Disclaimer: I know no one mentioned in this story. None of this is true. Don't read if you're too young or too immature to handle it.
Feedback, as always, is appreciated and can be received at FishofHappiness@aol.com.
The title for this chapter comes from the Counting Crow's "Raining in Baltlimore".
The Magnificent Journey Chapter 3: "I need a phone call."
Lance drove on and on, the silence eventually faded into the noises of the road. Traffic was present but not notable, there wasn't enough to worry about. He had stopped for gas, and while he was there, had picked up the junkiest of junk food, in order to keep his blood sugar up. The last thing he needed was to fall asleep at the wheel. After two creme filled generic brand cupcakes, and half a pack of knock-off pixie stix, there was little doubt of that happening. For a while anyway.
Chris seemed to be even more tired then he had let on. He had slept the entire time solidly, without even a slight snore to warn of his presence. Normally, Chris's slumber was like his waking existence. He was never still, always tossing and turning, mumbling or dreaming, and he would never remember a lick of it later. Just like in his waking life. Chris never seemed to remember specific instances, despite how important they might be to other people. He was crazy, he was hyper, but he was not a romantic by nature. Down to earth and practical weren't normally words associated with a person whose nervous activities rivaled those of Richard Simmons on crack, but Chris seemed to work the unlikely genre well. Lance envied him that. Lance didn't have that much energy, that much stamina. The Basses were generally a hearty clan, but Lance had always been the 'sick kid' and being away from home and under stress just seemed to emphasize that fact. The road wore him down easily and without compassion. The times when he needed the most energy, he had the least to draw on. Lance Bass wasn't built for touring, and it had been another black mark in a long list he imagined the guys kept.
Which was probably in and of itself the reason he ended up in spots like this. He was a doormat, and he knew it. They walked all over him, leaving dirt and clumps of other unmentionable materials sticking on him, and he let them. Sometimes he hated that about himself, but normally he took it with the idea that maybe, just maybe he owed them. They picked him. Him, the most uncoordinated, uncool person that ever walked the halls of Mississippi, let alone the humbled stages of Orlando's growing pop scene. He couldn't dance, he was shy, he looked goofy... he was just the exact opposite of the boy band ideal. He wasn't even that smart. Sure he took to business, but he wasn't a glowing example of the Perfect Boy Next Door (Brains, beauty, and brawn).
When he though about it, though, Chris was no nearer to the ideal that Justin and JC so easily illustrated. Chris was older, he was mercurial at times, his sense of style tended to the harsher, he may have crazy in the hyper way, but his dreams all had settled down, and were set on settling down. Maybe it was okay to be far from the perfect band member as long as there were others just as far away, and maybe it wasn't. Did it matter?
Silent days always made Lance so reflective. It was early afternoon, and he was driving on a straight road, the scenery was dry and desert and meant nothing as he drove past it, whizzing trough it faster then he was falling off his sugar high. He usually spent his vacations in silence. Life on the road was so loud, so bustling that the only way to escape it was for complete silence to take over his life. It never lasted, though. He never seemed to get his full vacation. He always seemed to be called into the office at Freelance, or Jive was calling him to get the 'skinny' on what was going on with the other guys. It was a sore spot for him that he never seemed to even get a full vacation, but he put up with it. He put up with everything. Jive was probably filling up his voice mail as he drove, frantically looking for him to do this or that, and basically do the job of whomever it was that wasn't doing it. He got sick of it sometimes.
"What's wrong, Lance?"
Lance jumped like a jackrabbit in a redneck's yard. Somehow, at some point Chris had woken up, and was staring at him. Chris's eyes were always so intense, for some reason. At first glance, they weren't anywhere near his best feature, but if you got to know Chris, you came to understand the way that the brown eyes bored into you, the way they glared at you, or just watched you so that you knew they were watching, and Chris was judging. Chris was always judging.
"I... I was just thinking about how Jive and Freelance are probably filling up my voicemail and my e-mail box right now."
"Why don't you check them?"
"I didn't bring my laptop, or my cell phone."
Chris looked mildly shocked at that. "Scoop without his cell phone? I thought you would die without that thing... I was fairly sure that it was attached to your hand..."
Lance smiled at that, briefly. "I didn't think I would be this long, and...well, I'm kind of sick of getting no time off from it all."
"Good. Damn good, actually. They need to give you a break. You know, that's the real reason I called you." Chris's voice was softer now, more honest sounding. "Well, that and the fact I'm pretty certain you're the only one that won't tease me about Dani."
"Huh? I thought it was because I 'wasn't doing anything important'" Even quoted, the words still held a slight sting.
"No, I... was just being an asshole earlier. You never get any rest, Scoop. They run you ragged. Frankly it's about time you hung up on them for a while. I thought this might be a good 24-hour break from it all. Only, it turned out to be a little longer then I expected..." Chris's voice trailed off, but he had a quirky grin that made Lance laugh out loud. It felt good to laugh.
"Yeah, you can certainly say that again, Chris."