Well, I'm not sure where all of this is going to end up (Well, maybe I do, but I'm not telling.) Anyway, I'm posting this because I'm tired of tearing it apart and putting it back together again, and I think it stopped getting better 3 versions ago, so here it is, and it's best that I could do, even though I know I'm going to read this in a week and hate it and want to jump off the roof. I always feel that way, but this time I feel it more. I think I made all the right decisions, plot-wise, or at least I made the only ones I felt I could make and do so honestly; still, I feel like I failed at conveying the emotions I wanted to convey. Send your condolences and pity bouquets to denis141@hotmail.com. P.S. I'll try to do better next time.
Oh, and go vote for my story at http://bbsa.50megs.com/ because I was nominated for saddest break-up and, well, I think them breaking up was DAMN sad!!! (You can also access the voting section by way of www.nifty.org in the boyband section.) Thanks!
DEDICATION: This is for Aaron again, and for James too, because they are the best, and I appreciate them (and their feedback) very much. Sorry this is such an imperfect chapter, but I know you know I did my best, so I hope you don't mind the dedication too much.
DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC, and this story, well, I made the whole damn thing up. Yeah, and one more thing, this story has sex in it (although not as much as some would like), so, if that's not your thing, or if you ain't old enough, you should stop reading now.
ALONE/TOGETHER
CHAPTER 12: THE POINT OF ARRIVING.
No defeat is made up entirely of defeat -- since the world it opens up is always a place
formerly
unsuspected.
-- William Carlos Williams, Paterson (From Book Two)
He leaned his forehead against the limousine window, appreciating its cold touch, and grateful for it too, because he felt hot, even though he'd taken his sweater off, and his shoes and socks too. Resting his head there, he blinked several times and his eyelashes swept against the glass as he watched the pockmarked concrete highway pass underneath him and then into the blur at the far edge of his peripheral vision, like the highway was disappearing into fog. The traffic was bad today; worse than usual for outside the city; it seemed like he was hardly moving at all.
"God, I'll never get there," he said, banging his head softly against the glass.
Looking up, without needing to move to do so, he saw again how the sky was stuffed with bleak near-black clouds that made it seem more like night than day. The rain was falling hard now too, not wind-swept at all; it was coming down in translucent ruler- straight lines, and hitting hard against the concrete, and bouncing chaotically, like tiny glass beads fallen from a broken necklace on to a stone floor. He smelled that dank sour soil-smell that always seems to come with the rain when it hasn't rained for a while; it smelled like moldy vegetables, and river stones, and cheese, and cold day-old coffee.
He knew it was nearly one o'clock and it would be another hour before he arrived. He didn't mind the wait though, because he wasn't in a hurry -- not at all. The longer it took, the longer the not-knowing would last; and not-knowing was better than knowing, or so he thought as he continued to stare at the sky and watch the rain fall.
"Sweetie."
"What?"
"You're shoes."
"What?"
"Your shoes. You need to put them on."
Lance looked down at his bare feet, and wriggled his toes in the plush gray carpet of his hotel bedroom. Except for his shoes and socks, Lance had been fully dressed for over an hour in a black double-breasted tuxedo custom-made for him by Georgia Armani. He'd wanted to wear his Sandy Dalal suit, the one he'd worn to The Ghost Road premier; it felt familiar and always calmed him somehow. But Stephen, his manager, had thrown a major tantrum and threatened to jump of the balcony if he didn't wear the Armani. So he wore it, even though the idea of wearing a tuxedo that cost $8,000 distressed him.
"Sweetie."
"What?"
"Your shoes."
Lance suddenly realized that this was the third time she'd said `your shoes' and for some reason it really irritated him.
"Okay!" he yelled. "I know. My shoes, my shoes, my shoes. I know, so would you please just go out and join others. I'll there in a few minutes."
Lance listened to the door close behind her as she silently exited the bedroom. He easily imagined the several dozen people on the other side of the door turning to see if he was finally making his appearance, and then, seeing that is was his only mom, they would watch her walk into the room and look at her like she'd just come from speaking with the surgeon who'd been trying for last few hours to save his life after a bad car accident.
"So how is he," they'd all ask, squinting over the tops of their cocktails.
"Not so good," she'd say, shaking her head sadly. "But he's alive, and he seems to be holding on."
Lance smiled and wriggled his toes again. Being able to feel the floor with his bare feet was just about the only thing that made this moment seem real to him. He still had trouble believing that he'd been nominated for an Academy Award. It seemed like some sort of huge mistake, like when a bank accidentally puts a million dollars in some janitor's bank account, and the poor guy talks himself into believing that he deserves the money, because he's had a hard life, and he figures the world owes him something. But Lance didn't figure that the world owed him anything, so he pretty much knew that being nominated was a mistake, and something he'd be forced to give back if he let himself believe he deserved it for even a minute.
Lance stood up and looked around the room. It was impressive, even to someone like him who'd been in countless impressive hotel rooms. This was the master bedroom in the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel, which opened in March of 2002 as part of the huge Hollywood and Highland complex, and which also included the Kodak Theatre, the new site of the Academy Awards show. Sony Classic Pictures had rented the Panorama Suite at the hotel for Lance and the other stars of The Ghost Road, and was throwing a lavish party before the show, or as Joey had called it, "da hella-hella Oscar pre-funk bash".
After opening and closing several drawers, and looking under the bed, and under several of the chairs too, Lance concluded that his socks were no where to be found.
"Where the fuck are my socks," he yelled as loud as he could, and then waited for the door to open. Lance guessed it would be either Stephen, or his mom, who'd burst through the door. Both of them had the annoying, but sometimes useful, habit of hovering outside every room he was in, as if they knew he would soon be yelling for some kind of help, which he usually did when they were around. This time, however, no one opened the door. Lance frowned and flopped backwards on the bed, almost unloosening his bow-tie, but pulling his hand a away at the last minute as he remembered how long it had taken Maurice, the stylist from Armani store, to get it tied "just right" the first time.
"Fuck this," Lance said, burying his toes once more into the carpet, and closing his eyes and yawning. He stretched his arms out to his sides and moved them slowly up and down like he was making a snow angel. He wondered why he was doing this, but he didn't stop; it felt good to have his arms sliding over the silk-slick duvet that covered the king-sized bed. Lance yawned again, and felt himself relax and begin to drift away.
Yeah, he thought. Sleep. Just sleep.
Lance licked lips and let his breathing fall into a deep and steady rhythm; he was approaching sleep, but not quite there, not quite far enough away from the wakeful world of discordant noise and harsh light and insistent questions and the party in the other room and everything else that Lance wanted now to avoid. Turning his head gently to one side, wishing he had a pillow, but not wanting to reach for one, Lance let out a soft purring noise, which turned into a hum; and then he heard -- or thought he heard -- the door open, and the sound of people talking, and silence again, and the sound of himself sighing as he reached for sleep again, and almost had it, until he also felt a soft warmth on his forehead, and then his cheek, as he floated between sleep and wakefulness, trying to decide whether the warmth he felt was a touch, yes, it was a touch.
Mmmmm, he hummed.
His lips felt warm now, and nearly moist, and Lance knew now it was a hand on his face, caressing him, his left cheek being held now, and it was a thumb that gently moved the caress up and down, not moving much, but just enough so it felt safe and good and he didn't want it to stop, until then he realized there was a kiss too, and he was not just dreaming or imagining or hoping or merely wanting it to be this way; it was a real kiss, yes, a kiss, pushing hard against his lips.
Lances eyes snapped open and he saw Brendan Fehr, the young actor who had played Wilfred Owen in The Ghost Road. Brendan's face was hovering above Lance as he lay on the bed, smiling. Seeing Brendan, and realizing that it was Brendan that had kissed him moments ago, Lance rolled off the bed, and quickly stood up.
"Brendan!" Lance said, more loudly than he'd intended, but not really caring if anyone had heard. "What in the fuck are you doing?"
"Hey, Lance," Brendan laughed. "Just seeing if I still had the magic that wakes up Sleeping Beauty, and it looks like I do."
"Man, that isn't cool," Lance said, dragging his lips across the back of his sleeve. "How'd you get in here?"
"Hey," Brendan said, looking hurt and trying to decide if Lance was really angry. "It's not like the door was locked. Besides Stephen asked me to bring you your socks. He's busy being interviewed by that weird Mary Hart woman from Entertainment Tonight."
"Oh," Lance said, taking the socks from Brendan's hand and immediately noting that the socks were extremely soft, cashmere probably. "Sorry."
"It looks like her face is made out of wax," Brendan said, stepping to the window and looking at the view. "Wow, this is nice."
"Yeah, it's okay," Lance said, sitting on the bed and pulling on one sock.
"So I guess you were expecting someone else," Brendan said, stepping toward Lance and putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Not really," Lance said, looking at his one bare foot, and wishing Brendan would take his hand away. "I was asleep. I wasn't expecting anything."
"Yeah," Brendan said, giving Lance's shoulder a firm squeeze and then letting go, and walking toward the door. "You coming to the party? Everyone's waiting for you."
"Yeah, I'll be there in a few minutes," Lance said, pulling on his other sock and reaching for the box that held his shoes.
Brendan was almost out the door when he turned and stuck his head back into the room. "Hey," he said. "I'm sorry we never really talked after The Ghost Road wrapped. I kept meaning to call you."
"Yeah, I know," Lance said, staring at the shoe he held in his hand. "It's no big."
"I just figured I'd run into you somewhere."
"It's really no big deal," Lance said.
"Okay," Brendan said, nodding, and apparently reassured. "So maybe I can call you sometime, if that would be cool, and -- I dunno -- maybe we could do something."
"Yeah," Lance said. "That might be good."
"Great," Brendan said, giving Lance a goofy smile that was not far from being a smirk, but a good-natured one. "I will then."
"Oh," Lance said. "Can you tell my mom I've got my socks on."
"Sure thing," Brendan said, smiling at Lance and then closing the door.
Lance looked once more at the shoe he was holding; it was black and so shiny he could see his reflection in it. Lance waved at his reflection in the shoe, and watched as his tiny mirror-image seemed to wave back at him.
"You don't look like a movie star to me," he said, laughing and amused.
They had all managed to pack into the Panorama suite's private elevator -- Lance, his mom, Brendan Fehr, Joey and his wife, Melanie Beauvais, Chris and Justin, Lance's manager, Stephen, and Maurice, the stylist that the Armani salon had sent over to make sure that Lance looked "just right" in his tuxedo. They were now all on their way to the lobby where the limousines were waiting to take them to the show's red carpet entrance.
Lance felt sick to his stomach and he couldn't stop licking his lips. Seeing this, Maurice tapped Lance on the shoulder while rooting around in a big canvas bag.
"I have moisturizer for your lips, Mr. Bass," Maurice said. "Licking your lips only makes them drier."
"Hey Maurie," Joey said. "You think you could put some of that moisturizer on my dick. It's feeling a little dry."
"Yeah, me too," Chris chimed in, elbowing Joey in the ribs, and laughing.
"Joey!" his wife yelled, but laughing too.
Lance looked at his mom and cringed, but she was laughing too hard to notice his embarrassment. The elevator doors then slid open, and Lance stepped out, followed by the others. He could see that Maurice was waving a jar of what Lance assumed was the moisturizer, so he turned toward Maurice and said, "Okay dude, moisturize away."
Maurice applied the moisturizer to Lance's lips with an improbably large cotton swab, and then straightened Lance's tie.
"There, that's looks just right," Maurice said, stepping back and admiring his own handiwork. "Just right."
"Great," Lance said, politely, before turning away and walking across the lobby to where Melanie and Joey were waiting with Lance's mom.
"So, Lance," Joey said, grabbing his arm. "Our seat are quite a few rows back, so we probably won't see you until the Board of Governor's Ball afterwards."
"Yeah," Lance said, patting Joey on the shoulder, and smiling at Melanie. "So how's Aaron doing?"
"You mean, Reece," Melanie said, correcting Lance.
"Aaron, is doing great," Joey said, throwing his wife an irritated glance. "He's two, and already bossier than you ever were."
"Anyway," Joey continued. "We better be going."
"Okay," Lance said. "I'll see you after then."
"Yup," Joey said, taking Melanie's hand. "And in case I didn't tell you before, I'm real proud of you Lance, of what you've done, and I want you to know that I think it's just really amazing and great."
"Thanks, Joey," Lance said. "Thanks a lot."
Lance watched Joey and Melanie walk across the vast marble lobby and towards the door that led to the limousine station outside the hotel. The lobby was mostly empty now, and Lance liked it better that way.
"You ready to go, Mom?" Lance asked, turning to his mom, and extending his arm to her.
"I am," she said, looping her arm through Lance's and smiling up at him.
"Let's go then," Lance said, leading the way.
Justin had just finished singing The Ghost Road theme, and now he stood in the wings, just off stage, watching as Alex Bledel and Colin Hanks took turns reading the names of each nominated song. When they were done, Alex ripped open the envelope and pulled out the card that contained the name of the winning song.
"Do you want to read it," Alex said, turning to Colin and handing him the card.
"No, go ahead," he said.
"This year's winner is Joshua Chasez, for The Ghost Road theme."
Hearing this, Justin swallowed hard, wiped his hands on the back of his pants, and strode on to the stage and up to the dais on which sat JC's Academy Award. Justin blushed as Alex kissed him on the cheek and handed him the award. Leaning close to the microphone, and adjusting it so he could speak into it without bending over so far, Justin waited for the applause to stop, or at least get close to stopping. As he waited, Justin looked at Lance, who was on his feet and clapping, and smiling at his mom, and hugging her, and then smiling at Justin too.
"Um...as you can tell," Justin said, his voice cracking a little. "JC wasn't able to be here tonight. He's... he's working on a big project and he couldn't get away."
Justin coughed into his fist, and swallowed hard.
"Man, they should have water up here," he said, causing everyone in the theater to laugh and then briefly applaud again.
"Well, if JC was here, I know he'd want to thank you all for giving him this very special award, and he'd want to thank his family and all of his friends, which includes me, of course."
Justin picked up the award, held it to his chest with both hands, and continued.
"And, uh...if JC was here, I know that there would be one person in particular that he'd want to thank, and that would be Lance Bass, because I know that Lance always had a way of inspiring JC, and I know that Lance inspired this song, really inspired it, and that when JC recorded it, he sang it for Lance. So, that's why I know that JC would want me to give this award to Lance for safe-keeping, for when he can come back to get it."
Justin walked from behind the dais and to the edge of the stage, looking at Lance the entire time, and motioning for him to come up on stage with him. Lance looked at his mom, and wiped his eyes with the back of his jacket sleeve.
"Go on," she whispered.
Lance stood up, wiping his eyes again, and climbed the stairs to where Justin now stood, waiting. Lance couldn't see it, with his back turned to the audience, but Justin watched the audience as everyone got on their feet and began to loudly applaud. When Lance got to the edge of the stage, he extended his right hand and Justin put JC's Academy Award in it. The applause grew louder and Lance's eyes filled with tears; he couldn't hold them back; and Lance could see that Justin was crying too.
"Thank you," Lance whispered to Justin, taking Justin's hand and squeezing it.
Turning around and heading back down the stairs, Lance lifted JC's award in the air to acknowledge the applause, and waving to the people in the balcony, most of whom were fans who won seats in an annual ticket lottery. The award felt cold in his hand, and slick, like it was carved from ice. He gripped it harder, afraid that it might slip from his grasp, and it would break. Returning to his seat, Lance winked at his mom.
"I knew he was going to win," Lance said, his voice breaking. "He really deserved it, didn't he?"
Because Lance had known there was no way to prepare for this moment, he had not tried. He had not tried to imagine someone reading his name as one of five nominees for best actor, or the sustained applause that seemed to follow its reading.
He had not tried to imagine his mother's hand squeezing his forearm so tight that he was certain she was cutting off the blood to his hand, or the similar pain of forcing himself to smile for what he knew was now a tight and unforgiving close-up of his face. He had not tried to imagine Natalie Portman, who had won the best actress award the previous year, standing on stage about to rip open a large white envelope and pull out the card that contained the name of this year's winner for best actor. He had not imagined any of this, and seeing it now hardly made it seem more real.
Lance took a deep breath and prepared to hear the name of the winner announced, not his name, but the name of someone who deserved to win, like Colin Farrell or Sam Coleson or Jude Law or Ian McKellan, the other four nominees. But not him, not Lance Bass. Watching Natalie struggle with the envelope, Lance wondered if the other nominees felt as badly as he did at that moment.
Keep smiling, Lance thought. And applaud for the winner.
"And the winner of this year's Academy Award for best actor is ... Lance Bass, for The Ghost Road."
Lance did not at first hear his name being read. The first thing he heard was his mother gasp, with the words "best actor" and "Lance Bass" and "Ghost Road" seeming to reach his ears at some point much later in time.
"What?" he said, standing up slowly on legs he could hardly feel. "Did I win? Did she say I won?"
Lance felt dazed and overwhelmed. The applause was deafening, and it felt like it was washing over him in huge heavy waves, making it difficult for him to stand under the imagined weight of it all. His mom was jumping up and down in front of him, shouting "you won, you won," and Brendan Fehr had rushed over and grabbed him from behind and lifted him off his feet, and was laughing into his left ear, shouting, "you did it man, you did it." And then Justin was there too, and Joey, and everyone was hugging him, and he was hugging them back, even though he could hardly figure out what was happening.
When Lance finally stumbled forward out of the tangled congratulatory embrace, and his mother's kisses stopped, he suddenly realized that everyone in the theatre was on their feet and applauding and cheering and yelling, and the people in the balcony were all screaming his name; and as Lance surveyed the chaotic jubilance that stretched in all directions before him, he instinctively looked for JC, hoping against hope that he might have arrived, arrived in time to share this moment with him, a moment that was as much JC's as it was his own, a moment that he could not imagine having arrived at without JC.
Not seeing JC anywhere, and knowing that he wouldn't see him no matter how long he looked, Lance turned and climbed the stairs to the stage, each foot feeling as if it weighed at least fifty pounds. Natalie met him at the stage's edge, her hand outstretched. Lance was grateful for that hand, and the direction it promised. He hardly knew where he was, let alone where he was supposed to go and stand. Natalie squeezed his hand, not knowing exactly how Lance felt, but suspecting, having been there once herself. She led him to the dais and handed Lance his Academy Award.
"My God, it's heavy," Lance said, genuinely surprised.
Natalie laughed, astonished at how lost Lance seemed, like a little boy almost, and not at all like she'd expected him to be.
"Congratulations, Lance," she said, kissing him on the cheek, and stepping back.
Lance looked out over and across the audience; everyone was still on their feet, and still applauding. He could hardly hear, except now he noticed that The Ghost Road theme was playing, JC's version of it, and Lance gasped a little hearing it again for only the second time.
All the poems ever written Every song ever sung Every book ever read Every bell ever rung All the words ever spoken Every story ever told
There are no words that can describe What I lost when I lost you.
As audience began finally to sit back down, and their clapping finally stilled, and a semblance of quiet finally returned to the theatre, Lance began to speak.
"Thank you," he said, almost too quietly for the microphone to pick up. "Thank you very much. Wow. This is really a surprise. I... I really didn't expect to be standing here right now."
"Anyway," Lance continued, feeling like each word he spoke was a step along a narrow mountain ledge. "I guess everyone probably says that. But, you know, saying it now, I really do mean it, because when I was sitting there, right before Natalie read my name, I was thinking there was no way that I deserved to win something like this -- I mean, BEST actor, what's that all about? That's the other guys, not me."
Lance set the award on the dais -- carefully, so it didn't make a loud thud; and he pressed his left hand hard against his chest, as if pressing hard would slow his pounding heart. Pressing there, Lance could feel his ring and its sharp edge as it started to cut into his skin, not enough to draw blood, he thought, but enough to leave a mark right there where it was hanging from the chain around his neck.
"I did win though," Lance said, genuinely incredulous. "So it looks like someone thought deserve this award."
The audience erupted again into applause, with most people standing again. Lance felt overwhelmed, but grateful too for the opportunity to catch his breath.
"Winning this," Lance said, speaking over the weakening applause, and then watching as everyone sat back down. "Winning this reminds me of something my mom told me once. She told me that love is an undeserved gift, something you can't earn, but can only accept and be thankful that someone thought to give it to you. And I realize now, that what she said is true. So I want to tell you that I really am grateful for you giving me this award, and I want to thank you for giving it to me."
Lance paused, trying not to cry, and taking several small gulps of air. He knew his lower lip was quivering, and his voice was starting to waiver.
"I also want to thank Ridley Scott, the director of The Ghost Road, and Brendan Fehr, who played Wilfred Owen, my amazingly crazy best friend in the film, and Stephen Gabriel, my amazingly crazy manager, and my mom and dad and my sister, who I love very much. And I, uh... I of course, need to thank my other family, Joey and Justin and Chris, for always being there for me, even when I didn't deserve it."
"Finally..."
Lance stopped, unable for a moment to continue. The audience hardly stirred, and it stayed eerily, respectfully quiet while everyone waited for Lance to go on.
"Finally, I want to thank one person in particular. He couldn't be here tonight, Josh couldn't, but I can tell you that he is here in my heart, because... well, because he is the man I love more than anything in the world, and having had Josh in my life these last seven years -- actually, it would have been eight tomorrow, and having his love, it was the greatest gift I ever received -- so, Josh, if you're out there somewhere, this is for you."
Lance had fallen asleep with his forehead pressed against the window, lulled asleep by the sound of the falling rain, and the road noise. When he'd finally arrived, Lance had not known at first where he was -- until he saw the gate, and then knew that he was finally home. Lance stumbled out of the limousine, not bothering to put his shoes and socks on, because he preferred to walk barefoot up the driveway to the house. Rain- wet hair now stuck to his forehead, and his t-shirt and jeans were quickly damp. Lance held JC's Academy Award in one hand and his own in the other, swinging them slightly as he walked. It had been dry the day he left, and now it was raining hard.
Lance stepped onto the wooden bridge that spanned the arroyo and stopped half- way across, so that he was standing in the middle. He had crossed this bridge hundreds of times, crossed it like he was a refugee fleeing some war-torn country, filled with hope that, once across, things would be better—not perfect, but better. Lance remembered that it was always when they crossed the bridge together that JC would take Lance's hand and squeeze it and say, "It's good to be home."
Standing there now, in the middle of the bridge, and watching the water flow beneath it, Lance wondered where the water went. There was never enough of it to go far, Lance thought. But it had to go somewhere. Probably just into the earth
Lance tilted his head back and let the rain fall on his face, holding it flat to the sky, like a supplicant's upraised palms. He opened his mouth and tasted the rain; it had no taste, but his mouth was dry and stale, like he'd licked a stone, so the moisture felt good in it. Rain trickled down the back of his throat, and tears trickled down his face, mixing with the rain. He could hear the far-off sound of the ocean, storm-tossed and crashing, and he could still hear The Ghost Road theme, playing in his head, haunting him, and he could hear JC singing it like the bitter lament it was, singing it like he was saying good-bye, saying good-bye to him.
Why hadn't I heard it before, Lance wondered, heard how it was saying good-bye.
The rain that pooled in the crevices of Lance's tightly shut eyes, mixing with the tears there, and overflowing and running down the sides of his neck and soaking into the collar on his t-shirt. Lance shuddered and coughed and then looked around, almost as if he felt like someone was watching him. He steadied himself by leaning his back against the bridge's wooden railing. Lance knew he should go inside, and get out of the rain, but somehow he couldn't convince himself to take the final steps across the bridge. He feared he was at the end of something. No, he knew he was at the end of something.
Today was March 11 -- his birthday, the day he'd fallen in love with JC, and the day they had always celebrated as their anniversary. The sadness of it all was almost more than Lance could bear, and his legs trembled as he considered it, considered it quite against his will, because he was trying very hard not to think about this, to think about what day it was -- or had been -- the day he'd found a future that was his, but not his alone, because it was a future shared with someone, someone who'd had the courage to give him love, and ask for it in return.
Maybe I failed, Lance thought. But at least I tried.
"Good bye, JC," Lance said, stepping across the bridge and walking barefoot in the rain, up the hill to the house, alone.