DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC. What follows is a work of fiction, and solely a product of my imagination. As a result, it is not intended to imply anything about the person or sexual orientation of any member of NSYNC. The story 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.
ALSO~Feedback is greatly appreciated, so please write to me at denis141@hotmail.com
TOGETHER/ALONE
CHAPTER 3: A Place We've Never Been Before
I give the fight up: let there be an end, A privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by god.
-- Robert Browning, Paracelsus (1835)
It was not the kind of hotel he usually stayed in, but it was clean. More important, it was one block from the bar he lately called home. Lance had checked into the hotel thirteen days ago after he had arrived in Seattle and hailed a cab at the airport and told the driver to take him anywhere downtown, it didn't matter where.
Lance had walked around for a long time before finding it -- a place called the Aurora Hotel -- and he was relieved when the old man at the front desk didn't even blink when he paid cash for three weeks in advance and signed the registration card in a nearly illegible scrawl with the name Mickey Mouse. It was then Lance knew that he had found the right place, a place where no one knew him, and no one cared, a place where people like him went to forget and to be forgotten.
Now Lance lay in bed, one arm across his eyes, trying to sleep, but failing. He lifted his arm and turned his head to look at his watch, which he had propped against the lamp that sat next to the bed. The room didn't have an alarm clock -- not that he needed one -- and Lance wanted to see what time it was without having to reach over to pick the watch up and look at it. It was seven a.m.
The bar's been open for an hour, Lance thought. I'm late.
Lance kicked off the sheet and thin blanket that had covered his legs, sat up, and swung his feet to the cold, battered linoleum floor. From where he sat on the edge of the bed, Lance could see into the cramped, dimly lit bathroom. A light bulb hung from the ceiling on a gray cord. The light was always on because Lance could not figure out how to turn it off. There was no switch on the wall.
Lance stood up, walked into the bathroom, and peed into the rust-stained toilet, watching the hard stream of urine froth the water, weaken into a trickle, and then stop. Shaking off the last drips of urine, Lance noticed his clothes in a pile on the floor -- the same clothes he had been wearing since he left San Diego -- the Wrangler blue jeans with the torn left knee, the black T-shirt with the words "Lucky Brand" written across the chest, and the scuffed Puma tennis shoes, the red suede ones with a long white swoop on each side. Lance had somehow lost -- or thrown away -- his boxer shorts; he couldn't remember which, and now he didn't care.
Lance dressed quickly, not bothering to shower first. He checked his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still there, and it was. Putting on his watch, he looked out the window to see what the weather was like. Cloudy, but no rain. Another great day to get shit-faced, he thought and headed toward the door.
JC lay on the couch, exhausted, but unable to sleep. He'd been making up rules all night, so he made up another one: I can't get up until I see the sun shine through that window there. Unless I hear a dog bark, then I can get up right away. Not bothering to finish the rule, or its possible variations, JC got up. I can't sleep, so there's no reason to just lie there.
JC folded the quilt he'd had on top of him and draped it carefully across the back of the couch. The quilt had been a housewarming gift from Lance's mother, and it was an heirloom. JC smiled sadly remembering the note that had accompanied the gift: I hope you two will love this quilt as much as I always have. It is in the Double Wedding- Ring pattern. My grandmother made it, and she told me that it blesses the love of those who sleep beneath it. May you both be blessed always. Love, Diane.
JC touched the quilt once more and then headed into the kitchen to make coffee. He never went upstairs anymore; it reminded him too much of Lance. So, instead, he stayed downstairs, laying on the couch at night, under the double-ringed quilt, praying for the sweet release of sleep, but finding only the bleak expanse of an ever-wakeful night.
Watching the coffee drip slowly into the pot, JC remembered that when the house was designed, he and Lance had told the architect how they wanted the upstairs to be a private place just for them, a place where they could escape and be alone together.
"No guest rooms upstairs," Lance told the architect. "Just our bedroom, and a music studio for JC, and maybe an office for me."
"Oh, and a big, nice living room too," JC added, "so me and Lance can hang out by ourselves and watch movies or TV, and listen to music and stuff."
"Yeah, and a kitchen too," Lance said, picking up where JC had left off. "Because we'll want to cook upstairs, you know, and have breakfasts and dinners together, so I guess we'll need our own dining room too."
"We'll have to buy two sets of dishes," JC said, laughing and turning to Lance. "They're gonna love us at the china store."
"Yeah," Lance said, reaching out to squeeze JC's hand. "So, what else . . . Oh, I know. We need our own deck, too, for when we want to sit outside, and watch the sunset, or maybe eat dinner out there, or just look at the stars, or . . . . "
"Oh," JC said, loudly interrupting Lance before he completed his last sentence "Lance, you can set-up your telescope out on the deck."
"Yeah," Lance said, the excitement plain in his voice, his green eyes flashing like beach glass reflecting the summer sun, his gaze tilting toward the ceiling as if imagining what the deck would look like and how it would be to look at the stars through the telescope that JC had bought him for Christmas. "That will be so cool."
And so JC and Lance had built two houses, one on top of the other -- one house that they shared with the world, and one that they shared only with each other. JC remembered how Lance always called the upstairs their "secret tree-house club" and laughingly blocked JC's path every night as he tried to climb up the stairs.
And JC remembered how Lance had every night demanded that JC tell him the password first, before he'd be allowed upstairs, a password that was always every night a kiss. Now JC could not bring himself to climb those stairs, even if he could still remember the password; there was no one there to kiss.
Lance sat at the end of the bar, at his usual spot, squinting through the hazy, dim lit air that was one reason he liked this place. The bar was long and narrow, like a closed coffin, and nearly as dark. At the far end of the bar there was a picture window with shades tightly drawn against the possible invasion of light. Lance remembered that, on his first day there, he had pulled the shade back -- maybe only an inch -- and peaked behind it to see the view outside, and he was shocked to see a blastingly-bright postcard- perfect picture of distant snow-capped mountains and sun-sparkled water dotted with colorful sailboats. And seeing it, Lance had thought, almost without knowing he was thinking, JC would love Seattle, and instantly he hated himself for looking outside.
Lance felt anonymous; and he was. No one gave him a second look, because no one cared who he was, or what he was up to. It was that kind of place, during the day at least, where people gathered together to remain alone.
He'd had one beer already, and was working on his second one while he tried to decide whether to order a shot of Jack Daniels now or wait until his next beer. He usually tried to wait until his third beer, and then alternate between beers and shots. There was no science to it. He was just getting drunk.
"You want another," the bartender asked, not bothering to look in Lance's direction, and already knowing the answer.
"Yeah," Lance replied. "And a shot of Jack too."
Lance had already given the bartender the usual hundred bucks, reminding the old guy to let him know when it was down to thirty, because then he'd give him another hundred. The bartender liked this arrangement because he knew that Lance didn't keep track, or couldn't. The bartender was honest about it all the same, since it'd be pretty lousy to cheat a guy who was giving you several thirty buck tips every day.
The bartender set the beer and shot in front of Lance and nodded. Lance looked at the shot for a moment, making himself count to ten, and then he lifted the glass to his lips and tilted it back, not minding the sting, welcoming it, and the blooming warmth that followed the sting, and then the long sigh, and the shudder, like after a good hard piss.
That was good, Lance thought, suddenly thinking of that line from the movie Cat on a Hot Tin Roof where Paul Newman's character -- what was his name -- Brick, yeah, Brick -- he was telling Big-Daddy how he had to keep drinking, how he drank only to find oblivion, how -- what did he call it -- how when he was drinking he was waiting for that "CLICK" in his head, how he was waiting for the click in his head that made him feel peaceful, like a switch, clicking in his head, turning the hot light off and the cool one on and, all of a sudden, there's peace.
Lance looked up from staring at the empty shot glass and noticed that someone had taken a seat on the barstool next to him. He stole a quick glance at his new neighbor and saw that he was young, maybe twenty-one or so, and handsome in a rough way.
"You got the time," the young man asked, trying to start up a conversation, something that Lance was trying to avoid.
"Yeah," said Lance, taking a quick look at his watch. "It's quarter after nine."
"So what's doing," the young man continued. "What's going on?"
"Just waiting for the click," Lance said quietly before standing up and moving to a different place at the bar. Just waiting for the click.
"It's me," JC said.
"Fuck you."
"Justin . . . please don't hang up," said JC in voice so frankly full of pleading that it shocked Justin into momentary silence. "Please."
"Are you okay," Justin asked, his voice drained of all anger.
"No," JC said, almost in a whisper. "Not really."
"What's happened? Is it Lance?"
"Yeah," JC said, a sob catching in his throat. "He's gone. I kicked him out and now he's gone."
"Not for good, though," Justin said, trying to make his voice sound hopeful, but suspecting that his hope might be misplaced. "I mean, how long have you two been together, like two hundred years or something?"
JC was silent for nearly a minute, trying not to cry. "It was seven years in March," he finally said. "March eleven. Lance made lasagna, and we ate upstairs on the deck, and . . . and there were, uhh, candles, and we had. . . uhh. . . we had . . ."
JC started to cry and could not go on. Justin waited for him to stop crying, and just listened instead. The weeping steadied eventually to a different rhythm, a more sustainable breathing, a stillness. Justin had not been close to JC for some time -- even before he and Lance had announced they were leaving the band -- but listening to him now, the way the sobs seemed so desperate and defeated, it made Justin sadder than he'd imagined was possible.
"Look. . . umm, JC, do you think you can hang on for a little while," Justin said, hearing only muffled sobs in reply. "JC. . . . JC. Listen to me!"
JC managed to stop crying for a moment, and said "what?"
"Are you at home?" Justin asked.
"Yeah," JC said, noisily snuffling his nose. "Why?"
"Okay," Justin said as reassuringly as he could manage. "I'll be there in a couple of hours. I'm in L.A. for a meeting about my new album, but that'll be done in an hour or so, and then I'm gonna drive down to see you."
"No," JC said, trying to sound sure. "You don't have to . . ."
"Look," Justin said, cutting JC off. "I'm coming down, so save your breath."
Now, crying again, JC listened to Justin's words and could think of nothing to say except, "Thank you Justin."
So this is what it's like to get fucked, Lance thought, his eyes closed tight, not wanting to be reminded again of who it was on top of him. This is what it feels like to be used, to be used for just getting off, to feel someone plunging in and out of you and wanting mostly for it to be over, to want the guy on top of you -- what's his name -- to get off, and to pull out -- ugh, and that sick sloppy popping noise, like the sound of a damp cork being pulled from a bottle of cheap wine -- wanting the guy on top of you to just come already, come and just pull out and leave, wanting it to be over and done and for the guy on top of you to get the fuck out and go, go, go, knowing that the longest five minutes in the whole fucking world was the five minutes it took that guy to put his clothes back on and leave.
Justin had been on the road for over an hour at least, driving south on I-5 toward San Diego. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon, so there was not much traffic yet. The July sun was high in the sky, and the air was dry and warm.
Justin tried to remember when it was that Lance and JC had first moved to the West Coast. At least three years ago, he thought. It was around the time JC and Lance had gathered the band together and nervously told everyone they were in love. As if that hadn't been obvious from day one, thought Justin, smiling at the memory of JC standing there trying to get the words out, and Lance finally blurting it out for him.
"Look guys, we're in love," Lance had said. "And we just want to be honest about it, okay, because lying about it and hiding it makes it seem wrong, and it isn't."
"Yeah," JC had added. "It isn't."
And it wasn't, Justin thought. It wasn't wrong at all. It was totally right.
Justin saw the exit that he needed to take to get to JC's house and steered his gold Jaguar XKE off the highway, and brought it to a slow stop at the red light at the bottom of the exit ramp. Justin wasn't sure what he'd do once he got to the house, but he knew he needed to do something to keep JC from falling apart.
Maybe just get him out of that house, Justin thought. He's gonna go crazy if he stays in that place. Maybe just get him out to dinner, someplace where he's never been before, someplace where he and Lance have never been before so that JC won't sit there staring at his food thinking every second about what happened between him and Lance -- whatever the fuck that was. This is all so fucked up. First they go and bust up the band -- which was not really a bad thing, since I've been wanting out for a while anyway -- but then they go and bust themselves up. It's totally wacked.
Man, Justin thought, shaking his head. If these two can't stay together, then there's no hope for the rest of us.
"It's Lance."
There was a long and noticeable pause while Lance's manager, Stephen Gabriel, tried hard not to go immediately on the attack, and fought down the urge to scream: You fucking idiot, Lance, do you want to destroy your goddamn career before it's even started? Instead, he calmly said, "Are you okay Lance?"
"Yeah," Lance muttered, unconvincingly. "I'm fine."
"Where are you," Stephen asked.
"Nowhere," Lance answered. "Nowhere at all."
"Look, Lance," Stephen continued. "You have to be in Montr?al at the end of the month, August 7 at the latest, and I ain't kidding you about this."
"Montr?al?" Lance said, not bothering to mask the fact that he had forgotten why he had to be there.
"Lance!" Stephen yelled, unable to control his temper. "Your next film starts shooting soon, and you need to be there for rehearsals, and . . . Jesus FUCKING Christ!"
"Yeah, I remember," Lance said, even though he didn't.
"Lance . . . listen to me. You need to get it together here. This ain't no small fry shit. You're on the cusp. This is it. It's the real deal. This next film, they wanted you bad, and that's a real damn good thing. You blow this, and it's over. So, whatever shit you got going right now, get it over with, and get it over real fucking quick, because if you fuck this up, it's fucked up for good, and there ain't a goddamn thing I'm ever going to be able to do about it. You hear me?"
Lance let the echo of the angry words slowly disappear from inside his head. "Stephen, I'm in Seattle, a place I never been before. I had to get away, to be gone. But I'll get my ass to Montr?al, and I'll get it there on time. So chill out."
Stephen let out a long, loud sigh, and leaned forward in his chair, speaking softly. "Lance, I need you to be there. Really. And I need you to be together . . . Okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," said Lance dismissively.
"No, goddamn it, I mean it, Lance," Stephen said, yelling again. "I'm tired of being the babysitter here."
"Well, Stevie," said Lance, knowing that he hated to be called that. "It's not like I haven't heard it before. Anything else you need to tell me?"
"Yeah," Stephen said, trying to take his voice down a tone or too, trying to sound like a friend again. "The Ghost Road release is being put off a month because the director wants to get a theme song for it, some weepy ballad love song thing."
Lance knew he should say something, but he remained silent, mostly because he really didn't care one way or the other.
"Anyway," Stephen continued, "it's probably gonna fuck up the filming schedule for this next film, but I'm going to work all that out. I just wanted you to know that I'm on top of it, and I'll let you know as soon as I got a drop-dead date on the release."
"Okay," said Lance, feeling tired, and wanting to get back to Sonya's. "Anything else you need to tell me."
"No," said Stephen. "No . . . wait! I got a call today from Jamie at FreeLance. I guess JC has called like four or five times, asking if anyone's heard from you or knows where you are. What's up with that? You want me to call him or something, and tell JC you're all right?"
Lance hung up the phone and stared at the receiver like it was a bomb about ready to explode. I should really call him, Lance thought, not really knowing whether he could make himself do it, and hating himself for the not knowing, and feeling weak and useless besides. Call him, Lance thought, at least so he doesn't think you're dead.
Then Lance thought: Maybe it's better if JC thinks I'm dead. But he knew that wasn't true, knew it immediately, just like he knew that he might as well stab JC himself, stab him a hundred thousand times, rather than let JC think that he was dead. I never deserved you, Lance thought, slowly dialing their phone number, dialing it like a twelve year-old trying to open the combination lock on his high school locker on the first day of school, terrified about getting it wrong.
Lance listened to the telephone ring. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And then he heard the click, and the sound of the answering machine picking up.
Hi, you have reached Lance and JC. It was their private line, and JC's voice. Lance wondered whether he could sit on the ground and still have enough cord to hear the rest of the message. We're sorry we missed your call, but if you leave a message, we'll call you back next time we get a chance. BEEP.
Part of Lance was grateful that JC had not answered the phone, while another part of him was panic-stricken over what might have happened to JC. Another part of him was struck silent by the burden of thinking of something to say. And another part of him just wanted to have another drink and be rid of it all. Moments passed and he had no idea how long those moments were, until a car horn busted through the night silence and made Lance drop the phone, and almost swear.
Lance lunged for the receiver as it dropped and swung away from him. Managing finally to grab the phone, Lance quickly slammed it into down, hanging up. Lance stared at the phone, not knowing what else to do, fiercely angry that he had messed up something as easy as saying, JC, I'm all right. Don't worry. I'm alive.
But I'm not all right, Lance thought. And I'm not really alive.
Lance knew there was nothing to say now, nothing to do, and there was no reason to call back and try again. Turning around and heading back to Sonya's, Lance looked back over his shoulder at the payphone. "I love you, Josh," Lance whispered.
When JC came home, he got Justin situated in one of the guest rooms downstairs, and for the first time in thirteen days he braved the climb to the second floor, thinking: I might as well try to sleep in our bed -- or what used to be our bed.
Walking down the hall to the bedroom, the quilt wrapped round him like a shroud, JC glanced into the study and immediately noticed that someone had left a message on the answering machine. JC walked toward the answering machine like it was an animal that might leap and bite him if he approached it too quickly. Standing there, he let the quilt slip from his shoulders and stared down at the flashing red number one.
Finally, JC pushed the orange button that made the message play, and heard only silence, and the sound of breathing, and a car horn, and then the sound of the receiver hitting something, twice, and then slamming down.
"It's Lance," he said, and knew it was true.