Okay, now I know this is totally anal, but it's been bugging me. So, here is a slightly revised version of Chapter One in the ALONE/TOGETHER series. As the series has progressed, this first chapter ended up being a little out of whack with what followed, mainly because the original chapter had Lance looking back one year after the break-up. I've changed that now so that the story takes place in the "present", i.e., the same night that the break-up occurred. This means that, now, all the chapters that follow it are in chronological order. (I hope that makes sense!) Anyway, unless you are super anal (like me) you probably wouldn't have noticed -- but now it's fixed, and I feel better. Okay, now on to Chapter 8! By the way, I still hunger for feedback, so email me at denis141@hotmail.com.
DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC. I also don't know anyone who knows NSYNC. In fact, I don't know anyone who knows someone who knows NSYNC. What follows is a work of fiction, and a product of my (admittedly demented) imagination. It also involves sex, sex between boys, and if that is not your thing, or if you are not old enough to read such things, you should stop reading now.
ALONE/TOGETHER
CHAPTER ONE: The Bitter Wind.
When we were still in love I sang a happy song But now I all hear is the bitter wind That whispers love is gone.
-- The Bitter Wind, a song by Jude Johnstone
sung by Trisha Yearwood, on Inside/Out
Over one hundred feet below the rocks glistened invitingly in the vague and dying light of this last day Lance intended to be alive. Gray and wet, jagged-sharp and sea- slapped, the rocks looked not like rocks but like chipped and broken teeth set against a dark and snarling lip of sea.
Now it was just a matter of burying the dead, he thought, of burying what in so many ways could not be unburied, at least not in the literal sense, because all that was left was something that had already died, died so completely that he couldn't remember it being alive, nor remember what it was like to take a breath that he had a right to, to wake up and claim a day as his own, as a beginning, as something new, as something containing possibility, as something other than what stretched before him now, a flat and endless expanse of time not lived, but merely endured, walked through as one would trudge through knee-deep mud, not even knowing why, not even asking why, not even caring why, not even being, just doing.
His head dangled off the edge of the cliff as he continued to stare at the rocks through tired and blood-shot eyes. His body was haphazardly sprawled behind him as if it had been tossed there like a toy no one wanted anymore, limp and lifeless except for his bare feet digging into the damp clay for leverage.
It won't hurt, he thought letting his breath escape in a long hiss that sounded like an old tire leaking air, because hurting takes feeling, and there are no feelings anymore, only deadness, which is not a feeling, not even the absence of a feeling. Maybe if he could feel something -- anything -- even if it was only pain, then it would be different, and he could crawl away from this edge, and crawl away and not look at the rocks like there was no place else in the world where he belonged. But this is how it had been for exactly one year, and he wasn't going to let it be this way for one day more. It couldn't be.
Looking at his watch -- more by instinct, than anything else, because he did not need to know what time it was, nor care -- he remembered that he had smashed the crystal of his watch against a rock and ripped the hour hand from its face, and then the minute and second hands too. He stared at the watch, blinking as freezing sea-scented wind stung his eyes, and he remembered his calm, methodic destruction of its ability to tell time, to tell him the time, and he remembered that JC had given him this watch, given it to him on his 25th birthday, given it to him when it was still possible to commemorate the passing of year, to commemorate it with gifts and joy and celebration and love and even hope for the future. He remembered everything -- as if it were happening yet again.
"We're here Lance," JC said, shaking him gently awake. "We're home."
"Oh, good," said Lance, straightening up in passenger seat of JC's car from the sleep-hunched position he had been in moments ago, and cracking his knuckles against the dashboard. "It's dark. Do you know what time it is?"
JC opened the door on his side of the car and stepped out. "Yeah . . . it's just past eleven-thirty," he replied sticking his head back in the car so that he could grab the empty Pepsi bottle from the cup-holder by the gearshift. "You've been asleep for two hours."
"Sorry `bout that," Lance said, reaching into the backseat for his coat and then getting out of the car himself. "Didn't mean to leave you to drive alone."
"I wasn't alone," said JC.
"You know what I mean," Lance replied.
"Yeah, I guess I do," said JC. "It's okay though."
Lance walked toward the house, stopping at the door to dig into the pocket of the coat he held, searching for his keys. Not finding them in the one pocket, Lance shook the coat up and down to listen for the metallic-jangle-clank that would tell him they were there somewhere. Lance heard the keys, but before he could retrieve them JC was by his side and inserting his own key into the lock, throwing Lance a triumphant look and opening the door himself.
"Fuck you," Lance muttered under his breath, not really caring if JC heard him.
Lance pushed by JC and threw his coat at the old wooden chair that sat next to the grandfather clock in the foyer. Grabbing his still out-thrown arm, JC pulled Lance back toward him. Lance stopped but did not allow himself to be turned around, waiting instead for JC to circle around to face him, like he always did. Once JC was in front of him, Lance looked into JC's eyes and said "yes," almost forgetting to turn it into a question, an invitation for JC to say what he obviously wanted to say and would say even if Lance said nothing at all.
"I love you," said JC quietly.
"I know," said Lance, his face blank and expressionless.
JC waited for Lance to say something more, to say "I love you too", to say "thank you for loving me", to say "thank you for standing by me all these years," to say "thank you for agreeing to leave the band with me." But Lance said nothing as he stared past JC and listened to clock tick, and waited for JC to give up and let go of his arm.
"Time for bed, I guess," said JC, releasing his grip on Lance. "It's late and we're both tired."
Lance turned away from JC and headed without a word toward the stairs. Climbing the stairs, Lance dreaded the conversation that he knew JC would try to start as soon as they lay in bed, a conversation that would inevitably start with a question -- always a question. Are you okay? Do you want to talk? Are you mad at me? Do you still love me? Or -- worst of all -- Do you want to make love? It took every ounce of self-control to keep from saying, You mean with you?
JC watched Lance climb the stairs not knowing what else to do or say. He had thought that Lance would be so happy, so happy to have finally gotten his way, finally gotten him to agree to leave the group with him, to walk away at the very height of their fame, to walk away when there seemed to be no limit to how much bigger they could become, and no limit to how much more they could do.
"But how much more could you want," he remembered Lance asking him for what seemed like the thousandth time. Lance had been on him about this for a year, and each time it was the same argument. "JC -- listen to me! We have each other, don't we? Isn't that what you are always saying, always saying fifty fucking times a day? So what in the fuck else do you think we need? More fucking money? More fucking fame?"
JC remembered that he never knew what to say to this because Lance was right. Lance was always right. And he remembered that all he could ever think to do was to walk to Lance and hug him, whispering "I'm sorry, Lance. You're right. You're right." Then he would bury his face in the bend of Lance's neck and feel the stinging warmth of his angry skin. "I'm sorry Lance. I love you so much. Please don't be mad. Please." And Lance would never say a word then, but at least he did not push him away.
JC was startled from this memory by the unexpected chiming of the clock. "Wow," he said, counting the chimes but knowing it was now midnight. After picking up Lance's coat from where it had slid to the floor, and then throwing away the Pepsi bottle he still held, JC turned and slowly climbed the stairs. He lifted Lance's coat to his nose and inhaled deeply. At the top of the stairs, JC looked down the hallway to see if the door to the bedroom was open and it was. Good, he thought. Good.
JC entered the bedroom, walked to his side of the bed, and quietly undressed. The room was dark with the curtains drawn, but JC knew Lance was still awake by the sound of his breathing. He had spent too many hours laying next to Lance in bed to not know what he sounded like when still awake.
As JC stood and listened to Lance breathe, he toyed with the waistband of his boxer-briefs, trying to decide whether to leave them on or take them off, trying to decide whether Lance might want to make love. JC decided to leave them on and slid into bed, careful not to bounce the mattress, or to accidentally touch Lance's leg.
Pulling the sheet up to his chin, JC felt Lance's hand slide under his thigh. Lance slid over next to JC and then roughly rolled on top of him. JC could feel Lance's erection pressing damply against his leg, and feel Lance's breath on his lips, knowing without seeing that Lance's face was inches from his own, and that a kiss was hanging just above his lips like fruit waiting to be plucked.
"Lance," JC whispered slowly.
Lance kissed JC before he could say anything else, not so much to quiet him, but to get on with it, to get it over, to finish, and go to sleep. He reached roughly between JC's legs to see if he was hard, knowing that wouldn't be, knowing that JC was never hard anymore, at least not at first, not without some coaxing Fuck, he thought as his fingers touched the fabric of JC's boxer briefs, he's wearing underwear.
Pulling his mouth away from JC's lips, Lance said, "I want to fuck you."
Saying it, Lance knew that JC hated him saying that, hated it when he called it fucking, when he didn't call it making love. But Lance couldn't bring himself to say that anymore, to say making love, to say words that he knew would be a lie, because he knew couldn't make love anymore, not to JC, and not to anyone. Lance knew -- knew and accepted -- that he could only fuck now. And so that's what he did, with whoever was around. He didn't care who he fucked, because it just didn't matter, not anymore. Anyway, he thought, it only seemed like cheating when he fucked JC, because he knew JC wanted more, needed more, more than Lance seemed able to give him, give anyone. At least when he fucked some stranger, some nameless person that he couldn't care less about, it didn't seem so wrong, it didn't seem like a lie, like it did with JC.
"I want to fuck you," Lance said again, meaning it, but also thinking -- I'd make love to you if I could JC, I really would.
JC pulled his mouth away from Lance's kiss. "Okay, baby," he whispered. "Wait a second while I get these off."
Lance rolled off JC and waited while JC shucked off his boxer briefs. Lance knew they were black, they were always black, and he knew that JC looked so sexy in those things, so fucking sexy. He remembered the delight he used to feel watching JC bend over every morning, his skin still dewed with shower-steam, watching JC step into those black boxer briefs, gently-slow and toe-first, like he was stepping into a puddle of warm water, and watching him slowly pull them up the trunks of his long lithe legs, pull them up like he had all the time in the world, like he knew he was giving Lance the gift of one more glimpse of his beautiful ass. And it had never failed to make Lance's penis instantly hard, never failed to cause Lance to pull JC back into bed, back into his arms, so that moments later those black boxers briefs would be off again, and on the floor next to the bed, while Lance and JC made love, wicked and hot.
Lance was startled by the fervor of this memory, and the fire that it seemed able to inspire. He reached out and touched JC's arm. "Come here, Josh" Lance said, still wanting to get this done with, to earn this momentary release, to empty himself into JC and then escape to the darkness of sleep, to the dark not-being of sleep.
JC wished he could see Lance, wished he could turn on some small light in the room and see Lance's face, see his eyes, even if those eyes lately seemed only to stare, but never see, at least not him. "I love you Lance," JC said, sliding toward Lance's embrace. "I love you so much." Lance kissed him in silent reply, pressing his lips hard against JC's mouth, opening it with his own, and running his tongue across JC's teeth, enjoying the cold scrape of sharpness.
It did not take long for Lance to enter JC and start the piston-steady in an out that JC could barely bring himself to call making love. JC held tightly to Lance's neck, his legs tucked up against his chest, receiving each thrust with a determination and gratefulness that frightened him because he did not understand it, but felt it, and was glad for it still. JC could feel his half-hard penis beginning to swell against the friction of his legs and the frantic pounding of Lance on top of him, and he could feel the sweat begin to form on Lance's neck. JC knew they would be done soon, and Lance would pull out and roll off him without a word, without a single word, leaving only the dark and silence to press down on him.
JC pulled his mouth back from Lance's insistent kissing and whispered, "Yeah, baby. Come on." JC could feel the panting hot breath on his neck that always came before the final letting go. He could feel the quickening tempo of in and out. He could feel the sticky-moist heat of skin on skin. He could feel his own excitement build, and he willed himself closer to it, hoping that he could come with Lance still in him, not after, not after when all there was to do was finish it off himself, or just not to bother, and hold Lance's hand instead, to hold it and not let go no matter what.
Lance could feel his balls start to pull up and tighten and he knew he was close, so close. He held his breath as his climax neared, and then he was there, so there.
"Oh fuck, yes," Lance gasped, surprised at the intensity of it, at the near joy of it. "Oh god, Jeff. . . ."
Hearing it before he even heard it, JC thrust his legs forward with more strength than he knew he possessed, more strength than he did possess, pushing Lance violently away, flinging him backwards and off the end of the bed and on to the floor.
Lance hit the floor with a crumpled thud, and did not try to stand up or move or say anything at all. Lance just quietly waited, waited to hear JC's angry voice, waited for the bitter and tearful rebuke that he knew he deserved, and now even wanted.
JC lay on the bed for what seemed to him like a very long time, waiting to see if Lance would stand up or say anything. When he did not, and it was plain that Lance would lay there on the floor all night unless JC said something himself, JC stood up and walked over to the light switch and turned it on. Lance was laying on his side at the foot of the bed, his body curved like a question mark, his eyes shut tight against the light.
JC stared at him and tried to remember how he had fallen in love with this man, why he had devoted the last seven years to loving him and no one else, how he had done everything Lance ever asked of him, and how he had never asked anything ever in return except to be loved, except to be loved.
Then JC spoke: "Get out," he said. "Get out and never come back."
Lance remembered, remembered it as if it was happening, remembered how he had heard those words and been stunned by their finality, by their certainty, and by their complete and utter truth, heard the words that had left him no choice but to do exactly as asked, to leave, to leave and not go back.
Tears filled his eyes as pain suddenly seared through the deadening fog of despair, making him gasp like someone who had forgotten to breathe, or was just resurfacing from being under water too long. "Oh, god," he cried. "Oh, god."
Lance pulled his legs up against his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around his body, trying to compress himself into the smallest space possible, as if he was not entitled to more space than his scrunched body now filled. He shivered and sobbed and gasped for breath between each sob, rocking slowly back and forth in the damp-darkened dirt.
Finally, slowly, Lance unfurled his arms, and then his legs, and shakily stood up, wobbling like a just born colt. He turned toward the edge of the cliff and looked out toward the horizon where the moon lightened the night sky. Tears cut furrows in his clay-stained face, and he turned to walk away -- even though he knew not where, and even though it didn't matter anyway, because all Lance could hear was the bitter wind as it whispered love is gone.