It should have been okay, Lance thought to himself, stubbornly fighting against sleep. It should not be a crime; there should be nothing wrong with what he was doing. According to the law, not every union had to produce a child -- in fact the very point was that Lance could never be a father. The surgery that had been required upon his birth had made that much certain, so why was it that he was still required to stay with his own kind?

The answer, of course -- as it must be -- was that the law was based on principle, if not perfect fairness. And the law was that Blues could only marry other Blues, or Grays, and vice versa. Greens could only marry other Greens, and Browns only Browns.

And then, sadly, there were the Shameful, borne of illicit affairs between colors. Such affairs were among the worst sexual offenses -- if childless, the couple endured life imprisonment; if offspring was produced, the penalty was death for the father and life imprisonment for the mother. If that alone weren't enough to damn the Shameful, they often were difficult or impossible to categorize; eyes became bronze rather than chocolate brown, or blue eyes changed to brown in insufficient light. They were destined to never reproduce, and were forbidden to everyone, except other Shamefuls, under penalty of death.

Lance was a Shameful. His mother, whom he'd been taken to see from time to time as a child, had been a Brown, but his father -- so he'd been told -- had been a Gray. The kind Blue couple who had taken the orphaned Shameful under their wing lamented upon seeing how this beautiful infant had been ruined, his eyes shining a fierce yellow-green under both the dimmest and brightest of lights, yet fading to a near-blue or gray when under duress. "It's such a shame," his host mother Laura would say, when tending to a scrape or comforting him after a particularly fierce bout of teasing at school, as she peered into the painful gray his eyes became, "that this only happens when you're sad."

Joey had been the first -- the only -- to compliment that particular shade of apple green in his eyes. At first Lance had thought it a joke. Joey, his foreman, his boss, given at entry-level a position Lance could never hope to be promoted to, was complimenting the result of a genetic fluke? Joey was complimenting the results of a crime permanently stamped across his face? Lance had laughed, but Joey had been serious. "No," he'd insisted. "They're different, you know? It's like, you never know what they're gonna look like next. Like one of those prisms when you hold 'em up to the light. Sometimes -- and don't tell anyone --" and Joey had looked over his shoulder, comically-- "brown gets a little boring."

Joey was a Brown. But he had turned out to be far from boring, Lance discovered, once they had become friends. Lance had had friends outside of his Shameful peers before, but none had really ventured outside of the convenient, work-or-school-related gathering the way Joey had. None had come to visit him in his apartment, next to the housing projects assigned to couples. None had gone out with him to mixed bars and restaurants, hunting them out when they were sparse in the "good" areas of town. And certainly none had pressed warm lips against his temple, and then his cheek, and then his lips, one night. And none whispered things through a haze of lust that Lance had mostly forgotten by morning. And Joey had told him that his eyes were pretty. Lance hadn't believed him when the compliments had initially come, but now Lance believed him.

No, Joey was definitely not boring. Not in the least. But the law didn't care about that at all; the law saw a Brown and a Shameful curled into each other in one bed, and that was against the law, and that was all there was to it.

"Joe, it's late; you should go," Lance murmured into the darkness of his room, dipping his head down until he could feel hair brush his cheek. His hand moved slowly in patterns over a strong back, fingers memorizing the smooth texture of the skin beneath them. He said this every time, and was refused every time. But he had to say it anyway, had to remind himself and be reminded that the choice to come to his bed remained a choice, and that the risks of staying were known to all.

Powerful arms tightened around his waist and Joey tilted his head up, his beard scratchy on Lance's chest. "Got nowhere to go," he replied easily.

Lance smiled slightly, rolled his eyes, and pressed on. "You've got your own place; get the hell out my apartment."

"And go back to what?" Joey countered. "My lonely, empty bachelor pad with the drippy faucet I can't afford to get fixed? Maybe you think I should call up Nina and spend the rest of the night with her? I know that's not what you want."

"I didn't--" Lance sighed and placed his free hand under his head on the pillow. Of course he didn't want Joey spending the rest of the night with his fiancée, the woman his parents had chosen for him to be married to. She was all right, Lance thought; she'd been respectfully -- if fearfully -- polite to him when Joey had introduced him to her as "one of my best friends", had managed to keep the pity out of her eyes until she thought he wasn't looking. But then, she didn't know that by 'best friend' Joey meant 'lover'. "You should call her, at least," he offered. "Tell her you were out late or something, before she goes over to your place and freaks out because you're not there."

"Fuck," Joey scoffed. "We haven't even set a date and she's controlling my life already. And you're letting her," he accused Lance, releasing Lance's waist and propping his head up on his arm to look down at the other man. "You keep sayin' you have nothing to lose, Lance," he said, truthfully and not unkindly. "This could all be over tomorrow. Why do you wanna push me away?"

Lance pulled his arm out from beneath Joey's body, remaining on his back, and clasped his fingers above his stomach. "Call her, Joe. I'll still be here when you get back." And that was all he would say until Joey had left, grumbling, and made the call, and returned, grumbling, to his arms.

"I told her I'd be spending the night out," Joey told him as he pulled back from their kiss. "I said I was too drunk to drive and didn't have enough money for a cab, so I'd just stay out and call her in the morning."

Lance raised his eyebrows and ducked away from Joey's questing fingers. "You-- what? You told her-- where'd you tell her you were staying?" Joey had never done this before; he had never spent the night before, he had never come back to Lance's bed demanding more, had never taken such a risk before. Lance's words of warning had always been enough to keep Joey safe. Before.

"I told her I was staying here," was the murmur against his collarbone, hair again tickling his cheek, and Lance shook his head, raising his hand to push Joey away because he couldn't move his own self out of reach.

"So she can--" Lance shook his head again, pushed weakly at Joey again, not liking the way his nipples hardened under Joey's mouth even when he didn't want them to. "Joey, she doesn't like me. She--" he sighed. "Joey. She's gonna think something's up."

"She'd be right." Joey's voice was a mumble against his skin.

"And then she'd call the police," Lance breathed, studying the ceiling, where he could almost make out separate tiles. He started to count them in the back of his mind. "And then they'll come here. And then--"

Joey suddenly pulled back, raising his head and looked up at Lance. Anger burned in his eyes, and Lance flinched at the ferocity in them. "You said you didn't care what happened to you," he hissed. "You said you had nothing to lose. Well, I have nothing to lose either. I could go back to her, but I don't want to, and if I have to tell her I'm saving myself for marriage and that I get too drunk to drive home every night so I don't have to go back to her, that's what I'm gonna do. I'm tired of lettin' you guilt me into doing "the right thing." I'm not giving up a second until she chains me down with that wedding ring, so you," he jabbed a finger into Lance's shoulder, "just shut up already."

Lance caught Joey's hand in his and squeezed it. "You're tellin' me all of a sudden you don't care if they lock you up?"

"Why? You don't care if they kill you."

"I care if they lock you up," Lance retorted, turning to face Joey more fully. "Joey, you don't get it. I say I don't have anything to lose because I don't have anything. I know you don't like to think about me like this, but I don't have a family, I don't have a future.... I'm twenty-one and I'm middle-aged already, for a Shameful." He silenced Joey's attempt to protest and went on. "They kill me, and what effect does that have? They'll just give the apartment to someone else, auction off my things. I'd never be able to visit you in prison anyway, so what difference does it make? It's you who'd have to spend the rest of your life there. So stop tryin' to be a hero first, and then I'll shut up."

"Fine," Joey muttered, flopping on to his back. He passed a hand over his face, surprised to feel moisture at the corners of his eyes, and let out a loud puff of air. "Just fine." Beside him, Lance rolled on to his back as well, letting him cool down, and perhaps it was the long silence, or the fact that he didn't want their limited time to be clouded by tension, but before he could censor himself he blurted, "You ever think about what it'd be like? If they caught you?"

Lance rolled back over to him, then on to his stomach, and rested his head on his arms. "Yeah," he answered simply. "I do. Sometimes."

"You're not scared at all?"

Lance thought about it. "Not really," he said carefully. "I mean, it's supposed to be over pretty quick, so...." It wasn't much of an answer, but he didn't really know what to expect -- nobody had ever survived the asphyxiation and come back to tell about it. He wondered if it would be like it was at work in the factory, where he spent all day pouring plastic from vats into molds, where the fumes made his eyes water and burned his nose and throat. Sometimes it was so bad that he had to call in sick to work, made sick from work itself. He wondered if it would be like that and whether he could handle it if it were any worse. "It's better than 'life', Joe," he admitted, staring at him dolefully. "I'd see my mom in there, and she'd... she was so sick a lot of the time because they don't really... they don't care how they treat you in there. And I think she really missed Dad a lot. And," he paused, unsure whether to continue but wanting Joey to know the truth anyway. "I wouldn't want you in there missing me, okay?" He nudged Joey with his elbow. "So go."

Joey smiled his lazy, bed-smile at him, and Lance had to glance away under his scrutiny, his face warming. "Do you love me?" he asked Lance, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Lance attempted to bury his head in his pillow, hiding his grin. "Yeah," he admitted.

"Say it."

He huffed a sigh, feigning indignance, and reached out with a hand to stroke Joey's face. "I love you," he said boldly. "Now go."

And suddenly Joey was looming over him again, dropping kisses between his shoulderblades, over his biceps, fingers trailing down his ribs, hands everywhere at once, it seemed. "One more time, and then I'll go."

At this point, arguing would be futile; his body was already betraying him. "How can I say no to that?" he wondered aloud, right before Joey's lips claimed his.

***

The banging on Lance's door woke them both some time later, though Joey was the first to realize what it was. "Lance," he whispered, shaking Lance's shoulder gently. He smoothed back Lance's hair and bent close over his ear. "Lance, you better get that." And as Lance stirred, the banging commenced again, more severely.

"Police! Is anybody in there?"

"Ohhhh..." Lance said softly as he sat up, the word sounding like a moan. They knew. They knew. They knew. He almost wanted to cry, scrambling out of bed to throw on his clothes and make himself presentable. "Oh, um... Joey," he sobbed, after fumbling with the top buttons on his shirt for the third time. He felt like a hypocrite and a coward, and hated himself for it. In theory he had not been worried, but he did not want it to be over yet. Not this way; not like this.

"Lance, just go," Joey told him soothingly, putting his own pants on as another round of pounding rang through the apartment. "Get the door and let them in, and I'll handle everything. Don't worry." He fastened his fly with steady fingers and crossed the room to pull Lance into an embrace, kissing him tenderly before letting him go. Just in case it was the last... no, he thought. Just because he wanted to.

Lance took a deep breath and opened the door before the next round of banging had ended. Two officers leaned lazily against the doorposts and flashed their badges at him quickly. "Good evening," one greeted him. "Sorry to bother you, but we had a report of suspected illicit behavior between a Brown and a Shameful at this address?" He stepped forward, into the light, and Lance could see that he was a Blue. "Do you mind if we have a look around--" he paused, his mouth twisting slightly in a grimace-- "Sir?" Obviously he could see the color of Lance's eyes from the light as well; the police were supposed to be impartial, but rarely kept the prejudice from their voices when they knew who they were dealing with.

"Um, yeah, sure, come on in," Lance said graciously, pulling the door widely open and stepping back to allow Blue and his partner -- a female Green -- in.

They introduced themselves first: the Blue was Officer O'Rourke, the Green Officer Hagen. "So," Hagen began, "Is there a Brown staying in your apartment right now?"

Lance nodded slowly. "Yeah, my best friend is staying over. It's-- there's nothing going on between us," he laughed slightly, as if the notion were absurd. "It's just that he had too much to drink and didn't wanna drive himself home. So."

"You couldn't drop him off?" Hagen asked him.

"I'm not exactly sober myself, Ma'am," Lance smiled politely, and hoped that they wouldn't perform breathalyzers. He and Joey had drunk a little tonight, but he was certain that any amounts left in their blood would be negligable.

"And where is your friend staying, might I ask?" O'Rourke called from the kitchen.

Lance opened his mouth to say the living room, but before he could speak the Blue officer was already in there, and would see that Joey was not present, would see that there was no bedding prepared on the futon; and he couldn't say the bedroom, because if he said that he might as well hold out his wrists to be handcuffed. So he didn't say anything, and watched O'Rourke trudge down the hall to his bedroom while Hagen watched him, feeling strangely calm. Now that it was really happening, Lance thought it was almost a relief to know his fate; to know that the hiding and the sneaking around would be over. He would miss Joey, but he did believe in an afterlife, and he felt that he'd see Joey again on the other side, where maybe it wouldn't matter that his eyes weren't quite green and that Joey's were brown. Maybe everybody's eyes would be brown there, and look as warm and happy as Joey's did.

He didn't even bother to hide the look of bewilderment that crossed his face when O'Rourke burst back out into the hall, Joey in tow. Joey looked.... pleased, Lance thought; not the least bit unhappy or afraid or rebuked. It seemed out of character with the fears Joey had expressed about being found out, even if it was only for Lance's sake. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Joey, and the other man nodded his head towards the tall officer that flanked him. Lance's gaze rested there as O'Rourke began to speak.

"Yeah, well," the officer said gruffly, pushing past him to meet his partner. "Everything looks fine here. Sorry for inconveniencing you, sir," he offered to Joey, tilting his cap in respect. "And you --sir," he faltered again, addressing Lance. "Be careful. You work at the factory, right?" At Lance's nod, he nodded back, briskly. "You'll wanna get your sleep, be up bright and early. Good evening," he called to both men as he and Hagen headed out, banging the door shut behind them. Lance stared at the closed door for a long moment, not sure what had just transpired. Then he whirled upon Joey, meeting his amused grin with wide eyes.

"What the hell was--"

Joey laughed. "It was all a big misunderstanding," he stated innocently, gesturing widely with his hands as though to say he didn't know what was going on. "C'mere, lemme show you," he added, reaching out for Lance's hand as he turned back to the bedroom. Lance performed an instinctual check of the windows, ensuring that the blinds were all down, before taking Joey's hand and allowing himself to be led back to his room.

Inside, Lance's puzzled look gave way to a smile, and he loved Joey more then than he had a moment before. Joey had stripped a mattress from his bed and laid it on the cramped floorspace next to it, leaving the sheets intact on that and draping the bedspread over the remaining mattress on the frame. With one pillow on each mattress, the set up looked quite innocent; a bit much like a slumber party, but very little like the sleeping arrangements of illicit lovers.

"I'm not afraid of what'll happen to us," Joey stated, breaking the silence and slipping an arm around Lance's shoulders. "I'm just not ready to let go of you yet."

Lance didn't respond to that. "Do you think it was Nina?" he asked instead, his voice soft with compassion. He couldn't think of anyone else who might know or suspect anything about them, and he hated to imagine that it might be the woman Joey would have to spend the rest of his life with.

Joey tightened his grip on Lance. "It better not have been," he replied, equally softly but with an underlying rage. "Or this mattress is staying down here permanently. I'll be the drunkest husband this side of the city," he chuckled without humor, then fell silent. "If it was her," he blurted after a while, "I really hate her. I'll tell her that to her face; that's.... she had no right, Lance."

Lance rubbed Joey's back, unsure of what to say. She had every right. She was supposed to report suspicious activity. It didn't matter that it would place her fiancé's life in danger; it was her duty before the law. Love didn't figure into things -- obligations did.

As if reading Lance's mind, Joey sighed heavily and slumped against him. "I don't love her, Lance," he said sadly.

"I know," Lance responded.

"I love you," Joey continued.

"I know," Lance repeated. He wondered if that would be enough.

[back]