***
"Are you sure this is going to work?"
'Positive. Dude, this is Justin Timberlake you're talking to. There is
no way things could go wrong."
Lance sighed plaintively. "Fine. If you say so. But I want to go over
it just one more time. You know. To make sure our plans are iron-clad
and all."
"Fine. Only because you're so anal. Okay, so we flirt shamelessly in
front of the other guys on a consistent basis..."
"...not like it doesn't happen already. You have your hands all over
me, like, 24/7."
"Hey. Don't flatter yourself. I'm very affectionate. Just ask Joey. If
I may continue without further interruption..." Justin paused. Silence.
"Good. Our flirtation escalates to such a level that Fatone will be an
idiot not to notice...and wham! I'll set him up walking in on us making
out. If that doesn't flip his lid, nothing will."
"Okay, I got it. But do I to make out with you?"
Justin flipped him the bird. "What. Ever. Be thankful the Great Jupster
actually has time to help you."
"God, whatever, Jailbait."
"Yeah, whatever, Hick."
***
So plans went smoothly, and the Great Fooling of the Fatone commenced.
Justin suddenly became more and more clingy, touchy. He pouted whenever
anyone got "too close, yo" to Lance.
"Shut the hell up, Justin. What are you, Lance's boyfriend?" Joey
asked.
"I ain't his boyfriend, yo. He's like, mah bitch."
Lance unhooked himself from Joey, fixing Justin with searing green.
"No, Juju baby, you're bitch."
Joey pulled Lance closer.
"Whatever. You people are like, wack."
Lance pulled in and snuggled, grinning to himself. Justin stalked off
to mope. Good old Justin, he thought. Ever the diva.
***
"It's supposed to be the hottest place in Manhattan. So are you
coming?"
Lance looked up from his book.
"Sorry, Joe. Me and Justin are staying home. We rented a movie."
Joey cupped Lance's face in his hands.
"You guys are hitting it off. Whatever makes you happy, Poofu."
He kissed him, once, on the forehead.
Yep, the plan sure was working. Quite well. Better than planned.
***
"Fuck, Justin, you are the man."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just remember who got you with Joey once you
guys ride off into that Alabama sunset."
"Justin, I'm from Mississippi. Remember?"
"Yeah. Tennessee. Kentucky. I care."
Justin walked out of the den, stomped up the stairs, slammed his
bedroom door.
Maybe Justin is just tired. Or, yeah, he had a fight with Brit. That's
it. Poor guy. I'm sure he'll be okay.
"Right. We gotta make this good. Joey's scheduled to come through that
door in approximately ten minutes."
Lance fidgeted with the bedsheets.
"I'm nervous, Ju. What if he doesn't care? I mean, what if he really is
happy for us? You know, the fake us, not the us us, cause us us would
just be..."
"Lance. Shut up. You'll do fine. He'll notice. He has to take notice.
We're gonna be kissing, man."
"That's what I'm scared of, Just. Maybe we should, um, practice."
"Uh. Okay."
Two minutes of practice.
"Mmm. Is Joey coming?"
Justin stammered. "Um, yeah, he'll be here any minute."
Two more minutes.
"Mnh. You sure, Justin?"
"Mmm, yeah. Let's practice s'more."
Two more minutes.
"Justin, where the fuck is Joey? I think this is more than enough
fucking practice."
"Um. He's. Not coming. He's out. With Kelly."
Lance stared at him, jaw agape.
"You." thud. "sick." thud. "fuck." thud. Lance enunciated each word
with a fist to the chest.
"Well, gee, Lance, you didn't want to stop practicing."
"You manipulated me, Justin! I'll never forgive you for this."
"Oh yes you will."
"Fuck. And all this time I thought you were really helping."
"You, are so gullible."
"Fuck you, Justin. Get your ass over here."
"Uh...wha...Lance?!"
"Sick little prick."
"Lance, um, that's my shirt."
"Stupid idiot bastard..."
"Lance...Lance, not the shorts, man, not the...oh gaaawd..."
"Woo urr shuch a wooser," Lance mumbled, with all the effort his
strained mouth could muster.
"Mmm...Lance...shit!" Justin panted, wheezed, recouped. "I've had
better."
"God, whatever, Jailbait."
"Yeah, whatever, Hick."
***
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