"You say my name like it’s a prayer," she says, and Lance almost laughs out loud, barely managing to swallow it back down, blinking sweat from his eyes. The only praying he’s doing is that he’ll be able to keep it up long enough to consummate the act, and if she’d just stop talking—

At least I got her name right, he thinks, wild laughter threatening once more. He fixes his gaze on a point just past her head, and smiles through clenched teeth when she shifts restlessly underneath him. "Hey," he manages, tilting his hips a little-- because fuck, if she moves much more he’ll lose what little momentum he has—"hey, I can’t—" –believe I’m doing this, but hell, I am, so just--

"My momma thinks you’re such a nice boy," she purrs, fingernails skittering up his arm, and fuck, now she’s talking about her mother? Lance can feel the skin trying to crawl off his bones, and he drops his head to hide the look he knows is all over his face.

"No," he manages, "I’m not." And ain’t that the truth, he thinks, because nice boys don’t get themselves into situations like this in the first place.

"I think you are," she gasps, and hooks a leg around the back of his thighs, pulling him closer.

Lance shakes his head, because no—nice boys don’t fuck the homecoming queen behind the bleachers at the back of the football field. Especially not while they’re thinking about the homecoming queen’s brother and how good his ass looks. Nice boys don’t think about that just because it’s the only way they can come while fucking a girl--

"Oh, shit," Lance groans, as he closes his eyes and does just that.

He’s really not a nice boy at all.

*

"When did you first know?" Chris throws a towel at his head, and Lance ducks at the last minute, grinning when it hits JC instead.

"Know what?" Lance plucks the towel from JC’s lap and runs it over his face. He’s hot and sweaty and it has to be at least a thousand degrees in this stinking warehouse—

Chris grabs a bottle of water and flops down beside him. "That you liked boys, moron."

Lance blinks, because—huh. He’s never said anything to any of them, but. Shit. And now JC’s looking over too, eyes bright and curious, fingers spread across his thighs, leaning forward to hear the answer.

"I, uh." Lance fiddles with the hem of the towel, searching for the words. "I guess I pretty much always guessed, but." He shrugs. "Now I know for sure."

Chris takes a long drink, then nods. "Yeah," he says, and Lance can see JC beaming at him, big and wide.

"You too?" Lance says, because fuck, really-- what are the chances?

"We three," Chris says, flashing Lance a grin before upending the rest of the bottle over JC’s head.

Lance watches as JC shrieks like a banshee and folds in on himself, shaking with helpless laughter as Chris holds him down and shapes his wet hair into spiky clumps. "A little help here, Bass," Chris calls over his shoulder, and Lance grins back and wonders why the hell it couldn’t have always been this easy.