nsync in black and white

Fiction by Pen . . . . . not real, made up, purely intended for entertainment


"You really do suck, you know?"


"Well, he does!"

"It's okay. I don't mind. I mean, he's right."

Kevin scowled at the unrepentant Nick. "Don't matter. He ought to have better manners than to say so." He glared.

Nick restrained himself visibly from rolling his eyes, but offered a hand to Lance. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Lance replied, taking the hand for a split second before turning back to his bag and rootling in it for his washing gear.

Then Brian summoned Nick away, and the pair of them bounced happily out of the tiny locker room, crowing loudly about how they were gonna kick *NSYNC's collective ass tomorrow. Howie, less noisily elated, sidled after them with an apologetic grin, leaving Kevin alone with their 'guest star'.

"I'm sorry about Nick," he apologized again. "You know how it is, you try to raise 'em right, but..."

Lance smiled guilelessly up at him, those incredible eyes clear and innocent as water. "We have a Justin," he pointed out, "so I'm kinda used to it. Anyhow, I do suck. At basketball. I guess they thought your guys needed a handicap. Brian's really good."

"He is that." Kevin was relieved that Lance honestly did not seem to mind Nick's outspokenness.

He felt, he told himself, an urge to protect this kid. Lance seemed so defenseless. Perhaps because he was the loner among them, away from his own guys, dumped into the Backstreet team as—it was undeniable—as a handicap. For all that management insisted it was to make the rivalry seem unimportant. Yeah, right. 'Cause management hadn't been at all interested in promoting that rivalry to gee up the fans and increase press exposure for both bands. Not that it had been rivalry, exactly, since he and his Boys were way ahead of this bunch of newcomers, but he had to admit, he wasn't exactly overjoyed to see *NSYNC.

Lance was okay, though. Nice, polite Southern boy with a hell of a singing voice. Odd-looking little duck, with his overbleached head, not at all an obvious pin-up type like most of them. Even the Timberlake brat, with his too-big hands and feet. Then again, at times Lance had... something. Maybe it was those enormous eyes. Or the skin, which was almost girly-smooth. Or that slightly otherworldly air, even though Kevin had seen Lance and that devious elf plotting together, during rehearsals for the Oberhausen charity concert back in May, so Lance couldn't possibly be as innocent as he looked. Kevin had plenty of experience of Nick's "innocent looks", and wasn't fooled by that stuff. But he didn't think Lance was in Nick's class, as far as mischief was concerned.

It had to be uncomfortable for the kid, playing on the wrong team. And it was odd, unbalancing, not having AJ in there with them. Kevin had no worries about AJ. AJ was scrappy, plenty tough enough to deal with Kirkpatrick's rampant insanity and the Timberlake kid's ego. Fatone was okay, he'd get along with anyone, and Chasez wouldn't hurt a fly. But still. At least Lance was with the sane people for today, and tomorrow's game. Probably be a nice change for him. Lance was a good kid, smart, grounded. Kevin had enjoyed talking to him during the past few days, since they'd met up at rehearsals for the Pop Explosion concert. In the tiny gaps between commitments, anyway.

There was no harm in talking.

"They'd better have left us some hot water," he observed, shucking off his underwear, grabbing his towel and heading for the showers. He hoped Lance wasn't going to be shy about this. Lance had been more than happy for the other three to get into the showers first—there were actually four showerheads, but it had seemed unkind to leave their 'guest star' completely out in the cold, which was of course why Kevin hadn't protested when his excitable trio had gone right ahead, why he'd waited while Lance dawdled over undressing... maybe he shouldn't have waited. Maybe Lance actually was shy and would have preferred to be left on his own to shower.

No, apparently not. Here he was now, stepping into the space next to Kevin, turning on the shower and reaching for the shampoo.

He really was girly-smooth. Kevin knew all about chest-waxing, 'cause, damn, that shit hurt, but it didn't look like Lance really needed to be waxed at all. The fair sprinkling of hairs on his arms was barely visible. Nice arms, too. Toned.

Kevin turned slightly to his left, away from Lance. Not a good plan, to take notice of water streaming over flawless skin. The kid was younger than Nick. No. Wait. Not younger than Nick. Hadn't Lance said something about having had a birthday hangover, back when they were in Oberhausen? Kevin remembered a sweet, rueful smile and those eyes looking up at him. Lance was eighteen. Old enough. Old enough to drink, here in Berlin. Legally adult. Not that—

"Want me to wash your back?"

Before Kevin had time to process this and decline the offer, he felt soapy hands on his shoulderblades, and suppressed a groan. Hell. Yeah, definitely hell, if he didn't stop thinking this way. Hands felt good on his back, though, firm along his spine and all the way, ah, down to just above his tailbone. Stopping there. Thank God.

"You can rinse off now," said Lance, stepping back under his own spray. "Um, you wanna do me?"

Hell, remember, Kevin told himself, turning cautiously once he was sure Lance was facing the other way. Keeping at a discreet distance, he soaped his hands and began to slide them over Lance's slippery, pale-gold skin.

"Thanks. JC usually does this for me," Lance said over his shoulder. "When we shower together, I mean."

And Jesus Christ, that was a visual he didn't need. Kevin cleared his throat. "My Boys are more like, uh, at the zoo. Feeding time. I mean, bathtime," he explained. Lance had the most fantastic ass. Just a little bit down from where his hands—no. Hell. Remember. "There. Done." He turned hastily away.

"Kevin." How could an eighteen-year-old have such a deep voice? "You know I said, I suck?"

"Mmm?" Dammit, Kevin was supposed to be a bass, too! Where did that wimpy little noise come from? "You're not that bad," he lied, in his bottom register.

"I'm good. I'm very good." Kevin looked round for a moment. Lance really shouldn't be smiling like that, or standing so—"Can I suck your cock?"


"I want to suck your cock," Lance explained patiently. Kevin risked another glance over his shoulder, and oh, Lord, he should have kept his gaze at eye level. He tried to move his jaws, force out a lighthearted Ahaha, you had me there, but—"'Course, it'd be easier if you turned round," said Lance.

Kevin turned round.

And groaned, a full, rich sound that reverberated off the tiled walls, because Lance was on his knees, and leaning forward, taking the swollen tip of Kevin's erection between his pretty lips, playing his tongue around, hot and wet, and hands on his thighs, then on his balls, then curled round his cock, and Lance was good, oh, God, he was good. Hot water needled Kevin's neck and shoulders, a faint, irrelevant counterpoint to the silky heat of Lance's mouth taking him deep, the warm velvet of Lance's tongue cradling his cock, the wet satin of Lance's nape under his fingers.

Lance eased back a little, looked up at him, black pupils wide in those astonishing eyes. "Please," Kevin croaked. "Lance, please!" And Lance's mouth sank back down onto his cock, sucking him and swirling him to a peak until he came, and cried out at the release.

Sagging against the tiles, Kevin drew Lance up against him with shaking hands, and Lance lifted his head eagerly for a deep, salty kiss. Kevin clutched at him, at the firm ripeness of his perfect ass, and Lance hummed into his mouth and pressed his cock against Kevin's groin. So Kevin brought a still-soapy hand round to work the hot, thick shaft until Lance shuddered against him, spurting over his chest and belly, with a helpless, vulnerable expression creasing his face and making him look younger and so, so much more innocent than before.

They held each other, kissing until the spray cascading onto them grew lukewarm, then stepped apart to soap themselves clean again, and got out from under the showers before it was completely cold. Dried themselves and dressed in silence. Not uncomfortable or awkward silence, exactly, but Kevin at least could not think of anything to say. Even when he'd pulled on his shoes and was ready to leave, it seemed the best he could manage was a cough.

Lance's face was serene again, his eyes as clear and elusive as water as he looked back at Kevin.

"Good practice," he said, with a tiny, careful smile. "So, tomorrow, after the game?"

"They sent you over to kill me, didn't they," Kevin observed. "Get rid of the opposition."

"A nefarious plot," Lance agreed, and paused. "So...um..."

"I should not be doing this," Kevin muttered. The But I'm going to didn't need to be spoken.

"You wanted to." There was the hint of a question in that simple statement. Kevin reached out, stroked the bare skin between Lance's elbow and T-shirt with the back of his index finger.

"Yeah," he said, "I did. I've been..." How could he explain himself? "You—you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen," he said at last.

Lance was at the door now. "You must not look in the mirror much," he said, flashed a bright white grin, a real one, and was gone.

Alone again, Kevin sat back down on the bench. He ought to be feeling guilty, he ought to be... but he wasn't. Just lazy and satisfied. Plus, when he considered it, there was a definite tingle of anticipation.

Game tomorrow.


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