By Trixie

Lance has no idea what time it is when he wakes up, but it's pitch black outside and it's pretty clear from the sway of the bus that they're in the mountains. Colorado, his mind supplies. Concert last night in Denver, tomorrow night in Santa Fe. He's alone in the bed and when he listens carefully, he can hear the soft chords of a guitar. Checking his watch, he sighs and pulls on a pair of sweats.

Carefully stepping over a dog sleeping in the narrow hallway, he finds Chris in the front, hunched over his guitar, jotting notes on a yellow pad. His glasses are sliding down his nose and his hair is sticking up in about twelve directions. The other dog is using one of Chris's feet as a pillow and he eyes Lance briefly before going back to sleep. Chris doesn't notice him until he opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water.

"Hey," he says, absently, keeping his focus on his music. Lance hums in response and crawls onto the couch behind him, wrapping his arms around Chris, tucking his hands into Chris's hoodie, careful not to dislodge the guitar. The room is chilly, but Chris is warm and solid. "What're you doing awake?"

"Dunno," Lance answers, snuffling against the back of Chris's neck. He smells good, a little like the club he played in last night, a little like the sex they had afterward. "Bad dream or something, but I can't remember it." Chris turns and kisses the side of Lance's head. "Play me what you have."

Chris turned 40 three weeks ago and his voice doesn't have the bell-clear quality that it had when he was 25, but it's still beautiful and it's more suited to the music Chris is doing now. There are gray hairs peppering his temples, and by Chris's own last count, seven gray whiskers in his beard, and Lance thinks it's going to look really cool when he gets more. Chris has crows feet and laugh lines and he wonders sometimes how it is he can find Chris's aging so sexy while he's obsessively moisturizing and dyeing and thinking seriously about botox.

The song is pretty good and Lance finds himself humming along in harmony on the second verse. Chris fades out before the end and then shrugs.

"Something doesn't work," he says and pushes the notepad away from him.

"Hmm." Lance reaches across and picks up the pad, humming it as he reads. "I think it's the bridge. Needs something different."

Chris snorts and Lance gets it, because he always has problems with the bridge. Justin could write platinum bridges in his sleep, but Chris thinks they're his weakest point. Lance thinks that most of what Chris writes isn't as bad as he thinks it is. And anyway, Lance can't write songs to save his life, but he tries to offer his most unbiased opinion when he can.

"Something like this," Lance finally offers and sings the bridge softly, changing it up, ascending instead of descending the notes.

"Huh." Chris tries it and it sounds a little better, but still not quite right. He's back in the groove though, focused on his guitar, on the song.

Lance relaxes, turning his head to watch dark tall pines rush by outside. He likes the contrast of the warmth of Chris against his front and the cool air of the bus against his back and he can feel Chris's voice more than hear him. It's been a long time since he spent this much time on a tour bus. He remembers back when the guys were crammed onto one bus. They were never this quiet, even when everyone was asleep, because Joey snored and JC slept with his walkman on and it wasn't unusual for Chris to be up, just like tonight. Later, when it was just him and Joey, there were pets and "guests" and then kids. Now it's just him and Chris and two dogs, and he loves both the past and the present, wouldn't give either of them up for anything.

Eight years as a couple and they've never actually spent this much time together, but Lance was between projects and Molly was taking time off from managing Chris to have a kid, so Lance signed on. It's not something he plans on making permanent. He thinks they work best when they don't spend every waking moment together, but he's glad he did it this tour.

It's Chris's third album, and he's no where near the mega-stardom of Justin, and he doesn't have the cult following that JC has, but his singles have been a staple on adult alternative stations and his live shows get consistently good reviews. Lance is kind of proud of him. And ridiculously in love with him, so he figures his opinion shouldn't be trusted. Chris has reached some kind of zen place in his life, where he's finally just content with everything. Lance is getting there.

Chris switches some lyrics and goes back to the notes Lance had given him, sings it through twice. "That's good," Lance says, "I like that." Chris nods, leaning back into Lance before playing it through again, adding a last verse and singing it through to the end. It'll change again another five or six times, and Ron or Vince or maybe Justin will help tweak it, before Chris is happy with it.

"Good enough for now." Chris sets his guitar aside and moves to turn around. "C'mere," he says, and turns them both to stretch out and lay down on the couch. Lance wraps an arm around him and uses his chest as a pillow. "Time is it, anyway?"

"It was four when I got up," Lance mutters. "Probably five now."

"What's the schedule tomorrow?"

Lance chuckles. "You mean today? We're supposed to get in around 10:00. You have a radio thing at 2:00. We have an interview with a local queer paper at 3:30, and there's a gay youth center I'd like to visit if we have time before some other interviews and soundcheck."

"We'll have time," Chris says with a yawn, and starts scratching his hand up and down Lance's back, making Lance hum in pleasure. "Or we'll make time."

Three years ago, Lance was working out a deal that would get him back on the roster for a Soyuz trip, when he got a call from his agent. An ex-boyfriend had sold his story to a tabloid, complete with full color pictures. The thing that hurt the most was that it was the ex that Lance would have considered the least likely to ever sell him out. Chris had followed him right out of the closet with gusto and immediately became the Bi-darling of queer media, while Lance was mostly a late-night talk show punch-line. It wasn't really that bad, but sometimes it felt like it.

Eventually, the press died down and the comics moved on and Lance licked his wounds and figured out there was a whole lot of freedom in not pretending. He doesn't get invited by NASA to talk to kids about space anymore, but he does get to talk to gay teenagers. He doesn't have a solo career and he's not getting tv and movie roles handed to him like Joey, but he's got a handful of different small production projects going on and he's put on some of the best fundraisers in Hollywood in the past few years. It's not really the post-sync career that he ever envisioned for himself, but he's having a good time and he's got a damn good financial portfolio. And he has Chris.

"You need more sleep, Chris."

"I'll sleep if you sing to me."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Please?"

Lance sighs, because if he's learned anything in the last 15 plus years, it's that Chris is one of the few people on earth who can out-stubborn him. And really, he only argues because Chris expects it. So he does. He sings the first song that comes to mind.

"Dude," Chris says, laughing. "Are you singing Shania Twain?"

"You want me to sing, you don't get to mock my taste."

"Whatever. Sing, country boy."

So he switches to John Denver and Chris laughs and kisses him and forgets about making him sing. By the time Chris falls asleep, the sky is a dark pre-dawn blue and they're driving through some town somewhere. Lance pulls a blanket down over them both and presses his face into Chris's neck, humming to himself. He thinks he's getting pretty damn close to his own zen.

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