When he pulls into the driveway at the house, he catches Chasez staring out the window, eyes wide with wonder. The asphalt is damp with rain, but Lance doesn't remember any rain having fallen. The moon is eclipsed by clouds, but Lance remembers the forecast calling for a clear night.
"Say something," Chasez says, quietly, when he steps out of the car.
And Lance shakes his head, touches Chasez's elbow. He leads Chasez towards the house, and puts a restraining hand on his forearm as he opens the door. Lance doesn't expect him to do anything, not really, but Lance is cautious, if anything.
He puts himself between Chasez and the door once inside, and says sharply, "I'm Lance."
"Oh," Chasez says. He smiles, carefully. "You could call me JC."
Lance nods, curving his lips.
"You're with them?" JC asks, and his eyes dart around the hallway. It's bright, painted a cream colour, looks like home. Not Lance's, but someone's. He's not sure whose.
"I -- yeah. The Front." Lance suddenly feels uncomfortable. "I, um. You'll be staying here a while, then."
"I see," JC says, and his face falls.
"I can get you whatever you need, to make you comfortable. It's, it's not -- your fault. It's just like the other, you know, Kirkpatrick, the one."
JC raises his chin, but his eyes are cloudy. "He's not here, then?" he asks. His voice is soft, too soft for a politician's.
Lance shakes his head.
"Right," JC says, and there's only a touch of an edge to his voice. Lance wants to pin him down, stabilize him. He can't deal with it when he's all over the place, unable to keep with one mood.
"I'm sorry," Lance says, and maybe he is, a little. Not enough.
JC's smile is sad. "If I could sleep," he says, and Lance nods again.
"There are a few rooms upstairs, if you want to take one," Lance says. He gestures vaguely towards the stairs.
"You're very kind," JC says.
And he's very suave, Lance thinks, too.