Immediately, the three of you- Jacques has to work until the evening- begin drinking. It's been nice, the last couple weeks. Peaceful almost. Cameron is a constant presence in your bed at night but all told it's been a bit of a middle school affair; making out and over the clothes only. There's no particular reason for this, except, you suppose, that it's a bit different being with a friend rather than a stranger. You feel no rush to get through things, round the bases, and head home. He's there with you, still arguing over band names and pulling at lyrics until the two of you fall asleep with the notebook still laying between you.
Fäde and Jacques aren't necessarily avoiding the issue since, as far as you can tell, there isn't any. Fäde broaches the topic only once, a quiet, "make sure you're both on the same page with this. I will not have The Homosexual Lifestyle ruin another band." You laugh, really truly allow yourself to tilt your head back and bark out a laugh. "The Bisexual Lifestyle," you argue but he just shrugs. His pale, green eyes meet yours for only a moment, and he doesn't look concerned as much as cautious. "Same difference," he says with the soft hints of his Berliner accent bleeding through the gauze of at least four years in Canada. Your face cracks into a grin and you shrug. It's casual, you don't say. It's nothing serious. No emotions. You don't say anything because none of those statements ring true, and maybe alarm bells go off quietly, distantly in your mind, but you ignore them.
Halloween though; you've always loved fall, the cool air and the colours and the mischief. A girlfriend back in High School had said once that you were an Autumn; you know she meant your colouring but you feel deep down that it's true in every aspect. Like the hunter's moon you seem to only come alive in October. Whiskey flows like honey and there's always beer in the fridge and you're planning a party until you get booked at the Shoe again. It becomes an after party, and the thought is thrilling. It's been a while since you guys had an after party.
Jacques gets home around 4 and has to play catch up for a minute before you head towards your gig. It's your third in as many weeks and every time your name is different and Yours Truly shakes her head and the brainstorm starts up again.
"Good evening," you purr as your band begins fucking around behind you, "we are..." you pause and look back at Cameron, he shrugs and you say, "Championship Pluto?" In the crowd, Yours drops her head into her perfectly manicured hands and heaves a deep sigh. You perform anyway, feeling it in a way you hadn't until a few weeks ago. Everyone is steadily in their groove and the chemistry is palpable as you lock eyes with Cam and he grins.
"I was a field of fucking roses," you start and amazingly the audience is joining in, your second time performing a track you aren't even done with and people join in for the lines they recognize. It feels like being God and the Devil and Prime Minister of Jupiter all in one. You're shaking with the joy of it.
Afterwards, your face manic and laughs bubbling from your throat, you turn to Cam and catch his shoulders, kissing his cheek before you've even left the stage. If possible, the audience cheers a bit louder, good-natured jeering and wolf whistles cutting through the din.
Once you're out into the bar you see her again, approaching cautiously like you're a deer she doesn't want to spook. She says, "you guys are really good Derek." You just nod, a bit put-off by her hot and cold act. "Like I didn't know that already, Spacey." You retort. She bows her head, accepting the jab with grace, doesn't even complain about the nickname. "I wanted to apologize, for everything." She says.
It hits you, at once, that you haven't even thought of your fight. The ghost of Casey in your mind receded, but still present: burned in like an afterimage.
"We're uh..." you start, stuttering to a halt. What are you doing? "We were going to have an after party at our place," you finish slowly. You've given her plenty of time to think of an out, but she just nods a few times, tersely, and hums an affirmation. "So..." she starts, nodding her head behind your shoulder- you don't have to turn to look to know who she's gesturing to- "any news? Is it serious?" You regard her carefully, like she's a snake you don't want to irritate, and say, "not too serious. Just enjoying The Bisexual Lifestyle." She looks like she doesn't believe you; like she isn't sure what to think. You almost enjoy seeing her off balance. Not quite, but almost. Mostly you feel wired and exhausted at once as only a performance can make you. You feel proud of what you're accomplishing. You feel like you might be getting over her, finally, until she winks at you and turns away. Your ears are filling with rattling chains and you flee out the back to smoke in the alley. Cam sends you a feeble glance; not yet concerned but certainly not against moving in the direction. He follows.
The brick is cool against your back, his hands are warm against your shoulders and you ignore his questioning gaze to pull him into a hug. He falls into you easily, chuckling.
"What's all this about?" He asks, gesturing his head towards the inside of the bar. "Was she an ex?" It's a well-meaning question but you're sure he can feel the tension in your shoulders. "Something like that," you reply, the bitter taste of it heavy on your tongue. You refuse to elaborate so he shrugs, leaning his head back down against your chest. You feel the rumble of his voice as he says, "you did amazing tonight Der. We all did, I know, don't even bother saying it. But your voice was incredible." If you blush he doesn't mention it. He grabs your hand and pulls you towards the bathroom in the green room. Yours was the last set and all the other bands are out drinking and mingling.
He crowds into your space, backing you up against the wall. His shaggy auburn hair catches the light and burns, his blue eyes a dare. You kiss him deeply and he moans. "You're so fucking hot," he groans, pressing himself flush against your body. "You sounded so fucking..." he cuts off, opting to kiss you filthier. His hands travel down your back to your ass, gripping tightly and then sliding around to grip your hips like an anchor.
"Do you want to..." he starts and this time you cut him off, nodding emphatically. "Yes, yes, fuck, whatever you want Cam. Jesus." You pull him in for another deep kiss, but he cuts it short as he slides to his knees. You're fighting two distinct urges; to roll your head back and shut your eyes or to keep Cam firmly in your sights.
You opt for the latter, training your eyes on Cameron's broad shoulders, speckled with freckles and moles and the boat neck of the destroyed tee he's wearing putting them all on display, and his mop of auburn hair as he unzips your fly and reaches in and- holy shit.
His fingers are calloused from years of playing, running over the hard line of your dick. It shocks a quiet moan out of you and of its own volition your hand raises up and tangles in his hair. He finally looks up, away from you, into your eyes and the temperature in the room rockets, suddenly humid as the middle of summer. Without breaking that eye contact he slides you into his mouth,
You definitely aren't a virgin but you haven't been fucking anyone since this thing started between you and Cameron. His tongue slides along under your foreskin; your head tracking every ridge and bump like they're leaving scars. Whatever you manage to say must be unintelligible and even if not it's certainly not as important as the plush heat of Cam's mouth.
Your hips buck against your wishes and Cam moans around you which sends you shuddering back against the wall; he chases forward, gripping your hip hard enough to leave welts and sliding down far enough to press his nose into the wiry hair. "Jesus fucking Christ, Cam," you groan and he responds by sliding back lewdly, staring you in the eyes and dragging his tongue up the length before his lips pop off the head with an obscene sound.
"You like that?" Cameron asks and it's the stupidest most redundant question you've ever been asked. You can't even answer, just thrust your hips again and rub your cock against his stubble. He grins and it makes, if possible, more blood rush south.
"Don't stop," you say, "this wont take long." Cameron mumbles something against your thigh, pulling you back into his mouth. You weren't lying, your hips begin stuttering wildly. He swallows. You pull him back to his feet and kiss him filthy. He pulls back and looks at you, eyes wide and blown dark, his lips red and sanguine. You're both smiling wildly. "This is fine, right?" He asks. You've never been good with words. You just kiss him again.
The bar is slowing down by now, there's no sign of her and you think that even if there were it couldn't kill your mood. Fäde gives the two of you a look, but it isn't dampened from the high of your best show yet. You grin at him, and maybe Cameron does too, over your shoulder, but Fäde is smiling and Jacques is flirting with every girl and it feels like the best night, so you shout "After party at Sin Soup!" The remaining drunkards cheer, and you head out the front door with Cam on one arm and Yours Truly under the other. The night is chilly but you've been on fire since you performed and it's welcome. Cam places a sloppy kiss to your cheek and you twist your head to meet his lips, grinning.
'Sin Soup' is what one particularly drunk Senior girl had dubbed your house upon arriving when you'd just moved in. The name had stuck, and at some point one of the boys had painted the words above the front door. It's always a welcome sight, the leaning porch and off-white (yellowed) paint a beacon after the cold walk. Your hand is tangled up with Cameron's; a detail which Yours absolutely doesn't fail to notice.
The party is, truth be told, fairly tame. By the time you all had arrived most people expecting to party had gone home to escape the cold. Casey is waiting outside, however, her hands tucked into the pockets of one of your old jackets. You flash a smile at her and she meets it, seems genuinely happy that you'd invited her.
An hour or a year later you're drunkenly, loudly regaling the crowd about the show and asking them for name suggestions when Jacques' large frame moves to cover your vision. "Might be time for bed now, eh?" He says, his French accent made more pronounced by the booze. You attempt to lean around him but he slides back into your focus. "Look, man," he says and you're already uninterested, "you've got at least two people pissed at you." He has dark hair, a sharp angular face and his dark eyes seem thoroughly unimpressed. You're annoyed enough to retort, "what do I care?"
You slip out the back door with a cigarette hanging between your lips. You spot Cameron by the fire pit and join him. He smiles, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. You might be too drunk but you want to fix this, want to explain away problems you don't even understand. You want to tell him that you haven't been as happy in years as you have been with him but instead you blurt out, "I'm sorry you're mad at me."
He looks at you with an unreadable expression, face blank for too long a moment, before grabbing his drink and heading inside without a word. You feel more frustrated then ever when Yours Truly cackles from across the fire. You hadn't noticed her before and it startles you. She looks like an ancient Roman waiting to see whether or not you will die by the sword.
"Better go fix that," she purrs in her slow drawl, and you let loose a loud frustrated noise. You stand quickly, leaving her laughter trailing behind you in the dark. The party has died out much like the smoldering remains of the fire. Fäde is telling two ladies about his time in Berlin and Jacques seems to be occupied in his room.
You knock gently on Cameron's door but there's no response. It's hitting you just how much you like him, how much he means to you. You feel your chest tightening and panic wrapping around you in a sour cloak. You storm instead to your room only to be stopped short by the sight of Cameron. He's laying on your bed, maybe asleep, laying on his stomach with his face pressed into your pillow and you go to him, slowly. You sit on the edge and place your hand on his shoulder. All you can do is whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry" over and over again until he turns big, wet eyes to you and says, "okay. Go to sleep." So you do.
The hangover is so bad that the first ten or so times you wake up its only to groan in agony before curling further into your bed and going back to sleep. Eventually, when you wake up it's with a bone-deep discomfort. You stretch out, feeling your back and shoulders pop and rattling your brain. You realize through the headache that Cameron isn't with you, though he had been last night.
You remember seeing Case when you'd arrived, he smile looking like a white flag; her eyes sliding down to your hand where it was linked with Cam's, but you don't remember her at the actual party at all. You remember Cameron sitting by the fire, looking hurt but without context. You remember Yours Truly's laughter. Too much of the night is black.
You stumble down the hall in search of water and aspirin. Fäde is reading a thick novel on the couch and he regards you for a moment before his eyes return to the page. His pale green eyes show no emotion, but his eyebrow betrays a quizzical tilt. The kitchen is quiet, bather in a soft light from the late afternoon. You pour a cup of coffee, a glass of water, and take a few aspirin. Jacques and Cameron seem to be out and the quiet is overwhelming.
You lay back down, trying to relax and will away your hangover. Eventually: The pounding in your head almost forming a beat and keeping you up; you get up, throwing on some jeans and your jacket and stumbling out the door. The pounding beat of your headache is starting to really form the beginning of a song, the powerful notes of the guitar and subtle chaos of the bass joining your thumping beat but not quite corporeal; like the song is a ghost that you're chasing out of the basement.
The city isn't too busy but the traffic is bothering you. You pull your headphones up and throw together a playlist to get you through the evening; it's Sunday so the city is quiet and you find yourself wishing that your brain would calm.
You get more coffee at that same cafe; the single rose has finally given up the ghost. You return to the shore, Lake Ontario looming before you mysterious and Romantic in the shifting dusk. You find yourself unable to write, unable to think about anything other than the vast void of last night's events.
Once inside you begin downing Whiskey and Rum and Tequila like it's all water. Casey sits on the couch in the living room, sipping on some beer, and looks as out of place as possible. The crowd is a bit rowdy, at first, the high from the show not run its course yet. You glance at her and she's speaking animatedly to a girl who shows up at most of your shows. She seems happy.
Cameron catches your eye and winks. You can't help but stare at his lips, still flushed from the bathroom, and feel heat pooling in your gut. He rolls his eyes, as if he can read your mind, and starts waving a loose fist next to his cheek, poking out the other cheek with his tongue in time. You roll your eyes and huff; he's teasing you.
"Shots!" You hear Jacques chanting from the kitchen until more people join him, a party full of people chanting, "shots, shots, shots, shots," but no one moving toward the kitchen to actually get or take any. You go, a few people following you. Jacques claps you on the shoulder, perhaps a bit fatherly of a gesture, and then tilts your head back and pours Whiskey down your throat. You laugh as the amber liquid drips down . Yours Truly appears at your side, holding out a joint and you take it gladly.
At some point, Casey ends up standing out with you and the girl she'd been talking to- they apparently took a Communications class together- while you and the girl smoke cigarettes. During a lull in the conversation she turns to you, gives you a private smile, and says, "I've been thinking a lot about what I said." Thinking about the look on her face in the library, her sharp accusation that still lingers as a scar, you become angry all over again. Your voice is sharp and cruel as you choke out a laugh and say, "well with a hot piece of ass like Cameron pleasing me, I don't think of you at all." She looks stricken; hurt and confusion marring her features and the girl looks shocked, glancing between the two of you.
"In that case," Casey says, her voice suddenly cool and level, "leave me the fuck alone and don't invite me to any more stupid parties." She turns to go but then stops, looking back over her shoulder and catching your eyes directly- a challenge- and says, "and by the way, your band sucks." She leaves, and you feel suddenly cold and hot at once. The liquor in your stomach starts to churn.
You shake your head, clearing the sudden onslaught of memory. You'd thought, desperately, that nothing could be worse than the void of confusion you'd been left with. Now, though, thinking of how completely you'd destroyed things between you and Casey and how you hadn't heard from Cameron all day. You feel isolated. A sad king of an empty kingdom. It isn't fair, it never is, how you seem to ruin everything around you. You think at first that maybe you're King Midas- cursed to have your desire but only at the cost of everything that actually matters- but that's not true. You aren't Midas; you're Lot's wife. So mired in hindsight that you miss your chance at freedom and happiness.
The gray, heavy feeling of depression is rolling down on you in thick waves and looking at the water you consider jumping; filling your pockets with stones and walking until the cold and dark fill you up. You're so tired of being empty. So tired of everything, really.
On a whim you text Marti: 'See you Xmas squirt.' She just responds with a series of skulls. This could either be festive or threatening, so you hope for festive and reply: 'Happy day of the dead.' She only answers one more time, sending a picture of her TV playing Day of the Dead. Festive.
That had been a tactic your therapist had given you. Setting up solid plans with someone you didn't want to disappoint when you were thinking of ending things. It's a feeling that hasn't reappeared, not really anyway, in years and years and it makes you choke out a bitter laugh that it's only when things are actually going well that you lose all hope. You feel like a pillar of salt, ready to be blown away in the wind whipping across the water.
You go home, slowly, on legs that feel leaden. You think, faintly, that the playlist you had made had been too sad to do you any good. It's late, no one is up, and you return to your room alone, laying in your big bed that still smells like Cameron's shampoo. It's cold, and you rock yourself to sleep with shivers and small, quiet sobs. Even in your nightmares: It's cold.
'Sold my cold knot / A heavy stone / Sold my red horse for a venture home / To vanish on the bow / Settling slow'
November is cold. Blank and cold in the way that only the birth of winter can be. The Shoe has offered an open invitation, the band is performing every weekend and other locations have began to call; it's absurd but it almost seems like this could really happen, like your band could make it even though you can't pick a goddamn name.
Cameron and you are still fooling around, sleeping in your bed and kissing but the tone has shifted; like Halloween was an axis and the balance has lost itself in a downward slide. You tell him, over and over again: "I remember what I said and I'm so sorry. It's not true, it's not how I feel," but Cam's eyes just twist downward, his smile looking hollow, and he waves off all of your apologies. "It's fine, Der. It's... whatever. Stop worrying." You can't, absolutely can't stop worrying when you feel him slipping away and you feel like a fool. Like you've ruined an amazing relationship and the future of your band at once and maybe that's your station, your lot in life. You only exist to ruin amazing things.
You get home one night; December has arrived with heavy snowfall and biting winds. Cameron is sitting on your bed, music drifting from your computer and your blanket wrapped tight around him as he stares down into your notebook. Half-finished songs and lone verses stare up at him. His face is neutral in concentration, his eyebrows knit together tightly the only sign that he's frustrated at all. "What the fuck rhymes with center point?" He asks, without looking away from the page half-full of scratched out lines and absent minded doodles.
"Smoke a joint?" You offer, a joke, and he smiles, pulls one of his perfectly rolled joints from the empty deck of cards he keeps in his pocket. You light it, and halfway through he glances up, finally.
"Our love is a center point tilting throwing me off balance after you I'm no longer me from before the arc of romance is short and bends toward misery..." He looks like he wants to ask a question, one that you'd expected for months now. You just nod, keeping his gaze, before he can vocalize a single word.
"It's about you, or us. Whatever. I think they all are. I think everything I ever wrote was about you."
"Jesus, Derek. That's some lame bullshit," he laughs, punching your shoulder and calling you an emo loser. It feels normal, like before all of this. It feels like healing, it is certainly hope.
The two of you never talked about the state of your relationship, as if keeping it quiet and acting like it's never been serious and it's just fun between friends would keep it from going south. You're afraid that maybe it is, for one or both of you, but you know deep down that it's not as casual as you act. The thought terrifies you; the pressure of your relationship holding the band afloat is too much,and maybe that's why Cameron pulled back after what you said on Halloween. Maybe he's just as scared to call it what it is. You sit next to him, open up the blanket and wrap it around both of you, your arm snaking around his waist and your head finding his shoulder. He smells like your body wash. His hair is getting longer, brushing your cheek as you turn to his neck and kiss him there. He pulls another joint from his deck.
Christmas is approaching, and with it a dreaded trip home. Well, back to London anyway; Kingston feels more like home to you than London ever did and you think it's because of the band. Maybe, though, it's always been the ghosts of people there. Your mother, your friends, your exes. Kingston had been a fresh start, unbloodied land, and even if you've already pissed people off and left people behind here it just feels different. All your life you've lived in haunted houses- or maybe you are the haunted house- but Kingston feels like a ship and not a house; freedom, but a home all the same.
"So," you begin and Cam finishes writing in a line before looking over to you, "I'm heading home soon for the holiday. What, uhm... should I tell them if they ask... if I'm seeing anyone?" Cam looks confused, until he doesn't and a blush spreads across his freckled cheeks. He shrugs, but the non-answer doesn't suit you so you just hold his gaze.
"I've never heard you sound so flustered," he says, "are you... are you out?" It's a valid question but it hits you like a sudden chill. It's your turn to give a noncommittal gesture, your hand waffling about in front of you. "Kind of," you say. "I mean, my brother and sister know but it's never... I mean, I've messed around with dudes but I've never..." You trail off. Is it even accurate to say dated? You and Cameron have never taken the time to define your relationship, and you feel adrift.
He leans in, catching your eyes again from where they'd become hazed over in anxiety. He smiles, wide and more honest than you've seen in weeks. "Yes." He says it so simply, leaning in further and pressing a kiss against your temple. "Yes," you repeat, kissing him back, deeply.
'Seek the light / My knees are cold / Running home, running home / Running home, running home / With all your lies / You're still very lovable / I toured the light so many foreign roads / For Emma, forever ago'
You pack up in a fog. The thought of seeing your younger siblings is so good you're delirious with it but it's balanced by the thought of Casey and Nora and George. It's an odd feeling, returning to your family's house after being independent for a year and some change. The building will be the same but the people and the lives inside it will have changed, kaleidoscoped into something that you can't reconcile with the image in your head; can't assemble into anything you can understand. Like you've been made into a stranger with the distance. Maybe, if you'd returned for any occasions during your freshman year it wouldn't be as intense of an alienation, but you'd insisted on staying on campus. Finding yourself in a new place, forging connections and refusing to take any time off from school and your band.
Home is, ostensibly, how you remember it. The same driveway and walls and paint and windows. But inside you can hear Simon babbling inside and Nora happily encouraging him, speaking along as if her and the two-year-old are having a full conversation. The kitchen window is open and you can smell Nora cooking, hear Edwin and Lizzie arguing over something in the living room. It's all too much, and that's when you feel a hand fall to rest on your shoulder. "It's weird, isn't it?" Casey asks, staring up at the house just like you. "Maybe for the creature from another world, but I'm fine Cassandra." You retort, leaving her standing out front all alone. She doesn't follow, just keeps staring up at the upstairs window that was hers in what might as well have been another lifetime.
"Derek!" Nora calls warmly as you walk through the hall and into the kitchen. She leaves the stove to pull you into a warm, strong hug, which you return. "Good to see you!" She says, smiling. You can hear Ed and Lizzie scrambling up and away from the television to come greet you but a flurry down the stairs beats them to it; Marti flinging herself at you and wrapping her arms around your neck. "Smerek!" She shouts, before seeming to regain her composure and dropping her voice down in tone, a carefully practiced maturity settling over her features, "I mean um... good to see you bro." Her mask is incomplete, failing to cover a wobbling smile and watery eyes.
"It's good to see you too Smarti," you say, as Ed and Liz rush to pile in on the embrace. Simon waddles over on chubby, unsteady legs, and regards you casually. He eventually offers a smile and waddles away, insistent on bothering his mother until she'll give up pretense and hold him on her hip as she cooks.
You don't see Casey until dinner, but she seems to be insistent on acting like you two don't hate each other. It's too difficult to pretend, so you settle on ignoring her instead. Edwin is going on about his calculus teacher and how he's getting tired of correcting her example problems, when Nora suddenly says, "So. Derek, Casey, are you two seeing anyone new?" Casey glances to you, her face flushing, but recovers quickly. "Of course not mom, I would've told you." Nora turns her gaze to you and it's like time slows. It's now or never so you start nodding. "Yeah, actually. I have been seeing someone. We just made it official before I left." George looks over, attention finally stolen from his phone, and says, "way to go bud. What's her name?" Simon is babbling absently, making a mess of his mashed potatoes, and everyone is looking at you expectantly.
"Cameron," you say finally. Casey looks surprised. "He's uh, his name is Cameron. He plays bass in my band." George's smile falters while Marti's grows into a manic grin. Your father recovers quickly, nodding and saying "well that's great. I'm glad you're happy." It may be a carefully practiced neutrality but you know George isn't the type to care about things like that- he's always hated surprises though.
"So, are you gay now or what?" Edwin asks and Lizzie slaps his arm. "Ow, what? It's a valid question." The family goes quiet, looking to you for an answer and you laugh it off. "Of course not, dick. I'm just way too sexy to deprive half the population of a chance with me." Nora looks displeased, her smile stretched thin. "Watch your mouth, Derek," she says and inclines her head toward Simon. You apologize, returning to your meal.
"Dick." Simon says, and giggles.