It's almost like a game to you. A strange and surreal game. You watch the circle of people as they pass. Inject. Re-fill. Pass. Inject. Re-fill. It’s like a mantra and it runs through your head. You begin to place beats in tune with it. Rhythms. A melody. Harmony. After twenty minutes you've made a complete song out of it.

Pass. Inject. Re-fill.

Trace hands you a needle and you look at it. You don't even know who the last person who'd used it was. Trace’s parties used to be something you looked forward to, you remember. Not now. Time had passed and you’d gotten famous and things had changed. You knew less people than more these days.

You keep looking at the needle. You remember, Trace had brought them out on a big plate and it had looked like some kind of platter to you. The main course. Beer, pot, cigarettes, alcohol... they'd all been the appetizers, and the liquid in those tiny syringes was the big roasted turkey on Thanksgiving Day.

"It's been used," you tell him.

Trace laughs. It sounds scratchy. Or maybe hollow.

Trace had a good laugh once.

"I want my own needle," you say to him.

Trace laughs again and it almost makes you want to cringe.

And of course. You’re Justin Timberlake. You can have your own needle.

If you'd wanted it, you could have had the whole fucking platter.

You join the game, but you don't pass. You don’t know if that means that you’re really, truly in the game or not, but you play. Inject. Re-fill. Inject. Re-fill.

You don’t like it at first. You spend the first three hours after your first injection stumbling around the house, running into tables and knocking things over, breaking lamps, and falling over couches. You’re throwing up and you think you’re in the bathroom, but you’re not really sure. The bathroom isn't really your top priority at the moment.

There’s a girl standing next to you, watching you. She’s tall and her breasts are nice and supple. She reminds you of Britney but then her hair falls down her frame in waves of brown and she makes you think of him instead.

 When she puts her hand on your back you don’t shy away.

“It was like this for me too, the first time I injected. You build up a tolerance. Pretty soon now matter how much you inject, it’s never enough. Never enough.”

She laughs and it sounds like a cackle to you.

It hurts your head and you throw up again.

You bring Trace with you to events more often these days. You don’t like the game if you have to play it by yourself. It wasn’t really much of a game then, was it?

You don’t see the guys that much anymore and you’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not. You tell yourself that they’re all busy and that’s why they stopped calling but you know that’s a lie.

You know, deep down, that it was you that stopped calling. You wanted to tell them that you were too busy, that things were taking up your time, but you knew they wouldn't understand that.

You pretend that it's their fault and not yours when the phone stops ringing.

You play the game with Trace some more.

You don’t have to feel anything that way.

It’s an expensive habit that you’ve gotten yourself into.

You realize, after a while, that it's going to get out or noticed that mysterious quantities of money kept disappearing from your bank account for no listed reason, even if you are a fucking rich bastard.

You don't even remember the first pair of your shoes that you sold.

JC came over to visit you one weekend. He was doing radio promotion, you thought he said, or maybe it had been something else. You weren’t really paying attention. Or maybe you just didn’t remember. You weren’t sure which one you were doing more of these days.

“The album is doing really well, J,” he tells you like you don’t already know. You listen for the hint of jealousy in his voice but you can’t catch it. You’re sure it’s there, though. How can it not be there? You’ve heard it all. Everything that everybody else has said about the two of you.

It makes you wonder what he’s doing there in the first place.

“J? Are you just going to stand there and ignore me?”

What? You look over at him in mild surprise. Hadn’t he left yet? No, no. You were supposed to ask him a question, but you don’t remember it anymore.

You’re tired now and you start walking up to your room. He follows you but you don’t notice. Not really.

Your bathroom door is open and you close it quickly -- you don’t think JC would like to play the game anyway.

You lie down and put a pillow over your head. You know JC is still there because you can hear him breathing. You think that if it will really make him feel better, he can stand there and breathe in your room.

“What happened to your shoes?” he asks you and you groan. It’s time for him to leave.

“You used to have a whole row lined up along the back wall of your closet. They’re gone now. Did you move them somewhere else?”

You make a noise and hope he takes that as a yes. Either that or he takes it as a leave me the fuck alone.

There's a moment where all you can hear is his breathing again, but then he speaks up. “I. Well, I can see that you’re tired now. I just. Well. I came here to. Tell you, that. I don’t. You know?”

You don’t say anything and he sighs.

It almost gets to you.

“I don’t hate you, I mean. I just thought you should, you know. Know that. Not that I thought you’d believe it, I just. You know.”

He’s breathing again, waiting, you think, but after a while you hear soft footsteps and he’s gone.

You find it funny, how it would have mattered to you before that JC knew how many pairs of shoes you had.

Time passes and every party Trace throws new people show up and the old faces that were new to you before aren’t there anymore.

The old old faces, you think, don’t get invited anymore, because it's been a long time since you've seen any of them.

A part of you isn't even sure if they’d want to come.

You meet up with Lance in London and he’s distant.

You think it’s because he’s disappointed about Russia at first. Who wouldn’t be?

You realize, after a while, that he's just trying to avoid you.

“You’ve changed, Justin. And I’m not talking about in that way where you’re a big solo star now who doesn’t need us, because the old Justin, the Justin that I know? He wouldn’t think like that. I’m talking about the fact that nothing matters to you anymore. You’re not there. You’re standing here in front of me, but you’re not really here. I don’t really want to be around you like this. I'm sorry.”

Yeah.

Fuck you too.

You tell Joey that he was amazing in Rent and he smiles at you sadly. “I couldn’t tell if you were really paying attention or not.”

For a moment you can’t believe he’d ever think something like that about you and you feel hurt. Then you realize that you can’t even remember the last line of the last song. So you just smile at him and say, “Of course I was paying attention, Joe. You were... you were great.”

He gives you one of those fake smiles that you hate so much and you know he doesn’t believe you. You pose for a picture together and then he goes off somewhere else.

It's then that you realize he doesn't really want to be around you.

You see him talking to JC a few minutes later and you think that it figures, that those two would be off talking shit about you.

Yeah, you still know what everyone else is saying.

JC looks at you then, and you can almost believe for a minute that he looks sad, like he wants you to be over there too. It makes you feel something, something you're not sure you've felt in a long time.

You stop yourself. You know it isn't real. When you look over again, JC’s lost interest in you.

You tell yourself that you lost interest in him a long time ago too.

You aren’t sure when you started to see things that weren’t really there, but it’s not a big deal to you.

At first it was small things, like a non-existent beer can or the window being open when it was really closed, but the more you injected -- the more you played the game -- you started seeing bigger things. Another bed in the room. A second television. You saw people. Random people that you threw your shoes at because how the fucking hell did they get into your room? They had no right to be there.

You saw JC, once.

You didn’t throw your shoe at him, although part of you wanted to. But he was walking toward you, looking at you in a way that made your entire body freeze up and your breath catch up in your throat. He sat on your lap and smiled at you in that way of his and you really, really thought, for a moment, that he was real.

He kissed you and you told yourself that you didn’t want this, not anymore, but you felt your cock grow hard and your lips kiss him back and you realized that maybe you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

Then he was gone, just as quickly as he'd arrived, and you were alone.

It had been a long time since you'd been anything else.

You don’t let yourself see things anymore. You play the game and drink until you pass out.

It’s not so bad now, playing it alone.

You wonder for a moment how exactly it was that JC found you, but he's yelling and it doesn't really matter to you anymore.

You might have laughed at the scene in front of you if things were different. You were sitting on the bathroom floor of your hotel room, used needles and bright orange caps scattered all around you, vials full of Heroin sitting by your side, and then there was JC, who came waltzing right into your room.

You weren't really surprised by him, you were too far gone into the game for that, but you thought that maybe if you closed your eyes, he wouldn't be able to see you. That theory didn't really work for you, though, and he did see you. He found you, and he saw you, and he saw what was around you, and that was it.

"Is this... this what's been up with you ever since... Jesus Christ, you've been fucking out of it for so long I don't even remember the last time you were really Justin."

You feel the room spin, just a little, and you know you either need more or you need to spend some quality time with your toilet, but you don't think either of those things would be appropriate to say to JC. He'll keep talking; you know he will, so you decide that you're just going to let him.

"Justin, do you know what the fuck this is? It's Heroin, Justin. Christ. It's. Justin. Justin! Listen to me!"

You look at him and he's fuzzy. Maybe he's not really JC. Right now you're not sure what's real and what's not. Maybe you haven't known for a long time.

Your head is starting to hurt now.

“Does it make you feel like a big fucking man, Justin?” he was yelling now, really yelling, and your head felt like it was going to break any second.

“Leave me alone,” you tell him and then you moan because you’re pretty sure your head did just split.

“Is this what you’re doing when you’re having wild hotel parties? Passing fucking Heroin? Jesus fucking Christ, Justin, I didn’t know you could be that stupid.”

“I don’t pass,” you tell him as you crawl over to the toilet. “I skip that part of the game.”

He laughs at you then, but it’s not a happy laugh. It’s like Trace’s laugh, or the laugh of the girl with the brown, wavy hair. It’s more like a sound trying to decide what kind of noise to be.

“Look at you. You’re just. You're sad. You’re sad and pathetic. That’s what you are. Can you even tell me why, Justin? Why you... why this is... God.”

His words cut, but not deep enough for you to care. Maybe once.

Not anymore.

“Go away,” you tell him and then you throw up.

When you’re done he’s gone.

Good.

You ask Trace why people stop coming to his parties and he looks at you like you're stupid for not knowing. He's had more shots than you have tonight, but then you remember that Trace always has more shots than you do.

"Some of them get sick. Too sick to come."

You remember something, vaguely, about why people shouldn't share needles and you remember why you never have, never wanted to in the first place, even though your head is spinning and everything feels light and airy, you remember that.

"This is what got them sick."

Trace laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs and you can't even remember what his real laugh sounds like anymore.

"Some of them die, Justin."

You don't like the sound of that because it's a game. It's just a game.

People aren't supposed to die in a game.

You ask him who and you know it's stupid. You expect him to laugh again, but he doesn't. He has another shot in his pocket and he takes it, takes it like he's breathing it. Maybe that's what it's become to him.

"Miranda was the last one I heard about," he says.

You don't know who Miranda is.

Was.

“She talked you through your first night of puking,” Trace tells you and he says it like it’s funny, like it doesn’t matter. He actually laughs again. Laughs and laughs and you hate that laugh, you never want to hear that laugh again.

You remember her. She had long brown hair that reminded you of him and she stroked your back and she was nice. Nice to you. She was nice to you because she'd played the game like that once too and she knew how it felt. She'd been there.

And then she'd kept playing until it killed her.

You hadn't even known her name and you had to leave the room to cry for her.

You spend two months in rehab.

The game was all you had left and there you were, giving it up. Part of you hates it. The rest of you feels things now that you didn't think you'd ever get back.

Most days you have no idea what way to let yourself fall.

Chris comes to visit you more than anyone else. You understand why Joey doesn't. He was a Broadway star now. You understand why Lance doesn't. He was chasing his dream. And you knew why JC didn't. You knew that everything everybody else had been saying for months was finally true.

You knew JC hated you now.

You're a week away from leaving when JC comes by to visit you. You've learned not to be surprised by anything anymore. You've learned how to detach your emotions. You've thrown a lot of your life away and you don't like what you've got left. It's easier for you to pretend you've dealt yourself a different hand.

"Hi," he says softly.

You nod hello back but you're not sure you want to speak. You're not even sure you trust yourself to speak.

"I'm sorry I haven't been by to visit you," he says. "Busy. You know how it gets."

You want to tell him you know a lie when it's empty, but you don't. You don't really see the point.

"I just. Well."

He pauses. You think that by now, you've gotten used to those.

"I'm proud of you, J. For doing this."

You nod. Still silent. You think that's the best way to stay.

The easiest.

"And... you'll get through this. You will. I know you, J. I know you."

That grabs your attention. He knows you.

He knows you?

“You don’t know me,” you tell him. “You hate me, remember? Because I stole your chance to be a star. I stole your record deal. I left you out in the cold. I took all the fame and the glory and the money for myself and I didn’t look back. Isn’t that right, JC? Isn't that what everybody else says?”

He was silent, looking at you in that way that told you he didn't know what to say, and you felt your heart sink a little bit lower into your chest.

You wanted him to tell you that you were wrong.

“Yeah.” More silence. “That’s what I thought.”

You turn away from him, but you can still feel his gaze on your back. You look down at your hands, your back still to him, and you think that this is the part where he’s supposed to reach out to you, to tell you that you’re wrong, that he doesn’t think like that. He’s supposed to tell you that there’s a reason he knows how many pairs of shoes you have, or that he bought 20 copies of your album just to make up for buying the 8 Mile soundtrack. He’s supposed to tell you he doesn’t care about record deals or solo stardom.

He’s supposed to tell you that you make him feel all the things he makes you feel. That it’s not one-sided. That it hasn’t been, ever.

Then he’ll walk over to you and time will cease to exist. He’ll touch your shoulder and turn you to him, pull you close, and he’ll kiss you. He'll kiss you and it’ll be just like a scene from a goddamn movie with the music building and violins playing; the whole fucking package.

And you’ll know that you don’t have to play the game anymore, because you have something that's right, something real. Something that you’ve always wanted.

He doesn’t do any of that, though. He gazes. You know he does because you can feel that.

But he stays where he’s standing.

You give him the opportunity to say something because you know you deep down that you want him to. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything else in your fucked up life, and you think, ‘Please.’ and wonder if God will hear that. You don’t think so, because it’s been a long time since you’ve thought about Him.

You wonder if He even listens to you anymore.

And JC gazes.

And then he leaves.

You have to laugh at yourself.

You were foolish for thinking you had your emotions detached.

Two weeks out of rehab and JC doesn't call.

Joey checks in once. He seems distant.

Lance calls twice. He seems distracted.

Chris stays with you every now and then, and you know he does it because he fells obligated to.

It means a lot to you all the same.

And JC doesn't call.

When JC does finally come to visit you, you're pretty sure he's not there because he wants to be.

You ignore him and think he'll go away and it'll be easier that way.

“You were wrong when you told me that I didn’t know you,” he says after a moment that seemed like an infinite lifetime.

You don’t look up. You can’t. It doesn’t seem worth it anymore.

“I’ll tell you who you are, Justin. You’re that 12 year old little kid who wandered onto a television set one day with wide eyes filled with wonder and awe. You had no idea what you were doing there or how to do it, but you were determined to learn. You’re that 14 boy who wanted to sing and dance and share something with someone; to reach them. Even if it was only one person. You’re the one who grew up too fast, who became a man before he should have.

You’re the one with the charming smile, the infectious laugh. You’re the one who buys over 400 pairs of shoes just because you love them; because you can. You’re soft spoken and smart but at the same time you’re crude and indecent and it’s all just part of what makes you so... special, Justin. Your irresistible charm. You have the world at your fingertips but you have no idea what you want from it. You’re trying to be all the things you aren’t and you’re too stupid to see what you have right in front of you. You grew up fast but you’re still very much a boy, Justin. And I don’t think you can tell me that I don’t know who you are when you don’t even know yourself.”

You swallow the lump in your throat but you still wont look at him. “I think I liked egotistical bastard better, thanks.”

JC sighed. “I messed up with you. I know that.”

You shrug. It doesn’t really matter now. That's what you have to keep telling yourself.

“I want to make it up to you.”

You wish you could let him. The lump feels bigger this time, harder to swallow down.

“I want to… you know. Be.”

You look up now, because you don’t know what he means.

He looks at you in a way that you’ve seen before, but not in anything that was real. His eyes are intense, almost too intense. You want to look away but you can’t because he’s got you now. He’s got you forever.

“Be what?” you ask softly, because it’s all you can think to say. You want to hear him say it.

You need to hear him say it.

He puts his hand on your face and it is like the movies, the roaring in your ears is all the music blaring you need.

“Yours.”

You’ve waited a long time for this. You've waited forever, and now that it’s here you can’t move. You can't think. You can't breathe. You know what should happen next but your body is frozen, locked up, lost in the way that JC is looking at you.

He kisses you then, and yeah.

Yeah.

You definitely know that this is something from the movies.

Trace doesn’t come around anymore.

JC bought you 20 pairs of new shoes that you both know you don’t need.

He smiles at you when you find out that your album has gone diamond and you stop believing what everybody else says.

Sometimes you still want to play the game. Sometimes. And then JC looks at you in that way that you know is only meant for you and you stop wanting.

You realize that all it is is just a game. And games don't last forever.

You look at JC and think that maybe this will.

And he still kisses you like the end of a movie.

I'm so darn glad he let me try it again.

'Cause my last time on Earth I lived a whole world of sin

--- Stevie Wonder, Higher Ground