//Part 1// Raucous. Drunken. Surprise. It said it all. His birthday—the big one— the one that said he was a man, legal to drink, to gamble, to do whatever the fuck he wanted. Add to that he was one rich mother and his life should have been perfect. So why was he sitting here in the shadows, knocking back drink after drink? Why was he feeling like there was a hole where there shouldn't be one? Why, why, why?  He held his head and willed back the tears. Not tonight. Not tonight of all nights. No one would get it. He fucking didn't get it. He slammed the glass down on the table and lurched onto the dance floor. Then his body, with its natural grace and rhythm, responded to the steady thump of the beat and he swayed, all eyes on him. Britney moved closer, grinding into him, their bodies in harmony. He felt the eyes, heard the voices murmuring about their incredible beauty. How long? He had lost track of time, the alcohol and the sound combining to help him lose himself. Everyone had started drifting away at some point and now there were just a handful, the die-hards who found  going home as painful as he did. Britney whispered in his ear, something about taking it back to their room. He tried to focus on her face but there were two or three of her floating and he couldn't pare it down to one, so he laughed and told her to do whatever she wanted, that he was wasted. Somehow he was in the limo, the sharp air having served only to remind him of how stinking drunk he was. Good. The hole was gone for tonight. Lonnie carried him when he got too heavy for Brit and dropped him onto the king size bed, fully dressed. He curled up into a fetal ball and passed out. He missed the look of disgust on his girlfriend's face when she realized at last that the evening had ended. He didn't feel her tugging his shoes off.  He didn't notice the blanket that she draped over him and he sure as shit didn't see the sadness etched on her features. The next morning was hell. His head was pounding, his eyes burned, and his mouth was parched. Water from the glass left thoughtfully on the night table was a mistake. It fed the nausea that was threatening to empty his stomach. He decided that remaining curled in the same position, perhaps permanently, was the only answer. He felt Brit push up behind him, molding her body to his, her perfumed scent filling the air around them. He wanted to tell her to go away but he knew that she didn't deserve that. After all, the party had been all her doing. She had arranged for the others to come up for the night. He knew it had been a pain in the ass for them but they did it—for him. He thought of them, of all they had been through for the past seven years. Where had the time gone? More to the point, who the hell was he anymore? They all seemed to be content, happy with their lives. So why was he, the golden boy, so miserably unhappy? His head threatened to explode. Too much thinking, too many burnt out cells. He squeezed his eyes shut and blocked out the feelings, the awareness of the hole. Eventually he went back to sleep and when he woke again, Brit was gone. He rolled onto his back and tentatively opened his eyes. Not quite as bad as the first time but definitely not ready for sunlight. Thank God for  drapes. He rubbed his temples, hoping the pressure from his fingertips would ease the pain in his head. He sat up slowly, feeling it in every nerve ending. A fresh glass of water and a bottle of Advil. He did love her. He shook out a handful and swallowed them down, following them with most of the water. When his stomach didn't threaten all out rebellion, he relaxed and laid down again. Where was she? It was an idle thought. He was startled to realize that he was more concerned about where Lance was right now, imagining him in New Orleans, getting ready to party his ass off. He picked up the phone to call him and stopped himself. The throbbing in his head began again. It had been like this lately— wondering where Lance was, what he was doing, what he was thinking. It was friendship, sure it was, what else could it be? He forced his thoughts back to Brit. She was fucking amazing and there was probably no straight guy in the world who wouldn't kill for a night with her. Her body was toned and curved, sculpted and massaged, exercised into cover girl perfection. She made love like a wild woman one moment, the shy southern belle the next. She knew what made him happy and worked like hell to give it to him. Up until lately, he had been the yang to her yin, the perfect counterpart—beauty matched. He was romantic to the point of merciless teasing by the rest of his friends, but he didn't care. He loved the gestures, letting her know how much she meant to him. But it had all changed five weeks ago. They had arranged their schedules and made time for one another—uninterrupted time, weeks and weeks of it. Like any couple. They were together twenty-four seven and it had started out as heaven. For the three years they had been together this was the most consecutive time he had spent with Brit and away from the guys. So when he started to feel something—something unpleasant—he had attributed it to withdrawal. He and Brit had even made jokes about his needing an NSYNC fix. When it didn't go away he started to feel uncomfortable, questioning himself, wondering what it all meant. He started making up excuses to call them, especially Lance. It seemed to banish the feeling, at least for the moment. But now, when he got off the phone there was an emptiness that hadn't been there before. He wasn't sure what was going on, so he did what he always did and threw himself into his present situation with renewed vigor. He took Brit out to nameless clubs, fucked her senseless far into the night and sometimes in the morning. He took her shopping in New York and on carriage rides in Central Park. He sent dozens of roses to their room daily and ordered buckets of champagne every night. He jotted lyrics and bars of music on the little pads that the hotel provided, pouring out his heart, gushing his love. None of it worked. The only time he felt truly himself was when he was talking to Lance. They filled each other in, Lance laughing in his sexy, deep voice about getting drunk off his ass at some Hollywood party or other. Or how he lost a bundle in Vegas—big surprise. Or they'd get serious and talk business, either NSYNC or Freelance. And then Brit would come in or Lance would be called away and it was over again, until the next call. Justin stopped that train of thought. It was an express headed for the Grand Canyon and he sure as hell didn't want to be on it. He rolled over gingerly and sat up. His head still felt like a balloon but at least the rolling in his stomach had subsided. Slowly he pushed himself up and shuffled to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror. The bloodshot eyes were no prize and he looked a little—okay a lot—puffy. So much for drinking on your 21st birthday. But what caught him was the expression on his face, the reflection of the lost soul that he felt he was. He wanted to cry. And he did, letting the cascading water of the shower hide his feminine side. When he came out, Brit was there with steaming cups of coffee and a wistful look on her face. "Hey babe, how ya feeling?" "Probably just like I look," Justin answered. "That bad, huh?" she giggled. He smiled briefly but it hurt so he stopped and took the cup before collapsing back on the bed. He hesitated. "Sorry about fucking up last night. It shouldn't have ended that way." "Hey, you don't turn 21 every day. Payback is next December." "Deal. Come over here, baby girl." He stretched out his arm and she came to him, the relief on her face obvious. She knows something's wrong with me, he thought. He pushed the fear into a dark corner and pasted a smile on his face. "I love you, Brit. You know that, right?" "I know, Justin." She sighed and leaned into him, dropping tiny kisses on his chest, hoping he would take it further. When he didn't, she sighed again. "What's wrong?" "It's just…are we okay?" She voiced his biggest fear. "Absolutely, honey. It was just …the birthday….the party….21, you know. And honestly, today I am trying to relearn the fine art of feeling human." He felt her relax into him and thanked God that they didn't need to go any further. They didn't make love at all. They just snuggled, a quiet togetherness that reassured both of them. By late afternoon, Justin almost felt like rejoining the human race. The phone rang and he grabbed it. "Yo, what's up?" "Too much uptown for you, boy," the laughing voice on the other end responded. "Hey, Lance," Justin said. "Calling to find out if I was still alive?" "Absolutely. You were trashed, man. What time did you finish up?" "Are you kidding? I passed out somewhere along the line." He heard the aliveness in his voice increase with each exchange. Then he looked at Brit and caught himself, easing up on the obvious enjoyment. "Actually, Brit was an angel. Took care of me the whole time." He squeezed her shoulder tightly, reinforcing the message. "Isn't she always?" Lance asked. "Yep, couldn't live without her," he responded. He was horrified. He knew it sounded like a line from a script, delivered with all the emotion of his finest moments in Model Behavior. Brit felt it too as she slipped out from under his arm and headed for the bathroom. Justin knew he should hang up and go after her but he couldn't force himself to end the connection. Lance heard it in his voice. "What's up, Justin? Something wrong?" "Nah, Brit just left." "Your sorry ass can't live without her for a minute?" "You know it. Hey, met any fine men down there?" "A few. None worth keeping though. Suck `em and fuck `em. Then bye, bye, bye." Justin giggled. He watched the closed door of the bathroom. "Listen, I gotta go. Think of me while you're `down there'." Lance was silent for a moment. "Right. What a delightful thought. Later, Jus." "Later." The line went dead and Justin stared at the phone wondering what the fuck he had just said. He shook himself and went to the door, knocking politely. "Hey, Brit? Can I come in?" He heard the water running and a muffled sound of agreement. He let himself in and sat on the toilet, towel in hand, waiting for her. While he was waiting, his mind wandered. Where had that comment come from? Lance had told them he was gay years ago and it had never impacted on the tight knit relationships of the group. Justin knew he was straight. He just knew it. The water shut off and Brit stepped out. His eyes took in every inch of that magnificent body and he was relieved to feel a stirring in his groin. But she wasn't smiling. She had that sadness, a slight undercurrent, that most of the time he could attribute to fatigue. Today he knew its source. "I'm sorry, baby girl," he said. Her gaze locked in, her eyes moist. "Do you know what you're apologizing for?" He knew but if he said it, the nasty thoughts and fears that had been swirling around these last weeks would see the light of day and that was  * not *  happening. So he played dumb. "Not exactly." She snorted and the moistness disappeared. It was a new game, one they had never played before. Until recently, one of the few truths they told about their relationship was that they kept no secrets. Now that wasn't true either. But her own fears and insecurities kept her from confronting him on the lie. So she just nodded and grabbed the towel off the rack, ignoring the one he was holding out. He stood and dropped the towel, irritation on his beautiful features. Irritation that he was a coward, that he couldn't talk it out with her. That he needed to talk to his friends, one on one and sort his feelings out. She noticed and mirrored his look. "We going out tonight?" she asked, a snappish tone to her voice. "Sure, babe, whatever you want," he replied, placating her, willing to make peace at any cost. She softened. "Dinner at The Four Seasons?" He sighed. Nothing simple. Some showplace where they would be in the limelight. "Done, babe." Then as if it were an afterthought, he added, "What do you say we go home for a few days?" She whirled around, suspicion dawning. "Home as in LA?" "Um, Orlando." "What the fuck is in Orlando?" He hesitated. He knew that Lance would be back there for a few days after the Superbowl, some business he had said. But he couldn't say that to Brit. It had ceased being funny or cute a couple of weeks ago— that he seemed to * need * them in some weird way. "Um, I have to…um….I have to …" he trailed off. He had no plausible reason. "Now let me see, Justin. Didn't I hear Lance tell you the other night that he'd be in Orlando on Monday. Hmm, day after tomorrow. Is that when you want to go?" Justin blushed and turned away. He lied through his teeth, an established gift. "Don't be silly. We don't have to go at all." "Fine. I still want to see Contact before we leave." "Great," he said softly. Why did he feel so bad? He rubbed his forehead. After all, he thought, it's not like I've  * got *  to see Lance.  So why was that fucking hole opening just a little wider and deeper? The answer was sex. It made him forget the question. As he pumped hard inside her, staring into those warm, brown eyes, he swore that this was heaven, what he had always wanted. When their coupling ended, he felt warm and fuzzy, safe in the cocoon of Brit's love. They held one another, seeking the proof that this was good and right and would always be. Dinner—a photo op rather than a meal. Brit preened and posed, happy to be the center of attention, while Justin shrank back, maintaining the low profile he kept in her presence. He pushed his food around on the plate and his mind wrapped around what it would take to get them to Florida before Lance left. His stomach began to flip. Enough. He needed ---what? "Earth to Justin? Where the hell did you go, babe?" "Sorry, daydreaming." About?" "Us, of course," He answered smoothly, the brilliant public smile turned up to megawattage. She returned the fake grin. "Good. I love to hear that. Anything in particular?" He looked at her, his earnest expression making him look even younger than he was. "Marry me, Brit." She giggled. "Of course, silly. I thought that was already decided." "Now. Soon." "What?" In any other situation, the look of shock on her face would have been rolling on the floor material. But he was too anxious to notice. "Marry me. We can do it before we go on tour. A small ceremony—just our families and closest friends." "Then what?" He looked lost, sad—more like he lost his best friend than having just proposed. "What do you mean, `Then what?'" "I mean I thought we had decided to wait until our careers had both cooled a little. Right now it's work getting the time together that we do have." "We can do it, Brit." He was almost begging. "But why? What will we have that we don't have now?" "We'll let the world know that we're for real—a commitment for forever. What do you say?" "Let me think about it, Justin." She reached for his trembling hand, the small child crying out for true love, needing the affirmation of their rightness. She squeezed it tightly, the mother coming out, wanting to make him happy, today and always. She sighed, "Absolutely, babe, when?" "Valentine's Day?" "Can we do it that quick?" "Why not? Money can accomplish miracles." "Okay," she giggled. "Not how I imagined it but you sure are my Prince Charming." "We'll fly to Orlando tomorrow and make the arrangements," he said, grinning happily. It was only later, as they were drifting into sleep, that he realized that he had accomplished his earlier goal— they were going home to Lance. ( two ) ( back to menu )