Honeybee 5/5 (popslash, Lance/Nick)
Justin probably meant well when he showed up with his little carton of orange juice, wanting to check on Lance and maybe make him feel better - as if there's anything that could make Lance feel better right now - but the problem is, he brought Chris along with the juice, and Justin's good nature and good intentions invariably get sidetracked when Chris is around.
Lance feels a responsibility to hold his own, because he can remember when he worried they'd always get weird whenever he was sick. It's still a relief when they don't. Plus Chris and Justin manage to get together so rarely these days, and if it takes ganging up on Lance, he figures he's tough enough to take it. Only he doesn't seem tough enough today, and when Chris starts making retching noises while Justin - of course - laughs like a hyena, all Lance can do is lie there and tell himself he will not throw up. Oh, yeah, and inform Chris through gritted teeth that if he doesn't shut the fuck up, Lance is going to get up off the sofa and kill him.
Maybe he's venomous enough that Chris actually believes him - he blinks a couple of times and seems kind of taken aback - but it doesn't matter, anyway, because that's when Nick descends and herds Chris and Justin out the door without even touching them, as slick as Dre or Mike ever managed with a 12-year-old girl, just by being kind of big and in the way if they try to go any direction but out. It's not the first time Lance has suspected that at least part of the dumb part of the big dumb schtick is an act. Chris manages to lean back into the apartment and get his head around the doorjamb and and make kissie noises at Lance, and that's when Nick puts a big hand on his forehead and facepalms him backward with a "Come on, man." There's some squawking, magnified by the high ceiling of the outside hall, and then the sound of a scuffle outside as Nick closes the front door. Lance suspects Justin has suddenly remembered his grandma-instilled Southern manners and is tugging Chris toward the stairs.
Nick disappears back toward the kitchen after tossing out the Dreadful Duo, and Lance is half ravenous, half repelled by the rich scent wafting into the main area of the apartment. His stomach's on edge, and he's not sure if it's rumbling or roiling as he twists and kicks out pettishly at the afghan still wrapped around his legs. Nevertheless, the smell manages to pull him from his bed and pain and woe ... well, his sofa of pain and woe ... where he's wrapped himself up and hunkered down to stare stuporously at the TV screen as The N plays a marathon of My So-Called Life. He's always loved that show. Sometimes he wonders if Brian Krakow will wake up one day, down the road, and shave off his curls in impatience and defiance, and how many people will have to threaten to break down doors before Rayanne realizes she's worth getting clean. When he first met Wilson Cruz, backstage with Joey still in sweaty costume and stage makeup, Lance had told him what a great job he'd done on the show. Wilson had looked at him, maybe into him, and smiled, and Lance had known he'd heard the still-unspoken part, the part about how amazing and important it'd been for a 15-year-old boy in Laurel, Mississippi to see Rickie on television.
Brian's gawking through the half-opened bathroom door at Rayanne shaving her legs as Lance shuffles toward the kitchen, feeling like one big ache.
Nick's lounging beside the stove, elbow on the counter, chin in hand, face dreamy as he stirs what he's got in the pot. The scent of chicken and something sharp manages to make it through the congestion in Lance's head. Just how much snot can the human head hold, anyway, he wonders peevishly as he slumps down on the other side of the stove, pressing his face against the blessed coolness of the countertop. He's already missed three shows, and they're just going to cancel his contract if he doesn't get back onstage soon.
Nick's spoon rattles and then there's a hesitant hand on Lance's back. Lance tenses, but Nick just rubs lightly, fingers pressing through the soft cotton of Lance's T-shirt. Lance sighs and sprawls out a little bit further across the counter, seeking the chill of empty space and offering a broader expanse of his back to Nick's hand. He thinks he could even take a bit more pressure. Nick's fingers hit a knot under his left shoulder blade and dig in, and he lets out a groan made even more rumbly by whatever's gunking up his head and chest. He wonders if he can convince Nick to give him a massage and sniffs disconsolately when Nick leaves him to go give his pot a stir.
"Chicken soup," Nick says. He sounds kind of ... embarrassed? "I mean, it's not a big thing, or anything. I figured if Denise could make it on a hotplate in a hotel room, I could do something in your kitchen."
"How'd you get a chicken in that pot?" Lance asks, slitting open one eye to look at the saucepan. All he ever does is boil eggs in it. He suspects JC used it to make rice that times he cooked here, but Lance figures that's the sort of thing the microwave is for.
"It's just a breast," Nick says. "That's how come you can make a pot small enough in a hotel room. Or on the bus."
Lance didn't mean the question seriously, and the answer surprises him. He'd expected something out of a can. A fancy can maybe, if Nick was trying to be impressive, but still. He wonders if Nick knows he doesn't have to work this hard to get into Lance's pants any more.
"Seriously?" he asks, interested in spite of his misery.
"Sure," Nick says. "I mean, cook it up with some onion and garlic and ... some ... um ..." He consults a crumpled piece of paper on the counter, then stuffs it in the pocket of his jeans. "Celery and stuff. You know. But you didn't have any carrots left." He sounds apologetic. "I put in a few hot peppers, though. And rice."
Lance blinks.
"There's some ginger tea, too," Nick says. "It's what Howie makes me drink when I get sick and feel like I'm gonna throw up. And you need to try the soup, to see if I need salt or anything. Stand up a minute."
Lance's throat aches suddenly, and his eyes are watery, and he has to sniff again. It's just because of the Martian death flu, of course. He opens his mouth obediently. For a split second, he thinks his stomach is going to rebel as Nick brings the spoon to his lips and the broth rolls over his tongue. Then the heat eases some of the tightness in his throat, and he can feel the warmth spreading down through his stomach, which suddenly decides to fall on the side of "ravenous."
"That's good," he says before he can stop himself, and he's afraid his tone might be a little too incredulous, but Nick just nods. Lance reminds himself that Nick may have been Kevin's youngest Boy, but he was Jane's oldest boy, and he's got some experience with sick and cranky kids. No matter what age they are. "Maybe a little bit more salt?"
Nick sprinkles carefully into the pot, looking over at Lance for approval before setting down the shaker to stir.
"Dude, don't put that spoon back in the pot when I've got germs all over it," Lance says, and Nick rolls his eyes.
"Maybe if anybody else was going to be eating out of it, I'd worry, but come on."
"You're not having any?"
"The only thing left for us to do at this point is share toothbrushes ... toothbreesh ... teethbreesh? So I'm not real worried about it, dawg. Oh, come on. That was damn funny. Admit it. AJ uses that all the time."
"I don't know much about Backstreet Boy hygiene, but you better not be using my toothbrush."
Nick sticks out his tongue at Lance before dipping up another spoonful of soup. Lance obediently opens again and nods his approval.
"I guess just another couple of minutes," Nick says, setting down the spoon, and he wraps one arm around Lance's waist, pulling him into the solid curve of his body.
Lance feels grubby and sweaty and in desperate need of a shower, but he can't bring himself to care about that. He remembers being really sick, on tour, 24 hours of almost-sleeping from Cleveland to Minneapolis, the rocking of the bus all around him and the low drone of the television in the background - videos of movies from the heyday of Hollywood musicals - and the slow, comfortable rise and fall of Joey's chest under his cheek. He presses his face into Nick's shoulder and concentrates on the fingers rubbing the small of his back again, under his T-shirt now against bare skin. It seems like the peppers Nick put in the soup are going to do their job and open up his head, because he already has to sniff. Again.
Nick raises his other hand to run fingers through Lance's flattened hair, tilting up his face and touching his forehead, his cheek, fingers cool against flushed skin, testing Lance's temperature maybe, but then he leans in to touch his lips to Lance's, and Lance pulls back.
"Hey, no, man," he says. "You guys've got a video shoot starting in two days." The thought makes him melancholy.
"Yeah, OK," Nick says, rolling his eyes. "Because I wouldn't have it already, if I was going to get it." He leans toward Lance again.
Lance knows it's stupid, but he kisses back, anyway.
•••
Nick's slumped on the sofa with the remote when Lance gets in from the dog park, nose and fingers chilled, socks damp from the slush and melting snow that’s soaked through the leather of his boots. Foster sits patiently on the tail she's trying to wag, waiting for Lance to wipe her feet dry, but Dingo eludes Lance's grab and trots over to the sofa, still trailing her leash, to nose into the hand on Nick's thigh.
"They're not showing Mr. Rogers any more," Nick says, patting Dingo's head absently as Lance flails around, trying to balance while he toes off his boots without unlacing them.
"What?"
"Mr. Rogers. It's not on TV in the afternoon any more. How can they not show Mr. Rogers?"
"Um. Isn't he dead?"
"What? No!"
"Dude, he was gettin' kind of old, you know." Lance peels off a limp sock, making a face at it, and wiggles his toes experimentally. A hot shower sounds really good right about now.
"You take that back." Nick’s sitting upright now, stabbing a finger in Lance's direction. Dingo puts both wet front paws on Nick's thigh and stands up on her back legs, tail thrashing wildly, eager to be a part of whatever excitement is going on; Nick gets distracted long enough to finally unclip her leash. He rummages around in the cushions of the sofa, finally coming up with a T-shirt Lance lost to certain ... activities in the small hours of the morning and using it to wipe her feet.
"Hey!" Lance may have been distracted enough to just let the shirt drop when it was peeled off of him, but that doesn't mean it's a rag, or something. "Anyway, I’m just saying, it happens to all of us." He pauses, distracted on his way down the hall, to snag the cup of hot chocolate - OK, cold chocolate at this point, and he makes another face - that Nick's got sitting on top of the latest issue of Billboard on the end table.
"Hey, quit it," Nick says, reaching for the cup, and Lance deliberately sets it on the end table, out of reach, as he drops onto the sofa, curling into Nick and sliding his hands up under his T-shirt and the hoodie he’s got zipped against the mid-winter chill Lance's heater can't seem to dispel.
"Charming" and "picturesque" brownstone, Lance's ass, this apartment is more like "old" and "drafty," and when is he going to learn not to listen to Joey? Maybe he should have gone with that high-rise he looked at, all chrome and dark sleek wood and beige carpets. Or just maybe he should have been foresighted enough to keep the last apartment he’d rented here, despite twin looks of horror from his mother and JC at the idea of paying New York City rent on a place where he wasn't even going to be living once his Hairspray run was over. It's not like he couldn't have sublet the place. His fingers reach warm, bare skin under layers of worn, soft fabric, and Nick twists away with a high-pitched sound, shoving at Lance and almost falling on the floor.
"What the fuck, Bass, God!" He smacks at Lance, and somebody's foot kicks the coffee table, sends it sliding across the floor; a flurry of magazines hit the rug that JC insisted on buying for Lance's living room, a shocking pattern of reds and oranges and yellows that Lance will never admit - not even under tickle torture - kind of pulls the whole living room-dining room-kitchen area together in some indefinable way that Lance usually leaves up to interior decorators.
He secretly suspects the thing came out of some thrift shop somewhere - he'd had it professionally cleaned before he was willing to walk barefoot on it; JC might be vaguely weird about germs, but it's not like he's Justin, or something, and there was probably some kind of great deal involved, so better safe than sorry, Lance figures. He digs his toes into the soft nap of it and slouches against Nick's side on the sofa, tilting his head against Nick's shoulder and trying to suck up some body heat.
"My toes are cold," he complains, and Nick slants a scathing look at him, even as he wraps an arm around Lance's middle, resting a hand on Lance's stomach.
"No," he says. "You are not putting your cold feet on me. We're not even in bed."
"I could get pneumonia or something, and then who would feed you and put you up while you're doing promo in New York?" Lance asks, shifting so he can press his back into Nick's side. "I just got over being sick. I could have a relapse. I might miss some shows. And it'll be all your fault because you wouldn't warm me up."
"Oh, I'll warm you up," Nick says, sliding a hand up to pinch a nipple, and Lance jerks in surprise, banging his head into Nick's nose.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry," he says, twisting to check on Nick, who's got a hand over his nose and mouth. Enough of his face is uncovered to make his reproachful glare unmistakable, and Lance can't help laughing even as he apologizes.
"When you break my nose and I can't sing, it'll be all your fault, Bass. And I'll be sure to tell everyone that.”
"Oh, yeah?" Lance says, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah. And you do not want to incur the wrath of 123,000 soccer moms. Trust me."
"Oh, yeah?" Lance says again and grins. "So, 123,000, huh?"
"Yeah." The corner of Nick's mouth quirks.
"And?"
"Number 62."
"Dude. That's at least another three weeks you guys'll have on the charts - maybe four." Lance can remember all too well talking in exponentially larger numbers, back in days when 123,000 units were a day's sales, not six weeks' - but Nick seems pleased, and that's enough for Lance.
"Not bad, I guess," is all Nick says as Lance drops back against his side.
"My feet are still cold," Lance says, in case he's forgotten.
"Bass, for fuck's sake ..." Nick trails off as he squirms around, pulling the afghan off the back of the sofa. He throws it over Lance's head, but he also tucks it down between Lance and the back of the sofa as Lance wiggles around, kicking at the material to get himself covered. Lance tucks his toes in between the cushions and tucks himself against Nick's side again.
"Do you wish you'd released your album first?" he asks, low, playing with Nick's fingers where they rest on his stomach underneath the afghan, and he can feel Nick's shrug, his shoulder moving under Lance's head.
"It wasn't the right time," Nick says. "It's not ... it's not just about the guys, you know, and when they were ready? It's about when I'm ready? I really didn't want the kind of pressure I'd be getting from the label. Not with a solo album. Not right now. I don't want another album I end up feeling bad about putting out."
"Pressure?"
"I'm just not good at playing their games," Nick says. He's got his fingers laced with Lance's but Lance can feel his leg vibrating where he's jittering one heel up and down. "I'm not good at being who they want me to be. I don't want to be, any more. And it's just. Less pressure to do that when the whole album isn't about me, you know?"
"Yeah?" Lance has learned by now that all Nick needs are a few verbal nudges and he'll keep rambling on until he finally gets to his point.
"I mean, I'd be hearing a whole lot of bullshit right now about who I'm being seen with and who I should be seen with and I just ... I don't want this to be about that. I don't want it to be like that. I thought one thing at a time would be easier to deal with. Brian always tells me to take one thing at a time. So." Nick pauses and takes a deep breath. "That's what I'm doing."
Lance's elbow digs into Nick's ribs as he pushes himself up, and Nick yelps again.
"Come on, babe. Stay still. You're killing me here. What?”
Lance just stares at him for a minute, trying to figure out if Nick is saying what he seems to be saying, if he's saying he put his album on hold for this, for them. He wants to ask, but he's afraid of the answer - whichever answer it is, really.
"I ... nothing," he finally says, slouching back down. He picks at the blanket from inside with his free hand before pulling it up under his chin as he shifts to look at the TV. "Is this Dora the Explorer?"
"Yeah," Nick says. "I can change it ..."
"No, whatever, this is fine," Lance says, blinking slowly at the screen. His little cocoon of afghan, in combination with Nick's body heat and the slow, absent petting of Nick's hand up and down his side, is close to putting him to sleep. "I think maybe they show Mr. Rogers on the weekends?"
"What?"
"Mr. Rogers. I know I've seen Layton watching it on the weekends when I've visited Stacey and Ford. I think maybe they decided not to run it on weekdays anymore."
"That's not right," Nick says. "How can you spend your afternoon without Mr. Rogers?"
"Why Mr. Rogers?" Lance asks, and he can feel Nick shrug again. He scoots his butt around some and puts his feet on the floor so he can throw an arm around Nick's middle, listen to Nick's answer as much through the rumble in his chest as the words from his mouth.
"I just. I used to watch with Aaron and Angel, that last winter before Aaron went on tour with us. I'd make ants on a log, and we'd watch every afternoon when they got home from school. I mean, I know was too old, but I liked going back and seeing it all again, you know?"
"Shut up," Lance says. "You're never too old for Mr. Rogers. I bought my mom one of his books for Christmas last year. Plus, everything I ever needed to know, I learned from Mr. Rogers."
"I don't ... think that's how that goes." Nick tugs on Lance's hair, down near the nape of his neck. "Also, I don't believe you."
"Are you calling me a liar?" Lance thumps his knuckles against Nick's ribs.
"Yes. Mr. Rogers never said anything about amazing blowjobs."
"Oh my God," Lance says, sitting straight up. "Do not ever mention Mr. Rogers and blowjobs in the same sentence ever again. That's so wrong, you pervert."
"Whatever," Nick says, shoving him. "I'm hungry. Aren't you supposed to be feeding me? Isn't that part of this deal?"
"We have many fine takeout menus for you to choose from," Lance says, poking him between the eyes with one finger. "Who would you like me to call?" He pushes himself up from the sofa, dropping a kiss on the same spot he poked, and turns to search for his cell.
"Whatever you want," Nick says. He's squinting at the television.
"Dude, put on your glasses," Lance says and wanders into the kitchen.
He pulls open the drawer where he keeps the delivery menus before pausing, considering, and then he opens the refrigerator door and rummages in the vegetable bin.
The carrots he comes up with are the mini-carrot kind, because Lance sees no reason to peel if he doesn't have to. That makes them already log-sized when he dumps out a handful of raisins from the box he bought to go with his morning oatmeal. They have an annoying tendency to roll, though, which Lance doesn't remember happening with the halved carrots his mom used. There's cream cheese in the fridge - nothing Lance would ever keep in there for himself, but he knows Nick likes it on bagels in the mornings.
Nick wanders in as Lance finishes smearing a thick layer of cream cheese over half a dozen carrots.
"What ..?" he says, standing in the doorway, looking puzzled.
"You said," Lance says, sticking a couple of raisins on one of the "logs." "Here." He holds it out, expecting Nick to bite it right out of his fingers, but Nick takes it between his own, looking at it in bemusement
"What?" he says again.
"Ants on a log, right?" Lance says a little impatiently.
Nick studies the two "ants" before looking up at Lance and grinning.
"Carrots?" he says and tosses the whole thing into his mouth.
"Yes?" Lance says. "What do you mean?"
"Ants on a log is celery and peanut butter, dawg." Nick looks thoughtful as he crunches the carrot and cream cheese around in his mouth. "This is kind of good, though."
"Celery? That's ... what?"
"Celery," Nick says, nodding and reaching for another of Lance's cream-cheesed carrots. "Where are the ... oh." He presses three ants on the log, nose jammed to tail, before taking a bite.
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Sure it does. The celery is green like stuff that grows, right? And then the peanut butter is brown like the bark on a tree."
"And sticky," Lance says. "What kind of bark is that?"
"Dude, what kind of bark is cream cheese?" Nick turns around to rummage in the cabinet Lance pulled his raisins from. "Where'd it go?" he mutters, almost under his breath, before making a triumphant sound.
"Since when do I have peanut butter?" Lance asks as Nick unearths a jar from the very back of the cupboard. "And it's not bark. It's snow. It's a snowy log."
"We got it when I was here for Jingle Ball," Nick says. "And wouldn't the ants freeze?"
"No."
"Why not?" Nick's got the refrigerator door open now, poking around in the very back.
"Because. Because they wouldn't."
Nick backs out of the refrigerator and turns to raise an eyebrow at him.
"It's true," Lance insists. "And anyway, that's how my mom made them. And she was a teacher. Teachers know all about ants on a log."
"I thought she taught, like eighth grade or something," Nick says.
"She does."
"Isn't that a little bit old for ants on a log?"
Lance looks pointedly down at the rubbery celery in Nick's hands and then back up at him.
"Shut up." Nick grins. "Anyway, I've got four little brothers and sisters ... four ... sisters and a brother ... three sisters and a brother ... anyway. I've made about 50 million batches of ants on a log, so I think I know what I'm doing, right? Here."
Lance takes the length of celery - Nick didn't even bother to get a knife to cut the stalk into three pieces before smearing it with peanut butter, just snapped it with his hands, leaving the ends kind of ragged. Lance peels away a couple of strings before taking a careful bite.
"Anyway," Nick says, "you make those nasty peanut butter and banana sandwiches. You're all about the peanut butter then."
"Well, yeah."
"Even though everybody knows you're supposed to make banana sandwiches with mayonnaise."
"Oh my God," Lance says, then pauses to lick peanut butter off his teeth. "That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard in my entire life. I have to leave, now."
"OK." Nick shrugs and smears a piece of celery with cream cheese.
Lance sticks out his tongue. It's still got some peanut butter and a few bits of celery on it. Nick laughs and throws a raisin at him.
"Anyway," Nick says, "peanut butter, it's good with apples, too." It's a little muffled by the cream cheese and celery in his mouth.
Lance turns over purchase dates in his head.
"Might be some of those in there, too," he says around his own mouthful.
"Yeah?" Nick goes to dig around in the refrigerator again.
"Might be too old," Lance says and swallows the peanut butter.
•••
Lance swallows the last mouthful of cold coffee before he uncurls himself from the sofa and stretches, shutting down his laptop and wandering into the kitchen for a fresh cup. He's waiting for another pot of Blue Mountain to brew when he hears the front door. Nick's had the security codes for both the building and Lance's apartment for weeks now, and Lance has almost stopped being surprised at his unannounced appearances - not that this visit is completely unexpected, not after Lance read the entertainment news from his Google alerts this morning.
"Hey," he says, as Nick appears in the kitchen doorway, dropping a duffle bag and leaning a shoulder against the jamb; two steps have Lance close enough to tilt Nick's face down to kiss him.
Nick's tense under his hands for a minute before he folds down and hugs Lance tight, burrowing his cold nose into Lance's neck. It reminds Lance of the way Justin clung to him in a dressing room after the third showcase in 35 hours across two countries, the night before Lynn pitched a fit and got them all a guaranteed day off at least once a week. It hadn't been the exhaustion that scared Lance so much as the complete lack of emotional reserves in the body pressed against his.
JC would say Lance never has been as scared of exhaustion as he should be, his own or anybody else's, but Lance wishes there was someone he could pitch a fit to, now - someone other than Nick, himself, because Lance isn't sure how much good that would really do. So he just stands steady and wraps his arms around Nick.
He wants to kill that kid, and he wants to kill Nick for the stupid things he does when he lets Aaron get to him. There's no question about Nick's love for his brother, but Aaron's a little shit a lot of the time, especially when he runs his mouth about his family - about his brother - in public. Lance hates what it does to Nick - what Nick lets it do to him. Aaron is too much his mother's child, and Lance suspects Nick should cut him loose, like his mother - even if Lance realizes that if Nick has been stuck somewhere at 12 and he, himself, has been stuck somewhere at 16, Aaron's stuck somewhere at about 6 and not even working at moving forward.
Pop stardom, Lance thinks. There's nothing like it to completely retard your emotional growth. Except maybe prison.
His own cynicism is making him tired, and it's not doing anything for Nick, who trembles slightly, a quick tremor running through him, although he's dry-eyed when he pulls away from Lance.
"Hey," he says, stopping to clear his throat after his voice cracks high. "Is that fresh coffee?"
"I suppose that means you want some?"
Lance turns to the cupboard for another mug and pours some of the coffee into it before refilling his own. Nick's shrugged off his jacket in a pile of worn brown leather on top of his duffle, leaving them both in the kitchen doorway to search the refrigerator for milk with a "sell by" date in the future instead of the past. Lance goes over and gloms onto him from behind.
"Put that back," he says, smacking at Nick's hand.
"Ow! What?"
Nick turns wounded eyes to Lance, who has to stop himself from just dragging him out of the kitchen and tucking him into bed with some warm milk, or something.
"Here," he says, instead, ducking his head and slipping under the arm Nick's bracing against the side of the fridge.
He keeps his own arm slung around Nick's waist, working his fingers under layers of flannel and T-shirt and thermal knit to press the tips to the warm skin of Nick's side. He pulls out a small carton with his free hand, bumping into Nick's body as he turns, causing a brief tangle of limbs before they sort themselves out and get the refrigerator door closed.
"Whipping cream?" Nick reads the label out load and looks puzzled. "In coffee? And since when do you drink anything in your coffee, anyway?"
"Just ... trust me."
Lance has learned that sometimes, you have to treat yourself. Sometimes ... sometimes it turns out pretty well.
He pours cream into the two mugs and passes one over, watches Nick's face light up as he tastes. Hitching himself up to sit on the counter, he studies Nick over the rim of his own cup.
Nick's pale with circles under his eyes, puffy from stress and lack of sleep and too much take-out, mouth pinched thin the way it always looks when he's unhappy. He doesn't look much better than he did in those damned mug shots a few years back, and it worries Lance. Nick's emotional state is usually written all over him. He'd started to look tanned and healthy again, for a while there - and happy. No one knows better than Lance how tour rehearsal can take it out of you, but right in the middle of promo, set to hit the road, Nick should be in the best shape of his life, should be flashing that gorgeous wide grin that lights up his face and everything around him.
"We should go for a drive," Lance says, running his fingers through Nick's hair and pushing it back from his face to make it stand up spiky. "Rent a car. It's not like we can put the top down, but we could go out to the shore. Get you out in the sun while you still can, before you're sleepin' all day and playin' all night. Well, what sun there is, at least."
It's barely past 2 p.m., but the light coming in through the apartment windows is the cool filtered grey of an overcast New York winter, and Lance's bones ache with his own weariness as he drops his forehead to Nick's, winds his hands around Nick's neck. He thinks he'd give anything to feel the sun on his face, damp with Mississippi humidity, blazing with Orlando heat, even filtered red through L.A. smog - any kind of light against the raw, wet drafts of late February on the Eastern Seaboard. He's almost glad his run in the show is coming to an end in a few weeks, almost glad he'll be moving on to the next thing, even if he doesn't yet know what the next thing is.
Nick's hands tighten on his hips, and Lance forces himself to stay still as Nick pulls back, eyes searching Lance's face. He's got enough practice at holding still for inspection, right?
Ask me, he thinks. Just fuckin' ask me.
But Nick drops his gaze again, and Lance curses to himself and wants to kill every single other member of the Carter family. Nick won't ask, not because he's afraid Lance will say no, but because he's afraid Lance will say yes and then not come through. Lance makes a mental note to check the Boys' tour schedule, anyway, and maybe ask Kelly how often is enough to show up without looking too clingy. After all, what else is he going to have to do, in a month or so? He might as well show up at a few clubs and take in the competition's music - if they even count as competition anymore. They've put out yet another album, maybe they're just the winners.
Lance hasn't been in a situation like this, where he's the one sitting at home and waiting. He's not sure he likes it. He remembers that last fight with Jesse and wonders, how could you even stand me? Maybe he ought to call and apologize, maybe they've both moved on enough that he can do that. Tomorrow, though, he thinks. He's got things to take care of right now.
"C'mere," he says, even though Nick is right there, and sets his coffee down on the counter.
He runs his fingers over Nick's face, tracing over his closed eyelids, across his cheekbones, down the square length of his jaw, tipping forward to rest his forehead against Nick's again as he drags a thumb along Nick's bottom lip. Nick's breath is hot on Lance's face, rich scent of coffee and cream, and he catches his breath in something that sounds almost like a sob as Lance leans in to press soft kisses at the corner of his mouth, on the bow of his upper lip. Lance closes his own eyes, and he stills, lips barely touching Nick's. They stay there for a minute, sharing breath back and forth, before Nick leans in and bites at Lance's mouth, bringing a hand up to Lance's face, his fingers still warm from the coffee cup as he tilts his head to slick his tongue across Lance's lips.
Lance can feel Nick's jaw working under his own fingers, the way Nick's cheek hollows as he pushes his tongue into Lance's mouth. He can feel the flush of Nick's heating skin under his fingertips and the brush of Nick's eyelashes against his cheek. He wraps one leg around Nick's waist, an arm around Nick's neck; he can feel Nick's hand slide up to hook around his hip and pull him closer, Nick pressing deeper between his thighs, deeper into his mouth, like he wants to crawl inside. Nick pulls his mouth away with a gasp as Lance slides both arms around his neck, pulling himself closer, and he grinds his hips into Lance, one hand braced on the edge of the countertop now as he leans further in, mouth moving back along the point of Lance's jaw.
Ow, Lance thinks distantly as the back of his head hits the cabinet door behind him, but the thought's barely formed before Nick's yanking him even closer to the edge of the counter, and then Lance is pushing up along Nick's body, bracing himself with his elbows on Nick's shoulders to kiss him again, sharp and frantic, feeling the scrape of teeth behind the slick wet heat of Nick's tongue.
Stop, Lance tells himself. Stop.
He has to take a minute, gasping for breath, and he buries his face in the crook of Nick's neck. He can feel Nick nuzzling into his hair, mouth still moving against his ear, and he's pretty sure they're going to end up having sex in here again if they don't get to the bedroom, now. He's having a hard time worrying about it - he's preoccupied with the way Nick's palms feel sliding inside the loose waistband of his jeans to cup his hips and the way he can feel every ridge and callous of Nick's fingertips along his ribs as Nick trails one hand back up, under his shirt. He's more concerned with the solid wall of Nick's heat and breath and presence against him, and he wants this, feels like he's always wanted this, and God, he wants it even more now that he knows he can have it.
"Nick," he says. "The bedroom, Nick. Can we ..."
Nick actually makes it to the kitchen doorway with Lance's legs still around his waist, and then he trips over his duffle and jacket on the floor. Lance ends up with his back braced against the wall, one of Nick's arms holding him up, and he takes the opportunity to twist his fingers in Nick's shirts, yanking them over his head. Nick hooks a hand around Lance's neck, three layers of shirt trailing from his wrist, to pull him in for another kiss as they stumble down the hall toward the bedroom. Lance has his own shirt off and Nick's pants finally undone by the time they make it through the door; he barely takes the time to shuck his jeans before he's got his hands fisted in Nick's hair, Nick's bottom lip between his teeth. He scrabbles back on his elbows when Nick pushes him down on the bed, fetching up against the headboard, and leans back to stroke himself - one hand wrapped around his cock, the other fisted in a pillowcase - watching Nick crawl after him.
Nick grabs him and pulls him down, fitting their bodies together, before he leans in for another kiss, reaching blindly for the drawer where they keep the lube and condoms. He twists a finger into Lance hard and fast, and Lance arches up on the bed, digging in his heels and pulling in a deep shuddery breath.
"Fuck, wait, don't stop," he grits out, banging a fist in the sheets when Nick pulls his finger out.
Nick just leans down to drop a kiss on Lance's thigh before slicking more lube on his hand, and then he's back, two fingers this time, twisting Lance open, laying him out in a series of gasping moans.
He's reaching for the bottle of lube again when Lance grabs his wrist.
"No," Lance says. "Now. Now, Nick."
Nick's inside him in one long, smooth thrust, yanking Lance's hips up to push deep. He's hot and heavy between Lance's legs, and he leans down to lay a kiss on Lance's arched throat as he slides an arm underneath Lance to brace him. After that, it's hot and frantic and perfect, and Lance wishes he could freeze-frame it, because this is exactly what he wants, everything he wants, and the only problem is, he's only going to be able to have it in bits and pieces, now and then, between tours and appearances and publicity, waiting for Nick to come back.
He'll always come back, he remembers AJ saying, and he clenches his fingers hard around Nick's as he comes.
"What is it?" Nick says when they're both coming down, lips moving against the back of Lance's neck. "Are you OK?"
Lance just shakes his head and curls deeper into the warm cocoon of blankets they've managed to wrap around themselves, pressing his back against Nick's chest. He looks down at Nick's hand on his own chest and traces along Nick's leather wristband, runs a fingertip underneath to touch the soft skin on the inside of Nick's wrist and feel the flutter of his pulse.
"This isn't some kind of publicity stunt," Nick says, low. "Or ... or ... some kind of way to get more attention or ... whatever it was he said when they asked him on that radio show. It's not."
"I know that," Lance says.
"It's not," Nick repeats.
"Dude, I know," Lance says, twisting to face him, sliding fingers through silky hair to cup his hand around the back of Nick's neck and shake him a little bit. "I believe you, OK?"
Nick looks up at him through damp eyelashes.
"Swear to God," Lance says. "I totally and completely believe you. I know you wouldn't have the attention span to pull off a stunt for this long."
Nick barks a sharp laugh, and Lance takes the opportunity to shift a little bit closer, hooking one leg over Nick's. Nick strokes a hand almost absently along Lance's thigh as Lance leans in to him.
"There's something I have to tell you, though," Lance says, whispering in Nick's ear. "This past three and a half years? It's all been a big publicity stunt for me. I am actually completely, one hundred percent straight."
Nick's laughter sounds almost normal again.
•••
If Lance was back in L.A., he'd be able to open the windows, but he presses fingertips to the cold glass and knows that winter's still too close for that, here. He's restless, jittery under his skin, pacing the floors of an apartment that's grown too small. He should get out in the chilly spring air, maybe walk the dogs, but he'll need to start dinner soon, get something cooking before Michael gets here. Lance has promised to spend some time talking to him about what he can expect onstage as Billy, although really, it's not the same as when John took Lance under his wing. Lance isn't old enough to be Michael's dad, first of all. And how can Lance measure up to a former Duke of Hazzard, anyway?
He grins to himself a little bit as he turns away from the window, arms wrapped around his middle. Nick's blue hoodie catches his eye - abandoned at the foot of the bed, overlooked and left behind the last time Nick packed his things - and he slips it on, pulling the cuffs down over his hands and curling chilled fingers into them. The material used to smell like Nick's cologne, but that's faded over the past couple of weeks.
He wanders aimless through the apartment and thinks about calling JC. He's supposed to fly out to L.A. for an appearance at the end of the Dancing tour next week. He needs to figure out what he's going to do from there. He's heard from LOGO, caught some interest in returning to the talks they had about him producing a show - nothing for the upcoming season, clearly, because it's way too close to spring upfronts to get anything ready. Maybe something for a mid-season show, Beth said, when she'd passed the message on to him. Once the summer's over, though, he thinks maybe he wants to be back onstage. His reviews haven't been that bad - certainly not as inconsistent as Usher's were in the role. Justin takes a lot of glee in calling Lance to point that out at least once a week. A couple of critics were even complimentary about what one called Lance's "ultra-smarmy" take on Billy. Maybe he's done a solid enough job that he can find something else, after this. He's never really liked dancing and probably never will, but he gets why Joey loves performing so much, needs it so much, like air - that was maybe the first thing that drew them together, the way they both wanted the performance fix, the high they got from it. Nick was right. He does miss it when he's not in the middle of it.
Foster raises her head and thumps her tail sleepily at him from the couch as he stands in the middle of the living room, hands jammed in the pockets of Nick's hoodie.
"Are you supposed to be up there?" he asks her. "I don't think you are."
She thumps her tail at him again, wiggling to the front of the cushion and tilting her head so he can scratch her chin.
"Come here, baby," he says, picking her up and pulling her on his lap as he flops down.
She rolls on her side obligingly, tucking herself into the crook of his arm and presenting her belly, and he gives in, digging his socked toes under the afghan and between the cushions to keep them warm as he scratches. There's something pointy down there, and he leans forward to fish out a book that's gotten lost. The Art of Happiness, by ... the Dalai Lama? Lance recognizes the cover - it's whatever Nick was reading the last time he was here. "I believe that the very purpose of our life is to seek happiness," the first line reads, and Lance closes it and sets it on the coffee table. He'll put it on the bookcase with the rest of the small collection of stuff he's actually read. It's been read. Nick read it. That counts.
Dingo gives an aggrieved huff where she's curled on a ratty blanket in the corner.
"Don't look at me," he tells her. "I miss him, too."
He keeps doing this, running across reminders of the way Nick's insinuated himself into his life. He can't go a half-dozen steps through his apartment without tripping over something, physically or emotionally. He caught himself using Nick's toothbrush two nights ago, the New York toothbrush, Nick called it when he bought it to leave here.
JC was right, too. Lance is no good at being by himself.
"This sucks," he tells Foster, and she wriggles up to lick his chin.
He doesn't feel like cooking. He squirms around until he can get at his cellphone in his pocket and flips it open, pages through the numbers he's got saved. He calls 44 & X and manages to wheedle a reservation for a decent time that evening. Justin will whine and want to know why he didn't come by Destino, but Lance is in no mood for Italian food tonight. He's going to starve if he doesn't eat something before dinner, though, and he turns over the contents of the kitchen in his head before he pushes Foster off his lap, pulling the afghan over her as consolation when he gets up.
There's actually celery in the refrigerator - a different, newer batch, thank God - and carrots, too, although he leaves them in the crisper bin. There's no cream cheese, anyway. He can't help grinning as he pulls down the jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. He can't find the raisins, though. He paws through the cupboard twice more before accepting that there are no raisins.
"Fucker," he says out loud, and it sounds as aggrieved as Dingo's snort did. "You ate all my raisins?"
Well. Apparently the honeymoon's over.
He examines the celery and peanut butter sitting on the counter and only ends up putting them back. He's not really hungry anymore. Back in the bedroom, he flops on the bed and studies the ceiling for a couple minutes. Pulls his cellphone back out. Texts Joey.
I SUCK.
Two minutes later, his phone buzzes.
WIDOW'S WALK SUX :_(
Forty seconds later, it buzzes again. This one's from Kelly.
{{{L}}}. <3, K
"She knows what it's like to raise children with an absentee father," he tells Dingo, who's wandered into the bedroom.
She jumps up and curls next to Lance as he sits up in bed, burrowing his feet under the blanket at the foot. He pets her absently for a minute, staring at the guitar in the corner of the room, then flips open the phone and presses "3" on his speed dial.
"Hi," he says, after the beep. "I think you're probably onstage right now, but I was just lying here in bed, and I was thinking about you. Not like that ... well, maybe a little bit like that. I could tell you what I'm wearing if you want, but you have to call me back. Call me back. I ... " He hesitates for a minute. I'm ready for you guys to be back in the States, he thinks. "I miss you, babe. Call me, OK? Bye."
•••
Lance wakes to sunshine on his face and the smell of coffee and the warmth of a body pressed along his back.
"Hey," he says, rolling over and blinking at Maxie.
She thumps her tail gently on the mattress, and he scrubs his knuckles over her head, paying special attention to behind the ears. When he yawns and stretches - back arched, fingers to the headboard, muscles pulled tight, tight, before he relaxes - she jumps to her feet and stretches, too. When he laughs, she paws at him, ducking her head, still puppyish, and noses under his hand, and he sits up, yawning again and rubbing his other hand over his face.
"Where's Nick?" he asks her. "Do you think we can find him?"
He takes the chance to study the bedroom in daylight as he wanders around, pulling sweatpants out of his bag and stealing one of Nick's T-shirts from the dresser. There's not a lot in the way of furniture - the bed, the dresser, a single nightstand - but the guitar stand in one corner makes it feel familiar.
He follows Maxie and the scent of coffee downstairs to find Nick leaning on one of the kitchen counters with a mug of coffee, chin in hand, an unread newspaper in front of him.
"Hey," Lance says again, pressing himself along Nick's side and dropping a kiss behind his ear before stealing his coffee.
"Welcome to Tennessee," Nick says, tilting his head to nudge at Lance. "Breakfast?"
"Sure."
Lance lounges back on the counter, clutching his coffee - well, it's his coffee, now, and possession is nine-tenths of the law - and watches Nick hunting through the cupboards, muttering about Leslie and whole-grain bread and fried-egg sandwiches and something about his family and their high horse.
"Sourdough," he says to Lance at one point. "You'd think there'd at least be sourdough, if somebody can't buy, you know, plain white bread."
Lance nods and blinks and holds out his empty coffee cup.
"You're ridiculous, Bass," Nick says, coming over with the coffee pot.
"That's not what you said last night," Lance says and smirks at Nick over the rim of the mug.
"That's because my mouth was full - something you oughta' be grateful for," Nick says, pointing the spatula at him.
"You're right, I am very, very grateful," Lance says as Nick cracks eggs into a frying pan. "In fact, I would probably be even more grateful if you would do it again."
"Well, not now," Nick says. "Now, I'd burn the eggs."
Lance abandons his coffee mug and comes over to inspect the proceedings, reaching out to poke at the frying pan's handle.
"Quit it," Nick says, smacking at him with the spatula. "You'll break the yolks."
"What does it matter? They'll end up hard, anyway."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're not going to leave those runny, right?" Lance opens the refrigerator door to inspect the contents. "Hey. You've got orange juice."
"Of course I'm going to leave them runny." Nick stares at him before setting down the spatula and turning to pull a couple of glasses from one of the cabinets. "They have to be runny to soak into the toast."
"You can't make fried-egg sandwiches with runny yolks," Lance insists, sniffing at the orange juice before he pours. "Do you know what kind of mess that's gonna make?"
"Who's making these eggs?"
"All I'm sayin' is, I don't want any snotty eggs," Lance says, as he sticks the orange juice back in the refrigerator.
"Hey, while you're in there, hand me the strawberry jam."
Nick painstakingly flips the eggs, a process that involves a few weird contortions, facial and otherwise, before he puts two slices of bread in the toaster. Lance is waiting when he turns back around.
"Hey," he says again, pushing his fingers back through Nick's hair.
"Hi, baby," Nick says with one of those blinding grins.
Lance steals a sunny sweet orange-flavored kiss, snaking his arms around Nick's waist and tilting his face into the palm of Nick's hand, opening his mouth to Nick's tongue as Nick strokes a thumb along his jaw and presses him back against the counter. Nick lowers both hands to the countertop to hem Lance in as he breaks the kiss, angling back in to nudge at Lance's mouth with his own, pulling away once, twice, three times as Lance leans forward to meet him. Lance makes an impatient sound, a low rumble of frustration, and tries to raise his hands to hold Nick's face, but Nick catches his wrists in both hands and presses his palms back to the counter.
"Tease," Lance says against Nick's mouth, lips barely brushing, and darts in, sudden, trying to catch Nick's lower lip.
"So easy," Nick says and grins, dropping his head to mouth along Lance's jaw and down his neck.
Lance draws in a breath and rocks up his hips, pressing into answering hardness and pulling a whimper out of Nick.
"So easy," Lance says, turning his head to whisper in Nick's ear.
"Whoa! Hello there."
Nick's back goes ramrod straight at the sound of an intruding female voice, but he doesn't turn around, and he doesn't let go of Lance's wrists. Lance has to tilt his head and peer around Nick's arm to spot the blonde who's suddenly standing in the middle of the kitchen.
"Hi, Leslie," Nick says. "What are you doing down here? Don't you usually sleep later than this?"
"Hi," she says, craning her head to see past Nick's shoulder and waving at Lance, who grins at her.
"Hi," he says.
"Don't encourage her," Nick tells him. "She's only going to ask you to sign the NSYNC poster she has hidden in the back of her closet."
"You're just mad 'cause I bought all their albums," Leslie says.
"Leslie, can I help you with something?' Nick asks with forced patience, and Lance drops his head into Nick's shoulder to smother a laugh.
"No, I just wanted to let you know I'm out for the day."
"Wait, did you have studio time, today?"
"Just rehearsal, seriously, take a day off, boss. You look like you've got your hands full, there."
Lance gives his hips a tiny nudge into Nick's in response to that, and Nick hisses in air through his teeth. Leslie snorts with laughter.
"Leslie?" Nick says, teeth still gritted.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Get out."
"Ten-four. You might want to check on those eggs though."
"Shit."
Leslie gives a jaunty wave to Lance, who's left leaning against the counter as Nick yanks the frying pan off the stove.
Fortunately there's still toast, and Lance foregoes the dining room table to collapse cross-legged on the windowsill of the big bay window that looks out on the road and the front lawn, turning his face up to the sunshine streaming in.
"So what do you think of the place?" Nick asks, sitting on the edge of the sill facing him and handing over a piece of toast with strawberry jam.
"It's really great - nice and normal and ... normal." Lance is kind of surprised by that, actually. "But still nice. Bigger than it looks outside."
"It's only Leslie staying here full-time right now, but I wanted the five bedrooms so that everyone would have their own room if they ever needed somewhere to go," Nick says, looking down and picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans.
"That was a great idea," Lance says, completely unsurprised that Nick would think of something like that for his brother and sisters.
"So, how long are you gonna be in town?"
"Three days, if you'll have me," Lance licks jam off his fingers. "Then I have to fly out to California. I'm keeping the New York apartment this time, but if this LOGO thing comes through, I've got to find something in L.A., since the house is being rented out through the end of the year."
"Lance ... you know you might not have your own room - one to yourself, I mean - but you know that there's always a room here for you, too, right?" Nick gives one quick glance up at Lance through his lashes before looking back down at the frayed threads he's rolling between his fingers. "So, you know, you don't have to worry about this whole 'however long I'll have you' thing."
"Nick ..." Lance is a little bit dumbfounded.
"I mean, if you want," Nick says, looking out the window.
"Nick ... I ..." Lance reaches out and traces over the arch and dip of Nick's knuckles, the same kind of light touch he's felt so many times on the back of his own hand. "Yeah. Yeah, I want."
He tucks his fingers into Nick's palm, and Nick squeezes them. Sunshine slants across his face when he looks up at Lance and grins, and Lance feeds him the last bit of toast and jam, before leaning forward to kiss him.
"Nice hair, baby," Nick says when they break apart, running his fingers back through Lance's bedhead.
"Some guy last night couldn't keep his hands out of it," Lance says.
"You have to watch out for guys like that."
"People keep telling me that."
-fin-