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aruanIf you're to believe all the grossly biased (though much beloved!) parties who have responded to me about it so far, it's all right for a maudlin, second-person wallow. Even despite the aforementioned Cardinal Sin.
Also, I lied before. It actually came in at 3,469 words (19.0K even) by the time ri was done with it and I banished myself from any further tinkering. First piece of Popslash, too. Basically, the idea is that Driven broke my heart, and this is my way of reconciling a whole stockingful of issues.
JC/Lance - T'was the night before stardom.
By: Jules
You never thought you couldn't belong until they stipulated it. Hell, even freakishly pale with a voice like you've been smoking all your life plus the past negative forty-five years you better than survived high school, and that was supposed to be tougher than most things.
You've been doing so well, too. Considering it's been at least three days since you screwed up the choreography badly enough for someone to raise their voice, taking into account that you'd lost fifteen pounds since you signed your life away to a fat man who doesn't look or sound as jolly as he by all rights should, keeping in mind that you've been living on the brink of exhaustion only to begin again in the same twilight you went to sleep in, and it's Florida in early August, muggy and mosquito-infested and why can't things be the way they're supposed to already?
Why couldn't it be you?
You've been doing so well.
There's a soft knock on the door just before you hear the knob turning. You'd really hoped to at least cry alone.
You know who it is, too, which just makes it harder to keep your eyes dry. Joey and Chris decided that bigger fireworks were in order than the half bottle of Stoli left at the bottom of their closet could provide and took Justin with them to celebrate your last night in Orlando. You declined their valiant efforts at dragging you along - attempting to move your hips in rhythm to some abstract dance song without even so much as a discernible bass beat is about the last way you can think to enjoy yourself right now. The battle waged for you to remain on Florida soil had been hard-won, and you think the goodbye should feel appropriately bittersweet.
It had been a victory, after all.
You set your jaw and lift your right arm to cover your face, even though the overhead light is off. You concentrate on steadying your voice, which shouldn't be hard if that's how you're supposed to be making your living, but fuck. You sniffle to stave off the prickling in your nose and sigh to buy time, but it still comes out roughened and thick. "How'd you know I'd be awake?"
JC shrugs - you can hear the rustle of his clothing. You know you aren't the only one getting thinner, but JC really didn't have any excess to begin with. "Sometimes, not usually, but sometimes if you're reading a book or even just sitting the wrong way, you can get this intense motion sickness. And I can never get to sleep no matter what they tell me would help, so."
You're silent for a few seconds as you decipher what he actually means. JC's take on the world is slightly skewed, like the horizon line from the Tower of Pisa. Just a few degrees off, but that's what makes all the difference between just another perspective and Architectural Digest. You feel as ordinary as your two-story town hall back in Clinton, and how appropriate is that analogy?
Moving your arm away, you sit up on the bed and turn toward where JC's standing. You talk to the carpet. "I just need to get some sun."
JC's bare feet shift as he moves to lean against the wall. "Joey said you might need to talk."
So it's time for more than reassuring shoulder claps and mandatory participation in all group whims. You fist your fingers into your newly-cropped hair but your grip slips frustratingly through the too-short strands. It's been a little over a week after the meeting about the contract, five days since you each signed your name along a single dotted line at the bottom of a two-inch-thick sheaf of papers, and the night before you're supposed to get on a plane to fly half a world away from everything you've ever known. How that had finally come to happen isn't important enough to dwell on. "I'm fine. Y'all can--" You bite off at that and wince a little when you end up getting the edge of your tongue too, but you make sure to carefully enunciate the rest of the sentence. "You can all stop acting like I'm traumatized or something. I'm fine."
The feet at the edge of your vision move again, and you can hear JC's nod in his reply. "I can see that," he says, stopping in front of you and crouching down to balance on the balls of his feet. He extends his hand and you force yourself not to flinch away as he raises your chin, traces the salty-wet trails down your cheeks, fingers the collar of your shirt where a few drops had soaked into the worn cotton. "C'mere." His voice is rich and melodic and you think there'll always be more to it than your own, no matter how much more like Barry White's it'll become.
Instead you get up and step away because you've learned the one about not letting yourself have something just because it's offered. As good as having JC's arms around you would feel - and you know JC hugs with his whole body, slender limbs enveloping tightly, not soft like your mother's but just as unconditional - you can't take that right now. He shouldn't even be here offering it, not after everything and all the things that aren't and might never be and you can't think why JC, out of all of them, won't see that.
"They--" JC's eyebrows furrow and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Yours are bitten and chapped and you don't like the medicine-smelling mint taste of the balm, but JC has been coached about the meaning and placement of every gesture. Exasperation isn't pretty on him, and you hope he has some stashed in his pocket, too. "Johnny should've-- They shouldn't have said those things in front of you."
You've figured this part out already. "Maybe they were hoping you'd listen," and then, "it's not like they said anything everyone didn't already know."
Justin may be bratty and short with you sometimes but having JC, talented, easygoing, achingly perfect JC watch you struggle is next to unbearable. You've always been pretty okay with who you are but some days, when you've been in the warehouse for thirteen hours and your sneakers are sliding on the sweat-slick floors and you could all go home and sleep for at least four hours if you could just get those six half-beats right, you wish more than anything that just a little of JC's fluid grace could get absorbed into your skin. You remember your eighth grade science lecture on osmosis and wonder idly if licking JC would have the same effect.
And there's another thing. You're already turned away from JC but your hands slam furiously into your pockets to pinch your thigh as that particular bit of guilt flares hot in your chest. Joey's talked with you, late at night when you'd sneak out to sit on the back porch, but almost never quietly enough because the screen door would open a few minutes later and then there'd be Joey's solid warmth at your back instead of chilled glass. You'd stay out there until you fell asleep or the sky began to lighten, telling him about Mississippi and everything else now or, if you couldn't quite form words, he'd tell you stories about living in Brooklyn, coming here, his gig at Universal. You're the reason he doesn't sleep those nights and you feel bad the next day when he has to make it up during breaks but Joey's your tether to sanity and there's not much you can do to loosen your grip. Those nights it's almost like you could say it, just tell him the real reason besides all the other glaring reasons the German suits said as to why you shouldn't be here, that you've been lying to them since you met.
Well, not the real real reason. You've known very well how that stands since the first time you were out of the audition room, so. You join in with the other guys on the twelve-step program jokes but those nights, as your shirts become sticky with sweat and you can't imagine the safe miles of country proper in Clinton anymore, as close as you are you ache a little from the impossibility of more. And that just adds to your spectacular array of Guilt because Joey gives everything about himself completely and freely. You try to compensate, from your earliest memories to the most embarassing ones. His laughter is easy and kind and you can't help but let go with the little earthquakes of vibration from his chest. The vague sense of nausea afterward makes you swallow thickly for a few hours, but not enough.
When you blink to refocus your eyes you realize you've been staring at JC, but you're either stronger than you thought or don't care what he might have seen there. But whatever he'd noticed, there was only JC's usual calm, silent acceptance. Even with the leftover streamers and errant frosting stain on the bedspread from the party a couple of days ago, you have to remind yourself that he's barely twenty.
You startle back to yourself completely at JC's hands gently closing on your clenched fists. You dumbly follow his motions to uncurl your cramped fingers from your palm. The little half moon-shaped indentations begin to throb and you bite your bottom lip - crying was for little boys and little boys don't get to become famous pop stars. You wish that didn't mean you have to be strong enough to do things you don't want to and not do the things that feel as natural as breathing.
Your eyes burn. JC's have golden flecks where the amber light of the bedside lamp reflects in them. "It doesn't matter what they said. You've got to believe that, you have to know you belong here, with us."
If anyone asks later on, that was it. It was the kindness in JC's voice, not Lou's callous criticism or a choreographer's snide exasperation, that made you snap. "Don't say that," you say, practically pleading. "Don't say that because if we don't make it it'll be my fault because I wasn't strong enough to walk away." The tears have breached your best efforts, flowing hot and fierce down your cheeks now, making the room swim in and out of focus. You reach up, grabbing JC's biceps, and maybe finally someone will see the fraud you've been playing. "I wasn't strong enough to not want this, to accept that I couldn't be good enough. I--. Please, JC."
"Oh, Lance." He says it so quietly you open your mouth to continue, but your voice seems to have given out along with your knees beneath you because you're forming the words but there's no sound. You feel lighter than you can remember since your plane landed in Orlando and it would feel so good to just give it all a rest for a while, but JC's gripping your elbows firmly now. He's strong and hoists you upright again as his arms wind under your armpit, around your waist. "Lance. Shit, Lance."
You don't think you've ever heard JC curse. It's as ugly as your mother always said and the thought that you made JC sound like that just further undoes you. You're sobbing against him now in earnest and yeah, you had some idea this had been building, but nothing like the mess you're making of JC's shirt, the way it's shaking both your bodies. He just holds you tighter, which doesn't make any sense. "Those record fucks," he spits, swallowing hard. His tone is calmer when he continues, whispery at your ear. "Is that what? You don't really-- Fuck, Lance."
He's silent after that, just moving one hand in long, broad strokes up and down your back, the other resting on the nape of your neck. You cry and shake in his embrace, emptying what feels like an abyss inside of you. He continues to mumble quietly, incoherently now, muffled into the hair at your temple, then trails off to hum soothingly as the tightness in your chest begins to uncoil.
When you think you can actually stand on your own again you sniffle and move away a little. This won't get any easier and you figure JC's being diplomatic or something by disagreeing. "You probably regret ch--"
JC's mouth on yours is an utter surprise, and you feel the true skip in your fluttery pulse. His lips are soft, so soft, slightly open and you shudder-sigh wearily into their gentle pressure against yours. Your head swims with sensation, your nose filled with JC's musky cologne, his hair mussed and still damp to the touch, curling lightly at ends that were getting just a little longer than he usually let it grow now. His thumb draws circles into the base of your spine through your t-shirt as he lightly parts his lips and instinct kicks in as you do the same. You realize somewhere that this could be a problem, that what you're doing will probably have consequences but the kiss feels so good, too good and sure you were all affectionate but it's been months since you've been touched as more than a friend. As if he could read your thoughts there it was, the faintest brush of JC's tongue against your lower lip so feather-light you could well have imagined it, but JC's already moving away as you moan and part your lips in hopeful acceptance.
Aside from being an effective temporary defense mechanism, shock isn't good for the body, you think. Shock floods your system with adrenaline - that's what makes your heart beat faster, you remember this part now, makes you able to lift up cars. You don't have any allergies and you've never been seriously injured, which are the times the body's supposed to resort to such extreme measures, but as your head swims and your vision blurs for a moment, you think you might understand about the mechanics of handling something so far out of the expectations of normal experience. What sets it off doesn't necessarily have to be bad, just surprising, and it's easier to be brave than coordinated when you're high on endorphins. "JC," you try to say, ask, but it comes out much more like a shaky, breathy sigh.
His hold on you tightens and for a moment there isn't much of anything you can do or say. He slowly relaxes and pulls his head back enough to look at you, his blue eyes glimmering shiny-bright even in the dimness. "Tell me one thing, Lance. Forget all the rest for just one minute and answer this one question."
His voice is like music with all the shadings of an orchestra of instruments, and though that possibly has something to do with your current state of being, you wouldn't contest the assessment. You nod once, a careful bob of your head.
"Do you regret staying?"
And that's easy because you're more selfish than afraid and it's all worth it as long as it's them, this. "I've never wanted anything more in my life." Braver than you'd thought, even, and you think maybe natural highs are underrated because this is the kind of desperate honesty you always see drunk people apologizing about for the rest of the movie.
But JC's broadest, brightest smile is all you catch as he tugs you back, flush against himself. "That's all we need to know."
And just like that, it's all okay. You practically melt into him, molding to the curve of his chest and resting your forehead in the crook of his neck and let your circulation return to normal, lulled by the patterned heartrate you can feel through his shirt. You take a slow, deep breath and ask on the exhale, "How do you do it?"
The warm puff of air from JC's chuckle tickles the cartilage of your ear and raises goosebumps on the back of your neck. "I didn't want to, at first."
You sniffle, swiping a hand under your nose. "Yeah, right."
JC readjusts your stance and holds up his right hand, palm facing out, so help him God. "Ask Chris. When my dad told me why he'd called I said no." He smirks at the plain disbelief you know is all over your face. "I wanted to go to college," he says simply.
It makes perfectly rational sense, but you still shake your head like you're denying it. "No way. I don't believe you even had to think about it. You were born for this, JC. I--"
The way JC's smile changes makes you think he might understand a few things about why you ultimately decided to sign up for this crazy venture. The AC unit's draft had cooled the circle of metal on your right ring finger but you only notice the sting now, JC's fingers feeling much longer than your own as he weaves them together. You study the contrast of warmly tanned skin against pale ivory as he turns the band of silver between his thumb and fourth finger for a long moment.
Then his expression shifts again and he releases it with a sigh. They leave an ephemeral trail of heat as JC's hands slide up along the line of your shoulders, coming to rest on either side of your jaw. He presses another soft kiss to your forehead before bending his knees slightly so you're leaning together. "You're doing fine. This will happen, and it'll be as much because of you as any of us." His voice is quiet but steady when he says it, his tone certain. You've watched enough Law & Order with Stacy to know what an unimpeachable character witness can do for a case.
It's enough.
His thumbs brush along your cheeks until you smile too and he moves away slowly. You stay where you were standing, listening to his soft footfalls disappear down the hall. Your lips tingle pleasant and warm for the first time in months. They taste like the sweet of JC's bubblegum when you lick them, and it's nice, you think, even if you don't usually chew anything but Joey's Doublemint.
*
When you wake up a full two minutes before the clock radio's shrill alarm has a chance to jerk you out of sound sleep, you smile and reach over to give the off button a satisfying whack. The flimsy curtains on your window are actually billowing, which means there's the possibility that your skin won't be covered in the inevitable film of stagnant humidity before you even make it down the driveway.
It's something like hope, a good omen to see you off. You're grateful, but make a mental note to do proper warm-up stretches before your shower, even though there's no rehearsal today.
You hear Joey amble into the kitchen, heavy-limbed from his hangover, and smile at his grunt of appreciation for the fresh juice and aspirin you'd set on the counter. You've already learned the harmonies - it's only a matter of time before you find your place in their rhythm. You push a chair out with your foot, relaxing further into your own in a way that makes your shirt ride up a little.
Joey sits down and takes a long drink from his glass, follows your gaze out the sliding glass door where the honeyed light of sunrise is spreading over the backyard. "Ready to do this," he asks.
The faintest trace of JC's scent still lingers in the hem's thicker fabric. You glance at the suitcases lined up along the wall and sip your orange juice with a faint half-smile.
"I'm getting there."
End.
"We were going to cancel the show, but Lance didn't want us to - so under Lance's wish the show must go on. And remember, you're not listening to an *NSYNC concert tonight, just four guys named Chris, Joey, Justin and JC. We aren't *NSYNC without Lance, so don't go telling your friends you saw *NSYNC because you didn't. You only saw four high-pitched monkeys."
-JC
Also, I lied before. It actually came in at 3,469 words (19.0K even) by the time ri was done with it and I banished myself from any further tinkering. First piece of Popslash, too. Basically, the idea is that Driven broke my heart, and this is my way of reconciling a whole stockingful of issues.
JC/Lance - T'was the night before stardom.
All That Matters
By: Jules
You never thought you couldn't belong until they stipulated it. Hell, even freakishly pale with a voice like you've been smoking all your life plus the past negative forty-five years you better than survived high school, and that was supposed to be tougher than most things.
You've been doing so well, too. Considering it's been at least three days since you screwed up the choreography badly enough for someone to raise their voice, taking into account that you'd lost fifteen pounds since you signed your life away to a fat man who doesn't look or sound as jolly as he by all rights should, keeping in mind that you've been living on the brink of exhaustion only to begin again in the same twilight you went to sleep in, and it's Florida in early August, muggy and mosquito-infested and why can't things be the way they're supposed to already?
Why couldn't it be you?
You've been doing so well.
There's a soft knock on the door just before you hear the knob turning. You'd really hoped to at least cry alone.
You know who it is, too, which just makes it harder to keep your eyes dry. Joey and Chris decided that bigger fireworks were in order than the half bottle of Stoli left at the bottom of their closet could provide and took Justin with them to celebrate your last night in Orlando. You declined their valiant efforts at dragging you along - attempting to move your hips in rhythm to some abstract dance song without even so much as a discernible bass beat is about the last way you can think to enjoy yourself right now. The battle waged for you to remain on Florida soil had been hard-won, and you think the goodbye should feel appropriately bittersweet.
It had been a victory, after all.
You set your jaw and lift your right arm to cover your face, even though the overhead light is off. You concentrate on steadying your voice, which shouldn't be hard if that's how you're supposed to be making your living, but fuck. You sniffle to stave off the prickling in your nose and sigh to buy time, but it still comes out roughened and thick. "How'd you know I'd be awake?"
JC shrugs - you can hear the rustle of his clothing. You know you aren't the only one getting thinner, but JC really didn't have any excess to begin with. "Sometimes, not usually, but sometimes if you're reading a book or even just sitting the wrong way, you can get this intense motion sickness. And I can never get to sleep no matter what they tell me would help, so."
You're silent for a few seconds as you decipher what he actually means. JC's take on the world is slightly skewed, like the horizon line from the Tower of Pisa. Just a few degrees off, but that's what makes all the difference between just another perspective and Architectural Digest. You feel as ordinary as your two-story town hall back in Clinton, and how appropriate is that analogy?
Moving your arm away, you sit up on the bed and turn toward where JC's standing. You talk to the carpet. "I just need to get some sun."
JC's bare feet shift as he moves to lean against the wall. "Joey said you might need to talk."
So it's time for more than reassuring shoulder claps and mandatory participation in all group whims. You fist your fingers into your newly-cropped hair but your grip slips frustratingly through the too-short strands. It's been a little over a week after the meeting about the contract, five days since you each signed your name along a single dotted line at the bottom of a two-inch-thick sheaf of papers, and the night before you're supposed to get on a plane to fly half a world away from everything you've ever known. How that had finally come to happen isn't important enough to dwell on. "I'm fine. Y'all can--" You bite off at that and wince a little when you end up getting the edge of your tongue too, but you make sure to carefully enunciate the rest of the sentence. "You can all stop acting like I'm traumatized or something. I'm fine."
The feet at the edge of your vision move again, and you can hear JC's nod in his reply. "I can see that," he says, stopping in front of you and crouching down to balance on the balls of his feet. He extends his hand and you force yourself not to flinch away as he raises your chin, traces the salty-wet trails down your cheeks, fingers the collar of your shirt where a few drops had soaked into the worn cotton. "C'mere." His voice is rich and melodic and you think there'll always be more to it than your own, no matter how much more like Barry White's it'll become.
Instead you get up and step away because you've learned the one about not letting yourself have something just because it's offered. As good as having JC's arms around you would feel - and you know JC hugs with his whole body, slender limbs enveloping tightly, not soft like your mother's but just as unconditional - you can't take that right now. He shouldn't even be here offering it, not after everything and all the things that aren't and might never be and you can't think why JC, out of all of them, won't see that.
"They--" JC's eyebrows furrow and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Yours are bitten and chapped and you don't like the medicine-smelling mint taste of the balm, but JC has been coached about the meaning and placement of every gesture. Exasperation isn't pretty on him, and you hope he has some stashed in his pocket, too. "Johnny should've-- They shouldn't have said those things in front of you."
You've figured this part out already. "Maybe they were hoping you'd listen," and then, "it's not like they said anything everyone didn't already know."
Justin may be bratty and short with you sometimes but having JC, talented, easygoing, achingly perfect JC watch you struggle is next to unbearable. You've always been pretty okay with who you are but some days, when you've been in the warehouse for thirteen hours and your sneakers are sliding on the sweat-slick floors and you could all go home and sleep for at least four hours if you could just get those six half-beats right, you wish more than anything that just a little of JC's fluid grace could get absorbed into your skin. You remember your eighth grade science lecture on osmosis and wonder idly if licking JC would have the same effect.
And there's another thing. You're already turned away from JC but your hands slam furiously into your pockets to pinch your thigh as that particular bit of guilt flares hot in your chest. Joey's talked with you, late at night when you'd sneak out to sit on the back porch, but almost never quietly enough because the screen door would open a few minutes later and then there'd be Joey's solid warmth at your back instead of chilled glass. You'd stay out there until you fell asleep or the sky began to lighten, telling him about Mississippi and everything else now or, if you couldn't quite form words, he'd tell you stories about living in Brooklyn, coming here, his gig at Universal. You're the reason he doesn't sleep those nights and you feel bad the next day when he has to make it up during breaks but Joey's your tether to sanity and there's not much you can do to loosen your grip. Those nights it's almost like you could say it, just tell him the real reason besides all the other glaring reasons the German suits said as to why you shouldn't be here, that you've been lying to them since you met.
Well, not the real real reason. You've known very well how that stands since the first time you were out of the audition room, so. You join in with the other guys on the twelve-step program jokes but those nights, as your shirts become sticky with sweat and you can't imagine the safe miles of country proper in Clinton anymore, as close as you are you ache a little from the impossibility of more. And that just adds to your spectacular array of Guilt because Joey gives everything about himself completely and freely. You try to compensate, from your earliest memories to the most embarassing ones. His laughter is easy and kind and you can't help but let go with the little earthquakes of vibration from his chest. The vague sense of nausea afterward makes you swallow thickly for a few hours, but not enough.
When you blink to refocus your eyes you realize you've been staring at JC, but you're either stronger than you thought or don't care what he might have seen there. But whatever he'd noticed, there was only JC's usual calm, silent acceptance. Even with the leftover streamers and errant frosting stain on the bedspread from the party a couple of days ago, you have to remind yourself that he's barely twenty.
You startle back to yourself completely at JC's hands gently closing on your clenched fists. You dumbly follow his motions to uncurl your cramped fingers from your palm. The little half moon-shaped indentations begin to throb and you bite your bottom lip - crying was for little boys and little boys don't get to become famous pop stars. You wish that didn't mean you have to be strong enough to do things you don't want to and not do the things that feel as natural as breathing.
Your eyes burn. JC's have golden flecks where the amber light of the bedside lamp reflects in them. "It doesn't matter what they said. You've got to believe that, you have to know you belong here, with us."
If anyone asks later on, that was it. It was the kindness in JC's voice, not Lou's callous criticism or a choreographer's snide exasperation, that made you snap. "Don't say that," you say, practically pleading. "Don't say that because if we don't make it it'll be my fault because I wasn't strong enough to walk away." The tears have breached your best efforts, flowing hot and fierce down your cheeks now, making the room swim in and out of focus. You reach up, grabbing JC's biceps, and maybe finally someone will see the fraud you've been playing. "I wasn't strong enough to not want this, to accept that I couldn't be good enough. I--. Please, JC."
"Oh, Lance." He says it so quietly you open your mouth to continue, but your voice seems to have given out along with your knees beneath you because you're forming the words but there's no sound. You feel lighter than you can remember since your plane landed in Orlando and it would feel so good to just give it all a rest for a while, but JC's gripping your elbows firmly now. He's strong and hoists you upright again as his arms wind under your armpit, around your waist. "Lance. Shit, Lance."
You don't think you've ever heard JC curse. It's as ugly as your mother always said and the thought that you made JC sound like that just further undoes you. You're sobbing against him now in earnest and yeah, you had some idea this had been building, but nothing like the mess you're making of JC's shirt, the way it's shaking both your bodies. He just holds you tighter, which doesn't make any sense. "Those record fucks," he spits, swallowing hard. His tone is calmer when he continues, whispery at your ear. "Is that what? You don't really-- Fuck, Lance."
He's silent after that, just moving one hand in long, broad strokes up and down your back, the other resting on the nape of your neck. You cry and shake in his embrace, emptying what feels like an abyss inside of you. He continues to mumble quietly, incoherently now, muffled into the hair at your temple, then trails off to hum soothingly as the tightness in your chest begins to uncoil.
When you think you can actually stand on your own again you sniffle and move away a little. This won't get any easier and you figure JC's being diplomatic or something by disagreeing. "You probably regret ch--"
JC's mouth on yours is an utter surprise, and you feel the true skip in your fluttery pulse. His lips are soft, so soft, slightly open and you shudder-sigh wearily into their gentle pressure against yours. Your head swims with sensation, your nose filled with JC's musky cologne, his hair mussed and still damp to the touch, curling lightly at ends that were getting just a little longer than he usually let it grow now. His thumb draws circles into the base of your spine through your t-shirt as he lightly parts his lips and instinct kicks in as you do the same. You realize somewhere that this could be a problem, that what you're doing will probably have consequences but the kiss feels so good, too good and sure you were all affectionate but it's been months since you've been touched as more than a friend. As if he could read your thoughts there it was, the faintest brush of JC's tongue against your lower lip so feather-light you could well have imagined it, but JC's already moving away as you moan and part your lips in hopeful acceptance.
Aside from being an effective temporary defense mechanism, shock isn't good for the body, you think. Shock floods your system with adrenaline - that's what makes your heart beat faster, you remember this part now, makes you able to lift up cars. You don't have any allergies and you've never been seriously injured, which are the times the body's supposed to resort to such extreme measures, but as your head swims and your vision blurs for a moment, you think you might understand about the mechanics of handling something so far out of the expectations of normal experience. What sets it off doesn't necessarily have to be bad, just surprising, and it's easier to be brave than coordinated when you're high on endorphins. "JC," you try to say, ask, but it comes out much more like a shaky, breathy sigh.
His hold on you tightens and for a moment there isn't much of anything you can do or say. He slowly relaxes and pulls his head back enough to look at you, his blue eyes glimmering shiny-bright even in the dimness. "Tell me one thing, Lance. Forget all the rest for just one minute and answer this one question."
His voice is like music with all the shadings of an orchestra of instruments, and though that possibly has something to do with your current state of being, you wouldn't contest the assessment. You nod once, a careful bob of your head.
"Do you regret staying?"
And that's easy because you're more selfish than afraid and it's all worth it as long as it's them, this. "I've never wanted anything more in my life." Braver than you'd thought, even, and you think maybe natural highs are underrated because this is the kind of desperate honesty you always see drunk people apologizing about for the rest of the movie.
But JC's broadest, brightest smile is all you catch as he tugs you back, flush against himself. "That's all we need to know."
And just like that, it's all okay. You practically melt into him, molding to the curve of his chest and resting your forehead in the crook of his neck and let your circulation return to normal, lulled by the patterned heartrate you can feel through his shirt. You take a slow, deep breath and ask on the exhale, "How do you do it?"
The warm puff of air from JC's chuckle tickles the cartilage of your ear and raises goosebumps on the back of your neck. "I didn't want to, at first."
You sniffle, swiping a hand under your nose. "Yeah, right."
JC readjusts your stance and holds up his right hand, palm facing out, so help him God. "Ask Chris. When my dad told me why he'd called I said no." He smirks at the plain disbelief you know is all over your face. "I wanted to go to college," he says simply.
It makes perfectly rational sense, but you still shake your head like you're denying it. "No way. I don't believe you even had to think about it. You were born for this, JC. I--"
The way JC's smile changes makes you think he might understand a few things about why you ultimately decided to sign up for this crazy venture. The AC unit's draft had cooled the circle of metal on your right ring finger but you only notice the sting now, JC's fingers feeling much longer than your own as he weaves them together. You study the contrast of warmly tanned skin against pale ivory as he turns the band of silver between his thumb and fourth finger for a long moment.
Then his expression shifts again and he releases it with a sigh. They leave an ephemeral trail of heat as JC's hands slide up along the line of your shoulders, coming to rest on either side of your jaw. He presses another soft kiss to your forehead before bending his knees slightly so you're leaning together. "You're doing fine. This will happen, and it'll be as much because of you as any of us." His voice is quiet but steady when he says it, his tone certain. You've watched enough Law & Order with Stacy to know what an unimpeachable character witness can do for a case.
It's enough.
His thumbs brush along your cheeks until you smile too and he moves away slowly. You stay where you were standing, listening to his soft footfalls disappear down the hall. Your lips tingle pleasant and warm for the first time in months. They taste like the sweet of JC's bubblegum when you lick them, and it's nice, you think, even if you don't usually chew anything but Joey's Doublemint.
When you wake up a full two minutes before the clock radio's shrill alarm has a chance to jerk you out of sound sleep, you smile and reach over to give the off button a satisfying whack. The flimsy curtains on your window are actually billowing, which means there's the possibility that your skin won't be covered in the inevitable film of stagnant humidity before you even make it down the driveway.
It's something like hope, a good omen to see you off. You're grateful, but make a mental note to do proper warm-up stretches before your shower, even though there's no rehearsal today.
You hear Joey amble into the kitchen, heavy-limbed from his hangover, and smile at his grunt of appreciation for the fresh juice and aspirin you'd set on the counter. You've already learned the harmonies - it's only a matter of time before you find your place in their rhythm. You push a chair out with your foot, relaxing further into your own in a way that makes your shirt ride up a little.
Joey sits down and takes a long drink from his glass, follows your gaze out the sliding glass door where the honeyed light of sunrise is spreading over the backyard. "Ready to do this," he asks.
The faintest trace of JC's scent still lingers in the hem's thicker fabric. You glance at the suitcases lined up along the wall and sip your orange juice with a faint half-smile.
"I'm getting there."
End.
"We were going to cancel the show, but Lance didn't want us to - so under Lance's wish the show must go on. And remember, you're not listening to an *NSYNC concert tonight, just four guys named Chris, Joey, Justin and JC. We aren't *NSYNC without Lance, so don't go telling your friends you saw *NSYNC because you didn't. You only saw four high-pitched monkeys."
-JC
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Most Excellent.
Date: December 31st, 2002 05:40 am (UTC)Mmmmmmmmmm, Basez.
Re: Most Excellent.
Date: December 31st, 2002 01:21 pm (UTC)Speaking of all things most excellent, I just read through your Requiem in C Minor series and about fell out of my computer chair laughing. There were tears but luckily no drinks in sight. Oh my lawd, that was a good time.
I've added you to my harem (heh). Making friends is grand.
You're Most Kind.
Date: December 31st, 2002 01:57 pm (UTC)(And why do I have a sudden vision of Howie and JC in matching harem pants, while The Grand Bass smokes a hookah as Nick, discreetly chained at the ankles, fans him with peacock feathers? Because you know the Bassmaster would be running the place as Sultan.)
Re: You're Most Kind.
Date: December 31st, 2002 03:01 pm (UTC)As for where the vision came from, one shouldn't question such occasions of divinely inspired thought. I say snatch it up and write it down because day-um, I'd love me some JC in a pair of them flowy, irridescent-fabriced pants. Which isn't to say his wardrobe as it stands hasn't proven more than delightful over the years, but that's just puuuuurtty.
Further Joy and Wild Abandon
Date: January 2nd, 2003 09:06 am (UTC)Thanks for sharing!
Coop
Re: Further Joy and Wild Abandon
Date: January 3rd, 2003 01:49 am (UTC)Anyhow, thanks for your note!
no subject
Date: January 8th, 2003 02:24 pm (UTC)Congratulations on your first! :-)
no subject
Date: January 9th, 2003 03:53 am (UTC)Because I can in fact take a compliment and do feel proud of this piece, I thank you for your lovely comments. I do adore this story still, something not entirely common with me and my writing. I like this JC and his need to protect co-mingled with possibility and Lance with his palpable insecurity about his place and fulfilling his part within the group. That and I really liked the ending, liked the idea that Lance isn't hopelessly (on his part) and futilely (on Joey's) in love. I like JC taking the initiative but also understanding that Lance does have issues to sort out. At this point I think it's JC's faith that would mean the most to Lance.
As far as my issues with it... I'm developing a rant on the feminizing of men/boys in slash and feel like I've contributed a shameful amount to that with this. I *know* about the special hell reserved for people who make Lance cry, besides. I also think that I probably didn't give enough credit to his characterization here. Seventeen was such a tough age to capture: one, I'm a girl and matured faster than the other kids around me to begin with much less the boys; two, I grew up in the conventions and trappings of a big, very modern and liberal city versus a small, conservative, religious township; and three, my lifestyle in high school involved a lot less in the way of school-oriented socializing than Lance's seemed to have. I had very little in the way of a frame of reference, and because of that I think I overdramatized the circumstances I did have to work with. Are there any early interviews, print or footage, where they ask Lance specifically what those early times were like for him? In any event, while I'm not sure what I could've done differently to make it come off less melodramatic, I think I could've done a more guy-ish exposition with Lance's thoughts. Hence the wallow thing.
no subject
Date: January 14th, 2003 06:28 pm (UTC)And indeed, it wouldn't have been good enough, because, as first ventures go, you pretty much just blew me away. I wish I'd been able to do only half as good on my first attempts... hell, on any attempt, lol.
I liked most particularly your take on why Lance was so upset. It was a nice little twist, for once. Nice.
"Don't say that because if we don't make it it'll be my fault because I wasn't strong enough to walk away."
And that sentence just broke my heart. The idea that it isn't hearing/knowing that he's not good enough that causes a problem, but the fact that he wasn't strong enough to admit to it and leave was... heartbreaking, for lack of a better word. And very "real", in a way that it's an emotion I could relate to.
Yes, lovely story, flowing and with characters nicely painted.
One little tiny thing, if I may say so (though really, I'm not the one who should be criticizing, because... lol). Be careful with tenses. A couple of sentences lost some of their power because of a strange use of tenses (most notably in the use of present and past... which it is always hard to manage, especially when writing a fic mostly in the present tense). And I wonder why I'm even saying that when I write the crap that I write. Hope you don't mind me saying it. Didn't mean to be offending in any way. :-)
But you know... it was pretty powerful anyway. I most certainly loved it no matter what.