Thieves

Obligatory warnings and disclaimers:

1. If reading this is in any way illegal where you are or at your age, or you don't want to read about male/male relationships, go away. You shouldn't be here.

2. I don't know any of the celebrities in this story, and this story in no way is meant to imply anything about their sexualities, personalities, or anything else. This is a work of pure fiction.

Questions and commentary can be sent to "writerboy69@hotmail.com". I enjoy constructive criticism, praise, and rational discussion. I do not enjoy flames, and will not tolerate them.

"Oh my God," Mitch breathed, looking around. He had known it would be nice and fancy at the hotel, but not like this. He'd never been in a suite like this in his life. It was like when he was little, curled up in front of the television while his mother watched "Dynasty".

"Huh?" Lance asked, looking around as if he hadn't noticed any of it. He actually hadn't. After a while, hotels all looked the same, even the best ones.

Now that they were actually here, inside the suite, Lance was starting to feel a little awkward, realizing that he was here with an almost total stranger. He knew a little about him, what Mitch had shared at the hospital, but that really had only scratched the surface. Mitch, for his part, still seemed a little wary, watching Lance carefully as he stood in the middle of the suite room, leaning on his crutches and looking around. Lance had bid Keith a good night, and knew that he needed to go to bed soon, as well, but he wanted to make sure that Mitch was settled in first, and felt comfortable here. He was also very aware of being responsible for Mitch's well being, having promised the doctor that he would watch him for signs of a concussion.

"Sorry," Mitch said, smiling at him. "This is, um, a little nicer than where I thought I was spending the night. I guess when you said you were in the entertainment industry, you kind of forgot to mention that you must be pretty damn good at your job."

The suite was rather large, on a higher floor of the hotel. The bed was enormous, a wide expanse of cotton and soft sheets, lit from the sides with indirect lighting. The bathroom fixtures gleamed, even from over by the door, bright silver against the marble of the tub shower and the long, low counter and sink. There was a mirror, surrounded by lights like the backstage area for a Broadway musical, and a floor tiled in matching marble squares. In the suite room, overstuffed furniture teetered gracefully on wooden legs, a couch and a pair of side chairs. Over on the side was a minibar, the little refrigerator just waiting to be opened and drained.

Lance looked at him for a minute, cocking his head to one side as he set Mitch's bag down by the door.

"You really have no idea who I am, do you?" Lance asked, kind of amused. It had been so long since he ran into someone who didn't at least think he looked familiar, even if they didn't know exactly why.

"Other than Lance, no, not really," Mitch said, shrugging. "Should I?"

"I guess not," Lance said, realizing that Mitch probably didn't have a lot of time to buy CD's, or stay in touch with their music. "Do you know who Nsync is?"

"The 'Bye bye bye' guys?" Mitch asked, and Lance grinned.

"Among other things, yeah," he said, unable to keep from feeling kind of giggly.

"You work for them?" Mitch asked. Based on Lance's face, he knew he was convincingly ignorant.

"I'm one of them," Lance said, grinning.

"Oh," Mitch said quietly, looking around again. He turned back to Lance a little uncertainly. "Um, congratulations?"

"Thanks," Lance said, shrugging. It was as good a response as any. He watched Mitch's face as Mitch realized that he was actually in the presence of a celebrity, and couldn't help but find it kind of cute to see realization and surprise registering on his features.

"I guess I should ask for your autograph, or something?" Mitch asked, giggling a little. "I can't believe it. I just saw you, the other day, on a poster in a music store window. I feel like, I don't know. I mean, I don't even know what to say. I've never, you know, I've never met someone like you."

"I'm just, you know, I'm just me," Lance said, shrugging again. The two of them gazed at each other for a minute, separated by the gulf between them, the distance between their two worlds.

"So, uh, what should we do now?" Mitch asked, waiting. He knew what came next, of course. He'd played this scene in enough hotel rooms, but he also knew that you had to let the guy take it at his own pace. Some of them didn't like to come right out and say it.

"Do you want to take a bath?" Lance asked, realizing that they were back late enough that Justin and Wade had finished for the night. At least they weren't trying to talk to each other over that racket. Mitch was looking at him a little oddly, like he expected something else. "The doctor said you could put a bag around it, and it would be ok. I know the maid left some extra trash bags under the sink in the bathroom. You could use those."

"Sure, ok," Mitch said, shrugging. He hobbled over to the bathroom, hopping awkwardly on his crutches. He leaned them against the wall and took off his jacket. Under it, he had on a few shirts, and he began to take them off and pile them on the toilet seat. When he was down to a tight white t-shirt, stretched across his firm chest, he looked up and saw Lance watching him from the bathroom doorway. He could tell by the look on Lance's face that he liked what he saw, and would like it even more once Mitch was showered and cleaned up. He smiled at Lance, grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt and peeling it upward.

Lance hadn't meant to start watching. He came over to the bathroom to see if Mitch needed help with anything, or if he needed Lance to show him where the extra garbage bags were or something. As he'd walked closer, though, he'd seen Mitch slowly pulling off his flannel shirt, and then stripping down to the undershirt beneath. His arms looked strong, a little wiry, and his shoulders were broad and firm under the t-shirt. When he looked up, his crystal blue eyes caught Lance's, and his smile was wide and bright as he peeled the shirt over his head, revealing a ripple of abs, not bodybuilder, gym sculpted ones, but the rippled natural ones that just come from exercise and eating right. There was a little trail of dark hair leading into the waist of his pants, and his chest was smooth, with curved pecs capped with large, rose pink nipples.

"Lance?" Mitch asked quietly, seeing the way that Lance's mouth hung a little open. They'd figured it wouldn't take long for Lance to make a play for him, but really he'd only been in the room for ten minutes.

"Sorry," Lance said, blinking. "I just, did you need anything?"

"No, I'm ok," Mitch said, leaning back with his hands on the sink, his chest and abs pulling a little tighter under the soft lights of the bathroom. He dropped his voice a little. "Did you need anything?"

"I was thinking, you know," Lance began, keeping his eyes focused on Mitch's face. Mitch wasn't here for that, no matter how attractive he might be. Lance was painfully aware, again, of how long it had been since he was with anyone. "Did you want your clothes washed? We could send them downstairs, and get them cleaned."

"You don't mind?" Mitch asked. It wasn't what he'd thought Lance was about to ask, that was for sure. "I mean, it'll cost extra, won't it?"

"I wouldn't ask if I minded," Lance said, shaking his head. "And it doesn't matter how much it costs. On top of the room, I think it might actually be free. We could send your whole bag down if you want."

"Lance, I, um," Mitch began, looking carefully grateful. "If you send all of my clothes downstairs, what am I going to wear?"

"You can borrow some of my clothes," Lance said. "I have enough of them."

"OK, sure," Mitch said. "Could you bring me my bag, please?"

"Yeah, ok," Lance said, wondering why he felt so flushed suddenly. The air in the suite seemed a lot less stuffy than the air in the bathroom, which had suddenly begun to feel very tight. He grabbed the bag and walked back to the bathroom, gasping involuntarily when he saw Mitch standing in tiny white briefs with his pants halfway to his knees, stretched across his thighs.

"I, uh, I brought your bag," Lance said, swallowing. He had thought Mitch looked kind of hot before, even though he was a little dirty, but now, seeing him in the bathroom, looking so innocent in his tiny white briefs, the front of them bulging to contain his obviously ample equipment, Lance felt his mouth go dry and sweat bead up on his forehead.

"Lance, I can't get my pants over this cast," Mitch said, his voice low and husky. He saw the effect he was having on Lance and smiled inside, realizing that it was a good decision, after all, to pack himself into a pair of briefs a size too small. "Could you help me?"

"Sure," Lance said, stepping into the bathroom. He knelt in front of Mitch, only a foot or so away from him, hyper aware of how close his face was to Mitch's crotch. He swallowed, looking up, and saw Mitch staring down at him, his face blank, his blue eyes sparkling again. "What should I do?"

"Maybe you should try tugging them a little," Mitch suggested, leaning back, pushing his pelvis forward a little. He couldn't believe Lance hadn't done anything yet, but, like he'd thought before, maybe Lance was just shy. He looked down at Lance, his face sliding into a soft pout. "I tried, but, you know, they're hung up on the cast."

The cast started just below his knee, and Lance reached out, tentatively, and grabbed the frayed edge of Mitch's jeans on that side. The orderly had cut them just above the knee, which more or less destroyed them as pants, since they now had one full leg and one half. Lance's fingers gripped the bottom of the cut off leg and he began to tug, but they wouldn't slide over the top of the cast. It was too wide. He looked up at Mitch, trying to read the expression on his face, feeling as if he was barely breathing as he sat on the floor of the bathroom, kneeling at Mitch's feet, his fingertips brushing against the warm, lightly haired skin of Mitch's thigh. The muscles bunched as Mitch moved a little, his basket pushing forward a little toward Lance's face, the outline of his cock and balls clearly visible through the thin fabric of his briefs. Lance felt his mouth go dry, and above him, past the ridges of his abs and the light swell of his chest, he saw Mitch's glistening pink tongue slide forward to wet his bottom lip.

"I think we're just going to have to cut this leg entirely," Lance said, glad suddenly that his shirt was hanging down. Even though he was trying to help Mitch, and that was all he should have been thinking of, he was hard, painfully hard in his tight clubbing jeans. Lance stood, reaching past Mitch toward the counter, but that was no better. Now their faces were right next to each other, their chests only inches apart. Lance grabbed the scissors and handed them to Mitch. "I'm going to, um, to wait out in the suite. Why don't you get those off, and then, you know, you can pass me the clothes you want washed, ok?"

"Sure," Mitch breathed, his exhale washing across Lance's neck. Lance stepped away from him, blinking again. He watched Lance back out of the room and reach for the door, and switched to his sad, dejected face. "Lance, I guess I'll pass these out to you, then?"

"Sure," Lance said, closing the door.

He stood outside it, leaning back against the wall, and tried to catch his breath. He wasn't sure what had almost happened in the bathroom, but he knew what his body thought was going on. Here Mitch was, wounded, hurt, trying to clean himself and maybe take his first bath in who knew how long, and all Lance could think about was how hot he looked. Even now, when he was trying not to think about it, all he could see behind his eyes was the image of Mitch, leaning back against the sink counter, his nipples pouting in the soft bathroom light, the little hairs on his chest, barely a dusting of them, glistening under the light. Lower, he could see the flat stomach, with its little trail of hair, and those briefs, the top of them riding down, the front bulging.

What the hell was the matter with him? He didn't know if Mitch was like that, was like him, and that wasn't why Mitch was here. They barely knew each other, had only spoken to each other for a few hours, and Lance wasn't like that. It might be ok for JC to just pick up girls at a bar, or Chris, but Lance had never been the kind of guy who just hopped into bed with someone. He had to know them, had to feel something, and had to trust them. He didn't have any reason not to trust Mitch, but Mitch trusted him, and how safe would Mitch feel here if Lance made some play for him? And really, the odds were that Mitch was straight. How much worse would it be, after running him over, to make him feel uncomfortable when he was supposed to be thinking about his recovery?

"Lance?" Mitch asked quietly, startling him. Lance turned, and felt his eyes go wide again. Mitch had cracked open the bathroom door maybe five inches, just enough to have an arm and shoulder out, and his head. Dropping his eyes down, Lance saw half of Mitch's chest, his leg, and the bare side of his hip. A few more inches, and Mitch would be standing completely naked in front of him. Mitch held out a bundle of clothes to him. "Here."

"I'll send these downstairs," Lance said, taking them. He turned toward the door, and Mitch took his arm.

"There's a couple more," he said, stepping away from the door. Lance looked away quickly, not wanting to catch even a glimpse. He guessed that Mitch was one of those people who was just really comfortable with their bodies. Mitch's arm reappeared as he held out a smaller bundle to Lance, and Lance took them, too. Looking down, he saw that Mitch's underwear was on top of the pile. Mitch smiled at him. "Thanks, Lance. I'm going to put those trash bags on and hop in the tub, ok?"

"Yeah, sure," Lance said, letting out a sigh of relief as Mitch shut the bathroom door. He stared at the ceiling, whispering to himself. "Sure, Mitch, you're welcome. No problem. No problem at all."

In the bathroom, Mitch wrapped the bags around his leg and kept it on the side of the tub as he soaked in the warm water. It was nice to relax in a bathroom after a week without bathing, and he wanted to enjoy it, regardless of how long it meant he'd be separated from Lance. Keith might bitch about him not spending every waking moment on the plan, trying to get close to Lance, trying to worm his way inside, but Keith wasn't the one who was dirty, tired, and nursing a cracked leg. While he scrubbed himself off, enjoying the complimentary body wash and expensive shampoo, and then carefully shaved in the sink with an extra razor from the drawer, he tried to figure out what Lance was thinking, and how he could use it. It was obvious that Lance was interested in him. The way his eyes had crawled up and down Mitch's body hadn't left any doubts there, but why hadn't Lance acted? Mitch had all but come right out and asked Lance to jump him, and still Lance hadn't made a move.

Wrapping his towel around his waist, making sure that it was riding low, he slowly opened the bathroom door, peering out into the suite. Lance was closing the closet in the bedroom, having changed into a t-shirt and set of pajama bottoms, his back to Mitch. Mitch watched him bending a little, lining up a pair of shoes at the end of the bed, and decided that Lance was pretty attractive, as guys went. His eyes, light green and bright, were extremely striking, and his body seemed pretty tight as well. As jobs went, this could be a lot less pleasant. Some of the guys they had scammed before this had been downright repulsive, but this, while still a chore, would at least be an enjoyable one, and, as a bonus, Lance seemed kind of nice, too. He seemed almost like the kind of guy that Mitch would have wanted as a friend, under different circumstances.

"Lance?" he asked, knowing that there was still a little water beaded on his chest, and that his towel was riding so low that it looked like it was about to fall off. "Did you have those, um, those clothes for me?"

"Yeah," Lance said, turning. He felt all the breath lock up in him again as he stared at Mitch, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Mitch looked up him curiously, waiting for the clothes, the veins on his arms standing out, water glistening on his skin. He reached up and pushed his long hair back from his forehead, and Lance's eyes crawled over him. He blinked, and then ripped his eyes back up Mitch's body to his bright blue eyes, promising himself that he would keep them there. "They're, uh, they're over there on the dresser."

"Thanks," Mitch said, smiling innocently.

He walked over to the dresser, his back to Lance, and saw a neat pile of boxer briefs, track pants with buttons up the sides, and a t-shirt. Glancing quickly in the mirror, he saw that Lance was watching, and dropped his towel, reaching for the boxer briefs. Nothing else had worked so far, but this had to. Any second now, he would feel Lance behind him, touching his ass, or laying a soft hand on his shoulder. Any second now he would feel Lance's breath on the back of his neck. Guys were all the same. He would wait, standing out on a corner, in the cold, and they would pick him up. He'd been brought back to a lot of hotels, before Keith found him, and had played this scene a thousand times. Some of the guys said they just wanted to talk, some said they just wanted someone to have dinner with, but in the end it always came down to this, Mitch naked, with some guy touching him.

Lance felt his mouth go completely dry as Mitch's towel dropped to the floor. He had already taken in the smooth stretch of his back, the way his torso narrowed down to a V, the water beading down his spine. He'd seen the way Mitch's ass pushed the towel out, firmly rounding it, a nice, hard bubble butt. Mitch didn't have a gym body. It wasn't chiseled and defined, the way that Justin's was, or JC's, but there definitely wasn't a lot of spare fat on him, either. He was nice and trim and tight, from his smooth shoulders all the way down to the light dusting of hair on his calves. Lance knew that if he slid just an inch to the left he would see Mitch reflected in the mirror, would see him wet and completely naked, and even now, as Mitch moved a little to step into the briefs, Lance saw the shadow of his balls hanging down between his legs. Feeling blood rush to his face, Lance spun, hoping Mitch wouldn't notice that he'd been staring at his bare back this entire time.

Mitch glanced over his shoulder as he pulled the briefs on and saw Lance blushing and turning away. He pulled up the briefs, appreciating that they stretched over the cast, and wondered what the hell was going on. He knew Lance was gay, and he knew that he was damn attractive. Why the hell wasn't Lance going for him? He finished getting dressed, leaving the buttons flapping open over the cast, and turned back, seeing Lance fidgeting nervously as he kept watching the blank wall in front of him. Lance was trying so hard not to look at him that his avoidance was almost comical in itself.

"These are really nice, Lance," Mitch said, his signal to Lance that he was dressed. Lance turned around, smiling. Mitch smoothed his hands over the t-shirt, ostensibly taking out the wrinkles but actually highlighting his torso. "Thank you. Thank you for, um, for everything."

Lance blinked in surprise as he saw Mitch turning away, brushing a hand over his eyes, and he realized that Mitch was crying. As Lance rushed over, Mitch knew this was his last ditch effort for the night. If this didn't get Lance in the sack, he'd just give up for the evening. The odds were good, though. Lance certainly seemed to have a need to be protective, and Mitch steeled himself not to smile as he felt Lance's hand settle onto his shoulder.

"Mitch?" Lance asked quietly, feeling him tremble. "Is it, does your leg hurt?"

"No, it's not my leg," Mitch said, wiping at his eyes to redden them before Lance could see that there weren't any actual tears in them. "It's, I'm sorry, Lance. I'm sorry."

"It's ok," Lance sighed, patting his shoulder. Mitch turned and Lance, not knowing what else to do, but wanting to comfort him, folded him up in a hug, laying his head on his shoulder and running his hands in circles around his back. "It's ok, Mitch, it's ok. Just let it out, whatever it is."

"It's, I, nobody's done this for me, Lance," Mitch sobbed, finally summoning a few real tears of his own. "Nobody's been so nice to me, not like this, not in so long. It's been so long, Lance, so long."

"It's ok, Mitch," Lance repeated. He couldn't fathom what Mitch was feeling. Was he just happy to have a bed? Was it gratitude? Lance felt something swelling inside him as he realized, again, that he was making a difference, him, Lance Bass. He was reaching out and changing someone's life, and that was an amazing thing. "Come on. Come sit down."

Lance led Mitch over to a couch as Mitch sniffled, and then he went and looked for some tissues. Not turning any up, he took the roll of toilet paper off of the holder in the bathroom and brought that back to the couch. Sitting beside Mitch, he handed him a little bunch of folded squares and waited for him to settle down a little. Mitch, for his part, blotted at his eyes, and then turned them to Lance, keeping them wide, and Lance felt himself falling into them. They were so blue, and cool, and clear, set in the firm, classic planes of Mitch's handsome face, beneath the slicked, wet slide of his long hair.

"Are you ok?" Lance asked quietly. "Can I do anything?"

"No, it's ok," Mitch said, blinking at Lance. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, you know, to start crying. I feel so stupid."

"Why?" Lance asked. "Why do you feel stupid?"

"I don't know," Mitch said, shrugging. "I mean, you probably don't think you did anything, do you? You just brought me back here, to your hotel, where you go to sleep, and you don't think about any of this, do you?"

Lance swallowed, feeling a little guilty. Mitch was right. He never thought about this, not really. He thanked God every night when he prayed, but how sincere was that? Mitch was right about the implied part, too, the part he hadn't come right out and said. What the hell had Lance been thinking, even just a second ago? What? That he was some kind of benefactor? That he could just reach down and lift someone up? A second ago he had felt warm and generous, and now he felt cavalier, bourgeois. He wanted to help Mitch, but he wanted it for the wrong reasons. He wanted to save him, and that was as insulting to him as arguing over him in the street had been.

Mitch watched carefully, his icy blue eyes missing nothing. He was putting the screws to Lance, working at him already.

"You're right, I guess," Lance said. "I don't really think about it, not as much as I should."

"You don't have any idea what this means to me, then, do you?" Mitch asked. Now that he had Lance down, it was time to build him up again. "Do you know what it's like, for me, to know that I have somewhere safe to sleep tonight?"

"Well, uh," Lance sputtered, realizing that he had taken it the wrong way, and that Mitch wasn't mad at him at all.

"Thank you, Lance," Mitch said, hugging him tightly. Lance's eyes bulged in surprise as he felt Mitch's strong arms wrap around him. "Thank you so much."

Lance held Mitch tightly, feeling him shake again, and wondered if he would start to cry again.

"It's ok, Mitch, it's ok," Lance sighed.

"If you ever need anything," Mitch began, whispering in Lance's ear. Lance blinked, knowing that Mitch was upset, but noticing that his voice sounded low, and kind of husky. "If you ever need anything at all, Lance, I'd do it. Whatever you want, I'd do for you."

Images flashed through Lance's mind. Mitch, peeling off his shirts. Mitch looking down at him, over the ridge of his pecs, as Lance sat at his feet, the tips of his fingers inside Mitch's shorts. Mitch, holding the bathroom door open, naked on the other side. Mitch in the tub, rubbing the soap all over himself, all over his body, the same soap that Lance would use in the morning. Mitch stepping into Lance's boxer briefs. Mitch stepping out of Lance's boxer briefs, walking toward Lance, his mouth open, that look in his eyes. Mitch, peeling down Lance's own briefs, kneeling, dropping to the floor. He heard that whisper in his mind again, that offer to do anything, anything at all, and he felt his cock stiffen and harden, throbbing in his pajamas.

"You don't have to do anything," Lance said quickly, pushing Mitch away before he could feel Lance's excitement. "Come on. Let's get you to bed, ok? It's been a long day for us both."

"Yeah, ok," Mitch said. He'd been close, so close. Why wasn't it working?

The two of them walked back into the bedroom, Mitch hopping along, gripping Lance's shoulder since he had left the crutches in the bedroom. Lance turned down the bed, and pulled a pillow off of it as he gestured at the side for Mitch to get in. He walked over to the closet and pulled a spare blanket out, and then turned around to find Mitch staring at him quizzically.

"You need the bed, so you can stretch that out," Lance said, pointing at the cast. "I'll take the couch."

"You can share the bed, if you want," Mitch said, shrugging. He didn't want to pour on too much suggestiveness, not after practically throwing himself at Lance for the past couple of hours and having it come to naught.

"No, that's ok," Lance said. "I want you to get a good night's sleep, and I toss and turn a lot."

"Me, too," Mitch said, smiling. "Are you sure? I mean, it is your bed."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Lance answered. "I'll see you in the morning, ok?"

"Yeah, ok," Mitch answered.

Lance walked into the suite room and tossed the pillows off of the couch. Settling in on the cushions, he flicked off the lamp on the side table, and finally allowed himself a glance into the open door of the bedroom. Mitch had peeled off his shirt again, and lay flat on his back on the mattress. The sheet was only pulled as high as his waist, but his eyes were closed, and Lance could see the rise and fall of his chest in the moonlight. He looked so beautiful, and somehow so innocent. Everything that had happened tonight, all of the odd glances between the two of them, left Lance wondering. What was Mitch thinking when he looked at Lance? What did he mean, really, when he said that he'd do anything, anything to thank him?

Mitch, for his part, found it difficult to fall asleep as well. He'd given everything he had tonight, acted out everything he could think of, and it hadn't worked. It flew in the face of everything he knew about people, every hard lesson he had learned from the minute he had gotten off the bus in New York. Every guy who was nice to him wanted something, and, most often, it was sex. Everyone on the streets lived on a give and take system, and everyone who was nice to him intended to take back whatever they gave, to take full payment. Everyone wanted something from him, everyone. Everyone but Lance. Lance had invited him in, and didn't seem to want anything. It boggled the mind.

In the morning, Lance woke up first, needing to urinate. He crept quietly past Mitch, not wanting to wake him, surprised that he was still there. When he came out of the bathroom, Mitch was laying on his side in the bed, turned toward Lance, his head cocked up on one hand, arm bent at the elbow. He blinked at Lance, and Lance smiled, sighing a little as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Good morning," Mitch said.

"Morning," Lance answered, sitting down. "How's the leg?"

"OK, I guess," Mitch said, glancing down at it. "Hurts a little."

Lance frowned.

"Well, you woke up, so I guess you don't have a deadly concussion," Lance said.

"Guess not," Mitch said, shrugging. He waited to see what Lance would do, but then his stomach growled loudly.

"Mitch," Lance said, swallowing. "Why don't we order some breakfast, and then, you know, maybe we should talk about you, and how long you're staying."

To be continued.