Part 2


"What? Are you fucking KIDDING me? HULA fucking dancers?"

JC was mad. He was eighth-grade-locker-room-brawl mad. He was hell-hath-no-fury mad. He was fist-busting-through-the-wall mad. He was seeing-nothing-but-fiery-red mad. And, when he heard the latest news from Carlos and the group of lawyers and managers who'd been advising him for several outrageously frustrating days now, he was definitely fit-to-be-tied and charging-around-the-room-fuming mad.

"Did you seriously just say that I'm out on my ass altogether and they're replacing me with goddamn HULA dancers and conch shell blowers? Is that what the fuck I heard? They can blow ME, damnit!" His voice quavered as he darted from one chair to the other in the Seattle hotel suite, shaky and snarly.

"They're running scared-shitless of the FCC, JC. After the Nipplegate fiasco. The NFL, CBS - hell, all the networks for that matter. Even MTV is starting to pull certain 'racy' videos because of the tidal wave of public backlash and outrage over what happened on air Sunday."

"Fuck that bullshit!" JC screeched as he whirled on his heels and threw smoldering black fire from his eyes around the room. "I'll show you some motherfucking outrage! 'Cause, man, I'm catching the fallout of all this crap more than ANYBODY! This is so absolutely unfair to me! What the fuck did I do to deserve this shit?"

All of his "people" had watched, over the past couple of months, him tirelessly rearrange his entire schedule for the spotlight Pro Bowl Halftime gig and had seen him look forward to it with the wild enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas. Then they'd watched, over the past three days, his temperament go from irritated but understanding to irate but still compromising, and now to this full-blown, boiling-over, volcanic eruption of anger at the increasingly unreasonable changes that the National Football League kept demanding he make to his scheduled performance coming up this weekend. The guy they knew as fun-loving, peaceful, and cool had just reached his threshold for bullshit being slung at him and had lost his last weak rein on his self-control. And none of them faulted him for it.

"We agree completely, JC. You're an innocent victim being singled out and made a public example of so that some big-whig corporate assholes can prove a point and make themselves look better."

"But didn't I go along with their shit and say I'd switch songs at THEIR request, for fuck's sake? And did I not agree to rework the lyrics so nobody gets their pious sensibilities jacked up and offended by 'horny' and 'naughty'? Fucking hell! Horny and naughty? Can you believe that shit?" He stormed about and swung his arms wildly.

"We know, JC. We hear you. It's absurd as hell. And crazy. You did everything you could. We know. We're still trying to fight it. Don't lose all hope," his business manager told him. He'd been the one to get the cell call of doom during the entourage's visit to the children's hospital that afternoon.

JC's hands slammed downward, open palms smacking against his jeaned outer thighs. Red-faced, he huffed aloud. A dragon breathing out deadly fire.

"Fuck hope, man! Those bastards won't even watch the tape of the choreography before they condemn it as sexed-up and over-the-top! And what about the new toned-down costume ideas I offered to suit their damn Puritan tastes? No! They just want to fucking burn me at the stake and make me their little whipping boy for whatEVER and then put on some idiotic HULA fucking dancers in the spot that was MINE! I've bent over backwards and let them screw me as hard as they wanted. I complied with ALL of their shit demands. And they're fucking booting me? It's a witch hunt, man! A fucking witch hunt! 'Re-evaluated' my performance. Right. Fuck censorship and fuck them. This is wrong, man."

"You have every right to be upset, JC. EVERY right. This is beyond unfair. This is humiliating. And, as a last resort, there's still the singing of the anthem on the table. Don't forget that."

JC scowled. "Yeah. How fucking kind of them to throw me a bone like that. After screwing me out of a major gig like they did. Fuckers."

"We feel your pain, man," Carlos added. "You've been more than accommodating. You're not responsible for any of this horse shit. They just need a scapegoat, and you're the ideal target right now. Because of your tight association with……….Justin."

JC marched across the room over to the window and shook his head. His fists clenched, and his cheeks burned with the bitter flush of his blood.

"Man, how the fuck can they punish ME for something I wasn't anywhere near when it went down? How, man? This is fucked up. And you know what else? That cat Brian McCarthy? He's fucked up too. The son of a bitch won't even talk to me himself on the phone? How wrong is that? This is a shakedown, man. They punted me out of their little game, and I wasn't even AT the fucking Super Bowl Halftime show. Hell, I was hardly even watching the bitch!"

JC stood there stiffly, glaring out the window at nothing. Carlos watched his profile as his body shuddered electrically. He remained silent until he was sure JC had caught his breath after the last venomous release.

"C……….Have you heard from him yet? Justin? Since this shit happened?"

JC didn't answer at first. And when he did, it was softer and far more in-check than his raging-tantrum tone.

"No."

"He'll call."

"I know. I'm sure his world's am out-of-control cyclone around him right now. He's got a shitload of things on his mind."

"I have no doubt you're one of them, man. You always have been." Carlos wasn't shocked at all to hear his friend give Justin the complete benefit of the doubt.

JC was motionless for several seconds, seemingly lost in those words in his head. Then he shrugged, sighed, and shoved away from the window all at once, turning to face all the eyes in the suite that were focused on him.

"Okay. So here's the thing. They don't want me? Then they won't fucking get me. Simple as that. Not for the anthem or anything else."

"Wise decision, JC. That's exactly what I'd suggest."

"And their little press release about me will hit the wires soon. Everybody on the planet will know I'm the bumped loser. But I'm not talking this fucking sitting down, man. I'm gonna do a bit of public venting myself. I've got a side to tell in this thing too. I'm making some calls and talking about some shit. I'm getting my two cents out there too. Fuck 'em. I've got some key contacts. Watch me……….None of you got a problem with that, do you?"

"Go ahead, JC. Get it off your chest. You need to. The media will certainly want to hear from you. And you should probably do an official public statement too. This is just not right, man. And you need to speak out on it."

"Just stay the professional you know how to be. That's my only advice."

"Yeah, I know. I can handle myself. And I already thought of doing that official statement thing. I'll write something up."

"So then where are you planning to start? Got any ideas?"

"Oh, yeah. My boy JoJo on KIIS FM. Tonight. On air. He'll dig the scoop I'm going to dish out, man."

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

["What you are is a puzzle to me now."]

"C'mon, babe. Don't leave. Let's discuss it. Please don't walk away from me."

"We discussed it, J. As much as there was to discuss. I want to get some fresh air now. So would you fucking step aside?"

"Jace, don't go. Not like this. It's just a temporary arrangement. It won't last. You know the drill. You know how they 'encourage' these things."

JC smirks and feels the warmth waving off Justin's body standing just inches from his own. Warmth that does nothing at all to fend off the chill in his bones.

"*This* arrangement doesn't feel temporary, J. They've been pushing a long-term for-the-public romance for a while now. Something more stable and lasting. You know that. You're not stupid. And you're playing right into it, man."

"Wrong, babe. It'll be just for a little while during the tour, Jace. I swear."

JC sighs tiredly and glances away from the sky-blue pools of Justin's eyes. "Will you please move your ass so I can go out and take a walk?"

"Babe, we survived Bobbee. We survived Brit. We'll get through this one just fine. You'll see."

"She's a Hollywood actress, Justin." JC looks up and glares, in shades of azure and teal and gold. "A fucking movie star. Not the same league of beards we're used to, man. She's, like, a pro."

"But that won't make any difference, Jace. It won't."

"Difference, hmm. Interesting……….It's all different. Everything. Can't you see that, J? And I'm not liking the way it feels. Sorry, but the vibes suck. It's just somehow not right……….Now move. I have to go."

"You don't have to go. Please stay. I love you."

"And that's supposed to make everything okay?"

"It always did before."

"That was before, J."

"Are we that different from before, Jace? Are we?"

JC doesn't answer right away. All he can do is stare into Justin's eyes.

*Fuck. Never seen blue like that blue. Ever. And it makes you feel like you're falling off the moon.*

"We are, J. You can't feel it? Your star's rising. You're getting bigger and bigger, and that's great. It really is. But, at the same time, we're getting further and further apart, and that's not so great. We're *all* drifting away. From you."

"And what the hell does that mean?" Justin whimpers.

"You have to know, J. You have to."

"Jace, please don't go. Please say that 'baby, baby, baby' thing to me again. Like you used to."

"That's interesting too, love. See, I think 'please don't go' is exactly what I've been begging you for a while now."

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

["Why is everything so wrong?"]

Justin felt the burn of hot tears break at the tender edges of his eyes as he stared straight ahead, as he watched JC on the TV screen being interviewed by the "Access Hollywood" correspondent. Fire tore through his gut, racing madly up into his chest and around his heart, threatening to overtake control of him and make him do vicious, destructive things. Retaliatory things. Defensive things. Protective things.

And that fire carried in it the singeing realization that he was responsible (at least partly) for this agitated, emotionally-charged-up, distraught JC on the television screen in front of him now. A more ruffled, more high-strung JC than he'd ever seen before.

Justin dug his fists into the pockets of his Pony jacket and pulled it tighter around him as he slunk further down into the chair. He'd locked himself in this back room of the dressing suite at the Staples Center to watch this. He had to see this. Without distraction. Without being observed.

Since the galaxy-sized "wardrobe malfunction" disaster on Sunday in front of a gabillion hundred people, his life had become an unraveling nightmare, a living hell he'd never expected. He'd tried his best to stay positive and keep his head above the waves and waves and waves of large-scale controversial backlash that continued to build with each passing day - the unending stress that was stealing sleep from him at night and giving him aches in parts of his skull that had never ached before.

He'd been genuinely afraid that he wouldn't be allowed to even attend the Grammys, much less allowed to perform as scheduled. But here he was, rehearsing along with everyone else. With every black cloud in all the universe suspended inches above his head, making him self-consciously shy away from as many people as he could and avoid discussing anything, especially The Issue.

It had been hell-crazy all week, an avalanche of circus after-effects from his and Janet's "lewd" antics. And Justin regretted ever agreeing to have any part in the "whole big steaming pile of dog shit" in the first place - planet-wide, ground-breaking limelight or not. It had not been worth it. Fuck it all. Fuck it all. Fuck it all.

And now, to his horror, he's learned that the tsunami of kickback had extended itself all the way to JC and rushed right over him, flooding out all of his plans and drowning something that was rightfully his. Gorgeous, innocent JC.

I didn't mean to do you wrong, baby. I swear I didn't.

Justin felt that fire in his veins again, that bristling in his nerves - same as yesterday when he'd finally come out of his own exile and spoken officially about "the incident" to a CBS camera. He'd heard his voice falter and rise and shake as he said the words that had been designed for him, the words he'd practiced saying. And he'd felt Johnny's hot breath hovering at his ear, close enough to jump in for a rescue in case Justin had gotten any more uncoiled than he already was and said words he hadn't practiced.

He rewound the segment when it finished and hit "Play" again. Then he sat huddled in the small, shadowy room, hardly breathing, as JC filled the screen - and his consciousness - again.

The dark flash-roll of the piercing eyes, the animated snap of the neck. The restless-fidgety gesturing of the hands, the tense twitch of the upper lip. This person Justin had loved for so long now so visibly suffering in front of everyone. Because of Justin. He could even hear the maddening frustration in his usually quiet voice.

"They're smearing my name and bashing me and my work. And I had a really good show put together for those people."

"It's like they're punishing me for something somebody else did. I just want to make a living like everybody else. I just want them to be fair."

"I keep telling myself, 'I didn't play at the Super Bowl. I wasn't even at the Super Bowl. But I'm the one who got beat at the Super Bowl.'"

"You should call Chasez, J. You, like, owe him that much, man," Trace had chided when he'd told Justin about recording the "AH" interview and the Ryan Seacrest show phone-in JC had done. "The dude's pissed as hell. You oughta give him a shout and see what's up. Get him back on the Grammy guest list or something, man. Ain't he your boy?"

"Of course, he is," Justin had mumbled, burning inside with more than just three days' worth of regret and guilt. "Always."

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

["'Cause I'm the you you forgot, the only one you know you cannot lie to."]

"'Instead of running with bubblegum popstars, he hangs out with the Neptunes, John Mayer, Black Eyed Peas -"

"C'mon, dude. That's not a direct quote from him," JC rasps, bored, across the table then calmly goes back to his lunch of teriyaki salmon at the outdoor seafood grill in Miami. "He didn't actually say that. Jenny What'shertwat wrote it. So get real. And learn to read, man."

Already finished with his own tuna burger, Joey frowns a frown that JC doesn't catch and then glares down again at the big, glossy magazine open and flat in front of him beside his plate. "Oh, yeah, Mr. Bubblegum Popstar? Well, listen up, Chasez. Because he *does* say this. And I quote: 'I was so anxious to be involved with music. Not that I'm speaking badly about anything I've done, but I just didn't know any better.'……….Did you hear that, man? He's talking about US! And what we did as a group! Dude's so far above us now, bless his little 'Justified' heart. That son of a bitch. Listen to this……….'There is no doubt that Timberlake has outgrown NSYNC. Even he seems to be aware of it now'……….Are you hearing this shit, C?"

JC glances upward, slowly chewing, and meets his friend's eyes. "I've already read it for myself, Joe. I've got a subscription, man. Duh-uh. So you can lay off reading it to me."

"So you read it, and it didn't make your skin crawl? To see him being such a high-and-mighty jackass? Talking this smack about us and the music we did?"

JC swallows carefully before he answers, eyes steeled blue at Joey. "No," he flat-out lies.

"No? Liar!" Joey yelps, his own eyes widening and his voice cracking a little under the piped-in reggae music. "Well, hold up. I've got something else for ya, buddy. There's even a little nod to *you* in here, dude." He looks down and skims the columns of words again until he finds the passage he's searching for. "Here it is. In the 'I don't want to do teen pop again' slam……….'I wasn't able to look at the bigger picture and realize there was this whole movement, like, Disneyworld is taking over. And looking back on it now, how fucking frightening is that?'……….Did you read THAT part, JC?"

"Well. So. How's it a nod to me exactly?"

"Disneyworld. You and your sexy little sweetie. Love birds. Adolescent Mouseketeers. For Disneyworld."

"Refresher course for you, Joe. We worked for MMC, not Disneyworld. Not entirely the same thing. And I think he meant the whole boy-band movement coming out of Orlando, man. Like, you know, where Disneyworld IS. Duh-uh again. Maybe you ate some bad sashimi off that appetizer tray we had, man. Or drank yourself too much sake. You're overanalyzing the hell out of that article. And for no good reason."

Joey snorts and turns to Lance for support. "Umm. Are you still here with us, Bass? Wanna help me show C-man how his honey's turned into an arrogant, full-of-himself prick?"

Lance quietly drags another French fry through the blue cheese dip meant for his conch fritters and looks up as he eases it into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and blinks, taking his luxurious time.

"Joey, you know, technically, they're not 'honeys' any longer. You know, considering that it's been, like, months since they were a couple."

"Well, fucking thank you, Lance," JC hisses and shoots him a terse glare. "I'd totally forgotten all about how you're now my professional publicist and spokesperson."

"Fine, JC," Lance says calmly and rolls his eyes. "Speak for yourself. I was just trying to clear things up. But is what I said not the damn truth, man?"

JC stabs at a black olive with his salad fork, eyes squinted and downcast. "It's true, I guess. Now that we've strayed from magazine- article critiquing to The World Of Things That Do Not Fucking Matter."

"JC, you need to get laid. You're such a bitch lately."

"Fuck off, Lance."

"So then all this oral fixation and blow-job horse crap in here……….That's not about you?" Joey asks, inserting himself back into the conversation, still frowning and now pursing his lips.

"That horse crap would be about his *girlfriend*," JC mutters sullenly. "No wonder he's so damn proud. Just look at her. Wouldn't YOU be? That one's a prize."

"Sarcastic much there, Chasez?" Joey snickers.

"*Girlfriend*. Please, JC. That's hilarious. JT's just a playa. And right now he's playing the extended dance club remix of the beard song on the Hollywood turntable." Lance chuckles and reaches over to nudge JC's arm. "So where are you partying tomorrow night, man? Big New Year's Eve and all that. Wanna hang out with us? We've got some awesome gigs lined up. C'mon. It'll rock."

"Maybe. Sounds wild." JC shakes his head and grins. "Like your asinine little philosophical analogies, Lance. Where do you come up with that shit?"

"Bugger off. I was trying to help."

"Wait a second, Chasez." Joey buts in again. He's not finished yet. He points toward the magazine again. "What about the kicker, dude?"

"The what?"

"The hook. The best part of the whole interview. That callout quote splashed across the mouthy asshole's picture. Check it out: 'Do I think that what I've done is ten times better than NSYNC? Yes, I do. But I'm a cocky bastard.'……….That swelled-head motherfucker. Are you believing his audacity?"

Lance rolls his eyes again. And yawns. "Who cares?"

"Joe, let it go," JC hisses impatiently. "A stupid, shitty article in 'Rolling Stone.' It doesn't need to be picked apart or get you all steamed up like this. It's really nothing. So drop it."

"Yeah, man. It's Justin being Justin. Big whoop." Lance twirls his index finger in the air, sighs, and then goes for his glass of Japanese beer.

"Nothing? Really? We're now two-bit chumps to Justin TimberGod's elitist ass, and you want to let it go? Why in the hell are you always making excuses for him, Chasez? He's different now, man. He's a penis with ears. He disses us publicly. And that's fucked up. So why is it you're constantly defending him, man?"

"Because………."

*I love him. Always.*

"Because it's just words on paper, Fatone. We don't know jack about how they got there or what kind of attitude he had or what the context was when he said them or whatever. He could have even been misquoted. Ever think about that? Man, don't put so much psyche energy into it. It's just stupid. 'Cause we *know* Justin better than anybody, right?"

Joey sighs, giving up, closing the magazine. "Let's hope we still do, C. You know what I'm saying?"

"Sure." And JC is more than ready to be done with this conversation as well. "So……….what's the game plan for tomorrow night? Where are we hitting it first?"

He pushes his plate away and flips his sunglasses down off his head, over his eyes. And, very icily, he shields everything simmering inside and pretends not to give a damn. He's learned, out of necessity, how to perfect that.

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

"Have you spoken to Justin?" Ryan Seacrest had asked the very vocal on-air phone caller that afternoon during his talk show.

And the caller, angry and almost out of breath, had stalled, had shut down altogether for two or three throbbing seconds of televised silence. And in that tense soundlessness, every time he relistened to it, Justin's heart cracked and split into even more tiny sharp pieces that sliced at his already bruised insides.

Tapping the mute button on the TV's remote so that he wouldn't have to hear the helpless strains of dejection in JC's gentle, velvety words, he reached over to the table beside him and grabbed his cell phone.



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