By Mickey M.
©August 2002

Some days you remembered every promise ever made to you. Some days, you found, it was easier...better...to forget them. At least some of them. Today definitely fell into the 'better to forget' category.

Lance stood just inside the front door, looking around as if he were memorizing the place. You could see JC, through the open door, leaning against his car, looking uncertain and ill at ease. You felt pretty uncertain and ill at ease, yourself. No matter how many times you'd done this.

"You sure you have everything?" Lance twitched a little at your question before turning toward you.

And it wasn't like it was the first time. Or even the second. Over the years you'd lost track of how many times you and Lance broke up, got back together, broke up, got back together. This time, though, it was all over. You and Lance, the band, all of it. You had a permanent hollow spot inside your chest, which felt like it had gotten a little bigger each day of the last two years.

"Yeah. I'm sure. Pretty sure."

His voice rumbled through you, hitting you with one of those snapshot memories: A thin, pale, geeky-looking boy who looked more feminine than some of the girls you'd dated, standing just inside the doorway of the conference room, his weird-colored eyes darting around nervously. He so didn't look like his voice would come from his toes, but it had. He'd floored you completely with the first note he sang.

"No big, man. It's not like I can't send it, if I find anything." This wasn't the first time, but it was the most awkward; possibly because you knew you wouldn't see him tomorrow at rehearsal, or next week to record tracks, or even the month after that to load your gear onto the tour buses. With the exception of you and JC, you would all be scattered across the country now. Lance was going home to Mississippi, then probably on to LA. He'd shipped all his stuff yesterday.

"I know." He wouldn't look at you. The self-assured, confident man you'd watched evolve from a shy, uncertain kid, wouldn't look at you. You thought that maybe broke your heart more than him leaving. "Chris--"

"Shh. No. We're not doing this, Lance. We'll still be friends. We'll always be friends." You stepped a little closer, invaded his personal space like you still had the right. He didn't push you away, didn't step back. Out of the corner of your eye you watched JC shift uncomfortably and move out of your line of sight. "Twelve years, kiddo. That's too much history to throw away."

"I know." His voice was tight, miserable-sounding. "I can't...I'm sorry."

"I know." You tipped his chin up so he would look at you, your fingers hungry for one last touch. "I want you to promise me you won't stay away. That you'll call if you need anything. Anything, you understand?"

He nodded. "I will."

"Then say it. I mean it." You gave him a small snarl and received a half-smile in return.

"I promise. I'll--I promise."

Snapshot. A shared bed in Germany, cuddled together against the damp chill. You were new lovers; together only a couple of months. Warm arms around you, holding you close to a comfortable, soft, but still growing body. Warm, deep voice in your ear. "This'll be forever, right? Promise me, Chris."

Your voice, quiet, much higher than his, tinged with regret. "No one can promise forever, baby. But for as long as we can manage, yeah."

And all these years later, you still weren't sure if he'd been asking about the group and the music, or the two of you.

It was just as well you didn't promise. You touched his cheek. Not downy anymore; he'd worn beard-scruff for several years, now.

"You better go. Don't want to miss your plane." You hated goodbyes; you'd had too many of them over the years.

"Yeah." He nodded and shifted, but you grabbed him into a hug, needing one last touch. One last time, his body against yours. He stiffened at first, then relaxed into your embrace, arms going tight around you. His breath was warm on your neck and the words, though whispered hoarsely, rumbled through you, washing over that aching place inside. "I love you."

"I know." And you did. It was just that he wouldn't put that first. You wanted to be together, publicly, just the two of you, and he wasn't ready for that. Couldn't do it. Couldn't do public, couldn't do monogamy, and you couldn't do the other, anymore. Twelve years, and you'd finally reached your limit. You rubbed his back, then moved enough to kiss him, a chaste, closed-mouth kiss. The sort friends might give one another. "Take care of yourself, Scoop."

He made an incoherent noise and pushed away from you. The next noise you heard was the slam of a car door, but you didn't watch JC's SUV pull out of the driveway. You couldn't. It was bad enough you could hear it.

Snapshot. The air-conditioning on the bus was broken and you all were miserable, but there was no place to stop to get it repaired until you got to Albuquerque. Everyone was stripped down to their shorts; even wifebeaters were abandoned in favor of just a little more skin to catch a breeze. Your knee ached unbearably and the dry heat filling the bus wasn't helping. You were curled in on yourself in your bunk, trying to ignore it. Lance came in with an ice pack, then stayed, resting your head in his lap while he stroked his fingers through your hair, humming "This I Promise You" under his breath. You thought it was more his touch than the ice that eventually made your knee stop aching.

You realized the street was silent now; Lance was gone. And in spite of the trouble the two of you'd had over the years, over the last couple of months, you missed him already.

You wondered what would stop the aching this time.

Maybe it was time to sit down, get shit-face plastered, and drown yourself in memories of the past. It wasn't like you indulged in either of those things very often, and this seemed like a good time for both.

You drank a six-pack of Coronas before starting in on tapes of past concerts, interviews, videos. You'd put away half of a second one before you came to the press conference you'd held about the end of the group.

The Celebrity tour was the beginning of the end.

Six years of non-stop dancing and your knees were going, going, nearly gone. Both of them. You wore support braces during most of your off time during the tour, and popped Advil with alarming frequency, before and after the shows, and by the time you were into the last leg of the tour, sometimes during the show, between numbers. You and Lance fought back and forth about you seeing a doctor, a surgeon, someone who could help. You flat-out refused because you knew how bad they hurt -- and how often. You knew what a doctor would tell you; you were the one who could feel everything grinding to a pulp inside.

Even with the changes in choreography -- and you hadn't ever felt as grateful toward someone as you did JC, the day he suggested it -- it was still a strain. No matter that you'd eliminated the flips, and redone Bye, Bye, Bye to cut down on the high bounces and stomps, it still hurt, and you were glad for the respite, if not the cause of it.

Nearly eight months of resting proved incredibly helpful. No dancing, no running, nothing strenuous, just lots of downtime to rest up, giving your knees a break they desperately needed. Even when you did do something, like play basketball with Justin, you were rested enough you could almost forget they'd given you trouble.

Then you cut another album. And toured some more. And cut an album after that, with yet another tour to follow. And you gritted your teeth and sang and danced, and prayed for each concert to end without you falling on your face.

Lance broke up and made up with you three times during the course of that tour. He couldn't stand to see you hurting so badly and you couldn't stand him poking his nose into it. The worst fight was four weeks before the end of the first leg of the tour, after you skipped an appointment he made for you, when he accused you of not wanting to take care of yourself.

"You promised you'd go, man. Why won't you? Don't you care about taking care of yourself?"

You told him to fuck himself and go to hell while he was doing it, and walked out of the room. You didn't speak, except for working purposes, for three days.

Just before the end of the second leg of the tour, there came a day you couldn't get out of bed. You couldn't make your knees support you. They were so sore, so swollen you couldn't bend them, or stand without assistance. You freaked and called JC. He freaked, and sent Justin to find Lance -- another one of your off-periods, when you weren't together and were barely speaking. You could see the fury and fear in Lance's eyes when he saw you sitting in bed, barely able to move.

"I want to make another appointment, Chris. Promise me you'll go this time. I swear to fuck I'll tie you up and drag you there, if I have to."

"Sounds kinky." You waggled your eyebrows at him and he swatted the back of your head.

"I'm serious. Promise."

"Fine. I promise I'll go." You rolled your eyes at him, then tackled him. Maybe you broke up so often because make-up sex was always fantastic.

By the time you returned to Florida ten days later, you couldn't walk without excruciating pain. You danced the last three concerts so high on painkillers you weren't entirely sure your feet hit the ground at all, and maintained that high off-stage with large amounts of alcohol.

Lance didn't give you a chance to fight about the doctor, or to skip out; he scheduled you an appointment with an Ortho specialist, then drove you there, tight-lipped. You didn't talk to him at all during the trip over and back, resenting the high-handedness of his actions. You wouldn't talk to anyone for the twenty-four hours afterward that it took to get everyone together for a group meeting.

The guys converged on your house and you watched silently while Lance got everyone a beer and they settled in. You waited a moment longer, gathering your courage, then sucked in a deep breath and let the words tumble out.

"The doctor said even with replacement surgery, I'm fucked. I start dancing again, daily, and I can kiss my knees -- and my mobility -- goodbye, permanently."

Stunned silence met your announcement. You looked at each guy in turn, trying to gauge reactions. Joey's mouth hung open. Justin looked absolutely blown away. JC's eyes were wide and shocked. And Lance...Lance wouldn't meet your eyes and you weren't sure if it was because he intrinsically understood what you were saying -- that this would be the end of Nsync -- or if it was because he knew you wouldn't have gone...and because he forced you, now you all had an ultimatum to deal with.

"Even with the replacements? You can't dance any more, at all?" Justin sounded almost plaintive; it was like he was sixteen again, and being told he was still too young to go clubbing with them. You shook your head.

"Not nightly, Jup. Not for a living. Replacement surgery will give me back the ability to walk without having to down a bottle of Advil, but that's about it."

"Fuck, man. That sucks." Joey scratched his chin. "What about a limited repertoire? Y'know, cut down the amount of dancing like, by half?"

You shrugged. "He said I could do some stuff. Like, y'know. Walking. Riding a bike. Rollerblading. Light exercising. But--stuff with a lot of jumping...aerobic stuff...."

Justin looked at you, horrified. "No more basketball?"

"I didn't ask, but I dunno. Probably not." You shook your head. "Guys, I'm thirty-three. It's not like--y'know. If I were one of you."

JC coughed. "If you're saying you're old, man, we're not buying it."

"Especially when you still act younger than I did at fifteen." Justin smirked, then bumped your hip. You bumped back.

"Infant."

"Geezer."

"Uh, guys." Lance waved. "Focus here?" He looked in your direction, but not at you. You hated when he didn't look at you, for any reason. "Chris. Um. You...you're...."

"Smooth, Bass. You use that on chicks?" Joey elbowed him and you glared across the space at both of them. He knew damn well who Lance did or didn't use that on. You sighed and rubbed your right knee, always the more painful of the two.

"I'm sayin' I can't dance any more, even if I have the surgery. Surgeries, actually; the doctor doesn't really rec doing both knees at once. It's pretty much a two-to-three month recovery after each surgery, if there are no complications, so even if I could do them back-to-back, and go back to it -- we're talking about like, six months at least of me totally out of commission."

JC pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. "That's not totally impossible to work with; we had more time than that off, after the Celebrity tour ended."

"Hello? Missing the point here. I. Can't. Dance. Anymore." JC nodded, his eyes dark and hurting, showing the pain your words caused. Justin elbowed you and you sighed. "Sorry, C. It's just--"

"S'okay, Chris." JC ducked his head and you grimaced, hating that you'd hurt him. You opened your mouth to say something else, but didn't get the chance.

"So. Are you saying--do you want to call it quits? Quit--this?" Lance's voice was calm, cutting easily through the bullshit. Everyone shut up and waited. He looked straight at you, held the gaze. You looked away first.

"No. Fuck, I want anything but that. But--I think. I think I have to." Your gut clenched when you whispered the words and you wished, insanely, that Lance was there beside you, rather than Justin.

He was out of his seat a heartbeat after the sound of your voice faded, arms going around your waist. Justin followed suit, close by your side already, and it only took another moment for JC and Joey to join the group hug. You thought you felt trickles of moisture at one point, but since you were dead and cold inside you knew they weren't your tears. You weren't sure who was crying, or who they were crying for.

And that was the end of Nsync. Just like that, nothing more than a few words. You were the one who put everyone together and, in the end, the one who pulled it all apart.

Snapshot. Lance, piss-ass drunk, huddling miserably over the toilet in yet another crummy German hotel. You knelt beside him, stroking his feverishly hot forehead while he retched. When he was finished you wiped Lance's forehead and face with a cool cloth, then gave him water to rinse his mouth. After he spat it out you kissed him, a hard, lingering kiss, and whispered, "love you, baby." When you stood and turned to hang up the washcloth, JC was standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging open.

Snapshot. Three, no, make that two, shocked faces staring at you. JC didn't look at either of you, and his shock was old. Hours, at least. Joey started the questions, the How? Why? When?, then stopped. You and Lance smiled at each other, then turned back to the guys, and the words flowed so smoothly from his mouth. "Just a couple weeks ago. We were gonna tell y'all, just--wanted to wait a little longer." Total lie; you'd been together for over a month, but hadn't wanted to share with anyone, still enjoying the secret, special feeling.

Snapshot. Some post-awards party. They blended together after a couple of years. No less exciting, but everything swirled together after a while. You were drunk; hell, you were all drunk. Lance, giggling, brushed against your ass, and whispered, "Mine forever, baby," into your ear before disappearing. The next time you saw him he was kissing a strange guy in a dark hallway. You made a quiet noise and he jerked his head up, eyes nearly glowing in the darkness. You didn't give him time to do or say anything, just backed away and left.

Snapshot. Vacation in a warm, sunny, totally out-of-the-way place. Lance, naked in the sun, wiggling around while you applied sunscreen to places that didn't need it, to be used in ways it wasn't intended for.

Snapshot. Joey and Lance in Canada. Filming. The happy lilt to Lance's voice when you talked on the phone. "I love you, Chris. Love you forever, man." The freshly fucked look in his eyes when you saw a news clip a few days later.

Snapshot. Snapshot. Snapshot. Snapshot. Snapshot--

Blessed darkness.

You were majorly hung over and probably still a little drunk when you staggered into the studio the next morning. You didn't look in the mirror before leaving the house, just pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt, and ran your fingers through your longer-than-usual hair, and you wondered what you looked like, from the look JC gave you. He was already in the production booth, all set up to go, so you sat down on the couch in the outer room, not ready to be busy anyway, still too wrapped up in your memories of the past, and still just drunk enough to immerse yourself in them again. Never too much pain, right? Everyone who spent any time in the past had masochistic tendencies. You hadn't realized how strong yours obviously were.

Snapshot. Sarah McLachlan on the stereo, crooning, 'Hold on...'cos this is gonna hurt like hell'. Lance, eyes rimmed with red -- lack of sleep, tears, too much alcohol -- swearing to you, "No more, Chris. I promise I won't...that it won't happen again." You held him and rubbed his back, ignored the stinging in your eyes. Refrained from telling him not to make promises he couldn't keep.

Snapshot. The tender way Lance held you, touched you, made you feel so loved after you all were on Larry King, when you were flayed open for public viewing. You never doubted Lance loved you. You just didn't understand why he couldn't commit totally to you.

Snapshot. The look on Lance's face when you told him the two of you needed to take a break from each other. That you were going to date Dani for a while, since things were obviously not working well between the two of you. The feeling in your chest of hearts breaking, pieces going permanently MIA.

Snapshot. Lance collapsing off-stage after the Disney concert special, his face gray, his breathing fast and labored. The high-pitched whine of ambulance sirens. The doctors telling you he'd be all right but he'd have to miss the last few shows of the tour. The way he squeezed your hand when you whispered, "you'll be fine, kiddo." Like anything you said was gospel to him.

Snapshot. Lance calling a group meeting, face pale and drawn, eyes flashing angrily. The man you all trusted and believed in was cheating you. The way you clung to one another during the entire hideous affair. The warmth you felt, knowing you weren't alone.

You opened your eyes, tired of the pictures behind your eyelids. You missed Lance. Far more than you'd thought you would, since you were used to him coming and going in your life. But it was different now. Breaking up now wasn't the same as two years ago, before the group dissolved. Then, you knew there would be times you'd see him. Ways that you'd meet, mix, mesh back together again. Now...you wouldn't see him until December thirty-first, the agreed-upon date you all set to meet every year, to ensure you kept in touch.

Not that you didn't still keep in contact; you talked to Joey at least once a week -- and saw him whenever he was in town -- and Justin usually more than that. And you worked with JC, so. But Lance...you doubted you'd be talking to him any time in the next couple of months. And that hollow feeling around your heart just kept growing.

You watched C talk to the band guys inside the booth and thought about the last two years, since the end of Nsync. The weird changes in everyone's lives. Some expected, some not.

Justin was in Memphis, of all places, working on a blues album. His first couple of solo albums sold really well, and he'd decided to take a bit of time and explore some other musical avenues. Still single, still loving it. Whatever'd happened between him and Britney changed him in some indefinable way. He still dated, still went out, but rarely stayed in a relationship. You wondered if he'd ever settle down.

Joey divided his time between LA and New York, with Orlando being the default when he had the chance. He still did some acting, but was trying to break into directing, too, and was having a ball, or so he told you over the phone. You usually could hear baby noises and other chatter in the background during those times, and had to grin. Of all the people you'd least expected to settle down into fatherhood, it was Joey. But baby number three would put in an appearance sometime in the next couple of months, and you knew from pictures he sent you in email and quick drop-by visits when he was in town, he couldn't be happier.

And Lance, well. You set him from your mind with an effort. You knew what he'd been doing; didn't feel like rehashing it. Your head hurt bad enough as it was.

But the weirdest, oddest changes...were you and JC.

After your surgeries, you were laid up for months, literally. Like you'd told the guys, it'd been six months out of commission that actually turned into eight, because you had a shitty recovery with your right knee, with the infection-from-hell that didn't want to heal. You'd been bored, irritable, snotty, and downright mean, by turns. No one wanted anything to do with you for more than a few days at a time -- if that -- and so they took turns babysitting you. Even when Lance was actually home, if it was someone else's turn, they came over.

Then JC asked you to help him with some music. He needed someone to harmonize with him and sure, you were probably his last choice, but Joey and Justin were already busy with their solo stuff, and Lance sang too low for what JC needed. You didn't mind; it gave you something to do besides angst over the end of the group. It let you feel like you were still a part of the world that'd been yours for a decade, before your body fucked you over. And you guys rocked, together. You'd forgotten how well your voices harmonized together, the way they fitted with each other like interlocking puzzle pieces. Even better than yours and Justin's.

Later he asked you to help him out with the musical arrangements. It wasn't his album, like you'd thought at first, but one he was producing. He wanted to show the band some alternative ways to do what they were trying to do, and needed some help. Which so worked for you. A bored, hurting, mostly immobile Chris did not make for a happy Chris, and even though Lance teased you about crushing on the 'new, improved JC', you growled to him to get over it, and settled down to work on musical arrangements, song-writing, recording and production. You formed a company together, you and JC. Tricky-C Productions. The idea for the company was yours; the idea for the name was his. You'd laughed, said it sounded like a dude ranch out west. But you felt proud, too. It was something you didn't know you could do, and finding that out was a good thing.

You liked it. A lot.

You discovered you were good at it.

When things got dicey with Lance, and then dicier still, it became a godsend. You lost yourself in the music, in the rediscovery of your friendship with JC, in the beauty you'd thought might be gone from your life.

You started back into the present, and reality, when JC rapped his knuckles on your forehead.

"Hey--you in there, man?" He didn't even give you time to reply, instead, plopped down on the couch beside you and laid his head on your shoulder. "You okay?" His voice was softer with this question, not prying, just--asking. You shrugged, the movement awkward, with his head against you.

"I guess. I don't know. I will be." And you would, eventually. It wasn't even like Lance broke your heart. Not this time, anyway. Maybe other times. Other breakups, disagreements, whatever. And it wasn't even your heart any more anyway, to be broken or not. You'd lost it to him so long ago, and there were certain things you'd learned to expect from someone you loved, and who loved you, but wasn't able to give you all of himself.

The silence between you and JC stretched out, was comforting in its familiarity. The two of you had learned you could just be, without having to talk. You'd learned, through the enforced post-surgery time, how to calm down. How to let the moment happen without making it happen. Without making anything happen. JC's head against you was a comfortable weight, and you felt yourself drifting, eyes closed, letting yourself be soothed by the heavy warmth pressing on you.

"I slept with him." Quiet explosion. Words spoken so softly they were almost silence, but still jarring. You sighed.

"I know."

You felt his start of surprise. "You do? You did? How?"

"It wasn't...I just did, okay?"

"He...I--" JC stopped and stayed still; you resisted the urge to push him up off your shoulder, just so you could see whatever expression was lurking in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he finished quietly. "It was just the once, though that doesn't excuse it. I knew we shouldn't. I just...he was...."

"It's okay, C. I--it's not...there was a lot more to it than just that."

"You should be madder than this. You should be mad, period." His voice was strained, soft. "You should be mad at me."

You shrugged your shoulder upward, pushing him off, then shifted around so you could look at him. "What good would it do, to get mad? At anyone? I asked him to go, he's gone, it's over." You tapped his nose. "And you're my best friend, man. Totally."

"But. You. Um. We. He didn't--. It wasn't--. Was it?"

You reached out and flicked him between the eyes. "It's good to know you're still a dork sometimes. I worry when you act all professional and shit."

"Ow." He rubbed the spot between his eyes. "If anyone's a dork, Chris, it's you. And I'm guessing, from your oh-so-subtle hint, this subject is now closed?"

"Yeah." You sighed and dropped your hands into your lap.

"Yeah." JC rubbed your shoulder and you leaned into the touch, grateful suddenly that he was still here in Orlando, that he hadn't gone to LA, and you hadn't been left completely alone. You spent ten years with four other guys, as a cohesive unit, playing, crying, talking, touching and hugging, and depending on one another. To be left suddenly, completely alone would've driven you crazy. "Hey." JC nudged you and you blinked. Damn. "Go home, get some sleep, huh? Or--you want to crash here? That'd probably be better, wouldn't it?"

"Probably." You rubbed your eyes but couldn't make them focus. "Yeah. You mind?"

"Nah. Wouldn't've offered if I minded."

"Cool. G'night, man."

"Dork." You felt his smile when he kissed your forehead, and grinned.

"Takes one to know one."

"Uh-huh."

You stood up and lurched toward the door that would take you out of the studio and into a long, quiet hallway, leading to a set of stairs. Up the stairs was a nice apartment, JC's home-away-from-home. He still owned his house outside of Orlando proper, but more and more in the last year, he'd lived here. Six months ago he'd finally gotten real furniture and decorated it. And it wasn't like you weren't up there at least a few times a week for lunch, or dinner, or just plain working on whatever project was going on at the time, but it felt kind of weird to go up alone.

Whatever. He was right; he wouldn't have offered, if he didn't want you up there.

You managed to stay coherent long enough to strip down and shower quickly before you collapsed into cool sheets that smelled faintly of JC's cologne.

Coffee. And, something else you couldn't quite place. You rolled over and groaned when the world shifted around you; when your stomach heaved alarmingly. The coffee smell got stronger and you gagged once, wondering if you could throw up with absolutely nothing in your stomach.

The mattress dipped and moved and you realized yes, you could. You had just enough of one eye open to see JC jump back quickly when you hurtled yourself from the bed, and his snickers followed you into the bathroom.

Snapshot. Lance's eighteenth birthday. Post-party, just the two of you, doing body shots of Tequila, sharing the juice of the limes via kisses. Passing out together on the floor of your hotel room, waking up sick as dogs, with bites and scratches all over your bodies, your ass sore and aching. The look in his eyes, the sound of his voice when he promised he wanted this forever. You'd believed him, then.

You heaved again, then slumped on the floor and waited for the worst of the feeling to pass. Movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention and looked up to see JC holding out a glass of water. You reached out, ignored that your hand was shaking.

"Thanks, man."

"No prob." JC wrinkled his nose. "You need to shower."

"I showered before I went to bed." Evil, evil Coronas. You wanted to be dead.

"Yeah, and that was before you puked your guts up."

"Whatever." You closed your eyes and held the water glass to your forehead before taking a drink. It was cool, going down. Soothing. When you'd emptied the glass you opened your eyes and caught JC watching you. A quick glance downward confirmed you were naked; after all, you'd gone to bed that way, and you knew there was no such thing as an underwear fairy. Then you realized that meant you'd slept in JC's bed naked-- "Um. I'll wash your sheets--"

When was the last time you blushed? Fuck.

He laughed, that weird, high-pitched giggle he did when he was honestly amused by something. It was a free, open sound, and not very many people heard it for a long time. You hadn't heard it for a while, actually. "Don't stress about it. But you need to get dressed; Mark's coming for dinner. And while I don't think he'd mind the view, he might wonder why you were naked on my bathroom floor."

Mark, JC's on-again, off-again boyfriend. No, you didn't want to still be naked when he showed up. "Fuck you, Chasez."

"In your dreams, Kirkpatrick." And so saying, JC flashed you a grin and backed out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

A shower actually sounded good, so you started it up and washed off again, grateful when the hot water helped a lot of your headache, then scrounged around in JC's cabinets 'til you found an unopened toothbrush. When you emerged, feeling almost human again, he'd laid out some clean underwear -- did you leave some here? Because JC just didn't get into sharing underwear, even with his best friend -- and a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

You pondered the idea of JC's boyfriend while you dressed, and found it hysterically funny that the group who'd had millions of screaming teenies lusting after and in love with them actually ended up with three gay members. Well, one gay and two bisexual, if you were going to split hairs. Although, how much hair-splitting or bisexuality there really was anymore, you weren't sure. Neither you nor JC had dated or slept with anyone but another guy for at least the last four years. So, really, three. You were still grinning when JC came in with a mug of coffee.

"Hey, you look human again."

"Well, thanks for sounding so surprised, dude." You accepted the mug gratefully and ignored the slight roll of your stomach. It would take a little while. "How long 'til Mark gets here?"

"An hour, probably. You want to stay for dinner?"

"You know the saying 'two's company, three's a crowd', C? I don't think so." The second swallow went down easier than the first and warmth spread outward through your stomach and into your body. "But thanks."

"No, man, it's cool. He doesn't care." JC flopped down on his bed and you watched him in the mirror, watching you fiddle with your hair. It was nearly to your ears again, after so many years of short.

"Bullshit. Mark tolerates me 'cos you and I are friends. I think he thinks I'm after your ass, or something."

"Everyone's after my ass, Chris. Didn't you know that?" He smirked and wiggled for you, and you rolled your eyes.

"You are such a freak. Jesus. I'm a...very recently single guy. I'm not after anyone's ass." Maybe Lance's, but you resolutely pushed that thought away. You felt too good to drop into the pity-party hole again.

"Hey." JC sat up straight and worried at the edge of the comforter on his bed. "You gonna be all right tonight? I could come over, later, after dinner--"

"Nah. I'll be fine. No more indulging in...no more indulging." Of course, it'd be nice if you could shut your brain off; that would be most helpful, but whatever. You'd deal. "I'm gonna go home, have something to eat, mow the yard, and go back to bed."

JC nodded, though he didn't look convinced about your all-rightness. "You need to be in by about seven, tomorrow. Laney's going to be in."

"Fuck. Really?"

"Yeah. She called, said she wants to finish up the tracks for 'On My Mind'."

"'Bout fucking time." You gave up on the hair and turned to face him, leaning casually against the dresser. "Tell me again why we decided to produce her?"

"Um, because she's about the most talented vocalist we've heard in a while?" JC rolled his eyes at you. "Dork."

"Dweeb. She's talented, but she's a fucking diva. Makes Timberlake look positively laid-back."

"You had your own diva moments, y'know."

You laughed and pushed off from the dresser. "Me? Surely not. I think you're confusing me with someone else."

"Right." You got a snort and a slap on your ass as you walked past, and took a moment to think about the coolness that was post-Nsync JC. Cool, comfortable, happy within his own skin. Thoughts of the niche Lou tried to make him fit into still made your blood boil, even a decade later.

You collected your keys and sunglasses, and with a, "later, C!" headed outside, squinting into the autumn sunshine. Fucking Orlando; it was fall, and still close on to ninety degrees, and humid as a sauna. Sometimes you thought Joey had the right idea; go north, or west. Get out of the heat and humidity. But Orlando was home. Even if part of home left last night -- you reminded yourself sternly you'd been the one to break up, to end the constant back-and-forth pain -- it was still home.

Eventually it would stop feeling alien and start feeling like home again. You were confident in that.

"Can't hurt the talent. Can't hurt the talent. Mustn't hurt the talent...." You muttered under your breath, then grinned when you heard JC's short bark of laughter. At least you thought it was laughter; you supposed he could've been clearing his throat.

"Chill, man. I'll deal with him." JC waved his hand toward you and you waited while he went into the enclosed booth to talk to the man.

Maybe it was because you were still a small recording and production company, or something. Even though JC did the bulk of the production -- along with Justin -- on the last three of Nsync's albums, this was different. Small, new, so you got some really...different...characters. Which was fine, because both of you were of the mind that new talent needed to be given as much of a chance as the tried-and-true. But that didn't always make dealing with the new talent any easier.

The sound was off between you and the recording booth, so you watched JC talk to the guy, hands waving excitedly, arms gesturing expansively. All of JC's movements were graceful, open. Even when he'd kept himself...small, curled in on himself as a means of protecting what Lou tried to -- but couldn't quite -- reach, he'd been graceful. You thought about him saying he'd be a butterfly, if he could be any animal. You'd always thought that seemed so right for him. Open, free, graceful, beautiful. That was JC in a nutshell.

'Liquid Sunshine' was the lamest name for an alternative band that you could even imagine. You kept straying off the path in your head and ending up at K.C. and the Sunshine Band. And the lead...whatever, singer, vocalist, whatever he was calling himself, was the biggest fucking drama queen you'd ever seen, which said a lot, given your time spent in the industry. You sighed and banged your head on the recording console, trying not to hit too hard, or hit the toggle switches. Banging was one thing; you didn't really want to impale yourself, particularly.

You rested your forehead against the cool surface for a few minutes, then rose up to see what was going on. JC was still talking to Andre, gesturing wildly, eyes dark and impassioned. Never a man to hold back when it came to his true love. You grinned. Obviously not much was going to get done here for a while and you were already starting to jiggle your left leg with built-up energy, so. Time to go over the books; you knew JC didn't do them, and you hadn't done it for a while. Well over a month, anyway. Probably closer to two; you had vague memories of going over figures with Lance, shortly before he left.

You turned on the mic into the booth and tapped it. "Yo."

JC swiveled mid-gesture. "Yeah?"

"Gonna take ten, or whatever. Do some paperwork."

"Cool, man. See you for dinner?"

"Sure."

Which meant if you got busy and forgot, then JC would probably forget to eat altogether. Some nights he just spaced reality. You'd come in as early as seven in the morning, unannounced, and found him still sitting on a stool, hunched over music, the same jeans and ratty t-shirt on. Fuck. You set your watch alarm for an hour from now and headed for your office.

"What d'you mean, no bok choy? What kind of stir-fry is it, without bok choy?"

"Fuck you. I didn't know we'd be doing the veggie thing tonight."

"JC, my man, how often do you and I have stir-fry?" You ignored his wince when you tried your chef impersonation, and chopped determinedly.

"Your fingers work better when they're attached to your body." He winced again when you nearly scored your fingertips, and you looked up and glared.

"Hey, you're messing with my vibe here. With my rhythm."

"Losing a finger might mess with that, too, Chris. Going to the ER tonight would suck. And dinner would burn."

"Hah. The master chef knows no fear of his knives!" You cackled and switched to the green onions. "Do you have any chicken? Or is this a beef night, tonight?" You stabbed at one of the onions. "Beef! It's what's for dinner." When your audience of one snickered, you bowed, then returned to chopping.

"I have chicken, I think--" JC disappeared behind the door of the fridge, and you smiled, listening to him hum along with radio while he rooted around.

Your phone rang, and you swore, narrowly missing your finger with the knife. "Fuck. C?"

He waved you away from the counter, taking up the knife you abandoned with an exaggerated, flamboyant gesture that made you want to throw his words about caution back in his face. "I got it. Get the call."

You laughed and tossed the handful of veggies into the wok. "Freak."

"Yeah, yeah, get your phone."

It took you a minute to remember you'd left the phone in your jacket pocket, now hanging over one of the chair backs. "Talk to me!"

You ignored JC's giggle.

"So, are you out yet?"

Huh? You blinked, then realized it was Lance's deep rumble. God. A voice you'd only heard in your dreams, for almost two months now. Your good mood evaporated instantly. "Excuse me?"

"Dude. Did you out yourself yet?"

Oh, so not a conversation you wanted to have. You threw JC a look and walked further away from the kitchen, into the living area, and settled yourself on the sofa. "Lance. Sure. Didn't you see Leno last night? Live, on national television."

Snapshot. Larry King. "Lance and I are dating." Most of the world interpreted it as a joke. Nsync's high jinx.

"What?"

"That's a joke, dude."

"Very fucking funny." He paused. "I thought that's what you wanted, Chris. To be out."

"Well, it's not a big deal if I'm not seeing anyone, is it?" JC peered at you through the cutaway, concern plain on his face. You made a face at the phone and crossed your eyes, and he grinned and flicked a piece of carrot at you. You tuned back into your conversation.

"--not dating anyone? Why not?"

"Um. Maybe because we just broke up two months ago, and I'm not ready yet? Fuck, Lance. It's not any of your business anyway, is it? What, are you dating already?" You couldn't stop the nasty tone that crept into your voice and could almost see him recoil from it. Good. Dammit.

"No! I mean, I just thought--"

"I promise, when I out myself, you'll be one of the first ones to know, okay?" And really, it wasn't even the issue of being out -- you'd done that, years ago, with the people who were important to you. You'd just gotten tired of hiding it from everyone else. "Anyway--that really wasn't the biggest issue between us, was it?"

"I guess not." Goddamn, motherfucking--you missed him. You hated that you missed him. He exhaled softly into the phone. "I--" You held your breath. If he said 'miss you', you were going to throw the fucking phone across the room. "Take care of yourself, Chris."

"Yeah. I'm trying. You too, Scoop." But you were talking into silence. You sighed and closed the phone, tossed it onto the coffee table and leaned back against the cushions. "Fuck."

There was warmth behind you, and JC's hands came down to rest on your shoulders. "Need a drink?"

"Fuck, yeah." It'd been a long time since you'd actually felt anger toward Lance, but this was pressing pretty close. Walking the line. You thought it kinda felt good. In a rip-your-stomach-to-shreds sort of way.

"Wine?"

You tipped your head back and looked up at him. His hair was longer, brushing the back of his neck now, with wavy curls riotous everywhere on his head. Upside down he resembled the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz. "Got anything stronger?"

"Vodka. Um. Some Scotch."

"Vodka. Neat."

"And that's gonna go so well with stir-fry." But he patted your shoulders once and walked away, returning shortly with a shot glass and a bottle about one-third full. "You drink, I'll finish dinner."

You tossed back one shot before he'd finished speaking, gasping when the liquor tore a path of fire down your throat and into your stomach. "Fuck. God."

"I don't think that's possible, actually." JC leaned back over and kissed your forehead, then laughed when you reached for -- and missed -- a lock of hair to pull.

"Smart-ass." You poured a second shot, but sipped it slowly, rather than tossing it back. It was better that way. "God. I can't believe--God." You left the glass and bottle on the coffee table and meandered back into the kitchen, reaching around JC to grab plates and silverware from the drawer.

"Wanna talk about it?" He pushed the stir-fry around the wok, but avoided looking at you.

"I don't know. It's nothing, really. He just...fuck." You set the plates on the counter, then leaned against it, examining your pretty-much-always ragged fingernails. "You weren't the reason we broke up, C. But he...Lance...I dunno if it was me, or him, but he wasn't... he had trouble, sorta, being...faithful."

"Oh." He fiddled with the temperature dials on the stove. "But--you. I mean. Almost twelve years, Chris. Was it--all the time?"

"Well. No. It wasn't like he went out prowling every night or, or slept around all the time. Nothing like that. But." You hadn't realized how painful this might be, even after months...years.... You sighed. "A couple of times. When he was really drunk. And um, y'know. But. It wasn't all the time. I don't think he even meant to, really, cheat. It was just...maybe sometimes I wasn't enough?" You glanced up at JC; he was pale, with two spots of color high on his cheeks. "What?"

"I just--it was a shitty thing I did, man. I mean. I knew things weren't. Right. With the two of you. And it was hard to remember if you were off, or on, or what. And that doesn't excuse it, but--"

"C." You waited 'til he looked at you, then you flicked him gently between the eyes. "Shut up. It wasn't about you. I appreciate the apology--really--but there was all sorts of other shit with it. And honestly, I don't know if we were off or on when you slept together. So stop worrying about it, okay? 'Cos you're so ruining the friends-vibe here, man, and it's bumming me."

He laughed, shakily. "You have such a way with words, Kirkpatrick."

"Well, yeah, someone has to." He still looked embarrassed, but you figured anything else you might say now would make things worse, not better. Hopefully he'd get past it without you having to kick his ass about it. "So, we eating, or what?"

"Mmm. Yeah." JC flipped the stir-fry into a large bowl and you grabbed the abandoned plates and silverware and you both headed for the table. "Hey--grab the soy sauce, Chris."

"Sure." Quick grab off the counter, and then it was dinnertime, sitting down at JC's table. "Got plans for Christmas?" It was hard to believe it was only a few more weeks away. You handed him a plate, then fidgeted and played with your fork while he dished up.

"I dunno. Maybe. Mom and Dad are taking off for the Bahamas the day before, and Heather's got plans with her husband's family. I actually think Tyler and I are just gonna batch it. He's coming down on Christmas Eve. You?"

You shrugged. "Mom wants me to come up, but I dunno. I don't feel much like being in the Christmas spirit this year, y'know? And it's always good to see the girls, and their families...but I don't want to go." You knew you sounded petulant, like a kid being made to do something he didn't want to do, but you didn't care. Lance's call had totally thrown you off.

"So don't. Come hang with me and Ty, we'll do dinner and then watch movies or football or something."

"No Mark?" You shoveled a forkful in, then remembered your glass of vodka and got up to retrieve it. You bypassed the table in favor of the kitchen and poured two glasses of water before returning.

"Nah." JC flashed you a grin and raised his glass in thanks. "We broke up. For good this time, I think." He shrugged. "He was starting to get whiny about the hours I put in, and I told him music comes first. I don't think he liked that."

You blinked. "Wow. You really said that?" Inside you shouted with joy. It'd taken JC years to grow balls enough to stand up for himself in relationships; you were glad to see it was paying off now. Of course, you snorted silently, you were one to talk. But whatever.

"Yeah. He wasn't real happy with it, but hell. It's not like we were steady sweeties or anything. You know that. And--" He paused, looked around the room, at his plate, at the fucking water glass, everywhere but at you.

You had a feeling you knew what he was going to say, but prompted, "And?"

"And...he didn't like...all the time I spend with you." JC cleared his throat. "He didn't like you much."

You smiled ruefully. "A lot of people don't like me, dude. Mark sure wouldn't be the first."

"Maybe not, but." He played with his water glass, turning it round and round, watching the watermark change on the tabletop. When he raised his head to look at you, the depth of emotion in his eyes blew you away. "You're my best friend, Chris. And--I know we all used to say that about each other, the five Musketeers and all that, but...I dunno." He shrugged gracefully. "The last couple of years...you really are. My best friend."

You stared at him for a long time, stunned. It wasn't like you didn't know what he was saying; you felt the same way, actually. If it hadn't been for JC, many times over the last couple of years, you felt like you might be even now hanging loose in a mental home somewhere. He'd kept you grounded through so many crises you couldn't even count them, now. You reached out and touched his hand, took it and squeezed it, your voice soft. "Thanks. Just--thanks, man." You squeezed again then let go. "Me too, C. I mean, you're my best friend. Fuck, you're my sanity."

He laughed then, and you felt some of the emotional tension drain out of the room. "I guess there's only room for one sane person in this partnership, hmm?"

"That must be it." You tossed back the rest of your vodka, hoping it might dull a little of the sensations still zinging through you. An evening of intensity and it was only seven p.m. Fuck. An all-time record, probably. "Do we have plans for the rest of the evening?"

JC chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Well. I thought--hmm." He eyed you. "Be a good little Chris and finish your veggies, and I might have something to show you, when you're done."

You choked on your water, then narrowed your eyes suspiciously. "Please tell me that's not your version of 'come up and see my etchings'?"

"No, it's not. But I do have something to show you." But he wouldn't say anything else, just smiled enigmatically, even when you flicked carrots and bean sprouts at him.

"Jesus, God, C." You watched the color chase slowly across his cheeks, and shook your head. "Play it again."

After dinner, and cleanup, and time for one more vodka shot, JC led you down the hallway, past his guest room, and into the smallest of the three, which was set up as the 'music room', and was basically music-lover's wet dream. A sweet stereo setup, including two turntables, a multi-disc player, cassette player, and huge-assed speakers. Four of them. One for each corner of the room. It had an incredible graphic equalizer, and more knobs and buttons than you could shake a stick at. You'd known, of course, the setup was here; you'd helped JC pick out some of the components. But you didn't come back here very often; usually if you listened to music up here, it was on the smaller, 'regular' stereo he had in the living room. He had a couple of beanbag chairs, and a soft leather sofa, and that was it. Everything else was shelving for the CDs and cassettes and records. Records! You thought you were the only one in the world who still collected vinyl. But it was a great place to sit down, relax, and listen to music.

And the track he was playing. Fuck. You looked at him and shook your head again. "Dude. It's like fucking sex on vinyl, man. When in hell did you do this?"

"Um." He chewed his lip. "The year before we got the group together. Remember. Um. I went to LA for a year? After MMC folded?" You nodded; you'd all heard JC'd been out there, but no one -- not even Justin -- knew for sure what'd happened. "I did it then."

You looked at the CD cover, let the music, fuck, the vocals wash over you. "Fuck, Chasez. You been hiding...this...from us, all that time? God." It wasn't even like you hadn't heard him sing this song before. You did a cover of it, in the early days of Nsync. But it never sounded quite like...this.

"Not--hiding. Chris." He swallowed roughly and shifted on the couch. He was throwing a shitload of body heat; his leg pressed against yours and you felt it even through two layers of jeans. "I just--it wasn't. Y'know. The best period in my life. I'd kinda forgotten about the album, about doing that track."

This was the JC you hadn't seen in a while. A long while. Uncertain, closed off, questioning himself. You didn't want to see that; it was painful to watch him question himself and his choices. You reached out and rubbed his leg soothingly, listening to the song again. Lovely thing about 'repeat', you could play something over and over and over, until you were completely sick of it.

You didn't think you'd ever get sick of this track, though. It was rich, gorgeous, incredibly sexy and seductive. And it made things vibrate, low and deep inside you.

That made you mentally sit up and take note. Wow, a reaction of arousal -- sort of. Not something you'd had much practice with in the last few months. You snuck a look over to see if JC had noticed, because that could be really...awkward. No, he hadn't. He'd tipped his head back, and closed his eyes, like he was listening intently, remembering something from the past that included doing this track and had nothing to do with you or the group or shared memories. You'd never really noticed how long his lashes were, but fanned out against his cheeks like they were now, it was hard not to. His fingers moved lightly against his thighs, one hand near enough to yours to brush against it. His hips undulated gently, a barely-there motion. He looked...you looked away; feeling like you'd intruded on a private moment, and only barely kept yourself from snatching your hand back off his leg. Not in shame or panic, but because, for the briefest moment, you wanted to do more...to make that look on his face even more intense.

Your phone ringing shrilly from down the hall gave you an excuse to get up, suddenly uncomfortable for reasons you couldn't quite define.

"Where is she? Did she have it yet?" Joey's voice boomed over you, startling you out of the light doze you'd managed, slumped against JC. You sat up slowly, rubbing at your eyes, and grinned.

"Congrats, dad. You have a boy." You could feel JC coming online behind you, felt his whole body shimmy as he stretched. God, what a night. "She's down in room A-3, man. Go say hi before you find yourself divorced."

"Fuck. A boy." Joey grinned at you, all teeth, and you laughed, watching him half run down the hallway.

You hadn't been laughing last night -- was it still night? You couldn't tell, surrounded by nothing but brightly-lit hallways -- as you and JC frantically navigated Orlando streets, you driving, JC sitting with Kelly in the backseat saying things like 'breathe, honey. Take slow breaths.', over and over again. You felt like you were doing the Lamaze exercises, by the time you got to the ER.

And Joey, fucking Joey, calling you, panicked because Kelly was in labor and her parents were out and neither of them could reach them, and his mom and dad had to stay with Briahna and Carlie. It wasn't like you hadn't been around Kelly having babies, anyway, but you learned quickly that hanging at the hospital and waiting for word on boy or girl was way different than actually driving the woman to the hospital, while she cursed and yelled and threatened, the entire way. Not that you blamed her; if having a baby could compare in any way to the kidney stone you passed once, you'd probably be cursing and yelling and threatening. At the top of your lungs.

And then she wouldn't let you leave. God, no single -- gay, your mind added-- man should have to sit through childbirth with a woman who wasn't even his. But you didn't mind, really. It was Kelly and she was family, and fuck, Briahna was Lance's goddaughter, and Carlie was yours, so it wasn't like you hadn't marginally been involved in all this before, anyway.

You and JC took turns sitting with her for two hours while her labor progressed, until the nurse came in with an IV, for fluids, and JC turned fifty shades of pale. You kicked him out of the room to pace the hallways, hanging tough by yourself for the remainder of the drama.

Dylan Joseph Fatone put in his appearance at 3:42a.m., and you skipped out of the room as soon as you could, after ensuring Kelly and son were fine. JC told you Joey called again while you were in the room, and he was en route and would be there as soon as he could. You must've fallen asleep around the same time, because you didn't remember anything after that, until Joe's voice woke you up. And now you were left to deal with a very early morning -- Christ, they'd gotten harder to deal with, the closer you'd gotten to thirty-five -- not enough sleep, and funny ridges on your cheek where you'd slept on JC and now had sweatshirt imprints on your face.

"Uh. What time is it?" You stretched, and scooted when JC stood up, basically dumping you off him.

"Just after six. Geez. Don't babies ever come at normal hours?"

"You're asking me?" You stood up and did a few more stretches, feeling a twinge here and there. Oh, yeah. Middle-age, here we come.

"Two of your sisters have kids," he said pointedly.

"Yours has two, herself," you said just as pointedly. He grinned tiredly.

"Point." Then, "fuck! Andre's coming this morning--" And you could see JC beginning the spiral into mondo-freak mode. You shook your head; no matter how much time passed, some things never changed. JC and studio time -- or anything related to music, really -- was one of the constants of the universe. That was comforting, somehow.

"Call him and tell him to come this afternoon. Or tomorrow. Dude. We delivered a baby tonight. Last night. Whatever."

"You delivered the baby. I passed out." He was digging through his pockets for his phone.

"Actually, the doctor delivered the baby. I just held her hand and said 'breathe, breathe, breathe', a lot." You arched an eyebrow. "I don't remember you passing out. I thought I kicked you out before that could happen."

"Nah." He punched the numbers in. "I made it back here and just kinda...y'know. I don't remember anything for a while. 'Til you came back out."

"That's called sleeping, dude."

"Wise-ass. Hey, Andre?"

You tuned the conversation out, instead looking around for a water fountain. You had the nastiest taste in your mouth, like something crawled in and died while you were sleeping. Coffee would go even better, but you'd wait for Joey to come out and then the three of you could go celebrate with sludge, together. And you could go to the gift shop and get something stuffed and fluffy for mommy and baby.

"He's perfect! Just perfect." Joey laughed again, and you recognized the kind of giddy, post-baby look he'd had the other two times. "Tell me he isn't just perfect."

The three of you'd gone back to Joey's house, rather than hang at the hospital, because Kelly was wanting to sleep for a while before they discharged her, and Joey wanted a shower. He'd been traveling all night, literally, to get home from LA. You thought a shower sounded good, too, but figured you could catch one at the studio later, or just maybe go home after this. Joey's coffee was better than the hospital shit, definitely, and you took another deep swallow, grateful for sugar, caffeine and creamer.

"He's cute, Joe. Gonna have your nose, though." You felt the vibration of JC snickering against your back and grinned into your cup.

"Fuck you, Kirkpatrick. My nose is perfect. At least I don't have elf-ears." Joey laughed and flipped you off, which you returned, then reached for his phone to call his folks. Behind you JC shifted and you moved forward from your slumped-against-the-human-pillow position to let him up.

"You okay?"

"Just need to hit the can." He whapped you lightly on the back of the head when you set your cup down and relaxed back into the warm spot. "I'm gonna want to sit back down, y'know."

"So, find you another spot. I'm crashing."

"I'm getting my spot back, man. It's comfortable." JC tickled the tip of your nose with his finger and you batted his hand away.

"Whatever. Closing my eyes now." Even with your eyes closed, you could practically see him sticking his tongue out at you, and grinned. Hah. Any day you needled JC into immature behavior was always a good day. You waited a minute, then opened your eyes to find Joey watching you carefully, his eyes moving from JC's retreating form and back to you. "What?"

"That's kind of what I was wondering." He got up to refill his mug, then sat back down, shoving your feet off the end of the couch to make a space. "What's up with you and C? You guys are like, God. More married than me and Kel."

"We are not." You pushed yourself upright and shifted around so you could look -- or not look -- at Joey.

"You so are, dude. C'mon, Chris. Get on the clue-bus. You're joined at the hip. You work together, hang together...you sleeping on each other, like you're human pillows. Hell, you're sharing coffee cups." You slanted a look at the mug you were using, and remembered JC taking it from your hand and drinking out of it a little while ago, even though his sat not eighteen inches away from him, on the coffee table.

"So?" You rubbed at your eyes. Two hours of sleep wasn't enough. "How is what we're doing so different from when it was all five of us?"

He shrugged. "You just give off this...vibe, man. I dunno how to explain it. Are you--" He hesitated, and you could see the question lurking there, ready, but awkward on his tongue, and shook your head to forestall it.

"No way. We're just friends, Joe."

"Uh-huh." He gave you a Look -- it felt like that in your brain, with the capital letter -- then shrugged. "Whatever. If you say so."

"I do." But you wondered. And when JC came back from the bathroom and slid in behind you, no arm around you or anything, no particular touches, just there, like he'd been for...forever...you wondered again.

"Dude. I had an idea." You hated cleaning, but hated things messy, so. And JC was helping, so it wasn't like it was a big deal. Anyway, you were cleaning for three other men, two of whom were bigger slobs than you could ever be, so it wasn't like the world was going to end if they saw a faint film of soap scum in the downstairs bathroom, or if the top shelves had a fine layer of dust. You were almost done anyway, which was cool, since Justin would be here in a few minutes, and Joey was due back from the airport with Lance some time in the next hour. But you knew even if you didn't finish, it was no big; they really wouldn't care, any of them.

"Chris."

You blinked. "Huh?"

He shook his head and wiped the counter down. "And y'all called me spacey. You said you had an idea, then left me hanging. What idea?"

"Oh." Yeah, attention-deficit was your friend. "I was thinking--about that song you played me." And the way you looked and sounded, you wanted to add, but didn't.

"You didn't tell the guys about it, did you?" JC stared you down, blue eyes dark and wide with concern.

"No. I wouldn't." You opened the door to the laundry room and tossed the broom and dustpan in there. Anyone looking in your laundry room deserved to see a mess, in your opinion. "Dude, no. But--C." He blinked at you and you sighed. "You need...you should do a whole album like that. The jazz background, all bluesy and hot and sexy. It'd be like, wow, man." And fuck, you could feel yourself blush. What the hell was up with that? Faint spots of color appeared on JC's cheeks, too; great, you could match.

"I don't know, Chris." He wiped at the same spot on the counter, over and over, mindless repetitive action. You could almost see the sparks he was giving off, brain flying so fast and furious nothing could keep up with it.

"I know you have material." You'd watched him, sometimes, when you sat together watching TV, or when you were doing the books for Tricky-C. JC was an artist in many, many ways, and songwriting was one of his greatest strengths. He wrote on anything: a cocktail napkin, a battered, leather-covered notebook, his Palm, anything, if inspiration struck. "We have studio musicians who could do the music. Hell, man, you could do some of it."

"It's--that's a big project."

"To record an album?" At his nod you snorted. "And it's not like you've ever done anything like it before, right?"

"No, but. I mean yes. No. Not like that."

You crossed your arms and leaned back against the counter. Stuttering JC meant he was flustered, which meant he'd at least maybe considered the idea. "What's different?"

"It's--it's not...us."

"No, and that's kind of the point. It'd be you. And you so could do it, C." You smiled faintly. "Promise me you'll think about it?"

"I'll--yeah. I'll think about it."

Anything else you might've said at that point was lost when Justin's voice rang out from the entryway, "Yo, dudes! Chris? Any a y'all home?"

And the moment was gone, just like that, lost in a flurry of hugs and whoops and smartly wrapped Christmas packages brandished by Santa Timberlake.

Joey didn't bother with knocking either; like Justin, he just let himself in. And it wasn't like you weren't all still friends, like they weren't expected anyway. But...Lance. Fuck. You would've appreciated the five-second-advance warning, just--to prepare.

Everyone kind of hung back for this one, and you gritted your teeth and cursed all three of them in turn. It was like the dawning of a whole new era, you got that, but Christ. Someone could've stepped in, helped a little. Even Lance, cool and smooth in ways you'd never quite gotten down, looked a little flustered, a little uncertain. He stepped forward first, eyes wide and nervous.

"Chris."

"Hey, kiddo." You leaned in close and hugged him tight, breathing in a deep breath of Lance-scent. A thousand different feelings assaulted you and you had to let him go, or risk never letting him go. Obviously it'd been a fucking waste of three months' worth of time, trying to regain your equilibrium. Dammit. "Welcome back to Orlando."

"Thanks." He smiled when you let go and raised a tentative hand to touch your hair, pulling back just before he made contact. "Wow. You're really growing it out."

"Yeah, well. It was--y'know. Something different?"

"And the--" He gestured to your now-naked chin, which was mostly due to a moment of impulse last week. "You look...kinda like you did when I first met you."

You shifted uneasily, and laughed, a low, sharp sound. "Maybe trying to reclaim my almost-gone youth." You backed away slowly, trying not to look like you were fleeing, then turned into the living room, listening as you sat on your couch to the sound of JC moving around in the kitchen, getting beer for everyone. You had champagne and other booze, and snacks for later, but for right now, beer. And you were grateful, so grateful, when JC handed you a bottle and scooted in behind you; you raised the bottle in a silent toast the others acknowledged, and ignored the looks Joey sent your way.

You thought by thirty-six, you'd pretty much be past the big deal of awkward moments, but then again, you hadn't ever broken up with a guy you'd been in love with for nearly twelve years, then had to see him only three months later -- as friends.

You were kind of surprised by how much it hurt to see Lance again, and how much you still missed him. Missed the feel of his body against yours; missed the way his mouth tasted after he brushed his teeth, or ate strawberries, or did tequila shots. You'd forgotten what it was like to listen to the sound of his voice, the way the rumble seemed to alternate between a soft peal of thunder, or the purr of a big cat.

But mixed in with the pleasure/pain of seeing Lance again was that weird feeling you'd been noticing lately, any time you stood or sat close to JC -- like now, leaning back against him, your feet tucked into the space between two couch cushions, his fingers combing absently through your hair. It was a...comfortable feeling. Soft, warm, soothing, and sometimes a little arousing. You actually beat off in the shower just that morning, thinking about the look on JC's face the night he played his jazz track for you.

And that made you a whole lot of happy and a whole lot of uncomfortable, all at the same time.

Four beers mellowed you considerably. JC's fingers drawing strange, abstract patterns on your back, where no one could see, didn't hurt, either. Not for the first time you wondered what all he hid behind those enigmatic blue eyes.

You lost yourself in contemplation of light green eyes and darker blue, and sighed, wondering what the fuck was going on in your mind. JC was your best friend and Lance was trouble waiting to happen. Again. You shifted slightly and let your head roll on JC's shoulder, wishing you could just sleep through say, the next couple of years. Let everything sort itself out.

"So, who's gonna go first?"

Justin's voice, mellow with beer and comfort, with the familiarity of being with people he could relax his guard around. He and Lance were kind of slumped against each other on the other sofa, and Joey was settled on the floor in front of them, passing pictures of baby Dylan back and forth.

It was tradition to exchange gifts; you'd been doing it for nearly a decade and a half, now. Joey brought his over on Christmas day, when he and Kelly and the kids stopped by for a brief visit. Justin already put his beneath your pitiful excuse for a tree -- JC's voice still rang in your ears, "You have to have a tree, man!" -- and of course you and JC had yours there. Lance got up and went into the hallway to the entryway, returning with two large bags.

"I will, I guess. I'm up."

"Such enthusiasm, dude." Justin flicked a droplet of beer in his direction and Lance grinned and flipped him off.

Yet another moment you'd been dreading since, oh, the minute he'd walked out the door three months ago. The exchange of gifts with the ex, who was still a good friend. Or used to be. God.

"Hey, oldest should do the Santa thing." Justin tossed his red and white hat toward you. "Go for it, geezer."

"Look, Infant. If you want to make it to your twenty-seventh birthday--"

"Ooh, threats. I'm so scared."

"You know what they say: sticks and stones and all, but don't forget whose house you're sleeping in tonight." You did an evil sort of laugh and cracked your knuckles. "Never underestimate the wrath of Chris."

Justin made a face at you. "Man, that sounds so lame. 'The wrath of Chris'? Now if you had a cool name like, Khan." He laughed. "And C'll put me up, right, man?"

JC laughed. "I'm stayin' here, dude. I thought we all were?"

You frowned, having completely forgotten the logistics of that. Every other year, you and Lance were in the same room. "Five people, four bedrooms."

"Couches," Joey pointed out helpfully, crawling over to the tree to help Lance sort out packages.

"Yeah, okay, and they're comfortable and all, but--"

"But nothing, Kirkpatrick. Don't be shoving our drunk asses out the door at midnight. Just let us pass out in peace."

"Fine, man. Whatever. Just don't whine to me when you wake up with a crick in your neck."

"Considering I'm planning to be shit-faced by midnight, a crick in my neck is probably the least of my worries."

"Just make sure you hit the john when you puke, okay? I just had the carpets cleaned."

Joey laughed. "Anything for you, baby."

"And don't you forget that." You snickered and stood up. "The host rules and it's not a benevolent reign."

Justin stared at you. "Fuck, Chris. What the hell've you been reading lately?"

JC had his head tipped back and eyes closed, but didn't miss a beat. "He's been re-reading Lord of the Rings. God knows why, but there ya go."

"You all suck, you know that?" You stood in the doorway between kitchen and living room and shook your head. "See if I offer anyone food, now."

"You have to feed me, Chris. I helped lug it in here." JC still hadn't moved, even when Joey set two packages in his lap.

"Fine. I'll feed your scrawny ass. And I guess I'll feed the rest of you, too."

"Pizza?" Lance set three boxes on the couch beside C, then retreated back to where he'd been sitting. You eyed them speculatively.

"I have pizza, chips-n-dips, a shrimp plate, some fruit and veggie stuff, um. Sandwich stuff, jalapeno poppers--" You paused and considered. "I got other stuff, but that's the bulk of it."

"I vote for shrimp."

"No shit, Joe. Anyone else? Lance, pizza, yeah?"

"Yeah. But shrimp's okay for now, too."

"We can start on those; the pizza has to cook."

"Get your ass in here, man, so we can do the presents, first." Justin was already fidgeting with one of his packages; from the wrapping you knew it was whatever C'd gotten him.

"Coming, already. Hold your shit, Timberlake. What are you, twelve?"

"Going on two," Lance muttered, and you grinned at him before you ducked back into the kitchen, a flash of familiar comfort lighting through you.

"Yeah, and you're so much more mature than me, right? Chris Kirkpatrick, thirty-six going on six."

"Children." Joey shook one of the packages from you and you barely stopped snickering when it rattled. You just knew his eyes got all wide. Joey was a jigsaw puzzle freak, and you'd had one custom made for him, a montage of the Superman movies, off a picture you found on the 'net. "You guys are worse than Bree and Carlie."

"Woo! Joey compared you to little girls." JC's voice had a definite smirk in it; if you'd been next to him, you'd've whapped him on the head.

"Dude. They are such little girls." Lance had the same smirk in his voice, and you made a vow to whap both of them the second you finished putting the pizza in.

"Fuck all of you; I'm taking my gifts back. Y'all can spend New Year's Eve hanging out at Joey's house."

"Quit pouting and get your ass in here, Kirkpatrick." Joey had his I'm-not-taking-any-shit voice and you grinned and slid the pizzas into the oven, then headed back into the fray, a bottle of tequila and a stack of shot glasses in your hands.

"I'm coming. Man, you're an impatient bunch."

Cheers greeted the alcohol, and you all tossed back two shots apiece before ripping into the packages. Justin and Joey's reactions you weren't so concerned with; your relationship with them hadn't changed any over the years, or even the last few months -- especially the last few months, your inner-self snickered. It was the other two men in the living room who held your attention, whether you wanted them to, or not.

"Oh, Chris." JC was first. You'd kind of thought he might be. You weren't even sure you could look at him; the emotion in his voice was just...palpable. "God." You snuck a look; his fingers were stroking over the paper in his hands reverently. He looked at you. "Where...how the hell did you find this? Where'd you--?"

"What is it, C?" Joey and Lance were staring at JC, and Justin had stopped unwrapping to look up. JC touched it reverently once more, then held up the cardboard you'd used to keep the sheets from wrinkling.

"The musical score for Al Jolson's 'The Jazz Singer'. Original sheet music." He glanced at you, eyes dark and deep, and something rolled over inside you, your chest suddenly too tight for the feelings thrumming through you. "Thank you."

You nodded. "You like it?" What a stupid thing to ask; it was pretty damn obvious he liked it. But--

"Oh, god, yes." The rest of the package was a copy of the original movie, from 1927, and a CD with the music. You hadn't bought any of JC's presents until last week, after he'd shared that one track with you. A piece of JC no one else knew about. You smiled faintly and jiggled your left leg nervously. Too many emotions, no place for them to go.

"Oh."

The soft sound pulled you from your thoughts, and you only had to glance over at Lance to know he'd opened yours, too. The tight feeling in your chest grew, threatening your ability to breathe; you knew that look, knew if he looked up at you you'd see light green eyes almost disappeared in the blackness of pupil, only the thinnest ring of color showing around the edge. It was his incredulous, ohmygod-I-can't-believe-this look.

Last Christmas the two of you went to Vail and spent a week not skiing, just playing in the snow, throwing snowballs and making angels, and drinking hot chocolate in front of the fire in your suite, and he'd worn that look a lot. This year--

You swallowed and looked away, then back, trying to ignore the softness on his face.

You'd bought his present last July, before things got so bad. Before that one last shove that pushed you over the edge of tolerance and into a need to get out.

Before your life got so weirdly complex.

It was a bracelet, a large, chunky gold-and-silver mix bracelet. Large-ish links, which had words carved delicately into the small spaces. 'The Difference Between Never and Forever is a Heart'. You'd debated giving it to him; considered taking it back to the store you found it in, and forgetting you'd ever seen it. Something made you hang on to it, and you wondered if you'd ever truly be free of your feelings for him. Your vote was on probably not; he'd had your heart for so long you didn't want it back...not all of it, anyway.

You wondered if it was possible to love two very different people for very different reasons, at the same time. If you could give away a heart that didn't belong completely to you.

You were really, really glad when everyone was done with the unwrapping and you could eat pizza and drink more tequila and beer, safely seated in your leather recliner, away from everyone.

"Five...four...three...two...one! Happy New Year!" Five voices, blending together. You hugged JC and Joey, who were closest, and watched Justin half-strangle Lance. When they both took several steps toward you, the three of you closed in, so you formed a circle. Justin started the song.

"Let auld acquaintances be forgot...", and the rest of you chimed in, acapella, like you'd started. Like you'd ended. Just your voices, ringing strong and true. It made shivers dance up and down your spine, tingling in all the nerve endings in your body. God, you missed this. Missed them.

You sang fairly regularly with JC, in the line of work you were in, and you harmonized with Joey sometimes for lullabies and the like, but this...this was what you'd all been about, for a decade. Five guys who loved each other and could blend their voices into something magical and special. You waited for the last notes of the song to fade, then looked across at Lance, then at Justin, at Joey, at JC standing beside you and started the opening notes to "I Thought She Knew".

Everyone blinked, but it only took a moment for them to join in, and the feeling of togetherness made you want to cry. Lance's low rumble, JC's soaring tenor, Justin and Joey blending so well, Joey hitting the notes that made his voice so beautiful, but especially in this song.

Not for the first time you hated yourself, hated that you hadn't explored, considered other options that might have extended the time you all had together.

"Chris. Chris." Strong fingers rubbed your shoulders, and you blinked back into reality to see four men standing around you, looking at you with concern and caring. "Dude. You okay?" Justin was closest, his big hands warm and soothing on your shoulders, his voice like balm. You nodded and gave them all a shaky smile.

"I'm fine. And not nearly as drunk as I should be by now."

That got you a laugh, though JC stared at you for an extra minute, probably trying to see if you were lying about the fine. You shrugged and gave him a half-smile and he nodded.

"Then let's take it to the next level." Joey headed for the kitchen. "I know I heard you say you have champagne, right? Now's the time."

"Yep. It's in the fridge." And you sat back to let them get whatever they wanted. You were done with the partying. You wanted to sit and drink and get drunk enough to forget, just for a little while, all the aches and pains and empty spots the last couple of years had left within you. A bottle of vodka and cranberry juice rested on the floor beside you. That would work. You weren't particular at this point; whatever would get you the drunkest, the fastest. Sure, there would be hell to pay tomorrow, but you didn't care about tomorrow. Just surviving the rest of this night.

A loud clink brought you upright, pained surprise flashing through your still-drunk brain. It was dark, sort of, around you. No, not dark, just dim; the lamp in the far corner was on low. Someone had tossed a blanket over you -- probably JC, since that was like him, to make sure sleep was as comfortable as could be managed. Though you weren't sure you'd been asleep so much as plain passed out, since you had a very vague memory of doing vodka shooters with Joey, followed by champagne and more vodka.

You squinted in the dimness, but didn't see any of the others, so you figured they must've made it to the bedrooms, or else were passed out elsewhere in your house. Whatever. You'd find the trail of bodies in the morning, no doubt.

The LCD on the VCR glowed green, showing you it was 2:53a.m. God. What the fuck was it that woke you up, anyway? You looked around, confused, before realizing whatever it was you heard came from the kitchen. Okay, time to make sure no one was suffering in there, needing something and too drunk to get it. Because you weren't too drunk, Nosiree. Just because you wobbled when you stood up, and had to put one hand against the wall to make sure you didn't fall down. Weebles wobble, but they don't fall--and ooh, hey. Pretty colors and swirls when you moved too fast. Cool.

It was Lance. He was slumped against the counter, gulping water almost comically fast; the clinking you heard must've been ice going into the glass. You banged against the doorframe so he would hear you, then said softly, "Hey."

He still jerked, then looked over at you. And, god. If sunlight was his friend, moonlight was his lover. It came in through the window blinds over the sink just...so, illuminating his whole face, making his eyes almost luminous, kissing his cheekbones and making them sparkle and gleam against hollowed-out shadows. He looked so young, so much younger than twenty-eight. It made you think of the seventeen year old boy who'd half-seduced you, who wouldn't take no for an answer, who told you you were perfect, when you felt small and dark and far too old. You felt an odd pang of loss for your long-gone golden boy.

"Hey." He smiled wanly, moved his glass around so the ice cubes clinked together. "What're you doing up?"

"I heard a noise. You?" You took a few cautious steps into the kitchen, then a few more, bringing you to the island counter just in front of where Lance was standing. In the part of your brain that wasn't completely soused, you heard a warning bell go off.

"I woke up thirsty. I either didn't drink enough, or--my tolerance is way higher than I thought." He set the glass on the counter. "Thank you. For--." He raised his left arm and you watched the bracelet catch the moonlight and toss it back in a multi-angled prism.

"You're welcome." You took another step, a small part of your brain babbling that you shouldn't get so close, this was trouble, you needed to get the fuck out of there Right Now. You snarled at it to shut up and stepped one more step, bringing you right in front of him. Close enough to feel his body heat; close enough to smell the cologne he always wore, to smell the gin on his breath. Lance always drank gin and tonics, if given the option. Another step closer; you could touch him. Could feel the press of his body against yours. Oh, god, not a good idea...back up stupid, get away, run... You raised one hand, brushed it against his temple, stroked his cheek, watched his eyes close. Your fingers teased the small stud in his earlobe, then touched his hair. "Lance--"

"Yeah."

It was just a breath of sound, not really a word, but you heard it, heard the permission, the desire, the need there. And god, you fit together so well, so well, when you pressed tighter against him, pushing him against the counter. His hair was still soft, still silky against your fingers, and the tiny, fine hairs on the back of his neck bristled when you stroked there. His mouth was warm and sweet and wet against yours, and when he opened for you, just the lightest pressure, you nearly cried, because it tasted like coming home.

You held his head, fingers twined in his hair, and explored his mouth, groaning when he arched against you, his arms coming up around your neck to anchor you there. It was intoxicating to kiss him again, to feel him, to hold him, and you lost yourself in it, letting your mouth feed on his.

When your kiss turned from welcoming to hungry, when his hands went from holding you to touching you, rubbing up and down your chest and back, when you could feel his cock pressing against your hip, you knew any chance of rational thought was gone. You could feel it banging inside your head, but everything else was roaring louder, stronger, blotting it out. You bit at his lips, at his neck, then muttered, "Want you."

"God, yeah." He arched his head back and you sucked on the soft skin just below his Adam's apple, sinking your teeth in. Oh, god, no, don't mark him...but you bit him again anyway, the sound of his groan lodging in your groin, making you throb hotly against your jeans. "Chris--"

You dragged your mouth off him, looked up into eyes wide and dilated, hungry-looking. "Yeah, baby."

"Fuck me. Want you to fuck me--"

Nonononono.... Oh, you were so far gone. This was such a hideously bad idea, but you could've sooner stopped breathing now, than stopped touching him.

"Yeah. Oh, yeah." You wedged a hand in between the two of you and palmed him through his jeans, grinning fiercely when he shuddered. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Yeah. "C'mon. Bedroom." You walked backwards, not letting go of him, doing your own shuddering when he nuzzled into you and nipped at the spot on your collarbone that made sparks zing through you. "Fuck, Lance--"

"That's right." He licked your ear, bit down on the piercings there. "Fuck Lance." Then his tongue was in your mouth again, and you couldn't think, couldn't move, just stopped in the middle of the doorway between kitchen and living room, half-trying to swallow him whole.

You didn't want to wait to get upstairs, and broke the kiss to say so. "Couch?"

He shook his head. "Someone could come down." He kissed you again, quick and nasty, his tongue hot and slick. "And we need--stuff."

Right. Yeah. "Okay," you said roughly, grabbing him around the wrist and tugging. "Upstairs, then, before I fucking come in my pants."

You didn't really think that would happen, but aside from jerking off a couple of times, you'd been pretty much asexual for the last three months. And now--it was like a banquet feast, all in the form of Lance.

Somehow the two of you navigated the stairs without breaking anything important, though you weren't sure about Lance's shirt. You heard the sound of fabric rending at one point; figured it was probably that. Being drunk actually helped you some; you lurched methodically and managed to avoid actually tripping at any point. You got his jeans undone, and your own mostly undone by the time you got in your room, and when you started to kick the door closed, Lance said "Shhh!" and pointed toward the hallway. Oh, yeah. You had company.

So you let go of him long enough to shut the door -- and lock it; you had enough experience with these guys to know that was an important detail -- and to shove your pants down and pull your t-shirt off. Nice thing about dressing for a casual evening in with the guys, it cut down on how much clothing you had to wear. Lance was busy jerking his own clothing off, but you couldn't wait for him to get completely naked. The shirt was off and his pants and shorts were pushed down over his hips when you pounced. You had to taste, and smiled against the back of his neck when he jumped at the feel of your lips.

"God, I've missed this." You licked down the groove of his spine, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his jeans as you lowered yourself. He groaned and shifted when you tongued the spot just above where his cheeks started; when you ran your tongue down the crevice between his cheeks, taking his pants all the way down, he shuddered and moved his legs further apart for you, kicking the jeans away from him almost viciously.

"More...please..." He panted, the sound loud and rough in the quiet room, and you smiled again, cupping and spreading his ass, running your tongue lightly over the soft skin, dipping into the cleft just enough to make Lance quiver above you. "Chris...fuck." He moved again and spread wider, leaning over the edge of your bed. You laughed against his ass, the sound low and smutty, then tongued him again.

"God, Lance." Fuck, fuck, fuck you'd missed this. Missed the taste of his skin, the feel of his body beneath yours, the way he shivered and shook. The sounds he made when you touched him, deep rumbles and purrs, vibrations that shook through you. "I love--this. The way you taste...feel...." You spread him wider and licked slowly up and down, tonguing around his hole, then dipping to tease the sensitive skin behind his balls. Lance groaned and shook under you, then cried out sharply when you teased the tip of your tongue inside him.

"Chris--ah, god...please. Ohh...." He arched again and you ran a hand down his back, soothingly, then backed away slowly, nipping at one cheek as you pulled away. He turned his head to watch you fumble in your night table for condoms and lube. Amazing that you were clear-headed enough to rim Lance with no problem, but still drunk enough that you couldn't make your fingers work to open the condom package. You nearly crowed in triumph when one package yielded. Finally. You rolled the rubber down over your cock and reached for the Astroglide.

"Which way?"

"Stomach," he whispered hoarsely. "Fuck, Chris. I haven't--no one."

"Me neither," you said softly. "Not since--" Your throat closed over the words and you swallowed roughly, then again when Lance shifted himself up onto your bed and settled himself, hips up in the air. You shoved a pillow under him and watched him spread himself wide for you. God. You settled behind him on your knees and rubbed his back, his ass, his thighs, memorizing the feel of his skin under your fingertips. He wiggled back against you, a soft sigh hissing through his teeth when you rubbed your fingers up and down his cleft, slicking him up. "You ready?"

"Yeah. God, yeah."

All you got after that were low-pitched, rumbly keening noises when you pushed in, slowly at first -- three months was still three months -- then held still while he adjusted. And then, sweet mother of fuck. He was tight. So tight. And hot; it felt like you were being absorbed into the slick heat, he was all around you and burning you up. You settled yourself along his back and bit at his neck, moving slowly at first, trying not to rush it. You didn't want to rush, wanted to last forever and ever, and--

"I love you," you gasped softly; the words were just there, so close to the surface, still so strong within you. You'd never stopped loving him; you knew Lance knew that. You kissed his neck, his ear, licked at the tendons that stood out when he strained back against you. "Love you, baby...god...."

He sucked in a breath; you felt it, with him beneath you, heard the half-sob in his voice then. "You...I love you, Chris...fuck. Oh, fuck..."

If you died at that moment, you'd be happy.

Lance pushed back against you, squeezing, and the world swam around you. You twined your fingers with his and started fucking for real; long, hard thrusts that rocked you both, rocked the bed, made your body feel alive for the first time in months. You changed position just enough for better leverage, Lance pushing his hips upward and jerking himself while you pumped hard and fast into him. It was quick, nasty sex, and you wanted it to last, but you were too drunk, too much alcohol, too much Lance. You closed your eyes and felt tears sting them when you came, when his body tightened around yours as he orgasmed, pulling you deeper into him.

The last thing you were aware of before passing out again was pulling out and tossing the used condom in the general direction of the trashcan. You curled around Lance and held tight as the shakes hit, before everything went black.

Your first thought was: you were dead. Brilliant, white-hot, blinding light surrounded you, and you could feel the Radio City dancers doing Chorus Line in your head. Your next thought was: screw that; if you were dead it'd be dark and your head wouldn't be pounding.

Fuck, you hated hangovers.

You reached an arm out, then cracked one eye open. The bed was empty except for you, and if it weren't for the faint scent of hair gel, sweat, and cologne that weren't yours, you might've thought last night was an alcohol-induced hallucination. Well, and you were sore in places you hadn't been sore in, for a while. That lent points to the reality angle. You had a vague -- way too vague -- recollection of Lance going down on you at some point after you'd passed out the first time. He woke you up with kisses, then sucked and fingerfucked you until you came again. You sucked him off afterward, then fell back asleep, wrapped in his arms.

God, had you really been that stupid? Maybe it'd be best if you never drank again, if last night was any indication. Three fucking months to get to the point where you felt anything; where you could actually hurt about what happened...and you went and threw that down the toilet in one evening. An evening you couldn't even remember very well, because of all the booze you'd had. You shifted gingerly and stopped immediately when your stomach rolled. You waited it out, so not wanting to heave, and moved in increments until you were sitting on the edge of the bed, wincing at sore muscles. Oh, yeah. Definitely had sex last night.

It took you nearly fifteen minutes to get yourself into a standing position and to find some sweats. Ten more to make it down the stairs without jarring your head any more than couldn't be avoided.

You could smell coffee, and had to stop and lean against the hallway wall for a moment to let your stomach adjust to the scent. When you finally made it into the kitchen, JC was sitting alone at the table there, looking pretty rough around the edges, but far more together than you felt.

"Hey." It was a hoarse croak, at best, but he turned and smiled blearily at you.

"Hey, yourself." He raised an eyebrow. "You look rough."

"I feel rough." You threw yourself into the closest chair and grabbed at your head when the movement jarred it and pain exploded behind your eyes. "I need an IV of aspirin and caffeine."

JC winced. "I can't help with the IV part, but I can do the rest." He gestured at the bottle of Advil already on the table, then stood. He was slower and less graceful than usual, but not moving as cautiously as you. "You want the coffee black?"

"God, no. Not yet." You shuddered and reached for the Advil, dry-swallowing the first two. You took three more when JC set a glass of water down in front of you. "Thanks. Where is everyone?" You drained the water and sighed softly.

He set a mug in front of you, cream and sugar already in it, then put the coffeepot between you before sitting back down. "As far as I know, Justin and Joey are still sleeping it off. Lance is out there." He nodded with his head toward your patio, and when you looked, squinting against the light, you could see Lance sitting on the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in the water. You watched him for a long time, until your eyes ached from the sunlight, and you could tell yourself that was why they stung. When you turned back to the table, JC was watching you with a sympathetic expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Chris."

You ducked your head. "It's worse than that." The swirls of light and dark in your mug were fascinating. Much more so than looking up to see the censure you were sure would be in JC's eyes. "I slept with him last night."

You waited and when he didn't say anything, you peeked, knowing it would break your heart to see it, but needing to. Get it over with.

"I know." He didn't look like he was condemning you, or anything else; if anything, he looked sad. Sad for you. You had a strange urge to hug him, to make him feel better. But his words startled you.

"How? Did you know, I mean?"

"I--um." In the past, it was always kind of cute when JC blushed, and you used to try on purpose, sometimes, just to see it, but right now you felt as awkward as he looked. You waved your hand.

"Never mind. It's okay. I just wondered."

"He came out of your room at the same time I was getting up. He, uh, looked rumpled. And mostly. Naked. I kinda--guessed." JC said the words quickly, the flush on his cheeks increasing.

"Ah." You hid your face behind your coffee mug and watched JC do the same. A hole opening up in the floor would've been convenient just then, but you'd noticed life didn't seem to work that way. Dammit. You took several swallows of coffee, closing your eyes against its attack on your body. "I didn't plan it." You opened your eyes and looked at JC. "I didn't want...I didn't want to want him anymore." You could hear the echo of both your voices swirling in your head. Love you, baby. I love you...

"I know." JC got up and came around behind you, pulling you back against him in a mostly-full body hug. You relaxed against him, enjoying the feel of his arms around you, of the warmth of his body. He rested his cheek on the top of your head and you could feel his breath in your hair. "And you know you don't owe me any explanations, man. It's--your life."

True enough. So why did you feel like you let him down? You sighed. "Still."

Another puff of breath against your head. Moist heat. You could almost imagine it made your headache a little better. "It's gonna be okay, Chris. You...um. Are you...did you guys get back together, then?"

"No." You shook your head and frowned. You didn't remember much about last night; images, mostly, but you liked to think you would remember that. "I'm pretty sure no." You tipped your head so you could see JC. "The reasons we broke up are still valid, C. He's just...I mean--"

"You're still in love with him."

"I guess. Yeah." Okay, this conversation hurt. Your head hurt, your body ached, and you wanted so badly to just go back to bed and forget the last twenty-four hours. Or at least most of the last twenty-four hours. You raised a hand and stroked JC's arm, the feel of his skin against your fingers, and the repetitive motion soothing. "I don't know what I am. Yeah, I still love him. But fuck. Almost twelve years, y'know? I can't just...toss that away. Not in a couple of months."

"Did you think you could?" JC squeezed once, then let you go and sat back down. "Seriously."

"Seriously...I guess I hoped." You shrugged and finished your coffee, reached for the pot. The first cup was settling okay; now it was time for serious coffee consumption. "I didn't miss him so much until yesterday. When I saw him." You put the pot back down, then laid your head down on the table. "I swear I'm never going to drink again."

"Right." It wasn't quite his normal smile, but not too bad for a partially hung-over JC. "You need to talk to him."

You snorted. "State the obvious much?" You closed your eyes. Who needed pillows? Any flat surface would do, at this point.

"So, go talk." JC waved his hand toward the patio. "Do it now, because if you wait, you'll have Joey and Justin up and hanging around."

"Fuck." You pushed your chair back, wincing when the noise scraped along raw nerves. No, you didn't need an audience. "Yeah. Going now." JC's hand closed around your wrist as you walked past.

"Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"It'll be okay."

"Yeah." You told yourself you weren't really dragging your feet, you were just moving slowly to keep your head from exploding.

You almost believed yourself.

It wasn't really as bad outside as your hangover would lead you to believe. Warm, but not too bad; probably in the low 70's. Bright, but a little hazy, too. A gentle breeze stirred through the palm fronds and flowers, brushed over your face. Pittsburgh would be bitterly cold, snow and sleet and ice everywhere. You were glad -- mostly -- that you'd stayed down here for the holiday. You didn't want to deal with your mom and sisters, and their families, on top of all the rest of this shit. Of course, even if you'd gone home for Christmas, you'd still be here, now, dealing with it, so. What-the-fuck-ever.

You should've brought shades out with you. It was way too bright for more than about a minute or three and you just knew, instinctively, you were going to be out here longer than that.

Lance looked up when your shadow fell across him, and you gave him a small smile. "Hey."

"Hey." The sun glinted off his bracelet. You thought the moonlight last night looked better on it. Otherworldly.

"Can I join you?"

He shrugged. "It's your house. Your pool."

"Yeah, well." You dropped down beside him and pulled the sweats up to your knees, letting the cool water swirl around your ankles. It was almost warm enough to go swimming. "How're you doing?"

That got a snort. "My head hurts, my ass hurts, and the first thing I did this morning was puke. So on a scale of one to ten, we're already at a negative. On top of all that, I gotta wonder what the hell we were doing last night?" He turned slightly and eyed you cautiously. "How're you doing?"

"My head hurts like a motherfucker. And the rest applies, too. Well, not the puking." You flexed one arm. "Real men don't heave."

Another snort. "Yeah. Right. And how many times did I hold you over the toilet?"

"No more than I've held you." You dimly recalled Lance telling you the first time he was hung over, that it was his very first. Like, ever. God, so long ago. Almost another lifetime.

"So, neither of us is a real man. Guess all the reporters and nay sayers would be vindicated, huh?" He fell silent again, and you followed suit, watching the swirls in the water from where his toes dipped and played. You'd closed your eyes and thought about dozing in the warm sun, when his voice startled you fully awake. "You know that night I called you?"

"Yeah?"

Lance laughed, a tight, bitter sound. "I wanted so bad to call and ask you if I could come back here, man. I missed you so bad...and I sat there, staring at the phone and the clock, wondering what you were doing...how you were doing... Instead I called, and tried to pick a fight. I guess...whatever. That I'm a coward, or something." He swung around to look at you, light eyes bloodshot and washed out. Even hung over he was beautiful. "Are you and JC--?"

You stared blankly for a second before realizing the pounding in your head wasn't hangover, it was anger. "Christ, Lance! Would I have--last night--if we were?"

He shrugged. "You're always with him, man. And last night--he's all snuggled up behind you and..." He stopped and swallowed roughly. "And then--fuck. I dunno. I thought maybe...when you kissed me. Then we--I thought maybe." Another pause had you clenching your fists, leaving little half-moons in your palms, where your fingernails bit in. "But...it was really stupid, wasn't it? And now...I just want it that much more, again. Want. Fuck." He sighed. "You wanna say something? Anything? Just stop me from rambling any more."

"See, I don't really know what to say here. You want me to say I think last night was stupid? Fuck, yeah. I've spent the last three months trying to get you the fuck out of my head." And my heart, you added silently, knowing he knew that, too. "I spent most of yesterday and last night trying to get myself shit-faced enough that I could look at you without wanting to cry, or throw my arms around you and tell you never to leave again, or better yet, throw you to the floor and fuck you 'til neither one of us could stand -- whether we had an audience or not. Instead, what happened was I got drunk enough that I totally forgot I was supposed to be mad and hurt, and we ended up doing the fucking thing anyway--" You stopped and took a deep breath. Getting angry right now wouldn't solve any problems; instead it would likely create even more.

"I love you." He said it quietly, without any particular emphasis, didn't even look at you. Just the words, soft and breathy.

"Lance--" You covered your eyes with one hand, trying to block some of the brightness. Trying not to see his face. "Fuck, dude. That was never the issue. I know you love me. I love you. But--we're not good for each other. Or something. I don't know what the problem is. If it's you, or me, or the combination." You couldn't sit still any longer for this. You stood up and paced, ignoring that each step made the top of your head feel like it was going to blow off. "I can't...do what we were doing. Can't live that way. I shoulda never touched you again last night and I'm--"

"Don't you dare say sorry for it." God, he was suddenly up, right in your face, and spitting mad. Fine. You weren't exactly in a good mood. You glanced over toward the house; saw JC's face briefly and closed your eyes. You didn't want an audience. Any audience. "You think I'm not--that I don't regret shit, Chris?"

"I don't know. You kept doing it." Keep cool, Kirkpatrick. You could do this.

"Fuck you." He hissed the words at you, eyes flashing.

"Yeah, well, see, that's where the problems start. We tried that last night. And look at us this morning--" You shook your head. "It ain't gonna work, Lance. You and me. We're--" Your throat felt swollen and dry and you mentally grabbed yourself and shook hard. You weren't going to lose it. Not anger, not crying, nothing. You weren't. "It's over. It was fucking over three fucking months ago. Last night was--a mistake."

"Yeah." He stared at you, eyes boring into yours. Anger, love, sex, you could read it all right there. It was what you felt. Nearly twelve fucking years, gone. You wanted to scream.

"I'm not...I have to go. I--" If you stayed any longer--you weren't sure what would happen. You'd probably end up kissing him again. God, it didn't hurt this bad three months ago, did it? Of course, then, you thought you could still be friends. You weren't so sure about that, now.

"Don't bother, man. I'm outta here." Lance spun on his heel and left you standing there in the warm sun, feeling cold and dead inside.

"Chris?"

Joey's voice was the first thing that penetrated the fog in your mind. You wondered, when you finally looked up, how long he'd been standing there. How long you'd been sitting out here, huddled in on yourself. The sun was in a different spot in the sky. Hours?

"Yeah."

"You okay, man?"

You shook your head. "Joey. Dude. I have no idea."

"You look like hell."

You gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Thanks, man. You gotta know that helps."

"JC took Lance to the airport."

The deep breath you sucked in was just a need for oxygen. Not shock, or hurt, or--any one of too many things to list off coherently. Right? Sure. "When?"

Joey shrugged. "They left about an hour ago. I'm not sure what time his plane leaves; he wasn't--" He fell silent and you turned to look at him, seeing the truth in his eyes.

"Supposed to go back yet. Yeah, okay." You eyed him sharply. "So, what? JC's babysitting Lance, and you and J got me? Is that it?"

"Do you need a babysitter?"

"Fuck you, Joe."

"No, fuck you. God, Chris. Are the two of you really that idiotic?" Joey sat down beside you, and the soft creak of his bones reminded you that all your friends were getting older. Joey, who would be thirty-one in a few weeks. Fuck.

"What, and you've never done anything stupid?" It wasn't enough that you fucked up, but now one of dearest people in the world to you was going to rub your face in it. Yay. You were so glad the new year was starting off like this. That way, it could only get better.

"Okay, so, we're not talking about me right now, are we?"

"Maybe we should. Beats talking about me and how I fucked up."

"Are you going to shut up and listen to me? Or are you just gonna do the attitude thing?"

You glared at him. "Why should I have to listen to anything? My house, my ex. I can fight with him if I want to."

"Yeah, but you remember the friend that ex is supposed to be, too?"

Too bad Joey wasn't reading your body language; you were pulled in on yourself, clearly -- to anyone else -- broadcasting 'leave me the hell alone'. "Okay, look. You try having a relationship within a group that lasts for nearly twelve fucking years, Fatone, then have all of it just kind of dissolve away -- group, boyfriend, all of it-- and let's see how well you handle shit, okay? I didn't think that seeing him would be so--hard. Bad. I just. Shit. Thought three months would be long enough. And the whole-breaking up. I mean, Christ, man, you and Kel are still together, even with all the shit you put each other through. I just don't...I don't get why Lance and I couldn't--" You trailed off, not wanting to say more, not wanting to stop. It felt...good, in an odd way, to purge a little of this.

"Make it?" Joey's voice was soft.

"Well, yeah. Why we couldn't make it." You looked at him, searching for the Joey you'd known for forever. Fuck, you'd known him for at least a couple years longer than any of the other guys. You sighed. "You--um. You screwed around on Kelly. A lot." Way more than Lance ever screwed around on you. You kicked at a waterbug skimming on the edge of the pool. "So, why'd she put up with it? What made it different for you guys?" What can you tell me so I could figure out how to handle it so I could have him back again? But--could you really live like that? Knowing there was something wrong...that you weren't enough for him?

He blew out a breath. "Fuck if I know, man. We didn't, a lot of times. You know that. But...Bree, she changed things." He shrugged. "But you and Lance, you're different. Different situation, all that. And--" He broke off and shifted around uncomfortably.

"And what? C'mon, dude, spit it out."

"Well, um. Y'know. C. You an' him--"

You slapped your hand down on the pavement. "For cryin' out loud--. There is no me and C. No us. What the fuck is wrong with all you people?"

"Are you familiar with the saying 'the lady doth protest too much? Well, substitute 'Chris' for 'lady', and..."

"And nothing, fuckwad. Me and C are friends. Good friends." But. The way he looked at you sometimes. The funny feeling you had in your stomach the night he played that track for you. When you jerked off--. You sighed. "Just leave that be, huh? It's a place I don't want to go right now. Maybe never."

"You're a man who loves to suffer, aren't you, Kirkpatrick?" But Joey's hand was warm on the back of your neck, strong fingers rubbing at the knots there, and his voice was teasing, so you didn't say anything else. Just relaxed and closed your eyes again. He snorted quietly. "You guys will have to work it out eventually, y'know. I mean--we're maybe not still a group, but we're friends, Chris. We've been through too much, y'know?"

"I have a year," you said quietly. Maybe a year would be enough time. Three months sure wasn't.

"I'm hoping it doesn't take that long."

Your eyes snapped back open and you shrugged Joey's hand off your neck. Regretfully. You felt all bristle-y again, and found yourself wishing for JC. God. "I hope it doesn't, either. Because, believe it or not...I'm missing both men right now, Joe. He was my boyfriend and my friend. You do get that, right?"

He was silent for a moment. "I hadn't thought about it like that."

"I didn't think so." You kicked at the waterbug again, then squinted upward. "What time is it?"

"Around three, I think. I left J inside to start cleaning shit up; we kinda trashed your house last night."

You shrugged. "It's not like it'd be the first time." Your stomach growled, and you sighed. "Let's get something to eat. That might help my head." Which still felt like it was going to explode. At least food would fill your stomach, maybe help the headache. You weren't real sure what to do to fill up the other hollow, painful spot, where you were pretty sure your heart'd been ripped out.

"So I was thinking."

JC's voice was almost bland, which you didn't buy for a moment. You glanced over at him, sitting patiently while he waited for you to get your shit together. You finished tying your shoelaces and stood up to stretch. You didn't want to work out, but it was part of the whole New Year package. Resolutions and all that. In a moment of weakness you'd agreed to working out four days a week. You'd managed to put C off for nearly two weeks, but he wasn't buying the excuses anymore; he'd come over to your house that morning and physically hauled your sorry ass out of bed.

And he didn't seem inclined to go any further with his pronouncement, so you prompted him. "So, you were thinking about...what?"

"Your idea." You must've looked as blank as you felt, because he laughed and slapped your shoulder. "Spot me first?"

"What? Sure. What idea?" Free weights. Yay. But you trotted after him, eyeing the machinery in here with a critical eye. It wasn't an expensive, fancy place; it was small and fairly modest, and from what you could see, the patrons were people who were serious about working out, not there just to pick up hard bodies. You knew JC'd had a membership here for years; part of your Christmas package from him was a membership. You tried to think positively about that.

"The, um. Album." It was interesting to watch someone lifting from this angle. You'd spotted Justin a few times, when JC or Lance weren't available to work out, and he'd shamed you into going, but usually your idea of working out was basketball. Rollerblading. Dancing. With the occasional bit of swimming or running thrown in for variety. You'd altered that by some, since your surgeries, but not by much. "You really think it's a good idea? To do something like that?"

"I do." You did. You'd thought about it relentlessly for weeks now. "You have an incredible voice, man. And an awesome feel for music, from top to bottom."

"Heh." He fell silent while he lifted, and you watched, found yourself looking at the play of muscle under skin, the way it rippled effortlessly. For such a skinny guy, JC was ripped in a big way. No, he wasn't really skinny--that implied a lack of...something. JC was lean. Whipcord lean. Like, a racing dog. Greyhound, maybe? All smooth skin and muscle, working sinuously while he lifted. You looked away briefly when you realized you'd been staring too long, and he'd caught you. When he finished the set he lay back for a moment, staring up at you, and you squirmed, wondering what he was thinking. Such close scrutiny was uncomfortable. "I want you on it, too."

You blinked. "On the album? I don't--"

"If you don't, I won't."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh. That's kinda like blackmail, man."

He smiled, showing teeth. Wow. A not-so-soft side of JC. "It kinda is, isn't it?" He reached for the bar again and started another set. You shook your head.

"I'll help with the arrangements and stuff, C, but the vocals...I don't have...my range is higher than what we're talking here."

He puffed for a moment, then set the bar back down. When he looked up at you this time, he had a strange look in his eyes; something that made them darker, something indefinable. "Yeah, and it's not like we've never heard jazz in your range before, right? C'mon, Chris. It'd be fun. Singing together again, for real?"

Fun. Singing together. The look in his eyes wasn't indefinable; it was love, concern, a need to share something important with someone who could understand and appreciate it. You nodded slowly. "All right, then. Yes."

He whooped and bounced up off the weight-bench to hug you, startling the guy lifting at the bench beside you. You got a dirty look from him and gave him one in return, ignoring the mumbled comment about the 'fucking fags'.

You waited while JC got himself composed, then asked, "So do you have any ideas on what you want to do with it?"

"A few." He did one last set with the barbell, then sat back up, wiping at his forehead. "All vocal tracks, with jazz backing." You nodded and switched places, settling yourself down, watching while JC switched the weights out for you. It was mildly depressing to realize he could out lift you; but one look at his arms was enough to inform anyone that he'd been lifting for a while. You didn't want muscle like that, per se, but some definition might be nice. Stay the slide into middle age a while longer.

"You have lyrics?"

"I have some. I've been writing," he gave you a sheepish grin and you laughed -- panted, more like. "I just. It's weird, Chris. To think, y'know. About doing an album. Without the others. Because--it's. Yeah. Weird."

"I know." You bit your lip on the baby that nearly escaped, and wondered what the hell was wrong with your brain. Where'd that come from? You rolled your eyes mentally and finished your set, arms feeling stretched out when you set the bar back. JC hung over you and you grinned. "But you know what, C? It'll be good, man. I mean...yeah. Weird, without the guys. But dude, you are so meant to be making music -- and I don't mean the shit we've been doing, recording and producing. I mean making music."

"I miss it," he said softly. "Sometimes. It's like--" A shrug, and a dismissive wave, like he didn't think it was important enough to go on, but you felt it like a knife in the gut. You missed it, too. The guys, the group, the music, all of it.

"Yeah." You wanted to say more, but couldn't think of anything right then that would help, and lots of things that wouldn't.

JC leaned down and touched your cheek gently. "C'mon, Chris. Let's finish up here and get to work."

You'd forgotten, obviously, the work that went into making an album. Oh, not the recording/producing end of it; you were more than passingly acquainted with that. No, it was the time spent writing, deciding the musical layout, the different keys a song could be in and which way it would sound the best. And jazz wasn't something you had a lot of experience with; actually, that would be closer to 'none.' So you took to hanging out in some of the jazz clubs in town, sometimes dragging JC with you -- when you could pry him out of the studio -- and sometimes just going by yourself.

You found one club you really liked. It was smallish, with a really good atmosphere. They alternated jazz and blues, and you'd decided you liked both, though you leaned in favor of the jazz. The first night you went in, you caught yourself thinking 'Lance would really like this place', then decided maybe not. Jazz wasn't really his thing, after all, and when the two of you would go clubbing without the others, you usually ended up someplace that had a good dance floor and a pumping beat. But this place...you knew JC would like it. It would appeal to him on many different levels, not the least of which was the man who'd recorded the sexy, seductive music that you couldn't get out of your mind.

The place was done all in reds and blacks, lengths of fabric draped over the walls, and around poles, with gilt-edged mirrors hung here and there, reflecting the muted light around the small space. It was...not gaudy, but...seductive. Like the music they played. It made you think, at times, of what old-fashioned bordellos might have been like, except it felt more intimate. It was also mostly dark, a little shadowy, almost -- the aforementioned mirrors and muted lights only penetrating just so far -- with lots of niches and crevices that contained booths, or just low couches and scattered small tables. It was comfortable. Warm. You hadn't shared this one with JC yet, but wanted to, because you knew he'd like it, too.

Lance. JC. You were so fucked, you couldn't even decide what you wanted in life any more. One? Both? And if the thought of both wasn't twisted, you wouldn't know what was. Nearly two months since the fiasco at New Year's, and you'd exchanged exactly one tersely worded email with Lance, both of you still stinging from things said and unsaid.

And so much was totally unsaid between you and JC, but there were layers now between you, which hadn't been there even a month ago. You'd catch him watching you, when you were singing, or eating, or hell, two mornings ago, when you were brushing your teeth, because you'd fallen asleep on his sofa after talking until three a.m., and so had to share the bathroom with him while getting ready for the next studio session. And it wasn't like you didn't do your share of watching him. For the first time in...far longer than you could remember...you found it uncomfortable to be around him at the gym, or in the showers, because you wanted to see more of him than you were seeing. You could picture what he looked like, lifting weights, then visualize that skin and those muscles, damp from the shower.

You were jerking off a lot more than in the recent past. Some days you wondered if you'd reverted to oh, say, eighteen, getting horny at the drop of a hat several times a day.

You'd taken to curling up against JC when you watched TV, or leaning against him while you worked on the different songs for the album, touches that weren't any different from before, except maybe for their frequency. And the longing that seemed to be in both of you. JC did it, too; carding his fingers through your hair while you sprawled against him, fingers stroking lightly along your arm when you leaned into him during movies.

And that was another thing. You guys were going out, but you weren't sure if you were going out, as in dating, or just hanging out like you had always done. You went out to dinner, to the movies, to an occasional art-gallery show, things you'd always done. They just felt different now. And you still caught movies with Joey, when he was in town and had the time, and Justin flew in just last week and the three of you went out to dinner, then clubbing. And you and Justin went for a bike ride the next day. It just felt so different now, when you and JC did things. Different, but not, and the fact that it was both was driving you nuts.

And you wanted, so badly, to do something or say something that would tip things just a little over the edge, just so you would know. You held back for reasons you couldn't even define in your head, just an instinctive feeling that it wasn't quite the right time. That you weren't ready to take it the next step, to have to define anything beyond friends who were growing closer.

You decided to listen to your gut and play it safe.

But you still wanted to share the club with JC. It made you antsy to wait, even knowing the timing wasn't quite right.

So you went alone, still, saving the moment. It was soothing, to go to this club and just sit, drink in hand, and listen to the music. A lot of it was instrumental; but sometimes there were vocalists in, as well. You liked both; didn't have a particular preference over one or the other. What you did have a preference for, you were discovering, was JC's vocals. Specifically, his jazz vocals. You found yourself comparing them to the albums Nsync did, and while you were proud of the work you'd done as a group, you liked these more, in some ways.

Maybe because they touched something inside you, a place that belonged just to JC.

"Oh, my god. Chris, you have to hear this."

You could hardly understand JC's words, he was laughing so hard, but you got the 'have to hear this' part, and put down your pen with a sigh that was part relief, part exasperation. You'd been going over the books for the studio, and had a headache, so quitting wasn't a bad thing -- except you really needed to finish.

You called back to him as you stood up and stretched. "What?"

"Just c'mere." He was back in the music room, listening to god-only-knew-what, probably fine-tuning something he wanted on the album. When you stepped through the door he flipped a switch, and the room was flooded with a beat you recognized, but couldn't quite place, until you heard the vocals.

Please don't go...please don't go... don't you know that I love you so...

"Holy shit! No Mercy." God, that seemed like it was forever ago.

JC laughed again. "Unbelievable, isn't it? I'd forgotten I had this." He bobbed in time to the music, keeping rhythm with it effortlessly. You grinned and reached out toward him, laughing when he bumped his hip against yours. By the end of the first round of the chorus, the two of you were singing along, circling each other like you were on the dance floor.

When the song was over you threw yourself onto the sofa, panting lightly, and still chuckling. "Wow. That felt good. And weird. Talk about memories."

"No kidding." JC collapsed beside you. "Do you remember the airport? Singing along to it?"

You nodded, cracking up again. "We were incredible dorks."

"No past tense, man. Some of us--" JC paused meaningfully and elbowed you, "--are still incredible dorks." He nudged you and you laughed again, then shifted and pounced, knowing his ribs were incredibly ticklish. JC screeched in your ear, "No! Get off! Get--Chris!" He disintegrated from there into laughter and incoherent pleas for you to stop, get off, quit it, stop.

You ignored all of them, laughing as he wiggled and writhed beneath you, trying to get away from your fingers. He was strong, but you hadn't been goofing off in the gym for the last six weeks or so; you held your ground pretty well.

"Say Uncle, dude. Say it!" You shifted a little higher, pining his legs, then dug your fingers again into his ribs, his armpits, hitting all the sensitive spots. "C'mon, C, you called me a dork. I'm not stopping 'til you say Uncle."

"N--no, man...you a-are...a d-dork!" He howled, tears on his cheeks from laughing so hard. You grin