7. Did She Jump or Was She Pushed?, JC/Lance
Last Dance
by Lizzie Mills
This was the choreography for burying the ex-girlfriend. Behind Justin, to the left. Nod, nod, 3, 4, supportive hand on elbow, frown, 7, 8, sidestep silent weeping cultish fans, bow head, clasp hands, pop.The cameras mostly caught Justin afterwards, which was for the better, JC thought. Justin was dramatic, face stunned and grave and appropriately tear-streaked, hands empty, voice soft and trembly. The cameras didn't catch much of Lance, because he was quiet in his grief and private in pain, and JC thought that was good while he wished it wasn't true.
--
The break-up fed the rush, and the new album was a hit, twice the seller that No Strings had been. Every talk show in the country gave them free press about breaking their own record, and every woman west of Oprah wanted to know how Justin was coping with the split. He was fine, fine, wobbly and liquored up but fine, and every appearance sold another thousand records or so. Even Madonna bought a copy and asked for autographs for her daughter. They'd all signed the CD covers and photos, Justin scrawling his name right across the acknowledgements and his brooding portrait.
Lance had finally written Justin's liner thank yous for him in a freaky scripty code that all the fans were still trying to figure out, because Justin wouldn't fucking put his name on anything that fucking referenced that fucking bitch or her so-called music. On-air, Justin smiled and waved away questions at what exactly it meant, blushed when people said, "Well, you must still be friends," and privately blasted Lance and Britney for everything.
Lance told JC once that Britney kept a copy by her bed, wherever she slept. "I'm not sorry," Lance'd said. JC knew he was lying because his hands shook whenever Justin walked by.
--
They sang the hymns, but no one did the harmonies. Not Justin. Not even Lance, who'd been raised on the songs, who'd been the bass in the church quintet. JC looked over during the song and his eyes were vacant, his lips forming the words but no sound coming out.
--
About a week after the Big Scene, she flinched at a reporter who asked, "Still a virgin?" Since then, there'd been a constant string of men, boys, stars, and freaks. Her shrink in New York was the last one. He was an expensive guy Lance had finally talked her into seeing when she was standing on the balcony somewhere and her security guys were screeching so loud that JC had heard them through Lance's cell phone.
After that, Lance curled up next to JC, head on his chest, and JC pretended not to notice that his shirt was wet when Lance lifted his head and kissed JC softly. JC pretended he hadn't heard the phone call, either, pretended he didn't know why Lance needed arms around him and breath on the back of his neck just to sleep, because Lance was trying to be strong.
"She's just so lonely," he said, and JC nodded sympathetically.
Lance never told Justin, but JC knew he knew, because everyone did.
--
The crowd was huge, considering, and quiet. The old gang was back, bands and dancers and choreographers that she hadn't called for a few months now. People she'd crossed, people she'd given up on, people who couldn't stand her as anything but sunshine.
Flowers were everywhere, in pink and white cascades down the side of the big church, like the sky was overflowing three colors of pale roses. The casket was white, too, and pretty, just unbelievably pretty as it sailed by on six hefty shoulders. He turned his head to look, watched Justin's heels snap on the concrete, Lance in perfect step next to him. It was the closest they'd been for a long time.
--
Three weeks before, she'd been with them in Cincinnati. She had short dark hair to separate herself from the blonde failure on the new album, and she'd sat cross-legged on Lance's bed and babbled about New York and about Dr. Benjamin, about clubs that sounded vaguely familiar and the serenity of being off the road. JC found it hard to believe she wouldn't just bounce back, be back at number one in a week like nothing ever happened, like the last four months were a speed bump, not a career-ender.
Lance had made JC listen to her album, and the songs weren't bad, Britney's voice, even, was almost mature enough to make it work, if you weren't a self-starving fourteen-year-old girl or a twenty-something guy in heat. The seriousness convinced him it'd been her attempt to win Justin back, even before Lance said it.
Justin, as far as he knew, hadn't even seen the damn album. Lance had written the thank yous for her, too.
When JC left she'd waved cheerily, and Lance had smiled and given him a one-armed squeeze in the hallway. "I'm gonna hang out for a minute," he'd said softly. JC had wanted to beg him, had wanted to demand, Come with me, now. He'd stayed silent, and Lance had smiled reassuringly and said, "See you on stage." JC had nodded.
Lance came to rehearsal without her, and JC was silently relieved. They didn't need another scene, he thought, when Justin ambled out with sunglasses on and slid across the floor. They just needed to get this tour over with in peace, get through this CD and this place where Britney was only speaking to Lance and Justin was blind drunk and pathetic.
--
He followed Joey out, after the parents and before the agents. This time, Lance was already in another car with Justin and the other pallbearers, so he looked out at the crowd. Signs, yeah, always signs, hand-markered, words about being an angel and JC couldn't remember if that was in one of her songs.
On the curb there were police officers and a line of silent, private security. JC stopped at the curb and stared backwards at the church, stared off at the crowds, and couldn't help thinking that if they'd all just bought the new album, none of this would have happened.
--
There was a scene after all, though it was after Cincinnati, somewhere near Chicago. Lance's phone rang in the middle of a movie, and instead of handing it over, Justin had answered with a slow, sloppy, "Hellllllo?"
Things went downhill from there, ending with Justin punching Lance and Joey throwing the phone out the window. When they were on separate buses, JC made an ice pack and handed Lance his phone, then went to bed, because it was useless to wait up.
--
There were sirens on the way to the cemetery, a police escort, and JC leaned forward three times to ask the drivers not to go. Then he remembered Lance's pale face that morning, the way he'd leaned into him on the ride over even though they hadn't touched in a week. He remembered the way Lance's hands were shaking and how much Justin smelled like Jack Daniels and knew they had to go. Joey just nodded, every time he shifted forward, and JC fidgeted with his tie so he wouldn't have to meet Joey's eye.
--
They had a fight in Kansas City, finally. Two months past admitting love, they still weren't beyond Lance slipping into bed with a whispered apology every night, and JC didn't deserve that, he was pretty sure.
He'd understood for the first few weeks, because they'd all sided with Justin out of habit, except Lance, who really thought about these things. Then Justin had dried out, made his apologies to everyone, and moved on, and Lance was still answering the damn phone every fifteen minutes. JC was past hating Justin by now, starting to move past hating Britney, and he was afraid of where it'd go next. He said that to Lance, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.
Lance just looked up from the bed, hands on his knees, the cell phone clutched close, and said, "Someone has to get it."
"Why? Why you?"
Lance didn't answer, looked down. JC remembered the fights, the way Lance was always in the middle, always backing Justin off and packing Britney into a cab and making sure they still had breakfast for the cameras in the morning. JC thinks it's about that dance, about Lance telling Britney to go back in, to give him some space, to keep trying. JC thinks it's also about Lance being in love with Justin for a few years, before he saw what it was really like.
"Jesus Christ, you don't owe her anything," JC shouted. "And you can't hate him that much."
Lance laughed hollowly. "This is just, right now, what I have to do," he said. "I can't -"
The phone rang, and JC hung his head. "You can," he whispered. "But you won't."
--
Lance hadn't cried yet, JC knew, because he'd asked him on the way to the church. Now, over the open grave, JC thought maybe he never would.
The words were soft, little prayers and a careful avoidance of exactly how it happened, of exactly why this precious life was so suddenly cut short. Lance stared at the ground, Justin at the sky, and in their dark suits they look like something from a photo shoot. Then Justin started to cry, and so did Chris, and JC closed his eyes.
--
Lance came back after fifteen minutes, no cell phone, and sat on the floor next to JC's bed and tried to apologize without saying her name. It came out as a string of begging, pleading, saying he was sorry and tired and scared, just so fucking scared. He was shaking so hard JC finally pulled him up next to him and let him sleep, fully clothed, sharing his pillow.
In the morning, Joey woke them up to tell them she was gone. Lance fell on the floor, didn't believe it until Joey turned the television on and there were lights and sirens on MTV. Then, before JC could even reach out, Lance bolted to Justin's room.
No one knew exactly what happened, but when they got there, Lance was gone and Justin was frozen in front of the television. After that, Lance wouldn't touch anyone, just sat in a ball on the bus, on the plane, in a hotel room. JC tried to hold him, twice; the third time Joey stopped him, a hand on his chest, and said, "Just leave him, just for a while."
Lance looked haunted and ugly, ghostly pale. He wouldn't stay in the same room with Justin, clenched his jaw whenever anyone said his name. He nearly punched Chris for bringing him food and locked himself in the bathroom for hours after Joey yelled, "You didn't fucking die!" JC cried because he wasn't sure that Joey was right.
The day before the funeral, JC walked in and just stood against the wall until Lance looked up. His eyes were heavy, bruised, the color dark against his pale skin. "You have to eat," JC said, because it was his job.
"I didn't answer the phone, that night," he said, and JC could tell by his eyes that Lance didn't mean to say that.
"None of this is your fault," JC said sincerely, reaching out.
JC's hand stayed on his shoulder for a moment, then Lance shook him off. He stared at his cell phone for a moment. His hands were shaking. JC barely remembered what he was like before all of this. It made him sad. He wanted to hold Lance, just gather him up and make him safe and smiling again. He hated Britney, hated Justin, hated everyone who'd made Lance think this was what friends did.
"I love you," JC said, very softly.
Lance nodded. After a moment, he looked up, his eyes staring just to the side of JC, and said, "Make sure Justin remembers, we have to be there early tomorrow, okay?"
--
At the end of the service, JC hung back, bumped up next to Lance. Lance took his hand, held on so tightly his fingers hurt, and JC struggled not to show his surprise.
The limo started to drive away, and Lance leaned forward, asked to go to the hotel. "I'm done," he said, facing JC but talking to no one. JC stroked his cheek, and Lance didn't pull away, just closed his eyes.
In JC's room, Lance put his arms around JC's waist and buried his face in JC's shoulder. For a moment, there was only that, Lance shaking under his fingers, his breath harsh and warm against JC's skin. He wondered if he could be done, ever. Then Lance whispered, "I love you, too," and started to cry.
He didn't close his eyes that time, just held him and kissed his temple. When Lance stepped back, pulled JC toward the bed, he didn't resist, couldnít resist. This time, they sleep, but when he woke up, Lance was watching him, his hand trailing up and down JC's chest.
"I do," he said, softly. "Love you, I mean. And... I know, about..."
"It really wasn't you," JC said, and Lance nodded. "You couldn't catch her. You didn't push her."
He shrugged, but the next night, they made love, and JC thought maybe, maybe Lance really was done, after all.