For taylor_serenil: Justin/Trace. "Close your eyes / This world won't stop spinning you know / Close your eyes / Why don't you just let go?"

The room was doing a slow and lazy rhumba, or maybe a cha-cha, or maybe some weird folk dance with bells and handkerchiefs and eight billion complicated steps that nobody alive could ever remember all at once. Justin opened one eye balefully, stared straight at Trace, and said, "This is all your fault."

Trace didn't even bother looking up from his game of Grand Theft Auto. "I didn't pour the booze down your throat."

"No," Justin said, "but you provided it."

"And record stores provide Spice Girls CDs, but that doesn't mean that they follow you out onto the street waving the headphones and sit on your chest until you put them on. Don't pin this one on me, Timberlake."

"You used to be more sympathetic." Justin hung his feet over the end of the couch. No matter how much the tour bus cost, nobody could ever find a couch that was large enough for all of him to fit on at once. "I should fire you and hire someone who'll make all the appropriate sympathetic noises and get me a fucking Advil when I'm fucking hung over."

"You used to be less of a pain in the ass. And you'd never find anyone who put up with as much of your shit as I do," Trace said. On the screen, his car skidded directly into a building, and he muttered something indistinct under his breath and tapped the X repeatedly. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you up when we stop for lunch."

"Promise?" Justin asked.

Trace paused the game and leaned over to pull the blanket higher up around Justin's shoulders. "Promise. I'll take care of shit for you." They both knew that he wasn't just talking about the morning.

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