First off, I'd like to thank everyone that wrote to me and encouraged me to continue the series, especially Sara, Lee, Ry, Phil, mooshkabug, Xander Scott, and Zack. Having thought about it further, I realize that I definitely want to keep going. I am, however, going to try something a little different (as you will see). This next "arc" of stories is not going to be strictly chronological. Instead, each chapter is going to built around a theme, and an epiphany or hierophany. (Geez, doesn't that sound highfalutin?) One more thing, this chapter incorporates what was once chapter 14. I was going to rewrite it (to fix what became an inconsistency that arose in the E. coli chapter), but I decided to just leave it as is, and re-imagine it here. Anyway, I'll shut up now. I hope you like it, and will let me know if you do (or don't), at denis141@hotmail.com. Hearing from you all really does mean a lot to me, so I hope that you will write, especially if you've never written before.
DEDICATION: Not to sound like a broken record, but this one, in particular, is for Aaron, because it's about having a big heart, and his heart is amazing.
DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member of NSYNC, and this story purely a work of fiction. This story also contains male-male sex (albeit mostly implied), so, if that's not your thing, or if you aren't old enough to read such things, you should stop reading now.
CHAPTER 25: AXIS MUNDI: A Matter of Identity.
"If we wish to know about a man, we ask `what is his story -- his real, inmost story?' -- for each of us is a biography, a story. Each of us is a singular narrative, which is constructed, continually, unconsciously, by, through, and in us -- through our perceptions, our feeling, our thoughts, our actions; and, not least, our discourse, our spoken narrations. Biologically, physiologically, we are not so different from each other; historically, as narratives -- we are each of us unique.
To be ourselves we must have ourselves -- possess, if need be re-possess, our life-stories. We must `recollect' ourselves, recollect the inner drama, the narrative of ourselves. A man needs such a narrative, a continuous inner narrative, to maintain his identity, his self."
-- Oliver Sacks, M.D., The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat (1987)
Part One
Lance paced back and forth just outside the security checkpoint in front of the San Diego airport. JC's plane was late, a fact that he had repeatedly confirmed by looking at his watch over and over again. JC was supposed to have arrived by noon, back from a series of invite-only showcases he'd played on the East Coast, mostly for various industry types. The new album, For the Love of It, was due out at the end of the month, and the showcases were intended to spread the buzz about it, which had been building over the last year. Lance had wanted to go along, but Aaron had just started first grade.
Frowning Lance looked at his watch again. It was nearly one o'clock, and he had to pick Aaron up from school -- on the opposite side of town -- at two-thirty.
If JC didn't show up in the next fifteen minutes or so, Lance knew he'd be forced to leave him to fend for himself in getting home, something he obviously couldn't leave Aaron to do.
"Shit," Lance said, staring into the terminal and still not seeing JC anywhere.
Walking over to check the monitor again, Lance searched for JC's flight to see if it had arrived yet. The gate number wasn't flashing, which usually meant that the flight was not yet in -- but not always. Lance could feel the back of his neck getting sticky with sweat, and his lower lip was sore from him biting it. The airport was crowded and it was difficult for Lance to make out people's face as they made their way towards him. About to turn and leave, Lance finally caught glimpse of JC, who was struggling hard to work his way through the crowd while carrying an overstuffed garment bag in one hand, and a large messenger bag slung across his back.
"Finally," Lance said, running up to JC and taking the garment bag out his hand.
"Yeah, good to see you too," JC grumbled.
"I'm sorry, babe," Lance said, grabbing JC's hand and giving it a quick squeeze. "It's just that I'm about to be late picking Aaron up from school, so we'll need to swing by there before heading home. I hope that's okay?"
"Do I have a choice?" JC said, smiling stiffly, the exhaustion plain on his face.
"You could take a cab home, if you want," Lance said, hurrying toward the exit as JC struggled to keep up as people pushed past him into the airport.
"Lance!" JC called after him. "Wait a second."
"What?" Lance said, stopping and turning around.
"I'm just going to take a cab," JC said. "You get Aaron and I'll see you at home."
"Are you sure?" Lance said, looking at his watch, and not noticing JC frown as he did so. "You won't be mad?"
"Go," JC said. "I'll be fine."
Lance leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on JC's cheek, which smelled sour with sweat and slightly stale. JC stood motionless, accepting the kiss but saying nothing as he watched Lance turn and run across the street in the direction of his BMW. Looking down at the garment bag that Lance had left at his feet, JC sighed and then picked it up lugged it to the taxi queue, muttering to himself, "Welcome home."
Aaron sat slumped against the car door, his small nylon book bag on his lap, and his feet hanging just over the edge of the front seat. Lance had just pulled the car out of the elementary school parking lot. There were several cars in front of them, and each one moved slowly in the direction of the freeway, as if in caravan, or like a train pulling out of a station. The air-conditioning was on high, and the dashboard vent nearest the window blew directly into Aaron's face and caused his bangs to rustle and stand up.
"Hey, big guy, how was school today?" Lance asked, reaching out to pat Aaron on the left knee.
"It was okay," Aaron said.
"I bet you're getting pretty smart, huh? And learning lots of stuff?"
"No," Aaron said, staring straight ahead. "It's stupid."
"What's stupid?" Lance said, looking at Aaron, his lips pressed together in a thin tight line. "School's stupid?"
"Yes."
"Tell me why school's stupid," Lance asked, looking at Aaron again, but trying to pay attention to the road as well. "I don't think school is stupid. I think it's important."
"No. It's stupid."
"Did something go wrong today? Are you upset about something? Because if you are, I'd really like to know about it -- all right?"
"They made us do letters on the board," Aaron said. "We had to spell our names."
"But you're good with your letters," Lance said. "You and Josh practiced them all the time."
"I know."
"So what happened, Aaron? Tell me what's wrong."
"My name is stupid. I don't like it."
"What don't you like about it, Aaron?" Lance said. "Is it because Reece is really your first name, but you go by your second name because -- you know, Aaron -- that's what I do too. My whole name is James Lance Bass. But I go by Lance."
"I know that," Aaron said, kicking the heel of his foot against the seat three times, and repeating Lance's name. "James. Lance. Bass."
"Stop kicking the seat, Aaron," Lance said, but not sternly. "Please."
"James. Lance. Bass," Aaron repeated, but without kicking the seat.
"Do you think my name is stupid?"
"No."
"What's the problem then?" Lance asked. "What's up?"
"James. Lance. Bass. Reece. Aaron. Fatone. James. Lance. Bass. Aaron..."
"Aaron -- stop it," Lance said, slapping the top of the steering wheel. "Stop it. I don't understand."
"Fatone. Fatone. Fatone."
"Aaron -- Fatone. That's your name. It was your father's name. It's what it says on your birth certificate. Your name is Reece Aaron Fatone, and it always will be."
"No."
"Yes, Aaron," Lance said. "It will."
Lance and Aaron drove in silence the remainder of the way back to the house. Lance felt sick to his stomach, and his mouth felt sour and dry. As he gripped the steering wheel, he could feel his palms and fingers covered in sweat, and he wondered how a day that had seemed so bright when it began had devolved so quickly into this: Aaron angry and upset; JC angry and upset; and him struggling to understand the reasons why.
Lance closed and locked the two doors that led outside to the deck. It was late, and the sky was dark with clouds and few stars. He had been sitting alone on the deck for nearly an hour, trying to calm down. His face was still flushed, but no longer from anger; he was ashamed of himself for getting angry and yelling at JC. He couldn't remember the last time he and JC had fought, saying things intended to sting, throwing words back and forth like rocks, trying to get the last word, to win the battle, or just not lose it, as if not losing was what it was all about, and the only reason to keep speaking.
Now, standing there still, staring out through the panes in the door, Lance wanted nothing more than to find JC and apologize, to say how sorry he was, and to ask for his forgiveness, a forgiveness he didn't feel was his due at the moment, but that would be freely given anyway. That was how JC was, always was: he hated to be angry, he hated confrontation, he hated having to insist on something, and to stand his ground.
But Lance had forced him to do it, forced JC to insist that his schedule was important too, and to admit that he was afraid the record would fail, and that he really needed to be in Los Angeles next week to do interviews in advance of its release-date at the end of the month, and that Lance would just have to reschedule the rough-cut screening of his new film, and that he didn't give a flying-fuck if Martin Scorsese was a `great god of a director', and the studio big-wigs would be there too, and there was just no way he could miss it or ask that it be rescheduled for the following week.
"You're the fucking star of the film," JC had yelled, his face turning red and his neck stretched and twisted. "You're the one that was nominated for an Academy Award three fucking years in a row, and won it twice, which -- by the way -- is exactly two more times than the `great god of a director' Scorsese has won."
"Yeah, Josh," Lance had yelled back, stung by the ferocity of JC's response. "If you knew half as much about making movies as you fucking think you do, then maybe you'd have room to talk. In the meanwhile, why don't you keep your stupid mouth shut."
That was when Lance had marched out of the room, slamming the bedroom door behind him -- slamming it so hard that two framed photographs fell from the hallway wall just outside the door. JC had yelled something after him, but Lance couldn't hear what he'd said, and didn't at that moment care at all, because even then a feeling of shame was climbing up the back of his neck, and stinging his cheeks like a sharp cold winter wind. Now, an hour later, Lance was making his way back down the hallway, scuffling his bare feet on the carpet as he walked toward the open bedroom door. He could see it was dark inside, and he wondered if JC had gone to bed, or maybe gone downstairs.
As Lance reached the door to the bedroom, Lance stopped and listened. JC was playing the piano in his studio down the hall. Listening, Lance realized that he hadn't yet heard any of the songs on JC's new album. He had assumed that JC wanted them to be a surprise, so that Lance could listen to them all at once, as recorded. But it suddenly occurred to Lance that he had not asked to hear them either, the new songs, every one of which JC had been working on for the last two years, sometimes late in the night at the Red Fox Inn -- so late that Lance would set his alarm so that if JC was not home by three in the morning, he'd call to remind JC to come home.
But -- sure, Lance had caught snippets of it here and there, like now, standing in the hall, but he had not asked to listen, or asked very much at all about what JC was doing, and how it was going. It was as if, in the near-overwhelming flurry of activity that had come to define their lives -- Lance making his last film, getting Aaron ready for and in school, JC running the Inn and working on the new album -- Lance had come close to forgetting something fundamental: JC.
Lance walked quickly to the end of the hall, and opened the door to JC's studio. Lance saw JC at the piano, his back to the door, and he was playing. A sequencer was in the corner of the room, and it played what Lance assumed were the tracks from the new album. JC did not look up from playing, but he had heard Lance enter the room.
"I wrote this for Aaron," JC said, speaking softly, his hands moving slowly across the keyboard as he played. "It's based on a poem by Walt Whitman."
"Is it on the album?" Lance asked, taking a small step toward JC and wanting to touch his shoulder.
"Yes," JC said, turning around to look at Lance, his voice flat, his face unsmiling.
"Who produced it?" Lance asked, taking another small step toward JC.
"Moby," JC said, turning back to his piano. "There are two song-cycles. He did the `Innocence' cycle. There are six songs in each cycle, and this is the first one in it. Neil Tennant produced the other one."
"What's that one called?"
"Experience."
"Will you sing it for me," Lance said, put his hand on JC's shoulder, but only for a moment. "This one, the one you're playing."
"If you want to hear it."
"I really do."
"Okay," JC said. "But you need to re-set the sequencer for me. It's the blue button. The big square one."
"All right," Lance said, walking over to it, pushing the button, and then settling down onto the couch that was against the far wall and across from the piano.
"I love this first part," JC said. "It's the sound of Aaron running in the backyard and laughing as he chased leaves being blown around by the wind. We recorded it while you were in Florence and Paris filming Foucault's Pendulum. "
"Was he here for long?"
"No," JC said, understanding the sudden sad lilt in Lance's voice. "He stayed at La Valencia. He was here that one day, and we met at Studio le Grande after that."
"I didn't mean..."
"I know," JC said, clucking his tongue. "Now listen."
Lance closed his eyes, leaning his head back. The sound of JC beginning to play joined the sound of Aaron laughing, and there was the sound of his hands clapping, and him humming to himself, as he always seemed to do when he was happy, and then the gentle reverberations of a deep electronic pulse, as if it was rising from deep within something, and an ambient wave of violins and cellos, just like Moby had used in his own song Porcelain, and then there was a sound like a heart beating. It was here that JC started to sing in a way so straight-forward and plain that he hardly recognized it.
There was a child who went forth each day, And the first thing he'd see, that thing he'd be, And it'd become part of him For the day, or for part of it, Or for years, stretching cycles of years.
It's of this I sing
Of this, and more.
The early lilacs became part of him, And the grass, and the morning-glories, And the song of the sea tern, And the rustle of the sycamore And the beautiful curious ocean, All became part of him, The child who went forth each day.
It's of this I sing
Of this, and more.
His own parents, the two who father'd him, And conceiv'd of him, their hearts a womb, They gave this child more of themselves than that; They gave him afterward every day, They became part of him, and he of them.
It is of this I sing
Of this, and more.
Affection that will not be contradicted The sense of what is real The thought if, after all, it is unreal, The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time The curious whether and how, Whether that which appears so is so, Or is it just imagined?
No, it's not.
And it is of this I sing.
Affection that will not be contradicted The sense of what is real. The child who went forth each day, And who always go forth each day Knowing he is loved.
It's of this I sing, Of this, I sing.
The child who went forth each day, And who always go forth each day Knowing he is loved. Knowing he is loved.
JC stopped singing, but continued to play for several minutes more before standing up and walking over to the sequencer and switching it off. Lance's eyes were tightly closed, but tears leaked from them, and his lower lip was trembling. Bending over, JC kissed each of Lance's eyelids, the tears there wetting his lips. Lance opened his arms and reached up to pull JC into his lap, hugging him and crying as JC hugged him back.
"Lance..." JC whispered, but was then cut off.
"No, no," Lance said, his now open eyes tear-filled and imploring. "JC -- listen! It's me that's sorry -- truly, deeply. This is all my fault, and it's stupid. There's just no excuse. None."
"I know you mean well," JC said, brushing the hair from Lance's eyes. "And you feel overwhelmed, and you just..."
"Get stupid."
"No," JC said, smiling for what may have been the first time that whole day. "It's not that. It's not that at all. You just turn all business, and I think your heart and feelings get shoved off to one side, because you're just so afraid of screwing up."
"And so I screw up."
"Sometimes," JC said.
"I feel really bad about yelling at you," Lance said, his head bowed.
"Yeah, well I yelled too. And louder."
"It was kind of scary, actually," Lance said, looking up at JC and offering him a tentative smile.
"You think?" JC said, smiling back. "Because that was what I was going for."
"Scary?"
"Yeah."
"It worked good."
"Cool."
"Um, anyway..." Lance said, pausing for several long seconds, and then continuing. "I think your song is just really beautiful. I want to hear them all."
"You will."
"I'm sorry I didn't ask to hear them before."
"It's all right," JC said, blushing slightly. "I was kind of thankful you didn't. I've been really nervous about them, and about what you'd think. But the album's done now, and I should have a master pressing by the end of the week."
"Maybe we can listen to it together, like in the bath," Lance said, kissing JC's nose and then his lips.
"Actually, I'd rather you listen to it alone for the first time," JC said. "You know, undisturbed. Then you can tell me what you think."
"I know I'll love it," Lance said, smiling broadly now.
"No -- don't say that," JC said, his voice serious and forceful. "You can't love it unless you leave open the possibility of not loving it. That's the way it works."
"You're right," Lance said.
"I think you'll be surprised though," JC said. "It's different than stuff I've done before, but true to it too. And I tried to tell a story."
"About?"
"About us. Well, not just about us. But about the things I've learned from being us, first you and me, and now the three of us."
"That part in your song where you say, `knowing he is loved', do you think Aaron knows that he's loved?"
"I think so," JC said, after pausing first to consider the question. "There are times he probably doubts it, or us, and is unsure. But I don't think you can prevent that, or that you'd want to. That's life. Don't you think?
"I do think," Lance said.
"So, hey -- I'm really tired. How about us getting in bed."
"You mean, to sleep?" Lance said kissing JC again.
"Well I was thinking about taking a shower first," JC said, standing up and holding out his hand.
Lance raised himself up off the couch and took JC's hand and followed him down the hall and into their bedroom. The sound of water hitting the dark-grey slate tiles in the bathroom was soon heard, and the sound of laughter too, and the slightly heavy breathing of two men making love, not for the first time, but almost as if it was.
Part Two.
"We can't buy him a car today," JC said.
"Why not," Lance said, folding the front section of the newspaper and laying it on the dining room table. "He turned sixteen over a month ago."
"I know," JC said. "I'm the one that made the cake, remember?"
"Yeah," Lance said, laughing. "It was good too."
"Do you want some more coffee," JC asked, standing up and walking over to the coffeemaker.
"No," Lance said, looking up at JC and smiling. "But I'll take another kiss."
JC set his coffee cup on the counter and then walked over to Lance and sat in his lap, putting his arms around Lance's neck as he did so. Lance leaned forward and kissed JC, softly at first, but then more firmly, pressing his lips apart and running his tongue across JC's teeth. JC nipped at the tip of Lance's tongue and sucked it deeper into his mouth, making a humming noise deep within his throat and pulling Lance closer to him. JC could feel Lance getting hard as the kiss continued, becoming more intense, more than just a good morning kiss at the breakfast table.
"Man... do you two ever stop?"
JC stood up, startled at the sudden interruption, and embarrassed.
"Aaron," Lance said, grabbing the newspaper off the table and putting it on his lap to cover the obvious bulge in the front of his pants. "You're up early."
"Yeah," Aaron said, scratching his eyebrow. "I couldn't sleep."
JC reached out and took Aaron's bare arm and pulled him toward the table.
"Sit down," JC said. "I'll get you some breakfast."
"Just coffee would be good," Aaron said, pulling out a chair and sitting in it.
Aaron was wearing only basketball shorts, long and loose, with the Duke insignia on them. Sitting down, he threw one leg over the arm of the chair, and rubbed his heel.
"Does it still hurt?" Lance asked, pointing at Aaron's heel.
"Yeah," Aaron said, frowning. "The doctor said I bruised the bone, and I'm not supposed to play in the game Wednesday."
"Did you tell the coach that?" JC said, handing Aaron his coffee.
"Are you kidding?" Aaron said. "I'm not missing that freakin' game. It's against El Cajon."
"Hey," JC said, lightly slapping the back of Aaron's head. "If the doctor said you aren't supposed to play, then you aren't playing. End of discussion."
"Whatever," Aaron said, taking a long and intentionally noisy slurp of coffee and grabbing the front page from the pile of newspapers on the table.
"So, Aaron," Lance said, setting his coffee cup on the table. "How about you and me going to look at some cars today?"
"What?" Aaron said, tossing the front page on the floor next to the table. "You mean to buy one?"
"That's what I was thinking" Lance said, trying to ignore the fact that JC was almost certainly glaring at him right about then. "You just got your license, right?"
"Hell, yeah," Aaron said, standing up quickly and almost knocking over the chair he'd been sitting in. "Can we go right now?"
"I think you need to take a shower first," JC said. "And get some clothes on."
"Okay, okay, okay" Aaron said, smirking at JC, and then giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
JC watched Aaron turn and run towards his room, limping slightly each time his left heel hit the floor. Aaron's hair was wavy, dark, and almost to his shoulders, which were muscled and deeply tanned. Aaron was over six feet tall, and obviously an athlete. Even with an injured heel, he moved with strong confidence, and little obvious effort, each stride full of power.
"Lance," JC said, slapping him lightly on the back of the head.
"Geez, is it your day to whack people on the head, or what?" Lance said, rubbing the spot that JC had just slapped, and laughing.
"Yeah, ha-ha," JC said, picking Aaron's coffee cup up off the table and walking to the sink with it. "I thought we'd decided no car today...or did you forget that part?"
"I didn't forget anything," Lance said. "It was you who decided no car today, not me."
"Well, that's not exactly fair, is it?" JC said, dumping the coffee from the cup into the sink.
"What isn't?" Lance asked. "For me to decide that we shouldn't walk around on eggshells just because this is the anniversary of the day that Joey and Mel died?"
"Keep your voice down," JC said, shushing him. "He'll hear."
"Sorry," Lance said, listening now for the sound of the shower down the hall to make sure that Aaron was out of hearing range.
"But, yes, that's exactly why I think it's a bad idea to be buying him a car today," JC whispered. "It'll seem like a bribe, like we're feeling sorry for him, and just trying to make sure he's distracted from thinking about what day it is."
"Josh, I don't see what's so wrong with trying to keep his mind off things," Lance said, whispering now too.
"Well, maybe it's you that's trying to keep your mind off things?"
"What in the hell do you mean by that?" Lance said, his voice snapping sharply and no longer a whisper.
"Oh...right," JC said. "Right. This couldn't possibly be about you, could it?"
"You know what?" Lance said, pointing his finger at JC. "Don't fucking psycho- analyze me. I don't need it, and you suck at it anyway."
"Fine," JC said, turning away from Lance and back to the sink
"Great, just turn your back on me," Lance said, noisily pushing his chair against the table. "That's real helpful.
"You mean helpful like asking for my advice about something and then ignoring it?" JC said, spinning around and glaring at Lance.
"Wait, wait, wait," Lance said, holding up his hand. "Let's dial this back a notch, okay? I'm sorry for yelling at you, and I'm sorry for ignoring what you had to say, but I'm doing the best I can here, so can I at least get some credit for that?"
"You're right," JC said, letting out a long deep breath. "I'm sorry too."
"Okay, then," Lance said.
"So what do you want to do?"
"I think we just play it by ear," Lance said. "I'll take him to look at cars, and if he decides he wants to get one, I'll tell him we need to come home to talk it over with you first. How about that?"
"All right," JC said, his lips pressed together, as if in thought. "But if he wants to get one today, I mean, he really tells you he does, go ahead and do it."
"It's all he talks about lately," Lance said, smiling at JC and wanting to kiss him.
"Okay," JC said, smiling back at Lance and putting Aaron's coffee cup in the dishwasher. "But nothing too expensive. I don't want him driving around in a car that looks like Justin bought it for him. God only knows you've spoiled him enough as it is."
"What!" Lance said, slapping JC lightly on the back of the head. "You think I spoil him, Mr. Joshua He-Should-Really-Have-A-Gold-American-Express-Card-In-Case- Of-Emergencies Bass-Chasez."
"Shut-up," JC said, laughing and throwing the dish-towel at Lance.
The lather had long been down the drain, but the water from the showerhead was still hot and it felt nice against his skin, so Aaron continued to stand there, letting it flow over him, with his chin pressed down against his chest so that the spray hit the back of his head and flowed down between his shoulder blades and his back and his butt and his legs. Aaron's eyes were tightly closed, and his hands were closed into two tight fists, and his arms were crossed against his chest. He was trying hard not to think of how the whispers had started as soon as he'd left the kitchen, the whispers that happened every year on this day, the whispers of Don't you know what day it is?
Of course he knew what day it was; it was the day that two people called Melody and Joseph Fatone had died in a plane crash, two people he could not remember having ever known. But he knew that they'd died on this day fourteen years again, knew it even though he had no memory of it, knew it like he knew that two plus two equaled four, because someone had told him it was true, and it would always be, so he could believe in the truth of it, believe that he'd been barely two years old on that day, April 6, 2006, and believe that he'd been staying with Lance and JC, just for the weekend, while his biological parents were away somewhere, somewhere away for a vacation, but then suddenly away forever. He didn't remember them now; but he remembered how Lance had held him on that day, held him and sobbed. But how do I remember that?
Aaron turned off the water, pulled the shower curtain to one side, and stepped out of the tub, and watched water collect and spread in a pool around each foot.
Yes, he knew that this was that day, the day that they died. But be didn't feel sad about it; he never felt sad about it, and it bothered him sometimes, this not feeling sad, because he had realized that people expected him to be sad, to feel sad, about a loss that, to him, felt like no loss at all. How can you lose something you never knew you had?
He'd tried to tell them more than once, maybe every year, tell them that he didn't feel sad, and he didn't want to feel sad, except for them, for the sadness they felt for their own loss, at the loss of their good friend Joey, one they could remember still. But every time he tried to tell them, tried to speak the words that would make them understand, it was like they didn't hear him, or couldn't hear him, or wouldn't, and it was that which made him mad, and made him wonder, for at least one day a year, who he was, and what family he belonged to -- One that was living, or one that was dead?
What he wanted to say was this. The name on my birth certificate is Reece Aaron Fatone, but that's not who I am. I am your son, and you are my parents, and I love you.
"You ready in there," Lance said, speaking to the door to Aaron's bedroom.
"Yeah, come in," Aaron yelled from the other side of door.
Lance opened the door and saw Aaron sitting on the edge of the bed staring at his still unlaced shoes.
"You don't look ready," Lance said. "Is something wrong?"
"No," Aaron said, reaching out to tie one unlaced shoe and then stopping.
"Hey," Lance said, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Aaron. "What's up? I thought you'd be climbing the walls to get to the car lot."
Aaron mumbled something indiscernible to Lance and then started again toward tying one shoe, this time completing the task, but still leaving the other shoe untied, as if the strain of tying just one had been too much, and he needed to rest from the effort of it.
"Is it about the basketball game?" Lance asked. "Because maybe we could take you back into the doctor to see if there's something he could do so you can play."
"It's not about the game," Aaron said. "It's just nothing."
"Aaron," Lance said, grabbing his shoulder and turning Aaron towards him. "I want you to look at me."
"Okay," Aaron said, raising his voice, and brushing Lance's hand off his shoulder, but still making the eye contact that Lance had demanded.
"You know you can't lie to me," Lance said, trying to keep his voice light and not too serious-sounding. "JC you can bamboozle for days, but not me, remember?"
Aaron laughed and flopped back on to the bed, covering his face with his hands.
"We can get the car another day," Lance continued. "I mean, if you'd rather do it some other time, I totally understand."
"What do you understand?" Aaron said, all of a sudden angry and pulling his hands from his face, and then slapping them against the bed, and standing up. "What is it you understand?"
Lance was taken aback at Aaron's sudden anger, an anger he hardly recognized in a boy that had always been so even-tempered, and so patient, and forgiving, like JC almost, so unlike himself. But there it was, like an eruption of some kind, and Lance was shocked by how surprising it seemed despite its feeling of utter familiarity.
"Well," Lance said, not knowing how else to begin. "Maybe I don't understand, Aaron. But I try to. I try the best I can. And what I think I understand is that you might be feeling sad today because, you know, it's the day your parents died in the plane crash. And I understand that maybe you'd rather get your car on a day that isn't so sad."
"It's not sad," Aaron said, still angry, spitting out each word like it was something foul-tasting he'd eaten by mistake. "I'm not sad. You always think I'm sad, but I'm not. It's you that's sad. And it's you that always feels guilty about me being your son!"
"Whoa," Lance said, his own voice now edgy and full of anger. "Number one, Aaron, don't you ever talk to me that way, ever, do you get that?"
Lance stood up, his face and neck flushed, and his lips pressed tightly together as he struggled to keep his voice steady.
"I said, do you get that?"
"Yes," Aaron said, head down, his voice still angry, but quieter now.
"Number two, if you have something you want me to understand, then you need to tell me about it, because if you don't, all I can do is guess. And, you know what? I just might guess wrong. And if I do guess wrong, Aaron, it'll be your own fault, not mine. Do you understand that?"
"Yeah," Aaron said, dismissively, but his voice drained of anger now. "But it's not like I haven't tried to tell you before. You just won't listen."
"Tell me what?" Lance said, feeling suddenly like he couldn't breathe.
"Sometimes I feel like you don't think I'm really your son, like I'm just this guy that you promised you'd take care of if something happened to his real father."
"What?" Lance said, gasping.
"You don't know just how glad I am the two of you were together when Joey and Mel died," Aaron said, tears in his eyes. "I mean, where else would I have gone? But it's not just that. Dad, oh my gawd, you and Dad are my family, my real family, the only one I've ever knew, and it's just not fair that every year that this damn day rolls around and you start acting all sad, like I should be sad too because some people I never knew died. It sucks. The family I know never died. It's right here, living in this house."
Lance could see Aaron's shoulders begin to tremble. Lance put a hand on each of the shoulders, squeezing them as if to stop the trembling. Aaron looked up at Lance with eyes full of tears, and Aaron could see that Lance had tears in his eyes too.
"You're my Dad," Aaron said, his voice breaking, but still forceful. "Josh is my Dad. You're my family. I'm your son. And I don't want my name to be Reece Aaron Fatone anymoe. I want it to be Aaron Chasez Bass. That's what it should be, and that's how I want you to let me change it."
"Aaron," Lance said, staring at him. "I don't know what to say. I mean, you need to go to court, and ..."
"I know that," Aaron said, cutting Lance off. "I already picked up all the forms, and filled them out. You and Dad just need to sign them, and then we go to what's called the Ex Parte department, and you just wait in line for the Magistrate. It only takes like 30 minutes, because I've been down there like three times to watch."
"You really put a lot of thought into this, didn't you?"
"Yes," Aaron said. "Ever since I was little. Do you remember when..."
"I do remember," Lance said. "It was the second week of first grade."
"And I had to write my name on the board."
"I'm sorry I didn't understand," Lance said. "Not until now. It was just that Joey was my best friend, and it felt like I'd be disrespecting him to let you change your name. He gave it to you, not me."
"But now you can give me your name, you and Dad," Aaron said. "It's not taking anything away from Joey, it's giving something to me. Please let me do it."
Aaron gasped and gulped in several deep breaths of air. He stared at Lance, his eyes continuing to plead his case now that his words had ceased to do so.
"I don't know what to say," Lance said, speaking slowly, carefully. "I just wish I'd understood how important this was to you before, you know?"
"Yeah, I know," Aaron said. "I tried, and then I was too afraid to try too hard again. I didn't want you to be mad at me."
"Aaron, I love you," Lance said. "You know that, don't you?"
"Yeah, I know," Aaron said. "I mean, would I be asking to change my name if I didn't know I'm loved, really loved."
Lance laughed, a long soft laugh, and pulled Aaron into a long, strong hug. Aaron rested his head on Lance's shoulder and then, after a while, pulled away and sat again on the edge of the bed.
"So, Aaron Chasez Bass it is then," Lance said, smiling at Aaron as he bent over and finally tied his other shoe.
Aaron and Lance found JC downstairs in the basement folding laundry fresh from the dryer. He hadn't heard them come down the stairs at first, and he was singing an old NSync song that Aaron vaguely recognized, but he didn't know its name.
"Hey, Josh," Lance said, trying not to startle JC, who seemed pretty much in his own little world at the moment.
"Huh," JC said, turning around, not frightened by the sudden interruption, but still surprised, and a little embarrassed at having been caught singing.
"Aaron's decided he doesn't want to look at cars today," Lance said, smiling. "He wants to go to court instead."
"What?" JC said, dropping a towel he'd been folding. "Are you in trouble?"
"Dad!" Aaron said, rolling his eyes. "You are so paranoid."
"Well, I don't know," JC said, staring now at Lance, hoping that he'd offer some sort of clue as to what was going on.
"Aaron has decided that he'd like to change his name," Lance said. "And so long as it's all right with you too, he'd like to change his name to Aaron Chasez Bass."
"Are you serious?" JC said, turning to look at Aaron, and wrinkling his brow.
"Very serious," Aaron said, walking to where JC stood, and putting his hand on JC's shoulder.
JC continued to look confused for a moment, but then the skin on his brow smoothed, and he smiled at Aaron and then JC. He had not expected something like this could or would occur, but he was suddenly not surprised that it had. It was as if what Aaron wanted now to do was merely correct a technical error, a mislabeling of sorts, so that a relationship and a belonging that had always existed could now be called for the first time by its proper name, Aaron Chasez Bass, their son, the child who went forth each day knowing he was loved..
For a Child (after Whitman), sung by JC Bass-Chasez, written by Denis.