Chris once told him that the best way to keep someone from leaving you was to act as though it could never happen.  He had explained to Justin how sometimes their own insecurities could work their way into the minds of people they care about.  He'd said this with defeated, red-rimmed eyes that spoke of experience, so Justin had believed him.  He still does. 

So he tries to act as though no place exists for Trace other than by his side, and so far the method has served him well.  But sometimes he catches a glimpse of something a little too much like doubt on Trace's familiar face and doubt, Justin has learned, has a way of snowballing into more permanent things like refusal and rejection.  At times like these he always acts too rashly, he knows, and does everything Chris has warned him against. 

Things like having Trace's room redecorated, or sneaking off together for a few hours without the bodyguards to do something normal.  Trace is awed by the glitz, but he prefers normal and when that offering of normalcy doesn't seem to work, waking up curled together under the same, warm blankets always does.  It breaks the rules, but Justin is willing to go against a lot of his own convoluted, self-created philosophies for his oldest friend.     

Besides, it's not like anyone else is knocking down his door to provide Justin with the things he needs and even if they were, he doubts they could compare with the shared memories, genuine laughter and easy affection that Trace so readily offers.  

He's got a good thing going here, he just wishes he could say it. 

***

"Sorry." 

Justin stops because his bodyguards do, and with the mob right inside the double doors, there's no way he's going anywhere without them.  A middle-aged woman in a power suit is holding up her hand and shaking her head at them; Justin frowns, looks down at his clothes, his shoes.  He's so unused to people telling him "no" that it takes a moment to understand. 

"I heard you.  I got it.  I know," she snaps into her headset, then points at Justin.  "Three people.  You can have three," she says distractedly, and she's already talking to someone else by the time Justin realizes what she's said. 

Three.  He's got to bring two bodyguards with him in that crowd, and his PR lady is standing there with an amused expression; she knows she's not being left behind.

"Fuck," he hears Trace say from right beside him, and fuck is right because Justin is tired of having to make these kinds of decisions.  "Go on," Trace says, and gives him a shove.  It feels playful, for which he's grateful.  He's also grateful that it's Trace being slighted because he can forgo the puppy-dog eyes and offer a mouthed "sorry" instead.  Trace is the one who taught Justin the puppy-dog eyes back when their moms were the only women around to use it on.

He passes through the double doors and lets the screams of the crowd drown out everything else.   

Almost everything else.

***

It's not like he doesn't hear what people say.  Justin isn't stupid, but he benefits by playing the part at times, so for now, for a while, he'll pretend.  Dork, loser, and freeloader are all things he's heard whispered about Trace, and this is when he always starts breaking his rules because he's more afraid of Trace being driven off by others than by his own neediness. 

Sometimes he wishes Chris had never said anything, because pretending Trace would never want to leave is a lot more difficult than asking him to please stay. 

Tonight, after seeing the disappointment in Trace's eyes, he knows that he's dangerously close to the latter.  Peeling off his smoky, sweaty shirt, he climbs the stairs toward his room.  Shower, clothes, and amends- in that order, he decides. 

After he's clean and dressed, he sits on the edge of his bed.  He can hear Trace moving around in his own bedroom, the muffled drone of the television.  He could go in there and make the offer of beer, video games, a warm body to lean against as they watch tv.   

That doesn't seem like enough, he worries, and runs his hand over the back of his neck, over his head and back again.  Maybe..a car?   That's too much, too obvious, and he doesn't want to think about this anymore.  He doesn't need to, because Trace has never asked anything of him, certainly not a car or even a beer.  

Which is part of the problem.  In his heart, Justin knows what he can do to get rid of this constant worry, the worry of losing his constant companion that he counts on more than anyone knows.  He can go in there and spell out everything he's ever wanted from his old friend, but that would be a risk.  Instead of waking up skin to skin under warm blankets, he might end up at the departure terminal of the airport, and he can't risk that.  Not yet. 

For now he'll just go into his best friend's bedroom and when he's asked in, pretend that he never expected anything else.