Chapter 6: Lovers While We Sleep

The knock on my hotel room door is sharp and hard, but I'm up, I am, I am. It's ten to five in the morning, and I'm awake and good to go.

"Who is it?" I call out as I head to the door, eyeing the room to locate a few still scattered items that have not been packed yet.

"Sisky."

When I open the door, the kid is standing in the corridor, holding his old, squared suitcase in one hand, his leather satchel in the other. I thought he'd be the last one up, moaning about lack of sleep and middle of the night departures at ungodly hours, but he looks surprisingly ready to leave London behind.

"Come in." I head back inside. "I've still got a few bits and pieces..."

I hear the door closing behind me, a soft thud as he puts his luggage down. My suitcase is still on the bed, my clothes a mess in it.

"Where were you last night?" he asks.

I press down suit jackets in the suitcase, hoping they'll miraculously take less space by me doing so. "Hmm?"

"Last night. Yesterday. All of it, really. You weren't here. I tried to find you."

"Spencer's." My notebook is on top of the pile. I haven't written anything in it, though I took it to Spencer's, and I took it out in the taxi back, thinking maybe words would pour out. But nothing has. Like the well's gone dry. And so instead I just sat in the backseat, watching the heavy rain wash the streets of London.

"Spencer's," he repeats, tone somewhat dead.

Against my better judgement, I ask, "Why?"

I try to sound clinically disinterested. I hear Sisky sigh and see him move to the armchair that's just in my peripheral vision. Something's wrong, I can tell that right off the bat, but I don't know if I truly want him to tell me. I made myself scarce on purpose yesterday, and I've done such a good job not thinking about the band's day off and what everyone got up to. I even managed to sleep for two hours before the four o'clock alarm.

"You should've been here last night," he says at length.

"Yeah? Did you guys have a good time?"

"No, I mean..." His knees have started bouncing. "Look, Ryan... I don't know how to tell you, so. So I'm just gonna tell you." He twists his hands. Unpleasant news, clearly. "Brendon and... Dallon. They weren't around last night either, and Bob said that they'd gone out. Which, you know, is fine. But, uh. I saw them coming back. Or well, I saw them outside Brendon's room."

Coming back from their date.

I then know what Sisky's witnessed, what he's going to say: a goodnight kiss. Press of skin on skin. Guess it's official, then. Guess it was a successful date, guess Dallon was everything Brendon hoped for and then some. Guess they're meant to be. Good. Good, good, good. My insides burn, but I knew it would happen. I've accepted it. Almost.

Not at all, really.

"I don't want to be the one to tell you," Sisky then says, sighing. "But you need to know."

"I already do."

"No, you don't know this. You don't."

"Sisky –"

"I think they'd gotten caught in the rain, they were soaked through. And they were laughing and- and standing really close to one another. And they were holding hands." He pauses. "And then Dallon went in with Brendon."

I stop in my packing then. I stare at a tie, a dark blackish brown with red dots on it, one of my favourites. I stare at it. My brain can't process anything else. "What?"

"That's why I tried to find you! I came knocking on your door but you weren't here, and nobody knew where you were. If you'd been here," he says, and he gazes at me with big, sorry eyes when I finally look at him.

"Oh."

It's all I can say.

I knew that they were going out. I knew it, and I couldn't stomach being here for it, waiting and wondering, so I was at Spencer's. Alison made dinner, she's a lovely girl. Kind but not a pushover. Made Spencer wash the dishes since she had cooked. She also realised when to go home and leave us be, smoking and drinking and chatting and listening to records.

I didn't tell Spencer what was wrong although he could easily tell that things weren't right. I didn't want to discuss it. So be it.

But... in my head. First date. A peck on the lips. They'd take it slow, surely, Dallon is the kind of guy who'd take it slow – hasn't he been raving about true love and meeting someone special? And I thought I'd get used to it gradually, accept it and be better for it. But they... on the first date. Last night. They –

Guess Dallon's just human after all.

"Fuck," I breathe, my hand coming up to rub at my mouth. Try to get the sickening feeling to subside. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. Realise how ridiculous I'm being. It was going to happen sooner rather than later, right? Right. "It's fine," I force myself to say, now hurriedly going back to trying to compartmentalise my clothes – shirts there, ties there. "It's fine."

"But –"

"It's fine! It is. I mean, what should I have done?" I ask with a bitter chuckle. "Break the door down? Stop two consenting adults?" I spit out the last words.

"I don't know," Sisky says, sounding anguished.

I try to pretend it has no effect on me, but it does: momentarily everything seems to slip away. My body feels weak, my knees feel weak, but I will take this like a man, I will. I will take this standing. And I don't know what Sisky wants me to say: that I'm jealous and full of unrequited love? Well, I am.

But so be that too.

It's my cross to bear, and it's not his business or anyone else's.

"How long will this tour last for again?" I ask jokingly. When is it okay to go home?

But this'll do me good. Watching them. I'll get used to it. I will.

I stop fussing with my fucking suitcase and step back from the bed. I fight the longing burn on my tongue. Focus on breathing. "Hey, I'm happy for them. Or well – I will be." I nod solemnly, forcing myself to calm down. "I will be happy for them one day."

Sisky stares at me like he can't understand what's coming out of my mouth. "But... But you love him." It sounds like an accusation if there ever was one. When I don't react, he sighs. "God, I don't understand you!"

"You're too young."

"Don't say that!" he snarls, agitated. "I hate it when people say that, that you'll understand when you're older. Why is that a good thing? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the older you get, the more fucked up you become? And that maybe those younger than you have a healthier perspective on things."

"This isn't about you!" I snap and feel guilty for it. I don't mean to raise my voice at him when it's not his fault, but this is so fucking hard for me, can't he see that? This is hard but I'm trying, I am trying, and he needs to let me try. He's being a selfish little prick right now. God, this is not about him. And it's all a bit too late, isn't it? They spent the night together. What does Sisky expect me to do? Turn back time?

I can't.

"We're putting it to rest," I say with finality. "Alright? I can admit that I... hoped. Or thought. For a while, I mean, I thought that maybe..." But Brendon isn't mine. He and I would be doomed, are doomed, so we're moving on. I'm distancing myself from him: he has his own life. I'll never be a part of it as anything more than a friend or as the guy who screwed him over. It's not my business what he gets up to in his hotel room with guys who adore him. It's not. "I'll be alright, you know," I then tell Sisky because I know he's worried about me. I step back to my suitcase and smooth a few poorly folded shirts. Take in a breath. "Thanks for telling me."

He says nothing for a long time, just watches me. Then he whispers, "Sure."

I close the suitcase, lock it and grab the handle. The cars to the airport should pick up the band and crew soon: off to Paris for two days. Stay in another hotel before we're properly back on the road and living on the bus again: Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Italy and wherever else. It'll be hard to keep my distance from Brendon in a confined environment like that, but I'll manage.

And Brendon wouldn't flaunt it in front of me. He's not that sadistic.

I hope.

"Good to go?" I ask. I feel like Sisky's giving me an attitude even as he accepts the inevitable fate of what I'm telling him. He nods. Accepts it.

I step out onto the corridor first, and Sisky follows me, carrying his bags again.

I'm feeling my jacket pocket for the room key when I notice that the corridor is not deserted: two doors down, Brendon has emerged from his room. He's looking our way, a definition of five in the morning: his hair is a mess, his clothes hanging off of him awkwardly, his eyes tired. He is likewise holding a suitcase.

"Morning," he says. He's on time. He is nothing but punctual with this band, but I'm surprised this time: he is usually tired after sex – well, that depends on how much you tire him out, how long you go at it. But if you fuck for a good while, like he and I used to, then he'll be tired. And if the last time he got laid was more than a month back, then last night must have been very welcomed. He would have kept asking for more. Dallon looks like the kind of guy who knows how to please, who can keep on going, so Brendon most likely was relaxed and sated and sleepy afterwards, curled up under the covers, come stains on the sheets. It's hard to wake him up from that slumber, to kick him out of bed so really, it's impressive that he's on time.

And it flashes through my mind: his hair – messy, tousled sex hair, pulling on it, head thrown back into the pillow – and the bags under his eyes, not tour exhaustion but from staying up all night fucking.

I see him, and all I see are telltale signs.

He looks our way a bit funnily. He looks debauched.

My stomach turns at how wrong it is.

"Hey," I return. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he says and then coughs slightly, pressing a hand to his chest and rubbing absently.

"Okay. See you downstairs."

"Sure." And he looks away from us.

Sisky's lingering, definitely lingering, and I place a commanding hand on the back of his neck because it always works with him. Otherwise he'd just stay there, making googly eyes between Brendon and me. But I apply pressure to the back of his neck, and he falls in step with me, heading for the elevator. He hangs his head, but I feel him relaxing. Giving up on it.

I don't look back at Brendon, but I don't have to. I'll always remember the way he looks this morning, on the first morning after.

I think of all those dramatic teenagers who say things like "I'll die without you" or "I just can't go on", or even Harry's "I can't live if living is without you". They all have it wrong. Because sure, it feels like that. But it's not true. You don't die without them, you do go on, and you can live if living is without them. And the sooner you realise that, the better it is for you.

Time keeps moving on. The world does not stop for you.

And I wish I could've... I wish we could have... Well, never mind now.

Never do we mind.

And the indescribable loss is my home.

That sounds like a lyric.

I better write that down.

"Smile," Sisky commands, stabbing me in the ribs as he pokes me with a pointy finger. "Smile!"

I sigh irately and smile for the picture that an elderly German woman is taking with Sisky's camera. The mild wind blows our hair as we pose for her, standing on the bridge and leaning against the railing. Sisky already took a picture of her – tourist kindness exchange. She now snaps one of us.

Sisky hurries to take the camera from her, thanking her repeatedly – "Thank you, merci, danke, thanks!" He winds the film ready for the next shot. I turn back to face the river, the water murky and uninviting. I hold on to the large paper bag that's got two LPs in it, one for me and one for Sisky. We bought them on a visit to my favourite Parisian record store. It's twilight now, and the day has been long. It's been long, long, long – woke up in a different country. Now I watch as the street lights turn on one by one.

"Oh, I hope that'll turn out well," Sisky says, fiddling with the camera as his elbows rest against the thick railing. "Hope there was enough light to get the tower in."

I eye the Eiffel Tower looming not too far away, appearing from behind buildings. I think there's no way it can be missed.

My feet ache from having walked all over for hours, but Sisky's been excited and bubbly, and it's been a good distraction. We sent his mother that card she asked for – I remembered, Sisky didn't. Sat in a restaurant with a view to the Seine, me telling him what to write as we waited for the food.

His Side has had a full day of PR today. I don't do interviews – the press conference in Copenhagen was it. Our show in Paris isn't until tomorrow night, and so Sisky and I decided to go out today, and we walked in the Luxembourg Gardens and I bought him a record and then took him out for dinner. I haven't spoken much all day, but he speaks for us both, discussing anything and everything: look at this fork, Ryan, look at how long the tines are, I don't think they're this long back home, are these French tines, do you think?

He's trying to keep my mind busy. I appreciate the effort. The pain of it all has become a persistent yet dull throb at the bottom of my stomach. It's unceasingly there, but I can live with it. It's just another thing to get used to.

"I'm interviewing Jon in... twenty minutes," he now says, checking his wristwatch.

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. I didn't pester him or nothing! ...That much. But we'll talk about The Whiskeys. That's exciting."

"Well, you don't want to be late," I say.

He bums a cigarette off of me. He doesn't smoke that much, says his mother doesn't approve but she's not here, is she?

The streets are so French, he muses, tall poplars on both sides of the street, old, elegant buildings with pastel coloured facades behind them. He doesn't really know where he's going – he doesn't have much of a sense of direction. I know where we are, however, taking us back to the hotel that's just as high class as the Savoy Hotel in London was. Mike says that it's a bit of a luxury, sure, but it's important to act the part of a rock star: that's how you become one.

The large beige building eventually comes up on our left, two concierges out front in the cold, wearing gloves and caps. Not too far away from them is a group of a dozen or so kids – news always leaks somehow. Sisky takes the LP bag from me as the fans rush over for pictures and autographs, and the concierges come over to try and usher them away. "Bonsoir, Monsieur Ross," a girl says breathlessly when it's her turn, and I smile back at her, sign her copy of Wolf's Teeth. The commotion is brief but very French – a male fan starts arguing with a concierge loudly and angrily, and I don't understand a word but he's throwing his hands up in the air dramatically.

Sisky opens the door for me as we hurry inside, me having to almost escape when someone tries to hold onto the sleeve of my coat. The door closes. Forms a barrier. We take our gloves off, unbutton the tops of our coats. Exhale and relax.

"I'm meeting Jon at the bar," Sisky says. "You wanna come say hi?"

I don't feel like sitting alone in my room just yet. Paris, the city of love – and me alone in my room, going through the minibar. No, that doesn't sound appealing.

The bar is on the first floor, chandeliers glittering, a piano in the corner, jazzy twenties music being played by a pianist in a tux. The furniture looks like it's antique, rococo couches and armchairs. Jon is already there in a corner table, sipping on transparent liquid – water or vodka or gin. Probably gin. He's facing us and lifts a hand in greeting, talking to someone we can't see because the chair's back is to us.

"You're early!" Sisky says when we get there.

Jon smirks. "You're late."

Now that we've reached the table, the occupier of the armchair is visible: Brendon. I stop slightly. Push visuals of him and Dallon out of my mind, nip the jealousy in the bud. Let it be. Ignore the way that the loss instantly burns hotter.

"How's your day been?" Jon asks, motioning us to sit down, so we do. I sit next to Jon on the loveseat, the fabric a mix of azure and cream coloured swirls, and Sisky sits down on a simpler armchair covered in purple velvet.

"It's been amazing," Sisky says and then begins to recap everything we did. "And Ryan bought me Greta Salpeter's album, you know her, well of course you do, we found her album, Ryan bought it for me, here it is, isn't that great? I have it, of course, but this is a European version, the tracklist is different." He shows it off to everyone: the cover is of Greta standing in the middle of a sunflower field. It's very her. "And we saw the Notre Dame and we walked along the Seine and Ryan took me out for dinner and I had an oyster as an appetiser. An oyster! It was disgusting! I loved it!" When Sisky is finally done sharing details that are probably of little interest to others, he says, "What about you guys?"

"Uh, we were here," Jon says. "Giving interviews. We had, uh..."

"Fifteen," Brendon says, and his voice is scratchy and worn out like he's been speaking all day. I take a look at what he's drinking: tea with a lemon slice in it. A white jar of honey is next to his teacup.

"Fifteen interviews today."

"Wow," Sisky says. Yeah, wow. "But you don't mind one more?" he now asks and makes puppy eyes at Jon.

"At this point I'm numb, man. Numb. As long as you don't ask how this guy over here –" He points at me, "– has influenced His Side's music, I'm dandy. I won't even notice."

I keep my eyes on Brendon, who isn't paying much attention to the conversation. His cheeks are slightly rosy, and his eyes are glazed. In a word, he looks like shit. It's not very easy for someone as beautiful as him to manage that.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Hmm?" He blinks and looks at me. Then nods. "Yeah. Yeah, my throat just feels a bit..." He rubs his Adam's apple. "Dallon and I got caught in the rain last night. Maybe I caught something. It's not bad. I've got tea."

"I keep telling him to go sleep, but he insisted on waiting until – on keeping me company." Jon takes his gin to his lips, takes a gulp. I look between him and Brendon but don't know what to make of whatever brief silent exchange they do. Jon puts his drink down and dramatically slaps his thigh. "I'm ready to be interviewed, Sisky. I'm ready. Bring it on. Where we doing this?"

"My Dictaphone's in my room. I need to set it up first. Give me five minutes. I'm room…" He digs out a key from his pocket. Blinks. Flushes. "Uh. I'm 708." He clears his throat. "I forgot about that."

I think for a few seconds everyone avoids eye contact with everyone.

My own fault for writing such an honest song. Letting it all pour out.

That's another thing Brendon and I have never talked about: I put all of my embarrassingly honest yet crushed hopes of us into that song, and he's heard the lyrics, he's heard the song. But we've never talked about it. He and I, we just let these things slide.

"Okay, I'll be there in five," Jon says. Sisky picks up the LPs and his coat, smiling at us nervously as he heads back out. A waiter comes over, then, a white cloth over his arm, starched to perfection. I tell him I don't want anything while Jon hands him his empty glass. "You two had quite an outing," Jon then says, and I shrug. I suppose so, yeah. "You spoil him, you do know that, right?"

I shrug again. What's the point of having money if I can't make others happy with it? And I could start babbling about how Sisky's dad isn't around much at all, about how Sisky juggled high school and a job cleaning cinema bathrooms to have the money to go to Followers shows. He's never been to Paris – he might never come to Paris again. Give back a little is all I'm saying. Why not? But I don't need to justify myself to Jon or to anyone else.

"You know, about that interview," I then say, choosing my words carefully. "You don't have to answer anything you don't want to. If the kid gets too nosy, that is."

"I'm sure it'll be alright," Jon shrugs, waving it off.

"I'm just saying. Sisky can be very persistent."

Brendon takes a sip of his tea and then coughs slightly. He puts the tea down. The contrast between him, sitting here fatigued by travel and constant interviews, and the overly decorated bar is like watching a shaggy stray dog dining in a five star restaurant. We're all tired, and I've seen him tired, but this is the first time genuine worry for his well-being crosses my mind.

I've got half a mind to tell him to go to bed, to escort him to his room and make sure he does just that.

But what he does with his life isn't my business anymore.

"Just don't tell any overly embarrassing stories about me," I then tell Jon. "I've got a reputation to uphold."

"Oh, I can't promise that," Jon says as he and I both rise to stand.

"Jon can say whatever he wants," Brendon now cuts in. "Sisky adores you, so he'll still fawn all over you."

"Sorry?" I ask, unsure of how to react to the bitter edge in his words.

He shrugs to himself, not looking at me. "Love is not only blind, it's stupid as well."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You said that to me once," he states, but I don't care if I have – I don't see how he's in a position to comment on things he knows nothing of. I haven't said a word on him and Dallon and their incapability to keep their hands to themselves, and I won't say anything on it either. And then he- I don't even know. Starts being snarky about Sisky. He sighs heavily and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, it's been a long day. I think I'm coming down with something."

"Try to get some sleep," I tell him, and he nods, still not looking at me.

Jon follows me out of the bar, and together we wait for the elevator to arrive. "He's just tired," Jon explains. "He's so committed to this band that he does too much, you know? He's tired."

"Yeah."

But I'm not even angry. There is no sense to Brendon's remarks, and I don't take it personally. Of course love is stupid and blind, but how is that connected to Sisky interviewing Jon, I have no clue. But it feels like that wasn't about the kid, it felt like Brendon was ticked off at me. And this is the perfect opportunity for me to distance myself and not obsess over that. Not wonder why he'd be a bit testy when he and Dallon have finally consummated their relationship.

Now is a good time for me to change.

The elevator arrives, the doors opening. I stop. Find changing harder.

Dallon steps out, breaking into a smile. A spring in his step, joy in his heart. I fight off the dark dislike that erupts in me, the undeniable jealousy. "Is Bren at the bar?" he asks, and Jon nods in confirmation. Dallon smiles wider, gets this warm look in his eyes. Post-coital high. "Great. I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Don't stay up too late," Jon says fraternally, clearly clueless. Dallon and Brendon are keeping it on the down low. At least there's that.

Jon yawns when we step in and press the button for the seventh floor. I'm not as clueless as he is, but I push the thoughts and mental images out of my mind because I have to. I resist the urge to press the stop button although a part of me is desperate to do just that. Head back down there, storm right in and do what Sisky wanted me to do: stop two consenting adults. And why?

Because we are selfish creatures.

But I refrain. Breathe in.

Let this play out like it has to.

The following day we're back to doing what we do best: playing music.

We get to the venue in the afternoon and start getting ready for soundcheck. It's our first show in five days, and we feel nervous all over again, like maybe we've forgotten how to put on a good show. Jon talks about how tough Parisian crowds are as they don't warm up easily. The show isn't sold out either, although all the UK shows were after word got out that I was a touring member. "Paris isn't fazed by you," Jon says as we stand around on stage, waiting for Bob and Quentin to finish setting up the drum kit.

"I'm not fazed by Paris," I return, somewhat distracted.

This is half-true: Paris isn't as magical as it's claimed to be. Still, the venue did get to me a little bit. Outside it looks like a massive, mint coloured nineteenth century greenhouse fit for an empress's garden, glass on all sides. Inside it looks more like what we're used to: a large hall that fits a few thousand, a large stage at the back.

Mike keeps obsessing over ticket sales, and the guys are busy setting up the gear and triple checking what should be an automated process by now. I, however, keep glancing at Brendon. He's got his sunburst Les Paul hanging off of his lean form, and he's tuning it with a pick between his teeth, eyes on the pedal tuner amidst his other pedals. And it's a normal sight, nothing extraordinary there. Not really. Except that he looks even worse today than he did yesterday.

He coughs just then – it's a clean cough, it doesn't sound rough like the air has to fight its way out. But it's still strong, and then he can't stop. The pick drops from his lips, and he keeps coughing, eyes closing in irritation. His cheeks are a faint pink as his hand presses to his chest.

He keeps saying that it's nothing. He's loaded himself up with lemon-honey tea and some painkillers, but he refuses to take anything that might make him drowsy for the show. Out of the entire crew, I think only Jon, Dallon and I are expressing the right amount of concern for his health.

"Hey, can we get some water?" I now ask a venue worker who's been setting the stage lights. "Water?" I repeat and motion at Brendon who's still coughing. The big guy nods and takes off.

Jon's walked over to Brendon and is now gently patting his back. "You alright, bud?"

Brendon manages to stop the coughing, having doubled over slightly. He stands straighter, takes deep breaths and nods excessively. "Yeah. It just – My throat hurts. I'm fine. It's nothing."

"Is it a cold?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"I'm fine."

"Does anything else hurt?"

"Ryan," he says. "I'm fine. Really."

He glares at me, but I'm not convinced. I've seen him flushed like this before but that was after two rounds of sex and involved getting him off three times. His skin was pink like it is now and looked overly warm. I walk over and press my palm to his forehead. He flinches and then recoils, instantly stepping back.

"You're burning up."

"I'm fine."

"You've got a fever," I state seriously, now looking around. "Where's Mike? We need to cancel the show. We'll get you back to the hotel and –"

"Would you shut up?" he snaps angrily. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all! We're certainly not cancelling a fucking show just because my throat is a bit sore."

"But –"

"I'm the leader of this fucking band, and we're not discussing this anymore! Is that understood?"

He stares me down defiantly. I back down. Fine, be that way. Fine. Stupid fucking boy. I return his glare with one of my own, but the worry is lodged in my throat and unwilling to move.

Brendon reluctantly and slowly drinks the water brought by the light technician and doesn't even look my way for the rest of the soundcheck.

He doesn't look any better later when we're about to go on. We've changed into our stage clothes and are good to go, and when we gather in a circle for a pre-show prep talk, my hand lands over Brendon's when we put them in the middle. The back of his hand feels hot, but he's no longer flushed: instead he is pale and looks visibly ill.

Jon notices his appearance too and says, "You take it easy out there tonight."

I almost cringe. God, that is not what he should have said. And I can see it in Brendon's eyes, his reaction to Jon's concern: the hell I will.

Offstage Brendon looks nauseous, he is shivering, but he's been snapping at everyone so no one dares to say a thing. Dallon keeps hovering around him, though, and Brendon lets him come close. Not anyone else.

But once we get on stage, he appears almost the same. Almost. He takes the mic defiantly, even, speaks some French that I now know Dallon's taught him – all that French Brendon said in Montreal? Dallon at work.

The crowd is into it, considering they're snobby Parisians. And Brendon entertains, sinks down to his knees to sing the high, high last note of Wandering Lips, which might be a song about Brendon and me but – I've never asked. It's poppy, the song, about sex and some betrayal.

But between songs, Brendon clings onto the microphone stand, head drooping. He almost sways like it's hard for him to keep his balance, but then he shakes it off. He forgets some lyrics, but he manages to cover it up some. And when he sings Unsteady, he doesn't go over to Dallon to seductively share the mic and to tell Dallon that he tastes like no one else he knows – which is fact for the first time tonight. But now Brendon stays by the microphone stand, holding onto it. It's hard for me to play because I keep watching him with growing concern. He takes time between songs, breathing hard like he's running out of breath.

Even so, he doesn't stop. He struggles through it – he has good and bad moments.

Finally we kick into the slow tempoed Evidently Ours, the last song before the encore. It hasn't been a good show. Brendon hasn't done a good job, I haven't done a good job – none of us have. It reflects on the crowd, too, they seem stilted and unreceptive, apart from the dedicated ones that are in the front rows.

When the song comes to an end, Brendon lifts a hand in greeting for the crowd, but then it drops like he doesn't have the energy to keep it up. I hastily discard my guitar, putting it down on the floor too quickly, and it bangs against the stage and the sound echoes through the amplifiers, an angry hiss that hurts my ears.

"You alright?" I ask the second Brendon's reached me. I try to speak over the screaming crowd. He nods, swallowing hard. He's shivering. Adrenalin or maybe not. Even his lips are chalk coloured, the skin around his eyes red. He's covered in sweat from the show and the hot spotlights, and the contrast of that to his paleness is off, doesn't follow.

"I'm fine," he says, and then repeats, "I'm fine," when Dallon joins us, looking pale himself but only from worry. Dallon places a hand between Brendon's shoulder blades.

Mike is waiting for us offstage. "Bren, shit, are you okay?"

It seems like the half-assed show has been enough to make even Mike worry. Brendon presses a palm to his temple like he's got a splitting headache, his eyes screwed shut even as he nods that he's fine.

Mike calls out, "Someone get him some water!"

Sisky runs off instantly. Quentin, Leo and Dick are on stage, getting it ready for the encore as the crowd chants for us to return.

Jon and Bob have now joined us too, and hands land on Brendon's shoulders, sympathy and concern. He brushes them off. "Stop fucking crowding me!" he snaps and walks away from us, holding his head, shaking it like he's trying to snap out of it.

Sisky returns with a glass of water, and Dallon automatically takes it. I need to force myself to keep my arm by my side because I wanted to go for the glass, I wanted to take over and take care of him, but – but I guess that's what the boyfriend does, and that's not me. Dallon goes over to Brendon while the rest of us look at one another worriedly, sighing, chewing our lips, unsure of what to do.

Dallon soon returns, the glass still with him and still full. "He doesn't want any, says it hurts to swallow," he explains. His ineptitude astounds me.

I look to where Brendon is standing by himself, rocking back and forth slightly, mumbling to himself – lyrics if I had to guess, remember the lyrics and don't fuck up again.

"Let me," I say because doesn't Dallon get that it's not about what Brendon fucking wants. And I know it's his place now, not mine, but Brendon's ill, and am I – Fuck, am I expected to just stand here and do nothing?

I can't do that.

And so I take the glass from Dallon, and I quickly walk over to Brendon. "Drink this," I say, and he shakes his head. "Fucking drink it!"

He shakes his head again but then looks towards the stage. His eyes are glazed. "What songs are we doing for the encore?" he asks, voice husky. "T-The, uh. I don't. I don't remember what we've played..."

The encore is always the same: the roadies get the keyboards out, so first we play A Re-enactment, a hauntingly, painfully and brutally honest song that could be about anyone, really, any love he's ever had when he sings "heaven is a place on earth with you" but it's mixed with pain and loss. Then we finish the show off with It Comes, It Goes, Brendon still on the keyboards.

It's the same every night, and now he claims not to know it.

"Just drink the water." And I grab his hand and push the glass into it. He seems confused. I let go of the glass. He hasn't tightened his grip of it, and it falls right to the floor, splattering water all over our shoes although it doesn't break. "Oh, great!" I snap, backing away from the mess. "You're so fucking –"

But then he's not standing.

He's collapsing.

"Brendon!"

I catch him – barely, just, get an arm around his middle, but he's a dead weight. I pull him to my chest but the impact of him going down makes me sink down to my knees with him. "Bren?! Bren, fuck –"

I turn him to face me, his upper back against my thighs. His eyes are closed. His head is lolled to the side. I grip his forearms and shake him, rattle him, repeat his name. The others are rushing over, but Brendon doesn't react to their voices, nor mine, doesn't respond to my touch, and I can't – breathe, I can't, I –

Someone says my name, but it's so far away.

He's not waking up.