SUMMARY: NSYNC, Lance/Chris, JC/Justin.  Petty larceny.  Love is
paying attention.  JC pays attention.  Does Chris?

NOTE:  I didn't come up with the idea for this story.  How it
worked is that I read this story (or a reasonable facsimile
thereof) some time ago, and then couldn't find it again. 
Whereupon, it haunted me until I caved and wrote it down as best I
could remember.  It turns out that the original is "Love Means...
Knowing You Have A House In Floribama"
(http://divahips.com/cof12.html) by Bitterchick
(bitterchick@divahips.com), who graciously allowed me to keep my
version of the story up, although under a changed title.


The Floribama Story, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)


Lance was cool.  Really cool.  Super cool.  100 percent totally
cool.

Which sounded really great, except when 'cool' translated as about
20 degrees below freezing.  Maybe lower.  Like subarctic. 
Sub-antarctic.

Chris pouted at his sometime boyfriend across the backseat of the
limo.  The Justin pout that Chris insisted he'd taught him, except
he hadn't really; it came standard.  "What?  How was I supposed to
know that you had a house in Floribama?"

No response.  That was... well, it'd hurt, except he always found
being ignored to kinda be a challenge.  Or a turn-on.

He appealed to the kangaroo court.  Er, the other members of the
group.  "Did any of you know?"

"Nope."  "Um, no."  "Obviously not."

"Not the point, Chris.  You're the one I'm having a relationship
with."

And we have a response!  But not a very encouraging one, so Chris
cut the victory shimmy short.  "Yes, I am, and thank you for
noticing my hot naked body in your bed every morning, but how am I
supposed to keep track of how many houses you have?  It's not like
you live at any of them for more than a few days out of the year. 
And you spend most of that time at my house anyway."

"Until now."

"It was just a stupid question for the Rosie O'Donnell show.  We
got a lot of other stuff wrong, too."

"One question is not 'a lot of other stuff'."

He'd really thought they'd missed more than that.  Didn't Lance
know facetime was all about the goofing off, not about getting the
questions right?  By the folded arms and the closed off posture,
Chris guessed not.  "Look, be reasonable.  We know that JC's all
about the Timberlake lovin', but it's not like he knows everything
there is to know about Justin.  It's like asking what Justin's
favorite pair of sneakers is out of the fifteen million pairs he
owns."

"The Air Jordans.  The ones with the little pump.  And the..." JC
waved his hands in what was probably meant to be a descriptive
motion, but didn't mean anything to Chris.  "And the blue laces. 
Because they.  Yes."

Justin grinned triumphantly at Chris, and kissed JC on the cheek
with a loud smack.  JC's eyes crinkled.

Lance, on the other hand, glared at Chris.

Fuck.  He was fucked.  Or rather, he wasn't going to be for some
time unless he did something fast.

Lance was staring straight ahead.  Joey was looking out the window,
pointedly not helping.  JC and Justin were oblivious.  No help
there.

Chris did the only thing he could do -- pulled Justin onto the
floor of the limo, sat on him and noogied his head.

Lance kicked them.

Oh, yeah.  He was in trouble.  Good thing he liked it that way.


-the end-