"Fuck you!" Lance yelled, tears streaking his face. "Fuck you and your 'image' and your designer clothes and your leads and your goddamned girlfriend! You don't fucking care about your friends anymore, do you? We don't mean anything. We're your fucking flunkies. Means to an end, is that it?"
JC stepped back as though physically struck, eyes wide at the venom in Lance's voice. "Lance, I don't..."
"What, you don't know what I'm talking about? You have no fucking clue, do you? You don't know me, you don't see me, you don't even care!" he dashed the tears from his eyes.
"I don't understand," JC pleaded, taking a step towards his bandmate and reaching out as if to lay a hand on his arm.
Lance knocked the hand away roughly. "Understand?" he choked out, voice rough, and spun to face JC. His eyes flashed in anger. "Understand this." Lance reached out and seized the lapels of JC's shirt, jerked him close and crushed their lips together. There was nothing gentle in this kiss, nothing tender. It wasn't a kiss of love or passion or lust. It was a scream of pain. It bruised.
Lance pushed JC away roughly. JC stumbled backwards, eyes wide with shock. He brought one hand up and brushed bruised lips with his fingertips.
"I mean nothing compared to Bobbee," Lance said bitterly, "and that hurts worst of all because I had to go and fucking fall in love with you myself. I hate you JC. I hate you for not even noticing how much you hurt me."
Lance turned and stalked from the room. The door slammed shut behind him.