Pairing: Justin and Nick
Words: chamois; Thursday's child; octopus; nailfile


They covered it up by saying that Lance was finally going to get to
realize his dream of going to space.  That was the reason they
initially gave for needing a break after touring, when normally
they would have swung right into pre-production for the next album,
but after a month of concerts in which all of Justin's parts were
sung by pre-recorded Justin, and Justin himself could not hear
anything, despite all of the expensive and discreet physicians he'd
been seeing, it was clear there was a larger problem.

A month after the tour was over, Justin had broken up with Britney
by fax because he couldn't tell her the truth, and what was the
point of being very nearly engaged to someone if you had to lie to
them about everything important?  He took solace instead in Joey
and Chris, the former having turned into an octopus, hugging Justin
at every opportunity, as if sheer physical proximity could cure his
defective ears.  Chris took the more conventional route -- for
Chris -- of bugging the hell out of Justin.

Two months after, with Justin non-responsive to all treatment,
Lance had taken up drinking like something out of a gangster movie,
and they'd had to promise him that they would do everything to see
that he really did go to space, because it was just too sad to see
Business Lance dissolving entirely under the pressure of having to
pretend to get one of his most cherished dreams while at the same
time knowing it was never going to happen.

They being everyone but Justin, who had only one responsibility --
getting his hearing back before the loss became the end of NSYNC.

The trouble was, there was nothing physically wrong with him.  At
least, nothing physically wrong that wasn't wrong with all of them
after having spent years doing shows in front of screaming
audiences.  They all had hearing loss, but nothing as complete and
total as Justin, who was locked in the silence of his head with his
tinnitus.  The doctors had collectively thrown up their hands and
given the prescription that time spent without loud noise might
bring his hearing back.  There was a psychologist Justin was seeing
on the side as well, although the visits were strained.  He wasn't
used to communicating to people entirely through the written word,
and while his lip reading was above par, he hadn't resigned himself
enough to his situation yet to take up sign language.

Partway into August, everyone but Justin had become resigned to the
situation, and had found things to do with the unnatural expanse of
time stretching before them.  Everyone but Justin, ensconced in
L.A., close to the expensive, useless doctors, and supposedly
working on a solo album.

In fact, that last bit was almost true.  He couldn't hear music
anywhere but in his head, and scribbling down bits of lyrics that
went with music he couldn't try out on his guitar was the only
thing keeping him sane and from sticking an icepick or a nailfile
through his ears.  Maybe one in each ear, just to be thorough.

He supposed he should be getting something deep out of this
experience, like how all of his other senses were heightened now
that his hearing was gone, or how he could now hear things that he
couldn't hear before because the sound got in the way, but the
closest he'd come to that was noticing how far he'd grown apart
from the rest of the group.  They'd scattered, doing their own
things, and normally, that wouldn't be a problem -- they'd be
brought back together by their obligations, inevitable as the tide
or a hotel wake-up call -- except now, there was nothing bringing
them back together.

Justin wasn't used to writing songs alone, wasn't used to doing
anything alone, and what came out was stuff like "Thursday's
Child":

     They say you always loved me,
     they say it was meant to be.
     They say we were meant to be together,
     I say we were meant to walk away.

     They say true love has found me,
     they say your love is the key.
     They say we were meant to be together,
     I say we've got further yet to go.

which was terrible, and girlish, but slightly better than the ice
pick theory.  Slightly.  All right, not much better at all, should
he ever actually try to *record* crap like that.

The next night, he went out.

The interesting part about clubbing was that no one could hear
anything over the music anyway, so Justin's impairment didn't stand
out.  Which was probably at least partially how he'd developed the
ability to read lips in the first place: he was used to having to
decipher what people were saying while other sounds were blocking
their voices.

L.A. being L.A., finding other celebrities at the club he'd chosen
wasn't much of a surprise.  Not even finding Nick Carter, who he
would have thought would be on the opposite coast.  Justin was on
the West Coast to hide from the world he knew, not embrace it. 
What *was* a surprise was the look Nick gave him, one that had
nothing to do with their usual veiled hostility, and everything to
do with the way Nick's hand touched Justin's arm, fingers running
down it like a chamois cloth over a freshly waxed car.

Justin was watching Nick's lips closely after that, but they didn't
need words to get out of the club, or back to Nick's hotel, or out
of their clothes and into bed.  And after that point, Justin would
have been insulted had Nick been able to form a coherent sentence. 
He was Justin Timberlake, and he was the best there was at what he
did, and what he did was *very* nice, thank you very much.

They slept after, a little, and Justin had just reluctantly roused
himself to get dressed when the door sprang open.  Nick was still
sound asleep.  Justin would have liked to stay for another round
before making the inevitable discreet exit, but he couldn't risk a
morning after conversation.

AJ stared at him.  "Fuck.  Fucking Timberlake."

Justin cocked his eyebrows at him and pulled on his shirt.  He'd
understood that perfectly well, and there didn't seem to be much to
say in return.

AJ stalked past him, and grabbed Nick's shoulder.  Justin pulled on
his shoes and tied his laces, watching them.  AJ seemed to be in
quite the mood, shaking Nick until the blonde shoved back and sat
up in bed.  AJ's face was turned from Justin, and he couldn't make
out the words.

Nick was efficiently hustled out of bed and into clothing.  Justin
was impressed -- Lance didn't do it nearly that well.  Of course,
AJ seemed like the kind of guy who had a lot of practice with other
people's clothing.

The odd part about all of it was that Nick wasn't putting up much
of an argument.  Justin had a fairly good view of his face, and
besides scowling at AJ, Nick didn't do anything.  Didn't argue,
didn't complain, didn't even try to.  Just kept his mouth closed
and went along with what AJ wanted.

Like Nick was ashamed of himself about something.  Like AJ was a
jealous lover who Nick had just cheated on, except there should
have been more shouting if that were the case.  There certainly had
been the first time Britney had found out that "songwriting" wasn't
all that he and Wade were doing together.  His explanation that men
had needs hadn't gone over too well, which Justin blamed on Joey,
who'd provided him with the speech in the first place.  Chris had
been unsympathetic, telling him he shouldn't take advice from a
serial dumper, to which Justin had replied, "Who better?"  Lance,
on the other hand, had taken Justin to a strip club, even though
Lance couldn't stand the places.  Sometimes Justin really loved
Lance.

AJ pushed Nick out the door, then turned to Justin, doing his best
to loom over him, which was working only because Justin had sat
down to tie his shoes.

"You aren't going to tell anyone about this, Timberlake," AJ said,
or at least, Justin thought he said.  The threatening expression
really said more than the words.

He rolled his eyes.  Of course he wasn't going to say anything. 
What was he going to do?  Sell the story to "True Confessions"? 
"My Night With Nick Carter"?  Yeah, right.

"No one knows he lost his voice, and we want to keep it that way. 
You got me?"  AJ was speaking very slowly, as to the terminally
retarded.

He didn't get it.  What was the big deal about a case of
laryngitis?  Singers had vocal trouble.  It happened, you rested,
did what the doctors told you and got over it.

Apparently his expression gave him away, because AJ poked him in
the chest.  "You aren't going to say anything, Timberlake."  It
came through as "You... going... say... Timberlake," but he got the
gist.

He nodded, because he couldn't do anything else and risk giving
away his own problem.

AJ studied him, then nodded firmly.  "You do that," and left.

He still couldn't hear anything.  Nick couldn't say anything.  What
was next?  Ashley Angel goes blind from too much masturbation?

Justin left the hotel and went back to the house he was renting. 
His situation sucked, but the only thing he truly missed hearing
was music, and being able to make it.  It wasn't enough reason to
put his life on hold and give up on the future.

He wondered what Lance was doing.