Date: Mon, 11 Feb 2002 17:57:21 -0500
From: Writer Boy <writerboy69@hotmail.com>
Subject: jc's hitchhiker - part 63

Obligatory warnings and disclaimers:

1) If reading this is in any way illegal where you are or at your age, or
you don't want to read about male/male relationships, go away. You
shouldn't be here.

2) I don't know any of the celebrities in this story, and this story in no
way is meant to imply anything about their sexualities, personalities, or
anything else.  This is a work of pure fiction.

Questions and commentary can be sent to "writerboy69@hotmail.com". I've
enjoyed hearing from all of you.

This season would not have happened if not for a discussion I had with
Clive, who is generous enough to cohost this story on his site. Stop and
tell him hello at www.authorclive.co.uk.

That said, back to the show.

***Justin***

For the next three or four days, things were more or less quiet at my
house.  The phone calls about me and Brit tapered off, and the ones about
Josh and Jack had dropped off a while ago. Josh still drifted around the
house, carrying around his notebook, but he didn't seem to be crying quite
so much. Either that, or he was doing it alone at night behind his closed
door. We didn't talk about either breakup, and I didn't mention the
postcard, but we weren't ever more than a room or two apart, no matter what
we were doing.  If Josh went for a swim, I hit some golf balls around, or
got in the pool with him.  If I went to the music room, or to the living
room to play video games, Josh came and sat with me. We spent hours playing
chess, or cards. On one interminable evening we tried to play Trivial
Pursuit, but the game took forever, because neither one of us are very good
at it.

Our dinner with Chris was fun, but there was a lot of press. We had thought
we'd be largely unnoticed, since we usually were in Orlando, but while we
were inside the restaurant somebody called some reporter, who called some
other reporter, and by the time we finished dinner there was a little crowd
waiting at the door of the restaurant with their cameras out. Chris and I
put Josh in between us, as he was still kind of fragile, and we didn't know
how he'd do. We tried to walk through without saying anything, not even a
"No comment," but it was hard.

"Justin, have you talked to Britney?"

"Is it true that she's dating Ashley from O-Town? How do you feel about
that?

"Chris, who are you dating?"

"Josh, why did you and Jack break up?"

"Were you cheating on him?"

Josh spun, his eyes watering, about to say something, and I could tell he
was ready to scream. I grabbed his shoulders and pushed him into the car as
the reporters continued to scream questions at us, directing most of them
toward Josh now that they'd seen they'd almost gotten a response. I
wondered what kind of vulture would pick at someone who was so obviously in
pain as I climbed into the back of Chris's jeep with Josh, pushing him
across the seat as he wiped at his eyes. I thought Chris was going to get
in, too, since he had taken the keys back from the valet already, but he
turned back toward the crowd of press as I closed my door.

"Look, I know you're just trying to do your jobs, but these are my friends,
my brothers, and they're in a lot of pain. Why don't you just back off, and
leave them alone?"

It was a good thought, but it had no effect whatsoever. There was a
moment's pause, just for a second, and then the questions started up again
as Chris climbed into the car.

"Chris, is that the band's official statement?"

"Do you speak for Lance and Joey, too?"

"Chris, just one picture!"

Chris peeled out rather quickly, giving them just one picture of his
flashing taillights. In the back of the car, Josh sat leaning on me, trying
to wipe the tears that kept trickling down his cheeks away.

"How can they say that? How can they say stuff like that, Justin?" he asked
quietly. "I would never cheat on Jack. I never cheated on Jack, never. How
can they say that? How can they even ask that, how can they think it's my
fault, Justin?"

"I don't know, Josh," I answered, cradling him against me as he pressed his
face against my chest. I noticed Chris watching us in the rearview mirror,
but he didn't say anything, and his eyes were impossible to read. "They
don't know you, Josh, they don't know anything about you. They don't mean
anything by it."

"I just don't understand," Josh said quietly, letting me cradle him against
me even though he was done crying. He had one hand up on my shoulder, and
the other around my waist, as he leaned against me with his eyes closed.

"It'll be ok, Josh," I said, smoothing his hair off of his forehead with
one hand while I ran the other in steady circles around his back. "It'll be
ok."

Chris dropped us off at my house, wishing us a good night, and apologizing
that it hadn't gone well. I promised we would do something again soon, but
Josh didn't say anything, just wished Chris a good night and walked toward
the door to wait for me to follow. I know he had his own house key, because
I gave it to him, but he had yet to actually go into the house by
himself. I think it was part of the manners his mom had worked so hard to
instill in him or something. He still felt like a guest in my house, no
matter how many times I told him not to. I told Chris goodnight, and he
stared at me for a second, a strange look on his face as if he was thinking
of saying something, but then decided not to. I called him later and told
him about the postcard, telling him where it was mailed from and what it
said, and he promised to send his investigator there, too, but neither of
us were very hopeful. I sensed something in our conversation, some
awkwardness, as if Chris was holding something in, but whatever it was, he
didn't say it.

Josh and I stayed in the next day. I was up before him, so I thought I'd
surprise him with breakfast, and I put together some waffles and sausage
while he showered upstairs above my head. When he came down, as I was
setting it all out and putting on a pot for his tea (Josh hadn't picked up
Jack's coffee habit; instead, he drank tea, with lemon, for his throat, the
way he always had), he looked at the table and smiled, a real smile, one of
the first I'd seen since this whole thing started. Watching his eyes light
up like that, watching his face crease in that old, familiar, smiling way,
in a real, teeth showing grin, I decided it was well worth the pound of
burned sausage that I'd already stuffed into the garbage disposal. The day
after that, Josh surprised me with breakfast, getting up early on purpose
to make omelets, grinning proudly as he carefully ladled one onto my plate,
cheese and peppers bulging out of the sides, the way I liked it.

Later that day I was in the music room again, playing around on my mixing
boards, when I suddenly felt like playing with the piano. Josh was out in
the living room, watching something on the History Channel, so I didn't
think I'd bother him. He hadn't been watching much television, preferring
to stare at the wall or work in that notebook, but gradually he was
starting to do it again, which I thought might be a positive sign. Sitting
down in front of the piano, I folded back the keyboard cover, and then just
stared at it. I didn't know how to play the piano, actually. I had bought
one because the decorator thought I should, because it seemed like there
should be an actual instrument in the music room, and not just gold
records, the stereo and all my discs, and all of our awards, but the only
thing I could actually play was a bad rendition of "Chopsticks", the song
everyone who doesn't know how to play the piano can play. Maybe now that I
had some time on my hands I should hire a piano tutor.

I was tapping tentatively away, tinkling my way through the same part of
the song over and over, when I heard Josh behind me in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he asked, leaning on the frame.

"I don't know," I answered, smiling. "I felt like playing on the piano."

"That's all you know how to play, isn't it?" Josh asked, smiling a little.

"Yeah," I answered, grinning sheepishly as I felt myself blush. Josh was
pretty skilled on the piano, like he was at everything.

Josh sauntered across the room toward me, moving with the easy natural
grace that everything he did projected, hips rolling a little, arms
swinging back and forth just enough to pull his shirt tight across his
chest. He sat next to me on the bench, his warm side pressing against mine,
his thigh against my leg. Our arms, both bare in our short sleeved shirts,
pressed against each other, muscle to muscle, skin to skin.  Josh looked at
me, still smiling.

"Move over a little," he said softly, and I did. I wondered for a second if
he thought I was too close, if he didn't want to be near me, but then
realized that he needed room for both of us to move. He set his hands on
the keyboard. "Put your hands where mine are, Justin, down there at your
end."

"OK," I said, following directions. I waited to see what he would do next,
looking at his face, following the line of his cheekbones and the slant of
his jaw.

"Justin, watch my hands," Josh said, shaking me from my reverie. "Watch
what I do, and then you do it."

He went really slowly, playing a few notes at a time, and eventually had me
playing the same melody over and over. I slipped up a little, but I was
basically a quick study, and soon I had it to his satisfaction. I knew the
song, but couldn't place it.

"OK, now we're going to change it up a little," Josh said, putting a hand
on mine to stop me. His hand, as always, was soft and warm. "You keep
playing your part, keep it right at that speed, and I'm going to play a
harmony, ok?"

"OK," I said. I sat, staring at him, as he sat ready with his hands on the
keys.

"Justin?" Josh asked, looking at me again.

"Yeah?" I answered, staring into his bright blue eyes. I'd never noticed
before that they had little flecks in them, little shades of darker blue.

"Play," he said, smiling again. "I'm waiting for you to start."

"Oh, sorry," I said, wondering what was wrong with me.

Josh wasn't any cuter today than he had been yesterday. Why did I keep
zoning out? I started playing, slowly and carefully, and after I played
through one time Josh added the harmony, tapping it out carefully. I
laughed, realizing that we were playing together, grinning at my
accomplishment, and heard Josh chuckle as well. He started to play around
with his part, adding little flourishes, playing it with both hands on two
different octaves while I continued painstakingly tapping out the melody on
my end.  Josh's foot was tapping along, and I was bobbing my head as we
continued our little duet.

"Josh, I know this song," I said, smiling. "What is it?"

"It's 'Heart and Soul', Justin," he answered, dropping back into the simple
harmony he had started out with. "It's the other song that people who can't
play the piano know how to play."

We both laughed, and then I slipped up, and our little duet broke down and
fell apart.

"Josh, will you play something for me?" I asked.

"Sure," he answered, not hesitating. "What do you want to hear?"

"I don't know," I answered, just happy to see him at the piano. "Just play
something."

I sat back, watching, as Josh began to play. The song that came out was
soft, and light, but kind of happy, and as he played it I watched Josh's
face, watched him smile as he put on this little private concert for me,
his feet working the pedals as his tanned hands flashed back and forth over
the keys. When he finished, I clapped excitedly, and he turned toward me,
blushing.

"Josh, that was great!" I said, hugging him quickly. He hugged me back
tightly, and when he pulled back I saw that he was still smiling, his face
red as he looked away uncomfortably. Josh doesn't take flattery well.

"Thanks," he said, looking down.

"Josh, maybe after dinner, do you think you could play something else for
me?" I asked.  "Please?"

He smiled at me again.

"Sure, Justin," he answered, smiling wider. He squeezed my shoulder. "I
think maybe I can."

And after dinner, he did play, for a good hour or so, just sliding from one
song to another as I sat curled up on one of the couches in there, watching
and listening.  As Josh was playing, I wondered if he had missed the piano,
if he had missed letting the music pour out of himself these past two
weeks. I hadn't realized that much time had gone by, but it really had been
almost two weeks since Jack left him, since we had stood in that club and
waited for Jack to come back from the bathroom, two weeks since Jack had
walked away, and left Josh blasted and empty, hollow inside. Josh played
like he'd just discovered the piano, like he hadn't realized it was here in
the house. He switched back and forth between popular music and classical,
falling into jazz and ragtime, mixing it with Mozart, Bach, and some riffs
of songs I'd heard yesterday on the Top 40.

When he finally paused, I jumped up, clapping again, and handed him a
bottle of water.

"That was great, like my own little concert," I said, dancing back and
forth from foot to foot. "You didn't even have any practice. I can't
believe you haven't played in so long and you still sound that good."

Josh glanced away suddenly, his face folding up again, almost guiltily.

"I guess I just, you know, haven't felt like it," he said quickly, turning
away.

"Josh?" I asked, wondering if I should reach out to him.

"I, um, I'm gonna go soak in my tub for a while, ok?" he said, walking
away, keeping his face turned away from me. "I'm kind of tired, you know?"

"Yeah, ok," I said, trying to be understanding. Did he feel bad for
enjoying something, for having fun, or did he feel bad because I'd enjoyed
something he did?  "Thanks for playing for me."

"You're welcome," he said quickly, walking out of the room. "Good night,
Justin."

"Good night, Josh," I called after him, sinking into the couch.

I had been almost there, damn it. Over the past couple of days, I had done
so much to pull Josh out of his shell, to get him to smile again. Tonight,
for just an hour or so, he'd almost seemed like the old Josh, had almost
seemed like himself again, but just like that he'd folded up again, pulled
back in. Every time it seemed like I was getting somewhere, some specter of
Jack would appear, some dark cloud on Josh's horizon to remind him of what
he'd lost. And I wasn't doing this for myself, wasn't trying to move into
Jack's place. I just wanted Josh to be happy. I just wanted Josh to smile
again, to laugh again.  That was all. I might want Josh, might think I was
starting to actually fall in love with him, but that wasn't important. That
would just get in the way of Josh's healing, and that was the most
important thing.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

The next morning he was quiet again, not fully withdrawn, but not as bright
as he'd been for the past few days. He didn't look as if he'd slept very
well, and I wondered if he was ok. We spent the day reading mail and
magazines, and playing chess, and then after dinner I was in my exercise
room, working out, when the CD on the stereo switched to the next disc, and
I heard the piano playing in the pause between. Walking carefully through
the house, I peered into the music room, keeping myself mostly in the
hallway, and saw Josh hunched over the piano again. He was playing slowly,
tentatively, and had that notebook open before him on the stand. He would
play for a while, and then stop and write something in the book, and I
realized he was writing music to the words of his "Dear Jack" letter.

I don't know what Josh's usual writing style was, but this song was a far
from painless process. He would play, or look back over the words again,
and wipe at his eyes, or hold his head in his hands. A few times he broke
out in full-fledged sobbing, his shoulders shaking, rather than just
letting tears trickle out, and sometimes when he went back to playing his
fingers were almost pounding on the keys. Jack had told me that sometimes
when he and Josh had an argument that Josh would take it out on his
electric keyboard, and I could see some of that now. I wanted to go to
Josh, but instead I went back to my weight bench, not wanting to push. If
he was trying to find peace, trying to reach inside himself, I needed to
let him do it.

When I finished my work out, I walked past the music room again, on my way
to the shower, and saw that he had closed the cover and the notebook
again. He sat with his head on top of the piano, on his folded arms. He
wasn't crying, but had been. I think he was trying to collect himself.

"Josh?" I asked from the doorway. "You ok?"

"Not really," he answered, looking up at me. His face was red and blotchy,
and his eyes were still wet.

"Can I do anything, Josh?" I asked, walking over to him. I knelt on the
floor, so that my eyes were at the same level as his.

"Justin, why does it hurt so much?" he asked quietly, wiping at his eyes
with one hand while he reached out for my hand with the other. "Is this
what love is really like? This kind of pain?"

"I, I don't really know, Josh," I answered, holding his hand, brushing my
thumb over the back of his hand. I thought about love, real love, the kind
of love I thought I felt for him.  "Sometimes love hurts, Josh. I know that
sounds kind of cliched, but sometimes you can want something so badly, want
to be with someone so much, that all you feel inside is hurt, unless you're
with them."

"But Justin, why don't you feel like this?" he asked. I must have looked
hurt, because he squeezed my hand. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out
right. I just, you know, you don't seem like you miss Brit this much. It
doesn't seem to hurt you like it does me. Are you just covering it up?"

I thought about it for a second, trying to put my feelings in order, trying
to figure out what I should say.

"You're right," I said quietly. "I don't miss Brit like you miss Jack. I
miss her as a friend, but what you felt for him, what you guys had, we
never had that. I never felt that way about her, and I don't think she ever
did about me. We told ourselves we felt that way, and we tried to make
ourselves believe it, but the kind of love you guys had? We never did,
Josh."

Josh reached out, taking my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over my
cheeks, one of them just below the stitches that I needed to have taken out
soon. He was looking at me with such warmth, such compassion, that I
thought I might start crying after all. Our faces were so close, and his
eyes were so wide, filled suddenly with nothing but concern for me.

"Justin, I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know you didn't have to just tell
me that, and I want to thank you for being honest with me, but I'm also
sorry you've never felt this way. I'm sorry you've never known what it's
like to totally be a part of another person, to completely share their
thoughts and their feelings. I miss Jack, Justin, I miss him so badly that
it feels like it's eating my soul sometimes, and maybe sometimes I hate
him, maybe sometimes I'm angry at him, because I don't understand, but what
we had? I wouldn't give that up for anything. I might never feel that way
again, Justin, but I'd never give up the chance I had to feel it once, at
least for just a little while."

"Josh, you'll feel it again," I said, my hands over his, holding them to my
face. "You'll find someone again someday, maybe when you least expect it,
and you'll be whole again."

"Maybe I will," he said, looking down, but not letting go. "But right now I
don't want to."

We were both quiet, and then I stood, trying not to feel like Josh had just
stabbed me. I know it was selfish of me to hope that he'd reach out to me
that way, but I hoped it just the same. I hoped that he would open his
eyes, and that some morning he might look at me that way, just for a
second, or maybe forever. He looked up at me as my face slid from his
hands.

"I'm gonna go get in the shower now, ok?" I said. "Let me know if you need
me."

"OK," he said, looking down at his hands again.

The house was quiet when I got out of the shower. I got dressed and went
downstairs, looking for Josh, thinking that we might make some popcorn and
watch a movie or something, but when I found him he was out on the back
patio, looking out over the dark backyard with a bottle of scotch and a
glass. His face was wet, and I wondered what could have happened in the
half hour I was gone, while I had stood beneath the steaming spray, trying
to collect myself and get my heart under control, trying to put all my
thoughts and feelings back under the shield I'd kept around them my entire
life.

"Josh?" I asked, standing in the patio doorway.

"Justin," he said, smiling. He raised his glass, drained it in one long
swallow, and then refilled it. "Come sit with me. Grab a glass if you
want. Hell, grab another bottle."

I'd never seen Josh quite like this. I had seen him sad, depressed, and
tearful, and I'd seen him angry, but I don't think I'd ever seen him seem
so, so bitter? Was that the word I wanted? Maybe it was. He looked
miserable, but he smiled when he looked at me, a sad smile, the wry kind of
smile people have when they know the joke's on them.  I figured he might
talk more if I drank with him, so I grabbed a glass from the kitchen and
joined him at the table. When I sat, he poured me a glass, and raised his
in a toast.

"Cheers!" he said loudly, clinking our glasses. I took a swallow, feeling
it slide down my throat. My housekeeper picked out nothing but the best
when she kept me stocked up on groceries.

"Josh, what happened?" I asked, setting my glass down on the table and
watching as he refilled us both.

"Carla called," he answered, sipping again.

"Oh," I said quietly. That explained quite a lot. I took another sip, and
waited for him to continue.

"She says hi," Josh said, sipping slowly. "She also says that I threw
things away with Jack, that I should have stayed in LA and tried to find
him. She says that if I really cared about him the way I said I did that I
wouldn't have been so quick to believe that he meant it."

"Has she heard from him?" I asked, holding out my glass for another refill
as he topped off his own.

"Nope, but she says that he can't have really been serious," Josh said,
sipping again. "She says that it was probably just some dumb little Jack
thing again, but that now I've made sure it was permanent by just walking
away. Is she right, Justin? Do you think she's right? Was Jack testing me,
and did I really just throw it all away like that?"

"No, Josh, no," I said, taking his hand. He shook my hand off so that he
could refill his glass again. "Josh, if anyone threw anything away, it was
Jack. He threw it away the moment he left that note, the moment he took his
ring off and walked away from you. He walked away from you, Josh, not the
other way around. You left, but you were the second one who did, and even
if you haven't looked for him, well, he hasn't looked for you, either. He
threw away everything you gave him, Josh, everything the two of you built
together. Him, Josh, not you."

"Maybe," Josh said, not agreeing with me, but not disagreeing, either. We
sipped our scotch for a few minutes, Josh refilling us, and I realized that
we were draining the bottle pretty quickly. I was starting to feel a bit of
a buzz coming on, and could only imagine that Josh, a much lighter drinker
than I am, was feeling one pretty strongly as well.  "Justin, he left. I
know he didn't take anything with him, but I think he threw his phone away
like he threw me away. I think he just walked away from everything, and
didn't want to keep anything from me. That's why his phone was out under
the dumpster, Justin. And he sent me a postcard, too. A written one, not
typed. I had someone bring my mail over here the other day, and there it
was. He really did leave me, and when I told Carla that, she didn't say
anything."

I realized that he had been thinking it through the whole time. Chris and I
thought he'd been too distraught to face things, that he had missed all of
those oddities and just didn't want to see them, but he had been right on
top of it all along. Everything he said made sense, suddenly, except for
the inexplicable fact of Jack leaving him in the first place.

"Justin, can I ask you a question?" Josh asked, looking up at me.

"Sure, Josh," I answered, swallowing another mouthful. "You can ask me
anything."

"What happened with you and Brit?" he asked, looking me in the eye. "I
heard you guys arguing, but what did you tell her? What did you say to
her?"

I decided to just be honest. After all, it was Josh. He'd been there for
what happened, had been an active participant.

"I told her about us," I answered, suddenly glad for the scotch. "I told
her about sleeping with you and Jack. I didn't tell her in the best way, it
didn't come out quite right, but that's what I told her."

"Wow," Josh said quietly. "You told her everything?"

"Not quite," I said, slamming back another glass. I held my empty out, and
Josh granted another refill. I must have been drunker than I thought,
because what came out next surprised even me. "I didn't tell her about how
hot it was. I didn't tell her what it felt like to have your mouth on me,
or Jack's. I didn't tell her what it felt like to feel your heart beating
under my lips, or feel your bodies sliding over mine. I didn't tell her
that it was the most amazing sexual experience of my life, or that I'd do
it again in a heartbeat."

Josh blinked at me, his mouth open. Little beads of sweat had broken out on
his forehead.

"You, that's how you think about it?" Josh asked. "That way?"

"Yeah, it is," I answered, staring right back into his eyes. I realized
that I was hard, and wondered if he was, too. "Do you ever think about it,
Josh?"

"Sometimes," he answered, swallowing, his voice barely a whisper.

"Me, too," I said.

We continued staring at each other, blue eyes locked together, Josh
breathing heavily through his parted lips, me throbbing painfully in my
track pants. I realized that we had, between us, consumed the entire bottle
of scotch, and I wondered if that had something to do with my feeling that
the whole world was spinning right out of control.  Josh swallowed again,
and then looked away finally, breaking the moment.

"I think we should head to bed, now," he said quietly.

"Sure," I answered.

In the hallway we told each other goodnight, and went to our separate
rooms.  I stripped down to my briefs, my painfully throbbing cock tenting
the front of them, and then I just decided what the hell, and kicked them
off, too. I climbed into bed, shutting off my lights, and spent what seemed
like hours tossing and turning, before I finally ended up just lying flat
on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

Now that I'd thought about it, had allowed my mind to start replaying the
one hot night, I couldn't get it out of my head. Every time I closed my
eyes I saw it all again, Josh's sweating chest, Jack's eyes squeezed closed
with lust, my cock pushing between both their lips as they attacked me
together. Every time I shifted in bed, the sheets slid against me, but it
wasn't the sheets I felt, wasn't the cotton. Instead it was their hands,
sliding over me, touching me, caressing my body. It was their hands, and
their lips, and in my ears I heard the sighs, the pants, the groans, the
little yelps of pleasure.  I dropped my hand down to my cock, figuring that
I needed to just jerk off and be done with it, when I heard my bedroom door
open.

Sitting up, I saw Josh in the doorway, dressed only in a pair of clinging
boxer briefs. I couldn't see his face, because the only light was coming
from behind him, but he walked slowly, carefully, over to the bed, and
stood next to it, staring down at me. His chest was rising and falling, all
but heaving as he stared down at me, panting heavily, and I blinked up at
him, trying to make out his features in the darkness.

"Josh, do you need something?" I asked quietly.

He dropped down, not answering me, and grabbed my face roughly with both
hands.  Pulling my head up toward him as he dropped toward the bed, I felt
his soft lips close over mine, and then his tongue, scotch flavored, wet,
and warm, slid into my mouth.

***

More to come soon.