Honeybee 1/5 (popslash, Lance/Nick)

[marythefan]

You taste like honey, honey
Tell me I can be your honey ...
Bee ...

Lance takes the time to pull on some pajama pants before he wanders down to the kitchen, drawn by the low beacon of light over the stove. Nick's there, in boxer briefs and that T-shirt, the T-shirt that was Lance's downfall tonight, a white T-shirt tight enough to make Nick's shoulders look impossibly broad in the half-light of VIP at the club. A little shiver of pleasure runs through Lance as he remembers the solid weight of Nick over him, blanketing him, holding him down. He's not sure how Nick has the stamina to come scavenging for a post-sex snack - although if it fuels some extra energy, Lance can think of a good way to burn it up.

Again.

The thought brings a sly smile to Lance's lips, and Nick catches it as he turns around, ducking his head bashfully and grinning back before he returns to his search of Lance's pantry shelves. He pulls out a box of pudding and squints at it in the mellow light.

"Instant. Score," he says in a whisper. "Even if it is the lite kind."

"I have to watch my girlish figure," Lance says, voice still gravelly, and he stretches, feeling the pull of muscles and the not-quite ache low in his body, deliciously well-used.

If he has to turn 30, at least this has turned out to be a most excellent birthday present to himself.

He stretches again when he notices Nick watching him appreciatively. He came out here shirtless on purpose, because he was pretty sure how Nick would react. Nick's ridiculously easy, and the expected response makes it worth the chilly air against Lance's skin.

"There's nothing girlish about that figure, man," Nick says. "At least, not anymore. Hey, you got something we can mix this with, like a fork, or something?"

"Um. A whisk. Maybe." Lance pulls open one of the drawers like he has any idea which of them holds what utensil, wincing at the clatter as he tries to rummage quietly, until the thought hits him. "Well, why not the mixer?"

"Because it's, like, two in the morning ..." Nick trails off.

"And there's nobody to wake up. Which probably means we can stop whisperin', too." Lance can't help laughing.

"Too many years on a bus with too many other people," Nick says, and his voice seems loud now, although it's only because he's at normal volume.

They're grinning at each other like idiots. Endorphins, Lance decides. Must be the endorphins.

"We could maybe turn on a real light," he says, moving to flip the switch, leaving them both squinting in the glare.

"I thought you had ... roommates," Nick says, pause barely perceptible before the word.

"No."

Lance knows a lot of people think he's stupid, but not a whole lot more stuff had to go missing before it was obvious someone was stealing from him, and that took care of Jimmy. And then Carrah moved in with her boyfriend, and Beth got her own place, and things just got too intense, people paid too much attention for Lance to be able to maintain anything with ... No, he still doesn't want to think about Jesse. And then, when it was too late, he didn't need the cover of roommates anymore.

Nick seems to have meant "harem" when he said "roommates," though, and what does he think, that Lance has some boy he's going to send off to a guest room while Nick's here?

"I thought you guys all had your own buses, anyway," Lance says.

"Not anymore. And even when we did, that doesn't mean I was always alone on it."

Nick flicks a sharp look over at Lance before he drops his gaze and studies the box of pudding mix he's been turning over in his hands. Lance can tell he's said something wrong, but he's not sure what. It's not like he meant to make it sound like Nick was a loser, or something.

"Big man with the lay-dees," he says, tone teasing as he leans against the counter, hoping to redirect Nick's thoughts. "Or maybe with the boys?"

Nick smiles hesitantly at him, looking up through the bangs that flop over his eyes, and asks about milk, and Lance suddenly realizes that Nick's probably not thinking about groupies. He's not thinking about the girls or the boys - he's thinking about the Boys. Maybe he's still - still - thinking about Howie, and that's not what Lance wants to think about. It's not what he wants Nick to think about, not when Lance is standing here half-dressed, thinking about how he wants to drape himself all over Nick, push up that T-shirt and rub against warm skin. Thinking about Nick's ex - who can only ever be a not-quite-ex in that incestuous pop group way, not like someone in real life who you can actually leave or who can leave you when they marry someone else - that just ruins the vibe.

He slams the refrigerator door a little too firmly on the thought and turns to offer the carton to Nick, who looks a little disconcerted at Lance's sudden violence against harmless kitchen appliances. He's been trying to assemble the mixer and finally holds it - warily - out to Lance.

"Here," he says. "I'm only gonna end up breaking it."

Lance puts the correct beater in the correct hole while Nick dumps the dry pudding into a bowl, leaving a dusting of sweet powder on the counter around it, and estimates the milk. Lance's reward when he turns the appliance back over to Nick is a kiss that gets a little out of hand - or maybe in hand - once Nick blindly sets down the mixer with a little thunk on the counter. Lance can practically feel the ridges of Nick's fingertips through the thin pajama pants as Nick squeezes his ass, and he pushes his hips into Nick's, opening his mouth for Nick's tongue. He slides his hands up under the T-shirt to touch the bare skin of Nick's back as he pulls away just far enough to say "Pudding," against Nick's lips.

"Oh, yeah," Nick says and backs off. "Shit."

The instant pudding is already congealing in clumps in the milk.

"Dude, that was not the response I was looking for." Lance winds his fingers into the front of Nick's T-shirt. "You were supposed to say 'Screw the pudding.' Or something like that."

"I'd rather eat the pudding," Nick says, absently, twining his fingers through Lance's as he turns. "And then screw you. Again. Do you think this will still mix OK?"

"I dunno."

Lance tugs his hand away from where Nick's got it trapped against his chest, unsure whether to be mollified or not. He's still too relaxed and good-humored from their previous activities to work up much indignation at coming in second to pudding. The whir of the mixer would drown out any response, anyway. Plus, Nick did say "again," and Lance isn't about to turn down an encore, whenever it's being offered.

"It looks OK," Nick says, poking his fingers in the bowl as he finishes mixing. "I mean, if it was some kind of store brand, maybe we couldn't have saved it ... but you did spring for the Jell-O kind, so I think it'll be all right."

"Of course I sprung for the Jell-O kind - who do you think I am, JC?" Lance asks. "And besides, you have to have Jell-O pudding."

"Is that what your mom always bought?" Nick hands Lance one of the beaters.

"I ... what?" Lance is briefly distracted by the pink flicker of Nick's tongue as he swipes it along the other beater. "Well, yeah. But also because Bill Cosby says so."

Nick laughs and ducks his head again, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

"Do not laugh at Bill Cosby," Lance says imperiously, gesturing with his beater and flinging a drop of pudding on the counter. He wipes it up with a finger that he sucks clean, pretending he doesn't know Nick is watching the movement of his lips and tongue. "Bill Cosby has some serious comedy skills."

"You watched the show when you were little."

"We used to listen to him on the bus. Like, his standup routines and stuff. Chris had them all on vinyl, too. He used to make us watch reruns of the show if they were on one of the channels we got on a hotel night."

"I'm not sure Dr. Huxtable would approve of what I want to do with this pudding," Nick says, sticking a finger in the bowl. He sucks it clean slowly, watching Lance watch him.

"Are you kidding me?" Lance scoffs. "Cockroach? He was a total twink. He and Theo were so doing it."

Nick grins at him.

•••

Nick's over for movie night the next time they have sex, which is hardly unexpected, as Nick's the only one over for movie night, and "movie night" really means "booty call" anyway, and they both know it. They've already gone one round - Nick showing up after a day cut short in the studio, frustrated and sharp and ready to fuck Lance through the mattress to work off some of his pent-up energy; Lance perfectly willing to oblige - when Nick wants to know what movie they're going to watch.

"Uh?" Lance says, into one of his pillows.

He hadn't thought that far, certainly hadn't thought much further than getting Nick back in his bed and making a thorough mess of the sheets while he rode Nick's cock and clenched his fingers in the shaggy blond hair spread out across his 800-count Egyptian cotton pillow cases.

"Movie?" Nick says, looking over at Lance from where he's propped up on his elbows on the other side of the bed.

He kicks gently at Lance's shin, the bump cushioned by the sheets tangled around both their legs, and Lance swipes an indolent hand at him, rolling over to stare at the ceiling in the crimson light of a rapidly setting sun, trying to get all of his limbs in working order so he can sit up.

"Really?" he says, finally, rolling his head on the pillow to look at Nick, who's staring into space, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth in a way that almost makes Lance want to bite it.

Almost. He'd have to be willing to move that far, though.

"What?" Nick says, starting to attention.

"Movie? Really?

"I was promised a movie, Bass."

Nick kicks at Lance again, and Lance kicks lazily back this time before sitting up in bed, sheets pooling around his waist. The comforter seems to have gotten shoved onto the floor, at some point. So has the TV remote, he discovers, as he leans over to the nightstand - probably when Nick was rummaging in the drawer for lube and a condom. It's not terribly surprising, really. What shocks Lance about the whole thing is that they made it upstairs at all, once the front door was closed and Nick grabbed him and pushed him up against it. He thinks the shirt he was wearing is somewhere over the railing on the first floor. He's pretty sure his pants are in the doorway to the bedroom. Nick got him naked awfully fast and spread him out on the bed like that before leaving him to watch while Nick finished pulling off his T-shirt to reveal that sculpted stomach he's got now. Nick let Lance watch and stroke himself, slow and hard, thumb sticky at the head of his own cock, while Nick tugged open the button on his jeans. And that's about as far as Nick's patience lasted before he gave up and crawled up the bed, jeans loose and riding low on his hips as he knocked Lance's hands out of the way, wrapped his own hand around the base of Lance's cock, put his head down and just ... went down. Lance hopes Nick's not supposed to be laying down vocals tomorrow, because that can't have been good for his throat, however great it was for Lance.

It was great enough that Lance remembers some name-calling on his part when Nick pulled off, mouthing his way up Lance's stomach to his chest, pausing to lick at one nipple and bite the other, and Lance thinks he might have felt Nick grin against his skin when Lance called him a fucking bastard on a higher note than he ever really thought he could reach. He's not sure though, because that's when he reached down to jerk himself again, and Nick grabbed his wrist, hard, waiting until Lance looked down and met his gaze to shake his head warningly, a look in his eye that Lance never expected from a big puppy like Nick. There are few things Lance loves more than a challenge, and he supposes that's how Nick ended up rummaging in the nightstand for a condom with one hand while he held Lance's hands trapped on the bed above his head with the other - cursing, himself, when Lance wrapped a leg around his waist and swiveled his hips up, pressing their cocks together through Nick's jeans, managing to twist just ... right .... and that's when Lance thinks maybe he heard the clatter.

At least it wasn't the lamp, he thinks and tilts off the bed trying to reach the remote, flailing before Nick grabs his wrist and hauls him back up, earning himself an elbow in the eye in the process.

"Ow."

Nick sounds kind of plaintive, and Lance wraps an arm around his neck.

"Hey," he says in response, feeling Nick's fingers press into his hip as Nick snakes an arm around his waist. "Are you sure about that movie thing? I mean, I'm just askin' ..."

"Why? You have a better idea?" Nick's fingers flex.

"Maybe," Lance says, swinging a leg over and settling on top of Nick, who leans back against the headboard, hands hovering in the air a minute before he rests them on Lance's hips, thumbs smoothing up and down Lance's sides in light brushes that make him shiver.

"So, that was ... OK, right?"

Lance blinks and sits back on his heels, at a loss for words.

Seriously? he thinks. Nick's that insecure, that he'll ask something like that after leaving Lance fuck-stupid? What does he want? A gold star stuck on his forehead?

Nick must be worried about his lack of response, because he ducks his head and wraps his fingers around one of Lance's wrists, stroking his thumb over soft flesh where he was holding Lance down not half an hour ago.

"Sorry if it was too much," he says, not meeting Lance's eyes. "I just ... I forget sometimes. A lot of people want me to be more careful."

"Dude, I don't know what's wrong with the other people you've slept with, but you can show up on my doorstep and do that any time you want," Lance says fervently.

Nick looks up at him from under messy bangs, and Lance nods, raising his eyebrows. Nick laughs and leans in; Lance thinks he's getting a kiss, but instead, Nick bites at his chin. Lance pushes a hand back through his hair, twisting his fingers in the silky mass to hold Nick still while he slides his mouth over Nick's, kneeling up to press into him.

"I think you might have to feed me, first," Nick says against his mouth. "Get my stamina back up."

"Lack of stamina is a sign of getting old," Lance tells him, sitting back again. "Are we gonna have to start calling you guys the Backstreet Grandpas? We can see if Joey's dad wants to join another old man band."

"Show you old ..." Nick says, grabbing at the back of Lance's knee and tugging, and Lance finds himself on his back again, head at the foot of the bed.

He raises his knees to cradle Nick's body as Nick crawls up him, kissing along the length of his thigh, flicking a quick lick at the top, pausing to gnaw a little bit on Lance's hipbone. Lance squirms - he can feel his cock stirring again, and he's rapidly deciding he's not joking about a second round, anymore. He's got his hands draped over Nick's shoulders, scratching soft between his shoulder blades, and he's nudging his hips up as much as he can with Nick holding him down, when Nick suddenly blows a raspberry on his stomach. He can't help cracking up, and he tugs on Nick's hair. Nick looks up at him, grinning.

"Popcorn, too?" he asks.

He drapes himself over Lance's back like a big warm cuddly octopus while Lance rummages in the pantry downstairs to find some microwave popcorn.

"Wait," he says, as Lance pulls out a package. "What's that?"

He reaches past Lance to snag the jar of actual loose popcorn kernels that Joey left the last time he was here.

"Popcorn?" Lance says.

"Real popcorn."

"OK. Real popcorn?"

"Dawg, we should totally make some real popcorn."

"O ... K?"

"You have a popcorn maker, right?" Nick shakes the jar, rattling the kernels.

"Somewhere?"

Lance manages to unearth the popcorn maker in the very back of the lower cabinet beside the stove. He pulls it out, and they both stand there and look at it for a minute.

"You have used it, right?" Nick asks, looking over at Lance and back to the jumble of plastic pieces.

"Yes," Lance says, feeling a little defensive. "Of course. Kind of. It's been used. Joey used it. I usually just settle for microwave popcorn, like normal people."

"Hey!"

"Well, do you know how to use it?"

"Um. No. We always just used Jiffy Pop." Nick sets the jar of popcorn on the counter and approaches the popcorn maker warily, like it might bite. When it doesn't make any sudden moves, he pokes at it. "I'd bet it needs a power cord, though."

"Don't stick your fingers in there," Lance says, smacking at his hand. "Hold on."

"That's not what you said earlier," Nick says, smirking at him, and Lance rolls his eyes.

He digs around in the cabinet some more, unearthing the lid for a saucepan he threw out three months ago because he thought the lid was lost forever, a package of paper muffin cups, some plastic martini swords and a cord that looks like it belongs with the popcorn popper.

"OK," he says, when one end fits into the popper, and then, "Oh, shit, what?"

He jumps, startled, as he plugs the other end into the outlet and the arm on the popper starts rotating. Nick, from his supervisory position leaning against the sink, starts giggling.

"Dude, did you just get freaked out by your own popcorn maker?"

"Shut up." Lance says. "Or no popcorn for you."

He examines the popper, which doesn't appear to have an actual on/off switch. Nick's already back in the pantry, trying to find some oil.

"Shouldn't we use olive oil?" Lance says, when he emerges with a bottle of vegetable oil.

"What? No."

"Yeah, no, it makes the popcorn better," Lance says, lounging on the kitchen's central island. "There was this movie theater that showed old movies that Joey and I used to go to near Orlando, and it had this, like, legendary popcorn. It was so good because they popped it in olive oil."

"You mean the Enzian, out in Maitland?" Nick looks up from where he's rummaging in a drawer. "I thought that was because they used real butter on it."

"Huh." Lance thinks for a minute, trying to remember what the old guy at the concession stand told him. "Maybe."

"Do you have real butter?"

"No," Lance says, making a face. "There's margarine. Real butter tastes weird. Like licking a cow. Stop laughing. Hey, how much of that are you putting in there, anyway?"

"How much am I supposed to put in?" Nick asks, pausing with the bottle of oil tilted over a measuring cup.

"How should I know? I've ... got the directions somewhere?"

"You keep the directions?"

"What? Of course I keep the directions." Lance knows they're somewhere in this drawer, along with the rest of the manuals and the warranties and all the other crap he never looks at ... wait. Is that the warranty on the vacuum cleaner?

He doesn't realize he said that last part out loud until Nick looks up at him.

"You don't have a cleaning service?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Well, yeah. But just in case," Lance says, pulling out a manual with a picture of the popcorn popper on it. "Hold on a minute, it's right here ... Wait. How much are we making?"

"The biggest batch?" Nick says, and Lance looks up at him skeptically. "Hey, I need a lot of energy if you want a repeat performance."

"Four quarts," Lance says immediately, inspecting the manual. He looks back up to see Nick smirking at him. "Don't start. I'm holding you to that, you know."

"So how much oil?" Nick says, whining a little bit.

"Not that much," Lance says, kicking him in the foot. "Like, three tablespoons is all you need. Here, wait. Don't ... Leave that cup out to measure the popcorn. Give it here."

"So, Mr. Cleaning Service," Nick says, "how much popcorn?"

"A cup and a half?" Lance says, squinting at the manual again. "No, hold on. Three-quarters of a cup? And do you even own a vacuum cleaner?"

"Hey! I own a vacuum cleaner."

"But have you ever used it?" Lance asks, handing Nick the plastic dome that goes on top of the popper. "Are you ready for me to plug this in?"

"Yes, I've used it. Have you ever tried to live with four younger sisters and a brother ... four younger ... three sisters and a brother? Go for it."

They stand there for a minute and watch the arm turn, pushing the popcorn kernels through the oil.

"Do Chris and Joey count?" Lance finally asks. "I mean, they might be chronologically older than me, but mentally? I'm not so sure. Plus, they're big enough to count as at least two, each, right? And Joey's a big girl. Should it be popping?"

"Not yet? I mean, it has to heat up, right?" Nick leans over, elbows on the counter, chin in hand, practically pressing his nose against the plastic dome.

"Hey," Lance says, kicking at his foot again before stepping on his bare toes. "This was your idea, Carter. Amuse me while we're waiting."

"How would you like me to do that?" Nick says, standing up, one corner of his mouth quirking.

Lance tucks his fingers into the front of Nick's jeans and tugs him closer, rubbing his thumb along the trail of fine hair that runs down Nick's stomach. He can tell Nick's between albums, with no on-going promo, fuzzy in a way Lance never lets himself get.

"I can think of a couple of ways," he says.

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me, considering you didn't even bother to put on pants."

"Hey, I put on pants." Lance pinches at Nick's stomach.

"Sweat pants," Nick says, grabbing for Lance's hand. He catches it as Lance flails, twistsing it behind Lance's back, pressing their bodies together. "That hardly counts."

"Are you complaining?" Lance asks, tilting his head. "Because I can go get dressed ..."

Both of them jump at a sharp pop.

"It's working," Nick says, looking over at the popcorn maker and back at Lance, his words punctuated by a growing cascade of pops.

"We'll probably set something on fire," Lance says, pulling away to inspect the popcorn's progress.

"Aren't you the one who's always excited about pyro?" Nick says. "Are you getting excited?" He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that's probably supposed to be suggestive.

"You know it, baby," Lance says, low, rumbling, actually suggestive, and he slaps Nick's ass, making him jump.

"OK, I was rethinking the popcorn," Nick says, "but now, I don't know ..."

"OK, no, we're not not setting my kitchen on fire. What are we supposed to be doing with this thing?"

"Waiting for it to finish popping? I mean, it's like microwave popcorn that way - when it slows down, it's ready, right?"

They end up scorching some kernels on the bottom, which becomes the top when they turn the whole thing over, using the plastic dome as a bowl. Nick scrapes the brown pieces off into the trash while Lance puts the forgotten butter ... the forgotten margarine in the microwave to melt it.

"Wait," Nick says as Lance pours the melted margarine over the mound of popcorn and tries to toss it without knocking it all on the floor. "It's kind of ... leaking? There's holes in the bottom? What?"

He's getting melted butter ... melted margarine all over his fingers as he picks up the container and shifts it from hand to hand.

"Oh. Wait. Is that what this is for?" Lance picks up the plastic lid that looked so out of place when they first set up the popper. "Oh. This, like, snaps on there to cover the steam holes ...."

"Hey, a little help here?" Nick says.

"Sorry," Lance says, laughing.

His fingers slide slippery over Nick's as they both try to snap on the lid without upending the popcorn. They lose a few stray pieces anyway, and Dingo wanders over to investigate, licking up a piece and spitting it back out, smacking her lips against the texture before she pads out of the kitchen. Lance drops the lid on the floor once, but he just picks it up and blows on it, looking at Nick.

"Five-second rule," Nick says, shrugging, and Lance finally snaps it into place.

"That was harder than it should have been," he says and looks over to see Nick licking butter off his fingers.

"S'good," Nick says, raising an eyebrow.

Lance inspects his own fingers, then licks at them before he looks up to see Nick sucking on a finger, and oh, that's how this is going to go, is it? Nick's finger makes a popping sound as he pulls it out of his mouth, smirking. Lance reaches out to trace a fingertip along his mouth, tugs at his lower lip with a thumb before leaning up and kissing him.

Lance doesn't allow himself a lot of butter and salt on his usual diet regime, so he's not entirely sure he's not licking at Nick's lips to get that taste back from him - partially, at least - but it tastes and feels too good to really care. When Nick pulls away, Lance darts back in to catch his mouth again, but Nick holds him off with a hand on his jaw. Instead, he pulls Lance's hand to his mouth again, tongue flickering out to lick the butter off of Lance's fingers, teeth nipping at his fingertips, and OK. Thinking's overrated, anyway, Lance decides.

When he looks up, Nick's watching him, blue eyes locked on his face, and Lance feels his chest get tight and airless, feels his breathing quicken. He drops his gaze back to Nick's mouth and slides two fingers in, then out, slow, watching them slick over Nick's glistening lips, thinking about the way his dick looked, sliding in and out of that pink mouth, and he's so hard he aches now, shifts from foot to foot with it. Nick's closed his eyes, and there's a little furrow between his eyebrows, like he's focusing, concentrating on Lance's taste while he sucks. Lance slides his free hand down Nick's stomach and fumbles with the button on his jeans, trying to get inside. He presses the heel of his hand against Nick's hard length through the material, and Nick lets out a shivery moan, pushing into Lance.

"Turn around," he says.

His hands are clumsy as he pushes Lance against the central island, and Lance hisses in a breath at the chill of the countertop against his stomach, bracing himself on both hands. Nick pauses, running a hand down Lance's back, tracing the line of his spine and back up again, and Lance arches under the touch, pushing out his ass as Nick tugs at his sweatpants, leaving then halfway down his thighs. He's got one hand pressed heavy between Lance's shoulder blades as he leans in, bare chest warm against Lance's shoulder, and puts two of his fingers to Lance's lips.

Lance licks at them, mouths at them, getting them slick with spit as Nick bites at the curve of his jaw; he lets his teeth scrape as Nick pulls the fingers from his mouth. He turns his head to watch Nick suck them into his own mouth, getting them even slicker.

Nick moves to his other side as he presses both fingers in slow, slow, and Lance makes a sharp little sound, pulled from somewhere in his throat, as they sink into him.

"Fuck," he grits out, dropping his head to the counter, and he feels the huff of Nick's laughter against the back of his neck.

Nick drops kisses across Lance's shoulders as he strokes his fingers back out, running a thumb up the crease of Lance's ass and back down, circling before he presses in again, opening Lance up. Lance can't help himself, his hips are making little involuntary rolls back onto Nick's fingers, and he shifts his weight to reach down for his own cock. Nick knocks away his hand impatiently, grabbing Lance's wrist and pulling it up to press his fingers flat on the countertop. He hesitates for a moment, touch gone tentative on the back of Lance's hand, but Lance just pulls in a breath and releases, long and hard, body going lax and open. He rolls his head on his forearm to blink, heavy-lidded, at Nick, who's chewing his bottom lip again as he peers at Lance's face.

"Are you gonna fuck me, or not?" Lance manages to grate out, flexing his fingers against the slick countertop, trying for some kind of purchase.

Lance gasps in a breath as Nick's fingers pull out of his ass. He can hear Nick murmuring "Fuck fuck condom fuck," under his breath as he rummages in his pockets, and he takes the chance to lever himself up onto his elbows, thanking God the house is set back so far from the road as he turns his head and sees their reflection in the glass of the French doors against the darkening night sky. He can watch Nick's progress in the windows, sees him rip open a condom package with fingers and teeth, barely unzipping his jeans before he rolls it on, and he's already braced when Nick pushes in, hard and fast, pulling another gasp from Lance despite spit and leftover lube and the work of Nick's fingers. He scrabbles against the counter as his hips slam into the edge, lifted almost off his feet by the force of Nick's thrust, and then Nick's pulling him up, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him, and he sets his hands on the edge and pushes back.

"Popcorn's cold," Nick says later, in bed, and Lance shrugs and stretches and rolls over to tuck his face against the curve of Nick's shoulder while he flips through TV channels with the remote.

•••

"This is another booty call, isn't it?" Nick asks when he shows up for their third movie night.

He's leaning in the doorway when Lance opens the door, one arm above his head, so calculatedly casual that Lance almost expects a camera to be following him.

"You can think of it as a date if you really want, princess," Lance says and rolls his eyes when Nick gives him the finger.

"We're not leaving the house," Nick says, stepping inside. "How is this a date?"

"Dude, I have dinner for us. That totally counts as a date."

"Wait. You're trying to tell me you made dinner? You actually ..." Nick stops as they reach the family room. "Dawg, you ordered pizza. What kind of a lame booty call is this?"

"It's a date, not a booty call. And it's, you know, fancy pizza," Lance says.

Nick's laughing too hard to pay much attention to him. It is fancy pizza, though - it's not like Lance called up Domino's, or something, and then had them tack on a mess of buffalo wings. He had to go out and pick up this pizza. It's got feta cheese on it. And five different kinds of meat. Left to his own devices, Lance probably would have made himself get something healthier, like artichoke hearts and spinach, but he was thinking of Nick and what Nick would like when he ordered it, OK?

And he totally didn’t just say that this was really a date.

"So you ordered pizza for a date?" Nick gasps, in between high-pitched giggles.

"Shut up," Lance says, digging an elbow into Nick's ribs. "It's not a date. And since when do you turn down pizza, anyway, Carter? Or my booty, for that matter?"

Nick collapses in on himself when Lance elbows him, grabbing Lance's arm and pulling him down as he half-falls onto the sofa. Somebody's knee hits the pizza box, sending it skidding across the coffee table, and Lance yelps, scrambling for it as he imagines tomato sauce all over his beige rug. The box lands on the floor, upside down but still closed, and Lance shoots Nick a reproachful glance as he sets it back on the coffee table, opening it to find half the pizza - the top half - stuck to the lid of the box. Nick shrugs philosophically and picks a couple of pepperoni out of the mess of cheese, stuffing them in his mouth.

"Forks," he says with his mouth full.

Lance comes back with forks and napkins and a couple of bottles of beer to find Nick cross-legged on the floor, a neat pile beside him of books and magazines that he's cleared off the table top. Most of that stuff Lance hasn't even read, but he feels like maybe he should, so he keeps it sitting around. Nick's found the TV remote and is flipping through channels aimlessly, humming under his breath, and Lance cocks his head and listens for a minute.

"Is that 'Song for the Unloved?'" he asks, as Nick reaches for the napkins, folding a couple of them into makeshift coasters for the beer.

"It's something I'm working on with Leslie ... we're still fighting over who's going to get to keep it," Nick says, flashing a grin at him, but then his brow knits and he looks distracted, hums a melody line, almost to himself. "Do you think it sounds too much like 'Unloved?'"

Lance shrugs, shoving down Nick's section of the first verse somewhere in the back of his head.

"I don't know, what does the rest of it sound like?"

"I'd sing it for you, man, but I don't have my guitar. Hey, is one of those beers for me? Come down here."

Lance leaves the Italian sausage for Nick, but they fork-battle over the last of the pepperoni, sitting on the hardwood floor with the rug pushed back and the box between them as Top Gun runs on the TV. Lance has gone too many rounds with Chris over the last piece of pizza, and he knows how to win, poking Nick in the side with his free hand so that he collapses into snorting laughter and smacks at Lance while Lance slips in under his guard with a fork. Lance grins and offers the pepperoni to Nick, who looks at him suspiciously before leaning in to nip it right off the end of the fork.

"Don't think I'm that easy," he says, once he's chewed and swallowed, washing down the bite with beer.

"Dude - dinner and a movie. How is that easy?" Lance wants to know. "That's, like, classic date material. It should get me at least to second base."

"I just think you're kind of cheating, man. I mean, if you're gonna invite me to your house for dinner, there should be something homemade, you know? You're gonna give me something out of a box? That's no way to get in a guy's pants."

"I'm surprised you bothered to wear pants," Lance says, arching an eyebrow.

"So, I think you're maybe mistaking me for you," Nick says.

Lance waves a desultory hand at him, leaning back against the sofa, too full to take proper offense. He displays empty hands for Foster, who's sniffing around him, hoping for a last piece of hamburger, and lets Dingo climb into his lap and lick his chin as Nick makes mock-disgusted sounds.

"They say a dog's mouth is cleaner than a human's, Carter. And I've let you put your tongue in my mouth, never mind licking my face."

"Yeah, but I've been licking your ass, not my own," Nick says, reaching out to scratch under Foster's chin as she gives up her search.

Lance runs his tongue consideringly along the edge of his teeth before smirking back at the laughter bubbling under Nick's words.

"You're full of shit," he says, climbing to his feet, dumping Dingo in Nick's lap and reaching for the empty pizza box. "You have not."

"Yet," Nick says looking up at him through lowered lashes, and it's like he's caught Lance by the throat and squeezed, just briefly, stopping Lance's breath with a quick stutter-start, and it picks back up a little faster as Lance remembers the slick glide of Nick's fingers.

"Big talker," he manages to say, and Nick raises an eyebrow at him as he collects empties off the coffee table and puts them in Lance's outstretched free hand.

"Another beer, as long as you're getting me liquored up and taking advantage of me?" Nick calls, and Lance's hands are full, now, so he can't turn around and give Nick the finger.

"Kiss my ass," he throws over his shoulder, instead.

"I told you, Bass, you just have to bring that fine, fine ass over here ..." Nick shouts after him.

"Promises, promises," Lance yells back from the front living room.

He takes a couple of minutes to wash his face after he tosses out the pizza box and puts the beer bottles in recycling.

He gets back to find Nick with his head tilted back against the couch cushion, eyes at half-mast like the blissed-out dog in his lap. Dingo's flopped over on her back, and Nick's got his free hand cradling the back of her head so she doesn't flip right off his legs as he scratches her belly.

"So easy," Lance tells her, shaking his head. She ignores him, making a happy little grunting sound at Nick instead, shifting deeper into his lap.

"Hello, pot?" Nick says, opening his eyes.

"Dude, callin' a guy a big ho is not the way to get into his pants, either," Lance says, crawling over Nick to stretch out on the sofa. "Your seduction technique needs work."

"It's a good thing you're so easy then, isn't it?" Nick says, giggling that high-pitched laugh of his.

Lance gives him a shove in the back of the head and twists, trying to dodge the return shot. Dingo wriggles and gives a small yelp, protesting the loss of Nick's scratching fingers.

"Pet the dog," Lance says, as Foster swarms onto the sofa. "I've got my hands full up here."

Nick makes a noncommittal sound, and Lance thinks he goes back to watching TV, although he could be falling asleep. Working Girl is on, because it's the thing that popped up next on whatever cable channel they'd settled on, and neither of them wants to move to find the remote again. Lance watches bemusedly, full of pizza and half-dozing, until Nick snorts.

"What?" Lance asks.

"It's just ..." Nick waves a hand around. "They try to make such a big deal about how he likes her because she's so different from all the other women he knows, but he only likes her because she's trying to be more like them. Change who she is."

"Sometimes you gotta play the game," Lance says. "That's how you get ahead in the business. It's like a costume. You know that."

Nick snorts again, but this time it sounds amused.

"What?" Lance asks, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Listen to you, Mr. Play-By-The-Rules," Nick says, tilting his head back to look at Lance. "When everybody knows you threw away that disco-ball trophy tryin' to be all edgy."

"Shut up, Carter," Lance says, and he'd poke Nick between the eyes, he really would, but it would mean moving Foster, who has a chin hooked over his thigh and is nosing at his hand for petting. "So spoiled," he tells her as he rubs her ears. "Rottenest ever."

"Hey," Nick says mildly.

"Not you."

"Does that mean you're not going to spoil me more?"

Lance can't help laughing. It's getting dark, the flush of sunset fading on the walls as twilight filters into the room, and he should probably get up and turn on some lights. He'd have to move, though, and he's got his bare toes tucked down between the cushions and a sleepy puppy on top of him and the back of Nick's head pressing against his thigh, so instead, he just pats Nick on the head a few times and squirms deeper into the couch.

"It's different," he says, finally, trying to find words that can make Nick understand. "Different when everybody's watching you and following you, waiting, when all you have to do is make one dumb mistake and everyone will see, will find out who you really are ... You can't ... You have to be careful." He laughs, and it doesn't sound so happy this time. "Believe me, I know all about following the rules."

Nick shifts to look up at him again, and Lance realizes he's rolling a strand of hair between his fingers - slippery clean, no product, and Nick must have showered just before he came over this evening.

"But you're happier now, right?" Nick says. "Now that you're not hiding anymore?"

"Yeah," Lance says, burying his fingers in the silky mop of hair as Nick leans into his touch.

It's the last thing he really remembers until he wakes up in the dark with the muted TV casting enough blue light for him to see that Nick's fallen asleep with his head tilted back on the couch, and man, is that gonna hurt his neck. Lance pokes him awake before stumbling out to the kitchen, stubbing his toes against the couch in the front living room and bumping a hip against the dining room table in the dark. He squints in the soft light from the bulbs over the stove and almost gets knocked down by the dogs as they clickety-clatter in at a run, drawn by the sound of the kibble he pours in their bowls. Everything feels like it's in slow motion, and he dreads the climb up the stairs to his bedroom. Nick apparently felt the same way, because he's only gotten as far as climbing up on the sofa and sprawling out when Lance goes searching for him.

"Get up, lazy ass," Lance says, poking at him again.

"Mmph," Nick says into the cushions and waves a hand at Lance. "Tired. No more moving tonight."

"Dude, bed," Lance says, and Nick drops his hand.

Lance can't tell if he's considering the order or just falling back to sleep, but Nick finally pushes up against the sofa cushions, lifting himself enough to flop over on his back.

"C'mere," he says, yawning and scrubbing at his face with one hand as he sticks out the other.

Lance rolls his eyes again but takes the hand in one of his and pulls.

Nick pulls, and then he pulls, instead of getting up, and Lance stumbles and falls on top of him. His elbow lands somewhere soft in the vicinity of Nick's stomach, but Lance refuses to feel sorry for him - even in the face of the pained, high-pitched sound he makes - because that's what he gets, right? Nick shifts around, making little grumbling noises, and Lance flails, taken by surprise as a sharp move pitches him backward. He ends up trapped between the back of the sofa and Nick's body.

"Now, let me sleep, Bass," Nick says, dropping a forearm over his eyes.

"Get up, Carter," Lance says, poking at his ribs. "Get up. Get up. Get ... up."

Nick pushes the hand away, so Lance digs his toes into Nick's shins.

"Bed, Nick. A great big bed with me naked in it."

Nick waves a lazy hand at him again, and Lance is kind of insulted at the lack of interest in his naked body.

"Come on, Mr. Big Talker," he says, and he tugs at a piece of Nick's hair that's fallen across his forehead until Nick nudges the hand away with the side of one wrist. "You were talking big before. You gonna wimp out, now? Come on. Up. Get up."

He pokes at Nick again, in the side, where Nick's T-shirt's rucked up, sliding his fingers along bare skin, tracing newly defined muscles and edging into tickling.

"Nick. Hey, Nick. I'm supposed to get to second base, at least."

"In the morning, Lance, God," Nick says, grabbing at Lance's hand, not even opening his eyes.

He threads their fingers together and pulls them against his chest; at the same time, he slings one leg over Lance's ankle, trapping Lance's leg between his. Lance squirms, but Nick just squeezes his hand briefly and keeps lying there, breathing slow and even. Lance spreads his hand, feeling Nick's pulse under his index finger at the base of his throat. He considers wiggling around and getting himself free - it's not like he's really trapped - but it's too much effort, so he lies there instead, head propped on one hand, watching his fingers, laced through Nick's, moving in tiny circles against Nick's T-shirt in the blue television light. He flexes his hand and presses his palm against Nick's chest before letting his fingers fall lax.

Nick shifts again, turning his head and opening his eyes to look at Lance.

"What?" he says.

Lance kisses him.

Nick tries to say something against Lance's mouth, but it doesn't take long for him to give up and kiss back. It's slow and languid, Nick stroking a hand down to Lance's waist and up again to cup the back of his neck, fingers combing through the hair at Lance's nape, all careful touches and lingering press of lips. Nick shifts just a little bit more, turning toward Lance, and the movement gives Lance enough free space to move the arm he's been lying on. He pushes himself up and reaches to brush Nick's hair back from his forehead, sifting soft strands through his fingers while they kiss for long minutes in the flickering blue light. Lance finally bites at Nick's mouth, catches Nick's lower lip between his teeth, careful not to press too hard, and Nick licks at Lance's lips as he pulls back. He's still got Lance's fingers caught against his chest, running a thumb back and forth, slow on the back of Lance's hand, a brush of skin on skin that would have Lance lulled if not for the fine wire of electricity running underneath it.

"Nick," he says from somewhere deep in his chest, a low rumble, and Nick presses his forehead against Lance's temple, his breath a puff of air against Lance's cheek.

He kisses Lance again, wet heat and soft sounds in the dark, and Lance pulls his hand from the slack grip of Nick's fingers, draping his arm across broad shoulders, running his hand along Nick's back, slow up-and-down motions as they mouth at each other's lips, their tongues sliding together. Nick's got a hand on Lance's hip now, under his shirt, half-tucked into the waistband of his shorts, hot and a little sweaty against his skin.

"Yeah," Lance murmurs, breaking away to press his lips against the curve of Nick's jaw, scraping his teeth and tongue over the rasp of stubble there. "Nick ..."

Nick tugs at Lance as he rolls onto his back, palm curving to cup Lance's ass, and Lance follows Nick's hand, body drawn to the touch. He slings a knee over Nick and sits up, straddling him, looking down and studying his starkly shadowed face. His strokes his thumbs over Nick's chest through the thin material of his T-shirt as Nick settles one hand on his hip.

"Lance ..." Nick says, voice still rough with sleep and deeper than usual in the dark, raising his other hand to trace along Lance's cheekbone, down the line of his jaw, across his mouth.

Lance runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth, flicks it out to catch the tip of Nick's thumb and rides the swell of Nick's drawn breath underneath him. Then he leans down and kisses Nick again, soft little presses of his lips against Nick's chin, the corner of his mouth, the bow of his upper lip.

•••