It's just some hole club you found after a particularly shitty day of existence, and you wouldn't have even gone in if you hadn't been desperate for a little entertainment and a drink or two to calm the nerves. It was either that or go home and chain smoke. You needed the drink.

You were in the bathroom when they came in, and when you went back to the bar, there were five huge black men sitting there. You crooked an eyebrow but you know when to back down so you turned on your heel and found a table near the back. The waitress, who was skittish and loud, took your order, and you looked around.

It was pretty dead in there. The live band wasn't showing up, you heard two people saying, but that was okay because the gin and tonic is strong, and you'll be drunk in no time. You're easy like that.

You glance to the left, catch the eye of a very old man who leers back at you, and that's that, so you glance to the right. It's not like you mean for your eyes to bulge out, it just happens, and you down the rest of your drink before thinking about it. There are two guys making out, and you can't help but think this is your lucky day.

You smile into your glass and wave the waitress down to get another then you steal glances at them, getting ideas. It's one thing to write about it, and it's another to see it. It's hot the way the hand works over the smaller guy's neck, fingers digging into his light hair.

This is where your shitty day is improving, and you're trying to be subtle about it. It's dark, and you can barely see your hands, and you can only see them because your eyes are used to the lack of light. When the bigger one looks up, right at you, you freeze.

Holy fuck. Holy, holy fuck.

It's your secret shame, your love for them, and you really don't try to advertise it because, hello, boybands. Those are so not cool in the world you're living in, and you can tell by the flick of fear on his face that he knows you know. They probably thought they'd be safe here.

Your shitty night is suddenly a lot worse.

You look away just as the glass hits the table, and you can barely process it. Joey and Lance, together, at a table, sitting right fucking there, making out like. like you dreamed they did, but truth is stranger than fiction, and you can't handle it.

It about to get a lot worse because suddenly you're not alone at the table, and you recognize him, too. How can you not? It's surreal, but you're trying to deal with it. All you wanted was a drink and some live music. You're wishing you'd just smoked a pack and saved yourself all this trouble.

"Hey," Chris says, and you smile crookedly. "They're drunk."

"Oh," you say slowly, and nod like you believe it. There's no drinks on the table, and you haven't seem them drink at all, not one ounce and certainly not like you, who's drunk off two gin and tonics and feeling like the world's dancing around you. "It's okay. I won't tell."

Chris looks at you, like he's judging to see if you're telling the truth. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a lawyer," you say slowly, "but I'm not lying to you."

Chris smiles at that, and it's amazing how his eyes light up, how his face changes when he's forgetting you're a threat to the biggest band in the world. You own all five covers of Rolling Stone. You know how huge this secret you now keep is.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Chris asks, and you wonder if he means can he buy your silence, but you nod anyway, because the night is so crappy and you just want to relax. This will be your last one, though, you want to remember this for those times late at night when you can't sleep.

Chris waves down the waitress and orders two, then turns back to you, his eyes drilling into your face. He's even hotter in person, and even though you always heard that was true, you didn't understand how that could be possible. It is. The drunk, hazy part of you wants to kiss the corner of his mouth, right where it crinkles when he smirks.

"I'm kind of freaked out, dude," you admit then blush and want to smack your head against the table because one, that wasn't a cool, collected Emmy comment, and two, you called him dude and that's just weird, but he smiles. "Things like this don't happen to me. I mean, I love you guys, you know? I heart you."

Emmy, you say, shut up.

Chris laughs loudly. "You're fucking kidding me."

"No," you say, laughing because he is, and if you're embarrassed, it barely matters, because you're oddly flattered Chris Kirkpatrick is laughing his ass off at you. "I own all your albums. I'm a big, big fan. I'm such a loser."

"No, no, it's cool," Chris assures you and folds his palm over your hand, holding it there. His skin is dry and warm, and you smile at him shyly, hoping you look all right. The part of you that is sixteen years old and wants to bear all his children and take his last name wants you to be perfect for him. "Just surprising as hell. I should have guessed though, when you recognized those fuckwits making out in public. I can't turn them off."

"It's sweet," you say. "They're cute together."

"They're fucking saccharine," Chris admits. "I'm only out to make sure they don't fuck in public. Not that they fuck," Chris amends slowly, narrowing his eyes, "because they're drunk and don't know what they're doing."

"I can sign a confidentiality agreement, if it'll make you feel better," you offer, and Chris blinks at you. You'd do it, too. Besides, who are you going to tell? No one will believe you, and you love NSYNC too much to intentionally destroy them. The world isn't ready for gay boybanders, and you know it. "But really. It's cool. I'm happy for them if, you know, they're not always drunk."

Chris leans forward. "What's your name?"

"Emmy," you reply. "I'd ask you yours, but."

"Yeah." Chris laughs. "Hey, do you dance?"

"This isn't really. I mean, people don't really dance here," you mumble, just in case he's stupid and doesn't notice, and he laughs at you again. When he offers his hand, you take it anyway. "Listen, I'm kind of drunk."

"It makes dancing fun, come on. Take your drink, and lets boogie. Maybe, if I can make enough of an ass of myself, no one's going to realize the dipshits are making babies in public again," Chris says and grins, dragging you onto the dance floor.

You've never had as much fun in your life as you're having with Chris, who dances like a moron even though you know he can do better. He shimmies, and swings you around, and drinks your drink, and you laugh so hard you have to sit out to nurse the stitch in your side. You tumble back into the booth, where JC is now sitting, just as pretty and otherworldly as in the pictures. He's nothing compared to Chris.

"C, this is Emmy. Emmy, well, no need to tell you right." When Chris leans over and whispers loudly, "dude, she's a fan," you giggle and lean into him, his arm wrapped around your waist. "So. What's your opinion on Space Cowboy?"

It's out before you can stop it. "Flame on, JC, you write of yourself!"

Chris wails with laughter at that, and you giggle, your head swimming with the beat of the music. JC laughs and lifts his glass, taking a long drink. You rest your head on Chris's shoulder and look at Lance and Joey, who are talking to each other, sitting so close. Your belly clenches with envy. You want that, so badly.

Your eyes shift again, the hum of Chris's voice in your ear as he makes fun of JC, and you see Justin and Britney in a booth, drinking cokes and talking. The rest of the club is almost empty, save for a few regulars who paid no mind to anything. You suddenly wonder if you're even allowed to be there.

"Maybe I should go," you say suddenly. "I'm intruding."

"You're my guest now," Chris replies, looking at you. "And I want you to stay."

"Me too," JC says, "you're funny. Even though, I do not flame."

That sets Chris off again, and you're doubled over, gasping in air. JC sighs at you both and orders another round of drinks, grinning. It goes like that for a good three hours, until the bar is closing down. Justin and Britney leave first, and Joey and Lance come over to the table.

"Thanks," Joey says, to no one in particular, and Lance nods beside him, lips looking well kissed. His eyes are happy, and you're glad. He's always been your favourite, and you want him to be comfortable in his life. They leave together, holding hands. It's really beautiful.

"You want to share a cab?" JC asks, and Chris nods. JC leans over and kisses your cheek, breath warm against your cheek. "And I will continue to flame, thank you. Though, really, it's more of a smouldering thing."

"Dude, you burn brighter that a campground full of campfires. Accept it, move on," Chris says, laughing, and JC shoves at him before walking off, a slight stumble in his step. Chris turns to you. "We got an early flight tomorrow, so. Not that, you know. I have no fucking clue what I'm saying here."

"You have to go," you supply. "I understand, though you would have been welcome."

"If you give me your number, we can keep in touch," he says quietly, so suddenly serious, and it's intense to be sitting where you are, Chris focused on you entirely. "If you want. I'd like you as a friend. I don't have many anymore, and I had a great time tonight."

"Me too. It totally. It totally made my night."

"You seemed sort of bummed when we got here," Chris agrees, and he leans forward, his mouth brushing your lips with a kiss. It's gentle and soft, and he touches your face as it deepens, one hell of a kisser. You pull back and smile at him, and he grins back. "Your number?"

"Sure," you say and scribble it down. He takes it and puts it in his wallet, and then he's gone with a wave out the door. You know it doesn't matter if he ever calls you because you had this night, and when you stand up to leave, you finally feel all right.

~end~