Pairing: Justin and Nick
Words: sex toy; righteous; ornate; epic


It wasn't about their bands, or their record sales, or a rivalry
between them, it was about the music.

That was why Nick and Justin were producing solo albums at the same
time.  For the sheer love of the music.

Yeah, sure.  And that was Joey's real hair.

Justin didn't have a choice in the timing of his solo effort.  It
had to happen while Lance was doing the space thing, or be put off
indefinitely.  NSYNC took too much time for him to do it during
their normal touring and recording schedule, and he wasn't nearly
ready to give up NSYNC yet.  Backstreet, on the other hand, had
nothing but time.  They weren't actively touring.  Nick could do
his album whenever he wanted.

So, really, it was all Nick's fault.

Plus Nick had more or less agreed that he wouldn't do this.  It was
a tacit agreement, one existing more in the unspoken than the
spoken, but it was an agreement nonetheless.  And yet, Nick had
still screwed Justin over.

Filled with self-righteous anger, Justin put the fax aside with the
news clipping about Nick's unofficial release of one of the singles
from his album, picked up the phone and called the treacherous
blonde bastard.  The one who wasn't in Russia.  "How could you do
this to me?"

"Timberlake," Nick acknowledged.  "Do what to you?"

"Don't play dumb.  You know what I mean.  I heard your latest MP3. 
It isn't even very good."

"You know, I like the way you just 'happened' to hear your song
being played on the exact same day my single was released.  Very
smooth.  Who thought that one up?"

"And you deciding to do your album at the same time I'm doing mine
isn't a publicity stunt?  C'mon, not that stupid here."

"No, it wasn't.  Y'know, other people have a right to exist, too. 
You're not the only one who can have a career, make music or be
successful at it."

"I *know*.  It's not about that."

"Sure looks like it to me.  You're a pathetic loser who can't
handle a little friendly competition.  Someone so incredibly
insecure that they've got to sabotage everyone else's chances."

"I am not insecure."

"I'm not the one who dialed the phone."

"I called you, dumbfuck, because you *told* me you weren't going to
release your album this year.  You *said* you didn't want to go
head-to-head."

"Did not."

"Did too.  It was implied."

"*Implied*?  Excuse me while I go laugh my ass off.  Implied.  Who
normally does your thinking for you?  The one who's off in Russia,
right?  'Cause it shows.  Better tell him to come back and stick
his hand back up your ass, 'cause without it there, you're like a
puppet.  A stupid, evil puppet.  Pinocchio without the nose."

"I'm stupid?  That's the dumbest thing I ever heard.  You're
thinking of muppets.  Pinocchio had, like, strings and stuff.  And
his nose grew when he told a lie."

"Does your hair grow when you tell a lie?  Because that'd explain
the haircut."

Justin hung up on him, and called Chris, who was usually
sympathetic to all of Justin's plans, no matter how epic or trivial
in scope they might be.  "Yo, Chris, Nick Carter was mean to me. 
Can I destroy his life and make him miserable, and maybe shave his
dog or something too?"

"He was mean to you, huh?  What'd he do this time?"

"He said -- well, he *kinda* said he wouldn't put out his album
when I was putting out mine, and now he is, and he's being pissy
and saying he didn't say he said that even though he did.  Sorta."

"Um, Nick putting out an album?  Not really news.  Why the sudden
urge to rend and destroy?  'Cause I can totally get behind it,
don't get me wrong, it's just that some idea of motive would be
helpful when it comes to planning a fitting revenge.  And I know it
isn't the album.  Or just the album, anyway."

Justin fingered the news clipping.  "There was an article."

"Okay..."

"About Janet."

"Oh, you saw that.  Dude, she did *not* dump you because you were
too clingy and wanted a relationship.  You can't believe everything
you read, especially when you were there.  And, by the way, it's
perfectly normal to use sex toys like that.  There's nothing gay
about having a dildo shoved up your ass by a woman.  Not much gay. 
Anymore than watching two women have sex is gay."

"Um, Chris?"

"Because I know it seems like it should be, but it isn't.  They're
lesbians, but enjoying the lesbian love doesn't make you gay
yourself."

"You're not helping."

"Well, no, I don't *want* to help, because *that* would be gay. 
Two guys, gay.  Very simple."

"I *mean* that that's not what the article was about."

"Oh.  Oh!  Okay.  Gotcha.  What *did* it say then?"

"That she's seeing Nick now."

"So Britney's seeing Nick.  Big deal.  The blonde leading the
blonder.  Let him have her.  Again, not really news though, so
why--"

"Not Britney.  Janet."

"Carter scored with Janet, too?  Dude!"

"Yeah," Justin said glumly.

"Making a solo album at the same time as you.  Sleeping with your
old girlfriend *and* your new crush.  Dude, he totally wants to be
you.  Or do you.  Maybe both."

"Chris!"

"What?  I'm just saying.  Wait a minute.  What newspaper, magazine
or trade journal did this purported article appear in?"

"Um... the National Enquirer?"

"I'm calling off the hit now.  Okay, reality check time.  The New
York Times is a, say it with me, factual publication.  The National
Enquirer is fiction.  Fiction.  In other words, they make that shit
up.  Ornate, elaborate lies.  Lies, as in the opposite of the
truth.  Plus, you've got to get over it.  It's not the end of the
world that Janet Jackson doesn't want to have sex with you."

"She would have," Justin said sulkily, "if you hadn't told her I
was a virgin."

"How was I supposed to know she'd believe me?  No one ever believes
me.  You probably shouldn't have freaked out about the dildo thing,
though."

"It's just not natural, yo."

"So do you think Nick likes having stuff shoved up his ass, and
that's why she's dating him?" Chris asked slyly.

"I don't like you anymore, Chris.  JC is my new best friend now. 
I only like JC."

"Aw, J, you can't do that.  C'mon," Chris said in a wheedling tone
of voice.  "Would JC help you shave Nick's dog?"

"Maybe," Justin said sulkily.

"Would JC let you shove things up his ass?"

"Chris!"

"What?  So, can I come over?  Plot how to get into Nick's house? 
Loan you a battery operated razor?"

"Yeah, sure.  I gotta do an interview tomorrow morning though."

"Okay.  Listen, J."  Chris got quiet.  "No matter what anyone puts
in the paper or says to you or does, you're still somebody special,
you got that?  You'll always be someone, no matter what you do or
what life you lead.  Even if you're not Justin Timberlake,
superstar.  Got that?"

"Yeah.  Thanks, Chris."

"Anytime, kiddo.  On my way.  Be there in... okay, so this is
L.A... three or four hours, roughly.  If I don't make it, donate my
corpse to science."

"You'll make it."

"No, I won't.  I'll be stuck perpetually in L.A. traffic until I
dry up, locked in my car in the heat like a petrified mummy
creature."

"Well, if you are, I promise to have you put on exhibit only in the
really good museums."

"I knew was a reason I liked you best.  See ya."

Justin felt better when he hung up the phone.  But he'd feel even
better when Nick Carter was squashed like a bug and no one bought
his album, because it was all about the music, and yo, he'd heard
it, and that shit stunk.