June Bug Challenge fic: The ABC of Nsync
This is my entry for the June Bug Challenge.
Behind the cut are Nsync themed ficlets for each letter of the alphabet. Huge thanks go to dreamcharades who took my suspect grammar and made it work. Also thanks go to catviret for running the challenge.
Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
A is for Award Shows
“We can watch something else.”
JC shrugs and wraps his arms around his bent knees and curls his bare toes into the rug. “He’s my friend.”
A significant pause and JC looks up at his mom, watching as she carefully folds shirts and matches then balls up his socks.
“It’s not like that.”
“I know.” More matching socks, smoothing and folding pants. Finally she looks at JC, says, simply. “I know it’s not like that, but you’re my son.”
“And he’s my friend,” JC says again, attention caught between the non-expression of his mom, and Justin on TV.
“I know.” A thaw of admission, a slight smile and Karen puts the clothes to one side and rests her hand on JC’s shoulder. “He looks good.” She tightens her fingers. “You’ll be back on that stage one day, getting awards.”
“I know,” JC says, and makes no mention of disillusionment and broken dreams.
B is for Bye Bye Bye
They’ve always said they’d end with Bye Bye Bye.
It’s just how it is, the final song for the final performance.
That song hasn’t been sung, and until it has, there’s always a chance.
It’s what they all believe.
C is for corn rows
Justin crawls onto the couch and folds himself as small as he feels. His head is aching, his skin pulled tight and he rests his forehead against the crook of his elbow, breathing into dark space.
Footsteps, the sinking of the couch cushions, and Chris says, “You should just cut them off already.”
Justin stays still, counts the throbs of pain in his head. Chris doesn’t understand. He can’t. He’s not the cute front-man, the one that the fans scream for. Within reason Chris can look how he likes.
Justin doesn’t have that freedom. He has publicists and opinion polls, all of which point to one thing. The fans love the curls, cutting them off isn’t an option.
Instead, he makes cosmetic changes and dreams of the day when his image is his own.
D is for Daughter
“You’ve got everything?” Joey says. Crouching, he rests his hands on Briahna’s shoulders. She stares back at him, small and perfect in her school uniform, wayward curls escaping from her ribbon-tied pony tail.
“I have my lunch-box and my teddy and my whistle.” Briahna holds out her hand, counting out each item on her fingers. “I’m going to play with Marissa and paint you a picture and I love you.”
Arms outstretched, Briahna wraps herself around Joey and presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek. Then, without another word, she turns and runs away, becoming another tiny girl in the crowd.
Joey never looks away, unashamed when Kelly hands him a tissue and wraps an arm around his waist. She stands close, watching the stream of children enter the school, until finally the last straggler runs through the door.
“It gets easier.” Kelly reaches for Joey’s hand. “She always comes back.”
“I know,” Joey says, and looks at his watch. Three hours to wait, he can do that.
E is for earrings
Chris is familiar. The rasp of his stubble against JC’s lips, the sound of his voice, words made hollow with time.
JC wraps his fingers around Chris’ necklace, licks along his neck, his jaw, nips at an earlobe, earrings cool against his tongue.
Touching in the right places, a choreographed routine. One that always ends with averted gazes and isolation as they sleep.
Wanting to say enough, but neither knowing the words.
F is for Flaming Drinks
“What are you doing?” Lance asks. He rolls onto his stomach, his feet hanging over the edge of the bed, the white sheets crumpling under his body.
Grinning, Justin produces a bottle of wine from behind his back. “JC got it for me, it’s to celebrate our weeks anniversary.”
Chin propped on his hands, Lance can’t help smiling back, because Justin is glowing with happiness as he places the bottle on the floor. He unzips his bag, looking inside. “Don’t tell me, you’ve got canapés and dessert in there.”
“Better,” Justin says, and throws socks and underwear aside until he unearths a sparkler. He uses his teeth to tear open the packet, then shoves the stick into the cork of the wine bottle. “I was going to bring you one of those drinks you saw at the bar, you know, the ones with the fire and stuff, but figured it would be finished before I got here, plus. Doing it myself gives it more meaning.”
Lance murmurs an agreement, even if he’s not exactly sure what that meaning is. He just knows Justin is humming something upbeat as he looks in his bag again, finally pulling out a book of matches.
Striking one, Justin lights the sparkler and picks up the bottle, holding it in the air. Sparks fly outwards, drifting past Justin’s arm, to the floor and bed, and Lance can’t look away, his heart thumping as he imagines igniting flames and smouldering burns.
It’s one of the best things he’s ever seen, and as Justin stands in a shower of sparks, laughing as smoke curls through the room. Lance knows this is one anniversary he’ll never forget.
G is for Gay
“I’m Gay”, the headline says.
Lance pushes the magazine aside, hating that it has to make a difference, but knowing all too well that it does.
H is for hugs
Usually Chris hugs hard. He likes to cling on, arms wrapped close -- but not today.
Today he uses his arms to carefully encircle JC, rests his head against JC’s back and says, “You’re a fucking moron, C.”
JC has to agree, but he stands still, keeps smiling despite the fire in his skin, the blazing heat at any points of contact. Willing to take the pain for a hug both of them need.
I is for Interviews
“You’ll watch him?”
Diane keeps her hands on her lap, her knees together as she talks to Chris. He smells like grease and onions and she feels hot just looking at him, with his damp t-shirt and hair pulled back with an elastic band.
None of that matters, not when he leans forward, his attention focussing directly on Diane. “I promise I’ll watch him. I’ll watch them all.”
Diane nods. She’s got reservations, how can she not? But Chris seems convinced this will work. All she can do is believe.
“Fine, I’ll tell Lance he can join.” She stands and smoothes down her skirt and hides a smile when Chris punches the air before pulling her into a hug, dancing them across the room.
J is for Jean Jewels
“You have something hanging from your belt.” JC smiles and takes a step closer. “I think I need to investigate.”
He drops to his knees, and Lance swallows as he feels JC’s hands against his hips, the soft brush of his hair as he leans in, taking the jean jewel into his mouth.
“I’ve found treasure.” Voice muffled, JC looks up, smiling around the golden key. He tugs, moves his hands to the front of Lance’s pants, slides his fingers under the waistband as he says, simply. “I win.”
K is for Kicks
On Tuesday JC’s late getting home.
Coins carefully hidden, Chris waits at the fence, looks along the street and reminds himself JC’s a grown man. He’s probably finishing his drawing, lost in the colours, the feel of his chalks against his hand.
Chris worries anyway.
Eventually, unable to wait another minute he hurries back toward the retail district, nerves strung tight as he looks around.
He finds JC next to the fountains. He’s bent forward, arms wrapped around his own body, and when he looks up he appears furious. Mouth a thin line under the bruise that’s spread across his cheek.
“JC.” Chris drops to his knees, carefully presses his fingertips against the bruise. “What happened?”
“I guess someone needed the money more than me,” JC says, and he winces, his split bottom lip oozing blood. I went after them, but it was three against one. They got in some good kicks.”
“Fuck!” Chris wants to hit something, angry with himself, the thieves, the world.
“Don’t,” JC says. He unwraps his arms and pushes himself to his feet. “There’s nothing you can do now.” He entwines his fingers with Chris’, holding on as they slowly walk home.
L is for Leo Pendant
JC feels naked when he takes off his pendant. It’s paint splattered, the string worn thin and he knows it’s time for it to go.
Still, there’s a thousand memories contained in that small disc. Hours of holding it in his hand as he runs his fingers over the lines of his lion, a constant presence through good times and bad, a talisman that things would be okay.
And they were, they will be.
A last look and he puts it away, shutting the drawer before he can change his mind. One more thing consigned to the past.
M is for Marionettes
“Justin,” JC yells. “What the hell?”
Frowning a little, Justin heads for the den. He steps inside and sees JC standing next to the sofa, looking at the coffee table where Justin’s arranged his marionettes.
The marionettes which are…. Oh. Justin suddenly realises why JC sounds so confused.
“I was bored, and I’ve boxes of the things and it’s not like I’m always playing with dolls.” Willing himself not to blush, Justin looks at the marionettes, de-stringed, naked, and arranged in some kind of marionette orgy. It had taken forever to get them in the right positions, and now Justin has to put them away. “I’ll get the boxes.”
“No, wait.” JC holds up his hand and leans forward so he can peer at the marionettes. He narrows his eyes, looks intently, then beckons Justin. “You have Joey topping Chris. That’s not right. Remember how much he bitched that time in Vegas. Swap them around, and you blowing me? Not with the way you use your teeth.”
“I don’t use my teeth, but fine.” Justin carefully moves his plastic self, grinning when JC picks up Joey and Lance, arranging them into a 69.
N is for Naked Lady Pants
Justin loves the naked lady pants.
He loves how happy JC seems when he wears them. His own, fuck you I can wear what I want, to the world.
He loves how JC struts, aware of the looks and the comments, the fact that people watch and want as he walks by.
He especially loves that later JC will strip, will fall apart as Justin takes what those others want but will never get to see.
O is for Ostrich
“You want me to ride an ostrich?” Lance says. He looks at the ostrich. The ostrich looks back. This, he thinks, is what his mom should have warned him about. Not stranger danger or drinking, but the fact that one day he’d be expected to ride a giant bird.
Still, Lance is nothing but adventurous and he can ride a horse. How different can this be?
He climbs up the ostrich mounter, and really, who thought that was a good name? Listens to the instructions - hold on tight, don’t scream, watch out for the beak, and then climbs aboard.
The ostrich is surprisingly solid, and Lance manages a smile for the cameras before they unexpectedly hurtle forward. Mouth open in a silent yell, Lance holds on tight, clenches his legs together as they speed toward a thicket of trees.
He shouts, the ostrich leaps, Lance plummets to the ground and lands in a heap. Dust flying as his vision fills with gnarly ostrich feet.
Flat on his back he looks at the sky, listens as the others run close, tries to remember how to breathe. Already resigned that this is one of those memories that will never fade, a ‘remember when’ that will last for years.
P is for Puppy
The puppy is nothing but a ball of fluff. It barks when Lance picks it up, a sharp high-pitched sound, and he laughs when it licks over his face, his ears, up his nose.
“Hey now,” Lance says, and grins happily, relaxed and enjoying the simple pleasures of a sunny day, good friends and a puppy snuggled in his arms.
For this moment at least, the realities of his life pushed far away.
Q is for Queer Boybanders
“There should be a mega band, one filled with gay boybanders.”
Joey lounges across the bed, feet pressed against the bus wall, just this side of asleep. Lance looks at him over his laptop screen.
“Opinion polls would suggest most boybanders are gay anyway.”
“Opinion polls say Justin is hot and boxed pasta is a good meal,” Joey says, mouth curled into distaste. “Not that he isn’t, but boxed pasta. It’s the tool of the devil.”
“I don’t know, it’s convenient and easy.” Lance smiles, laughter bubbling at Joey’s scandalised frown. “More importantly. It’ll take more than you thinking J’s hot to get into the gay boybanders mega band.”
“I’m crushed,” Joey says, mouth turned down as he clutches at his chest. “Still, it’s probably for the best. The Italian Stallion would be a distraction, if you know what I’m saying?”
“I do,” Lance says solemnly. “It takes me all my time not to jump you. You’re just that hot. Like, seriously dreamy.”
Joey tilts back his head and grins at Lance. “I know, sometimes I even want to molest myself.”
“So that’s what those noises are at night. I thought you were being attacked by a bear.”
“If that’s a euphemism for sweet masturbation, you know it.” Joey holds up his hand, flexing his fingers. “So, the band. I figure you, that Stephen dude from the Brit boyband, Elton John on lead vocals, maybe Howie from Backstreet.”
“Right,” Lance says. “I’m sure Elton John will sign right up, and anyway, it’s Nick not Howie.”
“The weird clothes, the tantrums, the constant touring, Elton would fit right in, and you can’t tell me that Howie’s straight.”
“I have no idea,” Lance says, and he shuts his laptop, pushing it to one side. “But I can tell you one thing for sure. Nick isn’t at all.”
R is for RV
Chris pulls up in a parking lot in some town in some state that he drove into hours before. It’s getting late and he’s hungry, tired, body aching as he eases himself outside. He stands still and feels the wind in his hair, the scent of exhaust fumes and cooking food from the diner across the road. It has chilli pepper lights around the door, a weather-beaten sign swinging from the roof, big windows that show the people inside. Drinking and eating, smiling and not.
More people than he’s seen all day. Than he’s seen since he dropped off Ron the week before.
He should go in and get some food. Chat to the waitress with the pink dress and easy smile. Crack jokes and make small talk. Wash away the isolation of the day.
Instead Chris opens the RVs door and sits on the step, looks briefly at his phone. Twelve missed calls and multiple messages.
He deletes them all.
S is for Silly String
Quietly, Joey tip toes around the corner. He holds the can tightly, finger against the nozzle, ready to fire when needed. He listens for footsteps, distant giggles, anything out of place.
There’s nothing, and his skin tingles as he imagines sneak attacks, a target written invisibly on his back.
Joey spins around, keeps his back to the wall as he heads toward an open door. He tries to remember what’s in there. A bathroom, he thinks. Whatever. He’s not going in, he’s not stupid enough to walk into a trap.
Instead he keeps walking forward, swivelling his head from side to side. Ready, waiting, knowing the attack will be soon.
It is, and Joey yells when someone screams, dropping to his knees as pink silly string streams above his head, plastering against the wall. He rolls when he hears a clatter, unsurprised when Justin joins in with Chris’ attack. Pink and green string flying through the air. Until finally, they’re both left with empty cans.
“Get him!” Chris yells, and Joey scrambles to his feet, laughing as he runs. He skids to a halt when JC steps around the corner, arm outstretched, grinning as he walks steadily forward.
Joey smiles too. Silly string chicken, he won’t be the one to break first.
“You’re going down, Chasez.” Joey narrows his eyes, holds up his can and prepares to fire. Which is when string hits him hard in the ear. He turns, shaking his head when he sees Lance standing in a doorway, grinning wide, his can of silly string held in one hand.
Joey laughs and holds up his hands, admitting defeat after forgetting the first rule of silly string war. That in this case, friendship means nothing.
T is for Tights
"This is a bad idea," Chris repeats, this time adding a scowl for emphasis, because seriously, this is a terrible idea. Of course, this is also Lance . Lance who's had years of embracing bad ideas. Chris may as well be talking to the collection of fire extinguishers in the corner. Not that he wants to look at them, because one he can understand. But ten?
Lance grins, looking far too cheery for someone who's about to confront imminent death. "Where's your sense of adventure? I know you're pushing forty and all but...."
Chris crosses his arms, and looks at Lance. "Nice try, but you're not distracting me that easily. Fire, Lance. Blazing, skin charring fire. That's not even on the ground."
"We'll be all of twelve feet in the air," Lance says. "You used to be higher than that every night for months at a time."
"I also wore my hair in braids, had a collection of heart-adorned plushies and a tendency to wear neon bedazzled clothes. You don't see me wanting to revisit those again either."
Grin widening, Lance looks at Chris. "Your outfit is kind of neon right now."
"It's also made of lycra, which chafes may I point out." Voice rising in pitch and volume, Chris pulls at his bow tie. "I look like a sausage. One that's gone mouldy."
"Like you haven't worn worse," Lance says, and he tugs at his own outfit until his tights are winkle free. "Come on, it's nearly time to go on."
Applause breaks out and Chris can hear the judges give their scores. He's got seconds before they have to go on, plenty of time to make an escape.
At the curtains that lead to the circus ring, Lance looks back, says. "It's for Joey."
Chris sighs and joins him. Like he was ever going to skip this performance.
U is for Ukulele
The runner is harried, files tucked under her arm, her smile strained as she ushers Lance into the room. “I’ll come and fetch you soon, okay?”
It’s not a question, not really, but Lance still smiles, says, “That’s fine.” Left alone he looks around; another greenroom in another studio. Water and snacks and a bowl of untouched fruit, carefully arranged couches and a TV playing MTV, the sound turned low. Also, unexpectedly, Brendon Urie, who’s holding a ukulele, softly strumming the strings.
“Hey,” Brendon says, the melody he’s playing merging seamlessly into Bye Bye Bye.
“Impressive,” Lance says, and sits on one of the couches, slouched and comfortable. Brendon is bent forward, his hair falling into his eyes, his fingers sure and Lance is content to listen to him play, the song changing again, the tempo slowing into something smooth and easy.
Suddenly, Brendon stops playing, his fingers pressed against the strings. “Sometimes I feel bad, for being so resentful.”
Lance stays quiet, because maybe he doesn’t know Brendon outside of the tabloid press and industry gossip, but he can recognise someone that needs to talk.
“There’s so many lies.”
Brendon’s wearing capris and a close fitting t-shirt, a crystal pendant slung around his neck and Lance’s thoughts are split between times. Then and now, years and distance and it seems no matter how attitudes and laws change, some things will remain the same.
Like the weight of being in a popular band, one with other members and a fanbase made up of fickle teens.
It’s why Lance takes out one of his business cards and a pen, quickly writing his personal number across the back. Because he knows some things for certain, sometimes it’s easier to talk to those you don’t know, and people should come out in their own time.
“Here,” Lance says, and hands over the card. “If you ever need to talk.”
Brendon takes it and tucks it into his pocket. He begins to play again.
V is for VJ
Justin takes off his mic and hands it over, waits until they’re left alone.
“Can you be any more obvious?”
“You’ll have to narrow it down,” Chris says. “It’s suggested I’m obvious about lots of things.”
“The interview, it was unprofessional,” Justin says. He remains unrepentant when Chris just looks at him, because it’s a legitimate point. Justin knows professionalism and it doesn’t include eye-fucking the host.
“Unprofessional, right,” Chris says, his voice level. “So tell me, what should I say? That we’re taking the music to the next level? Or share my artistic viewpoint? Or maybe I should just stay silent and let you talk, being as you’re the ultimate professional and all.”
“That’s not what I mean. You were flirting with him, on air.”
“I was,” Chris agrees. “Rick’s my friend, we were having fun.”
Justin grits his teeth, because Chris isn’t getting it at all. He isn’t even trying. Silently, Justin gathers his things and walks away. His focus is on his anger, as he won’t admit to any jealousy. He can’t deal with that at all
W is for Whipped Cream on Boobies
Kelly has planned this surprise for weeks.
Babysitters arranged, security informed and travel booked. Now she’s pacing Joey’s hotel room, a robe tied loosely around her body, her supplies laid out on the bed.
It seems like forever since she’s seen him last. Phone calls and emails no substitution for being wrapped in Joey’s arms, for taking his hand and leading him to bed, listening to how much he loves her as she blows his mind.
Kelly shivers as she imagines the scrape of his beard against her inner thighs -- fingers, cock, tongue -- teasing, touching, years of familiarity as they push inside. She jumps when the phone rings once, the predetermined signal that Joey’s on his way.
Impatient now, Kelly checks in the mirror, patting at her hair and slicking on gloss, then lets the robe drop to the floor. Naked, apart from spiked heels, she picks up the can of whipped cream, grinning as she arranges herself on the bed. Knees bent and legs apart as she squirts a line of cream over her breasts, the swell of her belly, lower still as she imagines the look on Joey’s face, the hot swipe of his tongue, his fingers pressed against her skin.
It’s what she’s been waiting for so long now, and her heart speeds as the handle turns, the door opens.
Lance steps inside.
X is for X Ray
"You need to go and get that x-rayed."
Chris looks up from cradling his wrist to see Justin frowning across at him, pointedly ignoring the hole in the wall.
"I know," Chris says shortly, hissing when he tries to move his fingers, making tiny bones grind together and shooting pain up his arm. Blinking back tears he makes for the door.
Justin follows, projecting forced calm. "You’re going?"
"What do you think?" Chris presses his arm against his chest and holds it there with his other hand, making pain flair then ease.
"I think you’re an idiot."
Chris shrugs with one shoulder. "A lot of people would agree with you."
Justin makes a strangled noise. "And they’d be right. Punching walls is insane.”
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Chris says, remembering the satisfaction of lashing out, his fist versus the wall.
"Right," Justin says. “And you couldn’t have done something less destructive?”
"It was that or smack you in the face."
"At least my face isn’t made of concrete." Justin looks outside and waves over security. “Next time hit me.”
"Right, and be on the shit list of a million little girls," Chris says, stepping away from Justin as they wait for a car.
"Better that than fucking up your hand," Justin says, going quiet when security finally ushers them forward.
Carefully, Chris follows, pain radiating outwards, spiking as he slides into the car. He looks outside, at his hand, his fingers swollen and bruised.
“I worry about you.”
Chris tries to bend his fingers, concentrates on the flash of pain and not Justin, says, softly. “I know.”
Y is for Yellow Matching Outfits
Justin picks up the pants and holds them up thoughtfully. He looks at the bedazzled patterns down each leg and says, “I like when things match.”
JC makes his fingers into the sign of the cross, holding them out toward Justin, like the yellow outfit in his lap is about to jump up and attack. “We know, and normally I’m supportive of your OCD desires. But this time? No.”
“He’s right.” Lance pokes at his own outfit, and his face is glowing with reflective yellow, making him look jaundiced and ill. “We’d look like a bunch of bananas.”
“Without pyjamas,” Joey interjects and looks around, says. “What?”
“The point being,” Chris says. “These are hideous, and I’m not wearing them.”
“Colour co-ordination is important,” Justin says, scowling around the room. “It shows you’ve made an effort. That you care how you look”
“I care,” says Joey. He runs his hand down his t-shirt and lifts up his foot. “I matched my shoes and t-shirt today.”
Justin abruptly stands and claps Joey on the back. “That’s good, maybe you’re not a lost cause. Not like these fashion deficient bastards.”
Chris waves his hand. “Hello, own fashion label. But more than that, I’ve got eyes, and these outfits suck.”
“They kind of do,” JC agrees, sounding unhappy as he examines a shirt. He peers through the cut outs in the back. “Maybe if we wore once piece each, it wouldn’t be so much?”
“Like the yellow socks, maybe,” says Lance. He wiggles his fingers at JC then lounges back in his seat. “We could have sock unity.”
“What? That’s just. No. You’re missing the whole point.” Mouth a thin line, Justin stalks toward the door, leaving his so called friends behind. He’ll call Britney. At least she knows how to match.
Z is for zipper
“I love you.”
Britney stands still as Justin runs his fingers through her hair, presses kisses against her shoulders, rubs his thumb over her breast, a gentle teasing touch.
She smiles, pink-sugar lips and matching nails, stands tall as Justin unzips her dress letting it crumple to the ground.
“You’re beautiful. I love you. I love you so much,” he says, and Britney knows he means every word.
It’s why she says, “I love you too,” hating herself for the lie. Even as she lays still, counting down time until she can meet up with Wade.
Behind the cut are Nsync themed ficlets for each letter of the alphabet. Huge thanks go to dreamcharades who took my suspect grammar and made it work. Also thanks go to catviret for running the challenge.
Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
A is for Award Shows
“We can watch something else.”
JC shrugs and wraps his arms around his bent knees and curls his bare toes into the rug. “He’s my friend.”
A significant pause and JC looks up at his mom, watching as she carefully folds shirts and matches then balls up his socks.
“It’s not like that.”
“I know.” More matching socks, smoothing and folding pants. Finally she looks at JC, says, simply. “I know it’s not like that, but you’re my son.”
“And he’s my friend,” JC says again, attention caught between the non-expression of his mom, and Justin on TV.
“I know.” A thaw of admission, a slight smile and Karen puts the clothes to one side and rests her hand on JC’s shoulder. “He looks good.” She tightens her fingers. “You’ll be back on that stage one day, getting awards.”
“I know,” JC says, and makes no mention of disillusionment and broken dreams.
B is for Bye Bye Bye
They’ve always said they’d end with Bye Bye Bye.
It’s just how it is, the final song for the final performance.
That song hasn’t been sung, and until it has, there’s always a chance.
It’s what they all believe.
C is for corn rows
Justin crawls onto the couch and folds himself as small as he feels. His head is aching, his skin pulled tight and he rests his forehead against the crook of his elbow, breathing into dark space.
Footsteps, the sinking of the couch cushions, and Chris says, “You should just cut them off already.”
Justin stays still, counts the throbs of pain in his head. Chris doesn’t understand. He can’t. He’s not the cute front-man, the one that the fans scream for. Within reason Chris can look how he likes.
Justin doesn’t have that freedom. He has publicists and opinion polls, all of which point to one thing. The fans love the curls, cutting them off isn’t an option.
Instead, he makes cosmetic changes and dreams of the day when his image is his own.
D is for Daughter
“You’ve got everything?” Joey says. Crouching, he rests his hands on Briahna’s shoulders. She stares back at him, small and perfect in her school uniform, wayward curls escaping from her ribbon-tied pony tail.
“I have my lunch-box and my teddy and my whistle.” Briahna holds out her hand, counting out each item on her fingers. “I’m going to play with Marissa and paint you a picture and I love you.”
Arms outstretched, Briahna wraps herself around Joey and presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek. Then, without another word, she turns and runs away, becoming another tiny girl in the crowd.
Joey never looks away, unashamed when Kelly hands him a tissue and wraps an arm around his waist. She stands close, watching the stream of children enter the school, until finally the last straggler runs through the door.
“It gets easier.” Kelly reaches for Joey’s hand. “She always comes back.”
“I know,” Joey says, and looks at his watch. Three hours to wait, he can do that.
E is for earrings
Chris is familiar. The rasp of his stubble against JC’s lips, the sound of his voice, words made hollow with time.
JC wraps his fingers around Chris’ necklace, licks along his neck, his jaw, nips at an earlobe, earrings cool against his tongue.
Touching in the right places, a choreographed routine. One that always ends with averted gazes and isolation as they sleep.
Wanting to say enough, but neither knowing the words.
F is for Flaming Drinks
“What are you doing?” Lance asks. He rolls onto his stomach, his feet hanging over the edge of the bed, the white sheets crumpling under his body.
Grinning, Justin produces a bottle of wine from behind his back. “JC got it for me, it’s to celebrate our weeks anniversary.”
Chin propped on his hands, Lance can’t help smiling back, because Justin is glowing with happiness as he places the bottle on the floor. He unzips his bag, looking inside. “Don’t tell me, you’ve got canapés and dessert in there.”
“Better,” Justin says, and throws socks and underwear aside until he unearths a sparkler. He uses his teeth to tear open the packet, then shoves the stick into the cork of the wine bottle. “I was going to bring you one of those drinks you saw at the bar, you know, the ones with the fire and stuff, but figured it would be finished before I got here, plus. Doing it myself gives it more meaning.”
Lance murmurs an agreement, even if he’s not exactly sure what that meaning is. He just knows Justin is humming something upbeat as he looks in his bag again, finally pulling out a book of matches.
Striking one, Justin lights the sparkler and picks up the bottle, holding it in the air. Sparks fly outwards, drifting past Justin’s arm, to the floor and bed, and Lance can’t look away, his heart thumping as he imagines igniting flames and smouldering burns.
It’s one of the best things he’s ever seen, and as Justin stands in a shower of sparks, laughing as smoke curls through the room. Lance knows this is one anniversary he’ll never forget.
G is for Gay
“I’m Gay”, the headline says.
Lance pushes the magazine aside, hating that it has to make a difference, but knowing all too well that it does.
H is for hugs
Usually Chris hugs hard. He likes to cling on, arms wrapped close -- but not today.
Today he uses his arms to carefully encircle JC, rests his head against JC’s back and says, “You’re a fucking moron, C.”
JC has to agree, but he stands still, keeps smiling despite the fire in his skin, the blazing heat at any points of contact. Willing to take the pain for a hug both of them need.
I is for Interviews
“You’ll watch him?”
Diane keeps her hands on her lap, her knees together as she talks to Chris. He smells like grease and onions and she feels hot just looking at him, with his damp t-shirt and hair pulled back with an elastic band.
None of that matters, not when he leans forward, his attention focussing directly on Diane. “I promise I’ll watch him. I’ll watch them all.”
Diane nods. She’s got reservations, how can she not? But Chris seems convinced this will work. All she can do is believe.
“Fine, I’ll tell Lance he can join.” She stands and smoothes down her skirt and hides a smile when Chris punches the air before pulling her into a hug, dancing them across the room.
J is for Jean Jewels
“You have something hanging from your belt.” JC smiles and takes a step closer. “I think I need to investigate.”
He drops to his knees, and Lance swallows as he feels JC’s hands against his hips, the soft brush of his hair as he leans in, taking the jean jewel into his mouth.
“I’ve found treasure.” Voice muffled, JC looks up, smiling around the golden key. He tugs, moves his hands to the front of Lance’s pants, slides his fingers under the waistband as he says, simply. “I win.”
K is for Kicks
On Tuesday JC’s late getting home.
Coins carefully hidden, Chris waits at the fence, looks along the street and reminds himself JC’s a grown man. He’s probably finishing his drawing, lost in the colours, the feel of his chalks against his hand.
Chris worries anyway.
Eventually, unable to wait another minute he hurries back toward the retail district, nerves strung tight as he looks around.
He finds JC next to the fountains. He’s bent forward, arms wrapped around his own body, and when he looks up he appears furious. Mouth a thin line under the bruise that’s spread across his cheek.
“JC.” Chris drops to his knees, carefully presses his fingertips against the bruise. “What happened?”
“I guess someone needed the money more than me,” JC says, and he winces, his split bottom lip oozing blood. I went after them, but it was three against one. They got in some good kicks.”
“Fuck!” Chris wants to hit something, angry with himself, the thieves, the world.
“Don’t,” JC says. He unwraps his arms and pushes himself to his feet. “There’s nothing you can do now.” He entwines his fingers with Chris’, holding on as they slowly walk home.
L is for Leo Pendant
JC feels naked when he takes off his pendant. It’s paint splattered, the string worn thin and he knows it’s time for it to go.
Still, there’s a thousand memories contained in that small disc. Hours of holding it in his hand as he runs his fingers over the lines of his lion, a constant presence through good times and bad, a talisman that things would be okay.
And they were, they will be.
A last look and he puts it away, shutting the drawer before he can change his mind. One more thing consigned to the past.
M is for Marionettes
“Justin,” JC yells. “What the hell?”
Frowning a little, Justin heads for the den. He steps inside and sees JC standing next to the sofa, looking at the coffee table where Justin’s arranged his marionettes.
The marionettes which are…. Oh. Justin suddenly realises why JC sounds so confused.
“I was bored, and I’ve boxes of the things and it’s not like I’m always playing with dolls.” Willing himself not to blush, Justin looks at the marionettes, de-stringed, naked, and arranged in some kind of marionette orgy. It had taken forever to get them in the right positions, and now Justin has to put them away. “I’ll get the boxes.”
“No, wait.” JC holds up his hand and leans forward so he can peer at the marionettes. He narrows his eyes, looks intently, then beckons Justin. “You have Joey topping Chris. That’s not right. Remember how much he bitched that time in Vegas. Swap them around, and you blowing me? Not with the way you use your teeth.”
“I don’t use my teeth, but fine.” Justin carefully moves his plastic self, grinning when JC picks up Joey and Lance, arranging them into a 69.
N is for Naked Lady Pants
Justin loves the naked lady pants.
He loves how happy JC seems when he wears them. His own, fuck you I can wear what I want, to the world.
He loves how JC struts, aware of the looks and the comments, the fact that people watch and want as he walks by.
He especially loves that later JC will strip, will fall apart as Justin takes what those others want but will never get to see.
O is for Ostrich
“You want me to ride an ostrich?” Lance says. He looks at the ostrich. The ostrich looks back. This, he thinks, is what his mom should have warned him about. Not stranger danger or drinking, but the fact that one day he’d be expected to ride a giant bird.
Still, Lance is nothing but adventurous and he can ride a horse. How different can this be?
He climbs up the ostrich mounter, and really, who thought that was a good name? Listens to the instructions - hold on tight, don’t scream, watch out for the beak, and then climbs aboard.
The ostrich is surprisingly solid, and Lance manages a smile for the cameras before they unexpectedly hurtle forward. Mouth open in a silent yell, Lance holds on tight, clenches his legs together as they speed toward a thicket of trees.
He shouts, the ostrich leaps, Lance plummets to the ground and lands in a heap. Dust flying as his vision fills with gnarly ostrich feet.
Flat on his back he looks at the sky, listens as the others run close, tries to remember how to breathe. Already resigned that this is one of those memories that will never fade, a ‘remember when’ that will last for years.
P is for Puppy
The puppy is nothing but a ball of fluff. It barks when Lance picks it up, a sharp high-pitched sound, and he laughs when it licks over his face, his ears, up his nose.
“Hey now,” Lance says, and grins happily, relaxed and enjoying the simple pleasures of a sunny day, good friends and a puppy snuggled in his arms.
For this moment at least, the realities of his life pushed far away.
Q is for Queer Boybanders
“There should be a mega band, one filled with gay boybanders.”
Joey lounges across the bed, feet pressed against the bus wall, just this side of asleep. Lance looks at him over his laptop screen.
“Opinion polls would suggest most boybanders are gay anyway.”
“Opinion polls say Justin is hot and boxed pasta is a good meal,” Joey says, mouth curled into distaste. “Not that he isn’t, but boxed pasta. It’s the tool of the devil.”
“I don’t know, it’s convenient and easy.” Lance smiles, laughter bubbling at Joey’s scandalised frown. “More importantly. It’ll take more than you thinking J’s hot to get into the gay boybanders mega band.”
“I’m crushed,” Joey says, mouth turned down as he clutches at his chest. “Still, it’s probably for the best. The Italian Stallion would be a distraction, if you know what I’m saying?”
“I do,” Lance says solemnly. “It takes me all my time not to jump you. You’re just that hot. Like, seriously dreamy.”
Joey tilts back his head and grins at Lance. “I know, sometimes I even want to molest myself.”
“So that’s what those noises are at night. I thought you were being attacked by a bear.”
“If that’s a euphemism for sweet masturbation, you know it.” Joey holds up his hand, flexing his fingers. “So, the band. I figure you, that Stephen dude from the Brit boyband, Elton John on lead vocals, maybe Howie from Backstreet.”
“Right,” Lance says. “I’m sure Elton John will sign right up, and anyway, it’s Nick not Howie.”
“The weird clothes, the tantrums, the constant touring, Elton would fit right in, and you can’t tell me that Howie’s straight.”
“I have no idea,” Lance says, and he shuts his laptop, pushing it to one side. “But I can tell you one thing for sure. Nick isn’t at all.”
R is for RV
Chris pulls up in a parking lot in some town in some state that he drove into hours before. It’s getting late and he’s hungry, tired, body aching as he eases himself outside. He stands still and feels the wind in his hair, the scent of exhaust fumes and cooking food from the diner across the road. It has chilli pepper lights around the door, a weather-beaten sign swinging from the roof, big windows that show the people inside. Drinking and eating, smiling and not.
More people than he’s seen all day. Than he’s seen since he dropped off Ron the week before.
He should go in and get some food. Chat to the waitress with the pink dress and easy smile. Crack jokes and make small talk. Wash away the isolation of the day.
Instead Chris opens the RVs door and sits on the step, looks briefly at his phone. Twelve missed calls and multiple messages.
He deletes them all.
S is for Silly String
Quietly, Joey tip toes around the corner. He holds the can tightly, finger against the nozzle, ready to fire when needed. He listens for footsteps, distant giggles, anything out of place.
There’s nothing, and his skin tingles as he imagines sneak attacks, a target written invisibly on his back.
Joey spins around, keeps his back to the wall as he heads toward an open door. He tries to remember what’s in there. A bathroom, he thinks. Whatever. He’s not going in, he’s not stupid enough to walk into a trap.
Instead he keeps walking forward, swivelling his head from side to side. Ready, waiting, knowing the attack will be soon.
It is, and Joey yells when someone screams, dropping to his knees as pink silly string streams above his head, plastering against the wall. He rolls when he hears a clatter, unsurprised when Justin joins in with Chris’ attack. Pink and green string flying through the air. Until finally, they’re both left with empty cans.
“Get him!” Chris yells, and Joey scrambles to his feet, laughing as he runs. He skids to a halt when JC steps around the corner, arm outstretched, grinning as he walks steadily forward.
Joey smiles too. Silly string chicken, he won’t be the one to break first.
“You’re going down, Chasez.” Joey narrows his eyes, holds up his can and prepares to fire. Which is when string hits him hard in the ear. He turns, shaking his head when he sees Lance standing in a doorway, grinning wide, his can of silly string held in one hand.
Joey laughs and holds up his hands, admitting defeat after forgetting the first rule of silly string war. That in this case, friendship means nothing.
T is for Tights
"This is a bad idea," Chris repeats, this time adding a scowl for emphasis, because seriously, this is a terrible idea. Of course, this is also Lance . Lance who's had years of embracing bad ideas. Chris may as well be talking to the collection of fire extinguishers in the corner. Not that he wants to look at them, because one he can understand. But ten?
Lance grins, looking far too cheery for someone who's about to confront imminent death. "Where's your sense of adventure? I know you're pushing forty and all but...."
Chris crosses his arms, and looks at Lance. "Nice try, but you're not distracting me that easily. Fire, Lance. Blazing, skin charring fire. That's not even on the ground."
"We'll be all of twelve feet in the air," Lance says. "You used to be higher than that every night for months at a time."
"I also wore my hair in braids, had a collection of heart-adorned plushies and a tendency to wear neon bedazzled clothes. You don't see me wanting to revisit those again either."
Grin widening, Lance looks at Chris. "Your outfit is kind of neon right now."
"It's also made of lycra, which chafes may I point out." Voice rising in pitch and volume, Chris pulls at his bow tie. "I look like a sausage. One that's gone mouldy."
"Like you haven't worn worse," Lance says, and he tugs at his own outfit until his tights are winkle free. "Come on, it's nearly time to go on."
Applause breaks out and Chris can hear the judges give their scores. He's got seconds before they have to go on, plenty of time to make an escape.
At the curtains that lead to the circus ring, Lance looks back, says. "It's for Joey."
Chris sighs and joins him. Like he was ever going to skip this performance.
U is for Ukulele
The runner is harried, files tucked under her arm, her smile strained as she ushers Lance into the room. “I’ll come and fetch you soon, okay?”
It’s not a question, not really, but Lance still smiles, says, “That’s fine.” Left alone he looks around; another greenroom in another studio. Water and snacks and a bowl of untouched fruit, carefully arranged couches and a TV playing MTV, the sound turned low. Also, unexpectedly, Brendon Urie, who’s holding a ukulele, softly strumming the strings.
“Hey,” Brendon says, the melody he’s playing merging seamlessly into Bye Bye Bye.
“Impressive,” Lance says, and sits on one of the couches, slouched and comfortable. Brendon is bent forward, his hair falling into his eyes, his fingers sure and Lance is content to listen to him play, the song changing again, the tempo slowing into something smooth and easy.
Suddenly, Brendon stops playing, his fingers pressed against the strings. “Sometimes I feel bad, for being so resentful.”
Lance stays quiet, because maybe he doesn’t know Brendon outside of the tabloid press and industry gossip, but he can recognise someone that needs to talk.
“There’s so many lies.”
Brendon’s wearing capris and a close fitting t-shirt, a crystal pendant slung around his neck and Lance’s thoughts are split between times. Then and now, years and distance and it seems no matter how attitudes and laws change, some things will remain the same.
Like the weight of being in a popular band, one with other members and a fanbase made up of fickle teens.
It’s why Lance takes out one of his business cards and a pen, quickly writing his personal number across the back. Because he knows some things for certain, sometimes it’s easier to talk to those you don’t know, and people should come out in their own time.
“Here,” Lance says, and hands over the card. “If you ever need to talk.”
Brendon takes it and tucks it into his pocket. He begins to play again.
V is for VJ
Justin takes off his mic and hands it over, waits until they’re left alone.
“Can you be any more obvious?”
“You’ll have to narrow it down,” Chris says. “It’s suggested I’m obvious about lots of things.”
“The interview, it was unprofessional,” Justin says. He remains unrepentant when Chris just looks at him, because it’s a legitimate point. Justin knows professionalism and it doesn’t include eye-fucking the host.
“Unprofessional, right,” Chris says, his voice level. “So tell me, what should I say? That we’re taking the music to the next level? Or share my artistic viewpoint? Or maybe I should just stay silent and let you talk, being as you’re the ultimate professional and all.”
“That’s not what I mean. You were flirting with him, on air.”
“I was,” Chris agrees. “Rick’s my friend, we were having fun.”
Justin grits his teeth, because Chris isn’t getting it at all. He isn’t even trying. Silently, Justin gathers his things and walks away. His focus is on his anger, as he won’t admit to any jealousy. He can’t deal with that at all
W is for Whipped Cream on Boobies
Kelly has planned this surprise for weeks.
Babysitters arranged, security informed and travel booked. Now she’s pacing Joey’s hotel room, a robe tied loosely around her body, her supplies laid out on the bed.
It seems like forever since she’s seen him last. Phone calls and emails no substitution for being wrapped in Joey’s arms, for taking his hand and leading him to bed, listening to how much he loves her as she blows his mind.
Kelly shivers as she imagines the scrape of his beard against her inner thighs -- fingers, cock, tongue -- teasing, touching, years of familiarity as they push inside. She jumps when the phone rings once, the predetermined signal that Joey’s on his way.
Impatient now, Kelly checks in the mirror, patting at her hair and slicking on gloss, then lets the robe drop to the floor. Naked, apart from spiked heels, she picks up the can of whipped cream, grinning as she arranges herself on the bed. Knees bent and legs apart as she squirts a line of cream over her breasts, the swell of her belly, lower still as she imagines the look on Joey’s face, the hot swipe of his tongue, his fingers pressed against her skin.
It’s what she’s been waiting for so long now, and her heart speeds as the handle turns, the door opens.
Lance steps inside.
X is for X Ray
"You need to go and get that x-rayed."
Chris looks up from cradling his wrist to see Justin frowning across at him, pointedly ignoring the hole in the wall.
"I know," Chris says shortly, hissing when he tries to move his fingers, making tiny bones grind together and shooting pain up his arm. Blinking back tears he makes for the door.
Justin follows, projecting forced calm. "You’re going?"
"What do you think?" Chris presses his arm against his chest and holds it there with his other hand, making pain flair then ease.
"I think you’re an idiot."
Chris shrugs with one shoulder. "A lot of people would agree with you."
Justin makes a strangled noise. "And they’d be right. Punching walls is insane.”
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Chris says, remembering the satisfaction of lashing out, his fist versus the wall.
"Right," Justin says. “And you couldn’t have done something less destructive?”
"It was that or smack you in the face."
"At least my face isn’t made of concrete." Justin looks outside and waves over security. “Next time hit me.”
"Right, and be on the shit list of a million little girls," Chris says, stepping away from Justin as they wait for a car.
"Better that than fucking up your hand," Justin says, going quiet when security finally ushers them forward.
Carefully, Chris follows, pain radiating outwards, spiking as he slides into the car. He looks outside, at his hand, his fingers swollen and bruised.
“I worry about you.”
Chris tries to bend his fingers, concentrates on the flash of pain and not Justin, says, softly. “I know.”
Y is for Yellow Matching Outfits
Justin picks up the pants and holds them up thoughtfully. He looks at the bedazzled patterns down each leg and says, “I like when things match.”
JC makes his fingers into the sign of the cross, holding them out toward Justin, like the yellow outfit in his lap is about to jump up and attack. “We know, and normally I’m supportive of your OCD desires. But this time? No.”
“He’s right.” Lance pokes at his own outfit, and his face is glowing with reflective yellow, making him look jaundiced and ill. “We’d look like a bunch of bananas.”
“Without pyjamas,” Joey interjects and looks around, says. “What?”
“The point being,” Chris says. “These are hideous, and I’m not wearing them.”
“Colour co-ordination is important,” Justin says, scowling around the room. “It shows you’ve made an effort. That you care how you look”
“I care,” says Joey. He runs his hand down his t-shirt and lifts up his foot. “I matched my shoes and t-shirt today.”
Justin abruptly stands and claps Joey on the back. “That’s good, maybe you’re not a lost cause. Not like these fashion deficient bastards.”
Chris waves his hand. “Hello, own fashion label. But more than that, I’ve got eyes, and these outfits suck.”
“They kind of do,” JC agrees, sounding unhappy as he examines a shirt. He peers through the cut outs in the back. “Maybe if we wore once piece each, it wouldn’t be so much?”
“Like the yellow socks, maybe,” says Lance. He wiggles his fingers at JC then lounges back in his seat. “We could have sock unity.”
“What? That’s just. No. You’re missing the whole point.” Mouth a thin line, Justin stalks toward the door, leaving his so called friends behind. He’ll call Britney. At least she knows how to match.
Z is for zipper
“I love you.”
Britney stands still as Justin runs his fingers through her hair, presses kisses against her shoulders, rubs his thumb over her breast, a gentle teasing touch.
She smiles, pink-sugar lips and matching nails, stands tall as Justin unzips her dress letting it crumple to the ground.
“You’re beautiful. I love you. I love you so much,” he says, and Britney knows he means every word.
It’s why she says, “I love you too,” hating herself for the lie. Even as she lays still, counting down time until she can meet up with Wade.