It was times like these that a fucking photograph could make him cry. Not the cheesy, smarmy "smile for the camera you're fucking HUGE" pictures that were sold over and over to the teen rags. Those pictures were a dime a dozen and never told the real story.

No, he kept the real pictures in shoeboxes, buried in the closet. He'd take them out, not really in hopes of exorcising the pain; years of denial had taught him that pain wasn't something you escaped, but something you survived, like an illness. He kept looking, he couldn't stop, because he couldn't seem to forget.

So he'd take out the pictures and remember what those times were really like. There was one of Justin sitting on Joey's lap, hands intertwined, eyes locked. The sweet smile that was the prelude to a kiss played over both their faces. Taken by JC, with Joey's mom's old Nikon. It was older than sin but still took awesome pictures. At some point she figured out that he'd taken it on tour with them, and gave him hell over his cell phone, and he'd meekly given it back on his next break. The next tour, Justin found it in the bottom of Joey's duffel, wrapped up in his socks.

A picture of Lance, on the leopard print lounge furniture on the bus. He had a notebook and a pen, and a goofy expression on his face. Chaos reigned around him. JC, Joey, and Justin were in various states of adrenaline rushes after a show, and were obviously, from the gleeful expressions, making a lot of noise. But Lance seemed oblivious, and had always kinda been that way, the eye of the storm, the peace in the midst of disorder. Taken by Chris with one of the many disposable cameras he'd buy at a gas station, take three pictures with, and promptly lose. Sometimes he'd find them; in the freezer, the folds of the couch, his shoe, Joey's duffel bag. He'd finish the roll with pictures of his hand, a tree, a couch, his bunk, anything to waste the remaining 21 pictures, so he could develop the three important ones. He'd then spend the next two weeks wondering why he had so many useless pictures.

There were more pictures of Joey and Justin, in various "couple" poses. Pictures of JC singing, at his keyboard, writing the next hit single. JC sleeping, eating. Lance writing in his notebook, reading, at his laptop, researching new artists, promoting the ones he had. Chris jumping around, playing video games, poking JC and Lance, on his cell phone talking to Dani.

And the last picture, Chris, crying into Dani's arms after the last press conference where the five men of N Sync chokingly told a shocked world that it was over. Side projects had become enterprises, the market had changed. The 'boppers had grown up too quickly for the pop scene to accomodate. Taken by Steve with his state of the art Minolta, right before he was shoved out of the room for being insensitive.

No cameras had been present to record the next hour. Dani left the room and the group formerly known as N Sync was left alone. There were tears, laughter, sadness, bittersweet memories of the past ten years. Future plans were discussed. It was understood that they'd remain friends. It was the last time they were ever all together in the same room.

He shoved all the pictures back into their boxes, threw the jumbled mess back into the closet. Times like these. God, times like these he was sorry he'd opened his fucking eyes in the morning. With tears blurring his vision, he stumbled back to bed.

He'd tried. So hard. He curled against the body sleeping next to him. Laid his hand on a flat stomach. Whispered softly, "Joey?"

"Yeah?" came the sleepy, mumbled response.

"Joey, tell me it wasn't all nothing. Tell me."

"Oh Justin, baby." Joey wrapped long comforting arms around the trembling body next to him. "It was something. For a while, it was the biggest fucking something."

Justin tightened his arms around his lover, in the bed they'd shared for the past 15 years. Since the end. He'd tried. God, he'd tried so hard to forget.