It had happened to all of them at one time or another. Justin probably got it the worst, Joey thought, but then he was the most obvious. A charming, handsome young man, who sang and danced to light teeny-bopper pop beats and was a fantasy to millions of crying, hysterical fourteen-year-old girls. He wore flashy, expensive clothing and jewelry, and he smiled brightly from a thousand magazine centerfolds and foldouts, and so he became the easiest target for criticism, the most convenient one of them to stereotype. The easiest to dismiss.

Justin definitely got it the worst, Joey thought, and that was probably why Justin and Wade had written 'Pop' together. It was a defense of Justin's entire existence, right there.

JC had it hard, as well, and for mostly the same reasons. But JC was older than Justin, those critical five years between them translating into a lifetime's worth of maturity and poise. JC didn't think it was true when they were talked down to as a boyband, and he didn't believe the critics when they spoke out against pop music. He had the confidence in himself to ignore their naysayers and do what he loved, unruffled by the attention.

Besides, JC was far more into the creative aspect of music than the performance. Not that he didn't like to perform, but the adoration of crowds of anonymous fans mattered less than the pure joy of the music he created. And it was hard, Joey thought, to deny the creative impulses of a man who routinely put out close to a dozen songs a day, scribbled down on napkins and notebooks and stationary pads from a thousand forgotten hotel rooms.

Chris had a difficult time in a different way, precisely because he was the oldest, Joey thought. Chris was supposed to be the mature one, after all, and here he was singing and dancing for the gratification of an age group almost twenty years younger than he was. A twenty-nine year old man hanging on the walls of a twelve-year-old's pink, lacy bedroom.

But Chris was okay like JC was okay, because really, neither of them gave a shit. JC was quieter and more subtle about it, but Chris was more than willing to make a scene in order to enjoy himself. Chris was his own, and for the most part he was happy that way.

Compared to the rest of them, Lance had it pretty easy. For some reason Lance was saved by his upbringing--he was a good country boy who listened to Garth and Shania, who went to church, who had a mom that taught school. He could be as flamboyant as JC when he wanted to, and the press wasn't exactly forgiving, but somehow he got away with it; he was a superstar like Justin, but far more comfortable in his fame, more at ease with the blurred line between their public and private life. Even his sense of humor, pointed and sarcastic as it could be, was subtler and less visible than Chris's pranks and wisecracks. Lance was his own, as well.

So Lance managed to dodge a lot of the flack that the others were hit with, and Joey knew that Justin, in particular, would sometimes go into a room with him, just the two of them. Ten minutes later they would come back out, and Justin would look calmer, less drawn, his eyes peaceful and bright again. Lance was a grounding force for Justin, nearly the same age and coming into his maturity with a quiet confidence Joey knew Justin sometimes wished he could match. Lance was good for Justin.

Joey knew that he himself was something of a wild card. He was goofy, like Chris; and built heavier than the elegant prettyboys of the group, like Lance; he was a flirt, like Justin when he wasn't paying attention; and he was deeply passionate about music, like JC. Joey was the one you couldn't hear in the mixes, and he wasn't a heartthrob, but he had his own small core group of fans, devoted and enthusiastic. Every concert would have another gaggle of girls with "I HEART Joey" on their signs, or t-shirts, or faces.

And maybe that was why he was the only one who was struck by the slings and arrows of their outrageous fortune less than Lance. Justin would ask him why, sometimes, and Joey couldn't give him any answer that would make sense. Just kept him close when the fans or the press got too rabid, and talked with him about stuff that no one else cared about like they five of them did, like bus cooking, and dogs, and cars, and JC's songs, and love.

Especially love.

So at night, when Justin came back from the shower warm and damp, smelling of mint toothpaste and soap and steam, he would slide into Joey's arms with a tired smile and a soft, simple kiss. And Joey would hold him tight, and remind him of how much he was loved, by the fans, by the press, by the group. By Joey.

Justin got it the most, after all, and so Joey took it away.

~end~