"So," Chris says slowly, "you're telling us we're fat."

The PR woman laughs shrilly and shakes her head. "No, no, Mr. Kirkpatrick. Not at all."

Chris bites his lip and turns to look at you, and you shrug because that's pretty much what you got from it. The powers-that-be are disgusted about your waistline and have locked you in a room with Chris to batter your self-esteem. "I seem to think you're calling us fat."

"No," the woman says, and laughs again, and you want to say -- "shut up, bitch. This is my life" -- but you don't. You just sit there and smile stupidly and think about your pant-size. "No. It's just that certain people are beginning to notice you've gained some weight. We'd like you to lose it -- before the tour starts." She pauses. "Now."

Chris frowns. "I still think that sounds like you calling us fat."

You nod. It really does.

A man comes into the room with folders, and you look at the clock. It's barely seven in the morning, and the meeting about the tour is set to start at eight. You don't think the next hour is going to be anything close to fun.

"But the tour's going to start soon. In a couple months, right? It seems redundant," Chris argues quietly, and you know that means he's madder than hell and consciously making an effort to stay calm and collected. You just stop talking; that's your method. "To exercise."

"The tour's not selling out," the man says simply.

Chris's breath hitches. "You cannot possibly be implying it's because Joe and I've gained a couple extra pounds? You cannot possibly be saying that to us," Chris says coldly, and you see the man flinch. You know he won't have a job tomorrow. "Well, I won't do it."

"Yes, you will," the woman cuts in before the man says anything else, secure in her job, and you suddenly hate her more than you've ever hated anyone. You can't even remember her name. "You have to. The target audience isn't happy."

"They're twelve years old," Chris says sharply. "What the fuck do they know?"

"They pay your bills," the woman says, and you know she's right.

Chris stands up and leaves the room, and you sit there stupidly, arms crossed over your bloated stomach.

~~~

When the guys show up, they're immediately worried because they weren't included in the meeting, especially Justin, who flocks and frets about it. Chris snaps, "that's because they don't consider you fucking obese, Timberlake. Fuck." Chris rubs his face. "Fuck."

"They what?" Lance says sharply and frowns.

"Chris and I are on a diet," you say, holding your and Chris's folders on healthy eating and proper exercise and active lifestyles. You feel ashamed when you say it and stare at the floor, thinking you can still see your feet so you can't be that huge.

"Because we're fat," Chris adds, like nobody's getting it. "Fuck."

"Can they do that?" Justin asks, secure in his slim frame, and you can see JC by the window, looking guilty as he stares at the grass outside. You wish you were cursed with a fast metabolism, too. "That's kinda mean, yo."

You nod. It really kinda is.

~~~

The meeting goes badly because Justin's on the rampage, some protective instinct in him at full throttle because he's mad about your situation. Lance is trying to argue he's large too, but they keep saying, "you've got big bones, Mr. Bass. It's not the same thing."

It certainly isn't. While JC's all skin and bones, both Justin and Lance have honest to god real definition, and you're just soft everywhere without the hint of ribs or muscles. You keep playing with your neck, thinking that's where they must have noticed it first.

When lunch comes, it's hot and steaming and smelling like heaven. You and Chris get up to grab a burger or a bowl of chili, but the PR woman points you to two very small plates with a tiny piece of chicken, some salad without dressing and a roll without butter.

"Fuck you!" Chris wails and throws the two lunch plates at the window, stomping out of the room. The windows doesn't break but the plates do. One of the pieces of chicken is on JC's shoe, and you're both just staring at it like you've never seen chicken before.

You sit down and think you weren't really that hungry anyway.

~~~

Chris returns just as wardrobe comes in, and you slide over on the couch to let him sit. There's not a lot of room, and you both barely fit, but you act like it's comfortable to be pressed this tightly together. If you don't, you're admitting you're big.

So you sit there and think it's going to hurt like fuck when you have to peel away from him because he's wearing pleather and you're in shorts and a wife-beater. There's too much flesh, and you're already sticking together. Chris is always very warm.

The couch is leather, too. You've always hated it.

They start talking about you and Chris, and while they are complaining about JC insisting on tight pants and Lance's obsession with really baggy ones, they say Chris can't wear turtlenecks and you're banned from jean-jackets and sweatshirts.

"Whoa," Chris says, "hey. I thought we were talking about tour clothes."

The PR people look at him like he's an idiot, and you feel like one, looking at Lance, who hasn't stopped eating since you all sat down in some bizarre, Lance-vow of solidarity. These guys are weird, but you don't think anyone else would do something like that for you.

When they decide you look skinnier without facial hair and say it just like that -- "Mr. Fatone, don't grow the beard back. Your head looks smaller" -- Lance stops eating, and you just feel fat again.

It isn't a good day at all.

~~~

You have a slim-fast shake for breakfast, and you gag on it because it tastes like mouldy toes. You and Chris are living together for the duration of your exercise romp, at the Compound in Orlando. You used to like being there, but you don't anymore.

They've made you a schedule, and you try to argue that it doesn't matter what time you get up, but they want an exercise routine, so suddenly you're waking up at eight. Chris is sitting in the middle of the floor when you finally get to the workout room, and he looks pathetically young when he stares up at you.

"This fucking sucks," he mutters, pinching at his neck, and you find yourself doing the same thing, and you realise neither of you have stopped since they called you fat. Chris notices too and stops, jumping up. "If we run now, we can get to McD's before they notice."

You nod. "Let's go."

~~~

When they finally find you eating pancakes and hash-browns in the nearest McDonald's, they yell at you in public, and you wonder when humiliation techniques suddenly became cool. Chris is screaming and calling them fascists, and you're staring at the family who's watching, with three young daughters.

"They think we're fat," you say simply, and the mother frowns. It means her daughters are going to be expected be a size two, and if they're not, someone's going to tell them they're not all right. That scares you because you've got a daughter now, too.

"Get in the car," the PR woman says when you say that, and she looks at Chris, "you too," and you look around the McDonald's like you'll never see it again.

You probably won't.

~~~

They sic a really skinny PR guy on you, an intern, and you can't hate interns, but he moves into the Compound, and you never really talk to him. He watches everything you do, and you begin to think you're under house arrest.

The PR people get you a complete set of Sweatin' to the Oldies and Chris throws a fit, ripping the tape to shreds and locking himself in the upper bathroom, saying he won't come out until they let him do it his own way.

The intern tries to reason with you, and you confess you agree with Chris. Together, you agree on anything but Richard Simmons, and the intern suggests Tae-Bo, which you know will secure you in your manhood. You agree and go upstairs to talk Chris out of the bathroom.

"Dude," you say, knocking on the door, "come on. I fixed stuff."

"I hate this already," Chris says, "and it's only the first fucking day."

"I know," you reply, "but we don't have a choice. It'll suck if I do this alone, man."

Chris opens the bathroom door, and you stare at him. He really doesn't look fat to you at all, just soft and comfortable, and you can't imagine why anybody would ever find that unattractive. "Well, fuck," Chris says, not too angry anymore, "I'm not doing anything until I get a set of leg-warmers."

You smile because you've already suggested this to the intern.

Chris calls you a practical motherfucker and slaps your ass.

~~~

Lance shows up and his bag is searched, but it's mostly empty except for three day-timers and an extra shirt. Chris frowns, and your stomach growls -- you were both counting on Lance's deviousness to feed you. The slab of meat and carrots you had for dinner isn't enough to sustain you, and you idly wonder if you're going to starve.

Lance grabs you in a hug and whispers, "I put a Tupperware container of cold pizza outside your window, with meat and extra cheese," and you hug him back so hard his back cracks. It looks like you won't waste away after all.

"Me and Chris are going to watch movies," you tell the skinny intern after Lance has left, leaving behind a stack of contracts and a recipe for healthy, vegetarian lasagna. Lance is probably the most clever person you know.

"No snacks," the intern says, though he stares at the floor and mumbles it, but you nod cheerfully and pat him on the back. He's just a little guy. He shouldn't be afraid of you. He smiles gratefully, and you know, that if you work it right, he'll be on your side in no time.

~~~

You practically drag Chris upstairs, passed the television and into your room.

"It's a bit soon for us to be fucking out of frustration, isn't it?" He asks, and you freeze when you think he's serious. Your face must convey your absolute shock because Chris smiles and says, "just kidding, Joe. Gullible fucker."

"No pizza for you," you say, and it's Chris's turn to look surprised, but you merely walk over to the window and slide it open. Sure enough, there's a blue Tupperware container on the windowsill and you bring it inside.

"Fucking Lance," Chris says, "I'm going to bear his children."

"Me too," you agree, and you both tumble into the bathroom, locking the door, and you whisper, "um, if they ask, we're uh, frustration-fucking or something," and Chris nods eagerly. Lance is overly generous with his portions, and you eat until you're full.

Chris announces a plan to gain weight out of spite. You say you're in.

~~~

"How is it," the PR woman asks, "you've gained three pounds?"

Chris shrugs stupidly, his face blank. Your weight just hasn't changed and that seems to be all right to them, but the group of three women are shaking their heads and making Chris step off and on the scale. You think he's going to start smiling at any moment.

The shortest of the three scrutinises you from behind, and you look over your shoulder to see what they're talking about, and you hear the words "smuggling" and "inside agent" and feel an odd sort of dread sink over you.

When they circle you and ask if Lance has been bringing food, you shift on your feet and Chris sighs loudly, smacking his head. You can't even look at them, and the Catholic in you is pressing toward confession. The floor is filthy.

"Crackdown," the blonde one says, and you look at Chris apologetically.

This isn't going to be fun.

~~~

As a Catholic, you've always had a strong belief in hell, and you're absolutely convinced you died and no one told you and you're there now. This is inhumanly cruel. You're hungry, and you're sweaty. Muscles you didn't even know you had are pumping blood and pain from your pores, and if you're not dead already, you want to be.

"Why can't we just dance?" Chris asks a week later while you're being weighed again. You've lost four pounds, but Chris is now five and a half pounds over his starting weight. You've been snapping at him all morning. You're pretty sure he's holding out on you.

"We're concerned about your body," the blonde PR woman says, scribbling something in a notepad while the short one prods Chris in the stomach, measuring his percent body fat. "Mr. Kirkpatrick, you are not a young man."

Now, you've never seen Chris hit a woman, but you think he might, and he evidently thinks he might, too. He lifts up his fists but settles on shrieking. You wince but are wise enough to pretend it doesn't hurt to hear Chris at full volume. Chris has an incredible set of lungs.

You think your ears might be bleeding.

~~~

You confront Chris later that night, showing up at his door right as he's getting into bed. You search his face for guilt, but he's blank, and you just know he has food somewhere in his room. You're about to faint. You need something to eat.

"I'm hungry," you say, and Chris stares at you. "You selfish bitch. Give me food."

"Joe," Chris says pathetically, "you suck at lying."

"I'm wasting away," you inform him, and your stomach rumbles, and you're going to start begging in a minute if he doesn't help you. It's either this or go eat your tube of toothpaste. "Chris. Please. Please."

Chris ducks his head out the door and looks around, yanking you inside when he steps back. He makes you stand in the corner and cover your eyes, and you're pretty sure you'd sell a kidney at this point for something real to eat.

"Here," he says, and you turn around to see a bag of potato chips. You squeal and smack his cheek with a huge, wet kiss before tearing into the bag. The mix of salt and grease is like coming home, and you and Chris eat the entire bag before you roll onto your backs and lie on his bed. "C's been bringing stuff; they never suspect the skinny man."

"Jayce," you whistle lowly, "I love that man."

"Justin's smuggling Mars Bars tomorrow," Chris whispers, giggling, and your heart jumps in excitement. Your throat is clogged, and you cough loudly to clear it, and your stomach hurts, and you feel huge, and you think you might burst from joy. "Hey, Joe?"

"Hey, what?" You reply, lazily lifting your eyes.

"Chicken butt," Chris says and kisses you fast. You weren't really expecting that, not really, though you figured out five years ago that Chris wasn't straight when you walked in on him going down on the van driver. You aren't even sure what's going on, but Chris is looking terrified, and you're suddenly thinking that his lips taste like potato chips.

"Hey," you say when he moves away, "don't go."

"But I," Chris says, and he's playing with his neck again, pinching the soft flesh, so you wrap your hand around his wrist and pull the nervous fingers away.

You've always wanted to do this. You weren't ever going to admit it, but you always have, even since you caught Chris with a dick in his mouth and realised that you wished it was you. You've dreamed about this forever.

"I fucking love you, man," you blurt out, when you were just going to say you want to frustration-fuck, and Chris gives you a look of utter surprise. You're pretty surprised, too. You're not quite sure where it came from, but all right. You know you're sometimes not smart until the time calls for it, and you think this might be one of those moments.

"You better not be messing with me," Chris says, and you shake your head because of course you're not, and then he's all over you, kissing your face and missing your lips, and you're pulling at his shirt, tugging at his pants. "Fuck," he's saying, ripping at your zipper, "fuck."

And somehow, you're both naked and twined on the bed, sucking tongues and rubbing cocks, and it's a violent sort of fucking you only do with people you trust. There's a squish of weight as you settle on top of him while he wiggles and wraps his legs around your waist, and you dry-fuck for awhile, humping like over-anxious teenagers in a whirl of lust and hunger.

"You clean?" He asks, squirting hand-cream all over your dick, and you nod. You did, after all, just father a baby, and she made you get tested three times before she believed you, but Chris only asks once before pulling you forward.

When you're inside him, over him, moving with him, you think if exercise was this mind-blowingly amazing, you'd probably do it more often.

~~~

There's a wrench in your plans now. Chris turns on the Tae-Bo, pumps it loud, and shuts the door, locks it, while you watch every move he makes. He smiles, and then you're up against the wall, with your shorts at your knees and your dick between his lips as he sucks you off in time to the video, rubbing your thighs.

"Holy fucking god," you keep muttering, pressing a hand against your mouth while Chris works between your leg, licking and sucking. You jump when a finger sinks into your ass, but you're secure in your manhood, so it's all right. Tae-Bo's on. This is all you ever wanted.

The intern comes to the door and asks if vegetarian lasagna is all right for lunch because JC's in the kitchen with Justin cooking, and you shout back that it's fine, it's great, and fuck, but you're out of the breath, and it sounds like you're really working hard.

"Can I fuck you?" Chris whispers in your ear, thrusting against your hip, and you nod because of course he can. You're in a room full of mirrors and there's a bench press pushed up against the wall, and you're stumbling to it while Chris grabs a tube of lube.

And when you're on your belly, and Chris is over you, in you, and pumping like a crazy motherfucker, smiling and laughing and singing, you watch your eyes in the mirror and honestly think you've never been this sweaty in your whole life. It's fucking beautiful to see.

You're getting a really good workout.

~~~

Exercise becomes a code for fucking, and you fuck wherever you can, like against the television while the video plays or in the weight room, on the bench JC loves. You and Chris both promise to buy a new one if he should ever find out what those stains he keeps washing off really are. You fuck at night, and in the morning, and instead of lunch, you suck his cock until he's scrabbling at your hair and screeching.

You come maybe once or twice a day, but mostly it's just a grind and slide of skin combined with a lot of kissing and sucking and panting. You think maybe that's called making love, especially when you're too tired to do anything but lie around and watch television with his head on your thighs.

You learn you're strong enough to hold Chris while you fuck him deep and hard, with his legs wrapped around your waist and his back pressed against the mirrors, with the constant thud thud thud against the wall rousing the intern, who comes to the door and asks what's going on.

"Wrestling," Chris pants, fingers dug into your ass as you climb deeper into his skin, sucking on his neck. "I wrestled in high school. It's fucking awesome," Chris's voice hitches, and he bangs down on you. It takes all the power in your legs not to buckle. "It's fucking awesome exercise! Fuck!"

When you finally emerge for dinner, you're both dripping with sweat, and you smell like something died, and you don't give a fuck that your muscles ache with acid or that you can't stop drinking water or that your shorts are suddenly huge.

All that matters is you're with Chris while it's happening.

~~~

"Jesus, Joey," Lance says, admiring you while the two PR ladies discuss clothing options. "Look at you," he says, walking around you before moving onto Chris, who's flexing his arms and showing off his strength. "Holy smokes, Chris. Wow."

Justin's poking at Chris's arms and looks up, absolutely perplexed. "I thought you guys were, like, gorging yourselves in an attempt to fight against the system. Solidarity, power to the brothers, shit like that. I mean, didn't I sneak you fourteen Snickers at one point? I seem to remember doing that."

The PR women look up sharply but leave the room, nattering about taking in pants.

"Yeah," JC says, poking at your rock-hard thighs while Lance feels your back, and you know you're strangely toned. It's been nearly a month, and the results are shockingly visible. "Like. Did you guys seriously exercise? I mean. It's you guys. You never move."

"Well, kinda," you say slowly. And you kinda did.

"So what did it, then?" Lance asks.

Chris looks at you and says, "I don't know. It was probably the sex, I'd say."

"Yeah," you reply, nodding, and Lance and Justin are staring at you stupidly, catching flies, "it was probably the sex."

"Lots of sex," Chris says, shimmying up to you and grabbing you, humping against your thigh and putting his tongue in your ear. You're pretty sure Lance is going to need therapy, maybe Justin too. "Lots and lots and lots of sex."

"Fuck," JC says, and you both look at him, dangerously close to laughing. "Fuck. I knew those stains weren't sweat stains! You sick fucks! That was my favourite bench press, and you." JC turns to you and smacks you in the chest as hard as he can. "I can't believe you told me Chris dropped yogurt on it."

And you honestly can't believe he fell for it.

~~~

When Kelly drops off your daughter for the weekend, you show off your new body and flex your toned muscles, and she kisses you on the cheek and tells you that you were fine just the way you were. Besides, she says, pointing out that she's not a tiny person either, you always said that just made her real.

She leaves and you poke at your belly, missing it for the first time in your life. You're still not small, but you're not as squishy or cuddly as you used to be either, and you really do miss it a bit. It made you feel normal.

"Baby," Chris says when you bring your child into the house, and he smiles like he means it. You pretend to have no intention of giving your daughter up, and Chris jokes about not dropping her on her head because if she has Fatone genes, she's going to need all the help she can get.

You give your baby to Chris and go to put her formula in the fridge, eyeing the skinny PR guy while he sits at the table, reading a magazine. "What's your name?" You ask, watching the bones in his wrists and how you can count them. You could lose all the weight in the world and never be able to do that to yourself.

"Bradley," he says, "Brad."

"Cool," you say because you can't hate him. He's just an intern, and he let you and Chris fuck in the workout room under the pretense of exercise. You appreciate that and clasp him on the shoulder, thanking him on your way out of the kitchen.

Chris is looming over your daughter, who's rolling around on her back and making strange baby noises, and you look at him and think it's the most beautiful thing you've seen in a long time, your lover with your daughter, even if she's adorably chubby and Chris isn't as trim as they want him to be.

It really shouldn't matter.

Fin.

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