one

The radio was on, top twenty countdown. JC sang along, Nick drowsing on his lap. He threaded his fingers through Nick's fringe and combed it out over and over. JC's hair was mussed, standing in spikes on the back of his head. Nick reached up, sleepy-warm, and ran his palm over them, closed his hand on JC's neck. Broad hand and gentle fingers and for a while, JC leaned back and closed his eyes.

The sun was shining, the light striping the bed. They didn't have anywhere they had to be for an hour. The song changed to one of his, and Nick joined in, hitting Justin's notes perfectly. JC could feel the curve of his mouth when he leaned down to kiss him.

Later, when the shouting was all over, and he was in the back of a limo with Justin's hand on his thigh, JC thought that he should've told him. Told Nick what he felt. The way he'd almost wanted to cry that morning, that Nick was golden, light and sunshine, everything beautiful and wholesome and pure.

Except that was the kind of thing Nick would have said. Mixing the words up and saying the kind of cheap sentiment that belonged in greeting cards and crappy ballads. Saying it with steady blue eyes and shy kisses and everything, everything ended up fucked anyway.

When Justin kissed him, he returned it. Dirty tongue and a shimmy that was practised, expert. Justin whispered his name and his eyes were a darker shade of pale; he was muscled beauty and desperate love. Just the same. JC whispered, "I love you" and Justin's face lit up like a kid's.

He was happy. Really. He'd always loved Justin, he'd always wanted this. It just took a little longer to get here.

They had tables next to each other. Chris shuffled placenames and JC sat down carefully. Folded his napkin out and folded it over again. Under the tablecloth, Justin held his hand. Everything was white and silver and stiff, expensive flowers wilting in the center of each table. Lance leaned over and whispered that Sting was five tables down. He nodded. His throat hurt.

Nick and Christina went up to present one of the awards. Nick was wearing blue, shiny bright blue. He smiled and waved a lot. Christina was tiny and fierce, dressed in candyfloss pink, and she read the envelope. Every now and then, Nick leaned down to the mike and said "Great!" or "Yeah!"

Justin didn't say anything. JC stared at the other end of the stage, the wings where a woman in a red too-tight dress waited with the award. The applause started, and she walked briskly on stage and gave it over to Nick who handed it to some guy in a tux, someone small and plain because really. Everyone else was. JC thought this and looked down at his plate. Half a buttered bun and a salmon steak. He wasn't hungry.

"Look, just fuck off, okay? I only want to talk to him."

"Mr Chasez is busy, sir."

"This is, this is about Justin, right? Is he around?"

The voices dropped and JC couldn't make them out anymore. His hands were shaking and he put them between his knees and studied the sequins embroidered there.

There was a knock on the door. He undid the latch and opened it. Don said quietly, "I can get rid of him, if you want."

JC cleared his throat. "No. No, it's okay. Give me a couple of minutes. Is -"

"Not yet. Should be another twenty minutes downstairs."

JC nodded and opened the door further. Nick didn't say anything, just pushed past him into the room. When JC closed the door, his hands shook too much to put the latch back on.

"You've lost weight," Nick said.

JC folded his arms. He knew he had, but he's been yelled at about it plenty. Dancing left him exhausted, the smoking was wrecking his voice, and at night - he was thinner than Justin. Their bones knocked at each other, and Justin liked to turn him over, to rub his palm against them and trace the lines they made under his skin.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"You're so thin," Nick said and gathered him up in a hug. They were almost the same height, just a little more on Nick so JC's head rested against his neck, his mouth against Nick's jaw, breathing him in as Nick held him close. Lifting him up almost, soft skin and muscle underneath, and the sensation of coming home. Being home again.

JC closed his eyes because he was crying and if he didn't shut his mouth and grind his teeth together, he'd start sobbing.

When they let go, he kept his hands on Nick's arms, kept holding on. Nick said slowly, "I'm glad I never got onto the Mickey Mouse Club. I've been thinking about it a lot."

"Yeah?" JC said. They hadn't talked much. Long, rambling conversations, the two of them going sideways with plenty of pauses and incoherence. "Like some freaky dork code," Chris had said, when he was the only one who knew about them.

Nick nodded. "Yeah. Because I hated Europe. And a lot of things. You know. But I think if maybe I didn't go there, I couldn't have come here. And I'd rather be here than any place. Even when I have to go."

There were a lot of good reasons. JC had them written down in Lance's neat handwriting on a piece of hotel stationary. Pros and cons, the tabloid photographs clipped out and stapled together. The pictures of him and Nick leaving the restaurant, laughing. Hands brushing because they were both too well trained to hold hands. Justin's letter, all seven pages of begging and raging and the words he heard every night now.

He'd gotten rid of everything else. Boxed it up and made Chris call Howie. Handed over the boxes silently and then he stopped thinking about that. Except, he wondered sometimes if Nick would return his things the same way. If he'd open his door and see Chris or Joey standing there with a box in their arms, pity on their faces.

Everything was gone. Johnny knew, and most of the expensive Jive suits. Extra PR at their interviews and a quiet talk about his clothes. Bobbee pencilled in for every public appearance. Everyone had been relieved when Justin started sleeping in his room. Nothing unusual about them together in public.

Nick kissed him. One on his forehead. One on the tip of his nose. One on his mouth. Dry, soft kisses. "I have to go," he said. He kissed JC again. "I have to go."

"Nightingales," JC managed. His throat hurt so much.

"Larks," Nick said and kissed him one more time.

The door clicked shut and JC sat down slowly. He concentrated very hard on breathing. His chest hurt and he wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like, steel bands around his ribs. He breathed and it hurt like being punched, doubled him over in a cramp that left him panting and dry-mouthed with pain.

In bed that night, when Justin moved restlessly under him, long legs hooked around his, rubbing his heels down the back of JC's thighs, he caught himself thinking that Nick wouldn't have done that. He wasn't as limber as Justin, had none of Justin's grace and beauty.

He bit roughly at Justin's shoulder when he thrust in, growled "I'm gonna fuck you," and Justin didn't seem to notice that he was miles away, that he came with a perfunctory shudder, rolled off him and didn't do anything when Justin curled up against him. Maybe that was love.

two

"Move it, move it!" Chris shouted over his shoulder as they ran. Sharp left and JC skidded, hit his hip hard on the wall and pushed himself up again. Lonnie was behind them, snapping commands into his walkie-talkie. JC tried not to listen, tried to run faster. "Fuck the police. This isn't a fight! Get Johnny down here now."

"Here!" Chris stopped abruptly, one arm going up to catch JC, twisting firmly into his shirt. "Stay," he murmured. "Not your fault." Then he raised his voice. "Lonnie, can you seal off this corridor?"

Joey and AJ were holding Nick against the wall, his arms pinned back. His mouth was bleeding a little, and he was shaking, taking in deep, harsh breaths. AJ was speaking quietly to him, Joey nodding and neither of them looking at the other side of the corridor.

Chris held JC's hand, let go when they knelt down next to Justin. His left eye was swelling, and when he doubled over to cough, blood dripped onto the floor. "Can't fuckin' move," he said. "Ribs hurt."

"I'm gonna talk to Howie, 'k? Get the medic down here." Then Chris was off, patting JC's shoulder on his way out. Justin looked at JC, tried to smile. His eyes were wet and his chin trembled dangerously.

"He was saying stuff. About Britney."

"Oh, baby," JC said and tried to touch Justin, somewhere it wouldn't hurt. He settled for patting his knee, trying to keep looking at Justin, not flinching and backing away like he wanted to. Justin started to make the soft, soft gasps he did just before he broke down crying, and JC's hands fluttered. He forced himself to keep still, to say, "It's gonna be okay, we love you, it'll be okay."

"Do you?" Justin asked.

JC opened his mouth to answer automatically, "Of course, honey. I love you too," when Lance pushed him back and said briskly, "You moron," in the clipped tone that meant he was angry, dangerously angry. Justin's eyes narrowed and his fists clenched, but they were bruised and sore, and he groaned instead.

"Go and calm Chris down, JC. I'll fix up the idiot here." Lance had found a first-aid kit, had a wet washcloth that he folded and pressed carefully to Justin's face. "He's bigger than you, Justin."

"He started it, okay?"

JC stood up, gently shaking Justin's hand off his. "Chris," he murmured and felt Justin's gaze on his back as he went until Lance snapped "Look the other way, I can't put this on like that."

Chris and Kevin were going head to head, jabbing each other in the chest and using words most definitely not in the bible. Howie was trying to push between them, but they were both ignoring him. He met JC's eyes and gave a half-shrug, a wry twist of his mouth. JC smiled back and went over and between the two of them, they managed to pry them apart.

Chris glared at him. "That hypocritical prick", he said. Then he shook himself, and slumped back against the wall. "Fuck. Kevin wants to press charges. There's a security video, he says Justin threw the first punch. Self-defense by Carter."

"Johnny won't let it happen. They'll get the video."

"Yeah, I know." He sighed and found JC's hand, threaded their fingers together and leaned his head on his shoulder. "How much longer is this gonna go on for? It's a break-up, not the end of the fucking world."

"He misses her," JC said. "And, last night-"

Chris' hand tightened. "Not your fault," he repeated. "He was drunk. He didn't know what he was saying."

JC nodded, his throat thick. He stared at his shoes, and tried to think about the concert. They'd be late, at the very least. Nick could sing, but Justin - he'd have to take over his parts, or maybe Joey could do it. He looked across to Joey. They'd let go of Nick now. He was rumpled and sweaty, and JC remembered when he'd been the skinny, pretty boy that Justin never quite measured up to. Now he looked graceless, a lump with an ordinary face.

He could see Lance, helping Justin stand up. Johnny had arrived and the corridor was crowded, full of voices arguing. Justin stood, wincing, the medic kneeling next to him, carefully wrapping his knuckles. He turned, seeking JC out, and stared at him, the same hungry look that he'd had last night, four vodkas and too much beer, and JC flinched and looked at the ground again.

I didn't ask for this, he thought.

"Justin wants to see you in the Quiet Room" someone said in the post-set whirl of costumes being stripped, the stage set coming down around them to make way for the next group. JC turned but whoever it was had melted back into the crowd, and then he was in his boxers, turning around so they could wipe off the glitter and talcum powder clinging to him, pulling on his suit and being pushed briskly out the door to wait with the others.

"What?" Chris said when JC slumped down on the floor.

"Justin wants to talk to me."

Lance's hand was cool and dry against his face. JC thought maybe he was coming down sick, a fever or something. "You can take the stairs down Corridor 3 to the roof. We'll tell Lonnie where you are in about an hour, okay?"

He didn't want to look too long at Lance. His eyes were flat, hard green and they never seemed to soften these days. JC felt sometimes like he should apologize, that Lance's hidden misery was his fault as well. Not like Chris who shrugged and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "That way, C."

Nearly ten o'clock, the city laid out with lights and the sky a dark smear from pollution. JC walked round the edge for a while, leaning over to look at the crowds round the building. He could read some of the signs from up here. Three for him, ten for Justin.

He sighed and leaned over the concrete barrier. Not like he could jump. With his luck, he'd hit one of the hotel canopies on the way down. Or a couple of fans. He just wanted to close his eyes and hear nothing but the wind, distant traffic - everything distant - and have to do nothing but hold on. Rough concrete and the wind cold on his cheeks, he could lean a little further and -

"Hey."

He stumbled, a sickening moment where he thought he might really fall and then his feet were back on the roof, his palms scraped from where he'd scrambled frantically. They burnt, but he barely felt it because Nick was standing next to him, had put hands on JC's shoulders and was rubbing him down, long gentle pats along his sleeves and murmuring, "hey, hey, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. S'okay. Look at the stars. Hey, hey"

For a moment, JC felt like a horse, some spooked animal that Nick was trying to calm, and then he realized how it must've looked, him leaning over the edge, arms spread as if he was going to jump. "Um. No, it's not like that," he said. He'd been cold, and Nick was blocking the wind and his arms were warm where Nick's hands touched. His hands stopped, on the curve of JC's shoulders, Nick's thumbs still absently tracing circles on JC's shoulder blades.

"You sure?" Nick asked quietly.

JC nodded.

Nick let go and stepped back. "Okay. 'Cause Justin really would kill me if-"

"Can we not talk about him?" JC said.

Nick shrugged and pulled off his jacket and spread it out on the concrete. He had a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and he held them out to JC. "We can talk about something else," he said. "Your guys know you're up here?"

JC took one. "Yes. Yours?"

Nick lit his cigarette, then JC's. "Yeah," he said. "I've got an hour to sit in our dressing room and get lectured or I can hide out up here."

"Do you want me to go? I mean, if you want to be alone."

"No, s'okay." Nick put the packet of cigarettes between them. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Not meant to." He took another drag, but it tasted godawful, the way the first one after a couple of months always did. "Did you. What did you say to him?" He folded his arms up on his knees and put his head down on them, looking sideways at Nick.

He was silvery up here, and when he smiled, his teeth were a gleam of white in the gloom. "That I thought Britney was too hot for him. He went a little crazy."

"They broke up, last week."

Nick raised his eyebrows. "Really? I should call her."

"She's not that desperate, Carter." Looking at him though, leaning back on his hands, long legs stretched out on the concrete, in a dress-shirt undone at the collar and stretched over wide shoulders, his hair falling down over his eyes, JC could see for a moment that she might. He looked older, the red glow of the cigarette lending shadows to his face. It wasn't difficult to picture Brit leaning into Nick, laughing up at him, the two of them golden-pretty and smooth.

"Stop glaring at me, Chasez. I'm not gonna call her." Nick looked down at his hands and twisted them. He glanced at JC then back at his hands, and his expression was odd, something JC couldn't quite place. Then he took a drag, smiled easily and said, "You seen the new trailer for Lord of the Rings?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. I'm thinking of flying down to New Zealand next break, but it's like twenty hours."

"I got a copy of the script," Nick said with a note of pride. "One of the earlier drafts, but it's so freaking cool."

"Genuine?"

"Oh yeah. Red paper, everything."

When the Backstreet bodyguard climbed up the stairs, Nick borrowed a pen and scribbled his email on the inside of the almost-empty cigarette packet. "That's my real email, Chasez. So don't pass it around, okay?"

JC squinted at it. "hansolo1977@hotmail.com. You are such a dork, Carter."

Nick grinned and ducked down the stairs with the bodyguard. JC stayed up on the roof for a while, walking back and forth, trying to figure out which of the lights was their hotel and wondering how Nick could possibly think Aliens 3 had any redeeming qualities besides Sigourney Weaver looking butch.

He switched his handphone on at last and it rang immediately. "JC, get your ass down. Justin knows where you are, hurry the fuck up-" then Chris hung up. JC switched it off and shoved it back into his pocket with the cigarette packet.

He met Justin in the corridor. They stood quietly for a while, shuffling their feet and not looking at each other. Justin had shades on, the bruise showing around the frames. Four stitches on his lower lip and a couple of small butterfly bandages. The scratches had been cleaned up, make-up over them, but he still looked battered.

"You okay?" JC said at last. He could never out-wait Justin, or any of them.

"Yeah. Fucking Carter. Johnny's gonna say it was an accident backstage." Justin took off his shades and fiddled with them. "About last night - I mean. I didn't mean it."

JC's cheeks burned. He bit his lip to stop himself from speaking.

"I'm gonna take a week off, maybe talk to Britney," Justin continued.

He cleared his throat. "Good," he said. "I think that's a good idea."

Justin nodded and slid his shades back on. "I'm going to head back to the hotel early. You want to ride along?"

"I should probably stay."

"Right. Right. Okay."

He waited till Justin was out of sight, to sink down on the floor and wrap his arms round his head, give in to crying. He hadn't asked for it. But then, he'd never thought he could have it.

Two weeks later, someone sent him a link to the Yoda Estrogen Brigade website and he dug Nick's email out of his wallet and forwarded it to him.

Twenty minutes later, he had mail.

"So anyway, there's this part where John Constantine - he's the English magician, remember? Yeah. Uh-huh." JC opened the fridge door and peered inside. Chris never had good food, but he sometimes had leftovers from take-away. A lot of beer too, so JC ended up jamming the cordless between his chin and shoulder while he undid a bottle and slid cold pizza onto a plate.

"He makes this deal with all three lords of hell, and it's just, oh! And there's this one with a pool of holy water. You'll like it. Nick, c'mon, you liked the other ones." He laughed and started eating. Three a.m. and they'd watched late-night tv together because for once, they weren't in different time zones, a re-run of Star Trek that neither of them liked and now some cable show about single mothers in prison. He thought he should probably turn it off before Chris got back. "I am not a geek. Coming from you, that's rich."

Nick's laugh in private was different from the boyish chuckle he used on camera. Sometimes, JC could get him to laugh so hard he wheezed. The rest of the time, it was a soft rumble, a twist in his voice over the phone that meant he was smiling. Sometimes, JC wondered what he sounded like on the phone. He was so used to seeing and hearing himself onscreen, but it was different. Hearing Nick talk as if he was right next to him, whispering into his ear, JC wondered if he sounded different too.

"Chris is gonna be back soon. What time was Howie due? Yeah. Well, we're further out. Maybe ten minutes?" Two slices of pizza finished. He was still hungry. Maybe Chris had ice-cream. He could eat that and go to bed. Wake up in oh, three hours, but that was pretty normal. "Okay, I'm gone. Fuck you, that is a good song. Stop that! I mean it, Nick. Yeah. Sleep well."

There was a moment after the phone calls - every evening now, and sometimes when they were bored, they called each other because really, they both agreed, after seven years with the same guys, you ran out of conversation and people outside the business didn't understand what it was like - a sort of lull where everything else was a blur, and he could still feel the phone pressed to his ear, the echo of Nick's voice.

He was still smiling to himself when he turned and saw Chris waiting in the kitchen door.

"Hey," JC said carefully. It wasn't a big deal. A couple of phone calls, but the others were still treating him like he might start bawling in the middle of an interview. No-one left him alone with Justin, not that Justin noticed because Britney was alternating weeks off with him and they spent all their free time in bed.

It was just. None of them really liked Nick, and Justin would go crazy if he found out about it, and it was just. This was his thing. Not NSYNC's.

"Who was that?" Chris asked.

"A friend. How was the dinner?"

"What's his name?"

"She's called Nikita," he said quickly.

"La femme Nikita? JC, you ass." Chris yawned and pushed past him to open the fridge and pull out two beers. He handed one to JC. "Drink. Howie told me all about Nick's new boyfriend. Some geek who calls him up all the time. Nick won't say who it is."

"I'm not his boyfriend," JC muttered.

"You're on the phone all the fucking time, wandering around in a daze looking like you just got laid - are you sleeping with him?" Chris demanded.

"No! We just talk. It's not like that."

Chris took a swallow of beer and stared JC down. "Sure. You know Justin's gonna find out eventually."

He picked at the label on the beer. "It's got nothing to do with Justin. I don't bitch about who he da- who his friends are."

"I thought you weren't dating."

"I'm not gay."

"No," Chris said softly. "Justin's not gay."

JC put the bottle down slowly. For a moment he wondered what it'd be like to hit Chris. Hit the wall or something. His hands were curled into fists and he thought maybe it'd make him feel better. Nick said it helped. But if he did, he'd just have to end up saying sorry and fixing his own fuck-up and all he wanted was to get out.

He settled for shoving past Chris, grabbing his car keys and leaving.

He ended up at a pay phone outside a 7-11. "Nick? Can I come over? I sorta had a fight with Chris." The worst part, he thought, was that he had to keep sniffing to stop from bursting into tears, and he was pretty sure he sounded pathetic. Like a girl. Except his head hurt and he wasn't sure why he was upset.

"...then take a left at Normans Street. Five blocks on, near the church, a right."

"Okay. Can you repeat that?" He fumbled in his pocket for another quarter. He didn't have anymore. He'd have to go into the shop and someone would want an autograph and his head hurt so much.

"Jayce. You want me to come pick you up? Where are you?"

He told Nick and went to stand by the curb. He'd remembered to grab a coat and hat from Chris' rack but he was still cold, and every car that passed by seemed to be drive by Nick. He huddled down inside his coat and thought about what rhymed with scared. And gay.

Nick pulled up and rolled the window down. "JC?" he said uncertainly. JC sniffed and nodded. Nick leaned over and pushed the door open. "Hop in," he said.

They headed for downtown. Nick had glanced at JC and turned the radio down, but not off. Top Forty countdown, and they listened in silence. JC's phone started ringing after a while. He took it out and counted ten rings then turned it off and put it back in his pocket. Nick raised his eyebrows in question and JC shook his head and turned to look out of the window.

Then Nick was shaking him awake and saying, "We're here." For a moment, JC thought he might simply shift over, fall asleep again on Nick's lap but then he realized the car had stopped and he sat up and looked around. They'd parked along a tall, thin building with a dozen tiny balconies and a doorman who nodded when Nick walked in, JC following. There was no-one in the lobby, just video cameras and card-swipers to get to the lift.

The lift was mirrored and gilt and Nick smiled at him suddenly. "I'm glad you're here," he said and JC smiled back before he could catch himself. In the mirrors, their smiles went on and on, and he could almost lean back and see where they touched. But when he looked automatically for the cameras, Nick nodded his head to the corner at the back, the discreet black lens winking at them. He folded his arms and stared straight ahead.

The flat was nearly empty. A mattress pulled up by the bank of windows with their heavy closed curtains, a taped-up cardboard box with an alarm clock on top of it. Bare bulbs in the light sockets and the kitchen, all polished steel and dusty appliances, had an old electric kettle next to the sink, two mugs with Jive logos and a box of crackers.

There was nowhere to sit. Nick turned the kettle on and measured instant coffee from a jar under the sink. "Do you want milk?" he asked. "I think I have some. No sugar, though."

"No, thank you. Where's the bathroom?" JC asked. He felt like he should be sitting on the counter next to Nick, joking or maybe not even be here. Something other than this awkward, unwelcome person he was.

The kettle clicked off. Nick poured the water in and found a spoon in an empty mug in the sink. He washed it and stirred the coffee carefully. "It's the second door down the corridor," he said. "Do you want me to show you--"

JC shook his head. "No. It's okay." They stood there for a moment, and then Nick's mouth twisted and he shrugged and bent down to rummage through the cupboards. JC stood still for a little longer.

There was a travel-bag next to the sink, a toothbrush and a tube neatly rolled from the bottom on the sink. Washing his hands afterwards, JC let the warm water run over his hands and stared at his face. His hair was all screwed up, sticking up in little tufts. He had a zit and bags under his eyes, he needed a shave and he was so thin, he looked wasted. He frowned and splashed his face with water. He didn't feel any better, but if he sort of blinked and looked through his lashes, he looked alright. The way he did in photographs.

He sighed and sat down on the closed toilet. Better not to think about it. He should've called Bobbee, but he wasn't sure where she was. She'd said something about her mom, this weekend, and they weren't really dating, but she was nice. She'd have let him stay the night, let him into her bed. It'd been good, he thought, when they were really dating, hot even, and he had his handphone open, her number up on the screen before it dawned on him that he was sitting in a man's bathroom, about to check with his ex-girlfriend if the sex had been hot, and mostly straight. Mostly.

Fuck Chris, he thought. Germany was a long time ago and not everyone was like Lance. He liked Nick. It didn't matter if Nick was into women, men or what. They were friends, and he was being a hysterical idiot. Just go out there and say thanks, call a cab to a hotel and get some sleep. Everything would look better the next day.

He'd known this wouldn't last. It was like summer camp, knowing your best friend there was going back to another state and maybe they'd write one letter, but by September, they'd have forgotten you and it was only summer camp, and stupid jokes whispered between bunks.

At least Chris wouldn't tell Justin. Even Chris wasn't that insane.

He put his coat back on and shoved his hands into the pockets. Nick was in the kitchen, drinking from one of the mugs, staring out the window. He jumped slightly when JC spoke.

"I should go crash at a hotel. Not put you out, or anything."

"There's a bed, in one of the rooms. I've got spare sheets, so y'know. I mean." Nick hesitated. "It's not a great flat, I don't stay here much and I just bought it, so. There's a deli downstairs, we could have breakfast and - it's not the apartment, right?"

JC shook his head. A week ago, when it'd been nearly four and neither of them could sleep, they'd taken turns to describe their rooms. He'd thought the curtains would be green, for some reason, but he knew the deli downstairs had a great pastrami and cucumber sandwich and the kind of coffee JC would like, with whipped cream and fruit syrups. He knew that Nick didn't want a tv or a radio in here, that he'd gone out and bought the cordless phone because his handphone sometimes ran out of batteries, and he liked to wander around the flat and talk to JC.

"Why'd you tell everyone I was your boyfriend?" he said fast, before he could think twice about it. He didn't even know why he asked.

Nick sighed and put his cup down. He had broad hands, long fingers, basketball hands, except that wasn't Nick's sport, that was Justin's. Nick played baseball, talked about it for hours, patiently coaching JC through the rules, even though JC knew them. There was a photo, in one of the BOP magazines Chris kept in a careless stack in his living room, of Nick at a softball game, frowning with concentration as he got ready to swing.

JC had stolen the magazine, even though Chris wouldn't have minded, and put it in the backseat of his car, under a pile of CDs. Now, with his heart thudding so loud he could hear it, his hands sweaty and fidgeting in his pockets, he thought maybe he knew why.

Nick had sweatpants on, an old t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His arms were soft instead of muscled. His tattoos were faint blue, plain things that might come off the wall of any shop. He looked like any ordinary boy, ragged hair and lousy skin. He wasn't pretty or beautiful or special. He was -

"I'm sorry." Apologizing. "Howie asked, and it just kind of came out. I thought they'd stop bugging me then, 'cause you know. They're gonna rag me fierce for hanging out with someone from NSYNC, and I didn't think you'd mind."

"I'm not gay," he said. It sounded flat to him. I'm not dead. I'm not me. I'm not here. I'm not who you think I am.

Nick stepped forward. He touched JC's jacket and JC flinched but didn't make another move while Nick carefully tugged it down his arms, onto the floor. Then Nick stood in front of him, and when he spoke, he sounded like he was right next to JC, whispering in his ear.

"It's okay," Nick said. "I know."

Know what? JC thought. If he closed his eyes, he could be anywhere, listening to Nick's voice slow down when he talked about something difficult. When they talked about Europe. Aaron. Lou. They never talked about Justin.

"I know I'm not. I don't look like him. And maybe you're not into guys like me, but if you were, we could. You know. I think I really like you. I mean, I really like you. And it's okay, if you don't like me because I'm not the kinda guy people like you should have, you're beautiful, JC." Nick touched his cheek softly. "You have these eyes, man. They're like ocean blue and stuff. And you're just. If you wanna go, it's okay. I should shut up, right? I think about you all the time. If you wanna hit me," Nick said, "You can. We can, tomorrow, you know. Pretend this didn't happen. Fuck. I'm screwing everything up."

His palm was warm and rough and JC closed his eyes and leaned against it and breathed. His hand smelt of cigarettes and Nick, mingled together so JC would know who it was, he thought, anywhere. He could be blind in a crowded room, and he'd know where Nick was by the sound of his voice, by the way he felt.

JC opened his eyes. Nick had his glasses on, wire rims that had slipped a little down his nose. Pale blue eyes and his hair was gold, gold and cream skin and he was Nick, and he was so beautiful JC wanted to look at him for a long time, the strength of his face, the curve of his cheeks and he had never expected this, had somehow forgotten everything he'd heard about Nick, about the men in clubs, Howie crying on Chris' shoulder.

He had thought maybe he didn't want people anymore, just music and friends, a quiet calm bed, and he hadn't missed looking at people, being hungry for skin, late nights sitting as still as he could because he was so lonely it hurt to move.

He hadn't done that for a while, and he thought maybe he knew why now.

"JC?" Nick asked tentatively, his hand moving away from where it hovered, barely touching JC's skin.

"You're beautiful," JC said. Nick's eyes widened and his hand froze, then cupped JC's face, traced a line down to JC's chin and when his thumb stroked the cleft below JC's mouth, his mouth opened willingly, widely, and he only had time to breathe "beautiful, beautiful Nick," before he was kissed.

They kissed for a long time, standing in the middle of the room. Nick was taller and JC's neck hurt a little, and both of them needed a shave, but Nick kissed his cheeks and ran his hands through JC's hair. He traced the edges of JC's ears with his fingers, whispered "Your ears are like shells, you know?" and carefully, with the tip of his tongue, licked down them until JC was shivering, his hands digging into Nick's shoulders.

"Do you want to -" JC asked in between kisses, "the bed, the mattress, I mean."

Nick nodded and swallowed, and took JC's hand. They walked over to the mattress. One sheet was tucked under it haphazardly, another folded on top. The phone was next to the single pillow. They stood next to it for a while, palms sweaty and white-knuckled. Nick didn't look at JC.

"I'm gonna. Take my shirt off. Okay? Um. You could do it too. Your shirt."

They let go of each others' hand, grinned nervously at each other. Then JC tugged his t-shirt off, and looked at Nick who pulled his off more slowly. Nick folded his arms and said quietly, "You can, you know. Change your mind. It'll be okay."

He thought at first that Nick was asking him to go, couching it kindly, the way Bobbee had eventually, with early-morning meetings and long commutes, and really, JC, it's okay. We don't have to do this anymore.

His face was hot from stubble-burn, and he was hard, a sort of nebulous ache that made him want to arch and rub, made the hairs on his skin prickle. He looked at Nick with care, and there was a tautness to Nick's face that was familiar. He waited, because he knew some things about himself, that he'd always been a little lost in the clouds, last in on the gossip and too sweet to care. Nick looked like Chris had once, the way Lance did sometimes.

It took him a while to puzzle it out. When he did, he reached out for Nick, and it felt strange for a moment that his hand was wrapped round someone else's arm. That it wasn't Justin he was touching.

Then Nick kissed him, a muddled kiss that landed half on his mouth and they got tangled up somehow and tripped. The mattress was huge, and JC found he could lie with his head on Nick's shoulder and that they could kiss for hours without his neck hurting. Nick concentrated on kissing, long slow kisses that left JC breathless. He was ticklish along the curve of his shoulder blades, that he could balance on his elbows just above JC, stare unblinkingly at him and somehow, JC could look back and mouth the words that Nick whispered.

They drowsed, Nick spooned around JC, his feet rubbing JC's cold, narrow ones and JC arched into the touch and Nick was hard against him, yawning at his shoulder and saying, "I keep wanting to kiss you. Is that weird? I want to kiss you some more. C'mere," and then JC fell asleep at last sprawled on top of Nick, his head tucked below Nick's chin.

In the morning, he woke up because Chris was screaming something about "--fuckwit, do you have any idea how much crap you put me through --" and he groaned a little and Chris' voice vanished.

He sat up a little and Nick handed him an almost-hot cup of coffee and went on murmuring, "Uh-huh. Well, I didn't want to wake you. No, he's okay. Yes, Kirkpatrick." JC took a cautious sip of the coffee. It was horrible, microwaved instant coffee, but it was just hot enough that he could swallow it in gulps and by the time the cup was empty, he was awake.

Nick had no shirt on, just the boxers he'd been wearing under his sweatpants, kicked off in the middle of the night, or early in the morning, so JC could run his hands down Nick's flanks, the backs of his knees that were for some reason, perfectly shaped for JC's hands to nestle. He had his glasses on, and he frowned and pushed them up so he could rub the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, he's okay. He just woke up. No fucking business of yours."

JC motioned for the phone silently, and then stole Nick's glasses as well. They were too wide for him, so they slipped to the tip of his nose and he had to hold his chin up and peer blurrily at Nick through them. "Chris? Shut up. I'm fine. I'll call when I'm done." He hung up and kicked the phone across the room, lay back on the pillow, still peering over Nick's glasses at him. "Hey," he said.

"Hey." Nick squinted. "They suit you."

JC smiled and patted the mattress next to him. Nick lay down, their feet touching, toes to toes, and they smiled at each other, leaned across the inch of pillow to kiss, a chaste, closed-mouth kiss. "I have a spare, but it's not the colour you like."

"I know," JC said. "I'll get one. From the drugstore down the street."

"Next to the deli."

"Yeah. With the girl with the green hair. She's not gonna ask for my autograph either."

"We could get other stuff. For stuff."

JC put his hand on the waist of Nick's boxers. Pushed them down a little, to cup the hipbone there. He swept his hand out in a circle, fingers brushing the curve of Nick' stomach, crinkle of hair below. A little lower and then Nick rolled him over, and he was looking down at Nick, a moment of blue-gold-cream before Nick kissed him and he forgot about morning breath, about Chris' lectures and it was careless, crazy, stupid, and Nick naked was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Sex with Nick was like golden syrup poured over him, licked off by a great cat. It was giggling helplessly when he was pinned down and tickled, then gasping when Nick let go of his hands and they were suddenly kissing frantically, sliding their bodies together, sweat sticky and sore because JC really was "unbelievably flexible, man. Can you do that thing with your ankles behind your - sweet fuck. Don't move."

In between, they talked. Nick walked around the apartment, naked. JC wrapped the sheet around himself, and Nick unknotted it and kissed down his back and rubbed him as if he was shivering, which he was, but not because he was cold, because Nick was naked and the sheet tangled between them.

They sat cross-legged on the mattress and paged through Nick's sketchbooks. On the last pages, he'd drawn JC's face from photographs and given him wings. JC looked at the drawing of him, the wings swept back and the length of him left half-finished. A line here, the suggestion of a shadow, like the side-glances he caught of himself, dressing with his back twisted to the mirror. He wondered when Nick had drawn them.

They didn't leave the apartment. When JC's hand slipped lower than he'd meant to and Nick arched into the touch, his legs spreading, there was a heartbeat where JC knew he could, that he would, but then Nick caught his wrist and kissed the center of his palm and said, "not yet. I wanna wait this time," and went down on JC with his wet, wide mouth before JC understood what he meant.

Chris met him that evening in the deli. JC sat at the counter, eating his way through a stack of sandwiches and a milkshake that Nick had bought before leaning down for a fast, almost not-there kiss that left JC's cheek tingling. The deli was old, a flecked mirror behind the counter and cluttered windows, and they were the only people there at four in the afternoon. Nick had taken his hat off inside, and after hesitating, JC did too. The guy behind the counter had almost no hair and grunted when Nick ordered but switched the radio over to pop when he went to make their food.

"Is that pastrami? Can I get three of what he's got? On rye. And some french fries." Chris stole a handful of JC's and a slurp of his milkshake, spun on the vinyl-covered stool and then asked, "Where's Nick?"

"Drugstore," JC said without thinking then blushed.

Chris leered as well as he could with a full mouth. He looked like a sex-crazed leprauchaun, JC thought. The kind that hide under tables on St Patrick's day and wind up drunkenly humping people's legs. "So, do you need me to do the big gay talk?" he asked.

"With the diagrams? Chris, you put Lance off dating for a year. I think I'll manage." His smile faltered. Out of the apartment, walking down the street next to Nick, their hats pulled low, it had seemed like a different city. Someplace he'd never been, though he'd driven down this street, had bought a newspaper at the gas station on the corner two years ago. It felt like back in Germany, sneaking out to wander, wide-eyed and drunk on being free - no chaperons, no parents - free and young with the whole night to explore Stuttgart.

"This some practical joke you two dorks dreamed up? Good sandwich, by the way."

"No," JC said quietly. "No joke. I think maybe I love him."

"Ahh." Chris munched his way through his sandwich and ordered a brownie. "You think they do takeaway," he asked brightly. "'Cause Justin would really like this place."

"Chris."

"Just saying. That maybe, if you waited a while, you could come here with Justin. And, he could eat a sandwich and figure out how good they are, and you could share some cheesecake." He sighed. "It's a metaphor, JC. Not a good one, but you know what I mean."

"I don't want to wait. Maybe you did," Chris looked down at his plate. "And last year it was Lance, and this year it's me, and it's gonna be Wade next."

"He's a good kid," Chris said, still looking at his plate, picking at the cold fries.

"So's Nick."

"He's Nick Carter, JC. He's like, the worst possible person you could hook up with."

"No, he's not! What about, about AJ?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "AJ's cool, JC. He knows how to keep his mouth shut and stay out of the press."

"I could be sleeping with Eminem," JC said after some thought. "He'd be even worse."

"He'd beat your skinny white ass. Although he's a skinny white ass, too. You could take turns. Huh. That'd be kinda cool, actually."

"Oh, fuck you. Nick's cool and he's not going to let anything slip. He knows what to do."

"Do you?" Chris asked gently. "You told a reporter about Lance and Hans, JC."

"I didn't know she was a reporter."

"JC, there's a reason you're not allowed out on your own. While you were off in your little love-nest with Carter, I've been on a conference call with the rest of the Backstreet Boys." He shook his head. "Brian needs his mouth washed out."

"Oh," said JC in a small voice. "They don't like me?"

"They like you. Well, maybe like is too strong a word. They don't appreciate how 'special' you are, C. Unique." Chris shrugged. "Howie thinks you're okay."

"Is Howie, you know. Upset with me?"

Chris grinned. "That was a long time ago, C. He's dating some English guy working at Virgin, now. We don't all wait around, you know." Chris looked away, frowning. "Things don't work out, you move on."

"Can you. Can you not tell anyone? If you tell Joey, Joey'll tell Lance and Justin'll find out and it'll get. Messy."

"Yeah, yeah. My lips are sealed." Chris slurped the rest of his milkshake up and waved the foam-covered straw at JC. "This is a really bad idea, though. If, no, when this gets out - and how long before the press or the fans figure out that Nick and JC are suddenly best buddies, it's gonna go to hell. Justin'll go crazy, Jive will chew you out - is this worth it?"

JC shrugged. "I love him," he said as if that explained everything.

Chris sighed resignedly and muttered, "Johnny's gonna chew my ass out over this."

When Nick returned, Chris made him pay for lunch and then dragged him into a corner out of earshot. They came back, both scowling and Chris jerked his head at Nick and said, "If he gives you any problems, call me, okay? And we've got a meeting downtown tomorrow at 3 p.m. Marketing or something. You're still staying at my house, you're just." He hesitated. "Busy. Remember what I said, Carter."

He grabbed his helmet from the counter and was off, his motorcycle zig-zagging through the evening traffic. Nick and JC stood on the pavement and watched until he was gone. Then Nick touched JC's elbow softly. "You want to go back up?" he asked.

"What did Chris say to you?"

Nick looked down the street. People were walking past them, carrying briefcases and bags, on their way home. Some of the apartment buildings were half-lit, silhouettes behind the windows moving around, making dinner, settling down in front of the television. They watched a woman balancing two bags of groceries and a diaper bag dig out her car keys and get her toddler strapped in down the road. The little girl waved at everyone walking by, her voice ringing down the street. "Buh bye! Buh bye!" JC smiled and waved at her. After a moment, Nick waved too. The woman turned and smiled briefly at them, then bent and kissed her daughter's head.

JC waited. When her car pulled out from the curb, Nick said, "I should tell you stuff. About Justin." He halted for a moment, and when he spoke again, he fingers were warm and heavy on JC's wrist, as if he was checking that JC was there, was real.

"Back in Germany, when I was seventeen, in Berlin, it was late and we were sharing a hotel. There was that party afterwards and we were sent off early. Aaron was there, and I didn't want to go back to my room and talk to him, and Justin said I could go -"

"Stop," JC whispered. "Tell me later." He turned and let his hand rest under Nick's for a moment, a glancing touch before he dropped his hand and said, "We could go watch a movie, if you like. I should get some clothes, maybe a towel."

"A towel?"

"I like beach towels," JC said. "I'll get a couple and leave them at your place."

three

He was making apple pie, frowning over the flour-smeared Martha Stewart and wondering if it counted if he left it as an open-faced tart because the lattice looked less woven than lumped together. The air smelt of green apples and cinnamon and the morning sun was gentle and warm on his bare shoulders. The radio played More than Love, which he sang along to from loyalty.

It might've been smarter to wait in L.A. for Nick, but Justin was being difficult, right now. JC sighed and pinched the crust together carefully, concentrating. When Lance had decided to sell the house, JC had made a flimsy excuse about returning to his roots - "You grew up in Washington, C" - and flew down.

He'd been in the house alone for three days, and he was getting a little bored. He'd written five songs about empty houses and unbuttoned blouses, chased Dirk through the house and fended off the advances of the realtor and the housekeeper. They'd been quite nice about it, though he tried to keep out of Katie's way when she was holding the feather duster.

He glanced at the clock. Another hour till the plane landed, forty-five minutes for Nick to drive to the house. The bedsheets were changed, he'd given Katie the day off and taken the house phone off the hook. Lance could field the realtor's frantic calls for a change. Frankly, JC thought as he toothpicked another strip of dough into place, if it wasn't the ferret nipping prospective buyers on the ankle, it was the bathroom that did it for the rest of them. The mirrors were bad enough, but the authentic roman-greco murals were a little too detailed. AJ was the only person he could imagine buying it.

He slid the pie into the oven and leaned against the sink. He could see the rose garden from here, a slight breeze setting their heavy flower heads nodding. The pinks reminded him of Nick's mouth. The sky reminded him of Nick's eyes. He sighed and started washing up. Everything reminded him of Nick.

Three weeks since they'd been in the same city, and watching screaming schoolgirls in Japan fling themselves against your boyfriend was not quite as much fun as he'd thought it might be. He'd found himself thinking some very unkind thoughts about them. In the end, he'd rung Kelly and commiserated with her after swearing her to silence. She'd sent him the Nick Carter Official Album which was sweet, though he already had it.

Three weeks. He scrubbed the pastry board and tried not to think about their last phone call. The ribbon round his neck kept slipping, so he stopped to untie it, cursing Lance under his breath. What kind of freak had every issue of Martha Stewart Living neatly boxed by their bed? The kind of idiot, he thought as he retied it so the ribbon hung straight down his back, brushing his spine, that made halter-neck tops from bandannas because they were a Good Thing. He was going to give it to Britney, but it'd been too pretty with little crystals flashing along the hem not to wear once.

A beep made him jump. He whirled around and saw the red light on the security system flashing. Someone had just driven past the outside gate. Swearing under his breath, JC ran to the front door. If it was the realtor, he was going to fire her, no matter what Lance said.

A dark green sedan pulled up at the end of the drive. Mud spattered the window shield and the person inside didn't step out, just kept the engine running while JC slowly walked out the front door. The engine idled abruptly and the door opened. Nick got out.

JC ran. He was barefoot but he didn't feel the gravel. He ran and Nick strode towards him, caught him and swung him around. For a moment, JC thought he was flying. Then he was leaning back in the strong circle of Nick's arms, his hands warm and real on JC's back, tugging at the ribbon. "What's this?" Nick asked and pulled it loose. The bandanna fluttered down and JC tightened his legs around Nick's waist so he wouldn't fall when he leaned over and kissed him, ran his hands through his hair and forgot the house, the world, because Nick was there, and he tasted better than apple pie, better than anything.

They weren't naked in bed, or even making out when Lance caught them. Nick was sprawled on his stomach on the grass and JC was swinging in the hammock, re-reading his way through The Color Purple and crying every now and then. His can of 7-Up had gone warm in the heat, so he folded the book up and climbed out of the hammock. He knelt next to Nick, brushed the hair from his forehead and kissed him where the gold began. He had freckles up close, the suntan he'd picked up in the last few days bringing them out. "I'm going back up to the house, you want anything?" JC asked. Nick smiled, a sleepy sweet smile and shook his head. JC laughed and walked up the path backwards until he was almost at the door when he turned.

He dropped the book on the grass when he saw Lance standing at there, staring at him with flat, angry eyes. They stood frozen for a while, and then Lance stalked inside. In the kitchen, he took the soda can from JC and threw it hard into the trash. The can thudded dully on the sides, and Lance let his arm lower slowly, his hand curled into a fist.

JC stood on the other side of the kitchen table. He tried not to flinch when Lance dragged a chair out and sat down. "How long has this been going on?" Lance finally asked.

"About four months."

"Does Justin know? No, he wouldn't, would he." Lance scrubbed his hand across his face. "Shit. Shit. This is going to be a mess, JC."

"I thought you'd be happy," JC said softly. "That I had someone else."

Lance's mouth tightened in a grim smile. "Bobbee maybe. Wade, even. But Nick Carter. Do the others know?"

"His do. Only Chris knows for us."

"Jesus. It's going to be a god-almighty disaster."

"He doesn't have to know."

"I'm here, C, because I spent last night listening to him carry on about how beautiful you are. He's convinced himself that the reason you're so busy these days is that you're desperately in love with him and can't bear to be near him without wanting to jump his bones." Lance laughed, a harsh choked noise. "He's so in love with you, it's funny. Really fucking funny."

JC went round the table to Lance and hugged him tightly, though his shoulders were stiff, his head bent, and he tried, half-heartedly to shake JC off. "Oh, honey," JC said. "Oh, honey."

By the time Nick wandered in, yawning and brushing grass off his ragged shorts, JC and Lance had made good progress through a bottle of wine and had thrown all the boxes of cereal in the kitchen down the garbage disposal. The sink was a mess of Cheerios and milk, an upturned bowl floating in the center.

"I liked whatshisname. Sammy? The guy with the dreads. He was nice."

"C, he was only sleeping with me to try and get Timba-timba-lake."

JC smacked his hand on the table. "That's it! You should sleep with me then."

Lance grinned. "You are so drunk, baby. Cheap date."

"Am not. 'M smashed. Sloshed. Wasted. Remember when he got drunk, the first time? Oh, god you wouldn't, it was before you. God, you would've loved it. Three beers and he threw up in the carpark and begged me not to tell his mom then tried to grope Britney. She hit him," JC said, proudly. "Got a great right hook on her."

"Why does she put up with his shit?"

JC shrugged. "Why do we?"

Nick knocked on the open door. Lance looked up and waved vaguely. "Hey, Nick."

"Nick! Come and have a drink. This is my friend, Lance. Lance Bass." JC smiled sunnily. "He's in my band."

Nick nodded gravely and accepted the glass JC filled up for him, holding it carefully so the wine wouldn't spill over the edge. He leaned against the counter, his free hand resting lightly on JC's shoulder, and met Lance's gaze evenly.

"Nice house, Bass. The bathrooms are something special."

Lance bared his teeth then turned on JC in horror. "Not the Dr Seuss room. Tell me you didn't. That's sacrilege, man."

JC looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh. No. I mean, we fell asleep on the couch last night, and y'know. We're still dating."

"Dating?"

"What he means," Nick said sharply, "is that it's none of your business. What is it with you people? I get Chris wanting photographs of JC naked, for fuck's sake."

Lance giggled and covered his mouth, then snorted and roared with laughter. "That's what he meant, the bastard. C, he had Justin polishing his motorcycle with his lucky underwear last week."

JC frowned. "Chris what? Nick, you didn't!"

Nick scowled. "No. Chris went through my bag and stole one of my sketchbooks the last time we stayed over. He gave it back after I threatened to break his arms, but a couple of pages were missing."

Lance calmed down enough to finish off his wine. He stared at the empty glass for a while, and when he spoke, he didn't look at them. Nick's hand moved to the back of JC's neck, rubbing slow circles there. "If you want, you can stay here the rest of the week. I should head back to Orlando."

"Where are you going to stay?" JC asked.

"I'll crash at Joey's."

"I told Kelly. She said not to tell Joey, but she named Brianna after Littrell." Lance smiled a little. JC sighed and reached out without looking to wrap his arm around Nick and pull him closer so he could lean against him. "Lance. Could you, can you not say anything? For a while?"

He glanced at them, then looked away. "I'll try," he said.

JC patted Dirk's box. "I've packed extra raisins and his favorite cardboard tube. He had a bath yesterday, and oh, he's really frightened of the dishwasher for some reason."

"Chris," Lance replied. "That's why I asked you to babysit this time. He was okay?"

"Best behavior. He did dig up a couple of your african violets, but he looked really sorry about it. And then he peed on your bed, but I think he was just expressing how much he missed you. Oh, and he tried to eat a butterfly, but -"

"Thanks, JC. I owe you one."

JC straightened up and closed the car door gently. "All I want," he said, "is to be with Nick. Don't tell him, Lance. Please."

"Why are you doing this?" Lance burst out. "You could have Justin, C. Jesus, you could've had him for the last two years, all you had to do was wake up and make a move."

"I didn't want him," JC said slowly. "Not the way the rest of you do. I remember him when he was a kid. And now, I've got Nick."

Lance hesitated. "Is that. Is it working out?"

"Yeah," said JC. "Oh, yeah." He folded his arms and leaned against the car, smiling softly. "It's like I've been singing by myself and the words aren't quite there, the music's not working, and there are all these other voices, but none of them blend, and it's a good sound, but it's not the sound I hear inside. With Nick, the sound is just beautiful. Everything soars, perfect harmony. You know?"

Lance grinned. "Not a clue. You're not gonna suggest we do a duet with them, are you?"

"A solo would work, Nick has a really good voice, but the sounds are too different, we'd end up sounding like a choir. Though maybe that could work -" He stopped when Lance laughed, and returned his grin. "Kevin said he'd kill me if I ever mentioned it."

They stood quietly by the car. The house lights were on, music drifting out of the windows. The light cast long shadows and Lance looked worn and old. He said quietly, "You look happy, C. Maybe, if it was someone else, it could work out."

JC bit his lip and scuffed the ground with his shoe. "Yeah, well. I don't think so. I'm trying not to think so much. Nick, too."

"Oh, like that's hard. Alright, alright," he said ducking JC's smack. "I've got a long drive ahead of me, so goodbye already."

They hugged. JC whispered, "You sure you don't wanna stay? You can, y'know. It's your house." Lance hugged him tighter, and when he let go, he shook his head. His eyes glittered, and he kissed JC on the cheek, lightning fast.

JC stood out on the road long after Lance's car had disappeared.

He walked around the garden, keeping to the house. Sometimes, he could see Nick inside, clearing the plates from dinner or picking up around the house. He stood under the magnolia tree at the back and watched Nick in the kitchen, rinsing the dishes. Nick sang along to the music, sometimes dancing, soap suds on his hands and his eyes shut.

The scent of the magnolia made his eyes tear up. He pressed the backs of his hands to his eyes, ignored the tightness of his throat, the ache in his chest. The night air was warm and he was cold, and tired. Inside the house, Nick danced to Rick Martin, shaking his hips and singing "She bangs!" at the top of his voice.

JC slid down against the tree trunk, drew his knees up to his chest and did not cry.

There was a moment's silence as Nick changed CDs in the stereo. He fiddled with the buttons, frowning, then walked away as the music started. JC followed him, barefoot on the path that wound round the house just beyond the porch. His flip-flops were wet from the evening dew, so he carried them, and in the dark, stumbled sometimes in muddy patches, the mud squelching between his toes.

At the front door, he hung back where he couldn't be seen from the house. Nick pushed the front door open, and called his name. JC didn't move. The track ended, a breath's pause and then the next song began. Nick left the door open and walked down the steps until he was only a few feet from where JC was hiding.

He hummed a little, then started to sing along. He sang quietly, his voice distinct from Sting's, but still as if they were singing in the same room, a pause here and there, and Nick holding a note for one long golden moment while Sting sang "my one and only love".

Slowly, sniffing a little, JC walked out from the shadow. He dropped the flip-flops on the floor, and Nick turned at the noise, smiled a little and sang "the blush on your cheek, whenever I speak." He held out his hand and JC took it and leaned into him, singing in counterpoint, "such desire, such desire."

He tracked mud across Lance's carpets, and in the bathroom and they left the crisp white towels in a heap on the wet floor. The mirror fogged up and they were blurred figures, thick oil crayons in cream and brown, yellows and blues, roughly drawn and blended together.

The bedroom was cold, condensation clouding the closed windows and no sound but their own footsteps on the hardwood floor, the quiet clatter as Nick cleared books, CDs and magazines off the unmade bed. JC stood at the end of the bed, one hand stroking the blanket piled there. His teeth were chattering. He was naked. They both were, but Nick moved as though he didn't notice his nudity, as if he were simply clearing the room, ready to sleep.

He pulled the sheets back, pushed off the little cushions with their embroidered velvet covers and antique silk bolsters, stripped the bed until it was a large square of plain, blindingly white cloth, except for the blanket fallen around JC, trailing across the corner of the bed. Nick stood still, half turned towards JC, but not looking at him. He was staring at the bed.

There were times JC likened Nick to an animal. Some great cat with sheathed claws and golden fur. A shark, one of the sleek grey ones Nick drew, that he dreamed about sometimes and woke from breathless and unable to speak. He would turn and kiss JC, a drowning, sharp toothed kiss and the next day, JC would lie on the deck of Nick's boat and wait for him to return. They'd gone to a private beach once and swum naked, skinny-dipping except Nick had been a seal, effortless in the water, glistening muscles under a smooth sun-warmed layer of flesh.

Now - JC's thoughts slipped away like water off an arching back, the memory of kissing Nick with the sun scorching down and salt on their lips, stinging. He tried to hold onto them, to find a word, an explanation. Something to hold on to. The room was too cold and his head hurt, ached from crying brokenly against Nick, from the steam of the shower. Things fractured and split and he looked at Nick and saw that he was afraid, that there was no time, no way out but through.

He pulled the last blanket off. It crumpled soundlessly around his feet, and then he was naked, and Nick was naked, and the bed was an empty sheet of white, waiting for them.

They lay down in the center, on their backs. They held hands and stared up at the ceiling. "I love you," said Nick after a while. "I have to tell you now. Before anything else. You should know."

"I don't want to know," JC said and let go of Nick's hand and curled up on his side, his eyes closed. Nick spoke quietly and JC could hear him as though he were whispering into his ear, on the other end of a telephone line, another continent away, not within arm's reach on a cold, too-large bed.

"We were both skinny kids then, stuck up on stage and living everything people wanted. We used to call each other. I knew him before. When he was on the MMC. We'd see each other at auditions. Our mothers were friends, and Lance hated everything, cried all the time and we used to ditch him, did you know? We'd get the day off to go shopping or watch a movie, and Justin and I would creep out the back and he never complained, never told anyone. He hated me.

We didn't do anything that night. After the party. He kissed me, and then he got scared and ran off, and I went to AJ's room and fell asleep. A week later, we left Lance in a movie theatre and he'd rented a room at a cheap hotel, bought condoms and lube. We had sex."

Nick paused. JC bit down into his fist and didn't move. "I was in love with him by the end of the day. He was so beautiful. We both were. We had no fucking clue what we were doing, just overheard conversation and a magazine of Howie's I'd stolen a long time ago. I remember standing in the lobby of that hotel, listening to him get a key. It was this awful place, the stairs smelt of pee and there were locks on everything. The tv was broken and the room was cold. We pulled all the sheets off, all the blankets.

It was awful. The worst sex I've ever had. We went too fast, he was clumsy. We got angry and I hit him and he pushed me down and it hurt and we did it anyway. We did it the whole day until we were too sore to move and he kept saying my name, over and over, like a prayer or something. We couldn't bear not to touch each other. It was the best fucking sex I ever had, the way he felt on top of me, the way he moved." Nick shifted on the bed. His voice had thickened and JC couldn't bear to breathe, to catch the scent of arousal in the air.

"In the cab going back, I blew him in the backseat. Lance was in his room, and we made him stand outside the door while we fucked, while we showered."

"What happened?" JC asked.

"We had a week, and then you guys went on tour, and he called for a while and then he stopped."

"Why?"

Nick's hand was huge and hot on JC's hip. He stroked him slowly, palm flat against the length of JC's back, the nape of his neck, then down again. Unwillingly, JC arched into the touch. "Why," Nick repeated. "He was sixteen. Maybe his mom found out. Or Lou. Someone. Maybe he just changed his mind. He never told me. He stopped calling and when I did, when I got shitfaced drunk and bawled in Howie's room and called, he told me to stop, that he'd been experimenting." Nick's thumb moved back and forth against the top of JC's ass, his hand sliding slowly, inexorably lower, the heavy weight of it pushing JC down flat on the bed.

"I was in love with him for a long time," Nick said, his voice a cracked whisper in JC's ear. His tongue licked a wet hot spiral in JC's ear. When JC gasped and turned his head blindly towards Nick, he heard "but you're the only one I've loved," and then Nick's tongue filled his mouth and silenced them both.

They kissed, stretched out against each other, not touching except for their hands tight on each other's hip, their mouths together, tongues sliding in and out, along their lips in open, desperate kisses that turned languid while their knuckles went white, their fingers digging in.

"I love you," JC breathed and Nick opened his mouth and licked the words away from his mouth, stole his breath with frantic, swallowed kisses. His tongue slid along the roof of JC's mouth and JC swung his leg over Nick's thigh, pulled them together, groin to groin. They were cold everywhere else, burning heat there, clumsy with desire, grinding against each other. Nick gasped and they stopped kissing, bent their heads to see where they joined together, JC's narrow pale thighs around Nick's tanned muscle, the flushed dark of their cocks.

"I wanna fuck you," JC said. His voice was rough and he thrust against Nick, stuttered sharp thrusts that made Nick groan, his hand slipping down JC's back to his ass, to the smooth length of his thigh, his fingers fanned out to stroke the slick underside of their cocks, the tangled curls catching on his fingers. JC moaned and pulled away. "I want to fuck you," he said and thrust back into Nick's hand.

Nick jerked his hand back, scrabbled across the bed away from JC. He lay on his back, panting. His hand, glistening where it was wet, was flung across the white space between them. JC stayed where he was, his legs sprawled apart, his hands moving restlessly over his body.

"I'm going to get some stuff from the bathroom," Nick said abruptly and got up. He strode past JC and slammed the door shut.

JC couldn't quite bear to touch himself, shame shot through desire when his hand wrapped around his cock and Justin came to mind. Justin and Nick, the way they had been. He had looked, they all had, the golden beautiful twins. Lou's pride and joy and his body flinched automatically, hunched down and then the memory of Justin hugging Nick, the two of them asleep in the backseats of cars and buses. They reached out for each other now, kissed and undressed in JC's mind.

He pressed his hands to the bed, shuddering. When he looked across the bed, all he could see were ghost images of Nick and Justin, his own longing etched in silver between their bodies. He sat up, wondering if he was crying, if the hot flush of his face meant he was angry or sad or confused. He didn't know. He was trembling, and his mind was fever-bright, stammering the same words over and over again, too fast for him to hear them.

The door opened, quietly this time. Nick sat down on the other side of the bed, and put down a bottle of lube, a handful of condoms in shiny foil packets. He pushed one silently towards JC.

He spoke without thinking, startled by the line of Nick's shoulders, the words true the moment he said them. "There's no-one else in the bed. No-one but you and me." He shifted across the bed and touched Nick's shoulder shyly, carefully. As if they had never been in bed before, naked. As if this were the first time.

They kissed, dry chaste touches, their hands touching lightly, and Nick wrapped his arms around JC. "What do you want," Nick asked. "What do you want."

He said, "to make love to you," and it didn't sound corny or dumb or anything, but what he wanted, the look on Nick's face, the way he brushed the back of his hand against JC's cheek and nodded.

They found a pillow in the tangle of sheets and Nick lay down in the middle of the bed, the pillow under his hips, lay quietly while JC kissed him. JC took a condom and pressed it into Nick's hand then slid his leg across Nick's waist until he was kneeling above. Neither of them spoke. He leaned down and kissed Nick again, kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose. His closed eyes, his cheeks, the curve of his chin.

The lube was cold and sticky and JC stared stupidly at his hands until Nick took them and guided them down, spread his legs enough that JC could reach. Then it was warm and hot, and he fumbled and Nick winced, but said nothing, only drew one leg out from under JC and balanced his ankle on JC's shoulder.

Then Nick whispered, "stop, stop." and sat up, caught JC's wrist and held him there, two fingers inside, desperately afraid and there was no way to read Nick's face, the furrow on his forehead, the way he bit his lower lip. He froze and Nick held onto his wrist, almost painfully, as he moved, a minute shift of his hips. His face tightened and loosened and JC pushed deeper and Nick let out his breath, one slow hot exhalation against JC's neck.

"The condom," he said and moved back, JC's fingers sliding out. The wrapper wouldn't open at first, his hands clumsy and slick, and then it almost hurt to put on, the edge of pain because he was achingly hard.

He didn't know what to do, had forgotten everything he'd heard, everything he'd read and all he could think was to lie on top of Nick, the way they did when they were going to sleep. Nick rubbed his back, and he was hard too. The lube that JC had wiped off on his belly, let them slide against each other, and JC pushed himself onto his elbows, panting.

Nick brushed JC's hair back from his forehead, smiling. JC smiled back, and when Nick's feet slid around his back, he lay his head under Nick's chin and Nick stroked his hair and whispered, "I love you" in answer when JC slowly entered him.

It was difficult and tight, and at first he kept slipping out, and then Nick's hand was there and he shifted his hips, a moment's perfect grace and JC was there, inside Nick and Nick was pushing up against him, rocking in shallow intense curves. His hands scrambled for JC's and then they were tightly linked, and JC was kneeling against Nick, thrusting, their arms out-stretched and pushing against each other.

He came, a sharp knife stroke, and Nick pulled him in, still moving beneath him. They were sticky, sweat and semen, the bottle of lube had spilled and the air smelt of sex, of men. He kissed Nick, blindly, savagely, biting at the side of his mouth and his jaw. He rubbed his face against Nick, into the burn of stubble, sank his hand into Nick's thick hair and said fiercely, "No matter what. Whatever happens."

Nick ran his heels down the backs of JC's legs, hooked their ankles together and thrust into the slick mess between them. "Always," he answered. He came, his face contorted for a moment, his body taut against JC's, stretching to reach something just out of sight.

In the morning, Katie made them waffles, and stripped the bed down and changed the sheets. She left the condoms under the pillow and spent the rest of the day in the garden, cutting flowers. JC waited until she was gone to empty the bowl of magnolias, but Nick shook rose petals over him in the bedroom, and there was colour everywhere. They made love outside, on the kitchen table, on the sofa while they watched Star Wars again. JC made cherry pie and peach cobbler. They swam and went for long drives, the windows down and the stereo cranked up.

They didn't talk about later. Nick threw the newspapers away and they left their handphones in the hallway drawer.

Five days later, they drove to the airport and took separate flights to different cities. JC kept his sunglasses on the entire time and told the stewardess he had a terrible cold. They gave him an extra blanket and he put the seat down and stared at the plastic wall of the airplane and wondered if he could quit Nsync.

four

"I'm doing a what?"

"Save the Whales concert. You and Nick are thinking of doing a ballad about dolphins and fish and stuff. Oceans of love, I think I said. That's why you were having lunch. I've told Sarah already, she's typing up some backdated memos now. You need to call Nick now, JC, to get the go ahead for the press release. She's faxed it over already to his people."

"What newspaper," he asked, sitting down on the unmade bed. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to stop the pounding starting up.

"New York Times, Page Six. The tabloids broke it yesterday, but Chris and I got all the papers away in time. Johnny wants to talk to you yesterday, by the way. Which hotel are you at?"

JC went to the door and opened it. The corridor was empty, but he still felt like he was being watched. He grabbed the paper lying on the mat and brought it in.

"The Library," he said, paging through to the gossip column. The photograph wasn't very big, a cropped black and white. They looked happy.

"You should get out of there, both of you. Please god, tell me you checked in under a decent alias."

"Gordon Sumner."

Lance paused. "Shit. Can you leave separately? Where's Nick?"

"Shower. Can't you. Does he know?"

"Kevin says he'll send a car over for Nick -" Lance held the phone away and shouted at someone else then came back on. "Fifteen minutes. They'll pick him up at Grand Central Station. Got that?"

"Does he know, Lance."

"I don't think so," Lance said carefully. "But I'm not sure. Jayse, the photos are really obvious. I think someone on the Backstreet side gossiped. Not one of them, maybe an assistant or someone."

"We didn't do anything wrong," JC said tiredly. "We had lunch. We didn't kiss, we didn't hold hands. I can't, I can't do that?"

Lance sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, and the bitterness in his voice made JC wince, because they all knew the rules, they'd all been told over and over what they could and couldn't do, and Lance took Meredith to every public event and smiled for the cameras.

"Yeah. Well. I'll tell him. Thanks, Lance."

He put the phone down and looked around the room. They'd pulled the curtains back and it was a bright, clear day. They hadn't even had time to unpack, Nick was due back in L.A. tomorrow night, and they'd left their clothes in their bags, gone shopping for whatever they'd forgotten to bring.

JC had told Justin he was going to crash at Joey's, check in on Brianna. He grabbed the phone, heart thumping and then put it down slowly. Lance would've called Joey already. There was nothing left to do but wait.

He told Nick and they lay down, the bed still warm from earlier. Nick's skin was still damp from the shower, his hair sticking up in spikes. He stroked JC's face, kissed him, and they said each other's names, over and over. Their phones rang and rang. They ignored them. JC closed his eyes at last and sat up, his back to Nick, and said, "You have to go. You should go now." He listened to Nick dress, the soft sound of his bag dragging over the carpet. The click of the door closing. He crawled back into the bed and curled in the middle, pulled the blankets up over him, and went back to sleep.

He wandered about the room, picked up a t-shirt left on the floor and thought about shoving it into his bag with the rest of the clothes left behind. His head hurt, so he threw it over a chair and turned the tv on.

Halfway through the world news, he started thinking about Nick, so he flipped to the Cartoon Network, but that reminded him of Nick. He surfed past MTV and E! and ended up on Lifetime where Martha explained how to make heart-shaped waffles with strawberry sauce. He turned the tv off and wiped his face and after a while, started packing.

While he was trying to remember if it was better to pack his sequinned shirt inside-out or just fold it inside a towel, someone knocked on his door. He froze, his mouth dry and looked wildly around the room.

Nick had left things behind, but nothing that couldn't have been JC's. The bed was a mess, and there were condoms in the trash, but he supposed even Justin wouldn't rip his room apart like that. At least not while he was still in it.

He opened the door carefully. One of the hotel managers was waiting outside. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a few curls escaping, and her glasses and tightly pressed lip made her look like a librarian about to collect late fines. He almost closed the door again, but she said softly, "Mr Sumners? Are you alright?" with such sympathy, that he started to cry again.

She ran a washcloth under the cold tap and gave it to him, then opened a miniature bottle of whisky from the minibar and made him drink it, "for medicinal purposes," she said, smiling, and he smiled weakly and drank it all.

"You've got quite a few phone messages, mostly from the press, sir. There are several reporters outside the hotel, but we should be able to get you out another way."

"Is, um. Who are the other messages from?"

She handed over a little stack, neatly paper-clipped together. He flipped through them until the one that said simply, "Mr Retrac at 2.43 pm. Please call when you can, the shape of my heart." The rest were from Lance and Justin. He didn't read them.

"Mr Sumner, there's a young man in the lobby waiting for you. He's been there for the last hour, and refuses to leave. We could call the police, if you like."

"No. No police. Does he, does he know which room I'm in?"

She shook her head just as the banging on the door started. JC closed his eyes and laughed softly. "Yeah. He's pretty persistent."

"I can call security right now."

He shook his head. "No, thank you," he said and opened the door.

Justin slammed the door shut and punched JC in one fluid, graceful movement. Like he was dancing, JC thought as he fell, he always moves like he's dancing. Lying on the floor, his hand to his jaw like some battered wife in a bad movie, JC heard the tailend of a tune in his head, something sad and slow, trailing into silence before he could pin it down. Justin was beautiful when he was angry. He had low-slung jeans on, a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off and when he shouted, his mouth was a perfect red shape.

The manager was speaking with quiet force, getting between JC and Justin, one small hand on the center of his chest. For a moment, JC was afraid he'd hit her, and then Justin screamed, "fuck you, whoever you are!" and stalked past into the room.

"Who are you?" JC asked. It hurt to talk.

She knelt down next to him, her hands cool and impersonal on his face. "Nothing broken," she said. "Would you like a doctor? I'm Laura Fraiser."

"JC Chasez." She helped him up. "Maybe you should go," he said.

She nodded briskly. "I'll be right outside if you need anything, Mr Chasez."

Justin was standing by the windows, his head pressed to the glass. His knuckles were red and he winced when he looked at JC, but he didn't say anything.

"How'd you find the room?" JC asked, folding up the shirt and stuffing it roughly into his bag, grabbing whatever was nearby and shoving it in.

"I looked at the brochure, C. I thought you'd be in Music or Erotic Literature, maybe." He turned around, and his voice shook a little. "Philosophy of love. That's pretty romantic, C."

"I love him," JC said sharply. "He loves me."

Justin stiffened. "Did he tell you. We were." He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the rumpled bed. "This is so fucking wrong," he muttered.

JC snapped the case shut. He'd ask Laura to forward the rest of his stuff on. "This has nothing to do with you, Justin." He didn't know where he was going, what he should do now. He wanted to call Nick, fly to wherever he was. Shut the doors and let Lance and Johnny handle everything. He knew he couldn't, wouldn't, when Justin grabbed his hands and kissed him. Justin was stronger, and his wrists hurt worse than his throbbing jaw. He refused to give in to the kiss, ground his lips shut against Justin's desperate mouth.

When Justin let go, stumbling back and wiping his mouth furiously, JC didn't move. He studied the picture hanging above the bed, an old illustration of Romeo and Juliet, simply framed. Their hands were pressed palm to palm, and he thought about how his hands were narrower than Nick's, but longer, how they'd held hands under jackets thrown down between them, in dark movie theatres. His hands felt bare, empty, itching strangely and he thought of ghosts and smiled a little because Nick had confessed once that he believed in ghosts, was terrified of them, and hated that damn video they'd made.

"I love you," Justin said. "I've loved you for so long, C."

"I knew," he said. His mouth hurt and he wondered vaguely how bad the bruises were and if he'd need to put on make-up before he left the hotel. Maybe just a scarf pulled up high. "I knew about you and Nick in Germany."

He'd never walked away from Justin crying before. Over a decade between them, and he remembered when Justin used to crawl into his bed at night, red-eyed and homesick. He'd gotten used to it, and then there had been Maria, the girl who looked like Chris and sounded like Chris and slept with Justin for a year, while Chris ignored her. When it ended, Justin had come to his house and slept in his bed for a week. He'd done it on and off until this year, that night and even then, JC thought he wouldn't walk away.

He surprised himself.

Laura took him down to the basement and out a side-alley. She gave him her scarf and told him she would settle everything at the hotel. He remembered to say thank you and she patted his hand and looked as if she might say something more, but nodded instead and left.

Lonnie was waiting for him and he asked, "Anyone else?". JC shook his head and Lonnie nodded and opened the door for him. "I'm driving," he said and JC lay down on the backseat and closed his eyes. Laura's scarf smelt of perfume, something light and floral that he couldn't place. He fell asleep, dreaming of his mother and long car drives as a child.

They moved him into a guest room on the Compound, and confiscated his handphone. He thought about complaining, calling his lawyer or something, but he wasn't entirely sure who his lawyer was and decided they'd probably tell him the same thing everyone else was.

Chris yelled a lot; he could hear him down the corridor, right up to his door. Things like "It's his fucking life! Screw Jive, and Justin, I swear you come near his room, I'll kill you". They made JC feel a little better, but then Chris would open the door and talk to him in whispers. Everyone did, as if he was sick. He'd stopped eating, except for the cup-a-soups that Sarah made and begged him to drink.

On the third day, he had a shower and asked to call Nick. Sarah hesitated and glanced at the door. "Oh," he said dumbly. "They're listening?" She nodded and pulled out a piece of paper, pressed it into his hand and left.

He went into the bathroom to read it. A phone number and the word love written over and over in Sarah's neat script. He wasn't sure what to do with it. He wondered if they were bugging the bathroom too, drugging his food. He felt like he was in a movie, an indie film with a rock soundtrack and lousy acting, where everything ended badly because that was more real.

He tore up the paper and flushed it down the toilet after he memorized the number. Then he went back to sleep.

On the fourth day, he agreed to talk to Justin. He waited until the door was closed and they were alone to punch him. His hand hurt like hell, and Joey sat next to him with a bucket of ice and said quietly, "he really loves you."

JC threw the bucket across the room and shouted until they had to give him a sedative, Joey and Lonnie pinning him down while the doctor slid the needle in. Joey stroked his hair back from his forehead and said, "Oh, baby. Oh, C." His last thought was that he wished he'd punched Lonnie too.

He drifted in and out. When he was awake, Sarah or Joey were always by his bed. Sarah brought him clippings, slipped in between the pages of books. The papers were speculating, and the net sites were going crazy. Nick had vanished and rehab was being bandied about, blurry long distance photographs of AJ hugging him before he got into a car. Joey brought food, and ate it while JC stared at the walls. He talked about Brianna and left photographs. Mixed in were ones of Nick, and notes on the back from Chris and Lance.

No-one else was allowed in, except for Johnny and suits from Jive. Joey's eye was still spectacularly purple and Sarah had brought him a memo, outlining the procedure for involuntary commitment by way of mental illness. He read it and threw up. She knelt by him in the bathroom, crying a little, and whispered in his ear, "Lance is trying to get you out, but the lawyers are still talking. Oh, JC. I think they're doing the same thing to him."

He would wake up sometimes and Johnny would be there, looking tired and old. Strangers in suits would have chairs pulled up to his bed. Sometimes there would be conference calls. Lonnie was always at the door, his arms folded and his face impassive.

They talked at him for hours. First, they pieced together what had happened. He thought maybe Lance told them, but there were things they didn't know, and he kept them hidden away, thought about all the things they didn't know. The Firm called a lot. Kevin spoke once and they had to sedate JC again.

Sometimes, lying in bed, everything a swirling heavy haze, he wondered if he really loved Nick this much, or if he was fighting because that was all he could do now, fight. He'd always been stubborn when pushed, and sometimes, he couldn't remember what Nick sounded like. Everything was mixed up in his head and he couldn't think, couldn't feel. All he could remember was that he loved Nick. He didn't feel it, but he didn't feel anything. He just knew.

Chris came in alone, empty-handed. He had his glasses on and they fell down his nose a little. JC pushed them up, and smiled at him. "You were right," he said. "This is hell."

Chris pushed him over and stole most of the blanket. He was small and intensely warm, always running a couple of degrees higher, like he was burning energy faster than the rest of the world. He smacked his lips a couple of times, sighed theatrically and then said, "I'm thinking of England, how about you?"

JC snorted. "You're who they chose? Why not Lance?"

"He said he'd announce he was gay on Letterman. Joey played the Brianna card." Chris rolled on his side and kissed JC sloppily, kindly. "I'm putting my honor on the line here, you might as well take advantage."

"What's gonna happen, Chris?" he asked, putting his head in the crook of Chris' shoulder.

Chris sighed. "You got two choices, Jayse. Neither good. Door A has you out of a job, because Justin's saying he'll quit if you're with Nick. Don't hit me, okay? He sorta has a point. This thing's tearing him apart, he's spent the last ten days crying or blind drunk."

"I don't love him like that," JC whispered into Chris' shirt.

Chris patted his shoulder. "Yeah, I know. But love's not something you flip on and off, huh? He's got it bad, and I can't really see us going on tour the way it is now. Jayse, it'd probably break the band up anyway." He pulled JC closer, into a half-hug. "We've had a good run. All of us, the rest of us. If that's what you want, we'll do it. You can go and be Mr Carter-Chasez."

"Or?"

"Give Justin a chance. Me, even. You're kinda cute. Skinny, but cute." Chris stroked his hair and said softly, "stop seeing Nick."

"I love him," JC said helplessly. "I love him so much, Chris."

They busted him out at three a.m. on a Wednesday. He knew it was Wednesday because Lance had his green socks on, and even as the whole world was spinning out of control, Lance still stuck to his lucky sock schedule.

Lonnie woke him up. He undid the alarm bracelet on JC's ankle and gave him a bunch of keys, all neatly labelled in Sarah's handwriting. JC tried to thank him, but Lonnie covered his mouth and shook his head. He pointed to his watch, and spread his hand out. JC nodded.

Lonnie hugged him, a huge tight hold and then pushed him out the door. JC ran.

They drove until it was light. Lance went past the speed limit, but they were on back roads, tract houses left behind and nothing but swamp on each side. Lance pulled over at dawn and made JC get changed into new clothes, the tags still on them. They drank hot coffee from a plaid thermos, ate muffins and lasagna from Joey's mom, packed in pastel tupperware.

"Where are we going?" JC asked. The dawn was beautiful, colours spilled across the sky. He felt like singing, dancing, crying.

"We need to switch cars. Then we're taking a 5.40 flight to Atlanta. We'll be meeting him there, if everything goes okay. This is your new wallet." He pulled out a battered brown wallet from his bag.

JC opened it slowly. An old photo of him, a really bad one, on several pieces of id, with the name "Philip Lawrence." Crumpled dollar bills and a couple of business cards from places he'd never been. He slid it into his back pocket. "What's going on?" he asked.

Lance checked his watch again, frowning. "Five minutes, second car'll be here. JC, I had to pay a shitload of bribes to get you out. Lonnie's probably gonna get fired, maybe worse. We're on the run." He glanced at JC and his face softened. "We're worth a lot of money to some people, C. Billions in the long term. There are people who really don't want you to be with Nick."

"Tell me the truth," JC said. "Please."

"You're officially in rehab, JC. So's Nick. You've been secretly partying with him and AJ - who's a fucking saint by the way, for the amount of crap he's letting them pin on him." Lance finished his coffee cup, tipped the last few drops out and crushed the cup in his hands. "Nsync could go on with just four people. Or it could end gracefully. Big tragedy'd boost record sales for everyone involved."

"How do you know?" JC said after a while.

"Johnny. He's been leaking the info to us. Justin doesn't know anything. They've got him doped up as well, probably for his own good."

"I didn't - I didn't mean for this to happen."

Lance grabbed his arm, almost painfully. "Don't. Don't apologize. This is fucked up, but it's not your fault. It's just." He shook his head and drew JC into a hug. "We're gonna make it," he said and JC nodded.

At the Hartsfield airport, Lance made two phone calls on a pay phone. JC kept close by him. Everyone seemed to be looking at them, though they wore hats pulled low and Lance had his moustache, a bristled glue-on thing that scared children.

"Okay. He's gonna meet us in the TGI Friday's, fifteen minutes from now. Come on."

Lance ate fries, staining his moustache red with ketchup. He made JC sit inside the booth, away from the door, kicking him in the shin every time JC craned his head above the booth.

When Nick came, JC could barely stand, but he tried anyway. Brian pulled Lance out of the booth, and Nick slid in beside him.

"Hey," JC said. He didn't dare move.

Nick stared at him. "I forgot how blue your eyes are," he said. His voice was rough, as if he hadn't used it in a while.

In the narrow booths, it was difficult to turn, but JC managed to get his arm clumsily around Nick. They hugged, and JC drew in a long, breath. Nick smelt of antiseptic, strange soap. He was still Nick, and his hands on the back of JC's neck, along the line of his spine, made him feel filled in. As if he'd been an outline, emptied of colour, and wherever Nick touched, he was real again. Here again.

There was nowhere private in an airport. They walked a foot apart, following Brian and Lance who were talking in low, hurried voices. JC kept glancing at Nick. His hair had been cut, badly, the back mangled short. He was thinner, and with his fists shoved into his pockets, he looked angry, vibrating with barely restrained violence. People got out of his way, and JC followed, barely noticing the people streaming past.

They stopped outside a smoking lounge. Brian handed Nick a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "You've got maybe twenty minutes," he said. He didn't look at them; he was standing utterly still, only his eyes moving, his gaze darting back and forth at the atrium behind them. "They've tracked the first credit cards at least. I'm gonna buy some more tickets, but I don't know where. If anyone approaches you, anyone. Could be a fourteen year old girl asking for an autograph. Shout." He focused briefly on them, his face hard. "Shout as loudly as you can. Act happy. Don't let them take you anywhere."

Nick nodded and Brian focused on him, and spoke, too softly to be overheard. They hugged fiercely, and then Brian was off, half-running as if he was late for a plane. Lance tapped JC's back. "Be careful," he said and then he strolled away casually in the other direction.

The lounge was almost empty. Two old guys with newspapers and a woman leaning against the wall, talking loudly into her phone. They went to the back and Nick tried to get the lighter to work, but his fingers kept slipping. JC took it from him, and their palms met, dry warm skin and Nick's fingers closed around JC's for a moment.

"Are you. Are you okay?" Nick asked. They both laughed at the same time, on the edge of hysteria giggles, and Nick gasped, "Thelma, I wanna be Thelma." and JC smiled without thinking.

He took a deep drag and let it out slowly, the taste as bitter and harsh as the black coffee he'd been drinking the whole day, Lance handing him cup after cup. "Except for the, the stuff. Yeah. Sleepy. I slept a lot. They had needles."

"Lemme see." Nick took his hand and carefully pushed up the sleeve. He ran his fingers lightly over the marks and the yellowed bruises. "Bastards."

"Yeah. You?"

"I'm okay. It's not so bad." Nick laughed shakily. "They told my mom. Flew her in with the kids. She's not, not exactly wild about the idea. Anyway."

"We could go," JC said. "Call a newspaper, hold a conference. Maybe just take off, go to Bolivia and hope they leave us alone."

Nick's mouth quirked. "Bolivia, huh. How come none of those movies ever ended happy?"

"I don't know," JC said. "Maybe it's better to go out together than. Than anything else."

Nick shook his head. "In the movies, maybe. There's things, things I've learnt, JC. It's so fucking easy to give up. Go right to the edge and sit there in a bathtub in a hotel you don't know the name of, with a bunch of pills and a razor blade and be-" He broke off abruptly. "It's easier to fall. Just give up and fall."

"Nick, no. No."

"Listen to me, C. I want you to go home. Go home and move on. Find someone who can love you, someone who's not gonna fuck this up like I'm doing." He raised one hand, pressed it to JC's cheek. The tears ran down his thumb, down the line of Nick's hand to JC's mouth. "Maybe Justin," Nick said. "You'll forget me, you will. We'll be just good memories."

"No," JC choked. "No. I won't go."

"You have to. We'll be. We could be friends." JC shook his head frantically. "Fuck, JC. Please. I love you. I love you." Nick stubbed out the cigarette, took JC's face in both his hands and kissed him. Their teeth knocked, and they tasted of salt and cigarettes and they clung to each other desperately, shaking.

"Years from now," Nick said, his voice rough and uneven. "In Istanbul. I'll wait for you."

"No," JC said. "No. Don't do this. I love you." His voice cracked. "Jesus, please, Nick. It hurts so fucking much." Nick shook his head and stepped away. JC wrapped his arms around himself, begged, "Nick. Please. No. God, no."

He left. JC sank to the floor and wept. The woman and the two men ignored him. When Lance came in, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around JC's shoulders. "They've gone back to New York," he said. "Nick told us that you. You're not."

JC shook his head. "He doesn't. He didn't want to go with me." His head hurt and he wanted to go to sleep, to curl up on something soft and sleep. Wake up in his own bed. He wasn't quite sure what he was saying. Only that something was terribly, terribly wrong and his chest hurt. He thought his heart might be gone. Not broken, simply gone.

five

"Hey," Justin said softly. He kissed JC's cheek and helped him sit up. He had a cup of hot tea, a slice of lemon on the side the way JC liked.

JC smiled and took it. "Thanks," he said, his throat rough with sleep. "Ju, it's not even light out. What time is it?"

"Four-thirty. I want to take a drive, okay?"

JC yawned and leaned his head on Justin's shoulder. "Sure," he said. "That sounds nice." He drank his tea, drowsing in the warmth of Justin, almost falling asleep again when Justin took the cup from him and placed it with a slight clatter on the nightstand. Feather-light kisses along his neck, and JC stretched and murmured Justin's name. He drew him down for a kiss, under the blankets where everything was cool linen and the hot silk of Justin's skin.

"Hey yourself," he said when they were finished, the blankets kicked down along with their boxers. In the mornings, when it was just them, alone in bed or puttering around the house on their days off, JC felt like a cat in sunlight, thinking no further than this moment of simple pleasure. Justin was beautiful lying in bed, languid and flushed from sex. He was beautiful all the time. His hair had grown in a little, soft fuzz under JC's hand, and he thought, amused, that even the arch of Justin's eyebrows was beautiful. The slow sweep of his eyelashes and the freckles across his nose.

"I love you," Justin said, like he did every day. JC nodded and got out of bed, wrapping a robe around himself.

"I'm gonna have a shower," he said and this time, Justin didn't pull him down again, kiss him fiercely as if he could somehow draw the words from JC's mouth. He only nodded and swung his legs over the other side of the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked exhausted. "You sure about this?" JC asked, hesitating at the bathroom door. "We could sleep in."

"No," Justin said, running his hands through his hair and staring at the floor. "We should go."

In the shower, he turned the water to ice-cold and spread his hands on the wall, leaned into the spray pounding on his back, drowning out the words in his head. Nick, Nick, Nick. Some days, he managed to make it to brushing his teeth, before he remembered that he was missing something, remembered that his heart was gone.

Justin had left clothes out on the bed; shorts and a t-shirt, his speedos rolled up in a sweatshirt. JC put them on, slowly. Nick, Nick, Nick, he thought.

Downstairs, Justin was tossing the car keys from hand to hand, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "We should go," he said. "Beat the traffic."

"It's still dark, Justin. Where are we going?"

"Surprise. Come on."

He followed obediantly, strapped himself into the front seat of the SUV, and braced one arm on the roof. Justin drove like a maniac, and with the streets half-empty, he took corners with the tires screeching.

They pulled in at a gas station and bought hot coffee and doughnuts. JC ate half of one, and Justin went in again and bought a slice of microwaved pizza, holding it carefully in a paper napkin, the melted cheese dripping over the sides. "It's good," he said and fed it to JC, bit by bit.

Justin got out at the gatehouse for the private beaches. The sky was greying, a faint rose blush in the distance, and the air had the tang of salt and trees. JC leaned out the window and watched Justin scribble their names into the logbook. He looked up, and JC waved, glad to be here, full of pizza and coffee, and he knew it'd be good, even. Walking up and down the beach, with Justin scrabbling around for shells, pulling off his t-shirt eventually to carry them in it. He knew how to do scout things, from when his mother had tried to give him a normal year, a normal life. Make knots, build fires. They could make a driftwood fire and swim and JC smiled, thinking about it.

Justin waved back, but he didn't smile. He looked as if he was angry, for a moment, and JC wondered what the guard had said, if they'd driven to the wrong beach. Then Justin was smiling, chatting to the guard again, and the gate swung open slowly.

The road went up a rise. There were lights in the distance, someone's house at the other end of the beach, but Justin took a sharp left and parked the car where they couldn't see the ocean, but it was a steady roar, only a few feet away.

"Are you happy," he asked when the engine had died down. He stared straight ahead, the clump of trees in front of them black silhouettes against a sky softening, bruising with colour.

"Happy? It's a. It's a great idea, Justin." He thought about touching Justin, hugging him the way he had to do sometimes, when the unspoken was unbearably close and they drowned it out instead with skin and lips and hunger. Something about the way Justin held himself, the shallow breaths he took, made JC press his hands to his lap instead. "I love the beach," he said. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"I meant." Justin closed his eyes. "I meant, are you happy with me? With us."

"Yes," JC said after a while. The sun was rising, a shimmer of golden-orange in the sky, and colour seeping back into the world. Justin was crying, tears slowly tracking down his face. "Yes," JC said. "I'm happy. You make me happy, Justin."

"But you don't love me."

"I will," he said and there was a sharp, painful tug in his chest. "I will," he promised, and he thought perhaps he did mean it. Months had gone by and Nick didn't call, didn't write. They drifted in different worlds, carefully kept apart and JC could not remember Nick's telephone number anymore, or what they had said in that airport, only that he was gone, and JC was still here. Paris, he thought, looking at Justin. A sudden tenderness filled him and he leaned forward and caught his mouth, kissed him and said, "I will" again.

Justin wiped his eyes and put his head back against the headrest. "Fuck, fuck," he muttered, and then he took a deep breath and looked at JC, his lashes glittering and his eyes a bright blue than the sky. "I think someday, we're gonna be able to sit down and talk about this, C. Right now," his mouth twisted almost into a smile, "right now, I need to. Fuck. Fuck!" he shouted and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. JC drew back against the car door and Justin laughed, a ragged hitched sound over his hard breathing.

"I love you, C. I think, I think I needed to learn some things. To maybe grow up some. I just. I wanted to hold on to you as long as I could." He looked out of the window, towards the hidden beach. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought maybe if I just loved you enough."

"He's on the beach. This is Kevin's beachhouse. He doesn't know. Lance and Johnny. I asked them to settle things for you. For all of us. I wanted to let you choose." Justin fell silent.

JC fumbled with the door handle, his hands clumsy, the ocean a rushing roar, except that was in his head, a chorus suddenly loud, a great pounding of noise. Justin leaned across and opened the door. "Go," he said softly. "Go. I love you."

JC nodded and brushed his mouth across Justin's one last time.

He ran, the rise impossibly high, and then he was on top of it, the ocean stretching silver-green to the sky, the sun half-risen and a sweep of beach below. He heard the car engine start up, a faint growl as it pulled out and drove away.

The beach was a clean, dull gold line, tide marks in the sand undisturbed except for a dark surfboard laid out in the distance, a man kneeling over it, his arm steadily moving across the board.

JC ran, the sand shifting under his feet, stumbling and pushing himself up, sand covering his arms. At the shoreline, the waves washed over his shoes, slowing him down, and he tugged them off and left them behind. He ran, thinking Nick, Nick, Nick, and then saying it, a steady chant under his breath.

Twenty feet away, he could see Nick's hair was golden, bright brilliant golden and sun streaked. He stood up, carefully holding the board, and he was taller, broader than JC remembered, and the black wetsuit made him seem a stranger, a man with distant, pale blue eyes and a silent face.

"Nick," he said. "Nick."

The surfboard smacked quietly on the sand and the stranger took a step forward and halted. "You shouldn't be here," but even as he said it, he was walking towards JC, touching his face hesitantly. His hands were rougher than JC remembered, but when he closed his eyes, they were Nick's, cigarette smoke and salt and Nick underneath everything, always.

"I can stay," JC said. "The others - I can stay."

"For how long?" Nick asked. He brushed the hair back from JC's forehead, his touch tentative and light.

"Always," JC said, "Always."

Nick's mouth was chapped and dry, and there was a moment where they were simply pressed together, the damp of Nick's wetsuit seeping through JC's t-shirt, the sand rough under his feet and then Nick's tongue touched JC's mouth, and he opened to the warmth on the cold beach, and their lips fit together. "Thy lips are warm," Nick murmured, and JC's heart pounded in his chest again.

"Istanbul to Constantinople," he replied, and kissed the curve of Nick's smile.