// A Perfect Effort // For Terps -- Happy Birthday to the Trickiest Girl I know! He’s pretty bad at the whole birthday thing. It’s not that he *wants* to be--it’s more like he just is. And it’s not about phone calls and having his assistant run out to chose the perfect gift this time. No. If he’s going to do it--he’s going to do it. The right way. The way his momma taught him to do things. Standing in the balloon store amidst dozens of kids makes him squirm. He’s got the hat and the sunglasses--hell he’s even dressed in sweats. His foot jiggles nervously as he waits in line studying the different colored balloons. Every character seems to have one. And then he sees it. A giant N Sync balloon pasted on the wall. It’s number 69 and he chuckles because fuck if that’s not ironic. It’s his turn and the gum cracking girl behind the counter taps her pen on the Formica idly. “Next,” she says flatly. He steps up and there his palms sweat because, God, there are a lot of people and he didn’t take security. Something about being determined to do this alone--or some foolish shit. “Um, hi. I need a dozen balloons.” He squints from under his sunglasses and twists his beard. The girl’s eyes widen and he braces. Her pen falls to the counter and he steps back. She leans in close and he bites his lip. “Well duh,” she snorts. “Ain’t that why you’re here?”  She picks her pen up and nods toward the selection. “Got something in mind?” Chris swallows and almost laughs. “How about that Spongebob one and some red ones. Oh and gimme that Taz one too.” The girl shoves a piece of yellow paper at him and sighs. “Pay up front. We’ll bring them around.” He takes it and heads to the cashier. Again a long line looms but he feels proud. He’s made it this far. In front of him, a girl no more than ten looks up. “Hey,” she says and he blinks because she has a little N Sync button on her denim jacket. Again he braces for a squeal or a grab. “Hey,” he says back, grinning as optimistically as he can. “Did those take a long time?” she asks, pointing to his beard. “To ya know. Grow?” Chris’ eyes widen and he chuckles, stroking the hair on his chin absently. “A few months. To get ‘em like this.” She nods and smiles. “Cool.” “You think?” he whispers, leaning down. “Some of my friends don’t like it.” She tosses her long hair back and shows him a streak of purple. “Some of my friends don’t like this,” she says proudly. “But I love purple. And my mom says its important to express who you are.” She thinks for a moment and then adds, “So long as you’re still a good person.” Chris grins at her and nods. “I agree. Smart mom you got there.” He wonders why she doesn’t recognize him, or make a fuss, but she’s gone before he can think about it much more. The cashier rings his purchase and he almost hands over his credit card. His accountant insists. But the girl behind the counter is mouthing the words to Bye Bye Bye, so he presses a twenty into her hand instead. “Here’s your change,” she sings back, winking. “Stand there and they’ll bring your balloons around.” Chris thinks maybe he’s in the twilight zone because there are so many close calls. But the sun is shining and he’s feeling very pleased with himself. Some kid arrives with the balloons and asks if he needs help to his car. “Nah. I think I got it.” He whistles on his way to his car and struggles a little to fit them inside--then he drives off to the florist near his house. The florist is a mom and pop operation, and the little old lady greets him with a friendly squeeze of his hand. “So, young man, what can I get for you today?” Chris shrugs because he’s never been good at the whole flower thing. Someone always picks them out--and he pays. But this day, this birthday, he wants to do this thing alone. “I need something that means admiration,” he says. “Something that stands for strength as well as love.” She smiles and touches his arm gently. “I’ve just the thing,” she says. “Would you like to wait?” He ponders this before nodding. The fragrant scent of flowers is soothing so he wanders the tiny shop while he ticks off the other errands he still needs to run. Oh, and he’s baking the cake. With his arms full of balloons, flowers and a special box that the jewelry store gift wrapped, Chris manages to open the front door with a minimum of cursing. The balloons escape in his foyer and he watches as they float to the top of his vaulted ceiling. “Fucking hell!” he hisses, placing the flowers down on the stairs to the second floor. He drags a chair across the hardwood floor and stands on it, jumping boldly to snatch the strings. To no avail. Three tries later and Chris topples to the floor, pain surging through his wrist. It’s ruined, he thinks miserably, climbing to his feet. Everything he wanted to do--the cake--the surprise. All ruined. Woefully he leaves the balloons and wanders to the kitchen. Frustration settles through his wounded pride and he rubs his wrist before picking up the phone. In defeat, he calls a local bakery and begs to have a cake delivered. “Sorry, sir. We don’t have delivery tonight.” “Please?” Chris begs. “I’ll pay double. Triple. I need a cake!” It’s desperation, pure and simple. “We can make one, but we can’t deliver it at this hour.” “Fine,” Chris snaps. “I’ll come get it. One hour?” His wrist begins to throb and he throws the phone to the counter. The time taunts him so he hurries through a shower where his wrist screams at him for attention. With one hand, he manages to dump a fair amount of shampoo on his head and rub it in. He has time to think about things--about his disappointment in the way the day is progressing. He has a few moments of peace to imagine the ruined look in those big jade eyes when Lance sees he balloons stuck to the ceiling and tastes an unoriginal store bought cake. Well, at least he got flowers. And a gift. Half an hour later and he slides sweats over his hips because his wrist and fingers are swelling and he can’t button the black pants he planned to wear. “Great,” he mumbles, yanking a sweatshirt over his head. His hair is wet but time is ticking. Lance is due in an hour. Speeding toward the bakery, he flies through a yellow light. He swears it’s yellow until the flashing lights in his rear view mirror tell him otherwise. “Shit, shit, shit!” he snarls, already reaching for his ID. The cop is his age, at best, and scowling. “Do you realize that was a red light?” he asks, already pulling his ticket book from his belt. “I didn’t,” Chris says. “I thought it was yellow and...” He holds up his bruised wrist. “I hurt my wrist.” Sympathy had to get him somewhere--he hoped. “On your way to the hospital?” the cop asks suspiciously. Chris debates on lying--hell, he debates on asking the guy if he wants lifetime N Sync passes for his little sister or daughter--or mother. Justin used it all the time. But Justin was a hell of a lot cuter, Chris reminded himself. So he shook his head. “On my way to pick up a cake,” he admits. “For a birthday.” The cop raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Girlfriend?” he laughs. It seems simpler to just say yes rather than explain it was for Lance--his boyfriend--one fifth of N Sync. “Yessir,” he nods, hating to lie but he sees no other way. “Well, seeing as it’s for your woman, I can let it go. This time.” Chris chews on his lip and forces a smile. “Thank you,” he says. “Really. She’ll um, be very happy.” He knows Lance would refuse to speak to him for a week if he knew he called referred to him as a woman--but it doesn’t matter because he’s done it. The cop waves his hand and moseys away. Chris feels his lungs take a deep breath of air and waits for traffic to clear before easing back out onto the street. There isn’t much more that can go wrong, he tries to convince himself.  Until he sees the fire trucks outside the bakery and customers huddling outside with looks of shock on their faces. He rolls down the window and asks a fire fighter what happened. “Ain’t sure,” the man replies. “But the entire place is gutted.” “For Chrissakes!” Chris yells, slamming his good fist on the steering wheel. His cake is gone, so there isn’t much reason to stay around. A 7-11 is on his way home so he runs in and buys a Entenmanns's  chocolate cake. He grabs a case of beer too because the pain is getting to him--both physical and emotional. The girl behind the counter lets out an ear-splitting shriek when she sees him and he jumps instinctively. “What?” he cries, looking behind him for signs of trouble. “What’s wrong?” “Chris...ohmyohmy...GOD!” He looks around at the stunned customers and rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Uh...” “Could you sign me?” she shouts, sliding across the counter to stick her arm in his face. “Please? Oh God, I can’t believe, wow!” Her eyes are shining and Chris suppresses a sigh. His signing hand is pretty distended but he finally scribbles some chicken scratch that kind of looks like his name. Trying is most of the battle, he chuckles to himself. “Take it,” she gushes, pushing the beer and cake at him. “It’s on me.” “No, I couldn’t,” Chris smiles, pushing the twenty down. “But thanks.” He hoists the cake into his arm and tucks handle of the beer case through his fingers, then hops back in his car and zooms for home. Lance is sitting on the steps when he pulls in and Chris’ face drops. He’s early--and Lance is never early. It’s an instant skip of his heart and bile that pools in the back of his throat--fear that something is wrong. Until he sees Lance’s face beaming. Ashamed, he sticks the cake under the front seat and drives closer, slamming the vehicle into park. Lance looks beautiful standing there in the bright sun. He let his hair fall back to brown which makes his eyes twinkle intensely. His thumbs are hooked in his pockets--a trademark stance Chris has loved since he met him--and he ducks his head a little. Coy Lance is here, Chris thinks. And with Lance one never knows. But Chris is fond of Coy Lance so he leaves the beer in the car and shuffles over. When he gets closer, Lance’s smile widens... ...which makes Chris feel like more a disappointment. He promised Lance an amazing birthday--and it’s pretty kaput. “Happy birthday,” Chris whispers, pecking Lance on the cheek chastely. His gut rolls and he can’t find it in him to look into Lance’s eyes because he knows what disaster lies inside. Nothing pretty and set the way he wanted it to be. No dinner on the table and cake baking sweetly in the oven. No balloons scattered around and candles lit. Nothing that screams romantic--not a thing. “Thanks,” Lance says, capturing Chris before he can sneak away. His fingers curl around Chris’ arm and he tugs him closer. “You okay?” Chris forces a smile and a nod. “’Course, I’m fine why?” Lance’s eyes drop to Chris’ wrist and he frowns, noticing the inflamed flesh. “God, what happened?” he cries, brushing his fingertips over the swollen skin. Chris winces because his whole body seems to be throbbing from the injury, but he pushes the pain back. “I fell,” he admits lightly, already fishing for the key to open the front door. “It’s no biggie.” “No biggie?” Lance says incredulously. “Chris it might be broken.” “It’s not broken,” Chris insists through gritted teeth. He forces his wrist to move up and down even though its agonizing to do, and he thinks maybe it *is* broken. “See?” “See?” Lance screeches. “I see that you’re hurt. Come on, we’re going to the hospital.” “No,” Chris persists, kicking the door open. “It’s your birthday, Lance. I want this to be...” Frustration drives at him once again and he kicks the chair to the side--the very one that toppled out from under him. “Fuck!” he screams when he sees Busta happily chomping what’s left of the flowers. Petals are strewn everywhere and he debates chasing the dog. But Lance’s hands falls to his waist and he freezes. “Were those for me?” Lance whispers against Chris’ ear. Chris folds a little because Lance is holding him--but still. The night is wrecked, less than perfect in his eyes--and he’s failed once more. “Those were for you too,” Chris says half heartedly, using his good hand to point upward. “Balloons.” Lance’s gaze travels past Chris’ finger to the dozen balloons bouncing around out of reach. “Spongebob? Taz? Chris, that’s...” “Stupid, I know,” Chris says because he’s hurt and embarrassed--because it wasn’t supposed to be like this at all. Everything was supposed to be perfect and a symbol of what he felt for Lance. “It’s nice,” Lance reassures him and he wraps his arms around him from behind, resting his chin on Chris’ shoulder. “Thoughtful.” “Thoughtful?” Chris snorts. “Very,” Lance murmurs. “Very?” Chris counters. “Busta ate your flowers, I fell trying to get the balloons, your cake is from 7-11 and oh, did I mention I think my wrist is broken?” He slumps out of Lance’s embrace to the floor and lets out a bitter laugh. “Perfect birthday eh?” Lance folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head. Silence creeps over the house for a moment and Chris thinks Lance might leave. But he doesn’t. Instead he disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bag of ice. Gingerly, he places the ice on Chris’ wrist and smiles. “We’re together, Chris. That’s like an eternal birthday gift.” Chris’ eyebrow knot because while Lance is better at the whole relationship thing, he’s certainly not a poetic type. The laugh can’t help but bubble out and Chris feels better when Lance looks at him and scratches his nose. “Cheesy?” “A little,” Chris confesses, “But typical of Bass Banter.” Lance rocks back on his heels and blushes. “Bass Banter? I have Bass Banter?” Chris covers Lance’s hand with his own and stares down at the ice dripping to the floor. “It’s what we call it. When you say things that sound good in your head but come out a little...I dunno...a little twisted.” “Hey,” Lance chuckles. “I meant that. It might be a Justin line, but hell, I really meant it.” His face grows composed and serious for a moment and Chris disappears into those eyes he loves so much. “My birthday could only suck if you weren’t here to share it with me. The cake, all this? It’s nice but...not what I need.” His cheeks turn another shade deeper and Chris knows that he would die for Lance--lay down his life to protect this man. Its simple but not. “I love you,” Chris murmurs lowly. “So fucking much and I just wanted this to be special...” “It is,” Lance interrupts, helping Chris to his feet. “You’re what makes it...shit, are you gonna make me keep spewing this stuff? Or what?” He laughs nervously and pretends to study Chris’ wrist. Chris can’t help but grin, even though his wrist is practically on fire, because Lance is just as flustered as he is. So he lets him go and chalks the disasters up to ‘one of those things’. He leans in and captures Lance’s mouth to show him he understands--that even though neither of them are very creative with words, actions are really all they need to survive. “I got you a present,” Chris says suddenly, remembering the gift that he’d specially picked out because it screamed “Lance” when he saw it sitting in the glass case. “You didn’t have to..” Lance starts, but Chris is already gone. Lance plops down on the steps next to the torn up petals. He scoops some up and sniffs them but they kind of smell like Busta now. Seconds later, Chris is back, sitting beside him. “Here,” he says, pushing the box into Lance’s hand. “I hope you like it. You’re not easy to buy for.” Lance fingers the emerald green bow and bites his lip. “Well, thank you,” he says quietly, ripping the tape from the wrapping paper. A square velvet box stares up at him and he pries it open. Chris’ eyes grow wide because he doesn’t remember the diamond moon cufflinks coming in a maroon velvet box and when he sees the tiffany set engagement ring blinking back at him he feels faint. “Chris?” Lance looks at him with a confused look before plucking it from the box. He holds it up and studies it carefully, cocking on eyebrow in amusement. “Shit! NO!” Chris barks, jumping to his feet. “NO! NO! NO! I don’t know what that is, but no! It’s not yours! I bought you these...moon cufflinks and they had diamonds and fuck it anyway!” Chris leans against the wall--completely trounced by the entire day. Lance is silent for a moment--then he stands and slides over to Chris. He drags Chris’ face up to meet his gaze and smiles. Holding his hand out, he slips the ring halfway down his ring finger. “Well,” he says lightly. “Not exactly manly, but yes. I’ll marry you!” Chris’ lips twitch and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Lance. This was all supposed to be...perfect. I’m such a fuck up!” Lance shrugs and wraps his arms around Chris tightly. “Nothing in life is perfect, Chris. You should know this by now. Things happen that we can’t control--that we shouldn't’ try to control. This is as close to perfect as it gets. Love. This thing we have.” Chris loves the way Lance smells, the way his arms feel and the way his heart beats against his chest. He adores the way Lance looks in the morning, before the trademark spikes are in, and he adores the way Lance sleeps with one foot out of the covers. He loves this guy no matter what and sighs into his neck. “Lance?” Lance pulls back and touches Chris’ cheek. “Yeah?” “Can we, uh, go to the hospital now? Because my wrist really hurts.” “Oh God, yeah. Sure.” Lance slips the ring off and places it back in the box. He grabs the keys and holds the door open for Chris. In the insanity of the Emergency Room, Chris watches Lance request a private booth to wait in and he watches as Lance fills out all the forms. He stares while Lance bites his lip in concentration and smiles when Lance bends down to sign an autograph for a little girl. It's not perfect, he thinks, but it’s heartfelt and good. Honest and pure. And as long as he’s got Lance, he reminds himself, any wrinkle will be just that--a wrinkle. And while love isn’t perfect, all that counts is what the heart holds. Chris sighs emotionally as Lance returns to his side with a bottle of water for him. “Here,” he says, uncapping it. “I thought you might be thirsty.” Consideration. Admiration. Thoughtfulness. All symbols of the day--less than perfect to some but meaningful to Chris. “Happy birthday,” he whispers. “Thanks,” Lance beams. “I couldn’t ask for more.” Chris knows what he means. // back //