On My Feet
By: Rhys

~~~
she knew your devils and your deeds 
and she said, "go to him, stay with him if you can 
but be prepared to bleed"
- Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You"
~~~

     Chris spent a week in the studio, singing on his own.  Everyone else had
already done their parts, even Joey, and he'd done everything into his power to avoid
the studio.  He'd known, on some level, that a new album was being worked on, and
he knew he'd been there for all the meetings because he'd been told he'd been there,
but it all seemed like a dream, told to him by someone else.  It was like someone had
fast-forwarded then finally pressed play on his life, and he'd missed even more than he
thought he had.

     JC stayed with him, sitting in the producer's booth, hands at the controls as he
told Chris how it was supposed to work, what he was supposed to do.  Chris's vocals
felt weak, like his throat wasn't used to singing, and it wasn't, Chris realised, because
he hadn't sung for months.  They'd bowed out of public performances, for the most
part, and the album had been delayed because of his reluctance until they finally went
on without him.  The few times they had performed, he'd demanded a backup track,
and he'd lip-synched to the sound of his own voice.  

     The tour started in a month.  A month, and Chris didn't even know most of the
songs.  He thought the album was called "Celebrity," but he wasn't sure, and he didn't
want to ask.  He just called it "the new CD" and everyone else talked like it was
already old news.  It probably was.  It was JC and Justin's baby, not his, not this one.

     "If you're tired, I'll take you home," JC said suddenly.  Chris looked up, lifting
his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of light through the glass.  "Chris, you're
singing flat.  If you don't want to do this right now, it's all right.  We still have a few
more days."

     "What time is it?"

     JC lifted his wrist, squinting at his watch.  "Almost twelve."

     "Oh."

     "Whatever you want to do, Chris," JC said.  

     Chris stared at his hands.  "I don't know, C."

     "Hold on."  

     Chris looked up as the door opened, and JC walked over, dressed in worn
jeans and a shirt that said, "don't worry, be happy," and looked about ten years old. 
JC perched on one of the stools, fingers spread on his knees, and Chris looked away,
crossing his arms over his own belly.  It was aching, twisted and unsettled.  

     "You wanna talk about anything?"  JC asked, trying to sound offhand, casual.

     Chris shrugged.

     "You want me to call Joey?"

     "Joey isn't my keeper, C," Chris snapped suddenly.  His eyes were burning,
and he just wanted to sleep.  It wasn't often JC tried to talk to Chris about anything
deeper than harmless things, and Chris wasn't sure now was the time for that to
change.  JC had stayed two steps away from him ever since he'd found out, and when
he did come close, Chris couldn't ignore the sadness in JC's eyes.  "I'm sorry, C.  No,
I just.  Let him sleep.  He needs it."

     "We're used to recording together.  It's the only reason I asked," JC
murmured.  Chris watched JC stretch his fingers then scratch them over his denim-
covered knee. And Chris wished, for a moment, that JC had never convinced himself
that Chris was broken, that he could only hug Chris around the backs of chairs and in
front of friends, or that once, on the couch, when he'd first found out, and Lance had
to pry him off he was crying so hard.  

     Now Chris felt like crying.  Again.  He thought it was supposed to get better,
because he'd taken steps.  He could tolerate Joey's hands on his body, could enjoy it,
and he'd came, those last two times, startled by it, of course, but he'd came.  Joey
hadn't, hadn't even gotten hard, but Chris had.  And he liked it.  He was healthy, too. 
Severely underweight, and the new diet wasn't working, but he was trying, eating
everything they told him to eat.  And he was sleeping, too, through the night, for at
least five hours or six hours, which was better than nothing.  

     "I feel left behind," Chris said carefully.  

     "I know," JC said.  He touched Chris's elbow.  "I'm sorry for that."

     "My fault," Chris answered, like clockwork.  

     "No," JC replied.  "It's not."  He stood up and gave Chris an awkward, loose
hug, his spindly arms circling Chris's shoulders and sparing the slightest squeeze. 
Chris reached up and grabbed hold of him, so hard it hurt.  JC bent into him and
pressed his face into Chris's hair.

     Eventually, Chris let him go.  "I think I can sing now."

     "You have a beautiful voice; I just want to make sure it's heard," JC replied.  

     So Chris sang, a songbird in his gilded cage, but still felt a thousand miles
away.

~~~

     Joey couldn't sleep.  He also couldn't remember if he'd ever told his parents
about being with Chris.  If he'd ever said it out loud.  They probably knew, at least his
mom did, since they lived in the same house, but he couldn't remember telling them
anything.  It seemed suddenly very important.  So he couldn't sleep.

     Joey sat up and pushed his pajamas off then pulled up the covers, trying to get
comfortable.  He was hot, which was part of the problem.  Hot and restless.  He
tossed and turned before moving to Chris's side of the bed, burying his face in Chris's
pillow.  He kissed the cotton with his mouth, feeling useless, as usual.

     He could wait.  Dana told him he just had to be patient, work through
everything and then, without meaning to, it would come back.  His body, his dick.  If
he didn't think about it, it would probably just happen one day, when he least expected
it.  An erection which, a year ago, he would have taken for granted.  Now, it seemed
like an impossible thing.  But he wasn't supposed to focus on it, so he didn't.  For the
most part.  It was all he thought about.

     His parents hadn't been told.  Joey was sure he would have remembered doing
it.  

     Joey slipped his hand between his legs and rubbed at his dick.  Nothing.  He
dragged the edge of his thumbnail down it, and that at least hurt, so he did it again and
again until he was so frustrated he smacked his fists against the mattress.  Useless.  It
was all so fucking useless.

     Joey lifted his head when Chris opened the bedroom door and walked in,
shrugging off his clothes in three steps.  Watching over the edge of the sheets, Joey
eyed Chris's body, the sharp edges of his bones, so harsh and defined that Joey wasn't
sure if they weren't going to poke through Chris's skin at some point.  The diet
obviously wasn't working.  Chris hadn't gained a pound.  

     Chris went into the bathroom and Joey could hear water running, then the flush
of the toilet then more water.  Joey closed his eyes tightly when the door opened, and
didn't move when Chris lifted the covers and slid underneath, rocking the bed.

     "You okay?" Chris muttered.  He sounded tired.  

     "Yes, just."  Joey felt panicked suddenly.  "Did I tell my parents?  About us, I
mean."

     Chris put his hand on Joey's back.  "I don't know, Joe."

     "Your mom called," Joey said, now that he was thinking of it.  "She wants to
talk to you."

     Chris sighed and sat up.  "Joe."

     "Fuck.  I need a drink," Joey said.  He was shaking with energy, unable to rest
for even a second, and his mind was racing, screeching at him.  He got out of bed and
walked out of the room without getting dressed, just skipped down the stairs and
headed for the liquor.    If nothing else, it'd knock him out, or calm him down. 
Something.  "You want anything?"

     Chris had followed him down, just like Joey knew he would.  "Whatever
you're making."

     "Shots.  We need lime and salt," Joey decided, holding the tequila bottle.  He
knew he was freaking out and he knew Chris knew, but he was just so hot and tired
and restless.  Chris hadn't put on clothes either.  Joey wanted to know why he still
looked so dead.  "Can you?"

     Chris turned around and walked out of the room, legs thin like toothpicks, skin
pale like plastic.   So ugly, Joey thought, then sat down hard on the carpet, putting the
bottle on the coffee table.  But Joey didn't mean it.  It wasn't Chris's fault he looked
like a skeleton.

     Chris came back, and they drank together.  Joey wanted to put a blanket over
Chris   he looked so small and fragile and strange   but he settled with just not
looking at him.  Joey's hands were still shaking, and he kept thinking, Christ, this is it,
this is the breakdown, this is the end.  Tequila dripped down his wrists.  

     "You're freaking out pretty badly, man.  I'm going to call your parents," Chris
said quietly, standing up.  Chris snatched a blanket from the couch, wrapping himself
in it, and left the room.  Joey watched him go then nodded, seconds later, always on
delay.

     He felt wrong, off, strange. 

     His fingers were numb.

~~~

     Chris got dressed and brought down a pair of sweats for Joey, who hadn't
moved from the carpet and was staring at his own hands like he'd never seen them
before.  Chris sat on the edge of the couch and waited until a car pulled into the
driveway.  He should have called Lance, but Joey had asked about his parents, so
maybe it meant something.

     "Hi," Chris said, opening the door and letting them in.  "Sorry it's so late."

     Phyllis touched his chin, pinching it between her index finger and her thumb. 
"What's the matter, sweetie?"

     "We live together," Chris said, in case they really didn't know.  Chris honestly
couldn't remember one way or the other if they'd ever been told.  Chris wasn't sure
his own mother knew about Joey.  In the face of everything else, Chris wasn't sure
he'd thought it important to tell her.  

     "We know, Chris," Joe said, sliding off his sneakers and taking Phyllis's coat. 
Surely, they'd been over before now, but Chris just couldn't seem to place it.  Time
was just gone, suddenly, horribly.  "Is Joey in the living room?"

     "Yeah.  He's kinda freaked out.  I don't know what to do," Chris admitted. 
He felt numb and cold and tired.  He'd just wanted to go to bed, and now he didn't
think he could fall asleep if he tried.  "He's probably all right, but he was worried you
guys didn't know we," Chris scratched his arm, "lived together.  He's been drinking,
too."

     Joe clasped Chris on the shoulder and squeezed.  Chris felt about ten years old,
young and stupid, but he nodded anyway.  Phyllis looked tired, so Chris offered to
make tea.  She followed him into the kitchen.  The whole thing was too quiet.  He'd
always thought that when Joey finally crumbled, it'd be loud and ugly and terrible.

     "We didn't want to intrude on your privacy," Phyllis said suddenly, helping
Chris with the mugs.  Chris looked up at her and nodded, understanding.  She knew;
they probably both did.  Someone had told them, then, which Chris didn't mind.  He
was sick of rehashing the same old story.  "Thank you for calling, Chris."

     "No problem," he said.  He just wanted to sleep.

~~~

     Chris watched the clock tick for a good two hours.  He was beyond exhausted,
but it wasn't like he didn't know how to not sleep.  He remembered   his body did  
and just because he'd finally started sleeping through the night again, didn't mean
anything.  Phyllis stayed in the kitchen with him.  In the other room, Chris could hear
Joe talking, but so far, Joey hadn't uttered a word.

     Chris wanted to tell Joey's mom how he'd begged Joey, on more than one
occasion, to leave him, to turn around and live his own life without Chris sucking him
dry.  Wanted to tell her how Joey had saved his life by ignoring Chris when he tried to
push Joey away, had sacrificed his happiness and his body to stay with Chris, who had
spent ten months lost and small, like a child.  Wanted her to know that she raised the
best man Chris had ever known, and would ever know, and that Chris loved him so
much that if Joey asked him to go, he would without question, that Chris would die
for Joey.

     Chris needed Phyllis to know that Joey was a good man, on a fundamental
level that not many people existed.  A goodness so deep that Joey didn't even know it
was there, but Chris did, knew it all too well, because he'd seen the opposite, knew
what a bad man looked like and had stared him straight in the eyes seconds before it all
went to hell.  

     "Is my mom okay?"  Chris asked.  

     "She wants her son back, Chris," Phyllis said quietly.  "Just like I want mine
back."

     Chris stared at his hands.  "I'm sorry."

     "Don't be, sweetie."  Phyllis touched his cheek, and Chris looked up, keeping
his mouth in a neutral, straight line.  "You brought him back to me.  Tonight, by
calling.  He's kept us at such a distance, and for the longest time, I didn't understand
why."

     "I love him so much," Chris whispered.  His voice felt raw again.

     "Please let me call your mother, Chris," Phyllis said.  Chris's eyes flickered to
the clock, which was still ticking away, second by painful second, then he let them rest
back on Phyllis's face.  "Chris, for the sake of my son, let me call your mother."

     "She cried when I told her," Chris said, "for four hours.  On the phone."

     "You're her child, Chris," Phyllis said.  "This hurts her, too."

     Chris stared at his hands.  "Okay," Chris muttered, "all right."

     Phyllis cupped his cheek then pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.  In the other
room, Chris could hear someone   Joey   crying, huge heaving sighs mixed with
hiccups and gasps of laboured breath.  So broken, Chris thought, but didn't know who
he was talking about.

~~~

     There was a space in him that was still empty.  Chris couldn't name it, because
it hadn't been there before, but it was there now, huge and gaping.  Sometimes, he
imagined putting his fingers in it and moving them around to see if he could find
something tangible.  He didn't even know why it was there or how to fill it.  

     He didn't want to see his mom.  He was hiding upstairs, afraid of her.  He'd
said he would see her to Phyllis, because she played the Joey angle, but he didn't want
to talk to her, didn't want to hear anything she had to say.  It'd been months since
they'd last talked, everything between them carried through Joey.  He didn't know
why he was so terrified of her, just that it caused his chest to seize up whenever he
thought about her.  He'd never wanted to tell her in the first place.

     Chris tucked his chin against his knees and closed his eyes.  He didn't even
know what month it was anymore.  Lance kept him on track, kept them both on track. 
Joey was starting to get just as lost, but hid it better, or thought he did.  Chris could
tell Joey was beginning to stumble.  He knew Joey too well, really, to not notice
anything.  Even through the fog, Chris had always seen Joey.  It was why he went to
him and not one of the others that night.  

     When it came down to not telling anyone ever or knocking his fist against
Joey's door, it took him an hour to choose.  And he regretted his decision, but not
because it meant everyone knew, but because Joey wasn't quite as strong as Chris
hoped.  Pretty strong, and the strongest of the four he had to pick from, even more
than Lance, but Chris expected Joey to move the world.  Joey hadn't been able to, but
he'd tried, and now they were here, in this place, drowning together.  
     Chris knew one of them had to buckle.  It was like waiting for a bomb to
explode.  The sad part was Chris thought it was over.  That the negative blood test
meant they could put it all behind them, that he'd start sleeping and holding down his
food.  He slept more, yes, but still not enough, and even Chris could admit he was too
skinny.  Food tasted like sawdust, but he ate it.  

     Chris wanted to wake up and to have it all better.  It'd been long enough.  He
was sick and tired of living like this, and nothing he did changed it.  He went to
therapy twice a week to sort out his head, and it stayed neat and tidy for a while, but it
never stuck.  Something always set him off; something always reminded him.  Chris
had done everything everyone wanted him to do, and it still wasn't helping.  He was
just so tired.  

     "Chris?"

     Chris looked up.  "Mom," he said.  

     She approached cautiously, like he was a rabid animal she didn't want to
startle, and he let her but, at the same time, kept her at a distance.  He didn't move his
knees from his chest, and he didn't untangle his arms from his legs.  If she wanted to
talk, fine, but she wasn't getting close to him.  He was glad she hadn't turned on the
light.

     "I don't know what to say to you," she said, and she sounded defeated.  Chris
looked away from her and out the window, across the grass.  It needed to be watered
and cut.  "I don't know what you'll hear even if I say something.  Chris, I.   Do you
want me to go?"

     "Don't ask me that," Chris said.  "You know what I'll say."

     "I know."

     He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice, the anger.  It was all so irrational. 
He loved his mother, adored her, and he knew how lucky he was to have her.  They'd
been through hell together and come out of it okay.  But there was a divide between
them now that Chris didn't know how to cross.   He didn't want to see her.  

     "Chris," she said.  

     "Mom," he said.

     "Christopher."  

     He dropped his head.  

     "mom."

~~~

     He unfolded as she talked about his sisters, telling him what they were doing,
how they were living.  They'd gotten a pug for Taylor, who'd already made a
scrapbook about her dog's budding life.  She was named Critter, after Chris.  Chris bit
his lip when he heard that and nodded.  They were all doing well, all going on their
merry ways and enjoying each day they were given.  

     "I told them," she said.  "They were getting so mad at you, thinking you didn't
love them anymore, and that's why I said something."

     "Thank you."  Chris forced the words out.  They tasted like rust.  He didn't
want to talk about this, didn't want her to come near it, and he really didn't want to
hear it, not a word she had to say.  He wanted to shout, STOP, but he didn't.  Just
muttered, "I'm tired of talking about it."

     "I know."

     Chris looked up at her.  She met his eyes, strong like he knew she was.  It was
where he got it from, the ability to survive.  She'd carried him until he could walk on
his own, and she'd taught him how to keep going.  Even when it looked impossible,
even when he thought he would die.  Sleeping in a car, starving, dressed in clothes
stolen from the Salvation Army.  She'd kept him going.  

     "I couldn't save you," she said.  

     "Nobody could," Chris admitted.  In the end, it was up to him, and he was too
drunk and too overpowered to do anything but roll over and let the fucker do
whatever he wanted.  Too scared to breathe, too weak to fight.  All because of a joke
with a punch line that still hadn't come.  It was only a joke.

     "I should have tried, Chris."

     "Mom, please," Chris said, abrupt again, the anger back in his blood.  "I can't
talk about it, okay?"

     "I know," she said.  "Chris, listen to me."

     "I don't want to listen to you."  Chris pressed his face to his knee, shaking his
head.  Why did she even have to be there at all?  He wasn't ready for her to see this
yet.  To see him yet, not when he was still so wounded.  "I don't want to hear what
you have to say, and I don't want to do this with you now."

     "Chris," she said and touched his arm.  He shook her away, hard and angry,
but she settled her fingers around his sleeve, tightening them in the loose fabric until
she touched flesh through it.  "Oh, baby," she whispered, soft and sad, and he wished
he'd thought to wear more sweatshirts, bulk himself up.  His mom didn't need to see
what he'd become, the skeleton that walked like him, talked like him.  "Chris."

     "Stop," Chris said.

     "I never thought it would be you," she whispered, letting go, and he idly
wondered if he'd bruise.  If tomorrow, when he finally got the guts to take off his
clothes, would his skin be marred and purple?  He rubbed at it, gently, because it
stung.  "I didn't know it was you I needed to protect.  I'm so sorry, Chris.  I didn't
know it would be you."

     Chris dropped his head, a tightness in his chest that was suffocating him,
forcing heat to his eyes where it threatened to spill over.  He understood she was hurt,
but he wasn't strong enough to help her heal, too.  He couldn't even help Joey, who
was dying with it.  "Mom, please.  I don't want to hear this, okay?  Just. stop talking.
Please."

     "Chris," she said.

     He didn't say anything at all.

~~~

     Chris didn't really remember growing up.  He did, of course, on some level,
but it wasn't especially vivid or detailed, just pieces of the truth that he told people so
they'd have their answer about his childhood.  He remembered the stuff that made a
difference, like the job he got when he was eleven to help feed his little sisters, even
when the rest of the boys his age were playing basketball after school, or getting his
acceptance to college, even though his marks weren't that great, and how proud his
mom was of him for doing what nobody expected him to do: get out.  

     But there were other things, darker things, that his mother tried to shield him
from.  Bleak realities that she didn't want her kids to know.  If Chris knew about
them, it was only because he figured them out for himself.  She never acted like her
five children were a burden, and she never complained when they were all packed into
a station wagon, living in an empty parking lot and washing at the houses of friends
who took pity on them.  

     These truths were kept in the vault of memories that Chris didn't admit he had. 
His stepfather hadn't beat him for looking at his records; his birth father hadn't left a
sixteen year old girl alone to deal with a starving, colicky baby; he hadn't been
tormented for years because his shoes were used and ugly and his belly was bloated
from lack of food, humour his only shield; he hadn't cried after his first experience
with a boy, not even afterwards, when that very same boy told everyone he was a fag
and had tried to touch him.

     Chris knew, if he thought about these things, his mind would break.  He was a
survivor, but only because he knew how to forget.  He'd played by their rules for a
while, tried to move beyond without erasing the past, but it obviously didn't work for
him.  If it did, he wouldn't be here, still broken, still trying to find the great answer to
end all the needless suffering.  

     Chris knew he needed to forget, but he couldn't seem to push it all past him. 
Everything reminded him, from the way Joey looked at him when he thought Chris
wasn't looking back, to the image of Chris's own tortured body in the mirror, to the
haunted looks in his friends' eyes whenever they had guts enough to meet his.   He
couldn't forget because nobody gave him the chance to.  He knew there was only one
way to fix it.  

     The only question was if he had the guts to do it.

~~~

     "I'm sorry," Chris finally said.  "For pushing you away, but I really can't talk
about it."

     "I know," she said.  

     "I just don't know what else to do."  It was cold, suddenly, and he could hear
the Fatones downstairs, Joe loud and boisterous, moving mountains to fix the mess
Chris had made with his son.  Joey loved his parents, but Chris couldn't remember
seeing them, not for months, and that wasn't right.  "I'm so tired."

     "You can't sleep forever," she said, his mom to the core, always telling him
how to live, like she knew better.  She did, Chris thought, and he needed to remember
that.  Slowly, Chris got up and sat next to her.  She looked at him, startled, and he
knew they'd said enough about everything, at least for the time being.  Chris really
hated talking about it.

     "I'm hurting him," Chris said instead, spreading his hands apart and holding
them open.

     "You need to do what's best for both of you, Chris."

     "I love him," Chris said.  It came out like air, light and intangible, cool by the
time it reached his hands.  He curled his fingers to his palms.  "But I can't do this to
him.  He's broken, and I'm the reason why.  I just don't know how to fix it.  I've tried
so many ways.  Nothing changes.  Nothing is ever better."

     "Then you need to do what's best for him and him alone and hope it helps you,
too."

     She took his hand with hers and held it.  They looked the same, their hands,
like plaster casts.  When he was a baby, she held him with those same hands.  There
weren't many pictures; he was the family shame for a long, long time.  Sometimes,
Chris felt like he still was.

     "Can I stay with you?"  Chris asked, and she nodded.  "Okay.  I should phone
Lance," Chris added, quietly, in case Joey could hear, could somehow sense the
betrayal.  It was hard to speak above a whisper, anyway.  "And it's just for a little
while, right?  Just until he gets back on his feet.  Or I do.  I know this."

     "You do," she said.  "Things will be fine, Chris."

     Chris nodded.  The phone felt heavy in his hand.

~~~

     Lance arrived at exactly four thirty-three, looking controlled and awake as
always.  He let himself in, and when Chris glanced up from the row of neatly rolled
jeans he was staring at, Lance was standing in the doorway, a steaming cup of coffee
in his hands.  Chris looked at his mom, who nodded and left.  

     "He didn't see you come in?"  Chris asked quietly.

     "He was out cold on the couch," Lance replied.  Lance walked over and sat
down, eyes on Chris as Chris continued to pack his suitcase, folding enough clothes
for a few days.  He'd pick more up later.  His hands were shaking, and Chris knew
Lance was looking at them, watching his fingers fumble as they fit his belongings in. 
"Is this the end, Chris?"

     Chris shook his head, rolling his boxers into a ball and sticking them in the
corner of the luggage, next to the tangle of mismatched socks.  "I don't want it to be,"
Chris said, staring at the open bag and not at Lance.  He could still feel Lance's eyes
on him.  "It's just a break."

     "Do you need reassurance, or would you rather I just shut up?"  Lance asked,
reaching over and helping to fold the shirts.  Chris stepped back and tucked his hands
under his armpits, arms crossed over his chest.  "I think this is the right decision,
Chris."

     "I know," Chris said.  He sucked his lips into his mouth then exhaled out his
nose, tapping his head against the wall.  He just felt so helpless.  None of this was fair. 
Chris's entire life wasn't fair, and he hadn't complained about it before, but he was
now, even if he was the only who heard it.  "I'll come back.  I'm just. I'm too much
for him.  And he would never ask me for space."

     "He wouldn't," Lance agreed.  "It'll be fine, Chris."

     "We tried so hard," Chris said, pressing his cheek against the cool smoothness
of the wall.  He closed his eyes when Lance zipped up the suitcase, the sound loud and
final.  This was it, Chris realised.  "He's going to hate me, but I think.  When he looks
at me, I think it's all he sees.  This body."

     Lance's face betrayed nothing as he looked at Chris.

     "At this, Lance," Chris said and pulled off his shirt, making Lance see him, at
the one thing he couldn't seem to escape because it was him completely, this useless
body that couldn't seem to remember how to live.  Lance lowered his eyes, and Chris
glanced down, lifting his fingers to press along the indentations in the skin, the sharp
zigzag of ribs.  "It's all he sees.  He says he doesn't, but how can he not?  Look at
me."

     Lance stood up and walked around the bed.  Chris dropped his head, a hand
pressed to his belly, flat and hard, and he concentrated on breathing, in and out.  When
Lance's warm hand settled on his shoulder, he wasn't surprised.  He just leaned into
Lance's body until his arms circled Chris without asking.  Chris couldn't ask, anyway. 
Wouldn't.  

     "Can you take care of him?"  Chris asked, pressing his face against Lance's
neck, and Lance nodded, tightening his arms.  Chris mirrored the movement, his eyes
burning with unshed tears.  "I didn't want it to end up like this, Lance.  I wanted it all
to be a happy ending."

     "It will be.  It's just going to take time," Lance whispered. 

     "He saved me," Chris said, "and I can't save him."

     "You will," Lance said.

     "Promise?"

     "On my life, Chris."

~~~

     Through the front window, Chris watched Lance take the dogs outside, laying
down a towel then hustling them into the back seat of Chris's mom's car.  Lance
stayed with Joey's parents and Chris's mom as they waited on the lawn, giving Chris
some private time to wake up Joey and explain everything,  

     "Joe," Chris whispered, putting his hand on Joey's shoulder and shaking him
gently.  Joey's eyes briefly flickered open, then closed again.  So Chris jiggled Joey
again before leaning down and pressing a warm kiss to Joey's parted lips.  Joey
opened his eyes completely.  Chris touched Joey's wrinkled forehead.  "Hey, Joe."

     "Hi," Joey said, rubbing at his eyes with his fist.  Joey was terrible when he
first woke up: disoriented, groggy, adorable.  Chris stroked his knuckles across Joey's
cheek, smiling at him.  Dazed, Joey smiled back, but it was uncertain, suspicious. 
"Sorry I freaked out on you."

     "I've done worse,"Chris said, kneeling down on the floor, a bent arm resting
on Joey's belly.  Joey was warm and soft, such an utterly gorgeous man, inside and
out.  Chris put his hand over the steady beat of Joey's heart, looking at him and his
beautiful brown eyes.  "It's okay."

     Joey's brow wrinkled deeper, but he nodded.  Chris could tell Joey was
puzzled, trying to figure everything out, and Chris was chickenshit for doing this just
as Joey woke up, when his response would be subdued.  Chris didn't want them to
fight, not over this, not when he was so close to not leaving at all.

     "I talked to my mom tonight," Chris said.  

     "Good," Joey said, "now she'll stop hassling me."

     Chris smiled at Joey's lame attempt of a joke, tugging on Joey's shirt with his
fingers.  Joey's heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute under Chris's palm, like he
already knew, and he probably did.  Joey was so much smarter than everyone gave him
credit for.

     "I think."  Chris's voice caught, and he cleared his throat.  "I'm gonna go
home with her."

     "Are you coming back?"  Joey asked.  

     "I hope so," Chris replied.  "Just. maybe not for a while."

     Joey's heart was thumping so hard that Chris had to take his hand away,
putting it against his own chest instead.  Joey pulled himself up, shaking his head, and
he reached out for Chris so quickly that Chris barely had time to catch the hand in his,
immediately pressing his lips to the back of it.

     "It's for the best, Joe," Chris said. 

     Folding a hand over Joey's knee, Chris leaned up and kissed the corner of
Joey's mouth, licking at his lips, and Joey kissed back, hesitant and careful, touching a
row of cold fingers to the side of Chris's neck.  Chris could feel the tension in Joey's
body, his leg shaking under Chris's palm.  With a sigh, Joey pulled away and stared up
at the ceiling.  

     "Do you understand why?"  Chris asked.  

     "I never said this was too much for me," Joey said, chewing his bottom lip into
his mouth.

     "I know," Chris said, gathering Joey's hands in his and holding them.  They
were freezing cold all over, so Chris rubbed them between his palms, trying to coax
heat into him.  When that didn't work, he brought the icy fingers to his mouth and
breathed on them. 

     Joey lowered his eyes, leaning forward on the couch.  "We tried so hard."

     "This isn't the end," Chris said.  Joey dropped his head and closed his eyes,
and Chris watched the first tear leak out, then the second and the third, until
everything started to blur and he couldn't count anymore.  Chris folded his palm over
his own eyes, still keeping one hand tangled in Joey's fingers, but he couldn't stop
himself from crying, not when Joey was crumbling in front of him.  

     Joey slipped to the floor, hard and heavy, and clutched at Chris, crossing his
arms across Chris's back.  Chris didn't want to go, but he knew he needed to.  That he
couldn't keep doing this, all of this.  He needed to see Joey smile again and mean it. 
To let the life creep back into him before Chris drained it all out again.  

     "Is this because."  Joey pulled back.  "Is this because I don't work?"

     "No," Chris said, abrupt and loud, so Joey would hear it. Chris cupped his face
then kissed his lips, drinking the tears beaded at the corners of Joey's mouth.  "This is
because I love you so much that I can't keep hurting you  "

     "You don't.  You never did," Joey said quickly.  Chris could taste the panic on
his skin.

     Chris kissed him again, a lingering touch of lips, and Joey responded, opening
his mouth and darting out his tongue.  Tears were still pouring down Joey's face,
gliding over Chris's fingers, and Chris couldn't swallow them into his own body quick
enough.  "I have to go, Joey."

     "I'll be here," Joey said desperately, his voice shaking, "I'll wait."

     Chris nodded and started to pull away.  When Joey's hand grabbed his wrist
and tightened, Chris flinched at the sudden pain then Joey let go completely, sitting
back and rapidly blinking.  Chris's mom stood in the doorway, waiting for him, and
Chris stumbled towards her, moving away when she reached out to help.  In a daze,
ignoring Joey's muffled sobs, Chris walked out the door and headed for the car.  

     "Chris?"  Lance said.  

     "Keep your promise," Chris said, opening the passenger door to his mother's
old Honda Civic.  He wouldn't turn around, refusing to look anywhere but at the blur
of blue in front of him, like the sky had been brought down and presented.  "This isn't
the end, Lance."

     "I know, Chris," Lance said, sounding so far away yet so near at the same
time, like they were the only two people left in the world.  "In two weeks, we have to
be in New Orleans to start rehearsing.  If you need me to push back the tour again, tell
me now."

     "I'll be there, Lance."  Chris closed his eyes.  "We finished the CD tonight."

     "Yeah, Jayce told me.  Thank you."  Lance paused.  "You take care, Chris."

     Chris nodded.  "And you take care of Joey."

     Chris climbed in and sat down, shutting the door then locking it.  Glancing into
the back to see Busta and Korea quiet and calm, he turned around then buckled
himself in with shaking hands, eyes burning with tears.  He knew his face was
drenched with them, could taste the salt on his lips.  He couldn't stop crying, so he just
brought a knee to his chest and allowed the tears to keep coming, wetting his jeans
through to his skin.  He barely noticed when his mom started the car, could barely see
at all even though he tried to focus his eyes on the dashboard and calm down.

     He only knew it was five in the morning when he left.

~~~
i remember that time you told me, you said, 
"love is touching souls"
surely you touched mine.
- Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You"
~~~

Fin.