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Twig
[Crossover] [Justin Timberlake/Nick Carter] [PG-13]
Twig
Author’s Note: The song I picked was Jewel’s “Near You Always”. Lyrics not included in the fic.
It’s a nice night out, and the sweet after-rain air is cool on your skin. You walk companionably down the gently sloping road, in silence. He inches closer, and you can feel it, the slow undercurrent of heat that’s building from the simple proximity of your bodies.
“Justin?”
Your breath catches, and you nod, letting him know you’re listening. It’s been a long time since you’ve done this. Just hung out, enjoyed each other’s company, had a heart-to-heart talk. You don’t think you’d even realized just how much you’d missed it till he’d asked you out again tonight.
It’s been hard to get any time with him, what with both of you off in different worlds, as usual, mostly separated by different promotional shindigs to attend and conflicting touring schedules, so you’d jumped at the chance to spend the smallest bit of quality time with him, just to remind him – and yourself – that underneath all the fronted rivalry, there’s a deep-rooted friendship that goes way back.
Instinctively the both of you slow down, and when he turns to smile at you – the same sunny smile, and floppy blonde hair, and wide blue eyes – you find you can hardly think.
“Tonight was fun.”
You can barely nod in agreement. You’ve only been walking all night, in an easy silence, needing nothing but the knowledge of each other’s presence, and the night has felt like an eternity. An eternity that’s passed in the twinkling of an eye. He smiles at you, taking your hand with a gentle squeeze, saying, “We’re gonna do this again the next time you’re in town?”
You smile, your hand still burning where he touched it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
He grins, warmly, and pulls you into a hug. “Love you, baby boy. We’ll talk soon.”
You nod again, breathing in his scent, trying to dismiss the crazy thoughts in your head as a symptom of missed-you-itis, and nothing more.
You don’t realize you’ve been thinking ‘one-sided love can be destructive’ over and over again till his silhouette is nothing but a ghost of black against the illuminated sidewalk.
You don’t think you’ve ever liked letting people come too close. You don’t like them too near, whether it’s a casual one-armed embrace, or a desperate barely-missed attempt at kissing you.
Sometimes you’re grateful for that – that, and the fact that he’s as acutely aware of it as you are. He never comes any closer than you feel is comfortable, and he never bothers trying to grab you round the neck in a headlock, or oversteps the boundary of a friendly hug.
He never misses a beat when he steps away, and never lingers longer than is absolutely necessary. And while you’re grateful for that, you sometimes wonder what it would be like to have him forget what you said you wanted for a second, and concentrate on what you know he knew you really did want.
When life goes back to its normal, hectic pace, you manage to forget about the night you spent out for the most bit. Everything goes back to how it should be, and you do manage to convince yourself that you were maybe somewhat drunk that night, and that you’d never seen the light in his eyes, or felt the beauty of his smile.
You tell yourself that you would never fall for him. You’re too different. You’re dark where he’s light, and bitter where he’s simply saccharine, and cynical and cold where he is still naïveté and sunshine, even though he has more reason to be scornful about life than you do.
You tell yourself he wouldn’t, because you’d taint him, color him black and blue where he’s still pure, and neither of you would want that.
And you manage to lie to yourself, just like you’ve been lying to everyone else.
The next time you meet, it’s at a function, and completely accidentally. He gives you one of his oh-dear-god smiles, and you can’t help smiling back, knowing flashes of surprise and uncertainty have already appeared in your eyes. But before he can say another word, you’re already being whisked off to meet some hotshot producer that you couldn’t give two hoots for, and then you’re talking about promotion and music again, before being scooted off to do the same thing with someone else, and for the better part of the night, you don’t get a chance to talk to him at all. You hardly even see him.
You almost regret that, but the larger, more selfish part of you is relieved.
Then someone taps you on the shoulder, and you turn gracefully as a glass of champagne is offered, and you break into a genuine smile as you realize it’s him. “Hey.”
“I haven’t seen you the whole night. You’ve been kissing ass, haven’t you?”
His tone is smiling, so you just laugh. He teases you more than anyone else. He also gets away with it more than anyone else. “You’ve been playing wallflower again?”
The side of his mouth curls upwards. “All right, all right, no need to get nasty.”
Before you can say anything else, Johnny’s pulling you to a side, hissing, “What are you doing, talking to Nick Carter? Are you crazy?”
You fold your arms across your chest. You’re not going to go through this talk again. What you do with Nick is none of their business. “Johnny, I’m only saying this one more time, okay? Nick and I are *friends*. Fuck the sales, fuck the company, fuck it all. Me and him go way back. We talk, we hang out, we aren’t fucking rivals, so you can just get your fucking head outta your ass and deal.”
You push him away, and stride towards Nick, ready to pull him out and go for a walk. The indignation you feel is strong and leaves a bitter aftertaste that even the wine can’t take away.
Nick shakes his head, mouthing ‘no’ over and over again, except you couldn’t care less, and you know he’s only worried for you, as usual, so you walk up to him anyway, and touch the small of his back. “Let’s go.”
He can’t hide his smile, and you can see traces of pride in his eyes. “Nah, I should be heading back anyway. And you’ve got a plane to catch. I’ll catch you ‘round the next time you’re here.” He nods, quieting your protests, adding in an undertone, “You don’t want Johnny pissed off with you, you know that.”
He straightens, and you know he’s right, so you sigh, and offer him a lopsided smile as you walk out the room together. “Thanks,” you say, suddenly unsure and a little shy. He leans down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, and everything about the contact is hot, and hot, and hot, and you’re blushing harder than you’ve ever blushed before. He just winks, and trots off to his car.
You stand there a moment longer, hardly daring to breathe, fingers pressed to the side of your cheek. Your heart is beating so fast you think you might pass out. It’s a long while before you turn around and head back indoors, head still whirling.
It’s harder to ignore the nagging thoughts at the back of your head this time. You can’t pretend you don’t want a repeat of that night, can’t block the image of Nick and his blue eyes and sweet lips. You want more.
You don’t return Johnny’s call, and you keep zoning out during the day, until everyone but your mom is annoyed with you, and even your fake apologetic smiles can’t soothe them. And still all you can think about is the way his lips felt against your skin, and how you want it so badly you ache.
You shake your head, and try to remember that one-sided love is a destructive thing.
You don’t call him the next time you’re in town, and when he finds out, he doesn’t yell, or push, or demand to know what happened, why you broke a promise when you’ve never hurt him that way before.
You don’t get anger, or disappointment, or disbelief. You don’t get snide remarks, or rude gestures from his protective bandmates. You don’t get a phone call from him, or an email, or any form of message to let you know he knows you’re deliberately avoiding him.
Then you get the flowers.
They’re slightly withered, and blue, and you want to scream at the way he knows you so well.
You can’t find it in yourself to call him, and you know he’s not going to call you. Not until you’ve managed to get over whatever it is you’re trying to deal with and work up the nerve to see him again.
The flowers are a little spiteful, but mostly gentle and thoughtful, just like Nick, and even though you can hardly stand to look at them, you find a vase, and put the flowers there.
You make space for the vase on your bedside table.
The mental countdown in your head shortens everyday. You’ve made up your mind to meet up with him the next time you’re in the same city, approximately twenty days from now. It’s getting more and more difficult not to think about him. About what you should say and how you’re going to act.
You’re still not sure if meeting him is a good idea at all.
Then you wonder when not thinking about him had become such a chore.
The next city comes and goes, and you still haven’t met him. You cry yourself to sleep that night, without changing out of the suit you’re in. It’s only just occurred to you that things will never be the same again.
You’ll never be able to look at him the same way, now that you’ve come to terms with… well, with whatever it is you feel for him. And you think, you might never be able to curb the need for more. You wonder if maybe one day this will all magically disappear, but you look out the window, and it’s frosted and blur, and you can’t see the outside from where you’re sitting.
And you suppose that’s your answer.
The dying flowers are still on the table beside the bed, even though this bed isn’t yours, with the smallest tinge of blue still lingering at the corners if you looked hard enough.
In the morning you leave the hotel for another destination, and you don’t take the flowers along. The pillow is still wet from the night before, and you leave that behind, as well.
It’s a few months before you see him next, but when you do, he walks over to you first. He smiles at you, but you can’t find it in yourself to smile back. It’s all you can do to even look at him, without breaking down to tell him you’re sorry. Because then he’d have to know just what you’re sorry for.
He just covers your hand with his own. And you look down incredulously, resisting the urge to pull back, before looking up at him again, tiredly.
“It’s okay,” he says, softly. “I know.”
And you almost do cry then, because his eyes are soft and warm, and you think you could drown in them. He gives you a sad smile, brushing his lips very gently over your temple, almost like a wisp of hair curling into place, and walks away.
And then you wonder if maybe he really does know.
You go back to your hotel, exhausted, and there’s a note under the door. It says ‘come over’ and you already know who sent it. You’re torn between crying and laughing and just sitting there not knowing what to do.
You do a little bit of all three.
And then you think of the way his hand felt over yours, and you can’t help but want to know why. You want answers.
So you get up.
And you go.
He opens the door almost immediately after you knock.
You open your mouth to ask him what it meant, but.
You think what scares you is the way you already know he loves you before he even says ‘hello’. But then he smiles, and you lose yourself in his eyes, and your heart stops for a second before it starts throbbing painfully quickly against your chest. And then you realize you really don’t have anything to ask, because the answers are already there.
“C’mere,” his hand is reaching for your own now, and you look at it for a second, blankly, before reaching out to let him pull you into the house, and into his arms.
You’re tired, and sick of fighting him, sick of fighting yourself, so you melt into his embrace, and let him run his hands up and down your back, before sliding into your hair, pulling you close, and brushing his lips lightly across your own.
You’re both leaning against the closed door now, his breath hot on your cheek, his eyes closed and his lips curved into a smile against your skin.
It’s too much. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, all at the same time.
You breathe.
-fin-
Twig
Author’s Note: The song I picked was Jewel’s “Near You Always”. Lyrics not included in the fic.
It’s a nice night out, and the sweet after-rain air is cool on your skin. You walk companionably down the gently sloping road, in silence. He inches closer, and you can feel it, the slow undercurrent of heat that’s building from the simple proximity of your bodies.
“Justin?”
Your breath catches, and you nod, letting him know you’re listening. It’s been a long time since you’ve done this. Just hung out, enjoyed each other’s company, had a heart-to-heart talk. You don’t think you’d even realized just how much you’d missed it till he’d asked you out again tonight.
It’s been hard to get any time with him, what with both of you off in different worlds, as usual, mostly separated by different promotional shindigs to attend and conflicting touring schedules, so you’d jumped at the chance to spend the smallest bit of quality time with him, just to remind him – and yourself – that underneath all the fronted rivalry, there’s a deep-rooted friendship that goes way back.
Instinctively the both of you slow down, and when he turns to smile at you – the same sunny smile, and floppy blonde hair, and wide blue eyes – you find you can hardly think.
“Tonight was fun.”
You can barely nod in agreement. You’ve only been walking all night, in an easy silence, needing nothing but the knowledge of each other’s presence, and the night has felt like an eternity. An eternity that’s passed in the twinkling of an eye. He smiles at you, taking your hand with a gentle squeeze, saying, “We’re gonna do this again the next time you’re in town?”
You smile, your hand still burning where he touched it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
He grins, warmly, and pulls you into a hug. “Love you, baby boy. We’ll talk soon.”
You nod again, breathing in his scent, trying to dismiss the crazy thoughts in your head as a symptom of missed-you-itis, and nothing more.
You don’t realize you’ve been thinking ‘one-sided love can be destructive’ over and over again till his silhouette is nothing but a ghost of black against the illuminated sidewalk.
You don’t think you’ve ever liked letting people come too close. You don’t like them too near, whether it’s a casual one-armed embrace, or a desperate barely-missed attempt at kissing you.
Sometimes you’re grateful for that – that, and the fact that he’s as acutely aware of it as you are. He never comes any closer than you feel is comfortable, and he never bothers trying to grab you round the neck in a headlock, or oversteps the boundary of a friendly hug.
He never misses a beat when he steps away, and never lingers longer than is absolutely necessary. And while you’re grateful for that, you sometimes wonder what it would be like to have him forget what you said you wanted for a second, and concentrate on what you know he knew you really did want.
When life goes back to its normal, hectic pace, you manage to forget about the night you spent out for the most bit. Everything goes back to how it should be, and you do manage to convince yourself that you were maybe somewhat drunk that night, and that you’d never seen the light in his eyes, or felt the beauty of his smile.
You tell yourself that you would never fall for him. You’re too different. You’re dark where he’s light, and bitter where he’s simply saccharine, and cynical and cold where he is still naïveté and sunshine, even though he has more reason to be scornful about life than you do.
You tell yourself he wouldn’t, because you’d taint him, color him black and blue where he’s still pure, and neither of you would want that.
And you manage to lie to yourself, just like you’ve been lying to everyone else.
The next time you meet, it’s at a function, and completely accidentally. He gives you one of his oh-dear-god smiles, and you can’t help smiling back, knowing flashes of surprise and uncertainty have already appeared in your eyes. But before he can say another word, you’re already being whisked off to meet some hotshot producer that you couldn’t give two hoots for, and then you’re talking about promotion and music again, before being scooted off to do the same thing with someone else, and for the better part of the night, you don’t get a chance to talk to him at all. You hardly even see him.
You almost regret that, but the larger, more selfish part of you is relieved.
Then someone taps you on the shoulder, and you turn gracefully as a glass of champagne is offered, and you break into a genuine smile as you realize it’s him. “Hey.”
“I haven’t seen you the whole night. You’ve been kissing ass, haven’t you?”
His tone is smiling, so you just laugh. He teases you more than anyone else. He also gets away with it more than anyone else. “You’ve been playing wallflower again?”
The side of his mouth curls upwards. “All right, all right, no need to get nasty.”
Before you can say anything else, Johnny’s pulling you to a side, hissing, “What are you doing, talking to Nick Carter? Are you crazy?”
You fold your arms across your chest. You’re not going to go through this talk again. What you do with Nick is none of their business. “Johnny, I’m only saying this one more time, okay? Nick and I are *friends*. Fuck the sales, fuck the company, fuck it all. Me and him go way back. We talk, we hang out, we aren’t fucking rivals, so you can just get your fucking head outta your ass and deal.”
You push him away, and stride towards Nick, ready to pull him out and go for a walk. The indignation you feel is strong and leaves a bitter aftertaste that even the wine can’t take away.
Nick shakes his head, mouthing ‘no’ over and over again, except you couldn’t care less, and you know he’s only worried for you, as usual, so you walk up to him anyway, and touch the small of his back. “Let’s go.”
He can’t hide his smile, and you can see traces of pride in his eyes. “Nah, I should be heading back anyway. And you’ve got a plane to catch. I’ll catch you ‘round the next time you’re here.” He nods, quieting your protests, adding in an undertone, “You don’t want Johnny pissed off with you, you know that.”
He straightens, and you know he’s right, so you sigh, and offer him a lopsided smile as you walk out the room together. “Thanks,” you say, suddenly unsure and a little shy. He leans down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, and everything about the contact is hot, and hot, and hot, and you’re blushing harder than you’ve ever blushed before. He just winks, and trots off to his car.
You stand there a moment longer, hardly daring to breathe, fingers pressed to the side of your cheek. Your heart is beating so fast you think you might pass out. It’s a long while before you turn around and head back indoors, head still whirling.
It’s harder to ignore the nagging thoughts at the back of your head this time. You can’t pretend you don’t want a repeat of that night, can’t block the image of Nick and his blue eyes and sweet lips. You want more.
You don’t return Johnny’s call, and you keep zoning out during the day, until everyone but your mom is annoyed with you, and even your fake apologetic smiles can’t soothe them. And still all you can think about is the way his lips felt against your skin, and how you want it so badly you ache.
You shake your head, and try to remember that one-sided love is a destructive thing.
You don’t call him the next time you’re in town, and when he finds out, he doesn’t yell, or push, or demand to know what happened, why you broke a promise when you’ve never hurt him that way before.
You don’t get anger, or disappointment, or disbelief. You don’t get snide remarks, or rude gestures from his protective bandmates. You don’t get a phone call from him, or an email, or any form of message to let you know he knows you’re deliberately avoiding him.
Then you get the flowers.
They’re slightly withered, and blue, and you want to scream at the way he knows you so well.
You can’t find it in yourself to call him, and you know he’s not going to call you. Not until you’ve managed to get over whatever it is you’re trying to deal with and work up the nerve to see him again.
The flowers are a little spiteful, but mostly gentle and thoughtful, just like Nick, and even though you can hardly stand to look at them, you find a vase, and put the flowers there.
You make space for the vase on your bedside table.
The mental countdown in your head shortens everyday. You’ve made up your mind to meet up with him the next time you’re in the same city, approximately twenty days from now. It’s getting more and more difficult not to think about him. About what you should say and how you’re going to act.
You’re still not sure if meeting him is a good idea at all.
Then you wonder when not thinking about him had become such a chore.
The next city comes and goes, and you still haven’t met him. You cry yourself to sleep that night, without changing out of the suit you’re in. It’s only just occurred to you that things will never be the same again.
You’ll never be able to look at him the same way, now that you’ve come to terms with… well, with whatever it is you feel for him. And you think, you might never be able to curb the need for more. You wonder if maybe one day this will all magically disappear, but you look out the window, and it’s frosted and blur, and you can’t see the outside from where you’re sitting.
And you suppose that’s your answer.
The dying flowers are still on the table beside the bed, even though this bed isn’t yours, with the smallest tinge of blue still lingering at the corners if you looked hard enough.
In the morning you leave the hotel for another destination, and you don’t take the flowers along. The pillow is still wet from the night before, and you leave that behind, as well.
It’s a few months before you see him next, but when you do, he walks over to you first. He smiles at you, but you can’t find it in yourself to smile back. It’s all you can do to even look at him, without breaking down to tell him you’re sorry. Because then he’d have to know just what you’re sorry for.
He just covers your hand with his own. And you look down incredulously, resisting the urge to pull back, before looking up at him again, tiredly.
“It’s okay,” he says, softly. “I know.”
And you almost do cry then, because his eyes are soft and warm, and you think you could drown in them. He gives you a sad smile, brushing his lips very gently over your temple, almost like a wisp of hair curling into place, and walks away.
And then you wonder if maybe he really does know.
You go back to your hotel, exhausted, and there’s a note under the door. It says ‘come over’ and you already know who sent it. You’re torn between crying and laughing and just sitting there not knowing what to do.
You do a little bit of all three.
And then you think of the way his hand felt over yours, and you can’t help but want to know why. You want answers.
So you get up.
And you go.
He opens the door almost immediately after you knock.
You open your mouth to ask him what it meant, but.
You think what scares you is the way you already know he loves you before he even says ‘hello’. But then he smiles, and you lose yourself in his eyes, and your heart stops for a second before it starts throbbing painfully quickly against your chest. And then you realize you really don’t have anything to ask, because the answers are already there.
“C’mere,” his hand is reaching for your own now, and you look at it for a second, blankly, before reaching out to let him pull you into the house, and into his arms.
You’re tired, and sick of fighting him, sick of fighting yourself, so you melt into his embrace, and let him run his hands up and down your back, before sliding into your hair, pulling you close, and brushing his lips lightly across your own.
You’re both leaning against the closed door now, his breath hot on your cheek, his eyes closed and his lips curved into a smile against your skin.
It’s too much. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, all at the same time.
You breathe.
-fin-