By Trixie

Chris wakes up to an annoying rumble. When he ignores it, someone shakes his shoulder. He briefly considers homicide, because there was a lot of tequila last night and it's… he opens one eye and squints at the bedside table… six AM.

"Chris," the rumble says again, "come on, wake up."

He turns his head and sees a pair of black boots and faded jeans and oh yeah, his favorite pair of thighs, so he squints up into the too-bright morning light to find Lance standing next to the bed. And it's not that he's surprised to see Lance, because this is Lance's bedroom. But again, it's six in the fucking morning, and he thinks they went to bed about 2:30.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he manages to ask.

"I want you to take me out on the bike. Come on, get up."

And that's when Chris notices the helmet hanging from one of Lance's hands and the fact that his jeans are decidedly un-designer, and he's wearing one of Chris' old t-shirts. He looks serious and determined, and that's never a good sign.

"Lance, it's barely morning. Come back to bed, I'll take you later." He thinks maybe he sounds like he's whining, but at the moment he doesn't care.

"If we go early, we can avoid traffic. Come on," Lance says and sits down next to Chris. "I'll make you some coffee. You'll be fine once you're on the road. It'll be great." Only his "great" doesn't sound all that enthusiastic and suddenly Chris knows something is up. And what the hell, a day on his bike with Lance can't be a bad thing, only…

"I don't have my bike. It's in Miami, dude."

Lance stands up and pulls the covers off of Chris, clearly sensing victory. "That's okay. I've got Justin's 'Gone' bike." He waves in the general direction of his garage. "You can teach me how to drive the stupid thing."

And Chris grins because he'd assumed that Lance had found a way to get rid of the Harley that Justin had bought each of them when Gone hit the R&B charts. At the time, Lance had thanked him graciously and then wrinkled his nose up at the machine before asking someone to make sure it was moved to his garage. Lance really likes big, solid SUVs and has declared loudly on more than one occasion that he doesn't get "the whole wind in your hair and bugs in your teeth bullshit". He ignored them when Chris and Justin had both protested that there was no wind or bugs because they wore helmets.

So okay, Chris thinks, waking up early is definitely worth the chance to get Lance on a motorcycle. With a theatrical groan, he pulls himself out of bed and nearly loses his footing when Lance pulls him in quickly for a good-morning kiss, then pushes him toward the bathroom with a slap on the ass.

"Get dressed. I'll get the coffee," he says and strides out of the room.

Chris yells after him, "I better be getting more out of this than caffeine."

He pulls on some jeans and boots and steals a shirt from Lance's closet, because fair is fair. It isn't until he's brushing his teeth and he glances over at the clock that he realizes the date. It's October 28 and Lance was supposed to be somewhere else today. Somewhere that Chris doesn't like to think about too much. Which is probably why he conveniently forgot about it.

"Fuck. Shit," he says and spits toothpaste in the sink. "God dammit."

Ten days and he's already fucking this whole boyfriend thing up. Three days in Mississippi after his birthday and then they came back to Orlando and had basically done nothing but hang around Lance's house, eat, sleep and have sex. Chris has been so happy that he's just put the entire space thing out of his head. Last night he'd gone out because there was a birthday party at WEG and Chris thought the group should be represented. He understood when Lance didn't want to go, but he'd been a little pissy when he came home to find Freddy sitting at Lance's kitchen table drinking coffee, apparently having dropped by.

"You seriously suck," he tells his reflection in the mirror.

Lance is standing in front of the coffee maker watching the liquid dribble down into the pot. He doesn't even look up when Chris walks in, just continues to stare like coffee offers some kind of answer to the universe.

"Hey," Chris says, standing right behind Lance and hooking his chin over Lance's shoulder. One of the many things he loves about Lance is the fact that he's barely taller than Chris. He never makes Chris feel small.

"You want some breakfast?" Lance asks, grabbing a mug and pouring it full of coffee without dislodging Chris from his back.

He doesn't pour one for himself, which means he's probably already had a few cups. He thinks he remembers feeling Lance climb out of bed sometime around four. The idiot has probably been up since then. Chris kisses the side of his neck and takes the mug from him after he shovels several spoonfuls of sugar into it.

"Nope. We'll get food on the road somewhere." He sips at the coffee and heads for the garage. "Show me this bike."

The bike is in surprisingly good shape for something that's been sitting unused for almost a year. Lance probably has someone who takes care of it along with all the other things Lance has people for. They're on the road within thirty minutes and Chris points the bike south. With Lance's thighs warm against his and Lance's hands curled into his jacket, he starts to wake up enough to enjoy the morning.

The helmets have good microphones and Chris sings, talks occasionally, but Lance is quiet, his voice rumbling against Chris' back the few times he answers. Chris wants to make it better, but he doesn't have the first clue as to how to do that. He wants to say that he's sorry Lance didn't get to go, but he's not sure Lance would believe him. He wants to talk a lot and crack jokes and tease and distract Lance, but this is Lance, not Justin, and it will only make him quieter. Instead, he presses back against Lance and waits.

After two hours, Lance points out a little truckstop diner and Chris pulls over. He follows Lance inside and they order eggs and bacon and pancakes. While they wait for food, Lance stares out the window at the passing traffic and Chris can't stand it anymore.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out.

"What?" Lance turns and stares at him, his eyebrows pulling together.

"I'm sorry that you're here today, and not..." he waves his hand toward the sky outside.

"There wasn't a launch today. It's been delayed because of the accident."

Chris flinches because that rocket exploding is not a subject he can handle with any kind of calm. He takes a deep breath and wipes his sweaty hands against his jeans. "You know what I mean."

Lance shrugs and looks away again. "It's not a big deal."

And that pisses Chris off, because he knows exactly how much of a lie that is. "Bullshit. It's a huge fucking deal. They fucked you over, man. Why aren't you pissed off?" Because that's what Chris has been expecting since Lance came home. The Lance he's known for seven years gets mad, he gets even. He does not sit around and look like someone just killed his dog.

"There's not a lot I can do about it, Chris. And there's still a chance for April."

"Is there?" Chris asks, because Lance doesn't sound very sure of it.

"Yeah. So they tell me."

The food arrives before Chris can respond and he decides to let it drop for the time being. He eats his eggs and watches Lance spread butter over his pancakes, covering each pancake evenly and stacking them carefully, before pouring syrup over them. He eats them methodically and slowly, refusing to look up at Chris. When Chris is done with his own food, he reaches over and steals a piece of Lance's bacon, still waiting.

"The thing is," Lance finally says, "I fucked up."

"How?"

"I trusted him. I just handed everything over to Krieff. We learned that lesson once, Chris. I should have..."

"What?" Chris interrupts, because he knows this argument. He's been here before. "What should you have done? Squeezed in some international negotiating and sponsor whoring during breaks in your training? Fuck, Lance, a year ago you didn't even know this was something you might be able to do. You did everything you were supposed to, here."

"I know, but..."

"Lance, let me tell you from experience... someone hands you your biggest dream on a silver platter, it's pretty fucking easy to trust them."

Lance stares at him for a minute and then looks away. Chris knows that it's unfair using his trump card. He knows that none of the guys will ever say anything to imply that he fucked up or that Lou was his fault. There seems to be an unspoken agreement about that. He also knows that, if they ever did blame him for it, they don't now. Knowing that doesn't stop him from blaming himself. It also doesn't stop him from understanding a few hard truths.

"Lou stole from us, dude. But he also gave us something that we might not have gotten otherwise. Who else was going to offer you a chance to go into space? So now you know he's an idiot. You've got interest and momentum here, go find someone else to make this happen."

"I signed a three year exclusive contract with him."

"Call the lawyers. Wait three years. Whatever, just don't turn over and play dead here." He thinks his voice is getting a bit shrill, but this is the kind of conversation he's had with JC and Joey, and even Justin. But never Lance. Lance is the stubbornest mother fucker Chris knows, besides himself.

"Chris. Stop. I don't... I'm not giving up, here." Lance looks down with a frown and then back up at Chris, with a ghost of a smile. "I appreciate the pep-talk. I do. But I don't need it. I have plans. That's why Freddy came by last night."

Chris must not be able to keep the grimace off his face, because Lance shakes his head. "There's nothing going on there, Chris. He's just a friend now. He... he's helped me out a lot. He was there, you know?"

The implication, Chris thinks, being that other people weren't there. Aside from JC, none of them were overly supportive. When the tour ended, Justin and Joey took the hiatus seriously and concentrated on their own things. Chris... well, he was hurt and staying out of Lance's way. Plus, the whole thing just scared him to death. Still does.

"I'm not giving up. Really. I'm just..." He stops and Chris can see him trying to find the right word.

"Sad?" Chris asks, because he can see it in Lance's face.

"Yeah," Lance says and sighs. "Yeah. And I'm allowed to be sad today, right?"

"You're allowed to be sad whenever the fuck you want, Lance."

Lance doesn't say anything, just shrugs and wipes syrup off his plate and then sucks it off his finger. Chris lets the subject drop and pulls out his wallet. "Come on, your turn to drive."

Lance already knows the basics of handling a motorcycle from years of dirt bikes and ATVs back home. Chris climbs on behind him and pulls Lance back against him before he can release the kickstand. "Try not to kill us, huh?"

"I make no promises," Lance says into his headset and Chris can hear the smile in his voice.

They circle the large lot a few times while Lance gets a feel for the heavy bike and there are only a few wobbly moments before they head out onto the highway. Chris isn't sure why Lance never got into bikes, because he loves speed, loves anything that feels slightly out of control. And this is no exception, because as soon as he gets a good feel for the bike, he opens it up and edges up to what feels like at least 85. Chris doesn't ask though; he doesn't want to know, because as much as Lance might like the illusion, he is always in control.

There's very little traffic on this road, which is why Chris chose it. There's just him and Lance and the roar of the Harley, little houses and roadside businesses flying by, and it feels good. Feels really good. He rests his hands on Lance's thighs and he can feel the vibration of the road in his fingers, so he presses harder into flesh.

"Chris," Lance mutters a warning into the headset. "I thought you didn't want to die."

"I won't."

He moves his hands up and around, gripping Lance's hips, hooking his hands around his prominent hipbones. It's not something he could do before Lance went off to Russia, when he was soft flesh and solidity. But he remembers the skinny kid with the frighteningly deep voice that he met seven years ago, and he's overcome with affection. This Lance is thinner, but he's also nothing like that kid. He's hard now, all muscle and sinew, nothing extraneous. It makes Chris inexplicably sad.

He shifts forward on the seat and wraps his arms around Lance, hugging him.

"What?" Lance asks.

"Nothing, just..." Chris stops, because saying "just glad you're here," is maybe the wrong thing to say today. Instead he says, "just drive."

Ten minutes later, the bike slows down and Lance turns onto an off-ramp and into the parking lot of a Motel 6. Chris grins, but asks, "What's this?"

"Bored now," Lance says in his not-very-good Buffy impression, and parks the bike, pulling off his helmet. "Feel like being fucked through a mattress. You up for that?"

"Um, sure."

"Good. Go get us a room."

Chris doesn't have to be asked twice. He hands Lance his helmet and hops off the bike, nearly landing on his ass. Lance laughs at him and Chris flips him off before going inside. Luckily he has enough cash in his wallet to avoid using his credit card. There's nothing very discreet about checking into a motel in the middle of the day with nothing but a motorcycle helmet as luggage. Happily, the 70-year-old clerk doesn't even blink at him.

When he comes out, Lance is leaning up against the bike, jacket off, arms crossed over his chest, and his face turned up to the sun. He's fucking beautiful, and it takes Chris' breath away. He stops and just looks, letting Lance enjoy the sun as long as possible. He's not as pale as he was when he first came home, there's been a lot of poolside lounging, but he told Chris one night, wrapped around him under a quilt at his mom's house, that he never felt warm the whole time he was in Russia. Even on the few days when it was 70 degrees out, there was just never enough sun.

Lance opens his eyes, and for a second Chris feels like he's been caught at something he shouldn't be doing, but Lance raises an eyebrow, and it's all okay again. He's not this beautiful, distant man, he's just Lance. Lance the skinny kid. Lance the popstar. Lance the aspiring cosmonaut. He jingles the key in the air and heads for the room, not looking, but knowing that Lance will follow him.

The room is dark and cool and Chris flips the light switch as he walks in. "Look at that, Tom Bodette forgot to leave the light on for us."

"We'll ask for a refund," Lance says, suddenly close, his breath tickling Chris' ear. The door snaps shut and Lance wraps his hands around Chris' biceps and frog-walks him towards the bed. He turns around just before Lance pushes him back onto the bed, following him down for a kiss.

The past ten days of sex with Lance have been a revelation, some of it exactly like he would have imagined and some of it completely new and unfamiliar. Sometimes it's fun and full of talk and laughter, like the time Lance fucked Chris while they argued about the importance of the runningback versus the quarterback. It had been strangely hot. And sometimes it's intense, quiet, hot in a completely different way. Today is apparently going to be the latter.

Lance strips both of them quickly and takes his breath away with deep kisses and bruising fingers. Chris responds with deeper kisses and sinks his fingers into the flesh of Lance's ass, pulling him as close as possible, raising his knees to force Lance's legs apart. Lance groans and rubs against him, then pulls away to sit up. It only takes a second for him to retrieve condoms and lube from his jacket and he's back and before Chris knows it, he's deep inside Lance, looking up at him, hands once again gripping Lance's thighs in almost the same place he gripped on the motorcycle.

Lance moves and sets the pace, which starts out slow and deep, but quickly becomes harder, faster, his chest moving in time with his harsh panting. Chris pushes up into him, keeping up with the pace, feeling the twinge in his lower back that tells him he's going to pay for this later. Right now all he cares about are the dark of Lance's eyes and the sweat that he licks off his upper lip. Lance shudders above him and closes his eyes, his head going back, neck stretching impossibly long and pale. Chris thinks about sitting up to lick it, but before he can move in that direction, Lance grabs his hand, entwining their fingers and wrapping them around his erection. Three strokes and Lance is coming, groaning deep in his chest and it's all Chris needs to follow him over.

They're plastered to each other, Lance draped on top of him, licking at his jawline, when he says, "Fuck, that was good."

Chris laughs because, yeah, understatement much? "You could say that."

"Mmmm," Lance hums against his neck, making Chris shiver. "I just did."

Chris pulls him up and kisses him again, rolling them over, because it isn't over. It's rarely over after one orgasm with Lance, and sometimes Chris wonders how long he'll be able to keep up with that. Now Lance is pliant, warm, loose and affectionate. He lets Chris take over, take his time touching Lance, with tongue and fingers and finally cock.

Later, Chris is spooned around Lance, dozing with his nose buried in the back of Lance's hair. Lance shivers and Chris feels something drip onto his arm. He moves closer and tries to turn Lance over, but Lance resists, wrapping Chris' arms tighter around him, gripping his wrists tight.

"Don't," he whispers.

"Okay," Chris whispers back, kissing his neck softly. "Okay, baby."

Lance shudders and buries his wet face against Chris' arm. Chris just keeps his lips against Lance's skin and waits. It's not long before Lance is relaxed, breathing deeply again, and Chris doesn't expect anything else. Because Lance doesn't cry. It's one of his rules. And whether Chris thinks it's a bad rule or not is irrelevant.

They're quiet for a long time and Chris watches the strip of sunlight under the heavy curtains move an inch before he speaks, knowing that Lance never fell asleep.

"So these plans you have?" he asks. "Anything I can help with?"

Lance sighs and runs his fingers over the back of Chris' hand. "You don't... Chris, I know this whole thing scares you."

Chris moves, pulling back, forcing Lance onto his back so he can see him. "Fuck that. The stupid-ass harnesses scare the shit out of me, but I fucking get up there, don't I?"

Lance nods, looking surprised at Chris' sudden vehemence.

"Yeah. Because I fucking love the group. So let me deal with my own issues, and tell me what I can do to help the man I love."

Lance grins and reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of Chris' neck, pulling him in for a kiss. "I love you, too," he says, laughing, and Chris can hear the "dork" in his voice.

"Yes, well... whatever you need." Chris laughs and pounces on Lance, peppering kisses over his face. "Except money. A bunch of it's still tied up in Fuman and the rest belongs to the girls. But I could beat the shit out of Krieff if you want."

Lance laughs again and this time it's deeper, more real, and Chris decides maybe he's not such a bad boyfriend after all.

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