There are no titles yet. No music. The sound quality is often poor and the editing is rough. And still it is beautiful, and awful, everything and nothing like what really happened.
When it's over, Justin snaps off the TV and walks out of the room.
*
So much in the middle is flat and empty. Lance forgets this every time they criss-cross the country, even though Chris told him once that something like eighty percent of Americans live in cities. That part he remembers. The other fifty million people must be spread thin between the little clusters of light you can see in those pictures from space.
He plugs in the laptop at the table and sits backwards so everything he sees out the bus window is moving away, like it's leaving him alone. Justin runs a hand through Lance's hair as he passes by on his way from a card game with Joey to the back, probably for a nap.
Lance skims an e-mail about the documentary and how all the raw footage will be constructed into narratives after the tour, "arranged by theme into a number of scenes that will still seem, to the viewer, a chronological story with a distinct beginning, middle and end."
Lance thinks that the whole idea of how life is a journey is fundamentally flawed, because people always talk about it like the trip goes from A to B and in between stuff happens and by the end things have changed in some way that can be measured. Like it's easy to look back and say, this was a good year, this year was better than the last. We were happier. Or even, this year things made less sense, things were rough, things weren't what we expected. Maybe he's packed too many things into the last seven years for that to work. For a while every day was too much and now it's never enough.
Maybe life is like their tour schedule, though. A few days here, a few days there. Miles of interstate between identical set lists and the conch-shell roars of sold-out stadiums. Postcard-perfect sunrises over a field of something as he climbs across Justin to make coffee and do a little work while it's still quiet.
He thinks maybe he and Justin are somewhere in the middle. He wonders what it would take to change that.
*
Joey is the tour guide, because he's the one who knows which behind-the-scenes anecdotes are good to tell the first day.
"This is where JC boils water to make Rice a Roni and then passes it off like he's a good cook," Joey says, trooping through the bus. "Chris spends most of his time there --" Joey points to the TV set hooked to a Sega.
Down the hall to the bunks, and Joey pulls aside one curtain, nods at his taped-up pictures of Kelly and Brianna. "Those are my girls," he says, smiling. "Really we're just a nice, clean family operation around here. Anything you might see to the contrary, that's the god's honest truth." He's got a lopsided grin.
On the steps of the second bus, Joey pauses, then shrugs. "What the hell, you're gonna be around for the next few months, right?" The cameraman nods and Joey goes up and down in the frame. "This, we like to call this the Bus of Love," he says, stretching out the word looooooooove and rubbing his hands together. "Let's go see what the kids are up to."
*
None of the guys thought they'd be this serious. They thought Lance could do it for real, maybe, and they didn't mean to think so little of Justin but they all knew him, had seen it happen before.
For three weeks when he was seventeen Justin had been head over heels for JC, had followed him around like a lost little puppy and cried when he caught JC kissing some B-list model at a party. And then Justin got over it. When Kelly got pregnant ,Justin pouted for days, like it had been some kind of betrayal for Joey -- big Joey who had sat Lance and Justin down for the sex talk long before they'd really been ready to do anything about it -- to clearly have taken so few of his wise words to heart. And then Justin got over it.
So when it was Lance's turn, not even Lance thought it was for real, though he did think he might have been the first one who crawled into Justin's bunk and wanted him back. Lance assumed he was a stopping point on the way to Chris, and Justin would get over Lance and then Justin wouldn't be so young and Chris maybe wouldn't be so weird.
But Justin was serious. Told Lance over and over how much he loved him and that he'd do anything for him, swore up and down that he and Britney didn't even kiss if there wasn't a camera around and if it mattered that much he'd break things off. Lance said that was silly, at least a couple of them should look certifiably straight, and even if JC pretty much was and Joey had a kid it couldn't hurt to keep Justin's name off the lists where Lance's name was always popping up.
And now it's been more than a year and everyone who matters knows. Lance's mom cried for three days and asked him not to tell his father but then they did anyway, at Thanksgiving, Lance and Justin on the living room couch in calm, quiet voices. They didn't hold hands and they didn't sleep in the same room but when they left at the end of the weekend Lance's dad hugged them both and said at least they had each other. Justin's mom knew all along and Johnny laughed and asked if they really thought it was supposed to be a surprise to him of all people. "It's your band," Johnny said, "so just make sure you're all making decisions together, all right?"
It was Lance's idea to do the movie but they all agree it's a smart thing at this point in their trajectory. "Keepin' it real," Chris says over and over, and about half the time Joey shouts something back about how they've never been real, not really real, not in front of other people. Lance wants it to be the next Truth or Dare, has promised the other producers they'll even have a few rounds of the game in it somewhere so the reviews will be sure to make the connection.
*
Justin waves at the cameras and says they can't go to the back of their bus. "It's a fucking mess," he says, tugging at his bandanna and then rubbing at a spot on his neck.
Lance smiles at the camera, at a spot to the left of the camera where Michael is. He says, "Next time. We'll clean it up." Lance stretches, long legs in front of him, one foot just grazing Justin's ankle.
Chris sits next to Justin and laughs. "It's a fucking pigsty back there. Literally." Chris laughs all over again.
*
Lance met Michael twice before the filming began and thought going with someone fresh out of film school and hungry would make it better. Better than having someone who would automatically think of them like they were still boys and couldn't tell them apart from O-Town.
On the second day of shooting, Lance drifts away from Justin, doesn't look back and smiles at Michael, leaning over a coffee. "How's it going," Lance says casually.
"It's gonna be good," Michael says earnestly. Michael's young, seems younger than Lance even though he's a year older. Lance has decided Michael has three expressions, earnest, troubled and boyishly gleeful. Lance wonders for a moment which face Michael wears when he comes and then shakes his head. He glances back at Justin, scarfing down a plate full of food.
"Good sounds good," Lance says, grinning.
"You -- this should have happened sooner. When you first hit big, that would have been amazing." Earnest expression for this one.
"But we were all so much uglier then." Lance laughs and sits down. Michael laughs, too, and Lance ends up eating lunch with Michael instead of Justin. Michael has a fourth expression. This one is speculative, and Michael uses it as he asks about Justin and Lance sharing a bus for this tour and then again when he asks if Lance is seeing anyone. Lance doesn't think twice, says what he always says, "I'm too busy to have any time for someone outside the band."
*
Chris narrates sometimes, with a voice like the guy from Behind the Music. "After two weeks on the road with the constant intrusion of a skeleton camera crew, the band begins to feel the tension."
"Dude," Joey says, throwing his baseball cap at Chris. "Now I know why Puck went fucking crazy, man." He looks at JC, who glances up from a notepad and laughs. "Can we vote Chris out of the house?"
"We're not in a house, we're on, like --" JC looks at Lance. "Where are we?"
The camera swings to Lance, lingers. "Interstate 80," Lance says.
Joey whines and the shot pans back to catch the end of a smile. "Fine. Can we fucking vote his ass out onto the asphalt?" Chris throws the hat back at Joey and they wrestle it to the ground, giggling like five-year-olds.
Justin walks out from the back of the bus, scratching his ass and yawning. He steps over Joey and Chris and looks right into the lens. "Could they be any more gay?" he asks, putting a hand on Lance's shoulder.
Lance gets up and pulls a Coke from the fridge, tosses another back to Justin, who catches it one-handed. JC is talking to no one in particular about wild mustangs found killed in the Nevada desert that week. Lance sits across from Justin on one of the benches and brings up the pyro problem at the Reno show.
*
Justin waves goodbye like he's sad to see Michael leave but when he spins back from the door his grin is wide and beautiful.
"Finally," he says, coming toward where Lance stands in the aisle with one hand on the sink for balance. The engine starts to rumble and the bus pulls out onto the road. "Never thought I'd be so glad to get away from the bright lights." He runs a hand down Lance's side and kisses Lance's neck.
Lance stretches up on his toes, fingertips grazing the top of the cabinet as he kisses Justin back.
"I've been, Jesus, been wanting to do this allll day," Justin says when he takes a breath. "Fucking all day. I missed you, just, having to be close to you all day and not do this, man." He's still buried in the crook of Lance's neck, hands playing across Lance's back, nuzzling lazily.
Justin's body is warm against Lance's, warm and always, again and again, softer than Lance remembers. But his hands always feel the same, they trace a familiar pattern across three ribs and down his breastbone and come to rest on the button of his pants.
Lance puts his hand over Justin's and kisses Justin's forehead. "Let's watch TV," Lance says. There are old Cheers reruns on Nick at Night and Justin's resting his head in Lance's lap. Justin laughs every time Woody says anything, sometimes reaching a hand up to stroke Lance's arm. Lance is skimming budget reports from the tour and Diane is trying to quit before Sam fires her but her letter of resignation is five pages long.
Lance looks up and they're arguing over who got out first, Sam insistent that he fired Diane during her first take-back of the resignation, both way too angry not to be in love. Diane walks out the door at the end and Sam lets her. Lance realizes he's never quit anything unless it was because he was going on to something better.
They don't think anyone on All in the Family is remotely hot so Justin hits the remote and rolls over. He's face-up, staring at Lance with a relaxed smile and Lance remembers when that look used to make him quiver inside. Lance knows he was in love with Justin long before Justin loved him back. Everyone knows that, just like they all know that Justin's been trying to make up for it ever since. Now he reaches out and cups Lance's chin in his palm. "Syndication is the best thing to happen to cable since MTV," Justin says, his voice thick. He pushes all the papers off the bed and pulls Lance down into a long kiss. Lance doesn't think about everything getting out of order.
"I think maybe there were reruns before that," Lance says as Justin strips them both down to boxers.
"But I didn't get to watch them in bed with you," Justin says, muffled as he trails kisses up Lance's thigh, "so it doesn't really count."
They've slept wrapped up around each other almost every night for fourteen months, and more than a few before that, back when it was all just supposedly good-natured friendly companionship between a couple of lonely kids. At three a.m. Lance is still blinking into the dark and he thinks it's the heat of Justin pressed up against his back that is making him sick to his stomach. He finally slides out from under the dead weight of Justin's arm and washes his face, blinks at his reflection in the shaky light. He opens the fridge and stares without seeing, cool air floating in rivers around his face and neck.
*
It's Joey's turn to play narrator again. "Five strangers, picked to live on a bus --"
"Two buses, man! All those fucking choreographers and you can't even count." Chris stretches along the couch and kicks JC in the head by accident. JC bats Chris away and rubs his palm in circles on his stomach.
"Okaaaaaay. Four assholes and one really cool guy," Joey says over JC mumbling "why do I have to be an asshole, too, I didn't say anything --"
"Picked to live on two buses. Find out what happens when people stop being polite and --"
"Start acting straight," Chris says, busting a gut.
Justin giggles, high and silly. Lance blanches and then rolls his eyes for the camera, hitting Joey's arm.
"Ow," Joey winces. "Fuck." He rubs his arm again. "Fucking joke, man."
Justin paws the camera toward him and tries to look sincere. "You think you know," he says. "But you have no idea." Chris tries to yank Justin's pants down and Justin is scrabbling away from him. "No fucking idea," Justin shrieks.
*
One night Michael actually leaves them alone without being asked, saying he has to log tape, that he wants to edit as they go along. It's been a long, crappy day, technical problems all around and three freaks in the front row who have to be ejected. Then the five of them and the camera crew spend twenty minutes squeezed together in the corner of an old bomb shelter in the venue basement because a threat about Chris gets called in to the local police department. Michael keeps shooting and none of the guys really talk. Every couple minutes one of them reaches out, pats a shoulder or bumps fists, just checking that everyone is okay. Finally Lonnie and twelve plainclothes cops lead them through a quarter mile of concrete tunnel to where the buses are waiting.
Lance sits at the table with one cheek pressed against the cool of the window. "I just forget sometimes, you know?" he says.
"Yeah," Justin says, rubbing Lance's shoulders. "People don't know, you know. But we can't spend every show so scared someone's going to go all Selena that we don't do our jobs." Lance thinks if he's having so much trouble with it still now, it must have been terrifying to have learned that at twelve or thirteen.
Justin makes them both tea, talks about nothing important and keeps a hand on Lance's shoulder or arm or wrist until Lance heaves a sigh and nods decisively . He's just going to add the whole night to his list of things that sucked this year and move on. Justin rinses their cups in the sink and Lance perches on the end of the table, catching Justin into a hug when he turns around. He just needs not to be alone.
"Oh, baby," Justin whispers against his lips. "Baby, it's okay." He lays Lance back on the table and Lance locks his legs around Justin's hips. Lance arches his spine when Justin enters him, tipping his neck back and opening his eyes. There's a full moon and the fields rushing by are silvery and windblown in their wake.
*
They're all a little drunk and it's fine because everybody's legal this time around. Justin hangs on Lance and Lance keeps darting nervous glances toward the camera and whispering in Justin's ear. Justin bats at him and falls back into a chair as Lance walks out of the frame. Justin leans back with a wide smile and starts singing "God Must Have Spent A Little More Time on You" in a wildly exaggerated manner, but he gives up after one verse, dissolving in laughter. Joey sits next to him and pokes him. "Dude, karaoke bar. Sing up on stage, baby drunk boy."
"Good idea! Joey, you're so smart. Did you know that?" Justin says seriously. He leans forward and taps Joey on the knee. "You're much smarter than people think, man." Joey snorts and shakes his head. Justin claps his hands. "Lance! Lance, let's sing. This is a karaoke bar!"
The camera follows Justin as he drags Lance to the stage. Justin picks "Let's Get it On" and starts moving his hips. "Givin' yourself to me can never be wrong," he wails, looking at Lance. Lance blushes and moves a step back from Justin.
*
Lance isn't upset about anything except Justin's clinginess when the camera's on but Justin grabs his arm on the bus one afternoon and says in a serious voice they need to talk. Michael is still rolling, holding the camera himself because it's other guy's day off, and "if Soderbergh can do it I don't see why I can't," he said earlier. Lance juts his eyes in that direction and shakes Justin off. "Later," he says.
"Now," Justin says, and turns to Michael. "Do you mind?" Michael looks at Lance and Justin snorts and shakes his head. "Seriously, dude, give us a few minutes here, okay? Don't you need to, like, smoke another fucking cigarette or something?" Michael tilts the camera away from his cheek but doesn't turn it off, is clearly waiting for Lance to say something. Lance is kind of sick of playing hall monitor and says just that with his back to Michael, under his breath.
Justin switches to full Timberlake shine then, grinning wide and clapping Michael on the shoulder as he pushes him and the sound guy toward the door as if a decision has been made. "Appreciate it, guys," Justin says. "We'll all go to dinner in an hour or so, okay?"
Lance waits, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Justin slams his palm next to Lance's head. "Fuck it. What the hell is up with you?" Justin glares at him.
"What the fuck is up with you?" Lance steps away from Justin, glares back.
Justin sighs, starts to grab at Lance's arm but just runs his hand down Lance's shoulder. "C'mon. Fuck, Lance, you're -- you know what I'm talking about. The way you are with the cameras and this stupid film."
"It's not stupid, Justin. And how am I? I'm sorry if I'm not -- how do you think I should be?" Lance catches Justin's wrist with his other hand.
"This was supposed to be our grand tour, remember? We were gonna, like, fuck our way across every state line in the country, just you and me, our own bus, anything we want goes. But you keep pushing me away." Justin isn't whining or pouting as he says it, and Lance feels a moment of fear. Like Justin's figured something out that Lance hasn't.
"They're filming us, Justin. We can't be like we are when -- when it's just people. You gotta stop that shit. I mean, 'Let's Get it On'? You couldn't just do 'Thriller' like always?" Lance shakes his head, like he's saying no over and over again and he can't remember the question. He just knows he wants this conversation over. He wants Justin to leave and as soon as he thinks it, he feels afraid again.
Justin pulls his hand away from Lance, shoves Lance a little and says, hard and angry, "Fuck you. You -- fuck it, Lance." Justin stomps over to the bench and flops down. "Just fucking -- look, whatever, we're -- damn it." Justin rubs his forehead. "Just go apologize to that dickhead, okay? I know you want to."
"Justin?" Lance stands there, arms crossed again, voice soft.
Justin looks down and says, "It's fine. Go be producer boy."
Michael's leaning against the seat in the open door of his black Land Cruiser, smoking. His dark brown hair is flopping over his eyebrows.
Lance smiles and hasn't even said anything yet when Michael nods. "It's okay," Michael says earnestly. "It's kind of my job to get in the way."
"Yeah," Lance says, scratching his forehead. Michael is goddamned good at his job. "You know, Justin's had a camera on him pretty much every day since he was fourteen," he says, trying to sound casual about it all. "So, just, if he talks to you like that, it's because the only way he knows to keep something for himself is draw a line somewhere and then stick to it."
"It's cool," Michael says, stepping on the half-finished cigarette with his boot. Every day he wears jeans, black t-shirt and Docs like a uniform they handed out on the first day at NYU. But he wears it well, Lance thinks. Michael wipes his mouth and picks a piece of tobacco off his tongue. He says, "I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like, trying to keep something for yourselves in the middle of a tour this big."
Lance smiles and leans against the car.
"I mean, especially for the two of you." Michael looks him in the eye like it's a dare and Lance just crosses his arms on his chest.
"What about you?" Lance asks, because the first thing Lou taught them was that whatever it is, if they never say it out loud or get their photo in the Globe, it doesn't count. "Someone back East waiting for all this to be done and get you back safe and sound?"
"He dumped me when I took this job," Michael says, playing with door lock. The corners of his mouth droop a little but spring up again. "Artistic differences, let's say."
"Called you a sellout?"
"Something like that." Boyish grin and a quick flick of the eyebrows. "Probably you don't want to hear exactly what he said about you guys."
Lance kicks off against the tire, turning around and walking backwards. "His loss," he says, and goes back to the bus.
*
JC sits on the couch on the bus, singing along to Carole King and "I Feel the Earth Move." He raises his arms above his head and rocks his hips and closes his eyes and gets into the song. He's rocking back and forth and his shirt rides up and there's a thin sliver of his bare back rising and falling from view. Joey flops next to him and harmonizes with him on the last "a tumbling down." The next song is "So Far Away" and they both sing, easily finding the right tones and notes to blend with Carole on the CD player and with each other. They smile because it's sweet and sad and about traveling and loss and they all know that.
Chris and Justin look up from the Sega and just grin. They join in with JC and Joey on the couch for the part in the bridge about how she hopes the road don't come to own her. Lance walks in from the back, cell phone next to his ear. He hangs up on whoever and all five of them sing to the end of the song. When it's over Chris looks up and fakes a sniffle. "I love you guys! Group hug!" and they all tumble together on the floor and try to suffocate Chris until he cries uncle.
*
Lance looks the wrong way and misses a step. He corrects himself but no one is looking at him. The girls are screaming and it's wrong, something is off. Justin is center stage singing the first single from the album, the one that won the Grammy. The one about Lance, though no one but the five of them knows that for sure. And now their first fight, this stupid pissing contest about whose bed they slept in more, is immortalized as this beautiful song. It got Justin the Grammy he always wanted and little girls scream at all the wrong parts because they scream whenever Justin moves.
Justin catches up with him after the show and after they've finished the usual sniping post-mortem of the show. It always scares other people the first time, all the guys hissing like they hate each other. It takes a while for outsiders to realize all they really hate is not getting things perfect every single time. Justin is still flushed, curls almost flat with sweat and he's tying on a plain black bandanna as he snarls at Lance. "Lance, fucking A." Michael and the camera and the sound guy are right behind them.
"Justin, let's do this later." Lance starts to walk away.
"No, stop. Stop and listen to me. This shit matters. I need you to -- whatever, stop and talk to me."
Lance whirls around and realizes Justin doesn't mean the show anymore, he means the two of them. "Justin, I don't want to talk to you about this here."
"Cause you just don't want to talk at all and the fucking cameras are your goddamned excuse du jour." Justin doesn't even lower his voice.
"Fuck it, don't you give a shit about anything anymore?" Lance turns around and almost runs to the bus. Justin storms past him and gets up the steps first and slams the door. Lance leans against the bus for a moment and watches Michael walk up to him. Lance doesn't even try to smile. He says a quiet hi.
"Huh. What was that about?" Michael looks down at his feet and carefully, obviously turns off the camera.
"Nothing." Lance clenches his jaw. "I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow? You got a ride?"
"Yeah, thanks, I'm just following the bus. We're all taken care of. Sleep well."
*
"So where's your favorite place to hang out in San Francisco?" A writer from People magazine is tagging along that day. JC says the Exploratorium in Berkeley, Joey says the cafes in North Beach and Lance and Justin say Golden Gate Park. Chris has been in a crappy mood all day and says he thinks it's a trick question and fucking People should know better and who is her editor anyway, does she think just anyone gets to hang out with the group all day and if she's got some fucking agenda maybe she should try working for the Mirror or the Enquirer or something. When she starts to cry he apologizes and then leaves the rest of them standing at the Palace of Fine Arts.
Lance calls Johnny on his cell phone, visible at the edge of the frame but not close enough to hear. He comes back and says that Johnny has taken care of it, it's fine, they'll do a photo shoot and she'll just use the stuff she got that morning and what's next on the schedule.
*
They have three days in one place for a charity basketball thing and he and Justin have separate suites like always. Stacy's sent a stack of CDs with promising demo material and Lance is happy to do that and maybe poke around online to see if he can find something nice to buy his mom, just because it's been awhile since he got her anything.
There's little bottles of Absolut in the mini-bar and he orders a steak from room service. Justin's out with JC buying clothes and Lance feels relaxed for the first time in weeks. His cell rings and it's Michael. Lance thought they were all taking the night off, too, but work is work. He decides he should answer it.
"I thought you might want to see some rough cuts of what we've shot," Michael says. "You know, just, it's real early edits."
Lance does a quick scan of the room for any of Justin's things and says sure. He puts Justin's other jacket in the closet and asks when.
"I'm, yeah. I'm already at the hotel. I didn't know which room."
"Oh," Lance says. He gives Michael the number.
Michael laughs. "I was close, then. I'm, uh, actually in the hallway, so, you know, I'm just gonna hang up --" Lance pokes his head out the door and Michael claps the phone shut with an easy grin. "Here I am," he says, and Lance waves him inside.
"Where's the party at?" Michael asks, standing in the middle of the living room.
"Once in a while we actually detach and live our own lives," Lance says, still smiling. "You want a drink?"
Michael plays with the video tape case like he's nervous while Lance mixes Jack and Coke because Michael said it's not really necessary to call room service for better bourbon.
"I'm sure it's good," Lance says, looking sideways at Michael. "The movie, I mean, already."
Michael laughs and seems shorter without a camera or a cigarette but he's good-looking in a library kind of way. Light freckles on his forehead and average shoulders and he's wearing a charcoal-colored J Crew sweater. Like Wes Bentley's less popular brother, Lance thinks, or the guy who would play him on Showtime.
Lance spends a lot of time around people he sees more often in pictures or on TV than in person, except the other guys, so it's things like how there's a splotch of color on each of Michael's cheeks whenever they talk that Lance notices most. He hands Michael the drink and takes the tape in exchange. Lance is hitting play when his pager buzzes, bouncing on vibrate across the nightstand like a wind-up toy car.
"I'll pause it," Michael says.
COMING BACK NOW, the display reads. "Fuck," Lance says aloud, and Michael looks at him. Lance shakes it off, types back FILM BUSINESS TONIGHT -- WILL CALL LATER, sends the message and throws the thing in the drawer. He feels like he's overreacting to something but he's not sure what.
Michael's got an arm up on the back of the couch and is watching him intently. He's staring and Lance stares back. Intense is different from earnest on Michael. "If this is a bad time..." Michael doesn't seem interested in finishing the sentence and Lance ignores it altogether in favor of tossing back a second drink.
When he sits back down, Michael's hand hangs down near Lance's shoulder and the crimson in the hollows of his face is darker, redder. His eyebrows are heavy and thick and Lance wants to push his fingers through them so they're all disheveled. Michael's hand touches Lance's shoulder and Lance doesn't move.
Michael opens his mouth and his teeth on the bottom are crooked. Lance hadn't noticed before. He has long thick eyelashes like a china doll and a question all over his face. "Was that Justin?" he asks, finally.
Lance doesn't answer but doesn't look away.
Michael swallows and puts his hand on Lance's neck. "Truth or dare," he says, fingers in Lance's collar. The VCR clicks off pause and the TV Guide channel scrolls endlessly. The sound is low.
Lance whispers, "I can't." He doesn't close his eyes. He lets Michael kiss him.
They break apart and Lance pulls Michael back, puts his hand up under the sweater and a shirt to feel smooth skin. Lance thinks, dare.
He tugs the clothes over Michael's head and sucks on a flat nipple, pushing Michael back onto the couch. It's just the couch, he thinks, hand down Michael's pants, pushing Michael's legs apart. They don't even have their shoes off before Michael's jeans and boxers are down around his knees and he's on his stomach, one foot on the floor and the other knee angled into the cushions.
Lance yanks his own shirt over his head and pats Michael's back twice, don't move, before padding off to the bathroom. Lance doesn't look in the mirror as he grabs lube out of the Dopp kit. He turns off lights and the TV on his way back.
Michael's propped a pillow under his stomach and one under his cheek but otherwise stayed put. His pants are off now and he's got a condom in one hand. He's just waiting for Lance, it's all that simple. Lance remembers simple like a dream from before he started singing, like a report he wrote in eighth grade on what he wanted when he grew up.
He stands in front of the couch and drops his belt on the carpet, heavy silver buckle clanging against itself. He shrugs out of his pants and underwear and Michael watches but doesn't say anything. Later Michael moans a little and pushes back against Lance but the only other noise is Lance grunting and skin slapping against skin and a vague electronic buzzing across the room.
Michael's face is buried in the pillow when he comes so Lance still doesn't know, but afterwards he looks like a cross between bemused and wary. Lance goes into the bathroom to clean up and winds up in the shower, hot water stinging his lips and making his skin flush. The air is heavy with steam when he finishes and he combs his hair with his fingers. He comes out wrapped in a towel and Michael is dressed and sitting on the bed.
He practiced this part in the shower. "You have to --" Michael smiles slowly and sadly and Lance fumbles. "I forgot I have this thing I have to do," Lance says, deliberately, forcing the lines out of his mouth. "Like, I have to do it now. So."
Michael stands up and walks over. He puts an arm around Lance's back and kisses him right under the earlobe, kisses over to Lance's mouth, pushes and probes with his tongue like he didn't hear or care. Lance is kissing back, Michael's wool sweater scratching at his nipples, rubbing them raw, and he's hard against the towel too as Michael slides down to his knees. One hand in Michael's hair and the other on his hip and it's all like that, that easy, until Michael rocks back on his heels and says, "You shouldn't have to apologize all the time, you know."
"Fuck," Lance says, stepping back, droplets flying out in perfect arcs as he shakes his head. "Just, you know. I think. You need to leave, okay?"
Michael stands back up, shaking his head. "All right," he shrugs. He takes the tape out of the VCR and shuts the door behind him.
Lance takes another shower, cold this time, spills cologne on himself and puts on Justin's favorite shirt, this light green shimmery button-down with half a tuxedo ruffle. But that's too dressy, too deliberately sexy. Jeans, then. Jeans and a t-shirt from the bar in South Beach where they first pressed up against each other and Justin humped Lance's leg and said, laughing, "I'm not fucking kidding, man, I wanna fuck you so bad."
Lance wipes a clearing in the fogged-up mirror and looks contrite. "I fucked up," he says. His reflection is unimpressed. "I love you," he says, "let's go away for a little while, just you and me." That's better.
In front of Justin's door he gets kind of dizzy and has to rest a hand against the molding. He wonders if this is what real stage fright feels like, if all those times he thought he was scared before were just warm-up. But it's okay. It's going to be bad for a little while but it will be okay.
He knocks twice, waits. Justin opens the door and smiles to see him and Lance feels light-headed all over again. "Hey," Justin purrs against his lips, pulling him into the room. "I was just gonna order a movie -- do you want to watch anything?"
Lance shakes his head but Justin's got his back to him, scooping ice into glasses. Justin leans down and looks into the mini-fridge. "You want bloody Marys or, uh, there's orange juice?"
Lance clears his throat and Justin turns back when there's no immediate answer. Lance coughs. "Which, uh, whichever you're having is fine," he says, sitting on the couch and holding onto the armrest.
Justin puts a warm hand on his neck and passes the drink to Lance over his shoulder. "I missed you," Justin says, pressing a kiss where his hand had been and then coming around. He tries to sit in Lance's lap, straddling him, but Lance puts his hands on Justin's hips and slides him down on the couch instead.
"Justin," Lance says, and Justin sighs like they've gotten the answer wrong on Hollywood Squares, like he knew it was coming.
"It's about the movie, isn't it?" Justin says, clenching his jaw. "What about it?"
Lance puts his drink on the carpet and turns to face Justin. "You know I love you," he says, and Justin goes pale. Lance takes Justin's hand and says, "No, you know I do, I do. I just have to tell you. I." He hangs his head and then looks up again. "I fucked up," he says.
Justin's hard smile melts, and he leans in and kisses Lance on the lips. "It's okay, baby, we'll make it okay. The movie's gonna be great, whatever we have to do."
Lance sniffs and pulls back. "The movie's fine," he says, and looks down at his lap. "It's, uh. It's Michael." He doesn't look at Justin. After a long minute Justin pulls his hands away from Lance's and scoots back until he hits the other end of the couch. Tomato juice pools on the carpet like a puddle of blood. Lance looks from that to Justin's bare feet on the patterned cushion and knows there's something else he's supposed to say.
"I'm sorry," Lance tries, and Justin makes this choking noise so he finally lifts his head. Justin is livid, his eyes are crazy and angry and there are tears leaking down his face and it feels like a bone snapped in Lance's chest. "I'm sorry," Lance says again, really meaning it now, starting to cry himself. "I'm so fucking sorry, it was stupid and I don't even know why I did it and it's not, it won't happen again, I swear."
Justin just shakes his head, hard, like his neck might snap off. Lance coughs a sob and moves toward him on the couch but Justin draws his knees up in front of him like a shield. "I'm, Justin, please, say something. I'm sorry, I love you."
"Tell me the truth," Justin says, pushing back more, lifting himself so he's sitting on the armrest. "Don't -- don't fucking tell me that. Jesus, Lance, don't lie to me, not about this."
"I'm not -- Justin, I love you so fucking much, you know I do. This was, I don't know what this was, it was just, we've just been, I don't know, and --"
"When?" Justin says. Lance is afraid to touch him. He looks coiled and wiry and tight, nothing like the liquid gold that glides across rooms or beds or stages like he never even touches the surface. Lance thinks that this is his fault, too. He's hardened Justin like that, and as scared as he was before it's nothing compared to how terrifying the world looks now, with a broken Justin Timberlake. "When?" Justin yells, inches away, breath in Lance's face and Lance's mouth hangs open, his jaw's not really working and his ears are ringing a death knell.
"Tonight," he finally manages, and Justin shoves him in the chest so he falls back against the long couch cushion, like before, like with Michael, and Justin's there standing over him.
"Get out," Justin says. "I don't -- this is over."
Lance stands up, puts his hands on Justin's shoulders. "I swear, I won't, I won't even talk to him again except when the cameras are --"
"No," Justin says, icily, pushing him again, weakly this time like his arms are broken. Justin's shoulders are sagging. He spits out his words. "This. Is. Over. I won't do this anymore." He turns away from Lance and his back hitches once and then he's gone, he's locked himself in the bathroom. Lance sits on the floor with one hand on the door, crying and numb, for what feels like hours. And then a fist hits the wood, rattling the door in its frame. Justin screams, high and keening, "I said get the fuck out! Get out!"
*
The cameras find Chris and Lance talking in the hotel corridor. Lance is folded into himself, hunched over and arms crossed, head down. Chris says, "This will not be okay, this will not blow over in a few days."
They both notice the crew at the same time. Chris groans and turns away from them. Lance rubs his eyes and then puts his hand out, warding them off. "No, no," he says, his voice cracking. "Look," Lance pauses. He takes a ragged breath and says, "This is -- you know, this isn't the band or anything. Just give us this thing, it's a family thing and it doesn't need. It's a family matter."
Chris waves them off, says, "You heard him. Fuck off."
The camera retreats and the screen shows a long hallway, doors all around, a very nice hotel. Security for the band drift by and then Joey and JC round a corner. Joey says, "This is so fucked up. I mean, fucked up."
JC says, "Everything's gonna be so much more fun for the rest of this tour." JC looks drawn and sad and the joke doesn't work at all.
*
He tries. Lance tries, the next morning, the next day, before the show, after the show to tell Justin he's sorry, he's so sorry. Justin ignores him or pushes him away. Lance can't believe this is the end.
Justin wears sunglasses indoors and everywhere else for three days and when he takes them off before the show, his eyes are red and empty.
*
Lance sits in front of his laptop, hitting buttons, bags under his eyes, an untouched sandwich next to him. When he's not typing, he wrings his hands, turns the band on his finger over and over again. Joey sits behind him on the couch, says, "We get Lance for a while, 'cause, you know, switching up buses -- variety is the spice of life." Joey looks down like he missed a note, and knew it was out of his range, he would never hit it anyway, but he had to try.
*
Lance follows Justin out of the hotel, sheltered by the bodyguards from the girls clumped around the entrance. Girls are screaming and holding out magazines, t-shirts, trading cards. Justin stares straight ahead and the girls scream at him to get his attention. One shouts, "Justin, stop and fucking sign one damn thing! Asshole!" Justin ignores the shouts, gets right in the limo. Lance rubs his forehead, plasters on a smile and turns toward the clump where the scream came from. He signs things, flinches from flashes and wonders how many pictures of his fake face will be showing up on the internet in twelve hours. And how many of Justin's hard posture and blank face.
*
Justin says, "Fuck off. You'll never get to use this footage." He speaks directly to the camera. He stands up straight, his full height looming and his eyes are dead and deadly. Justin turns around and puts on a CD, loud. Nirvana fills the bus. Over the music, Justin says, "Get permission for this song, you fucks. Have fun doing it." He sits down and stares out the window. The back of his head is all the camera can see of him.
Chris sits next to him, sings along under his breath. He stops singing and throws a potato chip at the camera. "The revolution will not be televised. Motherfucker!"
*
Lance eats alone before the show. Justin's in the quiet room, being coddled by Chris and JC and even Joey. Justin told Chris, Lance told Joey and either Joey or Chris told JC, so everyone blames him. Lance doesn't disagree.
Michael sits down across from him, says nothing. Lance looks at his sandwich, wonders what kind of sandwich the caterers gave him. He's had two bites and he couldn't say at all. Lance says, "Please just go away, okay?"
Michael sighs. "Look, I can see Justin's mad --"
"He broke up with me." It doesn't matter now, once you've slept with someone, you both have a secret to keep, and adding more to that, Lance doesn't care. "So, go away. I'll be apologizing for the rest of my life just so anyone speaks to me again."
"That's not right." Michael puts his hand over Lance's. It's the first time someone's touched Lance without anger in a week. Lance doesn't say anything else and Michael doesn't leave.
*
Concert footage of "Bye, Bye, Bye" and Justin's smile is forced. The way he spits out the words, the angry ones, isn't forced at all. Justin misses a step and everyone covers quickly.
After the show, Chris says, "Nice footwork, Bass. You do remember how to land, right? Being that close to my foot is not part of the choreography."
Justin doesn't look at Lance, says to the wall as he takes off his shirt, "You were flat. More than once."
JC just glares and Joey says, leaning over Lance while Lance takes off his mic, "Maybe if you spent more time in rehearsal and weren't so busy, you wouldn't be screwing up the show." Lance bites his lip and takes it.
JC says, "I like to sleep. A lot." And someone edited together a string of shots of JC sleeping, flopping down on couches, chairs, beds, grinning viciously at the camera as he closes his eyes.
Joey and Chris play video games. They don't talk at all, communicating in grunts. Lance starts to say something, but Joey says, "Lance, we're playing here. Be quiet."
Chris smiles at the camera and sings a song about Yoko Ono. He's looking to the left of the camera, not directly at it, and he hums part of the song, only sings the words where the lyrics are harsh. When he's done with that song, he starts singing "starfucker" over and over again. He looks up and to the left again, says, "Who doesn't love Tori Amos?"
*
Michael listens to bands who've never sold more than a hundred thousand albums. Lance wonders if he monitors the charts, sells CDs back when a band becomes too popular. They're in Lance's hotel room, Lance looking over budget reports, again, ticket sales, cost over-runs, while Michael reviews footage on his iBook. Michael put in the CD and Lance has no idea who it is, doesn't care at all. It's harsh, recorded badly on purpose, voices fading in and out, guitars out of tune, distortion everywhere.
"They hate me, you know? They're fucking up everything. Outside of the concerts, we're getting nothing." Michael sighs and stares at Lance, earnest for this one.
"Yes. I'm not their favorite person, you know?" Lance listens to Michael's fingers tapping on keys and tries to shut out the music.
"That's still -- they're vicious to you." Michael gets up and rubs Lance's shoulders, his hands warm but the massage clumsy and unfamiliar. "When boybands attack," he says with a chuckle.
"It's fine, it'll blow over. When the tour's done, it'll blow over." Lance closes his eyes. The room is filled with a ragged voice, straining for notes, turning into a shriek. Lance wants to listen to Garth Brooks, wants Justin, wants his life to be like a country song where the lovers get back together, and then he sighs.
Michael turns off the CD, pulls Lance onto the bed, sings off-key. Mumbles, "this is what you get when you mess with us" over and over again until Lance shuts him up with a kiss.
Lance is lying naked on the bed, stretched out, his body still processing the different way that it fits inside Michael and how Michael always tastes a little like the cinnamon Altoids he chews after each cigarette. He goes through a lot of Altoids.
Lance has fucked one girl and five guys, total. He's been fucked by one guy and kissed maybe a half-dozen others. He's twenty-three, almost twenty-four, and he thinks maybe he's missed something because of that. He wonders how many guys Michael has been with. He's not sure he even cares. He wonders if he had met Michael before he and Justin were together if anything would have happened.
Michael comes back from the bathroom and clambers on top of Lance, knees pinned around Lance's waist.
"What would be really hot," Michael says, "is to fuck pressed up against that huge picture window out in the other room. With, like, all of Seattle over your shoulder."
Lance says sure but doesn't move. Michael is hunched over, licking Lance's ear, and his back is a pale, slightly inclined slope down to where his ass sits on Lance's hips. It's only kind of hot.
"Or," Michael says, nipping with teeth at a fold of skin on Lance's neck. "I've been thinking, you know, after the show? With all the equipment unpacked there's plenty of room in my truck. Just for something quick. That would be hot."
Lance swallows, remembering when he and Justin were trying to break some kind of record for how many times they could fuck in a single day. "This is hot," he says, rubbing Michael's back. "This is fine."
"Where's the overachiever when you need him?" Michael says, tweaking one of Lance's nipples and sitting up. "I mean, why settle for fine when it can, like, fry your brain?"
Lance closes his eyes and realizes he's being given notes on his technique in bed. He thinks about fucking Michael hard, face squished against the glass, rough enough to make him cry because it hurts, and that's maybe kind of hot. He thrusts up a little and Michael groans, "yeah, yeah, like that, c'mon," and beneath his closed lids Lance is rolling his eyes but keeps going. He holds Michael's wrists tight by his sides and teases his dick up and down against Michael's ass but after a few pushes Michael lifts himself up and off the bed.
"What?" Lance says, still not looking. He wishes all the sex could be blind and deaf and mute and that when he opened his eyes he'd be somewhere else altogether, in someone else's life. With someone who looks like Justin but doesn't hate him.
"Hang on," Michael says. He sounds like he did at the beginning of the movie, when he was excited by every shot, every setup somehow artistic and truthful all at once. No one sounds that excited anymore, not even JC.
There's a cool draft across the bed and Lance rubs his stomach, thinking about a bath or a hot shower. He pulls his hand across his dick, wonders if that might warm him up enough. Maybe he doesn't need someone else to help make things better. This is nice, with his eyes closed and his own hand on his dick. It's like being fourteen again. It's simple.
"That's -- okay, that. Is fucking hot," Michael says, and Lance opens his eyes by accident.
Michael is standing at the foot of the bed with his digital video camera in one hand, stroking himself with the other.
Lance feels like he's falling from a thousand feet up, no harness to catch him, no screaming fans to carry his body and he makes a strangled noise and sits up, one hand cupped between his legs.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he shouts, and Michael roars with laughter.
"Come on," Michael says between wheezing chuckles, "come on. Do that again, just lean back and pretend I'm not even here."
"Are you fucking kidding?" Lance says letting go of the covers and sitting forward. He grabs Michael's wrist, hard, and tries to wrestle the camera away.
"That -- it's an eight thousand dollar camera, Lance, chill the fuck out," Michael says, not sounding amused, but Lance really doesn't give a fuck anymore.
He's gotten his fingers around the lightweight plastic and yanks it away. The red recording light is still on and Lance jabs at buttons but it doesn't go off. Michael is standing there, arms crossed, looking pissed.
"What is your problem?" Michael says, voice full of disbelief.
Lance snorts and throws the camera against the wall, hard enough to make the plaster crack and the handle come off and fly across the room.
Michael flinches and puts his hands up. "That is the worst of the many bad decisions you've made this tour, Lance," he says, furious.
Lance pulls on his boxers and a t-shirt and clenches his fists so hard his knuckles pop. "Are you insane?"
"Look, you really need, like, anger management or something. All of you do, you're all fucking crazy. I just thought it would be, you know, fun. It's not like I was going to put it in the movie or something." He almost sounds like he means it and Lance tries to take a deep breath. Michael steps forward.
Lance shakes his head. "You don't -- you can't come into my room -- this is not about that," he says. "You want to make some home videos, go call Tommy Lee, okay -- I mean, seriously. Seriously. I don't think you realize how bad an idea, what this would mean --" Michael's pulling on his jeans and Lance says, "There is just no way. No way."
"Fine," Michael says. "Fine, whatever. Go lock yourself in the bathroom and jerk off like some scared old man if that's what you want. This is my fucking life and I don't intend to run away every time someone might realize I'm a fag."
"Jesus, Michael. No one cares! You could be fucking some guy on the top of Empire State Building and really no one would give a flying fuck."
"What are you doing on Tuesday, then," Michael asks, face flushed.
"I'm certainly not --" Lance stops. He rubs his forehead and looks past Michael into the main room. It's dark and gray outside even though it's only four o'clock in the afternoon, and he has to leave soon to get ready for the show. "You have -- no idea. What my life is about."
"Right," Michael says. "I'm just the guy who's spent seven weeks following you around trying to make sense of it even though no one will fucking say two words to me now, just because your spoiled brat of a boyfriend doesn't know how guys are in the real world."
"Wow, I'm so glad to know you're what I have to look forward to, then," Lance says, running hands through his hair. It's almost funny, really, all of it.
"You'd be lucky," Michael says, and now Lance actually does laugh. Loudly.
And then he walks over and throws open the door. Michael grabs his shirt and shoes and goes into the hall. Lance says, shaking his head, "I'll send you a check for the camera."
*
The last quarter of the film is almost all concert footage. There are a few shots of Justin backstage, after shows, looking drained and confused. There is a scene where Joey, Chris and JC huddle and talk in low voices, almost not picked up by the boom mic, about calling Justin's mother, about having Johnny cancel a few dates.
"I haven't had the flu yet," Chris says. His eyes flicker up to the lens and come away mad.
"Do you think --" JC looks around, whispers this time but the bare scratch can still be heard if you listen carefully. "Is this going to go on like this, do you think? The two of them, I mean, not talking."
"Today Justin asked him to pass the cereal," Joey says.
Justin is curled up on the couch, Mary J. Blige loud and clear through his headphones. He has his hands over his face. Lance is at the table, papers everywhere. Chris throws a pencil in exasperation and walks back to the bathroom. Lance stares at Justin, reaches out a hand twice and then rubs it over his eyes instead. He sighs raggedly and looks out the window, knees tucked up in front of him, facing backwards.
The camera swings back up to where Chris has been standing, watching them, and then Chris is coming closer.
"I think you've gotten enough," Chris says. The screen goes black.
There's no credits and the black becomes color bars that become blue-screen. The VCR clicks off at the end of the tape and rewinds automatically, whirring gears loud in his huge, empty house. Justin snaps off the TV and walks out of the room.
*
"Been a while since Rudy called a family meeting," Chris says, flopping on the big couch in Johnny's media room. It's just the five of them, three weeks after the tour ended. Joey and JC claim the two big chairs and Lance sits on the rug, hugging his legs. Justin stands in front of the screen. He looks skinnier than usual, face drawn and tight. Everyone else has gained weight back after the last show except for the two of them, Lance thinks.
"We should do this together," Justin says, licking his lips and looking nervous. "Let's just, you know, try to get through it all at once, okay?"
Everyone looks at the floor until Joey finally says, "Yup, good plan, go team."
Lance hasn't seen anything since he quit sleeping with Michael. There were two weeks of shooting that was even more terse and awkward than it had already been and then the crew was gone. Chris called Johnny and Johnny handled the rest of it. Lance is as impatient as a little kid and wonders if he could cover his eyes for the scary parts until he realizes that will likely be most of the film.
The hardest is at the beginning, where Justin still glows every time Lance walks in a room and Lance looks annoyed a lot. It's the look his dad used to give him every time Lance wanted to watch The Sound of Music, again, like that in and of itself meant there were sure to be grave problems down the road.
Lance chews the inside of his cheeks and counts to a hundred in his head, over and over again, keeping track how many times until it's something like a hundred hundreds and he's dizzy and tastes blood in his mouth. Chris and Joey manage to watch silently for about fifteen minutes before they bust out their impression of Mystery Science Theater and JC giggles guiltily.
But they goofier they get the closer Lance pays attention, totally engrossed in these five guys so caught up in their own dramas. He's not sure he's ever seen them the way other people must, and even accounting for how pissed Michael probably was when he edited things together, there's a clumsy poetry in how little they resemble their long-reinforced idea of themselves. Chris' laugh sounds haunted and self-pitying and JC observes and jots notes in a journal attentively like he's saving it all for his book about the glory days. Joey sometimes watches them all like he's not sure why he's there, eyes darting to the door of any given room like he might get away clean if he ran fast.
And Justin. Oh, Justin. Justin, in this version of reality, throws temper tantrums and swears like a sailor and won't let anyone tell him what to do. Not even when Chris tries to give him a sweater because it's fifteen degrees in Denver and Justin wants the bus window open, air peeling back his short curls like ruffled feathers. Justin sniffles and tells Chris to fuck off.
It gets worse as it goes along, almost no conversation, no narration to move things along because that's what they'd settled on from the beginning. Performances where Justin and Lance never look at each other, even when it's in the choreography.
Chris and Joey's joking tapers off and JC shakes his head a lot like he's in pain. Lance thinks he comes off as more of an asshole with every passing minute. One scene where he screams at the caterer that all the sandwiches taste like dog shit and does she really think they still have to put up with things like that at this point in their careers makes Joey hiss out an angry breath. Lance isn't sure who Joey's pissed at, other than him, of course. He's resigned to everyone being pissed at him forever. He thinks they'll have a reunion tour when he's fifty and Chris will still glower at him as they take their places.
It ends and no one says anything. Lance finally stands up and hits the lights. Everyone squints except Justin, who's got his face buried in his hands. Lance blinks slowly and clears his throat. He wishes he'd never seen Truth or Dare.
"So," Lance says, and Chris peals off a string of laughs like he's a Chatty Cathy doll.
When Chris catches his breath, he says, "It's the same fucking thing, man, you know? Seven, almost eight years of this shit and I'm still fucking Ringo. Oh, that's Chris, he's the moody one. It's like in Germany when they'd hand out those backgrounders with our likes and dislikes, like we're the fucking Playmates of the year." He wipes his eyes and sniffs and shakes his head at Lance. "You gave me a run for my money on moody this time, though."
Joey sighs and kicks at the ground. "Lance, man. Oh man."
"We gotta talk about this," JC says. Lance sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. "We've -- we gotta talk about what our options are here. Like, all of us."
"We have two options," Joey says. "We can either --"
"No," Lance says. "There's no -- there's only one choice."
Justin looks up.
"I'm sorry," Lance says, looking from one guy to the next, looking at everyone, Justin last. Justin nods slightly and Lance swallows. "I'll take care of it," Lance says. "It's, I'll call Johnny and we'll take care of it."
"Okay," Justin says, standing up. "Okay then. I'll see y'all later." He pulls his sunglasses back down and lets the door fall shut behind him.
Johnny and Jive take care of it. They kill it and the only copies left of any of it, of all the non-performance footage are the two rough versions the guys have. Lance has one. He wonders if Justin still has the other. Lance watches his copy every night for a week, freeze-frames his favorite moments at the beginning when Justin's beautiful and happy. He doesn't let himself fast forward at the end when Justin's beautiful and sad.
Joey comes by, sometimes brings Brianna, and they watch old Southern Miss games on ESPN Classic. JC shows up, his new girlfriend on his arm, makes Lance come out to some club and then pushes him on the dance floor. Chris comes by, says he's taken up jogging. They run for two minutes and end up walking around the gated community, talking about the clothing business. It's better than before but Lance is pretty sure they're all making even more of an effort with Justin, and he says so to Joey.
Joey looks at him, looks away, grabs a beer. "Justin doesn't let us in the door. Or you know, we come in, he sits there and then he falls asleep on the couch until we leave." Joey pauses. "He hasn't even gotten laid since you, you know? He's just, he's just sad."
And it hurts, and Lance deserves that, he knows. He sees Justin's mom at the grocery store one late night and she says hello tightly and walks away, leaving her groceries in the aisle. He deserves that, too.
They have to meet, the band rolls on even now. Lance is almost late because he can't figure out what to wear. He wants to find the right outfit, the one that makes Justin want him back, and he doesn't have that. He settles on an orange shirt and jeans. He's lost enough weight, he even tucks it in.
Justin looks tired and a little less sad. It scares the fuck out of Lance. They talk about the album, JC and Justin have new songs and Lance misses all of it. He watches Justin, stares at his jaw, his eyes, his long fingers. Joey asks him a question and Lance shakes his head. He doesn't answer.
Lance stands up and everyone stares at him. "We're not done, Lance," Chris says.
"I know," Lance says. "I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving. I'm standing up because, I don’t know." Lance pauses, takes a deep breath. Truth, he thinks. "Justin, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything and I want you to take me back. Please."
Justin puts his hands palm down on the table, looks down at his hands. "No."
Joey and Chris exchange glances. JC just stares. Lance starts up again. "It's okay, you know, I don't deserve you at all. I mean, seriously, I don't at all. And I really fucked up. Not just with the Michael thing, but with all of it, with the way I was and not -- not. Whatever the things I didn't do and did do. All of that. You're great, you know, and I was an ass. I kept, I dunno, fuck -- I have no idea. I kept waiting for the end to come -- not us, but the big smash ending that comes when you get from the beginning and into the middle and it was already there, it was us already and I'm a fucking idiot." He walks around the table, gets down on his knees next to Justin. He says again, "Please," realizes he's almost crying.
JC coughs. Chris and Joey look like they want to bolt but they don't get up. Justin doesn't look up or at Lance. His hands are almost clawing at the table. "Why are you doing this now," he says quietly.
"Because. Because, I have no idea. I can't -- Justin, I love you." Lance takes a moment to breathe, he's been holding his breath all this time. He realizes he's said all this in front of everyone and he's never even really said "Justin is hot" in front of them all.
Justin pushes back from the table, looks at Lance. He says, "I know." Then he gets up and walks away.
Lance covers his face with his hands and sighs. He won’t cry, he tells himself. He rubs his eyes. JC touches his back. "Dude, that took balls."
Lance almost laughs. "It didn't work at all."
Chris snorts. "Lance, honey, next time you plan something like this, give a guy some warning."
"I didn't plan it at all. I didn't plan any of this." Lance stands up and sags against the table.
"Well," Joey says, "We have to meet again in two days, so next time you can try a different script."
"A script!" Lance giggles, light-headed but not really confused anymore. "Maybe that would have worked better."
He feels good, though, even after everyone leaves and he drives home to his empty house. He's going to do this, he's going to get Justin to take him back. He toys with the script idea, but he's not such a great actor. He tries to think of something but all he comes up with is wearing a different shirt. He doesn't really understand how he's so good at doing things usually and can't come up with a decent plan for this when it's so much more important than everything else.
Justin sits on the other side of the room this time, the five of them in chairs scattered around the room and not at the table. He starts off the meeting by asking everyone to hold their nervous breakdowns until the end so they can get things decided before they fall apart. He doesn't smile as he says it, but he doesn't glare at Lance either, so Lance takes heart. Justin doesn't look at Lance the whole meeting. Lance knows because he looks at Justin the whole time.
The meeting is good. They decide things. When they're done, Lance holds up a hand. "I have a thing."
Justin sighs. He rubs his forehead. "Lance."
Lance walks over and kneels in front of Justin, puts his hands on Justin's legs. "Justin. Seriously. I won't stop."
Justin doesn't move, doesn't look at him. "You're gonna disrupt every meeting we have with this -- this stuff?"
Lance nods. "Yes. I'm gonna do stupid, extravagant, idiotic romantic gestures until you take me back." Justin snorts, looks down at his chest. "I can do it, you know. Big gestures."
"Like what?" Justin says quietly.
Lance swallows. He should have planned better. "Um. Front row tickets to a Wizards game?"
"Jordan's injured again. The Wizards suck."
"Fuck." Lance pauses, tries to think again. "When we do the show -- the benefit in two weeks -- when I speak, I'm gonna dedicate a song to you. To the one I love."
Justin's mouth quirks a little. "Lance. You checked the setlist? The next song we perform after you speak is 'Bye Bye Bye.'"
Lance hangs his head. But Justin kind of grinned, so Lance laughs. "Okay. I won't do that. I'll take out an ad. In the New York Times. That's thousands of dollars."
Justin looks at him for a split second. "What would it say?"
Lance thinks he really should planned this better. "Uh. Lance Bass is a big dork. He doesn't deserve what he had but he wants another chance anyway. Something witty like that."
Justin looks at him again. He looks away. "That's hardly witty."
Lance pushes himself up and braces his knees against the chair, forces Justin's legs apart a little. It's like a lapdance, he's balanced on his knees on the edge of the chair. He moves his hands to the armrests and leans in and says quietly, "I'll sing for you."
Justin looks at him, eyes wide. "Do that now."
Lance blinks. He can't remember the words to "Let's Get It On," though he thinks it would be the most appropriate now. He really, really wishes he had planned this better. His mind isn't working because Justin is right beneath him, he can almost feel the heat coming off Justin. Lance brings one leg up, nudges Justin forward in the chair so he can straddle Justin and Justin doesn't push him off. He's sitting on top of Justin and the best part of everything is he can feel how hard Justin is. The worst part is that now he needs to sing something.
Behind him, he hears JC laugh a little in amazement. Joey says quietly, "If this goes any further, we should maybe leave."
Chris snorts. "If this goes any further, we should sell tickets."
Justin grips Lance's thighs for a moment. "Sing now. Or forever hold your peace." He lets go of Lance but keeps staring at him.
Lance opens his mouth. He starts singing the only song he can remember. "It's hard to say I'm sorry, it's hard to make the things I did undone..."
Justin bursts out laughing. "Oh, fuck. You win. You fucking freak. Stop singing that damn song."
Lance laughs. "No." He starts again but Justin grabs his face and kisses him.
Chris says loudly, "Thank God." He leaves, and Joey and JC go, too, but Lance isn't exactly sure when that happens. He just knows that when Justin pushes him down on the floor and pulls off his shirt, he looks around and they're the only ones in the room. Justin's humming "I Want You Back" as he thrusts into Lance and it's perfect. Lance isn't waiting for the end. Everything's the way it should be already.
END.
Credits: The ddddirty popstars: Sandy, J-Lo and Lizzie. Soundtrack by Kristin Hersh, Marvin Gaye, D'Angelo and Radiohead. Picture show courtesy Almost Famous, Rough Cut, Don't Look Back, Backstage, Hard Core Logo and The Real World.