Hey all. I hope ya like this! Gemmi
PS. This is published in the N SYNC Slash mailing list as Here and Now. So if you read it there, then don't read this.
DISCLAIMER: NOT REAL. End of story. Doesn't mean N SYNC or anyone RELATED to them is gay. This is fiction.
GEMMINI999@aol.com
A World of His Own
The two of them were laughing, smiling. The cameras ate it up, believing every word that fell from the due's lips, about their friendship, about their interests, about each other. The camera loved them, loved filming them together, loved seeing the way they would act. The two had chemistry that audiences all around the world hoped for, prayed for. The two were best friends.
One smiled, rather crookedly, and looked haphazardly at the other. The camera filmed this look, filmed the passion that was evident in those green eyes, the love, the support. The two were close. The other, sensing the look, returned it. He returned it with as much passion, as much anguish, as much emotion, if not more. And the two smiled, each in their own time, each slowly.
"That's a wrap!" A voice suddenly shouted, jerking the two out of their trance. Instantaneously, their demeanor changed as well. Where there was once passion, anguish, emotion, there was now a stone wall, built brick by brick, only to keep the other out. The green eyes didn't seem surprised by this change, by the lack of total interest, lack of warmth. They simply accepted the looks, as if that was all they knew, and turned away.
One stood, and without a backward glance, without a whispered word of goodbye, walked away. The green eyes knew that this had been coming, had prepared himself for the hurt he would feel, but just as always, the pain tore into him, scaring his heart, his soul. He laughed at himself; laughed at the fresh pain he had known would come. After years of such treatment, he thought, perhaps, he would be used to it. But each time the other turned his back; the searing pain was fresh, unexpected. Each time, his heart broke, and each time he never quite knew how to pick up the pieces.
"Hey, Lance, ya coming?" Someone asked, but he shook his head. If he went, he would see the other, and he would feel the pain once again. He didn't need that; he didn't need the reminder of hatred, the reminder of fear. He didn't need to feel as if he was less then human once again.
"Not this time." He said, slowly forming each word as if they were new to him, but they weren't. He had said them time and time again, so much so that the other's knew what to expect when they asked him to join them. They had long ago given up hope of having a friendship with the young man, of having a relationship outside of work. Now they asked as a curtsy, nothing more, nothing less. And Lance knew this.
"Ya sure?" Lance smiled and nodded, turning away. He heard a sigh, then there was nothing. There was never anything, no one insisting he come, no one trying to figure out why he refused, why he preferred the silence, the emptiness, to real emotion, real friendship. They were all playing their parts, all knew the lines by heart, all knew the reactions they would receive. His life was nothing more then a horribly drafted play; a play that would never sell, never be re-produced. No one would accepted the part fate had handed him.
His hand reached up and combed it's way through the spiked blond mess he called hair. Then he stood, and walked away, never looking back. That was the first rule in avoiding people; never look back. Never turn to see what your missing, because if you know what your missing it will hurt more. The pain would no longer be searing, but blazing, and his mind would be burned, tarnished. He had never let anyone truly burn him, because no one ever got close enough to try. All because of the other set of eyes, all because of a hatred that he didn't even understand, had never understood.
All because one person couldn't, wouldn't, accept somebody that was slightly different. All because someone refused to try and understand what being gay meant, and instead believed the stereotype, the lies. All because somebody was scared of the truth.
He flopped down on his bed for the evening. A different bed then the night before, a bed he would more then likely never sleep on again, ever. Even so, he settled in, content, against the rose printed material. It was soft against his rough skin, making him appreciate the feel of the heavy cloth, making him appreciate the warmth it would offer later that evening. His eyes were filled with unshed tears, but he wasn't going to lose it. Not tonight, at least. He reached out blindly, searching for the phone.
He pulled the tan metal to his ear, and slowly while sitting up, dialed the number's that were as familiar as the back of his hand. It rang twice, shrilly, shattering his train of thought. God- let her be home he muttered to himself, hoping deep inside that she was there, that she wasn't out on one of her excursions. She loved wandering around the small city in which she lived every night; loved the feel of the evening breeze on her silk skin, the feel of the moon beating down upon her back. He heard a voice.
"Hello?"
"Steph- is that you?" He whispered, trying not to let any emotion slip into his voice. Trying not to let Stephanie know how hard his day had been.
"Hey Lance." She replied, smiling into the phone. He felt that smile from two thousand miles away, it warmed him a bit. "How are you?"
"You know." he muttered, failing at keeping the emotion out of his voice, failing at keeping his anger, his hurt, away from his best friend. His only friend.
"What happened?" she immediately questioned, sensing the very emotions Lance didn't want her to know about.
"Nothing Steph. Nothing." Lance replied. He had just wanted to hear her voice, just wanted to feel her smile through the phone. He didn't need to complain about his day, she had had a hard enough day as it was. And...
"Don't lie to me, Bass. Tell me." She commanded, earning a sigh. "Was it...?"
"Steph..." He didn't say anything more, but she understood all that wasn't said.
"Lance, you know what I think." She stated, and through the phone, she heard his nod. He was so predictable sometimes, all the time.
"Why is it so hard?" He finally whispered. Silence met his question, and he knew, deep down, that he didn't want to hear Stephanie's answer's. His friend was nothing if not truthful, and sometimes, anytime, most of the time, he wanted to hear lies. He wanted to hear stretcher's that would make him calm down, make him less hurt. He wanted to be lied too, but he knew she wouldn't. He KNEW.
"Do you really want me to answer that?" Stephanie broke the silence, and Lance shook his head. He didn't want her to tell him what he already knew, it would only depress him further. Stephanie laughed and again, Lance was warmed by the smile he didn't see.
"I can't see which direction your shaking you head, Bass." She teased. He chuckled, slowly, savoring the sound. He never heard it anymore, his own laughter, other people's. He never heard anything full of life, full of happiness.
"Don't tell me."
"I wasn't going to, dummy."
"How was school?" A safe topic, one that would provide him with hours of amusement, hours away from his own life, his own problems. Stephanie knew what Lance was trying to do. She knew that he lived vicariously through her; the stories of school, of friends, of romance. He lived for them as much as she did. Sighing slightly, she began to recount a tale from earlier that morning. Every now and then, Lance would laugh, trying to assure her that he was still there, that he was still listening to every word that was spilling from her lips.
Finally though, he needed to hang up. The red letter's on the digital clock read 11:48, which meant it was 2:48 back home in Mississippi.
"Steph, go to sleep" He commanded quietly. Stephanie smiled when she heard his tone; that was the Lance that she knew, that she loved. It was amazing what two hours on the phone would do, could do. And while she was hanging up, after saying good-bye, she realized something. Lance truly had no life but hers. And that thought saddened her. At the same time, however, she wanted to do nothing more then kill Lance for allowing his life to sink so low. For allowing HIM to have power, to have strength. Her eyes shut tightly, and for a moment, she thought about before. She thought about the years that she had known Lance, the years they had been friends.
She slept with a smile on her face.
He opened his eyes slowly, waiting for the sun to hit him, to blind him. Temporarily. Sometimes he wished it wasn't temporary. That when he opened his eyes, he wouldn't be able to see anything. He didn't want to see the rose covered blanket's that had kept him warm the night before. He didn't need to see the tan phone laying of the hook (he always took it off before he went to sleep, the guys would call him at all hours to pick them up from wherever they were, and he couldn't say no), it simply reminded him that they could call him for a ride but not to invite him along. He didn't need to be reminded of the truth.
He sighed slowly and opened his eyes, blinded temporarily by the sun. When at last he could see, he stood. His hair was messy, his face rough, one hand numb, he had fallen asleep on it again. The walls were bare, an occasional picture hung that was so dull it failed to even capture his attention. The room lacked personality, lacked warmth. It would never be more then a room in a foreign hotel. It would never hear people whisper the word "home", nor did it want to.
Lance thought of his home, the fireplaces, the mountains, the lake. He wanted to be there, swimming contently with Steph, ignoring all the problems that would face him when he returned to work, but he couldn't. Instead he walked slowly to a wooden desk where an itinerary of the day had been placed the night before.
7:00 Wake up
7:15 Breakfast- Chris's room
8:00 Bus
12:00 Arrive at Venue
12:35 Lunch
2:00 Interview/photo session
3:45 Sound-Check
5:30 Meet and Greet
7:30 Show-time (opening acts)
8:30 show-time (N Sync)
11:15 Bus- no hotel tonight
Lance glanced unceremoniously at the digital clock, sighing when he saw it was only 6:57. He still had a few minutes before he had to be in Chris's room for breakfast. A few minutes of privacy before his heart was torn up once more, before he was forced to spend time with the people that hated him, hated who he was. Lance got dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of comfortable jeans with a ragged sweat-shirt. He needed that comfort for it would be all he would receive that day.
He glanced around the room once, making sure everything was packed up. He didn't have to search hard, he hadn't really unpacked the evening before. He never unpacked anymore, it created more of a problem then it was worth.
Then he turned his back and walked out the door. Someone would get his over-night bag for him, they would load it on the bus he shared with his "friends", the bus that more of a home then the hotel room, but not by much. Lance strode down the hall; he didn't want to be late, again. Yesterday he had slept in, but it hadn't been worth it. The yelling had made him lose any of the extra sparkle the sleep had given him. He didn't like being yelled at, but then again not many did.
Drawing in a deep breath, he turned and knocked quickly on the door.