Jem (crazybutsound) wrote in ccfp,

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Skin Deep by Jem

Fandom: *NSYNC slash
Pairing: Justin/Britney, with a vague side of lambs
Rating: Rish
Summary: Once there were five of you, then only two, and it was all just another stop on the road to being one.
Disclaimer: None of this ever happened, if only because it's set a few years from now. And also, there's the small matter of it being fiction. You know, fiction. Not true.
Author's note: Thanks to zarah5 for betaing.
Reviewed by: cathybites


When people ask you, you tell them it just never was an issue.

Yes, it could have been. It might have been. But it wasn’t there and you moved on and forgot, and never looked back after the storm had passed.

It’s not the same when you close your eyes, though.

She’s yours and it says so. Right there, on her hip, peeking at you through the gaps between your fingers. Black ink on too pale skin, not pale enough. She got it tattooed only because you asked, agreeing to it for reasons you still can’t quite grasp. You know you would have said no.

She’s yours and you spread the news, one smile on top of another, rhythm of lies between clenched teeth. Yes, yes she was yours all along, years into and before, when the storm hit big or when it died.

Whether there were times when you both got lost has become utterly irrelevant.

When you lie awake and sated, her skin warm and smooth beneath the tips of your fingers, you remember the patterns. How your hands never fall off-track, never slip and slide and grip where the words will start making sense.

It’s not what you seek, sense and purpose, justification of any kind. Words melt or break into letters, and you splay your hands wide, until this one lonely shape keeps jumping at you, sharp-relief of black ink on creamy white, familiar as—or more than—her name still on your lips.

You grip and thrust, deep angle of your hips, rhythm long established of fuck and yeah, and Britney.

You watch, silent and almost numb. She dresses with the urgency of a woman who knows: you’re not seeing her as much as you’re looking at it. You understand, maybe, that this is her reason, her attempt at keeping your eyes on her skin; on something she’s stopped fooling herself you still feel some desire for.

When the last button is fastened, the last piece of clothing has been draped, when she’s put herself back inside this fortress of pretend and appearances… when you can no longer see, watch… she averts her eyes to keep you from having to look away.

You’re not even sure it hurts anymore. It used to, you think. Or maybe not, maybe even that is only a vague distant memory of someone you shared a life with, long before Britney came to share your world.

Once there were five of you, then only two, and it was all just another stop on the road to being one.

They still ask, still talk about the five of you, about what you were and could have been. They don’t talk so much about what you’ve all become. Was it hard? And did you know, did you have to pretend and conceal, and was he the only one?

Of course, he wasn’t. But you don’t believe it’s any of their business, so you lead them to safest grounds, telling them Joey was always a ladies man. The conversation almost never fails to move on to your gorgeous girlfriend.

You don’t stop and wonder what will happen the day she leaves. You hope maybe she never does.

There’s a sliver of light, moon shining on sweat-glistening skin, bouncing off of the bed sheets, only to blind you as you come. It’s sharp and painful. Still, the tangy taste of blood on your lips is easy enough to forget. Easier, maybe, than the already fading bruises on her perfect skin.

You know your name on a whisper, as she shudders and collapses, turning gracefully until you’re both still lying close, yet far enough that no strip of skin might accidentally touch. She knows not to hide it, not to seek the flimsy but comforting privacy of bed covers.

Your hand draws impossibly near, reaching over to her hip and closing around it tentatively. Until again, there’s nothing more than the sharp shape of an L between your splayed fingers.

L for Love. Or laugh, lie, longing. L for lust, and for nothing like her mouth shaping your name on a whisper. Justin

L for living, or leaving, or letting go.

L for the one you never got.

When people ask you, you tell them it just never was an issue.

THE END</center></center>
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