There are times when Lance really appreciates the quieter moments. Beyond the light of day and within the solitude of his bunk, he can just think. There's never rhyme or reason to exactly what he thinks about, but it is a sort of freedom for his mind, away from lights and cameras and screaming girls. Away from music and dance and business. And in his more selfish moments, away from the guys. It's a time when he pulls the blankets up to his chin, closes his eyes, and pictures something just a little beyond home.

Lance thinks about a time when his memories were simple, back to a place he left behind when he made the decision to want this. Tall grass where a hundred different bugs nested and just waited to feast on passing human skin. People who looked at him and waved because they saw him singing in church. Being truly young and anxious and waiting for the day that his balls would finally drop.

Lance thinks about a time when being touched was about the warmth and genuine feel of skin on skin, finger-light contact on seemingly insignificant patches of flesh, firm grips, honest embraces. He wonders when he actually stopped looking for it, and when it just turned cold. He thinks that it couldn't have been that long ago and that he should remember when it actually happened. But he resigns to the idea that it happened somewhere between now and then and the subconscious choice to just accept it.

Lance knows now that his memories are tangled, awash with the images that are given freely to the millions of people who are looking at him. And they aren't looking at him, not really. He's background, low key, bass. But that doesn't unravel the mess in his head or heart.

Lance curls up on his side, pulling his knees up practically to his chest. It's cold, even though the heat is blaring and summer seems to have come early on the East Coast. It's just so damned cold, and he considers his options. Stay here and shiver, or crawl over to Justin's bunk and thrive from the heat only Justin radiated.

Justin.

Lance remembers the first time he went down on a guy. He had fumbled and gagged and nearly puked when it was done. And the guy had found it endearing, but really, that was just because that's how Joey had always been with him. And even though it had gone against all he knew and was taught, it was innocent and good and he slept easily, not alone. Now, he actually gives good head, and Lance feels like it's all just sordid and bad and lonely. And it just doesn't matter, even when it's Justin.

Lance knows that it's all in him, the emptiness and loss of self that goes on everyday when he plasters a smile on his face and acts the parts he's expected to play: for the guys, for management, for the fans, and even for his mom. Sometimes, he wishes like hell it hadn't come to this, and he hadn't sold his soul for platinum albums, a movie career, and businesses that drown him in activity until he forgets who he is, and he's able to give them what they want.

But the kicker is that he really wouldn't change any of it, because he knew what he was doing, and if one thing hadn't changed in him, it was the courage of his convictions.

And that's pretty much why Lance needs Space. He needs space, the dream it represents, and the hope he still clings to, that when this is all over, he'll still be able to look in the mirror, smile, and be warmed by what he sees.

The thought makes Lance shiver again, shiver and shake because what will he do if they don't pick him to go and the dream is lost? Sure, the guys will be here to pick up the pieces, but what scared him more than anything was whether or not anyone will really know enough to put them back together. And that's when Lance tosses back the blankets and slides out of bed.

The bus is quiet, and outside, the New Jersey Turnpike flies by in flashes of factories and airplanes. He really hates Jersey, and wonders why they just don't play the Garden and forget Jersey all together. But then he remembers. Demographics. Lance sighs heavily and steels quickly to Justin's bunk.

For several moments, Lance just watches Justin. Pretty, pretty Justin, who always sleeps on his back and always seems to have a hard on. Pretty Justin, who doesn't snore and sleeps feather light, even when he's dead drunk. Lance thinks he shouldn't bother Justin now, that he should just let him sleep because he'll be grumpier than usual in the morning because he also hates Jersey. He thinks that he should just return to the solitude and chill of his own bunk and tough it out like he usually does.

But Justin stirs and Lance thinks that solitude is highly overrated.

"Hey man," Justin mumbles peeking out from partially closed lids. "What're you doin'?"

It's a little unnerving, Justin half asleep with his pretty eyes battling the darkness to see.

"Nothing," Lance tells him quietly. "I was just-"

Alone. Cold.

"Here," Justin's arm is already lifting the covers, inviting Lance to the space between Justin's warmth and the edge of the bunk. Just enough room. Always enough room.

Lance swears to himself, but he gratefully climbs in and feels a little better as the blanket and Justin envelope him in warmth.

"Shit Lance," Justin grumbles. "You're a fucking icicle."

"Sorry," Lance mumbles but doesn't want to move, couldn't even if he did.

"No man, s'okay. Was just, like, you know, shocked."

Which it shouldn't be, Lance thinks, because he's always cold and Justin is always warm. And it's only seconds before Justin is spooned up behind him, and Lance thaws just a little.

"Lance,"

"Mmmm?" Justin's lips are on his shoulder and if he tries hard enough, Lance can stop the shudder. And it occurs to him, a moment too late, that he should shudder and shake, because really, Justin deserves it.

But it passes and Justin's already continuing. "It's cold in space, you know?"

He's never come out and said it, but Lance knows that Justin doesn't want him to go. And that speaks volumes because Justin never goes without saying.

"I know," Lance replies. But space is cold from the outside in, not the other way around. Lance wishes he could say just that to Justin and make him understand what exactly it meant. But like with everyone else, this Lance is an illusion, even to Justin.

And all's Justin says is, "Okay. I just thought you should know."

Lance knows. Lance knows that space is cold and that there's numbers and stress, but it's all different, with gauges and gravity and a physical explosion in your head because of the pressure of leaving the atmosphere. And Lance needs it so bad, as bad as he does Justin, all warm and real, and totally deserved of. Something. Just. Other. Than. Him. Because as bad as Justin can get, Lance always knows it's just Justin being Justin and he's never been anything but.

Justin's breathing evens out, light and airy against Lances neck. Clasped near his heart is Justin's hand, sweaty-hot from their contact and the immeasurable heat under the blankets.

Lance thinks that maybe Jersey isn't so bad, and confirms that solitude is overrated and maybe space will be too.

~end~