Lance always hated hospitals with their biting sanitary scent that you could never quite rid yourself of -- the sterility and whiteness that seemed to be almost haunting in nature. He forced himself to the elevators, begging his feet to continue, to keep marching along while his head spun in some kind of pea soup like thickness. “Lance, honey you alright?” Britney laid a hand on his arm and he swallowed thickly, his heart squeezed by invisible hands that seemed to eradicate the beat. And Lance didn’t know. He knew nothing except the ambulance had come for Justin and taken him away -- that Justin was dying of some cancer that had attacked his body brutally, sapping life from the inside out -- that what joy he’d found was being ripped from him. It was selfish, and while Lance knew it, he was angry that he’d been in the darkness for so long. As Thanksgiving and the end of November approached. Angry that he’d been giving himself so freely to Justin while Justin had been keeping secrets. Irate that his life was going to change without consent or approval. Destroyed at the mere idea of not seeing those bright blue eyes anymore. “I’m fine,” he said tersely, shoving her delicate hand away. “I just need to see him -- then I’m gone.” Britney jumped in front of him as he pushed the elevator button, one hand clasping her neck. “Excuse me?” she gasped. “You’re what?” Dark brown eyes bore into him, and Lance looked away. “Leaving. Back to New York.” He stepped to the side and shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, focusing his gaze on the little arrow illuminating over the elevator. “He doesn’t want to share. He wants to play games and keep me at shut out. Point received.” Her sharp grip embedded itself in his forearm and he winced, turning his head to her. “How DARE you?” Britney hissed, punctuating her point harder with her nails. “How fucking dare you be so goddamned selfish?” Her eyes watered with tears and she shoved his arm away in disgust. “That boy needs his friends, you prick. And you are going no where until November is over, hear me?” Lance snorted sourly as the doors opened and he stepped in, Britney on his heels. “You think you can play with me too? Like I’m a fucking Ken doll?” He pressed his back against the wall and let out a shuddering sigh, begging his torn emotions to steady -- to present his point with purpose. He was hurt. And had no clue how to glide around the pain. Britney glowered as she hit the floor button. “Chris is with Justin now,” she said slowly. “And you are gonna take over. Sit with Justin and hold his hand. Feed him fucking eclairs if it’s what he wants.” She paused to meet Lance’s narrowed eyes in the mirror of the elevator car. “Don’t test me, Bass. I love that boy and I will not see him hurt by anyone. Least of all someone he’s done so much for.” Lance felt the slap of her words burn across his cheeks, and he stared at her, now dressed down in a FuMan tee-shirt and denim shorts -- plain white Keds on her feet. Her hair pulled up carelessly into a ponytail and her makeup scrubbed clean. She looked like the Britney he remembered -- only with wisdom of a much older woman. Kind but ferocious -- lost but found. The protector. He pulled his gaze away, ashamed. Saddened by the other world that felt the need to swipe away a life as pure as Justin‘s. They walked down the hallway in edgy silence, each one preparing to see Justin -- each one loving and losing in their own way. But as they rounded the corner and made their way in, Lance noticed Britney inhale deeply, composing herself, putting on her show. He watched as she wiped the tears from her eyes, and he observed her lips moving noiselessly in some form of prayer. Lance’s eyes became unfocused as a burn coated his throat. He saw something there -- so pure form of love, untainted and sure, giving and more spiritual than he was prepared for. The way she pushed her own joylessness down to put on a face for Justin -- to lend him strength and give him love. And Lance pulled at the blonde strands of his hair because he was self-centered and unthinking. He fell against the corridor wall and tried to catch his breath as Britney disappeared inside the room. His hands fell to his knees and he bent to gasp. To try to get some goodness in him. To leave behind his heartache and inundate himself with Justin’s pain -- Justin’s need. “Hey, buddy. You alright?” Lance bit his lip hard, really hard, letting the stinging pain hit him back to where he was supposed to be, and Chris rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. “How is he?” Lance croaked, searching Chris’ face for good news, for some ray of light, or that trademark Chris smirk. He wanted Chris to laugh and say ‘Fooled ya! Justin’s fine!’ Clap him on the back and say it had all been a terrible joke to teach him a life lesson. But the desolate look buried in those unsmiling eyes said enough. “He’s afraid you’re upset with him. Scared that freaked you. Worried about how you’re feeling.” The truckload of guilt pounded Lance hard, smashing his shoulders like sledgehammers, and he staggered to a standing position -- grief swimming in his eyes along with tears. “He’s worried about me?” he gasped, clutching his stomach. “Justin is ...” His voice cracked, broken by sentiment and amazement. “Jesus.” The enormity of such a thing rumbled through his chest, taking his pulse for a dangerous ride. His temples thudded as blood rushed from his head. “My God!” Chris embraced him, clutching him close. “Yeah, I’d say he’s pretty fucking nuts about you, man. I don’t think he saw that coming. I don’t think any of us did. He mentioned your proposal, moving out here and all.” Lance grabbed onto Chris’ shirt like a forlorn child, his hands fisting in the material endlessly, hoping to grab optimism from Chris. Finding a bit, but not enough. “Jesus,” he whimpered into Chris’ neck. “God. How do I ... what? I mean. Fuck.” His words came in ragged and broken sentences, aching for clarity. Getting none. “Just be with him,” Chris whispered, stroking Lance’s back. “Just go in there and say what you feel, man. Don’t hide. Don’t crucify him like you did JC.” The truth shall set you free, Lance thought bitterly. The truth also hurt as he broke the embrace and nodded vigorously. “I’ll do that,” he promised, swiping at his burning eyes. “I can do that. I can.” Britney’s head popped out, the outrageous expression perched safely back on her face. “Gonna wait for a gold invite Lance? Or you gonna sashay that cute ass of yours in here now?” She smiled and cocked her head, showing her willingness to let things go -- to give him another chance. “I’m going now,” he smiled weakly, his insides shaking with fear. As he stepped past her, she placed her hand on his shoulder and stood on tip-toes to reach his ear. “You hurt him, I break your face, understood?” Lance stepped back and looked down at her, this tiny creature with all the ferocity of a momma bear. “Got it,” he said solemnly. And he did get it, suddenly. The dedicated friendship that was not to be fucked with. As he stepped into the room, he again wished for his cross -- his protection. The skin on his chest tingled where it had once hung and he cried for it softly. A solitary light illuminated the private room, casting a pinkish glow over Justin. And when Lance let his eyes cast a gaze, he crumbled. Justin -- the very image of health and strength to him. Curled on his side, a pained look marring his perfect featured. Agony seemed to crease in his forehead, and upon seeing Lance, he let his eyes close slowly. In defeat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, letting his hand fall out from under the sheet. “So sorry, Lance.” It broke Lance further to hear Justin speak like that -- like he had let him down in some way. “God, Justin! What the fuck?” In an instant, Lance was on the bed, clasping Justin’s hand in his, rubbing his shoulder affectionately. Compassionately. With a feeling deep in his gut that he hadn’t realized he even possessed. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Justin’s cheek, savoring the rough stubble that fell across his skin. “Don’t apologize for being an amazing man. Jesus, Justin! We should all be so good in life.” Justin shrugged and held up his arm pathetically, showing off his IV. “I’m not that good, Lance. I lied to you, and that was wrong. I mean, dammit ...” His voice trailed and his hand dropped down, tucking back under the white sheet. Lance searched for words to say, to convey how much it was breaking his heart to see Justin sick and -- he couldn’t yet say dying. Dying was so final. To see that light extinguished at such a young age, when there was so much more life to live. “Isn’t there a treatment?” he whispered, rubbing Justin’s knee through the cotton, aching to slip underneath and touch his skin. “Chemo or ..” “No,” Justin said quickly, his lips curling into a frown. “I don’t want to be sick like that, Lance. To rely on chemicals that would poison and steal what life I have.” Cloudy eyes fixed on a distant spot, and imaginary dot so he wouldn’t have to defend his decision once more. It was too hard. “No. I’m going to die. My body is giving up.” He blinked his gaze back and sighed with a sleepy smile. “Can you take me home? I don’t really want to be here.” “Justin, are you sure because that doesn't’ seem wise and ..” “Please, Lance?” Justin asked quietly. “I’ll feel better at home. Honestly.” His voice was steady and even as he spoke, but his eyes were lost and holding back. Lance felt it to his toes. It send shivers through his body and he nodded, ready to do whatever he had to for Justin. To give back a little. To prove he had changed. Pulling the sheet up, he bent down and slid his arm under Justin’s knees, his eyes holding conversation with the ones just inches from his face, asking permission, seeking the okay. Justin blinked in concurrence, and Lance dug his other arm around his back, lifting gently, fearful of breaking his friend in two. Without a word, he carried Justin outside to the starry night where the moon glistened in the midnight blue sky and a star hurtled across the sky. “Make a wish,” Justin whispered. Lance stopped and raised his face to heaven and squeezed his eyes shut, letting a solitary tear slip down his cheek. And he wished harder than he ever had -- for life to be restored. For life to be lived. For a broken body to be healed. For Justin to live to see grandchildren and gray hair. As the falling star burned out, Justin kissed his neck. “Don’t wish for that,” he said softly. “I’ve made peace. It’s God’s will for my time to be short. And I just want to live it the best I can.” Lance let the tears fall carelessly down as he carried Justin’s long body to the car. Preparing himself for life alone. part nine sweet november menu part eleven