JC didn’t dare stop to think of what was happening, or how Lance seemed to be stepping into the kiss. He didn’t care to imagine exactly *what* Lance was thinking, or why. All he knew was Lance was with him, kissing back, and Lance’s hands were warm at his waist, slipping along the bare flesh without consequence or awareness for the thin boxers that were the only barricade between their bodies. The song continued to play, and JC had to stop kissing to catch his breath -- to look at Lance and make sure it was real. As soon as the kiss was broken, Lance took a step back, and JC could see the crimson in his cheeks, and the way his eyes blinked with trepidation. “Was that not okay?” Lance asked, his voice a mere glimmer of it’s usual opulent tone. “JC, God, I didn’t mean to do this ...” JC’s brow crinkled and he looked around for a pen, eager to find out more. “No, JC, listen to me,” and it was Lance grabbing for *him*, placing fingers around *his* wrist and pulling *him* back. “That night, the night you lost your voice. Jesus, things got out of hand.” Lance was trembling, and boasted that disoriented look in his eyes, the one that scrabbled at JC every time. “I mean, I didn’t expect what was happening, and then ... when you voice ...” Lance twisted away and pressed his hand against the back of his neck, dropping JC’s hands. It was tricky for JC, harsher that he could conceive of, and his chest constricted as he observed Lance struggle. And he had so many questions, hundreds ... beginning with ‘why’ and ending with ‘what does this mean’. “Laura and I?” Lance snorted bitterly, as if he had read JC’s mind, “We’re done. Never really started. Since, well, that night and ...” JC blinked. Over? Never started? His heart skipped every other beat and he stared at the back of Lance’s head, at the blonde hair that was so neatly cropped, at the tiny freckle that sat at the base of his neck. He’d memorized Lance and not even known it. “Not that I don’t love her, C,” Lance said quickly, turning back around. His eyes were wide, and turmoil swam around freely in the pale green. “I do. She’s my best friend, in here.” Lance’s hand pressed to his heart and he lowered his gaze. “But I don’t want to sleep with her, and press up against her at night. When I kiss her ...” Again, his voice trailed, choked by sentiment. This was where JC ached to speak, to interject and touch some of that uneasiness that Lance was having, to brush it away with words that rolled around on his tongue but had no reason to come out. It was then he longed for another chance -- and prayed that wicked old man would come back so he could plead for his voice. Because, JC realized, he *needed* to tell Lance exactly what his heart was saying. He needed to punctuate each word with a pause, then a kiss. The grief was simply too great. His heart was hammering, and his temples were thundering. All he could do was reach out and stroke Lance’s shoulder, hesitantly. And smile just a little to confirm the feelings were returned, and mouth “I understand” because he *did*. But Lance was still distressed, and shrank back from the touch. “I’m overwhelmed,” he admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I feel like I’m being ripped open here.”  He sighed and kicked out at the wall a little. “I can’t open this can of worms, but I can’t *not*. Does that make sense?” JC thought it made perfect sense -- clarity the likes of which he’d only dreamed of. So he nodded and reached out again, eager to explain things. So long as Lance was there, and not running, he thought he’d have a chance. With one hand, he reached out and snatched a pen, and with Lance watching, he began to write -- to expel the evil and damage inside. He scribbled, far too quickly, but his hand was shaky, and his body was roaring and when he was done, he pressed the paper into Lance’s hand. Then he watched while Lance read it. It was being laid out, in blood, for all to see. A visual testament to what he’d fought since that day at the church. : It wasn’t a mistake. My voice. I offered it for you. It makes no sense, I know. But I chose to be with you, Lance. And if loving you is wrong, then I’m wrong. I’m way fucking wrong.: Lance read it over, twice, and JC bit his thumb as he waited. It was a lot, too much perhaps, too rapidly. He tried to gauge Lance’s face, his reaction. It was blank, like a canvas ready to be painted. And JC wanted to paint huge smiles and emeralds that jumped with happiness. He ran his hand through his hair and waited. “How?” Lance asked slowly, crumpling the paper in his hand. “You say you offered your voice? JC? Offered? I don’t understand. How?”  His eyes were so wide, it almost hurt JC to look into them. Lance’s body was quivering and his fists were tight beside him. Panic, JC realized, pure panic. JC snatched another piece of paper and scribbled, offering it to Lance. :A man took it. I had one night to get you to accept and return my feelings. I failed. He took: It was a slow beat of ten before Lance erupted. “WHAT? JC! This doesn’t .. happen. You can’t just GIVE your voice away!” He paced, ripping around the room in giant strides, and JC hung back. “Who? Who the fuck did this to you? Did they hurt you? Hold you down? Make you drink something? What?” There was indignation in Lance’s eyes as he circled the studio, pausing only to glare at JC. “TELL ME NOW!” he cried, stopping to grip JC’s arms. “Because we’ll find him, JC. We’ll have him arrested and fuck HIM for doing this!” JC shook his head because Lance wasn’t *getting* it. He was shaking and his grip was nearly hurtful, and JC just stayed still under the mistake, waiting for Lance to let it all out. It was misunderstood, and confusing, and wrong. Very wrong. “I’m sorry,” Lance whispered, dropping his hands. “God, I didn’t mean to shake you. I’m shocked. How could you not tell us?” Lance’s tone was so steady and calm it frightened JC -- like the rage had gone away ready to pounce again perhaps. Trepidatiously, he ripped another piece of paper from his notebook and scribbled. Then he gave it to Lance. :You can’t find him. He’s Satan. It was a deal. I lost. It’s over, Lance. We go from here. This spot: Lance tore the paper into tiny pieces and shook his head. “No! Fuck no! Satan JC? You’re saying Satan took your voice?” It was insane, JC knew as he nodded, but what else could such an evil man be? Satan himself -- snatching voices and dreams, dangling offers with impossible odds. He wanted to cry, to save Lance the pain of trying to figure it all out. He ached to just grab Lance to him and give him a kiss to erase it all. Everything hurt as Lance fell against the wall with his hand clapped over his mouth -- stunned. JC knelt beside him and rubbed his leg -- he grabbed his hand and pressed it to his heart. And he kissed the top of his head gently. Telling him in the only way he could that life could still exist .. that things were going to be alright if they had each other. The first tear that slipped out of Lance’s eye slapped JC, took the air from his lungs instantly. “I’m sorry, C,” Lance said lowly, remaining still. “This is not Satan. I don’t know what happened, but we’re taking you to a shrink. And you’re getting all this straightened out because this is the most fucked thing I’ve ever heard. And if you think Satan took your voice ... I have no choice.” The words were cold, distant and firm. JC sank back a little and shook his head, but Lance was already standing, blowing hot air into his hands from some mystical chill he’d gotten, and nodding. “I’m going to call now. Go get dressed.” Then he was gone, snapping the studio door shut behind him. JC was alone again. Wasted and done. Out of any strength to fight. He climbed to his feet and slid out of the studio, padding up the steps to his room. Once he dressed, he wandered back down to the kitchen where Lance and Justin were talking -- about him. They stopped when they saw him, and sent him pitied looks which stabbed at him. JC grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and went to the front stoop to wait. Wait for Lance to drag him to some psychiatrist who would call him delusional, or perhaps suffocate him with more meds. Or maybe he would say it was psychological, and he really still *had* his voice. JC snorted, not even minding when no sound emerged. His lips still burned where Lance kissed him, and now his fear was that as his heart opened, Lance would slam it shut, fearful of loving a freak. JC twisted the bottle open and closed his eyes as he took a long sip. The water slid down his throat smoothly and he swallowed it down, letting the chill curl in his belly. “Ready?” Lance asked, stepping out of the house. “We’re going to the European guy, then this shrink who’s excellent.” JC watched as Lance covered his eyes with sunglasses and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He observed how Lance sighed, then stepped off the front porch, down the stairs to his truck. And JC stood to follow, burying his hope. Satan *had* taken his voice -- he knew it. There was no way he could have imagined that. No way. So two hours later JC found himself in a state of hopelessness as Lance spoke for him, asking the fancy medical doctor hundreds of questions as his arms folded over his chest and his forehead creased in understanding. And JC wanted a drink. “That went well,” Lance said on the way to the physiatrist. “He thinks maybe laser surgery is a possibility.” JC ran his finger along the cool glass of the passenger side window and shrugged. It didn’t matter. He really didn’t care that much anymore as he realized Lance didn’t want him the way he was. So he sat without fight in him and listened to Lance ramble on and on about possibilities. Phantom dreams because the real culprit was long gone. The man with the jeweled box that sang so stunningly. Soon he was slouching in an oversized leather chair while a middle aged man with a runny nose and bad breath began to get history from Lance. Like Lance knew *anything*, JC thought sourly. If Lance knew *anything* they would be back at his house, exploring each other instead of chasing wild theories. It was a slow spin, a slide really, that attacked JC suddenly. His vision blurred and the ground seemed to gain ground. Lance's voice was droning on and on, and the man was wiping his nose with an endless parade of Kleenex -- and his throat was tingling, aching. JC grabbed for it as he toppled to the floor with nausea attacking him, and the whole world a mad sea of grays and dirty whites. He tried to scream because the feeling was deathly, a grip of sorts squeezing him. Lance’s eyes swam in front of him, so fucking huge, and JC grabbed onto him, and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again ... although he wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that death *had* to be near, that this sinking feeling had to be life leaving his body. A rumble that pushed his insides away and traveled upward. Someone was screaming, and JC covered his ears because the sound was positively deafening. It hurt his eardrums and forced his eyes to shut. He curled into a ball and waited for the sound to go away. Minutes passed and finally all was quiet. Then a sobbing laugh, and JC was so upset he wanted to cry. But Lance was prying his hands from his ears and smiling with teary eyes, and hugging him tightly. “You screamed,” he gasped, pushing JC’s head to his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, you screamed!” JC blinked and pushed Lance away, and he wanted to ask what the HELL Lance was babbling about ... but his throat felt funny. Different. Lance nodded at him and stroked his cheek. “Try to talk, C. Just say a few words.” He looked at the doctor for the okay, but he was rubbing his nose in shock. “Say something okay? Whisper it.” JC narrowed his eyes at Lance, afraid to trust, afraid to do more damage. So he attempted to clear his throat, and heard a tiny rumble. His body jerked forward and he looked up at Lance -- scared to believe. But Lance was nodding and smiling, and giving him faith. “Say something,” Lance urged, brushing his lips against JC’s forehead. “Little words. Anything.” JC shook and sat up as straight as he could -- and he inhaled slowly -- and he opened his mouth. Then, his heart took over, and he stared at Lance, at the huge teary eyes, and he spoke. “I Love You.” It didn’t matter to him if Lance didn’t say it back -- because he had gotten it out, expelled it from his soul. No more secrets. Lance pulled him tight, and JC pressed his forehead against his shoulder. “So you see,” the psychiatrist said, “All psychological. Something enormous must have triggered Joshua’s vocal chords to strain and refuse to work. All is well now. All is well.” JC blinked up at the quack with amused eyes. “Whatever,” he whispered, hauling himself up. He extended his hand to Lance and shook his head. “Let’s get outta here,” Lance smiled, wiping his eyes. “Amen!” JC grinned, waving his hand to the doctor. continue menu