The strains of a festive polka drifted through the aisle of *NSYNC's tour bus; a nondescript, blandly painted thing roaring along a random European highway. The music selection had been made because Chris was hyper -- which he usually was -- but this time he had managed to drag the others along for the ride, so Joey and JC danced with him in the lounge, spilling out into the aisle occasionally, whooping gaily and singing incoherently in what only sounded like German to the untrained ear. Even Justin had somehow been roused from his homesick slump to join in the festivities, glad to forget that he was a bus away from his mother and thousands of miles from home.

Lance, this one time, could not do the same; instead he lay flat on his stomach in his bunk with his arms wrapped around his pillow, listening to the laughter just outside. He crossed his ankles, his sneakers still on, and sighed, sniffling softly as he brought a hand from around his pillow to pinch at the bridge of his nose. It was ironic, he realized, smiling grimly to himself; not two hours earlier, he'd been comforting Justin through a tearful bout. At the time, the younger boy had been missing his Daddy, his baby brother, his best friend. Now it was Lance who missed his sister and father, Lance who longed for the soothing, slow drawls that spoke of home.

The people in Germany spoke English so quickly, so hurriedly -- the way Lance himself spoke when he got nervous -- and it made him anxious to hear it, as though it were his own words being tripped up on his own tongue. He couldn't share that aspect of his homesickness with the others; not even Justin understood Lance's need to be surrounded by the y'alls and the y'hears. His mother would understand. Lance laughed at himself; yes, his mother would understand. She would pull him close and stroke back his hair and recite proverbs she'd learned from Grandaddy in that voice of hers, soft and high and smooth like molasses.

But he was seventeen; too old, he knew, to be this attached, and she was on the other bus. And as much as he would like to forget and have fun with the others the way Justin was doing, it was too much of a chore for him to be up to the task at the moment. He always felt as though he were interrupting a perfectly-organized party, and while most of the time he was game, right now he did not feel like summoning cheer enough for himself and the rest of them. So Lance turned his head towards the curtains of his bunk -- towards the faint glow of light from the aisle -- and wiped at his eyes again, wondering if he should talk to JC about his homesickness later.

"Hey, Lance--" The curtains were thrown apart unceremoniously, and he groaned at the sudden flood of light into his bunk. Throwing his arm across his eyes, Lance hoped that the fine hairs on his forearm would soak up the moisture from his unshed tears before JC noticed that anything was wrong. "Oh, sorry," JC apologized. "You trying to sleep in here?"

Lance cleared his throat, hoping to mask his furtive sniffle, before responding. "No, it's-- I'm just laying down," he offered reassuringly, turning a smile in JC's general direction. Sufficiently confident that his eyes were dry, he pulled his arm away. "I'm glad Justin's feeling better, though," he added sincerely, rolling on to his back. He glanced up at the bottom of the bunk above him for a moment before turning his gaze back to JC, heart clenching at the concern he saw in those blue eyes, glittering silver as though they were precious jewels. Which, of course, they were. "You having a good time?"

JC shrugged indifferently. "I think I'm polka-ed out," he confessed with a slight laugh, and Lance chuckled back in return, catching himself before he sniffled again. "I just wanted to know if you wanted in on the fun." When Lance shook his head in response, JC gestured inside his bunk. "Scoot over," he instructed, and Lance obeyed, sliding further toward the wall inside the narrow bunk as JC leaned in, settling the one side of his body that would fit along the edge. Lance turned on to his side, facing the aisle, and JC climbed in the rest of the way, turning in to face the wall. Within the enclosed space their bodies were only inches apart.

"Are you okay?" JC asked softly, and without seeing his face Lance knew that the strong brow was knitted in concern, jaw set grimly in stone. JC hadn't reached out for him, hadn't touched him -- at least not yet -- and Lance's body hummed with expectation at the possibility that he might.

He shook his head, aware that JC probably could not see the action, and shrugged. "I guess I caught Justin's homesickness," he admitted. "I'm just--" he shook his head again-- "I didn't think I'd be much fun, so I just stayed in here." The strains of the polka still rang through the bus, and now Justin was half-screaming, half-crying something about being put down. Lance sobbed a laugh, smiling despite himself. "I think they're killing Justin out there. You should go," he added softly. "I don't wanna bring you down."

And there it was; contact. JC reached out and touched his forearm comfortingly, his thumb stroking the skin with soothing motions. Lance instinctively glanced down to where he knew the contact point was, though he couldn't see it. "You're not," JC stated firmly. "I'm not going back out there unless you come with."

"JC--" Lance began in warning, rolling his eyes, as JC's hand travelled slowly up his arm, smoothing over the skin of his bicep, fingers curling under the sleeve of his t-shirt, pushing it up past his shoulder. "JC," he said again, more softly. JC couldn't stay; they both knew that. JC could never stay. Nobody would know why JC would want to stay, and then they would have to explain, and neither of them wanted to, not yet. Neither of them wanted to share what it was that the two of them had, because they themselves were still not sure. This way it was a secret; not kept out of shame, but because it was special and precious and it belonged only to them.

"I know," JC told him, kneading his shoulder with the one hand. "I won't stay too long. I just wanna make sure you're not feeling bad in here."

"I'm not," Lance replied, and thought to correct himself when JC's hand paused on his shoulder. "I won't," he amended, reaching out tenderly, touching JC's breastbone through his wifebeater. "I feel better already," he assured JC, and it was true; he did. "But you have to go. Before Joey or somebody...." He stopped himself from vocalizing the fear.

He thought he saw JC nod, and felt him move closer as his hand was pressed back towards his own body. "I will," JC told him, his breath fanning Lance's face, and Lance's eyes closed, not seeing how near JC was, but knowing that it was near enough. Their lips met, faces angled perfectly in to one another, and Lance clutched the fabric of JC's shirt in his fist as he parted his lips and closed his mouth upon JC's, their breaths shared between them, their tongues touching tentatively in a promise and a tease but nothing more. They drew apart, and Lance pressed himself back against the bunk wall, allowing JC the room to climb out, then slid over to the other edge to meet him when he peeked through the curtains in a farewell.

"No more homesickness?" JC whispered, so close that Lance could hear the words even over the warbling yells and shouts from the others.

"Mmm-mmm," Lance replied, shaking his head as he regarded his boy with serious eyes. "Right now, you're home to me," he added, and smiled when JC glanced down the aisle before bringing their lips together for one more kiss, hands cupping his face gently.

"You're home to me, too," JC murmured against his skin, before pulling away and heading back to the lounge to join the others.

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