Tan = sole comfort in boyband hurricane.

fanmail

"No, no!" Chris laughed, gasping. This was his favorite game, reading aloud from fan letters, because he never bought into any of it-- unlike JC, who felt bad, because he did, sort of. "Listen to this!" 

It really was ridiculous, even moreso than the one Joey had just finished reading, because it was from a fifteen year old girl who thought she could reach the poet in Chris by writing entirely in lyric quotes, and Joey's had only been a straight-forward marriage proposal. 

"Sweet, man," Justin said, leaning over from where he sat next to Joey, to high-five Chris. "She wants to get freaky-deaky with you."

JC shrugged. "I think that's sweet."

"You would," said Lance, who was grinning but not sharing from his own letters. He was propped against the arm of the couch, legs stretched out, feet poking against Joey's thigh. JC was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, and was shaking his head.

"Like you guys never wrote stupid fan-letters you didn't mean to people you were, like, deluded about."

Justin cocked his head at JC. He only scanned his letters for certain words, and only shared the ones that said "fuck" or "wet". 

"Dude, did you really?"

JC frowned. "You didn't? --Didn't you have that big Janet Jackson thing?"

"Yeah, but I never wrote her any letters."

"But, I mean, the feeling was the same, right? You, uh," JC glanced down at the letter in his lap. "Her eyes made your life worth while."

Justin laughed. "I guess, somethin' like that. Wasn't her eyes, though." He leaned over to high-five Chris again. 

"So, but, yeah. Janet Jackson. We've all got dumb celebrity crushes, whether we write letters or not, or whatever."

"Who's your celebrity crush, JC?" Lance asked, poking him in the back with his shoulder, and then said, "Sting."

JC turned his head and grinned at Lance. "Yeah, yeah, I guess-- like that. How about you? Ricky Martin?"

Lance chuckled, deep in his throat, a rumble. "He has Latin soul." He moved his foot in Joey's lap. "What about you, Joe?"

Joey smiled. "Yeah. I have Latin soul."

"Guido," said Lance, returning the smile. "Who's your crush?"

Joey frowned down at his lap, thinking. "Lessee. Sting, Ricky Martin, and, uh--" he snapped his fingers. "Mark Wahlberg."

Lance made a face, and Justin leaned forward. 

"Dude, are we all doing boys? I wanna change my answer."

"Me, too," said Chris.

"You didn't have an answer."

"No, mine was Janet Jackson, too."

"So who is it now?"

"Um." He looked up at the ceiling, and lifted himself off of the recliner slightly, because in order to think about the question, he had to move his pelvis, a little. "oh! I know! Adam Duritz. Totally."

"Sweet," said Joey, approvingly.

Justin asked, "Who?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "God, you're such eurotrash. Counting Crows, man. The guy with the dreds."

Justin punched his leg. "Hair freak."

"Yeah, so-- who's your guy?"

"Like you gotta ask. Tiki Barber."

Lance asked, "Who?"

And after that, they joked about writing letters to those people, and what they would say, and Justin used the words "fuck" and "wet", and Lance used the lyrics to "Nobody Wants To Be Lonely". Except, JC didn't play, because he still wrote to Sting, sometimes.