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Got bored. Got an idea.
So I was sitting here rather bored, and I had an idea.
Behind the cut is a ficlet. A ficlet of exactly 26 sentences. Each one starts with a different letter of the alphabet. And it all, of course, goes in alphabetical order.
And it was fun to do, so anyone else who wants to try the experiment is free to do so. Here goes.
After they announced the hiatus, each of the guys seemed to be absolutely bubbling over with excitement over their various ideas, projects, whatever. Broadway for Joey, the Russian space program thing for Lance, Justin was unquestionably gonna be a solo superstar, and JC's workaholic self was probably gonna be all over the producing shit, his constant insisting that he was just gonna be "chilling out" notwithstanding. Chris, however, was pretty much left behind, and although sitting around the house scratching his balls and watching Lifetime's Movie of the Week was fun for, well, the week, it got very tiresome very quickly.
Despite the fact that his brothers were, well, worlds more involved with shit than he was, they mostly still managed to keep in touch with him. Except for maybe Lance's fucking 3am phone calls from Cold War era phone lines with the reception to match, they were even appreciated. From Joey calling to blather about how the show had gone to JC calling sometimes in a giggly drunken haze with some bass-heavy club beat behind him, he was fairly able to keep track of how the other guys were doing.
Good ol' MTV, however, seemed to be the best way to keep track of J. He hadn't called for more than forty-five seconds in maybe a month, and when he did, he was all stumbly and tentative. It didn't bother him, really. Just... okay, maybe it did, a little. Kid couldn't be assed to have called him for at least a few minutes? Lord, he knew that J had a hectic schedule, but damn. Making it even worse was the fact that he knew Justin had called the other guys. Not him, though. Obviously Chris Kirkpatrick was the fucking *NSYNC leper, as far as Justin Timberlake was concerned. Perhaps it was better that he'd found out before he'd done anything, uh.. rash. Quite rash, when he thought about it. Really, though, he didn't need Justin's updates when he had MTV.
Suddenly, while he was sitting back and pondering his extreme self-sufficience and lack of any need for any sort of contact with Justin Fucking Timberlake, he heard his doorbell ringing rather frantically. Rising with a sigh, he headed for the door and pulled it open, without even checking the peephole; it was probably just a Girl Scout on a cookie sale spree anyway. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, because given the mood he was in, he probably would have spent about twelve grand on fucking Thin Mints), it wasn't a Girl Scout on his doorstep. Very surprising, though, is who it actually was-- Justin.
"What the fuck are you doing here now, you fucking ass??"
"X-rated action," he said with a wry, but still somewhat penitent smile, "or maybe I just missed you?"
"You- fuck, J, you haven't called or, fuck, or, fuck, J, why the.."
Zealous protestations, however, were suddenly cut short when Chris was pressed up against his doorframe and feeling Justin's warm lips against his own, leading him to think that maybe he wouldn't have to do anything rash after all, given that Justin had done it for him.
Behind the cut is a ficlet. A ficlet of exactly 26 sentences. Each one starts with a different letter of the alphabet. And it all, of course, goes in alphabetical order.
And it was fun to do, so anyone else who wants to try the experiment is free to do so. Here goes.
After they announced the hiatus, each of the guys seemed to be absolutely bubbling over with excitement over their various ideas, projects, whatever. Broadway for Joey, the Russian space program thing for Lance, Justin was unquestionably gonna be a solo superstar, and JC's workaholic self was probably gonna be all over the producing shit, his constant insisting that he was just gonna be "chilling out" notwithstanding. Chris, however, was pretty much left behind, and although sitting around the house scratching his balls and watching Lifetime's Movie of the Week was fun for, well, the week, it got very tiresome very quickly.
Despite the fact that his brothers were, well, worlds more involved with shit than he was, they mostly still managed to keep in touch with him. Except for maybe Lance's fucking 3am phone calls from Cold War era phone lines with the reception to match, they were even appreciated. From Joey calling to blather about how the show had gone to JC calling sometimes in a giggly drunken haze with some bass-heavy club beat behind him, he was fairly able to keep track of how the other guys were doing.
Good ol' MTV, however, seemed to be the best way to keep track of J. He hadn't called for more than forty-five seconds in maybe a month, and when he did, he was all stumbly and tentative. It didn't bother him, really. Just... okay, maybe it did, a little. Kid couldn't be assed to have called him for at least a few minutes? Lord, he knew that J had a hectic schedule, but damn. Making it even worse was the fact that he knew Justin had called the other guys. Not him, though. Obviously Chris Kirkpatrick was the fucking *NSYNC leper, as far as Justin Timberlake was concerned. Perhaps it was better that he'd found out before he'd done anything, uh.. rash. Quite rash, when he thought about it. Really, though, he didn't need Justin's updates when he had MTV.
Suddenly, while he was sitting back and pondering his extreme self-sufficience and lack of any need for any sort of contact with Justin Fucking Timberlake, he heard his doorbell ringing rather frantically. Rising with a sigh, he headed for the door and pulled it open, without even checking the peephole; it was probably just a Girl Scout on a cookie sale spree anyway. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, because given the mood he was in, he probably would have spent about twelve grand on fucking Thin Mints), it wasn't a Girl Scout on his doorstep. Very surprising, though, is who it actually was-- Justin.
"What the fuck are you doing here now, you fucking ass??"
"X-rated action," he said with a wry, but still somewhat penitent smile, "or maybe I just missed you?"
"You- fuck, J, you haven't called or, fuck, or, fuck, J, why the.."
Zealous protestations, however, were suddenly cut short when Chris was pressed up against his doorframe and feeling Justin's warm lips against his own, leading him to think that maybe he wouldn't have to do anything rash after all, given that Justin had done it for him.
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