*Snap*

The crack of wood and lead resounded through the studio like a shot fired from a gun, the sound reverberating against the acoustical walls just as sharply as the piano notes JC played when he wrote. And that was the problem. He wasn�t writing. Rather, he had been sitting there, long enough that his ass had gone numb and his toes were beginning to tingle, simply staring at a blank page of sheet music, willing inspiration to launch itself upon him. But catchy hooks and pure melodies hadn�t come wafting in on the recycled air from the conditioning system as they usually did, and the only launching of any kind came from JC�s fist as he balled his fingers around the broken pencil and chucked it at the opposite wall.

Fuck, he thought. He knew he was no musical genius -after all, did geniuses write concept songs based around fleeting, intangible sexual acts taking place in cyber space?- but this was ridiculous. JC had always been able to walk from the studio after spending several hours sequestered within its soundproof walls, and come away bearing something, some affirmation that his labor of love had been worthwhile.

He remembered scoffing at the other guys when they hadn�t been able to harness the harmonies floating around in their heads, saying that music didn�t just happen, you had to *pull* it out from inside yourself, deep down in the darkest depth of your being, and put it to paper for all the world to hear. But now, he had come upon a stumbling block and even after dredging the pit of his stomach (where all the best lyrics usually lay), he had nothing. Nothing but a bitter taste of failure that coated his tongue and a raging headache that stemmed from the fact that he�d screwed his face up in a perma-frown for the past two hours and all the muscles in his forehead were clustered so tight in the middle that JC was half afraid he would wake up with premature wrinkles in the morning.

As if that weren�t enough to contend with, JC hadn�t been able to fall back asleep the night before, not after that dream and Lance and the particular shade of cherry red he saw behind his eyelids every time he tried to go to bed again. Still...it hadn�t been all bad, because the adrenaline in his veins had hung around until the sun rose, and he couldn�t shake the residue of elation he felt every time he thought about the fact that he�d nearly died -had died, in the dream- but was watching the amber tones of dawn stretch across the horizon, alive and breathing anyway.

That was probably what JC liked best: the knowledge that he�d faced something potentially tragic and had been able to step away at the moment of impact to emerge unscathed. It had been like laughing in the face of fear, and JC figured he would always remember that split second where he�d felt 98% terror and 2% excitement toward what he knew would -should- have come.

A light tap on the sound booth window captured JC�s attention. Lance stood on the other side of the glass, smiling that crooked little smile of his, motioning for JC to hurry up and come on.

Abandoning the blank sheets of paper on top of the piano bench, JC willingly walked away from the music that, any other day, he would have been loathe to leave.

�Time to go?� he asked, as he stepped into the adjoining room. Lance nodded regretfully.

�Yeah, sorry. We�re set to get back on the road and start heading toward Louisville.�

JC shrugged. �S�ok.�

Lance took his monosyllabic reply to be a sign of thinly disguised remorse for being forced to halt the musical presses, so he let his hand rest on JC�s shoulder. He gave the firm muscle a comforting squeeze and sympathy clouded his eyes.

�I bet if we ask Johnny, he can find another studio along the way, somewhere. Louisville is only a hop, skip and a jump away from Nashville, and you know there�s plenty of places you can lose yourself there.�

JC laughed a little, though it came out more as a short exhalation of air, and shook his head. �It�s okay. Don�t worry about it.�

Lance paused for a moment, pressing his lips together. �But...JC, aren�t you afraid that what�s there will melt away and then you�ll have lost it forever?�

Azure met jade as JC looked Lance in the eye and said, �There�s not much left to melt, and what is there wouldn�t be a proper loss, anyway.�

The younger man sighed and held his other hand palm up, as if to indicate that whatever JC said, he�d accept.

JC, meanwhile, thought about how nice Lance�s hand felt on his shoulder and how wonderful it would be if he could be a little reckless with him, too.

JC was beginning to feel like a vampire. It seemed as if he slept with his eyes wide open and body on autopilot all day long, then came alive at night when no one else was around to watch. He wasn�t sure if he fit the bill as the next Vampire Lestat, but the quality time he spent alone with himself had increased tenfold. And it was nice; being able to sit back and watch the play of shadows on the walls of the bus as they drove along. It was quiet, too; a far cry from the piercing screams of adolescent girls who practically hyperventilated if he was even an arm�s length away from them. It also gave him more time to think about all the things he�d like to do, if he had the chance.

JC may as well have had the bus all to himself, Joey slept so soundly and stirred so seldom, It was as if, once the other man laid down in his bunk, he became the living dead and only the rise and fall of his torso let JC know Joey�s heart still beat in his chest.

With that sort of freedom, JC was left to his own devices and instead of taking a dose of Valerian to weigh down his eyelids, he chose to make himself a ham on wheat sandwich with mayonnaise and a touch of mustard.

Snack in hand, JC sat cross legged in his bunk and listened to the muted sounds of sleep drifting from the bed across the aisle.

It was a wonder that he hadn�t been discovered yet. That is to say, that the other four hadn�t aggressively confronted him about his abnormal behavior of late. True, JC had always been volatile, though not to the extent that Justin tended to be, but that was mainly attributed to his �tortured artiste� persona and not any real emotional instability. Not that he was unstable now. It was just still a little odd that only Lance had taken note of JC�s considerably altered habits and had bothered to broach the subject with him. But, ever since they�d divided themselves between two buses, they hadn�t been living so on top of one another that it was hard to breath. Now, they had more personal space; not a lot, but enough.

JC didn�t think he felt guilty for whatever it was he had to feel guilty about. It was only that he considered his dream -and other things- to be a secret and secrets tended not to last long within the group. Someone was always exposing something about one of the others, never maliciously but always with the same end result: the dispersing of the secret itself. And those tidbits of his psyche that JC chose to keep private were not to be valued lightly.

Leaning back, JC squirmed a bit in search of a more comfortable position. His back was beginning to ache from hunching over with his elbows on his knees, and the tendons at the back of his neck had been pulled taut so long that his muscles were starting to feel rubbery, like an elastic band.

Reaching up to brush the bread crumbs from the front of his tee shirt, JC frowned as his fingers left pale streaks of yellow across the fabric, He scowled down at his hand and puckered his mouth in distaste when he saw the remnants of mustard staining his skin, With a labored sigh, he crawled from his nest and made his way into the cramped bathroom to wash his hands.

Uncleanliness was JC�s pet peeve. It had been, ever since they�d taken to the road in Europe half a decade before, because JC had made the precious discovery of a factor in his life that he could control no matter how many times the scenery changed. Besides, when five guys were living out of each other�s pockets, there really wasn�t much of a choice but to maintain good hygiene - and those who hadn�t had the good habits to start with, had forged them awfully quick, lest they be on the receiving end of a joke aimed toward their personal upkeep. Humiliation had been key in teaching Justin that, though he warbled like a nightingale, he stunk just like the rest of them after a show and if sponge baths were all they could manage on the bus as they made their way to the next city, then he sure as hell better find someone willing to wash his back.

JC worked the soap into a rich lather and rubbed his palms together, then began running them up and down each forearm as well. As he washed, JC couldn�t help but notice how smooth his skin was. Soft, too. The water was more cold than hot, because that was the way JC liked it, and the temperature made his veins stand out beneath his body�s shell, blue rivers that criss crossed in sharp contrast to his near translucence. Pressing two fingers against the pulse point in his wrist, JC thought about how pale he�d become; almost as pale as Lance.

Lance. If JC closed his eyes, he could pretend that his hands were not his own and that it was someone other than himself who was running their fingertips so lightly across his skin. JC would bet Lance�s palms were even softer than his own, and he thought about what they�d feel like cradling his face. His pulse skipped a beat then began to pound double time.

JC opened his eyes and stared down at his wrists. Well. That wasn�t allowed at all, now was it. No. He�d made it a strict policy *not* to dwell on the things he shouldn�t be thinking about in the first place, and now here he was, washing his hands in the bathroom and thinking those particular thoughts anyway, even though he told himself it wasn�t to be endured. And his skin really was smooth. Wasn�t it.

And then, suddenly, he held a razor blade between his thumb and forefinger and the pouch he kept his toiletries in was sitting open on the counter top beside the sink, the contents of his shaving kit scattered all to hell. JC�s hands were not his own as he drew the sharp edge along his flesh, lightly at first and then with growing pressure. Pain, dull with his initial strokes but increasing steadily, began to to make itself known and burn of his cuts progressed so swiftly that soon, JC felt nothing but the slide of razor against skin and muscle. His veins, he could still see them, were suddenly on the surface of his left arm, their import running in thin rivulets from the lacerated skin.

The sight of his own blood trickling off the tips of his fingers and splashing down into the porcelain basin of the sink sent a jolt of electricity through JC�s veins, and he thought he could almost hear his own blood sizzling on the surface of his heated flesh. He began to breath heavily and as the adrenaline built like a tidal wave, he pressed his body forward to keep himself upright. A low moan escaped JC�s throat as his crotch came in solid contact with the counter. The hardness in his pants had begun to form with that first cut and continued to stiffen as the combination of pain and pleasure made him feel like a cauldron had bubbled over in his gut, its frothy excess now escaping, carried away by his blood as it flowed down the sink�s drain.

JC sawed a little deeper with the blade, his movements becoming more frantic as his thirst for more and the press of arousal closed in. The gashes were deeper now, and it was becoming difficult to see through the plasma that poured over the inside of his left arm, so he took the razor in that hand and started to lay into his right.

Wave after wave of sensation flooded JC�s senses; the acts he was committing felt liberating and dirty, all at the same time. Like the porno magazines he�d purchased with his teenage friends in secret or the adult videos he and the guys sometimes ordered from their hotel rooms. And the sensory overload was not limited to his immediate actions, but extended to the intense curdling desire he felt, as well. In the blood he saw Lance, angelic face lit up in a surreal glow as it had been the night before. JC felt Lance�s hands shadowing his own, running over the broken skin of his arms, and then settling on his waist before moving lower.

The release JC could feel building in his nether regions escalated, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. His vision began to blacken as spots danced before his eyes and the crimson lake that filled the sink ebbed and flowed like the Tigress and the Euphrates and the Mississippi, too. JC quickly stoppered the sink, thinking he�d better not let the rest of his blood go down the tap, because then he�d have nothing to put back in his body once he�d finished having fun.

He was close to climax and closer still to the brink of something, what it was he could not tell. It felt like maybe he was standing at the edge of the Earth, and waiting to take that last step forward before hurtling off into the blackness of space itself.

The razor blade fell from JC�s limp fingers, dropping into the sink where it did not make any noise, only sank to the bottom through the thickness of the blood. He stumbled back into the wall as his knees gave way, sinking to the floor while holding his arms pressed tightly against his chest, making his white tee shirt turn shades of vermilion and burgundy-brown. The moment his back hit the wall, JC�s orgasm raged through him, exploding in bursts of color and light behind the clenched lids of his eyes.

With his head tipped back and breath coming in heaving pants, JC finally looked down at himself. What he saw made his heart race and he blinked against the impending fuzziness of his brain. When had someone spilled a gallon of bright red paint on the floor? JC decided he�d have to get a handful of rags and clean that mess up, just as soon as he had enough energy to stand. The light in the room was slowly dying, and JC thought he�d like to turn on another light switch or maybe replace the overhead bulb with one of a higher wattage. But that could wait until after he finished his game.

JC struggled to his knees, using the counter top as leverage, and peered down into the sink. Though his arms felt heavy, he managed to lift one up to just barely dip his fingertips into the redness. As he drew away, bringing the dripping digits in front of his face for a closer look, the world faded away to nothingness and the ground rushed up to meet him.

�JC, you fucker, you�re going to make us late. Get the hell up!�

JC shot up in his bunk, head slamming against the low ceiling. Joey�s annoyed voice continued to hurl insults, threats and pleas in JC�s general direction, all the while slamming drawers in the kitchen as he searched for something to eat and kept reminding JC that he had less than five minutes until they arrived at the venue behind the other bus.

�-and then I�ll get the other three to help me get you out of bed, just you wait Chasez,� Joey growled.

JC held his hands to the top of his throbbing head and bowed at the waist as he sat there, desperately trying to gain his bearings and gather his wits from where ever they had scattered. He dropped onto his back and lay staring up at the ceiling he�d collided with only moments before.

Cautiously, JC stretched his arms up and out, gazing in a mixture of wonder and horror at the smooth expanse of creamy skin. Unbroken skin. Skin without a trace of blood and not bearing any marks besides those imperfections typical of a life lived through clumsy childhood and the occasional grown-up accident.

Accident. The car had been an accident. This had not. It had been purposeful and deliberate and left JC with strange muddled feelings that he didn�t know what to do with. Lifting his head off his pillow, JC leveled his gaze down the length of his body.

It had also left him with wet, sticky pajama pants.

The curtain on his bunk was yanked back suddenly. JC�s heart skipped a beat in surprise. �What the fuck, Fatone?�

�Hey. Get your ass out of bed, man.�

�Jesus, Joey. Don�t you knock?�

�You�ve got two minutes. Literally.�

�I�ll be there, now shag off.�

Joey rolled his eyes and let the drape close. A sliver of bright light from the hallway shone through the crack left between the curtain and head of JC�s bunk.

JC let his hand drift over the front of his pants and laughed a little, careful to keep his voice low. He hadn�t come in his shorts since he was fifteen, and it was damned amusing to think that there hadn�t even been any naked girls this time around.

But Lance was there, he reminded himself. In my head, he was there.

Rolling up onto one elbow, JC reached to pull the curtain back. Beneath his weight, something gave way, crusty and sticky at the same time. It had a funny texture: rough, reminiscent of sandpaper, and slippery in the middle. JC moved his arm.

There beside him lay the last quarter of a mostly eaten sandwich, ham on wheat, with bread crumbs and traces of yellow now ground into the sheets. JC�s eyes trained on the front of the shirt he wore, then his hands clawed at it, pulling it away from his body. Streaks of mustard spoiled the white fabric, making JC�s blood run cold.