Date: Fri, 14 Sep 2001 12:15:55 -0700 From: D S Subject: ALONE/TOGETHER, Chapter 4 ~ Around Midnight DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC. 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. This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever lost someone they loved, especially lately. TOGETHER/ALONE CHAPTER 4: Around Midnight. Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. T. S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night (1917). AUGUST 1, 2005, Montreal, 11:55 P.M. Air Canada flight 269 touched down at the Dorval Airport in Montreal just before midnight. The impact of the landing jarred Lance awake, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. He remembered sleeping for most of the four-hour flight from Seattle to Toronto, where he had cleared customs and then waited for his connecting flight to Montreal. Lance now wondered whether Stephen had arranged for a limousine to pick him up at the airport, although he assumed he'd done so; he always did. Lance was anxious to get checked into his hotel and crawl into bed and sleep. All he wanted to do anymore was sleep, to lay in the dark, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and sleep. As the plane pulled into the gate, Lance undid his seatbelt and prepared to stand up as soon as the fasten-your-seatbelt-sign blinked off. He wanted to be the first one off the plane and get to the limousine as quickly as possible. He didn't want to be seen or recognized. He'd managed to remain anonymous while in Seattle, and Lance wanted to keep it that way for a little while longer if he could. Lance was soon off the plane and walking fast and head down through the airport and toward the baggage claim area. He pulled the brown stocking cap he was wearing low over his eyes, and buried his chin deep into the wide, upturned lapels of a new wool peacoat. He'd bought the cap and the coat at an Army-Navy Surplus store two blocks from his hotel in Seattle, along with black jeans, a pair of socks, a gray long-sleeved T- shirt, and some khaki-green boxer shorts that reminded him of the kind he had worn while making his last film, The Ghost Road. The limousine was sitting at the curb outside the baggage claim area. Seeing it, Lance lunged for the door handle like someone who feared that a pursuer was only inches from catching him. Inside the car, Lance looked at the driver and nodded a silent hello. "Mr. Bass?" the driver asked. "Yeah. That's me," Lance said, breathing hard. "Let's get going." AUGUST 2, 2005, San Diego, 12:15 A.M. This is the first time I've written in this journal since Lance left. I'm not sure why I've been avoiding it, or even if I really have been avoiding it. It's more like I can't think of anything to say, like I don't have any words left, or I don't have the right words to say what it is I want to say. When Justin was here last week, it was good to see him, to have some company, and to know that there was someone here in the house with me. But even with him here, I had a hard time talking. I mean I wanted to. I did. He'd ask me how I was doing, and I could feel my mouth open, like I was trying to say something, trying to answer him, but nothing would come out. It seems like all I do is wander aimlessly around the house, like I have become some sort of zombie, still able to move, but no longer really alive. When Justin was here, he would sit next to me on the couch for hours on end, holding my hand or rubbing my back -- just sitting there. I think Justin knew that just being there was the best thing, and I think that maybe he was afraid to say the wrong thing so saying nothing was safer -- which is probably true. I don't think I ever realized what a good friend Justin could be. He'd always seemed kind of flaky and young, like a puppy, cute but not terribly useful. But when he was here, I could tell that he was really trying hard to be a good friend, and he took it seriously. I'll never forget him walking into the bedroom with tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on a tray for me. There he was, standing there all proud of himself, and I had to laugh because Justin never cooks. But then, when I realized I was laughing, I felt guilty, like I was breaking some rule that said, so long as Lance is gone, no laughing, no happiness, no getting on with life. I know that Lance's next film is scheduled to start shooting in Montreal on August 7. I've been thinking I should just fly up there and see him, see him and try to take back everything I said, and ask him to come home. I want to. But I'm afraid that I will say the wrong thing and that if I do I'll never get another chance to fix this. So I have to make sure that I find the right words. The right words. That's the key. August 2, 2005, Montreal, 11:45 P.M. Lance was sitting on the floor of his suite at the Intercontinental, wearing only his boxer shorts, and leaning against the edge of the bed. The fingers of his right hand drummed on the carpet while his left hand slowly squeezed his thigh. He'd lost at least fifteen pounds while in Seattle -- his "baby fat" as JC used to call it -- and now his chest and legs and arms were more tautly defined than he'd remembered them ever being. When the director, Steven Soderbergh, had seen him at this morning's costume fitting, standing there in white briefs while the costume designer took his measurements, he'd said, "You look great Lance. Really great!" Lance had met the director's too admiring gaze with a less than admiring one of his own and laughed. "Yeah I guess all that beer and whiskey really did the trick." Now the shooting script was open and resting on Lance's lap. He knew he should be studying his lines, but he couldn't concentrate. It was almost like he had forgotten how to read, how to understand words. He could see the words, and he could say the words, but it was like the words had no meaning anymore, like they'd been drained of all sense. This might as well be Russian, Lance thought, absent-mindedly turning a page, but not bothering to look at it. Lance stood up and walked to the window that made up most of one wall in the bedroom of his suite. For several minutes, Lance leaned his forehead against the cold glass and watched headlights stream across the Jacques Carti?r bridge, an old and graceful suspension bridge that spanned the St. Lawrence River, and connected the island city of Montreal to the river's north shore. After a few minutes, Lance stepped back from the window and picked the script up off the floor. The first read-through was tomorrow morning, and Lance knew he'd never be ready -- it was already too late for that. Still, he wanted to try. Like his grandpa had always said, it isn't really a failure unless you tried. Lance was dressed and outside the hotel in ten minutes, the script tucked under his arm. I need to find some place that isn't so damn quiet, he thought. And maybe have a few beers. Then I can sit and read this thing and get it over with. Lance walked south up Beaver Hall Road toward Rene-Levesque Boulevard. He had been to Montreal before, so Lance had a general idea where he was heading, despite the fact that he had no clear destination in mind. Lance didn't want to get too far from the hotel, but he also didn't want to go somewhere packed full of tourists either. He wanted to be left alone to read his script. And to have a few beers. As he neared Rene-Levesque Boulevard, Lance noticed a small neon-lit sign that read Westside Bar. That could be good, he thought. Lance walked up to the nondescript glass door that fronted stairs leading down to what looked like a small, dark bar in the basement of the building. Perfect, Lance thought, opening the door and descending twelve stairs to a small landing, turning left, and then descending ten more stairs to the bar itself. The room was maybe 75 feet across and 25 feet wide, and it had a circular bar in the middle of the room, surrounded by eighteen or so stools. Looking to his right, Lance noticed five slot machines tucked into the corner next to a small pool table. Two young men -- neither of whom were wearing shirts -- smoked and played pool, looking up only to watch Lance as he headed to the bar and sat down. "Bonsoir, monsieur," the bartender said as Lance sat down. "Comment allez- vous? Que aimez-vous boire? Que diriez-vous de d'une bière?" Lance opened the script in front of him, and looked up at the bartender and shrugged. "Sorry -- I don't speak French." "That's okay," the bartender said, switching to English barely a pause. "I speak English too. My name is Francis." "Hi Francis," Lance said, reaching up to shake the bartender's outstretched hand, but not offering his own name in return. "I'll have a Molson Special X, please." "Sure thing," said Francis, turning to get the beer. "Do you need a glass?" "The bottle is fine," Lance said, laying a hundred dollar bill on the bar and sliding it toward the bartender. "And keep the tab open, okay?" "Sure thing," said Francis again. August 3, 2005, San Diego, 12:25 A.M. Justin called today and asked me if I would produce his next album. I worked on two songs for him on his last album two years ago -- the first solo album he'd done -- and doing that was pretty cool. Now he wants me to do the whole album, every song, which is crazy, because I've never done a whole album before -- except for NSync, and I never really got credit for that. I told him that I'd think about it. Justin asked how I was doing and, this time, I was actually able to talk to him about some of this stuff, and not even cry. One thing I told him was that I was scared that I'd stop being sad, that I was scared that time would just pass and I'd just get back into a routine, and life would just go on, and get to be almost normal, and Lance would just be gone -- like a favorite pair of sunglasses you've misplaced and can't find -- a loss, but not a big deal. Justin said -- JC, you got to let yourself heal eventually. And I guess that's right, and I guess I know that, but I also know that, if an arm gets cut-off, the doctors try to reattach it, and Lance was more important to me than my arm. I miss Lance so much, and basically all I think about now is how to get back with him. I think when I told him to get out it was just this sudden huge anger I couldn't control, it was like for a moment I stopped loving him, really stopped loving him, and I couldn't stand the idea of living with him if it couldn't be like it was before. It was almost like I cut off my own arm, like it was pain that I inflicted on myself. But why? Everything seemed to change after he came back from Europe, after shooting The Ghost Road. It was like he was a different person somehow -- not completely different, but changed in some way that I didn't understand and he could not explain. It was almost like he had been in a real war, like he'd fought some sort of real battle, fought it and lost. But I could never figure out what battle he'd fought, or what it was he'd lost, or how to ask without it sounding like I was blaming him for something. And it was when Lance got back from Europe that he started sleeping around -- going out and picking up strangers and having one night stands -- which was something I convinced myself I had to tolerate, even though it made me really sad and angry. I suppose I never doubted that we were still, in some unchangeable way, together, and that I was still his partner and his friend and his lover and whatever other useless and inadequate words someone might use to describe it. But I also think I was kidding myself about how angry it really made me. And, of course, I knew that Lance had never been with a guy before me, that I was his first and only until then, so I figured that I owed it to him to let him mess around -- if that was what he needed to do. (Was it?) But it was almost like he resented me for looking the other way, like what he really wanted was for me to demand that he stop, and when I didn't it just kept getting worse, and he got more and more angry and distant, and I didn't know what to do. It got to the point like he was almost rubbing my face in it, daring me to get mad at him, daring me to say STOP IT LANCE, STOP IT. I DON'T WANT TO SHARE YOU WITH ANYONE. YOU'RE MINE!!! But, I couldn't do it. I was too afraid he'd refuse to stop, or tell me that he didn't care. And, anyway, I wasn't sure I that I had the right to ask even though we'd been together for over six years at that point, and he'd promised to always be faithful, and I'd promised too, and I'd kept my promise, and he hadn't. Still, I trusted him, and trusted his love for me, trusting him to not harm what we had together, our love for each other, and I thought it'd all just work out. So maybe, in the end, he thought I had abandoned him, abandoned us. Maybe that's it -- maybe he was drowning and he just wanted to be saved, to be pulled ashore. Maybe he thought I didn't care. But I did. I just didn't know how to say it. August 3, 2005, Montreal, 11:40 P.M. Sitting on the same stool as before, Lance wondered why he hadn't realized last night that the Westside was a hustler bar. The young guys playing pool without shirts on, the bartender with the dark eyes and a too-knowing smirk, the other customers all old and leering and hungry-looking. Lance knew that in a place like this you could pretty much get anything you wanted; it was there for the asking, so long as you were willing to pay for it. But what Lance wanted right now was to be left alone. Lance looked up from his script, and caught the bartender's attention. "Can I get another beer," he asked. "Sure thing," the bartender answered, reaching into the cooler to retrieve a bottle of Molson Special X. "So what's that you're reading?" "Just a script," Lance answered, not really wanting to get into it, but expecting that he'd have to anyway. Francis, the same bartender as from the night before, had been pretty good so far about keeping people away from him while he studied his lines, so Lance figured he owed him some kind of explanation. "A script for what?" "For a movie," Lance answered, taking a long swig from the bottle that Francis had sat in front of him. "I'm here making a movie and rehearsals start tomorrow so I need to learn my lines." "A movie, huh? What's it called?" Francis smiled, thinking, Is this guy a star? That would be cool. "Notorious," Lance said, hoping that this chat with Francis wouldn't go on for too much longer, but not wanting to be rude either. "It's a remake of a Hitchcock film." "Oh yeah?" Francis said, raising his eyebrows. "Is it any good?" "I don't know. We haven't made it yet." "No," Francis said, laughing. "I mean the Hitchcock film." "Oh," Lance said, taking another swig of beer, and noting that it was already half gone. "Yeah . . . really good. It was my . . . uhh, well, a friend of mine, it was his favorite movie. He talked me into doing the remake. I didn't really think I was going to get the part, but I did, and so . . .voila, now I'm here." "Voila," Francis repeated. "That's French, you know." "Is it," Lance asked. "I guess I better be careful or people are going to think I'm from around here." "I don't think that will be a problem," Francis laughed. "So, anyway . . . after you are done studying maybe you will want some company, huh?" Ah, Lance thought. Not just a bartender, I guess, huh Francis? "You know," Francis continued. "If you are feeling like you don't want to be alone, maybe I can help with that, come to your hotel or something. I am good company. I can maybe help you study your script some more, or help you relax a little." Lance smiled at Francis, admiring the boldness of his offer, its directness, and it utter lack of sentimentality. Lance had never paid anyone to have sex with him before, but the thought of it -- the neatness of it -- seemed suddenly attractive. It seemed safe, somehow, and without the risk of real emotion or attachment. And it was a new low. "Yeah, that would be good," Lance said. "I'm just down the hill at the Hotel Intercontinental, Room 2325." August 4, 2005, San Diego, 12:20 A.M. I got a weird phone call today. It was from Kevin Maze, the producer of Lance's last movie, The Ghost Road. Kevin said that he and the director, Ridley Scott, had decided to postpone the opening one month because they wanted a theme song, something to play during the last scene of the movie and as the credits rolled. I told him no, that I was too busy getting ready to produce Justin's album (a lie), and that I was sick at the moment and couldn't leave the house for the next few weeks (kind of the truth). I also told him that I didn't really feel right doing a song for Lance's movie without knowing if Lance wanted me to do it (mostly the truth). Kevin spent the next fifteen minutes trying to convince me, but I just kept saying no -- mostly because, even if I felt like it was okay to do this without talking to Lance first, I was afraid that the song might ruin the movie, and that Lance would never forgive me for that (BIG truth). I hung up and Kevin called back twice more, practically begging the last time. But I just kept saying no, and finally he didn't call back anymore. So I went to sleep. August 4, 2005, San Diego, 11:55 P.M. Kevin called back AGAIN. Actually, he called back 6 times today. The last time he called was an hour ago, just as I was about to unplug the phone so he couldn't call back, and I could go to bed. During the last call Kevin said that he was convinced that I was the only person who could write this song, and that the song was the "final piece of the puzzle. Really, JC, it's the final piece and it's going to stay missing unless you agree to do this." Then he said something that really got me. He said: "Look JC, Lance's performance in this film is the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life. I've never seen anything like it. It's impossible to watch it and not believe that he has been through everything that his character, Billy Prior, has been through. But, when the movie ends, and Billy . . . well, when Billy is lost, there needs to be a song, something haunting and beautiful and full of sadness for a love that's gone, because you know, it's a war story, but it's also a love story -- it's about innocence lost, and it's about love that's gone." And when Kevin said that, I couldn't say no anymore, because I knew that I could write that song. Suddenly I felt that if I didn't write this song, that I'd be letting Lance down, and I couldn't bear to do that again, not again. So I said, "Okay, I'll do it." And that's when Kevin said, "JC, one more thing -- we want you to sing it too." I said, "Okay," but I was thinking, God help me. August 5, 2005, Montreal, 12:10 A.M. Francis had arrived less than an hour earlier and, like the night before, asked to take a shower. While Francis showered, Lance placed $300 US on a table next to the couch in the living room and then went into the bedroom to undress, sit on the edge of the bed, and wait. The night before, Francis had crouched in front of Lance, and started to give him a blow job, but Lance shook his head no and said: "Just fuck me." This second night, after his shower, Francis had pretty much got right down to business, mounting Lance from behind, and giving it to him hard and fast, his hands still wet from the hand lotion he'd used to lubricate his cock, gripping Lance's shoulders as he pulled him back into another impaling lunge. Francis could hardly believe he was getting paid to fuck a movie star. Everyone at the Westside was jealous of him now, and Francis was feeling pretty happy about how things had managed to turn out. This is a very good gig, Francis thought as he felt himself draw close to orgasm. Lance stared at the bridge, like he always did, and tried to imagine how many cars were on it, streaming endlessly it seemed, from the island to the mainland, going home, he imagined. Going home. Still on his hands and knees, staring into the distance, Lance didn't realize that Francis had come, pulled out of him, and was now busy wiping himself off with a hand towel. Tossing the towel on the floor, Francis said, "Hey, we're done." "Oh," Lance said in a near whisper, shaking his head as if to rid his mind of the image of all those cars streaming across the bridge and going home. "Right." "So, Lance -- how come you never want to fuck me?" Francis asked. "Don't you like to fuck?" Lance turned around and lay back against the dozen or so pillows that were propped against the headboard, not bothering to cover himself with the blankets, his still soft penis nested between his thighs. He let the room fill for a moment with silence and then said: "Why, do you want me to fuck you?" "No," said Francis. "I hate getting fucked. I was just curious." Lance let the room fill again with silence, suddenly wishing that Francis would go, and take his curiosity with him. Uneasy with the silence, Francis finally spoke again. "So why do you wear that ring on a chain around your neck? Why don't you wear it on your finger?" "It doesn't feel right to wear it on my finger anymore," Lance said softly. "I . . . um, almost left it behind, but I didn't." "Left it where," Francis asked, lifting the ring carefully off Lance's chest to examine it more closely. "Home," said Lance, trying to make it clear from his tone that he'd rather not talk about the ring or anything related to it. "Is it silver?" Francis asked, curious how much it might be worth. "No -- it's platinum." "Wow," Francis said, squinting and holding the ring up to the light, causing the chain to pull uncomfortably on the back of Lance's neck. "It must have been expensive." Lance remained silent and stared at the back of Francis' head as he continued to examine the ring. "So what's T.I.P.Y. stand for," Francis asked, "It's engraved on the inside of the ring here. T...I...P...Y..." "You better go now," Lance said, sitting quickly up in bed, and pulling the ring away from Francis in the process. "I have to get up real early tomorrow." Francis paused, surprised at the sudden anger in Lance's voice, and then said, "C'est cool." Gulping down a sob, Lance stared silently at the ring and the delicately engraved letters inside it. T. I. P. Y. Francis could see that Lance was upset, but he didn't care. "I still want to know what those letters stand for. They can't be initials." "No," Lance said, his voice wavering and somber. "They're not initials. But it's none of your business either. So . . .anyway. . . You should leave." "C'est cool," Francis said smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow." "Yeah, maybe," Lance answered, leaving it at that, and feeling nauseous. "Okay bye," Francis said, walking to the door and opening it. "Yeah, bye," Lance said in a voice too quiet for Francis to hear. August 6, 2005, San Diego, 12:40 A.M. Getting a song started is always the hardest part. I thought about calling Kevin and asking to see the film, but decided that I'd rather write the song from my imagination. Besides I don't think I could bear to watch it. I went to Barnes & Noble this morning and bought a bunch of books on World War I, and spent most of the day reading about it, and looking at the most horrifying pictures of men -- boys really -- dead, gassed, mired in mud, shot-through and bleeding, tangled and caught on barbwire like ghastly rag dolls. What would it have been like to live in that world? It's almost unimaginable -- the horror of it all. Is this what Lance felt -- even a small part of it -- when he was making this movie? Is this why he insisted that I not visit him on the set, like I always had with every other movie he's made, and why when I'd call him he seemed so distant and quiet, hardly able to find the words to talk to me, except to say that he was "really, really tired," and that making the moving was "really, really hard." And then he'd always pause and say, "There's just no end to it, Josh." And I would say, "To what, Lance? To what?" And he'd be quiet for a long, long time until I would say, "I love you Lance." And Lance would say, "I know Josh. I love you too. So just hang on, okay." And I would say, "I will Lance. I will." And I thought he was saying, hold on because I'll be home soon, hold on and be patient. But now I think that what he was really saying was, hold on to me, don't let me go of me. Why didn't I understand? Why did I let go? August 7, 2005, Montreal, 11:35 P.M. Francis noticed that Lance never really looked at him, never made eye contact. When Francis would fuck him, Lance would always close his eyes or stare out the window, making no noise at all except for an occasional, arbitrary grunt -- coming more from his throat rather than his mouth, his lips always shut tight. It became a game for Francis to see if he could make Lance grunt, make him open his eyes, and by plunging in harder, by changing angles, slowing down and speeding up, trying to remind Lance that there was a person on top of him, and not a machine. Francis knew that Lance was using him. The three hundred dollars he paid him every night was proof enough of that. But Lance was using him in another way, a way that Francis did not understand, and did not think he liked. Against his will, Francis found himself wanting to connect with Lance, to find out what it was that Lance was using him for. It wasn't to replace someone. Francis had played that game dozens of times, and would recognize it in an instant. No, Lance was using him in some other way, some way that Francis had not seen before, some way that made him wary. After Francis got off, Lance lay quietly, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Francis to leave, wanting him to go, but not asking him to because he was not really sure that he wanted to be alone, and also because he knew that being with Francis was close to be alone anyway. "So when did you two move in together?" Francis asked, intentionally returning to the subject that he knew Lance did not want to talk about, but knowing that he would. "We'd just finished the Celebrity tour," Lance said, speaking slowly, as if he was pacing himself, as if he feared that there might be a shortage of words and he did not want to use them up too quickly. "We'd been together -- you know, like been committed to each other -- for a over three years by then, and we were tired of hiding it, tired of feeling like criminals. So we decided we needed to at least tell the guys in the band. And we'd been talking forever -- like from the first day practically -- about moving in together, about building a house." "Didn't you already have a house," Francis interrupted. "Yeah, we both did," Lance said, his words clipped and flat. "But it sucked, because that wasn't what we wanted. What we wanted was -- you know, to be like a normal couple, to be together, and have a house, and just be normal. I mean, all we used to do on the tour bus was talk about the house we were going to build someday, and by the end of the Celebrity tour it just was like -- man, if we don't do this now, it's going to slip away, and that is so wrong." "Weren't you scared the guys were . . . I don't know how to say in English . . . pour éclater -- you know, BOOM!" "Explode? Yeah, I guess," said Lance his voice becoming more animated. "But we didn't care. NSync was huge at that point -- I mean, I don't know how we could have gotten any bigger. And my first movie was coming out. So we just kind of felt like there was nothing we could do about how people were going to react, and if the whole thing blew-up on us, well, it had been a great ride, and we'd be going out on top." "But it didn't explode," Francis said, emphasizing the word explode, and smiling to himself for having fit it into his sentence. "No," said Lance. "No, it didn't. The guys were all like, tell us something we don't already know. It was like they were just as relieved as us about not having to pretend anymore. It was very, very cool, and I think it really brought every one a lot closer together -- at least at first it did." "What about other people," Francis asked. "Did you tell anyone else?" "Not really. Not at first. I mean, we told our families pretty soon after, but it's not like we issued a press release, or put up a billboard, saying JC Chasez and Lance Bass are moving in together, hurray, hurray. It was almost like we didn't really need to." Lance paused for a moment to rearrange the pillows on which his head lay, and then he continued, speaking more quietly now. "And what was really weird is that all the bullshit rumor stuff about us being gay just kind of stopped. It was like once we stopped hiding it, no one really cared anymore. I also think that maybe people realized that we were sincere, that it was the real deal. I mean there is so much fucking fakeness in the world, and I think that people respected the fact that we were just trying to be happy and to live our lives, because, you know, it was real. It really was." Francis could see that Lance had tears in his eyes, and could sense that Lance had run out of words, and would soon ask him to leave. Rather than being asked, Francis stood up and started to get dressed. "And so you built your house?" "Yeah, we built the house," Lance said, turning on his side and staring at the wall. "Yeah we did." Francis finished dressing and let himself out, closing the door loud enough so that Lance would know that he was gone. August 8, 2005, San Diego, 12:05 A.M. The melody is mostly done and I think it's good because every time I play it I nearly cry. I decided to use just piano, and I'll probably record that tomorrow morning. I have already laid down the drum and the bass tracks, which are very spare and simple -- almost primitive. I may also add the chiming of a bell, but I'm not sure yet. I'd need to find the right sample because I want the bell to sound like it is ringing from very far away and only barely being heard. Now all I have to do is get the words right, but it's not going very well. The song is about something that can't be said, about trying to put into words a feeling that can't be expressed, and about trying to say something important and true to someone who isn't there to hear it anymore, someone who is gone. How do you write a song about something that can't be said? This is crazy. There is this poem I found that was written by a surgeon who treated men killed during the war. It's called In Flanders Field, and one part comes close to what I want to try to put into this song. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. This poem was written in the voice of the fallen soldier. But my song -- the song for the film, for Lance's film -- needs to be in the voice of the love he left behind. The words that you would say to the love of a lifetime, if given the chance, and if said knowing that it was the last five minutes you'd ever spend together -- ever. August 8, 2005, Montreal, 11:58 P.M. "So the director really said that he was going to fire you?" said Francis, as he took another bite from the chocolate bar he had snagged from among the pile of fruit and nuts and cheeses in the welcome basket that still sat on the coffee table in the living room. "He threatened to," said Lance, wishing Francis would leave but at the same time never having the will to say so, at least not at first. All day he had been thinking of JC, knowing that it was his birthday, and wishing that he could see him, be with him, but knowing it was not possible, knowing that he could not go home, not now, not without being asked first. "So tell me what happened," Francis said impatiently, taking another big bite of chocolate and chewing noisily. "I kept missing my marks," Lance said with a sigh. "And forgetting my lines. It was a fucking love scene, and it was like every time I kissed Julia I'd just go blank and not remember what I was supposed to say next. So then I got pissed and pretty soon me and the director were going at it, screaming at each other. It sucked." "Sounds like it," said Francis. "So you think he's really going to fire you?" Lance remained silent for several minutes. Francis assumed that Lance was thinking about what the director was going to do, and whether he was going to get fired. When Lance finally didn't answer, Francis decided to change the subject. "So if you loved this guy so much -- what's his name? JC? If you loved this guy so much why'd you leave?" "How do you know I left," Lance asked, sitting up in bed quickly, as if he'd been poked sharply in the ribs. "Why else would I be here," Francis said, pleased with himself for having guessed right. "So tell me why you left." "Because he asked me to," Lance said, blinking back tears and resting his chin on upraised knees. "I did it because he asked me to. And because I felt like I owed him." Francis reached out and put his hand on Lance's shoulder, but Lance shook it off, not wanting to be touched. "I mean, I'd been asking him for months to leave the band," Lance continued, trying to keep his voice calm and even, but mostly unable to do so. "And he did it, he left the band. And, you know what? He did it for me. He fucking did it for me, even though music was the most important thing in the world to him, and he loved being in that goddamn band. He said he loved me more." Francis swallowed the last bit of chocolate, suddenly jealous of the feelings that Lance so obviously still held for JC -- not so much jealous of the love, but jealous of the power that the love gave to JC, power that he suspected JC did not know he still had. It was the power that Francis was jealous of, not the love, and it was the power that Francis wanted, because it was power he did not have. "So you must have really fucked things up good," Francis said, not trying to hide the disdain in his voice, and the complete lack of sympathy. The words struck and stung, as Francis had intended. But in hearing these words Lance betrayed no emotion and did not flinch. He welcomed the harsh judgment explicit in the words, welcomed it like a guilty man welcomes the firing-squad bullets that will end his guilt and self-loathing. Yes I did, Lance thought. Yes I did. August 9, 2000, San Diego, Midnight. Dear Lance: I guess my birthday is officially over now. When I woke up this morning -- on the couch in my studio again, because I am working on this big project -- I could barely bring myself to face another day without you, knowing how sad I'd feel (again). But then the doorbell rang and I managed to go to the door and answer it. There was a man there and he was delivering flowers: 28 long-stem red roses and one long-stem yellow rose -- one for each year since I was born. There was no card, but I know they were from you. The roses are sitting on my piano now and the room is full of their beautiful scent. I had thought that the flowers would make me sad, reminding me of how you are not here, and how much I miss you. But in some strange way the flowers have made me feel brave, brave enough to really believe that there is a way out of this. I'm not sure what to say except that I love you, Lance, and I want you to come home. Since you left it's like I died inside. And I have, because when you left -- when I let you go -- I lost the only thing that every mattered to me -- you. I can't eat. I can't sleep. All I do is wander around the house like some ghost, crying all the time, and hating myself for letting go of you. My life doesn't make any sense without you in it. I'm not sure where things may have gone wrong, but it doesn't matter Lance. All that matters is that we start again, even if it means starting all over again. There is nothing that you have ever done, or not done, or ever said or ever not said, that makes any difference to me now. And, even if there is nothing else in the world that I know, I know this ~ I love you, and I always will. So, Lance, forgive me, and please come home. I promise to never let go again -- EVER. Yours always, Josh XOXOXOXO NOTE: As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, so PLEASE write to me at denis141@hotmail.com