Standing in front of his dresser mirror, Justin can see a hint of the man he'll someday be.

But right now, he thinks, he just looks young, and maybe a little girly. His eyelashes are too long, but he's heard Christina and Britney giggle and blush and talk about them, so maybe that's not too bad, really. He scowls and tugs at his lower lip; his mouth looks like a girl's, full and too pink. Tugging at his lip makes it even pinker, so he lets go, and licks them.

Huh. He tilts his head a little, lowers his chin, his straight brows drop down, and suddenly he doesn't look girly anymore. He looks kinda sexy, maybe. Not hot, not yet, but he can work on it. Make it a goal. He's good at goals, and he's never been afraid of hard work. It's how he's gotten as far as he's gotten—hard work, and sheer cussed determination, as his momma says, with a proud gleam in her eyes.

And he has goals. Lots of them. He forgets posing for a moment, and reaches out and touches the pictures he's cut from magazines, the ones he's bought at Walmart or the grocery store, smuggling them out and hiding them from everyone, because guys aren't supposed to read stuff like that. But they're like a valuable resource; they show him what the public wants, how he needs to look, how to present himself, in order to be famous. And he wants to be famous. The pictures show young faces, slim bodies, pouting mouths and eyes that promise a lot more than the girls who look at the pictures really understand. They're almost as valuable as the singing and dancing lessons he's had all his life, and Justin's never been one to waste any learning experience.

His fingers brush over one picture, a real photograph, and he plucks it from the frame surrounding the mirror and brings it closer. Keri had taken it during the wrap party for the last ep of MMC, and his own mouth curves in reaction to the smiles he sees on the faces of JC and himself. For the picture, JC had slung an arm over his shoulder, pulled him in close, and had tipped his head next to Justin's. He can still remember the scent of JC's cologne, something a little spicy, and the scent of pizza and Coke on his breath, the heat of his body. The happiness had been bittersweet; the very next day, JC and Tony had taken off for LA, to make their marks on the world.

But JC had made no mark, and had come back to stay with them a while, quieter, more serious. Looking like a whipped dog, he'd heard his momma say on the phone when she didn't think he was listening. He always listens when no one thinks he does. How else was he supposed to learn anything, when people still thought he was a kid and wouldn't say stuff in front of him? JC didn't talk about LA when he first came back, and still doesn't. After his questions had been brushed aside, or JC had simply left the room to avoid answering them, Justin had decided to bide his time. He'd learned he couldn't force JC to do anything, and he'd find out eventually anyway. He has *persistence.*

"Justin!" His momma's voice sounds sharp over the clatter of washing dishes in the kitchen.

He replaces the picture in the mirror frame, trailing a fingertip over JC's big, squinched-face smile, the one Justin doesn't see anymore. Oh, yeah, he has goals, and not all of them have to do with show business. "Yeah, Momma?"

"You get your homework done for school tomorrow?" Her voice drifts closer; she sounds like she's come to the foot of the stairs to yell at him.

"Sure. All done," he calls back. He glances back up at his reflection, and smiles.