Date: Mon, 30 Oct 2000 19:55:20 EST
From: Gemmini999@aol.com
Subject: A World of His Own

Hey all. I hope ya like this!
Gemmi

PS. This is published in the N SYNC Slash mailing list as Here and Now. So if
you read it there, then don't read this.

DISCLAIMER: NOT REAL.  End of story.  Doesn't mean N SYNC or anyone RELATED
to them is gay.  This is fiction.

GEMMINI999@aol.com

A World of His Own


    The two of them were laughing, smiling.  The cameras ate it up, believing
every word that fell from the due's lips, about their friendship, about their
interests, about each other.  The camera loved them, loved filming them
together, loved seeing the way they would act.  The two had chemistry that
audiences all around the world hoped for, prayed for. The two were best
friends.
    One smiled, rather crookedly, and looked haphazardly at the other. The
camera filmed this look, filmed the passion that was evident in those green
eyes, the love, the support. The two were close.  The other, sensing the
look, returned it.  He returned it with as much passion, as much anguish, as
much emotion, if not more.  And the two smiled, each in their own time, each
slowly.
    "That's a wrap!" A voice suddenly shouted, jerking the two out of their
trance.  Instantaneously, their demeanor changed as well.  Where there was
once passion, anguish, emotion, there was now a stone wall, built brick by
brick, only to keep the other out.  The green eyes didn't seem surprised by
this change, by the lack of total interest, lack of warmth.  They simply
accepted the looks, as if that was all they knew, and turned away.
    One stood, and without a backward glance, without a whispered word of
goodbye, walked away.  The green eyes knew that this had been coming, had
prepared himself for the hurt he would feel, but just as always, the pain
tore into him, scaring his heart, his soul. He laughed at himself; laughed at
the fresh pain he had known would come.  After years of such treatment, he
thought, perhaps, he would be used to it. But each time the other turned his
back; the searing pain was fresh, unexpected.  Each time, his heart broke,
and each time he never quite knew how to pick up the pieces.
    "Hey, Lance, ya coming?" Someone asked, but he shook his head.  If he
went, he would see the other, and he would feel the pain once again. He
didn't need that; he didn't need the reminder of hatred, the reminder of
fear. He didn't need to feel as if he was less then human once again.
    "Not this time." He said, slowly forming each word as if they were new to
him, but they weren't. He had said them time and time again, so much so that
the other's knew what to expect when they asked him to join them.  They had
long ago given up hope of having a friendship with the young man, of having a
relationship outside of work.  Now they asked as a curtsy, nothing more,
nothing less. And Lance knew this.
    "Ya sure?" Lance smiled and nodded, turning away.  He heard a sigh, then
there was nothing.  There was never anything, no one insisting he come, no
one trying to figure out why he refused, why he preferred the silence, the
emptiness, to real emotion, real friendship.  They were all playing their
parts, all knew the lines by heart, all knew the reactions they would
receive.  His life was nothing more then a horribly drafted play; a play that
would never sell, never be re-produced.  No one would accepted the part fate
had handed him.
    His hand reached up and combed it's way through the spiked blond mess he
called hair.  Then he stood, and walked away, never looking back.  That was
the first rule in avoiding people; never look back.  Never turn to see what
your missing, because if you know what your missing it will hurt more.  The
pain would no longer be searing, but blazing, and his mind would be burned,
tarnished.  He had never let anyone truly burn him, because no one ever got
close enough to try.  All because of the other set of eyes, all because of a
hatred that he didn't even understand, had never understood.
    All because one person couldn't, wouldn't, accept somebody that was
slightly different. All because someone refused to try and understand what
being gay meant, and instead believed the stereotype, the lies.  All because
somebody was scared of the truth.


    He flopped down on his bed for the evening. A different bed then the
night before, a bed he would more then likely never sleep on again, ever.
Even so, he settled in, content, against  the rose printed material. It  was
soft against his rough skin, making him appreciate the feel of the heavy
cloth, making him appreciate the warmth it would offer later that evening.
His eyes were filled with unshed tears, but he wasn't going to lose it. Not
tonight, at least.  He reached out blindly, searching for the phone.
    He pulled the tan metal to his ear, and slowly while sitting up, dialed
the number's that were as familiar as the back of his hand.  It rang twice,
shrilly, shattering his train of thought.  God- let her be home he muttered
to himself, hoping deep inside that she was there, that she wasn't out on one
of her excursions.  She loved wandering around the small city in which she
lived every night; loved the feel of the evening breeze on her silk skin, the
feel of the moon beating down upon her back.  He heard a voice.
    "Hello?"
    "Steph- is that you?" He whispered, trying not to let any emotion slip
into his voice.  Trying not to let Stephanie know how hard his day had been.
    "Hey Lance." She replied, smiling into the phone. He felt that smile from
two thousand miles away, it warmed him a bit.  "How are you?"
    "You know." he muttered, failing at keeping the emotion out of his voice,
failing at keeping his anger, his hurt, away from his best friend. His only
friend.
    "What happened?" she immediately questioned, sensing the very emotions
Lance didn't want her to know about.
    "Nothing Steph. Nothing." Lance replied.  He had just wanted to hear her
voice, just wanted to feel her smile through the phone. He didn't need to
complain about his day, she had had a hard enough day as it was. And...
    "Don't lie to me, Bass. Tell me." She commanded, earning a sigh.  "Was
it...?"
    "Steph..." He didn't say anything more, but she understood all that
wasn't said.
    "Lance, you know what I think." She stated, and through the phone, she
heard his nod. He was so predictable sometimes, all the time.
    "Why is it so hard?" He finally whispered. Silence met his question, and
he knew, deep down, that he didn't want to hear Stephanie's answer's. His
friend was nothing if not truthful, and sometimes, anytime, most of the time,
he wanted to hear lies. He wanted to hear stretcher's that would make him
calm down, make him less hurt. He wanted to be lied too, but he knew she
wouldn't. He KNEW.
    "Do you really want me to answer that?" Stephanie broke the silence, and
Lance shook his head.  He didn't want her to tell him what he already knew,
it would only depress him further. Stephanie laughed and again, Lance was
warmed by the smile he didn't see.
    "I can't see which direction your shaking you head, Bass." She teased.
He chuckled, slowly, savoring the sound.   He never heard it anymore, his own
laughter, other people's.  He never heard anything full of life, full of
happiness.
    "Don't tell me."
    "I wasn't going to, dummy."
    "How was school?" A safe topic, one that would provide him with hours of
amusement, hours away from his own life, his own problems.  Stephanie knew
what Lance was trying to do. She knew that he lived vicariously through her;
the stories of school, of friends, of romance. He lived for them as much as
she did.  Sighing slightly, she began to recount a tale from earlier that
morning.  Every now and then, Lance would laugh, trying to assure her that he
was still there, that he was still listening to every word that was spilling
from her lips.
    Finally though, he needed to hang up. The red letter's on the digital
clock read 11:48, which meant it was 2:48 back home in Mississippi.
    "Steph, go to sleep" He commanded quietly. Stephanie smiled when she
heard his tone; that was the Lance that she knew, that she loved. It was
amazing what two hours on the phone would do, could do.  And while she was
hanging up, after saying good-bye, she realized something. Lance truly had no
life but hers. And that thought saddened her. At the same time, however, she
wanted to do nothing more then kill Lance for allowing his life to sink so
low. For allowing HIM to have power, to have strength.  Her eyes shut
tightly, and for a moment, she thought about before.  She thought about the
years that she had known Lance, the years they had been friends.
    She slept with a smile on her face.

    He opened his eyes slowly, waiting for the sun to hit him, to blind him.
Temporarily.  Sometimes he wished it wasn't temporary. That when he opened
his eyes, he wouldn't be able to see anything. He didn't want to see the
rose covered blanket's that had kept him warm the night before.  He didn't
need to see the tan phone laying of the hook (he always took it off before he
went to sleep, the guys would call him at all hours to pick them up from
wherever they were, and he couldn't say no), it simply reminded him that they
could call him for a ride but not to invite him along.  He didn't need to be
reminded of the truth.
    He sighed slowly and opened his eyes, blinded temporarily by the sun.
When at last he could see, he stood.  His hair was messy, his face rough, one
hand numb, he had fallen asleep on it again.  The walls were bare, an
occasional picture hung that was so dull it failed to even capture his
attention.  The room lacked personality, lacked warmth. It would never be
more then a room in a foreign hotel. It would never hear people whisper the
word "home", nor did it want to.
    Lance thought of his home, the fireplaces, the mountains, the lake.  He
wanted to be there, swimming contently with Steph, ignoring all the problems
that would face him when he returned to work, but he couldn't. Instead he
walked slowly to a wooden desk where an itinerary of the day had been placed
the night before.

        7:00        Wake up
        7:15       Breakfast- Chris's room
        8:00       Bus
        12:00   Arrive at Venue
        12:35   Lunch
        2:00    Interview/photo session
        3:45    Sound-Check
        5:30    Meet and Greet
        7:30    Show-time (opening acts)
        8:30    show-time (N Sync)
        11:15   Bus- no hotel tonight

    Lance glanced unceremoniously at the digital clock, sighing when he saw
it was only 6:57. He still had a few minutes before he had to be in Chris's
room for breakfast.  A few minutes of privacy before his heart was torn up
once more, before he was forced to spend time with the people that hated him,
hated who he was.  Lance got dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of
comfortable jeans with a ragged sweat-shirt.  He needed that comfort for it
would be all he would receive that day.
    He glanced around the room once, making sure everything was packed up. He
didn't have to search hard, he hadn't really unpacked the evening before.
He never unpacked anymore, it created more of a problem then it was worth.
    Then he turned his back and walked out the door. Someone would get his
over-night bag for him, they would load it on the bus he shared with his
"friends", the bus that more of a home then the hotel room, but not by much.
Lance strode down the hall; he didn't want to be late, again.  Yesterday he
had slept in, but it hadn't been worth it.  The yelling had made him lose any
of the extra sparkle the sleep had given him.  He didn't like being yelled
at, but then again not many did.
    Drawing in a deep breath, he turned and knocked quickly on the door.