"So, will you be here or not?"

"I don't think I can, Heather."  Trace stares helplessly at the phone in his hand.  

"Right."  She's not crying anymore, but something in her tone tells him it will be the last time they ever have this argument.  "I forgot that you're his now.  I probably should've gone straight to the man himself to ask his permission for you to come." 

"Don't…" be like that.  He doesn't even bother, and she's hung up by the time he figures out what he wants to say.  Part of him wants to call back and tell her how wrong she is because what she said is pretty insulting, really; he doesn't belong to anyone. 

Except…she isn't wrong. 

Isn't that why he'd come out here, after all?  Why he'd put his own plans on hold and shaped the path of his life to revolve around its own shining star?  Justin had been too afraid of a world where people were bought and sold until they became empty, beautiful moneymaking machines and had begged Trace to come out.  It was ironic, really, because Justin hadn't even considered that buying an old friend to help keep it real was maybe one of the warning signs that he'd already crossed over. 

That had been Trace's first impression when he'd gotten to LA.  When he'd first arrived at the house, swarming with this new, dangerous breed of people and seen Justin, smooth and glittering as he made them laugh and said all the right things, Trace had clutched at the return ticket in his pocket, always in his pocket, and wondered why he was here.  Later, when everyone had gone and he saw the way Justin stood in his mammoth living room, still smiling but looking lost, Trace had known that leaving wasn't an option. 

For someone like him, being bought and sold isn't such a terrible thing; not when it means that Justin can remain untouched by the things that want so desperately to pull him down and change him into something less than what he is now. 

The return ticket isn't in his pocket anymore.  He moved it months ago to the back of his top dresser drawer, but it's still there and he thinks about it sometimes.  It's under a pile of old socks he brought with him, socks with holes nearly worn in the heels, socks that don't belong in a house like this.  He keeps them as a small rebellion; as a way of showing that he does indeed have the power to keep it real. 

He thinks of the ticket often.  He thinks of it every time he walks into a room, trailing after Justin.  To everyone who sees them, he is nothing but an extension of Justin Timberlake, superstar.  Less important, perhaps, than his arm or legs, but definitely more important than a hat or favorite shirt.  And, for the moment, more important than those four other extensions of Justin, the ones who eclipse him completely with their presence when they are around. 

It's not that he doesn't like it.

There's just something that makes him uneasy about the fact that in his efforts to ground Justin, he himself has become so much less real.  

And now he puts down the phone knowing that he's lost his last tie to his old life, the life he liked to pretend he could go back to.  It doesn't exactly hurt, but it makes that hollow, empty place inside a little more noticeable, so he wanders down to the kitchen to find something that might make it better.  For a little while, at least. 

The house is silent for a change, and Trace likes the darkness.  The outside lights provide more than enough illumination for the inside of the house, so he makes his way around the wide island to the refrigerator and holds it open. 

"Hey." 

Before he even turns around, he can tell that Justin is alone.  The exaggerated accent is gone,  there's no swagger or blindingly charming smile.  Just a tall, sweet-faced young man sitting at the bar stool with his elbows propped up on the kitchen island.  For a moment, his chest aches because this moment has been copied and pasted from the same scene ten years ago.  He half expects to hear his mom yelling for them to keep out of the snacks, but that's just part of the memory.  The reality is a cup of pudding in his hand and the bruised look of Justin's eyes. 

"Hi," he says, and pulls a spoon from the drawer.  His stomach feels jumpy and nervous, but it's better when he licks the underside of the foil covering.  Even in LA, at least chocolate tastes the same.  "Tour starts soon," he says.  Justin only sits this quietly when he's got something on his mind, and he expects Trace to be able to know exactly what.  He likes being the only one who can figure it out.  This is why he's here, after all. 

Justin shrugs, his mouth curled up on one side in a half-smile.  Other people find it endearing, but Trace knows that the half-smile is more alarming than no smile at all because it means he's making a genuine attempt at faking it. 

"You talk to them about the dancers, yet?"  He swirls the layers of pudding together with his spoon, pretending to concentrate on the snack, but from the corner of his eye he sees Justin turn away, avert his eyes. 

"It's no big deal," he mumbles. 

"It is.  You said you didn't want them, that it wasn't different enough." 

"Maybe they're right…" Justin trails off.  It's obvious that he doesn't think they're right. 

"You swore you'd never do this," Trace says.  Justin is watching him eat and he probably wants some but it was the last cup and Trace refuses to give it up because he'd sworn to himself he'd never do that.  That was when it'd truly be time to pack up and go home. 

"I don't know what to do," Justin breathes into his hands, and presses his fingers into his eyelids.  He would never let anyone else see him like this. 

"You've just gotta tell them what you want, Justin.  Let 'em know it's non-negotiable."  He was making it sound easier than it was, but he figured Justin had learned a long time ago that things are always harder than they sound. 

"Yeah," Justin says, as though he's trying out the idea, then more firmly.  "Yeah.  I'll tell them tomorrow.  We'll go- aw, shit.  You're going back for that wedding?  For Heather's cousin, or something." 

He studies Justin's face the best he can in the darkness.  Disappointment is so clearly etched there, and he doesn't want to be the one responsible.  Not when it's so much easier to make someone else look that way, someone else who's far enough that he won't have to see their hurt eyes and lips parted in betrayed shock.  At least, that's how Justin looks right now.   

"Nah, I'm not going.  Just talked to Heather now, actually.  We're cool, it's cool.  I'll be here." 

Now it's Justin studying him and Justin doesn't need to see that lie; that's not why Trace is here, so he opens his mouth wide to reveal a mess of chocolatey goo, and it works.  Justin laughs, groans, throws a mock punch across the counter, and it's funny.  Real. 

These are the moments he's here to provide, but it isn't the only reason.  There's a reason Justin has never allowed him to stay very far away, but since Justin is obliviously cautious by nature and still thinks it's all right to sleep in the same bed as though they're still ten years old, that reason remains unknown to those who don't want to see it.  Trace isn't one of those people, though. 

No one allows themselves to be bought without a good reason.