by Mouse
Lance’s head tips back and Justin’s eyes follow. He can’t help it; the motion reveals the graceful curve of his neck, that pale expanse of skin that Justin’s mouth craves. And, of course, that incredible Adam’s apple at its center—he watches it bob as Lance laughs that low, smooth laugh of his.
“I’m not answering that,” Lance says, head coming back down to look at them. He grins at Joey’s groan of frustration. “I’m not.”
“It’s truth or dare, Lance!” Chris exclaims. “You can’t choose truth and then not do truth!”
“Yeah, well. I’m not.” His eyes finally meet Justin’s, watch him back, and then flick away. A sort of heat rolls deep through Justin’s core; he feels so many stretches of his body grow warm. Leaves his skin tingling.
“Oh, *sure*,” JC says. He’s clearly drunker than he lets on. They’ve all lost count, but the bottle in his hand is definitely not less than his fourth. Justin himself can’t remember how many times he’s felt the chill of a new bottle against his palm. “Sure, just change the time-honored rules of truth or dare, Lance. That’s fine.”
Lance rolls his eyes, smiling, and takes another sip of his beer. “Whatever.”
Joey cackles. “Oh, fuck you, man!” he shouts, pointing at him. “You’re getting the *worst* dare I can think of next time.”
Justin floats through the rest of the round and into the next. He chooses the easy option when his turn comes around again—truth—and answers succinctly—yes, he has, in fact, kissed a guy—and rolls with the shit the other guys give him for it. He laughs along. It doesn’t matter. Lance is lounging at the other end of the couch, one arm slung over the back and a half-full beer in his free hand, and the grin on his face is for Justin’s eyes only.
He’s snapped back to reality minutes later when Lance suddenly laughs, stands up, and moves from the couch. “Nah,” he’s saying as he crosses the room. “I’ll see you guys later, okay?”
The uproar from the other guys is almost deafening. Liquid spills from Chris’s bottle as he throws his arms up and shouts, “Aw, come on!”
“Fucker! Get back here and stick your head in the toilet!” Joey yells after him.
Lance flashes them another grin before wordlessly slipping into the adjoining room, shutting the door on their remaining protests. The click of the latch sends a single thought into Justin’s head: *Lance is alone now*. It drowns the commotion around him out, and he’s already on his feet before he realizes the others are watching him, their confusion obvious.
“I’ll go get him,” he says quickly. He hurries out, Joey’s, “Shove his head in the toilet while you’re at it!” running after him, and shuts himself into that room full of promise.
Lance is working on lying down when he looks at Justin. His beer is on the nightstand, ass on the bed, and he looks at Justin—eyes dancing in the dim light of the bedside lamp, his initial shock morphing quickly into a knowing sort of glee. The TV mumbles lowly at the other end of the room. Justin barely hears his own breathing.
“Hey,” Lance says.
“Hey,” Justin says back. He watches Lance get comfortable, spreading himself out on top of the bed. He thinks, vaguely, that maybe just standing by the door and staring at him is a little odd. But it’s hard not to. Lance has always drawn his eye no matter where they are or who they’re with—and he *knows* Lance feels the same about him. And Lance never seems to mind. Even now, he’s started staring back, lounging into the pillows with those green eyes of his hooded.
“So,” Lance says smoothly, letting the vowel go long. “Is this about the toilet thing, or…?”
Justin laughs and finally—finally—moves from the door. “Only if you want it to be.”
“Oh, God, no. I’m, uh. Not in the mood to think about that.” His eyes turn innocent as Justin gets closer. “You know?”
“Stop that,” Justin says with a grin.
The smirk growing on Lance’s face is completely at odds with that look in his eyes. “Stop what?” he asks sweetly. He visibly dips into the bed as Justin clambers on to straddle him. His grin widens. “Justin.”
“Lance,” Justin replies. He takes a moment to drink in the sight under him—pale skin glowing in the lamplight, shadows contouring every curve of his face and neck, eyes glittering green back up at him. Lance’s smile softens, his eyes darkening. Justin hears his own breath hitch.
“Justin,” Lance says again, his voice soft, and Justin finally surges down to kiss him.
This is what he’s been waiting for—the insistent press of their mouths, the desperate tangle of their tongues. His hands roam under Lance’s shirt and Lance’s run up and down his back and he wonders why he’d sat through an entire sleepover game of truth or dare just to get *here*. He drops his mouth onto Lance’s neck, tasting the skin there, and lets the deep, sonorous melody of Lance’s moan rumble through the air. Gorgeous sounds; he scrapes his teeth over Lance’s Adam’s apple, reveling in the gasp that reverberates under his lips.
“Guess you *have* kissed a guy,” Lance quips breathlessly.
Justin hums into Lance’s skin, encircling that Adam’s apple with his mouth. He sucks on it. Feels just as much as hears the chuckle that Lance lets loose through his throat. “You’re so weird, J,” he hears him say.
He pops his mouth off Lance’s throat and grins at him, sees the wetness glistening around the lump on his neck. “You’re like a, uh. Like a sexy pez dispenser or something.”
Lance laughs again. “What?”
SUDDENLY, the door slams open! It’s JC! He goes, “Hey, any toilet stuff going on in here?” but then he sees them on the bed! He stares at them. They stare back. Justin goes, “Uh. No?” and JC is still staring, and staring, and staring, and then he finally yells:
“OH MY GOID! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!”