JC is halfway through a bowl of cereal by the time Chris comes down to the kitchen, stirring the soggy pieces around in the bowl.  It's nearly noon but JC doesn't mind waiting.  There's all the time in the world now, after all.  He feels weightless, caught in a heavy web of patience, and doesn't even mind that it's Chris for whom he is waiting. 

Fresh from the shower and calmer than JC remembers ever seeing him, Chris pours some orange juice first into a plastic cup and then into a delicately etched glass.  He scratches his damp hair and places the glass in front of JC.

They drink.  He can feel Chris watching him the way that everyone has been watching him lately, like they aren't sure what they're seeing; aren't sure they like what they see.  In response, he ducks his head down further under the floppy brim of his hat, a shelter that he's grown to rely on. 

"Is that thing fused to your head?" Chris quips without really paying attention.  If he were paying attention, he would notice JC's contempt.  "You didn't, like, have some kind of accident with superglue or anything, did you?  Lose a bet?"   

JC isn't smiling.  Chris is such a stupid ass who doesn't even know enough to be miserable.  Of all of them, Chris should be the one drowning in despair.  Over thirty, overweight, and abandoned by his bandmates.  Instead, he's been happily living life for the past few months, blissfully unaware. 

JC stirs his cereal fast and faster until sticky-sweet milk splashes everywhere.  Something breaks. 

"How can you be happy?" he demands of Chris, his voice cracking.  He lets the spoon clatter onto the wet, splotchy table.  In addition to his awful petulance, he is acutely aware of how plain he has become.  Because of this ugliness he wants to fade away, but is also most afraid of that very thing.  

Chris eyes him calmly, like he'd seen this coming but his placidity only makes JC want something violent, which he knows isn't right.  Isn't even him.  He's never wanted that before so he just closes his eyes, dragging his fingers through the puddles he's made on Chris' nice, clean table.  "Just-" he breathes slowly, through his nose, wanting peace.  "How can you?" 

"JC. take off the fucking hat." 

"No."  He stands, making a decision.  From underneath his hat, he can only see his own clothes, his old flip flops.  "I'm going to see Lance," he informs Chris, who finally appears perturbed. 

"You have to be in New York on Thursday," he says, squinting up suspiciously at JC. 

"We're not going to win," JC argues.  He's been secretly entertaining the idea of not going, but knows he doesn't have a choice. 

"That's not the point.  Don't make me kick your ass, Chasez."   Chris is getting angry now, and why wouldn't he?  Justin.  It's all about Justin, and that's why they all have to go, so that Justin can look good with his friends backing him up.  Otherwise, no one would give a damn one way or another about JC's presence. 

The one thing making it bearable is that Chris' anger is backed by something gentler, something that JC can sense behind the clever, searching brown eyes.  It remains unspoken, but whatever Chris sees is the reason that he continues to indulge JC's new, hiatus-induced moodiness. 

"I know."  JC nods and heads for the door.  "Thanks for breakfast." 

Breakfast for the past two months, is what he really means. 

***

He doesn't know if Lance is looking at him in that worried way and doesn't want to know, which is why his eyes are fixed on his sandals again.  Lance has spotless, shiny shoes, the kind that JC hasn't worn in months.  He doesn't even remember the last time he wore socks. 

Lance's hand is on his back, then at the base of his neck.  "Wow," he says.  "It's so…I like it."  JC closes his eyes in relief at this familiar voice, familiar arms, and only then does he notice the handful of curls that Lance has loosely grasped.  Long, slim fingers trace along his hairline up to his temples, exploring with interest.  "It grows fast," Lance murmurs, impressed, but JC shakes his head in contradiction. 

"It's been forever," he explains.  Months.  No one seems to realize this.  For the rest of them, the passage of time seems to be a trivial matter and he wants that, too, is tired of marking the days with blood and ink and wanting. 

"Don't go," he whispers, but Lance doesn't hear him. 

***

He's been watering Joey's plants in his absence.  Joey didn't ask him to, but it feels good to make the trip across the street, to unlock the side door and let himself in.  When Joey first bought the house, JC bought him a potted indoor tree as a housewarming gift.  Justin had laughed at the tiny sprig in the enormous, overly ornate pot but JC promised it would grow and eventually be as lush and strong as the one in his own living room. 

At first, JC had wanted to spend the hiatus in LA but the house there had become empty and distrustful.  After his birthday he returned to Orlando.  Things aren't nearly as exciting here, but at least the house holds him comfortably and without accusation. 

Every few days, JC feeds Joey's tree a cup of lukewarm water.  It's flourished under his care and he thinks that it might flower soon.  Too soon, because he wanted Joey to see the tender white blossoms the first time around. 

***

They're all smiles, happy to be there in New York with the crazy chaos of flashing bulbs and screaming fans.  JC finds that if he keeps his eyes on his feet, hands in his pockets, he is rendered invisible.  It helps that he's eclipsed by Justin's presence and Joey's joyful, blinding grin.  He is grateful for Chris, who propels him along with one hand. 

"Sit here," Chris says, exasperated, and JC does.  He might have taken something backstage but he can't remember, which probably means that he has.  He gets up again when Chris tells him to and follows at the heels of his friends until they're backstage again where Justin and Chris bicker briefly about whether or not JC will read his part.  He doesn't really care one way or another but Justin wins, they have a group hug, and JC reads.  

"Justin!" everyone yells.  "Justin!"

It's not too difficult to slip out during the shuffle of the exodus, and he takes a cab back to the hotel where he can sit cross-legged on the bed and watch highlights from the awards.  Again he's struck not by Joey's brilliant shine or Justin's unfathomable cool, but by Chris's easy treatment of them both.  His enormous pride for his two friends, especially Justin, is obvious to everyone.  JC dips his head and sighs, feeling dirty; tainted by his own frustration. 

His phone rings and he checks the id display.  Lance.  He ignores it and twenty seconds later the hotel phone rings, shrill and startling.  Carefully, he detaches the cord and is unaccountably pleased when the phone goes silent. 

He sighs and stretches out, pressing his face into the cool pillowcase, listening to the steady drone of the television which is eventually interrupted by voices, the ominous click of his door being unlocked.  He almost wishes for stalkers, groupies.  Killers. 

Rolling onto his back, JC shuts his eyes and waits for Chris's tirade, for Justin to bitch about missing some prime partying opportunities, for Joey to call him a selfish baby.  After all, he's the reason that they're here instead of out having fun with the rest of the city.  But it never comes and when he opens his eyes he sees Joey at the small table, shuffling a deck of cards.

Justin squeezes past Chris, who is lounging on the other bed.  Chris can't resist the opportunity to stick his legs out into Justin's path just to fuck with him and make him stumble.  Gin sloshes onto the carpet.

"Motherfucker," Justin shouts, but he's smiling when he puts a drink in front of Joey and they laugh about something while JC tries to decipher the scenario.  He doesn't get why Chris is just lying there, why everyone is acting so normally.  Maybe they actually feel normal, though he absolutely cannot fathom that idea. 

There was a time when he'd have said something, asked why the fuck they were here in a lame hotel room when they could be out clubbing, but now his voice feels rusty with disuse.  He remains silent and turns onto his side to stare at Chris, receiving a tiny jolt of…something…in his chest when he realizes that Chris is already right there, watching him with lazy, speculative eyes. 

"What?" he croaks, knowing full well what.  He's ruined everyone's night.  "I didn't ask you guys to come here." 

Joey looks up from his cards.  "So?  I have to do a show tomorrow, I'm getting too old for that shit.  And it's been a long time since we've all been together." 

We're not all together now, JC wants to say.

Justin agrees while trying to sneak a look at Joey's hand.  "Yeah, and I've got an early flight so let's just chill, alright?"  

He checks Chris's expression, and then Joey's.  They seem content to be here- happy, even, so JC nods and allows himself to relax.  "You were good up there tonight," he says experimentally.  "Looking good, Justin."  It doesn't hurt to say, and Justin absolutely glows at the praise.  JC hopes that Chris noticed, and then wonders why he even cares. 

The next morning, Joey and Justin are gone. 

"So, what's the plan?" Chris asks.  He leans against the dresser and crosses his arms expectantly.  "JC.  Are you staying in New York?  Going home?"  

JC bites his lip, sharp teeth digging into soft flesh.  He hates this.  The choices all hurt his skin, hurt his stomach and he longs for the days when they all kept the same schedule, when it was assumed that they would all be in the same city at the same time.  The way that it's supposed to be. 

"Jayce?" 

He shrugs.  "I.  It's not.  Who cares?" he snaps, finally.  "Why are you even here?  We're not even friends, Chris."  He doesn't bother clarifying.  Of course they're friends, but the truth is that he and Chris haven't ever managed to connect in the way that they both have with the others. 

Chris looks sharply at JC, shakes his head.  "Based on the fact that you have your own room in my house, some people might consider us friends." 

"You're keeping tabs on me," JC complains.  "Babysitting me." 

"Somebody has to," Chris replies.  He shoves his wallet into his back pocket.  "So, where to?" 

"I hate New York," JC says flatly, because New York has stolen Joey but he doesn't say that.  It sounds too much like the truth. 

"Sure you do.  Orlando-ho," Chris agrees.  "But first- breakfast." 

***

"Does Chris know that you're here?"

JC frowns deeply.  Of all the things that he'd imagined Lance saying, this was not one of them.  "What?" 

Lance is still suspicious, holding him at arms-length.  He looks like he might actually take out his cell phone and make sure that JC has permission to travel.  "It's just, I talked to him yesterday and he didn't say anything about you coming." 

What did he say about me, he wants to ask.

"I just found out," JC explains, as though coming all the way to Russia is nothing.  He just wants to bring Lance home now that it's all over.

"You didn't have to," Lance whispers but he says it into JC's shirt, his arms tight around his slim waist.  JC can feel the thin thread that keeps Lance from breaking and wants to glide along the taut, familiar edge.  He knows it isn't right, but Lance's misery somehow lessens his own. 

"Yes, I did," he replies, and it's more true than he wants to admit. 

***

"It's terrible," Lance explains later as they're walking downtown.  "It's like being permanently embarrassed.  Is my face red?  Because, the humiliation has pretty much taken over.  I think I'm paranoid now, too." 

JC sips his coffee from the Styrofoam cup and smiles.  It's not funny, but it is.  Lance does seem a bit defensive, worried that people are laughing at him and JC knows that left to his own devices, Lance would be holed up indoors where no one could see him at all. 

"Your face is fine," he says.  "I've missed your face."  It's the kind of corny thing that he can say to only Lance, and only when Chris isn't around to make fun of him. 

Lance sighs.  "Thanks.  It feels a lot more normal now that you're here.  You wanna go in for a while?"  He gestures at a small bar near the end of the row.  JC thinks that maybe Lance is thinking it's a good place to hide. 

"Nah.  Let's go to my hotel," he suggests.  "I can show you some stuff that I wrote.  For the new album.  And tomorrow, we can get the rest of your stuff." 

"Sounds good."  A group of people walk by, openly ogling, and Lance ducks his head.  The tips of his ears burn red.

***

"You didn't tell me you wrote a song about Chris." 

JC looks up from his spot on the bed where he's sitting cross legged, bent over his cell phone sending a text message to Joey.  They've been exchanging them for the past ten minutes, which thrills JC, who would rather communicate with written words than over the phone.  He also can't believe his luck at having Joey's attention for a change.   "Um, what?  I didn't, no.  What are you talking about?"  

Lance shuffles the pile of papers and clears his throat, reading slowly.  "…you stepped up to save me, didn't think you saw me, didn't mind the raw me, never knew you saw me…"  He raises an eyebrow and waits expectantly.

"What?" JC asks again.  The lyrics that Lance just read aren't for the group, they're part of a growing collection that JC's been putting aside for his own album, someday.  But they're not about Chris. 

"Nothing."  Lance shrugs.  "I just thought.  Did you write it over the summer?" 

"Yes…"  JC draws a sharp breath, and hits 'send' on his cell phone.  His throat feels tight and fearful.  "But.  It's not.  Chris isn't.  They're not about him."  They're really not, although now he sees how Lance could think that they might be.  

"Okay."  Lance, never one to push unless it's intensely important, goes back to reading lyrics.  The pages are full of words, some of them brimming with genuine introspection and others the typical borderline raunchy dance mixes that JC is known for.  Some of it hurts to read, though, with a recurring theme of abandonment and loneliness. 

"I don't even know why he's being so nice to me," JC bursts out. 

"Is it freaking you out?" 

JC thinks for a minute, and waits for his phone to beep.  "No." 

***

"You didn't want to stop," Lance finally says, shuffling the papers back into the black leather folder.  That much is obvious, from reading JC's summer's worth of work.  He hadn't wanted to stop, and worse, hadn't understood the other's needs to pursue other ventures.  He doesn't understand that this is only temporary, of that Lance is certain, but he doesn't know how to make JC believe him.

JC is lying on his back, humming out some lyrics for Lance.  He likes the soft, crinkling sounds of Lance rustling through the papers and the heat of another body next to his, but he doesn't like the questions.  Lance always has questions and as a rule, Lance never asks questions for which he doesn't already possess the answers.  To JC, this defeats the purpose, but he goes along with it.  He shakes his head and turns his face into the soft-rough denim of Lance's thigh.

"JC," Lance sighs, and threads his fingers through the light brown curls.  JC purrs with contentment and leans into the touch.  "Do you hate us?  Do you hate me for doing this?  We didn't know." 

"No," JC says.  He slides an arm over Lance's legs, around his waist, and holds on.  "I couldn't ever hate any of you."  Not even Justin, he wants to add, but knows that would raise more questions.  He doesn't say anything else at all because Lance is too good at this game.  JC holds his secret in a safe, private place, close to his heart, and doesn't want to give it away.  The secret of how badly he needs them to come back together and make music again. 

He thinks that Chris might already know his secret, though. 

***

"Chris?"  JC whispers into the darkness.  Suddenly, this is a bad idea.  He doesn't even know why he's here.  He should've stayed in Star City with Lance, but once the mission was deemed back on again, Lance had no time for anything but training.  It's a bad idea, and Chris is definitely going to think so when he wakes up and sees JC standing in his bedroom at three o'clock in the morning.

He hates himself for wanting so much to hear Chris's voice that he's here in the middle of the night, uninvited, hates himself for crying on the plane.  There are so many things to hate about himself, these days.  

That doesn't stop him from looking at the lumpy shape of Chris underneath the blankets and wanting him to wake up.

"Chris," he tries again, and bends over the bed at the perfect angle to catch a fist in the face just as Chris shouts,

"Carrots!  Jesus!" 

JC loses his breath in the fall backwards and ends up on his back, nearly blind and panting for oxygen.  He thinks that maybe he's passed out but it's hard to tell from down here in the dark.  His face throbs through with pain. 

Then he feels the warm trickle of blood and feels his eyes flutter back into his head.  The room spins sickly, and disappears. 

***

"Hold this," Chris instructs, and waits until JC takes the washcloth before letting go.  JC is perched on the edge of the bathroom counter letting Chris hold an icepack to his face.  His nose has mostly stopped bleeding, which is good because the sight of his own blood is a terrifying thing.  Other people's blood he can handle, but seeing his own blood out of his body leaves him shaking and pale.

"I'm sorry," he starts to say, but Chris interrupts him with a brisk, "Don't talk." 

He closes his eyes. 

"I didn't know it was you," Chris says in way of an apology.  JC just nods as best as he can without moving too much.  He can feel the puff of a cotton ball swiping over his cheekbone and smells the sharp bite of rubbing alcohol.  It's probably just fatigue, but JC thinks that Chris seems subdued, serious, different.  He moves with deliberation and that includes his eyes, moving over JC's face with soft, careful intent.  He smirks from where he stands between JC's legs, and JC wants so much to press his thighs together, bring him in closer. 

"You're good, I think," Chris tells him.  "Keep the ice on it for a while, and don't sneak up on people when they're sleeping."  

"Okay," but he doesn't want to move.  It feels so much better to just let himself fold forward into the solid warmth of Chris.  It's not a surprise that Chris freezes at first, stiffens momentarily before relaxing into the embrace because JC has been shying away from Chris for months.  It's an insult and they all know it, but for some reason Chris has allowed him these slights.  

"If I'd have known that getting punched in the face is such an attitude adjuster for you, Chasez, I'd have done it one of the many times that I actually wanted to." 

"I know.  I'm sorry." 

Chris steps right up against the edge of the counter and takes most of the weight on himself, holding JC's lanky body closely to his own.  He yawns hugely into JC's shirt, all hot, damp breath vibrating through the fabric. "Whatever.  We'll call it even, okay?" 

"'kay." 

"Wanna lay down?"  It's disappointing when Chris extracts himself from JC's clinging arms, but less so when he leads him to the bed.  He stacks three pillows for JC and pulls back the covers.  "Get in," he instructs.  JC is all the way under the covers before Chris adds slyly, "you can tell me all about the song you wrote about me." 

"I didn't…" 

"It's okay."  Chris shrugs and climbs into bed next to JC.  "I know you've been pissed at me.  Whatever," and JC swallows hard, his mouth opening and closing with helplessness because Chris seems genuinely fine with it except, it's not what Chris thinks. 

JC is notorious for writing vengeful, bitter songs in defiance toward people he hates, people he's too easygoing to confront.  For every person who's ever pissed JC off or hurt him, there exists a song in tribute to their nastier qualities and Chris is naturally assuming that this is the case here as well. 

"No, it's…there's nothing.  Lance." 

"Joey told me," Chris corrects, then scratches his cheek thoughtfully.  "Lemme guess," he drawls, and then sings, bopping his head to an imaginary beat, "He made me eat bread, sure wish he was dead, punched me right in the head…" 

"Shut up."  JC's voice comes out miserably nasal which reminds Chris of why he's here in the first place, so he snickers but doesn't say anything else.  Chris has always enjoyed jokes at JC's expense far too much, and JC doesn't understand why people think he's so funny.

Just for that, JC mentally writes a nasty chorus before falling asleep. 

***

Sometime before dawn, JC wakes groggily.  It's still dark, but after a few minutes he can make out the shape of Chris sitting in the window bench.  He's on the phone and speaks in hushed, sincere tones.  JC strains to hear what could be making Chris sound this way, so urgent and concerned, his voice fraught with love. 

"…what they say?  You're just getting nervous, like you always have."  A long silence follows, before he finally interrupts.  "-bullshit.  Don't you dare.  You go in there tomorrow and tell them that it's your show and you call the shots." 

Justin.  JC can hear the faint sound of Justin's frantic whine coming from the phone and feels a stab of guilt for giving Chris such a hard time.  From the moment they ended their last tour, Chris has given all of his support to each of them in their endeavors.  He's been there for moments like this, dark times that come in the middle of the night when doubts start to take over, and times where things are flying high, like Joey's opening night. 

JC shifts restlessly in the bed, rolls toward the empty space on the other side.  Chris listens to Justin for a breath and then says something, laughs.  The crisis is over, JC can tell, and after a few more affectionately murmured phrases he hangs up. 

Instead of returning immediately to bed, Chris sighs heavily, puts the phone down on a small table.  Through slitted eyes JC can make out his silhouette and there's something tragically lonely about the way Chris slumps tiredly against the window, his face pressed to the glass.  It seems profoundly wrong for Chris to look so exhausted and JC wants more than anything to take some of that burden from him, but he doesn't know how, only knows that he adds to it with his very presence. 

The desire to give something back to Chris overwhelms him, but he's afraid of what he might offer so he listens to Chris' breathing from across the room and offers nothing.   When he wakes again, it's morning. 

***

The inclination to do something for Chris is with JC all day.  He stays in the basement, spending the hours considering this feeling, letting it float around in his head until he has a better grasp on what exactly it is that he wants.   There's still a certain degree of uncertainty, though, even when Chris comes down the stairs in early evening.

"So you're never coming out, eh?" he asks, and hands JC a container of bottled water.  "Being a recluse isn't all it's cracked up to be, believe me.  Besides, it's more effective from the comfort of your own home.  That way, you can be all mysterious and inaccessible." 

That could be taken more than one way but it doesn't really seem like Chris is asking him to leave, so JC just accepts the water and drinks gratefully. 

"All right, where's the remote?" Chris pats JC down as though he might be hiding it in his clothes, and JC slaps his hands away in annoyance. 

"I haven't seen it," he protests, but giggles when Chris pokes at his ribs one last time. 

"You lie!"  Chris shouts, and dives for the couch, digging through the cushions. 

"Seriously.  I didn't even know there was a tv down here." 

"You- are you serious?"  Chris stops his wild rummaging and stares at JC.  "What the fuck were you doing down here all day?" 

JC looks away and shrugs.  He honestly doesn't know where the day has gone. 

"C?"  Chris abandons the hunt altogether and flops down on the couch.  He cranes his neck to get a better look.  His scrutiny is maddening, insulting to JC, because really.  He doesn't need a keeper.  "You okay?" 

"Yeah," he says quickly.  The remote is right on top of the tv, he can see it from here and wonders why Chris has to make such a production out of everything. 

"JC," Chris says.  In the time it takes for JC to blink, Chris' patience is gone along with the serenity that has cushioned the space between them, and JC steps back because he's never been good at dealing with pure, unadulterated Chris.

He moves away but Chris is quicker, is up and in his space before JC can form the words to protest.  He freezes, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.  He can feel it, and wonders now if people are right when they say that he's gotten too thin. 

Up until this point, Chris has been safe, having covered all of the sharp edges of his personality for JC's benefit and the proximity frightens JC, but Chris' hands on his arms don't hurt when they tug him down onto the couch, and the fingers stroking up and down his back don't cause him pain.  When Chris wraps him up in a clumsy, tight embrace, JC does bleed, but only on the inside. 

"JC, you've gotta stop this," he commands fiercely.  "We're still here, you've gotta stop acting like we're gone.  The guys are so fucking worried.  Joe keeps asking me how you're doing and I say you're fine but I'm losing you here."  

JC bends his fingers, unable to figure out where to put his hands, where to breathe.  Chris is taking up every bit of space that he has and he thinks that this must be the way that Justin felt last night; fragile and important and seen.   

"No, I-" he argues.  He presses his face into Chris' neck, clutches at his waist and inhales deeply.  Chris' scent is so familiar, the same musky soap he always keeps in the shower and JC leans into it.  His tongue creeps out and drags across a crease of soft, salty skin.  JC thinks that it's perfect, but Chris pulls back saying, "Um, whoa.  Hey." 

He doesn't want to stop, though, and JC keeps pressing his mouth to Chris' neck.  Although he's familiar with this in theory, the idea of touching a man like this, he's never done it.  He hadn't even known he wanted it until now but it feels right, like something he's wanted for a long time and it comes as a great disappointment when Chris pushes him away, holds him at arms length and says, "Stop, C.  Don't." 

Of course.  JC releases Chris and curls in on himself tightly.  It was a bad idea, the last in a long string of bad ideas that had begun the moment he'd looked around at all their hopeful faces and said, "Okay.  Yeah, I guess I could use a break, too." 

"Sorry," he whispers into his knees.  "Sorry." 

Chris sighs.  "It's not that, it's just…I'm not sure what you're doing.   Jayce, you don't even like me."

JC tucks his chin into his chest and wraps his arms around his knees, a perfectly contained vessel of denial.  What Chris is saying is so wrong, but he can't tell him that.  There's no evidence otherwise, except- 

"I did write that song about you." 

"What?" 

"Joe was right," he says into his dark cavern.  "It was about you.  Only, it's not what you think." 

Chris' voice sounds distant and too serious.  "Well, please tell me what I think, because I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."  He mumbles something else that sounds like, "I am not the man for this job." 

"My song.  It's about you.   Here."  JC uncurls himself and keeping his eyes downcast, reaches under the couch for his black folder.   He pages through the unkempt notes until he finds the right page.  He pushes it in Chris' direction until it crumples against his side and Chris plucks it from his fingers.  JC can't bear to watch him read it. 

"This is nice, Jayce."  Chris keeps his eyes on the paper even when he's finished reading.  "Flattering.  I.  Damn.  Lance told me to be careful with you but I thought he meant you were gonna off yourself, not…assault me with your tongue, you unpredictable freak." 

"I'm sorry."  He'd had no idea that he was going to try anything remotely like this and has no idea how to recover from it.  He's made advances toward women before but the few times he'd been rejected it had been nothing like this, the air tense and heavy with questions. 

"Yeah, you said that."  Chris is still sitting with the paper in his hand and JC thinks that he probably owes him some type of explanation.   For a long time, they just sit there in silence but Chris finally clears his throat loudly. 

"Look, JC.  I know what you're going through.  I know what you think about the guys all going off and doing their things, but we agreed to take a break.  It was mutual." 

"I know." 

"Do you?" 

"Yes."  He feels himself sulking, can't seem to bring himself to stop.  

"Because if you really understood, you'd know that this hiatus isn't gonna last forever.  We're already planning a new album." 

JC nods sadly. 

"Which means new songs, a tour," Chris coaxes, and pokes JC playfully.  "New videos…all that stuff you love."  

JC's hand goes to his mouth, covering the small astounded sound that escapes.   Chris is the first to speak of this as though it's the truth; no one else ever mentions the future.   "But no one said…"

"Because it was assumed, Jayce."  Chris jumps up from the couch.  "We thought you knew.  What else would we be doing?  You think that any of us want to leave this behind?  It doesn't matter how successful any of our projects turn out, we're all too…too caught up in each other, in the nsync thing to walk away.  Besides, I think we're all too afraid, too." 

"Not Justin." 

"Bullshit.  Especially Justin.  He needs us."  

JC mulls this over, thinks about the late-night phone call that he'd overheard last night.  Other people don't believe that Justin needs them, though.  People in the industry actually think that the four of them are holding Justin back.   He can remember when Justin used to vehemently deny that accusation but at Chris' insistence he now ignores them and shrugs off the comments.

 JC really wishes that he would go back to denying it.   

"C'mon."  Chris grabs his hand and JC lets himself be pulled up from the couch and up the stairs.  This seems to mean that Chris has accepted his apology so he gratefully goes along with him and doesn't ask questions. 

***

"What are you doing?" JC finally asks.  It's twenty minutes later and Chris is in the huge walk-in closet, pushing hangers aside.  Every so often, he holds something up and looks toward JC, his lips pursed thoughtfully. 

"Something for you."  Chris offers out a pair of deep purple leather pants.  JC automatically reaches out to pet the supple material.  "Put these on."   He goes back into the closet and when he returns, JC is still standing in the middle of the room, holding the pants. 

"You lost?" Chris says impatiently, "Put the pants on and when you're finished, there's this."  He tosses a shirt at JC and it lands half-draped over his shoulder.  JC takes it, confused, because weren't they just having a serious conversation?  It's a little disappointing because for a moment he thought that Chris was going to work some kind of magic and fix him.  Whatever that means.  Then again, he thinks, fingering the sleek fabric of the shirt, perhaps the repair has already begun because for the first time all summer he's feeling something hopeful.

The pants are a perfect fit and JC vaguely remembers buying them right before the last tour.  He'd only worn them once before misplacing them and it pleases him to know that they've been here all the while hidden in the rows of black leather, black denim and black cotton that fills Chris' closet.

He's trying to make sense of the laces on front of his shirt when Chris emerges from the closet, shirtless and clad in black dress slacks.  "You still not dressed?  Jesus, JC."  He takes a look at the tangled laces and smiles.  "Ah, need some help there?  Tricky fuckers.  You will never catch me wearing crap like this, no sir…"  His tongue presses pink between his lips as he concentrates on maneuvering the ties out of chaos and into the proper criss-cross pattern.  "…but it's good on you.  There."  He pats JC's chest with satisfaction. 

"What are we doing?" 

"Getting dressed," Chris explains, and pushes him toward the bathroom, where he instructs JC to sit on the toilet lid.  He really has no idea what Chris is up to but it feels good to just sit, calm and unresisting, to let Chris wet his hands under the tap and run them through his unruly curls.  It's reminiscent of last night when Chris was tending to him for different reasons, only better. 

Next, Chris smears a dollop of styling gel on his fingers and works his hands roughly through the damp hair.  JC almost protests that he can do this himself but it's nice here with Chris looming over him.  Chris is attractive, he thinks as he cautiously takes advantage of the view.  His torso is all pale, pale skin with a line of dark hair that disappears under the waistband of his pants.  JC raises his chin a bit to get a better look at everything, mainly the dark, alluring nipples, but Chris chuckles and pushes his head back down in order to reach the curls on the back of his neck.  It tickles and JC shivers, giggling. 

"Look up."

JC tries not to wriggle while Chris grasps his chin tipping it up, up toward instead of away from the naked expanse of skin.  In contrast to that paleness are Chris' eyes, which gleam with dark concentration as he uses a kohl eye pencil on JC.  It's hard to remain still when all his hips want to do is squirm on the seat, especially when Chris uses the pad of his thumb to gently smudge his work under the delicate fringe of lashes.  

"Now this," Chris announces, and stands back with satisfaction.  He smoothes a few random curls away from JC's forehead.  "This is the JC Chasez that I know." 

JC ducks his head, feeling shy and pretty.  

Chris goes back into the bedroom and continues getting dressed which leaves JC standing in the bathroom, utterly destroyed.

He blinks, staring into his own blue eyes made even more striking by the makeup.  The curve of his neck into shoulder shimmers in the light and he remembers Chris' hand smoothing something cool and slippery onto his skin.   It makes him stand up straighter, thrust his hip out to the side.  He loves being sparkly, and Chris knows this.  He loves the purple pants, which Chris seems to know as well.  Chris seems to know a lot, these days.

***

The room is smoky and dark, which Chris likes, and filled with loud music, which JC loves.   It's been too long since he's been out like this, but crowds make him uneasy lately.  His body forgets this tonight and moves freely with the music, with the people around him, and with the knowledge that he's not alone. 

Not that being alone is a problem.  JC has friends and acquaintances he can call but when he's the only member of the group present, he feels a pressure that pulls at him until he's exhausted and nervous, looking over his shoulder for the danger.  He worries that there is something wrong with him, that being with the same four people every day for so many years has damaged him, created some sort of yet unproven boyband syndrome that has ruined him for life.  

Tonight, however, he is temporarily cured.  The two girls rubbing up against him on the dance floor seem fun and lively instead of intrusive and JC knows it's because somewhere in the room, Chris' eyes are following every move he makes.  Testing this theory, he turns his head and scans the room until he spots Chris leaning against the bar.   He's watchful in spite of the woman he's talking with, and his mouth twists into a smirk when JC waves a hesitant little wave.

JC lets his hand fall to his side, nonplussed by Chris' reaction.  He's charged through with a dark energy, startling and sexual and it can't have anything to do with the four drinks that he's had.  He strides across the room and shimmies up right behind Chris, and the way that his leather-wrapped leg slides along the outside of Chris' thigh seems almost unintentional; at least enough for deniability's sake.

"Hey," he says breathlessly over Chris' shoulder.  He's been dancing for hours. 

"Hey."  Chris lifts his drink in offering and JC cranes his neck, puts his lips to the straw and draws thirstily.  The woman who has been talking to Chris shifts uncomfortably, flips back her long, straight hair. 

"Hi," she says, and pulls her shiny lips into a pout.  She'd probably been working up to this, JC realizes, and now he's the one draped over Chris but that revelation doesn't make him move away.  In fact, he feels suddenly suffused with cutthroat rivalry and when he's done gulping greedily at Chris' drink he heaves a long, wet sigh and lets his chin rest on Chris' shoulder.  He blinks at her with false innocence. 

"Um."  Her gaze darts from Chris to JC and then back again.   JC can't see Chris' expression but it's obviously not interested enough to convince her to stay.  "I've gotta go.  Nice to see you again, Kirkpatrick.  Gimme a call sometime if you're not too…busy."  She frowns at JC's hand with those last words, watching it curve around the swell of Chris' hip, slowly creeping up to brush a wayward thumb over the soft flesh of his side. 

They watch her leave, admiring the sway of her ass as she stalks off.  "Damn," Chris says.  "You've sure got a way with women, C." 

"Mm-hmm."

Chris turns his head in order to see JC, and from this angle JC can nearly taste the tangy sweetness of his breath.  "She was nice." 

"I'm nice," JC says forcefully.  His tongue stretches out and drags across the swell of Chris' lower lip to the corner of his mouth, quick and lascivious.  He licks at his own lips when he's finished, tasting lemon and gin and his own unforeseen desire.   Before Chris can react, JC presses himself even further into Chris' back because he wants Chris to know how hard he is, has been ever since he approached.

"I know you are."  Chris mutters.  "I think everyone in the room can see exactly how nice you are." 

JC laughs lowly in Chris' ear, a practiced flirtatious sound that he's perfected over time.  He knows that he's being the opposite of subtle and that Chris is probably more shocked than he seems, but JC wants this to go his way for once.  He wants Chris to talk to him like he'd spoken to Justin on the phone last night, and then he wants to make him writhe and scream in a way that he knows Justin never would. 

Chris is right about everyone seeing but no one seems to care, least of all JC, about the way he's practically rubbing himself on his bandmate right here at the bar.  "Chris," he breathes, trying to remember what it was like to really have to work at seducing someone, before he got famous and simply had to breathe in order for people to fall into his bed. 

Chris isn't falling.  Instead, he turns and slaps some money down on the bar.  "Don't, C," he growls.  "Just cut it the fuck out." 

JC wilts.  "Wh-what's…I thought that you'd…I thought…" he can't stop stammering, and runs his hand through his wildly curled hair. "I thought that you wanted this," he finally says.  "I mean, I hoped you would.  And you let me in your bed last night.  I thought that meant you might…because, why!?"  He throws up his arms helplessly and begins walking toward the door, desperate to just get out of here.  As if he hadn't been feeling like enough of a loser, he's just been shot down in front of dozens of witnesses and by one of his best friends at that.

Chris is behind him so he walks faster, out the doorway and into a corridor.  The orange exit sign isn't very far but it feels like it's taking forever.  He swipes at his neck and shoulders as he walks; the glitter burns his skin and the pants constrict him to the point of pain.  It hurts him, all of it, when only a few hours earlier it made him feel so pretty.  Even his hair feels unbearably burdensome and filthy.  He wants to cut it off, almost can't wait until he gets home to hold a pair of shiny silver scissors in his hand.  Maybe then he can become the person he used to be. 

He thinks that this probably never happens to Justin. 

"JC, wait!"  Chris is still chasing him and he must've been running because when he catches up with JC outside the back door, he's sweating and out of breath.  He tries to slip into the shadows but Chris won't let him.  A steady arm wraps around his waist and JC takes the comfort again, always soaking it up when it's offered.  He bends his head and sniffles, pressing a hand to his face.  Not now, he thinks, mortified, he can't do this now.  Chris will never want him now. 

"No, don't-" Chris looks pained, confused and a little desperate, too.  It's nice knowing that other people can feel these things too, but disheartening to know that he's the cause of it.  "Don't do that.  I'm sorry, C," he croons, and pushes JC against the brick building, holding him there.  "I just didn't want it to happen like that," he explains.  "That's not how it's supposed to happen.  With all those people and the leather…" he trails off, looking sheepish and JC nods even though he's a bit confused about the leather.  

He's afraid that he's going to cry some more but someone from security comes around and asks them if everything is all right.  It's not their security and JC ducks his head into Chris' jacket, embarrassed.  Chris tells them to fuck off and before they go to the car, wipes JC's wet cheek with his bare hand.

***

It's quiet in the car on the way home.  JC stares bleakly out the window and Chris doesn't even turn on the radio.  When they go inside, it's only midnight but feels much later.  JC slinks to the bathroom and takes a shower, washes away the glitter and cologne and sweat from dancing.  When he dries off, he stands in front of the mirror again and tries to recapture the thrilling desire to cut his hair.  It doesn't work; he imagines that it won't change anything other than instead of being a loser with pretty hair, he'll be a loser with dorky hair. 

He stays in the bathroom a long time, stalling because he doesn't know how to face Chris, who he has already come on to twice in one day.  It would be embarrassing if his chest wasn't still aching with that great need. 

JC lathers his face up and shaves carefully.  When his skin is smooth and creamy, he brushes his teeth and puts everything neatly back in place- toothbrush, towels, razor. 

As he'd hoped, Chris is already in bed and JC doesn't worry about anyone seeing his puffy, bloodshot eyes in the darkness.  Chris keeps his house pitch black at night but JC knows his way by now without fear of running into anything. 

"I just didn't want it to happen like that…with all those people," Chris had said and JC had pretended to know what he meant.  He thinks he knows now, though, and thinks that Chris had been right to refuse him. 

"It's me.  Don't hit," he says, this time standing a safe distance from Chris' bed.  When this doesn't get any reaction except a faint rustling of covers, JC lifts the blankets and climbs underneath, still naked.  He slides next to Chris and skims his fingers lightly over the first few surfaces he can find; arm, belly, thigh.

 "This is okay, right?" he asks, blinking uncertainly into the darkness.  He can't see anything but feels everything.  He feels the warm heat of a body welcoming him in, the whisper of Chris' breath on his mouth before being kissed and when Chris slides a possessive tongue against his own, JC is pretty sure that this is how it's supposed to happen.