Like he’d always known that one day he’d be going. And not ever coming back.

Over the past year he’d started reclaiming his life. Paying his own bills, opening an everyday bank account, doing laundry. Making sure things got done without someone to do it for him. A pad of post-it notes to organize his life just like everyone else. It had been a small step away from the world of palm pilots and personal assistants. But it had made this day possible.

He pulled at the sleeve of his shirt, wiping beads of sweat that had gathered on his face. He hadn’t been raised in the deep south where stagnant humidity and frequent squalls brought everything to a standstill. Maryland was temperate and mild. With seasons that changed more in appearance than in reality. Much like JC himself. Today the hair at his neck curled wildly, damp with perspiration. And he pushed at it with fingers that had long ago grown used to skin that was wet and warm.

• • •

Joey had been the easiest to tell, saying that he understood even when he didn’t. They had been friends before it all began. They would be friends when it was done.

Chris had bristled only because he was being told about the move, not consulted beforehand. The flight from LA had been longer than usual, delayed by storms in the midwest and JC had waited until after the meal service to talk about it. When he knew they had to sleep or allow jetlag to take their senses away.

“People graduating college don’t stay in their apartment or their dorm just because they don’t know anything else, Chris. They pack up and they move on. You know, they pick a place and they go there and wander around until they find a new life to live. And they start over.”

He’d looked out the window shutting off any further discussion, but the unspoken part of the conversation had been loud and clear.

If Justin could move on, he could move on.

• • •

At one point he’d considered hiring someone. To come in and do the packing for him. But that had been too hard. So today he was in the downstairs bedroom. An empty desk and an empty dresser. Ten boxes stacked against the wall, labeled and taped, waiting patiently for Friday.

The hallway was like an obstacle course. Notebooks that had become journals were piled everywhere. He’d been amazed at the change in his handwriting. But not at the things he’d written about. He’d spent most of Sunday sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, trying to attach a face or a name to page after page of lovesick lyrics. It had been a monotonous task until he'd gotten to the last few. Somewhere towards the end of 1999, he'd given up writing words and had simply drawn pictures. They all looked the same.

There was a clap of thunder and the room seemed suddenly dark. Vertical blinds shooting alternating panels of light and shadow across the room. A late afternoon storm on the way.

Moving his life to New York was not a subtle change like ordering Merlot instead of Cabernet. He knew that. Lance had called New York “an acquired taste”. He liked it but he’d never live there. The comment had made JC smile. Lance didn’t really live anywhere. He had three houses and a like number of crash pads. But his home was in his head. And wherever his mama was at any given time. He’d never discussed the move with Lance. It wasn’t something he would have understood.

He'd actually bought the house in LA because of Lance. Something smart to do with his money. But it had never been more than that. Only two rooms had any real furniture. And if he’d spent more than a month there in the past two years, it would surprise him. It had nothing to do with the house itself. It was LA and the shiver that still found its way down his spine whenever he stepped off the plane there.

They had never asked for details, even on the night when Chris had confessed to wishing his own father dead for abandoning him and Lance had told the story of his first lover. They knew only that JC had once spent six months in LA. That he had shown up on Justin’s doorstep with less than ten dollars in his pocket. And that he’d slept for two days straight, eaten only one meal, and that he had cried. Justin would say no more.

A sheet of lightning turned everything white and then it was dark again. The thunder this time rolling in late. A muffled sound of things to come. Rain that sometimes beat its fists against the windows or simply gave up and poured helplessly to the ground. Most of the lamps had been packed and now the only light came from overhead fixtures. Light that was not meant for intimate reflection. The spill from the hallway cut the small bedroom in half.

Lance had once said that if you live in New York, you forget about darkness.

It was the one thing that had worried JC about living there.

• • •

There were still two piles on the bedroom floor that were unmanageable. Not because there was too much to deal with. Not in terms of numbers. But because some of it had to be left behind and he had yet to deal with it. Or even think about it.

The call from Justin came in around five.

“You need some place to come back to, JC. A home. I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

The formality put more distance between them than mere geography had been able to. They were both doing it now. What Justin would call fronting. In this case, using names that spoke of business not friendship.

“I don’t have a home, Justin.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

JC took a deep breath. The sequence of events never changed. Justin would be real. And then he would be angry. When he was angry, names disappeared altogether. Or you were a fucking asshole. If he'd been drinking, a cocksucker.

He kept his own voice even, unwilling to take the bait.

“It means I have no reason to be in Orlando anymore. And with my folks in Chicago now, there’s nothing there either. And you know I hate LA.”

The last part had come out in a whisper and now Justin was quiet. JC could see him picking at the hem of his shirt, then pressing it flat again with a sweep of his hand. If there was a glass nearby, he'd be lifting it up, then centering it again, on the watermark, without ever drinking from it. He didn't have to be there to know. He knew Justin. When he finally did speak, the anger in his voice would be gone. It was.

“I still don’t understand why you’re giving up, why you’re leaving.”

JC squeezed the phone tightly, pressing it against his cheek. He glanced at the floor and thought again that not everything had made it into the right pile. He would need to do something about it.

• • •

It should never have happened at all. Any of it. And it had caused him to stumble badly. To trip over plans he'd made to start a new life once the tour was done.

He'd gone to the cabin with Justin. After the show in Memphis. The night Justin had decided that he was Jim Morrison. And that this was his last concert. That Tennessee State Troopers would be arriving any minute to take him away.

"For exposing the dickage," he'd announced proudly.

An event that had yet to occur and probably never would. Ever. But they'd shared a bottle of Southern Comfort. And JC had come out of the shower mostly naked. And Justin was absolutely certain that they should run. Both of them. Since obviously JC had done it too. Shown the crowd his cock. Because Justin had asked him to.

They had whispered and giggled themselves into a cab. Then had fallen asleep.

The cabin was in a remote part of Tennessee. The kind of place where there were fallen trees and moss on the ones still standing. Shafts of light intruded here and there, but the trees were so tall you could not see the sky. It was quiet. Peaceful. A place Justin never talked about, but that JC knew existed. He'd just never been there.

In reality neither of them had. Been there. Naked. In the same bed.

JC had awakened, as always, curled on his side. One hand under his pillow. It was the hand between his legs that was different. The one that had belonged to Justin.

• • •

Chris was making dinner and although JC had cringed at first, right now it sounded like a very good idea. He’d made so many decisions in the past week that making one as simple as what to eat on the last night in a house he didn’t really want to be leaving would have been impossible. When he couldn’t decide between a shower and simply standing under the air-conditioning vent for a given period of time, he knew he’d made the right choice.

Chris wasn’t much of a partygiver, but on this night he knew exactly what to do. JC had hesitated when he saw the number of cars in the driveway. Chris had promised there’d be nothing formal. He’d kept his promise.

The weather had moved everything inside; otherwise, it was a Maryland clambake. With plenty of cold beer and Chris’s idea of good music: five discs of Black Sabbath and Jimi Hendrix on random play. JC recognized most of the faces, but knew almost no one by name. And somehow the anonymity was exactly what he needed. It wasn’t until they sat down to eat that he realized they had one thing in common. They were all leaving Orlando. Two had taken jobs in Atlanta and wouldn’t be too far away. One was going back to Nashville. No job, just going home. The guy at the bar was sailing to Portugal with plans to end up in Milan.

No one was going to New York.

There were several inappropriate toasts and they’d been mildly drunk by nine. JC had wanted an early evening and he’d gotten one. He hadn’t wanted to spend his last night in town alone. He hadn’t. When Chris winked at him from across the table, JC’s eyes had filled with tears.

• • •

He spent the first night at a hotel off Central Park West.

Even though the apartment was ready, JC was not. He'd booked the room simply as a back-up, but on his first night alone, he'd needed it. The familiar routine of checking in and making small talk with the bellman.Testing the pillows, putting the soft one on top. A long shower then room service and lights out. He knew hotel rooms. He felt safe there. It was home.

He'd stood by the window for a long while staring out at the park. By 8:30 the sky had lost its color and there had been no darkness to take its place. On the street below, two joggers appeared suddenly from a bike trail, looking as if they'd beamed down from a spaceship and were uncertain which way to go. Disoriented.

He had understood the feeling completely.

• • •

Justin had said three days. But now it was five and Chris was ready to go. He had no real problem with LA. It just moved a little slow for him. Too much weed and not enough work. But he could tell that Justin was nervous. So he'd kept his mouth shut. And waited quietly while he finished up some notes. When Justin nodded at the door, Chris was on his feet. Smiling.

"I say we head to the Big Apple to celebrate."

Justin hunched a satchel over one shoulder, then waved to the engineer in the booth.

"I thought you had the pedal to the metal, CK."

"I do. But it's New York, man. You got your piss. You got your pigeons. What's not to like?"

Justin laughed, then slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Once outside the studio door, his smile slipped away.

"C'mon man, I'm tired. I spent way more on this trip than I planned and I didn't get shit out of it."

They stood in the parking lot while Justin fumbled with the keys. He finally looked up at Chris in frustration.

“I gotta make this work now. Me. It's about tomorrow, remember? Not yesterday."

Chris slammed the trunk, then walked around to the passenger's side.

“That’s what I always told you. Now I’m going to tell you something else.”

• • •

In the old days, Chris could have gotten Justin to do anything. Tonight there was no plane. Just the inside of a nameless bar in Westwood.

He'd always thought smoking was stupid. A waste of time and money that made your lungs think about early retirement. But he understood wanting to smoke. At moments like this, he understood. It gave you something to do with your hands. And time to think before you said something you should probably keep to yourself.

“I used to worry that you were going to be the Righteous Brothers, you know? That the two of you would just take off. I'd wake up in some strange town and you'd both be gone. I had it all figured out."

Justin leaned back, lifting the dark bottle slowly to his lips. His eyes looked blank. Like there was nothing worth seeing.

“And I used to think I understood what the hell you were talking about. I haven’t gone anywhere, Chris. I'm just busy right now.”

Chris drummed his nails on the table, but Justin didn't look his way. He was distracting himself. Pinching at the flame of a candle meant to bring intimacy to a basically dark place. Chris recognized the behavior, a technique he'd developed over the years to somehow disappear. Justin didn't like too much of anything, good or bad. So at some point, he'd just shut down. His voice had a distant, hollow sound when he spoke again.

“Nobody wanted this break more than he did. Fucking lunatic the last couple months.”

Chris leaned back to wait. There was nothing more to say. Justin would talk himself down any way. Eventually. Right now he was untouchable. His dark eyes fixed on something no one else could see.

When Joey had first argued that they had enough money and what he wanted was more time, Chris had felt the stale breath of fear on his neck. There was no such thing as enough money. He’d wanted to say it, but it just wasn’t true. Not any more. They had more money now than they could spend in three lifetimes. But it had taken them years to believe it.

So none of this was about money.

It wasn’t about music either. At least not for him.

As often as he could say it, Chris Kirkpatrick told the world that he loved rock ‘n roll. That pop music paid the bills, but his heart was with Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols. He was a fan. A collector. He loved listening to music. He loved talking about it. But he didn’t have to make it.

That was the difference. He had a choice. Justin and JC did not. Not about music.

And not about the rest of it either.

Chris looked across at the familiar face, outlined now in darkness. He was still Justin, but not the skinny blonde one, not by any stretch of the imagination. This Justin was different. There were still curls, but they were rougher looking now. Muscular. Like his arms and neck. And he smiled less. Something that was harder to get used to.

But as different as they had become, they were also alike. Had become like each other in spite of themselves. Right now Chris was thinking like Lance. In terms of space. That Justin’s orbit was closer to earth. And they could talk again. He was not surprised to hear his voice.

“He never told me, you know. I got it second hand.”

When Chris just nodded, Justin looked away and shook his head.

“I know why too. Because it would piss me off that he was leaving.”

“Piss you off?”

“Yeah.”

The last of it seemed to settle on Justin uncomfortably. He sat for another minute, legs spread apart, elbows on his knees. The empty bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. When he left, the air seemed too heavy for even a native born son of the south to breathe.

• • •

Having a doorman who knew him on sight and inquired about his daily schedule would take some getting used to. Part of moving to Manhattan had to do with freedom. The freedom that came with blending in. But JC couldn't disappear completely. It wasn't possible or even reasonable to expect.

The area he'd chosen was itself a celebrity. Both John Lennon and John McEnroe had lived nearby and JFK, Jr. had once lived just across the street. But people still demanded privacy. Though he could buy and sell most of the tenants in the building, he'd only moved in after a committee had approved his application. It was one of the few times in his life that he'd been glad that his real name was not well known.

So Albert, his doorman, knew only that name. And that JC expected few visitors. So when two women presented themselves in the lobby and asked for Mr. Chasez, in only his second week in the buiding, Albert had almost turned them away.

The Fatones had more relatives than the other four members of the group combined. And they all lived in New York. Aunts Florence and Helen had arrived with a week's worth of frozen dinners, the name and number of a deli that would deliver, and a tie quilt. In case the building was cold.

Joey, they said, was in Hollywood doing a film. And didn't want him to be alone.

• • •

JC checked his pocket for his wallet, then looked around the room. Only a few things were left on the bed. A denim jacket. A few CDs that somehow had gotten mixed up with his own. And a board game from Japan that had come with tea lights. All of it belonged to Justin. He made a mental note to ask Albert about calling a package service. Then walked out to the kitchen and poured the last of his coffee into the sink.

It would have been easy to pick up the phone. To call Justin and tell him about it. But that was no longer possible. Not after Memphis. After Memphis, everything was different.

The show in Fort Lauderdale had been a disaster. Justin was sullen and withdrawn one moment, childishly loud the next. On the catwalk during Sailing, he'd kicked a hacky sack at Chris. Taking the crowd away from JC. And later, when the sound system failed, he'd glared across the stage at him as if it were somehow his fault.

JC had waited at the bus, touching his arm to stop him. But Justin had looked right through him. Shaking off his hand with a silent curse.

Then it had rained. All the way to Orlando. And in the darkness, JC had lain perfectly still. Afraid that if he moved, that Justin would know he was awake and would come to him.

Worse, that he would know and not come.

When sleep came, he was alone. Remembering the rude brush of Justin's hand. But also the soft glide of his tongue. And the perfect hardness of his body as it had pressed against him.

• • •

The security guard took one look at the brightly-colored shirt, then shook his head.

"You might want to cover that, sir, before you get to the gate."

Chris looked down at his chest. For the last day in LA, he'd chosen a t-shirt announcing he was all out of estrogen and had a gun. He zipped up his jacket, shrugging innocently. Then shared a whispered laugh with the guard.

When he turned back to Justin, his voice was more serious.

"So which way?"

Chris Kirkpatrick was a wordsmith and there was always more to what he said, if you were really listening. Justin blinked once, then looked away, to where an electric cart waited to take them to the gate. When Chris spoke again, his voice was tender.

“If you want it, you're gonna have to tell him, J.”

Justin flicked his middle finger twice, like he was shooting a wad of paper across the room. He still had not looked at Chris.

“It’s not like that.”

Chris let the words hang in the air without comment. He knew a lie when he heard it. Justin had always had a hard time lying. He was glad to see that part of him hadn’t changed.

“Listen to me. He’s in the business of reordering his life. Without you in it. If you don't want that, you better tell him. He’s a stubborn fucker, you know. Don’t wait till it’s too late for him to back out.”

Justin pulled at his fingers, cracking the first two knuckles, then he massaged the palm with his thumb. There was a slump of his shoulders right before he spoke.

"I want to go home, Chris. I just want to go home."

• • •

The sky had been almost orange and the air completely still. Then there'd been thunder. One huge clap of it. And it had rained. Straight down, hard and angry for almost twenty minutes. JC had stood quietly, arms snug across his chest, with a dozen other strangers who'd huddled beneath the long grey canopy of the hotel on East 3rd Street.

Lance had been relentless. He wanted him to go out. The city was full of great restaurants and bars, he said. Places to meet people who actually lived in New York. He wasn't ready for that. But he did want to get out. To at least find his way around on his own. One of Chris's parting gifts had been the address of the nearest Banana Republic. The other was directions to a place called The Mudd Club, a supposed haven for underground music. He'd neglected to mention that it no longer existed. At least not in any real sense of the word. There was still a building at 77 White Street, but the only reminder of what had been were words painted on the sidewalk. 'Long Live Punk' and 'Not Dead Yet'.

He'd been standing there, looking down at the faded letters, when it had started to rain.

He'd been under the canopy watching the rain when he met her.

The last to arrive, he'd angled his body, taking the final square foot of refuge. They'd been shoulder-to-shoulder, but she hadn't looked at him nor spoken until the rain stopped. He had felt her body shiver, then she had turned to him. Her voice low. And intimate.

"It's cold. I need coffee."

She looked directly at him as if expecting him to nod.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

When he didn't answer, she smiled. Like a wave of pleasure had just passed through her. Her black eyes never changed, but her ivory-colored face opened and she looked suddenly innocent. Unprotected.

JC laughed softly. As she turned to leave, he fell in beside her.

Inside the coffee bar, they'd spoken only once. It was loud and crowded and somewhere an insistent bass pounded at the edge of things. She'd raised her hand to the waiter. And he'd seen a bracelet. It was delicate and expensive-looking. She had looked at him pointedly and then had smiled.

"I think old things are beautiful."

The waiter arrived at that moment, so he had said nothing. Under the table she had moved her leg against his, a gentle but insistent message. They drank quietly until he felt her move again. Rubbing his foot now with her own. It was soft. And he wondered when she had taken off her shoe.

At the door, she had turned up the street and started threading through the crowd. Not leading him, nor even looking back. Knowing he would follow.

She'd smiled once in the elevator, but said nothing. Then the door had closed behind him in her apartment. And she had turned and reached for him. In one motion carrying him down with her to the floor.

He had been closed and lonely. In an instant, that had vanished. In its place was a purely physical being, demanding and urgently male.

• • •

Justin knew he'd been dreaming. But it had seemed real.

JC leaning against the door of his room. His hand on the knob, as if he'd just come in. In the dim light, shadows caught the angles of his face. And when he spoke, his voice was a soft vibration that made Justin’s body hum.

Then just as suddenly, in the way of dreams, Justin found himself in the doorway. And when he looked back, his room was gone. Vanished. Now there were boats. And a dock.

And JC. Tanned a perfect summer gold.

He was smiling.

• • •

It had been a dangerously foolish thing to do. But it had made perfect sense. Even now, when he thought of her black eyes and long straight hair. Her uncomplicated desire for the most elemental part of him. He understood.

She had been everything that Justin was not.

And she had wanted him.

The moving boxes had been sturdy and he'd saved them just in case. In case of what? In case things at the apartment building didn't work out? In case he needed to store things he thought he'd use, but didn't? He'd known the answer yesterday. Standing on the sidewalk in the rain. He'd kept the boxes thinking he still might go home.

Today Albert was helping him take them to the basement.

"Slugs was one hell of a club, yes sir. John Coltrane. Philly Joe Horne. You would have liked it there. That other place, what was it? The Mudd Club? Nothin' but trash. And noise. They just made a lot of noise."

The door of the service elevator opened on the lower level, but neither man moved. Albert was a good three inches shorter than JC, but he had a presence about him. You could tell that he was looking at you without ever turning around. JC took a deep breath, then sighed. He stared at the floor for a moment longer, then shook his head.

Albert touched a button on the console and the doors slid closed. He picked up the conversation without ever missing a beat.

"I had the turkey and artichoke on wheat from Panera the other day, sir. You might try it for lunch. I think you'd like it."

• • •

Chris had tried to warn him away, but he'd seen the pictures already. The ones of JC. The JC who lived in New York now and partied in the Hamptons with people who wouldn’t give Lance Bass their dry cleaning let alone an invitation.

"I thought he wanted to disappear."

Chris lifted his glass and drained the last of it.

"No, that was you."

Justin looked away. His body still and tight. The silence seemed to take shape, until it was almost visible in the air between them.

"He has to come home on his own, Chris. I can't go there. I know you don't get it. But I can't."

The phone rang and Justin took the call. But not before looking long and hard at Chris.

"The day he comes back, I'll be there. I'll be there."

• • •

Meeting Tony for lunch had raised his spirits. He was the only person who never asked about Justin. And he loved the city. But he'd learned to get around the hard way. And he didn't want that for JC. So his directions had been detailed. And color-coded. There'd been numbers circled in red and others in green. And JC was pretty sure he had it. Until it was time to come back. Then he was lost.

He'd let the the #1 and the #2 trains go by, both red lines. And had taken the #6 green, to Canal Street, on a hunch. He'd been wrong. And had walked the six extra blocks to Moore Street feeling foolish.

And very much alone.

He nodded numbly as he walked through the lobby of his building. He didn't know the night people well. Especially the doorman whom he'd only seen a few times. So he was surprised to hear his name called.

"You had a visitor, sir. While you were gone. Albert said to make sure you knew."

JC walked back toward the desk.

"Was there a message?"

"No, sir. At least not from the guest. But Albert said to tell you that he might have been here to help with the boxes."

• • •

He had thirty minutes, then he had a plane to catch. Could they meet for coffee? JC had agreed, thinking he could do anything for thirty minutes. Even with a lump in his throat the size of his fist.

Chris emptied his cup, then stood, pushing his hands through the sleeves of a brown leather jacket JC had not seen before. In the last three months, even small changes seeemed significant.

“You going to be allright here?”

JC nodded. His smile a little late.

“Yeah. I got it.”

Chris raised an eyebrow and he looked away, a sure sign that he did not.

“Okay, C. Then I’m gonna go.”

JC did not look up right away, instead pushing mindlessly at a tiny mound of cinnamon sugar beside the bagel he had not eaten. He brushed off his hand, then watched as Chris pulled on fingerless gloves, a souvenir of the cold in Salt Lake City. To outsiders, Chris Kirkpatrick came off pushy. Almost rude. But JC knew different. That he simply paid more attention to people he really cared about. Whether they wanted him to or not. While JC and Tony had talked music, Chris was here to talk about Justin. But he hadn't done it. Part of JC was grateful for that. The other part felt sorry. And sad.

It was that part of him that spoke as the waitress picked up the check.

"I just wanted something real."

Chris looked at him for a long minute, then squeezed his shoulder gently.

"What makes you think it's not."

JC looked up and Chris smiled.

"You want something real? Go home. Pay somebody to pack up your shit. Get on a plane tomorrow and go home."

Chris lifted his chin and nodded towards the door. By the time they reached the street, JC was on the phone.

• • •

There had been clouds, dark as a bruise, but the streets had remained dry. He was driving too fast and he knew it, but he was so full of nervous energy, he couldn't help himself. He wanted to be at the gate. Waiting.

He'd listened to the voice mail three or four times just to be sure there was no mistake. The message said that he was coming home.

And that he needed a ride.

• • •

The front of the house was flushed with soft light, and shadows followed them up the flagstone steps. At the door, JC looked suddenly confused and then he sighed.

"I don't even have my keys."

Justin smiled and stepped past him, holding up the spare that JC had given him what seemed now like a very long time ago. It had hung on his ring, but never been used. He started to open the door, then JC stopped him.

There was an unnatural stillness in the air. And Justin was afraid to move. He'd said nothing at all. At the gate. In the car. Nothing about what had happened between them. And what had not. They had made love. And as the weeks went by, Justin had remembered more and more of that night. It was all he could think about. He wanted to go back. To start from there, and this time do it right. He had no idea what JC wanted. But he had to find out.

He took a deep breath and turned around.

JC looked almost radiant. Like there'd been a sudden shower of stars and he had stood under it. They hadn't touched, not even their hands. Justin had wanted to wait. But not any more. He moved slowly, almost expecting JC to pull away. But he didn't, instead closing his eyes as Justin pulled gently at his glasses. Then watching as he folded them carefully, slipping them into his own pocket.

Justin ran a thumb across his mouth, then dipped his head, pressing his lips to each eye. When he pushed at JC's mouth with his own, the kiss was achingly tender. He knew then why he had not spoken. About any of it. To anyone. There were simply no words for what he felt.

After a long moment, JC stepped into his arms. Justin felt the breath go out of him first. Then each part of his body, molding itself to him, in a slow motion surrender. He didn't need a bottle of Southern Comfort or a cabin in the wilderness to have what he wanted. It was right in front of him.

He stepped back just enough for JC to look in his eyes.

"That moon you were looking for? The one that's real? It's here, JC. Right here. And if you ever lose sight of it again, tell me. And I'll find it for you. I promise."