What He Wants By: Rhys It all happened one innocuous night in the middle of a thunderstorm. Chris couldn't really explain why; it was just one of those things. The rain was coming down in sheets, thick and white, and Lance was freaking out about leaving the window of his Pathfinder open with his laptop in passenger seat and destined to be soaked. "Umbrella," Chris was saying as Lance slipped into his birken-stocks, attempting to make Lance take the aforementioned umbrella because the tips of his hair were being frosted. At the same time, Joey was trying to get Lance to understand that running out into the rain with chemicals dripping down his face was going to result in hideous deformities. "But that's my life!" was all Lance was willing to say on the matter. Lance ran out into the rain, and Chris ran after him in his socks, holding up the huge black umbrella and trying desperately to protect Lance's face. The storm was directly over them, and Chris was already soaked through to the bone, but Lance was dry and that was all that mattered. The fate of the group depended on Chris's sacrifice. Chris opened his mouth to point out the window actually was rolled up and that Lance owed him new socks and would Lance please stop running because Chris's arm was getting tired from holding the umbrella, but he never really got it out. Chris didn't remember much of what happened, just the blinding shock of light, and the shriek of Lance, who hit notes higher than Chris himself could hit, in that very moment. He remembered hitting the ground, the umbrella still in his hands, and he remembered making sure it covered Lance's head as they fell, but other than that, the whole night was pretty foggy. It was after that, however, that everything went weird. ~~~ "Fuck," Chris hissed, opening his eyes and blinking hard, stumbling hard into consciousness. Joey was bandaging his hand, chewing on his lower lip in extreme concentration, and Lance was sitting beside him, hair wrapped in a towel. "That hurts like a motherfuck." "You're lucky you're not dead," Lance said quietly. Chris tried to remember what happened, but all he really recalled was eating a black banana for breakfast in sheer desperation for food. Everything after that was extremely fuzzy. Chris shrugged. "If you say so, man. I'm hungry." "You get fried by lightning, and you're hungry?" Joey asked, tying the gauze tightly against Chris's hand and examining it carefully. Chris growled with pain, and Joey looked apologetic but didn't stop. "We should take you to the doctor. You might be brain-damaged or something." "Do I seem brain-damaged?" Chris demanded, "and wait, don't answer that. My fragile self-esteem and shit, you motherfucker. Of course, I'm fine! Look at me! Sure, I'm about to gnaw my hand off at the wrist, but my superior wit is intact." Lance frowned . You could have died. "I'm fine and alive, Lance. Calm down, man, it was just a run-in with lightning. It happens all the time," Chris said, feebly patting Lance on the back with his uninjured hand. Chris was lying through his teeth, but Lance didn't need to know that. "Um, I didn't say anything," Lance said, looking at Joey, who shrugged massively and got up to get Chris a glass of water from the kitchen. "Maybe you should get some sleep," Lance said, and maybe we should take you to the hospital. "No hospital," Chris said, "I'm fine." "We aren't fighting you, dude, relax," Joey said, handing Chris the glass of water, and Chris drank quickly, his parched lips desperate for moisture. Chris felt sunburned, like his skin was too tight, and Joey was already going for another glass. "But man, like, think about seeing a doctor, all right? Your liver could be dead or something." Chris just shrugged and drank another glass of water, drenching his shirt. "Whatever, really. I feel like I've been hit by a truck, but it's kind of like that time I feel asleep on that beach for three hours without sunscreen. Yeah, a lot like that." That was my fault, too. Chris grunted in exasperation, pointing at Lance in the most accusing way he could. "Will you cut it out? This isn't your fault at all, and that wasn't you fault either, you stubborn fucker. I was the fool who insisted on taking off my shirt" "I didn't say it was," Lance replied defensively. "Whatever," Chris snapped and didn't talk to Lance for the rest of the night. ~~~ Chris woke up on Joey's couch with Joey in the kitchen making breakfast, and Chris remembered more of what happened the night before, but not much and certainly nothing important. Grumbling, Chris asked, "do I have to buy a new umbrella?" Joey looked over at him. "Yeah." "Fuck," Chris hissed and stood up, cradling his injured hand to his body. "I just bought that goddamn thing. Fucking umbrella. Those things are instruments of death, I'm telling you. One false move and zap! Your life is toast." "Only you, man," Joey said and laughed. Chris attempted to look indignant but munched on a slice of toast instead, sighing deeply, and Joey raised an eyebrow. "Dude, if you're going to say something, spit it out." "Where's Lance?" "Stuff to do, you know how he is. Busy. Plus, you know, he thinks it's better if he leaves you alone for awhile. You were totally on his case last night, man," Joey said, handing Chris a huge plate of scrambled eggs, and Chris grabbed for the ketchup, a dirty habit picked up from Joey. "That wasn't cool of you." "He kept saying these things, you know? Blaming himself for shit that wasn't his fault. He always does that," Chris added, chewing a large helping of eggs before swallowing loudly. "Like, everything in the world is his fault." Joey sat down. "He wasn't saying anything, Chris. You kept going after him, when he said maybe five words to you. I don't know, man. I think you might have fucked up your brain or something when you were hit. The umbrella was charred pretty badly." "I'm so fine, man," Chris insisted. "So fine." And he honestly thought he was. ~~~ Chris bought Lance an I'm-intensely-sorry-please-forgive-me gift in the form of a new sparkly shirt and brought it over the same night to apologise. Lance answered the door, his hair in wild tufts everywhere, and Chris winched. "I woke you up, didn't I?" Chris asked. Yes. "No," Lance said and stepped back, letting Chris into the house. Chris smiled, and Lance smiled back, he doesn't look too mad. That's good. Maybe he doesn't hate me after all. I always fuck up when it comes to him. Stupid, Lance, stupid. "We're cool, man," Chris said, blinking hard because Lance's mouth wasn't moving, not one inch, and Chris knew that Lance held no skill in ventriloquism. Justin was the only who could do it even slightly convincingly, and he was still pretty bad. It was one of those stupid things Chris knew about the guys. Chris stuttered, "I'm sorry I woke you up." "I wasn't really asleep," Lance replied, pulling at his shirt and refusing to look at Chris, who was staring stupidly because holy fuck, Lance's lips hadn't moved when he spoke, and that was not a normal thing, Chris knew, not at all. Chris was thinking about freaking out. God, he's looking at me. Why? Do I have something on my face? "Uh, Chris?" Chris jumped. "What?" God, he's on drugs. That asshole, he knows he's not supposed to. "Nothing." "I'm not on drugs," Chris muttered, staring at his feet. "At least, I don't think I'm on drugs. I'd probably know if I was on drugs, but I'm not, because I don't do the heavy shit, you know that. I'm just. Um. My head, you know?" Lance nodded. "I'm not doubting that." God, what is he on? "I brought you this, as apology, for me being a bitch last night. The lightning strike, it kinda messed me up for awhile, and I was on your case for what Joey says is no reason," Chris muttered, tapping his shoes on the ceramic tile. "So, yeah, here." Lance took the bag and looked inside of it, and Chris watched his face carefully, leaning in close because Lance's speaking voice and Lance's thinking voice sounded very similar. Lance pulled out the shirt, and wow, oh my, wow, that's so nice of him, I love it, it's so soft and shiny and pretty, i lovelove it. "Thanks, Chris," Lance said softly, "it's cool." Chris nodded mutely and moved to leave, turning back and smiling before walking to his car and climbing in. Lance waved and shut the front door, and Chris started the engine but took a moment to himself before muttering, "holy shit." Because, well, really. Holy shit. ~~~ It didn't seem to happen with the rest of the guys, only Lance. Or maybe they were just mindless, unthinking morons, but Chris was sure Justin was semi-intelligent, at least, and his brain was quiet. Chris didn't know if he should tell someone or not because he was sure no one would believe him. It was all kind of surreal. For the most part, Chris avoided Lance. A couple times, after reading hokey sci-fi novels, Chris ventured over to Joey's place, where Lance was staying, for the sake of experimentation. Singing songs in his head didn't cancel out the mumble in Lance's. Lining his bucket hat with tinfoil did absolutely nothing, which Chris could only call tragic because he actually believed in it. Willing himself not to hear didn't work either, and Chris was already guilty because Lance, though a quiet thinker, spent a lot of time thinking. Lance was an intensely private person, where Chris was open about anything and everything, so finding out certain things that Lance obviously didn't want to be known tore Chris apart on the inside. Chris just couldn't turn it off. "What's wrong?" JC asked suddenly, flipping through the shiny pants while Chris chewed on his fingernails, biting down to the skin. Chris looked up, eyes narrow. His head was throbbing from the headache induced by Lance's continuing search for what he thought to be beauty. Lance was too fat, too fair, too short, too hippy, too effeminate, too ugly, and Chris couldn't say anything, least of all the listen- moron-you're-hot that Lance so obviously needed to hear. It'd be weird coming out of nowhere like that. "Migraine," Chris muttered, gnawing at his fingertips, "I'm fine." "You sure?" JC asked, talking to Chris but his eyes were focussed elsewhere, and Chris nodded, wandering away. It was just as well Chris couldn't read JC's thoughts. Sometimes, Chris was sure it'd be a very scary place inside JC's head. Chris walked past Lance, who was talking to the salesman about khakis. Lance was smiling, leaning into the man as they rubbed the fabric of the pants, and then Chris heard it. He didn't mean to, he just couldn't turn the fucking thing off. He's hot. He's hot. Keep smiling, make him smile, too. God, I could sleep with him. His ass is, wowohwow, and he's so handsom, mmm. I want to lick him. Which made Chris walk into a row of shirts. Lance looked over, and Chris smiled weakly, pulling out the first shirt he touched. It was light pink. Oh, god. I'm being obvious. I'm so obvious. I'm such an idiot. I'm so stupid. Act straight, be straight. I hate my fucking life. Fuck, Chris. I'm so obvious. Chris heard Lance say thanks, and Lance walked away from his beautiful man, eyeing Chris as he went to JC, and Chris looked back at him, shivering inside. Lanced wanted to fuck that guy. Lance was asexual. It messed with Chris's perception of him. Chris went with his pink shirt into the dressing room. "Shit," Chris said, flopping into the chair. "Shit." Chris was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to know about that. ~~~ The whole mess just got worse and worse. Most of the time Lance's head was a harmless place, and Chris often found himself laughing out loud at some amusing thought to cross Lance's mind, which was always swallowed and replaced by some awkward burst of verbalisation. Chris liked this new side of Lance. The other guys just looked at Chris like he was insane. Chris was pretty sure they were right. They were at an awards show, in which they'd been shut out again, and everyone was in a pretty bad mood because of it. Joey wanted to go out, and Justin and JC agreed, but Lance went to bed early, though he didn't go to sleep. Chris was miserable and feeling old and just wanted to go to bed. Though in separate rooms, their heads seemed to be close enough to hear Lance, and Chris couldn't sleep because Lance just wouldn't. stop. thinking. Chris. Jolted out of his daze, Chris jumped slightly, bracing his hands against the bed and looking around before relaxing. Lance wasn't there in the room, of course not, and Lance probably was just watching the awards show. Chris flipped to MTV and sure enough, there he was, looking fat and old and ugly. Chris sighed. The camera was not kind to him at all. Lance, it seemed, disagreed. Looks good there. Hot. Sexy-hot, very nice. "Oh shit," Chris said, automatically twisting his hands into the sheets because this turn of events was somewhat worse than merely unfortunate. This was going to suck for everyone involved. "Lance, man, don't think that. Not about me." Love him, shouldn't. Chris groaned, "fuck." Fucker, don't think about that. Don't. But he's so. Makes you laugh, and laughter is good. Makes the world better, and you like that. And he's so. Sexy. And yeah, maybe Chris felt a bit flattered at that, but this was still so fucking wrong. Chris. And Lance. ChrisLance. ChrisLanceChrisLance. Is the door locked? I think so. Should do work, but mmm. No. Just want to get out of these clothes. A naked Lance was really much more than Chris needed to imagine. Want to. Yeah. Need a real man. Chris was seriously contemplating thumping on the wall to jolt Lance out of it, but he just didn't. Thought about it for thirty seconds but then Lance thought something really visual -- mmm, fuck, fuck me, mmm, that's, yeah, good -- and the way it sounded sent jolts of electricity through Chris's body. Sex- voice, there was no doubt anymore, and Chris was hard as a rock and refusing to touch himself, just. Not going to go there. But he wasn't above listening. Chris turned down the volume on the tv, bracing his feet against the bed -- god, you're so, i want you so badly, mmm, just like that, just. fuck me -- and Chris closed his eyes, thinking about crying because this was so not good, not in the slightest bit, but he was so fucking turned on by it. Lance was -- fuck me -- thinking about Chris in a fucking sexual context, and Chris was. more aroused than he'd been in years, his cock raring angrily at the zipper of his jeans, but Chris was not going to give in. Not touching, just hearing. "Fuck you, Lance," Chris swore, "you idiot. Fuck you. Cut it out." When the words turned into a steady hum, with -- oh gods -- and -- mmm yeahs -- thrown in for fun, Chris was writhing and swearing and really, really hating this whole terrible, invasive, cruel situation. And when Chris came, well, it just made it even worse. "Motherfucker," Chris muttered, panting with hard gasps and stunned, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He felt torn between wanting to beat himself over the head and marching into Lance's room to demand right and proper sex. Instead, Chris peeled off his jeans and looked disgusted with himself. Nearly thirty years old, and he creamed his pants. Fuck. ~~~ It worked out that Chris and Lance were left to work on various business aspects of the group together because Lance knew what he was doing, and Chris desperately needed to siphon some business savvy from somebody. It might as well be Lance, whose mind he could actually read. It was a quiet Lance-thinking night, with only occasional mumbles of something not business related. Chris was heavily doped up on aspirin anyway, preparing for the worst, but so far things seemed fine until Chris stood up and stretched, his fingers brushing his toes. Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. He'll think you're gay. Don't look. A brief pause then. He's hot, god, he's hot. A nice ass, so nice. Nice person. I. want him. This isn't fair. He's so straight, and you're fucking everything up already. You suck, Lance. Chris mumbled something about getting food and a drink from the kitchen, and proceeded to pound his head against the fridge. He didn't mind that Lance checked him out -- or jerked off thinking about him, too, which Chris was dealing with a lot better than he thought he would -- in fact, most of Chris wanted to march back in there and tell Lance that it was perfectly all right, Lance was free to ask for more from him because Chris could certainly give it, but the loathing he got from Lance, the absolute hatred of feeling this way was hurting Chris's brain. Chris splashed cold water on his face, drying it on the dishtowel and smacking himself around a bit. The urge to press Lance to the couch and suck him off or fuck him silly or just kiss him was very, very strong. Chris couldn't, though, it just wasn't right. Chris grabbed a bag of chips and two diet cokes, diet only because Lance wouldn't drink anything else in fear of gaining weight, and returned to the living room. Lance was thinking quietly again, and Chris sat down, tearing into the chips. "Wanna watch a movie instead?" Chris asked bleakly because he was pretty sure he couldn't read anymore with the way his head was pounding, and Lance looked up, inwardly questioned the ramifications of slacking off and decided it was all right. "Great," Chris said before Lance answered, "so pick one." "You pick one," Lance replied, and Chris already knew no amount of whining was going to change Lance's mind. That, perhaps, was the only good thing about knowing what Lance was thinking, and also the fact that Chris knew the movie Lance wanted but would never ask to see. Chris slapped 'Velvet Goldmine' into the DVD player and let it run. Chris spent more time listening to Lance's thoughts than he did watching the actual movie. Lance found both Ewan MacGreggor and Jonathan Rhys Meyers attractive, though he preferred the former. Lance liked the look of the film. Lance was a highly visual person, Chris found out, and thought in terms of colour and shadows and contrast. Chris was almost asleep listening to Lance watch the movie when the flash of male nudity came on the screen, and Chris opened his eyes half-way. Lance was aroused, and so was Chris, couldn't help it really because Lance was blasting his mind with thoughts, sexy thoughts. I should just go out and pick someone. Anyone. A man, a stranger, who wouldn't recognise me. It would be all right. It would be okay. I'm so lonely. I'm so alone. I hate this. And Lance sighed out loud, fingers tightening against his knee. Chris pressed his lips together then blurted out, "Ewan is pretty hot, eh? I'd do him." Lance's mind was a blank as he stumbled over his words. "What? Um. What? Ah. Chris, I don't. Why. Why did you say that?" Lance finally asked, breathing fast as he kept his eyes firmly on the television screen. "He is," Chris said, "so I thought I'd mention it because he's hot, and," Chris paused and tried to put his words together, "you know, I thought you'd be cool with me digging guys and girls and shit. I'm getting older," Chris continued, not believing he was actually coming out when he pretty much decided heterosexuality was way easier years ago and wasn't ever going to say anything to anybody, ever, "and I'm not afraid to admit I'm bisexual, and yeah, well. There you go." "Oh," Lance said. "Oh." But he didn't say anything more. ~~~ "What's up with you and Lance?" Joey finally asked. Chris sighed deeply. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you, man. It's weird." Joey crooked an eyebrow and leaned in closer. "How weird?" "You know that run in with lightning I had?" Chris asked, unconsciously tightening his healing hand, the burn almost completely gone, though the skin was still tight and plastic. "Well, all right. I don't know why, but I can read Lance's mind." Joey howled, pounding the table as he laughed hard and long, while Chris shrunk in his chair, smiling weakly at Lance across the room when Lance looked up from his laptop, curious. Tears streaked down Joey's face as he struggled for control, but Joey took one look at Chris and started up again. "I'm serious," Chris hissed. "I can prove it." "Yeah? How?" Joey wiped his eyes on his sleeve, still laughing. "Tell him to pick a number between, like, one and a million." Joey raised an eyebrow but asked, "hey, Lance, think of a number between one and ten million. All right?" Lance shrugged but nodded, and Chris grinned, picking up a pen and writing a number down on the paper. Joey looked at it. "Okay, Lance, what's your number, man?" "Fourteen thousand, seven hundred and ninety-three," Lance replied, smiling stupidly, and Chris knew it was because Lance wasn't understanding the point here and thought smiling made him look smarter than he felt. "That all right?" Joey nodded, his fingers on the piece of paper. "Uh. Chris." "I told you," Chris replied smugly. "I don't know why, man, but I can totally hear his thoughts, and I don't know what to do about it. Lance. There are things about Lance we don't know, Joe, important things, and I can't even tell you what they are because it's bad enough I'm hearing all this shit, when I should really be the last one to know." Joey frowned. "Is he gonna be okay?" "I don't know, man," Chris said honestly, "but maybe. I think I can make things better." ~~~ After a couple weeks of listening to Lance think, Chris almost got used to it. Usually, the mumbling put Chris to sleep, and Chris spent a lot of time drooling on Lance's shoulder, passed out and happy to be that way. Lance doing his banking was Chris's favourite time to be near him, dozing lightly while Lance ran numbers through his head, confident and smart. Chris spent a lot of time with Lance, feeling unnaturally close to him. Lance didn't seem to mind when Chris fell asleep against him, usually thought pretty positive thoughts about it, and they were definitely more touchy-feely than before, which was nice. Chris was over at Joey's house for dinner, missing Lance, who was locked in the guest room and preparing to go out. When they weren't in the same room, Chris usually couldn't hear anything, and he felt empty and alone without Lance. It was a bit disturbing, but the whole situation was weird, so Chris wasn't really concerned with his attachment. "Talk, Joe," Chris muttered, laying his head on the cool counter. "I have nothing to say, man," Joey replied, loading dishes into the dishwasher. "You heard my life story three days ago, and my entire sexual history yesterday. Chris, man, you know I love you, but my throat's getting raw. Go find Lance." "Dude," Chris moaned. "Please." "Go. Find. Lance," Joey repeated, "and for the love of god, man. Tell him." "It's too late for that." Chris dragged his face over the counter top, arms splayed across the tiled surface. "I can't ever tell him now; it's been weeks. He's going to wonder why I never said anything, and he's going to think that's the reason I'm always with him." Joey looked at Chris. "And isn't it, man?" "I don't know," Chris admitted. "At first, I couldn't stand being near him, but now? It's comforting almost. He just thinks these brilliant things sometimes, and it's just. It's wow, man, incredibly wow. And sometimes," Chris said, smiling to himself, "his thoughts go all mumbly and shit, and it's, like, a song, you know? This bass hum. He talks just like he thinks. It's so cool, Joe. It's so beautiful to listen to him, you know?" Joey sat down beside Chris and offered him a glass of rye, and Chris took it, drinking it in one gulp. Joey sighed. "Chris, I think you should tell him. I mean, before things get complicated between you two. More so," Joey added slowly, "than they already are." "I'm not hurting him," Chris replied. "You know every secret he has without him wanting you to know it. That's going to hurt him, when he finds out about it, and he will find out. Chris, man, I know you didn't ask for this to happen, but it's going to get messy really fast if you don't watch it." And somewhere in Chris's head, Chris knew Joey was right. ~~~ Chris was asleep on Joey's couch when Lance came stumbling home, and Chris jolted awake immediately, blinking in the startling blast of light. Lance looked at Chris, his face streaked with tears, and Chris winced, a stream of frantic thoughts assaulting his brain. I want to go away. I want to end. Make it end. I hate everything so much. I'm so uglyfatpalestupideffeminateuglyugly. I hate this. I hate me. He didn't want to fuck me. I said he could; he wouldn't. I was too fatuglystupid. What if there are pictures, the media, oh god, oh god, what did I do? They'll hate me. Chris sat up, his palm against his forehead, as another stream of thoughts hit. If there are pictures, I'll stop it. I'll end it. If anyone finds out, I'll kill myself. A gun, bullet to my brain, painless and quick, I'll do it. I want to fade away. I can't do this anymore. I'm not strong enough. "Hey," Lance said, sniffling. "I'm sorry." I must look so ugly. I feel so ugly. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. "I'm sorry I woke you up, Chris." "Wasn't really sleeping," Chris muttered, his eyes burning with tears, and he rubbed at them, grateful when Lance turned off the light. "I was just napping, you know. I was just. Are you okay?" Chris asked, his voice small. "Fine," Lance replied, I'm so lonelyalone, don't cry. "I'm going to go to bed. See you tomorrow." Chris nodded and watched Lance walk away, then got up and washed his face in the sink, erasing the sheen of tears from his cheeks. Calmly, Chris walked to the guestroom and opened the door, the only light slipping in beneath the bathroom door. Chris stood by the curtain-covered window and waited until Lance came out, strangely quiet in his head. He walked to the bed, his head down, and took off his shirt, his pants. The pale skin of his back was visible, then the whiteness of his legs, and Chris walked up behind him, running a gentle hand down the length of Lance's spine. Lance jumped. Oh god, oh god, he followed me home. I'm gonna die, and Chris muttered, "hey, man, it's only me. It's only me," and pressed a kiss to Lance's shoulder, dragging it across the soft skin. "It's just me." He knows. How does he know? Does everyone know? Are they laughing at me? And Chris hushed him with a murmur, knowing it was mind-speak. Lance was breathing hard and heavy, and Chris turned him around, touched his fingers to Lance's face then leaned in to kiss him, gliding his lips over the stunned mouth. Lance's mind was racing, but Chris was ignoring it, just taking only what he needed to know, that Lance was all right, Lance wasn't minding this kiss, even though he was scared and didn't think he was good at it and was a. Virgin. Shit. Chris pulled away, and Lance's mind was shrieking again, all over the fucking place while Chris attempted to make sense of something. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me was ringing loud and clear, and Chris couldn't ignore it, not when it was on endless repeat, and Lance was looking at Chris like he seriously wanted Chris, and Chris believed he honestly did. And Chris, as much he could tell, honestly wanted Lance in return. ~~~ They kissed for a long while, and Lance cried for a lot of it. Chris should have been put off, knew any other person would turn Lance away and stop it right there, but Chris could hear him, knew why he was crying. Lance wanted this so badly he didn't know how to deal with it. "So fucking hot," Chris whispered from time to time, "want you so much, man." "Me too, me too," Lance would say and kiss over Chris's skin tentatively, and Chris always shivered, always arched to feel him. Chris never really thought of himself as desirable, not when compared to JC or Justin or Lance or even Joey, but Lance, the way he thought about Chris, every single word to cross his mind, made Chris feel gorgeous. Lance was soft and smooth under Chris fingers, still wearing his boxers, and when Chris tried to tug them down, Lance let him, though he was worried Chris wouldn't be attracted to him, but Chris was, so much so that he was nervous. Chris was about to die from sensual overload. "Can I take off my stuff too?" Chris asked, and Lance nodded. Chris peeled off his shirt and shorts, sliding back against Lance, and Lance's mind whirred again, his back arching upwards as Chris laid his palm over Lance's cock. Oh god, it's good. It's. oh wow. I love him. Chris only smiled and touched and rubbed and worshipped before lowering his head between Lance's legs, and Lance let those sounds escape his head, vocalised them. It was beautiful, Chris thought, to hear Lance during sex, to hear him speak as well as think. And later, when they were twisted up in each other, with Chris deep inside Lance and fucking him slowly, making it so good Lance was writhing and Chris could barely think straight anymore, Chris was so in love with Lance that he hurt inside. ~~~ The morning after was hideous, absolutely the ugliest experience of Chris's life. Lance flew out of bed, stammering broken words, his skin a deep, dark shade of red, and the hate, the self-hate that oozed from him hit Chris like a sledgehammer in the head and Chris stumbled into the bathroom, vomiting in the sink. Chris faintly heard the I make him sick, oh god, I'm going to hell, I want to die before Lance flew from room, and Chris collapsed on the floor, nearly blind from the pain and sobbing. It fucking hurt like a motherfuck, and he was puking all over the place. "What the fuck is going on?" Joey asked, buck naked and dishevelled from sleep. Chris looked up, clutching his head, and Joey's expression softened considerably. He merely grabbed a towel, wrapped his waist and began to fill the tub. "You fucked up." "It seemed like a good idea at the time," Chris whispered, tears searing his eyes as he lay on the floor, crying and not even trying to hide it. Joey sighed deeply and helped Chris into the water, handing him a washcloth. "He wanted it. I didn't -- it was consensual, Joe." Joey nodded. "I don't doubt that. But you know Lance." "Yeah," Chris said weakly, "I know Lance." But for the first time, he wished he didn't. ~~~ Chris bought a new umbrella and made plans to run into a thunderstorm the next chance he got. Inside, he was aching, missing Lance and his thoughts and sleeping on his shoulder. Lance was at JC's and didn't come around anymore. Chris felt empty without him. "Dude, go out, get drunk," Joey said, sitting down next to Chris while Chris watched movies, eating his third bag of potato chips. Chris shook his head and sighed deeply, this huge void inside of him. Things were too quiet. "Then go talk to him." "I can't," Chris muttered, mouth full of crumbs, "he hates me." "Binging isn't going to help," Joey pointed out, stealing the bag of chips. Chris made a half-hearted attempt to get them back, but it was too much effort and he was content just to lie there and waste away. "You really love him, man. You're in love with him. Fuck." Chris looked at Joey. "I think so. It's so hard to tell, you know, what's in my head because I want it to be there, and what's there because he thought it first, but. I think so." Chris moaned loudly, putting his hands over his face. "This is so fucked up." "Tell him," Joey said. "Talk to him." "He hates me," Chris repeated. "He hates himself." And that much, Chris knew, was true. ~~~ "Is he here?" Chris asked when JC answered the door, a bouquet of white roses in his hand, part of an elaborate fantasy Lance harboured in which the man of his dreams confessed his undying love. They were a bit wilted and sickly-looking, but Chris felt they would do. "In the back," JC said, "he's still not talking. It's been days. I'm worried." Chris nodded because, really, that didn't matter at all. He merely walked around to the back of the house, seeing Lance by the pool with his feet in the water and thinking very loudly. He hates me. I'd hate me too. I freaked out, why did I freak out? Because. Because it was him, and he hates me. I can't deal with this. I don't want to deal with this. "Hey," Chris said, and Lance looked up, his eyes so green and bright. Chris already felt better with the hum in his head again, and he held out the roses, looking sheepish. Lance blinked but took them. "I'm really sorry." "Me too," Lance said. "But I --" "No, let me speak, okay?" Chris said, and Lance nodded, blinking those wide, pure eyes. "Okay, um. Here it is. That night, I don't regret it all. It was something I wanted to do for so long, man. I was just sick in the morning, bad timing and stuff. I miss you, Lance, I miss being near you and listening to you and sleeping on your shoulder." Lance looked like he was about to cry. What is he saying? "I love you, is what I'm saying, all right? Love you, a lot, more than I should, and I want to be with you, like, for a long time, and sleep with you at night, and cook you dinner, and make out with you on Joey's couch," Chris spluttered, throwing out the words and not really thinking about them until Lance started thinking about them, and then Chris felt lame. He was not good at being a suave, sophisticated man after Lance's heart. "Oh," Lance said, and Chris leaned into him, not liking how Lance wasn't thinking anything at all, which was very bad because Lance only stopped thinking during periods of extreme stress or extreme calm. "Okay, um. Well. Are you sure?" "Am I sure?" Chris repeated, and Lance nodded, please, please, don't be joking, don't be kidding, please, please, his mind humming again and Chris hugged him, attacking Lance's neck with desperate kisses. Chris hoped that, on the off-chance there were photographers hidden all around them, it looked brotherly. "I'm sure, I'm so sure. I promise. I totally want you." "I totally want you too," Lance whispered, I have for so long, I've wanted you for so long, I never thought you'd want me, I never thought I'd get you, and Chris wanted to kiss him full on the mouth but was too chicken in fear of cameras. "There's one other thing," Chris said, "but you have to promise not to freak out or anything, all right?" Chris felt the anxious thoughts come up again, and he squeezed Lance's hand. "And it doesn't have to be bad. It's just. It's really weird, all right?" Lance nodded. "Okay. The thing is -- and this is really fucking weird, man -- but after the lightning strike, you remember it. Well, after I got hit, I kind of began to hear things," Chris said slowly, thinking it sounded all right then waiting for feedback from Lance, but Lance was quiet. "Things like. Well, see, this is really strange, but I can read your mind." Oh, god, he's fucking insane. He's lost it. "Uh, Chris." "I'm not insane, man, and I haven't lost it," Chris said, watching Lance's eyes open wide, and Chris held onto his hand tighter, even when Lance tried to pull away. "I can just. I hear your thoughts, and I apologise for it, but I can't turn it off. I've tried." "This isn't funny," Lance said, I knew he hated me. "I don't hate you! Stop thinking that. I love you, you stubborn fucker, love you, not hate you. I've never hated you, not once in the five years we've all been together," Chris said quietly, and Lance was staring at him, looking bleak. "Think of a number between one and a million," Lance flashed a number, "and I'll say five thousand and sixty-seven." Lance pulled away and stared at the water instead, breathing deeply, calmly, and his thoughts were so erratic Chris could only pull out a couple thoughts, like oh god, he's not lying and what does that mean? and then he knows everything. Chris rubbed his temples and said, "quit thinking so hard, man. It hurts." Lance turned to Chris slowly, and he was angry. Chris didn't need to hear anything to understand what was plainly written all over Lance's face, and Chris tried to touch, but Lance slapped his hand away. "You pity-fucked me." "I did no such thing," Chris said. "I wanted to --" "You pity-fucked me!" Lance cried, and Chris clamped his hand over Lance's mouth, holding it there tightly while Lance fumed. "I didn't pity fuck you. Pity never came into it. I wanted you so badly, Lance, and I still do. Okay?" Lance nodded, but Chris didn't remove his hand, just kept it pressed there, though Lance was as loud as ever in his head, and Chris was hurting. "And stop freaking out, all right? You're frying my brain with all this second guessing and perpetual angst." Take your hand off my mouth. "And have you announce to the world that we sexed it up? No because, see, you were right about one thing: being gay isn't cool when you're a member of a boyband. Now, what we do behind closed doors is our business but don't scream it out." Lance grunted. You know everything about me. You knew about me before I was ready to tell you, and then we. You. I was a virgin, Chris. I was. But you knew that didn't you? "God, this is weird. I'm going to need therapy," Chris muttered, shaking his head. "But yes, I knew. I didn't mean to know, but I did find out. And yes to the virgin thing, man, but I was sure you were into it, all right? I wouldn't have done anything if you hadn't been slamming my brain with a desire for my loins." Lance snorted a harsh laugh. You asshole. This isn't funny. "Isn't it?" Chris asked. "Because, you know, dude, we've been talking for awhile now, and you haven't moved your lips once, and that, my man, is probably the weirdest fucking thing that's ever gonna happen to you. I deal with it by laughing. Humour me, all right? I'm two steps from losing my mind here." Chris pulled his hand away, and Lance sighed deeply. "This isn't cool, Chris." "I know," Chris said, stressing the word because it really wasn't, "but like, it won't turn off, okay? I tried, right at the beginning, but it didn't help. We're stuck with it. For the most part, I don't even hear you anymore. It's just a buzz, but, occasionally, you scream." "Does it happen with anyone else?" "Just you. And sorry," Chris added as an afterthought, "because I don't think I'd want someone reading my thoughts." "It's not so bad, I guess, I'll get used to it," Lance said, and Chris knew he meant it. ~~~ Chris, true to his word, cooked Lance some dinner at his apartment, which involved peeling the plastic off pre-made lasagna. Lance sat at the table quietly while Chris puttered around in the kitchen, washing lettuce. Can you hear me now? "Yep," Chris said, patting the lettuce leaves dry with a handtowel. "Do you like me talking better or do, um, you know. Do you not want me talk?" Lance asked, sprinkling salt onto the palm of his hand. Because, I guess I'm good either way. This is so weird, Chris. Really, really weird. "You're telling me, man," Chris replied, smiling and flopping his body over the counter to affectionately ruffle Lance's hair, "but it's probably better if you talk. When you're speaking, I'm less likely to overhear, like, important shit, you know?" "Um. How long. I mean, how long have you known about me?" "Not very long," Chris replied, dicing carrots and tomatoes. "I mean, a couple weeks, maybe. I overhead some things, and I figured it out. I didn't tell anyone, of course, because that's, like, so wrong. I really am sorry, man." Lance shrugged and sighed. "It's not your fault." "I still feel like shit," Chris replied. "But hey, I'm going to be the best boyfriend in all the world. See, the reason I don't date guys is because they're fucking morons when it comes to telling me what they want. At least chicks tell you what they're thinking all the fucking time, especially when you don't really want to hear it." Lance smiled then laughed as Chris climbed into his lap and licked his forehead. Chris grinned and messed up Lance's hair, liking how Lance's hands automatically rested on his hips. "So, you see, man," Chris said quietly, nuzzling Lance's face, "I'm going to make you happy because I'm not going to be like that." "It'd be okay of you were," Lance said, "I wouldn't really mind." "Fuck, you're sweet," Chris said, "and you're mine." Dinner was burned by the time they remembered about it. ~~~ Eventually, Justin and JC were told about the mind-reading situation because Chris and Lance often dipped into one-sided conversations. Lance realised he could work, think and listen all at once, but talking slowed him down. "Okay, yo. Is this where we're supposed to lock Chris up for being psycho? Because he hasn't stopped talking for three hours," Justin pointed out, looking between Chris and Lance, and Chris smirked. "No, seriously. You're weirding me out." "Chris can read my mind," Lance said, typing, "and we're dating." "Really? You're dating?" JC asked, "that's cool. I thought so." Justin frowned and looked at Chris, who shrugged. "Read his mind? Right." "No, he can," Joey said, "when he got struck by lightning, it fucked up his brain." "I heard things like that happen," JC said, "sometimes." Justin laughed. "All right, all right, funny, guys. Screw with my head, I don't mind." Lance stopped typing and sighed deeply. "Justin, please. It's true. Chris can read my mind, and he can prove it." Lance walked over to Justin, and they whispered while Chris smiled then Justin scribbled a number and made a grand production of hiding it from everyone but Lance. "Seven million, thirty-six thousand and twenty-nine. Twenty-seven, fucker, don't change it," Chris said, tossing a shoe at Justin's head. Justin was hit square in the forehead, slightly stunned, and Lance returned to his computer, kissing Chris on the way. Justin still wasn't blinking. ~~~ Boring. Boringboringboring. Chris smiled to himself, tapping his pen on the table. Boring. Chris? Chris looked up and grinned at Lance, who grinned back, sitting across the table and two seats down. Justin looked between them and shook his head, turning back to listen to the PR people pitch the upcoming promotional tour. Hey, baby. Chris looked down and felt sheepishly special. He chewed on his lips to avoid answering back, and Joey laughed beside him, elbowing Chris in the arm. It was one of those times when Chris really regretted not being able to speak in return. I wish thinking tonight that maybe, I don't know, we'd do something. Like, a sexy something, Lance added, his eyes sparkling, and Chris visibly shuddered and muttered about strong air conditioners to Joey, who rolled his eyes. Some candles, a nice bath. Chris tapped his pen louder and stared at his freshly pressed pants, which were tenting. Damn. Some crazy fucking like animals. While listening to your classic rock albums. Chris laughed abruptly and pressed his fingers to his mouth, looking up to meet those strange eyes. Lance smiled. I love you. Chris beamed. Sometimes, this whole situation was incredible. ~~~ Of course, it wasn't all great. Chris got horribly depressed if Lance wasn't around, complained about the silence and made everyone talk at great length about nothing. It was usually Joey who dealt with Chris, and Lance always came back after a few hours, but in the month and a half Joey and Lance were up in Canada, Chris ended up spending too much time at Justin's house in the weeks between seeing Lance on rare weekends. "Leave me alone," Justin hissed. "I need space, man." "I'm going insane!" Chris cried, wearing Lance's clothes and looking dangerously pale. Chris wasn't sleeping, could barely eat, and he was so alone inside his own head that he spent a lot of time crying in dark corners. "Make him come back. Talk to me. Please, Jup. Please, please, talk to me. Please, Justin, please." "I have nothing more to say, man. I'm sorry." Justin was exceptionally uncomfortable, and Chris didn't blame him. "Why don't you phone Lance?" "It's not the same! I can't hear him over the phone!" Chris put his face in his hands. "And I told him I was fine, you know? I told him I could handle it, and he says he's having so much fun, and I think he is, though I can't tell because it's so fucking silent between us." "Can I call JC?" Justin asked and looked like he was about to cry. "Yeah, okay," Chris said. JC came around and picked Chris up in his Ford Explorer, and he proceeded to talk for six hours about music before Chris finally fell asleep, curled on his side in JC's bed and pretending he wasn't crying. Inside, Chris was dying. ~~~~ "Chris," JC said, "this isn't normal. Let me call Lance." Chris moaned and shook, holding his knees to his chest. "I'm fine." "No, you're not," JC said, brushing his hand over Chris's forehead and sweeping the dark, sweaty hair back. Chris pressed his eyes tightly together and just wished JC would go away and leave him alone. "I can get you a plane ticket to Toronto. "No," Chris choked out, "I'm fine. I can exist without him." JC picked up the phone. "I don't think you can." Chris looked at him then grabbed the phone, throwing it at the wall and watching it break apart. JC jumped back, shocked, and Chris flew to his feet and just ran, got away from there and hoped he could find his mind again. If it wasn't already gone forever. ~~~~ Chris went home and watched television for five days straight, not answering the phone and keeping himself locked in his apartment. Justin kept coming around, pounding on the door, but Chris always shouted at him to go away, and Justin always gave up after half an hour. Lance left messages on the machine, and it was the only time Chris got up, scrambling to talk to him, but it wasn't the same, listening to Lance speak without hearing his thoughts. Chris didn't even understand why he needed Lance so badly, just that without him Chris's head throbbed constantly, and his thoughts were a mess. Chris put on a brave front for Lance, telling him that Justin was overreacting, and that he was fine, really, just a bit tired and fluish. Sometimes, when Lance started talking about the film, it was almost like Chris could hear him think because Chris could guess what Lance was going to say, but mostly, Chris hurt inside with desperation. ~~~ On the fifth night, it started to rain hard, thunder, lightning, the whole nine yards, and Chris got dressed quickly, grabbing his umbrella and jumping into his car. Racing over to Joey's house, Chris ran up the driveway and opened his umbrella, standing in the same spot as before and willing himself to get struck again. "What the fuck are you doing?" Joey shouted from the doorway, and Chris turned away from him, shaking through his entire body. He was so fucking tired he could barely stand. "You fucking moron! Get in here! You're going to get yourself killed!" Chris closed his eyes tightly and shook his head as the rain shot down harder, and the thunder boomed, and Chris kept muttering, "come on, come on, hit me, hit me," even while Joey screamed from the porch. Chris was either extremely lucky, or not, because lightning struck the lamppost beside him, sending down a blast of sparks, and Chris clutched the umbrella in fright, shrieking as arms wrapped around his waist and you fucking moron, you fucking idiot, if you die, I'll hate you forever. "Oh," Chris said sweetly, looking at Lance, whose mind was whirling and beautiful and busy, and he leaned over to kiss him, but he was shocked again, a flash of bright light, and felt the familiar burn of flesh, heard Lance's startled yelp, before collapsing hard onto the pavement and blacking out. ~~~ "How are you doing?" Lance asked, bringing breakfast in on a tray, and Chris shrugged weakly, poking at his wounded hand, the other one this time, and wincing every time. Lance sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand over Chris's fingers. "Stop it." Chris sighed deeply. "It's so quiet." Lance nodded. "I know. I'm sorry." "At least, you know, I calmed down some. I mean, I miss it, but I don't need it anymore. Our brains have separated, I guess, totally cleaved." Chris snatched a slice of toast from the plate and nibbled at it. "I was, like, this psycho hose-beast for awhile, but it seems distant, you know, like it didn't really happen." "Justin might argue otherwise," Lance said lightly. "Yeah." Chris smiled and pulled Lance down to lie with him, his uninjured hand sweeping the light brown hair away from the furrowed brow. "It's so weird, man, lying here with you and not knowing what you're thinking. I'm terrified I'm gonna look at you and my brain's going to think, oh god, I don't know what he wants, and shut down. I'm lousy at this relationship stuff, man." Lance grinned. "You know what I want, Chris. It's pretty obvious." "Yeah?" Chris said, and Lance nodded. "Probably want me, eh?" "Probably," Lance agreed. "Yeah." Fin.