Summer’s End: Meet Me in the Indian Summer

Basez / Darter / Crossover Slash, for the Summer of Crossover Love Project

Ian McDuff

Yes, another song-fic from He Who Disdains Song-Fics (well, not a song-fic, per se. Detest those. But a story with a soundtrack), an entry in the Basez / Darter (AKA, Basez / SweetKaos) Songbook. The track for this could easily have been Don Henley, but it isn’t: it’s Van Morrison, Meet Me in the Indian Summer. Bittersweet story, I’m warning you. And there’s a crossover angle, because of the Summer of Crossover Love Project. Read and see who.

It was summer, high summer. Hazy and languorous as a sated sex partner on silk sheets. High summer lay upon the land.

AJ had gotten to where he winced at the very phrase. He’d had too many high summers. And ‘high’ springs, winters, and autumns. High was not good. He’d come to hate the adjective for what it connoted as much as that acrophobic midget, Chris, shuddered at the word for the fears it denoted.

‘Possibility one,’ Chris snarked, ticking things off on his fingers. ‘Justin figured it was the only way he could step up from used-ta-bein’ Mr Britney Spears. Two, he charged her for it. Hell, he’s been marketed as a boy-toy for years, why not do the whole nine as a gigolo for, ahem, Slightly Older Women. Three – I’m on three, right? Three – it’s an even lamer than usual publicity stunt. Four, he has finally convinced himself he is, in fact, Black. African-American. A person of color. Pick your own PC term. And – this five? Five. ’Kay. Five…. What the fuck was five, anyway?’

‘He’s seriously trying to enlist Janet to help him cut our throats and launch his solo career over our unmarked graves?’

Lance flicked JC’s ear for that uncharacteristically bitter, unnaturally anti-Justin comment. The flicking was easy, as C’s head was, as always, in Lance’s lap.

‘Naaaaah,’ Chris retorted, ‘fucker already has a solo career, just with four really good backup singers. I always wanted to be a Supreme.’

‘A Pip.’ That was C.

‘A Vandella.’ Joey stuck his chin out, daring them to say anything about his contribution.

‘A Season,’ Lance rumbled. ‘Though that would be if Chris were the frontman.’

‘Please,’ Joey said. ‘That’s, like, disrespectful of Frankie Valli.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Chris was too distracted to bridle much at the implied insult. ‘What the fuck was explanation five, anyway? Damn ... oughta write these down….’

‘Senile bastard,’ Lance said affectionately.

‘Like, old couple, they go to the doctor, ask if he can give ’em anything for the memory loss. Doctor says no, no medication for that, but some older patients find it helps, they write things down. That night, old lady wants ice cream, old man gets up to get some. “Write it down,” she says. “I ain’t gonna forget ice cream between here and the kitchen.” “But I want it with nuts and fudge. You best write it down.” “I ain’t that damn senile. Don’t need to write it down.” Gone twenty minutes, comes back with a plate of eggs and bacon. She looks at it, looks at him, says, “You old fool, I told you to write it down: you forgot the toast.”’

C rolled his eyes. ‘We were on Reason Five?’

‘Maybe it’s, they first hooked up in his jailbait days, when we opened for her, and they’re tryin’ to rekindle it?’

‘Joe....’

‘What? You know, a thing for young boys could, like, run in the family.’

‘Five,’ Lance said coolly, ‘is that Justin went to lunch with Janet Jackson so he could have someone to spend an entire afternoon with talking about a mutual interest in abs, personal trainers, make-up, and cute boys.’

‘I love it when you’re bitchy,’ C beamed. ‘Ssshh, sssh. That sounds like his latest pimpmobile outside.’

It was August, and high summer was upon them. Heat and enervation and afternoon thundershowers. The sun at noon oppressed the land, and the grass was sere. They were in Maryland, at Fort Meade of all unlikely places. It was August, and that meant that September was drawing near. Fair enough: it usually did; but September had a new meaning for them all, had had since the 11^th of September, 2001. The Military District of Washington was working with the National Symphony and Erich Kunzel, as they did for the Memorial Day and Fourth of July concerts each year: working, now, on a National Day of Remembrance Concert, at which ’N Sync and BSB were to appear. Why ’N Sync and Backstreet had ended up at Meade, of all the MDW installations, was unclear: after all, the US Army Band, ‘Pershing’s Own,’ was at Fort Myer, and the National Symphony, with which two organizations they were supposed to rehearse, was in the District. McNair or Myer or Belvoir would have made more sense, but then, the Army had its own peculiar way of doing things. That at least was what Kevin and Chris and Joe had concluded. Howie – and those who paid attention to him when he quietly made the point – was more inclined to think that perhaps Josh just wanted to be on Maryland soil again for some abstruse, semi-mystical reason, and that James Lance Bass had made it so. Lance-of-’N-Sync, Mr Hollywood, might not be able to bend the Army to his will, but Josh’s James, the man behind the mask, would move heaven and earth to cater even to his love’s subconscious whims. And as Howie pointed out, the CSM at Meade was from Mississippi....

It was high summer, but James had proclaimed, after wandering the installation one evening, that he could already feel the subtle shift, smell autumn and the turn of the seasons in the air. There was something, he said, about the taste of the breeze and the scent of earth and grass and tree-duff. A faint autumnal spiciness. And already, far more than ever was so in his Deep South home, the long slanting sun of later afternoon had a way of pooling on the land that spoke of autumn in these more northerly latitudes.

Nick had laughed outright at him, until D elbowed his boy in the brisket to teach him some manners, and CK had declared that Lance was in serious trouble if he’d brought crack onto a federal military installation; but Joe accepted the claim as gospel, knowing never to underestimate the Bass. And Brian and Kevin, country boys themselves, had said they reckoned he might be right, at that.

Justin had just sneered. Being country was something he’d gone to great lengths not to be, anymore, and it was nothing good as far as he was concerned, but he was damned if Lance was going to be better at it or anything else than he was.

The next day, Justin had skipped out on the interminable base pick-up basketball games and gone running in the heat. Lance was full of shit. Summer was still palpable all around them, its burning stasis arresting the land. It would always be summer. It would never end. ‘Autumn on the air,’ his sexy supahstah ass. Lance was full of shit as a Christmas turkey.

‘I see Justin Christ Superstar flaked on y’all’s game today,’ Kevin observed, neutrally. The distaste by now was mostly reflexive, though of all the ’N Syncers, Justin would never benefit from the long détente.

Brian peeled off his sodden tee-shirt. Nick carefully didn’t look: even after all this time, even with his being wholly D’s, Nick still had some Frick issues to go with his Justin issues. Watching a sweaty Brian whilst the conversation dwelt on a sweaty Justin was not something he needed to be doing. Looking away, though, he missed seeing D roll his eyes and exchange a quick, tolerant grin with AJ.

‘He’s entitled,’ Brian said innocently.

But. Everyone – except Justin, and, in his innocence, Brian – everyone who knew him well enough not to be blinded by Justin’s three-pointers and Britney-and-Janet-induced glamour had noticed Justin noticing. Noticing the taut, fit EPs and non-coms and Os. The ones who weren’t female. The ones Justin Macho Blingin’ Timberlake was never, ever supposed to notice, and focus on.

It was hot, and muggy, and the very air was sluggish and sweaty. Summer would never end.

Alex had seen more than the rest had. Had noticed something else about Timberlake. Noticed that the servicemen who found Alex cool because of the wild oats and the tats and the façade of badassery were not alone in that conviction. Had glimpsed the glimpses that told him that Justin was noticing at least one civilian hard boy on the hardwood.

Alex returned from a Meeting rather late, redolent of coffee and cigarettes, hands trembling. There had been a basketball game that afternoon, after a lengthy rehearsal down in the Army Band’s facilities at Myer, at Brucker Hall. It had been punishingly physical for AJ: he’d been slotted to guard Justin, and even short of the fouls that had eventually benched Timberlake, it had been grueling, Justin initiating – if discreetly and deniably – more physical contact than any amount of competitiveness could explain.

Alex had found himself wanting a drink more than he had done in months. Drinking was always and would always be the toughest addiction to beat, far worse than any drug, and not just because it was there and available in a way drugs – even at industry parties – were not, and accepted as part of the fabric of life in a way drugs would never be. Drugs were things that tempted with results. Alcohol was much harder to shake, its suasion not limited to its effects only but also comprehending natural urges in themselves innocent, of taste and aroma and plain thirst.

So he had gone to a Meeting.

That his hands were shaking now had another cause. He stilled them by sheer willpower, and knocked on D’s and Nicky’s door.

D was tousled – Alex grinned wolfishly, knowing why – and Nick squeaked a little before vanishing back into his rack to throw on more clothes.

‘Shit, Junior,’ Alex said. ‘Seen it all long – and I do mean long – since. Get your ghetto booty out here. I. Um. I need you guys.’

That stopped Nick’s uncharacteristic dash for modesty. He and D sat down on the couch, on either side of Alex, D tossing a light sheet over the three of them.

‘Digame, hermano.’

‘Diga, um, us,’ Nick corrected his lover. D was never going to make a Spanish-speaker of Nick, but Nick was right about the ‘us’ part.

‘When. Uh. Y’know, making amends.’ They nodded, knowing the twelve steps as well as he, now. ‘The damnedest fucking nuisance about having been so fucked up for so long is ... remembering. Hard to make things right when you can’t remember half what you did wrong.’

D made an encouraging noise, and Nick held Alex’s hand loosely under the sheet.

‘So. This is kinda like that, but not. Did. Well. Far as you dudes know, I ever make any fucked up moves on Timberlake? Show any interest?’

‘So you caught on,’ D said.

‘Days ago. Been quietly freaking over it.’

‘Well, yeah. But. No. Nothing you did, Bone. No blame. Guess he just looked and saw what a million screaming teenies see.’

‘Nick’s right.’

‘Oooh, nice. Thank you, babe.’

‘Happens occasionally, eh, D?’

‘Bitch.’

‘Nick, hush. You do ooze liquid sex, Alex. In a bad-boy sort of way.’

‘And bad boys –’ Nick could make it sound positively obscene – ‘can be sooooo good.’

‘Freak. You, Junior, are a freak. I’m – not. Okay, we sell it, but, D. Nick. Come on. I’m still the same long-faced goofball you met on the audition circuit long enough ago that Nick hadn’t had his first wet dream yet. When did Golden Boys start looking hungrily at jug-eared jesters who flail around like C on meth, anyway?’

D gave him a serious answer. ‘Well, as far as one particular Golden Boy goes, it’s been awhile. Assuming that description is meant to apply to you, which it does not. You’re a sexy fucker, Aidge. Deal with it.’

‘Shit,’ AJ snorted.

‘Excuse me! Point being lost here.’

‘Oh, do get us back on track, please, learned Nicky.’

‘Bitch. T-lake been giving you the “fuck me” eyes a while now. And while that’s understandable due to your sex-ay bod-ay –’

‘Junior –’

‘– It ain’t because you made any move you wouldn’t remember. That we know of.’

‘That you know of.’

‘I’m making a phone call,’ D said, wisely. ‘Stay right there.’

Fucking Army. Nice quarters, maybe, if you were an Army guy or whatever, but for guests? Like being back in the sort of motels Lou put them in, starting out. Communal fucking showers. And damned if he’d do it in bed. No one was going to find Official Justin Timberlake cum-stained sheets any morning. Fuckers’d be on eBay in thirty seconds flat. Good thing he was tall enough to jack off into the fucking sink. Tall enough to. He could ... enfold. Yeah. That lean wiry ink-scrawled body. AJ’s head would come up to. Just. Right. Perfectly fitted. Here. Oh God.

James was disgustingly crisp and alert. The more so by contrast with Josh, who stumbled into the room behind him, sleepy and apparently freshly satiated. Bastard. Howie had brewed tea, and iced some for James.

‘Understand there’s a problem?’

‘Um.’

D wasn’t one to leave Alex squirming like that.

‘To the best of our knowledge,’ he said serenely, ‘even at his most looped, AJ never sent signal one of any interest to your boy Timberlake. You have any gaps you can fill in?’

‘Ahhhhh,’ said Josh, nodding benignly. He smiled pacifically at Alex, Nick, and Howie, and Howie smiled back with the same unnerving placidity.

‘Good Lord,’ James snorted. ‘Before the Buddha boys go into full inner-peace mode, communicating telepathically by smiles and the occasional “om,” let’s get this squared away.’

‘You have a problem with inner peace, Bass?’

‘Yes, and so would Nick. He and I both have better things to do with those two tonight than let them sit there in matching lotus positions being serene.’

‘Damn skippy,’ Nick growled. He was already well past his scheduled maintenance by now.

‘Josh? You ever see, smell, or hear tell of any move by Mack the Knife’s previous incarnation on Justy’s virtue?’

‘Hmm? Oh. No. And I would have. Because. You know.’

‘And for what are probably other reasons, though who could say after that coherent explanation –’

Josh stuck his tongue out at James, and pouted, kittenishly.

‘– so would I have heard, and I didn’t. Sorry, AJ, but you are not being punished for your past sins. This is Justin, now, wanting AJ, now. You have my sympathy.’

‘Unless, y’know, it should be our congratulations?’

AJ shook his head, sadly. ‘Sorry. No. No can do.’ His face was drawn with pain. ‘Did he even miss the fact that I’m engaged, too? And not for show?’

James looked at him, really looked for the first time since they’d arrived at D’s and Nicky’s quarters, his preoccupations set fully aside now. ‘Oh. Shit. C’mere, hoss. Ain’t your fault, all right? It’s okay to hurt, and I know you must purely dread hurting J, but it ain’t your fault. You be true to yourself and do what you have to do, Alexander James McLean.’

And Josh wriggled into what was becoming a group hug with, ‘He’ll live. Good may even come of this. But. You. For yourself, okay? And at least be flattered.’

‘Will you settle for perplexed?’

‘No.’ Josh had a look of kittenish obstinacy that would rival his lover’s own mulishness. ‘You damn well recognize that you are worthy, okay. Doesn’t mean unwanted advances aren’t unwanted. And. Faithfulness. Engaged. Right. But you don’t need a stage and lights and a backing combo and four other dudes and stardom or anything but just being you to be sexy and desirable and worthwhile, and that means you’re going to have people crush on you and you can just fucking live with that and accept that you are pretty damn special and sexy and you would be if you flipped burgers somewhere and had never been heard of by anybody. Okay?’

‘Damn, breathe, C,’ Nick muttered.

‘Oh. Um. Okay.’ AJ didn’t really sound convinced.

‘We’ve tried to tell him that for years,’ D said, fondly.

‘Okay. Okay. I get it.’

‘Good. Sometimes it helps to hear it from someone else. And you remember that. Maybe it will give you some extra strength for, er, when you break it to Justin.’

AJ sighed and winced. ‘That’ll be fun. But, yeah. Thanks. All you guys.’

‘You need anything, you let us know, you hear, now?’

‘Gotcha, Dixie. Yeah, Junior, you two, too. Don’t say it. Thanks, again. I’m gonna go now. Not looking forward to tomorrow.’

‘AJ –’

‘But you guys behind me, I’ll do fine. Just be there for Justin, okay?’

‘You know it. All four of us.’

‘Right. Night. And C, man. Thank you for saying what you said.’

Josh blushed, then looked defiantly at James. ‘Coherent enough for you?’

James dropped his register into Full Porn Voice Mode. ‘Sugarpie, I don’t mind when you’re incoherent.’ Pause. ‘I just always want to be the cause of it.’

‘OUT,’ said Nick.

‘But we already are –’

Nick shooed them through the door and as it closed, AJ heading for his room and James and a glazed-eyed Josh heading for theirs, they glimpsed Nick scrabbling at the drawstring of D’s sweat-shorts.

‘Damn,’ AJ muttered over his shoulder as they parted, ‘Bass, that phone sex voice works at fifty yards.’

AJ took Justin aside the next morning before breakfast, and steered him outside. Only a few words, all pitched low on both sides, all pained on both sides, filtered in to where the other eight suffered in sympathy: Engaged. But. She. Flattered. But I. Too, but not in the way you need me to. Never meant. Sorry. So very sorry. Please. Don’t.

When AJ returned, pale and subdued, he started to fill a cup of coffee from one of the urns, then stopped. ‘Couldn’t hold it down if I did,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘I’ll be in my room. Buzz me half an hour before we leave.’

D, Nick, James, and Josh exchanged glances, then rose. D and Josh headed outside; James and Nick waved Kevin back into his seat and headed for Alex’s room.

Outside, D and Josh stood and watched, helplessly, knowing they could not help by interfering, as Justin’s hunch-shouldered form, head down, diminished with each stride. He needed to walk this off and think this through, they knew. They could see him unconsciously rubbing his hands on his forearms, as if chilled despite the rising first heat of the summer day.

Fucking Lance. Right again. Summer’s gone. Dying of the year. Cold now. So fucking cold.