Beautiful Boy
Copyright © 2000 Em

Justin found himself staring distractedly at the blonde hair of the woman on her knees before him in the VIP room, engaged in an ancient ritual possibly even preceding prayer, and sighed inconspicously. VIP room. Very Important Person. Funny how he didn't feel very important.

He was an important enough commodity to enough people, he supposed (what was it that Chris had estimated? 55% of the fans came to see him? Sadly, it was true). He was important to the fans who just longed to run their fingers through his hair and who might be surprised (disappointed?) to find that it didn't feel much different from anyone else's. The fans who loved the teeth that he bleached for them, knowing that it would weaken the enamel but not caring (it would be only one of many prices he'd pay later). The fans who enjoyed his singing voice, by turns silky smooth and husky, even though it was JC who was the vocal powerhouse; JC who put the whole of his soul into his singing. Justin never would be able to do that. Not anymore, anyway. He was too afraid that if he gave them a little of his soul, they would somehow find a way to take that from him, too, and he would never be able to get it back.

And, of course, the fans loved his eyes. His eyes. JC always said that if his own were sky blue, then Justin's were the dark gray-blue of a stormy sea; the kind of ocean seen when one's ship had drifted too far from the shore. Justin closed his eyes and imagined himself to be one such ship, tossed from wave to wave, point of departure far from sight and destination unknown. It was too perfect an analogy. Wave to wave, single to single, tour to tour... whatever. He was lost at sea with the shore nowhere in sight.

He re-opened his eyes, lifting his gaze from the woman on her knees, and fought his desire to lace his fingers within the silky strands of her hair. Feeling his hips begin to move of their own accord, he battled the urge to maneuver her head, to control her, and stared steadily ahead of him, not seeing anything in particular. To the passerby, he was fascinated in the wall design. To the other guys, he was doing 'that spacing-out thing' that he was known for. Inside his head, though, he liked to go over things. Reflect. Evaluate. Regret--

No, not regret, he chided himself. He wouldn't regret, because he didn't like to dwell on the past. He would not waste precious time and brain cells thinking back to a time when he was younger (as though he weren't young enough today) and innocent and so very, very naive. When "virgin" was still a sacred word and he harboured secret fantasies of giving his most personal gift to his bride on their wedding night (laughable, when he thought about it now). When he still prayed every night and his Mama was the center of his universe and fame to him meant that he could sing in front of screaming masses and even sign autographs outside of the venue, and sure his picture would be on the covers of glossy magazines, but wouldn't that be great?

He would not ask himself whether the sacrifice was worth the gain, or if it would ever stop hurting when someone called him a prick (jerk, asshole, insert-name-of-choice-here) for avoiding eye contact, for avoiding all contact, for resenting the screams of the fans while at the same time inviting them. For all of the times that the showman in him told the recluse in him to go to hell, and he ended up biting off more than he could chew. For the circumstances that rendered him unable to go on a freakin' date without risk of a media circus and resulted in his constant seeking, in desperation, of someone willing to drop to her knees in a semi-crowded VIP room and give him the kind of attention normally reserved for backseats, alleyways, and bedrooms.

He was jolted out of his thought process by physical reality; his eyes widened for an instant, coinciding with a sharp intake of air, before slamming tightly shut again. He pressed his lips together, stifling his moans as he rode out the waves of pleasure, because oh God he didn't know what she was doing with her tongue, but he hadn't felt anything like that in months. He was sweating a little now; he could feel the warm rush that had flooded his body begin to subside and in its wake cool air caressed his arms, his upper lip, his hairline, all dampened and glistening softly under the club's lights. He took a cleansing breath (every time, right around now, he started to feel the slightest bit dirty) and opened his eyes, turning them on her, unsmiling but not unkind.

"Thank you," he said evenly, taking a sip from his vodka special, his voice bearing the husky quality of a man who'd just gotten laid.

She, being the starfucker that she was, knew the lingo and read all of the meanings from those two words. 'Thanks; that was nice. Now we're finished, so please get out of here and pretend you never saw me.'

She smiled sweetly, leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek before standing and starting across the room, a little unsteady on her feet from the alcohol that she herself had consumed. Justin watched her catch JC eyeing her and giving her a mischievous wink, and she ambled over to the older singer, exchanging words before they both grinned. Still smiling at JC, she nodded and continued on her path to the door. If past experiences were any indication, she'd be back in about half an hour with a friend (maybe more), and get that friend to give JC the same treatment Justin had just received. Maybe another friend would take care of Lance, and another Joey. And, hell, if Chris didn't feel like playing the faithful boyfriend tonight, he'd be game, too.

A small, sly smile slowly curved its way upon his lips as he wondered if the fans would think that his life was all that glamourous if they knew of all that had transpired; if they saw him right now. But he suspected that they would simply take in his still-flushed cheeks, sweaty hairline, and slack, sated expression, and think only that he was a beautiful boy who had no room to be unhappy, and what kind of boy got blow jobs from random women in VIP rooms anyway? Not the boy on their walls. Not their beautiful boy.

He was an imposter, a pretender to their throne, but more human than they imagined and hoped he could be.

~~Finis~~

Author's Notes: The next in my... I guess you could call it "Real *NSYNC" series. I'm not sure why I write them in this light -- a lot of negativity and all that. I know I'm not into the "dark" stuff like many other authors (it's not my thing), but I'm very aware that there's a dark side of fame and *NSYNC's life isn't completely made up of the shiny happy moments that we see on TRL and MuchMusic. I guess I write them this way to balance it out. I gush about the dorks so much on other spots on my page that I have to make up for it somehow with my rants and fanfiction. Oh well. At least no one was gay this time. LOL.

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