mickeym

Because

gblvr has had a really crummy week, and I promised her some Trickyfish. Which turned out to be a lot more difficult than I'd thought. Guess I need to do more TF, huh? *g* Anyway, not so much with the smut...but the promise is there :-)

Aaaaaaaaaand, I'm showing off my new Trickyfish icon, thanks to the pix

batgrrl1975 posted.

By Kim G.
© October 2002

Europe is a frantic free-for-all, punctuated by occasional moments of calm and quiet.

You love it, at first. The heady sense of knowing you're *out there*, doing what you want to be doing, getting exposure, making a name for yourselves. No one knew who you were at first, but now, everywhere you go, girls scream, cheer, shriek for you.

You can go into pubs and bars, and dance and drink and know you're going to get laid, because dude, you are smokin' hot, totally on fire.

But after the first six months, you're not so sure how much you're loving it, any more. Sure, you like to go out and party. And yes, you've gotten laid more times in those six months than probably in the last five years. But you're also tired. Bone-weary, aching, let-me-sleep-and-don't-wake-me-up-ever tired. And the more the months pile up, the more tired you become.

You get one day a week off, to sleep or lounge or goof off… and the only reason you get that one day is because Lynn pitched a fit with Lou and threatened to yank Justin out and go home.

Today is that one day. And you all voted, decided even though it was chilly out – still being winter, mostly, to go to the park – parks are different, here in Europe; you see families doing all sorts of shit together, not just kids on swingsets – and hang loose. Get some fresh air, eat some sandwiches, play some ball. Football, American-style.

You and Justin toss it around for a while, then JC joins in, and then Lance. Joey's the last, always, to willingly play sports, but you make it fun, no one playing for points. When you divide up into teams, you pick JC, and let Lance and Joey have Justin. Even the odds out a little bit.

Plus, you might, maybe, possibly, want to have the chance to tackle Lance – legitimately. With no one the wiser that you're wanting far more full-body contact than you should be wanting with a boy almost eight years your junior who isn't even legal to vote, yet.

He grins at you when you do tackle him, like he knows what you're thinking, the things you'd like to do to him. When you roll around on the grass a couple of times and his hands land where they wouldn't if you were playing tackle football with just another friend, you think he may very well know. Lance is a pretty smart guy, for all he's still a kid.

No, not really a kid. Not any more. None of you are kids, after the last year – not that you were before it. You've all learned a lot, grown up a lot, become adults, even if – in Justin and Lance's case – they weren't physically done growing, weren't at their 'peak' yet.

Though you're not sure you'll be able to handle Lance if he peaks any higher. You wonder, watching him through your lashes while he fumbles for the ball, him and Justin playing while you flop down in the grass to watch and Joey and JC disappear, probably going to scope the area for girls, when he went from being a geeky, sorta-hot kid you were maybe kind of attracted to, to…someone you wanted to spend time with. Time that had nothing to do with the band. Nothing to do with singing.

Time alone.

You wanted more than friends with him. You wanted more than fucking. You could get laid any time – well, okay. Not as much as Joey or JC, probably, the first knew totally how to work it and the other…no one was as pretty as JC. You were fine with that. You didn't want random strangers and cheap sex.

Wow. Maybe you were growing up, too.

What a thought.

You lay back and close your eyes, tired of the thoughts in your head. You want to do something, run, jump, party, but you're tired. Tired of traveling, tired of everything being unfamiliar, tired of living in hotels. Just tired, really. Old and tired at twenty-six. Life occasionally sucks, because pop stars aren't supposed to be old OR tired. Ever. Look at Paul McCartney, or Mick Jagger.

"What about Mick Jagger?"

You blink your eyes open and see Lance settling beside you. "Where's Justin?"

"He went to find Joey and JC. Lonnie's with him, so, don't worry."

"I never worry."

"Yeah, and the sun always sets in the east and rises in the west." Lance smirked at you, the fucker. You reach out and whap him on the arm. "Hey! It's true. Man, you're worse than Mrs. Harless, sometimes."

"Dude, I am not."

"You are so."

"Whatever, Bass. Keep tellin' yourself whatever you need to believe." You close your eyes again and try not to notice his body heat as he scoots a little closer. Close enough to touch your arm. Your hand. You keep your breathing slow and steady. Concentrate. In. Out.

"Chris." His voice is close; closer than a minute ago.

"What?" Your voice doesn't come out as any more of a squeak than usual. That's good. Good that you're not letting the kid intimidate you. Yay, you.

There's a pause when you can hear only his breathing and your thoughts, when you can hear nothing but the two of you, and everything else seems far away, muted by a layer of glass or plastic. A puff of warm air crosses your cheek and ear, and you shiver. "When're you going to kiss me?"

You open your eyes to bright green peering down at you, and suddenly don't feel nearly as tired as a minute ago.

~finis~