JC ran from the room with his hand slapped over his  mouth, his eyes stinging and his heart smashed. His fingers pinched at the skin on his neck as he looked for a place to hide out. Sliding into the bathroom, he didn’t bother to turn on the light, afraid it would only clarify his world. And he didn’t want anything anymore. His body slid down the wall to the cold tile beside the sink, and he sat there, horrified. He felt the strain behind his eyes, like tears wanted to fall, yet none would. His head dropped and he stared into the blackness. His lips were moving in prayer but no sound was emitting. It was dream with no meaning, no little escape button. Minutes ticked by, bit by bit, and the roar in his head was deafening. His gift was gone, and his world was black. A chill drifted through his bones and he wondered what would become of him. He pondered what the world would offer him when he emerged from the bathroom without sound. “JC?” Lance’s faint voice filtered through to him, and he blinked up at the sound. Instinctively, he cried out ‘yes’, only to hear quiet in return. The new chapter in his life. Crawling to the door to unlock it would have been easy -- unchaining his secret and tumbling into Lance’s arms a joy. But then his shame would have to materialize, and that was a fate worse than death. To see the distress that would cloud Lance’s eyes when he found out about the deal -- it would kill him. So he stayed motionless, with his back squashed against the wall and rocked. He figured Lance would eventually leave him, and in the meantime he could count all the ways he’d let people down in his short time on earth. “Couldn't do it eh?” the old man said. JC flinched and reached out, scrambling to his feet for the light switch. A soft glow illuminated the room unexpectedly, and JC stared as the man clasped a small gold box. JC was entranced by the diamonds that encrusted the top, and the sapphires that danced along the side. A low hum fell from the center and JC cocked his head in wonder. That song. That tone. The old man smiled, revealing pointed teeth and leaned forward. “Ah, yes. It’s yours, Joshua. You’re voice.” He tapped the lid with one finger. “A deal is a deal. You were oh so close.” JC fell to his knees, the palm of his hand wrapped around his neck, his eyes wild with anguish as the box sang out with his voice. Tears filled his eyes and he swayed back on his heels in a state of hopelessness. It was bizarre to have no sound emanate from his throat, no note or reverberation, no whistle or noise as tears slid down his face. It was curious to think that when he did finally make his way out of the darkness, he would have to write down what happened, and as his mind continued to think, he suddenly imagined all the doctors that appeared in his future. Consequences he hadn’t thought of. “JC? Come on, please open up! Let’s talk!” Lance’s voice was thick with awkwardness, and a little frantic. The panic and surprise,  anxiety already wheeling its way around his body from having his friend break an unspoken bond. It made JC drop lower. “Answer it,” the old man said as the light dimmed. “Go to him. He’s concerned, but apparently not interested!” A malicious cackle and the evil was gone, leaving JC alone once more. JC sniffled and pressed his hands against the floor. He had no interest in seeing Lance’s face -- a reminder of failing. Of what he might have had if given time. Of how sad Lance's eyes were bound to be when JC opened his mouth and couldn’t sing. Or talk. Or even cry like a man should be able to. “Jesus, C! I’m sorry. We ... please .. we have to talk!” It was misery, JC mused through his tears, Lance’s misery, a feeling that he’d done wrong somehow. Inevitably the time had come, however, and JC wrapped his hand around the doorknob to let Lance in. To start the ball on the roller coaster of hell that was about to rip hundreds of lives apart. Slowly, JC wiped his face and pulled the door open. Lance was standing there with his hair skewed, and his boxers slung low on his hips. “Man, come on. I ordered some coffee. Let’s go talk.” Lance sighed and rubbed his eyes, an apology of sorts very clear in his puzzled expression. Remorse that JC saw so clearly. It was obvious Lance was troubled and that fact slapped JC hard. He longed to explain it all, since the plan had fallen apart, but he couldn’t. Lance tilted his head and forced a smile. JC had no way out. He could see the sun cracking in through the part in the drapes and he blinked repeatedly before brushing past Lance to collapse to the bed. “Look,” Lance said, climbing up next to him. “I was wasted, man. Fucked up. I’m still drunk, and my goddamned head is splitting wide open. I know it was an accident. Just one of those things.” Lance fidgeted uncomfortably, and JC nodded sadly. “I mean, Christ, you kissed me!” The laugh that emerged was nervous, and unsure, and JC heard the disquiet in Lance’s words. “Shit. Laura’s gonna flip when I tell her.” JC seized Lance’s arm desperately, and pleaded with big eyes -- and he shook his head no over and over again. “What?” Lance plucked JC’s grip from him and backed up a bit. “JC? Man, come the hell on. What? You’re freaking me out!” He slid toward the edge of the bed and scanned the floor for his clothes. “Maybe I should just go and ..” JC lunged across the bed and grabbed Lance’s hands -- he held them to his knees and stared at him. There were no words, but he had to make Lance understand while he had time. Before everyone noticed he had no voice -- before the world as they knew it was changed forever. This was his time -- a moment he had alone with Lance to make him see ... So he closed his eyes briefly, and composed himself. He forced his head to stop swimming around, and urged his pulse to slow. And when he opened his eyes, Lance was not moving. Lance was completely still, gazing at JC with trepidation on his face, and compassion in his green eyes. And instead of pulling away, Lance was making a connection, even as he brought his hand to his cross and fiddled with it tensely. “Something bad, isn’t it?” Lance whispered. JC nodded solemnly, and dropped Lance’s hands. Then he opened his mouth, just a little, and tried to speak. It was the most peculiar feeling -- a tug at his chords and a slight pressure but no familiar rumble. His eyes closed with the sensation, an unpleasant tug that forced him to sink down under a mountain of culpability and hurt. His lips opened a little wider and he tried again. His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth and he filled his lungs with air. Nothing. Swallowing thickly, he let his eyes open again, and chewed on the corner of his lip -- staring helplessly at Lance. Then he lowered his gaze in shame and slipped off the bed, fearful of the tears that ached to tumble. It only made his throat constrict in discomfort. When JC got to the window, he drew the curtains back and let the sunlight creep in. The palms of his hands pressed against the cool glass and he leaned on it, begging for support. The sky was pink and he stared into it -- the witness to a new day. Lance’s hand landed on his shoulder and it only made the tears make their escape. “Are you in pain, JC? I mean, I don’t understand so much and ...” JC spun around and pointed to his throat. The motion was met with question in Lance’s face, and a feeble shrug. “I’m sorry,” he said, peering closer, trying to comprehend. “You have a sore throat?” Carefully, JC took Lance’s hand and pressed it to his throat firmly, right to the hollow of his neck. He could feel the chill in Lance’s fingertips, and the way they shook -- as if he knew something was incredibly wrong. Deadly wrong. Then JC opened his mouth and tried to sing, just one note. One tiny peep of a lyric. He watched as Lance’s eyes drifted down his neck to see his Adam’s Apple bob but no sound come out. Through his tears, he saw Lance’s eyes open wide in alarm. And he nodded, releasing Lance’s hand. “No!” Lance cried, jerking his hand away quickly. “JC! You can’t ... your voice?” JC nodded miserably, glad Lance was smart. Happy that he didn’t actually have to write it down because he feared that would push him too far. Suddenly, Lance’s arms were around him, hugging him, pulling him close and whispering in his ear. “Laryngitis,” Lance was saying. “You need to rest. Your vocal chords are just stressed. Justin said you were recording some new stuff, and maybe it was too much.” JC pushed away and frowned. He shook his head vehemently, in anger, longing to tell Lance that it wasn’t laryngitis. That his voice was never coming back. That it was over. But the face that stared back at him was so lost, and ill prepared, and no matter what, JC still loved Lance. To put him through this would be painful enough. No need for the truth to escape just yet and make it worse. “Tea,” Lance mumbled, pushing his fingers through his hair. His eyes were intense as he stumbled around looking for his pants. “I’ll get you some tea. You’ll be better!” It was far more difficult for JC to see this panic, because he had a feeling Lance knew there was more to the loss than what he saw. There was some electric connection sending jolts into him, and the fear that Lance displayed was far more than if he truly believed it was a simple case of laryngitis. So he let him dress and scurry around like a lost dog, and he watched as Lance dialed room service and demanded a pot of tea. And slowly, JC began to dress himself as Lance continued to make phone calls, first to Laura, then to Joey. He watched intently as his tears began to dry - watched as Lance’s knee jiggled, and his hands shook. And when he was dressed, he simply wandered over and plucked the phone from Lance’s hand and hung it up. Kneeling down, he reached into the nightstand drawer and found the scratch pad and tiny pencil. Then he scribbled his first message: I’m going for a walk. I’ll be fine. Thank you. Lance snatched the pad and blinked. “I’ll go with you,” he said, jumping up. “We’ll take the tea to go and ...” JC smiled warmly and patted his hand, and shook his head no. “I’ll be back,” he mouthed. Slipping into his sneakers, he snatched his jacket and hat and hurried from the room before Lance could get him, before Lance could nail him with pretty eyes and a heartfelt grin -- before he could make him change his mind. Because when all was said and done, this was *his* problem. He was the one with his voice gone, and his heart destroyed ... with his deal looming so largely over his head. Bad choices and disgusting motives. He heard Lance call for him, but pressed on, taking the stairs down two at a time. As he yanked his sunglasses from his jacket, he flew out the back exit of the hotel and slipped down and alley, glad for the early morning commuters that filled the street. It was easy to blend in, which he did, and headed for some soul searching at the only place he thought could help now. continue menu