NOTES AND DISCLAIMERS: All made up, complete fiction, for entertainment only. Thanks to k8, Younger and Kel. JC quotes Mr. Adams of NRBQ.

NO CONSOLATION PRIZE

When Lance goes to parties and talks to people it's like he sees a scorecard pinned to their chest. Neat and tidy, written in red and black, marking off all their successes and failures. This time last year, Lance was doing okay. Even after the movie flopped, he was happy. He's still happy, mostly. It's just that he's picking at scabs he thought were already healed. So, Lance checks everyone's cards-- looks to see who has the most money, who's careers are doing better, who's in love for all the right reasons. He compares them to his and lately, Lance thinks that everyone else's' card looks better.

Lance is starting to get a little worried that he's not as smart as he thinks he is. He's home again, in Orlando and the only person he's called all week is Chris, invited him over for pizza and beer. It was probably a mistake.

Chris pushes on the joystick and says, "This is the video game you did the voice thing for?"

Lance nods. "I'm evil. An evil overlord. There's a job opportunity."

"Oh, you'd suck at that." Chris doesn't look away from the screen. Lance doesn't kick him. Chris says, "Did you ever see, you know that email forward thing? It was really funny, rules about being an evil overlord." Chris snorts. "And one of them was showing every plan to a five year old to spot any gaping holes."

"So I should remember to do that?" Lance sits up on the couch, crossing his legs.

"You absolutely would need to do that."

"Because a five year old is smarter than me?" Lance uncrosses his legs. He's kidding, he thinks, but then Chris finally looks away from the TV, narrows his eyes at Lance. Definitely a mistake, inviting Chris here. It's not making him feel any better. Lance stands up, turns off the game system. "Fine, right, not the point."

Chris tosses the controller aside. "What's your problem?"

Lance stares at the blue screen. He wouldn't answer that question even if he did know. His skin itches, everywhere and he wishes that he could shed and start over fresh.

"Lance? Seriously, it's not that bad. Not everyone's got what it takes to be an overlord."

Lance looks at Chris, head tilted back on the couch. He hasn't shaved today. Probably not yesterday or the day before, either. Lance wonders if that means Chris has given up, that he's accepted his failure. Lance doesn't think so, probably just a vacation thing. Lance shaved as soon as he got up, in the shower.

He has plans. He says, "I have a, a concert. Hosting this thing, in Tampa. You wanna come?"

Chris shakes his head. "Atlanta, I'm going to Atlanta this weekend to see J."

"It's not this weekend."

Chris shrugs. "Well, then, come to Atlanta, too. Concert, Atlanta, it'll be fun. Basketball. Man, All-Star weekend."

Lance says, "Nah. I'll stay home."

Chris laughs. "Right, right, I forgot. You're allergic to Justin these days."

Lance sits back down on the couch and runs his hands through his hair. "What, fuck you. I'm not avoiding him."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Chris bends to fix his shoelace, he's still laughing a little.

Lance stares at the curve of Chris's back. "That Teen People thing." Lance licks his lips.

"You said like, one thing to him. On camera." Chris stands up and looks down at Lance. He's frowning now.

"You weren't even there." Lance thinks he sounds whiny. It doesn't matter if Chris wasn't there, he's still right. Justin probably told him. Lance kicks his foot out, sends the game system across the carpet a bit. "I'm not avoiding him. He was busy, he's got press and shit."

Chris shakes his head. "Right, 'cause that matters. Whatever, Lance. Come to Atlanta, avoid everyone and mope. I'm sure it's all the same wherever you are."

Chris is gone before Lance can stand up, not that he moves that quickly. He sighs and goes to his office, clicks on the laptop.

Lance had sex with Chris -- once in Jamaica and once in Thailand. It should count for something. It should make Chris nicer to him. It should make him want to have sex with Lance again, a lot more than twice. Lance closes his laptop and goes to the gym instead. Work off his aggression, pound out his self-pity. That's what his mother calls it, and she's right.

Lance liked Jamaica. He brought Carrah, called her up in Mississippi and she was bored, so he figured bring her along, maybe they'd hook up, maybe not. Either way, she was always fun. Carrah stayed one room over from him and two down from Chris. It was fun, and he joked around and felt pretty buff even next to football players. He and Joey Harrington have the same heart problem, except Lance had had his fixed. They were talking, standing around the tent with the blips and pings of the video game sounding all around them and Lance glanced around, saw Carrah laughing up at someone, not a player, maybe someone's agent. She looked happy and he waved when she looked back at him. A few minutes later the two of them left the party and Lance chuckled, said goodbye to Joey Harrington and found Chris at one of the consoles. Lance was drunk and he beat Chris, "kicked your ass, man, the spirit of Eminem inside of me," and they went back to Lance's room and stayed there.

Thailand was sun and elephants and the sure conviction that however much of a B-list celebrity he was, everyone else but Chris was at least a C. And the morning after in Jamaica had been a little awkward staring and quick covering, so in Thailand they'd found a routine doing the same thing again. Maybe.

It's probably strange to suddenly start sleeping with a friend you've known for so long, but Lance thinks maybe it was a natural progression. It wasn't like with JC, years ago, all messy and never as easy as it should have been. Chris isn't Lance's best friend, but they've always been close. So when Chris pushed him against the door in Jamaica, Lance couldn't quite feel the ground under his feet and it felt like something starting.

He figured it would go somewhere, somewhere good. They've been back home awhile now, though and it hasn't gone any further than beer, video games and not-quite arguments. Maybe it needs more work.

Lance feels a twinge in his arm and stops pushing. It's been two hours. He sings in the shower, classic Garth Brooks, "Standing Outside the Fire". He loves that song.

Lance decides to go to Atlanta and when he gets off the plane it feels like a victory. He wants to mark it down on a calendar, in red ink. But, Lance only has a Palm, so instead he shakes his hips a little and throws up the devil horns when he sees Chris waiting, leaning against the car and talking to Dre.

Chris rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "You came." He keeps smiling and glancing over at Lance.

Lance nods and tosses his bag in the back of the SUV. "I did."

Lance leans back and closes his eyes, feels the car jerk to a start underneath him. The slight drop in the pit of his stomach when the car starts or the plane takes off or the music comes up just before a show; it's one of Lance's favorite feelings. The beginning of something, the newness and all the potential that lies ahead. Then the car's moving smoothly down the road and Lance opens his eyes again.

"Sorry about the other day. I was in a mood."

Chris snorts. "Really? Lance, you've been in and out of that mood for the last year. It's fine, or-- It's you, and I still like you, so it's fine." Chris plays with the strap of his seat belt, pulling it looser and then letting it snap back.

Lance swallows air and coughs. "Yeah, okay." There's a bump and Chris bounces, leaning towards Lance a little. He doesn't right himself and their shoulders are pressed together. Lance smiles. He really does want to have sex with Chris again. "I couldn't get tickets to the game, man, so what's the story on the after parties?"

Chris definitely knows the after parties. There're good drinks and half the people tower over Lance and the other half just come up to his thigh. Or maybe that's just his perspective. Flashing lights and smoke in the air, people pressing up to him and moving away, it's a carnival ride, like all the best parties. No one takes his picture and it's almost like he isn't there. But he's not going to feel bad about not measuring up to Michael Jordan. He thinks he'll leave that to Justin, and grins.

He talks about country music with the earnest and very short wife of someone's agent. The wife has a tight shirt on and she shouldn't, but she stands up straight and looks good anyway. She likes Patsy Cline, Hank Williams and hates country-pop. She calls Garth Brooks pure evil and considers Shania Twain a sister of Satan. But she's funny in her passion. Lance laughs with her and they have a conversation like jabbing and parrying but it's really fun.

Then Tara almost falls on him and says, "Lance! You're here!" She smiles wide. There's a small lipstick stain on her cup and her front tooth. He points out both. She puts the glass on a table and rubs her teeth until it's gone.

"Are you here with someone?" She looks around.

Lance says, "Nope. Just hangin', you know, all the fun of being a celebrity but no work at all. And you?" He wonders if she has anything to promote.

Tara giggles and adjusts her t-shirt. "Trace and Justin. They're over there." She's not pointing anywhere in particular, so Lance doesn't look. She turns and walks away and Lance figures he should follow, he sort of promised himself he'd talk to Justin. He waves goodbye to his new friend and she smiles.

Lance thought Tara was dating JC-- Lance hadn't asked, but all the tabloids said-- so he doesn't get why she's with Justin. Lance wonders if it's tacky to ask. They push through the crowd to a table in the back and Lance sees Trace and Jenna and a few other dancers all slouching against the leather seat, Justin nowhere to be found. Tara collapses next to them and laughs again, sipping from her cup and checking it for lipstick.

"Hey there, babe." Trace wraps his arm around Tara and pulls her onto his lap. Oh, well, Lance thinks that makes sense, actually, from what he knows of Tara. "Where were you?"

"Look what I found." She points at Lance and smiles wide.

Lance nods. "Trace, man. Hey." Trace is Justin's best friend and Lance is used to him, but. Lance wrinkles his nose. Trace cuts his hair just like Justin and wears the same Pony swag and doesn't do anything but follow Justin around with a bedazzler or a camcorder or whatever gadget he's using now. He's a mini-Justin, but less charming. Still, Lance should say hi, at least.

Trace stands up a little before he remembers Tara on his lap and sits down again. Lance takes a sip of his drink and tries not to roll his eyes. "Lance, hi. What's going on? I haven't seen you since, like, what? London? Sit." Trace scoots over, holding Tara tight, and makes room for Lance.

When Lance slips into the booth, he sinks into the leather and he can smell the beer on Trace's breath. "Where's J?"

"He went off with Beyonce somewhere. I think. Or maybe it was just someone who looks like Beyonce. Whatever, man, she was hot, but she didn't talk to me."

Lance chuckles to himself, at least there's no reason to be jealous of Trace. Trace talks about the game, but Lance didn't see it, so he doesn't have much to contribute and the conversation sputters to a halt.

Tara is cooing at Trace and Jenna is staring intently at some basketball player's ass so Lance stands up again. He moves through the party, a sticky hazy plush rubbery obstacle course and finds Chris in the back. Chris is talking to a waiter and smoking a cigar. The waiter looks worried for a minute and says, "I have to go."

Chris says, "Man, it's fine," but the waiter leaves anyway.

"What, isn't that a poem, talk with kings and walk with something or another? I think I saw it in a movie."

"Rudyard Kipling. But I don't remember the exact line, either." Chris grins. "Mostly, I was talking about parking spaces with him."

"Parking spaces?" Lance licks his lips and wishes for another drink.

"Parking, man, it's, like. Okay, I used to live in this crappy apartment complex and we only had one parking space per apartment, but everyone was living three, four people to an apartment. So there was never parking. I'd get home late and drive all around and around looking for a place, and it fucking sucked. Like, I paid rent and I didn't have a place. Didn't have one at work, either. I would have killed for one. You know, like something." Chris starts laughing and takes a long drag on his cigar. The smoke stinks, foul and acrid. He's looking at Lance, though, and that makes Lance smile through the smoke.

"I bet the waiter thought that was fascinating." Lance steps closer, he really does want sex tonight, after this.

"Well, we were just talking. Hey, I saw J, did you?"

Lance shakes his head, but Chris doesn't notice, he's standing up, he's going to talk to some ball player he knows from the celebrity golf circuit. Lance stands too.

"Another party after this, or?" Lance runs his hand through his hair.

"Depends on a few things." Chris leers a little and Lance steps back.

"Okay, well." Lance looks around. "I'm gonna see if I can find Justin. Get me before you leave?" Lance licks his lips and watches Chris walk towards the bar. Lance smiles and heads back to Justin's friends. He's still not there, but Trace and Tara are sprawled out on the empty section of the booth, their tongues down each other's throats. It's charming, really.

"Guys, you could leave anytime." Lance sips at his drink and chuckles.

"What?" Trace sits up and Tara lets her head fall back onto the leather. She giggles. "We're fine."

"You're kinda in public." Lance looks around and then back at Trace. "Lots of people."

Trace reaches for his beer and looks around as he sips. He looks back at Lance. "It's fine. I'm not famous. She's a girl. I'm not you or J, man. Back off."

Lance raises his eyebrows. "I'm just saying, it's a little tacky. All these people, pretty nice party. I'm sure Justin bought you a room you could make out in."

"Actually, I'm staying with Tara," Trace says, slurring a little. Lance doesn't see how that's much better, but he doesn't want to argue. "Why does it matter to you anyway, Lance?"

Lance shrugs. "Whatever, Trace." Lance starts to turn away, wonders if there's anyone else he knows here. He scans the room, thinks he sees Ashton Kutcher, wonders if he's looking for a new project.

"You know, your problem, Lance, isn't that you're stupid. It's that, like--" Lance turns and glares at Trace. What the hell? "Right, you all think I'm stupid. But I'm not, I just don't try to be anything more than I am. You, you come up with all these impossible ideas and," Trace slams his bottle down and looks at it, as if he's surprised it made that much noise.

"Trace, what the--"

"No, right, so you've got the ideas." Trace drags out the last syllable. "And they might be good, if you ever thought beyond the first step, right? Like, if you asked someone who actually had a clue, instead of assuming that it'll all just work out fine bec--"

"Trace, honey." Tara is struggling to sit up and pulling at Trace's t-shirt. "You're drunk. Why don't we go--"

"Nah, Tara, it's fine. If that's what Trace has heard." Lance knows this isn't coming from Trace. And Trace sure as shit didn't get it from Tara. "Whatever."

Trace blinks. "It's what I think. You go off all naïve and idealistic. It's almost cool how you manage to stay that way after everything. But, you know, it means you don't prepare for the things that go wrong."

The worst part is that Lance knows that Trace hasn't had an original thought since birth. He doesn't say anything as Tara drags Trace away. He's still standing there, sipping his drink, thinking, when Justin walks up. He's wearing Nikes just like the ones Trace was wearing and a blue version of the same baseball cap. Lance stares at the letters on the front, chews his lip. Justin grins and says, "Yo, Lance! Long time, no see."

Lance tries to smile, thinks it comes out a grimace. He says, "Yeah."

Justin blinks and doesn't step closer. "You not having fun?"

Chris comes up behind Justin and smiles at both of them. "Are we having fun yet?"

Lance nods. Justin looks so fucking happy. Chris says, "Lance? Earth to Lance?"

Which is meant to be funny. Ha ha ha. Lance says, "I'm right here. I'm just. I need to go to the bathroom." He puts down his drink and walks away. Sex isn't worth being nice to Justin right now.

Lance wakes up in his hotel alone. He rubs his eyes. The clock says seven a.m. He rubs his eyes again and closes them. Apparently, Justin thinks Lance is an idiot. Because Lance knows that Trace doesn't have his own opinions. He just doesn't, even before Justin was famous and Trace visited in Orlando, he aped Justin in everything. It might have been cute if it weren't so annoying. Lance opens his eyes again and the trip to Atlanta, the trip to see Chris, is now just one more thing Lance messed up. It's probably not going to be a good day.

Lance books the next flight home, showers but doesn't shave and heads to the airport. There are two messages on his cell phone. Both are from Chris and Lance can hear Justin in the background. Lance doesn't call them back.

For the next two days Lance divides his time between working out, pouring over his tax forms and not checking his messages. When the doorbell rings, he thinks about not answering, but the ring is followed by four more short rings, then a long one and a steady stream of pounding.

"Don't you have keys?" Lance glares at Chris.

Chris just stands in the doorway. "Invite me in."

"You're a vampire now? Come the fuck in." Chris is clenching and unclenching his fists so Lance doesn't say anything more, just watches Chris walk in and shut the door.

"Why'd you just disappear in Atlanta, Lance? Why were you an ass to Justin?"

Lance sighs and walks back to the living room. "I wasn't an ass to him."

"Yes, you were." Chris walks ahead of Lance and sits on the couch. "You very much were. Which, you know, you should apologize."

"I don't have anything to apologize for. I left a party early. It's not a crime." Lance leans against an armchair.

Chris plays with the fringe on a red throw pillow, twisting the strands between two fingers. He looks up at Lance, cocks his head. "Why'd you leave, anyway? I thought we were gonna," Lance thinks there's a pause but maybe he's imagining it, "hang?"

Lance stares at the red lines cutting Chris's fingers into pieces. "Are you hungry? I need to eat dinner, you wanna go to that Mexican place?"

Chris shakes his hand loose and stands up. "Yeah. But I also want an answer."

Lance doesn't reply, busies himself putting on his shoes and running his fingers through his hair. He can feel Chris watching him. "Ready?" He grabs his keys and heads to the car, Chris's sneakers slapping on the brick behind him. The restaurant is almost empty so Lance finds a table near the back and waits while Chris gets the food.

Chris twists his hips smoothly to get between the scattered chairs and Lance feels dizzy.

"Okay, so tell me why you left early and you can have your food." Chris is staring down at Lance, smiling. But, he has that look in his eyes, the one he uses when it's time for Justin to stop whining or for Joey to leave the club, for real this time, and no he can't bring the blonde with him. Chris isn't kidding.

Lance sighs, breathes in grease and the heavy spice of the tacos. "Look, Trace was mouthing off and it pissed me off and Justin--" Lance pauses, considers. Lance thinks Chris is too protective of Justin anyway. "Justin is a brat who thinks I'm stupid. So I left, 'cause it was sorta his party. Sorry."

Chris blinks and sets the basket of tacos in front of Lance. He sits in the empty seat and sips his Coke. "Justin called you stupid?"

Lance bites into his taco, the crunch loud in his ears and the tortilla pieces stabbing into his gums.

Chris says, "He didn't call you stupid."

"Well, yes, he did." Lance wipes his mouth, salsa on his fingers and he licks that off.

"To your face?"

Lance frowns. "Do you want the play by play? Trace said, Justin said, etc."

Chris leans in. "Justin said that to your face? Justin actually said that? Because, sorry, man, that doesn't sound like anything Justin would say. Has said, period. Like, ever. He talks good about you."

"He talks well of me." Lance smirks. "To you." Lance takes another bite of his taco. "Whatever, let's talk about the good food. Parties in New York coming up."

Chris leans back and stares. It's a few beats and Lance holds his breath but then Chris leans in and starts eating.

Lance finishes one taco and starts in on the second. He listens to Chris chew and swallow, listens to the Latin pop coming from the tinny speakers. He nods his head along, sips his Sprite and then sings a line he recognizes, smoothly rolling his 'r's.

Chris coughs and curls his napkin into a ball, tosses it on the table. "So, the Grammy thing? That's confirmed for sure?"

Lance runs his tongue over his teeth, making sure there's nothing caught there. He smiles at Chris. "Yeah, man. BeeGees. It'll be cool."

Chris grins. "We'll get solos. Fuck the pretty boys and their smooth mid-range voices. True pop-- it's all about the extremes."

Chris's head is tilted a little and he's staring at Lance. Lance can't tell what Chris is thinking, but he's seen that look before.

"Yeah." Lance swallows, the soda sweet and light in his throat. "Look, man. I'm sorry I ditched you. I went there to see you, you know, but." Lance shrugs, hopes that's enough of an apology for Chris to be okay with things, but not so much that he wants to talk about Justin again.

Chris pulls at his goatee. Then he nods. "Okay. That's fine." Lance doesn't think that's exactly what Chris means, but Chris stands up and raises one eyebrow. "So, you wanna make up for it? For ditching me?" Chris laughs, high and soft.

Lance stands too, probably smiling too big for his face. Chris takes the trash away, Lance watches his hips again and doesn't think about anything except getting out to the car as fast as possible.

They go to Lance's house. Lance thinks it might be a bad idea to ask for sure, but he's stupid, not an asshole. So he says, "Do you wanna come in?"

Chris says, "Duh."

So Lance just walks straight up to the bedroom. This time, maybe they'll even talk after. They don't talk before. Chris comes in the door and takes off his shirt, toes off his shoes and socks and then spreads his arms. He raises his eyebrow like an invitation.

Lance walks over and kisses Chris, wet and sloppy. He dips his hands into Chris's jeans and undoes the top button. Chris licks Lance's jaw and starts taking off Lance's shirt. This is turning out just like Lance wanted.

It's even better, since Chris isn't wearing underwear. Lance thinks maybe Chris had plans, too. Lance pushes his jeans off, scraping the skin with his nail in the process. Chris hisses and Lance glances up in apology, but Chris just rolls his eyes and steps away, kicking off his pants. They land a few feet away, half on a chair. Lance laughs and pulls Chris close again. Chris is naked now and Lance remembers this.

They kiss some more, standing in the middle of the room and Lance starts to walk Chris back to the bed, but Chris resists, pushing on Lance's chest. Lance frowns and stops.

"What?" His voice almost breaks.

Chris grins at Lance, "Stuff? You got any?"

Oh, right. Lance nods, goes into the bathroom and hears Chris laughing behind him.

When he comes out, Chris is sprawled on the bed, legs wide, touching himself. Lance licks his lips and walks closer. Chris holds up his hand to say stop and Lance does. He pouts. Chris raises an eyebrow and gestures at Lance's pants, shoes. Lance grins. He strips slowly, bends over and looks over his shoulder, grinning. Chris laughs, but his hand moves faster on his dick.

Lance crawls up to Chris, laughing and more turned on than he has been in maybe years. Maybe. He kisses Chris again as he lowers himself, pushes Chris down, grinds against him. This is the good stuff.

Then there's the better stuff. Chris's hand, wet and slick, quick and sure. The neat little maneuver Chris makes to flip them around, Lance on his stomach, smelling sweat and Chris and fabric softener from his blanket. The feel of Chris's soft hands holding fast to Lance's hips as he first pushes in. And the rest, the hot, loud, quick quick hard nasty perfect fucking. Lance loves this stuff.

When it's over, Chris kisses Lance's shoulder and rolls away. Lance follows, panting a little, flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. There are streaks, visible mistakes and Lance thinks he should maybe get it repainted. Chris settles down again and their shoulders are pressed together, their hips and thighs and knees, too. Chris laughs a little, low in his throat and Lance rests his hand half on his own thigh, half on Chris's. Their skin is warm and Lance smiles.

No one says anything. Lance has things in his head, about the Grammys and sex and a sports show he watched on TV last night. But he thinks that if he speaks first then it'll mean something he doesn't want to say, so he just spreads his fingers, taps his pinky against Chris's leg and keeps smiling. It's kind of nice, the quiet.

Lance wonders what happens now, if no one talks. He's pretty sure no one's going to talk. Chris is heavy, steady breath next to him and Lance tastes salsa at the back of his throat. He's not tired and he hasn't finished checking his taxes, so after a few minutes more he stretches and sits up.

"Going somewhere?" Chris's eyes are closed.

Lance nods. "Shower and then I have some taxes to finish." He figures Chris is staying here and that they'll have sex again tonight. Lance thinks that'll be nice.

Chris tips his head away from Lance. "Never a dull moment."

Lance laughs and stands, grabs a towel and walks around the bed. "Not when I'm around." Chris's eyes are open now and he blinks when Lance stands over him.

"Lance, what are you doing?" Lance holds up the towel and starts to answer, but Chris shakes his head. "No, I mean, what's this," Chris waves a hand in the air between them, "about?"

Lance laughs again. "We disagreed about some stuff, we made up, we had sex. It was nice, right? I feel better."

"Do you?" Chris isn't looking at Lance, he's got his palm in front of his face and he's studying it intently. Lance wonders if he can read his future, but he doesn't ask. He just stares at Chris until Chris drops his palm and smiles a little. "Never mind. It's fine. Go get clean."

"So you ca--"

"I've gotta get back to the house. The dog and stuff."

Lance nods. "Right, yeah." He turns around and heads for the shower, clenching soft cotton in his fist. "Call me tomorrow?" If Chris answers, Lance doesn't hear him over the running water.

New York is parties and girls outside the hotel. Lance really likes that. He's staying one door down from Chris and he likes that, too. They've slept together three times since Atlanta. Lance got his ceiling repainted but Chris didn't notice. They even talked a little after each time, mostly about what was on TV, the BeeGees arrangement, Chris's pets. Chris even stayed over the last time, and Lance woke up warm with Chris's hand on his stomach. He liked that.

Lance comes out of his hotel room and he's tackled from behind, the ground is gone and there again under his chest. "Laaaaaaaaaaaance!" Justin says, loud and in his ear. He sounds happy. Lance tenses.

Lance rolls out from under Justin and brushes at his jeans. "You coulda hurt me."

Justin frowns. "I was sayin' hi."

"Hello." Lance stands up and looks at the bottom of his shirt. No dirt. "Rehearsal at three?"

Justin nods, tilts his head and bites his lip. Lance turns, takes three quick steps. He knows that look and he doesn't want to discuss anything. He's almost escaped, just one step more and he can pretend he's got somewhere to go.

"Yo, what's the problem?"

Fuck. Lance pauses, stares at the hotel wall. "With rehearsal? Nothing. I mean, it would have been nice to have more maybe, but you had the England thing."

"The England thing? Are you pissed about that?"

Lance sighs, turns back. Justin's standing again. "No. You had it planned before we knew about this. I understand how scheduling works. I understand the business, Justin." He puts his hand in his pocket, pulls it out again and twists his fingers together. He watches Justin watch him and keeps his face carefully blank. It's a look Lance has perfected over the years. "Look, I've got a thing."

Justin frowns. "You don't, man."

"How do you know?" Lance takes another step back.

"I do, God, I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid, Lance, you're pissed at me."

"Oh, yeah. You're not stupid at all." Lance glares and stands his ground.

Justin makes a face like he's smelled something bad. "Yes, I'm not. Why are you pissed off at me? What did I do?"

"You make fun of me behind my back and call me names and how's that for something to be pissed off about?"

Justin says, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't say shit about you."

"Oh. I'm not naive and clueless and can't plan things successfully? Because you said that." Lance hears a door behind him, footsteps, but this wing is all theirs so it's no one who can't hear this.

"I never ever said that. Did you hear me say that?" Justin crosses his arms. "Are you trusting, what, Page Six? What the fuck, Lance?"

"Trace said it, you fuck. When's the last time Trace had an original thought, when's the last time Trace didn't just repeat everything you said?" Justin just stares at Lance. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares. Lance shifts his weight and stares back. "So yeah, I'm pissed."

Justin stares and Lance is about to turn around again, walk away, when Justin finally opens his mouth. "Okay, what the fuck are you talking about? When did you even see Trace?"

Lance bites his lip. "Atlanta. He shared all your opinions on my intelligence. It was very enlightening." Justin scowls. Lance stands his ground, resists the urge to fidget.

"Lance, I never said that shit. You don't like him, whatever, but Trace does have his own opinions. I'm sorry if he insulted you, but he wasn't repeating anything I said." Justin looks really sincere, wide eyes and he's licking his lips a lot. Lance thinks he's probably telling the truth, which just makes Lance feel stupid. Of course. "I don't know what your problem is, Lance, but it has nothing to do with me. Really."

Lance doesn't know what to say, so he just stands there. Justin stares at him for a second, searching his face and then looks over Lance's shoulder. Justin's eyebrows go up and then down and he frowns. Lance turns and Chris is there, his face frozen, unreadable.

Lance looks at Chris, looks at Justin and when he turns back to Chris he's gone. He turns back and Justin is just staring at him. Lance says, "Okay. So I guess you're mad at me?"

"Um." Justin rubs the back of his neck. He's two feet away from Lance and it feels like more. Justin says, "Not mad. Not, like, happy and I'm kinda pissed on behalf of Trace, but also, I'm kinda pissed at Trace. So, mixed bag."

Lance nods. "Okay then. So I'll see you at rehearsals."

Justin shrugs. "Okay then." Justin looks at him a second longer and goes towards the elevators.

Lance turns around and walks back to Chris's room. He knocks on the door but there's no answer. He knocks again, waits and holds his hand up to knock one more time. He hesitates, hand in the air and takes a step back. He feels really stupid when the door swings open.

"Hey." Lance lets his arm fall against his side.

"What?" Chris blinks and takes a breath. "I-- Did you want something?"

"Are you busy? 'Cause I don't have anything 'til rehearsal and I thought we could hang out."

"Because you just fought with Justin and you're what? Having a low self-esteem moment?" Chris steps back into the room, but not enough that Lance thinks it's okay to follow.

Lance shakes his head, confused. "No. We're okay, though. I was wrong, he didn't say that stuff." Chris rolls his eyes, but doesn't say 'I told you so'. Lance thinks that's nice of him. "I just thought, you know, you're not busy and we've been hanging out. It's been fun, so."

Chris nods, frowns and Lance can't place the look in Chris's eyes. "Yeah, I don't think it has. Or, it's been fine, but I think we should stop." Lance narrows his eyes, coughs a little. He really isn't sure what just happened. "Okay?"

"Is it-- Because I fought with Justin? Look, you were right, I'm sorry, I jus--"

"It isn't about you and Justin. Whatever, you can fight all you want. This just isn't a good idea and it probably never was. So." Chris looks down at his shoes and Lance can hear him breathing. Three careful breaths, slow. "I'll see you at rehearsal."

And Lance can't hear anything through the closed door.

Lance sulks in his room until he has to leave for rehearsals. He's already called Carrah to come with him tomorrow, he doesn't need a PR person to tell him it's been a while since he's been seen with a girl. Carrah's great; happy, sweet, fun, no pressure. He took her to Jamaica six weeks ago, bring her tomorrow and he's set for a little while.

Rehearsals go okay. Justin smiles at him, once, while they're singing, typical Justin. All forgiven, no problem, now you smile, too. As they're standing around, just talking, Justin comes over and pats Lance's shoulder. "Dude, we're okay? Yeah?"

Lance nods. "Yeah, I just feel stupid. I'm still pissed at Trace, man."

Justin shrugs. "Trace is Trace. Look, I don't agree with him all the time, but you know. You know."

"Yeah." Lance doesn't really get it, but Trace is Justin's best friend and lapdog.

"So, we're fine, you're just pissed at Trace who you only tolerate anyway-- why do you still look like someone beat up your mom?" Justin tilts his head, concerned and Lance smiles a little.

"I'm tired. Lingering issues from the whole everyone thinking I'm stupid or naive or whatever, maybe?" Justin deserves something honest and that's as close to the truth as Lance is willing to get. "It's not--"

"Lance, you're not stupid. Or even naïve, not that they're the same thing. It's-- Look, okay, I love Trace as much as any one of you, but." Justin looks at the floor and then back, sighs and grins. "He's kinda dumb, okay?"

Lance laughs, actually laughs and it feels nice. He nods and Justin reaches out and pushes Lance's shoulder. "Okay."

Justin pushes again. "Okay." Lance raises an eyebrow. "I missed this, huh?" Justin shoves Lance one more time, but Lance knows Justin doesn't mean he misses pushing Lance. "And now we sing."

"And now we sing." Lance steps back, dodges Justin's hand. He trips a little, slips back and when he turns to catch his balance Chris is staring at him from the other side of the room. He looks away when Lance tries to meet his eyes, shouts something at JC. Lance sighs and rubs his temple.

Clive's party is fun. Definitely completely fun. He has fun standing with Joey and the guys. He doesn't think about how far away Chris stands in every picture. He just doesn't.

He sits down after Justin's performance, sits next to Joey and kicks him under the table. "Yo, man."

"Yo. Hey, was that guy your date?"

"What?" Lance blinks. "My date? I don't have a date tonight. And tomorrow I'm bringing Carrah and I --what guy?"

"Oh, sorry. I figured not, but Chris figured maybe, that guy on the carpet."

"He was just some guy, a new client. The guy I was standing next to? You were, uh, Chris figured maybe?" Joey sucks in his cheeks and gets very interested in his empty white plate. Lance repeats, "Chris figured maybe?"

"Chris thought maybe he was someone you had plans to meet. To be specific. He didn't think you had made a date or something, but that's what he thought."

Lance sips from Joey's drink, it's sweet and Lance wrinkles his nose. He didn't have plans with anyone, not to meet anyone, because he thought he'd be going back to the hotel with Chris. "He asked you if that guy was my date?"

Joey shrugs, looks around the party and waves at someone Lance doesn't know. "He did." Joey thinks for a second and then looks back at Lance. "What's up with you guys anyway? I mean, if you're not telling me, that's okay, but."

Lance shakes his head, finishes the drink. "There's nothing to tell. Really. I mean, I thought there was, but I was wrong. Of course."

Joey looks over his shoulder and then smiles a little. Lance looks. JC and Chris are talking to Kelly Rowland. Lance smiles, too. JC's trying to flirt and Kelly looks confused. Lance watches Chris, he's only making it worse, making JC laugh and pull at his hair. Lance bites his lip and when he looks back, Joey's watching him.

"Maybe you weren't." Lance looks back at Joey blankly. "Wrong. I mean, he did ask."

Which is what Lance clings to as he scoots in next to Chris in the limo as they leave. Joey's already gone, Justin won't leave for hours and Lance begged JC to wait for another car.

He thinks, Chris asked. So he doesn't hate Lance. Lance says, "Did you have fun?"

Chris shrugs. He tugs off the headband and his forehead is red underneath, a perfect band. Chris looks at the headband and says, "Did you ever hear -- when I was a kid people told me Eric Clapton put cocaine in his headband so as he sweated, he absorbed the coke. Did you ever hear that?"

Lance shakes his head. "We didn't talk about Eric Clapton much on the playground."

Chris looks back out the window and twists the headband over and over.

"So, um. You think JC's bringing someone back?" Lance winces as he says it. Chris probably knows exactly why JC isn't in the car and now Lance looks as pathetic as he feels.

Chris doesn't look at Lance, just huffs a breath against the window. Lance can see the glass fog up.

"Yeah, okay, I asked him to wait for the other car." Lance looks at his fingernails and when he looks up again, Chris is drawing in the condensation on the window. "That guy, on the carpet? He's just some actor. He needs a manager, I'm a manager. That's all."

Chris coughs. "Yeah, Joey figured something like that."

"You thought he was like a date? That we were sleeping together?" Lance stares at Chris's neck, sees the faint outline of a fading bruise peeking out of his collar. Chris nods, just barely. "Why?"

"I don't know, you knew him, he knew you, you're both kinda gay. Whatever." Chris rubs at the window, obliterating his design. "Trust me, there's no secret message or whatever you think you're missing here."

Lance says, "What is the message? I don't get why we're not, not, you know."

"Fucking? Because that was pretty much it."

"Was it?" Lance rubs his hands together. He thinks he was hoping it was more than that.

"Yeah. That's all it was. Because you know what? I don't know what exactly you want in more than fucking, but I'm not it. I'm not your fucking consolation prize for failing, I'm not your reward for working really hard and still not getting it and all that."

Lance opens his mouth, closes it, feels stupid. It's about the measure of his life lately. "I don't think you are."

"Yes, yes, you do. You think I'm all here to make you better. I'm not. I saw you fucking arguing with Justin."

Chris is still staring out the window and Lance's chest hurts. "Fuck, will you just. Fucking look at me, okay?" Chris does and his face is tight, his eyes just slits. "I thought this wasn't about Justin. Look, I apologized, I was stupid, so--"

"For fucking-- Lance. It isn't about Justin. I heard you arguing. I've heard you talking all month, all year." The headband is a tiny ball of fabric in Chris's hands. Lance looks at it like it might help him figure out what Chris means. "You think you're stupid or something. And whatever Trace said about being naive and not thinking about negative consequences, maybe that's true. But who cares?"

Lance slumps back against the seat, he blinks and looks out the window, watches a car pass. "I care."

Chris sighs and his voice is quieter now, the words slower. "Why? Why does it matter so much?"

"Why does it matter that everyone thinks I'm stupid and every two-bit TV comedian has been using my name as a punch line for months now? That I thought everything was going great, even while it was actually all going to hell?" Lance sits up again, turns to Chris and waves his hands in the air. "I can't believe you don't get this."

"You don't get it. So your movie flopped and you didn't get to go to space. That sucks and I'm sorry. But, you're rich and famous and have a fucking great career and who the hell expects to go to space anyway?" Chris shakes his head.

Lance thinks about interrupting, licks his lips and opens his mouth. "I wan--" But he stops, swallows the words and Chris only waits a second before continuing.

"You want me to tell you you're not stupid and sympathize because my company flopped and whatever else you think I've failed at. But that's not what I'm here for. I don't want to be one more thing in your life that isn't exactly perfect. So, I'm not mad at you or anything, but we're not fucking anymore. Okay?"

The car jolts to a stop and Lance doesn't move, but Chris pushes at the door handle.

Lance doesn't sleep well. He closes his eyes and he sees Chris wringing his stupid headband, Trace drooling on Tara, Chris walking to his room and not looking back at Lance once. So Lance doesn't sleep well.

He's running on autopilot. He takes a t-shirt the stylist hands him for the performance, for the Grammys. It's one more time to lose, since they got nominated again. He smiles at Carrah as they take their seats and talks to her about the people around them. Chris says very little to Bev and Bev only looks at Lance once. She pats his knee and looks sad before she turns back to Chris.

Carrah can tell Lance is distracted. She leans against him and laughs at anything resembling a joke. Lance sighs.

After the performance, Lance dashes to the bathroom. This is the part where he'd run into someone hot, like Usher or something, if he were lucky. Instead he's not so lucky. He gets someone hot, but it's just JC. "Oh, I didn't see you come in here, too."

JC shrugs. "I was right behind you."

JC goes into a stall. He always goes into the stalls; Lance doesn't even think it's strange anymore. Lance listens to JC hum to himself, John Mayer and it sounds nice bouncing off all the tile. Lance is washing his hands and JC comes out, goes to the sink next to Lance and smiles at him in the mirror.

"The performance?" Lance scrubs his hands, the water's getting cold.

JC's smile doesn't falter. "It coulda been better, but man, the Gibbs seemed really into it. I'm happy. You?"

Lance nods. JC turns off the water and Lance does the same. He takes the paper towel JC hands him and frowns. "JC? How's the solo album coming?"

JC cocks his head, looks unsure, but he grins. "It's good, I don't know, I've got a lot of songs though, too many. It'll be hard to pick. Dallas and I did a lot of stuff and there're some things from sessions with BT, plus a bunch of stuff I laid down myself. And Jive's come around, so I do think it's a go. Not sure when, though."

Lance leans against the counter and listens. Not exactly to the words, but to the sounds, the way JC's voice is musical and light. He looks happy, he's smiling and glowing a little and it's nice. Lance doesn't feel jealous or whatever he thought he might. He nods. "That's awesome, man."

JC says, "In the end, it's always eighty percent inspiration and twenty percent revenge."

Lance hasn't been paying attention. "What?"

"I heard someone say that. And I thought, exactly. Like, you know, NSA? I was inspired, but also I was thinking, fuck Lou. Fuck all the fucks who think we can't do this. You know?"

Lance nods. He missed how this ties into JC's solo album. He says, "Who are you getting revenge on this time?"

JC laughs. "The world. I dunno, man, I'm not mad at anybody." JC checks his teeth and nudges Lance's elbow. He starts walking out and Lance follows. JC says, "You know what? You look really good."

Lance thinks about what JC said, about inspiration and revenge. He thinks it makes sense, that it might even apply to him. He thinks about it while he's talking to Justin at the party. They make fun of Creed and Lance teaches Justin how to say "your breasts are very large" in Russian. Of course, Justin thinks he's saying, "you're so beautiful" and when he heads over to talk to Kim Catrall, Lance hopes she doesn't speak Russian. Or maybe that she does. Nelly walks by, asks why Lance is laughing, so Lance tells him and Nelly laughs too, offers him some Cristal.

He thinks about it when he's dancing and watching JC hit on Nikki Hilton. She looks bored, or possibly high. Lance spots Chris across the room. He's watching JC, too and Lance catches his eye, nods at JC and rolls his eyes. He thinks Chris might be hiding a smile when he bites his lip and looks away. Lance smiles back, just in case. Lance thinks maybe he understands something now; maybe he can get what he wants. He has ideas.

Lance rolls his neck, breathes deep and heads to the bar for what must be his sixth Jack and Coke. He bumps into Joey and Lance laughs and slaps him on the back. "Joe, my man."

Joey raises his eyebrow, but he's smiling. "You look good."

Lance nods. He leans forward and orders his drink. "I'm inspired."

Joey opens his mouth, but then Lance's drink is ready and Carrah's pulling on his sleeve, so he just bumps Joey's hip and grins before walking away. Lance gives out his card to half the party. He finds Jimmy Fallon and talks up a script Wendy sent him; Tara said she might be interested. Jimmy says, "sure, send it my way." Lance smiles, a glare of white in the mirror behind Jimmy's head. Then he says his goodbyes and takes Carrah back to the hotel.

And Lance thinks that JC was right, or whoever JC heard it from was right. Lance has ideas, he has plans and he'll keep doing it, keep putting his stupid plans in motion just to get even with everyone who called him stupid. Whether they work or not. Lance is inspired and he tosses Carrah's dress across the room, watches it flutter to the floor. She giggles, tells him to be careful and kisses him, her lips ice cold and cherry Coke sweet. This, it's just fucking and there's nothing to look forward to and that's okay.

Carrah's great like that, sweet and funny. He holds her hips and she moves on top of him, biting her lip sometimes but smiling otherwise. As he kills the lights she says, "You seem up, completely up."

"Not completely, but good. You're a great date." He kisses her cheek.

The next morning Lance is heading home and Carrah is safely on her way. He calls Chris from the plane. "So, I was thinking, are you gonna be in LA soon?"

"I am. Um, definitely around the twentieth or something, I agreed to do a charity basketball game. Don Cheadle's gonna be there, no way I'm saying no."

"His NFL commercials rocked, didn't they?"

"Yeah. Are you--" Chris's voice fades and he shouts something to someone else. "Sorry, JC's trying to steal all the fucking coffee. Are you headed out there?"

"Uh-huh, soonish. I've got some Happy Place shit to take care of." Lance pauses, thinks and runs a hand through his hair. He didn't style it this morning. "Look, I get what you were saying. The other night."

Chris inhales. "And what was I saying?"

Lance grins. He never expects Chris to make things easy. "That it doesn't matter, the epic failure thing." Lance rolls his eyes at himself. "The stupidity, the not-looking-ahead, the whatever. I hate to say it and don't tell Justin, but Trace was right. I don't always look ahead. I don't know. I'm an optimist. I like to think things will work out right in the end. And I think that's good, man. It doesn't make me a failure. It's just me."

"Okay, right. So, good. I'm glad that you've worked out your identity crisis." Chris is drinking something, he slurps it. "Why are you telling me?"

"Because, you were right about that, but you were wrong about the rest." Chris snorts and Lance rushes to keep talking. "About us and about you. We weren't just fucking, at least I wasn't. And you, I don't want you because I'm settling or whatever. I want you because I think we'd be good, because I think we'll work out."

Chris doesn't say anything. Lance wonders if he fucked up again. Then, finally, Chris says, "That's good. Cause, I'm not. You know. Anyone's consolation prize. I'm not the home version of Jeopardy, you know?"

"You already said that. So. We should meet up. Have sex. And, um, keep doing that."

Chris laughs. "You know what? That works for me. Let's do that."

Lance laughs too. "Then it's a go."

They make plans for later and hang up. The plane jumps a little-- turbulence maybe-- and Lance's head jerks back, falls against the seat. Him and Chris. Lance thinks it's one of his better ideas, something worth all his optimism, something that'll work out just like he plans. He grins and closes his eyes.

THE END