"Try it again."
Lance meant to be helpful; he did. He didn't resent being kept after school, metaphorically
speaking, while the other boys got to go out riding their bikes; he didn't. The other boys (as
Lance often thought of his bandmates, in a not-entirely-facetious mental tone of voice) were
better dancers than he was. Lucky them, God and Darwin's darlings. Lance had self-respect, if
not innate brilliance. He worked hard, harder than any of them, as hard as he had to.
But sometimes.... Especially with Wade.... It was hard to be patient and helpful and humble.
Yes, sir, yet again, sir. How high, sir, and on the four-count or the five?
"Why don't you tell me what I'm doing wrong?" he said carefully. This was the fourth *again* in
a row, and Lance felt a lot like he was navigating by the stars in the middle of a hurricane. Space
Cowboy, indeed. The space cows would starve to death in the desert on Lance Bass' watch.
Wade cocked his head, as though Lance's question was somehow outlandish or unexpected.
What are you doing wrong? What a novel approach. Let me give that some thought....
Especially with Wade. Who never even had the common human decency to seem irked by
Lance's failures. Mildly puzzled, at most. If he would walk over here and punch Lance in the
nose, then at least Lance wouldn't feel *guilty* about hating him.
Wade tossed Lance a towel from the back of a nearby chair, but didn't seem to notice Lance's
yearning glance toward the water bottle. Lance knew he should just *ask* for the water; nobody,
not even Wade J. Robson, Super Genius, had penciled "make Lance get sick and die from lack of
fluids" into their day-planners. But it seemed that the longer he spent in the company of other
young men, the more Lance was turning into one of those Discovery Channel primates, complete
with chest-beating and social grooming. The *others* waited until the foreordained moment for
breaks and water rolled around; they didn't beg. Lance couldn't either. To do so might have
compromised his reproductive success due to decreased access to breeding females -- or
something.
Lance was actually pretty willing to compromise his reproductive success, but he'd much rather
be doing it with his boyfriend right now than by convincing the new choreographer he was a pussy
as well as a bad dancer.
"What we need is a breakthrough," Wade said, half to himself. It struck Lance as the kind of
thing you might put on one of those inspirational office posters, with animals in funny situations.
"Give me a minute to think something up," he continued calmly, obviously positive that if he had a
minute, he *would* think of something concrete. Must be nice. Lance was to the point where
the only thing he could think of to do was go back in time and find a way to be reborn as Justin
Timberlake.
Lance sat down on the floor while Wade thought, and almost immediately decided to go with
lying down instead. Oh, the shame, the shame, but Jesus. Jesus, he was going to *die* here,
while his friends were out eating Chinese and laughing and loving their lives. Fame and fortune and all
things bright and sparkly, and Lance was going to *die.* At least there'd be a tribute concert.
Life in Johnny's Playhouse, as Joey called it, was isolated from the real world
at the best of times; they kept strange schedules, and they went through a short but jarring re-
entry into society every time they got out for the evening. It was worse in the innermost rooms,
and worst of all in the practice room. The mirrors, the vague gym smell, the unflagging
fluorescent lights -- it was like that hotel in *The Shining,* taking over inside your head until it
felt less like you were occupying the room and more like it was digesting you. He had no earthly
idea what time it was, or how long he'd been here by himself.
Were the others finished with dinner yet? Was it dark out? Lance was pretty sure it was past six
and not yet one, but beyond that, he was lost in the desert again. The same desert where he was
navigating in a hurricane? Whatever; there was a good reason that Lance had never taken a shot at writing
lyrics. He almost wished he'd agreed when Joey offered to stay with him through the extra practice; it
was a noble gesture, especially since Joey seemed just as wiped out as Lance was by regular rehearsal.
He just couldn't deal with Joey's cheerleading today. Joey was almost like an arena audience; he'd
want Lance to smile, he'd need to see how much Lance loved his job. And right now Lance wasn't
really loving it, so.
He was momentarily pleased when Wade sat, too; it was almost a personal victory to think that
Wade was tired. But it turned out that Wade was only sitting to stretch, pivoting out over one leg
and then the other, forehead to each ankle. Lance didn't know whether to be impressed or
suicidal. He would *never* look like that when he moved, so smooth and effortless and capable.
Sometimes it was like Wade was another whole species of person, one whose muscles and bones
were put together differently, allowing him to drop easily into positions that ordinary humans
couldn't get into by hook or by crook.
"You're coming in slow," he finally offered. "Are you counting beats?"
"Yeah. I can count faster, though."
"You shouldn't be counting at all. Why are you counting? It's not like you don't know this
routine. Just *do* it."
Exactly the kind of useful advice that Wade was famous for. Chris liked to make fun of him over
dinner, saying things like, *This is the most extraordinary piece of choreography ever to come
from the mind of man. It should take about an hour to learn. Two if you're stupid. You
guys...maybe three.* Joey always defended him, saying things like, *Wade's okay, he's trying,
you know? He just hasn't been around the block like you, old man. Doesn't have your winning
way with people.*
"I've been just doing it since three o'clock," Lance muttered.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a little bit of movement, and when he turned his head to look,
Wade was arched up, holding one of those beautiful and alien positions, with his shoulders
resting on the floor and the rest of his torso off the ground, as solid and motionless as a steel
bridge. "Do you like to dance?" he asked.
"I don't know," Lance said honestly. "Not at the moment."
Wade melted back down to the floor, making a sound that was what Lance imagined a chuckle
would sound like, if Wade were to chuckle, which Lance didn't think he did. Not that Wade was
the next iteration of the Terminator or anything, but he didn't have...a sense of humor, that Lance
could tell. The guy even seemed to take JC seriously, and Lance didn't know *anyone* who
didn't laugh at JC at least sometimes. "I don't think *I* like it at the moment. But I'm asking --
do you dance when you go out? For fun?"
"Sometimes." Not usually. He was too self-conscious when he was out among strangers,
knowing they were all expecting him to dance like a professional, the de facto floor show.
Sometimes it was fun when Justin or Chris pulled him out onto the floor, because then he was
dancing with his friends, and it was a social thing, as opposed to yet another performance. The
worst, though, was when Joey was there, because it was stressful to try to figure out how they
would dance together if they were nothing but the friends they were supposed to be. Every touch
seemed either awkward or too revealing, and twenty minutes of it was exhausting.
Actually, that could sort of be a metaphor for life in general with Joey.
Lance scowled at his reflection in the mirrored wall. He was taking his own problems out on
Joey; that was the most likely explanation for this sense of petty, irritable misalignment between
them lately. He was frustrated, he was tired, he figured he'd probably end up looking stupid on
MTV when the footage was all cut and edited, because right now he *felt* stupid. Back home,
when you felt stupid and suspected everyone knew it and wasn't telling you, you just had a couple of
drinks and got on with your life. But life had changed for Mamma Bass' little boy; he had a
therapist on his speed-dial now, who told him he had self-esteem issues. God. *Self-esteem
issues.*
Lance believed her. Joey didn't. *Aw, you're fine, man!* he always said when Lance tried to say
anything about therapy, or issues, or being nervous about the new tour, or really almost anything.
Joey wanted him around all the time, but just for the company and not to talk to, because when Lance
said anything the least bit negative, like *I always look stupid in these pictures* or *if I have to
smile at one more interviewer while I describe my ideal woman, I think I'll chew my own leg off* or
*there's an election today and I don't even know what fucking state I'm registered to vote in, if any,
and that's seriously fucked up if you ask me,* then Joey would bombard him with affection and
entertainment and denials, food and sex and funny little presents, anything to make him not talk that
way anymore. Nothing that would solve his problems, but that wasn't the point of it. The point was
that Joey hated it when Lance wasn't happy happy happy. They probably shouldn't spend so much time
together while Lance was stressing about the tour, but that was the thing, that was exactly when they
had no choice but to spend more time together than ever before. They were in a closed environment,
like medical test animals, and time out was never really an option. They were eyeballs-deep in a
relationship that they'd nurtured like a banzai tree, with wire bindings and dehydration.
Lance sat up abruptly, scrubbing his face in the towel. All of this was self-pitying bullshit; he
peeled the thin, sticky film of depression off of himself like an addict coping with cravings. He'd
been here before. He'd let it get to him before, just like this, in the same childish way he used to
see monsters in the overstuffed laundry hamper back home when he was five. Monsters out of
laundry, mountains out of molehills. He was tired, he was down on himself because his ability to
fuck up dance steps was apparently beyond even Wade Robson's ken, but that didn't mean that
what was wrong with him and Joey was *fundamentally* wrong. Lance had come too far and
fought too hard to let depression start doing his thinking for him again.
But if he got out of here early enough to catch up with the others and join in, he'd probably avoid
dancing altogether. Bartenders, he'd discovered, were easily flattered, and usually thought it was
cool to teach him whatever their specialty drink was; they all had a specialty drink.
Lance didn't really remember if there had ever been a time when dancing was just dancing. When
he even considered it as something he could just want to do, or not, with no subtext involved.
"Maybe," Wade said slowly, and it sounded uncomfortably like he was responding to Lance's
thoughts, "that's it right there. Too many routines, not enough dancing."
Unfortunately, Lance had a feeling he knew exactly what that meant. The thing that most
impressed Justin and JC about Wade was the way he started from scratch when they first hired
him, insisting on just hanging out and dancing with them to get used to their style instead of
coming in with a whole bunch of ideas to force down their throats. Lance was sure it was yet
another clear sign of his genius and all that, but right now, the last thing he wanted to do was
dance while Wade tried to figure out how to fix him. He hadn't been comfortable with Wade and
his I'm-just-here-to-vibe-with-you-guys-awhile thing when they'd first met, and if anything, Lance
was less comfortable now. Having to dance for strangers without the security of choreography
propping him up was bad enough, but having to dance for Wade's dark, piercing eyes and his
bland, efficient judgements was a little like finding out that that "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry
God" guy was on the judges' panel for your show choir competition.
But he had his self-respect and all. Okay, he had self-esteem issues, he wanted to perform like Justin
and sing like JC and be invincible like Chris and smile all the time and mean it like Joey, but he didn't
think he ever would, and he didn't dwell on it, either. Lance had his own virtues. Lance worked hard,
and he did what he was told until he got it down, and then he did it over and over again and never stopped,
and that had to be a virtue, because if it wasn't then it was just masochistic and sad. Either way, Lance
knew he was going to get to his feet and dance, so he didn't bother to put it off any longer.
Knowing Wade's taste in music, Lance figured he knew what was coming up, especially when he
noticed that the CD Wade loaded in was unmarked, a personal mix of some kind. He was fully
prepared for some God-awful club thing, with heavy, complex rhythms and a whole zoo full of
strange electronica sounds -- exactly the kind of music Lance would never, ever listen to by his
own free will.
But it wasn't, quite. It was electronic, but the synthesizer was just there, just holding down a
strong melody line, unembellished by any (literal or figurative) bells and whistles. The rhythm was
built in, a swingy Latin kind of tempo, not fast and not slow. It was good for dancing to; it was
*perfect* for dancing to, so perfect that it seemed to have started dancing without him, the
melody light and slinky and mobile.
Wade stepped closer to him and held out his hand. "What?" Lance said stupidly. He wasn't
really thinking about Wade; he was listening to the music.
"I want you not to have a bunch of steps to worry about. You like this song?"
"Sure. I guess so." He did, except that every time it seemed like he had a handle on the sound, it
would shift just slightly, throwing him off balance. The song didn't seem to know what it was
doing -- which maybe made it uniquely suited to Lance's dancing style, after all.
"Good. Come here and dance."
He still had his hand out. After another second of standing there like an idiot, Lance began to
understand what that meant. "With you?"
Apparently giving up on Lance picking up this particular cue, Wade grabbed him by the wrist and
pulled him forward, his hands resting on Lance's shoulders. Instinctively, Lance put his hands on
Wade's hips, but he couldn't focus his thoughts enough to move.
"I -- I've never," he stammered as Wade slithered further inside his space until their bodies were
brushing up against each other, taking Lance's hand and settling his other hand just underneath
the back of Lance's neck.
"Never?"
For the first time in hours, Lance felt himself smiling. "Not with anyone taller than me. Am I
supposed to be leading, here?"
"Yeah, I think that's kind of the point," Wade said dryly. "*I* already know how to dance."
"You're a real bitch, you know that?" Not helpful. Kind of mean and bitter, actually. Lance was
a little shocked with himself for saying it, but Wade didn't seem bothered at all. Maybe he
thought Lance was kidding.
"If I catch you counting beats, I'll have you caned," Wade said softly, just above Lance's ear.
"Just listen to the fucking song."
Lance's high school experiences with dancing close to someone else this way were along the lines
of generic gymnasium-formal slow dances, totally wrong for this kind of music. But he'd seen
dancers on CMT who could really put some kick into dancing with a partner, and he tried to keep
those half-remembered images in mind as a framework. *Listen to the fucking song,* he repeated
to himself, and every time he stepped on Wade's foot or kneed him in the shin, Lance told himself
innocently that he was just following orders, and if Wade thought he could listen and dance at the
same time, then Wade just should've been paying more attention from the start.
He found himself swaying with the rise and fall of the music, and then stepping into the sound,
and it was... not easy, but.... But he couldn't listen, dance, *and* count at the same time, so at
least he wasn't counting anymore.
Still, he was too conscious of Wade to relax, in spite of the easy, low-pressure grooves of the
song (which hadn't exactly switched to a new song, but had lost its Latin feel at some point and
gained a little honky-tonk twang that reminded Lance of music his mother used to listen to on the
radio, Hank Williams and Willie Nelson). Who knew what was going on in Wade's head, as he
monitored Lance's every move without eye contact? Who *ever* knew? Wade was so quiet, so
guarded, and he left no clues along the way to let Lance know if he was doing what Wade
expected, or more, or less, or what.
"Is this okay?" Lance finally had to ask.
"Huh?" Wade sounded vaguely disoriented, as though Lance had just woken him up.
Should he rephrase? How did you rephrase a question that simple? "Am I...doing okay?"
"I know you're not listening when you're talking, Bass."
It was like when someone told you not to picture elephants on skateboards, and suddenly *all*
you could picture was elephants on skateboards. The harder Lance tried to listen, the more his
mind just seemed to slip off the smooth edges of the music, pulled back to the ache in the back of
his calves, the way the room seemed cold now that his body wasn't overheating itself, the soft
weave of Wade's shirt under his hand and the weirdly intimate sensation of Wade's cheekbone
brushing up against his temple. He'd moved closer somehow, and abruptly Lance realized that he
was only nominally leading; Wade was pushing at him subtly with his shoulder, then his hip,
prompting Lance's body to respond unconsciously. Lance caught their reflection in the mirror,
and they were *dancing.* It almost looked like they both knew what they were doing.
And then he did something with his hips that met resistance, Wade pushing back against him as
his fingers curled sharply into Lance's back, like he was trying to wrap them around Lance's
spinal cord. "I'm sorry," Lance said, and it was surprising how hard it was to get breath for
talking. "Was that not right?"
"Shut up," Wade said, and his voice was shaking, actually *shaking.* "Fuck," he mumbled,
sounding defeated, and Lance wondered what he'd done that could possibly be cause enough for
Wade to give up hope completely....
He didn't notice that he'd started humming along until Wade's hand shifting down on his back
drew him out of his momentary trance; right as he lost it, Lance recognized that for a second he'd
been where he was supposed to be, *with* the music, really keyed into it and letting the dancing
take care of itself. It was a lot like meditating, which Justin made sound really simple when he
talked about it, but the same thing happened to Lance every time he tried it; as soon as he got that
sense of being free of his thoughts, he would think, *there it is, I found it,* and then of course it
would be gone, and he'd be thinking about thinking again.
Since he was out of the zone anyway, he figured it couldn't hurt to ask, "How am I now?"
"Good," Wade said, but he sounded the same as before, disoriented. Maybe he really was just as
exhausted as the rest of them were. "Were you humming?"
"I'm sorry." It was out before the thought occurred to Lance that Wade might not have meant
that in the same way he meant *Are you counting beats?*
Wade shook his head, and his nose struck softly against Lance's eyebrow, jarring but not painful.
"That's all right. You really like the music."
It seemed like kind of a question, even though it didn't rise at the end that way that normal
people's questions did. "It's cool," Lance said. "It's...different. In a -- an entertaining way.
Not, you know. Bad-different."
The buzz in Wade's chest was a chuckle this time, Lance was almost convinced. Kind of -- like a
*laugh.* From *Wade.* But he had subsided into an unexpected sort of stiffness, almost shy,
when he said, "It's just something I was working on. Haven't made up my mind what I want to
do with it yet."
"You wrote this?" He probably shouldn't sound so shocked, but.... But he was, so.
Not as shocked as he was when Wade bent his head down and pressed his lips against Lance's.
Lance stopped dancing abruptly, and they collided in a quick stumble of knees and toes (Lance
was bizarrely reminded of a song from grade-school music classes -- "head, shoulders, knees-and-
toes, knees-and-toes" -- he'd loved music even then, and not just because Darling Clementine and
This Land Is Your Land gave him a place to go to in his mind when he knew without trying that
he was too weird and awkward and clumsy to play with The Other Boys, back before he learned how to
fake being normal, before he realized that fitting in was just a matter of working for it. Even
apart from that, he'd always just liked the sound of music in his ears, even though he couldn't
talk about it as easily as JC could).
*Hey, you,* his head was saying, rattling against his reverie like the tin cup against bars in a
prison movie. *Hey, come do something about this! Wake the fuck up and do something about
Wade kissing you.*
It lost its unreality, and then it was intensely real, brutally real. He could feel how the
shape of his lips flattened under Wade's, and how Wade's skin was so smooth under his shirt that
Lance's spasmodic grip caught a fistful of cloth but skated right off of Wade himself. Lance was
suddenly heated again, smothering, and the faintly familiar scent of Wade, like soap and almost
like paper that came warm out of the photocopy machine, was everywhere, blocking out oxygen
and logic. It was all that Lance could breathe in, and for a moment Lance wanted to cry; he felt
like he was caught in highway wreckage, the breath being crushed out of him by lack of air and
lack of sleep and lack of control.
But he didn't pull away. Not until Wade did, and even then, it was Lance who made contact
again, swaying forward and putting his hand on Wade's cheek with a strangled, "Oh, God, what--
?"
"Sorry," Wade said, and then negated it immediately with a second kiss, quicker and less careful,
but still just the press of closed lips against Lance's mouth.
"If you're *sorry,* then why are you still doing it?" His voice came out credibly thick with
umbrage, but Lance was dismally sure that the way his hand was trailing softly down Wade's face
was giving away his confusion.
Confusion. And what in Christ's name was there to be *confused* about?
Other than, Lance recognized as Wade's arms tightened around him, pulling him close for another
kiss like the first one, the obvious. Other than the boring, predictable, millennia-old conflict
between doing right and getting some, what kind of confusion could there possibly be?
Lance knew who he was, knew that he was not a person who hurt people or took advantage of
people or lied or cheated, except in rare circumstances, special occasions, when he had good
*reason.* Better reasons than the supple warmth of Wade's body, still moving against him in
subdued time to the music, better than Wade's soft, suffocating kisses that tasted blessedly like
water on Lance's lips.
"I -- I -- no, I --" Lance stammered, as Wade's mouth drifted to kiss the corner of his own, with
just a hint of tongue. His voice had gone husky, the same whispering rasp that he knew came out
of him when he was in bed, either making love or just hovering on the edge of sleep. "I have,
have, a-- I have--"
Joey. I have Joey, and he has this. Funny; there had been all those times he'd wanted to talk to
someone, to say *I have Joey, I may not be his ideal woman, but he loves to kiss me and he says
I'm the only person he's ever been with who didn't look at him funny when he starts to laugh in
bed, so if you want to know who and what I am, go ahead and write that down, put it in italics.*
And now it was not only a safe time, but an *imperative* time to say those words, and they
wouldn't come out.
But it must have been obvious enough that he was searching for something to say, because Wade
backed off, his arms slipping away from Lance's waist. "I'm sorry," Wade said again, and this
time he looked like he meant it. The expression on his face was the one they all knew best, severe
but tranquil, unadorned. Whatever impulse or appetite had come over Wade out of the clear blue
sky was gone now, and it was just Wade Robson again.
He walked over to the stereo to shut off the music, and Lance found himself standing there
stupidly, shell-shocked and holding on to his own crossed arms. "I never do that," Wade said
briskly. "It's unprofessional, and I hope you -- I'd rather you didn't tell anyone else about it.
Please."
Small chance of that. But there was a tiny unevenness in Wade's last word that stung Lance like a
sweat-bee, not a real pain but a fleeting sense of discomfort. He didn't like having even the
slightest sense that Wade was begging for something. Wade was stronger than that -- cold, yes,
but in a strangely likeable way, like one of those European museums that Lance always looked
forward to visiting, even though they were austere and quiet. Wade was classy, *elegant.* "I
won't," Lance promised, and then, because it didn't feel like it was enough, "It won't cause any
trouble, though. I -- I'm fine."
"Great," Wade said, and his usual neutrality was iced over with a dangerous sheet of cynicism.
"That's great."
"Are you -- fine?" Lance blushed as he said it, because it seemed presumptuous even to think that
Wade would be other than fine just because of...him. But Wade still wasn't looking at him; he
was facing the mirror, so Lance could see by the reflection how his eyes were cast down and off
to the side.
His eyes switched up to Lance -- or rather, to Lance's reflection. "Just sick of only getting to
sleep with people I don't know well enough to like. Because otherwise it would be *fucking
unprofessional.*" Lance started as if Wade were yelling; it was close to yelling, closer than Lance
had ever seen him before.
After a few seconds of idling in neutral, his brain supplied the next logical step in that chain of
thinking. "You like me?"
Wade put his hand on the barre in front of him and looked down at it, the meaningless gesture of
someone looking for some small escape route from a conversation. "Of course I like you," he
said gruffly, and Lance got the feeling Wade would like to have someone to blame for that.
"You're...smart."
"Smart?" Lance felt well on his way to debunking that particular myth. So that was all right.
"Yeah, you're *smart,*" Wade repeated impatiently. "I see you around here going over all the
ledgers and schedules, and even Johnny is always asking if this sounds okay to you or is that
going to be a problem down the line." He turned around to face Lance and took the barre with
both hands; they way they were almost hidden behind his back made him look sort of like he was
tied to an invisible stake for burning. "That's your goddamn problem with the dancing, isn't it?"
he said, and his voice was eerily flat, for such an accusation. "You think I'm the gym teacher
keeping you after class when you should be off sharpening your vocabulary for the SAT. You
can do this just fine, and you *do* do it just fine, some of the time. When you fucking feel like it.
When you're not too good--"
"No! I'm just *tired,* Wade, that's all." God, Lance didn't even know where all that was
*coming* from. Wade thought he was stuck-up? That he just wasn't *trying,* that he didn't *care* about
this stuff? Lord, Lord.
"I'm not some ditzy dance-jock. I want to do all of this stuff, too, you know? The money things
-- producing. All of it, I want to try everything. So don't act like I couldn't be into smart men,
because I know the difference between smart and talented and I know which one counts for
something, and I'm not fucking impressed by dancers, I've known too many dancers, and--"
"I know, I know," Lance said, amazed that he could get the words past his tense, sore
throat. He just knew he had to get in there somewhere; Wade was really winding himself up.
"No, I was just -- it just startled me, is all. Because mostly pretty guys... well, and, you know.
You are, real pretty and all, so."
And it stopped Wade cold, mid-rant. He sighed, and brought one hand up to rub at his eye, a
boyish gesture that sent a little ache through Lance's chest. "And someday I won't be anymore,"
he said, sounding tired on an even deeper level than Lance was. "No more Gap commercials, no
more music videos. And then it'll be too late to start in on something new; I have to get it
together *now,* I have to start moving to the next level *now.*"
Lance knew perfectly well how that felt. He'd had the same thoughts himself, pinballing back and
forth between thinking that he had his whole life ahead of him and being able to hear the clock
ticking all the fucking time. "I know what you mean," he said.
Wade smiled slightly at him, and it buzzed like electricity through Lance's system. "I know, I can
tell. That's why I thought -- we might --"
It all seemed clear now, and understanding it was a relief but at the same time it made Lance sad
and a little claustrophobic. Thought they might get along, might be friends, might be able to make
out and maybe even more without worrying too obsessively over miscommunications and cross-
purposes and hidden motives.
That was so rare, dismally rare. Lance understood that better than he wanted to. When you met
a person that you could share a bed with in some rough semblance of equality, God willing even
kinship, then you went for it, and when you had it you didn't let go, regardless. You called it
love, and when the talk-show hosts asked about your love life, you wondered if they could
possibly understand what that meant to you.
"The thing is," Lance said slowly, "it's the timing."
"I know," Wade sighed. "The tour--"
"No, nothing to do with the tour. I've been -- seeing this man -- for a while, and--"
"Oh." For once, Wade's ability to conceal anything he wanted to conceal was sort of a relief.
"No, you don't-- I used to think that I loved him, but lately I've been wondering a lot if -- if I love
him, or if...."
If. If it was just really inconvenient to break up with him? They'd gone on the outs before, a
couple of times, stopped being anything other than forty percent of a vocal group for weeks on
end, but even though it was never said, they both understood that those were *breaks.* They
wouldn't last; they couldn't. Being so close to each other so much of the time created an
emotional gravity field, and sooner or later, they fell back into the old rhythms and harmonies.
They said *I love you* instead of *I'm sorry,* and they reset like it was a video game instead of
real life, and they went on with their small frictions and frustrations.
If. If love should mean something different. More than the quiet high-tide of happiness that came
from tumbling into bed next to someone warm and well-known. More than missing him when he
was gone, but somehow always finding a way to miss him when they were together, too. If he'd
come to need Joey so much that it was taking over like weeds, trying to kill off everything less
resilient, like the tentative realization that whatever Joey saw when his warm eyes rested so fondly
on Lance was something that Lance wasn't able to recognize as himself.
"I'm breaking up with him," Lance said. It was probably true. "So it's just...a crazy time."
Wade nodded slowly. "I meant what I said. I don't -- ever come on to people I work with. It's
never a good idea."
"You get lonely," Lance said. He wasn't sure whether he meant it as a question or not.
"I stay busy," Wade said shortly. Lance wasn't sure whether he meant it as an answer or not.
The other thing Lance was not totally sure about was how he got across the room and at what
point he put his tongue in Wade's mouth. He did notice that the sound of his hands skidding
down the glass on either side of Wade's head was shrill and obnoxious, so he moved them to
Wade's waist instead.
Wade jerked under his hands, and Lance started to pull away reflexively, but Wade caught him by
the forearms and wouldn't let him go. He spun Lance easily and pushed him back against the
mirror, and Lance couldn't have cared less about the barre pressing into the small of his back. All
he cared about was getting Wade's shirt off over his head before they got back to the kissing.
The barre was actually kind of convenient; Lance kept a death-grip on it with his left hand while
the other explored Wade's narrow, muscular back all the way from the waistband of his low-slung
pants up to the back of his neck, slightly damp with sweat. "Let me kiss you, let me kiss you,
okay?" Wade was murmuring between kisses, which seemed a little redundant, but Lance wasn't
complaining.
If he was complaining, it was only because Wade was holding his body at just the wrong angle for
Lance's purposes, which involved getting a hard surface to grind against. A distant part of his
mind was still wondering exactly why this was happening at all; he was responding to this as
though he'd been hoping for this from Wade all along, or as though he hadn't been laid in months.
Neither of which was true.
Wade put his hand over Lance's on the barre, and dropped with perfectly controlled grace to one
knee, resting his forehead just below Lance's navel. The action seemed to freeze up Lance's
diaphragm, and suddenly in spite of as many years of vocal training as he could remember, Lance
was breathing in short, useless bursts from high in his chest. *I can't sing this way,* Lance caught
himself thinking confusedly, and then Wade's fingers curled around his waistband, and all Lance's
priorities sorted themselves out clearly.
He snapped his head back so sharply when Wade took him into his mouth that Lance turned his
head slightly to check for a spiderweb of radiating cracks in the mirror. No permanent damage.
"Stop, stop," Lance hissed, rubbing a clumsy crop circle in Wade's hair with his thumb. "I'm --
just wait a minute, will you?"
"Too fast?"
Lance gave him a nervous little laugh. "I'm a little keyed up right now. Can I just...have a
second?"
Wade nodded once, seriously, and Lance had to close his eyes to have any chance of regaining his
composure. Even that didn't really help much, because it brought into stark relief the gentle brush
of Wade's fingers as they stroked up and down his hipbones. "Sorry I yelled at you before,"
Wade said causally.
"It's all right." Lance shuddered to think what kind of crime Wade could get away with, if he
were on the jury.
"It was stupid. But I meet a lot of people who think of professional dancers as -- some kind of
weird sub-species, like the only reason we're put on this earth is to be limber, have good
cardiovascular endurance, and provide free entertainment at clubs." The dim echo of his own
earlier thoughts about clubbing startled an abrupt laugh from Lance. "That's not you, though,"
Wade finished, sounding almost shy. "I know that."
"This is kind of like the scene from Dirty Dancing where Johnny Castle tells Baby about all the
rich women that make him feel like a sex object when he gives them dancing lessons," Lance
mused.
"Jesus. See what I mean? What is it about that movie that everybody loves so much?"
"Dancers are sexy," Lance supplied.
"Yeah, yeah. Dancing equals sex. Sublimated attraction, blah blah blah. Any old bookworm can
learn to dance, as long as she wants to bang the teacher bad enough. What an irritating fucking
cliche."
"Uh-huh," Lance said distantly. Fortunately, Wade chose that moment to start kissing delicately
up the inside of Lance's thigh, which made it impossible for Lance to keep thinking about whether
or not he was an irritating dance cliche. Or about anything else, pretty much.
"What do you-- You want to go upstairs?" It was strange to hear Wade sounding like that, like
he didn't quite know what should happen next. It struck Lance that he was probably the only one
of the group who had ever seen a side of Wade that wasn't flawlessly organized.
That thought led to another, which was so out of the blue that it made Lance too startled and
clumsy to be tactful. "Have you ever done this before?"
Wade frowned a little at him. "Sure."
"Really?"
"How young do you think I am?"
Lance grinned, and exerted an enormous amount of self-control by reaching down and tugging on
the shoulders of Wade's shirt until he got up off his knees and brushed Lance's lips with a kiss.
"You're pretty young."
"I've done this before. Men and women. It's no big deal. I don't want to make an event out of
this, okay? Let's just...."
"Okay." Lance worked a thumb in between their bodies and slid his hand down Wade's side; he
could feel Wade's ribs hitch with his jagged breathing. "This is -- um -- wow." He laughed softly
against Wade's cheek, and Wade groaned. "I'm not sure what to say."
"Have *you* ever done this before?" Wade asked him pointedly.
"Yeah, I-- Yes. I just.... We don't know each other that well."
Wade pulled him a little closer. "See, that's why I like you. You take things seriously that way.
Are you getting cold feet, Bass? Don't know me well enough, not romantic enough for you?"
It was almost, but not quite, taunting, and Lance was almost -- but not quite -- annoyed. "You
think I'm a real geek, don't you? Can't dance, can't dress himself, doesn't screw around with
strangers."
"You can't dress yourself?" There was humor in Wade's voice, underground.
"Justin picks out most of my clothes," Lance admitted with a smile. "He's really good at it."
"He's good at everything."
"Funny, that's what he says about you. What's it like to be good at everything?"
Wade chuckled. "I can't sing. Stop saying you can't dance, though; you're really pretty good.
You're just working at a hell of a high level, here. Plus, you think about it too much. You count
when you should be listening."
"You know, if you're not careful, I'm going to start thinking it's cute when you criticize me."
He meant it to be a joke, but Wade pulled back a little, frowning. "I don't want to do this if it's
going to interfere with us working together."
"Hey, I was just kidding. Come on, come here." Lance was surprised at how rattled he was,
thinking that Wade might be ready to back out of this. When did this stop being a moment of
adrenaline-addled, out-of-control attraction and turn into something they were negotiating? He
pulled Wade slowly back into his arms, half afraid to startle him.
Wade put a hand on the back of Lance's head and kissed his neck slowly. "I'm nervous," he
murmured, so low that it was hard to hear. "I told you, I usually don't do this with people I
work with; it's hard enough without complicating things."
"Hard enough?"
"Being young. Giving orders."
Lance let his thumb hook into Wade's waistband. "I promise to respect you in the morning."
"Thanks." Abruptly, Wade jerked him closer and kissed him, all traces of shyness gone. "I do
think you're kind of a geek," he admitted, his lips trailing down Lance's cheek. "But it turns me
on. Like I said, I have a thing for smart guys."
At best it was a backhanded compliment, but somehow it made Lance's pulse race just a little bit
faster anyway. "You're probably bored with people telling you how sexy you are."
"Johnny Castle Syndrome, right? Best dancer, best fuck, ipso facto."
When Wade said it like that, it made Lance feel a little bit ashamed. It did sound kind
of...exploitative. "I'm sorry," he said.
Wade slung an arm around his shoulders and kissed Lance's forehead. "God, I think you actually
are."
"I didn't mean to -- I mean, you're not a toy or something."
"I know you didn't. I wasn't talking about you."
"But I do...I was thinking.... When you dance, Wade, you're just so--"
"I know. I know what you're thinking, and I know what I look like. I'm not whining because
people think I'm sexy. I was just...thinking out loud, I guess. But...thank you. You're a nice guy
to worry about me."
Lance could feel himself starting to blush. "You're-- you're welcome." He reached up to put his
fingers in Wade's hair, even more damaged by chemicals and heavy with products than Joey's
hair. But like Joey's, there was a place down by the roots where new hair was coming in soft and
silky, warm against his scalp. Lance buried his other hand in it, too, and kissed Wade, their
mouths hard together while his palms laid light and gentle over Wade's skull.
"I love your voice," Wade said, his words almost disappearing into Lance's mouth. "The first
time I heard you talk, all I could think about was what you would sound like while I was sucking
you off."
"Oh, yeah, I get that all the time. You know, it's kind of demeaning, really...."
Wade laughed; that quiet, gravelly sound was sounding better and better the longer Lance had to
get used to it. "You gonna come upstairs and let me treat you like an object?" His voice dropped
lower as he said, "You're not the kind of guy who wants to make me beg, are you?"
"Would you?" Lance asked. No reason, really; he was just curious.
"I might. Depends. You moan in bed?"
"Yes," Lance admitted.
"I would beg. Yeah, I think I would."
"That's okay. But thanks. You really would, though? Beg to sleep with...me?"
Instead of answering, Wade just slipped out of his arms and took Lance's hand in his, leading him
toward the door.
The room that Johnny was letting Wade stay in while rehearsals were going on looked more like a
hotel room than anything else. Other than a suitcase by the bathroom door, there was almost
nothing in the room to indicate that it was occupied at all, until Lance got closer to the bed and
noticed that there were a couple of things on top of the nightstand that had to belong to Wade: a
photograph, and a comic book.
Lance found himself absolutely fascinated by these small signs of what must be Wade Robson's
personal life. The comic didn't look like Joey's at all; it was almost as thick as a regular book,
and the cover was a surreal black and purple image, an unclear face and something else Lance
couldn't recognize in the dim light. "*A Game of You,*" he read out loud. "That sounds
pretty."
"I keep trying to read it," Wade sighed. "You know, in the thirty seconds I have between when I
get to bed and when I fall asleep. I've had it for a month, and I'm probably twenty-five pages in."
"Is this you?" Lance chuckled, reaching for the photo. "You look really...young."
"I was twelve. Groomsman at a friend's wedding. That's my mother beside me." Softly, Wade's
hands rested on his shoulders and then slid down Lance's arms to take the picture out of his grip.
"What do you like?" Wade asked, nuzzling into Lance's neck. "Top or bottom?"
The question had never exactly presented itself before; Lance had never bothered to wonder, and
just wondering sent a little erotic shiver up Lance's back. "I think -- um -- oh, God." Lance
stretched his arms back and settled his hands behind both of them, on Wade's ass. "I -- don't
know?"
"Are you *sure* you've done this before?"
"Not both." He regretted it as soon as he said it; how far could he trust Wade's weird thing for
geeks to carry him?
"So that should make it easy. Whatever you normally do. Doesn't matter to me."
Lance turned around in his arms, kneading his fingers into Wade's thin shoulders with one hand,
trailing the fingers of his other hand down Wade's cheek.
Joey had never asked if Lance would like to be on top. Not that he was mad about that. Lance
hadn't thought of it, either. He wasn't mad, he just -- it just made the distance seem so much
greater, even more than the difference between Wade's angular, flexible body and Joey's sturdy,
comforting one.
"Okay," he said, and took hold of Wade's shirt, pulling it off in one long motion. "You've got
lube? I don't want to hurt you."
Wade smiled. "Good. I don't want to get hurt. In my suitcase."
"Don't take off your clothes while I'm not looking," Lance said, kissing him quickly, before he
turned away to rifle through Wade's things. When he found the lube and turned back, it seemed
that Wade had taken him at his literal word. He was lying on his back, sprawled out comfortably
with his hands behind his head, still dressed.
"I kinda liked Dirty Dancing," Lance said as he crawled onto the foot of the bed, staying low so
that his body swept against Wade's as he moved to lie flat, chest to chest and groin to groin with
Wade. "My sister Stacy used to make me watch it a lot. She had a crush on Patrick Swayze. My
mom, too, I think."
Wade let Lance strip him, his eyes closed as though he were trying very hard to endure great
stupidity. "Bass. It was the worst movie in the world. Dancing really doesn't mean a goddamn
thing in terms of wanting to get it on or not, and by the way, if you think you're slumming, you're
sadly mistaken. Try Justin; he's a little more white-trash than I am."
Warmly, Lance kissed one of Wade's nipples, then the other. "Just thinking out loud. Relax."
Even more warmly, Wade smiled up at him, settling his hands loosely on Lance's shoulders.
"Relax me."
Every part of Wade's skin was flavored lightly with salt and musk, as though he'd done so much
sweating in his life that it was a permanent part of his chemistry now. It made him taste nice,
though -- strong and hot, vaguely reminiscent of movie popcorn. By the time drops of moisture
had begun to get caught in the hollows of Wade's collarbone and pelvis, Lance had gotten used to
Wade's taste, and his sweat was just the same, only more so. It tasted familiar on his tongue, and
all the sexier because it so perfectly lived up to his expectations.
He didn't know whether it was just Wade's style or if the nervousness that Wade mentioned was
disappearing, but with each kiss, he seemed to be getting bolder. His tongue raked so deeply and
thoroughly through Lance's mouth that it felt as though Wade was taking control over his body
from the inside, and Lance was embarrassed to realize how close he was to coming just from
thrusting desperately against Wade's hard stomach with Wade's tongue in his mouth.
It was almost physically painful to draw away from those later, fiercer kisses, but there was a
certain visceral satisfaction, also, to the way Wade whimpered when he did. "This is so good," he
murmured, nipping at Wade's ear. "This is so sexy...."
"Love your voice," Wade said. "Love your voice; fuck me, and keep talking, okay?"
"Want me to sing?" Lance joked.
Wade drew his leg slowly up the side of Lance's body and confessed, "I couldn't handle it."
"Good. I couldn't manage it."
"What did you do with the condom?"
"Um. With...."
Balefully, Wade opened just one eye. "Which you got from my suitcase. Right?"
"Um. Well...."
"Goddammit, Bass!"
"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't think about it."
"You're *sorry.* You didn't -- wait, didn't think about it?" Both eyes open now, Wade
struggled to prop himself up on his elbows underneath Lance. "You do use them normally, don't
you? For Christ's sake, at *least* tell me you've been tested recently."
Lance put a hand on his shoulder and tried to push him back down as gently as possible. "I don't
normally, but -- Wade, shh! Listen to me, okay? I only ever -- there's just -- one. Just one, he's
-- was -- or, I mean -- you know, I told you. My boyfriend. We were faithful. So we...didn't. I
mean, before him there was -- but I did get tested since then, so don't worry about it."
"Okay. Okay. Sorry if I...freaked, there. It's a serious thing, though. You should. You know.
Take it seriously."
"I do. I -- I will." He brushed his fingers along Wade's face until he saw it relax slightly. "See,
that's why I like you. You take things seriously that way. Now, just chill here a second, and I'll
get the condom, okay?"
"You owe me some serious moaning for this."
"Could this be a fetish for you? Have you considered that?"
"Hey, some guys like dancers. I like singers. Get the damn condom."
It was almost cute, how much Wade's personal orders sounded like Wade's professional orders.
It was all Lance could do to keep from ruffling Wade's hair as he climbed off the bed.
Thankfully, Lance had gone to about-to-come-at-just-any-second-and-embarrass-himself-
completely to only mostly hard. As soon as he touched himself to roll on the condom, that
"mostly" part was a thing of the past, but whatever, he still thought that, now that he was
prepared for this, he could handle himself a little less like a horny sixteen-year-old getting blown
for the first time. He tried not to remember that he was the next thing from: a horny twenty-year-
old getting ready to put his dick in somebody's ass for the first time.
And maybe he didn't know Wade all that well, Lance reflected as he climbed back on the bed,
kissing a path from Wade's nipple up underneath his arm, but he was learning as he went along.
For example, Wade actually *could* smile, and it was a nice smile; his eyebrows shot way up
when he did it, and it was cute. And Wade really didn't seem to have a crush on Patrick Swayze,
and in fact was sort of absurdly sensitive on the subject of sexy dancing movies, so Lance didn't
tell him how cool it was that they were both all warm and limber from all those hours of dancing,
how it was kind of like having sex for the second time in one night, when it always felt hotter and
easier and like second nature to wind around each other. And Wade worried so much about work
that he made Lance look like a Rastafarian, which Lance thought was strangely sexy. Like he was the
fun-loving, free-spirited playboy all of a sudden.
Wade slung his legs around Lance as they kissed, one around his ribs, the other over his shoulder,
and *Jesus.* Lance could get in that position when it was the second time that night, or when
he'd had a couple of drinks to loosen his muscles, but he couldn't do it like *that,* all careless,
like it was the easiest thing in the world. Wade stroked the back of Lance's neck absently, almost
like Lance scratched the scruff of Dirk's neck, and with his other hand he felt around between
them until he found what he was looking for, and Lance closed his eyes, pretty sure that only that
layer of latex was allowing him to dodge the horny-virgin bullet for the second time.
"You're all quiet," Wade breathed into his ear as they coordinated their efforts to put Lance's
cock into a mutually beneficial position.
"Uhhmn," Lance said, distracted. Wade laughed, and then stopped laughing with a sharp moan as
Lance pushed just the head of his dick inside him. "Oh, Lord," Lance said, and then laughed, too,
because he knew that Wade wanted him to talk sexy, and he knew that it didn't look like he was
going to mange coherent, let alone sexy. His hips tried to jerk, and Lance bit down on his lip and
pressed his forehead to Wade's neck and made himself hold on.
"Are you okay?"
Lance laughed again, hollowly. "That's my line, isn't it?" he said, or tried to say; it came out sort
of like *mylineinnit?* For God's sake, Lance told himself sternly, pull yourself together. You're
not a virgin, you know exactly what you're doing, try not to look like...like such a geek. Can't
dance, can't dress himself, bad in bed....
Wade ran his fingers down Lance's spine, and Lance pulled together and flew apart at the same
time, shoving into him, teeth snapping together and grazing Wade's neck sharply. He moaned,
and Wade arched hard against him, his short fingernails sinking viciously into the small of Lance's
back. "Goddamn, Bass," Wade said, but it sounded happy and not pissed off.
"You can call me Lance, you know," he murmured into Wade's collarbone, loving the way it
made Wade shudder.
"You can *fuck me,* you know," he growled, and Lance smiled against his skin.
He knew he should do it slow and sexy like Joey always did, but Lance just couldn't seem to
manage anything but fast and mindless, just over and over again into the tight-hot-*tight,* into
Wade's supple body, on fire just underneath the surface of his skin. For one frightening moment,
Lance *was* angry, he was fucking *angry,* because it was ridiculous, he was twenty years old,
and he'd never done this before, and this was so easy, so right, so *perfect,* and to hell with
Joey, anyway. Maybe Lance had never thought about this before, but God, he wanted it now,
wanted it and should have been having it all along. He was pretty sure that later on, he'd feel
sad and guilty, that he'd hate himself for his feelings as much as for his actions here, because
no one was better or kinder than Joey, no one could possibly try harder to please him or stay as
loyal to this endurance-trial of a relationship, with all its conflicts and dangers and the constant
need to lie. Joey put everything into this, just like he did into everything that mattered to him,
and Lance was the one cheating, and Lance was the one using their sex life to fake-justify it.
Tomorrow, yeah. Tomorrow Lance would feel lower than he ever had, because maybe he didn't know
what kind of person he was, after all.
"You feel so good," he said into Wade's ear, and licked him there, and Wade's legs sort of
jumped, shifting tighter around him, his heels grinding into Lance's back. Lance chuckled, and he
managed a few moans between panting for breath, and Wade threw his head back, and Lance had
never seen an expression quite like that on anyone's face, so lost, almost like he'd gone off to
a higher place while his body was here rocking and writhing underneath Lance.
It felt like Lance's body was pushing both of them harder and higher than Lance himself could
really keep up with; he felt dizzy, he felt possessed, like a rider inside his own skin. It had never
been quite like this, primal, single-minded. No fear and no tenderness, just the driving need to
fuck, to do this again and again until he caught up with the orgasm that he could sense,
disorientingly, just ahead of him. Lance wasn't sure why this was supposed to make you feel like
such the big man; he felt dominated by his own need, utterly helpless to do anything but obey.
He felt fucking *incredible.* He bit Wade's shoulder again, bit his chest, made him cry out,
wordlessly at first, and then made him say *Lance, Lance, holy shit, oh yes, God yes, shit, oh
God* until he fell back into wordlessness again. Lance was pretty sure he was talking too; he
kept catching the edges of it, far thunder that sounded like *fuck, fuck you, want you, oh baby,
so good, God so good, need you.*
Lance came so hard that his whole body jerked with each pulse, so hard that he was half-scared he
was going to hurt Wade somehow, although as he came down slowly into his right mind, Lance
blushed at that idea. Right, because Lance was such an incredible stud.
That was kind of how he felt, though. Actually.
Wade was quivering underneath him, kissing back clumsily when Lance kissed him, and he could
taste sweat on Wade's lips now, too. He breathed out, not quite a moan, when Lance pulled out
of him. He didn't really want to, honestly, but he and Joey used to use condoms, in the very
beginning, and he'd heard Joey complain enough about how gross they felt if you didn't get rid of
them right away.
When Lance turned back after tossing it in the trash, Wade was still just lying there, staring at the
ceiling with a bizarrely *Wade* look on his face, serious and patient, just the hint of a glare.
Lance chuckled, and ran his hand over Wade's stomach. "Let me...." he started to say, and then
figured, oh hell. Even Wade probably didn't want to hear him talk right *now.* He leaned down
and took Wade's dick into his mouth, and Wade's throat made a kind of cracking sound, and then
he went silent again.
He was good at this part, though, Lance knew that for sure. Joey had been with a lot of other
people, before they were together, and other people when they were separated, too -- girls, Lance
thought they were all girls, although he'd never really asked for sure. But Joey knew good head
from bad, if anyone did, and so Lance knew for sure that he was good. It wasn't just Joey lying
to make him feel good, either, because for a long time Joey had only said stuff like *I love you,*
and then later on he'd started saying *shit, you're so good at that.* Practice doesn't make perfect,
one of their very earliest choreographers used to say; *perfect* practice makes perfect. And
practice with Joey felt pretty damn perfect.
For a second, he felt guilty for thinking about Joey while going down on Wade. Lord. How
messed up was *that?* But it was just so easy to do, and Lance was still so goofy and spaced-out
from his own orgasm that he couldn't keep his mind from floating off on its own. He got like that
after sex; sometimes he babbled, unless he was really exhausted and went right to sleep, or unless
he found something better to do with his mouth.
Wade came apart beautifully in his mouth; he made noise, but it was like he was already wrung
out, hardly able to do more than whimper and mumble *oh, yeah.* Lance swallowed everything,
and kissed his way back up Wade's body with wet lips, stopping to nuzzle underneath his chin.
Wade brought unsteady hands to rest on Lance, one between his shoulders, one high on the back
of his head. "Jesus. I take back everything bad I ever thought about you."
"Uh. Thanks," Lance said.
He lifted the hand from Lance's head and made some kind of vague gesture with it before letting
it drop again. "Not that there were a lot of them. But, you know."
"I know."
"Are you gonna.... Do you want to spend the night? Oh, I mean. You're probably hungry or
something. Have plans or something."
"No, I figured you'd probably keep me here til I died," Lance said dryly. "I didn't make plans."
He was kind of hungry, but Johnny's place was too far out in the sticks to get delivery, and
Lance's hopes and dreams for the evening definitely, absolutely did not contain getting up and
getting dressed, or really any moving around at all.
"We could always get back to work," Wade said, and Lance almost said *you psychotic bastard*
before he realized that Wade was joking. There was a certain tone to his voice. You picked it up,
after a while.
"We could make out until we fall asleep, too," Lance pointed out.
Wade rolled him over onto his side and kissed him. It was a surprisingly chaste kiss, just lips
lingering against lips, and it made Lance's heart do a funny little fillip against his chest. Shit,
Wade was really...sort of a sweet guy. Lance wound his fingers in Wade's short hair and kissed
him back deeper.
It seemed like they stayed just like that until someone's shrill cellphone started going off. Lance
tried to ignore it, but every time it stopped, kicking the call to voicemail, there was a minute of
silence and then it started ringing again. "For God's sake," Lance groaned, forcing his eyes open,
and he realized that he wasn't kissing Wade anymore. He was lying with his head on Wade's
back, one hand on Wade's shoulder, the other sprawling above their heads with fingertips twined
with Wade's. And the damn phone would *not* stop ringing.
"Answer it," Wade said grimly, without moving. Lance could barely understand his words,
muffled into the pillow as they were. "Or I sink it in the pond."
He sat up and fumbled through his clothes for it, before his head cleared enough to realize that his
phone must still be downstairs. "It's *your* phone, you jerk," he said, collapsing onto his back.
"Huh," Wade said mildly, and reached out to the dresser. "Hullo?" he mumbled, and then, sort of
blankly, "Oh." He listened for a minute, and then propped himself up on his elbow. "Yeah. No,
yeah. You wanna talk to him?"
Every possible way that that could be bad hit Lance all at the exact same time. He was pretty sure
this was what a heart attack felt like.
"Okay, yeah," Wade said, and then he made a short sound, kind of a chuckle. "Well, whenever.
No, hang on." He glanced at his watch. "Nine-thirty? Dig. See you then."
"Who was that?" Lance asked cautiously.
"Joey and Justin. You kinda freaked them out by not being at your place this morning."
Good morning, reality. Lance sat up, grabbing his pants off the floor and growling, "Shit, shit,
shit."
"Hey, chill out," Wade said, his fingers brushing Lance's back soothingly. "It's just now eight.
You can -- you know, you have time. They just think you're over here getting in extra practice,
so it's okay. If you don't want to tell them or whatever."
Lance groaned and put his head down in his hands. "Okay, Wade? Here's something that maybe
last night would've been a better time to tell you."
"Uh-huh," Wade said, neutrally.
"My boyfriend? The one, you know, the one I haven't sort of exactly broken up with yet?"
"Fucking do *not* tell me it's Justin," Wade said.
He let out a laugh that sounded insane even to himself. "No, well, no, it's not, so there's that.
But it's Joey."
Wade was dead silent for a second, and then he struck the heel of his hand against Lance's spine.
Hard. It hurt. "You. Unbelievable. Asshole. Are you fucking *kidding* me? *Joey?* Joey
*Fatone?*" Lance didn't dignify that with a response. Wade was sitting up now, and there was a
sound like he was slamming something down on the dresser. "That's just fucking *priceless.*
You *asshole,* you didn't-- Shit! Joey already doesn't even like me."
"I think he likes you okay," Lance said. As if that were the fucking point.
"Lance, what in the-- What would-- Oh, fuck! Just forget it, I don't even care what you were
thinking!" His hand closed on Lance's shoulder, pulling him half around to get stuck on those
dark, intense eyes. "Listen. I don't know or fucking *care* what's going on between you and
Joey, but you *leave me out of it,* all right? This is my fucking job, Bass, this isn't some stupid
game." His voice was almost shaking with the intensity of it, and Lance lowered his eyes like a
scolded child. He almost felt worse about jeopardizing Wade's damn career than he did about
cheating on Joey. Maybe part of him suspected it meant more to Wade. "We're going to find
something you can wear, you're going to eat breakfast, you're going to start warming up, and
when the others get here you're not going to say anything and I'm not going to say anything and
if you *ever* say anything, if you ever get some asinine, way-too-late guilt complex going and you
try to confess, I swear to fucking God and Jesus Christ that I'll deny it, and then I'll find a way to
break your fucking leg during rehearsal. If I get fired, I'll have you fucking *killed.* Are we on
the same page, here?"
"Guess so," Lance said, pulling his shoulder away. So. That sort of...solved some of his
problems. Lance guessed. No witnesses, anyway. He was pretty well convinced of Wade's
commitment to discretion.
Wade stood up abruptly. "I'm going to take a shower."
In the bathroom doorway, he turned around and looked at Lance for a minute. Lance couldn't
quite look back. "Look," Wade said, sounding tired all of a sudden. "I don't really know how
you guys do things. I just.... I don't want to get involved in some kind of weird personal thing.
This job is, it's just more important to me than that. Than anything else right now."
"I know. I'm really sorry. I didn't think...." About the position I'd put you in. About anyone
but myself. Whoops, sorry about that.
"It's okay," Wade said, a little grudgingly. "We got carried away. It happens."
That almost made Lance smile. "Yeah, you know. Dance lessons, and all. Way sexy."
"Fuck you," Wade said, and then laughed.
He disappeared into the bathroom, and Lance flopped back across the mattress. Way sexy, he
thought, and shivered a little with the memory of it.
He listened to the sound of the shower. It was morning and, right on schedule, Lance hated
himself. In an hour and a half, Joey would be here, grinning, probably bearing doughnuts, all
innocence and crazy in love with Lance, and Lance didn't have words for half the reasons he
wasn't sure if he could keep on doing this. *Because I've been with you since I was a kid, and I just
maybe want to do something new before I'm old and married and boring? Because we have so
many things to talk about from so long in the past that our days just don't have enough hours in them to
get it all covered? Because you love me so much that you want to protect me from everything
and make it better all the time, and you make me feel weaker than I want to be, like I'll shatter apart
if I ever have to take care of myself? Because I honestly -- I don't really think that's true, Joe.
I think that I maybe have my problems, but I'm smart, I'm resourceful, and I work really, really
hard, and I solve things for other people, so why couldn't I solve things for myself?*
Which sounded a lot like, *Joey, you're fantastic, and all you want is for things to be good for me,
but see the thing is that I might want to fuck other people, and anyway, why do you always have
to be so nice, why do you have to care about me so much? Get lost.* And he didn't want it to be
that kind of breakup, the ugly kind where they walked away wondering if they'd ever been friends at
all.
He didn't *want* a breakup at all, he was pretty sure. Joey was milkshakes at midnight for no
reason, Joey was laughing until he was lightheaded and too uncoordinated to stand, Joey was the
kind of boyfriend who liked to give Lance pedicures and sing Petula Clark songs to him over the
phone when they weren't sleeping in the same place and cradle Lance's face in his hands and stare
at him in frank, smiling amazement before he kissed Lance.
Work hard, do what you're told until you get it down, do it again until it looks easy, do it until
you fall down. He sure hoped Wade didn't think that it was just the story of his own life, and not
the day-in-day-out of practically everybody in this business. Never ask for a rest,
never ask for a drink, never ask for anything. Have a plan, have a career, have a long-term. Fuck
the people who were convenient (no, more than convenient, Joey was better than that, Joey meant
so much more), go to sleep next to the ones who sort of maybe understood you (no, never quite
understood you, but he tried so hard, he loved Lance so fucking much, so much more than anyone
else ever could), smile in the interviews and talk about your *love life,* as though you could
possibly fit in both love and this life.
Lance sat up and stretched, wincing at the way he was already stiff and sore; he never should've
gone to sleep without a hot shower last night. Well, live and learn. And try it again.
Bettythoughts: When I moved last year, one of the things I uncovered in the rubble of my old
apartment was a copy of *Dirty Dancing* from a video rental place near where I live. I tried to
return it, but they said that I'd had it for so long that they no longer even had a record of it, so I
might as well keep the tape. So I own it now, and I watched it again. It's not really a great
movie; the dialogue is just ridiculously bad, to start with. But I have a thing for dancing movies
(too much *A Chorus Line* at a formative age, maybe?), as well as for dancers in general, and so
I had fun watching it anyway. Also, I learned from writing this that my spellcheck dictionary
doesn't recognize the word "subtext," which struck me as really amusing. Thanks are due to Mia
and Jae, for quick and painless beta, and Mary, for philosophical musing and poking me with sharp
sticks until I gave in and felt the Wadelove.