Best To Be A Man
by Chased Amy

~..~

You see him there, night after night, as you’re lowered beneath the stage. You watch him as you drop – long years of training forcing you to keep your eyes on the soloist – and he stands there, cocky and sure, as Greg hits his mark on the other corner of the catwalk.

He adjusts his stance, his arms floating out to his sides in a familiar “bring it on” gesture. He tweaks his fingers. The crowd screams.

You’ve lowered enough that you can’t see anymore. You hear the electric wail of the riff start above you.

They don’t even notice you’ve gone.

~*~

It wasn't always like that. There were the days on the Club where you played second fiddle, but not to someone, well, younger. Someone you'd help find his own fame. Someone you'd done so much for, so much with.

You don't do much with him anymore.

You thought about this little man you took care of, back in Germany. He’d been this – really - this little boy who was having the time of his life playing with the big kids. He had more of the weight of the world on his shoulders than any child ever should have thought about, and you remember Lynn’s hand grasping yours as she stared into your eyes and told you that she trusted you to help take care of her baby, Josh, since you’ve known him for so long. I’m counting on you to make sure he stays on the straight and narrow.

It was a responsibility she handed you without asking for your consent, but she knew you’d do it. As far as she was concerned, you were Justin’s family – Justin’s home. You were his big brother, and his well-being, and his success, meant as much to you as your own did.

You always took your responsibilities very seriously.

~*~

Watching him rehearse for this tour was like pulling out your fingernails with pliers. You still can’t quite pinpoint when he became such a diva, but watching him work out the staging for “Gone” with Marty, the transformation is evident. You watch him pace around the catwalk, counting out measures and humming the rock riff.

You think about him wandering the halls of Disney, beat boxing under his breath, stealing away into the corner to practice the “ohhs” and “yeahhs” that have become so much a part of your sound. You caught him once, his back to you, riffing into a hairbrush. You’d tapped his shoulder and watched his sheepish grin burst across his face and blush rise to his cheeks and he thanked you for pointing out the right note in that minor progression.

But that night, Chris yelled across the Pit, “Hey! What are your backup singers doin’ while you’re out there having guitar sex with Greg?” You could hear the joke in Chris’s voice, but when Justin’s head snapped around to look at the four of you, his cheeks were a fiery red, not from embarrassment, but from anger.

You’d started to say something, but then Marty trotted around the catwalk to give you guys your marks, and since it was only a week before Portland, you’d figured you’d better listen.

You rub your fingertips into your fists as you remember.

~*~

His innocence was washed away by the lawsuit, that much was apparent. Before, he’d fooled around musically, picking things out here and there. But when it became obvious that you’d have some control over your strings, he’d begun in earnest, spending days with Kevin and Reuben, working out the grooves that matched up to the old Teddy Pendergrass song.

You remember the veiled excitement on his face when he’d played it for you the first time, his too-big fingers carefully working the frets. He’d looked to you, biting his lip as he switched off the accompaniment, hiding his fear of your response.

But you weren’t afraid to give it. You’d smiled, widely, clapping him on the shoulder, exclaiming about the rhythm and the vibe, and asking to see the sheets. He’d showed you, timidly, explaining what he’d like to do in the studio, Kevin’s suggestions, asking your opinion. You didn’t get credit for it, but, really, it felt like your first collaboration.

And when the CD was pressed and the inserts printed, and you watched him hold it in his hands with reverence, then slide it into the player, skipping to track eleven, you couldn’t even be hurt that he’d skipped tracks three, seven, eight and nine.

~*~

The day Justin came bounding in with this blond Aussie kid that had danced with Britney at the VMAs, you’d thought it was cute that he’d found a friend his own age. And, man, the kid could dance.

Turned out he could write music, too. Good to know.

~*~

The success of Strings just blew you away. You knew you had it in you, but to see it happening was … well, it was incredible. You all started working on the tour, cramming a whole lot of work into just a little bit of time, and in between the work and the sweat and the meetings and the fucking cameras everywhere, all you wanted, really, was some time alone with the guys. Sure, you'd be thrown together all the time on the road, but it was important—to you, at least—that you all made sure you were on the same page with what you were telling Johnny you wanted, with the direction Kevin was taking the sound, with the different sets of choreography that you were getting from Darren, Wade and Jamal.

So you invited them all over. After Joey and Chris covered their vision of the gags and the stage and the pyro, and Lance convinced you all that the costumes really were worth that kind of money, because you didn't want to look like Lou's puppets anymore, you broached the subject of “It Makes Me Ill.” You hated that choreography, and didn't think Jamal had a grasp on where it could really go, dance-wise. You’d started in on your carefully planned list of pros and cons to it, when Justin chimed in with “Wade likes it. He says the more literal choreography will appeal to our younger fans. He says he'd have done it pretty much the same way.”

That seemed to settle it, at least amongst the others, who'd already gotten Jamal's steps down, and didn't want to take the time to learn a new routine. You were outvoted. And that was frustrating, but okay.

Though you wondered why Wade's voice had carried more weight than your own.

~*~

All winter long, Justin had been talking up his phrase “dirty pop.” It even made it into that interview for the “Bye Bye Bye” video: “Say it once and boom! It’s a trend.” He’d gotten so excited; talking about this new direction he had in his head. He talked it up so much it got you excited, too. When he pulled out his guitar and sat next to you on the bus, you gladly put your own notebook to the side, pushed the infant melodies out of your head, and helped him work through harmonies.

You knew this wouldn’t be ready for Strings. The thoughts were too nebulous, the beats too raw. But you could also tell that this had the potential to be big. Really big.

Huge.

And you told him so. He beamed, his excitement palpable in his smile. He accepted the hearty squeeze of your arm around his shoulder and nearly vibrated with anticipation:

“I can’t wait for Wade to hear this!”

You forced yourself not to let your smile fade as you nodded your agreement.

~*~

The tour wound across the states all summer and into the fall. Justin finally decided he was going to make it public about Britney, which was nice, because you all were getting sick of covering his story. It was hard enough hiding real relationships which would cause some sort of outrage, you thought, watching Joey move through his steps for the remix of “It’s Gonna Be Me.” That night, you took your seat next to Bobbie, and watched the cameras swarm all over Justin and Britney and tried not to think about the boy who cried in your arms.

~*~

It was back in Berlin when just you and he had gone out for a walk to where the Wall had been. That was the night he told you he thought he might maybe like boys like he liked girls. And you’d hugged him, and told him you understood because you were bi, too (and so was Joey, as a matter of fact . . .wink wink nudge nudge) and looked studiously into his baby’s blue eyes and told him that if he ever needed you – for anything – you’d be there for him.

Later he cried. Mostly out of relief, you’d supposed. He’d laid on your bed, his head pillowed on your stomach, his nose running and his breath catching. You’d pet his crunchy curly hair as he told you about the crush he had on Lance and asked you about Joey. Then he’d fallen asleep, his hand curled up toward his chin, his body occasionally shuddering with residual sobs. You’d pulled the blanket up over his hips and slid your hand up and down his arm, soothing him. You caught a tear as it dripped off his closed eyelashes and smoothed a worried wrinkle out of his forehead. You thought about all you’d been through with Disney and this wide future ahead of you as part of this group, and you thought about what you’d been like at fifteen.

He rolled around so that his head rested on your shoulder, his back to your ribcage. You bent your arm around him and pulled him close, holding him like you used to hold Tyler when he had a nightmare, and fell asleep yourself.

~*~

He cried with you again a year or so later, when Chris and Lance told the rest of you they were together. He’d already started with Britney by then, but you thought about a boy named Tony and remembered the pain of letting go of a crush and held him once again. After about a half-hour, though, he sat up, sniffled a bit and said, shyly,

“Thanks ‘C.”

And left the room.

Joey had brushed past Justin as he left the room, and when he saw the pitying look in your eyes, he gathered you close and let you sigh. You and he had ended things a while back, but you were still close—not having sex anymore wasn’t going to change that, you’d both promised. And, thank god, it hadn’t. He held onto you until he could tell you were ready to talk.

“Lance?” Joey asked.

“Yeah.”

“Gotta let him go, Josh,” Joey said. “He’s growing up. He’s not the same kid he used to be.”

“I know, Joe. It’s just…” you stopped then, and looked at Joey, who understood.

“You’re the closest thing he’s got to a real big brother, I know. But he’s going to have to find his way on his own, too.”

You nodded, and rested your head against Joey’s chest.

~*~

There was press. Good lord there was press. You couldn’t turn around in a store or walk past a newsstand without their glowing faces shining back at you. The Prince and Princess of Pop, practically royalty. She joined you on the road, appearing with the Klub a few nights. Everywhere you went, there they were, and of course the questions in interviews became more pointed. Even Larry King wanted to know about their relationship, and you thought Justin answered his questions with aplomb. You thought, maybe, he really did love her.

And good for him.

~*~

The winter between Strings and Celebrity flew by non-stop. If you weren’t performing here or presenting there, you were writing – feverish, inspired writing, incorporating new sounds and vibes and riffs. You took a short trip to England with Tyler and Heather, and wound up coming home with all new inspiration. You wrote every spare minute of your day, and you knew Justin was doing the same. You’d finally worked out your schedules where you could sit and show each other what you’d done, where you’d branched out.

He’d breezed into the studio at your house, his arms laden with sheets and notebooks and a few burned CDs. You rubbed your hands together in anticipation. You knew how much he’d grown musically over the last year; the time he’d spent with Brian McKnight was inspiring to all of you, and he’d hit it off with Nelly when you’d all met for the Super Bowl. You knew that stack was filled with hip-hop and R&B and you couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he showed you what he’d created, asked for your input on the new sound.

As he slid a disc labeled “Dirty Pop” into the player, you picked up the sheets. Penciled at the top: Tennman Tunes and … WaJeRo Sound? Suddenly, music filled the room, and while the basic melody was the same one you’d heard him humming on the tour bus for most of the last year, it was laden with electric beats and backing riffs and, well, it just wasn’t what you were expecting. You looked at Justin’s back, his muscles shifting with the beat, and when he finally turned and met your eyes, you knew he was expecting the same excitement as you’d shown when he’d played “I’ll Be Good For You” the first time.

It just wasn’t there. You let the song run its course, then his eyes shifted a little as he said, “I’ve already called BT. He’s been working with us on some sounds for it. We’re thinking about this beat box thing…”

You interrupted. “Us?” You held your breath until he looked at you again.

“Yeah, me and Wade. We’ve been writing together.”

As the door opened and Robson walked in, the cold chill started where your spine met the base of your skull and traveled slowly down your back and across your shoulders. You fought to keep the look on your face neutral as the mental images of your collaboration flew out of your head.

You’d thought it would be like on Strings, you and Justin and some sweet producer cats, working the boards, coaxing out the sounds. When Justin grasped Wade’s fist and pulled him into a grinning, back-slapping hug, you knew you’d severely underestimated just how much he’d changed.

~*~

You all worked somewhat frantically throughout the spring recording the new disc. You’d hashed out the tunes that were solid, including one of Chris’s, and then compromising when Lance mentioned that it’d be perfect for his movie soundtrack. The days in the studio became a bit of a battle; Wade inserting his influence where you really didn’t think it was warranted. The day you’d recorded ”Celebrity,” Justin decided he wanted a little more depth to the underlying chant of the opening, and he pulled Wade and Trace into the recording booth – against your protests that those vocals should really go to Lance and Joey.

“They’re in Toronto, ‘C. They’re busy. They won’t care.”

That’s not the point, you’d fumed inwardly. You looked at Chris, who rolled his eyes and mouthed “infant” to you. You forced a smile, then settled in behind the board to record a baritone line that didn’t belong to Joey.

~*~

Turns out, they didn’t care. At least that’s what they said when you brought it up.

You’d flown up to Toronto so you could lay down Joey and Lance’s tracks for “Selfish.” Over break, after you’d collapsed, jet-lagged, on Joey’s lap and Lance had finished catching up with his messages, he turned to you and asked how the rest of the songs were coming. You kind of tiptoed around the subject for a while, talking about the tight lyrics and the hot samples you’d found for “The Game Is Over.” When Joey nudged your back and asked about the title track, you hemmed and hawed and finally, “Justin recorded Trace and Wade for the chant,” spilled out of your mouth. You caught Lance’s raised-eyebrow look over your head, and felt Joey’s nod.

“We kind of figured something like that might come up,” Lance shrugged. “I don’t exactly like it, but I can live with it. After all, when we do it live, it’ll be me and Joey.” You felt Joey nodding his agreement as his arms came around your shoulders and his hands soothed you.

You bit back your don’t be so sure of that retort. You didn’t do bitter well.

~*~

As annoyed with the situation as you were, though, it wasn’t something anyone but you needed to deal with. The fact was, pure and simple, that Justin was your family and you could say and think things about your own that others just weren’t allowed to. So when you were out at the L.A. studio and you overheard some JIVE hack say “I heard some of the tracks for the new *NSYNC album, and it’s crap. Overproduced crap. Especially the stuff that Timberlake kid’s done,” you felt absolutely no shame in grabbing the fucker by the lapels and pushing him – hard – against the wall.

You were snarling and forcing your breath out from between your teeth by the time Lonnie got there and pulled you off. Johnny gave you one hell of a talking-to after that, but you held firm: It wasn’t up to them to pass judgment on early, unfinished tracks; and who the fuck were they to be listening before the presentation anyway. Johnny sighed, and agreed, and you moved the release date back another month just because you could.

~*~

You were back in the studio in Orlando, producing Joey on “Ready To Fall” when Justin came rushing in, Chris and Lance in tow. You grinned, because as always, that smile was infectious, and it was good to see everyone back together again.

He dropped a disc into the player as Joey walked in from the recording booth. The sound wafted out of the speakers – it was scratchy, vinyl-like. Then the strings started. You were swept up into it, the simplicity of the chords, the sparse vocals. You heard where reedy background singers had filled in a weak harmony behind the chorus, and in your head you heard exactly where each of your voices would fix the sound. It didn’t even matter that there didn’t seem to be a place for a second lead. It needed to be only Justin’s voice throughout.

It’s the most brilliant thing he’d ever written. You were completely in love with it. Even Wade’s name as co-writer, hastily scrawled on the CD case next to Justin’s, didn’t matter. The song was haunting and beautiful and you decided there and then that you’d fight tooth and nail to make sure it was a single off of this new CD.

The lyrics pulled you back in: So I’ll just hang around and find some things to do to keep my mind off missing you. You’d wondered what prompted them, so you asked, thinking the “to make you come home” reference could… maybe… hold some…

“Was just feelin’ lonely one day so I put this stuff down. Wade came back in and we fleshed it all out. That’s all.” You nodded, knowing it was too much to hope that it was your own kind of home he was missing.

Still a damned good song, though.

Eventually, the other three cleared out, Chris and Lance clapping Justin on the back and working out harmonies against his lead as they aimed toward the hallway. You watched them go, Chris’s hand resting lightly on Lance’s back. They had a date tonight. You always thought it was so cute that they always took special time for each other. You kind of envied their casual, but close, relationship. Joey sat with you on the sofa in silence for a few moments, then slapped his palm to your knee, squeezing lightly and letting his touch be familiar a second too long.

“You did really well, ‘C.”

“What?”

Joey studied you carefully, and then said slowly. “That song. It kills you he wrote it with someone else, doesn’t it?”

You looked down to the copy of the disk he left for you, then nodded. Joey squeezed your knee again, then sloppily kissed your cheek.

“C’mon, let’s wrap this up. I’ve got a baby girl waiting for me at home.”

You glanced at him and smiled at the thought of Bri. As he walked back into the recording booth, you forced the refrain of Justin’s new song—“tryin’ my best to be a man and be strong”—out of your head to focus on Joey again.

~*~

Things sped up severely—if that was even possible—and you found yourself at the beginning of May with the drop date of the CD pushed back until halfway through the freakin’ tour, for chrissake, and you had this monstrosity of a tour to plan and rehearse and the last thing you all really needed right now was to take a weekend to shoot a video. But it was the only time you and Isham were able to get it together, particularly knowing what Wayne liked doing with effects. If this thing was going to get released before the third week of the tour, you needed to do it now.

You can’t even really think about everything that happened the night before in New Orleans. Joey. And blood. And ambulances and…just, no. You couldn’t think about all that.

The powers that be gathered you all together in L.A. the next morning, when it became obvious that Joey wasn’t going to be able to do all the hard dancing, if any. Justin sat across the table from you, his knit cap pulled low across his forehead. Chris and Lance sat close together, holding hands on top of the table, Chris’s thumb sliding soothingly across the back of Lance’s hand. You sat alone, your knee shaking and your teeth clenched. When Johnny said the words you’d dreaded —“Maybe Wade could be made up to…”—you opened your mouth to protest. Absolutely not, you thought. Wade may be a participant behind the scenes, but it’s unacceptable to put him in front of the camera.

And then you heard those words being spoken, but not by you. You stared across the table, surprised to see Justin’s lips moving.

Eventually, logic and necessity won out over loyalty, and as you stood to leave the trailer, Justin said, “Hey, ‘C?” and when you stopped, he pulled you into a long hug, running his hands up and down your back.

“I tried,” he whispered to you. “I want Joey here. I’m sorry, I couldn’t…” You squeezed tighter.

“It’s okay, J,” you mumbled. “Wade’s just a dance double. He’s not replacing Joey.” It’s what you’d been repeating to yourself since the decision was made. You started to let go of Justin, but he squeezed harder.

“I know. It’s just…,” he paused and sniffled, burying his head in your neck, and you remembered the 15-year-old in Germany. You suddenly missed his curls. “It’s just that Joey’s been here, with us, from the beginning.” His words were mumbled as he spoke into your neck. “It’s just not right.”

You wanted to say something, anything, about how you’d been here since the beginning, too, and it just wasn’t right that Wade had replaced so much of your role in his life, but you couldn’t. Not when he was holding you and crying. Not now.

He clung to you for you-don’t-know-how-long, not openly weeping, but you knew there were more than a few tears between the both of you. It had been a stressful few months, you thought, and he is only 20. There’s still so much riding on his shoulders. Those few minutes were all it took. Your heart was re-filled with the big-brother love that had been slowly draining away from you all spring. It felt like coming home.

~*~

The tour was explosive. “Pop” was released, and while it didn’t do all you hoped it would on the charts, it was a crowd and TRL favorite, and that’s what really mattered. You’d gotten off to a few false starts, canceling and rescheduling some dates at the beginning, but you were hitting your groove by the time you made it to Philly.

You hadn’t even made it out of the hotel when everybody’s cell phones started ringing almost all at once. You picked up yours – the caller ID said it was your mom – and was greeted with hysterics. Apparently CNN had reported that Justin and Britney were killed in a car accident in Texas that morning. You looked at fully intact, healthy Justin standing across the lobby from you and started laughing. His quick glare silenced you.

Britney.

You hung up your phone and immediately dialed Felicia, knowing Justin’s frantic speed dialing was going to Britney’s phone. You reached Fe just as he reached Brit. Her reassurances were quick and definite – then she had to go, as her call waiting was going nuts. You understood, hung up, and walked over to Justin.

His voice into his phone moved quickly from panicked to cautious to jovial. You placed your hands lightly on his shoulders, and he turned and smiled at you, She’s okay, and said some soft goodbyes so she could handle her other incoming calls, too.

You squeezed his shoulders as he faced you, hoping to get rid of some of that quickly formed tension. His breath caught. “Oh ‘C, when I first heard, I thought…” Tears welled in his eyes, a delayed reaction, and you pulled him into your embrace. He hugged his arms around your waist, and the others came up around you and laced themselves in tight.

You whispered into his ear, in the midst of the tangle of limbs, “Try your best to be a man and be strong,” and it was just a little too loud, because Chris heard it, and snorted. The embrace broke—all of you grinning and chuckling—except Justin, still wrapped around your waist. You felt him squeeze one more time, then whisper, “Thanks, Josh,” softly. You pressed a dry kiss to his temple, then jumped as you felt his cell vibrate against your hip. He grinned, then wiped a tear as he answered.

~*~

You were in California when the CD dropped. You did TRL via satellite, which sucked because you knew that tool Carson was doing something to mock you that you couldn’t see. This time they had some contest where the kids who’d received the CD already had to answer some questions about it. When they shot back to you guys in California so Justin could clarify just how many of the songs he’d written or co-written, it was on the tip of your tongue to answer – “Seven” – for him. Not that there was a problem with that, you thought, still aching a bit that your answer would have been only “four.”

So you were a bit taken aback when he replied, “Six.”

That’s what the debate had been about in the studio – the girl rattled off “‘Pop,’ ‘Celebrity,’ ‘Girlfriend,’ ‘Gone,’ ‘See Right Through You,’ and ‘Something Like You.’” Your mind mentally ticked off each one along with Justin’s raising fingers, and filled in for him at the end, “‘Up Against The Wall.’”

He grinned sheepishly at the camera. “Yeah, but that one’s dirty.”

That cold chill slid down your spine again. Your only collaboration on the whole disc and it was being dismissed as “dirty?” You felt the glare fall across your face, and when he turned to smile at you, you had to look away quickly so he couldn’t see your disappointment.

When the red light on the camera turned off, Joey reached over and squeezed your knee. You’d swear sometimes that man could read your mind.

~*~

Things were a little tense for the next few weeks between the two of you. You’d mentally prepared yourself for the release, and the inevitable questions and focus on Justin’s—and Wade’s—writing contributions. Mostly, he handled it carefully. He realized what his comments on MTV did to you. You weren’t sure if Joey or one of the others had said something to him or not—you knew you didn’t—but his reticence was apparent.

Then Joey got sick. Really sick. Missing sound check sick, then hospital-stay sick. You’d canceled Miami because of the weather, and you really thought he’d be better by San Antonio. When he wasn’t, you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself.

Sound check wasn’t tight, not at all, but you couldn’t really bring yourself to care. It wasn’t right that you’d do this—something else—without Joey. At least no one was suggesting Wade step in this time. You’d cancel the fucking show before you let that happen.

You stood in the quiet room alone, remembering. Once, your necklace had come loose during a performance, and you’d dived into the crowd to retrieve it. Since that night, before every show, Joey had made sure the clasp was fastened and locked, always pressing a kiss to the back of your neck when he was done. Even after you’d split, that little ritual remained. In San Antonio that night, your own fingers fumbled on the clasp, tugging and pulling, until suddenly someone else’s hands were in your way. You turned quickly and saw Justin’s hands lower from your neckline.

“It’s locked.”

It was the first time the two of you had been alone in a week. His voice was hesitant.

“’C? I’m sorry. I never meant…” his voice trailed away, not wanting to put his sins into words. You shrugged and turned to head back to wardrobe.

You didn’t expect his hands on your shoulders, stilling your departure. His heat snuck up behind you and you heard him say, very softly, “I’m no Joey, but…”

You didn’t want to admit how much his dry kiss beneath your curls soothed your frazzled nerves.

~*~

The tension lessened pretty completely after that. There was little discussion over what the next single would be. “Gone” was the obvious choice – it was the best track on the CD, according to most – and you needed to release another ballad. The weeks filled with a frantic race of finishing the tour and planning for the Jackson tribute and choreographing the VMAs, planning and shooting the video for “Gone”, Lance and Joey wrapping their movie details and prepping for the publicity, and taking just a little time off to be with your families.

The week after Labor Day was just plain nuts. VMAs, Jackson tribute, and the “What’s Goin’ On” recording loomed before you, daunting, but the five of you really pulled it together. The time you spent dancing and rehearsing and in the studio carried the vibe you’d missed. You’d forgotten how much fun it could be, sometimes, and it was a lot nicer knowing the grind of weeks of touring was behind you and you’d have a bit of a break.

Though it was quick, the time in the studio recording “What’s Goin’ On” was probably your favorite part of the whole week. Not only did you get to work closely with Justin again, you got to do so with Bono and Jermaine and so many other amazing musicians and producers. It was really your inner-producer’s wet dream, and you were incredibly pleased with the results. It made you itch to get back to Orlando and into your own studio. At one point you stood beside Justin at the mixing board and shared twin excited smiles. This was the way it was supposed to be.

But after that Tuesday, nothing was really the way it was supposed to be.

After your mother’s frantic calls, because you hadn't called her yet that week, you answered your door to find Justin standing there, panicked tears running down his face. You pulled him inside quickly, and asked him where his mom was.

“She’s… Memphis. Fine.” He hiccupped. “Brit’s… plane. Australia.” You could barely make out the words as he sobbed. “We were just…” He couldn’t articulate the thoughts that had already slammed through your brain that morning: We were just on a plane. Might have been ours. So many people. Scared scared scared.

You steered him into the den, the TV on mute. You watched the news and answered phone calls the rest of the day, his arms around your waist, his short curls tucked beneath your chin.

~*~

The release of the “Gone” video was pushed back a little over a week. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. The single was already out there, and your concern that it wouldn’t be well-received given the events of the day turned out to be unfounded. Despite everything, “Gone” peaked at #2 on the ARC top 40 and stayed there a good while. It was a hit. For Jive, for *NSYNC – and for Justin.

He called you the day it hit #2, the happiness bubbling over in his voice for the first time in weeks. Envy and jealousy battled it out inside of you, but you did all you could to ignore them.

~*~

What you’d been hoping would be a relaxing fall in the studio capped with a working vacation in Atlantis turned out to be everything but. You spent a few weeks in New York, filming the “What’s Goin’ On” video and making appearances on TRL. Lance and Joey’s movie premiered, and you wouldn’t miss Joey’s real theatric debut for anything, so there was that, and then the benefit shows.

The decision for the next single was determined by a conference call meeting – you, Lance and Joey in a hotel in New York, Chris in Johnny’s office in Orlando, Justin in L.A. with the suits at Jive. It was almost a given that it was going to be “Girlfriend,” and Justin was constantly calling and emailing you, crowing about its crossover appeal, and the remix beats he could hear in his head.

It was getting really fucking annoying.

You’d been talking with Joey, quietly explaining what you were hoping for, and he urged you to at least bring up the possibility of a different track. Because despite what the Celebrity promo literature plugged, you wanted “Up Against The Wall” to be released next. Your head was bubbling over with video ideas, and Craig David’s CD had picked up some steam in the U.S., so you were pretty convinced the two-step beat would be embraced. You presented your ideas remarkably convincingly, Joey and Lance nodding their encouragement.

The suits would hear none of it. They were thrilled with the crossover success “Gone” had found, and wanted a repeat performance. They’d already lined up Nelly for a remix. “Girlfriend” was the pick.

Through the phone, you could hear Justin’s whooping and carrying-on. Of course he was glad that “Girlfriend” was chosen. Of course he was.

But he didn’t have to rub it in.

You contained your ire within your professionalism while the rest of the meeting progressed, but you knew you were quieter than you normally would have been. When you wrapped it up, Lance cooing “I love you” through the phone to Chris after the suits and Justin had hung up, you let out a heavy sigh. Lance placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed, then said his goodbyes as he headed out for another interview

Joey got up from the table and stood behind your chair, massaging your cramped deltoids. “Go ahead, Josh. Let it out.”

You shook your head furiously. No, you told yourself. You were fine. There wasn’t anything wrong with “Girlfriend.” You were proud of each track on that disc. You repeated it over and over inside your head, mouthing the words, trying to make yourself believe it.

Every cell in your body was conflicted. You were so proud of Justin. He’d worked for years to find his skill, to hone a musical niche that he could call his own. He happened to fall into one that was commercially popular right now, and that’s fantastic, for him, for the group. Fantastic.

But you’d worked just as hard. For longer. It seemed like every damned thing just came so easy for him. You’d wanted his success. Damnit, you did. But you’d wanted him to grow into success right by your side, developing his songwriting skills, honing his craft.

He wasn’t supposed to glide past you.

It was like brothers, you told yourself. You imagined yourself the senior in a high school, riding on the popularity your people skills and intelligence and all-around-good-guy-ness brought you. You’re a guard on the champion football team, dutifully playing your position, helping to share the glory. And here comes your sophomore little brother, who’s just as good in everything as you and he’s the new star running back. You’re proud of his achievements, and you want his star to shine. But not at the expense of your own. And suddenly there’s this level of competitiveness that had never been there before.

That you didn’t want to be there.

But it was. It was bubbling up inside you every day, with every little victory he won. Writing with Wade, working with Brian, taking more and more of the solos. Having writing credit on the first three singles off your latest CD, your name conspicuously absent from all of them.

He spent his days buddying with Wade or on the phone with Britney, only turning to you the way he used to when he was so distraught there was no one else. You figured that should bring you some small measure of comfort. It didn’t.

And when you weighed all of this stuff against what was happening in the world: the fact that the United States was at war, the fact that people were dying of AIDS every day and that there’s no cure, things like that, this little ball of angst you’d worked up inside yourself didn’t mean shit. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

All of this flashed across your face in a matter of seconds, and Joey, fucking Joey, who’d always known you best just pulled you into a hug and said, “I know. He won again.”

And he didn’t even mind when you ruined his shirt with your bitter tears.

~*~

You sucked it up. You always did. You did the press for the Atlantis show, and the video shoot and the MTV contest thing and then relished your privacy over the holidays. You retreated from everyone, including Joey, who was spending Brianna’s first Christmas playing daddy.

Justin called one day in the week before Christmas, asking if you wanted to hit the Mall with him. You brushed him off, saying you’d already finished your shopping. He was awfully persistent, saying he had something he wanted to talk to you about, but you just weren’t in the mood to deal with him, or anyone, really, but made vague apologies and a promise to see him for New Years. You noticed he kind of stumbled over the, “Oh, okay. Well, I’ll see you later then. Have a good holiday, man.” You hung up without saying goodbye.

You holed up in your studio, creating music that made you think, that made you dance. Music that made you happy – even if it was never meant for an *NSYNC CD. You’d all talked about taking a break after the spring tour, and to you, it was sounding like a better and better idea. Maybe you’d even find something to do with all this music you were making.

You spent long days in your house, looking at photos, watching old videos. You thought about the victories he’d won over the last year – had they made you work any harder? Had they inspired you to become a better songwriter or producer? No. All it had done was cause you to second-guess your own skills, and raise your level of insecurity, masked behind this veil of competition. You tried to pinpoint the exact moment when things had changed between the two of you. When this fierce competitive streak had blossomed within you.

It’d be easy to blame it on Wade. Very easy. But really, he didn’t do anything more than Justin let him do. He’s an entrepreneur, a young man looking for success just like the rest of them. If you’d put your foot down, he’d have never had a vocal on the CD. If you’d said something, he wouldn’t have had such an open hand in choreographing Pop Odyssey. *NSYNC was five, your voice was meant to ring just as true as the others.

Maybe it was time you started using it.

~*~

What you didn’t realize was, while you were holing up at home, Justin was signing with Jive to release a solo album in late 2002.

Oh.

Okay.

You didn’t know what hurt worse, that he got the solo contract, or that he didn’t even tell you he was up for one. You felt envy and jealousy start up their fight inside you again, but let simple anger win.

~*~

Justin showed up for the AMAs late.

“Sorry, sorry. Brit was having some. . .” he waved his hand dismissively, “thing with her hair.” You moved through the crush of reporters with him and Chris, and one of the reporters made it a point to ask about solo efforts. She tried to make it look like she was talking to all of you, but since you knew neither you nor Chris had had any contracts placed in front of you, you stepped back and let Justin do the talking.

Johnny had prepped him, that much was obvious. You wondered if your manager was going to pin his dreams on the Justin Timberlake: Solo Artist star just like he’d pinned them on *NSYNC back when he’d had to choose between you and Backstreet.

You decided you weren’t ready to know the answer to that.

You ran into Tony near the entrance to the venue, and it was like a mini-Mouse reunion, until Justin broke away from your group. You rolled your eyes toward Tony as Justin made his apologies, babbling something about having to re-walk the carpet on Britney’s arm.

As you walked inside, Tony asked quietly, “Is the solo thing true?” You’d nodded.

He shook his head and fingered his beard thoughtfully. “Some kids have all the luck.”

~*~

You got a painful ache in your stomach every time the thought of him winning a solo Grammy before you all won as a group crept into your head, even if he was sharing the nomination with Brian.

~*~

You hated being mad at him. This was Justin for crying out loud, and, yes, while he’s your competition, he’s your band mate—your brother—first of all. And he was still so fucking good-natured about everything, like he didn’t even really realize there was anything wrong. You knew you’d hid it from everyone, well, everyone except Joey, whom you couldn’t hide anything from. You wanted him just to see. To be able to tell the level of insecurity he prompted within you. He’d known you just as long—why couldn’t he see it?

Then, of course, you realized: It had never been his job to see it. And you’d never let him.

You’d have to make the first move.

~*~

Your timing for it, though, was more than a little unfortunate.

Wade had somehow faded to the background of your lives. You’d hired this new guy, Marty, to choreograph “Girlfriend,” Justin claiming he wanted a more laid-back vibe than Wade would give it. This guy had worked with Janet Jackson —you knew the kind of work he could do_so you’d agreed without hesitation. The fact that Wade wouldn’t be doing it was incentive you didn’t care to think too much about.

But since you hadn’t been spending a lot of time with Justin, you didn’t notice just how much time he hadn’t been spending with Wade.

The day you’d decided to talk to him about all of it, you’d driven over to the house he shared with Britney in L.A. Wasn’t that far of a jaunt, and you knew he was home because you’d just talked to Chris, who’d just gotten off the phone with him, so you drove over without calling first.

Big mistake.

You didn’t recognize the other car in the driveway, but as you walked around to the back entrance, you could hear the yelling all the way outside. You picked up your pace, and as you approached the door, Britney’s bodyguard Rob stepped outside.

“Not now, Mr. Chasez.”

“Rob, let me in. I hear Justin in there. What’s going on?” Mad as you were, your instinct to protect him was still strong.

“Nothing that you need to get involved with, Mr. Chasez.” Rob was well paid, and loyal. You knew from experience with Lonnie and the others that if Britney had told him to keep people out, there was no getting in.

Something shattered inside the house, causing Rob to wince, then push you into a patio chair. “Stay there, or leave,” he said, opening the door to the kitchen. When the door opened, the voices inside became clearer.Britney’s distinct, “We never promised…” cut off by Justin’s “Fuck your promises and fuck you!” and then a… a third voice, low and calm, but the door closed before you could make out who it belonged to.

The voices inside dimmed to muffled, and you knew Rob had told them you were out there. You waited on the patio another twenty minutes, then, watching the windows as you walked, headed back out to your car.

~*~

You couldn’t get Justin on the phone for two days. You didn’t see him again until the day of the Grammys when you all met at Chris and Lance’s suite in the hotel for a red carpet briefing before the limo arrived.

Your mother was your date, and Chris and Lance had each brought their moms as well. You smiled as you watched Bev straighten Lance’s tie and Diane chastise Chris over his ever-growing beard horns. Those two might as well be married, you thought. Your heart tugged, just a little, when you saw Joey walk in with Kelly on his arm. They were good together, you reminded yourself, better as a couple than you and he had ever been. And Brianna was just a little gift from God.

Speaking of God’s gifts, you thought, where’s Justin? You wandered into the second room of the suite, fully expecting to see him macking on Britney. Instead, Lynn Harless greeted you with a warm “Josh! How’ve you been, darlin’?” and a kiss on your cheek. Justin looked at you, quietly and without comment, and then said, “Mom, can you give us a minute?”

She left, and he stood before you, tall, strong, and completely in control, whether you liked it or not.

“No one knows, ‘C. No one knows that we fought. No one knows why she’s not my date tonight.” He looked at you pointedly. “And noone is going to know.”

“J…” you started. You needed to be sure he was okay.

“I’m fine. She’s fine. We’re fine. Fine as we’re going to be tonight anyway.” He pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and took a long pull. He held it out to you, an offering. You took a short sip, then handed it back. His deep sigh told you more than all of the words he’d said. “Okay,” he said, pasting on his interview smile, “let’s go not win any Grammys.”

You walked behind him, and then stood with your mom as you waited for the limo, wondering just what had happened to your Justin.

Then you realized you might have given up your right to know.

~*~

You thought the hell week of tour rehearsal might give you a chance to find an opening, a way to approach this… this. He’d been surly, to be sure, but you attributed it mostly to the fight with Britney, and the pre-tour exhaustion you were all facing. But something was clearly, thoroughly wrong, though, if Justin was snapping at Chris.

Justin followed Marty back around the catwalk after Chris popped off with his background singers joke, and as you stood there, watching him berate Chris at the top of his lungs, Lance getting defensive and Joey playing peacemaker as he looked at you pleadingly, you knew the Justin you’d always known, and who’d always loved you, was gone.

And you knew that you’d let him go.

~*~

The tour started. The first few nights were spectacular, but you had to wonder if your combined efforts would have been so enthusiastic if not for the promise of a very long break after the last show in Orlando. You worked your way down the west coast to pretty decent reviews. There was a bit of panic when Joey got the call that Kelly’s plane had had to make an emergency landing when she was on her way out to visit in Oakland. You sat with him that night, holding his hand and petting his hair and promising that everything would be fine, that they’d be on the next plane possible and they hadn’t been hurt. It was one of the first times you’d been able to be there for Joey like he was always there for you, and though the circumstances sucked, you were proud of your longstanding friendship and your ability to change with it.

Which really got you to thinking.

You’d all been in this business way too long to let internal friction get in the way of the performances. You still did the hackey and the prayer and the hug every night, and with every hug you told them you loved them – even Justin, because you truly did.

But in southern California, all hell broke loose.

The noise in the hallway was colossal. You didn’t even realize Justin and Britney were back at the hotel until the volume reached the fever pitch. Lonnie was stationed at one end of the hall, next to Rob, and Dre and Tiny were managing things at the other end. You’d opened your door to the sound of a thud and barely managed to duck in time to miss the stiletto whizzing past your head. Their words were a garbled mess of “lies!”and “I never said!” and “You promised, you fuck!” and you couldn’t quite figure out the gist of the situation. You looked over to Lonnie who motioned for you to go back into your room until they’d had it out.

You did.

You waited there all night, figuring at some point Justin’s soft knock would find your door, and you’d be spending the rest of the evening comforting him.

He never showed up.

~*~

You couldn’t sleep, so you decided to walk down and see if this hotel had a piano bar. Tiny followed you, as always and as you approached the doorway, you could see Justin leaning against the hotel bar, as alone as a man with his own 6’2” shadow of muscle can be, ordering a drink.

You stood there and watched him toss back a shot, then wipe his lips and order another.

Then you turned and walked back to your room alone.

~*~

The next morning at breakfast, Justin said simply, “No more Brit,” and wouldn’t discuss it further. The rest of you exchanged worried looks around the table, but when your questions were met with only silence, you let it go.

Post-breakup Justin was nothing like you’d expected. Maybe he was sowing his newly-21-year-old oats, but you thought he was pushing it a bit too far: gambling, drinking heavily, and dragging Lance and Chris out to strip joints. He called up Jenna, the dancer from the Grammys a few weeks back, and took her on a nice visible date. Britney’s people issued denial after denial, but Johnny was instructed to keep strict radio silence.

You thought, surely, after you’d heard from Chris that he caught Justin giving some guy head in a men’s room in Vegas, that he’d come to you, at least to talk it out. Chris wanted you to give him a talking to—“It’s always been you, ‘C. He won’t listen to me about stuff like that.”— and you wanted to go to him, but, frankly, you had no idea what to say. So you didn’t discuss it at all.

When Tony joined the tour in Houston, you hung with him while he was in the tour office having his pass laminated. When Tim’s assistant opened the mobile filing cabinet to pull out the digital camera, you saw a small tangle of plastic and lanyard – Britney’s all-access pass to the tour, with “REVOKED” written across it in black sharpie. It was twined together with Wade’s, and someone had drawn devil horns and a moustache on his photo.

Suddenly everything was a lot clearer.

~*~

Chris gave you the low-down the weekend you all had off while Lance was in Russia. Over beers in his Orlando backyard, he told you the whole sordid tale: Yes, Justin found out that Britney had been screwing around with Wade, but what she didn’t know was that Justin and Wade had been fucking for months. When Britney decided she’d rather have the dancer boy than Justin, the dual betrayal was insurmountable.

You left as Chris answered Lance’s call, not wanting to hear their long-distance “I love yous.” As you drove out of Chris’s community that night, you almost took a left at the light, instead of a right, which would have taken you past Justin’s place. And once you were that close, maybe you’d just go ahead and let yourself in the gates and knock on his door. See if there was anything you could do for him.

But you turned right instead.

~*~

You still shared a bus. You still had the familiar rapport in front of the audience. He was still your band mate and your brother, and you still loved him like you loved the others; you’d lay down in traffic for him. But there was a distance now that just seemed insurmountable. You found yourself spending more and more nights on Tony’s bus, talking and playing guitar and doing a little writing. You’d missed that kind of easy friendship you’d always had with him, and you weren’t afraid to tell him that you envied his lifestyle.

He laughed when you said that. “Yeah, ramen noodles and wondering if I can make the rent?”

You’d grinned and blushed . “Well, maybe not that,” you admitted. But the small stages, singing what you wrote and having it be yours, even if it wasn’t a commercial success. Thinking of Tony’s fledgling career filled your heart with envy. The good kind of envy.

Thinking of Tony filled your heart with something else.

You shared your first kiss somewhere on the road between Grand Forks and Minneapolis. And when you shyly asked him to join you and your family for Easter the following weekend, figuring he’d say no since you were so close to his family in Michigan, he brushed your curls away from your brow and kissed it before saying, “I’d be honored.”

When you snuck out into the Pit to watch him perform for his home state crowd a few days later, he winked at you when he thanked “JC and the boys” for bringing him out on the tour. You’d had to leave the Pit before anyone caught your blush.

Looked like you’d found yourself a boyfriend.

You were tentative to tell Joey about it. You’d laid on his hotel bed, your head pillowed in on his stomach, that night while Tony was out with friends and relatives. Joey had taken one look into your eyes and knew this one could really be for real – you didn’t even have to say it. When you left his room that night, it was to warm hugs and well wishes. And as you walked past Justin’s room on the way to your own, you wished you had the courage to knock and tell him about it, too.

But you figured it was probably the last thing he wanted to hear, given everything.

~*~

You, personally, thought Chris’s guitar sex crack would have been best kept in the realm of metaphor.

But after you walked onto your bus one evening after sound check and found Justin with his face buried in Greg’s lap, his hands gripping Greg’s naked hips, you figured it might be a bit too late for that.

~*~

“Justin says you walked in on them.”

You looked up from your keyboard in surprise. Chris was straightforward, yes, but…

“I didn’t think he saw me. I left right away.”

“He didn’t see you. Greg did. He told Justin and Justin asked me to make sure you weren’t freaking out.”

“Why didn’t he ask me himself?” You looked at your hands resting on the keys. Your fingertips ached.

“Why do you think?”

~*~

When Justin’s pre-show hug was barely more than a pat on the back, you knew you needed to pull your head out of your ass and say something.

Damnit.

~*~

Unfortunately, that was a lot harder than it sounded. As the tour made its way around the northeast, you were joined by all sorts of special guests: P. Diddy took over for Smashmouth as an opener, and Nelly became sort of a fixture backstage after that, as did Busta Rhymes and other rappers. Justin was in his own personal hip-hop heaven, and it was just a community that you didn't feel like you fit into, no matter how much you enjoyed their music. You'd spent a weekend back in L.A. filming a scene for Moby's new video, and he was a little more your speed. You didn't know how to fit into Justin's world, his life anymore.

You watched over him, still, but from a distance, counting on Lance and Joey and Chris to keep his feet on the ground and his head out of the gutter as you visited strip clubs in New York, Justin's long fingers tucking tens and twenties into any G-string within reach. Diddy encouraged him, telling him he'd only be young and in show business once and he needed to take all the opportunities he could. Good advice, you'd supposed, if a bit misdirected.

Tony was a welcome distraction from all of it. You spent quiet nights in hotel rooms, talking and watching movies and writing. It was just so simple, being with him. You had shared dreams, once, and he didn’t mind listening to you talk about the could’ve beens. He had a few of those of his own. You talked to him about everything that was going on with Justin, and he never judged you for your jealousy, just offered quiet suggestions for how you could deal with it. With Tony, there was no competition, just mutual respect. You’d lay together on the sofa, his hands tangling through is curls or yours through his, and, for you, it was the best part of the day.

After Justin nearly missed sound check for the Pittsburgh show because he'd hung out in DC to party with Nelly after the show there, though, you figured you had to step up and say something, and soon. Because there was only four dates left on this tour, and after that, a maybe-year-long break.

If you didn't find a way to bring him back to you before then, you knew he'd be gone for good.

~*~

The Ft. Lauderdale show was added in late to the schedule to compensate for the cancelled Miami shows from last summer. As a result, the venue wasn't quite up to what you'd hoped it would be. All through sound check, you saw Tim's brow wrinkle in frustration as mics kept cutting in and out, then he'd form a worried huddle with a venue representative and flip a few more switches.

The show was good, though. The excitement was building for your last show in Orlando the next night, and you'd gotten together with one of the roadies to saw the legs off Chris's stool for the beginning of the witty banter portion of the evening. That was a big hit, and the crowd was wild, and your parents were all there, and it was just, really, a great prelude to a great finale.

Until the end of “Pop” when, suddenly, the only sound in the venue for about a full measure was the sound of the crowd cheering. Every speaker, every amp, every microphone, completely dead. You came down out of one of your trademark bounces with a frown, and your eyes shot out to Tim in the booth. You could barely make out his frantic scrambling across the soundboard, and knew the venue rep would be wishing he were never born after the show was over.

As frustrating as a great-show-gone-bad was to all of you, Justin took it the worst, not bothering to hide his annoyance while still on-stage, motioning to Tim in angry gestures as he walked around the catwalk during the finale. His hand in yours for the final bow was a painful grip, one that he jerked clean from as soon as possible.

~*~

Beneath the stage, as you stripped down to undershirts and quickly toweled off your sweat, you whispered a plan of action to Chris, who agreed, and clapped a reassuring hand on your shoulder. It was now or never.

~*~

He was mad already. That much was working in your favor. When he was mad, he'd yell, and when he started yelling, it was pretty difficult to keep him on-topic. Sooner or later, in his tirade, you were going to break through this.

Justin headed for the buses first, storming angrily from the venue and up onto the road coach, straight toward his bunk in the back. You followed him quickly, after whispering to the driver that Chris was riding with Lance and Joey and he should take off for Orlando immediately. You heard Lonnie slap the outside of the bus - ready to roll - and you scampered back to your bunk, grabbed a towel, and dove into the shower before Justin had even finished stripping off his sweaty clothes.

He pounded on the door, “'C! What the FUCK, man? You know I was in here first!” He jiggled the handle -- you'd actually remembered to lock it, for once -- and screamed “FUCK!” so loud you figured he'd damage his chords.

“FUCK! Chris!! 'C stole the shower from me! Chris!?” It took him only a few moments to realize it was just you, him and the driver on this journey - and he’d been under strict instructions since he was 14 to not disturb the driver, especially after that near-miss with the van on that bridge in Dusseldorf.

You showered at your leisure, hearing his heavy footsteps traverse the bus's aisle. He was not going to be a happy boy when you got out there, and that was just want you wanted: a racecar in the red. You were going to have. it. out.

You made sure to use up all the hot water, just for good measure.

When you walked out of the steaming bathroom, a towel covering your wet curls, he was standing there, leaning against the bunks, swaying with the motions of the bus, glaring at you. He grabbed his stack of clothes off the bunk next to him.

“That was fucking cold, 'C.”

“So's the water.”

Justin paused in mid-step, then looked back at you with disgust. “Mo-ther-FUCK!” he screamed, so loud it caused the driver's head to snap up and check out the rear-view mirror, obviously wondering if he needed to pull over. You motioned to him to keep going as Justin flung his towel and shorts toward the toilet.

Damned good thing you always put the lid down.

His hands were shaking, he was so angry. You pretended not to notice, and sat at the table booth, rubbing the towel over your head. You half expected him to head back to the lounge to take out his frustration on a game of Halo, and were mentally working out a way to keep him here, with you, when he suddenly flopped down on the sofa across from you. His knees were bouncing, and his hands clenched in and out of fists. It looked like he wanted to punch you.

Wow. The thought almost knocked you over. Maybe he did.

Maybe you'd punch back.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by his voice, cold and filled with pain. “Why'd you do that, JC?”

You paused, a beat, two, and then shrugged. “Wanted to use the shower first.” You watched his fists: Clench. Release. Clench. Release.

He spoke very calmly. “It has been bus rules since our very first tour. First little Indian gets the first shower. I was on the bus first. And you are sitting there clean. What's wrong with this picture?”

That was your window. “Well, I figured since every other rule we'd been going by the last few years had been pitched out the window, this one could be, too.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice was on the verge of breaking back into anger.

“I mean you. I mean us. I mean you not having a fucking conversation with me in months. I mean you breaking up with your girlfriend and not telling me about it. I mean you blowing our guitarist on the bus and having Chris ask me if I was freaking out. I want to know, Justin, why'd you stop talking to me?” You were suddenly very afraid that he'd give you a real answer.

He did.

He laughed. But it wasn't his happy laugh. It wasn't the laugh fans saw in the “Bye Bye Bye” video. This laugh was filled with venom. You'd never heard this sound come out of him before.

“Like I'd really turn to the one guy who's so jealous of everything I do he can barely function.”

There was that cold chill again. Straight down your spine. You didn't know he… you had no idea it was ever apparent to anyone but Joey.

He read the look on your face like sheet music. “Oh, come on, JC. You think I can't hear the change in your voice when you're disappointed? You think I can't see bitterness in your eyes? You don't spend eighty percent of eight years with a person and not get to know absolutely everything about them. You've been jealous of me ever since Kevin started working on ‘I'll Be Good’ with me instead of with you. You wanted to hold me down. Hold me back. And you can't stand the fact that I'm defining our sound instead of you.”

Your blood ran cold. You had your issues with him, yes. You’d felt that fierce competitor in you bubble to the surface every time staging was arranged, or a single was proposed, even the order of the tracks on the CD had caused you grief. But it was competition, brotherly competition. You never meant to make him think you didn't want him to succeed.

“I'm surprised you never tried to compete with me other than musically.Really surprised you never tried anything with Britney. Of course, being the little slut she is, you could have had her.”

Your throat was tight, your voice stuck when you tried to speak. “Justin, I…”

“Just, never mind, JC. We'll be back in Orlando in a few hours, and after tomorrow night, you don't have to have me or the work I do shoved in your face anymore.” He shifted to look out the window, his hand in a fist near his mouth. You barely heard him say, “I'll finally be out of your hair.”

Wait, what?

“What? Out of my hair? Justin, what?” You slid out of the booth and knelt on the bench next to him. You could see moonlight reflecting in the hot tears tracking down his face. “Justin, you were never in my hair.” You touched his clenched fist near his knee and he jerked away. “Justin, you're my brother. I love you.”

Justin rolled his eyes, the motion causing more tears to trickle down his face. “Right. You were only there because my mom made you. I finally turned 21 and you forgot all about me.”

Your mind shot back to Lynn Harless asking you to care for her little boy when she couldn't. Sure, she didn't exactly ask, but it's not like you would have said no if she had. You couldn't believe, after all this time… “Maybe at first, Justin, but, damn, man, like you've said, we've spent eighty percent of the last eight years together. How could I not love you?”

He didn't say anything, and you thought back to your behavior over the past few months and years, your inner rage after “Girlfriend” was picked, the hidden jealousy over the time spent with Wade, the way you felt like they'd arranged the staging of "Gone" so it'd be The Timberlake Show and his background singers would fade away without the audience even knowing. It had been a long time since you'd given him any reason to think you loved him. Since September, really. You were there for him when the rest of the world fell apart, but you weren't when his own was crumbling.

You remembered his call, right before Christmas, when there was something he wanted to talk to you about, and you realized what it must have been.

You reached for his hand again, and this time, he didn't pull away. But he didn't look at you, either.

“Justin?”

He twitched, a bit, but didn't turn.

“Thank you.”

He blinked, once, twicethreetimes. “What?”

“Thank you.”

He seemed a bit incredulous. “For what?”

“For being honest with me, just now. For telling me how you felt. I've missed that.” You squeezed his hand. “And, it's more than I've been with you, for a long time now.”

You felt his fist clench beneath your palm, and he glanced at you. “What do you mean?”

You squeezed gently. “You were right. You are right. I am jealous. I'm jealous that you've gotten so much praise for your work. I'm jealous that your songs have been our singles. I'm jealous that every night I drop down below the stage while you make fifteen thousand people scream with the twitch of a finger. I'm jealous that you got everything I don't really want.”

“Got everything you don't… what?” He turned to you, now, looking like you'd fallen off the top bunk and were speaking in tongues.

You shrugged, not letting go of his hand. “It's been eating me up for months, Justin. All of that. And I haven't really talked to anyone about it, except Joey, but we all know this isn't what he really wants for his career, either, so he gets it. Well, and Tony. Tony and I have talked a lot, about where I want to be a year from now, what I want to do over this break. And I finally realized that I don't want all of the same things that you do, and it shouldn't matter to me if you surpass me as part of *NSYNC, because that's not all we'll ever be.”

You took a deep breath. You'd never talked with Justin about Life After The Group before. You’d never even mentioned his solo deal, because it seemed too much like After and it shouldn't be affecting your collective Now.

“He helped me see that my jealousy of you was a good thing, because it's shown me where I do want to go with my career.” You counted to ten, waiting for him to respond.

Then you counted to ten again.

And again.

“Justin?”

“Just a second.” You'd moved past the lights of suburban Ft. Lauderdale and Boca Raton, and were gliding down a darkened stretch of road. You couldn't read the look on his face in the midnight of the bus. But his voice…

“So you don't hate that I got a solo deal?” His voice was barely holding back a sob.

You had to be honest. “I did, Justin. I did.” He started to pull his hand away, but you hung on firm. “But I don't now, J. I don't. I'm proud of your solo deal. I'm so proud of all you've done.” Your hand traveled up his arm to his shoulder, and snaked around his neck, pulling him closer to you. “I've always been so proud of you, Justin. I promise. I've just had a really shitty way of showing it.”

He relaxed a bit, then, there against your shoulder. His tears dripped down onto your skin, and he sniffled repeatedly until you reached onto the ledge behind him and pulled out a few tissues. You handed to him with a small smile. “Remember, J… try your best to be a man and be strong.”

He laughed, weakly, but familiarly. The venom from before had leaked out with his tears. “You know, 'C? Every night? When I sing ‘Gone,’ I've been singing it to you.” He pushed himself up to blow his nose.

You grinned. “I'm your baby girl?” He grinned from behind the tissue pressed to his face.

“No. Dork.” He blew, and then wiped the tissue across his upper lip. “I just… I felt like you left me there, for awhile.” He sniffled a bit, reaching for a clean tissue. “I guess in a way, you did.”

You hated to nod your agreement, but did it anyway. “Yeah, I guess I kind of did. But, you know? It felt to me like you were already gone, and that if I didn't find you again, I'd never get you back.”

He looked around the darkened bus, then at you, smiling. “Hell of a game of hide-and-seek we've got going here, 'C.” You'd shifted so your left leg was tucked beneath your right, and Justin slid so his back was against the upright of the bench, then changed his mind and shuffled so his head rested on your thigh, You smoothed your hand over his buzzed hair.

You missed his curls.

You sat there, Justin's head on your lap, as the bus raced down the highway, each of you fighting residual tears, absorbing all you'd each said. After about a half hour, you tickled Justin's ear. “Water's probably hot now.”

“Comf'rtble,” Justin mumbled.

You nudged your head with your thigh. “C'mon man. Go shower. You stink.”

He groaned and stood, regaining his balance on the moving bus, switching on a low lamp. Just before he turned to enter the bathroom, he looked back to you. “You and Tony, huh?”

You blinked at the sudden light. “Yeah.”

“Cool.”

“Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“You and Greg, huh?”

You hadn't seen him blush like that in years, not since the first time you caught him and Britney in your hotel suite playing a lively game of Doctor.

“It's a tour thing. It's fun.”

You nodded, and he disappeared into the bathroom. When you heard the shower start, you reached for your cell and speed-dialed Joey.

“He's back.”

“Good,” Joey's voice was raspy. You could hear Chris’s laugh bouncing over Lance’s low rumble. “Now tell Carl to pull the fuckin’ bus over because this asshole Kirkpatrick is keepin' the baby awake.”

~*~

The Orlando show was everything Ft. Lauderdale was and more. The venue was packed, the crowd lively and involved, and every one of you was spot-on, with your choreography, your vocals, and your banter. All of it was perfect. It all just worked.

You almost hated to see the show end. Almost.

But end it did, and as you gathered on the ramp behind the band for your final bow as *NSYNC - for this year, anyway - Justin's hand was again clasped tightly in yours. He glanced at you and with a small grin laced your fingers together.

You bowed, and squeezed your hands together as the crowd cheered and cried.

You knew exactly how they felt.

This story wouldn't have happened without outstanding help and beta-type doings from Steph, Liz, Gretchen, Kelly and Sandy the Older.
Thank you all.