Question
By:  Sierra

Q. How has the relationship matured between the five of you over the years? Being in a group is a lot like a serious relationship.

[JC is the first to answer]

JC: There's no sex involved.

He had never spoken truer words. In fact, JC barely spoke true words, so when he did, it had the impact of a crashing wave on the group. It rose, higher, higher, looming over their heads, then when realization hit, it crashed down, knocked them off their feet, and swept them away, sand ingrained in their skin.

JC had actually spent time coming up with the metaphor himself. He created it one night while he was spending the countless hours like he usually did on the beach. The sand was warm and wet against his thighs. The waves were a mere echo compared to the thoughts blaring in his skull, and he wasn't sure if he was shivering from them or the cooling air.

His lies made up his person. He was a lie, in fact. Why had they chosen such a hideous and flawed singer to be on a television show, then to star in a pop-sensation band in the first place? One day they would uncover him. One day they would figure out his lie. He was terrified, but not terrified. Or was he? Maybe it had become such a habit that he even lied to himself. Maybe he had lost the ability to tell the difference.

Lies kept him sane. He didn't have to face things if he didn't admit them. He came up with that piece of insight, too. He was so proud about that. So, in a way, he could even explain his psychotic nature. He could pick apart the intricacies of his behavior and turn them over and over in his mind.

The only thing he hadn't figured out was Lance: the jump-boy, fly boy, in-your-face wink boy that was continually tapping one of his rings with his fingers.

JC turned his arm over and over again in the light of the moon on the beach one night, trying to study it. What was wrong with it? It had this strange tingling sensation when Lance twisted his rings off his fngers. The tiny hairs stood on end and seemed to pick up an electrical current coming from… what? The microwave? The television? The power station down the road?

And that one time… (it confused JC to even think about it), when Lance was drunk and reached out that hand and grabbed JC's neck and brought his lips into his? JC was pretty sure he wiped his lips clean in disgust. But he was pretty sure even that was a lie.

The next day, Lance had apologized, laughing.

It was strange though, how, a week later, Lance was lying in his bed, pulling at JC's hair.

"Ow."

"What?"

"Stop."

"No."

And then Lance had kissed him again. Lance had told him he was beautiful and wonderful and sang like the oceans and sweat upon an artist's forehead and colors and light trapped in stained glass. JC had glanced around, and Lance pushed his head back to the pillow.

"No one is here. Don't worry."

JC knew it was all a lie. It never happened. It was something he had dreamed and fantasized about, after that brief drunken kiss. He knew Lance had never come into his bed, and if he had ever tugged on JC's hair, it was by accident, when JC was bending down in a cramped area and it got caught on Lance's belt-loop. Lance was a Southern gentleman, after all, according to all the teenage magazines. He would never tug hair. And the teenage magazines wouldn't lie.

Once he realized everything that had happened with Lance was a lie, JC didn't have as hard a time with what happened next. It was a very cold day, not suitable for the beach at all. He was in his bed again, tapping a pen against his forehead and staring to the ceiling.

"Ow."

Lance was suddenly pulling on his hair again. JC didn't let himself smile.

"Stop."

Lance kissed him. This time, though, it was different. It was quick, hasty, yet… long. Drawn-out. Luxurious.

JC knew his shirt was never lifted above his head and he knew Lance's pants were never dropped to the floor. The ecstasy, the red waves, crashing, lifting, falling, looming above his head and then showering him in breaks and spraying him with sand, never happened. The feeling of Lance in his body and the sensation of his hands grabbing Lance's back and pushing back his hair away was simply another strange dream. Why did he always have the bizarre ones? He remembered this one concerning trains and showers and little blue people only a month ago…

Lance told him he was in love. He told him he was the most gorgeous being in the universe, the top of his trophy, the one he wanted to grow old with, the cat's pajamas.

What a wonderful lie. It was a lie, of course.

Who would ever love him?

So, it was bizarre when he actually told the truth to the interviewer, but it wasn't much of choice. If he had lied and told her he had had sex with his bandmate, she would have laughed. She knew no one would love him, either, as did everyone else. What was there to love?

Afterwards, Lance pulled him aside.

JC stared down to his faded jeans, and held his arms at the crooks of the elbows.

"You're a great liar." Lance smiled. "That was the best response."

So, Lance was going to play the game. The pretend-to-flirt-with-your-bandmate response. The I-think-this-is-cute-and-I'm-going-to-allude-to-something-that-never-really-happened-to-make-you-laugh response.

And JC did laugh. He could play the game, since, after all, he was the best liar of them all. "Thanks." He decided, since he was on a roll with the not-lying, that he would throw in his own this-is-ironic-since-I-really-feel-this-way-but-you-don't-about-me-so-I'm-going-to-kid-with-you-and-make-it-sound-like-I'm-teasing-and-I-was-offended-by-your-statement response.

"I love you, too."

The End

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