It was late, and they'd done two shows that day, and had two more the next day, but JC couldn't sleep. His mind was racing over the events of the day -- the screaming of the fans, the steps he'd stumbled on, the steps the others had stumbled on, the notes missed, the songs butchered. They were all exhausted, he knew, and Justin was young, and Lance too, really, even though he didn't act young. He had already finished his high school work, and it was hard, looking at him, even with his hair and his naivete and his goofy grins, to remember that he was only seventeen, after all, only two years older than Justin. Nearly three years younger than JC.

It was late, but he was wide awake, and not going to sleep anytime soon, so he pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed his birks, and wandered down to the hotel bar. There had been a piano-player earlier, but he was long gone, and JC practically had the room to himself. He smiled at the bartender, and inclined his head towards the piano. The man grunted, so he walked over and started playing.

He didn't remember much from memory, not as much as he'd like, but he had bits of a tune stuck in his head and his fingers flowed over the keyboard.

A couple of people sitting at the bar said something in German, and the bartender replied in kind. They swiveled around on their seats, glasses in hand, and watched JC intently.

He didn't even notice.

He was lost in the world of his music, floating away on the melody. They were big, huge, and didn't have more than one show a day, if that, and everyone wanted to interview them, and learned their language, instead of the other way around. Chris had picked up German right enough, but the rest of them spent hours flipping through dictionaries, pointing at words. But now, now people wanted to learn *their* language, and their language was their music, and it was perfect. The five of them, harmonized, blended into one voice, one person.

A busboy who had been stacking chairs on empty tables paused, carried away for a second. JC continued playing.

They were huge, the biggest thing since the Beatles. They couldn't go the grocery store without being mobbed, and it was wonderful. Chris could take care of his family, and Joey could take care of the world, and Lance worked because he *wanted* to, and Justin was safe and loved. And JC, he was surrounded by music, surrounded by them. Part of them.

The door to the bar creaked open, but no one besides the bartender noticed. They were all watching the young American create beauty from an old piano and snatches of songs.

Finally JC's memory gave out, and the music slowed to a stop. He opened his eyes, blushing, and started to slide away. He thought he'd be able to sleep, now.

Lance was in the doorway.

"That was incredible, C."

"That was us," JC said. "In a few years, that's us. I know it."

Lance smiled, slung an arm around his shoulder.

"Come on," he said. "I don't need a drink anymore."

"It is," JC said. "I'm not saying it right, but--"

"It's okay, Jayce." Lance's breath tickled his ear as they walked away. "I understand."