Date: Mon, 18 Dec 2000 14:38:50 EST
From: FishofHappiness@aol.com
Subject: The Magnificent Journey, Part 1

Disclaimer: I know no one mentioned in this story. None of this is true.
Don't read if you're too young or too immature to handle it.

This story was actually written a few months ago, and posted only to the
mailing list I was on at the time. Obviously, the premise behind it fits
more with a summer atitude than it does with the winter now (not that it's
cold here in Florida, buuuuttttt...). I figured that since it's been awhile
since I posted anything on nifty (RPL's Epilogue being the last thing I put
up...) that this would be a suitable sophmore post. :o)

Feedback, as always, is appreciated and can be recieved at
fishofhappiness@aol.com.

The title for this chapter is taken from Lit's "Miserable".

The Magnificent Journey
Chapter 1: "You make me completely miserable."


   It was 3 AM in Orlando. 3 AM in the middle of the first week of Lance
Bass's vacation.  The first week of what would be a month-long break for
the group NSync. The group had split up almost as soon as their feet had
hit the Airport floor at OIA. Justin had gone off to meet up with Lynn, JC
and Joey had caught flights to be with their families, and Chris had caught
a flight to Vegas to meet up with Danielle for a 'romantic interlude' in
the City of Sin. This very dispersement was what made Lance so very
confused about the fact that his phone was ringing. Loudly. At 3 AM in the
morning, for no reason that he could possibly think of. He finally managed
to move, after having been practically paralyzed staring at the red digits
of his alarm clock, and pick up his phone.

   "Umm... Hello?"

   "Lance?" It was Chris. Chris... who normally wouldn't take the time to
call him anyway, let alone call him on vacation, from Vegas.

   "Chris?"

   "Lance, I need you to pick me up."

   "What? Aren't you in Vegas, man?"

   "Yeah. Little slow in the evenings, aren't you?"

   "Don't you mean early morning, Chris? Very early morning."

   "Oh, yeah, that time zone thing. I kinda forgot that. Can you?"

   "Why...why do you need me to?"

   "Look, Lance, I'm on a calling card. I'm at the Vegas airport, just
please freaking pick me up, okay?"

   "Okay, okay, whatever. Fine, I'll get there when I can. Where are you in
the airport?"

   "I booked a room in the closest hotel. Room 312. Just knock, and we'll
leave then."

   And then, Chris, being the ultimate gentleman to Lance, hung up the
phone. Somehow, though, abuse seemed to call to Lance, and he got up. At
3:21 AM, Lance was fully dressed, with a small bag of clothing; etc packed,
and was thoroughly immersed in finding a plane ticket at Priceline.com. He
could have sworn the website laughed at him when he 'named his price', but
despite having to go up on his original bid three or four times, Lance was
soon booked on a plane to Vegas at 5 AM. 5 AM. There were actually flights
leaving at 5 AM.

   All Lance could think, during the trip to the airport, the pre-flight
hassle, the boarding procedures, and, indeed, the take-off was how very
good Chris's excuse must be. He was going to kill him if it wasn't.

                                       *****

 Outside of room 312 in Las Vegas, Nevada still in the early hours of the
morning (because time zones are wonderful things), having brought only a
carry-on, Lance Bass reached a revelation. He was going to kill Chris even
if he had a good reason. He really didn't care right now. He was exhausted,
and the guy didn't even like him. Why was he always the one that got pinned
with the grunt work? Why was he always the one that had to pick up the damn
pieces? He was sick of it. And Tired. Sick and goddamnfucking
Tired. And...grumpy, but that was beside the point. He knocked on the
door to the motel room and put on his best, 'You give me a good reason, or
I'll eat your dog' look.

   Chris came to the door, carrying his bag that he had packed to go on
this trip, and he brushed past Lance, not noting the look. "Great. Now I
can go home. Do you have the return trip tickets, Lance?"

   "Return trip tickets?"

   Chris looked back with a frustrated look, like he was talking to a
child. "You did get return tickets to Orlando, didn't you?"

   "Why would I, Chris?"

   "Well, what the hell did you think I meant by 'pick me up', Lance?"

   "I don't know, Chris! You call me at 3 AM in the morning, and expect me
to figure this out? Get real!"

   "Maybe I expected you to use your brain, Lance. Oh, yeah, I
forgot. Mr. 'Who Wants to be an Idiot' doesn't have any practice doing
that!"

   "Fuck you, Chris! I don't even know why I showed up. You don't like me,
you never treat me nicely, and just... just fuck you." Lance picked his
bag up off of the hotel floor, and started off back down the hallway,
glaring at anyone who had dared to come watch their fight. He wasn't going
to stop, not for anything. Nothing.

   "Lance, please wait. I'm sorry."

   The voice was soft, and pleading, and a lot sadder then Lance could ever
remember hearing Chris sound. Dammit, he didn't want to stop, he didn't
want to turn around, but he did, and he looked up at Chris. For the first
time, he took in the disheveled, unkempt appearance. For the first time, he
noticed the slightly-too-red eyes, and the purple hallows underneath
him. For the first time, his heart actually went out to his band mate, and
he stopped. "Come on, Chris. Let's see if there are any flights to Orlando
with vacant seats."


   Little did they know, this was going to be the start of a trip that
would change their lives.