know exactly what they were doing there) had gone painfully slow, especially since earlier Chris ended up getting on everyones nerves yet again.

First of all, Chris almost crashed the hard drive of Lance's laptop after opening a rather dodgy file that he got in an email. Lance hadn't talked to Chris since filching the potentially ruined computer out of his hands and retreating to the nearest bar to slam down a hard one.

Next, he managed to leave his luggage in a cab, which then turned out to be Justin's luggage. Justin nearly cried when he heard that his favorite snakeskin shoes were wandering around New York in the back of a cab.

And since he was rooming with JC, he complained that he would have to sit and watch JC do push up after push up in the morning, and it would just drive him batty, because, well, it was just too -tiring- to watch.

JC just smiled at him. "I won't do them then, just for you."

And Chris suddenly shut up. About everything. He expected JC to do something like roll his eyes or tell him to fuck off, or anything but the fact that he wouldn't do them, just for Chris even.

So the ride back to the hotel in the limo was quiet and uneventful. Except for the occasional snicker coming from Justin and then from Lance, about the impending sexual act that they knew two of their bandmates would soon be engaged in.

Back in the hotel room, Chris flopped down on his bed and kicked off his shoes, hoping than any second, JC would do something really annoying, just so he could bitch about it.

And JC didn't. He apparently didn't even breathe the wrong way, because Chris couldn't find anything about JC that he wanted to complain about. Not even the way he threw his coat over the chair and sighed loudly. Not even as he pulled off his shirt, took off his shoes and sat cross-legged on his bed reading.

Chris laid on his side and watched JC turn pages. He watched the way JC bit his lip when he was concentrating on a particular sentence, and the way the muscles in his back moved when he turned to lay on his stomach.

Chris almost couldn't stand it. He wanted to be angry. Angry at anything. But instead he was quietly watching, waiting for the expressions to change in JC's eyes, waiting for his toes to start swirling around in circles against the soft fabric of the comforter.

"JC? What book are you reading?" Chris asked, and sat up on the bed.

JC turned his head and looked across the way. "Oh nothing really," he said. He shut the book and rolled over onto his back.

JC's pants rode low on his non-existent hips, and Chris suddenly wondered about the potential softness of the hairs just below his belly button. Chris slid off the bed and knelt down, resting his arms and head on JC's bed.

"JC?"

"Yeah?"

"Umm..." Chris faltered as JC turned to face him, his stomach twisting slightly, his skin now that much closer to Chris' touch.

Chris reached out and traced a finger around JC's navel. JC didn't flinch, didn't stop him, didn't even say a word, unless the exhale of breath counts as a word.

JC covered his hand over Chris' then slid both their hands down to the zipper of his jeans. "Do you want this?"

And there it was, the offer, the question. Chris stood up and pulled off his shirt and pants, then laid next to JC on the bed, placing small kisses on his shoulder as an answer.

It turns out that a blow job would have been all it would take, but then they both wanted more -- more than just a tongue slicking it's way along a penis, more that just lips surrounding, more than just a throat relaxing and allowing warm fluid to pass down through the esophagus.

More was JC pressing Chris back into the pillow gently, and assuring him that even though it would hurt, he would eventually writhe under the burning sensation that JC's penis would cause in entering him. Everything was a different color for Chris after that, after the initial red of JC popping past the stubborn muscle.

It was green, green for the warmth of JC's hands as they gripped his hips, caressed his chest -- green like laying in the sun on the grass.

It was orange, orange for the soft thud of JC's testicles against him, for the sound of the soft knock of bed against wall -- orange like the fruit he had for breakfast, soft and tart on his tongue.

And it was blue, blue for JC's eyes, the only thing he could he as he orgasmed and relaxed limply against the bed as JC rode Chris to his own climax.

The black would come later -- not a somber black, but the soft black of warm nights -- as they laid in the dark, nearly asleep, and Chris thought of how maybe he'd want JC to do push ups in the morning, or maybe not, since doing them might detract from the time JC could spend in his arms, or pushing him back in the pillows again -- time spent making sure that Chris wasn't bitter or cranky anymore and making certain he'd do anything for Chris, just to make him happy again.

End.

Originally written as an *Mprov on 2/3/00, with the words push up, Friday Night, snake skin, hard drive.