Lance lay in bed with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, pretending not to hear the conversation hissing outside in the hallway. His temples throbbed and his stomach rolled from drinking but the chill that cloaked him was far worse. It was an icy crawl along his flesh that never went away. No simple embrace could bust it down. Blankets were useless. It was a frigidness from inside. One that wounded him. He heard Justin’s outraged voice glaring at his latest fling, and something deep inside of him wept. He saw the agony in Justin’s eyes day after day, and he begged himself to feel for it. Still the walls were thick, and he could never seem to pound through them enough to let Justin know he was still inside. “Hey,” the guy said as he strolled back into the room. “I just met your roommate. Nice guy.” Lance sighed as the guy oozed cockiness, his body beautiful, but his mind empty. He’d heard the come on, and hated to even admit that it stung. That this person had laid in his bed for hours beside him, then hit on his friend. But, Lance wondered as the man sat back down on his bed, if he was more upset that his lifestyle was affecting Justin. Because he loved Justin. Too much. It wouldn’t show -- couldn’t show. The pain was too great. The shame. He was dirty and soiled while Justin was precious and sweet. Large hands pulled at his waist, rolling him over to his back, and Lance let himself hide again. “You’re like the fucking energizer bunny,” he laughed, twirling his fingers through the man’s dark hair. With a rough shove, he guided the man down to his cock which was already hard. Slowly he pulled the sheets up to his chin, so he wouldn’t have to see. And as the mouth covered his erection, he imagined a faceless angel sucking on him -- bright blue eyes and short curls. “No!” Lance cried, twisting to the side. It was Justin. It was always Justin he felt. Shadows of a life that no longer existed. And he refused to drag such a virtuous soul to be towed along with his self destructive behavior. He removed Justin’s face from his head, and replaced it with a random porn video he’d seen recently, forcing his mind to conjure up images of threesomes and circle jerks. The more filthy the better. And soon he was riding the wave of an orgasm. Then he hoped the stranger wouldn’t talk, or expect something in return. Because he was *not* about to grace him. So he curled onto his side and tucked his hands under his pillow, and let his breathing slow into a sleep. He felt the shake at his shoulder, and the low curses in his ear as the man threw a tantrum. ‘Selfish bastard’ was a good one, and Lance’s lips twitched in sadistic amusement as he listened to the guy dress and crash around his room. “Fuck you, asshole,” was the final cry before his door opened, then slammed shut. Lance pressed his face into the pillow and inhaled. His sheets used to smell so fresh, so unsullied. Now they were constantly stale, even though he changed them every day. His room used to look different too. Once his haven, it was now bare. Gone were the decorative touches he so carefully installed. The walls were stripped now, and not a mirror in site. “Shit,” he muttered, sliding from his bed to the floor. Lance crawled to the corner and pressed his back against the wall. He stared with wide eyes around at the strangeness that enveloped him. Nothing seemed real anymore. Nine months and he was a whole new person. “Lance?” Lance looked up as his door creaked open, and Justin poked his head in. “Go away,” Lance whispered, pressing his forehead against his knees. But Justin never listened, and Lance hated that. “I made coffee,” Justin said, kicking dirty clothes to the side. Lance slid his gaze up and tears were blocked somewhere back behind his eyes. Justin sat next to him on the floor, without question, without accusation. He simply grabbed Lance’s hand and pressed the mug into it. “So.” Lance took a slow sip and dropped his knees. “So.” He was naked, and it was funny how before the rape he never went around without at least boxers on. It was funny how he noticed Justin always had boxers on still. As he sipped again, he thought, maybe it wasn’t so funny -- maybe there was a meaning on a whole other level he couldn’t comprehend. “Christmas tree shopping is still on the table,” Justin smiled softly, nudging him with an elbow. “Since your man toy left.” It was meant to be light-hearted, but it stabbed at Lance, and he felt hard suddenly. His body, his skin. Everything tightened. The muscles in his jaw twitched and he glared at Justin. “What’s that mean, Justin? I’m a slut? Is that what you’re saying?” He ignored the flash of hurt that sailed through Justin, as if he’d been slapped, and stood up abruptly. Slamming his coffee to the cluttered nightstand, Lance began to rip the sheets from his bed in a fit of displaced fury. Justin crumbled and scrambled to his feet, watching as Lance fought back the only way he could. He felt bad for having said it, totally unmeaning, not expecting such a furious break from Lance. “No, of course not!” He slid Lance’s cup over and put his own next to it. And he stared at the muscles that flexed in Lance’s back at he worked to strip the bed. All he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Lance, pin his their bodies in a soft embrace. He wanted to stroke the wild spikes and curl his fingers around the nape of Lance’s neck, and let Lance sob on his shoulder. He yearned for the closeness that had been whipped away that March night. Justin reached out, scared to death of being rejected. But he needed to touch Lance, to brush his skin and convey his friendship. His willingness to be there, no matter what. As his fingers touched Lance’s shoulder he felt Lance’s tension collapse for the briefest of seconds. There was hope. Then it was a quick spin, and hurt green eyes sinking into him. “I get the point, Justin,” Lance said, balling up the soiled sheets and hurling them into the hallway. “I get the disapproval there. All the pity and shit. I get it okay? Every fucking day I get it a little more.” Justin stepped back -- slapped again. “Jesus, Lance! Not what I meant!” Once again misunderstanding sat thick between them, inching them apart just a little more. “I don’t pity you. I just want you back!” Justin didn’t mean for his voice to raise quite so high, or for words to blurt quite so carelessly, but he feared his body would implode if he didn’t begin to push Lance. Push him out of the black and into the gray. At least the gray was one step closer to life instead of death. “Just go,” Lance said quietly. “Thanks for the coffee.” He kept his back turned and waited. There was supposition on his part, perhaps, that Justin would continue to fight. And a little blossom buried beneath the ash in his heart tried to push through and ask. Because he needed something. He needed Justin. “Your welcome,” Justin clipped, snatching his coffee from the nightstand. And Lance could feel the temporary comfort of his body heat on his back. But then it was gone, and his door was being closed. Lance sighed, a huge, full sigh. Life was nothing if not a cruel succession of misunderstandings and what ifs. Flopping onto the bed, he stared at the ceiling, feeling an odd shade of sadness wipe at him. He needed a shower to wash the grime of the night away. Weekends were just the hardest, when idle time could taunt his mind, and Justin’s presence caused his heart to wrench with more what ifs. He hated what ifs. And he hated any second when there was nothing for him to do. So he slid from the bed and stretched, already erasing the words he’d had with Justin. Heading for the shower, he hummed, to keep the what ifs from chanting in his head, and disappeared into the bathroom. Justin watched from the doorway of his bedroom. He watched the easy stride Lance had adapted, and the way he always hummed. And he wondered *how* Lance could be so casual all the time after they’d had a disagreement, because he was wrecked -- again. It was a constant battle of feeling more sorry for himself or for Lance -- a pity party that had no specific guest of honor. A grumble that always wanted to escape. And Justin decided he’d had enough. Slowly, he walked to the bathroom door, and flung it open. There was no need for awkwardness as Lance had no shame anymore. “I’m going for a tree,” he called out into the steam. “I’m leaving in twenty minutes. If you want to go, meet me at the car. If you’re not there, I’m going without you!” Done. He backed out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, and waited for Lance to answer in some way. Nothing was forthcoming, and Justin slunk to the kitchen with lead weighing him down -- the very strong feeling he’d be chopping a tree all alone this year. The phone jingled, pulling Justin from his desperate funk, and he leaned over the counter to snatch it. “Hello?” “Justin! Hey, game’s on. Wanna come watch over here?” JC. Trying to help. Perhaps, Justin thought, as he rubbed the tension from his temples, JC was akin to his day thus far. Maybe he was being intuitive and digging in on feelings of rejection and alienation. Or maybe JC just knew after all these months how Lance was nowadays. And it was expected that Justin would feel pretty fucking shitty every Saturday morning until his time on Earth was over. “Sure,” Justin said flatly. “Need me to bring anything?” “Nope,” JC replied, and Justin’s eyebrow shot up. JC was too cheery for such an early hour. “Just you. Get your ass over here pronto. Bets are going down.” Justin replaced the phone and glanced toward the bedrooms. The shower was still running and he didn’t suppose anything would change in a mere twenty minutes. As he grabbed his jacket and keys, he almost marched back down to bang on the door and ask Lance again. But that would prove more frustrating, to hear that stony silence again. So he scribbled a note on the Wipe Off Board near the refrigerator with JC’s phone number, letting Lance know where he was. In case. History had proved, however, that Lance would most likely ignore it. Putter around as usual. Then catch a nap before hitting more clubs that night. Justin threw the marker across the counter in disgust and refused renege on his plans. If Lance wanted to be fuck you about things, then so he too would be that way. Because quite frankly, his heart was tired of being trounced on. He slipped out of the condo without so much as a good-bye ... so he never saw the dripping figure of a reassessed Lance appear with a hopeful smile and a towel knotted around his waist. And he never saw the slivers of pain that flitted across pale eyes as the old Lance emerged momentarily -- to an empty house -- and a note. “Well fuck you then,” Lance hissed, pressing his feelings back down. “Fuck Christmas and fuck this!” He glared at the number and hated the fact he’d come out at all. Stamping back to his room, he reprimanded himself for daring to try. At least if he’d stayed quiet in the shower he wouldn’t have to face abandonment. As Lance slammed his door shut, he wondered if he’d ever cry again. Or if his ducts would just burn in place of tears. Spying the dozen or so numbers he’d gathered the previous night, Lance decided it didn’t pay to care. [ continue ] [ menu ]