He set his bags down the floor, resting his sunglasses atop his head as he exhaled, cheeks puffed as he took in his surroundings. Cordova. He was in Cordova, Tennessee. It was fairly warm for mid-September as he walked towards the window in what would soon be the small living room area, closing his eyes as he let the slow breeze tickle his skin.

His heart began to pound at the realization that maybe, maybe it wouldn't be long until he wouldn't be able to feel that breeze. What if they hadn't caught it in time and he was another name written in the memories of God's Book of Life? Now, he thought, was as good of a time as any to start praying for redemption ... or at least, a little longer in this world. There were so many things he had left to do, had wanted to do; he didn't want it ending before it even began.

Before he had realized it, a warm, fat tear had slowly begun to roll down his face, his hand reaching up to swipe at it clumsily. He could fight this, right? He was healthy, young, in good shape ... there wasn't any reason in the world that he couldn't get out of this with his life.

He just had to.

Doctor Cohen had told him to call as soon as he was settled so he could give him the name of the oncology specialist in town, whatever town he had decided to disappear to. "Let's not push this aside any longer, Josh," he had said, "life doesn't wait until you're ready; it's ready when it is damn-well ready."

He sighed, opening his eyes. Doctor Cohen could wait a few minutes; he had bags to unpack and furniture to order before he was even living in this place.

This place, wasn't too bad. The layout was decent, doorways and halls were spacious and the bedrooms (one turned into a room for, well, he didn't know just yet) were quite large with closests that were about 3/4 the size of his own at home. He didn't cook, but the kitchen was pretty large for an apartment kitchen and with his soon-to-be hermit-like status, he probably would need to learn to cook. And soon.

He knew by now his parents, his close friends, his manager ... anyone that he saw or spoke to daily were probably going out of their minds wondering where he was. Truth be told, they didn't even know of his condition.

Condition.

He shuddered again. He didn't need for them to worry. He worried enough for himself. Maybe one day, one day when his mind was straight and his hair ... his hair was back to where it would be after it would fall out after chemo ... or he found a wig (oh God, a wig ...) to look just like what his hair had been like, he'd tell them.

For now, he was Josh Chasez and he just moved to Cordova for his own sake and for a change of scenery. No one needed to know.

He sighed deeply, taking in the emptiness of the apartment. Sure, it had furniture and appliances, but it was empty. Just how he felt. He would put his bags away and get the rest of suitcases from his car and call it a night by calling in some delivery and watch television. Right now, that was all his mind was letting him wrap his thoughts around. That was all he wanted to think about.

He had given up taking the rest of his suitcases the entire way into the apartment. The mere thought of carrying them only feet away into his bedroom and the spare tired him even more than he already felt, he collapsing onto the couch and putting his arm over his eyes.

He was so tired. Even after tours and hours on end in the dance rehearsals, standing in front of thousands of fans and singing his heart out, dancing his ass off ... nothing compared to the exhaustion he felt now. It was as if someone had tied weights to his lids, they falling heavily, deceiving his fight to keep them open to finally get something to settle on his stomach after a long day.

He reached for the remote, flipping through the basic channels and mentally thanking the building owners that one of the common amenities was cable.

He sighed, lifting his hand weakly and shutting off the television, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. He had been there a little over twelve hours, with littel to no rest. Though he felt like he could sleep for days, his troubled mind had kept him from the peace. Thoughts of his family; the past and present; his friends and those he lost rattled around his brain like a loose coin in a glass jar, just itching to bust through and shatter. He didn't want to die; he didn't want to be so selfish and continue thinking that way, thinking that he deserved as much as to live when there were others who felt the same and still lost their fight - but he knew, he knew he was going to be the one God spited - after all the times he cursed Him, it would be a wonder he had not fallen down dead in his tracks before.

He had been gone for about ten days now; give or take a day or two with his slow travel and numerous rest stops to lay his weary head and eyes for even a few moments; not wanting to risk being seen or even, God forbid, caught by a familiar face that would blow his cover and his plan completely. He ran away for a purpose, with a purpose; he was not going to bring anyone into it if he didn't have to. It wasn't fair to see them react to his deteriorating state and it wasn't fair for them to have to witness it.

God, he felt like he was a child running away from home.

Home.

He lifted his head, the silence deafening his ears as he eyed the black PDA on the makeshift coffee table of boxes. (He probably should assemble the table soon). He leaned even more forward, fingers grazing and then gripping the piece of plastic and metal within the confines of his palm and roughly rubbed his forehead with the other. A shaky thumb pulled up the dialer on the touch screen, dialing into his visual voicemail, an invention the phone company had introduced for those who were too busy to listen to who had called and were able to delete and screen messages without even listening to them.

Inhaling a shaky breath, he watched as the messages continued to grow as the names appeared on the screen, one right after another. Mom, at least fifteen times; Dad, at least another fifteen; Tyler, about ten; Heather, at least in the twenties; a few from the producers of ABDC; give or take five or six from his manager; Joey; Chris; four from Lance; some from Autumn. He expected these. He expected those names.

Except one.

One voice mail from Justin. They had been on the outs within the last year after a major (though now he felt it had been minor and their stressful lives at the time fueled the little fire into a raging wild one) altercation in front of Justin's home after a long night of partying and drinks. Words were said, an arm was pulled away from the offending party, JC left in anger without so much as a goodbye and Justin refused to acknowledge him in passing when they were at the same premieres or awards shows.

It hurt him more than any break-up he had been through; but then again, his fight with Justin was just like one: they had been together for nearly ten years in one group, they both grew up together on a show for a few years and he had known the younger man since he was eleven. They were closing in on twenty years of knowing each other and one argument had flushed it all down the toilet.

Just like anything he had attempted to eat.

He selected Justin's name, hitting the speaker button to refrain him from pulling the phone to his ear and hold it there, feeling as if he couldn't even lift a finger in his exhaustion.

At first, he thought maybe Justin had 'ass-dialed' him, a feat that many people had grown to become quite prolific at, keeping the communicating device in their back pocket and leaning just so, dialing out the first available number in whatever section the phone had gone to on it's own accord. Then, as he was itching his finger over the 'erase' button, a low voice rumbled, startling him completely.

A voice cleared. He heard the watery click of saliva being swallowed at the back of a throat. Heard the clearing of a voice again. Justin was never good at speaking through a phone ...

"Long time no talk, shitty ..."

He smirked, the old nickname coming out of the woodwork. He heard a low chuckle from Justin's end, thinking maybe it would be an okay voicemail; he wouldn't want to fall over some more.

"It took me six times to get into your voicemail. How many messages do you even have in that piece of shit phone, anyway? Clear out the messages, man." Justin paused, clicking his teeth into the receiver. "Obviously, this call isn't a social one; otherwise you would have answered. What the hell is going on? Where did you go? Where are you? Everyone is worried about you. This includes me, Jace; this isn't like you, this is something Chris would have done. Did something happen? Are you depressed? God, I hope not ... if you are, then the world is fucked ..." His voice began to sound panicked as he spoke some more, voice shaky, breaths coming out in short puffs. What was he doing to his friend? His family? "Whatever this is about, you can get through it, JC. I know you. I know you. I don't care how long it's been; I know you. I don't care what happened all those months ago; I am just fucking worried about you. You are my family, JC ... my big brother. I need to know you're okay. I ... I want to beat the living shit out of you for disappearing like you did but if you'd just tell me why, I'd help you. God, JC, you know I'd help you if you'd let me. Jesus, let me. God help me if I tear whatever hair I have left trying to figure out what's wrong and where you are ..."

He felt the click in the back of his throat as he swallowed a lump, bile forming as he fought his own emotional breakdown, getting up and barely making it to the bathroom as he spilled out the remains of whatever had been clinging to his stomach and digestive tract for dear life.

He pushed himself away from the porcelain bowl, his body collapsing back against the wall behind him. His head felt so heavy, lulling on his shoulders and wall as it was, hands barely holding him up. As his head dropped to the side, his vision settled on the phone that sat a few inches away, safe from the toilet but not his hands. The screen had relit itself when he dropped it to grip the toilet bowl, Justin's name still highlighted as his choice in listening to his message.

Drained and weak, he reached for the phone, exiting out of the voicemail and dialing out. He was on the verge on a mental breakdown as his stomach churned even more. So this was it, this was going to be his life? Days of exhaustion, nausea, depression and all-out wretching to fill the ever-so-slowly ticking of time? Hell, he hadn't even started the medications yet and he was already feeling as if he had. He couldn't go through this alone but he couldn't call his parents; he just couldn't put them in his predicament ... at least not yet. He couldn't call many people; fame had a way of weaving right in and spreading like a wildfire and he wasn't ready to deal with the flames yet.

To him, at that moment, there was only one person who would drop everything to help.

As his finger found the appropriate speed dial number, he did a silent prayer that the churning in his stomach subdued and his mind would rest ... at least until the phone call disconnected ... or if he disconnected from reality.

As the phone connected to the other, the rings were faint as the ringing in his ears echoed. His head pounded, throat raw, stomach aching; it felt like a bad flu. A bad flu that he didn't know he had until then. Maybe it was psychological, but if he had not found out he was sick, would he feel this way? If he had not gone into that doctor's office, would he be where he was right now?

A gentle click and a greeting of dead air sifted into his ear as he realized the call had been answered. Swallowing his pride, along with the lump that only grew, he sucked in air, not even bothering to greet the caller on the other line.

"I didn't know who else to call ..."