Date: Fri, 14 Apr 2000 01:00:49 GMT
From: Scotty T <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
Subject: Mirrors

Yeah, it's me again.  :) I finished my exams today and to celebrate I
decided to send out the first installment of a limited run story.  This
won't run nearly as long as LISA did, nor will it be anything like that
story.  (That was for those of you worried that I'd end this story as I
ended that one -- I'm more creative than that. :)

This story doesn't say anything about the sexualities of NSYNC.  It might
not even make a lot of sense to you -- but all will be explained during its
run.

I learned a lot about clarity from the HUUUUGE number of responses I got
about the final installment of LISA.  That story was designed to have loose
ends -- this one isn't. :) (And by the way, thanks to everyone who emailed
me about that -- and sorry I haven't been quicker to reply)

Anyway, read, enjoy.  This is dedicated to everyone who asked for more of
me after that last story. :)

Scotty T -- thepoetboy@hotmail.com

P.S.  No -- this is NOT a sequel or continuation!


Mirrors
by Scotty T


Part 1

Mine is a story of dreams.  Since I was a kid, I always remembered my
dreams.  They came vividly, colourful and strong.  It was often difficult
to distinguish between the fantasy and the reality -- I would go to school
thinking it was Thursday when it was in fact Wednesday, only to realize I
had dreamt an entire day.

My dreams were always reality based.  I never thought I was flying or
exploring outer space.  I was on motorcycles on mountain roads, or in
familiar settings from my wakeful life.  The chain of events and
characterizations were odd, but rarely outside of realm of possibility.

Once I dreamt that I shaved my head.  It took place in my parent's garage,
with a mirror propped up on the freezer.  As I shaved I became shorter,
paler and broader.  A small, muscular skinhead.  Later, when I went to
school, no-one noticed the difference.

That's as fantastic as it gets for me.  Nothing more magical or outlandish
exists within me.

I wasn't one to oversleep either.  Growing up, I was a morning person.  I'd
naturally wake up at 8:30, rain or shine, no matter how late I'd gone to
sleep.  It's always been a handy internal alarm clock, and so dependable
that I've never owned a clock radio or any other artificial device to wake
me up.

This all changed last year -- back in November.  It's taken me a while to
trace it all back, but I think I've found the one dream that started it.

***

I'm in a bathroom, but it isn't mine.  The tiles are beige, edged with
chocolate brown half-tiles.  The shower is running and I'm in a white
t-shirt and flannel sleeping pants.

I don't own flannel sleeping pants.

There's a razor on the counter and I pick it up.  My hand goes to my face
and I can feel the shaving cream already there.  I raise the razor and look
into the mirror.

But it isn't me looking back.

He has a wide chin and strong bones.  His jaw is geometric.  His dark hair
is messed up and the dark circles under his eyes make him look very tired.
The dark hair and muscled arms are completely unlike my blond hair and
scrawny form.

My eyes widen, and a moment later his do too, in the mirror.

He turns to look at the door and his mouth moves.  I can't hear him.

***

And then I woke up.

That's where it started.  Now it's April and everything has changed.  The
dreams became a plague, a constant sleeping harassment.

I'm addicted.  There's not a single wakeful second that I don't want to be
asleep.  At first I sought out natural remedies to cause more sleep, and
when that wasn't enough I found myself searching out other, less practical
ways.  From seven hours a night I'm up to fourteen.  I quit my job three
weeks ago.  My class attendance has held -- but I'm way behind on my
readings.  I'm terrified of insomnia.

I haven't eaten anything in a week.  Food gives me energy which is the last
thing I need.  What I need is more sleep.  More time in my dreams.  With
him.

But that's getting ahead of myself.  You won't understand all of this until
you know about the progression the dreams took.  My obsession (yes, I know
what it is) is anything but unfounded.  And it is as far beyond fantastic
as anything could be.

The second dream came a few days later.

***

I'm in my apartment, on the balcony.  My building is just off campus and
pretty high up.  I have a great view of the school and all of its green
space.  I lean against the rail and stare out.

I can tell it has been a bright day.  It's warm and the sweat is sticking
the shirt to my back.  I look down, down to the parking lot and the road
leading up to the building.  That's when I see him.

He's standing alone in the road, looking around.  He looked lost.  I
recognised the movements first.  Then, as I watched and worked to focus,
the road seemed to come closer.  The face was that from the mirror.

I called out and he looked up.  Our eyes met.  And froze.

After a minute I broke the stare and turned away, running through my
apartment and to the elevator.  I pressed the button and waited, but it
never came.

***

Back in November I was working in the campus library.  I had two 8 hour
shifts, Friday and Saturday.  It didn't quite pay the rent, but my student
loan covered the rest.  I was also holding down a 110% course load, mostly
Humanities courses.  I'd applied for, and was promptly rejected by, the
creative writing program.

I had no set career goals, wanting to be an eternal student.  Then, at some
point, I'd die -- somewhere in my fifties, working on my 15th degree -- and
my student loans would just sit there.  A monument to my life.

To me, that was a great way to live.  Staying in the same apartment,
building up a library and a colony of cats, free to learn forever.

Those first two dreams were strange, but I didn't give them much thought.
They were two dreams among hundreds.  A strange coincidence, nothing more.

The third dream brought more urgency.

***

I'm lying on a beach, on a beach towel.  The water is blue -- not the green
that real water usually looks like, but a vibrant and -- to me at least --
unnatural blue.  The sun is hot and I can feel the sweat on my body, the
salt from the sweat mixing with the sand.  My skin has a deep tan, like
toasted bread.  Golden.

He is lying beside me, lying on his stomach.  He has black swim trunks.
Narrow waist, broad shoulders.  His head is facing away.

"I've forgotten me," he said.

I shook my head.  "No, you haven't.  Not yet."  I'm relaxed with him, a
familiar friendship.

He lifts his head and smiles, finally looking over at me.  He pulls off his
sunglasses.  There is an odd but beautiful shape to his eyes, a brightness
to the colour.

"Dinner?  Just you and me?" he asks.  The smile widens.  "Somewhere dark,
some candles."

"Again?" I ask, but I'm nodding anyway.  He reaches out his hand.

I reach out to take it, but I wake up too soon.

***

He talked to me!  And it wasn't dream dialogue -- it was meaningful.  It
felt real.

And it was exactly what I wanted to be hearing.  I'm the first to admit
that my love life has been less than epic.  I didn't even have enough for
the first octave of a sonnet.  There was that boyfriend from elementary
school and the girl in high school I was going out with for a month because
I just couldn't say no.

But I did escape with my virginity intact.

So at first I took the dream to just be part of me sending the rest of me a
message -- get out and date, loser.  Your romantic urges are so bored
they're inventing you a man.

But the urgency came when I saw the pattern.  The second dream came three
days after the first, the third was three days after the second.

On the twelfth night, I was ready for it.

***

It was dark.  Pitch black.

I'm lying in bed under silk sheets.  My own sheets are flannel -- always
have been.  I was raised with flannel and found it hard to sleep under
anything else.  This wasn't my bed.

There's a key in the lock.  The door opens, with blinding light from the
hall.  There's a silhouette.

"No, Justin," it says, more of a mumble than real talking.  "Not tonight.
I'm asleep on my feet here."  There is another voice in the hall.  The
silhouette nods and then slips into the room, closing and locking the door,
returning the world to darkness.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he whispers.

I don't remember replying.

The bed sinks under his weight and his arms wrap around me.  His breathing
is warm on my neck.

"There's something we need to say," I finally whisper, but he's already
asleep.

***

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you fall asleep in a dream?  I
think you wake up.  It's one of those things -- like they always say that
in a dream of falling, if you ever hit the ground you die.  I've always
wanted to try it.

I've also heard that you're not supposed to be able to read in your dreams,
but I can.  Actual letters.  Maybe it's because I do a lot of writing, even
if the university doesn't think it's any good.  And reading -- I used to
always have a couple of books on the go.

It was around that time that I found him -- the guy from the dreams.  The
fourteenth day.

My university gets free copies of the Toronto Star -- five thousand copies
a day.  When I'm fast enough, and remember, I grab a copy.  Front page of
the Entertainment section -- there he was.  A picture of five guys, with
him in the middle.  The names were listed underneath.

The second one caught my attention.  Justin.  Justin Timberlake.  The guy
had said that name in my dream -- talking to whoever was in the hall.

And then I saw his name.  JC.

But that was wrong.  It felt wrong -- it felt . . . strange.  I knew that
couldn't be the name of the guy in my dream.

I looked back into my dream journal, looking over why that felt wrong,
looking for any mention of him, making sure he hadn't given a name.  No JC,
no nothing.

But there he was, JC from NSYNC, he was the man from my dream.  The proof
came from the dreams themselves, and the mention of Justin.  There it was
in the dream journal, recorded for posterity.

The strangest thing is that I'd never listened to NSYNC -- I'd never heard
any of their music.  My television pulls in two channels with the antenna
and I'm a country fan.  When my country station switched formats to top 40,
I switched to a classical station.  I'd never heard them.

I was sure of it.

Somehow all of this mystery sank in, it must've taken over my subconscious
as much as my conscious mind, because it was part of the next dream.

***

I'm in class at the university.  There's some sort of in class exam
happening, I'm writing on post-colonial theory in some book I don't think
I've ever read.  For some reason I look over to the door, and through the
little window, he's watching me.

I excuse myself and quietly slip into the hall, as I go through the door
the scene shifts and we're in the Stong cafeteria -- with it's wall of
windows and dark wood tables.  He's sitting on one of the tables.

"I wanted to see you," he says.

I walk towards him.  "I'm busy."

He frowns and rubs his hand across his forehead.  "So am I."

"Then why are you here?"

"I want to be."

I've finally gotten to the table.  It's taken a lot longer than it should
havc.

"What's your name?"

He smiles and it looks like he's thinking.  "Joshua.  I want you to call me
Joshua."

I jump up onto the table beside him.  "I'm -"

He cuts me off.  "You're Eric."

"Yeah, I'm Eric."

He laughs.  "I know."

"How do you know?"

He shrugs.  "I just know."  He gets up.  "Want to go back to the beach?"

"I have the exam."

He shakes his head.  "No you don't."  He's reaching out for my hand and
smiling.

***

That was the beginning of the conversations.  From brief visual dreams they
evolved into long dialogues where we talked about everything.  At first I
thought that my body was taking over more than just romance -- somehow I
was building an entire relationship.

But I couldn't figure out where I'd taken this image of JC, and how I'd
connected it with Justin.  That's where my completely internal theory broke
down -- I decided there had to be external stimuli.

I took to the web.  Finding the NSYNC web page was easy.  Finding the
personal profiles was easy.

Reacting to what I found was hard.  JC stood for Joshua Chasez.  The dreams
were proven right again.

***

End part 1.

(c) 2000, Scotty T