*

Chris remembers reading a book once about a guy who lived his life by the edge of the water. At least, he thinks it was him who read it; sometimes he forgets little things. Little things, but never the big things. Never those.

"My real estate guy," Chris says, looking at the jumble of boxes all over the floor, "he said the water would be soothing. Calming. Or something, I dunno."

"Right." Lance is squatting down by an opened box, rummaging through it. He pulls out something wrapped in thick layers of newspaper and starts to unwrap it. "So this is all a zen thing, then?"

Chris wrinkles his nose and watches as the mystery object being unwrapped is revealed to be a bottle of whiskey. Lance has always had an uncanny ability to cut through all the crap and get straight to the point. Or to the bottle. "Zen? No-- more of a ‘it was in my price range’ kinda thing."

Lance produces some glasses and Chris supposes he should be surprised, but then he remembers Lance helped him pack mostly everything, so. No real surprise there, then. Sometimes he forgets what it’s like to be surprised; his life has been anything but surprising since-- well, for a while now. He swirls the amber liquid in the glass Lance hands to him, then takes a swallow and grimaces through the slow burn down the back of his throat. "To new beginnings," he says, and across from him, Lance grins and raises his own drink in return.

Two hours later, and okay, Chris is a little surprised-- that he can still stand, given that the whiskey bottle is now empty, lying on it’s side, discarded and alone in a shadowy corner of the polished floor. "Hopeless," Lance had proclaimed, leaving it there after fruitlessly trying to re-fill his glass. "This is just hopeless." He’d set upon all the other unopened boxes in a single-minded and determined search for something else to drink. Chris can still hear the rustle of newspaper, and he dreads to think what the rest of the house looks like. Lance on a mission can be a terrible, terrible thing.

"A boat." The man himself stands in the doorway, swaying slightly, a spatula held loosely in one hand. "That’s what you need. Big house here, right by the water. It’s not right you don’t have a boat." He points at Chris, blinks and frowns, and looks a little surprised himself when he catches sight of the spatula he’s holding. "Um. This is yours." He places it carefully on the floor, and weaves off again, heading toward another pile of boxes.

"I don’t want a boat." Chris leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window, looks out over the black velvet of the water. "I don’t need—"

"I’m buying you one. Call it a housewarming gift."

Chris turns around, frowning. "Lance—"

"Hey!" Lance’s hand flies up in the air, and it’s either a nervous twitch or he wants Chris to shut up. Chris is figuring on the latter. "The judge’s decision is final. You’re getting a boat. Aha!" A flurry of newspaper tearing, and then Lance’s other hand is waving in the air, clutching a bottle, a look of triumph on his face.

Chris peers closely. "Dude, that’s cooking sherry."

"So?" Lance shrugs. "Sailors aren’t fussy."

Chris sighs and shakes his head. Looks like he’s getting a boat.

*

Lance flies home the next morning, and three days later, a boat arrives in Chris’ front yard.

The guys who deliver it don’t really say a lot to him, other than "where d’you want it?" and Chris suspects they’re laughing at him whenever he turns his back. He figures sailors must be able to spot non-sailors at fifty paces, must sense each other through weird sailor-type vibes or something. He shakes his head—when did he start thinking like JC?

"There’s a note, too, " Delivery Guy number one says, handing Chris a cream-coloured envelope. "You need lessons?"

"To open the envelope?" Chris frowns at him. Surely he doesn’t look that useless?

Delivery Guy number one sighs heavily, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the boat. "Sailing lessons. I know a guy. Cheap, but good. Want his number?"

"Sure." Chris scribbles the number down on the back of the envelope, thinking he should probably feel a little indignant at the implication he can’t sail. Then he remembers it’s true, and silently curses Lance for the fiftieth time or so.

He waves absently goodbye to the delivery guys as he opens the envelope and reads Lance’s note. I couldn’t decide on a big one or a little one, so I got you the middle-sized one. It needs a name, too. Try not to break anything on it before I get to help you christen it. PS: No more cooking sherry. I’ll bring the good stuff. L.

Chris sighs. It needs a name? He eyes the boat warily, and it sits there on its trailer in all its boat-like glory, doing precisely nothing. Just like me, he thinks gloomily, and goes inside to call a guy about some sailing lessons.

*

Lance calls that night, waking Chris from where he’s dozed off on the sofa. When the phone rings, he jerks awake, his feet slipping from off the coffee table and into a half-unpacked box of-- well, he’s not entirely sure. Possibly dishes, judging by the crunch.

"H’lo?" He wrinkles his nose and gingerly extracts his feet from the box, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Named it yet?" Lance sounds entirely too cheerful, and Chris secretly hates him with the burning heat of a thousand suns. Possibly more. "I was thinking—"

"I hate you," Chris says, his hate apparently not-so-secret afterall.

"—that you could name it after me," Lance continues happily. "Something like The Mighty Bass. Which y’know, is fitting. The sea-- fish, Bass, me, Bass-- it’s all related."

"Right." Chris stands up, narrowly avoiding a collision with another pile of boxes. Maybe he should look into some unpacking pretty soon. He wanders over to the kitchen which isn’t where it should be, ending up in the laundry instead. "Um," he says, "Lance? My kitchen?" He hears an intake of breath, and just knows Lance is rolling his eyes right about now.

"Next time you buy a house," Lance says, not-so-patiently, "make sure you actually look through it first. It helps with the whole finding your way round without getting lost deal. You’re in the laundry, right?"

"Uh huh." Sometimes it freaks Chris out that Lance knows these things. And sometimes he suspects Lance really is an evil overlord with hidden cameras everywhere, tracking his every move.

"Then it’s the second door on your left." He sighs. "I’m flying back up next week. Try and have it all figured out by then, okay?"

Chris nods, knowing that Lance can’t see him, but he doesn’t care. He’s feeling petulant. And hey, here’s his kitchen, just where Lance said it’d be. He opens the fridge and is greeted by a limp lettuce and something he doesn’t even want to touch, let alone eat. "I have to go," he says, reaching for the phone directory. "I need to call the pizza place. And I, uh. I’ve got a sailing lesson tomorrow."

"Good," Lance says softly. "That’s really good."

"Yeah." Chris says his goodbyes, and ends the call, trying hard to ignore the tiny coil of fear he can feel in the pit of his belly.

*

"You okay?" The sailing guy-- Eddie, his name is Eddie, Chris thinks-- looks over at him and grins. "You still look a little green."

"I’m fine," Chris mutters through gritted teeth, and then lurches unsteadily over to the railing of the boat and pukes elegantly over the side once again. He’s done it so often he’s almost got it down to a fine art. He’ll be sure to recount it in detail to Lance later tonight, right after he’s done yelling at him.

Eddie chuckles, and Chris would yell at him too, if he wasn’t otherwise occupied puking again. "I suspect," Eddie says from where he’s doing something to a rope, "that maybe you’re not cut out for this whole sailing thing."

Chris glares at him. "Oh, y’think?" His stomach roils, and he hangs his head over the side again, but no—it’s a false alarm.

"Yeah, I do." Eddie has the decency to sound a little sad. "I guess you’re either a sailor or you’re not. And you, my nauseous friend, are not."

"Right," Chris says, slumping down onto the deck. "As a non-sailor, I’d really like to go home now, thanks."

Eddie grins. "A shame, really," he says, shaking his head. "Such a waste of a fine boat."

"Bite me," Chris scowls, right before he throws up all over his own shoes.

*

Lance arrives a week later, and to his credit, doesn’t say a word about Chris’ failed sailing career. He merely raises an eyebrow as he walks past the suspiciously boat-shaped lump covered by several tarpaulins.

"I could always try another lesson," Chris gasps later, in a wild burst of light-headedness that has less to do with his desire to be a sailor than it does with the fact Lance’s tongue is snaking it’s way down his belly, "and maybe I won’t puke quite as much next time."

The tongue is replaced by teeth, nipping at his skin. "Less talk about puking," Lance rumbles, his mouth working its way down ever further.

Chris nods wildly. "Whatever you-- oh god-- say."

Lance is impressed Chris knows his way round the house now, even though for the first couple of days they don’t venture out anywhere much past the bedroom. "We’re catching up," Lance says with authority, from where he’s sitting astride Chris, pinning his arms above his head.

"Huh." Chris blinks up at him, grinning. "Is that what you crazy kids are calling it now? In my day, we called it fucking."

"Well, yeah." Lance looks thoughtful. "That works, too."

"Okay," Chris says a few weeks later, in a rare quiet moment when he’s not tangled up in the sheets or Lance’s legs or both, "so, how long are you planning on staying?"

Lance looks up from where he’s sitting reading, sunlight playing across his face, and something catches in Chris’ chest and stays there, bleeds warmth through him. "For as long as you’ll have me," he says quietly, and smiles.

*

He finds the notebook at the bottom of a box Lance has helpfully marked as ‘random crap’ in black marker pen. Chris draws in a breath and ignores the icy prickle down his spine as he opens the cover. JC’s handwriting stares back at him, loops and swirls all over the pages, notes he’s scribbled in the margins-- some of it Chris can’t even read. But some of it he can-- things like "number one, baby!" underlined a half-dozen times, and down further, there’s a crude cartoon drawing of two stick figures tangled together in some obscene position.

Chris feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth-- he remembers drawing it while JC had been waxing lyrical about meter and rhyme, waving his hands about dramatically. Chris had thrown his pen at him to shut him up, and JC had sulked for a bit, until Chris had started to sing the song. Then JC had grinned, his whole face lighting up as he joined in.

They’d sounded so amazing Chris’d gotten chills down his spine, his belly fluttering with exhilaration that the two of them had created something so damn good together. JC’d reacted in typical JC-form-- by getting so turned on they’d ending up fucking then and there in the studio, shorting out one of the soundboards.

Chris runs a finger over the words on the page, like he can absorb the memory into his skin somehow. He still hears the melody in his head, can hear his voice joined with JC’s, singing the words they wrote together.

"Number one, baby," he whispers and closes the cover of the notebook carefully, so his tears won’t smudge the ink on its pages.

*

Chris looks at the screen of his laptop and frowns. "Lance?"

"Mmmm?"

"Do we have a fax machine?"

Lance walks over to Chris’ desk and peers over his shoulder at the screen too. "Is this a trick question?"

"Well, no. Justin emailed to say he’d sent us a fax." Chris leans back as Lance rubs his shoulders. "Keep doing that for as long as you like, man."

"He emailed to say— okay. Did he say anything else?"

"That he misses us. And how the ‘80s were a really cool time, and he craves the simple things in life. Oh, and that email is highly overrated." Chris sighs. "I think he’s going through another retro phase. Do you think this means we need to stage an intervention?"

"No." Lance leans down to place a kiss on the top of his head. "It means that somewhere in the world, someone who’s not us just got a fax from Justin Timberlake."

*

Lance walks into the room and drops the phone into Chris’ lap. "Joey," he grins. "He’s calling from, um— someplace starting with S. Possibly Siberia, judging by the quality of the connection."

"Hello Siberia!" Chris yelps into the phone, and is rewarded by Joey’s answering squawk. Wow, it really is a bad connection. "So, where are you, really?" he asks.

"Australia," Joey answers. "It’s tomorrow here."

Chris frowns. "Australia doesn’t start with S."

"No, it doesn’t," Joey agrees happily. "And why am I paying a lot of money per minute for you to tell me that?"

"Because Lance is a moron." Chris grins as Lance wanders past, flipping him off. "So why are you calling? Did you do something immoral with a kangaroo?"

"Not yet." Joey’s laughing, and Chris would give anything to hear it for real, and not just through a bad connection from the other side of the world. He tips his head back against the couch.

"I miss you, Joe."

"I know, man—me too. Are you doing okay? Lance tells me you have a boat."

"Lance is a sadistic fuck." Chris waves and blows him a kiss across the room. "And yeah…I’m doing okay."

"Good," Joey says quietly. "I just. This time of year— well, y’know." He pauses, and for a moment there’s nothing down the line but the hollow roar of distance. Chris closes his eyes and suddenly misses all five of them being together so intensely he can hardly breathe. "Okay," Joey continues, a tiny hitch in his voice Chris pretends not to notice, "I’d better go. I just wanted to hear your voice, and make sure you were alright."

Chris feels the couch shift and then Lance is beside him, pressed close. "Thanks, Joe. I’m okay, really." He loops an arm around Lance’s neck and grins. "I’ve got the Bass Ass at my disposal— what more do I need?"

Joey laughs. "Well, there you go, man. What more, indeed."

*

"Are you watching this?" Lance tilts his head and indicates the TV, on at low volume, the glow from the screen lighting up the room in staccato flickers.

"Not really." Chris looks up from where his head is resting on Lance’s lap and stretches. "Too much in my head, y’know?"

"Yeah, I know." He feels Lance’s fingers card through his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. "D’you think about him much?" he asks softly.

"Every day," Chris says. "Every fucking day, Lance." He smiles, but it feels more like a grimace, and he knows that’s what it looks like, too. "You’d think that by now—"

"Hey-- no." Lance’s fingers are warm against his jaw, tilting his head up so Chris has to meet his eyes. "No, Chris. It’s okay. I do, too."

"It still hurts," Chris whispers, and Lance nods, his eyes shining in the strange half-light, his fingers brushing over Chris’ mouth, gathering up the words before Chris can say any more.

*

A full moon hangs fat and heavy in the sky, its pale twin echoed back in the midnight blue of the ocean. It’s calm and still, the light breeze barely even rippling the surface of the water. The day’s been hot and humid, and Chris feels leftover heat seeping from the sunbleached wood of the pier into the backs of his legs as he sits down.

He tips his head back to rest against the wooden railing, humming absently under his breath. The song’s been with him all day, the melody threading through the background of everything else in his head, reminding him. He lets his eyes slip closed and starts to sing softly, the words coming to him on a wave of pure instinct. It doesn’t sound the same-- could never sound the same without JC’s voice blending with his, the two of them harmonising as effortlessly as breathing-- but Chris pushes those thoughts away, ignores the twist deep in his belly, and just sings. Pure, clear notes drifting on the night air, across the water, and he’d be happy if this was the last thing he ever sang.

"Our song."

JC’s voice, and for a moment Chris doesn’t know if he’s just imagined it, like he has so many times before. Maybe it’s just the way the breeze is slanting across the water, tiny waves lapping at the foot of the pier. But then there’s the brush of fingertips over his arm, and it feels like the touch of cool water on his skin. He opens his eyes, and JC’s smiling at him from where he sits, barely a foot away. Chris blinks, and it’s suddenly like the past four years never happened.

"JC-- I. Oh, god. I-- "

"Keep singing." JC says softly, and Chris sees his eyes flutter closed. He draws in a breath and swallows, lets the song speak when he can’t even start to find the words for himself. Across from him, JC smiles again, then joins in, his voice wrapping around Chris’, words and melody twisting together, winding through the darkness all around them. It’s just like the last time they ever sang it together, like nothing at all has changed, and by the end of the last verse, the shivers that race through Chris find their way into his voice. JC doesn’t seem to notice, just sits there quietly when they’re done, his eyes still closed.

There are so many things Chris wants to say, to ask, but he can’t seem to give voice to any of them. The sight of JC sitting across from him has stolen his breath away.

It’s JC who breaks the silence first. "I didn’t know how to let you know I was coming here," he says, "and I didn’t mean to, y’know. Freak you out." He shrugs, and it’s nothing more than a gentle ripple against the nightsky. He draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and Chris sees that he’s barefoot. For some reason, that hits him hard, and he blinks back hot, salty tears.

"You didn’t. You could never-- freak me out." He scrubs a hand across his face. "I always knew-- hoped. That one day, you’d-- well, y’know."

"Yeah, I know." JC’s smiling at him still-- that same calm, peaceful smile, and Chris can’t help but smile back. "But still. I should have tried-- "

"No." Chris shakes his head. "It’s okay, JC. It’s really-- it’s okay."

"Okay." JC grins and stretches out his legs again, shifts forward until they’re dangling over the edge of the pier, his toes barely skimming the water. "It’s nice here," he says after a while, looking out over the water. "I saw you have a boat." He turns to flash a grin at Chris. "In dry dock, man. Hello?"

Chris ducks his head to try and hide the smile. "Yeah, well." He sighs. "I tried. I took lessons-- " --he looks at JC and rolls his eyes-- "-- okay, one lesson. It just wasn’t-- it made me sick."

"Just like the first time you drank?" JC says, and Chris can hear the smirk in his voice. "I remember you never let that stop you." He leans back, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. "Don’t let fear stop you from living, Chris. Don’t be afraid of the water. Not of anything." He looks across at Chris, sea-blue eyes steady and serious. "I’m not, and you-- you shouldn’t be, either."

"It’s just. It’s hard, y’know?" Chris’ voice doesn’t seem to want to work properly, and he swallows back the rush of emotion that’s threatening to overwhelm him. "It’s really fucking hard." He feels that same cool water touch of fingertips against his skin as JC leans closer; smells the tang of saltwater in the air and Chris suddenly wants nothing more than to hold JC in his arms once again. Just one more time. His whole body seems to ache with that pure, simple need.

"We can’t," JC says, and it’s like he’s read Chris’ mind somehow. "We just. We can’t." He tilts his head up toward the sky and moonlight bathes his face; the pale, smooth skin that Chris knows by heart. JC’s hair is still long, gently tangled around his shoulders, shot through with delicate strands of silver. Chris’ breath catches in his throat at that-- he didn’t think-- never thought of JC aging the same way as everyone else. When JC turns toward him once more though, Chris can still see the face of the boy he fell in love with all those years ago looking back at him, and he feels a twist of something small and dark and secret in his chest.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, "so very sorry," and he’s close, so close to JC, but the ocean is all he can smell. Salt and water and darkness, and the endless lap of the waves, up and back, up and back, over and over again. He reaches out a hand to JC, but he’s moved back and away, staring out over the water, face expressionless.

"It wasn’t your fault," JC says, just when Chris thinks he might never speak again. "What happened-- it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just-- happened." His arms are wrapped around himself, and Chris can see a shiver go through him; feels ice-water trickling along his own spine. "It just happened," JC says again, and this time, his voice is barely a whisper.

"JC—"

"It’s my birthday." JC tips his head back and laughs, and it’s sudden and unforced and maybe the most beautiful thing Chris thinks he’s ever heard. "I just remembered, Chris-- it’s my birthday. I’m thirty." He shakes his head then, like he can’t quite believe it. "Happy birthday to me. Wow." He gets to his feet in a single, graceful movement and stands there in the moonlight, smiling up at the stars.

"I didn’t get you anything," Chris mutters, and then he’s laughing too, and it’s ridiculous, the two of them out there under the nightsky, laughing at something that’s not even really all that funny. JC’s creased over, giggling; it’s high-pitched and full of joy and the sound of it sets Chris off again, until he can’t see for the tears in his eyes, can no longer sit up straight. He’s lying flat on his back on the pier, his breath coming in whoops and gasps, his heart aching fiercely in his chest, and he wants this moment to last forever.

JC sits down beside him, then stretches out on his back too, still giggling in soft hiccoughs every now and again. "Did you," he says, and Chris can hear him swallowing back laughter, "did you, like, freak out when you turned thirty? Because, I think I forgot to do that, too."

"I was too busy to freak out." Chris lets out a shuddering breath. "No time. Barely time to remember to breathe, back then."

"And now?" JC props himself up on his elbows, and he’s looking at Chris intently. "How about now?"

"I breathe," Chris answers softly, closing his eyes against the moonlight that’s suddenly too bright, too much to take. "When I remember, I breathe."

When he opens his eyes again, JC’s tracing patterns in the air, swirling, intricate designs, and Chris can see starlight twined between his fingers, shimmering off the tips in strands of spun silver. He’s humming quietly; the song they were singing earlier, but now-- it’s different somehow. There’s something missing, and Chris doesn’t know what it is.

"Hey there," says JC, looking over at him and raising an eyebrow, "I thought you’d gone to sleep."

Chris snorts softly in mock-indignation. "I’m not that old, C."

"No," JC agrees, and Chris can hear the smile in his voice, "you’re not. So, uh." He hesitates for a moment; it’s the first time Chris has heard him sound unsure, and he feels a tiny thread of uncertainty flicker through him. "Lance," JC continues quietly, "He’s. He makes you happy." It’s more of a statement than a question, and Chris lies there for a moment, breath frozen in his chest, not sure how to answer, what to say. Before he can speak, JC sweeps a hand gracefully through the darkness to point at the moon, hanging heavy and full of promise above where they lie. "Do you think he’ll make it up there one day?"

"I don’t know," Chris says, honestly. "The more time goes by, the less he seems to, well-- want it." He shrugs. "And I don’t know why."

JC’s quiet for a moment, and then he rolls over onto one elbow. "I think," he says softly, blue gaze steady as he looks at Chris, "it’s because he’s got more reasons now to stay here, than he has to go."

The words hang in the air between them, and Chris can’t speak, doesn’t know what to say. JC’s still watching him, smiling peacefully like he’s got all the time in the world, but the coil of something dark and icy in the pit of Chris’ belly tells him otherwise. He wishes he could take time and freeze it somehow, capture moments and keep them close, hold onto them forever. But he can’t, he knows he can’t. "Why?" he asks finally, even though deep inside, he already knows. "Why did you come?"

"I came to say goodbye," JC says simply.

And as he stands up to go, Chris feels the cool touch of water against his skin one last time and the dull ache of his heart breaking all over again.

*

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but Chris knows he must have. When he wakes, his back is screaming in protest, his whole body aches from the unforgiving surface of the pier, and there’s a curl of early-morning mist drifting slowly across the water.

The sun is barely rising, slowly bleeding streaks of cream and gold and scarlet into the last of the midnight blue sky, and just like on another morning four years ago, JC is no longer there.

*

He makes his way back to the house carefully in the half-light, so many things racing through his head, none of them making any sense that he can figure. By the time he’s inside, he feels bone-weary-- like he could sleep for a thousand years. He stops just long enough to toe off his shoes, then climbs into bed.

"You’re too old for all-nighters," Lance mumbles, rolling over to wrap sleep-warm arms around Chris. "Am I gonna have to impose a curfew?" He presses a kiss to Chris’ throat, a soft brush of lips against skin.

Chris buries his nose in Lance’s hair, breathes in the smell of him; warm, vital, alive. "Do I hold you back?" he asks softly. "The things that you want to do-- am I stopping you somehow?"

"Hell, yeah." Lance sighs heavily. "Like right now, you’re stopping me from sleeping."

"No, I mean—"

"Shh." Lance’s fingers brush across Chris’ mouth gently. "I know what you mean. And the answer’s no. No, you don’t. I’m here with you because it’s where I want to be."

"Even though I’m still pulling all-nighters?"

"Yeah." Chris feels Lance’s lips curve into a smile against his mouth. "Even then."

*

Sunlight is slanting into the room when he wakes up again a few hours later. Lance’s side of the bed is empty, but there’s a note on the pillow, and Chris reaches for it. Gone for a run. Might grab a swim afterwards. I’ve left you some breakfast. See you when I get back. And dude, we have to do something about your snoring.

"Asshole," Chris mutters, grinning. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his back still protesting with a dull ache. He briefly contemplates getting changed, but figures he’ll shower after breakfast. Lance has left him cereal— something terribly healthy looking— which Chris ignores, grabbing an apple instead. He finds some shoes, deciding to wander down to the beach and meet up with Lance.

He hums absently as he makes his way over the sandbanks, glancing up every now and again to see if he can spot Lance anywhere. Nope— not a sign of him. He frowns, puzzled for a moment, then calls softly, "Bass, Bass, where is your ass?"

No answer-- not that he expected one, and he steps across another gentle rise of sand, still humming that same tune—

The tune.

Our song.

JC’s voice again, and prickles ripple along Chris’ skin as it all comes slamming back into him in brilliant, horrific technicolour.

"I’m gone!" JC hollers, and when Chris briefly cracks open one eye a second later, he can see him sprinting off down the sand toward the water.

Chris stands on the sand, the knot of panic in his belly unfurling slick, sick tendrils through him. The sun reflects off the waves in starbursts that hurt his eyes if he looks too long, but he can’t not look, because, jesus…where the hell is Lance?

He can hear voices shouting, and he sighs-- don’t they realise this is a resort where people come for peace and quiet? Chris forces his eyes open— he guesses he must have dozed off for at least ten minutes, because he’s sleepy and nicely warm all over from the sun. But god, the shouting—

"Lance?" He yells it into the sky, and the panic he hears in his voice sends goosebumps rippling along his skin, chilling him to the bone. "Lance!"

He waits, barely a moment, though time seems to have slowed down, stretched out into something dull and thick and crawling, but there’s no answer.

The guy glances back over his shoulder, only slowing down enough to call back, "There’s a swimmer in trouble, man. Could be a possible drowning."

"Oh god," Chris mutters, "oh god, oh god, Lance, oh god," and he’s ankle-deep in the surf, eyes burning and stinging as he tries to see something, anything in the water that could be Lance.

Chris drops to his knees in the sand, and any minute now, JC’s going to sit up and laugh, and Chris will punch him for scaring him like this. Any minute now. Because they haven’t had breakfast yet, and JC said they would. "Yes," he says, scrambling blindly in the sand for JC’s hand, and his voice is somewhere faraway, too. "Yes, I know him."

"I’m coming, Lance. Just hang on. Please, just—hang on for me." The water’s so very cold despite the sunshine, and it pulls and sucks and tugs at his clothes as he wades further out. His heart is racing in his chest and panic slicks through him, hot-cold and electric. He throws his head back and calls out Lance’s name again, as loud as he can, over and over, until his throat burns. Waves roll in, breaking against his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. There’s saltwater thick in his mouth; in his eyes and it burns and stings and he can’t see Lance, he can’t see him—

"Chris!"

He freezes, treading water, because he thinks he heard something, but the crash of the waves is so loud. So very loud. A never-ending roar, and is this what JC heard? Chris shivers, but it’s not because he’s cold. He’s not cold anymore, because the water is all around him and it’s holding him fast--

"Chris-- god, come on. I’ve got you—"

Hands on him, pulling on his arms, pulling him back. Chris turns his head, blinking away saltwater, and there’s Lance, green eyes like the sea, cursing softly under his breath as he wraps arms round Chris and hauls him out of the waves, back and away, until Chris feels sand under their feet once more. He tries to stand but can’t, sinking to his knees, Lance following.

"Lance, I thought—you were swimming and I thought—"

Lance shakes his head. "No, Chris. I went running-- along the beach. I didn’t go swimming. I was running, and I was heading back toward the house and I saw—" Chris feels a shiver go through him. "I saw you in the water, and. Oh god, Chris. You were so far out—" He shakes his head again and runs an unsteady hand through his wet hair.

"I was looking for you," Chris says, softly. "I couldn’t see you and-- I thought I could save you. I couldn’t save him." He shudders, closes his eyes against the sight of another beach, another place, another time. "I couldn't save JC, Lance. And I can't-- I can’t lose you, too. I just. I can’t."

"I’m here, Chris-- I'm still here." Lance pulls him close, and Chris lets himself be held. Stays perfectly still, just listening to Lance’s breathing, and the strong, steady beat of his heart.

It’s a while before Chris can speak again, before he can get the words out past the slick lump of panic still in his throat. It’s fading slowly, but he can still feel it there. "Lance?"

"Hmmm?" For a moment, Chris isn’t sure how to tell him what happened last night. Or even if he can tell him. He draws in a breath and tries to get his thoughts in some kind of order.

"Last night-- when I was on the pier. I, uh. I saw JC." A shiver races through him as he remembers-- JC, so very close -- and Chris couldn’t touch him. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t touch him.

"You saw JC?" Lance’s voice is quiet, careful, measured, and Chris is suddenly, terribly afraid that he shouldn’t have said anything.

"You don’t believe me," he says, and the words sound flat and dull even to his own ears.

But then Lance’s hands are stroking the wet hair back from his forehead-- long, smooth strokes, over and over, and Chris thinks that maybe it’s all going to be okay. "Hey, no," Lance says, "no, I didn’t say that. Chris-- I’m the guy who once went on national TV to consult a pet psychic about my incontinent dog, remember?" He laughs; Chris can feel the gentle rumble against his back. When Lance speaks again, his voice is soft. "You saw JC...tell me what happened."

"We just talked," Chris says. "We sat and we talked and then." He swallows, tries again. "Then he told me that he'd come to say goodbye." Chris turns, twisting in Lance’s arms until they're face to face. "Do you think," he says, resting his forehead against Lance’s, "d’you think he knew how much I loved him?"

"Yes," Lance says softly. "He knew."

*

It starts to rain as they’re making their way back up the beach; big fat drops that fall fiercely from the sky, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Lance starts to run, grabs Chris’ hand to pull him along too. They stumble over the uneven ground, breathless and both laughing helplessly as the heavens open up on them.

Chris almost loses his footing scrambling up one of the sandbanks, but Lance’s grip on him is strong and sure, keeping him on his feet, not letting him fall. "I’ve got you," Lance shouts over the noise of the downpour, pulling Chris close; he’s warm, solid heat and tastes of spice when his mouth opens underneath Chris’. He licks at the corner of Chris’ lips and then smiles as he takes his hand again. "C’mon."

The rain has eased off a little by the time they reach the house, and Lance bounds up the steps two at a time, water slicking from his hair as he stoops and shakes his head like a dog, grinning all the while. Chris watches, smiling from where he’s paused at the foot of the steps. "Give me a minute?" he asks softly and Lance nods, nothing but understanding in his eyes. Chris doesn’t think he’s ever loved him more than he does at that very moment.

"I’ll be inside," Lance calls over his shoulder with a grin, "getting naked." Chris hears the rattle of the screen door closing behind him as he goes into the house.

He stands and lets the rain fall on his face, tipping his head back, opening his mouth to taste it, and it’s like a thousand fingertips caressing his face. The touch of cool water is against his skin, all over him, soaking into him, holding him tight. The downpour has eased into nothing more than a gentle shower now, and Chris can hear the never-ending crash of the waves against the shore. There’s something else underneath it too, threading in and out, and he holds his breath, everything in him straining to hear what’s just out of reach.

And then he hears it-- it’s there for no more than a moment, almost nothing more than a gentle breath-- JC’s voice, the soft rise and fall of notes as he sings the song Chris knows by heart. Our song. He holds his breath for as long as he can, until his lungs are burning and there’s saltwater mixed with the rain that still falls softly on his face. Until the music fades away, now nothing more than a memory, and all he can hear is the ocean.

"Thank you," he whispers toward the sky and then turns to go inside, where he knows Lance will be waiting.

//credits: this story was birthed  from a steady diet of Tori Amos, sleepless nights and a lot of coffee. my thanks to Kim for letting me make her cry on a daily basis, and Ceili for yelling at me. and lastly, my darling JC—I’m so very, very sorry. I still love you best.//