Pairing: JC and Lance
Words: bridle; liver; martian; peach fuzz


When Lance was cut out of the crowd at Heathrow, he wasn't much
surprised at first.  He was used to being treated differently, like
visiting royalty or a Martian suddenly descended to Earth.  What
was *abnormal* was being able to pass unnoticed.

So he didn't cause a fuss when the official-looking man in a
uniform said, "Step this way, sir," or when he was ushered into a
too-small room packed full of too many reporters.  He knew this
routine, after all, as well as any of the choreography for their
songs, and even if he hadn't expected it, he was ready for it.

Instead, Lance smiled and let them take photographs and answered
the questions as patiently as he could.  He had the time; Justin
wasn't expecting him yet.  It'd been a spur-of-the-moment decision
on his part to come here after the disappointment of Moscow, to
subsume his failure in the greater light of Justin's success and
glory.

And get drunk with someone who knew him, with someone who he didn't
have to be strong for, someone he could cry in front of and be
roundly mocked by instead of having his tears greeted by
expressions of shock and sympathy.  He didn't want sympathy.  He
wanted honesty, even if it hurt, because he hurt.

Lance'd been answering the press' questions on automatic pilot. 
How did he like being home?  Answer -- he'd know when he got there;
he wasn't there yet, but he supposed it would be a relief because
then he could get some sleep.  Did he feel like a hero?  Well, he
didn't feel like a hero of any kind, but if others took inspiration
from his example, then he thought that was wonderful, because
children were the hope of the future, blah, blah, blah.

No one came right out and asked what it felt like to not go to
space, although one brave soul asked him how he felt after
undergoing such an ordeal, which was a loaded question if ever
there was one, because he couldn't insult the Russians if he wanted
another chance at space, and he did, he did more than anything, but
'ordeal' was exactly the right word.  So he waffled, said, "An
ordeal is a challenge, and I would certainly say the past few
months have been that," and they seemed happy with that non-answer.

The uniformed man plucked at his sleeve a little while later. 
"Sir, we have a car waiting to take you to your destination," and
Lance allowed himself to be led away.  He appreciated the nicety of
discretion that the English had, not mentioning *where* he was
going, although the press probably already knew or suspected.  This
routine too was familiar, and he was glad he didn't have to deal
with how to escape from the glare of the lights, from the
relentless public eye.

They made it outside, where the door of a dark-colored Rolls was
being held open in front of him by a driver, and the uniformed man
led him toward it.  Lance settled gratefully inside.

He closed his eyes, exhausted, and fell asleep right there without
thinking about any of the things he should have been thinking
about, like who these people were, how they knew where he wanted to
go, or where his luggage was.  He was too tired and the exhaustion
too much like post-concert fatigue that he fell easily into the
same let-someone-else-handle-it daze.

The same habitual surrender to the demands of touring life left him
waking up some time later, unalarmed, stretched on a leather seat
perpendicular to the motion of the vehicle.  He was used to that,
too, and Lance had sat up, stretching, before it ever fully
penetrated that he wasn't on tour with the group, that this was a
car not a bus, and that, while the gently rolling fields he could
see out the windows of the car might be something close to the
familiar sight of the endless miles of farmland he'd been driven
past while criss-crossing the country with NSYNC, they were not the
streets of London, which was where he was supposed to be right
then.

Lance was proud of himself for never forgetting where he was, no
matter how tired or how stressed or how many times he'd changed
cities in a week.  But he had no idea where he was now.

"Excuse me," he said politely, because screaming about being
kidnapped didn't seem like the right way to start things off with
his would-be kidnapper.  Besides, the car doors didn't seem to be
locked.  "Where are you taking me?"

"Why, home, sir," the driver said, looking at him in the rearview
mirror with every evidence of honest puzzlement.  "I didn't think
England had changed that much since you've been away.  It's a shame
what they did to you, I must say."

Well, yes, it was, but last he remembered, England wasn't home. 
The natural question, 'Where is home?', would sound downright loony
though, since the driver seemed to think Lance knew where it was. 
"I don't recognize anything," had the benefit of being honest and
the side benefit of the driver answering.

"Well, that there is the new experimental farm.  Wasn't there in
your day, I'm sure.  And there's the stadium, of course.  Football,
you know."

"Right."

"And there's ever so many more people living out this way now. 
They said the old farming communities would be all deserted as the
cities got bigger, but I think it's the other way around really --
as the cities get bigger, the country gets closer in, y'see."

"Right."  Lance was getting an idea, vague as though it was, of
what had happened  Somehow, in the airport, he'd been mistaken for
someone else -- and wasn't *that* a laugh, seeing as how he was
supposedly so famous he couldn't go to the corner store in the U.S.
without a bodyguard, *and* his accent was nothing even remotely
close to English.  Not so distinctly American or Southern either,
though, after so long in Russia.  He was used to a different way of
speaking now, a different way of *thinking*, and it showed.

"Only a few more minutes now, sir.  May I say, this has been quite
an honor."

"Um.  Thank you."

"No, sir.  Thank *you*."

To his embarrassment and the ruin of his hastily formed plan to
slip away and call someone, *anyone*, to come pick him up, the
small town they arrived at had turned out in full measure to
welcome home whoever it was they thought Lance was.  There was a
banner, a marching band, a parade stand and a crowd.

He wasn't looking forward to getting out of the car and having
everyone know he wasn't the person they thought he was.  The driver
and the man at the airport had been easily mistaken by a no doubt
superficial resemblance and Lance's unwitting cooperation with the
unintentional deception, but surely these people would know who he
was.

From the second the driver opened his door, there was a wall of
sound, cheering so strong it was like a physical force.

That was familiar, too, and he wanted Lonnie or Dre or Tiny at his
back and one of the guys at his side with a sudden strong surge of
home-sickness.

He waited for someone to cry, 'That's not him!' but, of course, no
one individual would be able to make themselves heard over the
screaming.

A man dressed in a dark suit with a sash around his neck came
through the crowd and, gesturing, beckoned Lance forward.

Lance went.  What else could he do?

He was led up onto the parade stand and posed next to the podium. 
There were other people waiting there, and they all took a turn
shaking his hand or, in some cases, hugging him tightly.  Lance
didn't know any of them, but then, why would he?  No one seemed at
all to suspect he was Lance Bass, and Lance himself was beginning
to wonder who he was and if he had somehow dreamed the life that
had led him into NSYNC, dreamed up being a pop star.  It was, when
you got right down to it, a rather unlikely story, after all.

"The prodigal has returned," the sash-clad man said from the
speaker's podium to a suddenly silent crowd.  Silence, and still no
one was crying out, 'Imposter!'  No, they were all listening
raptly.  "Our son, sent to a far-off land where he has endured
dangers untold and hardships beyond measure and yet now, has
miraculously returned to us alive, although not unmarked by his
experiences."

The thing was, Lance thought, listening to the speech-making, that
it was all true.  More or less.  He didn't know what the man they
thought he was had undergone -- whatever it was, it was probably
fairly horrific -- but Lance *had* gone through an ordeal, a months
long trial of his will and nerve and ability to survive in a
hostile environment with everyone just looking for excuses to send
him home.  He'd done it all, and failed not due to any direct fault
of his own, but because his backers had lied about coming through
with the money.  And the ironic thing, the thing that hurt and made
him bleed, was that all of these things this man was saying were
true -- but Lance would not be going home to a cheering, respectful
crowd.  No, he was going home to be the butt of endless jokes and
the object of pity from those too high-minded to simply regard him
with derision.  He closed his eyes, fighting back tears. 
Exhaustion, probably.  He was so very, very tired, despite his nap
in the car.

A hand on his arm.  "Would you like to say a few words to these
people?" he was asked.

Lance opened his eyes as he was prodded gently toward the podium. 
Everyone was looking back at him, and he knew he owed them the
truth.  "I'm not who you think I am," he said.  "I'm not a hero,
although I wish I was.  I don't know who you think I am, but I'm
not that man.  I'm somebody else, caught up in this mess.  I don't
know how I ended up here.  It's all a mistake.  If you knew who I
really am," Lance shook his head.  He didn't really want to
announce in front of a crowd that he was Lance Bass.  He wasn't so
egotistic that he expected everyone to recognize his name, but
neither was he foolish enough to deliberately court the danger of
a mob scene with no security to protect him.  "I'm not that guy,"
he repeated.

There was silence from the crowd, and Lance drew in his breath,
thinking that they finally understood.  "I'm sorry," he said,
although it seemed grossly inadequate under the circumstances.  He
looked at the official, who -- to Lance's amazement -- actually had
tears standing in his eyes.

"Such a brave lad," the man said.  He wrapped an arm around Lance's
shoulders and turned him back toward the crowd.  "Isn't he a noble
fellow?  Of course you don't feel like a hero.  A hero is someone
who does what has to be done because it has to be done, who does
his duty no matter how scared or tired he is, or how matter much
people say it's impossible, unnecessary or simply can't be done. 
Your modesty does you credit, but we all know what kind of man you
are."

*Yeah*, Lance thought tiredly, *a liar.*  But clearly they wouldn't
believe that even if he told them.  And that was familiar, too. 
The press believed what they wanted to believe; the public believed
what the press told them to believe; and his friends and family? 
He didn't know that he had any friends, unless you counted the
group, and they'd once, during an interview, collectively named
Lance as the biggest liar.  Hadn't even hesitated.  Lance
remembered that pretty well.  Held it close to him, hugging it like
a treasure, as the bitterest truths often were.  He was a liar, a
public construct of image, not real.  He was all fake gleaming
surfaces shining back at everyone, and even his mother wasn't sure
where he'd gone to, the real Lance.  She'd said that to him
recently.  'I don't know where you went to, but I hope you decide
to come back someday, because we miss you.'  He'd protested that he
was right there, but she'd just shook her head at him and went into
the kitchen for some more iced tea.  He really was right there,
too.  Because maybe 'Lance Bass' was all a lie, but he didn't have
anything else to offer.  There might have been something once, like
his mother thought, but maybe not, because as long as Lance could
remember, he'd wanted to be shining and golden and what people
wanted him -- he just hadn't been.  And now he was, at least as far
as these people were concerned, and it was hollow, it was a lie. 
Except that it was a lie that these people believed, just when he
felt the least golden, like all his gilt had flaked off or been
rubbed off and he was just plain metal underneath, tarnished and
nicked.

He lowered his eyes, because there didn't seem to be anything to
say, and let them move him as they willed.  He was good at that,
too, at obeying stage directions, and Lance soon found himself
being led off the podium, and down into the crowd.

"Your parents would be proud of you if they'd lived to see this
day," he was told by one man.

His wife nudged the man and added, "*We're* proud of you."

Lance nodded, smiled as much as he could manage, which wasn't much
at all, and let his hand be shaken.  He missed, yet again, the
presence of an arm around his waist, one of their ubiquitous
bodyguards watching over him.  These people meant him no harm, but
then, neither did NSYNC's fans, not really.  They just wanted part
of him, something to remember him by, something to make him more
real to them or them more real to him.  He wasn't completely sure
on that.

"Right decent of you," a man about his own age told him, "doing
what you did."

"Thanks," he said, because it seemed like the right thing to say,
much like he'd have said the same thing if a thirteen-year-old had
told him she wanted to marry him.  Because it was supposed to be a
compliment, even though it wasn't anything that really applied to
*him* per se.

"You don't sound right," another man said, and Lance was relieved
that someone had finally noticed, because he didn't think he could
break through their collective belief all by himself.  Their image
of him was stronger than his ability to fight it.

"No, I don't," Lance began, but the man didn't let him finish.

He clapped Lance on the shoulder.  "You rest up back home here, and
you'll get to feeling like your old self soon enough.  Heal up. 
Her Majesty will just have to do without you for a while."

"I guess so," Lance managed weakly.

No one challenged his identity, although several people claimed to
have known him from school and from various childhood activities. 
Lance wondered how long it'd been since the person they thought he
was had been here.  He, all of NSYNC, were always running into or
hearing from people who were supposedly their best friend in third
grade or something like that, and he knew that he at least had
never heard of most of them.  Nod, smile, and do nothing else was
his standard reaction.  He hadn't had many friends in Mississippi
anymore than he did now.  Friends were people who stood by you no
matter what and, well, he was standing by himself, alone in a crowd
of people.

Eventually, he was through the crowd and on the other side, but
when he thought he had a chance to make a run for a phone, he was
cornered yet again, this time by friendly natives who wanted to
take him down to the corner pub and buy him a meal.

"Because you're looking right knackered there.  Been on the road a
while?"

Lance nodded.  "Since 3 a.m."

"Well, then, you need to get something inside you.  Bert makes a
grand liver-and-onion pie.  Just the thing to give your insides
something to stick to."

He managed a weak smile and said, "I'd rather have something to
drink."

"A pint of Guinness, too, of course, of course.  You have to have
worked up a thirst after all that talking."

He'd really been thinking of whiskey, but he hadn't had anything to
eat since the plane flight, and that'd been hours ago now, and
English beer was on the strong side anyway.  "Is there a telephone
at the pub, by any chance?  There's someone I'd like to call."

"Someone who wasn't here to meet you, dearie?" one of the women
with the little, smaller crowd that was all that was left of the
earlier mass of people.

"Yes," he answered truthfully.

"Didn't they know you were coming?  They should have been here--"

He shook his head.  "I didn't tell them-- him.  I wanted it..." he
stopped.  What had he wanted?  Not for it to be a surprise, because
he hadn't really cared if Justin wanted to see him or not.  It
wasn't so much that he didn't care what Justin felt as that Lance
thought Justin would fake pleasure either way.  Fake pleasure and
take him out and show him off to enhance his own image.  'My friend
the spaceman' or something like that.  And maybe, once, a lifetime
ago, sometime earlier today, Lance would have liked that.  Liked
having the false praise and popularity and adulation that would
invariably have come from being shown off to London's night scene,
more light to bounce off his gleaming surface, to buff it to a high
sheen and maybe, just maybe, rub off some of the tarnish.  But he
didn't feel like that now that he'd been worn down to raw
materials.  There was so little of himself left, and the last thing
he needed was harsh light shone on all of his imperfections.  "I
didn't want him to come because he thought it was what he was
supposed to do.  And I knew he would."

"So why are you calling him now if he's such a bad friend as that?"

A very good question, if he was going to answer it honestly, if he
was going to say that Justin was a very bad friend indeed but
better a bad friend then this relentless presentation of honors not
earned or due him, except he wasn't going to answer it honestly. 
"I miss him."

His new friends directed him to a telephone booth when they reached
the pub.  Thankfully, the operator he reached was able to place a
call with his credit card, and Lance had her ring the number of
Justin's hotel, which was helpfully written, along with
instructions for reaching Lonnie, Justin's assistant and Justin
himself, in his Palm handheld.  He might not know what had happened
to his luggage, but as long as he had the palmtop computer and his
wallet, he was set.

Three numbers, and two of them were ways to contact a friend,
either directly or indirectly.  The other, the third, was the
number for an employee.  Lance called Lonnie.

"Yes, I'm at a bar -- a pub, I guess you'd call it -- somewhere in
England.  The country.  No, I'm not sure where.  I can't exactly
*ask* anyone.  Everyone seems to think I already know where I am. 
No, I can't explain why.  Not over the phone.  Look, here's the
number I'm calling from.  The pub's called 'The Horse and Bridle'. 
Figure it out from that.  I'll wait here.  And, ah... there's
probably some guy stuck at the airport who arrived today who's some
sort of local hero around here.  If you check today's papers,
you'll find pictures of me with his name on them.  They should,
hopefully, also have the name of this place.  Find them, find him
if you can too, and then find me.  If we can swap him for me,
that'd be great.  He needs to be here.  Thanks, Lonnie.  I know
it's a lot to ask--  Yes.  Thank you.  Bye."

Lance hung up, and rested his head against the telephone box.  God. 
He coughed, choking down the sudden need to sob.  Lonnie had
assured him that it was no trouble at all and that he'd take care
of it.  Immediately, if not sooner.

He didn't know that he had any friends as good as Lonnie, and
Lonnie wasn't a friend at all, but an employee when you got right
down to it.  Lance wondered for one hysterical moment if maybe that
was because he wasn't paying his friends enough.

No, though.  It was more that he wasn't valuing Lonnie enough.

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them dry just to make sure, and
went out to join the people who'd brought him here.  They smiled
warmly at him and stood up when he came back to the table.  Lance
wished, desperately, that he was who they wanted him to be and not
who he was, and sat down with them.

He wasn't though.  The best he could do was deliver their hero home
to them, and apologize as profusely as he could when they finally
did realize the deception that had been practised upon them.

****

The 'welcome home' scene in the pub afterwards was probably
something to be remembered.  Lance hadn't been there for it.  When
Lonnie came in and found him, he'd been accompanied by a man who
looked a lot like Lance felt, but not a lot like Lance himself.  A
tired, haggard man with old eyes, of indeterminate age, head shaved
down to peach fuzz.

Lance got up as soon as he saw them.  Lonnie nodded to him, and
Lance held out his hand to the man.  "Lance Bass.  We seem to have
been the victims of a misunderstanding earlier today at the
airport."

The man nodded, eyes flickering between Lance and the people behind
him.  There was a hunger in his gaze for them, and Lance hoped that
he, at least, had friends there.  "So your Lonnie tells me."

"I'm so sorry about this.  I didn't figure out what was going on
until it was too late, and by then, no one would listen to me about
me not being who they thought I was.  I never meant..."

"Perfectly all right," the man said, not looking at Lance. 
"Could've happened to anyone, I'm sure.  Erm, if you don't
mind...?"

"Oh.  No, no, of course not."  Lance turned around and cleared his
throat before addressing the people he'd spent the past few hours
eating with, listening to them reminisce about their pasts and plan
for their futures.  "I... what I was trying to say earlier, if you
remember, was that I'm not who you think I am.  My name is actually
Lance Bass.  I'm... well, I'm not your hero.  This is the person
who you thought I was.  I-- I'm sorry."  He stepped back and let
the other man come forward.

"Danny?" one of the women at the table asked, standing up.

He nodded, and she came forward, wrapping him in an embrace.  The
other people alternately looked at them or at Lance, and Lance
couldn't return the gazes of the ones who looked at him.  He looked
at Danny instead.

Danny broke down in sobs like Lance wished he could do, except that
Lance was no hero returned home from some unimaginable torture or
war or imprisonment.  He was an arrogant young punk with more money
than sense who'd thought he could buy his way to something other,
better-qualified men and women spent their lives trying to work
toward.

Lonnie put his hand on his shoulder and pulled him gently backward. 
"The car's outside."

Lance nodded, and went with him, feeling the familiar hand on the
small of his back, keeping him safe and grounded.

****

A hour and forty-five minutes later, he was locked into a suite at
Justin's hotel, his luggage rescued and unpacked by one of Justin's
entourage, eager to take care of him as well as they took care of
Justin.  It was enthusiastic service, but nothing so honest as what
the people of that quiet country town had offered him in the guise
of 'Danny'.

Lance took a shower, then sat on the bed, drying his hair and read
the papers stacked there.  That'd been the only thing he'd asked
for, the newspapers he'd given the interview to this morning. 
Among the things he'd gotten but hadn't asked for had been a
complete list of the reporters present; in addition to the
newspapers he already had, there had been three small-town papers
that wouldn't have published their stories yet and a magazine.  A
few more names, officials mostly.  The names represented the
pay-off sheet to keep Lance's name and this incident out of the
public eye for good.  Lance signed off on a document authorizing
funding a school library for the town he'd defrauded; their price,
or his apology.  They'd probably see it as the first, but it was
both, really, and they had the right.

He read about the man whose place he'd taken, then folded the
papers and stacked them neatly on a table.  It was very strange
reading such things next to a picture of himself.  Strange and
wrong.

He poured himself a drink, then another, until he'd finally managed
to drink enough to put himself to sleep.

There was knocking on his door about one a.m. or so, and Lance was
awake enough to hear it, but he didn't answer it.  He knew who it
was, and he didn't much care to talk to Justin.  He didn't know if
he cared to talk to anyone.

He wondered, suddenly, if there was some way to smuggle himself
back into the States without anyone knowing, without inciting the
inevitable media feeding frenzy.  He'd never wanted to face it, but
now... he didn't think he could take one more solid shock.

He wasn't a hero.  He wasn't even the villain of the piece.  That
might have been enough for him.  No, he was the jester, the fool.

Around about three a.m., after twenty-four hours of wakefulness, he
managed to achieve unconsciousness, lying on the bed, wrapped
around an almost empty glass of gin, because he'd already run out
of whiskey and vodka hours before.

****

Justin had publicity things to do, and didn't even really seem to
notice when Lance left.  Lance hadn't really thought he would.

He avoided Mississippi and Orlando.  People would be expecting him
to go there, and the press would pick up his trail easily in either
place.  He called his mother when he got back to the States, and
she'd asked him how he was doing and he'd lied.  She hadn't
noticed, but then, he wasn't sure she'd really been listening.

Lance also avoided New York.  For other reasons.  He was aware it
was stupid to want friendship and, at the same time, not go
anywhere near the truest friend he had, but it was convenient that
Joey was tied down to New York City and couldn't come after him. 
If Lance didn't go to New York, Joey couldn't come to him.  And
Lance hadn't answered a call from Joey sober in five weeks.  Not
since he'd started to suspect the truth.  Hadn't called Joey
either.  He suspected he was a shitty friend; what if Joey needed
him?  But he didn't have the emotional armor to face that
determined sympathy yet, and until he did, he wasn't going to
subject himself to the concentrated blast of Joey's affection, no
matter how much he craved it.

No, he couldn't handle that.  Couldn't handle anything, really.  He
was brittle and cracking, and there was nothing left of him.

He'd considered, at one point, living it up when he got back to the
States, pretending to still be shiny and glossy, doing all the pop
star things, girls on each arm, maybe going to Vegas or wherever
and letting himself be seen.  Club crawling.  High profile events. 
All of that.

That had been before Danny, before Lance had received *his* hero's
welcome that wasn't really Lance's at all.

He went to Los Angeles, to hide out in Justin's empty house because
he thought that might be the last place anyone would think to look
for him, and because it was safe, as safe as anywhere could be.  He
didn't want to risk another case of mistaken identity and felt
reluctant to get out of reach of security.  As long as they were
there to protect him against the consequences of being Lance Bass,
Lance could be assured that he was indeed Lance Bass and that he
had not sidestepped into someone else's life.

Justin had large supplies of alcohol, and a standing order with his
housekeeper to replace them when they ran low.  Lance spent an
indeterminate number of days alternating between unconsciousness
and getting drunk enough to once again achieve unconsciousness.  He
was aware that eventually he would have to wake up and resume
responsibility for his life and actions, but if he was lucky, that
point would be sometime after the New Year, when maybe everyone
would have forgotten somewhat about him.  When maybe he'd've
forgotten somewhat about himself.

The room Lance had chosen to sleep in was smaller than the others,
and had only one poorly placed window, which Lance liked because it
was dim well into the afternoon.  Only the last bit of the setting
sun came in, and he could sleep as long as he could manage it,
which was never as long as he would have liked.

Lance woke up one evening, sun golden across the bed and wished
there was some way to just stop waking up.  He felt more sorry for
JC than he had before, how they'd never been properly sympathetic
to his desire to just sleep.  Lance thought maybe he could
understand that now.

He sighed, and pushed back the covers.

"Hi," JC said, turning away from the window.

Lance froze.  "Um.  JC.  What are you doing here?"

JC shrugged.  "I heard you were in town.  That you were back,
except no one's seen you anywhere."

"Yeah, well..." Lance shrugged.  "I just didn't feel like doing
anything."

"Okay.  I guess I can see that.  Except, didn't you think we'd want
to know?"

Lance thought about the cheering crowd again, then about his
mother.  About Justin, and about Lonnie.  About the difference
between honest caring and purchased enthusiasm, and about the
difference between what he wanted to be -- what he wished to be --
and what he was.  "No, I didn't think you would."

"Oh."

He stood up.  He'd gone to bed wearing a t-shirt and boxers, which
was actually what he'd been wearing the entire day; it was too much
work getting dressed when he didn't care.  "So.  Now you know.  I'm
back."

JC regarded him levelly.

Lance dropped his eyes and said, tiredly, "Look, whatever you're
going to say, I don't really want to hear it.  I don't need
sympathy, and I'm going to have enough people laughing at me when
I finally do emerge back into the public eye."

"I wasn't going to laugh at you, Lance."

"No, of course you wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't."  JC reached out and wrapped his hand around
Lance's bicep.  "Why don't you want sympathy?  It isn't every day
you lose out on your life's dream.  You deserve sympathy."

"Sympathy doesn't do anyone any good.  Besides..." he hesitated. 
He didn't know how to tell JC about Danny, or whether to tell him
at all.  It just made him seem even more pathetic, and maybe he was
broken, but he wanted to crawl into a hole and lick his wounds, and
maybe pull in the hole after him, not expose them to further hurt.

"Besides what?" JC asked quietly, fingers stroking Lance's arm.

He didn't know whether to cry or pull away.  Both seemed equally
likely and he hated himself for these sudden impulses to tears.  He
didn't cry.  He was hardened, capable of handling the blows to his
life, and yet, now and in England, he'd been forced to the point of
tears without knowing why.  Goddamnit, why was he so weak?  Why was
he such a failure?  "Besides," he said, trying to bite back the
tears.  "I don't deserve it."

That was exactly the wrong thing to say, he knew that as soon as he
said it.  Designed to elicit sympathy, to get JC to hold him, to
pat him on the back while Lance cried, like pretty words and some
snot could solve anything.  Lance pulled away.

Surprisingly, JC didn't try to hold him, but let his hand fall. 
"You deserve it, Lance.  If you don't want it, I won't give it to
you, but you do deserve it, you know.  You deserved to go to space,
too."

"Why?  Because I could afford to?  That's the only grounds under
which I actually *deserved* it.  Because I could pay for it.  Only
I couldn't, and so I'm not going.  I'm not qualified to go into
space.  That's something for real astronauts.  People who dream
about it when they're little kids and spend years training for it
and trying really hard to do it.  Trying as hard as we do to be
what we are.  Maybe harder.  And I thought I could just walk in
there and take that away from them.  Walk in there and take
something they earned."  Like he'd walked in and took the praise
and the acceptance and the respect meant for Danny.  "I was wrong. 
And I deserve everything I'm getting."

JC took that in, then nodded.  "Okay.  Maybe that's so.  I'm not
saying it is, but maybe.  Why are you here then?" he waved his hand
around the room, at the crumpled bedding, at the half-empty bottle
of whiskey on the nightstand.

"Didn't have anywhere else to go."  He rubbed the back of his neck. 
It was stiff and sore.  He was taking ibuprofen before he went to
bed, to sleep longer, because otherwise aches and pains like that
would wake him up if he slept too long.

"You could have come to us.  To me.  Or to Joey.  He's worried
about you, you know."

"He shouldn't be."

"Because you don't deserve to be worried about?"

"Exactly."

JC wrapped his arms around his waist, hugging himself.  "You're
wrong, you know."

"No, I don't know that."

"You are.  Lots of people believe in you.  There's thousands, maybe
hundreds of thousands of people who do, who think--"

"Who I all let down, you mean."  Lance's mouth twisted.  "Or maybe
I didn't.  Maybe it's better that I didn't get to go so that they
don't think it's right to buy what you want in life.  Maybe I'm a
good example in my failure.  'Don't be like that'.  A negative
example is still an example, right?"

"Um..."

"Lance Bass, extraterrestrial ass.  That's me.  The man who bought
the moon.  I'm not an example to anyone.  I don't *want* to be a
hero to anyone."  That was a lie, and he qualified it, because it
seemed to be a day for speaking all the poison that was inside him. 
"I'm not a hero.  I'm just a guy who fucks up a lot.  Who fucked up
a lot and is probably going to keep doing it.  Okay?  I'm tired of
people wanting something from me I can't give them.  If I could,
that'd be one thing, but I'm not that kind of person.  I thought I
was.  I--"  What he'd done was meet a real hero, and that'd changed
everything, or his perception of it, at any rate.  "I know better
now."

"You think you're fake?"

"I know I am."  Fake and still half-drunk from the night before and
heartsick and broken.  All of the above.

JC shook his head.  "I don't think so.  I think this is the realest
I've seen you in a long time."

Lance laughed, and it was the laughter that suddenly, unexpectedly
turned to hoarse, harsh sobs that he couldn't control.  JC grabbed
for him, and held him while he cried, but Lance broke away from him
as soon as he could get it under control.  He didn't need to cry. 
He didn't want to cry.  It didn't fix anything.  "This is real?  I
h-hate being like this, JC.  I hate myself."

"So maybe it's time to build a new self.  Someone you like being. 
Or time to find out who you really are, without the pretending."

"It's not that easy."

"Of course, it isn't.  Was it easy getting like this?"

Lance swallowed a laugh.  He didn't know what it'd turn into. 
"Sort of.  It happened a little bit at a time.  Or maybe I was
always like this.  I'm not sure anymore."

"So, not easy.  But you can change, if you want to."  JC was being
infuriatingly serene.

"How do you know?"

"Because I did it.  AJ, too.  Changed who we were.  We talk
sometimes about what it's like.  It's different for him than me. 
I think you're a little more like him than you are like me, but
it's the same thing, changing.  Deep down."

"There's a twelve step program for not getting to go to space?"
Lance asked, trying to make it into a joke.

JC nodded, not diverted from his course.  "Step one.  Come home."

Lance stared at him, and imagined that podium, the crowd.  Imagined
what it might have been like with JC there.  With anyone there who
knew him.  Joey.  His mother.  Them throwing their arms around him
and welcoming him, wanting *him*.  Because, just as much as he'd
wanted that illusory welcome that he'd received that day, it hadn't
been for Danny either.  That crowd hadn't known who Danny was, not
really, anymore than they'd known who Lance was.  The hero they'd
welcomed was an abstract concept to them, and the best welcome
Danny was going to get was the one the woman at the pub had given
him, and even that wouldn't be as good as the one JC was giving
him, as good as the one Joey would give him when Lance finally got
up the courage to see him.  They knew him, and they would welcome
*him* home, and being wanted for himself, known for who and what he
was and wanted all the same, *that* was the best welcome he was
ever going to get.

"Yeah," he said finally.  "Maybe I should."

JC smiled at him, and opened his arms.  "Welcome home, Lance."

Lance stepped into them and buried his face in JC's neck.  "It's
good to be home."  And it would be.  Eventually.