Chapter 2: Savage
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.