In retrospect, Lance was happy that he’d chosen to stay at the hotel instead of going out.

There was no particular reason that he’d decided to stay in that night. He wasn’t tired, he wasn’t feeling sick, he didn’t have work to do, and they didn’t have to be up at the crack of dawn to start a long day of interviews, photo shoots, and performances. There was just the nagging thought at the back of his brain telling him to stay in.

He watched Joey, JC, and Justin- all with their significant others on their arms- tramp out of the suite, dressed in leather, sparkles, and bright colors. He waved as the door shut, the lock catching loudly in the now silent room.

He popped a bag of microwave popcorn, curled up on the couch in the living room suite, and ordered ‘The Patriot’ off the hotel pay-per-view. It was halfway done when he heard the strangled cry-sob-yell from behind the only bedroom door that hadn’t opened that night.

Lance looked at the door, his eyebrows furrowed together. His head tilted slightly to the left, ears listening, trying to catch any noise at all. He set the crisp paper bag still half full of popcorn on the couch, stood up slowly, and walked to the door.

He rapped twice: sharp, then soft.

"Chris? You okay?"

He knocked again, his ears straining to hear a movement, a sound, anything.

"Chris?"

Lance felt his hand fall to the knob. He started to twist it, but stopped. The brass warmed in his hand.

"Chris," he said. "I’m coming in."

No sound, and then a sob.

"I’m coming in," Lance said again. "Okay, Chris? I’m opening the door and coming in."

Lance twisted the knob, the sudden moisture on his palms causing his hand to slide over the metal. He pushed the door inwards an inch, his eyes scanning the small rectangle of room visible through the opening. He pushed it in farther, the rough underside of the wooden door catching on the white plush carpeting covering the floor. The first thing he saw was the neatly folded corner of the bedspread, then a sock covered foot hanging toes down over the edge of the mattress, then a bare leg, then a bare foot, and a bent leg. He saw the thin hem of plaid boxers, the limp fabric pressed between body and bedspread.

"Chris?" Lance asked.

He purposefully pitched his low voice lower so that he wouldn’t startle his friend. He stepped into the room and saw the quivering shoulders- the convulsive rise and fall of the T-shirt covered back of the man on the bed.

The sniffles were audible in the quiet room. They contrasted sharply with the warm, cheery, yellow glow of the bedside lamp.

Lance moved a step closer to the bed.

"Chris?" he asked again.

He moved another step. Then another. He rested a knee on the mattress of the bed. His hand reached out tentatively, almost touching the older man’s back, but then moved down to the mattress, as if he were trying to balance himself.

Lance sat. His hand reached out again, but he pulled it back to his side for a second time.

"What happened?" Lance asked.

Chris twisted his head so he was no longer face down, but facing away from Lance.

"Chris," Lance said again. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Chris said. His voice was quiet, subdued, husky with tears.

"I’m not going to let you tell me that," Lance said. He reached his hand out for a third time and let it fall against the flat plane of Chris’s shoulder blade.

"I don’t want to talk about it," Chris said. His voice cracked. "Okay?"

"No," Lance said. "Just tell me what happened, and then if I deem it necessary, I’ll leave you alone."

Chris flipped his head over, eyes glinting angrily, the emotion reflected a thousand times through the tears.

"I’m not in the mood to deal with your stubborn streak, Lance." Chris closed his eyes, in the process forcing two more streams of water down his cheeks and onto the already saturated bedspread. "Now is not the time."

Lance pulled his hand back to his lap at the heavy emotion in his friend’s voice. "Okay," he said slowly. His fingers wove together, sweaty skin pressed against sweaty skin. "I’m not trying to be stubborn."

"The fuck you aren’t," Chris said. He flipped his head over and Lance saw the eyes close tightly again.

"I’m trying to help," Lance said. "You always manage to help me. I’m just not as good at cheering people up as you are."

"I sincerely doubt Bozo the fucking clown could cheer me up at this moment," Chris said to the opposite wall. His eyes remained closed.

"Why?" Lance asked.

"Because Dani and I-" Chris stopped talking as a sob caught in his throat. "Fuck."

"Oh shit," Lance said. His fingers unclasped and his hand moved back to Chris’s back, rubbing softly, gently, the way he himself liked to be comforted.

"Lance, go," Chris said. "Please, just go, okay? I need to be alone right now."

Lance nodded even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him. He stood up, letting his fingers trail over his friend’s back, bouncing over the bumps in the fabric of Chris’s T-shirt.

"I’ll be here, okay?" Lance said. "Just on the couch, or in my room."

He saw Chris’s head move in what he assumed was a nod.

Lance walked to the door and stepped out into the living room again. He pulled the door closed behind him, the wood dragging loudly across the fabric of the carpet.
 
 

Chris felt his body convulse into sobs as the door to his room shut. His shoulders shook, his voice silently screamed in agony, his cheeks burned from the fresh batch of hot tears streaming from his eyes.

He curled up, bent legs held tightly to his chest, face buried in the hard contours of his knees. His mouth convulsively opened, and his hard teeth came in contact with the taught skin and sprinkling of hair covering his kneecap.

He swallowed his sobs, fighting, choking them down. He pressed his teeth harder into his knee- the dull ache starting to register through the dreamlike haze that surrounded his brain.

"No," Chris howled silently through wide-open jaws. The sound was a cross between sob and a high pitched mewl. The muscles around his eyes clenched and unclenched, painfully forcing more water from his eyes.

He didn’t know how long he lay on the bed before he relaxed, his limbs falling limply back to the mattress.

He sat up. He was shaking. He looked down and saw a circle of tooth point bruises on his left kneecap.

He ran the flat planes of his fingers across his cheeks, wiping away the wetness and cringing as the salty liquid stung his stubbled skin.

He moved his sock covered foot to the ground first, and followed it with the bare foot. His muscles were weak, unstable. His toes curled into the soft carpet. He braced his hands on his mattress, and forced himself into a standing position. His feet shuffled as he moved to the door.

The metal of the doorknob felt cool on his fingers. He twisted it and pulled the door into the room. The wood dragged against the carpet, the sound bringing reality crashing down around him.

Chris moved into the living room, the white walls and light stinging his eyes. He saw Lance sitting on the couch. The younger man’s blond spikes just barely blocked the important parts of the images on the TV screen. He saw bright purples and greens.

Chris impulsively hugged himself as he watched Lance turn towards him.

"I’m sorry," Lance said. He stared through blurry eyes at his friend. "You guys were-"

"No," Chris said. His voice was soft, raw, defeated. "I just- I just need to not think of her right now."

"Okay," Lance said. He patted the couch next to him. "I’m watching ‘Rugrats In Paris.’" He smiled sympathetically, and felt his grin widen when he saw the corners of Chris’s mouth twitch slightly.

"You knew I was going to come out, didn’t you?" Chris asked. He walked over to the couch, still hugging himself, and sat down. He huddled tightly in one corner.

"I was hoping," Lance said. He sat in silence, apparently watching the movie, but watching Chris at the same time.

"Lance?" Chris asked a few moments later. His voice was barely audible over the sound of the movie.

"Yeah?" Lance turned his attention fully towards his band mate.

"Can I have a hug?" Chris’s arms loosened slightly from the death grip he’d placed himself in.

"Of course," Lance said. He scooted across the white leather couch. Tentatively, he reached out and placed his arms around the older man. He felt wetness spread on the fabric covering his shoulder as Chris leaned into him.

"Just tell me it’ll be okay," Chris said quietly into Lance’s chest. "That I’ll survive?"

"It’ll be okay," Lance said. He rubbed Chris’s back, his fingers forming tight circles. "I promise."