He's not even sure how long he's been out here. He thinks it's getting colder, but that might just be his body cooling off. He was too hot when he left the party. Ducked out into the rain because he was already soaking wet, sweating as hard in the press of bodies as he usually was in mid-performance. Everyone who touched him came away shining. The glitter he'd slicked over himself in the late afternoon dissolved when it was wet. Under the theatre lights, it was spectacular. He knows someday, when their fanbase is old enough, they'll be able to shed most of the costumes and do the shows in body glitter. Someday, sooner that he thinks.

Not yet.

For now he's still mostly dressed, his vamped-out tux open and his tie loose around his neck, watching the remaining glitter melt off his chest in the Westchester rain. His shoulders hurt from the time he's spent with his hands tied above his head, and there's water dripping into his eyes. He's hidden so deep in the garden he wonders if they'll find him at all.

There are lessons he's learned in the last six or so years, and one of them is that Lance is a mean, sneaky fucker. Not vicious, though. If he's still out here by morning, Lance will come back for him. Long hours between now and then to consider the lesson at hand. It's not so much 'don't spy on people' as 'good voyeurs don't make noise.' No sound is acceptable, even it it slides out watching Joey and Lance in mid-kiss.

They were gorgeous together, though. Slick and happy, both laughing in between kisses. Soaking wet, shirts untucked, and he thought maybe they'd been swimming in their clothes. Buried in this maze of plant life and too fascinated with each other to notice the noise JC made the last time he ran into something invisible in the dark.

He's sure he knew about them before. He must have. He lives with them, travels with them, sleeps against them on impossibly long bus trips.

Lance's hands on his ribs were warm. Under his jacket, holding him still.

Whatcha doin' here, Jayce?

Stroke.

No, you know. Come on.

Pulling his shirt loose, touching him underneath.

Did you follow us?

Looping Lance's tie around his wrists.

Did you think we were pretty?

Against the hedge wall.

Did you wish you were Joey?

Soft kiss on his mouth.

Or did you wish you were me?

Harder.

Next time, be quiet.

And tied him. Hand-dyed silk around his wrists, around a branch, and he didn't have any leverage. JC hung where while Lance kissed him again, rubbed a thigh against his erection, and stepped back. Joey was mostly shadowed, watching them. He only stepped out for a second, to brush a kiss across JC's mouth and touch their foreheads together. Then gone, trailing after Lance into the wet dark, holding his hand like a man drowning.

He doesn't know how long ago that was. His watch is over his head, out of sight. It's a tiny piece of art, all platinum and sapphires and clockwork, soundless except for the breath-quiet tick-tick-tick.

He's starting to shiver, thinking about screaming. It's only a hundred or so yards to the house; it glows faintly, off to his left. But it's not the kind of party that drives people outside, except for him and people going to have quiet, private, unbearably hot sex in the shrubbery, and he's not sure there's anyone to hear him.

"Hey. Shit."

It takes JC a second to place the voice. In a perfect world, Justin would come and find him, because Justin would be too embarassed to bug him about it much. Chris would never let him live it down. Someone who worked on the estate would be fine, as long as he could convince them to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Anyone from the press would be very, very bad. There were a few of them at the party, he was sure. Very bad.

"Chasez?"

"Um, yeah."

Marshall Mathers the Third. Also very bad. JC might still have most of his clothes on, but his shirt's open and his arms are up, and his belly is exposed to anyone who might want to hit him.

I will hit a girl with glasses. I will hit a diva boy band faggot.

JC wonders if there's any non-pussy way to say 'please don't hit me.'

"You wanna get me down?"

Dark eyebrows climb. "How the fuck did you end up like that?"

"You know that urban legend about the girl who promises you a blow job if you'll just put the cuffs on? True."

Mathers snorts. "I know that bitch. Got me when I was a punk-ass kid." JC isn't sure whether he's joking. He doesn't look quite so ... whatever his usual look is. JC isn't sure he has a name for it, but he is fairly sure that he isn't as likely to get hit if the look goes away.

"Sooooo ... you're gonna untie me, right? 'Cause you've been here?"

"No fucking way, man. I had to wait until the fucking garbage man found me. Five in the morning. I was so cold I couldn't fucking believe it."

"I bet it was raining."

"Snow." Detroit. Right. It never snows in Orlando. Just that once. All the flowers encased in perfect ice, and all of them curled up around the space heater that lived in the basement of Lance's house, trying to keep warm.

"Rain itches more than snow."

"Nobody ever froze their balls off standing in the rain."

JC shivers. He manages to make it voluntary halfway through, play it up a bit. A couple of months of belly dancing classes with this fantastic girl let him move the shiver through his stomach without actually moving at all. Bare skin that he maybe hopes catches the light.

"Untie me."

"No."

"Please."

"It's usually me hearing 'what part of no do you not understand?'"

JC whimpers a bit, pulls at the knots, only manages to make them tighter. Growls in frustration and lets it run all down his body, down into the ground and out of his system. Breathing in the wet dark with his eyes closed.

"Fuck, Chasez. You're trying to seduce me."

It's a joke he gets right away, for some reason. And he can just picture the camera shot, under his knee, the great Eminem in the doorway. JC laughing. And he does laugh, though maybe not quite in that Anne Bancroft way, just helpless in the image.

"Aren't you." And. Fuck. Nails across his belly, below his navel. Sharp. This is the damage that nails do when you bite them and leave them jagged rather than getting a manicure like a civilized person.

"No." Shiver. He can feel the track of each finger.

Nails dig into his hip for a moment, hard enough to hurt, then disappear. A warm palm covers his navel.

It feels unreasonably good. He can feel every prickle on his skin after so much time spent straining towards anything at all. Warm skin in the cold air and rain. Warm male body very close to his, sweat from the party's heat and sharp cologne. JC's still strung out on the sight of Joey and Lance together; this is more than he needs right now.

"You really like that, don't you?"

He shakes his head automatically. It's not quite disgust in Mathers' voice, but. JC's already ripped open like this. If he gives up anything else...

"You've got to be the prettiest faggot-ass boy in this whole fucking place." Voice like the ragged nails dragging across his skin just above his belt before pulling back completely.

"My arms hurt."

"You look like a whore." JC's eyes snap open and Mathers. Laughs at him. Snarky little laugh. Hands in his pockets, face half in shadow. "You go down like a little bitch for it, don't you? Lie on your back and tie yourself up and get fucked." Wet lips in the wet dark. "Like you just spread your legs for it any time someone touches you."

It should hurt more. But it's this low, crawling voice, and he makes it sound almost good. Like he could just lean back and relax and let sex crawl all over him.

"You love it." Breath close to him, somewhere that he can't focus on. "Everybody in this business knows you get hard just from people watching you.

"I mean, fuck. You're already showing."

Somehow, he does it without ever touching skin. The buckle on his belt gives, loosens the waist of his pants just enough that the tip of his cock can push up above the waistline. Low cut on the pants that he loved when he pulled them off the stylist's rack, day before yesterday.

"I bet that really fucking hurts, doesn't it?"

JC hisses. It's cold. There's water on his skin, all pooling in the hollows of his belly, and his cock's hot enough that the water feels like ice, hitting it. He wants to get down from here. Find some warm, dark corner and jerk off. Find some warm, dark body to curl around and fuck until morning. Somebody to bite him and wrap around him and suck on his tongue.

"I could tell you everything you're thinking just by the way your stomach moves. Jesus Christ. I should cut that whole branch off and drag you inside like this. Find out who every faggot from here to Philly is. Throw you down on the floor and let you suck them."

JC says, "Let you suck me."

Slap-rip of nails across his aching skin. He's going to bleed the next time that happens. "Like fuck. Let you suck me. Drag you in there and make you suck my dick. See what that mouth is good for."

Then closer, softer. "I'd take you out to my limo, after. Let you kneel on the floor and suck me again. Think you'd like that?" The fingers are back, loose in the edges of his hair. Combing it just enough to make JC think of warm, friendly fingers rubbing his scalp. Asking for it.

God, he hurts. Everything hurts. He wants to take his skin off. He wants his arms back and his cock loose and a touch, anywhere.

There. On his side, inside the fall of his shirt. Warm and dry, gentler than he expected. Good enough to make him whimper out loud.

"Take you back with me. Lay you out and fuck you like a dog." Stroking up to his armpit, down to his hip. A thumb hooks in the hollows between JC's ribs.

He shivers.

"Fuck you like a bitch."

Fingers at his waist. The only time they leave is the necessary couple of inches to avoid his cock completely. "Fuck you like a girl."

"Yesssss."

"Hold you down."

"Yes."

"Tie you up."

"Yes."

"Cut you up."

Breath. He couldn't make it a word if he tried.

"Let me carve myself all over you."

JC whimpers.

"Think you know what I'd look like with your blood on my lips?"

One sharp nail cuts across his chest from one nipple to the other, pushing so deep that he doesn't know whether it's warm rain or blood on his skin. One hard grind of a hip against his cock. That's all.

There's a slick, nylon-covered shoulder up close to his mouth when he comes. Near enough that he can sag onto it, after. Warm/cold semen on his chest, on that nylon jacket. Stains that'll show up the next time either of them steps into fluorescent light.

Teeth close over JC's earlobe once, gently.

Slip of a switchblade opening, rasp of cutting silk. Marshall catches him before he falls. Eases him onto the ground.

The shadows are warmer than they should be. Body heat gathers in them and steams. Fingers slide through his wet hair and down to his shoulders, help him work the joints loose. It hurts. Even the fingers working him gently out of spasm hurt.

Just. Later. When he can move his arms again, when he's curled around himself with his shirt half-buttoned, still hiding in the hedge's shadow, he realizes that he's not alone. Marshall's been sitting next to him since he fell. Quiet beside him, and hard.

He only growls quietly when JC pushes up onto his forearms and leans over his lap. JC's waiting for the slap, maybe a long string of profanity, all of it pushing him away. Anything other than perfectly normal fingertips, pulling him in, this perfectly normal male reaction to an offered blow job.

Body-warm cloth against his face. They're both soaking from the rain, but Marshall less so than JC. Slick skin in his mouth. He never gets used to the taste, but he doesn't dislike it, either. This incredible, intimate moment with another man's flesh in his mouth. If he's careful, he can take it into his throat. Make it really, really good. Suck and touch until the body under him gives. Hold it in his mouth long enough that his partner can at least pretend he swallowed, then spit into the dark.

He bends again, after, and licks it once. Tucks it away and presses his face into the exposed belly flesh before sitting up.

Mathers looks at him hard for a second. "You good?"

"I'm good."

"'kay, then." Helps JC up, then wraps his arms around himself and disappears into the dark. Careful steps of a kid used to moving without being seen. Just, in this second when he steps into a pool of light from the house and turns to look back, JC can see the glitter smeared over his clothes. He's going to strip down, tonight or tomorrow morning, and shower, and JC's going to be all over him, as sure as if they'd fucked in the wet grass.

The smell of it's under JC's nails. Half of him's tempted to hunt someone down and touch them all over, just to see if anyone can tell that JC Chasez has Eminem all over him. Even lurking at the dim edges of the party, trying to get warm without actually going in, he's sure it must be obvious. He must be almost glowing in the dark. 
 
 
 

jane
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