both hands

***

How hard we tried...

Not yet, Lance. Not yet. JC thinks to himself as he watches him, feigning interest in whatever new deal Johnny has come up with. They're in a meeting, all five of them and their manager, discussing new ideas for the upcoming tour. And Lance seems fine, but JC knows he's not. He can't be. Because they've talked it over, and after two and a half years, they're ending the relationship--they're breaking up. "Breaking up". The phrase holds a world of meaning. It means no more warm beds and cold nights, no more fits of giggly drunkenness, no more soft kisses, sweet touches...no more Lance. JC can't get over it. JC can't believe it. They're breaking up. But just not yet.

Lance watches JC out of the corner of his eye. He looks sullen and lonely. Lance knows how he's feeling, because he's feeling that way himself. He's just better at hiding it. How did we fail at this, baby? He sends the thought skittering across the table towards the only person who could ever make him cry from being happy. JC lifts his head and catches Lance's eye, and for a moment they're locked in eternity. But only for a moment, because Lance pulls his gaze away and turns back to Johnny. How did we fail?

The meeting's ending. They're all standing now, and JC expresses mild annoyance as Justin, Chris and Joey roughhouse each other out of the door. It's just him and Lance in the small boardroom now, and he's just about to cross the threshold when Lance catches his arm and turns him around. "JC," he says. JC says nothing. Lance thinks he looks dead inside. "Would it be okay if I, uh, dropped some of your stuff off at your apartment tonight?"

JC suddenly feels winded, like someone had punched him in the stomach. So it's really over. Lance can see the spasm of pain on his face, and he wonders why he's doing this. But JC composes himself and says, "Actually, I could come over and pick the stuff up, if you want." He can't believe he had the strength to say that.

Lance nods. "Okay, my house then, around 7?" JC nods. And JC turns and leaves the room. Lance stares after him, and then leaves, too.

***

Lance's palms are sweating profusely. It's 7 pm sharp and JC hasn't come yet. He feels his stomach give an involuntary lurch as the buzzer at the main gate sounds. He knows who it is, so he goes into the kitchen and presses the button that makes the gate swing open, allowing JC to drive his car up to the front door. Lance hears the engine fade and the tell-tale sound of JC's shoes slapping against the pavement as he walks up to the door. It's open before he can ring the doorbell.

JC feels weak. He stares at Lance for a few seconds before looking away and mumbling, "Hi, can I come in?" Lance just steps aside and lets him into the house, then follows behind him.

JC walks through the entrance hall slowly, his fingers running over the many pictures lined up on Lance's display table. He stops as his hands reach his favorite one; it's a picture of the two of them, taken years and years ago during a one-day trip to EuroDisney. JC smiles involuntarily as his eyes take in Lance's goofy hair, and his own goofy smile, and how they couldn't keep their hands off each other even then. JC knows Lance is watching him, but he doesn't care. He continues staring at the picture. How could they have known that it wouldn't work out?

He sighs and turns away, meeting Lance's eyes. "So. Where's that stuff you wanted to give back to me?"

For the first time Lance speaks. "It's, uh, it's in boxes, in the living room." JC half-nods and walks into the living room, and Lance follows. JC's eyes sting but he doesn't cry when he sees so many memories packed into those boxes. The teddy bear he'd given Lance. The CDs he'd lent him that he'd given up for dead. His basketball, his checkered hat, his burgundy silk pajamas...it's all there, torturing him. Without a word, he picks up a particularly heavy box and turns to go outside and put it in his car. Lance catches his arm. "JC, wait."

JC puts down the box and turns around. Lance's eyes are red, and his cheeks are flushed, the way they always are when he cries. JC says nothing.

"I...can't believe we're ending this," Lance says simply. He looks almost desperate. JC's eyes keep stinging.

"Me neither." They don't know what else to say for a while. Finally, JC steps forward and holds Lance's face in both hands. "But if we stay together, the problems won't go away. They'll still be there, Lance, and we both know that we can't solve them. Not now...not ever." Lance can't say anything because he's crying, and now JC is crying too. He kisses Lance--passionately, desperately, maybe for the last time. He can't stop himself, and Lance can't either.

JC spends the night with Lance. In the morning, he gets up early and drives away in his car, taking the boxes with him.

***

both hands

i am walking
out in the rain
and i am listening to the low moan
of the dial tone again
and i am getting
nowhere with you
and i can't let it go
and i can't get through...
and the old woman behind the pink curtains
and the closed door
on the first floor
she's listening through the air shaft
to see how long our swan song can last

and both hands
now use both hands
oh, no don't close your eyes
i am writing
graffiti on your body
i am drawing the story of
how hard we tried

and i am watching your chest rise and fall
like the tides of my life,
and the rest of it all
and your bones have been my bedframe
and your flesh has been my pillow
i've been waiting for sleep
to offer up the deep
with both hands


and in each other's shadows we grew less and less tall
and eventually our theories couldn't explain it all
and i'm recording our history now on the bedroom wall
and when we leave the landlord will come
and paint over it all

and i am walking
out in the rain
and i am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again
and i am getting nowhere with you
and i can't let it go
and i can't get through

so now use both hands
please use both hands
oh, no don't close your eyes
i am writing graffiti on your body
i am drawing the story of how hard we tried
hard we tried
how hard we tried

back-fiction

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