Note: This was written for MI's We Invented the Remix challenge, and is based on MI's story, Easy.

Easy
(The Extended KittieC Club Mix)
by Kittie

"This... can't be right."

"Hmmm?" Justin speaks absently, his eyes still focused on the ball game.

"Nothing," Chris says hurriedly. He hadn't meant to speak aloud. But Justin is sitting very close, half in Chris' lap. They're holding hands, fingers tangled together, and Justin's head is resting on his shoulder. It feels nice, but it's wrong, somehow. It doesn't make sense.

Chris can't make sense of a lot of things in his life nowadays. He can't figure out how he got to where he is. He knows there was work involved. It didn't happen overnight and it wasn't without pain, and fear, and misery. Those things are the only reason he knows it's all real. But he still sometimes stares at his bank statement and wonders why there are so many extra zeros on the total. He looks at his mother and his sisters and sees how easily they can smile-sees the way they never have to worry about the things they used to worry about-and though he's grateful, it still seems wrong.

It's wrong that he has four best friends who love him as much as he loves them. It's wrong that there are millions of people in the world who know his name, his face, his voice. It's wrong that just last week he had lunch with Guy Richie and Madonna. Extremely wrong.

It seems that he should still be back home in Pennsylvania, or Ohio, or someplace else. In a tiny house, crammed together with five women, all of them just trying to make it with what little money they can earn in odd jobs and on minimum wage. It seems like his teeth should still be crooked and kind of yellow, and maybe his nose should have been broken a few times by now, in bar fights or worse. And maybe he should be used to failure and to humiliation. He's trash. Always has been, always will be. And trash does not belong in a large hotel suite, watching a basketball game on Pay-Per-View with a gorgeous young man lounging at its side. Trash belongs in the slums, in the gutter. And there should be rats and roaches everywhere.

"Ugh," Justin says, startling him. "Whaddaya want with rats and roaches?"

"Um.... Nothing."

Chris slumps down into the couch cushions, praying he hadn't spoken all of his thoughts aloud. He figures he didn't. Things like that make Justin mad. He hates it when Chris says bad things about himself, even though they're true. Justin doesn't understand what it's like to be trash and know it, and how confusing it is when only a select few ever seem to see past the PR and the glamour and know the truth. Chris can appreciate those people. Even though their whispered words and sidelong looks hurt a bit, they're better than the fake smiles and too-hearty laughter he gets from everyone else. At least they're honest.

Chris tries hard to drag his mind back to the game. The Knicks are in the lead with the Lakers not too far behind, and the score keeps rising every few seconds. He wonders what Justin would have done with his life had Nsync not come along-had things not worked out the way they did. He'd probably have still found his way to the top. Justin is like that-he's young and talented and determined to be somebody, and he'd have done it with or without Chris.

He was convenient, Chris thinks. That must be it. He was there, and Justin saw the loneliness in him, and took advantage.

Not in a bad way. Justin truly likes him, he knows this. They have fun together. But this... togetherness.... That's what's so strange. Justin could have anybody he wanted. He should be with someone younger, someone better looking; someone as well-built as he is.

Chris glances down at his own gut and makes a sour face. He harbors no illusions about that. It's a fine gut, and he's proud of it in kind of a perverse way, but he knows it's not attractive. Not like Justin's hard, washboard stomach. Nothing about him is like Justin. Justin is tall, built, and gorgeous, and he's small, dumpy, and kind of looks like a leprechaun. It baffles him. Justin has had Britney Spears, of all people. A perfect, polite, sweet little girl who glowed golden when she smiled. But Justin left her and ended up with him. He doesn't glow. And he's not sweet or polite.

"You're thinking too loud, man," Justin says, nudging him, and Chris looks up to find Justin's dazzling smile inches from his face. He starts to jerk backward, but Justin moves with him, kissing him gently. Chris lets him, his eyes sliding shut and his mouth opening for Justin's tongue. Justin's still smiling when he ends the kiss and leans back, running long fingers though Chris' dark hair. "What's up with you, anyway? You've been all... bleh... all week."

"Bleh?" Chris repeats, raising an eyebrow. He's proud of his eyebrows. They're the most expressive part of his face. Even Justin doesn't have eyebrows like him.

Justin smacks him, lightly, on the shoulder. "Quit trying to avoid the question, old man. Tell me what you're thinking about."

He shakes his head. "Nothing, Justin, I just...." He sighs and looks back at the game. Now the Lakers are in the lead. "Why are you here?"

Justin's brow furrows in confusion. "We planned it, remember? B-ball, pizza, and sex night."

"No, I—" He sighs, annoyed at himself. He really needs to shut up and make a joke about it. He can pretend he'd forgotten the date, thought Justin had studio time booked. He should say he's an old man, he's going senile.

But he doesn't.

"I mean, why are you here? Instead of...." He stops, lamely. "Somewhere else."

Justin's eyes clear and he looks sad, suddenly. He takes both of Chris' hands in his own and leans forward, letting their foreheads touch. "Because I love you. Isn't that enough?"

Chris shakes his head, his eyes closing, but his fingers squeeze Justin's tight. "How can you love me?"

"I dunno," Justin answers, and Chris feels faint, suddenly. His heart is breaking. "It's easy," Justin finishes, and kisses him.

Chris opens his eyes.

End

Email: kittie.verdena@gmail.com