Easy Money: Part 2

[turps]

The cleaners arrive in a focussed flurry, dozens of people, complete with overalls and plastic buckets filled with bottles and cloths. Chris pushes down his embarrassment as they work around him, scrubbing until his house gleams. The bill makes him wince, but he pays without complaint, adding a hefty tip and an appointment for them to come again.

His house smells lemon fresh mixed with spicy meat and cheese as he sits on the couch, Lance at the opposite end, the pizzas taking the middle cushion for themselves.

A cheese string hangs from Lance’s mouth. He seems properly appreciative of the wonders of Mama G’s, devouring slices like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. In all likelihood he hasn’t, at least the good stuff. Chris doesn’t believe raw vegetables can be considered real food.

“This is good.” Lance takes another bite and that part of Chris that needs to see his friends fed is pleased.

“They’re the best,” Chris agrees, and eats another two slices, one after another, pushing them down on top of the uncomfortable feelings. He's resigned to the fact they need to talk, but he doesn’t want to. What he wants is to stay on this couch and keep watching TV, but despite how Lance looks now, Chris can’t forget his words from the night before.

“We should talk.” Chris eyes the last slice, but he leaves it for now, breakfast for the next day.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Lance puts a half eaten slice back into the box, and he’s looking down, ignoring Chris’ gaze.

“I think there is.” In moments the atmosphere changes from relaxed to tense. Chris hates the change but this can’t be ignored. “What you’re doing. It’s not safe.”

“I know that.” Hostility mixed with sarcasm, and Lance looks at Chris. “I know how stupid I.., it is.”

Chris catches the slip. “You’re not stupid. What you’re doing is stupid, but you. No”
Lance shrugs, he’s attempting to seem unconcerned, but a myriad of cracks weaken his composure, allowing buried insecurities to shine through. It’s annoying and Chris wants to shake him, make him see sense, instead he inches along the couch until he can give a supportive jab, digging his toes against Lance’s calf.

Lance smiles, small and tight. “I’ve tried to stop before. But there’s always something. A knock back for the business, a no to one of my scripts, and I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but I can’t help it, and I need to do something.”

“The alcoholic route too clichéd for you?” It’s a sharp edged comment, based on a reality Chris often thought was inevitable, but Lance shakes his head.

“What, and be accused of copying Backstreet again? AJ foiled my chance to develop that addiction.” He frowns and Chris wishes he could tell if it were a joke. “No, went that route for a while, still travel close at times, but no.”

“That’s one plus, I guess.” It’s a small positive in terms of the overall picture, but still, it is a plus.

“Yeah, strike alcoholic from the list.” Lance rolls his eyes, making a slashing movement through the air. He’s a sarcastic bastard, and Chris is duty bound to prod him hard in the side.

There’s a brief scuffle, slapping hands, but Chris pulls back, ending the distraction before it gets hold. “Have you ever tried to talk to anyone?”

“What, like therapy?” Lance sits back in his corner, tucking up his knees. “I tried once. We ended talking about Justin, she was a fan.” Chris understands the hint of smile, being friends with Justin comes hand in hand with being asked about Justin, it’s inevitable. “Anyway, it felt wrong, talking about stuff like that.”

Chris understands that too, they’ve all spent half their lives hiding the truth. Spilling secrets willingly is something none of them do easily, especially to those on the outside. “You can talk to me.”

“I know.” Lance reaches out, and his hand is solid against Chris’ thigh. “I appreciate that because I want to stop. I just don’t know how.”

~*~*~*~

There’s only so much deep talking they can take, and soon they’re sitting in the den on the old leather couch. Chris has his feet on the coffee table, laptop on his knee as he checks online. Needing comedy relief he logs onto My Space, checking on his hordes of ‘friends’. Refreshing the page and skimming the comments he laughs when a new one appears. “I think your dork status has just achieved new levels.”

Lance looks up from his own laptop, and matches Chris’ smile. “What, you don’t like the comment?”

Chris stares at the waving Cat in the Hat. Lance is the poster boy for dork at times and really, Chris shouldn’t be encouraging the behaviour, but still. He turns to Lance, waving in his direction. “Hi.”

Lance grins, happiness lighting his eyes as he clicks on a link. “This has cleaned up great.” He’s looking at the Nigels 11 page, reading through the comments to a background of Who Am I?.

“The guys did good.” Chris listens, feeling exposed. The song’s so personal; evidence of the time when he existed rather than lived.

“You did good,” Lance adds, and he lets the song play to the end, giving full attention to the words. “You should have called, we would have listened.”

“Yeah, well.” Chris shuts his laptop with a snap. Slipping it into the bag, he unfolds from the couch and rubs at his knees. It’s hours before his usual bedtime but he feels exhausted, wrung out and ready for sleep. “I’m heading off to bed, take any of the guestrooms.”

Lance keeps his own laptop open, waving Chris away. “Will do.” He stops typing, fingers poised over the keyboard. “Thank you, for everything.”

“No problem.” Chris backs out of the room, leaving Lance to his blogging, tiny slices of his life that contain nothing but factual lies. He can hear keys tapping until the foot of the stairs, then there’s the usual silence, his bare feet against the floor as he slowly heads for his room. He pushes open the door; nothing’s changed inside, bedspread messy and Chris pushes it aside as he sits on the edge of his bed.

It’s comforting knowing Lance is downstairs, like a piece of his life has slid back in place and Chris doesn’t want to think what that means. Afraid of being too needy, too dependant on what went before. It’s easier to change into shorts and t-shirt, get into bed without thinking at all.

~*~*~*~

It seems Lance revels in domesticity, and that suits Chris fine. The world isn’t as lonely when Lance is sitting next to the dryer, surrounded by piles of colour sorted clothes. Or bustling around the kitchen, kiss the cook apron wrapped around him and singing along with the radio as he cooks.

Lance likes to cook, a lot, and Chris is happy with his role of helper, even if he complains about being a galley slave.

“There’s a pile of chopped vegetables in front of him and Chris rubs his juice-damp hands on a towel. “What next, Chef?” Lance rolls his eyes, but Chris grins, easily ignoring the long suffering sigh

“Put them in the big pan on the stove.” Lance is doing something to chicken breasts, fingers slimy as he massages the meat. They’re covered in marinade; apparently a Bass family recipe handed down the years. Chris pretends to believe him, even if he did see Lance scanning the cupboards and fridge, a print out held in one hand.

Scooping up the vegetables, Chris adds them to the pan of boiling water. There’s already stuff in there, herbs and cubes of potato caught in the bubbles, and he thinks they’re having some kind of soup. Or it could be pureed vegetables as far as Chris knows. Lance is creative with food, and usually that works well. Though the steamed bananas were a disaster: who knew they’d explode?

“They’re in.”

Lance looks up from his chicken mess. “All the prep’s done then. Great job my lowly apprentice.”

“As if.” Chris shakes his head at Lance who laughs in reply, grinning down at the bowl of chicken. His hands are stained red now, blotches almost to his wrist.

Pulling out a chair, Chris sits so he can watch Lance work. There’s half a bag of M and M’s on the table and he pulls them close, grabbing a handful of the brightly coloured candy. Crunching shells and chocolate, and Chris is reaching for another handful even as he eats the first.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” Lance says, with no accusation. He doesn’t even look over at all, just keeps keep laying the chicken on the wire rack. The words still feel like a slap.

Tipping the chocolate into his mouth, Chris chews, reaches out again. They haven’t talked about this, but the healthy meals, the new low fat cook books piled on the shelf say it all.

It’s something he doesn’t want to talk about. It’s easier to ignore, because it’s so stupid, so minor. He’s fat; it’s as simple as that. Cut down eating, exercise more. In relation to other problems, it’s nothing.

He keeps telling himself that as he empties the packet, swallowing down the last mouthful of chocolate as Lance puts the chicken under the grill.

~*~*~*~

It feels like Lance has been here forever, breakfasts with the newspapers spread over the table and knees. They talk, but it's confined to things that don’t matter, and late nights watching TV. Chris has seen Lance’s proposals, aware of anxious looks as he read, but they’re good, and Lance didn’t hide his smile when he hears Chris's opinion.

Chris’ friends have been told he’s got guests, meaning no visitors for days. It’s easy and comfortable, hiding away from the world and Chris knows it can’t last forever, but for now it’s exactly what they need.

After a nasty battle, Chris has charge of the TV control. Jabbing fingers and sneak attacks to ribs, but there could be only one winner, especially when he shoved Lance from the couch with a well placed foot.

Channel surfing, Chris taps his fingers against his knee, bored waiting for Lance, who’s taking a bathroom break. He stops on MTV, another Making the Band show, and Chris watches with sick fascination, the parade of beautiful people on his TV. They’re naïve and innocent, unaware of the inevitable hard times ahead, but still, he can see their determination to succeed.

Watching, his own memories overlap the scenes on screen. When they were all so young, standing on the edge of success none of them could fully imagine. They’d shared an unfailing belief that they’d succeed, and they had.

Sometimes Chris misses that time so much it hurts.

There’s a boy onscreen. He’s dark haired and smiling, nothing special at all. Then he speaks, and the confidence shines, ego and self-confidence in a small polished package. Watching is hard, a reminder that even if they do get together again they’ll be old news. Competing in a race weighted to the young and the beautiful.

“I’ve seen this one,” Lance says, he’s carrying two steaming mugs and hands one to Chris. It’s Lance’s special recipe hot chocolate, and they’ve become so quickly domesticated that Chris can’t think of a time they didn’t do this every night.

“Watch it again then.” Chris shifts so Lance can stretch along the couch, his bare toes resting against Chris’ thigh. They’re singing onscreen now, and he sips at his drink, fingers wrapped around the mug.

“Do you miss it?”

Lance is looking at the TV, and Chris thinks before answering. He does miss it, despite his new band, his friends, it’s not the same. When he was bound tightly with four others, they were his life for years, and now he’s been cut loose. How can he not miss it? “Yeah.”

Lance nods, and they’re silent, listening to the song.

“Would you still go back?” Lance asks, and he’s watching the screen, not looking at Chris at all.

Chris hesitates, his immediate answer yes, but unwanted reality always rears when he thinks this through. “I’ve got a busted knee and I'm hardly boyband material anymore. That’s what they want, not me.” Chris indicates the TV and he expects Lance to joke, snark at the girl onscreen. Anything but the sudden anger as he turns, slopping hot chocolate over the top of his mug.

“You need to quit that. You’ve put on weight. So what? You’ll lose it, you always do. And even if you don’t, you look fine.”

“You trying to boost my ego, Bass?”

Exasperated, Lance sighs. “Fine, don’t take me seriously.”

“I am, it’s just. I know what the want and it’s not me.” Chris shrugs. It’s true after all.

~*~*~*~

Chris stretches out on the lounger, turning his face to the sun. It’s bordering on too hot and he’s sweating in t-shirt and shorts, but it would take too much energy to move inside. Instead he listens as Lance swims, powering across the pool with a series of rhythmic splashes.

“Chris. Phone!”

He must have been dozed off because Lance has his arm hooked over the side of the pool, waving and pointing at Chris’ cell.

“Got it.” Lance slides back into the water and Chris picks up his phone, shading his eyes to look at the display. He’s not surprised when it starts to ring again, a thrash cover of Rock Your Body, Justin’s always been impatient, and that includes calls.

“Hey.” Chris wiggles back down, making himself comfortable. Justin’s chats can either be seconds or hours, it’s always best to be prepared.

“You haven’t called, in like days. What’s up?” There’s concern under the joking tone and Chris frowns at the phone, Justin is a mother hen and it’s not like Chris was calling every day.

“I’ve been busy is all. Not like some people who spend their lives flipping off the paparazzi and vacationing with their girlfriends.” Chris considers taking offence at Justin’s disbelieving snort, but the sight of Lance’s tanned and toned body in the pool mellows him, and he lets it go.

“I hear you’ve taken in a roomie.” Mother hen, annoying, and a gossip. Really, Chris doesn’t know why Justin’s his friend.

“Lance is good company; he tidies after himself and doesn’t wake me up on his morning run. Unlike some people I know.”

“Once. Once I woke you up. You’re going to throw that in my face until my grave?” Chris considers. Three years is a long time and for all his faults he does love Justin, plus he’s feeling generous today.

“Okay, I guess I can let it go.”

“I’ll remember that.” Justin stops speaking and Chris can hear the distant sound of his voice, as if the phone is hidden behind his hand. “I have to go. I don’t know what’s up with you and Lance, but I’ll be flying your way in a week or so. You can cook me dinner.”

“Pizza it is then.” Justin laughs, just as Chris knew he would, and he’s looking forward to seeing him, while not wanting to at all. “I’ll see you then, love you.”

“Love you, we’ll talk soon.” Justin rings off and Chris stares at his phone, looking up when droplets of water hit his face.

“J?” Lance is standing over Chris, sun kissed and golden as he sweeps his hand across his hair.

“Yeah, he’s coming over in a week, says he wants dinner.”

“Like he can’t afford his own.” Lance sends another shower of droplets at Chris, tiny spots of relief against his over heated skin. “You’d be cooler if you took the t-shirt off.”

“I’ve seen what’s under it, so that’s a no.” Lance frowns and sits down, using his hip to scoot Chris over, his trunks leaving a wet patch against Chris’ thigh.

“I’ve told you. You look fine.”

“Says Mr People’s Torso of the Month.” Lance’s hand is on the swell of Chris’ stomach, fingers splayed over the layer of pudge and Chris wants to push it away. Lance doesn't give in, and Chris eventually lies still, allowing the touch.

“You should come swim with me, it won’t hurt.” Lance moves his hand, resting it on Chris’ knee.

Rationally Chris knows it’s not an attack or an insult, but he can’t help the immediate rush of angry feelings. He pushes them down, forcing himself to relax as Lance carefully traces the ridges left by Chris’ brace.

“It’ll be good for your knee.”

That’s true, but Chris can’t help hearing other implications in the words, and he fights against each one.

“Two laps. Winner does the washing up tonight.” It’s a bribe and Chris shouldn’t fall for it, but he’s hot and Lance is looking at him. There’s worry hidden in his expression and Chris hates to see it. Lance shouldn’t worry about anyone but himself.

“Last one in does the breakfast dishes.” A flurry of movement and Chris pushes himself off the lounger. Lance overbalances, landing on the ground as Chris runs to the pool, launching himself in with a splash. He hits hard and it stings like crazy, but he comes up laughing. Swimming for the opposite side as Lance scrambles to his feet and dives in.

It’s a close thing. Lance is a good swimmer but Chris has the head start, winning by seconds. He stands next to the wall, panting as Lance ducks his head under the water, surfacing in a shower of glimmering droplets.

“I’ll win next time.” Lance is smiling, and he smoothes back his hair until it’s sleek against his head.

“If I let you.” Wet curls fly as Chris shakes his head. Bringing up his feet, he sinks and looks into the water, watching his wavering pasty legs.

“How about tomorrow? Winner makes lunch.” Calmly casual and Chris is being played again but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s cool at last and Lance is only trying to help. This time it won’t hurt to let him.

~*~*~*~

Dinner, late night TV and a game of mock the video on MTV later and Chris is in bed and fast asleep. He wakes when the bed dips, and it feels like he’s only slept for minutes. Opening his eyes he squints at Lance who’s standing over him, washed out by the moonlight that floods the room.

Experience suggests visits like this are never good, and worry flares as Chris struggles up in bed. His heart races, sleepiness replaced by concern as Lance remains frozen in place.

“Are you okay?” Chris is hyper aware, the shadows flickering across the room, the speed of Lance’s breathing, the sudden unexpected feel of Lance’s hand, fingers stroking and warm against Chris’ side.

“This is stupid, and the worst idea ever, but I figured why not?” Lance is whispering, soft words muffled in the dead of night. He moves his hand upwards, caressing, and Chris can’t move, bites at his lip as Lance leans in, words tickling across Chris’ jaw. “You’re so beautiful.”

It’s the reality slam Chris needs. “This is beyond a bad idea, Lance. Like, you’re heading toward the worst idea ever.” He takes Lance’s hand, gently moving it to one side. He missed the contact and there’s a horrible moment when he thinks Lance is about to beg, and Chris doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to say no.

“I’m sorry.” Lance takes a step back from the bed, defences slamming down. Chris knows there’s seconds before he flees, and he kicks at the sheets, sending them sliding to the floor.

“Lance, no. Wait.” There’s no time for thought, and he acts instinctively, pulling Lance into a hug. At first he resists, but Chris holds on until Lance lets out a breath, body relaxing as he leans in. “I can’t be part of this thing you’ve got going. Anything else, but not this.”

“I know.” Lance’s words are warm against Chris’ neck, whispered confessions as Chris holds on. “It’s just, I think too much at night. During the day I can justify things, I know I’m doing okay, that everyone has problems, but at night.” Lance shudders, tiny shivers under Chris’ hands. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

He breaks the hug then, and Chris lets him. Watching as Lance slowly walks from the room with shoulders slumped and head bowed. Chris wants to follow, but there’s nothing he can do. Instead he climbs back into bed, staring at the ceiling for hours, achingly aware he’s just said no to something he’s wanted for so long.


~*~*~*~

Lance wakes up curled on the couch. Shame is an immediate ache, fuelled by the events of last night. They play through his head in an unwelcome detailed film. The warmth of Chris’ skin under his hand, the look in Chris’ eyes when he realised why Lance was there. It’s mortifying in so many ways, his lack of control, his obvious need. He wants to run, flee to the airport and home.

Peeling himself off the leather, Lance sits, hunched over and rubbing at his gritty eyes. As much as he wants to, he won’t go home; there’s nothing to go home for. At least here he’s got Chris, that is, if he still wants him to stay. Humiliated, Lance remembers Chris moving his hand, but also his words. anything else but not this. They’re something to hang onto, that Chris won’t cast him aside. Not that he would anyway. Rationally Lance knows that, the problem is believing it.

Gathering courage, Lance goes to the hall and listens for signs of life. It’s nine-thirty and usually Chris listens to the radio as they make breakfast, singing along and bitching through the news. Today there’s nothing, and Lance can’t help feeling he’s been left alone.

Heart rate starting to pick up, Lance looks in the kitchen, the dining room, runs upstairs, feeling more illogically abandoned at each empty room. He’s about to check outside when he hears a clank of metal. Following the sound he finds Chris in the utility room, arms full of laundry and using his knee to close the dryer door.

“Lance.” Cheeks flushed from the heat, Chris glances at Lance over an armful of sheets which he drops into a waiting basket. Pulling one free he shakes it out, and it’s so incredibly normal that Lance automatically holds out his hands when a corner comes his way. Chris hums under his breath as he folds, some nameless tune, but still, Lance finds himself humming along.

The last sheet is folded and Chris stills a moment, thoughts chasing across his face. Lance is frozen too, heart racing and waiting. Finally Chris looks at Lance. There’s no hint of smile, just a direct stare and it’s as if he can see each unsaid word. Take in and examine each hidden feeling. It’s uncomfortable and Lance rubs at his face, the scent of fabric softener ingrained in his skin.

“What happened last night. It can’t happen again. I’m not those people.”

Lance is about to protest. Chris could never be classed with those nameless strangers. As much as they use Lance, he uses them too, and he’d never treat Chris that way. Last night was something different, going after something he wanted while knowing he’d fail. Realisation hits along with burning shame.

“It won’t happen again.” It’s a promise Lance intends to keep, he won’t use Chris like that. He’s so much more than strangers in a bar.

“Good. Because my heart can’t take finding hot young men in my bed.” A fleeting hint of smile and Chris scratches at his chin, finger nails rasping through his thick morning beard. “You know, what I said before, about being here if you need to talk. The offer still stands.”

“I know.” Lance appreciates the offer, even if he won’t take it up. He hasn’t the words to explain to himself yet, never mind anyone else.

“Okay then, emotionally charged moment in my laundry room over. It’s time for you to make my breakfast.” Chris can switch from serious to apparently carefree in an instant, and he slaps Lance hard on the ass. “Go on, the eggs are waiting.”

Lance thinks about protesting, but really, it’s pointless. “Scrambled or poached?”

~*~*~*~

Lance has always had a calculating streak that leads itself perfectly to carefully crafted jokes. Chris loves that about him, especially when he suggests prank calling JC.

Settled at the kitchen table, Lance makes the call, phone on speaker so Chris can listen in.

There’s silence and rustling, and Chris can imagine JC struggling out of sleep, bleary eyed and yawning as he gropes for his phone. “Hello.”

“JC Chasez! This is Jim P. Barick from the Daily Mirror. Our readers would like to know how you feel about being sued by one of your former friends?” Chris gives an approving thumb up for Lance’s English accent as JC audibly exhales, his own warning of concealed anger.

“You’re a bit late, that story has been denied for weeks now.”

“It was your party, you brought the paint into the house, surely you have guilt about him losing an eye? The man was a guest, one of your friends, and now he’s doomed to a life with a glass eye.”

“He hasn’t lost an eye. No one’s lost an eye.” JC’s spent years being polite to reporters, and he’s hanging onto his manner – just.

“Have you offered to pay medical expenses? Buy him a state of the art eye? Surely you have some guilt? It was your party.”

“No, I’m not buying anything, there’s no need. Everyone has their eyes.” Lance holds up a hand and Chris gives a silent high five as they listen to JC’s struggle for composure.

“You’re in your thirties now, isn’t that too old for paint fights?”

“Just in my thirties and….”

Lance talks over JC’s protests. “I guess friendship means so little, in your game. Still it makes good copy. Chasez friend says Bye Bye Bye to eye.” There’s a strangled noise over the speaker, and Chris has no idea how Lance keeps going, voice serious despite his huge grin.

“We contacted Mr Timberlake earlier, he said, and these are his exact words JC is prone to violence at times. We tried to keep it on the downlow, but well, this was bound to happen. He threw a muffin at me once. Muffins, paint, it’s all the same to him. . Have you any comment to that, Mr Chasez?”

“There are no missing eyes and Justin deserved a muffin to the face!” A frustrated shout followed by muffled white noise. Then he comes back onto the line, tone suspicious. “Wait a minute. Justin’s away with his girl this week. No way could you contact him. What did you say your name was?”

“Jim P. Barick.” The game’s up, and Lance knows it too, his laughter mingling with Chris’ as JC curses loudly.

“Bastards.” Chris wipes at his eyes, can hear JC’s smile over the phone.

“You’re too easy, man.” It’s true, at least when JC’s half asleep and unthinking. He’s prime joke material then, something that’s been proven many times over the years.

“Whatever.” There’s a dragging sound, covers against skin, and JC’s voice is sleepy again, hushed over the miles. Chris misses him desperately, misses them all even as Lance sits at his side. “How’s things? I hear you two have quite the bachelor lifestyle going on.”

“If you call Lance’s sucky cooking and watching a load of TV a bachelor lifestyle, yeah.” There’s a kick against his calf, and Chris kicks back as Lance leans closer to the phone.

“You know that thing he tries to make with the sausage and melted cheese?” Lance looks up at Chris, grin sly. “It still hasn’t improved.”

“Like you didn’t eat it.”

“Never said I didn’t.” Lance is all innocence but Chris knows better, watches him through narrowed eyes. There’s a beginning of a staring contest, but JC breaks in, talking through a yawn.

“I’m in the studio later so I’m gonna’ catch a few more hours. Talk later, okay.”

Lance hangs up in a muddle of goodbyes and as soon as he catches Chris’ eye they’re laughing once more.

~*~*~*~

Lying in bed, Chris can’t help thinking. The awkward talk starting the day, the laughter later, cooking and dinner on trays as they watch American Idol. Lance tense as he waits for the results.

Some moments have been uncomfortable, cracks appearing in Lance’s cheery façade. Brief flashes they pretend not to see. More than anything Chris is pissed at the people who’ve made Lance feel this way. Each person who implied he wasn’t good enough, everyone who sneered and forced him to change, becoming someone he was never intended to be.

Lance is one of the best people Chris knows, always determined to succeed. That determination is working against him now, making him push forward despite the obstacles in his way. It’s not surprising he’s cracking, and Chris wishes he could go back in time, persuade everyone not to make that call.

Except even thinking about losing Lance is wrong. As screwed up as last night was, Chris can’t forget the touch of Lance’s hand, how close he was as he spoke. Words recited lines, but still, Chris remembers them all. Replays each one, because Chris knows Lance, but he also knows himself. This won’t go anywhere. It can’t.

Long buried feeling ripped open and exposed, Chris lies in the darkness listening for any noise. He dreads Lance appearing at his bedside, but at the same time, wishes he were here now.

~*~*~*~

Lance sits on the side of his bed. Yesterday had been good, but insecurity has come crashing down in the silent darkness of night. He’s exhausted and rubs at the crescent shaped indents in his palms, welcoming the sting as he forces himself to start moving, start another day.

Stripping, he starts the shower, stepping under the spray, letting the water pound against his skin, heat a distraction from the thoughts circling his mind.

Things have gone too far, and Lance is tired, torn between the man he was and the man he wants to be. Knowing things need to change, he steps out of the cubicle and runs his hand over the fogged mirror, staring at the stranger who wears his face.

It’s someone Lance doesn’t want to see, and momentarily he pulls back his arm, ready to smash his fist into the glass. He lets it drop, the edge he’s walking a chasm under his feet. There’s a choice of falling or stepping onto solid ground, and Lance doesn’t want to fall.

His robe’s hanging behind the door, and he pulls it on, tying the belt as he walks downstairs. He can hear Chris in the kitchen, singing along to the radio as he works at the stove. There’s bacon frying and piles of toast on the table, orange juice and coffee, normality that Lance grabs with both hands.

“I’ve been thinking…”

“I wondered what the sound was,” Chris doesn’t turn around, keeps frying bacon, and Lance can hear the grin in his voice.

Choosing to ignore the interruption, Lance walks further into the room. “I’ve had enough. Not producing, I love that. The other. I’m tired of it dragging me down. What I did to you was the last straw.”

Chris transfers the bacon to a plate and turns off the burner, turning to look at Lance. “You hardly did anything to me. It’s not like getting propositioned by you was a bad thing, just, dude. Terrible timing.” There’s something hidden in his voice, and Lance gropes to understand. Shifting through his own mess of thoughts as Chris transfers plates to table.

“I propositioned you.”

“Yeah.” Chris stops pouring coffee into a mug, and he’s looking at Lance like he’s insane, and maybe he is, driven there by the thoughts speeding through his head.

“And it wouldn’t have been a bad thing, except for my whole self appointed punishment issue?” Lance is talking to himself, but Chris puts down the coffee pot and answers anyway.

“Knowing that sort of took the pleasure out of you wanting to suck my dick. Funny that.”

Lance isn’t listening, convinced he’s seeing things wrong but needing to clarify anyway. “Which means otherwise you would have welcomed it.”

“Jesus, Lance. What do you want me to say? You’re hot, like, seriously hot and yeah, another time I’d have said yes. But it’s not and I know you only came to me because I was there, so….” Chris breaks off, and Lance’s heart thumps hard in the silence of the room.

Trying to make sense of everything, Lance picks through Chris’ words. “I need to. I’ll be back.” It’s ridiculous running away, but Lance needs to think, and he has to do that alone.

There’s a crash but it sounds like plates against the floor, not Chris’ hand against the wall. Lance keeps moving, ending up at the pool. The tile is cool against his bare legs when he sits, and he dangles his feet in the water, watching ripples shimmer across the surface.

It feels like he’s on the verge of something that’s happening too fast, too suddenly. It’s scary in so many ways, taking yet another chance on something that matters. Lance has lost before, important things torn from his grasp. Losing Chris is more than he could bear. It would be easier to ignore the chance, pretend he didn’t hear, but surely there’s a point you have to say no more?

Lance knows fear, and it isn’t space camp or jumping out of a plane. He needs to face this head on.

“You’re wrong,” Lance announces as he walks back into the kitchen where Chris is sitting at the table, shredding a slice of toast. “It wasn’t the only reason I came to you the other night. Mostly, yeah, but not all.”

“Are you saying you want me, like that? Because I find that hard to believe.” Chris crosses his arms, defensive. “All this time and never a hint, and now you’ve got this thing going and suddenly you’re saying you’d come on to me in the middle of the night. That’s bullshit, Lance. Play your masochistic games with someone else.”

“I know it sounds bad, but you have to believe me.” Lance’s head is spinning and he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all, but he knows it’s right, can feel it as he takes an impulsive steps forward, stealing a kiss, Chris’ mouth tight against his own.

“What the hell was that?”

“That’s a promise I guess.” Lance sits down on a chair, and he’s all too aware of how cold his feet are, the wood that digs into his thighs, the confusion in Chris’ eyes as he sits in the chair opposite. They’re facing one another over the empty breakfast dishes, and Lance hates he’s made Chris feel so bad. “I’m so fucked in the head right now.”

“You and me both,” Chris says, as if it’s the most normal thing ever, and maybe for them it is. They share a look, and Chris starts picking at the slice of toast again, shredding the crusts. “It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just. It wouldn’t be right. Not yet.”

“So we have a promise instead.” It all makes sense to Lance, and he wills Chris to understand. Things are too unsettled right now, but the commitment is there, something solid to hold onto and Lance knows all it’ll take is time.

“A promise meaning?”

“Meaning I stay here, or you come with me and we’ll see how it goes.” Lance reaches across the table, and Chris takes the hint, linking their fingers together, joined between the orange juice and toast.

“I don’t think it’ll be that easy.” Chris tightens his grip, and there’s worry threaded through his words. “If thing go wrong, it’ll be this huge mess.”

It’s true, but things are a mess now, and Lance needs to try. He’s been lost so long and Chris feels like home. “I like you, we’ve been friends forever, I’m attracted to you…”

“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be?” It’s humour as a shield, but Lance easily sees through it. He’s seen the insecurities and maybe he can’t fix them, but he won’t let Chris hide behind them either.

“Shush, we’re having a moment.”

With a deep sigh and a roll of his eyes, Chris waves his hand, scorn written in the air. “Fine, carry on with the moment.”

“Fine. I will.” There’s a moment of glaring and curled lips, then Lance pushes aside the distraction, holding tight to Chris’ hand as he tries to pull it free. “I’m attracted to you. I think you’re hot….”

“You obviously need…”

“If you mention glasses, I’ll hurt you.” Shutting down Chris’ objection, Lance carries on. “Despite recent actions, I’m not stupid. I know my own mind. I know what I like, and at the risk of inflating your ego, that’s you.”

“I think you’re insane,” Chris says, but he runs his thumb over Lance’s hand, tiny movements as he takes a deep breath and Lance is holding his breath, desperately hoping he’ll take this step. “But. I guess I trust you.”

“Good, because I’m right about this.” Lance grins at Chris’ snort of disbelief. This thing they’ve got going could be everything or nothing. As he stands, pulling Chris close, and wrapping him in a hug, he hopes it’ll be everything. All they can do is try.