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Date Posted: 22:41:30 09/05/02 Thu
Author: **Kira**
Subject: **Let Me Fly* Justin/solo album novella! Part One! Feedback please

I started this before FuMan died, before all the info on the album came out. But I like it the way it is. I revised some to keep it as realistic as possible, but info on the album is still pretty generic.

Part One


Stubby fingers caked with dirty glue and bits of construction paper worked meticulously, weaving the scissors along glossy smiles, memories preserved. The backgrounds, blurry and darkened like the boundaries to their own little world, feel away, into a pile of scraps. The back was slicked with glue and carefully pressed tediously along the detailed background. Palms of hands pressed carefully on the picture, spreading the adhesive evenly.

Chris sat back, his legs criss-crossed underneath his stocky body and he leaned his bearded chin against his gooey fists. He admired the last picture of the five of them, his family. They were young, all crowded in front of the lens, overzealous smiles gripping their lips, arms tangled in each other's hair or shoulders. It was the first picture, the first thread in the history of in sink.

It was the beginning of an indefinable, priceless bond. With a nostalgic smile, Chris unfurled his legs, wincing as his knees, worn from the years of dancing, cracked loudly. He scrambled to his feet, leaving the completely photo album to dry and shrugged off his shirt, tossing it in the hamper before padding, naked into his bathroom. He slipped under the luke warm water, bracing himself against the wall as it moved fluidly over his skin, a mixture of honey brown and blistering burns from hours of yardwork out in the heavy sun. He was oddly silent as he slowly slicked back his wet hair, blackened by the water. He didn't feel compelled to belt out horrendous eighties hits that was a testament to his age. There wasn't anyone to listen and beat on the door to the melody or sit fully clothed in the bathroom tub and harass him about being such a dork.

So he was silent as the memories thundered through his mind- the colors and sounds all too vivid and too familiar to be anything but yesterday. But it had been years.

Chris smiled, water dripped down his impish nose.

A fifteen year old Justin grumbled angrily as he stood in a baggy tee shirt, curls falling in his face, hiding the boyish determination twinged with sheer annoyance. He glared loathingly at the blue cast that encircled his right wrist and thumb and stomped his foot. Incredibly angry. He looked up, his face twisted in hurt. "You don't have to change anything. I can do it," he stated strongly, pointedly. "It's just my stupid thumb. Y'all don't have to change a thang."

"Thaaaaaang," Chris echoed.

Justin had been working diligently to speak in the standard, generic speech. He had speech therapists to help him and Lance remove the twang from their voices so they could be marketed as the wholesome American boys that belonged to whatever part of the country they were in. But when he was angry, exhausted or upset, he twanged horribly.

Justin sent Chris a blazing stare and kicked at him.

Chris snatched Justin's shoelaces, holding them tautly. "What are ya gonna do now, Jus? Whatcha gonna do?" he sang menacingly as Justin hopped helplessly.

Justin said nothing, just snarled indignantly. Chris released his shoestrings. "You're boring."

"I'm trying to work here, Chris. Pardon me for being grumpy, but I just broke my damn thumb and it's throbbing and I'm trying to tell everyone that we don't have to chance the friggin' choreography for the flips, but no one seems to be listening to me!" He yelled, his blue eyes flitting to the Tony, their arrogant choreographer.

"What do you suggest we do, Infant? Have you walk around the stage waving your broken thumb to the crowd for sympathy?" Tony shrugged snidely.

Justin grinned as Chris stood up, teetering a few inches above the child.

"Well, Chris and Lance, JC and Joey are flipping, so I can freestyle," he grinned. "I've been watching this guy and picked up some of his moves..."

Tony rolled his eyes. Justin simply hunched his shoulders, pulling off his sling, choking down a wince. He walked to the middle of the dancer floor and with no music, he began dancing. His legs moved like electric charisma, feet sliding against the floor as he rolled his hips, smoothly moving in a circle. Chris eyes flared open as he watched him- Justin Timberlake the boy that had struggled through a gangly period during puberty was moving like silk, like performers dreamed and he looked as if he was about to fall asleep. It was effortless magic.

Joey and JC began laughing behind their hands, clapping proudly and Lance was flabbergasted.

"See, nothing needs to be changed," he said, still dancing.

Lance shook his head and briefly gazed at the German sky. "Who were you watching?"

Justin moonwalked past Tony. "Michael Jackson.”

**

The memories were countless and even beautiful, Chris thought as he sat back in the plush leather seats. He watched the heavens unravel, the ethereal hues of angels swarmed around the airplane and Chris just marveled. He flew all the time, more than he drove, but he was always dumbfounded by the skies. His destination was Manhattan, Justin was in New York City, making the final arrangements for his first album release in just four and a half weeks. Justin had called all the guys, telling them that he was fine, a bit nervous and that no one needed to come. Chris laughed because Justin wasn’t the best actor and Chris could tell by the measured drawl in Justin’s tone that he was petrified.

He’d already bought the tickets, made the reservations and cleared his schedule from October to November and he wasn’t about to change his mind.

He took a sip of his ginger ale, relaxing in the large leather seat, wishing he could take one home and closed his eyes, letting those priceless times drift through his mind.

Chris sat against the bathroom door, his hand trembling over the knob as he used his compact form to block the only exit. Justin was curled up on the dingy bathroom floor, his head in his hands. He’d grown, Chris noticed, as he watched the young man dial frantically on a tiny cell phone, desperately begging for a signal. With a soft whimper, Chris slid down the door, shimmying over to his friend and gently pulled the phone from his fingers, noticing the harsh streaks of crimson along his arms.

Justin sniffled, his hands following the gadget as he tried to snatch it back. “Chris, give it to me. I’m going home. I don’t need this shit,” he said deftly, not meeting his eyes.

Chris slid the phone down in his front pocket, his face controlled yet sympathetic. America was nothing like Europe. The fans had magically swelled from thousands to hundreds of thousands, hounding them every second. What used to be exciting and new was quickly becoming precarious and suffocating.

“Justin…what happened?”

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, pulling some rough toilet paper off the roll and scrubbed the tears off his cheeks and chin. “Nothing. Let me out of here. I’m packing my gear and I’m going home. Screw NSYNC, screw this crappy tour, screw everything. I don’t need this shit!”

“You said that already. Now you stop telling me what you don’t need, and you tell me what happened!”

Justin lifted his head, his platinum curls not moving as he stared Chris down, tears shivering on his bottom lids. His eyes were dark blue, illuminating by the redness in his cheeks and the smear of blood on his face. “I was…in the arcade…with Lance…and they just started screaming and attacking us…Lance hid, behind a machine or something. I kkknow he got out because he was screaming for Lonnie, but they were rabid Chris…” he shakily pushed his legs down, fingering the rips in his tee shirt. “Look at this…it’s torn to shreds. I want to go home. Now.”

Chris sighed, swallowing the lump in his throat as he pushed himself off the door and pulled a washcloth out of the basket. He drenched it under warm water and wrung it out. He crouched down in front of Justin. “Hold out your arms…”

Justin did as he was told and growled as Chris wiped the scratches down. “You’re not saying anything.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno.” Chris paused. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay.”

Chris silently continued his ministrations. His face was tight as he washed the scrapes and disinfected them. He placed band aids over the worst of them. “You’ll want to wear a long sleeve shirt on the plane ride home…” he stood up and pulled the cell phone out of his pocket, tossing it in Justin’s lap. With a disgusted shake of his head, he walked out of the room, feeling the thick-handed guilt well up in his chest.

Justin was confused. He stood up and ventured out of the bathroom, where Chris was moving around the room, gathering Justin’s things.

“Why aren’t you talking? What should I do Chris?”

“Go home.” His voice was stark as he stacked up his cds, putting them in their proper cases.

“What?”

Chris tossed his clothes on his bed and pursed his lips, controlling his words, remembering to breathe. “You’re almost eighteen now Justin. You’re an adult. I can’t tell you what to do. If you don’t need this shit, if you don’t care about all the crap we’ve waded through and everything the four of us went through to have girls clawing at us, then I’m not going to tell you. You’re old enough to decide for yourself. I can’t stop you anymore.”

Justin’s jaw dropped and he moved to speak.

“You don’t think I want to protect you from that shit like that? You don’t think I look around at JC getting skinnier and Joey being grumpy more days than he’s happy and not think ‘what the fuck did I get your guys into?’ Because I do, every time we get off that stage and the reality of it all slams into me! Every time you’re hurt or Lance is sick or someone dies and JC can’t get home to be with his family, it hurts me more because this is MY group. I’m the daddy here and I can’t stand it sometimes…” The words were flowing out his mouth and Chris felt his knees begin to shake. Everything was rolling out of him, like a stormy tidal wave. It was too much. “So if you want to give up and go home, I understand. It would be a shame though, because you’re so damn talented, Justin. When you see that, when you get that through your thick skull, then all of this shit will be a blur. It’ll suck, but it’ll be worth it. You can do things that I can only dream of. I can dance okay…I can hit the notes you can’t, but you, my boy, my MAN, are it. You and JC, singing, that’s like heaven.”

Justin tried to appear stern and broken, but his lips twitched a bit at the edges and suddenly Chris was hugging him hard, pulling his head down on his shoulder. Justin moved to push him away because Chris didn’t hug, but Chris pinched his sides. “Take what you can get, boy. I’m so proud of you. You’re my brother, Justin.”

“You’re mine too, Shorty.”

Chris wiped his eyes discreetly on Justin’s shirt, his other hand cupping the back of his head. “You goin’ home?”

Justin laughed against Chris’ shoulder, just noticing how much lower it seemed. “Nah man, I need this shit…”

**

Chris slipped into the palatial hotel suite his cheeks still cold from the unusually cool New York evening, but he was comfortable in his purple wool, warm sweater. He moved noiselessly in the room. Justin was seated in the small living room setting surrounded by oceans of black and white shots and a magnifying eyepiece. His voice was smooth and confident as he inspected the shots. Chris went unnoticed.

He studied Justin for he hadn’t seen him in weeks. He was a bit broader, his favorite blue sweater clinging to his back. His new passion, since breaking up with Britney, was lifting weights, pushing his body to become bigger, stronger. His hair was fluffy, short baby curls sprouting on the top of his head, but shaved at the sides. It was an odd style for Justin because he loathed his hair when it was anything but perfect and the baby fine curls were seemingly immune to his plethora of styling products, but Justin seemed comfortable with the change. Chris grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as Justin’s eyes lift to his. He continued talking, but his thin lips slid into a bright beam. After a few minutes the photographer left, the proofs still scattered about the room and Justin was in his element, smiling, flashing teeth, shaking hands, laying on the charm.

As soon as the door closed, Justin’s controlled demeanor melted and he grabbed Chris, embracing him tightly. Chris had no time to react as Justin easily lifted him off the floor. “Um, Justin?” Chris mumbled, his face and nose smashed in Justin’s shirt.

“Chris…I know I told everyone not to come, but I didn’t think y’all would actually listen to ME!” his voice was thin, squeaky.

Chris bought his arms around him. “I told you I was coming, dumbass.”

“I know…” Justin reluctantly let him go and dragged him over to the living room. “Look at this mess,” he flailed wildly, dragging Chris into the living room. The entire room, decorated in soft peaches, was covered in fabric swatches, fashion booklets, packets of information, menus, poster ideas. Chris’ eyes flared open in amazement as he surveyed the room, filled with the responsibilities of a solo artist.

“I’m supposed to do everything, man. Pick the cover art and the shots for the book, plan the release party, decide what to wear to all the big appearances. Decide the MENU for the release party and the decorations. They want themes and entertainment and people are already trashing my album and like, I paid a shitload of money to have it scrambled so no one could get it. And I’m having, like a heart attack right now, man…seriously, every time turn around it’s decide this and pick that and you’re here and I’m a stupid fuck for thinking I could do this!” Justin’s eyes were wide, his eyes seemingly tiny cobalt beads swimming in alabaster.

Justin took Chris’ hand and placed it over his heart. Chris chuckled coolly as he felt the rapid, intense cadence of his heart. Justin was breathing hard, his entire body entranced in the action and he shakily ran his fingers through his hair.

“Calm down, man…think happy thoughts.”

“I can’t, I’m freaking. No one’s heard the album and Lance isn’t even in the freakin’ country and this is insane.”

“We haven’t heard the album, because you won’t send it to us, man.”

Justin ran his fingers through his subtle ringlets and shook his head. “I haven’t slept in, like…three days.”

The laughter that Chris had been swallowing, suddenly fell away from his lips and his face twisted in concern. Justin wasn’t joking. His eyebrows knitted together. “Why not?”

“I’m just rattled. Chris, it’s so weird to not have y’all on the album with me. It’s like…I’m out there and ugh, I don’t know.” Justin licked his lips before standing up, sifting through piles of pictures. “I have to pick three to five of these for the album’s artwork. And the cover. And I hate looking at pictures of myself, you know. I’m not…sexy or anything.” Justin nibbled on his bottom lip.

Chris scratched his chin. Chris knew that Justin wanted to do this himself; that apart of him was hiding behind the shroud of NSYNC, ensconced in the comfort and safety of his four brothers that were like a security blanket and he needed to step out on his own, fly on his own. Chris regarded him sadly, looking so much like a man and not like the little boy he’d met all those lifetimes ago.

“Do you want some help, Justin?” he asked, his words clear and precise.

Justin turned, his sharp blue eyes lit up and but he didn’t answer. He pressed his lips into a firm line.

“Okay, sorry I asked. I’ll just get some food and work on some FuMan stuff, okay?”

“But you’ll be in the room?”

“Sure.”

**

Chris eyed Justin. As he pretended to work, his face pressed into an open portfolio that concealed his Maxim magazine. He turned the pages slowly, fervently, his brown eyes drifting down towards the man across the room, his long legs curled under him. Justin sat like a child, planted on the balls of his feet as he sat in the middle of the mess that had claimed his life, his dreams though beautiful in his mind, were always haggard and candid in reality. But he pressed on. Face crumpled in that of battle as he studied menus and swatches and came to the best decision he could.

Justin moved, twitched under Chris' gaze and the cinnamon orbs returned to the page and he turned it, writing lude comments in the margins.

After four hours of grueling decisions, Justin hopped to his feet and tossed the pen onto the floor, in the middle of the mess. Rubbing his temples, he stood up and cracked his back. Pulling his arms over his head in a lion-like stretch. “I’m gonna go out for awhile, Chris.”

Chris closed his portfolio and stood up. “I’ll come with you.”

“Nah, man that’s okay.”

Chris’ face fell into a frown. “Justin, I just traveled a long way to be here. What you don’t want to be seen with ole gramps here?” he snapped.

Justin smiled, hiding his annoyance, but Chris saw it flicker in his eyes. “No, man. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

“I’m going to church.”

Chris dropped his shoulders, relaxing from his defensive stance. His arms uncrossed and he grinned stupidly. “Oh, okay.”

Justin took off his diamond earrings and his platinum watch as he started for the bedroom. Chris followed him and plopped on the bed as Justin deposited his jewelry in the safe. He knew exactly where he was going. A church in Harlem, Lonnie’s church, when he was in the city. They’d adopted Justin years ago and he always felt at home there. The guys had a weird pact about their religion. They shared every other aspect of their lives except their spirituality…they needed to keep something sacred and private. Thus, no one pressed or tagged along when the other was going to church or praying.

Chris grinned as Justin walked out of the bathroom, his simple gold cross gleaming from his neck. Justin rolled his eyes and moved around in the darkness, sorting through his dress pants.

“When are you going to talk to me?”

“I’m talking to you now?”

Chris sat up, folding his legs under him. Justin loved to dance around his emotions, hide them deep within him. He was never emotional, but Chris was stubborn and knew tricks, subconscious buttons to press and manipulate to get him to express what everyone could see before it fermented and made him bitter, like soured wine.

“You inviting Britney to the release party?” Chris asked, batting his girlishly long eyelashes.

Justin said nothing, but hissed when he burned his hand on the iron. He pushed it into his mouth and glared at Chris, angered blue light shining through the darkness.

“Don’t. Go. There.”

“Why not? You know I live with you. Like, when y’all were bickering and fighting and have tantrums and I still don’t know what happened?” he laughed sardonically. “And you haven’t talked to me, really talked, since the tour ended. MONTHS ago.”

Justin turned on the other lamp, flooding the room with light before he spoke again or returned to his ironing. Chris could see the pained reluctance on his face, the shame ensconced in his normally regal features. Justin pressed his grayish green slacks, pushing the iron stubbornly over the already wrinkle-free fabric. He pursed his lips and concentrated on breathing calmly. In and out. It was nearly ten minutes before he laid the streaming pants on the bed and grabbed his shirt. “I cheated on her,” Justin said deftly, his eyes boring into Chris’.

The words flowed easily from his mouth like he’d said them over and over, slamming the actual reality in his mind.

They stared at each other intensely. Chris did his best to hide his shock, his disgust. “You what?” he gasped, he shoot up so fast, his head spun. “You…”

“Fucker, I know. I cheated on her…that one time, Chris. I’ve forgiven her for doing shit with Wade, shit she thought I didn’t know about, but it was never sex, ya know. But I had sex, hell passionate GOOD sex with another woman and I wasn’t even drunk. I was sober and thinking quite clearly,” Justin pushed the words out of his mouth and shuddered.

For the first time in Chris’ life, he was completely and unabashedly speechless. His mouth gaped open and his arms hung limply at his sides as he stared at the younger man before him. Ashamed and utterly disappointed.

Justin ironed his shirt, pressing the hot instrument over the sleeves. The thought flashed through his mind, running it over his hand, searing the flesh to make the pain real, to flush it out of his soul or at least take his mind away from the self-hatred he’d stewed in for nearly seven months. Chris’ silence made that austere thought echo and rumble through his skull.

“What happened?” Chris whispered, forcing his body to relax, his legs to bed in a rigid crouch on the bed. “Because cheating is like breaking a vow to you, man.”

“I know. We had an argument. A terrible on, she threw all the stuff I bought her onto the street. She said things, horrible things because I called her on the fact that she was selling out. As much I as love her, her music hasn’t changed in three years and she’s just…fucking things up,” Justin turned off the iron and shrugged into the shirt, finding shallow solace in the warmth. “I’d never see her that angry. She was shaking, but like they said the truth hurts. She said something about how I was a fool, because she’d been using me for fame since the beginning. I knew she was lying, but that made it hurt so much more because she knew it’s what I’ve always feared and she used it against me, to HURT ME. The rest of the fight was a blur. Frantic screams in my head. I know I felt like I was going to hit her and that was so damn frightening, Chris. The fact that I felt like I could hit a woman, any woman. So I put my hand through a mirror instead. She kicked me out because I’d scared her.”

Chris nodded as Justin dressed, speaking so deliberately, stolidly. He slid into his pants as his lips kept moving and then sat down to Chris. “I went to Mona’s house. Remember, that girl I met…”

“The tiny one, yeah.”

“She fixed up my hand and just…took care of me. Britney never did that. She never cooked for me, or even tried. Mona did. She is such a nurturing person.”

“So, what, it happened like it does in the movies?”

Justin smiled, but his gaze was distant. “No. Not until the next morning actually. She let me have the bed, I was upset and fell asleep there, when I woke up she was just in a robe. One of those short, satin ones. Her hair was down and she was cooking, for me. She had this cookbook and was trying to make a big ole Southern breakfast. I just stood there and watched her and she looked so beautiful, like I’d never seen it before. The next thing I know, we’re on the kitchen counter and the breakfast was burned. I was her first, ya know? And it wasn’t even special, just raunchy and dirty. She didn’t talk to me for awhile. I tried to fix everything the best I could. I told Britney and she cried, of course and she ended it right there. And I tried to be a gentleman to Mona, to make up for being a jackass. I sent her flowers and this long letter about everything. But things aren’t the same now. I’m not the same.”

Chris nodded and remained silent.

Justin stood up to fix his hair and slipped on his shoes and suit jacket. Chris was still sitting neatly on the bed when Justin was ready to leave, he grabbed his wallet, removing all the bills until only fifty remained and he slid it in his back pocket.

Chris lifted his eyes, his expression bleak. “Are you okay, Justin?”

Justin flashed a grin, instantaneously, without a flicker of thought. It was an innate, almost primal reaction. “Fine, Chris.”

He turned and walked away. But Chris saw through him, like a rain drop, refracting and bending the light. Bringing things unseen to the glaring surface. Justin’s own demons, his fear and self-loathing were evident, perched atop his shoulders as was the rest of the world, with cameras poised the second he even thought of making a decision. Chris saw a man, too troubled to swim. And too stubborn to ask for help.

He saw a man that wanted to fly, but didn’t know how.

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