“What’s that baby?” the man rumbled, rubbing Lance’s cock through his pants.
For the first time in forever, Lance swatted the offending hand away, and peered out the car window as the brown haired man slid into the yellow car. “Justin wouldn’t dare. No fucking way.”
“Hmm, what? What’s wrong?” Words slithered into his ear as his nose pressed against the glass for a better view. “Come on baby, relax.”
Lance was drunk, and a little high, but his palm tingled when he saw someone exiting at such an hour. His stomach lurched and his jaw twitched relentlessly.
Jealous.
He almost snorted at the emotion as it took him, because he remembered how Justin had skirted out on him that afternoon, leaving him wet and alone in the kitchen with dashed hopes. So he let the guy beside him nuzzle at his neck, and grab at his dick as the cab pulled up in front of the condo.
And he was hard by the time they tumbled through the door, sucking on the guy’s lip roughly. “What’d you say your name was again?” Lance laughed, as his hip dug into the couch behind him. Drunken hazes were good for forgetfulness, he thought. Good for blocking pain he never asked for.
“Never mind,” the guy mumbled, twirling Lance around roughly. “Nameless. Faceless. It’s all the same right?”
Lance frowned at the words because they seemed to hit somewhere soft inside of him, a niche that he’d thought was closed off. He flinched as his partner for the night bent over the back of the couch suddenly, and nausea warped in his belly. A jolt of fear stabbed at him as one hand pressed unforgivingly against his neck, forcing his face into the cushions.
“Stop,” he hissed, using his palms to force himself back up.
But the man was stronger and whipped him around with fiendish eyes. “You don’t play rough?” he chuckled, twisting his fingers around the base of Lance’s neck and crushing him toward him. “A little slap and tickle huh?”
Lance gasped as the brutal kiss imposed upon his mouth, and he kicked out with as much strength as he could muster. “Jesus, get the fuck off me!” he screamed.
It was flashbacks, and pain that seemed to reappear with each gasp for air. Searing heat against his stomach and chest. That smell in the car. The eyes and blood. Each image ripped through his mind like a bolt, tearing him wide open.
A choked sob stuck in the back of his throat and he pushed against the bulking man with every ounce of being he had.
“Lance, where’s your room? Let’s go there. A bed where I can lay you down. I don’t wanna scare you. I just wanna fuck you.”
But Lance *was* scared, he realized, as his hands flailed out to find a blunt object. He needed to defend instead of go numb, but the alcohol slowed him greatly.
His eyes rolled back as a hand clawed his balls unmercifully, squeezing harder than innocent sexual play allowed, and he winced as his limbs deadened.
“You fucking asshole!”
Lance blinked his eyes open and saw Justin pounce with wild eyes and a deadly scowl. He watched as Justin grabbed the guy and shoved him back, landing a solid punch to his gut. It was slow motion as the man tumbled back in shock before regaining his balance.
“Who the fuck are you?” he growled, charging for Justin. “You little punk ass!”
Justin was primeval as he ducked out of the man‘s reach, then cracked his knuckles across the stranger‘s face. “I‘m his fucking roommate! Get out of here before I call the cops!”
Lance doubled over and crashed to the floor as Justin grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and hurled him out the front door. “I never want to see your fucking face here again, hear?”
As the visitor rolled out of the condo, Justin slammed and locked the door. He spun and glared at the shivering figure on the floor, and pure rage bubbled inside his body. “You okay?” he asked, unwilling to move closer and subject himself to more pain. While the picture of Lance drunk and disheveled pulled at him, he refused to pick up the pieces -- again.
“Fine,” Lance whispered, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Fine.”
Justin sighed and rubbed at his hand, badly throbbing and surely bruised. And he wanted to drop down beside Lance, hold his head to his chest and bring back some intimacy to their friendship.
But somehow, he could bring his knees to bend and carry out that wish. So he licked at his sore fist and headed into the kitchen to grab some ice. His head was thudding as the enormity of the situation crashed into him -- as he imagined Lance being attacked again. All because he was denying himself a real life -- a real chance at happiness.
“I’m sorry,” Lance said gently, slouching into the kitchen.
Justin bit his lip as he rummaged in the freezer for some ice. “For what?” he asked coolly.
It was Lance who wanted to apologize now as he stared at the back of Justin’s head, and he wanted to curl inside and find that man he’d been nine months earlier -- because that man wanted to fall into Justin’s arms and sob for a while, have his hair stroked and his head kissed.
That man was in hiding, and the man that stood with his zipper down and body wobbling from too many shots was in his place. He was cold, and a little bit closer to reality.
“Who was that guy, Justin? The one I saw get into a cab?” he asked, pressing his hand to his stomach. He felt ill, really sick, and wondered if it was all the memories dredged up, or if it was the drunkenness -- or if it was seeing Justin apparently moving on.
Justin turned with the ice tray in his hands. “What?” He stared at Lance, into bloodshot eyes and messy blonde hair. He watched as Lance stripped in the middle of the kitchen, and pondered if it was to rid himself of the filth he’d allowed to touch him.
One could only hope, Justin snorted, as he filled a dishtowel with ice. He evaded the question, feeling childishly spiteful, and replied with a shrug. “Good night,” he said, resisting the urge to drop all the hostility and just surround himself with a faded dream.
“That’s it?” Lance queried, grabbing Justin’s elbow. “That’s all I get?” He held onto Justin tightly, dug his fingers into his flesh to hold onto something real.
Justin pulled away quickly, terrified that he would falter in his sudden conviction. “That’s more than you deserve, quite honestly. Now let me go. I’m tired and want to go to sleep.”
It damn near killed Lance as the words fell from Justin’s lips, and he backed away like a wounded animal, unsure of this sudden cold front that belted at him. It was worse than a slap, and he frowned. “Yeah fucking makes ya sleepy, don’t it?” And he hadn’t *meant* to say it, at all. But the disdain made it’s way out all the same, and Justin stopped dead in his tracks.
“Fuck you,” Justin hissed.
Lance had never seen his gentle eyes so hard. Nor had he ever seen such pain flit across his angelic face. And he wanted to die right then. But he held steady, balling up his shirt and throwing it toward the laundry room.
Justin moved out of the kitchen, and Lance flinched as the bedroom door slammed shut. He was a shit, he knew, and he slapped his palm on the counter in frustration. His hand fell over a piece of paper with a number scrawled on it, and he looked at it.
:I had fun. Call me. Chris:
It was like a freight train speeding toward him a hundred miles an hour as he re-read the note over and over again. Chris. Who the fuck was Chris?
Lance chewed on his lip and took the number with him to his room. Chris would just have to deal with no phone call from Justin. He was in no mood to be rational as pain attacked him. Envious pain. Images of this Chris tangled in the sheets with Justin -- the expression Justin must get when he comes. All of it caused his head to thump annoyingly and he strode down the hall to his room, slamming his door shut with equal capability.
Flopping down on his mattress, Lance couldn’t rest. He was plagued by those pictures rumbling around inside of him. Justin throwing his head back with hooded eyes, and whimpering obscenities into the sex stained night -- thrusting his hips up -- and in no time flat, Lance was hard.
He scrunched his eyes shut and buried his head, trying to ignore it.
But it remained, like some fucked up movie on loop. He pushed his knuckles into his eyes and tried to forget it.
After half an hour, he gave up and wandered down the hall to Justin’s door. Naked. Prepared to offer himself in some kind of exchange.
He knocked as his pulse jumped around erratically and waited. When Justin didn’t answer, he pushed the door open and peered in. So much was wrong, he thought, as he headed toward Justin’s bed. So much had gone the wrong way after the rape. So many distancing feelings and alienations. Misunderstandings. Sadness.
“Justin?” Lance hovered over the bed and stared down in the dimness of the room, watching as Justin’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. He glanced at the melting ice on the nightstand and wanted to cry.
But if he cried, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.
Ever.
So he gathered the soppy mess and placed it in Justin’s trash can, then crept around the other side of the bed and sat gingerly. One finger reached out and traced along Justin’s jaw. And the tears did fill his eyes as Justin looked up at him.
“You okay?” Justin whispered, scooting over a bit.
Lance had no answer and ushered his gaze away, retracting his hand. “I guess,” he said. “How’s your hand?”
Justin sighed and begged for courage to break Lance down. He saw the glittering tears and prayed they would fall so Lance could heal. “It hurts,” Justin admitted, reaching out to touch Lance’s leg. “But honestly not as much as seeing what that guy was gonna do to you.”
Lance wiggled to protect himself against the words, and he set his gaze toward the window. “I could handle myself now Justin. If you hadn’t been here, I’d of been fine.”
“I know,” Justin said, sitting up. “But I’m glad I was here.”
It wasn’t a reaction Lance was prepared to deal with, and he sniffled as he twisted his gaze back to Justin. “I am too,” he whispered. “Can I lay with you?”
Justin eyed Lance suspiciously, unsure where the plead was heading. Lance’s eyes glistened in the moonlight and his body was slouched in some sort of defeat. Still, the thought of holding Lance close to him was inviting, and he didn’t want to think past that. So he pulled the covers back and hoped it would be alright -- hoped it would lead to an uncomplicated time where bonds could be repaired.
And Lance curled right into him, like a child, snuggling his back against his stomach. Justin’s body tensed as Lance’s skin touched his. “Maybe you should go ...”
“Just for a bit?” Lance pleaded, reaching around to grab Justin’s hand. “Just until I’m sleepy.”
Justin relented, but he wondered when Lance had turned so needy, and why in Earth he was falling for it. Hook. Line.
Sucker.
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