Justin is angry; it informs every movement and statement and he stomps around and plays the loudest tapes he can find in either of their collections and Lauren yells at him to turn it down, goddammit. All of these things make JC smile. When Lance comes for dinner one night he smiles too, though he also gives Justin as good as he gets.

Chris is never mentioned. But he lurks behind everything in the room, behind what is said and done and his presence suffocates with its absence. At times Lance almost can't breathe.

Finally, after dessert when Joey and Lauren are cuddling on the couch and JC has pleaded homework (as an excuse to play his clarinet), Lance gets Justin to go out for a walk so he can "see the neighborhood." Justin shoots him a look, but takes his keys and leads them downstairs to the quiet side street. They walk a while in the not-quite-dark, quiet together, until Lance breaks the silence.

"So, graduation's in four weeks."

Justin grunts.

"You going to make it?"

"If you help me pass chem."

Lance smiles in the dark. "Yeah, I'll pull your lazy ass through again."

"Ha. Ha." is Justin's response, but Lance can tell he's amused.

"He called." A pause, clarification. "Looking for you."

Justin stays so silent Lance tenses, waiting for the explosion. Finally, so casual, "What did he say?"

Deep breath. "He wanted to know if you were ok."

Again, far-too-casual. "What did you tell him?"

"That you would be."

There is silence for three heartbeats, four, and then the explosion Lance has been waiting for. He is surprised when Justin doesn't swing at anything, though, and doesn't direct the cursing he's doing at anyone. When the angry words trail, he asks, tentatively, "J... Do. You want to talk about it?"

"No." Fast after the question and then a pause. Lance waits. "It wasn't. It wasn't his fault."

"What wasn't?"

"He didn't—I came on to him."

"He let you though." Lance has assigned blame already.

And Justin considers the truth of that and remembers not giving Chris a choice, though he was willing enough. He'd thought. But he can, at least, absolve himself of that guilt. There is still plenty left.

"We were drunk. It was." He remembers what it felt like, the fingers on his scalp and the scent of Chris, the soft skin stretched taut over a hipbone. The mash of cartilage giving way beneath skinned knuckles. His hands are fists and his shoulders hunched. Lance watches him with wary-worried eyes.

It's getting easier to make his fingers unclench, to relax them at his sides and roll his shoulders down. Practice, he thinks, and wants to laugh. It could easily be a sob, though, so he keeps it inside. Swallow and gulp of air and another, slower, and he's ready to talk, not punch. Someday, he tells himself, it will be instinct, not learned-too-late behavior.

The relaxation, the conscious effort Lance sees is impressive, and he marvels at it. Justin's impulse, he knows, is to lash out. He's been the recipient enough times to know. This control is almost creepy, because Justin is a boy in motion, always has been. He's waiting to hear what Justin says because he thinks Chris broke more than Justin's willing to admit. He wonders if the scar tissue will make Justin stronger or more vulnerable.

"I don't regret anything but hitting him." And Justin bows his head because that confession was just as difficult as expected.

The confession startles Lance, breaking the silence. Now he turns it over a few times. It explains a lot, but not enough, and he waits to see if he's going to have to dig or if Justin's going to let it out.

"It. God, Lance. It was so good. Amazing, and. He made it. Not a joke, but. Like it wasn't. Like it was nothing. And I was. Somad. Just." Deep breath. "He wanted me to hate him, like it would be easier. And I. I'm my fucking father's son." And he snarls that last confession, hating himself again. He looks away, up, at the moon, low in the sky. His voice quiet. "He didn't fight back. I broke his fucking nose and he didn't fight back."

Justin's arms are wrapped around his waist and he bends so low Lance is afraid he's going to be sick, his pain so palpable it hurts to look at him. And Lance tries something he'd learned not to do when he was eleven. He wraps his arms around Justin, pats his back awkwardly. Justin is stiff, then relaxed and Lance knows, then, how bad it is because Justin doesn't accept comfort, brushes it away or knocks it aside and this... Lance curses Chris and Justin's parents and God. And lets Justin shudder in his arms.

When they gets back, Justin heads straight for his room and Lance is pale, shaken. Joey grabs an arm to ask, "Everything ok?" Lance only nods. "Gotta go," he says, when Joey looks like pressing. In the car he pust on the radio loud so he doesn't have to think.

It doesn't work.


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