title: depereo
author: annie oates
fandom: *nsync rpf
rairing: none, really.
rating: pg-ish
archive: ask.
disclaimers: not real. not mine. deny everything.
warnings: rpf, gen
summery: chris doesn't take good news well.
feedback: always welcome, any type.
notes: thanks to toast for giving it a read-through and thumbs up.
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity. ~Thoreau
Chris walked down the hall, fingers trailing over artfully uneven plaster. Nails digging as he rounded the corner. Another scar carved into the edge.
Early evening, everything was in shades of shadow and jaundiced light. He entertained the idea of flipping the light switch on his next round, but did not want to interrupt the pattern he was creating. Snatches of 'Walden Pond' chased him and he thought fresh light might show his path. The plaster felt smoother, polished. Three pale stripes leading from the master suite to the great room and back. Brilliant red and yellow paint made neutral by the bone-white of the exposed plaster. Edges jagged, where he had chipped away at it.
It had started in his bedroom. Wallpaper, geometric and suitably masculine. There'd been a phone call.
"Turn on channel 43."
He'd fumbled with the remote, cordless held between ear and shoulder. "It's gossip, man. Why're you callin' me?"
"Just wait."
"C'mon."
"Here. Shhhh..."
"Oh." He hadn't been prepared for this. "So he's..."
An uncertain pause. "You didn't know? He didn't..."
His thumb smoothed across the pattern, nail catching the edge, pulling a tiny crescent moon mostly off. Blank white backing and shiny glue. "No, he didn't."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." Digging at the tear, lifting.
"It's a great opportunity for him, you know."
"I know." The slight sound of vinyl furniture and summer shorts. An open sound.
"I'm sure he meant to tell you... he's just been busy."
"Yeah. Busy." The panel of paper was lifted in a long arc. Held now only at the three remaining points of contact.
"What with the studio time, and trying to rework some of the older stuff. We've really been busting our asses."
"Little bees."
"What?"
"Busy."
"Oh. Yeah, busy."
He pulled at it and could feel the resistance of the wall behind it. Paper stretched taught, drum skin tight. C. would love it, find a way to create something out of it.
"Hey man, I gotta go. Just this was comin' on and... no one else was home."
He tensed his arm.
"Chris? You okay, man?"
"Yeah."
"What was that?"
"Something tore."
"Oh. Umm, okay. I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah."
The paper hung in flaps, a heavy fluttering. Bits of wall stuck to it. Beneath, it was cracked, shiny and dull. Moonscape.
"Okay, bye."
"Yeah."
He heard a click and dropped the phone. Hard plastic on handmade tiles. 'Terra-cotta' was now a sound. Both hands, fingertips feeling out, scrabbling for the threshold. Nails clawing, grabbing, tearing strips and sheets. Frenzied and methodic.
Removal of pattern.
Revealing the age beneath. Layers of paint and grime. Grey dust hanging in the air, coating skin and face and tongue. Dismal, decrepit. Glittering in the setting sun. TV cabinet scooted forward, the leg catching on a grout line and tipping. Artillery shell explosion when the tube hits the floor. Cracking wood like tendons snapping. Furniture piled in the center. Walls ugly and open, flat slats poking through.
He'd tried to tear the walls themselves off, but they only gave bits and pieces. Vermillion splash aging before his eyes. Chris pulled his shirt off and wrapped it around his bloodied hand. Walked out of his room and leaned against the wall. Cool to his face, rough and bright like painted scabs. Traced his fingers over the hidden craters. Scraped against them, trying to deepen what he could not see. Found himself a path, a flight pattern, a housefly knowing only the standard. The sulfur glow that came with the streetlights made the windows grow smaller. He tried not to look at them, as the dark outlines shrunk and smothered the light.
Quiet, quiet night.
Smooth sounds, slipping along the wall. Snake-skin whispers. Punctuated by every turn around an outward corner. Cracked nails jabbing into the wall, knocking open a larger space.
White, white open wound.
The plaster bits hit the floor and skittered. Bare feet crunching them into the wood of the hall floor. Skittered and shrieked. He wondered about this, how bits of stucco could be so loud and found himself standing in the kitchen. Blinking at the door to the garage. It wasn't a pretty door. Carved and worn. Instead it had been painted several times, wood filler coating the grooves left by happy puppies. Chris squatted down and dug it out, tanned leather, almost plastic beneath the layers. Until bare, blond wood looked back at him. He curled his hand around the knob. Round and brass, cold to touch. But shiny. Except in the crevices where fingerprints hid. He turned it slowly and listened as the latch slid back, springs giving a metal scrape, a delicate sound of rust. Holding the handle in what felt like over-extension he pulled the door open.
Chris, with eyes wide, stood in the door and breathed transmission fluid, bland molasses scent laced with motor oil. Like moldy tennis rackets. But softly so. No sharp intrusion to the senses, things just smelled the way they looked. Honest. He could pick up the tar on the rubber tires, and tried to see the lines of his car. Sweet ride, all it needed was running boards and shaved door handles. Maybe some flames. He moved his hands over the memory of shape. All it needed to be perfect was to be something else.
He moved forward, feeling the jar as the metal arm pulled the exit shut. Chris took the five and a half steps forward to his car and bent. Waxed fiberglass squeaky and sullen where his chest and arms were spread over it. He straightened back up and traced the window with his pinky, the weather stripping softly touching him back with little, black fingers. Chris opened the door and slid in, no ceremony, just the final click of the locks after he shuts it. The keys are there, dangling from the ignition, miniature magic 8 ball promising dime store answers. In the last illumination before the dome light fades away he shakes the ball and turns it over.
"'Without a doubt.' Good to know."
The car is dark again and he turns the key. The radio blares to life, dissonant and garbled before he shuts it off. He leans back and closes his eyes, thinks about nothing, about his mom, about the mottled gray interior of the car. At first, he doesn't smell anything, just keeps his breath even and deep. He starts to get a little sleepy, but thinks it's more out of boredom than bad air. Chris shifts around, adjusts the seat and himself. He doesn't want to fall asleep with his neck in an awkward position. Not like it'll matter much, but too many years of sleeping on busses have made it a habit worth keeping.
Time doesn't pass in the dark, so he doesn't bother counting. But he's fairly sure it's been awhile. Long enough, maybe, because he's hearing things. Pounding. And voices of people he knew. Just one voice really, loud and repetitive. He thinks about the power of sight and light floods his senses. Chris wonders what Jesus will think of him driving down the tunnel in his car. With Lance chasing after him and yelling.
Wait.
He looks over at the window and tries to sit up, feels heavy and props his chin on the door. Face smashed flat against the window, Chris watches as Lance's visage swims up to mirror his, shirt pulled over his nose and mouth.
Goldfish. Lance is a goldfish, he thinks. A masked, commando goldfish.
Until Lance's fist pounds on the window again, followed by an elbow that jars Chris' head and makes him taste blood.
He tries to yell, "Knock it off man, you're gonna break the window."
"Open the door, Chris."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay."
"It's not okay, open it up." Chris pulls back a little more when he can read the logo on the bottom of Lance's shoe and the car rocks to the side. "Damnit, Chris, you're gonna wind up killing yourself!"
Chris nods and smiles a little at the airy feeling behind his face, "I don't mind. In fact, it's kind of the point."
Sharp, green eyes blink once. "Oh, well in that case... Open the fucking door, Kirkpatrick!"
Chris hadn't noticed the garage door going up, or the fresh air rushing in. He did, however, notice two things. First, Lance had dropped his shirt back down and was looking at him with an angry mouth. And secondly, the 'low fuel' light got brighter just before the engine died.
"Come on, Chris."
"Lemme alone."
"Not gonna happen, guy. Come on out."
"I hate you."
"That's good. That's something."
"No, I mean it. I really hate you."
"I can live with that."
"Fuck you, space cadet. What the fuck're you doing here anyway? Aren't you in Russia or some shit?"
"Now's probably not the time to discuss theories of displacement with you, is it?"
"Fuck off."
"Right. I'm here because Wade called. Said you sounded kind of weird."
"I'm fine. Go away."
"Well, if you're sure?"
"I'm sure."
Lance just stood there.
"You're not going away."
"No, I'm not."
"Bastard."
"Pain in the ass."
"Know-it-all-bossy-person." Chris frowned and tried to clear his head.
"Bad interior decorator."
"Just because I can't match curtains..."
"They have tools for wallpaper removal, you know. It's not like the dark ages, when you had to do it by hand. And what's with the hole? You lookin' for Al Capone's secret treasure?"
"You suck."
"You wish. C'mon out. I gotta piss."
Chris gestured to the kitchen door. "Be my guest."
Lance shook his head.
"What, need me to hold it?"
"If it'll get you out of the damn car? Yes."
Chris frowned, again. "Asshole."
"Backstreet boy."
Chris tried to look wounded. "That's low. Even for a diva like you."
"I'm a diva?"
Chris gestured with a finger.
"Losing my patience here, man."
"Watch me tremble in fear."
"If that's the way you want it."
Chris nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't think Lance would actually leave, expected he'd hit the head and maybe try to put order to things. That's what Lance did; he lined things up and set his watch according to the atomic clock in Colorado. What Chris did not expect was the crack-crack-crash of a fire extinguisher coming through the window behind him. Or a hand snaking around and unlocking his door. Or Lance yanking him out of the car and leaning him up against the passenger door.
"You okay?"
Chris nodded and felt the punch before he saw it.
"You try something like that again and you won't have to worry about running out of gas. Y'hear?"
"Fuck you." He said with his hands cupped over his nose.
Lance nodded like he'd heard a promise. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Chris was pissed. And not at Lance, not really. Well... a little. He was hurt that Lance didn't even bother to put ice on his nose after the bleeding had stopped. And he was annoyed that he'd had to stand there while the guy took a leak. He picked up another strip of wallpaper and folded it into the garbage bag. Lance was squatting with a hand-broom, sweeping pieces of wall into a dust pan.
"I have a cleaning service."
Lance inclined his head in Chris' direction. "I know."
"Yeah. Just making sure."
Paper and plaster bagged up, shattered glass hidden away in brown grocery sacks, broken wood piled in back of the garage by the bin.
"It's too much for one pick-up." Lance had said, and gone on about portioning it out every Tuesday.
Chris had suggested hiring someone to haul it out to the dump. Lance had given him a look and said something involving the word, "obvious." So he'd dropped it and finished stacking the remains of the cabinet.
When they got inside, Lance shoved Chris in the bathroom and turned the water on.
"Shower." Was all he'd said and waited outside the partially-closed door.
Chris wanted to hate it. Hate him. But the water was hot and clean, rinsing the stale, grey taste out of his mouth and making his hair black again. Muscles rolled and stretched under the hard spray. He thought he might have heard Lance talking but the sound didn't come again. When he'd gotten mostly dry and the towel was wrapped around his hips Lance came back in. He shoved a piece of paper at Chris and closed the lid on the toilet.
"Sit." Lance said and started peeling off dusty clothes.
Chris gestured with the paper. "What's this?"
"Appointment. It's at 9am, but since it's your first time we have to be in by 8."
"For what?" Chris asked, even though he knew the answer.
"Counseling."
"I don't ne..."
"It's not negotiable." Lance said and got into the shower.
Chris picked at a thread on his towel. "As a creature of sentience and free-will I can refuse to go."
"You can try." The threat echoed off the tiled walls.
The scrap of paper shown white around the black ink. Chris hated it. He hated Lance.
"I hate you." When he didn't get an answer he ripped the paper into squares and put it in the toilet. Waited to flush it until Lance got out of the shower. More for showmanship than some sense of kindness.
Lance looked at Chris' hand on the toilet handle. "We'll stop for breakfast on the way."
"And you have lousy timing, too." Chris said and the doorbell rang.
"That'll be food. Get dressed." Lance shoved clothes at him, a random assortment from his guest room, and pulled Joey's shirt over his head.
Chris thought about asking a question.
"Chinese." Lance said as he zipped up and walked out the door.
Chris watched as Lance paid the delivery guy, carried the bags to the kitchen island, and unloaded the bags, set the food up according to category: appetizer, main course, side dish, dessert. Chris grabbed chop sticks and a carton, prepared to dig in when Lance set a plate down in front of him. He had another for himself and a handful of spoons. An arched eyebrow later and Chris was putting food on his plate... but using the same spoon. Lance didn't remark on it and Chris tried not to feel disappointed.
"I could refuse to eat."
"Yes, you could." Lance replied and took another bite.
Chris' stomach growled. "Just so you're aware of that."
Lance chewed quietly.
After dinner, Lance took the initiative again and cleared the plates, rinsing and stacking them in the dishwasher. Food was neatly separated into appropriate tupper-wear containers and placed in the fridge. Chris lifted his arms and let Lance wipe the counter down. He put the sponge back in its holder and looked at Chris before turning and leaving. Lance obviously expected him to follow, but he didn't want to. He wanted to make a grand gesture of rebellion. Something on par with breaking a car window with an extinguisher and saving your buddy's life. Or cry. He'd settle for one of those ugly cries. Maybe tomorrow, when they got to the shrink's office he'd throw a fit. One of those old fashioned temper-tantrums complete with kicking and screaming. That might do it. For the moment though, he decided to be sleepy and headed back to find Lance. The light was on in the guest bedroom and he heard the sink running. Pajama bottoms had been laid out on the bed.
Lance stuck his head out the bathroom door and pointed with his toothbrush. "Put those on and come brush your teeth."
Chris waited until he'd gone back in before saying softly, "I'm not a child."
But that didn't stop Chris from letting Lance arrange the blankets over them, or keep him from relaxing when Lance wrapped his arms around his waist. Chris figured rebellion was best served after a good night's sleep, and if the only way he could have that was to tuck his head under Lance's chin and hug him back... well, sometimes one has to make sacrifices for the greater good.
This was not going well, Chris thought.
"Mr. Bass tells me one of your band-mates is embarking on a solo career. Can you tell some of your feelings on this?"
Dr. Macovey had seemed rather harmless, at first. Then she started talking. To Chris. And asking him questions. He hated it here, hated her, and absolutely hated Lance for bringing him. He didn't even get his pre-appointment tantrum in. Had been too sleepy to think on his feet. And Lance, damn him, had stuffed him with hash browns and bastardized croissants. Not to mention fast-food coffee. How was he supposed to fight a rebellion when his tummy was full and happy from comfort food? And the waking up part hadn't exactly been a moment of inspired revolution. He'd been on his side, facing the windows and Lance had been curled around him. Instead of disobedient he'd felt safe. And warm, very warm. Chris knew he'd have to change that if he wanted to hold his own against this doctor lady. Who was looking at him expectantly. Oh.
"Oh. Um. Yeah... it sucks."
She nodded. "Good. That's a good start. What else?"
Chris felt like she was testing him, waiting for the right answer. "Um... sad? Sad. Yes."
"Sad." She nodded again. "Mmm-hmm?"
He really hated her, and hoped the waiting room was swarming with rabid ducks. Because he really hated Lance, too. She made another sound that he assumed was meant to be encouraging but sounded more like phlegm so he searched for words.
"I put this group together by myself. I bled for these people. Me. Not Lou, not Johnny. Me. And whose voice is it that gets drowned out? Whose parts get cut? Who's the one who isn't called for the cover shoots, only for comedy relief? He is who he is because of me. He's the superstar and I'm just a joke." Chris hoped he hadn't applied too much venom there. Didn't want her thinking he was a threat or anything. And it was close enough to the truth that he could feel the hurt of it, but far enough away to be safe. He looked away from her, trying to seem apologetic for his outburst, hoping she'd be convinced. The electic timer on her desk gave a chirp.
"Very, good. You've made an amazing amount of progress today, very well done. Until our next session, I suggest journaling. A spiral bound notebook will do. And if something occurs to you, jot it down and we'll go over it at our next meeting."
"Okay, I'll do that." Chris thought maybe he could make it all about Lou, write down things from the past. Create a little fiction out of truth to keep her off the scent.
"Good, I look forward to it." She said and handed him a card. "And if you're having destructive feelings, call this number. People care, Chris, you're not alone."
"I know, I will. Thank you, Doctor." Chris thought that she might have been taking this whole 'attempted suicide' think a little lightly. She almost acted as if she didn't know about it. Oh.
"You're welcome. Now, if you go out that door and turn right you'll find the waiting room and reception. Talk to Gale, she'll schedule you for your next appointment."
Chris closed the door behind him and turned left, instead. Walked to the elevators and chose the stairs. Exited the building into yellow sunlight, momentarily blinded. Lance pushed off from the wall and slowly walked them towards the parking lot. Chris frowned.
"How'd it go?"
"Don't wanna talk about it."
"Didn't ask you to talk about it."
"It sucked. I hate it."
"Next appointment is day after tomorrow."
"I'm not going back."
"11am."
"I hate you."
"I can live with that."