The One You thought you were doing right by pushing him away that night. By plucking his hands from your sweaty thighs and holding them down. You thought maybe it was the fact he was drunk, and lonely. You never imagined he could possibly mean to get on his knees and stare up at you with deep blue eyes and pink petal lips and want to suck your dick. Because he was Justin. And you are Chris. Because he is pretty. And you are rugged. Because he is adored. And you are accepted. You pushed him aside, and shook your head. You closed your eyes and willed time away. It wasn't easy for you to do. Something you had longed for was at hand. At mouth. At will. But he was young. And just lonely. "Go," you said. "Don't wanna," he replied. "Justin you can't mean this." You're eyes were burning, stinging with exhaustion and too much partying. Longing and desire that begged to be released. It was too hard to see him on his knees, licking his lips and sighing as he wobbled. "You're drunk. Go back to your room." "I love you," the tiny voice said, and when you looked, Justin was curled on the floor with his knees pressed against his chest. And it was you who dropped to *your* knees to comfort, to rub his back and whisper supportive words. "You're drunk," you repeated, stroking his hair. "And a little bit sad Britney's not here. You're young, Justin, and horny I'm sure." The words toppled endlessly from your lips, like the master you wished you really were. He blinked up at you, and his eyes were red with glassy tears not yet shed. "You don't get it," he whispered. "I. Love. You." It was insane, you thought, that he could really mean such a thing. That Justin could be lying in your arms on the floor of some hotel room with the stench of beer wrapping around his words meaning this. So you fought your heart, again, because that's what you do. "Let me help you into bed." "Will you stay with me?" Justin asked, and you cradled him in your arms, pulling his lanky frame to his feet. "Lie beside me?" His face was adorned with hope. Hope you hated to reject. For the best, you promised yourself. Once Britney returned to his arms, you would go back to 'best friend' status. And be fucked for lack of a better term. So you helped him out of his jeans, and struggled to pull his shirt off. "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep," you vowed, resisting the urge to trace his skin with your finger. One touch and you were fairly sure life would be over for you. Dreams and bottled emotions would break through and smash your heart. There was no time to explain your heart as Justin's head hit the pillow, and you watched his brown curls press into the whiteness. And you wanted to cry. Staying up all night, you watched him sleep. Watched him snore and smile in his dream world. Refused to touch him for that same fear. Dawn cracked over the city and you felt like shit, like the smear of gum on the sole of somebody's shoe. An entire night gone, muted history in your mind. The feel of his fingers fumbling with your zipper still fresh...the touch of his hand rubbing across your dick still new. The brush of his lips against your skin still burning. Replay it, you think, and you knew you'd done the right thing. But it's like a movie, and when you create a new ending, you take him lovingly. You stare into his eyes and he sees how much you love him. A real love, too. Not a phony "Justin Timberlake Teen Idol He's So Hot" love. Because you know you love the real him. The inside part. "Chris?" You jump up and wander to the bed, and this time you do touch his cheek. Softly. Slowly. "What?" "I wasn't just drunk." Huge blue eyes are staring at you, searching for acceptance. You can't believe it. It's just not true. "You were, Justin," you say and turn because fuck if it's not easier to do that. It hurts just a little less. But he gets out of bed and wraps his long arms around your middle, and presses his cheek against your back. And it feels so fucking good, you close your eyes and get lost in that world for a little bit. You want it to be true. And real. And honest. His hands crawl up your shirt and press against your chest and it's like fire. His scent overpowers your nose, and suddenly, it is that world you've waited for. "Justin," you murmur, and spin around. You don't want to be the nice guy anymore. It's hard. It's unfair. Urges tell you to spin around and take his mouth, walk with him to the bed and make it so. "Chris, I'm not a baby. I'm begging you to take me seriously." And he was looking at you with the purest of expressions.  You could tell he’d changed. “I can’t get hurt,” you found yourself chanting, and when he shook his head, you realized you’d said it out loud. “Never,” Justin said, kissing the insides of your wrists. Fire again...scorching and burning. Warning perhaps for you to reconsider. It was Justin leading you to the bed, making promises to care for you. Unblinking eyes that spoke straight to your heart which was ready to burst. A serious face that convinced you, finally, that it was okay to take a little. “To hurt isn’t to know,” Justin said as he kissed your lips. “And I know.” Sinking down as Justin covered your body was a high...a fear starting to dissolve. And with abundant kisses showering your body, you thought maybe you were special in his eyes. \\ menu \\