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There's something about farmboy innocence that gets everybody hard. James is positive he's not the only one, that everybody's watching Brandon as he gets comfortable in a big production and deals with all the advantages and disadvantages of overnight celebrity. But if Brandon's making the most of it, mum's the word. Nobody's talking about getting into Brandon's pants.

He's 26--okay, barely 26--so the guy can't possibly be a virgin, right? No. Definitely not. James is pretty sure he would've looked this good in high school, and there's no way the kids back in Norwalk would've let him grow up without a good tumble or two. But what does he know, James wonders, what's he done? Has he had the typical teenage fumbles in the back seats of whatever car was handy? Hastily exchanged handjobs up in someone's bedroom during the commercial breaks of some college football game?

"This is stupid," James mutters under his breath, watching Brandon walk around in a suit that's fitted just a little big for him. "You don't even know he's--"

"Oh, yes, he is."

He jumps half out of his skin and blinks at Kate. "Who's what?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just ask him already, c'mon. Or don't ask. Just jump him. You're making me twitchy here. Get it out of your system."

Out of his system. Okay, she's got a point. He corners Brandon during a lighting break, pulling him into that little piece of set that serves as a closet. It's close enough to private, nobody's on this side of it, and it's dark enough.

"What's this about--"

It's all Brandon gets out before James pushes him back, gently, gotta do it gently or the set'll tip over, and it doesn't matter how much Bryan likes him, it'll be James's ass. But gentle doesn't mean he can't follow through, and--

--and he doesn't have a chance to kiss Brandon, because Brandon's kissing him.

Not just kissing, either; Brandon's got a hand down the front of his pants and he's groping, reaching, squeezing, God, and kissing James until James is pretty sure breath is optional, or it'd better be, because there's no way in hell he's going to tell Brandon to stop. Brandon just keeps kissing him (there, there's a breath, thank God), and jacking him, and if this keeps up he's going to come in his pants, which really isn't an option, it'll show. Christ.

"Wait," he pants. "Wait--"

Brandon stops, pulling away. He's still got those goddamned Clark Kent glasses on, and why are they so hot on him? That's not how it's supposed to work. Clark's supposed to be the nerd, the dweeb, the guy who can't score even when the girl of his dreams is right in front of him.

Instead, he's grinning at James like he knows he could ask for anything right now. Ask for it and get it.

"Farmboy innocence, my ass," James mutters under his breath. Brandon laughs. "You want to pick this up later?"

"Tonight. My room." Brandon grins. "I never said I was innocent."

"No," James says, licking his lips, swallowing hard. "No, you never did."