Lance will push his glasses up his nose and turn to page 233 in his novel. "That's a fairly general statement," he'll say. Then he'll crack the spine of the book. The bedside lamp will be the latest full-spectrum model, and will be a study in energy efficiency. It will cast a pool of light over Lance's lap but no further.
"Yeah. But I think it's something important." Justin will knock two magazines and a sheaf of papers covered in tiny legal script off the bed as he worms his way under the covers. He will step on them in the morning. The magazines will crumple, but the legal script is part of his current contract, and is printed on plastipaper. It will never tear or smudge.
"Hrm." Lance will turn another page. Justin will sink down amongst the pillows until he's at the right angle to see Lance silhouetted by the lamplight. He will like watching Lance's face as much as he did ten years ago. He won't see enough of it for his taste. "Tour's done. The holidays are over. You don't have anything scheduled, do you?"
"Not right now. But you know how it is," Justin will say. "Once you get the inertia going, it's hard to stop. Even when you want to get off the ride."
"I guess." Lance will shrug one shoulder. He will have learned not to waste movement, not when in the company of people who can read his moods without cues. "I don't really remember."
Lance will not have toured since the last time it was all five of them together. And that will be a very long time ago. He will show up at JC's shows once or twice each summer. And he will sing covers with Chris on a stage in Vancouver when they're both drunk. But things like that won't count. Not to Lance. He will still sing in studios when asked, because he will always have a voice that isn't noticed until it's not there. He will be particularly in demand by the electronica artists who are building a subgenre they will call Latent. After the processing, Lance's voice will be audible only as the foundation under the music.
There will be a shelf in Justin's office where he'll keep one copy of every album where one of their names appears in the liner notes. Vocals, songwriting, production; as long as the name is there, it will count. Justin's albums will be on the shelf, too. He will write the release date on the back of each jewel case with a fine-point Sharpie and keep them in chronological order.
"You remember," Justin will say. "You remember the good parts."
"The insanity. The exhaustion. The constant sniping. At you, half the time."
Justin will snort. "You've got a fucked-up definition of good."
Plucking his bookmark from the nightstand, Lance will carefully replace it at the end of the chapter. The book is one of Justin's, but Justin will not have read it yet. Setting the book on the nightstand, Lance will roll over onto his side. "I'm a fucked-up kind of guy."
"Thank God," Justin will say as he reaches for Lance.
*
Justin and Lance will only fuck when neither is serious about anyone else. But since that will be most of the time, Justin and Lance will fuck often.
On this night, Lance will fall asleep before getting Justin off. But that's what happens when Lance comes first; it's been happening since they were teenagers. Justin will know that he'll get his the next morning.
When he wakes up to Lance's hands running over his back, skimming off his hip and brushing down his thigh, Justin will smile because it's good to be right. He'll start to doze off again, swimming in a blend of morning sunlight and this soft, warm bed and Lance's sure hands. Then Lance will roll Justin onto his back, pulling him out of the nest he's found amongst the sheets, and go down on him until he's wriggling and shouting and awake from head to toe.
Justin won't feel like going back to sleep after that.
Instead, he'll leave Lance in bed and go downstairs to make a mess in Lance's kitchen, mixing up pancakes from scratch according to the recipe in the white- and red-checked cookbook he finds on the ledge over the range. He'll burn them, setting off the smoke alarm. Lance will come down to reset the alarm and toast Justin a pop-tart instead.
"How long are you staying?" Lance will ask this as he measures water and a portion of his second-favorite Kona microroast into the coffeemaker. Justin will wonder who ranks high enough to deserve the favorite.
"Dunno. A while, if that's cool."
Lance will lick a trace of grounds from his fingers. It's a habit that will never fail to make Justin shudder. "That's fine," Lance will say. "But I have to be in Seattle on Tuesday for a work thing."
"Haven't been there in months," Justin will say.
After breakfast, Lance will book a second ticket.
They'll do nothing for a few hours until they remember that doing nothing while in close proximity bores them to the point where arguments are begun and doors are slammed. To avoid this, they'll get dressed and drive to Melrose to window-shop and play Bait the Paparazzi. Chris invented the game years ago, back when getting into the tabloids was still new enough to be amusing. But it will become a great deal more fun after Proposition 118 is passed and the paparazzi can't follow them into businesses that prohibit recording of patrons without written consent — which includes any boutique in LA that wants a celeb to set foot inside. Justin can entertain himself for hours by standing behind the safety of a display window, flipping off the photogs.
He'll flirt outrageously with the staff on the floor. He'll even pretend to grope Lance when he walks by. But then he'll be careful to wink and turn all of it into a joke, sending the girl working the register into a fit of giggles.
Lance will still be Lance, though, so the window-shopping will turn into actual shopping. Before long, the backseat of the hybrid will be littered with bags. Then Lance will drive forty minutes away from the city, ignoring Justin's queries until they pull into the parking lot of strip mall anchored by an all-you-can-eat Japanese buffet.
Justin will get out of the car and slam the door. He'll huddle deeper into his designer jacket. It will be a futile gesture, since the jacket's thin as tissue, cut to look good on a dance floor, not keep out the chill desert air.
"Been to every restaurant in the city already?" Justin will ask.
"Trust me." When Lance skids his thumb down the lock, the windows on the hybrid will tint to onyx.
Opening the door to the restaurant will send a swirl of warm, ginger-scented air over Justin's face. He'll pout until Lance drags him up to the cold bar loads his plate with unidentifiable mixtures of seaweed and fish and bean paste. By the time Lance orders two banana-and-chocolate crepes, Justin will have mellowed enough to lose the jacket.
"I remember when you wouldn't eat anything you didn't recognize," Justin will say, stealing edamame from Lance's plate.
"I recognize a lot more now. That's all."
"That first time, when we were in Tokyo, d'you remember—"
"That was a long while ago." Lance will arrange his nigiri in the order he intends to eat them: fish before ebi, with the unagi last. But Lance will still stir his wasabi into his soy sauce like the country boy he'll always be.
"So that means it's not funny anymore? Baby, anything having to do with you making a fool out of yourself never gets old."
Justin will grin his best shit-eating grin, but Lance won't rise to the bait. He'll only swirl a chopstick through his soy sauce, leaving a wake of gritty circles.
"Hey, what?" Justin will ask. "I just mean, you never do stupid shit like that now. I got to take advantage where I can."
"Sure, J."
Watching Lance eat won't give Justin any great insight into what's going on inside his head. Justin will wonder how he can fail to understand someone he knows so well. "So what is it?"
Lance will finally meet Justin's eyes. "Why're you suddenly all about the 'remember this' and 'remember that?' What's so wrong with your life right now?"
"Nothing," Justin will say. "We've just got a lot of past, that's all."
"Sure. How about you leave it there, then."
Justin really won't understand Lance at all. "The fuck's wrong with you tonight?"
"Nothing's wrong with me, babe." There's a special tone Lance will reserve only for them, only for Justin and the other guys. It will be the sound of a razor dipped in sugar. "I like to pay attention to where I am now."
"Whatever. Let's just fucking eat and shut the fuck up." Justin will know by now when he's acting like a fifteen-year-old, but he won't be able to help himself. On this evening, he'll feel just as clueless and clumsy as he ever did back then.
Justin will go back for a third plate, and then a fourth, just so Lance will have to wait, but Lance will sip his tea and manage not to look the slightest bit bored. They'll finish dinner in silence and won't speak on the drive home.
*
Justin will try to sleep on the couch, but will realize shortly after two AM that he's too old and has used his body too unforgivingly over the years to pull such shit when he's sober. He'll stumble into the kitchen and stare into the fridge for ten minutes until the compressor kicks on and he realizes there's nothing Lance keeps around that Justin likes enough for a proper drunk. Then he'll go upstairs and sleep on the far side of Lance's bed. He'll be damned if he'll move to a guest room just because Lance has decided to be a pissy bitch.
In the morning, Lance won't be around. He will have taken his keys and dog and the dog's leash, but not his palmtop from the nightstand, so Justin will figure he hasn't gone far. Justin will grab his wallet and a hat and call for a car to drive him over to JC's house.
When Justin rings the doorbell, he won't be sure if JC's in town or not. During these days, it will be hard to tell where JC will be on any given day; money gave JC the means to follow his bliss. This will be the year JC decides it's time to get in touch with his inner gypsy.
Justin will get lucky. The door will open the second time he rings the bell.
"Hey!" JC will blink into the sunlight. "I didn't know you were in town. Why didn't you just walk in — fuck, I didn't give you the new key. No, wait, I did. You want lunch? I just woke up and I'm starving."
Justin will survey JC's wrinkled pants and button-down shirt, which look like something he stole out of a British public schoolboy's closet, as well as the still-active optic bands around his wrists and neck. At that moment, the Nicene creed will be playing over his left arm, the Sh'ma over his right, and a live feed from a Tokyo bordello will display across his throat. "You fell asleep in your clothes again," Justin will point out.
JC will examine himself. He'll look uncertain, as if he's entertaining the idea that, while unconscious, he was abducted and dressed by either aliens or worshipful young laptop musicians. Or both. Stranger things will have happened to JC. He will still be living off the royalties from some of them.
JC will grin and shrug and Justin will feel warm right through. "You know how it goes, cat. Where should we eat?"
While JC strips off his optics, Justin will find JC's cell and call for several dozen spring rolls and a quart of tea to be delivered from their favorite Vietnamese restaurant. JC will be down to his boxers by the time Justin disconnects, which means Justin will have to goose him, which means they'll still be panting from the spontaneous wrestling match when the delivery kid rings the doorbell.
Justin will trade his own clothes for pair of sweats he'll pull out of JC's dryer. They'll spend the day the way they always do when Justin drops in: first, JC will show off his latest electronic gadget. Then JC will make Justin listen to a song from someone Justin's never heard of, then Justin will drag JC downstairs to the studio to show him how, if Justin'd been the one to write it, it could have been a better track. JC will attempt to prove otherwise. They'll emerge after dark to eat the rest of the spring rolls and drink a bottle of ice wine so sweet it will make their teeth ache.
Pouring the last of the bottle into his glass, Justin will follow JC outside. JC will still say he's going to grow his own someday, but since the state effectively stopped prosecuting possession quantities in '06, he will take the easy route and get his stash from a friend in Vancouver. JC will prefer to smoke up outside because it makes the stars shimmy closer and keeps the smell out of his drapes.
"Trade you," JC will say. Willingly, Justin will surrender the last inch of wine in exchange for the blunt.
"You working on anything?" Justin will ask. It will be the sort of question a reporter asks, or an acquaintance who can't be bothered to check in more than twice a year.
"The usual," JC will say. This will mean he has ten things in the works with various people around the globe but isn't in the mood to do another album of his own this year. JC will have released three solo albums by this time. There could have been more, but he will get distracted producing and mixing for other people and, besides, JC will never be able to sell an album to save his life. Everyone who's anyone will agree they're spontaneous and skilled and entirely unlike the crap that gets airplay these days. But good music never will sell records.
Justin will try not to think too closely about what that implies about his own impressive album sales.
JC will flicker his fingers in a gesture that Justin will correctly interpret as a request for another hit. "How 'bout you, cat?" JC will ask on the exhale.
"Nah."
"Tired of the dog-and-pony show?"
"Not really. I'm just. I don't have anything to write about."
Justin will not be aware of what he is about to say until he says it.
"Huh." With his big toe, JC will dig a little trench in the soil, then fill it back in again. A miniature grave, too small for anything worth burying, Justin will think.
JC won't say anything else until the blunt's all gone and it's time to go in, because while this will take place in southern California, February will always be the heart of winter. Shivering, Justin will follow JC upstairs and watch as JC changes the sheets on his oversized bed. There's a sense of propriety when it comes to taking care of the people who stay the night at his house that JC will never quite lose, not even when they're people like Justin. Justin will stay in the master bedroom as a matter of course.
Justin will think about hitting on JC, but he'll fail to see the point. Whenever Justin does make a move in that direction, JC always looks startled for the first few seconds, then grins and says sure and starts taking off his clothes.
But this sort of behavior from JC won't be particular to Justin; anyone JC counts as a friend will be able to ask for as much from JC and stand a good chance of getting it. The sex would be fun and all, but Justin knows he'll find himself wishing they could skip ahead to the part where they crack up afterwards, snickering in the dark like kids at a sleepover, too revved up to sleep and too tired to keep their guard up.
Justin will suspect he's turning into a girl. He'll still peel back the covers and shimmy to the middle of the bed, but he'll keep his hands to himself. This time, he'll behave. There will always be another time for him and JC.
*
Hours later, Justin will rub his eyes and wonder what woke him up. At first he'll think it's JC, who will be snoring like a summer thunderstorm. Why this should wake Justin now when he'd long ago learned to tune it out will puzzle Justin until he realizes that there's another sound underneath, an erratic click-click. It will be the sound of something moving around downstairs.
When Justin stumbles his way out of the bedroom, the clicking will grow louder, scampering up the steps. A speckled mutt of a dog will charge Justin's knees, wagging his tail and skidding on the hardwood floors.
"Hey, Dixon. You just saw me yesterday," Justin will say, crouching down to pet Lance's dog behind the ears.
In the kitchen, Lance will be rooting in the drawers. There will be a bag of bagels on the table with take-away containers of cream cheese, lox, and fruit salad surrounding the bag like satellites. Justin will peel back the lid on the fruit salad to find it's entirely comprised of citrus and berries.
Justin, who thinks cantaloupe is evil and honeydew the fruit of the devil, will recognize Lance's version of an apology. Sitting down in the nearest chair, Justin will poke around for the nicest chunks of pineapple.
Lance, scattering silverware onto the table, will dangle a fork in front of Justin's face.
"Thanks." Justin will lick juice from his fingers, just in case Lance is paying attention. Justin has found Lance will almost always pay attention. "You want me to make coffee?"
"Working on it," Lance will say. "Why don't you take the dog outside?"
Taking the dismissal in the spirit it was intended, Justin will get the hell out of the kitchen until Lance is done. The backyard is a near paradise in the mornings, before the sun climbs over the garden wall. Justin will watch Dixon nose around the camellias, then trot down the length of the wall with his nose low to the ground.
There will be coffee on the counter and JC will be spreading a little of everything on a bagel when Justin comes back in. "No," JC will say. "I heard he got more than that."
"The way that neighborhood's gone downhill? I don't think so."
Lance will set a mug in front of Justin, who will immediately put down his bagel in the interest of getting some caffeine into his bloodstream. "Are we gossiping about the neighbors again?"
JC will grin around a mouthful of food. "We could talk about our investment portfolios if you think it's too early in the morning for real estate."
"Oh, God," Justin will say. "They warned me about the rock star lifestyle, about the groupies and the cocaine binges. VH1 never told me about the slow descent into responsibility."
Lance will take a seat, finally. He'll sneak lox to Dixon under the table, like there's someone around who might scold him for spoiling his dog. "Your age is showing. It's trendy to have a Zeramine habit this season."
"I thought endorphins were still in. The natural high?"
Lance will shake his head. "Too much effort. Trends like that never last."
"Shit, before I forget," JC will say, heading in the direction of his studio and leaving Justin and Lance to avoid eye-contact on their own. There will be times Justin can appreciate the advantages of having a dog, or a cat, or anything that's cute and furry and a good distraction.
When Justin is tempted to say something inane, he'll quickly take another bite of his breakfast.
"Okay, this is it, so, whenever you get a chance to give it a listen." JC slides a disposable gig memory card across the tabletop to Lance, who studies JC's scrawl on the label.
Justin won't be able to help himself. "I asked you if you were working on anything."
"Oh, no, hey. That's not a thing. I'm just fiddling with this track, this thing Alex sparked, and I need a voice."
"A voice," Justin will say, lowering his own by an octave.
Sliding the mem card into his wallet, Lance will smirk in Justin's direction. "Like whiskey, baby."
"You ain't getting any cheaper with age, either." Justin will say.
"I try. You just keep that in mind when I stick you with the check at dinner tonight."
Justin will almost balk, almost. An apology is one thing, he will think, but he doesn't like being taken for granted. Except sometimes he will. Sometimes, it's kind of nice to know that fighting with Lance is something he'll never outgrow.
JC will be watching the two of them like it's a wedding episode of his favorite daytime soap. "You two are too adorable. You want to borrow a bed, or just fuck right here?"
When Lance mimes throwing his bagel, JC will grin and duck behind Justin.
*
Justin will, in fact, pay for dinner. Lance will take advantage of this when ordering wine for the table. In retaliation, Justin will drag Lance to the dance floors at Masque and force him pay the cover for the full-face optics.
Masque will offer the new second-generation models, the kind that disguise the wearer's hair as well as his face. They fit as comfortably as a custom-tailored suit. In an effort to stand apart from the glut of clubs in West Hollywood, the management will make them mandatory attire in all public areas of the club. In the private rooms, however, everything is optional, from optics to clothing to the last shred of common sense.
It will be a gimmick, of course. It's ostensibly the reason Masque will be on everyone's list of top hot spots of 2011. But there'll be more to it than just the optics. Even the best models on the market won't disguise the way someone holds himself when they walk into to a room, or the way he moves through a crowd on the floor. They won't be able to change the way a person sounds when he's trying to get you to come home with him. This will be the real reason behind the popularity of the Masque: there'll be just enough anonymity to let you guess the name of the celebrity you're dancing with.
When Justin surveys the dance floor he will count at least three people wearing Justin Timberlake's face; he'll realize this is a compliment, but this won't mean it creeps him out any less. His own face, at the moment, is flawlessly and generically Eurasian.
Lance will lean over his shoulder. "You should switch to yourself."
"What's the point?" Justin will lean back against Lance and watch as unfamiliar arms creep around his waist. Wearing gloves and sleeves, Lance will have recalibrated all his exposed skin to a warm shade of cocoa. "No one'll believe it's me."
Lance will laugh. "That's exactly the point."
So Justin will plunge into the crush with his own face leading the way, earning smirks from cooler-than-thou hipsters who would never deign to appear as a popstar. But those same people will dance to the music of said popstars willingly enough; the DJ seems to have a diverse library and a penchant for mashing tracks recorded years apart.
As Bjork wails overhead, Justin will dance with Lance. Then a pair of girls wearing mirror-image faces will lure him away as the songs begin blur into a single heavenly beat. At one point, he'll let a boy who resembles JC not at all except in the way he dances pull him into a low, dirty grind. Justin will eventually emerge delighted and breathless, knowing time's passed but not able to guess at how much.
As Justin leans over the bar, trying to get someone to take his money in exchange for a bottle of water, a guy with a buzz cut and freckles will slide his hands into the waistband of Justin's pants. But Justin will know it's Lance by the scent of his cologne, even though a couple hours' motion will have nearly burned it away.
A shred of a familiar beat will thump out of speakers. As Justin chugs his water, it will crystallize into a remix of Justin's and JC's solo works, with threads of 'Nsync liberally spliced throughout.
Lance will raise an unfamiliar eyebrow in an intensely familiar gesture. "Does he realize there's a difference, do you think? Between you and JC and the two of you together?"
"All of us together," Justin will say, carefully neutral. "You want the rest of this?"
Lance will wave aside both the water and the distinction. "'S always going to be the same to them. Ten years. Twenty. All lumped together."
Justin will frown. "We're not lumped," The crowd of twenty- and thirty-somethings will continue to churn behind them. Little bits of their old choreography will be mimicked here and there.
Lance will snort. "I'm beat. Let's get out of here."
Justin will know he's missed something, but it's too soon for another argument.
Monday evening, Lance will fly up to Seattle, even though his meeting will not be scheduled until the next day. This producer, Lance will explain to Justin, liked what Lance did on his last project and wants to meet in person and float some ideas. Lance will never like to meet with someone for the first time wrinkled and smelling of the inside of an airplane.
At the last minute, Justin will opt to stay home. Technically, he'll opt to stay at Lance's home.
"This way you won't have to put Dixon in the kennel," Justin will point out.
Lance will cock his head, studying Justin. "He doesn't go to the kennel. That's why I pay Megan to come over twice a day."
"But still. Dogs are social creatures, they need, like, companionship."
Lance will wait.
"And I should go over to my house and make sure it hasn't burned down?"
"If it had, it would've made the entertainment section," Lance will point out.
Justin will sigh. He won't know how to explain his logic to Lance when he can't even explain to himself. There really isn't any reason at all for him to go. Or to stay, for that matter. "I don't feel like going anywhere. I just got unpacked. I've got zero desire to throw all my shit into a bag and get on a plane."
Lance will nod. "You could've just said. Take Dixon down to the park in the mornings, will you?" He'll kiss Justin on his way out the door.
Justin will take Dixon to the park, and will drive out to a classic car auction in Reseda, and, eventually, will actually go to his own house. It will still be perfectly intact. It will also be as perfectly quiet as it was two weeks prior when Justin got back to L.A., so Justin will climb back into his car and head back to Lance's.
Joey will call on Tuesday evening.
"Hey!" Justin will turn down the heat on the range. He'll be trying to make a stir-fry, but will thus far have succeeded only in making a mess of Lance's kitchen. "You never call, you never write...."
"Fuck you, little boy. You think you can make me feel guilty? Have you met my mother? Have you met my wife?" Joey will laugh and Justin will give up on dinner, heading out to the deck where it's sultry and warm and almost like being in Florida.
"It was worth a try, man, seeing as how you and JC are, like, the only people I can guilt into doing anything. And I feel bad when I do it to JC, because he gets all mopey and sad-looking. It's bad for my karma."
"I hate to break this to you, but your karma's permanently fucked from the diva shit you used to pull when you were a kid. Daily, Justin. You have no idea."
"Don't remind me." Beside the pool, Justin will toe off his shoes and trail his feet through the water, one at a time. "I should really apologize to you all one of these days."
"But not today." The phone will be muffled for a moment as Joey pulls away to yell at someone in the background — whether a kid or a one of the kids' pets, Justin won't be certain. With three girls, as many dogs, and a handful of stray cats that have been tamed into the household, it will be a good thing Joey sank so much of his money into a sprawling house just west of Orlando. "So," Joey will say. "What were you going to guilt me into doing?"
"Me? Nothing, man. You're the one who called." Justin will make a note that he's got to call Chris, and soon. Justin will always suck at picking up the phone. The problem is that he's more effective in person, and he'll know it. "I'm not in New York anymore, you know."
"Yeah, I know. I talked to Lance this morning." This will not surprise Justin; he should know by now that the other guys are better than the paparazzi at keeping tabs on his location. "Don't tell him I told you, but he's got a stash of lesbian porn behind the medical reference texts on his bottom bookshelf. I found it last time I was out there. In case you ever need to fuck with him, because we all know what a bastard he can be."
"Please stop telling me these things," Justin will say, but he'll know he's going to go and look the minute he gets off the phone. Considering some of the fucked-up stuff Lance will keep as jerk-off material in his nightstand, lying out in the open where anyone can find it, Justin will be dying to know what's so kinky that Lance will think he has to hide it in his own house. Though knowing Lance, just the fact that it's lesbians will be reason enough. He won't want to scare off his twinks-of-the-week.
The phone line will be muffled again, but so much that Justin can't make out the cadences of Joey swearing in a half-hearted manner. "That's it, I'm locking myself in my room," Joey will say. "I called to tell you that Kelly and I are running away from home. There's a convention in L.A. this weekend, and she's a featured guest."
"They have romance novel conventions?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. Except they're women's fiction conventions, I'll have you know. My wife does not write romance novels."
"Yeah, and your wife isn't more famous than you now, either."
Joey will laugh, like Justin knew he would. There'll never be a formal decision, at least not one that Justin will hear about, but after Gabrielle is born and Kelly's fourth book hits the Times's bestseller list, Joey will slide right into the home-schooling duties, shuttling the girls from practices to rehearsals the way he used to shuttle groupies between clubs.
Justin will think it's a good look on Joey, even if Justin'll miss seeing him on a stage bigger than the local theater.
"Kel's mom's going to come over and take care of the zoo, so I'm a free man. I'm going to invade JC's house on Saturday, and all you guys are expected to show up."
"Does JC know about this?" As soon as Justin asks, he'll know it's a silly question.
"He'll be so happy to see me he won't even think to ask until we've unloaded everything from the truck. Does he still have that grill I bought him last time? He didn't, like, donate it to some friend in need."
"It's still there, under wraps, just like you left it." It will have been ages since they've had a cookout; Kelly will have taken Joey away to an undisclosed B&B for his 34th birthday, and Justin's will be a big, glitzy, public affair. "Can I bring stuff? Hey, I'm in charge of the liquor. And I'll call Chris."
Joey will snort. "So he can laugh at you? I don't think so, J. You let me call Chris."
Justin will know he's pouting; Dixon, ever sensitive to the moods of his humans, will come over to investigate. "Chris'll come if I ask."
"Sure, but he'll make you beg first. And then you'll get all pissy, and that'll put Lance in a shitty mood, and then JC will wonder why I invited all these assholes over to his house. You let me ask Chris. I don't take any of his shit seriously anymore."
Dixon will roll over so Justin can scritch more of his belly. "He's going through a misanthropic stage right now, is all." Justin will always be able to say such things about Chris with authority.
"Chris has been going through a misanthropic stage since '98," Joey will point out.
"Yeah, well." There won't be any way for Justin to dispute that; he'll know Chris's faults full well. "That doesn't explain why he won't tell me what he's been up to lately."
"Justin," Joey will say.
"If he wanted to tell us, then he'd have already told us. Fine." Justin will break a small branch off of Lance's immaculate lemon tree and wing it across the yard. Dixon will take off like a bullet.
"Hey. Is this you getting an early start on your midlife crisis? I know the big three-oh can be a little hard to swallow, but Jayce says you've been acting a little off. Talking about the glory days, and shit like that."
"What's Lance say?"
"None of your business." No one Justin ever meets will be able to do cheerful and implacable the way Joey can. "What's wrong?"
"Eh. It's just one of those months."
"Bzzzt," Joey will say. If here weren't on the other side of the country, Justin would throw something at him. "Try again."
Dixon will trot back with the stick in his mouth, but he'll make Justin play tug-of-war to get it back. "Okay, you were right. It's a mid-life crisis. I'm abandoning my career and turning my back on my family, and I'm gonna blow my cash on fast cars and faster women."
"They don't make cars faster than the Porsche you've got in your garage. And not even the fans buy your 'fast women' line anymore."
"They do so," Justin will protest, pro forma.
"Maybe the twelve-year-old fans," Joey will say. "Okay, I didn't want to have to do this, but you're not playing fair. I'll tell you what's wrong with you."
"Yippee," Justin will say.
"Contrary to what some people you're living with might say, your birthday didn't twig you out. You're actually enjoying not having to play Justin Timberlake, Wunderkind any more."
"I'm not living with him." Justin will feel it's necessary to stifle that misapprehension before it spreads any further.
"Furthermore," Joey will say, building up steam, "you're starting to grasp the idea that bunches of people adore you, and the people who think you suck are always going to think you suck, and it's kind of pointless to try and prove anything at this point. And if you're not living with him, then stop getting photographed together."
"Okay, fine. You might have a point. Except for the part about Lance."
"And also, hrm." There'll be a thwocking sound on the other side of the line, like Joey's bouncing something off the wall. Joey will think better when he's fidgeting; it's one of the things they all have in common. "You should go through your mail and see if anyone's sent you an interesting script, 'cause you're feeling stifled by your newfound serenity?"
Justin will give this a minute of serious thought. "No-o. No. If I found something interesting, then that'd mean doing all that exploring and leaving my head. When, according to you, I like where I am right now."
"Because you're living with Lance, right," Joey'll say. He'll ignore Justin's indignant squawk. "Okay, so, maybe it's time to poke around your head and see if there's music hiding in there. Be creative and affirming and shit."
"Maybe. Except I'm kind of lacking input right now. Maybe I need a vacation or something. From my current vacation. Somewhere that's not this country."
"You need to work with some new people," Joey will say.
Justin sighs. "Nah."
"You want all of us to work together again."
There will be silence on the line. A bird will dip low in the sky, skimming the surface of Lance's pool. Dixon will bark and chase it.
A long time ago, Justin will remember Chris telling him that birds are strong omens. Or so people used to think, before they got too sophisticated to pay attention to what was going on around them.
The sun will be on its way down. Justin will shiver. "Um."
"J?"
"I kind of left dinner hanging. I'm going to go now."
"Sure, kid. I'll call you when I get into town. I take care of Chris, you make sure Lance doesn't have anything planned for Saturday."
Fatherhood will have made Joey better at planning ahead. "Yeah, sure," Justin will say, and then give his love to the girls before disconnecting.
For rest of the week, Justin won't think about it. He won't think about recording; he won't think about singing. At first he won't even turn on the radio, but that will only make old lyrics pop up and get stuck in his head, so he relents, but will only listen to the classical stations and world music in languages he doesn't recognize.
All the not-thinking will require Justin to focus, so he'll have to come up with other things to keep the rest of him occupied. First he'll pick up everything that's lying around, most of which will belong to him anyway, so it's only fair he's the one to put it away. Then he'll break down the kitchen and clean every inch of it, not skipping the inside of the oven or the fridge. He'll just be putting the pantry back together when Lance comes home late on Wednesday.
"Did you reorganize my closet?" Lance will ask after he heads to the bedroom to ditch his suitcase. "Jesus, Justin. They have a new medication for this." Lance will open up the utensil drawer, which Justin has lined with fresh contact paper. "Jesus."
Lance, Justin will realize, presents the opportunity for a wide array of activities that will not require thought. "I was going to cook, but thought that might be going too far. Since I can't cook."
"You really can't." Lance will be thumbing through his mail, biting his lip in that delicate way that Justin would really like to feel on his skin. When Lance looks up, he'll catch Justin staring. "What?"
"Nothing," Justin will say. He'll saunter across the kitchen, pick up the remote, and turn off the annoying Chopin coming from the speakers. Then he'll start unbuttoning Lance's shirt.
"I wasn't gone that long," Lance will say. His cuffs will get tangled around his wrists, but Justin will leave them like that. It will serve Lance right for wearing something as boring as an oxford.
Justin will kiss Lance's throat, working his way up the line of his pulse. "You were gone long enough."
"Ah. Okay. If this is what cleaning does for you."
"Not really." Justin will admit he's a bit calmer now that the crumb tray under the toaster has been emptied, but really. He's not that much of a freak. Not compared to a gay man who hides his lesbian alien-fetish porn behind Roget's Thesaurus.
"Just had to say hello in a really personal way? Oh, shit, get this shirt off me."
"Yeah. And no," Justin will say. "Take it off yourself."
Lance will do something fairly impressive that will make his pecs and arms stand out, which means Justin will have to put his mouth on those places to show his appreciation for every last incline press Lance has suffered through. A button will finally pop free and go skittering across Justin's clean floor.
Justin won't have time to pay attention to it, though, because once Lance frees his arms, he'll grab hold of Justin's waistband and haul him towards the stairs. "Up," Lance will say. "I'm not doing this on the table. Not again."
"But it's clean," Justin will point out. Then he'll yelp as Lance swats his ass none too gently. "I worked hard on that, fuck you."
"Please do. But on the bed." Lance will slide his hand inside Justin's sweats and fist his cock. Justin will come close to tripping, but catch himself on the landing. He'll retaliate by shoving Lance into the doorway and making him hold onto the lintel while Justin strips off the last of his clothes.
They'll make it to the bed, just barely. Or, rather, Lance will make it to the bed, up on his knees at the edge of the mattress, his bare ass at just the right height for Justin to do whatever he wants to it. What Justin wants, he'll decide, is to get it slicked up with spit and lube until Lance is squirming around his fingers.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Lance will clutch at the sheets until he pulls them away from the mattress. "C'mon, Justin. Justin."
"Yeah," Justin will say, fumbling one-handed with the lube and getting more on the sheets than on his dick. For once, Justin won't much care. "Be patient."
As Justin starts to push in, Lance will hold his breath the way he always does. Then he'll groan loud and low as Justin pushes forward and oh, Justin will remember the first time he heard that sound, years ago in a hotel room with the television turned up because Justin already knew he isn't much quieter.
"Fuck yeah," Lance will gasp, making Justin forget, right in the middle of fucking, that he's not supposed to be thinking about music and new albums and groups that used to be the biggest thing the charts had ever seen. Instead, Justin'll want nothing more in that second than to get Lance in front of a microphone and make him moan like that again, and again, and then digitize it until it's nothing more than the barest hint of a thrum under their next single.
Holy shit. They could have a next single. All Justin would have to do is convince them, and he could do that. He could.
"Harder." Lance will grit it out between his teeth, thrusting back so sharply he nearly skids off the edge of the bed. Holding on, Justin will laugh somewhat hysterically and thrust forward to meet him. Harder, hard as he can, just like Lance demands.
It won't ever last long enough, not when the two of them go at it like this.
Justin will come first, of course, because Lance will always be more stubborn, more pig-headed. But as soon as Justin flops down on the bed, arms akimbo, gulping in air, Lance will be on top of him, straddling his chest, jerking off until Justin gets himself under control and grabs hold of Lance's hips.
Then all Justin will have to do is open his mouth and let Lance put it in and suck as hard as he can, let his tongue curl up and his mouth get wet until Lance loses it and it's all over. Done with, over, finished.
Lance will slide off and slowly, slowly stretch out beside Justin. Justin'll reach over and pat his thigh.
"Mmm," Lance will say.
"Yup." Justin will clear his throat. "That was kind of fun."
"Uh huh."
"I'm cleaning the bathrooms tomorrow," Justin will say.
Lance will already be asleep.
*
Between Lance and the house, Justin will ignore the problem of exactly how he'll convince the others that what the world needs right now is an entirely new kind of music that only the five of them will be able to pull off. Ignoring the details, Justin will decide, is the only viable option because first of all, he's not exactly sure what this music is going to sound like, other than different and good, and second, he'll know that planning will only make it seem impossible.
They will show up at JC's house at ten in the morning, arms laden with alcohol. JC will still be in bed, of course, so it will be Joey who opens the door.
"Now that's what I like to see," Joey will say as he takes an open box filled with wine, Lance's microbatch vodka, and a bottle of scotch that costs more than all the other bottles combined from Lance's arms. "That'll do nicely. Hey, man, long time no see. The girls miss you."
"I'm still recovering from their last visit," Lance will say. "There hasn't been that much makeup in my house since the drag-mandatory Halloween party."
Justin will shove cases of beer into the fridge, careful not to dislodge the steaks marinating on the middle shelf. "Hey, where's Chris?"
"Movie room," Joey will say, seizing the bottle of Sam Adams Justin will have in his hand. "Thanks."
Justin will pull two more bottles from the fridge and head for the back of the house. He'll find Chris in a pair of sweats and a tank top, Chris's sleepwear of choice, planted in the middle of the floor with a biofeedback glove on his right hand and a video game in progress on JC's theater-sized flatscreen.
"Disturb my zen and die," Chris will say. "Take the cap off before you hand me that beer."
"Why, yes, I do live to serve you," Justin will say, placing the opened bottle directly into Chris's outstretched left hand. "How can you play those things? You're, like, not patient at all."
"The zen is quavering," Chris will intone. "The zen is at risk. It senses doubt." Never moving his eyes from the screen, Chris will raise and drink half the bottle. "Mmm. The zen has been restored." Onscreen, his fighter jet will execute a complicated maneuver and blast four enemy aircraft from the sky.
Dragging a cushion from the sofa onto the floor, Justin will settle in to watch Chris wreak havoc throughout the wild blue yonder. It will feel like the continuation of a thousand other games, played out on television screens and monitors in hundreds of darkened rooms while they hid from the world outside.
After Chris defeats the next boss, he'll find his beer has long since gone empty and will pause the game. Justin will sit up and work the kinks out of his neck. For the first time that afternoon, Chris will look directly at him. "You were saying?"
"Hi." Justin will gesture towards the glove. "I can't play those fucking things."
"This will come as a huge shock, I know, but there are a few things I can still kick your ass at. Is Jayce awake yet?"
"Not when I came down." Then, because Justin isn't one to give up without a fight, he'll ask, "What've you been up to?"
"This and that." Chris will get up and stretch. "Come on. Let's go do something rude to JC."
Justin will trail behind Chris as they breeze through the kitchen, replace their empties, then head for JC's room. Through the picture windows overlooking the backyard, Justin will see Lance and Joey doing Lanceish and Joeyish things to the oversized propane grill that dominates one corner of the deck.
JC will be curled up around one of his pillows, snoring lightly. He'll have remembered to take off most of his clothes this time, and will be wearing nothing but his boxers. "Aw," Justin will say.
"Yeah. He is kind of adorable." Chris will walk up to the head of the bed to better study JC's unconscious form. "Hrm. I'm open to suggestions."
"Let him sleep?"
"Too nice," Chris will declare.
"Ice cubes?"
"Too mean." Chris will nudge JC's shoulder until he sniffles in his sleep and rolls to the center of the bed. "Okay, you get that side."
They'll throw the comforter over JC's legs first, because it's a well proven fact that JC kicks when woken before noon. Then Justin will climb into bed and gently corral JC's left arm, while Chris climbs in and pins down his right. Justin will wait until Chris mouths, "One. Two. Three."
JC will always be extremely ticklish. He'll also shout very, very loudly.
Justin will hold his ground until Chris falls off the bed laughing, then Justin will leap free, too. No one comes running except for Dixon, who will stand in the doorway and bark until Justin goes over to shush him.
"Jesus fuck," JC will say, curled up in the middle of the bed with his arms wrapped around his waist. "Go 'way."
"Sorry, baby, but it's time to get up and play." Chris will rest his face on the edge of the mattress until JC opens his eyes and shoves him away. "There's coffee downstairs."
"I don' want your coffee," JC will say to his pillow.
"Ah, but it's not my coffee. Joey made it."
"Joey's here?" JC will sit up. "What time is it?"
Fortunately for Chris and Justin, JC will be quick to forgive, as per usual. By the time JC drinks his first cup and then hops into the shower to finish waking up, everyone else will be outside, listening to Joey tell the story of how Briahna emerged triumphant from her all-county band audition with a seat in the first trumpet section.
"God, Joey, could she have picked a more obnoxious instrument?" Even behind his jet-black sunglasses, Lance will look pained.
Joey will shake his head. "Okay, you need to stop sounding like Kelly right about now. Because you're starting to creep me out."
Emerging from the house, JC will drag a lawn chair over so he can sit next to Lance, who swears up and down he'll dig the graves should JC find it necessary to kill anyone present who isn't Lance. Joey will have stocked the wet bar so that no one has to go inside to get a refill. This is how the storytelling and the bullshitting starts. It won't take long before it swings into full gear.
Justin will try, once or twice, to interject something about the group, or about the music, or, more potently, about the two together. But there won't be any truly good opportunity to bring it up, not without forcing the issue. Which is the last thing Justin will want to do.
Joey will tell stories about life on the romance novel convention circuit, and Chris will keep dropping dire hints that suggest he's working for the CIA, the FBI, or possibly just the Blind Bowlers' Association of America. He'll refuse to answer direct questions, leaving the specifics open to the imagination.
By the time the sun's high in the sky, Justin will be wondering if not coming up with a plan was the best way to go about this.
Once the steaks are on the grill the non-plan will have to be put on hold. They made a rule years ago, close to the very beginning of it all, that business had no place during a meal. Not when it could be helped. Justin won't be willing to break that rule now. And after the food is decimated, Justin'll count the empties lined up in a neat row next to his chair and decide tomorrow's soon enough for the sort of confrontation he's setting himself up to start.
Joey will be wandering around the patio, lighting citronella candles even though dark won't fall for another couple hours and there aren't any bugs to speak of. "I just like the look of them," he'll say to Chris.
"Joey's the romantic one," Chris will sing-song. He'll be sitting cross-legged in the middle of the picnic table. "A bottle of wine and a little candlelight and he'll show you what a real 'ladies man' is like."
Justin will sit up in his chair. "I thought I was the romantic one."
"Time you learned to share," Joey will say.
Over by the pool, JC will be attempting to explain music by inscribing lines into thin air. It's a bad habit he'll never lose, no matter how many times Justin teases him about crossing the line into interpretive dance. "No, that's not it at all. It's more of a, I don't know, heavy lilting sort of thing. You know?"
"Not really." The rest of his body in the water, Lance will rest his arms on the lip of the pool. "Maybe a different contradiction would help me visualize it."
"Shut up," JC will say, but fondly.
Chris will hop down from the tabletop. "What are we arguing about now?"
"Improv trance," JC will say, at the same time as Lance says, "Some weird shit he heard in a club in Baltimore last month."
"Oh, God," Chris will say. "Are you still stuck on that?"
"I'm telling you, it was different." Around the edges of his eyes, JC will be starting to look frustrated. "I wish I'd had some way of recording it."
"Different-good, or just different-weird?" Lance will ask, but Chris will turn and walk into the house. Lance will frown. "Where's he going?"
Chris will return not, as Justin suspected, with a CD by the self-same unsigned band JC caught in Baltimore, but rather with a guitar Justin will recognize as the one Chris keeps in the backseat of his car. "Here," Chris'll say as he sits down and tunes up. "If it's stuck in your head, then that's close enough to a recording. Stop trying to describe it and just sing it already."
JC will. It's tricky and stilted at first, but as Chris starts to echo it back, it will smooth out and start to take on a form of its own. This will be one of those things Justin will forget Chris has learned how to do: to coax music out of JC with seemingly effortless skill.
Eventually, there'll be too much of it for even JC to keep straight in his head, so he'll start passing off lines to Joey, who's got an excellent memory for this sort of thing and the patience of a saint. Or the patience of a father of three girls. Between the two of them and Chris's guitar, tentative harmonies start to emerge.
When Justin glances over at Lance, he'll find Lance is watching him back with the oddest look in his eye.
"Fuck," JC will say, after the impromptu jam session goes on for nearly an hour, through a half-dozen different lines that beg to be fleshed out and nearly back around to where it began. "I should be recording this."
Now, Justin will decide. Before he can stop himself. He'll clear his throat.
"Hey. I've been thinking. We should record something together."
Chris will snort. He'll be watching his own hands rest on the quiet guitar. "The world shudders at the thought of a Timberlake-Chasez duo on the charts."
"No, I mean. 'Nsync should record something again. Now."
*
It will be three in the morning before Justin and Lance get into the car and drive home.
The argument will not be as hard to win as Justin had guessed; by dark, the worst of the bickering will be over. No one will storm off; no one will drag out things better left buried. It will turn out Joey was right after all.
It will also turn out Justin's still able to get what he wants.
Then there will be a few hours of "I can't believe you're serious about this" and "I can't believe I'm serious about this," but Justin won't allow himself to feel smug until Chris tentatively offers up the name of a producer he'd like to see get involved, if it turns out they're going to go that direction, and then Joey will excuse himself and call Kelly to let her know he's not going to make it back to the hotel until morning.
Lance won't say much, but he'll sip his way through a stiff drink and smile readily enough as the night gets old.
When JC reaches the giggly phase where his words aren't words at all, just a string of vowels strung together, Chris will roll his eyes and kick Justin and Lance out of the house. Justin's face will hurt from all the smiling and he'll be too buzzed to do anything but wave like a kid on his way out the door.
They'll argue over who's going to drive. Lance will win. Lance will be holding the keys.
It's not a long ride home but it will seem longer, with Lance driving slowly. He won't even try to make any of the lights before they turn.
"You've been kind of quiet," Justin will say as they sit and wait for a green.
Lance will shrug. "We talked about an awful lot."
"But you didn't. You okay?"
"I'm fine, J."
"Is there something — you don't think this is a good idea."
"It's a good idea. It's a good time for it." Lance will fiddle with the heating controls. "You warm enough?"
"Yeah, sure. No, there's something wrong. Tell me."
"Jesus." Lance will bring the car to a complete stop, look both ways down the deserted streets, then turn onto the road for his house. "You don't know when to let it drop."
"You're the one who's been snapping at me for weeks." Justin will sit back and take a deep breath. "Just tell me."
This is important, Justin will realize. This thing is too new to live through Lance's reservations, and fuck, even if Lance gets angry, the question has to be asked. Lance can go ahead and get pissed, stop talking to Justin, even kick him out if he wants.
It won't really matter what Lance does. Justin will just come back in the end.
"Just tell me," Justin will ask, as gently as he knows how.
Lance will flicker a look in Justin's direction, then turn his attention back to the road.
Justin will sigh.
Pulling the car into the driveway, Lance will kill the ignition but he won't unlock the doors. They'll sit there in silence until Justin starts to wonder if he should have crashed at JC's.
"I didn't want to get my hopes up." Lance will turn sidewise in his seat. "There. You think we can make it into bed without another argument?"
Justin won't make any promises.