an *mprov.
words: compatible, bubbles, lethargic, adversely, spandex

"Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, so I dress up every year. Last year, I was Lestat. I had an Old English outfit and white curly hair with blood coming down my face. I had to wear pantyhose, though. They were hot, so they didn't make it through the night." -- Lance Bass


"I'm hot," Lance whispered, leaning into Joey's personal space and hooking his chin over his shoulder.

Joey smirked into his beer, blowing bubbles, and turned just enough to take in the tip of Lance's nose. "What, you're sayin' that like I'm supposed to notice you? Yes, you're hot. Don't get fake blood on my coat; I don't know if that shit comes out."

"It's machine washable, you dork. I meant," Lance said, louder, "that I'm hot. Temperature." He pulled away and wedged himself half between Joey and the drink table. The long white wig he was wearing was wilting against his forehead, a stray curl already sticking to the fine sheen there. "Did you know that back in the seventeen hundreds they used to spray perfume from the ceiling in ballrooms to cover up all the b.o.? 'Cause, um. I can see how that works."

Joey shrugged, unsympathetic. "What did I say when I saw all the layers you were gonna put into this? I said--"

"'Dude, aren't you gonna be hot in that?'" Lance finished with him, bobbing his head. He rolled his eyes. "I know. I know what you said, o--"

"And you said," Joey went on, affecting a low, gravelly voice that sounded nothing like Lance, "'But it's Lestat! It'll be cool!'"

"Okay, Joey."

He gestured. "So why don't you just take off the wig, then? The jacket, maybe."

Lance shook his head, and the hair stuck to his face stayed there. "No," he sighed, exasperated. "That's most of what makes it Lestat. If I take that off I'll just be..." he screwed up his face. "Lance. In a fancy silk shirt and tights."

"With blood on your face," Joey added.

"With blood on my face." Lance reached up and scratched at one of the red rivulets on his chin absently, examining what came off under his fingernail. "So can we ditch this party and go? Back to your place?"

Joey finished the rest of his beer, chugging it, with his brow furrowed in preparation for the answer. "No," he said. "This is your place. What happened to drinking straight through to midnight? What happened to partying 'til dawn?"

Lance had the grace to look apologetic. "I just really wanna--"

"What happened," Joey lowered both his voice and his beer. "To fucking 'til your mom calls tomorrow morning?"

"What, we were gonna do that here?" Lance widened his eyes in mock surprise.

"You know what I meant. C'mere." Joey took Lance's hand and held it when Lance tried to pull away. "Look, we'll go out on the balcony where it's cool or something."

When he tugged, Lance followed, if a bit sullen. "I feel like a tool," he complained. "What good is looking good if you feel stupid?"

Joey didn't answer that. He didn't think Lance expected a response.

On the balcony it was quieter, the club mix wafting out from inside until Joey shut the doors, muffling the sound. He dropped Lance's hand and pushed out from the empty master bedroom into fresh Florida autumn breeze, leaning up against the railing, and Lance joined him, resting his back against the rail, taking a deep gulp of air. When he tilted his head back Joey could see that the sheen of sweat on his forehead turned into a small trickle at the side of his neck, hidden by the hair of his wig. "I think," Lance said, closing his eyes, "these pantyhose and me are just not compatible."

"They don't look fun," Joey found himself agreeing. "What are they made of, some kinda spandex or something?"

"I don't know, Lycra?" Lance shrugged. "Nylon? Nylon sounds right. They're just. They itch, Joey. I'm--" he made a frustrated, incoherent sound and opened his eyes on Joey. He looked miserable, high spots of color on his cheeks. "I'd take 'em off, but I don't wanna go with bare legs."

"Well," Joey turned to face him. "Look. This was your idea. You wanted to look good for Hallowe'en, and you look good, but you're miserable. I mean, that's why I wore this," he flipped open his long black coat, pointed to the backwards baseball cap on his head. "I don't look like much, but I'm not pissin' and moaning about being hot or anything either, so."

A knowing smile tugged at the corners of Lance's mouth. "If you gimme your jacket I'll take 'em off," he said slyly.

"If you take 'em off without needing my jacket," Joey responded, "I'll make it worth your while."

"If you make it worth my while, I'll never put them back on."

"Then it's a deal." Joey held out his hand, grinning, and shaking his head, Lance took it.

"I'll even take off the wig," he added, as Joey led him back inside the bedroom and let go to lock the door. When Joey turned back to him he was unbuttoning his vest, shrugging it off of his shoulders.

Joey watched him undo his cufflinks, slender fingers working over the rhinestone decorations, and shook his head. "No," he said, "I think you can keep that on."

Lance smiled into their kiss, making a contented noise deep in his throat when Joey licked between his lips for the first time. He brought his hands up and pushed at Joey's lapels until the coat dropped to rest on his forearms and Joey let it fall, one arm at a time, to the floor, twisting his head to lock into place against Lance, lewd tangling of tongues subsiding into pecks and back again.

One hand found the nape of Lance's neck, hot and sweaty and how could Lance stand to wear that wig? he wondered, while the other hand slipped along the satiny material at the waist of the costume Elizabethan pants until his fingers found the button and flicked it expertly, popping it open and tugging on the tails of the shirt tucked inside. "Am I eating this blood shit you got on your face?" he pulled away to ask, almost in passing, when he remembered the makeup job Lance had so carefully done. "Is it gonna make me sick in like, the middle of the night or something?"

"I promise," Lance breathed, helping him with the shirt, until Joey's hands rested against the smooth, warm skin of Lance's stomach, "it's not gonna affect you," and Joey's thumbs were brushing his ribs and sliding up until they reached his nipples, "not adversely, anyway." Lance grinned when Joey stopped. "I'm kidding. It's totally non-toxic. I swear."

"I don't trust you," Joey muttered, but kissed him again anyway, mouth open wide, and he wondered if he could taste the fake blood, the white powder on Lance's face. He couldn't taste much besides the wine Lance had been drinking all evening because he thought it looked daintier with his costume. And then Lance pushed his hands down the front of Joey's jeans, and Joey didn't remember them coming undone, and then Joey didn't care.

"God," Lance sighed, when Joey hooked his thumbs into his pants and pulled down, taking his underwear and the tights with them, "you have no idea. It was like a fucking sauna in there." He was half-hard. Joey could only imagine.

"Not sexy," Joey said, "and aren't you supposed to wear these without underwear? That was probably your problem." He ducked away when Lance swatted at his head, and sucked Lance's dick into his mouth for measure, licking until he had the clothes in a puddle around Lance's ankles and Lance was hard in his mouth and cupping Joey's face in his hands. He could feel the excess heat coming off of Lance's body in waves. It reminded him of touring, of fucking on the bus after shows when they were both still sweaty and coming off of that post-show high and uncontrollably horny all at once, just having to get off and get the energy out. It was familiar, Lance was, in that way.

"Joey," Lance said softly, like it was a thought not meant to be spoken aloud. Just Joey, like Joey would know what he meant.

"Yeah," Joey said, pulling off and lifting his shirt over his head. Lance stepped out of the puddle of satin and silk on the floor when Joey stood, working Joey's jeans down as they staggered together back towards the bed. "Hey," he said, when he banged the backs of his thighs against the mattress, "you want me to--"

"No," Lance said simply, pushing down on Joey's shoulders until he sat on the bed, and then he sank to his knees, hair brushing Joey's thighs, and Joey bit back a groan when he felt Lance's mouth on him. He reached over the nightstand, pulling open drawers and which one was the one with the stuff...? he grabbed at lube and a handful of condoms, slamming the drawer shut with a grunt. Lance was climbing all over him, hands pressed to his chest and hands stroking his dick, slicking it with lube, rolling the condom on; and hands bumping off his cap and threading through his hair as Lance lowered himself on to him, slow and tight and hot; and Joey closed his eyes on the image of Lance's eyelashes fluttering the way they did when he hit the motherlode.

"Are we doin' this 'til your mom calls tomorrow?" Joey asked, just to be difficult, when Lance tilted his head back and said, "oh! God," and Lance pinched him in the fleshy part of his chest. He hadn't touched himself yet, his hardon standing between their stomachs, and Joey kept trying to bring him closer, gripping him by the hips, but Lance leaned back, insistent. So Joey leaned up and licked his neck, took in the heat and the sweat on his tongue, licked his chin and the fake blood, and it didn't have a flavor, just tasted like Lance.

Lance wrapped his arms around Joey's neck, dropping his head forward, and Joey reached up and pulled, grabbed at the first handful of hair he could reach and yanked until the whole wig slid clear of Lance's slick hair, and when Lance shook his head, little droplets of moisture flecked Joey's shoulders. "Ugh," Joey growled, not sure why that was so hot, but it was, and he bucked up into Lance, hard, and again, and hell, just held Lance still while he fucked him, and Lance's dick was trapped between them now, rubbing against Joey's belly, Lance making a sound suspiciously like a whimper with every one of Joey's thrusts.

He pounded his fist weakly against Joey's shoulder when he came, in a burst of energy that begged to be released since Lance was not a screamer, was not even a moaner, really; rather just someone who breathed deep and hard and quick like somebody was going to rip off a bandaid or re-set a bone, and then he was done.

Joey stroked Lance's thighs as he continued to ride him, stomach clenching with his own impending orgasm. It was an afterthought, a thing barely registered, and stranger things had happened, Joey thought. Strange that he wanted to blow this party too, now. "You still hot?" he asked, sliding a hand up the small of his back, smoothing over the dampness there, and Lance nodded, lethargic, his forehead pressed to Joey's bare shoulder.

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