You notice him at first not because he’s crying, but because he’s trying so hard to not cry, to cover it up. The first time you see him not-crying outside the club, you figure it’s none of your business. You let it slide, walk away, and promptly forget about the golden haired child.

The second time you see him not-crying outside the club you reason that it is still none of your business, that someone else will stop and make sure he’s okay.

It doesn’t occur to you then that he’s probably crying still because no one has done that, has stopped to check on him because no one cares.

The third time you see him not-crying you figure that this is enough. You figure that you’ve seen him so many times because someone is giving you a sign; someone is telling you that this kid needs help, needs you. You are tired of ignoring it.

He is sitting on the curb outside the club. His sparkly clothes are almost an insult to his dark mood.

You say “hey” as you get closer. His head lifts and he turns toward you and your breath catches in your throat. You’ve never seen anyone more beautiful, even with his cheeks stained by the tracks of a thousand tears.

“What do you want?” he asks, teary eyes glaring.

“Nothing,” you say, holding your hands out from your side. You don’t want to scare him and you try to project as innocent an attitude as possible.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why the fuck do you care?”

You shrug. You don’t really know why you care; you just know that you don’t want to see him fight back tears he shouldn’t let fall anymore.

“I don’t I suppose.”

“Then leave me alone.”

You stop talking and sit on the curb near him, about four feet away. Close enough that he knows you’re not abandoning him, but far enough that he can’t complain.

“Look, what are you, some kind of creep?”

You laugh, because the very idea is amusing somehow. “Nah. My name is Joey.”

He sighs, almost in defeat it seems, before turning to you. “Justin,” he says.

“Nice to meet you.”

You laugh again. It’s nice to meet anyone these days, because its been so long since you even seen someone that interests you as much as he does.

“You laugh a lot.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told that.”

“You probably think I cry a lot.”

“Not-cry.”

His brow wrinkles. He wasn’t expecting an answer to that and you can tell he meant it as the type of comment that one neither confirms nor denies, just listens to.

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just… listen, you wanna go somewhere?”

You smile, nodding. You want to go anywhere, everywhere, and you want to do it with him.

“Where?”

“Do you live near here?”

You pause a minute, surprised. “You want to go to my apartment?”

He nods and you realize that you don’t really mind. “Sure.”

So you take him back to your apartment for the first time, and its everything you hoped it could be. He leaves in the morning, kissing you goodbye with the taste of coffee on his lips and one of your shirts on.

You let him go and only later realize that you don’t know his last name, that he didn’t leave you with a telephone number.

You go back to the club the next night, hoping to see him there. He’s leaning against the wall near the door and you don’t realize that he’s waiting for you until he pulls you against him, pushes you back against the dark wall. His thigh presses between your legs and his breath is hot and heavy in your ear.

“Thought you were rid of me?”

“Had my doubts,” you whisper back, grinding into his leg.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says as he drags you away from the wall.

So you take him back to your apartment for the second time, only it’s less that you hoped it would be because you know how it ends this time. You have no illusions and you know that he left like that on purpose.

So you aren’t surprised in the morning when he wakes you up to say goodbye. He kisses you and you watch him walk out with your second favorite sweatshirt and you think you might be falling in love.

He isn’t there the next night or the night after. Out of spite, you skip going the third night only to spend the entire night awake in your apartment, wondering if he was there, waiting for you. Wondering if you’d made him cry.

You go back the next night and he’s waiting for you, leaning against the wall. You let him pull you in, let him grind you back into the wall while he whispers against your neck. “Missed you last night.”

You bite back the plaintive, instinctual response. You don’t want to be possessive; you don’t want to be catty.

“Let’s go,” you say, instead of all the things you did and didn’t want to say.

So you take him back to your apartment for the third time and because you’re mostly in love with him, because you know he’d love it and because you know you can’t resist, you take him to your spot on the roof. Your spot where you can see the whole city, the whole city that never sleeps in its various modes of wakefulness. It’s the most sacred spot you have and you share it with him because he waited for you last night and you weren’t there.

He kisses you and holds your hand and you can tell he knows that this is something special, something reverent.

Afterwards, things proceed as usual and he leaves the next day with your Knicks jersey.

You don’t see him for a week after that and you start to ask around. But your only description is “tall and blond, curly hair” and your only name is Justin. After awhile, you start seeing him in crowds, on the edges, and you end up chasing Ryan Phillipe until his bodyguards slam you up against a wall, demanding to know your name and business.

You give up then and the defeat is almost as bad as missing him.

It’s one week after you’ve given up that you hear his voice in a bookstore. You run around the aisle to where he is, his name on your lips and joy bursting in your heart. The site that greets you makes you stop cold, a dark, sad emotion welling up to replace the joy.

He’s there and he’s wrapped around a tall, dark man he calls Kevin. “Kevin,” you hear him say. “You do NOT want that book, I promise you.”

You stare, because for a while all you can do is stare. You’re certain that it’s him this time because he’s wearing your shirt. You’re also certain, with the clarity of a shattered heart, that you didn’t mean as much to him as he meant to you.

Still, you can’t stop yourself from saying his name and both he and Kevin turn to you.

Kevin squints. “Someone you know, J?”

Justin stares at you and though you can’t see past your own pain, you think he looks shocked, pale.

“No,” he says.

You resist, barely, the urge to hit Kevin, to grab Justin and run. You feel more like puking anyway. He doesn’t want you, has already forgotten who you are. As you walk away, you begin to hope that you can do the same.

The fourth time you see him not-crying outside the club, you walk right past, determined to ignore him. He grabs your hand, pulls you down.

“What?” you ask. You aren’t over him, you aren’t ready for this and you’re trying very hard not to care.

“I’m… it’s you,” he says between gasps for breath. “I’m not-crying over you. Because I fucked us up so badly and I’m worried that there’s nothing left to fix.”

“You can’t fix what’s not broken.” You’re still fighting it so hard despite the hope raging inside you, begging for release.

“It was him, Kevin, before. We’ve been doing this on again, off again thing and every time we do it, I’m sure it’s the end. But I made it the end last night. I’m not doing it anymore. I want to give us a try. I want you.”

And hope, full grown, gives birth to joy and you know you can’t deny him the chance, the choice.

“Joey Fatone,” you say, holding out your hand.

“Justin Timberlake,” he says, taking your hand. You use it to pull him into your arms.