On the Bus 9
by Synchronik

Oh god, oh god, oh god. There were no other words in his head, at all, not now, not pressed up against the kitchen counter in the narrow passageway of the bus, Joey looming over him, smiling. Joey was silent except for the harsh rasp of his breath, and Lance felt his own breath leaving his body with finality, as if it would never return.

Joey's hands slid around his waist, and settled in the small of his back. He knew what was coming. He had known it, in some small way, since that night last week in Pittsburgh, when he and Joey had climbed onto the same bed to watch movies, and had ended up curled around each other, one of Joey's hands lazily stroking his hair, until morning. They hadn't done it, then, hadn't done anything except get used to the feeling of each other, the silent press of heat and weight and breath and scent. In the morning, they had pulled apart reluctantly, and Lance had known it then, that this was coming.

It had been in Joey's glances, across the bus, across the stage, across the room. It had been in the way he sat, sprawled out so that he took the whole couch and dared Lance to come and sit by him. And it had been in his voice when he leaned over in the dressing room and said "hey, c'mere for a sec."

And Lance had gone, and now he was really gone, unable to do anything but slide his hands up Joey's arms and tip his head back, and close his eyes, and hope for the best.

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