Hey, everyone! I'm gonna make this short and sweet. I slammed out this sucker in two hours. I hope it meets all of your expectations. I enjoyed it, once I got into it. My disclaimer is short and sweet tonight: I know nothing about anyone or anything they do. Don't read if you're a youngin' or a homophobe, and don't read if you don't want to think about real people doing the dirty. The title is from Goo Goo Dolls' "Name", which is a true classic.
Remembering Petticoat Lane Part Four: "You can hide beside me, maybe for awhile,
and I won't tell no one your name."
He would later swear that it was the smell of the warmed up coffee that woke him up, but everyone knew better then that. It was one vibrant, loud yell that accomplished the task that even The loss of JC as a pillow couldn't accomplish.
"DAMMIT, Joey! He's going to KILL you! What the hell did you say?!?"
Lance had long ago mastered the art of looking like he was asleep when he wasn't. Sometimes, it had proved useful against Lou. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept one of the other guys from finding out -about-
Lou. He could never quite figure out which one was more beneficial. He used
that skill now, as the guys argued in the connecting kitchen.
"I didn't say anything to them, Justin! All I said was that he needs
therapy. All I said was that Lance needed help."
That one sentence practically stopped Lance's heart. His breath caught in his throat like a butterfly in a net, and a choked half-sob, half-angry declaration was the only thing to escape. It was then that the guys realized that Lance had woken up.
"Lance? James, are you okay?"
JC's voice was soft, but concerned. It was a sweet gesture, but in
Lance's mind it was too late for sweet gestures. A Betrayal had occured. Lance sat up, only partially noticing that somoene had managed to not only put his shirt back on him, but cover him in a blanket as he slept. It was a funny thing, because Lance had long been a light sleeper. It was a survival skill.
"What the -hell- did you do, Joey? Who did you tell?"
"I called Johnny, Lance. I told him --"
"I heard what you told him! That I needed help, huh Joey? What did you promise me? That no one else would know? Way to keep that fucking promise!"
The rant was in full swing. All the anger and frustration at being forced to tell, and then having to promise to get therapy was wearing inside him. It was like an acrid inferno that was eating its way out of his stomach through his mouth. A small, sick part of his mind, the same one that he had always retreated to in the midst of the worst times with Lou, was envisioning the flames as they shot out and enveloped everything, Lou, the guys, and himself included.
"But Lance, I didn't --"
"Shut up! No one else, Joey! It was supposed to be no one else! You called management, and you blabbed to them. You bastard, how could you do that? I can't believe you would turn around like that and tell them what happened to me! You stupid --"
"I didn't tell them your name."
"-- pri.. What?"
The softness of Joey's voice, in contrast to his reverberating screams was what had made him take notice in the first place. It was the meaning of the words that held him, though.
"I didn't give any names, James. I told them that one of us needed serious help to deal with a past issue, and that we should peobably all go into therapy. The only thing they -do- know is that it isn't me."
"You didn't tell them it was me."
"No, Lance. I promised you. I keep my promises."
That was probably the truest sentence of the speech. Joey was the type of person whose honor code would make the Knights of the Round Table envious. He lived and loved and fought for his friends. Anything they needed became his personal quest. Anything they told him went to a wealth of knowledge in Joey's mind that only he was privy to. That, combined with the fact that he had -doubted- that slowly penetrated Lance's mind. He stood stark still for just a few seconds, before he started shaking. His eyes were watery, but he wasn't crying. In his opinion, he had done enough of that this week. His voice, when he spoke again, was shaky and broken, but it was there, in a solid stream of bass.
"What did Johnny say?"
"They're pulling us home."
It was Justin's voice this time. Evidently, he was the last to know. That was okay, the twisted little voice in his head spoke, at least he was the first one to know that Lou was a child molester. He was still ahead in the polls.
"Back to Orlando?"
"Yeah. They said that they think that a more stable environmant is needed to make the therapy effective. Evidently we aren't the first recording artists to have.. issues."
Lance half chuckled. There was a touch of irony in that. Him, the shy all-American boy next door had 'issues'. It was the perfect commentary on the state of world society today. He nodded and absorbed the information. He had regained his composure when he spoke this time. He was no longer the on-the-edge lunatic that had screamed his head off, and then turn into a shivering freak. He was Lance Bass. Control personified and then improved upon. He was who he had forced himself to be for much of his life.
"That isn't all that bad."
With that single sentence, he pushed past Chris, and the hovering form of JC into the hallway.
"Lance, what are you doing?"
He answered JC's query calmly and cooly. He was making sense, his mind was his again. "To my room. I need to pack, and I want to call my mom to tell her where I'll be. Justin, I would suggest that you do the same with Lynn."
He looked back, and watched Justin's startled nod before he finished his walk, and shut the door tight behind him. Once he was inside, he let his walls break down. It was too much. It was -all- too much. He didn't want to go into therapy yet. He was dreading it with his entire being, and he didn't know what he would do. It was with a shaking hand that he dialed the one support pillar that he -hadn't- exhausted yet.
Diane Bass's voice over the phone was smooth and soothing to his ears, like any mothers' voice is to their offspring. "Hello, Bass residence, this is Diane speaking."
She had a very subtle accent, unlike the sometimes heavy, sometimes non-existant drawl of her son. Lance's voice was harsh and weighted with tears that he was just barely holding in.
"Mommy?"
Concern immediately sparked in Diane's tone. "Lance, honey, is that you? What's wrong?"
"Mommy, we're going home tomorrow."
"Going back to Orlando? Why on earth, Lance? What's wrong?"
It was only the distance and detatchment of the phone that allowed Lance to follow trough with the next part of the conversation. If it weren't for that, he would never have been able to -think- about telling his mother.
"I need therapy, mom. That's why we're coming back."
"Therapy? Lance, you've always been so well grounded, what's going on? You're worrying me, honey."
The next words were carried through the wires on the breath of a sob. The desperation of the phrase made them sing true.
"Lou abused me, mom. He made me have sex with him from the time we broke out, until the lawsuit."
There was one split second as the news hit.
"WHAT? That bastard! My poor baby, I can't believe he did that to you. God, James, why didn't you tell me? Lance, sweetie, are you okay? Lance? JAMES!?!"
The words, as comforting as the were, were pointless. Lance had dropped the phone onto the base, hanging it up as she spoke and curled into a ball, shaking and emotionally scattered. He never heard a word of her reaction.