"Whatcha doing?" Justin asked. He tossed an arm over Chris' shoulder and watched him cut a sandwich in half, diagonally.

"Eating."

"What kind?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really," Justin said. He picked up a triangle, and munched happily. "Ooh! Peanut Butter and Potato Chip."

"Glad you approve."

Justin laughed. It wasn't really funny, he supposed, but laughing covered the weird flip his stomach seemed to do whenever Chris was around. It would be a bad thing if Chris gave him indigestion, he figured, so if laughter made him forget that his internal organs were doing unauthorized jumping jacks, he would laugh all afternoon.

It wasn't that Chris made him nervous. It was that this-Chris made him nervous. This new Chris, who was the exact same old Chris, really, except that suddenly Justin had new eyes. This-Chris was still 10-years-older, still the coolest person Justin knew, the coolest person on the planet, including Michael Jordan, but he was different, too. He was sharper, somehow. He had been the center of Justin's world for years, but suddenly, the spotlight that shone on him brought him into focus. Which was odd, because it made Justin himself feel fuzzy. Dizzy, and light-headed, and nothing beyond Chris seemed quite real, or normal, or anything.

Chris grunted. "You gonna finish that, or what?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah. Go ahead."

"Gee," Chris said. "Thanks. Letting me finish my own lunch, and all."

"Next time I'll cook," Justin said.

"Whatever." Chris rolled his eyes, and Justin's stomach rolled with them, reminding him that it was in fact still there, exercising dutifully. "PB&J is boring."

* * *

Chris thought Justin was beautiful. Even when he was lounging around in faded flannel pants that had ripped knees from when he was 16 and Chris tackled him, and the pants ought to have been too tight except that they had been huge on Justin then, hardly stayed up.

Chris remembered teasing Justin about it, and Justin had pouted, and crossed his arms, and said they were large and comfy and no one wore pants that fit anymore, anyway. Back then, when their costumes were all oversized running outfits, Chris had found it hard to disagree. And now. Now the pants fit, and had faded holes in them, and Justin wore them around the bus with an undershirt and nothing else, and scratched his stomach lazily in the morning and stretched and asked what was for breakfast, and Chris wanted to kiss him or kill him.

Possibly both.

* * *

This-Chris still jumped into his arms at random intervals, kissed him on the cheek, said, "I'm counting on you to save me when the hotel goes up in flames," and leapt away again, chasing JC down the aisle of the bus. Only, somehow, when this-Chris did it, Justin could feel the imprint of his lips, long after he'd run away. He would shower at night, in the hotel, scrub his face, and yet when he curled up under the covers -- a mountain of covers, ever since old-Chris had talked about freezing in the winter -- he could still feel Chris in his arms, on his cheek, laughing in his ear.

The next morning, when he stared bleary-eyed into the mirror, there was nothing there. But when Chris slapped him on the back at breakfast, and asked if he slept alright, Justin could only grunt.

After all, he thought, how do you tell your best friend that his lips are haunting your dreams?

* * *

It was true, Chris admitted to himself, that he liked to watch Justin more, now. But how could he not, when Justin had turned into this gorgeous creature, this purring, laughing, sparkling ball of light that bounced around his world and made it happy? How could anyone resist that shine?

Chris liked sparkly things. Not the way JC did, or even Joey and Lance, who found it amusing. Not the way Justin did -- Justin never, as far as Chris could tell, thought about it at all. He just *was* sparkly. And that was what Chris liked.

He didn't want the sparkles for himself -- had never even hoped to have them. He had known, all his life, that the glitter he played with, the baubles his sisters had, the paste earrings his mother wore to her temp jobs, were all fake. No matter how many sparkly pants he wore, he was still the same trailer trash underneath.

What Chris craved was the real thing. The gems so beautiful, they didn't have to show it. The Justins of the world.

Justin hadn't always been like this, he didn't think. He was fairly certain there was a time Justin had been just another kid brother. And Chris'd treated him just like his sisters, laughed and teased and never let him know the darker side, kept him away from the business end of singing, and the people looking to make a profit off his smile and shine and not-quite-still-tenor voice. The lawsuit had changed that, he supposed, or maybe age. Maybe Justin had grown up without his noticing, like Emily, who had never seemed adult because she didn't have a kid, but who was suddenly nineteen and dating and working and supporting herself. Maybe he'd just missed it, because he hadn't wanted Justin to shine, not like that.

That shine that wasn't meant for him.

* * *

It was silly, Justin thought, to say that at the age of twenty-one he adored his best friend. It diminished it, somehow, vocalizing it like that. But it was the only word he could think of. Chris, even this new Chris who had started pulling away more, and giving him unreadable glances (Chris had always been readable before), Chris was everything to him. If something ever happened to Chris, he supposed he'd be able to go on, somehow, but. There wouldn't be any reason.

He lived around Chris, always had, could hardly remember life without Chris there. He had even noticed a disturbing tendency to insert Chris into his childhood memories, because he could see just what Chris would do. How Chris would react in any given situation.

Brit told him he was head-over-heels, but that couldn't be right. He couldn't be in love with Chris, not really, not ever, because why would Chris ever want *him*? He was the lead singer, the one who diminshed the others, drowned out their voices, did the solo photo shoots, and interviews, and albums. Without him, Chris would've been so much more famous, and it was important to remind himself that Chris had invited him to join *nsync first, but even so. He'd just been a kid then, and he was just a kid now, straining to sing outside his voice part because if Jive admitted he was baritone, they'd have to give Joey leads, and despite what Justin and JC said, the fans wouldn't like it, not really. So Justin strained, and sang and danced and nothing ever got Chris' attention, not like he wanted, not even when he dropped Chris on his ass instead of catching him, and all Chris did was say, "Well. I guess I'll count on Lance, then, when the hotel burns in flames."

He couldn't be in love with Chris, because Chris could never love him back.

* * *

Chris hated being alone on the bus with Justin, these days. He knew, of course, that it was bound to happen -- it happened every tour. JC would get fed up with the noise, and switch over for a few days. Leave them to their own devices. And it used to be fine, because Justin was anal about being neat, so whatever mess they made wrestling was cleaned up by morning, and the bus would be spotless and waiting when JC returned. But these days. These days, Jayce was Chris' shield.

"Shut up," he'd told Justin, just last night, "C is sleeping, asshole."

Justin had looked at him, wounded, and he'd sighed and played video games because he could never diminish Justin's light, not him, and now JC was packing up and moving and then what was he going to do?

"Maybe," JC said, "you could fuck him and get it over with."

Chris turned bright red. "I don't. It's not like that."

"The thing is, Chris, it's exactly like that."

"He's not--"

"That's what he says about you, too."

"But I--"

"No, you're not. Maybe if you stopped orbitting him for a second you'd notice that he's orbitting you. A dual-star system. The two of you, around each other. You've been dancing like that for ages."

"Don't mix your metaphors," Chris said.

"Don't be a coward."

"Jayce, I can't. He's. He's this whole different person, and."

"It's okay, Chris. You're not the kid you were, either."

"Jayce," Chris said. JC patted his shoulder, and hopped down the stairs.

"See you when you're fucking!" he called.

* * *

"I guess I shoulda been quieter last night, huh?"

"Looks like," Chris said.

Justin watched him, worried. Was Chris upset with him? He had never cared before, when JC changed buses. Maybe. Did Chris love JC? Was he angry that Justin had driven him away? Or was it just that he'd kicked Chris' ass on the new snowboarding game?

"Quit staring."

"I'm not."

"You are. Why are you always staring at me?"

Because you're beautiful, Justin thought. Because you're this wonderful, amazing person, and I want to memorize you, so when you leave again I'll never forget. Because I love you.

"QUIT it!"

"You're different," Justin said.

"What, because you're the only one who can have a bad mood?"

"No, I mean." Justin waved his hands. "You're. Different."

Chris put down his magazine. "So we're doing this now, then."

"Looks like," Justin said. He slouched next to Chris on the couch, balled himself up, so he'd already be hugging himself when the rejection came.

"It's not. You don't have to do anything about it," Chris said. "I mean, I don't think it's gonna go away, but I can deal."

"Oh," Justin said.

Chris glanced at him, briefly, concerned. Justin rarely spoke in such a small voice. During the lawsuit, during his break-up with Britney. Chris imagined he'd spoken like that when his parents got divorced, could hear it perfectly in his head, but he hadn't been there, of course.

"Is that all," Justin asked, "or. I mean. You don't hate me, or anything?"

"I just *told* you, J."

"You can deal."

"Exactly. So why would I hate you? I mean, it's not like you have to. reciprocate."

"Reciprocate?"

"Yes. I understand."

Chris was staring at his hands. Justin hated when Chris wouldn't look at him, because then he couldn't tell what Chris was thinking. He couldn't see Chris' face.

"Who are we talking about?" Justin asked.

"What?"

"Why would I reciprocate -- I mean. I was talking about me to begin with."

"You were." That couldn't be right. He couldn't. JC had said, but JC didn't know Justin like Chris did, didn't realize that Justin couldn't *possibly* be in love with him.

"I was talking about. Did you. Do you."

"Yes," Chris said.

"Oh," Justin said.

"But it's okay. I know you don't -- I mean, why would you?"

"I do," Justin said.

Chris looked at him, his eyes wide and startled. Justin gazed back. Didn't look away at all. Leaned forward, in fact, and opened his lips a little, and Chris cupped his face, because damned if he was gonna turn this down, even though it couldn't possibly be real. Couldn't be happening.

Justin kissed him.

* * *

Chris kissed him back.