Like the Rythm of the Blues

He wondered, in silence, when he would be saved.

It was an isolated thought, going nowhere, as they often did while he waited for these gigs to end. Not being very musical by nature, he spent his time banging his head by the side of the stage, watching the bigger numbers and then focusing on a magazine. Such is life when you love a semi-rock-star; even the most exciting things become mundane. Only pyrotechnics forced his gaze upward; the fear of seeing his lover burnt to a horrendous crisp.

Occasionally, negativity creeped into Lance's brain; the notion that Chris (Or "Mongoose", at that very moment) lifestyle was centered upon two difficult and dangerous businesses. Wrestling is a notoriously life-shortening profession; everyone and their mother knows that. The dangers of being a famous musician was inherent and obvious. Lance stood in silent contemplation of it all; the danger of living this way. But what else could they do? They were who they were, and he couldn't help it.

He realized that these emotions were far too serious to be explored at a concert.

Lance's love expanded whenever Chris met his gaze. It was like being shot out of a cannon, without the gunpowder burns. There was, he knew, no way to save himself; he was in for a ride, and it was best just to hang on.

But his logical mind wandered away.

The concert over, he watched Chris make his way through the sea of hangers-on and help hired to get him from stage to dressing room without a single droplet of cold sweat hitting the floor. An arm pulled Lance into the masses and, with the swiftness of a lightning bolt striking, he became a participant in a searing kiss.

Once unlocked, he looked into Chris' eyes (they were Chris' eyes once more, no longer Mongoose's). The words that came from his lover were the same at every show.

"Good show?" He asked.

"Great show," Lance smirked. And in the middle of a crowd, they were alone.

The End