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Date Posted: 21:02:26 09/16/02 Mon
Author: Kira
Subject: *Let Me Fly* Part Two of Three? For Tiffany! Feedback

Tiffany damn near made me cry. So here is the other part. I'm currently writing part three and I want to finish it tomorrow, I probably won't, but I want to.

I hope you all like this one as much as the first. It gets more emotional. But yeah, I really love this part. Thanks for the wonderful feedback!

Part Two

The topaz elixir coursed through his veins, diving, dipping, pumping, grinding. Tainting faces the color of love and eyes the hue of heaven. Beauty dripped from the ceiling, marbled on the floors. It rained from the spectrum of lights wafting over the writhing crowd. The hands, the fingers curled around his shirt that glittered like gems as he moved lustfully about the floor.

With another swig, he didn’t care, they were drowned in the liquid escape, fluid freedom. With poisoned wings, he soared above the hate and frigid trepidation, the sleepless nights and attacks of self-disgust. A simple fiery gulp could make his world beautiful, instill kaleidoscopes of laughter and adrenaline. Cash, olive green gold that bought him the happiness that had always been so elusive…he had pockets full of cash that gave him love without patience and sacrifice-unadulterated, immediate love of anyone with bright eyes, a soft smile and the yearn for the enchanting beats that coursed through him, fracturing through the stone layers of hurt and responsibility.

Justin’s perpetual need for dance had been imprisoned, held under lock and key because he couldn’t control himself. The nights were exquisite, grinding through a wonderland of women, girls, breasts, color, love. But the mornings were an ill abyss of vomit, toilets, aches and concealing the fright that came with the lost memories of the night before. He decided to take a break, so he buried that part of himself, quelling it with stale water and burning exercise- his remedy for nearly everything.

But he’d been good and deserved a few hours of senseless debauchery. And he indulged hungrily.

Hours later, he realized why he stopped drinking. With his head hung low, feet scraping unsteadily against the sidewalk, he took another burning swig of some obligatory booze, wincing as it burning the back of his throat. His face was wet, covered in a chevron of drops from the drizzling fall morning and the heat of the alcohol. Liquor made him incredibly depressed and he staggered down the streets, weeping as the lights turned red, stopping life for as long as they deemed. Aching as he meandered through the strange metropolis alone. The tall, monstrous buildings made him feel lonely, because he couldn’t see the stars, even the moon, just the metal corpses that towered upwards like vertical corpses.

Justin turned the corner, searching for the vibrant joy he bathed in moments earlier, but he saw nothing, but dreary streetlight and dirty clogging the curbs; faceless homeless people crumbling onto rickety benches for the night. With squinted eyes, he glanced at his surroundings too confused and emotional to find his hotel. But the street looked familiar and he pressed on, blearily.

Somehow, his feet overwhelmed his muddled mind swirling in dark demons that the sea of liquor invading his system had washed to the surface. They’d carried him to the small, intimate studio that had been his home for the past year. Justin staggered across the threshold, leaning against the doors, eyeing the intensely familiar surroundings.

It was his own creation, just two small rooms filled with color, his muses and idols covered the walls of the one recording booth. Janet Jackson photos hug delicately on the glass directly in front of the microphone. This room was Justin, incarnated into space, untold mysteries of himself were captured in the floor, the air. It even smelled like home, southern and sweet. He closed the door loudly, echoing through the otherwise empty building, cutting off any access to Justin.

Under the spirits, he was incredibly open to fears and dreams, nightmares and hopes. Exposed to the loneliness, the hurt. Looking down for his precious bottle, he whimpered, noticing that it wasn’t in his fingers. Turning around, swaying in dizzying circles, he tried to find it, because the pain was welling up, engorging and bubbling, boiling and toiling. Justin just stood in the room, rocking bonelessly back and fourth because the world was teetering, crumbling under his feet. The layers of stone cracking and splintering. Everything fell away and he began to cry harsh, breathless sobs alone.

**

Chris grumbled as stalked angrily from club to club. His lips moved woodenly in the cold as he shoved his hands in his pockets, pulling a hat over his head to protect it from the rain. At four am, the clubs were closing, throngs of people filled the streets, staggering home, giggling and red from the night of release. And Chris’ large, brown eyes slid over every face hoping it was Justin. A few hours had turned to nearly eight and despite Justin’s desperate pleas to be left alone, Chris’ concern tugged him out on the streets, searching for one person in a city of eight million. Like searching for one dim star in a universe of infinitely blinding ones.

With a sigh of determination, Chris turned up his collar, pressing forward through the October morning.

**

All of the agony, the mental anguish was tumbling out of him and he sang, without music, nothing but a tortured soul as his direction. His eyes closed, his hands shaking, he sang about the crushing burdens that hung on his shoulders, pushing him down deeper into the feral darkness. The labels that caged him, the hate that fueled him and the fear that was killing him. He sang from the bottom of his heart, his words unscripted and wise.

He’d lost everything, but his voice. His gift from God.

Justin sang until his throat was ragged and the singeing bile rose from his stomach and he could no longer quell the gut-wrenching sobs that chattering his teeth. Darting drunkenly out into the kitchenette, he collapsed on to the hard floor, skinning his arms on the cheap carpeting, hitting his head on the table. Breathing harshly though his nose, Justin pinched his lips shut, clawing at the carpet to reach the trashcan. Torrents of blues and grays danced nauseatingly in front of his eyes and he vomited just inches away from the plastic can.

**

Chris nibbled on his pretzel, hard and nearly frozen as he sat down for the first time in hours. He pulled out his cell phone, yanking another bite of cold breath off with his teeth, remembering he needed to eat, to keep his blood sugar up. He’d searched as much of the city as he could, knowing that he’d only covered a fraction of the urban jungle. But now he had some direction, his knowledge of his best friend, leading him to the only other place Justin would go.

He ventured down several blocks, blending in with the now crowded streets. The pace was swift and it carried him to his destination like living river. He broke free at an old, rustic building, walking inside. The building was simple, a row of old mailboxes, a tiny abandoned office and empty in the early morning hours. Heading to the elevator, he pushed down the heavy metal doors and ascended to the fourth floor. Stepping off the elevator, he was met with a row full of doors, all painted metal. He stumbled through each one, searching for Justin’s studio. Finally, he found it at the end of the hall, a bottle of Jack Daniels broken in front of the door.

The smell hit him hard, forcing any weariness from his body. With a disgusted snort, he surveyed the dwelling. Heading into the booth, Chris discovered a man, slumped weakly on the floor, eyes closed. Thick vomit was splattered on the floor. Chris’s hands began to shake as he thanked the powers that be that Justin was laying on his stomach. His heart thumped in his ears as he place a hand on his back. Justin startled quickly, whimpering at the touch. “Justin? How much did you drink?”

Justin slurred inaudibly, dry lips moving slowly. Chris shook his head sadly, sliding his arms under Justin’s broad chest and carefully turned him over. He grunted under his weight. “Damn you’re heavy…help me out, man…” Chris said loudly.

Justin muttered curses and pushed himself up against the wall stubbornly, swearing as he hit the back of his head.

Chris gasped, his eyes narrowing in pain as he looked at the burgundy blood that stained his face, dried and cracking down his cheek. Grabbing the trashcan, Chris set it next to Justin, and got up, hurrying to the sink. Grabbing a towel, he soaked it in cold water.

He gently wiped the bile from his lips and chin, turning it over to clean his face. “Did you take anything else?” Chris asked loudly.

Justin jerked, his eyes pinching shut. He simply slapped Chris’ hands away. Chris rolled his eyes, snatching his arms, easily holding them down. Angrily, he smacked his cheek. “Answer me…”

“..no…”

“Good boy.”

Justin struggled a bit, stronger this time and his eyes flared open and Chris pinned him, sitting on his knees. Without warning, his head rocked forward and vomit, the lumpy thick substance smattering against Chris’ folded thighs. Soaking through the worn denim. Chris blinked repeatedly, sucking air in through his nostrils and letting out through his clenched teeth. He stared straight ahead, his eyes flashing with brown fire. “Tell me that you did not just spew all over my pants…”

Justin took the rag, having a moment of sober thought, and gently brushed it off. “Sssorrry…” he muttered sadly. “I’m sorrrrry, Chris…” he chanted frantically wiping at his pants. “…sssorrry…” Justin began to weeping, drunk and incredibly honest.

Tears soaked his face as he was reduced into a siege of shivering sobs. He was crying it out of him, washing his system clean and Justin knew he’d be empty, hollowed when he was finished and he only cried harder. Chris sighed, forgetting about his soiled pants, letting go of the anger as he pulled Justin to him. Stubby fingers curled around the nape of his neck, bringing him to his chest. “Shush, Justin…”

Justin hiccupped and shuddering against Chris, clinging to his coat so tightly, Chris could feel his fingers through the two layers of wool. Justin pressed his face into Chris’ chest, shaking and pleading for help. “I can’t do this…anymore. Can’t, can’t. I want to go home…I want to go home…make it stop…please…”

Chris shifted uncomfortably, willing for a stolid demeanor, but he was crumbling too, his eyes burning with unshed tears. Stomach knotting with Justin’s pain. “We’ll go home, Justin. I’ll take you home.”

Closing his eyes, he rocked patiently, soothingly, waiting for him to calm down. Once he was simply gasping and whimpering wetly. He pulled out his cell phone, dialing hastily. “Josh?” his voice was a gruff whisper. “Can you come down? Yeah, as soon as you can…I’ll get Joe. Yeah. Love you too. Bye.”

**

Home was wherever family was. Anywhere hearts were warm and arms were open. Chris got Justin home, showered and in bed, bundled in large wooly blankets a trashcan tucked against the bed frame. Justin laid awake, suffering, as he concentrating on the shadows of the carpet caused by the languished autumn sun. Blinking sluggishly. Chris knew he was lost inside his head, petrified to feel his way out.

Chris had prodded him to talk, to explain what was going on in his head, but Justin merely rolled over, closing his eyes against slowly. Thus, he simply hovered around him, never leaving the room, hoping his company was enough.

With a sigh, he pulled out the photo album, wrapped in brown paper and crawled up on the bed, scooting next to Justin. He felt his cheeks darken with crimson as he unwrapped it, tossing the paper aside. “I…made you something.” He began quietly, running his fingers along the cover. Justin was still, silent, but after a few moments, he turned over, nestled against Chris’ side. “I’m…like having a meltdown, ya know. The kind you have when you’re almost 31 and not married, barely even dating and you look…at this person that’s always been a kid to you and realize that he’s very much a man…it’s…hard,” Chris grimaced, opening the cover.

Justin smiled sleepily, over the pounding in his head, as his eyes drifted on times he’d forgotten. “You’re not old, Chris…”

“I feel it,” he turned the page, bringing fourth new memories and Justin felt brave enough to sit up, pushing his aching muscles.

“You’re not. You’re only as old as you feel,” Justin spouted wisely, rubbing the bandage on his head, laying back down again.

“Well, when I made this, I felt ancient.” His lips felt tight, they weren’t used to being serious, explaining emotions and secret thoughts. “I’m so proud of you, Justin. I am. You…you’ve grown into a great man.”

“I have great brothers,” he whispered softly.

“When are you going to talk to me?” Chris asked, but he never got an answer.

**

JC made his trek from Kentucky to Manhattan in a miraculous five hours, arriving with only his laptop and wallet. He stumbled through the door, Joey behind him-having given him a ride from the airport- and immediately his face crinkled in concern. “What’s going on?” Joey asks as JC shoved past him, searching the majestic suit searching for Justin.

Chris flopped in the chair, feeling weary and spent. Running his fingers through his hair, he kicked off his shoes, wondering why he had them on in the first place. “Ugh…there’s so many things that’s going on with him, that he’s hidden and buried and it sucks…”

Joey’s face was pinched and tight as he plopped into the seat across from Chris. JC slipped out of the room, seeing that Justin was sleeping and joined them.

“Like what, Chris?”

“Like the fact that he cheated on Britney and he’s depressed and thinks that some fucking plant is going to fix it,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “The album, all the stress of that is bringing all this shit to the surface.”

JC ran his tanned fingers through his curls and leaned his head back in the chair. “He cheated? That cat in there?”

Chris nodded. “It’s not my place to tell, but screw it, he’s so messed up and sad and he hates himself and…” Chris’ words trailed off as he rubbed his hands over his face vigorously. “I don’t know what I should do.”

JC nibbled on is fingers, biting them as he pondered. Joey scratched the side of his face, his left knee bouncing. “We need Lynn here and we need to get him to talk.”

Chris snorted into his hands. “Good luck,” he scoffed in a puff of hot breath. “He’s said about ten words to me since we got back from the studio and I’m too scared to pry shit out of him…”

“Chris?”

He stood up, his knees cracking as he did so and hopped on two feet pulling off his socks and pushing up his sleeves for it was suddenly blistering in the room. “No,” he began, clammering over to the balcony door, cracking it to let the cold air flood in. “You didn’t see him. You didn’t see him bleeding and sobbing. You didn’t see any of the shit that I saw and I’m having a fucking mid-life crisis on top of all this. And I’m allowed to be scared! Just leave me alone for awhile. I need to think.”

Chris barricaded himself on the balcony, squatting down on the hard concrete. He’d faced so many situations that were fueled by fear and hatred and anger and sadness, and those simply fortified their bond, but nothing had been this bleak. Chris usually knew what to do, had a joke to tell to break the ice and calm every down and they gathered together to face it head on, five against the world. But this world was Justin’s mind and the demons that resided there, this was a realm unknown to anyone but Justin.

The more he thought, the more the guilt swelled inside him because he’d come to Manhattan to be with Justin for selfish reasons. He’d come to resolve any resentment he had for him, because he grew up so fast. Chris got to be a kid around Justin and do childish things like wrestle and play football in hotel hallways and do the silly things he’d never really done when he was a little boy. And he was afraid of losing his partner in his goofy, cathartic joy. Those times of pure laughter and whimsicality were therapy to him, it made the harshness of his childhood bearable.

The door opened on the balcony and Chris turned sharply. JC stood rigid, his expression blank as he squatted down next to Chris, nibbling on a croissant. “You want?”

Chris shook his head. “You eat it.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired. I spent the morning playing mother and it’s exhausting. I need to call my mama, build shrines to her, buy her another house,” he said breathlessly.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes…he was drunk off his gourd, I’ve never seen him drink so much before. I could have sworn he was high. He puked all over me. And he was crying and…the kind that’s only reserved for funerals…” The memories left a bitter taste in his mouth and took years off his life. “I need a cigarette or something…” Chris leaned his head against the cold, scratchy stone building and rubbed at the tightness in his neck.

JC tore open one of the many pockets in his cargo pants and handed Chris’ frigid can of Mountain Dew. Chris thought that was symbolic in some way, as he popped the top. JC was nothing more than a series of pockets, each one hiding something more precious and unique to the next. Someday, all the pockets would be empty and the secrets behind JC’s eccentricity would reveal the meaning of light and life; love and music. Chris could see that in his eyes that changed hues like leaves in autumn that he was aware of so much more than he let on.

“Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to have some vodka or something in the other pocket?”

JC hunched his shoulders, shivering against a cold gust of wind. “No…” he paused. “I couldn’t get a hold of Lynn, but I left messages at all her numbers, so she should be calling soon.”

“Thanks…” Chris replied sullenly.

“No problem.”

Chris gulped his mountain dew until it burned his throat. The wind howled, as they sat above the world and JC got up, sitting beside Chris against the rough brick wall. Unfazed by Chris’ uneasiness with emotion and touching, he laid his head on Chris’s shoulder, thick fingers intertwining with stubby ones. “You’re not losing your friend, Chris,” JC breathed and Chris could feel the words, vibrating under his chin. “I know why…you and him are so tight…I know…Chris, I know things were shit when…you were growing up, and yes…Justin let you get some of that back…I know. Even though he’s a man now and going through some major issues, he’ll come through it…only the other side is nothing but light, man…”


© Copyright by Kira, 2002.

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