Chris worries a lot.  He does it quietly, so no one will notice
that he's nine years older than the youngest, and five years from
the second oldest.  Anyway.  Chris worries.  It's a habit.  It's
annoying.

It's also, apparently, bad for your health.  Chris smiles through
gritted teeth and refuses anti-depressants.  He doesn't need to
have help with worrying.  It's not something he wants to stop
doing.  Not anymore.  The doctor doesn't understand, but shakes her
head and hands over a prescription for the ulcer that's destroying
his stomach, and another for something "just in case" he changes
his mind.  Chris bares his teeth at her and nods and starts to
leave.

She asks him out.  He bares his teeth more and makes some joke
about not dating patients.

His stomach hurts.  How fucking stupid.  Stomachaches are something
children get from too much ice cream.  Or a lie you tell to get out
of gym class.  Chris thinks about the implications of this as he
drives home.  Happily, it doesn't take too long, even with the stop
to fill his one prescription.  However, as he approaches his house,
he sees another car in the driveway.  Just... freaking... great.

Joey stands up when Chris pulls in.  He claps Chris on the
shoulder. "Gimme a call if he gets to be a pain.  Fucker insisted
I drive him over here, and then made me wait outside.  Talk about
hissy fits.  I swear though, if he's too much, call me, and I'll
come get him."

The look on Chris' face is obviously one of 'come get who?', but
Joey doesn't wait around -- he's been waiting long enough already. 
He gets in his car and drives away.  Fast.

Lance is sitting inside, tucked against a window.  Sightless eyes
stare outside.  The sprinkler is going, pinging artificial rain
against the window.  He's listening to it, drowning in the sound of
the 'rain'.

He's not completely sure why he made Joey drive him over here. 
Joey'd been his first thought.  When in danger or in doubt, seek
out Joey, the best friend, for comfort.  But all Joey'd done was
irritate him.

Lance wonders if maybe Joey has always had those irritating
qualities.  If maybe he hadn't noticed them before because he was
lost in Joey's solid, reassuring presence and his smile.  Without
those, Joey seems uncommunicative and useless.  That makes Lance
grumpy and mean, because Joey's his best friend and Joey's trying
his best and here Lance is, savaging him.  It makes Lance feel bad,
doing that to Joey.  But he can't help it.

He thinks maybe Chris is the better choice, but doesn't know why.

Maybe it would have been better to never call anyone at all, and
just stay home.

Chris sighs and heads into the house.  It's Lance.  "What's up,
Lance?" Chris asks.

"Nothing much.  Don't worry about it.  Just got tired of Joey."

Chris walks over to Lance, putting his hands on the other man's
shoulders.  "Why don't you tell me anyway?"

Lance leans into Chris' hands.  "How about you?  Get the stomach
thing taken care of?"

"Just indigestion," Chris says.  He leans down, resting his chin on
top of Lance's head.  "What're you looking at?"

"Listening to the rain."

Chris frowns.  Lance is staring steadily out the window.  It's
entirely possibly he's just not focusing, but that's not like
Lance.  "What do you see?"

"Nothing," Lance tilts his head back toward Chris, mouth lifted at
the edge.  "Had a photo shoot today.  Accident with the lights."

"What?" Chris asks, voice very quiet.

"You know what I mean.  Same thing that usually happens when the
lights aren't angled right, only this time there was a foot in the
wrong place at the wrong time and a new guy with the wrong strength
of light.  Should wear off in a couple of days."  Lance's tone is
almost light.

Chris kisses Lance's forehead upside down.  "Are we suing them?

Lance shrugs, reaching up to touch Chris' hand where it's resting
on his shoulder.  "I suppose we could.  I'll let the lawyers work
it out.  The photographer was very apologetic."

Chris tugs lightly until Lance stands.  "Come to the couch.  C'mon. 
There're fun things to do."

"Yeah?" Lance turns right toward where the couch should be.  He
hates the forced helplessness, but he hates being helped almost as
much.  That was what had eventually led to him screaming at Joey. 
He takes a few cautious steps, hands at waist height, but spread.

Chris doesn't help.  "To your right," he says, as he goes after to
the closet.  He returns with two beers and a shoebox.

Chris' voice recedes.  Lance is both angry at Chris for not caring
and relieved that he can at least pretend Chris isn't watching.  He
manages to get himself seated without too much trouble.

Chris kneels in front of Lance, not trying to be quiet.  "See?  You
can do it.  Here, have a beer.  He presses the bottle against
Lance's hand.

"I *know* I can do it," Lance snarls.  He doesn't like being
patronized.  He doesn't especially appreciate being patronized with
a beer that -- he rubs his thumb over the top -- yes, is open, and
therefore very spillable.  He hates making a fool out of himself.

Chris shrugs.  He'd poured off some of the beer before coming back
in.  "Here, dude.  Your other senses, like, are heightened."  He
opens the shoe box and sets it on Lance's knees.  "This is a shoe
box of things that feel or smell interesting.  Tay made it for me."

Lance bites back his first response when the sense of what Chris
says sinks in.  "Made it for you?  Why?"

"It's something she heard me say once, that I'd seen it all.  She
wanted to give me something new."  Chris sighs.  "I kept my eyes
shut for a whole day for her.  My shins were black and blue, but I
didn't want any help."

Lance nods.  Chris' voice is velvet.  Not deep and soft
necessarily, so much as comforting as it strokes his ears.  "I
don't think I can drink the beer and go through this."

"Why?"

Lance's mouth hardens.  Chris won't take his excuse, and Lance has
too much pride to make more than that.  "Fine," he says and picks
through it.  He feels how the box can slide off his lap and he's
only got so many hands and if he could just put one of the damn
things down, the box or the beer, but he's not sure if Chris has
end tables or where they are if he does.

Chris says, "Oh.  Duh, you could just have said so, you know.  I
thought you meant you'd get drunk off a beer, or start crying or
something.  And I wanted you to know it's okay if you wanna break
shit or throw a fit or cry and be held or something."  He takes the
beer and reaches to the side, setting it down.  "It's in a really
tall coaster thing, so you can't tip it over, but you have to lift
straight up to get it out.  To your left, slide straight out from
your hip along the couch and over the arm.  About three inches past
the edge of the couch."

"Drunk off *one* beer?" Lance asks incredulously.

"S'why I wondered.  There could be medication involved."

Lance shakes his head.  "No.  The only reason I bothered seeing the
doctor was that Joey dragged me there.  Gerry -- the photographer
-- he's a good guy.  Said pretty much what I thought, that he's
done this to himself, too, more than once, and it always goes away
after a while."

Chris makes an undecided noise.  "Eh, it's always good to check."

Lance moves a little, turning more toward Chris.  "You mean like
you and your 'indigestion'?"  It's more than that, Lance knows. 
How much more, he isn't sure, but people don't normally clutch
their stomachs and faint from indigestion.

Chris sighs.  "Okay, fine.  Ulcer.  Whatever."

"Bleeding?"

Chris sighs again, more heavily.  "I don't do things halfway."

Lance reaches out to Chris tentatively, hoping not to poke him in
the eye.  He touches flesh and flattens his palm out.  The stubble
and edge of a beard clue him in.  He's stroking Chris' cheek.  Not
quite where he was hoping.  He drops his hand after a second,
because it's kinda more intimate than he'd planned.  "Yeah, well. 
You're Chris.  Never do things a little if you can do them a lot."

Chris smiles, but it's not happy.  "Pretty much."  After a moment,
he asks, "Are you scared?  A little?"

"I'm not happy, if that's what you mean.  Pretty furious, actually. 
I didn't need this right now.  Or ever, really.  And I have no idea
what I'm supposed to *do* for three days."

"Learn?  Look at it as an assignment in non-visual communication?"

Lance snorts.  "C'mon, you know me.  Do something mature with my
time?  I'd rather sulk and get stinking drunk."

"Okay.  That's cool."

Lance tries to give Chris a withering look, but it's a great deal
harder when he doesn't even know if Chris is looking at him. 
"That's what Joey said just before I told him I wanted to come see
you."  Joey'd been frustrated and Lance had been... difficult. 
He's not angry at Joey.  Much.

"No, I mean I just stocked up.  That's cool."

Lance smiles.  This is why he came to Chris.  It's still sympathy,
but not the kind that grates on his nerves.  "This is why I love
you so much."

Chris's face grows wistful.  "Of course it is."

"Well," Lance says, in a little better mood now, "it's not like I
can say it's because you're gorgeous.  For all I now, you've got
catsup all over your face."

"I don't," Chris promises.

"Okay then.  I love you because you have alcohol *and* because
you're gorgeous."

Chris snickers.

"What?" Lance says, setting the shoebox aside and feeling for his
beer.  "You don't believe me?"

"Not hardly, but you're a sweet guy to say it."

Lance arches an eyebrow, "*Sweet*?", he asks as he takes a drink of
the beer.

"Uh.  Nice?"

"*Nice*?  Chris, I hate to tell you this, but I'm getting seriously
insulted here."  He's actually amused.

Chris sighs and lays his head on the couch next to Lance. 
"Amusing, then."

Something settles on the couch.  Chris, obviously.  Either his feet
or his head.  Lance reaches out carefully, in case it's the latter
and gets hair.  He pets Chris.  "Now you sound sad, and you're
making me feel like I should apologize for coming to you because I
thought being around you would make me feel better."

"Eh.  You know doctors make me tired.  Having to be serious for so
long!  It's torture!"

"So lie down.  Take a nap."  He likes the feel of Chris' hair
running through his fingers.  "I can entertain myself...  Okay, so
that's up for debate.  But you don't have to do it."

"Of course I do.  It's my job to annoy -- I mean entertain you."

Lance laughs.  "You're confusing me with Justin again."

"I never confuse you and Justin."

"Oh."  Lance isn't sure what to say to that.  "Um, do you need to
take any medication?  Call in some prescriptions?"

"No, I'm good.  How about you?"

"Saw the doctor.  No prescriptions."

"Aspirin?  Nap?"

"Alcohol.  Good company."

"Okay."  Chris gets up and fetches the many bottles of alcohol
stashed in his bar.  "You want me to tell you what's what, or you
just wanna go?"

"Go where?"

"I mean just start drinking."

"Oh.  Nah, surprise me."

Chris hands Lance a bottle.  "You want drunk good company?"

"Whatever.  Up to you.  Not if it's gonna make your stomach worse
and turn you into a mess."  Lance's been around for a couple of
those.  Chris can make praying for death amusing, but it doesn't
look like fun.

Chris squints.  "Eh, you're a lightweight.  You won't even be
around for that part."

Lance snorts.  "Will so.  I can drink all the rest of you under the
table."

"Only if we raise the table for you."

Lance snorts again.  "The reason the table gets pushed up is from
all your bodies stacked under it."  He opens the bottle and takes
a large mouthful.  The first one is the hardest one.  By the end,
it'll be tasty stuff.

Chris laughs.

Lance smiles in his general direction and takes another mouthful. 
By the time the third one soaks in and he has to hit the bathroom,
he'll be feeling fine.  He usually is as long as he's in company. 
It's only when drinking alone that he gets maudlin.

Chris scrambles up onto the couch and grabs a bottle.  Screw
doctor's orders anyway.

The couch bends when Chris sits down, but Chris is too far away to
touch.  "You know," Lance says conversationally, "in another couple
of drinks I'm going to have to go to the bathroom.  Because that'll
be when it hits, only I won't be drunk enough yet to crawl, and
that's pretty much the only way I can find your bathroom blind." 
He is, apparently, drunk enough to start talking too much, though.

"S'okay, I'll get you there," Chris promises.

Lance takes another drink and toes off his shoes so he can swing
his feet up onto the couch.  "Only 'cause you'll have to go too by
then."

"Well, yes."  Chris starts rubbing Lance's feet.

"And because you'll need me to lead you there when we're both blind
drunk," Lance says wisely.

"Sure, of course."

Chris's stomach starts to burn pleasantly with the liquor.

The need hits sooner than he expected.  It's like his dick is
burning.  "Okay, gotta go, right now.  No laughing."  He caps the
bottle carefully and puts it on the floor in front of the couch. 
It's where he's probably going to end up later anyway.  He stands
up and sways.

Chris stands and supports Lance, aiming him toward the bathroom.

Lance wraps his arm around Chris' waist, turning his head toward
Chris because it's not like he has to steer after all.

Chris manages to get them into the bathroom.  "Okay.  Here."  He
puts Lance right in front of the toilet, and holds his dick. 
"Piss."

Lance leans back into Chris, turning his face to nuzzle at Chris'
cheek.  "Mmm, honey.  You know what I like."  He's teasing, really. 
He's not *quite* drunk enough to hit on his friends yet, and it's
better to joke about it than get embarrassed over the situation,
and yeah.  He's nuzzling Chris' cheek and Chris has got his dick in
his hand.

When Lance is done pissing, Chris does the shake.  Then he starts
jacking Lance off.  He *is* quite drunk enough to hit on his
friends.  "I don't.  But I'd like to."

"Chris?"  He's surprised, definitely surprised.  But, he admits,
it's not a bad thing.  Chris' hand is actually a pretty good thing. 
He relaxes more against Chris.  "I'm okay with that."

Chris stills suddenly.  "Um.  I'm really, really fucking sorry
about this."  He releases Lance and settles him on the edge of the
tub.  Then he's violently ill.  "Fucking..."  And it's a *very* bad
thing.  "Jesus..." Painful, and not in the least good, since it's
kind of, "Bloody hell..." Literally.

Very good becomes very not good suddenly.  Lance isn't drunk, but
he isn't sober enough to deal with this either.  "Chris?" he says,
sliding around to put his hand across Chris' back.  Chris is puking
into the toilet.  Only they haven't been drinking long enough to
get vomit drunk.  Not unless Chris has been putting the stuff in
via IV.  "Do you need a doctor?  Your medicine?"

Chris coughs weakly and flushes.  "No.  I'll be okay."

If it was his house, Lance'd have glasses by the sink and he'd get
Chris some water.  He doesn't think Chris does.  "Seriously.  It's
something with the ulcer, right?"

Chris sits back against the wall.  "Yeah.  Shouldn't've been
drinking.  My own fault."

"My fault, too," Lance says.  He tucks his dick away.  "I'm sorry."

Chris sighs.  "So.  Uh.  Are you drunk enough to let me sex you up
anyway?"

That's unexpected enough to surprise a laugh out of Lance.  "I
can't believe you still want to."

"Oh, hell, yeah."

Lance considers.  "I need to be drunker.  You scared me sober.  And
you have to take *something* for your stomach."

Chris sighs.  "I don't think I can.  Alcohol, y'know."

Lance's hands clench helplessly.  "Chris, really.  Take something. 
Anything.  Pepto-Bismol.  Whatever the doctor gave you.  Something. 
Please."

Chris reaches out, unknotting Lance's hands.  "Shh.  Shush, now. 
I'm okay."

Lance turns his hands to hold onto Chris'.  "Please?  I'm worried
about you."  Everything's more intense with alcohol.  Happiness,
fear, anxiety.  Everything.

Chris pulls Lance against him.  "Don't worry, Lance.  Please don't
worry.  I'll take something."

Lance lets himself be pulled.  Chris will catch him.  "Okay.  Okay,
good."  He breathes out against Chris' neck.

Chris holds Lance close and tries not to breathe on him.  "S'okay."

Lance kisses the side of Chris' neck.  "You said it's okay, so it's
okay.  As long as you take something.  Now."

Chris leaves Lance on the floor, standing to grab some pills. 
"Okay, okay.  Pushy child."  But there's a smile in his voice.

Lance gropes the wall to stand.  Blindness plus alcohol does not
equal steady on his feet.

Chris reaches out, pulling Lance against his side as he swallows a
pill dry.

Lance grabs onto Chris.  "Hey."

"Hi."

"So *when* are you going to take something?"

"Just did.  Can't you hear me swallow yet?  What kinda blind guy
are you, anyway?"

"A drunk one."  Lance kisses Chris' cheek.  "Not drunk enough yet
though."  He reaches out for the wall, finds the door, and sensibly
drops to his knees.  He can find his way just about anywhere in any
of their Orlando houses as long as he's on his hands and knees. 
Lance giggles.  It sounds kinky even in his head.

Chris frowns.  "What're you doing?" he asks.

"Getting more drunk!"

"You're crawling," Chris points out.

"So I can find the bottle."

"I'll find it for you," Chris offers, falling onto the floor with
Lance.

"I can find it!"  He can too.  There's the fuzzy chair to detour
around to the right, then the table with the sharp edges to the
left and then he's bumping his forehead into the couch, right where
he left it.  "Bottle!" he exclaims happily, as his fingers close
around it.

"That's not the same bottle," Chris notes, leaning against the
couch next to Lance.

"It's not?"  Lance opens it and sniffs.  "Still alcohol."

"Yes, it is."  Chris carefully tucks his hands under his arms so he
won't grab a bottle or touch Lance.  If he can't get as drunk as
Lance is going to be, it's taking advantage, and Chris won't do
that.  Not to anyone, but especially not to Lance.

Lance leans over against Chris.  "You're unhappy."

"Well, uh.  I just kinda vomited blood, and I'm only half-drunk. 
Other than that, I'm perfectly happy," Chris replies.

Lance keeps careful hold of the bottle as he lays back against
Chris.  He tips his head up until he can see Chris, and keeps
tipping til he remembers he can't see right now.  "S'okay.  I think
maybe I'm drunk enough now anyway."

Chris rubs his thumb over the wrinkles in Lance's forehead.  "Oh?"

"Yep.  I just forgot I couldn't see you.  That's pretty good,
right?"

"Well, yes."

Lance brings his hand up, the one with the bottle cap in it and
tries to move it around to where the bottle is so he can recap it.

Chris reaches out and guides Lance's hand to the right place.

Lance screws it on carefully and then lets the bottle drop.  "So,"
he says, trying to see Chris again and sighing when he still can't. 
"You keep touching me and kissing me.  But then you threw up so
you're gonna be sober.  And then I'll just be stupid and..." he
realizes he's rambling.  "Okay, I'm already stupid."

"No, you're not.  Just a little impaired."  Chris kisses Lance's
temple.  "But I can kiss you some more."

"You don't want to.  You should be drinking, um, that white stuff
that comes in bottles and is good for your stomach."  Lance is
starting to feel sad because he doesn't have anyone to be happy
with.  "You need to get well."

"I do want to.  I really, really do."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"I suppose it's okay then.  Except you're sad and then I'm sad and
now I wanna cry."

"Don't cry," Chris croons.  He leans his cheek on Lance's hair and
rocks them.  "Don't cry, Lance."

"But you're sad."

"No.  I'm not sad."

"Not sad?"  A smile begins to grow on his face.  "Happy maybe?"

"Happy, yeah."  Chris traces Lance's smile as if he's the one
that's blind.  "You're happy."

Lance snaps lazily at Chris' fingers.  "Yep.  As long as you are. 
No fun being happy all alone."

Chris laughs.  "Okay, kiddo."

Lance grins.  "Good.  That's better."  Lance knows things aren't
all right, but it doesn't matter if Chris can pretend, because
being drunk is all about pretending to be happy and how it becomes
real with the alcohol, and it's almost worth the price of the
hangover if you're miserable enough before you start.

Chris holds Lance for a while before asking, "You wanna move to a
bed?"

"Your bed?"

"Yep."

"Okay."  Lance agreeably starts crawling toward the stairs.  Right
around the table, then straight down the carpet, and if there's
tile, then he's drifted too far.

Chris stops Lance.  "Stand up.  I won't let you fall."

"I know how to get there."

"I know you do.  I know you can do it.  I want to help."

Lance isn't sure he gets Chris' point, but if Chris wants him to
walk, he can.  He staggers unsteadily to his feet.  He has
absolutely no idea where the floor is, but the beauty of being
drunk is that he doesn't care.

Chris slides his arm around Lance's waist and guides them both up
the stairs and into his bedroom.  "What you wanna sleep in?" he
asks Lance.

"Bed?  You?"  Lance snickers.

"Bed, yes.  And you can't sleep in me.  Or," Chris frowns.  "I
guess you could.  If you wanted to."

Lance feels the bed bump his legs and, reaching to determine the
edges, flops down on it.  "Sad Chris again.  Why so sad?"

"I don't want my ass to be so boring you'd fall asleep in it."

"Oh."  Lance wrinkles his nose.  "Well, never mind then."  His
fingers are rubbing at the nap of whatever's covering the bed.  It
feels good.  He rolls over and starts brushing his face back and
forth across it.  "Soft!"

Chris laughs.  "Chenille."

Lance pushes himself up, looking alarmed.  "You've got a girl here? 
Where?"

"No, silly.  That's what the blanket is.  The soft thing?"

"Oh."  Lance grins blindly in the direction of Chris' voice as he
lets himself fall back onto the bed.  "I like it."

"I'm glad," Chris replies.  "Undo your pants, please."

"You do it."

Chris does, trying to keep from groping Lance.  Much.

Lance is disappointed at the lack of touching.  But then, maybe
Chris wants to be all naked first.  He sits up, strips off his
shirt and throws it in the direction of Chris' shuffling feet. 
"You take yours off, too."

Chris strips and tugs the blankets down.  He crawls in, then pulls
the blankets over them.  "There.  Snug as a bug in a rug."


Lance rolls against Chris.  "Hi!" he says brightly.

"Hi!" Chris replies.

"So you got me where you wanted me.  What're you gonna do with me?"

"I'm gonna sleep with you."

"Oh."  Lance is disappointed, but he's also more than a little
drunk and so it's all right.  He's got warm Chris skin under his
fingers and his face and his naked chest and that's nice.  "You're
soft, too."

Chris holds Lance close.  "Lance, if you weren't so drunk, and I
didn't feel so crappy, I'd totally sex you up.  How 'bout if you
just sex *me* up in the morning, okay?"

"It'll be all different in the morning," Lance predicts.  He'll be
miserable then.  Physically miserable and, this time around,
mentally miserable too 'cause he'll still be unable to see.

Chris sighs and reaches down.  His hand finds Lance's cock and he
starts to stroke softly.  "I'll still want you in the morning," he
promises.

"Oh!" Lance says, arching into Chris' hand.  "Do that, please. 
Like that.  Kiss me?  Bite my lips."

Chris kisses Lance, but doesn't bite him.  Soft and slow.  Like a
dream, so Lance can pretend it is one in the morning, if he wants
to.

Lance growls and nips at Chris' lips even as he works his hips into
Chris' hand.  "Please?  Wanna feel it."

Chris dips his head and marks Lance's neck, his collarbone.

"Good, that's good," Lance says and lies back to feel it.  Chris'
hand and Chris' teeth and *Chris*.  "Chris Chris Chris Chris."

Lance comes into his hand.  Chris moans quietly, his teeth set in
Lance's shoulder.

Lance shudders and relaxes against Chris.  "Good.  's good."  He
mouths at the part of Chris closest to him, which turns out to be
hair and starts sliding down Chris' body to return the favor, full
of slow and lazy pleasure.

Chris stops Lance.  "Like this, please."  Lance's hip is pressed
against his cock, and Chris begins rocking lazily.

"Wanted to suck you," Lance says, but he stays where Chris wants
him anyway, kissing and licking.

Chris closes his eyes tightly.  "I know.  Shh, later."

Lance hushes obediently.  He's happy, Chris is happy, everything's
okay.

~~~~

When Chris wakes in the morning, Lance is still there, plastered
against his side.  Lance smiles a little in his sleep.  He's just
too fucking tempting.  Chris eases from the bed and goes to brush
his teeth so he can kiss Lance.  Morning breath plus barf breath
equals not a good thing to kiss with.

Lance wakes up when the bed moves.  He opens his eyes, then
remembers.  He closes them again. He feels sick.

Chris returns with a glass of water and ibuprofen.

"Chris?" Lance says as the bed dips.

"Yeah, Lance.  I've got water and drugs here for you."  He pets
Lance's hair with his free hand.  "You feel like you can deal with
that right now?"

"That, yes."  Lance loves Chris very much right now.

Chris helps Lance turn over and props him up enough to take the
pills and drain the glass.  He lets Lance back against the pillows
and gets another glass of water and a wet washcloth.  "Here."  He
puts the glass in Lance's hand and starts cleaning come off of
Lance's stomach.

He bats at Chris' hand.  "That's cold. Stop that."

"It's not cold, brat." It's as hot as water can be and not burn the
shit out of Chris's hand.  Still, he stops and gets a towel to wipe
the water off after.  When Lance's stomach and thighs and, ahem,
dick are clean, Chris leans over and kisses his bellybutton. 
"There. All done."  He covers Lance back up.

Lance sighs.  His head is swimming and he feels vaguely nauseous. 
Also Chris just touched him all over and went away again.  "Sit
down for a while, will you?"

Chris refills the glass again and comes back, crawling into bed
with Lance.  "I was planning to."  He snuggles into Lance's side.

Lance isn't going to think about what any of this means.  He's just
going to enjoy the feeling of Chris pressed up against him. 
"Thanks.  That's better."

Chris eases his arm over Lance's chest.  "You okay? Wanna go back
to sleep?"

"Mostly okay.  Just a little hungover.  And still not able to see
anything."

Chris kisses Lance's forehead. "Just pretend it's still night and
all the lights are off."

He might as well.  He certainly doesn't feel like getting up, nor
does he have any incentive to do so.  But the feeling of Chris'
lips on his forehead lingers.  "Why are you being so sweet to me?"

Chris stills.  "Uh. To confuse you?" So maybe Lance doesn't
remember much of last night.

"Oh."  He doesn't really buy that, but if Chris wants to be
flippant, then there's probably no point in pursuing the matter
further.

"Maybe because I like you, too.  You know, just a little.  Like
China's a little country."

Lance can't think of anything to say to that.  There's too many
things to say.  He squeezes Chris' hand.

Chris smiles and settles in for a nap.

When Chris doesn't say anything more, Lance's mind begins to
wander.  It's not long before he's falling back to sleep again, but
that's okay, because it's better to sleep through the hangover than
be awake for it.

When Lance's breathing completely evens out, Chris gets up.  He
tucks Lance in carefully and goes to take a shower.  He just can't
stand to be inactive any longer.  Besides, if he stays in bed, he's
likely to wake Lance up and demand an explanation of last night and
what Lance wants in the future.  Lance'd be so pissed, he'd refuse
all future kissage and Chris's life would be ruined.

He always has vivid dreams after a night of drinking.  Short, vivid
dreams.  The vivid part in his case is seeing Chris over and over,
and sometimes Lance wants to get away from him, and sometimes he
wants to get to him, but it's always Chris and he's never there. 
A dream that makes sense when he wakes up and finds that Chris
really isn't there.

It's not like Lance can sleep for long when he's hungover -- he
sleeps for little bits of time at a time and then goes back to
sleep or gets up.  And that's a better answer for why Chris is gone
than any of his paranoid imaginings.

Still. He should have stayed home.  He's helpless and vulnerable in
Chris' house.  He has no idea where his clothes are, and the idea
of groping on hands and knees for them doesn't appeal.

But it's not like he has much choice.

Lance sighs and gets out of bed.

Chris happens to be in the hall when Lance starts moving around. 
"Morning, sunshine.  Your clothes are in the washer, but I put some
sweats on the end of the bed there.  Boxers, too, though they'll be
huge on you.  And... uh.  You look really hot like that."  Lance is
standing there with the sun shining around him and his hair all
mussed up and yes.  Chris wants him a lot.

It's kind of unnerving knowing that he can be seen when he has no
idea that someone's there.  "All right.  Thanks."

"Sorry.  I'll stamp next time or something," Chris says, feeling
rejected.  He didn't mean to make Lance self-conscious, but it's
still hard being dismissed.  He shuffles away, making sure his feet
make noise on the carpet.

"You don't have to apologize," Lance says.  "You're being nice to
me.  You've got nothing to apologize for."

"I made you feel weird, and that's not cool."

"If anything, the guy with the light made me feel weird.  Just. 
Stop treating me like I'm defective and it'll be fine."

"You're not defective.  Me treating you like you were would be
trying to dress you.  If you can get downstairs, I'll go make some
lunch."

"I can get downstairs," Lance says.  He can't keep the snap out of
his voice, but he tries anyway.

"Okay."  Chris takes Lance's word and leaves him to his own
devices.

He gets dressed.  It's a stumble from there to the bathroom, but
since he heard Chris go down the stairs, it's not a humiliating
one.

Now what would Lance want for lunch?  Chris is left to contemplate
alone.

Lance comes downstairs, hand against the wall.  He's going to have
bruises all over his shins before he gets his sight back. He
follows the sound of movement into the kitchen.

Chris looks up as Lance comes in.  He's limping just a little. 
"Grilled chicken okay with you?"

"Sounds good."  He hopes he doesn't walk into the stove.

Chris opens his mouth to tell Lance where the table is, then closes
it.  It takes more effort than is pretty not to speak.

He blunders into the fridge, but that orients him, because the
table's behind it by a couple of steps.  He turns around and steps
forward.  He pulls a chair out and sits down, trying to control the
trembling in his hands.

Chris bites his lip so hard he thinks he'll taste blood any second. 
Fucking Lance.  Chris just wants to help.

Lance places his hands on his thighs to conceal them.  He smiles in
the direction of the small sounds of cooking and metal on metal. 
"Smells good."

"Thanks," Chris says quietly.

"Thanks for making me lunch," Lance says, feeling at a loss again.

"You're a guest.  Plus, y'know, I kinda like you," Chris tries
again.  Every time he mentions it today, Lance deflects him.  If it
happens this time, he'll just have to assume Lance wants to forget
about it.  Or that Lance hates him for taking advantage last night. 
Chris wouldn't blame him. He hates himself a little, too.

"I like you, too," Lance says quietly.

Chris leaves the stove and comes over.  He makes noise on the way. 
And then he hugs Lance's shoulders from behind.  "I'm really glad
to hear you say that."

Lance doesn't understand why Chris responds so much to the word
'like', but he sees the correlation now.  *He's* said the word
'love' a couple of times, but that Chris ignores.  Why, he has no
idea, but he wraps his hand over Chris' arm, holding him close.  "I
mean it."

Chris rubs his nose against Lance's neck.  "Can I help you, maybe? 
Not because I think you can't do it or you're weak or anything. 
Just cause."

"Maybe," Lance agrees.  "I don't feel all that good today.  So, um,
if I snarl at you, it's not because I'm angry.  It's just... you
know."

Chris nods.  He's close enough for Lance to feel it.  "You wanna
maybe lay down after lunch?  Listen to a movie and doze a little?"

Lance lets his hand drop.  He wishes Chris would stop pulling away,
but then, that's the nature of Chrises.  "If it isn't too boring
for you, sure."

"I want to hold you.  And keep you from running into shit.  I want
to kiss you," Chris admits, thinking maybe there's something wrong
with this.  Maybe Lance will think he's taking advantage again.

"I'm not likely to run into much on the couch," Lance says, but
he's smiling.

"You never know.  I hear there've been people attacked on their
couches."

"You can save me.  Right?"

"I'll sure as hell try.  Even if I have to perform buddy
breathing."

"You will, huh?  Then I'm perfectly safe."

Chris laughs.  "Ready to eat?"

"Yep."

Chris serves and dinner is fairly easy and enjoyable.  Chris
doesn't point out that when Lance isn't thinking about it, he has
no trouble remembering where his utensils and glass are, and no
trouble getting food into his mouth.

Chris keeps up a steady chatter of talk over lunch and that reduces
Lance's self-consciousness.  And his every question isn't about how
Lance is feeling and how Lance is getting along and whether Lance
thinks he's going to get his sight back.

Chris doesn't do the dishes.  That's why dishwashers were invented,
and why he bought the best one.  Instead he escorts Lance into the
living room, under the guise of being too tired to walk himself. 
He just leans on Lance and steers.  "What movie, boyo?"

"Something with a lot of dialogue?"

"Or something with none, so we can make it up?"  Chris bumps Lance
onto the couch and starts hunting.  "Shawshank Redemption.  How'd
that get in here?  Hmm.  Porno, porno, Bambi, porno..."

Lance laughs.  "Not porno."

"Um.  Usual Suspects..."  The list goes on and on. Chris has some
of everything.  For when he needs to take care of different people.

"Just pick one," Lance says.

Chris pops in the next movie he grabs and scrambles back to the
couch, curling up around Lance.  "Whoo!  Hot man on my couch."

"Yeah?"  Lance stretches out, wriggling his toes.

"Yep."  Chris tickles Lance's toes and rides out the resultant
kick.

"You're going to be annoying, aren't you?" Lance asks, moving his
feet out of reach.

Chris shakes his head.  "Me?  Never."  But he stops tickling and
settles between Lance and the back of the couch.  They're spooned
together.  Chris reaches back and pulls the blanket that is
miraculously still where it should be down over them.

Lance rolls over, so his face is against Chris' chest.  He doesn't
need to see the TV screen after all and he can hear equally well
either way.

Chris wraps his arm over Lance's waist and sticks his other arm
under Lance's neck, holding him close.  Chris's arm'll go numb of
course, but he doesn't care.

Chris smells good and Lance is tired.  Not so much from the
hangover or lack of sleep as from the struggle with his own
helplessness.  He needs to think about why Joey grated on his
nerves and why Chris doesn't.  But instead, he tucks his thumb
under Chris' waistband and yawns.

Chris smiles and kisses Lance when he's done yawning.  "You're
fucking adorable, man."

Lance tilts his head back, smiling.  "Not trying to be."

"Don't have to try.  You're wearing too big clothes, your hair is
all tumbled, you yawned.  You're adorable.  It was inevitable."

"Like you, too," Lance says.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I think you do," Chris says.

"Good.  Gonna maybe be here for a while?"

"As long as I can."

Lance nods.

"Gonna fall asleep?" Chris whispers a while later.

"Was thinking about it.  You sick of me already?"

"No," Chris whispers.  "I'll just turn the TV off and sleep with
you."

Lance smiles.  "Sure."

Chris turns everything off and tucks Lance's head under his chin. 
"Nap time, Lancey-poo."

Lance takes offense.  But not so much offense that he wants to
move.  He retorts in kind, saying sweetly, "Nap time, sugar-buns."

"Whoo!  I'll make you cinnamon rolls later."

Lance snorts, shoulders shaking.  "Not the kind of buns I was
talking about."

"Honey, you're welcome to any buns I got."

Lance smiles.  "Careful.  I might take you up on that."

"And this would be bad why?"  Chris grins.  "Oh, wait!  It's nap
time."

Lance snorts again, but the smile doesn't go away.  Something about
Chris makes him happy.  Even when he can't see anything else, he
can see that.  He cuts the discussion off with a curt, "Nap now. 
Flirting later."  But he kisses Chris's throat.

Chris laughs and then quiets.  "Nap," he whispers.

Lance nods.  Maybe he'll sleep, maybe he won't.  But either way,
he's with Chris.