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Dreaming
by Shine
The dream starts out small, normal. Reassuringly normal. Just another day of pre-tour work, rehersals and more rehersals and then rehersals on top of everything, until your feet blister and your muscles strain and pull and ache, and your lungs heave for air.
And Lance is there, a pale strong silent figure in the same ragged t-shirt and cut-off sweats and sneakers that you all wear, that is like an unofficial uniform for all of you because it's comfortable and easy to wash and won't be ruined by sweat or water or grime. Nice, normal clothes--and it's so seldom any of you are able to choose your own clothes, you all relish the luxury, even though it was because management has more sense than to try and put you into slinky polyester or silk or denim when you're going to sweat through it within ten minutes of putting it on.
Lance doesn't look at you as he paces through the choreography, Wade dancing at his side. The two of them are the same height and coloring, but worlds apart--Lance looks tired, dark circles under eyes that seem bleached by the harsh fluorescent lights of the dance studio. You know how dark they can be, deep and endless, a green like summer leaves, and it seems weird to see icy-pale irises when you catch sight of them in the mirror.
He's working hard, and it shows. His face is tense, tightly focused on his movements, gaze locked on the mirror. A towel lays thick and red around his neck, and his hair is damp, rivulets of sweat down his temples and neck.
But his skin--his skin is luminous, clean and glowing and damp, free of make-up and so perfectly…*Lance.* It's moments like this that it seems you could reach through his skin to his soul.
And then the room twists and folds around the two of you, and Wade is gone, the rest of the guys are gone, and all that's left is Lance, dancing half-time against an invisible mirror. You can smell him, the sharp smell of sweat and grainy-soft warm bodies and a little bit of his aftershave and a lot of his shampoo, but mostly just him. The scent is rich, a little sweet, salty and wonderful. You could breathe him in forever.
He's shirtless now, and you can see he's thinner from weeks of grueling rehersals, but he's still bulkier than you. You know that your body tends to run towards skin and bone and lean, ropy muscle; Lance is built along sturdier lines, and his feet meet the ground with a solid *thunk* when he leaps. Sometimes you envy having a body with that much presence.
When he turns towards you, you're caught off-guard, lost in studying him, watching the way muscle moves under his skin when he lifts and spins and burns in time with the music. You meet his gaze, and you can see that he knows that you were watching. He finishes the dance with an extra flourish that you know is for you, and you can barely stop from trembling when he walks towards you.
After that there's touching, and kissing, and clothing pulled off and thrown to the side, and your spine aches from the hardness of the floor, and your dick aches from the hardness of his dick rubbing against it. Pure, nasty kisses and slow, deliberate fucking, and the smell in the air now is sex, musky-salty and intoxicating. You know you're so hard the tips of your fingers ache, and you could cry with the sweetness of it.
When you come, it's shattering and perfect and over way, way too soon. You think you yell when you come, but you aren't sure--you can't hear or see or breathe, so it doesn't really matter.
The dream always starts the same way, and it always ends the same way, and you've long ago given up trying to stop it. It's just something that is.
And if sometimes you can't help staring at Lance when you're rehersing, when he's going over the steps with Wade, and you're surrounded by the rest of the guys in various stages of exhaustion and giddiness…
At least you know who'll be going home with you tonight, and whose leaf-green eyes will greet you when you wake up, calling his name.
Fin
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