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Spencer hasn't even had anything to drink, has no excuse for the fact that his mouth seems to be running autonomously from his brain when he asks, "What was it like, coming out?"

Lance Bass' eyes narrow, green-gold and unimpressed. "Have we met?"

"Sorry," Spencer says, and he is, that was kind of an asshole thing to ask, let alone before introducing himself. He holds out his hand, "Spencer Smith, Panic! at the Disco."

Lance takes the hand. "Lance Bass."

Spencer smiles. "Really. You don't say."

"A relief," Lance says coolly, and it takes Spencer a second to remember his original question. He looks down at the Sprite he's holding, considers its bubbles. Lance continues, "But I didn't have a band by then. And if it had come down to a choice between the two, I wouldn't have chosen my freedom to date."

Spencer laughs in his chest, an unamused gasp of awareness. He lifts his drink in Lance's direction and takes a sip. Lance says, "It's not all that hard to hide, not if they help. Surely you've figured that part out."

Spencer isn't big on asking for help. He nods like he knows, and he knows that if he asked, they would help. He knows that they try their hardest without being asked. It isn't their fault Spencer has issues about co-dependence. Lance takes a sip of his own drink--it looks a little bit stronger than Spencer's twist of lemon-lime. He asks, "They do know, right?"

Spencer fixes him with a look. Lance shrugs. "Had to be asked."

"They're my band," Spencer says.

Lance considers him. "You wear defensiveness well, Spencer Smith."

"Yes," Spencer tells him, "I do."

Lance's responding smile is slow, perfectly curved. Spencer's is not.

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Skin by egelantier, photo by microbophile