Author's Note: Wrote this for the "Nashville Season 2 Meme" going around on Tumblr. Blame compulsive finale rewatches and runaway plot bunnies that breed like, well, bunnies.
I.
"Will? Honey?"
Rayna's voice was low from the other side of the door. She knocked again, jiggling the handle.
"It's just me, okay? Nobody else."
He stared at his wet face in the mirror. His hands still shook as he gripped the porcelain rim of the sink, stomach backflipping into his throat. Even though he hadn't eaten in two days, it threatened to empty out again, until he heard the knocking on the door.
"Why don't you come out." Her voice was soft, but full of that calm, solid authority he remembered. It made him want to do whatever she asked him to. No wonder she was one of the most successful women in country music. "All right? We'll have a nice chat, just you and me."
He took a breath, ran his hands over his face. He looked like hell, his shirt dotted with spots of water and his skin still grey and sick-looking, but at least he managed not to puke all over his clothes.
With a sigh, Will pushed the door open, trying not to look as ragged and broken and lost as he must have looked to this woman he could barely look in the eye. The superstar, the living legend; the first person to ever believe in him, and not even close to the first person he'd ever betrayed.
Rayna, though, didn't look like she was thinking about how he had completely bailed on her, or about how their labels pitted them against each other; how it was basically karmic justice that he was sitting here with no career, no secrets, and no future, this close to puking his stupid guts out in a studio bathroom, about to tell his most shameful business to everybody and their mother on national TV. She just stood there, pristine as always, looking like she was ready to take on the world.
He felt like he was shrinking under her calm expression, even though he knew he had some inches on her.
"You think you can handle a quick walk?" she asked.
He shuffled his feet, trying not to stare at the ground.
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled. Just barely managed to look her in the eyes.
"Good." Rayna stepped closer to him, and after a moment, she slipped an arm around his shoulders, marching him through the studio. He let her lead the way and kept his head down, trying not to stare at the crew bustling around, or even catch Gunnar's eye. He was waiting by the edge of the stage with Scarlett and Deacon, and even from here Will could feel the worry pulsing off him. But he couldn't look at him, so he kept his eyes glued to the floor instead.
Rayna walked briskly through the back door of the studio, to a small parking lot that looked out at absolutely nothing except the side of a single-lane highway. It was warm already, even in the bare dawn sunshine, the silver of the night just ebbing away into the glow of an early morning that would only get hotter as the July day went on and on.
Will had a feeling this particular day would be one that would last forever.
"Look, sweetheart," Rayna said, as soon as the door closed behind them. "I'm sure that today has got to be the scariest thing in the world for you. But take it from me – Robin is the fairest person for a job like this. She isn't looking to exploit you or bring out all the dirty little secrets, all right? Just be honest. And she will take care of you." Rayna tilted her head closer to him, locking eyes. "It'll all be over soon, I promise."
She said it so calmly, it almost made him want to cry. He had to look away, in case he really did.
Rayna made it sound so damn easy – just get up there on the stage, spout off a few answers he'd been forced to rehearse, and that was that.
But that was impossible, because he didn't HAVE any answers. Not the kind Robin Roberts was looking for, or anyone else who was watching his exclusive satellite interview with Good Morning America, for that matter.
He'd never have the answers for them, any more than he had answers for anybody else wanting an explanation. The people who had vandalized his old home, spray-painting 'GOD HATES HOMOS' and 'FAGGOTS ROT IN HELL' on the door and breaking the windows; the people who went on his Youtube channel and told him to die in the comments section; the people who stared at him as he bought toothpaste at Walgreens.
Not Jeff, who had dropped him as soon as the news went public. Not Layla, who would never be able to trust anyone again because of him. Not his father, who left him out on the side of some godforsaken highway, like a diseased animal no one wanted to go near. Because he saw something broken and disgusting and hideous. A mistake.
Today was the day he'd spent his whole life dreading; the day he spent his whole life knowing was going to happen. The day he would finally be forced to do what his father had demanded of him so many years ago –
Explain himself.
Rayna's hand rested on his shoulder, and he sucked in a breath. If he lost it in front of her, he'd never make it through the rest of the day. Never mind this godforsaken interview.
Pussy shit, his dad had called it. As in, don't you start that pussy shit with me. Be a man, damn it.
Rayna looked him in the eyes.
"We're all here for you, you know that? Me, and Deacon, and Scarlett, and your friend Gunnar…all of us just want you to be okay. You aren't alone anymore, all right? We are all right here. And sweetheart, we're not goin' anywhere."
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears bricked in his throat, but he'd rather choke on them then let them fall.
When he finally felt like he could speak, he asked, "you remember that day at the Ryman?"
He still couldn't look at her, so he stared down at the floor, scuffing the toe of his boot on the pavement.
"You told me –" his voice cracked, so be blinked and shook his head and tried to breathe as he started again. "You told me Jeff would never see me as anything but what was going to sell albums."
He made himself look at her.
"You believed in me," he said, his voice tight. "You were the first person to ever believe in me. And I let you down."
The tears spilled out, loose and fast and damning, and before he knew it he was hunched over the asphalt, sobbing into his hands. Small and ashamed, and dirty inside; as dirty as the names the entire world was calling him now.
"I'm sorry," he choked out. He couldn't look at her, so he stared at her shoes, and then his eyes blurred and he couldn't see anything. "I'm so, so sorry."
"Oh, sweetheart." Footsteps walked closer to him, and then there were arms closing around him, slim and firm and so full of warmth it almost made him start bawling like a stupid little girl all over again, because he couldn't remember the last time anybody held him like that, ever.
Rayna stood there for a moment, gathering his entire frame in her arms, and soothed him like he was just a kid – helpless, needing, one of her own.
"Come here," she murmured in his ear. "Come here, it's all right."
He almost opened his mouth and told her that no, of course it wasn't all right – it had never been, and this interview didn't matter because nothing ever would be again – but Rayna had a way of making you believe anything.
After a moment, she pulled away from him, taking him by the shoulders and looking him in the eye. It was harder to look at her than he ever thought it could be. He'd expected hate, disgust, profound disappointment, anger, even fear – but compassion was harder to take than all of those rolled into one.
"Let's just say it right now," she said. "What's in the past is in the past. Okay? You did what you had to do for yourself, and I can't say I would have done things different if I'd been where you were."
She gripped him tightly. "It's been so hard, hasn't it? I bet no one knows just how hard it's been. But you've got a chance to really get your side of the story out there. To set things right. You hear me?"
She smiled at him. "And let me tell you now – I believe in what you have to say. I believed it then, and I believe it right now. But nobody else will, if you don't go out there and let them hear it. All right?"
Will nodded. He couldn't look at her, so he stared at gasoline stains spilled on the pavement, the dirty rainbow scattered on the ground under their shoes.
"Now," she said, her voice bright, "why don't you take a lil' minute, get your bearings, breathe –"
She grinned at him, and before he knew it he felt himself grinning back.
"And we'll go back inside and get this show on the road," she finished. "How's that sound?"
Will nodded. His eyes misted over, but he wasn't going to start that again.
"Yes, ma'am," was all he could manage.
He had to get a grip. That was the only way he'd ever get through this.
Rayna pulled him into another hug, squeezing his shoulders.
"You got this," she murmured into his ear. "I know you got this."
II.
Gunnar and Scarlett were waiting for him with Deacon when he and Rayna came back inside. Scarlett was sitting and trying to look calm, but she couldn't stop smoothing the hem of her dress over her knees. Deacon stared at the ground, but managed a small smile in his direction.
Gunnar wasn't even trying to look like he had it together. He paced behind Scarlett's chair with his hands on his hips, staring at the ground.
"Hey," Gunnar said quietly, pulling Will aside. "You, uh, you all right?"
Will knew Gunnar wouldn't believe him if he said he was, but he didn't want to argue now.
"Yeah," he said. "Just a little pep talk."
"Anything I can do?"
You can back off for a minute, Will thought, but couldn't say out loud, because Gunnar had done nothing but stand at his side. Two months since Gina Romano's footage of his confession went viral, and Gunnar spent more time worrying about Will than Will spent worrying about himself. He was too tired to do much of that.
The only reason he agreed to do this stupid interview in the first place was because Gunnar had finally worn him down. This wasn't going to go away on its own, even if they spent the next ten years hunkered down at Gunnar's house ignoring the tabloids, the paparazzi, the late night comedy sketches and the religious nuts, the busybodies who accosted him at the bank and DMV and the frozen food aisle at Harris-Teeter. He was the biggest scandal in country music since the Dixie Chicks slammed Bush and Juliette Barnes renounced God. Nobody would pretend this didn't happen. Nobody would let him.
He wished Gunnar and Brent had backed down. He wished they had taken him seriously when he said he wasn't going to give the tabloids more shit. He wished he'd done a better job of ignoring them when they said that if he didn't get out there and say something, someone else would. That this was his only chance to keep things from getting worse.
He'd almost laughed at that. Worse? How could it get any worse? The entire world knew what he was. His career was over. Life as he knew it was over. There was nothing he could do about anything anymore.
Will didn't want to get into all of it right now, though, because if he did he'd never get through this whole interview, or even make it on that stage.
So instead he shrugged.
"Just don't go anywhere," he said. He meant for it to sound like a joke, but it didn't come out that way.
Gunnar put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it.
"Not a chance," he replied.
He looked up at his best friend, and all the defensive bullshit he'd kept on the tip of his tongue dissolved when he saw the look on Gunnar's face.
Gunnar had never left his side, not once. He wouldn't be leaving now, even if Will tried as hard as he could to push him away.
He almost wanted to cry again. Shit, he needed to get a fucking grip already.
The techs were calling his name then, and ushering him to the stage. Gunnar squeezed his shoulder one more time, and Deacon said good luck, then Scarlett hurried to give him a quick hug and kiss on the cheek, whispering in his ear that they'd be right there the whole time. She even managed to murmur a "we love you" before they hurried him off for a mic check.
They hooked him up, setting the microphone into the fabric of his button-down, and touched up on some make-up. He tried not to wince, remembering the days of Gina Romano and her camera crew, and it was a struggle not to push away the two women who were flitting around him like mosquitos, dabbing his face with brushes. When they finally deemed him camera-ready, they made him stand on the edge of the stage and wait for their cue, as they waited for Robin Roberts and the Good Morning America crew to launch into the segment via satellite.
It was so surreal to think that the last time he talked to Robin, it had been the day before the album launch. Images came flying at him, from those whirlwind days in New York City. The reality show crew had followed his every step, asking him to walk the hotel corridor and talk about his day over and over again, until they got the perfect shot they wanted.
This wouldn't be a reality show segment, though. This would be his one chance to get his side out there. He only had a few minutes to say what he had to say. One chance.
Not that it would make that much of a difference. Will knew as good as anybody that once people had their opinions, you couldn't change their minds.
A shift in the air beside him, and Brent stood by the edge of the stage, flicking out a text on his phone. He didn't look up as Will stood beside him, waiting for the camera men to finish setting up. As Will's publicist-slash-manager-slash-whatever-the-hell-he-needed-to-get-through-this-shitshow, Brent stayed close until the last possible second, to keep everything in line.
"You got everything under control?" Brent said quietly. He didn't look at him.
Will shifted, arms crossed over his chest.
"Yeah."
Neither of them breathed.
Brent kept flicking through his phone.
"Good," he said.
Will stared at the ground. His jaw clenched, and he ground his teeth, focusing on the ache in his jaw. Like the entire current in the air hadn't just changed, and nobody else in the room could feel it but him.
"Robin's very fair," Brent said after a moment. "And she's got a great track record. She won't drop any gotchas on you, I promise. Just remember what we talked about, the answers we went over. Keep it simple, and you'll be fine."
Will stared at the floor. He gripped his arms more tightly across his chest, which was now on fire, because there was suddenly no air to breathe.
You know how badly I want to hold your hand right now?
He dug his fingers into the skin of his forearms, so rough they left ragged half-moons in the freckled skin. He couldn't say that, not here. Not out loud.
Even though it wasn't a secret anymore. He could take Brent's hand and the world wouldn't end, except he wouldn't. He couldn't just do that.
Hell, he couldn't even bring himself to do it last night. Or the night before that, or the night before that. Even in the dark, alone, with Brent, he still couldn't.
Under the sheets, pouring out his fumbling, useless heart in the darkness; letting Brent do things to him that he hated himself for needing. Breathless and terrified, like he was fourteen again, waking up after a dream he couldn't ever let himself remember. So he threw a padlock on the back of his mind, only it was rusted and loose and never strong enough to hold him back, never enough to keep from becoming this. Even though that was all he'd ever tried to do.
He had nothing else left to lose – his privacy, his dignity, his life and his lies and his dreams – and even then he couldn't let himself do this.
God, he never wanted any part of it.
That's what nobody – Layla, Jeff, Gina Romano, the news commentators and the Youtube commenters and the late night talk show hosts and the thousands of random internet haters – seemed to realize.
It didn't matter what anybody said. This GMA thing wasn't going to change anybody's opinion of him, or reverse everything he did to Layla, or make his family suddenly decide that they gave a shit whether or not their only son was alive after all these years that they never bothered to look. It wasn't going to make country music accept him, or give him the life he wanted.
None of the lies he told had made him happier. None of the secrets he kept had made him stronger. None of the faceless, nameless girls he didn't remember had made him feel like more of a man. Gunnar may have been right when he said that it wasn't enough to be honest with just him, but what he didn't know was that telling the truth wasn't going to guarantee Will any more happiness than living his life in the shadows.
Saying it all out loud wouldn't help. That's what Gunnar, Brent, Scarlett, and even Rayna couldn't seem to get through their heads. Because this wasn't their life.
He could answer all of Robin Roberts' questions. He could come out to everybody in the universe, until he was hoarse. He could beg for forgiveness, or absolution, or whatever the screaming haters thought it was he should be begging for.
All of it would be meaningless. He'd still be a faggot, no matter what he did or said.
III.
They drove home in silence, Will heading back with Gunnar and Scarlett while Deacon and Rayna headed together across down. Will trailed into the house wanting to sleep for the next ten years. Maybe by then, everybody would have decided to forget about him. Move on to some celebrity heiress with a coke habit.
Gunnar had a meeting with his publisher, and Scarlett was working this afternoon at the Bluebird. She gave him a quick hug before hurrying home to shower, and Will all but had to force-march Gunnar out of the house so he didn't miss his meeting. He loved the guy and would always be grateful he was there to lean on, but it had been a long morning, and they all needed some breathing room.
Soon they were both gone, and only Brent was still here. Lingering at the kitchen table while he answered some emails and took phone calls, working on his laptop.
"I think that went okay," Brent said, as Will stood against the wall, staring at the ground. "About as okay as it could have gone, anyway."
Will didn't answer. He wasn't in the mood to rehash it all right now.
He took a shower, and by the time he'd dried off and put on fresh clothes Brent was packing his computer into his briefcase. Will stood in the doorway, watching Brent pack, and watched him look at anything that wasn't Will.
"You goin'?" Will finally asked.
Brent shrugged. "If you want me to."
Will balled his hands into fists at his side.
"Don't make a difference to me," he grunted.
He could hear Brent sighing.
"All righty, then," he muttered. "I guess that's that."
Will clenched his fists. Nails dug into his palms. He stared at the floor, counted to ten. Waited until Brent's footsteps were almost to the front door.
"Hey." It came out like gravel, rubbed in an open wound.
Brent turned back to look at him.
They stared at each other, Will slumped in the doorway as Brent stood in the middle of the sunlit room, hands on his hips.
Will looked at the ground, and then turned back to the bedroom. He peered over his shoulder just briefly, then laid down on the bed, heart hammering. He kept his face buried in the pillow, breathing in the sour smell of the fabric – in and out, in and out.
The ache in his stomach and the beat of his heart picked up triple time when he heard the footsteps on his floor. The weight sinking on the bed beside him. The swish of cotton being removed from skin, the knock of shoes being kicked off feet. Then the shape and warmth of someone pressing against his side, and a long, strong arm being tossed over his middle. It settled around his waist, not reaching or pulling or trying to make anything happen. It just rested there, fingers curved against his hips, warm and solid.
Will squeezed his eyes shut, and Brent pressed a kiss into his shoulder.
"Try and sleep," he murmured, like that was going to happen.
Will's stomach clenched, along with his heart. He only let himself think for a second before realizing he was tired, so fucking tired, of having to do that. So he turned over on the bed, facing Brent, and cleared the space between them with his lips, grasping hungrily for his mouth.
The kiss went from sloppy to fierce in record speed. There was warm breath on his chapped lips and fingers undoing Brent's belt and skin too warm and aching, and a mouth that was just as needing as his own. He couldn't tell which one of them started it or which one of them planned to finish it anymore, they just kept twisting and aching and reaching in this single, singing assault on everything Will had ever held back. His chest was so tight there was no room for air, or words, or anything else.
Suddenly Brent stopped.
Will opened his eyes and flailed, trying to grab Brent's arms. He didn't need him to stop. He needed him to keep it up, get this going, finish what they both started.
"Hey," Brent said. He pushed back slightly, a hand on Will's thudding chest. "Hey – relax. I'm not going anywhere."
It was meaningless to talk. There was too much space between them, so Will closed it again. Lunging at Brent's mouth, he sealed their lips and gripped his waist, pulling their bodies together. His hands flew to Brent's waist, fumbling with his belt, eyes slammed shut.
Brent pushed him again, harder this time, and snatched the hand that was trying to unzip his fly.
"Hey," Brent said again. "Hold on a sec, would you?"
Will sucked in a breath, his whole body shaking. He opened his eyes just long enough to scowl.
"You don't need to rush," Brent told him. "What's the matter?"
Will reached one hand out and shoved Brent in the chest, head spinning.
"Why don't you tell me?" he shouted. He sat up, dizzy, and balanced himself on the edge of the bed. He gripped the covers. "You're the one who has it all figured out, apparently."
Brent scowled.
"What's your problem?" he snapped.
Will rolled his eyes. His whole body pulsed angrily.
"Just leave me the hell alone." He spat out every word.
Brent shook his head.
"Is that what you want?" he asked.
He glared at Brent. His hands shook in his lap, and he stared at the bitten nails, the rough callouses, the scars and faded cuts and the veins under the skin.
Brent shook his head. He fixed the buttons Will had torn loose, and ran a hand through his hair, sighing.
"Look. If you need some time," he said quietly, "I'll go. Just – tell me. Tell me what you need, and I'll try and do it for you."
He inched closer to Will, and touched his hand. His fingers closed around Will's own.
"If it isn't me, then okay. But I can't read your mind."
Will squeezed his eyes shut, so hard it gave him a headache. He buried his face in the pillow, hands pulled tightly to his chest, curled on the covers like a coiled spring.
"I want you to stay." He ground out each word, like swallowing broken glass.
"Then talk to me," Brent said.
He whirled around.
"I can't!" Will shouted.
They stared at each other, and then Will had to look away. He breathed through clenched teeth, staring at the wall.
Inches away from him, Brent was very still.
"Why not?" he whispered.
Will couldn't move. That was something nobody had thought to ask him. All of the things people had to say to him these days, and no one ever asked him this.
He stared at his hands. They were shaking. He tried to close them into fists and couldn't.
I can't go from zero to a hundred. I can't hide behind my job anymore. I can't hold your hand when we're walking down the street because I know what people are saying. I can't kiss you whenever I feel like it, just because I want to. I can't be with you because I can't pretend like I'm okay with being like this. It doesn't matter who I come out to or who I'm sharing my bed with – I can't act like I'm okay.
I'm not okay, I'm not okay, I'm not okay.
IV.
It was quiet, after.
They were quiet.
He thought Brent was asleep, but when he turned over on the mattress, his eyes were wide and alert, like he hadn't slept at all in the hours that the two of them had been lying here in silence, the shadowy night creeping under the doorways and between the window shades.
Will stared at the ceiling.
"I don't think I'm okay now."
He wasn't aware he'd said it out loud until Brent turned over to face him. He draped an arm over Will's stomach, fingers running across his chest, and traced his fingers over the bare, flushed skin.
"Do you think you will be?" he asked softly. "Someday?"
Will looked at him for a long moment. Brent stared back. His hand was settled over the space where Will's heart was beating, until it thudded right into Brent's warm, steady palm. It was bare and shaking and afraid, gracelessly ripped seams and sharp edges; made of willing blindness and shaking, newborn need.
But Brent had taken it anyway, even if it was so stunted and broken and weak. He took it and wrapped it up tight. Because anything could break it or hurt it or destroy it, but it was bundled and soft and protected, so nothing could. His hands had cradled Will's face and traced his wanting mouth, then met it with his own, tender and patient and asking. Even though Will couldn't answer, and didn't know when he'd be able to.
"I don't know," Will admitted. "But I really want to be."