The rumble of Lance’s voice under his ear woke Joey up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Lance use his voice; he normally spoke with his mind now.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

No one.

“But I heard-”

He felt the words before he heard them. “Oh.” Lance laughed. “Dave. I forget and talk aloud sometimes.”

“You don’t have to anymore.”

Right.

He felt Lance’s hand brush through his hair and pressed closer against him, burying his nose in the crease between pelvis and thigh.

Joey… He could hear the warning.

“I’m not,” he muttered. He rolled back a little to meet Lance’s eyes. “I just. I don’t know where it went wrong.”

Lance’s hand brushed through his hair again, then trailed down to splay against his cheek. “I know,” he said.

“I remember so much good. So many good times. I just.” Joey sat up, pulled himself away from Lance. “He was there for me. He was always there for me. The other kids used to give me crap, you know? Because I’d rather be singing then playing football or whatever. Because I knew showtunes. But he always stood up for me. He was always there for me then. I don’t-”

He could feel something growing inside of him, something aching and painful and terrible, and he knew Lance could feel it too. He felt Lance’s hand on his arm and flinched away, didn’t want Lance to know, to feel what he was feeling. He fought to stop it, control it somehow, keep it from overwhelming him.

You can’t, Lance said. Let it go.

Joey inhaled rapidly, like he was drowning, and nodded. He felt Lance’s hand on his arm again, but he didn’t pull away this time. He let Lance surround him, stretch his arms as far as they could go and hold on.

“I want to know,” he whispered. “I want to know when he started hating me.”