Date: Fri, 12 Oct 2001 09:54:54 -0700
From: D S <denis141@hotmail.com>
Subject: ALONE/TOGETHER, Chapter 8 ~ Another Home Than This

Here's chapter 8 of the Alone/Together novella (or series, or whatever).  I
really hope you like it.  I thought it was going to be an easy one to
write, but DAMN, it was hard.  Anyway, I think it turned out okay, because
my roommate said it was "really sweet and funny" and he pretty much is the
least romantic, and most cynical, person I know -- so there you have it

Anyway, I'm in the process of trying to decide if -- and how -- to bring
our boys back together, and, being the evil person I am, I've decided that
you better all write me and tell me what you think of the story so far
because, you know, if I'm going to have the strength to carry on, I'll need
encouragement.  (But that's BLACKMAIL! she cried.  Exactly, Denis replies.)
The address is denis141@hotmail.com I can't wait to hear from you!

DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC.  (I wish!)  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.

ALONE/TOGETHER

CHAPTER 8: Another Home Than This.

IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
	-- Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
Sonnets from the Portuguese, XXXV.

Lance had arrived in town less than an hour ago, after catching an
overnight flight from Rio de Janeiro to Dallas, and from there flying to
San Diego.  He was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was take a shower and
get some sleep.  It was now twenty past noon and Lance was driving north on
I-5 in a Land Rover he'd rented at Hertz.  He was headed to the La Valencia
Hotel in La Jolla, which was where he and JC had lived while their house
was being built.  Lance figured that being there would feel about as much
like a home as any place else he had available to him at the moment.

Lance had considered going to visit his parents -- it being three days from
Christmas, and all.  But that was out of the question, because he still
hadn't told his mom that he and JC were not together anymore.  Lance knew
that if he dared show up at his mom's door, without JC by his side, she'd
be on him in less time than it took to set his bag on the floor.  Lance
groaned, just thinking about it.  His mom was already suspicious about his
increasingly improbable explanations about why JC couldn't come to phone to
say hello, or why JC never called her anymore.  "Is he mad at me, sweetie?"
his mom kept asking.  And all he could think to say was, "No, mom, you know
how much JC loves you.  He's just crazy busy right now.  He'll call you
soon, I promise."

As Lance steered the Land Rover down the Ardeth Road off-ramp, and then
drove past Soledad Park, he thought about his mom, and how mad she'd be
when he finally told her the truth.  Lance knew she'd stare at him with
angry eyes, not bothering to hide her disappointment, and she'd say,
"Lance, how could this have happened?"  And he knew it would be plain from
the tone in her voice that she blamed him.

Thinking about it now, Lance regretted not telling his mom right away.  He
should have gone to Mississippi, not Seattle.  If he'd told her right away,
Lance knew she would have held his hand, and looked at him with kind eyes,
not angry ones.  Just as Lance knew that she would have listened to him
quietly as he told the whole story, and not interrupted him or shouted,
"How could this have happened, Lance?"  And Lance knew that after he'd told
her, his mom would have called JC on the phone and fixed everything,
because she just had that way with JC -- he always listened to her, and
trusted her to not hurt him.

Lance remembered one morning two years ago when he'd stood unnoticed on the
back porch of his parents' home, watching through the screen door as his
mom taught JC how to make pie crust.  JC was giggling as he hunched over
the big wooden table in the middle of his mom's kitchen and tried to get
the scattered bits and odd crumbles of pie dough formed into a coherent
ball so that he could then roll it out.

"My Lord, JC," his mother had said, laughing and slapping JC on the arm.
"You are positively manhandling that poor pie crust.  Go easy on it,
sweetie.  You wouldn't want Lance grabbing you like that, now would you?"

"MOM!" Lance yelled from the back porch, and burst through the screen door,
his face flushed red.  "I can't believe you just said that!"

"Oh, Lance," she said, giving JC a quick wink.  "You're such a prude."

"Yeah," JC added, shaking a doughy finger at Lance, and trying hard not to
laugh.  "And besides, that's what you get for spying on us."

Pulling up to the valet station in front of the hotel, Lance could not help
but smile at the memory of JC standing barefoot in his mom's kitchen,
wearing an apron over cargo shorts, his face covered in flour, and his eyes
full of light.  Lance had kissed JC hard on the mouth that day in the
kitchen, and it was the first time he'd ever kissed JC in front of his
mom. Then, later that night, taking a bite of the tough, too-salty crust
that had resulted from JC's first attempt to make a pie, Lance truly
believed it was the best pie he'd ever tasted.  He even asked for seconds.

*	*	*	*	*

Lance closed the door to his hotel room and tossed his duffel bag on the
bed. He'd not accumulated much during the past six months -- a Sony
minidisc player and some discs, mostly of country music, a hardcover copy
of The Ghost Road that Pat Barker had signed for him at the London
premiere, a cell phone, two scripts his manager had sent him to look at,
two pairs of jeans, red Nike Air-Max running shoes, five t-shirts, a gray
v- neck sweater, a hooded sweatshirt, several pairs of socks, and the Sandy
Dalal suit he'd worn to each premiere.  As Lance had packed it the night
before, rolling his suit into a tight ball and stuffing it into the bag, it
had somehow seemed appropriate to him that everything he had now fit into
one not-too-big bag.  He was a nomad now, and there was no longer any point
in acquiring more than he could carry.

Lance headed to the bathroom to take a shower, undressing as he went.  When
he reached the bathroom door, Lance stopped, turned around and picked up
the phone, and then dialed his mom's number.

"Hey, mom," he said. "It's Lance -- your son.  Remember me?"

"Just barely," she said dryly.  "So, how are sweetie?  Tired I bet."

"Yeah, but otherwise I'm pretty okay."

Lance paused, pressing his lips together like a child about to take
medicine that he knew would taste bad.

"Except...um, I do have some kind of bad news.  Nothing real bad though.
No one's dead or anything."

"Well, that's good," his mom laughed.

"It's just that I'm gonna be stuck here in Rio for another week to ten
days."

"Over Christmas?"

"Yeah, I know," Lance said.  "It sucks, but there's nothing I can do.  The
movie's behind schedule, and we need to get it done."

"Well, business comes first, I guess" his mom said softly.  "Even at
Christmas.  It's just that I was hoping to see you two -- it's been ages."

"Yeah, I know," Lance said.  "But don't worry, mom, JC's flying down, so
it's not like I'll be alone."

"That's good," she said after a long pause that told Lance she was trying
to decide whether to believe him.  "Because no one should be alone on
Christmas."

Lance felt like the air had been sucked out of the room; he could hardly
breathe.

"Mom," Lance said, his voice catching in his throat.  "I've got to go.
They're calling me back to the set.  So ...uh, give my love to everyone --
dad and Stacey and Ford -- and I'll see you soon."

"All right," she said.  "I love you, sweetie, and tell JC I love him too."

"Thanks, mom.  I'll will."

Lance hung up the phone and sat down hard on the bed.  His hands were
shaking, and he felt like he was about to vomit.  He hated himself for
lying to his mom, but he hated himself more for being too weak and afraid
to do anything else.  It was bad enough that he'd hurt JC, but now he was
going to end up hurting his mom too.

"God, I suck," Lance said.

*	*	*	*	*

	Lance stood staring at the sign on the gate not really believing
what he saw.  He'd gotten up early -- after having hardly slept at all --
and decided to drive out to the house to talk to JC.  Lance had wanted to
tell JC that his mom had sent her love, and to tell JC that he'd lied to
his mom about their still being together, and to ask JC what he thought
they should do.  Lance knew that there was no way he'd be able to fix what
happened between him and JC; it was obviously too late for that.  But Lance
also knew -- knew with all his heart -- that JC was the kindest person he'd
ever known, and that he'd call his mom if Lance asked him to, and that JC
would've told her what she needed to be told, and then maybe that part of
it could be okay, and his mom would not hate him too.

	But now Lance stood staring at a huge FOR SALE sign bolted to the
front gate of the house that he and JC had built together.  Seeing it,
Lance realized how stupid he'd been to assume that JC would stay in the
house, living in it like a museum caretaker, and as part of the exhibit
too, an exhibit depicting how a perfect love once looked, even if it looked
like that no more.  And even though Lance knew that it'd been wrong to
expect so much of JC, to live forever in a house so full of memories that
it must have been torture for JC to stay even a minute there, the truth was
Lance had expected it.

	"How could you do this JC!" Lance yelled, his eyes so full of tears
the sign was now just a blur of white and red.

	Lance knew that he'd always depended on JC to take care of the
relationship, to keep it safe, and he knew that maybe this had been unfair.
But Lance also knew that he'd been the younger of the two, the one who'd
never been in love before, the one who'd lost his virginity with JC, giving
to him what he'd never given to anyone else.  And it occurred to Lance now,
that maybe he'd not failed so badly -- at least, not so badly as he'd for
the last six months assumed.  Maybe JC had failed him too -- failed their
relationship, their us -- and maybe JC had been wrong too, wrong to let him
go without a fight, to let him go without admitting that a love that'd once
been so easy it was like breathing, that even a love like that needed help
and hard work to survive.

Lance swiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hands and looked
once more at the sign.

"This is so wrong," Lance said, his voice strained and angry.  "It's just
wrong!"

*	*	*	*	*

	Lance pulled the Land Rover into the parking lot at Soledad Park,
turned off the engine, grabbed his cell phone from where it sat on the
passenger seat, and then punched in the speed-dial for his manager's
direct-line.

"Steve -- it's Lance."

	"Hey, Lance.  How you doing?"

	"I'm fine," Lance said, the words clipped and impatient.  "So look,
I need you to do something for me right away."

	"Yeah, okay."

	"I need you to find out if I have enough cash to buy the house that
me and JC built here in San Diego."

	"Uhh ...Lance," Steve said, sounding confused.  "Unless I'm wrong,
don't you already own that house?  I mean..."

	"Look, Steve," Lance said, cutting Steve off.  "I really don't want
to get into this, okay?  I just want you to check if I got enough money to
buy the house from JC -- okay?  Because -- I don't know -- he's selling it
and I don't want some stranger buying it and living there."

	 "Lance, calm down buddy," Steve laughed.  "I don't need the
details, and I don't need to check to see how much money you got.  Fuck,
Lance, you got more money than God.  So, hey, if you want to buy that damn
house again, knock yourself out!"

"Okay then," Lance said, taking a deep breath.

	"So how do you want to do this?" Steve asked.

	"I don't know," Lance said.  "I mean, it doesn't really matter.  I
just want to make sure no one else buys the house, and I don't want JC to
know that it's me buying it either.  So, I guess you'll need to ... I don't
know, can't you just figure it out?"

	"Sure.  No problem," Steve said.  "We'll just set up a dummy
corporation, and we'll buy it that way.  No one will ever know."

	"Cool," Lance said, wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of his
hand and then looking around to see if anyone was staring at him.  No one
was.

	"So, Steve," Lance continued.  "I want you to make sure to get the
furniture too.  I don't care how much it costs.  I want the house with the
furniture.  You got that?"

	"Yeah, Lance, I got it."

	"Okay -- cool," Lance said, taking another deep breath and trying
to calm down.  "Anyway, the For-Sale sign said someone with Prestige
Properties is like the real estate agent, so that's who you'll have to
call, I guess."

	"Okie-dokey."

	"And, Steve?"

	"Yeah?"

	"Thanks.  Thanks a lot."

	"Hey -- that's why you pay me the big bucks kid."

	Lance laughed and punched the END button on his cell phone then
shoved it into his back pocket.

	"This is just so whacked," Lance said, kicking the tire of his Land
Rover and then looking around again to see if anyone had seen him do it.

*	*	*	*	*

JC was in his car when he received the telephone call he'd been dreading.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, the day before Christmas, and JC was
driving back from Los Angeles where he'd spent the last six days with
Justin finishing work on his album.

	When the cell phone rang, JC assumed it was Justin calling to rag
him again about spending Christmas alone.  JC had lied and told him that
his sister Heather was coming to visit, but Justin had obviously not
believed him.  His cell phone was attached to a bracket on the dashboard,
and JC punched the SPEAKER button.

	"Give it up, Justin," JC said, speaking loudly to make sure he
could be heard over the road noise that filled the car.

	"Uhh... JC, it's Gina ... Gina from Prestige Properties."

	"Oh, hey Gina," JC said, blushing.  "I was thinking you were
someone else."

	"Right ... uh, well, JC I've got some news about the house."

	"The house?" JC asked.

	"Yeah ... the house," Gina said.  "We just got an offer for it."

	"An offer?"

	"Yes, an offer," Gina said.  "It's all cash, and it's for two
hundred thousand over the asking price.  Isn't that great?"

	"What?" JC said, not quite believing what he heard.  "Uhh ... look
Gina, I'm in the car, but I'm just about home, so let me call you back in
like ten minutes, okay?"

	"That's fine.  I'm at the office."

	JC pushed the END button on the cell phone, and looked at his
watch.

*	*	*	*	*

	 Lance was sitting in the bar at the La Valencia hotel when his
cell phone rang.  It was a little past eight o'clock -- Christmas Eve.

	"Yeah," Lance said.

	"It's Steve."

	"Hey, Steve," Lance said, signaling to the bartender to bring him
another beer.

	"So, Lance... I been on and off the phone with the crazy bitch at
the real estate agency for last two hours and, well, this is how it is.  I
made an all-cash offer for two hundred thousand over the asking price, and
I swear this gal practically peed her pants with excitement -- so, I
figured, hey, this is a done deal.  No worries."

	"So then what happened?" Lance said, lowering his head, putting his
elbows on the bar, and then leaning forward.

	"Well, then she calls back -- like twenty minutes later -- and she
tells me that the owner isn't sure he wants to sell the damn thing, and
he's increased the price by a million bucks.  A million fucking bucks!"

	"Huh?" Lance said, beginning to smile.

	"Okay," Steve said.  "So I knew you were going to have a conniption
if I didn't get this house, so I tell the bitch -- Fine, we'll pay the
extra million -- and so then, I swear, she's like practically sputtering on
the phone, saying Oh, my god! OH MY GOD!"

	"Yeah," Lance said, beginning to laugh.

	"What's so damn funny?" Steve shouted.

	"Nothing, nothing," Lance said, still laughing, but trying to
muffle by putting his hand over his mouth.  "Sorry, Steve.  Go on."

	"Okay.  Well, anyways, then I hang up, and I'm waiting, and after
ten minutes or so she calls back.  And, oh man, Lance, she sounds like
someone just shot her family."

	"Yeah?"

	"Yeah.  So she tells me -- The owner wants an extra two million
dollars, otherwise he's not going to sell.  And I'm like -- WHAT!"

	Lance snorted with laughter and sprayed a mouthful of beer on the
bartender.

"Oh, god -- I'm so sorry!" Lance whispered to the bartender as he wiped
beer off his own chin with a cocktail napkin.

"You should be sorry," Steve barked, thinking that the apology had been
directed at him.  "It's your fucking money I was trying waste here."

"Yeah, I know, Steve.  I'm sorry."

"Anyway -- so I tell this crazy bitch that I'll have to check with my crazy
fucking client, and I hang up on her. But then I think, Lance is gonna kill
me if someone else ends up buying this house.  And I figure, it's not like
you're short on cash or anything."

"Okay," Lance said.

"So I wait ten minutes and I call her back."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What'd you say?" Lance asked, checking to see how much beer was left in
the bottle.

"I said that my client was insane, and he was an idiot, but that he was
also rich and fucking in love with this house, so he still wanted to buy
it."

"Steve -- have a I told you lately how good you are?" Lance asked, not
bothering to hide the fact that he was laughing again.

"Whatever, Lance," Steve said, clearly not amused.  "Anyway -- the real
estate agent gal gasps, and it sounds like she's having the biggest fucking
orgasm of her whole miserable life.  So, I'm like -- Hello? Hello? Are you
still there?  And finally she says, `I'm going to need to call you back.'
Then she hangs up."

"I'm starting to feel sorry for this real estate agent," Lance said.

"Yeah, well, what about me.  Jeez!"

"So did she call back?" Lance asked, ignoring Steve's complaint.

"Yeah she called back.  And you know what the bitch had to say?"

"What?"

"She tells me the house ain't for sale anymore."

"What!" Lance shouted. "What do you mean it's not for sale anymore."

"Just like I said.  The house ain't for sale anymore."

Lance turned on his barstool and looked through the open doors that lead to
the patio café and to the beach.  The sky was beginning to darken, but
he knew the stars would soon come out, and the moon would soon rise.  Lance
walked toward the patio, leaving his beer on the bar, still holding the
phone to his ear.

"Not for sale," Lance said again, this time softly.

"Yeah -- not for sale," Steve said.  "So, that's that."

"Yes it is," Lance said.  "Yes... it...is."

*	*	*	*	*

JC was sitting on the upstairs deck wrapped in the quilt that Lance's mom
had given him and Lance on the day of the promising.  It was eight o'clock
on Christmas Eve and the moon was beginning to climb in the night sky.  JC
had minutes before called Lance's mom to wish her a Merry Christmas, and
give her his love.  JC had assumed that she knew about what happened, and
that enough time had passed that it would be all right to call, that she
wouldn't be too angry anymore.  But then she'd asked him whether it was
weird to be in Brazil for Christmas, and JC realized that she didn't know.

"It's not so different than being in San Diego," JC had said, not even
thinking about it first, and as if by instinct protecting Lance.  "You
know, it's all sunny and warm, and not like winter at all."

	JC had paused for a moment and then added, "Besides what really
matters is that I'm here with Lance, and we're not alone at Christmas."