Measured in Beats ( Timbertrick)
Jul. 5th, 2004 03:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsI'm Mutant X deprived. It's not on Sky anymore, they've gone from three shows a day to none and now I'm going cold turkey. I need Brennan. I need him! Oh why have you left me you gorgeous hunk of mutant? Because there was no MX I had to watch one of those survival movies this morning. A family shipwrecked and stuck in a raft for weeks just floating in the sea. It was a terrible movie but I couldn't look away as they battled the elements and fought to survive. The dad wrestled a sea turtle! Then they ate it which was gross.
I spent last night researching Angelfish diseases online, because Angel the angelfish was sick. I now know more about fish disease than ever before but it didn't save poor Angel who died sometime last night. It's a sad thing as she was one of our first fish, and especially tragic is the fact poor Buffy's lost her lifemate. She's swimming around in despair, I can tell. Willow the other angelfish is trying to comfort her but Willow's a different kind and it seems that Buffy doesn't do the interfish thing.
It's still raining here. I don't think it's stopped for about a week. Summer. HA!
I need to wave at two new people *waves at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
withdiamonds and couchrules* Welcome to my insane world, comment or not, I'm easy ;)
Okay. People kept asking me to finish the end of the trickyfish that I did for Ceci, so I have.
It’s their time alone. Peanut butter sandwiches and bottles of soda in a rucksack and an almost empty road to the ocean, where they’ll sit and talk away from the eyes of others.
They’ve taken the bikes for speed and Justin listens to Chris chatter through the helmet mikes as they fly along the highway. Laughing at a comment about Wade, he barely sees the wheel-trim that suddenly detaches from the car in front. Justin swerves violently, misses it by inches and starts to congratulate himself for quick reactions.
Then swears when he feels something slam into his back wheel, making him wobble and almost fall. Chris yells, voice terse as he struggles to control his bike. He fails, and the sound of a sickening crash fills the air.
Brakes slammed on, Justin jumps from his bike, letting it fall to the road. He turns, bile rising in his throat at the sight of Chris’ bike on its side, wheels still spinning.
“Chris!”
Desperate, Justin pulls off his helmet, dropping it from shaking hands.
“Chris!”
No reply. He runs closer, over black skid marks, almost gagging at the smell of burnt rubber and smoke.
“Chris! Fuck, talk to me. Chris!”
Frantically he looks around. Goes cold when he sees Chris crumpled against the barrier. Time slows; he doesn’t want to go over, doesn’t want to see. Pain. Horror. Grief. Guilt. Emotions that flash through him before he’s running, dropping to his knees, reaching out a trembling hand.
“Don’t move him.”
Hands on his body, pulling him away, holding him as he fights. He needs to see, to touch and he elbows someone in the stomach, breaking away to get back to Chris. He kneels, reaches out, touches a hand that’s warm but slick with blood.
“Chris.”
No answer, he didn’t expect one. Not really. At least he’s alive, Justin knows he is. Wraps his hand around Chris’ wrist, feels the slow pulse. Won’t let go. He’s aware that people are talking, but once he knows an ambulance is on its way doesn’t listen anymore. Just counts, slow, so slow. Too slow for Chris, who lives his life fast.
“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”
It’s all he can say, words perfectly matched. Three words, one beat of the heart. Wade would be proud. Justin can find the rhythm in anything. Except Chris isn’t playing the game. His count is wrong, is slowing.
“Someone move him.”
Hands. Lifting, pulling. Making him lose his grip, fingers slipping from bloody skin. He rages, swears, threatens. Becomes the diva people say he is. He’s Justin Timberlake; they’ve no right to keep him away from his band mate. No right at all.
It doesn’t work.
His face is wet, and he wipes it with his hand, leaves behind a streak of blood. Pleads. Not a diva anymore. He’s just Justin, and he needs to be near Chris as paramedics bustle around him. He has to be near, he loves him.
“Let them work, son. If you love him give him this chance.”
Justin nods, understands, but stands watching, ready to fight anyone to get to Chris’s side if needed.
“Is there anyone I can phone for you?”
Justin pulls his phone from his inside pocket, doesn’t see the bloody handprint he leaves across his cell. Hands it over without taking his eyes from Chris.
“Speed-dial two. Tell Lance what happened. He’ll know what to do.”
They’re strapping Chris to a stretcher now, fast and efficient.
“Here, son. He wants to talk to you.”
Reach for the cell. Listen to Lance.
“Justin? What’s happened?”
Lance’s voice, so familiar and Justin can’t speak at first.
“It’s my fault. All my fault.”
Justin drops the phone and keeps watching. Frozen, chest tight and unable to breathe.
“You need to come with me, son. Come on.”
Fear flares, savage and cutting deep. They’re taking Chris away, loading him into the back of the ambulance. Justin rears forward. Desperate to get inside, is stopped by hands on his arm, pulling him back.
“No! Wait”
Brute strength breaks him free. Running he gets to the doors, gasping when he sees inside. Chris. he’s not dead. So still. he’s not dead. White face covered with an oxygen mask. he’s not dead.
“Chris!”
He whispers. Feels sick to his stomach and weak. Staggers back, shaking and gasping for breath as the doors close. It speeds away, lights flashing, siren blaring, taking away half of Justin’s heart.
”Justin”.
Lights explode and he looks up. Dazed and blinking as a car screeches to a halt letting a man jump out. He’s taking pictures, of the bikes, Chris’ helmet on the blood stained ground, of Justin.
Fury rears, rage easier than pain and guilt and he snarls, steps forward before being pushed toward a car. He gets inside, shaking with fear and anger.
“Take me to the hospital. Please.”
He’s coldly determined now, and looks at the driver. Pulls his shirt sleeves over his bloodied hands. Hiding them makes it easier to act the part. Briefly he looks at the bikes, then forgets them, doesn’t want to see them any more.
“Wait, your phone.”
Someone hands his cell through the window. Silver stained with red. He takes it, sees seven missed calls. Jumps when it rings then laughs bitterly at the ring tone. Backstreet, Chris has changed it again. Justin’s vows to kill him, then remembers and squeezes shut his eyes. It rings again so he answers.
“Hello.”
“Justin? Justin, what’s going on?”
Lance sounds frantic.
“There’s been an accident.”
“Are you okay? Justin, where are you?”
“Chris. He’s…”
“What about him? Is he okay? Tell me where you are, I’m in my car now. Where are you?”
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!” Frustrated, Justin pulls the phone from his ear. Wipes his eyes, blanches when he sees blood red hands, hides them again, whispers, “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay. I’ll find out and meet you there. I’ll have to hang up now. I’ll be there soon, hang on.”
Lance hangs up and Justin watches out the window, thinks about the new dance steps. Counts out steps in his head, one two three, twist right, duck, stomp.he’s not dead One two three, twist left, duck, stomp. he can’t be dead Left arm up then right, shimmy, thrust, shimmy. he’s not dead Bend, step right, step left. Do it again.
“We’re here.”
Justin looks up and sees they’re at a hospital. Opens the car door and jumps out within seconds. Ignoring the shouts he runs into the ER, hears whispers it’s Justin. Justin Timberlake and stands at the reception desk, hands clenched into tight fists, seconds away from slamming them on the counter to demand attention.
“Mr Timberlake?”
A man speaks, official looking and falsely sympathetic. Justin hates him immediately but pushes aside the emotion, knows he needs him.
“If you could come this way, I’ll take you somewhere private.”
“I need…” he starts to speak, stops when yelling fills the air.
“Justin. Can you tell us what happened? Is it true Chris died? Are you hurt? Were you drinking? Look this way. Justin!”
Cameras flash, each one making Justin wince. He should be able to deal with this. It’s his life. But he can’t and blindly follows the man into a private room. Small, bland, two sofas and fresh flowers. Justin turns to the man, needing to know.
“Chris.”
“Someone will be in to see you soon. I have to arrange more security, so if you could stay in here. Mr Bass should be here soon.”
Lance is coming.
“He phoned to say you were on the way in. There’s a bathroom through there if you want to clean up.”
False smile. Justin hates him.
He leaves, and Justin stands in place, alone for the first time. It’s too quiet and all he can hear is the crash, echoing in his mind. He’s shaking, wants his mom, she’ll make things better. It takes three tries to get his cell from his pocket it’s not blood and he jabs at the buttons. Almost crying when he misses over and over.
“Justin? Oh god, Justin,” Lance runs into the room and reaches for Justin, holding him in his arms and whispering comforting words into his hair. Lance feels warm and solid and Justin latches onto him, an anchor that stops him exploding into a million razor sharp pieces.
“Have they told you anything yet?” Lance asks, and he pulls back a little, looking Justin in the eye.
“No,” Justin replies, and watches as Lance’s expression tightens.
“I’ll go and find out,” Lance says, and Justin nods. He doesn’t want him to go but he needs to know about Chris.
he’s not dead he’s not dead he’s not dead he’s not dead
“Justin. Did you hear me? I’ll be back as soon as I know something. JC and Joey are on the way over but I’ll be as quick as I can.” Lance leans forward, hugs Justin tight once more then straightens his shoulders and walks from the room.
Alone again, Justin paces. He can’t sit, can’t stay still.
“Justin.”
JC and Joey stand at the doorway, white-faced and worried. Within seconds Justin’s in the middle of a three-way hug and he sinks into it, lets them steer him to the sofa and sit him down. JC’s hand is on his knee, an arm around his back, and he rests his head against Joey’s chest, tired and afraid.
“What happened?” JC asks, and Justin tenses, can’t answer, shakes as Joey whispers It’s okay, tell us later.
They sit, silent, waiting.
Joey stands suddenly. “You need cleaning up.”
Justin looks at him, confused as Joey indicates his own hands, then understands. Follows into the small bathroom and sits on the toilet and lets Joey put his hands under warm running water, watching as red swirls away. Then sits, patient as his face is gently dabbed clean.
“Lance,” JC says, and they hurry to see him.
“Chris. Is he…did you?”
They all speak at once, then stop when Lance smiles. A small smile but there.
“He’s going to be fine…”
thank you God thank you
“…broken bones, nothing that won’t heal.”
“Did you see him?” Joey asks, and Lance shakes his head.
“They said one person in the room only,” Lance looks at Justin. “He’s waiting for you.”
“He’s awake?” For the first time the bands around Justin’s chest relax and he can breathe again.
“That’s what they say, come on.”
They exit the room in a tight group and are immediately surrounded by security who stay with them as Lance leads the way to a treatment room. Once there Justin looks at them all, feels their hands on his body, reassuring with words and touch.
“Tell him we’ll see him as soon as we can.”
Justin nods, impulsively hugs them all then walks in the room.
It’s quiet; someone looks at him as he walks in, smiles and indicates he should approach the bed. He does. Slowly, steps faltering, afraid to look.
“Justin.”
Chris. Voice hoarse and weak, but still, it’s Chris, and Justin hurries to his side, rubbing at his eyes and smiling. Uncaring of who watches, he bends for a kiss, avoiding wires and drips. I love you he whispers, and his heart rejoins at last.
I spent last night researching Angelfish diseases online, because Angel the angelfish was sick. I now know more about fish disease than ever before but it didn't save poor Angel who died sometime last night. It's a sad thing as she was one of our first fish, and especially tragic is the fact poor Buffy's lost her lifemate. She's swimming around in despair, I can tell. Willow the other angelfish is trying to comfort her but Willow's a different kind and it seems that Buffy doesn't do the interfish thing.
It's still raining here. I don't think it's stopped for about a week. Summer. HA!
I need to wave at two new people *waves at
withdiamonds and couchrules* Welcome to my insane world, comment or not, I'm easy ;)Okay. People kept asking me to finish the end of the trickyfish that I did for Ceci, so I have.
It’s their time alone. Peanut butter sandwiches and bottles of soda in a rucksack and an almost empty road to the ocean, where they’ll sit and talk away from the eyes of others.
They’ve taken the bikes for speed and Justin listens to Chris chatter through the helmet mikes as they fly along the highway. Laughing at a comment about Wade, he barely sees the wheel-trim that suddenly detaches from the car in front. Justin swerves violently, misses it by inches and starts to congratulate himself for quick reactions.
Then swears when he feels something slam into his back wheel, making him wobble and almost fall. Chris yells, voice terse as he struggles to control his bike. He fails, and the sound of a sickening crash fills the air.
Brakes slammed on, Justin jumps from his bike, letting it fall to the road. He turns, bile rising in his throat at the sight of Chris’ bike on its side, wheels still spinning.
“Chris!”
Desperate, Justin pulls off his helmet, dropping it from shaking hands.
“Chris!”
No reply. He runs closer, over black skid marks, almost gagging at the smell of burnt rubber and smoke.
“Chris! Fuck, talk to me. Chris!”
Frantically he looks around. Goes cold when he sees Chris crumpled against the barrier. Time slows; he doesn’t want to go over, doesn’t want to see. Pain. Horror. Grief. Guilt. Emotions that flash through him before he’s running, dropping to his knees, reaching out a trembling hand.
“Don’t move him.”
Hands on his body, pulling him away, holding him as he fights. He needs to see, to touch and he elbows someone in the stomach, breaking away to get back to Chris. He kneels, reaches out, touches a hand that’s warm but slick with blood.
“Chris.”
No answer, he didn’t expect one. Not really. At least he’s alive, Justin knows he is. Wraps his hand around Chris’ wrist, feels the slow pulse. Won’t let go. He’s aware that people are talking, but once he knows an ambulance is on its way doesn’t listen anymore. Just counts, slow, so slow. Too slow for Chris, who lives his life fast.
“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”
It’s all he can say, words perfectly matched. Three words, one beat of the heart. Wade would be proud. Justin can find the rhythm in anything. Except Chris isn’t playing the game. His count is wrong, is slowing.
“Someone move him.”
Hands. Lifting, pulling. Making him lose his grip, fingers slipping from bloody skin. He rages, swears, threatens. Becomes the diva people say he is. He’s Justin Timberlake; they’ve no right to keep him away from his band mate. No right at all.
It doesn’t work.
His face is wet, and he wipes it with his hand, leaves behind a streak of blood. Pleads. Not a diva anymore. He’s just Justin, and he needs to be near Chris as paramedics bustle around him. He has to be near, he loves him.
“Let them work, son. If you love him give him this chance.”
Justin nods, understands, but stands watching, ready to fight anyone to get to Chris’s side if needed.
“Is there anyone I can phone for you?”
Justin pulls his phone from his inside pocket, doesn’t see the bloody handprint he leaves across his cell. Hands it over without taking his eyes from Chris.
“Speed-dial two. Tell Lance what happened. He’ll know what to do.”
They’re strapping Chris to a stretcher now, fast and efficient.
“Here, son. He wants to talk to you.”
Reach for the cell. Listen to Lance.
“Justin? What’s happened?”
Lance’s voice, so familiar and Justin can’t speak at first.
“It’s my fault. All my fault.”
Justin drops the phone and keeps watching. Frozen, chest tight and unable to breathe.
“You need to come with me, son. Come on.”
Fear flares, savage and cutting deep. They’re taking Chris away, loading him into the back of the ambulance. Justin rears forward. Desperate to get inside, is stopped by hands on his arm, pulling him back.
“No! Wait”
Brute strength breaks him free. Running he gets to the doors, gasping when he sees inside. Chris. he’s not dead. So still. he’s not dead. White face covered with an oxygen mask. he’s not dead.
“Chris!”
He whispers. Feels sick to his stomach and weak. Staggers back, shaking and gasping for breath as the doors close. It speeds away, lights flashing, siren blaring, taking away half of Justin’s heart.
”Justin”.
Lights explode and he looks up. Dazed and blinking as a car screeches to a halt letting a man jump out. He’s taking pictures, of the bikes, Chris’ helmet on the blood stained ground, of Justin.
Fury rears, rage easier than pain and guilt and he snarls, steps forward before being pushed toward a car. He gets inside, shaking with fear and anger.
“Take me to the hospital. Please.”
He’s coldly determined now, and looks at the driver. Pulls his shirt sleeves over his bloodied hands. Hiding them makes it easier to act the part. Briefly he looks at the bikes, then forgets them, doesn’t want to see them any more.
“Wait, your phone.”
Someone hands his cell through the window. Silver stained with red. He takes it, sees seven missed calls. Jumps when it rings then laughs bitterly at the ring tone. Backstreet, Chris has changed it again. Justin’s vows to kill him, then remembers and squeezes shut his eyes. It rings again so he answers.
“Hello.”
“Justin? Justin, what’s going on?”
Lance sounds frantic.
“There’s been an accident.”
“Are you okay? Justin, where are you?”
“Chris. He’s…”
“What about him? Is he okay? Tell me where you are, I’m in my car now. Where are you?”
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!” Frustrated, Justin pulls the phone from his ear. Wipes his eyes, blanches when he sees blood red hands, hides them again, whispers, “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay. I’ll find out and meet you there. I’ll have to hang up now. I’ll be there soon, hang on.”
Lance hangs up and Justin watches out the window, thinks about the new dance steps. Counts out steps in his head, one two three, twist right, duck, stomp.he’s not dead One two three, twist left, duck, stomp. he can’t be dead Left arm up then right, shimmy, thrust, shimmy. he’s not dead Bend, step right, step left. Do it again.
“We’re here.”
Justin looks up and sees they’re at a hospital. Opens the car door and jumps out within seconds. Ignoring the shouts he runs into the ER, hears whispers it’s Justin. Justin Timberlake and stands at the reception desk, hands clenched into tight fists, seconds away from slamming them on the counter to demand attention.
“Mr Timberlake?”
A man speaks, official looking and falsely sympathetic. Justin hates him immediately but pushes aside the emotion, knows he needs him.
“If you could come this way, I’ll take you somewhere private.”
“I need…” he starts to speak, stops when yelling fills the air.
“Justin. Can you tell us what happened? Is it true Chris died? Are you hurt? Were you drinking? Look this way. Justin!”
Cameras flash, each one making Justin wince. He should be able to deal with this. It’s his life. But he can’t and blindly follows the man into a private room. Small, bland, two sofas and fresh flowers. Justin turns to the man, needing to know.
“Chris.”
“Someone will be in to see you soon. I have to arrange more security, so if you could stay in here. Mr Bass should be here soon.”
Lance is coming.
“He phoned to say you were on the way in. There’s a bathroom through there if you want to clean up.”
False smile. Justin hates him.
He leaves, and Justin stands in place, alone for the first time. It’s too quiet and all he can hear is the crash, echoing in his mind. He’s shaking, wants his mom, she’ll make things better. It takes three tries to get his cell from his pocket it’s not blood and he jabs at the buttons. Almost crying when he misses over and over.
“Justin? Oh god, Justin,” Lance runs into the room and reaches for Justin, holding him in his arms and whispering comforting words into his hair. Lance feels warm and solid and Justin latches onto him, an anchor that stops him exploding into a million razor sharp pieces.
“Have they told you anything yet?” Lance asks, and he pulls back a little, looking Justin in the eye.
“No,” Justin replies, and watches as Lance’s expression tightens.
“I’ll go and find out,” Lance says, and Justin nods. He doesn’t want him to go but he needs to know about Chris.
he’s not dead he’s not dead he’s not dead he’s not dead
“Justin. Did you hear me? I’ll be back as soon as I know something. JC and Joey are on the way over but I’ll be as quick as I can.” Lance leans forward, hugs Justin tight once more then straightens his shoulders and walks from the room.
Alone again, Justin paces. He can’t sit, can’t stay still.
“Justin.”
JC and Joey stand at the doorway, white-faced and worried. Within seconds Justin’s in the middle of a three-way hug and he sinks into it, lets them steer him to the sofa and sit him down. JC’s hand is on his knee, an arm around his back, and he rests his head against Joey’s chest, tired and afraid.
“What happened?” JC asks, and Justin tenses, can’t answer, shakes as Joey whispers It’s okay, tell us later.
They sit, silent, waiting.
Joey stands suddenly. “You need cleaning up.”
Justin looks at him, confused as Joey indicates his own hands, then understands. Follows into the small bathroom and sits on the toilet and lets Joey put his hands under warm running water, watching as red swirls away. Then sits, patient as his face is gently dabbed clean.
“Lance,” JC says, and they hurry to see him.
“Chris. Is he…did you?”
They all speak at once, then stop when Lance smiles. A small smile but there.
“He’s going to be fine…”
thank you God thank you
“…broken bones, nothing that won’t heal.”
“Did you see him?” Joey asks, and Lance shakes his head.
“They said one person in the room only,” Lance looks at Justin. “He’s waiting for you.”
“He’s awake?” For the first time the bands around Justin’s chest relax and he can breathe again.
“That’s what they say, come on.”
They exit the room in a tight group and are immediately surrounded by security who stay with them as Lance leads the way to a treatment room. Once there Justin looks at them all, feels their hands on his body, reassuring with words and touch.
“Tell him we’ll see him as soon as we can.”
Justin nods, impulsively hugs them all then walks in the room.
It’s quiet; someone looks at him as he walks in, smiles and indicates he should approach the bed. He does. Slowly, steps faltering, afraid to look.
“Justin.”
Chris. Voice hoarse and weak, but still, it’s Chris, and Justin hurries to his side, rubbing at his eyes and smiling. Uncaring of who watches, he bends for a kiss, avoiding wires and drips. I love you he whispers, and his heart rejoins at last.
