Lance tried to brush the offending lips from his head, and kicked with his legs which were pinned beneath the covers so tightly tucked around him. “You are sweet,” Chris murmured through a hiccup. “I can see why Justin loves you.” It was difficult to hear, and Lance struggled to sit up a little. “What?” “Loves you,” Chris said with a sloppy grin. “God knows I wanted him. But I can’t take someone who wants someone else.” He let out a sour burp and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m very drunk right now,” Chris admitted, leaning toward Lance. “Then you should go,” Lance replied, and he tried to get up, but Chris shook his head. “I thought maybe, since I’m not getting any, and you like to give ...” Lance was pissed, his cheeks flushed red and his hands clenched into fists. “Get the fuck out,” he hissed. “Jesus Christ! Poor Justin!” “Yeah poor Justin.” Justin’s voice rang clear as a bell. Lance shifted and stared past Chris to see Justin standing in the door with pain all over his face. “Oh God!” Lance wanted to fall. It had been a hellish few hours and he couldn't think let alone breath. The look. Justin’s expression. It stung to see. “Justin, come here.” There was nothing Justin wanted to say. His lips set in a fine line and he squeezed the doorframe firmly, trying to steady the rubbery feeling his legs were experiencing.  “I think,” he said slowly, his voice negated of any tone, “I’m going to get my shit and go.”  His head spun as he turned and moved down toward his room. Tunnel vision plagued him and he was crushed -- so crushed he was uncaring. It wasn’t as if he expected to see Chris hovering over Lance in bed. Joe maybe, but Chris was far too much. Methodically, he reached under his bed for a duffle bag and began to fill it mindlessly. There was nothing left for him, and he understood Lance was too far gone for him to help. Still he questioned what was so wrong with him that no one wanted to love him -- no one wanted to be with him. A shuffle outside his door barely registered, and he wondered how many pair of boxers he should bring. He wondered if JC would mind him camping out for more than an erratic night at a time. He thought maybe he should consider looking for a new place immediately. Lance’s arms caught him, and twirled him around brusquely. “Not what you’re thinking, Justin,” he said squarely. “So not what you’re thinking.” “What am I thinking, Lance? Hmm?” Justin shoved away from Lance and continued to pack his bag. “Fucking let me know because I gotta say. I’m interested in your theory.” “God! Joe was getting out of hand, and I don’t remember. But Chris had one too many and ..” “And he wanted on you, eh? That’s the way isn’t it?” Justin shoved a pair of jeans into his bag and shook his head, glaring angrily at Lance. “Everyone wants the boy with the pretty eyes and no soul.” Lance ricocheted backwards, his face smarting as if it had been slapped. It was wrong, so wrong to be hurt by careless words, but Justin was always so careful not to hurt him. And now. Now he’d said something that could never be taken away. “Fine,” Lance said curtly. “Maybe I’ll go back into my room and fuck his brains out. Maybe that’s all I’m good for but at least I’m not fucking heartless with what I say.” He felt tears burn behind his eyes but rejected them. The very last thing he wanted to do was have a break in his guard now. Not when he was impetuous and unable to speak clearly. His heart withered as he stepped out of Justin’s room, back to his own where Chris was collapsed on his bed, snoring loudly. Passed out and blissfully unconscious. He snorted scornfully and slid to the floor of his bedroom. Nothing seemed to go right, even when he tried, and now Justin was leaving him. For good maybe, and he felt vulnerable. The victim once more. Chris gurgled in his sleep and Lance felt the rage rise. Rage about his life, his inability to control things. Being convicted by Justin about something that never happened. He crawled to his feet and marched back out into the hallway, and he grabbed at Justin as he tried to get by. “No!” “No?” Justin scoffed. “You’re telling someone no?” Lance recoiled a bit as the words attacked him, and he tried to remember they were just words. Simple letters formed in haste. Unmeaning. At least he hoped. “I don’t want you to go,” Lance said firmly, standing back out of fear. He didn’t *want* Justin to leave him. He didn’t want to be abandoned when he was aching to let his heart open. Shattered nerves zapped him as Justin caught his eye, and there was so much anguish and hurt in those eyes. A storm that clamored around with no break in site. Beyond Lance, Justin could see Chris lumped in the bed, and his shoulders relaxed a bit. His tongue burned where he’d lashed out, and his regret was instant. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, dropping his bag to the carpet. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Lance had no idea what to do, so he stayed very still with his back pressed against the wall. He studied Justin in the dimness of the hall light, and yearned to sink into his arms for once. Just a blip in time where everything fell the way it was supposed to. A wave of nausea rose abruptly from his belly to his throat, and his mouth watered in warning. Months of dormant fury and visible pain erupted as Lance vomited all over the carpet. His eyes teared and his body jerked as day after day of self-abuse ran from him. “Oh my God, Lance!” Justin bolted forward as Lance slumped on all fours, his back arching as he retched, and the whites of his eyes quickly grew red with each tiny blood vessel that burst. It was horrifying, and Justin’s eyes darted around in a panic. Tears streamed down Lance’s cheeks, and suddenly the world seemed very big and cold. Lance wanted to speak through the vile liquid that fell from his mouth, and he reached out to grab onto Justin’s arm -- to beg him for help. But his body wouldn’t relent, and soon he couldn’t see through the tears. He fell to his side and curled up as his stomach constricted, and Justin was gone. The ceiling spun around and he closed his eyes, hoping to make it stop. Memories of that night surrounded him, and he sobbed. Finally. He allowed his body to cleanse itself, send his brain the clear cut message it was alright to heal. To cry and grieve for a life ripped away. The night flashed brightly in his mind, and he saw the attack from high above. He looked down and saw the man he used to be -- the innocence and hope peeled away with vicious brutality. And he remembered -- he’d seen Justin through the rape. His eyes and his heart. He’d cried out softly for Justin and for strength. For nine months, he’d pushed Justin away because he’d associated him so closely with the numbness -- with the pain. “Shh, it’s okay, Lance.” Lance jerked as he felt Justin press a cool washcloth against his forehead, like a cornered animal he pulled back in alarm. “No. You’re okay,” Justin whispered, tugging Lance into his arms. For the first time in so long, Lance was letting himself be held, and Justin cherished the feel of it. He stroked Lance’s flattened hair, and kissed his head -- he crushed Lance’s face to his chest and surrounded Lance with his arms. “It’s going to be alright,” he promised, using his other hand to wipe Lance’s tears with the washcloth. “Just let it all out.” It scared him to see the intensity with which Lance was sobbing, the shakes that overpowered his body. Justin closed his eyes and let Lance melt in his arms. There was nothing he could do except thank God Lance was finally letting it all out, letting him in, and starting the healing process. “I’m sorry,” Lance whimpered as the cool cloth washed over his face. “Sorry. Sorry.” His words were punctuated by drawn out pauses for breath and Justin’s heart broke for him. “Those assholes are to blame, Lance. Not you. Never you.” Justin sniffled and stared at the top of Lance’s head. He remembered the blood that was caked and entwined in each strand when he’d finally seen Lance in the hospital -- how the blonde was barely visible through the ugly stain of deep red. Justin remembered the bruises that Lance tried to hide, and the way his green eyes would widen when a car slowed down near them on the street. It was hard to forget the spacey looks Lance adopted before turning inside out and learning to defend himself with random attention and sex. But now -- now was a new start. Now was the moment Justin had hoped for. “Come into my room,” he said gently, extracting himself from the death like grip Lance had formed around his waist. “Come where it’s safe.” Justin had no inkling where such strength was coming from, but he managed to speak softly enough to urge Lance to his feet, and guide him to his room. “I’m going to take your shirt off okay?” Lance shivered violently but managed a small nod. His arms had folded over one another across his chest and Justin’s fingers ran along the hem of his shirt, trying to pull it up. It slashed Justin in two to see Lance so scared, reliving things he couldn’t even dare to imagine. “I have to take it off, okay?” Justin’s voice was shaky, and he peered into Lance’s soul. It was dark, and unsure so he pulled him close, holding the trembling body close to him. “You’re safe,” he chanted softly. “Safe here.” Tears choked him, but he held them at bay, willing himself to be strong. The time for his tears was gone. He understood the Lance that hurt him was not the Lance he loved. This figure sobbing and wretched was his Lance trying to break through to him. Lance couldn’t catch his breath as his nose pressed into Justin’s collarbone. He tried to gulp the air down, swallow the oxygen he so desperately needed. Hostile pictures of old were playing like a movie in his head, and he felt the burn of his body mingling with the loving arms holding him. There were random faces pushing their way in as well -- men he’d been with in the past nine months. Sexual aggressions that made him want to cry harder, and the look Justin got every time he brought someone home. So much fucked up. Their lives twisted in some wreck of randomness they couldn’t have planned. Guilt attempted to reappear, but Lance pushed it away, refusing to give into it again. He wanted to talk, to cup Justin’s face and steady it -- stare into endless eyes and say the words he’d waited nine months to say. He feared they might be marred now, in the passion of the moment, but they were on the tip of his tongue, begging to tumble off. Still, his body was racked with hysterical emotion, and he chewed on his lip helplessly, wondering if the pain that pitted in his soul would ever go away. He’d opened the doors, and unleashed his horrible beast of grief, and it seemed to consume his entire body. Justin’s voice was pure, seemingly able to get through the muck ringing in Lance’s ears, and he listened to the steady tones, so melodic and pretty it calmed his trembling. “Lay down, Lance. In my bed. I’m never leaving you. I’m not letting go this time. I swear to God.” Lance looked up, his face red and splotchy, his lips raw from biting on them and Justin crumbled at the site. “You can take my shirt,” Lance said lowly, dropping his hands to his side. “I ... trust you.” The words echoed through Justin’s heart, and he was able to smile a bit before lifting the sour smelling shirt over Lance’s head and off. “I’m glad to hear that,” he whispered with relief, tucking Lance beneath the covers of his bed. And as Justin brushed Lance’s hair back, and swept his lips across the warm flesh, he thought this was as close to a Christmas miracle as he could ever hope for. continue menu