Lance/Justin non-drabble

Lance tried to snatch the sheet of paper from Justin's hand, feeling the burn and sting of it as it slid between his fingertips, his grip too weak. Justin laughed and danced out of the way as Lance gingerly flexed his fingers, watching the thin red line between his thumb and index finger. He stretched the skin out, making the contour blossom into more red, ignoring the slow insistent pain of it. He could hear Justin singing in the other room, something about machetes and glory. He wondered if the sheet had his blood on its edge now. The paper would corrode soon enough, then, unreadable to anyone.