Lance slammed the phone down in a huff, unable to comprehend the stupidity of his assistant. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he spat as he rolled out of his luxurious bed. Next to him, JC rolled over lazily, blinking up at him. “What? What happened?” “Fucking imbeciles lost FreeLance documents. Lost them. Goddammit! Contracts.” He yanked on a pair of sweats and hurried from the bedroom, clasping his cell phone. The coffee maker was already brewing the first pot of the day as Lance flipped on the television. Stock reports were trickling in, and he stood with arms folded across his chest as he made mental notes. Arms wrapped around his waist and a soft whisper enveloped him. “It’s early,” JC hummed. “Come back to bed.” Lance very firmly, very curtly removed JC’s hands from his body. “I’ve got to go to work,” he said shortly. “Time is money.” Walking to the counter, he poured himself a mug of java and swept past his jilted lover to the shower. JC stared after him dejectedly, ignored again. The hot water spread down Lance’s body from double jets and he calculated figures in his head -- promotions that needed to be set up -- and just how much money it would cost him to draw up new contracts and get the artists to sign them. Anger creased his brow as he scrubbed his skin raw, upset he now had no time for his morning work out, pissed that this unplanned chain of events had cost him personal time. When JC knocked on the shower door, he sighed. Wondering when JC got so fucking clingy. He didn’t want cling -- he just wanted a warm body at night and a pretty prize to show off at functions. “What?” he barked. “Don’t forget my brother is coming in tonight. Dinner okay?” Lance paused, rubbing his hands over his face, a tad regretful that he *had* forgotten. “Shit, JC, I forgot. I can’t tonight.” “Lance, you promised. Shit! You fucking promised me!” The door swung open, letting a ball of steam waft out. And Lance saw the hurt in JC’s eyes, the pure frustration. “Baby, I’m sorry. I can’t. Not tonight. These contracts ...” “Fuck the contracts, Lance.” JC shook his head and looked away. “Fuck them because they’re obviously more important than I am. So fuck them and fuck you!” Lance tried to grab his elbow and make it up in some small way, not totally into it, but enough to know if JC left, he’d be alone. Alone scared him. To a point. “Don't’ be like this,” he called after JC, but the door slammed shut with a vengeance. “For the love of Christ,” Lance hissed, cutting the shower short and stepping out. His mind was swimming in a hundred directions -- business deals, investments, his missed work out. It just simmered sourly inside of him causing his brows to knot. Dressing quickly, he ignored JC as he sulked in the bed. Hoping to amend later with a gift perhaps. Smoothing things over was his forte -- and all JC needed normally was a night of love making. It seemed to put things in perspective for him. “I’m leaving,” Lance called out, but no response was forthcoming. “Okay, then. Tell your brother I said hi.” Still nothing. Grabbing his briefcase, Lance sighed and headed out toward his office. Once inside his sanctuary, he berated his assistant, managed to spill his coffee on his new silk shirt, and curse a dozen or so times. “This is insane,” he growled, dabbing at the ugly brown stain over his olive shirt. A soft knock on his door caused him to curse again. “Who the fuck is it?” The door cracked open and Justin poked his head in. “Lance? Damn, man, just what is your BP today? You’re gonna have a stroke.” Lance narrowed his gaze. “Justin, shit. What? What do you want? Why are you here?” “In the neighborhood blah, blah, blah. So what’s shaking?” Lance couldn't’ help but notice how relaxed Justin was from his laid back grin to the faded jeans and old Harley tee shirt that covered his chest. A small feeling of envy flooded Lance before his phone rang, spinning him back into the present. “Yeah?” He waved at Justin to sit as he faced the window, muttering angrily to a publicist. “I don’t fucking care how you get his picture in Rolling Stone, just get it in there. His album is coming out in three months. I need his face around. Do you understand?” Slamming the phone he turned around with clenched fists. “So why are you here?” he asked distractedly as he plopped down in his overstuffed leather chair. “In the neighborhood. Figured New York City could use some Justin love.” Justin laughed as he rubbed his hand over his scalp. “It’s been a while, man. How are you and C doing? We never hear from y’all anymore.” “Oh,” Lance said quietly, chewing on the end of a pen. “Yeah, um. He’s good. Writing a lot. Still running his studio downtown. Won a Grammy.” “Yeah, yeah, I heard that. Congrats. You must be proud.” Lance looked up, curiously. Proud? He’d never thought about it. “His brother is coming in tonight.” He let out a little sigh, trying to regain composure, trying to ignore the gnawing at his gut -- an ulcer he was sure. “He’s pissed because I can’t hang out with them.” “Why can’t you?” Justin asked pointedly, kicking his heels up on the desk, ignoring the disgusted look Lance tossed at him. “I mean, it’s only one night right?” Justin was prying, and Lance immediately recalled just *why* he rarely got in touch with his old group mates anymore. “Jesus, Jus, fuck. I’m busy. I got shit going on here. I don’t have time for fancy dinners and ...” “You still love him?” Lance tossed the chewed up pen down on his desk and glared at Justin, wondering where he got the audacity to waltz into his life after a whole year and ask such a thing. “What’s it to you Timberlake?” he batted back. “Hmm?” Justin shrugged non-chalently. “Wondering is all,” he grinned, standing up. “I mean, we all know JC always showed you more love than you showed him.” Lance felt a hot blush creep up his neck and struggled to stay seated. “Justin,” he warned through gritted teeth. “No, no,” Justin waved his hands about as he paced the office, fingering various moon men awards from FreeLance artists, picking up trinkets Lance had collected, pausing to stare at one of the last photos of N Sync at the Michael Jackson tribute concert. “We had a fuck of a lot of fun huh man? Wow!” “Are you here to reminisce? Or fucking tell me how to run my relationship with JC?” The question was loaded, Lance realized, but Justin never faltered. He only turned slowly with that disarming smile -- and shrugged -- again. “Just here to say hi. Check up. See how things are with you.” The phone rang again, and Lance growled as he picked it up. “Hello?” he said with strain lacing his deep voice. “JC! God! I can’t do this now. Please! I’ll talk to you later!” He snapped the phone off as Justin nodded toward him. “Yes. It was JC and please Justin, I do not need you to comment on my life.” “Lance. This is not good.” Justin sighed as he wandered to the window, gazing out over the majesty of New York City. “You can’t go on like this. Fighting life like it’s against you. Never enjoying it. Taking things for granted.” Lance was loosing patience, and while seeing Justin had flooded him with sweet memories, they had come and gone in the blink of an eye. He chose to live instead in the present -- in the future. Where FreeLance ruled, and his acting career was second. Nothing else was worth considering. “I’m not taking things for granted,” Lance lied, wishing Justin would just crawl back under the rock from which he came. When N Sync had disbanded, Justin had chosen a quiet life, surprising everyone. Offers of a solo career were dismissed as he moved to Malibu and spent time alone, producing and co-writing occasionally. “Ah, but you are.” Justin spun around and gazed at Lance with wide blue eyes that sparkled vibrantly. “And I’m not going to let you do this.” Lance laughed incredulously. “What?” He stood up and leaned his hands on the edge of his desk. “What the hell does that mean?” Justin smiled and tucked his hands into his pockets. “You’ll find out at dinner tonight. You, me, JC and Tyler. Just the four of us.” He raised his eyebrow and chuckled. “I’ll meet you at your place.” The surprised snort that left Lance’s lips was to the point. “You. Don’t. Get. It.” he spat. “There will be no dinner. I can’t.” He moved out from behind his desk and sighed. “It was nice to see you, Justin, really, but I have stuff to do. Um, maybe you can call JC and have dinner with him and his brother, but I can’t make it.” Justin nodded, licking his lips slowly. “I see, I see,” he said, moving toward the door. “I guess you made your position.” Lance folded his arms over his chest and swallowed hard, unused to being scrutinized. Throughout his N Sync career, Justin had always creeped him out with his spirituality and deep seeded understanding of things. Justin had always been the one to catch him doing things -- and always the one to lend an ear without condemning. And he’d been the one to support the relationship Lance had with JC. But they’d never been terribly close. Not that Justin didn’t try. Lance just wasn’t into letting people in. Still wasn’t. “So,” Lance cleared his throat uncomfortably under the azure eyes that sank into him. “Yeah. JC will be happy to see you.” Justin rocked slowly on his heels with that same shit eating grin that had been plastered on thousands upon thousands of teen magazines in their hey day. “Yeah, he will. He will.” Lance cringed at the blasé tone Justin set and bit on his lip -- a habit he’d long since abandoned, realizing business men did not bite their lips. “Yeah, well. My assistant can validate for parking outside.” “So that’s it man? Just a simple dismiss with those pretty green eyes and I’m gone eh?” Lance blushed, also something he’d given up when N Sync disbanded. Justin had managed to fluster him, and he wondered just what the fuck that odd feeling coiling in his gut was. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and sighed shakily. “Uh, no. I mean, yeah.”  Dammit, he was infuriated on the inside, pissed that Justin Timberlake could just show up out of no where and throw his day off in such an intense manner. “Look,” Lance said with a short smile, “I have an artist coming in to discuss a video shoot and I’m running behind so ...” “So ... can I please leave?” Justin laughed, tossing his head back in a carefree way, and Lance found himself staring with a gaping mouth, his eyes fixed in some kind of trance. Intrigued by what spirit seemed to ooze from Justin. Slightly envious he could just be so uninhibited. “Sure, Lance. I’m gonna call C and catch up with him.” He moved forward quickly and embraced a stunned Lance, crushing him in a bear hug. Lance froze momentarily before patting Justin awkwardly on the back, unable to stop his lips from twitching a bit at the sides. “Yeah, so. Good. That’s good that you’ll see him.” Justin pulled back and stared into Lance’s eyes, gazing into a soul he no longer recognized. Then he leaned in and kissed his lips gently. “Yeah. I’m sure he needs friends around with you gone so much.” Stunned, Lance backed away, touching his fingers to his lips. Incapable of speech. Staring in bewilderment at the younger man before him. Watching as he sauntered out with hands in his pockets, whistling a nameless tune. And Lance didn’t take air again until his assistant buzzed him several minutes later, announcing the arrival of his artist. But the kiss lingered innocently on his lips all day, and the feeling in his gut twittered relentlessly. Justin fucking Timberlake. Back in his life. Sweet November Menu Part Two