Live Through This
by Betty Plotnick




Author's note: Sets everything I've ever written about *Nsync and puts it on the spin cycle. I'm not sure how much of it will make sense without reading all the others first.



The persistent snick-snick sound of Justin typing had become just so much background noise, like all the other smooth, indistinct road noises that were part of long, sleepy mornings on the interstate. It was actually the lack of it that woke Chris up and sent him staggering out of his bunk to find out whether or not he was alone on the bus.

He wasn't. "Shouldn't you be writing?" Justin just shrugged, and continued to leaf through his magazine. "That's it; I don't want to hear any more whining about your deadlines. Is there coffee around here somewhere?"

"No coffee. Nothing, actually. We need to restock before JC wakes up, or nail down some of this furniture. I never seen anybody put food away like that boy does in the morning."

"Try eating in front of mirrors more often."

"Dude, I like to taste my food. I think JC just hates to see it escape. Am I a bad guy?"

"Well, you didn't used to be." Chris swatted the soles of Justin's feet until he moved them off the couch so Chris could take their place. "But then there was that accident with the vat of chemicals, and ever since, I dunno, man, you've been different. I mean, you quite rightly blame Batman, but you've also been taking it out on the good citizens of Gotham and all...."

Justin smiled, like he was supposed to, but he still looked entirely too engrossed in his magazine. Chris nudged it up so he could read the title on the cover; he didn't think he'd ever even heard of Twist. "How many of these things do girls need? I mean, there must be a billion of these stars-and-hair mags -- are they all so wildly different that they can't consolidate? I mean, guys have it together. You get GQ or you get Maxim, *done.*"

"Uh-huh." Justin turned a page. "Or Esquire."

"Well, right."

"And there's FHM, and Stuff, and Details. And there's the British edition of GQ. And Maxim. And FHM. Plus, they're all splintering off now, so you get regular Maxim, and then Maxim Blender and Maxim Fashion and FHM TV--"

"Shouldn't you be writing?"

"Seriously, am I a bad guy?"

"What? No."

"When the hell did JC want to be a carpenter?"

"Would you put that down? You read way too many of those things."

"Well, nobody else keeps up with who's quoting us. I figure someone should know."

"A *carpenter?*"

"A carpenter or an architect. Whatever." He flipped another page, and smiled indulgently. At pictures of Britney, if Chris had to guess. "Why'd you guys let me wear that shirt for the Candie's ad? I look like I wandered off the short bus."

"Because you wear whatever the hell you like, and you tell us we have crap taste in fashion when we criticize you."

"You do have crap taste in fashion. Do I still own that shirt?"

"How in the hell do I know?"

"Maybe I'll donate it to Candie's. In case I have some kinda episode and want to wear it again. Here's what I'm looking for. Gotta find out if I'm a bad guy or not."

It sounded like something that Chris would say himself, but sometimes he wondered if the difference was that Justin really *meant* it. Like if Twist ever printed, "Justin Timberlake, you're a soulless, no-talent rodent with a squeaky voice and crap taste in fashion, and a bad person besides," he'd believe it.

"What's it say?" Chris prompted.

"That it's hard to picture me with a tattoo on my ass. Seriously, is this a big concern for a lot of people? The state of my ass?"

"I gotta say it probably is. They really say ass?"

"That's not a quote, no. And I didn't *stick* Joey with a bill; he offered to pay. And I *so* was not fighting with any of y'all over a girl. I don't even know where that one came from."

"No telling. And the verdict?"

"I'm sweet and gentle, deep down." Finished with the magazine, Justin tossed it on the floor.

"Thank God. Now, just read fifty more, and you'll know you're not going to hell til at least next month."

Justin put one hand behind his head on the arm of the couch and snagged Chris by the shoulder with the other one. "Come look for my sweet side."

"JC's in the next--" Chris began, but ran out of saliva and didn't seem to be producing anymore, so the sentence ground to a halt like an overheated engine. He let himself be unbalanced and pulled on top of Justin.

Forcing his eyes up from Justin's mouth, Chris noticed how darkly shaded Justin's eyes were. "Shouldn't you be getting some sleep?"

"I'll nap this afternoon."

"It's not a good idea," Chris said, not for the first time, and then kissed Justin's warm neck, letting the stubble on his jaw rub roughly against Chris' eyebrow. Mixed signals, frozen or on the rocks.

But it wasn't real. He couldn't take it seriously, or really believe that it was real at all, when one minute they could be just hanging out like always, talking about clothes and carpentry, and the next minute he could have Justin, all hard breathing and hard-on, pinned underneath him, with his fingers burrowing underneath the waistband of Chris' sweatpants. It was the same kind of unconnected jump that happened in dreams, where you walked out the backdoor of your grandmother's house and suddenly you were in the green room at Madison Square Garden. Chris did have these dreams, actually -- tense anxiety dreams where he was taking a standardized test and went out in the hallway for a drink and ended up pressed to the water fountain with Justin fucking him. They usually ended with Chris having to write Hole lyrics over and over on a blackboard. Chris guessed he should be grateful it wasn't anything even weirder. I Will Not Have Sex With Britney Spears' Boyfriend, maybe.

He let his hand slide up Justin's ribcage, under his thin t-shirt. Baby blue. From the color, and the tightness of it, Chris assumed it was an old shirt, but damned if he could remember it. "You're always so fucking tense," Justin whispered in his ear, and then circled his hips slow and lazy underneath Chris. "Tell me you love me."

"That's not going to make me less tense."

"Do it anyway," Justin ordered.

"Why?"

"Because I like it. And it's the least you can do for me, the way you always leave me hanging."

Useless to remind him that it was always Justin who insisted on making out -- that it was as much Justin's persistence as Chris' limits that were responsible for getting them both worked up for no significant payoff. It would never be Justin's fault.

And maybe it really wasn't Justin's fault. After all, leopards have their spots, and the thing about Justin was that when he decided on a goal, he went after it and didn't let up until he had his reward. That was Justin. You couldn't expect him to be any different.

"I love you," Chris said, because he had no intention of sleeping with Justin today, either, so maybe it was the least he could do. He could feel the shape of Justin's familiar grin under his lips.

###

If Justin had his way, the first time would be a production number, almost literally. Britney could half-picture it, the candlelight and the breathless promises, and knowing Justin there'd be at least one thing she couldn't possibly anticipate. Live doves or something. Justin thought that all major events, like all songs, should have a gag attached.

She'd always known that wasn't the way she wanted it. The flash and glamour of show business was great, in its place, but the difference between Britney and Justin was that simple phrase: in its place. Maybe she just wasn't as artistic as Justin, but Britney wanted to lose her virginity like a normal person, not like she was shooting a video. So she always knew she'd have to take charge of it herself.

Still, she hadn't picked the particular day or anything like that. God knows what's best for you, Britney's mama had always taught her, and Britney took that quite literally. God would know, and she would be in the right place at the right time, just as she always had been, for everything.

It happened on a Friday morning, when sex was the last thing on Britney's mind. She was premenstrual, which wasn't fair because she'd rescheduled a Nickelodeon appearance so she could spend the day with Justin, and she was grimly determined to goddamn well enjoy it, even though she felt bloated and achy and overwrought. She woke him up by banging pans around, and bitched about not being able to find anything in her new kitchen and started the wallpaper peeling with her swearing when she realized all the eggs in the refrigerator were hard-boiled, and she had to hide behind the refrigerator door until the bracing cold air stunned her into not crying after all.

"It's not a big fucking deal, baby," he drawled out, balanced evenly between kindness and exasperation. "I'll go buy you some eggs."

That was God's way of asking Britney, How long are you going to keep pretending that you're not married to him already, baby girl? Justin lived in her house, he ran her errands, he got pissed off when she was moody but he hung around anyway, because they were both in it for the whole ride, not for one carousel Friday. "Yes, could you?" she asked humbly, and he got dressed and did it, giving her hair a quick caress as he left.

She waited for him upstairs, and found herself surprisingly shy about being completely naked (she couldn't figure that one out; she'd never been shy, and she especially wasn't worried about being judged or criticized by *Justin*), so she left her bra on. He called for her when he came back, and Britney found herself unable to answer, even as worry set into his voice. Her throat had totally closed up, and all she could do was lie on the bed, staring at the light above her, just like when she'd gone under to have her tonsils taken out. Way romantic.

His footsteps pounded quickly up the stairs, and she could hear him stop abruptly as he pushed the door open. He seemed to creep closer, and Britney closed her eyes so she could feel but not see the way his broad hand seemed to cover up her whole hipbone. "Guess the eggs kinda *were* a big deal to you," he said, and that made her smile broadly. Suddenly, Britney wasn't nervous at all anymore.

"I like eggs."

"You sure as hell do." He made it sound like a compliment, like he was really saying *you're beautiful,* which Justin almost never really said to her, or Britney to him, because it seemed like such a cheap and obvious thing to say, not special at all.

Afterward, at Justin's insistence, they spent almost two hours lying in bed, speaking to each other in hums and touches. In all the years she'd known him, she'd never seen Justin go so long without wanting to jump up and do something, and a giggling fit overtook her along with the idea that half of what she'd always assumed was Justin's personality could be the effects of sexual frustration. "What? *What?*" he demanded, but she laughed harder instead of telling him, so he tickled her until she screamed. His hands roamed pretty widely, and when he pulled one of them back, there were flecks of blood on his knuckles. "Are you okay?" he asked, pulling his hands away quickly, as if he might have been scratching her up with his short fingernails.

She kissed his fingers, and wiped the blood away. "Fine. I'm going to take a shower, okay?" He nodded, and playfully hung onto her hand until she had to wrench it away with all her strength to get loose.

Under the camouflaging noise of the hot shower, Britney crouched in the tub and cried, frightened to discover how fragile a thing she was, how the very idea of being without Justin was a tearing pain now. Frightened also to realize that the last of her childhood had been spent like spare change, on an impulse; it wasn't *much* of a childhood, but it was hers, and she'd never get it back again.

God knows what's best for you, Britney, she told herself sternly, and lifted her face to the running water.

###

They'd already done one formal statement, and a dozen others off the record, before Chris had a chance to call. By then, AJ had been in rehab for two full days, and it seemed shamefully late -- and on the other hand, weirdly early.

It didn't matter, though, because Nick wouldn't talk to him. He left two messages (generic messages: Hi, thought I'd call, let me know if there's anything....), which went unreturned. On the third call, which Chris placed from a phone booth while the others were shopping in a BP off the highway, JC and Justin having been simultaneously struck with cravings for hot dogs and Yoo Hoo, respectively, he picked up.

"I wondered how you were," Chris said.

"Don't call me anymore."

"Okay," Chris said, not because he was really committing to that course of action, but just out of politeness. "But...are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fucking okay. I'm fucking *fine.* Okay?"

"Fine. I'll see you, then."

There was a long silence. So this is it, Chris figured. He felt a little bit bad about the way things were ending, and at the same time immensely relieved.

But Nick said, "I'll see you," quickly, like one word, and then hung up.

Chris had plenty of experience at fighting and making up over the phone, what with Dani and all, but that took the prize for peculiar. As, of course, did everything else about his relationship with Nick. He got back on the bus feeling jittery and out of alignment, but soon enough he managed to make himself forget about the conversation.

He was getting good at that.

###

Joey was falling behind in Resident Evil for the first time all night when Justin and Lance finally got in, breathless and staggering and half holding each other up, as if they were drunk, though Chris couldn't smell anything on them. Lance kept rubbing at his eye, where there was a slight smear of glitter -- makeup, or club flotsam? "Isn't it past your curfew, boys?" Chris said. It was almost four.

"You're still up," Lance said, and he looked like he was going to say more, but fell silent at the sight of Justin taking a sharp turn and a direct route toward Joey. He bent down to where Joey was sitting cross-legged on the couch and began to whisper in Joey's ear, hand up so that Chris couldn't even see the shape of his words. All he could see was Joey's face.

When Justin straightened up, there was no blood anywhere on him, which ruled out a physical stabbing. But he was smiling in satisfaction, and Joey looked like roadkill that had just had enough time to see it coming. "*Justin,*" Lance said sharply, an obvious reprimand. "God. Go to bed." He placed a propelling hand on Justin's back and drove him out of the room, glanced back once at Joey, and then ducked out himself.

"What in the hell was that about?"

Joey laid the controller aside. "He's a fucking bitch. What else is new?"

"You're not quitting, are you?"

"I'm pretty much done."

*But you aren't supposed to just give up,* Chris almost said, and then didn't. He almost left the room so Joey could be alone when Joey put his face down in his hands, but then he didn't do that either.

"We're getting old, aren't we?" Joey said when he lifted his head up again.

We? That was a new one on Chris. He had trouble keeping track of everybody's birthdays and ages and stuff, but the best he could figure it, Joey was the same age now as Chris had been when they'd first formed the group. Christ help him if that counted as old. "It's never too late to enjoy your childhood."

"You know, *none* of them are even really blonde."

"None of who?"

"Justin and Lance and their dancy little girlfriends," Joey said, sounding too tired to pull off bitter. "Not a damn one of them is blonde."

"When did we become the natural-hair-color police?"

"I'm just saying."

He stalked off to bed, leaving Chris to shut off the Playstation. "What the fuck just happened?" Chris grumbled to himself.

The possibility of an answer never occurred to him, but it turned out that the JC-shaped lump in the chair was actually awake. "I think they swapped," he said, through a yawn.

"Swapped what?"

"You know -- swapped. Justin and Lance and Britney and Wade."

"What do you-- Oh. No, no-- No way! No, what do you, why.... Why?"

JC sat up and stretched, arching his back so far that he grimaced in pain. "I dunno, just the, kind of -- things. They looked like it when they came in. Like they -- you know -- lovers. And Lance said one time that Britney had a crush on Wade, so. Plus, what Joey said. It's just, things. I thought...." He shrugged.

"I think you're nuts."

JC shrugged again.

"Tell me," Chris demanded the next day, when he and Joey were alone in the green room. "Tell me what he said to you."

"You really don't want to know."

"I really *do* want to know."

"Well, I really don't want to talk about it," Joey said, and that was the end of that.

For the second night in a row, Chris had to jerk off before he could fall asleep, like he was fifteen again. His fingers traced over his belly, where the heaviness of muscle was tucked in behind a modest, soft blanketing of warm skin and fat, and he closed his eyes, which only sharpened the images of Justin's tongue stroking down taut, well-defined ab muscles, toward narrow hips that bracketed deep gold pubic hair. Lance, Britney, Wade. Lance, Britney, Wade.

Later on, exhausted to the point of sleep at last, he thought about Joey's words. None of them were *natural* blondes.

It didn't seem to make a lot of difference.

###

Of all of them, the one Nick hated most was Chris Kirkpatrick, and he knew exactly why. It was because every time they won something, Chris was always the first to thank the fans.

*--and the fans, cause without them--*

And even worse, he seemed to mean it. Thanking the *fans.* The fans were animals. They wandered aimlessly from trend to trend. They bought what they were told to buy, and when the voices in their heads -- the voices from the radio stations and MTV -- went away, they came out of their consumptive comas, and they couldn't even remember why they ever wanted what they thought they wanted. The fucking fans.

The one thing Nick didn't like about his job was the fans. They were shallow and dangerous. He really believed they'd hurt him if they could, just for the novelty of it. To get him under their fingernails, at the back of their throats. To get more of him.

Aaron was always fishing for advice, and it was all Nick could do not to give it to him. But for Aaron, who had only known success so far, it was all still a game, full of thrills and surprises, and Nick couldn't bring himself to take that away yet. That was coming on its own, soon enough.

That Chris Kirkpatrick could be as old as he was and still be naive enough to believe that the fans were his friends, generously doing him the personal favor of choosing his music over the rest of the world's -- well, Nick didn't like it. He didn't like stupid people.

So when Chris stumbled drunkenly into his arms at Keri Russell's birthday party, Nick figured -- cool. He'll hate himself in the morning. Serve him right, and maybe he'd learn something.

Something about trusting people you barely knew.

Chris was a talker in bed, but he flitted from one thought to the next when he was drunk, without finishing any of them, so Nick never knew what the fuck he was saying. He did know, because Chris managed to tell him, that Chris was a virgin when Nick fucked him up the ass. He never told anyone about it; he didn't know whether they'd believe him or not. He was pretty damn sure Chris didn't tell anyone either.

Chris groaned really loud at first, but he got quieter and quieter as they got closer, until Nick really figured he'd just gone and passed out. But he was conscious all the way through. Just quiet, with his eyes closed and his lips parted and no sound coming out. He did cry out when Nick came, curling his fingers tightly in Chris' hair.

And after, while Nick was still too out of breath to get up, Chris rolled him over and cupped his girlishly small hands around Nick's face, staring down at him with glazed, out-of-it brown eyes, breathing hot air that smelled like Bloody Marys onto his skin. He still didn't say anything, and they laid there looking at each other like that for what felt like hours before Nick finally pushed him off, got dressed, and left.

He was stone cold sober the next time they met, and he hovered quasi-discreetly around Nick for half an hour before finding a way to maneuver him away from the crowd. He tried to say something, but Nick discovered that he'd rather imagine Chris' discomfort than hear it, so he slipped his fingers inside Chris' mouth. Stone cold sober, Chris Kirkpatrick gave him a blowjob that was so careful and tender that Nick knew immediately it wasn't for him.

That was when it started turning into a different sort of game, an infinitely more addictive one.

###

Joey had to try several times to capture her wandering attention, but when he finally convinced Brianna to notice the spinning top on the floor in front of them, she did indeed reach right for it. It stopped when she put her fingers gingerly on it, clattering to the floor.

"So?" Chris said.

"So, it's -- it's a skill, man. She's learning that her actions control other stuff that goes on around her. It's a major...developmental...thing."

"Okay, Dr. Spock. It's major."

"You don't have to be like that. It *is.*"

"Okay. A-plus, both of you."

"Shut the fuck up."

A muscle in Chris' calf twinged as he got up off the floor; he resolutely ignored it. "I'm just fucking with you, Joe. Your daughter's got mad developmental skills, and it's cool that you're doing all the reading and all that. I mean it. Seriously. 'S cool. Peace, brother."

Mollified at last, Joey tucked his kid under his arm and followed Chris into the kitchen. "Last thing you need is more caffeine," he said as Chris cracked another twenty ounce of Mountain Dew out of the fridge.

Chris Kirkpatrick, this is your life, he thought sourly, as he threw the refrigerator door shut. "You're gonna bag on my diet, Fatone? That's rich. That's just great."

"Hey, I'm not -- I didn't mean --"

Maybe set off by the nervous edge in her father's voice, Brianna started to fuss, an annoyed babble that couldn't quite seem to resolve itself into crying. "Shit. Sorry, man. Here, let me have her." For whatever stupid reason, the kid seemed to like Chris, or at least get calmer around him, and Joey gave her up with a little I-can't-believe-this shake of his head. "Hey, bug. Hey, what's up?" Chris said to her, and Brianna responded by closing her eyes and subsiding into a low, lisping stream of pacified consonants. She had a voice now, her own voice, and Chris thought he could probably tell her apart from other babies by the sound of it, even on their fairly limited acquaintance. For the first time, he was conscious of Joey's kid growing up, instead of just getting larger.

"Do you think she misses Justin?" Chris asked abruptly.

Joey squinted a little suspiciously at him. "I don't think she would even remember Justin."

*I wanna marry you....*

*C'mon down here, Chris....*

He shook his head physically, roughly, to get the memory of Justin's voice loose. Justin, in front of innocent adoration, playing to his audience of one. Justin, back when he'd seemed so confident, before this tour had taken its toll on him in dozens of tiny ways that Chris didn't claim to understand.

*Where's Justin? Where'd he go?*

*I wanna marry you....*

Back when Chris took it for granted that Justin's affection would always contain a razor- fine edge of flirtatiousness, a bred-in-the-bone seductive croon.

"You think I should marry Kelly?"

"What makes you think she'd marry you? No -- I didn't mean it like *that,* I'm just saying, didn't she say no before?"

"Yeah, but that was different," Joey said sulkily. "Now she knows I'm not asking for the wrong reasons. Like I think I *have* to or something."

"Do you love Kelly?" The words felt lumpy and too large in Chris' mouth; he'd never been any good at this kind of shit.

"I...yeah, I do. Yeah. I do. She's -- There aren't any other women out there like her, you know? I can really see us living with each other."

Chris looked down at the baby in his arms, gnawing toothlessly on her own clenched fist. "That's as good a reason as any to get married, I guess."

"Chris." Chris looked up at Joey for the first time, and the faint flash of his own reflection that he caught in Joey's eyes confirmed all Chris' fears; he was raw, lost and lonely and obvious. Even Joey couldn't help but see it. "It's not just the music that has to grow up. We both have to start wanting -- grown-up things."

"I don't want a fucking wife and kid, Joey. Knock that *we* shit off."

"Jesus, Chris, he's not in love with you!"

"And Lance isn't going to miss you when you're taken. He's not even going to notice, Joe, except that it'll give him an excuse to buy a tux from someplace in Europe, *all right?*"

Joey just sighed, and carelessly rubbed his eyes on his sleeve. "I know that. That's why it's time to move on. That's *exactly* why."

*Where's Justin? Where'd he go?*

"Well, I'm not running."

"Chris, I'm telling you this as your friend: *stay down,* before you get knocked out cold. It's all over but the shouting, man. Just -- do what everyone does. Just take it, and get older, and do it better next time around."

He found himself holding Joey's daughter a little too tightly, like a security blanket of some kind, and he carefully eased his grip. "Look, if Kelly will take you, great. Boldly go, etcetera etcetera. Embrace your future. You know nobody wants to see you happy again more than me. But some of us want to get knocked out cold, do you get that? If I'm going to lose, then *fine.* Fine, but I'm going to lose big. This isn't one of those pussy, Carson Daly, sixty days and then I slip quietly away to make room for the next big thing kind of deals; I'm not getting fucking retired."

"You're going to get hurt," Joey promised.

Chris almost laughed at that. Then he mulled it over a little, and then he did laugh at it. Going to get hurt. Well, hold the presses. "My mother always told me you gotta eat a peck of dirt before you die."

"You don't have to eat it off Justin Timberlake's boots," Joey grumbled.

"You better make up with him," Chris said, more serious about it than he let himself sound. "He's gonna be your son-in-law, you know."

"I can't," Joey said morosely. "I don't know what we're fighting about anymore."

###

He collected articles, photographs. Candids were his specialty, and he cut them from grainy newspapers and weekly magazines that he sent his assistants out to get for him. Then he taped them together into long threads, like black-and-white Christmas tree garlands. Justin Timberlake leaving a club. Justin Timberlake at a basketball game, sleeves rolled up, staring intently at the action on court. Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears. Justin Timberlake with his cap pulled low. On his knees signing an autograph for some kid in a wheelchair. Justin Timberlake Justin Timberlake Justin Timberlake.

There were so many of them. Every so often Nick would feed one of his stalker-serial- killer-freak art projects to the fire. And then he'd start again. Justin Timberlake with the new haircut. Justin Timberlake with the ostentatious new tattoo on his arm. More Justin, newer. They just kept coming.

So he was obsessed. He figured he was rich enough by now to buy his way up to "eccentric."

Kevin was always trying oh-so-subtly to get Nick to admit he was queer, and sometimes Nick wouldn't do it because he wasn't so sure that he was, and sometimes he just wouldn't admit it because Kevin could be really annoying. Nick sort of thought -- not that he'd stoop to explaining himself to Kevin, or anyone else for that matter -- that he didn't have a sexuality. He didn't even know who he found attractive; he had trouble judging until after he'd fucked someone, and then he knew if they were sexy or not, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Willa, for example, had been sexy. Something about how she used to lounge around his house, barely clothed, with her legs splayed casually, almost innocently, open. Something about the way her body arched while they fucked, her chest thrust forward, her ass thrust back against him, her spine bowed down deep. Very sexy. But he hadn't thought so, when they first hooked up. He hadn't thought anything about her, or if he did, he couldn't remember it now.

To be queer, you had to want to fuck guys, right? And to be straight, you had to want to fuck women. And Nick liked to get laid, no denying it.... But *want.* He couldn't remember ever wanting another person, man or woman, the way he'd once wanted to be a star. Kevin? No. Not even Kevin.

Eccentric. Driven. Fucked right on up. Selfish and cold. He figured he was all of that, all of that and maybe more. And he was so in the habit of lusting after fame that even now -- now that he had it, now that he was growing to hate it -- the cravings weren't going away. He was always in *want,* wracked by it, sick from it. Sex was too small a diversion to invest much of his energy in; it happened, he liked it, and life went on.

Sometimes, to get to sleep, Nick had to turn on MTV, or put in a concert tape. Anything was fine, as long as there was a crowd there, screaming with a hysteria that was just as mindless and irrational as the pain he needed it to anesthetize. He found it soothing. He liked to hear that desperation, that frenzied knowledge in the voice of the crowd that they were close, close, so close to what they loved most, and yet far enough away that they had to scream constantly louder in order to be heard.

He didn't know when that habit put down roots, got specific, but eventually the need for crowds became the need for one crowd. He dubbed the sound off of *Nsync's NSA concert, and he went to sleep with it two or three nights a week, tinny and fake through his headphones. He had a favorite part -- the quick shift from song to shout when Justin said "if you want me, girl -- let! me! know!" and the crowd was obedient to his demands. Sometimes Nick fell asleep while he was rewinding back to catch that part again and again.

One time he bought a shirt off of eBay -- under a false name, of course. Supposedly one of Justin's, nicked by somebody from the tour. He kept it in a fireproof box with some papers and old photos. He didn't need to see it, or hold it. Knowing was enough.

That it had belonged to Justin, but that Justin would never get it back.

He kept fucking Chris Kirkpatrick for the exact same reason.

###

She had a life that she couldn't explain, not the good or the bad of it. Sometimes she read articles about herself, and she was as interested in the details as any ordinary teenager from Peoria -- tell me all about Britney Spears. What's she really like? What's it like to be her?

What it was like to be Britney Spears. She thought a lot about that. There were no words for it.

Justin liked words -- liked to talk, liked to write. He could probably, if he had to, explain what it felt like to be Justin Timberlake. But for Britney, the moments that were in focus were the ones you couldn't find in the dictionary. It was more like acting than writing. You just *acted* them. They just were.

They went to a concert once, just Britney and Justin and Chris and a couple of Britney's lower-profile bodyguards. It was March in New York, and it rained for two whole days before, and a day after, so that even the buildings around them seemed chilled and waterlogged. They sloshed through puddles, and sometimes Justin swooped in and scooped her up, lifting her over the muddy water with concert flyers and McDonald's bags floating on the surface.

It was Everything But the Girl, and Justin had been the one of them who was least excited about the show, but once they were there, his attention was riveted to the stage, taking in every note, every movement, storing it all away, judging and weighing. All business. It annoyed her, a little, and so she laughed when Chris started singing along with the band, loudly, right in Justin's ear. At first, Justin shoved him away by the shoulder, and then he told Chris to please shut the *fuck* up, and then he started laughing, and scuffling with his friend. Britney jumped in, too, singing right in Justin's other ear. "No fair! No fair!" he howled, but they kept on.

"And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain," she was singing, as loud as she could, and Chris slipped automatically into harmony.

They were supposed to go out dancing afterward, but they ended up having to stay and sign autographs in the lobby a lot longer than they'd anticipated, and they were hungry and tired by the time they made it to the limousine. They all three shared one seat, and Justin stretched out his legs, resting his muddy shoes on the opposite seat. Britney kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up against the door, laying her head on Justin's chest, one hand for balance over his solar plexus. He scritched his fingertips in her hair in that way that Justin did, like he was scratching her behind the ears, and he threw his other arm loosely around Chris' shoulders.

She dozed off like that while the boys were talking about Mets and Yankees and Madison Square Garden and the Fatone clan, and the chicken woke her up, the distinctive KFC smell filling up the back of the limo. "She's awake," Justin said. "Give her that drumstick, man."

"What? How come? 'S my drumstick."

"She likes dark meat."

"*I* like dark meat."

"Where the fuck were you raised? Give the lady the drumstick."

Chris passed it across, grumbling, and Britney thanked him prettily. She took off the skin before she ate it, and Chris groaned as if in pain. "She's not even eating it! Look, she's just torturing it."

"Hey," Britney said tartly, ready now to be spoken to instead of about, "I'll make you a deal. You can be on my diet, and then you can have whatever kind of chicken you want, okay?"

"How about I just be the other half of your diet?" Chris suggested, fishing the fried skin out of the bucket on Justin's lap where she'd thrown it. "I'll only eat the stuff that you're not allowed to. Together, we'll be like one normal person."

"You will *never* be like one normal person," Justin informed him. "I don't care what you eat."

"I Miss You! Like the Deserts Miss the Rain!" Chris sang, and Justin roared in protest while Britney started to giggle, dislodging her and the chicken both as he tried to wrestle Chris into silence.

The limo was a mess, strewn with muddy water and crumbs, and Britney though she had some honey in her hair off of Justin's biscuit by way of his sleeve. Britney tried not to feel bad about leaving it like that for someone else to clean up.

Like a CD on repeat, they ended up back where they started. She was curled under the warmth of Justin's arm, moving gently with the rise and fall of his chest, and on the other side of him was Chris, slumped against the window with Justin's hand on the back of his neck. "I love you," Justin said, and his hand was moving tenderly over her hair, but he was looking the other way, toward Chris.

Neither of them said anything in return, though both of them smiled a little.

She was never jealous of Chris, and that was another thing that Britney could never have explained. How it felt to be Britney Spears. How it could be so perfect to be like that -- just for a moment, sure of her place in the scheme of things, just for a moment, a part of the group.

###

JC was stoned. You could always tell by his eyes, though never by the way he acted. He talked pretty much the same way, with or without the pot. The only visible difference was that his eyes didn't quite track motion at the right speed, and his clothes were not quite as weird when he was high.

He dropped by Lance's hotel like it was all totally normal. They'd all been in New York yesterday, but Lance had to go on short notice to Toronto, and apparently JC had followed him. In the neighborhood, he said casually, and Lance just shook his head and invited JC in.

"I thought you might want to talk," JC said, in his soft way. He sounded happy serious, but happy, like there was a deep lake of joy somewhere in JC, not moving, but clear and cool. He slipped his arms around Lance and pulled him close. "Just us."

From anyone else it would've been flirtatious. Back when JC used to resemble the rest of the human race, it would've been, too. But at some point, JC seemed to decide that he'd worked like a dog all his young life to achieve something, and this sure was *something* that he'd achieved. And then he just...*stopped.* Not stopped working; JC was still reliable, still professional, still passionate about his music. But he stopped getting nervous before shows, and he stopped dieting and worrying about whether or not his hair looked funny, and he stopped letting Bobbi get him upset, and he started smiling and hugging people like it just felt great instead of like he didn't want them to go anywhere.

JC was the only one of them who was getting happier. Lance thought it might be a low-grade psychotic break with reality, but it kind of warmed his heart anyway to see it.

"What do you want to talk about? Sorry, I mean what do I want to talk about?" Lance put a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly JC was dancing with him, slowly and casually around the hotel floor like it was a grand ballroom, maybe somewhere in Europe. Lance couldn't help laughing.

"Justin," he said, and Lance stopped laughing.

He tried to push JC away, but JC kept dancing while Lance stumbled, and he kept holding Lance. "No offense, JC," he said darkly, "but you do a bad job running my social life."

"Oh," JC said after a beat, "you mean because...? I said I was sorry about that. I like Wade. Wade is a great guy, and he makes you really happy."

"Wade is a great guy," Lance repeated. He wanted JC to go home. He didn't like it when JC was stoned, on principle. He didn't see how someone who was always worried about social unrest and world peace could buy stuff that cops got shot over. He said that once, and JC looked seriously, *profoundly* hurt, and then Lance had felt like a shit for ages, even though he was the one who was in the right.

"I want you," JC said, carefully, like he was giving Lance time to transcribe this into his Palm Pilot, word for word, "to tell Justin the truth. Tell him you're upset."

"Don't I'm you *JC.* What.... I *can't.*" He put his head down on the silk shoulder of JC's shirt. "I can't."

And then, because somehow JC seemed to know all about it anyway, Lance told him everything. They sat on the bed and drank canned lemonade and Lance told him how they'd been playing around, and happy, and warm inside like they were drunk even though none of them were. About admitting that he'd never kissed a girl with tongue, and how Britney's skin was completely perfect and she tasted like purple Skittles and it turned him on. About leaning over her shoulder to kiss Wade behind her, and how he'd thought at first the smooth lips on his neck were Britney's, but they weren't. It couldn't have been anybody but JC. He just couldn't have made his mouth work; something about JC made it easy to be true. He said the things that were just deadly embarrassing, shame dimmed by JC's honest love like it had never been by years of learned sophistication how hot it was to watch Wade's dick slipping wet and messy along and between Britney's glossy lips, how he begged when Justin quit kissing him just for a second, how Justin used his fingers like someone who'd been doing this for a long, long time, and how that turned him on and made him jealous and even hurt, because why didn't he tell anyone? Why was this something Lance didn't know about Justin?

Lance was crying a little bit then. He put his head down on JC's leg, and took it further.

*I haven't talked to Britney since. I'm scared to call her. I miss her, but what if I call, and she won't take it?*

*It was just a show to Wade. He has to brag about me, has to prove how good he is. I felt it was so strong it was wonderful and awful, and I don't think he felt anything. I'm pissed at him, and he doesn't even know why.*

*I'm gay. I went through that, I handled that. I want to just be that, and be done with it. I used to think it was harder than anything, but now it seems easier. Easier than this. It felt...better than good. Being inside her. I don't want this, not now.*

*Why the hell did he have to tell Joey? It spoiled everything. It made everything worse. Sometimes I really hate him.*

JC stroked his hair and told him again that he couldn't keep this inside forever, and Lance just nodded, thinking, Oh, yes, I can. Instead, he said, "Joey.... Is he really mad? Or is he ?" He couldn't make himself say: freaked-out. Disgusted. Does he think I'm trash now.

"Joey...." JC made a motion in the air that Lance couldn't see. "Oh, Lance. You know Joey."

Lance went to the bathroom and washed his face, changed clothes and took JC out for sushi. They talked about movies and this book JC was reading about Prozac, and not about sex, even tangentially. He dropped JC off for his flight, and JC kissed him in the back of the car, on the lips, but it felt like when Lance's mother kissed him. "It's important," JC said, with sympathy in his eyes, "for Justin to know that he can't do this. Not even to people who love him."

"There were four of us, Jayce," he said, his voice sounding grey and a little hoarse. "I can't exactly act like this is something just Justin did."

"Justin is the one who's looking for something," JC said, as though it were common knowledge, and it did sound surprisingly true to Lance. "Everyone has to do some things alone, even Justin. I want you to tell him that."

Lance nodded, knowing that he would never say any such thing to Justin. JC searched his face for a moment, then sighed and nodded in return. He seemed to know, too. "Be good to yourself. And, um, not that I want you to lose anybody, but.... I mean, I want you to, with Wade and with Britney. I like both of them. Work it out, definitely. But if you do, if it's bad, you might lose.... But not me. Not me, I'm your brother."

Lance nodded again, and squeezed JC's knee, and let him out of the car. JC was sweet. It seemed unfair, really. Of them all, JC and Chris were probably the best people, with the kindest hearts and the most willingness to give from inside themselves and they were the only two that didn't seem to be able to find someone to live and die for them. Bobbi was Bobbi. Dani was gone.

He didn't think he was strong enough to be alone like they were.

###

Chris liked to sing. At first that struck Nick as weird, and then he couldn't figure out why it was weird, but it retained its lingering aura of weirdness.

He liked to sing 80s music after coming. Weirdly, that didn't seem as weird. Chris would lie there in the backseat, one ankle thrown casually up on the headrest, and he'd take a few deep, gulping breaths, and then start.

*I've been waiting for a girl like you....*

*Every little thing she does is magic....*

*I would die for you, darlin' if you want me to....*

He could do all that stuff that Prince did. The yiping. Those high notes, shit. Nick could hit them, too, but he *didn't.* Not just off the top of his head like that, without warming up or anything. He could hit them, but they wouldn't sound quite right, and so of course he wouldn't. Chris didn't seem to care how he sounded; maybe that was the weird part. Still, he sounded okay.

They talked a lot, but not in a weird way. Not in a relationship way. They talked shop, mostly. Industry news, comparing producers, advice on stage shows. Chris had so fucking many show ideas that he might as well give some of them away. *Nsync would never do enough tours to use up all those gags.

Especially if Justin left the group. Which of course Chris swore that he wasn't doing, it was just a bullshit rumor. Nick didn't believe him, but he didn't exactly not believe him, either. How the hell should he know? But the difference between him and Chris was that he didn't really think Chris could possibly know, either. Not for sure.

They didn't talk about personal things. Only once, when Chris kept asking and asking, about his group, about the other guys, how good of friends were they really, had they gotten closer or did they used to be closer than they were, when did they know about AJ, what was that like, had Nick told any of them, had Nick slept with any of them.

It turned bad. Nick lost his temper, and he had Chris across the throat with one arm, leaning on him, yelling into his ear until Chris finally slugged him in the stomach. "Holy shit," he said immediately, with his first breath. "Kiddo, I'm sorry " He held up one hand, hovering in the vicinity of Nick's belly, like he was offering to rub it, or to try to catch Nick if he fell.

Nick grabbed his wrist and pressed Chris' hand between his legs, and then it was on again. Afterward, Chris got dressed and left without saying a word, which was not at all like him.

But he called the next day. Nick expected him to apologize again. "I don't do that shit," he said instead, calmly. "I don't do pain."

Nick was in the limo, alone. He leaned against the window, cupping the phone inside a well in his collarbone, leaning his ear into it. "I'm not your boyfriend," he said.

"I never *said* " Chris sighed gustily. "Look, you unbalanced motherfucker. I'm not the one reading stuff into other people's stuff. Am I?"

And, no. Nick guessed he wasn't. "Kevin," he said abruptly.

"What?"

"You asked. Me and Yeah. Well, it was Kevin."

"Oh," he said, sounding nervous. "Okay."

Nick closed his eyes, his head juddering lightly against the window as the limo moved over uneven ground. "It was just a few times."

"Okay."

"I don't like to talk about it. Because it was a bad idea."

"It changed things," Chris guessed.

"I guess for him it did. He kind of treated me different, after. Like I was fragile or something." Nick laughed shortly. "Believe it or not, I wasn't always so fucking spoiled. Kevin used to keep me in my place. Then I guess he got scared of hurting me worse or something." That was the first time Kevin was the first time that it had felt to Nick like he could really have anything and everything he wanted. Also the first time it had felt like all of it would fall flat somehow. That when push came to shove in this life, there would always be an emptiness at the back of perfection, like the dark side of the moon.

"When did...?"

Nick ran his own thumb down the center of his mouth. He should never have started this. Now that he'd told someone else, it was real, wasn't it? All of it, even the really terrible blowjob where he'd hurt Kevin with his teeth, but afterward Kevin had given him a backrub and it seemed like everything was going to be okay, and there was no way at all for the naive little bitch that Nick had been at the time to know that he'd never have Kevin's dick in his mouth again, or that suddenly Kevin wouldn't look at him like a little kid anymore. And Kevin had been the last one who did. "Seven years ago."

"Christ's sake, Nick. You were just a kid."

He sounded sorry, sad. Nick hung up on him, and he didn't call back that day.

Mostly, they just talked about work. And usually Chris sang, and one time Nick jumped in on it.

*I'll be alright without you....*

Chris moved into harmony as soon as Nick started to sing. Nick didn't need for him to do that, but he didn't know what to say, so it happened. He felt like he'd bogarted Chris' song. But Chris' eyes were happy, as happy as Nick thought he'd ever seen him.

###

There were blue lights all around the swimming pool, but it was brighter inside, white and gold, the air pulsing with the rhythm of flashbulbs. Easy to stand outside and look in.

"Aren't you supposed to be in there mingling?" Chris said when Lance came around by the back gate, holding another drink. "Thanks."

"When the mingling starts back up, I'll get back to it. Right now, my house is just one big photo op. As you've noticed."

The snap-whoosh of the flashbulbs. The crowd constellating into an instinctive, organic shape, a star or a flower, with Justin at its center. He would smile, then laugh, then sign, then blush, then mix it all up and begin again. Chris could see him, even when he couldn't see him. This would probably last another fifteen minutes or so. He took the drink Lance was offering.

"He's still got it," Lance said, but with a little frown. Like he wasn't sure for how long, or maybe at what price.

"It didn't use to be like this."

Lance looked at him oddly. "Sure it did. Justin and his public. It was always--"

"No," Chris said. He'd suspected before, but now, watching the event in motion, he knew it was true. "They used to love him because he was fearless. He's not anymore." Chris turned away, not sure whether he was more grieved or disgusted by what things had come to.

"Nobody's fearless."

"Justin was." Justin *was.* Chris could remember those days, when Justin had been all benevolent, artless arrogance, like a faith healer. So sayeth the shepherd. This train's bound for glory.

Of course, he had nothing to lose, back then. Now he had everything, and he was becoming a miser of fame: the more he had, the more the possibility of living without it gnawed at him. There was a kind of panic now in the way he let the cameras court him, and even if no one else in the whole world could tell the difference, Chris could.

"Do you think maybe you're just now letting him off his pedestal?" Lance asked gently. When Chris turned back to him quickly, Lance held up his hands. "I only ask because I know how that can be. I -- I know I idolize Justin. That I'm sort of a little bit in love with...my version of him. He's good at that, you know? Giving you whatever is easiest to love, holding the rest back. Maybe it just took you a while to...see it all."

Flash, flash, smile, sign. Turn, smile, flash.

"No. *No.*"

Sign, flash, laugh, sign, smile.

"No! Don't tell me I never knew him -- I did know him! He's changed, that's all. He's changed a lot."

"Well, probably so," Lance said mildly. "God knows we all have."

###

"I think I'm a pedophile."

"I'm not a fucking child." Nick arched his back and then looked up at Chris, pushing his hair back from his face and smiling broadly. His lips were obscenely shiny; Chris had the urge to wipe them dry. "You want me to be?"

"Wouldn't that just add that last little degree of fucked-up to the relationship."

The headboard thumped unexpectedly loud against the hotel wall as Nick crawled up to share Chris' pillow. Chris did reach out then, dabbing Nick's lips clean with his thumb. Nick jerked away instinctively, but then he smiled his sly, half-lidded smile at Chris. "You like me because I'm younger than you?"

"Maybe," Chris said carefully.

"Bullshit. You like me because I'm easy."

Chris snorted. "Yeah, this is real *convenient* for us both."

"I didn't say convenient, I said easy. Easy to get rid of if you have to. Easy not to get confused about what you're gonna get. Grab the covers, huh? It's getting cold."

They were half on the floor, anchored by one corner to the foot of the bed. Chris found them and untwisted them, sheet and gold blanket and thin gold and green bedspread, and let them fall into place around their bodies. He touched Nick's shoulder as he laid back down, and Nick smiled faintly; it was a real smile, and Chris sometimes suspected that Nick wasn't really aware when he was letting those fleeting, contented smiles slip free.

Nick's feet were cold, but his hard-on was fiercely hot where it nudged against Chris' thigh. Chris moved his leg slowly, but drew it back when Nick thrust toward the warmth of his skin, chuckling at Nick's growl of frustration. "What I'm gonna get...." he mused out loud.

"You just got yours," Nick reminded him snappishly. "Do I get my turn or what?"

"Go for it," Chris said with easy indulgence. He let his muscles soften, allowed Nick to push him down on his back, one knee between Chris' legs, crouched over him so that the blankets slipped down off his broad, smooth back. He looked especially big like that, looming over Chris in the semi-darkness; Chris liked that. Nick wasn't one of these seal-sleek, all-leg boys, any more than he was; Chris imagined that sex felt like this between normal men, non-famous, non-personal-trainer-having, meat-and-potatoes middle- American men. The lurch of Nick's body against his felt honest, heavy and hot and eager.

He let himself enjoy that for a few minutes, the honest sensations of flesh and fucking, before it twisted around in his mind, and reality slipped out from under his feet. Nick's harsh pants began to sound totally different, taking on the breathy, candied tenor of Justin's delicate moans, and behind Chris' eyelids, the old videotape unspooled. The white bed giving way under Justin's knees, the wanton love-lust-love in his eyes as they met the camera, the wifebeater that bared his arms and his shoulders, not as heavy and strong as the body that Chris had later on become mostly accustomed to touching, but lightly contoured with muscle. Justin, as he was in the earliest days of their fame -- brave as hell, hungry, passionate and innocent at the same time. Justin, when he sang like it would save his life someday, and needed Chris like....

Back when he needed Chris.

Back when he was fifteen, and it seemed like no one had ever been friends like the two of them before.

"Yes, yes, yes," Chris heard himself murmuring, as Nick whimpered hotly into his collarbone. The pre-come was pooling against Chris' skin, over-lubricating them so that Nick's grinding became sliding, until he ground harder, jarring noisy breaths loose from Chris' mouth.

Nick kissed him when he came, a clumsy, unerotic kiss that crushed their noses together and scraped teeth against lips. Chris raised one shaky hand to take hold of Nick's disorganized spikes of hair, and he softened the kiss by force and persistence, turning it into something moist and heavy, like night-flowers. "Yes," Chris breathed again when they parted.

"See? What *you* get."

"What I get," Chris said again, turning it over speculatively. "And what do you get?"

Nick slid a rough thumb down Chris' cheek. "Not telling."

"I already know."

He snorted, hot breath on Chris' face. "You do, huh?"

"I think so, yeah." Chris was petting his hair absently, looking at the dimmed overhead light. "You and me, Nicky, we've got what you might call compatible neuroses. We both think we'd be happier if you were Justin."

Nick called him a son of a bitch and a stupid old fucker, and he squirmed around, but never quite built up to struggling. He gave up before long, his anger spent quickly, and he curled up against Chris, quivering and silent. "It's okay," Chris whispered into his hair. "It's okay. I'll tell you a secret: he's not that happy, either, anymore."

###

The bodyguards told her that Justin wasn't seeing anybody, and the first thing she said was, "He didn't mean *me.*" It wasn't a trick of any kind; she really just couldn't imagine that an edict like that could apply to her. He wasn't expecting her to be in town until the next night, so of course he hadn't spelled everything out for his staff, but she was early, and he would want to see her. It was just that simple, in Britney's mind.

Later on, she wished they'd kept her out. But Lonnie always liked her, and she must have looked so much like a kicked puppy, bounding happily off the elevator full of enthusiasm for this surprise visit, and then being disappointed so irrationally. She probably looked as crushed and confused as she felt, until Lonnie allowed as how Justin had never left instructions to keep his girl out before, so he wouldn't have tonight if he'd known she might be by.

Just that simple.

She didn't even recognize the man they let her in to see. It was as though her animal brain was so aware of the wrongness inside his penthouse room that it refused to link up the sight of him with the idea of Justin even in the slightest. The lights were all out, but the open window let in enough city lights to show that everything was out of order, furniture toppled over, the television lying on the floor, probably broken. He was sitting on the floor, curled over his knees with tension and misery in every line of him, and the smell of alcohol was strong enough to knock Britney, who only ever had a few glasses of wine at social events because her tolerance was so ridiculously low, physically backwards. "Oh, God," she breathed, and he quivered, but stayed wrapped in a defensive ball, not looking up toward her. Britney took a hesitant step forward, calling his name, and then, in a voice so light it fell apart in the middle, "Baby?"

He turned his head then, his cheek against his knees, his eyes vague and glassy from the booze. "Britney? Are you here?"

Kneeling down beside him, Britney found herself almost afraid to touch him, but she made herself do it, wrapping her arm loosely around him. "Baby, you're gonna make yourself so sick. Why don't you get in bed, okay?"

"I can't breathe."

"I'm here," she said automatically, even though what he'd said wasn't *I can't breathe without you,* magic words between the two of them, something they shared. Just *I can't breathe.*

Justin twisted closer to her, grabbing and holding Britney in a way that was both strangely intrusive and a deep relief. She petted his back gingerly, still not quite able to process that this was *him,* her invincible Justin. "What's the matter with me?"

"You're just not feeling well. You're just drunk. Come on, I want you to go to bed for me. Okay?"

"He's cheating on me. I don't know...why."

"I don't know why, either, sweetie."

He didn't cry, but Britney did. Not real crying, exactly, but her eyes welled up until she couldn't see through the haze, and the tears didn't fall in drops, but in a slow, seeping wetness that caught in her eyelashes. She rocked him back and forth, whispering his name, and all the time all she could think was, *Does he know me -- right now, does he really know who I am?*

Britney thought probably not. He was drunk, he was hurt. He didn't know much right now. And she was fairly sure he wouldn't have cast his relationship with Chris -- of course he was talking about Chris; she never thought otherwise -- in quite that light, if he'd been thinking of her in specific terms. She was probably just a presence to him right now, warm and indulgent, sympathetic to his situation. Justin was usually just not that...stupid.

So of course it wasn't something he could help now. He was drunk, he was hurt. He'd never been stupid or hurtful on purpose before; she didn't really think Justin had it in him.

It frightened Britney, to think that even for a moment, he could forget who and what she was to him. That was worse, much worse, than being confronted with evidence of what she'd already known about Justin -- that he was possessive, that he was never happy being second to anyone in any way, and that he could never say no to anyone who plied him with love and devotion. His mother, his fans, his bandmates (except for Joey, of course, and Britney didn't think anyone but her fully understood how badly Justin took it when that source of love dried up and vanished, how it left a wound that didn't seem to be healing itself with time), his girlfriend. And of course Chris most of all, because -- really -- wasn't he all of those things, to Justin?

Britney didn't know, and didn't by any means *want* to know, exactly what "cheating" meant to Justin, under his circumstances and in his state, but she understood the heart of things. There was another player on the scene, a competitor for Chris' silent, attentive adoration -- and someone who was a formidable competitor, in Justin's mind, more even than Dani had been. That seemed strange; Chris had loved Danielle so much. Britney wasn't sure what could come along that would be more intimidating.

"I've never loved anyone but you," she promised him. That made her *someone,* didn't it? Not all things to him -- no one could ever be that, Britney didn't think -- but someone special, someone not to be forgotten.

"I need him."

"Baby, baby. You need everybody."

"I love you."

Britney had one surreal flash of distance from the situation, as though she were watching the two of them on television -- two half-grown, white-trash Southerners, married too young and too full of demands on each other, appearing on Jerry Springer to bawl and complain. He's always running around, falling in love -- she can't give me enough of what I need, she should be there for me and she never is. Britney thought that she would be the sympathetic one in that episode, and that the audience would urge her to get rid of unreliable goods.

But there was always a falseness associated with the distance between audience and performer; Britney knew that better than anyone. This was not a thing that she was watching on television. This was real, and infinitely more complicated, and nobody would be getting rid of anybody anytime soon.

I'm a slave 4 U, she thought dreamily, as she rocked Justin in her arms. God, she loved him. Selfish, foolish, vulnerable, insecure, jealous, spoiled. It didn't matter. Justin needed everybody, and it was bound to break his heart sooner or later. Britney needed only him, and that was bound to break hers, too. Didn't matter at all.

"He'll come back to you," she promised, crooning it softly into his ear. "Don't you worry, my darlin'. Don't worry about it. He loves you. Everybody loves you. Everybody loves you."

###

Engrossed in the game, Chris jumped a little when a hand fell on the back of his neck, and he pushed his slipping glasses higher up on his nose with the back of his hand to cover for it. "Whatcha doing?" Justin asked.

"Just, um -- playing."

"Are you gonna kill the lizard guy?"

"No, the lizard guy's my -- friend. He's on my side," Chris clarified. He knew that if he looked up at Justin, there would be guilt splattered all over his face, all the twisted guilt that he did and didn't and did feel like a tangle of snakes in his stomach ninety percent of the time now. He looked at his bedspread, at the holes worn in the knees of his oldest jeans, at the bedroom that was theoretically his, but that hardly felt like much more than another hotel room. Anywhere but at Justin.

< KARMADAWG: still there? >

One of Chris' thumbs jerked, responding instinctively to the dialogue box, but it felt impossible, the way the rest of his fingers were stiff and heavy. He stared blankly at the computer screen.

< KARMADAWG: HEY YOU you coming back r what? >

"I think your lizard's talking to you," Justin said.

"I don't think with my lizard," Chris joked -- or it would have been a joke, except that Justin didn't get it, and Chris didn't think it was funny.

There was something stony and unfamiliar in Justin's soft voice as he straightened up, saying, "Wrap this up. I got some things to ask you."

His words sprung full-formed onto the screen when Chris hit enter, hanging there in blue. < TRICK3964: sorry. do this later? >

The response wasn't immediate, but it appeared. < KARMADAWG: yeah When later? tonite?>

< TRICK3964: where are you? time zone? >

< KARMADAWG: Seattle >

< TRICK3964: Im in Fla. late here. call you tomorrow? >

< KARMADAWG: tomorrow's bad. email me your schedule, k? >

"Tell him I said *hi.*"

Chris looked over his shoulder, but Justin was standing by the window, too far out of the glow of Chris' laptop screen to give away any expression. < TRICK3964: JT says hi. >

He expected questions with no answers, or none that Chris knew, but after a long pause, the only message Chris got back was, < KARMADAWG: dizzy w excitement. _THE_ JT? >

< TRICK3964: yuk yuk. have to go. >

< KARMADAWG: whipped bitch >

< TRICK3964: bitter skank >

< KARMADAWG: save the sweet talk for next time >

< TRICK3964: check your email, delinquent. You always forget. >

< KARMADAWG: won't forget. kiss his ass once for me. >

< TRICK3964: peace >

"So what was it you wanted to ask me?" Chris said, after he'd logged off and shut down his computer.

"What's he like in bed?"

Mesmerized, Chris watched Justin pick up a toy from the top of his dresser and turn it over and over in his hands -- a *Where the Wild Things Are* monster that JC had given him two Christmases ago. He wished for more light, or just that he was better at this -- anything to help him find his way through the storm front of unreadable emotions roiling off of Justin. "What...?"

"Don't fuck me around, Chris. I *saw* you. I saw you, in Washington, in the hotel, in the fucking hallway! What were you even *thinking,* the fucking *hallway!* God, even Lance is more careful than that."

Chris closed his eyes. He didn't remember thinking much of anything. He remembered opening the door to let Nick out, and being surprised at how bad his face looked under the harsh fluorescent lights, puffy in some places and sunken in others, dominated by the strange crackle of his paranoid eyes. He remembered touching the back of his fingers lightly to Nick's chest and saying, Knock this Keith Richards shit off, rock star; it don't look too great on you. He remembered Nick's surprise, and then his thin, reluctant smile, and they'd kissed each other. It was a secured hotel. Chris hadn't seen anybody else in the hall.

"I just don't get it. I just don't get it." His voice jagged randomly back and forth between plaintive and belligerent. "When did this start? Why didn't you tell anybody? What's he, what's he, what does he fucking do for you, what does he do that I, that you think I won't do? How can you, with him, with anyone, but not with me? Why the *fuck* not with me?" His voice spiked up fiercely, and he slammed the toy back down in its place. "Goddammit, with *him,* too. I don't even *like* him."

"*You're* not dating him," Chris snapped back, and the words seemed to hang unnaturally in the air, like a shot from *The Matrix.*

"So...is that what this is? You're -- dating him?"

"No. No, I'm just -- it's just -- a thing. One of those things. It's nothing."

"Tell me what it's like."

"Tell you -- what *what's* like?"

Justin swept his hands out vaguely in front of him. "Nick. You two. Tell me what you guys do, what it's like."

"J, I'm not--"

He clasped his hands together behind his head, and Chris could see the strained tension through his arms and down his body, even just by his silhouette against the window. "I can't handle this. I'm not cool with this. Don't tell me it's none of my business; everyone else said it was none of my business, but that's not good enough. That doesn't help."

*Everyone else.* Fucking great. "It's nothing," Chris gritted out. "It's a hell of a lot less than what you and Brit have going these days."

Justin pounced forward, his hands splayed flat on the foot of Chris' bed, his body bent into a graceful, predatory crouch. "I went to you first, you know."

"Justin, first to fuck you doesn't mean jack shit except first to get left by you."

"*Tell me what he does to you!*"

"Would you get a fucking grip on yourself? What the hell is *wrong* with you lately, Justin? When did you get so...so *high-strung?*"

"What the hell is wrong with *me?* What the hell is wrong with the *world!* Half of Manhattan is a charcoal briquette, I got sued for no reason, our stage almost cut Joey's head off, the whole free world wants to see me marry Britney, CNN declared me dead, I lost my book contract, Bobbi doesn't want JC, you don't want me, and Lance and Joe don't want each other! Nothing is supposed to be going like this, and I'm sick of waking up every morning wondering what's fucking next! I just need something back the way it was. Anything. *Something* I can go back to believing in."

There was definitely something of an attack in the way Justin came at him -- which maybe meant there was something of a suicide in the way that Chris stretched toward him, catching Justin's lunging weight in his arms, opening his mouth eagerly under Justin's. The impact and the thrill caught him like a thunderclap in between, leaving Chris deaf and mindless, borne down to his back by Justin's body, Justin's warped force of will, and Justin's insatiable hungers. He thought he cried out into Justin's mouth, the sound following the rough track of Justin's hands up his stomach and chest and neck.

"Don't stop me," Justin said as he pulled off Chris' t-shirt. "Just this one time, just please don't make me stop."

"Just this one time," Chris repeated hoarsely, not sure if it was his condition to Justin, or his reminder to himself.

And it hurt -- Jesus Haploid Christ it hurt. There was lube, Chris didn't know where *that* came from, but it was too fast, too sudden. But then, it had hurt for a long time with Nick, too, for the first five or six times. With Nick, the pain itself, and the shame that was its Siamese twin, had been something to hang on to; it had, in its own way, eased him into all the places he'd been most terrified to go. Getting fucked by Justin was a lot more of a free-for-all, a mob scene of tearing pain and slamming pleasure, shame and despair and bliss and relief.

He was screaming before long, all the different shades of layered sensation shattering into dust like a stained glass window being blown inward, screaming when he wasn't being ripped to pieces by the brutal slice of Justin's tongue through his mouth. His fingers found the faintly slippery texture of the tattoo on Justin's ass that *Twist* subscribers dreaded and dreamed of, and he yanked Justin closer, letting the thrust of Justin's strong, smooth body against his hammer Chris' fears and disappointments into something easier to live with. Justin was a fucking alchemist of pain, able to turn it beautiful with his voice, able to make it bearable with his body. The one thing Justin had never been able to do was hold back.

Their orgasms came one hard on the heels of another, blurring so seamlessly together that Chris got confused and couldn't remember which of them came first. Any more than he could remember his phone number, his birthday, or who the President was. He let his fingers stroke heavily over the wisps of curls at the back of Justin's head, where his hair was starting to grow longer again, but he didn't offer any resistance when Justin lifted his head up, his lips leaving Chris' with a quiet slurping sound that was equal parts amusing and erotic.

"I have to choose between you, don't I?" Justin whispered, and something about the sound of his voice or the touch of his breath sent a hard shudder through Chris' sensitized body.

"Not really," Chris said gently, running his hand down Justin's cheek. "Not *between* us. You just have to...make some choices."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Chris swallowed once, twice. He thought about free will for a second, about keeping his goddamn mouth shut, about the way Justin used to swagger and swear that no one else would ever make his decisions again, he'd live his own life, end of fucking story. He swallowed again, and reminded himself that Justin said a lot of things. Funny how life only started to go really wrong when Chris started trying to listen. "I've never seen anybody dick around this much trying to break up with a girl in my life. What the hell are you waiting for, *Twist* to tell you it's okay?"

Justin shook his head. "It's not that simple, man. I love her."

Christ, he probably did. "Who you carrying that lube around for, calendar boy?"

He looked startled for a minute, and guilty for an even shorter flash, and then his beautiful lips set in a straight, unbeautiful line, and he said, "Trace," like a dare. His eyes were scared. Guiltily (but not but yes but not), Chris caught himself thinking about Nick, and how he never gave anything away with his eyes. How things might be different between them if he could.

Twisting his neck awkwardly, Chris tipped his head down, letting one hand cover one of Justin's hands as it lay braced on the mattress, and placed a kiss over Justin's heart. His forehead came to rest on Justin's shoulder and he said, "It's time to do the grown-up thing, J."

"Which is *what?*"

"What you can live with. Whatever you can live with."

###

"You okay?"

"I look that bad, huh?"

"You don't look that bad. I thought...."

"Thanks."

"Don't be...I didn't mean "

"No, I meant it. Thanks. That's nice. Of you to notice. You know."

"Do you want me to...?"

"To what? What are you going to do for me?"

"Fine, forget it."

"Joe."

"Forget it. I'll stay out of your hair."

"Joe. Stop."

"I can't. You don't think I tried? I can't."

"Can't...stop...?"

"Worrying about you."

"I'm all grown up, Joey. I can take care...of.... Don't. Joey, let go."

"You let go."

"*You* let go. You're the one going around...grabbing people."

"Seriously. Are you okay?"

"Dammit, I told you! I'm fine! I don't need "

"Take it anyway."

"Let go."

"You're my best friend."

"I know, just "

"Do you? You know?"

"Y-yes. I know."

"You believe me?"

"Sure."

"I am, you know."

"I *know.* God."

"I am."

"Okay."

"You believe me?"

"Joey. How long are we going to stand here doing this?"

"I'm good if you're good."

"I'm...better. This is...not. Not so bad. You know?"

"I know. I miss you."

"This *better* not be "

"It's not. It's really not. Kelly...."

"Yeah. Well. And Wade."

"Like I would forget."

"Are you laughing? You are. You're laughing."

"I love you, you know?"

"Oh, stop."

"No, I mean "

"I know what you mean. I know what you mean."

"Can we...stand here doing this...for just another second or two?"

"Joe...."

"No. Just because...."

"I know, but. Just let go. It's better."

"You let go."

"Joey! Dammit!"

"Are you laughing?"

"Not because of you, you big jerk. Just because...my life is so...."

"I know what you mean. Sometimes I miss the old days. How fucked up is that?"

"The old days weren't...terrible, or anything."

"The *old,* old days. I mean, with the track suits, and singing 'I Want You Back' two hundred times a day. They were kind of terrible."

"And kind of not."

"Yeah. Kind of not."

"Joey...I'm so sorry...all of.... It's all been so weird. So not what I wanted."

"I wish it happened different. I don't know how, exactly. But that's one thing I always wanted. I mean, for you to get...the things you wanted."

"You're sweet."

"Are you okay? Really?"

"I'm going to be okay. Really."

"Want me to let go now?"

"Yeah. In a second."

###

"Don't let me get in the way, okay?" Justin said. "I'm gonna just sit over here, and you tell me when you're done." Chris knew that was pretty much the end of his interview, which might really be a good thing.

There was an effort made, on Chris' part and the part of the reporter, but Justin being in the room just changed the...barometric pressure or something. It was only a matter of time.

"I *love* that one," Justin said. "You know, I actually bought that?"

"Really?" the reporter said, and Chris leaned back, satisfied that this press junket was more or less over.

"Oh, yeah. Actually, no. The one I bought didn't have the rivets, it had sequins in the shape of little safety pins. But other than that, I mean, it's the same basic style. It was a birthday present for Britney's sister; she wears it all the time."

There was a little more talk about fashion, but Chris spent most of it checking his text messages. None of them were very interesting. Finally, there was the ritual thanking for the sacrifice of time on all sides, and he was alone with Justin, who was wafting a videotape in front of his face. "The dailies from my Elton John shoot. You want to see? It rocks!"

"You get more queer with every passing day. You do know that, right?"

It could have prompted something really snide, but instead Justin just smiled amiably. He looked comfortable, confident. Bemused, Chris wondered if he should feel hurt that Justin barely spoke to him for a month, then turned up all of a sudden looking happier than he had all year. "Speaking of. Did you hear "

"*Yes,* I heard."

Justin sat on the desk, spinning Chris' wheeled chair with his foot. "What do you mean, you heard? You don't even know what I was going to ask you about."

He put his fingers to his temples like a psychic and made a face with his eyes shut. "You were going to ask me...if I heard about Nick."

"Charles the Brain-Child, you kick ass."

"Yes. I heard."

"You didn't have to bail him out or anything, did you?"

"Of course I didn't have to bail him out."

"Did he call you?"

"You're way too interested in this."

"I'm your best friend, am I not?"

What a theory. But for once, the Justin in front of him looked a lot like the one he remembered, full of bounce and static, careless and gorgeous and utterly self-centered. As in, *centered.* "I keep reading that."

"So I can take a friendly interest in your boy, can I not?"

"First, stop doing that end-with-a-question thing. Second, he is not my boy. I can tell because if he was my boy, he would have called me, and I wouldn't have heard about it from Lance, who heard about it on the Z106 Morning Zoo."

"Bitter, bitter."

"Hey. I'm vulnerable."

"Stop, you're turning me on." Justin tried to spin his chair in the opposite direction, and Chris grabbed his ankle to block. "Watch the tape with me," Justin wheedled. "I want to know if you think it works." Chris nodded dumbly.

"How does Britney feel about you dropping her name in interviews, still?" It had to be Britney, right? Somehow, Justin had finally found something he was looking for, and the breakup was the only big new thing in his life lately, as far as Chris knew. It had to be that.

Justin shrugged. "It's not, like...an official breakup, exactly."

"Uh-huh. Like it's not an official solo album?"

He shrugged again, and looked down at the floor with that little smile that said he knew he was caught, and he sort of cared, but not a lot. "Like Joey's engagement's not official, and you're not officially dating Nick. We all suck, so get off my ass."

"The battle cry of our friendship." And suddenly, Chris didn't care what was causing this new sense of freedom that seemed to glow through Justin. He liked the single life, he was following his bliss, there was a new sequel to The Four Agreements out. Who fucking knew? He just knew that he'd slept with this dumb son of a bitch, and now after the obligatory we-need-some-time-apart, it seemed like everything had changed. Which in this particular case...could work to everybody's advantage. "Meet me at my house, and I'll watch your gay video."

"Actually, it's one of those crazy singing videos the kids are watching."

"I *love* those. Almost as much as the gay ones."

"Let's not get crazy. Nothing tops the gay ones."

"Oh, my God. The sheer weight of potential jokes is causing my skull to collapse in on itself."

"You need a designated driver or something?"

"I need to hire somebody to make these jokes for me. Like a designated jerk-off. I mean, I'm a busy guy, here."

"Yeah, busy being my designated jerk-off. Come *on.* Video? Me?"

Freedom, Chris thought again. They were free of so much, all of a sudden a few years' worth of built-up obligations and doubts and longing. They could practically just float the fuck away. Chris didn't think he'd ever appreciated sky-eyed optimism back when they all actually had it only looking back after it was gone.

So learn from it, right? He'd already learned that he liked Justin best when he wasn't afraid of what the world might think, and slowly but surely, it seemed like Justin was on his way back toward that again. And how did Chris like himself best? As best he could remember, it was back when loving Justin meant pushing him around. Someone had to treat him like the snot-nosed little pup he was, after all. "Justin Timberlake, you are a soulless, no-talent rodent, and you can't sing. Unless you buy me breakfast."

"Then I can sing?"

"Then you have a soul."

He seemed to think that over for a minute. "But I don't have one now, right?"

"Um. No. But check next month's issue."

"Wow." He looked actually worried about the idea. As an actor, sometimes Justin really blew chunks, and sometimes he was almost eerily good. You never quite knew until it happened. "Sounds like it's going to be a hard month."

Chris stood up and wrapped his hands around Justin's bicep, pulling him off the desk. "J, sweet thing," he said, "trust me. You'll live."

end


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