Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Radio (Waves)

See, here’s the thing: life is not a cohesive narrative. It’s made of puzzle pieces. It’s layered.

Erase all documentary evidence on, say, Hitler, except for a letter written to him by Eva Braun in which she recalls that stroll that they took on that sunny Sunday last summer, mein Liebling. And if that letter was all that survived of Herr Hitler, then two hundred or two thousand years from now some historian could only conclude that Hitler was probably a charming, lovable man who took his lady friend out for walks back in the twentieth century.

And that’d be it.

All the bad things, all the shit and regrets and all that murder – erased.

Because one piece of evidence does not logically take you to the next one. You always have to stop and take in the bigger picture. Ask yourself what you missed.

Who you missed.

Because events just happen, unplanned and spiralling. People just happen.

And you can squint and turn and twist history around without ever figuring out how you got to where you are now.

Where that significant turn was.

And did you turn on your own or did someone push you?

The rain outside is torrential, accompanied by a loud, tree-abusing wind coming in from the Atlantic. It’s the kind of a surprise storm that we get up here, and the beach will be white with snow next morning, before it melts away.

The phone line is shitty and keeps crackling. “What?” I repeat, and, “What? I can’t –”

Vicky’s voice is muffled, and a baby cries in the background, and she says something like “he wants” and “questions.”

“No, no interviews,” I say, standing in my living room, staring out of the window and onto the desolate beach. She knows I don’t do interviews. I don’t understand why she’s even suggesting it.

The windows are double-glazed thanks to the rare spark of genius by the previous owner, but the cold radiates through and onto my bare skin. I keep the receiver to my ear and wrap my other arm around my middle, regretting that it’s getting too cold to walk around in mere pyjama pants now.

It always was too cold, but now it’s beating me.

“Ryan,” Vicky says, sounding frustrated.

“Listen, there’s a storm coming in from the ocean. The reception is shit. Put it in the mail, alright? But I don’t do interviews. I do nothing. Remember that.”

I wait for a second in case I receive a reply, but I don’t. I place the receiver down, and then wrap both arms around my middle. Sink back into the silence and its comfort, staring outside.

The waves coming in are big, washing onto the shore with white, salty tips. It’s late November, and the nature’s getting brutal.

Good.

I go back to the kitchen where I was before the phone rang. The floorboards creak in a familiar way, and I step over the third one from the cooker because that’s slightly loose. I should fix that, but don’t. Some things just are better wrong.

The tea is still steaming in its cup, and I top it off with whiskey. Only three things can ruin a man: fame, men and twelve-year-old whiskey. Can’t shake off all of my vices, can I?

I head back upstairs, where the wind battering the house sounds even louder. The record’s finished playing, and I place the mug on the nightstand by the bed before patiently going through the LP stacks on the floor. I settle on Commodores, and soon the needle hits the vinyl.

The covers of the bed are still pulled aside, and so I slip back in and grab my sketch book and the pencil. The figure is disproportioned and not very humanlike, and I’m not good at drawing but it gives me something to do. Something to focus my energies on.

I focus on the eyes and the eyebrows, but I’ll never get it right.

I try, anyway.

The wind and the music dance together. The tea is warm, and the whisky is warm, and the bed is warm.

And it’s good like this.

A survival instinct.

Clifton is in his early thirties. He’s a mechanic in town, took the business over from his father who passed away last year. Like mine did. We never talk about it, though.

The radio isn’t on. He doesn’t listen to music. He says he doesn’t care for it.

His car slows down in good time and then turns left onto the dirt road leading back to the house. My groceries make clanging sounds of glass at my feet, and I look out the window silently. He’s talking about some car part that he had to order all the way from Boston, and he sounds rather excited about it. I don’t even hum. I don’t have to.

“You ever been to Boston?” he asks.

“Yeah. On tour, you know.”

“Oh, right,” he says in this tone like he only then remembers. “On tour,” he repeats. He sounds slightly despising. He’s just envious, I think. And spiteful of the fact that I’ve seen so much in my life but still wouldn’t know how to change a flat tyre.

We get out of the woods and the road takes us through dead land beyond which is the house, two stories of humble nothing wrapped up in faint blue paint by the beach, the first thing to greet migrating birds, the last thing to say goodbye to those who know better. He drives right up to the porch where his pickup truck creeps to a stop.

“Thanks for the ride, man.”

“No problem.” He scratches his nose and looks ahead and towards the sea that’s the same colour as his eyes. He’s strong built in that mechanic way and has short, black hair that he only sees as a nuisance. “You want to offer a beer?”

“I’m expecting a call,” I say, which I am.

“Ah.”

I get out and, after picking up the groceries, I slam the door shut and round the car, knocking on his window with my knuckles. He rolls the window down, and I say, “I’ll see you on Thursday, then, as usual?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Don’t drown until then.”

“I’ll try not to,” I smirk, and he scoffs, rolling the window back up. He turns the car around as I get inside. The door isn’t locked because it doesn’t need to be. Not this far out from anything. We don’t get it at first, urban people like me, from Las Vegas to Los Angeles to New York, and now here. In cities we learn not to trust anyone. They’re all out to rob us or scam us or pull one on us, and we triple lock our doors and protect our property and will call the cops on you.

And then you move to a place with a population of – fuck. A thousand and then some? And you can leave your door unlocked. Because there are no strangers who might kill you in your sleep. There is no urban paranoia. And I kept my door locked for the first few months just in case, because you never know, maybe someone could track me down here and I’d wake up with a crazy female fan snuggling against me, but I’ve since ceased to lock the door. Learned to trust the unchanging nature of this place.

I fill up the kitchen cupboards with the canned meats and the liquor and then the fridge with the beer bottles. Only then do I flip through the mail that I picked up from the post office. The mailman would come this far out for me, but that’s alright. I’m in no hurry to do anything, and this way it’s safer.

I recognise Vicky’s handwriting on the back of an envelope: G. Ross, General Delivery, Machias, ME, 04654. We omit the actual address in all correspondence. Just in case. The other mail has typed addresses, so they are bound to be more boring. I decide to see what Vicky has to say first.

Her letter is brief, and I open one of the beer bottles and sit down by the kitchen table to read it.

Ryan,

Can you not fucking move somewhere with reliable phone lines? Just a thought. You could die and I wouldn’t know for weeks, and you’d lie there rotting away with birds eating your insides. That’s what you get for living in the middle of nowhere.

What I tried to say on the phone last week –

Was it last week? Huh. The days just all blur together so nicely now.

– was that Gabe called the office about some kid that was trying to ask him questions about you. I called Gabe. Unpleasant, but I did it. It turns out that it’s the same kid that tried to interview me last month. (I didn’t tell you about that, but you’re so paranoid that I thought it best to omit it.) It is likely that he might be trying to interview everyone from the old gang, I’m trying to find out who he’s bothered so far. He seems harmless, just a very devoted fan, but you never know. I’m looking into it, but if you could call me, that’d be fucking nice.

We miss you in New York, you know.

Don’t do anything fucking stupid.

Love,
Vicky

I read the letter twice, unease stirring up in the back of my brain. Some kid’s going around asking awkward questions? Well, that’s no good. Even managing to get to Vicky or Gabe is worrying and more than the other ones have managed. I know I can’t disappear without anyone raising eyebrows, I know that there was no warning, I know that one day I was there and the next I wasn’t. People get curious.

But you’d think that they’d realise how I don’t want anyone trying to solve the mystery. If I had, I would have left clues.

The letter is dated to four days ago. I wonder if she has looked into it.

I open one of the beer bottles and drink half of it with one gulp. It doesn’t help.

I wish they’d leave me be.

The phone starts ringing just as I check the time, and it is five o’clock, and he is punctual as always. I head out to the living room and sit down on the large arm chair, sinking into it. I reach over to the side table and pick up the receiver. “Hey, man.” I take another slug of beer.

“I always half-expect you not to answer.”

“Thinking I’m dead? Yeah, Vicky does that same thing.”

“Hmm, more in vain hope of you having decided to rejoin humanity.”

“Humanity is overrated.”

“So are you.”

I scoff, although I hear the grin in Spencer’s voice. He launches into the weekly question round of what I’ve been doing, what I’ve been thinking, and I tell him at length and ask the same in return, and we get sidetracked and talk about our favourite English lagers and how some states now have pushed the legal drinking age to twenty-one, and how stupid is that because Spencer and I both would not have survived our teenage years without beer.

Eventually I say, “I got some bad news from Vicky.”

“Okay.” His voice is expectant, so I go on.

“Well, maybe not bad, but just not nice. Some kid’s going around asking questions about me.”

“Who’s he asking?”

“Gabe and Vicky, at least. Who knows?”

He is silent for a while, and I absently trace my thumb around and around the mouth of the now empty bottle.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Spencer says eventually. “We know how to keep our mouths shut.”

“Do we?”

Because there are rumours. All kinds of rumours. And not just about me and my disappearance, but also about other people affiliated with me. And that might not be my fault because some of us, well. Some of us seem to flaunt it. Make it into a marketing trick for their new and upcoming band. And that in itself reflects on me because I am associated, and it’s dodgy as it is, and so if someone goes stirring shit up and asks awkward questions... So I worry. I do get to worry, don’t I? It’s a bad idea, trying to dig up that stuff. It’s toxic. And not just for me, but for a lot of people. It can ruin reputations.

“I don’t care what they say about me, man.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Well, yeah, but you could let me get away with it,” I say. “I care less than I used to,” I then add, quietly. That at least is true. “So how’s the album doing now?”

He pauses when I ask this question, for a second, and I know what he’s thinking and not saying. That my curiosity isn’t healthy, that I shouldn’t be asking. The thousand little implications of even mentioning it, but we’d both rather not acknowledge those.

“Number four this week. Moved up two places.”

“Not bad for a debut album, is it?”

“Not at all, no. Our debut never made the top sixty, so they’re doing really well. Good for them.”

“Yeah.”

And I see him, then, somewhere out there, on stage, spotlight on him, so bright you can’t miss a single movement or smile or frown.

I see him, then, far removed from me, living a life on another plane of existence.

I see him. And Machias, ME, doesn’t feel far enough.

I call Clifton on Saturday because I’m bored and out of beer and my drawings have started to go from ‘not so bad’ to ‘really bad’. He comes in his pickup truck an hour later, and we head to the only bar in town. I get long looks from the locals, but they leave me be. A few of them greet me out of politeness, and I nod back.

We end up in a corner booth as usual, and I buy us beers. Clifton doesn’t like that, but he’s a mechanic scraping by whereas I am. Well. Not scraping by. Not financially, anyway.

We don’t have much to say, so he talks about cars again.

They’ve got the radio on. I used to listen to the radio a lot, too, but reception is bad out here, only a few stations that I don’t care for. Clifton keeps talking about exhaustion pipes as a new song starts, catchy and easy but with intelligent guitar hooks. And then the verse starts, a crisp voice belting out words confidently. The voice has got charisma and sex appeal, and the song is out of place in a small bar full of local men in their fifties, but the song sounds like it doesn’t care and is going to make you listen to it, anyway.

And so he finds me, via radio waves.

The song is good. It’s different from those few songs I heard him play back then, accidentally most of the time because he kept his music a secret. Didn’t think it was good enough. I guess I made him think that, selling platinum records and strutting around with my record deal while he was juggling various shitty jobs. I guess that his ex-boyfriend made him think that, arguing that his photography had more chances of a breakthrough than his music. And this song is good, but it sounds more... calculated. Commercial. Sounds a bit manufactured when compared to the raw intensity of his earlier work. Sounds like it’s about sex.

Maybe he polished his sound. Maybe it was polished for him.

It’s not my business anymore, but it’s thanks to me, you know. It’s all thanks to me that he’s out there singing songs.

His voice makes every hair on my body stand up. I sit still and let the song play, enduring the torture that someone’s sanctioned me.

Does he ever receive the same punishment, of hearing my voice on the radio unexpectedly?

He must.

He starts the call with, “Listen, man,” and then sighs. I can instantly tell something’s off. He calls me once a week – a surprise call means that something’s wrong. “I think this kid’s interviewed my mom.”

“What? He’s interviewed Ginger?” I ask, confused.

“And Haley,” he then adds, and I get the visual of him grimacing just by the sound of his voice. This guy’s interviewed Spencer’s ex-wife? But how does he…? How has no one even…?

“He interviewed Haley,” I repeat, feeling oddly hollow.

“Tried to. She wouldn’t have any of it, you know how she is with fans and how protective of Suzie she is. But my mom, she never mentioned a word to me. Apparently this was way back last summer, but I compared the description of the guy with Haley’s and, Ry, it’s the same guy. Mom said he was lovely, just some kid. She invited him in for a tea and showed him childhood pictures, the whole nine yards.”

“Has your mother learned nothing from your career?!” I ask, horrified of the thought of Ginger Smith spilling secrets about me to complete strangers.

“Don’t take it out on her, man. She thought he was just some fan, she didn’t know he was stalking all of your old crowds.”

“Still.” Ginger does not like me and never has. I don’t even want to know what she’d say about me when asked. “So this happened last summer. This kid has been interviewing people since last summer and no one’s realised it until now? I’ve got the excuse of being up here on my own! How could you have possibly missed this?!”

It’s not Spencer’s fault, I know this, I know, I know, but this entire thing has escalated from unwanted yet harmless stalking to potentially catastrophic stalking. How big is this thing? How long has this been going on for? No one seems to know. No one.

“How was I supposed to notice? I don’t talk to The Followers crowd anymore. I don’t keep in touch, you know that. And as for your New York crowd, you know they kind of scattered when you left.”

“But surely they still fucking talk,” I object before I realise that maybe they don’t. Vicky’s married now, has a kid, Patrick’s become a session musician, he moved to Los Angeles, Gabe’s gotten sucked into some never-ending, spiralling world of New York parties and drugs and booze, and Eric moved to London when his record store chain went transatlantic, and Jon –

Well. We all know what Jon did. And I’m not mad, I’m not, good for them. Both of them. I still talk to Jon. Or I would. It’s not like I am actively not talking to him, but it’s awkward. It’s hard.

Spencer sighs heavily. “You were the one thing that kept things together, even when you were trying hard to rip things apart.”

I bite on my bottom lip, my stomach sinking. “Don’t. Don’t make me feel guilty for bailing out on you guys.”

Maybe it’s a pattern. Things get too tough and I run for it. But it’s not like it was with The Followers, when things got so dark that I was losing sight of myself. It didn’t get dark this time. It was all clear, oh so clear, in sunlight, everywhere. Reminders. Constant, constant reminders.

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, man,” he says apologetically. “Hey, whatever. Sure, I’d just gotten you back, but - Yeah, I know, I was there. I know. And we’re talking now. You didn’t bail on me, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Okay.”

“And this thing with the kid will get taken care of. Don’t worry about it too much.”

“Okay.”

A pause. “I love you, man.”

“Yeah, I love you too.”

“Take care of yourself.”

Everyone always assumes that I don’t.

It feels like a hunt. Like the days just roll by, and the catastrophic proportions slowly dawn on us all.

I make a list of people that I can call or have someone else call. And it gets worse every day, like the world is shrinking, like a sniper’s rifle aiming at me. I start smoking obsessively, two packs a day when I was down to half a pack. My lungs burn like it doesn’t agree with the sudden change, but my body will learn to live with it.

The list is not very long at first: Gabe, Vicky, Ginger and Haley. Out of the three, it seems only Ginger indulged this kid.

But Vicky makes some calls, Spencer makes some calls, and I make some calls. And the list is suddenly a lot, lot longer.

Pete Wentz. I haven’t seen that fucker in years and don’t want to, but Pete Wentz, that weasel, quickly gets added onto the list. Vicky says that apparently the kid even stayed with Pete for a few days back in August. And then Jac Vanek. Hell. I have no idea what she’s up to these days. She works in fashion, I think, riding off of my fame. Ryan Ross’s ex-girlfriend is making hats for all of America. She’s doing pretty well, actually. She never was the type of girl to remain lying in the crossfire. And then Brent Wilson. We lost touch big time. No idea what he does. Maybe he’s pursued a career in professional assholeism. And the list also has a whole, whole handful of people from the early Followers crowd, people I have long since forgotten existed.

Some names are fresher. Keltie Colleen. A familiar sense of guilt rings in the back of my head at the mention of her name. She never deserved what... Well. There’s no use crying over spilt milk. Had I known, had I been able to see into the future... maybe Keltie and I would have turned out differently.

That is a lie, and I know it. Keltie and I were not a good match even when we were. She was a great girl, though. That’s all.

But the list gets longer, from acquaintances and short-term friends to former band members and managers and girlfriends. It’s an impressive list. I get a name too for this kid: Siska.

I bet he is glad now. This is probably what he wanted: for me to be aware of his existence.

Well I am.

I feel like I’m getting cornered in by an invisible force.

And yet I do not move.

The mail I get is always sent by Vicky’s people, and they always use the same anonymous looking brown envelopes. This one is white and the handwriting is messy, and I twist and turn the letter around outside the post office. A single car goes down the main road, which is mostly full of residential houses. The grocery shop is further down, and the bar is further up.

I pull the collar of my coat up and head along the street. It’s windy, the first of December. Frost is on the ground, crunching under my boots. I’m not used to this weather.

I hitchhiked to town but it took a forty minute walk to a bigger road to catch a ride. I couldn’t sleep this morning, and I couldn’t work on songs and I couldn’t listen to music and I couldn’t draw, and I felt restless. This entire business with this kid no one seems to be able to find. Is it too much to hope that he packed it in and went home?

After a long pale morning, a Scotch seems like a good idea. When I get to the bar and pull on the handle, however, the door doesn’t budge, and I realise that the bar’s not open yet. “Fuck,” I sigh, wiping at my numb nose.

The door opens, then, even with the ‘Closed’ sign hanging. Tommy, the guy who runs the bar, peers at me. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

“A Scotch would be nice.”

He looks disapproving, but I make a show of shivering. He sighs. “Oh, alright, then.” He holds the door open for me, and I thank him kindly. He mutters something about unreliable spoiled rockstars under his breath, but he wouldn’t have let me in if he actually minded. On my third visit to his bar, he reluctantly asked if he could take my picture, saying it might boost sales. My picture now hangs behind the bar, me and Tommy shaking hands outside, awkward half-smiles on our faces.

I drop the pile of mail onto the table by the window, and Tommy says, “Don’t sit there. Do we want the sheriff to see me serving you out of hours?”

I roll my eyes when he’s got his back turned, moving to the back table instead. I take my jacket off as he brings a Scotch over. “Thanks, man.” He just scoffs and goes back to stocking up the bar.

I go through the familiar brown envelopes first, things I need to sign and send back, authorising the use of a Whiskeys’ song in some movie that’s coming up, another signing that I understand the few loose ends from my father’s will and so on. I don’t have a pen so I just go through the papers, fold them nicely and evenly, and then put them in my breast pocket to sign later.

Lastly, I open the white envelope. I don’t know why I save it for last but something about its unfamiliar appearance feels threatening.

There is a single piece of paper inside which I pull out and then I notice a rectangular piece of thicker paper still in the envelope. I tip the envelope, and a ticket drops onto the table, and then it’s there. A yellow concert ticket. Radio City Music Hall. 9th of December.

I stare.

I quickly reach for the note with a shaking hand, my eyes flying over the brief text: In case you’re in town. – Jon

Jon.

I drop the note, exhaling shakily. My eyes are glued to the ticket. An invitation. I take a big sip of Scotch. It burns my throat and warms me up, but it doesn’t calm me down.

Why would Jon send me a ticket when he knows? And is Jon operating on his own? Fuck, what does that mean? And what if I went? Does Jon want to see me or does someone else want to see me? Is he aware that Jon’s invited me?

Suddenly, the questions are swirling in my head, creating chaos.

I’m not ready.

I picture myself backstage after the show to say hi to the band, squeezing Jon’s shoulder in approval, and then he’d be there, sweaty from the show, eyes widening at the sight of me.

God, I’m not ready.

And who says that it’s me who has to do the grovelling?

I never signed up for that. I put it all behind me.

But somehow it keeps catching up with me.

After further days of anxiety, Vicky tells me that it’s been taken care of.

“Let me tell you what I did,” she says, sounding amused. “So I finally hunt this kid down, right? He said he’s twenty but man, he looks like he’s seventeen. He’s this twitchy little overenthusiastic thing. And I have him brought into the office, and he’s babbling about how amazing it is to be in the headquarters of Asher Management – he’s floored, let me tell you. And I make him wait outside for two hours to, you know, make him know he’s not significant, and then I have him brought in. I’ve met him before, it’s the same kid that was waiting for me outside my apartment once, asking about you, of course. And so I ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, right? And get this: he says he’s writing a book.”

“What?” I ask, bewildered.

“I swear to god that’s what he says. He’s writing a book. So I quickly go get our lawyers into the room, and he gets a grand speech on slander and privacy laws, and he’s pale by the end of it, trust me. Legally, we would not be able to stop him from writing that book, but boy, did he lose interest. He’s just some crazy fan. I doubt he could string two words together on paper.”

“So he decided to back off?” I clarify.

“Yeah.”

“And that’s that? This kid is- is trying to write a book about me, he’s been interviewing people for months, but then he agrees to drop it just like that? What about his notes and all the things he might have found out, and –”

“We took his notes from him. We asked, and he just handed them over. There is absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”

I bite on my fingernails obsessively, trying to sink into the armchair as much as I can. I’ve got a fire roaring, keeping the room nice and warm. I still feel restless. Always restless. “And he went home.”

“He did. Chicago, I think. We caught this one pretty late, it’s true, but it’s been taken care of. He’s determined to forget whatever he happened to find out.”

I exhale, feeling myself relax a little. “Okay. Thanks, Vicky.”

The idea of a book, of guilty pages smeared with gossipy ink, sends a chill down my spine. It’s absurd – who would buy something like that? Who would even think it worth writing?

“Don’t worry about it. It gave me something to do. Have you any idea how boring this maternity thing is? The little poo machine just cries or sleeps. I mean, I love him to death, but my god babies are boring.”

“Shouldn’t have accidentally gotten knocked up, then.”

“Fuck you! My husband and baby are perfect.”

I laugh, the sound almost echoing in the living room. My thoughts stray to the hallway side table, its drawer, the white envelope that is hidden there. I bring my knees up, huddling together. “So I heard that, uh. That Jon’s band is playing Radio City.”

It’s not Jon’s band per se, but the euphemism serves its purpose.

“Yeah, they’ve kicked off their North American tour on the East Coast. A few of the shows have been sold out already. They’re doing really well.” She pauses as if to let me comment, but I don’t know what to say to that. “Why are you asking?”

I’ve started using Spencer as my confidante. Usually with Vicky I feign indifference.

“Jon sent me a ticket,” I then say.

“Oh. Are you going?”

“No,” I say instantly. “No. I just, like...” I sigh, card through my hair nervously. “Do you think... I mean. Do you think Jon sent it without consulting anyone?”

“You mean if Brendon knows that Jon invited you?”

I take in a deep breath, hating that something as insignificant as a piece of paper has thrown me off balance so much. “Yeah.” I rub my face. “Yeah, I suppose that’s what I mean.”

“I can’t know that. But forget about it. Because you’re thinking that if Brendon knows, maybe he wants to see you, or then again Brendon just might not care. And if Brendon doesn’t know, then it might be a set up, and it could get ugly. Jon’s not trying to play matchmaker, you know he’s not like that. So my guess is that Jon just misses you, and I think that you should call him to say thanks but you won’t be able to attend. If you want, I can get the number of their next hotel. But don’t think about it too much, honey. That’s all done with. No reason to stir up something that’s dead and buried.”

Dead and buried, done with, yeah, I know. I tell myself that all the time.

But haunting. Does she understand that it’s haunting?

She wraps up the call when Baby Alexander starts crying. I go to the hallway, get the ticket and get my lighter, and then I stand in the kitchen, the flame flickering, the corner of the ticket hovering not too far from the fire.

I look at the ticket, read His Side.

Yeah, what about mine? What about all the wrong that was done to me?

I pocket the lighter and drop the unburned ticket onto the kitchen table. A stupid piece of paper that changes nothing.

The weather is horrible in the morning, just like it was the night before. Staying in bed seems like a good idea, and I pull the covers over my head and try to get back to sleep but it’s in vain. I put a record on, my bare feet on the Oriental rug that matches the heavy satin curtains. They help to keep the place warm. 40s blues comes on, and I light a cigarette, pull on jeans and grab one of my sketchbooks. I start with arms this time, and it’s a little boy that I’m trying to draw, one with messy hair and a wicked grin, afraid of nothing, not having lost anything. I wonder if it’s a kid I’ve seen in town or if he’s just a figment of my imagination.

I’m working on his mouth when a song finishes, and I stop. Frown. I hear noise from downstairs, a thump. It’s barely noon and there’s a strong wind throwing snow around outside, but that was not the sound of the wind battering the house. That sound came from the inside.

I throw a shirt on as I head downstairs to investigate, buttoning it up as I go. The stairs creak as I try to figure out if one of the picturesque seaside paintings has come falling down or maybe –

Someone’s in the living room. A young man is in the living room. Standing in the middle with his back to me, a thick winter coat on and an old brown leather satchel hanging on him. He’s looking around the room curiously. He has a messy, curly entanglement of brown hair on his head.

“Who are you?” I ask, and the kid jumps, literally jumps, and he swirls around and freezes.

“Ryan Ross,” he breathes out, his boyish face as white as the snow outside.

“Yes, that’s who I am, thanks, but that’s not what I was asking.”

He’s not some random hiker who got lost, but I don’t recognise him from about town either.

“T-The door wasn’t locked.” He motions to the hallway with a shaking hand, eyes unnaturally wide.

“No. It’s not an invitation to come in either, though.”

“I- I’m sorry. It was just... cold outside. I cycled in from Machias. I got lost a few times.” His voice is hollow, though, like he’s not really aware of what he’s saying – he’s far too busy staring at me. A state of shock. “Wow, your hair’s gotten really long. It’s never been that long.”

And I know what that means.

“You’re a fan,” I say in realisation. My hair that brushes my shoulders isn’t that long. Not really.

But here is a kid saying otherwise. Longer than ever. Here is some fan who’s cycled from Machias in a snow storm, helped himself into my house, who knows where I fucking live. And then I take in his face: two overly enthusiastic, sparkling eyes even as he is clearly shocked, slightly hollow cheeks, dirt road brown hair that’s naturally curly but relatively short, and he looks fucking tired but awed and like he’s about to faint.

It matches a description I’ve heard before.

“Fuck. Are you that fucking kid who’s been bothering everyone I’ve ever known?”

He frowns. “No. No, I don’t believe that’s me. I don’t bother people, I –”

“You’re that guy writing a book about me.”

“A biography!” he says happily. “A biography. Yes. Yeah. I’m Sisky. Call me Sisky. Your biographer.” He grins madly. “You know about me. God. You know about me. Oh gosh. I’m so – Gosh.”

I try to deal with this intrusion and shock. I thought Vicky sent him home – clearly not. Instead he managed to find out where I live. And he just decided to pay a visit. If I had a fucking shot gun...

“Look, kid, you’re not my fucking anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“Cute. Listen. I have no idea how the hell you tracked me down, but clearly you have some issues. Okay, here I am, in my home, alive and well. And now I’m gonna call the sheriff to kindly escort you out of town. And because I’m feeling charitable, I’m not suing you for trespassing this time. Alright? So now turn around and fuck off. You’ve had your fun, and this stupid little project of yours is over.”

He has been having fun, too. I’ve been losing sleep over this mysterious being chasing me – him. This short, tiny eager kid staring at me with devout admiration, but now clearly with hurt too.

“Mr. Ross, I came up here because those people in New York told me to stop! I realised that I had to come straight to you, because they didn’t get it, but you do! And I need to interview you for the book, I need to...” He frantically goes through his satchel and pulls out a paper and pen. He then stares up at me joyously like now he’s ready, now he can write down everything I say.

“Are you on drugs?” I ask disbelievingly and approach him. His eyes widen like having me this close is surreal to him. “Here, let me help you.” I place a hand on his shoulder and then push him back into the hallway. He staggers, craning his neck to look at me, clearly upset.

“We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot!”

“We haven’t gotten off at all.”

“I’m not some stalker!”

“I beg to disagree.”

“Mr. Ross!” He breaks free of my hold and swirls around, pressing himself against the wall by the front door like that will make it harder for me to move him. “You need to hear me out.”

“No. I don’t.”

I open the door, grab his shoulder and push him out into the cold, the wind ruffling both of our hairs. He looks crestfallen.

“Go home, kid,” I say and slam the door to his face. He instantly knocks on it. I lock it. He twists the doorknob. He knocks again.

“Mr. Ross! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to barge in on you!” Knock, knock. “...Ryan? It’s really cold out here!”

I lean against the door and slide down it to sit on the floor, exhaling heavily. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.

“I’m not going!” he then exclaims. I rub my face tiredly and fight off a headache. “Are you calling the cops on me? Please don’t call the cops on me! Oh man... I’ve lost my hat. It’s cold. Please, Mr. Ross?”

He bangs again, his voice still muffled.

My life is fucking absurd. The sheriff doesn’t even like me, but he will come and collect the kid, I’m sure. Escort him out of town, glare at him and threaten to call his parents. Someone like that should not be left wandering around America without some kind of parental guidance.

I feel a thud against the door, but it’s not knocking this time. It feels like he’s sliding down to sit on the porch.

“I just thought I’d set the record straight,” he says, now mumbling to himself, words muffled but decipherable. “You don’t know what they say about you. They say such horrible things. But you’re not like that. I know you’re not really like that.” He sounds choked up.

My mind goes over the people he’s definitely managed to get something out of: Brent, Pete, Jac, Keltie... Well, shit. They won’t have anything good to say, will they?

“Fuck,” he swears, his voice breaking, and the wind blows loudly enough to drown it out but I get a horrible feeling that now the kid is crying. I quickly get up to get away from the door, the realisation making me uncomfortable. I’ll give it five minutes, and he can pick himself up and go home. It’s not my business. It’s not my concern. It’s not my fault if some fan is disappointed in me, if he went in search of his idol only to discover that he didn’t deserve to be worshipped.

I’ve done a lot of bad things, but his shattered dream is not one of them.

I go into the kitchen, put the kettle on. Draw the curtains to the backdoor in case he decides to circle the house. Never mind. Forget about it.

Another knock on the door. I ignore it. He keeps knocking and calls out something I can’t make out, so I reluctantly and slowly move from the kitchen to the living room and then to the hallway. I stare at the door like I would at a ticking time bomb. “Mr. Ross!” his voice calls out. “I, uh. Did you call the cops or not? Because if you did, I’ll just wait here if that’s alright. At least I’ll get a ride back into town!”

I stare at the door in bewilderment and then laugh. This utter embodiment of a failure has been the person hunting down all of my old enemies? I can’t believe it. My life has turned into a bad joke. Not saying that it wasn’t one before, but this? This is something else.

“I just wanted to tell the truth. That’s all,” he then calls out.

The water is boiling, the kettle letting out a whistle in the kitchen. I stare at the door intently. Mull this over.

When I open the door, the kid flinches, not having expected it. He stares at me expectantly, blinking too much with puppy eyes.

“Come the fuck in, then.”

“To wait for the cops?”

“I didn’t call them.”

“Oh!” His expression lights up like I’ve just told him he’s won the lottery. His eyes then narrow. “Then what for?”

“I don’t – know, I – Look, just come the fuck in from the cold, alright?”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Do you think I would?”

“No!” he then laughs and saunters back in rather confidently. He drops his satchel and starts unbuttoning his coat and starts talking a million miles per minute. “Are we having tea why do you live out here is it always so cold do you live alone I think you’ve got nice views –”

I stare at him in astonishment. This house has never heard so much speech in one day, let alone a week.

Maybe murder isn’t off the list completely.

“Is that boat out there yours?”

“No.”

“So do you ever go fishing?”

“No.”

“Hiking?”

“No.”

“Swimming?”

“No.”

“...Walking?”

“No.”

He’s frowning. He looks around the room living room. “So, you just... stay in all day, doing what?”

“Reading. Drawing. Thinking. Sometimes I think about walking.”

“You’ve got a lot of books,” he amends, nodding towards the full bookcases. His Dictaphone is on the table between us. He’s brought in one of the kitchen chairs and is now sitting on it, opposite my armchair. I’m armed with a beer bottle and feel horribly out of place. It’s not an actual interview, I keep telling myself. I’m letting this kid have his go at me, and then he will be happy and can piss off. “What kind of stuff do you read?”

“Poetry, I suppose. Like –”

“W.H. Auden!” he interrupts, beaming. “You quote his Funeral Blues in one of your songs, 708? You know how you quote him?”

“...Yeah. I do know.”

“Yeah. Man, that’s great. At first I was confused because, like, it’s a love song, right, but then the Auden poem’s about a dude, so I was like ‘what?’ but then how you just referenced the loss, you know, compared it with death. That’s some amazing, deep stuff. So powerful.” He stares at me dreamily.

“Uh.”

He blinks. “So who is 708 about?”

That answers at least one question I’ve had concerning him: he doesn’t know. For all his digging around, he doesn’t know. I’m surprised. Jac didn’t rat me out? Brent didn’t? Wow. That’s... almost kind.

“Look,” I say, wanting to distract him. “I said that I’d set the record straight, answer your silly questions. I thought I’d deny some nasty rumours, right? So let’s just focus on those.”

Sisky looks at his notes. Vicky told me that they had confiscated them – lies. Sisky handed over copies of his notes. What a sneaky little thing. Sisky might seem harmless, but he’s not. He’s dangerous. He’s cunning. Makes it all the more worrying that he plans to write a book about me, but I haven’t agreed to that. I’ll set lawyers on him, find some dirt on him, blackmail him, something to get him to stop. But for now I’ll sit here and answer his stupid questions because god knows he won’t go away otherwise.

“We could start at the beginning.” He looks up. “Tell me about your childhood.”

“I was born in 1950. I grew up in Vegas. I was an only child.”

“I know all that.” He sounds very unimpressed.

I frown. “Well what do you –”

“You’re stating facts. I need anecdotes! I need you to tell me what you did, how you felt. Not the name of your first grade teacher – Mr. Buckner, by the way – but what you thought about him. Like, here. Okay here,” he says, now looking at his notes. “Ginger Smith. She describes you as a quiet, anti-social child. You were talkative with people you knew, like Spencer, but when she walked into the room you’d quiet down. During your teenage years, she says that you became quieter, but also stubborn. You seemed like a thinker. She thought you exhibited aggressive behaviour. Just seemed angry. Later you became arrogant.” Sisky looks up. “Do you think that’s accurate?”

“No.” Quiet but still stubborn, aggressive and arrogant?

“Okay, what’s your best childhood memory?”

“Uh...” I rake through my brain. “My ninth birthday, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No!” I object, confused. I don’t need to tell him anything. Sisky again looks rather unimpressed. He clearly worships me in some way, and he’s nervous, sure, but I think I am pretty quickly helping him to get rid of his inhibitions. Well, considering he has travelled this country far and wide, interviewing people, he clearly never had many inhibitions to begin with.

“You need to give me something. Why does that birthday stand out?”

“The old lady next door baked a fucking cake. Happy now?”

“Did you usually get cake for your birthday?”

“No.”

“Your father wasn’t very affectionate, was he?”

“No.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Are you my shrink?” I ask disbelievingly. He instantly writes something down. I’m affronted.

“You and Spencer worked as paper delivery boys to get money for your instruments, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Was that your first ever job?”

“Yes.”

“What was your first guitar?”

“A 1960 Martin D-18. Bought it second-hand. I still have it.”

“You used it on 708!” he beams, again accurately. “I didn’t know that was your first.” He writes it down happily. “Is it true that you refused to play that song live?” He glances at me quickly. “Why? Too personal? It seems like one of your most personal songs. Is it about Keltie? How did you meet Keltie? Is it true you cheated on her? 708 seems to reference an affair, so is it about your mistress? Who was she? Were there several? Would you describe yourself as ‘sexually daring and promiscuous’?” He smiles at me. “That’s a quote from Keith Dixon.”

“Who?”

“Keith Dixon? Your old drum tech.”

“Big Keith!” I say in realisation. “How the hell did you find Big Keith? Fuck, I haven’t seen him in... five, six years. How is he these days?”

“He’s found Jesus,” Sisky says solemnly.

“Oh.”

When we decided to check whom Sisky had talked to, we asked the most obvious people. Sisky’s scope, however, has been far greater than that. He’s not ignoring all the people I’ve forgotten.

Funny. They remember me, but I don’t remember them. For how many people is that true for? Hundreds of insignificant handshakes that have meant the world to them and nothing to me.

“Is it true you and Joe had a bet on which one of you could sleep with more girls on your ’72 tour?” he now asks hesitantly. Yes. We did. We were young, famous and no one was there to tell us not to.

“No. Absolutely not.”

He looks at me sceptically but then writes something down.

“Look, is there any logic to this? You keep jumping from one thing to another,” I complain. From my songs to my childhood to Keltie to who I’ve been fucking.

“Well, you’re not answering any of my questions!” We glare at each other. How dare he glare at me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve been kind enough to let him in, to indulge him, and here he is glaring like I’m letting him down. “What would you like to talk about?” he then asks.

“The music,” I say easily. That’s the only thing worth talking about.

“Okay.” He starts chewing on the end of his pen. “What exactly happened to The Followers?”

“Life,” I shrug.

“Okay. And by ‘life’ you mean...?” He arches an eyebrow. I shrug again. “Okay, see, I’ve heard different accounts of the break up, and it all seems dodgy to me. What really happened that summer? What about the car crash?”

“You’re not asking about the music.”

“But I am! What about The Whiskeys? Why did you quote retire unquote last year? All of a sudden, when you were more successful than ever? Who retires at a time like that? Why was there supposed to be a documentary of The Whiskeys but the project got scrapped last second? Why are you living out here in the middle of nowhere when you’re one of the most famous musicians alive? I mean. Surely you understand why I’ve been interviewing people! It doesn’t add up. You don’t add up!”

“Look, I don’t owe you anything, kid.”

“You do! You owe the world an explanation! You owe me one!”

Well someone’s taking this personally.

“I can’t help you.”

His brows knit together angrily, and although I’ve only known him for a very short time, it looks uncharacteristic on him. He stands up. “I’m going for a walk,” he announces. “We’ll try again when I come back.” He marches out into the hall and puts his coat back on, buttoning it hastily. He glares at me from the doorway, and fuck. He was all sunshine and puppies when he first arrived, but now he seems to hate my guts. How did I manage that in such short a time? I was being damn considerate! “In the meanwhile you should consider the fact that I can’t interview you if you don’t want to talk,” he declares, and he sounds hurt like I’ve somehow betrayed him. I roll my eyes at my beer bottle, and then my eyes move to the stack of notes on the coffee table.

However, he seems to have the same thought as me because he hurries back into the living room, grabs his satchel, stuffs it full of his notes, and then hurries back out with a hurt look my way. The front door opens and closes.

Well.

He’s a bit insane.

I slowly get up and walk to the big window. Sisky’s marching onto the beach, shoulders hunched. The storm has quieted down but it’s still windy. He clearly wants to make a statement. His footsteps mix sand and light snow together.

I light a cigarette and pick up the phone, dialling Spencer’s number. He and I have been talking more frequently now because of Sisky. I suppose that’s one good thing that’s come out of this mess.

Spencer replies after a few rings and I say, “So the kid is here.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I told him to piss off.”

“Good!”

“And then I let him back in and let him interview me.” I suck on my cigarette greedily, estimating the silence on the line.

“I – Wha – Why?”

“He’s not giving up. He found me, man. I’ll give him his dream interview and then send him home.”

“I don’t know,” he says sceptically, and I know it probably won’t be that easy. But the kid said it himself, didn’t he? That I can’t even begin to imagine the things people say about me. If I don’t talk, he might just go ahead and write that goddamned book of his based on faulty information that demonises me. I mean, clearly it’d be a lie. Because I’m not a horrible person. I have never done anyone wrong.

Yeah. Sure I haven’t.

“He can’t force secrets out of me,” I then say to reassure us both. I glance towards the window again, just in case the kid’s back with his face pressed against the glass. “And he doesn’t know much to begin with.”

“So he doesn’t know about...?”

“No.” I pause, then, take in a deep breath. “But all those things we don’t talk about? Yeah, those are the ones he wants to talk about.”

“How do you plan to distract him from those, then?”

I sigh heavily, shrugging although Spencer can’t see. “Not sure yet. Lie. Cheat. Distract him.”

All the usual stuff.

I fix us dinner later on that evening, having shown Sisky to the unused guest room where he can stay for tonight. Just tonight. His room faces the front of the house and the beach whereas my bedroom is at the back, and it’s not that much space that’s between us and I can only hope that I don’t wake up in the middle of the night to see Sisky watching me sleep.

It’s not healthy if your heart fills with a calming sensation just from watching him sleep. Knowing that he’s safe. That does you no good.

“Are you going?” Sisky asks from behind me. I remain by the cooker, stirring the soup. One can of tomato soup, the other chicken soup, straight from cans. I’m fairly certain that it’s okay to mix different types of soups together. It’ll bring in different flavours or something. I don’t know. I’ve never had to cook until I moved out here. “It’s tomorrow night. New York’s far away.”

“What?” I glance over my shoulder.

He’s holding the ticket to the His Side show. He hasn’t been his happy-go-lucky self since he walked out earlier – he seems to be sulking. I’ve got half a mind to throw him out for good. I don’t need some fan guilt-tripping me.

“I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m busy.”

“...Busy with what?” He looks around the empty kitchen, frowning.

“Stuff,” I say defensively. The soup has started to boil, so I pour it into the two bowls that I’ve set on the counter. It’s a brown-pinkish colour, like someone’s vomit with processed chicken chunks in it. Sisky looks unimpressed by it when I set it in front of him. I snatch the ticket from his greedy little hands and tear it in two. He looks surprised. I pocket the pieces and breathe out shakily.

Well, that’s it, then. That’s that.

I sit down and grab a spoon. “Eat,” I order him.

He starts stirring the soup with his spoon, eyeing it with mild disgust. “So you discovered Brendon, right? The singer of His Side? Everyone knows you did. All the interviews of them say so.” If he knows this, why is he fact-checking with me? I only do a half-shrug that’s as good as admission. “But you’re not going to see them on their first tour. Huh. One would expect you to care about your own creation.”

“Not my creation,” I say, blowing on a spoonful of soup before swallowing it down. It doesn’t taste half bad.

“And Jon’s in that band, too. You and Jon were pretty close, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Is that why you’re not going? Because you’re angry Jon jumped ship?”

“Why would I blame him for that? It was sinking, anyway.”

He hums but doesn’t look like he buys what I’m saying. If he thinks Jon is my problem with His Side, I’ll let him think just that.

He’s playing with his food. I feel the urge to tell him to stop it, like I’m his mother and he’s a disobedient child. “They’re a good band,” he then says to himself quietly. “Not genius like anything you’ve done, but they’re good. I love their album. That Brendon Roscoe is damn charismatic.”

I stare at my soup and listen to the grandfather clock in the living room ticking. “You ever met him?”

“No. I’ve seen him, though. With you.”

A sudden chill runs through me. Maybe he’s been playing me, beating around the bush when he knows.

“On the Diamonds and Pearls tour,” he then says. “I just saw him around. I didn’t really put the two together until recently. Now that he’s all famous.”

“Oh. But you saw him with the band.”

He nods. “With you, yeah.” He takes a spoonful of the soup, makes a face and pushes the plate away from himself. I try not to be offended that my culinary skills do not impress him, but mostly I wonder where he saw us. What he saw. At what point. Did he see us before he had left me or before he lied to me, saying that I had a chance, or maybe after that, when he left me again. Played me. Like a fucking puppet. An insignificant little fucking thing.

I laid it all out there for him, and he just –

I realise that I’m squeezing my spoon too hard, like I’m trying to murder it. I loosen my grip slightly, embarrassed because I think Sisky noticed. The soup, I have to admit, is not particularly tasty, and I give up forcing it down and push it away like Sisky did.

I scratch my nose and take in what he said. That he saw Brendon on the tour. How exactly? If you’re standing in the crowd, you wouldn’t have seen Brendon. No, you’d need to break beyond that barrier and catch a glimpse of what goes on backstage.

“Have we ever met?” I now ask him and, for the first time since his arrival, Sisky seems truly taken aback. He’s been fidgeting and overly enthusiastic and hurt looking and then sulking and playing the martyr, but now he looks uncomfortable.

“Does it matter?” he asks, sounding... defensive. He won’t look at me.

“I’m curious.”

“No. We never have.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” he almost snaps, and I smirk. So that’s his deal.

“How many times have we met?”

His mouth forms a thin line. “Four.” Then, “Depends on how you count, I suppose.”

“And how do you count?”

He seems unnerved that the tables have turned, and now I’m the one interviewing him. “Well, I don’t count... seeing you. Because I’ve seen you plenty. But this one time you shook my hand. That was number one. Once you signed my album just before you got back on the tour bus. That’s two. Once Melvin and I bumped into The Followers in one of your hotels and you looked at me, so that was three. And then. Then on the Diamonds and Pearls tour, Gold and I were in one of the hotels, and you, uh. Gold was at the reception, I was in the sitting area, and you just came over and bummed a cigarette off of me. You were upset about something. I don’t know. You barely even looked at me. I could hardly understand what you said, I was just awed at you sitting there.” He looks lost in the memory, but his tone is slightly bitter. “You just. You didn’t know, man. You sat there, and you clearly just didn’t know what you meant to us. To people like me, people who followed The Followers and later just you. We thought you were guiding us, but you were just stumbling blind. And the funny thing is that... when I started this project, you were such a godlike figure. But you’re just a man. Flaws and all.”

“Disappointing, eh?”

“No,” he says. “Confusing. But not disappointing. It’s almost comforting.”

My tone was sarcastic because I thought he was complaining that I didn’t live up to his unrealistic expectations, but he says he’s not disappointed, surprising me.

“I thought that everything would make sense once I started digging around. But the more I did, the more confusing it was. There was no master plan in your head when you started with your music, there was no ultimate message like we thought. But I’m not... mad that I believed in something that you hadn’t crafted because it was real to me. And I guess that’s what matters, right? That you gave me something to believe in when I needed it.”

“Music’s the only thing I’ve ever believed in,” I say solemnly, and he nods slowly. We fall into silence, but it’s not that awkward or tense silence from before. I feel like we’re on the same page for the first time.

I’ve met him several times but I don’t remember him and he meant nothing to me. Whereas to him, I must have been it. His purpose for so many things.

“I’m more interested than ever in what you have to say,” he says eventually. “I’m not expecting it to be pretty. By now, I know it’s not. I just...” He sighs restlessly, twisting his hands. “I just want to know what happened. And why. Because people try to tell me what they think you were thinking, and let me tell you, they all contradict each other. And maybe I was wrong earlier, maybe you as you are here, sitting in this kitchen, maybe this you doesn’t owe me anything. But the one I saw on that stage does. He owes me. I spent my youth listening to that man.”

“But he didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. But if he didn’t want anyone to listen, why did he say anything at all?”

It’s not often someone manages to corner me in an argument as quickly as he’s just done. I don’t know what to say to that that wouldn’t be an obvious lie.

“Okay, how about this,” I say slowly. “I have the right to not answer if I don’t want to, but... I’ll tell you. Without that Dictaphone recording everything. I’ve been interviewed hundreds of times, man, and I’m so sick of it. But... We can talk. As people.”

He considers this, brows knitting together. “As people,” he repeats.

“About the music and the bands. My private life’s private. But we can talk about the music.”

“As people,” he says once more.

We can try.

He nods eventually, though. “Okay. We can do that.” And then he smiles – not quite as wildly as when he first waltzed in, but he smiles, anyway. His eyes sparkle just slightly, and that. Makes me feel good. That I’ve restored some of his faith to whatever I once made him believe in.

“Now eat your damn soup,” I order.

“I’ll make us some real food,” he declares, but ten minutes later, we’re munching on buttered toast. He says, “I’ll have to make some changes around here.”

I’d like to see him try.

Chapter Text

I manage to dodge the actual ‘conversation as people’ for a few good days. They also are a very odd few days.

I’m not used to having someone in the house, not used to the constant presence of another person. Not that it’s constant because I send him out to find the perfect shell to put on the kitchen sill or to cycle into town for more beer or something to get him off my back because he doesn’t understand much about breathing space. But sometimes he stops talking, asks me to recommend a book, and then we sit in the living room reading late into the evening, and then he asks why I recommended the book that he’s reading.

He’s not taking notes. I hated that. Made me feel like a specimen to be examined.

Clifton doesn’t get it at all when he picks me up on Thursday as usual. Sisky squeezes into the pickup truck with us, and Clifton peers at him in confusion and asks, “Who’s the kid?”

Sisky leans over, smiling madly (he’s gotten those grins back now). “Sisky. Ryan’s biographer!”

“His what?”

“Goddammit Sisky, I thought we agreed –”

“Ooh, can I change the radio station?”

Sisky twists the knob, looking for another frequency. Clifton stares at me, eyebrow disbelievingly arched, and I feel slightly embarrassed because I know that he thinks my fame is a worthless commodity.

“He’s not my biographer,” I tell Clifton, not looking him in the eye.

“Sure,” Clifton says, but the sarcasm rolls off his tongue, and it’s an awkward ride into town.

In the grocery store, Sisky goes crazy. I usually buy canned foods, cigarettes and alcohol. He, however, pulls out a shopping list and asks if I prefer Pink Ladies to Granny Smiths. I dig out cash from my pocket, hand him bills and tell him to just remember the booze and cigarettes, and then opt out and go to Tommy’s bar with Clifton.

“So who is that kid?” Clifton asks as we drink beer in our usual table.

“Some fan, you know.”

“And you’re letting him stay with you? God, that’s self-absorbed.” He rolls his eyes.

But he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand the power of music, how Sisky and I are connected in some messed up way. Because Sisky was right – I wanted someone to hear what I had to say. Now, I’m not saying that Sisky understood anything of what I had to say, but he thought he got it. And maybe that’s what matters.

“Maybe in my next life I’ll be an underachiever,” I tell Clifton. “I’ll be a mechanic in some dead ass northeastern town and never mingle with celebrities in exclusive New York clubs as fans line up for twelve hours to see me on stage.”

He scoffs. He’s the kind of guy who’ll bite easily but never follows through.

Sisky asks Clifton all kinds of questions on the way home – essentially interviewing him. How long have we known each other, how did we meet, what he thinks of me. Clifton looks beyond uncomfortable and says that he met me some six months ago, shortly after I bought the house, and he seems happy when we’re back at the house and Sisky gets out of the car.

Sisky takes grocery bags from the truck bed and hurries inside from the cold. We watch him go.

“He’s a handful,” Clifton observes. “Does he even shut up long enough to sleep?”

“He does. He sleeps in the guest room.”

“Right.” He rubs his nose slightly. “Not coming in for a beer, I don’t think. But maybe next week. Will he be gone by next week?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

“You do that.”

I get out of the car, but Clifton says, “Hey,” pointing at the latest issue of Rolling Stone that’s now on the passenger seat. I grab it quickly before slamming the door shut. I’m surprised the shop had the magazine – probably the only copy they send to Machias. The cover promises to reveal the secret life of Steve Martin – but he’s an actor, what the hell – and to shed light on Keith Richards. I roll it up as I get into the house, where Sisky is banging the cupboards in the kitchen. He said that he’s cooking tonight (like he does every night, to be fair), so I drop the magazine onto the living room coffee table and head upstairs to listen to music.

I keep the record player in my bedroom, not the living room, and Sisky’s got enough sense to realise that my bedroom is my kingdom and he’s not invited. He did go through my record collection, however, under my very watchful eye. He knew almost all of them, even the obscure blues records. I was impressed, I have to admit.

I lie down in bed and listen to Muddy Waters and how he just wants to make love to his girl. Or boy. Hell, it’s not like he specifies, and god knows you can make love to both. But I don’t want to follow that thought any further because it’d do me no good, so I focus on the music, my eyes closing. It’s like escaping to another world, Muddy’s world, and I visualise myself by the Mississippi River in the forties, humid night air, darkness all around us and insects buzzing in our ears, and we’re gathered on the porch of some sad little house with our guitars out, singing the blues.

I wonder if I could have been happy in that world. If I would have been different. Happier. Better.

I think so. Sisky said something yesterday, that a childhood of neglect has made me despise the attention that I crave for. That was just one of those pseudo-intellectual psychological observations that he says to seem smart, and I don’t think he even bought what he said, but... In this dream blues world of my own Mississippi and my huge family – where I’m a tall, lean, handsome Black man – being so rooted to that place and those people and singing out on the porch about my baby girl who left town.

I could have been happy there.

I could have been happy in a dozen different versions of life.

But this is the one I got. The one I cannot change.

And when I realise that this is it, I nearly panic. Feel so guilty. Trace my steps and think what a damn mess I’ve made of it. Some people have changed the world for the better by the time they’re twenty-eight, you know. They have families and children and they got a PhD on some electric impulse in the brain that causes some kind of a horrible syndrome but because of their research it’s now cured. They can die tomorrow without that dread of a failure.

Whereas me... If I died tomorrow, people would mourn. Fans like Sisky would mourn. My old bandmates would mourn, and all the radio stations would play my songs and the record sales would skyrocket and then they’d show documentaries of my life on TV for the next fifty years – they’re already doing that with Jimi – and I would not be forgotten, no. But would I have truly earned it? Dying here, in this house that’s just a place of refuge, with silly, distant hopes of being repatriated someday when I’ve gotten over it? Over him? Having alienated most of my friends and lovers with only the most patient and understanding ones left?

Would that give me glory?

And the funeral would be awkward as everyone would struggle to put two nice words of me together. They’d say, “He changed the world with his music,” but did I? Can music truly change the world? Because we sing songs of protest and we sing songs of defiance, but as far as I can see, the same shit keeps happening.

So sometimes I do wonder if all this music is just a new form of painkillers. Doesn’t get rid of the source, but lets us think that it will get better.

“Knockity knock!” Sisky chirps from the now open door. “Dinner’s ready.” He smiles at me brightly. The record’s stopped playing at some point. I sigh and get up.

He’s made us a relatively simple meal of chicken and rice with some sweet corn on the side, but it’s still the most refined and tastiest meal I’ve had in months. I don’t tell him that, though, even when he stares at me from across the table with expectant eyes. “It’s alright,” I grant, and he relaxes and seems happy.

The Rolling Stone is on the table, and I know he’s been reading it because he points at the cover and says, “You know The Sex Pistols?”

“I know of them.”

“You know that Sid Vicious killed his girlfriend?”

“No shit.” I think I did hear about that, Vicky or Spencer mentioned it. Bad press for rebellious musicians in general.

“It happened just recently in the Chelsea Hotel. It’s in New York.”

A piece of chicken gets stuck in my throat, and I cough to get it down. I look at the magazine like it’s just offended me, but in my mind’s eye I see the long corridors with their Oriental styled carpets, and then the rooms with the expensive furniture, with a bit of Victorian fireplace, a bit of art deco armchair, and then the bed, the big bed with those soft sheets and a headboard to hold onto when –

“You lived there, didn’t you?” Sisky asks while casually popping rice into his mouth, but I freeze. Stare at him.

“How do you know that?” I ask, alarmed. He shrugs. “No. How do you know that?”

No one knew that. No one except Brendon and Vicky, and I think Gabe knew, and later Keltie found out. Sisky is not supposed to know that. No one is.

Sisky grins at me sheepishly. “I talked to a girl who worked as a receptionist in the recording studio when you were working on Wolf’s Teeth. She told me that sometimes she had to pass on messages left for you to the Chelsea Hotel. Vicky’s orders, she said.” He cuts another piece of chicken. “So why did you stay there? I mean, your SoHo apartment was closer to the studio than the hotel.”

I take in a calming sip of beer, soothed by his ignorance. He doesn’t know how close he is to knowing all the worst secrets I’ve got.

“There’s something comforting about hotel rooms,” I say eventually. I’m not even lying to him. “They’re so... artificial. You don’t need to be a real person when you stay there. You can forget about yourself. About the world outside.” But you need to be damn careful that you don’t forget too much.

I go back to eating, but thinking of Sid ending his girlfriend’s life in that hotel has made me lose my appetite. Somehow it feels personal. How dare he do something like that in a place that was so significant to me? How dare he taint it with death and violence?

“A lot of loving and fighting and fucking goes on in that hotel. Murder, though. Fuck the kids these days. Murder. Is that the new definition of rock ‘n roll? Is that the ultimate manifestation of punk? Fuck them. Fuck that arrogance. How dare they?”

Sisky looks incomprehensive but nods like he fully agrees, anyway. He’s almost done with his food now, eating quickly like he always does. He flips through the pages of the magazine with his other hand while I push rice around the plate, feeling angered. That something so evil happened in a place where my best memories took place. Because they still are the best ones, even with all the blood on them.

“Here,” Sisky now says, pointing at a spreading. “I bought it for this.” He turns the magazine around and pushes it across the table. His Side At Our Side and, beneath the poor pun title, Ryan Ross’s disciple band take on North America on their first ever tour. There’s a large picture of the band, five people in it: there’s Jon in the left corner, smiling contently, next to him is a good-looking, tall guy with brown hair and a confident grin, then in the middle is Brendon, standing slightly closer to the camera than the rest but I don’t look at him, can’t bring myself to, and so I look at Ian on his right, his messy brown curls still all over, and on Ian’s other side is some well-built blond guy that I don’t know either. I hum to let Sisky know that I’ve seen the article and then push the magazine back across the table. Sisky frowns. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“No.”

Sisky huffs but then busies himself reading it. I focus on finishing my dinner.

“Oh, cool!” he says soon like he really wants me to ask what’s cool, but I don’t take the bait. “They’re covering you on their tour,” he informs me. “They do Miranda’s Dream.”

Brendon is covering a Followers song?

I feel at a loss from the news, something setting in hard at the pit of my stomach. Brendon on stage, singing my song. My words. His voice replacing mine. I didn’t know that. Why would he do that? To push the link between his band and mine even further? For appreciation? As a fuck you? As a ‘I forgive you’? Does it mean something? Does it mean nothing?

“You know they’re playing in Boston in two nights. Canada after that. Far out. They’ve got the tour dates here.” He points at the page again. Then he giggles. Giggles. “Listen to this! ‘Brendon Roscoe’s stage presence is sexual,’” he quotes. “‘The screaming girls make as much noise as the band does. The screaming boys beat both.’” He giggles some more. His Side is a new band, but the dubious sexual aura around them is already making parents object. It’s all good press.

“You know, if I wanted to read that, I would.”

The few pictures I’ve seen of the band always show Brendon off. It makes sense: he’s the lead singer, the frontman, and he’s fucking gorgeous. It’s hard for me to recognise him in those pictures, however. It’s like I’m looking at someone else. He looks fierce, confident, sure of himself. He looks cocky, sexual, alluring. Smirking at the camera with a knowing look.

They’re selling Brendon. Sexualising him.

I didn’t think he’d be into that, but he is. Didn’t know him at all, did I? No, of course not. He’s loving every bit of his newfound fame, shedding off his old skin. Transforming into a stranger.

“‘Ryan taught me everything I know about the music business,’” Sisky reads out and then looks at me. “Brendon said that. And then, oh, they get asked if they keep in touch with you. Jon says that they don’t.”

“Stop,” I say quietly. A sudden, sharp pain fills me.

“Oh, then –”

“Sisky!” I snap. He looks up with innocent puppy eyes. “I don’t want to know. Respect that, will you?” I sigh restlessly and stand up, grabbing my beer bottle. “It fucks with my head.”

I walk out into the living room where I plop down onto my armchair. Sisky’s put a fire on in the fireplace, and the flames flicker and radiate warmth. I glare at the dancing flames as Sisky walks into the room, hesitating.

“Um. Sorry.”

I don’t respond. I don’t want to acknowledge Sisky’s existence right now.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Brendon said that? In an interview?

God, I didn’t want to know.

What gives Brendon the right to talk about me? Playing my song, mentioning me in interviews? What gives him the damn right to be the one who is okay enough to talk about it? About what the world thinks our relationship is: Ryan Ross discovering the musical talent of a roadie and getting him a record deal. They thank me in the liner notes of their album. His Side thanks... so and so, so and so... and Ryan Ross. Just one name on the list. Vicky told me that. But they saved my name last. To give it impact.

Sure, it made sense. I discovered Brendon and Jon is my old bandmate. Sure, I am connected to His Side, so it’d look weirder if they didn’t thank me. And maybe it’s not their fault that all the interviewers ask them about me, it’s such a well publicised fact by now, but...

I had no idea that he was talking about me.

I hate it. Knowing that he says my name. Sings my words. I hate not knowing what that means to him, what it makes him think and feel, and then I drive myself insane trying to find meaning in some stupid interview, read between the lines, tell me, tell me, god, don’t you miss it? Baby. Don’t you miss what we had?

But he doesn’t or he wouldn’t because he fucked me over. He let me down.

I don’t want to know.

“Could I interview you tomorrow? About The Followers.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Not about His Side,” Sisky then adds as if to pacify me. It kind of works.

Hey, I liked The Followers.

We were amazing.

I loved that band. Man. What good times.

“It was the worst time of my life.”

He’s gotten his notes out, which I’ve granted because he needs the references to ask his questions. He is also taking notes, although I told him he wasn’t allowed, but somehow he’s talked me into it. I’m armed with a Scotch and a full cigarette pack with the ashtray on the rest of the armchair.

He doesn’t flinch, really.

“Well, maybe also the best.” I rub my left temple and then suck in cigarette smoke.

“What went wrong?”

“We were too young, I guess. The fame got to our heads. I mean, we didn’t even start getting that famous until Her House. Our self-titled got a decent, cult-like following, but Her House made the charts and created a lot of buzz and made us semi-famous, and by the time Boneless came out, it was like everything was ready to explode. Like a kettle at a boiling point and then it bubbled over. But it went wrong before that. Maybe when we signed to Capitol. I don’t know. Maybe it was wrong from the start, when we sat down at Chuck’s around the corner from the shitty one bedroom apartment Brent, Spencer and I shared. Maybe it was a mismatch of personalities. It wasn’t like... one day we were friends. And the next day we weren’t. It was gradual.” I blow out smoke nervously. “We were just too young to handle being rockstars. Joe and Brent were jealous that I got more attention.”

“Spencer wasn’t jealous?”

“No.” I eye Sisky carefully. “You know about the Haley business, right?”

“Yeah. Jac told me about that. Pretty harsh, right?”

“Pretty harsh.” I roll the cigarette between two fingers. “I suppose... that can be pinpointed, at least. Spencer and me. I suppose I lost Spencer the day he met her. And not because he now had a girlfriend and not because he fell in love but because now someone else was saying their two cents on what was best for him. And she didn’t agree with me on any of it.”

“They’re divorced now.”

“Yeah, but... Spencer’s a dad. He’s a divorcee. Haley will always have him. It’s not like it once was with him and me, we’ll never be friends like we once were. A lot of our phone conversations feel like apologies. I just don’t really know what we’re apologising for. Maybe we’re just nostalgic.”

“I think you’re being too cynical. And underestimating Spencer.”

I want to say that ‘well, you don’t know him like I do, do you now?’, but he’s probably right. I know Spencer is trying a lot, but I just can’t quite bring myself to embrace it. Can’t accept what he’s offering.

“Anyway, the band,” I say, trying to get this back on track.

“Joe and Brent got jealous that you were more famous,” he recaps, and I nod. They did. Started resenting me.

“Joe had all these grand ideas of his fame. He became more and more disillusioned the further we got. But people like you, you don’t get it. What it’s like when everyone treats you like a god. What it’s like when it’s all easy. We spent practically all of 1972 on tour, and when we got home, Joe calls me. This is a true story, so listen. He calls me the day after we get back to LA and goes, ‘Ryan, I need milk.’ Milk, you know, okay. I tell him to go buy some. But he says, ‘How?’ He doesn’t know. He’s forgotten. I tell him to get some change and go to the shop and buy some milk, but he’s so fucking confused by it that I have to go over there to remind him how buying groceries works. Because when we’re on tour, people just bring us whatever we need. We forget what it’s like to be normal. That’s the bubble. That’s the illusion. Joe seemed slightly embarrassed by it afterwards, but that was the last time I saw him embarrassed by anything. He stopped making excuses shortly after.”

“And I remember this other night that felt significant even then. We played a few shows the summer before Boneless came out, just to keep ourselves in shape a little, and... Joe saw this girl in the crowd. Thought she was hot, which she was, to be fair. So he had her brought backstage, but it turned out that she was there with her boyfriend. She wasn’t a groupie. And Joe couldn’t quite get that either. He assumed she’d want to sleep with him. So he had the boyfriend thrown out and he got her to come to the club with us, and then he got her really drunk and high and – I’m not saying that he raped her, she was into it at that stage, I suppose, or she didn’t protest in any case, but... She staggered out of the club bathroom in tears, didn’t even know where she was. And that night wasn’t the change, but it was then when I began to realise that Joe and I would never be friends again. Not because of her honour or anything, but because of him. He had just become this unlikeable guy. Obsessed with sex and his ego. He started fighting me on everything. I’d say, ‘It’s sunny’, he’d say, ‘It’s raining’. Like that Beatles song. I say yes, he says no, he says goodbye, I say hello. It’s draining, putting up with that every day. But we used to be friends before that. Way before that. In another lifetime.”

He writes something down and then looks at his notes. “You guys lived together, didn’t you?”

“For this one summer, yeah. God, was it... summer of...” I try to trace back years. “1970. Almost nine damn years ago. That was a good summer.”

“Oh?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow, and somehow it loosens my tongue.

“We were writing songs. It felt like something new, like we were discovering something. It was exciting. Joe might be... an asshole, but he is talented. We kept challenging each other to write better music. We managed to get shows playing in shitty LA clubs, we went about trying to get laid, we were rubbing elbows with anyone even slightly famous. It was so carefree back then. We’d hit on girls with ‘I’m in a band’ and ‘Remember that name, you’ll hear it again.’ Most of the time it didn’t work, but well,” I shrug. “And then we got signed by the end of summer. Back then I thought that Joe had become one of my best friends. I’d see us thirty years from then, still doing the same shit: music, booze and girls, night after night. But I was young. I was goddamned nineteen, nineteen when we got signed. Spencer, hell, he was eighteen. And I thought that even after that, things wouldn’t have to change so much. That we could just fuck about indefinitely. But that’s not why I got into music. No, the music was always serious. But I didn’t expect things to get heavy. And it was such a buzz and it all happened so quickly, and soon enough we owed a shitload of money to the label. Too much studio time, you know? And you gotta sell. Sell, sell, sell. What a dream. Because let me tell you, and you better write this down, kid: the music industry isn’t looking for talent. It’s looking for merchandise.”

“The band became a product.”

“Precisely,” I say, still bitter that we got sent back to the studio for Boneless to write a song that would make a better single than what we already had. “Very few can break away from that cycle of profit. I suppose I can now. Hell, I could make two calls to book myself a studio to – I don’t know, record a concept country album based on fucking Snow White, and they’d let me. But getting that freedom is hard. I’m lucky. I’m lucky they all think I’m some kind of a fucking genius.”

“But you are,” he says matter-of-factly.

I only shrug. Who am I to take away other people’s flawed notions?

“Anyway, that tour – Jackie, Me and This Lady – we’re all ready to call it quits. We hate each other. Joe and I barely talk. I hate the band, I hate the tour, I hate the fans –”

“You hate us?” he interrupts sharply.

“Well, no, I – I’m not saying I hate you specifically. I just hate what it’s become, this circus of adoration. No one ever says no to me. Kids keep asking me the meaning of life, and I don’t know what it is.” I suck on my cigarette again, blowing out smoke. “But, say, if I came out and said, ‘Man, I don’t know the meaning of life’, would you listen? Hell no. You’d say I’m bluffing. Because you want to adore me, see? You don’t want to know I’m just me. So we live in this bubble. And when we do something shitty, people let it slide. We start to think we’re invincible, above law and morals, but we’re not. And I begin to feel that people are there for the wrong reasons. Not for the music, but for this... artificial commotion. To sleep with me or Joe or, you know, something else. And it’s disappointing to me. It’s frustrating. Like I’m trying to communicate but everyone misinterprets me. Wilfully.” I stub the cigarette into the ashtray. “I guess everything finally came to heads that summer.”

“So it wasn’t the bus crash that caused you to break up?” he asks quietly and smiles a sad little smile. “We always thought it was the bus crash. Shook you so hard that it broke off the foundations.”

“No. We were already done.”

This makes him sad, I can tell. He writes something down with a melancholy air.

“Bands aren’t... predestined,” I tell him. “We weren’t meant to find each other. Spence and I just happened to bump into Brent in Woodstock, we were all high, we thought we bonded. And then Joe, I found him in a Burbank bar one night, roughly a month into us having moved to LA. A bar. In Burbank. I mean, who the hell would you ever expect to find in a shitty place like that? They refused to serve me, I had no ID, but Joe bought me a drink. But that doesn’t mean that it was destiny. It doesn’t make us into a magical unit of soulmates or comrades. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we even love or like each other. We’re just people. In a band. And if it doesn’t work out, if it stops working out two, three, twenty years down the line... It happens. If we don’t expect marriages to last, why do people insist that bands have to last? It’s a lot more bitching and a lot less apple fucking pie.”

“I suppose it just...” He clears his throat. Avoids eye contact. “When four people create something that amazing. Something that life-changing. Maybe fans do idealise it, but... it makes us feel good.”

“And then it makes you feel like crap when your idealised concepts fall to pieces.”

“Yeah,” he admits. I wonder if his tiny heart broke when he heard that The Followers were done for. “So the bus hit that car, and you guys decided that was that?”

“Essentially.”

He goes through his notes, looking for something. He makes an ‘ah’ sound and then looks up. “Was it because you became a communist?” He sounds sympathising.

“What the fuck?” I ask.

“Brent said –”

“I’m not a commie,” I object. “Brent said that?”

“He insinuated it. He said Brendon’s a communist too. Is he?”

“No. Brendon’s political policies are along the lines of ‘here I am and fuck all of you’.”

Or used to be, anyway. Before he conformed. I blame Shane for that. Not me, not that I broke his spirit that summer we met. I blame Shane. Brendon was all for giving the world the middle finger and doing whatever he pleased, and then Shane came along and tried to tame him. And what’s worse is that Brendon forgot that he was meant to be wild, playing house with Shane.

Well. Maybe that explains the cocky promotion pictures of His Side.

Maybe Brendon’s remembered who he is now.

Sisky looks at his notes again, seemingly very confused. “Um. Maybe I... Wait. So what did you and Brendon get up to that summer? I thought it –” He frowns. “I got something mixed up, then. But you did meet Brendon that summer, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t really discover him or his musical talent until a few years later when I bumped into him in New York, so,” I say, artfully directing the conversation elsewhere, and Sisky buys it.

“So can you tell me about the bus crash?” He must see something flicker on my face because he says, “It’s just become a very... momentous part of your history. There are conspiracy theories about it, like, maybe there was no crash at all or –”

“There was one,” I cut him off. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Why?”

“Because someone could’ve died. We were lucky no one did.”

“But –”

“Look, it was dark, it was raining like hell. The bus slipped onto the wrong lane, we hit an oncoming car, the bus tilted to its side and kept going for another hundred feet before coming to a stop. I mean, what more do you want? You’ll find it all in a police report or even a tabloid article. I really don’t remember anything of it. I was asleep in my bed when it happened.”

“You broke your arm.” He is eyeing my left arm accurately.

“My elbow got pretty badly smashed. It was in a cast.” I finish the Scotch quickly and pour myself another. “But I don’t want to talk about the crash. What matters is that we all knew it was over, already that night. As we got discharged, we all just went different ways. It took a month or so to make it official, let the press know. And that was that. That was The Followers done, from four guys drinking cheap beer at Chuck’s and discussing band names and how far out it’d be to be famous, to four guys with money and big houses and adoring fans, four guys who couldn’t stand the sight of each other. You know, that’s life. We learned something. I’d like to think.”

“Post-Followers, then –”

“Haven’t we talked enough for one night?” I ask, looking at the ticking grandfather clock. None of the furniture is actually mine – it was already here. I did have a lot of my shit from New York brought here, though, books and records and rugs. “We can keep going tomorrow. I swear.”

He looks sceptical, but I will keep talking another time. My mind is just full of ghosts right now, ghosts of the people I used to be, and it’s draining.

“Sure,” he says. “Alright. Almost dinner time, anyway. I’m making a casserole, my mom’s recipe. I think you’ll like it!”

This morning, when I came down, he had made scrambled eggs. It’s like suddenly I’m a guest in my own house.

He puts all of his notes away, places them in neat piles. He hums under his breath – Better Lost, the opening track of the Followers debut – and he is clearly mulling things over in his head, putting my comments into a constantly growing narrative. I’m glad I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I stay in the living room, drinking Scotch and smoking, unwinding from the session as he goes into the kitchen and starts cooking.

I don’t talk about this stuff to anyone. It’s weird how, now that I am, I find myself having a lot to say. I didn’t know that I had something to get off my chest, and if I had, I would not have expected the audience to be Sisky.

Joe bugs me more. Brent, well, I have no regrets waving that cunt goodbye. He hated me and fucked my girlfriend. No, I have no regrets with anything that went down with him and me. We were friends, but I never felt close to him. Not the way I once did with Joe. And that’s why Joe will always sting somehow. I don’t wish him well because he wouldn’t wish me well either. In fact, he’d love to see me here. In this house. Hiding. He’d buy everyone in the bar a round, but he doesn’t know where I am. He is just as mystified by my retirement as the rest of the world. Good.

“Shit!” I hear from the kitchen, and Sisky comes back out. His shirt is dripping tomato sauce. He looks unhappy. “Do you have anything I could borrow? I’m out of clean clothes.”

“Sure. We can put a wash on later. There should be some old clothes in the second drawer of the chest of drawers.” I motion upstairs.

“Thanks.”

He hurries upstairs. The domesticity that we’ve fallen into in such a short time almost bothers me. Here he is, cooking for me, then we’ll wash some clothes and sort out the laundry and go grocery shopping and read books in the living room –

Jesus Christ, I want to gag.

But then I find it really hard to mind this.

He comes downstairs soon after, now wearing a black t-shirt. “Okay, so, do you like garlic?” he asks happily, back in chef mode.

But I can only stare at him. “Take that off.”

He frowns. “What?” He glances at his t-shirt: Old No. 7, Tennessee Whiskey.

“Take that off,” I snap, unnerved, standing up quickly, my heart suddenly racing.

He looks alarmed, reaching for the hem and pulling the shirt up his skinny form. I’ve reached him by the time it comes off of him, and I snatch the t-shirt and ball it up. The fabric is soft in my hands. Familiar. Old. Worn out. “Not this one.” Like some paranoid fear that it’ll smell different if Sisky uses it when it doesn’t even smell like anything anymore – just fabric. “It’s not yours to use.”

I push past him and hurry upstairs, not looking back although I know he’s watching me with confusion and that never-ending curiosity. But I will not explain this.

I slam the door of my bedroom behind myself and then fold the t-shirt again and put it on my bed. And then I just look at it lying there.

Like the body of a memory.

“See, I knew it’d end up badly,” Spencer says knowingly.

“Wait. Wait a minute. First you complain about me living in this bubble and news block – What did you call it? ‘A hermitage of ignorance’, that was it. And now that I’m trying to catch up with the world, that’s a bad thing too?”

“It is when you’re asking about Brendon again.”

Point. Sure. But did I ever really stop asking?

“Look, this is different. I knew that I got name-dropped in their interviews, but I didn’t know that he was talking about me. Have you seen Rolling Stone? Have you read that? He’s talking about me.”

“I’ve read it,” he says in this bored tone, but he’s not really bored, he’s just trying to constrain me.

“It’s all happening at once, man. I don’t hear from Jon in... I don’t know, eight months? And then he’s sending me a ticket to their show. And I haven’t seen or heard from Brendon in over a year and a half, but here he is, talking about me in black ink. And I thought this thing had been put to rest. In some way. But we’re colliding, we’re not going separate ways. I live in the middle of fucking nowhere, but still I feel like we’re colliding. Like I’m getting called out.” I stop to take a breath, almost embarrassed by my outburst. Thank god Sisky’s out of the house.

“Ryan, people try to call you out of your hiding every day. Just because it’s Jon or, I don’t know, Brendon doesn’t make it any different. And Brendon is just answering questions in interviews. He’s the only posthumous link to you since you vanished. People are bound to ask him questions.”

“But no one told me that he was talking about me,” I argue again, feebly. It changes everything. Doesn’t it? That Brendon is saying that I taught him all he knows about the music business. That he’s thinking about me. But Spencer doesn’t seem to think that changes anything.

“Is that such a surprise? I mean, do you think that he’s forgotten you?” Spencer points out sharply, and no. After the number I pulled on him, he certainly wouldn’t forget me. “Look, I don’t – I don’t know what went down between you two. I mean I know, but I know facts, not feelings. It’s just been a long time, man. And you get so riled up about things like this, it’s not good for you.”

“So am I supposed to pretend I’m fine?”

“Ryan, dude. You live in Maine. Of course you’re not fucking fine. But you just... have to distance yourself. It’s water under the bridge and all that metaphorical crap. And you know what interviews are like, you say whatever needs to be said.”

It might be water under the bridge, but the water’s rising and then flooding and then on this metaphorical bridge, and if I’m standing on it, then it’ll wash me away with it, won’t it?

“It might still hurt,” he then concedes, “but it takes a while before these things stop hurting. Trust me, I know. Pain doesn’t change the fact that it’s history.”

But it’s history that feels all too present. History that I’ve never questioned, but now... “Do you think...” I begin slowly, chewing on my bottom lip nervously. “Do you think if I hadn’t met Brendon that summer that the band would have lasted longer? I mean. I know it wasn’t just because of Brendon and me, but things with Joe, for instance, deteriorated so quickly. Especially because of us.”

“That’s a useless ‘what if’,” he says, accurately. “Why do you ask? I mean... we’ve never really talked about that.”

“I know.”

“So why are you asking now?”

It’s hard to explain to him how all of these memories are suddenly stirring up. That maybe the painful parts do need to be addressed.

I hear a cheerful “Hey!” from the hallway and the front door closing. Boots against the floorboards to shake snow off, and then Sisky appears in the doorway, cheeks pink from the chill, snowflakes in his hair, and a whole bunch of cut off spruce branches in his arms.

I blink. “What are those?”

“Christmas decorations!”

“Is that the kid?” Spencer’s voice asks, the receiver still pressed to my ear.

“Yeah.”

“Who’s that?” Sisky asks.

“Spencer.”

“Spencer Smith?!”

“No, the other Spencer,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

Sisky rushes into the room, spruce branches and all, almost jumping from one leg to the other. “Can I talk to him?” he asks eagerly, and I stare him down. His face falls. “Well, can you give him a message?” I roll my eyes again but nod. “Say... Say hi.” He smiles widely, excited.

“The kid says hi.”

Spencer snorts. “Cute.”

“Uh huh,” I say in agreement and shoo Sisky away. “He’s murdered some trees for Christmas decorations.”

Sisky is now obediently heading to the kitchen, but he calls out, “What’s Spencer doing for Christmas?”

“He’ll be with his daughter. Stop being so inane.”

Sisky sticks his tongue out, and I wonder how much more of his good spirits I can stomach. Christmas in itself has not occurred to me at all – the days all blur together out here. And it’s not even here yet, although Sisky keeps saying that it’s only a week and a half away. I swear tomorrow he’ll ask me if I’ve written to Santa yet.

“Actually,” Spencer now says, having heard me, and I focus on him again. “Haley’s going up to Illinois and is taking Suzie with her. I mean, she can do that, she gets Suzie this Christmas. And Haley’s parents want to see Suzie, of course, so...”

“Oh.”

Spencer sounds oddly hollow saying that he won’t see his little girl this Christmas. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that except ‘well you knocked up Haley and then you married her and then you did get your heart broken, and I told you, didn’t I? But no, no, we didn’t listen to Ryan at all, and now you’ve got a kid, Spence, you’ll never make a clean break, you’ll always be an absent father to your child. Well done.’ But he knows all of that and it’d be too cruel to start calling him out on it. “You going to Vegas, then, to see your mother?”

“Nah. Staying here.”

“Oh.”

“You?”

“Just staying here,” I admit, looking around the living room.

“Who cares, though, right? Christmas isn’t that big a thing. Not like I’m even religious.”

“Me neither.” An awkward pause lands on the line, and I recall what I said to Sisky. That oftentimes these calls feel like conversations of apologies, conversations with other men. Not the people Spencer and I used to be. “Anyway, thanks for listening,” I say to cut off the silence before it gets too weird. It’s not often that I call him and just start rambling and asking questions. Usually we stick to polite conversation that doesn’t cause emotional havoc.

“No problem,” he says, however, and he sounds like he means it. “But don’t let that kid stir up shit that’s ancient history. Don’t let him fuck with your head.”

“Sisky or Brendon?”

He pauses, as if to consider this. “Both.”

Sisky keeps craning his neck and looking my way with big ‘notice me’ eyes. I choose to ignore him, resting the notepad on my raised knees as I’m curled up in the armchair. I brush over the lead on the page with my pinkie before going back to sketching. He’s been reading a Hemingway book that I recommended him, and the radio is on in the kitchen, playing morning news. I’ve read all of Hemingway’s books by now. He’s not even my favourite writer, but I just keep going back to him.

“What are you drawing?” Sisky asks eventually.

I don’t look up. “A drawing.”

“Of what?”

“Of what I am drawing.”

He sighs dramatically. He’s fidgeting slightly. He’s not good at being ignored. Then, “Can I see what you’re drawing?”

I try to remain patient and look up at him at last. He’s sitting on the couch, the book now abandoned, and he has said a farewell to A Farewell to Arms. He’s batting his eyelashes at me. “Sure,” I give in. Of course the relatively cosy silent co-existence couldn’t last. He hurries over and takes my notepad from me.

“Oh. Oh, far out!” he says, taking in the drawing, and he starts flipping through the pages. “Hey, you’re not half bad. I didn’t know you drew. I mean, these aren’t... life-like or, you know –”

“Good?”

“Or good, yeah, but they’re interesting!” He smiles at me supportively. “So who’s the little boy you keep drawing?” He squints at a page and peers at it intently. “He looks familiar. In a way. I’ve never seen him befo – Oh. Oh, do you have a son?”

“No,” I sigh. “I have no bastard children.”

“Oh. Huh.” Then, “Would you like to?”

I stare at him blankly. “I’d make a horrible father.”

He looks somehow upset by this, but it’s only the truth. Maybe most people just have that awakening parental instinct, that subconscious urge to pass on their genes when they hit twenty-five or however old they are. I do not have that urge. I’m not paternal. It’s something I’ve never pictured for myself. I don’t need to have a child to make myself feel like I am doing something worthy with my life, to give it meaning.

And besides. The chances of me meeting a woman I’d fall in love with seem to be becoming increasingly slimmer. And besides, besides. I was ready to choose him. And everything that went with it. He would have given my life enough meaning. Ten times over.

The latter thought hurts, of course it does, and it’s all because of Sisky and how he keeps reminding me of painful memories.

“Can I have that back?” I ask impatiently, holding out my hand and then snatching the notepad from him. He looks sad and idle and then just kind of lingers. “You know, I have some Followers demos that we never did anything with,” I then tell him, and his expression instantly lights up. “On cassette. They’re upstairs.”

“Oh my god. Oh god. Can I? Ryan? Ryan, can I?” He’s looking towards the stairs with huge eyes. Jackpot.

“Sure,” I shrug. “The black shoebox full of tapes next to the cassette player.” For whatever reason, I dug them out after our Followers talk and listened to some of them while Sisky was out. Heard myself laughing with Brent, Joe and Spencer in between takes, banter and good humour and excitement and all that stuff that vanished so quickly.

“Thank you!” Sisky beams, and then he’s already rushing up the stairs two steps at a time. A minute later, I hear music from my bedroom and a kind of squeal that usually only female fans make.

There. That should keep him out of my hair for a few hours.

Huh. You know, maybe I wouldn’t have made a completely horrible father if Sisky is anything to go by. But no, that ship has sailed. My family tree has one branch and that’s it. I don’t feel upset by it. If anything, it’s freeing. Less people to disappoint and to hurt.

If you don’t count the thousands who feel betrayed by my decision to retire.

I am still writing music. Of course I am. I could never stop. I’ve been writing songs, but it hasn’t been that manic habit like it was before. I have no forty new songs hanging around. No, I have... maybe ten. Or seven. And I’m not writing them for anyone or anything. I just need to write like I need to breathe. It’s soothing, almost, knowing that I don’t have to do anything with the songs. The pressure of an audience’s reaction is gone.

But I retired in the sense of leaving behind the music world. Vicky persistently said that I could stay in New York, but I couldn’t. I needed to get out. It was getting too ugly.

I manage to tune out the Followers demos well, but Sisky’s yelling and cheering is more difficult to ignore. He sounds like he’s in a football game and is cheering on his team. Some of those demos are not half-bad, in all honesty. At times he gets suspiciously quiet, but then he makes some random noise again, and I feel reassured.

I sketch my mystery boy, ten years old. My bastard son, but he doesn’t look like me. I can’t get him right, though, his eyes or – Maybe his nose, it’s not quite right, and I end up frustrated and angry, and the picture isn’t even very good.

Eventually I give up. Music is still playing upstairs, bad quality, fuck ups and retakes and all. It’s almost time for an early lunch, so Sisky should make us something. I have needs.

The door to my bedroom is ajar, a song just coming to an end and Brent saying, “Hey, can we change that bridge part where –” and then the tape finishes. Just in time for me to avoid my past.

I walk in. “So should we –” I start but then I stop. Sisky’s not ogling at the cassette player dreamily like I thought he would be, but instead he is staring at the wardrobe mirror in concentration, his hands on his neck. The tape shoe box is on the floor with tapes everywhere. But so is another shoe box that I keep under the bed and then choose to ignore. The lid is off, the top layer a handful of pictures of Spencer and Gabe and Greta and Brendon. It looks like it’s been searched through. “What are you doing?”

Sisky turns to me. The light catches the silver chain around his neck. My heart plummets and then stops working altogether.

“I found this!” He smiles excitedly. “This is the one you always used to wear, isn’t it? It’s lighter than I thought.” He fiddles with the chain, rotates it to get it to sit perfectly. I feel sick.

“Take that off.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Goddammit, Sisky, take that off!” I bark, now rushing over, apparently quickly enough to scare him because he’s hurrying to unlock it. I run out of patience and grab it, pulling it from his neck the second it becomes unlocked. It’s cold against my hand, not very heavy. I enclose it in my fist, my mind reeling. How fucking dare he? I look at the shoe box that he decided to look at without permission. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Well, I – I thought there’d be more tapes, I –” He’s stuttering on his words.

“Don’t touch my stuff!”

“But you told me to –”

“No! I did not! You don’t fucking touch this, you don’t fucking wear it!” I yell at him, squeezing my fist around the chain further. “Have you any idea?! Any at all?! First the t-shirt and now this, and – You fucking idiot! Don’t you ever touch my stuff!”

I quickly go over to the shoebox, throwing the lid back on and picking it up, possessively placing it under my arm. Sisky looks at me in a way he hasn’t before. He looks scared. So am I.

“I don’t need you here, reminding me of all this shit I don’t want to remember! I’m fucking indulging you, and you’re just helping yourself to my life! Well, it’s mine! It’s not for public consumption, it’s not for some fucking book!”

“I’m sorry I t-took the chain –”

“Too fucking late!” I yell at him and point at the door. “Get out. Right now.” He doesn’t budge. “Get the fuck out!”

“Ryan, I’m sorry.”

“Out of my fucking house, you selfish, self-absorbed prick! I owe my fans? I owe you?! Fuck every single one of you!”

I place the shoebox on the bed, strategically making sure that I am between it and Sisky, and then I approach Sisky as if to kick his ass right now, and this seems to have the desired effect because he hurries out the door like a scared child. I come to a stop, don’t follow. Breathe unevenly. Pull my hair with one hand. I’m wrecked. My hands are shaking. The chain is still in my fist. Something rattles so deep inside me that it feels like building blocks changing location, tearing up sutures.

I feel heartbroken all over again.

When I get downstairs, Sisky is sheepishly sitting on the couch, like him being still and quiet is what’s needed. I throw him his coat. He looks confused.

“Put that on and get the fuck out,” I hiss, my tone pained even to my own ears. I leave no room for objections. The chain is now in my pocket, and it burns against the fabric, I swear that it does. Sisky looks so shocked that he actually obeys, standing up and putting the coat on, but he stares at me like any second now I’ll say I am kidding.

I’m not.

He crossed the line.

He’s out of here.

“But what about... what about my stuff?” he asks uncertainly, like he still can’t believe this.

“I think I’ll help myself to it without permission,” I spit out, and then I am pushing him out of the house just like I was when he first arrived.

“Ryan –”

“Fuck you,” I say, my head and heart and everything still a painful mess in a way they haven’t been in months. Because I’ve been learning. That answers his fucking questions, that’s what I’ve been doing: learning how to make it stop hurting.

And he just wrecks it like that.

“Fuck you,” I repeat again, more venomously, and then he’s out on the porch, looking shaken to the bone and confused and sorry. “I never want to see you again,” I clarify, and then the door slams in his face.

I step away from the door, thinking that now the cause is gone, now everything will click back into place. But it doesn’t. The thoughts don’t stop. They keep spinning and spinning, creating a spiral right at the very core of me.

I take out the chain and look at it, breathing hard. Such a stupid thing, and I hate it, fucking hate it, and I snarl at it, and I throw it across the room and it hits the hallway wall and doesn’t make much of a sound as it just drops onto the floor. I step on it on my way upstairs, and then I’m by the shoebox, going through pictures and backstage passes and memories, useless goddamned memories, and I find a random picture of Brendon there, taken during the recording of Wolf’s Teeth when Shane had that fucking grand idea of giving everyone Polaroid cameras. And it’s Brendon, and he’s in my father’s cabin in Bismarck – my cabin, mine, I mean – in the living room, and he’s looking the other way with his arm outstretched like he’s reaching for a beer someone is handing him – me? Shane? Jon? Gabe? Patrick? – and he is smiling and looks beautiful, is beautiful, and I stare at the picture of him and then I rip it in two and drop the pieces onto the floor, and I think of Sisky outside in the cold, and I think of Brendon singing my song on stage, and I’m too tired for this life and –

I just can’t.

Downstairs, everything is quiet. Sisky isn’t banging on the door and I can’t see him through the window, but that’s fine. He’s gone. We can go back now, back to the status quo. Not thinking about it. History. Dead and buried. Water under the bridge.

I sink into my armchair, accidentally sitting on my sketchpad. I pull it from beneath me, the pages now wrinkled. I smooth them out with a shaking hand, nauseating sickness swelling up in me. And the kid on the page, this anonymous little boy, has a big mouth. Has got these big lips. They fit with the picture I just tore in two. And I look at another page. Same kid. Same lips. And another sketch. And another. And another.

And it doesn’t even click until then that I’ve been drawing figures with his features for the past seven months, during the time I’ve been living here. Women with his eyes or men with his nose or boys with his mouth, it’s all the fucking same, and yet I never put the eyes and the nose and the mouth in one picture to bring the obvious features together.

In shock and mild embarrassment, I throw the sketchpad away from me. No wonder Sisky thought the kid looked familiar.

Brendon is torn in two on my bedroom floor. He’s in the hallway, cold silver. He’s on the living room floor in bad drawings, caricatures by someone who could never capture his beauty. Who could never capture him, period.

He is everywhere. He hasn’t set foot in this house, but I carried him in. Even when I was saying that I was leaving him behind.

He follows me.

It’s not over.

It cannot be over because the corpse still has a pulse. It’s unfinished. Unresolved. And it will never go away just because I refuse to think about it. It’ll never go away if I keep wondering what the hell is going on, if what the magazines say is true, if I have to sit here trying to figure out what it all means to him now.

The Rolling Stone is still in the kitchen, and I find the right page but still can’t look at Brendon’s glossy paper face. I still find what I’m looking for.

The late morning sun is high up when I walk out of the house, armed with my coat, a scarf, gloves and my wallet and nothing else. The sun is over the sea, and the waves wash onto the shore, and the air is brisk and light, and it’s the first beautiful day in a while. I have not left this town since I moved here.

I have not left this place in seven months.

Sisky is nowhere to be seen.

I start to walk fast down the road, away from the house and the beach, towards the woods and the bigger road. It takes a while to catch up with Sisky who is slouching towards town with his head hung low.

“Hey!” I call out, slightly out of breath. He stops and turns around. His eyes go wide, like he’s expecting me to be armed with a baseball bat. “Hey.” I stop when I reach him, lean forwards slightly, sucking in cold air. He waits as I catch my breath. I stand up straight, pull myself together. “We’ve got a show to go to.”

He blinks. Stares at me in confusion. “What?”

“Yeah. In Montreal. It’s far away. We should hurry.”

“We’re what...?” he starts, voice faint.

“Get with the program, kid,” I say, nudging him as I pass and start walking towards town. “Can you drive?”

He blinks. It seems to click. He dashes after me, eyes bright. “Yeah!”

And that’s all I need.

Chapter Text

We stop at Flagstaff Lake in the late afternoon and sit in the car with the heat on as high as we can get it. Sisky stuffs his face with the chocolate bar that I bought at the gas station, and he laughs that isn’t Flagstaff Industries the name of my blind company. He shouldn’t even know that I have a blind company.

Clifton gave us an okay car. He could have given us the one likeliest to break down or kill us, and I’m sure it crossed his mind, but instead he gave us an old but reliable Buick. He didn’t ask where we were going, and he didn’t ask if we were coming back. Just shot a dirty look at Sisky like this was his doing.

Sisky now sits in the passenger seat, taking a break after five and a half hours of driving. It’s my turn. That’s fair. I said I’d drive us into Canada, anyway, slightly into it, I mean… I’ll drive for two hours or so. Everything around us is rural, it’s a quiet road. And then Sisky can get us into Montreal. Okay. That works.

“You want some?” he asks, offering the rest of the chocolate bar. I shake my head. “You haven’t eaten all day. Is that why you’re so skinny? Because you are. Really skinny, I mean. You should eat more.”

“I eat plenty,” I say distractedly, my sweaty palms resting against the leather of the wheel. The radio station kept crackling so we switched it off, and now Sisky won’t shut up. He’s excited. Keeps asking if we’ll march backstage. We could. I’d get recognised at a rock show in approximately five point four seconds. My hair might have gotten longer, but that’s hardly a mask. I look the same. I have remained unchanged. And my absence has not made anyone stop looking for me.

So I could march backstage, sending the promoters and hangers-on into a slight panic because I have not been seen. The summer of touring with The Whiskeys came to an end – we’d seen Europe, we’d seen Australia and we’d seen Japan, and we were home at last. Home. And I remember standing there, in the doorway of my New York apartment, so quiet. So silent. I probably felt a fraction of the confusion that Joe felt that time he called me to ask how one goes about buying milk.

I wasn’t home. I was somewhere, sure, but it wasn’t home. And I knew that they had whisked Brendon off to Los Angeles for his music project, so he wasn’t in New York when I arrived. I could not come back to him. Which, I suppose, only made sense, considering he probably would have been homeless in New York since Shane stayed in that apartment of theirs while Brendon moved out – or so I had heard. Vicky spent that summer trying to make sure I heard no news at all. She was largely successful, but Mike is Brendon’s manager, and Mike works for Vicky, and so I heard things. Sometimes. And so I was back in my apartment.

And in the kitchen was the ghost of a girl, humming along to the radio, dancing in place as she cooked dinner. And in the living room was the ghost of a boy, putting a new record on and then joining me on the couch again, curling into me, pressing his nose against my neck, and I smoothed down his hair and took a hit of the joint, and he smiled against my skin and said I smelled good, and I loved him.

There are no words to describe what emptiness feels like after that. It’s not even empty, which would suggest the presence of something before or a potential to be filled.

It was just... nothing.

The tour had offered the distraction I needed. I had become a workaholic. Obsessed with making the shows perfect. I had asked Vicky for more interviews. I’d talk. And talk. And talk. And sing. And talk.

The public was so happy that I finally was who they had always wanted me to be.

And I was never alone.

The cab driver had wished me a good night when he had left me on the corner of Prince and Thompson. And I got out my keys, dragging my suitcase, and I hauled it up six floors, and then I stood there. In my apartment. Alone. With no one around. No fans grabbing at me or yelling my name, and no Gabe avoiding me because I had fucked that one up well, I really had, and the road crew wasn’t there, I was no longer important because I was out of that bubble, and –

I was hollow.

I had returned as a shadow of myself. And I don’t think the scope of my loss even really hit me until then, like I had powered through summer and two months of more touring like a machine. Unemotional. Detached.

I had to get out of there. I left that night, grabbed a few things and got a room in a hotel in the next block. Didn’t sleep. Sat on a squeaky, narrow single bed with cockroaches scurrying across the floor, and I swear I didn’t blink once.

It was a bit like peace. Knowing that I was somewhere where nobody knew I was. Where no one would come looking for me. I felt more at home in that tiny room than any of the luxury suites across the world, champagne pouring and cocaine on silver plates. I felt like depravity was closer to what I deserved.

We were supposed to announce our late fall tour of the US the following day. Get back on the road the following month.

But I couldn’t. The fallacy of my life had caught up with me, and I knew then and there that I would never be able to hit the road again.

In the morning, I called Jon and told him it was over. He tried to convince me to come meet him, talk it out. I refused. He said that I couldn’t just leave Patrick, Gabe and him high and dry, let alone all the dozens of people that we knew who had been involved. But I did leave them. He told me I was a fuck up. I said that I was aware. He apologised, he hadn’t meant it, he was just upset. He asked me to come meet him. I said no, and he hung up on me.

It wasn’t the last time we spoke. We have spoken, we have talked it out, made amends. We’ve both apologised and said that we’re still friends.

A week after my phone call to Jon, the press release came out.

By the time it did, I had left New York. Lived in a hotel room in Manchester, New Hampshire for six months. Happened to take a weekend trip to nowhere, to the coast. Found my house on a desolated beach. Bought it.

And I have not been seen.

A dramatic reappearance isn’t really my kind of thing. Waltzing backstage would cause a rumour mill. I don’t know why I’m going, but it’s definitely not to be taunted by the press present at the show. It’ll be best to keep my head low.

Sisky clears his throat slightly. Again. He’s been doing that for the past minute.

“What?” I ask irately.

“Are you, uh...” He motions at the road. “Actually going to drive?”

A truck drives past us just then, fast and unstoppable. I flinch without meaning to. Sisky’s jaw slows down in its munching movements, coming to a stop. He stares at me. “Are you afraid of driving?”

“Fuck you,” I snarl and push the gear onto one, flick the indicator, check the side-mirror, the rear-view mirror, turn my head, stare at the expanse of empty road behind us, nothing there, no one, count to five, five, five, five, five, and then press the accelerator and get us off the hard shoulder and back onto the road. I flex my fingers but keep them firmly on the wheel, hating how sweaty my hands continue to feel.

Sisky is still staring at me, grinning even. “You’re so afraid of driving.”

“Oh wow, that’s helpful! That’ll keep us on the road! Thanks!”

I press the accelerator too hard and we fly forwards, and that smirk on his face disappears. Good. I slowly drop the speed, smirking at the way he’s put on his seatbelt and has paled considerably.

“I, er- I could drive,” he says timidly. “I’m not that tired.”

“We’ll switch when I say so.”

He nods. He keeps eyeing me worriedly, and I try not to think about the situation too much. The road is quiet, the sides of the road are white with snow but the road itself is gleaming black. Driving is automatic. I am a good driver. I just don’t like it. Anymore.

“Anyway,” I say, needing something to distract myself. “We’ll find a hotel in Montreal, and you can stay in your room while I go to the show and –”

“I’m not going?!” he asks, scandalised. “I am going! I want to see His Side live just as much as any other Ryan Ross fan! In case Ryan shows up.” He smiles at me sweetly, and I roll my eyes. “I really do want to go, though. Jon Walker will be there. Jon is amazing! He is just... wow! You know? And I did buy their album and it was really good! It’d be great to see them live! And I want to know if Brendon Roscoe is as good live as the article said.”

“He probably is.”

I don’t see there being much in this world that that boy couldn’t do.

“Can you introduce me to him? I’ve met Jon three times. He’s nice. But I’ve never talked to Brendon Roscoe or, well, I did a few times during Jackie, I mean, the roadies were half-gods and gateways to the band but I spent so much time that summer getting high and chasing after the band members that it all kind of blurs together, but can you introduce me to Brendon Ros –”

“Would you stop calling him that?” I snap. “That’s not his name. That’s a made up name.” I take in a deep breath, unnerved.

Sisky looks curious. “It’s not a real name? I know yours is real. I’ve seen your birth certificate.” Well of course he has. “What’s his real name?”

“Brendon.”

“Brendon...?”

But Sisky will go hunt down all the Uries and interview Brendon’s mom and his homophobe of a dad, and no. I’m not doing that either. Brendon went through hell to get rid of those people, and I’m not about to organise a family reunion. I wouldn’t do that to him. Despite everything.

“He’s of no concern to you,” I then say. He better leave Brendon alone. Brendon’s only taking baby steps into fame – he doesn’t need to get called out yet.

“Well, I want to meet him nonetheless.” Sisky is pouting, lower lip jutted out and everything. “And I want to meet Ian and Dallon and Bob.”

“Who?”

“Ian and Dallon and Bob. That’s the guitarist and the bassist and the drummer.” Huh. So he’s done his homework on His Side, too.

“I don’t think meeting the band is in the cards,” I tell him, and he looks displeased with this plan. But I don’t have an actual plan. I should turn this car around and go back home. I’ve regretted this decision seventy-five times an hour since we left. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just – He just keeps talking about me, and Jon sent me a ticket, and I never got in touch with Jon to let him know I wasn’t going, so maybe he kept waiting to see me in New York five nights ago. Maybe he kept looking around. Maybe Brendon did too.

So I don’t have a plan. I just want to go and see them play, see what the fuss is about. Suss them out. Assess the situation. Make my plans then.

But my sweaty palms aren’t only the result of the road and being behind the wheel.

I’m going to the same city. Same venue.

This has got to be the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever done.

We get to the venue an hour after the doors have opened but luckily the show isn’t sold out. I’m irritated and anxious nonetheless.

Note to self: nine hours in a car with Sisky? Not the best way to guarantee sanity, even if he fell asleep for a while, shutting up for a whole thirty minutes before I woke him up and made him drive us the rest of the way, the traffic getting intolerable as we closed in on Montreal. Even that was bad – sitting on the passenger seat in a swirl of traffic.

I like airplanes. There’s not much chance of crashing into someone or something high up in the sky.

At the hotel it proved impossible to get rid of Sisky. He insisted on coming, said he’ll make his own way if I don’t take him, and then he’ll tell everyone that Ryan Ross is in the building, and –

That’s just fucking low.

So now we’re here together, and I lurk behind the corner with my hood pulled over my head while he goes to the box office that’s decorated with Christmas lights. He soon returns. “They don’t take US dollars.”

I stare. “What?”

“They don’t take US dollars,” he repeats and gives me back my ten dollar note. “Also, a ticket is six bucks each.”

“Six bucks for a concert ticket?” I ask, huffing. “Ridiculous what things cost these days!” It’s not the money – it’s the principle. “Right, we’ll go get some Canadian dollars, then,” I seethe, shooting daggers at the playhouse in downtown Montreal, ‘Tonight: His Side’ written on huge letters out front. The venue fits roughly four thousand by the looks of it. The band is drawing in big crowds already.

And he is somewhere in there as we speak.

Sisky is giving me a look. He is very distinctively giving me a look with an eyebrow arched and lips pursed together.

“What?” I ask.

“Um, hello?” He waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re Ryan Ross! We don’t need tickets! We just march in there!” He seems very keen on this idea of just marching into the venue like we own the place.

“And what if I want to keep it down low?” I ask, and he looks annoyed. “Now come on, it’s cold out here.” Our breaths rise into the air, and I head down the street with him complaining about my lack of enthusiasm. He thinks I’m here to make a comeback – I am not. I’m here to see what the hell is going on.

I’m not here to see him. I’m actively trying not to think about how he is here, and I am here, we are in the same place, and it’s enough to make my guts twist and send my mind reeling. Just another indication of how over I thought it was and how over it’s not. Not for me. I still think of him every day. Every single day.

I convince a coffee house keeper a block down to exchange some of my cash to some of his since no banks are open at this hour. I say “Bonsoir” and “Merci beaucoup” and end up losing quite a bit in the exchange. He keeps staring at me curiously, searchingly. “Do I know you from somewhere...?”

“Non,” I say and then drag Sisky out of there because his mouth opens wide as if to say, ‘This is Ryan Ross!’ I hand him the cash as we walk back towards the venue. I didn’t plan on marching into the venue, not exactly, but shuffling with currencies and shivering in the cold outside incognito while he is a star inside really wasn’t how I envisioned this going.

Again I remain behind the corner, wishing I had a hat (recommendable in this weather) or sunglasses, which became my loyal friends and accomplices of disguise while I was living in New York. Good ways to try and not get recognised, but now I only have a hood to protect me. Walking into a venue potentially full of people who’ll recognise me in two seconds? Smart one, Ross. Smart, smart, smart.

A taxi pulls up to the curb next to me, and I don’t really pay attention to the tall, brown-haired guy who steps out of it. Well, except for checking out his ass when he bends over and peers into the backseat – it’s a nice ass, the tight denim jeans hugging it tightly. But it’s not nice enough to distract me or make me feel any less nervous. I wait for Sisky to return so that we can go in and find a dark corner to hide in or maybe just leave. Yeah. Maybe we should just leave.

“I’m peachy,” a voice mumbles from the direction of the taxi. I stop. Frown. Look over again.

The tall guy is no longer alone but has helped out another guy from the back of the taxi, which now takes off. The other guy is not tall but short. Shorter than me or Brendon. As the two stand next to each other, the handsome tall guy looks even taller, an arm now around the shoulders of the guy drunkenly leaning into him, with a ridiculous mess of brown frizzy hair down to his shoulders like he’s a cheap man’s Jimmy Page. His jacket is open with just a white t-shirt underneath, and he must be freezing, and something’s hanging around his neck, laminated and shiny. A backstage pass.

“And we’re walking... and we’re walking...” the tall guy says, leading a drunken Ian Crawford away from me, towards wherever a back entrance to the venue is. Their steps are slightly rushed like they are in a hurry. Well, yeah. They probably need to be on in less than an hour.

“Got ‘em!” Sisky’s voice chirps by my side, showing me the tickets, but I keep looking after Ian and whoever the other guy is. Sisky spots them too.

“Oh. Oh,” Sisky breathes. “Ryan, look! That’s Ian! And Dallon! Hi, Ian and Dallon!” he all but yells, now waving enthusiastically, taking a step their way like he plans to catch up with them for a chat.

I grab Sisky’s arm to stop him just as Brendon’s bandmates look around. Dallon, the tall guy with soft blue eyes and neatly cut brown hair, looks our way only briefly and then walks faster, which is a smart thing to do when fans harass you as you’re dragging your drunken guitarist to the venue. Ian, however, keeps staring our way even as Dallon drags him along. Ian’s eyes focus on my hooded figure.

“Come the fuck on,” I hiss at Sisky and pull us around the corner just as I hear a confused and drunken, “Hey! Hey, you totally look like –”

I wonder if Ian’s life mission still is to sleep with me or if he’s gotten over that now that he’s in a famed band, which is two fifths secretly gay.

“Are you an idiot?” I ask Sisky as I push him in front of me, keeping my eyes cast downwards as we give the tickets to a security guy at the venue door. Sisky only pouts some more and looks at me with a hurt expression as we walk up the stairs, music echoing all over, still muffled. We enter the actual hall from the back, faced with the backs of three thousand people standing in a mass, engulfed by darkness and then lit up by lights from the stage where a support band or another is playing. The crowd feels restless but enthusiastic, and the air is heavy with cigarette and weed smoke. The people on the stage look small.

“Should we try and push our way to the front?” Sisky asks happily. I stare at him in disbelief. What about this is he failing to understand?

“Look, you go play with the other kids, and I’ll stay here. We’ll meet in that coffee house afterwards, alright?”

“But –”

I’ve already turned my back on him and pushed my way to the nearest crowd to lose him. It’s only a fake move because I snake through people only to leave the mass again and stand in the very back corner, hiding the best I can. My coat feels too hot as the room is full of perspiring teenagers and young adults. They generally seem to be between sixteen and twenty-five, maybe, with some of them a bit older. A lot of them are wearing His Side t-shirts. A lot of them are wearing Followers t-shirts. A lot of them are wearing Ryan Ross & The Whiskeys t-shirts.

The integration of these bands does not even really hit home with me until then.

Musically, I don’t get it. All my second band had to do with my first one was me. All His Side has to do with my second band is Jon. All bands sound different. We were different genres. And maybe The Followers and The Whiskeys sounded the same – of course they did to an extent because it was my music – but His Side definitely does not sound like me.

Vicky said that His Side is the only posthumous link to me since I left. That people cling onto that.

Clearly they do. Here’s a band that I get the credit for. I found him. I enabled his career. I gave him to the world as a parting gift.

So maybe these kids have come to see what Brendon has to say in the absence of their legitimate leader.

The support band wraps it up, thanks His Side, tells people to enjoy the show. And people clap and chatter and smoke and get drinks from the bar, and roadies shuffle on stage and set things up and rearrange the microphones and bring out keyboards. I lower my hood when it gets too hot, and then I smoke in the corner and wait. Fans look around, bored, but the privacy of the corner keeps me safe, keeps my face in the shadows. I don’t even want to know how the scenario would play out if someone spotted me. I’m pretty sure someone would die – me, most likely, squashed to death like a bug.

But eventually, after nearly forty minutes of nothing, the stage is ready. The audience can tell that it is. And then it starts, the chanting: His – Side – His – Side – His – Side. Stomping. Yelling. And it fills me with dread, but then I remember that it’s not for me, they’re not waiting for me, and I do not need to go on stage.

And when the lights switch on, illuminating the stage, I realise that perhaps I underestimated this event as being my vigil. Because the crowd isn’t mourning. It becomes alive: a wave of jumping people, a wave and another, arms outstretched.

A stocky, blond guy marches on with messy hair over his eyes, holding up his hand as a greeting, and they love him. Then the tall guy comes on, Dallon, and I can just make out that he’s smiling this amused smile as he remains on the left side of the stage, and they love him. And then Jon comes on. It’s surreal. But there he is, taking his place on the right side of the main microphone stand, and I know what he looks like standing there. What it’s like to look to my left on stage and see him there. A pillar of rock, but now he resembles a pillar of salt. And he looks the same – his hair is the same, his clothes look the same or perhaps are smarter: black slacks and a dress shirt with a butterfly collar. Dallon is dressed in similar fashion, but the drummer is wearing a black t-shirt. Jon’s got that Gibson that he bought during our only ever tour together. He smiles, and it seems authentic. And they love him.

Then Ian comes on. He smiles, seems nervous, wide-eyed. Lacks the confidence that the three other members ooze. He can walk now but seems disorientated, blinks against the lights. I can only wonder how much coffee they pumped into him. He clutches onto his electric guitar like a lifeline as he stands between Dallon and the only spot still empty. Unfilled.

And when the last figure half-jogs on stage and the audience reacts by screaming, screaming, screaming, screaming, I – I can’t look. I drop my gaze and feel every inch of me tingling, hyper aware. Hear my blood pounding in my ears. Look at anywhere but, even when I hear him, and it’s his voice, and he says, “Bonsoir Montreal,” and his accent sounds good to me, he sounds like a well-travelled man, and I suppose he is in some ways. And then he just says a seductive sounding, “Thanks for coming out. We’re His Side.” He says it with such ease and such lightness to his words.

And then, as the music starts, explodes, falls on us, I look up. And he’s taken the microphone from the stand, is nodding his head to the beat, is next to Ian, and then he leans towards the audience to make them scream and starts singing.

And it’s right then that I can no longer pretend that this isn’t his life now. Some part of me has been set on thinking that he isn’t really in this band, isn’t really singing on the radio and giving interviews. That he’s still a waiter or a bartender in some shitty club somewhere, waiting for the day that I stroll in and save him.

But I guess that’s it. That he never, ever needed saving. I just arrogantly assumed that he did.

He looks the same. From afar, he does. He’s the same height. Same weight. Same colour of hair.

But he has grown in ways that make him almost unrecognisable. He’s got stage presence. He controls the stage, isn’t intimidated by the crowd, isn’t apologetic for being there – isn’t like me. He radiates confidence that I don’t associate with any of my memories of him. He was always fierce, always knew his worth. Or pretended to, at least. And he lets the audience sing the chorus, nods approvingly, and then kicks into another verse. Easily. Smoothly. Like he’s been doing this forever, like this isn’t their first tour and their, I don’t know, eleventh show. Like he isn’t scared shitless though he must be. He must be.

But he just lets the crowd love him and want him and adore him. Lets the crowd do the work for him. And he walks up to Jon and they share the mic, and then he gets the crowd to jump up and down (and the crowd does, the fucking floor shakes), and then he sings the last chorus, puts the microphone in its stand, the guitars and the bass and the drums reach their peak, and he walks to the edge of the stage, both fists high up in the air and just stands still like a god. And the crowd has gone wild.

Trying to associate the man on stage with my Brendon feels impossible.

Because it isn’t. He was never... sure of himself like that. Never carefree like that. But now on stage he is the things that he never was with me. Probably because he no longer is with me.

“Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” he then says, breathing heavily into the microphone.

The songs that they play have heavier parts in them, getting the kids to bang their heads to the beat, but it’s not full on heavy rock. It’s a fusion with lighter pop. And as I watch them, the rumours get confirmed for me.

Rolling Stone called Brendon’s stage presence as one of sexual energy. That’s exactly what it is. The crowd eats out of the palm of his hand as he sings a song that’s explicitly about sex – ‘you don’t taste like anyone else I know’.

“You don’t taste like anyone else I know,” Brendon repeats, walking around Ian, who isn’t moving much. He seems purely focused on playing guitar in his still-drunken state and trying not to fuck it up. To his credit, he is doing it well. “Oh, baby, what did I say?” Brendon asks Dallon, and then they share the microphone and repeat the line. They lean very close to one another momentarily, and their heads turn to align their mouths but the microphone is still in between, but they still are too close, and I freeze and a lion roars in me, and then Brendon’s already stepped back.

What the hell was that?

Suddenly, the slight homoerotic subtext is all I can see. It’s not the way Queen does it with their crotch-cupping tights and glittery scarves – no, no, His Side is dressed appropriately. Brendon is wearing black jeans that come high up on his waist, they’re tight and leave very little to the imagination, and his dress shirt is properly buttoned and is now glued to his skin from the sweat. And Brendon isn’t trying to hump his bandmates, but there’s some kind of chemistry there, and Brendon rests his hand on Dallon’s shoulder as they share the mic again, and then the touch is gone but –

Dallon clearly watches Brendon walk away from him.

Brendon doesn’t do it with Jon or Ian or the drummer – was his name Bob? Sisky said so, I think. Just with Dallon and only very briefly, and I am sure that it’s mostly my imagination. But them touching each other was there nonetheless, and maybe the crowd just appreciates the gaying it up sketch and moves on, well at least the crowd members that even noticed it, but I can’t move on, not even when two songs later Brendon hovers around Ian and stands too close to him than is necessary or advisable. I’m not relieved that it’s not just the handsome tall guy, no, whatever, I’m just baffled that this has the Asher Management Company’s seal of approval.

Shouldn’t they be trying to make sure no one accuses Brendon of being a faggot? How is Brendon eye-fucking his bandmates on stage going to help this show stay on the road?

The answers are lost on me.

“This next song isn’t mine,” Brendon says eventually. They’ve been on stage for nearly an hour, and thankfully Brendon hasn’t shown any further inappropriate interest in Dallon.

“Not mine either,” Jon says to his mic.

“We’re borrowing it,” Brendon says, microphone in hand. He wanders to the drum kit, taking a beer bottle from the platform and drinking from it as Jon continues.

“It’s a Followers song,” Jon elaborates, and the crowd responds with enthusiastic applause. “You might’ve heard of them?” Jon asks, then laughs at the cheering. “Of course you have.”

Someone screams ‘RYAN ROSS!’ really, really loudly just then. Jon points at the person. “Yeah, you’re right. This is his song. Well done.” Jon strums a chord. My throat feels tight as I watch them from the shadows, where they don’t know I am. None of them do. “Yeah, this song was written by a friend of ours, Ryan. We play this song every night. He’s changed a lot of lives, and...” The sudden silence feels eerie. I thought it would be a vigil, but it’s been a rock show. Now it’s a vigil. Jon’s tone has changed. The atmosphere has changed to one of... loss? “Well, it’s called Miranda’s Dream.”

I wrote Miranda’s Dream on tour back in the day. It’s based on reoccurring dreams about a girl with long brown hair and big green eyes. She kept getting chased in the dream, but every time she almost died, she realised she was dreaming, decided to change it, and so she did, creating a new world. But then whatever was hunting her caught up with her again. I kept having that same dream for about a week or so. Wrote a song about it: ‘She dances with her captors tonight, she never tries to put up a fight. And she is golden, she is golden –’ That’s where the drums really kick in and it all spirals, ‘– and she never asks –’ Heavy guitar, distortion, ‘where you are’, and the last two minutes are instrumental as we bring all our instruments together in a spiralling symbiosis of sound.

Every single second of that song is embedded into my brain. Or maybe deeper. It’s in my soul. If I believe in souls, and I don’t know if I do. But it’s like hearing the song for the first time when His Side plays it. They haven’t changed the song much, and so it’s distinctively different from their own music. The song’s not asking for attention, it’s not trying to pull you in with a catchy line or beat. It’s not trying to please – it’s trying to say something.

Brendon walks back to his microphone stand, slides the mic in place. He places both hands on it, head hung, nodding slowly and waiting for the singing to start. But it doesn’t for another minute – first the guitars play together, then over each other, compete. Mine and Joe’s – Ian and Jon’s. And the crowd is silent and a few of them have taken out lighters because the start is slow.

And Brendon is different when he sings it. He sings my song beautifully. Better than I ever could. And he’s still now, he’s not trying to hype up the crowd, he’s not trying to provoke a reaction by moving his damn enticing and hypnotising hips. He stays by the mic stand, and I think he’s got his eyes closed. And he sings about a hunted girl that kept visiting my dreams. And that’s the Brendon that I recognise. When he stands still, the pretence gone. When he seems to be focusing on the lyrics more, when he appears to be deep in thought. “She never asks where you are,” he sings and the lights flash at the right time, and the crowd moves restlessly and in anticipation, and he takes the mic and walks to the edge of the stage, holds a hand over the jumping crowd as the song explodes. “I never, never, never ask where you are,” he sings, which the original song doesn’t have, and then one of the techs brings him a guitar, and they finish the song with three, not two, guitars, and it sounds amazing.

I wish I was standing closer. Front row. I wish I could see his face as he sings, if he flinches when Jon says who wrote the song. If he is thinking of the lyrics or if he’s thinking of me.

If he means it when he says that he never asks where you are.

But now I know that the magazine didn’t lie. His Side is a good live band – apart from a few drunken slips from Ian that only a professional could pick out – and Brendon is incredible on stage. He’s sexual, he’s intense, hell – he is even slightly homosexual. He is showing charisma I never knew he had.

I always underestimated him. How genuine was my promotion of his talent, anyway? I just wanted to show him how I could do all the things for him that Shane couldn’t. Win him over.

Yeah, well, isn’t that an ironic thought in hindsight?

“This is our last song,” Brendon then announces, and the audience cheers and boos, not knowing which one to pick. Brendon wipes his forehead, and I know what the sweat on his skin tastes like.

A few people at the very back leave to avoid the imminent mass movement and queuing. They’ll switch the lights on when the band is done, and then my dark corner won’t be so dark anymore.

The song sounds like a ballad of some kind except the tempo’s faster. Brendon starts with, “Which promise was the easiest to break? Oh the one, all the ones, you made to me,” and it’s a damn generic line that seeks to be relatable to everyone ever (a common pop song quip), but somehow the way he sings it. It just hits home.

And there he is like I’ve pictured him to be: centre stage, spotlights on him. Beautiful and captivating. Almost unrecognisable.

And now I know it. Now I truly –

“Ryan?” a voice comes, one of complete surprise. I look to my side and a guy is standing there, a Followers t-shirt on him, eyes wide, long brown hair past his shoulders, barely out of high school. “Ryan,” he repeats because I reacted to my name, and now he knows I’m not an apparition. “Oh my god, it’s you!” He’s shouting it over the music but then turns around with, “You guys, it’s Ryan fucking Ross!”

I freeze up, suddenly very aware that I’ve been made. Most of the people in my vicinity have their backs to me, but one of his friends looks our way, and then he’s shaking his friends’ shoulders frantically, and I still haven’t thought to move.

But I really need to move. Now.

“Excuse me,” is all I say and move to get the hell out of there.

“Wait, man! Ryan, shit,” he swears, panicking, trying to block me.

“Excuse me,” I say again, and the commotion caused by my presence or at least the rumour of it seems to be spreading like a live flame in the gig-goers around me. Heads are turning rapidly, people frowning, some searching frantically, but my hood is back over my head so people look around, confused. And then I’m already out of the hall, but this persistent kid follows me, calling out my name, and a handful more follow. My eyes spot a ‘Staff Only’ door next to the stairs that would lead down and out, but there are kids in the stairs now looking up to see what the yelling is about. A bouncer is by the door, and I walk to it determinedly.

“Personnel autorisé seulement,” the bouncer says, holding out a fat palm to stop me, but his eyes are on the kids following me, and he’s frowning.

“Now’d be a good time to let me in.”

He looks at me. I look at him. I probably look like a panicked animal being hunted – I know I feel like one. Fucking hell, man, help me out.

His eyes widen. And then he presses a hand on my shoulder and pushes me towards the door, quickly stepping to stand behind me with, “Go right in, Mr. Ross,” rushed over his shoulder. I escape through the door as he calls out, “Would you all stay back?”

Once on the other side of the closed door, I stop to breathe. Listen to the commotion outside. Press my hand to my face, curse myself for being an idiot.

I got spotted. Well of course I got fucking spotted, and now I need to get out of here before they surround the building or break down the door or –

“That?” the bouncer’s voice booms from the other side of the door. “That was just one of our sound techs. There’s nothing to see here.”

If a door didn’t separate us, I’d kiss that man.

Nevertheless I now walk down the narrow, bare corridor, unsure of where it’s heading. I look for an exit sign, turn around a corner, eye the pipes that run along the ceiling, the corridor walls’ grey cement. The music is coming closer, His Side playing their last song. I slow my rushed steps as I realise that wherever I am, the corridor must run along the venue hall, and I’m nearing the stage. The music gets louder and louder.

I stop. Look to where I came from, look to where I’m going from. Realise I can only go forwards.

My hood’s fallen back to my shoulders. I card through my hair nervously, an ominous feeling beating in my chest. A few steps greet me at the end of the corridor, and I ascend them carefully, eyes darting from side to side as I enter the backstage area, thankfully dark with only the lights from the stage flashing.

The music is so loud that I can feel the bass thumping through me. Not too far to my side, the stage starts, and I see backs of people following the show, venue workers and roadies moving to the rhythm. From between the viewers, I see Jon, who no longer looks minimised but almost life-sized, and beyond him is –

A door ahead of me has an exit sign above it. There. That’s my escape before they finish the song.

But I don’t go towards the exit because I find myself approaching the stage. Curious. Drawn to it.

I move to stand behind a truss that supports stage lights. It’s conveniently behind the backs of the onlookers, but I can still see the stage while remaining in the shadows and mostly out of sight. Jon’s smiling at the crowd as he plays, clearly enjoying it, and Brendon walks towards him but keeps singing to the crowd. Jon’s shirt is glued to his back, and I can feel the heat of the stage to where I am.

I’m going now. Any second. Any, any second.

But then the song ends, and Brendon yells out, “Merci beaucoup, Montreal! Bonne nuit!” And the band is waving goodbye to the crowd that is cheering like hell. And instead of leaving, I merely take a step back into the shadows more and watch the band come towards my side of the stage. Jon gets there first and roadies pat his back approvingly, and he wipes sweat off his face, hair stuck to his forehead. Cassie is there, I see her now, and he smiles at her but it looks like it’s taking an effort. And then Bob is there, and he’s not smiling. He’s soaked through and through, and he grabs a beer bottle someone’s offering him and then keeps walking past the crowd and past where I’m hiding. It very clearly looks like he’s storming off.

Brendon, Dallon and Ian come off stage at the same time. This is because the second they are in the relative safety of the off-stage’s darkness, Ian’s shoulders slump, and Dallon is quick to catch him when he wavers.

“Shit,” Ian seems to mouth, and people rush to attend to him. Cassie’s smile fades and her look of disapproval is nearly identical to her boyfriend’s. The audience is still cheering and not moving anywhere: they’re still expecting an encore.

“Someone get him coffee and more water!” Mike Carden’s commanding voice then calls out. I’ve only met Mike once, but recognise him instantly: the long brown hair to his shoulders, the young-ish oval-shaped face, and he now has a thick moustache on his upper lip. Probably to try and look older. More manager-like.

“You need to sit down, man,” this Dallon guy says, looking tall as ever as he, Ian and a few others walk past my hiding place. They help Ian to sit on one of the amp hard cases by the steps that I took up to the backstage area, but they attract my attention no further.

I look at him. He’s got his back to me, but his shirt is glued to his skin and the back of his neck is flushed. He’s only fifteen feet from me. And he’s talking to Mike who is shaking his head and pointing towards Ian, and clearly the drama of whatever is happening is still happening. Jon’s got his arms crossed and his lips pursed, discontentment and disappointment on his face.

The difference between the band on stage and off couldn’t be more glaring.

My heart is beating so fast that I feel the thud of it in my veins, my blood pulsating. He’s right there.

And it’s to this wreck, Bob having marched off angrily, Dallon attending to an exhausted, sobering up Ian, Mike and Brendon arguing, and Jon and Cassie standing there silently enduring it, that I could step into.

I could come out of the shadows now. That’s why I’m here, after all.

To confront him at last.

The crowd is chanting His – Side – His – Side religiously, devoutly, and the line of Brendon’s shoulders is tight as he and Mike argue. The lights keep flashing on stage, to tease the crowd, and Brendon’s figure looks like a multicoloured, illuminated dream.

And I could step out of the shadows, then. Make him turn around. See his face.

Because I can’t see it. It’s unnerving, upsetting. That’s the one place where I have any chance of figuring out the truth: in his eyes when he looks at me. If it’s hatred or longing. Neither. A bit of both?

But his back is decidedly turned my way. Like I haven’t earned the relief of knowing yet.

And, I realise, I’m not ready to know it.

Jon might have invited me to New York with Brendon’s blessing, but I couldn’t make myself go. And now I could descend on their chaos and add more to it, I could be there in five seconds and watch Brendon and Mike shut up, and then I could just stand there, hold his gaze. Ask what the hell is happening with the band, with them covering my song, ask what the hell, what the hell –

God, what the hell is happening between us even when we’re apart?

“Just shut up for two seconds!” Brendon then barks, and Mike takes a step back. The two look like a magical transformation of Pete and I.

“Can he finish the set, even?” Mike asks, and they look towards Ian and Dallon. Dallon notices this and takes the glass of water from Ian and starts coaxing him to stand up and go do the encore. Bob is back, too, towelling his face, mouth a thin line, looking anything than amused. The crowd around them looks all kinds of awkward and apologetic. A few groupies are there, too, ogling at Bob so I guess they’re with him.

I know Brendon isn’t upset with me, I know that none of this has anything to do with me. His guitarist showed up drunk, is clearly still out of it, the entire band is stressed out, and Brendon now looks towards the stage, hands in his hair. But it’s that split second of anger, that sharp tone and wrath that hit home. What I always thought his reaction to me would be if we ever met again: how could you?

Hey, don’t steal my questions.

And if I step out there, then what?

We just glare at each other and nothing more.

And so I’m paralysed where I am. Because he’s right there, still looking towards the stage, and he and I have never been further apart. More broken up.

Jon goes to talk to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, and he relaxes some, nodding as Jon says something, and Bob, Dallon and Ian join them, wait for the chanting to get loud enough for them to go back out.

And I cannot bring myself to face him or any of them. But mostly just him.

And then he nods like a captain giving permission to fire, and His Side rolls back on stage: Bob first, then Jon – the crowd explodes – and then Ian and Dallon together, and then Brendon stands there, waits a beat, hands in fist, and the roadies watch him, and then he nods to himself and heads back on stage. With confidence. A sense of purpose.

On his own two feet.

And I tear my gaze away from him.

Panic rises in my chest at the first second when I no longer see him. His voice echoes everywhere as he thanks the crowd for calling them back out, but when he says it, I’m already at the door that promises to provide me with an exit. And it leads me to a stairwell, and I go down, down, and Brendon’s voice is a muffled echo that’s trying to grab onto me violently, tries to pull me back, tears me wide open, but still I hurry away from him until, until, until –

And then I’m outside in the cold again. I breathe heavily, everything in turmoil inside me. The night is dark now, the street lights are the only source of light. I’ve come out through a side-door, and I see people appearing around the corner of the building where the main doors are. And I breathe in cold, cold air and I shiver to the bone and I light a cigarette with trembling fingers, and then I suck in smoke like it’s air.

And nothing, nothing has changed.

What did I think would happen? That he’d magically see me mid-song. Forget the lyrics. Stare. And he’d jump off stage, snake his way through the crowd, and then he’d be there, wide-eyed, shocked. ‘You came,’ he’d say, voice weak. And then he’d whisper, ‘Please forgive me’, and me, ‘I forgive you, baby’, and he’d hug me tight. Or alternatively that he would have seen me in the shadows when I was backstage, that he’d be yelling at Mike but then he’d magically sense my gaze, turn around and see me, words dying in his throat. All the answers, all the forgiveness clear on his face.

And then I’d know.

But I know nothing. That didn’t do anything for me except throw reality in my face. His success and newly gained fame have been so easy to ignore so far. And when I close my eyes and try to focus on smoking, I only see him on stage, only see the graceful way he moves. And even my old memories of him suddenly feel new, like he is a part of me that will never fade with time.

And so the memory of him lives on, but now it’s changing, shifting. From the boy curling into me in the back of a tour bus, gently pushing closer and feeling so perfect in my arms, to that man who marched on stage just now, determined and sure.

The man who is no longer mine.

People have started to pour out of the venue and around the corner, and they’re gushing and talking excitedly. I quickly pull my hood over my head and head the other way, to the coffee house, wanting not to get swallowed into a crowd of people who can recognise me.

I doubt I could escape a mob twice. If a rumour has spread that I’m here, they’ll be on the lookout.

I slow down in my steps as I now notice a tour bus further down the side of the venue. It wasn’t there before, I don’t think. I approach it slowly, just to be on the safe side. A shiny metal box, very much like the bus that I drove was. Their bus isn’t brand new, but it doesn’t look too old either. A sizeable venue worker now stands by the side door of the building, eyeing my hooded figure suspiciously. They’ve gated off the area. A few fans are already rushing over to wait for the band to come out.

I walk past the commotion. I could stay. See if he can spot me in a crowd.

But we already tested that theory and he can’t.

He would not spot me in a crowd because he isn’t looking.

He’ll sing my words and say my name, but he isn’t looking to see if I turn up.

And I can’t bring myself to find out what would happen if I made him face the consequences of his actions.

When I walk into the coffee house, a waitress addresses me in French, but it’s drowned out by a guy doing an acoustic set in the corner. The air is thick with smoke and people are chattering and drinking black coffee, a lot more pretentious than the sweating crowd down the road. This time I take in the excessive Christmas decorations of the place as well: cardboard Santas and reindeer taped to the walls.

I lower my hood and blink at the waitress still waiting for a reply. She stares at me when she sees my face, slightly transfixed, and I recognise the honeyed look that suddenly glazes her blue eyes. I smile at her with painstaking effort, and her cheeks redden. She says something in French again, but this time her tone is sweet.

“I’m sorry, what?” My voice is rough, raw somehow.

“Oh. We’re closing in half an hour.”

“That’s fine. Can I get coffee? Black.”

“Sure.” Her eyes follow me when I go to one of the empty tables, and I sit down with my eyes to the door so that I don’t miss Sisky when he arrives. The waitress has got long legs and nice tits. She’s narrow in the middle, widening at her hips, she’s all around beautiful, and I could. She bites on her bottom lip when she brings the coffee over, her long black hair in a ponytail and resting on one shoulder. She makes eye contact, and I could.

But screwing cute girls in the bathrooms of various establishments does not feel that appealing anymore. I look around the café, and there’s a hot guy two tables away, messy brown hair, chocolate eyes, and my guts twist slightly at the thought of taking him instead, and it’s more appealing but just as hollow.

They’re not him.

The waitress walks away, looking slightly disappointed when I don’t return her interest.

But my insides feel heavy, my thoughts a mess. I dig into my coat and pull out a flask, the familiar engraved letters of G.R.R. under my thumb. This one’s for you, Dad. Or in your memory. They all are.

I pour vodka into the coffee when no one’s looking.

Sisky still hasn’t arrived, and so I focus on craning my neck to watch the guy play in the corner, focus on his sloppy fingering of the strings, anything to make me not think about how he is probably getting on that bus soon. Probably not for another hour or so, but eventually, and then he will go his way and I will go mine. And the thought is painful.

It’s also ridiculous because he and I have not even crossed paths. Not really. I’ve only been in the same room unbeknownst to him for a while, and that doesn’t count as him and I having collided. It doesn’t mean anything at all except that I caved in first, I had to come see him and then I chickened out.

So I guess he’s still winning.

I only came to see if the rumours were true. If what the magazines say was true. And it is. He’s a star and my name is not foreign to his lips.

So there.

There, there.

I didn’t come with some foolish hope of everything getting magically fixed.

He’s fine on his own. And now I’ll never see him again.

Just as the sudden lump in my throat nearly cuts off my breathing, I hear a, “Look, you just pour some coffee into the thermos, right? Not that hard,” from behind me. I turn back around, and Mike is now in the coffee house. He’s holding a thermos bottle, trying to get the girl to take it, and next to him is one of the roadies I saw by the stage just fifteen minutes ago.

“Alright, alright,” the girl hisses while I duck my head as shit shit shit proves to be a dominant thought. Mike would recognise me instantly.

“Someone should invent, like, coffee you can take with you,” Mike now says to the roadie with a weathered face and messy black hair. “What would that be called?”

“Portable coffee,” the guy suggests. “They could put it in paper cups or something.”

“Shit, that’d sell.” They wait around, and Mike is tapping his foot against the floor impatiently. “That was a good show, considering.”

“Considering, yeah. You don’t show up for a show that drunk,” the guy mutters. “At least he’ll now have some coffee to drink on the bus, but still. Something needs to be done about it.”

“He’s Brendon’s friend, what can I do? Chastise him, sure. Tell him we’re disappointed, sure. Jon will give him a good talking to. He managed to show up, though. He didn’t forget his parts. That’s professionalism on some level. Still. If it weren’t for Brendon standing in my way, I’d fire Ian.”

“Dallon’s taking Brendon’s side too.”

Mike scoffs. “Brendon and Dallon teaming up. Now that’s hardly a surprise… God, where’s that damn coffee?” He looks stressed out and bitchy – just about like any manager ever.

The girl comes out shortly after, handing the thermos to the roadie.

“Took your time,” Mike snaps and hurries out without further ado. The girl looks even more pissed off.

The roadie, however, gets a sly smile on his lips and flips black hair from his forehead. “Thanks, babe. We just played a show down the road.”

“Oh, did you?” Her voice is crisp and uninterested.

“Yeah, I’m with a band. His Side? You might’ve heard of them.” He hands her some money. “There’s extra there just for you.”

Oh, a fatal mistake. You can’t let them know you want them. Chicks dig mystery.

“Merci,” she says with a purse of her lips and then turns around to clear up dirty cups from now empty tables. The guy looks slightly displeased, his eyes lingering on her form as he exits the coffee house. She comes over to me from where I’ve been trying to cover my face with the side of my palm pressed to my forehead, like I’ve been contemplating life all this time. She smiles down at me hopefully. “Anything else I can get you?”

“No. Thanks.”

She looks disappointed.

I slowly relax from the sudden invasion of Brendon’s manager and one of their roadies, drinking my spiked coffee and trying not to think about their words too much. About problems in the band. Already. People taking sides. Already. Well, I saw that myself, didn’t I?

I never wanted him to have to go through all of that. Too late now. Can’t protect him even if I wanted to.

But I’m sure that Brendon can handle anything that comes his way.

The musician’s finished playing his shitty set, and people applaud dutifully. Someone calls something out in French, and the waitress passes my table and says a helpful, “We’re closing.”

Yeah, I figured.

I tip her generously. A ‘sorry, you are attractive, but it’s not you – it’s me. And I swear that five years ago I would have.’

Sisky, unsurprisingly, hasn’t showed up. I stand outside the coffee house, put my gloves back on, tie my brown scarf around my neck, and watch my breath rise into the icy air. I told him to meet me here, so where has he gone? Stupid idiot…

He knows our hotel, though, and I’m not responsible for him, absolutely not, so he can make his own way back. And I don’t want to wait for Brendon to leave. I’ll leave first. It’s always easier for me if I manage to leave first. Makes me feel like it was my decision, that I’m not fleeing because I just witnessed how okay he is without me, even in the middle of a crisis.

If I leave first, I don’t have to deal with the realisation of how unready I am to face him.

I walk back towards the venue slowly. There are a few dozen kids hanging around outside, and I look to where the tour bus still is, and kids are still waiting for the band there too. Sisky is nowhere to be seen, and a taxi is coming down the street so I hail it over. I get to the backseat, say, “Hey. Can I get, to uh… Rue… Saint… one of the saints, man.”

“Which one?” he asks, and I don’t even remember the name of the hotel. I look out of the window to the venue and, amidst a group of kids standing on their own, spot Sisky.

“Hang on, I just saw my friend. He knows the address.” I get out of the car and cross the street, ready to snap at Sisky for disobeying simple goddamned orders. He’s smoking like most of the gig-goers standing by him are, shivering in the cold as they form a circle.

“No, man, it wasn’t actually him,” the one with ginger hair sticking from under a green woolly hat says, his back to me. “I dunno who those kids think they saw at the show tonight, but it was not Ryan. It’s time we all face the truth: Ryan is dead.” I slow down my steps, frowning. This comment gets a hum of approval from the other kids – not even kids. They’re all in their early to mid-twenties. “He died in September 1977. They’ve just covered it up, man.”

“He is not dead,” Sisky says, sounding angry.

“Sisky,” the guy laughs, “wake up and smell the rotting flowers! I know people, alright? I’ve got inside information.”

“Maybe I’ve got inside information too.”

A few of the guys laugh. “Please. You?” the ginger guy questions, and the general consensus seems to be against Sisky’s credibility. “Ryan ODed last year. That’s why The Whiskeys split. They had him cremated and scattered his ashes from the top of the Empire State Building. It’s this whole conspiracy, man, and another thing.” He holds a dramatic pause. “They don’t think the overdose was accidental.” A girl gasps. “Yeah, man. He cracked under pressure. Took his own life.”

“You are full of shit, Melvin!” Sisky snaps. “Ryan would not kill himself!”

“Like you know him.” The tone is mocking, and Sisky’s cheeks might be red from the cold but they turn redder just then. Melvin motions down the street towards the bus. “Why don’t you go hang out with the teenaged groupies by the backdoor, alright? The true fans are having a conversation here.”

The people chuckle, and Sisky nervously drags in smoke and hangs his head.

“Hey,” I say loudly, causing the small crowd to turn around. They stare. They stop… and they stare. It’s a Webster’s dictionary definition of ‘stupefaction’ that hits them all simultaneously. The cigarette that the ginger one is smoking drops from his lips as his mouth hangs open. I look past him. “Sisky, you coming or what?”

Sisky stares at me in astonishment, and then he drops his cigarette, steps on it, and pushes through from between the ginger kid and one of the girls.

“Ryan –” the ginger one rushes out, eyes wide as saucers, but I cut him short.

“I’m not fucking dead, so fuck you. And for the record, suicide is tacky, so how about you stop lying about imaginary inside information, alright?” I glare at him. “Fucking tagalongs…”

“I-I meant no offense, we –”

“Come on,” I tell Sisky, who seems very rigid and frozen. I place a hand on the back of his neck because he might not move otherwise. “We’ve got a cab waiting.” I guide him away from the crowd, and Sisky is staring ahead like he can’t believe this is his life, but as we get closer to the taxi, he gets a slight spring in his step.

I open the door for him. The crowd has followed us. Fans do that – follow me when I leave. But they keep a slight distance, still staring at me, and one of the girls has got tears streaming down her face. Stupid idiot. I’m dead? I’m dead to them?

Sisky almost gets in the car but then turns to the fans quickly. “I’m Ryan’s biographer!” he calls out and then shrugs in a ‘what do you know?’ way, hands lifting and everything, and then he grins wildly and gets in the taxi.

“Fucking kid,” I mutter and follow him, and it’s once we’re inside, once we’re separated, that the spell gets broken and the fans are pounding the taxi windows and frantically calling out my name and asking me not to leave.

The driver looks at us in confusion, but then he gasps. “Merde! Ryan Ross!”

“Sisky,” I snap, and he says, “Rue Saint François Xavier, s’il vous plait,” like it’s coming from his backbone, and the taxi takes off quickly.

One fan runs after the taxi for two blocks before giving up.

Sisky’s cheeks are still red, but a small smile lingers on his lips, a mix of joy and embarrassment, but he doesn’t look at me, not quite.

“You’re not my biographer,” I repeat, anger swirling inside me. I overdosed on purpose? Is that what people think?

He rubs his cold-looking nose. “Sorry.” He looks tiny then, mouse-like.

I only lean into the backseat and think that, well.

I go this way.

And Brendon, my Brendon who is no longer mine, who stands centre stage, goes another way.

The one that leads away from me once more.

The idiocy of the Montreal excursion hits me at the hotel, sometime after the fifth Scotch poured from the bottle that I smuggled from the dead hotel bar back to my room. Sisky sits on my bed and eyes me worriedly as I pace back and forth.

Sisky’s got a glass of Scotch too, but he hasn’t touched it. He is being uncharacteristically quiet and mostly just looks at me with pursed lips.

“God. Fuck. Shit.” I rub my face tiredly, sighing. “What am I doing here? I mean, really. What for? Veni, vidi, nihil egi.”

He stares in confusion. “What?”

“I came, I saw, I did nothing.”

“Where did you pick up Italian?” he asks, and I cringe but don’t correct him. Spend seven months on your own – you end up acquiring surprising skills. “Well, I thought it was a really good show. His Side was excellent. Everyone agreed.”

Like the show is my fucking problem.

“Everyone being those brats you were entertaining?” I clarify anyway, and he half-shrugs. He’s been down about it since we got back. He’s got his problems, I’ve got mine but at least he isn’t dead and at least he hasn’t proved incapable of facing his former lover. I pour myself another drink. I can feel the alcohol in my system, making my insides warm. If I keep drinking, it’ll get to my thoughts eventually, will shut off my brain. “Who were those snobby bastards, anyway?”

“The followers,” he says, and when I frown, he explains, “The Followers’ followers. I mean... that’s what we called ourselves. Because we were... following The Followers.”

“How witty.”

“Yeah, well...” He pulls on the collar of his t-shirt that says ‘Route 66’, bought from some kind of a tacky souvenir shop between LA and Chicago. “I used to hang out with that crowd. They’re the hardcore fans, you know? The ones that followed you from town to town, who knew all the roadies and waited outside hotels and were always front row. You know, the true fans.”

“Love isn’t measured by obsession,” I note faintly, and he looks embarrassed once more. I’m not criticising him. He’s obsessed, maybe, but he’s alright. I’m not drunk enough to make that admission, however.

I keep thinking back to what they said, though. About my supposed suicide. Like I was that weak, that fucked up. Anger bubbles in me at the thought of it. “I wouldn’t want to hang out with that crowd,” I hiss. Brendon knows I’m alive, of course, but what does he make of such rumours? Do they just solidify what he already thinks of me? A fuck up. A ruiner of lives. Thank god that came to an end.

Sisky’s eyes light up slightly, and he leans forward. “Yeah, they’re not nice, are they? Melvin used to be nice. We met when we were fifteen, we were best friends, you know? We both fucking loved you. And then we followed you during Jackie, and Melvin was so cool back then. But, I don’t know. First Brent, like... actually remembered his name, and then he once had a few beers with Joe, and Joe still remembers him, you know? And Melvin just thought he was too cool for me after that.” Sisky is now playing with the sleeve of his shirt. “No one ever remembers me.”

“He’s just easier to remember. An ugly, chubby ginger kid.” I keep saying ‘kid’ although this Melvin character is probably twenty-three or twenty-four. Not even that much younger than me.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, but then smiles. “We showed him, though, huh? Next time I see him, he’ll still be too stunned to speak. Because I found you. I’m on a road trip with you!” This thought seems to please him greatly. “Wait until everyone hears that you were spotted!”

Oh, joy.

This thought makes me finish my drink and automatically pour another one.

Which one is better? To let people think that I cracked, bound a leather strap to my arm, pressed the needle into my skin with a shaking hand, knowingly taking a lethal dose, or that I am actually out and about and fine?

And what if my cameo actually reaches the band, too? ‘Hey man, Ryan Ross was at your show in Montreal last week.’ Lurking in the shadows. Pathetic. That’s what they’ll think – that I’m pathetic. I marched backstage, at least, like Sisky so desperately wanted me to, but even then I...

I’m a coward, and now I want to get back into the car and drive back home – sweet, rural, dead Machias. And then forget and never let anyone mess with me enough to make me think that I have unfinished business with anyone from His Side.

They’re all doing just fine without me. They’re doing marvellously, even.

“You know what, Sisky?” I ask, motioning at his glass. “You need to drink. That’s what we need to do here – drink.” My skin is itching, my brain hurts, and I feel full of anger aimed at nothing and no one.

Sisky coughs when he first drinks the Scotch, and I guess he isn’t used to it. He braves on, however, smiling at me, and I wish he’d stop. That ‘you’ve been so nice to me’ appreciation is rolling off of him in waves, but I am not nice.

“Where are His Side heading next?” I ask.

“Toronto. They have a week more of shows, and then they’ll take a Christmas break, and then they have a handful more after New Year’s,” he says knowledgeably. “What did you make of the show? I thought it was great. Brendon’s performance was so full of emotion, wasn’t it?”

It was.

I take in an uneven breath. “I can’t stay here. I need to get out of this country. This city. I need to get back home.”

I look around as if to pack up, but I have nothing to pack up. Sisky looks confused and intimidated, but twenty minutes later we’re back in the car, and I’m curled up in the passenger seat, wrapped up in my winter coat and drinking straight from the bottle that I’m no longer sharing. Sisky looks unnerved as he drives across a darkened Montreal, quieter than earlier. I leave the navigating to him.

“Are you okay?” he asks gingerly.

“No,” I laugh, rubbing my face. “No, I’m not fucking okay. I just want to get back home. That’s all. God, this was a stupid idea. Seeing him again...”

“Jon seemed to enjoy himself, though,” he throws in, and fuck Jon. I loved the guy, still do I guess, but he can do whatever he pleases. He doesn’t wreck me.

Sisky then starts babbling about what he thought of the show, analysing it rather accurately, noting that Ian made a few mistakes. I’m pretty impressed that he managed to pick that out too. Huh. Well spotted. Smart kid. Then he gets onto Brendon and he gushes like the fan that he is, saying my Brendon is talented and so full of energy, and “When he sang Miranda’s Dream, god, I had chills going down my spine!”

Me too.

Sisky smiles slightly lopsidedly as he drives, and I make a drunken note of him still being a fan. I’ve started to forget that.

“You know, when I was talking to Melvin and the guys outside, they said that... Well, I mean.” He glances at me worriedly. We’re on a highway now. Good, good. Good, good, good. “Apparently some people say that Brendon’s, like... I mean.” He’s very clearly struggling to form this sentence. “That he’s not purely... interested in women. I mean. There are rumours.”

I nearly laugh. Of course there are rumours – Brendon has never been in the closet. Not until now. And he has a long damn list of men he has slept with, and he used to work in a gay bar in San Francisco and he’s attended gay freedom marches or whatever, and he lived with Shane for well over two years, and he might slap on a new surname for himself, but he’s a star now. And people always want to know what bit of the sky these stars have fallen from.

There are rumours about Brendon, but it’s difficult to prove one way or the other without hard evidence. The rumours don’t even stem from Brendon’s gay past because so far journalists have not been able to find out where he’s from. It’s mostly coming from Brendon when they perform, that’s what Vicky said, and I never got that until now. He’s just – sexual.

“You should know better than to believe all the rumours you hear,” I say bitterly, the ashes of my burnt body landing on New York in my head. I would never choose a place as tacky. There is no place where my ashes could be scattered. I never belonged anywhere.

Sisky nods like he knows he shouldn’t believe rumours, but at the same time he frowns. “I guess but... he did get really up and personal with Dallon and Ian, didn’t he? I swear I thought he and Dallon were going to, well, uh... kiss.” He looks awkward saying it. Leeches like Melvin & Co. are bound to hear rumours like that eventually, and Brendon’s very brief moment with Dallon certainly isn’t helping. But I didn’t just imagine it – Sisky noticed it too. I’m not deranged. I wonder if any of the fans have heard the same rumour about me because I know there have been rumours about my sexuality for years now. Yet, if the rumours are there, Sisky is clearly blissfully ignorant of them so maybe no one just buys them and don’t think them worth mentioning. Who would ever think I’m gay, anyway?

“Brendon and Dallon had chemistry, though.” Sisky seems more confused the more he reflects the interaction between Brendon and his bandmates.

Straight guys are so fucking cute.

I’m busy not thinking about it, though, or thinking about Mike’s words: “Brendon and Dallon teaming up. Now that’s hardly a surprise…” His tone had been slightly sarcastic. I wonder what he meant, what the inside joke was. If he was insinuating that... No. No, I saw them myself when they came off stage: there was nothing suspicious there at all.

I’m making it up.

“God, I need a drink,” I say. Sisky quirks an eyebrow as if to say ‘but you are drinking’. Well, I need to drink more. Clearly.

I’m just jealous. There. What do I get for the admission? Brendon’s most likely banging hot guys left and right every night, again and again, and I don’t exactly have the right to be jealous. I know that.

And nothing suggests that Brendon would be involved with Ian or that freakishly tall bassist with those soft blue eyes and nice broad shoulders and that cute ass that even I checked out. Not everyone in this world is gay, for god’s sake.

But then again, it is Brendon Urie. Or Roscoe. Whoever he chooses to be.

And he can win the heart of any man.

It’s such a bitter pill to swallow. Life has been easy for him, no doubt, because what we had didn’t mean a thing to him.

That’s not true. No, no, that’s not true, you know this, Ross, you know that. It’d just be easier to believe that I was an idiot, lost in what we had, not seeing that for him it was just something to pass the time. But he did care. He returned to me. Gave in. Arched into my touch. We wouldn’t have fought like we did if we hadn’t cared, we wouldn’t have cried and yelled and –

It mattered to us both, is my point. It mattered. It tore us to pieces.

And I’m still too broken up about it to even step out of the shadows and face him.

“Do you ever – ever get fucking sick of your own thoughts?” I ask, the half-empty bottle in my grip. It wasn’t completely full when we started. Or I started. I lean into the seat, closing my eyes, listening to the drone of the car. But it’s not soothing. I suddenly feel like I felt that day, that first day when I sent him away. The worst day of my life. The memories come rushing back, memories of making love to him, that excited buzz in me when I thought that I had him, that we were going to be together now, that he was finally mine, and then the cruel reality when he left me. He left me, and I had to send him away. Because I couldn’t... And now it’s like I have done no progress at all over the past year and a half. That’s a whole new level of being pathetic. “You’re lucky you’re still young,” I tell Sisky sombrely but definitely not soberly. “You don’t know loss. You don’t know what it’s like when all the- all the good things seem like a thing of the past.” In the back of my head, I know I’m ranting like an old person. I open my heavy eyelids and stare at him. “You ever had your heart broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? How long did you date her for?”

“Five weeks one summer.”

“That’s not heartbreak, that’s adolescence. You ever lost a best friend?”

“Melvin.”

“He’s a cunt and you know it. No, listen, you don’t know loss. And I – I suppose it’s all relative. What is loss to you is insignificant to me, and I don’t mean to belittle your asinine life experiences, man, but fuck your asinine life experiences. Like when you asked me why I’m living in that house in the middle of nowhere, I’ll tell you, fine. I’ll tell you. Maybe because I can’t lose anything there, alright? When you ain’t got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose, like Dylan says. And I’m so sick of losing people. I lose people. I swear somewhere out there is a lost and found just full of people I’ve lost, but the map is all wrong and I’m too tired to go claim them, half-petrified that they won’t even recognise me anymore. And I – God, I remember when The Followers split... I remember the night of the bus crash. Spencer and I... I’d recently found out about – about Suzie and Haley, and I was so mad at him, man, I was so... And he said that we were no longer friends. That was it. Like it was that easy, that on that day he decided that I could be walked away from. People do that, you know. They just decide not to care about me. So I do the same in return. Serves them right.”

“That’s not true,” he says, frowning. “You care. You care a fucking lot.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then why did we go to Montreal?” he asks, and the answer is on my tongue but a bit misplaced. I come up with nothing. “You do a lot of walking away, but you still care. You can’t switch off your heart.” He sounds wise beyond his years just then, and I crinkle my nose in disapproval at all the sense he is making. “Besides, you can walk back. I mean, you talk to Spencer now. You’re friends.”

“Or do we just have no one else?” I mutter quietly, looking out of the window at the cars on the opposite lane, going by... going by... going by... I’m too drunk to worry about the ten million different ways this car could crash. Should crash.

“Your mother left you,” Sisky then says quietly, sounding apologetic.

“Yeah. I guess she started the trend,” I chuckle angrily and take a slug.

“You talk to your dad at all?”

I’m quiet for a while, confused. Sisky knows everything. Doesn’t he?

“He’s dead.”

This is clearly news to Sisky whose eyes widen in surprise when they should be on the road and not me, but if we die tonight, well then we die.

“I – I’m so sorry. I didn’t... know. I thought. I know he’s sick, but I... Shit. I’m really sorry, Ryan.”

I shrug and take another slug.

He gets this gloomy expression like my indifference offends him. “When did he pass away?”

“Late last year.”

“That must have been horrible.”

“It was. Because they’d given him, you know, a few weeks. But he held on for months. A fucking medical miracle him hanging on for that long. To spite me, you know? He did it to spite me.” I stare at my knees in slight confusion. “And then he died.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if my dad died,” he then reflects, like his hypothetical loss can be compared to my dad, which wasn’t loss. More like freedom. It’s just... confusing freedom that kind of is in the shape of loss. “I don’t see my dad that much, but if he died...”

“Family is overrated. So, so overrated. Friendship and love too, it’s all overrated. People say it gives life meaning – no, it doesn’t. It gives life baggage. That’s it: baggage. But me, I’m free. Free, free, free. I do what I please whenever I please, I answer to no one, man. No one. I am my own family, I am my own friend, I am my own lover.” He snorts at this, and I add, “Okay, fine, ha ha. Maybe not the last one or I guess everyone would be their own lover.” I take another slug, feel the alcohol burn my throat. I look at a road sign. “Are we going the right way?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then. Alright. And another thing, man, another – Everyone says that we have to make life count, that it’s special. Well, what if it’s not? You know? What if it isn’t? Why are we pressured to achieve things? And I say that as someone who has achieved a lot. There are billions of people in the world. We can’t all be special. We can’t all be rockstars. Most of us have to and should aspire to be mediocre, right? And support the structures that enable the privileges of the special people. Right? Right? And – Wait. Where was I...?” I rub my face that feels numb. “Man, I’m drunk.”

“Yup,” Sisky says in agreement.

But I still have so much to say and so much to drink, keep the monologue going, anything, something, to forget his face.

When I wake up, the sun is high up and blinding. I’ve slept through its bright light blissfully – it’s Sisky’s hand shaking my shoulder that disturbs my slumber.

I blink, disorientated, feeling like shit. “What?” I ask, my voice rough with an alcoholic burn. The car hums steadily, and Sisky stops shaking me, hand now back on the wheel as we drive slowly.

“I said we’re nearly here.”

I wipe at my mouth, sitting up straight. I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember little of anything but I feel like I’ve been gone for ages.

My neck hurts like hell, and I rub at it as I try to figure out what’s going on. Vague, vague memories from last night start rolling in. I remember the show, and I remember watching the band, Jon and the new guys and then Brendon. Standing on his own two feet. Reborn. I remember the aching burn in my chest.

I remember running away.

I just couldn’t.

“Are we home yet?” I ask because it’s the middle of the day and we should definitely be home by now. I look at the long row of spacious suburban houses on both sides of the wide road. This isn’t Maine. “Where are we?”

“You’ll see.”

“Are we in America?”

“You remember us crossing the border, right?”

“Yeah,” I say groggily. I must have passed out shortly after. This doesn’t look like Canada, anyway, but it’s nice to know what country one is in. “Sisky, what the hell?”

Christmas decorations are all over the houses. Sisky slows down, peering at house numbers. I look around, baffled. I’ve never been this confused. Ever.

“Here we are.” He parks the car outside one of the houses. It’s the biggest one on the street, two floors, expensive-looking, white paint, large windows. It has no Christmas decorations out front. “Come on,” Sisky says, getting out quickly. I follow, even more confused.

The air outside is cold after the warmth of the car. All of my limbs are stiff from the awkward position in which I slept, and the alcohol pulsing in my system doesn’t help either. I still feel disorientated and sleepy as I roll my shoulders, try to get all the tensed up muscles and knots to loosen. Sisky’s already walking on the path to the door of the house, but he stops to wait for me.

I eye the house worriedly as I approach it. “Where are we? Whose place is this? What time is it? How long have we been driving?”

“I drove all night and morning,” he says, and only then do I realise how exhausted he looks. We’re somewhere in the Midwest if the houses are anything to go by. Sisky still has energy, though, and he’s smiling as he now rings the doorbell.

“I demand to know where we are,” I hiss. I don’t like surprises.

“Well, I need to go home for Christmas, take a break from this research business,” he explains like this all makes sense and I should know this. “But I’ll be back after New Year’s. I figured I should drop you off before I go, though.”

Drop me off where?

He rings the doorbell again, and I look at the baby blue Cadillac on the driveway with its long hood and sharp angles.

The door opens just then, as I’m hovering behind Sisky, confused, hungover and cold.

Oh.

Spencer looks at Sisky first, confused, and then he looks at me and nearly takes a step back. Sisky just beams and looks back and forth between me and my former best friend.

“Ryan?” Spencer asks slightly disbelievingly, like maybe he’s stuck in a dream.

“Um. Hi?” I offer. The kid drove to fucking Cincinnati. The kid drove to fucking Cincinnati.

“I’m Sisky,” Sisky says and grabs Spencer’s hand, shaking it. “I recommend making some coffee, Ryan’s hungover.” He sounds sympathising. “Also, Mr. Smith, sir, you are like – wow. Like whoa. You know?” Sisky is still shaking Spencer’s hand. Spencer looks different: the thick moustache he had for a few years has now been joined by a full on beard.

“I’m confused,” Spencer says, pulling his hand back, eyeing Sisky like he’s looking at a retarded monkey.

“Me too,” I cut in.

“Well,” Sisky says, addressing Spencer, “you’re alone for Christmas, Ryan was going to be alone for Christmas, so I figured you two could spend it together!” He smiles like this is all he’s asked of Santa this year, oh please, Santa, please, please.

I blink. What?

“I should go,” I say quickly as I realise the setup, motioning back at the car. I think my own confusion is clear enough for Spencer to realise that this was not my plan at all. I wouldn’t just – barge in here, I wouldn’t expect Spencer to want me here, I certainly – “Sorry about this, Spence.”

“No!” Spencer says, however. “No, man, you should come in.” He doesn’t break eye contact with me. He shrugs. “Since you’re here. God, you look like shit.”

“Yeah, well at least I still know how to shave,” I bite back. He’s lost that weight he gained during the divorce, though. He was so miserable for so long, but now he looks like he’s back in shape, and his beard isn’t a hobo-beard either but neatly trimmed, and it suits him. The tips of his hair brush his jaw line, and he looks rejuvenated somehow.

“I need to go,” Sisky then announces, but he ogles at Spencer lovingly nonetheless. Spencer looks weirded out. “Hopefully we’ll get to sit down at some point, Mr. Smith. Spencer. Spence.” He seems to be testing out the waters, and Spencer quirks a single ‘excuse me?’ eyebrow. Sisky flushes slightly. “Anyway... See you later.” Sisky smiles at me brightly but tiredly, and then turns back and heads for the car.

“You shouldn’t be driving!” I call after him, frowning.

“I’ll be fine!” he calls out, lifting a hand as a goodbye.

I’m almost embarrassed when I say, “Hang on,” to Spencer and then run after Sisky like I’m worried or something. Which I am not. He’s on the other side of the car, driver’s door open. He looks at me quizzically.

“You spent the past – night and morning driving here. You should not be driving to Chicago without getting some rest.”

“I’ve got a friend in town. I’m gonna take a nap at his place before heading home.”

“Well, I – Okay, then. I guess.” I move my weight from one leg to the other, taking in this kid who’s such a piece of work. “How did you know where Spencer lives?”

He shrugs. “The same way I knew where you live: went through Vicky’s address book when she left her handbag in the room with me for four minutes. Then she came back with her lawyers, trying to scare me into not writing my book.” He rolls his eyes like that was time wasted.

I frown. “Wait. You’re still writing it?”

He looks slightly taken aback. “Well... yeah. I thought I was, anyway.” A momentary insecurity flickers on his face. “If that’s alright with you.”

I sigh, looking from his hopeful face back to the house, where Spencer is now leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching us intently. “You can’t just write whatever you feel like, you know. That biography would hurt people.”

“Life hurts people,” he corrects me, and I guess he’s got a point. But it’s a bad idea. I don’t want my life in print because then that’s it – it’s official, it cannot be changed. And maybe I need to believe that there still is time to change this all.

“God, fine.” I give in. At last. I’m tired of fighting, and so he’s won. “Fine. But you know there will be restrictions and editing and a lot of shit you cannot say, right? But I’ll, uh... I’ll call Vicky. Work something out with her. Control what you’re doing. Make it official.”

Sisky blinks, shocked, and then he stares at me with shining eyes. “Make... me being your biographer official?”

“No. No, you’re not my biographer. You’re writing a biography of me, but –”

“Will I get to interview everyone now? Properly, too?”

“Well – Fine, you can interview people but just – There will be rules! And you need to be polite, you can’t ask them rude questions and you need to respect their boundaries,” I list, and he gets this shit eating grin on his face. It’s too much for me to bear, the way his enthusiasm shines warmth and such – such love? I feel nauseous and it’s not just the alcohol. “Okay, fuck off to Chicago, kid. You’re getting on my nerves.”

“Merry Christmas, Ryan.” He’s still beaming. “I’ll see you next year.” He is nearly jumping out of his skin as he gets in the car. I roll my eyes at him and walk back to the house, not noting how the sudden silence already feels foreign, like I somehow got used to him.

“So that was Sisky, huh?” Spencer asks when I reach him, and together we watch the car take off.

“Yeah. He’s my biographer.”

“No shit.” We then look at each other, and Spencer breaks into one of those stunning smiles of his. “It’s fucking good to see you, Ry.”

“Yeah. You too,” I say nearly bashfully. He pats my shoulder and moves aside to let me in. I nudge him with my shoulder as I pass.

“God, you stink of alcohol. Where the hell you been?”

“Canada.”

“That explains it.”

He closes the door, and while I know that I am returning to him as a broken man on the run, I still feel myself smile for the first time in seven months.

Chapter Text

He smiles against my stomach wickedly, pleased with himself. He sucks on the skin below my belly button too hard, and I hiss and moan. My body feels over-stimulated and overworked, and he hasn’t even let me touch him yet. “Bren,” I breathe out, and he hums disinterestedly, working his way down. His nose presses into my pubic hair, and he inhales deeply, not even trying to hide it. I couldn’t be any harder for him.

He doesn’t say anything.

His tongue starts moving upwards from the base of my cock, slowly, slowly licking me. And he’s got this wicked grin on his lips, this self-satisfied smirk as he looks up at me. I’m wrecked and he knows it. I’m his and he knows it. He slowly twirls his tongue around the swollen head, getting me wet. His nails dig into the top of my thigh harder. And he’s so fucking beautiful when his lips finally stretch around the head of my aching cock, his burning brown eyes locked with mine. Like he wants to know I’m watching.

My entire body twitches when his hot mouth moves over my flesh, and after a few teasing bobs he begins to suck and suck, eyelids fluttering as he goes in deeper. “Shit,” I hiss, my hands tangling in his hair. His cheeks hollow, the pressure around my cock tightens, and pleasure curls up in me. “Fuck, baby, that’s so good,” I breathe out helplessly.

But he knows that, anyway.

And then, suddenly, he’s on his back beneath me, legs spread, and I’m pushing into him. His mouth drops open, but he makes no sound. His fingers dig into the small of my back, urging me on, and he’s so tight around me. His eyes are dark and he stares at me like he’s mine, and that makes me retreat and push in harder. But still he makes no sound. And that’s confusing to me, seems out of place, because god knows I can make him moan. I almost stop to ask if he’s alright, but the pleasure is there, on his face. Maybe I just need to force it out of him.

And so I begin to fuck him hard, just how he likes it. And he shifts his hips, gives better access. He looks away, cheeks flushed, sweat forming on his forehead. His brows knit together, eyes closing as he feels the pleasure of me in him, undoing us both. And I breathe hard, keep the rhythm steady, say, “Fucking hell” and “Shit, that’s so” and “Bren, god.” And he breathes in deep, like he’s drowning, almost, and I lean in close, my lips dragging over his cheek.

Just as my lips are about to brush his, everything stops. I’m still in him, buried in so deep, but his hands on my hips are commanding, telling me not to move. I breathe unevenly, confused. His mouth hovers over my ear.

“This,” he says at last, his voice dead, clinical, wrong, the words whispered, “is killing me.”

And that’s when I wake up.

As usual.

Spencer waits at the baggage claim, looking tired after the flight. Neither one of us has gone to bed yet – it’s only nine in the morning, so of course we’re still up. Normally we’d be about to retire, but now we’re expected to stay up. I smoke languidly as we watch suitcases roll by... roll by... roll by...

The terminal area is busy with people returning from their holidays. Spencer signed someone’s book in the men’s room and a few people have come over to shake my hand. Now I send them away with a glare and wonder why I refused Vicky’s offer of a private jet. Now we’re here with the commoners, no longer in the safety of first class, and everyone wants a piece of us. We thought this would be less conspicuous.

Well, we were wrong about that.

People are not surprised to see me. They’re shocked and star-struck and stuttering, sure, but my existence is no longer a surprise, not after Montreal when I was spotted, and the entire world knows about it now. It made the papers. Said that I probably live up there these days.

“There it is,” Spencer says and goes to get his green suitcase that’s bulging. I have nothing because, well, I showed up at his door with nothing to begin with and whatever necessities I bought I no longer need. He now leans slightly to one side as he carries the heavy suitcase, and we keep our heads low as we make our way through people. Some recognise us, some don’t. I nervously suck in smoke and avoid eye contact. And, I’ve learned in my years in the spotlight, if you walk fast and radiate ‘get away from me’, a lot of people do just that. The respectable ones, anyway. “It’s nice being back in New York,” Spencer says as we walk out to the waiting lounge. “When was the last time you were here?”

“A long time ago.” I scan the masses waiting to welcome relatives, and then I spot her: a rabbit fur coat over a black mini dress, orange tights and a hair band to match. Her hair’s slightly longer but still the familiar silky looking brown, and she seems to notice me the same time I do her. She doesn’t look like a housewife and she doesn’t look like a mother, but then again, she’s never been that type. She breaks into a grin.

We walk over, and she’s got her arms wide open, and I step into the embrace easily. She squishes me against her and says, “Well, would you look at this fucker?” She’s beaming from ear to ear, and I let myself smile.

“Good to see you, Vicky.” I pull back and say, “You know Spencer, of course.”

“Of course.”

They shake hands. Vicky says, “We’ve got a car waiting to –”

Someone clears their throat loudly and demandingly. I look to our side and only then notice Sisky. Vicky kind of steals the spotlight, but there he is with a big, hopeful smile of his own.

“Oh. Hey,” I remark.

“Hey,” he grins, making googly eyes at Spencer, who is still fascinating and new. I’m not so new anymore. “So, well... here I am.” He opens up his arms with a hopeful look in his eyes. Vicky looks at me. Spencer looks at me.

“Uh, well,” I say, “we should not stand here all day.” His arms thankfully drop. “Um. Good to see you, kid.”

He smiles a little, my rejection having dispirited him none. “You too.”

Righto.

Vicky takes the lead, then, and takes us to the car waiting outside the terminal.

Our business in New York is varied. Spencer just felt like stopping here for a day before taking off, I have to meet up with my lawyers and management to take care of business, and Sisky is here to sign the contract on writing my biography. Spencer is staying at my place while Sisky is staying in a hotel, and he tells us extensively about how fancy the place is, four stars and all. I don’t know how he conducted his stalking before, but his project is now being funded and dictated and censored by my people. This means nice hotels and transportation – no more hitch-hiking and sleeping at bus stations.

“You look better,” Sisky observes as our car is stuck in traffic. Did I look bad before somehow? Maybe he sees the confusion on my face because he adds, “Less frowny.”

Spencer manages to suppress a grin. I huff but say nothing.

From beside the kid, Vicky asks, “What did you crazy kids get up to over the holidays?” She’s got her cigarette holder between her lips, and she’s quirking an eyebrow at us.

Spencer shrugs, looking at me. “Yeah, we just... drank a lot of beer and listened to a lot of music and talked about life.”

This nicely sums up what we did, and though it sounds simple or maybe even boring, it probably was the best time I’ve had in years. I’m not telling anyone that, though. But sometimes with an old friend you can’t help but wonder if the only reason you hang out is because you’ve just known each other for so long, and not because you actually like each other that much. I’ve known Spencer since I was a kid, and so I’ve doubted the sincerity of our affections.

But Spencer’s a great guy. We get each other on levels no one will ever be able to mimic. He’s funny, he’s smart, he’s talented and he’s a fuck up, and being together for the obnoxious holidays that are intended to make social failures like us feel bad was probably the best thing I could have done.

Instead of sitting alone in that house with nothing but memories for company.

“It was crazy,” I say monotonously to make sure Sisky doesn’t start asking questions about it.

But of course he does.

“What did you do for New Year’s? Any resolutions? Did you get anything for Christmas?”

He’s full of questions. Still. I swear I could answer a thousand questions, and he’d have a thousand more.

“Hey,” Vicky now cuts in, eyes thinning at Sisky. “This is not an official interview, cut it out.”

Sisky glances at her, looking subdued. Huh. Funny how it never works when I snap at him.

For New Year’s, we... well, we were babysitting, really. Suzie’s four and a half now. She’s tiny. Less tiny than she used to be. She’s got these big blue eyes and light brown hair and she laughs brightly and runs around and falls down and bawls her eyes out, and Spencer picks her up and sooths her down and dries her tears, and I stand there staring at her like she’s an alien. She’s so much like Spencer. Facial expressions. Mannerisms.

She is one of the most peculiar creatures I’ve ever met.

It makes me feel bad being around such innocence and beauty. Afraid of tainting it. I think I was more subdued around her than she was shy towards a stranger like me.

First time I thought that maybe Spencer hadn’t fucked up by accidentally getting Haley pregnant.

Haley’s not happy about Spencer leaving, but he’ll be back. Of course he’ll be back.

That’s what we all keep telling ourselves, but his suitcase looks full to me.

Vicky told me on the phone that Sisky had insisted on coming to the airport to meet us, but the car now drops him off at his hotel. We’re all meeting later, though, Vicky having booked a trendy bar or another for a private function, something suitable for someone of my fame. She always knows those kinds of things. Sisky waves bye, looking slightly saddened by our brief encounter.

When the car takes off again, Vicky blows out smoke and says, “You’re smart, Ry. This whole book business? Smart. It’ll sell like hotcakes. And this Sisky guy? God, he’ll praise you to no end! There’s all this buzz now after your Montreal appearance. Biographies of you will sell.”

“Buy one for your grandmother,” I note sourly.

“Smart move,” she only repeats. One thing about her is different, though: the ring on her finger. A big fat diamond on it. She did well, considering. As if somehow reading my thoughts, she adds, “Matthieu said to apologise that he won’t join us for dinner as he has to be at the theatre.”

“Must be time-consuming to produce Broadway musicals.”

She only shrugs. I absently look through the tinted window at New York, New York, my former home. It looks the same: cars everywhere, people everywhere, long, endless streets with infinite rows of tall buildings. I forgot how busy it is, how full of life it is. The contrast with Machias couldn’t be any bigger.

“We’re meeting your lawyers tomorrow. There’s some paperwork that I had dropped off at your place earlier,” she says, and I only hum, listening with half an ear. “There’s a message there from Jon, too.” This does attract my attention, and she looks slightly guilty under my gaze. “I didn’t feel like disturbing your holidays with it.”

Spencer’s pretending not to be listening to the conversation, although he is. I clear my throat, ignore the way my heart’s started racing because Jon, well, is Jon, but the people he associates himself with... “What’d it say?”

She makes quotation marks in the air. “‘Why didn’t you come say hi?’” She drops her hands. “That’s all. There’s a number, too. I guess it’s for his new place in Chicago.”

And then we look away from each other, conversation over and done with.

My refuge in Machias or, well, in the world has taken on a new shape: not forced exile but voluntary. Because they know now, all of them: that I am alive and well. Because I was seen in Montreal, I was chased by fans, and the radio stations heard of it and the press heard of it and the band heard of it.

Whether I’m alive or dead is no longer contested. I guess that’s something.

But now I get the uncomfortable vision of the news reaching His Side, maybe the following day or the day itself. ‘Ryan Ross was here, man,’ as they’ve gotten onto the tour bus. And how they all stop slightly, shocked and surprised, and Jon knows what happened between Bren and I, he knows, so he looks over to Brendon and –

And he still asks why I didn’t come say hi.

Because I could not bring myself to face Brendon. That’s why.

Jon seems to not understand that. And if he said to his bandmates, ‘Ryan was here, man, what the fuck?’, and Brendon didn’t even say, ‘Well, maybe it’s because of…’ then it just underlines how the world has moved on while I stayed still.

How I’ve been left behind.

But it’s good here, in the backseat. Letting someone else drive.

Not thinking about what a fool of myself I made by going to see him. What he must think of me, lurking in the shadows... No. I’ve spent weeks obsessing about that and, no, I have to stop. Even Spencer said so. It’s not like Brendon left me a message, not like he’s gotten in touch. He knows that I was there, and he has said nothing of it.

Not that I expected anything different.

Vicky comes up to the apartment with us. The driver carries Spencer’s suitcase, and I take in the familiarity of the stairwell. How the paint on the handrail is still peeling between the third and fourth floor. Vicky gets out keys when we get to the top because yeah, I don’t even have those anymore. I left her in charge of things.

“Well,” she says, unlocking the door. “Welcome back, even if it’s only for a few days.” She walks in first, and Spencer follows curiously. He’s never been here. The driver leaves the suitcase by the door, tips his hat and heads back down to wait for Vicky.

I’m the last one to walk in hesitantly. I remember the last time I stood here, well over a year ago, fresh back from tour, and the horror of it, of the loss, hitting me. I think it stayed behind, has been trapped within these walls since.

But it all looks the same and so innocent. There are no coats in the coat rack, no shoes littering the floor. The mirror on the wall is covered by a sheet, however. I slowly walk in further.

Vicky’s walked to the end of the short hallway that opens up to the living room. She’s got her hands on her hips. “It should be like you remember it. We covered the furniture to keep it nice and clean, and a cleaning lady comes around once a month to dust the place.” Spencer’s already sitting on a sheet covered couch, making himself comfortable. “I’ll get someone to come around to uncover the furniture. You decided to drop by on such short notice.”

“That’s alright,” I mutter, looking at my place like I’ve never seen it before. Spencer’s up now, and he walks past Vicky and I. I let him browse because he’s allowed to. He opens the door to the bedroom, closes it again, goes to the next door, lets out a pleased hum and enters the music room. I keep my hands in my pockets.

Vicky watches him go and says, “So about tomorrow. Are you sure you want to sell off that Bismarck cabin? We can cancel the meeting if you’ve changed your mind.”

I say, “That’s alright.”

She shrugs. We hear a bang from the music room, and I go to the doorway to investigate. Spencer’s pulled the sheet off of the black grand piano. The stool is empty.

And I say, “That’s alright.”

I figure it’s less painful to see my old friends all at once than individually, and so I saunter into a Greenwich Village bar late that night, reporters out front snapping my picture. I don’t wave back, but Spencer does.

Only those on the guest list are allowed in, but it seems like every fucker on it has decided to come. The small, dimly lit bar is full, bar tables everywhere covered with half-finished drinks, a few guests having taken themselves to the dance floor with chequered floor tiles. Everyone present is smartly dressed, is sexy in that famed and well-off way. I breathe in the smell of cigarettes and weed. I forgot life could be like this.

It’s not a ‘Welcome back’ party because everyone knows I’m only dropping by. It’s more of a ‘Congrats on being alive’ get together, and I hug friends I haven’t seen in a few years, pat backs, accept drinks, but make little conversation. It feels forced somehow – not for them, but for me. They are delighted to see me and expect the feeling to be mutual.

For the most part, it isn’t.

Coming into contact with them is just another painfully obvious reminder of how our lives differ. Because Eric is present with a new girlfriend and some guy who now co-runs the record store chain with him, and Greta is also here with her husband Butcher, and so is Patrick, good old Patrick accompanied by a handful of plus ones, which Vicky must have allowed only because she gets along with Patrick so well. Who wouldn’t? And while it is obvious that a lot of these people who had me in common have not seen each other in a long time, they all tell me what they’ve been up to, talk about new friends and lovers and jobs and ideas and thoughts. And me? “God, Ryan, what have you been up to?” I just say, “Not much. I went away.” And they look awkward and change the subject.

A pleasant number of drinks later, a finger pokes at my shoulder blade and I turn around to face Sisky. I nodded him hello when we got in, and he’s been busy talking to the guests. “Oh hey,” I now say, and the people I was talking to get the hint and leave us to it. Sisky’s been behaving well, considering his tendency to impose himself on people. “What’s happening?”

“Everything!” he says with wide eyes like ‘do you realise I’m hanging out with the in crowd of New York?’ I do, I suppose.

I saw him talking to Patrick so I ask, “You and Patrick get along well?”

“Really well,” he enthuses, nodding. “He’s such a nice guy!” We both look over to Patrick chatting away happily to a crowd that he’s attracted. He’s become a distinguished session musician in my absence, rubbing elbows with all the big names. He toured the US with The Rolling Stones last summer, playing keyboards for them, and now he’s got a solo album in the works. The Whiskeys might have been a short-lived band, but it made a star out of him nonetheless. “He agreed to let me interview him soon!”

“Ah.”

I’m surprised by how most people are not surprised by the biography business. Only Clifton told me flat out that he thought it was a self-absorbed, ridiculous enterprise, but others seem to think it logical. ‘He’s Ryan Ross. Only makes sense to write a biography of him’. And Vicky likes the money.

“Do you think I’ll get to interview Spencer this week?” Sisky asks, now looking at Spencer longingly instead. He’s at the bar, laughing away with Eric. They know each other from way back when, the early Followers days in LA.

“Probably not. He’s leaving for London.”

Sisky freezes up at this. “London? As in London, England?”

“Are there other Londons?” I ask, trying to sound bored and indifferent while in truth it was a surprise for me too.

A part of me is confused as to why Spencer never mentioned it to me until I was there, that when I thought he was being idle like me, he wasn’t being idle at all. But Spencer said that he didn’t want to say anything until he was absolutely sure about his co-producer/guru position for an English band that I’ve never heard of: The Police or whatever. Some relatively new band. Spencer played me their first album, though, and it was alright. And he knows their producer who asked him for help and, well – Getting Spencer Smith’s opinion counts. A lot. And he’s beyond pleased to be finally doing something musical again, his blue eyes sparkled as he talked about getting back into a studio, recording music even if it wasn’t his.

No more living on Followers royalties. Finally doing something for himself.

Hey, I’m happy for him. I am, I am. Good for him.

London’s just far away. Haley agrees, and I had to listen to them bickering over the phone, Haley saying that Spencer was abandoning Suzie since Spencer might be in London for quite a few months. Spencer was cut up about going, though, and I think that even Haley eventually realised that Spencer needs to move on professionally at some point – why not now?

“Well when’s he coming back from London?” Sisky asks, pouting.

“Who knows?” Maybe never. Weekend trips every two weeks for Suzie. Not like we don’t have the money for it. “Spencer’s business is his,” I then conclude, trying to divert Sisky’s thoughts. He will interview Spencer at some point, I’m sure, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to let Sisky dig up the past for Spencer just when he’s attempting to start a new era in his life.

“I guess Spencer can wait a while,” he then concludes. “I mean, I’ll still get so much material for the book. I’m sketching out the chapters and stuff. I think I’ll call one ‘The New York Years’. Catchy, right?”

“Remember what we talked about on the phone last week?” I then ask him, referring to when we briefly chatted before we agreed to meet up over here.

“Oh. Right.” He looks down sheepishly. “Don’t talk to you about the book because you think it’s creepy.”

“Precisely.”

“Anyway, the, uh, book aside, I’ve got a lot to ask you. A lot of things to confirm, get your perspective on. But I don’t have my notes with me, they’re still up in Machias. We left in such a hurry, and I need those notes, and –”

“Come get them, then. I’m going home in two days, anyway.”

“Okay.” He gives me a grateful smile. “And then I can interview you, too, before I come back here and start doing all the other interviews.”

“Joy,” I note, now lighting a new cigarette. His biography won’t be a factual biography but he doesn’t know that yet. I’m not saying it will be fiction, I’m saying that there will be plenty of omissions.

Sisky’s crinkled his nose, and he looks at the crowd around us. “You know, the people I’ve talked to, uh... they all kind of say that you seem better than when they last saw you. Greta, um.” He looks towards my protégée with her long, golden curls and a golden dress to match. She’s more than a protégée now – a Grammy nominee, on the cover of Vogue soon. Butcher listed her accomplishments (the Grammy nomination I was well aware of, though) while Greta just smiled blissfully, saying how good it was to see me. She doesn’t care how famous she is – she’s probably the only person who’d ever be able to remain unaffected by something like that.

“What about Greta?” I prompt.

Sisky shrugs, still looking confused. “She just – I mean, not just her, people insinuate it, but... she just said that you seem better now and, um. That summer before you retired, she just said that it got really bad for you, which is – Well, is weird because I know your dad didn’t pass away until months later, and I have all this archival material from that summer, interviews and press releases where you... You seemed okay. That’s why it was such a shock when the band dissolved and you retired, you know? I just – I feel like I’m missing something?” His tone rises on the question, his eyebrows lifting accordingly.

I suppose to the outside world, to the press and fans, it looked like I was alright. Anyone else, anyone who actually knew me, could see how I was acting out of character. Mechanic like a robot. Not there. Empty inside.

And Greta toured with us all summer so she saw firsthand how I changed. Drew in on myself, stopped talking to them.

“I don’t know why they’d say that,” I lie, and Sisky can tell that I’m lying. He stares at me suspiciously. He’s concerned, too, it’s not just him being a nosy brat, but this is not the time or the place.

Luckily, Vicky comes over just then, mouth a thin line, a stony expression on her face. “Ry,” she says and nods towards the door of the bar. I look past the mobs of people and at a guy in a black leather jacket who’s been stopped by the bouncers. Oh.

I imagine him not being let in, of having to leave when the reporters are there, and they would record his rejection. Public humiliation.

“Was he invited?” I ask Vicky, who looks slightly guilty.

“No. I didn’t – think he’d be interested.”

“Clearly he is.”

Gabe is now arguing with the bouncer, looking into the bar restlessly, an annoyed expression on his face.

“I guess I’ll –” Vicky starts, tone reluctant as ever, but I cut in with, “That’s alright, I’ve got it.”

I push through the crowd – or rather it parts for me as the guests seem to be constantly keeping an eye on my whereabouts – but I stop a safe distance away from the door. “Let him in,” I call out, and the bouncers look my way and immediately stop bickering. Gabe looks at me, stares for a second as if to confirm my existence, huffs, puffs out his chest and walks in. He doesn’t look good. He’s too thin, cheeks too hollow, eyes too dead. Too much drugs, not enough food. His skin is still the familiar golden tone and his hair is still black but it’s not shiny.

An old guilt washes over me now that he’s here. I try so hard not to think about it.

“Does this place have an open bar?” he says as a way of hello, eyeing the bar counter next to us.

I scratch the back of my head awkwardly, avoiding eye contact since he is too. “Uh. Put him on my tab,” I tell the bartender, who nods.

“Well, that’s a start,” Gabe says and then pushes past me. Once he’s taken the entire whisky bottle from the bartender, he disappears into the crowd. He almost bumps into Vicky, then, and both freeze, but then Gabe brushes it off and I lose sight of him.

“Huh,” Spencer’s voice comes from beside me. He passes me the cigarette that he’s smoking, and I take it gratefully. He’s looking after Gabe, too. “I guess that’ll be awkward.”

I blow out smoke nervously. “That I fully expect it to be.”

And Spencer doesn’t even know the entire story.

I give it a few hours, some time, some reflection and thought, before I join Gabe in a booth at the back of the bar. He’s got two ashtrays and both are full, but his whiskey bottle isn’t empty – in fact, most of it is still there. If he wanted to get so shitfaced that he forgets about it all, then he’d have downed the bottle already.

He quirks his eyebrow at me as I sit down opposite him. “Your Highness is too kind,” he says, faux-bashfully.

“Fuck you.” My tone is tired, has no bite in it. “If you didn’t want to see me, you wouldn’t be here.”

“How could I not be here?” He digs out a cigarette and a lighter. “All of New York is talking about it.” He struggles to ignite a flame, swears, but then manages it. The initial burst of fire lights up his face and makes him look older than he is. His eyes move over the people in the bar and then he nods towards someone. I follow his gaze until my eyes land on Sisky, who is pretending not to be looking our way. “That kid.” Gabe sucks in smoke. “Tried to interview me before Christmas. Someone said he’s your biographer. That he lives with you now.”

“The hell he does.”

“Either way, how is he the one who gets you out of hiding?” He shakes his head. “Tell me one thing, man. One honest thing. Were you really that lonely?”

He makes eye contact with me for the first time since he arrived. I feel inclined to look away but then can’t, facing the onslaught of unpleasant memories. “Yes.”

He scoffs. Contempt. Arrogance. Anger.

“I have a question too.” I set my beer bottle on the table. “Do you really have such low self-esteem that you need to come here and torture yourself some more? Or did you maybe come see if I’d changed my mind about the whole ‘us’ thing?” My tone is just on this side of mocking, and his eyes thin dangerously. “Hey, if you’re going to be an asshole to me, then why not be one in return, right?”

“I just asked if –”

“He –” I start but then take a deep breath. I look around to make sure no one is within earshot. “The kid makes it easier for me to live with myself, alright? He makes all of my mistakes sound like accomplishments. I fuck up The Followers, he thinks I was too talented for the bunch. I cheat on girlfriends, he thinks the girls weren’t special enough. He makes excuses for me. I feel less like shit when there’s someone left who’s willing to see some good in me. And if he knew, which he doesn’t, but if he knew how I fucked you around, then he’d just say that, well, I was broken-hearted. That I was a mess because of Brendon, and maybe that wasn’t the best time for you to –” I stop myself, exhale heavily. It was one big mistake, that summer. Gabe looks indignant, but for all I know this is the last time we’ll ever see each other. The last time I get to try and set things straight and apologise, so I don’t waste time on idle chitchat. “What I’m trying to say is that... maybe I just need someone who adores me a little.”

“That’s narcissistic.”

“I didn’t say that it wasn’t.” After a pause, I add, “Maybe I... think that if I let this one kid do whatever the hell he wants, it redeems a lot of the shit I’ve done to other people.”

“Well it doesn’t.”

“Fine.” I rake my fingers through my long hair restlessly. I was always good at confrontation – telling band members, fans and managers where to stick it, brushing off lovers, telling them what’s what. Now it’s like I finally realise there are consequences, even if they are indirect ones, even when it’s not all my fault. Consequences like the bags under his eyes. Confrontation is now uncomfortable. “I know what Sisky would say about you and me. He’d say that... I shouldn’t have slept with you that summer. Even if it only was those few times when I was too drunk to stop myself. I shouldn’t have done it, but you should have told me to fuck off too. Because you had – had feelings for me, whatever they were, and I was in love with someone else and you knew it. So we both fucked it up, alright? We both messed it up. And we both can be excused. That’s what the kid would say.”

“I can be more excused than you.”

“Can you?” I ask and now do what he did, nodding towards a certain someone. Vicky’s got her back to us, but Gabe immediately looks more closed off. Vicky still doesn’t know that Gabe and I slept together a couple of times. It’s crucial that she never finds out either – it was just some drunken sex between two confused people who didn’t know what they felt for whom. And I still don’t know where Vicky stood in all of it, either. It was only much later that I even found out that back then – when the Whiskeys were formed, when Brendon and I got back together, when we recorded our only album – Gabe and Vicky were fucking. Casually, sure, unofficially, unsystematically, but fucking nonetheless. And we all thought that Gabe was being sexist and teasing her to get into her pants again. The first time they drunkenly hooked up was well-recorded, after all, but as far as we knew it stopped there. It didn’t, I later found out. Gabe flirting with her non-stop was probably just some messed up foreplay that we all missed, a way to push Vicky’s buttons.

The little you know about the people you think you know.

“Her husband couldn’t make it tonight,” I say.

Gabe instantly makes a face, and I’m relieved that he lets me direct the conversation elsewhere. Away from him and I. Because I said that I shouldn’t have fucked him, and that’s as much of an apology as he’ll ever get. What more can I do about it now?

“Monsieur Matthieu Dupont,” Gabe spits, trying to sound as French as he can. “With his imperfect English and atrocious accent and all the ego of a Broadway producer. Monsieur Dupont who likes his fucking musicals and says Fred Astaire is his idol. If there’s a man I hate, it’s him. What did Vicky ever see in him? And then their kid, Alex, Alexander, even that has to be said in a French fucking accent with him – Alexawndro. It’s Alexander, but does that stop him? No. The name is spelled differently in French, but nope. He has to say it his way too. Fucking pretentious fuck.”

He goes on a rant, and I let him. I’ve never met the guy, didn’t attend their shotgun wedding either. He’s a man of influence, in any case, Mr. Dupont. He’s successful and rich and has friends in high places – Vicky caught a big fish, intentionally or not. Whereas Gabe, well. I think that summer it became clearer and clearer to him that his fling with Vicky was never going to go anywhere, and he despaired, and I fucked him, and he despaired more, and I vanished, and he was left rootless and directionless, and I was no longer there, and Vicky was no longer there. And now he’s here, and his hands shake slightly as he holds the cigarette. He’s strung out from whatever drugs he now needs. Hardly father material or husband material.

When he’s bitching about Matthieu, he at least isn’t having a go at me. And that’s something. It’s not forgiveness that we share a table and thoughts and drinks, but it’s appeasement. People try to join us frequently – it’s half of Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys in one booth – but I wave them off. And every time it happens, Gabe pauses for a while, like he’s expecting me to ask them to join us, for me to choose anyone, anyone at all over him and his company.

But I don’t.

And the bitter and angry tone fades little by little, gradually, and when it’s two in the morning and he laughs for the first time, I think he’d get it.

How much it means to have someone who believes in you when everyone else has stopped.

Spencer hums YMCA under his breath as he closes his suitcase, ready to leave for the airport. I sit on one of the dining table chairs and watch him quietly.

“That song is terrible,” I say at last, just to say something, fill up the sense of him leaving.

“It’s the gayest song I have ever heard,” he concedes and then looks up at me. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Fuck off,” I say, and he smirks.

He looks around the room, though it’s not like he unpacked much to begin with. The protective sheets are gone but will be put back soon enough. “Have you seen any of my socks? I swear they’ve all vanished.”

I’d suspect Sisky to be behind this – Spencer feet smell or something crazy, I don’t even know – but Sisky hasn’t been around yet. He’s got his meeting with the lawyers today. Maybe now, actually, who knows?

“You want an extra pair?” I offer, and he nods. That way he doesn’t have to go sock hunting the second he gets to London. I’m sure he’ll have more interesting and urgent things to do.

He follows me to the bedroom, talking about the flight time and the apartment in London where he’ll be moving into – staying, he means, just staying. And I say that it all sounds good, while handing him a pair of black socks.

He’s looking over my shoulder and onto my made bed. When I follow his gaze, I see what he sees: the large picture frame, face upwards on the bed. The black and white shot of a boy, taken by someone else.

“Just something I found when I got home this morning,” I explain. I don’t even know where I had hidden it, but whoever came to clean up the apartment and fill the fridge found the frame and placed it on the dining table. His smile greeted me upon arrival, like I always wanted it to. Head tilted downwards, a shy smile aimed at his feet. Smiling because of the man he chose over me.

“Sure.” Spencer smiles slightly, but it’s forced. We haven’t talked about that. Brendon. We’ve talked of him, sure, but we haven’t talked about him. I close the bedroom door after us, slightly ashamed.

I know that it’s not over for me, but that – That just takes time. Spencer and Haley aren’t together, but they’re certainly not over even if it’s clear that they are never getting back together either. So it’s alright that I’m not over it, it’s – It’s fine. And His Side is back on tour now, and he’s back to being his own different person somewhere out there. And my thoughts find him all the time, and I have these fucking messed up dreams about him that I’ve never told anyone about.

It’s not over for me, but I’m sick of people and myself thinking that I need to be.

I’m trying, though. I am. Admitting that I’m not over him is the first step like alcoholics anonymous or when I got addicted to codeine but he forced me to clean up my act. He’s just another addiction to shake off.

Spencer packs the extra socks and closes his suitcase. He looks towards the window and asks, “So you’re sure you want to go back? To that house of yours.”

“It’s where I live.”

“Is it?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, but then lets it slide. “You could stay here, you know. A lot of people miss you here.”

I smirk at him. “You don’t know that. You’re speculating. You’d just feel more at ease knowing that I’m surrounded by people who look after me.”

“So?”

“So maybe it’s time I look after myself.” I’ve always been depending on others, clinging onto them. Spencer, Keltie, even now I depend on Vicky for a lot of things... “I’ll be fine this time. I’ll survive. Like a virus.”

“Every virus needs a host.”

“Look around,” I note, and he rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine, man.” I don’t want him worrying about me. Not anymore. No, I’m turning a new page now, a page of not playing the martyr, bleeding all over the place and yelling, ‘Forgive them, Lord, for they know not –’

One can watch such an act only for so long.

I will go back to Machias, but I am not retreating or escaping. I am going back because I want to. Because as great as the past few weeks with Spencer and everyone else has been, a part of me yearns to be back in the comfort of my house. Where time stands still. Where I don’t have to remember how much I actually miss everyone. I will go there and learn how to make myself feel better.

The doorbell rings just then.

“Must be the driver,” Spencer says and picks up his suitcase. I offered to go to the airport with him, but he said I didn’t have to.

The driver’s wearing a ridiculous chauffeur’s uniform with the black cap and all, and he takes Spencer’s suitcase with a professional bow. He’s in his mid-twenties, has chocolate eyes and dark brown hair, and he looks good in the uniform, somehow manages to pull it off. I watch him descend the stairs, trying to haul Spencer’s heavy suitcase.

“Well,” Spencer says, tone expectant. Oh he’s leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when he’ll be back again...

“I’ll come downstairs.”

I’m not wearing shoes, however, and my socks feel damp the second I step outside, taking the few steps down onto the sidewalk. It’s a Rolls-Royce that they’ve sent for him, black and sleek. The chauffeur’s putting the suitcase in the trunk.

“I’ll still call,” Spencer says, not really looking me in the eyes.

“Sure. I mean, I know you’ll be busy but –”

“I’ll still call.” This time he looks at me, blue eyes calm and steady. And I believe him.

“Okay.” Deep breath. “Have fun in England, then.”

“I’ll try.” He looks up at my building, all the way up to my windows. “You should stay here.” His tone seems conclusive, like he has now reached this decision. “You shouldn’t go back to Maine. Just stay. Give things time. Start a new band, write some music, hang out with friends...” He makes it sound so simple. He shrugs. The chauffer has opened a door for him but is waiting politely out of earshot. Spencer looks me straight in the eye. “Get yourself a boyfriend.”

I pause for a second, then. We haven’t talked about that either, me and my tendencies.

It appears that Spencer continues to be able to read me with ease.

“Yeah,” I say eventually. “Maybe I should.” I look at the awaiting car and then rush out, “When I talk to my people later, once we’ve settled on selling the Bismarck cabin, I’ll arrange a contribution for Suzie’s college fund. For all the birthdays and Christmases I’ve missed.”

Haley has this whole thing of ‘just because you didn’t even graduate high school but still are famous, Spencer, doesn’t mean that we will let Suzie ride off your fame for all of her life – she will go to college and find her own way’. Funnily enough, Haley, Spencer and I all agree on that. Not that I have any say on Suzie whatsoever, of course.

“You don’t have to, man.”

“I want to. She’s a smart little girl.”

“She is, isn’t she?” he asks, sounding proud. “I still don’t know why you’re so determined to sell that cabin of yours, though.”

“Not mine. It was Dad’s. We’d go up there every year, and he’d get drunk and shoot things. Why the fuck would I keep it?”

I don’t mention how I spent money on getting it renovated, on how I thought that I could start using it, make better memories, visit it when I’m old and retired. How all of that got shot to pieces and how I never want to go there again. Spencer lets it go, though. One mention of my old man, and he lets me get away with nearly anything.

“Well, when the word gets out that the cabin belonged to you, the price will triple.”

“I don’t need the money, man.”

“Yeah, but it’s still nice to have.” He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. We hug briefly. No long goodbyes, no further promises. Go on, then. It’s just thousands of miles away.

And then he’s gone. My socks are wet and uncomfortable as I walk back to my apartment, and he’s gone.

The phone starts to ring just as I walk back in, and I close the door and wonder who still has this number. I don’t bother to hurry on my way to the phone, slowly lifting the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

“I feel like death,” a voice announces, voice scratchy. I smirk slightly. It’s not my fault if Sisky can’t keep up with well-seasoned drinkers or that he doesn’t know when to just go home. “Last night all blurs together in my mind!”

“It’s called partying.”

“I’m not saying it was a waste of time. I talked to people, I found out all this stuff, man. I just wish that I didn’t feel so shit. God, I’ve got that meeting in two hours, and I think I’m still drunk.” He sighs dramatically. As he talks, I keep the receiver between my head and my shoulder, pulling my wet socks off. Sleep seems like a good idea now.

“Go for a shower, it’ll sober you up a bit.”

“I will, I just – I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay.” I instantly get a bad feeling.

“Well, I talked to Greta and Butcher, I mean I talked to a lot of people but –” He pauses, and his tone is intrigued and almost boastful. He thinks he’s got big news, but he’s clearly not sure how to feel about it. “Did you know that Brendon really is gay?”

Shit.

I guess the cat’s out of the bag.

“Shane Valdes,” Sisky says, looking at his notes now that he’s been reunited with them. He took over the kitchen table the second we arrived, and I went upstairs for a shower and have been unwinding from the New York trip since. Home, Machias, my house, my view and my beach and my salty air.

And Sisky.

He stands in the space between the kitchen and the living room, staring at me curled up in my armchair. “Shane Valdes,” he repeats, reading from a piece of paper, demanding my attention. “A native of California, born 1944. Studied photography in UCLA, may or may not have made out with Jim Morrison at a frat party –”

“What?” I cut in.

Sisky stares at me blankly. “Rumours. That was before Jim was all famous.”

“Where the hell do you hear this shit?” I ask irately.

He ignores me and moves on. “Valdes moved to New York in 1975 to pursue his art. He met Ryan Ross of The Followers in late 1976. Ross hired him to film a documentary of his new band’s writing process and their first tour. This documentary, however, was scrapped despite thirty thousand dollars having been spent on the project. From my hazy drunken memory, I seem to recall Greta saying that Valdes was fired. At the time, Valdes was also dating a man named Brendon who most of us have come to know as Brendon Roscoe.” He looks up at me and seems smug. “How’s that for research?”

I give him an impatient smile. “Impressive, sure. Look, everyone knew that Brendon and Shane were dating. I’m mostly surprised you hadn’t managed to find that out yet.”

His brows knit together. “But back in Montreal you told me not to believe the rumours that Brendon was gay!” He stares at me in astonishment. “Did you lie to me?”

“Yes.”

“But why?!”

“None of your business, that’s why. Besides, Brendon’s ex-boyfriends don’t concern my biography whatsoever.”

He glares at me. I glare at him.

Sisky’s been bothering me about this since Greta blurted it out to him. It wouldn’t occur to Greta to keep her mouth shut about it – love is love, she often says. She never understood that Shane and Brendon’s relationship was best to keep secret, just to be on the safe side. And, for whatever reason, it’s captured Sisky’s imagination, but I’ve made no comment on it until now. It’s worrying that he has all this background information on Shane before he even was interested in Shane and, now that Shane is of interest, Sisky only needs to consult his notes for a few hours before producing a sensible bio. It makes me realise that he knows so much more than he lets on, but he’s signed his book deal now. He has to keep his mouth shut about certain things.

It’s like we’ve managed to lock a tornado into a room. We’ve yet to see how successful or unsuccessful that ends up being.

Sisky might act like a spazz and like an innocent puppy, but he’s neither. He wouldn’t have gotten this far if he weren’t a bit cunning. And he’s not letting me get away with this easily either.

“Did you know that they were living together?” he now prompts.

“Were they?”

I sound perfectly disinterested because he sighs. “Why don’t you want to talk about this? You discovered Brendon, I mean – Surely you care at least a little. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure. Is that what you want me to say?”

He looks at me with disappointed eyes. Something changed in New York. I can sense it. He still looks at me adoringly, but there’s a hint of restraint and hesitation right there in the corner of his eye that he tries to hide.

Maybe he’s found out something that he doesn’t like.

“Look, what do you want, man?” I keep my book in my lap and stare him down. “The documentary turned out to be a bad idea and, okay, I didn’t get on well with Shane personally. I fired him. It was a dick move, you can put that in the book, but I don’t regret it. And yeah, I got Brendon signed during that time, and yes, they were seeing each other. That hardly affected my professional dealings with either of them.”

His mouth purses disapprovingly. “I just...”

“What?”

“I just feel like there’s something more going on here.”

I turn back to my book. “Well go to New York and investigate, then.” My tone is mocking, and he looks affronted and huffs as he goes back to the kitchen and the mess of his notes. I watch him go from the corner of my eye, uncomfortable. Yes, he is to interview everyone, people who know, but all those people also know that they are not to discuss my private life with Sisky.

Even if Sisky was to find out, however, he can’t put it in the book. It’s there in fine print and legal nonsense, and what it translates as is that Sisky cannot out me in that book of his. He might find out, maybe it’s only a matter of time, but he can’t write about it. And I certainly won’t tell him if I don’t have to. It’s not his business. The book can focus on the bands and the music but leave my love affairs out of it.

The phone starts ringing on the side table next to me, and I look to the grandfather clock and try to figure out what time it is in England. I reach out for the receiver, extending my arm as far as it can go, refusing to actually get up. I just about manage it without making the chair tip over. “Yeah?” I ask as I sink back into my chair.

“So you are back,” Clifton’s voice comes down the line.

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because there’s only one taxi service in town and you used it to get home.”

“Touché.” My eyes fix on Sisky’s form hunching over his notes. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

“So where’s my car?”

“Sorry?”

“The car you took when you left for Canada.”

“Oh.” I cover the mouthpiece. “Sisky, what did you do with Clifton’s car?”

Sisky looks up in surprise like he’d forgotten all about that. I had too. “Uh, I left it at my mom’s.”

“It’s in Chicago,” I say, passing on the message. “I’ll pay for it, man, don’t fret.”

“Sure, you buy cars every day.” He pauses for a second. “So the kid is still there?”

“Yeah.” I look over, but Sisky’s absorbed in his notes. “He’s leaving on the bus to Boston tomorrow.”

“Huh. The one that leaves at four?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.”

And he hangs up.

We say nothing, just let the record play and smoke the cigarettes. I’ve pulled sheets over my crotch slightly, a half-attempt at decency, but he’s letting it all hang out, lying on his back at the foot of the bed while I occupy the head.

“So how was Christmas?” I ask for the sake of making conversation. We haven’t seen each other in a few weeks, and we haven’t fucked in well over a month. Since we met, we’ve fucked once a week. Thursday. Fuck day.

“The same,” he says. His body is still flushed and sweaty, but he wiped off the come. My own body is still tingling, feeling sated at last. I’m not used to not having sex, so I needed to get off. Clearly so did he, arriving twenty minutes after Sisky had picked up all of his belongings and left. It was an awkward goodbye. I’ll process it later, maybe. Sex has taken priority right now. I’m not missing the kid because his absence allows me to have sex in my own house. Tomorrow, well. I might miss his company tomorrow. “How was yours?” he now returns.

“The same.” I flick the cigarette over the ashtray we’ve placed on the bed.

“Where did you go?”

“Cincinnati. New York.”

“But are you staying here now?”

“Yeah.” I eye his naked form, at the softening cock resting on his well-toned belly. He’s a muscular type, works out and it shows. “In case I do travel, though, you should get yourself back up fucks.”

“There are no fags around here.”

“Except for you.”

“Except for you, too,” he returns easily and keeps smoking languidly. Usually he’d already be gone, but now it’s been a while so we both know that we’re not done yet.

And in this vein I say, “I want to fuck you.”

He smirks at the ceiling. “But it’s your turn to bottom.”

“But I just did.”

“You topped the last two times before that kid showed up. Definitely your turn to bottom.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, we’re keeping score.”

He smirks. “We are. Besides, you like getting fucked.”

“So do you,” I say because nothing is as satisfying as making him come hard, hard, hard when I’m fucking him, make him ask for more of me.

But now we’re talking about fucking, and I like that, talking about it, because it provides me with visuals and ideas and memories, and my skin heats up in expectation. “Fine, then. Fuck me. Do your worst.”

“Oh, I plan to.” He blows out smoke. “Just need another minute.”

“Such a lightweight.” I push the covers away from me and get out of bed, stretching my limbs as I go. “You want a beer then?”

He hums, nodding, blissed out still. I guess that’s my fault for being such a good fuck.

I head downstairs, adjusting to the idea of this being my life once more. Like my travelling over the holidays was just a dream, a momentary departure, how Sisky’s stay with me was temporary too.

I stand in the kitchen, butt naked, feeling well fucked, and munch on a bit of cheese that I find in the fridge. My body feels content, and the feeling of cock in me lingers, thick and hard, pushing me open, him grabbing my hair and pulling on it. We always do it rough. I like that. And I don’t have to feel the messiness of getting fucked because he pulled out and finished off on me. I cleaned myself off. He only comes in me if he wants to be a dick.

So it’s back to normal now, and Sisky will stop by in a few months and interview me some, and then he’ll go and write that book, and it’ll get published and people will read it, but Sisky isn’t allowed to say where I live now.

And so I can keep hiding out here for the rest of my days.

So that was that, then. My life.

I retired at the age of twenty-seven, and my biography ends there because I did nothing worthwhile from then on out.

Melvin maybe had a point. I might as well have died.

But why pressure myself to work so hard on life? I’ve got a good house and excellent guitars and a lot of books and a steady flow of royalties. I never have to work again if I don’t want to. I’ve got a decent fuck in town, and I have friends, too, far away, and maybe I’ll try harder to visit them sometimes. This is a good set up.

And after Montreal, it’s become clearer and clearer that Brendon will never be a part of this equation again. But that’s alright, alright, alright. It will be alright. He didn’t – He didn’t magically see me, and we didn’t magically get back together, and I’m done feeding myself that bullshit.

And I’m not going to dwell on it now when there’s sex to be had.

I swallow down the rest of the cheese and get out the beer that Clifton brought with him. I use the edge of the counter to get the caps off, beer foam spilling over my knuckles and onto my stomach. I wipe at the still warm, pale skin absentmindedly, ready to quickly drink our beers and start round two.

I hear footsteps behind me. Still wiping at my navel, I turn around and ask, “Fucking in the kitchen? That’s kin –”

And I see Sisky.

In his winter coat and with his satchel and maroon woollen scarf that he probably got for Christmas from his grandmother, and there he is when he should be on the bus to Boston. Right there in the doorway, blocking the way to the hall. He stares at my naked form wide-eyed. I stare at him, equally stunned.

He flushes slightly, his cheeks reddening. I don’t try to hide my body – why the hell should I when I’m not the problem?

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snarl angrily, blood suddenly soaring in my ears, horror hitting me quickly.

“Um, I missed the bus.” He is focusing on looking at the floor now, but his mouth is twisting up at the corners like he’s trying to hold back laughter. “I got a ride out here, I uh – I thought it was Clifton’s pickup out front, I didn’t realise that... you had company.”

My eyes dart to the opened beer bottles and then extend to imagine my post-sex appearance: messed up hair, naked in the kitchen, skin still somewhat flushed. And then I think of Clifton upstairs who’s also naked and post-coital and waiting to fuck me.

And now the kid is here because he’s missed his bus.

“Uh.” I have no idea what to say. What the hell do I say? Think fast, fast, faster. “Yeah, now is not a good time.” Obviously. “I’ve got company. Yeah. Uh.”

He almost giggles. Oh, sex is funny to him, is it? Me standing here naked is funny?

It’s not. This is not funny at all. Shit, fuck, shit.

“I’ll go for a walk then?”

“Please. Yes. Good idea.” My hands feel sweaty around the bottles. Please, for the love of god, just leave.

He makes a show of shielding his eyes and backing out into the hallway. I follow him cautiously, my eyes on him as he navigates back to the front door. Once there, he drops his hands from his face. “I’ll –” he starts, thumb pointing over his shoulder to show he’s going, but then he just stops. And he has this amused, slightly mocking look on his face, for having one on me, but then it’s gone.

Clifton’s frozen at the top of the stairs, naked, very much naked, gazing down at us, and Sisky –

He just stands still. And stares. And pales. And his smile fades. And he looks deadly serious.

And he doesn’t say anything. He looks completely bewildered as his eyes dart between Clifton and me.

All the brilliant things I could say escape me, and so I just stand in the hallway, naked with two beers, looking like I’ve been fucking, and then Clifton is still frozen, too, naked, looking like he’s been fucking.

And Sisky says, “So I’ll just be... Okay then.”

And then he’s turned around and has practically run out of the house. The door slams shut.

“What the fuck?” Clifton barks angrily the second Sisky’s gone.

“He missed his bus and came back.” My voice is hollow.

“The fuck?!” he demands, storming down the steps. His hand sweeps through his short black hair nervously. He’s worried about rumours. “I thought he was gone!”

“Me too.”

“Fuck.” He fidgets and looks at the front door. “So he didn’t know about you?”

“No.”

But he does now.

The lights of Clifton’s car disappear into the woods twenty minutes later. No round two for us, even if Clifton’s been neglected and horny, and I’ve undeniably been the latter.

Having Sisky practically walk in on us is definitely a buzz kill.

Sisky, however, does not come inside. I’ve gotten dressed, my skin still having that lingering electricity from the sex earlier. The smell of a man and come on me. It’s a good smell. My body feels relaxed, pleased by its release, and my ass feels well fucked. All in all, this should be a good feeling, a relaxing and pleasant evening now ahead of me.

But there is no rest for the wicked.

Sisky has not come inside. It’s getting dark outside, but I can just see him on the beach. Sitting on the sand. Facing the ocean. Not getting up though he must be freezing.

I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want him to fucking know, but now he does, and – It was an accident. It wasn’t my fault that he knows.

But it happened nonetheless, and I need to face the consequences.

Reluctantly, I get boots on and throw on a coat and head out to join him. The sand is hard to walk on and the cold instantly hits my skin after having been used to body heat and the rough hands of a mechanic.

Sisky remains motionless. Maybe he has no plans of ever coming back in again. Now that he knows.

“Aren’t you fucking freezing?” I ask when I’ve reached him. The air tastes salty, but there is only a slight wind. The waves keep coming onto the shore in steady beats. I swear I’ve composed most of my new songs to that sound.

Sisky looks up at me and then quickly looks out to the ocean again. I hold my breath, almost, unnerved and upset. He’s upset, but I am too.

“I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Well, Clifton’s gone, so… you can come inside.”

But he doesn’t budge.

Another homophobe. The world’s full of them. I guess his Ryan Ross was a gigolo and a ladies’ man and definitely not, not, not at all homosexual. Well, fuck him, then. I can’t spend my life trying to be what others want me to be. Fuck him and his kind.

Despite this, I sit down next to him. Share his silence. I wrap my arms around my knees and shiver in the cold. He’s presumably been sitting here since, staring at the ocean. Mind full of mental images of the atrocities taking place inside.

“For how long?” he asks at last. He doesn’t sound like himself – all serious. “For how long have you..?” When I don’t instantly reply, he says a hot and angry, “Always?”

“Not always, no. But for quite a while now. Years.”

“But do you… women too? Or...?”

“I find that the older I get, the less women I feel like sleeping with. And the more I seem to have primarily homosexual interests.” I say the H word so that he doesn’t have to, and I almost cringe at the way I try to make it sound neutral. That I fuck men.

Let Sisky make whatever he wants of it. It took me years to wrap my head around, so I don’t expect him to have digested it in less than half an hour. My preference or interests or quirk or whatever one calls it took Spencer years to accept, too. It seems like he finally has, but at first I lost him as a friend because of it. Well, that and other factors combined. And though I’ve persistently been telling myself not to enjoy Sisky’s company, I have. Even if I need breaks from his overbearing tendencies, him walking out on me now would feel like rejection once more.

“I had heard a rumour about you,” Sisky then says quietly. “I had heard things. But I’ve met your ex-girlfriends so I didn’t… People say so much stuff, I thought it was just another insult in a sea of many.”

“Why does it have to be an insult? Maybe it’s a compliment, even. The Greeks valued love between men better than love between a man and a woman.” But even as I say this, I know this isn’t Ancient Greece and besides, I think their logic only applied to men sleeping with adolescent boys. Well, if you like ‘em young... Okay, I get Sisky, I get it, I do. Saying someone is gay is an insult. That the person in question is wrong. Flawed. Fucked up. Disgusting and filthy and dirty.

Funny how it doesn’t feel like that at all when you’re actually doing it. Feels kind of fucking good, in fact.

“You know,” Sisky says then, sounding morose. “Vicky said that she was in love with you.” He glances at me. This doesn’t surprise me, and yet it does: I didn’t think Vicky would admit it. “She was really drunk at that point but... She said that before she met her husband, she. Well.” He’s going somewhere with this, and I look away, towards the waves. Don’t think of Vicky’s girlish heart or Gabe’s tired heart, don’t think about how maybe I was the one thing that stood in their way when I couldn’t have cared less about their feelings because all I wanted was Brendon. “And Gold. She too –”

“Who?”

“Gold,” he repeats. “My ex-girlfriend. Well. My only girlfriend. Her name wasn’t Gold, it just – just sounded better, like Sisky sounded better than Adam or –”

“Your name’s Adam?”

“Andy named me.” Sisky looks at me then slightly... despisingly? I’m not used to that. He should adore me. Unconditionally. Doesn’t he? “Your old roadie, Andy?” He says it like I might not remember Andy, but of course I do. “He said Adam was a dull name. Asked for my last name, said it had to get better from there. I said Siska. He said that I would not survive with a name like that. ‘Be Sisky’, he said. ‘That sounds groovy.’ And so I’ve been Sisky since…” He looks out into the ocean.

“Gold’s name was Lisa. She didn’t want to be Lisa, so she was Gold instead. And she was in love with you, too. She had... this golden hair. And these pretty green eyes. The first time I saw her, I knew, you know? But she didn’t want Adam Siska, she wanted Ryan Ross. Or Joe if she couldn’t have you. I spent my teenage years trying to get with girls who only wanted you. All of us male followers suffered that same fate. And that’s why Gold left me. She said I wasn’t as deep as you, like she’d ever even met you. And you. Then there’s you.” He stops to laugh, sounding uncharacteristically bitter. “Everyone’s in love with you. All the time. All those girls we knew. And you don’t even like women. I mean... That’s funny. That’s fucking funny. Right? That’s gotta be the joke of the century. And look at where you live, man! I mean, look at this place!” He motions along the deserted beach, at my kingdom by the sea. “All your life you’ve been surrounded by people wanting to give themselves to you! And who do you need? Who do you want? No one. Poor fools don’t realise you have never given yourself to a single person. Not ever. It’s a circus of nothing but fools, and you’re not even directing. You’re not even looking. It’s just funny. It’s so funny someone should be laughing.” And then he hangs his head.

And neither one of us laughs.

“Do you think I wanted this?” I ask quietly, gritting my teeth from his attack. “Do you think this is what I was aiming for? You don’t know the first thing about me and who I might give myself to, so –”

“Please. You’re alone.”

“Well, maybe that’s because whoever I wanted to give myself to didn’t fucking want me.” And with that, I stand back up. “You think you know so much, but you know shit, Sisky. Do you think I give a fuck if you judge me? Do you expect me to feel bad that other people created warped up expectations of me? Huh?!”

“Not really,” he mutters, digging his forefinger into cold sand.

“Good. Because I don’t. Fuck you all for thinking I should live for you. And you don’t know the first thing about what happened –” I stall myself, bite my tongue. “You can come inside if you want to. If you want to fuck off, then fuck off.”

I’ve taken two long strides when he calls out, “Wait!” Inhaling deep, I do. I look over my shoulder at him, and he’s twisting his body around to look at me. “This explains things, and – This makes things lock into place, stuff people have insinuated, so... Who was it?”

I say nothing. I feel the punch of it in my guts, the instant sensation of being icy cold inside. And I say nothing.

“I know it’s someone I already know.” He waits for me to say it, but I won’t, and so he says, “It was Brendon, right?”

“Yes. Alright?”

He doesn’t seem surprised, doesn’t seem happy, doesn’t seem much of anything. He looks away. “Did you love him?”

I close my eyes and focus on the sound of the ocean, hope for it to drown my voice. It doesn’t. “Yes.”

“...Do you still love him?” When the silence drags on, he adds, “Off the record.”

“Yes.”

And then I head back to the house.

Chapter Text

Sisky doesn’t leave the following day although I expect him to. Instead he stays, and we ignore each other. He pores over his notes in his bedroom, hardly comes out. I look through the open door when he goes downstairs to get a drink, and he has notebooks and bits of paper and newspaper articles spread out everywhere in the guest room, and the chair is pulled back from the desk where a dozen different pens and a few notebooks are. Seems like he’s going through everything, making notes on his notes. Rewriting my story.

I hear him coming up the stairs and hide in the bathroom. Take a shower just so that he doesn’t think I was hiding from him.

He stays another night, and I don’t ask him when he’s leaving and he doesn’t tell me when he’s going. But it’s on that second morning as I’m eating beans out of a can for breakfast that he comes downstairs and says, “I’d like to interview you today.”

This isn’t really a surprise.

“About what?”

He pauses slightly. “Sex.”

But he doesn’t blush like I expect him to – his tone is defiant. I can’t really put my finger on what he’s thinking. If he was repulsed by me, he would have gone. I get that he’s bitter about his youth, blames me that his own feelings were never returned by female Followers fans, but he didn’t act that way before he found out about me. I don’t get what my sexuality has to do with an ex-girlfriend dumping him, but he takes it personally anyway. So he’s a bit angry, I can tell, but I’m angry too that he thinks he has the right to feel that way.

“Sex. Okay. Well, you have the birds and the bees –”

“You’re not funny, you know.”

And I suppose I’m not.

“So can I interview you?”

“Sure. We can talk about sex.”

And we stare at each other for a while like we’re trying to outdo one another.

The entire interview is to be kept strictly off record, not that he could even claim in his book that I’m gay. Nonetheless, he needs this to find out about my life, and then he can censor it accordingly. Make it non-explicit for all those innocent kids out there who will be the first to buy a biography of me.

We’re in the kitchen this time, sitting on the opposite sides of the table. He’s got new notes now, fresh from the press, and I see dates and arrows and question marks, and I catch a lot of ‘B’s in there too before he holds the notes up slightly, preventing me from seeing the text.

“How would you describe your sexuality?” he says in a clinically uninterested voice. He looks tired, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Neither have I.

“Flexible.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I sleep with both sexes. Bisexual. Sure, that.”

He purses his mouth and writes something down. I look around restlessly, my hands in my lap. Wishing I could be anywhere but. “How old were you the first time you slept with a woman?”

“Nineteen.”

He stops at this, and his serious facade cracks slightly as he stares at me, trying not to smile. “Wait, you were a virgin until you were nineteen?”

“Hey, it wasn’t from a lack of trying. Girls thought I was too weird.” They did, too. A girl I was head over heels for in high school said I was too intense and that she couldn’t understand what I was going on about half the time. “What does age matter, anyway? I think the quality is more important.”

“I first had sex when I was seventeen.”

“You want me to bake you a cake?” I ask, and he huffs, a light blush on his cheeks. He has no problem asking me personal questions, but he’s bashful about his own experiences. Oh baby, baby, if he wants to compare our sex lives. Because I will win. Every round. “I’ve had more sex in my life than you probably ever will,” I then say, which isn’t to try and make him feel bad, it’s just fact. I’ve had a lot of sex. He just looks at me in a ‘yeah right’ way, but it’s obvious that he’s slept with maybe three girls, tops, and with two of those only once.

“How old were you when you first slept with a man?”

“Twenty-three.”

“So that’s only four years of women exclusively.”

“No, it was twenty-three years of women exclusively. Adolescent crushes, high school hormones, LA music scene fucks... All women. Always.” For the life of me, I can’t remember having had those feelings for men in my youth. I keep scratching under my fingernails with the sharp edge of my thumb, in order to do anything but look at him. “So at first it was all women for me, but then it gradually became split between women and men, kind of depended on my mood, and then it’s slowly changed into being more and more about men.”

He fidgets in his seat, his brows knitting together. “But... When did you know? I mean.”

“When did I know what?”

“Well, if you were sleeping with women, why did you start... men too?” He sounds confused.

“Are you asking why I’m attracted to men or why I fuck men?” It’s a ridiculous question. Why is the sun yellow, why is the ocean salty, why does he sleep with women? All obvious things to him. It’s just the way things are, the way they’re built. And I’m built this way. “Men are great fucks.” The blush on his cheeks gets redder so I go on, feeling slightly vindictive. “You think that with a girl you might Fuck with a capital F, but you don’t actually know what fucking is until you fuck a guy. Girls are soft and small, you gotta be careful even when they want it hard. Men aren’t. And men are so much easier to fuck, too. They don’t accidentally get knocked up. They’re never on their periods. They’re always up for it. And men have great bodies. I guess I’m a sucker for great asses myself, round and pale. Imagine a guy with a – God, with a perfect ass on all fours, offering himself so that you can see his tight, pink hole…” I let my voice fade away, slightly lost in thought. Sisky is bright red, and his eyes are endlessly wide. “Sorry, am I being too graphic for you?”

“Yes.”

“The mental image turns me on.”

“It does nothing for me.” He sounds defensive. “At all.” But he clears his throat slightly, and I’m not fully convinced by his disgust. People get curious.

“It probably doesn’t turn you on because you’re not gay.”

“You said you’re bi, so which is it?”

“Somewhere between the two.”

He doesn’t seem put off by this, however. He knows by now that at the end of the day I prefer men, that I prefer cock and ass and balls.

“What about Brendon?”

The feeling of being naughty and sly vanishes. I was thinking of teasing Sisky more, tell him of my homoerotic accomplishments, but now he’s not talking about me anymore.

“He always knew he was gay,” I say simply. Brendon probably was confused at first, but he seemed to at least know for sure he was the way he was. Sometimes, I almost envy that. At least he knew. All the bullshit and violence and wrongdoing aside, at least they couldn’t take that away from him.

Maybe things had been different for us if I had... been less confused about it all.

At least he knew.

“No, I meant you and him,” Sisky now clarifies, and I feel defensive all of a sudden. “I asked you why men, and you only told me about sex, but – It depends on who you have sex with, don’t you think? Sex can be just physical, sure, but if it’s – if it’s not someone random, then it matters. That person matters.” He clearly has enough sexual experience to have that one sussed out, so I don’t say anything. He interprets my silence as a green light. “Was Brendon the first guy you...?”

I suddenly remember kissing Brendon that night, right there in the hotel corridor, so stupid, anyone could have – But the want and the burn and his taste, his taste. “Yes.” Desperate hands, clothes off, endless expanses of hot skin, him beneath me, wouldn’t turn around, no, he wanted us face to face, and so I saw the look on his face when I pushed in...

I press my thumb into the pulse point of my left wrist, feel the sped up rhythm. Feel ashamed and angry and turned on.

“So why did you sleep with him?”

I want to ask, ‘Are you kidding me?’ but refrain. “You saw him on stage. Hell, he only had to hover around that Dallon guy to make you question your sexuality –”

“Did not!” he objects, looking scandalised.

“– so imagine him. Okay? Imagine him giving you this look of – of want and desire. Fucking hell. You think he’s sexual on stage, imagine him in your bed. He knows what he’s doing. He can move those fucking hips of his, and when we fucked, we Fucked, capital fucking F. We might have been a mess, but we had great chemistry. Really great chemistry. Not that it was all him. I think I’m a pretty spectacular fuck too.”

Sisky eyes me like he thinks that I’ll now bounce on him like some kind of a sneaky sex monster. He looks flushed, and I smirk.

“The, uh... I mean.” His fingers card through his hair, and he looks around the kitchen awkwardly. “Um. So you – Er.”

“You’ve done a lot of research. Am I giving myself credit I don’t deserve?”

“No. No, uh. You have a reputation of... Um.” He glances at me, and I love seeing him squirm. “Although I knew those rumours of it, uh, being ten inches were exaggerated. I saw you so I know you’re not actually. Um.” He brings a hand to his face like he’s not sure why he’s still talking. Ten inches? Jesus, I’d probably pass out getting a boner. But thanks, still flattering. Exaggerated but flattering.

“You didn’t see me erect,” I point out anyway, just to tease him. He turns even more bright red, and there’s a tomato out there that’s endlessly jealous.

“Anyway! The, uh – You’re not answering the...” He clears his throat. He wanted to talk about sex, so he’s only getting what he wanted. “So you and – and Brendon had, uh, great sex. Okay. But you didn’t know that going in, so –”

“Well, I figured he’d be a great fuck because I knew he was an excellent cocksucker.”

“Do you have to?” he asks, looking like he’s practically in pain.

“You wanted to talk about sex so I am. You’re the one asking personal questions.”

“You don’t have to be so crude or explicit about it!” He nearly glares at me. “Objectifying it can’t fool me into thinking that it didn’t matter to you. I know it mattered. He mattered.”

“Of course he fucking mattered.” I sound as offended as he does.

“But when did you know that? When you first hooked up or later or...?” His eyes are searching, and I go back to staring at my nails. When the silence stretches on, he says, “Okay, well. How long were you together for?”

I frown at this. “We’ve never been together.”

He looks astonished. “But you –”

“No. He and I have never been together.” I can see that the admission sparks up a dozen more questions inside him, sex related or not, but I can’t. I stand up just as he opens his mouth to start interrogating me. “I’ve got nothing more to –”

“But why?” he rushes out, choosing it from all the things he wants to ask. “I assumed you’d properly been together at some point, even if it was a secret. But you’ve never...? I mean, why?”

Because I wasn’t a decent human being.

“Well, it wasn’t because of the sex, that’s for sure. Interview over.”

He remains seated as I head upstairs, needing to get space to breathe. Out of everything Sisky’s wanted to talk about – the bands, the fame – this causes the biggest sense of turmoil in me. And he’s downstairs, stunned that despite the fragments he now knows about Brendon and me, I never managed to secure the deal, make it even a little official. Or as official as it could be when we don’t want the public to know.

But though Brendon and I never said it, never formally agreed on anything, we were each other’s. At times. In certain moments.

But never for long enough.

God, I need a drink.

Clifton has a high tolerance for alcohol. He can drive me home after a night of drinking when I’m way beyond the condition to drive, and I can handle my alcohol relatively well. He reminds me of Jon in that sense – he can drink and drink and not get drunk. So it doesn’t matter that the road is bad, that it’s snowy and dark, that pine trees obstruct his view and a moose could easily walk onto the road, and bang, crash, smoke, praise the Lord, we’re finally dead. He simply keeps driving.

He’s been taciturn all night, and I’ve been talking, which is unusual for us. Now he turns onto the narrow road that leads to the house, and he slows down as we enter the woods. I don’t know how late it is, but Tommy kicked us out eventually.

Clifton doesn’t say anything until we’re at the house, and the car’s stopped by the porch steps. A silence hangs over us that he doesn’t fill. Well, okay. Right then.

“You could come in,” I offer. “The kid knows, anyway.”

“Are you kidding me? No way.” He sounds angry. He is angry. Machias is too small for men like us to survive even the tiniest rumour. Hey, I told him Sisky wouldn’t tell anyone, but he’s got it into his head that he will be included in the biography as one of my conquests.

I sigh – dramatically, I can admit that. The back of my skull leans against the headrest. “Or you could come in,” I say again. Why does he have to be so difficult?

He hangs his head and stares at the wheel. “Listen, Ryan –” he starts in this tone, and no, no, I don’t want to hear it.

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

I can sense it. I know. The days are numbered, all these days. Not in any kind of divine way, but because of me. Because of people. What we do and think. There is a sense of finality that hangs in the air, in the dark clouds, and it’s wrapping itself around my blue house by the seashore, the house I wanted because no one else wanted it. Two rejects sticking together.

“Maybe once the kid is gone,” Clifton then amends. “I’ll call you.”

“Sure,” I say, opening the door, “however you want it.”

I climb up the porch steps as he turns his car around. The door isn’t locked, of course it isn’t, and in the hallway I hang my winter coat and kick off my boots. The house is eerie at night like this, unwelcoming. It feels different now. Turns out that by leaving for Montreal, I broke a spell. I feel restless once more.

I’m somewhat aware that it’s late, and the kid must be asleep, so I try to be quiet as I head upstairs. Once on the landing, however, I’m momentarily blinded by light coming from the bathroom before the door closes after Sisky stepping out. He stares at me, clearly taken aback some. He has bed hair and is in nothing but a pair of grey briefs. The door to his bedroom is open, and he looks towards it and then at me again. “Uhm,” he says and awkwardly shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“I had to pee.” He motions over his shoulder.

“Oh.”

He doesn’t move and neither do I. “The, uh. Clifton didn’t come in, then?” He sounds nervous.

“No.”

“Oh. Did you... in the car?”

I genuinely laugh at this as I approach the door of my bedroom. “No. We didn’t.”

We’re not that desperate.

But I stop when Sisky jumps from me moving closer, and he self-consciously wraps his arms around his bare middle. A tension in his stance. This confuses me, and I stare. His state of undress doesn’t register with me until then, though clearly it’s already registered with him. He’s a few inches shorter than me and he’s eight years younger so in my eyes he’s not a fully developed human being but is just some skinny kid still coming out of a growth spurt. He’s somewhere in the middle of complete and a sketch, but his body, however, is fully developed: beneath his clothes he looks surprisingly athletic, his stomach well-toned, his arms skinny but strong looking with veins traceable beneath the skin, and his body reminds me of Brendon’s except Brendon is fuller in the middle, he has these hips, these goddamn gorgeous – whereas Sisky’s just skinny and boyish and plank-shaped. But that can be attractive too, that boyish look, and right now he looks like he knows it.

He’s not really looking at me; it’s more like he’s letting me look. And then he stands there. Like he’s waiting.

“Uh.” I sound unintelligent. His arms slowly drop to his sides. Better view. Well, shit. Shit, this is – I see. “So,” I say quietly. He looks at me owlishly, blinking slowly, scared-looking. A deer in headlights, how dear it is to be in headlights. “You can’t sleep, huh?”

He kind of nods but doesn’t say anything. I can feel his nervousness rolling off of him in waves, but he’s standing still, and I give him points for that.

I slowly approach him, and I expect him to chicken out but he doesn’t. He sticks to his guns, he perseveres. And I have to respect that if nothing else.

“Were you thinking that I might help tire you out?” I ask slowly, stopping within arm’s reach of him. It’s hard to tell how much he’s blushing because of the dark, but I know that he is. “Well, were you?”

It takes him a few seconds to make a sound of any kind. “I, uh...” His voice is trembling. “I was just...”

“Thinking about our conversation earlier, right? Men fucking.”

He draws in an uneven breath, his body full of anticipation. “...Yeah.” And he looks at me, half-terrified but still standing there. I take another step closer, and he seems to instinctively take one back, but there’s nowhere to go. His back hits the wall. He’s breathing fast, chest rising and falling.

I close the distance between us, but our bodies don’t touch. I place a hand against the wall by his head. His eyes go wide, wider, and I lean in slowly, my gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips. He freezes up, hovering slightly like he thinks he should perhaps meet me halfway. I stop with an inch between our mouths. Wait. Whisper, “You don’t wanna go there, kid. You really don’t.”

“W-What?” He looks severely confused, staring at me, my lips, blinking fast.

“Oh, I could fuck you. Get us both off. I could chew you to tiny pieces and then just spit you out, the way I do with everyone. And you know that.” I pull back, then, give us some breathing space. “But I won’t. Besides,” I let myself chuckle to get rid of the heavy tension, “you’re not into guys. Curious as to what the fuss is about, sure, and maybe a little bit in love with the idea of being that intimate with an idol of yours, but you’re not actually gay and the thought of me fucking your virginal ass terrifies you. So no. We’re not ever doing this. Alright?”

A sputter of air escapes from between his lips, spearmint and innocence. “...Alright,” he says quietly, and the second I step back fully, his shoulders slump, he seems to relax, he exhales in relief. He stares at me like he’s only now realising what he thought would take place. “Fuck,” he swears breathlessly.

I’m not being chivalrous. I could. I’ve fucked a few fans who had never thought of sleeping with a guy until I had them on all fours, and those guys probably still aren’t sure what the hell happened. They weren’t gay, they were just star-struck, unable to say no, doing whatever they could sense pleased me. I’ve used it to my advantage. I could do it to Sisky, but I won’t. He matters, and I won’t.

“Dude, I’m sorry,” he then says, a bit mortified. He rubs his face, the spell thankfully breaking. “I just – Spent all night going over the notes, thinking about – about you and your relationships and... and sex.”

“People come onto me all the time,” I smirk, but the awkwardness lingers. Leaving the forced humour, I say, “We don’t have to mention this in the morning.”

“Okay.” He looks beyond grateful. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

As I move to leave, maybe even escape, he quickly says, “Ryan?” He’s still in the corner, still in his briefs, still looking slightly shocked. I wait for him to spit it out. “I want to go on another trip. I think it’s important that you – that you come, too.”

“Where to?”

“Seattle.”

I stare at him in confusion. The question of ‘What the hell is in Seattle?’ must be obvious because he says, “Trust me.”

Funnily enough, I do.

“Well, we’re not going impromptu again and leaving this second, and we’re not driving across the damn country either.”

“Oh no, I was – hoping you’d, uh, pay for flights.” And then he smiles sheepishly, a smile I’ve seen hundreds of times before. A smile that relaxes me, helps to dissolve the tension.

Yeah, yeah. I guess I’m paying for the fucking flights.

Sisky gushes about the luxury of first class for the entirety of the long flight during which I have plenty of time to wonder what the hell I’m doing. I hide myself in Machias and then Sisky, Jon and whoever else manages to coax me out, and I see Cincinnati and I see New York, and I go back to Maine because I want to, not chased by anyone. Plan to stay for good. Not go anywhere.

And when Sisky asks me to go, not even explaining what for, I couldn’t pack faster. Which I actually did this time – toothbrush, books, extra socks. Those are important, socks. I hope London’s treating Spencer well because I don’t have his number and if he calls Machias now, he’ll get no answer. He’ll wonder where I am after I told everyone that I was going home for good.

I’m contradicting myself. I know.

The realisation of how uncertain my plans for myself are is worrying.

Sisky gets out a notebook, sipping on complimentary champagne. He keeps eyeing a redhead stewardess, his cheeks blushing, and I push our night-time encounter out of my mind once more. I think he would have let me had I wanted it, but we’ve both done an excellent job of not mentioning it.

And hopefully it never comes up in conversation ever again.

“We’re staying in the Mayflower Park Hotel,” he says, studying his notes. I let him and Vicky sort things out over the phone. Vicky asked me what the hell I was doing, if I had suddenly discovered my inner itinerant. Maybe.

I did, however, check where His Side is, made sure they’re not in Seattle. That Sisky isn’t planning on doing something incredibly stupid.

But His Side is wrapping up their winter tour, having visited Seattle already. They’re finishing off in Chicago. Not in Seattle, not in the Mayflower Park Hotel. I’m done with chance encounters that are orchestrated by desperation. I’m done seeking him out. It’s like Spencer said, get myself a boyfriend. Accept the death of it and pretend to move on.

“How long are we staying for?” I ask, a gin and tonic in my hand, ice cubes knocking together.

“I don’t know. Not long.”

He’s being mysterious on purpose or, well, a pain in the ass on purpose. But I never asked what our business in Seattle was because I didn’t care. My house just felt oppressive. It never used to. I only got a glimpse of the pattern I was about to comfortably fall back into: Machias, silence, old records, good books, seagull cries, telephone calls, sad waves, casual sex. Not wanting anything.

Ryan Ross. Dead at twenty-seven, not realising it until at twenty-eight.

And at the back of my mind, there is a small, persistent part of me that objects to the idea of my death. One tiny part when the rest of me is unwilling to conform. And it’s thanks to that part that I sit here now.

A close escape. A damn close call.

The sixth one.

I’ve refused to die.

Maybe I should start alternating between New York and Machias. A month here, a month there. Why do things have to be so final, anyway? Enjoy the New York high life, hang out with old friends, hang out with Gabe, then go to Machias, read books, enjoy the solitude, fuck Clifton. Then repeat. I should consider doing something like that.

“Does it take days? This thing in Seattle?”

“No,” Sisky says, shaking his head, shrugging. Being vaguer than vague.

“Right.”

Maybe after I get back to Machias, I can start planning this reintroduction to society. Call Vicky, see what she makes of my plans to live in two places. The thought fills me with a hope I haven’t felt in years.

Maybe it’s finally time.

There’s nothing I can do for this idea now, however, so I restlessly look around the first class cabin, a few business men and us. One of them gives me a thumbs up when I accidentally look his way, and I smile forcedly. I already gave him my autograph and listened to him ramble on about how he played guitar when he was a teenager and how he dreamt of being a rockstar and how his “songs weren’t half bad” and how he thinks my music’s really changed the world.

That’s nice.

When we get to the airport, I want to take a taxi to the hotel, get some rest. It’s early afternoon thanks to time zones, but my body thinks it’s later than that. Sisky, however, says that we need a car, and as we rent the prettiest one (his request, not mine), I grow increasingly more suspicious.

“Hand me your bag,” he requests, trunk open in the airport parking lot. Planes fly overhead. He’s put in his small suitcase, and I hand him the battered duffel bag that I bought in 1970 for our first ever tour. “I can drive us to the hotel.”

“Why do we need a car?”

“We can get some rest, grab some dinner, check out the sights... Hey, you wanna go whale-watching?”

“Why do we need a car?”

“Or not, you know, we can –”

“Sisky. Why do we – For fuck’s sake.” I stop in to take a nervous breath. There’s not much snow here, maybe they’re having a milder winter than us in Maine, but it’s drizzling, too watery to be sleet but still thicker than rain. This mysterious enterprise of his is making me nervous and unsettled. “Does it have to do with Brendon?”

I hate how vulnerable I sound, but I stare Sisky down, and he looks away from me. He hasn’t been questioning me about Brendon since our talk on sex, and I appreciate that, but he – he looks at me differently now. There’s this air of pity when he looks at me, and I hate that.

That he sees right through me.

He closes the trunk. “It doesn’t have to do with him.”

We get in the car, and he chooses stations like he always does, little goddamn Stalin. He hands me a map. “I marked the hotel with an X.” I’m surprised by his organisational skills, but then again, he conducted a study on my life for months before anyone caught on.

But I’m not satisfied with his refusal not to share. “What are we doing here?”

It’s not His Side, and it has nothing to do with Brendon. I think it’s time I get to know. I have no connections to Seattle or – Fuck, what if my mother’s moved here? Was she not about to marry someone from Washington four years back? Or was that Washington, D.C.? Is she even with that guy anymore?

“Are we meeting someone?” I press on worriedly.

“No, okay? We’re just checking something out, but we’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

“Because.” He chews on his bottom lip and peers through the windshield. “Because it’ll get dark soon. It was a long flight. And because you’re – you’re getting snappy so maybe now isn’t –”

“Enough of this. Spit it out, for god’s sake.”

He glances at me guiltily. “But... if I tell you, you won’t come.”

“That bad, huh?” I ask, trying to hide how goddamn confused I am. “I’ll tell you what. We either do it now, whatever we’re here for, or I’m out of this car and on the first plane home. Alright?”

He looks defeated. “Fine.” When I offer him the map, he says, “I don’t need it.” Even more suspicious.

He puts the car in reverse, backing out from between the other rental cards, and the speakers start to hauntingly sing, Hello darkness, my old friend.

It’s nothing. Literally. The side of the road in the middle of nowhere. The sun is setting as Sisky switches the engine off. He looks pale and nervous. “Well,” he says. “We’re here.”

We’re nowhere.

“...Okay?”

“Look, I just...” He’s squeezing the wheel too hard. “The way you... wouldn’t talk about it. I thought maybe it’d just be good for you. I was. I was gonna come out here, anyway. For pictures.”

“...Okay...?”

“Okay.” He smiles or tries to, and we both get out of the car. It’s stopped raining but the black road glistens as headlights reflect on it, and white snow decorates the roadsides. I stuff my hands in my pockets and shiver in the cold.

Sisky opens the trunk, and I wait for him, trying to piece this puzzle together but failing to do so. He gets out a camera and then says, “It’s a bit further along, over there.”

We continue by foot, leaving the car behind. Cars pass us on the interstate. I don’t know what I’m looking for but then see something ahead of us, on the side of the road. A flash of colours in the otherwise greyscale surroundings and a few bright flames, like. Like candles or.

I slow down in my steps, feeling a cold that has nothing to do with the January chill.

I know where we are.

“Well, I’ll just,” Sisky says, sounding apologetic as we reach our destination.

I forgot about this place.

It’s obvious that no one else did.

I look at the collection of dead flowers killed by the cold, of cemetery candles, soggy notes, empty booze bottles, cheap looking jewellery, guitar picks, pens, all spread out by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Sisky takes pictures. I feel sick.

“Fuck.”

“You didn’t know?” he asks, lowering the camera.

“That this has become a memorial site? No.”

Why would anyone? This is – It’s between places, inconvenient, a forty minute drive from Seattle. And people. People come here? For what? To mourn something that has died. To repent like pilgrims, be close to something unholy.

“I can’t believe this.” I back away slightly, shaking my head. The stretch of road looks so innocent, is straight, fuck me, it’s straight and flat and there is nothing, nothing dangerous about it. Nothing that would excuse me. “This is not how I remember it.”

There is no bus lying on its side, no broken glass, no blood on the pavement, no summer rain washing it away. I keep looking around, replacing the scenery with my own gruesome visions.

“How do you remember it?”

I take a deep breath. “We came from... that lane onto this side. And I remember – the bus. On its side, probably. Probably here. A car passing by drove on to find a place to- to call an ambulance, so we waited. I waited. I. I sat. I sat somewhere over there. And Spencer, he was – I thought he was dead, he was lying over there, head covered in blood, and. Well, he was just fine, just some superficial injuries that we thought looked bad. But I was paralysed. Watching him. Brent was with him, he was practically unscathed. I sat there.” I point. My hand shakes. Everything is as vivid as it was that night. “Joe wasn’t in his bunk when we crashed, he was in the lounge. He hit his, uh... his lower back against the table we had in there. This small table. It fractured a vertebra. An inch the wrong way, he could have become paralysed. He couldn’t. He couldn’t move, man. He kept yelling out in pain, lying on the ground over there. He couldn’t move. They operated on him that night. He had to learn to walk again. But he was fine too, in the end. Well, obviously,” I say because Joe Trohman is probably strutting on stage somewhere right now, thrusting his bulging crotch to the delight of female fans.

“What about the others?” Sisky asks softly, tentatively.

“Zack had some cuts here and there. I mean, we were all bruised somehow. But he broke his index finger.” I hold mine up and wiggle it. “He broke that. Almost funny on such a big guy. If. If something funny has to be found, then... It got squashed between him and the bunk wall. William, uh, hit his head, there was a bump. Nothing major but it knocked him out. Mild concussion. Probably the only twenty minutes he’s been quiet in his life, and god, when he came to, he helped others, but only made things worse by panicking. Pete, that’s our manager –”

“I know,” Sisky cuts in, and of course he knows. He’s talked to Pete.

“Fractured his jaw. Flew out of his bunk into the corridor, the bus tilted on the wrong side for him. And Andy had very minor injuries, barely anything.”

“Really? That’s lucky, considering he was driving.”

There is nothing but wonder in his tone, and that’s when I stop. Remember that Sisky doesn’t know.

I say nothing.

“What about Brendon?”

“Bren?” I repeat quietly. My eyes dart to the shrine set up by Followers fans. A newer note hasn’t been destroyed by the weather yet. The ink has smudged, but the letters are big and the note is short: ‘I love you, Ryan’. A shrine to one of the worst nights of my life. When Brendon didn’t... When he didn’t show up in Portland. When it became clear that it was all over. “Brendon wasn’t on the bus.” Sisky seems surprised. It’s becoming rare for me to tell him something he doesn’t know. “He’d quit. I mean that, uh –” I scratch the side of my head worriedly. Guiltily. “He had to stay in San Francisco, he had something to do. He wasn’t on the bus.”

“Wow. Now that’s lucky. From his perspective, I mean. Imagine if he had been on it, you know? He might’ve ended up being the one casualty.”

I don’t entertain this thought or scenario for a second.

“If Brendon had been on the bus, then we wouldn’t have crashed.”

He stops. “What do you...?” He must see the guilt on me because he pales. “Fuck. What do you mean?”

“I drove.” His gasp is timed perfectly. “I was – I was the one.”

“No, you – I’ve seen the police report, Ry, it wasn’t –”

“We lied. I was drunk, we couldn’t – Couldn’t risk me getting charged with a DUI, causing a crash. There were people in the car I hit, and we thought someone might. Might die, and then – Fuck, they could’ve put me in jail, and I was too famous for that. Too talented for that. We lied. Andy got compensated for taking the blame.” Sisky appears to be in complete shock. “I drove. Fuck. I drove that bus, Sisky. And I was drunk because Brendon had left me. I was a mess, so – So had he stayed, I wouldn’t have been driving. I wouldn’t have...” I wipe my cheeks and look away from him, trying to control my breathing. My eyes land on the shrine again. What a sickening, disgusting glorification of death. Who would commemorate that? I try so hard to forget.

But now I remember why I need to be kept away from people. At that moment, I see it so clearly.

Just when I thought that maybe a semi-return would be appropriate, just when...

“I thought you said you two weren’t together,” Sisky says quietly, without blame, and that helps some. Eases the pain a little. Because he’d have the right to tell me to go fuck myself, for having been that selfish. I know I was. Spencer’s forgiven me. I could have made Suzie fatherless that night, Haley a widow, but Spencer’s forgiven me. The other guys – Brent, Joe, Pete – never will. But they would hate me regardless, the crash just adds to it.

Brendon and I never really talked about it either, but he must have thought it only showed what a fuck up I was. Am.

“We weren’t together that summer, I didn’t lie. We’ve never been together. It was a summer fling. A tour fling. But fuck,” I say almost desperately, “that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t in love with him. I kept convincing myself that it was just intense sex.”

He looks embarrassed by my honesty, but this is what he wanted, wasn’t it? The uncensored truth. Me finally telling him all those things that no one should know about a man they adore.

When I think of that summer, a stupid sensation takes over, like butterflies fluttering in my stomach. When I first met him. When things were so good between us. When we could have – If it only had gone differently, if he hadn’t been so... And then it all ends here. On cold ground by Interstate 5.

“I was fucking confused, alright?” I say desperately, needing to justify this at least a little. “I mean, the sex – the sex was one thing, that I could categorise if I tried hard enough. Sex with him was amazing sex but, you know, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. But the way I felt, the way it felt when I was with him... That part wasn’t easy at all.”

“And you were dating Jac.”

“Until I wasn’t,” I say dismissively, and Sisky knows about Jac and Brent, I have informed him of it since in his interviews both parties conveniently left out their affair to make themselves look good. Fuckers. “She cheated on me with a lot of people, and I cheated on her with a lot of people. Brendon was one of them. But he wasn’t just... He was so much...”

“More.”

Yeah.

Cars pass us by, all driving along with ease. Passing the crash site where candles burn. People come here daily, they must do.

“The band was dying and Spencer was leaving and Brendon was gone. Is that excuse enough?” I ask quietly, a rhetorical question that doesn’t need an answer. I don’t want it to be answered because I couldn’t bare it.

“I’m sorry,” he then says quietly. He sounds genuinely sorry. “You didn’t mean it, Ryan. Accidents... Accidents happen. It was bad visibility, it was raining hard. The police report said...” The words are difficult for him to say. He sounds sad and disappointed even as he’s trying to release me from culpability. That’s alright. I’m sad and disappointed too. I am to blame. “Why did he stay in San Francisco?”

“Because I fucked it up. He told me how he felt, and I laughed in his face.” God, I fucked it up. My throat feels dry. It’s not because I’m telling Sisky, however. There isn’t much more I can confess, no further disappointments I could offer.

“But you were confused, you didn’t know that –”

“I knew. Deep down, I knew, and it fucking scared me. I even... I even remember when I realised that him and I... We’d fought, I don’t – I don’t even remember what about, but he was angry with me, and I was all cut up about it. But we made up and he – Or we… We. We slept in the back of the bus from Omaha to Denver. There was a bed back there, for me. We’d never – been together like that before. I didn’t sleep, but he did. In my arms. And I think that’s when I first… But I just couldn’t admit it.”

Five years later, here I am. Finally admitting it. I didn’t fall in love with him in New York. It was before that, long before that.

He says, “From Omaha to Denver. That’s a long drive.”

“It was.” An awkward silence lands on us. I think of Brendon curling up into me, breathing steadily. How I kept him close but was so aware of the door, worried about someone just coming in and exposing us. Only a matter of time before they’d find us. Holding him closer. Confused, fucking confused, but so caught up in it. I didn’t really understand what I was feeling for him. “I think that ride was the first time a tiny part of my brain acknowledged that something had changed. Because there he was. Just walking into my life. Wrecking it in his wake.” I take in an unsteady breath. “Like a car crash.”

And with one last look at the roadside shrine, I turn my back on the crime scene. Start heading back to the car. I feel shaken up and useless, ripped open. Sisky follows me, and I wipe my cheeks as inconspicuously as possible.

When we get back in the car, we both just sit there. Watch the distant, weak orange spots of candles ahead of us. It starts to rain again, a steady drumming on the car roof. It’s cold and our breaths rise like smoke. But we don’t move.

“Did you ever see him again until New York?”

“No.”

“So how did you find him again?”

“Bumped into each other at a party.”

“Small world.”

“Miniscule.”

He says, “Fate.”

I don’t fully believe that.

He puts the camera in the backseat before he offers me a cigarette. We both light one and smoke. The last rays of weak sunshine get sucked out, and the dark of the night slowly swallows us, but we’re not in a hurry.

“Well, this is what I’ve got,” he says at length. “My theory, my version. You and him, well, clearly it didn’t work out that summer. But then in New York, you meet again. 708? Him. A room number. The Chelsea Hotel, right? I know you lived there. And the song’s about an affair, everyone knows that. It’s... it’s obvious now that it’s about him. And the Auden poem you quote in the lyrics, that poem’s about a guy. Auden was gay. It makes sense now, you must have – related, I guess. You were with Keltie, though. He was with Shane. But you two still...” We still. I say nothing to his version because we both know it’s accurate. “You cheated on Keltie with him or a lot of people?”

“A few people,” I say honestly. Don’t think of her red eyes when I made her cry. “Mostly, uh. Mostly it was men.” It justified it somehow, that I cheated on her with men and not other women. “I tried to be what she deserved, you know, but I couldn’t. She wanted a good man. I wasn’t. And then I met him again. And then it was just him.”

It was always just him.

“What about him and Shane? Did Brendon... with other guys or just you?”

“Just me.” It feels validating even after all this time. Just me. I was the only one who could wreck their pretence of a home. Only me he gave into. “Shane was the rebound guy who didn’t know when to leave.”

The mention of him helps the visual of the bus crash disappear, makes me feel more composed. As long as I remember selectively, choose which bits of history to cling to. Remember that Shane stole him. Refused to let go. It was so obvious that he should have been mine. He got what he deserved.

Both of them.

“Fuck, why the hell did you hire Shane to begin with?”

“To be closer to Brendon.”

He looks at me like I’m messed up. Thanks for the insight. Thanks.

“It fucking worked,” I say in my defence. I blow out cigarette smoke. “For a while, it worked.”

“And when it stopped working?”

“I fired Shane.” As simple as that. “Things have expiration dates. Affairs have expiration dates. You have to evolve or die, and he wouldn’t evolve, so we... so we died. Same with The Followers. We couldn’t evolve, were unwilling to, so we died.”

“Brendon ended it?” he clarifies.

“It was mutual,” I lie. None of it was mutual. I was down on both knees, begging. “Brendon fucked me over in the end. He kept changing his mind, ending the affair, rekindling it, ending it, rekindling it... Maybe he did it as payback for that,” I say and motion at the crash site ahead. “I don’t know, but I didn’t deserve it. I swear to god I didn’t deserve what he put me through. He really...” The anger in my tone keeps growing as dark, hot flames swirl in my guts. “And now he’s got his band and rising fame. He’s dusted me off.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says quietly, apologetically.

Sure it’s true.

“I can’t be here anymore,” I tell him, and he dutifully starts up the car.

We wait by the side of the road for a quiet gap, and then he does a U-turn.

I keep my eyes on the rear-view mirror long after the crash site’s disappeared.

The hotel is one of the most expensive in town, and Sisky and I stand out in the lobby, me with my small duffel bag, him by existing, but the hotel manager escorts us, shakes my hand, tells me that if I need anything, anything at all, Mr. Ross, and guests turn their heads and mumble and gasp, and I keep my head low the best that I can.

There’s complimentary champagne in the suite, and Sisky and I both instinctively head for it, soon sitting by the window showing us Seattle, sipping on the champagne. We see the lights of the city competing with the dark, the Space Needle and then the darkness of the sound and the way the water reflects the city lights.

Sisky’s got his own room, a suite smaller than mine, but I didn’t object when he followed me in. We say nothing but enjoy the expensive drink and the stunning view in a luxurious hotel room. Our clothes are wrinkled and our souls are tired. I feel like a mismatch puzzle piece forced into a slot.

Long neglected guilt swirls in my guts, useless what ifs like what if Spencer had died? or What if I had just waited longer? Because Shane had realised that Brendon had been unfaithful. I still remember that anguished realisation of his: “I think he’s cheated on me.” Shane had figured it out. Maybe if... if I had just sent him away or even told him that Brendon had been with me, maybe then – The two would have split up. And Brendon would have come to me. He said that Shane might leave him, but surely I wouldn’t.

So if I had just waited. Had the patience of a saint.

If I hadn’t been such an emotional wreck, so desperate, so vengeful.

Maybe.

What if.

Possibly.

Too late.

“Do you think a person can ever redeem himself for all the wrong he’s done?” I ask quietly.

“Why not? Do you think God’s keeping score?” he counters, though he knows I don’t believe in that. He’s said that he thinks we can’t rule it out entirely. “I don’t think He is. I’d like to think that... if He exists, then He is too great, too amazing to give a rat’s ass about what humans do. What an individual does. I don’t think God gives a damn if, I don’t know, a Mrs. Smith in Des Moines, Iowa lies to her neighbour. God is too divine to care about petty humans. God is too great to talk to us.”

“And we’re all too small to talk to God.”

“I think we really are.”

“So redemption is up to us, then?” This doesn’t sound good to me because I’ve been trying. Leaving New York, losing touch with friends, hiding in my forlorn house... It’s been equally about preservation and punishment. If I was able to forgive myself, surely I would have by now. If I could give myself absolution.

“It is up to us. But people can change. I believe that people can change.”

I gather my courage before asking, “Do you think I need to change?”

He laughs slightly. “I, uh. I can’t answer that.”

That’s probably a yes. But the guilt I feel mixes with anger. I did wrong. I can recognise that. But Brendon had it coming, I swear. For treating me the way he did. When I tried so hard, and he gave me nothing in return.

“It’s because of his childhood,” I then reason, and Sisky looks mildly confused. “Brendon. He rejects the people who love him. That’s what it is, you know. He thinks he should get them before they get him.”

“If that’s true then it’s a flaw in him that he needs to deal with,” he says, sounding all reasonable and sensible. But when you’re the one suffering from this ‘flaw in him’, there is nothing sensible about it. “Look, I know it’s not my place, but...” he then begins softly. “It sounds like he was a bit wishy-washy about you two ending... And he covers that Followers song. He sings your words. Maybe he still –”

“I’ve been down that road myself. It’s a dead end.”

“But –”

“No. I made damn sure that things between us got wrecked beyond recognition, so no.”

“But –”

“Sisky,” I snap impatiently. “No.” I can’t deal with any more false hope. “I’m angry with him, and maybe he’s persistently ambivalent, but trust me, I think it’s safe to say he’s equally angry with me.”

“For firing Shane,” he says, nodding, and I can’t help but let out a short, humoured laugh. If only. He looks at me, then, but I’m embarrassed by my outburst and can’t look back. Instead I look at our Seattle view, hoping that he drops the topic. “Ryan...” he starts slowly, in a slightly suspicious and worried tone.

“What?” I manage, and the single word sounds guilty beyond belief. And there’s something in the way I say it or in the way I look, there must be something there, because right then he seems to get it.

“You didn’t,” he gasps, eyes wide. “You did not!” When I say nothing, his fears get confirmed. “You slept with Shane?!” He sounds horrified like the act in question took place recently. “But I – All the things you’ve said about how he screwed you over, how he was the one who’s to blame, and then you slept with his boyfriend?!”

“Don’t play my fucking conscience, alright? I only gave him a taste of his own medicine. That’s all.” My hand has started to sweat holding the champagne glass. Fuck. “You don’t know what it was like,” I then whisper in my defence.

“No, I don’t. But you loved him.” He sounds so disappointed. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t like him stirring shit up and bringing back all these memories and feelings I’ve tried to suppress. Like that look on Brendon’s face, asking me what the hell I did. And his eyes meeting Shane’s. And Shane standing there, guilt-ridden, so obvious. That look on Brendon’s face. The last one I ever saw.

“I loved him,” I admit, “and he knew it. And he kept stringing me along. Well, I – I just won’t let anyone do that to me. Not even him.”

Sisky looks inconsolably hurt, but I can’t keep apologising for that. I’ve been doing penance. When will it be enough?

“But –”

“But what?!” I bark angrily. “What do you want me to say?! That I fucked up? I know that! That it was the biggest mistake of my life and I’ve been wishing I could take it back since it happened? It doesn’t matter what I say because it doesn’t change anything. I wanted revenge. Well, I got it. I sure showed him.” My words drip sarcasm.

Sisky looks pale, and he tries to come to my rescue once more. “You didn’t mean it.”

I meant what I told Gabe back in New York: the great thing about this kid is the way he excuses everything I do. This one, however, even he can’t make right.

“Oh yeah, he fell on my dick, Sisky.” I shake my head disbelievingly. “I didn’t mean to crash the bus, and I didn’t mean to fuck Shane. Funny how I’m so full of these good intentions, but all of my actions just show what a shitty human being I am.” I shake my head in disbelief of myself, and he doesn’t have anything to say to me. What could he say? This time, we’re both out of excuses. “The bottom line is... The bottom line is that I wanted to protect Brendon from anything that might hurt him. And then I turned around and stabbed him right in the back. Who does that?”

He has no reply to that either.

“I can’t change the past. I have to live with it. I didn’t deserve what he did to me, and he didn’t deserve what I put him through, so maybe we’re both better off this way. Never to see each other again. It’s... It’s got to be better this way.” I stand up, dangle the glass in a loose fist. Feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. Realise that the likes of me are best kept in Machias, away from the world.

“Loving someone like that isn’t right,” I say quietly. “When you do it for all the wrong reasons.”

He lets out a barely audible sigh.

Yeah, well it’s over now. “It’s all over.”

Sisky remains seated as I head to the bedroom, where I proceed to sit in the dark for a while, waiting for the noise in me to quiet down.

When I walk out again, Sisky is gone.

By morning, I have calmed down. I had nightmares again, except sometimes they’re dreams. They only take on a nightmare form when I wake.

The guilt and the anger have balanced themselves out, leaving me resolute, leaving me with a sense of distance from it all. Like it happened to some other version of me.

Sisky knows now that Brendon turned me into a mess, a wounded creature. He knows what we did to hurt one another. He knows that he and I went to Montreal, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to Brendon. He knows that Brendon doesn’t need me and that I am struggling trying to teach myself to do the same.

It feels like a new type of dawn, like the day after a funeral. It was good that I came here. Good that I finally laid it to rest.

I call room service, get myself the ‘royal breakfast’, whatever that may be, and look around the suite. Maybe I could stay here. Why the hell not? Go whale-watching. Write a few songs. Seattle is bound to offer more variety in casual sex than Machias, anyway. And it’ll give me rain.

I’m halfway through my breakfast, reading the morning newspaper that came with it, when Sisky arrives. I open the door with a slice of toast in my hand, munching on it, and say, “Help yourself.” I motion at the table that’s now been catered for a king.

He seems like he’s holding back excitement, though I don’t know what he could possibly be excited about. He joins me at the table, though, takes some toast and pours himself some coffee. I read the paper, and he stares at me from across the table. He’s got a newspaper himself. I don’t know what’s changed from last night, when I finally managed to corner him enough for him to run out of things to say.

“Are you flying out to New York now?” I ask, assuming that he’s done in the city. “I was thinking I might stay here for a few weeks. Check out the sights.”

“I was thinking Chicago.”

“Going home?” I ask because New York was supposed to be his next destination for more interviews.

“Not really.” And as if he had been waiting for a cue, he opens his newspaper, finds a page and says, “Read this.”

I take the paper from him and lay it on top of mine. It’s the entertainment section: Hamlet apparently was butchered by a local theatre company, and oh. Again he bombards me with one of these.

“It’s an interview with Brendon from when His Side played here last week,” he rushes out.

“Sisky, I –”

“Okay, just. Would you just please read it?” He eyes the page, upside down to him, and he reaches over and points. “Just read the end.”

My eyes look to where his finger is and read ‘Ryan Ross’. As usual. Fine.

After Ryan Ross attended a His Side show in December, fans have been eager to see the music legend make a second appearance. His Side, however, claims not to know Ross’s whereabouts. “We were surprised when we heard that Ryan had come to the show,” Roscoe says. “We haven’t been in contact with him, but we hope he enjoyed it.”

Roscoe has been dubbed as the protégée of Ryan Ross. Does he think this is fair?

“Ryan and I often talked about music, what we liked, what we thought made good music. In that sense he’s influenced me. He retired shortly after I got signed, and we lost touch. The music you hear is my own.”

So has their close relationship been exaggerated? Roscoe shrugs and doesn’t comment, but after a few more incentives concludes, “Ryan gave my career a kick-start. I don’t know if I would’ve ever succeeded without his support, and I will always owe him for that. He’s welcome to as many His Side shows as he feels like, and I hope that if he does, he’ll come tell us what he made of it. It’d be nice to catch up.”

Wandering Lips, the debut album by His Side, is available in record stores now.

Sisky is staring at me expectantly when I look up. “Well?” he demands.

“Well, what?”

“Are you kidding? He said he wants to see you!” He grabs the paper and reads, “Look, right here! ‘It’d be nice to catch up’! He said that he wants to catch up! And look here, he says he wants you to come to a show and hang out!”

“Sisky, you’ve obviously never done PR in your life. Of course he says that. He can’t start slacking me off in interviews, can he? Not when I’m so goddamn glorified.”

He glares at me, but when I’m right, I’m right. “I think it’s his way of saying he wants to see you,” he persists.

“Because I read The Seattle Times, clearly.”

“No, because –” He seems frustrated. “Because what is he supposed to do? You vanished on everyone, including him. And okay, he gets asked about you plenty, but sometimes he brings you up in interviews all on his own! That means something, doesn’t it? And then you go to Montreal, but you don’t even go talk to him, so what is he supposed to make of that? Maybe that you hated the show or the music or – Or maybe that you don’t want to talk to him, you just wanted to check out the music. That you don’t care about him on a personal level.”

“He knows better than that.”

“Does he?” he questions. “He can’t read your thoughts, and you can’t read his. And he’s on tour. He can’t seek you out, so he has to –”

“I stayed in Machias for seven months! One call to Vicky, and he would’ve had my address, alright?”

“God, you’re so stubborn,” he mutters. “Do you want to see him? I’m not saying get back together. You two – you’ve got some severe issues, so I’m not. I’m not saying that. But you weren’t just a dysfunctional quasi-couple, you were friends too. You guys connected. So have you ever... thought about the fact that you need to at least talk to him about what happened? That it will always haunt you if you don’t?” When I don’t reply, he sighs. “Ryan. You’re not moving on. You’re just finding new places to hide.”

I won’t tell him he’s right. And there’s truth to his words, that my silence and Brendon’s silence or, on the other hand, him speaking out and me making appearances... It can be interpreted in so many ways. How do I know if Brendon and I are in sync at all?

Sisky now digs into his pocket and hands me a wrinkled paper napkin. “Here. I got you this.”

I stare at it. It’s got a Chicago address on it. “What is this?”

“It’s where he lives now.”

Something heavy settles in me from the knowledge, followed by a silent buzz. Chicago. He’s moved to Chicago? I thought that... I don’t know. Maybe he moved to LA.

I quickly look away, but the address is already burned into my memory, some part of me desperate to know. Have a way of locating him.

I don’t ask Sisky how he’s got it. He has ways.

“What do you want me to do with this?” I ask, my voice suddenly rough.

“Get rid of a few ghosts.”

“But I’m not the one who has to make amends. He –”

“You both fucked up. I’d imagine you both have baggage.” He leans back in his chair. Shrugs. “His Side is finishing off the tour in Chicago.”

And he says it like it’s final. That’s that.

Checkmate.

I look at the address again. A gateway to Brendon. Some peace. A bit of closure.

Getting rid of a few ghosts.

I should never be trusted to drive a vehicle of any kind; not because I am a lousy driver, but because I tighten my grip of the wheel with every passing truck. I look in the newspaper every day for that one headline of a car crash where they simply don’t know what happened. Maybe the driver lost control of the car. Suffered a seizure. Was trying to dodge a child running across the street. Something to explain why his car and insides ended up painting the front of a Canadian frozen goods truck on its way from Montreal to Detroit.

I drove from Portland to Los Angeles once. It was a pleasant trip, heading south, the air getting warmer and the people more tanned. It took me four days to drive because I kept getting distracted and took a small detour in Nevada where I got drunk as hell with a guy who had worked as a circus clown all of his life. We were exactly alike, me and him. It’s easy to distract me because I never know what I should be paying attention to. Is it a new guitar model, the glimpse of something better and more dignified, a pair of brown eyes that always amplified the smile on perfectly shaped lips? During my West Coast road trip, I lost count of the times I saw an oncoming car and considered twisting the wheel to the left. Crash. Bang. Smoke.

I don’t know if anyone else has these thoughts when they drive. I’ve never asked. When I crashed the tour bus back in ’74, I found myself wondering if it was on purpose or not. I didn’t mean to do it, but maybe I subconsciously wanted to.

For a while, we thought Joe would never walk again.

Now I’m driving in a Chevy rental, navigating from O’Hare to an address scribbled on a napkin in messy handwriting that isn’t mine. The car is brown, a light brown that resembles baby shit. It was the only one they had left. The wipers make a wheezing sound as they try to battle away the heavy, wet snowfall.

“Are you nervous?”

I don’t bother looking at the kid on the passenger seat. “No.”

“Brent said,” he begins, launching into yet another lie someone has said about me. People love to talk and talk and talk about me, “that, during Jackie, you were so nervous that you got drunk before every show.”

“He flatters me,” I note, annoyed that this one isn’t a lie at all – the only way I could deal with the pressure of a ten thousand-headed crowd was alcohol. Thanks, Brent, that one will make me look good. No. It will make me look like a victim. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“He also said that it got better during the second leg. You drank less, were more focused. You know, after you met him,” he points out obnoxiously. I resist the urge to steer the car off the road just to shut him up, and when he takes in his dying breath, mouthing an anguished ‘Why?’, I’ll tell him why: because he couldn’t hold his damn tongue. The white snow turns an ugly shade of traffic fume black when it hits the ground, making the surface of the road slippery, but I keep us on the road for now. “Now Gabe. He said that you were never nervous during the Pearl tour. I suppose you changed.”

“You love the sound of your own voice, huh?”

“Yup,” he beams, light brown locks falling in front of his enthusiastic eyes. He has got a young, good-natured face he tries to mature with stubble, but it’s still irrevocably made childlike by the bright energy that’s always there in his words and actions. He’s got slightly hollow cheeks and narrow line-like lips, and a forehead just a fraction tall enough to look like a mismatch. I concentrate on driving, and he falls silent for a while. When he speaks, he sounds troubled. “What if he’s forgotten? Or what if he’s still mad at you?”

“What if I’m still mad at him?”

“You’re not,” he says knowingly. I hate it when he’s right. The snowfall is slowing down, and I shift in my seat uncomfortably and feel the seatbelt scraping the side of my neck. “I’m nervous for you,” he concludes, the excitement now back. I don’t need his nerves, support or shoulder to cry on. He has no idea how much his enthusiasm wears me out. He looks at the map in his lap. “Take the next left,” he commands, and I change lanes. “You know, I wonder what he’s like. I’ve heard so much about him. It’s slightly surreal to meet a stranger that you’ve pictured naked a dozen times. Well, actually, I found this one picture in your house where he was in the nude, so –”

I pull up to the curb, coming to a fast stop. He tenses up, eyes wild as he looks around. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve told you not to touch my fucking stuff,” I say again. Again. The nosy little bastard. “Here, your stop,” I tell him and point out of his window to a shop door that has green, cursive letters: C-A-F-É. “Go get yourself coffee.” Like he needs to be more hyper.

His mouth drops open dramatically. “I’m coming with you!”

I grit my teeth and smile. “No, you’re not.” I glare at him, and he glares back. “Out, Sisky! Out!”

Sisky throws his hands up into the air. “You’re seriously not letting me witness the reunion that would make Romeo and Juliet seem like –”

“There was no reunion for those two – they died.”

“Oh.” Sisky pulls on his bottom lip uncertainly, but recovers quickly. “I never finished the movie, truth be told. They spoke English in such a weird way.”

I unbuckle myself and get out of the car. Chicago is cold, snowflakes landing on my black coat and melting into it. I round the Chevy and open Sisky’s door.

“Okay, okay!” the kid shouts, lifting up his hands. “I’m out! See! Look at how out I am!” He scrunches his nose at the cold, looking more comic than hurt as he shoots me a nasty look.

“I’ll come get you later,” I promise.

“If you don’t, I know where he lives!” He has taken out his black leather notebook and is scribbling in it furiously, completely ignoring the sleet.

I stop at my open door and give him a disbelieving look. “Don’t take notes now.”

“As the infamous Ryan Ross nervously re-entered the car, dumping his devoted and loyal companion by the side of the road like yet another groupie he had loved then abandoned like an unwanted kitten –”

I don’t hear the rest as the door slams shut and I take off. Sisky’s reflection sulks into the café in the rear-view mirror, and I glance at the map on his now empty seat. It doesn’t take me long to get where I’m going.

The car on the driveway is black and classy, this year’s model, a ‘79. It’s much more tasteful than what I park in front of the house, and for a wild moment, I hope none of the Chicagoans living on Brendon’s street notice the has-been rock star arriving in such a tacky excuse of four tyres and a wheel. If it is Brendon’s house, which I have my doubts about. A young man with a guitar case is coming down the street, and I wait for him to pass. It’s paranoia to fear he’d recognise me, but I never did know what to say to the fans to begin with.

Music is not about the man behind it, and therefore any interest people have in me is unwarranted. All they need to know, all they should want to know, is already there in the music. And no one ever understood that apart from me. They never –

But I don’t want to think about it anymore.

I take my bag to the door with me. It’s presumptuous, but with the final shows being local, I’m assuming Brendon is staying at home. I shouldn’t assume anything when it comes to him. I learned that the hard way.

The door opens on the fifth ring.

“Ye –”

The rest of Brendon’s sentence fades away as his eyes land on me. Brendon looks a little older, which makes me realise how overdue I am. He has a slightly off look that comes with his line of work, bags under his brown eyes. I would know how that life throws anyone off balance. But if anything, he looks more like a man, more mature. He keeps doing that to me. I don’t mind.

“Heard you’re shacking up in Chicago now,” I explain and state it like a fact I have as much interest in as the heart rate of a mouse, the melting point of silver. None at all.

“Yeah,” he nods tiredly, eyes averting, the cornered prey after an exhausting hunt where he is the deer and I am the wolf. After a long, long time, neither one of us seems to be running. Brendon doesn’t look surprised to see me. I am not a predictable man; he could at least gasp a little. The tiniest bit. Just to amuse me. I’m fucking surprised that I’m here.

“So much for being old friends,” I note and don’t give him a chance to reply. “Invite me in for a beer.”

Brendon shakes his head. “I’m busy.”

Sisky was right. He is still mad.

“I’m busy too, but here I am anyway.”

I stare him down. My stomach curls up now that I am in his presence, but he doesn’t sense it.

Brendon sighs and holds the door open, and I step into the living room, throw my bag onto the couch. Being here, travelling across the country for the one guy, the only guy who ever came out to look at the night sky with me and invent new constellations, and I – Fucking hell. I will stand my ground and act my best to convince myself that it means nothing to me. I lick my lips, remember what he tastes like.

“One beer, but then I have to go,” Brendon mutters and heads for the kitchen, and I stare after him quietly. He slows down and turns back around, a hesitating look on his face. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”

“I was counting on it.”

He looks straight at me, and I am right back there in Ottawa, outside Civic Center where we kissed next to the tour bus that I had not yet smashed. I’m in the cabin up in Bismarck where I handed him some part of me that he politely declined. I’m in San Francisco picking a fight with him, in New York watching him go through records he doesn’t plan on buying as he sneaks glances at me working behind the counter, and then we are on the backroom floor, hoping to god Eric doesn’t come early for his shift. Brendon says, “I can get you a backstage pass.”

“Could you get two? I came with this kid.”

“What kid?” His voice is tense.

“My stalker.”

He makes a disbelieving ‘tut’ with his tongue. “You sure know how to pick your friends.”

“And lovers, though he’s not one of those,” I say calculatedly.

Brendon doesn’t deny that that’s what he was asking. “I can get two.”

“Thanks.”

He points at my bag. “You staying here tonight?”

“Sure,” I shrug. He nods nervously and heads for the kitchen.

I have swerved my car onto his lane, and we have collided yet again.

Crash.

Bang.

Smoke.

Chapter Text

“A backstage pass!” Sisky says, delighted. “I’ve never had one before.” He eyes the sticker he’s pressed to his shirt like it’s made of gold, his thick coat hanging open despite the cold. I’ve pressed mine to the middle of my upper thigh, but the coat hides it.

I know what it says, anyway. In the centre of the red sticker are three lines: His Side, 1/17/79, Aragon Ballroom. And as if on cue, my eyes lock on the vertical Aragon sign sticking out of the venue façade two blocks ahead. I smoke vigorously as we walk. Hear the heavy thud of my heart in my ears.

“Nice of him to get us backstage passes!” Sisky sounds all together pleased.

I’m assuming Brendon’s gone ahead and informed the band of who is attending their show. A car picked him up to take him to the venue and dropped me off at the café where I had dumped Sisky. See you there, then.

“I’m guessing it went well,” Sisky now muses, grinning broadly. “Was he happy to see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

I suck in smoke. My hands feel sweaty for no reason.

He frowns. “No? But… What did you do?”

“We had a beer and talked about the weather.”

Sisky snorts. I’m not lying. We sat there in his living room, he decidedly on the other couch, and we talked about the heavy snowfall. He didn’t ask me why I had showed up, what the hell I was up to, nothing. Like my arrival wasn’t surprising to him at all, though he couldn’t have been any more closed off. Keeping his distance. I briefly asked about the tour, he said it was alright, he’s just tired, and then we took turns sipping our beers, the silence awkward, tense and heavy.

No matter what’s happened between us, it’s never been like this before. This forced.

“He’s probably just overwhelmed,” Sisky says confidently. Underwhelmed, more like.

“Listen,” I say when we’re almost at the venue. I take a hold of Sisky’s shoulder. Kids are lining up outside already although the doors won’t open for another hour. Sisky is buzzing because he’s at a His Side show and he’s got a backstage pass, but I need him to focus. “Just keep your head on when we go in there, alright? Same rules as New York: don’t –”

“Don’t be rude, don’t be nosy, don’t be overbearing,” he lists, rolling his eyes. “When have I ever been any of those things?”

I blink. “You’re kidding me, right?”

He huffs. “I know how to behave. I’ll give people space.” He then gets a dreamy look in his eyes. “I’ll give Jonathan Walker space...”

Poor Jon won’t know what hit him.

“And about Brendon,” I then add, “he doesn’t know that – that you know as much as you do, so –”

“I can be discreet!” Him? Discreet? That’ll be the day. “Honestly, Ry, don’t you worry.”

The venue presumably has a backdoor, but I can’t be bothered to look for it. Instead we march straight for the main doors, and the fans in the line spot me instantly, and then I am surrounded and I’m stuck signing hands, gig tickets and shirts. “Thanks, that’s great, thanks, look, I gotta,” I say, feeling claustrophobic as they make such noise, repeating my name, pushing, invading. I should be used to this by now, but it’s been a long while. Someone tries to touch the curls of my hair that land on my shoulders.

“Oh, I, uh,” Sisky’s voice comes, and when I look at him, he’s not too far away, blushing profusely as he signs a piece of paper that a pretty brunette is offering him. A few kids are crowding him as well.

The security staff reaches me just then, helping me escape the overly enthusiastic fans, pushing them back, pulling me with them. “This way, Mr. Ross,” they say, all firm politeness, holding the kids back.

“Him too,” I say, pointing quickly, and one of them goes to rescue Sisky, who looks completely overwhelmed and bewildered, staggering on his feet as his name gets called a few times.

Once we’re inside the venue, the doors securely shut behind us, Sisky stammers, “I-I’ve got a- a backstage p-pass,” opening his shirt and trying to show the sticker to the security guys who don’t even look at it. He looks toward the doors with big eyes, shocked.

I straighten my coat slightly, peering at him. “Are you famous now?”

He flinches and then stares at me. “They knew who I was.” His voice is breathy. “They wanted my autograph.”

I’d imagine news of him as my sidekick has travelled far and wide already. Once those kids – Melvin and whoever else – had Sisky yelling about his new position in Montreal, rumours were bound to spread. He’s on the inside now, and some fans consider anyone beyond that barrier to be a demigod.

“Come on,” I say, placing a hand on the back of his neck to guide him because he looks like otherwise he’ll stay still all day, stunned that he’s suddenly a person of importance. We’ve only taken a few steps, the security guy leading us across the lobby, not even having asked if I am supposed to be here – I’m Ryan Ross, I can just march in like Sisky always asserted – when I spot Brendon coming down the stairs, and he spots me, and he stops, and my heart plummets, and I stop, and my hand leaves the back of Sisky’s neck incredibly fast.

Sisky follows my gaze and then breaks into a smile. “Oh hey!” he says, having gotten over some of his shock. He glances at me briefly and whispers, “He really is good looking,” from the corner of his mouth, all confidential-like, and I feel just the right amount mortified. Then Brendon’s slowly descended a few more steps, and Sisky’s made his way over so I follow.

Brendon’s look is one of apprehension.

“Brendon, this is Sisky.” I motion between them, nervous for whatever reason.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Roscoe,” Sisky says, grabbing Brendon’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“The biographer, right?” he asks, glancing from Sisky to me. “News travels fast,” he explains.

“Biographer is exaggerated,” I mumble, trying to shrug it off.

“No, it’s not,” Sisky disagrees. “His biographer is exactly what I am, Mr. Roscoe, and if I may take this opportunity to ask when would be a favourable time for me to interv –”

“Sisky.”

He looks at me. Remembers tact. His face falls. He finally pulls his hand back and says, “Never mind that now, I guess.” He pouts like a kid that’s been told off.

“Well, you’re just in time for soundcheck,” Brendon then says, and he’s not really looking at me. He hasn’t really looked at me since I arrived: his eyes look my way but never at me. He’s not looking at Sisky either, though, and I feel awkward and out of place, just like I did in his living room. But here I am, whether he likes it or not. Here I am. For better or worse.

Thankfully Sisky takes over, asking Brendon about the setlist and the tour as we head upstairs, asking him what he thinks of Chicago, and Sisky’s got a good way with people, and Brendon seems okay enough conversing with him.

Then we’re in the hall itself, crossing the soon-to-be crowded floor, and I see a handful of guys on stage, setting up the gear. I recognise two of them: the blond drummer behind the drum kit and the tall bassist, Dallon, setting up amplifiers. A door by the side of the stage takes us up a flight of steps, and then we’re backstage.

“Whoa,” Sisky breathes, neck craning as he looks around, and I take in the surprising number of people, out of whom I recognise none except – Oh, that looks like Jon’s dad. Right. Playing in Chicago. Of course the Walkers are here.

The backstage area looks like it’s also crowded by friends of the band, a handful of groupies, all hanging out, beers in hand, a few guitars in distribution. Relaxed and friendly. Some of them, however, are not chilling out but have work to do, keep calling back and forth instructions on how the stage should be set.

I stand still, having arrived.

How to feel out of place.

Brendon’s brown eyes meet mine, and for an instant I consider averting my gaze, like the direct eye contact is too much. I persevere in any case. Feel a rush of blood from it.

“I’ve got something to do,” he says simply. Dismissively.

“Oh, you do? I mean, soundcheck. Right.”

“Right,” he confirms.

“We can mingle in the meanwhile,” Sisky suggests, enthusiastic as ever as he keeps looking at the people present.

But we don’t have to mingle or do awkward rounds of introduction because our arrival is noticed just then, and people begin to nudge each other, whispering and pointing. It’s nerve-wracking. But suddenly Jon is marching toward us, grinning broadly. “I’ll be damned!”

“Told you,” Brendon returns easily, like it’s easy, like any of this is easy. And then he walks away with quick steps, looking a lot like he’s escaping. Brushing me off. Passing me on to be someone else’s problem.

“God, it’s so good to see you!” Jon beams, and we hug briefly, and I smile to myself as we pull back. It is good to see him, damn good. “Here at last,” he then winks, and I don’t really agree with that. This is the earliest I could possibly have been here. Sisky is hovering behind me. He liked Canadian History plenty, and he also liked Jon’s work in The Whiskeys, and clearly he is excited to meet Jon.

“Here at last,” I repeat nonetheless.

“Perfect timing too, man. Last night of tour.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, shit’ll get wild,” Jon promises, hand on my shoulder, squeezing. I introduce him to Sisky, and he says, “Oh, so you’re that guy,” and Sisky beams and beams and beams. “Come meet the rest of the guys,” he says, throwing a brotherly arm around my shoulders, and I don’t really mind that. Jon is trying hard to act like we haven’t spent a day apart. If we try hard enough, we might just be able to pull it off.

But the truth is that I let him down. He had a go at me, I didn’t care, and eventually we made up. We chose to respect the others’ decisions: he accepted my abandonment of The Whiskeys, my retirement, my hiding away, and I accepted the news of him having joined Brendon’s band. It wasn’t easy; it felt like betrayal. But the two became friends on the Pearls tour, found a musical tone to play together. And when The Whiskeys was over, well, the guys could have tried to make it on their own but chose disbandment instead. Brendon needed great musicians. Jon needed something to do.

I suppose them teaming up fit together in ways I couldn’t appreciate at the time. All it was for me was one of my best friends starting a band with the boy who broke me.

I’ve come to terms with it since.

Dallon and Bob come off stage to greet us. Bob’s handshake is firm, his grip strong. He has blue eyes, which I notice now that we’re face to face. I’ve seen him drumming, his blond hair glued to his forehead, and I’ve seen him backstage briefly, when the band was busy fighting about Ian’s intoxicated state, and Bob just marched off, clearly pissed off. “Pleased to meet you, man,” he now says, not overly fazed by my presence, and I like that. It gets tiresome when everyone treats me special. Find that one person who just treats me like a human being, and that feels special.

Dallon is tall close up or afar, nearing six foot four. I’m surprised that he, too, has blue eyes. There’s an intelligent feel to them and, when he shakes my hand, he shakes it like he is a man with a backbone, a certain sturdiness of character to him that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s immediately clear that he is the type of man who gets things done.

“Guess you approved of the Montreal show,” Dallon says, perhaps slightly sarcastically. I don’t know him well enough to interpret his tone.

“I had somewhere to be so I headed out before you guys finished,” I lie. “But yeah, good show.”

“Far out.”

“Where’s Ian?” I then ask, looking around for frizzy brown hair.

Jon looks around awkwardly, but Dallon says, “Ian’s taking a nap. It’s been an exhausting tour for all.”

“Yeah, I know how that is,” I assure him.

But everyone knows that taking a nap is code for sleeping it off.

Dallon excuses himself, heading back for the stage, and Bob follows him. Jon changes the subject, and there is a distinctive sensation of badly drawn up excuses, like kids trying to cover up their parent’s alcohol problem. Putting the bottles away in the morning. Standing there, eight years old, the old man snoring and stinking on the couch, and you know that Spencer’s mom will come pick you up soon for that picnic they invited you to out of pity, and you were supposed to bring something along too, but the old man forgot and the fridge is empty, and then you wait outside for them to show up because you don’t want them coming inside or ringing the doorbell, disturbing the bastard sleeping it off. Say, ‘Oh Dad’s at work’, when they ask, say, ‘He forgot about the fruit salad...’

That mix of shame and humiliation and the bad attempts at covering it up.

But you take one for your team. You always do. And then another one, and another one. As long as love is blind. As long as it protects the family.

By now the news of my presence has spread throughout the backstage area and people are coming over to introduce themselves. Sisky is chatting away to Jon’s mother, already having set up an interview with her, and she giggles and seems charmed by the young rascal. Cassie and I end up catching up, as forced as it is. Someone says that Brendon’s busy being interviewed, so I don’t look around for him, except that I do, constantly even, and eventually I spot him reappearing.

Brendon walks like he’s in a hurry, which understandably he is. A few guys are following him, negotiating over the stage set up most likely, and he’s giving orders, pointing in directions. It’s controlled chaos, and he’s at the heart of it. It’s captivating beyond words, and I find it difficult to look away.

Sisky was right when he said that Brendon’s handsome. This is not a revelation, but Brendon seems taller now. Somehow. He looks tired, but who isn’t at the end of a tour? His brown eyes are still full of depths that he guards carefully, his lips still pillowy, soft, inviting, his body still graceful in its movements, enticing, lean and taut. His hair’s thick and dark, now longer at the top, making it look messier.

God, it’s hard to look away.

He’s beautiful, unattainably beautiful. It feels like someone’s twisting the knife in the wound.

Brendon isn’t looking around in search of me at all.

“Keltie’s gotten engaged, you know,” Cassie now says, and my attention is diverted back to her.

“Sorry?”

“Keltie’s getting married.”

Cassie isn’t being malicious saying it, which is surprising. Her already low opinions of me only got confirmed when I got caught cheating on Keltie, and considering that Cassie sees me as a womanising asshole, she’s been surprisingly civil tonight and is sounding neutral as she gives me the news.

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” It seems pointless to ask ‘To who?’, pretending that I truly care who it is. If she’s getting married, she’s found a guy who’s a keeper. And that’s all that matters. “You and Jon invited to the wedding?”

“Yeah, in the summer. Truthfully,” she then says slowly, “they’ve only dated for four months. But if they’re sure, then they’re sure.”

Sounds like Keltie, being a romantic, believing in love at first sight. Put her together with a kindred soul, and getting married straightaway sounds like a good plan. I’m glad she’s found someone. Makes the guilt easier to deal with.

“You want something to eat?” Cassie then asks.

“Sure, I haven’t actually –”

“Does your boyfriend want something as well?”

...Uh.

She’s eyeing Sisky. Sisky. The horror of that is greater than the realisation that at some point Jon’s clearly decided to tell his long-term girlfriend a few things about me. Cassie knows about me. Fuck, she knows. But Jon wouldn’t just tell her that and leave it there. No. Jon’s told her all. And so I realise that she also knows about Brendon and me. She knows about New York and our affair, she knows that I cheated on Keltie with the guy who turned out to be Jon’s new bandmate. And I’d expect her to like me even less for screwing everyone over like that, for fucking boys, for fucking things up, but now her being civil and almost kind makes sense: Jon’s told her some sorry tale of Ryan Ross falling for a pretty boy who didn’t want him in the end, and in the process of it poor Ryan lost everything he had.

She pities me more than she dislikes me. And that’s why she’s even talking to me right now. Maybe she thinks that all this time I’ve just been sexually confused.

“Sisky’s only a friend, and he’s not gay. For his sake, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start any rumours.”

“Oh! I just assumed... Never mind, then.” She’s embarrassed and quickly looks away. I’m surprised that she went for my ‘for his sake’ bullshit when clearly it’s for my sake, not Sisky’s.

In the dressing room we respectfully part ways, the awkwardness of our conversation lingering. Sisky munches on mini-sandwiches and drinks free beer, making friends with a few groupies. One of them – Louvre? – comes to sit by me, tells me she toured with The Followers for a while years back, but I don’t remember her at all. Jon’s mother eyes her and her short skirt suspiciously. A few former Canadian History members are also there as a part of the local friends having come to hang out, but I note that their drummer, who took a swing at Brendon back in the day, isn’t here.

I guess he wasn’t invited.

We hear the band soundchecking, but in the dressing room the atmosphere is buzzed even without the band. I think back to the days when I was able to just slip into a crowd like this, be a part of the scene, whereas now I am inevitably the scene itself. When coming in, I sat down on the couch behind the open door, in the corner, not seeking to be the centre of anything. But it doesn’t matter how strategically I try to place myself because people just align themselves with me, and it never matters to them that I don’t initiate much conversation at all. They talk, as if gathering props, and then ask, “What do you think, Ryan?” and then they all pause to see what I make of things.

It’s harder than usual for me to concentrate on these people. My mind flows back to Brendon’s house, sitting in the living room in silence. I’m so overly aware of his presence in this venue, and I keep thinking ‘what is he thinking?’ Because I don’t know and have no idea where to even start, and my hands keep sweating for no obvious reason.

He’s ignoring me and pretending I’m not even here. That much is for certain.

The others laugh and joke and look at me adoringly, and I count seconds and alternate between horror and nerves.

I’m here to see Brendon, and I don’t know if he really gets that but he’s doing a wonderful job at avoiding me.

I don’t see him again until just before the show, after he’s changed into stage clothes: flared white pants, a black belt with a big, golden buckle and a black dress shirt. He walks back and forth backstage with a bottle of water, and no one disturbs him as he warms up his voice. It seems like it’s a ritual he’s started to get himself ready, and I can’t intrude on that either. The roadies are setting up the stage after the warm up band, which was fronted by Tom who used to be in Canadian History with Jon.

“He’s like an athlete before a performance,” Sisky observes, looking at Brendon. A good way off, Brendon does a few jumps, rolls his shoulders. The simile isn’t wholly inaccurate. “Man, this should be a good show,” Sisky presses on. The crowd is restless and chanting for the band already.

Brendon briefly glances our way, and then he pretends like we’re invisible again.

Ian doesn’t show his face until then. I’ve managed to figure out that he’s been at the venue – otherwise there’d be widespread panic. And it seems like Dallon didn’t lie when he said that Ian was napping: his hair is sticking out all over, and he looks confused and disorientated as Mike escorts him, talking to him fast, motioning around as if to tell Ian what’s going on. Ian nods tiredly. Mike says something, and Ian blinks and looks more alert.

Brendon spots them and goes over, shooing Mike away and placing a protective hand on Ian’s shoulder, leading him towards the dressing room. Ian, however, cranes his neck to look around and then almost stumbles on his feet when he spots me. Brendon keeps him moving.

“Ian looks a bit tired, doesn’t he?” Sisky says worriedly.

Ian looks pale and shaky, a loss of life in his eyes. All reminding me of Gabe when he came to my NY party. That junkie twitch to them.

Hell, it’s common in these circles. It’s more than common. And Ian always did these things in excess even back when I met him, so put him in this environment and it only gets amplified.

“Jon,” Sisky now calls out, and Jon, who was checking out the crowd from the side of the stage, comes over to us. “Is Ian okay?” Sisky asks, nodding after the guitarist and singer who disappear down the steps that lead into the dressing room.

“Oh. Yeah.” Jon smiles apologetically. “He just sometimes gets a bit of stage fright. I should go check up on them. Excuse me.”

But twenty minutes later, Ian is miraculously awake enough to join his band on stage. We watch the show from Jon’s side of the stage, and Ian’s at the other end. Brendon says the same welcome lines as in Montreal, now simply in English, and then says that Chicago’s half-home to them as Jon and Bob are local, and he himself has relocated there recently too. Ian’s got three beers in front of him on the stage floor, and he seems to rely on them as the show goes on.

I don’t focus on the show itself much at all. Sisky bounces around and cheers, making Cassie laugh at how enthusiastic he is.

The star, however, is Brendon.

And I watch as Chicago kneels at his feet.

The after-party is loud and unrestrained. The Chicago club is packed, and Jon and I have to yell over the music to hear each other speak. “I’m so glad you liked the show, man, it really means so much!” he yells.

“You guys are good, man.”

“Thanks, Ryan. Really, thanks.” He grins broadly. We’re on the mezzanine floor of the club, leaning against the railing and looking down at the sweaty sea of people. My eyes follow one in particular but I try not to be obvious about it. Jon asks, “How long you in Chicago for, then?”

“Not sure.”

I keep my gaze on the lower floor: him. He’s so fucking charming. He is. I see him mingling, talking to people, laughing, hugging. He’s got all these people to meet. Dallon’s with him for all of it.

“We’ve invited the guys over for dinner tomorrow night, you should come. You can bring the kid along, too. Which hotel you staying at? I’ll call you with the details. You still Boyd Castro?”

“No, I’m staying at Brendon’s.”

This stops Jon’s good mood, his smile fading slightly. He spots Brendon in the crowd, now talking to someone who might or might not be Diana Ross, but most likely is. When Jon looks at me next, he’s giving me an almost stern look, and I feel guilty without having done anything.

“I’m sleeping on his couch,” I clarify. Brendon made that abundantly clear himself. But Jon keeps giving me this look, and I fidget slightly. “Look, it’s not like that.”

“Well, what’s it like?”

“I don’t know.” I drum my fingers against the balustrade. Brendon hasn’t talked to me all night. He’s blanked me. “He’s been avoiding me ever since I got here.” I sound whiny, and I know it.

“But he’s letting you crash on his couch,” Jon says in a conclusive tone.

That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

Jon sighs and runs his fingers through his long hair. “You’re both like brothers to me, man. You just do what you gotta do, you know? I know you have unfinished business with each other.”

That’s one way of putting it.

We both look downstairs, and Brendon and Dallon have now sat down at a crowded table. Bob is sitting at the table next to theirs with five girls to keep him company, and he’s clearly enjoying the attention.

Jon then frowns. “That guy is crowding my girl.” I follow his gaze to the bar where Cassie is chatting to a guy who has his back to us. “I need to go be the jealous boyfriend, I think.”

I don’t have the heart to tell Jon that it looks like the guy in question is, in fact, only Sisky, and Cassie was ready to assume he was gay already. I mustn’t take away from Jon’s exercise of protecting his territory.

I haven’t really joined this party. I like being the one to observe it all, follow his movements, watch him from afar. Wait for him to acknowledge me, maybe.

Because I guess we’re leaving this party together. And we both know it.

Despite my efforts at keeping a distance, people keep pointing my way, glancing upwards, some waving hopefully. Like I’d wave back or give a shit. Cute.

I soon see Jon in their midst.

“You smoke, handsome?” comes a jocular voice, and I look to my side. A stoned Ian Crawford has found me. He’s offering what looks like a cigarette, so I accept it.

“Thanks.”

He lights it for me but I need to steady his hand because it keeps shaking. His skin is cold and clammy.

“This tour’s done, then,” he says, buzzing. “Yay! Haha, great. Europe next. I wouldn’t even call it a break. It’s not a break, man. It’s being on tour indefinitely. It’s – That’s what it is, man, what it is.”

“You played well tonight.” This is a lie. He was mediocre and nervous and twitchy.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he murmurs feverishly. “Everyone’s a critic, man.” He wipes his face and then lights a cigarette of his own. “Nice surprise, though. You here. Made playing harder, I thought. Made us nervous. Did you see we were nervous?”

Not really. Home crowds are always different, you really want to impress them so you automatically try harder. The only thing I really noticed was that Brendon didn’t inappropriately hover around Ian or Dallon. There was none of that – that subtext or whatever it had been.

Ian twitches, licks his lips. He gazes at the club below. “So you and Bren, huh?” he then says, smiles crookedly. For a second my insides vanish. Did Brendon say something, did he – “Back in New York, I mean. Pulled the wool right over our eyes, huh?” He nods energetically. “I get it. He’s one of the best-looking guys I know. I get why you would have chosen him.”

There was never any choosing. I had no choice.

“It surprised me, though, when I found out about the, uh, affair. I was- was blown away, man. He and Shane seemed so solid.” He cackles. “But turns out, Shane was good enough for you too.” And then he laughs more, the sound of it drowning out the music. The blood in me turning icy.

That’s low. That’s fucking low, even if it’s well deserved. Like a punch in my guts.

But Ian’s fucked, that’s obvious. Woke up before the show and started drinking instantly, has proceeded to take whatever helps him get through the day.

“Brendon said that?” I ask, trying to remain calm.

“I’m saying that. I had a- a front row seat to that breakup. Man,” he chuckles, “man, what a mess. Who would’ve thought that all that time you and Bren – And then you and Shane. Now that’s how you screw people over, that’s how, man. Like punches. Wham! Pow!” He mimics punching the air, and then laughs like it’s hurting him. “Don’t know if I’ve ever seen two men more broken-hearted, dude.”

“I’ve got somewhere to be,” I say coldly. I’m not going to stand here and listen to that.

“Hey, come on. Hey, how about you and I leave this damn party?” he calls after me, but I don’t look back.

I meant what I told Sisky back in Seattle: sleeping with Shane was the biggest mistake of my life. I know that. I know how shitty it was, how cruel it was, how vile it was. I know. And I don’t want to listen to Ian talking about what happened after I sent Brendon and Shane away, when they returned to New York, both knowing the score at last.

Maybe the punishment was disproportionate to what Brendon had done to me, but at the time it seemed fair. It seemed more than fair.

At the bottom of the stairs, I’m instantly welcomed into the crowd. As people hurry to introduce themselves, I hope that an avoidance tactic will keep my mind occupied for the rest of the night, help me not think about Brendon.

Because two people can play this game, and clearly Brendon’s not about to crack anytime too soon.

The light of the streetlamp outside Brendon’s house flickers once every two minutes. I count the seconds. And once every two minutes, there’s a sudden flicker of shadows across the white living room ceiling.

Brendon’s couch is surprisingly comfortable, all things considered. He gave me a pillow and a duvet, and his bedroom door is closed: I keep looking at its impenetrable wooden surface, visible through the archway that adjoins the living room to a smaller room that is currently mostly taken up by boxes he hasn’t unpacked yet. And from my place on the couch, I’ve got a perfect view of his closed door. He told me where the bathroom was, but he didn’t offer to give me a tour. He’s keeping me on the outskirts.

I will never sleep tonight.

Five in the morning, estimate. The loud music of the club still rings in my ears. His Side’s first US tour over. Didn’t talk to Brendon all night. Didn’t talk in the taxi back here either. Just sat at the opposite ends of the backseat like two strangers, looking out of the window. Breathing in the silence.

I’m beginning to realise that this was a mistake. A miscalculation on my part.

I came here, I caved in, I made the effort. What’s he doing in return? Why isn’t he even trying?

Maybe because this is a form of punishment – he’s taking me for a ride. He could have just said that he didn’t want me here. Save us both this torture, this silence, this tension that’s thicker than air. Not let me in only to shoot me down. Put me in my place.

I rub my face tiredly, try not to swear. Try to sleep on his fucking couch in his fucking living room in his fucking house, his life, his side.

Not mine.

The light flickers... and flickers... and flic–

A slight creak. A door. Footsteps.

I instantly rise to rest on my elbows, look to the direction of his room and stare at the dark figure that’s emerged. Watch as it enters the living room and turns the lights on.

Brendon stands in the arched doorway in blue pyjama pants, his hair a mess. Like he’s been tossing and turning. But this doesn’t make him appear like a softer, more intimate version of the man who was controlling the stage earlier: it’s the same man.

He’s not avoiding eye contact now. He’s looking straight at me. My insides twist and turn.

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He tries again. Fails. He sighs. Finally says, “What are you doing here?” His tone is tired and defeated. It’s not what I wanted him to say.

“I don’t know.”

It’s the most honest answer I can give.

He sighs and, after a beat, walks in further, and I rise to sit on the couch, the duvet pooling in my lap. He sits down on the couch adjacent to mine, his shoulders slumped. Confused.

He lifts his feet to rest against the edge of the coffee table. Crooks his toes. Looks pensive.

“I thought maybe you wanted to see me,” I then say quietly, hating how naïve and childish it sounds.

He smiles to himself crookedly. “What gave you that idea?”

“A lot of things.”

He covers The Followers, did tonight too. Jon skipped his old introduction of ‘a friend of ours, you might know him’. No need to glorify me when I’m there. Probably wanted to save me the embarrassment. And Brendon said in an interview that he wanted to catch up, be it PR bullshit or not. There are plenty of reasons for me to think he wants to see me. Mrs. Roscoe. Jackie. Brendon Roscoe.

The first syllable of that is just Ros. Brendon Ros... coe.

I’ve thought about that, too. I’ve obsessed over it.

“Maybe I just want to put it all behind me.” He looks at me with tired eyes. “Did that occur to you?”

There. The truth.

He just wants this to be over.

I look away from him. Will gather my shit in the morning. Get out of here. Back to Machias. Leave him to his life.

“Of course that occurred to me,” I say so quietly that I doubt he hears me, but the hurt in my tone is pathetically audible. Of course I thought about that.

We’re both silent for a long while, and I can’t think of ways to break it. Maybe that’s it, then. I got my answer: there’s nothing but mutual disappointment left.

But then he sighs. “What have you done to your hair?”

I look at him, confused. “What?”

“You need to get it cut.” He sounds irritated and eyes me with clear disapproval.

In confusion, I touch the strands that touch my shoulders. Longer than it’s ever been, like Sisky said on the day I met him.

“Don’t you have mirrors up in Maine?” he asks. I stop at this. He knows where I’ve been. He hasn’t asked me anything about my life, but he knows. Maybe Jon told him. Maybe it doesn’t matter. He’s been aware of me. “I’ll cut it.”

“Sorry?”

“I said I’m going to cut it.” He stands up. He doesn’t look at me but goes to the kitchen, switching the lights on in there.

What the hell?

I push the covers aside and carefully follow him, straightening the white undershirt that’ll do for nightwear, tugging the hem of it over the waistband of my black boxer briefs.

In the kitchen, he’s already got scissors out and he’s pulled a chair from the small table to the middle of the room. The cupboard doors are orange, more reminiscent of the swinging sixties than any of the more modern designs. He’s got a house, but it’s not a big one, and neither has it been recently built. The car outside remains as the show off piece of however much he’s earning these days.

“Sit down,” he instructs, his tone coldly professional. “I need a comb, hang on.”

I sit down on the chair as he goes to get whatever else he needs. It’s the middle of the night, we haven’t slept, neither one of us, and now I’m in his silent kitchen, waiting for him to cut my hair. Maybe I did fall asleep and this is all a dream.

When he comes back, comb with him, I ask, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I worked at a barber shop. The guy who ran it, Marcus, made me cut people’s hair. It helped strengthen my hand after – after the cast came off.” He busies himself aligning the comb with the scissors on the table, clearly not wanting to discuss the context of what he just said. There’s nothing I can say to that. Tell him I’m sorry – he’d tell me to fuck off.

When he moves to stand behind me, scissors in hand, I find it hard to breathe. Unable to see him but sensing his presence. My heart beating fast. But at least now I don’t have to worry that my gaze on his bare upper half would be inappropriate somehow. He looks good shirtless, the outlines of pronounced muscles visible on his stomach and chest, taut and smooth. I didn’t mean to look – it’s more memory that the visual merely triggers.

Still, he is close to me. Standing right behind me.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how short I want it?”

He doesn’t reply.

The first touch is soft. The press of calloused fingertips to the back of my head. Suddenly, I’m holding my breath. Every sense is electrified, and then his touch is all I can feel. My body hair pricks up everywhere, goose bumps appearing on my arms. The comb begins to go through the hair, and his fingers brush the locks.

“God, your hair’s ridiculous,” he says, sounding genuinely angry. Despite the hesitant start, once he starts straightening my hair, he stops being gentle.

He soon takes a hold of a strand of hair, lifting it, and then I hear the first snip. Hairs fall onto the top of my back. He instantly does it again. The snips feel violent, like he’d rather just stick the scissors to my throat and be done with it.

“Don’t move!” he says when I wasn’t even moving. “You’ll fuck it up.” There’s an obvious angry bite to his words. He combs through the locks again. Snip. Snip, snip, snip. The palm of his hand presses my head to lean on one side. He snips dangerously close to my right earlobe. “Out of all nights,” he says, moving to the back again, “all damn nights to show up, it had to be tonight, huh? Showing up at my door? Like it’s that –” Snip, “easy.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Yes, you do.” He almost laughs. “Of course you do. You always want something. And it always puts me in an awkward position when you’re around, covering things up, pretending... Look down.” I do, stare at my bare knees. The comb goes through the hairs at the nape of my neck. “Does the kid know?”

“About what?” I ask, maybe to push his buttons. He lets out an irritated sigh. Us. Does Sisky know about us. “Yeah, he does.”

He stops his assault on my hair, and I have no reason to believe he’s even trying to make it look good. Maybe ruining my hair will be some kind of revenge. “You told a fucking journalist?” He sounds completely disbelieving.

“I told a friend,” I correct him. “Sisky’s a smart kid, he pieced it together himself. He won’t write it in the book. He legally can’t.”

Brendon scoffs. “That chatterbox doesn’t need to put it in print to blow our cover –”

“Yeah, which one’s that? The one where I was your musical mentor?” This is a straight dig at his statements in interviews, and he knows that. Brendon presses his fingers against my neck too hard and continues to cut. “Sisky won’t tell anyone. I vouch for him.” But Brendon’s clearly pissed off at me for having told the kid, so I say, “Ian knows, too, you know. All about us. And he’s got a loose tongue when he’s shitfaced. Is it just me or does he like his liquor?”

“I vouch for him,” he returns, tone icy cold.

“Sure you do. Until the end of this world.”

For that, I earn a slight smack to the back of my head, or what could have been a smack, or could have been just him brushing my hair a bit too hard. “What does that mean?” he demands to know, and right now it’s worrying that he’s holding a pair of scissors. And not tiny haircut scissors but bulky kitchen scissors.

But we both know what I mean. His band’s far from ideal.

I don’t say this. Instead I ask, “Does your entire band know?”

About us.

“No.” Brendon cuts hair at the top. I feel the weight of cut off locks on my shoulders. “Dallon and Bob don’t know. Most people don’t. Well, Mike knows. What doesn’t he know?”

I know all about nosy managers.

He moves to my sides now, and I watch as brown curls of discarded hair topple down my shoulders. The lowest part of my neck feels bare as I got used to the feel of hair against it. He cuts fast and with sure movements, and as he cuts a bit too close to my ear, he says, “I don’t forgive you. I think you’re a prick.”

“Alright.” I hold my breath and wait for more.

He scoffs angrily, genuine hurt in his words. “I knew that Shane was attracted to you. I knew that, and don’t think that I didn’t. But who wouldn’t have wanted you? You waltzed in like his fucking patron, changing his life – But that doesn’t give you the right to – It fucking didn’t justify.”

“Alright.”

“Stop fucking saying that! ‘Alright’, what the hell does that mean? Alright.” He draws in a shaky breath, now cutting hair on the other side, moving from the peripheral vision on my left to my right. “I know that you were punishing me, I know that. And you sure knew just where to strike.” He takes a step back. Ruffles my hair. Now steps in front of me, as if to check how my hair falls. He doesn’t look at my face, only sorts out the now shorter curls. Clearly not pleased with it yet, he moves back to my side and cuts more carefully this time. At length, he says, “I don’t forgive you.” I’d say ‘alright’ to that too but find myself speechless. “But life.” He sighs. “Life is too short for me to hate you. Trying to – to maintain that level of anger and betrayal is exhausting. Trust me, I tried. I don’t want to be like that. I hated being like that. You’re not worth the hate.” He steps back again. Runs fingers through my hair, rough finger pads brushing against my scalp. A thousand memories flash before my eyes. That same touch repeated, one year from the next. “There, I’m done.”

When I look at him, he’s chewing on his bottom lip, arms wrapped around his bare middle. He’s eyeing my hair critically and he’s got brown hair stuck to his pyjama pants. “You wanna see it?”

“Sure.”

When I stand up, hair falls off of me and onto the floor. The chair is surrounded by plentiful locks of hair, and I’m taken aback how much it looks like. He leads the way as I brush my shirt, bits of hair everywhere, brushing my shoulders where miniscule hairs prickle against my skin.

The bathroom is next to his bedroom. He opens the door and switches the light on, motioning me to step inside. He remains leaning against the doorway. I look at myself in the mirror, expecting the worst, but he’s actually done a good job. As rough as his cutting felt at times, he hasn’t taken his rage out on my hair, and it’s not as short as I thought it was: it’s off my shoulders, but curls still fall over my earlobes. It’s neater. Doesn’t look hopelessly unkempt the way it did. But my mane still forms waved locks, maintaining that carefree protest that a musician’s hair ought to. Brendon’s clearly got skills I didn’t know he had.

“It looks good,” I say.

“I know.”

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

I don’t know if he expects me to ignore what he said: that he doesn’t forgive me but he doesn’t hate me either. Fuck, what does that mean?

“Where does that leave us?” He drops his gaze, but I go on, anyway, turning around to face him. “I mean you and me. Where does that all leave us?”

“Nowhere, I guess.” He shrugs. Sounds indifferent.

Nowhere. Right. Where else?

He looks at the floor before lifting his gaze again, brown eyes focusing on me. “But it’s good to see you.”

“You too.”

He does a fleeting half-smile, like he’d like to smile but it hurts too much. He turns away, disappearing from the doorway.

I pull my shirt off, brushing my shoulders and chest to get the cut hair off, but it feels like it’s everywhere. My hands feel sweaty for no reason.

Brendon’s coming out of the kitchen as I get to the living room, his hand on the switch as the lights disappear behind him. I hold my balled up shirt in one hand. He swiftly looks away from my mostly undressed form, says, “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.” I step aside since I’m blocking the doorway, ready to return to the couch. We both move slowly, him heading back to the bedroom as I approach the couch, and we move like we’re trying to keep a respectable amount of distance between ourselves.

He’s already out of the room, the lights off once more, when he stops and turns back around. “We’re doing a photo shoot tomorrow. You can come hang out if you like.”

He throws it out there casually, lets it hang in the air. I don’t know what he’s offering.

“You don’t want me gone?”

That’s what I thought he’d want. Cut my hair and kick me out. Apparently.

Now that it’s darker, it takes more effort to see the look on his face, but even with better light I’d be left clueless.

“You should come. Show off your new haircut.” He pauses slightly. “Jon misses you.” Right. So Jon’s the reason. “You should come along as a friend.”

“Whose friend?”

He shrugs. “Well, isn’t that what you said we were? When you showed up?” He motions towards the front door. “That we’re old friends.”

I guess I said that.

“Okay,” I say testily, “I’ll come along as your friend.”

He exhales a bit too quickly, almost a huff. He doesn’t really agree with that label, like it’s too intimate, and I know it is.

We’re not friends.

It occurs to me that we’ve never been friends. If that’s what he’s offering.

Who knows with him?

Sleep doesn’t come any easier after that.

The streetlamp’s light flickers and his door remains closed.

Chapter Text

Jon shows up at ten o’clock with freshly baked doughnuts. Brendon isn’t expecting him and seems confused by his presence, voice hushed – as if the doorbell hadn’t woke me up already.

“Yeah, man, I just came to pick up my shirt and, uh, I brought doughnuts and, well. Doughnuts!” Jon sounds like he thinks this is an adequate explanation. I rise onto my elbows on the couch, tiredly rubbing my face with one hand as I crane my neck to look at them. Jon sees me and says, “Morning!” Brendon closes the door after his bandmate.

I do a half-assed hand lift. “Hey, man.” I try to sound sleepier than I am: for the past twenty minutes I’ve been listening to Brendon moving about the house. Wondering when to get up, what to say, how to behave. I wonder if he slept at all because I didn’t. Only dozed off here and there, kept jerking awake.

Maybe Jon’s come to check that we haven’t killed each other or that – or that I actually slept on the couch, or maybe he just wants to help with the awkwardness of it all. Either way, he repeats, “Doughnuts!” and holds up a brown paper bag with darkened grease smudges on it. He smiles. “Thought it’d be a –” He stops. Frowns. “Dude, what happened to your hair?”

“Uhm.” I look to Brendon, unsure of what to say.

Brendon’s showered – I heard the water running – and he’s gotten dressed: out of his tour clothes and into blue jeans and a red-blue plaid shirt, more casual. Home wear.

I try to meet his gaze but he quickly looks elsewhere. “Coffee, Jon?” he asks, and Jon nods uncertainly, looking between the two of us with a deepening frown. “Ry, you want coffee?” Brendon asks as he heads to the kitchen, having taken Jon’s doughnuts.

“Yeah, thanks.” I get out of bed – well couch, not bed – and Jon keeps looking at me like he demands an explanation or at least would appreciate one. I stand still awkwardly, the lighter weight of my hair still new. I point over my shoulder, feeling nervous for no reason. “I think I’ll grab a shower.”

“...Okay.” Jon worries on his bottom lip and then looks mildly embarrassed. Like he’s walked in on something he shouldn’t have.

I grab my bag and confront the situation by not confronting it. Instead I have a quick shower, use Brendon’s products, quirk an eyebrow at his Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific shampoo but gee, I guess my hair will smell terrific – and like a girl’s. He’s got a pile of mini soaps from various hotels across the country, though. Tour spoils.

I get dressed in the bathroom and towel off my hair. A plain white mug stands on the sink edge with a toothbrush and a half-emptied toothpaste tube in it. His toothbrush. In his bathroom. In his house.

It still hasn’t really hit me that this house is his. It’s not an expensive house, but maybe he wanted to start out small. He’s never had a house. I know that, but somehow it doesn’t really sink in until I see his toothbrush.

He’s settled down. This is his home, even if he hasn’t finished unpacking.

I’ve never been in his home before. I don’t count his Brooklyn apartment – that wasn’t a home, that was a joke.

Well... Good for him.

Really.

When I get to the kitchen, Jon and Brendon are sitting around the table. Brendon is smoking, and Jon is having a doughnut. There’s a quickly swept pile of my hair in the kitchen corner, and Jon must have seen it but we’re not commenting on it.

“Sorry if it’s cold,” Brendon says, pushing over a mug of coffee as I sit down. “Two sugars, right?”

“Yeah.”

He only nods, one hand on the side of his head, brushing strands of his hair. A nervous habit of his. He takes in another drag of smoke. Jon passes me a doughnut – it’s still warm.

“You too!” Jon insists, offering Brendon one. They turn out to be damn good.

Brendon shakes his head, however. “I need to stay in shape.” Jon rolls his eyes like a single doughnut won’t make a damn difference. “We’ll be back on tour soon. Need my energy.” Even now Brendon sounds like he’s psyching himself up to go on stage.

“Your loss,” Jon says and stuffs his face with the doughnut. Brendon seems content with black coffee and two cigarettes. I don’t really know what to say so I pretend I’m busy with my coffee and baked goods. The clock on the wall ticks. Brendon taps his fingers against the table. I worry on my bottom lip. Jon looks between us. Frowns more. He then rushes out, “The funniest thing happened at the party last night!”

We both look at him, and I for one am grateful for his intervention. Jon launches into a story involving Bob, a ginger girl, tequila shots and straws. It’s easier with Jon directing the conversation, when Brendon and I both focus on him. After his first story, he tells us another, then another. After a while, I’ve relaxed and stopped feeling like Brendon’s a time bomb about to go off. He hopefully feels the same about me.

I’m smiling at Jon’s tour stories when Brendon stubs his cigarette in the full ashtray he’s got on the table. It clearly signals the end of breakfast.

“We need to get a move on or Mike will have our heads on a platter.” He’s eyeing the clock on the wall. “I’ll call Ian, make sure he’s up. You still coming along?”

It takes me a second to realise he’s addressed the question to me. He sounds so natural asking it, no bite to his tone. More like an assumption. I am coming along, right?

“Sure.” Shrug. “I’ve got no plans.”

Jon seems genuinely pleased.

Ian doesn’t pick up when Brendon calls him, and I watch the line of Brendon’s shoulders tighten. He taps his foot impatiently, rolling the phone cord around his forefinger.

“Maybe he crashed at someone’s,” Jon suggests.

“Yeah, maybe.” Brendon sighs as he puts the receiver down. “I’ll drive by his place, see if he’s home. Did you see him leave the party last night?”

Jon thinks back to it, and so do I, but I don’t recall having seen Ian since he tried chatting me up and talked shit about the past. I’m not telling anyone that, however. Brendon clearly managed to get some of it off his chest last night, but I am not going to mention Shane if I can avoid it. It hurts him and me both.

“I didn’t see Ian, no,” Jon says eventually. “Cassie got tired, we left before you did. Didn’t you see him when you left?”

“I don’t know. I – I had other things on my mind.”

Jon looks at me like I’m the ‘other things’ but Brendon only sighs, clearly annoyed that he can’t get a hold of Ian.

We agree that I go with Jon in his car while Brendon drives to Ian’s to drag him to the photo shoot. During the drive, Jon talks about all the things he feels like I should do in Chicago while I’m here, all the tourist things and his favourite bars and restaurants and cafés, but he eventually says, “So what did I walk in on back there?”

“Sorry?”

“Oh come on.” His tone perfectly conveys the roll of his eyes.

“Nothing, man. It was nothing.”

“Fine.” He sounds displeased but I don’t know what to tell him. “You guys are okay, though, right?”

There’s something extremely naïve in his question. Like everything can be fixed that easily.

But in some ways, maybe he’s a little bit right: Brendon and I both know all the shit we’ve put each other through, but we seem to be... okay. We’re not okay, of course we’re not Okay with a capital O, but we’re okay with what’s happened. The unchangeable past. And like he said, that past cannot necessarily be justified, but we have to accept it, anyway. As fact.

Because it happened. And we can either remain angry about it or just accept that we have to live with it.

We have to live with it. And we’re okay with the unpleasant fact.

So I tell Jon, “Sure. We’re alright.” Then mostly to appease him add, “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Yeah, I know. But hey, I’m glad that you guys – Well, that’s good news, in any case.”

And he smiles happily, and I realise that he’s forgotten how ugly it got with Brendon and I towards the end. How we were just trying to tear each other apart.

Savage and brutal.

The photographer’s flown from New York especially for the His Side photo shoot that’s taking place in a cinematographic loft. The windows are huge, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, letting as much light in as possible, and the walls are red brick everywhere except for the one corner where a white backdrop’s been set up, a few softboxes on the floor yet to be mounted onto light stands.

The loft is quite busy when we arrive. Mike, Dallon and Bob are already there, and Mike rushes over to Jon and me. “So glad you’re here!” he exclaims and starts telling Jon what the plan for the day is. His words explain the people present at the shoot: a handful are journalists with their own photographers, here to interview the band for lesser newspapers and publications, then there are the makeup artists and the hair stylists, then there are label people to go over some administrative matters, and the rest simply appear to be hangers-on. I recognise a few groupies from the club last night, sitting in the hang out area with Dallon and Bob, next to tables with complimentary snacks and drinks for all.

“Where are Brendon and Ian?” Mike asks Jon, somewhat restless.

Jon instantly looks like he’s been busted, so I cut in with, “Brendon went to pick Ian up.”

“Oh.” Mike eyes me slightly. “I see.” He’s clearly holding back whatever he’d want to say, but instead remarks, “I like the hair.”

“Thanks.”

He nods somewhat cordially. He doesn’t want me around. I’ve seen him bickering with his band and being snarky and complaining, but that was when he didn’t know I was watching. Well, now I am. And from what I can figure, Mike doesn’t like having me as a witness because he works for Vicky, and Vicky works for me.

“You wanna sit down?” he now suggests. “We’ve got beers over there. Make yourself comfortable.”

Jon stays behind to talk to Mike as I go over, and Dallon and Bob welcome me warmly enough though I still don’t know them that well. Dallon’s got a few friends with him, and Bob has his groupies, and they continue talking as I get myself a beer and sign a few autographs for the assistants that come over, batting their eyelashes at me.

“Did you enjoy the party last night?” Bob asks me. He’s got his arm around a big breasted blonde, and he’s smoking with the other. He likes women, but he’s not obnoxious and cocky about it like Joe was back in the day. Bob digs chicks, and he digs them digging him. Joe just wanted to get his cock sucked.

“Yeah, it was good. Congratulations on finishing the tour, by the way. Not that you guys are taking much of a break.” I motion at the busy loft.

“Mike doesn’t believe in breaks,” Dallon laughs, and he clearly sounds slightly bitter.

“Neither does Brendon,” Bob adds, and the two exchange unhappy glances, both objecting to one another’s views. “Where is Brendon, anyway?” Bob now asks me.

“He went to get Ian. I’m sure they’ll be here any second.”

Dallon now says, “Ian said he went to your high school, didn’t he?”

“Uh, yeah, apparently so,” I nod, only remembering this now. Ian told me that once. “But I’d already graduated, so,” I shrug, and Dallon and Bob begin to discuss if talent comes in clusters, naming the origins of their favourite musicians to see if they can see any patterns. I let them talk to kill time, see that Jon and Mike are deep in discussion about whatever.

“Chicago’s produced a lot of talent,” Bob concludes after a few minutes. “I mean there’s me, there’s Jon... Earth, Wind & Fire. Chicago! They’re a Chicago band.”

“Imaginative with their name, too,” Dallon remarks. He’s got a sharp tongue, and I’m relatively sure I like it.

“Please,” Bob laughs. “With you, we can’t even talk cities, we’ll have to address the state. Famous musicians from Utah. Let me – Wait, let me...” Bob faux frowns. “God, I can’t... think of any. I mean, The Osmonds don’t even count as music, just hillbilly inbred Mormons with guitars.”

“Hey, they had some good tunes!” Dallon says and points an accusing finger. “And there’s me.”

Bob’s blonde girl giggles. “Dallon’s enough for the entire state.”

“Listen to your girl, Bob, for she speaks the truth. And us Mormons can be extremely musical. Being so close to God, musical talent just drips down from the heavens...”

Bob laughs, but I ask, “You’re a Mormon?”

Dallon turns his blue eyes to me, smirks slightly. “Well, not anymore, no. But I used to be.”

“And you’re from Utah?” I continue, further disbelieving.

He nods. “Filmore. It’s a tiny place, you wouldn’t know it.”

He’s right, I don’t.

“Well, it’s a small world, then. Utah musicians.” I am met with a blank stare. “You know,” I say, trying to make it obvious. But they look confused. They don’t know. “Um, never mind.”

This is an anti-climax for them, that’s obvious.

“Hey, guys,” Brendon’s voice comes just then, and I certainly shut up at the right time. He’s got a friendly smile on his face that isn’t real. He’s arrived alone.

“Where’s Ian?” Dallon asks, beating me to it.

“He wasn’t home.”

And that’s all Brendon clearly wants to say about that. He looks like he’s not sure whether to be annoyed or worried, so he’s a bit of both. Dallon smiles at him, trying to be reassuring, I guess. I think back to the two of them on stage, Brendon’s hand on Dallon’s chest, recall that spark of anger in me that I wasn’t entitled to, especially now if we want to be friends, regardless of how forced that title may be.

But somehow it feels validating that Dallon and Bob don’t know about Brendon’s childhood. I assumed that his band mates would. But it turns out that they don’t know about me and him, and they don’t know where he’s from, and so it’s safe to say that they know none of Brendon’s life story.

Brendon might have a house, an actual place to call home, but it doesn’t seem like he’s letting people in any easier than before – not even the guys he sees daily and must be close to.

Mike has noticed Brendon’s arrival and has come over with Jon. “Bren, finally here!” he says. “Fantastic. You need to go get your makeup done ,” – he points to his left, “– Jon and Dallon, you have an interview with that guy over there, Chicago Tribune, be smart,” – he points to his right – “Bob, yours is that bird over there, and Brendon, Henry from the label will come talk to you about the sales as you’re in makeup, you can sit and listen at the same time, right?” Mike looks around like he’s searching intently and then lifts up his hands in surrender. “And no sign of Ian! Great!”

“He’ll show,” Dallon says, irritated. “He always does.”

“Eventually.” Mike chews on his bottom lip nervously. “He wasn’t home?” he asks Brendon, who shakes his head. “Okay, well, I know a few of his, uh. Hang out spots. I’ll have someone make calls. But as for the rest of you, just do what you’re supposed to be doing.” He pushes hair off his face and looks around restlessly. He mouths ‘fuck’ to himself.

“Oh, is that the guy?” Brendon asks, now nodding towards the photographer.

“Yeah, it is. Hey, Robert!” Mike calls out, and the guy who’s been fixing the lights turns around.

The photographer’s been ignoring the rest of us, setting up his camera in the corner by the windows. He now comes over, and I take him in: light brown hair with slight curls, big and soft green eyes and a handsome face, somehow familiar, and I get an inkling that I have seen him before.

He approaches us a bit shyly, and when Brendon extends his hand, he says, “Robert, pleased to meet you.”

“I’m a big fan of your work,” Brendon says, and Robert smiles happily.

“Thank you. Likewise.”

The band shakes hands with him, and Robert briefly looks at me, a reserved smile on his face, and I vaguely smile back, knowing that he might hope that I know him. I also see him eyeing up his soon-to-be subjects.

After the introductions, the band sets out in different directions, all looking slightly disgruntled with their tasks and the stress. It seems like they’re trying to have their fingers in all pies at once. Whatever band I was in always took time off after we finished a tour, but His Side is back in business already the next day.

Robert goes back to setting up lights in the corner, and he seems lost in the preparations. I eye him from where I’m sitting on a couch, figuring that I must know him from New York. I recognise his face.

Bob’s girls and Dallon’s friends – a girl and two guys – are left behind, but I can’t really be bothered to make an effort with people I don’t know. The blonde groupie has a black leather folder in her lap, however, and the redhead she’s with is leaning over and giggling.

“What’s that?” I ask, more out of boredom than anything else.

“It’s his portfolio,” she tells me, motioning at the photographer.

“Oh. May I?”

She hands it over to me with a sly grin.

The familiarity of the guy hits home when I open the portfolio: oh, he’s that guy from that crowd. I look at the picture of Patti that was used for her debut album Horses and realise that His Side have got a relatively famed photographer taking their picture today. Robert’s a part of New York’s pretentious art circles, full of poets and musicians, hanging out at Max’s Kansas City and hoping that Warhol acknowledges their existence.

I avoided that crowd like the plague when I lived in New York. I didn’t need to try and get famous when I already was.

Wonder how Patti is doing, though. She was alright. A bit scruffy.

I flip through the portfolio to get an idea for this guy’s work: they’re all black and white shots. Clearly Robert’s got a great interest in the contrast of lighter and darker shades, and he really plays with the contrast. A handful of portraits, one of Debbie Harry. Good shots, definitely.

On the next page is a nude. Oh. Of a guy’s pale ass. Oh. The model’s wearing a jockstrap, fingers stretching the waistband above his bare buttocks. Oh. Well, okay. Art is art. There is, uh, a certain elegance to the picture, I suppose.

I flip onto the next page and nearly choke. It’s another ass, but this time the guy is bending forwards and out of the frame, leaving only his ass in view, but his hand is reaching behind himself. Pushing a thick, black dildo in.

Into his ass. In the picture. In plain sight.

I couldn’t close the portfolio any faster, but the mental image stays with me. What the fuck? What the hell? I clear my throat uncomfortably and almost feel like I could blush.

And I don’t blush.

Robert is still busy setting up his equipment. He seemed quite shy, and he does photography like this? Who takes pictures like that? And Brendon is a fan of his work? Has anyone else looked at this, for god’s sake?

Jon is in the middle of an interview with Dallon, but I march over anyway, the portfolio under my arm like I’m smuggling drugs. “Jon, can I talk to you?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to make sure that the others are out of earshot. “Now?”

“Uh, sure,” Jon says, looking confused. He excuses himself, and both Dallon and the guy from Chicago Tribune give me an annoyed stare.

I walk a safe distance away from them, and in the corner of the room hand Jon the portfolio. “Have you looked at this?”

His brows knit together as he opens it. The PG ones are first, no problem there, but then his eyes widen. “Oh wow.” He flips onto another page. “Wow. Fuck, that’s explicit.” I see upside down pictures that I didn’t even get into myself: naked men in various positions, naked men flexing their muscles, naked men embracing, naked men showing off their cocks.

“And he’s taking your picture,” I state in an ‘are you kidding me?’ voice.

He flips onto a new page. Does a double take. “Shit, this is really graphic.” He closes the portfolio like I did, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Wow, that is gay.”

“Yes, it is. I guess this photo shoot is over, right?”

I look over to Robert, who seemed oh so innocent. It’s not sensible to have some kind of a leather lover from NY photographing the band. Robert must have a reputation, and it’s not wise to link that to His Side.

Jon, however, looks at me like I’m overreacting. “Brendon wanted him specifically.”

“Clearly Brendon didn’t know,” I argue though there isn’t much that can get past Brendon. Why would he choose this guy?

Jon laughs, awkwardly carding his hair. “Um.” He looks at me with an amused smile, and I realise I’m missing something.

“What?”

“Well, yeah, this guy’s work is, uh. Is a bit out there. But we’re kind of a gay band,” he says somewhat apologetically. I quirk an eyebrow at him.

“Come again?”

“Well, Bob and I are the only ones left on the hetero front. Dallon over there,” he nods at his band mate answering the journalist’s questions, “is openly gay. And Brendon is too, you know that, and Ian as well, so Bob and I are in the minority, technically. We just don’t say that the band’s mostly gay, I mean, in interviews we just refuse to comment if they address our sexualities or ask if we’re dating. But in private, we’re relaxed about it, and no one needs to hide. I know what the guys get up to, you know? Ian likes these tall types, I’ve seen him sucking a guy’s face more than once. Dallon likes pretty boys with brown hair though he says he’s after love, not sex, and Brendon likes –” he starts but then cuts himself off sharply. I look away and pretend that that doesn’t hurt, a sudden montage of mental images of Brendon with other guys. “Um, I didn’t mean... Brendon doesn’t –”

“Guess that’s not my business anymore, right?”

My tone successfully contains my wish for Jon not to talk about it. Please don’t talk about it. He nods slowly. “Right. Well, Brendon’s got this whole philosophy, like a gay philosophy for the band.”

“A what now?”

“He wants to support gay artists as much as he can. Take Dallon, he did solo stuff before His Side. Bren liked his music, knew he was a struggling gay artist, they got along and Brendon hired him. He wanted this gay drummer, too, but the label insisted on Bob. The girl who did the cover art for Wandering Lips is a lesbian, two of our roadies are gay, I mean – If Brendon can help out gay people with this band, he’ll do it, you know? I guess that’s why he chose Mapplethorpe for today’s photo shoot. Supporting fellow gay artists. Again. Even if, uh,” Jon waves the portfolio slightly, “the work is somewhat risqué.”

“So it’s one big homo circus,” I conclude for him.

“Basically. I mean, we are called His Side.”

I blink. That’s it? His Side to emphasise the masculine, to glorify the male? A gay perspective and a gay voice? If only the kids who adore them knew that. If only their parents did.

“But some of us are straight,” Jon then adds like he’s defending his honour, and Bob’s, and presumably Mike’s too.

“But aren’t you worried about rumours?” I persist. I know I’d be. I only went to one of their shows and thought it was kind of gay – surely those who obsess over them can see it nice and clear.

“The rumours are already there, man. I don’t mind it, everyone knows I’m with Cassie. But helping out the gay community is important for Brendon, and Dallon too. It’s important for those guys. Where’s the harm in it?” he shrugs. “I’ve heard people’s stories. Some of those guys have had really rough lives because of their sexuality. I didn’t get how tough it could be until I joined this band.”

“Poor little gay kids,” I mutter but let it go. It’s the only thing I can do.

So that’s how it is, that’s how Brendon’s running this show – or trying to as much as he can. The others probably think of him as a gay role model, a superhero for a minority, working behind the scenes, behind a mask. Brave and strong.

But somehow I find it infinitely sad. He’s trying to give others the chances that no one ever gave him.

I look over to where Brendon is sitting down by a vanity, a makeup artist applying foundation to his face. A male makeup artist at that: well, guess he’s gay too.

I’d ask Brendon about the motivation behind this grand scheme but he would get pissed off at me for bringing up his past. Fair enough, I know I’ve used my knowledge of it as a weapon against him. My knowing about him was fine when we were close. He wanted me to know, whispered secrets into my ear. He regrets it all now, I’m sure. It makes me dangerous. But I gave parts of myself in turn – he knows things about me no one else in this world knows.

There isn’t much you can do with broken trust. It’s like a broken vase, and sure, you can glue it back together, but it’ll never be like it was, and the carpet will remained stained too. It’ll always be broken. What can I do with that?

Jon says, “Don’t worry about the band. It’s kind of you, but we’re alright.”

“As long as these pictures are not nudes.”

Jon laughs it off. “I promise we’ll keep our clothes on. And that we won’t touch each other inappropriately.”

He winks at me and passes the portfolio back. I sigh and tell myself that it’s not my place.

All bands have their problems. His Side’s aren’t that bad if compared to some others, like The Followers. Sure, their guitarist is missing, Bob seems to be a bit of a womaniser, Mike is too much of a control freak, and Brendon is pushing the gay subtext as far as he can and maybe even too far. Still, I’ve seen worse.

“Dallon, your time to get your makeup done!” Mike calls out. Brendon’s now with the photographer, talking, and the guy keeps explaining with his hands like he’s giving Brendon his vision on this thing. Brendon keeps nodding like he’s used to this, like he’s been doing this for years.

Making up for experience that he doesn’t actually have.

There’s no sign of Ian.

“You think Milk got shot because of politics? Please, let’s not be naïve!” Dallon declares to the room, all the seats around the oval dining table taken. “He got shot because he was a threat! An openly gay man in power? They don’t allow that, they don’t want to acknowledge that it doesn’t matter if we suck cock or eat pussy, that we’re still equal citizens!”

On my right, Sisky blushes from Dallon’s words, and Cassie looks quite flustered and embarrassed by Dallon’s frank tone. Dallon doesn’t even seem to be ranting to anyone in particular nor to all at once: he is merely ranting for the sake of ranting. Sisky keeps gazing either at Dallon or at me because he ‘likes my hair so much’.

Jon and Cassie’s house is decorated like they have in mind to live here for the next twenty years, which they probably do: it’s homey and full of dark wooden furniture with splashes of colour like bright red curtains or a polka dot rug. It doesn’t feel like a pretend home the way Machias does or the way Brendon’s house does. Five uncorked bottles of wine stand on the table, some of us have beers, and nothing is left in the lasagne dishes except for a corner that Brendon insisted remains untouched in case Ian shows up.

Because Ian didn’t show up at the photo shoot, and he hasn’t shown up here either. No one’s heard from him all day, and as the hours tick by, Brendon looks more and more restless.

Ian’s just passed out somewhere. He’ll have a hell of a hangover, but he’ll live through it.

“You know,” Sisky says, “I’m glad you did something to your hair. You were beginning to look like a hobo.”

“Fuck you,” I return easily, but he just looks like he’d want to touch my hair a little. He’s already asked me all about my day and the photo shoot and seemed hurt that he wasn’t invited. He also said an obnoxious ‘Well?’ when he arrived, nodding at Brendon. Well nothing. We’re here. We’re talking. That’s it.

Sisky and I have stepped right into the very heart of the His Side family, however. I can’t help but feel like I’m intruding.

But this, I suppose, is the life he’s been living this past year and then some. These people. His own thing, his territory.

Watch me trespass because I can.

Jon’s got his arm around Cassie’s shoulder as he listens to Dallon speaking, Dallon’s voice carrying from the other end of the table. “Maybe some of us have forgotten about Stonewall, but I haven’t,” Dallon now reflects. “I was there in Chicago for the march on its first anniversary, I was there, holding up signs, and I’m gonna be there next summer too, man. We can’t let people forget. We can’t content ourselves with the occasional sodomy law being repealed – we have to fight for our rights because gay men and women are not second class citizens. We pay the same shitty taxes, we have the same shitty jobs, we laugh at the same shitty jokes. I’m not saying we’re identical, because we’re not: we’re persecuted. But we won’t be victims.”

He stops at this, like that’s his punch line.

I give Jon a long look and mutter, “He sounds like he should be in politics.”

“Business as usual,” Jon assures me, and sure enough Dallon just keeps going.

Turns out that Dallon’s quite the political activist if given the chance, mostly in the gay rights front. Gay rights, what even are those? But apparently it’s his favourite conversation topic, and Jon has clearly heard this rant before.

It’s a lot of coincidences with Dallon: from Utah, a former Mormon, openly gay. Sounds like someone else I know. And yet Dallon doesn’t seem to be aware of this. Brendon’s found someone who probably could get him better than anyone else in this world, but still he hasn’t told Dallon a thing.

Brendon is listening to Dallon intently, though, and Dallon looks at him frequently, as if for approval or validation, and he keeps giving Brendon these friendly smiles that are warm and reach his eyes. Brendon isn’t avoiding me as such – we’ve been surrounded by people all day, and he’s addressed me often enough in these group discussions. He’ll look my way and acknowledge me, but it’s fake. Like obligation rather than genuine interest.

But at least some of that clear apprehension from last night is gone.

Brendon gets up while Dallon is still talking, now to Bob and the blonde girl whose name I haven’t bothered memorising. Cassie seemed put off that Bob actually dragged someone like that along, but Bob seems like he is genuinely into her. For now. Mike was invited but he’s gone Ian hunting, and considering the tensions within the band, maybe it’s better that the manager isn’t around.

I now watch Brendon disappear into the kitchen. Sisky sees me looking, and I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed.

“So, you staying at Brendon’s tonight too?” Sisky inquires.

“Yeah, I guess.”

We haven’t actually talked about it.

Sisky smirks knowingly. I glare at him because that’s delicate information, all our vicious past mistakes, and I was stupid enough to vouch for this blabbermouth.

“Bren and I agreed to be friends, alright?” I mutter under my breath, ensuring only he hears.

Sisky frowns at this and looks genuinely disappointed. “Really? But I thought...” His voice fades away. I know what he thought: Romeo and Juliet without the death.

“You thought wrong.” I finish the rest of my beer. “If you’ll excuse me.”

I want to escape his saddened face, like he was really rooting for Brendon and me, although he persisted that he only wanted me to get rid of a few ghosts. But I had no such foolish notions, and if I – If I did, then I’m done with those. And it means nothing that I now go to the kitchen and then pretend to be surprised when Brendon is there, by the wall phone, receiver pressed to his ear. He sighs when he sees me, but he doesn’t sigh at me. And that’s something.

“Calling Ian again?”

“Yeah.” He pulls the receiver from his ear and purses his lips. “He’s not picking up.”

“Guess he’s not at home,” I reason, and he huffs and puts the receiver back in place. He’s getting more worried as the hours roll by. “People go on benders, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Ian’s just passed out in some gay guy’s bed, having spent his day drinking and fucking. We should all be as lucky.

My hip leans against the kitchen counter, and I nod back to the dining room. “Do you buy into that all? Dallon and his gay rights.”

He nods slowly. “Sure I do.”

“It’s funny how he talks about it. With such fire. You guys are kinda similar, right?” I ask carefully, not wanting to push his buttons. He frowns. “Well, just. Him being from your home state. A gay Mormon kid.”

“Coincidence,” he shrugs which is a clear ‘I’m not going to discuss this with you, Ryan’, so okay, fine. I’ll back off.

“Yeah, coincidence. But you guys- I don’t know, plenty of similarities. I remember when we first met, you used to talk about things like that back then too. You were pretty fierce.”

I offer him a friendly smile to be shared over a memory, and I feel relieved when he accepts my offer. He lets himself laugh, mildly embarrassed. “I was twenty-three. Pretty sure I thought I was invincible and could change the world.”

“Well, it seems like you’re busy trying.”

He shrugs modestly, and a look of confusion flickers on his features like he’s not sure where I’m going with this. Nowhere smart.

“It’s good you’re still into these, uh, gay rights. I mean, I know you didn’t want to go back in the closet for anyone, and in New York, I know that you and Shane often had to pretend that...” I’ve said the S word before I can tell myself to shut up. But it’s true: they had to pretend to be roommates to get a landlord to rent them a place, they told most of the people they met the same story, and even I didn’t believe Brendon when he first declared that Shane was his boyfriend. It was inconsistent with the Brendon I knew, who had shouted from rooftops that he wouldn’t let anyone feel ashamed of who he was. And then he met Shane, who was much more moderate. But now I’ve mentioned Shane, and Brendon’s thinking about how I fucked his ex-boyfriend, and I need to change the subject fast. “Well, it’s just good that now you’re. Back in a place where you don’t need to pretend.” My tone is searching and not convincing at all.

He stands up straighter, crosses his arms. A defensive gesture. “I do pretend, every day. A lot of female fans. Can’t crush their hopes. So some of us might talk the talk,” he says and nods towards the dining room where Dallon is ranting even now, “but we don’t walk the walk.”

“That’s only professional. Everyone has to pretend to be someone they’re not when they’re famous. That goes without saying. What I mean is that at least there’s no one in your... in your love life or whatever, stopping you from expressing yourself. Standing in your way.”

At least I helped him get rid of Shane. Right? Because Shane wasn’t right for him, and we know that. Maybe we can at least acknowledge that, and he can hate me a little less.

“Yeah. Guess you’re right,” he says.

Well, this hasn’t turned into a shouting match so far.

“Do you keep in touch?”

He doesn’t reply at first. Probably knows it’s none of my business. “No. He – Well, he said he didn’t want to hear from me ever again. Justified, probably. I’d been cheating on him for months, you see.”

The sarcasm couldn’t be any heavier in his tone. Fuck, what a mess we made of it.

“There’s a lot about that time that I regret,” I say quietly. Needing him to know that.

“Look, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Right.”

His mouth is a thin line, but maybe he’s right. Maybe we’re better off not talking about it. We can’t fix it, anyway.

“Ian said you’re going to Europe,” I say instead and don’t comment on how Ian, from the little I’ve seen, is completely unreliable.

“Yeah, we are. We’re really excited.”

“Long tour?”

“Less than a month,” he shrugs dismissively. “We’re leaving on Monday.”

“Monday?” I repeat in surprise, feeling oddly hollow. “But today’s...”

“Wednesday.”

“Right.” Four full days before they leave for Europe. Four days. “Wow, you guys are not taking much of a break, huh?”

“No.”

Four days. Well, it’s not like my invitation to his couch is indefinite – he needs to go, and I need to go.

He’s going. Further away than ever before.

And that’s my trip done, too, unless I want to stay around hanging out with Cassie, who thinks I’m a confused gay kid, or unless I want to rub elbows with Sisky’s mother, who Sisky tells me insists that I visit because she’s baked cookies for me, well – I have no excuse to stay in Chicago after the band’s gone.

So I’ll go back home, I guess, but it’ll be different now. I’ve seen him. Talked to him. Felt the slide of his fingers across the back of my neck.

He doesn’t hate me. I don’t hate him. But we tire quickly, being around one another. All the memories, most of them bad ones.

“Can you get us some more beers?” Bob’s voice calls from the dining room.

“Sure thing, man!” Brendon calls back, now wiping his hands to his jeans and looking around the kitchen.

Cassie walks in a second later and tells us to go sit down because we’re her guests. Brendon and her get along – they always did. Brendon reluctantly leaves her to play the hostess although he insists that he doesn’t mind helping her. “Shoo!” she says, her eyes laughing, and Brendon chuckles, warmth in his gaze. I’ve missed seeing that.

The phone starts to ring as we walk out, and Cassie hurries to answer it.

To my surprise, Sisky’s taken over as the main speaker at the table, a wild smile on his face. “– right out in the cold. I swear that’s what he did, and then I stood there, tired and hungry and freezing, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Where’s this?” I ask, sitting back next to him, watching Brendon reclaim his seat by Dallon.

“When we first met!” he enthuses. “When you threw me out and threatened to call the cops on me!”

“Ah.” I grab the cigarette pack on the table and get one out. “Fond memories.”

“What’d Ryan do then?” Bob asks, laughing like he finds the story endlessly amusing. Brendon is eyeing Sisky slightly, his mouth a thin line.

“Well,” Sisky begins, “he opens the door after a while and –”

“You guys,” Cassie’s voice comes, but Sisky ignores her interruption.

“– Ryan’s giving me this defeated look –”

“You guys!” she repeats, her voice breaking. She’s wide-eyed and pale. She looks at Jon, and her eyes are full of unshed tears. It’s bad. Whatever it is, it’s bad, and a hundred different scenarios run through my head and – “Ian’s in the hospital.”

The silence that follows, I find, is the deafening kind.

They show us to one of the private waiting rooms on the fifth floor. The room is relatively small and has uncomfortable looking brown leather benches by the walls and one window that opens up to the parking lot. It’s dark outside, but we’re far from sleep. Mike says that he expects the press to get a whiff of things soon and wait outside the hospital with cameras ready, so we should be prepared for that eventuality.

For now, however, the outside world feels far away. Cassie keeps shedding tears silently, shoulders hunched. Jon keeps a protective arm around her, and he kisses her brown hair but looks devastated. Bob is without female company, probably the first time I see him so, and that confident smirk in his eyes is gone. Dallon and Brendon sit next to each other. Brendon stares ahead of himself. He’s had a completely closed off, dead expression ever since the phone call.

Sisky and Bob’s girl stayed behind. Sisky wasn’t prepared for the news – he’s a kid, of course he wasn’t. He looked sorry and apologetic and babbled that he’d clean up and wash the dishes and that Cassie and Jon needn’t worry.

Sisky didn’t even know Ian, and he was still shocked to hear that Ian had overdosed.

Ian’s bandmates now sit quietly in the waiting room, and I watch them from my chair by the door. They look broken, like a limb’s been torn off.

I don’t think I can say I’m completely shocked, but no one wants to hear that, and so I don’t say it.

“How long do you think it’ll be?” Bob asks quietly, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know.” Mike bites on his nails like he’s trying to take out some of his anger on them. “I really don’t.”

Mike found Ian. Mike found him alright and still seems shocked and pissed off by it. How dare Ian do that to him? To any of them?

The minutes keep on stretching, ten minutes, twenty minutes. And no one says anything. Brendon shivers slightly, and Dallon squeezes his shoulder affectionately, but Brendon nods, a clear ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it, thank you’, and Dallon pulls his hand back. Brendon rubs his face, but the blank look in his eyes is the worst part. The others are upset and sad and worried, and Mike is clearly angry about this too. But Brendon shows no emotion at all – exhaustion is the only thing he’ll let show.

I wish he’d cry. He’d look more human if he did. I’d feel less worried about him if he did.

He flinches, however, when a doctor finally comes in, glasses on his nose, a tinge of grey in his hair. Brendon shoots to standing immediately while the rest of us rouse.

“Evening, I’m Dr. Cohen and I’ve –”

“Well?” Brendon says, cutting him off.

Cohen seems put off and clears his throat slightly. “I’ve been attending to your friend, who remains unconscious yet stable for now.” There is something to him that is clinical, like he lacks sympathy for the patient. He’s more deprecating than anything else. “He was in critical condition when he arrived. He had injected himself with a high dose of heroin, which had mixed with alcohol and various other drugs in his system. We’re still waiting for the full blood results. The mix of drugs and the high levels of heroin caused him to go into respiratory failure and he stopped breathing while still in the ambulance. He was attended to quickly, however, but I should tell you that there is a risk of brain damage.” As he says this, something in Brendon’s eyes dies. “He has now been stabilised, and we’ve done everything we –”

“Be more specific,” Brendon cuts in, tone angry.

The man looks disgruntled. “We’ve given him naloxone to counteract with the heroin, and he’s currently on breathing support. We’re keeping him unconscious, letting his body get some rest and recover. When he wakes up tomorrow, we will know more of his condition.”

Jon hangs his head, and now it’s Cassie’s turn to squeeze his hand and offer support.

“Can we see him?” Dallon asks.

Cohen looks hesitating. “I recommend that you go home and come back tomorrow. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

“But if we want to see him,” Dallon persists.

The doctor purses his lips. “I’ll have a nurse come for you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

With a short nod, the doctor leaves. After a lifetime of waiting, we only get a minute of his medical expertise and then he’s gone again. All this waiting for more bad news: heroin. Brain damage. Respiratory failure.

I knew that the kid was partying too hard, but hell, that’s what you’re supposed to do. Be reckless.

But not this reckless.

“I think we should go home, all of us,” Mike says tiredly, now addressing the room, trying to hang onto strips of leadership. “We need some rest. We can’t overwhelm Ian right now, and we should give him space tomorrow, too. He needs to be on a plane to Oslo in four days, so he needs more rest than anyone.”

Brendon, who has remained staring after the doctor, now becomes unfrozen. He turns to Mike and looks furious. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” he barks. Mike blinks at him. “Ian might have brain damage! He might- He might not be himself when he wakes up, he – God, he is in no fucking condition to go on tour!”

“He’ll sharpen up and be ready like he always is!” Mike argues, and Brendon looks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“We don’t know that! Fucking hell, we have to cancel the tour!”

“No, we don’t! You have- almost sold out shows in Cologne and Copenhagen, and –”

“I don’t give a fuck! Alright?! I don’t give a fucking fuck!” he all but yells, and I really don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry. Ever. And that’s saying something. Out of nowhere, he aims a kick at the trash can in the corner, knocking it over, its contents spilling onto the floor: food wrappers and newspapers. “Fuck!” he yells, hands now in his hair. “Fucking fuck!”

“It’ll be alright!” Mike insists, more loudly now.

“How is this alright?!” Brendon counters, furious and broken. “This is not alright, Michael! You cannot make this right!”

“Worse comes to worst and Ian can’t come with us, he’s disposable! Leo can fill in for him, or –”

Mike can’t even finish his suggestion of letting one of their techs take over when Brendon practically moves to launch himself on Mike, who jerks backwards. Dallon, however, reacts instantly, already having stepped between them, simply engulfing Brendon in an embrace and then pushing him back. “Whoa, okay, Bren,” Dallon rushes out, but Brendon pushes him away. Cassie’s covered her mouth with her hand and appears shocked.

Brendon points a finger at Mike. “Ian is not disposable!”

With that, Brendon storms out of the waiting room, slamming the door so hard that it smashes against the wall. No one tries to stop him. Bob and Jon sit still with paled faces, staring ahead of themselves. Cassie wipes tears from the corners of her eyes.

“Well,” Mike says like that was quite unnecessary, and Dallon only shoots a disappointed look at their manager. “I only said that the show must go on. I think we all know that deep down.”

Dallon scoffs. “Some tact would be nice.” He looks at the still open door. “I’ll go check if he’s alright.”

“I’ll do it,” I say, now standing up. Dallon frowns slightly. He hovers around Brendon enough as it is. “I’ve been in rock ‘n roll for a long time. I’ve seen this before.”

This seems to convince Dallon. I’m not lying: I’ve seen this before, but I haven’t experienced it myself. I’ve been an observer. Still, I’m a hell of a lot less blue-eyed than the rest of them.

Dallon nods like that’s fine by him, and he moves to sit back down.

When I step out into the long hospital corridor, I make sure to close the door behind me. Give the mourners some privacy. The hospital is relatively quiet this late at night: a few nurses here and there, nurse’s caps firmly pinned to their heads. The last time I was in one of these death traps it was for my old man. I still remember it. That death throttle of his that he would have called breathing. He’s now buried six feet under, in a Las Vegas cemetery I’ll never visit.

I’ve promised myself that much: I will never go to his grave.

I hate hospitals by default. They’re only for death, but I can’t tell Ian’s broken friends that either.

Finding Brendon doesn’t turn out to be as easy as I thought. I go around the floor twice without seeing him and figure that he must have gone outside to smoke. But when I open the door to the stairs, intending to go downstairs, I find him sitting on the lowest step of the stairs leading up, head between his hands.

Oh. He just needed somewhere to hide.

I let the door close after me. He doesn’t react to the sound.

“Hey.”

He looks up and then instantly looks away, flinching at the sight of me. “Leave me alone,” he says, but it’s too late – I saw his reddened eyes. He quickly wipes his cheeks, takes in an uneven breath.

I stand still idly, stupidly, awkwardly. I didn’t expect this.

Fuck, I’ll take anything but his tears. That’s the one thing I’ve never been able to stand: if he cries. It’s a damn rare sight, and I recall the time Shane broke up with him and I found Brendon in their hotel room, eyes puffy and red. He doesn’t cry for nothing.

“Hey,” I repeat softly, my insides aching.

“Just fuck off, Ryan.”

But I don’t move. He’s not angry with me, I try to repeat that – well, okay, he is angry with me in general, but not right now. This is about something else. “He’s gonna be okay, you know.” My tone is soothing, or tries to be.

“Yeah, sure,” he laughs bitterly. “They said that he might have brain damage. Sure it’ll be okay.”

“He might have brain damage, but he also might be fine. The doctor has to give you the worst case scenario. Make sure you’re prepared. He said they attended to Ian quickly, so the risk of brain damage is probably low. It’ll be alright, I promise you. Things will work out.”

“But you don’t know that!” he now barks at me, standing up quickly, and I step back and give him space. He can’t stay still, his hands curling into fists. He shakes his head, almost feverish with everything that he’s bottled up inside. “This – This doesn’t concern you so just go! God, this has got nothing to do with you!”

But it’s got everything to do with him.

“Hey, listen,” I say, making the mistake of reaching out and touching his arm gently. He instantly pulls back as if he’s been burned.

He lifts his hands in clear rejection. “Don’t fucking touch me, alright?”

I try not to take it personally. I can’t.

I study him as he paces around the small, confined landing. An unspoken anger or fury remains in him, and his outburst at Mike hasn’t been able to free him from it. He won’t quite meet my gaze, and at first I think it’s shame from having almost attacked Mike, for having lost control like that, or maybe it’s just unleashed fury. Then I realise it’s something else, something worse than that. Something much more haunting.

There are a few things I know well in this world, and Brendon Urie is one of them. Or used to be. In some ways still is.

This isn’t about me at all. This is all him.

“You think it’s your fault, don’t you?”

He doesn’t deny it, just laughs bitterly. “Well, isn’t it?”

“No.”

It’s not his fault. It’s as simple as that.

“But it is. It is my fault.” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “Ian never wanted to be in this band, I forced him. He wanted to stay in New York, wanted to keep music as a hobby, he – He didn’t want this. This was my dream and I dragged him along for the ride because I was- I was too scared to do it on my own. He hates this life. The crowds and the lights and the interviews,” he lists angrily. “He reminds me of you a little – when we first met. He gets stage fright too. Except you were made for the stage, you could handle it even in your worst moments. You had a self-preservation instinct that he just doesn’t have. I’ve known that.” Beneath the anger, he sounds guilty beyond words, with every sentence beating himself up over this. “I’ve known that for a while and yet... I’ve done nothing.”

“Ian is his own person who makes his own fucking decisions,” I say firmly. “He could have said no to you. He could have quit the band.”

“How could he say no to his friend?” he demands to know, intent on blaming himself. Some of his anger finally breaks, and he sounds choked up when he adds, “Fuck, I nearly killed him.”

“No, you didn’t.”

But he seems to disagree. He quickly wipes his cheeks again. “What the hell do you know? You got here yesterday, so don’t stand there and pretend you know what’s going on. You don’t know Ian, so you don’t fucking –”

“No, you listen to me for a change! Listen!” I demand until he looks at me. God, he looks lost, like his eyes are searching for something, for land that he just can’t see. “Ian did this to himself, alright? Don’t let yourself think otherwise for a second. He fucked up, he took those drugs! You didn’t force him, you weren’t there. You might not want to hear it, but he’s a fuck up, Brendon, and that’s what fuck ups do! He put himself in that hospital bed!” I exclaim and point towards the door.

Brendon’s eyes have narrowed dangerously. “How dare you –”

“You’ve seen one junkie, you’ve seen them all!”

“I guess you’d know, right?” he shoots back, and as he’s raising his voice at me, I’m getting equally angry with him. Does he actually buy his own bullshit?

“I don’t have the perfect record, I admit that. But I’m living proof that you can control it if you want to. I got clean, remember?” I don’t add that I got clean for him because we don’t need to be reminded of that. These days I won’t even take fucking aspirin if my head hurts. Alcohol, cigarettes and grass – that’s it now. Nothing more. No other drugs, illegal or legal. I don’t trust myself so I simply don’t let myself. It’s not easy sometimes but I do it. I made myself quit. It can be done. “My point is that – That it doesn’t matter, your what-ifs. Ian decided for himself, and he liked his drugs already in New York. What’s to say that he wouldn’t have done this exact same thing even without His Side? Huh? You can’t know how things would have turned out in some other hypothetical what-if that never happened. This is what Ian chose, and guess what? He couldn’t handle it. He was too fucking weak to handle this life and he nearly killed himself.” I stop to draw in a breath. He clearly feels insulted for his friend, highly indignant. It’s a front. I know it is. “But Bren...” I say quietly. “God, Bren, this is not your fault.”

He looks away at the wall, but I see the way his lips twitch downwards, the way the muscles of his throat tighten. There’s a short silence before he lets out a strangled sound and looks down at his feet.

“Hey,” I rush out, stepping closer and placing a hand on his arm again, forcing him to turn around. “Hey, just –”

“Don’t touch me!”

“Okay. Okay.” I lift my hands in surrender.

“Just leave. Please.” Tears are now beginning to roll down his cheeks, and he doesn’t want me here for this. “Goddammit, Ryan!” he snaps when I don’t move. Can’t.

“It wasn’t your fault.” And, more slowly this time, I place a hand on his arm. “You know it wasn’t. God, just come here.”

He doesn’t put up a fight when I pull him to my arms this time. He shivers, air against my neck, and I keep a gentle arm around his shoulders, the other in his hair. Firm but not intrusive. And he’s rigid for a few seconds but then he gives into it. Presses forward. Wraps his arms around my middle, too tired to fight it. As the embrace tightens, his exhaustion is palpable. His wet eyelashes brush the side of my neck, and I shush him the best I can. Breathe him in and just try and be something solid for him because it’s what he needs. “It’ll be okay, you’ll see. I promise you. It’s the scare Ian needs to sort himself out, you know? He’ll sort himself out. And if the tour gets cancelled, then it gets cancelled. And if it doesn’t, Leo will fill in for him, and Ian will be fine, and the band will be fine, alright?”

I keep talking. Just keep talking until I feel him calming down.

I try to remember my place, but it’s hard with my fingers in his hair, carding softly, tracing patterns at the bottom of his skull, my fingers moving in soothing, soothing circles.

“I got so fucking scared,” he manages, voice choked.

“I know.” Baby, I know, I know. “He’s one of your best friends, and I know you’re scared as hell right now, but he’ll make it. I promise you. And I’m here if you need me. Okay?”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

Somehow he manages to make the words bite even when he’s pressed against me. He feels the same, the same shape, the one I mapped out so carefully in the past. And he means it, too: he doesn’t need me.

“I know you don’t,” I whisper, “but I’m offering. Don’t take it if you don’t want to.”

And he most likely doesn’t want to.

His breathing seems to even out fully after a while. I expect him to shove me backwards at any second, walk out on me, swear at me, and I’ll let him – a part of his heart is breaking right now. I’ll let him. I’ll grant him that luxury. But then he laughs slightly, not at all what I expected. His nose presses against my earlobe. “Your hair smells like a girl’s.”

I can’t help but laugh, an exhausted laugh after a nightmare. “It’s your fucking shampoo.”

He shrugs like that’s not his fault, and he himself smells different so I guess he hasn’t even used the floral scented shampoo on himself.

“What do you know about what women smell like, anyway?” I counter.

“I’ve got a vivid imagination.”

His nose slides down and now presses against my jaw. I pull back slightly, suddenly feeling confused by how close he is. In my arms. He was upset – isn’t anymore because he’s calmed down and I’ve served my purpose – so I just acted, it was instinct. Make him feel better no matter at what cost. Now that moment’s passed, and his body pressed to mine stirs up a conflicting mess of emotions.

I don’t know if this hits him at the same time, but he blinks at me like he’s slightly taken aback, and when he steps away, I let him. He hides his face and wipes his eyes once more. He looks small just then.

“You take the time you need out here, spend the night at the hospital if you want to. I don’t think Ian would want to be alone.”

He nods and tiredly sits back down on the step. He clearly needs a few more minutes to pull himself together fully.

“Can you not tell the others?” he asks when I’m at the door.

He needs them to think he’s strong. I know better.

“Of course I won’t.”

I’ll keep a secret.

He nods and tries to smile the little he can.

Chapter Text

The gloom from last night hasn’t lifted when I join Cassie and Jon for breakfast the following morning. The two look exhausted sitting by the full breakfast table, Cassie being a good hostess even in the stressful circumstances. I probably look as tired as they do. On my first night I couldn’t sleep because Brendon was near me, and now I couldn’t sleep because he was all the way in the hospital, keeping vigil at Ian’s bedside. The bed in Jon and Cassie’s guest room was cosy and I know that Brendon can handle himself, so I had no reason to have another sleepless night and yet...

“Any news?” I ask as I help myself to cereal.

Cassie shakes her head. I pour milk into my bowl silently, one of their cats purring at my feet. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s still pressing. Sad.

It snowed last night; through the kitchen window, a tree in their backyard is shiny white.

Ian might have missed this morning. All the ones to come.

“You want to take a shower?” Jon offers.

I glance down at my striped slacks that I pulled back on, and my upper half’s clothed by my white undershirt. I swear I have the smell of a hospital on me, that lingering scent of death. “Sure, but I’ve got nothing to change into. My clothes are at Brendon’s.”

“I’m sure Jon will have something,” Cassie offers, though we’re not the same size, Jon and I. His clothes will inevitably look too big on me.

“Or you could just pick up your stuff from Bren’s,” Jon suggests. He must see me tensing up because he adds, “He’s still at the hospital, I mean. I haven’t heard anything. But we’ve got his spare key if you want to pick up your stuff. He won’t mind.”

I relax slightly. “I suppose it’d be good to dress up. I’m meeting Sisky’s mom today.”

A smile flickers on Cassie’s lips, but she doesn’t say anything. I didn’t mean for it to sound quite so boyfriend-y, and so I go back to my cereal in slight embarrassment.

Jon keeps looking towards the phone every so often, like he’s hoping it’ll ring but it doesn’t. Maybe no news is good news at this point.

After breakfast, Jon offers to give me a ride as he decides to go to the hospital without waiting to be called. He drives to Brendon’s habitually, knowing the route by heart. I think we both assume that I’m staying with him and Cassie now. It’s better than staying at Brendon’s, far less conflicting. And Jon doesn’t need to wonder in whose bed I’ll be. No one has to. And Brendon needs space right now, I know that. He needs space, and having me hovering over his shoulder isn’t welcomed.

I’ll give him that space.

I’ve forgotten all about the brown rental Chevy until I see it parked outside Brendon’s house. Brendon’s car is in the driveway, too, but the snow outside is perfectly untouched. He hasn’t come home.

“I’ll head back to your house after I’m done at Sisky’s,” I tell Jon. “The kid seemed pretty upset about Ian.”

“We’re all upset,” Jon mutters quietly, hanging his head.

I don’t know what to say to that. Feel embarrassed that I compared a stranger’s worry to Jon’s who has been in this band with Ian for over a year. Maybe I should tell Jon that it’ll be alright, the way I told Brendon, but somehow the words will be phony if I say them to him. Not that Brendon doesn’t know any better, but telling him that things will be okay wasn’t about realistic projections. It was about Brendon being upset and me being willing to do anything, say anything, to reverse that.

Jon sighs and looks restless. I give his shoulder a supportive squeeze before I get out of the car. Feel guilty and inadequate for not knowing how to help him.

The key Jon gave me is in my pocket, and I dig it out as I leave footprints on the white blanket covering the ground outside Brendon’s house. I hear Jon’s car taking off as I read his handwriting on the white tape wrapped around the bow of the key: Brendon’s.

When the key fits in perfectly and the lock clicks open, I hope that Brendon won’t actually mind. I look over my shoulder, feeling like a thief. This is his home. My invitation to it is dubious as it is.

Inside, the house looks deserted and forgotten. A pillow and duvet are still on the couch where I slept; in the kitchen, our morning coffee mugs are still on the table. It’s silent. Doesn’t feel welcoming.

I focus on what I came for, and I grab my bag and the clothes that are still on his couch, and then I spend five minutes trying to find the damn car keys so that I can drive myself to Sisky’s, except I don’t know how to get to his house. After the keys have been found under the couch, I go to the rental car to retrieve the Chicago street map. The air is crisp and icy, instantly numbing my fingers, and so I rush my steps back to the house, map with me.

I spread the map out on the kitchen table. In the process I knock a mug off. I swear and reach for it, but it crashes onto the floor and chips. Great. In Brendon’s house, breaking his shit. He’ll walk into this mess after one of his best friends nearly died. Great, great job, Ryan.

I stop to take a breath, cursing myself for feeling so awkward and clumsy, for being just that. Making things worse for him.

The kitchen is untidy: the doughnut bag is still on the counter, my cut off hair is still in the corner where he swept it. He shouldn’t have to come back to this. I’ve got time before I need to go. Okay. I’ve got time.

I pick up the mug and the sharp piece of porcelain that came off. The mug is pure white, cheap-looking, so I throw it in the trashcan without too much thought. Then I begin to clean up the place. I finally get rid of my hair, and the brown locks land over the discarded mug in the trash. I spend forever looking for dish soap only to conclude that Brendon doesn’t have any, so I rinse the mugs and other dishes with hot water the best I can. The ashtray on the kitchen table is full, and I empty it, tapping at the bottom to get the ashes to fall out. The ashtray turns out to be more of hotel paraphernalia that he has a habit of collecting, it seems, my eyes flying over the reversed letters: aeslehC letoH

I blink. Turn the ashtray back around, now empty: Hotel Chelsea. On the bottom of the glass ashtray, in golden letters, small, black specks of ash over the words. Our Hotel Chelsea.

Something he once snatched. An ashtray that’s now in his house, after all this time.

Why would he have? When Shane could have noticed and – Or maybe Brendon. Maybe he hid it. Ashtrays hardly cost much but if you can get it for free, if you – And then you take it with you when you move, too. You take it to Los Angeles and then you take it to Chicago. See that logo there every time you use it.

Why would he –

I laugh when I realise that suddenly my insides feel hot and my pulse has picked up. God, so what? So what. He has an ashtray from Chelsea Hotel, and he probably stole it back when he and I used to frequent the place, our bed, our room, our world. Getting worked up over this is pathetic. To him, it’s just an ashtray. That’s all it is.

That’s all. Get a grip.

And so I quickly place the ashtray back on the table, now empty. Let it be. Finish cleaning up the kitchen and living room, tidying the little I can when I don’t actually know the rightful places of his belongings.

After that, I find Sisky’s house on the map and figure out the best way to get there.

Because it doesn’t mean anything. An ashtray.

I grab a quick shower before leaving. Don’t use the floral shampoo this time but actually find something that smells manlier – a half-used hotel mini-shampoo, this one from a hotel in Minneapolis. Brendon clearly just has a habit of helping himself to whatever he finds in hotel rooms. That’s all.

And I don’t wonder when he stole the ashtray, at what point. Was it clean, had it been used? Had it been lying on the sheets next to us when we smoked after a round of sex, him using my chest as a pillow, me talking bullshit about the new album, my vision for it, hand carding through his hair lazily, him humming to let me know he was listening? And it was so important, letting him know.

And afterwards, when I took a shower, did he look at the ashtray for a second, and did he think of the carefree afternoon, when things were so good between us? And was it then that he emptied it and put it in his pocket? Smuggled it home? Kept it hidden from his boyfriend that spring, even when he and I stopped talking? He didn’t throw it out.

Or maybe it was something else completely. Maybe it was never in the room, maybe it was in the lobby, and maybe he had broken an ashtray at home the day before, maybe it was a replacement and maybe it meant nothing.

When I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist, I stop. Look at the toothbrush mug, the simple white one that stopped me yesterday. His toothbrush is green. Mine is blue. In the mug with his. And I must have put mine next to his yesterday, clearly, but I have no recollection of it, and now the toothbrushes are in that mug together. And I quickly take mine out before the mental image spreads, but of course it spreads – my imagination has always been all over the place. And as I brush my teeth, it gets coloured in vividly: how in some alternative universe this is our house, and I just cleaned our kitchen, washed our mugs, emptied our ashtrays, showered in our bathroom, and after this I’ll go to our bedroom and he’ll still be asleep in our bed. His hair a mess, his skin warm, him asleep, and then he’s squirming when I touch him, complaining that my fingers are cold and my hair is wet, but I kiss his cheek anyway, morning, morning, morning, and he huffs but is smiling, turns his head to align our mouths. That could have happened. That could have been us. I offered. I fucking well offered, and he knew it.

And he said no.

I take the toothbrush with me this time.

He said no.

My insides ache at the memory of it.

I’m barely out of the bathroom when I stop. Hear the front door opening to the living room. Stand in his study next to his unpacked boxes, don’t move, just listen. Because it’s his voice, and he sounds exhausted, but then there’s a second voice: Dallon. Telling Brendon to get some rest.

“Yeah, I will,” Brendon promises.

I slowly approach the archway. Hover. Don’t want to step into their line of vision. Feel like I’ve broken in.

But then I take one step more, just enough to see the door. See Brendon pulling Dallon into a hug, and then the two stand in the doorway with their winter coats on, in a tight embrace. It’s not a brief goodbye hug. They whisper words that I cannot hear. Support and encouragement in a time of need. That’s what it is. That’s all. Sure.

I feel like Jon felt yesterday morning: walking in on something that I shouldn’t see.

Dallon eventually pulls back, hand on the back of Brendon’s head. “Okay?” he asks, and Brendon nods, and Dallon smiles, and I step back before they see me staring at them, wrapped up in one of Brendon’s towels. The intruder.

“See you later, man,” Brendon calls out before the door closes. He sighs audibly. It’s loud and fills up his house. I wish I was dressed, at least, that it didn’t look like I’ve been lounging about his house while he’s been at the hospital. Helping myself to his briefly extended hospitality all too liberally.

For a second I consider – I don’t know, hiding, maybe? Hiding, yeah, okay – but then Brendon’s walked into the living room further, and then he sees me through the archway. He startles, jumping. “Jesus fuck!” he exclaims, a hand pressed to his chest. “Ryan? Fucking hell.” He’s not happy.

God, I’m such an idiot.

“Sorry. Um. Jon gave me the key. I came to pick up my stuff,” I say, speaking quickly, explaining. Beneath his shock, he looks tired but not devastated. Good. That’s a good sign. He looks confused, however. “And then I showered. I hope that’s alright.”

“...Yeah. Sure.”

Still frowning.

In that alternative universe, this would be a different scenario. Him coming home from the hospital – I think Ian would have fucked himself up in both worlds – and I’d have him in my arms by now, I’d be comforting him, I’d take him to bed, say that you have to sleep, get some sleep, and when he’d wake up a few hours later, with me in bed with him, then we’d undress and – And it’d be so intense with the need to prove that at least we’re alive, him and I, and we still have this, our house, our life, communal, shared, ours –

But this is what we’ve got instead. This.

He didn’t want me back in New York, and now that I’m here, I’m reminded of it all over again. He said that it was good to see me, but it was as an old friend. Like we’ve both said. Old friends. Means there’s baggage. Mistakes made along the way. Too many to count.

That ship has sailed, that point where maybe we still might have...

And now he’s got his house and his unpacked boxes and his band and his tours and his bandmates who drive him home and comfort him.

And I’m the odd extension, and aren’t I just so acutely aware of it right now?

“I thought maybe Jon told you he gave me the key,” I say as a way of explanation, tightening the towel around my waist slightly.

He’s still looking at me, his eyes out of focus slightly and fixed somewhere on my stomach. Then he manages to shake his head, tired eyes finding mine. “He didn’t mention it.”

“Oh.” Thanks, Jon. “How’s Ian doing?”

Is he a vegetable, did he fuck up his brain? But Brendon looks like he is in no condition for my interrogation. Still, he’s come home.

“I mean, is Ian...?”

“He’s himself,” he says with a small shrug. “Well. As much as he can be after something like that.”

“No brain damage?” I clarify, and Brendon shakes his head. “That’s great news! Fuck, that’s really good. He’ll recover fully, then?”

“Physically.” He’s now unbuttoning his coat. “Mentally and emotionally, he’s not doing so well. He – He’s really... not in a good place right now.” He sounds hurt even saying it.

It seems rude to pry, so I don’t ask. It’s most likely confidential between Brendon and Ian, anyway. Ian was breaking. Now he’s broken. It takes more than a hospital trip to fix that.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Brendon shrugs, but he seems angry and bitter beneath his exhaustion just like he was last night. After he’s gotten his boots off, he looks around briefly. Frowns. “Have you... cleaned up?” His brown eyes fix on me, confused.

“Just a bit.”

He blinks. “You. Cleaning up.”

“Yeah.”

“You.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind –”

“No, no, I don’t. I just. Didn’t know you cleaned things. You. I mean, your SoHo apartment was always such a mess. So was your LA pad.”

My mind briefly recalls the only time he ever saw my apartment in LA. When he fucked me for the first time, his hot breath against the nape of my neck, a sloppy kiss… Fuck. But I lose the memory just as quickly.

“I clean things. Up in Machias, who else is gonna do it?” I point out, and he shrugs like he hasn’t thought of that. He rubs his left temple briefly, and it’s obvious he hasn’t slept all night, so I say, “I’ll get dressed and head over to Sisky’s. You look like you need sleep.”

“More like a nap,” he mutters. “We’re meeting at Jon’s later. Band meeting.”

Wow, don’t they ever rest?

“All the more reason for me to go, then,” I say, toothbrush still in hand. Know when to go.

“Alright.” He seems uncomfortable as I grab the duffel bag that’s still on the couch that now also has a neatly folded duvet on it with my pillow on top. I get dressed in the bathroom, hang my towel up to dry. Am the perfect guest.

Think how ridiculous it is that we now cover ourselves up when we used to dress and undress in front of the other without a second thought.

Like our flesh has now become sinful or a source of shame.

When I come back out, he’s sitting on the couch that was temporarily my bed. He’s smoking, his Chelsea Hotel ashtray now on the coffee table. He looks up at me when I walk in, and I sit on the adjacent couch to put my shoes on. I feel him staring at me, but I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling. I have no damn clue.

“Uh, about last night,” he says at last. “At the hospital.”

Ah. So that’s his deal. Last night.

He’s either embarrassed or angry that I witnessed his breakdown – that’s how he works, I know all that: he’ll get pissed off that I used his weakness against him or something of the sort. I don’t want to deal with his problems with it.

“Hey, don’t mention it.” I tie my shoe laces without looking up. “You were upset, I just happened to be there. I could’ve been anyone.”

“Yeah. Right. Exactly.” He sounds relieved by this. “You could’ve been anyone.”

I don’t know if I really buy that, however. In my head, it only could have been me. Only. No one else. But I also know that I won’t be in a tight embrace with Brendon when I leave.

And I’m right.

He stands up once I’ve thrown my coat on, got my bag, the car keys, the map. He asks, “So where does Sisky live?”

“Bucktown. Or his mother lives there.”

“Oh. His mom.” Something like a frown flickers on his face before it’s gone. “Well, if you take the expressway –”

“I am, yeah.”

“Okay.”

And we don’t hug and we don’t wave goodbye. I give him a nod and hurry out. Leave him to mourn.

Despite my best efforts of bothering to put on smart, clean clothes, Sisky’s mother is long gone by the time I get to her house. Sisky opens the door, clearly unimpressed, and tells me that I was expected two hours ago. Well, shit.

So instead of meeting his mother, Sisky and I sit in the living room of the modest Siska bungalow that’s roughly the same size as Brendon’s – his, of course, is just for him. This one is for two people. Sisky asks about Ian, and I tell him the little I know.

Sisky was gone by the time we returned from the hospital last night. He’s taking the incident hard because of the music – not because he was particularly close to Ian. I think he, too, sees His Side as a final link to me and is worried that the band is now over. Surely not. Ian is disposable, regardless of what Brendon might have yelled at their manager.

“Are they cancelling the tour?” Sisky asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. They’re having a band meeting soon, I think, but... Who knows? If they stay here, it’ll make interviewing them easier, right?” I try to find something positive in it. And if the band stays in Chicago, it gives me a reason to stay, too. Hang out with Jon some more. Not have Brendon fly to the other side of the ocean.

Sisky’s got a typewriter out on the dining table, and he says that he’s working on the biography. I tell him good. He asks me if I want to read some. I decline instantly.

So instead we just chatter, and he gets out cards and puts on some ELO, and we both try not to think of Ian or His Side as it begins to snow outside. I stay until Sisky seems slightly better and less shaken up by recent events. I eventually promise to come back tomorrow, on time, I swear, because his mother still wants to meet me, which is understandable. Had I a son, I wouldn’t want him hanging out with the likes of me either.

When I get to Jon’s, it’s past dinner time, but Cassie’s a great cook and a gracious host, so I hope that something will have been put aside for me. And if she doesn’t object, getting drunk with Jon sounds like a plan. The whisky I bought on the way clangs in the backseat.

Cassie opens the door for me and ushers me in because it’s fucking cold out. Instead of finding the couple canoodling in front of the TV, watching Three’s Company, however, the living room is full of guys: His Side, the manager, a few crew members. Deep in discussion and hardly even noting that I stop in the doorway. Band meeting. Right.

“You want something to eat?” Cassie asks me, just like I hoped she would.

“Sure.”

Jon sees me, and I lift my hand as a greeting. He nods back but looks surprised. Well, it’s not like I was going to crash at Sisky’s, was I?

Dallon says, “So you’re saying that if we essentially rewrite half of our songs, then performing without Ian would work? Bob, that’s ridiculous! We’d ruin the show and the songs!”

They’re speaking over one another, and Mike looks like he would choose a slow, painful death of getting eaten by cockroaches over this. Brendon looks my way, and our eyes meet briefly before I follow Cassie into the kitchen. He smiled slightly. Tiredly. But a smile of ‘hello’, which I think I tried to return.

It seems like Cassie and I are the only ones not invited to the ongoing discussion. We’re the outsiders.

“How long have they been at it?” I ask her as she starts setting the table for one.

“Forever. Mike doesn’t want to cancel the tour, but Brendon thinks they should. They’re trying to come to a compromise.”

“Half a tour?”

Cassie chuckles. Leo, their guitar tech, was also in the living room, long messy blond hair to his shoulders. He looks rock ‘n roll enough, I’m sure he could step in.

Cassie gives me a plateful of rice, salad and a chicken leg, and she tells me that I’m too skinny. I lost some weight in Machias, but not that much. Canned soup is nutritious, right? She sits down to talk to me, and I ask about the Pilates class that she’s teaching, ask her if that is catching on with the world like she one day hopes that it will, and she’s all about it, looking pleased that I’ve asked. That way I don’t have to strain my hearing to eavesdrop on a band meeting that doesn’t concern me, although if they asked me, if it was any of my business, if I got the chance, well I’d –

“God,” Jon says, slouching into the kitchen. The guys are still talking in the living room.

“What’s the verdict?” Cassie asks as Jon takes a seat.

“It’s the same as when we started. Leo steps in for Ian, except that Brendon doesn’t really want that, but it’s a bit too late to cancel the tour, so we need to figure out a way. Because Ian’s not coming, that’s for sure.”

“Let Leo do it, then,” I say, forking rice into my mouth.

“He doesn’t want to, man. Well, he will if he has to, but he’s not overly keen. Some people are just meant to be techs, you know?”

I know. Take William or Andy or Zack – techs, clearly. Not musicians. Not famous musicians.

“The guys could do with some beers,” Jon says, looking at Cassie pleadingly. She pats his hand affectionately before getting up and getting beers from the fridge.

Once Cassie’s out of the room, I say, “Got whisky for us.”

Jon laughs. “That sounds like a great idea at this point.” But he keeps peering at me, like he’s studying me.

“What’s happening?”

“Well, I just.” He shifts in his seat restlessly, quickly looks over his shoulder like he wants to make sure we’re alone. “When you walked in earlier, it just occurred to me, you know? If – If Leo doesn’t want to play with us, but we need to go on tour, then – then who do we know who can memorise an album’s worth of new songs in one weekend?”

He stares at me. I stare at him. Who? But he keeps staring.

...Oh. Oh fuck.

“Oh, come off it, Jon!”

“What?”

“No! Absolutely not!” But he looks deadly serious. I put my fork down. “No! You’ve got – you’ve got Leo and other techs who are more familiar with the material than I am, you –”

“We need someone with experience in performing.”

“Chicago’s full of experienced guitarists!” I argue, but still Jon just gives me this look like he’s made up his mind and that’s that. I need to reason with him. “Fuck, I don’t mean to sound like a dick, alright? But I’m too famous. You want it to be a His Side show or a Let’s Stare at Ryan Ross show?”

“Ry, we need you.”

Emotional blackmail. I know he’s desperate, but I am not the solution.

“God, Jon. That’s not...” Me on tour with them? Me filling in for Ian? “Brendon would never allow it.” I realise I’ve said it out loud a second too late.

“He would!” Jon assures me, but no, he wouldn’t. He really wouldn’t. Jon lowers his voice slightly. “He’s okay with you, you know.”

At that moment I realise that he’s right, and I hate him for it. Brendon is okay with me. Has gotten past that painful part where all the former fights and fuck ups feel fresh. They don’t, so he’s okay with me. Will smile at me and treat me like a person.

“Even so, this is pushing it. For all of us.” By that I mean me, and Jon probably knows that. I shake my head vigorously. “No. He doesn’t want me on tour. You gotta- You gotta learn when you’re not wanted. So no.” But Jon clearly isn’t convinced. I sigh exasperatedly. “God, it’s a really bad idea.”

“What is?” Brendon’s voice asks. He’s in the doorway with a beer bottle in hand, taking us in calmly. Oh. Maybe he didn’t hear what –

“Ryan filling in for Ian,” Jon spells out before I can stop him or come up with some non-band related context for my remark, and fuck, why would Jon do that?

I shake my head. “I already turned the offer down.” I don’t want Brendon to think it was my idea.

But Brendon merely blinks. “Why?”

...Wait. What?

“...Why I said no?” I clarify, and he nods, looking at me intently with his brown eyes that I can hardly stand because they’ve become such a definition of the perfect shade of brown. I did not expect him to say that. Why? Well, because. Him and I – That’d be. “I’m too famous. It’d draw attention away from the band.”

“That’s true, you would steal a lot of the attention, but,” he shrugs, “there’s no such thing as bad publicity. You’d also draw in crowds.” And now he looks at me like he’s waiting for my second reason.

“Well, it just wouldn’t work.”

That isn’t much of a reason, but I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think he’d even consider it, but he is. Clearly. He’d let me? He wouldn’t mind having me around constantly? I guess not. So I’m the one with the problem here, not him. Fuck. Does he expect me to sit here and tell him that no, I don’t want to help out Jon, one of my best friends, or him, a person who- who I cared deeply about, despite all, because deep down seeing him has rattled me? That something at my core stirs up when I see him? Does he expect me to own up to that?

“I just thought that, I don’t know... you’d think it’s a bad idea.”

And I hate how apologetic I sound saying it. I’m sick and tired of apologising to him because I am sorry but I’ve paid for it, and he wasn’t perfect either, so there.

Jon looks between us, and Brendon’s expression is perfectly illegible. Brendon can keep us all out if he wants to.

“I think Ryan would do great,” Jon then says. “He’s got the experience and the talent and the stage presence. We know him. He’s a friend of the band. And, I mean. It’s a three week tour. A temporary gig, you know? It’ll be done before we know it, and we need someone now. And Ryan’s already here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” Brendon says at last. “I mean, if we can’t have Ian, we don’t want to settle for someone who’s not as good, do we? It’s better to upgrade.”

Wait. What?

“So you want me to come on tour with you?” I clarify because ever since I got here, I’ve gotten the feeling that he wants me to leave. The bitterest pill I ever swallowed: that he didn’t want me.

He shrugs in a ‘why not?’ way. “I’d be fine with it, yeah. Jon’s right about it all. You could do it. We’ve both toured with you so we know what we’d be getting into,” he says and smirks slightly, the first smile I’ve seen on his face since we found out about Ian. But I’m not amused and it must show because, more seriously, he adds, “I’d like it if you came along. Or, I mean,” he then rushes out, “we’d like it. The band. You’d be doing us a favour.”

“Well,” I say, trying to digest this. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.” He nods, self-assured. No big deal. “Okay, fine. But don’t think for too long, we’ll need –”

“I thought about it.” He shuts up. Jon stares at me. Fuck. “Fine. Why the hell not?”

Why not, then?

Jon grins widely, happy and relieved. Brendon smiles, almost warm but not quite. Lukewarm. I smile back briefly, try to process this.

He’s forgiven me enough to want me on tour, and I’ve forgiven him enough to help him when he needs it.

Okay. Tour it is, then.

“How are the cookies?”

“Yeah, uh. They’re really good.” Pause. “Thanks.”

Sisky’s mother gives me an appreciative smile that’s very similar to her son’s. I smile back and look around the living room, pretending to be interested in the wallpaper. Cookies and a glass of milk. Well, now I’ve lived through everything.

Louisa Siska has long auburn hair and a wide smile, and she keeps looking at me benignly – affectionately, even. It’s unnerving as I’ve only just met her. Sisky is munching on a chocolate chip cookie of his own, but he looks like he’s out of energy. Him. He asked me about Ian again, and I told him the latest news: rehab.

I haven’t told him about the tour yet although I have a first practice session with His Side in two hours.

“So where are you staying?” Louisa asks me, hands neatly in her lap.

“Um, with friends. Jon.”

“Oh, is that Jon Walker?” she asks brightly, looking to Sisky. “Adam, you’re a fan of his, aren’t you?”

Sisky nods but doesn’t really smile. “Yeah, Jon’s really nice.”

“Well, I think it’s just lovely,” Louisa now says. “When Adam was younger, he looked up to you so much. It’s just lovely, isn’t it? Lovely that you’ve become such good friends! He’s never had that many, you know.”

“Mom!” Sisky objects, looking severely embarrassed.

I say, “I didn’t have that many friends either when I was his age.”

Louisa smiles at me like we get each other. Sure. I’m mostly lying: when I was Sisky’s age, I had a record deal, had released my debut album, was touring the country with my band and had a string of so-called friends. Louisa doesn’t need to know this, however.

“Would you want another cookie?” she then asks, and I can tell that she won’t take no for an answer, so I nod. “Good! You are so awfully skinny.”

“Mom!” Sisky repeats, sounding mortified. The second person to tell me I’m too skinny over the past day or so. She disappears into the kitchen with a flash of her floral dress. There’s something deeply maternal about her, and so I don’t mind her mothering me.

“She lives to humiliate me,” Sisky says, cheeks a slight red.

“That’s what mothers are for.”

I think.

Louisa comes back, and I engage in further idle chitchat, discuss the flowers she wants to plant in the garden once summer is here, then agree that it’s horrible that last summer some kids trampled all over her flowerbeds. Sisky keeps giving me a curious look like I’m acting out of character, and I am, but it makes Louisa happy, so what the hell.

“You wanna see my room?” Sisky then asks, somewhat rudely cutting off his mother who was in the middle of asking me if I have ‘a lady friend’. I already saw Sisky’s room yesterday, but I nod, grateful for the escape. There is no polite way of saying you like cock.

“You boys go talk about your boy things!” Louisa calls after us, sounding amused.

...Okay.

Once in Sisky’s small bedroom, blue bed sheets with spaceships on them, he sits by his desk and says, “She is so embarrassing, oh my god.”

“She’s alright.”

Appreciate her. She loves you. Not all mothers do.

Sisky just rolls his eyes, unaware of how lucky he is. He’s got an impressive number of books everywhere, piled up on the floor, and it’s a music fan’s room, too: posters, LPs, band t-shirts, ticket stubs pinned to the wall. I grab a book from the nightstand, Robinson Crusoe, and as I flick through the pages, I say, “Hey, so I was thinking I’d check out the Navy Pier tomorrow. You wanna be my guide?”

“You sure? It’s kind of dead.”

“The views will be nice, though.”

“It’s cold and there’s nothing there. Maybe someone should build an amusement park there, then it’d have some purpose.”

“Come on, amuse me,” I beckon. “We’ll get something to eat, we can go to a record shop, a music shop. I mean, you need a proper guitar, right?” I nod at the cheap-looking acoustic in the corner of his room.

This, it seems, is a step too far. He eyes me suspiciously, brows knitting together. Shit. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

I’m affronted, I truly am. “I’m always nice to you, I –”

“No. You’re not.”

...True.

I close the book, knowing that the moment has come. It feels like I’m betraying him somehow, abandoning him like an unwanted kitt – Oh, fuck him and his idiotic similes.

“I just thought it’d be nice to hang out with you because, well. I’m leaving for Europe with His Side next week.”

Sisky’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open, dramatic as ever. “You’re – You’re what? You’re filling in for Ian?!”

“Yeah,” I say, hardly believing it myself. God, I suppose I am. And the worst thing is the huge chunk of me that is itching to be on tour again. “Jon asked me, and Brendon was fine with it, and –”

“You’re coming out of retirement?!” he asks, now standing up, his voice becoming dangerously shrill with excitement. He looks like he wants to jump up and down and clap.

“I wouldn’t say that, no. I mean, it’s only for a few weeks, it’s not –”

“Oh, it’ll be perfect! God, Ryan, it’s perfect!”

“...It is?”

I didn’t think he’d be this happy about me leaving.

“Yes! I’ve been wondering how I can finish my book when I eventually get there, and man, ending on a note of you being a hermit in Machias was such an anticlimax!” He rolls his eyes at me like that’d make me such a loser. “But now I can end it with you on stage once more! Oh, that’s perfect!” he exclaims happily, eyes shining. “Europe! Europe, Ryan! I mean, Mom won’t be happy with it, but she’s so used to me travelling by this stage, hardly matters if I’m in Nevada or The Netherlands, right? And she likes you! You can talk to her! Oh, could you talk to her?”

He eyes the door with fervent eyes, a shit eating grin on his lips. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him this excited.

He hasn’t properly smiled since Ian OD’ed. Now he is. At last. I don’t know why it feels like a relief.

And I... I mean. I guess I need my biographer... Or...

I think of telling him no, watching that smile of his vanish.

I don’t have the heart.

“Uh, sure,” I say, giving in. God. “I’ll talk to your mom for you.”

“Yes!” he says, and now he does clap. “I can’t believe I’m going abroad!”

I wouldn’t get too excited: venues and a tour bus, simply in countries where you don’t speak the language. But he’ll manage. Sisky’s got this innate ability to adapt, walking Darwinism.

“Can you go talk to her now?” he requests, beaming at me. Unable to wait at all. I roll my eyes at him.

In the end, Louisa insists that I take a dozen homemade cookies with me and tells me to send her a postcard from Paris because Sisky will forget. She also makes me promise to look after her son out there because Adam is a bit impulsive, you see.

Yeah, I’ve noticed that about him.

We spend the entire weekend practising together, me memorising their songs. His Side’s practice space doesn’t have a phone, and so communication with the outside world proves difficult. Vicky and I keep missing each other, but we manage to talk by leaving messages back and forth, Cassie having the patience to put up with it and being the middleman.

I finally manage to get in touch with Vicky on Sunday morning, however, a few hours before we need to head out to the airport. I plan on making myself scarce because Jon and Cassie will want to say their goodbyes, of course, and having me in the house, well – I know when not to be a third wheel. So being kind as I am, I’m heading to Sisky’s and then we’ll make our way to the airport ourselves. Jon and Cassie said sure, alright, and are probably holding their breaths for me to leave before engaging in some goodbye sex.

But before granting them the luxury for loud, bed-creaking, headboard-wall-slamming copulation, I give Vicky one last call. This time, she actually picks up.

“At last!” she exclaims, although I could say the same thing. “God, you do not make my life easy, do you?”

“Well, where’d be the fun in that?” I smirk.

She’s being overdramatic because it’s already been organised: my guitars will be joining us in New York later on today before our connecting flight to Oslo. Also a suitcase of clothing, a few books and some other essentials that Vicky’s people have taken from my NY apartment will join me there. I gave Cassie a list of the suits and guitars I wanted – the ones that are good for tours. From the moment we leave Chicago to the moment we land in Oslo, we have sixteen hours of travelling ahead of ourselves.

And all of that feels natural. I’ve been here before, I’ve lived this life. It’s worrying, almost, how easily I slip back into this. And when Vicky asks how I’m feeling about the tour, I admit that it feels good. The buzz is in my veins, getting louder all the time. I’m so used to being on the road. I’ve missed it.

“And you’ve got the songs down? The last thing we need is you back on stage, fucking things up.”

“Thanks,” I note sourly. I’ve been doing nothing but practising His Side songs the last two days, with the band or by myself. They’re not my songs. I didn’t create the melodies. And so I’m like a forger at work, but I’m good at it. It’s a change going from rhythm guitar to lead guitar, but I like the challenge of it, too. “I’ve got the songs down, don’t worry.”

“Good,” she says, and I feel her hesitating momentarily. “How’s your arm?”

I quickly look towards the kitchen where Jon and Cassie are having breakfast. They’re talking, probably not trying to eavesdrop on me as I talk to my manager in the hallway. “Um, it’s been fine.”

“Because –”

“Really. It’s been alright.”

I’m out of practise, sure. I haven’t been playing as much guitar as I used to, but I’ve been playing for hours the past few days, and sure, my left elbow feels slightly stiff, but there is no pain. And even if there were, I wouldn’t – I’d go get a massage or something, I wouldn’t take anything. Vicky would kill me. I’m sure Brendon would too, considering one of his best friends just fucked himself up. I’d try acupuncture and let them stick needles in me. I’d do the responsible thing this time around.

“What’s new with Ian, then?” I ask since Mike has been reporting to Vicky religiously. It’s made the headlines now: Guitarist of His Side hospitalised after overdose. The band hasn’t commented on it, and the shows are presumed to go ahead as scheduled. My involvement with any of it has been hushed up. For now.

“He’ll be going to a rehab centre when he gets discharged. There’s a good one in Chicago, but he wanted to go to Las Vegas. Be close to his family.”

“And how long will he be there?”

“However long he needs.”

The band is taking a break after the European tour, so that should give Ian some time to get his act together.

“The, uh,” Vicky now says, sounding slightly hesitating. “The place has another centre in Los Angeles. They’re very discreet, meant for those with money. I heard through the grapevine that apparently Gabe’s there now.”

“Sorry?” I repeat because I have heard no such thing. Not that I’ve been in touch with Gabe myself. I thought he’d be in New York, still living his decadent life. Ian needs rehab. Gabe – Gabe’s stronger than that. I thought. I was relatively sure.

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. He and I don’t stay in touch, I had no idea he’d even left town. I’ll give you the number of the place if you want to give him a call at some point.”

“Yeah, sure.”

There’s a pen and a notepad next to the phone on the side table – Cassie’s organisational skills showing once more. Vicky quickly changes the subject from Gabe, her former lover – and mine too, I suppose – and gives me a speech on how I need to handle the press because she won’t be around to hold my hand through any of it. Sisky, however, will. The tour bus only has so much space, and how much of a jackass would I have looked like saying that I need my biographer on board? And so I’ve given Sisky the task of handling all the administrative and organisational matters concerning me. Vicky’s not happy with it; Sisky’s over the moon. But if that kid can write a book, he can surely get my hotel keys for me and carry my luggage and keep the press away from me. And it certainly justifies bringing him along a hell of a lot better.

He said he’s perfect for the job: “As an obsessive fan,” he reasoned, “I know how we think. I know how they’ll try to get to you. And I will block them!”

Convinced me.

“I’ll call you from Oslo,” I promise Vicky in the end, needing to wrap the call up in order to give Jon and Cassie some alone time. I’m nothing if not an understanding friend.

“You better,” she says, “but if you wake up Alex when he’s finally fallen asleep, I will hunt you down, I swear.”

“Noted.”

“Well,” she sighs, “I guess that’s it, then. You’re on your way. It’s not quite how I envisioned your musical comeback, but you’ve always done your own thing. Playing guitar for your ex-boyfriend.”

“He –” I immediately start but then stop to calm myself down. “He’s not an ex-boyfriend. We were never – Look, it was just never like that.” I hate how defensive I sound, but it’s annoyance. We weren’t together.

“You’re right, I suppose you weren’t. But still.”

Vicky wishes me a safe journey and hangs up on me, and I stand in the hallway, ticked off. Because the past few days have been alright: I’ve spent hours with the band, with Brendon. And we shy away from each other, sure, but we’re not standing there as exes or whatever we were. We share beers and we chat, with the rest of the band always there, and it’s alright. He’s not avoiding me, and I’m not avoiding him. He’s not refraining from telling me off when I fuck up a song, but he’s not coming down on me with anger like on the first night. He’s treating me like a human being. He tells a joke, I laugh, I tell a joke, he laughs. And I’m not saying anything about how these songs are a lot more polished, more commercialised than his demos back in the day. Dumbed down music from a man who can do better.

We’re finding a balance, and I think it’s working.

Because if we stood there, only thinking about the past, I doubt either one of us could cope.

So we don’t think about it.

We focus on the present. On the little we have, not on what we lost.

We arrive to Oslo in the morning, exhausted, confused, bitching about the cold after sixteen hours of travelling. No one’s really slept.

I get smuggled onto the bus, sunglasses on despite it being a cloudy day in late January, my head kept low, and we make sure no one recognises me, that no reporter accidentally spots me or snaps my picture because then it’d be all over the news prematurely: His Side has arrived with Ryan Ross.

The smuggling goes as planned. The bus looks relatively new on the outside: it has tinted windows for privacy, the bottom half is metal, the upper half and the roof is burgundy coloured. Though our bus on the ’74 was spanking new, it didn’t look as neat as this. Funny how much things can change in five years. It’s a German make from what Mike tells me.

Inside, the bus is crowded. It has twelve bunks at the back half of the bus, the front half being two long couches, one on each side, with a small kitchenette and a toilet before the bunks start. A sliding door separates the halves, and Bob keeps playing with it with awed exclamations of how modern it is. The space in the lounge is narrow; as Dallon and Jon sit opposite one another, our legs hit their knees as we snake between them. I’ve seen worse, and I’ve seen better. The band and crew all pour in, select bunks, try to find space for their luggage, tired but excited. The driver’s a German guy, Jürgen, and he doesn’t speak much English, but his impressive moustache makes up for it. “Guten Morgen,” he says, shaking our hands. He grins especially wide when he shakes mine. “Ah, Sie sind Ryan Ross! Big fan, big fan! Wunderbar! Und Sie spielen jetzt mit His Side? Super!” He holds my hand even tighter, and I just look at him with incomprehension on my face. “You very good music man!”

“Danke,” I return, and he seems pleased by it.

I’ve never been a fan of bunks and still am not. I choose the top bunk on the right side at the very back. No luxurious back lounge for me anymore, and it’s a demotion but simultaneously it feels like acceptance, being a part of the group. Neither worshipped nor held in contempt. Just one of the guys. Sisky says that he’ll take the bunk below mine so that “we can whisper to each other at night”, and so I make damn sure that he, in fact, takes one of the bunks towards the front, as far away from me as I can. In the end, Leo sleeps below me, and I only hope that he doesn’t snore. Dallon tests out a bunk and is soon saying that he can barely fit in, that he has to lie in the fetal position because he’s so tall.

The time difference has all of us confused: it’s almost noon in Norway, and so it’s six in the morning for our systems. We’re groggy and busy, and the crew is nervous because it’s the first night of The European Sanctuary Tour 1979, and the band is nervous because, well, it’s their first time in Europe and it’s also the first time they ever play without Ian. While the band is busy with interviews during the day, Sisky and I help out the crew consisting of three techs: Leo, doing bass and guitars, Quentin, who does the drums, and then Dick, who does Brendon’s keyboards.

“Is that short for Richard?” I ask, and Dick nods, bushy brown hair past his shoulders, his chin covered by matching stubble. Under all that hair, he’s quite handsome. “So... can I just call you Richard?”

“It’s Dick,” Dick says, and despite his mountain man appearance, he has an effeminate lisp. Another one of Brendon’s, uh – acquisitions. Clearly.

The venue is an old yet large theatre with the seats removed, but the upper balcony remains, and the place can fit up to a few thousand people. The decoration is elaborate and gold-leafed. We are very clearly not in the US anymore. The venue is also much smaller than the shows I got used to playing with The Whiskeys: from ten, fifteen thousand towards the end of it, to this.

I used to play venues like this.

Somehow it feels homey.

The day passes in sleep deprivation, excitement and loss. Ian’s absence lingers, and Jon says that he feels guilty that they just left him there and didn’t even postpone the tour. But he’ll be going back to Las Vegas in two days, and he’ll be seeing his family while he’s in rehab. You have to accept the things you can’t change, the people you can’t change. Ian has to help himself now.

The soundcheck takes forever. We have a problem with Jon’s guitar, Brendon forgets some lyrics, I fuck up a part, and then we’re all even more nervous. The band has more interviews, and Brendon keeps smoking, and I don’t think he’s slept or eaten since Chicago, and he really should, but then neither have I.

By the time the venue doors open at seven o’clock sharp, the entire band and crew has been awake for twenty-eight hours and counting. We’re in the dressing room, psyching ourselves up. Brendon’s drinking a glass of water, gurgling, humming, warming up his voice as he paces in small circles. He’s in his zone, somewhere far away. Bob’s got drumsticks and he gently keeps drumming his thighs with them, and Jon’s messing around with one of my guitars. Mike keeps biting his fingernails nervously. Dallon occasionally joins Brendon in a harmony, nodding along. The music vibrates off of us.

Then we change into stage clothes, t-shirts becoming dress shirts, jeans becoming suede or corduroy pants, belts with big buckles wrapped around the waist, and the atmosphere is even more electric.

I forgot life could be like this. I forgot the pre-show jitters, the first night of tour. But I remember the fear I felt, the pressure making my hands sweat. Now I feel nervous but not terrified or hateful towards the audience. It’s not my audience. The words sung aren’t mine, they’re not my secrets. Not personal.

They’re not here to see me. God, that’s liberating.

When Mike announces that it’s time, the guys automatically move toward one another. I don’t realise what’s going on until Jon motions me to join them, and then we stand in a circle, all with our hands in the middle, and Brendon asks, “What we gonna do?” and the band and crew yell out, “Kick some ass!” and then we lift our hands ceremoniously and cheers and punch each other’s shoulders. Sisky and I both look a bit stupefied, but we’ll get the hang of these rituals soon enough. At least they have team spirit.

The crowd is restless and is cheering sporadically when we reach the side of the stage. This is it. I’m going back out there.

God, the set list, okay, I remember the songs, I do, I gotta remember, okay, I know them, I won’t fuck up –

Jon grins at me happily before he follows Bob onto the stage, and the crowd erupts in applause. Mike is yelling, “Go, go!” to Dallon and motioning, and Dallon rolls his eyes, clearly perfectly at ease, and he then saunters on stage.

I move to follow, chewing on my bottom lip nervously because it’s been a long time, and the crowd’s not expecting me, and a lot of fans are pissed off at me for disappearing, and what if it’s not a good reaction, or what if they don’t even recognise me, would that be worse? Shit, did I think this through?

But then Brendon’s hand is on my shoulder, pulling me back just as I’m about to go on. He looks mildly scandalised. “Whoa, where you going?” He looks between me and the stage.

“Uh,” I say, “...the stage?”

“You come on last.”

“No, you do.”

He shakes his head. “Not tonight, I don’t.” And for a split-second he gives me this fucking dazzling smile, excitement, confidence, and then he’s gone.

Brendon half-jogs onto the stage, leaving me in the shadows. The crowd cheers loudly now that they’ve received the star. And he seems otherworldly there, transforming into something larger than life. He was born with charisma. But instead of immediately launching into the first song as the band normally would, Brendon takes the mic.

“Hello, Oslo!” he says with such confidence, such charm, and when the crowd screams, he laughs, and my stomach drops. “God, you look beautiful,” he says, and they cheer more. “We’re His Side from Chicago, USA. We’ve never played in Norway before. Well, we’ve never played in Europe before, but this is the perfect place to start.” The audience cheers in approval – Rule #1 for playing abroad: suck up to all the countries you’re in. “It’s a very special night for us tonight for many reasons. For one, it’s the first night of tour. Second, our guitarist Ian Crawford couldn’t be with us here tonight. He had to stay home.” Behind Brendon, Jon hangs his head slightly. “But we have a good friend filling in for him! And I think you might know him. Oh yes, I think you recognise this man.” He turns to face me, stretching out his arm in a welcoming gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for Ryan Ross!”

The noise becomes something more than noise, something incomprehensible.

I don’t move.

Sisky shoves my shoulder. “Go, for god’s sake!”

Oh. Right.

And then I move, walking onto the stage. They’re cheering, screaming, how loudly, I don’t know, it’s hard to tell, and were the spotlights always this hot, and were the crowds always this noisy?

Brendon smiles at me as I get to my stand – fraternally, comrade, public acknowledgement, thanks Ry, takk locally, takk Ry, takk.

And this feels good, standing here, feels surreal, and a guitar, I need one, can someone – Thanks Leo, okay, and I hear my name being yelled and screamed and sobbed, and Brendon looks – god, he looks kind of proud when our eyes meet, and I’m bewildered but in a good way, and then Bob yells, “One, two, three, four!”, and then I play because it’s what I do, and Brendon moves to the rhythm, he’s beautiful, and I look away, at the guitar, my fingers, and Dallon is doing his jerky dancing on my other side, stomping the floor with his left foot, and I better not fuck this up.

Just don’t fuck this up.

It’s sometime before three a.m. local time that we get to the Swedish border. The winter night is pitch-black, and Jon, Brendon and I are the only ones left awake in the lounge. The energy from the show kept us all going, but one by one exhaustion has gotten to us.

Jon and Brendon are still talking, and I listen with half an ear, feeling sleep creeping up on me. They’re discussing “the changes Ryan made” – I improvised in a few songs. I remembered the melody, and instead of playing what Ian plays, I played something of my own. Mostly because I didn’t remember how exactly it was supposed to go, so I improvised some. It worked.

And I didn’t forget anything major or mess up any songs. Vicky will be proud.

Mike said that this thing will blow up, man, it’ll blow up.

He’s probably right: the crowd was shocked by my sudden appearance. Jon said that there were kids right in front of him that burst into tears when I walked on. I heard my name getting yelled relentlessly. Kids surrounded the bus when we tried to leave, banging the sides.

But right now, when Jon and Bren are pondering over my changes, sitting on the couch opposite me, we feel detached from the rest of the world.

It was a good first show. We were nervous, but we made it work. Brendon sounded good. He was as mesmerising as ever, and it was a strange sensation being on stage with him, watching him from that close up. But I concentrated on my guitar, and he focused on singing. Dallon was to my right, and maybe it’s not the best place to be on stage, between him and Brendon. I think we need to switch it around so that I can be furthest on the right. They have stage rituals, habits, like Brendon walking up to him in certain songs to share the microphone for a while, and it’s awkward, almost, how Brendon has to get around me to get to Dallon.

If Dallon and I switched places, then Brendon won’t be on my immediate left either, flushed, perspiring, eyes bright as he does what he clearly loves, smiling at me. It’s contagious. I’d see him mid-song, and he’d sing a line at me, and I’d smile, and I never imagined him and me on stage together. Never in all of my years.

Maybe never thought he could pull it off.

He’s proved me wrong.

His hair was sweat-slick towards the end of the set, a sheen of sweat on his neck, his throat, and I’ve seen it before but in a different context. He now says, “I reek,” making a face as he gives his armpit a sniff. The venue didn’t have showers – that’d be too luxurious. Safe to say that we all reek, even if we put on non-stage clothes afterwards.

“Maybe we’ll get to shower tomorrow,” Jon says through a tired yawn. “Or if not, the day after that. But I’m gonna have to call it a night, guys.”

Brendon hums tiredly but doesn’t move, and while I know that now would be a good time to leave, I don’t move either. Am somehow too tired to.

Jon gets up, stretching. He smiles at me lazily. “We killed it tonight, man. You killed it.” He offers me his hand. “Thanks for helping us out.”

“Thanks for taking me on tour with you,” I return, squeezing his hand. There’s something natural about being on the road with Jon, but the last time we did this I could hardly enjoy it. I was such a mess, drinking, obsessive, fucked up, angry with Brendon, then missing him, then angry again, then just lost, and Brendon was all I could think about, the betrayal and the hurt and the loss, and so I immersed myself with the job as much as I could, pretended to be fine, and Gabe was conveniently there, and well, on a few nights I immersed myself with that, such a stupid thing to do. And as I think back to it all, I don’t recognise myself as that wreck. The memory of it is as dark as the night outside, foreign and indistinguishable. Was that really me?

All because of the boy now sitting opposite me, giving me a tired smile as Jon leaves the lounge.

Because the Brendon I see doesn’t look or feel or act like the boy that I was mourning back then. He is that boy, and I am that fuck up, and the memory of that pain lingers and is still visible as scars on my skin and in the air between us, but at the same time it couldn’t have been us. Not him like he is now, and not me like I am now.

I keep calling him a boy, but he isn’t. Not anymore.

“How was it, playing without Ian?” I now ask quietly, not too seriously so that he can ignore it if he wants to.

“Not good,” he admits quietly, sadly. “But not as bad as I thought it’d be either.”

And it sounds like ‘thanks’ but I won’t push it, just nod. Brendon peers out of the darkened window, like he can somehow see us moving into the next country, though of course he can’t.

“God,” he says, laughing softly. It’s aimed at me. “Funny, isn’t it? We never made it here until now.”

Sweden?

But then I get it: here. Europe. The old continent. And he means us. Because neither one of us made it to Europe with The Followers that summer; he quit and then I crashed the bus. But we were supposed to come here. Pete had great plans of how Brendon could be my plus one and keep me happy. And then with The Whiskeys, I made it to Europe that time but I left him behind. We were always supposed to make it here, the two of us, but then we never... And now we have.

“Funny,” I agree, not sure what he wants me to say about that. He doesn’t take the conversation any further.

I used to dream of showing him places, my favourite part of Regent’s Park where you’ve got the best view over the lake, and that little record store in an alleyway in the Latin Quarter of Paris where the owner doesn’t want to sell you anything as he hoards the records like they’re his children, and the beautiful and grand Sagrada Família in Barcelona, the church they’ve been building for over a century, and I want to show him the arches and the steeples, the little details you’ll easily miss, want him to see what they’re still working on because it’s not done. Some things never are. And I’ve been so angry that he didn’t want my dreams of us coming true.

But maybe they were never that realistic.

For all my cynicism, I’ve always gotten carried away with him.

This, us on this bus, now saying goodnight and disappearing into our bunks... this is good. This is what we’ve got.

And it’s a hell of a lot more than the two of us realistically ever could have hoped to gain.

Chapter Text

When we wake up on the third day, we have no idea where we are, what time it is or what time our bodies think it is. It hasn’t been enough sleep, that’s the only thing we’re sure of. Jürgen has driven us to the right place, however, having proved reliable in finding our venues. We’re all grateful that we can make a quick trip to the venue to take a piss and that we don’t need to line up like chicks for the claustrophobic toilet on the bus.

It’s a small comfort because Mike soon tells me that it’s become necessary to hold a press conference. “After yesterday,” Mike says, referring to the chaos of Stockholm, the surprise mass turnout of press and photographers and sobbing fans, “you really need to make a statement.”

He’s right, and I know this. “Fine.”

Mike sets out to organise such an event, and I tell Sisky to help him in order to seem useful. Sisky returns an hour later and says that the venue has a press room of its own, they’ll set it up and have it ready in two hours. “Mike wants you, Jon and Brendon there,” he says, smiling brightly, and then he hurries out to help Mike further. He is clearly excited over the prospect of me facing the press that relentlessly harassed the band yesterday. Every interview, Jon said, only revolved around the journalists asking about me.

Still leeches, then. Some things never change.

The band and I cram in the bus lounge while the techs unload the bus, doing all the hard work while we yawn and eat the ham and cheese sandwiches that have been delivered from the venue. There’s some kind of liver pâté in the sandwiches, and Brendon makes a face, complains about weird foreign food customs and stops eating in protest. I have no appetite as giving a statement looms over me as a dark, heavy cloud. Dallon and Bob say nothing about having been excluded from the press conference – I guess they don’t mind since Brendon is the frontman while Jon forms the other part of the missing link between me and His Side. Who would mind not having to face those vultures?

The press is outside the bus, too; their persistent yells carry inside and are audible through our idle chatter. The cat’s out of the bag, and they know I’m here.

Inside the privacy of the bus, Bob smokes and reads a Danish newspaper, the contents of which he doesn’t understand, but he claims he can deduce bits and pieces. He’s wearing nothing but loose boxers, his long blonde hair unkempt. Next to him Dallon’s rubbing his neck, saying that the bunks are midget sized, and Bob briefly tries to help out with a neck rub, but Dallon soon says that Bob is only making it worse. Brendon is the most awake and ready, having dressed already and been to a venue restroom to wash himself the best he can when there is no shower available. He warns that he left the floor flooded, and his hair is wet, presumably washed in the sink.

He now looks pensive as he sits by Bob, smoking too, and I know our thoughts are synchronised: a press conference. We kept it quiet, my coming on tour with them. Of course the press would want to talk to me once they knew I was here. I’m not thrilled by the prospect – anything but.

Bob now whistles at the newspaper. “European chicks, man!” I crane my neck to see he’s eyeing a car ad with a blonde girl standing next to a Volvo. “Scandinavian chicks! My god, they’re beautiful.” He sounds wistful and dreamy. “I’m looking forward to tonight, man. I’ll tell the security guards to let a few backstage. I haven’t had sex in a week.”

Next to me, Jon snorts. “Because a week is such a long time.”

“Maybe in your adult relationship it isn't,” Bob smirks. “Cassie starting to get headaches now, is she?”

“Hey!” Jon objects, but the guys laugh. It helps to distract me from the press conference.

“Oh come on, Jon, when was the last time you had sex?” Bob asks, sounding genuinely curious, and Jon looks uncomfortable, like that’s between him and Cassie – at the same time, he doesn’t want to be emasculated in front of his friends.

“On the day we left, before we headed to the airport. What do you think?”

I smirk. I knew those two kids wanted the house to themselves.

“Okay, fine, Cassie still finds you attractive for some insane reason,” Bob says and then turns to the rest of us. “What about you guys? Will the girls of Copenhagen all be for me then?”

I laugh disbelievingly – we’re like schoolboys: how far did she let you go? Did you do it yet? But men are exactly like this on tour, we are like this on tour: it’s so easy to get laid, no consequences because we’ll never see them again.

When there is no instant chorus of responses, Bob says, “Oh, come on, we’re family! Who would I tell?”

Dallon breaks the silence with, “October.” He glances at us like he dares someone to make fun of him for that. He even sounds proud of it. It’s nearly February. Wow, that’s a while. Huh. He’s a handsome guy, he attracts interest. October? Really?

“Oh yeah, Mr. I Want to Find Someone Special,” Bob laughs, and Dallon just shrugs like he isn’t bothered by Bob teasing him. Dallon doesn’t let other people’s views or opinions affect him much.

“I think that’s admirable,” Brendon cuts in, smiling at Dallon warmly. Dallon returns the smile.

“Maybe it is,” Bob says. “But you know who could be special? These Danish guys, man, these Mikkels and, and Oscars. All blond and blue-eyed, hmm?” Bob nudges Dallon’s side, wiggling his eyebrows. Dallon rolls his eyes. “Hey, I’m trying to help you out here, you gotta meet me halfway!” Bob insists just as Mike gets on the bus, looking busy and stressed out like he always does. He hasn’t showered in a while, and his long brown hair looks like it’s glued to his head. “Mike! Just the man for our poll! We’re bonding here and the question of the hour is when you last made sweet love to a lady. Or a man,” he then amends and motions at Brendon and Dallon.

Mike blinks. “The night before we left for the tour.”

Mike’s got someone back in Chicago – I saw her briefly, a pretty redhead. I don’t know how official it is, however.

“Figures,” Bob says like he expected as much, and then he’s turned to me. “Ryan?”

For some reason, I didn’t expect him to ask me. We don’t know each other that well – Bob, however, treats me like one of the guys, not putting me on a pedestal. I appreciate that. And I have no qualms about something like sex, I really don’t but – Brendon’s sitting next to Bob, and he’s looking at me, cigarette between his fingers, and it suddenly dawns on me that I don’t want to answer.

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

When I say it, I realise it only sounds worse: like I’ve got things to cover up.

“Ooh!” Bob laughs, which is the exact reaction I hoped to avoid.

Jon says, “Not everyone over-shares,” and I’m thankful for the rescue as Bob shrugs like hey, he’s not forcing anyone.

Brendon shrugs. “Just answer it, man. It’s not a big deal.” He looks unconcerned and sounds casual, and is he actually asking me?

“I don’t know.” I tap my fingers against my thighs, tense up despite myself. “Two weeks ago, something like that.” Before Chicago and Seattle, back in Machias with Clifton. When Sisky walked in on us, or on me more precisely. Who’s counting days?

Well I guess we are. Not too long ago I was in bed with Clifton, and now I’m halfway across the world with Brendon. It feels like the two worlds couldn’t be more incompatible even if they tried.

“Not too bad,” Bob says, like he’s giving us invisible stud points according to our most recent conquests. “Bren?”

Brendon looks away from me. I don’t want to hear him answer. And I don’t know if I imagine a sudden aggression in the air, petty and bitter, or if it’s only in my head. Only Jon and Mike might realise that in the room are two former lovers talking about the one thing the other doesn’t want to hear.

“A month ago, more or less,” Brendon says, and that knowledge sinks in, and I have to live with it: faceless men breathing in the scent of his skin, hearing the telltale sounds he makes when he’s about to come. I remember his scent, his sounds, I remember gripping his hips and pushing in deeper, thinking mine, only mine, no one else’s... What folly. What intoxicating, beautiful folly. He blows out smoke. “A Christmas party in Chicago. He was wearing a Santa hat.”

Jon laughs. “You got it on with Father Christmas?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Mike grins, and Brendon flips them both off.

“He wasn’t dressed as Santa! I said he had a hat!”

“I don’t know, man, sounds kind of kinky to me,” Bob grins, and Brendon kicks Bob’s leg with his own half-heartedly. It’s true what Jon said about the band being relaxed in their own company: clearly no one feels bothered about Brendon or Dallon’s homosexuality – their sexual exploits are as much conversation topics as other people’s. Bob is fond of women, but he’s not homophobic. It’s almost a wonder to me. If only Joe could have been like that, if Joe or Brent or Pete or even Spencer – if any of those guys could have been more understanding when I first realised that maybe the reason why I had never been in love, why I had never truly felt love was because... Well.

But the guys didn’t get it. They condemned me. I condemned myself, disgusted by the part of me that would never go away. I felt ashamed. Brendon probably felt the same thing back when he was still at home, jerking off to a ripped page from a men’s underwear catalogue, late at night, under the covers, aged fourteen. It took him a hell of a lot longer to get rid of the shame than he’d ever admit.

But now that he is older and has the power and the world wrapped around his middle finger, he’s making damn sure no one ever makes him feel shame again.

He deserves it: Christmas party fucks with hot guys.

He deserves it.

Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

He’s famous now. Of course he’s fucking around. Of course he is.

Good for him. Really.

We’ve both moved on, then.

I briefly wonder if I should come out to Dallon and Bob and the rest of the crew – they’d be fine with it. Surprised, I should think, but they wouldn’t condemn me. I’d be allowed to be as gay as I want on this tour.

This is only a few weeks post, however, and today I’m about to re-enter the public eye. Including more people in on what I do in my bedroom is ill-advised. I don’t need Vicky preaching at me to know that.

As Mike now begins to tell us about the press conference, I don’t look at Brendon. I rub my hands against my knees, and I don’t look his way, and I have a feeling that he’s not looking at me either. I don’t know if the tension is real or imagined.

It’s disappointing, almost. How typical and non-special what we once shared has turned out to be. How it’s not even worth mentioning: Brendon and I haven’t talked about us since the night of my arrival. We’re letting it be.

A few hours later, we leave the privacy of the bus. Security men have gated off the area around us, and we wave at the screaming fans flocking the barriers as we head inside. The size of the press conference isn’t overly huge, thankfully: three dozen people or so, a mix of reporters and photographers, as many as the room allows. At the back is a long table with four chairs behind it, and Jon, Bren, Mike and I take our seats, Brendon and me in the middle. Sisky is sitting front row with a pen and a notepad, and he already has a hand in the air like he wants to ask a question. I stare at him and mouth, ‘What the fuck?’ He blushes and lowers his hand.

The room is buzzing and the cameras are flashing. There is a constant murmur of my name, and I feel tired and out of place. I hang my head and study the table instead, its smooth wooden surface, think of it having grown somewhere in a Danish forest, decades of having been left alone, uninterrupted, and then getting hacked down and turned into this table. What a cruel fate, thrown in front of thousands when it only wanted to be left alone.

Something Sisky once told me rings in my head just then: if I didn’t want anyone to listen, why did I say anything at all?

He was right, and I keep that in mind to keep my hypocrisy in check.

But even so, I hate interviews. I always have.

The press conference starts as Brendon reads out a quick and brief statement that Mike’s drawn up, confirming that I am touring with them for now while Ian is taking a break for personal reasons. The band is grateful, I’m an old friend of theirs – there it is again, old friend – and the band is delighted to have someone so distinguished helping them out. And then Brendon’s done, and it’s my turn. And I essentially repeat what he’s just said, concluding with: “So when Jon asked me to fill in for Ian, I of course said yes. The guys have been kind in letting me come on tour with them, and we’ve had a great time so far. I’m excited to be here.” I clear my throat and lean away from the microphone.

Mike asks, “Any questions?”

Every single hand shoots up. I stare at the table somewhat uncomfortably as the questions pour in. None of them are for Brendon or Jon, and I told them, didn’t I? I’m too famous.

I haven’t given a single public statement since I announced my retirement – well, excluding the interviews with Sisky. And the questions are similar to his as my brief statement doesn’t satisfy their curiosity: what happened, why did I retire, where have I been, why have I now come back, am I writing music, do I have a band, what is going on, what the hell?

I get irritated and nervous because it feels like I’m on trial, and I’m trying to explain but they won’t meet me halfway. “At the time,” I say, voice scratchy, “at the time, I just needed a break. And so I’ve taken a break.”

“Was there a family emergency involved?”

“No.”

“Is it true you struggled with alcoholism?”

“No. No, that’s –”

“Drugs?”

I’m not admitting to drug use in an interview – do they think I’m new at this? And why even ask? Surely drug use is assumed by default when it comes to musicians.

“I was tired. Yes, The Whiskeys were successful, yes, we had a mostly sold out US fall tour ahead of us. But I was tired. It was a personal decision, and the time I took off did me a lot of good. I wouldn’t be here without it. On tour, I mean.”

I have to clarify that so that no one takes it to mean I was suicidal. I’ve had enough of those rumours as it is.

“Are you an official member of the band?” a man with a Danish accent now asks, peering at me from beneath bushy eyebrows and through huge glasses.

“No.”

“So you are not permanently replacing Ian Crawford?”

“No.”

I look to Brendon for help, and he quickly leans in and says, “Ryan is with us on this tour. Ian continues to be an official member of the band.”

“So,” a woman in the front row says, frowning, “vat vill you do vhen the tour is over?”

They all look at me with their beady eyes.

“Well,” I say. “I guess I’ll go back home and read a book or two.”

Jon laughs. No one else does.

Bob didn’t lie about telling bouncers to let hot chicks in because, when we’ve packed things up and are ready to leave the venue, he’s still entertaining three girls and is asking Mike if one of them can come along on the bus to Amsterdam.

“We are not listening to you have sex,” Mike says sternly, and Bob pouts and is disgruntled. Two minutes later, he disappears with one of the girls, hand in hand, steps rushed like he’ll make the most of what he can before he’s forced to leave.

Sisky’s stuffed my belongings in the duffel bag that I use to carry things between the bus and the venues. With him ready, we head out while the rest of the guys are still trying to locate their socks and guitar picks in the dressing room. It’s freezing outside, but masses of fans are waiting behind the fenced off area, and they go a little short of apeshit at the sight of me. I go to the barrier to sign gig tickets, the cold nibbling my bared fingers, their breaths rising in the air as they scream and shout.

“That’s not my album, I’m not signing that,” I tell a kid offering Wandering Lips at me. A few of them have cameras, and the flash is bright in the darkening night. They’re fully equipped with LPs and a few of them have Whiskeys posters. Security men stand around at the ready, and the kids shove each other viciously in their attempts to get to me, hands reaching out, trying to touch me.

I’m used to this, and yet it surprises me.

“Thanks for coming out,” I mumble, then wonder if I can say that when it’s not my band, and so I just say, “Thanks, thank you,” sign a few more and then retreat to the bus with Sisky at my tail. He stood guard next to me, but I wonder how much he could’ve done had someone tried climbing over the fence. Pull their hair, maybe.

Once back in the bus lounge, I plop down onto one of the couches. We’re the first ones back. Sisky has beamed his way through Oslo and Stockholm, but now he isn’t smiling as much. I’ve been waiting for him to spit it out the entire day – maybe it’ll be something stupid like him having assumed that Brendon and I would get back together, and we clearly haven’t, and he’s upset about it. Who says either one of us wants to get back into that mess? We might not want that. We might not.

And Sisky is mistaken if he thinks that I’ll open up to him about it. The status quo between Brendon and me is good – no need to fuck it up. We’re learning how to be friends, and it’s good like this.

“It’s nice that we’re heading south,” Sisky says as he pulls a suit jacket of mine from the duffel bag. He places it on the kitchen counter and lovingly starts to smooth out its creases, but it looks like he simply wishes to appear preoccupied. “It’ll get warmer, at least.”

“Sure.”

“It’ll be nice when we get to Spain. It’s a warm country, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“Bet Chicago is cold right now.”

“Hmm.”

“Machias especially.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that?” he asks, now looking at me.

“Just agreed with you. Machias is probably cold right now.”

“Well, you’ll find out, won’t you?” he says, his casual tone gone and suddenly accusatory. So here we go, then.

“What?” I ask, confused and bewildered.

Sisky places both hands on my suit jacket, glaring at me as he leans into the counter. “Is that really your plan? What you said at the press conference today? You’re just going to go back there, to that dead and rural town?”

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s where you live,” he stops me, and perhaps I should be worried that he knew exactly what I was going to say. “I saw you smile today. During soundcheck, when you and Jon were goofing around. Do you know when the last time you smiled was? I bet you don’t. I certainly don’t remember ever having seen that since we met. Well, since we met this time around, I mean. You forgot yourself for a minute, and I saw it.” He sounds like he will insist upon this if necessary. He takes a deep breath. “Now I know that the fans creep you out, I know you hate the journalists, and I know you – have issues with this, but... but it also makes you happy. You know? And if you go back to Machias, it’ll be stupid because people miss you here, and you will miss this, and it’d – it’d just be a waste for you to go back there. To come all this way, and then just disappear again. It’d be stupid and mean and –”

“Okay, I got it. For fuck’s sake, relax,” I tell him, and he sucks in a shivery breath, staring at my jacket sadly. Making me aware of the many lives I’m meddling with, even if I don’t intend to do so. “Look, I don’t know what I’ll do. I might move back to New York. I don’t know, alright? I’m taking it a day at a time.”

And him ranting about it or guilt-tripping me doesn’t make it any easier. I’ll do this tour and think about my next move then. Maybe it’s too late for me and New York, maybe we were always just doomed: I was too bitter for her, and she was too cruel for me. Gabe’s in LA – well, in rehab, but in LA, anyway, and Greta and Butcher are moving there too this spring. I could move back there: me and Los Angeles, try two. I just don’t know. Anything could happen.

I then go on with, “And even if I decided that I want some more time on my own, I’d still call you, you know.”

“It’s not just me,” he mutters, now folding the jacket neatly, somehow reminding me of a snappy wife, and I’m the husband who forgot to buy more milk although I promised. “It’s a lot of people.”

The bus door opens just then, and I turn my head to see Dallon, Brendon, Jon and Dick get on, carried by the sound of screaming fans. They’re shivering in their winter coats but seem to be in good spirits.

“Ryan, grab a beer,” Dallon says, handing me one of the several bottles he’s awkwardly carrying in his arms, and it seems like they emptied the dressing room from complimentary drinks on their way out and are still cackling over it, boyish smiles on their faces. The bottle is warm but I guess we’re not being picky: local beer, Carlsberg. Never heard of it.

“That was a good show,” Dick says with his obvious lisp, sitting next to me, and it was, he’s right. Jon and Brendon go to the bunks, taking their coats off, while Dallon uses his teeth to open his bottle. It’s pretty impressive. Dick hands me a bottle opener, and I take it. Jon emerges from the bunks with a vodka bottle, and it looks like we’ve got the starts of a bus party right here.

“Not only was it a good show, man, but it was an excellent show,” Jon grins exuberantly, and Sisky is looking around for some plastic cups, and Brendon joins us, squeezing past the guys, and Dallon and Dick start singing Elvis Costello, and I only know him because Spencer had gotten into him and we listened to his stuff over Christmas, and the guys sing, “Pump it up when you don’t really need it!”, jamming to music they only hear in their heads, glorifying a song about masturbation, and I chuckle at it all, at the energy and the buzz, the good times.

Maybe Sisky is right. It’s a lot of people, it always was a lot of people, and I walked away, anyway. Because I could, because I had to. A bit of both.

Not to mention the hundreds and hundreds of kids and fans out there, the ones watching my every move.

I never cared about them either. Maybe I should learn how to. Try.

Brendon says, “Scooch,” motioning at Dick, and Dick moves along – the couch on Dick’s other side is nothing but empty, empty, empty. Brendon sits down between us, leaning into the couch next to me, and he’s got one of the Carlsbergs too. He automatically goes for my bottle opener, eyes on Jon as they talk, his fingers tangling with mine as he clumsily takes the opener without looking, and his knee presses against mine, and he could have sat anywhere, and Dallon asks me something but it’s hard to concentrate, and I say, “What?” and Brendon says, “Hey, I dig this beer. Ry, what you make of it?” and his knee is still pressed to mine as he looks at me, an inquisitive eyebrow raised, and I say, “Yeah, I dig it too,” and then he settles into the couch more, moving slightly further away, and he starts laughing at how he nearly tripped on the guitar cable during Loosened Logic, and I manage to push the fluttery sensation out of my mind and focus on the atmosphere instead: excited and relaxed. Easy.

The way it never was with my bands.

Maybe I haven’t given the future much thought because I’m not sure how I’ll be able to go back to my life after this.

Knowing that the warm and light sensation in my chest is surprisingly easy to achieve.

The overnight ferry is new for me too – I didn’t really think about how we’d get to the British Isles from the continent, and I didn’t bother asking myself such a question until Jürgen informed us that he had found “the harbour on the map, ja?”

We almost miss our ride, too, making it just in time after a panicked and rushed packing up and ignoring the waiting fans outside the venue, hurrying for the bus instead. Brendon seems saddened and guilty that he didn’t have the time to go talk to his band’s fans.

The rush is worth it, though, because we make it just in time. Ten minutes, and they wouldn’t have let us on board.

It’s just after midnight that Jon and I enter the cabin we’re sharing. The hum of the ferry surrounds us, massive engines and propellers at work somewhere far below, but the vibrations are in the walls. It’s good to be out of the damn bunk even if it’s for one night and even if it’s in a relatively small cabin that is one of the better ones because it has a view: a large window into the black night, the lights from the shore still visible as we move away from the harbour. A painting of a fish is on the wall, and the curtains have anchors on them. Jon collapses on the bed closer to the door and exhales. “I am not moving until we get there.”

Mike told us to sleep. He was quite strict about it: there’s nothing to do on the ferry, it’ll take us twelve hours, so just go sleep, and no visiting each other’s cabins either – like we’re on a school trip and he’s our cock-blocking teacher. But we’re all running on nine or ten hours of sleep stretched out over two or three days, and it’s starting to show when we get irritated over small things.

Sleep. There’s a plan.

I sit on my bed, testing the mattress. Jon lies still with his eyes closed like he’s dead. Sisky is rooming with Mike since Mike wanted to talk about some of the UK press with him – while I thought Sisky would just be sitting on his ass and gazing at me dreamily, it’s turned out that Mike desperately needs a pair of extra hands. Cue Sisky, who is more than willing. Well, it’s good, it’s all good.

“It builds up Sisky’s confidence,” I now tell Jon, “Mike giving him tasks like that. That’s good.”

“Sisky has enough confidence to pass around, man.”

“No, he’s just pretending.”

Jon shrugs and then moves up on the bed slightly, pulling the covers to his chest. “Can we sleep now?” he asks, and I let him be although I’m not about to go to bed. I still feel the buzz of having been on stage, the screams of the crowd, and the energy pulsates in my guts. I enjoyed the show. We were good.

Nine hours of shuteye during the past few days is pretty well done on tour – and I’m nothing if not a pro at being on the road, so I don’t need more sleep yet.

After I’ve showered in our miniscule bathroom – not complaining, it’s a shower – I take our room key and head out with a notebook and pen. And, just as I figured, the ferry has a bar, and they’re playing Harry’s cover of Without You when I walk in: the place is mostly deserted except for a few middle-aged Dutch or Englishmen on the dance floor, cheek to cheek, their eager yet shy genitalia nearly pressed together as Harry wails, “Can’t live anymooooreeeee!!”, two exclamation marks and all.

Heterosexuals. What a fucking mystery right there.

I go to the bar that forms a half circle at the back. “Scotch, no ice,” I request, opening up the notebook and flipping onto a new page as I sit on one of the tall barstools.

I’ve been writing again. Thoughts, ideas. You see a lot on the road, hear a lot of things. Makes me think. In just a handful of days I’ve written nearly a third of what I wrote during eight months in Machias, and I think about Sisky’s insistence that that place isn’t good for me – as much of a sanctuary as it’s been.

I write down ‘Sanctuary’ – the name of the tour. Sanctuary. It comes from the last lines on the album, from the last song: and if you can find me a place of sanctuary/Then I promise that I’ll be a very/Bad boy. Brendon sings the last two words like it means ‘fuck you’, and I suppose it does. From what I can gather, the song is about his past, the one you’d have to twist his arm to get him to talk about.

But music is free therapy. That’s what it’s always been for me, and that’s clearly what it is for him, too. And no one can place his lyrics in context if they don’t know it’s there.

I begin scribbling down the thoughts swirling inside my head, that ones I’d never admit to anyone.

“Ryan, hey,” Bob’s voice comes suddenly. I quickly close the notebook, ashamed of the juvenile honesty of what I just wrote: a thoughtless touch, and so am I.

“Hey, man,” I say as Bob points at the stool next to me, and I nod. He’s already got a drink and a cigarette like he headed for the bar first thing when we arrived. He pushes blond hair out of his face and then asks, “What’re you writing?”

“I don’t know. Lyrics, maybe.”

He hums. “Brendon does that too, carries a notebook around. Said he got the idea off of you. Never know when inspiration might strike.” He blows out smoke. “So you two have known each other for a while, huh?”

“Five years in June,” I say automatically, without thinking, and Bob quirks an eyebrow that asks how my response is so immediate, and I look away, having given away too much. “It’s easy to remember because of the tour.”

“Ah. That is a while. He –”

“Excuse me, sir,” the bartender, a ginger-haired and freckled guy in his mid-thirties, now says. His English accent sounds too posh, like he’s putting it on to hide a working class background. He motions behind himself, and I spot a ‘No smoking’ sign on the wall. I’ve gotten out a cigarette pack but now stop in my movements. Really?

“Are you kidding me?” Bob asks angrily.

“It’s company policy, sir. You may, however, smoke outside.” He motions to a door that opens to the deck, a big ‘Exit’ on it.

“It’s fucking freezing out there!” Bob objects, but the man shrugs like he can’t do anything about that. “Do you know who I am? Hey, do you know who he is?” Bob’s now pointing at me.

The bartender is eyeing me but clearly nothing sparks up in his brain. Just as well, I don’t want to get harassed right now.

“Maybe if we make it the quickest smoke of our lives,” I grumble, and Bob glares at the guy but I don’t want him causing a scene. I pocket my notebook, and Bob lights a cigarette for me when we’re at the door. Then we brave the weather and step outside.

The constant hum of the engines gets mixed with the sound of soaring water somewhere far below. It’s not too windy, but it’s definitely cold – we’re crossing the North Sea, for god’s sake. But I’m taken aback by how tranquil it is: the lights of the Netherlands are still visible by the receding shoreline, golden dots amidst darkness. And the full moon is up, high above us, giving us light, and I watch the way it lands on waves, creating eerie shadows in the whoosh and splash.

“Aw, man,” Bob says, shivering, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He’s smoking frantically, and I copy him because we don’t want the cold getting into our bones when there’s no one in our beds to keep us warm. Quick smoke, quick smoke.

The icy breeze ruffles our hairs, but Machias has toughened me up some. I didn’t spend hours standing on that beach, having a staring competition with the ocean for nothing.

Bob talks about the shows and how he’s excited to play in the UK, how he spent a summer in Birmingham in his early twenties and it’ll be good to go back, and I tell him about London, and he says, “Oh yeah, you’ve lived there, haven’t you?”

“Well, not officially, but –” And then I stop as I hear a voice in the wind, and I think I’ve lost it until I look towards the front of the ship, onto the open space at the front deck that was deserted a second ago – now two figures have appeared.

Bob turns to look the same way, moving to my side. “Ah,” he says, nodding and smoking some more, still quickly and frantically. He recognises them instantly, but it takes me a second longer to be sure: Brendon and Dallon. Unlike us, they have their coats, and Brendon’s laugh carries our way. Dallon says something that the wind takes with it, and Brendon gives him a playful shove. They’re sharing a cabin, and I figured they’d be fast asleep like it’d be sensible to do. But they’re not asleep – instead they’ve taken on to explore the ship at night by themselves. Thinking no one else will know, just him and him and the sea.

They go to the other side of the ferry, leaning against the railing and admiring the view, much like I did.

And there is absolutely no reason for Bob and me not to go over, to call after them, to join their company or ask them to come inside for a drink, but somehow – Somehow it just feels like they’re doing their own thing right now.

It’s not meant for others.

“That, right there?” Bob says, nodding at Brendon and Dallon’s turned away backs. “That has got to be the longest mating ritual in the history of mating rituals, man.” And he laughs and takes in a deep drag. “Been watching that onstage foreplay for months.”

I’m not surprised and yet I am.

Because the way I handle it is that I just don’t look at them flirting with each other on stage. I face the other way, look at Jon playing, my back turned whenever Brendon goes over to Dallon. And it’s not like Brendon does it constantly, but a few times each show. Share a mic during Unsteady and Wandering Lips, lips inches apart. And I just don’t look, and then I can pretend that it never even happened. It’s worked so far. Brendon and Dallon don’t act like that off stage. So I don’t think about it. Put it down to stage antics.

Well, they’re not on stage now.

I look away from the two of them because it’s not for me to see.

Well, then. Well.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” I say and throw my cigarette overboard.

We head back inside.

I finally get a hold of Spencer when we’re in Glasgow. I’ve tried calling him before, but he never picks up because he’s never at home. And he, of course, doesn’t know how to get in touch with me.

I call Spencer from an office that’s on one of the upper floors of our Glasgow venue. An ass-kissing venue worker was only too happy to escort me. I now listen to the ringing of the phone, and it keeps ringing, and it keeps ringing, but then Spencer picks up. Except that it’s not him.

“Hello?” a clearly English female voice asks, and I frown.

“Hello. Is Spencer there?” I look at my note with a phone number on it, wondering if I got it at all right when I scrolled the number in.

“And who is this?” she enquires, and I hear a male voice in the background that I recognise easily enough.

“Tell Spence that it’s Ryan,” I say, but we must have a telepathic connection of some kind because he’s already at the end of the line, giving me a rushed greeting, a “Hey Ryan, hey, wow, good to hear from you, god, hey,” a vomit of talking aimed at me as he stutters to say that “Oh that, yeah, she’s just a friend of mine, um,” and it’s almost as if he’s forgotten that he’s divorced.

When he finally silences, I smirk. “You got an English bird, then?” I feel somewhat fraternally proud.

“It’s complicated,” he says instantly. “Or well – It’s not complicated, it’s just not, uh, serious, I mean,” he attempts to explain, and I assume that the girl’s left the room.

“Good to know England’s treating you well,” I say, teasing him because I can. He’s been quick about it, too – he’s been there less than a month. Had Haley been the one calling, the situation would have required some explanation, probably. I merely take it as a good sign. At long goddamn last. “Guess where I am, man.”

“Not home, that’s for fucking certain.”

“Apollo in Glasgow. We’ve played here, remember?”

I’ve played here with The Followers and The Whiskeys.

“Yeah, I do. I like that venue. Glasgow, huh?” he asks conversationally before he says, “You know, you could’ve called before running off to Europe. Having one of Vicky’s assistants inform me that you’re not dead didn’t feel particularly heart-warming after days of freaking out. You know how many times I tried calling you in Machias? I was this close to calling the sheriff, man, this close.” He stops in his rant and then says, “Asshole.”

I chuckle. “I tried calling you. Trust me, I tried, but you never picked up. Now I know you were just busy showing London your crown jewels.”

“Oh ha ha. That’s so cute.” I can see him rolling his eyes at me. “When will you be in London, then? I mean, that’s why you’re calling, right?”

He’s right. I tell him the hotel we’re staying at – Savoy Hotel and not for one night but for five. “That’s a nice place. Crazy,” Spencer says, and I know it is. We have two shows in London, a TV performance, and then His Side is recording two B-sides at Abbey Road. And if I’m going to be in London while my best friend is there too, then I’ll make damn sure that we’re not missing each other.

After I’ve given Spencer my pseudonym – Charles Copper, two streets in Machias put together – he says, “I didn’t think we’d be reunited this soon.”

“Yeah, me neither.” And, since I know what he’s implying, I say, “I didn’t know I’d go to Chicago. Or that Ian would overdose or that Jon would ask, I mean – It all just happened. I don’t know.”

He catches the slight attempt at justification in my tone although I try to hide it – like I need to justify putting myself in the company of certain people.

“We’ll talk about that soon enough, yeah?” he says, and I hear the girl in the background again. Spencer’s muffled voice says, “Be with you in a minute, babe,” hand on the receiver, but I hear it anyway. “Sorry about that. She’s off to get some milk from the corner shop.” I actually have to bite my tongue to keep the snarky comments back. “So how’s it being on tour again?”

“It’s good. I’m actually – I’m actually having a fucking great time,” I say, laughing at the honesty of it. “It’s great. I’m glad I came. The shows are fun, the crowds are enthusiastic, and I don’t know. I don’t have to do press, and I’m not spilling out my secrets, so it takes the pressure off, you know?” He knows, though. He’s seen me freaking out before shows, and he knows. “What about you? How’s the recording going with, uh. The Police, right?”

“Yeah. It’s making me want to strangle kittens.”

“Ah. Well, we’ll talk about that soon enough.”

I hear the smile in his voice: “Yeah, I suppose we will.”

We got to Glasgow nice and early, driving up from Leeds, and we’re ready for soundcheck though we’re not allowed to do so for another few hours. Dick, Quentin and Leo are having a card game in the dressing room, and I promised to join them and take away their money, and so after the call I head back downstairs. I’m in a good mood after talking to Spencer – it’s soothing somehow, comforting and grounding. Imagine that, being on the same island. Imagine that.

I get slightly lost on my way, finding stairs that take me down, but I end up on another office floor instead. I’m too famous to be lost, I think, I really am, and when I go down another floor and walk through a door, I find myself on the mezzanine, at the side where the staff only door is. Okay, well, at least I now know where I am. The question is how do I get from up here to down there where the stage is – can’t be too hard. I’ve got my backstage pass hanging around my neck, which I hardly need as I get recognised so much, but I can flash it around to get through all doors.

As I plan my next move to find my way out of this labyrinth, I realise I’m not alone in the mezzanine. On the other side a guy is sitting on one of the chairs, reading a book. He’s got his shoes pressed against the marble balustrade, his knees raised and the book in his lap. I then realise it’s Brendon, and I’m surprised he’s not doing interviews – he always is. Brendon does PR every day, non-stop. He’s the first out of bed and the last to retire to his bunk, he does as many interviews as he can, always has the patience and the energy, and he’s so involved and so committed and, well – It’s shocking, almost. Walking in on him reading a book, appearing calm and focused on the pages. Removed from the eye of the hurricane where he stands so willingly.

It’s best to leave him to it, to not disturb him because it’s always a bit awkward when we’re by ourselves. It’s safe to hang out in groups, and one-on-one time with anyone is practically impossible to get, anyway. So it’s best to leave him alone, and I think this even as I walk over.

“Hey,” I say, and he flinches, not having heard me coming. He looks up from his book, his hair a slight mess, and – I stare. Feel my stomach drop.

“What?” he asks, clearly seeing my expression change.

“You’re wearing glasses.”

He is: they’re big and black-rimmed, and I’ve never seen him wear glasses, didn’t know he would or should wear glasses, but now he is. I’m stupefied by the sight, staring.

“Reading glasses,” he explains and shrugs. “I’m going to be twenty-eight in a few months, my eyes have given up on youth.” I’m still staring, taking in his face. He shifts uncomfortably. “So what? They make reading easier.” Once I know I have the visual memorised, I break into what is probably a shit-eating grin. He takes the glasses off, quickly rubbing his eyes, and his cheeks get the palest tinge of pink on them. “Ha ha, very funny. You’re such an ass, god.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it.”

“You don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Well, I could see it on your face,” he says, and he sounds genuinely offended and ticked off, and that’s when I realise that this isn’t friendly banter like I hoped it was.

Abort, reverse, retreat.

Shit.

“I wasn’t – Look, I was just thinking that you look fucking cute, okay? That’s all I was thinking,” I mutter, wondering how this conversation has managed to go so wrong already. “They look good on you. That’s all.”

He looks smart wearing them – he’s smart, anyway, but he looks smart, and they suit him, and god, why didn’t I just –

“Thanks,” he says quietly, maybe realising he came on too strong. “I took forever deciding on a pair so they better suit me,” he then says with a fake chuckle, and it doesn’t quite work in erasing the awkwardness. He then sighs, his feet dropping from the balustrade. “Dude, I’m sorry, I’m just tired and –”

“I get it. It’s fine. Never mind.” I look towards the stage where our gear – their gear, I mean – is set up: Bob’s bass drum says His Side, white letters against the black. “I just wanted to see if you’d feel like a round of poker with the guys. But you don’t get a lot of me time, I know that.”

And I hate this, how we can’t joke back and forth without it turning into a round of apologies. We’re fine when there are others around, we’re fine, but leave us be and it – I fuck it up, say something stupid, and then it’s awkward all over again. Completely unlike Dallon and Brendon, who can make each other laugh, who can talk politics at length before shows, who can quote their favourite songs to each other, taking alternate turns between lines, and I can do that all too while we’re there, with others, and then Brendon and I are alone, and I try too hard, maybe I just try too hard, and I just want it to be easy. Just want it to be good and comfortable and okay.

“Christ, why is everything so awkward with us?” I ask although I probably shouldn’t. It’s just too draining to live with this every damn day. “This is awkward, right? Isn’t it?” I look to him for validation, needing to know if he thinks this is normal.

He breaks into a smile and laughs softly. “Yeah, it’s awkward. It’s really awkward.” And he laughs disbelievingly, and I shake my head and chuckle. And saying that it’s awkward dissolves the awkwardness of it, at least some of it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, “I snapped at you for no good reason.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry.”

“No, but seriously. You’ve saved this band’s ass, I know that.” He looks away, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m grateful.”

That’s something I never thought he’d admit.

“I’m just glad you let me come along.”

The silence that lands on us is more comfortable than any silence shared thus far, but the honesty of it is new, mildly embarrassing.

“It’s been alright so far, right?” he now asks. “Considering Ian’s not here...”

He drifts off with an obvious loss to his words. It’s then that I take a look at what he’s reading: Drug Dependence – current problems and issues. I have no idea when he bought the book, maybe in Leeds yesterday. Ian’s in rehab and Brendon’s on the other side of the world, on tour, far removed, but here he is, using what little spare time he has to read up on anything that he thinks might be useful.

Not many men would do such a thing.

Not many men are good men.

He is. Regardless of whatever messes he and I have dragged each other into, he is a good human being who wishes good on people, and something swells up in me at that moment. Something like pride and something like – like love, and I know it’s love even if I know that I can’t, not anymore, but the feeling is there. Deep within, radiating.

Like at that second I fall in love all over again.

“So, uhm.” I motion over my shoulder. “Poker. If you want to join us.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll try and finish this chapter.”

He puts his glasses back on, opening the book again. He looks at me like he dares me to comment on the glasses, but my staring was never malicious, far from it. There’s something intimate about it, if anything: it’s hard to explain but he wears those glasses only rarely, when he has time to read, when he gets time away from it all. Like when he goes to bed at night, and he sits there reading with those glasses on. It’s a version of him only some of us get to see. Unguarded and exclusive. And when he’s done reading, he puts the book away, puts the glasses away, yawns, ruffles his hair, turns the light off and snuggles under the covers, turns to his side and wraps an arm around me with a soft, “Goodnight,” and a kiss placed somewhere on my bare shoulder, and I hum in return, half-asleep already but finally relaxing with him pressed to me.

I swallow hard and look away, shamed and overwhelmed by the sudden yearning that such a simple thought stirs up in me. And if he listened hard enough, if he listened, I swear he could hear the sound of my heart beating faster.

“Anyway,” he then says, “we’re not all gorgeous like you: we can’t wear whatever we like. Hell, you even managed to pull off those ridiculous hats Jac used to make.”

“She still makes them. Professionally now,” I say, a buzzing sound in my ears and hot syrup in my stomach, and it’s hard to organise my thoughts. It was a comment made in passing, but I focus on it fully, remember him having said it before: ‘God, you’re fucking gorgeous’, as he moved down my form on the hotel bed, kissing every inch on the way, staring up at me, about to go down on me. And suddenly I say, “I’m glad to know you still think I’m gorgeous. Good for the ego.”

And it’s so cocky and so out there, and it will backlash so quickly, but he just smiles and says, “Well, don’t let it go to your head.”

I huff. He smiles down at his book, the corners of his mouth turned upwards, and I know the way his eyes are twinkling right now although I can’t see it. I back away, turn around, find the right way out of the mezzanine, and by the time I get downstairs, the quietest drone of a tiny drop of hope has turned into a marching band in my head.

This was not supposed to happen. Not this.

God, I’ll take anything but this.

The taxi stops outside a three-floored duplex with a light blue facade on Saint Augustine’s Road, Camden Town. It’s a miserable day in London, raining heavily to fit the stereotype, and I pay the cabbie and then quickly rush up the stone steps to press the doorbell. The road is full of similar houses, some with white facades, some with red brick.

Spencer opens the door soon enough, smiling broadly, pearly teeth, shiny blue eyes, messy hair but a trimmed beard. “God, come on in!” he says, ushering me inside from the rain. We hug tightly in the hallway, slamming each other’s backs, and he laughs, says, “Skin and bone, you’re skin and bone. I dig the hair, man.”

After I’ve gotten my jacket off and he’s apologised for the mess, we end up in the kitchen, drinking tea. He’s got milk to go with it and everything. He talks animatedly, clearly excited to have me here, and that feels good. That it’s mutual. I laugh and listen, looking around the place: the interior is all light wood and pastel colours, matching the light blue outside. The teacups have floral patterns on them, and I need to remind myself that none of this is Spencer’s: he moved into a fully furnished and equipped house.

Surprisingly, he seems to feel at home despite it looking like a seventy-year-old English woman from Wiltshire lives there. The kitchen faces the back of the house, where a small garden is fighting to survive the winter, a leafless ash tree dominating the view.

“Oh, I’ve got some, uh,” he now says, opening a cupboard door, “some scones, man. Alison bought some, I told her you were coming. Something about tea and scones. Oh, here they are. Fruit scones. You like raisins?” He frowns at the plastic container. “How do we eat these?”

“With some butter and jam.”

“Ah.”

I don’t ask more about Alison until he’s sitting down, our scones and tea at the ready, in a picturesque kitchen in London, Spencer Smith and Ryan Ross, rockstars. I smile just thinking about it.

“Well, the thing is,” Spencer says when I prompt him to fill me in, “that Alison is kind of the ex-girlfriend of Gordon – he’s the singer of the band but get this: he wants to be called Sting.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Sting. My god, these new kids. Anyway, Gordon and Alison broke up two weeks back, but Alison and I, well, that started on the day I arrived, although I did not sleep with her until they were done. I didn’t,” he says, wanting to emphasise this point, and I wonder if he thinks I’d take it personally. Jac and Brent having their affair comes to mind. Most likely, though, Spencer just wants to make sure that I know he’s a gentleman. “So right now, no one knows about us. Gordon would have a fucking go at me, not that I care, man, he’s a prick and I could take him on. But Alison doesn’t want to hurt Gordon’s feelings, and I like her but it’s a bit too messy for my liking, you know? Keep wondering if it’s worth it, if I like her enough. I mean, I really like her, but man, the drama I could live without.”

I keep smirking throughout his story – trust him to start breaking hearts and stealing girlfriends. But he seems into this girl, and that’s damn good because he hasn’t dated anyone since the divorce. Alison is buying his visitors scones, and that’s more than any casual lady friend of his so far. He sees me smiling and chuckles. “I guess it’s all a bit childish and adolescent.”

“Love matures, but people don’t.”

“Or maybe it’s the other way around,” he says, scratching his beard, shrugging. “Anyway, I doubt my life has been as interesting as yours. I gotta say, I was shocked when I heard where you’d disappeared to. I didn’t think you’d ever tour again in any capacity.”

“Me neither. But it’s been good. I’ve missed it, you know? I enjoy being on stage now.”

“Bullshit,” he deadpans.

“I swear, man.”

He laughs. “Well, about time. I was sick of having to talk you into going on, anyway.”

“I recall no such thing.”

“Liar,” he grins, but then it fades and he looks troubled. “What about Brendon?”

At least he gets straight to the point, but he knows. He’s one of the few people who truly knows about Brendon and me – not in detail, he doesn’t know the highs and lows, he doesn’t know the blow by blow account. But he knows the depth of it. He’s seen me. He’s seen what it’s done to me. Jon’s seen some of it too, but unlike Spencer, Jon never understood the magnitude of it.

“It’s fine touring with him,” I say, my mind flashing back to us arriving at our hotel earlier, five in the morning without any of us having slept. Brendon nearly falling asleep on one of the couches in the lobby as we waited for our keys – that’s how exhausted he was, eyelids drooping. Him scrunching his nose, trying to take in the four star hotel glory when none of us matched how elegant the hotel is. “It’s fine.”

Spencer’s studying me carefully, and I look away. He nearly chokes on his tea just then, quickly putting the cup back down. He stares at me, deadly serious. “Don’t tell me you two are –”

“No! No, god no.” I shake my head, deny any such indication. “No, we’re just friends.” Spencer exhales slightly, like that’s a crisis averted. I take a sip of my tea, English Breakfast. “But the spark,” I say then, quietly. Feel sorry for myself. “God, the spark.”

Because I could lie to Spencer, say we’re friends and leave it there. And we are friends, in some ways, sure. We are friends. But I – I can’t make it stop, the way my heart skips beats, the way my skin heats up. I can’t stop, and I can’t deny that it’s not happening.

Still.

“When I told you to get a boyfriend, I didn’t mean Brendon,” Spencer says at length. “I have nothing against the guy, you know that. I’ve toured with him, and I know he’s alright. But he fucks you up. I mean, he really fucks you up.”

“You know William told me the same thing back in the day?” I ask, still remembering the confrontation in the hotel’s breakfast room in LA, William having a hissy fit and telling me I was no good and never could be. “Just before he told me to stay away from Brendon.”

Spencer sighs and shakes his head slowly. I wait for him to say it: stay away for your own good. Maybe I just need someone to tell me to stay away, maybe then I’ll manage to do just that.

But Spencer doesn’t say it, he only looks mildly disappointed. “Look, think of it this way... There’s gonna be a spark. That’s a given. And you know what that can cause? A fucking fire that’ll burn you. Again. Don’t get dragged into that same mess again, man.”

“But...” I start, finally vocalising a thought that’s been circling in my head for a few days now, “but what if... what if he still has feelings for me?”

“Well, of course he has feelings for you,” Spencer says like that’s elementary. “He always will, and you’ll always have feelings for him, too.”

“But I mean... What if we still?” I persist.

Because I don’t know if Spencer’s drama is that immature compared to mine: the way I struggle not to look his way, the way my pulse picks up when he stands too close, and the way I try to read him, wondering if there are any signs, if today he is smiling at me more than the day before.

“You know how many times Haley and I had sex after we separated?” Spencer now asks me, whistling slightly, eyes widening. “I can’t even count the times, man. I’d go over there to pick Suzie up for the weekend, and somehow Haley and I would end up fucking on the kitchen table. For as long as she and I have known each other, we’ve been intimate. It’s hard to know her and not be her lover, does that make sense?” he asks, making sure I’m following his train of thought. “Because that’s you and Brendon. You two have always been more than just friends, so yeah, it’s confusing now, you can still feel the spark. It takes time to shake off that connection, it takes time and then it takes some more time, but you’ll get there. And then it just becomes a fact of the past, you two and that chemistry, it’s no longer relevant. And you move on.”

I have. I have moved on, I swear, in some ways – and in other ways I’ll never move on.

“I wish I didn’t, you know,” I say quietly. “I wish I didn’t feel this for him. Then he and I could be friends, and I could... keep him in my life. And I could see him and talk to him and make him laugh... But I want all those things because of how I feel. God, it’d just be simpler if I didn’t feel this. It’d be better for him, and it’d be better for me.”

Spencer hums sympathisingly.

And the steady warmth in my chest that heats up at the sight of Brendon remains, making itself known more obviously every day. Like it was hibernating but has now awoken, and it’s making a wreck of me in its wake.

And that in itself I could live with. That would still be fine.

What makes it unbearable, however, is not knowing whether or not the feeling in me is pure.

If it’s good.

Or if it’s just misguided selfishness, determined that I can make a claim on him when I never could before. Naivety that says ‘this time, this time’, and then I ruin everything again and that’s that. That’s that, and I will never see him again.

I cannot take that risk.

I will not take it. I will not.

But he smiles at me sometimes.

I could tell Spencer, I could try to describe it, but he wouldn’t get it.

How he smiles at me sometimes.

Chapter Text

We head over to the studio late on our second day in London, feeling somewhat rough from the night before. Spencer’s in the same condition as me, groaning as we walk up Abbey Road. I don’t need to be present as such – I’m not a member of His Side, I’m not involved in the writing or recording, and Jon is playing guitar for the two tracks they’re working on. Spencer doesn’t need to be present either, but he’s coming along, anyway. Says he might as well.

“I know that my guys are in the studio today too,” he says, “but fuck ‘em.”

“I’m sorry that it’s not working out for you, man.”

He shrugs like he’s not that bothered. And it’s not that Spencer’s doing a bad job co-producing The Police’s second album, he simply says that it’s a personality clash with him and Gordon: the guy’s a tyrant. He’s got good ideas, but so does Spencer, and whenever Spencer comes up with something brilliant, Gordon right down refuses to even hear of it, and then two days later suggests the same thing and pretends that he came up with it.

“He’s a tosser, to use local slang,” Spencer said last night when he opened up about it with the help of some Famous Grouse. “The guy’s a tosser, and I’m sick of him.”

This being the case, Spencer was more than happy to meet up for a late lunch and then head over to the studio. We try to relive last night in our heads: first the His Side show at The Rainbow Theatre (the irony of which is not lost on me), an unofficial after-party that took us from bar to bar, pub to pub, and club to club, and it started out as a big crowd, the band, the crew and local friends, and it got bigger as people heard where we were and joined us, and we joined scenes too, blended in marvellously, and I bumped into Ronnie Wood, still a good guy, and met Roger Daltrey and Simon Kirke for the first time. Spencer’s still going on about Kirke since, as it turned out, both admire the other’s work and they spent an hour or two talking about drumming and drummers and drum kits. And then as the night went on, our crowd started getting smaller, people calling it a night, passing out, nearly falling asleep, heading out to after-after-parties. Spencer and I managed to keep going until seven in the morning, but now the bleak afternoon sunlight feels too bright, and my voice is scratchy from the alcohol.

Surely we deserve to let ourselves go once in a while. While we’re young, while we’re breathing.

Dallon and Brendon left for the hotel before three in the morning. Weak, I think I told them in mild intoxication, that’s weak. “But the studio,” Brendon said, “need to be in the studio in the morning,” and then Spencer was dragging me to meet someone. I haven’t asked if Spencer was trying to keep me away from Brendon. He probably was.

Dallon and Brendon left together. They just stick it out as a team – that’s what I tell myself. And I ignore the pangs of longing in my guts because I know I shouldn’t feel that way about Brendon. I need to teach myself how not to.

But god, it’s hard. Brendon’s never been as beautiful. It’s the eyes. When I first met him, his eyes were always so full of defiance, mesmerising me. In New York, full of confusion, and that broke me. Now, it’s like there is clarity to him that he’s never had before, a sense of purpose, and it shows in his smile, his confidence, the way he seems to be more at ease with himself.

I can’t take credit for it, but it’s hypnotising to watch.

When Spencer and I get to the studio, the band’s in the recording room, in the middle of a song. Mike greets us somewhat tiredly, having joined the celebrations last night too: His Side’s arrived in London. The sound engineer looks at us briefly, flinches, and then sits up straighter and focuses on his work, clearly unnerved by our arrival. It’s only half of The Followers. It’s not a big deal.

Except that it is, and Spencer and I know it.

We sit down on the couch to listen. Sisky smiles at us brightly, batting his eyelashes at Spencer, who looks mildly creeped out. Sisky has that effect on people.

“There’s coffee if you want some,” Mike says, pointing to the corner where a coffee maker is. The sound engineer keeps nodding to the song as the sound of it fills up the room. It’s a slower song, a ballad, the soft drone of guitar, the steady vibrations of bass, the gentle beat of drums, and Brendon singing the melody, his voice warm and sweet.

“Coffee. Fantastic,” Spencer says and forces himself to get up and stagger towards the refreshments table. The music doesn’t grasp him.

“They’ve made adjustments, it’s a quick run through before laying down the tracks,” Sisky informs me and then asks, “Did you guys have fun last night?”

I hush him because I’m trying to listen to the song.

“Looks like you did. I know I had fun! I’d say it was the funnest time I’ve had, actu –”

“I’m trying to listen,” I persist, but Sisky’s probably been here since morning and has heard this song already and doesn’t understand me wanting to hear it. Brendon and Jon have been practising this, doing an acoustic version in dressing rooms, on the bus, Brendon stopping, frowning, fixing lyrics, changing his mind, Jon adding things here and there, so technically I’ve heard this song too. But now it’s different, now it’s coming together.

The guys finish the song after a repeat of the chorus, and Brendon says, “I still think we need to add that second bridge part towards the end. I don’t like the song without it.”

Mike leans over the mix table and presses the intercom button. “But we agreed that it adds unnecessary length to the song. Remember the four minute rule, Bren – need to keep it radio friendly.”

“Fuck the radio, man,” Brendon mutters, sounding frustrated.

Mike straightens up, hand lifting from the intercom, and to the engineer says, “Artistic vision,” scoffing. The band can’t hear it, but I can, and my eyes focus on Mike’s back, and I’m surprised he doesn’t catch fire.

“I agree with Brendon,” Jon now says. “This is just the B-side, we have the single for the radio. And Hazard is three and a half minutes, we can have a longer B-side.”

“Agreed,” Dallon says, and Bob is absently running brush-sticks along the surface of the snare, creating a rustling sound in the background.

“Are we voting on this?” Mike says irately, a hand on his hip, the other on the intercom button again. “Look, I know what sells. My job as your manager is to make sure you sell. You’ve got a single in the UK’s top five, you’re on a European tour, I mean, can we assume that I know what I’m doing? Hmm? But okay, if you want to vote on this, okay, fine. Those who want to keep the bridge and the outro in the song, rendering the song overly long?”

Mike loses the vote with four votes for and only one against. He huffs and puffs, but he can’t blow the house down. “Go ahead, then,” he says, sitting down by the mixing table, and the band goes back to what they had originally planned, anyway. Mike keeps sighing and shaking his head.

When the band does a practice run of the song, now extended, it catches my attention. It didn’t before, it sounded like a power ballad meant for the types of gatherings like the dance on the ferry to Hull, but now the song changes two minutes in. And I didn’t expect that. It’s been a soft song, but now an electric guitar offers sharp notes that give contrast to the rest of it, contradicting it almost, and Brendon and Jon harmonise a line of “and it is then that I saw”, and then Dallon joins them, half a beat later so that the lyrics are out of sync. And they repeat the chorus, but now to a different melody, and the drums kick in when I least expect it, angry and demanding.

And that –

“That’s fucking good,” I breathe out once they’re done. Mike turns to me in surprise. I laugh. “That’s fucking brilliant.”

Spencer is nodding beside me, thoughtful like he’s still processing what he just heard. It needs processing. It’s intelligent music.

“I want to play that song live,” I say automatically, forgetting, almost, that it’s not my band and it’s not my say and it’s not my playlist. But we should be playing that song.

“It’s layered, but it’s not messy,” Spencer says. “It’s clear-cut, without any pretence. It’s crisp. Does that make sense?”

It does, it absolutely does. Spencer seems equally enthralled. When we walked in, we were listening to a song that was the copy of a copy of a copy of a semi-decent song already written twenty times. Now we’re listening to something that can stand on its own. That sounds like its own beast.

When the guys come out for a break five minutes later, Spencer and Jon instantly fall into discussion on the song. Bob smokes as he talks to the engineer, and Dallon does his best to convince Mike that they are right about the song and that Mike is wrong.

“You made it, then,” Brendon says, coming to greet me after a brief word to Mike. I’m taken aback that he’s come over – usually nodding in greeting has been enough for him. “Looked like you were going for it last night.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I assure him.

He looks at Spencer talking to Jon. “Yeah? What’d you two do after we left?”

“More of the same. What about you?”

He shrugs. “Just went back to the hotel and straight to bed. Couldn’t really sleep, though, too busy thinking about recording.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” I say, seeing the tired look in his eyes, like he hasn’t slept lately. He should rest. Our last day in London is a day off for everyone, him included – maybe then he’ll rest at last, but he probably won’t. I’d force him to stay in bed for a while if I could, fight him if I had to, tie him down –

It suddenly flashes so clearly across my mind – heavy making out, the rustle of hotel sheets, New York cabs honking down on West 23rd Street, and us half-dressed on the bed, hard cocks out – “What if you tied me up?” Just a hint of nervousness in the question. And I would have, had we found something to use – a tie, a bathrobe belt? Too slippery, too thick. So next time, fuck I will, god, baby, next time, are you kidding me? Of course, fuck. I’d fucking love to.

And then we never did.

“You okay?” he now asks, and I quickly force the memory out of my head, feel guilty for even thinking it and for letting myself now imagine the what if. Know that I would happily punch any guy who’d feel free to think of him like that.

It’s getting worse now, the memories. They keep popping up with more and more frequency, like the lid that I firmly closed on that box has become loose and now bits of the past are sneaking back into my subconscious.

“Yeah, just a bit hungover. I think, uh. I actually need to.” I stand up, and he’s frowning. “Just need some fresh air.”

He gives me a confused smile as I leave the room.

I find a restroom down the hall where I wash my face, water splashing onto my dress shirt, dripping off my face. Take deep breaths. Kill every damned butterfly that I feel when I see him. I’ve started to focus on the small things: the arch of his wrist when he plays guitar, veins jutting out, and the way his lips curl when he smiles, revealing white teeth, and just how good he looks like that. Just how good.

I’d admit that I’m fucked weren’t it so unpleasant to say. So disappointing and wrong.

When I open the door and step out, I almost bump into Brendon coming down the hall. We both freeze.

“Oh hey,” he says, and I say, “Uhm.” Did he come after me? He stares at me expectantly. I don’t know why. I stare back in total confusion, my heart racing. He laughs slightly. Gorgeous. “Would you... mind stepping out of the way so that I can go take a leak?”

Right. Of course. “Yeah, sorry, of course.” I step out of his way. Motion inside like there you go, then.

He peers at me, perhaps even with a hint of worry in his brown eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am. Really.”

He shouldn’t be worried about me – it’s the other way around. He’s exhausting himself, and everyone knows that. No one’s doing anything about it, though.

“Okay then.” But he sounds like he’s not convinced.

He’s about to go in when I blurt out, “The new song’s amazing, by the way.”

He stops and takes the words in. Looks hopeful but tries to hide it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I glance down the hall to make sure we’re alone. We are. “I like it better than your other songs. And don’t take that the wrong way,” I say quickly when his brows knit together. “Your music is good. But it’s not great.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“No, I mean that- I just. You know, your first demo, it was adventurous, it had an edge, you know? And then – then Wandering Lips, it’s manufactured radio music, and it’s good but. You know. Like, this new song, what are you calling it?” He shifts slightly, arms across his chest. He mumbles a response. “Sorry?” I ask.

“In Your Smile.” He looks embarrassed. “It’s a love song. It’s a cheesy name, I know –”

“No, that’s brilliant. It’s a brilliant song. It is, really. You definitely shouldn’t listen to Mike on these things. He understands money, not music.”

He shrugs, but deep down I know he agrees with me. “Yeah, well, just gotta hope the label sees it our way.” He smiles, but it’s tired.

“Well if they don’t agree, I can call –” I start, but he instantly gets this look in his eyes, and I cut myself off. Realise how I’m getting carried away. “Right. Sorry. I’m doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where I do too much and you feel like your pride and independence are being jeopardised and so you get defensive and I get frustrated. So I won’t do that thing,” I say simply, and he looks mildly shocked. What? Does he think I haven’t managed to pick out some patterns over the past handful of years? I regret having said anything at all, about his music, his creation, and in order to dig myself out of the hole, I say, “It’s just true, that you have to compromise between your vision and what makes money. It’s true, and I’ve done it, and you’ve done it, but you gotta... not let them take your individuality. Or take away your love for the music. Because if that happens, then hell, what’s the point, you know? What’s the point? And I know that I for one would enjoy playing In Your Smile live more than, say, Unsteady with its four-to-the-floor. It’s good to dance to, but people will dance to anything so that doesn’t mean much. I know you gotta compromise, but you still need to push boundaries. The only people with complete artistic freedom are the ones without a record deal. Those were wise words.”

He frowns. “Who said that?”

I blink. “You did. You said that to me once.”

“I did?” He sounds surprised. He did. “Wow, you remember everything I’ve ever said to you?”

“Probably.”

The severity of my tone doesn’t match his humorous one. His smile fades as his expression turns more serious. It’s a bit too honest, a bit too soon, and I say, “I didn’t mean to have a go at your music or –”

“No, it’s fine. I mean,” he lets out a deep breath, “why be angry when you’re right? Hey, I’m glad you like the song. I think it’s our best so far. I just. You know, I’m not in a position to fight the label too much. I’m new. I can’t waltz in and demand complete artistic freedom.”

“Well, I know people, so you can give me a call if you ever need persuading done.”

“Provided it doesn’t... make me feel like my independence is being jeopardised.” He smiles. “What do you know? Maybe I remember most of the stuff you’ve said to me, too.”

And the smile he gives me is warm and friendly and – and then some, and normally I wouldn’t think much of it except that it’s us. And if anything that happens between us can be called warm, that’s a hell of a huge thing. If after all that’s happened, we can warm up to each other. And the way he says it, maybe – maybe that was flirtatious.

It is flirtatious.

And the hope that instantly swirls in me is hungry and desperate, the way I always was for him.

He closes the door after himself. I head back to the mixing room, feeling stupefied and nervous. I’m glad we were alone, that Spencer didn’t see that because I know what he’d say, that I’ll get burned again, that Jon didn’t see that because I know what he’d say, too, that he thought it was all over with, or that Sisky didn’t see that because he’d just smile at me knowingly: I told you so, I told you so.

And Brendon and I haven’t talked about the past, we haven’t talked about us now, and we haven’t talked about what’s happening, but it’s happening nonetheless. There’s putting up with someone, and then there’s... saying things like that, sending me spiralling. I feel triumphant, almost, light and happy and obnoxiously thrilled but then –

He and I fuck it up. We always do.

But what if... what if we can just slip back into it? If it feels good, if it feels natural, why fight it? Just slip back into the old habits, back into us.

There’s a sliver of hope, and I’m holding on to it.

I’m not ready to let go of it yet.

I’m still not ready, and the hope and guilt of it entwine.

I refused to play on Top of the Pops with The Followers and The Whiskeys – fuck you, you English corporate bastards, feeding your nation brain-numbing TV and music – our music aside, of course – yeah, fuck you and your stupid weekly TV shows on what’s hip and what’s groovy. This is groovy, see that? My middle finger.

His Side is a different animal. Again, the post-gig party on the night before gets cut short because this time the band needs to be in the BBC studios the following day to record a performance for Top of the Pops. This time, I need to be there nice and early too.

“You don’t have to,” Brendon says even when we’re on set and in the midst of cameramen and makeup artists. “I’m sure Leo wouldn’t mind –”

“It’s fine. It’s all good,” I assure him. He smiles at me. I smile back at him. The smiles last longer. The eye contact lasts longer, but then he looks away a bit too quickly. Like maybe he’s catching himself at it.

It’s so arrogant of me to assume, to hope.

Were I a better man, but I’m not. And he. God, he’s still that one thing I shouldn’t want but I do.

The video recording of Unsteady should not take too long, or so I thought, but first we’re in makeup and then they do our hair. At least they don’t try to dress us, and we can keep our usual stage clothes – for me it’s just one of my suits. The stage itself is absurd: it consists of five circular podiums grouped together, all different heights. Brendon, of course, is at the front, nearest to the cameras, and Bob is in the back with the podium heights descending from him. Jon is supposed to be on Brendon’s immediate back right, second closest, but it soon becomes obvious that the director wants me there. We bicker about it, I don’t want to, it’s not exactly fair, but Jon says he doesn’t mind, whatever, and “It’s good PR.”

The band seems to be saying that a lot these days.

Eventually we all end up on our podiums. Dallon is in the middle, behind Brendon mostly. The studio is full of teenage kids, perms and bushy long hair, looking bored because they’ve been standing around for hours. Most of them just want to be on TV and have never even heard of His Side, even if they have a single at number four this week. Either way, the kids are subdued and bored, not allowed to talk to us.

We’re ready to record the song, but the director isn’t, and so we stand around, instruments ready, idle and annoyed.

“I suppose you’re used to this, huh?” Dallon says, having walked to the edge of his podium.

I shrug. “Not really. TV isn’t my thing.”

“It’s a thing of the future, though. More and more bands make music videos these days.”

“What the hell for?” I ask, and he shrugs like he’s baffled by it too. I don’t know if I like what the music industry is turning into – not that I ever liked it to begin with. But there seems to be this development away from the music where it’s all about ‘good PR’, it’s about being sexy, it’s about looks. Hell, Dylan probably showered ten times during the sixties, and no one gave a damn.

The future is bleak.

“I wanted to ask you about something,” Dallon now says.

I pluck a few strings out of boredom. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. After the recording?”

“Sure. What about?”

Dallon just shrugs, and fine, Mystery Man.

I can’t think of anything he couldn’t ask me on the spot. It’s not like Dallon and I don’t get along – we do, we’ve discussed politics, I’ve let him rant about gay rights, and we’ve had beers in dressing rooms and on the tour bus and we’ve played cards and jammed with our guitars, but I keep my distance. Because when I feel that I’m beginning to truly warm up to him, Dallon looks at Brendon and smiles too wide, or the two share an inside joke that no one else gets, and I withdraw. Knowing that there is something between them, even if we don’t know what it is. Friendship. A bond. And maybe Brendon doesn’t need to tell Dallon that they’re both Mormon gay kids from Utah – they are on the same plane even without sharing that knowledge. Like it’s subconscious somehow.

The rest of us can’t mimic that.

We finally get to play Unsteady, the kids awkwardly moving along to the song, a few of them miming the lyrics so they clearly know it, but the crowd is awkward and forced, and the reaction isn’t graceless and immediate the way it usually is. We do it well, though, Brendon does a good job, his voice sounds good, he moves like he’s full of energy – an act, and I know it. He’s exhausted. The cameras are focused on him and me. I despise it and look only at my guitar to deprive the hungry lens of as much face time as I can.

We’ve spent two and a half hours doing a four minute performance. What a waste of time, but the band will be on British TV and that’s huge for them, will help sell their single and album. It’s also my first TV appearance since 1977.

Afterwards Brendon, Jon and Bob have an interview with a BBC reporter who’s in a tweed suit, has slick hair and a bushy moustache, but Dallon manages to get out of it and helps Leo, Quentin and me in packing up.

Once we’re done, Leo and Quentin head out to buy me some cigarettes – it’s in their job description that they end up being errand boys when it suits the band. Mike’s arranged for us to be picked up from the studio and driven back to the hotel, and so Dallon and I sit around waiting in the dressing room that has cheesy light bulb decorated vanities. A huge Top of the Pops poster has been hung from the wall.

I drink a beer, sitting on the couch and feeling too tired to move. Dallon’s got a book with him – he’s a big reader – but he now keeps it in his lap and says, “So this will probably sound kind of silly.”

I eye him keenly. “You’re not in love with me, are you?”

He frowns. “Uh, no?”

“People tend to fall in love with me.”

“What a hardship that must be for you,” he says sarcastically, like he’s calling me on my bullshit. Only Brendon, Spencer and Vicky are really allowed to do that. “No, I’ve come to you as a friend. I’m just hoping you’d be willing to help me out.”

I say nothing, just wait for him to get on with it. His hands are on his knees, squeezing. He might be nervous. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him nervous – he never is. He’s a confident, intelligent guy, roughly thirty, quick with his words and thoughts. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d need help from anyone.

“You’ve known Brendon for a long time, right?” he now asks, and I nod slowly. I have, that’s true. “I mean, I’ve barely known him for a year and a half, and of course we’ve become close during that time, but I know that… that I only know the bits of him that he wants me to see.”

“Right.”

I still have no idea where Dallon is going with this, but his observation is an accurate one.

“Well, I just.” He looks serious. “I just know you were there when he was with Shane, I know you saw whatever went down between them. And you were there even before Shane, and – and it’s pretty obvious how you guys. Well, I can tell that you used to be close. You two seem to... have this thing.... This interconnectedness.”

Somehow my chest swells up from his words – the fact that he can pick up on that even if he knows nothing about our actual history. That it somehow shows, what Brendon and I had, even if we’re just friends. And then the nagging at the back of my brain follows, that I let my feelings show. But if it’s mutual, if it really is...

“I suppose he and I do share a bond,” I say, trying to fight back a smile that would give away too much. Try not to get ahead of myself when the fear of losing Brendon mixes with the warm sensation of hope.

“Yeah, exactly. So I was just – wondering if you had, like, any tips for me.”

I stare at Dallon in incomprehension. He stares at me expectantly. “Tips for what?” I ask.

“For making Brendon fall for me,” he says and then smiles embarrassedly, shaking his head. “Man, that sounded creepy.”

He pushes some of his hair from over his eyes, but he’s still smiling. He’s thinking about this, what he’s saying, and he’s smiling.

The pain is instantaneous, but it’s not like a punch in the guts. Worse than that: it’s fear, and it hits all of me at once.

When I say nothing, can’t, Dallon presses on. “It’s just that, you know, Brendon and I, we’ve known each other for a while now. And we’ve become close, you know? I think you really need to know someone before you... commence, um... Before you take it further. And I just – I like him.” He laughs in slight desperation, and I know that feeling, that exact mix of longing and hope. “God, I really like him. And I feel like I’m dropping these hints, but he’s not getting them. So I think I need to be bolder, but I don’t want to scare him off either.”

“So you want… me. To tell you how to get Brendon?” I clarify. Every cell of me feels threatened, like the very core of me is under attack. Dallon nods. And at that second I hate him. Because I’ve seen the two of them together on stage, off stage, wandering off by themselves, talking without words. I’ve seen how well they click. And Bob called it a mating ritual, prolonged courtship, and it’s been haunting me. But what does Bob know, really? Maybe Bob had it wrong, maybe they’re just friends. But they’re not just friends. And suddenly it’s damn hard to breathe. “I, uh...” A sudden headache emerges, and blood soars in my ears. I can’t look at Dallon. I can’t. “Are you in love with him?”

“That’s pretty personal,” Dallon says instantly, and that’s a yes.

He’s in love with my boy.

I stare at Dallon’s shoes, olive green leather brogues, and I decide that a man with shoes like that can’t be taken seriously. I can’t. Fuck, I...

“I, uh... Um.”

I can’t piece my thoughts together because everything seems to fall apart. All I can think of is Dallon. How he’s smart. He’s funny. He’s talented. He’s openly gay, he would never – would never hurt Brendon by being confused, he would never make them pretend. He’s politically active and aware, he’s well read, he speaks French fluently – all of this is significant right now. He’s fucking gorgeous with his bright smiles and blue eyes and well-toned body, and he makes Brendon laugh, he makes Brendon think, I’ve seen Brendon smiling at him with- with a bit of adoration. And he’s in love with Brendon, or at least is in the process of falling in love, and here’s Dallon sitting across from me in all his perfection, and he’s come to me. The opposite of him, the black sheep, and together we form Janus: one of us the ugly past, the other the bright future.

“I- I don’t know. Go on a date, isn’t that what people usually do?” I ask, surprised I can even form sentences.

“Yeah? Do you think I should?” he asks. He’s taking this seriously. “I don’t want to upset the status quo because it’s good, you know? But I feel like I gotta make my move, like the time’s come.” He ponders over this and then nods slightly. “Yeah, maybe I just should ask him out. I mean, he’s not oblivious, not after Leeds. A date, yeah. What do you think he’d like to do?”

What happened in Leeds?

What the fuck happened in Leeds?

I feel nauseous thinking about it.

They haven’t fucked, that’s obvious, so it could be anything that’s not full-on fucking. That’s still a long, long goddamned list. But Dallon has made their relationship sound virginal so maybe it was something innocent, maybe it was just a kiss. We were in Leeds before Glasgow, before Brendon told me I’m gorgeous, before all the... the little things really started.

I’ve missed my mark. My cue.

I’ve missed it.

A kiss is never just a kiss. Not with Brendon, it isn’t.

That’s too much.

I can’t. I just –

“Look, I think I’m the wrong person to ask,” I say, my voice choked up. And then I simply walk out without another word to Dallon.

My hands are trembling.

How ridiculous that they are.

But they continue to do so nonetheless.

‘What happened in Leeds’ has developed into a mystery novel by the end of the day. It’s a book series, in fact, with each novel representing a different take on the topic. In my favourite one, Dallon merely tells Brendon that he has beautiful eyes or lips or what have you, and Brendon smiles like ‘thanks, buddy’. In my least favourite one, Dallon and Brendon sleep together, somehow, miraculously, although I know full well that there was no time or privacy for that at any point, I would have noticed had the two disappeared, someone would have noticed, but in this version Dallon got there, hell – maybe they squeezed into a bunk while we all slept, maybe, even if spatial awareness and basic logistics and poor sound-proofing are against that notion.

I even ask Sisky, my eyes and ears for everything, if he noticed anything odd in Leeds with anyone, and he says no.

So if I’m logical and sensible about this, if I choose to be those things, then whatever happened in Leeds could not have been major. Probably they just shared a moment, and Dallon thought it was undeniably romantic.

And if I apply this logic even further, I know it’s not my business.

I’m not allowed to feel like the carpet’s been pulled from underneath my feet. I had Brendon – twice. And he had me – twice. And we fucked it up both times, and maybe I fucked it up more than he did. Maybe I just... always took it a step too far.

So I know I’m no good. My reflection stares at me judgingly as I stand in the pub’s men’s room, and I say to it: stop looking at me like that. Don’t you think that I know I’m no good? I know. I’m scum. I’m cruel. I’m vile. Brendon deserves better. Dallon is better. And if Dallon and I stood in a row and Brendon had to choose, well. He wouldn’t choose me.

So stop standing there, judging me because I know, I fucking know, and I don’t need you making me feel guilty about things that haunt me enough as it is.

And I don’t deserve to be forgiven. I know. But I want him. I still want him.

There is no justification for that.

Does love need to be justified? There was a time when it didn’t need to, but we lost that privilege.

So I know, I know, I know. I’m not much of a candidate in comparison, but if... if Brendon chooses me. If there are signs, then maybe the past doesn’t have to matter. Maybe the who-hurt-who’s become irrelevant.

If he and I still could work things out.

And with this in mind, I head back out, re-entering the crowded pub in Kentish Town. The place is full of musicians and poets and painters and those in between. It’s the centre of a new scene, and there’s a stage at the back where a guy with poorly dyed black hair is screaming and spitting and yelling as two guys play guitar and a drummer beats drums furiously. They call it punk. It sounds like noise.

Maybe it was only a matter of time, really, before music inevitably just became noise.

I rejoin my table where Brendon and Mike are. It just happened, us sitting down together. Dallon, Bob and the roadies ended up five tables away, and it was coincidence. Dallon looked torn about it.

I now keep trying to not look at Brendon, but then I look at him anyway, desperate for a sign of any kind. Something to reaffirm what I think is happening, just something to justify my claims for him.

Because if he gives me a reason, then I will go for it. For him, for us. I’ll be that stupid guy who’ll fight until his last breath.

And as we talk and laugh and kid around, I keep thinking that it’s good, but is it more than that?

I try to relax some. These kinds of gatherings are alright, where everyone’s half-famous at least and those who aren’t are trying to be so they don’t suck up to you, anyway. That way all the focus isn’t on me and I don’t feel like I’m constantly being harassed or watched. And so the hours roll by surprisingly fast, chatting, arguing, asking for another pint and checking out the bands that just keep on coming. I talk to a lot of people, sit down at a lot of tables, shake a lot of hands, and when Brendon’s across the pub, someone says, “We’d like to meet him,” so sure, I call him over, make the introductions, help him build up his network of contacts, and then he calls me over, says, “Ry, hey, come here,” wanting me to join a conversation.

We make a good team.

We’d make a good couple.

“I went to one of Brendon’s mic nights,” I explain to Columbia’s English reps that Mike’s invited for some dreadful reason. “When I saw him on stage, well, I just saw something special. Gave him some studio time to record a decent demo.”

“I didn’t know that,” one of them says, looking between us and then laughing. “Clearly a worthy investment.”

“Yeah, I’d like to think so,” I agree, turning to Brendon, who’s holding a half-finished pint and is smiling. The more he drinks, the more he smiles at me. It’s not cheating if alcohol is needed for him to lower his guard, for him to show his cards. To give me hope. I now smirk at him, testing out the waters. “So when are you paying me back for that studio time, anyway?”

He laughs. “Thought it was a birthday present.”

“Okay, it was. But I don’t think I ever got a present in return.”

“Oh, it wasn’t an act of selflessness, then?”

“My god, no.”

He laughs and ducks his head, and when I look at the reps again, they look mildly – maybe uncomfortable is the word for it, or just slightly perplexed. And it hums in me, pushing the boundaries, breaking down the walls between us. Slowly pulling him back to me.

I end up at the back of the pub with Bob a short time after the last band’s come and gone at two in the morning. We argue about the difference between heavy rock and classic rock. Dallon and Brendon are standing at the bar by themselves, and Dallon’s hand brushes Brendon’s shoulder, and Brendon places a hand on Dallon’s arm as they converse, and I’m expected to just stand here and accept that.

“You okay? You look – nauseous,” Bob says, and that’s exactly how I feel.

But five minutes later Brendon comes over to talk to us, and I feel like I can breathe again. I take a look around at all the people standing in small clusters, having their own conversations, greeting their friends – there’s Sisky salivating over Denny Laine – and I take it as a tick for me. That Brendon’s come to talk to us. Bob starts glorifying the local music scene and how Britain’s keeping it fresh.

“I can’t believe how British Britain is,” Brendon laughs, buzzed on booze but not overly so. “They have the red double-deckers and the red phone boxes and the red mailboxes, all those things you see on TV. And they have pubs and they eat fish and chips and they drink pints.” He motions around, smiling. “It’s just far out.” It’s good to see him happy.

“I still prefer Birmingham to London,” Bob says. “It’s more real and –”

“Ryan!” a voice calls out, and I reluctantly tear my eyes off of Brendon.

A guy my height has come over and is beaming at me, short brown hair, freckled skin, a handsome face and soft brown eyes. In his early twenties, I’d say, and he looks at me slightly adoringly – Great, we’ve got a fan on our hands.

“I haven’t changed that much, surely?” he asks with an obvious English accent, laughing.

I look at him again. Try to place his face. “...Chris?”

I have to make sure I get the name right – Christopher, Chris. He nods, and hell. He definitely has changed. I remember him as a kid who had just moved to London from Canterbury, soft featured, young, loved The Followers. Innocent Chris, just trying to hang out with the cool kids.

He smiles widely. “God, it’s been, what? Four years?”

Four years sounds about right.

He steps in for a hug, and I – Well I hug him back, think that he’s grown up well. He looked like a boy last time, a pretty boy, and now he’s a handsome man. Four years. And I hug him back because it’s the least of what I’ve done with the kid, and somehow that doesn’t hit me until at that second.

And then I realise that Chris has showed up, and Brendon’s right here.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fake it. That’s the only thing that runs through my head: just fucking fake it.

I pull back quickly and say, “Guys, this is Chris Bonham. Chris, this is Bob Bryar and Brendon Roscoe of His Side.”

Chris shakes hands with them. “Pleased to meet you, I’m really digging you guys. And yeah, yes,” he then says when Bob’s mouth opens, “Bonham as in John Bonham. He’s my cousin.”

Bob whistles. “Your cousin’s in Led Zep? Man, that is bitchin’.”

Chris shrugs modestly. He then eyes my pint glass. “You want me to get you a drink? It’d be nice to catch up.” He’s smiling at me politely but his gaze is dark and he’s hardly looking away from me. He had none of that confidence last time – I think, because he hasn’t crossed my mind in years, and now I’m doing my best to remember. But it was such a drunken, drugged up time. Who knows what or who I did?

“How do you two know each other?” Brendon now asks, and I rush out, “Well –”

“We used to spend some time together,” Chris cuts in. “Back when Ryan used to grace London with his presence. Was it in 1975? I think it was.” Chris’s hand lands on my hip. “You still drink whisky, right? I’ll get us something.”

I have no idea what he drinks. I’d forgotten his existence, mostly, but it’s clear that I made a far bigger impression on him than he ever did on me.

With one last too intense and too suggestive smile, Chris heads for the bar. Him eye-fucking me knowingly could easily be seen from Mars. I look away from him, decide to act like nothing happened despite the touching, despite Chris saying that “we used to spend some time together”, which is the most suggestive thing he could possibly say because it implies – god, what doesn’t it imply?

“So, anyway, about Birmingham?” I ask, finally daring to look at my companions. Brendon’s studying the foam sticking to the side of his pint glass. He was laughing just a minute ago. Now he’s not.

He noticed.

Bob is staring at me, frowning. “Did, uh... Did I just imagine that?” He points after Chris. “Because I swear I haven’t been hanging out with homos for nothing.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning. Ready to deny it. “Chris? Just some guy, man. I think he might be a fag but,” I say, shrugging it off, and I sound like an asshole even to my own ears, ready to dismissively call someone a fag. I’m ready to tell them that Chris is just some foolish kid with an unrequited crush on me, and I’m ready to mock him for it because I’m not like that, of course not, so Chris is pathetic and sad. But that’s a lie. I’d be lying. “No, uh. What I mean is.” Bob’s putting me on the spot, and Brendon’s listening, and I either deny my interest in men in front of Brendon when he knows that’s a lie, or I admit that I fucked that kid during the winter that followed the bus crash and us. Deny or admit it, I can’t win. Which is less bad? “That yeah, actually. Yeah.” I look around us briefly, make sure no one’s eavesdropping. “Yeah, I, uh...” I briefly rub my palm against my forehead, trying to focus. “I guess you caught me.”

“No way,” Bob says, scandalised. “You? Really? Man, I don’t get that vibe from you at all! Bren, he plays for your team!”

“Yeah, I know,” Brendon says, now looking up, smile stretched thin. Forced. “I know.”

Bob huffs. “And I’m out of the loop?” But he seems more intrigued than offended.

Dallon wouldn’t lie about his homosexuality – if amongst friends, anyway. Dallon wouldn’t lie, he wouldn’t be a coward. I won’t be either. Can’t Brendon see how I’m not pretending anymore? I’ll be honest for him. I’ll take that plunge, and it’s terrifying in case he doesn’t know it. It’s terrifying.

“So you and Chris..?” Bob asks nosily.

“Just a past conquest, that’s all. Clearly acting a bit clingy.”

“Nice,” Bob laughs, finding this all to be amusing, that I’ve slept with Bonzo’s cousin – Bonzo, of course, doesn’t know that and hopefully never will.

“He looks young,” Brendon now says. His tone is harsh. “How old was he back then? Seventeen?”

“Eighteen. Pretty sure he was eighteen.”

“Sleeping with kids,” he says and takes a long sip. I was twenty-four, Chris was eighteen and willing. Kids these days, they’re all so willing.

“Hey, if they’re legal, they’re legal,” Bob says like that’s that. He’s not criticising me. Brendon is.

I tried to be honest here, thought Brendon would... appreciate that, be awed that I’m being upfront about it. That I sleep with guys. Thought he’d be impressed, but he’s clearly pissed off. It was four years ago. Why do I feel like I need to justify a kid I slept with a few times four years ago?

Bob looks pensive. “I’m still confused, though. You’re known for breaking girls’ hearts, man. I mean, do you like both or...?”

I want to shrug and say who knows, give a speech on why do we need to label things, anyway. But again I think of Dallon and how he rants about these things, how Brendon approves. I think of the times when Brendon and I first met, how in the same breath I told him I wasn’t gay and if he could please get on all fours for me. I know that hurt him, fucked with his mind.

Brendon’s now giving me the cold shoulder.

Don’t be mad at me for this. It was a different time, a different me. I wouldn’t sleep with Chris now – he’s beautiful, but so what? It doesn’t give him meaning.

“I’m mostly gay.” And that’s as firm as I can make that statement. I wait for Brendon to give me his approval for having said it. There, I said it.

“No way,” Bob repeats, still caught up in this. “Wow, so you got a, you know, a significant other back home? Back in Maine?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

Brendon is very persistently not looking at me. His forehead gets wrinkles as his brows knit together, like he’s deep in thought or something extremely unpleasant is running through his head.

“Ah,” Bob grins. “So there is someone.”

Brendon’s eyes are fixed somewhere over my shoulder. Chris will be back in a second with drinks, and he’ll be overly obvious and wanting me to take him back to the hotel, but no, I won’t, but Brendon will see Chris coming onto me anyway. And now Bob is bringing up Clifton, who is not a teenager, in my defence: he’s older than me, he didn’t need seducing and I certainly did not take advantage of him.

But this is something I don’t want to discuss in front of Brendon. I don’t want to fill his head with stories of guys I’ve fucked, and I certainly don’t want him to think there is someone else, that there ever has been.

“No, I mean – there was a guy but it was just a casual arrangement,” I try to clarify, and Bob laughs like he thinks I’m being bashful. “No, really, it was casual. We weren’t together, last summer we just started to, you know –”

“Since last summer?” Brendon now cuts in, efficiently shutting me up. “Wow.” He clears his throat. “Wow, that’s a long time.”

The more I talk, the worse I make this for myself.

“Your secret’s safe with me, man,” Bob says, and I know it is. He pats my shoulder and looks into the crowd where, when I turn to look, Chris is now navigating back our way, two whisky glasses in hand. Bob gives me a confidential look like we’re on the same page and then takes off like he’ll leave us to it. I don’t want to be left to it. I have no interest in some kid I boned four fucking years ago.

“Well, enjoy,” Brendon says, and it sounds angry and bitter although he’s trying to sound disinterested.

I block him. Try to establish eye contact to no avail, feel desperate when he refuses to look me in the eye. God, what is he? Angry? Jealous? Disappointed?

“Bren, look, I know that all sounds bad –”

“Hey, each to their own, man,” he shrugs. He then holds my gaze as if he’s challenging me.

My hands curl into restless fists at my sides. “Do we need to talk about this?” The words are rushed. “Because you know that – that doesn’t mean anything. You know how we men are. We’re horny, right? It doesn’t have to be...”

“Ryan,” he laughs, but it’s angry, still angry. “I don’t care who you fuck. Why would that matter to me?”

And there is nothing but stony indifference in his eyes. Something in me breaks. Because I’m back there, on the outside looking in. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking. His brown eyes are a wall, not giving anything away.

I’ve hurt him.

It’s only ever mattered with you. The words are there, a lump in my throat: only you. And I’ve fucked men in between and I’ve gotten fucked in turn, but he is the only man whose sounds and weak spots I’ve memorised, he is the only one who I wanted to make mine. It’s only ever mattered with him.

But I can’t say it.

“I’ll catch you later,” he says, and I let him go. Watch him leave, pass Chris on the way.

My eyes find Dallon talking to Spencer and a girl who I assume is Alison – petite and pretty with long chestnut coloured hair, and she’s pressing to Spencer’s side slightly. Dallon spots Brendon just then, breaks into a smile and waves him over, and Brendon heads that way. And it’s probably safe to say that in that conversation, a random guy Dallon fucked after a break up with Brendon won’t show up and ruin everything. Because they have a clean slate, those two.

And my good intentions and starting overs don’t matter.

You can’t build on debris. I’ve tried, but you can’t.

The realisation of it hits me, then, as a hollow entity that takes up all the space within me: I’ll always hurt Brendon. There will always be something.

“Here you go,” Chris says, having reached me, eyes still smiling and asking to be fucked. I take the drink from him and down it in one go.

Chris laughs.

It’s good that someone does.

Regent’s Park manages to feel vibrant despite the February cold. The band’s wrapped up their two songs in Abbey Road Studios and we’ve decided to take a small excursion. It’s late afternoon and it’s chilly, but the sun is casting a pale light on the leafless trees. The grass is a suffering green, and we disperse as we all walk at different paces. Sisky remains by my side, keeps asking me if I’m alright and if something’s wrong. I don’t reply. Just keep my eye on Brendon and Dallon walking ahead of the rest, their arms touching.

The clarity in my chest is painful. This day is painful. But it’s my own fault, what can I say? I had it coming. Sweet karma rolling over the park in the breath of the soft wind, reaching me and penetrating my black coat. I feel it in my bones.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Sisky asks. “I was thinking of seeing Buckingham Palace.”

I have no plans for our day off, but hiding at Spencer’s sounds like a good idea.

“I don’t know.”

Sisky looks at me with concern. “Ry, you’re not alright.”

“I know.”

He keeps peering at me and then sighs. Gives up. I can’t talk about it.

We reach the lake, and the guys start looking around for flat stones in the gravel, to try and skip stones. Sisky decides that I’m too depressing company even for him, and I keep my distance, watch them at it. Bob gets seven skips and then tries to teach Sisky his secret.

I feel completely detached from their carefree outing.

It doesn’t matter that I made damn sure that everyone – and by everyone I mean Brendon – saw me leaving the pub alone last night. That it was obvious I ditched Chris almost instantly, some common courtesy aside. It doesn’t matter because Brendon’s barely looked at me today. He looks more of the same: like he hasn’t slept at all, and neither did he eat during the brief lunch break, just smoked a few cigarettes and had coffee.

I let him down. Somehow. Without even trying.

Dallon’s moved along from the group, and he sits down on a bench not too far away from the rest. It seems like he’s happy to observe too. Brendon’s kept walking along the shore, the collar of his coat turned upwards, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He’s never looked as tired as he does today. I doubt he’s had a proper night’s sleep since the tour started: he naps here and there, and that’s it. He’s busy, he’s always busy. Now it’s something else on top of the band pressure.

I had something to do with that. He would never admit it, but I’m relatively sure of it.

I light up a cigarette and walk over to the bench where Dallon is. I say, “Smoke?” and offer him the cigarette pack.

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

I laugh. “Well of course you don’t.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me, but I only pocket the pack, sit down by him and smoke. Be kind about it, blow the smoke away from us. Watch Brendon walking along the shore slowly.

I wanted to show Brendon this place. I wanted to take him down to the bridge, stop in the middle of it and point out to him the shore of the tiny island nearby because I stood there four years back, I stood there at nine in the morning, hungover and heartbroken, thinking about him, about the memory of him that was slipping away. It was spring. And swans, I’d like to think migrating swans, suddenly landed in the water in front of me. They’re majestic animals, bigger than you think. Flapping their wings, water splashing, sparkling white, craning long necks. And there was beauty in the world. Even without my band and my best friend, even with everything I felt that I had lost – and back then I truly felt that I had lost it all – beauty in this world remained. I realised that I could... fuck up again and again, I could be ugly and hideous inside, but I would never take this world down with me.

It was an important lesson to learn. I wanted to tell Brendon about that. I wanted to show him that place, take him there, just the two of us. Lean against the bridge railing early in the morning with no one else in sight. Have my arm around his waist. Tell him that I became good that day. I became a little bit better.

But not good enough. Never good enough.

“Take him sight-seeing tomorrow.”

“Sorry?” Dallon asks, probably having assumed that I planned on saying nothing.

“We’re in London. He likes it here, haven’t you noticed? He likes it. And he’s never been here before, but he’s just been doing interviews or shows or he’s been at the studio. He hasn’t seen London, so show him around town – Tower Bridge, Big Ben. Nothing wrong with a few clichés. Walk along the Thames, take him out for dinner. But don’t offer to pay for it, he won’t like that. Remember to treat him as an equal. He doesn’t need to be looked after.”

“Of course.” Dallon’s listening to every word I say, soaking it up. My smoke’s now forgotten between my fore and middle finger. The more I speak, the hollower I feel, but I force myself to go on.

“And don’t be intrusive and ask him to open up. He’ll tell you eventually when he’s ready. Because if you try to push him, you’ll only push him away. You need to be patient with him, but it’s worth it. It’ll be worth it.” I flick the cigarette and specks of ash drop onto my black shoes. I don’t look at Dallon, his expectant face that’s just visible from the corner of my eye, and I don’t look at Brendon, walking along the shoreline. “Ask him about his favourite Bowie tunes. And Costello’s in town, I know Bren’s been digging his music. Get Mike to hunt him down for you, I think Brendon would love to meet him.” A silence ensues. “Alright?”

Is that enough? Will that do?

“Yeah, those are great ideas,” he says, sounding grateful. I know they are. I know Brendon. I know what I’d show him if I could, I know how I’d spoil him if he gave me the chance.

“I know it’s...” I start but then words fail me. It burns right then, actually doing this. It burns in my guts, and a huge part of me – no, all of me, all of me is fucking broken over this. All night and all day, I’ve known that this is what I need to do. That it’s time. “It’s fucking cliché, but he’s special. He’s really fucking special.” I look at Dallon, meet his blue eyes. He doesn’t have me figured out, I can see that much. “And if you hurt him.”

“I’d never –”

“No, you listen to me,” I say, cutting him off, my tone now angry. “If you hurt him, you’re done. You’ll never work in the music industry again. Is that understood?”

He frowns even as he nods. “Yes, sir.”

Sir. Some kind of innate Mormon upbringing breaking through just then.

Okay then. Well, okay.

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you,” Dallon says.

Lucky? I don’t know if that’s what Brendon would call it. He was never lucky.

I don’t reply because I’ve said everything that needed to be said. I did my part, and it kills me. But I did good. Hey, I did good. I swear.

I squint and see something white out on the lake. A swan, one of the swans from four years ago. Bearing witness: and then the letting go. Have I qualified for humanity at last?

But then I blink, and I see nothing.

Chapter Text

The knock on my hotel room door is sharp and hard, but I’m up, I am, I am. It’s ten to five in the morning, and I’m awake and good to go.

“Who is it?” I call out as I head to the door, eyeing the room to locate a few still scattered items that have not been packed yet.

“Sisky.”

When I open the door, the kid is standing in the corridor, holding his old, squared suitcase in one hand, his leather satchel in the other. I thought he’d be the last one up, moaning about lack of sleep and middle of the night departures at ungodly hours, but he looks surprisingly ready to leave London behind.

“Come in.” I head back inside. “I’ve still got a few bits and pieces...”

I hear the door closing behind me, a soft thud as he puts his luggage down. My suitcase is still on the bed, my clothes a mess in it.

“Where were you last night?” he asks.

I press down suit jackets in the suitcase, hoping they’ll miraculously take less space by me doing so. “Hmm?”

“Last night. Yesterday. All of it, really. You weren’t here. I tried to find you.”

“Spencer’s.” My notebook is on top of the pile. I haven’t written anything in it, though I took it to Spencer’s, and I took it out in the taxi back, thinking maybe words would pour out. But nothing has. Like the well’s gone dry. And so instead I just sat in the backseat, watching the heavy rain wash the streets of London.

“Spencer’s,” he repeats, tone somewhat dead.

Against my better judgement, I ask, “Why?”

I try to sound clinically disinterested. I hear Sisky sigh and see him move to the armchair that’s just in my peripheral vision. Something’s wrong, I can tell that right off the bat, but I don’t know if I truly want him to tell me. I made myself scarce on purpose yesterday, and I’ve done such a good job not thinking about the band’s day off and what everyone got up to. I even managed to sleep for two hours before the four o’clock alarm.

“You should’ve been here last night,” he says at length.

“Yeah? Did you guys have a good time?”

“No, I mean...” His knees have started bouncing. “Look, Ryan... I don’t know how to tell you, so. So I’m just gonna tell you.” He twists his hands. Unpleasant news, clearly. “Brendon and... Dallon. They weren’t around last night either, and Bob said that they’d gone out. Which, you know, is fine. But, uh. I saw them coming back. Or well, I saw them outside Brendon’s room.”

Coming back from their date.

I then know what Sisky’s witnessed, what he’s going to say: a goodnight kiss. Press of skin on skin. Guess it’s official, then. Guess it was a successful date, guess Dallon was everything Brendon hoped for and then some. Guess they’re meant to be. Good. Good, good, good. My insides burn, but I knew it would happen. I’ve accepted it. Almost.

Not at all, really.

“I don’t want to be the one to tell you,” Sisky then says, sighing. “But you need to know.”

“I already do.”

“No, you don’t know this. You don’t.”

“Sisky –”

“I think they’d gotten caught in the rain, they were soaked through. And they were laughing and- and standing really close to one another. And they were holding hands.” He pauses. “And then Dallon went in with Brendon.”

I stop in my packing then. I stare at a tie, a dark blackish brown with red dots on it, one of my favourites. I stare at it. My brain can’t process anything else. “What?”

“That’s why I tried to find you! I came knocking on your door but you weren’t here, and nobody knew where you were. If you’d been here,” he says, and he gazes at me with big, sorry eyes when I finally look at him.

“Oh.”

It’s all I can say.

I knew that they were going out. I knew it, and I couldn’t stomach being here for it, waiting and wondering, so I was at Spencer’s. Alison made dinner, she’s a lovely girl. Kind but not a pushover. Made Spencer wash the dishes since she had cooked. She also realised when to go home and leave us be, smoking and drinking and chatting and listening to records.

I didn’t tell Spencer what was wrong although he could easily tell that things weren’t right. I didn’t want to discuss it. So be it.

But... in my head. First date. A peck on the lips. They’d take it slow, surely, Dallon is the kind of guy who’d take it slow – hasn’t he been raving about true love and meeting someone special? And I thought I’d get used to it gradually, accept it and be better for it. But they... on the first date. Last night. They –

Guess Dallon’s just human after all.

“Fuck,” I breathe, my hand coming up to rub at my mouth. Try to get the sickening feeling to subside. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. Realise how ridiculous I’m being. It was going to happen sooner rather than later, right? Right. “It’s fine,” I force myself to say, now hurriedly going back to trying to compartmentalise my clothes – shirts there, ties there. “It’s fine.”

“But –”

“It’s fine! It is. I mean, what should I have done?” I ask with a bitter chuckle. “Break the door down? Stop two consenting adults?” I spit out the last words.

“I don’t know,” Sisky says, sounding anguished.

I try to pretend it has no effect on me, but it does: momentarily everything seems to slip away. My body feels weak, my knees feel weak, but I will take this like a man, I will. I will take this standing. And I don’t know what Sisky wants me to say: that I’m jealous and full of unrequited love? Well, I am.

But so be that too.

It’s my cross to bear, and it’s not his business or anyone else’s.

“How long will this tour last for again?” I ask jokingly. When is it okay to go home?

But this’ll do me good. Watching them. I’ll get used to it. I will.

I stop fussing with my fucking suitcase and step back from the bed. I fight the longing burn on my tongue. Focus on breathing. “Hey, I’m happy for them. Or well – I will be.” I nod solemnly, forcing myself to calm down. “I will be happy for them one day.”

Sisky stares at me like he can’t understand what’s coming out of my mouth. “But... But you love him.” It sounds like an accusation if there ever was one. When I don’t react, he sighs. “God, I don’t understand you!”

“You’re too young.”

“Don’t say that!” he snarls, agitated. “I hate it when people say that, that you’ll understand when you’re older. Why is that a good thing? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the older you get, the more fucked up you become? And that maybe those younger than you have a healthier perspective on things.”

“This isn’t about you!” I snap and feel guilty for it. I don’t mean to raise my voice at him when it’s not his fault, but this is so fucking hard for me, can’t he see that? This is hard but I’m trying, I am trying, and he needs to let me try. He’s being a selfish little prick right now. God, this is not about him. And it’s all a bit too late, isn’t it? They spent the night together. What does Sisky expect me to do? Turn back time?

I can’t.

“We’re putting it to rest,” I say with finality. “Alright? I can admit that I... hoped. Or thought. For a while, I mean, I thought that maybe...” But Brendon isn’t mine. He and I would be doomed, are doomed, so we’re moving on. I’m distancing myself from him: he has his own life. I’ll never be a part of it as anything more than a friend or as the guy who screwed him over. It’s not my business what he gets up to in his hotel room with guys who adore him. It’s not. “I’ll be alright, you know,” I then tell Sisky because I know he’s worried about me. I step back to my suitcase and smooth a few poorly folded shirts. Take in a breath. “Thanks for telling me.”

He says nothing for a long time, just watches me. Then he whispers, “Sure.”

I close the suitcase, lock it and grab the handle. The cars to the airport should pick up the band and crew soon: off to Paris for two days. Stay in another hotel before we’re properly back on the road and living on the bus again: Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Italy and wherever else. It’ll be hard to keep my distance from Brendon in a confined environment like that, but I’ll manage.

And Brendon wouldn’t flaunt it in front of me. He’s not that sadistic.

I hope.

“Good to go?” I ask. I feel like Sisky’s giving me an attitude even as he accepts the inevitable fate of what I’m telling him. He nods. Accepts it.

I step out onto the corridor first, and Sisky follows me, carrying his bags again.

I’m feeling my jacket pocket for the room key when I notice that the corridor is not deserted: two doors down, Brendon has emerged from his room. He’s looking our way, a definition of five in the morning: his hair is a mess, his clothes hanging off of him awkwardly, his eyes tired. He is likewise holding a suitcase.

“Morning,” he says. He’s on time. He is nothing but punctual with this band, but I’m surprised this time: he is usually tired after sex – well, that depends on how much you tire him out, how long you go at it. But if you fuck for a good while, like he and I used to, then he’ll be tired. And if the last time he got laid was more than a month back, then last night must have been very welcomed. He would have kept asking for more. Dallon looks like the kind of guy who knows how to please, who can keep on going, so Brendon most likely was relaxed and sated and sleepy afterwards, curled up under the covers, come stains on the sheets. It’s hard to wake him up from that slumber, to kick him out of bed so really, it’s impressive that he’s on time.

And it flashes through my mind: his hair – messy, tousled sex hair, pulling on it, head thrown back into the pillow – and the bags under his eyes, not tour exhaustion but from staying up all night fucking.

I see him, and all I see are telltale signs.

He looks our way a bit funnily. He looks debauched.

My stomach turns at how wrong it is.

“Hey,” I return. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he says and then coughs slightly, pressing a hand to his chest and rubbing absently.

“Okay. See you downstairs.”

“Sure.” And he looks away from us.

Sisky’s lingering, definitely lingering, and I place a commanding hand on the back of his neck because it always works with him. Otherwise he’d just stay there, making googly eyes between Brendon and me. But I apply pressure to the back of his neck, and he falls in step with me, heading for the elevator. He hangs his head, but I feel him relaxing. Giving up on it.

I don’t look back at Brendon, but I don’t have to. I’ll always remember the way he looks this morning, on the first morning after.

I think of all those dramatic teenagers who say things like “I’ll die without you” or “I just can’t go on”, or even Harry’s “I can’t live if living is without you”. They all have it wrong. Because sure, it feels like that. But it’s not true. You don’t die without them, you do go on, and you can live if living is without them. And the sooner you realise that, the better it is for you.

Time keeps moving on. The world does not stop for you.

And I wish I could’ve... I wish we could have... Well, never mind now.

Never do we mind.

And the indescribable loss is my home.

That sounds like a lyric.

I better write that down.

“Smile,” Sisky commands, stabbing me in the ribs as he pokes me with a pointy finger. “Smile!”

I sigh irately and smile for the picture that an elderly German woman is taking with Sisky’s camera. The mild wind blows our hair as we pose for her, standing on the bridge and leaning against the railing. Sisky already took a picture of her – tourist kindness exchange. She now snaps one of us.

Sisky hurries to take the camera from her, thanking her repeatedly – “Thank you, merci, danke, thanks!” He winds the film ready for the next shot. I turn back to face the river, the water murky and uninviting. I hold on to the large paper bag that’s got two LPs in it, one for me and one for Sisky. We bought them on a visit to my favourite Parisian record store. It’s twilight now, and the day has been long. It’s been long, long, long – woke up in a different country. Now I watch as the street lights turn on one by one.

“Oh, I hope that’ll turn out well,” Sisky says, fiddling with the camera as his elbows rest against the thick railing. “Hope there was enough light to get the tower in.”

I eye the Eiffel Tower looming not too far away, appearing from behind buildings. I think there’s no way it can be missed.

My feet ache from having walked all over for hours, but Sisky’s been excited and bubbly, and it’s been a good distraction. We sent his mother that card she asked for – I remembered, Sisky didn’t. Sat in a restaurant with a view to the Seine, me telling him what to write as we waited for the food.

His Side has had a full day of PR today. I don’t do interviews – the press conference in Copenhagen was it. Our show in Paris isn’t until tomorrow night, and so Sisky and I decided to go out today, and we walked in the Luxembourg Gardens and I bought him a record and then took him out for dinner. I haven’t spoken much all day, but he speaks for us both, discussing anything and everything: look at this fork, Ryan, look at how long the tines are, I don’t think they’re this long back home, are these French tines, do you think?

He’s trying to keep my mind busy. I appreciate the effort. The pain of it all has become a persistent yet dull throb at the bottom of my stomach. It’s unceasingly there, but I can live with it. It’s just another thing to get used to.

“I’m interviewing Jon in... twenty minutes,” he now says, checking his wristwatch.

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh. I didn’t pester him or nothing! ...That much. But we’ll talk about The Whiskeys. That’s exciting.”

“Well, you don’t want to be late,” I say.

He bums a cigarette off of me. He doesn’t smoke that much, says his mother doesn’t approve but she’s not here, is she?

The streets are so French, he muses, tall poplars on both sides of the street, old, elegant buildings with pastel coloured facades behind them. He doesn’t really know where he’s going – he doesn’t have much of a sense of direction. I know where we are, however, taking us back to the hotel that’s just as high class as the Savoy Hotel in London was. Mike says that it’s a bit of a luxury, sure, but it’s important to act the part of a rock star: that’s how you become one.

The large beige building eventually comes up on our left, two concierges out front in the cold, wearing gloves and caps. Not too far away from them is a group of a dozen or so kids – news always leaks somehow. Sisky takes the LP bag from me as the fans rush over for pictures and autographs, and the concierges come over to try and usher them away. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Ross,” a girl says breathlessly when it’s her turn, and I smile back at her, sign her copy of Wolf’s Teeth. The commotion is brief but very French – a male fan starts arguing with a concierge loudly and angrily, and I don’t understand a word but he’s throwing his hands up in the air dramatically.

Sisky opens the door for me as we hurry inside, me having to almost escape when someone tries to hold onto the sleeve of my coat. The door closes. Forms a barrier. We take our gloves off, unbutton the tops of our coats. Exhale and relax.

“I’m meeting Jon at the bar,” Sisky says. “You wanna come say hi?”

I don’t feel like sitting alone in my room just yet. Paris, the city of love – and me alone in my room, going through the minibar. No, that doesn’t sound appealing.

The bar is on the first floor, chandeliers glittering, a piano in the corner, jazzy twenties music being played by a pianist in a tux. The furniture looks like it’s antique, rococo couches and armchairs. Jon is already there in a corner table, sipping on transparent liquid – water or vodka or gin. Probably gin. He’s facing us and lifts a hand in greeting, talking to someone we can’t see because the chair’s back is to us.

“You’re early!” Sisky says when we get there.

Jon smirks. “You’re late.”

Now that we’ve reached the table, the occupier of the armchair is visible: Brendon. I stop slightly. Push visuals of him and Dallon out of my mind, nip the jealousy in the bud. Let it be. Ignore the way that the loss instantly burns hotter.

“How’s your day been?” Jon asks, motioning us to sit down, so we do. I sit next to Jon on the loveseat, the fabric a mix of azure and cream coloured swirls, and Sisky sits down on a simpler armchair covered in purple velvet.

“It’s been amazing,” Sisky says and then begins to recap everything we did. “And Ryan bought me Greta Salpeter’s album, you know her, well of course you do, we found her album, Ryan bought it for me, here it is, isn’t that great? I have it, of course, but this is a European version, the tracklist is different.” He shows it off to everyone: the cover is of Greta standing in the middle of a sunflower field. It’s very her. “And we saw the Notre Dame and we walked along the Seine and Ryan took me out for dinner and I had an oyster as an appetiser. An oyster! It was disgusting! I loved it!” When Sisky is finally done sharing details that are probably of little interest to others, he says, “What about you guys?”

“Uh, we were here,” Jon says. “Giving interviews. We had, uh...”

“Fifteen,” Brendon says, and his voice is scratchy and worn out like he’s been speaking all day. I take a look at what he’s drinking: tea with a lemon slice in it. A white jar of honey is next to his teacup.

“Fifteen interviews today.”

“Wow,” Sisky says. Yeah, wow. “But you don’t mind one more?” he now asks and makes puppy eyes at Jon.

“At this point I’m numb, man. Numb. As long as you don’t ask how this guy over here –” He points at me, “– has influenced His Side’s music, I’m dandy. I won’t even notice.”

I keep my eyes on Brendon, who isn’t paying much attention to the conversation. His cheeks are slightly rosy, and his eyes are glazed. In a word, he looks like shit. It’s not very easy for someone as beautiful as him to manage that.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Hmm?” He blinks and looks at me. Then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, my throat just feels a bit...” He rubs his Adam’s apple. “Dallon and I got caught in the rain last night. Maybe I caught something. It’s not bad. I’ve got tea.”

“I keep telling him to go sleep, but he insisted on waiting until – on keeping me company.” Jon takes his gin to his lips, takes a gulp. I look between him and Brendon but don’t know what to make of whatever brief silent exchange they do. Jon puts his drink down and dramatically slaps his thigh. “I’m ready to be interviewed, Sisky. I’m ready. Bring it on. Where we doing this?”

“My Dictaphone’s in my room. I need to set it up first. Give me five minutes. I’m room…” He digs out a key from his pocket. Blinks. Flushes. “Uh. I’m 708.” He clears his throat. “I forgot about that.”

I think for a few seconds everyone avoids eye contact with everyone.

My own fault for writing such an honest song. Letting it all pour out.

That’s another thing Brendon and I have never talked about: I put all of my embarrassingly honest yet crushed hopes of us into that song, and he’s heard the lyrics, he’s heard the song. But we’ve never talked about it. He and I, we just let these things slide.

“Okay, I’ll be there in five,” Jon says. Sisky picks up the LPs and his coat, smiling at us nervously as he heads back out. A waiter comes over, then, a white cloth over his arm, starched to perfection. I tell him I don’t want anything while Jon hands him his empty glass. “You two had quite an outing,” Jon then says, and I shrug. I suppose so, yeah. “You spoil him, you do know that, right?”

I shrug again. What’s the point of having money if I can’t make others happy with it? And I could start babbling about how Sisky’s dad isn’t around much at all, about how Sisky juggled high school and a job cleaning cinema bathrooms to have the money to go to Followers shows. He’s never been to Paris – he might never come to Paris again. Give back a little is all I’m saying. Why not? But I don’t need to justify myself to Jon or to anyone else.

“You know, about that interview,” I then say, choosing my words carefully. “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to. If the kid gets too nosy, that is.”

“I’m sure it’ll be alright,” Jon shrugs, waving it off.

“I’m just saying. Sisky can be very persistent.”

Brendon takes a sip of his tea and then coughs slightly. He puts the tea down. The contrast between him, sitting here fatigued by travel and constant interviews, and the overly decorated bar is like watching a shaggy stray dog dining in a five star restaurant. We’re all tired, and I’ve seen him tired, but this is the first time genuine worry for his well-being crosses my mind.

I’ve got half a mind to tell him to go to bed, to escort him to his room and make sure he does just that.

But what he does with his life isn’t my business anymore.

“Just don’t tell any overly embarrassing stories about me,” I then tell Jon. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh, I can’t promise that,” Jon says as he and I both rise to stand.

“Jon can say whatever he wants,” Brendon now cuts in. “Sisky adores you, so he’ll still fawn all over you.”

“Sorry?” I ask, unsure of how to react to the bitter edge in his words.

He shrugs to himself, not looking at me. “Love is not only blind, it’s stupid as well.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You said that to me once,” he states, but I don’t care if I have – I don’t see how he’s in a position to comment on things he knows nothing of. I haven’t said a word on him and Dallon and their incapability to keep their hands to themselves, and I won’t say anything on it either. And then he- I don’t even know. Starts being snarky about Sisky. He sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Try to get some sleep,” I tell him, and he nods, still not looking at me.

Jon follows me out of the bar, and together we wait for the elevator to arrive. “He’s just tired,” Jon explains. “He’s so committed to this band that he does too much, you know? He’s tired.”

“Yeah.”

But I’m not even angry. There is no sense to Brendon’s remarks, and I don’t take it personally. Of course love is stupid and blind, but how is that connected to Sisky interviewing Jon, I have no clue. But it feels like that wasn’t about the kid, it felt like Brendon was ticked off at me. And this is the perfect opportunity for me to distance myself and not obsess over that. Not wonder why he’d be a bit testy when he and Dallon have finally consummated their relationship.

Now is a good time for me to change.

The elevator arrives, the doors opening. I stop. Find changing harder.

Dallon steps out, breaking into a smile. A spring in his step, joy in his heart. I fight off the dark dislike that erupts in me, the undeniable jealousy. “Is Bren at the bar?” he asks, and Jon nods in confirmation. Dallon smiles wider, gets this warm look in his eyes. Post-coital high. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jon says fraternally, clearly clueless. Dallon and Brendon are keeping it on the down low. At least there’s that.

Jon yawns when we step in and press the button for the seventh floor. I’m not as clueless as he is, but I push the thoughts and mental images out of my mind because I have to. I resist the urge to press the stop button although a part of me is desperate to do just that. Head back down there, storm right in and do what Sisky wanted me to do: stop two consenting adults. And why?

Because we are selfish creatures.

But I refrain. Breathe in.

Let this play out like it has to.

The following day we’re back to doing what we do best: playing music.

We get to the venue in the afternoon and start getting ready for soundcheck. It’s our first show in five days, and we feel nervous all over again, like maybe we’ve forgotten how to put on a good show. Jon talks about how tough Parisian crowds are as they don’t warm up easily. The show isn’t sold out either, although all the UK shows were after word got out that I was a touring member. “Paris isn’t fazed by you,” Jon says as we stand around on stage, waiting for Bob and Quentin to finish setting up the drum kit.

“I’m not fazed by Paris,” I return, somewhat distracted.

This is half-true: Paris isn’t as magical as it’s claimed to be. Still, the venue did get to me a little bit. Outside it looks like a massive, mint coloured nineteenth century greenhouse fit for an empress’s garden, glass on all sides. Inside it looks more like what we’re used to: a large hall that fits a few thousand, a large stage at the back.

Mike keeps obsessing over ticket sales, and the guys are busy setting up the gear and triple checking what should be an automated process by now. I, however, keep glancing at Brendon. He’s got his sunburst Les Paul hanging off of his lean form, and he’s tuning it with a pick between his teeth, eyes on the pedal tuner amidst his other pedals. And it’s a normal sight, nothing extraordinary there. Not really. Except that he looks even worse today than he did yesterday.

He coughs just then – it’s a clean cough, it doesn’t sound rough like the air has to fight its way out. But it’s still strong, and then he can’t stop. The pick drops from his lips, and he keeps coughing, eyes closing in irritation. His cheeks are a faint pink as his hand presses to his chest.

He keeps saying that it’s nothing. He’s loaded himself up with lemon-honey tea and some painkillers, but he refuses to take anything that might make him drowsy for the show. Out of the entire crew, I think only Jon, Dallon and I are expressing the right amount of concern for his health.

“Hey, can we get some water?” I now ask a venue worker who’s been setting the stage lights. “Water?” I repeat and motion at Brendon who’s still coughing. The big guy nods and takes off.

Jon’s walked over to Brendon and is now gently patting his back. “You alright, bud?”

Brendon manages to stop the coughing, having doubled over slightly. He stands straighter, takes deep breaths and nods excessively. “Yeah. It just – My throat hurts. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“Is it a cold?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“Does anything else hurt?”

“Ryan,” he says. “I’m fine. Really.”

He glares at me, but I’m not convinced. I’ve seen him flushed like this before but that was after two rounds of sex and involved getting him off three times. His skin was pink like it is now and looked overly warm. I walk over and press my palm to his forehead. He flinches and then recoils, instantly stepping back.

“You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve got a fever,” I state seriously, now looking around. “Where’s Mike? We need to cancel the show. We’ll get you back to the hotel and –”

“Would you shut up?” he snaps angrily. “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all! We’re certainly not cancelling a fucking show just because my throat is a bit sore.”

“But –”

“I’m the leader of this fucking band, and we’re not discussing this anymore! Is that understood?”

He stares me down defiantly. I back down. Fine, be that way. Fine. Stupid fucking boy. I return his glare with one of my own, but the worry is lodged in my throat and unwilling to move.

Brendon reluctantly and slowly drinks the water brought by the light technician and doesn’t even look my way for the rest of the soundcheck.

He doesn’t look any better later when we’re about to go on. We’ve changed into our stage clothes and are good to go, and when we gather in a circle for a pre-show prep talk, my hand lands over Brendon’s when we put them in the middle. The back of his hand feels hot, but he’s no longer flushed: instead he is pale and looks visibly ill.

Jon notices his appearance too and says, “You take it easy out there tonight.”

I almost cringe. God, that is not what he should have said. And I can see it in Brendon’s eyes, his reaction to Jon’s concern: the hell I will.

Offstage Brendon looks nauseous, he is shivering, but he’s been snapping at everyone so no one dares to say a thing. Dallon keeps hovering around him, though, and Brendon lets him come close. Not anyone else.

But once we get on stage, he appears almost the same. Almost. He takes the mic defiantly, even, speaks some French that I now know Dallon’s taught him – all that French Brendon said in Montreal? Dallon at work.

The crowd is into it, considering they’re snobby Parisians. And Brendon entertains, sinks down to his knees to sing the high, high last note of Wandering Lips, which might be a song about Brendon and me but – I’ve never asked. It’s poppy, the song, about sex and some betrayal.

But between songs, Brendon clings onto the microphone stand, head drooping. He almost sways like it’s hard for him to keep his balance, but then he shakes it off. He forgets some lyrics, but he manages to cover it up some. And when he sings Unsteady, he doesn’t go over to Dallon to seductively share the mic and to tell Dallon that he tastes like no one else he knows – which is fact for the first time tonight. But now Brendon stays by the microphone stand, holding onto it. It’s hard for me to play because I keep watching him with growing concern. He takes time between songs, breathing hard like he’s running out of breath.

Even so, he doesn’t stop. He struggles through it – he has good and bad moments.

Finally we kick into the slow tempoed Evidently Ours, the last song before the encore. It hasn’t been a good show. Brendon hasn’t done a good job, I haven’t done a good job – none of us have. It reflects on the crowd, too, they seem stilted and unreceptive, apart from the dedicated ones that are in the front rows.

When the song comes to an end, Brendon lifts a hand in greeting for the crowd, but then it drops like he doesn’t have the energy to keep it up. I hastily discard my guitar, putting it down on the floor too quickly, and it bangs against the stage and the sound echoes through the amplifiers, an angry hiss that hurts my ears.

“You alright?” I ask the second Brendon’s reached me. I try to speak over the screaming crowd. He nods, swallowing hard. He’s shivering. Adrenalin or maybe not. Even his lips are chalk coloured, the skin around his eyes red. He’s covered in sweat from the show and the hot spotlights, and the contrast of that to his paleness is off, doesn’t follow.

“I’m fine,” he says, and then repeats, “I’m fine,” when Dallon joins us, looking pale himself but only from worry. Dallon places a hand between Brendon’s shoulder blades.

Mike is waiting for us offstage. “Bren, shit, are you okay?”

It seems like the half-assed show has been enough to make even Mike worry. Brendon presses a palm to his temple like he’s got a splitting headache, his eyes screwed shut even as he nods that he’s fine.

Mike calls out, “Someone get him some water!”

Sisky runs off instantly. Quentin, Leo and Dick are on stage, getting it ready for the encore as the crowd chants for us to return.

Jon and Bob have now joined us too, and hands land on Brendon’s shoulders, sympathy and concern. He brushes them off. “Stop fucking crowding me!” he snaps and walks away from us, holding his head, shaking it like he’s trying to snap out of it.

Sisky returns with a glass of water, and Dallon automatically takes it. I need to force myself to keep my arm by my side because I wanted to go for the glass, I wanted to take over and take care of him, but – but I guess that’s what the boyfriend does, and that’s not me. Dallon goes over to Brendon while the rest of us look at one another worriedly, sighing, chewing our lips, unsure of what to do.

Dallon soon returns, the glass still with him and still full. “He doesn’t want any, says it hurts to swallow,” he explains. His ineptitude astounds me.

I look to where Brendon is standing by himself, rocking back and forth slightly, mumbling to himself – lyrics if I had to guess, remember the lyrics and don’t fuck up again.

“Let me,” I say because doesn’t Dallon get that it’s not about what Brendon fucking wants. And I know it’s his place now, not mine, but Brendon’s ill, and am I – Fuck, am I expected to just stand here and do nothing?

I can’t do that.

And so I take the glass from Dallon, and I quickly walk over to Brendon. “Drink this,” I say, and he shakes his head. “Fucking drink it!”

He shakes his head again but then looks towards the stage. His eyes are glazed. “What songs are we doing for the encore?” he asks, voice husky. “T-The, uh. I don’t. I don’t remember what we’ve played...”

The encore is always the same: the roadies get the keyboards out, so first we play A Re-enactment, a hauntingly, painfully and brutally honest song that could be about anyone, really, any love he’s ever had when he sings “heaven is a place on earth with you” but it’s mixed with pain and loss. Then we finish the show off with It Comes, It Goes, Brendon still on the keyboards.

It’s the same every night, and now he claims not to know it.

“Just drink the water.” And I grab his hand and push the glass into it. He seems confused. I let go of the glass. He hasn’t tightened his grip of it, and it falls right to the floor, splattering water all over our shoes although it doesn’t break. “Oh, great!” I snap, backing away from the mess. “You’re so fucking –”

But then he’s not standing.

He’s collapsing.

“Brendon!”

I catch him – barely, just, get an arm around his middle, but he’s a dead weight. I pull him to my chest but the impact of him going down makes me sink down to my knees with him. “Bren?! Bren, fuck –”

I turn him to face me, his upper back against my thighs. His eyes are closed. His head is lolled to the side. I grip his forearms and shake him, rattle him, repeat his name. The others are rushing over, but Brendon doesn’t react to their voices, nor mine, doesn’t respond to my touch, and I can’t – breathe, I can’t, I –

Someone says my name, but it’s so far away.

He’s not waking up.

The doctor is an Englishman, Dr. Porter, who now resides in Paris. That’s reassuring – I wouldn’t trust the French to deal with this. The English, they’re of sturdy backbone, they’re of serious nature, they do their job. They better fucking do their job.

Brendon’s hotel room is laid out like mine: two rooms, one a living area, the other a bedroom. The double doors to the bedroom are now closed, and Porter’s been in there for ten minutes. Ten minutes. That’s a long time. We can’t hear any sounds coming through, can’t hear the doctor, can’t hear Brendon, which, alright, he’s in no condition to speak. He hovers on the border of consciousness, visiting both sides.

I’ve never been this fucking scared in my life.

We’re still in our stage clothes and the guys are sitting on the chairs, radiating nervousness and concern. No encore for Paris.

I stay by the window, away from them. The fear isn’t going anywhere. That split second where I thought he – But he wasn’t reacting. He looked dead. For a split second, I swear to god, and that split second will haunt me for years, I already know this.

So I can’t sit there and pretend to be calm – they’d see it so easily. Instead I stay away and smoke obsessively. My eyes are almost glued to the door, waiting for news. Sick with worry for him.

“I think cancelling tomorrow’s show is premature,” Mike now says. He keeps pacing around, chewing his fingernails like he has a habit of doing.

“I don’t think it is,” Dallon says, his voice full of thinned patience. He’s right. I want to tell Mike that, I want to order him to cancel the rest of the damn tour and let me take Brendon home, but I stay where I am, keep smoking, keep my mouth shut. I can’t sit down. I can’t rest. “He collapsed,” Dallon says like any of us need reminding.

“Well, we’ll see what the doctor says,” Mike returns, speaking slowly and calmly. “Brendon might be alright come tomorrow.”

“But he collapsed,” Dallon repeats. He gets the gravity of this.

Brendon’s tough. He’s a tough little fucker who spent months living as a damn vagabond when he was a teenager, hitch-hiking with one arm in a cast. And even now we all knew he was sick, he knew he was sick, but he went on that stage, anyway, because a bit of a fever doesn’t stop him.

You get sick on tour – weird foods, low hygiene, new cities, new people, new germs. Spencer’s performed in a fever of 102, and I’ve performed when a doctor had forbidden me from speaking, let alone from singing. You do what you have to do. You chose this life so you don’t complain.

So were this The Followers or The Whiskeys, then sure, Mike would be right. We would not cancel tomorrow’s show – we’d go on.

But it’s Brendon.

The ache in my chest burns. I can’t think about anything else. I need to see him. I can’t stand not seeing him. Can’t stand this worry. I keep eyeing the doors: he is behind that barrier, unreachable. Weak and sick. The thought makes me feel weak and sick.

The band looks like they’ve done this before: sitting around waiting for bad news. But this isn’t like Ian – had he died, yes, it would’ve been sad. Had there been brain damage, yes, I would have sympathised. But it was Ian. Just Ian. Rock ‘n roll has taken many a lot more talented people.

No, we haven’t done this before.

I haven’t done this.

Sisky and Jon keep eyeing me slightly. Jon asked in the car back if I was okay. I said I was. Kept my hands in my pockets because they kept trembling.

I’m not hiding it well enough.

I flinch when the doors now open and Porter steps out. He’s carrying his physician’s bag, which makes him look professional, makes it easier to trust him. He’s in his fifties, which is also good – he’s got experience, he’s not a newbie, he knows what he’s doing. He gives us a reassuring yet professional smile and closes the doors gently like he doesn’t want to disturb the patient.

Dallon rises up to stand, and Mike stops pacing. I hold my breath.

“Well,” Porter says, “it appears that Mr. Roscoe has an acute case of pharyngitis. That’s all. It has, however, brought on a high fever. I doubt in normal circumstances he even would have caught it, but he is overstressed, malnourished and sleep deprived.” He says it like he’s blaming all of us for Brendon’s condition. “His body quite simply can’t keep up with him, and his immune system hasn’t been able to defend itself against the viral infection. In other words, his body has said no.”

What does that mean?

“B-But will he be okay?” Dallon asks. “Does that mean he’ll be okay?”

“Yes.”

I inhale sharply, then duck my head and hold back any further slips. Let it radiate through me: he’ll be okay, he’ll be okay.

“I’ve given him some painkillers, but he needs rest. I’ve written instructions down for you.” Porter opens his bag and digs out a piece of yellow paper. Dallon takes it from him, eyes reading.

Mike asks, “Can he sing?”

Porter looks hesitant. “The infection doesn’t affect his vocal chords. However, I’m sure that performing is an extremely physically draining –”

“But he’ll be able to sing,” Mike repeats, and Porter nods reluctantly. “Thank god for that.” Mike exhales in relief – the show can go on. “And is it contagious? I can’t have my entire crew disabled.”

The doctor eyes the rest of us somewhat critically. “Assuming you’re all healthy, you should be fine. Mr. Roscoe would not have caught this had he been in average health. And assuming that he follows my instructions, he should be back to normal in a week or so.”

I’m not convinced by his diagnosis, however. Brendon – He fucking collapsed, and I barely caught him and I couldn’t fucking breathe. “But he was burning up earlier,” I now say, speaking for the first time since we got here. The doctor blinks at me. He was burning up before the show and afterwards too, when he collapsed. His skin was hot to the touch. “Are you sure some sleep is all he needs?”

“Yes. And some painkillers to help with the fever symptoms. He just needs to sweat it out.”

“But what if it’s a fever you can’t sweat out?”

Porter smiles at me like I’m a bit on the stupid side. “Well, that’d be pretty odd.”

Porter goes on to give Dallon and Mike further instructions. Sisky is giving me what he probably thinks is a supportive smile as I try to keep my emotions in check. Just an infection, he will be okay, he’ll be fine. But Brendon’s so stubborn, he might not listen – God, if he doesn’t do as the doctor says, I’ll fucking...

But the doctor knows what he’s doing. He knows.

Brendon will be okay.

The excruciating worry eases slightly. I stub out my cigarette into the ashtray I’ve placed on the window sill, my palms sweaty. I look out the window, at a dark Parisian street. It’s started raining, and drops of water roll down the glass, little trails of it, connecting, intersecting. I close my eyes and count to ten. Hands in my pockets. Repeat it: he’ll be okay.

Because if he wasn’t, if something ever happened to him –

There would be no me.

But he’s fine. He’ll be fine, Ryan, he’ll be fine. And I don’t know when he became a focal point for me, at what stage I started building my life around him. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t change it for anything, and even this, the role of an observer, will do.

As long as he’ll be okay.

“I’ll go check up on him,” Mike says once he has shown the doctor to the door. “You guys should go get some sleep, but be prepared for an early bus call. I need to check with Jürgen how long it takes to drive to Cologne.”

“But Brendon needs rest!” Dallon objects.

“Whether Brendon can perform or not, we need to be in Cologne tomorrow in case he can. We certainly can’t play that show from Paris. I’ve got this. So all of you,” Mike says, now motioning at us. “Fuck off to your rooms.”

But Dallon doesn’t move. “I think I should stay.”

“Out, Weekes.”

“But I’m his –” Dallon says, agitated, but then stops himself. Jon is looking at him with wide eyes like he’d want to know what exactly Dallon is. “I just.” Dallon looks around embarrassedly. “I just think I should stay.”

“Right, well,” Mike mumbles, giving in. Clearly doesn’t want to discuss this. “I’ll go see how he is first, alright?”

Dallon nods and then reluctantly sits back down. I say nothing. That’s my role now, the one where I say nothing. Mike disappears to the bedroom, and I try to listen to him speaking or Brendon speaking – his voice, if I could just hear his voice.

“Did I miss a memo on you and Brendon?” Bob asks frankly. He doesn’t beat around the bush much, always says it like it is. Dallon says nothing, being the gentleman that he is. But his silence, really, is the answer. Jon looks my way again, slightly worriedly. Whatever Jon saw tonight – the fear in my eyes, whatever it was – has given me away. Like for a convenient while Jon forgot that Brendon and I used to... But now he’s been reminded of it.

I’m not going to start a fight, challenge Dallon to a duel. This is old news to me by now. Brendon made his choice. He made it years ago.

I’ve accepted it at last.

Mike returns after a few minutes, and I hold my breath for some news. But – Mike doesn’t look reassured. He looks paler coming out than going in. He eyes us, clearly feeling uncomfortable, and worry tightens in my guts again.

“Bren’s fine,” he rushes out because clearly that look of concern on his face is visible to us all. “He’s fine, uh. He’s pretty out of it from the fever, it’s hard to make sense of what he says. He, uh. Does, however...” He looks at Dallon. Then he looks at me, and I don’t know why. Then he hangs his head and sighs. “Bren’s asking for you.” He looks towards the door like he wants to avoid eye contact with everyone. “Bren’s asking for Ryan.”

I stare.

Can’t process the words.

And then I do.

At that second, I feel like I suddenly catch a fever of my own. Something hits me hard, something that’s bigger and heavier and more significant than all of this. This city, these people, this room – meaningless details, accessories in a much bigger picture in which they play no part. In which only Brendon and I... In my head, only he and I...

The clarity of that realisation is instant, and the yearning to see him, make sure he’s okay, knowing that he’s asked for me overrules any rational thought.

“Okay,” I say, and Mike nods stiffly. He ushers the others out like he doesn’t want to prolong or discuss this in any way. I don’t even know what I’d say to them, so I stay where I am, heart hammering. I am subject to long looks from the others, some foreboding, some curious, some confused. I don’t care what they think of it – he’s asked for me.

“But –” Dallon says, eyeing me with utter confusion, and Mike cuts him off, says, “I know, but just roll with it. Get some rest. You’ll see Brendon tomorrow.”

I can ignore the others’ slow gazes, but Dallon is harder. I should say something, should tell Mike that it’s alright, Dallon can stay but – No. Brendon’s ill, and you’d need a higher power to make me leave him, to not go to him when he asks.

The door closes behind Dallon. Mike lets out a sigh, hands now in his long hair. He walks over to me, looking like he’s too tired for this. He gets out Porter’s yellow note and hands it to me. “There. It’s basic stuff, I’m sure you can figure it out. And I don’t,” he says sharply when I open my mouth, “I don’t need to know. I don’t. It’s between you and Brendon. Fuck me if I’ve got a clue as to what’s going on here.”

And then he hurries out, shaking his head to himself.

The door closes behind him.

The silence is sudden.

I didn’t think that I’d...

But then I don’t care. They don’t matter.

In the next second, I’m already in the bedroom. A lamp on the bedside table is on, being the only source of light in the dark. The curtains have been drawn, Brendon’s suitcase is in the corner, and he, god, he’s under the covers.

And then I’m there, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking him in fervently – which is ironic, considering.

His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. His breaths are shallow and irregular, his chapped lips parted. He was pale before, but now he’s flushed and sweaty. His cheeks are red, but it’s not a healthy shade, it distinctively looks like he’s burning up. It’s hard to tell if the wet hair stuck to his forehead is the result of the show or the fever. The worry remains even at his side, feeling unbearable, and my hands hover, not daring to touch. He’s been stripped of his stage clothes that I spot in a messy pile on a chair. He’s left in a grey undershirt that he uses as a pyjama top on the bus, and a bare ankle sticks out from under the duvet, his white jeans also having been removed. I pull the covers over his foot so that he doesn’t get cold.

This stirs him slightly, and I whisper, “Hey.”

His eyes flutter open. My stomach drops. He looks at me for a few seconds before recognition seems to kick in. “Hey,” he breathes out, sounding relieved. He breaks into a smile, and I almost laugh from how relieved I feel, how desperate. God, hey. Fuck. His eyes close again. Tired. His hand reaches out, and I clutch it instantly, feel the way his skin emits heat. I bring our hands to my mouth, kiss his knuckles softly. Close my eyes. Breathe. Feel him alive. Feel the way his hand grips mine – weakly, but it still does. Reassure myself.

He’ll be okay.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” I tell him, and he laughs weakly like he’s amused. I join him even though my laugh is slightly pained. “God, what am I gonna do with you?”

He doesn’t seem to hear me as he slips deeper into his feverish state where nothing really makes sense to him. Our hands rest on his chest, rising and falling with his breaths. I carefully brush back strands of hair from his forehead with my free hand. He doesn’t mind. Doesn’t object. His hair is sweat-slick. He’s burning up badly, and he mumbles nonsense to himself. He shivers, letting out a sharp whine of discomfort, and I shush him.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’m cold,” he manages.

“Baby, you’re burning up.”

He shakes his head, looks lost like a child. “It’s really cold,” he says miserably, turning to lie on his side and bringing his knees up, hurdling together. He shivers and can’t seem to stop.

“I’ll get you some blankets, alright?” I brush his hair gently, bend locks around the shell of his ear. “And then you need to sleep.”

But we still haven’t let go of each other’s hands, and when I try to pull mine back, he won’t let go. Instead he pulls my hand closer to his chest, holds it there protectively. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll just –”

“No. Don’t go.” He sounds anguished.

“I won’t. Hey, trust me. I’m not going anywhere.”

This seems to relax him.

A part of me knows that it’s not a good idea, that this might be pushing it – It is, but. He wants me here. No one else will know. It doesn’t concern them, anyway. It’s about what Brendon needs, whatever helps.

So after I manage to free my hand with a promise of staying, I take off my shoes, leave them by the bed. Remove my jacket, take off my tie. Don’t think anything of it when I unbuckle my belt, don’t think of how I’ve done this in his presence uncountable times, but this time I pull the belt out of the loops and keep my pants on.

I round the bed because well – he sleeps on the left and I sleep on the right. I know that. Although sometimes we just slept all over each other, no coordination or direction. Still. We have sides.

But I don’t get under the covers with him. No, that I can’t do. So I get on top of them, moving closer to him. I curl my arm securely around his middle and pull him to me, our bodies pressing together. His hand instantly moves to rest over mine, and he exhales softly. “You’re warm.”

I rest my head on the pillow that we share, and I close my eyes, breathe in the scent of his hair. “Bet you anything that you’re warmer.”

He hums in agreement and pushes into my embrace. Goes lax. And at that second, the feeling of being home is overwhelming.

“Sleep.”

And he does. Probably for the first time in days.

I tell myself not to fall asleep, to stay guard and count his breaths, but I fail because in the next moment of consciousness, things have changed. I drowsily become aware of heat on my skin, on my stomach. Somehow I know it’s him and in my sleep the knowledge is soothing. But when I stir further, I realise that the covers are gone and that Brendon’s turned around in my arms, his nose now pressed to my collarbone, his hair brushing my chin. And my dress shirt is no longer tucked into my pants. Like it’s been pulled out of the way.

Brendon’s hand is resting on my bare stomach under my shirt and undershirt. His calloused fingertips press into the skin there. Just that, nothing more. A touch, and my body is quickly rousing from a lulled state into being extremely aware.

He touches me when we sleep, and my body is his.

Our ankles are entwined, and when I carefully look down, I realise that the covers are at the bottom of the bed, having been kicked out of the way. Not sure by who or how we’ve managed that.

He’s still warm, too warm, and still deep asleep.

But his hand moves on my skin, now dipping lower to my navel. My body responds, muscles tightening, my cock slowly hardening. Fuck.

His breaths on my skin are hot, and my arm is almost greedily wrapped around his upper half, holding him to me. It seems that my subconscious thinks that we’re lovers while we sleep.

He now sighs and pushes closer to me, pushing a leg between mine. It feels good. My pulse picks up, and I know how this could go: while still mostly asleep, we begin to grind against each other, hips jerking and pushing, sweet pressure against our hardened cocks. Then our hands would eventually move to each other’s dicks, snaking into underwear if we’re wearing any, and then we’d end up spilling over each other’s knuckles and panting into each other’s mouths.

I can’t.

Not that I don’t want to. I do.

But I can’t.

I gently take his wrist and slowly pull his hand back, it slipping out of my clothes. My body relaxes when his tempting touch is gone. He seems to be okay with this when I let his hand go, his arm wrapping around my waist instead. And then he pushes closer. Constantly closer. His body seems to vibrate with unreleased energy as a shiver runs all the way through him: it’s the fever, I tell myself. Just the fever, the fever.

He pushes his leg even further between mine, but then he stops moving. I stay still and focus on calming down. When it feels like a status quo has been achieved, I gently try to untangle myself from him, to move down and pull the covers back up.

But he jerks against me, his hand curling into a fist at the back of my shirt. “What?” he asks, voice confused, sleepy and barely audible. It sounds like he wants to know why I’m moving around.

“Just retrieving the covers,” I try to explain.

“Oh. Okay.” He relaxes. There’s a smile to his voice.

He pulls back from me then, thankfully, our legs still tangled as he rests on his back, his arm slipping from around me. Now that I see him, I remind myself how out of it he still is: drops of perspiration decorate his forehead, and that’s good, he’s sweating it out. His lips are parted, and he’s breathing shallowly. His pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. He then turns his head to the side, looks at me through half-lidded eyes. “Where are we?”

“Paris. We’re on tour.”

He hums and nods like that makes sense to him. Then he frowns. “I was on stage...”

“Yeah. Yeah, you were.” He looks like he doesn’t remember much after that, so I say, “You collapsed backstage. I carried you to the dressing room.”

He giggles at that – that’s what it sounds like. His smile stretches wide even as his eyes are closed like it’s too hard to try and look around. “You carried me?” he asks teasingly, and my stomach drops, hot liquid pooling in it.

“I did.” He almost snorts. “Hey, I’ve got muscle. You don’t weigh much.” He seems endlessly amused by this, so I fess up. “Okay, maybe Jon helped me. Jon and I carried you. You weigh more than you’d think.”

“Hmm, it’s the ass,” he says knowingly, and he bucks his hips up in demonstration. His undershirt’s ridden up, and his hipbones are exposed and pale and beautiful, and I keep my hand by my side, don’t touch when I so badly want to. Just slide the tips of my fingers there, tracing across the bones, his lower belly, dip down to the start of his pubic hair.

It’s too tempting. I stare at the swell of his cock that’s obvious in his white briefs. I remember how I used to cup him, rub him, get him hard.

Now I sit up quickly, get a hold of the covers, and pull them back on us. I should do more than that. I should get back on top of the covers, but I let myself have this. Stay under the covers with him when he’s relaxed, pliant, smiling. Even if I’ve got a virus and some painkillers to thank for that.

He lets out a content sound and turns back to me, then, snuggling close. His arm curls around my waist, pulling me closer habitually. His nose presses against my Adam’s apple. He sighs. He shivers. His fever is high. I take it all in, relish the way his hair feels against my chin, the scent of shampoo, cigarettes and sweat, the way his fingers curl into a fist in the back of my shirt, holding tight possessively. Our chests together, our ankles brushing. And he sighs again, sounding pleased, and he burrows into me further.

I move a hand to his hair, carding through the locks gently. Stare at the nightstand on his side of the bed, the lamp still on, a glass of water there, a small medicine bottle of painkillers. I look away from the bottle because it does me no good to be around those.

“You asked for me,” I then tell him.

“I did?”

He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Yeah.”

I feel him smile. “And you came.”

“Yes.”

“I stole you away.” He nuzzles my throat and seems to breathe me in. “You smell like you. Not like anyone else.”

I’m not able to follow his thoughts there, except that it sounds like he’s relieved. “Who would I smell like?”

He lets out a displeased whine and shakes his head like no, that’s not acceptable, whatever it is. Then he sighs in defeat. “Hate feeling so jealous all the time.”

I have nothing to say to that. Am too stunned to reply. My mind works fast, trying to figure that out – Chris in London? The girls that try to hit on me?

“What?” I ask, hoping he’ll clarify. But he doesn’t, and it’s the fever talking, sure it is, of course. He wouldn’t be jealous. Why would he be? And of whom? So I tell my racing heart to calm down. It’s nothing at all, and he’s with Dallon now, so –

Then his lips are suddenly there, wet and hot against the hollow of my throat. My breathing hitches. So soft, so tempting. A kiss. I take in a shivery breath, my body suddenly hot. God, he’s got me.

“Hmm...” He sounds pleased. His nose moves across my throat, and he inhales deeply. “I love your shape.” His fingers flex around the fabric he’s squeezing, and then he shivers suddenly like he’s cold. I hold him to me, and he keeps shivering. He’s out of it. It’s painful to touch and feel. He’s out of it, he doesn’t know what he’s saying or doing, and he’s not aware of what he’s doing to me. My body is on override in a way it hasn’t been in years. God, only he could bring this on.

“Just fall back asleep,” I whisper. “Can you do that for me, baby?”

He can.

When I wake up in the morning, I despise myself slightly. Or not me, but my body and how primitive it is, how my cock’s fully erect and pressed against Brendon’s ass. Making advances of its own in our sleep. Doing things that it’s not allowed to do.

Thankfully, Brendon is fast asleep, his breathing deep and even. He’s facing away from me, and I’m curled around him protectively. I move my hand up his arm, feel the skin: he’s not burning up. I instantly feel some of the worry dissolving. Thank god, thank god.

The room is light, it’s morning, and his fever’s gone down.

But I don’t let myself enjoy it because if I don’t move, I’ll stay like this. Pressed against him, my body wired and willing, just enjoying the feel of him. With every second, it becomes harder to tear myself away, and I think I’ve been helping myself to this too liberally already.

It takes effort to get out of bed without waking him up. I peel myself off him slowly, managing to slide from under the covers. I stop to sit on the edge of the mattress, my eyes still lingering on him. Never again will we – but then I don’t think it.

He turns around then. His hand reaches out like he’s trying to trace the disappeared warmth, his face turning into a frown. I push my pillow closer to him, unsure, but he takes it. Murmurs something incomprehensible and pulls the pillow to his chest. Relaxes once more.

I look away. The ache will subside.

I quietly leave the bedroom, and I’m surprised to find my suitcase in the living room, having been prominently placed on the coffee table where I can’t miss it. I blink at it, carding through my bed hair as I try to figure out how my belongings have gotten from my room to Brendon’s. Someone’s been here either last night or this morning – Mike’s got the second room key.

What if someone even checked in on us, saw us in bed – But no, I would have heard that. Maybe. Mike wouldn’t, surely. He clearly said that he didn’t want to know.

I go to the phone and pick up the receiver, press 100 for the reception and get an immediate answer. I open my suitcase and go through the contents. “Yeah, hello, it’s room, uh –” A quick look at the sticker on the phone – “712. Have you got any messages for me? No?”

My eyes only then notice a notepad next to the suitcase. I pick it up, read: Thought you might need these. Sisky packed for you. – Mike

“Okay, that’s fine. Uh, what time is it? Eight. Right. Can I order some food, get it delivered in an hour or so? That’d be great, yes. Um. What do I want? Um.” I look at the bedroom door, unsure. “Have you got a paper and a pen?”

After I’ve ordered breakfast for us, I grab a quick shower and am thankful that the bathroom isn’t adjoined to the bedroom. I take care of my boner – still there persistently – by turning the water cold, cold, cold. I could just jerk off, be done in three minutes, my mind full of fresh memories of his soft skin, how good he feels, his intoxicating scent, his perfectly shaped body. Fuck, fuck.

I could. But what would that say about me?

So I stand in the cold shower, think about anything but, and my cock eventually gives up and the erection dies down.

I’m back in the living room, getting out clean clothes from my suitcase when I hear the knock on the door. I don’t have a watch but I’m annoyed, anyway, knowing that it hasn’t been an hour yet. Goddamn French, aren’t they supposed to be late for everything, not early?

I tuck the towel tighter around my waist as I go to the door, hurrying my steps so that they don’t knock a second time and louder – if they wake Brendon up when he desperately needs to rest, I swear I’ll...

But when I open the door, already irritated, I’m not faced with a member of staff equipped with a trolley. Instead Dallon stands in the corridor. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night.

It somehow occurs to me just then: I spent the night with Brendon whereas Dallon... didn’t.

Dallon seems to be thinking this exact same thing as he takes me in, shower fresh, almost naked, wet hair. His expression changes, becomes stony. Even more suspicious than it already was.

“Morning, uh,” I say. It’s not what it looks like, I almost want to say.

Suddenly I’m fucking glad I didn’t jerk off in the shower. I feel like he could maybe tell somehow. But no, nothing happened. I was chivalrous. Nothing happened, and there is no reason for me to suddenly feel so guilty, but I do. I spent the entire night with Brendon in my arms, and that’s worse than fucking him. Not that I would have – I wouldn’t have.

“Bren’s still asleep,” I say and motion over my shoulder, speaking quietly. Then I realise I’m only making the situation seem even more dubious.

Dallon doesn’t ask me where I slept. He probably doesn’t feel the need to. “How is he?” he says instead. Worried and hurt.

“Better. I think the fever’s gone down.”

“That’s really good.” Dallon looks me straight in the eye, and somehow it’s hard to look away, like he’s sizing me up and I can’t back down. “I came to drop these off.”

I take the small rectangular paper sleeve that he’s extending. There are two airline tickets inside: from Paris to Cologne tonight. “What?” I ask, confused.

“We’re leaving now, and you guys are flying in later today. Mike wants Brendon to stay in bed for as long as possible. A car’s picking you up at five, and then a car will be waiting for you in Cologne too. Mike’s arranged it all.”

“Oh, right. Efficient, isn’t he?” I ask, but my chitchat receives no echo from him. I clear my throat. “Okay, we’ll be there.”

“Yeah, looks like you’ve got it all under control,” he says, and the accusation is there. I don’t know what to say to that – Brendon asked for me, what could I have done? He needed me. “I’ll see you guys tonight then. Tell Brendon that... that I hope he’s feeling better. And that I miss him.”

I force myself not to react to that. “I will, of course.”

Dallon nods solemnly. I’m already closing the door when he says, “Did you know Roscoe’s not his real name?”

I stop. “What?”

Dallon nods at the tickets I’m holding. “I happened to see it just now. I always thought Roscoe was his real name, but it’s not. His name’s Urie, according to that ticket. I never knew that. Did you?”

I look at the tickets to avoid eye contact. “Yeah. I did.”

“Right.” He’s silent for a long time, enough for it to get uncomfortable.

“Well thanks for the –”

“Is there something I should know?” he cuts in, and his eyes are searching when they meet mine. There’s fear in his gaze: am I stealing his man?

“No. No, of course not, no,” I say, shaking my head. Of course not. It’s perfectly normal for old friends to look after one another when the other is ill. So that’s all it is, really. “Look, man, he was really out of it last night, and I just, you know, felt familiar to him,” I say like I’m trying to figure this out myself: why Brendon wanted me. He’s known me longer than any of these people. And while Dallon might be the legitimate heir and I might be the bastard son, Dallon’s only shared a bed with Brendon once or twice – that’s nothing compared to Brendon and me.

“Right. Okay then.” He looks away, bites on his bottom lip. Isn’t convinced. “See you in Cologne.”

“Sure. And I’ll pass on the message.”

“Thanks.”

The guilt in me remains as Dallon heads down the corridor, shoulders hunched. I close the door and exhale. Know that I’ve crossed so many boundaries, and not entirely with permission. But Brendon asked for me. He wanted me. And god, last night... Even if he was out of it. It felt right. Nothing’s ever felt as right.

I had given up on this. I have – I’m here as a friend. We just... have some history. We can’t pretend that we don’t.

I towel myself off quickly, somehow feeling indecent now that these two rooms are no longer invisible to the world outside. I get clean boxers on, and I’m pulling on a new undershirt when I hear a crash from the bedroom. My heart jumps to my throat momentarily, fear running straight through me. A second later, I’ve wrenched the door open, and my eyes are immediately flying to the bed where – Brendon still is. Lying on his back, eyes open, breathing unsteadily. The glass of water on the nightstand is gone.

“You alright?” I ask, hurrying over, still unsure of what happened, but then I see the glass on the floor by the bed, water sinking into the carpet.

Brendon sees me and blinks. He looks tired and confused. “Ryan,” he says weakly, and it’s half-question and half-statement.

“I’m here.” I sit down on the edge, place a hand on his stomach. He flinches. I blink. Pull my hand back, embarrassed.

He looks at me in my underwear, my hair still wet. Then he looks around the room, craning his neck. And that soft, open look in his eyes is gone. The fever’s gone down. He’s back to remembering how things really are.

“We’re in your hotel room,” I explain, trying to put the puzzle pieces together for him. “Paris. You’re on tour.”

“I know that,” he says like he’s not completely stupid, but then he just looks perplexed and lost. “I was on stage.”

“You were.”

“And then what? Why are you here?”

My stomach drops. He doesn’t remember last night. I’ve already told him all of this, I told it as he laughed and then pushed closer to me, cuddling, nuzzling, even kissing. We’ve been here. He doesn’t remember it, and something in me sinks.

The night is gone, and so are we.

“You collapsed backstage. We had a doctor waiting at the hotel.”

He closes his eyes, his brows knitting together. “I think I remember that,” he says at last. “Was he English?”

“He was, yeah. And then you asked me to stay, so I did.”

“Oh.” He sounds like he doesn’t know what to make of that. I change the subject quickly.

“How you feeling?”

He groans. “Everything aches. I’m exhausted. Where, uh.” He clears his throat, coughs. His lips look chapped, and I realise that he was trying to reach for the glass to get something to drink. He’s probably dehydrated as hell. “Where is everyone?”

“On their way to Cologne.”

This instantly wakes him up. “What?”

He immediately tries to get out of bed, but I push him back from his shoulders, say, “No, fuck, what do you think you’re doing?” He’s too weak to fight me at all and falls back against the mattress.

“But we –”

“Hey, calm down,” I say as he’s suddenly breathing hard, nearly panicked. “Hey.” My hand’s lifted to his hair, going through the strands. He breathes out shakily, but it calms him down. “We’re flying there later, okay? If you’re okay enough to perform, that is, if –”

“Of course I’ll –”

“Brendon.” He looks at me, almost doe-eyed, tired and confused and panicking about tonight’s show even now. “God,” I sigh, my insides aching. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Something like guilt flashes on his features briefly, and he looks away. I don’t mean to guilt-trip him, but it’s true: he can’t go on like this. The doctor was perfectly clear about that.

“Just rest some more, okay?”

He nods, clearly still agitated. I gently pull my hand back from his hair. He doesn’t comment on it and neither do I.

A loud rumbling noise sounds just then – his stomach. He looks embarrassed and places a hand over it. I merely say, “Good you’re hungry. I’ve ordered food.”

He seems intrigued by this. “Yeah? What?”

“Honey and lemon tea for your throat. You need to get some liquids in you, the doctor said. And then I ordered some crepes, croissants, I just – Well, we’re in France. And then yogurt and fruit, milk and cereal. And then tomato soup, French onion soup, and I also got chocolate ice cream with whipped cream and extra caramel sauce. I figured there’d be something there you’d like.”

I know there’ll be something he’ll like: Could I get chocolate ice cream with whipped cream and extra caramel sauce to Room 708? I’ve ordered it for him – for us – plenty of times in the past. A post-sex snack that was half-habit at some point. He fucking loved it.

He doesn’t say anything at first but instead plays with the corner of the duvet, feigns interest in it. “That works,” he eventually mutters.

“Good. Dallon dropped by. He hopes you’re feeling better. And he said that he misses you.”

Brendon’s cheeks get coloured a slight pink, but this time I doubt it has anything to do with the fever. “I’m, uh, really sorry that –”

“No, it’s –”

“You shouldn’t have to –”

“I’m fine with it,” I say quickly – too quickly. He looks surprised. “I just. Good for you, you know? He, uh. He’s a stand-up guy. I think he really cares for you. So.” Every word I say is harder to get out of my throat. Brendon gets this horribly open expression in his eyes, watching me like maybe he can see how it’s fucking killing me, and I can’t have him seeing that. Not now, not ever. Not twenty years down the line when they invite people around for casual parties at their big house. “You want to take a shower?” I ask, directing the conversation elsewhere.

“Sorry?” he asks, voice rising for no reason.

“Before the food gets here.”

“If I want to, uh...” he begins, trails off, his eyes dropping from my face and focusing on my chest somewhere. Then he shakes his head like he’s trying to bring the world into focus. “Right, right. If I want to shower. By myself.”

...What the hell did he think I was suggesting?

I can’t let myself think about that or us in a – in a situation like that, so I rush out, “I’ll go turn the water on for you. Let the room gather some steam, you should try and breathe that in, it’ll do you good. Then I’ll make sure you eat and send you back to bed.”

“Who put you in charge?” he asks like he’s almost embarrassed that I’m coddling him.

“I guess you did,” I say.

He surprises me, then, catches me off guard. His hand lands on mine. “Thank you.”

His eyes are cast downwards. He’s vulnerable right then. He doesn’t do vulnerable if he can help it.

Hey, anytime.

For you, anytime.

He sleeps for most of the day, which is no wonder – he hasn’t slept properly in weeks, I’d imagine. The fever returns in the early afternoon, and he mumbles nonsense in his fever dreams. I read books, sit in the armchair, watch him sleep. Keep my eye on the time. Pack up for him when the time comes, feel guilty for dragging him out of bed.

“We gotta go,” I say softly, and he nods tiredly but looks confused like he’s not entirely sure what’s going on.

He sleeps in the car to the airport, his head resting on my shoulder. It’s a cloudy day in Paris, and I feel like I’m done with the place. We arrived in pieces, we leave in pieces.

I try to tell him to sleep some more, but once we’re airborne, he seems to fully wake up for the first time since yesterday. He asks for a glass of water and takes two painkillers, says that the change in air pressure is making it feel like his head’s about to explode. He keeps grimacing, keeps opening his jaw, his ears painfully locked. All I can do is watch as he suffers. It gets even worse when we begin our descent, and he closes his watery eyes, makes a muffled noise like he’d want to scream if he could, and if I hold his hand, then I hold his hand, and if he squeezes back like it’s his lifeline, then he squeezes back like it’s his lifeline.

When we’re in the limousine that’s waiting for us at the airport, it’s forty minutes before His Side are due to go on. The driver says it takes fifty minutes to drive to the venue. I tell him to speed, for fuck’s sake. We change clothes in the back of the limo, suitcases open on the limousine floor, us squirming and bucking to get new pants and belts on. He warms up his voice, and he’s tired but still determined. He hums and then forgets the note, so I continue it for him, and then he joins me.

“I’ll be okay, it’ll be fine,” he says, prepping himself up.

“Conserve your energy. You don’t have to jump around the way you do.”

“But –”

“Brendon. Promise me you’ll take it easy.”

He sighs and leans against the backseat. “Yeah, okay.”

I feel his forehead – he doesn’t object – and it’s too warm for my liking. A mild fever. There’s a loose thread sticking out of my pants at the knee, and Brendon keeps playing with it absently.

It’s not awkward between us. It could be, but it seems that we both feel at ease with this.

When the car finally, finally gets to the venue, we’re expected. Mike’s the first thing we see when I help Brendon out of the car, and he signals a security guy who runs inside, probably to tell everyone that the singer and guitarist are here. I blink at the venue that looks like a medieval fortress in the middle of more modern buildings, made of tall stone walls. We hurry inside.

Mike determines the rushed pace, constantly speaking, saying that, “We’re going on stage now, how are you feeling, are you alright, any better, here, that’s good evening in German, Guten Abend, just say that, they’ll love it, and it’s Köln, not Cologne, I know, it’s so confusing, you look like hell, still better than yesterday, you gave us all a scare, are you feeling better now, you good to go?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, murmuring ‘Guten Abend’ to himself as we navigate through corridors. I roll my shoulders, splay my fingers against my thighs. Try to get into stage mode. Brendon takes in a deep breath, asks, “What song are we starting with?”

“Paying for the Actors like always,” Mike says, sounding concerned. We can now hear the crowd chanting.

“Right, right,” Brendon nods. “I’m ready.”

The band’s already waiting for us at the side of the stage, and they couldn’t look more relieved. Leo hands me a few picks, and I pocket them quickly. Jon pats my shoulder like I did a good job: I got Brendon here, I got us both here. Sisky smiles timidly, eyeing between us curiously, being nosy like he always is. Sisky’s also somewhat pale, like he was terrified we wouldn’t make it in time and the show would have to be cancelled.

“And go!” Mike says – we have no time for pleasantries because there are venue curfews and we need to start now if we want to play a full set tonight.

Bob heads on stage without further ado, and Jon follows. The audience starts cheering. Dallon – He just. He kind of looks at me, then at Bren, and then he stalks on stage too. Without saying a word. I thought he’d be all over Brendon, seeing him at last, and though Dallon is clearly worried, he doesn’t act on it. Brendon looks after Dallon in confusion. Hurt flickers on his face.

Now, however, isn’t the right time to wonder how to fix whatever the past day has fucked up between the newlyweds. I merely push it out of my mind and head for the stage. The kids are right at the edge, there is no barrier between, and their screaming faces stare up at me when I get to my spot. Bob’s beating a steady, teasing rhythm, and now Dallon joins in with his bass, and Jon starts the rhythm guitar, and I count the beats, head nodding, and then I start picking the riff over the music, nice and catchy.

And then the crowd cheers again, and I know Brendon’s come on, and then he’s on my left. Usually he’d take the mic off the stand, start moving to the music, start demanding to see some hands, but now he keeps his hands resting on top of the mic as he says, “Guten Abend, Köln!” and the crowd goes somewhat frantic. And then he starts singing. His voice is rough around the edges, but it’ll do.

I spend the show keeping an eye on him, and Jon is doing the same, and Dallon is doing the same, and Bob is doing the same.

But he takes it easier. He forgets none of the lyrics although he at one point announces that we’re about to play a song that won’t be played until the encore, but Jon points it out to him, and Brendon apologises, even manages a charming laugh. He accidentally thanks the audience in French, which is probably an insult for the people of Germany, but he then covers it up with a list of thank yous in over ten languages. When we leave the stage for the brief encore break, Brendon sits down on the floor, drinks water, breathes in deep, is drenched in sweat, shivering. He’s got a fever, but he says he’ll be fine, just fine.

And he doesn’t give up but marches back on, performs the last two songs. Doesn’t try to go for the high notes, lets them be. He waves the audience goodbye, tries to put the mic back in its stand, fails, it drops to the floor, but he lets it go, walks off stage with me close behind, and once hidden, he almost collapses in Mike’s arms, who supports him and says, “Okay, we’ll get you to lie down.” Sisky helps Mike, and Brendon says that he can walk, thank you very much, so Sisky lets go. Mike partly supports Brendon to the dressing room we haven’t even been in yet.

The guys fuss over Brendon while I keep my distance. He’s not incoherent like he was last night, but he’s tired and he’s still sick. He made it, though, like a pro. I watch him as he lies on the couch in a backstage dressing room somewhere in Germany, his temperature too high, his cheeks rosy, his skin covered in sweat, his body worn out, but he still went out there and he still did his job and he sounded good, too, and I’m proud of him. That’s showmanship right there.

“You okay?” Sisky asks from beside me.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“It’s been a fucking crazy day,” he sighs.

“Was for me too.”

I see Brendon looking our way before he focuses on whatever Bob’s saying. It flashes through my mind just then – him saying that he gets jealous. I figured that, well, Chris flirting with me in London, maybe, but. Surely not... the kid. Surely not.

No. That’d be ridiculous. It was the fever talking, and I shouldn’t listen to that.

Paris happened. It’s over. We’re back in the pack, no longer on our own. He needed me, and it was okay that he did. He does not disown me either – I thought he would, that when he’d feel even slightly better, he’d renounce me and ignore me. He hasn’t. He knows that it was okay for him to need me. Even if he has forgotten some of the... things he said and did, but that’s good. We don’t want those things, those dark, crimson things. We’ll leave those be.

And I know what I’d normally do right now, ask Sisky to go for a walk with me before bus call, wander around the darkened city, maybe, and Sisky would come too, he’d happily keep me company and distract me from this, help me stay away from Brendon.

But I’d rather stay here this time. Where Brendon is. That urge to stay away is gone, my English decisions seeming too rushed. It’s like an invisible leash now attaches me to Brendon, and it doesn’t really let me leave the room.

Jon laughs just then and looks my way. “Did you really empty the hotel’s kitchen this morning?”

It seems like Brendon’s filling them in on what happened.

I kind of did – there were four food trolleys in the living room when we left. To be fair, Brendon ate practically everything that I put in front of him.

“He’s too skinny. Can you blame a man for trying to fatten him up?” I ask.

“Don’t talk to me about skinny, Ross,” Brendon objects tiredly.

Well, you like it – it’s on my tongue, flirtatious and cocky and just. Just some banter for him and me, but then I manage not to say it. Instead I just huff, let him think he’s won. Don’t need Dallon to get any more suspicious than he already is. No, definitely don’t want to mess things up between them any further.

But if Brendon’s okay enough to take digs at me, he’s on his way to recovery, and he and I have recovered some too.

I breathe easier for the first time in days, a warm feeling spreading in my chest. Knowing that there are still so many things left unresolved, things that complicate everything between us – but we’re better. Somehow.

Like we’ve discovered a new way of living.

Chapter Text

Waking up in a new city is always disorienting. I lie in the dark confines of my bunk, trying to remember where we are. Wonder what time it is, if we’ve changed time zones – although it is unlikely that I am late for anything. As the touring member who refuses to do press and who is too famous for roadie jobs, I get to sleep in.

Through my sleep I hear the guys getting up, moving around, trying to keep it down but mostly failing, but then it eventually quiets down again, and I know they’ve departed the bus. I stay under the covers for a while longer before telling myself to get up and face the music.

Because there will be some. There’s no question about that.

The bunks are all empty – almost. The curtains have been drawn aside, revealing messes of covers and old socks. Jon’s bunk below mine is empty, and so is Leo’s below his. I note that only one curtain is still closed: Brendon’s. It’s the middle bunk to my right as I approach the lounge. I stop outside it. Hold my breath. Stare at the black fabric that hangs as a wall between. And – There.

Even breaths. In... and out... Not too shallow, not too deep. I try to estimate his temperature from his breathing alone but know that to be a futile exercise.

I quietly move past his bunk, slowly sliding the lounge door aside. The bus is not completely empty: Jürgen is on the couch, reading a book. He lifts his hand in greeting and then presses a finger to his lips. “Brendon schläft.”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” I say, nodding when he tilts his head and presses a hand to his cheek to mimic sleeping.

“Er ist noch krank.”

“Yeah, I... have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

He smiles in amusement.

We’re parked by the venue, so I’m able to sneak in to use a bathroom and wash myself the little that the facilities allow. My duffel bag hangs off my shoulder as I wander backstage, having changed into less dirty clothes, the laminated tour pass hanging off my neck. I find Mike and get an update on everything: we’re here on time, soundcheck is on at five, Jon and Bob are doing a special interview that involves them trying local foods and commenting on them so they’re in a restaurant somewhere eating bratwursts with a journalist. Dick and Dallon have gone to explore the city, and the rest are who knows where. Mike shrugs – he is considerably less stressed today than yesterday. I think we all are: Brendon’s getting better. The band is in no immediate danger.

“Could I get some tea to take on the bus? For when Brendon wakes up,” I explain. “Put it in a thermos bottle.”

“You got it. And you make sure that he stays there and rests.” Mike looks at me like he and I have come to an understanding of sorts. I’m not sure what it is, but it seems to involve me taking care of Brendon. I don’t mind. I do it gladly.

Mike snaps his fingers, and the local gig promoter rushes over to help.

I return to the bus to find Jürgen now gone. I settle in the lounge, enjoy the rare moment of peace and quiet. It’s not like I’m waiting for Brendon to wake up, really. I just need to check how he’s doing once he does.

I grab a book that’s lying around. I’ve seen Leo reading it – The Sea, The Sea. Okay, I like seas. I begin to read and soon conclude that the protagonist is messed up and needs to get over himself. In his crisis he withdraws from the world and moves to a house by the sea – who does that? Really.

I then hear a thud from the bunks, like feet landing on the floor. I close the book, hear a bunk curtain being drawn shut. The door slides open a few seconds later, and Brendon staggers out in wrinkled blue pyjama bottoms and an XL sized His Side t-shirt that hangs off of him. His hair is a mess, and he seems disorientated. It tugs at my insides, warmth spreading instantly. He sees me and stops, a hand in his hair. “Morning,” he says, voice groggy and scratchy.

“Afternoon.”

“Is it? Oh.” He rubs at his throat, wincing slightly. Looks around the bus. Then says, “I need to take a piss.”

I pour him tea while he’s in the bathroom. We have no spoons around, but I find a pen and use that to stir the steaming liquid. It’s ready when he comes out, almost bumping into me as the kitchenette and toilet are opposite one another. He sees the mug and smiles in mild surprise. “Thanks.” He takes it and doesn’t seem to mind that I’m still playing the nurse here.

I only shrug, not wanting to make too big a deal out of it. “How you feeling?”

“Kind of shitty.”

He moves to sit down on the couch. I sit next to him, observe him quietly. He doesn’t seem to have a fever; his skin colour is no longer overly red. He looks like he desperately needs a shower, however, his dirty hair matted on the top of his head. I’d touch his forehead for his temperature if it didn’t feel like I’d be overstepping boundaries. He looks worn out, but now not from a severe lack of sleep – but from oversleeping, even.

He takes a sip of the tea, winces as he gulps it down. Swallowing still hurts, it seems. “God, I have no idea where we even are,” he sighs, reaching out to the Venetian blind hanging off the window, pushing slats apart to take a sneak peak of our surroundings.

“Frankfurt, I think.”

He hums and leans into the couch, tucking his feet under him as he slowly drinks more. He drinks it with caution, trying hard to look like he has recovered more than he has. The calm ease that settled between us somewhere between Paris and Cologne is still there, and I’m glad that it’s shared. When no one is here to see us, I feel good about us. He doesn’t seem to be walking on eggshells around me, doesn’t seem weirded out that, well, we technically spent the night together. We don’t need to analyse it – in the grand scheme of things, it’s almost like us shaking hands. It felt natural. It didn’t fuck anything up between us.

“I could do some interviews today,” he then says tentatively, his voice lower than it usually is, somewhat scratchy.

“You performed in a fever last night.”

“But –”

“We’re not taking any chances.”

Not with him. He needs to take it easy and follow the doctor’s orders: bed rest, no press, no stressing himself out. Relaxing, sleeping, eating, letting his body regain its energy. He’s just such a damn reluctant patient.

I know what he does is not up to me, that he could disobey me easily, but he doesn’t rise up to the challenge. He only sighs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just don’t like being idle.”

“Man up and deal with it. You’re sick, the others get that,” I say in case he feels bad that Bob, Jon and Dallon have more work to do while he’s ill.

He looks down into his mug, shoulders slumped. He nods but seems sad. “Yeah, I know... I just. I don’t want to let the guys down.” His voice is heavy with guilt. Guilt, out of all things, like it’s his fault that he got sick.

I move slightly closer to him. “Why would you say that? You do too much, that’s why you got as sick as you did,” I say, spelling it out for him somewhat impatiently. He needs to take this seriously, realise how bad he let it get. He fucking collapsed in my arms, spent the night shivering in a fever.

“I don’t do too much, I –”

“You do,” I interrupt him. His pupils seem slightly blown when he takes me in, his features soft. He hasn’t shaved since Paris, and thick stubble now shadows his chin and jaw. It’s hard to resist the urge to let my fingers brush against the hairs, feel if they’re still hard and spiky or if they’ve become softer yet. “I’ve seen you, so don’t even try. You never stop.”

This seems to add to his guilt as he quickly drops his gaze. “I guess,” he mumbles. I quickly draft an apology in my mind because I only stated facts, I didn’t mean to make him feel even worse about it. But before I can, he says, “I just – I’m terrified of failing.” He is still talking to his drink. His voice is soft and quiet, his words searching like he has never said this before, maybe hasn’t even fully thought it. “This band is the only shot I’ve got in life to make a difference, you know? I can’t just let that slide. And I don’t remember much of Paris, but I do remember you saying that – that I need to take better care of myself. It’s just hard, you know? I feel like- like I need to do every interview and radio show and talk to every fan and sign every LP and ticket and t-shirt. When Mike asks me if I’ve got the time to do something, I say yes. Every time. I can sleep when I’m dead, you know?”

“Keep that up and it’ll be sooner than you think.”

He flinches slightly like that hadn’t occurred to him. His policy is not something to live by. You have to start saying no. People are vultures, and they keep taking from you if you’re stupid enough to give it. Love what you do, love others, but love yourself more. And if you can’t love yourself, then care more about yourself than others. Nothing in this world is as selfish as utter selflessness.

“I know I need to slow down,” he agrees. “I know I- I can’t keep going like this. The band’s tired, they want a break. I know I’m exhausting everyone, but I just... I can’t fail this time.” He sounds goddamned determined, thoughtfully chewing on his bottom lip.

“But when have you ever failed?” I ask, not understanding where he’s coming from. “For fuck’s sake, Bren, you’ve got the world at your feet! When will you get that it’s okay to take it easier?”

He shrugs, and it seems like he’s trying to brush off the truth in my words: he’s a success already.

A tentative smile now appears on his lips, creating soft creases in the corners of his mouth. His eyes spark up slightly, almost playfully. “You know, when I was really young, I dreamed of being a Bishop or one of the big guys one day. Don’t laugh!” he then says, pointing a finger, eyes daring. How am I supposed to not laugh when he is clearly amused by it too? Him a Bishop? Really? But I hold back my smile – barely – and he shrugs. Clears his throat, winces again, and takes a big gulp of tea. Licks his lips. “I just thought – you know, when we went to church meetings and our Bishop spoke, it was just impressive. Performing like that, having all these people listen... It was mesmerising. Magical. Later I realised that you needed to believe in God if you wanted to get that far, so that didn’t really work out. But I told my parents it was what I wanted, and Mother wanted me to go for it. So I spent my childhood thinking I’d do that, you know, become this great orator and... speak to all these people and be respected and adored and –”

“Wow, Mormon priests are some hot shit.”

“Hey, if you’re good, then you are,” he says matter-of-factly. Now he shakes his head. “But then, well, lack of faith happened, puberty happened, boys happened,” he lists, rolling his eyes, and his smile slowly vanishes. “And then I was... so focused on just making it through the day that I stopped thinking about what I’d do with my life. But it stayed with me, that knowledge that my parents expected great things from me. I began to expect it myself and – suddenly I’m twenty-one and scrubbing venue floors in San Francisco. And I’m alive and I’m feeding myself and I’m with people who accept me, but... I’m not changing the world. No one’s interested in what I have to say. My potential’s wasted. And I write my songs but labels don’t want me, so I start to think I’m no good at music either. So I wait tables and I pour drunk people more drinks, and I think that that’s how my life’s gonna be, you know? But then... this happens.” He motions around the bus slightly before his eyes land on me. “You happened. I have to give you credit for this. You changed my life.”

He did the same for me, but I don’t say it because he’s not finished.

“And I know that – I got lucky, and I know that you helped me out with my career. But this is still my music, and if people didn’t like it, then even you couldn’t change that. So people like my music because they just do, because it’s good. And now I have this opportunity, and I can – sing in front of thousands, I’ve got all these people listening to me. I’m someone important. I can make a difference. And that’s so- so rare, it’s not something I ever thought I’d get. I just feel like it’s my duty to work as hard as I can and to try and make this world a bit more like how I want it to be.”

“But if you exhaust yourself, how will that do any good for your cause?”

He hangs his head. “I know.”

I place a hand on his knee, feel it bony and warm beneath the soft pyjama fabric. “You need to find a balance, alright? It takes time to figure that out. But you will because you’re you. What can’t you do?”

“Now you’re just buttering me up,” he says and rolls his eyes, but he’s also trying not to break into one of those gorgeous, heart-warming smiles of his.

“You wish, don’t you?” I smirk. He scoffs but grins widely. I take in a deep breath, my fingers flexing on his knee. “Seriously, though. I think that... you’ll become an admirable man, the kind that – years from now, people will remember for all the good he did. You just need to stick around to do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And now you’re just fishing for compliments, man.”

He laughs, almost coughing but then managing to hold it off. “Thanks,” he says quietly, his hand landing on mine, his hard fingertips resting against the back of my hand. They move over the visible blue veins in lazy strokes, then move to my knuckles, brushing over the ridges. He seems lost in it, eyes on our hands, calm and self-assured. It’s a good look on him.

I say, “I’m really proud of you sometimes.”

Now he does break into a smile, but it’s the truth: finally getting out of Machias and just seeing his new life, seeing him performing, talking to fans, charming everyone left and right, being so professional and focused – fuck me if I’m not proud. I can’t say that I always saw the potential. Even in New York, getting him studio time, passing on the demo? That was fifty percent believing in him and fifty percent trying to win him over by doing something that Shane could never give him. My aim wasn’t necessarily true, but still I’m not completely surprised by what he’s achieved. He was special. He always has been, and I knew that on the day I met him.

Or soon after, anyway.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, his fingers now tangling with mine. “I’ve kind of missed hanging out with you.” He says it with a shrug like it’s not a big thing.

“Well someone needs to keep you in check,” I say, and I know it’s a cop out from admitting that I’ve missed talking to him too, but of course I have. I’ve missed every single thing about him, like the way he now purses his lips like I’m not nearly as funny as I think I am.

I’ve missed him, and it means so much to know that he’s missed this too.

I don’t ever want to miss him again. I won’t fuck this up anymore.

I hear the bus door open just then, shoes banging against the steps up. Brendon turns to see who’s coming, and I look up to see Dick and behind him Dallon. I quickly lift my hand off Brendon’s knee, the touch and connection disappearing as I fake an awkward stretching movement and move back from Brendon. I feel like we’ve been walked in on, which is ridiculous because there’s nothing going on.

“Hey,” Brendon says to the newcomers, rubbing his throat again but smiling anyway, as at ease as he was a second ago.

“Hey, man,” Dick says, eyeing him. “You look rough.” Brendon nods like he knows that.

“I brought you something,” Dallon says, smiling tentatively and somewhat hopefully. The concern is there in his eyes. He’s holding a brown paper bag with a picture of a bread loaf and the word ‘Bäckerei’ on it. “A pretzel,” Dallon says, eyes moving from me to Brendon, his smile turning forced like he now realises that we were by ourselves again. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“I am,” Brendon says, “but there’s no way I can eat that.” He points at his throat, and Dallon’s expression falls.

“Some soup would be good,” I suggest. “Nothing that needs chewing. Ice cream.”

“Ooh,” Brendon says, clearly intrigued. “Some –”

“Chocolate ice cream,” I finish for him – speak of the obvious. He smiles. Dallon’s lips purse. “Anyway,” I then say, just to say something. Well, anyway. Anyway, anyway.

I get up to go, and Brendon says, “Oh, you’re leaving?”

I don’t necessarily have to leave. I could stay and Brendon wouldn’t mind, but it’s probably a good idea to give them some breathing space. I’m just a friend of Brendon’s, and Dallon’s his – something more, so.

“I’ll go help out at the venue,” I say, and Brendon looks disappointed. I love it that he does. All I want to do is stay, I swear. “I’ll catch you later.”

Dallon steps aside slowly to make room for me to pass, not taking his eyes off of me. Brendon says, “Do you think we’d be able to find ice cream somewhere?”

“Of course,” Dallon says stiffly.

The way he looks at me is far from friendly.

But I’m not the enemy either.

I was supposed to stock up on supplies while in London, but then I found myself too preoccupied with obsessing over Brendon and Dallon and... well, Brendon. But when he retreats to his bunk for a nap after breakfast the following day, I figure that I’ve got time to kill.

Buying strings is something that Leo as the guitar tech should do, but he keeps stocking bronze and flat-wound strings when I could do with brass strings for extra kick on a few songs. Besides, a visit to a music shop always feels cosy, is always relaxing. Some kids go to movies – I go mess around with different guitars.

And going is better than endlessly worrying about Brendon, who probably doesn’t need to be worried about anymore. He was exhausted after last night’s show again, but he wasn’t in danger of collapsing. He is still recovering from all the weeks when he chose work over the rest that his body needs, and I don’t need to sit around in the bus lounge, keeping guard as he sleeps.

I didn’t think that Brendon getting sick could be a good thing but as it’s turned out we’ve spent plenty of time by ourselves since. I enjoy it while I can – soon he’ll be alright enough to take on front man duties again, and then the bus will be empty once more.

A sound tech working for the venue gives me directions to the nearest music shop, drawing streets on a piece of paper with appropriate arrows. He tries to tell me that they’ve got people who can go for me, really, anything I want, they’ll do it, they’d only be too happy, Herr Ross, really, let us –

It takes me ten minutes to get rid of him, but not before I pose for a picture with him and sign a tour poster for each of his four children.

I use a staff exit to avoid the kids that have lined up outside the venue already, and I come out to a parking lot. There’s a bit of frost on the ground but no actual snow, but the clouds hanging above me look heavy and telling. I wrap my scarf tighter around my throat and pull the handmade map out of my pocket as I begin to find my way.

I come to a halt, however, as I spot a familiar figure walking towards me, lost in his own thoughts as he walks between cars. I hesitate. Wonder whether to leave Dallon to it or not. He avoided me all of yesterday, and last night he just... I don’t know, something was up. He avoided Brendon too. That doesn’t add up when he should be all over Brendon – maybe yesterday’s unsuccessful pretzel fractured his ego, and now he’s attending to his wounds, having failed to look after his significant other. Whatever it may be, he was like a robot on stage, automatic and no emotions, and he was the first one out of the dressing room after the show, already in his bunk when we got on the bus, and he was long gone before the rest of us got up this morning.

Everyone knows that something is up. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t have anything to do with Brendon and the latest events. It’s out of character, that I do know. Dallon isn’t an avoider usually.

“Hey man,” I call out, deciding to take the bull by the horns. Dallon looks up. He isn’t happy to see me. If anything, he gets an ominous look in his eyes. He glances over his shoulder like escaping might be a good plan, but he’s got nowhere to go.

I pass a few more Volkswagen Beetles – why do Germans love these so much, I have no idea – and then reach him. His cheeks are rosy from the mild chill, so I figure he’s been on a walk by himself. That’s not a good sign.

“What’s happening?”

He shrugs. “Nothing, man.” His jaw line is tight, like he’s gritting his teeth. He won’t quite look at me. It’s funny that he was so concerned about Brendon in Paris, but now he seems to keep his distance. Brendon asked for him this morning, was frowning because it’s not like Dallon to bail on him, to ignore him or avoid him. I don’t get why Dallon would be angrier or more jealous now when – when nothing’s happened since Paris, nothing worse or more, and right now Dallon doesn’t even know that Brendon and I spent the last two hours sharing a couch in the lounge, talking and catching up.

“Well, if you’re not busy,” I say, not really sure what to say. I show him the map briefly. “There’s a music shop a ten minute walk away, I’m heading over to buy some essentials. You want to come along? Jam with some guitars.” I think it’s a damn fair offer, but to my surprise he laughs. I frown. “What?”

“Don’t be nice to me, man. That’s degrading.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he concludes. He walks past me, clearly not interested in conversing further, and I sigh. Okay. He’s angry. Clearly jealous. I stepped on his turf a little, I have been stepping on his turf. Okay. But we’re adults so we can talk this over. The last thing I need is Brendon pissed off at me because his boyfriend got the wrong idea, and I didn’t correct him.

“Is this about Paris?” I call after him, and he stops. “Look, man, let’s go for a beer and talk it over.”

Not that I honestly want to – No, a beer with Dallon sounds just about as pleasant as sticking needles under my fingernails.

But it’s not about what I want or need.

He turns back around, looking disbelieving. “It’s not about Paris.” He shakes his head, his mind clearly full of muddled thoughts. “Of course it’s about Paris!” he then adds, takes a few steps closer. “And it’s about you and the way you look at him and the way he looks at you and it’s about you treating me like an idiot, for letting me talk about my- my stupid crush while all that time you and Brendon –”

“Whoa, okay!” I say, stopping him right there as it seems to be all pouring out now. I guess the beer’s out of question. But this is good, we’ll clear the air, and things can stop being weird and tense. “Look, whatever you think is going on between us –”

“I know about you two,” he states. “I know all about it. Mentor and mentee? God, the only time you two talked about music was when it was pillow talk!”

He’s got me there.

“I don’t –” I start, then huffing. “Pointless rumours.”

“Not rumours. Fact.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” He gives me the onceover like he’s got me figured out, and the gaze he gives me is close to despising. He knows. He actually knows, and suddenly my hands feel sweaty and my heart is drumming unsteadily. “First Bob informed me that you’re bisexual, back in Cologne. Well, that’s convenient. I thought I was being paranoid up until that point, but I wasn’t. And Sisky told me the rest yesterday. It’s pathetic, I had to pretend that I already knew, but Sisky could hardly shut up once he got started on your love story. I guess that makes me the fool, huh?”

Goddammit, Sisky.

But this isn’t his fault. Okay, it’s a little his fault, but Dallon clearly manipulated the kid. It’s unfair to pick on the intellectually inferior. I feel less bad for Dallon because he started digging around on his own – I’m sure Brendon would have told him eventually.

There’s no way of sticking to the lies that Brendon’s told his bandmates. Well, not lies – they are true in some ways. Modified truths, that I helped him out with his career, that we had a bond... Brendon always just left out how we were romantically involved.

“The past is private between Brendon and me,” I state firmly. “You didn’t know because it’s none of your business.”

“It is my business because you let me think I had a chance!” Dallon snaps. I recognise his tone: fresh heartbreak. He quickly looks away, and I see beyond his fury at being lied to. I guess Brendon was always going to be a heartbreaker – as revenge, that is. Break a few bloody organs because his own got broken when he was so young. “God, it all makes sense now, these past few weeks, this past – past year,” he exclaims, ranting. “When Brendon finally told me about Shane and him back in Leeds, I thought – you know, that we were becoming closer. That it was a step in our relationship. But turns out that it was just you being around him again, bringing those memories back and Brendon needing to get them off his chest. He told me he had an affair, that it got pretty serious.”

“He said it got serious?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Dallon stares at me disbelievingly, a silent ‘how dare you?’. He shakes his head. “Unbelievable. God, I don’t know how the hell I didn’t piece it together sooner. Sweet denial, am I right? Fucking hell. You two had an affair. And when he tried to end it, you did the unthinkable and slept with his boyfriend.”

He manages to make me sound despicable, and the guilt of it mixes with finally knowing what made Dallon first think that it was time for him to make a move with Brendon: Brendon fessed up. Being a cheater was something Brendon was never proud of. And take a guy as morally upright as Dallon, and Brendon would be nervous to tell him. Worried that he would get judged – Brendon let down a wall, made Dallon fall for him a bit more. Showed remorse. Admitted his mistake: me. And I desperately want to know what Brendon said about it, the mess, us, the affair. How Brendon perceives it after all this time. What he thinks the wrong moves were in that fucked up game of chess for two, three, four – god, too many people.

“It was more complicated than that,” I end up saying, my mind still feeling a jolt of nervous excitement from Brendon having said that it got serious. I mean, I know that it did, but we never said it out loud. But it did.

I won’t discuss it with Dallon, however, I won’t ask him to tell me what Brendon said.

“Sure it was complicated,” he scoffs. And there it is again: Dallon thinks I’m worthless.

But our affair was far more confusing than he’s making it sound. Love isn’t clear cut. I hurt Brendon. He hurt me. Who could ever keep a healthy perspective on anything when they’re in that deep? How do we see how bad it’s gotten? We can’t. And so we stay even when it gets ugly. Because if love could disappear the second we first hurt someone, then hell – no one would ever get married, most people wouldn’t get past a second month anniversary. We love and we cause pain. We cause pain because we love. It goes hand in hand. We can’t stop loving someone just because they hurt us, and we’re not incapable of knowingly hurting loved ones.

My love for Brendon fucked me up. I wanted him too badly and too desperately, especially when it became obvious that he didn’t... That he never loved me back.

So I fucked it all up, but Dallon knows nothing about how it affected me or how I felt. And if I really was as much of an asshole as he clearly now perceives me to be, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be somewhere out there banging all the Cliftons and Chrises in this world.

But I’m not.

So if Dallon chooses to judge me on my past mistakes alone, then that’s his shortcoming and not mine.

“The joke’s on me,” Dallon sighs, and his expression is one of genuine pain. “I thought I had him, that it was a sealed deal. I’ve never felt this way about a guy before. What I feel for him...” He trails off and shakes his head, sounding like he’s angry with himself as well as me and Brendon too, probably.

“He has feelings for you too,” I state with no particular passion or conviction. It’s just fact – I know that Brendon does. Well, it’s fucking obvious. This doesn’t seem to console Dallon any. “Look, man, I’m not trying to come between you guys. And back in Paris, I didn’t- mean to take your place in that bed or –”

“Oh, you didn’t, don’t worry,” he says, words bitter. “And you’re not taking my place when he constantly talks about you or when you two snuggle in the bus lounge and talk like no one else in the world exists. No, you’re not taking my place. There never was a goddamned place for me, but you both let me think otherwise. And I’m just the guy who thought that Brendon and he shared something that we clearly don’t, so I guess I lose.”

I never thought he’d be the self-deprecating kind of guy. It’s not a good look on him.

I take a deep breath, try to talk some sense into him. “Brendon and I are just friends now.”

This, it seems, is the wrong thing to say in an attempt to settle matters, to make the situation better.

Dallon looks at me disbelievingly and angrily. “Do you actually believe that?”

“Yeah, we –”

“You do know that he should want nothing to do with you, right? You take that past of yours, and he should want nothing from you. But Ian messed up, and who does he replace Ian with? You. And when he gets sick, who does he want by his bedside? Not me,” he laughs bitterly. “No. He wants you. And you fucking couldn’t get there any faster.”

I can’t deny that. I was with him because there’s no one in this world I care more about. And Brendon wanted me there because – I don’t know. Probably because like I already told Dallon, I feel familiar to him. And he’s okay with me seeing him vulnerable. Brendon’s so proud, he doesn’t want just anyone to see that.

Dallon and Brendon aren’t there yet.

But unlike me, maybe Brendon loves him back. Maybe he’ll have that something that will make Brendon fall in love.

I can’t know that. Neither can he, and the uncertainty seems to get to us both.

Brendon lied about his past. He’s still... close friends with a sort of ex. And that ex is still around, all the time, and, okay, Brendon and Dallon have just gotten off to a rocky start here. That’s all. But it’s not nearly as big a deal as he’s making it sound.

I intend to tell Dallon this when he asks, “Do you know what I’ve learned since Paris?”

Not really, and I have a feeling I don’t want to know.

“That you fucking worship the ground he walks on – it doesn’t take much to pick up on that. And that he...” Dallon shakes his head. “God, he hangs on to every single word you say. So maybe you’re friends right now, but everyone knows it’s only a matter of time before you’re fucking again. It’s pathetic to see how in love with each other you are and how you’re trying to deny it.”

He backs away from me, taking a deep breath, now seemingly calmer but not any happier. “You know, this is why I wanted to be a solo artist. No bandmates, no drama. No pretty boys making promises they don’t intend to keep. So hey, thanks for the invitation, but I don’t want your beer. I have no interest in being a part of whatever games you two are playing.”

And with that, he turns around and heads straight for the venue, not shuffling his feet like he did when I bumped into him. Now he walks with determination, another ‘fuck you’ aimed my way.

Which is just as well, really, because I have no idea what to say to that.

Spencer doesn’t pick up when I try to call him. Vicky might, but she’d roll her eyes and hang up on me. Gabe would pick up, probably, as Jon’s called him at the rehab centre a few times and Jon said that I should give Gabe a call, show some support. I will when I stop feeling so guilty. And then there’s Sisky, I could talk to him, but no way in hell am I opening up to him anymore, and then there’s Jon, but he’d do the old “you’re putting me in an awkward position” speech, what with Brendon and I both being like brothers to him. I briefly consider Jürgen – we’ve kind of bonded, we share cigarettes. I could explain away all I want and he’d quip it with a lyric he’s memorised like “No woman, no cry.”

Or then I could just keep it to myself: this uncertainty created by the words of a jealous man, not anything to be taken seriously. Dallon sees what he sees, deals with the hurt in whatever way he deems the most appropriate, like taking it out on me.

It’s not entirely unexpected – he’s been suspicious for days now. But what have I done? Nothing. Nursed Brendon back to health. Held him through a single night. Retreated when morning came. Loved him and let him go, and isn’t that the new definition of love, anyway?

Still I end up bumming around the Stuttgart music shop for two hours. It’s not like I’m avoiding going back, seeing Brendon again, not at all. I jam with the owners of the shop, who look like they can’t believe their eyes that I walked in. I promise to get them on the guest list for the show – Hans and Joachim, two brothers. They even let me make a phone call to England, but Spencer doesn’t pick up so it’s just as well. It’s probably a blessing in disguise because he’d only say, ‘I told you so.’

Hans and Joachim probably don’t want to hear of the mess in my head either.

I can’t concentrate on anything.

I refuse the freebies that the brothers offer – I’m loaded, they’re trying to run a business – and eventually head back to the venue with more shit than I need. I bump into fans heading to the venue to start lining up, and I give them a handful of plectrums each because I don’t need them. The kids start to crowd me so I throw a handful of plectrums on the street and then escape them. I touched the picks so everyone wants one, and they look like chickens pecking grains.

Brendon’s strictly on bed rest, so it shouldn’t be hard to avoid him. Not that I even need to avoid him because Dallon’s wrong about us. We’re friends, and we’re not going down that road anymore.

Dallon is mostly wrong.

Maybe I am in love, but that’s not news. I can be in love with Brendon and still just be his friend. I’ve been doing just that for the past week, I can keep it up for the rest of my days. That doesn’t mean that my friendship with him is insincere.

But for Dallon to say that... Brendon. That he and I both.

I’ve closed that door, and I don’t want to reopen it. It’s too full of bitter disappointment when reality kicks in.

I go to the dressing room, expecting to find the guys there with Brendon asleep on the bus, but it’s the other way around: Brendon is in the dressing room and the others are absent. I stop at the door. Curse my luck. I don’t want to see him right now.

He’s on the couch, an orange blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders, his hair wet from having been washed – in the bathroom, of course, head under the faucet. Good, too, because his hair was getting pretty disgusting. He’s got his notebook and he seems to be in the middle of writing in it, but then I walk in and he sees me and I can’t hide.

“Hey,” he says, smiling my way. He looks soft the way he did that morning in Paris, when I let myself slip into a world only meant for us, and I need to erase the memory of that. “You been shopping?”

“Just some guitar strings,” I say, like that takes up two nearly full plastic bags. I’ll give it to charity. I don’t know. I wanted to support the guys’ business. I need strings. Vital things. I was panicking about Brendon. I would’ve bought a house in that mindset. “How you feeling?” I ask because he’s still looking at me, and I can’t particularly ignore that. I only saw him a handful of hours ago, after his first feverless night. Still, maybe that virus will retaliate and make a surprise comeback.

“Better. Bored.”

I hum like I get that as I put my purchases away and slowly undo the buttons of my coat. Brendon sighs slightly, carding fingers through his wet hair. “I know this is for my own good, though.”

“Better safe than sorry.” I add a clichéd sympathy smile on top and take carefully calculated steps towards the door, try to decide on an excuse, like that I need to go grab a drink although a full assortment of liquors are on the table, or that I need something to eat when there are trays of snacks and sandwiches in the dressing room, or that I need to go smoke when smoking is allowed here too.

He looks at me. Frowns. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I say, now stopping. “Nothing at all.”

Too defensive.

We’re rushing into this friendship, and it’s getting confusing for me. Close friends, okay, but maybe we’re getting too close. Maybe I’m getting too close.

Would he be as cruel as to still want me but not tell me that?

I should know the answer to that after well over four years of knowing him, but I don’t.

“Everything’s fine,” I say, which is a lie, and he knows that. He casts his brown eyes away like he’s hurt that I’m trying to pull one over him. He’s shirtless under the blanket he’s wrapped around his shoulders, his collarbones pale and visible. I know full well his muscular arms and shoulders, his strong and well toned upper body, but he’s always been narrow and slim, and I know he isn’t fragile but the illness seems to have drained him somehow and gives a misguiding impression of frailty. It makes me feel even more protective of him, even when I know how forcefully his slightly curved hips can press against me and I know how the muscles on his arms flex when he jerks off, I know the strength of his body. I should know better than anyone and have the most confidence in a full recovery, but I also worry about him more than the others. It’s that paradox of weakness in him that throws me off and I just can’t quite shake it.

So even now I find it hard to stay away from him.

“Look, the thing is,” I start, trying to find the right words but there are none. “Dallon knows about us.” He quickly looks at me, eyes widening. “About the past, I mean.”

He blinks owlishly before his gaze becomes focused. “Oh. About... all of it?” he clarifies, and I nod. Pretty much all of it. “Shit,” he mutters. “He’s talked to you?”

“Yeah.”

Brendon sighs heavily. “Explains why he’s avoiding me, then.” There’s hurt to his tone, and I – can’t walk out on that. See, there you go. Brendon and I are just. Friends. So I sit down on one of the chairs. Will face this.

“I think Dallon’s pissed off that you didn’t tell him.”

Understatement.

“I did tell him,” he says defensively.

“But you left me anonymous,” I point out, and Brendon looks somewhat guilty.

For Dallon, it shouldn’t change anything. He was able to accept Brendon’s past mistakes when he didn’t know that the guy Brendon cheated on Shane with was me. Now, well. I guess Dallon’s understanding is being pushed to the limits.

“You guys just need to talk it over,” I say, trying to sound as confident as I can. Brendon nods but he looks lost and seems hurt, and I hate that. “If I’ve fucked up something between you two, I’m sorry.” Brendon needs to know where I stand with this, so that we don’t need to second-guess any of this, us, our feelings for each other, him and me, this friendship. “I’ve told Dallon it’s over. He just needs to hear it from you.”

“You told him that?” he asks quietly. I nod. I did. He clears his throat slightly, eyes fixed to the floor. “Good. I mean, good because I’ve told him that too.”

A unified front. Brendon’s told Dallon it’s over, just like I have.

Good.

Really.

That Brendon’s said we’re over, even if we did get kind of serious at one point.

I stare at my shoes. Feel renewed loss. I see Brendon telling Dallon about it back in Leeds, a hand placed on Dallon’s knee, the words spilling out: ‘but all of that, between me and that guy, is over now. That? God, of course that’s over.’

The knowledge of it pierces through me.

Fuck, Dallon was right. I have not been entirely sincere, but – That’s okay, we’re still figuring this out. Feelings don’t just vanish overnight.

“I think Dallon just needs more convincing,” I say roughly.

When Brendon sighs irately, I’m surprised. He looks pensive as he chews on his full bottom lip. A sign he’s busy thinking. “Yeah but –” he starts. “I just. I know I should’ve told Dallon about us, but I chickened out. How often do you tell your date that you used to be cosy with Ryan Ross out of all people?” he asks, and I don’t know what he means by that. Would that intimidate people? A sprinkle of fame? Dallon’s never been the type to be awed by that. “I’ll talk to him,” he says. “I will. But I don’t think I should have to choose between him and our friendship. I don’t think relationships should be about compromise and giving things up. They should be about... you know, giving your life more substance. Getting more, not taking away.”

“Uh,” I say with a soft laugh. “You’re really talking to the wrong person about that. I’ve fucked up every relationship I’ve ever had, so...” I lift my hands, open palms facing him, showing him what I’ve got: nothing.

I’m not sure where the expression ‘lone wolf’ comes from because wolves, Clifton once informed me during some boring speech on hunting, mate for life. I never knew that. A lone wolf, therefore, is an individual who never found a mate or who somehow lost its mate. Broken either way.

So being a lone wolf isn’t about having been born that way. It’s about failure and loss.

Here I am.

“What about that guy in Machias?” Brendon asks. Unlike back in the London pub, when Brendon asked about that with anger in his tone, he now sounds casually inquisitive. Friendly. Which is what we should be.

I hesitate in answering, however, because it just seems unwise to dig up that stuff. He, however, looks completely sincere, and he said it, that we’re over, so. So I can be honest.

“That was just sex, and sex really doesn’t constitute a relationship,” I say with finality, not wishing to hypothesise on it. It’s almost as if having regular sex on Thursday afternoons is a much more significant occurrence in Brendon’s brain than in mine. It’s my own fault for ever even letting the existence of my convenient arrangement slip. “And anyway, there’ll probably be no more of that. You can’t be gay in a town that small, secrecy is pretty important, feeling, uh... safe. Like your secret’s protected. And, well, let’s just say that the last time that guy was in my house, Sisky kind of... walked in on us.”

Brendon’s eyebrows lift disbelievingly. “Whoa, in the – middle of –”

“After.”

“Ah.”

“Still kinda naked.”

“Classy,” he says, laughing, and that’s good. That he can laugh about it. I still can’t bring myself to laugh about him and Dallon fucking in London, but I mostly just don’t think about it. “And man, that must have been awkward, too.”

“It was,” I agree, still remembering the horror of finding Sisky standing there with me as naked as they come. “That’s how the kid found out that I prefer men, actually. And I think that my friend, uh. He isn’t forgetting about us being found out any time soon.” I shrug, c’est la vie, what can you do? I think of Sisky and me sitting on the beach afterwards, when he asked me if I still loved Brendon. I said yes. Brendon is keeping his gaze on me, wrapped up in a blanket, his drying hair a mess, his body a mess, in a dressing room that smells of unwashed men and sweat, and he just sits there and exists and leaves me breathless, so of course I said yes.

I’ll always say yes.

“Sisky was angry with me because of it, but not – No, not that,” I say when a sudden spark of defiance flickers in Brendon’s eyes. “No, Sisky’s got nothing against me being like that. Not really, it’s just... All the girls he’s ever dated wanted me. Not him. And here I am, not at all interested. And it is ironic, I can admit that. I can see where he’s coming from. But is that my fault? I don’t know. You start to wonder how many relationships you’ve unintentionally ruined.” Maybe Brendon and Dallon will be another couple on that list, but I swear that I didn’t intend to do that. I mostly believe that I didn’t. “Anyway,” I say, wanting to change the topic. “I’ll try to get Sisky laid at some point, find him new girls to miss.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Brendon says. “I suppose he’s got, uh... Well... He’s got his... personality going for him?” he suggests, and I look at him, signalling that he’s being a bit mean there, and he smiles back wickedly like he knows, and I huff slightly. Brendon looks into his lap and is quiet for a while. “So Sisky is straight then?”

“Yeah?” I say since we’re apparently making statements into questions.

“Fully straight?”

“Yes?”

“I just get mixed vibes.”

I frown. “What vibes?”

I wonder if Sisky’s over enthusiasm has translated as appearing like he’s trying to hit on Brendon. I can see that happening pretty easily if I’m honest.

“Well, I don’t know. The way he’s with you, for instance.” He shrugs.

“Ah, that. Well he’s a teensy bit in love with me but –”

“Oh, you’re so charming,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief, and I laugh, not sure what to make of his remarks. It echoes in my head again: hate feeling so jealous all the time. I think of Dallon saying that it’s pathetic to see how we try to deny that we’re still in love. It settles hard in my stomach, a heavy stone of guilt. Brendon would never admit that he’s jealous, he would never show it. But maybe he is showing it, maybe this is him testing the waters.

Or maybe misguided thoughts have been put into my head.

Dallon’s got me climbing up walls, and at this rate I’ll ruin my relationship with Brendon before we can even finish this tour.

Dallon’s paranoia is his own. I won’t let him affect me with it, let me prove him right when he’s not. Bren and I are... still just figuring this out. And it’s only normal to know if your friend is involved with someone or if someone is chasing your friend.

“What a day,” he then mumbles, sighing and rubbing his cheek. “God. Could you pour me some water?” He points at the refreshments table. I rise to get some for him. “Could you pour some salt in it too?”

I obey, and he makes a face when I pass the glass to him. I know that gargling with salt water is good for his throat. He was doing it backstage before the show yesterday.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

A frown flickers on his face but then he nods. Right now, distancing myself from him is needed. It’d be too easy to stay here and just talk, just tell him all the little things that have been on my mind because it feels so natural with him. But that confusion isn’t worth it.

I’ve barely moved when he says, “I’m sorry if Dallon went off on you. That’s my fault.”

“That’s between you guys, right?” I say, and he nods slowly. “Just talk to him. I’m sure you can fix things.”

He looks confused, and that’s not good. It’s the opposite of good.

I escape while I can.

The invite to the Munich party came days before we got to the city, but the band and crew have eagerly been waiting for it because it offers us a much needed break from each other and the constant rushing around. The knowledge of a hotel bed and a day off tomorrow feels like a brief reward as the band hasn’t had a proper day off since London.

That being said, I still don’t think Brendon should be here tonight. Paris was a handful of nights ago, and the fever might be gone now but he is still weak. He should not be at this party, talking to those girls who’ve crowded him. He should not be chatting away with them, laughing suavely and drinking a beer. He should be in bed, and Mike should not have let him come. Do I have to do his work for him?

But this time I stay away.

That’s the plan now. The great game plan.

Brendon still catches me staring at him from across the jam-packed bar, air thick with smoke, and I look away as another catchy new wave song starts to play, and the kids jerk along to it. I guess it’s better than that disco shit we had to endure a few years back.

Jon and Sisky keep chatting, but I don’t listen to them. I mostly focus on rejecting the people trying to approach us, a stern ‘fuck off’ gaze does the trick. Beautiful women in skimpy dresses, gorgeous women with crazy, spiked up hair – it’s a varied bunch of guests.

Jon’s homesick and keeps talking about Cassie, telling Sisky how he initially won her over back when they were just kids: he made her a bead bracelet all by himself, it matched her eyes, and she was his forever. Sisky raises an eyebrow like that’s the gayest thing he’s ever heard, but it was back in 1965 and they were teenagers and it worked and bead bracelets were hip.

“That won’t help me, I don’t have bracelets in my pockets,” Sisky mourns as he tries to send hopeful smiles to girls whose eyes land on him, and then they just land on me and stay there. We could get him laid relatively easily, but the point is to try and get him the hottest girl we can find.

“Just work on the pickup lines,” I tell him, smoking restlessly. Maybe I should just go back to the hotel – it’s only a few blocks away. But then I couldn’t keep an eye on Brendon, so no, that really won’t do either.

And speaking of the devil, Brendon makes my job all the more easier or harder or both as he now joins us. “Hey,” he says in a friendly greeting. He’s got a new beer with him. Alcohol, that can’t be good for his throat right now, and neither can this air full of smoke. But he’s smiling, anyway, even if he’s not fully back to his old self. “You guys having a good time?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Jon confirms with a mildly drunken smile. I’ve had a few too many, but it keeps me relaxed and keeps my mind from overworking. The atmosphere feels different right now: we’re in a bar, it’s all fun and games, casual, relaxed. We don’t have to be on band or work mode.

I ask, “How you feeling?”

He smiles almost nervously. “I’m alright.”

I scrutinise Brendon anyway, trying to find a telltale sign that will justify a demand that he leave, go to the hotel and sleep. I can’t quite find it: he’s in damn fucking tight dark blue jeans that cling to his calves, thighs and hips, and he’s thrown on a snugly fit plaid shirt that shows off his slim figure, and I know that were he to lift his arms, he’d expose his lower, lower stomach, showing the trail of body hair that goes from his navel downwards. He says, “I’m glad to be with people again. Glad to be drinking.” He lifts his beer like staying away from it has been painful. Jon laughs.

Sisky now faces Brendon and says, “You have beautiful eyes.”

Brendon stares at Sisky in confusion, and I recall Brendon’s remarks that he gets mixed vibes from the kid. Yeah, no wonder.

“Pickup lines,” I explain and realisation seems to dawn on Brendon. I then tell Sisky, “You can’t just say it out of nowhere, man. You need to ease it in there, you come on too strong otherwise.”

Sisky sighs like it’s all too fucking hard.

“You have beautiful eyes? Really?” Brendon asks, eyeing us. “Whose pickup line was that?”

“His,” Jon says, pointing at me and ratting me out.

“Says the bracelet man,” I bite back, blowing out smoke.

“And it worked: I’ve got the girl of my dreams,” he says smugly. Yeah, we’re not all that lucky.

Jon pats Brendon’s shoulder and looks over to Dick and Mike, who are chatting to an apparently-famous-in-Europe female trio that we’ve never heard of. Jon now goes to join them, passing Bob and Quentin who are surrounded by beautiful, giggling women ogling them. Bob is grinning broadly, clearly enjoying himself. Sisky looks like he’d kill for a piece of that action.

Brendon places a hand on Sisky’s shoulder. “Just say you’re with the band. That’s it.”

Sisky’s eyes narrow. “That’s it?”

“Dude, trust me,” Brendon says. “I know.”

“No one’s that shallow,” I object as Sisky takes this new advice, finishes his vodka in one go, and sets his eyes on a beautifully curvy brunette and walks over with nervous steps.

“Really, Ross?” Brendon laughs, and my pulse picks up from the sound. “You’ve been surrounded by groupies since you were twenty, and you really think people aren’t that shallow?”

Point. Sure.

“Well, it’s clichéd,” I argue anyway.

“It’s clichéd because it works.” He smirks at me, and I huff and look away, unwilling to admit he’s right. When I bring my cigarette to my lips for another inhale, Brendon snatches the smoke from me and brings it to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he sucks in smoke. As he blows some out, he says, “Sharing is caring.”

“It’s bad for your throat,” I argue and snatch it back, dropping it into my mostly finished beer. And, as if on cue, he coughs, bringing a fist to his lips. “I told you,” I say victoriously, but he coughs some more, his eyes beginning to water, and I feel like a dick. “You okay? Here, okay, take a sip.” I guide his hand that’s holding his beer, and he quickly drinks some of the liquid down. I rub his back, right between his shoulder blades. He nods, managing to get the coughing to subside. He blinks and wipes the corners of his eyes.

“I’m good. Really.”

“You should be in bed.”

“I’m good,” he assures me. “I’m doing interviews again, too. Or well. Unofficial ones.” He nods to where Sisky is now chatting to the girl, having established contact.

I put two and two together and a sudden chill spreads in me. “Sisky’s interviewed you?”

“No, but I’ve promised to sit down with him. Tomorrow, maybe.” He shrugs it off. “He needs to do it sometime, right?” He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by it.

But I am. Sisky’s interviews are all about digging up the past and analysing me and my fuck ups and faults. The thought of Brendon and Sisky sitting down and talking about me does not appeal to me at all. I don’t want Brendon sitting there and thinking back to the bad old days.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why?” His eyes are inquisitive and he sounds perfectly sincere. Yeah... why?

Because I can’t change the past. I don’t like what’s there. But... maybe giving an extensive interview on all the ways I fucked things up with us, with everyone, is exactly what’s needed to keep the world in perspective. Maybe Brendon needs to thoroughly investigate my shortcomings. Maybe it’ll do us some good, keep our friendship within acceptable limits.

“Sisky can get nosy,” I mumble. “He’ll want to talk about our breakups.”

“It’s funny how we can use the plural for that,” Brendon notes without missing a beat, but he sounds wondering, almost like those things happened to other people, not us. “I can handle an interview with him. I’m a professional.”

“I guess,” I sigh, “I just...”

But Brendon’s not listening as his eyes have fixed on something over my shoulder. A frown appears on his face, and I follow his gaze: Dallon at the bar, talking to a damn good-looking guy with long golden coloured hair, and the guy’s hips are cocked just so – gay. Definitely. Gay a mile away. And Dallon’s standing too close to him, laughing as he sips his beer. Laughing too much, like he’s trying too hard to find something to laugh about. What’s going on is pretty obvious – these Germans are liberal, they’ve got sex shops on main streets, crazy fuckers, so maybe no one is overly paranoid about two guys talking and laughing and kind of eye-fucking each other.

But that’s not Dallon. He’s the one after true love, not the one chatting up strangers. I barely know the guy, and even I can tell how out of character that is for him.

“What’s that about?” I ask because surely Brendon should be over there, telling Goldilocks to back off or to ask Dallon what the hell he thinks he’s doing. I’ve steered clear of both men recently, and now I feel like I’ve missed something.

But Brendon only shrugs, his previous smile gone. “We talked.”

Just like I advised Brendon to do. Good. Clear things up, explain to Dallon how things are.

“And?”

“It didn’t go well.” Brendon puts on a brave smile that I don’t quite buy.

Sudden anger flickers in me. In London, Dallon fucking swore never to hurt Brendon, and now he’s already broken that promise. So much for a good Mormon boy with pure intentions – Brendon’s not perfect but he’s as fucking close to it as any of us can hope to get, and if Mr. Goody Two Shoes over there is willing to miss out on that opportunity because Brendon’s got some baggage, then fuck him and his hypocrisy. Maybe he didn’t even deserve the chance that he got.

“Did he break up with you?” I ask disbelievingly. Who the hell would ever break up with Brendon?

“No, it – I think we’ve got different ideas as to what we have, what was going on,” Brendon explains. “And we’re just... I mean, it’s a bit complicated. We kind of want different things right now.”

“He’s an idiot.”

Brendon laughs at this, but if he wants me to, I’ll take care of this. End Dallon’s career right now or at least get his drink spiked and let him wake up on the side of the road somewhere in Liechtenstein, covered in his own vomit as a milk cow gazes at him dumbly.

“No, it was – you know, something we both just...” Brendon gives up, agitated. “It’s complicated.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t have to tell me. It’s not my business. “I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out.”

“It happens,” he says and quickly looks away. I hate seeing him sad. Fucking Weekes...

It dawns on me that Brendon is truly hurt that he and Dallon haven’t worked out. I feel a new type of pain over it. The two shared something. I knew that, it’s good that they did, so I don’t. I don’t get to be jealous, I just need to deal with it and move on.

Because there will be others. He will fall in love.

“We don’t need this in the band,” he now sighs. “It’s my own fault for letting things go this far. I kind of always fuck things up, huh?”

I could say ‘never’ but that’s not true. He does fuck things up. He fucked me up in creative, artful ways. Impressive, really.

“Romance in the workplace is never a good idea,” I end up saying as diplomatically as I can. He gets a lopsided grin on his face, and I match it, unsure what he’s signalling. “What?”

He laughs and points between us. Oh. Well.

“I don’t practise what I preach, right, but I’m not a role model. Far from it.” I then notice that Sisky and the foxy brunette have disappeared, and I’m almost glad for the distraction because I don’t know what Brendon is really implying, where the conversation is heading. “Where did Sisky go?”

I look around, mostly to change the topic. We soon realise that the two have vanished.

“Maybe Sisky took her back to the hotel,” Brendon suggests, but really? Not to be a dick, but she was kind of out of his league. And this is Sisky we’re talking about, equipped with bad pickup lines, poor knowledge of the local language and his twitchy personality. Brendon seems to realise all of this because he then says, “Or not.”

Precisely.

“You wanna help me find him?” I ask. Sisky was pretty drunk.

Brendon looks towards the bar where Dallon is chatting up the guy, and Dallon looks our way just then, and Brendon’s jaw tightens and he says, “Sure.”

Dallon’s trying to make Brendon jealous in turn. It seems to be working, and I’m left wondering if Brendon joins me on my quest in order to retaliate. In any case, we part ways to cover the club as efficiently as we can. I don’t see Sisky anywhere at first, and no one’s seen him either, but he eventually reappears, after a good ten minutes of being god knows where. He emerges from the girls’ bathroom, looking debauched. No wonder I couldn’t fucking find him.

“You’re alive,” I tell him, wonder how drunk he is that he went into the wrong restroom.

He blinks at me, eyes glazed. He appears to be a hell of a lot drunker than he was before. “That girl,” he tells me, blissed out. “We did tequila shots. And then she gave me a handjob.”

“Look at you, Casanova.”

“Whoa,” he says like he still can’t believe it. He staggers slightly, and I recall him telling me of his worst ever hangover, sponsored by tequila, and how he’s sworn never to drink the stuff again because it goes straight to his head.

So much for that.

“Okay, then,” I say, wrapping his arm around my neck to keep him walking.

“That was far out,” he slurs. “So far out.”

“Bedtime for you, man.”

“Really? Okay, like, okay, man. She was, the girl, my future wife, man, she was – What was her name? I’m in love, Ryan, it burns in my chest.”

“No, that’s the alcohol in your stomach.”

“I see your point,” he nods, “and I like it.”

Brendon finds us, then, looking at Sisky with amusement. “Well, you found him.”

“Uh huh, and now I’m taking him back to the hotel.”

Sisky smiles at Brendon drunkenly. “Brendon! Dude. I got a handjob from a German chick!”

Brendon blinks. “Oh. Congrats.” Then he grins. “Which line you used on her?”

“I’m with the band,” Sisky cackles, and Brendon looks at me triumphantly. That doesn’t mean anything.

Brendon offers to help me, and I accept. It’s a handy way of getting him to bed, too, because breathing in this air and drinking down booze when he still hasn’t recovered fully is ill advised. I’ll put two patients to bed in one go.

The cold air outside wakes Sisky up some, but I still help him walk. Tequila really doesn’t suit him. I’m slightly drunk, but the protective instinct helps me to clear my head relatively efficiently. Brendon smokes on the way despite my disapproving gaze. He’s had a few too, and that mixed with his painkillers doesn’t sound like a great plan either. Kids that were hanging outside the club, hoping to get in or catch a glimpse of their favourite musicians, follow us with star struck gazes. We keep up a decent pace.

But thankfully the hotel is just around the corner, and before long we’re securely in the privacy of Sisky’s room and he’s snoring on the bed. I empty his trashcan and leave it by him, make sure that he’s lying on his stomach so that he doesn’t pull a Hendrix – not that he’s that far gone, anyway. Sisky mumbles sleepily, says, “Thank you guys, I love you so much.”

“Sleep it off, dude,” I tell him.

“She totally jerked me off...”

I roll my eyes at him while Brendon snorts.

We leave Sisky to it, fully clothed on his bed. He’ll feel like hell tomorrow. That’ll be fun to watch and ridicule.

As I close the door behind us, stepping back to the quiet corridor, I say, “That’s still more action than I’ve gotten on this tour.” That’s pretty sad when I think about it.

“Me too,” Brendon says and shakes his head like ‘what losers are we’. I stare at him. Am overtaken by an odd sensation, like I’m floating. He notices. Frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, but I only sound surprised.

Not nothing.

But I – Sisky’s not an idiot, he saw what he saw, Dallon going into Brendon’s room late at night, and they were holding hands and were all – all up close and personal, so... Sisky assumed. I assumed. All those mental images I have of them in my head, naked on Brendon’s hotel bed, the little sounds and gasps, Brendon coming undone from the touch of another man – that one, fuck, I despise that one – the explicit images, the starving kisses, they’re not... real.

Provided by my jealous imagination. Not factual history.

Oh.

The realisation – no, it’s not relief, but – Okay, it is relief. The relief spreads in me. That Dallon never had Brendon like that. Them deciding that they wanted different things makes more sense if they never even slept together, if it was never that official.

Dallon told me that I didn’t take his place in that bed. He was speaking the truth: he’s never been in that bed. Fuck, maybe they went into Brendon’s room for a cup of tea, maybe they just made out – I can live with that, that’s nothing. The absence of physical intimacy between them shouldn’t make me feel as good as it does.

“Nothing,” I then repeat and try to hide the reaction that is stirring in me. “I’m just tired, it’s been a long day. It was a tiring show.”

Brendon nods like he agrees with me there.

I hesitate but then pronounce, “You know, Dallon said it’s a miracle we’re still talking. After all that’s happened between us.”

The years of fighting and fucking and fornicating.

“I guess it is,” Brendon agrees as he gets out his key, and we walk down towards his room. “But he doesn’t get it, I don’t think.”

“Get what?”

Brendon shrugs. “Us.” I love that word. I love it when Brendon uses it. Brendon nods drunkenly like it all makes sense to him. “Dallon’s a romantic, he thinks it’s all destiny and perfection. But you and me, we’re post-romantic.” He points between us with a lopsided smile. “We know the score. And that’s better, we have no... unrealistic expectations.”

“Makes our friendship easy, I guess,” I say in agreement, now stopping outside his door.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling wider like this pleases him. He opens the door, lets it fall open. Exhales. Then looks at me. Still smiling. Fucking gorgeous and breathtaking.

It’s two in the morning. We’re in a hotel. The others are still at the party. We’re outside his door, and I feel like a gentleman caller.

No one would know.

I clear my throat, feel my heart pounding. He keeps looking at me wonderingly. “You have beautiful eyes.”

I start slightly. “Sorry?”

“It’s one of the first things I ever noticed about you. I swear no one else has that colour, amber and... hazelnut or – a blend of the two.” I feel like I can’t blink as he absorbs my irises. My stomach is suddenly full of butterflies. He smirks. “Is the pickup line working?”

“Not one bit.”

“I told you,” he says, but he’s unbuttoning the coat he put back on for the brief walk, and my eyes focus on that. Him taking off layers. “You want to come in for a drink?”

“Sorry?” I say again.

He nods towards his room. “A drink.”

I just see the bottom end of his bed. A bed. Any bed. Any surface. I swear that I can hear it all happening just then: the squeaking of the bed frame, our heavy and irregular breathing, the wet smacks of our mouths. Familiar but new, sure but fumbling. My mouth is dry. My skin is heated.

Even if he behaved, I couldn’t.

I’ve had too much to drink.

Too much to drink, I’ve –

“No, thanks. I really. Need to go.”

“Yeah?” he asks. Something predatory in his eyes lingers. “Well, goodnight, then.”

He moves in like he’s going in for a hug, but I step back quickly. He blinks. Frowns.

“Goodnight,” I say roughly. I walk past him, try to keep my breaths even, try to find my key. Don’t look back to him, don’t think about the invitation, what he meant, what he thought would happen, what I wanted to happen.

Dallon wasn’t right about us, that it’d only be a matter of time. He wasn’t.

Some people can be great together in certain ways but disastrous together in other ways. By now, Brendon and I both know how we work and how we don’t.

It’s like Spencer said back in London: it just takes a bit of time.

More time.

Chapter Text

I have a sleepless night lying on my back on the hotel bed with a local radio station on. I understand nothing of the host’s speech, but I think it’s one of those late night advice shows, a lot of ‘Liebe’ being thrown around, and I understand that much: ich liebe ihn nicht.

That’s not my problem – mine is of the other variety. And so I lie awake, feeling myself sober up as I gradually fill up the ashtray. I haven’t drawn the curtains, and the sun sneaks up on me, first weakly, then brighter and brighter, and soon I haven’t slept all night.

I haven’t gotten undressed, so I only need to roll out of bed when there’s a knock on my door. I left the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the doorknob, just to give the world the right message. It’s only half past seven and bus call isn’t until ten, so my mind comes up with varied options as to who it is: a sobered and nauseous Sisky, maybe, or an angry Dallon wanting to check that I’m in my room and not in someone else’s. Or maybe Brendon with another suggestive invitation to go to his room, and my hands feel slightly sweaty at the thought of him, and there is no excuse for that.

It is Brendon, and I’m taken aback by it. He stands in the corridor, looking tired and not that good at all – sleepless night, contestant number two. At least he’s changed, the tight jeans now gone and replaced by flared maroon pants. He looks at me like he instantly realises that I haven’t been to bed at any point, his eyes quickly taking me in.

“Hey,” I say, my voice scratchy from having smoked too much.

“Hey.” His voice is hesitant. He looks worried. Concerned. The flirtatious air from last night is long gone. “Sorry if I woke you up but –”

“I wasn’t asleep. I, well. Couldn’t really sleep.”

“Me neither, really,” he says sheepishly. “I just wondered if you wanted to get some breakfast or- or something, I don’t know.” He says it too quickly. Twists his hands awkwardly. Shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and he doesn’t meet my gaze, but he’s never been the kind to be shy.

“Breakfast?” I repeat, having a hard time believing that this brings him to my door before decent hours.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, grimacing like his excuses are too thin even for him. “Okay, what I... what I really wanted to say is that I’m sorry about last night. I think I had too much to drink and I- I didn’t mean to come onto you, I just –”

“You didn’t.”

“Ryan,” he says very matter-of-factly, looking embarrassed. “Trust me. I came onto you.” And he says it like he knows what he wanted and what he was thinking, and heat flares up in my guts before I quickly suppress it.

“It’s fine,” I say, really not needing us to get into it. The mere thought of us talking about the ‘what if’ fills me with terror – that is not a good idea. “I had a few too many myself, I get it.”

“I shouldn’t have. It’s just, um.” He rubs his head, smiling awkwardly. “You, me and hotel rooms. Like memory, you know?”

“Yeah, exactly.” I’ve never been as quick to agree. “We have old habits and... Yeah, I get it. It’s fine,” I repeat for the umpteenth time. “We’re still learning to be friends, we’re both, uh, single and available, and you were upset about Dallon and –”

“It wasn’t about him,” he says, an almost frown appearing on his face.

“No, I – I just. I get it, man, and I’m past it, and.” Then I just nod plenty like that’s that.

I’m lying through my teeth, but we’re addressing the tension between us for the first time, and I know it’s been between us since – since Paris, Glasgow, Oslo, since I showed up at his door. But actually verbally acknowledging it makes my heart beat fast. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to admit that I’m still attracted to him, that on some level we probably want to fuck each other – we know that it’d be good sex.

“Look, Ry,” Brendon says, fidgeting. “I just –”

The door opposite mine opens just then, and I’m grateful for the interruption. Jon rushes out, throwing a jacket on as he goes, but he stops when he sees us, exhales. “Oh thank god, there you are!” He’s speaking to Brendon, who is slowly closing his mouth, swallowing words that I’m glad I now don’t have to hear. Jon is wide awake, and he’s not usually much of a morning person. He looks distressed. “Mike’s been calling your room, he –”

“Jon, you alright?” I ask because something’s wrong. I know that right then, I see it in his eyes.

“Mike’s at the police station.”

Brendon pales. “He’s been arrested?”

“No!” Jon rushes out. I exhale – okay, Mike isn’t in jail. Thank fuck. He doesn’t seem the type, anyway. “Bob and Quentin have been arrested,” Jon then says. A look of horror takes over Brendon’s features.

“For what?” I ask disbelievingly. When I went to bed, those two were still at that party, surrounded by a group of admirers. The morning paints a different picture. Hell, I talked back to a cop once, they took me in for that, but I can’t imagine what on earth Bob and Quentin could have done since I last saw them.

Jon looks dead serious but hesitates like he’s not sure how to say it. “Statutory rape and possession of drugs.”

Jon can barely even say it.

I can barely believe it.

“That is bullshit!” Brendon yells angrily when we return to the thankfully quiet lobby of the police station. Mike tries to hush him, saying that a scene will only make it worse, but Brendon doesn’t care.

They took us to a private room to avoid commotion and publicity, and after having waited for over an hour for a competent English speaker to fill us in, none of us have much patience left. We left the hotel in a hurry, and I came along because Jon and Brendon were panicking and I happened to be there to hear the news, so I came. Didn’t want to leave Brendon alone with this, wanted to know what the hell was going on. Jon’s been on the phone with Dallon, telling the guys to just stay put until we know what we’re doing.

Officers now look our way as Brendon vents, speaking in angry, loud whispers. “Bob and Quentin did not rape that girl – Quentin is gay, for fuck’s sake! He would not touch her!”

“It’s her word against theirs,” Jon says flatly like he’s accepted defeat. What more can we do?

“But we know that she’s lying!” Brendon insists.

“Of course we know that,” Mike says, tries to keep his frontman calm. In a single night, Mike’s gone from looking like a twenty-something man of the world to resembling a forty-something burnout. “That still doesn’t change the fact that she’s fifteen. Bob admits that he slept with her, but he didn’t rape her and he thought she was of legal age. We have a good case here, she was at an over eighteen party, her story keeps changing. But for... for now, the boys are being charged with rape, and the drugs on them aren’t helping. We can’t change what’s happened, Brendon.”

Brendon looks pained like he really wishes that he could.

Bob should have known better: he went back to her place. You never, ever do that. Quentin went too, but that makes sense because you shouldn’t let a band member wander off on his own. Mike’s given us their version: Quentin stayed downstairs, got kind of high, suddenly an angry middle-aged German man is yelling at him, then the guy is rushing upstairs, then there’s screaming and tears and the girl is pointing fingers, and then the police are there and our guys are being cuffed. That’s how it happened, that’s the truth: the girl’s dad caught her fucking a grown man and she can’t admit to that, so rape it is.

The masses of reporters outside were impressive when we got here, so I can’t imagine what it’s like now. They were setting up video cameras and everything – the girl’s dad is a German politician, apparently quite powerful from what we understand. That’s why this is hot news.

We are unbelievably fucked.

“At least they’ve agreed to set them out on bail,” Mike says. It’s taken all goddamn morning of lawyers coming in, us waiting around, figuring out our next move to get the boys out. At least there’s that.

“That girl just needs to confess,” Brendon sighs, exhausted.

“But that still won’t make the drugs disappear,” I say, adding insult to injury, but we all need to stick to the truth now. Say it like it is. No lies.

It’d be suicidal to go outside and face the press wanting a piece of us, of Bob and Quentin. Luckily the police agree – I think Mike’s in over his head with this and accepts the somewhat arrogant and reluctant help from the local police. Mike doesn’t know about law or ages of consent in random European countries.

Eventually an officer comes for us, asking us to follow him. We go downstairs to the parking hall where two cars are waiting for us, shiny black with tinted windows. They’re not police cars, thankfully, because leaving in one would make me feel like we’re all criminals. Mike and Jon get in the first one, and Brendon and I disappear into the second one.

In the silent privacy of the car, I can almost feel the anguished energy coming off of Brendon in waves. The driver’s seat is still empty, the rest of our party not having arrived yet. Brendon keeps sighing, his knees bouncing. He can’t sit still for a second.

I say, “Take it easy.”

He stops fidgeting. At least there’s that. “Easy?” he asks disbelievingly. “This band is fucking cursed! Ian overdoses, I nearly collapse on stage, Dallon is angry with me, and Bob gets arrested for statutory rape! Easy?! Fuck, what happens next? Jon gets hit by a car? Tell me who’s ever had as much shit luck as we have!”

“Buddy Holly.”

“At least he died quick,” he snaps and then sinks against the seat. He covers his eyes with his palm, letting out a deep breath. “I can’t believe this is happening. We try so hard, I try so hard and –”

“Hey, I know. It’ll be alright, I promise you.”

It seems that I’ve been telling him that a lot lately.

“Will it?” he asks, hand now dropping to his lap. “I knew Quentin’s got a habit of snorting snow, but Bob was there when Ian – And he still. Fucking idiot,” he swears, and he kicks the passenger seat in front of him. It catches me by surprise, but I let him kick out his anger if that helps him. “We’re over. This time we’re over, so we better admit defeat, pack up and go home. Fuck. You got any extra space up in Machias? I’ll come hide out there with you.”

“Now you’re just being overdramatic.”

He laughs bitterly. “The funny thing is that I’m not.”

The door opens on my left then, and Bob gets in the car quickly like he can’t stand being seen. He’s got the hood of his coat over his head, and he says nothing as he settles down, the door slamming shut. His shoulders are hunched, and he barely looks at us. A driver gets in and instantly starts up the car.

Brendon is staring at Bob. “Hey, man.”

Bob nods. Doesn’t lower his hood. His hands are in his lap, calloused and toughened drummer hands that are now idle and twitchy. They appear to be shaking just slightly.

The car takes off and drives up a ramp and out of the parking hall. When we exit the building, we’re expected – policemen are trying to keep back the reporters who are yelling out, taking flashing pictures. Bob flinches, Brendon flinches – Bob hangs his head and hides his face because even though the tinted glass protects us, we can see the press, can feel their attack. Brendon turns to me to hide, and I place a hand in his hair, instinctively pull him closer, and he breathes against my shoulder, hiding as the driver inches his way through the mob. People bang on the sides and scream in a language we can’t understand, and I gently massage Brendon’s scalp, hoping to calm him down.

Then the car breaks through the crowd and we start going faster. Brendon pulls back, and only exhaustion and defeat remain in his eyes. Bob slowly lowers his hood, and I’m taken aback by how unwell he looks: nothing physically, except for the tiredness and the reddened eyes, but the dead expression that he wears. Like there’s just nothing beneath his shell.

“You okay?” I ask, knowing it to be a stupid question. He shakes his head. Of course he’s not okay – he was arrested and accused of something he didn’t do.

“I can’t leave the country,” he now says. “Neither can Quentin.” On my right, Brendon swears and looks out of the window. “I’m sorry,” he adds.

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him because Bob looks like he’s on the verge of tears. I don’t want to see a grown man breaking down like that.

“What were you thinking?” Brendon, however, asks.

Bob looks at us both, blue eyes devastated. “She said she was eighteen. And she was so - so beautiful, and – I feel sick. I feel sick thinking that she’s only – only fifteen. I did not do what she claims, I am not a- I am not a rapist. I would never. My god. Fifteen.” For a second I think that Bob is going to be physically ill over it, but then he manages to breathe through it. I don’t blame him because the thought makes me nauseous. A child.

None of Bob’s good humour is there. None of his cocky yet charming demeanour. He looks like he’s disgusted by his actions, disgusted by the accusations, disgusted by humanity.

“It’ll be okay,” Brendon says quietly, voice dead. “We’ll cancel the tour.”

I ask, “How many shows are left?”

“Four,” Brendon sighs. Four. At least they’ve managed a memorable ending. “Four shows,” he repeats, and it’s obvious that he’s heartbroken over it.

I almost say, ‘But Quentin can take over’ – he’s the drum tech, he can easily do it. But then Quentin has been arrested too. Brendon’s already figured that out: their drummer and drum tech cannot leave Germany, certainly not to be wherever we’re meant to be tomorrow. Mike can’t play the drums, Sisky can’t play the drums – Brendon’s right. We’re cancelling the tour.

“I want you to know,” Bob now says roughly, looking at Brendon, “that those drugs weren’t mine. They took blood tests, that’ll show it. Ian nearly killed himself messing with heroin, and I know that- I didn’t always get along with Ian, but seeing him fucking himself up got to me. I didn’t take any drugs last night, Bren, you gotta believe me.”

Brendon is staring out of the window, unwilling to look at his drummer. “Okay.”

“Fuck,” Bob says, voice quivering. “I need you to believe in me. I need you to –”

“I do,” Brendon now says, the words rushed. He hangs his head in guilt but still won’t look at Bob. “Of course I do, but you fucked up, man. And now we’ll have to cancel the tour and go home with our tail between our legs. And that’s just fucking great.”

“Don’t be a dick,” I say because he’s being too harsh on Bob. I remember the girl in question too – she stood out because she was stunning. And I thought she looked like she was twenty. It was an easy mistake to make. The lies have just escalated, her politician dad is trying to make her into a rape victim, which she never was – she was just a groupie who got caught and regretted it. She’ll get caught in her lies eventually but that still won’t save the tour.

Brendon looks at me guiltily. He’s just upset, I understand that.

“I’m sorry, man,” Brendon now sighs.

“It’s okay,” Bob says meekly. “I’m sorry too.”

The rest of the drive passes in silence. I try to figure out how I could possibly fix this – get the girl to confess, get Bob’s name cleared, something that will save His Side the embarrassment of ‘His Side drummer charged with rape – tour cancelled’ headlines. I mean, those headlines are being printed anyway, but a ‘His Side drummer falsely charged with rape – band proceeds tour without’ would be a much kinder headline. I don’t want Brendon to suffer, especially now that I know how much this band means to him: a chance to save the world. Some bits of it, anyway.

Getting the band’s name tarnished like this is not something Brendon deserves. Having to go home, having failed in completing the tour, is even worse.

The car slows down and comes to a stop. The hotel we’re at is not the same one where we were this morning – going back there with the press waiting for us? No. Not a good idea.

Before we can get out, Bob’s door gets opened and Mike peers in. “Stay here, I’ll go see that it’s safe,” he says. Bob looks even more dispirited. Brendon looks heartbroken.

I can’t stand that.

I will not accept that.

There’s got to be a way. There is a way.

“So listen,” I say, attracting Brendon’s attention. “I kind of know a drummer.”

The house is a ninety minute drive from Innsbruck, along snowy, narrow roads through the Austrian Alps, during which Sisky declares that he’s not a religious man but he’ll pray for us all, anyway. Jürgen, however, is a great driver, managing to keep the bus going, the engine screeching but not giving up. And then finally we arrive, our persecution over; the bus stops outside a picturesque three story chalet that we can’t really bring ourselves to be that enthusiastic about. It only marks our escape from the public eye, hiding from reporters. It marks failure.

But also retaliation. Us not giving up yet.

“So how do you know about this place again?” I ask Mike as we leave the bus, our feet sinking into untouched snow, the cold wind brutally hitting us.

Mike shrugs. “A friend of mine owes me a favour. It’s his house.”

The enormous chalet is on a hill, around which mountains rise, white peaks visible. There’s a ski resort somewhere close by, but we’re not here for pleasure. The sun is setting behind the Western mountain ridge, making the tops look ominously black. I have to admit that maybe Mike’s not as bad a manager as I’ve always thought. He’s handled this well, all taken into consideration: this morning we woke up to Bob and Quentin having been arrested. The two have since been released and have the best lawyers available – the label and Vicky had to get involved, understandably. Vicky’s exclaimed that she is going to sue everyone from the German government to the owner of the bar who let an underage girl in if the charges don’t get sorted out. Our show in Vienna tomorrow has been cancelled nonetheless. The shows after that, however, will go ahead as planned, Mike’s making sure of that. And after a brief stop in Innsbruck on the way, we’ve finally arrived to a countryside hideaway. Out of Germany, into the mountains.

The location would be stunning weren’t our hearts so heavy.

Mike still deserves credit for keeping the band from collapsing. All in all, the guys are coping. Mike now rushes to the chalet’s door to let the guys in, shivering in the cold, exhausted after all that they’ve endured. I stay still, taking in the view.

“I’ve had band practice in worse places,” Spencer now says from beside me, suitcase still in grip. He’s got that well-worn look of a traveller, and he seems at ease, not out of place – you’d think that he woke up this morning expecting an emergency phone call, like his suitcase was ready and packed. That’s how he appeared when we picked him up at Innsbruck airport, too. “God, look at that view!”

“Aren’t you glad I saved you?” I ask, getting out a cigarette. I offer him one, but he declines with a shake of his head.

“Please, I’m saving you,” he says as I light up.

I blow out smoke, pocketing my lighter, and I watch the way the Alpine breeze ruffles his hair, watch the smile on his lips. Feel myself smile in return. “Aren’t you glad to be saving me?”

“You know what?” he asks, a boyish excitement in his eyes that he tries to hide because – well, the circumstances are unpleasant. “I kind of am.”

“Come the hell inside!” Mike now calls out from the front door. He’s motioning at us frantically. “The last thing we need is for our two fucking fill in members to freeze to death! And you’re not here for the view, you’re here for boot camp! Thirty hours and counting!”

Spencer rolls his eyes but kicks into motion, and I break into a grin and follow my best friend into the house.

The practice space is in the basement, or well, on the first floor – it depends on which level you’re entering the house. The room has enormous glass windows that face the valley below, but for most of the night we see nothing but pitch black. Brendon’s teaching Spencer the drumming parts to His Side songs Spencer’s heard only when he came to see us play. Brendon looks exhausted, his mind is clearly elsewhere, but he is seeing this through. Brendon keeps stopping Spencer, correcting him, then going back to the pink grand piano, decorated with fake diamonds.

Turns out that Mike’s friend who owes him a favour is Elton John. How the hell Mike knows him and how exactly does Elton owe him a favour, I’m mystified by. The house is a modest holiday home for the superstar, only has seven bedrooms I’ve been told, and for tonight His Side are Elton’s lodgers, desperately trying to get the live act back together.

“Okay, so from the chorus,” Brendon says again, for the hundredth time. “One, two, three, four –”

As we kick into the chorus, Mike jerks awake, having fallen asleep on the couch. It’s four in the morning, and we haven’t slept. Everyone looks exhausted except for Brendon and Spencer, both of whom seem to have something to prove.

After a few more goes, during which Jon is so dead beat that he drops a pick and Dallon forgets what we’re even playing, Mike tells us that we need to go sleep. Five hours should do it, then we’re back in this room, getting it right before getting back on the bus for an overnight drive to Rome. We had to leave Bob and Quentin in Munich, and the goodbye was awkward and angry. We’re not talking about it, however. There’s nothing we can do for them except offer our support and hope for the best.

“See you in the morning,” Dallon says as he leaves with Jon, his eyes lingering on the rest of us, but he’s been civil today. Bob’s entire life could be ruined because of one fuck up, so whatever anger and resentment Dallon feels for me, he’s kept it to himself. He’s not petty and he’s not a brat – he and Brendon would have been good together. I know that.

Brendon watches Dallon leave, but he seems too preoccupied with the band to mourn the premature dissolution of his and Dallon’s relationship. Still, I catch the uneasy vibes between them, and I try my best to stay out of it.

The crisis has also made Brendon coming onto me seem petty. So what? We were drunk. We’re both probably horny. It was either flattering or insulting that he wanted me, I don’t know. He finds me attractive, thinks that I qualify for a meaningless fuck. As long as I stay away until this tour is over, as long as I resist temptation, we’ll be fine.

“You too,” Mike now says to Brendon through a thick yawn, hand over his mouth. “You’re still a patient, Bren.”

“I feel fine,” he says, and he might be right. He looks as healthy as he did before.

“Roscoe,” Mike orders, pointing at him. “Out.”

Brendon mumbles under his breath but finally agrees to leave. Sisky rushes after him. Mike doesn’t tell me to go to bed, probably knows he has no authority over me, and so I stay and work with Spencer and Mike for a while longer.

Eventually Mike calls it a night for all. He slouches out of the room while Spencer tells me that he’ll go to bed in a minute, he only wants to run through one last song. “Fine,” I tell him, even when I know he’s lying.

The practice room is soundproofed, but I feel the vibrations of the drums as I ascend the stairs. The lights aren’t on in the spacious living room, but roaring flames rise from the fireplace, casting live shadows on furniture. I stop when I see Brendon on a plush couch, having thought he would be in bed by now. Everyone else most certainly is.

“Hey,” he greets me quietly. Then he says, “It’s snowing.”

He motions at the massive windows, and as the flames flicker I see specks of white floating past the glass. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.

“Why are you still up?”

Mike seemed insistent on his singer getting some rest after a horrible day. Brendon just motions at the coffee table in front of him though there’s nothing there – anymore, anyway. “Wasn’t tired so Sisky interviewed me some.”

“Yeah?” I ask, unsure of what to make of that. Brendon left the practice room forty... fifty minutes ago? Is that a long time? How much can you say in that much time? Can you get in depth? “You alright?” I then ask, referring to the loss of Bob and Quentin as well as the interview. Brendon shakes his head – of course he’s not alright.

“Just brought up some old memories,” he says, waving it off, but it seems like he can’t wave it off. Otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting here in the middle of the night, lost in his thoughts. He cards through his hair like he’s trying to process whatever is on his mind.

“Do you want me to leave?”

To my surprise, he shakes his head. “Sit down.”

So I do. I sit on the other end of the couch, finding that it’s soft and warm and inviting. Brendon is absently rubbing his right wrist.

“Too much playing,” he says. My fingers are stiff from playing for hours on end, but my wrists and, more importantly, both of my elbows feel just fine. Never as good as they once were, but healed nonetheless.

“We’ll be able to put on an alright show,” I say conversationally. “Spencer’s got half the songs down already.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “He’s really fucking good.”

“I know.”

My mind is on the interview that took place without my knowledge. I know that with Jon, Sisky did as he promised and focused on discussing the bands. And Brendon witnessed the downfall of The Followers and the rise of The Whiskeys, and as a key witness undoubtedly Brendon has plenty to say on the bands, but I can’t imagine Sisky not trying to pursue the more intimate angle between Brendon and me.

“Did Sisky behave himself?” I ask, and Brendon nods absently. Good. Otherwise I’d give Sisky a good talking to.

“It’s just a bit odd, saying some things out loud,” he muses, and I know exactly what he means. He half-smiles. “Remember that time you got arrested in Philadelphia, and you threatened to quit the band?”

I laugh embarrassedly, nod. I do remember it – vaguely. I was drunk as hell and keen to start a fight. I didn’t quit the band, though. I stayed. I remember Brendon and me on the bus the day after my arrest, our mouths bruising and angry. With every kiss I felt better, not that I admitted it then. But he kept fixing me.

“Those weren’t good times,” I reflect.

“I think they kind of were,” he says pensively, surprising me. “When compared to what was in store for you and me, anyway.”

He’s probably right about that. Those were preliminary rounds, us practising ways to really fuck each other up.

“Sisky didn’t ask about New York yet, but I’ve been thinking about it,” he says quietly. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“Some,” I admit.

He shakes his head and chuckles, but I don’t get what’s funny. “We’ll talk to someone else about it but not each other.”

“It’s easier.”

“But we should be able to talk about it,” he says emphatically. “So I’ve been thinking about it, us and what happened. And if Sisky asks about our affair, I know what I’ll tell him. I’ll say, ‘You want to hear something really fucked up?’ And he’ll say sure.” He looks at me intently like he’s repeating the question: do I want to hear something really fucked up?

Sure.

He’s specifically said that he doesn’t want to talk about the past. He shot me down the few times I tried to talk about it when I first got to Chicago. Now in the privacy of this house so early in the morning that we can’t even call it that, his tongue seems loosened. There’s a weird sense of loss to his voice even though he’s hardly even said anything yet, and I find myself holding my breath, dreading and yearning what comes next.

“I hated that Shane slept with you,” he states surprisingly calmly.

I immediately hang my head in shame of myself. I will never be able to live that down. “I know there was no excuse for –”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” he says. “I was furious with you both, but Shane doing that really shocked me. I never thought that he’d cheat on me. I know how hypocritical that is, but... I thought I knew him and I thought that he would never... So he broke my heart when he cheated, in some fucked up way he did. But you broke it too, and in the aftermath of it all, when I was angry and hurt, I realised that I was jealous. Thinking of you two, all these mental images haunting me, fuck, it made me so jealous. And that was the worst part. Not that Shane had cheated, but that it’d been with you. I didn’t want him to have you because you were... I guess I just thought that you were supposed to be mine, and I didn’t want others to have you.”

Something I can’t swallow has lodged itself into my throat. “Bren...”

“Listen,” he says, voice wavering slightly as he presses on. “Just let me- let me say this. When it came to Shane, that’s what hurt the most: being jealous of him. And when it came to you, what hurt the most was that – that you had done something so bad that you left me no choice. That I had to let you go. You were touring somewhere halfway across the world, and I left for LA, trying to write music that my label would like. And Ian was with me, sure, but I don’t think I’ve ever been that lonely in my life. And everyone asked about you all the time, people thought we were good friends, there were these – god, these constant reminders of you everywhere. But you had left me no choice, and it fucking killed me. Not that you would have even had me at that point, I know that,” he says quickly. “You kicked me the hell out of your life, and maybe I deserved it. But what you did was unforgivable. I couldn’t –” He runs out of breath and shakes his head. Takes a few moments to pull himself back together. “I couldn’t forgive you enough to...”

“I know,” I say roughly. That was the plan: destroy everything beyond repair.

He laughs sadly. “God, I just wanted to call you and make up so many times. And I knew that I shouldn’t have wanted that but I still did. And days turn to weeks and months and – and then you showed up in Chicago, and it was like – like I’d been waiting for you to show up, and it was hard to be mad at myself for that. I was mostly mad at you for making me wait. For dropping in on us in Montreal but not having the fucking courtesy to show your face, like you’re allowed to check up on me, but I’m not allowed to do the same. How was that fair?” he asks, and it never occurred to me that he might view it like that.

I don’t even know what to say, but then the truth breaks from my lips. “I stayed away because I assumed you hated me.”

“I don’t.”

“I couldn’t know that. You know you’d have the right.” I worry on my bottom lip, and I realise that I’ve never really said the most obvious thing that needs to be said: “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

“I know that.”

But I don’t think he does know. I don’t think even I fully realise how truly sorry I am. And now he’s listening, so I say, “I just wanted to hurt you back. Shane had figured you out, that you’d cheated, and he was a mess, all upset, and I – It was easy and petty and wrong. But if I couldn’t have you, then I couldn’t let you go with him either. He wasn’t worthy of you,” I say quietly, hoping that somewhere deep down he knows I’m right. “You were settling. You were. And it was arrogant of me to think so, to assume that I knew what was best for you but... what I felt for you. I thought that’d be enough justification, enough reason. Turned out it wasn’t, and I didn’t handle that well. Understatement, I couldn’t handle it at all. And it seemed like such a perfect revenge, doing what I did. But I was repulsed by it. And I’m sorry that I put you through all that.”

“Maybe I deserved it,” he sighs. “After all I’d done to Shane.” He stares into space, and it occurs to me what a great number we did not only on each other, but on everyone. He wasn’t innocent, pearly white. God, us? We could never have been innocent. “After all I’d done to you too,” he then adds as an afterthought but sounds like he still means it. “I’m sorry for that, too.”

“I survived,” I shrug. That’s almost a lie, but I don’t want him to feel bad about that. He couldn’t help it. You can’t force yourself to care more about someone than you do, so. And I gave him no reason to choose me. None at all. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but it was the worst sex I’ve ever had. No offense to Shane.”

Brendon breaks into a broken smile and somehow manages to laugh. “None taken.” And I somehow manage to laugh, too, to shake my head at it. Brendon exhales and curls up on the couch. “Bygones now, though, I guess.”

“Yeah. Bygones.”

I’ve pictured alternative scenarios hundreds of times. Different ways to save us, to have him. But they’re daydreams, and daydreams are a waste of time.

“Better that it didn’t work out, really. It’d be a lifetime of hiding,” I then tell him. Had we worked out, him and me, we would always have to hide it. We could never let anyone know. I was too famous then, am too famous now, and these days Brendon Roscoe is gaining more and more fame. Double the attention.

I expect him to agree that it’s better this way, that at least now he doesn’t need to hide something as huge as having a man in his life. Someone who’s famous, too. After all he’s been through, his pride, his need not to be ashamed of who he is... He would never be okay with completely hiding it. But instead he shrugs slightly. “If it’s true, it’s worth anything.”

He’s probably right about that.

I never really stopped to wonder how he felt during the time we spent apart. Never let myself dream that he’d want to call me up, that he still wanted me around. Assumed that he didn’t. I know that a part of him wished that he hadn’t wanted that.

“I’m here now,” I say at length.

“I know.” The fire is slowly dying down, the flames low, coals glowing deep red. “I’m glad you are. Saved the band again.”

I figure he’s referring to Spencer, so I just shrug. I’m useful to have around.

“I just,” he starts, drawing in a breath. “Ever since you showed up, I constantly feel this. This odd sensation, like something is getting filled up. Especially recently, and it just makes me realise how much I’ve missed you. Like I didn’t even know it myself while you were gone. And I know I said this already, but,” he pauses. “I’ve really fucking missed you, Ry.” He’s looking into his lap, dark shadows dancing on his face. The pain in his words is unexpected, makes me feel guilty. It is different this time, him saying those words. They mean something different.

“I’ve missed you too.”

It’s not easy to say, but it’s true.

He smiles in relief, and that’s ridiculous. Like he somehow didn’t know how much I’ve missed him – just being around him, talking to him, seeing him, having him in my life. I reach out and pull a hand from his lap, and his fingers find mine, linking together, tracing the skin. His hand is dry and warm. He smiles a fraction wider, leaning into the couch. With no intention to run.

He looks at me, smiling carefully, and I return the smile, meeting his gaze.

He says, “I’m sharing my room with Dick, and he talks in his sleep,” and I say, “I think I’ll wait for Spencer to be done downstairs.”

And so we stay where we are, our fingers slowly tracing patterns, familiarising ourselves with what is already well known.

When I come to, it’s light, a hell of a lot lighter, and I’m lying on the couch – well half of me is, the other half is sticking out over the edge. Thankfully I haven’t lost my balance and fallen onto the floor, probably due to the weight on me which... is Brendon. He’s snugly fit himself between me and the back of the couch, draping over me in his sleep. I have an arm around his shoulders and he has an arm thrown around my waist, his head on my chest. He is warm and comfortable and smells good, and I want to press into the heat, pull him closer, fall back asleep but... we’re being watched.

Sisky is standing by the fireplace, staring at us with a knowing grin, and it’s kind of hard to fall back asleep with someone staring at you. Our eyes meet, and his grin becomes obnoxious, eyeing Brendon still asleep and all over me.

“Breakfast,” he whispers and winks. He then heads to where I can hear the sound of pots and pans being banged.

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I count to ten. Remember last night, what Brendon said, what I said. The last thing I remember is us sitting here, a comfortable even if poignant silence on us. I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember us finding each other in the dark. Anyone could have walked past us, seen us, and here we are, canoodling like –

Brendon stirs slightly, murmurs nonsense, and I fucking love it when he does that.

He jerks awake, hums, and lifts his head from where it was resting on my chest. “Uhm,” he says, hands slipping on me as he pushes himself to rest on an elbow. He blinks at me tiredly like he’s trying to figure out how we ended up here. “Hello.”

“Hey.”

“I fell asleep.”

“Guess so,” I say, pulling my arm back from his shoulders.

His cheeks are slightly reddened from the warmth of sleep, reminding me of his fever dreams, of his hot skin when he fucks. His eyes linger on my face, and my stomach drops, not knowing what he’s thinking.

Further bangs sound from the kitchen. He turns his head. “Food?” This clearly interests him.

“Yeah.”

“Great.” He sits up, and I do the same, letting my feet touch the floor. My neck is stiff and my body aches from the confined space we shared, but somehow I feel well rested, my body relaxed. “Real food would be nice. I think I can swallow again.” He rubs his Adam’s apple but it’s hard to believe that that’s really the only thing running through his head just now. I wasn’t expecting to wake up like that. I doubt he was expecting it either.

He still gets up without further comments on us having shared the couch, but maybe we just don’t need to comment on it. I can’t decide if that’s because it’s taboo or it’s holy.

Brendon rolls his shoulders, trying to kick sleep out of his limbs. “You’re comfy,” he says over his shoulder.

“I am?” My eyes quickly move up from where they were moving lower and lower down his back. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty surprised myself,” he says teasingly, sending a smirk my way, and I feel relieved by it. With just one smile, I somehow know we’re still okay. “I’ll join you in a minute.” He pads towards the bathroom. I watch him go and feel slight longing from the distance.

So we slept on the couch. After we sat here and... He said all these things. That he’s missed me, and I’ve missed him too. And that’s alright.

Others wouldn’t understand.

Thankfully, only Sisky and Spencer are in the kitchen, and I quickly figure out that the others haven’t gotten up yet. Waking up to the entire band and crew watching our sleeping embrace would have been more unnerving.

It’s ten in the morning, and I’m surprised that Spencer is up. He nonetheless seems rejuvenated somehow and doesn’t seem to be missing London one bit – apart from the girl, he said. And here I thought that he’d feel bad for walking out on The Police, but apparently I gave him an excuse to quit and to leave them to the recording of their own fucking album. Spencer’s exact words.

“Morning,” I say, and Spencer looks up from the omelette mixture he’s whisking.

“Morning, beautiful,” he retorts slyly. “See you managed to tear yourself away, then.”

So Spencer saw us too.

Sisky chuckles from where he’s setting the table, putting plates and forks in place. He keeps eyeing me, that grin permanently fixed on his face. Well, I’m not a creep who watches other people sleep, for fuck’s sake.

“Sisky, can you go see if Mike’s up yet?” Spencer requests, and Sisky is quick to obey Spencer, looking at him adoringly. It feels like sending the kid away so that the parents can talk. I play with my sleeves and hope that Spencer lets it be.

But it’s Spencer James Smith, and I’ve known the fucker since I was this tall. When has he ever let things be?

Spencer pours his egg mix onto a hot pan, the yellowy liquid sizzling. “This’ll be good,” he says confidently, and then he glances at me, and I try to clear my throat and appear casual and calm. “You back together with Brendon, then?”

There is no accusation in his tone, but I shake my head quickly anyway. “No.”

“No?” He sounds disbelieving. “Because you act like you are.”

“Well that’s your misinformed perception of it,” I scoff.

“Misinformed perception?”

“We just talked,” I say defensively even though a warm and fluffy sensation has settled in my guts, tension and excitement and nerves, but it’s far too early in the morning to acknowledge it.

“Hmm,” Spencer says like he now gets me. “Clearly wore you out. All that talking.”

I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself, but Brendon walks into the kitchen just then, eyes lighting up at the sight of the omelette. “So you drum and you cook.”

“I’m the full package,” Spencer smirks. Brendon smiles, and that’s a hell of a lot after all we went through yesterday.

“Morning,” Brendon then says, looking my way, and he says it like he means it – if you can somehow really mean saying ‘morning’ to someone, and I suppress the instinct to return the greeting and place a kiss in his tousled hair. And I get the strange feeling that Brendon wouldn’t bat an eye if I did just that.

“Morning,” I manage to return. Realise that maybe I’m crossing the line again, but it’s fucking hard to stay behind it when Brendon lets me cross it so easily. Like maybe he wants me to, and that sets off a distant alarm bell in my head, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember why it’s there.

Sisky now returns, looking miserable. “Mike told me to go fuck myself.”

“He’s never been much of a morning person,” Brendon says matter-of-factly. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Sisky smiles in relief and hurries back to wherever Mike’s sleeping – I don’t even know, I never made it past the couch. Brendon glances at me and smirks. “You should comb your hair, by the way.”

I blindly flatten my hair at the top, feeling it stick out randomly. Brendon goes after Sisky, and Spencer focuses on his omelette, not lifting his eyes from the pan as he says, “And he acts like it, too.”

“Tonight is for lovers,” Brendon tells the crowd in Rome the following night, and they cheer back enthusiastically. “So if you came to the show by yourself, I hope you’re not leaving alone. Look at the person next to you! Yeah, go ahead, look at them.” He waits for the audience to obey, and I tune my guitar as he speaks. Behind his drum kit, Spencer is laughing – he’s never heard much of Brendon’s banter before. I did nothing of the kind when we were in The Followers, I never sought to entertain, to connect, to change lives. “Does the person next to you look good? Do they look sexy? I bet they do. So cop a feel, man, grope them for me! Because tonight is for passion and for love and for sex –” They cheer even more, “– and this is our last song and it’s about all those sexy things and then some. It’s called Wandering Lips. We’re His Side, and we wish you a good night!”

Brendon turns around to face Spencer, and Spencer gets the hint and kicks into the song. Spencer’s got notes taped to the floor and to different parts of the kit, but so far he hasn’t fucked up. He won’t either – he is one of the best musicians I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.
For the guys, it might be weird to turn around and not find Bob playing the drums, but for me it feels natural to see Spencer. Who else would be there? And though it might be wrong, halfway through the set I’ve decided that the show’s my favourite of the ones we’ve played. Flowers decorate the stage floor, having been thrown on it during the set. Trust Romans to be romantics.

Brendon is back to his old self too, full of energy again, his voice sounding better. He sings, “You don’t taste like anyone else I know,” and a few girls in the front row look like they’re about to faint. He repeats the refrain, taking the mic off the stand – time to share it with Dallon, for their lips to get inappropriately close. But they haven’t done it recently because Brendon’s been stuck to his mic stand, not moving around nearly as much because he’s been ill. Now he starts his familiar trek towards me and Dallon.

“Oh, what did I say?” he asks the crowd, and we receive a bellow of “you don’t taste like anyone else I know”s back, and Brendon laughs mischievously, his cocky stage persona as strong as ever. In a lot of ways it’s not him, just some showmanship, but there is a kernel of Brendon there, just with an inflated confidence and a self-assuredness that comes with it. It’s fucking sexy and hard to ignore.

“Oh you, baby, you, you, you,” Brendon sings, but he doesn’t move past me and head over to Dallon. Instead he stays on my left and sings to the crowd, doubling over slightly as he goes for a high note. And when I glance at Dallon, he’s not expecting Brendon to come over. Foreplay over and done with as Dallon’s angled himself to face the far right, playing for the fans there in some attempt to ignore Brendon.

Standing between the two feels awkward, and I try not to look at either of them.

And then the song moves to the outro, the chance to sing together come and gone. But Brendon looks at me intently as I play the riff to the outro, and he’s smiling wide and happy, almost wild. It feels like he’s smiling at me, and I smile back – how can I not when it’s so damn contagious? His eyes sparkle, he is full of energy, and I know he’s enjoying this. And that’s saying a hell of a lot with his drummer and lead guitarist missing.

By now, of course, Bob’s arrest has been well advertised all over. Mike worried that it’d reflect on the crowd, our reputation ruined: it doesn’t. The fans are happy to see us and don’t seem upset that Bob is missing because when we finish the encore and Spencer stands up from his stool, the crowd is chanting his name. Spencer looks like he doesn’t know what to make of that, but he smiles a shocked and flattered smile, the good vibes radiating from him to the rest of us. Considering it’s the first His Side show ever played without Bob, it goes really well.

We’re all excited and relieved once it’s done. That could have gone badly, and we’ve had our string of bad shows already. But instead we were fucking good, and I don’t know what it is – that Spencer and I feel so comfortable with each other on stage, that Spencer’s just that good, that Brendon’s finally fully recovered from his pharyngitis, or all of the above. But we shone out there. And once backstage we sigh in relief and exchange hugs and pat each other’s backs. Thank fucking god.

“That was really great!” Spencer says brightly when we’re back in the dressing room, passing a bottle of whiskey along.

“You were better than we could’ve hoped for,” Brendon says while Mike is busy singing high praise. Brendon keeps looking my way – I think, I’m not sure. That fire that I saw on stage is still in his eyes, now making me feel uneasy. Is he looking my way because I keep looking his way? Who’s catching whom doing what?

I put on a smile and talk to Jon about the show. Ignore the butterflies in my stomach and the mantra of ‘what is going on?’ that rings in my head.

And not just that but how to avoid what is going on.

We’re playing another show in Rome tomorrow, but it’s a matinee show with an acoustic set, and we’ll be playing for a few hundred people. It’s an invitation only event for journalists and men about town by a local radio station that has organised a handful of competitions to let some real fans in, too.

So we’re not leaving town but we still need to pack up. The roadies – well, only Dick and Leo now, so Sisky and Dallon pitch in – stay behind to pack up while the rest of us head to our hotel. I get the distinct feeling that Dallon will take any excuse not to be around Brendon or me right now.

A limousine picks us up, which makes us feel overly important. We’re buzzed and a celebration feels imminent, but at the same time it would be inappropriate to make merry with Bob and Ian gone. We certainly don’t want to admit that the band works better with the current members than with the official ones. And so as we get to the hotel, Jon says that he needs to go call Cassie, and Mike needs to call Vicky to tell her how the show went without Bob. Spencer, however, is full of energy and insists on hanging out at least. The first show he and I have played together in four and a half years – it is worth celebrating. A quick drink at the bar, maybe, and then go to bed.

“Come up to my room,” Brendon says, and Spencer likes the idea. They’re both slightly drunk but not overly so.

“We don’t want to crash your place,” I say, trying to stall. I don’t think it’s a good idea.

“But we do,” Spencer just laughs, and I follow them warily. Brendon keeps chatting with Spencer and he keeps smiling my way in a friendly manner, and I wonder if it’s all just in my head.

We end up in Brendon’s hotel room, sitting on the massive bed, drinking and smoking. It’s hard for me to miss Bob much at all when Spencer’s around: a short-term acquaintance versus a lifelong friend. We play cards, and that’s alright, that’s not bad. Brendon’s brushed up on his lousy poker skills over the years because I soon owe him a hundred bucks. That stings as a matter of principle. He smirks and says that he wants my suit jacket.

“My jacket?” I ask disbelievingly.

“I like it,” he says, a cigarette hanging between his lips. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the jacket before on this tour, the wrinkled brown that matches the pants. He stares at me expectantly.

I take the jacket off, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Fine, have it. But it won’t fit you as well, it’s tailored.”

“Yup, you’re gay,” Spencer mutters and eyes his cards. I glare at him.

“It’s a trophy,” Brendon muses, putting the jacket on with a pleased grin. To be fair, it looks good on him too, over the tight, white t-shirt he put on after the show. He then grins at Spencer. “Alright, Smith, you’re going down next.”

“Oh bring it on,” Spencer says, and to my satisfaction he proceeds to kick Brendon’s ass. “A shame you only needed me for three shows,” Spencer says when Brendon’s got his wallet out and is handing over a wad reluctantly. Spencer pockets the cash and says, “I could do this for a while – kick your ass at cards, I mean.” Brendon looks deeply offended. Spencer gathers the cards from the bed, a pleased grin still on his face as he gets ready to go.

“I’ll go with you,” I say, knowing that I should make most of a decent hotel night and get some good sleep.

“Yeah?” Brendon asks as I get up from the bed, the covers now wrinkled from us having sat on them. Brendon remains seated, and he looks at me with mournful eyes. “We’ve still got some wine.”

The bottle of complimentary red wine is on the nightstand, uncorked and two thirds empty.

“No, that’s alright. I’ll use your bathroom, though, if that’s okay.”

“Fine, spoilsport,” he says, and Spencer laughs.

I cross the room to the small yet clean hotel bathroom, mini hotel shampoos standing in a row on the counter. I close the door, hear Spencer and Brendon’s voices. There’s a plastic cup that I pick up, not at all sure if the tap water is safe to drink, but I pour myself a cup and drink it anyway. Wipe my face some, look at my messy reflection in the mirror: my dress shirt has stains on it – no such thing as fully clean clothes this close to the end of tour. My hair’s a mess, slightly slick at the roots from the show. I could do with a shower. My lower lip has got the faintest red smudges on it from the wine. I look restless – I feel restless.

Two more shows, and we’ll be on a plane back home.

I wonder what it’ll mean, now that we’ve admitted that we’ve missed each other. If he’ll come to Machias sometime, but it’s so hard for me to picture him there. And us completely on our own, that seems like asking for trouble.

No, crowded rooms, crowded bars. We can exist there. Talking. Sharing. Just being there, not missing each other. In Chicago, I’ll come visit. Jon’s there. Sisky’s there. Sure, I’ll come visit. Sleep on his couch or – maybe we’ll share the couch, and that’ll be fine. But only late at night and after a few beers, when we’re too tired to move. And we’ll never talk about it.

I’ll take it if he does.

When I come out, Brendon’s sitting on the bed, rolling his socks off, shoes having been kicked off.

“Did Spencer go already?” I ask, and Brendon nods. “Oh.”

He eyes me, some of his hair hanging in front of his eyes. He’s never kept it that long before.

He then habitually throws his shoes in the corner – not habitually for this room but for hotels at large.

“Spencer’s a great guy. I don’t remember him being that great,” he says, his tone now more serious than the light-hearted one he kept up while Spencer was here. Still there is an edge to his words that reminds me that leaving now is wise.

“Well, he improves as he gets older. Like wine.”

“He’s always been weird around me, though. Or started being like that on the day he walked in on us.” He smiles slightly, like the memory is a fond one now even though at the time it was painful. “But he’s alright with me now.”

“That wasn’t about you back then, that was about me. It took him time to adjust to the whole best friend liking cock thing.”

“Not that you admitted it then, of course.”

“No, that would’ve been far too easy,” I mumble. Somehow regret manages to seep into my words, and it’s too late at night for honesty. “Well thanks for the wine and company. And for stealing my jacket.” He’s still wearing it.

He shrugs like that’s no big deal, but there’s something more and I wait for it. He says, “You could stay.” His voice is soft, velvet even.

My stomach drops. For what? More wine? Unlikely. I know that tone, I know what he wants.

I thought he knew that this was off limits. I thought he understood that.

“No, that’s alright. I should try not to make a habit of falling asleep in random places, so.” I motion towards the door, try to make a joke out of it. How we’ve somehow started sleeping together again – literally – and how it’s not. It’s not healthy. It’s not something we should do, no matter how good it feels, and we cannot take it further because if we do – if we do, we’ll destroy one another.

“Hmm,” Brendon says, standing up. “You’re probably right.”

I know I am.

He follows me to the door, and I see that nailed to it is the hotel’s floor plan with emergency exits shown. There’s a little dot for his room, for where we are. That’s us. That should not be us, a single dot. Two dots, different rooms. Space. That’s the way it should be.

“The show was really good tonight,” he then says a bit too fast, and I nod in agreement. I have to get the hell out of here.

“It was. You were back to your usual self.”

“I am. Fully recovered.”

“Great. Okay.”

We’ve averted crises together and have managed to keep the tour going even when Ian overdosed, he fell ill and Bob fucked up. That’s no mean feat.

He says, “You were really good tonight too.”

“Yeah?”

I say it without meaning to, clearly wanting acknowledgment from him. I’m momentarily embarrassed and annoyed that he’s somehow keeping me here.

He stares at me intently. “Yeah, you were great.” He’s wearing my jacket, his stage jeans are still on, and his toes are bared. It’s a mix of me, his profession and him. He seems to like it, and my insides burn at the thought. “You tend to be great.”

“Well, I do what I can,” I mutter modestly. I feel pleased that he’s pleased with me, then feel nervous and know it’s time to go. Really. Now it’s time. Get out. “Enjoy the jacket.”

“Of course I will,” he says so matter-of-factly that it’s obvious I’m missing something and it’s required that I ask what it is. But I don’t. I don’t ask, and he waits for me to, but I don’t so he grows impatient. “It smells like you,” he says after a beat, and my stomach drops as I try to take that in. He laughs slightly – a desperate laugh, and he takes a step closer, eyes locked with mine, and he says, “I’ve missed that, the smell of you on me, and –”

“Bren –”

“– reminds me of us, what we had, whatever we were. We were good together.”

“We were a disaster.”

“Then why do I want you to stay?” he asks, and our words are lightning quick, an argument back and forth in which I can’t really think or speak because he’s stepping closer and closer, and everything he says is all I want to hear.

I say, “You’ve been drinking.”

“Barely.”

“You have.”

“I’m not drunk, Ryan.”

“Doesn’t matter. Friends don’t do this.”

“Do what?” he asks, his eyes purposefully moving to my lips – must be on purpose, must be. I’ve got the door and the wall behind me and nowhere to go as he corners me.

“Are you gonna make me say it?” I ask quietly, my voice treacherously raspy as I try to keep myself together. “Friends don’t seduce each other.”

Because that’s what it is. That’s what he’s doing, and if he just wants to get laid, then I am not the guy. If he’s just after some post-Dallon rebound sex, not that he ever had sex with Dallon but still, if – if that’s what this is, then I cannot be that guy.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he whispers, but it’s hot and promising. “Friends don’t do this. A good thing that I’ve never been your friend.”

And then he begins to lean in, and I react quicker than I knew possible, my hand coming to his shoulder and stalling him. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, every nerve end tensed up, but even then it seems like I can only focus on the shape of his shoulder under my hand.

“What are you doing?” I manage to ask though of course it’s obvious what he’s doing. But the bigger picture of it all, think of the bigger picture, try. The one that’s so hard to see right now when we’re alone in his hotel room in the middle of the night and he’s saying all these – these fucking things, the smell of me on him, how he wants that. I can’t think, the bigger picture is dissolving, and he is so tempting when he is this willing.

“How many times can I have the urge to kiss you and not act on it?” he asks, sounding mildly desperate. I don’t know. It’s a good question. A few hundred at least if my experiences are anything to go by.

And then he pushes my hand off his shoulder, fingers encircling my wrist roughly, and I should stop him but I don’t. I don’t. And then he’s stepped into my space and his lips are pressed against mine. An instant jolt of electricity runs through me. His lips, his perfect lips that I’ve kissed a thousand times.

Air leaves me. I totter backwards until the wall is there and he’s pressing me against it.

He loosens his hold of my wrist, and my hand moves to his side clumsily, to feel his shape, to hold onto something. He kisses me with determination, his pillowy lips against mine, both hands now in my hair. The kiss is wet and hot. Not asking but just taking whatever he’s after, my taste. I let him, can’t help the automatic response of kissing him back. Everything swirls, that bigger picture dissolves. Our mouths meet again and again, wanting more.

He pulls back, then, and we try to catch our breaths. Our noses press together, our hands on each other, desperate, our eyes staring in too deep.

A fire is spreading in me, barely constrained. The hunger I feel for him is greater than anything I’ve ever known.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his thumb brushing my jaw. Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Want so hot builds up in me that I can’t even swallow. Innocent, so innocent – not at all. I taste him, wine and cigarettes and him, feel the slight stubble of his jaw against my skin. It’s everything at once, too much, filling me with dark desire.

He’s got me. It occurs to me just then: post-show, mildly intoxicated, in his hotel room, pinning me against the wall. He fucking had me the second I agreed to come to his room, thinking it was safe because Spencer came too, and he knew he had me fooled.

I try to see past the red haze that’s clouding everything. “Bren...” It sounds like I’m asking. Am I?

“Yeah?” he says, our lips brushing again. His voice is heavy, like crimson pouring over me.

I don’t know what I wanted to say: that it’s been so long, maybe. It’s been so, so long, and now we’re here again. Fucking hell, baby...

Instead of saying that I fist his hair and pull him in. Our mouths crash together. My lips part and so do his, and I want more. His tongue meets mine, he tastes sweet, familiar, sweet again. Hot waves wash over my skin. He’s always been such a good kisser – still is, fuck, he’s an amazing kisser.

I swear I lose reason. The world slips away, and it’s only his hands, one in my hair, the other now on my hip, and his mouth meeting mine, so fucking hungry, graceless in its urgency but perfect in its execution. My lips soon feel raw, his taste in my mouth, and everything feels heated. I push closer to him and he pushes closer to me.

His heavy breaths are irregular, and I know he’s turned on, and the knowledge of that makes my stomach burn with want. Our noses brush together, our mouths finding perfect angles, our tongues shameless and yearning.

I’ve missed this so fucking much: touch. Contact. Him.

And as if he knows this, his hand shoots down, brushing over my stomach and then over my crotch. My guts twist. Yes, god, please. He presses the heel of his palm against my hardening cock, and he pushes his entire body closer, groaning at the back of his throat as he kisses me. I push into the pressure of his hand – god, I want his hands on me, I want my hands on him, our mouths, our bodies. All of him.

And I’m about to get all that.

The realisation of it feels like a shock to my system. After months and months of dreams and nightmares, I’m here. He’s here. Making out with me pressed against the wall. And soon we’ll be on the bed, naked, soon I’ll be back tasting his skin. And there is no going back from that. I cannot take that back.

I break the kiss, a dirty wet smack sounding as our bruised mouths part. I grab a hold of his wrist, stop his movements, stop him from touching me there. I gasp for breath, our foreheads pressed together. “Wait,” I manage, breathing heavily. “Wait.”

“What?” he whispers impatiently, sounding confused but his voice is heavy with arousal. He stares at me, perfectly shaped lips swollen, his eyes clouded by want that he feels for me.

“Shit,” I manage, trying to think. I want him. I want to have him, take him. I’ve thought about this, him on his hands and knees, on his back, how the memories stay fresh in my mind, assaulting me when I dream, when I’m horny. He set the bar. The others don’t come close.

But that’s animalistic. That’s instinct.

And he is so much more than that.

“We can’t do this. I can’t.”

Incomprehension flickers in his eyes but he doesn’t move away. “What’s wrong?”

“Fuck, I can’t- can’t do this like this, like it’s meaningless or for the sake of balancing tour hormones or –”

“It’s not meaningless,” he says, sounding wounded. I don’t know why I seem to be shivering, why honest to god shivers run through me. I breathe fast, feel him pressed against me, taste him on my lips. He cups the side of my face, holds me close. That helps with the shivering. That helps. “Not meaningless. Ry, it could never- Not with you, how could it even? Fuck, I’ll go insane if I...” His words linger between our mouths. Right then he’s asking. He never asks. Never used to. “I need you to touch me,” he breathes quietly, frantically. “Is that – Is that alright, can we just –”

I kiss him. He loses his breath, swallows hard. I move a hand to the back of his head, brushing through the strands. Pull myself together, the shivers subsiding. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

He’s asking. It’s a yes.

“Yeah. Of course, yeah, yes,” I slur, but it makes sense in my head.

And then I let go and kiss him. No bullshit, no pretence, no walls. No pity and no assumptions – just him. Beautiful, strong and needing, kissing me back, pushing against me. I yearn just then, the primitive feeling spreading to every cell of my body.

We get my jacket off him, now on the move and stumbling across the room, our mouths locked together, hands shoving and searching and pushing clothes out of the way. “Please,” he breathes feverishly, “please.”

He needs me. God, I need him to need me. Because how often do we ever truly need another person? How often do we ever feel like this, this burn and ache, knowing that nothing else will do and that the need will not subside until satisfied? Not often. And he will satisfy it. He is what I need, his restless sounds when I kiss his neck, fingers splayed on his chest – touching, must keep touching.

He has no patience for the buttons on my shirt so he rips it open with a few forceful tugs. I don’t care as we pull it off me, leaving my arms bare, and our mouths press together relentlessly, his hands settling demandingly on my hips, pulling my undershirt up to touch skin. The liquid burn in my guts feels hotter, and I’m so fucking hard, Jesus, my cock is so hard, he’s barely even touched me, it doesn’t make sense –

But then he makes this sound, lets out this turned on gasp as his fingers dig into my skin, and yes, it does. It makes sense.

My fingers tangle in his hair, and I kiss him wet and open, somewhere in between the door and the bed. “Off,” I tell him, pulling on his tight t-shirt, and he obeys, lifts his arms, and I get it off him, throw it away, and oh fuck. I stare at his flat chest and his taut, muscular stomach, and somehow I get even harder.

I get him pressed against the wall, my mouth on his collarbone. My turn, my fucking turn.

“Oh god,” he groans, his entire body thrumming as my mouth moves down and closes around a nipple, sucking hard. The bud hardens, and I lick over it, and he bangs his head against the wall. His hands are on my shoulders, blunt nails digging in. He practically squirms but isn’t trying to get away, and I kiss a trail to his other nipple, feel intoxicated by how smooth he feels. His skin feels so hot wherever I touch it, this skin I’ve thought of on cold winter nights, waves washing the shore somewhere in the dark where I can’t see.

I can’t see now either and I don’t care.

I kiss down to where his ribs end, want to go lower, want to get on my knees, kiss his stomach, breathe him in, but he’s pulling me up before I can, his mouth kissing me like he’s starving. He mumbles something against my mouth, something desperate, something like “God, Ryan, want you,” and yes, I know, I know. He pulls my undershirt off, he pushes me backwards, and then there’s the bed, an island in the middle, and I’m laying flat on it. He straddles me, leans down to kiss me, his hands greedily tracing my bared upper half.

But it’s not innocent, him straddling me, as he grinds against me. My hand reaches to cup his ass, and we rub against each other, our hips working together. I feel his hard-on, and fuck, I can’t swallow, can’t think – He’s so hard, and then he says, “You’re so hard, Ryan, fuck,” and he thrusts against me, and I try to breathe. He cups my cock through my pants, traces my length, and he says, “You’re leaking, fuck, you’re –” and I suppose I am, I’m throbbing almost painfully, my cock feels wet at the tip, soaking the fabric of the pant leg mid-thigh. No clean underwear left, so I go without.

And then Brendon’s kissing my stomach, moving lower. I relax against the mattress but keep staring down at him, and he looks at me with burning brown eyes, his hair a mess. He kisses my navel, and his hands have settled on my hips, fingers restless but not moving.

He sits between my parted legs. He’s flushed all over, and I see the bulge of his erection in his jeans, the outline so obvious. He’s out of breath but somehow, as if by magic, he now moves calmly. Calculatedly. Takes my shoe off, takes the sock with it. Does the same to my other foot. His hands settle on my raised knees, then slither upwards to the tops of my thighs. He’s staring at the bulge that’s left a wet mark – he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s staring.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes helplessly, like it’s beyond his control now. He sinks down between my legs, kisses my cock over the fabric. This sends a jolt through me, a nearly painful hiss as I get even harder – and I don’t know how that’s even possible, how anyone can be this hard. But he mouths my cock through my pants, and I feel his hot breath, the pressure of his lips and tongue. He wants to undo me. That’s the only explanation. He wants me to fucking come undone and beg.

But thankfully his shaking hands – shaking, are they really? – come to the fly of my pants, popping the button undone, sliding the zipper down. He only has to inch my pants down slightly before my cock frees itself from the tight confines. He stares at me. Eyes dark. Doesn’t move but pulls my pants down further, down to my knees, to my calves, to my ankles, off and out of the way. And then he kisses my left knee, his nose brushing the hair on my inner thigh as he nuzzles the skin, kissing his way up, right past my cock, which is cruel when I’m naked, my cock in plain sight, deep red and throbbing, pre-come glistening at the tip.

But he moves past it, his lips settling on my left hip bone. He kisses me there slowly, like he’s stalling. His breath is uneven, he seems unable to catch his breath.

“It’s okay,” I manage to say, try to sound dismissive. If he doesn’t want to. It’s okay, he doesn’t have to do anything like – really, it’s fine.

But he ignores me, tongue lazily swiping over the jutting bone. He places kisses towards my pubic bone, the shaft of my cock brushing the side of his face. He places a kiss at the very base of my cock, making me tense up. His nose brushes against me, and then I realise that he’s breathing me in: my scent. Not just anywhere, but he’s breathing in the scent of my cock, and I’ve smelled myself on him sometimes, the musky smell of my sex. And he’s placing slow kisses there, in the tangled mess of dark pubic hair, and that’s when I see that he’s got one hand down his body: he’s touching himself. He’s got his fly undone, his hand in his jeans, and he’s breathing in my scent, now placing kisses on the shaft of my cock, and he’s touching himself as he does it.

“Fucking hell, Brendon,” I breathe out, overwhelmed, and he looks up at me with wide, sex-driven eyes. He wets his lips. Pulls his hand back, curls it around the base of my cock instead. Takes one broad lick over the sensitive and swollen crown, pre-come getting spread on his tongue.

I jerk, all of me does, my eyes flying to the ceiling as my eyes roll to the back of my head without me having control over it. But I look back instantly, and pre-come is rolling down the side of my cock, towards his hand that is slowly fisting me. He doesn’t seem aware of me looking as he goes down on me. I’m not really aware of anything else either.

His mouth slips over my aching cock, his tongue pressing against the underside. It’s hard not to come right there. His eyes are closed, and he looks lost in it as he begins to move his hot mouth on me. As he sucks on my length, his mouth makes quiet and obscene suckling sounds that turn me on beyond reason. My knees are raised, my feet flat against the mattress, and he works between my legs, blowing me. My hand is in his hair as his head bobs up and down – I don’t try to control him, I just need to feel him. His mouth is hot and wet and perfect, sucking my cock, and when he pulls back slightly, he licks the head, shamelessly licks the slit to taste me, greedy fucking thing, tongue swirling around the crown, and then I’m back in his mouth, and he’s taking me in, taking more, his lips stretched, pre-come and saliva mixing, and my balls are so tight that they ache.

Every muscle feels tensed up below my navel: my thighs, my buttocks, my abdomen, everything is a swirl of hot build up. His lips meet his fist, and I groan, “Bren, holy shit,” and I can’t take how good his mouth feels on me – So good, so fucking good. He removes his fist, then, finger splaying over my pubic hair, and he looks me straight in the eye and – he swallows me down. The swear words I let out don’t make sense even to me. My fingers tangle in his hair so hard that I know it hurts, and he groans but it’s turned on.

There’s no gagging, he takes me down smoothly. He always has, but I’ve forgotten just how – His eyes water, that’s the only thing, wetting his cheeks as he keeps blowing me. He’s done it too fast, been too greedy. But he sucks even harder, moaning around my cock like if he could he’d be chanting yes from having all of me in his mouth. He’s slowly rubbing himself against the mattress as he blows me, and I can’t believe how turned on he is from this. Am so fucking glad that we’re both getting off on it.

“Oh god, that’s –” I suck in air, muffle a groan, bite on my lip. “Fuck, that’s so good, oh Jesus, that’s so good.”

He groans like he knows. My words must make sense to him; I don’t even know what spills from my lips. It’s so good, too good, fuck, fuck – It’s hot and wet around every inch, and he sucks hard on me, and I nearly come. But when my fingers twist in his hair hard enough, he pulls off, reading me perfectly. Knowing he needs to let me come down. I’m almost gasping for air, feeling wrecked. Holy fucking shit.

He places sloppy kisses down the underside of my erection, down to my balls, and then he kisses them both, licks, suckles, breathes hot air on them. I can’t fucking even, I just can’t.

When he sits up, he wipes his wet cheeks with the backs of his hands, his mouth flushed and swollen: blowjob lips. Somehow the burning desire to have him intensifies just then. His fly is undone, revealing a familiar trail of body hair leading into dark curls, the base of his thick cock bared.

He looks as far gone as I know myself to be.

I take a hold of the top of his undone jeans, snake my thumbs under the waistband of the briefs that have slipped down already, and I tug his clothes down to mid-thigh in one rough movement. He lets me, breathing hard as I take him in. I can’t believe how hard he is, how there are wet traces on the hair of his thigh, then on his stomach, where his cockhead’s rested. He looks so good, fucking irresistible. I sit up enough to kiss his stomach like I wanted to before. I pull him closer, and my hands cup his ass cheeks, oh fuck his perfect fucking ass, Jesus, the skin firm and hot, and I kiss his hipbones, feel his hands come down to my hair. And I do what he did, breathe in the scent of his sex as my nose presses to the base of his cock – the scent is so distinct, it’s so erotic, it’s so addictive. I kiss his navel and stare up at him, and he’s gazing down at me, his eyes wide and open like he’ll let me do anything to him. Like he can’t believe I’m in his bed, that this is happening again after a year and a half.

He resists none when I pull him down to lock our mouths, kiss his lips where I smell myself, flip us over so that I’m on top, and then I swiftly get him out of his jeans and underwear.

I settle between his parted legs, my now wet cock sliding against his. I keep up small thrusts, and we rub against each other, but mostly I focus on the heated making out. Our hands are everywhere, our mouths are everywhere, and my skin tingles and I feel like I could come so easily already but I can’t. Or won’t.

But he’s restless and needy, and I won’t have that. Won’t keep him waiting when we’re both so hard it’s painful.

“You got lube?” I ask, and he nods, mumbles, “Yeah,” against my lips, and I wonder if he has the lube because he expected to have sex on this tour, who with, or if he has it for masturbating, but then – Then I’ve got lube, too, back in my hotel room, hell you just carry some around when you’re a gay man, lube, wallet and keys.

When he’s tricked me into his bed and he is so hard that he’s leaking, the time isn’t right to be jealous of other men.

He has a hand greedily on my ass, pulling me in. “Want you so bad,” he breathes, almost in disbelief. And I kiss him to say that I feel what he feels – and the thought of that is dizzying, the thought that we both feel this, the burning sensation in our chests. That it’s shared.

My hips shift, my cock sliding between his legs. He lets out a groan, and I say, “Lube, Bren, fuck,” and he finally seems to snap out of his daze.

He slides from beneath me, getting out of bed. I roll onto my back to keep my gaze on him, on his perfect and pale ass. I reach for my cock, stroking it lazily without even meaning to. He staggers somewhat like his feet are difficult to operate, and he mutters curses as he searches the contents of the small backpack that he uses to carry stuff between the bus and other places. He wanders back towards the bed with the bag, finally finding the lube, dropping the bag, and then coming to a halt when he lifts his gaze and his eyes meet mine.

His chest is rising and falling, the skin flushed, and his cock is curved upwards, is pink and unbelievably hard. I don’t need to touch his cock to know that it’s throbbing, that I could feel his rapid heartbeat through the skin the way I can feel my heartbeat from where my hand is on my cock. His mouth is red and swollen, looks wet and perfect and asking to be kissed, and his hair is a mess that I made, and his eyes – most of all his eyes, the dark gaze that somehow feels like is running ahead the rest of his thoughts.

And I mirror him. I know I look the same.

And we take each other in at the same time, stalling slightly. My insides vanish, but they don’t, they crawl, they curl up into a tight ball, they radiate from my guts.

I can’t break the eye contact, can’t ignore the look in his eyes. It’s not a look of seduction or one of playful sex – there’s no smile in it. It’s darker than dark, deeper than deep, and with that fire in his eyes he gets back on the bed, straddles me as I rise to my elbows, and he presses his lips against mine, a hand in my hair, and he whispers, “I want to ride you.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding too much, but fuck.

He’s already pushing me back, and I get the hint.

We move to the top of the bed, and I pull a sturdy hotel pillow and place it between the headboard and me, leaning my back against it. Brendon hovers in my lap, stray kisses to my mouth as he pours lube onto his palm and reaches down to slick up my cock. I hiss when he touches me, moan when he curls his long fingers around my flesh.

But my own need to touch him is constantly growing, and I take the lube and pour some on the tips of my fingers, and then I reach down to touch his hole. His breathing hitches when I push two fingers against him. He grinds against my hand, wanting me there, inside, fucking hell, and I feel the muscles twitch. I teasingly circle my fingers around his hole, spread the lube. We get each other ready, his hand on me, my hand on him, our mouths locked. I press in the tip of my index finger to see how tight he is, and he nearly bites on my lower lip as he jerks and then groans. God, he’s tight, his perfect fucking ass is so tight, and I want to be in him, balls deep, want to feel him around every inch of me.

I don’t finger him – he doesn’t need that. I could as foreplay, but he doesn’t need it, and we both know that. No, we need something else.

He grabs my hand and pulls it away, but I drag my forefinger over his perineum and his balls, up the underside of his cock, the lube mixing with the pre-come that’s rolling down his length. It’s already fucking messy, come and lube, and I couldn’t love it any more than I do.

He adjusts himself, knees bracketing my sides as I lean back against the headboard. He kisses me harshly, one hand between us, holding my cock until his hole is pressed against the head. My hands are squeezing his hips so tight that I must be bruising him, but he doesn’t complain.

He stops then, breathing over my lips, and I kiss him softly, say, “Yeah,” and he echoes me in question, “Yeah?” And I nod. Yeah, yes. Fucking hell, yes.

He pushes down, the resistance is there, but my cock is slick – he could be slicker, but it’ll do. His muscles resist but then- Fuck, then the head of my cock pushes in, and from there it’s easy, from there it’s a smooth slide, and he goes for it faster than he should, pushing down until I am buried in him.

“Oh,” he manages, squeezing my shoulder, his forehead pressed against mine. His ass is hot and tight, and nothing’s ever felt this good, nothing feels as good as he does right now, in my lap, on my cock, in this hotel room in Rome. And the guys are who-knows-where, their rooms, bars, the venue, but he’s here. I am here. We’re taking each other, and it’s no one’s business but ours.

His eyes are shut and his mouth has fallen open, and I lazily stroke his cock as he adjusts, but my hand is shaking slightly, my breaths are shallow, completely irregular, and I’m in him, I’m in him – It’s all I can focus on.

And then he begins to move his hips, working himself on my cock. He’s so fucking tight that my cock is under constant, hot pressure. I feel his pulse through where we’re joined, and I know that he feels my pulse, and it’s rapid and manic.

We keep our mouths aligned, nonsense spoken that no one else ever needs to hear, somewhere between dirty talk and confessionals made, like “missed your fucking big cock”, “feels so good, don’t fucking stop”, “can feel you, your heartbeat”. My hands travel up his back where the skin feels slick, down his sides and over his ribs. He is all perfect angles, smooth, warm skin, dirty gasps and filthy words that are still soft around the edges.

“Brendon, fuck,” I say feverishly, and he goes a bit harder, taking a hold of the headboard as he rides my cock. “You feel so good,” I almost slur against his mouth.

“I’ve missed you.” His forehead presses against mine, and I hold his hips, words escaping me when all that’s left is how good it feels, how good we feel together. “Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he breathes, kissing me, and I fall right into it.

He’s so good at this, always has been. He moves his hand to my shoulder for balance, straightening up, and I love that, getting a better view of him, his leaking cock, the taut muscles of his stomach and thighs and how they flex and quiver as he rides my cock. His brows furrow together, and he doesn’t take his eyes off of me, like he constantly wants to see me. I pull him closer the little that I can, and I kiss his chest, his nipples, tasting him, moving to his armpit, down his side.

When he lets out a helpless groan, I’m unable to control myself any longer. I snatch the wrist that he has on my shoulder, keep my other hand firmly on the small of his back, and I roll us to the side, moving on top of him without slipping out.

He doesn’t object – he spreads his legs wider now that he’s beneath me. Dark want drips in me from now hovering over him, being inside him, having him at my will. That familiar echo of ‘no one, no one else’ is in my head when he’s far gone like this, vulnerable like this, needy like this. Not that I paint a better picture of control because I thrust into him without being able to help it. I pin his wrists above his head, kissing him as I begin to fuck him.

“That’s so good,” he breathes against my mouth, his cock trapped between us, feeling wet against my lower abdomen. His back arches, and I put space between us by lifting myself slightly with the help of one hand. My eyes move down to where I am in him, where I see my flushed cock, glistening with lube, reappearing from his hole, stretched to accommodate me, then disappearing into him again – and when I do, he lets out these fucking delicious sounds of pleasure, and it makes me fuck him harder.

I’m covered in slight sweat – I realise this hazily – salty droplets rolling down my back, my arms. Everything’s heightened, everything is pleasure. I snake a hand around his thigh, lifting his leg slightly, getting a different angle, going in deeper. His moans turn a whole new kind of desperate when I hit his prostate, which I do, again and again. I feel the energy building up inside him, feel it building up in me.

I keep his leg raised, pressed to my side, allowing me to lean down to kiss him, his jaw, his ear.

“Ryan,” he breathes against my earlobe, the word broken. His nails are digging into my back. “Ryan, you’re making me come. Shit, you feel too good. Baby, that’s so –”

I capture his lips, and his fingers slide up to the nape of my neck. He holds me possessively, his other hand between us, fisting his cock.

It catches me by surprise, when he comes. In my memory, I know him so well, can read him so perfectly, but now I haven’t realised how far gone he is. He stills, and I catch that moment, that exact moment when it hits him because his pupils dilate, and then he’s so fucking tight around me, muscles quivering, and hot streaks of come hit my stomach, spill between us. His head presses into the mattress, his hips bucking. Fat streaks of white drip over his knuckles, and he keeps fisting himself, keeps milking it out. And it doesn’t make sense, how much he comes, how long his orgasm lasts, but I keep fucking him through it, watch him come apart as I push into him.

“Fuck,” he groans, and I kiss his mouth, his cheeks, letting my hips slow down to a stop because I know how sensitive he is right now. He is still tight around me, tighter than before, and my cock is throbbing painfully, my orgasm just beneath the surface. But I breathe, just breathe, and I nose his jaw, his neck, leaving stray kisses as he comes down.

His hand moves to my ass, cupping me, keeping me from moving, keeping me in him. It’s messy and sticky between us, but I love him like this, coming down from an orgasm. The way he feels, the way certain muscles twitch, the way he smells – all of it is more intimate than anything I’ve ever known.

I want to know him like this. I want to be able to look across rooms, bars, studios, stages, clubs, knowing that I get to feel him like this. I want to know that he feels the same, and I want that feeling of security, of us both knowing that this is ours and that it’s there to stay.

“Fuck...” He stops to catch his breath, his nose pressing into my hair as he breathes me in. “God, this might be an inappropriate question,” he whispers in an uneven, rough voice as I’m busy nuzzling his right collarbone, tasting the salty skin. I look up at him, see how he’s struggling to even speak. He stares at me. “How do you keep getting better at it?”

I huff against his chin as I kiss him there, and he bursts out laughing – nonsensical laughter, and I notice that his cheeks are wet again. But I hiss instinctively because him laughing affects muscles in his body – and some of those muscles are squeezing my cock, and the sudden vibrations force me to thrust into the inviting heat, my erection still throbbing. This silences him effectively, produces an “oh” from his lips.

He’s still hard. Not as hard, but he hasn’t softened either.

I lick over his swollen lower lip, and he nudges my nose with his, wanting to find a better angle for us to kiss.

“I want to fuck you more,” I say against his mouth.

“Fuck,” he sighs restlessly, and he nods. Is asking.

But we’re almost lazy now, less frantic. I find a good, steady rhythm that works for us. Both of his feet are touching the mattress, his legs spread wide to accommodate me. He keeps a hand on my ass, as if to make sure I stay where he wants me, the other hand on my neck. The kisses are wet and deep, and I’m so fucking lost in his taste, the way he keeps pulling me in for more.

I begin to do a circular motion with my hips when I notice the reaction it gets from him. The angle constantly changes as I pull back, push back in. “You like that?” I ask because he goes almost quiet, only his unsteady, frantic breaths sounding between us. He’s more pliant now, having come already, but I’m so fucking turned on when I realise he is getting harder again.

He doesn’t even need to say yes, but he says it anyway. “Yes.” There’s something unbearably honest to the single word, like he is admitting something else entirely. He licks his lips. “Yes.” He sucks on my earlobe as I keep up the rhythm, and he says, “Fuck, I want your come in me, Ry, I want you to fill me up...”

He drifts off but he doesn’t need to finish the sentence, even. It has a nearly primitive effect on me, on the force of my thrusts. He wants me to, I want to – We both want it, need it. My mouth is worn out but he tastes so good, I cannot stop kissing him, and my cock sinks into him, aching for release, and he feels so fucking good that I could never, ever stop. The bed shakes with my movements, sweat rolls from my hairline down my face, and he- Fuck, he begins to move his hips to meet me, he moves to take my cock deeper.

“Bren, holy shit,” I manage, and he moves his hips with even more force, and the slow thrusts turn into hard ones, our bodies slamming together. And it stretches in me, stretches so thin, and it’s boiling and boiling, my balls are drawn up so tight, and he says, “Yeah, come on, fuck, wanna see you, you don’t even know how hot you are, holy shit, Ryan, oh shit, shit,” because then he gets there first.

He comes – no warning, no nothing. His hand has almost idly been stroking his cock but then he comes, semen shooting out, his body arching. He doesn’t come as hard, two streaks of come, then some dripping, but he’s so out of it that he shakes. And that’s when I follow, my mind nearly blacking out. I push into him almost violently, pushing him up the bed unintentionally. And I come in him, keep coming, keep fucking him as I empty myself. It takes forever, feels like it at least, but the feeling of it stays even after I’m done. And through a haze, I feel him kissing me, both of his hands in my hair. It rattles through me, splits me at the core, and nothing else makes sense just then, nothing except him.

Brendon seems more functional than me after we’ve both come, maybe because he didn’t come as hard the second time. I breathe against his cheek, trying to pull myself together. He kisses the corner of my mouth, then, and it’s so soft and loving that it tears me apart. His hand gently rubs the nape of my neck.

I collapse on him slightly, still in him, but he doesn’t complain. If anything, he welcomes it, and we burrow into one another, trading soft afterglow kisses.

“You okay?” he asks at length, and I nod after a beat, my brain taking time to process the question. As okay as I can be after that.

I absently kiss his chin, the only thing that truly makes sense being the yearning to keep touching him, kissing him, tracing the golden glow of his skin. “You?”

“I’m good,” he says quietly. Something about his tone makes my chest swell with heat.

I pull out after I’ve softened some, and he moans but doesn’t wince. I don’t mean to look between us but I do, see white semen rolling out of him in my wake. My spent cock shows an interest in getting hard again just from the visual but luckily knows better.

He’s a mess, though, drops of white on his chest and stomach, in his pubic hair, now between his legs. I attempt to wipe his stomach with my hand, but he shakes his head, takes my hand. “Leave it. It’s good.”

And if he says it’s good, then it must be. So I let it be, move to lie by his side on the bed. He turns to face me, our legs still tangled, our bodies still glued together. He studies my face quietly, hand brushing locks behind the shell of my ear, and his expression is open and soft in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. It helps somehow, seeing how at ease he is, how content he seems. Something bubbles in me, something that has a lot of questions, but he smiles and it’s alright.

“What’s better than that,” he says quietly, “is that we get to do it again in the morning.”

When we wake up together.

“Oh you’ve got it figured out, huh?”

But he nods when my words were just teasing, not serious. His nose brushes mine. “I kinda do have it figured out.”

I want to believe him.

And when he kisses me, I kiss back, because it’s so easy, because it’s so tempting. Because it’s nice to believe that he really has got it figured out.

It’d be a first.

But the morning is hours away and some nights stretch beyond good measure. Long enough for the haze to clear, to suddenly jerk awake in a room that isn’t mine.

I’m not shocked to find myself in his bed, under the covers. I’m not taken aback to wake up with his arm securely around me, him pressed to my back, holding me to him, breathing against the nape of my neck. Why would I be taken aback when it’s good and it’s soothing and it’s perfect and it’s him? And the memories pour back in, and I can barely contain them. My smell is all over him, and his is all over me. Just like he wanted.

And I want to wake him up, kiss him out of sleep, slow and sweet. Take him again.

But I don’t know what time it is.

And that’s important, time. Because the morning is imminent, it will come, and there’s no stopping that. The sun will shed light on our worn out bodies. And we will rise. And he will smile. And we will kiss. And I will go for a shower. And then we’ll fuck again, and – and then what?

Because our time in this room will run out.

So we’ll get dressed and we’ll play a show and we’ll get on a bus and.

Then what?

Because tours end, and we’ll run out of hotel rooms and hiding places. We don’t even live in the same state, though distance exists to be crossed, I suppose, but that’s presumptuous. That’s treading and stomping all over something undefined, something that hasn’t even been truly acknowledged. He says that he has it figured out, but history speaks against it.

And we don’t have enough time to stop and see what this is.

He breathes evenly against my skin. I love him. It feels as if it takes over everything and becomes the core of my being. I love him when I share his bed, and I love him even when I don’t.

I love him even when I love alone.

I fucked up.

The realisation of it keeps me staring ahead of myself in the dark as time slips away, sweet time stealing his sweet breaths.

His hand rests on my chest, palm flat and warm against my skin.

His hold of me is tight and sure, I find, when I try to escape it, try to untangle myself. There’s a hot burn in my chest and a sickening burn in my stomach, and I can’t look at him, can’t bear to see him.

But I rouse him before I’ve managed to move much at all, of course I do, and he noses my shoulder affectionately. He sleepily whispers, “Where you going?” He kisses my shoulder with dry lips, mostly still asleep. And it’s soft and it’s loving, and it’s touch meant only for lovers, and I swallow it down.

“Bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

“Hmm, okay.”

And he lets me go.

My skin feels cold when I’m no longer under the covers, but it’s not just the loss of his warmth. The hairs on my skin stand up everywhere, and the nauseating burn in me is so strong that I have to sit on the edge of the bed for a few seconds to wait for my vision to clear. For the sickening pain to subside.

And it does. It fades. And I get out of bed, move quietly, not wanting to disturb him. He remains in bed, eyes closed, still asleep. Under the covers where it’s warm.

My pants are by the bed, and I pick them up.

I find my shoes and socks, and I pick them up.

I find my undershirt, and I pick it up.

I find my dress shirt, now with buttons missing, and I pick it up.

My brown jacket is on the floor near the door.

That’s his now. He can keep that.

I enter the bathroom, close the door, turn on the lights. Get dressed as the bright fluorescent lights above the mirror hurt my eyes, make them sting. And I get dressed swiftly but I still feel like I’m stuck in a dream where up is down and down is up, and my hands don’t look like my hands. But I don’t, I do not look at myself in the mirror. But I still see the man reflected there from the corner of my eye, a guy aged twenty-eight, brown locks of hair in a mess, the skin around his mouth reddened from kissing too much and too desperately, trying to button up a shirt that only has a few buttons left.

I will not look at him because that man did a stupid thing. He should have known better, he should have remembered.

Brendon, well – Brendon can’t think clearly. Not when it comes to me, isn’t that what I’ve been told? I’m his biggest weakness. I’ve been messing around with him for years now, and I’ve gotten as good as I’ve given. And I’m on tour with him, and he’s forgiven me, and I worry for his health and sleep on couches with him, I stay behind to talk to him, get us alone time – I’m still fucking with him, I’ve been leading him on. What was he supposed to think?

But I know better. I do. I slipped, but I swear I know better. And so it was up to me to make sure that we don’t relapse. With Ian and Dallon and Bob and all of it, Brendon’s been a mess, he’s not in a good place, and I know that. It was up to me to keep it civil.

And I failed.

Brendon’s still asleep when I step out. My eyes adjust to the dark, and I see that he’s hogged my pillow and is now sleeping curled around it. It’s peculiar how he’s started to do that, to hug things in his sleep. It’s new. I don’t quite understand it.

But the rest of it I do: lingering feelings, being on tour, being lonely, being horny, having a weakness, drinking some wine, me treating him special, letting him know that I will always think he’s special.

I understand how this happened, and I know what follows: the edge of a cliff with a steep, steep drop into something so dark and so devastating that we cannot do it again. I cannot. Because then we’re wading in depravity once more, and I’ll find myself on an icy winter beach with the wind whipping my face, even less of me intact, an even bigger part of me with him, and he won’t be there. He won’t. And he – God, I don’t even know where to start.

He asked how many times you can have the urge to kiss someone and not act on it. Only so many, we’ve established that.

But there is a strict number on how many times you can make the same mistake until one of you knows better, until one of you learns that there is no time for you two. There is no place for what you feel. There is no future there.

I know – it’s belated, but I know. I feel the weight of our stolen time on my shoulders. In truth we ran out of time years ago.

So it’s not fleeing or running away when I go to the door. It’s experience.

I open the door quietly, so quietly – the lock clicks open. Nothing happens. He doesn’t wake up. I don’t change my mind.

Nothing happens.

But there’s a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the door knob, and I blink at it, see it then: him seeing Spencer to the door while I was in the bathroom, waving goodbye. Looking over his shoulder to check I hadn’t come out yet. Knowing he had me trapped. And then slipping the sign to hang outside, closing the door, locking us in.

He was never going to let me leave.

Stupid, so fucking stupid...

But I leave the sign there. Respect his wishes.

Close the door, walk away.

Disturb him no longer.

Chapter Text

His taste. His laugh. His smile. And not the one for the cameras, for the fans, for the stage. But the smile he only seems to give to me.

But the fact is that he’d give it to someone else if he tried hard enough. If we made an effort to sever all ties instead of letting ourselves be drawn back into it, find each other time after time.

Maybe we’ve just become lazy, being romantics. We think that past passion is the most intense, the one of a lifetime. The one.

But what about that guy over there? Or maybe him or him or him? Couldn’t they be that guy? Couldn’t they be better?

No. Not them.

It’s all him. His taste, his laugh, his smile. Year after year.

Not them.

So we don’t even try to love someone else more. And maybe we could, maybe but – His taste, his laugh, his smile.

And no one can beat that. They rarely ever have a chance.

And they most certainly don’t have it this morning. Not after last night, when he and I... God, I can barely think it. It weighs me down as I wait, observing the mindlessly happy tourists fussing around the small square, gazing at the renaissance architecture that Rome is full of.

None of them slept with a lost love last night.

And if they did, none of them were able to admit that it was lost. That’s the difference between them and me.

Spencer shows up at noon like I told him to. He emerges out of a taxi, his eyes first landing on the grandiose Trevi Fountain and the tourists around it, taking pictures, throwing in coins and making wishes. He then sees me, smoking outside a shop, waiting for him. He doesn’t even know what I’ve done, but somehow I feel guilty at the sight of him. He will know. He will judge me.

Spencer makes a beeline for me, having to stop to let little kids run past him. I avert my gaze, drop the cigarette and step on it as he reaches me. “Well, you’re a man of mystery, aren’t you?”

“I figured this place would be easy to find.” I keep my eyes on a couple posing with the fountain rising in the background, marble statues with dead gazes staring out onto the square. The tourists smile for the picture. The statues don’t. “Breakfast, then?”

Spencer nods, and I randomly choose one of the narrow cobblestone lanes just wide enough for a car and a pedestrian.

Before Spencer arrived, I overheard an American tourist complaining to her husband that Italians don’t know how to make good roads. Idiot, I thought – this place is ancient. The streets are ancient and a mess like a spider web. The older something gets, the more chaotic it becomes. The harder it is to make sense of it, to control it.

You’d think everyone knows that.

But then I think of last night again, and it seems that I barely know it myself.

It doesn’t take long to find a tiny café, and we find a corner table at the back. I don’t need a view.

Spencer orders two coffees, unbuttoning his jacket. “We should be at the venue in half an hour, you know,” he tells me, and yeah, I know.

I can’t really look him in the eye. I just chew on my bottom lip, my fingers restlessly tapping the table. I see the future laid out ahead of us: the matinee show, wrap up around sunset, a long damn drive to Barcelona, one show and we’re done. We’ll be on the plane home – Spencer’s flying with us, he’s decided. Since his work with The Police is done and he misses his daughter. And I’ve got a connecting flight to Boston from Chicago, will make my way to Machias from there. Don’t know where else to go. When Vicky booked the flight last week, I just said that my stuff is in Machias, and no one questioned that. I omitted my not knowing if I’ll ever come back, although I got the feeling that others assumed I’d only be picking stuff up.

Still, this tour won’t be ongoing for much longer. Only a little, little longer, and then it’ll be over.

The waiter returns, sets our coffees down. “Grazie,” Spencer says, eyes flickering on the man, waiting for him to leave. Once he does, Spencer asks, “What’s wrong?”

I keep tapping my fingers against the table. It flashes through my mind again: his taste, his laugh, his smile. Him whispering he wants my come in him. And so I fucked him harder. Harder. Harder.

Now it’s morning. Now I’m not kidding myself and I’m not lost in want.

“I slept with Brendon last night.”

And then it’s out there, and I’ve confessed, and we can all be so, so disappointed in me again.

See, there he goes, that Ryan Ross: one fuck up after another.

“Well I know that,” Spencer says, rolling his eyes. I stop drumming the table. Look at him in surprise, wonder if it’s that obvious – because I did shower once I got to my room, I showered Brendon off of me. Maybe it’s my mouth that still looks like it’s been kissed too much. Spencer shakes his head at my obliviousness. “Brendon could hardly look away from you last night. I picked up on some vibes – eventually. So I figured you two were going to, uh...” He trails off. Is that why he so suddenly decided to leave? “I mean, there’s that giving you away, but you guys also kept Leo awake since he was in the next room, so yeah. He was bitching about it when I bumped into him earlier. Oh, he won’t tell,” he then says when I feel alarmed. “It’s just that he and I both knew, so.”

“It was that obvious?” I ask, wondering how oblivious I was, how deep in denial I was about what was clearly going on between Brendon and me. Sleeping on couches, him coming onto me in Munich – I just explained it all away in a desperate attempt to keep up the friendship that was never truly there. But it justified us. We need to be justified.

“No, it wasn’t that obvious,” Spencer says dismissively. “You leaving me a message at the front desk to come meet you when you’ve done a vanishing act, that’s obvious.” He takes a sip of his coffee. Mine remains untouched. I have no appetite, feel like my capability to want anything is gone. “Was it...” he begins, clearly not knowing what to say. He scratches the side of his face, the beard there making a slight rustling sound. “Was it bad?”

Not every friend would start asking about their best friend’s sex life with other men, so I’ll give Spencer credit for that. I realise, then, that he’s always been holding my hand. Not to let me go too far when The Followers got huge, pulling me towards the stage when I didn’t want to perform, our fingers brushing together as we shared cigarettes during sleepless nights when I was too miserable to sleep, and that misery never had a shape or a reason or a name, but he was fine with that. He never complained. And he had enough of it eventually, but that was my fault. I never stopped to say ‘thank you’, did I?

But now Spencer’s back. The topics have changed, but he’s still there. Listening. He will be the guy giving a speech at my funeral, and I think he genuinely might even have some nice things to say.

I’m not nearly as unlucky as I’ve always pretended to be.

“No. No, it was...” I begin, living through it again. His skin, his sounds, all of it – fire stirs up in my guts, in my chest. “They haven’t invented words for that yet.” Spencer doesn’t say anything, doesn’t judge, doesn’t pry. But it’s not about the sex having been good. That’s unimportant. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have, but he was there and he wanted me, and I wanted him, but it’s – We’ve done all of that before. And it does us no good. We always fucked it up.” My hands curl into fists.

“Maybe it’s different this time,” Spencer suggests, and I appreciate the naivety.

“Is it? We’re still lying to everyone left and right, including each other, and we’re still selfish and I’m still a mess and in no – How am I in any condition to try and be with him? If that’s even what he wants, maybe he was just horny, I mean –”

“It does things to one’s mind,” Spencer muses, “not letting oneself have what one wants.”

I huff, mostly because of the overuse of the pompous ‘one’ when he just means me. But he’s right, too, that I do want Brendon. But what does Brendon want? What would stop us from fucking it up again?

“Even if he wanted the same thing,” I say slowly, but even saying it seems like I’m pushing it. “Fuck, even if Brendon did... then I still couldn’t. Because I can’t lose him again, Spencer. Fuck, imagine if – if we got together, if we finally did and it’d be good and we’d sort ourselves out, imagine me having him, being his, him being mine, and then – then picture. For a second. Me losing him after that.” Even as I say it, it feels as if my story ends at a sudden black wall. And then there’s nothing. “I wouldn’t survive it, not this time. Not anymore.”

Spencer looks serious, and I appreciate that he gets the gravity of this. “Then don’t lose him.”

I laugh. “What a beautiful notion.” I shake my head. “I’ll lose him. It’s my one talent, the one thing I excel at. I’ll fuck it up just like I always have, and this time it’d be worse than ever. I’d hurt him in a way that I can’t even describe.”

“Not to be a dick,” Spencer says hesitantly, “but I think you’re already hurting him.”

He looks at me pointedly, and I know he’s right. I wonder how I even managed to force myself to leave that bed. It’s a haze, all of it. And I picture Brendon waking up – he already has. So he woke up, and I wasn’t there. Just my absence.

And Brendon made it very clear that he wanted me there, he wanted me to stay.

I imagine what he felt when he realised I was gone. Spencer’s right: I most likely am hurting Brendon already.

I sigh, burying my face in my hands. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have slept with him. Fuck. We were alright, we had an understanding, you know? Friends. It was working out, wasn’t it? Or was it all just- just a pathetic front for us to stay close to each other because we were just that desperate?”

It’s a rhetorical question, and Spencer doesn’t try to answer it. I try to calm down. Try to be rational, but what use is rationality in all of this?

“If he wanted us to be together,” I say at length, “and if I went for it, I’d eventually lose him. And if I don’t go for it, I’ll lose him right now. I love my options here. I love how – he’s the one thing. The only thing, and I never get it right.”

Spencer shakes his head. “Maybe you’re taking it too seri –”

But he stops then.

I’ve quit bands because of Brendon. I’ve said goodbyes and broken hearts and moved countries and crashed buses. Do either one of us really want to know what else I can do?

Spencer focuses on his coffee, and I take it as a no.

“We were good,” I say quietly. “I thought we were finally good, and then I had to wreck it. So I either hurt him now or hurt him later. Just gotta choose which one will hurt him less. Just gotta choose which one will be easier for me to survive.”

Spencer doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’m sorry.”

He no longer tries to convince me that this time it’s different.

That’s why I asked him to come.

He’s honest.

We get to the venue late, but this morning Spencer warned Mike that we might not be here on time, anyway. The venue is a basement club, and as we head down the stairs, we bump into Dick, who instantly says, “Ryan, Brendon’s looking for you.”

I stop, stupefied, and find it hard to breathe. Feel my skin heat up. I don’t want to see Brendon. I don’t want to face him, I don’t want to have that confrontation. I don’t want to see his face when I walk away.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Dick hurries on his way, and Spencer doesn’t say anything.

The club has a low ceiling and black walls, making it appear more claustrophobic than it actually is. We get to the mixing table, and I see the stage on the other side of the room, already set with four stools for Jon, Spencer, Brendon and Dallon. Brendon will be playing guitar so I don’t need to get on stage, and that’s good. I doubt I even could. Spencer only has some tambourine duties to perform.

Mike and Jon are talking to the sound engineer but our arrival catches their attention. “There you are,” Mike says but doesn’t seem happy about it. He sighs. “Today’s a shit day, then. Heard the news?”

I falter. News?

But Spencer shakes his head, and Mike says, “Ian’s quit the band.”

Oh. Not what I expected.

Jon looks mournful, and Mike adds, “Not like it was wholly unexpected. He sent a fax, and. It was very heartfelt, you can read it if you want. I know he’s sorry, but. Something about how he can’t be a part of the music scene anymore, not with his past of drug addiction. He plans to get better so he’s chosen to quit.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Spencer says, and I nod to make it clear that he speaks for us both.

Jon now shrugs. “The times, they are a-changin’, right?” But Jon’s upset and it’s obvious. Ian was in His Side from day one. They’ve never existed without him. “Brendon’s taking it the worst.”

A pang of guilt rings through me then. This is a situation when Brendon would need me as a friend, would need me to be there to talk to, help him through it. Yesterday I could have been that person. Now I’ve made everything even worse for him.

I should have stayed in Machias. I see that now.

Jon eyes me and says, “Brendon’s looking for you, by the way.”

“Yeah?” I ask nervously. “He alright?”

“He knew it was coming like we all did, but he’s still upset. He’s being interviewed now, though.”

Thank fuck for that.

“Really sorry about Ian, man.” I give Jon’s shoulder a squeeze. Jon’s never been anything but decent to me, and I haven’t always returned it. But at least His Side is taking a break after this tour is done, they’ll have time to find someone to take Ian’s place. Maybe they can even convince Ian to come back.

We find Dallon, Sisky and Leo in the dressing room, having a late lunch and getting ready for the show. Leo looks at me with a raised eyebrow that is a clear ‘well I certainly see you in a new light this morning’, and I look away, feel uncomfortable knowing that he heard us. Were we that loud? Did he just hear the bed, or Brendon too, or maybe even me? But Leo doesn’t say anything of it, just continues restringing one of Jon’s guitars. I grab one of mine, sit in a corner and play absently to appear being busy.

I’ve really made a mess of everything, but I try to formulate what to say to Brendon. Or maybe just ignore him – I left him alone, maybe that was message enough?

“Ryan, you are here!” Jürgen says when he enters the room. “Brendon search for you, ja?” He looks at me keenly to make sure we’re communicating. I feel my stomach drop.

“Okay. Thanks. Got it.”

Brendon’s clearly not happy with the silent message I left him.

I wonder how many people Brendon’s asked to look for me.

I feel Dallon’s gaze on me, but I try to give nothing away – it’s not like he knows about last night. Still, the guilt is almost unbearable.

The club is separated from the dressing room by a single wall, so we hear people pouring in, Italian media mostly. It’s a boring acoustic set of six songs. The guys don’t take it seriously, chatting idly, but the now confirmed loss of Ian dampens the mood. Brendon still isn’t here, but interviews cannot stretch to infinity, and so I take it on myself to go to the club’s side, linger at the sound table annoying the engineer and then chitchatting with a few fans. I’m thankful I’m not needed on stage, that I don’t have to be with the band right now. And it’s only when the band is minutes away from going on that I go to the dressing room to wish good luck to a band that has just lost a member, only days after their drummer was detained for something he didn’t do. I might be an asshole, but I’m not uncaring.

I don’t mean to look at him when I enter, but it’s hard not to instantly see where he is: Brendon stands up like my arrival sends some kind of an alarm through his system.

The guys keep chatting. They haven’t noticed.

Brendon remains on the other side of the room, eyes fixed on me, and his expression is – it’s a question, that’s what it is. Fuck, he’s not even trying to cover it up. He’s giving everything away with just his eyes: urgency and confusion. Incomprehension. He’s asking me where I disappeared to, what happened, why I’ve been avoiding him. And it’s so honest that I can’t hold his gaze at all.

Spencer was right: I’ve already hurt him.

Mike says, “Okay, people, gather ‘round!” so we do, even I do, and we put our hands in the middle, we promise to kick ass the way we always do, except that I don’t even speak and neither does Brendon. He’s trying to establish eye contact, and I’m busy avoiding it.

When we pull our hands back, Brendon asks, “Can we talk?”

He’s talking to me. Still staring at me. It’s making the others frown.

“Uh, now?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. His eyes briefly flicker on the others. “In private?”

Mike says, “We’ve got a set to play, Brendon.”

Brendon glares at his manager. “They can wait –”

“They can’t,” Mike says. “Italian press. Very restless.”

But Mike is looking at me with a ‘well now you’ve done it’ expression, and I quickly pretend to take interest in the – the wall, yeah, what a fascinating fucking wall.

Mike begins to usher the band out of the room. “After?” Brendon asks quickly, an intense gaze in his eyes. I nod.

It’ll give me some time to figure out how to let him down gently.

“Okay,” he says, putting so much into a single word.

He’s almost at the door when I call out, “Hey, Bren?”

He stops instantly, looks at me with hope on his features. He’s holding his breath – he literally is.

“Heard about Ian. Sorry.”

His expression falls. He looks more confused than ever.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Yeah. Okay. “Good luck out there,” I manage, and the way he reacts is like I’ve told him to fuck off. But Mike’s busy getting him on stage, and I exhale, feel all of it collapsing around me, on me.

The others follow until only Sisky and I are left. The kid is chewing on his bottom lip. He doesn’t say anything. He could, I’m sure he’s picking up on it easily, but he lets it go and for that I’m grateful. But he looks a bit small, pulling in on himself. Looks sad.

I say, “Let’s go watch the show.”

The acoustic set is a sham. They play six songs, only the fans care. Most of the crowd keeps talking over the songs, and the occasion is only an excuse for the press to mingle amongst themselves. I attract plenty of attention, someone asks me for Bob Dylan’s phone number, but the last time I saw him he helped himself to one of my hats because he’s Bob Dylan and he can do that, so I’ve taken it upon myself not to have his number anymore.

Brendon doesn’t sound good on stage. He’s distracted and his heart isn’t in it, and he keeps looking our way. Sisky picks up on it instantly, and I say, “Ian quit.”

“Yeah, he did.” Sisky lights a cigarette, and he usually does it only when something’s wrong, when he’s nervous or feeling uncomfortable. He watches His Side play, and after he blows out smoke, he adds, “That’s not about Ian, though.”

But Sisky lets it go, lets me off the hook even when it’s obvious that I’ve done something to Brendon or with Brendon or both.

I wish Brendon did the same – pretend it didn’t happen. I left him alone, I’m avoiding him now. Can’t he just realise that it was a mistake?

The band wraps up, the audience claps. The guys get off the stage, waving, but I see Brendon pushing into the crowd. Heading for us.

I don’t have my speech yet.

There are no right words.

And Brendon won’t let me off the hook. He’s stubborn and he’s fierce, and that’s exactly why I first fell in love with him: his strength.

“I’ll go get a drink,” Sisky says, abandoning me.

Fucker.

“Can we talk now?” Brendon asks when he reaches me, before I’ve located a way to run for it. “Great.” He grabs a hold of my arm and pulls me with him, like I’m a schoolboy who’s done something naughty. But it burns, his touch on me, and I remember his hands on my back as I pushed into him, our mouths locked, the hushed words. Were there hushed promises? Was I stupid enough to make some?

He drags us to a bathroom. It’s small and it’s dirty and has a sink and a toilet and a broken mirror and ugly brown tiles. He locks the door and stands in front of it, and I expect him to start yelling or shouting or maybe even try to fuck me, I don’t know, but he takes a breath and the armour vanishes. The anger vanishes, the aggression. It’s like he strips down until there’s only him left, and I can hardly deal with it.

“Ryan.” It’s so soft that he might as well be whispering it to my ear. “What’s going on?”

He crosses his arms over his chest defensively – not defensively. Protectively. He knows what’s coming, knows what to expect from me. His body knows it even if he’s unwilling to admit it himself. And he looks small and hurt, and I just want to step into the role of a protector and destroy anyone who ever makes him feel small.

But I’m the cause of it. And I can’t protect him from me.

“Nothing’s going on,” I say and try to pretend that I’m confused. Like I don’t know what’s wrong.

“Nothing?” he asks disbelievingly. “Okay, alright.” But it’s disorientated like he doesn’t know left from right just then. And then the anger resurfaces. “Nothing?!” he says again, but I don’t react. He seems astonished. “Don’t do this to me! Last night was – You know what it was. And now it’s like I don’t even exist?! What kind of a sick game is that?!”

I avoid his gaze, try to look awkward like he’s inconveniencing me – I used to do the asshole act so, so well, I had it perfected – but he barks, “Answer me!”

So I do. I find the words. At least I can be sincere if nothing else.

“The tour’s practically done. I’ll be gone before you know it and then we never have to see each other again.”

There. That’s the solution because I even fucked up a falsified friendship. So we can’t be friends. It’s better to be nothing, then, maybe it’s better to – just let it rest. Now we know we can never be friends. We never tried until now, and now we know that there are no options for us. There isn’t a way for us to work.

“Never...?” he almost whispers, and the pain that he doesn’t even try to hide cuts straight through me. He looks devastated, and this is killing me as it is, I don’t need him guilt-tripping me. “Ryan, why would you –” he start but his voice breaks off, and he lifts a hand to his mouth like he feels sick.

And that’s so selfish of him, that’s so fucking typical.

“What do you want from me?!” I ask angrily. I try and try, but it’s never enough with him. He could let me do the right fucking thing for once.

“Not this!”

“Then what?! Because we’ve done the casual sex thing, and guess what? We’re no good at it! And we’ve done the affair too, and we’re no good at that either! And I don’t know if you just wanted to make Dallon jealous last night or –”

“Shut up! God, shut up!” he barks, and that’s the Brendon I know, the one with a backbone, relentless and uncompromising. This is him, and he’s breaking. “God, how can you – I don’t want casual sex, I don’t want an affair!” His hands drop to his sides as he looks at me. “I want you. Ryan, fucking hell,” he breathes out, and his tone is the closest to begging I’ve ever heard it. A sharp pain radiates in my chest, but I ignore it.

“Well isn’t that convenient?” I say in a mocking tone, seeing him pulling out all of his cards now.

He stares at me in astonishment. “What do you want me to say, then?!”

“You don’t need to –”

“That when Dallon and I almost slept together in London, I had to put a stop to it because you were all I could fucking think about?! Fuck, you’re all I think about!”

I indignantly ignore what he’s saying about me and focus on the slipped information instead. I knew it wasn’t innocent, them going to that hotel room. I knew it because I know Brendon – and then I was the second victim last night as he has a habit of luring men into his room.

He looks me deep in the eye, refuses to back down. “I don’t understand why you’re trying to pull away from me,” he says as calmly as he can, but he’s not calm.

“God, if I had known that a round of sex was going to make you this clingy –”

“Do you honestly think that’ll work?!” he snaps. I don’t know. It would have worked before. I’ve pissed him off now: his lips have pursed, his brows knitted together. “And not even a note! Waking up to – and not knowing where you were, I’ve been so fucking worried, and then Ian quit, and I needed you, I fucking needed you, and then you just – you ignore me, and it hurts so much that I can barely go on stage!” He stops to take a breath and shakes his head. “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Is this a new type of punishment for me?”

“No, it –”

“Then what the fuck?!” he nearly yells. He’s falling apart in front of me. “I just. I don’t understand. Okay? If you just – just explain it to me, if you just – Because I don’t understand, I can’t– I love you, and I don’t understand why –”

“What?” I cut in sharply.

Suddenly, I can’t breathe. Suddenly, I doubt I’m the one who feels like he’s still in control.

But Brendon knows what he’s said, knows what caught my ear. He suddenly looks softer, letting the anger subside. “I love you,” he says like it’s somehow self-explanatory.

He says it, the words spill from his lips, almost like he’s been dared. I don’t react. I can’t.

He sharply pulls in air, then, looking shaken. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I – I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, it just came out. Shit, I pictured this happening so differently, I’m sorry. Fuck, I feel so nervous now.” And then he laughs a worried laugh that’s so full of hope that it sickens me. And he gazes at me with warmth in his eyes, like that’s it, like that’s okay.

“I need to go,” I hiss, and I try to get past him.

But he instantly blocks me, eyes widening in surprise. “What –”

“You can’t do this to me, you can’t just –”

“Are you angry?” he asks disbelievingly, studying my face, looking shocked.

“Of course I’m fucking angry!” I yell at him, flat out yell.

Nothing makes sense, my thoughts running havoc. My hands have curled into fists, and I feel sick and tired and then even more sick, and my hands shake, and I can’t breathe, and I – Fuck, I.

“You can’t just – just say that!” I spit out, feeling angrier with every second that passes. “You pictured this happening differently?” I repeat because that’s the worst part, if there can be a worst part in it. “You’ve been – standing there, thinking it but not saying it?! For how long?” I ask, but he’s paled now. “For how long, Brendon?!”

He tries to stutter something, but nothing comes out. He wasn’t expecting this reaction. He was expecting me to just fall in his arms – it was a weapon, and he used it. It backfired.

He shakes his head like he doesn’t have the answer. “I-I don’t know for how long, I –”

“You don’t know,” I repeat disbelievingly. “Well how fucking convenient for you!”

I step away from him, old memories twisting and turning, taking on new, hideous shapes, and suddenly all of it hurts nearly as much as it did when it happened.

“Does it matter? I’m saying it now!”

“It matters! Two years ago, I was begging to hear you say that! I would’ve given anything, and you knew it!”

This momentarily renders him speechless. I see a flicker of shame in his eyes. I need more than a flicker, a hell of a lot more. “I know,” he whispers apologetically, and he looks sorry now. It’s not enough. “I know that, I do, but it was too hard to say, I couldn’t bring myself to –”

“What?” I stop. Astonished. Feel like he’s punched me. “Fuck, are you saying you loved me back then?”

He won’t meet my gaze. “Of course I did.”

Of course? How is it an ‘of course’?

That scheming son of a –

“If you loved me, then how was it alright for you to say that you loved Shane but not me?!” I shout at him. “How was it alright to let me think that I could never be good enough to be loved? By strangers, sure! Fans, sure! But not by you. I let you in, and you still couldn’t love me.” He tries to say something, but I don’t care, I don’t want to know, and I cut him off, feeling disgusted and insulted. “You know what, Brendon? Fuck you.”

“Ryan, please,” he pleads, but no, I’ll have none of it. “Please! I’m saying it now, and you don’t get to freak out!”

“I do!”

“Ryan, please. Please.” He takes a step closer, his hands hover like he’d want to touch me but then he doesn’t. “Please just listen to me. I’m not great with words, but –”

“Clearly because saying I love you hardly requires originality!” He looks shamed. Good, fucking good – How dare he, how could he? “And don’t say that I should’ve known somehow! I can’t read your mind!” I snap, still as angry, still as hurt. “Fuck, I’ve spent years trying to figure you out, I’ve killed myself over this and I’ve hated myself for this, and then there’s you, it must be so fucking easy to be you.”

“I know I’m not perfect, I know I’m flawed,” he rushes out, and I suddenly feel worried that he’ll break down in front of me. “I mess things up, I know baby, but I love you.”

“Don’t wear it out,” I say quietly. Every time he says it, a new kind of disappointment and anger swirl in me. “What gives you the fucking right to say that?” I ask him, and he flinches.

I push past him, and he says, “Ryan,” a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t you dare touch me.”

He removes his hand.

I unlock the door and leave him.

Out of the two of us, I always assumed that I was more fucked up than he was.

Don’t know so much after all, do I?

I don’t want to be on this bus. I don’t want to be in this lounge. I don’t want to be in a space where he is, I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to hear his voice.

I wish I could wash it all off of me, off of my days, my past.

He doesn’t love me.

For him, love is a toy or a tool of manipulation. Drop it in the conversation when it’s convenient. What does a fucked up kid like him know about love?

I’m easy prey.

He’s bored.

This is entertainment.

I stay in the bus lounge with the guys because if I go to my bunk, I can be cornered easily. So I stay where the guys are now getting high as we leave Italy, but I don’t smoke up – the second-hand smoke doesn’t count. But the guys are high and are talking bullshit, about the tour, about Ian, and I sit on the end of the couch that’s closer to the bus front, a beer bottle in hand. I’ve been nursing it for a while. And the guys don’t try to involve me in the conversation, and they don’t try to talk to Brendon, who is sitting at the other end of the opposite couch, looking at me for the most part. And it’s uncomfortable for all at first, but then they get high, and Brendon and I are the only sober ones left.

I have no intention of being alone with him again.

He looks like he wants to talk. What good is talking? And if he loves me so much, then why not just say it, then? Announce it in front of everyone?

Stand up. Tell the world, then.

Prove your words, don’t throw them around like empty promises.

But he doesn’t. He sits there, and he doesn’t say it. Just like he never used to.

Eventually the tension becomes unbearable even for me, the constant anger and pain stabbing at my insides. Feeling so ridiculed and fooled.

I make up some lame excuse about needing to talk to Jürgen about something important like fuel consumption and disappear to the front of the bus. Jürgen looks over his shoulder at me and smiles, but he doesn’t try to talk. I hold on to the headrest of his seat and look at the dark road ahead, say something stupid like, “Wanted to check out the view,” like he even understands me. But he just nods.

And I stay with him to get a breather, to escape how Brendon’s constantly trying to make contact. I won’t have any of it.

So he’s sorry.

‘Sorry’ doesn’t change a damn thing. Doesn’t make me believe him.

“Do you like driving?” I ask, desperate for something to think about.

“Yes, very much!” Jürgen says.

“I used to drive our buses. Back when I wasn’t as famous. I crashed a bus once, too.”

Jürgen hums, an indication that he doesn’t understand me. “Very nice!”

“It was a primitive response to loss from a melodramatic artist in love,” I say, and I watch the road ahead, the way it’s almost black now that the sun has set. I can’t see much, but on our left is a sea, glittery water in the moonlight. The Mediterranean – not like there are other seas around. “I crashed that bus good and proper. You fuck something up that bad, it doesn’t matter what comes next.”

“Barcelona next,” he suggests, now somewhat unsure like he’s getting restless that I’m blabbing at him.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, man.”

He nods, and it seems like our conversation is over because he focuses on driving again. Now I’ll have to go back to the lounge where Brendon is, and I know he’ll keep looking at me, but I don’t know what the hell he wants from me or what he expects.

Who’s being arrogant and presumptuous now?

But as I turn to leave, I almost bump into Brendon who’s obviously decided to follow me. He pointedly blocks the passageway, stops me. I look over his shoulder, see that Jon and Dallon are looking our way, and I quickly mutter, “Don’t.”

Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.

He, on the other hand, looks at Jürgen’s back worriedly, but it’s not like the German understands. Brendon’s restless when he whispers, “Is it my turn to beg? Is that what you want?”

“No,” I hiss quietly.

I don’t want anything from him except him leaving me be. Fuck, can’t he see that I cannot be around him right now?

“Then what?” he asks desperately, and he stands too close to me, like he thinks he has the right now. Because we fucked, because he’s declared his love for me. His love. Well, isn’t that grand?

“Nothing. I want nothing from you,” I say quietly, and he blinks a bit too fast.

“I know I’ve fucked up,” he says, and yeah, he really fucking has. “But can we talk about it, at least? You’re shutting me out, if you just –”

“Because talking about our feelings has always been our forte,” I shoot back.

“It’s different this time,” he says quietly. He’s subscribing to the same delusion Spencer did.

“It’s not different at all. We’re already tearing each other apart.”

He has nothing to counter that with.

The games we play have just become even crueller over the years. That’s all.

I push past him, and he doesn’t try to stop me.

The drive is the longest one we’ve had all tour, and although we got on the bus in the evening, we’re not in Barcelona until well into the following morning.

The bus begins to slow down, stops, we drive some more, stop, turn, stop. Coming into a city, navigating to the venue, finding the right place to park. And then we finally stop completely and the engine switches off. I hear Mike and Jürgen talking in whispers before Jürgen goes into his bunk after an entire night of driving.

The other guys seem to still be asleep, too. I haven’t slept all night.

I get out of the bunk, glad to escape its claustrophobic air and the thoughts that just bounce back and forth. To escape the feeling of being ridiculed.

Brendon’s bunk curtain is closed, and the pain feels new as I pass it, sliding the door aside and entering the lounge. But I’ve escaped nothing because Brendon’s not in his bunk – he’s on the couch, asleep. His notebook is in his lap, there are torn pages thrown across the lounge, and I realise he spent his night here, writing something he clearly wasn’t pleased with. And now he’s passed out, breathing deeply, and evenly but a frown remains on his face. Troubled dreams.

And I think of what he said yesterday, and I think of us the night before, in that hotel room, and then I think of us flying home tomorrow, and then I think of him no more.

He doesn’t wake up as I walk past him quietly.

I get out of the bus just to breathe.

We’re parked down the street from the venue, which is a red brick building that has the look of a theatre to it. Mike and Sisky are outside the bus, smoking morning cigarettes, and they look surprised to see me. It’s not cold or snowy anymore – we’ve gotten out of northern Europe, we’ve gotten away from the Alps. It’s a clear yet pale day, and I don’t need my scarf protecting my throat. I breathe in the lukewarm air, fight off the constricted feeling in my chest.

I say, “Morning.”

I say, “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

I don’t have to ask Sisky to keep me company: he volunteers on his own. And I appreciate it, I wanted him to come. He’s great company when I don’t want to think about myself. So we head down the street, Mike tells us not to get lost. We won’t. It’s relatively early, cars honking and drivers shouting at each other. I look around, look at the aging buildings with paint peeling off of them, reminding me of my house in Machias, and I look at the wide streets and the stocky palm trees, and I feel far away from whoever I am right now. This is some strange version of me.

Sisky’s got something on his mind, and he’s not trying to hide it. After two blocks of shared silence, he says, “Dallon was talking about leaving the band last night.”

“What?” I repeat in surprise, not having caught anything of the kind.

Sisky nods slowly. “I overheard him talking to Mike about it, they were the last ones awake. Mike hasn’t mentioned it to me or anyone, I don’t think. Mike just wants to finish the tour and assess the damage once everyone’s back home, but Dallon sounded serious. He wants to quit the band.”

“Why?” I ask after a pause, trying to take this in. “Dallon, I mean.”

I look at Sisky, thinking to myself that this is a fair question, but Sisky looks disbelieving and even taken aback by me, and I’m not used to seeing that on him.

“What do you think?” he asks pointedly. I don’t know. “Everyone knows about you and Brendon,” he says slowly like he needs to emphasise this because of my lacking deduction skills. “We all know you –”

And then he looks straight ahead where my eyes meet an abundance of trees, a park ahead of us. And I focus on that too, the way the slight breeze moves the branches ahead, and I think of Brendon’s arms around me, his arms pinned to the bed, on my back, I think of how he moved when I pushed and pulled, I think of us fucking and how good it was and how lost I was in it. I think of the way he kissed the corner of my mouth after I’d come.

So they all know. Dallon knows. Brendon never slept with him, despite their months of foreplay. And a week after their one and only date, Brendon sleeps with his notorious ex instead. Dallon was already angry and hurt – but now he must be...

“And Dallon’s leaving because of that?” I ask disbelievingly.

Sex is just sex. Dallon shouldn’t take it that personally – and so what, Brendon and I have always been in and out of each other’s beds. It never got us anywhere. It never fixed anything. Sex is not a guarantee, it’s not a solution. It doesn’t make all the fucked up things go away, it doesn’t fix us. It feels good, and we’re just as broken afterwards.

Dallon shouldn’t be offended by it. He should laugh that we’re still repeating the same mistakes.

There are steps leading away from the street and into the park. We follow them up, leaving the late morning traffic behind. Some trees are leafless, some aren’t. We follow a path in the open space, passing an old man walking an English bulldog with a grey muzzle. The man’s got a cane and he’s got old age, and that’s what we all get in the end. I’ll be thirty in two years. I’ll be forty. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. And then that’ll be me, that old man. And by then I’ll laugh at this, how dramatic and immediate everything seemed. I’ll laugh at my eighteen-year-old self and my twenty-eight-year-old self. I will laugh. I just need forty years to reach that point, to become that cynical that I forget this ache in my chest. That I forget the feel of his lips against my mouth, and how it felt more intimate than anything I’ve ever known.

Sisky says, “When I interviewed Brendon, he kept trying to pry what you’d said about the two of you. I didn’t tell him. I kept my mouth shut.”

Well, at least Sisky’s learned something.

Sisky hesitates, then, but he presses on, his voice mixing with the sound of gravel crunching under our feet. “Brendon seemed desperate to know how you feel about him now, not then but now. He probably wanted to know if his feelings are returned, I think.” He treads on it so carefully, Sisky does, and I give him credit for that. For dancing around it beautifully.

“Sisky, I’m going to ask you to stay out of it.”

I say it only once. I don’t say it maliciously. I don’t say it kindly. I say it the way those things are meant to be said: with finality. And then I will extend that finality, I will, I will learn to pull it from a single sentence to cover all sentences and actions.

It’s between Brendon and me. It doesn’t concern anyone else. What we fuck up is ours.

And Sisky nods, letting it be. And we walk along the path that turns into stone, taking us to a carefully laid out garden with flower beds, pillars, trees in the distance. With air to move. I get out a cigarette and smoke, and Sisky picks up a flower and carries it around, and I don’t know what he plans to do with a dying thing like that.

We come to the top of some ruins, then, that take both of us by surprise. It’s an old amphitheatre, a broken half-circle of stone benches down a slope looking to the middle to a stage. How old it is, I don’t know, but it’s clear that the gardens have been built around it. We descend a few rows curiously, before taking seats. I imagine who has performed there, how many hundreds of years ago. But the amphitheatre is deserted, no tourists or locals near. Like they don’t care about the arts: they come and go. Only the good ones, the godlike ones, can immortalise their names. Sisky is busy with immortalising mine. I wonder if he’ll succeed. I wonder if I’ll exist two hundred years from now. I wonder if Brendon will.

If only one of us can, I’d choose his name to live on. Or I would have. I would have assumed him to be superior, but now? When he says that he has thought of saying it to me so many times, that he thinks he loves me. Yet he never said it.

What does he deserve now?

Sisky says, “I called Mom yesterday.” And it’s the start of a story, so I nod to tell him I’m listening. “Gold had called, my ex-girlfriend?” I remember the name, I am aware. “I haven’t heard from her in two years. I think she’s heard the rumours, about me being on tour with you. She always fucking adored you...” he says, trailing off with a sigh.

“A bit too late to love you now, don’t you think?” I ask.

“I know that’s the only reason that she’s gotten in touch.” He’s not as naive as he tries to come across.

I blow out smoke slowly. “You gonna call her back?”

“No.” He shakes his head and sounds resolved somewhere under the hurt that he is finally considered as interesting enough by someone he thought he loved. “No, I won’t ever see her again.”

And he started out sounding tough and indifferent, but it breaks just then. His voice breaks, and he ducks his head to hide his face. He swallows hard and looks small. I stub my cigarette against the stone, keeping an eye on him. A shiver runs down his back.

The tour is about to be over, and then he will be back in that small Bucktown bungalow with his mother, working on a book about me. It’s hard for me to picture him there because he’s meant for bigger audiences, he’s meant for loud music and he’s meant for a hundred hellos when he walks into a room. And he isn’t meant to be small like he looks right now.

“Listen,” I say, but he doesn’t look up. “You have a home. You know that, though, right? It’s not fixed to one place, it’s not a physical location. It’s people, and when you’re with them, you’re home.” I look towards the empty stage ten rows below. “And you’re loved. The guys love having you here and – You know, the guys.”

He nods, quickly wiping the corners of his eyes. He looks at me with a broken smile. “Thanks.” He sounds so happy that it makes me uncomfortable, so I just nod.

He breathes in and he breathes out. Says, “Hey, so, can we get some churros?”

“You paying?”

He smiles sheepishly.

Well of course not.

Mike’s given us the half hour warning for His Side’s Sanctuary tour’s last show, and it’s just enough time for me to go to the bus in search of a vest to put over my dress shirt that I’ve just spilled beer on. Try to make myself look presentable for the final show.

A few kids outside are trying to get tickets for the sold out show, and I’d sign their hands and arms, sure, but I’m not in the mood and don’t have the time.

I think of the torture ahead, having to stand by his side for an hour and a half. I know he won’t just let it be.

My packed suitcase is in my bunk, as I had lifted it there earlier to be out of the way. After the show we’re driving to Madrid overnight to catch a morning flight to London, then getting on a plane to Chicago from there. The air is full of goodbyes, and we’re all getting ready for it.

Our time is nearly up.

I find the vest I’m looking for, throw the dark brown over the light brown of my shirt. I’m buttoning it up when the bunk area door slides open, and I jerk slightly because I thought the bus was empty.

“Hey,” Brendon says. I saw him backstage just five minutes ago, warming up his voice – I turned around before he could see me. Still, he must have spotted me and has followed me here. He’s become shameless, almost.

“Hi.” I look away.

He’s in his stage clothes, those flared white trousers of his, a big belt and a black dress shirt, and his clothes look good but he himself doesn’t. He’s trying to smile but it’s obvious that it’s taking a lot of effort. “All packed?”

“Yeah.” I quickly button the vest and brush it with my hand to flatten it against my chest.

“Good.”

Idle chitchat after he told me that he loves me and I rejected him. I still can’t bring myself to think about it.

“I tried writing you a letter,” he then says. I recall him asleep on the couch this morning with discarded paper balls around him. So that’s what it was.

“A love letter?” I ask because I cannot really picture him sitting down to write one. To me or to anyone.

But he smiles at this, and I look away. I didn’t mean to suggest anything with it, it’s just – after yesterday, and the way he seems to be throwing the L word around now when it has never been in his vocabulary before.

“I guess you could call it that. But as it turns out, I’m not really good at explaining how I feel,” he says, and I could have told him that.

“Well, we’ve got a show to –”

“Please, just – Please,” he says, stalling me.

“You’ve said your piece.”

I don’t want to see him be reduced to yelling again, or me, either of us.

“I haven’t, though. I really haven’t said my piece,” he almost laughs, and it’s sad, and I’ve made him sad, and I hate that. Or has he made himself sad? Now that I think about it, that might be his own doing entirely. “I’m not asking for anything, I just want you to listen,” he says, rushing the words out. He waits to see if I’ll storm off again.

But I stay. I even look him in the eye properly, hold his gaze. He’ll never back down if I try to outrun him.

He realises he’s got my attention. He swallows hard, nods to himself. “Okay, I know what I – I know what I want to say,” he says, and his tone becomes surer. “You asked me something yesterday, and I couldn’t answer, but – I can. So... do you remember back on The Followers tour, when everyone found out that you and I were involved?”

How could I forget something like that? Joe outed me in front of everyone. Called me a faggot, I tried to deny it. And then Spencer outed me: told everyone it was true.

It’s hard to forget something like that, so I nod.

“Okay, well remember when... when you dumped me, after they found out? We were in Salt Lake City. You took me to Pioneer Park, tried to break it to me gently. Do you remember?” he asks again, clearly trying to be as specific as he can. I stare at him, trying to recall that moment, but it’s hazy at best. I remember that it hurt me to leave him – not that I even managed it for long. I still nod. “Okay, well... that’s when I... knew that I loved you.”

I stare. I didn’t expect that.

“Because I- I remember standing there, thinking, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. You idiot went and fell for him.’” He laughs, sounding sad by the memory of it. It should not be sad, realising you love someone. It shouldn’t be sad the way it is with us. He hangs his head and quietly adds, “Because that’s when I knew. Losing you felt like losing something. I don’t know if you – if you realise that I haven’t really been able to lose anything since I left home. I just drifted along. New cities and new jobs, everything disposable... but then I met you.” His eyes land on me, that sad soft smile still there, but it’s affectionate. It’s how you look at someone you- you love. And he’s never let it show before. “And everything about you tore me up inside. You were so cocky and infuriating, and I knew that you were a mess, I knew you were trouble, but you were the most – the most fascinating guy I’d ever met. And I fell in love with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” I say quietly. “That night in San Francisco, you said –”

“Can’t a guy lie when his heart is breaking?” he asks. He can. Of course he can. It’s all I do.

I know that back then I tried to treat him like property. I mocked his feelings for me. Later I was desperate for them, and I guess the irony isn’t lost on me.

“I loved you,” he says, and at that second I believe him. “And I couldn’t stop loving you no matter how hard I tried. I couldn’t stop. And after I quit as your roadie, after I’d lost you and Pete fucked me over with the money, and after all that, I was in a bad place. Shane saved me, you know that. Shane saved me,” he says firmly like he won’t let me deny that. I can’t. I left Brendon high and dry, and he did the same to me. Guess we both needed saving – and he found Shane.

It doesn’t mean that I’m okay with that. Knowing that in the end, he loved Shane more, even if he – even if he had feelings for me.

“You still chose Shane over me in the end,” I point out to him.

“Let me finish, alright?” he asks urgently, but I don’t want to think about it. How ugly and desperate we got. “I wasn’t over you,” he says, and I find it hard to swallow. “But it was fine, I thought, because I’d never see you again anyway. I thought it’d just go away. But we did meet again. And what I felt for you hadn’t gone away, I realised that the second I saw you. So that whole – in New York, it was an ugly winter. I’m sorry I put us all through that. I guess we both got what we deserved in the end,” he says. I thought the shame of it was mine alone to carry. It’s not. “You were right about me, though.”

“Which part?” I ask quietly.

“The part where I was so fucking in love with you, but I just couldn’t –” he begins and breaks off. I can’t look at him. He can’t look at me. He laughs that sad laugh of his. “It was too much.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

And the anger is there in my tone, but if love for me is something to be ashamed of, then that sums me up as a person.

“No, I just – I was scared that you only wanted me because you couldn’t have me. That if I gave myself to you again... you’d just decide not to want me anymore. And I didn’t see myself surviving losing you again. And what I felt for you, it was – so strong that it scared the shit out of me. I didn’t handle it well, I made a mess of it all. I know that, I know,” he says, his resolution breaking and his words becoming rushed. “So I fucked up in New York. I knew deep down that I should’ve chosen you, Ryan, I should have –”

“Don’t say that,” I manage, my voice rough. Years laid to waste so quickly. “Shit, don’t say that. It – it fucked up so much, it fucked me up so much.”

“I know, god, I know,” he says, stepping closer to me. “And I’m sorry. Baby, I’m so – I was scared, I know it’s not an excuse, but I was scared. You were – you were still figuring things out, and that didn’t change just by you saying you loved me.”

“I had it figured out.”

“Did you?” he asks pointedly. “With the affair and the lies and Shane and Keltie and the band and the codeine, I mean – Did either of us have any clue as to what we were doing? I didn’t... I didn’t think we did. And I wasn’t ready to take that risk. What would I have to fall back on if it turned out you were just as confused as you had been when we first met? I wouldn’t have had anything. And I wasn’t – I wasn’t going to spend my life being your whore or –”

“You –”

“Something Brent called me once,” he says, waving it off like it’s not important, but rage bubbles in me nonetheless. He was never going to be that, he was never – “I had nothing to my name,” he says slowly. “I lost everything once, and with Shane I finally had something, something real, and I didn’t trust you enough to risk it and end up with nothing. So I get that you’re angry that I stayed silent, that I never owned up to what I felt for you, but it was – it was so hard, and I. And I chose wrong. I should’ve chosen you, but I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t trust you enough. I just wasn’t ready but...” His voice fades like he’s lost in his thoughts, but then his voice rings out sure. “I’m ready now.”

I don’t- I don’t know what to say to that, I don’t even know where to start. He stands in front of me expectantly, and he’s ready now. And I don’t know what to say.

Fuck, I’ve waited. And now it’s here, he’s saying it, and I just –

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers when he receives no reply. “And I don’t want you to go back to- to New York or Maine or wherever you live now. I want you to stay with me or – or let me come with you, it wouldn’t matter to me. I want us. I want to give us our first decent shot. I don’t think we’d fuck it up. I think we’d feel things we never even knew we could feel.”

For a split second, I let myself imagine the scenario – us, going for it – he’s right, it’d probably be amazing. Fuck, it’d be everything.

He’s ready, and he’s asking.

And I can’t speak or look him in the eye.

I believe him. I believe what he says, I believe that he means it, that his account of the past is an accurate one. His side. I believe it. But fuck, why does that somehow make it worse?

“Unless,” he begins quietly, voice wavering. “...Unless you don’t love me anymore. Unless I’ve missed my chance.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say instantly, not wanting him to misinterpret my silence.

“Isn’t it?” he asks. “God, we wouldn’t be perfect together, I know that.” He says it like that’s elementary, and it’s different from the flawless image I was drawing up. “We’d fight and we’d slam doors and you’d be a dick and I’d give you as good as I get, but... we’d also be good together. Don’t you think? We’d be so good together.”

“Seems like a sudden change of heart when not too long ago you and Dallon were –”

“Who?” he asks, frowning, and it’s so charming, the way he now smiles. It’s a sure smile, a winning smile. He’s putting everything he has left into it. “Like I can see anyone else when you’re in the room,” he says softly. Everything he’s said so far has sounded pre-planned, bits of the words he tried to write down. For the first time the words seem to come out naturally.

Dallon said that he never had a chance – we just misled him to believe so. He was probably right. If what Brendon says is true, then no one else ever had a chance. Not from the moment we laid eyes on each other on a – a tour bus not that different from this one. And he was standing towards the back like I now am, and I was standing by the door like he now is. From that moment all the way up to now, maybe no one else could have a chance with him. Fuck, maybe even Shane never had it – to have Brendon in a way only I could. In the way Brendon now is offering himself, and I know it’s terrifying for him but he’s doing it anyway.

“Please, Ryan,” he says quietly.

He loved me when I was the least worthy of it. He still loved me. And now he finally trusts that feeling enough to want us.

But I feel the fear of it keenly. There are no guarantees.

The silence stretches on. He looks away, his mouth a thin line. “...Okay, then.”

I want to say sorry. I want to apologise. He is the only thing I want. If he didn’t dare take the plunge for us before because he was worried it’d leave him with nothing, then he should understand me. If I have him, and if I then no longer have him, then I will have nothing but the knowledge I ruined the one person who ever mattered to me.

I can’t.

“Okay,” he says again, but it’s not okay, clearly it’s not okay. Something breaks in him just then. “I’m too late. I guess you and me just always – But it. It doesn’t matter.” He tries to smile, wipes the corners of his eyes. “I’ll wait anyway. In case you change your mind.”

“Don’t –”

“In case you change your mind,” he persists, but it’s desperate.

“And what if I never do?” I ask quietly.

He shrugs like that’s of no importance. “I’ll still wait.” And then he does manage a smile that’s full of pain.

And with that he pushes the door aside and walks away, his steps sure – like it gives him strength. His love. It gives him strength to even do this, to walk away before he breaks down in front of me. It gives him the patience to wait for something that might never happen.

I stand by my bunk, breathing in the silence. Breathing in the ghosts of his words that seem to set in only now. I replay it in my head. Again. And again. I was so set on blaming him but now I don’t know if I can. He’s been a coward, but you’d have to be insane or suicidal to trust me. And I took every chance to teach him just that, to not trust me.

And yet he loved me.

“Fuck,” I say through gritted teeth.

An odd, fizzy sensation settles in my stomach, penetrating layers, making my fingers shake. I lean against the bunks. Bury my face in my hands. No wonder. No wonder it’s well over four years later and here we are, because that’s what he’s like, that’s him. Breaking the rules, loving me when no one else would. How do you go about forgetting someone like him?

The curtain of his bunk has been pushed aside. I see my jacket there, the one he won the other night. The one he wanted because it smells like me. I walk over. My fingers touch the corduroy, glide along it. I hold it by the collar, pulling it out, and I breathe it in. I don’t smell me. I smell him.

It won’t be of use for much longer, then. When things that are mine turn into his, when things that are his turn into mine.

Suddenly I feel thirsty, incredibly thirsty. I haven’t had a drop of water in years, and it’s making me light-headed. I feel a sudden rush of blood to my head. My vision blurs. Everything blurs.

I’ve fucked us over time and time again, and he’d still wait for me. He’s stupid. God, he’s such an idiot.

I smoke a cigarette then and there, next to his bunk. It’s hard to keep the smoke between my lips when suddenly adrenalin is pumping through me. Shapeless half-thoughts run through me, heat spreading from my chest. I rub my face. Blink. Try to focus my gaze. My thoughts are a horrible mess, where do they start, and where do they end.

Start: Pioneer Park, Salt Lake City. I told him I couldn’t do it anymore. And I – I remember now. He thought that I meant I couldn’t go on lying about us. I meant I couldn’t do us, full stop.

But he thought... he thought that I meant that I couldn’t lie about what we had anymore. Oh, but I could. I was stubborn like that.

But he knew what we had. Well, he had an inkling, anyway. Already then.

He beat me out of the water with that one. It took me a few years to grasp what we had.

But I’m forgetting something, I am, like – The show, shit, the fucking show. We’re about to go on. Probably. Are we? Fuck.

I hurry back to the venue, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt to my elbows. I flex my fingers – guitar fingers, guitar fingers – kids shout after me, something in Spanish, and I yell back, say, “Sí, sí, estupendo!” and Gabe would be proud, and I think of Brendon, wonder where my thoughts end if they start at that moment in Pioneer Park.

And then I’m backstage, and my heart hammers wildly. It’s odd how the organ is making itself known, like a drummer keeping up a steady yet accelerating rhythm. And that fizzy sensation in my belly is bubbling over, and I’m missing something. An unvoiced thought.

Am I going for the stage or for him? Both?

Then Leo is in front of me, saying, “You need to go on stage!” and he’s hurrying me along. I join the band just as they’re leaving the dressing room. Mike snaps at me, asking where Brendon is, but he came back here, didn’t he?

“We’re missing our singer!” Mike says like this is the stuff of nightmares, and I look around for him frantically. The crowd is chanting. We see them from where we’re standing. “Stall!” Mike says and almost pushes Jon to the stage. Jon stalks to his stand, clearly annoyed, and Dallon follows, taking his bass from the stand behind him as the crowd cheers.

I’ve got a mind to stay until we find Brendon, but Mike won’t have it. Spencer and I walk out together, and I’m barely aware of the crowd until they’re screaming my name. Who the hell are they? Sisky watches us with a pen and notepad, wanting to write down some thoughts on the final show, I’m guessing. But I’m confused, I feel so fucking confused, and I try to see Brendon, I keep looking around. He’s not here.

I hate that. He shouldn’t – or he should, I mean that.

It doesn’t work without him. This show. Anything.

I automatically grab a guitar and face the crowd because there’s nothing else for me to do. I wasn’t born to be on stage – it’s been masochistic curiosity. Like me and the sea: who blinks first? I wanted to see if I could belong here, silence a crowd. Turns out that I can.

Somewhere far away, Jon’s talking to the crowd, stalling, and I’ve got a guitar, okay, I can work that. I strum a G chord, tune my A string slightly, strum it again – there, in tune now.

Discord gone.

And I look up and see Brendon just off the stage. Hey. Okay. The thought, the one escaping me – There he is.

The end thought.

I forget to play.

Mike is talking to Brendon and is pointing towards us, and Sisky’s turned to look at them, and Brendon is nodding, and then he shakes his head, and he should be on stage by now, and he nods again, and he wipes his eyes, and he laughs tearfully, and he nods, and Mike is practically pushing him on stage.

The odds are against me. Tomorrow’s a faceless stranger.

But the odds have always been against me, in everything. And I’ve managed.

And the bubbling and the heat and the noise in me all reach their apogees then – and they harmonise, fade out. And I see him.

I wake up.

I find myself on stage. In front of screaming fans.

I wake up.

I lift the guitar strap over my head and hand the instrument to Dallon, who looks at me in bewilderment as he takes it. “Hold that for me,” I say, and the four-thousand headed crowd is yelling displeasure from Brendon missing, from me marching back off stage.

Brendon’s just about to come on, Mike seems to have coaxed him into it, but I take a hold of his arm and pull him away.

“What –” he starts, but there is no time for that.

“What if,” I rush out, and Mike tries cutting me off but I stop him with an open palm aimed at him, and Sisky pulls Mike from us, backing away. Brendon quickly looks at them, at the stage, then at me. His big brown eyes are alert, and he’s cried since I last saw him – not too much, but he has, and I forget what I wanted to say. “Fuck, don’t cry,” I almost plead, a hand lifting to wipe his cheek.

“I’m not,” he says instantly, shaking his head. “I’m fine, I just- had a moment, it’s just –”

My hands land on his shoulders, tentative, testing it out. He seems confused. Not that confused. He’s full of hope, enough for us both, and that’s enough.

That’s enough.

I hold him tighter and don’t let go.

“What if,” I say again, rushing it out, rambling, “what if I said that I will most likely fuck it up, but – but I might not, I mean, because I might not. Like you said that now you’re ready, well – I think now I get it. Because there’s you. There’s you. And you’re this special thing, you’re this- permanent thing for me. One of the- the few. And what you said, giving us a shot, I mean, have we ever really even tried?”

“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head, “not really, no.”

“Exactly. So I can’t know how it’d turn out. But you’re ready now, and you never have been before, and I understand it better now, myself, I think, and – And if you waited for me. Because I’d wait for you. No, I’d – I’d stay away from you but with that same conviction, for the same reasons, and it just seems like we’d be wasting an awful lot of time, right?”

“Right, yeah.” And he’s got a hand on my cheek now, has stepped closer and is nodding. “So you do? I mean, do you – do you want to?”

I do.

“I do. I really do.”

And that annoying little voice in my head says that I’ll regret that, but for once it shuts up when I tell it to. Because I do want to, and Brendon’s smiling now, he breaks into a smile. And it’s impossible not to smile back, not to pull him into a hug, and think fuck, holy fuck, holy shit. And he laughs slightly and kisses me on the cheek, and I love that kiss, I collect it, put it in a box of kisses I should remember when I’m that old man in the park, walking an equally ancient dog. I won’t look as miserable as he did, though. I won’t be full of regret.

He smiles against my cheek, a hand carding through my hair while mine brush the hairs at the nape of his neck, and we don’t care who’s backstage and who can see.

“Am I gonna make you cry again?” I ask because he sniffles slightly, but he shakes his head and laughs, and I tighten the hug and hold him there.

And what he and I decide to join together, let no man part. Let us not part. Let us not.

We’ll try.

“Okay,” he whispers, nodding, and I echo him, okay, okay, okay.

And we should go play that show. Get it over and done with.

So that we can go home.

So that we can both try to have one.

Because it’s people, like I told Sisky. Home is people. A person.

And after so much war, he now evenly breathes against my skin.

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon – the departures board tells me so. We’ve time travelled. We’ve become conquerors of time because in London or Barcelona or Munich two o’clock was hours ago. We’ve gained time back.

Most of us slept on the plane. I dozed off too with Brendon’s head on my shoulder as he slept.

I wish I could control time better than that, though.

I look at the information given: 3:15 Boston, Gate 23.

The guys are waiting to go down to baggage claim, standing a safe distance away to give us privacy. Dallon went down already. He’ll have none of this, I think, but it’s beyond my control.

Brendon’s got a frown on his face, and he has paled. My eyes locate a sign that points to the twenty plus gates, and I feel nauseous.

The guys are waiting. People rush around us, all in a hurry. He stands as close to me as he can without it seeming like it’s too close.

He says, “Is there any rush with the stuff you need to get?”

“Yeah, but I – I mean. No. I suppose not really.”

“Because you could, you know, stay in Chicago for a day or two first. Tackle the jetlag?”

“I could. I guess. It’d be confusing if I changed time zones again, right?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he says, and I can breathe again.

Okay.

I pocket my boarding pass and follow him to baggage claim. It takes forty minutes for my bags to be intercepted as they were heading for the Boston plane already, and normally the airline would refuse but since I am a high profile passenger and so on – their words, not mine.

So it’s a lot of waiting after the others have already said their goodbyes, mixed reactions but all supportive in their own ways. They don’t ask questions. I don’t think we’d even have the answers yet.

Brendon sits on one of the chairs, having pulled his feet up. He’s not trying to sleep, though. He’s got a suitcase, a guitar hard case and a backpack, his hair is mussed, he’s got black shadows under his eyes, and he hasn’t shaved in three days, and he’s curling up in his winter coat, and he keeps looking my way, smiling when there’s nothing to smile about.

And I wait for my luggage to be found, smoking as I wait, and I smile back at him, and that makes him smile wider, which makes me smile wider, and when we break into grins, we break eye contact, look away and start again a minute later.

Our bags barely fit in the taxi, and we put a guitar on the passenger seat, another one behind the driver, and we squeeze together in the back and don’t talk.

My hand finds his, though, somewhere beneath the scarf that Brendon unwraps from around his neck.

Chicago is the same. The streets and buildings look the same.

Brendon’s thumb draws circles on the back of my hand soothingly. It’s not the same.

The snow outside his house is untouched, his car hidden by the white powder, and the driver tells him to have fun shovelling the car out of that mess. We get our bags out and then realise that neither one of us have any money – Italian lire, French francs, but no dollars, and the driver holds onto Brendon’s guitar case stubbornly when Brendon says he keeps emergency cash in the house.

We make a path to the door, our footsteps disrupting the snow. I leave our suitcases on the porch, go back to grab more, and Brendon comes out with the cash on my second run, stepping over a large pile of mail he’s gotten in his absence.

“I’ll pay him,” I say, giving him my guitar case while he hands me the money, and I hurry to pay the man that eyes me like a criminal. His eyes flicker from me to Brendon taking our stuff in, but he says nothing. I’m not sure if he recognises us or if he perhaps thinks it’s odd that two men seem to be going into the same house. Either way, he doesn’t comment on it, and I tell him to keep the change. He gives Brendon’s Fender back.

By the time I get on the porch, our suitcases are inside. I stomp my feet to get the snow off my brogues, completely unfit for this climate but I haven’t changed since the show two airplane rides and a bus ride ago, hours and hours and hours ago, and no one knows what exhaustion is apart from us.

“That all of it?” Brendon asks as the taxi takes off.

“Yeah.”

He takes the guitar inside, and I pick up my beaten duffel bag off the porch, throw it over my shoulder.

And then I don’t move. I feel frozen.

“You’re gonna let the cold air in!” he calls out from the living room, and I see the couch where he made me sleep on the day I first got here. He won’t make me sleep there now. He won’t put boundaries between us at all.

He returns to the door, having taken his coat off. “What?” he asks with a frown, picking up on something being wrong.

I look into his house. My shoes are snowy and the tip of my nose is cold, and I stand on his porch in wrinkled clothes, feeling like someone who has accidentally stumbled upon him. Offering everything.

“What?” he repeats.

“I just... I’ve got this stupid feeling that – that if I come in,” I say slowly, fighting the words out when my throat feels like closing up, “I’ll never leave.”

His eyebrows lift. “Oh.” He turns to study the living room, too, the two couches, coffee table, bookcase unit against the wall. It’s simple and it’s plain and it’s ordinary, and I’ve never wanted anything more. “To be honest with you,” he says and looks back to me, “I was kind of counting on that.”

He’s offering everything too.

He takes a hold of my hand, applies just the right amount of pressure, a firm tug in form of a question.

I breathe in. Breathe out.

And as I step over the threshold, I begin to smile.

Chapter Text

The LA club gets filled to the brim early in the evening, the small stage set up and ready, and so various musicians entertain the guests with surprise performances. Everyone steadily gets drunker and louder, and people tell me to have a good rest of the year, then chuckle and check their watches, and I give them a sly smile and tell them to fuck off without too much bite to my words.

Every now and then I look around the crowded place and spot Brendon talking to his friends, my friends, our friends.

Our eyes meet, and he smiles. Raises a beer bottle.

Jon and Spencer come off stage after a simple guitar plus tambourine cover of American Pie, laughing and shoving each other’s shoulders. They join me in getting beers from the bar. We’ve agreed not to talk about work tonight, and so I bite my tongue not to ask Jon about the bridge in one of the new songs. Brendon said that maybe the original idea was better, and now I’m starting to think that he was right. We’ve got a lot of songs floating around, finished and half-finished. Soon enough it will be an album’s worth of music.

“I called Haley earlier,” Spencer says, taking a sip of his beer. “It’s New Year’s over there already. Suzie stayed up for it. She’s got spirit for a five-year-old.”

“Thank god I’ve got someone to kiss when the clock turns,” Jon notes, lifting his left hand where the ring’s been for a while now.

“Alison had to fly back,” Spencer says defensively like he doesn’t want Jon thinking he’s sad and single – Alison was here for Christmas.

Jon’s busy looking around for Cassie, who’s around here somewhere though I can’t see her either. “Excuse me,” Jon says, going to find his wife.

Spencer and I watch him go, and I note, “Some couples are attached at the hip.”

“Some are,” Spencer says lightly but adds a smirk, and I choose not to react to it. We’re not clingy; we’re free to come and go as we please, no nosy questions asked. We just often choose to be by ourselves. It’s the natural state of things, of life. Me and him.

“So how is Haley?”

“Good. She’s been seeing some new guy called Roger. Works in insurance or something.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

“Just want her to be happy,” he says with a small shrug. It’s a good kind of a love he’s got now, selfless and well-meaning. Much like Spencer himself is. It doesn’t work that way for all of us, though.

I hear my name being called, then, and spot Sisky snaking through chattering musicians, socialites, what have you. I groan, having successfully avoided the kid the entire night. It’s great that he’s in town, it’s great to see him, but he is bringing new definitions to the word relentless.

“Ryan!” he beams, a grin plastered on his face. He hugs me like he always does when he meets me now, not caring if it’s been a week, two days or ten minutes. “Check it out!” he says and hands me the book that I knew he‘d have with him tonight.

I take one look at the black and white cover, seeing my own face and recognising the photo as having been taken back in ’75 when I was taking refuge in London. I’m wearing a thick, black winter coat, my face framed by too long, unruly curls of hair, and I’m standing in an empty street with a few sad looking London taxis out of focus behind me, and I’m looking ahead of myself and not at the camera, and maybe the black and white shot is meant to evoke mysticism of some kind, I’m not sure, but I look alone and closed off.

“Would you look at that?” Spencer says, taking the biography from Sisky. “Alienation: the Life of Ryan Ross.” He turns it around to study the blurb. I don’t even want to touch the book. Spencer looks up at Sisky. “It’s all in here?”

“It’s all in there,” Sisky confirms, clearly proud. That’s what I’m fucking afraid of. “Well, there’s some censorship,” Sisky then amends. “You know, not noting how you and Brendon are...” He makes obscene hand gestures to get his point across.

“There’s an entire chapter dedicated to Brendon, though,” Spencer now observes, going through the index.

“What?” I ask angrily and snap the book. “Let me see that.” I send Sisky a glare.

Sisky looks nervous as I flip to the right page, ignoring the first two hundred pages of analysis on my childhood or the lack thereof, my confused teenage years as a tortured soul, the drugged up era of the early Followers, The New York Years as Chapter 5 says, and then finally getting to Chapter 6: Brendon Roscoe. A simple title, really.

“I just feel like he is a significant turning point in your life,” Sisky explains as my eyes fly over some saccharine descriptions of Brendon’s childhood and strict upbringing and how ‘both men rebelled against social restraints at an early age, finding comfort in music’. I read, ‘When asked if he recalls the first time he met Brendon, Ryan smiles to himself, as if lost in a distant yet vivid memory of a moment that unbeknownst to him would shape his future. Ryan changes the subject, having answered the question indirectly.’ Sisky says, “It’s really to do with, like, how you two connected, and then how Brendon helped you cope with The Followers whirlwind and saved you from choking on your vomit. Like, metaphorically speaking.”

“Right,” I manage, handing the book back to Sisky. He still looks like he’s holding his breath, so I add, “Well, it. It looks professional. And done. And... very published.”

“You honestly like it?” he asks, still nervous.

“Yeah,” I lie, and he beams brightly. Here’s hoping that, despite his enthusiasm and the professionalism of Vicky’s marketing team, no one ever buys it.

“It’s already sold a thousand copies!”

So much for that.

“Hey,” a familiar voice comes, catching my attention fully. The serenity that I feel is instant: puzzle pieces, keys and locks, the world in focus. Brendon’s managed to find us, a smile on his lips and a beer bottle in his hand. He looks fucking stunning, and he’s only wearing grey jeans and a black t-shirt, but god. He’s stunning.

“Hi,” I manage.

“Check this out!” Sisky grins, offering him the copy, but I snatch the book from Brendon’s outstretched hand.

“You don’t wanna read that,” I tell him.

He blinks, eyebrows lifting. “Sure I do.”

“Check out Chapter 6,” Spencer offers helpfully, and I shoot daggers at him.

Brendon tries to reach for the book, but I hide it behind my back. Even more childish – look at me go. He quirks an eyebrow. I say, “Why would you read my biography, anyway? You know me.”

“True,” he nods, still looking curious. “But what if there are some juicy secrets in it?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ve killed someone or something.”

Sisky says, “This one girl tried to kill herself when she found out that the Followers concert in Kansas City was sold out. Page 143.”

“That’s fucked up,” I note, now taking the book out again and finding said page. My eyes fly over the black print. “But it says here that she was mentally unstable and in love with Joe! That’s not my fault!”

“Still, I thought it added a macabre aura of danger to that chapter,” Sisky deadpans, and I sigh and pass him the book. “Oh, there’s Gabe!” Sisky then announces, craning his neck and peering towards the stage. He’s right – I see Gabe there, clutching onto a glass of water, trying to chat up a brunette by the looks of it. He looks good these days, compared to what he was like a year ago: the spitting image of a junkie. Not everyone came although they were invited. Bob didn’t come – the stigma of being accused of rape lingers even after the accusations have been cleared. When he quit the band, he said that he has no interest of being in the public eye ever again. And Dallon didn’t come, but I wasn’t the one inviting him, anyway. Brendon talked about not wanting there to be bad blood – hey, I’ll buy Dallon’s solo debut when it comes out next year. What bad blood? Who, me? Never.

Still glad that he didn’t show up.

Sisky now heads over with, “Gabe! Gabe, have you seen my book?”

We all watch the kid hurrying over and Gabe freezing up before trying to do a quick escape that Sisky blocks like a pro. Gabe looks annoyed, but Sisky just starts showing him the book.

Spencer laughs. “I’ll go save Gabe before it’s too late.” He smiles at us both, looking between us like the part of us that we try to hide is obvious to him, like he can see that we’re standing a bit too close to one another. And maybe we are.

Brendon smiles once we’re alone in the crowded club, so not alone at all. He takes a step closer to me. Closer than anyone else would. “Sisky’s excited,” he says, leaning in slightly because the music and the people are loud.

Sisky is very excited.

Over four hundred pages of me. I don’t get it.

“You gonna read it?” he asks me.

“No. It’s my life. I was there.” I hesitate. “Are you reading it?”

“Maybe. I’m curious,” he admits, and I shift restlessly. If he wants to read it, I can’t stop him. He gets a soft look in his eyes, his hand jerking like he was about to reach out to touch me but then remembers that he can’t. “You look tired.”

“I am,” I admit. Barely slept last night because I couldn’t get a song idea out of my head. He knows that, though. “I might just call it a night, really.”

“But it’s not even midnight yet!” He sounds upset, and a frown flickers on his face. I shrug because the way I see it, it’s just another night. “You want me to be alone on New Year’s?” he then asks, now pouting. I feel a smile tug at my lips.

“You’re not alone,” I tell him and, as if on cue, a girl I don’t recognise has made her way over to us.

“Hi! Oh my god, I – I saw you two standing here, and I just had to come over and say hi!” she gushes out excitedly, a pretty young blonde thing, and Brendon does his semi-flattered, semi-awkward smile. He’s really good with the fans. It’s why he’s the frontman.

He also manages to make the situation feel comfortable, chatting away with her and laughing while I stand still. It’s crowded, so it makes sense that we stand close to each other, our arms brushing. I finish my beer, see Sisky forcing Gabe and Spencer to look at passages from the book, and then I tell Brendon that I’ll see him tomorrow. The girl looks disappointed as do the people who’ve started flocking to us now that she broke the spell and approached us. Brendon lets me go, though. He says, “Alright,” his hand landing on my shoulder as a goodbye, my fingers brushing the small of his back as I move to leave. I feel his eyes follow me as I walk away.

I end up hugging friends goodbye, telling Greta that she sounded good on stage earlier, telling Jon and Spencer that I’ll be in touch, and knowing us we’ll be meeting up for drinks in a few days, anyway, work on some songs as bands do, discuss His Side with a new twist. Sisky forces me to take a copy of the book with me. Turns out he’s brought a dozen with him.

When I get home, my steps echo in the grand foyer. The house was made for someone with more money than sense. That someone, I guess, is me. Upstairs, I stop by the glass doors in the master bedroom, opening up to the balcony. It gives a view over the city, and I see a million lights spreading to all directions with colourful fireworks exploding here and there.

I’ve never had a view like this before. Never had a home either. I never really let myself want anything, too afraid of losing it to obtain it.

The last of the unpacked cardboard boxes are finally gone. Officially moved in.

I get comfortable now that no prying eyes are around to see me, and I pad barefoot between rooms and floors, getting out of my suit and stripping down to an undershirt and boxers, grabbing a guitar and a glass of water, and then settling on the leather couch in the downstairs living room that faces the patio. And I bet they’d be amazed if they knew, all those people who read Sisky’s book. That I’m just a guy. Just human. I do normal things in my normal home, and while the life of loud music and flashing lights is always around the corner, will be something I’ll never escape, what they see out there is only the public me. A fraction of me. A tiny fraction.

I gave the rest to someone else.

I start working on the song I spent last night on. Bursts of firework light colour the patio, the pool, the trees, then landing on me. I didn’t turn the lights on in the living room. I wanted to see the show.

I’m playing a revised bridge part when I frown, craning my neck as I hear steps in the foyer. Soon a black silhouette emerges in the doorway and flicks the lights on. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” Brendon asks, his keys still in hand.

“The ’works,” I explain, motioning outside. “You’re home early.”

I didn’t expect him back until morning, tired from a heavy night of drinking.

He shrugs his jacket off, entering the room. “Wanted to be with you. Our house. Our first New Year.”

“You think that kind of thing means something?” I ask, even if I am pleased, even if I am putting the guitar away and repeating the word ‘our’ in my head.

“Of course it means something,” he says, and then he gets on his knees on the couch, leaning down to kiss me. I rest a hand on his hip, letting myself act on all the impulses I have to hold back when we’re in public. He smiles against my lips.

My fingers move to his hair, carding through the strands slowly. “You didn’t have to leave the party, you know.”

His words are whispered against my lips: “I know where I want to be.” Like that’s all that there is to it. He now notices Sisky’s book on the coffee table. “Did you take a look at that?”

“Don’t really want to.”

“Mind if I do?” When I say nothing, he sighs. Pulls back. “Look, there’s nothing in there that could change anything.”

“Sisky interviewed everyone. I mean, everyone. My mother, Jac, Brent, Keltie, Shane, Pete. Joe... Goddamn everyone’s in there, and they won’t have nice things to say about me.”

“He also interviewed Jon, Spencer, Gabe, Greta, me. There’ll be good stuff too. Plus, Sisky fucking adores you. How bad could it be?”

“The truth is ugly.”

“I know what the truth is, and it’s not in that book,” he persists, and when I remain unconvinced, he moves to straddle me on the couch, light butterfly kisses on my jaw. My hands settle on his hips, hold him still. Unwilling to let go. His nose brushes against mine, and I feel myself unwind and relax. He whispers, “It couldn’t make me love you less. Couldn’t change the way I feel.”

“You say that but –”

“No. I know who you are, and every day, I choose you. When I wake up in the morning, I choose you, and it’s not even because of your morning wood,” he says, letting his serious tone turn playful at the last second, and I laugh, letting him cover my lips with his again. “I choose you.”

“I’m fucking glad you do,” I whisper, letting our foreheads press together. I hope he keeps choosing me every day for the rest of his life. “I choose you too.”

“Well, of course you do,” he smirks, and I scoff. He slides off of me to lie back on the couch, his head on the armrest. He keeps his feet in my lap, and he smiles at me sleepily. “How’s the song coming on?”

“Alright. Lyrics here and there.” I absently rub his sock-covered feet, earning a tired yet pleased hum from him. “It’s about you.”

“What about me?”

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

He laughs, and I smile despite myself. He pulls his feet back and stands up. “Come on.” His voice is soft the way it only gets when he talks to me. He keeps his hand extended.

I assume he wants to go to bed, start off the New Year in style, us at it like the insatiable creatures that we’ve proven ourselves to be, but once we’re in our bedroom, he goes to the balcony doors, and we step out into the night. It’s chilly, and I can’t see the stars from the city lights, but I feel warm and content, standing behind him. I wrap my arms around his waist, pull him to me.

“Is it midnight yet?” I ask, and he shrugs. I try to determine if there’s a sudden explosion of fireworks to indicate that the year has changed, but it doesn’t seem to have happened yet.

“1980. Exciting,” he says, but I let out a sceptical hum, letting myself kiss the skin behind his ear. “You’re not excited?”

“It doesn’t actually change anything. Besides, I liked the seventies. Don’t see why that has to go.”

“We can pretend that it didn’t. We’ll keep the old calendar in the kitchen and pretend it’s 1979 all over again.”

“I like that plan.”

And I see the future set out before us. Me and him writing songs, touring foreign continents, buying, I don’t know, light bulbs when the old ones break, anything from a boring, miniscule detail to something grand and important, and time won’t exist in that world. And he’ll smile the way that he does, cross rooms at clubs and make me feel light-headed at the sight of him, and I will never fully be able to grasp just how madly in love with him I am. How madly in love I continue to be. How that won’t change even though everything else will. And I look forward to it. I can’t fucking wait for that to happen, and then it hits me that I don’t have to. I’m already living it.

A lone firework shoots up not too far away, green and gold exploding and painting the world before us.

He says, “Let’s stand out here all night, just us and no one else, waiting for the sun to rise.”