Date: Sat, 06 Oct 2001 09:52:27 -0700
From: D S <denis141@hotmail.com>
Subject: ALONE/TOGETHER, Chapter 1 ~ The Bitter Wind (Revised version)

Okay, now I know this is totally anal, but it's been bugging me.  So, here
is a slightly revised version of Chapter One in the ALONE/TOGETHER series.
As the series has progressed, this first chapter ended up being a little
out of whack with what followed, mainly because the original chapter had
Lance looking back one year after the break-up.  I've changed that now so
that the story takes place in the "present", i.e., the same night that the
break-up occurred.  This means that, now, all the chapters that follow it
are in chronological order.  (I hope that makes sense!) Anyway, unless you
are super anal (like *me*) you probably wouldn't have noticed -- but now
it's fixed, and I feel better.  Okay, now on to Chapter 8!  By the way, I
still hunger for feedback, so email me at denis141@hotmail.com.

DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC.  I also don't know anyone who
knows NSYNC.  In fact, I don't know anyone who knows someone who knows
NSYNC.  What follows is a work of fiction, and a product of my (admittedly
demented) imagination.  It also involves sex, sex between boys, and if that
is not your thing, or if you are not old enough to read such things, you
should stop reading now.


ALONE/TOGETHER

CHAPTER ONE: The Bitter Wind.

When we were still in love
I sang a happy song
But now I all hear is the bitter wind
That whispers love is gone.
	-- The Bitter Wind, a song by Jude Johnstone
		sung by Trisha Yearwood, on Inside/Out

	Over one hundred feet below the rocks glistened invitingly in the
vague and dying light of this last day Lance intended to be alive.  Gray
and wet, jagged-sharp and sea- slapped, the rocks looked not like rocks but
like chipped and broken teeth set against a dark and snarling lip of sea.

Now it was just a matter of burying the dead, he thought, of burying what
in so many ways could not be unburied, at least not in the literal sense,
because all that was left was something that had already died, died so
completely that he couldn't remember it being alive, nor remember what it
was like to take a breath that he had a right to, to wake up and claim a
day as his own, as a beginning, as something new, as something containing
possibility, as something other than what stretched before him now, a flat
and endless expanse of time not lived, but merely endured, walked through
as one would trudge through knee-deep mud, not even knowing why, not even
asking why, not even caring why, not even being, just doing.

His head dangled off the edge of the cliff as he continued to stare at the
rocks through tired and blood-shot eyes.  His body was haphazardly sprawled
behind him as if it had been tossed there like a toy no one wanted anymore,
limp and lifeless except for his bare feet digging into the damp clay for
leverage.

It won't hurt, he thought letting his breath escape in a long hiss that
sounded like an old tire leaking air, because hurting takes feeling, and
there are no feelings anymore, only deadness, which is not a feeling, not
even the absence of a feeling.  Maybe if he could feel something --
anything -- even if it was only pain, then it would be different, and he
could crawl away from this edge, and crawl away and not look at the rocks
like there was no place else in the world where he belonged.  But this is
how it had been for exactly one year, and he wasn't going to let it be this
way for one day more.  It couldn't be.

	Looking at his watch -- more by instinct, than anything else,
because he did not need to know what time it was, nor care -- he remembered
that he had smashed the crystal of his watch against a rock and ripped the
hour hand from its face, and then the minute and second hands too.  He
stared at the watch, blinking as freezing sea-scented wind stung his eyes,
and he remembered his calm, methodic destruction of its ability to tell
time, to tell him the time, and he remembered that JC had given him this
watch, given it to him on his 25th birthday, given it to him when it was
still possible to commemorate the passing of year, to commemorate it with
gifts and joy and celebration and love and even hope for the future.  He
remembered everything -- as if it were happening yet again.

*	*	*

	"We're here Lance," JC said, shaking him gently awake.  "We're
home."

	"Oh, good," said Lance, straightening up in passenger seat of JC's
car from the sleep-hunched position he had been in moments ago, and
cracking his knuckles against the dashboard.  "It's dark.  Do you know what
time it is?"

	JC opened the door on his side of the car and stepped out.  "Yeah
. . .  it's just past eleven-thirty," he replied sticking his head back in
the car so that he could grab the empty Pepsi bottle from the cup-holder by
the gearshift.  "You've been asleep for two hours."

	"Sorry `bout that," Lance said, reaching into the backseat for his
coat and then getting out of the car himself.  "Didn't mean to leave you to
drive alone."

	"I wasn't alone," said JC.

	"You know what I mean," Lance replied.

	"Yeah, I guess I do," said JC. "It's okay though."

	Lance walked toward the house, stopping at the door to dig into the
pocket of the coat he held, searching for his keys.  Not finding them in
the one pocket, Lance shook the coat up and down to listen for the
metallic-jangle-clank that would tell him they were there somewhere.  Lance
heard the keys, but before he could retrieve them JC was by his side and
inserting his own key into the lock, throwing Lance a triumphant look and
opening the door himself.

"Fuck you," Lance muttered under his breath, not really caring if JC heard
him.

	Lance pushed by JC and threw his coat at the old wooden chair that
sat next to the grandfather clock in the foyer.  Grabbing his still
out-thrown arm, JC pulled Lance back toward him.  Lance stopped but did not
allow himself to be turned around, waiting instead for JC to circle around
to face him, like he always did.  Once JC was in front of him, Lance looked
into JC's eyes and said "yes," almost forgetting to turn it into a
question, an invitation for JC to say what he obviously wanted to say and
would say even if Lance said nothing at all.

	"I love you," said JC quietly.

	"I know," said Lance, his face blank and expressionless.

	JC waited for Lance to say something more, to say "I love you too",
to say "thank you for loving me", to say "thank you for standing by me all
these years," to say "thank you for agreeing to leave the band with me."
But Lance said nothing as he stared past JC and listened to clock tick, and
waited for JC to give up and let go of his arm.

	"Time for bed, I guess," said JC, releasing his grip on Lance.
"It's late and we're both tired."

	Lance turned away from JC and headed without a word toward the
stairs.  Climbing the stairs, Lance dreaded the conversation that he knew
JC would try to start as soon as they lay in bed, a conversation that would
inevitably start with a question -- always a question.  Are you okay?  Do
you want to talk?  Are you mad at me?  Do you still love me?  Or -- worst
of all -- Do you want to make love?  It took every ounce of self-control to
keep from saying, You mean with you?

	JC watched Lance climb the stairs not knowing what else to do or
say.  He had thought that Lance would be so happy, so happy to have finally
gotten his way, finally gotten him to agree to leave the group with him, to
walk away at the very height of their fame, to walk away when there seemed
to be no limit to how much bigger they could become, and no limit to how
much more they could do.

	"But how much more could you want," he remembered Lance asking him
for what seemed like the thousandth time.  Lance had been on him about this
for a year, and each time it was the same argument.  "JC -- listen to me!
We have each other, don't we?  Isn't that what you are always saying,
always saying fifty fucking times a day?  So what in the fuck else do you
think we need?  More fucking money? More fucking fame?"

	JC remembered that he never knew what to say to this because Lance
was right.  Lance was always right.  And he remembered that all he could
ever think to do was to walk to Lance and hug him, whispering "I'm sorry,
Lance. You're right.  You're right."  Then he would bury his face in the
bend of Lance's neck and feel the stinging warmth of his angry skin.  "I'm
sorry Lance.  I love you so much.  Please don't be mad. Please."  And Lance
would never say a word then, but at least he did not push him away.

	JC was startled from this memory by the unexpected chiming of the
clock.  "Wow," he said, counting the chimes but knowing it was now
midnight.  After picking up Lance's coat from where it had slid to the
floor, and then throwing away the Pepsi bottle he still held, JC turned and
slowly climbed the stairs.  He lifted Lance's coat to his nose and inhaled
deeply.  At the top of the stairs, JC looked down the hallway to see if the
door to the bedroom was open and it was.  Good, he thought.  Good.

	JC entered the bedroom, walked to his side of the bed, and quietly
undressed.  The room was dark with the curtains drawn, but JC knew Lance
was still awake by the sound of his breathing.  He had spent too many hours
laying next to Lance in bed to not know what he sounded like when still
awake.

As JC stood and listened to Lance breathe, he toyed with the waistband of
his boxer-briefs, trying to decide whether to leave them on or take them
off, trying to decide whether Lance might want to make love.  JC decided to
leave them on and slid into bed, careful not to bounce the mattress, or to
accidentally touch Lance's leg.

	Pulling the sheet up to his chin, JC felt Lance's hand slide under
his thigh.  Lance slid over next to JC and then roughly rolled on top of
him.  JC could feel Lance's erection pressing damply against his leg, and
feel Lance's breath on his lips, knowing without seeing that Lance's face
was inches from his own, and that a kiss was hanging just above his lips
like fruit waiting to be plucked.

"Lance," JC whispered slowly.

Lance kissed JC before he could say anything else, not so much to quiet
him, but to get on with it, to get it over, to finish, and go to sleep.  He
reached roughly between JC's legs to see if he was hard, knowing that
wouldn't be, knowing that JC was never hard anymore, at least not at first,
not without some coaxing Fuck, he thought as his fingers touched the fabric
of JC's boxer briefs, he's wearing underwear.

Pulling his mouth away from JC's lips, Lance said, "I want to fuck you."

Saying it, Lance knew that JC hated him saying that, hated it when he
called it fucking, when he didn't call it making love.  But Lance couldn't
bring himself to say that anymore, to say making love, to say words that he
knew would be a lie, because he knew couldn't make love anymore, not to JC,
and not to anyone.  Lance knew -- knew and accepted -- that he could only
fuck now.  And so that's what he did, with whoever was around.  He didn't
care who he fucked, because it just didn't matter, not anymore.  Anyway, he
thought, it only seemed like cheating when he fucked JC, because he knew JC
wanted more, needed more, more than Lance seemed able to give him, give
anyone.  At least when he fucked some stranger, some nameless person that
he couldn't care less about, it didn't seem so wrong, it didn't seem like a
lie, like it did with JC.

"I want to fuck you," Lance said again, meaning it, but also thinking --
I'd make love to you if I could JC, I really would.

JC pulled his mouth away from Lance's kiss.  "Okay, baby," he whispered.
"Wait a second while I get these off."

Lance rolled off JC and waited while JC shucked off his boxer briefs.
Lance knew they were black, they were always black, and he knew that JC
looked so sexy in those things, so fucking sexy.  He remembered the delight
he used to feel watching JC bend over every morning, his skin still dewed
with shower-steam, watching JC step into those black boxer briefs,
gently-slow and toe-first, like he was stepping into a puddle of warm
water, and watching him slowly pull them up the trunks of his long lithe
legs, pull them up like he had all the time in the world, like he knew he
was giving Lance the gift of one more glimpse of his beautiful ass.  And it
had never failed to make Lance's penis instantly hard, never failed to
cause Lance to pull JC back into bed, back into his arms, so that moments
later those black boxers briefs would be off again, and on the floor next
to the bed, while Lance and JC made love, wicked and hot.

Lance was startled by the fervor of this memory, and the fire that it
seemed able to inspire.  He reached out and touched JC's arm. "Come here,
Josh" Lance said, still wanting to get this done with, to earn this
momentary release, to empty himself into JC and then escape to the darkness
of sleep, to the dark not-being of sleep.

JC wished he could see Lance, wished he could turn on some small light in
the room and see Lance's face, see his eyes, even if those eyes lately
seemed only to stare, but never see, at least not him.  "I love you Lance,"
JC said, sliding toward Lance's embrace. "I love you so much."  Lance
kissed him in silent reply, pressing his lips hard against JC's mouth,
opening it with his own, and running his tongue across JC's teeth, enjoying
the cold scrape of sharpness.

It did not take long for Lance to enter JC and start the piston-steady in
an out that JC could barely bring himself to call making love.  JC held
tightly to Lance's neck, his legs tucked up against his chest, receiving
each thrust with a determination and gratefulness that frightened him
because he did not understand it, but felt it, and was glad for it still.
JC could feel his half-hard penis beginning to swell against the friction
of his legs and the frantic pounding of Lance on top of him, and he could
feel the sweat begin to form on Lance's neck.  JC knew they would be done
soon, and Lance would pull out and roll off him without a word, without a
single word, leaving only the dark and silence to press down on him.

JC pulled his mouth back from Lance's insistent kissing and whispered,
"Yeah, baby. Come on."  JC could feel the panting hot breath on his neck
that always came before the final letting go.  He could feel the quickening
tempo of in and out.  He could feel the sticky-moist heat of skin on skin.
He could feel his own excitement build, and he willed himself closer to it,
hoping that he could come with Lance still in him, not after, not after
when all there was to do was finish it off himself, or just not to bother,
and hold Lance's hand instead, to hold it and not let go no matter what.

Lance could feel his balls start to pull up and tighten and he knew he was
close, so close.  He held his breath as his climax neared, and then he was
there, so there.

"Oh fuck, yes," Lance gasped, surprised at the intensity of it, at the near
joy of it.  "Oh god, Jeff. . . ."

Hearing it before he even heard it, JC thrust his legs forward with more
strength than he knew he possessed, more strength than he did possess,
pushing Lance violently away, flinging him backwards and off the end of the
bed and on to the floor.

Lance hit the floor with a crumpled thud, and did not try to stand up or
move or say anything at all.  Lance just quietly waited, waited to hear
JC's angry voice, waited for the bitter and tearful rebuke that he knew he
deserved, and now even wanted.

JC lay on the bed for what seemed to him like a very long time, waiting to
see if Lance would stand up or say anything.  When he did not, and it was
plain that Lance would lay there on the floor all night unless JC said
something himself, JC stood up and walked over to the light switch and
turned it on.  Lance was laying on his side at the foot of the bed, his
body curved like a question mark, his eyes shut tight against the light.

JC stared at him and tried to remember how he had fallen in love with this
man, why he had devoted the last seven years to loving him and no one else,
how he had done everything Lance ever asked of him, and how he had never
asked anything ever in return except to be loved, except to be loved.

Then JC spoke: "Get out," he said.  "Get out and never come back."

*	*	*

	 Lance remembered, remembered it as if it was happening, remembered
how he had heard those words and been stunned by their finality, by their
certainty, and by their complete and utter truth, heard the words that had
left him no choice but to do exactly as asked, to leave, to leave and not
go back.

Tears filled his eyes as pain suddenly seared through the deadening fog of
despair, making him gasp like someone who had forgotten to breathe, or was
just resurfacing from being under water too long.  "Oh, god," he cried.
"Oh, god."

	Lance pulled his legs up against his chest and wrapped his arms
tightly around his body, trying to compress himself into the smallest space
possible, as if he was not entitled to more space than his scrunched body
now filled.  He shivered and sobbed and gasped for breath between each sob,
rocking slowly back and forth in the damp-darkened dirt.

Finally, slowly, Lance unfurled his arms, and then his legs, and shakily
stood up, wobbling like a just born colt.  He turned toward the edge of the
cliff and looked out toward the horizon where the moon lightened the night
sky.  Tears cut furrows in his clay-stained face, and he turned to walk
away -- even though he knew not where, and even though it didn't matter
anyway, because all Lance could hear was the bitter wind as it whispered
love is gone.