Lance wiped his mouth and peered at himself in the mirror above the sink in the tiny bathroom off the main dressing room. He looked shockingly pale, drained of all color, and he dreaded the amount of foundation Marie would have to put on just to make him look human tonight. His pupils were dilated so much he looked stoned, and his eyes glittered in the glare of the bulb with involuntary tears. He knuckled them away roughly.

The room stank, the acrid odor of vomit hanging low and sickeningly in the close confines of the bathroom. His stomach rolled over again ominously and Lance went still, fingers tight on the edge of the sink. He felt the nausea twist through his gut and settle sullenly high underneath his diaphragm, and started to breathe again, gingerly, reaching with shaking hands to turn the tap off.

The mint in the toothpaste had almost made him puke again, but he'd held it together, and at least now he didn't still have the sickening traces of bile on his tongue. It still lingered, though, sharp and choking in the back of his throat, burning the tender membranes and making him cough. The back of his neck was clammy and he could feel damp sweat in the small of his back, and his cheeks felt hot, tight.

God, he so didn't want to have to perform tonight. He closed his eyes, feeling miserable and achy deep down in his bones, and so frustrated he just wanted to yell and throw something and cry like a little kid. He wanted it to all go away. He didn't want to get up in front of forty thousand screaming people and dance, and sing, and smile pretty. He wanted to die. He shuddered, spat again into the sink, and moaned under his breath, leaning against the cold porcelain for support.

The cacophony of the crowd barely penetrated this far into the structure of the stadium, but it was still audible as a far-away murmur that seemed to be omnipresent, as undirected as the air cool and metallic against his face. It was almost time for the starting acts to take the stage, and soon the rest of the guys would be coming into the dressing room for makeup and wardrobe. Then the room would be full of laughter and motion, bright colors and loud sounds and joking and pranks--the easy intimacy that was the legacy of six years of brotherhood. And normally Lance would be in the thick of it, but not tonight. Tonight, it was just one more thing to endure.

And there wasn't much time left.

He dried his face on a paper towel, and then slipped out of the room, shutting it behind him with a sigh of relief as fresh, untainted air greeted him. He breathed deeply, steadily, controlling the flow of air like he was about to sing, and headed for the battered leather couch in the corner.

Chris looked up as he approached, the lump of silly putty he'd been playing with tossed off to the side carelessly. "Hey. How're you feeling?"

"Like hell," Lance said wearily, and sat heavily down beside Chris. Chris made a sympathetic sound and wrapped his hand around Lance's neck, tugging gently. Lance let himself move with the light pull and ended up with his head in Chris's lap, pulling his legs up and curling them so he lay comfortably.

Chris's thighs were hard and warm beneath his head, the familiar scent of him making him think of sleeping in, and breakfast in bed, and kisses sticky-sweet with maple syrup; remember reading the paper together in the morning, with soft gray smudges of ink coming off their bodies in the shower later. He sighed, felt the warmth ease into his tense muscles, and the pounding headache he'd had for most of the day began to recede. When Chris urged him to his back and began to rub his temples gently, Lance groaned in pleasure and arched his back slightly, pushing into Chris's hands.

Chris smiled, brushing his hair back off his forehead, looking rapt at the careful way his fingers moved, drawing over his scalp while Lance blinked dazedly up at him. "Relax," Chris said softly. "We've got time. Just relax. It'll be better."

Lance closed his eyes, felt the eclectic comforting sensations of denim and leather and skin and Chris's mouth, just for a second, a balm on his hot forehead, and let the misery seep out of him. Let peace find it's way in.

The crowd roared in the distance, but in the dimly-lit dressing room, there was no sound, and no movement but Chris's slow caresses. The comfort of touch, and love, and the nausea was gone, a distant memory. Chris was around him, everywhere, surrounding him.

Lance thought this might be heaven.

When Justin and JC tumbled into the dressing room later, Justin was wrapped around JC's shoulders and trying without much success to topple him over. JC was yelling something about "Mickey Mouse, and Britney can be Minnie" and Justin was mock-snarling and heaving his long legs around in an attempt to throw off JC's balance. Joey wasn't really saying anything, just doubled over with laughter.

Chris didn't even bother to look up, and just quirked a small smile at Lance when Lance opened his eyes, a bit bemused but not really upset. His fingers threaded through Lance's hair over and over, and a thumb rubbed at the pulse point behind his ear, and somehow the din became a part of it, melded with the sweet, slow comfort of touch Chris was giving him.

Lance closed his eyes again, and soaked it in. When JC bent over the two of them, one long cool hand pressing at his hot forehead, he murmured and felt something loosen inside, the tender touch familiar, different from Chris but still good. He heard Chris answering questions, heard the worry in Justin and Joey's voices, but didn't really pay attention to the answers. He didn't need to. He knew he'd be fine.

When it was finally time to get up, the makeup women pulling out their cases of supplies and herding people into the chairs, the wardrobe assistants beginning to hand out costumes, he stood with only the slightest wobble, and leaned into Chris for a long moment. Then he stepped away and smiled at Marie and sank into her chair.

The mirror was large and clean and bright and he stared at himself, his red mouth and white skin and mussed hair. He looked, he thought with sudden amusement, like he'd just been royally fucked, and the notion settled gently into his brain, made some of the shakiness subside. He laughed quietly, and felt a little better.

Marie studied his face. "You're still a little pale," she said consideringly. "But it's not bad. I think we'll just do some extra blush and leave it at that." She smiled at him. "How're you feeling, champ?" Marie was from New York, and almost fifty, and called everyone tiger or champ.

"I feel good," Lance said, and his gaze caught Chris, in the chair next to him having his beard trimmed. "I'm okay."

"Stomach flu is the worst," she said sympathetically, smoothing on foundation and adding skillful sweeps of blush along his cheekbones. Lance didn't speak until she'd finished.

"I'm all right now," Lance said, and closed his eyes for the eyeliner pencil. Chris's face, intent eyes and faint smile, the memory of his touch, followed him into darkness.

~end~.