Come Back New
by Velma
I'm down on my hands and knees every time the doorbell rings
I shake like a toothache when I hear myself sing
All my lies are always wishes
I know I would die if I could come back new.
-Wilco, Ashes of American Flags
JC loses his way somehow, sometime between LA the first and LA the second. It isn't intentional, it's no one's fault, but it happens.
And he's miserable as a result. Pop Odyssey is his own personal hell, his descent into Dante's Inferno. At night, after shows, he crawls onto buses or into hotel rooms, his back to the others, and sleeps. Sleeps and sleeps and tries to shut the world out. He's lost.
Lost, and he doesn't know how to fix it, how to get back to where this was good. Where this was fun and he enjoyed it and it wasn't a paycheck, a job. It was a living. It was his life.
He sits in a dim, smoky club in LA and watches Tony sing, just him and a guitar. Tony's practically naked up there, and all alone, and JC has never wanted something so badly. He's never been so terrified of something in all his life.
He wants to be Tony, get inside his skin, go Freaky Friday and just be him for a few days. He tells Justin this one night. Tells him when it's late and they're tired and they've all had a few too many beers, and JC's not exactly thinking straight. Because Justin, really, is the last person he should talk to about this.
Justin stares at him like he's grown a second head. "The trouble with you artists," he sneers, "is that you piss and moan about your success, all the while buying your fancy paintings and drinking your stupid expensive wine that your art has paid for. You don't ever see that everything you have is because of that success."
"You artists," he continues, "want to fucking bleed for your work. Beat yourselves to a pulp and wear your hearts on your sleeves and it's really pathetic, man. Fucking artists," he mutters, glaring at JC.
JC blinks, swallows, stares openly at Justin for a minute. "What the hell are you, then, Timberlake? I thought you were the savior of pop."
"I'm a musician, C. I make music. I make music that people like, so I can make music that I like. There's a distinction, man, and if you opened your eyes you'd see you can have your damn cake and eat it, too. I love this success, JC. I love that I go out there night after night and I have thousands of people eating out of the palm of my hand. I've earned this, damnit. Enjoying this doesn't make me shallow. Just because I don't open a vein when I write doesn't make my stuff any less legitimate than yours."
JC rubs at his face, feels the alcohol in his system, stumbles to his feet. "I need to go to bed," he mumbles, heading for the bedroom.
"You need to get over yourself, man," Justin calls after him and JC waves a hand in acknowledgement, tumbling into the bed. He sleeps some more.
The problem, JC thinks, is that he doesn't know how to get over himself. He doesn't really know what's going on in his head, but he's retreating into himself, and he doesn't like it. Doesn't like the way Justin talks over him in interviews, partly because he's Justin but partly because management sees JC as a liability now. JC gets spacey, goes off in his head, and says things that aren't cleared by the suits, and they can't have that.
No Strings Attached. He laughs when he thinks of that now.
*****
Tony's got a show in NYC. He invites JC, always does, but JC doesn't usually go. He's busy, and stuff. Mostly it hurts to watch Tony, to watch the joy he gets from his music, when all JC's music makes him want to do now is curl up in a ball or scream. But Joey gets wind of it, decides it will be fun, and before JC really knows what's going on he and Joey are on a plane bound for the big city.
New York's always sort of scared him. He claims D.C. as home, but everyone who knows anything about the region knows that Bowie's closer to rural than urban, and his entire childhood world was a four-block radius around his home. He grew up in Orlando, yeah, but Orlando's not really all that big, either, and the faces quickly become familiar.
New York's not like that, though. It's rough edges and pungent aromas and swarms of people, and it's unsettling. He likes New York more now than he ever did before.
They do some shopping, visit some of Joey's family, then head to the club, and JC's eyes water when he steps inside. Smoke and noise and the sharp tang of sweat in the air, and JC thinks there must be some serious dancing going on here when there aren't shows scheduled. He'll have to come back sometime.
He's transfixed by Tony, on stage. It's not sexual, not really, although he thinks it was once, when they were both just kids and JC had a schoolboy crush. It's just that Tony sings with such abandon, sings from inside himself, to himself, but he stills pull people in. JC can't tell if the tugging in his chest is jealousy or envy, but it doesn't really matter. He never could tell the difference.
Tony takes a break, talks with a few pretty girls and a couple suits, and JC watches. Joey returns to their table with fresh beers, nudging JC's shoulder. "See anything interesting?"
JC takes a grateful swallow of the beer and leans in close to Joey. "Why is it, you think, that Tony and I never hooked up?"
Joey throws his head back, laughing smooth and easy. "Oh, man, Jace," he smiles, his eyes warm. "I'm sure Tony would have loved to get with you, but there's, uh, that little problem of him being even straighter than I am."
JC smiles sheepishly, shaking his head. "You know, you both suck. A lot."
Joey's eyes sparkle. "No, man. That's not it. The problem, I think, is that we don't."
JC snorts, turning his attention back to Tony, marveling at the ease with which he works the room. Envy, he thinks. It's envy.
*****
It feels like they've just gotten done with the Pop tour, barely had a chance to collect their breath, when they're back at the Compound, hammering out ideas for the next go-round.
JC watches, tries not to wince, as song after song of his gets scratched off the set list. He knows he's not Springsteen, but they're not all that bad, are they? It used to be that they called the group the JC and Justin show. It's all Justin's now. JC thinks he should care more about that, but he's still just tired.
"This is bullshit," Chris says from across the room, and JC jerks his head up. "If I have to sing "God Must Have Spent" one more time, I'm going to explode. The stupid choreography. The melodramatic lyrics. Isn't there enough of that in "Gone"?"
Justin flips him off, but he's smiling, so apparently he's not taking it personally. JC sighs. Chris is the only one who can get away with saying stuff like that.
"Serious. I'm serious here, kids. I'm sick and tired of that song. And why the hell isn't "Two of Us" on here?! It's the.." JC stops paying attention to what Chris is saying, because, Jesus, fuck, is Chris arguing for one of his songs? What's that about?
Ultimately, Chris's protests don't matter. The ballad stays, "Two of Us" is gone. They're headed out to their cars, and JC reaches out as Chris brushes past him, manages to grab at the bottom of his shirt. Chris pauses, and holds up a finger at JC.
He's on his cell. JC feels really stupid. Chris shuts the phone with an efficient click and turns, arching an eyebrow.
"I just. Thanks, Chris. For back there. Sticking up for me." JC's actually fidgeting, which is annoying enough when Chris does it, but not at all in keeping with his character, and he wraps his arms around himself, trying to calm down.
Chris blinks, confused. "Oh, what, the song? That wasn't personal, C. It's just one of our best, so." He shrugs, tilting his head and looking at JC. "What are you doing tonight? We should hang. You never write. You never call."
JC smiles at him. "No plans. Figured the TV and I had a date tonight."
"Nope," Chris grins, throwing his arm around JC's shoulder. "You and your TV have been spending far too much time together. I'm beginning to get jealous. Ron and I are catching a show tonight. Music's not exactly your cup of tea, I don't think, but it'll be good for you."
JC studies him for a moment. "You taking me to a punk show, Kirkpatrick?"
Chris grins.
JC smiles. "Cool. It's been a long time since I've been in a pit."
*****
The show's what he would expect from a band Chris likes. Loud and aggressive and playful, and he knows he's going to have bruises in the morning. He wants them.
He feels alive like he hasn't in what feels like months. The music drills into his brain, his heart echoes the thump of the bass, and he raises his hands above his head, loses himself in it, in the people, the press of bodies around him. Every once in awhile he catches a glimpse of Chris, eyes drifting to his from where he holds court at the bar - making sure I'm okay, JC thinks - and smiles. He can't disappear because no one escapes the watchful gaze of Chris Kirkpatrick. JC feels safe - first time in awhile for that, too.
When it's all over, Chris drives him home. They're silent, most of the way. Chris is like that a lot, when the cameras are off and they're out of the public eye. He chooses his words carefully, JC thinks. Knows the value of quiet. Smart guy.
They sit in JC's driveway for several long minutes, and JC mostly waits, because he senses there's something to say. He's more perceptive than people give him credit for.
Chris's fingers tap on the steering wheel. "Rosie O'Donnell wants to buy one of my bikes."
"Huh." JC's not sure what to say.
"She's gay."
"Yeah, I kind of already figured that out." There's a ghost of a smile on JC's lips.
"I'm gay, too, you know."
JC starts to giggle, because yes, yes, it's true. Chris is gay. Chris told them that years ago, when the whole thing started out, and he's not at all sure why it's funny, but Rosie's gay, and so is Chris, and maybe they'll be grand marshals of some Big Gay Parade somewhere. The giggles turn to full-fledged laughter, and before JC realizes what's happening he's laughing so hard he's crying. Then he is crying, great big fat tears streaming down his face and Chris's arms around him, Chris's voice soft in his ear.
It's been a long time since he's let himself cry.
When he's done, he wipes his face and gets out of the car, nodding at Chris, who rolls down his window. "Good to see you're still alive in there," he says, and backs out of the driveway.
JC stands there for a long time, well after his taillights have disappeared into the distance.
*****
JC sees Tony at the AMAs, says, "Hey, kid. We've got a seat. Come sit with us, man." And they do, because Bobbie didn't come. Bobbie's gone, and JC's alone, and Tony's a good friend, and hey, might as well enjoy the view all up close and personal.
It's not because Chris is also there alone, and there's something about the way Chris looks at him lately that makes JC wonder if he's got any secrets anymore. No, it has nothing to do with that fact at all.
He knows Justin figures he's giving Tony a chance to bask in their reflected glory, but that's bullshit, and Tony knows it, JC thinks. Knows that for JC it's a chance to breathe him in, sit next to someone who's not playing the game. Who hasn't been stained by it. Tainted.
JC can feel Chris's eyes on him throughout the night. Subtle glances and what the hell is he thinking, anyway? JC scratches the back of his neck a lot, tries to shake off the vaguely uncomfortable feeling he has.
Tony laughs at him. Justin asks if he's got a rash or something.
Chris just watches.
*****
They're at some afterparty. Justin's holding court with Britney, working the room like the heirs apparent that they are. Chris is deep in conversation with one of the wait staff. Figures, JC thinks, that Chris would be in a room full of people who can make things happen for them, and he's studiously ignoring them all.
Tony comes up behind him, throwing an arm around his shoulder, handing him a glass of something dark and amber. He takes a long swallow, grimacing, and Tony chuckles. "It's a party, Chasez. Live a little."
JC actually has a good time, with Tony as his wingman. It always used to be the other way around, but people recognize JC first, their eyes passing over Tony as if they're not quite sure if he's someone they should know. JC doesn't like it. It's not natural.
Tony was always the one who was going places.
He has a good time, though, and when they all stumble out together, Justin and Britney taking off in one limo and Chris, JC, and Tony climbing into the other, JC's beaming.
"Come on tour with us," he says, nodding emphatically at Tony.
Chris raises an eyebrow.
Tony laughs. "I've got my own gigs, man. I can't just follow you around from place to place."
"No, no," JC waves his hands around, dimly thinking he's drunker than he should be. "I mean, with us. Like, open for us. It'll be fun, man. You and me. Against the world. Like the old days."
Tony quirks his head, and JC can see the gears turning, dares to get his hopes up.
"Sure," he says. "I think it'd be good exposure."
JC grins, is still grinning after they drop Tony off at his apartment, still grinning when Chris pulls him out of the limo and guides him into the hotel. The smile won't leave his face, even after they're in the safety of JC's room.
Chris sighs, pulling off JC's shoes and pushing him back onto the bed. "You need sleep, drunk boy," he says, not unaffectionately.
"Tony's coming on tour, man. It's going to happen for him. It's going to happen for him like it didn't happen for me."
Chris shakes his head. "Happened for you, and you're miserable."
"It's going to be different for him," JC whispers, a solemn vow. "He'll be doing it his way. I'll be sure of that. I won't let him get lost."
Chris watches him, doesn't say anything, his expression unreadable. Eventually he leans down, brushing his lips across JC's forehead.
"I thought that was what I was doing for you," he murmurs, leaving the room quietly.
JC suspects he wasn't supposed to hear that.
*****
It's weird, how having Tony on board changes things. JC's excited for the tour, the chance to show Tony how it's all done. And the group's different, too.
JC isn't sure if it's just that they're still so used to touring from the last one that they fall easily back into old routines, or if it's because they know this isn't a tour to promote a damn thing. It's probably the latter. The album's out, it's selling, and they're taking an extended vacation when this puppy's done.
They have nothing to prove, maybe. It's strangely freeing.
And the media - the music press - is actually giving them some grudging respect for this show. JC's blown away the first time he reads a review that praises his voice - his - and clips it out and folds it up and slides it in his wallet.
He doesn't see things like that very often in his line of work.
*****
JC spends a lot of his time watching Tony, sneaking out into the pit and listening to him sing. Sometimes he shuts his eyes and tilts his head and harmonizes, but only when the crowd's loud enough to drown him out.
It doesn't happen as often as he'd like.
He gets a lot of time with Tony, though, who's become something of a loner. The other guys go out - Justin's no longer attached at the hip to Britney - determined to live the life of the young and single, and the rest of the group's more than happy to help him.
While Justin and the boys cavort in bars and strip clubs, living the life of the rich and famous, JC stays behind. Stays because Tony does, because Tony sits and listens to him talk about what he wants to write, the music he wants to make, and doesn't laugh. Tony nods and picks out the melodies all piled on top of one another in JC's head and sets them down on paper.
They write together, they jam together, and it's not until they're almost done with the tour that JC realizes it's him that's doing most of the writing. That Tony's been coaxing it out of him. He's got a body of work in front of him. Songs, his songs. Songs he wants to sing.
But he's still afraid.
*****
They're in Pittsburgh. It's late, way late, but JC can't sleep, so he makes his way down to the hotel lobby. Wanders around for a bit, ends up in the empty restaurant. There's a piano near the bar, always is, so cliché, and he sits at it, cracking his knuckles and playing a few notes. No audience here. This is the type of crowd he can handle.
JC's not really a very good piano player. Everyone seems to think that's the case, but it's not easy for him, the way the fingers are supposed to move along the keys. It's sort of like performing, maybe. The raw talent's there, but nothing about it feels natural.
Still, he can hold his own. Enjoys it, even, and he starts to play, closing his eyes. He lets his mind wander, and then he's playing something of his own, and then he's singing along, because that's what he knows how to do.
When he's done, the last notes hang in the air, and he's almost afraid to breathe. Someone else does it for him.
"You should do that more often."
JC turns, even though he knows who's there without having to look, and sees the smooth line of Chris's back, headed toward the bank of elevators.
*****
The tour ends. Comes to a grinding halt at home in Orlando, and JC gets drunk again at the wrap party, his arms around Chris's shoulders as Chris leads him out of the Roxy, where Tony's shindig had been.
"Failed him, I did," JC says, nodding sadly. "He should have sold more records."
Chris smiles, buckling JC into the car. "I don't think he wanted that, C." JC scowls up at him as Chris gently shuts the door, walks around the car and gets in behind the wheel. "But I'm willing to bet he's put away some solid cash because of this tour." He shrugs. "He can afford to keep putting out what he wants, maybe."
"My head hurts," JC frowns.
"I'll take you home," Chris says, starting the car.
JC watches the scenery, the way it all blends and meshes as they speed along, and he's dizzy from it. He turns, studying Chris's face. It's weird how the world doesn't quite stop spinning, even though Chris isn't moving.
After a few minutes, Chris raises an eyebrow, glancing in his direction. "What?"
"I'm sold out and washed up at 25." JC's nothing if not sincere.
Chris snorts. "You're maudlin when you drink," he says. "Don't be so quick to write yourself off."
"Everyone else has." JC's fingers scratch along the dashboard, little white marks on the black leather.
"Get the fuck over yourself," Chris says.
JC looks away.
*****
JC manages to avoid everyone for awhile - tells himself it's much deserved R&R after days and weeks and months of constant exposure.
Really, he's the only one that doesn't have set plans for the break. Lance is in Russia, Justin's all over, recording the Next Big Thing, Joey's being a daddy, and Chris is. Well, JC's not altogether sure where Chris is, but he's fairly sure Chris had FuMan business in LA, so that's as good a guess as anything.
So he's surprised when he opens his front door one day and finds Chris standing there, a rather disgruntled pug under his arm.
"You smell, Chasez." He wrinkles his nose as he brushes past JC into the house, setting the dog down. "Go forth and deskankify."
JC crosses his arms, glares, and then goes upstairs. He showers and dresses, but only because he's been meaning to anyway. When he comes downstairs, Chris is still there, apparently impatient.
"You're worse than my sisters. Jesus, let's go."
JC figures it's best to humor him, and follows.
*****Stupid move, Chasez, he thinks, as he frowns over the control panels in Chris's studio. Stupid, stupid move.
"Let's lay this stuff down, C," Chris says, fiddling with a switch, suddenly something resembling bashful, and that's something new, isn't it?
"Yeah," comes a voice from the doorway, and JC turns to see Tony standing there. "Let's do this."
"You're a sneaky son of a bitch," JC says to Chris, who grins widely. JC sighs, and heads into the booth.
JC thinks, later, that Chris has surprisingly good instincts when it comes to producing. He says as much to Tony, who just smiles that knowing smile and says something about how it's just that Chris knows JC's voice better than he knows his own.
What does Tony know, anyway?
It's not as painful, though, as JC expected it would be. To hear himself sing. To hear his words played back, over and over again, as they do take after take after take.
It's barebones, nothing fancy. Piano for some of the tracks, guitar for the rest - simple chords Tony and Kevin and Ruben have taught him over the years.
Chris says the instrumentation's merely a backdrop anyway for JC's voice. That probably shouldn't affect JC the way it does, but he can't stop smiling, ducking his mouth behind his hand to try to hide it some.
Tony leaves after a week, after they've recorded practically nonstop and managed to get at least rough cuts laid down. He has gigs in LA, and it's just JC and Chris then, tinkering, tweaking. JC crashes at Chris's place because it's easier that way. They keep such odd hours.
At least that's what he tells himself.
*****
Joey comes over at one point, ostensibly to check in on them since "they've become virtual hermits." He spends most of the visit shooting odd looks at JC over Chris's head.
"What?!" JC hisses, when Chris disappears.
"You do realize you're finishing each other's sentences, right?" Joey smirks.
JC flips him off. It's quite satisfying.
*****
He's asleep, passed out on the couch in the booth, when gentle fingers nudge him awake. He opens his eyes, and Chris is fidgeting in front of him, bouncing on his toes, all nervous energy.
"What?" he asks.
"It's done, I think. I think maybe it's done," Chris says, and hands him a disc.
JC swallows, nodding, pulling himself to his feet. "We should take a listen then, huh?"
They go into the den, and JC slides the CD into the tray, presses play on the stereo, and sits down on the couch, his head in his hands, already wincing before he's heard the first note.
It's going to be bad. It's going to be awful, he knows. All that work, all Chris and Tony have done, wasted, because JC doesn't have what it takes.
"JC."
He jerks his head up.
"Just. Give it a chance, okay?"
JC swallows and nods, and closes his eyes. He listens.
He tips his head and he listens, and before he knows it he's shaking, his face wet, and he's brushing at his eyes fiercely because he's not a fucking woman, okay? He's not.
But those are his words and his music and his voice - his - and it doesn't hurt. Doesn't hurt to hear it like he thought it would.
Something starts to loosen in his chest, and he smiles.
*****
Dani calls, and Chris needs to go to L.A. He packs up his stuff and JC drives him to the airport.
They sit in the car for a few moments, the silence oddly awkward, and then a sheriff comes up and taps on the glass, and JC has to move, so it's time for Chris to go. He leans over, brushes his lips across JC's cheek, grabs his bags, and is gone.
He calls the next day from L.A.
"So, uh. I'm going to be out here for a while," Chris says. "Shit's hitting the fan and all. My apartment's all sorts of messed so I rented a house on the beach. Great view. It's big. You could, you know." He sighs. "Come out, huh? You can't have anything to do back in Orlando, and Tony's got a show this weekend, so…"
"I'm on my way," JC says, and packs up his things and goes.
*****
It's a beautiful house, mere feet from the ocean, and JC sits out on the deck and practices the guitar at nights and goes running in the mornings, likes to jog backwards and watch as his footprints are washed away by the surf.
It's nice. He and Chris are often like ships passing in the night- JC returning from a night clubbing with Tony as Chris is leaving to head to the office, but it works, this system they've got going.
The three of them go out for dinner one night, and Tony casually mentions that a bar he plays at is having an open mic night.
"You should go," he tells JC. "Show 'em your stuff."
JC laughs and shakes his head. "Nah, that's not for me."
Chris is looking at him funny again.
*****
"Why isn't it for you?" Chris asks on the drive back to his place, and JC sighs. "No, JC, I'm serious. All that work. All those songs. Why not?"
"It's. They're not. They're mine, Chris. I didn't write them for anyone else. I don't need that. To perform them. I don't."
"Bullshit," Chris says softly. "I see the way you look at him, JC. Tony, when he's on stage. You made your music, JC, and it's amazing. But I know you, man." He pulls into the driveway, shutting off the engine. "You'll never be happy until you know, JC. If you can do it, too." He gets out of the car and heads inside.
JC sits in the car for a long time. He wants to go and knock on Chris's door, tell him to go to hell, tell him he doesn't need validation, but he can't even bring himself to believe that.
He calls Tony in the morning and tells him to sign him up.
*****
The night of the show, and JC's never been so scared in his entire life. He thinks he'd prefer a tattoo to the tight, tight coil of nerves in his belly, the shakes in his hands. How the hell is he supposed to play the guitar if he can't feel his fingers?
He's sworn Chris to secrecy, and he trusts him, knows he won't have to look out in the audience and see familiar faces beyond Kirkpatrick's and Tony's, but still. Odds are damn good that there's not a person out there who knows who he is. And if he fails.
If he fails, JC Chasez fails. Not JC of *NSYNC.
He doesn't know that he can handle that.
Chris finds him, backstage, and wraps his arms around him, hugs him hard then pulls away. "Have faith," he says, and he's gone.
Tony introduces him, winks as he heads off stage, and then JC is alone on stage. This time he's the one who's practically naked, just him and a guitar.
Deep breath and his fingers find familiar strings. He starts to play, and closes his eyes as he begins to sing.
It's exhilarating, freeing, and he feels like he's flying. He lets himself go. He lets himself perform.
There aren't any marks, there's no choreography to hit, no tempo he has to keep up with. It's his show. He can do what he wants.
What he wants to do, what he's always wanted to do, is lose himself in the music.
So he does.
Thirty minutes later, he opens his eyes. Blinks. Looks out over the audience, and hears applause.
They're clapping. For him.
He stumbles off stage, stupid grin on his face, and into Tony's arms.
"Chris," he asks, "where's Chris?"
His eyes scan the crowd, and that's when he sees him, back in the far corner of the bar, at a table.
He's selling CDs.
JC moves through the crowd, smiling and nodding at various well-wishers, until finally he's face to face with Chris, who looks like he's caught between wanting to hug JC and run screaming.
"I, uh. Took the liberty of getting a limited pressing done," Chris smiles sheepishly, and hands JC a CD.
JC sits, because he doesn't think he could stand, turning the case over and over again in his hand, marveling at the cover art, the disc, the fact that he's holding something in his hands that's his. His creation.
He looks up, and sees the line of people around the table, waiting to buy it.
Buy his CD.
People who can't possibly know who he is, or who don't care, want his music. His.
He's done it.
*****
The ride back to the house is quiet again, and when they get there, JC sits down on the back steps, sand sifting through his fingers. Chris walks past him, pauses in the doorway.
"You're not mad?"
JC shakes his head. "It's the best thing anyone's ever done for me."
"You did it yourself," Chris says, and leaves him outside.
JC watches the ocean for minutes or hours - he's lost all sense of time when he stands, stripping out of his clothes and running down to the shore, crashing into the waves, diving into the water.
The salt of the ocean mixes with the salt of his tears until he doesn't know what's what, and it doesn't matter anymore. It burns, but he's scrubbed clean.
He stays out there, in the surf, until the sky starts to lighten. When what's left of the knot in his chest loosens, falls away, he stumbles into the house.
JC walks past Chris's door, starts down the hall, stops and turns back.
He watches Chris for a few minutes before he climbs in next to him. Chris rolls over, pulls him close, and that's all there is to it.
JC smiles, and goes to sleep.
I know I would die if I could come back new.
-fin-