Lance knows even before he wakes up that something terrible has happened.  He knows this because of the sharp ache in his back and the fact that his eyes feel dry and swollen, like he's cried. 

"You awake?"  He hears Joey's voice, barely a whisper, and partial memories of what has happened begin to return.  The tears suddenly make a whole lot of sense.

Lance groans and rolls onto his stomach because even though he can't remember what happened to his back, he remembers the way that Joey had had to take so many deep breaths before  standing behind him and saying, "okay, this might hurt for a second." 

"We've gotta move while it's dark."  Joey is gathering up their few possessions from the disheveled bed and stuffing them in his backpack.  Lance knows that he shouldn't be making him do everything, but that knowledge doesn't compel him to move; he sits numbly on the edge of the bed and lets Joey push his sneakers onto his feet, tie the laces tightly.  "Wear this," he instructs, and hands Lance a baseball cap. 

They move quickly and silently down the street, although Lance doesn't know how he can even walk.  His legs feel weak from blood loss and terror.  He can't understand why Justin had been holding a gun, but that's all he can see over and over again, Justin's expression of disbelief, the way he'd looked down at his own hand.  The blood.  

"I don't even know who's dead," he says.  If Joey thinks that it's a strange first thing to say after four hours of silence, he doesn't mention it.  Instead, he leads them down through an alley where a cab is waiting on the other side and says,

"We'll find out soon enough." 

***

"Where the fuck are they?"  Chris can see the first light of dawn coming over the horizon, and even though he's been up all night, he's vibrating with excess energy. 

"They'll be here," JC says, looking over Chris' shoulder.  "I think…we shouldn't have split up."

"We had to." Chris keeps his watch, doesn't blink.  "And we might have to again.  It's too conspicuous, the five of us." 

"What if they don't make it?"  Justin asks, shivering.  He's cold, freezing, shaking so hard that his whole body hurts. 

"JC, didn't I tell you he's in fucking shock?  Get over there," Chris snaps, even though he's really not mad at JC.  He just feels the time slipping away.  Joey and Lance are late.  He stares out the window and wills them to appear until finally, when the outdoors are fully bathed in morning light, they do. 

Lance looks pale and drawn, but Joey is practically frantic when they stumble in.  "Chris, thank God.  It hasn't hit the news yet." 

This is what Chris had wanted to hear, and he hugs Joey tightly, finally breathes.  "Let's move, then." 

"Slow down, let's talk about-"

"Not now, Joe.  We get somewhere safe first."  He pauses, touches his fingers to his goatee.  "I'm open to suggestions." 

"The Four Seasons," Lance mutters.

"North.  We go north," JC says.  His arms are wrapped tightly around Justin, whose trembling has subsided for now.  "They'll expect us to go to Mexico."  

The car is parked around back, and Chris assures them that they'll be able to use it for at least a few days before it'll be missed.  He takes the wheel because he's the calmest, although JC is a close second.

"I hope you're not bleeding all over our very first stolen car," he says, once they get on the freeway.  He tilts the rearview mirror until he can see Lance, who still looks too pale.

"Just on Joey's coat," Lance throws back, and Chris gives him a wink before returning his attention to the road.  Joey is holding their map with tightly clenched fingers.  He'd been the one to extract the piece of metal out of Lance's soft, flawless back, and every few minutes, he slides his hand into his pocket, feels along the dangerous edge.

***

"This is so fucked up."  Justin's already expressed this sentiment at least a dozen times since they arrived at the run-down trucker's motel, and Chris wishes that he'd display just a tiny bit of hysteria so he could legitimately slap him.  "I mean, this can't be real."  

"We should've gone to the police," Joey suggests.

"No fucking way."  With just a light hand on Chris' arm, Justin can feel the fury bubbling beneath the surface.  "It's a dirty deal.  You want them to go to prison?  Please tell me how you think they'd do in jail, Fatone."

"They didn't do it, they wouldn't necessarily be convicted," Joey argues.  He just wants to know what's happening. 

"I wouldn't count on it.  They've already got witnesses lining up to talk about Justin's homicidal rampage." 

They can't stop watching the tv, listening to the anchor people talk endlessly about how fame and fortune could turn a formerly wholesome group of boys into killers. 

"It's the whole celebrity mindset," a correspondent declares arrogantly on the screen. "People start to believe that they can truly get away with anything." 

"I didn't do it," Justin says into JC's shoulder.  "I know I didn't." 

"What the fuck happened??" Joey demands.  When he, Chris and Lance had arrived at the party, they'd been met with a terrifying chaos that still hasn't ended.  Two people are dead. 

"I'm not sure."  JC shakes his head.  "I think…that it was about me and Justin, though.  You guys weren't even supposed to be there tonight." 

"But we were!" Joey argues.  "And that makes it look even worse, like we planned it!  Like we all…" 

"I didn't do it!"  Justin shouts back.  "Fuck!  Fuck…Chris," he says imploringly as he starts to shake again.  He presses his hands to his eyes, and Chris points the remote at the tv, turns it off. 

"They think you did it.  You and Lance.  The rest of us are only, like, accessories or something." 

"Me?" Joey says in disbelief.  "I just wanted to go to a party." 

"We get it, Joe.  You're innocent.  We won't be turning your ass in to the cops anytime in the near future, alright?  Shit." 

"No," Lance says quietly.  He's been standing near the window, too anxious to sit.  "Chris.  That's not what Joey's saying.  He means…"  He meets Joey's gaze and tries to appear neutral.  "He can still get out.  I'm fucked, and Justin…but the rest of you don't have to be here.  You should go while you can." 

Chris is left speechless.  The very idea that Lance would even suggest…yet, Joey is looking down at his hands, ashamed, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. 

JC stands up.  "What?  No." 

"Joey has a kid."  Lance walks to the mirror and watches everyone in the reflection.  He can't bear to see what's about to happen, and when he looks in the mirror, he can pretend it's all a movie, happening to someone else.  "He should have the right to choose."  From behind, they can all see the crimson stain blooming on his back, spreading in a ragged circle through his t-shirt.

Joey stays. 

***

"Who would do this?  I mean, who hates us that much?"  Justin is still very much in denial.

At that, Chris laughs loudly.

"Okay, who hates us enough to do something like this?"

"God," Lance muses.  "Where do we start?" 

"Lou," JC suggests, because he's never completely gotten over that. 

"This is a little extreme.  More like a woman scorned," Chris corrects.  "What've we got?" 

"Britney," Joey and Lance say at once. 

"Fuck off," Justin sulks, but it's true.  The video had been cruel, and it had furthered his star power, which was what he'd really wanted.  When she'd called him in tears, demanding an explanation, he'd pretended to lose his signal.  "She wouldn't do something like this, anyhow." 

"This is pointless.  How many people have we pissed off over the past few years?" Lance asks.  "Just by our very existence.  It could be anyone.  An enemy, a fan…"

"A Backstreet fan," JC snorts, and even Joey cracks a smile for the bare, briefest moment.

***

Chris decides that they need to alter their appearances.  They sit in a haphazard circle in their motel room and look from face to face, studying each other carefully.  Someone has to go get the supplies, and Chris has said the least conspicuous of them will go. 

"Not Joey," Lance says, finally.  "He's too…" 

Chris rolls his eyes.   What Lance doesn't want to say, what Lance would never say, is tall, handsome, charismatic.  Heads turn for Joey, and for that reason, Justin is out of the running as well. 

The problem is that they've intentionally put together a group of maybe not the best-looking guys in the world, but definitely striking enough that they can't help but stand out in a crowd.  Chris thinks that JC is their best bet, easily disguised as an average joe, but not with that hair, which is impossible to hide. 

"I don't know."  JC shrugs apologetically at Chris.  "Maybe you could…" 

Chris agrees with a nod, and the rest of them reluctantly give their consent.  It's eerily quiet after that while Chris dresses in front of them, his movements slow and careful.  Justin hands him a baseball cap at the door. 

"Don't talk to anyone," he tells Chris, his eyes bright and fearful.  Chris just turns the cap around backwards and reaches for the doorknob. 

"Be ready to go when I get back." 

***

"Is it still raining outside?" 

Chris peers up at the cashier over his glasses.  "Yeah."  He watches her quick hands scanning each item as though it's nothing.  Her disinterest is reassuring.

It feels strange to talk to someone; he hasn't spoken with anyone but the four of them since yesterday, when on the way out of town he'd stopped at a bank and made small talk with the teller while she counted his money out to him in thick stacks of clean twenty dollar bills.  That was before the news had hit, though. 

None of them will see any of their money ever again, and Chris dreads the moment when Justin realizes this. 

***

Halfway through Nevada, they check into another ramshackle motel.  They're too exhausted to do anything but lie down on the two double beds and sleep.  They sleep all night and half the next day.  Lance wakes up once, with a start, from unsettling dreams.  The reality is pitch darkness and Joey's hand splayed protectively over his injured back, so he shuts his eyes again, lets his body heal. 

In the morning, he calls Joey into the bathroom to check his wound, and when Joey appears at the door, he has a box of hair color in his hand. 

"Um."  Lance's eyes travel sadly over the box.  "Seriously?" 

"'Fraid so." Joey does all the work opening and mixing the dye because left to himself, Lance will never do it.  He's been so plain his whole life…until the first time he rinsed the bleach from his hair and emerged a blonde.  It had been a monumental transformation, and shallow or not, it's played a big part in shaping his own self-image. 

When it's done, he looks at himself in the cracked mirror and sighs.  Between his hair and Joey's newly clean-shaven face, they look like the same kids from six years ago.  Scary. 

They're all clean-shaven now because Justin insists that goatees are a boyband trademark and must be destroyed, even though he's spent the past six months growing his out.  He ends up chasing Chris around the room twice, waving a razor, but Chris' heart isn't in the game.  He surrenders quickly and emerges from the bathroom looking fresh and new. 

"Here," JC says, and hands Lance the scissors.  Lance thinks that he understands why he's been chosen for the task.  He's stiff and silent while Lance works, and when it's over, the floor is littered with light brown curls.  Joey makes a soft, choked sound when he sees the results.  Lance drops the scissors in the sink, feeling like a murderer, but JC just ruffles a hand over his shorn head and rolls his shoulders.  Smiles. 

"It feels nice," he says, and hugs Lance.  "Thanks."

Chris takes him aside and tries to tell him, "Listen, Jayce, you still look, uh…" but JC just smiles and hugs him, too. 

"It's really okay," he insists.  "It didn't mean anything to me," he keeps saying, until they finally believe him.

***

TV is suddenly fascinating.  They're still everywhere, but it's completely different now that the reporters are talking not about what Justin's favorite color happens to be, but the fact that he is armed and dangerous.

"We're famous!" Chris declares, watching the news script scroll across the bottom of CNN. 

"Hey," Justin complains.  They're using footage from "Cry Me a River" as a backdrop for his bio, which he thinks is enormously unfair.  "I mean, I was supposed to look psycho there.  I was acting."   Joey and Lance duck their heads together, trying to hide their smiles because they'd thought the video had been a crappy thing to do to begin with.  

***

They only have a few minutes before they leave, and the rest of the guys are waiting in the car when Chris approaches Lance. 

"Hey," he says.  They're standing in the doorway of the bathroom, surrounded by moldy tile and chipped paint.  "I just want to make sure," he says carefully, "that you know everything that could happen, here." 

Lance nods and stares at the tile.  He's felt the scrutiny of Chris' attention for the past few days, so he's been expecting this.  "I know." 

"I mean, we're all together now, but if later on, we're not all together, if one of us decides to leave…it wouldn't be because he doesn't love us. And you think you can't, but you can do this without him if you need to."  He slips a pair of shades on and jerks a thumb toward the door.  "Okay.  Now.  Onward." 

Lance slides into the backseat with Justin and JC and thinks about what Chris said.  He'd been talking about Joey, of course, and he hadn't been wrong to say something.  Lance senses Joey's indecision, as well.  Why wouldn't he be having second thoughts about throwing his entire life away?  Lance has always believed that of all of them, Joey holds the most talent, the most potential. 

Leaving is the best thing for Joey, but Chris is right-- Lance can't imagine doing this without him. 

***

"Shit."

"Um, yeah." 

"So I guess we know now why going north wasn't such a good idea." 

JC reaches out and catches a snowflake on the back of his hand.  It melts, leaving a cold, wet patch that he looks at, then licks.  "Sorry," he says, but he doesn't look sorry to any of them.  He looks happy and content. 

"New plan," Chris says, and slaps his hands on his pants. 

"Go south?" Justin says hopefully.

"Too late for that.  But we're gonna need a different car.  Something that can get us through a whole lot more of this," Chris says, gesturing at the weather.  They've just stepped out of a nondescript diner attached to a truck stop, and are huddled against the wall while Lance fills the car up with gas. 

"How we gonna get something like that?" 

Chris thinks for a long while before answering.  "I've got cash." 

"You- how much?" Joey asks.  His own money is almost depleted, but he only had about a hundred bucks to start with. 

"Enough to buy a good, reliable truck.  That'll more or less clean me out, but at least we'd have a ride that the cops weren't looking for.  Speaking of which, we need to ditch this one as soon as we can."

He drops them off at yet another motel and gives Lance four hundred dollars.  "Just in case I don't come back," he says, and Lance thinks that he's never hated anything the way he hates the money in his hand, and what it stands for.  He lurches forward and throws his arms around Chris, holds on tightly for what seems like not nearly long enough, but Chris eventually disentangles himself, laughs, saying not to worry. 

He finds a used Blazer with a For Sale sign and pays cash for it.  The guy counts the money and gives him the title and keys, no questions asked.  On the way home, he stops at the liquor store and gets some cheap liquor.  He picks up pizza, too, even though they can't really afford it, because Joey and Justin have been looking pretty down. If they're going to live dangerously then they should live well, too, because it's all about the same thing.  No regrets. 

While he's gone, Lance tries to watch tv.  He just doesn't feel safe without Chris here, which is ridiculous because when it comes down to it, Chris is just one of them and aside from making wisecracks and planning everything, what can he do?  Certainly not protect them from the police, if they were to be found.  But he's holding them all together, and Lance paces restlessly in his absence.  JC and Justin are giggling on one of the beds, putting together lyrics for a song.  Judging by the scattered phrases that he overhears, he assumes that it's a song about being fugitives, which he doesn't think is funny at all.  Still, it feels nice to hear their quiet, good-natured bickering.  It feels normal. 

***

Later, when they're all halfway drunk, Chris lifts his plastic cup in a toast.  "To the four best friends in the world," he says dramatically.  "We always said we did everything together, and I guess we really fucking meant it." 

JC giggles and lays his head on Chris' knee.  "I'll drink to that," he says shyly.  "And to being free." 

They all drink to it, even Joey, who's engrossed in one of the skin magazines that Chris brought back with him.  When everyone starts to settle in for the night, he heads for the bathroom.  Lance waits a heartbeat and then follows, the alcohol in his blood still enough to make him bold.  It's not locked, and when Lance slips inside, Joey's already got his pants undone and taken himself in hand. 

Lance moves forward and ignores the way that Joey stumbles back toward the wall.  If he keeps moving forward, he can't lose any ground, he tells himself.  "I just thought…" he says, gesturing at what Joey's doing.  "It feels better if it's someone else…"  and Joey is shaking his head, so Lance sinks down to his knees.

"Please," he says again, and licks the side of it where Joey's hand isn't protecting.  "It's just, it'll feel good."   And he wants Joey to feel so good because Joey has the most potential of them all, Joey is giving up the most, and Lance is the one wanted for murder. 

"I can't," Joey says in a hoarse whisper.  He pets Lance's head with his other hand, pets and pets and can't seem to stop.  "We can't." 

Lance knows all of the reasons why they couldn't before; he has them memorized along with every consequence and loophole, but none of that applies now. They've spent so long thinking of the reasons why they can't..  Now he thinks of reasons why they can. 

"We can.  I am," he says, and Joey's hand falls away. 

***

Justin snores loudly and kicks Chris under the covers, sending Chris inching closer to JC.  No one ever wants to sleep next to Justin.

"Free?" he whispers against the delicate shell of JC's ear. 

"Yeah." JC sighs and stretches out lazily.  "Don't you think?" he asked.  Chris doesn't, because the demands that were made on Chris were not the same demands made on Justin and JC.  He only knows that JC has never looked so contented. 

Chris shuts his eyes and listens to JC's humming until the heater kicks off and the room is abruptly still.  In the silence, he hears new sounds that he hadn't noticed before, coming from the bathroom. 

JC chuckles beside him, his breath hot and damp on Chris' neck.  "They're in there, you know," he whispers.  "Lance and Joey.  They've both wanted this for so long."   

It's true.  It's almost painful, sometimes, to watch Lance wanting Joey.  Lance, who hasn't dated anyone in the entire time that Chris has known him because he'd rather wait for the unattainable than have something that's not Joey.  It's been such a constant that sometimes they forget it's even there, but Lance has never forgotten. 

"See?" JC asks sleepily, and covers a yawn with his hand.  "They're free now, too.  Stop worrying, man. Go to sleep." 

***

Lance creeps across the darkened room, Joey at his heels, and they slide quietly into bed.  As soon as they're under the covers, Joey's arms come around him they kiss softly, honestly, with open mouths.  Joey's body is still warm, a little sweaty from their quick coupling in the bathroom, and it's perfect, Lance thinks.  Joey is perfect, sexy and safe and- Lance hears a sound from the other bed; freezes. 

"Oh, JC," Chris moans dramatically.  "You're so hot."  A muffled giggle, a whisper and then Lance can hear JC's answering,

"Chris, baby.  Do it like that, yeah, like that," and Lance shoves his face into the pillow, mortified, because, yes, he'd been saying that very thing about ten minutes earlier, but isn't there such a thing as privacy? 

"Shut up," Joey hollers, jostling the bed.  "Sons of bitches."  But he ruins it by cracking up when Chris starts breathing hard and telling JC to get on top.  Joey rustles around until something sails across the space between the beds and lands with a thud on the other side. 

"Hey!" Justin snarls nastily, still half-asleep.  He hurls Joey's pillow back across the room.  "What the fuck!?" 

Lance is glad that he doesn't have to share the bed with Justin.  He snores, too.

***

Chris is a little preoccupied with the whole evading the police thing, not to mention the fact that they're nearly out of money, but he's not so preoccupied that he doesn't notice the way that Joey stands stiffly across the room from Lance the next day, hardly saying a word.  When Joey goes with JC to find a laundromat, Chris settles on the floor next to Lance, who is reading the newspaper. 

"Okay, Bass," he sighs, and pushes the newspaper out of the way.  Lance won't look at him, and now Chris realizes that his eyes are red and watery, as close as Lance gets to crying.  "What's going on with you and Joe?" 

Lance doesn't know.  Joey is like a completely different person today, distant and polite, nothing like he'd been last night when he'd admitted so many things to Lance and then touched him everywhere. 

He'd thought that if he could get Joey to let the inevitable happen between them, then his decision would be cemented and no one would worry about whether or not Joey had made up his mind, but it's turned out to be the opposite instead.  Lance has the nagging feeling that last night was some sort of closure for Joey, a final gesture before he leaves for his real life--which is, of course, a better life. 

"I thought he'd stay," Lance admits. 

"He's leaving?"

"No.  I mean, I don't know.  I didn't ask him.  I thought I'd be able to…that I'd feel entitled to ask.  But I don't." 

"That doesn't mean he's leaving."  Chris thinks there's no chance in hell that Joey would leave now.  Lance is being paranoid just because his boyfriend doesn't know how to act the morning after.  He's about to tell Lance, too, but JC and Joey return with a bag of clean clothes, something that they haven't had for an entire week. 

"Thank God!" Justin yells, and grabs for the bag, rummaging through for his shirt.  Lance waits his turn and watches Joey out of the corner of his eye, but Joey is apparently talking to everyone but him, so he gives up and goes outside where it's freezing, maybe about to snow.  He likes the way he can see his breath, how the air freezes in his lungs.  It hurts, just like his suddenly aching back that hasn't been disinfected all day because Joey, the person who's been taking care of it, won't even look at him. 

Back in the motel room, Chris throws a dangerous look at Joey.  "You wanna do us a favor?  Go out there and bring him back the way you found him, 'cause we can't afford shit like this." 

Joey tugs at his hat and lets the door bang shut behind him. 

***

Chris is driving too slowly.  Joey grits his teeth and doesn't say anything, though, because speeding would mean cops, and that's something they can't afford.  So the alternative is sitting in the back of their Blazer, not saying anything, even when Lance takes his hand, which he doesn't deserve. 

No one knows what happened, only that Lance and Joey had come stumbling, tearing into the hotel room and grabbing up their stuff, shoving JC and Justin off the bed and insisting that they leave right that instant. It'd been so much like that first terrifying night that they'd all been a little afraid, but now they're just curious. 

JC left his shoes behind in the rush, and he stares at his stocking feet.  His socks are expensive.  They probably cost at least twenty dollars, and he thinks that these are the last pair of twenty-dollar socks that he'll ever own.  He doesn't feel sad about it, only relieved.  And alive.  He's ultra-aware of how hard he is, how hard he's been off and on since this whole thing started, but definitely now after the frenzied escape.  Maybe he'll ask Chris about it later, but no one else seems to be turned on, so maybe he'll just keep it to himself.

"You've gotta tell us sometime," Chris says from the front seat, and Joey looks up with a start. 

"It's okay," Lance whispers, but Joey doesn't feel okay at all.  He leans sideways until Lance strokes his hair and kisses his head, which is what he wanted all along. 

"Don't tell," he blurts, eyes closed, which draws strange looks from Justin and JC. 

"Tonight, you'll tell us," Chris decides.  "Until then, you're gonna have to tell me where you think we should head." 

"East," Lance says.  Justin unfolds the wrinkled map and studies the red and black lines for a few minutes. 

"South Dakota?" he asks, and Chris gives him an incredulous look. 

"By tonight?  No, we're stopping tonight.  After that we'll drive straight through, but we'll stop tonight.  Pick somewhere in Utah, Just." 

"Okay."  Justin would rather be driving, but doesn't mind navigating.  He likes anything that provides at least the illusion of having some control, even though it's obvious by now that none of them are controlling much of anything these days.  He thinks they will be able to make South Dakota by tonight, and picks somewhere right on the border so that Chris will know he was wrong. 

They listen to the radio in silence until JC cringes and says, "I really hate the word manhunt.  I mean…it implies freaky shit." 

"Like that movie, with those hicks…" Justin agrees, and turns the radio to something other than news. 

"Deliverance," Lance supplies.  Joey thinks that it sounds nice coming from Lance's mouth, uplifting, like something a preacher would say.  He imagines Lance as one of those hellfire and brimstone preachers who wear expensive suits and say stuff like "deliverance from evil," but then he remembers what they did last night and thinks maybe not. 

"Do we need to shop?"  There's a sign for a Super Wal-Mart at the next exit.

Justin turns around in his seat.  "Lance and JC need warm coats." 

"Food," Chris says.  "Who wants to get food?"  He hates shopping for groceries, and hopes that Lance will volunteer, so he stares at him until he does. 

"I, uh.  I don't have any shoes," JC says.  "I didn't have time to…at the motel." 

"Jesus, C!"  Chris stares.  "That was six hours ago.  Why didn't you say anything?" 

"I don't know.  It actually felt kind of…" 

"Oh no.  No, do not say it," Chris says, his hands over his ears, because he absolutely cannot hear JC extol the new experience of being in need.  It's a bunch of bull because Chris has been poor and he's been rich, and he knows that being rich is definitely better.  "You two stay in the car," he tells Justin. 

"And don't worry," he winks at JC, before leaving.  "I'll make sure I get you some real crappy shoes.  You can write a song about it." 

***

Justin starts to cry sometime after they check into the latest motel.  One minute he's flipping through the channels and the next, he's sobbing into his hands in delayed reaction to what's happened. 

When it becomes apparent that he's not going to stop crying anytime soon, Chris tries to talk to him, but Justin just locks himself in the bathroom and tells them all to fuck off.  "I need to be by myself," he says nastily, "I know it's a difficult concept for you to understand," and Chris yells through the bathroom door that Justin has never been by himself in his entire life.  

"Just come out," he screams, and Lance pulls at his arm, pulls Chris away from the door. 

"Chris, please.  It's just a little much for him right now." 

"A little much?" Chris screeches, and jerks his arm away.  "It's a little much for all of us!  I fucking hate this, hate this.  He's just a kid and I can't help him!  There isn't a damn thing I can do about any of it!"  His face contorts suddenly and he lashes out, kicks the bed frame, the nightstand and sends the phone to the floor with an off-key ring before pointing at Lance.  "And then you two, with your big secret.  How can I take care of us when you're all so fucked in the head!?" 

Joey stops Chris before he can break anything else.  Carefully, he holds Chris' arms with strong, wide hands, feeling the deep, shuddering breaths that Chris is having to take to stay calm.  When Chris finally slackens and raises the most dark, bruised eyes that Joey's ever seen on him, Joey takes a breath of his own.

"I shot someone.  A cop.  He saw.  He recognized Lance and chased him into those woods.  He had handcuffs; he was ready to take him, Chris.  I couldn't…so I shot him." 

"Joey," Lance sighs, hurting inside because of what it's cost Joey to make that confession. 

"You-" Chris stumbles away and sprawls on the bed.  His eyes seek out JC, who is hovering in the corner.  Both of JC's hands are clasped to his mouth, leaving nothing but wide, unblinking eyes.  He hadn't known, either. 

"Where the fuck did you get a gun, Joe?"  Chris asks. 

JC makes a choked, stifled sound from his corner, and the words are so muffled under his hands that Chris has to ask him to repeat himself.  The second time around, he hears the answer clearly.

"I gave it to him." 

"Jayce?"  Chris is stunned numb, and his previous rage has dissolved into pure confusion and disappointment. 

"Yeah, I."  JC straightens, stands taller and meets Chris' eye.  From behind him he pulls out his backpack and throws it onto the bed.  "I was, um.  I was going to use it when I robbed the laundromat." 

***

"Okay, so apparently we are in need of some rules, since some of us seem to have lost our minds."  Chris paces between the two beds and pauses only occasionally to glare at whoever he's the most pissed off with at the moment.  Lance and Joey hold hands behind their backs and try to look respectful and fearful.  Lance isn't completely pretending. 

Justin is over his hysterics, huddled with JC on the bed.  He keeps turning around to look at Joey, though, and Lance wishes that he'd stop because it's making Joey self-conscious.  Chris is giving them a harangue of a lifetime, which, Lance can admit, they rightly deserve. 

"First rule.  Don't do anything fucking illegal unless we discuss it first.  That way we'll avoid lameass robberies that'll make us a joke when we get caught."  JC looks down at the bedspread, appropriately contrite.  "Second rule," Chris says, and softens his voice for Joey, to whom he is grateful even if he can't let it show.  "Obviously, we're not going to kill anyone.  Unless it's a complete emergency, like with Joe."

"He didn't die," Lance says quietly.  "He's in the hospital."

"Good," Chris says, and his hands unclench slowly from their tight fists.  "Good. Number three."  He stops, stares at the wall for a long time.  In that time, Justin starts to cry again and JC hushes him with a knee-pat and their last beer.  Chris blinks back into reality and drops onto the remaining corner of the bed, facing them all.  "No secrets.  That's been what we've said all along, but we've all had our little lies, or whatever, and that was fine for the Nsync thing.  It's different, now, though.  So-- honesty.  Got it?" 

"I'm sorry," JC says.  "I thought it'd be a good idea.  We needed the money.  And I didn't really rob it.  I mean, I stole, but no one was around, so I just took the money from the cash register." 

"Jesus, Jayce," Chris says, and shakes his head.  He stares at JC like he might be able to see what had happened just by looking at his face.  JC can't stand to be studied so closely, and fidgets uncomfortably, draws his knees up to his chin in case Chris notices the erection that won't seem to go away.  He can't help it, though.  His body feels alive, thrumming with energy that has nowhere to go. 

Of course Chris notices.  "Hmm," he drawls dramatically, signaling that someone is about to be mocked, and good.  "Does anybody think that one of us might be really be getting off on this whole life of crime thing?"  He taps his chin thoughtfully.

JC puts his forehead to his knees, tries to hide.  "It's not…" 

"Tell us it's not like that!" Chris hoots, which sets them all off laughing, especially Lance, who has definitely noticed.  JC is such a freak sometimes.  "Whatever!  Hey, at least one of us thinks that this is a swingin' good time." 

"I don't," JC insists.  Chris and Justin are tugging at him, trying to get him to emerge from the tight ball he's curled into, so he raises his head.  His face feels hot, embarrassed.  "I just…it feels good to be able to stop."

"Stop what?" 

"Everything.  Recording stuff I'm not sure about, working with people I hate but feel like I need because of their talent, going out when I don't really feel like it, just to be seen…and if you stop, it's over.  I love the music, but it's not even about the music anymore." 

"What are you talking about?" Lance says, but Justin is strangely silent. 

JC gestures helplessly and looks to Chris, who's been warning them about stuff like this since the beginning.  "When we ran, I feel like…I'm glad it's over, because I didn't know how to end it."  He shakes his head, frustrated with his inability to put his feelings into words.  "It's fucked up, I know…" 

"No, I get it."  Justin picks at the bedspread, his face serious.  "I could tell it was starting to freak you out." 

"It's okay.  I'm okay," JC insists.  Everyone is starting to look really sad, and that's the last thing he needs.  They can worry about Joey or Justin now, because JC was telling the truth.  He's never felt better. 

***

Chris watches everyone as they go about their evening.  Joey and Lance have been having a quiet conversation in one of the beds, which mostly consists of Lance talking while Joey gives him subdued, hopeful glances.  At one point, Joey pulls what looks like a small piece of metal out of his pocket and gives it to Lance.  They stop talking then, and start kissing. 

Justin is boring to watch.  All he does is watch tv and occasionally eavesdrop on Lance and Joey.  It's better than crying in the bathroom, though, so Chris doesn't worry.  What he's really interested in watching is JC. 

JC is restless.  He stares out the window for a while, and then moves to the mirror where he studies his reflection, his shaved head.  He'd always believed everyone who said that his hair was his best feature, that it made him pretty, but losing it hasn't changed him the way that he'd thought it would.  It feels good, sexy, dangerous.  Even the way he walks feels different, like he's something dark and predatory, the opposite of what he'd used to be. 

He unbuttons and shrugs off his shirt, leaving only a white undershirt.  When he tilts his head and rubs a thoughtful finger over the pale skin of his bicep, Chris comes up behind him and grins wickedly over his shoulder. 

"Thinking of getting some ink?"  They've always given JC a hard time over his aversion to tattoos.  He's the only one who doesn't bear the Nsync flames somewhere on his body. 

"Maybe," he says, and leans back into Chris' heat.  God, he's so horny, he's got to get out of this hotel room for a while to get some air, get some space.  Or beat off. 

"I think it'd look good," Chris whispers, and bites playfully at JC's shoulder.  JC shudders away because the bite had been comedic, so very Chris, when JC needs it to be real and urgent--the way he feels inside. 

"You think?" he manages, feeling pretty breathless for all his new unflappable image.  He starts to pull away.  "I'm gonna…" 

"Fourth rule," Chris says loudly enough for everyone to hear.  His hand clamps down on JC's other shoulder, hard.  "No going out alone." 

"Chris," JC growls.  "What am I supposed to…" 

"I'll come with you." 

***  

They don't talk as they walk, but Chris is paying attention to JC.  He's different now, but the changes suit him as far as Chris is concerned.  Instead of moving like the shy kitten they used to tease him about being, he prowls, sleek and starkly naked without the curls to hide him. 

"Stop it," JC complains.  He steps off the curb, heading toward a shop with a pink neon sign. 

"What?" 

"Staring.  You're acting weird." 

"You're acting weird."  

"Well…"  JC shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets.  "Everything's different now."  He stops outside the shop, which now that he's up close, he realizes is a tattoo parlor.  Inside, it looks just like every place his friends have ever been inked. 

"Wanna go in?" Chris suggests, keeping his tone light, as though it doesn't matter.  It does matter, though, because JC's eyes hold more than a hint of longing as he peers inside. 

"Maybe…" 

"C'mon."  It only takes a gentle tug at his sleeve, and JC is following Chris into the store, staying close at his heels as they browse the  vast selection of art.  JC is drawn to the brightly colored cartoons, rainbows and flowers, but Chris protests loudly and drags him toward a darker palette.  JC obediently examines each of them while Chris takes a look around. 

"Hey."  A skinny guy sporting a mohawk approaches them, but without the aggravated skepticism that Chris is used to receiving in places like this.  Instead, he stands next to JC and points to a fierce, black dragon.  "This one," he says, tapping a silver-polished fingernail on the scaled tail. 

"Uh."  JC looks at Chris, who shrugs. 

"Sorry," JC says.  "I don't really have any-"

"-he'll take it," Chris interrupts.  "How much?" 

The guy tells them that it's seventy-five, but Chris doesn't press the issue.  He wants to see what JC will do, and sure enough JC selects his own design, a snake, and follows the guy back to the corner.  On the way, they pass a girl who is drawing the outline of a flower to a middle-aged woman's ankle. 

JC settles in the chair and as the guy, Scotty, he'd said to call him, prepares the ink, Chris notices the conspicuous outline of JC's cock, hard in his jeans.  Scotty has obviously noticed, too, and smirks into the container where he's mixing the ink.  "You like the burn, huh?" he asks.  "No big deal.  Lots of people do."   

Not even close.  JC's eyes go wide, and sensing that he's about to bolt, Chris takes a few quick steps to place himself in front of JC. 

"Hey, Scotty," he says, and gives him a conspiratorial wink.  "Can we have a few?" 

Scotty walks away, chuckling and wiping his hands on his already ink-smeared jeans.  Chris yanks the curtain shut behind him and faces JC with an expression that makes JC clutch anxiously at the arm rests. 

"What?"  he demands, squirming on the seat.  "I can't help it.  It's like you said earlier, I'm…" a gesture at his lap says everything he can't.  It would be too much if Chris laughed.  If Chris laughs, he decides, he's going to leave, but Chris just peeks from behind the curtain and lets it fall back into place, turning to JC with arms folded across his chest. 

"I know.   So, take care of it.  I'll keep an eye out." 

JC's head tilts to the side, slowly, as though he needs to look at that statement from another angle to decipher its meaning.  The only meaning he can come up with, though, is…

"Chris…"

"Hurry up, man.  He's not gonna stay gone forever."  When Chris gets impatient, he gets snappish, and right now he's giving off even more restless energy than JC. 

"Uh, no.  I can't.  I can't," he says, but his hand is already on his zipper because yes, he's really uncomfortable here and has been for more hours than he can count. 

"You did it last night," Chris points out, exasperated.  "I was right there, sleeping right next to you, C." 

It's a good point, but still a little embarrassing, and JC tries to shrug it off.  Chris obviously hadn't been sleeping, after all.  Still, since Chris doesn't seem bothered it's probably okay for him to just pop the button fly out of its hole and slide the zipper down, a slow, grating journey that makes him wish he could start over and do it again.  "Okay," he says, a whisper that's barely heard over the music blaring from the other side of the curtain.  "But, don't look," he adds.  This whole thing is a little strange, but that would be flat-out weird and he has limits.  At least, he used to have them.  

"Whatever." 

Chris' back is to him when he says this, so JC slides his hand into the warm pocket of heat and wraps his fingers around his hard cock.  His whole body has been sending out urgent signals of arousal for so many days now, he's already ultra-sensitive in his own hand and shudders in the seat as he guides the stiff length out of his pants.  The deep, gratified sound that emerges from his throat makes Chris turn and even though he had told Chris to look away, JC can't deny the way the intensity of it is suddenly ramped up tenfold, just from the knowledge of Chris' eyes on him. 

He moves his hand. 

It's so easy to do, even inside these dirty walls covered with layers of posters, art and tattoo designs .  The motion is familiar and so is the result; mounting pleasure made even greater by the slide of his own hand.  There are sounds coming from the other side of the curtain, customers coming in and out, but JC tunes them out.  His hand moves faster, and his hips twitch upward until the chair is shaking as he fucks his hand with increasing urgency.

"Jesus.  JC," Chris murmurs.  He's forgotten his post at the door, forgotten everything but the glide of JC's hand on his cock, which is big, red, and shiny with moisture at the tip. 

"I told you not to watch," JC gasps, thrusting his hips off the seat.  He's close now, can almost feel it, a tingling in the backs of his thighs that's ready to ignite into something stronger. 

"I…know, but…"  Chris doesn't even have a good reason for why he finds the flex of JC's arm impossible to look away from, but he doesn't have to have a reason because before he can finish, JC goes still and silent, his cock pulsing out wet streaks onto the back of his hand.  

"Oh," he breathes, letting the feeling throb through him.  Everything pulses, his blood, throat, eyes, and especially the thrumming, sizzling heat that radiates from his groin. 

When Chris hands him a paper towel, he takes it with listless fingers and wipes himself clean.  It feels kind of wrong to throw it right there in the trash can, but it's not like he's gonna put it in his own pocket, so he shrugs and tosses it in, relieved when Chris laughs wickedly. 

"Go C," he says, and JC can't help grinning at the admiring tone.  Only Chris would be impressed with someone over something like that.  He feels wonderful now, relaxed and still full of life but not so much that it hurts, like it had before. 

"You guys ready now?"

Scotty.  JC had completely forgotten about him.  Chris had his back the whole time, though, so it's all good and he even manages to make eye contact when Scotty comes back in the room.  Everything's cool after that, even the needles which actually don't feel like needles at all, just a vibrating itch on his skin.  It's not so bad, except on the collarbone, where it feels like a million shards of glass trying to break through.  Still, he gives Chris what he hopes is a brave look and concentrates on not passing out.

Everything goes smoothly until the guy is almost finished nearly two hours later.  "Um.  I want."  JC waves his hand toward Chris, and waits until Scotty stops, sitting back on his stool. 

"What?" he asks, unruffled.  People always ask for weird shit; he's used to it now. 

"Can you write something on the tail?" JC asks, and Chris is already shaking his head but JC doesn't care.  He knows what he wants and the rest of them are already marked similarly.  "I want it to say 'Nsync'." 

Scotty raises a pierced eyebrow and looks to Chris, to JC, then back at Chris again, who can't help but blurt, "We'll pay extra."  For his silence, of course, but Scotty just waves away the offer. 

"Nah.  I can do it.  We're cool," he adds with an air of approval, and JC lets his head fall back onto the cushiony chair.  He's not used to all this admiration, not from guys like Chris and Scotty.  He's used to being adored by teenaged girls, but genuine appreciation from his peers is something that has always eluded him. 

If this is what it took to get him to that point, then there's nowhere he'd rather be. 

***

No one notices until about a week later, when they're somewhere in Nebraska.  They've been soaked in a downpour of sleet and when they pile into their motel room and start shucking their clothes, Lance is the first to notice. 

"Whoa!" he says, his eyes wide. 

Everyone else stops what they're doing to follow Lance's gaze, which gives them their first glimpse at the black snake that's coiled on JC's chest, up his collarbone, stopping right before it would be visible with a t-shirt. 

"Is that real?" Justin asks, stunned.  JC rubs at the newly healed spot and smiles shyly.  He nods. 

"But what about the needles?" Joey asks, trying to hide how impressed he is.  The snake is fucking cool even though he knows that in about ten seconds, Lance is going to be bitching about-

"-couldn't have gotten the flames like the rest of us, first?  I mean, Jesus, JC.  It's one thing if you have a phobia, but then to just-"  Chris slaps his hand over Lance's mouth and laughs hysterically, shaking his wet hair against Lance. 

"Shut up, Bass!  C'mere, take a look.  Do you think that JC could get a tattoo like a normal person?  Aren't you surprised that he didn't come home with, like, a unicorn, or something?  Take a closer look," and he shoves Lance's head toward JC's naked torso. 

On the tail of the snake, past the black and grey scales of its belly, is spelled out in swirling red ink, the same color as the eyes-  N-S-Y-N-C.   

"Dear Lord," Lance says.  He bites at his lip, not sure whether to laugh or be really pissed off that JC had risked giving them away. 

"It's cool," Chris says hastily, before anyone can bring it up.  "The guy was cool.  And let me tell you, dude, it was a new fucking experience having someone like that recognize me and not act like he's gonna kick my fairy ass just for having the nerve to be in a boyband." 

"Yeah," JC nods seriously.  "I know.  He totally respected us," he tells Justin, who appears the most worried.  His fingers trail down to idly trace the design.  He's so in love with the markings on his chest and what they stand for, so in love with all of his friends and what they're doing here.  It doesn't matter that he never would've consciously chosen this life for himself; it's their reality and for once it's not hard to make the best of things. 

***

Lance waits until Justin and Joey are sleeping before getting Chris' attention.  He nods his head toward the door and slips outside, waits in the hall until Chris shows up, sleepy-eyed and rumpled. 

They walk together down the hall, down the stairs and into the night, and Lance marvels over the relief that he never ceases to feel each time they step outside.  He imagines them buying a camper and spending the summers going from campground to campground.   He hasn't shared his fantasy, because they all have their own and they all differ.  Joey wants to go to the ocean.  He doesn't worry about it, though, because they've got plenty of time to fulfill all of them. 

"I saw Justin's mom on tv today," he tells Chris when it becomes apparent that they're headed for the bowling alley.  "She was…saying some things." 

"She thinks he did it?"  Chris asks.  His eyes are closed. 

"Yeah.  She's…" he doesn't continue, because there's really no need to point out the differences between Justin's mother and Lance's own. 

"She always wanted to be famous," Chris says bitterly, and spits on the sidewalk.  Lance follows him into the loud, dark bowling alley.  At the counter, Chris buys a pack of Marlboros with a five-dollar bill and shoves the change in his pocket.  The cashier is friendly, and smiles at them both but Lance averts his eyes; he knows that JC is going to rob this place tomorrow.

They find a table in the corner.  Chris takes a long drag and when he speaks, smoke drifts out of his mouth, clouding the space between the two of them.  "Did you see my mom, too?" 

There had been interviews with all their parents, and Lance is only glad that none of the others had been there to see it, because it's one thing riding along playing lame travel games on the way to their next destination, or at night when he's got Joey pressed up against him.  It's another thing completely to see the fallout from what they've done.  Or…not done.  Sometimes, Lance forgets that they're innocent.

"Yeah.  She looked…good.  Pissed," he adds, and Chris smiles crookedly. "that anyone would not understand how this is obviously a conspiracy that's rooted in extreme jealousy." 

"Yeah," Chris breathes, and taps his cigarette on the ashtray.  "Okay."

"She said that they'll never find us because you're like, a brilliant genius who will never let anything happen to any of us," Lance laughs. 

"Shut up."  Chris' smile brightens, loses the sad quality that it's held up till now. 

"She did.  She thinks the world of you." 

"Thanks, Bass."  Of all the troubles related to their situation, this one had been foremost in his mind.  His family, and what they were thinking.  "So, everyone else was cool?" 

Lance thinks about Joey's dad's indignant defense of the shooting.  "Pretty much, yeah.  I just wanted to let you know, in case Justin hears something…so you'll know." 

"Thanks, Bass.  You've been really good about everything," Chris says, and leans in closely.  "I mean it."  And he does.  Lance has been the most levelheaded of all of them so far, and on top of that, he's still hurt; Chris had seen the wound on the first day and it'd been gruesome, deep.  "How's your…"

"I'm fine."  Lance waves him off.  "Worry about Justin, or something, but even he seems pretty good, considering.  Because, he cries on a good day, so before, that wasn't…I don't think it meant anything." 

"I know what you mean," Chris says eagerly.  He'd been thinking the exact same thing.  "I feel like I should be worrying about somebody.  I can't believe that one of us isn't having a meltdown, but…" he gestures widely and shrugs, indicating the big nothing that's happened so far.  "And, I'm glad things worked out for you and Joe." 

At this, Lance lowers his eyes, his eyelashes fanning out attractively over flushed cheekbones.  A bashful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth because he hasn't talked about this with anyone yet, it's so new.  "Thanks.  It's weird.  I've never done this before." 

Lance reaches for Chris' cigarettes, and Chris slides them across the tiny table.  "What about you?" he asks.  Smoking used to be a rare, guilty pleasure for all of them, but now they don't have any reason to save their voices.  Cigarettes have always been a good way for Lance to cover anxiety, and tonight is no exception.  He concentrates on the way it feels in his hand, and flicks the lighter with his thumb, bringing it to life. 

"What about me?" 

"Have you ever?" 

Chris arches an eyebrow, but answers anyhow.  "Yeah, sometimes." 

Lance gives a satisfied nod and smiles, showing his perfect white teeth.  "And JC," he says knowingly.  "He's up for anything these days."  He's seen the way that JC has been looking at Chris lately, with his new, reckless eyes.  

"I don't know what you're talking about," Chris replies smoothly, and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.  "Ready to go?"   

Lance is ready. 

***

"Ready?"  Chris asks as he throws the last bag into the back of the Blazer.  JC bounces in place, cracks his knuckles.  He's been ready for hours, and thinks that maybe Chris has been dragging his feet just to fuck with him. 

Lance slides into the driver's seat, his mouth set in a grave line.  He barely notices Joey and Justin slamming their doors shut or his own hand turning the ignition, starting the engine.  When Chris taps on the window, he lowers it with a press of the button.  Letting his nerves show won't do any good, so he just raises his eyebrows over the tops of his sunglasses.

"You okay?" Chris asks.  His hand brushes Lance's shoulder, and Lance can smell the leather of his glove.

"Fine."  Inside his head is a swirling frenzy of instructions- forty-five minutes, Exit 23, plan B- and he won't be able to relax until it's all over.  JC leans in over Chris to ask him the exact same thing, so Lance figures he needs to work on his game face.  "Fine," he repeats. 

"If we're not there in two hours-" Chris warns, and Lance starts the window running back up. 

"-I know."  He hates being reminded that there are things that could go wrong; dangerous things, but if anyone can pull it off, it's JC, who seems to have been born for this, and Chris, who is ultimately only concerned with keeping them safe.  He puts the truck into reverse and pulls out, leaving JC and Chris at the curb.  They're shoving fiercely at one another, wrestling until they run into the brick of the motel, and he sighs.  They're always like this before a job, too wound up to focus their energy. 

He sighs and hands Joey the map. 

***

"Run, run!" Chris yells.  His feet skid dangerously on rough gravel when he tries to stop, but he wrenches the car door open and jumps inside, guns the engine.  "JC, come on!”  He'd seen the lady in the corner calling the cops on her cell phone, and that had been nearly two minutes ago.  

JC laughs and falls into his seat.  He kicks his shoes against the floor mat when Chris peals out of the parking lot.  "Yeah," he mumbles to himself, checking behind them for cops.  "Take a left here," he points.  "And then here." 

"I know," Chris gripes, breathing hard.  His hands are sweating all over the steering wheel; he's gripping so hard.  It's killing him to not race down the street the way he wants to, but they're supposed to be blending now, getting lost in the traffic until they can ditch this car. 

"You okay?" he asks JC, who'd taken a couple punches when someone had tried to be a hero.  He thinks maybe he should be more worried about JC's bruised knuckles. 

"Yeah," JC sighs.  He tips his head onto the back of the bench seat and closes his eyes, tries to slow the pounding of his heart.  Everything throbs, pulses hotly behind his eyes, in his chest, under his belt.  It's the hardest kind of high to come down from and he wants Chris to drive faster.   "Hurry," he mutters, and presses his hands against his face.  He'd always thought that there was nothing like the rush before and after a show, but that had been nothing compared to this relentless prickling beneath his skin. 

"Stop fidgeting," Chris yells.  "God, you're like some kind of caged monkey or something."  He jerks the wheel, hard at the last minute when he sees their exit and JC flails sideways. 

"I can't!" he shouts back, and shoves away from Chris.  "Pay attention to the road!" 

They're screaming at one another by the time they climb into the Blazer.  It happens every time, but this time when Lance glances back at them in the rear view mirror, instead of seeing them glaring at one another, silent treatment in full force, he sees something that makes him jerk his eyes away immediately.

 "Oh, God," he says, a cross between a curse and a laugh. "Joe," he whispers.  Justin is asleep and Lance definitely doesn't want to wake him.  Joey looks up from the log he's keeping of their travels, and when he turns, he sees that Chris has got JC pressed up against the window, hand fisted in JC's black t-shirt that's ridden up enough to expose his pale, flat stomach. 

"Whoa," Joey whispers.  There's a brief struggle, but the flailing limbs subside when JC grabs at Chris' ass and pulls him in, hard.  He does it again, then again and again, and Joey looks away as abruptly as Lance had.  It's obvious what they're doing. 

Lance turns the volume knob on the stereo to the right until they can't hear the hoarse, broken sounds coming from the back of the vehicle.  It was bound to happen eventually, but for some reason, Chris has been adamant in his denial that anything's been developing between he and JC.  Maybe because it's so primarily sexual, and he doesn't think it's healthy.  Chris is like that; he holds a high standard for his own relationships and for those of his friends.  Lance thinks he's worrying for nothing, though, because what JC and Chris share extends beyond friendship and beyond this ferocious sexual fascination with which they've been watching one another. 

The next time he ventures a look, Chris is sitting upright, biting at his lip, eyes closed in bliss, and JC has disappeared from view.

Lance really, really hopes that Justin doesn't wake up. 

***

"So, I can't believe no one's asked us about our take yet," Chris says, looking around the table hopefully.  Another grungy diner, another dirty ashtray for the five of them to share.  He thinks that he shouldn't be this happy. 

"I can't believe we didn't get pulled over by the Highway Patrol for committing lewd acts," Joey replies.  He enjoys the way that JC, over his adrenaline rush and more like his normal self, blushes down at his french fries. 

Justin looks blankly at Joey.  "Huh?  Why?" 

"Trust me, you don't wanna know what kinda freaky shit was going on while you were taking your nap."

"Talk about a false sense of security," Lance adds seriously.  "You could've had an eye put out, or something." 

Chris cackles proudly at this, especially at the horror on Justin's face.  "C'mon, let's talk money here.  We got nearly fifteen hundred bucks at that crappy bowling alley." 

"Fourteen hundred eighty-seven."  JC hunts around for a cigarette and finds one in Justin's coat pocket.  "Thanks." 

A hand brushes against Lance's leg under the table, and he curls his fingers around Joey's.  It's more than comfort, and he has to consciously concentrate on something else to stop the heat from pooling in his stomach.  It's just a touch, he knows, but it's Joey, and Lance thinks that if Joey touches him every day for the next fifty years, it still won't dull the sharp ache of wanting that lives inside him.  

"That's, um, a lot," he says, and clears his throat, trying to sound in the moment.  It means that they can go longer without having to do anything risky.  "Do we know where we're going now?"  Now that they're out of immediate danger of being caught, he's happy to surrender the wheel to Justin, who'd won the privilege of being permanent driver from Chris in a game of poker the other night. 

"Short stick chooses."  Chris holds out five toothpicks, rolls them in his fingers before letting the ends stick out of his fist.  This is new.  This is a whole different kind of freedom than they're used to, Lance thinks.  He glances over at Joey, who's chewing brutally on his straw.  Joey always tries not to smoke too much, but seeing JC with a cigarette in his mouth wears down at his resolve.  JC has a way of making everything look exciting and sensual. 

"It's me," Justin says.  "I got it."  He holds up the broken toothpick, then tosses it onto his plate.  Lance lets out his breath, feeling relieved. 

"Where to, junior?"

Justin hasn't changed since they've been on the run.  Fundamentally, none of them have changed; they've eagerly taken liberties that they weren't allowed before, but essentially they're all the same.  Lance still keeps a careful record of their money and schedule, Joey still tries to just go with it and have a good time, and Chris' protective streak is still offset by his impulsive, offbeat nature.  Justin still likes to put on a show. 

"You'll see," he says, a smug smile in place.  "It'll be like, a mystery vacation." 

JC finds this exceptionally funny, but Chris gives Justin a long, suspicious look before conceding.  "Fine.  Just so you know, there are some off-limits areas, in case you get any bright ideas." 

"Florida," Lance says.  He lights a cigarette and hands it to Joey, who's been staring at JC like he's going to snatch his away.  After giving a token protest, Joey takes it in his mouth and drags gratefully.  "Mexico.  Because we couldn't ever get back.  And Canada, although that's a given.  If we go any further north, I wouldn't turn my back on Lance if I were you." 

"Right," Chris agrees.  "Anywhere we have family, too.  And LA." 

Justin waves away their instructions in annoyance.  They're fucking with his illusion of being in charge, so he calls for the bill and pays for it all out of his own pocket.  "We'll go where we go," he says, just to piss Chris off, and ducks just in time.  Chris ends up smacking Lance in the ear, and the mad rush to the truck is a far cry from the discretion that they've been trying for. 

***

At their next pit stop, Chris pulls JC behind the side of the building while Justin puts gas in the car. 

"Hey," he says, watching JC squint up into the sky.  JC likes to pretend he's somewhere else when things are uncomfortable, and Chris likes to make other people uncomfortable, so JC ends up staring into the distance more often than not when they're together. 

It's a long time before JC gets the hint and reluctantly turns back to Chris.  He's not sure what to expect.  Chris' moods have always been as erratic as his own, and he knows that just because those moods had happened to coincide in a few heated moments doesn't mean anything.

"How are you?" 

"Fine," JC mumbles.  His pants are sticky and uncomfortable, and he carefully doesn't think about what Chris had done to get them that way. 

"What, are we pretending nothing happened?"  Chris asks softly. 

"Of course not.  I just don't know what happened," he admits.  "I don't know what you want, now." 

"Jayce."  Chris sounds tired; JC can't tell if that's disappointment he hears.  "Do you know what you want?" 

"Yes." 

"Then that's all you need to know."  Chris reaches around to the back of JC's neck and pulls him in until their bodies press together for a brief embrace.  "Okay?"  He smells of coffee and cigarette smoke, and JC breathes him in until Chris delivers a rough pat to his back and releases him. 

"Okay." 

***

"Get me a shake.  Strawberry," Chris calls up to Justin.  "No, wait.  Chocolate. No. Strawberry." 

"Lance will want fries when he wakes up.  And a Coke." 

"You guys should've written this down," Justin complains.  He's discovered the pitfall of being driver--taking and keeping track of everyone's orders at the drive-thru window.  He rattles off the list of things he can remember and pulls forward.  At the window, he hands the cashier a twenty.  She counts out his change but when he reaches for it, her hand won't release the bills.  Confused, he looks up at her young face, and everything goes cold and brittle inside him when he sees her stunned expression. 

"Wait, Chocolate!" Chris yells, annoyingly, from the back.

"Oh," she says, and stares at him dumbly.  "Oh." 

She still hasn't given him his money. 

JC catches the exchange and barks, "Let's go," when Justin just continues to stare up at the teenaged girl.  "Go!" 

"I'm sorry," Justin mumbles just before pressing his foot to the gas pedal, tearing out of the parking lot and narrowly missing a minivan on the way out.

He can barely drive, he's shaking so hard.  Now he knows why Lance and Joey had been so freaked out for days after the cop had confronted Lance, because in the entire time since he'd been accused, Justin hasn't felt anything as terrifying as the ambushed, guilty fear that he's been slammed with. 

He'd almost truly believed that they could come and go as they pleased.

He drives with no intention of stopping, but distance brings no comfort because he feels too exposed here, nothing can hide him.  His face has always been something that he's proud of, but now he hates it and it's surreal because he's never been ashamed of who he is, what he looks like.

"Take it easy," JC says when Justin's breath starts coming in stuttering gasps, but he can't.  He wants to cry but he's driving here, so he grabs hold of the responsibility and clings to it until they're seventy miles out of town where he pulls over on the shoulder of the road, falls to his knees, throws up his breakfast over and over again on the cracked pavement. 

When he lifts his sore, stiff neck, he sees Chris' black tennis shoes standing next to him.  Blinking the water away from his eyes, he looks up and sees that Lance is in the driver's seat, flanked by Joey.  Chris leads him into the back of the truck and when Justin wakes up, it's dark.  

They normally stop at night.  Justin has gotten used to checking into a low-end motel and taking turns in the bathroom before stretching out and watching tv.  He likes the way that Chris always has to jump on both of the beds before he does anything else, and he likes the way that Joey and Lance always curl up together on one of the beds.  It's the only routine left in his life, and the fact that they're foregoing it tonight seems to validate Justin's uneasy feeling that something is terribly wrong. 

His head feels comfortable in the cradle of Chris' lap, so he closes his eyes again, too sad to even feel embarrassed about what a wuss he's being.  He keeps seeing the wide eyes of the drive-thru girl.  Maybe he's imagining it, but she'd seemed so…hurt, somehow.

"I know you're awake."  Chris' palm glides across his head, and he remembers when he was just a kid and was feeling upset, how Chris would mimic the way he'd seen Lynne ruffling through Justin's thick curls. It'd always been better when Chris did it, though.  His mom's hands were always cold.  "You wanna talk?" 

"No." 

"Wanna talk to JC?"

"No." 

Lance saves him by turning off the radio and saying, "It's nearly light out.  We've gotta stop."  His voice sounds rough and tired, the same way Justin feels. 

***

"I don't like doing it this way," Lance says, when he's sure no one can hear.  Joey nods.  He doesn't like it, either.  Traveling during the day and sleeping at night had made him feel like he was in the real world, even if he were actually skirting the edges of it.  They've been doing the opposite for the past few days, just until Justin stops freaking out, which doesn't appear to be about to occur anytime soon.  Joey hates it, too; it makes him feel like a ghost. 

"It's not for long."  Joey rolls over and runs an exploring hand across Lance's belly, then lower.  "Justin's in the shower," he grins.  JC and Chris are both gone, for the moment.

"Joey," Lance breathes, the same way he always does, like he can't believe that it's happening.  At first Joey had been unnerved by Lance's earnest voracity, but now he doesn't know how he ever went without it.  It's the only thing that makes all this worthwhile.    

***

"Listen up!" Chris hollers.  His intimidating glare is wasted because no one will dare meet his eye.  "I guess it's time to lay down some new rules since you stupid fucks can't seem to be able to tell the difference between right and wrong anymore." 

JC glowers from across the room, and the rest of them watch nervously.  All anyone knows is that Chris and JC had come back to the motel room in the middle of an argument; JC had done something to make Chris furious.  Lance can't imagine what it would be, and neither will tell him. 

"First of all!" Chris shouts.  He gets like this sometimes, but no one's really scared.  Eventually, he'll wear himself out and move on to something else.  "If you're in the middle of a store and the weapon that you have stupidly shoved into your pants for safe keeping suddenly shifts, do not turn to your fucking boyfriend and say some dumbass thing like, 'Uh oh, my gun!'" 

"He's not used to carrying," Joey defends immediately.  "He shouldn't have to." 

"He doesn't have to!  We've had too many close calls lately." 

"Sorry."  Lance hadn't wanted the gun in the first place, but none of them had felt safe without it lately.  "It felt like it was going to fall out or go off or something." 

"Okay!" Chris says with false brightness.  Usually Lance is the smart one, so hopefully he'll learn from this.  "Whatever.  And here's another good idea.  From now on, those of us with Adonis-like good looks might not want to come into any contact with drive-thru cashiers.  

"And last, but not least…" he trails off, locking his steely gaze on JC.  Neither of them look away, and Lance can't tell who's the most angry.  Chris probably, because in addition to the anger, Lance can see his hurt in the way his arms fold across his chest tightly.  "I'm not going to name any names, but I would like us all to be aware that although we need money, there are certain things we just don't do." 

Lance nudges Joey, who just shakes his head because he's not sure he even wants to know.  Finally, Justin speaks up. 

"Like what?" 

"Oh, things, Justin, that you probably wouldn't even think of doing." 

"We steal!" JC breaks in.  His cheeks are red.  "I stole his wallet." 

"And I hope you brushed your teeth afterwards!" 

"Fuck off!"

Joey steps between them, swinging a disgusted look between the two of them.  He's never seen JC this close to hitting anyone. "Stop it," he says, remembering that he used to have some authority in this group.  Maybe it's time to stop feeling so ashamed about his initial hesitancy to join them, because these are his friends and he's entitled to mess up every now and then, just like the rest of them. 

"We're not gonna fight.  We're gonna do this, but the only way we can is if we're all acting as one.  Chris is right, JC.  I don't care what you did, because, hell, I shot a guy.  But we aren't…we have to agree on what we will and won't do.  And, we definitely shouldn't be doing.  Um.  Whatever." 

"It wasn't for money," JC interjects.  "I stole it.  I didn't.  He didn't- pay me." 

"Whatever," Chris mumbles miserably.  Justin, the only one who hasn't been scared off, approaches him from behind and wraps his arms around Chris' waist.  He knows that Chris is just upset, that Chris still likes JC and all the rest of them no matter how much they fuck things up.  

"I don't even like the stealing," he confesses, resting his chin on Chris' shoulder.  It was only meant for Chris to hear, but the sound carries to all of them. 

"We have to."  Chris holds Justin's hands tightly where they clasp around his middle.  "They put us in a situation where we can't earn a living.  We don't have any choices.  We knock over some businesses, their insurance companies reimburse them.  It's not ideal, but it's the only way."  He looks to Joey for support, and gets it in the form of a wise nod, fraught with false bravado.

"I know," Justin says softly.  "I just don't like it." 

"It's okay," Chris sighs.  He thinks that JC likes it enough for all of them. 

***

Justin takes over the wheel during the next week, and continues toward his mystery destination.  They all speculate about where he might be taking them, but the truth is that it just feels good to be headed somewhere in particular.  It's better and worse than before, and all of them have begun to wonder about the life choices that they've made, that being fugitives is better in so many ways than their normal lives. 

"Hey."  Joey settles in next to JC in the very back seat.  It's the least coveted spot since it's furthest away from the radio, the heater, and the crux of conversation.  JC has been claiming it a lot lately, spending hours of traveling by himself, sleeping or just staring out the window.  He hasn't even asked Justin where they're headed. 

"Hey." 

Joey looks at JC for a while, tries to figure out a good starting point.  JC, who had loved this adventure from day one, is wilting, withering before their eyes. "JC," he begins quietly, and slides his arm around the slim, leather-clad shoulders.  "Where do you think Justin's going?  Lance thinks we're going to the beach." 

JC smiles, leans into him, and Joey wonders then how long it's been since JC had had this.  Joey himself has Lance in his arms every night, and apart from that, the rest of them share casual touches and embraces all day long.  Not JC, though, who's been hanging back ever since his confrontation with Chris so many days ago. 

"He won't even talk to me," JC whispers.  His hair feels soft under Joey's fingers; it's grown a bit, enough to curl at the ends.  "He won't- he sleeps on the floor now, and he said." 

Chris had said a lot of things, most of which Joey thinks he's already regretting. 

"He'll get over it," he assures JC, even though once, Chris went nearly five weeks without speaking to Lance.  "Don't worry." 

***

"You know what we need?" Justin says, late one afternoon when no one can figure out if they're going to the coast or to Florida, which has been declared off limits.  "A pet.  I mean, something small enough to run around in the truck.  We could teach it tricks." 

"I don't know," Lance says doubtfully. Justin's never owned an animal in his life.  "Pets are a lot of work." 

"You don't need a pet, Jup. We have JC," Chris points out, loudly, even though Justin is sitting right next to him.  "And he already does tricks," he adds cruelly, his gaze flickering toward the back.  Point made, he turns back to Justin, his new favorite distraction. 

***

"Drag racing," Chris sighs, and rubs at his sore leg.  It hurts too much to go anywhere, even though he loves the idea of a night out with a bunch of drunk rednecks, watching even drunker rednecks race their souped up cars.  "The first time you decide to do something cool and it has to be the day I'm a cripple and can't do anything but lie here and moan."  He's too sore to even shape that comment into a barb at JC. 

"Are you gonna be okay?" Justin rummages through his duffel bag until he finds the aspirin that JC had purchased right after Chris fell down the stairs while fleeing the most poorly executed robbery that they'd attempted so far.  "I could stay here if you want," he offers, but none of them have gone out and done anything fun in weeks, and Chris would never say yes. 

"No, go on," he says, swallowing the pills dry.  "You better have some good stories when you come back, and be really fucking careful.  Stay together," he warns, then pauses.  "But not too together. This is Tennessee." 

"Whatever."  Joey rolls his eyes. "Anyhow, it's Georgia.  Lance, you ready?"  His fingers brush against the seat of Lance's jeans, lingering long enough to make Lance turn and look up at him with glimmering eyes. 

"Ready," he says softly, and JC tries not to notice them. Chris' nastiness hurts a lot less than what Joey and Lance have between them.

"I'm ready!" Justin crows, breaking the mood.  He jumps around and jingles the keys in front of everyone, as if they might not notice him.  "C'mon, Jayce, God, I haven't been out in forever." 

"Actually," JC says carefully, and pushes Justin's hand away.  "I'm staying in.

"Not for me, I hope," Chris objects.

"Why the hell would I do anything for you?" 

"Just checking." 

***

"I can rub it for you, though," JC says an hour later, as though they're in the middle of a conversation.  Chris hasn't left his spot on the bed, but his restless fidgeting in search of a comfortable position is hard to ignore in the small motel room. 

"What?" 

"Your leg.  I know you wrenched it.  It's the muscle, just like that time at the concert in Denver.  It'll feel better…if somebody rubs it." 

"And you want to be that person."  He's suspicious, but only because he's been so rotten to JC lately.  The worst part is that he wants to continue being rotten, yet also wants his leg rubbed and isn't sure he can give up either. 

"I'm--yes," JC says, and offers no further explanation.  Chris hates that about JC the most.  He does things, strange things, and doesn't say anything, unlike the rest of them, who feel that they have to broadcast every detail of their lives to the rest of the group in order to affirm that it actually happened.  Chris thinks details such as a person's motives for humping their best friend in the back of a truck ought to be discussed. 

"Fine. I'm still pissed, though," he snaps, but pushes the covers down from his leg. 

"I- this isn't about that."  JC is beginning to regret his offer; but it's already on the table, so he shuffles skittishly over to the bed, pulls Chris' leg onto his lap and starts a light rubdown.  His hands press gently at first, then more firmly as he gets a feel for the spots that will loosen under his fingers.  "How long are you going to be mad at me, anyhow?  Because it's really starting to-" He stops and ducks his head, forgetting that there's no longer a curtain of hair to hide behind. 

"Not much longer," Chris says finally, and stretches his arms, settles into the bed.  "Feels good, Jayce.  I swear, I thought if we drove one more mile today I was gonna have to amputate." 

"'S just stiff," JC murmurs, rubbing with steady pressure along the arch of Chris' foot.  This always makes Chris melt with contentment, and sure enough, his eyelashes flutter closed. 

"You shouldn't be so nice to me," he says.  "I've been an ass."

JC only pauses momentarily before resuming his ministrations.  "I don't know what else to do," he admits.  "Beg mad at you hasn't done much good.  It's kind of wasted, seeing how you've been completely ignoring me."

"I'm not ignoring you now.

JC stops abruptly.  He leaves his hand on Chris' leg, though, liking the heat and the feel of his hand on someone else's skin.  He thinks of Chris taking him behind that gas station and waiting for something, thinks of the scrutinizing squint that Chris had used on him then.  If he looks up now, he'll see the same thing, so he looks at his hand, at the way it moves on Chris, the way it shifts and slides and is somehow allowed to undo the past two weeks. 

***

"Justin.  Why did we just pass a big sign that says 'Welcome to Louisiana'?" 

"It's called crossing a state line, Lance.  Illegal if you're transporting a minor, but the felons that we happen to be transporting are all of age, so…" he shrugs and grins at Lance, who doesn't smile back. 

"That's not funny.  Tell me where we're going." 

"Wherever I want.  I drew short straw, remember?" 

Chris is suddenly hanging over the back of Justin's seat, intensely interested in this conversation.  "We remember, but do you remember that I will kick your ass if you so much as think about taking us anywhere foolish?" 

"I'm taking us somewhere smart," Justin insists.  "Lay the fuck off." 

"Sometimes you think you can trust people," Lance says slowly, "And you can't.  Even people close to you." 

"I trust her.  We have a thing, a plan," he says. 

"Even now?" 

"Yes.  Can you just trust me?" 

Lance frowns and closes his eyes against the dizzying progression of the road, the yellow line that breaks and solidifies as often as his sense of panic.  He's tired of being afraid, and knows that if he were on his own he would've surrendered long ago.  There's too much to fight for, though, and he knows that Justin feels the same, which is why he can trust. 

***

No matter how wide he forces his eyes, JC can't see anything but the blackness surrounding him.  Chris' hand provides something more; stimuli for every sense with its heavy weight pressing against the soft give of JC's lips.  If he wriggles his tongue out far enough, he can taste the saltydirty skin of Chris' palm and hear the resulting, hitching gasp against his ear.  "Shhhh," he hears, or maybe he imagines it.  He worries that the earthquake of his legs will make more noise than any words he could utter. 

In hindsight, JC thinks that they must've been crazy to try robbing a place run by a guy this huge, and God, he sounds even bigger walking around on the other side of that door, floorboards squeaking with every step he takes.

"He's usually gone by now," Chris breathes into his ear, and even though it shouldn't, the words send prickling sparks of heat down JC's neck.  He shudders against the press of Chris' body, which is pretty much the only thing holding him upright at this point, trapping him against the wall of the tiny, dark closet that they've taken cover in. 

It's obvious why the guy hasn't left. There's a woman with him, a woman who Chris swears is never around this time of day, but hey, Chris only had two days to scope out this place, so of course he isn't the supreme expert on what is or isn't normal behavior for the staff.  What apparently is normal behavior, though, from what JC can hear, is for the Big Guy to get down and dirty right there in the back office with whoever happens to wander in. 

JC takes in a great breath, and the sweet, smoking ache of it compels him to do it again.  There are sex sounds coming from the other side of the door, but they're not sexy.  He's hard, but not from that.  The other side of the door seems completely removed from this tiny, self-contained world that consists of Chris and the darkness.  JC breathes again, deeply, just to feel the subtle shift of denim against the part of him that's pulsing louder than his heart, more urgently than his oxygen-starved lungs.

Chris still doesn't trust him not to speak, and JC is glad for the hand sealed over his mouth.  He doesn't trust himself right now, either, because he's never felt more like a caged animal; he wants to howl, but he can't, and the strain of remaining still is getting to him.  His clothes cling stickily at every point of his body.  Drops of frustration well up in the corners of his eyes, and he moans silently into Chris' hand.

The high of these jobs is hard enough to keep in check under normal circumstances, but forced immobility is something he doesn't think he can handle right now.  Chris' head drops heavily onto JC's shoulder, and for the first time he realizes that this might be just as agonizing for Chris.

Working his mouth open, he drags his tongue flat against the tender skin in the center of Chris' palm.  It's too entreating a gesture, he knows, too full of need, but that's how he feels right now.  Chris' fingers tighten on his face, digging punishing hollows into his cheek, and even though everything goes red around the edges, he doesn't let up because it's Chris' way to season pleasure with pain, and whether he knows it or not, it's JC's way, too.

"JC, shhh," Chris whispers, but his words are tight and forced, nothing like the easy, breathy sound that he'd made before.  It's an impossible request.  If Chris were to remove his hand right now, the sound tearing out of JC's throat would get them both caught and killed for sure. 

He's not going to make it, of this JC is increasingly certain.  Something's got to give, and it doesn't look like that something is going to be Chris.  JC, however, is going to blow their cover in a big way when he spontaneously combusts here inside this tiny, filthy closet. 

But that can't happen.  He's got to just calm the fuck down, and  when in an attempt to do just that, he  incrementally unclenches his hands, he realizes that they've been fisted against the small of Chris' back all along.  The smallest shift to push sweaty fabric out of the way and he's got his hands on the hot, damp skin underneath.

Chris' skin; something that in the past, he's only been allowed in small, controlled doses. 

It's addictive, the friction that the pads of his fingers create, like Chris is a drug that can be absorbed by sliding his fingers back and forth, up and down, so long as he doesn't stop. 

JC can't tell if Chris likes it or not, all he knows is the way Chris' mouth is opening on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, kissing sloppily, lewd and wet, so maybe Chris likes it after all.  A hundred sharp points close hot and wet around his neck, paralyzing him with the piercing wrench of it, and he really hopes that that's not his own voice making that frantic, injured sound, but that's the sound he always makes when he's coming, and he is, right up against Chris, and how.

***

It's like a bad trip, the space between intoxication and hangover, on the way back to the motel.  JC still has that restless, bothersome, twitchiness, but it's muted by a deeper kind of fatigue, and overlaying everything is a distant sense of dread.  He and Chris can't keep doing this, but he doesn't know how to stop it.  He definitely doesn't know how to do what he wants, which is not to stop it at all, but to change the way it plays out.  

Even though it's a lot, the packet of money feels useless in his hands, and he thinks about throwing it out the window, watching it flutter in a million directions.  Chris would kill him.  He slides the envelope under his thighs.   

"You're late!" Justin is yelling when they get to the arranged point.  His face is red, blotchy and angrier than JC has ever seen it.  Afraid. 

"We got held up."  Chris follows JC into the back seat and hands the money forward to Lance, like always.  As always, Lance gives Justin a nod, permission to head out, the final step. 

JC sits quietly, shoulders slumped, knee jumping nervously.  His pants are sticky again; Chris' are not, again.  His neck hurts, and he touches his fingers to it, traces the deep imprints of Chris' teeth. 

"Hey, sorry about that." 

"It's okay," JC replies shakily.  "It's…I'm sorry, too." 

"No, not about that."  Chris slides up next to JC and even though Lance is watching with an eagle eye, touches his lips gently to JC's cheek.   It's a kiss, but JC doesn't know why.  "I'm-" Chris stops and glares at Lance, who just shrugs. 

"Do you mind?"  he snaps.

"What happened to C's neck?"  Lance asks.

"Mosquito bite.  Hello, can we have a minute, please?" 

"You already took forty-five minutes more than you were allotted," Lance replies, infuriating Chris. "Don't do it again.  We almost left, you know.  Plan B." 

"And we would've caught up!  That's why we have a plan B, because things go wrong.  Something went wrong." 

"Right," Lance says dryly.  "The mosquitoes." 

"Do I really have to have this talk with JC while you're sitting here making bitchy remarks?"

"Oh, so you're talking to him now?" Lance doesn't really care about giving them privacy.  He's bored.  They all get like this after being on the road for so long, picking petty arguments and trying to rile one another up for no reason.  Lance is usually the last to succumb, but he's worn out, tired, and wishes that he were up front with Joey. 

"Yes."  Chris sighs.  JC looks down at Chris' fingers, resting on his thigh, and feels hopeful about what that might mean. If only Lance would shut up, then Chris could say whatever it is that he's getting at.  "Never mind, C.  I'll catch you later." 

***

Chris pulls on his shoes and nudges JC awake when Justin finally brings the truck to a stop.  They've traveled down a long, dirt road into the woods to this clearing that holds a small house. 

"Is this it?"  Joey asks, and tosses Lance his jacket.  It's not that cold, but it's raining, and he eyes the muddy expanse between the truck and the house. 

"Yup."  Justin pockets the keys and turns around in his seat.  His face is joyful, flushed, and Chris mutters aloud about Justin driving two thousand miles just so he could get some. 

They're all just jumping out of the truck onto the sludgy earth when Chris sees the front door open, the figure step out onto the porch.  He squints through the rain because Justin is running toward her, only Chris would swear that it's not Britney at all, but that it's-

"OhmyGod."  Lance says in a strangled voice.  His hand catches Chris' arm and squeezes convulsively.  "His mother?  We came out here to meet with his mom!  Chris.  Chris, Chris," he says, panicking.  His feet begin sinking into the mud and Chris just stares back at him. 

"We have to leave."

Joey and JC stare, bewildered.  "We have to go inside," Joey protests.  He doesn't know.   Lance hadn't told anyone else about Justin's mother's words; only Chris.  He's been tempted so many times, when Joey was missing his family, to tell Joey what he'd seen on tv, assure him that his parents think only the best of him, but there was always the danger that Justin might find out as well.

"Fucking mystery vacation!" Chris spits out.  "Goddamn it.  I mean, did anyone else think that we were meeting up with Britney here?" 

They'd all thought it. 

JC shrugs past them and heads for the porch, because he just wants to be dry. They follow, Chris and Lance shooting one another desperate, pleading glances.  Neither of them know what to do, so they walk inside and wipe their muddy feet on the green, fuzzy welcome mat. 

When they're inside, Lance has to look away from what he sees.  Justin is already curled up with his mother on the couch, bawling like all of them probably would if they got to see their families one last time.  She holds him, rubs his head, but her face is distant and shuttered.  She keeps looking at the clock. 

"We're gonna go clean up," Chris says quickly, and drags the rest of them through the hall.  They leave a confusion of muddy footprints on the baby blue carpet. 

"Okay, we need a plan," he whispers, and wipes at his wet face.  They're all drenched, but when Joey had started to take off his coat, Lance stopped him with a chilling look.  They've learned by now that conformity with no questions asked can save their lives, so they all followed suit without Lance having to explain.  "We don't have time," Chris says quickly, "So here's the short version.  Lynne was on tv and she thinks we're guilty and she wants Justin to turn himself in. Trust me.  We have to go.  But, um, discreetly." 

Which is the problem, because there's no discreet way to do this. 

"We could…"  Joey begins, but it makes him nervous when everyone waits expectantly with too much desperation in their eyes, so he shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

"We have to…knock Justin out, or something," JC says.  Lance scowls and Chris rolls his eyes, muttering, "God, JC." 

"If I had picked short straw, we'd be in Chicago right now," Chris complains, as if it really matters.  He wants to punch something.  This is different than all the times he's pulled robberies with JC, different than when they'd been recognized by the drive-thru girl; he feels scared now, and the fact that he's afraid scares him most of all. 

"We need a plan, quick," Lance hisses. 

"Okay, a plan, a plan." JC hops from one foot to another, shaking out his hands.  "We tell her that we're going to get our stuff from the truck, and…then we leave." 

"That's…"  Chris trails off.  He'd been about to declare it not a plan, but there isn't much else they can do.  It may be simple, but they can't afford to wait.  

***

It doesn't play out quite that simply.  It ends up taking Joey and JC to wrestle Justin into the truck, and Joey almost ends up under the wheels since Chris had already started driving in an attempt to keep Justin from bailing.  It's a terrible thing to do, the worst thing that Lance thinks he's ever seen, because Justin is still crying when they go out to the truck, and the betrayal on his face when they grab him is even worse than the deep, puffy scratch that he wears across his cheek when it's all over.  "Get a towel!" Chris had shouted, when he'd seen the blood.  "Get a fucking towel!" but they still all end up wearing a little of it. 

Chris is alone in the front because no one wants to leave Justin, who is frighteningly quiet.  At first he'd fought and yelled, called them every name in the book, but once they'd explained their motives, he'd gone silent and docile, letting them all do the things that they needed in order to feel better about what had happened.  Joey holds Justin against him like a big easy chair, and JC sits at Joey's feet and holds Justin's hand, rubs his arm and thigh, repeatedly tells him how sorry he is.  Normally, Justin has no patience for this kind of thing and they know it, but he allows it, and they're grateful.

Chris drives for two days straight.  He stops for gas six times, and finally, when the thought of one more cup of coffee makes him shivery and nauseous, he pulls over at a rest stop in Okalahoma. 

"We need sleep," he says quietly.  "I have no idea if the cops are after us, but we need sleep, we need showers, and we need us."  No one says anything, so he drives into Tulsa and stops at the first Marriott that he sees.  He gets a suite and sneaks the rest of them in the back way.  No one mentions that it's the first decent motel they've stayed at since they went on the run, and Lance, the group's unofficial banker, doesn't say anything about the three hundred fifteen bucks that he laid out on the counter for a two nights' stay.

They're all filthy, caked with long-dried Louisiana mud, but Chris wasn't involved in the struggle to get Justin in the truck, so he's the least dirty, and crawls unsteadily onto one of the beds.  He's asleep within minutes.  After making sure that the deadbolt and chain are secured, JC pulls off Chris' muddy shoes and brushes the dirt from the bedspread.

In the bathroom, Lance is filling the jacuzzi with hot water.  Joey and Justin have already peeled off their stiff, muddy clothes and thrown them on the bathroom floor, so JC adds Chris' shoes and his own pants to the pile.  Justin hops in the shower, promising JC that he won't be long, and for once, he isn't. 

Even though there's an extra sofa bed in the other room, Justin and JC both climb in bed with Chris.  For once, JC doesn't mind Justin's snoring.  

***

Joey is the first to awaken. 

The first thing he does is find Lance's hand under the covers.  He doesn't want anything more than to stroke over the long fingers and know that they're both still here.  It feels  like a miracle that they still are, and he's contemplating waking him just so he can feel those hands come to life, when he hears the sound of a starving stomach rumbling from the other bed. 

"Jayce?" he whispers, but he's the only one up. 

It's hard to find his clothes in the dark, but he manages to make himself presentable and anonymous before he slips out into the hall.  As he takes the doors that lead to the stairs, Joey can admit to himself that his stomach is hurting more from the intense fear of being caught than hunger.  He's spent so much of his life refusing to worry about things that he couldn't change, that being afraid seems like the antithesis of normal, which is all he's ever wanted.

 Except, with normal he wasn't ever allowed Lance, which also scares him because it's like a big karma-driven tradeoff and he's not quite sure it can't be reversed at any time. 

He can't voice these thoughts to the guys; not when they still give him sideways glances, worrying about whether or not he's really with them.  He thinks that maybe telling them that straight out would've been a better way of demonstrating his commitment than shooting someone, which he knows has left doubt in their minds about whether or not his loyalty is voluntary.  It is, though, and what better way to show it than Dunkin Donuts and coffee?  It's a time-honored Fatone tradition, healing and forgiveness through food, and if the guys don't get it, then they will eventually through some other means.  They're all past the point where words mean anything. 

When he sneaks back into the room, JC sits straight up in bed at the noise of the lock, breathing hard. 

"It's just me," he whispers.  "I got food.  Coffee, too."  He puts it down on the wide, glossy desk and breathes deeply.  JC nods and fumbles on the nightstand for a cigarette.  When it's lit, he sags back against the pillow and touches Justin's hair lightly.  Joey wants to touch him, too, and tell him how sorry he is, but JC has been apologizing enough for both of them. 

"Go back to bed," JC says, smiling fondly at Lance's shape under the covers.  "They'll sleep for hours." 

"It's already after two," Joey tells him.  "In the afternoon."  The donuts are good, not too dry in the middle and the glaze has hardened instead of turning into the sticky goo that it sometimes does.  He forgot napkins.

JC seems surprised by the time, but shrugs it off as unimportant.  "Chris needs the rest.  He's been…he hasn't rested yet, not really.  This is the first time, and only because he couldn't keep on." 

"What about you?  How are you doing?" he asks JC.  There's a dark, circular bruise on JC's pale skin, at the place where neck meets shoulder, and Joey squints across the dim room to get a better look.  "You and Chris are talking again?" 

"Yeah."  JC says, and kicks off the covers.  He makes sure that they're still tucked over Justin, and turns back to Joey.  "He was just mad for a while.  You know how he gets." 

Joey nods and in the absence of any napkins, wipes his sticky hands on his jeans.  "Yup." 

"And how exactly does he get?" a muffled, rusty voice asks from under the blanket. 

"Surly and irrational," Joey replies. "He's also a fucking eavesdropper."

"Quit talking about me when I'm right here, then, you stupid bastards," he growls.  He pauses and shifts underneath the covers, a hand fumbling out toward them.  "However, I might be willing to forget the whole thing if you bring me some of that coffee that I smell." 

Joey brings it to him, and holds it, waiting for Chris to struggle into a sitting position.  He hesitates when Chris reaches for it.  "Um.  Maybe you should go back to bed for a while," because Chris looks worse than Joey's ever him seen in six years of hard work and morning-afters. 

"I'll be fine after I have my coffee," Chris insists, snapping his fingers impatiently.  He's got far too much to worry about to waste his time sleeping. 

"Dude, it's not magic coffee." 

"Funny." 

JC leans over Justin and watches Chris take the first tentative sips from the styrofoam cup.  Joey is right, Chris is too pale and his puffy eyes are shot with red.  "Stop it," Chris says, feeling the scrutiny.  "I'm fine.  Are those donuts?" 

***

There seems to be an unspoken agreement that they'll use this time to regroup, reconnect, and completely ignore the trouble that they're in.  Joey and Lance lug the dirty clothes down to the basement, where they use the washing machines and make out against the closed door while they're waiting for the clothes to dry. 

When they get back to the room, Chris has engaged Justin in a game of poker.  They're both equally good, and equally surprised at the prowess of the other. 

"It's a lost cause, Kirkpatrick!" Justin chuckles.  Normally, he'd be crowing with delight, but it's still a step up from the brooding silence of the past few days. 

"Where the fuck did you get so good?" Chris demands, and throws his cards down on the table. 

"My mom," Justin laughs, and Lance shakes his head.  Justin and his mother-- they all have their own opinions, but Lance is the most critical of the relationship that they share.  "She was always gambling when I was growing up--"

"Is this one of those fake 'when I was  kid in Memphis' stories?" Chris threatens, and poises for an attack. 

"No!  She always went to the casinos with Trace's mom, sometimes they'd go for the weekend and we'd stay with my grandma." 

"Oh yeah, those Memphis casinos.  Right,"  Chris growls, challenging the claim.  "You lie!" 

"It's right over the border, in Mississippi, Chris," Justin explains tolerantly.  "It's like, in the middle of nowhere.  Just a whole oasis of casinos.  You have to drive for like forty-five minutes, and then you see it." 

"Are you shitting me?" Chris asks, shooting a devious grin at Lance.  "I thought all they had in Mississippi was a river and a bunch of-"

"-don't say it!" Lance warns, and holds the bag of laundry over his head.  "Or you will be the only one whose clothes mysteriously did not make it back from the laundry room." 

"Where are we?" Justin asks, suddenly. 

"Tulsa." 

Justin pulls out the map and traces a line with his finger between Tulsa and the Tennessee/Mississippi border.  "We could go." 

"Later," Chris says, decisively.  It doesn't sound like the best idea to him, getting that near to Justin's hometown, but no one is going to say no to Justin right now, when he's so low because they may or may not have completely screwed him over.  "We need to lay low for a while, first." 

"Good."  Lance nods approvingly.  It's not that he doesn't want to go, his wanting to wait has more to do with Chris' sallow complexion and the hoarse, tired voice he's been trying to speak with since they got here.  JC's singing is coming loud and clear from the bathroom, and Lance can hear the humming jets of the whirlpool.  "The bathtub's great," he says, and points at the closed door.  "Have you tried it, Chris?  Maybe you'd feel better after a long soak." 

"Uh huh."  Chris narrows his eyes on Lance.  "I happen to feel just fine.  So, if you have some sick fantasy about getting me and C naked in a hot tub together, you're gonna have to find another way." 

"Okay, okay," Lance laughs, because the idea of a modest Chris is laughable.  "At least, somebody should go in there and tell him to keep it down.  The last thing we need is to be caught because a fan recognized his singing." 

"You give our fans too much credit," Chris snorts, but pulls himself out of bed anyhow and heads for the bathroom.  "Now, if they had to pick out C's ass in a lineup, I'd say we were in trouble." 

"He's sick," Joey whispers, when Chris has closed the door behind him.  Lance shrugs helplessly, because there's only so much they can do.  If one of them were sick, Chris would figure out what to do and force them to get better.  It's not one of them, though; it's Chris. 

"He's not.  He's just tired."  Justin glowers dangerously from the bed.  "You just heard him say that he's fine." 

"Justin-" Lance snaps, but Joey's arm tightens around his waist, so he stops.  He gets it.  Don't disappoint Justin.  It's been a game that they've played for years, for as long as Lance can remember, so at least he already knows the rules.  "You're probably right.  Why don't you get him some orange juice for when he comes out?" 

***

"Where are we going?"  Joey asks Justin, who, even though he's holding the map, looks lost. 

"I don't know." 

They all look to Chris, who leans his head against the window.  "I'm just going to take a little nap," he says.  Everyone notices the damp, glistening hollows under his eyes and the way that his hands shake when he rubs his forehead.  They especially notice the way that he doesn't tell Justin where to drive.

Lance suddenly, desperately wants his mother. 

"Stop at a drugstore first," JC says.  Chris' face, neck, and hands are scalding when he touches them, and JC can hear the way he's working to breathe, even in sleep. 

"Is he okay?" Joey whispers, quietly, so that Justin won't hear.  Justin refuses to acknowledge that Chris is anything more than slightly under the weather, which in itself is worrying, but right now all that Joey can see is the heat boiling beneath the surface of Chris' cheeks.

"He's gonna be fine."  When Joey looks up, he sees the lie on JC's face.   

***

Chris hasn't said he's fine in five days.  Two of those days they spent driving, and the other three they've been in Kansas, in a small town outside Topeka.  Joey and Lance disappeared for three hours one afternoon and returned with the keys to a small mobile home, modestly furnished but clean.  After being assured by Lance that the practically blind elderly woman they'd rented it from had not recognized them, JC admitted that this was a good thing for all of them. 

The trailer is on the edge of some rather isolated woods, so they all count that as a plus, but mostly, they're just glad to finally be somewhere.  JC isn't sure that Chris even knows where they are; not even Justin can deny that Chris is seriously ill.  Aspirin does nothing to keep the fever down, but they keep giving it to him anyhow, afraid of what might happen if they stop.  The coughing is a problem; it hurts him, but he can't breathe anymore without first clearing the airway, and JC is pretty sure that he's got a broken rib or two by now. 

While the others are getting settled in, JC takes Joey into town and pulls up in the parking lot of a drugstore. 

"Do you know why we're here?"  he asks. 

"Yeah."  Joey says.  "I'm with you."  He is with JC, of course.  He'd noticed the outline of the gun well before they arrived at the drugstore, and it isn't like he'd ever protest.  He's glad to be part of it and proud to be trusted.  JC hadn't asked Justin, or even Lance, he'd asked Joey, so Joey is right there by JC's side when they slip into the back room of the pharmacy, even when JC is jabbing the muzzle of a 9 mm into the guy's side, snarling, "I swear to God if you try anything funny, I will come back here and fuck you up, if this medicine doesn't make my friend better I will fucking kill you." 

He's never seen JC like this, and it'd be almost comedic if it weren't so damn frightening, but Joey knows where the fury is coming from.  If JC doesn't make good on his word, Joey will.  He tightens his hands around the pharmacist's arms just to make sure he understands this truth.  It's weird, standing here so silently, holding this guy while JC explains what they want.  It's clear by now why JC has brought him along: he's the hired muscle, which he also finds a bit humorous.  Still, he can't deny the thrill he gets, following the shaking man around as he formulates some antibiotics for Chris, and it's no wonder Chris and JC always come back so wired up.  It's all a tremendous rush; the fear of being caught, the power, the pounding adrenaline that has nowhere to go. 

When they get back to the trailer, JC gives Chris his first dose of medicine while Joey drags Lance off to one of the two tiny bedrooms.  They emerge a few hours later, unusually clingy, and no one wonders about Lance's awkward gait or the way he blushes whenever anyone talks to him for the rest of the night.  If Chris were awake, he'd have loved to tease them mercilessly, but he's still drifting in and out of a fitful slumber. 

"Oh," he mumbles that evening, when JC comes in to take his temperature.  "Justin.  Get a towel," he says fretfully, and JC tries to hush him. 

"It's okay."  Justin shrugs.  And, it really is.  He'll have a scar, at least for a while, but it's changed his look so drastically; he can't stop looking at it.  Every glimpse of himself in a window or mirror reflects the same expression of surprise.  He knows that he'll eventually get used to it, unless it disappears first, but for now he likes looking different.  Unrecognizable.  Tough. 

"Justin," Chris says again, sadly, and JC pulls the thermometer out from under Chris' arm. 

"One hundred two point one."  It's good news.  "Next time it'll be even lower," he tells Justin.  "And, the stuff about you…"  

"I know, he feels guilty.  He shouldn't."

"We all do, Justin, we're so sorry." 

"Stop it.  JC…y'all are crazy.  Do you even remember why you're here?  You and Chris weren't in trouble; it was me.  Me and maybe Lance.  Believe me, we definitely wouldn't have made it this far alone." 

"Yeah."  JC thinks about this while carefully wiping down Chris' face, neck and chest with a damp cloth.  "So, what are we gonna do now?" 

Justin smiles slowly.  "We can do anything, man.  Anything we want." 

END