On
the seventh day they rest. Or, well, they fuck three times before breakfast and
wander down the stairs holding hands and smiling. Lance gives Joey a half-hour
lecture on car insurance liability and four-wheel drive before finally handing
over the keys to the SUV. Chris says anything would be better than another four
hours in the car with Justin, but then he smacks Justin on the forehead with a
sloppy kiss and messes up his hair and hugs him long and hard like Justin is a
scared and lonely fourteen-year-old again. Chris gets in the Jeep with JC and
they all leave Justin and Lance in the house, promising they'd get a tow truck
to pick up them and Justin's car by five. Lance packed all their stuff together
because half of his clothes were still in Justin's room anyway.
They
sit on the back deck drinking kool-aid because Chris convinced them it's really
the only thing left they can be sure wasn't tainted by cult hold-outs. Justin's
got new songs in his head, which is a good thing because he and C decided the
only way they'd get anywhere is to start over and fuck Jive if the suits don't
like it, they've sold enough albums to buy a few months' time if they need it.
He won't mind that being the story he tells in interviews.
"We
should really do this again," Lance says, bumping his shoulder against Justin's.
Justin
wrinkles his brow. "You gotta be kidding."
"No,
no," Lance laughs. "Not like this. Never again like this. I mean, you know. We
should make sure we get to take some time, for us, when things, before things
get all nuts." Justin nods and swallows down the rest of the cherry drink. "With
Harp," Lance says, and then stops. "Harper and I never had our own time, and I'm
not, I swear, Justin, I'm not looking for a way to fuck this up. I'm not looking
for a way out of any of it, I won't. Maybe we're all the only ones who really
understand each other."
A
million little decisions and these are the ones that count, Justin thinks. He
kisses Lance and says, "Wanna be in my cult?"
Lance
laughs and kisses him back. "Do I get to wear a special shirt or something for
being a charter member?"
"No,"
Justin says seriously. "You don't get to wear nothin'. You're my love slave."
Lance
throws back his head and laughs hard and long and Justin tickles him where his
shirt's ridden up and they fuck again, right there, out in the middle of nowhere
in the godforsaken desert, with the jackrabbits and the rattlesnakes and the coyotes,
under the steel blue sky and the careful watch of the Joshua trees.
Credits:
Sandy the Younger, as ever. H, REM's Falls to Climb and James Michener's Centennial.
LaDi drank the kool-aid. U2 and The Beatles. The rest of the thanks go to the
godforsaken desert, which Cuter wouldn't forsake for all the cute boys in the
world.
