October 12, 2002
| What He Needs
by lancenerd |
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Summary: Lance's mission is cancelled.
Note: None of this probably happened, but it was in my head, so I thought I'd write it down. I've never been to Moscow airport, but the website was very informative. Thanks to Coreopsis and Chootoy for beta, comments and suggestions!! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lance was at a press conference, solving trigonometry problems while dancing and singing. He was finding it hard to keep his pen on the paper as he did the choreography to 'Bye Bye Bye' and everyone was laughing and shouting at him to sing in Russian. He tried really hard to concentrate, and remembered to smile the whole time for the cameras, but inside his guts were in knots, because he knew he couldn't do it all at once. Then a lawnmower started coming toward him with a microphone, waiting to chew him into little bits... He blinked his eyes open and gasped for air as the dream dissolved, then moaned into the pillow under his cheek. It was wet, so he turned it over, the stubble on his chin rasping over the fabric. His eyes still stung and he rubbed them, making them feel better for a moment. He was grateful the shades were drawn, keeping the harsh Florida sunlight at bay. A few doors down the lawnmower from his dream sputtered and stopped, but soon droned on again. His eyes closed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again, he had too many things to think about, like how the hell he was going to raise 20 million dollars himself in a matter of days. He knew he should have been in on those meetings and made the deals himself rather than let David handle everything. Sighing, he flopped over to face the back of the couch and brought his knees up to his chest, hugging a pillow. It should have been a done deal. He was making friends and learning things and fucking training at NASA. NASA! And then it all fell apart when the Star City officials brought him into a meeting and told him they hadn't received a dime. Lance had tried hard to negotiate and buy himself some time, but they sent him back to his hotel. David Krieff didn't return his calls that night. The last straw had been the next day when Star City security refused him entry. The guards looked at him, expressionless, used to turning people away. He'd stayed in the security hut all morning trying to get someone, anyone to speak to him. Finally he was told to leave. Dejected, he went back to his hotel, packed and went straight to the airport. He'd left Moscow in the afternoon, no VIP lounge, just two huge waiting areas, where mass chaos ensued at all times. They made him take off his baseball hat and his shades when he went through security, but no one seemed to recognize him. The hat was a nuisance (they made his head itch), but a necessity. Wearing jeans and a navy hoodie he'd blended in nicely with the rich kids in first class returning to college for the fall semester. Frankfurt airport did have a VIP lounge. Lance had spent many a layover in that lounge, back in the day before *Nsync had started ignoring their European fans. The carpet and upholstery was the same. It smelled the same like stale cigarettes and expensive alcohol. And if he listened closely, he was sure he could still hear Chris and Justin screaming "we're bored, bored, bored!" and jumping up and down on the couch along the far wall, while JC giggled at them and tried to sleep in a comfy leather chair, but couldn't due to the amount of sugar and caffeine they'd all ingested. Lance got a coffee and sat at a corner table, facing the wall, listening to his Tim McGraw mix CD, laughing to himself that he didn't think anyone had written a song about being broken hearted over a space mission while nursing a latte en route to Orlando, but should. Johnny would kill him when he found out he'd traveled alone. Especially in Germany of all places. If he'd waited for security, it would have ruined the spontaneity of the moment, and Lance was never spontaneous. He was feeling selfish and reckless and gee what a rebellious streak he had, not travelling with Security. Lance was definitely on the road to ruin. On the way to Orlando from Frankfurt, he had too much time to think about it, caved and called Lonnie when he was half way across the Atlantic. Lonnie agreed to meet him at the airport and promised not to tell anyone he was home, not even Johnny, unless asked right out. Lance was happy to see the big man, even though his plane arrived after midnight, and the terminal was nearly empty. When he finally got home around 1 this morning, Lance flopped down on his couch had been there ever since. His voicemail was probably full, his e-mail overflowing, but he couldn't bring himself to check them. Not yet. He just wanted to be home alone on his couch, where no one (except Lonnie) knew where he was. He thought about turning on the TV, but he couldn't reach the remote and that was probably a good thing, because he knew his face was probably on every channel, being made fun of yet again; the butt of everyone's jokes. Lance didn't often brood about things; that wasn't his nature. He had a thick skin, didn't dwell on issues and was more than happy to face the next hurdle. But sometimes he couldn't do it. He just couldn't bring himself to deal with all the bullshit and needed selfish time to mope. If he ever thought he'd been treated badly by the press before, this experience opened his eyes even tenfold. They were like sharks, circling, waiting for him to bleed so they could pounce and shred him limb from limb. No matter what he'd done or how many times he'd proved himself worthy, the press always wrote him off as some dumb celebrity using his status to do things others could not. Well, what was the point of being famous then? His fame allowed him to achieve his dream that if he'd had to do himself, would still be in college and many years away from achieving it. He'd passed all the psychological tests and physical examinations, learned fast, wasn't stupid and no he wasn't going to fucking sing in space. And by the way, he'd learned Russian, too. Lance groaned into the pillow. He was nearly there. He was so close... A soft knock sounded at his front door and Lance held his breath. Only Lonnie knew he was home and was waiting for Lance to call him to go back to the airport. It wasn't him. His heart started pounding in his chest as a key sounded in the lock and then the warning of the alarm, before the security code was punched in and the door shut and locked again. Footsteps came across the carpet and stopped before the couch. Lance hoped whoever was standing in his living room wasn't John Stossell and a 20/20 camera crew with a few questions about his botched mission. The cushion dipped as the person sat down and combed his fingers through Lance's hair for a few minutes. Suppressed emotions welled up in his throat as a kiss was placed on his temple and he felt the familiar angles and length of JC spoon in behind him. Another kiss was placed behind his ear and the nape of his neck was nuzzled. Strong arms squeezed him as the soft lips continued to press against his neck and Lance twined his fingers through JC's then gave a shuddering sigh. Tears stung Lance's eyes and he squeezed them shut, keeping them back until they spilled over his nose and down his cheeks. This time they didn't represent self-pity or remorse, but all encompassing relief. Tomorrow he'd pick himself off the couch, download his e-mail, check his voice mail, make a thousand angry phone calls and probably fly back to Russia by evening. Right now he needed this. Everything was going to be all right. end Back |