Easy Money: Part 1
May. 28th, 2006 09:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsTitle: Easy Money
Pairing(s): Trickyfish
Prompt: #1 Strangers.
Word count: 15,689
Author's Notes:A long time ago I did a meme where titles were suggested to me, and I had to think of stories to match them.
One of which was Easy Money. This is that story, sort of.
I have to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pensnest, msktrnanny and ephemera_pop for their help. They've been incredible, helping when I got stuck, willing to read anything I sent their way. Ladies, you rock.
Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
One story down for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slashfic25, 24 to go.
I’m not available right now, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.
Chris’ cell lands in the fruit bowl, hidden between a wrinkled apple and the empty bags of candy. It’ll stay there until his next incoming call, when the muffled ring-tone will drive him crazy while he franticly searches for the stupid thing. Chris knows this, but still leaves it there. It’s either that or throw it at the wall, and he’s over his quota for new phones already this year.
It’s just… Getting hold of Lance is impossible. He’s never home and all Chris wants to do is say hi. Instead he’s trapped in a game of phone tag, leaving increasingly brief messages while Lance lives his life. It’s not like Lance never calls back; he does, but it’s always at some insane hour of the morning, yelled conversations held over blasting music. They’re speaking, sure, but not communicating; talking without hearing the words.
Sighing, Chris runs his fingers through his hair. The length is still a surprise. It’s been forever since his hair last brushed against his neck, and there’s a whisper of years-gone-by as he combs out a curl. Taking a black bandanna, he ties it around his head and swaps his glasses for sunglasses. He feels like a tool wearing them indoors, but the headache that has been clinging to the edge of his vision shows no sign of going, and it’s sunshine bright in the kitchen.
Pouring another cup of coffee, cream with two sugars, Chris sits at the small breakfast bar, cradling the warm mug in his hands. There’s a pile of magazines and papers under the empty beer bottles and he moves some of the empties, so he can pull free a glossy magazine. The cover is damp, a red stain spreading across Angelina’s face. Easing the pages apart, Chris sips at his coffee, scanning the articles, and stops when he sees Lance.
He looks good and Chris can’t help smiling at the picture. Laughing at Lance always makes him feel better, and this is classic Lance, toothy smile and dorky finger-horns, leaning against one of his many female friends.
The blurb is small, but at least it’s accurate, unlike last month when Chris had the pleasure of ribbing JC about his latest sex romp with three teenage girls for over a week. Remembering that makes Chris smile around his mug, and he keeps smiling as he reads about Lance’s upcoming appearances, the plans he has for the future.
They’re plans Chris has heard before, dreams and ambitions revealed to the background of bus noise when they were touring. Years later and Chris has watched those plans become reality. Lance is a player in the industry, a minor one sure, but he’s making it. He’s also happy, and that’s the most important thing of all.
~*~*~*~
It’s four thirty-eight a.m. and Lance is finally home. He slides out of the cab and stumbles a little, his feet catching against the small stones. Hand splayed, he balances against the open door, fumbling for his wallet and takes out a fifty. The driver twists in his seat, smiling at the large tip. Pocketing the money, he bids Lance goodnight, and drives away as soon as Lance shuts the car door.
Lance shivers as he walks. The wind makes the plants rustle and he peers into the night. He pushes his wallet back into his pocket and hooks out his keys from his pocket, folding his hand around the warm metal. The porch light shines, beckoning Lance home. He blinks against the glare, and carefully navigates the steps, counting, one two three, until he’s at the door.
Four tries and the key slides into the lock. A twist of wrist and the door opens; Lance leaves it ajar and hurries for the alarm. Two false alerts this month already and he doesn’t want anymore. He remembers the code this time - I Want You Back choreography in number form - and the console beeps as he turns, takes his keys and kicks shut the door.
The stairs curve before him, unending and insurmountable. Lance walks past them with a shake of his head, running his palm over the polished wood of the banister. He makes for the kitchen, his feet clattering in the dark. He turns the faucet on, and watches the falling ribbon of water for a moment. Then he bends and turns his head, drinking directly from the stream. He’s thirsty and needs to wash the taste of old alcohol from his mouth; alcohol, rich pastries and the taste of defeat. Knees against a cold floor, his hands braced on a toilet lid and a stranger’s cock in his mouth.
Lance rests his elbows on the counter, spitting and gagging. Water splashes against his face but he doesn’t move, just stares down at the drain, at the evidence of his defeat washing away.
Exhausted, he slides to the floor, back against the cabinets and head down. He knows he should go upstairs, or to the couch at least, but he’s too tired just now. Will go in a minute, really he will, he needs time to regroup is all.
~*~*~*~
Groaning, Lance pulls himself upright, wincing as his stiff joints protest. His head is pounding and he rubs at his face, knuckles dragging across his lips. They feel crusty to the touch, battered and sore, and he pushes back memories as he pats at his pants, looking for his cell. The ringing has stopped when Lance finally flips it open, and he listens to the voice message, his assistant scolding while reminding him about his day.
He looks at his watch. It’s nine twenty-five, he’s got thirty minutes to shower, dress and get to the first meeting of the day. His stomach lurches when he pulls himself up, and he freezes as the room spins. He takes deep breaths, and then he clicks on the coffee machine, left ready and waiting by yesterday's maid, and makes for the stairs. He climbs them two at a time, pulling off his shirt as he goes, and in the bathroom he stuffs it into the basket as he turns on the shower. The room fills with steam as he kicks off his shoes. They land under the counter, soon joined by pants, socks and boxers, an untidy pile that’ll be cleaned away by someone else.
Stepping under the spray, he sighs, back curled and head tipped forward as the water pounds down, loosening tense muscles. Lance efficiently soaps himself down. Shower gel, shampoo, and then out of the cubicle to be wrapped in a fluffy blue towel. Teeth brushed, hair dried and styled. Into his closet and pull on clean clothes.
Lance walks out of his house with time to spare, travel mug of coffee clutched in his hand. He settles in his car and sips at the cup, savouring the caffeine hit and sugary taste. The radio's on low and Lance pulls out of his driveway, his mind already on the meeting ahead. He can’t mess this up, it’s too important, a step toward the respect he craves
~*~*~*~
The meeting is promising, handshakes and backslaps over offered scripts. Lance feels good about this one. He’s been chasing this deal forever, has writers, potential actors, a hot new director who’s destined for great things. All he needs is the money and they’re ready to go.
Of course getting that money is more difficult than it seems. Lance has money, but he’s not stupid, and he isn’t about to throw in his future on something as unstable as a movie. So he makes nice, plays to the money men and tries to forget the years where he could snap his fingers and have people cater to his every whim.
That’s in the past now, that sense of inevitable success packed away with the bling-bling crosses and the shiny pants. He keeps some of those tucked away in his closet, boxes full of the past. Sometimes he pulls out a necklace and lays it across his palm, like all his past glories dangling from one heavy chain.
“We’ll be in touch, okay.” Wilkinson thumps Lance across the back. It’s supposedly a friendly gesture, a manly goodbye, but Lance has been in the business too long, can see the contempt. It’s a look Lance sees often, smiling words concealing sneers.
“I’ll look forward to it. I think this can fly.” Lance thumps back, just that little too hard. He’s spent years trapped in testosterone filled tour buses, he’s worked side by side with roadies. This is nothing, and he smiles as he walks away.
The next meeting is at one. Lunch is a sandwich in the car, tuna on rye, eaten one handed as he drives to the gym. Twenty minutes on the treadmill, twenty on free weights, then Lance hits the machines. He’s flat on his back, muscles burning when he notices the TVs. They're all showing Backstreet, prancing around a stage in skin tight lycra and wigs. Whispers circle the room and Lance schools his expression, aware of the looks his way. He’s got no problem with Backstreet, never has, but the stares make him flush and he uncurls, sitting up and wiping at his face with his towel. Green Day replaces Backstreet, Billie Ray singing about twists in the road, as Lance stands and leaves the room.
The water is boiling. Lance loves these showers, it’s one of the reason he joined this gym, open twenty-four seven, with these luxury showers with their power settings that help ease aching muscles. He bends under the spray, forearm braced against the wall and eyes closed.
~*~*~*~
“I’ll let you know.”
There’s no back punch this time, just a firm shake of hands and Lance is left to gather his papers alone. The meeting went okay, but nothing will come of it, he can tell; the disinterest is easy to see in Heslot’s eyes.
Pushing the script into his bag, Lance waves at the secretary, and thanks her for the coffee once more. The elevator’s empty when Lance steps inside, no piped music, no nothing, just much-needed quiet. He un-knots his tie, pulling at the green silk so it slithers from his neck.
Once inside his car Lance checks his voice mails. The first is a message from his mom, she’s asks if he’s eating right and concerns colours her voice, enough that Lance feels guilty as he deletes the message, promising himself he’ll phone soon. Joey next, insults and phone me, dickwad, Chris and a you suck, Bass. Lance makes a mental note to return the calls. The rest are business, potential meetings and invitations to parties where Lance goes to be seen. He keeps those, ready to transfer to his calendar when he gets home.
The roads are jammed and Lance has one arm resting out the open window. He’s listening to the radio and can’t help tapping his fingers against the steering wheel when Rock Your Body comes on. He used to hate the song, but that faded to resignation and then reluctant acceptance. Still, it’s automatic to fit his voice under Justin’s, echoing his words as the snarl of traffic inches forward.
~*~*~*~
Lance is rubbing shampoo into his hair when he hears the distant sound of I Touch Myself, the ringtone Chris programmed in for himself months before. It’s the third time today and he mutes the sound by tilting back his head under the water. Suds sluice down his body and twist around his toes into the drain.
He’s grateful when the song cuts off and all he can hear is water splashing against the floor. This way it’s not his fault that he didn't pick up the call, he was showering and couldn’t get out in time, is all. Of course, that doesn’t excuse the other missed calls.
Finally clean, Lance steps from the shower and picks up a towel. It’s warm from being on the heated rail and he wraps it around his waist, cocooning himself in it. Wrapping a smaller one around his shoulders, he heads into his bedroom, and sits down on the bed.
His cell is on the bedside table, and he deliberately doesn’t look. The guilt is a background ache as he dries off and rubs moisturiser into his skin. Heel propped on a chair, Lance smoothes the lotion into his calf. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Chris, to any of them. It’s just -- he feels like crap every time he does.
Lance has watched Nsync split five ways, the others moving on and doing their own thing and he can’t help feeling left behind. He’s expected to have his own life, be independent and successful, chase the dreams he spun so many years before -- and he has. He’s achieving those dreams, but at a cost that makes them feel like nightmares.
Talking to the guys is like picking a scab: something painful that Lance does while distracted with music and alcohol. Surface conversations achieved while Lance is fully absorbed in his act, happiness a glossy shield.
Of them all, talking to Chris seems the worst. Chris has had the fame, his time in the spotlight, and he's happy and content doing his own thing. He loves the music he’s writing, loves to sing with his new band, and that hurts each time Lance thinks about it, so he doesn’t, and keeps missing the calls.
Skin soft, Lance dresses, and shoves his cell in a pocket without looking at the display. He’ll call Chris later. Much later.
~*~*~*~
“Lance, dude, we’re over here.”
Lance smiles a greeting, his palm flat against the damp heat of Jake’s back in a one-armed hug. “You losers got a table yet?”
“The best in the house, baby.” Jake speaks like bagging the best table is inevitable, and maybe for him it is. Money counts for everything in this town, and Jake is rolling in it, enjoying a lifestyle that makes even Lance widen his eyes.
Following at Jake’s heels, Lance nods at acquaintances as they walk through the crowd. This kind of atmosphere seems hard-wired to his smile, he can feel his lips twitching, slipping into party mode. Always look happy to be there, to be seen, never let real feelings show. He’s a pro at this, can maintain it for hours.
“Who’s here?”
“Amber, Stacy, Mark, Jasper, you know, the usual.” Jake throws the names over his shoulder, then suddenly stops and turns to Lance, grin wide and sly. “I let some of the hangers-on sit; it’s been too long since you’ve had some play, dude. You can thank me later.”
Lance’s smile widens, contrasting with the churning in his belly. Jake and his posse don’t know about the late night trips to the bathroom, about the strangers he picks up most nights.
“I’m so pleased to know you’ve been thinking about my sex life,” He drawls.
“Come on, of course I think of your sex life, I mean. Why wouldn’t I? Or lately, your lack of sex life, you sarcastic bastard.” Jake giggles, and Lance can tell he’s amped, already following the well trodden path of their nights out. “There’ll be someone you’ll like.”
“I’m sure there is.” Lance cranes his neck to their table, the usual gathering of people and a handful of men and women who would normally spend their time haunting the doors. They’re crowded around the table, perfectly groomed and laughing as Jasper spins some tale, his hands sketching details in the air.
They’re Lance’s friends; he spends almost every evening with them.
The most important thing he knows about them is their names.
~*~*~*~
“Pretty, yeah?”
Jake whispers the comment, or at least attempts to; drugs and alcohol have obviously fried his volume control. He points a finger at the hangers-on, and they all preen under his gaze. “You did good.” Lance doesn’t attempt a whisper; it’s no secret why they’re there.
“I always do good, dude.” Jake eyes slide half closed and he leans heavily, his cheek hot against Lance’s neck. “Have you picked one yet? Star maybe? Or Zen, he’s hot.”
“He is.” Lance has to agree, Zen is hot, the kind of guy Lance could easily go for.
Picking up his glass, Lance swallows the contents in one long gulp. He knows he won’t go home with any of these people. It doesn’t matter how attractive they are, how much they make him laugh. They aren’t what he needs.
“So, you’re gonna’…” Jake slurs the question, patting Lance clumsily on the arm.
“Maybe.” Lance shrugs, his own version of no.
~*~*~*~
Three thirty and Lance is tense. He runs his fingers around the rim of his glass, a continuous note, hidden under the deep beat of the club. His friends are making noises about leaving, clinging together as they argue about which club to visit next, ready to party to dawn. This time, Lance stays put, left behind in flurry of kisses against his cheeks. Zen stays too, and Jake gives a thumbs up, winking, as he leaves. Two beautiful women escort him, triumphant and clinging to his body like a second skin.
Lance can see that same look in Zen’s eyes, and momentarily considers the easy option and taking him home. A no-strings fuck that would end before dawn, but even that’s too long, and Lance gently moves Zen’s hand.
“I’m going home.” He stands and staggers, catching his hip against the table. “If you hurry you can catch the others.”
“I thought….” Zen remains sitting, looking up at Lance, confusion in the set of his mouth, the widening of his eyes. He looks every inch the boy he really is, and Lance feels ancient, skin tight and numb inside.
“Go on.” He waits, and Zen stands, the child washing away as the star-fucker sets his sights on other prey. Lance watches him go, and his hands tighten into fists, nails digging into his palms. His face aches from smiling, and he’s strung tight.
He knows he should go home; instead he drains his drink and slowly makes for the back of the club, to the bathrooms filled with the desperate. Those ready to take and offer anything as the night winds to a close.
It’s easy to score. Lance is a pro at weighing up, casting his eyes over the men who lean against the wash basins and doors. A 'you wanna?', an incline of his head and he's leading someone along the line. It’s sad, but he has his own preferred cubicle. Last one on the right, and he imagines if he looks closely enough he could see smeared prints on the tile, evidence of his own hands pressed against the sides.
They don’t speak.
Lance drops to his knees, heard turned slightly, so he's staring at the wall. He memorised the graffiti months ago now, phone numbers and obscene poems that don’t scan at all. He runs through every word that rhymes with cock and almost smiles at memories of JC curled in the bus, book of rhymes open on his lap. Then blue jeans crumple to the floor, and Lance thinks of nothing. Grips the toilet seat and holds on, lips tight and letting this stranger fuck his mouth, each thrust causing cracks that run deep inside.
The guy finishes with a moan. He pulls up his jeans without words, pushing past and out of the stall. Lance swallows and leans back, resting his head against the wall. He feels used and raw, dizzy as he pulls himself to his feet and back outside. His knees ache, and he wipes at his wet face. Over his lips and cheeks, under the delicate skin of his eyes
His momma would be horrified if Lance didn’t wash up.
He finds a sink and turns on the faucet, letting the hot water flow over his hands.
“Lance. Dude. What….”
Blood rushes in Lance’s head, pushing sound far away. He braces himself against the counter, forcing himself to stay upright, trying to look up, to meet Chris’ gaze.
~*~*~*~
He wasn’t totally surprised to see Lance. This was his town, his kind of club, full of the rich and pretentious, but he hadn’t expected to see Lance like this, head down and defeated somehow, Chris wants to gather him close and say everything will be okay.
He takes a step forward, but Lance steps aside, and Chris grabs a handful of air.
“I need to go.” Lance’s smile clicks back into place, looking confident and sure as he makes for the door. It’s enough to make Chris doubt what he saw moments before, but he looks closer, and he can almost see Lance spinning his network of lies. “I’ve got a cab waiting. I’ll call.”
“I’m flying home first thing.”
Lance acknowledges that with a wave of his hand, and Chris presses back against the sink and watches him leave. He’s under no illusion he’ll actually get a call, Lance is tricky like that when he wants to be.
Sighing, he mentally schedules his own call, knowing they need to talk, then prepares to rejoin his friends once more. Endure another half hour before he can blow the joint and go back to his hotel room.
~*~*~*~
Chris loves his house. It’s a concrete example of all he’s achieved. It’s decorated to his taste, each room perfect. His theatre, his bar, a full garage, with a space bull standing next to the cars, he loves it.
It only emphasises how alone he is.
Switching on the TV, Chris selects the news channel. He likes the twenty-four hour news channel, even if this presenter’s a tool. They always are, this early in the morning. Chris thinks they must stick the failures in the four am slot, those presenters that just can’t cut it with the big boys. Like this idiot, with his beaming smile and perfect white teeth. He’s far too chirpy as he announces another earthquake in India, as if the death of thousands is worth a smile. Chris scowls, leaving the room with the idiot in mid grin.
The kitchen is full of pre dawn light, casting the room in shades of grey. Opening the fridge, Chris narrows his eyes against the glare and selects the fixings for sandwiches, selects a loaf of thick cut bread out of the cupboard. Digging a spoon into the jar of mayo he adds a dollop to both slices of bread. Ham, tomato then more bread and cut, repeat everything twice more. He walks back into the living room, sandwich in one hand, bottle of beer tucked under his arm.
Chris settles into the corner of the couch, just as the clock in the corner of the screen hits the hour. He gives the TV the finger when the idiot presenter winks, the same stupid wink he does as he signs off each morning, as if his idiotic fake friendliness will get him noticed.
The weather follows, and Chris takes a bite of his sandwich, wondering if it’s going to be warmer in France today. They’ve been unseasonably cold for the last week, apparently, and he’s tired of seeing the same shots of the Eiffel Tower surrounded by snow.
He swallows the last bite of sandwich as a thawing Paris appears, thankfully slightly warmer today. Maybe now they'll have to think of some other inane random shit to fill the world weather slot with. Tucking up his legs, feet pushed into the soft cushions of his sofa, Chris grabs the remote, and Big Ben changes into a picture of Justin. It figures, and Chris rests the control on his knee as Justin is initiating a sing-a-long which has Chris singing both the male and female lines.
On screen, Justin smiles, and Chris misses him desperately. He can admit that in these pre dawn hours when he’s alone. They’re still friends, sure, but it's different from before. Rationally Chris knows that’s inevitable, but still; it hurts.
Impulsively, Chris flips open his cell. He doesn’t bother working out time zones, if he wakes Justin they’ll just have to deal. Ten rings and Chris doesn’t leave a message, hangs up at the first words of pre recorded message. Dropping the phone on the table, he drums his fingers against the arm of the couch. He’s not tired at all, instead he rides the buzz of alcohol, moving from TV to the computer: sports shows and online porn, and finally he resorts to changing his top eight at MySpace, selecting a new theme as the sun begins to rise.
~*~*~*~
“CK! Party!”
Chris buries his head further under his pillow, but his stupid friends have loud voices and the answering machine is set too high. He sighs into the mattress, warm air blowing back against his skin. Fighting against the pull of sleep, Chris rolls across the bed, kicking at the covers as the machine clicks off with a last whoop.
His joints protest as he sits upright, and he cups his hands over his knees. They’re slightly swollen and he pushes his fingers against the puffy flesh, wincing at the ache. Hair falls forward into his eyes, and even when Chris rakes it back, he can see an explosion of curls out of the corner of his eye. He suspects he’s got the worst case of bed-head ever and gives the tangles a careful finger comb before giving up and slipping into his morning routine.
~*~*~*~
The party takes on a life of its own. Chris provides beer and snacks, but after that his duty's done. Some doors are locked, hiding the things that are for his eyes alone, but mostly the guests freely wander his house, some of them even trying to be subtle about taking pictures that he’ll see online the next day.
It’s easier to breathe when he’s in a crowd, and there’s no echoing silence or time to think. Chris has done too much of that lately. He’s faced his failures and moved on, to parties and casual dating, and who’s to say that’s wrong?
Chris has his arm around a girl. He grins for the camera, cheek against hers and her hair brushes his face, a wave of glossy blond. He lets the strands slip through his fingers and kisses her cheek. Her hand is on the small of his back, and she tilts her head, pouting slightly and widens her eyes. She doesn’t have to try so hard. It’s inevitable he’ll sleep with her; it was from the first time she grabbed for his hand.
“I love your music.”
He doesn’t ask which music she means. It doesn’t matter anyway. The words are meaningless, empty noise used to get to his bed.
They press together and she slips her hand lower, boldly cradling his ass while craning her head. No doubt her friends are watching behind them; they always are. She smells like cherries, sickly and artificial like the lozenges JC used to use for his throat. Chris can taste the scent at the back of his throat, the white noise of wheels against the road, exhaustion and the best friends in the world. His chest tightens and he wraps his fingers around the girl’s wrist, towing her toward the stairs.
She smiles, white teeth and glossy pink lips, a predator in disguise. Chris ignores the triumph in her eyes; she can give him what he wants, and after that, he can’t bring himself to care.
The bedroom door is locked. Chris stretches for the hidden key and lets them inside. He leads her to the bed and sits down, ready for the show. She doesn’t disappoint, seems versed in slipping off her clothes. Her t-shirt lands on the floor, and she cups her breasts, fingers brushing over her nipples, visible through the lace.
Chris reaches for her, hands sliding over the soft skin of her sides as she licks her lips and wiggles out of her jeans. They pool on the floor and she’s standing in bra and panties, confident under Chris’ gaze.
“Gonna show me what you’ve got?” Chris reaches for her, fingertips sliding over the swell of her hips.
She moves into the touch, straddling him, sitting on his lap, licking at his mouth as he unhooks her bra. It lands unnoticed when they fall back onto the bed, and she giggles as Chris flips her over so he’s on top. Her fingers are under his t-shirt, tugging up, but Chris traps her hand with his own. He unfastens his shorts with the other, pushing them down and kicking a leg free. She’s looking up at him, blonde hair against his bed. Her nails scraping against his back, her legs bent against his sides.
It’s good in the way mindless sex can be.
Groping for the woman’s bra, Chris holds it out to her as she sits in the middle of his bed. Her hair’s mussed and her lipstick's smeared, but she's looking around, taking in the details of the room. An early picture catches her eye, one where he’s got his arms around the others, his braids pulled back into messy pigtails.
“Here.” Chris pushes her bra into her hands, cutting off a comment. He doesn’t want to hear how much she loved Nsync, has been a fan from the start. “Just shut the door on the way out.”
Pulling on his shorts, he walks into his bathroom, ignoring her sound of protest. He’s coming across as an asshole, but that’s fine. It’s something that gets him through the day.
~*~*~*~
Lance thinks about skipping the meeting, but forces himself to attend. Pulling on tricks learned to defeat first night nerves, he greets the investors with a toothy smile, thankful that the facts and figures are second nature now, numbers drumming through his thoughts in a two part beat.
Sixty minutes later and he leaves with a firm handshake, strolling casually toward the stairs. Riding the elevator is unthinkable today, being confined a reminder of the mental walls that press against his head. He closes his eyes and sees the look on Chris’ face, his promise to call. Lance wishes he’d do it already, end this unbearable waiting.
His cell vibrates in his pocket, and Lance fishes it out, swallowing hard. Then relaxes, back against the cool wall of the stairwell, when he sees Joey’s name.
“You’re alive!”
Joey’s loud and obnoxious, always has been. Lance wants to grab him and not let go. “So they tell me.” Lance’s lips curl into a smile, responding to Joey’s unseen grin. “What’s up?”
“Today’s your lucky day; I’m passing your way soon, so figured I’d visit, take you for lunch maybe.”
“You’re a bit out of the way for passing through, Joe.” Lance sighs and listens to the silence through his cell, waiting as Joey gropes for, then gives up on excuses.
“Yeah, well. Whatever. We on?”
“It’ll be good to see you.” It’s the truth; Lance hasn’t seen Joey in weeks. It’s just that Joey sees too much, and Lance swallows against the sourness in his mouth. Wondering about the timing of the call. “Has Chris called lately?”
“Not since last week, should he have?”
“No. I mean... I was just wondering if you’d heard from everyone.”
“See, this is what happens when you’re too busy to answer your phone.”
There’s a dull thud in Lance’s ear, distant squeaks as Joey gets himself comfortable. Despite the denials Joey’s a dedicated gossip, and Lance settles himself on the top stair, knees tucked up as he prepares to be caught up with their friends.
~*~*~*~
Chris didn’t expect an answer. Another day of cheery voice mail, and he’s got one foot in his car, determined to find Lance even if it means flying out to California again to hunt him down. Lance picking up is unexpected, and Chris has his thumb over the disconnect button, already poised to end the call.
“Chris.”
“We need to talk.”
Chris leans against his car. There’s a dog across the road. It keeps running into view, chasing a red ball, floppy brown ears flying back as it runs. It looks happy, doggy smiles, and Chris listens to Lance breathe in his ear.
“I know.” Resignation is heavy in Lance’s voice and Chris wants to say forget it, I never saw anything. He considers the out, imagines Lance’s voice without this pull of reality. "I flew down last night. I’m staying at the usual.”
“I’m coming over. Don’t go anywhere; don’t even think about going anywhere.” Chris says, deciding instantly. Pretending achieves nothing and Chris could never look the other way, not about this.
“Okay.” The words are leaden and Lance is anything but okay, but Chris knows he’ll stay. He’ll stay and they’ll talk, even if it’s the last thing either wants to do.
“See you soon.” Snapping shut his phone; Chris rubs at his face. Lance’s misery is twisted around his own and he wants to run back inside and hide. It’s the easiest thing to do, except hiding from himself is one thing, hiding from Lance, when Lance needs him, is different all together.
~*~*~*~
Time folds in on itself on the journey to the hotel where Lance stays when he’s in town. Chris drives with one elbow out the window, false casual even as his skin itches and his stomach churns. He runs through conversations in his mind, but the years he spent handing out advice are hidden under a layer of parties and mindless fun. Time spent pleasing no one but himself, walking his own path in his own way.
It's been easy to lose himself in new friends, people who know nothing about the old Chris and have allowed him to step away from his life before. He’s coasted for years now, except now Lance has changed that. A harsh reminder that he’s drifted too far, losing sight of the people who knew him, and loved him for who he was.
He thought Lance had been happy, except he isn’t at all, and Chris can’t help the crushing guilt. Echoes of before, except this time there’s no one to blame but himself.
Breathing deep, he pulls up, handing over his keys to the valet. He watches as his car is driven away, then slowly walks up the marble steps and through the revolving doors. Lance is waiting inside, lounging in one of the lobby club chairs. He’s dressed Lance casual, green t-shirt and jeans, and Chris can’t imagine how he thought Lance was okay.
“Chris.” Lance stands, outwardly calm but his shoulders are tense and he bites at his thumb as Chris approaches, greets him with a brief back slapping hug.
“Lance.” Chris pushes his hands into his pockets and looks at Lance. It’s like he’s seeing him for the first time in years, and the polish is stripped away under Chris’ gaze. He doesn’t like what he sees, Lance is damaged. That seems obvious when you’re prepared to really see.
“Shall we go up?” Polite, as always, Lance ushers Chris toward the elevator, pushing the button for one of the top floors. They travel in uncomfortable silence and Chris is glad when they're released, walking along the plush corridor to Lance’s suite.
Inside, Lance leads the way to the mini kitchen and Chris follows, sitting on a bar stool as Lance opens the fridge. “You want a drink? I’ve got coke. Water.”
“I’ll have a soda.” Chris isn’t thirsty but his hands itch to hold something. He takes the offered diet coke and snaps open the seal. Lance opens a bottle of water, back against the counter as he takes a long drink.
“Before. I wasn’t. I mean, it had been a while, and I was desperate. You know how it goes.”
Lance breaks the silence, and his lies are polished and perfect. Chris would believe them, except he’s heard them before. Lying to himself to get through the day.
“You can’t do shit like that. You don’t know where he’s been.” The can scrapes over the counter, turning in Chris’ hands. Lance relaxes slightly and it would be easy to skim the surface with warnings about image, the rants about risk Lance must be expecting, so Chris has to push it. “How long?”
“How long, what?” Lance appears confused, and Chris has to admire his acting.
“How long have you felt like that? I don’t know why or how, and that’s something I’m ashamed to admit, but I’m not blind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lance sounds collected as he places his water on the counter and faces Chris down. “Felt like what? I was drunk, I had sex in a stall. Sure, it was stupid, but that’s all. No underlying crisis.”
“So you’re fine. Your life is perfect.” Chris matches Lance’s stare. He mightn’t have seen it before, but he does now, and he’s not letting this go. “Bullshit.”
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there.” Lance stands up straight and anger rolls from him in waves. “I’m fine, Chris. Better than fine. My company is doing fine, my personal life is fine. Everything’s fine.”
“I don’t believe you.” It’s uncomfortable facing up to Lance. Chris wants to stand, regain some ground, but he remains seated as Lance paces the room. His shoes squeak against the tiles and Chris has counted almost one hundred steps when Lance freezes. His hands are clenched, fists tight against his thighs.
“What do you want me to say? That things are a mess? That I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing half the time, because, hello, welcome to my world. I’m doing the best I can, and I know you can’t understand that, but try.”
Lance doesn’t sound angry; he sounds resigned, words weighted with every failure and expectation thrown his way. It’s the saddest thing Chris has ever heard. “Why won’t I understand?”
“How could you? You’re you.” Lance says that as if it means something, and he slumps, the breath leaking from his body when Chris shrugs, wanting to understand but lost all the same.
“I need more than that, man.”
“It’s…. Look at you. You’ve moved on. You don’t need me, us, anymore. You’ve got your band and your friends and this whole life away from Nsync. And that’s great, I’m happy for you, but….” Lance looks away, gaze fixed on the floor. “I guess I’m jealous.”
“Of what?” Chris asks, trying to understand.
“Of you.” Lance talks like it’s simple, and maybe to him it is. He looks up, glance sliding away when he meets Chris’ gaze. “Look, it’s nothing I can’t handle. Let’s pretend we did the whole soul searching thing and it’s time for dinner. I’ll pay.”
Lance is wound tight, seemingly ready to crack at a carefully pressed word, and momentarily Chris considers taking the distraction. Carrying his own issues is work enough, he doesn’t know if he has the strength left for more.
“I can’t say it’s not tempting, but no.” This is Lance, and that means everything.
“Your loss.” Lance shrugs, and he’s far away. Chris settles back in his chair, fingers and knees aching to move as he gathers the patience to wait.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Chris bites at a hangnail, watching Lance as he stares out the window.
“You’re such an ass.” It’s almost a shout and Lance slams his palm down on the counter. “You want to know why I’m jealous? Jeeze. Maybe I’m jealous because I’m busting my ass and getting nowhere? There’s no Nsync, no singing, and no one thinks I could possibly miss that. You’re all doing your own things and I feel like I’m treading water above a current that’s trying to drag me down. You have seen what they write? What a failure I am? And I’m doing everything to change that, and it’s not working.” He runs his hands through his hair, toppling the artfully arranged spikes.
“No one’s perfect.” It’s the truth, Chris knows a lot of so-called 'perfect people' . Heck, he knows Justin. None of them are perfect.
“I know, but I have to try.” Lance is deflated now, slumping against the counter as he looks at Chris. “I try and I get nowhere. I look at you and I want what you have.”
“No, you really don’t.” Chris can’t help a bitter smile. Lance wanting his life is laughable.
There’s almost silence now, only the air conditioning whirring softly, and Chris watches the blood seep down the side of his nail. He listens to Lance swallow, the soft swish of skin against skin as he rubs his face.
“You’ve got the life you wanted. Money, doing what you want,” Lance says, and Chris sucks his finger into his mouth, pressing his tongue against torn skin as Lance slowly walks to the table, pulling back a chair with a scrape of wood against tile.
“I guess. Problem is, I don’t know what the fuck I want. It sure isn’t what I’ve got.” Chris can hear his own anger, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he watches the thoughts slipping across Lance’s face. He’s staring across the table and it’s uncomfortable, making Chris shift in place.
“Half the people I see in meetings think I’m nothing but a washed up boybander,” Lance says evenly, tone at odds to his words. He’s staring at Chris, challenging, and this conversation is insane.
“Most people think I’m washed up, full stop. Too old. Too fat. Too everything.”
“I sleep on the kitchen floor more often than my bed.” Lance leans forward, expression blank.
“My couch is my bed; I haven’t slept upstairs for months.” Lance nods slightly, and Chris takes a sip of soda and waits.
“I blow a different stranger every night. No names, just down on my knees in a stall.”
Chris forces himself not to react. It’s not a surprise and Lance is pale, waiting for the reaction to his words.
“I sleep with groupies almost every night. As long as they show up, I’ll sleep with them.” Chris remembers an endless procession of faces, needy hands and lying words. “Sleeping with them reminds me I’m alive.”
Lance audibly exhales. “I’m chasing someone I’ll never be, and punishing myself each time I fail.” He smiles then, a curve of his lips that never reaches his eyes. “I win.”
Chris flexes his shoulders, trying to push away the tension in his spine. Lance is looking at the table top again and Chris can’t help reaching out, stretching his arm across the glossy wood. “We’re both fucked in the head, man, but yeah. You win.” His fingers are brushing against Lance’s, the tiniest of touches. “You want some company?”
“You’re offering to babysit?” Lance keeps his hand in place, and he looks at Chris. There’s years of casual friendship behind them, total trust that's been gradually displaced by surface words. This won’t be easy, but it doesn’t mean Chris can’t try. For both of them.
“No, I just figured you needed a friend.”
Lance relaxes then, letting out a held breath with a sigh.
~*~*~*~
The small fridge is almost empty, bottles of water and vodka standing guard over a solitary sealed container. Chris’ lip curls as he peels back the lid, displaying the raw vegetables inside. He takes a carrot stick and bites into it with a watery crunch, chewing as he waves the remains at Lance. “This sucks, Bass. If I’m staying for dinner you need real food.”
“That is real food.” Lightning fast, Lance steals the carrot from Chris’ fingers, eating it with a snap of teeth.
“Says you.” Chris eyes Lance, who’s sitting on the arm of the couch, ankles crossed and looking unconcerned, casual pose painted over the tension below. Chris hates seeing it, feels out of his depth. He takes a baton of red pepper, eating without tasting.
“It's a hotel, I usually eat out. We could order in?” Lance looks at his cell, considering.
“Good, because I don’t intend to starve to death while I’m here, and I hate hotel restaurants.” Celery unravels in Chris’ mouth and he’s got a finger-nail between his teeth, picking at the strands.
“Chinese.”
It’s not a question and Chris sucks in a last strand of celery, shaking his head. Chinese is good and all, but he’s craving Mexican, the familiarity of spicy meat and greasy tacos. “Mexican.” He’s prepared to argue his case but Lance shrugs, and that’s not how things are supposed to go at all.
“There’s a Taco Bell close by, I’ll phone the concierge, get someone to deliver.” Lance moves to the phone next to the bed. He sits, leg curled under him and handset tucked against his ear as he looks at Chris. “What do you want?”
“Two grande soft tacos, some of those cheesy potatoes and an apple pie. Soda too, Mountain Dew.” Lance nods, pressing a button on the phone. Within minutes he’s arranged for a delivery and repeats Chris’ order, adding a chicken burrito fresco style for himself.
“They’ll deliver in about thirty minutes.” There’s a clatter as Lance replaces the handset, and then awkward silence. Stretching uncomfortably as Chris picks at the hole in his jeans, pulling at the threads, tiny white snakes against blue denim.
“I had a thing, tonight.” Lance looks up, and colour briefly tinges his cheeks. “I need to cancel.” The suite comes complete with balcony and Lance stands, pulling open the glass doors. He steps out into the darkness, pulling the doors shut, and leans against the railings, one elbow over the metal bars as he opens his cell.
Chris watches for a moment, and he hates the bright toothy smiles, the silent laughter as Lance talks into his phone. It makes Chris dizzy, a spectator as Lance switches from happy to not, and Chris has to jump to his feet and look away. He feels hollow inside, empty, and rocks from foot to foot as he considers leaving, driving back home.
“Sorry. You know how it is.” Lance’s cell hits the bed and he’s throwing out tension that thickens the air.
It’s hard to breathe and Chris’ chest aches as he makes himself sit down, curled in the corner of the couch as Lance kicks off his shoes and sits too. They’re close but a chasm lies between them, filled with unspoken words that make Chris’ skin prickle as he sighs, leans forward to grab the remote half hidden under Lance’s thigh.
“I’m not going to watch any of your lame ass shows, so don’t even ask.” His hand is half on the remote, half against Lance’s leg, and Chris pressed his fingers hard, feels Lance solid and warm.
“You know you like West Wing, so don’t even.” There’s an unexpected sting of finger against forehead, a hint of genuine smile and Chris glares in return. Lance is an idiot and Chris doesn’t like West Wing at all, and even if he did so what? Rob Lowe is hot.
“I’m the guest, I pick.” It’s Chris’ last word on the subject and he pulls the remote free, switching on the TV. The room fills with flickering light as he surfs through the channels, skipping anything Lance expresses interest in, and finally settles on a re run of The A Team that makes Lance scrunch up his face in an unsaid no.
Hiding the remote under a cushion, Chris turns to face Lance, who’s pointedly looking away, focussed on the screen. “Do it.” Lance shakes his head but that’s no deterrent at all and Chris pokes him in the thigh. “Do it, come on. For me.”
“I hate you,” Lance says, but he’s already agreed. He rubs his hand over his face, and the years slip away leaving him bleached blond and seventeen as he squares his shoulders and growls. “Shut up, fool.”
Lance throws in some suckers and I pity the fools and Chris is laughing helplessly as Lance grins in return. They’re missing JC who does a passable Murdock but still, it’s like stepping back in time and Chris leans closer to Lance, breathing easier as they watch TV.
~*~*~*~
Lance takes a hundred from his wallet, handing it to the bellhop who’s just brought their food and waves away her offer to set the table, there’s enough strangeness tonight without eating takeout with silver cutlery and china plates. The paper sacks are warm in his hands, and he places them on the coffee table, making the glass fog with the heat.
“I’ll be mom.” Chris leans forward and opens a bag. Dividing the contents, he separates a drink and burrito, then sighs at the remaining food. Worrying at the wrapping of a taco, Chris looks briefly at Lance. “I don’t usually, I mean. It’s been a long day.”
It takes Lance a moment to catch up, and only then because he’s seen that expression before, unguarded moments before PR visits on tour. “Everyone eats, Chris.” He unwraps his burrito, picking at the chicken.
“And some eat too much.” Chris shrugs, and looks away before he bites into his taco, sauce dribbling onto his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, and the movement is sharp, hinting at battles Lance can never fully understand. It’s tempting to wade in with reassurances that Chris looks fine, because he does, better than fine, but words like that will be perceived as lies. Lance knows that only too well.
They eat in almost silence, rustling wrappers and slurping soda, and Lance sucks at his fingers as Chris eats the last bite of potatoes, lying back on the couch with a soft outtake of breath. His hands are resting on his stomach, ankle against one knee and he closes his eyes. Dark eyelashes against his cheeks and Lance can’t look away. Familiar attraction rears, and that would be the greatest punishment of all.
“I’m beat.” Chris toes off his shoes and they hit the floor with a heavy thud. “I’m gonna’ crash here; shower then steal a blanket from your bed.” He heads for the bathroom and Lance follows, selecting clothes that Chris can wear overnight. There a water muffled thanks as he puts them inside, then he wanders the suite gathering wrappers, scrunching them in his hands.
There’s the sound of muffled singing under splashing water, and Lance listens to the chorus of This I Promise You. He mouths the words, chest tight and missing them all desperately.
Trashing the rubbish, Lance leans against the back of the couch, watching through the bedroom door as Chris appears in a cloud of steam. There’s toothpaste in the corner of his mouth and he’s dressed in borrowed grey sweat pants and t-shirt. Pants trailing over his bare feet, and the t-shirt pulled tight, Chris pulls a blanket off the bed, holding it in front of him as he heads for the couch.
“No. Leave it.” Chris looks over, eyebrow raised and Lance ploughs on, knowing this is a bad idea but this is Chris and sharing a bed with him will be fine. “The bed’s plenty big for both of us.”
“You sure?” There are multiple questions behind the words. Lance isn’t sure at all.
“Positive.” He stands, ignoring the look Chris throws his way.
“Fine.” Chris drops the blanket, eyes slightly narrowed as he takes the right hand side of the bed.
“I’ll just….” Lance grabs clean boxers, indicating the bathroom with a sweep of his hand. The floor’s wet and Lance grimaces as his bare feet hit slippery tile and he drops down a towel, rubbing it around with his foot. He concentrates on mopping, sweeping arcs so he can forget about the spare toothbrush next to his own, the fact that Chris knows Lance’s side of the bed. Familiarities he thought he'd left behind years ago, each rediscovery hurting even more.
Lance scrubs at his teeth, foam coating his mouth. Rinsing, he spits in the sink and gargles with mouthwash as he sets out his supplies. Cleanse, tone, moisturise, keep looking your best at all times.
Routine complete he undresses and pulls on his shorts. Reflected in multiple mirrors he looks at himself from every angle, taut stomach, swell of hips, muscled arms. He walks out without a second look.
Chris is propped up in the bed, knees small hills under the covers as he peers at the TV and flicks through the channels, obviously not tired at all. He keeps staring forward as Lance climbs into bed, arranging pillows until they’re sitting side by side. It’s warm and comfortable, and Lance’s shoulders hurt, tension bleeding down his back.
“I’m gonna’ go home tomorrow.” Chris looks up from an episode of Dog The Bounty Hunter and pokes at Lance’s ankle with his toe. “You should stay with me a while.”
The next day Lance pays his bill and goes with Chris.
~*~*~*~
Chris’ house is deserted when they arrive, it’s also trashed and Chris kicks at the empties in his hall as Lance drops the bags with a thud. Long streamers of toilet paper snake down the stairs and there’s a pool of something on the floor. It’s a mess, but Chris can’t get annoyed. He allowed this to happen; repeatedly opening his house to people he didn’t know.
“I’ll call the cleaning service.” Lance sits on the stairs, toilet paper surrounding him as he calls for help. Chris leaves him to it and wanders into the kitchen, wincing at the brimming sink filled with glasses and the piles of empty pizza boxes that litter the floor.
“That’s a lot of pizza,” Lance says. He’s standing in the doorway, phone still clasped in his hand. Toeing at the nearest box, he makes the pile wobble dangerously, and Chris imagines the irony of being crushed to death by an avalanche of takeout boxes. Killed by the packaging and not the crap that surely coats his insides.
“I’ve got an account.” Chris shrugs, picks up a wine bottle and puts it down inches away. “They deliver; I pay at the end of the week.”
“They must love you.”
“Well yeah.” Chris leans back, and the counter is greasy under his hands.
“The cleaning service will be here in an hour. Extra deep clean and speed service.” Lance looks cool and perfect, glaringly out of place in this frat house of a room.
“I’ve been busy lately, you know, with the music and stuff. The cleaner left and I didn’t have time...”
“I’m not your mom, Chris. I don’t care what your house looks like.” Lance settles on one of the bar stools, ignoring the chaos that surrounds him.
Chris considers then smiles. “My mom doesn’t care either. Well, she pretends like she does, but really, as long as there’s no underwear on the floor she’s good.”
“She’s a smart woman.”
Chris nods. His mom is smart, and she shows that by phoning each night to tell him what an ass he’s become. It’s the sad truth, Chris really is an ass.
“How about we throw away the empties, then you can call for some of this famous pizza.” Lance looks at his watch and smiles. “We can watch TV while the cleaning’s going on. Prison Break should be on soon.”
It seems very wrong to sit and do nothing while his house is cleaned, but Chris is tempted. He’s hungry, but more importantly, an opportunity to ogle Wentworth Miller with Lance, who always appreciates a hot man, should never be turned down.
“I’ll order, you turn on the TV.”
Lance replies with a dorky salute, and Chris shakes his head, happy that at least it’s not the horns.
Lance is yelling for Chris to hurry up already when he eventually finds the phone, half hidden in a giant bag of stale chips. Popping one in his mouth, he sucks until it’s a melted mess on his tongue, and then smiles into the handset when Gloria answers the phone. Five minutes and he’s confirmed that he’s doing great and ordered his usual, adding another pizza for Lance.
~*~*~*~
Part 2
Pairing(s): Trickyfish
Prompt: #1 Strangers.
Word count: 15,689
Author's Notes:A long time ago I did a meme where titles were suggested to me, and I had to think of stories to match them.
One of which was Easy Money. This is that story, sort of.
I have to thank
pensnest, msktrnanny and ephemera_pop for their help. They've been incredible, helping when I got stuck, willing to read anything I sent their way. Ladies, you rock. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
One story down for
slashfic25, 24 to go.I’m not available right now, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.
Chris’ cell lands in the fruit bowl, hidden between a wrinkled apple and the empty bags of candy. It’ll stay there until his next incoming call, when the muffled ring-tone will drive him crazy while he franticly searches for the stupid thing. Chris knows this, but still leaves it there. It’s either that or throw it at the wall, and he’s over his quota for new phones already this year.
It’s just… Getting hold of Lance is impossible. He’s never home and all Chris wants to do is say hi. Instead he’s trapped in a game of phone tag, leaving increasingly brief messages while Lance lives his life. It’s not like Lance never calls back; he does, but it’s always at some insane hour of the morning, yelled conversations held over blasting music. They’re speaking, sure, but not communicating; talking without hearing the words.
Sighing, Chris runs his fingers through his hair. The length is still a surprise. It’s been forever since his hair last brushed against his neck, and there’s a whisper of years-gone-by as he combs out a curl. Taking a black bandanna, he ties it around his head and swaps his glasses for sunglasses. He feels like a tool wearing them indoors, but the headache that has been clinging to the edge of his vision shows no sign of going, and it’s sunshine bright in the kitchen.
Pouring another cup of coffee, cream with two sugars, Chris sits at the small breakfast bar, cradling the warm mug in his hands. There’s a pile of magazines and papers under the empty beer bottles and he moves some of the empties, so he can pull free a glossy magazine. The cover is damp, a red stain spreading across Angelina’s face. Easing the pages apart, Chris sips at his coffee, scanning the articles, and stops when he sees Lance.
He looks good and Chris can’t help smiling at the picture. Laughing at Lance always makes him feel better, and this is classic Lance, toothy smile and dorky finger-horns, leaning against one of his many female friends.
The blurb is small, but at least it’s accurate, unlike last month when Chris had the pleasure of ribbing JC about his latest sex romp with three teenage girls for over a week. Remembering that makes Chris smile around his mug, and he keeps smiling as he reads about Lance’s upcoming appearances, the plans he has for the future.
They’re plans Chris has heard before, dreams and ambitions revealed to the background of bus noise when they were touring. Years later and Chris has watched those plans become reality. Lance is a player in the industry, a minor one sure, but he’s making it. He’s also happy, and that’s the most important thing of all.
~*~*~*~
It’s four thirty-eight a.m. and Lance is finally home. He slides out of the cab and stumbles a little, his feet catching against the small stones. Hand splayed, he balances against the open door, fumbling for his wallet and takes out a fifty. The driver twists in his seat, smiling at the large tip. Pocketing the money, he bids Lance goodnight, and drives away as soon as Lance shuts the car door.
Lance shivers as he walks. The wind makes the plants rustle and he peers into the night. He pushes his wallet back into his pocket and hooks out his keys from his pocket, folding his hand around the warm metal. The porch light shines, beckoning Lance home. He blinks against the glare, and carefully navigates the steps, counting, one two three, until he’s at the door.
Four tries and the key slides into the lock. A twist of wrist and the door opens; Lance leaves it ajar and hurries for the alarm. Two false alerts this month already and he doesn’t want anymore. He remembers the code this time - I Want You Back choreography in number form - and the console beeps as he turns, takes his keys and kicks shut the door.
The stairs curve before him, unending and insurmountable. Lance walks past them with a shake of his head, running his palm over the polished wood of the banister. He makes for the kitchen, his feet clattering in the dark. He turns the faucet on, and watches the falling ribbon of water for a moment. Then he bends and turns his head, drinking directly from the stream. He’s thirsty and needs to wash the taste of old alcohol from his mouth; alcohol, rich pastries and the taste of defeat. Knees against a cold floor, his hands braced on a toilet lid and a stranger’s cock in his mouth.
Lance rests his elbows on the counter, spitting and gagging. Water splashes against his face but he doesn’t move, just stares down at the drain, at the evidence of his defeat washing away.
Exhausted, he slides to the floor, back against the cabinets and head down. He knows he should go upstairs, or to the couch at least, but he’s too tired just now. Will go in a minute, really he will, he needs time to regroup is all.
~*~*~*~
Groaning, Lance pulls himself upright, wincing as his stiff joints protest. His head is pounding and he rubs at his face, knuckles dragging across his lips. They feel crusty to the touch, battered and sore, and he pushes back memories as he pats at his pants, looking for his cell. The ringing has stopped when Lance finally flips it open, and he listens to the voice message, his assistant scolding while reminding him about his day.
He looks at his watch. It’s nine twenty-five, he’s got thirty minutes to shower, dress and get to the first meeting of the day. His stomach lurches when he pulls himself up, and he freezes as the room spins. He takes deep breaths, and then he clicks on the coffee machine, left ready and waiting by yesterday's maid, and makes for the stairs. He climbs them two at a time, pulling off his shirt as he goes, and in the bathroom he stuffs it into the basket as he turns on the shower. The room fills with steam as he kicks off his shoes. They land under the counter, soon joined by pants, socks and boxers, an untidy pile that’ll be cleaned away by someone else.
Stepping under the spray, he sighs, back curled and head tipped forward as the water pounds down, loosening tense muscles. Lance efficiently soaps himself down. Shower gel, shampoo, and then out of the cubicle to be wrapped in a fluffy blue towel. Teeth brushed, hair dried and styled. Into his closet and pull on clean clothes.
Lance walks out of his house with time to spare, travel mug of coffee clutched in his hand. He settles in his car and sips at the cup, savouring the caffeine hit and sugary taste. The radio's on low and Lance pulls out of his driveway, his mind already on the meeting ahead. He can’t mess this up, it’s too important, a step toward the respect he craves
~*~*~*~
The meeting is promising, handshakes and backslaps over offered scripts. Lance feels good about this one. He’s been chasing this deal forever, has writers, potential actors, a hot new director who’s destined for great things. All he needs is the money and they’re ready to go.
Of course getting that money is more difficult than it seems. Lance has money, but he’s not stupid, and he isn’t about to throw in his future on something as unstable as a movie. So he makes nice, plays to the money men and tries to forget the years where he could snap his fingers and have people cater to his every whim.
That’s in the past now, that sense of inevitable success packed away with the bling-bling crosses and the shiny pants. He keeps some of those tucked away in his closet, boxes full of the past. Sometimes he pulls out a necklace and lays it across his palm, like all his past glories dangling from one heavy chain.
“We’ll be in touch, okay.” Wilkinson thumps Lance across the back. It’s supposedly a friendly gesture, a manly goodbye, but Lance has been in the business too long, can see the contempt. It’s a look Lance sees often, smiling words concealing sneers.
“I’ll look forward to it. I think this can fly.” Lance thumps back, just that little too hard. He’s spent years trapped in testosterone filled tour buses, he’s worked side by side with roadies. This is nothing, and he smiles as he walks away.
The next meeting is at one. Lunch is a sandwich in the car, tuna on rye, eaten one handed as he drives to the gym. Twenty minutes on the treadmill, twenty on free weights, then Lance hits the machines. He’s flat on his back, muscles burning when he notices the TVs. They're all showing Backstreet, prancing around a stage in skin tight lycra and wigs. Whispers circle the room and Lance schools his expression, aware of the looks his way. He’s got no problem with Backstreet, never has, but the stares make him flush and he uncurls, sitting up and wiping at his face with his towel. Green Day replaces Backstreet, Billie Ray singing about twists in the road, as Lance stands and leaves the room.
The water is boiling. Lance loves these showers, it’s one of the reason he joined this gym, open twenty-four seven, with these luxury showers with their power settings that help ease aching muscles. He bends under the spray, forearm braced against the wall and eyes closed.
~*~*~*~
“I’ll let you know.”
There’s no back punch this time, just a firm shake of hands and Lance is left to gather his papers alone. The meeting went okay, but nothing will come of it, he can tell; the disinterest is easy to see in Heslot’s eyes.
Pushing the script into his bag, Lance waves at the secretary, and thanks her for the coffee once more. The elevator’s empty when Lance steps inside, no piped music, no nothing, just much-needed quiet. He un-knots his tie, pulling at the green silk so it slithers from his neck.
Once inside his car Lance checks his voice mails. The first is a message from his mom, she’s asks if he’s eating right and concerns colours her voice, enough that Lance feels guilty as he deletes the message, promising himself he’ll phone soon. Joey next, insults and phone me, dickwad, Chris and a you suck, Bass. Lance makes a mental note to return the calls. The rest are business, potential meetings and invitations to parties where Lance goes to be seen. He keeps those, ready to transfer to his calendar when he gets home.
The roads are jammed and Lance has one arm resting out the open window. He’s listening to the radio and can’t help tapping his fingers against the steering wheel when Rock Your Body comes on. He used to hate the song, but that faded to resignation and then reluctant acceptance. Still, it’s automatic to fit his voice under Justin’s, echoing his words as the snarl of traffic inches forward.
~*~*~*~
Lance is rubbing shampoo into his hair when he hears the distant sound of I Touch Myself, the ringtone Chris programmed in for himself months before. It’s the third time today and he mutes the sound by tilting back his head under the water. Suds sluice down his body and twist around his toes into the drain.
He’s grateful when the song cuts off and all he can hear is water splashing against the floor. This way it’s not his fault that he didn't pick up the call, he was showering and couldn’t get out in time, is all. Of course, that doesn’t excuse the other missed calls.
Finally clean, Lance steps from the shower and picks up a towel. It’s warm from being on the heated rail and he wraps it around his waist, cocooning himself in it. Wrapping a smaller one around his shoulders, he heads into his bedroom, and sits down on the bed.
His cell is on the bedside table, and he deliberately doesn’t look. The guilt is a background ache as he dries off and rubs moisturiser into his skin. Heel propped on a chair, Lance smoothes the lotion into his calf. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Chris, to any of them. It’s just -- he feels like crap every time he does.
Lance has watched Nsync split five ways, the others moving on and doing their own thing and he can’t help feeling left behind. He’s expected to have his own life, be independent and successful, chase the dreams he spun so many years before -- and he has. He’s achieving those dreams, but at a cost that makes them feel like nightmares.
Talking to the guys is like picking a scab: something painful that Lance does while distracted with music and alcohol. Surface conversations achieved while Lance is fully absorbed in his act, happiness a glossy shield.
Of them all, talking to Chris seems the worst. Chris has had the fame, his time in the spotlight, and he's happy and content doing his own thing. He loves the music he’s writing, loves to sing with his new band, and that hurts each time Lance thinks about it, so he doesn’t, and keeps missing the calls.
Skin soft, Lance dresses, and shoves his cell in a pocket without looking at the display. He’ll call Chris later. Much later.
~*~*~*~
“Lance, dude, we’re over here.”
Lance smiles a greeting, his palm flat against the damp heat of Jake’s back in a one-armed hug. “You losers got a table yet?”
“The best in the house, baby.” Jake speaks like bagging the best table is inevitable, and maybe for him it is. Money counts for everything in this town, and Jake is rolling in it, enjoying a lifestyle that makes even Lance widen his eyes.
Following at Jake’s heels, Lance nods at acquaintances as they walk through the crowd. This kind of atmosphere seems hard-wired to his smile, he can feel his lips twitching, slipping into party mode. Always look happy to be there, to be seen, never let real feelings show. He’s a pro at this, can maintain it for hours.
“Who’s here?”
“Amber, Stacy, Mark, Jasper, you know, the usual.” Jake throws the names over his shoulder, then suddenly stops and turns to Lance, grin wide and sly. “I let some of the hangers-on sit; it’s been too long since you’ve had some play, dude. You can thank me later.”
Lance’s smile widens, contrasting with the churning in his belly. Jake and his posse don’t know about the late night trips to the bathroom, about the strangers he picks up most nights.
“I’m so pleased to know you’ve been thinking about my sex life,” He drawls.
“Come on, of course I think of your sex life, I mean. Why wouldn’t I? Or lately, your lack of sex life, you sarcastic bastard.” Jake giggles, and Lance can tell he’s amped, already following the well trodden path of their nights out. “There’ll be someone you’ll like.”
“I’m sure there is.” Lance cranes his neck to their table, the usual gathering of people and a handful of men and women who would normally spend their time haunting the doors. They’re crowded around the table, perfectly groomed and laughing as Jasper spins some tale, his hands sketching details in the air.
They’re Lance’s friends; he spends almost every evening with them.
The most important thing he knows about them is their names.
~*~*~*~
“Pretty, yeah?”
Jake whispers the comment, or at least attempts to; drugs and alcohol have obviously fried his volume control. He points a finger at the hangers-on, and they all preen under his gaze. “You did good.” Lance doesn’t attempt a whisper; it’s no secret why they’re there.
“I always do good, dude.” Jake eyes slide half closed and he leans heavily, his cheek hot against Lance’s neck. “Have you picked one yet? Star maybe? Or Zen, he’s hot.”
“He is.” Lance has to agree, Zen is hot, the kind of guy Lance could easily go for.
Picking up his glass, Lance swallows the contents in one long gulp. He knows he won’t go home with any of these people. It doesn’t matter how attractive they are, how much they make him laugh. They aren’t what he needs.
“So, you’re gonna’…” Jake slurs the question, patting Lance clumsily on the arm.
“Maybe.” Lance shrugs, his own version of no.
~*~*~*~
Three thirty and Lance is tense. He runs his fingers around the rim of his glass, a continuous note, hidden under the deep beat of the club. His friends are making noises about leaving, clinging together as they argue about which club to visit next, ready to party to dawn. This time, Lance stays put, left behind in flurry of kisses against his cheeks. Zen stays too, and Jake gives a thumbs up, winking, as he leaves. Two beautiful women escort him, triumphant and clinging to his body like a second skin.
Lance can see that same look in Zen’s eyes, and momentarily considers the easy option and taking him home. A no-strings fuck that would end before dawn, but even that’s too long, and Lance gently moves Zen’s hand.
“I’m going home.” He stands and staggers, catching his hip against the table. “If you hurry you can catch the others.”
“I thought….” Zen remains sitting, looking up at Lance, confusion in the set of his mouth, the widening of his eyes. He looks every inch the boy he really is, and Lance feels ancient, skin tight and numb inside.
“Go on.” He waits, and Zen stands, the child washing away as the star-fucker sets his sights on other prey. Lance watches him go, and his hands tighten into fists, nails digging into his palms. His face aches from smiling, and he’s strung tight.
He knows he should go home; instead he drains his drink and slowly makes for the back of the club, to the bathrooms filled with the desperate. Those ready to take and offer anything as the night winds to a close.
It’s easy to score. Lance is a pro at weighing up, casting his eyes over the men who lean against the wash basins and doors. A 'you wanna?', an incline of his head and he's leading someone along the line. It’s sad, but he has his own preferred cubicle. Last one on the right, and he imagines if he looks closely enough he could see smeared prints on the tile, evidence of his own hands pressed against the sides.
They don’t speak.
Lance drops to his knees, heard turned slightly, so he's staring at the wall. He memorised the graffiti months ago now, phone numbers and obscene poems that don’t scan at all. He runs through every word that rhymes with cock and almost smiles at memories of JC curled in the bus, book of rhymes open on his lap. Then blue jeans crumple to the floor, and Lance thinks of nothing. Grips the toilet seat and holds on, lips tight and letting this stranger fuck his mouth, each thrust causing cracks that run deep inside.
The guy finishes with a moan. He pulls up his jeans without words, pushing past and out of the stall. Lance swallows and leans back, resting his head against the wall. He feels used and raw, dizzy as he pulls himself to his feet and back outside. His knees ache, and he wipes at his wet face. Over his lips and cheeks, under the delicate skin of his eyes
His momma would be horrified if Lance didn’t wash up.
He finds a sink and turns on the faucet, letting the hot water flow over his hands.
“Lance. Dude. What….”
Blood rushes in Lance’s head, pushing sound far away. He braces himself against the counter, forcing himself to stay upright, trying to look up, to meet Chris’ gaze.
~*~*~*~
He wasn’t totally surprised to see Lance. This was his town, his kind of club, full of the rich and pretentious, but he hadn’t expected to see Lance like this, head down and defeated somehow, Chris wants to gather him close and say everything will be okay.
He takes a step forward, but Lance steps aside, and Chris grabs a handful of air.
“I need to go.” Lance’s smile clicks back into place, looking confident and sure as he makes for the door. It’s enough to make Chris doubt what he saw moments before, but he looks closer, and he can almost see Lance spinning his network of lies. “I’ve got a cab waiting. I’ll call.”
“I’m flying home first thing.”
Lance acknowledges that with a wave of his hand, and Chris presses back against the sink and watches him leave. He’s under no illusion he’ll actually get a call, Lance is tricky like that when he wants to be.
Sighing, he mentally schedules his own call, knowing they need to talk, then prepares to rejoin his friends once more. Endure another half hour before he can blow the joint and go back to his hotel room.
~*~*~*~
Chris loves his house. It’s a concrete example of all he’s achieved. It’s decorated to his taste, each room perfect. His theatre, his bar, a full garage, with a space bull standing next to the cars, he loves it.
It only emphasises how alone he is.
Switching on the TV, Chris selects the news channel. He likes the twenty-four hour news channel, even if this presenter’s a tool. They always are, this early in the morning. Chris thinks they must stick the failures in the four am slot, those presenters that just can’t cut it with the big boys. Like this idiot, with his beaming smile and perfect white teeth. He’s far too chirpy as he announces another earthquake in India, as if the death of thousands is worth a smile. Chris scowls, leaving the room with the idiot in mid grin.
The kitchen is full of pre dawn light, casting the room in shades of grey. Opening the fridge, Chris narrows his eyes against the glare and selects the fixings for sandwiches, selects a loaf of thick cut bread out of the cupboard. Digging a spoon into the jar of mayo he adds a dollop to both slices of bread. Ham, tomato then more bread and cut, repeat everything twice more. He walks back into the living room, sandwich in one hand, bottle of beer tucked under his arm.
Chris settles into the corner of the couch, just as the clock in the corner of the screen hits the hour. He gives the TV the finger when the idiot presenter winks, the same stupid wink he does as he signs off each morning, as if his idiotic fake friendliness will get him noticed.
The weather follows, and Chris takes a bite of his sandwich, wondering if it’s going to be warmer in France today. They’ve been unseasonably cold for the last week, apparently, and he’s tired of seeing the same shots of the Eiffel Tower surrounded by snow.
He swallows the last bite of sandwich as a thawing Paris appears, thankfully slightly warmer today. Maybe now they'll have to think of some other inane random shit to fill the world weather slot with. Tucking up his legs, feet pushed into the soft cushions of his sofa, Chris grabs the remote, and Big Ben changes into a picture of Justin. It figures, and Chris rests the control on his knee as Justin is initiating a sing-a-long which has Chris singing both the male and female lines.
On screen, Justin smiles, and Chris misses him desperately. He can admit that in these pre dawn hours when he’s alone. They’re still friends, sure, but it's different from before. Rationally Chris knows that’s inevitable, but still; it hurts.
Impulsively, Chris flips open his cell. He doesn’t bother working out time zones, if he wakes Justin they’ll just have to deal. Ten rings and Chris doesn’t leave a message, hangs up at the first words of pre recorded message. Dropping the phone on the table, he drums his fingers against the arm of the couch. He’s not tired at all, instead he rides the buzz of alcohol, moving from TV to the computer: sports shows and online porn, and finally he resorts to changing his top eight at MySpace, selecting a new theme as the sun begins to rise.
~*~*~*~
“CK! Party!”
Chris buries his head further under his pillow, but his stupid friends have loud voices and the answering machine is set too high. He sighs into the mattress, warm air blowing back against his skin. Fighting against the pull of sleep, Chris rolls across the bed, kicking at the covers as the machine clicks off with a last whoop.
His joints protest as he sits upright, and he cups his hands over his knees. They’re slightly swollen and he pushes his fingers against the puffy flesh, wincing at the ache. Hair falls forward into his eyes, and even when Chris rakes it back, he can see an explosion of curls out of the corner of his eye. He suspects he’s got the worst case of bed-head ever and gives the tangles a careful finger comb before giving up and slipping into his morning routine.
~*~*~*~
The party takes on a life of its own. Chris provides beer and snacks, but after that his duty's done. Some doors are locked, hiding the things that are for his eyes alone, but mostly the guests freely wander his house, some of them even trying to be subtle about taking pictures that he’ll see online the next day.
It’s easier to breathe when he’s in a crowd, and there’s no echoing silence or time to think. Chris has done too much of that lately. He’s faced his failures and moved on, to parties and casual dating, and who’s to say that’s wrong?
Chris has his arm around a girl. He grins for the camera, cheek against hers and her hair brushes his face, a wave of glossy blond. He lets the strands slip through his fingers and kisses her cheek. Her hand is on the small of his back, and she tilts her head, pouting slightly and widens her eyes. She doesn’t have to try so hard. It’s inevitable he’ll sleep with her; it was from the first time she grabbed for his hand.
“I love your music.”
He doesn’t ask which music she means. It doesn’t matter anyway. The words are meaningless, empty noise used to get to his bed.
They press together and she slips her hand lower, boldly cradling his ass while craning her head. No doubt her friends are watching behind them; they always are. She smells like cherries, sickly and artificial like the lozenges JC used to use for his throat. Chris can taste the scent at the back of his throat, the white noise of wheels against the road, exhaustion and the best friends in the world. His chest tightens and he wraps his fingers around the girl’s wrist, towing her toward the stairs.
She smiles, white teeth and glossy pink lips, a predator in disguise. Chris ignores the triumph in her eyes; she can give him what he wants, and after that, he can’t bring himself to care.
The bedroom door is locked. Chris stretches for the hidden key and lets them inside. He leads her to the bed and sits down, ready for the show. She doesn’t disappoint, seems versed in slipping off her clothes. Her t-shirt lands on the floor, and she cups her breasts, fingers brushing over her nipples, visible through the lace.
Chris reaches for her, hands sliding over the soft skin of her sides as she licks her lips and wiggles out of her jeans. They pool on the floor and she’s standing in bra and panties, confident under Chris’ gaze.
“Gonna show me what you’ve got?” Chris reaches for her, fingertips sliding over the swell of her hips.
She moves into the touch, straddling him, sitting on his lap, licking at his mouth as he unhooks her bra. It lands unnoticed when they fall back onto the bed, and she giggles as Chris flips her over so he’s on top. Her fingers are under his t-shirt, tugging up, but Chris traps her hand with his own. He unfastens his shorts with the other, pushing them down and kicking a leg free. She’s looking up at him, blonde hair against his bed. Her nails scraping against his back, her legs bent against his sides.
It’s good in the way mindless sex can be.
Groping for the woman’s bra, Chris holds it out to her as she sits in the middle of his bed. Her hair’s mussed and her lipstick's smeared, but she's looking around, taking in the details of the room. An early picture catches her eye, one where he’s got his arms around the others, his braids pulled back into messy pigtails.
“Here.” Chris pushes her bra into her hands, cutting off a comment. He doesn’t want to hear how much she loved Nsync, has been a fan from the start. “Just shut the door on the way out.”
Pulling on his shorts, he walks into his bathroom, ignoring her sound of protest. He’s coming across as an asshole, but that’s fine. It’s something that gets him through the day.
~*~*~*~
Lance thinks about skipping the meeting, but forces himself to attend. Pulling on tricks learned to defeat first night nerves, he greets the investors with a toothy smile, thankful that the facts and figures are second nature now, numbers drumming through his thoughts in a two part beat.
Sixty minutes later and he leaves with a firm handshake, strolling casually toward the stairs. Riding the elevator is unthinkable today, being confined a reminder of the mental walls that press against his head. He closes his eyes and sees the look on Chris’ face, his promise to call. Lance wishes he’d do it already, end this unbearable waiting.
His cell vibrates in his pocket, and Lance fishes it out, swallowing hard. Then relaxes, back against the cool wall of the stairwell, when he sees Joey’s name.
“You’re alive!”
Joey’s loud and obnoxious, always has been. Lance wants to grab him and not let go. “So they tell me.” Lance’s lips curl into a smile, responding to Joey’s unseen grin. “What’s up?”
“Today’s your lucky day; I’m passing your way soon, so figured I’d visit, take you for lunch maybe.”
“You’re a bit out of the way for passing through, Joe.” Lance sighs and listens to the silence through his cell, waiting as Joey gropes for, then gives up on excuses.
“Yeah, well. Whatever. We on?”
“It’ll be good to see you.” It’s the truth; Lance hasn’t seen Joey in weeks. It’s just that Joey sees too much, and Lance swallows against the sourness in his mouth. Wondering about the timing of the call. “Has Chris called lately?”
“Not since last week, should he have?”
“No. I mean... I was just wondering if you’d heard from everyone.”
“See, this is what happens when you’re too busy to answer your phone.”
There’s a dull thud in Lance’s ear, distant squeaks as Joey gets himself comfortable. Despite the denials Joey’s a dedicated gossip, and Lance settles himself on the top stair, knees tucked up as he prepares to be caught up with their friends.
~*~*~*~
Chris didn’t expect an answer. Another day of cheery voice mail, and he’s got one foot in his car, determined to find Lance even if it means flying out to California again to hunt him down. Lance picking up is unexpected, and Chris has his thumb over the disconnect button, already poised to end the call.
“Chris.”
“We need to talk.”
Chris leans against his car. There’s a dog across the road. It keeps running into view, chasing a red ball, floppy brown ears flying back as it runs. It looks happy, doggy smiles, and Chris listens to Lance breathe in his ear.
“I know.” Resignation is heavy in Lance’s voice and Chris wants to say forget it, I never saw anything. He considers the out, imagines Lance’s voice without this pull of reality. "I flew down last night. I’m staying at the usual.”
“I’m coming over. Don’t go anywhere; don’t even think about going anywhere.” Chris says, deciding instantly. Pretending achieves nothing and Chris could never look the other way, not about this.
“Okay.” The words are leaden and Lance is anything but okay, but Chris knows he’ll stay. He’ll stay and they’ll talk, even if it’s the last thing either wants to do.
“See you soon.” Snapping shut his phone; Chris rubs at his face. Lance’s misery is twisted around his own and he wants to run back inside and hide. It’s the easiest thing to do, except hiding from himself is one thing, hiding from Lance, when Lance needs him, is different all together.
~*~*~*~
Time folds in on itself on the journey to the hotel where Lance stays when he’s in town. Chris drives with one elbow out the window, false casual even as his skin itches and his stomach churns. He runs through conversations in his mind, but the years he spent handing out advice are hidden under a layer of parties and mindless fun. Time spent pleasing no one but himself, walking his own path in his own way.
It's been easy to lose himself in new friends, people who know nothing about the old Chris and have allowed him to step away from his life before. He’s coasted for years now, except now Lance has changed that. A harsh reminder that he’s drifted too far, losing sight of the people who knew him, and loved him for who he was.
He thought Lance had been happy, except he isn’t at all, and Chris can’t help the crushing guilt. Echoes of before, except this time there’s no one to blame but himself.
Breathing deep, he pulls up, handing over his keys to the valet. He watches as his car is driven away, then slowly walks up the marble steps and through the revolving doors. Lance is waiting inside, lounging in one of the lobby club chairs. He’s dressed Lance casual, green t-shirt and jeans, and Chris can’t imagine how he thought Lance was okay.
“Chris.” Lance stands, outwardly calm but his shoulders are tense and he bites at his thumb as Chris approaches, greets him with a brief back slapping hug.
“Lance.” Chris pushes his hands into his pockets and looks at Lance. It’s like he’s seeing him for the first time in years, and the polish is stripped away under Chris’ gaze. He doesn’t like what he sees, Lance is damaged. That seems obvious when you’re prepared to really see.
“Shall we go up?” Polite, as always, Lance ushers Chris toward the elevator, pushing the button for one of the top floors. They travel in uncomfortable silence and Chris is glad when they're released, walking along the plush corridor to Lance’s suite.
Inside, Lance leads the way to the mini kitchen and Chris follows, sitting on a bar stool as Lance opens the fridge. “You want a drink? I’ve got coke. Water.”
“I’ll have a soda.” Chris isn’t thirsty but his hands itch to hold something. He takes the offered diet coke and snaps open the seal. Lance opens a bottle of water, back against the counter as he takes a long drink.
“Before. I wasn’t. I mean, it had been a while, and I was desperate. You know how it goes.”
Lance breaks the silence, and his lies are polished and perfect. Chris would believe them, except he’s heard them before. Lying to himself to get through the day.
“You can’t do shit like that. You don’t know where he’s been.” The can scrapes over the counter, turning in Chris’ hands. Lance relaxes slightly and it would be easy to skim the surface with warnings about image, the rants about risk Lance must be expecting, so Chris has to push it. “How long?”
“How long, what?” Lance appears confused, and Chris has to admire his acting.
“How long have you felt like that? I don’t know why or how, and that’s something I’m ashamed to admit, but I’m not blind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lance sounds collected as he places his water on the counter and faces Chris down. “Felt like what? I was drunk, I had sex in a stall. Sure, it was stupid, but that’s all. No underlying crisis.”
“So you’re fine. Your life is perfect.” Chris matches Lance’s stare. He mightn’t have seen it before, but he does now, and he’s not letting this go. “Bullshit.”
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there.” Lance stands up straight and anger rolls from him in waves. “I’m fine, Chris. Better than fine. My company is doing fine, my personal life is fine. Everything’s fine.”
“I don’t believe you.” It’s uncomfortable facing up to Lance. Chris wants to stand, regain some ground, but he remains seated as Lance paces the room. His shoes squeak against the tiles and Chris has counted almost one hundred steps when Lance freezes. His hands are clenched, fists tight against his thighs.
“What do you want me to say? That things are a mess? That I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing half the time, because, hello, welcome to my world. I’m doing the best I can, and I know you can’t understand that, but try.”
Lance doesn’t sound angry; he sounds resigned, words weighted with every failure and expectation thrown his way. It’s the saddest thing Chris has ever heard. “Why won’t I understand?”
“How could you? You’re you.” Lance says that as if it means something, and he slumps, the breath leaking from his body when Chris shrugs, wanting to understand but lost all the same.
“I need more than that, man.”
“It’s…. Look at you. You’ve moved on. You don’t need me, us, anymore. You’ve got your band and your friends and this whole life away from Nsync. And that’s great, I’m happy for you, but….” Lance looks away, gaze fixed on the floor. “I guess I’m jealous.”
“Of what?” Chris asks, trying to understand.
“Of you.” Lance talks like it’s simple, and maybe to him it is. He looks up, glance sliding away when he meets Chris’ gaze. “Look, it’s nothing I can’t handle. Let’s pretend we did the whole soul searching thing and it’s time for dinner. I’ll pay.”
Lance is wound tight, seemingly ready to crack at a carefully pressed word, and momentarily Chris considers taking the distraction. Carrying his own issues is work enough, he doesn’t know if he has the strength left for more.
“I can’t say it’s not tempting, but no.” This is Lance, and that means everything.
“Your loss.” Lance shrugs, and he’s far away. Chris settles back in his chair, fingers and knees aching to move as he gathers the patience to wait.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Chris bites at a hangnail, watching Lance as he stares out the window.
“You’re such an ass.” It’s almost a shout and Lance slams his palm down on the counter. “You want to know why I’m jealous? Jeeze. Maybe I’m jealous because I’m busting my ass and getting nowhere? There’s no Nsync, no singing, and no one thinks I could possibly miss that. You’re all doing your own things and I feel like I’m treading water above a current that’s trying to drag me down. You have seen what they write? What a failure I am? And I’m doing everything to change that, and it’s not working.” He runs his hands through his hair, toppling the artfully arranged spikes.
“No one’s perfect.” It’s the truth, Chris knows a lot of so-called 'perfect people' . Heck, he knows Justin. None of them are perfect.
“I know, but I have to try.” Lance is deflated now, slumping against the counter as he looks at Chris. “I try and I get nowhere. I look at you and I want what you have.”
“No, you really don’t.” Chris can’t help a bitter smile. Lance wanting his life is laughable.
There’s almost silence now, only the air conditioning whirring softly, and Chris watches the blood seep down the side of his nail. He listens to Lance swallow, the soft swish of skin against skin as he rubs his face.
“You’ve got the life you wanted. Money, doing what you want,” Lance says, and Chris sucks his finger into his mouth, pressing his tongue against torn skin as Lance slowly walks to the table, pulling back a chair with a scrape of wood against tile.
“I guess. Problem is, I don’t know what the fuck I want. It sure isn’t what I’ve got.” Chris can hear his own anger, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he watches the thoughts slipping across Lance’s face. He’s staring across the table and it’s uncomfortable, making Chris shift in place.
“Half the people I see in meetings think I’m nothing but a washed up boybander,” Lance says evenly, tone at odds to his words. He’s staring at Chris, challenging, and this conversation is insane.
“Most people think I’m washed up, full stop. Too old. Too fat. Too everything.”
“I sleep on the kitchen floor more often than my bed.” Lance leans forward, expression blank.
“My couch is my bed; I haven’t slept upstairs for months.” Lance nods slightly, and Chris takes a sip of soda and waits.
“I blow a different stranger every night. No names, just down on my knees in a stall.”
Chris forces himself not to react. It’s not a surprise and Lance is pale, waiting for the reaction to his words.
“I sleep with groupies almost every night. As long as they show up, I’ll sleep with them.” Chris remembers an endless procession of faces, needy hands and lying words. “Sleeping with them reminds me I’m alive.”
Lance audibly exhales. “I’m chasing someone I’ll never be, and punishing myself each time I fail.” He smiles then, a curve of his lips that never reaches his eyes. “I win.”
Chris flexes his shoulders, trying to push away the tension in his spine. Lance is looking at the table top again and Chris can’t help reaching out, stretching his arm across the glossy wood. “We’re both fucked in the head, man, but yeah. You win.” His fingers are brushing against Lance’s, the tiniest of touches. “You want some company?”
“You’re offering to babysit?” Lance keeps his hand in place, and he looks at Chris. There’s years of casual friendship behind them, total trust that's been gradually displaced by surface words. This won’t be easy, but it doesn’t mean Chris can’t try. For both of them.
“No, I just figured you needed a friend.”
Lance relaxes then, letting out a held breath with a sigh.
~*~*~*~
The small fridge is almost empty, bottles of water and vodka standing guard over a solitary sealed container. Chris’ lip curls as he peels back the lid, displaying the raw vegetables inside. He takes a carrot stick and bites into it with a watery crunch, chewing as he waves the remains at Lance. “This sucks, Bass. If I’m staying for dinner you need real food.”
“That is real food.” Lightning fast, Lance steals the carrot from Chris’ fingers, eating it with a snap of teeth.
“Says you.” Chris eyes Lance, who’s sitting on the arm of the couch, ankles crossed and looking unconcerned, casual pose painted over the tension below. Chris hates seeing it, feels out of his depth. He takes a baton of red pepper, eating without tasting.
“It's a hotel, I usually eat out. We could order in?” Lance looks at his cell, considering.
“Good, because I don’t intend to starve to death while I’m here, and I hate hotel restaurants.” Celery unravels in Chris’ mouth and he’s got a finger-nail between his teeth, picking at the strands.
“Chinese.”
It’s not a question and Chris sucks in a last strand of celery, shaking his head. Chinese is good and all, but he’s craving Mexican, the familiarity of spicy meat and greasy tacos. “Mexican.” He’s prepared to argue his case but Lance shrugs, and that’s not how things are supposed to go at all.
“There’s a Taco Bell close by, I’ll phone the concierge, get someone to deliver.” Lance moves to the phone next to the bed. He sits, leg curled under him and handset tucked against his ear as he looks at Chris. “What do you want?”
“Two grande soft tacos, some of those cheesy potatoes and an apple pie. Soda too, Mountain Dew.” Lance nods, pressing a button on the phone. Within minutes he’s arranged for a delivery and repeats Chris’ order, adding a chicken burrito fresco style for himself.
“They’ll deliver in about thirty minutes.” There’s a clatter as Lance replaces the handset, and then awkward silence. Stretching uncomfortably as Chris picks at the hole in his jeans, pulling at the threads, tiny white snakes against blue denim.
“I had a thing, tonight.” Lance looks up, and colour briefly tinges his cheeks. “I need to cancel.” The suite comes complete with balcony and Lance stands, pulling open the glass doors. He steps out into the darkness, pulling the doors shut, and leans against the railings, one elbow over the metal bars as he opens his cell.
Chris watches for a moment, and he hates the bright toothy smiles, the silent laughter as Lance talks into his phone. It makes Chris dizzy, a spectator as Lance switches from happy to not, and Chris has to jump to his feet and look away. He feels hollow inside, empty, and rocks from foot to foot as he considers leaving, driving back home.
“Sorry. You know how it is.” Lance’s cell hits the bed and he’s throwing out tension that thickens the air.
It’s hard to breathe and Chris’ chest aches as he makes himself sit down, curled in the corner of the couch as Lance kicks off his shoes and sits too. They’re close but a chasm lies between them, filled with unspoken words that make Chris’ skin prickle as he sighs, leans forward to grab the remote half hidden under Lance’s thigh.
“I’m not going to watch any of your lame ass shows, so don’t even ask.” His hand is half on the remote, half against Lance’s leg, and Chris pressed his fingers hard, feels Lance solid and warm.
“You know you like West Wing, so don’t even.” There’s an unexpected sting of finger against forehead, a hint of genuine smile and Chris glares in return. Lance is an idiot and Chris doesn’t like West Wing at all, and even if he did so what? Rob Lowe is hot.
“I’m the guest, I pick.” It’s Chris’ last word on the subject and he pulls the remote free, switching on the TV. The room fills with flickering light as he surfs through the channels, skipping anything Lance expresses interest in, and finally settles on a re run of The A Team that makes Lance scrunch up his face in an unsaid no.
Hiding the remote under a cushion, Chris turns to face Lance, who’s pointedly looking away, focussed on the screen. “Do it.” Lance shakes his head but that’s no deterrent at all and Chris pokes him in the thigh. “Do it, come on. For me.”
“I hate you,” Lance says, but he’s already agreed. He rubs his hand over his face, and the years slip away leaving him bleached blond and seventeen as he squares his shoulders and growls. “Shut up, fool.”
Lance throws in some suckers and I pity the fools and Chris is laughing helplessly as Lance grins in return. They’re missing JC who does a passable Murdock but still, it’s like stepping back in time and Chris leans closer to Lance, breathing easier as they watch TV.
~*~*~*~
Lance takes a hundred from his wallet, handing it to the bellhop who’s just brought their food and waves away her offer to set the table, there’s enough strangeness tonight without eating takeout with silver cutlery and china plates. The paper sacks are warm in his hands, and he places them on the coffee table, making the glass fog with the heat.
“I’ll be mom.” Chris leans forward and opens a bag. Dividing the contents, he separates a drink and burrito, then sighs at the remaining food. Worrying at the wrapping of a taco, Chris looks briefly at Lance. “I don’t usually, I mean. It’s been a long day.”
It takes Lance a moment to catch up, and only then because he’s seen that expression before, unguarded moments before PR visits on tour. “Everyone eats, Chris.” He unwraps his burrito, picking at the chicken.
“And some eat too much.” Chris shrugs, and looks away before he bites into his taco, sauce dribbling onto his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, and the movement is sharp, hinting at battles Lance can never fully understand. It’s tempting to wade in with reassurances that Chris looks fine, because he does, better than fine, but words like that will be perceived as lies. Lance knows that only too well.
They eat in almost silence, rustling wrappers and slurping soda, and Lance sucks at his fingers as Chris eats the last bite of potatoes, lying back on the couch with a soft outtake of breath. His hands are resting on his stomach, ankle against one knee and he closes his eyes. Dark eyelashes against his cheeks and Lance can’t look away. Familiar attraction rears, and that would be the greatest punishment of all.
“I’m beat.” Chris toes off his shoes and they hit the floor with a heavy thud. “I’m gonna’ crash here; shower then steal a blanket from your bed.” He heads for the bathroom and Lance follows, selecting clothes that Chris can wear overnight. There a water muffled thanks as he puts them inside, then he wanders the suite gathering wrappers, scrunching them in his hands.
There’s the sound of muffled singing under splashing water, and Lance listens to the chorus of This I Promise You. He mouths the words, chest tight and missing them all desperately.
Trashing the rubbish, Lance leans against the back of the couch, watching through the bedroom door as Chris appears in a cloud of steam. There’s toothpaste in the corner of his mouth and he’s dressed in borrowed grey sweat pants and t-shirt. Pants trailing over his bare feet, and the t-shirt pulled tight, Chris pulls a blanket off the bed, holding it in front of him as he heads for the couch.
“No. Leave it.” Chris looks over, eyebrow raised and Lance ploughs on, knowing this is a bad idea but this is Chris and sharing a bed with him will be fine. “The bed’s plenty big for both of us.”
“You sure?” There are multiple questions behind the words. Lance isn’t sure at all.
“Positive.” He stands, ignoring the look Chris throws his way.
“Fine.” Chris drops the blanket, eyes slightly narrowed as he takes the right hand side of the bed.
“I’ll just….” Lance grabs clean boxers, indicating the bathroom with a sweep of his hand. The floor’s wet and Lance grimaces as his bare feet hit slippery tile and he drops down a towel, rubbing it around with his foot. He concentrates on mopping, sweeping arcs so he can forget about the spare toothbrush next to his own, the fact that Chris knows Lance’s side of the bed. Familiarities he thought he'd left behind years ago, each rediscovery hurting even more.
Lance scrubs at his teeth, foam coating his mouth. Rinsing, he spits in the sink and gargles with mouthwash as he sets out his supplies. Cleanse, tone, moisturise, keep looking your best at all times.
Routine complete he undresses and pulls on his shorts. Reflected in multiple mirrors he looks at himself from every angle, taut stomach, swell of hips, muscled arms. He walks out without a second look.
Chris is propped up in the bed, knees small hills under the covers as he peers at the TV and flicks through the channels, obviously not tired at all. He keeps staring forward as Lance climbs into bed, arranging pillows until they’re sitting side by side. It’s warm and comfortable, and Lance’s shoulders hurt, tension bleeding down his back.
“I’m gonna’ go home tomorrow.” Chris looks up from an episode of Dog The Bounty Hunter and pokes at Lance’s ankle with his toe. “You should stay with me a while.”
The next day Lance pays his bill and goes with Chris.
~*~*~*~
Chris’ house is deserted when they arrive, it’s also trashed and Chris kicks at the empties in his hall as Lance drops the bags with a thud. Long streamers of toilet paper snake down the stairs and there’s a pool of something on the floor. It’s a mess, but Chris can’t get annoyed. He allowed this to happen; repeatedly opening his house to people he didn’t know.
“I’ll call the cleaning service.” Lance sits on the stairs, toilet paper surrounding him as he calls for help. Chris leaves him to it and wanders into the kitchen, wincing at the brimming sink filled with glasses and the piles of empty pizza boxes that litter the floor.
“That’s a lot of pizza,” Lance says. He’s standing in the doorway, phone still clasped in his hand. Toeing at the nearest box, he makes the pile wobble dangerously, and Chris imagines the irony of being crushed to death by an avalanche of takeout boxes. Killed by the packaging and not the crap that surely coats his insides.
“I’ve got an account.” Chris shrugs, picks up a wine bottle and puts it down inches away. “They deliver; I pay at the end of the week.”
“They must love you.”
“Well yeah.” Chris leans back, and the counter is greasy under his hands.
“The cleaning service will be here in an hour. Extra deep clean and speed service.” Lance looks cool and perfect, glaringly out of place in this frat house of a room.
“I’ve been busy lately, you know, with the music and stuff. The cleaner left and I didn’t have time...”
“I’m not your mom, Chris. I don’t care what your house looks like.” Lance settles on one of the bar stools, ignoring the chaos that surrounds him.
Chris considers then smiles. “My mom doesn’t care either. Well, she pretends like she does, but really, as long as there’s no underwear on the floor she’s good.”
“She’s a smart woman.”
Chris nods. His mom is smart, and she shows that by phoning each night to tell him what an ass he’s become. It’s the sad truth, Chris really is an ass.
“How about we throw away the empties, then you can call for some of this famous pizza.” Lance looks at his watch and smiles. “We can watch TV while the cleaning’s going on. Prison Break should be on soon.”
It seems very wrong to sit and do nothing while his house is cleaned, but Chris is tempted. He’s hungry, but more importantly, an opportunity to ogle Wentworth Miller with Lance, who always appreciates a hot man, should never be turned down.
“I’ll order, you turn on the TV.”
Lance replies with a dorky salute, and Chris shakes his head, happy that at least it’s not the horns.
Lance is yelling for Chris to hurry up already when he eventually finds the phone, half hidden in a giant bag of stale chips. Popping one in his mouth, he sucks until it’s a melted mess on his tongue, and then smiles into the handset when Gloria answers the phone. Five minutes and he’s confirmed that he’s doing great and ordered his usual, adding another pizza for Lance.
~*~*~*~
Part 2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 10:38 pm (UTC)YOU PUT MY SONG SUGGESTION IN!!! LOL.
Second: I love you because TRICKYFISH
Third: I triple love you because ANGSTY TRICKYFISH!
*squeals like a little fan girl*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 10:53 pm (UTC)I started writing and the angst wouldn't stay away. I figured I'd roll with it *g*
I hope you enjoy :)