He began to climb the stairs of the overly decorated hotel lavished with golden trimmings and luxurious Persian carpets. Something he had never yet to notice, decline, abuse, or even slightly care about. His image was just a mere cloud in the sky, floating away to the depths of the night. He staggered and fumbled with his keys as his drunken body gave in and he giggled with delight over absolutely nothing. He opened the door to find a beautiful, blue-eyed brunette to be staring back at him, as if she had not been expected. But oh yes, she had been. With every aching muscle he had inside he wished to touch her. Taste her. He stared down at himself, drunk, and completely absent minded. He saw what the years of women, alcohol, drugs, and lack of sleep have done to his twenty four year old body. He smelled of smoke every night, combined with the scent of some nameless girl. A scent of lavenders and too much cheap perfume invaded his nostrils as he looked down at himself in disgust.

YOU DISGUST ME, FATONE.

There was his heart again.

It always did have a mind of its own.

And he hated it for that.

Waving away the brunette, he sank down to a chair and gave into himself. He sobbed with everything left inside him. He remembered himself. Sweet, Italian, loveable, and always polite. But no more. No more. No pride. No dignity. Just sitting, cold and terrified like the lost little boy he once remembered. Like the lost little boy he still was.

It was a tragedy, really. The group everyone had grown to know and love were now 5, incredibly deranged and fucked up boys. J.C, was so soft, intelligent, and caring on the outside, wild and flirtatious on the inside. And then there was Lance. Everyone had already prejudged and labeled him as the shy, closed off one. But no. He felt the most grief for him. He entered the group as a loving, southern speaking sweet little boy. But just like himself, the face of the ugly world ate him up and spit out his remains. He was now just like him. No longer as sweet. No longer as purely southern, almost as if he had grown up in the depths of New York City. And of course, there was Justin. There wasn't an ounce of true esteem in him. He was just a cowardly child inside of a young man's shape. No one had expected it. Everyone had deadpanned him as the rough on the edges, but purely beautiful one. But that was nothing. The real Justin Randall Timberlake was merely a frightened toy soldier. And finally, Chris, being oldest of the group, was the most responsible. He never did anything he would regret later on. And there it was. *N Sync. The fucked up boyband. But, in front of the press they were everything.

Perfect.

Flawless.

Beautiful.