When the phone rings for Lance's wake up call in the morning, he answers by reflex but doesn't really wake up; not really. He hangs up without having opened his eyes and rolls on to his back and thinks, about things that bring him back to the moment. He's in -- he cracks an eye open and reads the Post-It that he stuck to the nightstand the night before -- Chicago. Name is James. Son of Jim and Diane. Twenty-two. Caucasian male, he thinks, and smiles a little. Two inches shorter and a few pounds heavier than he'd like to be. Still tired. He gives himself a half-hour to get out of bed and turns back on to his side, hugs the pillow. He's a brother, nephew, cousin, friend, lover--

Well, he hasn't been a lover in a while; he doesn't know where that one came from.

--pop singer, manager, CEO, wannabe actor, producer, funder of start-ups, and he got up too fucking early for this. James is taking a twenty-minute nap, he decides, and stops thinking.

He wakes up again after fifteen minutes, too attuned to the need to be places to really oversleep, and stumbles out of bed. Every morning he wonders if he should skip this part of his routine, and every morning he tells himself he's being silly. One morning he will, he knows, but it won't be this morning. He puts on shorts and a wifebeater because it's hot as hell and he's not afraid of a little sweat, but sweating gallons isn't really his thing. He's putting on his baseball cap when Lonnie knocks on his door, and he grabs a jacket and puts his cell in the pocket just in case, when he leaves.

The good thing about jogging trails is that there aren't any school-aged children or teenagers out that early, and the adults are all running, too, so it's sort of easy to go unrecognized. He doesn't use them all the time, just if he can't find a good place in the city to run, and he likes that the people there aren't sure if the sweaty and panting man that passed them is who they kinda sorta think he might be. That in itself gives Lance an extra incentive to keep running; it's an hour when he actually feels pretty safe, without trying very hard to not be who he is. Lonnie doesn't even have to keep close; he just walks around key points along the trail where he can keep him in sight. He'd worried about that at first, saying "what if something happens to you where I can see you but can't get to you in time?"

Lance said, "Well, I'm already running, I guess, so just look at it like there's not much you have to do," which wasn't exactly what Lonnie wanted to hear.

What seems like hours later, Lance's lungs are burning and his chest hurts. He feels like he might have swallowed a bee a couple of laps back and it stung him in the throat. His hands are sweating. The backs of his knees are sweating. His legs are aching, moving by reflex and not so much because he wants them to. He's starting to get a stitch and thinks this is the last lap. He left his watch with Lonnie this morning, though, so he's not sure, and he thinks that was pretty stupid of him, because how's he going to find out how much time he has left now? He looks over at Lonnie and Lonnie holds up a finger, which means last lap, so he was right after all.

He puts a hand up to his aching side and feels how much more tightly the skin is stretched there than when he first started running, and he likes it. It's the other reason why he runs.

At breakfast Lance is starving from the run and has two helpings of eggs and toast because he knows that both the French Toast and the pancakes at this hotel suck. He has that and a few slices of cantaloupe and arm-wrestles JC for the last piece of honeydew, with Chris officiating and Justin providing commentary in a golf-announcer voice. For a second he thinks he might be winning, JC's arm nudging past noon -- "And oh my goodness, it seems that victory for Lance is a possibility," Justin intones. "JC is going to need to focus his concentration in these next few moments if he's going to pull through." -- but then he looks up and sees the look of grim determination on JC's face, and JC wins -- "A stunning upset; remarkable. What a beautiful move on JC's part. We'll be hearing more from him in the years to come, I'm sure." Lance isn't sure if it's because he was distracted or not; JC may be thin and wiry, but he's still pretty strong.

JC sings "We Are the Champions" around mouthfuls of the honeydew, mimicking Freddie's vibrato perfectly, and Lance tells him to shut up good-naturedly. He's thinking he's going to have to raid the bus fridge for some junk before they go anywhere and his stomach starts growling, when Joey leans into him and offers up the rest of his ham and cheese calzone.

"I already had one, and the muffins, so," Joey shrugs. "I'm pretty much done."

"No, I--" Lance shakes his head. "Thanks, though. But no."

Joey raises his eyebrows. "We can share it," he offers.

Lance doesn't realize that he's salivating at the calzone until he swallows. "Okay," he says. He pulls his chair up closer to Joey's and cuts off a small piece to start, and it's so good that the pieces get bigger and bigger. Joey only gets one piece, when Lance is almost done. He doesn't realize it until Joey's hair brushes his face when he bends over the plate.

"So did you go running today?" Joey asks him when they're back on the bus. He's getting chips off of the counter, fridge open so that he can get a drink, and Lance feels guilty again for eating most of his calzone. And he's still hungry, too.

"Yeah," Lance says. "You should come with me sometime. I could use the company."

Joey shrugs. "Yeah, I know, I ought to, sometime." He munches thoughtfully, still leaning on the fridge door. "Is that going all right?" he asks, as Lance reaches past him and pushes the door shut.

Lance nods. "I mean, I'm sorta--" he rolls his shoulders back-- "achey a little afterwards, but it makes me feel good. It'd. Yeah." He wants to say it'd make you feel good, too, but they really haven't talked much about the running thing since Lance took it up. He'd been saying he wanted to start running for a long time, with the longing of intention, but when he finally got up one morning and decided to do it, Joey'd said to go on without him. Lance had done just that, and hadn't brought it up again. And now he doesn't know how much to say, because he knows that Joey hired a personal trainer but has yet to use him. He knows that Joey refers to himself as lazy when he works just as hard as the rest of them, and as a pig when he doesn't eat any more than he used to -- let alone more than JC or Justin or even Lance when he's been running. He doesn't want Joey to feel like it matters to him whether Joey runs. He doesn't want Joey to think that now that he has lost weight that it changes how he looks at Joey.

"What time is it?" he asks, because they have a photo shoot and interview at ten, and because he can't think of anything else to say.

Joey checks his watch. "Nine twenty." He closes the bag of chips and rolls it over. "You gonna let them mess with your hair for this?"

"I don't think so," Lance says, glad to have the subject changed. He took the time to do his hair this morning, and he doesn't feel like having to wash shit out of it later. "You?" he asks in return, just as he realizes that Joey's wearing a hat, so of course they're going to have to do something with it.

Joey just smiles and grips his shoulder. "I'm gonna go lie down in back. You staying up here?"

Lance smiles back. "Um, I gotta make a call, but I'll catch up with you?" he says, because he's thinking that Meredith has an interview at eleven and he's not sure that he'll be able to get away long enough to coach her, so he has to do it now if at all. He watches Joey walk down the aisle as he dials on his cell, and stares at the door to the lounge while he talks to her.

Joey looks asleep when he gets back there, stretched out on the divan with his eyes closed and the TV on, but Lance knows he's awake and just listening. He crawls up next to Joey and stretches out as well, moving Joey's outstretched arm down to his side before laying down. Tilting his head in to Joey's until they touch, he watches for a moment before he says, quietly, "what are we watching?"

Joey doesn't move. "Judge Judy."

Lance flops back just enough that Joey can feel it. "I hate that," he mumbles. Joey knows he hates it, which is probably why he turned to it. "Change it."

"No," Joey says. "We're gettin' to the place in like ten minutes. Not worth movin'."

Lance sits up and reaches across Joey for his other hand. "Then gimme the remote, and I'll move," he says, but Joey holds on tight and he can't get a good grip from where he's sitting. He sighs and elbows Joey in the side for a reaction when he lays back down, and when he doesn't get one he props himself up, watching Joey where he lays.

Joey's eyelids twitch slightly, which is the other clue that he's awake, and if he were to open his eyes he'd see Lance watching him, but Lance doesn't stop. He doesn't know what he'd say if caught -- probably that he's trying to psychically convince Joey to change the channel or something -- but he watches Joey take in slow breaths through the nose and exhale through the mouth. He watches the dark shadows cast on Joey's cheeks from his eyelashes. He studies the stubble that's grown around the thin lines of Joey's beard and over his upper lip. He thinks Joey's beautiful the way he is, and doesn't want anything about him to change, personal trainer or no.

When he finally blinks, it's a quarter til and they're at the location for the shoot. Joey blinks his eyes open and looks up at him, smiling. "Showtime," he says, and Lance grins back.

"I don't think you should come with me," he blurts, without explanation, and when Joey gives him a confused look, he adds, "runnin'. I don't think you should come running with me. In the mornings."

Joey gets off the divan, furrowing his brow, and comes around to Lance's side. Lance stands as well. "I thought you said you needed company."

"I do," Lance says. "Well. I mean, it'd be nice, but. You don't need it, you know?" He means the exercise. He heads for the door, Joey's hand a welcome presence on his back.

"You didn't need it, either," Joey observes after a while, as they step down into the sunlight. "And look at you now. All slimmed down and everything."

I'm not you, Lance thinks.

The photo shoot is routine, boring, and by this point in his career Lance can smile on cue without knowing what he's smiling at. There are three wardrobe changes, and then they do the interview in the last set of clothes. His jeans -- the ones he had to wear for the third set -- are too tight. He's sure that they made for good pictures, but they're not exactly comfortable when he sits wedged between Joey and Justin on the couch. He's going to be a soprano when the interview's done, he thinks. He laughs to himself when he thinks of how that would sound. Bye, bye, Bass, he thinks, and snickers out loud. Chris turns around to look at him, eyebrow quirked, as if he doesn't think the last joke he told was that funny.

During the interview his mind wanders to a million different things. It usually does, but he's not talking much today, either. He doesn't feel like it. He feels a little off, actually. Not sick, just distracted, maybe. He's thinking about his run that morning, and Joey's recent behavior, and the look on Joey's face when he told Lance he didn't have to go running. There's nothing really odd or wrong about any of it, but something about it all together makes him feel uneasy.

On his left Joey is a heated presence, always a little warmer than Lance is -- excellent shelter on cold days, a bitch to be near to on hot days like this one. His side is starting to sweat a little just from the contact. Joey's the same size as him sitting down, but feels huge beside him anyway. When he looks over he can see the bulge of Joey's stomach, because Joey's slouching and it sticks out when he does.

On his other side Justin's hardly taking up room, thin but muscular legs touching but with a space between them anyway. It's really Justin who's huge next to him, even sitting, and his shoulders are so broad that sometimes Lance feels he ought to lean out of the way to make room for them. As it is he's leaning anyway, because of the gestures Justin makes while he talks. Justin's stomach curls inward, into his jeans, when he slouches, and if Lance looks closely -- which he won't, because he's seen it enough to know that it's there -- he can see the slight ridges of Justin's abdominal muscles through the tight shirt stretched across the skin.

Lance feels like a sort of middleman, sitting between the two. His stomach has been flat for a while now, from the running and from the crunches he does before bed, but he only has the barest hint of visible muscle. If he stretches and looks for it, he can see it, but it's hardly obvious. He's fantasized, occasionally, about a day when he might have a six-pack like Justin, but he isn't sure that he wants one. Not yet. It looks sort of untouchable; rock hard where Lance sort of likes it to be soft.

Joey's stomach makes a great pillow. Lance has never fallen asleep as comfortably on Justin before.

"You were so quiet," Joey comments, when they're back on the bus, and Lance is simultaneously glad and annoyed that he noticed.

He shrugs, and gets a bottled water, chugging half before he hands it to Joey and responds. "Didn't have much to say today, I guess."

Joey drinks the rest down just as quickly as Lance had, and leans down over him when he sets the bottle down. "You didn't have anything to say? Bullshit. What's up?"

Lance smiles winningly. "Nothing," he says, glancing at the fence Joey's made around him with his hands on either side of the counter. He considers ducking under Joey's arm if he's fast enough, but knows that Joey'd take that as a challenge to play and take chase. It's not an entirely unappealing thought.

"Okay, then," Joey says. "Then you won't mind if I--" he starts, and Lance puts up his hands, immediately defensive.

"Joey," he says before ducking and spinning just as Joey reaches out. He's fast enough -- almost. Joey goes for his ribs, which is the first place Lance tries to protect, and settles for wrapping his arms around Lance's waist and threatening a wedgie. "Try me," Lance pants, struggling to stagger away, but Joey's ground his feet into the floor and holds tight. He almost gets away when Joey lets go with one hand, the neckline catching him in the throat when Joey yanks on the back of his shirt, but he drops to the ground in a heap when Joey sticks a wet finger into his ear.

"Shit!" he laughs, inhaling of the carpet. Joey drops down on top of him, and he lets out all the air in his lungs in a rush. "Don't! Stop." He's only half-serious; he hasn't really laughed all morning, and it feels good to, finally.

"Don't stop?" Joey breathes, and gets up just enough to straddle Lance's butt. "Did you say don't stop?"

"No!" Lance cries. "Sto-"

"No, don't stop?" Joey asks, and runs his hands up and down Lance's sides just enough to get him wriggling, pinned under Joey's weight.

"Okay," Lance gasps. "Okay, I feel better -- get off me." He wriggles some more. "Please. Joey? I can't breathe, here."

Joey doesn't budge. "No more pissiness?" he demands.

"I promise! I promise," Lance vows breathlessly. "I'm happy. Happy, shiny Lance. Joey, for the love of God--"

Joey eases up but doesn't get off completely, and Lance turns over on the floor and looks up at him. "Good then," Joey says. "I don't wanna see you frownin' for the rest. of. the. day," he says, poking Lance in the stomach with every word as he finishes up, and then frowns himself. "There's really not so much of you as there used to be," he says almost to himself, as if he's just noticing. As if Lance hasn't been running almost every day since the tour started. Lance wonders if Joey thought it wouldn't make a difference.

"Does it--" Lance stops. Does it bother you? What kind of question would that be? And what if he asks that and Joey thinks he means the fact that he's exercising and losing weight and Joey's not? And Lance doesn't mean that, not at all; but he's starting to get scared that Joey liked the old him better than the new one. And he doesn't know how to fix that, doesn't know how to tell Joey that he likes himself now, and that it doesn't mean that Joey needs to feel the same about himself. "I like you the way you are," is what comes out instead, in an earnest tone of voice Lance doesn't think he's ever used with Joey before.

When Joey smiles, his eyes scrunch up completely, and he flashes all of his teeth for a second. "Stop," he says playfully, and pokes Lance again, just enough to make him flinch. When he's sobered up he adds, "I like you the way you are, too."

Lance tilts his head. "But?"

Joey shakes his head, shrugs. "But nothin'. I liked you the way you were, I like you the way you are. I like you," he adds.

Lance fights a smile as he feels his face heat up, and loses. Do you like me like me, or just like me? he thinks, and laughs, because he hasn't really thought like that since he was fourteen. When Joey wants to know what's so funny, he tells him just that, without making it look like he has much stock in the answer.

Joey thinks about it for a moment, until Lance is sure he's just pretending to think about it. "Both," he says finally, and gets up, extending a hand to help Lance to his feet as well. He doesn't let go right away once Lance is standing, and that's an answer in itself.

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