Heavy bass thunders through your chest. All the light in the world is a flashing garish kaleidoscope and Cameron is a searing light, burning where he's pressed against your right side. The club is tight and hot hot hot, whiskey flowing through your veins and flushing your cheeks. Fäde is here, somewhere, Jacques was at the bar chatting up a girl minutes ago but seems to have disappeared since you last looked over. All you're aware of is the solid weight of Cam at your side, the pounding weight of the music, and the frenzy of the crowd while they move and you move with them, caught up in a hundred wakes and tides and currents. Cameron says something against your ear but you don't catch a word. His hand grips your chin and turns you to blearily smile at him. Wanna go smoke he mouths, the bass stealing the noise right out of his mouth. You nod, grab onto one of his belt loops and let him lead you towards the door (always following, always following, you've replaced the leader but not the need) and the fresh air hits you like a wall. The music muffles as the door slams behind you, the doorman sparing a glance before Cam leads you off to the side and out of the way of the long line. You may not get back in, may be out here a long time before Jacques and Fäde reappear, but you don't mind. Cameron lights up two cigarettes and hands you one.

It isn't cold out but compared to the inferno inside the club the summer night makes you shiver regardless. Cam smiles, tugging you closer and teasing his lips against your ear, whispering, "wanna get out of here?" You're drunk enough to momentarily consider saying no, wanting to return to the crowd and the music loud enough you don't have to think. "Let's go," you say, quiet. You take lead, grabbing his hand and pulling him down along the sidewalk towards home, needing to sober up and not wanting to risk a cab. Cam sends a text, to one of the boys at least, telling them to make it home safe.

Out here, near enough alone on the streets downtown, the quiet smothers you. You realize belatedly that your hand is a vice on Cameron's, relenting and giving him a sheepish look. He just shrugs and moves his arm up to wrap around your waist instead. "What's going on in that head of yours?" He asks and you think you flinch, Cam broaching the exact topic you were desperate to avoid. "I just think... I think too much. It's easier when I'm distracted." Cameron doesn't look over, just tightens his arm around you, says, "well let's hurry home so I can distract you."

'Counting days til you come in / I haven't lost you just misplaced you / However bright I could not tell'

Cameron's face has become the sun; filling your vision as he pants above you. The sweat on his skin glistens in the soft orange light of the city. You groan, pulling him tighter against you with your nails like claws in his back, his hips snapping a frantic rhythm and making you screw your eyes shut tight. His mouth crashes down on yours, swallowing up your moans and sighs.

The walk back sobered you up enough to gain control of yourself, but not so much that you lost your drunken bravado. It's been a while since you've let anyone in, been in this position, but the weight of Cam over you fools you into feeling safe and happy. He collapses onto your chest and heaves a heavy sigh, kissing his way up your neck and meeting your lips while he strips off the condom and ties it blindly, tossing it vaguely towards the trash. "Fuck, Cam." You say and he huffs a laugh, says, "we just did." You roll your eyes, kiss him again. "I love you," you say- honest enough that it terrifies you- and his grin flashes bright in the dark. "I know." He says, cracking up at your scandalized expression. "Excuse me! I am not Leia. Don't Solo me!"

An hour later you're both out in the kitchen, sweats dangling from your hips and Cam wrapped up in his blanket, eating grilled cheese. The door bangs open suddenly and Jacques and Fäde stumble in, leaning against each other but failing to balance and spilling into a laughing pile in the doorway. Cameron wraps his blanket tighter around himself and walks over to them, forcing sandwiches into their hands. "Thanks Camy," Jacques says and Cam nudges him with his foot in response, crossing the room back to you. It's late, beyond late, and the two of you leave Jacques and Fäde on the floor, heading back to your room and falling into bed together again.

Tomorrow you will all head back home, given a few weeks to relax and be with family before the album is done and the press begins. It's a prospect that would have terrified you before; you'd been scared when you left for Queen's, scared enough not to return for a full year; you'd been scared every time you'd gone back; and yeah, you're scared now- scared to walk away from Cameron while you've just seemed to figure out how you fit together again and scared to deal with the tension among your siblings and scared every damn time you think about Casey- but it's a tempered sort of fear, like the anxiety for a test that you know you studied for. No matter how prepared you are there's always the anxiety that you'll get there and have studied the wrong subject entirely somehow; brain full of history and a test paper full of calculus.

You tell Cameron how nervous you are, do your best to explain why, but he seems puzzled. "Why are you so afraid of your family?" He asks and it's wrong, the wrong question at the wrong time. "I'm afraid of myself... or... who I used to be," you answer, stilted and sleepy in his arms. He hums, a comforting sound, and pulls you closer still. "You'll be fine, Derek. And I'm only a phone call away."

'If I could have it back / All the time that we wasted / I'd only waste it again / If I could have it back'

The house hasn't changed any, still the same driveway and walls and paint and windows. The kitchen window is open and you can smell bacon frying, can almost hear the crackle where you're standing on the sidewalk. A car pulls up along behind you, but you don't turn. Someone steps out, stretching in your periphery, pulling a suitcase out of the backseat and tapping the hood of the car once the door is closed. She stands there, beside you in the bright spring morning for a long time before clapping a hand on your shoulder. "It's weird, isn't it?" You ask, still staring up at the house. "Yeah," she agrees quietly a moment later. Eventually, your feet remember their purpose, and together you walk up the driveway and into the house.

It isn't until later that night, you and Edwin and Casey and Lizzie sitting out in the back yard, that you even think to wonder why Casey's at home. She certainly didn't take the summer off last year, but then again last year you both may as well have been different people. "So what brings you home this fine summer, Case?" You ask, a practiced ease sloppily layered over months of uncertain ground. Lizzie and Edwin go quiet, regarding Casey earnestly. Her face slides into an easy grin. "I just missed my family," she says, quietly, not wanting to disquiet the nighttime peace.

All sense of time discandies, as it does so often during summertime, and days blend together into a week. Cameron is thrilled that things are going so well, his daily calls filled with the muted joy of days on the shore and children splashing in the sea, his voice light like the breeze off the water. You feel free in a way you haven't since you were a child, the summer setting in, and you can feel that slow growth; the sprout in your heart blooming wide and vibrant- a single rose; a spray of lilies.

The night grows darker and colder until Edwin and Lizzie get ushered inside to bed. It's just you and her, in the backyard where just months ago you'd thrown everything away for a quick fuck. It hits you in odd sorts of waves; a feeling of regret, a feeling of fear, a feeling of peace, a feeling of absolute abject love. Neither of you breaks the silence for a long time, the moment stretching on and on in front of you.

"Did you think we'd be here again? Half a year later, sitting in the same chairs?" Casey asks, destroying any illusion you'd had of avoiding the mistake you'd made (and the mistakes before that, a long line of error stretching on and on and on and on as far back as you can remember) and snapping your attention over to the silhouette of her pretty face in the shadows. "Not in a million years." You reply, and it seems to sate her curiosity because it grows quiet again.

There's another long pause, pregnant and fat-full of the hundreds of things that you and Casey will probably never talk about. The night is cool, but not cold; you shiver, regardless, in the dark. "I've been really afraid," she says suddenly, "to see you again. But then with my mom... when I needed you, you were there no questions asked. You're a lot different."

Impossibly, you're growing rather tired of being told that you're better, that your problems are fixed, that you've achieved some sort of fixed goal and that now things are okay. Because to you they still don't feel okay. You know that you are better- and God are you thankful for it- but you feel like a sprinter being celebrated yards before the finish line; you know that your journey is far from over.

"I'll get there," you whisper, standing and walking into the house to go to sleep.

'Oh, We can take our time now that I know / This time'

Early the next afternoon, while you're drinking your third cup of coffee and laughing while Edwin and Lizzie argue over the remote, Marti tugs at your sleeve. "I've got something for you Smerek," she says. You follow her up to her room, see an easel with a sheet over the painting. "Oh!" You say, "did you finally finish something?" Marti grimaces, shrugs. "I don't know if it's done, but it's time for you to have it." She reaches over, gripping the sheet and eyes you wearily. She pulls it off before she can talk herself out of it and for a while you stare at the painting before you really see it. The canvas is a soft-focus, ethereal field of peach and cream and frosty steel. It's a hallway in the hospital, seen through an unfocused lens, looking like a dream. In the center of the frame Casey and you stand, eyes wide in relief, her arms wrapped loose around your shoulders and her face a summer rain. Marti has obviously spent a lot of time on you and Casey, lovingly rendered and amazingly careful. Your face is flushed rose and the corners of your lips are tipped up small and shy. Casey's eyes are on you, and yours are on her. You both look happy and relieved and exhausted. It's beautiful.

You aren't sure if you can bring yourself to speak but Marti is looking so shy and unsure that you have to choke out, "Marti, it's beautiful." She blushes, turns away with a carefully practiced cool to say, "ugh don't get all sappy Smerek." You can't help it though, and she doesn't try to fight when you pull her in for a crushing hug. "I wanted you to see what I see. Like, you need to know that you're okay. Not better, not complete, not a new person, but you're okay. And you and Casey are okay, and you love each other and it's okay. You just need to fucking relax, Derek." She says, sounding so wise and old that you have no choice but to believe her. "Thanks, Marti." You say, frightfully close to tears, and your tone must scare her because she ushers you out of her room and calls you a crybaby before stifling a sob with the closing of her door.

It makes you remember all of the things that have changed; makes you remember Fool's Gold and Davis and how Emily had only called you because of Casey, makes you remember Cameron's face broken open in hurt, makes you remember him bright and shining and smiling the first day you'd met; makes you remember when you and Casey first met and her shy smile and the way you'd scoffed, the stark shine of blood from your wrist and the bright glimmer of gold over the scars. You feel like all your life has been a winter but now, now it's finally spring and the garden has come back to life and the sun has returned and the rains pool reflective in the streetlights and the future has come home to meet you half way. The rest of the day a grin lives in your mouth and as you lay down to sleep your cheeks hurt.

You go out the next day, spend the afternoon in town with Marti and Edwin and take them out to lunch. Ed regales you with tales of his adventures in a public school system that he outgrew years ago. Marti rolls her eyes, calls him a nerd. He squawks, scandalized, and the three of you share a laugh. You're suspicious when she tries to casually direct you back home, but you're still surprised when you walk through the door.

"What's all this?" You ask, viewing your gathered family with suspicion. Nora smiles, gestures to the table all stuffed with food and done up like a party, says, "well we know it isn't quite your birthday yet, but you'll be so busy what with press and fame and everything. We thought we'd get it out of the way now, while we're all here." What she means is: I love you; We love you; We support you; I was afraid I wouldn't get to be there; We have all been afraid that you might not be here. You smile, so wide that it must look comical or cartoonish, but your dad looks proud and sturdy and the table is full of every food you love, and Marti is hugging you. You smile, but what you mean is: I've never been so happy in my life.

'Hit me with your flashbulb eyes! / You know I've got nothing to hide / You know I've got nothing'

Fool's Gold really, officially, begins the day of your first radio interview. The release date has been set for January; the album was conceived in winter and it will be born in winter; the cold and dark seemed fitting for a distant and moody album like Escapism. In the months between completion and release Davis has been meeting with the four of you much more often; Samantha Becker's expertise proved invaluable but Davis' advice is more practical. The vague interviews you'd been doing with magazines throughout the summer had all been straightforward, asking about the band and the name and the members and begging for inside scoops on the mysterious album. This, though, the soundproof room and the interviewer- someone whose voice you've listened to countless times interviewing bands you love- this is truly the beginning.

"So," the young lady begins after her introduction, "Fool's Gold is the name on everybody's lips and I've got you here! It's an honor!" Cam blushes, waves her off. "It's an honor to be here," he says and Jacques and Fäde echo the sentiment. "Now we've all read a lot about the band these last few months but just for listeners who aren't familiar; You all met at Queen's University, is that right?" Fäde laughs, says "actually I met Jacques a few years ago through mutual friends. I hadn't heard from him in months when he suddenly showed up with a band." The interviewer laughs, charmed by his easy wit and confident demeanor. "But that's where Fool's Gold started?" She asks and you nod, remembering you're on radio and laughing, say, "yeah."

"Derek, you're typically quiet in interviews, but from what the fans in Kingston say you're quite the animal on stage. Are you actually shy, or wild?" You shift, a bit uncomfortable, and Cam slips his hand into yours. As the interviewer's eyes rest on your interlocked fingers you find your voice, "uh, yeah I guess. I'm a bit more laid back. I've actually been a bit not myself for a while." She nods, gestures for you to go on but you falter. "Would you say that Escapism reflects that? Were you out of sorts recording it?" You're feeling almost overwhelmed but in a quiet way. Cam says, "I think we wrote Escapism about a certain time, or a certain mood in everyone's life. We didn't want to start out happy and cheerful if it wasn't where we were, you know? I'd definitely say that the album is moody-" "Moody, yeah," you add quietly. "-there's darkness but there's always some light, too." She seems pleased, still glancing at where you and Cam are connected. "I'd read that Cameron and Derek are the main lyricists, Jacques, would you say that's accurate? Will you and Fäde be writing on the next record?"

It strikes you, then, that a sophomore album is all but guaranteed (Davis already urging you and Cam not to stop writing, to get out as much material as you can) but you aren't even sure of your own process; you don't know how Escapism came out so quickly, are concerned you won't be able to replicate it.

"Definitely I would say that Derek and Cam took the lead on writing. They just fell into this natural partnership and I love all the songs they wrote. I'd like to hope that we can write some, fingers crossed we get a second album to try it out." Jacques says, and you nod emphatically. "I'd love to see them write. I really didn't want this to ever be like, 'Derek and the Band' you know? Like, they voted for me to be the singer but all of these songs are all of us, together. I hope I get to sing some of their stuff some day. I want us all to write the next one together. Maybe it'll be happier?" You aim for humor at the end but it comes across too flatly honest to garner a laugh. She seems pleased, regardless. She gestures between you and Cam, mouths 'can we talk about this?' and you exchange a look with him. He shrugs, so you nod. "Okay so, bit of an elephant in the room, Derek and Cam. Jacques said you feel into a natural partnership but you seem awfully close, does the partnership extend beyond art?" You look to Cam and you're spellbound by his natural ease. "Definitely. Derek and I got really close working on this album. We've been dating for a while. It's really cool," he says, "getting to work on music with someone that you're really passionate about. I feel like I really got to know Derek in the months we've been working more than the year that we knew each other before that." You laugh, say, "me too. I think I've learned more about myself this year than in my whole life." It's the truth.

"Well, I think we should end this on that positive note, I love leaving the conversation on love, don't you? As a special surprise treat for the audience we have an exclusive! Interrobang sent over part of the lead single from Escapism. Ladies and gents, here is a teaser from Wraith by Fool's Gold."