The ride back to the hotel was silent. It was raining, and the wet streets gleamed with miniature oil slicks and *shushed* softly under the wheels of the limo. The roar of the crowd still echoed in the purr of the engine. Another day, another dollar, JC thought unenthusiastically, feeling the heavy pull of sleep lie in wait behind his eyes, and glanced around at his exhausted bandmates.

There was no such thing as an easy concert, JC reflected, but the concert tonight had been absolutely brutal. The air conditioning in the arena had gone on the fritz during their rehearsal, and the combined body heat of thirty thousand people had turned the atmosphere into a choking smog. For the fans, it had been uncomfortable, but for the group, dancing on stage, it had been murder.

Trapped under the spotlights, with makeup and the bulky microphone packs and full-length costumes and pyrotechnics everywhere, it was hard to even breathe, much less sing. They guzzled down gallons of cold water every chance they got and gasped for precious air during songs. Their costumes were soaked through with sweat, and JC was glad he wasn't the one who had to wash them tonight.

Justin, already half-asleep on Chris, had had a particularly rough time tonight--he was still getting over last week's bout of stomach flu, so he was a bit weak and shaky, although he hid it well onstage. Then one of the girls from the Just Got Paid number had been all over him, to the point where Security had to move in for real and get her off stage. Justin had torn his shirt half-off trying to get away, and went through the rest of the concert with a wary, nervous self-consciousness that was utterly unlike his usual aplomb.

To make the situation even worse, a fan had thrown a fuzzy stuffed dog on stage with "I Love Justin" on the collar. The maintenance people hadn't it spotted in time to remove it during the four-minute break. Lance had tripped over it during Digital Getdown and twisted his ankle badly, and had limped all through Bye Bye Bye with a grim, pained expression and his vocals a third too high, staggering visibly on the stomps.

Lance was almost asleep as well, laying across the back of the limo with his feet in JC's lap and his head loose against the window, brow furrowed and a flash of white teeth leaving marks in his lower lip. JC found his hand and rubbed the palm soothingly, and Lance dredged up enough awareness to smile, eyes still closed.

"How is it?" JC asked, looking at the snug wrapping around Lance's foot and ankle, stroking it gently.

"Mmmm. Hurts," Lance mumbled sleepily. He roused slightly, enough to give JC a reassuring look. "It'll be okay, though. Don't stop," he added, and JC put his hand back, moving his hand up and down with slow sweeps.

The limo pulled up in the hotel driveway, and JC sighed and nudged Lance's legs out of his lap. "Come on, everyone," he said softly, and saw Justin stir. "We're here."

"Thank God," said Chris with real relief, as he dragged himself out of the limo, then helped Joey get Justin out as well. JC helped Lance out, then he and Joey supported him as he hobbled into the hotel lobby.

The elevator took forever, and Justin was sleeping again by the time it arrived--Chris finally gave up keeping him awake and upright and gave him over to Joey, who hoisted Justin easily into his arms, Justin's bony knees in the air and his feet sticking out to the side. His height suddenly became length, filling the space in front of the elevator, squeezing the rest of them up against the ornate brass planters and marble columns.

JC found a smile somewhere at the sight, and wished for a camera. Big bad Justin Timberlake, pop sensation, out like a light and being carried to bed.

He didn't blame him, though, and it was sheer willpower that was keeping him on his own increasingly unsteady feet. The shows made such incredible demands of energy and endurance every time, and they always pushed themselves hard to make it work. Some nights the exhaustion was balanced by the adrenaline rush, and the intensity would have them up for hours clubbing or hanging out or fooling around with girlfriends or groupies or each other, but not tonight. Tonight, all JC wanted to do was get into a bed and spend the next twelve hours there. He suspected that he wasn't the only one.

He felt Lance's arms come around his waist, a head rested on his shoulder. Lance's sigh stirred the hair at the nape of his neck, and a tongue traced a slow pattern across his skin. "Tired," he mumbled, and JC wrapped his arms over Lance's, bracing his legs to take Lance's weight, taking pleasure in the firm pressure at his back.

"You can sleep soon," he promised, and the elevator arrived with a welcome *ding.*

The dream twisted, expanded, exploded in a blaze of white-hot color, and JC jerked awake, breathing hard and heart pounding, staring at the ceiling blankly. After a second he closed his eyes again, forced himself to relax, breathe deeply. He woke up a lot like this, his dreams so vivid it was like he sometimes just had to escape them. He was used to them by now.

Beside him Lance was snoring peacefully, undisturbed. He'd been sleeping with JC too long to be bothered by JC's dreams any more, and JC didn't mind. If he needed to talk he knew he could wake Lance up.

But he was fine. This one wasn't so bad, just weird. And suddenly he was thirsty, terribly thirsty, which was normal, too--the dreams often made him thirsty, especially when he'd been performing and was dehydrated anyway. He slipped out of the bed, scratching his side absently as he padded across to the tiny refrigerator under the desk for a soda or something.

Nothing.

JC peered at the labels on the bottles inside and rolled his eyes. Jose Cuervo, Absolut, Jack Daniels, Bacardi. A jar of olives, a wizened lime. Three bottles of beer--a Bud and two import knockoffs he'd never heard of. Not even a tonic water to mix them with, he thought grumpily. Why, he wondered, does everyone assume we're going to drink like fishes just because we've got a record deal? He seldom really drank, and almost never when he was on tour. Plus alcohol wouldn't do anything to take care of his thirst--was actually more likely to make it worse.

Well, this was a problem. He went into the bathroom and found a glass, filled it with water from the tap, and then stared at it glumly. He knew he couldn't drink it. Not without ice. Lance teased him about it endlessly, but he just *couldn't* drink water that wasn't really cold. It wasn't *that* weird, he thought defensively, and put the glass down on the counter.

So. Ice. At, he checked his watch, four-fifteen in the morning. He groaned and almost decided against it, looking over where Lance was sleeping, his body a sleek relaxed line under the covers, marred only by the huge swollen lump down at the foot of the bed where his ankle was resting on a pillow. But his mouth was cottony and almost sore from thirst, and with a grumble he grabbed his room key and the ice bucket and let himself out into the quiet dim hall.

He was on his way back, hands going numb from holding the cheap plastic container, when it started.

At first he didn't know what was going on. The lights flickered and then went out, the nearest one scattering a shower of sparks over the carpet. He jumped and swore as some of them landed on his bare feet, then jerked when the alarm began, a high-pitched teeth-grinding sound that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Red lights began flashing at the ends of the hall. A nearby hiss, and suddenly the corridor was blurred, stinging icy drops of water striking him, soaking into his hair and spattering across his arm, his face. He squinted, looking up, and saw a nozzle in the ceiling spraying water to puddle on the floor. He was soaked to the skin in seconds, and the water was foul, ominous and dark and everywhere. His feet squelched in the drenched carpet.

He smelled smoke.

Time seemed to play games after that.

Suddenly the hall was full of people, who had appeared from nowhere and thronged through the space around him, and then vanished as quickly, screams and shouts echoing oddly in the heat-shimmering air. Doors slammed, and he flattened himself to the wall to avoid being crushed. He knew he should go with them, get out, but he couldn't make himself move, trembling against the wall.

He couldn't see the others anywhere. And he wasn't leaving until he knew where they were.

The air was alive, crying out like something was dying. The heat was intense, and he could see tiny flamelets now, spreading by some strange osmosis through the air, springing up all around him. He shielded his eyes from the mist of water in the air, felt his the bare skin of his arms and legs start to feel tight and sore, like a sunburn, and goosepimpled with cold where the water cascaded across it. The water pooled by his feet was warm, though.

He refused to think about why. He just couldn't think about that right now. Not if he was going to stay strong.

He was scared. He hadn't cried in years, but he felt a tear escape his blinking eyes to get lost in the water on his cheek, and he swiped at his face with a shaking hand.

It was less than ten seconds later someone bumped into him, then grabbed his arm hard and he heard a startled noise rise over the overwhelming roar of the fire. Turning, he saw Chris, a shocky-looking and disheveled Justin behind him. JC thought he yelled something in return, and felt more tears sneak out as he clung tight to them both for a long second, although the sprinklers were still going, dousing them all. He'd blame it on that, if they asked.

A shout, and Joey was with them, the only one wearing shoes, with a soaking-wet shirt wrapped around his head and dripping water down his bare chest.

Chris was shouting, and JC couldn't tell what he was saying--Lance? Something about--where was Lance, he was asking, over and over. JC felt an sharp stab in his chest when he realized Chris thought Lance was out, was safe, was with JC.

"He's still there," he yelled back, shaking his head frantically, pointing down the hall to their room, and only realizing when he moved his arm that he was still carrying the ice bucket, now melted to slush. Chris nodded, eyes dark and glittering in the uncertain light, and grabbed the bucket away from him. "Can't have too much," he said shortly, and sloshed handfuls of water over JC and Justin's hair and shoulders, dumping the rest over himself. Then he threw it aside, grabbed JC's hand, and they were moving, Joey grabbing his free hand with a wet, slippery palm, Justin close at his back.

The hallway was like a scene out of Dante--scorching heat making the air dance and glisten with oily smears of smoke, flickers of fire casting crazed shadows on the walls. The lights were out, and only firelight and the throbbing red pulse of the emergency lights illuminated the way. The fire alarm screamed like hell itself.

Some doors glowed, encrusted with embers, and others were burning sullenly. Chris led the way through the hot, close darkness, searching for the room Lance and JC had been sharing, with JC's hand on his arm, and the rest following them closely. JC counted down doors, looking looking looking god where *was* it...there.

Their door.

On fire.

The door was a mask of flames, and smoke feathered out along the edges. The doorknob almost glowed with heat. Chris stopped short, a horrified look on his face--Justin moaned, as though he'd been gut-punched. JC closed his eyes, and Joey swore helplessly, sounding stricken. There was no way they could get to Lance, and no way for Lance to open the door from the inside. But Joey was already moving, while the rest of them were frozen.

"Move back," Joey said harshly. Puzzled, in shock, they did what he said, and he quickly took his soggy shirt off his head and wrapped it around his shoulders. Then he backed up, judging the distance, bounced lightly, and hit the ground running.

The door shuddered under the impact of one hundred-eighty plus pounds of muscle, toned by years of grueling dance practices, and made desperate by fear. Joey staggered, then slowly backed up, his face pale and set, burned red where the fire had singed it. He crouched, tensed, and charged the door again.

This time there was a crack. Grim and narrow-eyed, Joey rammed the door for a third time. There was a sharp *crack* as the stressed wood gave way, and then with a final kick it was down, and the inside of Lance's room was clearly visible. Filled with flames, and the smoke poured out, thick and black.

"Lance!" JC yelled, crowding as close to the doorway as he dared. Justin joined him, while Chris helped Joey put out some of the embers that had caught in his clothes. "Lance!"

"I'm here!" they heard dimly, a deep voice that somehow managed to be heard over the roar of the fire, unmistakably relieved, unmistakably Lance. "Get out of the way!" They immediately did as he said, and a second later Lance vaulted the downed door, landing awkwardly in the hallway on his bad foot and crashing into the far wall before he could stop. He was red-faced and soaking wet and his clothes were blackened with soot, but he was alive, gasping for air, coughing hard as he leaned against the wall for support.

Immediately he was surrounded, JC hugging him tightly, smelling Lance's warm scent underneath the stench of fire and smoke and grime, feeling Joey's shaking arms around them both, with Justin and Chris pressed close against Lance's back. Surrounded by fire, trapped in the hotel--but at least they were together again. Safe.

The stairwell was pitch-black and hot, but the air was cleaner than the hall and that was all they cared about. It had taken them almost five endless minutes to find one not blocked with fire, following the rapidly thinning flow of people until they saw a distant, blessedly-clear Exit sign. To JC, it seemed like a lifetime.

Chris led the way again, and JC and Justin supported Lance as they took the stairs as quickly as they dared. Lance clutched at Justin and JC's arms so tightly it hurt, and staggered onwards, eyes wide with pain and fear. Joey's hand was warm and fisted tight in JC's shirt, Justin's free hand held to Chris with frantic strength. Unbreakable, JC thought in a momentary flash of lucidity. They were unbreakable. The thought, and their hands on his body, kept him going.

Twenty-four stories, two flights of stairs to a story, ten stairs to a flight--the numbers built up in JC's head, and he tried to keep track of where they were, how far they had left to go. People moved past them, jostled them, but they stuck close, refused to let go of each other, and finally JC felt fresh air on his face, a cool breeze scented with rain and smoke, and he was staggering from concrete to grass. It hit him like a brick wall, cool water on his face, Lance wild-eyed and biting his lip so hard it drew blood beside him, gripping him with desperate hands.

They were outside.

Chris was laughing, only slightly hysterically, Joey holding him tight, and Justin was breathing hard and shaking like he'd just done the world's toughest concert, twice over. Tears running down his face, and he hugged everyone, Joey and Chris and JC and Lance and the firemen who ran up to them and guided them away from the building, cloaked in flame and burning bright as day.

People surrounded them, crying and shouting and just drifting aimlessly in nightgowns and pajamas and soot-streaked uniforms, but they were just noise. All he could see was the other guys, all he could feel was the imprint of their hands on him. The building behind them burned in eerie silence, and he ignored it. It didn't matter now.

JC buried his face in Lance's shoulder as they stumbled away, felt him warm and solid under him, and took a deep breath.

Smoke and fire and charred wood and the reek of burned paint and crying in the night, scorched fabric and sticky tears down his face...

And Lance.

Joey. Chris. Justin.

And he knew he was safe.

~end~