Waiting
by Shine

The television in the corner exploded in a pixelated rush of fire and gore, and the speakers rumbled out "Starz...Starz...Starz..." as Justin and Joey leaned over their controllers and their thumbs flickered with practiced speed over the lime and fuschia buttons. The digital flames reflected in their eyes, and made them look like something out of the game they were playing.

Joey looked like he was winning, and zombies fell in a vibrant rain onscreen as he systematically worked his way through he game. Justin was scowling fiercely, and Chris grinned privately to see the determined look on his face. Justin might be good at Playstation, but Joey was the king of Resident Evil 2.

"Taken back to school, hey, Just?" he said, and laughed when Justin flipped him off, and then promptly got shot dead by a zombie while his hand was away from the controller.

"Aww, poor Curly," he said, smirking, and Justin groaned and flopped over on his back, controller still resting on his crossed legs. Chris admired the suppleness of the pose. JC was the most flexible of all of them, for sure, but Justin was giving him a run for his money lately, with the yoga crap he'd been trying. Joey didn't even look away from the screen, but Chris caught the edge of a smile on his face. When the action eased up for a minute, he reached out one hand and ran it affectionately up Justin's thigh.

JC was off in his own world, humming Walzing Matilda in a very un-Australian way as he sat at the dinette and read Bop in a very abstracted way. He seemed to be doing the song funky-style, and kept striking off on melodic tangents to sing the harmony lines during the chorus. It was a strange sound, but oddly interesting to listen to, and Chris wasn't too troubled by it--it wasn't nearly as bad as when JC had been in his John Denver stage, and Chris had learned through sheer fucking repetition all the words to Annie's Song. He still wasn't sure he forgave JC for that one.

Eminem was one thing, but no one should have to have Country Road in their head for more than four days at a stretch.

Lance was in the back of the bus, sprawled out over the couch and asleep. Chris had seen him there when he'd gone back earlier to find something to read. He'd started out that afternoon working, and it looked like he had, at least for a while--a pile of official-looking papers was shuffled across the bed, and his laptop was open and humming, beeping quietly as it downloaded something. All very professional and businesslike and enterprising.

But Lance was stretched out next to the wall, arms pillowing his head, eyelashes brushing pale, anemic-looking cheeks. One foot was tangled in the electrical cord of the laptop. Lance had been sick lately with a chest flu that was making the rounds of the roadies and crew, and had a rough, ugly-sounding cough that not even the most aggressive medicine could make disappear.

Right now they were in the heaviest part of their touring schedule, and only the countless bottles of water Lance drank before every show to hydrate himself allowed him to sing without croaking.

One of those bottles was leaning against his chest now, tilted precariously and wobbling whenever he coughed. The sweating bottle had left damp streaks over his t-shirt, and was a quarter-inch from spilling all over him.

Chris had a flash of conscience as he stood there staring, watching the slow, steady rhythm of Lance's breathing, the slender line of his fingers, and the way they twitched every so often. He'd reached over to rescue the bottle of water, and pretended that his hand hadn't brushed Lance's chest, hadn't slipped into the sliver of skin showing where his t-shirt had twisted up as he slept. Hadn't touched the soft velvet of Lance's skin, felt heat sear his fingertips.

Lance had stirred at that, looked up at Chris with half-open eyes, hazy with sleep. "Hey," he said hoarsely, and Chris nodded, clutching the water bottle with one hand, still touching Lance with the other.

"Hey," he said, unable to think of anything else to say. Lance was smart. He had to know what was happening. He stroked absently with his fingers, and Lance rumbled underneath him, shifting so as to get more contact. Chris almost stopped breathing, pinned by Lance's shadowed green eyes.

"Tired," Lance whispered, closing his eyes again. Freed from that electric gaze, Chris shivered. He turned to go, trying to be as quiet as he could.

"Chris. Stay?" came the rough mumble from the bed, and he froze.

"Not now," he said finally. "Maybe later, okay?"

"Mm. Yeah," and Lance was gone, relaxed heavily back into the sleep he'd never fully left, and Chris had made his way shakily back to the main part of the bus.

Now he tossed his book onto the couch, stood up, stretched until his spine crackled. The game burst into music as Joey fought it to a draw, Justin watching in interest as the hung jury of the programming eventually grudgingly granted him the victory. "'M gonna go sleep," he said casually, amidst the good-natured ribbing and demands for a rematch that always followed these Playstation marathons, and and sauntered off towards the back of the bus.

Where Lance was waiting.

Fin