Chris thanks his lucky stars that his life has led him, through twists and turns, to the present fullness that it is right now. He makes sure that every thing for everyone is taken care of, the basics of food and clothes and shoes, the perks of anything else his sisters or mother might care to need or ever want. The best of these, he thinks, are just like how all the love songs go- he's got it. Love. He's got love, and loads of it. His boys are elsewhere. JC is on his way to New York. Justin is on his way to Toronto. Lance is on the way back to Los Angeles. Joey will stay for a bit in Orlando with Kelly and Briahna. Chris is on his way to Texas. The RV is familiar and more than perfectly serviceable and he's enjoying the part where it's someone else's responsibility to drive and worry about how to get where they're going. He thinks of the rhythm of Justin's cocky stride on the court, and how it continues after the ballgame is finished. The kid moves like he could own the world, like if he wanted to he could reach out and take it in his palms before shooting it through a hoop. Justin moves like he owns and he knows it. This has always struck Chris as endearing, because in a way Justin will always be a skinny runt of a boy in Chris' eyes, even after he conquers the world as a solo artist. Lance is probably trying to earn a trademark for use of the word 'conquer' right about now. Lance, newly branded, and feeling mighty proud of it, still concentrating efforts to try and get himself shot up in space. Chris would never say it. None of them would. But he is glad, and he knows Joey, JC, and Justin are as well- that Lance did not go up in space this year. It may not sound noble. They did feel badly for Lance and his disappointment, but the relief of knowing they'd at least stay on the same planet together while apart, that Lance wouldn't endanger himself in a rocket-- Chris admits, atleast to himself, that he's glad about it. If a chance of certainty presents itself to Bass, Chris knows he might have enough of a headstart to get used to the idea having one of his boys floating in the cold, dark vacuum of space to be nothing but happy for the tenacious little fucker by then. He knows the other guys feel the same, this unspoken agreement of temporal relief. But if Lance's ass is meant to be in space, then they will stand by its owner when the time comes. It is 2 am and he takes a peek out the RV's window to glance at the passing scenery. Mostly, there are streetlights. It's still dark and murky out. Maybe it will rain. His cell phone rings. It is Joey. "My girls are asleep," Joey says. Chris tells him the RV ran over an armadillo. After fifteen minutes or so, Joey says goodbye. Chris, who will call him back in less than forty-eight hours, likes the cheery satisfaction in Joey's voice. They are all looking forward to the wedding. Chris flips through his CD case and finds JC's tracks on a CD titled "TRY ME I'M GOOD" written in a familiar, loopy scrawl. "A.D.I.D.A.S" soon fills his ears, and Chris closes his eyes to relax with abandon on the futon. He thinks of poor J. C.'s sunburnt skin, redpink raw and peeling, is reminded of an image of C's jutting hip while being manhandled, trying to pass a basketball swiftly but without sucess, left with only a wry smile for his efforts. "Build My World" begins, and Chris presses the button for repeat as his breath evens in depth, and his limbs begin to go slack. His last thought before succumbing to sleep is how he's glad they're gonna get back together in the studio soon.