Lance knows even before he wakes up that something terrible has happened.  He knows this because of the sharp ache in his back and the fact that his eyes feel dry and swollen, like he's cried. 

"You awake?"  He hears Joey's voice, barely a whisper, and partial memories of what has happened begin to return.  The tears suddenly make a whole lot of sense.

Lance groans and rolls onto his stomach because even though he can't remember what happened to his back, he remembers the way that Joey had had to take so many deep breaths before  standing behind him and saying, "okay, this might hurt for a second." 

"We've gotta move while it's dark."  Joey is gathering up their few possessions from the disheveled bed and stuffing them in his backpack.  Lance knows that he shouldn't be making him do everything, but that knowledge doesn't compel him to move; he sits numbly on the edge of the bed and lets Joey push his sneakers onto his feet, tie the laces tightly.  "Wear this," he instructs, and hands Lance a baseball cap. 

They move quickly and silently down the street, although Lance doesn't know how he can even walk.  His legs feel weak from blood loss and terror.  He can't understand why Justin had been holding a gun, but that's all he can see over and over again, Justin's expression of disbelief, the way he'd looked down at his own hand.  The blood.  

"I don't even know who's dead," he says.  If Joey thinks that it's a strange first thing to say after four hours of silence, he doesn't mention it.  Instead, he leads them down through an alley where a cab is waiting on the other side and says,

"We'll find out soon enough." 

***

"Where the fuck are they?"  Chris can see the first light of dawn coming over the horizon, and even though he's been up all night, he's vibrating with excess energy. 

"They'll be here," JC says, looking over Chris' shoulder.  "I think…we shouldn't have split up."

"We had to." Chris keeps his watch, doesn't blink.  "And we might have to again.  It's too conspicuous, the five of us." 

"What if they don't make it?"  Justin asks, shivering.  He's cold, freezing, shaking so hard that his whole body hurts. 

"JC, didn't I tell you he's in fucking shock?  Get over there," Chris snaps, even though he's really not mad at JC.  He just feels the time slipping away.  Joey and Lance are late.  He stares out the window and wills them to appear until finally, when the outdoors are fully bathed in morning light, they do. 

Lance looks pale and drawn, but Joey is practically frantic when they stumble in.  "Chris, thank God.  It hasn't hit the news yet." 

This is what Chris had wanted to hear, and he hugs Joey tightly, finally breathes.  "Let's move, then." 

"Slow down, let's talk about-"

"Not now, Joe.  We get somewhere safe first."  He pauses, touches his fingers to his goatee.  "I'm open to suggestions." 

"The Four Seasons," Lance mutters.

"North.  We go north," JC says.  His arms are wrapped tightly around Justin, whose trembling has subsided for now.  "They'll expect us to go to Mexico."  

The car is parked around back, and Chris assures them that they'll be able to use it for at least a few days before it'll be missed.  He takes the wheel because he's the calmest, although JC is a close second.

"I hope you're not bleeding all over our very first stolen car," he says, once they get on the freeway.  He tilts the rearview mirror until he can see Lance, who still looks too pale.

"Just on Joey's coat," Lance throws back, and Chris gives him a wink before returning his attention to the road.  Joey is holding their map with tightly clenched fingers.  He'd been the one to extract the piece of metal out of Lance's soft, flawless back, and every few minutes, he slides his hand into his pocket, feels along the dangerous edge.

***

"This is so fucked up."  Justin's already expressed this sentiment at least a dozen times since they arrived at the run-down trucker's motel, and Chris wishes that he'd display just a tiny bit of hysteria so he could legitimately slap him.  "I mean, this can't be real."  

"We should've gone to the police," Joey suggests.

"No fucking way."  With just a light hand on Chris' arm, Justin can feel the fury bubbling beneath the surface.  "It's a dirty deal.  You want them to go to prison?  Please tell me how you think they'd do in jail, Fatone."

"They didn't do it, they wouldn't necessarily be convicted," Joey argues.  He just wants to know what's happening. 

"I wouldn't count on it.  They've already got witnesses lining up to talk about Justin's homicidal rampage." 

They can't stop watching the tv, listening to the anchor people talk endlessly about how fame and fortune could turn a formerly wholesome group of boys into killers. 

"It's the whole celebrity mindset," a correspondent declares arrogantly on the screen. "People start to believe that they can truly get away with anything." 

"I didn't do it," Justin says into JC's shoulder.  "I know I didn't." 

"What the fuck happened??" Joey demands.  When he, Chris and Lance had arrived at the party, they'd been met with a terrifying chaos that still hasn't ended.  Two people are dead. 

"I'm not sure."  JC shakes his head.  "I think…that it was about me and Justin, though.  You guys weren't even supposed to be there tonight." 

"But we were!" Joey argues.  "And that makes it look even worse, like we planned it!  Like we all…" 

"I didn't do it!"  Justin shouts back.  "Fuck!  Fuck…Chris," he says imploringly as he starts to shake again.  He presses his hands to his eyes, and Chris points the remote at the tv, turns it off. 

"They think you did it.  You and Lance.  The rest of us are only, like, accessories or something." 

"Me?" Joey says in disbelief.  "I just wanted to go to a party." 

"We get it, Joe.  You're innocent.  We won't be turning your ass in to the cops anytime in the near future, alright?  Shit." 

"No," Lance says quietly.  He's been standing near the window, too anxious to sit.  "Chris.  That's not what Joey's saying.  He means…"  He meets Joey's gaze and tries to appear neutral.  "He can still get out.  I'm fucked, and Justin…but the rest of you don't have to be here.  You should go while you can." 

Chris is left speechless.  The very idea that Lance would even suggest…yet, Joey is looking down at his hands, ashamed, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. 

JC stands up.  "What?  No." 

"Joey has a kid."  Lance walks to the mirror and watches everyone in the reflection.  He can't bear to see what's about to happen, and when he looks in the mirror, he can pretend it's all a movie, happening to someone else.  "He should have the right to choose."  From behind, they can all see the crimson stain blooming on his back, spreading in a ragged circle through his t-shirt.

Joey stays. 

***

"Who would do this?  I mean, who hates us that much?"  Justin is still very much in denial.

At that, Chris laughs loudly.

"Okay, who hates us enough to do something like this?"

"God," Lance muses.  "Where do we start?" 

"Lou," JC suggests, because he's never completely gotten over that. 

"This is a little extreme.  More like a woman scorned," Chris corrects.  "What've we got?" 

"Britney," Joey and Lance say at once. 

"Fuck off," Justin sulks, but it's true.  The video had been cruel, and it had furthered his star power, which was what he'd really wanted.  When she'd called him in tears, demanding an explanation, he'd pretended to lose his signal.  "She wouldn't do something like this, anyhow." 

"This is pointless.  How many people have we pissed off over the past few years?" Lance asks.  "Just by our very existence.  It could be anyone.  An enemy, a fan…"

"A Backstreet fan," JC snorts, and even Joey cracks a smile for the bare, briefest moment.

***

Chris decides that they need to alter their appearances.  They sit in a haphazard circle in their motel room and look from face to face, studying each other carefully.  Someone has to go get the supplies, and Chris has said the least conspicuous of them will go. 

"Not Joey," Lance says, finally.  "He's too…" 

Chris rolls his eyes.   What Lance doesn't want to say, what Lance would never say, is tall, handsome, charismatic.  Heads turn for Joey, and for that reason, Justin is out of the running as well. 

The problem is that they've intentionally put together a group of maybe not the best-looking guys in the world, but definitely striking enough that they can't help but stand out in a crowd.  Chris thinks that JC is their best bet, easily disguised as an average joe, but not with that hair, which is impossible to hide. 

"I don't know."  JC shrugs apologetically at Chris.  "Maybe you could…" 

Chris agrees with a nod, and the rest of them reluctantly give their consent.  It's eerily quiet after that while Chris dresses in front of them, his movements slow and careful.  Justin hands him a baseball cap at the door. 

"Don't talk to anyone," he tells Chris, his eyes bright and fearful.  Chris just turns the cap around backwards and reaches for the doorknob. 

"Be ready to go when I get back." 

***

"Is it still raining outside?" 

Chris peers up at the cashier over his glasses.  "Yeah."  He watches her quick hands scanning each item as though it's nothing.  Her disinterest is reassuring.

It feels strange to talk to someone; he hasn't spoken with anyone but the four of them since yesterday, when on the way out of town he'd stopped at a bank and made small talk with the teller while she counted his money out to him in thick stacks of clean twenty dollar bills.  That was before the news had hit, though. 

None of them will see any of their money ever again, and Chris dreads the moment when Justin realizes this. 

***

Halfway through Nevada, they check into another ramshackle motel.  They're too exhausted to do anything but lie down on the two double beds and sleep.  They sleep all night and half the next day.  Lance wakes up once, with a start, from unsettling dreams.  The reality is pitch darkness and Joey's hand splayed protectively over his injured back, so he shuts his eyes again, lets his body heal. 

In the morning, he calls Joey into the bathroom to check his wound, and when Joey appears at the door, he has a box of hair color in his hand. 

"Um."  Lance's eyes travel sadly over the box.  "Seriously?" 

"'Fraid so." Joey does all the work opening and mixing the dye because left to himself, Lance will never do it.  He's been so plain his whole life…until the first time he rinsed the bleach from his hair and emerged a blonde.  It had been a monumental transformation, and shallow or not, it's played a big part in shaping his own self-image. 

When it's done, he looks at himself in the cracked mirror and sighs.  Between his hair and Joey's newly clean-shaven face, they look like the same kids from six years ago.  Scary. 

They're all clean-shaven now because Justin insists that goatees are a boyband trademark and must be destroyed, even though he's spent the past six months growing his out.  He ends up chasing Chris around the room twice, waving a razor, but Chris' heart isn't in the game.  He surrenders quickly and emerges from the bathroom looking fresh and new. 

"Here," JC says, and hands Lance the scissors.  Lance thinks that he understands why he's been chosen for the task.  He's stiff and silent while Lance works, and when it's over, the floor is littered with light brown curls.  Joey makes a soft, choked sound when he sees the results.  Lance drops the scissors in the sink, feeling like a murderer, but JC just ruffles a hand over his shorn head and rolls his shoulders.  Smiles. 

"It feels nice," he says, and hugs Lance.  "Thanks."

Chris takes him aside and tries to tell him, "Listen, Jayce, you still look, uh…" but JC just smiles and hugs him, too. 

"It's really okay," he insists.  "It didn't mean anything to me," he keeps saying, until they finally believe him.

***

TV is suddenly fascinating.  They're still everywhere, but it's completely different now that the reporters are talking not about what Justin's favorite color happens to be, but the fact that he is armed and dangerous.

"We're famous!" Chris declares, watching the news script scroll across the bottom of CNN. 

"Hey," Justin complains.  They're using footage from "Cry Me a River" as a backdrop for his bio, which he thinks is enormously unfair.  "I mean, I was supposed to look psycho there.  I was acting."   Joey and Lance duck their heads together, trying to hide their smiles because they'd thought the video had been a crappy thing to do to begin with.  

***

They only have a few minutes before they leave, and the rest of the guys are waiting in the car when Chris approaches Lance. 

"Hey," he says.  They're standing in the doorway of the bathroom, surrounded by moldy tile and chipped paint.  "I just want to make sure," he says carefully, "that you know everything that could happen, here." 

Lance nods and stares at the tile.  He's felt the scrutiny of Chris' attention for the past few days, so he's been expecting this.  "I know." 

"I mean, we're all together now, but if later on, we're not all together, if one of us decides to leave…it wouldn't be because he doesn't love us. And you think you can't, but you can do this without him if you need to."  He slips a pair of shades on and jerks a thumb toward the door.  "Okay.  Now.  Onward." 

Lance slides into the backseat with Justin and JC and thinks about what Chris said.  He'd been talking about Joey, of course, and he hadn't been wrong to say something.  Lance senses Joey's indecision, as well.  Why wouldn't he be having second thoughts about throwing his entire life away?  Lance has always believed that of all of them, Joey holds the most talent, the most potential. 

Leaving is the best thing for Joey, but Chris is right-- Lance can't imagine doing this without him. 

***

"Shit."

"Um, yeah." 

"So I guess we know now why going north wasn't such a good idea." 

JC reaches out and catches a snowflake on the back of his hand.  It melts, leaving a cold, wet patch that he looks at, then licks.  "Sorry," he says, but he doesn't look sorry to any of them.  He looks happy and content. 

"New plan," Chris says, and slaps his hands on his pants. 

"Go south?" Justin says hopefully.

"Too late for that.  But we're gonna need a different car.  Something that can get us through a whole lot more of this," Chris says, gesturing at the weather.  They've just stepped out of a nondescript diner attached to a truck stop, and are huddled against the wall while Lance fills the car up with gas. 

"How we gonna get something like that?" 

Chris thinks for a long while before answering.  "I've got cash." 

"You- how much?" Joey asks.  His own money is almost depleted, but he only had about a hundred bucks to start with. 

"Enough to buy a good, reliable truck.  That'll more or less clean me out, but at least we'd have a ride that the cops weren't looking for.  Speaking of which, we need to ditch this one as soon as we can."

He drops them off at yet another motel and gives Lance four hundred dollars.  "Just in case I don't come back," he says, and Lance thinks that he's never hated anything the way he hates the money in his hand, and what it stands for.  He lurches forward and throws his arms around Chris, holds on tightly for what seems like not nearly long enough, but Chris eventually disentangles himself, laughs, saying not to worry. 

He finds a used Blazer with a For Sale sign and pays cash for it.  The guy counts the money and gives him the title and keys, no questions asked.  On the way home, he stops at the liquor store and gets some cheap liquor.  He picks up pizza, too, even though they can't really afford it, because Joey and Justin have been looking pretty down. If they're going to live dangerously then they should live well, too, because it's all about the same thing.  No regrets. 

While he's gone, Lance tries to watch tv.  He just doesn't feel safe without Chris here, which is ridiculous because when it comes down to it, Chris is just one of them and aside from making wisecracks and planning everything, what can he do?  Certainly not protect them from the police, if they were to be found.  But he's holding them all together, and Lance paces restlessly in his absence.  JC and Justin are giggling on one of the beds, putting together lyrics for a song.  Judging by the scattered phrases that he overhears, he assumes that it's a song about being fugitives, which he doesn't think is funny at all.  Still, it feels nice to hear their quiet, good-natured bickering.  It feels normal. 

***

Later, when they're all halfway drunk, Chris lifts his plastic cup in a toast.  "To the four best friends in the world," he says dramatically.  "We always said we did everything together, and I guess we really fucking meant it." 

JC giggles and lays his head on Chris' knee.  "I'll drink to that," he says shyly.  "And to being free." 

They all drink to it, even Joey, who's engrossed in one of the skin magazines that Chris brought back with him.  When everyone starts to settle in for the night, he heads for the bathroom.  Lance waits a heartbeat and then follows, the alcohol in his blood still enough to make him bold.  It's not locked, and when Lance slips inside, Joey's already got his pants undone and taken himself in hand. 

Lance moves forward and ignores the way that Joey stumbles back toward the wall.  If he keeps moving forward, he can't lose any ground, he tells himself.  "I just thought…" he says, gesturing at what Joey's doing.  "It feels better if it's someone else…"  and Joey is shaking his head, so Lance sinks down to his knees.

"Please," he says again, and licks the side of it where Joey's hand isn't protecting.  "It's just, it'll feel good."   And he wants Joey to feel so good because Joey has the most potential of them all, Joey is giving up the most, and Lance is the one wanted for murder. 

"I can't," Joey says in a hoarse whisper.  He pets Lance's head with his other hand, pets and pets and can't seem to stop.  "We can't." 

Lance knows all of the reasons why they couldn't before; he has them memorized along with every consequence and loophole, but none of that applies now. They've spent so long thinking of the reasons why they can't..  Now he thinks of reasons why they can. 

"We can.  I am," he says, and Joey's hand falls away. 

***

Justin snores loudly and kicks Chris under the covers, sending Chris inching closer to JC.  No one ever wants to sleep next to Justin.

"Free?" he whispers against the delicate shell of JC's ear. 

"Yeah." JC sighs and stretches out lazily.  "Don't you think?" he asked.  Chris doesn't, because the demands that were made on Chris were not the same demands made on Justin and JC.  He only knows that JC has never looked so contented. 

Chris shuts his eyes and listens to JC's humming until the heater kicks off and the room is abruptly still.  In the silence, he hears new sounds that he hadn't noticed before, coming from the bathroom. 

JC chuckles beside him, his breath hot and damp on Chris' neck.  "They're in there, you know," he whispers.  "Lance and Joey.  They've both wanted this for so long."   

It's true.  It's almost painful, sometimes, to watch Lance wanting Joey.  Lance, who hasn't dated anyone in the entire time that Chris has known him because he'd rather wait for the unattainable than have something that's not Joey.  It's been such a constant that sometimes they forget it's even there, but Lance has never forgotten. 

"See?" JC asks sleepily, and covers a yawn with his hand.  "They're free now, too.  Stop worrying, man. Go to sleep." 

***

Lance creeps across the darkened room, Joey at his heels, and they slide quietly into bed.  As soon as they're under the covers, Joey's arms come around him they kiss softly, honestly, with open mouths.  Joey's body is still warm, a little sweaty from their quick coupling in the bathroom, and it's perfect, Lance thinks.  Joey is perfect, sexy and safe and- Lance hears a sound from the other bed; freezes. 

"Oh, JC," Chris moans dramatically.  "You're so hot."  A muffled giggle, a whisper and then Lance can hear JC's answering,

"Chris, baby.  Do it like that, yeah, like that," and Lance shoves his face into the pillow, mortified, because, yes, he'd been saying that very thing about ten minutes earlier, but isn't there such a thing as privacy? 

"Shut up," Joey hollers, jostling the bed.  "Sons of bitches."  But he ruins it by cracking up when Chris starts breathing hard and telling JC to get on top.  Joey rustles around until something sails across the space between the beds and lands with a thud on the other side. 

"Hey!" Justin snarls nastily, still half-asleep.  He hurls Joey's pillow back across the room.  "What the fuck!?" 

Lance is glad that he doesn't have to share the bed with Justin.  He snores, too.

***

Chris is a little preoccupied with the whole evading the police thing, not to mention the fact that they're nearly out of money, but he's not so preoccupied that he doesn't notice the way that Joey stands stiffly across the room from Lance the next day, hardly saying a word.  When Joey goes with JC to find a laundromat, Chris settles on the floor next to Lance, who is reading the newspaper. 

"Okay, Bass," he sighs, and pushes the newspaper out of the way.  Lance won't look at him, and now Chris realizes that his eyes are red and watery, as close as Lance gets to crying.  "What's going on with you and Joe?" 

Lance doesn't know.  Joey is like a completely different person today, distant and polite, nothing like he'd been last night when he'd admitted so many things to Lance and then touched him everywhere. 

He'd thought that if he could get Joey to let the inevitable happen between them, then his decision would be cemented and no one would worry about whether or not Joey had made up his mind, but it's turned out to be the opposite instead.  Lance has the nagging feeling that last night was some sort of closure for Joey, a final gesture before he leaves for his real life--which is, of course, a better life. 

"I thought he'd stay," Lance admits. 

"He's leaving?"

"No.  I mean, I don't know.  I didn't ask him.  I thought I'd be able to…that I'd feel entitled to ask.  But I don't." 

"That doesn't mean he's leaving."  Chris thinks there's no chance in hell that Joey would leave now.  Lance is being paranoid just because his boyfriend doesn't know how to act the morning after.  He's about to tell Lance, too, but JC and Joey return with a bag of clean clothes, something that they haven't had for an entire week. 

"Thank God!" Justin yells, and grabs for the bag, rummaging through for his shirt.  Lance waits his turn and watches Joey out of the corner of his eye, but Joey is apparently talking to everyone but him, so he gives up and goes outside where it's freezing, maybe about to snow.  He likes the way he can see his breath, how the air freezes in his lungs.  It hurts, just like his suddenly aching back that hasn't been disinfected all day because Joey, the person who's been taking care of it, won't even look at him. 

Back in the motel room, Chris throws a dangerous look at Joey.  "You wanna do us a favor?  Go out there and bring him back the way you found him, 'cause we can't afford shit like this." 

Joey tugs at his hat and lets the door bang shut behind him. 

***

Chris is driving too slowly.  Joey grits his teeth and doesn't say anything, though, because speeding would mean cops, and that's something they can't afford.  So the alternative is sitting in the back of their Blazer, not saying anything, even when Lance takes his hand, which he doesn't deserve. 

No one knows what happened, only that Lance and Joey had come stumbling, tearing into the hotel room and grabbing up their stuff, shoving JC and Justin off the bed and insisting that they leave right that instant. It'd been so much like that first terrifying night that they'd all been a little afraid, but now they're just curious. 

JC left his shoes behind in the rush, and he stares at his stocking feet.  His socks are expensive.  They probably cost at least twenty dollars, and he thinks that these are the last pair of twenty-dollar socks that he'll ever own.  He doesn't feel sad about it, only relieved.  And alive.  He's ultra-aware of how hard he is, how hard he's been off and on since this whole thing started, but definitely now after the frenzied escape.  Maybe he'll ask Chris about it later, but no one else seems to be turned on, so maybe he'll just keep it to himself.

"You've gotta tell us sometime," Chris says from the front seat, and Joey looks up with a start. 

"It's okay," Lance whispers, but Joey doesn't feel okay at all.  He leans sideways until Lance strokes his hair and kisses his head, which is what he wanted all along. 

"Don't tell," he blurts, eyes closed, which draws strange looks from Justin and JC. 

"Tonight, you'll tell us," Chris decides.  "Until then, you're gonna have to tell me where you think we should head." 

"East," Lance says.  Justin unfolds the wrinkled map and studies the red and black lines for a few minutes. 

"South Dakota?" he asks, and Chris gives him an incredulous look. 

"By tonight?  No, we're stopping tonight.  After that we'll drive straight through, but we'll stop tonight.  Pick somewhere in Utah, Just." 

"Okay."  Justin would rather be driving, but doesn't mind navigating.  He likes anything that provides at least the illusion of having some control, even though it's obvious by now that none of them are controlling much of anything these days.  He thinks they will be able to make South Dakota by tonight, and picks somewhere right on the border so that Chris will know he was wrong. 

They listen to the radio in silence until JC cringes and says, "I really hate the word manhunt.  I mean…it implies freaky shit." 

"Like that movie, with those hicks…" Justin agrees, and turns the radio to something other than news. 

"Deliverance," Lance supplies.  Joey thinks that it sounds nice coming from Lance's mouth, uplifting, like something a preacher would say.  He imagines Lance as one of those hellfire and brimstone preachers who wear expensive suits and say stuff like "deliverance from evil," but then he remembers what they did last night and thinks maybe not. 

"Do we need to shop?"  There's a sign for a Super Wal-Mart at the next exit.

Justin turns around in his seat.  "Lance and JC need warm coats." 

"Food," Chris says.  "Who wants to get food?"  He hates shopping for groceries, and hopes that Lance will volunteer, so he stares at him until he does. 

"I, uh.  I don't have any shoes," JC says.  "I didn't have time to…at the motel." 

"Jesus, C!"  Chris stares.  "That was six hours ago.  Why didn't you say anything?" 

"I don't know.  It actually felt kind of…" 

"Oh no.  No, do not say it," Chris says, his hands over his ears, because he absolutely cannot hear JC extol the new experience of being in need.  It's a bunch of bull because Chris has been poor and he's been rich, and he knows that being rich is definitely better.  "You two stay in the car," he tells Justin. 

"And don't worry," he winks at JC, before leaving.  "I'll make sure I get you some real crappy shoes.  You can write a song about it." 

***

Justin starts to cry sometime after they check into the latest motel.  One minute he's flipping through the channels and the next, he's sobbing into his hands in delayed reaction to what's happened. 

When it becomes apparent that he's not going to stop crying anytime soon, Chris tries to talk to him, but Justin just locks himself in the bathroom and tells them all to fuck off.  "I need to be by myself," he says nastily, "I know it's a difficult concept for you to understand," and Chris yells through the bathroom door that Justin has never been by himself in his entire life.  

"Just come out," he screams, and Lance pulls at his arm, pulls Chris away from the door. 

"Chris, please.  It's just a little much for him right now." 

"A little much?" Chris screeches, and jerks his arm away.  "It's a little much for all of us!  I fucking hate this, hate this.  He's just a kid and I can't help him!  There isn't a damn thing I can do about any of it!"  His face contorts suddenly and he lashes out, kicks the bed frame, the nightstand and sends the phone to the floor with an off-key ring before pointing at Lance.  "And then you two, with your big secret.  How can I take care of us when you're all so fucked in the head!?" 

Joey stops Chris before he can break anything else.  Carefully, he holds Chris' arms with strong, wide hands, feeling the deep, shuddering breaths that Chris is having to take to stay calm.  When Chris finally slackens and raises the most dark, bruised eyes that Joey's ever seen on him, Joey takes a breath of his own.

"I shot someone.  A cop.  He saw.  He recognized Lance and chased him into those woods.  He had handcuffs; he was ready to take him, Chris.  I couldn't…so I shot him." 

"Joey," Lance sighs, hurting inside because of what it's cost Joey to make that confession. 

"You-" Chris stumbles away and sprawls on the bed.  His eyes seek out JC, who is hovering in the corner.  Both of JC's hands are clasped to his mouth, leaving nothing but wide, unblinking eyes.  He hadn't known, either. 

"Where the fuck did you get a gun, Joe?"  Chris asks. 

JC makes a choked, stifled sound from his corner, and the words are so muffled under his hands that Chris has to ask him to repeat himself.  The second time around, he hears the answer clearly.

"I gave it to him." 

"Jayce?"  Chris is stunned numb, and his previous rage has dissolved into pure confusion and disappointment. 

"Yeah, I."  JC straightens, stands taller and meets Chris' eye.  From behind him he pulls out his backpack and throws it onto the bed.  "I was, um.  I was going to use it when I robbed the laundromat." 

***

"Okay, so apparently we are in need of some rules, since some of us seem to have lost our minds."  Chris paces between the two beds and pauses only occasionally to glare at whoever he's the most pissed off with at the moment.  Lance and Joey hold hands behind their backs and try to look respectful and fearful.  Lance isn't completely pretending. 

Justin is over his hysterics, huddled with JC on the bed.  He keeps turning around to look at Joey, though, and Lance wishes that he'd stop because it's making Joey self-conscious.  Chris is giving them a harangue of a lifetime, which, Lance can admit, they rightly deserve. 

"First rule.  Don't do anything fucking illegal unless we discuss it first.  That way we'll avoid lameass robberies that'll make us a joke when we get caught."  JC looks down at the bedspread, appropriately contrite.  "Second rule," Chris says, and softens his voice for Joey, to whom he is grateful even if he can't let it show.  "Obviously, we're not going to kill anyone.  Unless it's a complete emergency, like with Joe."

"He didn't die," Lance says quietly.  "He's in the hospital."

"Good," Chris says, and his hands unclench slowly from their tight fists.  "Good. Number three."  He stops, stares at the wall for a long time.  In that time, Justin starts to cry again and JC hushes him with a knee-pat and their last beer.  Chris blinks back into reality and drops onto the remaining corner of the bed, facing them all.  "No secrets.  That's been what we've said all along, but we've all had our little lies, or whatever, and that was fine for the Nsync thing.  It's different, now, though.  So-- honesty.  Got it?" 

"I'm sorry," JC says.  "I thought it'd be a good idea.  We needed the money.  And I didn't really rob it.  I mean, I stole, but no one was around, so I just took the money from the cash register." 

"Jesus, Jayce," Chris says, and shakes his head.  He stares at JC like he might be able to see what had happened just by looking at his face.  JC can't stand to be studied so closely, and fidgets uncomfortably, draws his knees up to his chin in case Chris notices the erection that won't seem to go away.  He can't help it, though.  His body feels alive, thrumming with energy that has nowhere to go. 

Of course Chris notices.  "Hmm," he drawls dramatically, signaling that someone is about to be mocked, and good.  "Does anybody think that one of us might be really be getting off on this whole life of crime thing?"  He taps his chin thoughtfully.

JC puts his forehead to his knees, tries to hide.  "It's not…" 

"Tell us it's not like that!" Chris hoots, which sets them all off laughing, especially Lance, who has definitely noticed.  JC is such a freak sometimes.  "Whatever!  Hey, at least one of us thinks that this is a swingin' good time." 

"I don't," JC insists.  Chris and Justin are tugging at him, trying to get him to emerge from the tight ball he's curled into, so he raises his head.  His face feels hot, embarrassed.  "I just…it feels good to be able to stop."

"Stop what?" 

"Everything.  Recording stuff I'm not sure about, working with people I hate but feel like I need because of their talent, going out when I don't really feel like it, just to be seen…and if you stop, it's over.  I love the music, but it's not even about the music anymore." 

"What are you talking about?" Lance says, but Justin is strangely silent. 

JC gestures helplessly and looks to Chris, who's been warning them about stuff like this since the beginning.  "When we ran, I feel like…I'm glad it's over, because I didn't know how to end it."  He shakes his head, frustrated with his inability to put his feelings into words.  "It's fucked up, I know…" 

"No, I get it."  Justin picks at the bedspread, his face serious.  "I could tell it was starting to freak you out." 

"It's okay.  I'm okay," JC insists.  Everyone is starting to look really sad, and that's the last thing he needs.  They can worry about Joey or Justin now, because JC was telling the truth.  He's never felt better. 

***

Chris watches everyone as they go about their evening.  Joey and Lance have been having a quiet conversation in one of the beds, which mostly consists of Lance talking while Joey gives him subdued, hopeful glances.  At one point, Joey pulls what looks like a small piece of metal out of his pocket and gives it to Lance.  They stop talking then, and start kissing. 

Justin is boring to watch.  All he does is watch tv and occasionally eavesdrop on Lance and Joey.  It's better than crying in the bathroom, though, so Chris doesn't worry.  What he's really interested in watching is JC. 

JC is restless.  He stares out the window for a while, and then moves to the mirror where he studies his reflection, his shaved head.  He'd always believed everyone who said that his hair was his best feature, that it made him pretty, but losing it hasn't changed him the way that he'd thought it would.  It feels good, sexy, dangerous.  Even the way he walks feels different, like he's something dark and predatory, the opposite of what he'd used to be. 

He unbuttons and shrugs off his shirt, leaving only a white undershirt.  When he tilts his head and rubs a thoughtful finger over the pale skin of his bicep, Chris comes up behind him and grins wickedly over his shoulder. 

"Thinking of getting some ink?"  They've always given JC a hard time over his aversion to tattoos.  He's the only one who doesn't bear the Nsync flames somewhere on his body. 

"Maybe," he says, and leans back into Chris' heat.  God, he's so horny, he's got to get out of this hotel room for a while to get some air, get some space.  Or beat off. 

"I think it'd look good," Chris whispers, and bites playfully at JC's shoulder.  JC shudders away because the bite had been comedic, so very Chris, when JC needs it to be real and urgent--the way he feels inside. 

"You think?" he manages, feeling pretty breathless for all his new unflappable image.  He starts to pull away.  "I'm gonna…" 

"Fourth rule," Chris says loudly enough for everyone to hear.  His hand clamps down on JC's other shoulder, hard.  "No going out alone." 

"Chris," JC growls.  "What am I supposed to…" 

"I'll come with you." 

***  

They don't talk as they walk, but Chris is paying attention to JC.  He's different now, but the changes suit him as far as Chris is concerned.  Instead of moving like the shy kitten they used to tease him about being, he prowls, sleek and starkly naked without the curls to hide him. 

"Stop it," JC complains.  He steps off the curb, heading toward a shop with a pink neon sign. 

"What?" 

"Staring.  You're acting weird." 

"You're acting weird."  

"Well…"  JC shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets.  "Everything's different now."  He stops outside the shop, which now that he's up close, he realizes is a tattoo parlor.  Inside, it looks just like every place his friends have ever been inked. 

"Wanna go in?" Chris suggests, keeping his tone light, as though it doesn't matter.  It does matter, though, because JC's eyes hold more than a hint of longing as he peers inside. 

"Maybe…" 

"C'mon."  It only takes a gentle tug at his sleeve, and JC is following Chris into the store, staying close at his heels as they browse the  vast selection of art.  JC is drawn to the brightly colored cartoons, rainbows and flowers, but Chris protests loudly and drags him toward a darker palette.  JC obediently examines each of them while Chris takes a look around. 

"Hey."  A skinny guy sporting a mohawk approaches them, but without the aggravated skepticism that Chris is used to receiving in places like this.  Instead, he stands next to JC and points to a fierce, black dragon.  "This one," he says, tapping a silver-polished fingernail on the scaled tail. 

"Uh."  JC looks at Chris, who shrugs. 

"Sorry," JC says.  "I don't really have any-"

"-he'll take it," Chris interrupts.  "How much?" 

The guy tells them that it's seventy-five, but Chris doesn't press the issue.  He wants to see what JC will do, and sure enough JC selects his own design, a snake, and follows the guy back to the corner.  On the way, they pass a girl who is drawing the outline of a flower to a middle-aged woman's ankle. 

JC settles in the chair and as the guy, Scotty, he'd said to call him, prepares the ink, Chris notices the conspicuous outline of JC's cock, hard in his jeans.  Scotty has obviously noticed, too, and smirks into the container where he's mixing the ink.  "You like the burn, huh?" he asks.  "No big deal.  Lots of people do."   

Not even close.  JC's eyes go wide, and sensing that he's about to bolt, Chris takes a few quick steps to place himself in front of JC. 

"Hey, Scotty," he says, and gives him a conspiratorial wink.  "Can we have a few?" 

Scotty walks away, chuckling and wiping his hands on his already ink-smeared jeans.  Chris yanks the curtain shut behind him and faces JC with an expression that makes JC clutch anxiously at the arm rests. 

"What?"  he demands, squirming on the seat.  "I can't help it.  It's like you said earlier, I'm…" a gesture at his lap says everything he can't.  It would be too much if Chris laughed.  If Chris laughs, he decides, he's going to leave, but Chris just peeks from behind the curtain and lets it fall back into place, turning to JC with arms folded across his chest. 

"I know.   So, take care of it.  I'll keep an eye out." 

JC's head tilts to the side, slowly, as though he needs to look at that statement from another angle to decipher its meaning.  The only meaning he can come up with, though, is…

"Chris…"

"Hurry up, man.  He's not gonna stay gone forever."  When Chris gets impatient, he gets snappish, and right now he's giving off even more restless energy than JC. 

"Uh, no.  I can't.  I can't," he says, but his hand is already on his zipper because yes, he's really uncomfortable here and has been for more hours than he can count. 

"You did it last night," Chris points out, exasperated.  "I was right there, sleeping right next to you, C." 

It's a good point, but still a little embarrassing, and JC tries to shrug it off.  Chris obviously hadn't been sleeping, after all.  Still, since Chris doesn't seem bothered it's probably okay for him to just pop the button fly out of its hole and slide the zipper down, a slow, grating journey that makes him wish he could start over and do it again.  "Okay," he says, a whisper that's barely heard over the music blaring from the other side of the curtain.  "But, don't look," he adds.  This whole thing is a little strange, but that would be flat-out weird and he has limits.  At least, he used to have them.  

"Whatever." 

Chris' back is to him when he says this, so JC slides his hand into the warm pocket of heat and wraps his fingers around his hard cock.  His whole body has been sending out urgent signals of arousal for so many days now, he's already ultra-sensitive in his own hand and shudders in the seat as he guides the stiff length out of his pants.  The deep, gratified sound that emerges from his throat makes Chris turn and even though he had told Chris to look away, JC can't deny the way the intensity of it is suddenly ramped up tenfold, just from the knowledge of Chris' eyes on him. 

He moves his hand. 

It's so easy to do, even inside these dirty walls covered with layers of posters, art and tattoo designs .  The motion is familiar and so is the result; mounting pleasure made even greater by the slide of his own hand.  There are sounds coming from the other side of the curtain, customers coming in and out, but JC tunes them out.  His hand moves faster, and his hips twitch upward until the chair is shaking as he fucks his hand with increasing urgency.

"Jesus.  JC," Chris murmurs.  He's forgotten his post at the door, forgotten everything but the glide of JC's hand on his cock, which is big, red, and shiny with moisture at the tip. 

"I told you not to watch," JC gasps, thrusting his hips off the seat.  He's close now, can almost feel it, a tingling in the backs of his thighs that's ready to ignite into something stronger. 

"I…know, but…"  Chris doesn't even have a good reason for why he finds the flex of JC's arm impossible to look away from, but he doesn't have to have a reason because before he can finish, JC goes still and silent, his cock pulsing out wet streaks onto the back of his hand.  

"Oh," he breathes, letting the feeling throb through him.  Everything pulses, his blood, throat, eyes, and especially the thrumming, sizzling heat that radiates from his groin. 

When Chris hands him a paper towel, he takes it with listless fingers and wipes himself clean.  It feels kind of wrong to throw it right there in the trash can, but it's not like he's gonna put it in his own pocket, so he shrugs and tosses it in, relieved when Chris laughs wickedly. 

"Go C," he says, and JC can't help grinning at the admiring tone.  Only Chris would be impressed with someone over something like that.  He feels wonderful now, relaxed and still full of life but not so much that it hurts, like it had before. 

"You guys ready now?"

Scotty.  JC had completely forgotten about him.  Chris had his back the whole time, though, so it's all good and he even manages to make eye contact when Scotty comes back in the room.  Everything's cool after that, even the needles which actually don't feel like needles at all, just a vibrating itch on his skin.  It's not so bad, except on the collarbone, where it feels like a million shards of glass trying to break through.  Still, he gives Chris what he hopes is a brave look and concentrates on not passing out.

Everything goes smoothly until the guy is almost finished nearly two hours later.  "Um.  I want."  JC waves his hand toward Chris, and waits until Scotty stops, sitting back on his stool. 

"What?" he asks, unruffled.  People always ask for weird shit; he's used to it now. 

"Can you write something on the tail?" JC asks, and Chris is already shaking his head but JC doesn't care.  He knows what he wants and the rest of them are already marked similarly.  "I want it to say 'Nsync'." 

Scotty raises a pierced eyebrow and looks to Chris, to JC, then back at Chris again, who can't help but blurt, "We'll pay extra."  For his silence, of course, but Scotty just waves away the offer. 

"Nah.  I can do it.  We're cool," he adds with an air of approval, and JC lets his head fall back onto the cushiony chair.  He's not used to all this admiration, not from guys like Chris and Scotty.  He's used to being adored by teenaged girls, but genuine appreciation from his peers is something that has always eluded him. 

If this is what it took to get him to that point, then there's nowhere he'd rather be. 

***

No one notices until about a week later, when they're somewhere in Nebraska.  They've been soaked in a downpour of sleet and when they pile into their motel room and start shucking their clothes, Lance is the first to notice. 

"Whoa!" he says, his eyes wide. 

Everyone else stops what they're doing to follow Lance's gaze, which gives them their first glimpse at the black snake that's coiled on JC's chest, up his collarbone, stopping right before it would be visible with a t-shirt. 

"Is that real?" Justin asks, stunned.  JC rubs at the newly healed spot and smiles shyly.  He nods. 

"But what about the needles?" Joey asks, trying to hide how impressed he is.  The snake is fucking cool even though he knows that in about ten seconds, Lance is going to be bitching about-

"-couldn't have gotten the flames like the rest of us, first?  I mean, Jesus, JC.  It's one thing if you have a phobia, but then to just-"  Chris slaps his hand over Lance's mouth and laughs hysterically, shaking his wet hair against Lance. 

"Shut up, Bass!  C'mere, take a look.  Do you think that JC could get a tattoo like a normal person?  Aren't you surprised that he didn't come home with, like, a unicorn, or something?  Take a closer look," and he shoves Lance's head toward JC's naked torso. 

On the tail of the snake, past the black and grey scales of its belly, is spelled out in swirling red ink, the same color as the eyes-  N-S-Y-N-C.   

"Dear Lord," Lance says.  He bites at his lip, not sure whether to laugh or be really pissed off that JC had risked giving them away. 

"It's cool," Chris says hastily, before anyone can bring it up.  "The guy was cool.  And let me tell you, dude, it was a new fucking experience having someone like that recognize me and not act like he's gonna kick my fairy ass just for having the nerve to be in a boyband." 

"Yeah," JC nods seriously.  "I know.  He totally respected us," he tells Justin, who appears the most worried.  His fingers trail down to idly trace the design.  He's so in love with the markings on his chest and what they stand for, so in love with all of his friends and what they're doing here.  It doesn't matter that he never would've consciously chosen this life for himself; it's their reality and for once it's not hard to make the best of things. 

***

Lance waits until Justin and Joey are sleeping before getting Chris' attention.  He nods his head toward the door and slips outside, waits in the hall until Chris shows up, sleepy-eyed and rumpled. 

They walk together down the hall, down the stairs and into the night, and Lance marvels over the relief that he never ceases to feel each time they step outside.  He imagines them buying a camper and spending the summers going from campground to campground.   He hasn't shared his fantasy, because they all have their own and they all differ.  Joey wants to go to the ocean.  He doesn't worry about it, though, because they've got plenty of time to fulfill all of them. 

"I saw Justin's mom on tv today," he tells Chris when it becomes apparent that they're headed for the bowling alley.  "She was…saying some things." 

"She thinks he did it?"  Chris asks.  His eyes are closed. 

"Yeah.  She's…" he doesn't continue, because there's really no need to point out the differences between Justin's mother and Lance's own. 

"She always wanted to be famous," Chris says bitterly, and spits on the sidewalk.  Lance follows him into the loud, dark bowling alley.  At the counter, Chris buys a pack of Marlboros with a five-dollar bill and shoves the change in his pocket.  The cashier is friendly, and smiles at them both but Lance averts his eyes; he knows that JC is going to rob this place tomorrow.

They find a table in the corner.  Chris takes a long drag and when he speaks, smoke drifts out of his mouth, clouding the space between the two of them.  "Did you see my mom, too?" 

There had been interviews with all their parents, and Lance is only glad that none of the others had been there to see it, because it's one thing riding along playing lame travel games on the way to their next destination, or at night when he's got Joey pressed up against him.  It's another thing completely to see the fallout from what they've done.  Or…not done.  Sometimes, Lance forgets that they're innocent.

"Yeah.  She looked…good.  Pissed," he adds, and Chris smiles crookedly. "that anyone would not understand how this is obviously a conspiracy that's rooted in extreme jealousy." 

"Yeah," Chris breathes, and taps his cigarette on the ashtray.  "Okay."

"She said that they'll never find us because you're like, a brilliant genius who will never let anything happen to any of us," Lance laughs. 

"Shut up."  Chris' smile brightens, loses the sad quality that it's held up till now. 

"She did.  She thinks the world of you." 

"Thanks, Bass."  Of all the troubles related to their situation, this one had been foremost in his mind.  His family, and what they were thinking.  "So, everyone else was cool?" 

Lance thinks about Joey's dad's indignant defense of the shooting.  "Pretty much, yeah.  I just wanted to let you know, in case Justin hears something…so you'll know." 

"Thanks, Bass.  You've been really good about everything," Chris says, and leans in closely.  "I mean it."  And he does.  Lance has been the most levelheaded of all of them so far, and on top of that, he's still hurt; Chris had seen the wound on the first day and it'd been gruesome, deep.  "How's your…"

"I'm fine."  Lance waves him off.  "Worry about Justin, or something, but even he seems pretty good, considering.  Because, he cries on a good day, so before, that wasn't…I don't think it meant anything." 

"I know what you mean," Chris says eagerly.  He'd been thinking the exact same thing.  "I feel like I should be worrying about somebody.  I can't believe that one of us isn't having a meltdown, but…" he gestures widely and shrugs, indicating the big nothing that's happened so far.  "And, I'm glad things worked out for you and Joe." 

At this, Lance lowers his eyes, his eyelashes fanning out attractively over flushed cheekbones.  A bashful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth because he hasn't talked about this with anyone yet, it's so new.  "Thanks.  It's weird.  I've never done this before." 

Lance reaches for Chris' cigarettes, and Chris slides them across the tiny table.  "What about you?" he asks.  Smoking used to be a rare, guilty pleasure for all of them, but now they don't have any reason to save their voices.  Cigarettes have always been a good way for Lance to cover anxiety, and tonight is no exception.  He concentrates on the way it feels in his hand, and flicks the lighter with his thumb, bringing it to life. 

"What about me?" 

"Have you ever?" 

Chris arches an eyebrow, but answers anyhow.  "Yeah, sometimes." 

Lance gives a satisfied nod and smiles, showing his perfect white teeth.  "And JC," he says knowingly.  "He's up for anything these days."  He's seen the way that JC has been looking at Chris lately, with his new, reckless eyes.  

"I don't know what you're talking about," Chris replies smoothly, and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.  "Ready to go?"   

Lance is ready. 

***

"Ready?"  Chris asks as he throws the last bag into the back of the Blazer.  JC bounces in place, cracks his knuckles.  He's been ready for hours, and thinks that maybe Chris has been dragging his feet just to fuck with him. 

Lance slides into the driver's seat, his mouth set in a grave line.  He barely notices Joey and Justin slamming their doors shut or his own hand turning the ignition, starting the engine.  When Chris taps on the window, he lowers it with a press of the button.  Letting his nerves show won't do any good, so he just raises his eyebrows over the tops of his sunglasses.

"You okay?" Chris asks.  His hand brushes Lance's shoulder, and Lance can smell the leather of his glove.

"Fine."  Inside his head is a swirling frenzy of instructions- forty-five minutes, Exit 23, plan B- and he won't be able to relax until it's all over.  JC leans in over Chris to ask him the exact same thing, so Lance figures he needs to work on his game face.  "Fine," he repeats. 

"If we're not there in two hours-" Chris warns, and Lance starts the window running back up. 

"-I know."  He hates being reminded that there are things that could go wrong; dangerous things, but if anyone can pull it off, it's JC, who seems to have been born for this, and Chris, who is ultimately only concerned with keeping them safe.  He puts the truck into reverse and pulls out, leaving JC and Chris at the curb.  They're shoving fiercely at one another, wrestling until they run into the brick of the motel, and he sighs.  They're always like this before a job, too wound up to focus their energy. 

He sighs and hands Joey the map. 

***

"Run, run!" Chris yells.  His feet skid dangerously on rough gravel when he tries to stop, but he wrenches the car door open and jumps inside, guns the engine.  "JC, come on!”  He'd seen the lady in the corner calling the cops on her cell phone, and that had been nearly two minutes ago.  

JC laughs and falls into his seat.  He kicks his shoes against the floor mat when Chris peals out of the parking lot.  "Yeah," he mumbles to himself, checking behind them for cops.  "Take a left here," he points.  "And then here." 

"I know," Chris gripes, breathing hard.  His hands are sweating all over the steering wheel; he's gripping so hard.  It's killing him to not race down the street the way he wants to, but they're supposed to be blending now, getting lost in the traffic until they can ditch this car. 

"You okay?" he asks JC, who'd taken a couple punches when someone had tried to be a hero.  He thinks maybe he should be more worried about JC's bruised knuckles. 

"Yeah," JC sighs.  He tips his head onto the back of the bench seat and closes his eyes, tries to slow the pounding of his heart.  Everything throbs, pulses hotly behind his eyes, in his chest, under his belt.  It's the hardest kind of high to come down from and he wants Chris to drive faster.   "Hurry," he mutters, and presses his hands against his face.  He'd always thought that there was nothing like the rush before and after a show, but that had been nothing compared to this relentless prickling beneath his skin. 

"Stop fidgeting," Chris yells.  "God, you're like some kind of caged monkey or something."  He jerks the wheel, hard at the last minute when he sees their exit and JC flails sideways. 

"I can't!" he shouts back, and shoves away from Chris.  "Pay attention to the road!" 

They're screaming at one another by the time they climb into the Blazer.  It happens every time, but this time when Lance glances back at them in the rear view mirror, instead of seeing them glaring at one another, silent treatment in full force, he sees something that makes him jerk his eyes away immediately.

 "Oh, God," he says, a cross between a curse and a laugh. "Joe," he whispers.  Justin is asleep and Lance definitely doesn't want to wake him.  Joey looks up from the log he's keeping of their travels, and when he turns, he sees that Chris has got JC pressed up against the window, hand fisted in JC's black t-shirt that's ridden up enough to expose his pale, flat stomach. 

"Whoa," Joey whispers.  There's a brief struggle, but the flailing limbs subside when JC grabs at Chris' ass and pulls him in, hard.  He does it again, then again and again, and Joey looks away as abruptly as Lance had.  It's obvious what they're doing. 

Lance turns the volume knob on the stereo to the right until they can't hear the hoarse, broken sounds coming from the back of the vehicle.  It was bound to happen eventually, but for some reason, Chris has been adamant in his denial that anything's been developing between he and JC.  Maybe because it's so primarily sexual, and he doesn't think it's healthy.  Chris is like that; he holds a high standard for his own relationships and for those of his friends.  Lance thinks he's worrying for nothing, though, because what JC and Chris share extends beyond friendship and beyond this ferocious sexual fascination with which they've been watching one another. 

The next time he ventures a look, Chris is sitting upright, biting at his lip, eyes closed in bliss, and JC has disappeared from view.

Lance really, really hopes that Justin doesn't wake up. 

***