Last time I talked to you, you were lonely and out of place Down here in the atmosphere, garbage and city lights All we are is all so far. You're falling back to me, the star that I can't see "Bass! Yo! What's a nice dude like you doing in a dive like this?" the voice asks you, over the droning thump of dance music - the easy-spirit, unassuming voice that has just materialized and slid over next to you, lightly brushing a solid knee against your leg and doing its best to break into your hazy haven here in this dark sanctuary you've discovered tonight. Somewhere, through the thickness in your head, your logic attempts to signal that you should respond because - and some distant part of your mind is already flipping through the repertoire of possibilities - the calm voice and the casual touch are vaguely familiar to you. Even when "familiar" is precisely what you'd been trying to escape tonight. Tonight and every night for the past few……….Fuck. How long now? Days? Weeks? "Whassup, man? I heard some whispers downstairs that you were somewhere in the house. So I got my boy Jason to squeeze me past the muscle and hook me up in here where I figured I'd find ya. Long time no see, dawg. How you been? Okay?" The smooth voice glides in again and fills your conscious once more, penetrating the thunderous gyrations of the moving rhythm and bodies one floor beneath where you sit in your own silence. Solitary echoes in a crypt Slowly, you turn now because you feel politely obligated. And because it occurs that maybe, just maybe, you should at least give the impression of actually being alive. You figure, randomly, that you're probably - with your (lack of) expression alone - sounding off all the bells and whistles that you're not, in fact, "okay." That you passed by and waved at "okay" about……….oh……….Fuck it. You can't remember how long ago. "Oh. Hey, Robson. Fancy meeting you here," rolls off your tongue almost automatically, and you don't even know from where. You're both talking in horrid clichés, and you're looking at him and wondering, with a weird disconnected absentness, if his messed-the-hell-all-up hair was that dark the last time you saw him or if you're maybe confusing him with some-fucking-body else. Or if any of it even matters anymore. He laughs, and you're struck bluntly with the innocence, the light-heartedness, that wafts off him. The conspicuous nonexistence of pain. And you think that perhaps you should be envious of him. For that reason, that absence. If only you could feel that much past the suffocating weight that crushes and crushes and crushes your raw insides. "Yeah, yeah, I know. The underage issue. Don't bust my chops, man. I told ya……….I got some fly connections." You could really give a damn whether Wade's in the club legally or not. That idea, along with a brazillion others, hadn't even flittered anywhere near your alcohol-saturated thoughts. But it now sparks a useful bit of relevance for you, and you reach down to the small cocktail table and tighten a fist around your drink. "Bottoms up then, man! Whatcha waiting for?" you smile as well as you can and say to your sudden new guest - the unannounced, uninvited one. And you hear, ringing through your ears, the distant hollowness of that fake cheerful complacency in your own voice that never sickened you before now. Add that fucker to the growing list "Um, yeah, Bassman. Will do……….But it might take me 'til, like, tomorrow afternoon to catch up with you, I'm saying." Wade giggles, with a little more of an edge now, to accessorize his chit-chat, and you realize uncomfortably that he's looking at you, directly into your face - peering past the blood-stained streaks that decorate the ivory and jade of your eyes and gleaning a brief glimpse of the jagged brokenness far down inside you. The ugly strewn tatters that were once your heart. *No! Don't see me now!* screams through your mind, and you flinch away, turning your head quickly and shielding the view of your own private emotional ruin. "Hmm. Well, what can I say?" you stall and laugh toward the vibrating floor under you. "I'm just chillin' while I've got the chance, man. Gotta head back to Moscow soon, ya know. Whenever the suits and big-whigs pull their collective shit together and get on the same page." "Yeah, I hear ya. And I saw your little press conference photo op that day all over CNN. You were a little shooting star, huh?" Wade nudges you again with a half-fist, which you barely feel, and then takes a hearty swig from a brown bottle of beer which you think must have materialized magically from out of the VIP lounge's murky fog surrounding you because you certainly don't remember him having it two minutes ago. "Shooting star, hmph……….How witty," you mumble so low it's almost not audible to anyone but you. You consider adding, "Is standup comedy your new gig now that you quit the Slave-driving Choreographer Extraordinaire?" But you don't. You could care less. And you're sure you couldn't, right now, force your mouth to pronounce "extraordinaire" correctly anyway. "Yeah, congrats, buddy! Looks like you're on your way to the great black yonder." You brace your eyes from roaming around their sockets because you just seriously don't want the "space mission" convo again. Not tonight. It was the whole fucking "space" scenario that you'd fled from - yes, the more appropriate "flown from" tickles your subconscious cruelly, and you shove it away bitterly - to get back over here as quickly as you could, only to discover, via a revelatory flash from one of nature's other brilliant celestial lights, that home-sweet-home wasn't so sweet after all and that never again in your lifetime would you anticipate a homecoming like you'd anticipated this one. So, no. Nix on the astro-babble. You're not feeling it, and you don't want to. It, like everything else, dangles hurtful threads back to……….well……….the here and now. Where nothing is good or right. Truth be told, you're not feeling much of anything at the moment - well, except for the icy chill of the glass tumbler in your hand and the mellow burn of the bourbon as it washes down your throat and coats like a singeing blanket the empty wasteland in there. Yep, you're holed away all alone again in the exclusive private section of yet another bar (this one in a hotel lobby, of all fucking places) turning drowning-one's-misery into an art form and perfecting it single-handedly. Unexpectedly funny you must look to the non-suffering innocents such as Robson. And unexpectedly tragic as well. "So what are you doing in LA? I thought you were kicking it in London, dude. Looked like you were having a gay ol' time." Tiredly, you sigh with depth and echo. Your whole damn life in four-color jpegs on the damn Internet. "Yeah, well, you know me. Always on the move. Can't be gathering moss or whatever. Besides, that place is big-time dreary and depressing. Always fucking raining," you whine and realize immediately how unfair it is to blame your soggy, morose psyche on the capital city of England. Yes, you had jumped on the first plane you could get that was crossing the big pond that night - the night you'd sneaked back home and made your heart-rending discovery. Blinded by your tears and your madness, you'd rushed away from Hell itself to your own house and haphazardly packed some clothes before dashing to the airport. Because you couldn't - c'mon now……….no fucking way - remain in Orlando. Because - honestly - that would have been akin to showering in rubbing alcohol after rolling around in shards of shattered glass. Naked and raw. Not that dashing off to London had resulted in a vast improvement on that harsh sensation. But at least Freddy had been there. And Freddy - God, help him, and you DO roll your eyes now - was inevitably the best temporary cure for all the blues with all his jacked-up partified distracting. Even if he eventually became annoying as hell with his clingy possessiveness. "And, um, then whassup with you and Chasez? I heard you guys had a falling out," Wade blurts out, a little breathily and a lot brazenly, you think. And you almost choke on the dark, syrupy liquid at the back of your throat. You still can't turn and give him your eyes again. No, not strong enough or drunk enough to hide what churns and simmers in the shifting colors there, the unrelenting pain that's taken up residence in your person and swirls around you in a tight, hot funnel-cloud fresh and new, gaining strength, each time the memory of his face flares into your mind all over again. His stoic, emotionless features as he stood there across his bedroom from you while someone who wasn't you writhed sleepily on your side of his bed. Kissed by the heat of those indigo eyes so many times in the past you could claim……….but, as you stood there that night, they'd been unrecognizably distant and shivery ice-blue. Freezing you to death. No! Shut the fuck up and go away! Did you have to ask me about THAT? "Oh. Where'd you hear that?" you inquire sullenly, figuring that you must surely be insane, and you wish in a dulled heartbeat that you'd asked *anything* else. Because, somehow, with brutal acuity, you know what's coming next. And if only you could change/prevent it………. "Timberlake." Fuck. Wade doesn't notice how you're not responding, not moving, not breathing. And he continues obliviously. "He mentioned it the other day when I ran into him at a studio. He's in town lots right now working on those new tunes of his……….Says he's a little freaked about Chasez and how he's tripping right now and -" "Wade, look……….Spare me the sugary details. Okay, man? I can't……….I mean………." Something warm and thick has swollen in your esophagus and cut off your voice. Even the undiluted liquor you gulp down won't dissipate it. However, behind your drooping eyes, you can still scream like a mofo. And you do so. Even though only silently. Shut the hell up, Robson! What in God's name makes you think I WANNA hear what that back-stabbing asshole Timberlake has to say, huh? He's the son-of-a-bitch who stole what was mine and left me like this - a pathetic loser who was stupid enough to love and trust somebody way the fuck too much and now can't seem to get his shit together anymore. HE'S the heartless moocher. Or did he conveniently forget to mention that? "Lance, yo. Sorry, man. I'm a dumbass. An insensitive clod," Wade forces through closed lips quietly. He's behind and below you now because, you notice, you're standing. And you don't recall getting up from the small crushed-velvet couch you'd been slumped comfortably in. You breathe outward uneasily because your pulse has decided to rev itself up, and then you move through the viscous sinking sand over to the mini-bar, that's yours because you've paid for all of its contents, and begin to refresh your drink. To go along with your renewed agony. "Don't sweat it. I just don't feel like……….discussing it. Okay? I mean……….that's why I'm here, in THIS place, ya know? So I don't have to think about it. It's useless." You know your voice is deep and muffled under the clinking ice cubes and flowing Jim Beam. Almost unwilling to turn and face Wade again - for fear of what you both may reveal to each other - you long for your darkened, close-to-bearable, jam-thumping solitude once more. "He's here too, Bass……….JC……….He's in LA right now. Same as you and me," your companion says from behind you with the softness of early dawn. It occurs to you that it was a deliberate act of mercy that he didn't include Justin in the list of current LA residents. "And from what I hear, he ain't doing all that great." You'd been aware that he was here, in town. How could you possibly miss him (although you'd certainly tried) all over the damn TV and Net at his Lakers games outing? Smiling and looking gorgeously tan and rested, wearing, in one shot, that stupid fucking yellow watch you'd given him as a gag last year and then on another day gracing a heavenly-blue T-shirt in the exact shade of cyan Justin adored most. You'd known, had seen, that Justin himself attended those same "hoops" events, and you'd preferred to souse yourself into staggeringly-sloshed oblivion rather than speculate on the possibility - no, almost sure-fucking-fire bet - that they'd actually been there "together." "Fuck that," you growl from somewhere deep before you can stop it from getting out, and somehow the bottle you were just pouring from slams back down on the counter a little too bluntly. "That used to be something I'd worry myself sick over……….how he's doing……….But he's made it pretty damn obvious I'm not supposed to bother anymore……….So to hell with it. All right?" "All right, man. I'm just saying……….Justin-" You wheel around and almost stumble to your knees with the rush of vertigo, but the glint of cold steel in your glowering pupils shuts Wade up instantly. You grab for the edge of the counter for support. "Fuck Justin too, Wade. At least……….at least that was JC's theory while I was gone. Forget all about me and fuck that bastard Justin." Your heavy eyelids slit even more deliberately, and there's that ripping/shredding sensation going on inside you again. "Didya ever wish ya could just murder somebody and get away with it, man? Maybe TWO somebodies?" Slowly, Wade blinks over calm, coffee-colored pools and watches you patiently. "Lance, I know it probably sucks ass to be you right now, to feel like you must feel. But C loves you, man. Everybody can see that." With ugly sarcasm and internal bruises, you chuckle when nothing is humorous. "Funny how you can up and claim that so boldly, Robson. 'Cuz I see just the damn opposite. He's got his boy Timberdick to take care of all his needs now. He couldn't give a shit if I live or die. THAT'S what's plain to see." "Timberlake, I'm guessing, was a piss-poor substitute for you, Bass. You're the real thing for Chasez, dude. It's, like, a fact of life." With white-hot clarity, you see a wall of red in front of you, and you realize you'll be breaking off pieces of the bar's edge soon if you don't stop gripping it so viciously. "Look, Wade. You need to fork over s'more dough for premium channels or satellite hook-up or pay-per-view or something 'cause, man, your basic cable version of reality ain't cutting it. Lemme try and help you out……….JC and me? Over. Done. Kaput. Finito. End of bullshit story. Why, you ask? Well, one of us turned out to be a lying, bloodless whore. And that one of us wasn't me. I was the one with some actual feelings, which are now blown all to hell and back." "I'm really sorry, Lance," he almost whispers, and you believe that he sincerely is. You can hear, maybe, a creeping tenderness or sympathetic concern in his tone. "I know it hurts. I wish I could fix it all……….for both of you." As you sigh aloud again, the wall of red begins to fade to pink, and the depressive aloneness starts to settle back in around you possessively. God, how can he fucking sit there and pretend to know the depth of what this feels like? The extent of the sear of betrayal and ache of sadness? The sudden and sweeping loss of someone you'd loved so unconditionally and allowed access to the warmest parts of your very soul? How could he sit there - at what? all of 20? - and claim he understands such overwhelming desolate vacancy that's the Black Hole inside you now? How the fuck? The fault, you remind yourself quickly, doesn't fall on him. He doesn't deserve your current caustic attitude and hostile view of the universe in general. He's not even, as far as you can determine in your altered dismal consciousness, taking sides. He's simply Wade. Another L.A. dweller you happen to know from work. "And I wish I'd never gone to stupid space camp way back when," you finally look over at him and say, with the most pretentious supernova smile you can muster. "Or maybe that I'd just kept my ass over on Russian soil and not gone for the gigantic I-missed-you-so-fucking-much surprise. The Big Bang backfired on me. Ha." "You did what you thought would be good. Out of love." "Yeah. Uh huh. And he did whatever would make himself FEEL good. Out of pure, skank lust," you snarl, more at the undying pain than at anything or anyone else. Wade bites at the inside of his jaw and then finishes off his beer. Quietly and almost hesitantly, he turns his large brown saucers of eyes up to you and speaks. "You don't suppose you should maybe try and talk to him before you take off again?" The dramatic sneer you offer isn't very convincing, and you know it. Because you've always been better at catching flies with honey than with vinegar. But you put it out there anyway. With a "wildly preposterous" slant. "For what? So he can tell me all about how much richer life with Justin is than with me? After what he did, why would I -" "Okay, Lance. Nevermind. Forget about it." "I don't even speak that stupidass Jubonics, by the way. He wouldn't understand me now any-fucking-way." You're tossing back almost all of your straight-liquor drink and leaning against the counter for balance. And defiantly continuing to make your point. Humbly, Wade holds up a flat, outstretched hand as a white flag. And the right side of his mouth gives you a faint smile. "Okay, buddy. I'm not pushing……….It's just that, well………." "What???" It's more of an impatient bark than you'd intended for it to be. "I'm just saying……….you're here, man. You're here in this city where he is……….And he's here where you are……….when you could both be ANYwheres else……….Think about it." Your head lowers to your chest, and you don't really see the floor under you. You consider reminding Wade here that you don't WANT to "think about it." None of it. Especially the flat-out, staring-you-in-the-face dramatic fact he'd just brought to your weakened attention. The one you'd been stealthily avoiding for days now. Nope. Definitely not that. "You want another brewski, Robson? I got plenty." * * * * * * * * * This morning (or was it afternoon? Does it even matter now?), you'd lay there on your side in THE bed in your bedroom and unwillingly felt consciousness stirring through you, rousing you back to a grim reality you'd prefer to sleep through. To avoid entirely. But prolonged escapage isn't a possibility, you'd known as soon as you'd forced open the tiny gashes of your eyelids and peered at the wall next to THE bed. (It's THE bed in your mind because you can't bring yourself to call it YOUR bed since it's not YOURS AND HIS bed any longer.) The first sensations you'd experienced were the two tiny streams of sweat trickling in competition down the middle of your back and through the valley between your pecs. The warm moisture had beaded above your upper lip and collected at the bridge of your nose as well. But you'd felt so chilled in spite of it. The middle of June in California, and you were shivering under the sheets and blanket around you. "Jaccce………." The mono-syllable of a hiss had breathed fire over the flesh of your neck, exposed then by the whisper's oversized hand which casually brushed aside your stray bed-head curls. Justin. He'd been there. Still. Beside you. Unobtrusively but familiarly pressing into you lengthwise from behind. Same as yesterday. And the day before. "Go away," you'd scowled into your pillow. Futilely. "It's after twelve, man. In the afternoon. Hey, check this. I went down to whatcha-ma-fuck and got some bagels. Coffee's brewing too……….C'mon. Get up, dawg. You can't lay here all day." You'd wanted to backhand him. Hard and slammingly. To get him the fuck out of your face. Out of your bed. Out of your house. But you hadn't. You couldn't. Because, well, you didn't exactly have the energy. Literally. You weren't eating unless he made you eat - sat there and watched you eat - what he'd brought over day after day and wouldn't leave the room until you'd done so. Your outward appearance of smiling strength was all a laughable façade. One SlimFast from the cooler on the beach every day, and then it was icy Red Stripes from the bottle from then on out. And because……….well, bagels. Shit. Bagels were what HE used to come over with. Or go out and fetch while you still slept so peacefully and loved. And he'd always choose the wickedest and best, most delicious, spreads to go on them too - blueberry cheesecake, peanut butter chocolate mousse, whipped pumpkin pie……….the sweet creaminess that inevitably tasted so much better when licked off pre-showered flesh than off even the city's finest fried dough. So how could you even consider eating *those* bagels downstairs from Justin? What's the term for that shit? Cruel and unusual irony? You'd groaned unintelligibly in protest and burrowed back into the damp pillow beneath you. "No……….don't want to." "Well, ain't that just too damn bad? Huh? 'Cuz I don't go picking up take-out for just anybody. Wake up, wake up, man! Two more days and you and Kirkpatrick get splashed across the fucking Fox network in living color. Summer Music Mania in all its teeny glory. And I will NOT be responsible for you turning into Hermit the Frog." His warm, wet lips had suctioned the skin of the back of your neck that your hair normally covered, and you'd shuddered against it. "I'm tired, Ju. Leave me alone." "No way, José. You veg in the sand all day and then lay in the bed all night. You're not tired. C'mon now. Shake yo groove thang. Down to the surf and tide we go, bro." "If it's afternoon like you say, the tide's out. How long have you lived here, dumbass?" "Longer than you have." The feathery declaration had seared into you with his hot, hot rain of breath at your neck. "And it'll be coming back in by the time I get you out there to it." "I don't wanna go out today," you'd grumbled petulantly. As if he were your overbearing nanny. "No big. We'll stay in again. Whatever you wanna do. I got DVDs out the ass from Blockbuster yesterday. We're set." Well, hmmm, could you possibly watch them at your own damn house? Bit you hadn't said that with your magnificent pout because, again, more with the completely hopeless. "Justin." "What?" he'd clenched out impatiently and toyed with your messy locks in one beefy hand and massaged your shoulder with the other. "Why are you still here? Can't you, like, bid on eBay for a LIFE or something close?" He'd laughed his world-renown, show-stopping laugh. Except it had held a special secret note of charm this time. All for you. A sincere quiet one that brought with it a thousand unspoken words. "Why do you keep asking me that shit, C? You're my friend. I want to be here, I'm saying." "Fuck you." "Um, okay. Well, whatever it takes. Just haul your ass outta this bed. You're gonna start growing to it." And he'd wrestled you, pulled you backwards with his overpowering tenacity and determination, out of THE bed and held you around the waist until you'd stood up on your own. And, even though you'd huffed and shrugged and feigned resistance, he'd pushed/dragged you to the bathroom where the tiles were cool under your feet. He'd grabbed your forearm and stopped you next to the shower stall, but you weren't, honestly, putting up much of a fight. "What, Ju? Whadaya want?" you'd scoffed and scrunched your face and tried to seem as aggravated and inconvenienced as you possibly could. As you stood there squinting in the pastels and bright bathroom lights. "Whada I want? ……….I want……….for you to be……….a person again, JC. With a real personality and everything……….not a zombie like now……….You know? Am I getting through?" Oh, the Boy Wonder had grown poignant. Philosophical. "You're getting monotonous and fucking mother-henish," you'd whined and frowned. And then you'd managed to stifle a gasp when his warm, fleshy fingers grazed your ribcage as he slid your tank top up your torso and over your head. Instinctively, you'd raised your arms like a child and sighed loudly in exasperation. "Jace, dude……….Stop messing around and arguing and just get in the damn shower already. You know why I'm here. Why I'm staying." "Umm, because Chris and Joey wised up and won't let you in their cribs anymore?" "No, Senior Sha-zaay of the Not-So-Funny Smartmouth." Crystalline sky-blue had gazed directly into you then since he's almost your exact height. Heat from his hands had caressed your waist, the thick appendages hovering there to possibly yank the boxers off your hips. "I don't need taking care of, Timberlake," you'd glared resignedly back into the twin pools of the heavens. But without as much force. "Ah, now I think we both know that's not true." He'd snickered again. Just a little. Just so playfully. "Justin, c'mon now, man. The one time I get lazy and -" "C, look. It's my fault you've turned into this lifeless recluse thing. And I wanna help you, man." "It's not your fault," you'd answered, gulping and becoming aware of the ice in your lower abdomen that had begun to spread upward under your skin. "You weren't……….in the relationship with him……….I was……….I fucked it up." His large head had tilted to the side ever so slightly. His features had sagged with an undercurrent of sad empathy. "But I knew about it, 'bout you two……….And I shoulda respected that instead of coming in the middle of it……….I screwed over two of my best friends." The pain of the cold filling up your gut had started to swell and rise, and you'd known it would soon reach that hole your heart had vacated and try to suffocate you again. Whatever you'd tried to swallow had been a bitch and refused to go down. "No," you'd whispered to the floor tiles then. "I fucked up. I'm the one who lost him." You'd wondered if he might pull you to him and embrace you then, both of you standing there in the strained silence. But he hadn't, and you'd realized that he'd been afraid to. For all his well-intentioned bravado and aggression, he'd been afraid in that moment to allow himself to hold you. Fearful not for your sake, but for his own. "Well, don't be losin' the hope, right? Not 'til the woman with the fatass belts one out, huh?" he'd stammered uncharacteristically, with a grin on his face. "And I swear you won't be losing me. I won't abandon you, C. I swear. I'll stay widya, man." He'd successfully slipped in a weak but adequate charming laugh, and you'd picked up the rare unsteadiness in his tone. So you'd raised your head and given him your tired eyes. If you'd had a smile - or even a hint of one somewhere in there - you'd have offered that too. But………. "Which shmears did you get for the bagels?" That's what you'd had to offer. The bewildering insecurity in his bright orbs had slowly melted graciously and puddled into something far more soothed and comforted. He'd licked his full, red lips in unconscious anticipation. "Umm, lemme see……….Double-whipped peanut butter and jelly, strawberries and cream, and jalapeno salsa. Cool, huh?" You'd rolled your eyes, gaining a childlike giggle from him. "Typical." "What? Whass wrong with those, dawg?" "Nothing. My three faves." "Really?" And his face had lit up wondrously. "Really. Now trot your infant ass on downstairs. I'll be there in a sec or two. Deal? You trust me to handle this shower thing on my own?" "I dunno, C. I might need to hop in there and give ya a hand." He'd winked and released the ever-ready chuckle again. But you'd clamped a hand on his arm and whisked him around. And gently pushed him toward the door. "Go. I'm fine. You let that coffee burn, and I'll be one pissed-off bitch." Vibrating under your touch, he'd laughed heartily. "Dude, no. I think I've seen enough of *that* to hold me over forever. I'm going, I'm going." Then he'd trotted off away from you, as if he were on a basketball court. So light and carefree, you'd noted with envy. As the hot, brisk downpour of water from the shower's nozzle had blasted you unmercifully, you'd also been drenched with the epiphany that Justin was totally serious. He was absolutely dedicated. To hanging here with you until you were "okay" again. Be it the overwhelming guilt that he'd expressed over busting up your sacred-ground Romance With Lance, or be it the heartfelt concern that had consumed him since he'd dropped by unexpectedly three days ago just to say "hi" and found you passed out cold on the kitchen floor in front of your open refrigerator, a trail of dark dried blood on your cheek where you'd scraped it while falling helplessly into oblivion. "I was, like, THIS close to calling 9-1-1, C! You had me tripping, man! You okay?" he'd been gushing down at you in whispers when you'd slowly emerged back into the real world and opened your eyes. He'd been sitting on the floor, legs splayed out, cradling your head and upper body against his chest and swiping your face gently with an iced hand towel. "Talk to me, C. Please. What the fuck happened?" "Just……….um……….lost my balance, I guess," you'd squeaked out. "Not a big thing." "Not a big thing HELL! You're sinking here, hot stuff. This whole house reeks of pot. There's nothing in this dam fridge but booze and Jello cups. And look at you! What the fuck you been eating?" You'd wanted to explain that, why yes, you'd had something to eat - a few French fries from McDonald's earlier that day. Okay, yesterday. But still. You'd eaten. Recently. And you thought of explaining to him that the freaking fridge looked empty because, well, Lance was far better at grocery shopping than your hyper, impatient ass would ever be. But you didn't. Because you'd remembered in time……….Lance hadn't come out here to sunny, merry, beautiful southern California with you. Not this time. And he wouldn't ever do so again. No, buddy. You'd been forced to fend for sorry self now. And, from the current status quo around you, you were certainly sucking at that in a major way. Justin, however, had been excruciatingly patient with you, gathering you up off the floor where you'd been laying and practically carrying you up the stairs to your warm, welcoming bed and tucking you in comfortably before he'd rushed off to get you some chicken soup, macaroni-n-cheese, ginger ale, and orange juice. You'd felt drastically ashamed for your enormous self-pity and pathetic personal neglect. And his care and attention had been surprisingly soothing. You hadn't been so desperately alone any longer. A drop of consolation you'd lapped up eagerly because you had exactly nothing else to get even the slightest enjoyment from. Or look forward to. When you'd slinked downstairs after your cleansing and awakening shower this morning, he'd been sitting at the small breakfast table in the kitchen and, when you'd entered, turned his head from the tiny screen of the portable TV that sat there. His glittering eyes danced with loopy charisma and innocent laughter. "Jace! Check this! You are SO this Mojo JoJo dude on PowerPuff Girls, man! Look at this crazy mofo! You could play him in the feature film! Nerdiest cartoon villain in the history of the world!" "Fucking hilarious, Timberbrat," you'd snarled at his never-failing zest. "Aww, sit down and chill out, tightass," he'd scolded you. The radiant smile hadn't wavered and, for a second, you'd both been young teenagers again with most of the wonders of the world still in front of you. "Okay," you'd grumbled and pulled out a chair to fall into. Because, well, this obstinate camaraderie - or whatever the fuck an outsider might call it - sure as hell outranked isolation and beat the crap out of being stuck with nothing but yourself. Yeah, your own miserable self who'd thrown to the curb the one thing in your life with the power to exorcise this abysmal emptiness that you'd become. So, for the moment, for the past few days, you'd been "okay" with this tolerable sort of cushion for your mal-adjusted psyche - silently resolved that it was only temporary and far from "content." Watching "Gladiator" (for you) and "Corky Romano" (for him) and snickering in the dark of the den, or reclining in beach chairs and swilling beers down by the noisy ocean, or - like now - chewing shmeared bagels and soaking in the animated comedy of Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup. Behind the blinds and in the simple smugness of the kitchen. Allowing anything and everything to take the place of discussing the deep but evident matters that whirled thickly in the atmosphere like taunting specters. For as long as such an unplanned plan would work. Justin's cell phone had gutted the peaceful air, and he'd bounded up to retrieve it from the living room. Meanwhile, you'd sipped at a second cup of black, smoking coffee and kept your eyes on the screen, glad for the silly distraction of cartoons. Sad that you wished you could remain here, like this, focusing on almost nothing, for the rest of the day. "Here, C. It's Wade." Startled because you hadn't heard him glide back up next to you, you'd flinched and swung your head around, your eyes traveling up his body to his now-somber face. He'd held his little phone out to you. "What?" "It's Wade. He wants to rap at you, man." "Robson?" You'd squinted, unbelieving. "What the hell does he want with me?" And you'd watched as Justin's bluish stare had dropped to the floor and he'd swallowed in lieu of - a rare instance for him - having a substantial boisterous retort to come back with. Then you'd heard him shuffle his feet restlessly. "He's, uh……….He thinks he's found Lance for ya……….He's pretty sure he's got the 4-1-1 on where he's boozing here in town. He……….We thought you might wanna know." "Okay now, WHAT?" you'd growled again because the screen in the thinking theater of your mind had snowed over once more, and you really, really weren't sure what was going on. "C, c'mon. You oughta talk to Lance……….He's gonna go back to Siberia or wherever the hell he's training before much longer." "Well, Justin, look……….It's not necessary -" "Will you just talk to Wade, dude? Please?" Justin had glanced back up at you as he'd again extended the phone, and you'd seen clearly right into those shining windows to his soul - right past the exterior he was so valiantly parading in front of you that said Wade-and-I-think-it's-best-if-you-at-least-try-and-talk-to-Lance and directly into the more veiled but more credible strong currents of But-I-know-I-could-make-you-forget-all-this-and-bring-you-back-to-happy-again. The latter forces, you'd understood in that moment, would win uncontested if Justin let the guard down in his head because, in his heart, obligation to take care of you was morphing, growing, crossing the line to, becoming affection and desire for more than the casual bond you share now. Yes, you'd been blazened with all of that in one silent glance, and you'd sighed heavily as you'd watched him slouch out of the kitchen, a little less peppy and aggressive this time. ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ So here you are now, sitting alone in your Lexus on the Sunset Strip. It's 2:15 in the damn morning, and you're parked inconspicuously across the street from the Standard Hotel. And, again, the looming question of "WHY?" flitters through your mind. Why the fuck are you here? Staked out all covert and stuff like on a damn cop show? "Because………." Something soft and mildly controlling whispers in your head. "……….this is where Lance has been spotted most often. According to Wade." Yes, but why? you argue with your own voices. What the hell good is it gonna do me if he saunters out of that building over there anyway? "Don't you want to see him? Talk to him? Find out if he's doing okay?" Of course. Sure. DUH. But there's that little detail about how he despises my ass now because I couldn't keep my dick in my pants while he was gone astronauting………. "Ah, but broken hearts do mend, as the sappy love songs say. Wounded spirits learn to live again," comes the gentle, prodding answer. "Giving up has never been your style." He hates me. And for good reason. I fucked around on him. Betrayed his trust. "And it's not his style to hate. You know that better than anyone." It's too soon, you counter. Way too soon. "Why, whatever are you waiting for? A written invitation? He's probably wondering why you haven't tried contacting him already." You smirk and shake your head. He's probably fucking NOT either. "Do you love Lance?" The whispery question cuts through fog and wafts through your insides. Your smirk becomes a pained squint, and a fragile small thing shatters somewhere down in your chest before you can stop it from falling and crashing. Yes. I do……….even now. But I went and screwed up about as huge as the damn Milky Way……….Everything is all wrecked now. I'm sort of like a dragon monster or something that feeds solely on ashes, so I have to burn everything around me to cinder for survival. "Well, some lovely survival this is, eh? And again……….Giving up……….not like you at all. Doesn't really look so swell on you." I'm not giving u- Oh, fuck this. Shut up. Leave me alone, you hiss at/to yourself and huff angrily. Irritated with yourself. You can't remember right now what exact rah-rah crap Wade had fed you on the phone earlier to get you down here. Some stuff to remind you how shitty you'd feel if something tragic befell Lance when he finally went back to Russia. Such as, "Chasez, dude. He could even have a plane crash on his way over there. You just never know." Jesus Christ. Like you needed more guilt heaped on you to make you feel even worse. Fucking great. Well, yes, if anyone deserved to wear the heavy "miserably shitty" cloak, you were tops on the list. But Robson had been right. Pushy and nosey. But right. Something should be said. It shouldn't just be left like this……….so desperately broken and undone. It had been surprising to learn from Wade that Lance had been here in Lah-Lah Land all this time - What's it been now? A week? Ten days? More? - since his high-profile little jaunt to London. Why here? Why not try and stay as far from your unfaithful, heinous self as possible? Obviously, he'd been throwing himself into the city's hopping nightlife. Typical of Lance. And gut-wrenchingly sad since you know the reason he's doing it now. But didn't *other* cities in the wide world boast hopping nightlife as well? He'd been here, near you, all along. Hopefully, minus that disgusting hanger-on POSER Hernandez. Surely, dear God, Lance wasn't seeking solace - or even company - in a prick like Freddy. "Pipe down, asshole," another voice soars bitterly in your head. With intended emotional force. "Who are YOU to be yammering on about who Lance 'seeks solace' in? Can you answer that one? If you hadn't been 'seeking solace' in Justin's nude, sweat-drenched body, none of this would be happening in the first place, now would it? So zip it, jerkoff. Speculating on Lance's social life is OFF limits to you now." You slam your eyes shut to smother the noise you know is the truth. Oh, yeah. Here we are back in the real world. Purgatory for the Losers on Sunset Boulevard. The raining ashes of emotional fallout. Quiet, sodden despair. Deep, aching loss. Mia culpa. A one-litter bottle of Grey Goose vodka runs you about $45 in Hollywood, but it's worth it to you for the sweet-burn flavor alone. Not to mention its calming effect on inner chaos. And you pour a little more from the leather-bound flask into the ebony juice glass on the bucket seat next to you. It sears, but you need searing, lots of searing. It also lowers the volume on the voices in your subconscious which feel the need to keep reminding you exactly which stage of heartbreak you've made it to now. Muted blue on the dashboard advises you that it's reached 2:43 a.m., and you bring the warm fire in the glass to your lips. Maybe you'd try to find a cool, non-affecting tune on the radio, but you regret still what had oozed out of the speakers with alarming and brutal dead-on aim when you'd clicked the button about an hour ago. Some fucking station is playing vintage Tori Amos……….harrowingly keen and acutely "hit home." A lone piano backgrounds her patented wail. Every finger in the room is pointing at me I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets Why do we crucify ourselves Um, yeah. So no more stabs at the radio and its blaring intervals of dissecting your soul. You've had quite enough lyrical/painful poignancy to hold you over forever. You're finishing off the vodka and feeling your eyelids weighing heavy when you hear a stir from under the street lights across the way. The thin glass slips from your hand when you see him step out of the shadows of the doorway - completely alone and completely undisguised. The few random people who'd been milling around aimlessly in various nonchalant stances suddenly morph into the omnipresent paparazzi and converge to swoop in, surrounding him and snapping a picture or thrusting one in his personal space to sign. Fucking vultures. Get off him He stops, as you watch from your distant and clandestine locale, and glances around from within his trap, his smoldering good looks and concert-groomed camera ease never failing him. He smiles as little as he can get by with, and you're not sure if your heart has shut down entirely or if it's pounding so fast that it's now just one prolonged blur. This is the first time your eyes have taken him in in almost two weeks. And, even now, the sight is numbing and exhilarating at once. The essence of everything desirable Gracefully, he signs two things that are shoved at him but then visibly bristles at the person intruding on him with the third. You can't hear the conversation, but you can see, from Lance's tight, controlled expression and terse body movements that he has no intention at all of granting this "fan" the privilege of his penmanship. Probably a stupid autograph hawk trying to pimp for major profit, you surmise. Lance had begun to take notice of and rail against this skanky concept during the "Celebrity" tour, even though Chris had taunted him with lame "Preacher Bass" and Mighty Mouse jokes. "Get outta his face," you hiss possessively and start to get the dawning realization that Lance's steady glamour quotient might be just a tad bit off the mark right now. Maybe not quite as sparkly and jubilant as usual. Unnoticeable to others, but painfully obvious to you. He looks sort of like……….well……….like a dog that's been hit by a car……….still walking around like normal……….but with some very, very important things inside all mangled and damaged Begrudgingly polite, he's talking to some young queer-looking guy now - most likely one of a million stalking reporters for the teeny dirtbag gossip rags all over this town - and you recall, achingly and without warning, how he'd talked to you once……….his deep, gentle voice patiently explaining the beauty of late July in the Mississippi delta country when the drooping Crape Myrtles and the swaying Mimosas are simultaneously decorating the green landscape with their delicate yet vibrant colors, sharing a blooming season and creating breath-taking scenery. And it hadn't matter so much *what* he'd been saying, only that he was saying it to you. Oh, to hear that low-strumming voice again and the easy, adoring tone he always saved just for you………. You're out of the Lexus and sprinting across the relatively quiet lanes now before you're even conscious of making the decision to do so. He's nudged himself free of the small gathering around him and is moving on down the sidewalk by himself. Away from you. Again. You don't have a clue what you'll say, but you know, like you know your name, that you have to say something. Because if you don't, well, you'll probably implode. And maybe that would be a better option for all involved, but you figure you should at least try this scenario first. You can't let him leave. Not this time. He's walking slowly - drifting and slightly unbalanced, it seems from behind - drunk and/or dejected. He's headed for a small black limo that's been idling just down the block, silently awaiting his next move. You keep pace behind him, knowing he isn't aware of your presence, and watch as he stops, leans down, and reaches for the back door's silver handle. And you hardly notice that there's no one within 50 feet of either of you on the sidewalk. You also don't notice the fast and furious thumping of your heart. "Lance!" you gasp into the dense, humid summer air. And it's a desperate, soft sound. "Can we talk? Please?" He freezes as your voice cascades over him again, and then he slowly turns, pelting jade ice crystals into you. When he straightens up, it's with the speed of a glacier in Alaska, and the only warmth coming off him is the heat lightning flashing in his eyes which illuminates the streaks of red zigzagging the emerald green. The glare holds no readable expression whatsoever, and you shiver. An alone but aloof angel "Could we just……….talk?" you repeat to shatter the deafening silence. "Why, exactly?" he says finally. Thunder for the storm raging in his eyes. "There's just really nothing left to say."
You were looking down on me, lost out in space
Laid underneath the stars, strung out and feeling brave
Watch the riddles glow, watch them float away
You gotta save your tired soul, you gotta save our lives
Turn on the radio, to find you on satellite
I'm waiting for the sky to fall, I'm waiting for a sign
I know you're out there, somewhere out there
You're falling out of reach, defying gravity,
I know you're out there, somewhere out there - Our Lady Peace
I wanna spit in their faces
Then I get afraid what that could bring
I got a bowling ball in my stomach
I got a desert in my mouth
Figures that my COURAGE would choose to sell out now
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands
Drive another nail in
Just what GOD needs
One more victim
Every day I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Every day I crucify myself
And my HEART is sick of being in chains