SUMMARY: Nsync, Lance.  Someone forgot Lance's apples.

ARCHIVE:  Please.  As often as possible, and wherever you like.


Green Apples, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)


There weren't any apples on the catering table.  Not any Granny
Smith apples anyway, the kind that were small, green and always
crunchy no matter what.  Lance wanted those.  He didn't like the
red apples.  They were treacherous, sometimes crunchy and perfect,
and sometimes mealy like biting into oatmeal.

Apples weren't supposed to be like oatmeal, and he was supposed to
have perfect crunchy green apples waiting here for him, on the off
chance that he decided he wanted the sensation of sinking his teeth
into one and feeling the apple snapping off, too tart and tangy to
eat, but perfect nonetheless.

He could say something.  Justin would, if they were his apples. 
Yell a little, maybe a lot, even try to get the person responsible
for the catering mix-up fired if he'd been having a bad day, or
thought they were purposefully disrespecting him by forgetting the
food he felt like eating right then, never mind that there were
several other choices available.  And it would be all right for
Justin to throw the hypothetical fit, because he was the star, the
talent, and the catering staff, much like everyone else, was there
to make him happy.  It was as though the normal rules of politeness
got thrown away when you became a star, although Lance didn't
remember when exactly things had changed from being pathetically
grateful that someone had thought of providing food in between the
multiple performances they'd done each day to this, wondering where
his precious apples had gone.

Still, all semblance of manners hadn't been thrown away.  There
were still appearances to be maintained, interviews in which they
had to give the right answers.  Lance more so than the others, he
sometimes felt, with his business interests and wanting to go into
space.  Not that sucking up had done much good for "On The Line".

It was like there was a list of people who mattered, who you had to
be nice to, and everyone else you could treat like dirt, because
you were famous and had a certain sort of power over their lives.

Sometimes, Lance wished he was someone else, someone like Eminem,
who could say anything he pleased about anymore.  Who could be
rude, and beyond rude.  Who didn't have the list of people it was
necessary to crawl to or the appearance of politeness to maintain.

Except that Lance wasn't the kind of person who would swear at the
caterers for forgetting his apples, much less start doing so
indiscriminately at everyone who caught his attention.

And sometimes he thought maybe Eminem had his own list, his own
appearance to maintain, and that it wasn't necessarily better, just
different.


-the end-