Date: Fri, 07 Sep 2001 10:07:34 -0700
From: D S <denis141@hotmail.com>
Subject: ALONE/TOGETHER, Chapter 3 ~ A Plance We've Never Been Before

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.

ALSO~Feedback is greatly appreciated, so please write to me at
denis141@hotmail.com


TOGETHER/ALONE

CHAPTER 3:  A Place We've Never Been Before

I give the fight up: let there be an end,
A privacy, an obscure nook for me.
I want to be forgotten even by god.
	-- Robert Browning, Paracelsus (1835)

	It was not the kind of hotel he usually stayed in, but it was
clean.  More important, it was one block from the bar he lately called
home.  Lance had checked into the hotel thirteen days ago after he had
arrived in Seattle and hailed a cab at the airport and told the driver to
take him anywhere downtown, it didn't matter where.

Lance had walked around for a long time before finding it -- a place called
the Aurora Hotel -- and he was relieved when the old man at the front desk
didn't even blink when he paid cash for three weeks in advance and signed
the registration card in a nearly illegible scrawl with the name Mickey
Mouse.  It was then Lance knew that he had found the right place, a place
where no one knew him, and no one cared, a place where people like him went
to forget and to be forgotten.

Now Lance lay in bed, one arm across his eyes, trying to sleep, but
failing.  He lifted his arm and turned his head to look at his watch, which
he had propped against the lamp that sat next to the bed.  The room didn't
have an alarm clock -- not that he needed one -- and Lance wanted to see
what time it was without having to reach over to pick the watch up and look
at it.  It was seven a.m.

The bar's been open for an hour, Lance thought. I'm late.

	Lance kicked off the sheet and thin blanket that had covered his
legs, sat up, and swung his feet to the cold, battered linoleum floor.
From where he sat on the edge of the bed, Lance could see into the cramped,
dimly lit bathroom.  A light bulb hung from the ceiling on a gray cord.
The light was always on because Lance could not figure out how to turn it
off.  There was no switch on the wall.

	Lance stood up, walked into the bathroom, and peed into the
rust-stained toilet, watching the hard stream of urine froth the water,
weaken into a trickle, and then stop.  Shaking off the last drips of urine,
Lance noticed his clothes in a pile on the floor -- the same clothes he had
been wearing since he left San Diego -- the Wrangler blue jeans with the
torn left knee, the black T-shirt with the words "Lucky Brand" written
across the chest, and the scuffed Puma tennis shoes, the red suede ones
with a long white swoop on each side.  Lance had somehow lost -- or thrown
away -- his boxer shorts; he couldn't remember which, and now he didn't
care.

	Lance dressed quickly, not bothering to shower first.  He checked
his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still there, and it was.
Putting on his watch, he looked out the window to see what the weather was
like.  Cloudy, but no rain.  Another great day to get shit-faced, he
thought and headed toward the door.

*	*	*	*	*

	JC lay on the couch, exhausted, but unable to sleep.  He'd been
making up rules all night, so he made up another one: I can't get up until
I see the sun shine through that window there.  Unless I hear a dog bark,
then I can get up right away.  Not bothering to finish the rule, or its
possible variations, JC got up.  I can't sleep, so there's no reason to
just lie there.

	JC folded the quilt he'd had on top of him and draped it carefully
across the back of the couch.  The quilt had been a housewarming gift from
Lance's mother, and it was an heirloom.  JC smiled sadly remembering the
note that had accompanied the gift: I hope you two will love this quilt as
much as I always have.  It is in the Double Wedding- Ring pattern.  My
grandmother made it, and she told me that it blesses the love of those who
sleep beneath it.  May you both be blessed always.  Love, Diane.

JC touched the quilt once more and then headed into the kitchen to make
coffee.  He never went upstairs anymore; it reminded him too much of Lance.
So, instead, he stayed downstairs, laying on the couch at night, under the
double-ringed quilt, praying for the sweet release of sleep, but finding
only the bleak expanse of an ever-wakeful night.

Watching the coffee drip slowly into the pot, JC remembered that when the
house was designed, he and Lance had told the architect how they wanted the
upstairs to be a private place just for them, a place where they could
escape and be alone together.

"No guest rooms upstairs," Lance told the architect.  "Just our bedroom,
and a music studio for JC, and maybe an office for me."

"Oh, and a big, nice living room too," JC added, "so me and Lance can hang
out by ourselves and watch movies or TV, and listen to music and stuff."

"Yeah, and a kitchen too," Lance said, picking up where JC had left
off. "Because we'll want to cook upstairs, you know, and have breakfasts
and dinners together, so I guess we'll need our own dining room too."

"We'll have to buy two sets of dishes," JC said, laughing and turning to
Lance.  "They're gonna love us at the china store."

"Yeah," Lance said, reaching out to squeeze JC's hand.  "So, what else
. . . Oh, I know.  We need our own deck, too, for when we want to sit
outside, and watch the sunset, or maybe eat dinner out there, or just look
at the stars, or . . . . "

"Oh," JC said, loudly interrupting Lance before he completed his last
sentence "Lance, you can set-up your telescope out on the deck."

"Yeah," Lance said, the excitement plain in his voice, his green eyes
flashing like beach glass reflecting the summer sun, his gaze tilting
toward the ceiling as if imagining what the deck would look like and how it
would be to look at the stars through the telescope that JC had bought him
for Christmas. "That will be so cool."

And so JC and Lance had built two houses, one on top of the other -- one
house that they shared with the world, and one that they shared only with
each other.  JC remembered how Lance always called the upstairs their
"secret tree-house club" and laughingly blocked JC's path every night as he
tried to climb up the stairs.
  And JC remembered how Lance had every night demanded that JC tell him the
password first, before he'd be allowed upstairs, a password that was always
every night a kiss.  Now JC could not bring himself to climb those stairs,
even if he could still remember the password; there was no one there to
kiss.

*	*	*	*	*

Lance sat at the end of the bar, at his usual spot, squinting through the
hazy, dim lit air that was one reason he liked this place.  The bar was
long and narrow, like a closed coffin, and nearly as dark.  At the far end
of the bar there was a picture window with shades tightly drawn against the
possible invasion of light.  Lance remembered that, on his first day there,
he had pulled the shade back -- maybe only an inch -- and peaked behind it
to see the view outside, and he was shocked to see a blastingly-bright
postcard- perfect picture of distant snow-capped mountains and sun-sparkled
water dotted with colorful sailboats.  And seeing it, Lance had thought,
almost without knowing he was thinking, JC would love Seattle, and
instantly he hated himself for looking outside.

Lance felt anonymous; and he was.  No one gave him a second look, because
no one cared who he was, or what he was up to.  It was that kind of place,
during the day at least, where people gathered together to remain alone.

He'd had one beer already, and was working on his second one while he tried
to decide whether to order a shot of Jack Daniels now or wait until his
next beer.  He usually tried to wait until his third beer, and then
alternate between beers and shots.  There was no science to it.  He was
just getting drunk.

"You want another," the bartender asked, not bothering to look in Lance's
direction, and already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," Lance replied.  "And a shot of Jack too."

Lance had already given the bartender the usual hundred bucks, reminding
the old guy to let him know when it was down to thirty, because then he'd
give him another hundred.  The bartender liked this arrangement because he
knew that Lance didn't keep track, or couldn't.  The bartender was honest
about it all the same, since it'd be pretty lousy to cheat a guy who was
giving you several thirty buck tips every day.

The bartender set the beer and shot in front of Lance and nodded.  Lance
looked at the shot for a moment, making himself count to ten, and then he
lifted the glass to his lips and tilted it back, not minding the sting,
welcoming it, and the blooming warmth that followed the sting, and then the
long sigh, and the shudder, like after a good hard piss.

That was good, Lance thought, suddenly thinking of that line from the movie
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof where Paul Newman's character -- what was his name --
Brick, yeah, Brick -- he was telling Big-Daddy how he had to keep drinking,
how he drank only to find oblivion, how -- what did he call it -- how when
he was drinking he was waiting for that "CLICK" in his head, how he was
waiting for the click in his head that made him feel peaceful, like a
switch, clicking in his head, turning the hot light off and the cool one on
and, all of a sudden, there's peace.

Lance looked up from staring at the empty shot glass and noticed that
someone had taken a seat on the barstool next to him.  He stole a quick
glance at his new neighbor and saw that he was young, maybe twenty-one or
so, and handsome in a rough way.

"You got the time," the young man asked, trying to start up a conversation,
something that Lance was trying to avoid.

"Yeah," said Lance, taking a quick look at his watch.  "It's quarter after
nine."

"So what's doing," the young man continued.  "What's going on?"

"Just waiting for the click," Lance said quietly before standing up and
moving to a different place at the bar.  Just waiting for the click.

*	*	*	*	*

	"It's me," JC said.

	"Fuck you."

	"Justin . . . please don't hang up," said JC in voice so frankly
full of pleading that it shocked Justin into momentary silence.  "Please."

	"Are you okay," Justin asked, his voice drained of all anger.

	"No," JC said, almost in a whisper.  "Not really."

	"What's happened?  Is it Lance?"

	"Yeah," JC said, a sob catching in his throat.  "He's gone.  I
kicked him out and now he's gone."

	"Not for good, though," Justin said, trying to make his voice sound
hopeful, but suspecting that his hope might be misplaced.  "I mean, how
long have you two been together, like two hundred years or something?"

	JC was silent for nearly a minute, trying not to cry. "It was seven
years in March," he finally said.  "March eleven.  Lance made lasagna, and
we ate upstairs on the deck, and . . . and there were, uhh, candles, and we
had. . . uhh. . . we had . .  ."

	JC started to cry and could not go on.  Justin waited for him to
stop crying, and just listened instead.  The weeping steadied eventually to
a different rhythm, a more sustainable breathing, a stillness.  Justin had
not been close to JC for some time -- even before he and Lance had
announced they were leaving the band -- but listening to him now, the way
the sobs seemed so desperate and defeated, it made Justin sadder than he'd
imagined was possible.

	"Look. . . umm, JC, do you think you can hang on for a little
while," Justin said, hearing only muffled sobs in reply.
"JC. . . . JC. Listen to me!"

	JC managed to stop crying for a moment, and said "what?"

	"Are you at home?" Justin asked.

	"Yeah," JC said, noisily snuffling his nose. "Why?"

	"Okay," Justin said as reassuringly as he could manage.  "I'll be
there in a couple of hours.  I'm in L.A. for a meeting about my new album,
but that'll be done in an hour or so, and then I'm gonna drive down to see
you."

	"No," JC said, trying to sound sure.  "You don't have to . . ."

	"Look," Justin said, cutting JC off.  "I'm coming down, so save
your breath."

	Now, crying again, JC listened to Justin's words and could think of
nothing to say except, "Thank you Justin."

*	*	*	*	*

	So this is what it's like to get fucked, Lance thought, his eyes
closed tight, not wanting to be reminded again of who it was on top of him.
This is what it feels like to be used, to be used for just getting off, to
feel someone plunging in and out of you and wanting mostly for it to be
over, to want the guy on top of you -- what's his name -- to get off, and
to pull out -- ugh, and that sick sloppy popping noise, like the sound of a
damp cork being pulled from a bottle of cheap wine -- wanting the guy on
top of you to just come already, come and just pull out and leave, wanting
it to be over and done and for the guy on top of you to get the fuck out
and go, go, go, knowing that the longest five minutes in the whole fucking
world was the five minutes it took that guy to put his clothes back on and
leave.

*	*	*	*	*

	Justin had been on the road for over an hour at least, driving
south on I-5 toward San Diego.  It was only three o'clock in the afternoon,
so there was not much traffic yet.  The July sun was high in the sky, and
the air was dry and warm.

Justin tried to remember when it was that Lance and JC had first moved to
the West Coast.  At least three years ago, he thought.  It was around the
time JC and Lance had gathered the band together and nervously told
everyone they were in love.  As if that hadn't been obvious from day one,
thought Justin, smiling at the memory of JC standing there trying to get
the words out, and Lance finally blurting it out for him.

"Look guys, we're in love," Lance had said.  "And we just want to be honest
about it, okay, because lying about it and hiding it makes it seem wrong,
and it isn't."

"Yeah," JC had added.  "It isn't."

	And it wasn't, Justin thought.  It wasn't wrong at all.  It was
totally right.

	Justin saw the exit that he needed to take to get to JC's house and
steered his gold Jaguar XKE off the highway, and brought it to a slow stop
at the red light at the bottom of the exit ramp.  Justin wasn't sure what
he'd do once he got to the house, but he knew he needed to do something to
keep JC from falling apart.

	Maybe just get him out of that house, Justin thought.  He's gonna
go crazy if he stays in that place.  Maybe just get him out to dinner,
someplace where he's never been before, someplace where he and Lance have
never been before so that JC won't sit there staring at his food thinking
every second about what happened between him and Lance -- whatever the fuck
that was.  This is all so fucked up.  First they go and bust up the band --
which was not really a bad thing, since I've been wanting out for a while
anyway -- but then they go and bust themselves up.  It's totally wacked.

	Man, Justin thought, shaking his head.  If these two can't stay
together, then there's no hope for the rest of us.

*	*	*	*	*

	"It's Lance."

	There was a long and noticeable pause while Lance's manager,
Stephen Gabriel, tried hard not to go immediately on the attack, and fought
down the urge to scream: You fucking idiot, Lance, do you want to destroy
your goddamn career before it's even started? Instead, he calmly said, "Are
you okay Lance?"

	"Yeah," Lance muttered, unconvincingly.  "I'm fine."

	"Where are you," Stephen asked.

	"Nowhere," Lance answered.  "Nowhere at all."

	"Look, Lance," Stephen continued.  "You have to be in Montr?al at
the end of the month, August 7 at the latest, and I ain't kidding you about
this."

	"Montr?al?"  Lance said, not bothering to mask the fact that he had
forgotten why he had to be there.

	"Lance!" Stephen yelled, unable to control his temper.  "Your next
film starts shooting soon, and you need to be there for rehearsals, and
. . . Jesus FUCKING Christ!"

	"Yeah, I remember," Lance said, even though he didn't.

	"Lance . . . listen to me.  You need to get it together here.  This
ain't no small fry shit.  You're on the cusp.  This is it.  It's the real
deal.  This next film, they wanted you bad, and that's a real damn good
thing.  You blow this, and it's over.  So, whatever shit you got going
right now, get it over with, and get it over real fucking quick, because if
you fuck this up, it's fucked up for good, and there ain't a goddamn thing
I'm ever going to be able to do about it.  You hear me?"

	Lance let the echo of the angry words slowly disappear from inside
his head.  "Stephen, I'm in Seattle, a place I never been before.  I had to
get away, to be gone.  But I'll get my ass to Montr?al, and I'll get it
there on time.  So chill out."

	Stephen let out a long, loud sigh, and leaned forward in his chair,
speaking softly.  "Lance, I need you to be there.  Really.  And I need you
to be together . .  . Okay?"

	"Yeah, yeah," said Lance dismissively.

	"No, goddamn it, I mean it, Lance," Stephen said, yelling again.
"I'm tired of being the babysitter here."

	"Well, Stevie," said Lance, knowing that he hated to be called
that.  "It's not like I haven't heard it before.  Anything else you need to
tell me?"

	"Yeah," Stephen said, trying to take his voice down a tone or too,
trying to sound like a friend again.  "The Ghost Road release is being put
off a month because the director wants to get a theme song for it, some
weepy ballad love song thing."

	Lance knew he should say something, but he remained silent, mostly
because he really didn't care one way or the other.

	"Anyway," Stephen continued, "it's probably gonna fuck up the
filming schedule for this next film, but I'm going to work all that out.  I
just wanted you to know that I'm on top of it, and I'll let you know as
soon as I got a drop-dead date on the release."

	"Okay," said Lance, feeling tired, and wanting to get back to
Sonya's.  "Anything else you need to tell me."

	"No," said Stephen.  "No . . . wait!  I got a call today from Jamie
at FreeLance.  I guess JC has called like four or five times, asking if
anyone's heard from you or knows where you are.  What's up with that?  You
want me to call him or something, and tell JC you're all right?"

	Lance hung up the phone and stared at the receiver like it was a
bomb about ready to explode. I should really call him, Lance thought, not
really knowing whether he could make himself do it, and hating himself for
the not knowing, and feeling weak and useless besides.  Call him, Lance
thought, at least so he doesn't think you're dead.

	Then Lance thought: Maybe it's better if JC thinks I'm dead.  But
he knew that wasn't true, knew it immediately, just like he knew that he
might as well stab JC himself, stab him a hundred thousand times, rather
than let JC think that he was dead.  I never deserved you, Lance thought,
slowly dialing their phone number, dialing it like a twelve year-old trying
to open the combination lock on his high school locker on the first day of
school, terrified about getting it wrong.

	Lance listened to the telephone ring.  One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. And then he heard the click, and the sound of the answering machine
picking up.

	Hi, you have reached Lance and JC.  It was their private line, and
JC's voice.  Lance wondered whether he could sit on the ground and still
have enough cord to hear the rest of the message.  We're sorry we missed
your call, but if you leave a message, we'll call you back next time we get
a chance. BEEP.

Part of Lance was grateful that JC had not answered the phone, while
another part of him was panic-stricken over what might have happened to JC.
Another part of him was struck silent by the burden of thinking of
something to say.  And another part of him just wanted to have another
drink and be rid of it all.  Moments passed and he had no idea how long
those moments were, until a car horn busted through the night silence and
made Lance drop the phone, and almost swear.

Lance lunged for the receiver as it dropped and swung away from him.
Managing finally to grab the phone, Lance quickly slammed it into down,
hanging up.  Lance stared at the phone, not knowing what else to do,
fiercely angry that he had messed up something as easy as saying, JC, I'm
all right.  Don't worry.  I'm alive.

But I'm not all right, Lance thought.  And I'm not really alive.

Lance knew there was nothing to say now, nothing to do, and there was no
reason to call back and try again.  Turning around and heading back to
Sonya's, Lance looked back over his shoulder at the payphone.  "I love you,
Josh," Lance whispered.

*	*	*	*	*

	When JC came home, he got Justin situated in one of the guest rooms
downstairs, and for the first time in thirteen days he braved the climb to
the second floor, thinking: I might as well try to sleep in our bed -- or
what used to be our bed.

Walking down the hall to the bedroom, the quilt wrapped round him like a
shroud, JC glanced into the study and immediately noticed that someone had
left a message on the answering machine.  JC walked toward the answering
machine like it was an animal that might leap and bite him if he approached
it too quickly.  Standing there, he let the quilt slip from his shoulders
and stared down at the flashing red number one.

Finally, JC pushed the orange button that made the message play, and heard
only silence, and the sound of breathing, and a car horn, and then the
sound of the receiver hitting something, twice, and then slamming down.

"It's Lance," he said, and knew it was true.