They've been drinking for hours, and Lance's plane leaves in less than six hours. Tequila usually makes JC soft and cuddly, so he's draped on Lance, running fingers through his hair.

"You should be packing, man, you gotta go and be Mr. Movie Producer."

Lance laughs a little, finds that he's fascinated with the shades of blue in JC's eyes and leans in to study them more carefully. He's used to the magnetism, the shivers that jolt him when JC's fingers rub his scalp, and he thinks that JC is the most beautiful man he's ever seen.

Those thoughts are commmon, everyday even, but this the first time that JC actually wiggles around and kisses him. There's about ten seconds of hothothotgodJCcankiss before he jerks back, and JC just smiles at him.

"I hate you." Lance knows that he's being unfair, that JC doesn't know how much he's wanted that kiss, but differently. He doesn't want to kiss JC when he's drunk and JC's being pliant and soft. Some buried romantic notion wants declarations of mutual want and hazy bits of roses and candlelight, and the hopelessness makes him hate JC more than he could explain.

So he just stands up, dumps JC onto the floor.

"Don't bother meeting my plane next week. I'll find my own way home."

JC's serenity is firmly in place and Lance finds himself almost furious when he waves goodbye. "See ya in a week. Have a safe flight, and I'll be there."

When JC curls into the couch and apparently drifts right into sleep, Lance's fists clench and he slams the door, hoping to jar JC awake again.

Lance hates everything about flying. He hates the ugly rough beige upholstery of the seats, and the fact that he can't quite stretch his legs out. The food on this flight sucks, and he wishes that he was on the bus with Joey cooking, and Justin bringing him drinks.

He can manage to rationalize the fact that he doesn't quite feel safe, but planes hold a different sort of danger than the obvious. The stewardesses always recognize him, regardless of Chris's clever disguises. They never ask for autographs, just hover solicitously until his skin crawls with claustrophobia.

Lance can tell the exact moment when the collective consciousness of first class realizes who he is. Too many hours logged on planes means that he's seen it all, the old ladies who want him to date their granddaughters, the brittle middle aged executives who try to look young and just end up looking hard.

There's always one girl who's sticking her nose in the air, and he can just hear the 'boyband loser' vibes coming from her. It's old, the darting glances, the too casual attempts at conversation, and he tries to close his laptop and nap.

There's precious little peace in this feigned sleep, although his eyelids feel gritty and raw. JC used to tell him that he should cry, embrace his inner sensitivity. Last night he chose to work until he fell asleep, two whole hours of unconsciousness, curled around his laptop.

Lance is so tired that he actually falls asleep for a little bit, jarring out of his stupor when he feels the plane jolt down. He rolls his shoulders, decides that nothing but a massage is going to make the tension better, and shoves sunglasses onto his nose.

When Lance steps through the gate, he feels like he's home, taking a deep breath and avoiding eye contact. His eyes are trained firmly on the ground and his bags are too heavy, until someone grabs one of them.

His eyes jerk upward in surprise, not scared precisely, more annoyed. But JC's grinning at him, like nothing was said in the hours before he left. Lance is annoyed that JC looks rested and pleased and he yanks one back.

"I told you that you didn't have to meet me. I don't want to see you."

Lance wants to sigh when he sees earnest sincerity replace JC's happiness. "But you're sober now, man. And it's cold and miserable out."

Lance just keeps trudging, unwilling to explain that feelings don't dissipate when alcohol's candor fades. He's been too honest with JC, without saying a word and he doesn't want to talk about it now.

"Whatever. I just wanna go home."

Lance falls back into his doze in the passenger seat of JC's SUV, a cold, miserable rain sliding down the windshield and soothing him. The sleep means that he misses the fact that JC's taken him to his house, not to Chris's, like he was supposed to. He closes his eyes, feeling dazed and like it's possibly a bad dream, but when he opens them, JC's grinning happily at him, pleased.

"Chris is gone, him and Justin went to someplace warm for a day or two." JC's forehead wrinkles while he tries to remember where, and smooths out again when he apparently realizes that he probably didn't pay enough attention to Chris. Lance hates the fact that he knows JC well enough to know the exact nature of his loopy thought processes.

"I said, I wanted to go home." The exhaustion of the past week slips through into the snap of his voice.

JC shakes his head stubbornly. "There's nothing colder than an empty home, and god knows Chris's house is empty." He hops out, grabbing one of Lance's bags and staggering a little at the weight.

Lance watches his back recede from view and decides that he's too tired to argue, that it's easier to just sleep here, ignore JC and call a cab tomorrow.

Lance admits to himself, an hour later, when he's showered and fed, that JC's really good at taking care of people. Sometimes, following JC's thought processes can be tiring, but he never really loses track of anything. JC was running Lance a bath, while planning to scramble eggs and turn on the electric blanket, but he got it all done.

Lance can't feel angry anymore. He's snuggled down into the bed, soft cotton sheets smooth against his skin, and there's every possibility that he'll be able to sleep tonight, exhaustion blotting out all the things that he's been thinking about in the quiet night time hours.

Then, JC opens the door and walks in, and the feeling of peace just evaporates, slides right away. The anger's back, red hot now, because Lance can taste the sleep, the prospect of actually feeling good again.

"Now what do you want?" Lance is edging on nasty, and it's all because JC is wearing baggy navy sweatpants that slide at his hips, and they make him look fragile and much more delicate than he really should.

JC's tentative now, one hand grabbing at his pants as they slip again. "Just wanted to see that you were okay." He walks over and perches at the foot of Lance's bed. "Thought maybe I should apologize, not that I'm sorry, or that I really want to, but I don't want you to be mad, and then maybe if I say I'm sorry and that I don't know when we fell apart, you'll stop glaring at me..."

Lance sighs when JC trails off, apparently pleased with his ramble. When JC's leaning on his feet, and his hair's half curly and disheveled, his face partially lit and looking angelic, Lance can't hold onto his selfish anger anymore.

He smiles at JC, not the wide fake grin that he uses for interviews and concerts, and it's worth letting the badness go, when JC squeezes his foot and looks relieved.

"Goodnight, sleep tight, 'kay? I'll make you french toast for breakfast." JC stands, yawning, and walks over to stand beside the bed.

When JC leans in, staring at Lance thoughtfully and moves just a little bit closer to brush his lips over Lance's, it doesn't seem so wrong anymore. Candlelight and romance seem almost silly, when JC's taken the time to pick him up and feed him.

Lance shivers when JC brushes a hand along his cheekbone and says, almost too softly for Lance to hear, "You don't have to be alone." Lance thinks that it's probably true, and he'll debate pros and cons tomorrow, but right now, he feels peaceful and sleepy.

~end~