Authors' Note: This latest story is a collaboration between myself and my fellow Trencher friend, Jackie Naccache. If you're looking for us on twitter, she's jackienaccache and I'm SamMasterpiece. Hopefully it'll update faster since we're both writing it and she can yell at me if I'm being a slow writer.
This story will be told from the perspective of all the boys, as we thought it would be easier for us to write it that way. However, we're not telling you who's writing as who. Muahaha.
Enjoy!
The voices of the crowd drowned out our own, and I took a step back from my mic and just...listened. This was by far my favourite part of my job: watching the crowd throw our own words back at us with so much power and passion. The words "I'll be right beside you" rang from a thousand voices, and I felt a small grin creep over my face.
I cast a glance over my shoulder at Josh, where he was sitting at the keyboard. His eyes were closed, and a soft smile was on his own face. I knew he enjoyed this moment just as much as I did, and he had worked as hard for it—harder.
This song was one of my favourite to hear live, and not only because of the way our fans sang the words back at us. To me, it symbolized our status as a band; we would be there for each other through everything, and we could trust each other with anything.
From the corner of my eye I saw Josh lean forward into his mic for the last line, allowing his voice to mingle with those of the crowd: Nobody will break you.
The last note faded out into silence that was immediately replaced by cheering: shouts and screams, clapping hands and jumping fans. I knew that Beside You was supposed to be the last song of our set, and was surprised when Josh ran his hand down the keyboard, the notes ringing loudly through the speakers. I shot him a questioning look; he only nodded at me before leaning forward to speak into the mike.
"I'm a recovering heroin addict—" I had heard this speech before, and on our cue I stepped back with the others, leaving Josh alone in the spotlight.
Lover Dearest definitely wasn't on the set list; we hadn't played it for months. I wondered what made Josh want to play it now, especially without warning us. I knew the effect it tended to have on him; next to Skin & Bones, it was the most emotional song he had ever been asked to play, and I knew it brought back emotions he would rather forget.
"—And I took it and put it into a song called Lover Dearest." The first notes started up, and Josh's keening voice filled the air. For the first half of the song we let him have the stage to himself, and then Mike and I stepped into our places. The crowd was remarkably silent, erupting into cheers only when the song had ended.
I cast a sidelong look at Josh: he was leaning his head into his hand, telltale tears trickling down his cheeks. Once again I wondered why he had felt the need to play it, especially when it always reduced him to this.
"What was that about, man?" Ian asked backstage after the show. "I thought we had decided to put that song away."
Josh shrugged, not meeting any of our gazes. "It just...seemed like a good time to play it. The crowd deserved it."
When he finally faced me, I saw that his eyes were still rimmed in red; dark shadows that I hadn't noticed before hung beneath them.
"You been sleeping alright?" I asked.
Josh shrugged again, taking a long pull from a water bottle. "Insomnia," he replied simply, and I nodded. Insomnia had been plaguing Josh for years, ever since he went through his withdrawal from heroin. Recently it had gotten better, but there were still some nights where he got no rest.
"We all look tired," I noted, looking around at the group. Mike had shadows under his eyes that rivalled Josh's own, and Ian's usually cheerful eyes were pulling down at the corners. "Has the road been wearing on us?"
"I guess," Mike said with a short laugh. "I just really can't wait to get home right about now."
We all understood that; after a long tour there was nothing quite like sleeping in your own bed.
"Well, this time tomorrow we'll be there," I said, clapping him on the back. "Whatdya say to going out and celebrating?" We usually celebrated at the end of a tour, and sometimes after individual concerts; it helped us loosen up and remember not to take our jobs too seriously, because firstly and above all we were friends.
They all declined, and although I was a little disappointed I couldn't blame them; they did all seem unnaturally tired. "Alright," I said, trying not to let my disappointment show. "But we should at least go out to greet the fans." The unofficial meet-and-greets had become something of a tradition of ours, a way to say thank you to our biggest supporters.
Even this seemed to be too much effort for them. Josh was unnaturally snappy and quiet; Ian unnaturally sombre. For the first time, Mike refused to take pictures. I tried to make up for their obvious exhaustion by being overly exuberant, much louder than I usually was.
Later, I considered calling them out on it or questioning them further, but I hated confrontations and I didn't want to make things awkward. After all, they were grown men, and I'm sure if they had problems they knew how to deal with them on their own. If it was anything more serious than sleep, I was sure they would tell me, because we were a band and we were best friends.
That didn't stop me from feeling uneasy, as we exchanged few words on the way back to the hotel. With muttered goodbyes we stumbled off to our individual rooms—gone were the days where we had to share beds—and I found myself lying awake in bed, pursued by nagging worries.
I was not nearly as tired as the others; in fact, the leftover adrenaline from the show was still rushing through my veins. It left me again wondering what had gotten into my fellow band members.
Maybe it was the weather, and a bit of homesickness; it was early December, and they hadn't been in Vancouver since the middle of September. This answer seemed reasonable, and less difficult to think about than other possibilities; somewhat relieved, I forced the matter from my mind.
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