Pairing: Chris and Lance
Words: hissing; fascist; myopic; jingle


No one caught it at first.  It didn't seem important, Lance
thought.  The ringing in his ears that never quite died down.  He
kept *meaning* to get it checked, but never got around to it. 
Well, he should have.  Because now he's stuck lying around in his
house after having some revolutionary surgery.  He's got cotton
wadded into his ear and he can't hear for shit.  It's like myopia
of the brain, because the constant stimulus of sound is just
*gone*, and Lance can't focus on anything.

Chris knocks, then thinks about how utterly stupid that is, and
uses his key instead.  He's got so many keys, he doesn't know what
half of them are for.  Some of them are probably for locks that
don't even exist any more.  But he kinda likes the jingle and
besides, if he didn't know to look for the round key between the
two square keys, he wouldn't know which key is Lance's.

He wanders through the house, looking for Lance.  And singing,
'cause, well, it's not like *Lance* can complain.

Someone is in Lance's house.  He gets up and starts looking for the
person.  He clings to objects in deference to his impaired balance. 
The inner ear has so many uses, as Lance is discovering.  "Who's
there?" he calls, feeling his mouth move, but hearing only a
distant echo of the words inside his head.

Chris hears Lance and heads in that direction.  "Dude.  How'd you
know I was here?"  And feels stupid when Lance doesn't say anything
back, because, hello?  Surgery here.

"I knew someone was here," Lance says.  "Should've known it was
you."

"Who else?" Chris says and slaps his forehead.  "Damn.  Y'know, I'm
just going to keep talking at you and you can be all offended about
it.  How's that?  Great.  I knew you'd agree.  Here."  He thrusts
the bag he's been carrying at Lance.  "Presents to comfort the
sick."

Lance reaches out and takes the bag.  "Oh, presents, so I'll
behave, huh?"

"So you won't kill us, actually," Chris mutters.  "We have seen you
sick before, y'know."

"What?"

Chris smiles and gestures toward the couch, indicating that Lance
should sit down and maybe open the fucking presents he brought. 
"By the way," he says, still smiling, "you're a fascist prig."

"I am not a pig!"

Chris makes a face at him.  "Take all the fun out of deafness, will
you?"  He forgot that they've all gotten pretty good at lipreading
over the years.

"What?"  Lance starts toward the couch, but forgets to touch
something.  He sways dangerously, before catching his balance and
standing still with his feet spread.  "Chris, can you help me?" 
Lance vows to move his couch out of the middle of the room after
this.

Chris moves forward quickly, getting his hand under Lance's arm. 
"No problemo."

Chris is there, guiding him to the couch.  Lance sits down. 
"Sorry.  My balance is totally fucked," he says bitterly.

"So everything's normal then," Chris says brightly.

"Don't be a bitch," Lance says.  He's got no idea what Chris said,
but knows it was bitchy.  It is Chris, after all.

Chris thinks about it for a second, wondering how tasteless it'd be
to molest a sick man, then throws himself across Lance's lap
anyway.  "But, *darling*.  I'm *your* bitch!"

Lance laughs and then sighs.  "I hate being the sick one.  What'd
you bring me?"  He plants his hands firmly on Chris, on rubbing
Chris's stomach under the shirt, the other in Chris's hair.  "Show
me."

Chris grins.  Success!  He may be crazy, but he's good at it.  He
holds out his hand for the bag.

Lance nods toward the bag.  "I'm busy."

"Busy with what, lazy ass?" Chris asks, but contorts until he can
reach the bag and grab it.  After he gets it, he sticks his tongue
out and pants exaggeratedly.  "You made me work," he grumbles.

Lance keeps petting Chris.  He loves touching Chris.  All that
energy seems to crackle under Lance's hands.

"So.  Presents."  He rummages in the bag and pulls out something
wildly colorful and knitted.  "JC made these for you, can you
believe it?  Earmuffs.  I don't get it, but hey.  At least you know
he cares."

Lance laughs.

Chris hands them to Lance and goes looking for another gift. 
Tupperware containers and foil wrap.  "Joey.  And Joey's mom.  Why
he thinks surgery makes people hungry, I dunno, but hey.  Good
eats."

"You can share," Lance assures Chris.

"Ah, I see how you are.  You're so lonely, you're bribing people to
stay with food."

"I do too know how to make my own food!"

Chris pats Lance's cheek fondly.  "You just keep telling yourself
that, honey."

"Don't make me stop petting you," Lance threatens.

Chris hurriedly grabs another present, this one an oblong about six
inches long by four inches high.  "And this is from me.  I know
it's kinda stupid, 'cause it's not like you *need* a whiteboard,
especially not one this size, but I figured, y'know.  If you wanted
to find out what someone was saying to you, you could make them
write it down, and it's not like you'll run out of paper this way,
and," Chris stops talking to grin ruefully, "it's not like you
understood any of that anyway."

Lance smiles.  "That's so sweet!  'Cause then I can make people
write down what they're saying, and I won't feel like an idiot!"

"Yep."

Lance bends over and kisses Chris on the nose.  "Yay."

Chris smiles dopily at Lance, and then realizes what he's doing and
stops.  "You gotta get less cute.  You're lethal."

Lance sighs and lays awkwardly against Chris's shoulder.  "Do I
look like a freak?  I'm afraid to look."

"Yes," Chris says solemnly.  "But, to be honest, I think it's the
earmuffs."

"What?"  Lance lifts up to watch Chris's mouth.

Chris holds out his hand for the whiteboard and, when Lance gives
it to him, writes, 'You're gorgeous.  The earmuffs are freaky
though.'

Lance smiles.  "Liar."

"They are so!" Chris says indignantly.

Lance shakes his head.  "No, about me."

Chris rolls his eyes.  "You're hot, you're gorgeous, I'd totally do
you."

"Really?"

"Except for the insecurity complex, yeah."

"Complex.  Insecurity complex?" Lance tries.  Chris nods.  "Too
bad, deal with it.  Wanna fuck?"

"Whoa.  Total out-of-the-blue bone jumping there.  What's up with
you?"

"You're hot.  I'm hot.  I'm wildly attracted to you.  I'm kinda
scared by the whole 'alone' thing."

"I'm right here, Lance.  You aren't alone."

"You'll leave," Lance says.  He lays his head back down, though,
tired of fighting.

"Gee, you're in a good mood today.  I do have to go home sometime,
y'know."  He has a thought and grabs the whiteboard.  He wipes it
off on his sleeve and then writes, 'Come over to my place?  Then,
if I leave, I have to come back.'

"I can't hear anything, and I have shitty balance," Lance says. 
"I'll totally screw up your place."

Chris snickers.  "Dude."  He erases the whiteboard and writes,
'Who's gonna notice at MY place?'

"You sure?"

Chris nods fervently.

"Okay.  Let me pack then."

Chris gets off of Lance's lap, grinning.  Success!  Yes.  He really
is just that damn good.

So, Lance packs up his overnight bag and is transported to Chris's
house.  A most nauseating experience, even with Chris driving
slowly, and Lance clinging tightly to stay on the motorcycle behind
Chris.

Chris doesn't realize how horrible Lance feels until he parks the
bike.  When he gets off, he sees how gray Lance is and he swears. 
"Shit.  I'm sorry.  Didn't even think about it."  He gets his arm
under Lance's and hustles him inside.

Lance just leans harder on Chris.  "It's okay," he says, knowing
Chris must feel bad.  "I was like this with the car, too."

"Oh.  Okay then.  Short of hitting you over the head, there wasn't
any other way to get here, so at least it's over."  Chris settles
Lance on the beaten-up, comfy couch and heads for the kitchen.  He
comes back with a pair of beer bottles and hands one to Lance. 
"Here, cool off."

Lance has no idea what Chris just said, but he nods and takes the
bottle anyway.

Chris settles down next to Lance and takes a drink, then sighs. 
"Yep.  That tastes good."

Lance tips his head onto the back of the couch and stares at the
ceiling.

Chris lets Lance have his silence, at least until he's done with
his own beer.  Then he takes Lance's bag, fishes out the whiteboard
and drops it between them for easy reference.

Then he puts his feet up on his battered coffee table -- there only
for the propping of feet and convenient storage of dirty plates and
empties -- and leans his own head back.  It's a good day for that. 
Pleasantly cool inside the house and shady, 'cause the sun's on the
other side of the house from afternoon on.

Lance falls asleep after a while.  It's the kind of sleep where
you're still aware of the conscious world.  The kind where you can
hear yourself snore, or in Lance's case, feel yourself snore.

After a while, Chris turns the TV on low and watches sports.  He
spends about ten minutes fiddling with the remote, trying to figure
out the closed captioning and eventually gives up on it.  It'll be
something for Lance to have fun with later.

Lance wakes with a start when Chris gets up.  "Chris?" he calls,
then repeats, "*Chris*?" louder.

"Yeah?" Chris says, coming back, pulling up his shorts.  "Geez. 
Take a bathroom break and there's global panic."

Lance sees Chris reappear and shakes his head.  "Sorry.  Minor
freak out."

Chris grabs the whiteboard.  He writes, 'Dude.  I have to take a
shit.  Unless you wanna watch, amuse yourself for a while.'  He
shows that to Lance, waits for Lance to nod that he's read it, then
erases it and adds, 'Like I said, this is my house.  I'm gonna come
back.'

Lance shrugs and waits for Chris to leave.  Then Lance starts
making his unsteady way around Chris's house, for practice.

Chris ends up being constipated due to the pressure of it all.   
He swears at himself for a while, then stomps out.  Lance isn't on
the couch anymore, so Chris grabs his bag and takes it upstairs.

Lance looks up when the floor vibrates and finds Chris stomping
into the guest room.

"Hey," Chris says.  He waves around the room.  "You want this
room?"

Lance shrugs.  "Sure."

Chris dumps the bag on the bed.  "You can have the living room if
you want.  Whatever.  Doesn't matter to me."

Lance says, "Yeah, I can get there."

Chris snorts.  "I'll whiteboard it to you later."

"Isengard?"

Chris snickers and wraps his arm around Lance's shoulders.  He
kisses Lance's cheek.  "You're cute."

"I am not.  I'm gorgeous."

"That, too," Chris agrees, and heads downstairs to fetch the
whiteboard.

Lance flops (aka, carefully lays down) on the bed.

Halfway down the stairs, Chris almost changes his mind.  It's kinda
more fun talking to Lance this way.  It's stressless for him 'cause
he doesn't have to worry about making sense.

On the other hand, Lance is probably frustrated as hell.  So Chris
grabs the whiteboard after all.

Lance looks up when Chris comes back in.  He waves the whiteboard
away and pats the bed next to him.

Chris sits down, then flops on his back.  "Mmm.  Good bed. 
Springy."

Lance turns on his side and watches Chris.

Chris looks over curiously.  "What?"

"Just lookin'."

Chris nods, then starts making funny faces at Lance.

Lance laughs.

Chris grins.

Lance kisses him.

Chris is startled, and Lance stops quickly.  Chris opens and closes
his mouth, making fish faces.  "Whoa."

Lance nods and lays back, waiting for Chris's real reaction.

"You.  You kissed me.  Dude.  Lance."  The wondering look
disappears and his eyes narrow.  He fishes for the whiteboard and
writes feverishly, 'If this is some kind of twisted pity fuck where
you need to get off to feel better, just tell me, okay?'

Lance rolls his eyes and shakes his head.  "No.  I kissed you
because you're hot and sweet.  I like you."

Chris gives him a good glare, just to test him to see if Lance'll
crack.  Lance doesn't.  "Okay.  I believe you.  Sorta.  Now what?"

"Now what?"  Chris nods, so Lance goes on.  "Whatever.  Ignore it. 
Kiss me back.  Take a nap.  Whatever."

Chris twists his lips consideringly.  "Okay, but I don't put out on
the first date."  Lance looks uncomprehendingly at him.  Chris
rolls his eyes.  "I'm a dumbass," he says, and leans in to kiss
Lance.

Lance closes his eyes and loses himself in making out.

Chris is halfway over Lance, pinning him down, before he pulls
back.  "Yeah," he says.  "You're gorgeous."

Lance smiles.  "I can't hear you, but it sure looks good."

Chris grins back and then starts poking Lance's ribs.  "Gorgeous. 
You're absolutely gorgeous.  Fucking amazingly gorgeous."

Lance squirms.  "Hey!  No fair!"

"What?"  Chris sprawls back on the bed and opens his arms wide,
just begging for tickles.  "Have at me."

Lance lays his head on Chris's stomach and occasionally blows
raspberries on the exposed skin.

Chris giggles and scritches behind Lance's ears.

Lance roars and bites at Chris's belly button.

Chris giggles some more.  "You're a very silly man."

"Huh?" Lance asks, looking up at Chris to read the question off his
lips this time.

"Silly," Chris says slowly, pointing at Lance.  "You.  Silly."

"Yeah, I am.  You taught me to treasure the silly."

"Always said you were smart."

"I am smart?  Not a smartass, I hope."

"That, too.  I like smartasses, duh, since I am one."

"I like you."

"Seriously?  You perverted bastard."

"What?" Lance asks, slightly alarmed.

Chris's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.  "Whiteboard?"

"With a board?  Hell, no!"  If Chris thinks he's gonna spank Lance
with a fucking board, he's got another thing coming.

Chris starts laughing out right.  Too funny.  He pushes Lance off
of him, hands feeling for the whiteboard.

Lance sits up and watches Chris curiously.

Chris pulls it out from where it's buried half under him and,
because he can't resist, waves it mock-threateningly at Lance.

Lance frowns and cocks his head questioningly.

Chris stops playing and starts writing.  'Dork.  I wouldn't do that
unless you wanted.  I said you're a perverted bastard for liking
me."

"Oh.  I am not.  I'm just a little kinky."

Chris writes, 'I'm a kink, that's right.'

Lance reaches out.  "I want you."

"How?"

"I want to touch you and have you touch me.  I don't really have
any specifics in mind for the rest."  Lance considers.  "Wait,
that's a total lie.  I have lots of specifics in mind, but none I
wanna demand to try now."

"I can deal with that," Chris says, nodding.  But just to make it
perfectly clear, he sets the whiteboard aside and pulls Lance in
close.

Lance grins.

Chris kisses his nose.  "I think we understand each other just
fine."

Lance wrinkles his nose.  "And you called *me* silly."

"Well, of course, I'm sillier.  That's just the way it is.  But I
have to be with someone silly or it just doesn't work, y'know?" 
Lance clearly doesn't get it.  But that's okay.  Chris just kisses
him.

Lance likes this, being sort of held and treasured and kissed.  He
doesn't feel impaired at all.