Lance was exhausted as he got into the elevator of his building. It was later than he’d anticipated, and his stomach was rumbling unmercifully. The key slid in the door and he pushed it open with one hand, balancing the mail and a cup of cappuccino in the other. “JC? I’m home!” The apartment was silent, dark. Lance shivered, unused to JC not being there. Even when he worked at the studio, he always made an attempt to be home early -- to meet Lance and hand him a glass of wine. “JC?” No reply. Lance moved toward the kitchen, dropping his briefcase at his feet. He sighed as he flipped the living room light on and saw no one there. “Shit!” Stalking angrily to the kitchen, he flipped on the small television in the corner and sank onto a stool, grabbing an apple and rubbing it off on his shirt. The reporter on the news droned on and on about foreign policy as he took a huge bite. Hungry. Annoyed. Cool hands covered his eyes suddenly, and Lance yelped, toppling from his stool in a panic. Wishing he still maintained a body guard. Aching for that semblance of security. But former teen idols no longer needed personal protection because honestly, no one cared anymore. The apple dropped to the floor with a dull thud, and his elbow jerked back instinctively, connecting with a stomach -- a very muscular and firm gut. “Oof,” the voice grunted, and Lance spun around with fiery eyes. To see Justin. “Fucking A!” he screamed, backing up. “Justin! My God!” Justin doubled over, his arm cradled against his mid-section -- his free hand waving Lance to let him know he was alright. Lance’s eyes dropped as he patted Justin’s back, helplessly. “You okay?” “Fine,” Justin gasped, catching his breath. “Fine. You got some elbow on you man.” Lance threw his hands up, letting his concern fall to anger. “What the FUCK  are you doing in my home? Where is JC? HMM? Where?” Justin struggled to stand, and when he did, his eyes twinkled with merriment, his lips twitched with an ease not seen in the Bass/Chasez household since they arrived. Justin dropped his hands to his side and smiled. “Dinner. Then a play. JC gave me a key.” If his heart rate was any indication of his anger, he was in trouble. Lance tugged at his blonde strands and paced. “Why were you in the dark? Like ... like ...” he was stumbling over words, bending to pick up the fallen apple, hurling it toward the trash can with force. “Like I was out for you Lance?” Justin finished, leaning back against the black marble counter with that same glimmer in his eye. “I am out for you in a way.” He stuck his finger in his mouth and proceeded to tear away at a hangnail with his teeth -- untroubled -- care-free. Like he hadn’t just scared the life out of Lance, causing his heart to bounce around in his chest like a ping pong ball. But the emotion on Lance’s face was clear -- resentment. “I want you out,” Lance said firmly, wiping his hands on the legs of his trousers. “Out of my house. Out of my life. At least until they call us up for a reunion or some shit. Then, I’ll see you on stage.” He was resolute, ushering Justin to the front door with eyes of glass, unrelenting. Demanding. “JC left,” Justin said casually, spitting his nails out in the sink beside him. “He’s gone you know.” Lance teetered backward as if he’d been slapped, the phantom sting blushing across his face. “Excuse me?” “Gone. His brother came to get him and once the play is done, I suspect he’ll be staying at a hotel.” Justin sighed and stretched, letting out an overdue yawn, scratching his stomach as his hands came down. “You lie,” Lance laughed, dashing from the kitchen. But as he made his way into the bedroom, he noticed things gone. JC things. Items of personal value in JC’s life -- his family photos, his keyboard, his cologne, his slippers. Lance touched the spot on JC’s dresser that held his Grammy -- running his fingers solemnly over the empty spot. Unbelieving. “Shit,” he hissed, glancing around for a note, a confirmation that JC was indeed gone. Finding none. “He hurt so badly he didn’t  say much,” Justin said softly. “Tears in his eyes and all. Loves the fuck outta you, man.” He moved past Lance and fell backward onto the plush bed. “But I guess you know that already.” Lance’s mouth dropped open, his eyes widened, his stomach lurched. JC was gone. Just like that. “Well fuck me,” he growled, throwing his hands up. “Nice fucking way to let me know.” Justin pulled his head up from the pillow and stared. “You’re kidding me right? Jesus, Lance, he let you know every fucking day. Every fucking night. He begged for you, man.” The urge hit Lance to throw something at Justin’s smug head -- to clip him with something out of sheer anger. Because he was sure, certain, that JC’s departure was egged on by Justin. Too much coincidence with Justin’s arrival and JC leaving. “Come stay with me,” Justin said suddenly, jumping up with a childlike fervor. “Come to Malibu and stay in my beach house. Spend time tanning and we’ll go to this little bar I know at night, listen to the some acoustic guitar. Hang out. Just chill.” Lance blinked once -- then twice. He was unused to the feelings that rushed him -- confusion perhaps. Incredulity. Amazement. “What did you say?” Justin didn’t waver. He scurried over with big eyes and a sneaky smile. “Oh come on, Lance,” he goaded. “California sunshine? The waves being your lullaby? The moon setting over the ocean. You can jog in the morning or just sleep in. You can just relax. Be normal. Be twenty four, man.” The turn was slow, deliberate. Lance felt the stress fracture from deep inside, ripping his body in two. Each side battling for supremacy. His youth mingled with N Sync -- his adulthood mingled with ulcers and high blood pressure. It was deafening, the noise inside his head as he glared at Justin with furious eyes. “Get out, Timberlake. Get out, get out, get out and do not come back.” He barely felt the sting of his blunt nails digging into the palm of his hand as he clenched his fists ready for combat. He dared Justin with hard eyes to  move closer -- to challenge him. Because he would love to just take one hit at that pretty face, smudge it all the fuck up. Make him stop grinning like some kind of cat that ate the canary. “You sure?” Justin asked, as he folded his arms over the expanse of his chest, his eyes still containing that blue sea of freedom. He watched Lance glare, then nod, before licking his lips. “Alright then. Offer stands until I leave tomorrow night. About six.” Lance turned away, in despair. In awe of the relentless nature that stood before him. Justin had always been the smooth talker, the one they sent in for rare nights off, the one who could coerce any person to take a listen to the latest N Sync songs -- their biggest attribute publicly. He heard Justin whistle as he wandered out the front door, a quiet snap punctuating his exit. Lance rumbled as he ripped his stained shirt off and hurled it to the floor. Indigestion burned in his throat and he swallowed it down hard. Aggravated. There was some section of him, however, that played with the idea of Justin -- of running away for a while to the west coast for something called vacation. As he moved toward the shower, he tried to recall the last time he’d been away. With JC, he supposed, for a quick weekend get a way in the Bahamas. JC had backed him into it, with wide eyes and a puppy dog expression. Lance had relented, but not without his lap top. He spent two days locked in the hotel room with contracts and a cell phone, coming out only for dinner. JC had been destroyed, Lance thought, as he stepped under the water. And even back then he knew that he should stop the destructive relationship -- the way he ignored JC all the time -- always expecting him to be there. But now, now he was gone. For whatever reason. For why, he couldn’t say. His mind switched quickly, back to the day’s work. Back to artists he was trying to plug on MTV, and photo shoots he tried desperately to arrange. His stomach burned and he sighed, finishing his shower and crawling into bed. Hungry and alone. With visions of Justin dancing through his head. He slipped under the covers and buried his head into the pillow. Ignoring the erection that sprang from no where. Trying to control his faint regret at not having JC to be with. Cursing Justin under his breathe for it all. Begging sleep to take him. When he did wake, it was odd not to have that body curled up against him. An erection continued it’s assault on his body and he stared down at it pitifully, taking care of it quickly, wondering if JC was truly serious about not coming back. No note. No call. Nothing but Justin to inform him that his two year relationship was done, caput, finite. Once in his office, he was startled to see his Happy Place partner sitting there, jittery. “Lance, thank God.” He stared at her, unblinking. “What’s wrong?” “We bottomed out on the next project. Lost it. The director is suing us and our backing is gone.” Her eyes were frantic, pleading for him to make it right. Lance shook his head in wonder. “What? How? How the hell?” He was behind his desk in moments, dialing numbers, booting up his computer. “I don’t get it.” Worry crossed along his forehead and he thought about all the money -- the actors promised parts -- the money again. “Jesus. Wendy!” She wrung her hands and stood up, pacing to the window and back. “I know. I know. I mean, I don’t get it. We were riding high. Then he called. Something about you and contracts. Shit, Lance. Did you forget to cross the t’s and dot the i’s or what?” Lance took a deep breath, and rested his head in his hands. He was methodical in his dealings -- a perfectionist. “Of course I did, Wendy. I’m not a moron.” “Then why? How?” Her hands rested on his desk, and her eyes met his. “You’re temper Lance. You’re fucking bitter attitude lost this. I’m sure!” “Fuck you!” Lance spat, jumping up to get in her face. “Oh don’t start your whiny ass shit with me today!” “What’s with you, Lance?” She growled, backing away. “You’re different. You’re not the same guy I met all those years ago.” Grabbing her briefcase she stalked to the door. “Take a vacation, Lance,” she warned, spinning on her heel. “What? That’s ridiculous!” His chest tightened at the mere idea of taking time off. He laughed sardonically. “No! I’m not going to be doing that.” He sat down and snatched a pen from it’s holder, chomping down on the end. The door slammed, rattling the pictures on his walls. “Dammit!” He scurried from his seat and dove as the Michael Jackson photo took a leap from the nail. Just in time, he caught it, and sat sprawled out on his stomach. Staring into the four faces in the photo. Men he used to spend day in and out with. Laugh with. Care for. And Justin, next to him with one arm carelessly draped over his shoulder, grinning at him with that smile. The one that plagued him now. “If you’re thinking yoga, this is not the way to go.” Justin stood over him, an overnight bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder. Lance looked up and rolled his eyes. “What do you want?” he cried, mostly out of exasperation. Placing the photo down gently he pushed up onto all fours. “Giving you one last chance.” He waved an airline ticket in Lance’s face. “Come with me. One month. One measly month, Lance. December first you can be back on a plane for all this cold New York snow and weather. Spend Christmas alone and miserable. Like scrooge or whatever.” Lance didn’t find the reference amusing in the least. He stood up and lunged for Justin, snatching the ticket away. “No! I’m not going. Just go, man. Have fun back in Cali, dude. Tell Brit I said hi or whatever. Just leave for Chrissakes. Please!” He turned and stormed toward his desk, and when he turned back around, Justin was gone. Just like that. The rest of the day a bust, Lance decided to go home to his empty apartment. To his lonely life. To the shell of what he’d worked hard for. And he did feel like scrooge suddenly. His hired car began the slight trek home when Lance fingered the ticket in his pocket. “Wait,” he said suddenly. “Take me to JFK instead. I got a flight to catch.” The driver nodded and made a u-turn. Lance sat back, his gut a jumble of raw nerve endings. His mind declaring him insane. His insides empty. The shell echoing so hollowly, he doubted anything could really fill it. But the beach in November sounded nice. Part One Sweet November Menu Part Three