The house was always busy, never quiet. It wasn't that Lance wasn't used to that; more that he was still getting his bearings. He spent a lot of time watching, observing. JC knew what he was doing, and smiled at him; Justin chattered away with all the self-absorption of a star-born teenager; Joey started feeding him; and Chris played him music.
He didn't quite get it at first, why there were always different cds in his discman, or mix tapes strewn across his bed. The names--Rembrandts, Ramones, Joan Jett, Bowie--made him want to sit down and listen, really listen, forgo Garth and Reba whose voices and words he knew so well for something just a little--different.
He took it like he took everything: considering it, listening to it to try and hear it, to understand it. It wasn't until he was humming "I Wanna Be Sedated" at half-speed an octave too low when he was making a sandwich for lunch that he noticed Chris watching him. That, too, was something he needed to consider.
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