before the long run
Lance is still drinking when the sun comes up. He started around dinner the night before, when Justin rolled a joint on the bar in the living room and Lance matched it with a double vodka tonic. Since then he's been proudly maintaining his intoxication level at somewhere between wasted and oblivious. When the birds started chirping he climbed up and crossed his feet in the sink as he listened to their songs through the open window.
Justin stumbles in around nine a.m., looking tired and a little ugly. "I fucking hate night shoots, man," he says. "I swear you can't even tell the difference most of the time. I think it's just some director power trip."
Lance pushes himself off the kitchen counter and kisses Justin. He licks his lips but he doesn't taste drunk. Justin doesn't seem to notice.
"Wake me up by eight?" Justin calls over his shoulder, halfway up the stairs. He doesn't wait for an answer.
Lance cancels his meetings. His assistant asks if everything is all right and Lance says, "Justin had a late call." He works six days a week and then he comes home to his biggest client, who generally keeps himself busy but sometimes shows up at Lance's office with golf clubs in the trunk and a sunburned nose. Lance sets the alarm for seven-thirty and lets Justin wrap his long legs around him. He only passes out in his own bed.
When they wake up, Justin mumbles against Lance's collarbone and rubs his eyes. "Hey, you weren't, like, waiting up, right?" he asks.
"No," Lance says. He is thirsty already.
Justin rolls out of bed, toward the shower. "Good," he says.
END.
Credits: Sad sweet drunk love song title by Eric Clapton. It turns out I never wrote Lance wasted in his own head. Also Robert Downey Jr. was on Oprah this week. And of course that old pic of Kiefer.