But it appeared that Brit could think of a lot of reasons not to tell Justin what had happened, and she spent the next ten minutes listing them all for Lance. He listened patiently, because he owned her that much, and when she finally ran out of things to say, dissolving into tears at the end, he said it again. “I’m sorry.”

Chris was actually kind to him, and although Lance didn’t understand it, it was one of the only things that made the few days they all spent together in the Bahamas taping the Atlantis concert bearable. Trace was with them, and he kept himself planted firmly between Justin and everybody else the entire time.

JC was still reeling from the events of September 11th, and while he smiled sympathetically at Lance from time to time, and could occasionally be seen talking earnestly in the corner with Justin, he didn’t really have much to say. Later, Lance realized that JC was distracted by the end of his own relationship with Bobbie, but at the time, nothing existed for Lance except the fact that no matter now many times he tried to talk to Justin, to tell him he was sorry, Justin refused to hear him.

Christmas, though, Christmas was the worst.

He’d never been afraid to look at his mother’s face before, but now, each time he saw censure there, he dreaded their next conversation.

“You know we’re here if you need us, Lance,” she said, and she meant it, but it wasn’t enough.

Lance began to look around for somewhere else to run to.

~~~~~

Justin did what he always did when he was hurt, and he did it without thinking, without hesitation, without having to ask if he could.

He went home.

And good for Lance, he had waited until the tour was over to break Justin’s heart. At least Justin didn’t have to see him every day, at least they weren’t still booked into adjoining rooms and double suites all over the country.

He’d gone to Chris that night, of course. He’d been out in the hallway, his suitcases at his feet, attempting to remember which room was Chris’s. He stood there, furious tears on his face, trying not to hear the sounds coming from the room he’d just walked out of. Chris stuck his head out his door, apparently hoping to find someone to get him some ice. He took one look at Justin’s face, and, propping the door open with the ice bucket, bustled him and his bags inside.

Chris didn’t ask, because he didn’t have to. Even after their worst fights, Justin and Lance didn’t walk away from each other. The fact that Justin was standing there helplessly in the middle of the night was all Chris needed to know.

Justin smelled like sex and tears, he smelled like Lance, and Chris helped him into a warm bath and brought him a clean pair of sweatpants, and one of his own t-shirts, one that smelled spicy and warm, like Chris.

Then Chris crawled into bed behind him, curling an arm around his waist, tugging him back where he felt safe and cared for. He shivered, unable to stop the endless, silent tears. Chris made soothing noises behind him, and Justin thought of Lance, cold and alone, with no one to comfort him.

He went to Tennessee, and his mother, like Chris, held him and consoled him, but unlike Chris, she didn’t allow him to remain silent.

He told her everything, because he always did. She nodded, she asked him if he was certain of what he wanted, and what he didn’t.

“Be very sure, Justin,” she warned. “There are some things it’s almost impossible to take back.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he demanded fiercely. “There are some things that are impossible to forgive.” He didn’t care how dramatic that sounded. It was the truth.

It was no problem at all to cut Wade off from the group. They had already decided that if they went out again, the tour, the choreography, everything, would be scaled down. Wade was expendable.

Justin still had several commitments with Britney, commitments they were contractually obligated to fulfill, and he was willing to do that. It was just his job, which was the way they had started, so, hey, full circle. He’d let her be the one to deal with the rumors, and he’d be a gentleman in public, mostly because his mother would kill him if he wasn’t.

As for Lance, it was over. Justin didn’t need to think about that, in spite of his mother’s words. No soul-searching necessary. There was no other choice to make. What Lance had done was unforgivable. Justin had never slept with anyone besides Lance and Britney. Never. It made him sick to think of Wade’s hands on Lance.

His mother studied his face, then patted his cheek and smiled at him with soft sorrow. “You know I’m here, baby, if you need me.”

Justin nodded.

~~~~~

Britney was gone. Wade was gone. Lance knew the only reason he wasn’t gone was because even Justin didn’t have that much power. That didn’t mean Justin had to acknowledge his existence, though. Even onstage, they were usually far enough apart, separated by JC and Chris, that Justin could pretend he was performing with three of his closest friends and one interloper who didn’t belong, and therefore didn’t need to be addressed.

Lance didn’t complain. He was still too numb to fight back. He functioned, he did his job, but offstage, or when there were no cameras or fans around, he operated on autopilot.

Chris, of course, was thrilled with the lack of flying gags, and he never stopped letting people know that. If Lance heard him say, “It’s not a fear, it’s a phobia” one more time, he was afraid of what he might do. It wouldn’t be pretty, and Chris seemed completely unaware of the danger he was in.

“Shut up, my God, don’t you ever get tired of saying that? You’ve been saying it for years, is there anyone left on the fucking planet who doesn’t know you’re a big chickenshit when it comes to being more than five feet off the ground?”

Chris appraised him coolly from under the brim of the stupid woolly hat he was wearing. It may still have been winter time, but they were indoors, for Chrissake. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Mississippi boy.” It was the most Chris had said to him in months. The kindness of Atlantis hadn’t survived Justin’s obvious unhappiness.

Lance didn’t really know exactly how much of what happened Chris knew. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. Joey knew everything, of course. The rounds of promo for On The Line had passed by in a blur, and without Joey, Lance would have fallen on his face more than once. The shitty reviews, the crappy box office, none of it had mattered in the least, except as one more piece of evidence that Lance failed at life. He’d been blessed, he knew that, with so many things, and he’d blown every one of them.

“Go ahead, say it,” Justin muttered at Chris as he threw himself onto the couch.

“Have we gone to a club yet that he hasn’t hooked up in?” Chris demanded. Chris had decided to pace in the little bit of space available to him. Terrific.

JC frowned but didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know, I haven’t been keeping track,” Justin snapped.

Chris turned on him. “Bullshit,” he said angrily.

“What are you bitching at me for, you fucker? What do you want me to do?” Justin’s voice rose in frustsration.

Chris rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I’m not bitching at you. I just-God, could things get any more fucked up?” He made another circuit of the tiny space in front of the couch.

“They probably could if we tried really hard. Just-I don’t see the point in talking about it.” Justin said with an irritated shrug.

Chris stood glaring at him, hands planted on his hips, then he sighed and sank down on the couch next to him, slumping over until his head was resting on Justin’s shoulder. Justin watched as JC visibly relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” Chris said.

“I know.”

JC moved suddenly, rubbing his hands together with an almost grim cheerfulness. “If we’re going to watch a movie instead of sleep, I think I need another drink. Who wants what?” he asked over his shoulder, heading for the small bus kitchen.

Two nights later, Justin watched Lance leave the club they were in, heading out to one of the SUVs with a slim blond boy following him, keeping the requisite five feet distance behind Lance.

Earlier that evening, Lance had come to Justin’s room, knocking on the door as Justin stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Justin went to the door, knowing exactly who it was. It had become a nightly ritual whenever they stayed over in a hotel. Every night, Lance knocked on his door. Every night, Justin didn’t answer it.

He stood behind the closed door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood veneer. He didn’t look through the peephole.

“Justin. Justin, please. Will you talk to me?” Lance’s voice was low, like he didn’t want random passers-by to hear him talking to a closed door.

Justin breathed.

Lance waited.

Justin was afraid to open the door. He wasn’t strong enough to tell Lance no, not if there was no one there to stop him. And he had to be strong. He had to move on. It would hurt too much to do it all again.

Justin waited until he heard Lance say the same thing he always said. “I’m sorry.” After the first few times, Justin had learned when to move away from the door, so that he couldn’t hear Lance’s whispered, “I love you.”

Eric followed Lance and the blond boy out the side exit. Justin knew there would again only be one car left to take the rest of them back to the hotel later, but no one would complain.