Content warning for this chapter: strong language, alcohol consumption, blatant homophobia

Chapter 2: A Machine for the Music Industry

Quinn is sitting on my bed in my boxers and t-shirt. She hasn't brushed her hair, and it falls in a tangled, blonde mess around her face. Her eyes are bigger than they usually are, her lower lip jutted out in a pout. A man weaker than I would have melted already.

"I'll be so bored," she exclaims.

"I'll be bored too," I tell her and throw my last pair of socks in the suitcase.

"You'll be on tour. I've been on tour, I know what it's like," she insists. But this won't be one of those tours I used to enjoy, hang out at the bar, jump on stage from the midst of a crowd. And it won't be the ones she has made cameos on, living on the bus for three or four days and hanging out with the bands she is friends with. This is venue security, classified schedules and impersonality taken to new extremes. They all want a piece of us. Now, we're famous.

"Get dressed," I tell her, going to the kitchen to empty the fridge of anything that is likely to go off while I'm away. I stop at the bedroom doorway after I'm done, and I watch her put on a bright green dress that stops above the knees. No bra, of course; she has burnt all of hers.

Quinn grudgingly helps me carry one of my two suitcases. The taxi is waiting for me downstairs, ready to take me to the airport where I will be reunited with the band. The crew is already in Minnesota where we kick off, getting everything ready for tomorrow night. Quinn sighs and chews on her bottom lip. I open my arms. She presses her head against my head and wraps her tiny arms around my middle. Will she really miss me? Would I really want her to? My chin leans on the top of her head, and I look down my street blindly as my better half says something.

"Huh?"

"Who's Lucy?" she repeats. "Puck said that you named the tour, so who is she?"

"Puck said?" I repeat skeptically. "When did you hang out with him?" She shrugs in response, and I shrug back, both of our answers locked away in our brains where we don't share. The taxi driver gets out of the car and points at his wristwatch. I sigh. "Gotta go, babe."

Quinn lets go of me. "I love you."

"You too," I say easily. Too easily.

She smiles brightly, and I give her a soft kiss. Then we are separated by the window of the car, and she waves me off before turning around. Her step isn't heavier than it normally is. The taxi gains speed and the driver asks, "Was that your wife?"

I suppress a spontaneous laugh. "No."

"Fiancée?"

"My girlfriend. Occasionally."

"Oh." The man sounds disapproving, but he's an old guy, almost fifty. God forbid us young people, kissing in the streets, fucking in the bushes, growing long hair, wearing tight clothes and listening to that goddamned rock and roll. God forbid us.

After two blocks, it gets harder for me to remember the details of Quinn's face. She is most likely realizing the same about me.

We get to our hotel in St. Paul late afternoon. The venue is on the other side of town, but our tour bus is parked two blocks from the hotel. Seb is organizing a huge pre-tour party in his hotel room, starting now, but I decide to skip it. Why be hung-over tomorrow? I definitely do not want to be in worse shape than I will be.

Instead, I decide to acquaint myself with my home for the next three months. Bigger label means more money, and more money means a better bus. It's not hard to top the piece of shit we used to tour with, but my expectations are exceeded when I round the corner and spot our bus. It's brand new and looks like a metal box with a smooth, blue panel on both sides. Small windows decorate the sides of the bus from the front to the middle where they suddenly stop. I figure it's where the sleeping area must start. To my surprise, Ryder is standing by the bus door, rubbing the metal surface with his sleeve. His bell bottom jeans are flipping in the wind as I make my way over.

"Hey."

Ryder swirls around, lifting his huge sunglasses up his forehead, pushing his hair back. His smirk spreads from his eyes to his mouth and cheeks. "Hey! Just polishing her up," he says adoringly, casting the bus a look he would give to his lover. "Groovy, ain't she? Come on, have a look," Ryder urges. I lift a skeptical eyebrow. He is being far too nice to me when we both know that the dislike is mutual. "Come on! I've got a surprise for you in the back."

"A one-way ticket to Hawai'i?" I ask and fake a laugh, and Ryder imitates me.

"So funny, Blaine. Ah, you're a kidder." He wipes his eyes.

I get on the bus, passing the empty driver's seat. Ryder gets on the bus after me, and I can feel the slight tilt of our weight. I push a thin curtain aside that can give the driver privacy when driving and am instantly in the lounge area. Ryder eagerly shows me around, explaining how we can hang out on the couches or on the two armchairs with the table in between, perfect for card games to kill time or a nocturnal snack in between cities. The couches and chairs are yellow with orange polka dots while the walls are light green. Needless to say, Ryder had a hand in this. Nonetheless, I make approving sounds. A couch on a bus? Insane. We only had normal seats the last time.

I pass the tiny kitchen counter and fridge, which is small but should fit a few beers. That's the latest technology right there. So far, the bus is liveable and downright luxurious. The bathroom is microscopic, but the toilet flushes, which is more than I can say about our last bus. We have clearly hit it big time – everything about the new, modern bus says so.

"The guys decided their bunks yet?" I ask.

"They haven't checked out the bus. They said they would, but…" Ryder looks like a kid whose friends didn't show up to his birthday party after all.

"Oh, yeah. Seb is having a party in his room. I imagine he has ordered alcohol for over a hundred bucks by now," I mutter, and Ryder goes two shades paler. "Let's hope they don't trash the place," I add with a smile that is practically frolicking in Ryder's sudden anguish. He obsesses over every cent. Cheap bastard.

I open the door to the bunks and stop in my inspection. A young man with light brown hair stands in the narrow pathway. He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder and says, "Hey." My ears perk at the sound of his voice, it's melodic and awfully high pitched for a man. My breath hitches at the color of his eyes. I can't decide what color they are; they look too blue to be gray but too green to be blue. He has an almost too angelic face, with beautifully shaped lips that are slightly too thin, a slightly upturned nose that doesn't quite fit his face, but neither feature does anything except enhance the grace of his face. I've never seen him before. He is roughly my age and a bit taller than me, which is not uncommon. I can't decide if he has muscle or not: he seems to have strong arms and shoulders, but his overall impression is lean with a narrow waist. His tight clothes only support the impression as the shirt stops two inches before his jeans start. I don't get the latest fashion at all.

The man draws shut a bunk curtain and wipes his hands to the back of his tight jeans.

"Hey," I return, the question of 'and you are?' clear in my voice.

"Blaine, this is Kurt, Artie's replacement. Kurt, this is Blaine," Ryder explains, and yeah, figures. This is Mason's friend. I conclude that he is too skinny. How is he expected to lift and shift and push and pull hardcases filled with amps, drums, and guitars all day long?

"The singer, right?" Kurt clarifies and offers his hand. I take it.

"It's my band," I shrug, regardless of what Sebastian might say. It's my music. Don't try taking it from me.

"Groovy," Kurt nods, eyeing between me and Ryder. "Well, I'm late for the party," he says, a cue stating that he wants to leave. We give him space, and he squeezes past.

I look after him, feeling just the tiniest bit confused. Kurt looks nothing like any roadie I've worked with or seen before. Where was the beard? The rock 'n roll hair? I don't go for "the bigger, the better" hair policy that is so popular in our scene, but that is because my curls would be too wild to pull it off. Kurt's hair was neatly styled.

Ryder walks to the door at the back of the bunks while I add things up. Eight bunks, four on each side. Four band members, one tour manager, four roadies. There isn't enough room.

"How exactly –"

Ryder opens the backdoor, revealing what is best described as a nest of sorts. I snake past Ryder to the small back lounge, taking one step from the door before standing by the side of a double bed that is surrounded by the bus on three sides. It looks cozy with huge, red pillows and blankets, and Ryder puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "No bunk for you. You sleep right here in the queen-sized bed."

Because I am not like the rest of the band. I'm in the lead: I'm special. I'm the stubborn star Ryder has been trying to polish.

He is trying to make me forgive him for our fifty-five-show tour. And what's worse, it's working. I hate bunks. He knows that, the sly bastard. In bunks, I toss and turn and bang my head to the ceiling, wake up covered in bruises.

"It's almost like having your own room," Ryder enthuses. "A groovy, big bed, you get all the privacy you want and a good night's rest. Not like Quinn will be here, right?"

"Yeah."

I had actually worried about how I'd get laid on this bus. Now I know.

"The other guys will be furious that I've got my own room," I point out even as I salivate over the thought. Maybe I deserve this. I have far more pressure on me than the other guys. They don't get what it's like.

"I'll talk to them. You just leave it up to me," Ryder says in his I-can-fix-anything voice. "You'll even enjoy this tour. You'll see."

He's even more disillusioned than he has been.

Civic Center, St. Paul, Minnesota. The show is not quite sold out. Ryder says it was a close call.

Our support band is some Midwestern promise for the music world. I follow them from the side stage for a while as the energetic singer takes a hold of the microphone and shouts, "Fuck the war!" The crowd roars like his words are new when they are not. The war has been over for a few years, a handful of troops still lingering in Vietnam. We need something new to fight for, but no one seems to be coming up with anything. I am sure most of the roaring is from the enthusiasm that the singer said the F word.

Music and politics. It's not a good idea to mix them.

"What do you think?" Beiste asks from beside me, and I shrug.

"A bit pretentious. A bit insincere."

"About the crowd," he laughs, and I force my eyes to the right where I see a row of people, then another, another, and then the venue opens up like the open sea, endlessly fading into black. I make my way back to the dressing room, where the rest of the band is getting ready. Seb is my opposite in many ways, and over the five years that we have been in this band, Seb has made friends in every state of this country. He surrounds himself with people, and he invites these admirers backstage in every city, so even now the dressing room is full of people I don't know with backstage stickers glued to their shirts and jeans.

"Ryder," I call out, and Ryder reads my expression easily enough. He looks torn between pleasing me and pleasing Seb, but two minutes later, the room is void of freeloaders. Seb doesn't mind for once as he too wants to get ready to go on. It's the first night. That counts. He, Puck, and Nick are all hungover.

I didn't drink last night, but I'll drink now. I block out the voices, laughter, excitement and nervousness, take sips from the wine bottle and stare at our setlist. Maybe the order isn't good. Maybe we got it all wrong.

"Blaine."

"Huh?" I look up and see Kurt. He is holding out his hand with an unsure smile. I blink. His smile.

"I need the setlist?"

"Right." I pass it to him, and he rushes out of the room as Mason nearly squeals, "Can I please, please be the one-two-three guy?"

Nick is putting on his stage clothes: jeans, t-shirt, vest and bandanna. Seb is always the most extravagant, and tonight, he is wearing a one-piece with a V-cut so deep it almost goes to his belly button. At least he waxes his chest hair, thank god. Puck's going on in a suit. Ryder is calling out encouragements, and back in the hall, the crowd is cheering and chanting loud enough for us to hear. My breathing is shallow as I hear the increased pace of my heartbeat soaring in my ears. One down, fifty-four to go. After tonight, it'll be one down.

Mason comes back, a big grin on his face. "Five minutes! I'll keep an eye on you from the back!" Mason is taking care of the merch, and he gives us a thumbs up and leaves.

I keep studying the backstage pass I have hanging around my neck, examining the font spelling out The Warblers and Lucy, Me and This Lady, brushing my thumb over 'all access.' Ryder keeps telling us not to lose these. It's a crown of sorts, a shield and a sword, but somehow, it still feels like an iron chain around my neck, pulling me down.

Ryder hurdles us together for a big pep talk. I don't listen, but I put my hand in the middle with the others. Then something weird happens: I slide to the back of my head. My eyes become a cinema screen, and I take a comfortable seat in the back of my brain, tilt the chair backwards, reach for the popcorn. On the screen is a corridor, then another, a flight of stairs, Nick's back, sudden lights. The side of a stage, screaming fans in the distance, a halt, Matt and Beiste are smiling at the screen, encouraging, and the ear-wrenching noise is muffled as the halt is over, and the camera flips down, shows my shoes walking, which is funny because I am in my brain cinema and not walking on stage. That is not me; that's somebody else. That's a machine for the music industry.

A microphone. A funny metal ball with a thousand little holes, and it comes closer to the screen. A voice says, "Good evening, St. Paul," speaking into it. A girl in the front row stretches out both arms and screams, "BLAINE!"

Instantaneously, I am pulled from my chair and onto the floor of my brain, and I struggle in vain, kick the air and scream as invisible hands take a hold of my collar and drag and drag and drag me, throw me at the cinema screen, and I fall right through.

I am on stage in front of thousands, people stretching far to my right and far to my left, and right ahead of me until they get eaten by the dark. The lights are hot. I've got a guitar around me, providing a very thin layer of protection. How did I get here?

Nick yells, "One-two, one-two-three-four –"

Play. Just play. You know how to.

I let myself slip into automatic, managing to do it out of sheer horror. After the first two songs, it becomes nothing more than a painful, sickening throb in my guts.

I resent the audience.

Luckily, we all have certain roles on stage that we are known for. Seb is the entertainer who jumps with his guitar, throws it up into the air, entertains, spins around like mad. I'm famous for my lack of interaction, for being stoic and solemn. The reviews say it's my thing. Puck is from between the two of us, rocking out with Seb sometimes, coming up to me to share the mic and shout into it. Nick can hide behind his drum kit. I should've been a drummer.

I close my eyes and pretend that the audience is not there, turn around to play the guitar to Nick, who bangs, and breaks two drumsticks, beats the shit out of the drums like his life depends on it. Knowing him, he probably believes it does. Sweat rolls down from under his red bandanna, hair stuck to his neck. Eventually, he crashes the cymbal, and the song is at an end.

Six thousand people behind me roar. I walk to the drum kit, take a glass of water from the stage floor and pour its contents over my head. It soaks my shirt, and Nick grins at me. The water lands on the guitar too. Sadly, I do not get electrocuted.

"Blaine."

I look to my side and focus on Matt. His hair has gotten even frizzier as he sweats in the heat of the stage lights. He is offering me a guitar with a hand, and I quickly walk back to the mic, step on two effect pedals to turn them off and unplug my Telecaster before giving it to him. I plug in the new one, check the tuning, and it's just me and the instrument as I make sure everything is ready. The audience keeps clapping, as if beckoning me to play, to do something exciting, give them their money's worth.

I strum the start of the next song. They recognize it, and the girls scream while the boys shout.

Puck is at the piano, and I can hear my guitar through the amps, the way it buzzes like a live wire, angry and demanding.

At the side of the stage, the crew is watching. Ryder has his arms crossed, his shoulder tense. He is waiting for me to break down or storm off. Matt is nodding his head to the beat while Beiste is eyeing the audience. I know Mason is somewhere around, making sure the venue workers are selling the merch at the right prices.

The new guy, Kurt, is reading a book.

My eyes fix on him.

It's the first night on tour. We are the most exciting band around, and all these fans paid to see us. We are famous. And there's this guy, a guy who is getting paid to stand there, the best place to watch us perform, and…he is reading a book.

It takes me half of the song to remember what the hell I'm even supposed to be doing.

I wait around outside the dressing room, nodding as the crew heads back for the bus. The backstage area is full of people, all saying hi to me as they walk past with slightly hopeful smiles like I'll indicate I want to start a conversation. I don't.

"I just gotta," I mumble and wave my hands around, and no one stops to ask me, "What?" One brush off from me is enough. Ryder simply reminds me we have to leave in twenty and warns me of the aficionados waiting outside the venue. Beiste offers to play the bodyguard since Ryder is convinced they want me to place my hands above their heads and bless them, or quite possibly impregnate them. I can take on a few fans. I think.

My calloused fingertips ache from the show. I can see bits of black on them from the dirty strings. I should have practiced more to prepare myself for the tour, but we hardly did more work than the crew practice. We didn't exactly want to lock ourselves up in a small room with each other.

I hear movement in the dressing room, and I take a breath and go in. Kurt is by the dressing tables, and he looks up, our eyes meeting in the mirror. He's just come from the shower, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist.

"Hey," I say, and he turns around, tightening the towel with uncertain movements.

"Hi. Uh, I thought –"

"I was wondering," I begin, not understanding why he is acting so flustered when he doesn't even know what I am going to say. "What were you reading?"

Kurt blinks at me. "Sorry?"

"Tonight. During the show." A slight red emerges on Kurt's cheeks as he opens his mouth without anything coming out. "I saw you," I cut in.

"Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises."

I lost to an alcoholic wannabe fisherman who spent his golden years drinking pina coladas in Key West before shooting his brains out. "What's the book about?" I ask.

Kurt shrugs. "This American guy who lives in Paris. He loves a woman, who doesn't love him back. Or, well, I think she loves him. She just doesn't love him enough to care, and he knows that."

For a moment, I think he is describing a very saccharine and romanticized version of my current relationship before my own ridiculousness dawns of me. Want of love is not love.

"You know you're supposed to be paying attention during the shows. A mic stand might fall over, a string might break," I list, and don't mention how, tragic love story or not, I should still be more captivating than a dusty book. They said we had an amazing first show. I was there, I don't know, but that's what they said.

Kurt mutters, "Sorry."

I look around the dressing room. It's a mess now that we've had our way with it. Empty beer bottles, bits of food, one emotionally fucked up front man and a roadie who obviously can't be bothered.

"You ever been a roadie before?"

Kurt shakes his head. "Used to work at a venue back in San Francisco. This is my first tour, though."

"You live in San Francisco?" I ask, and he nods. I let my shoulders drop as I remember that we both have to make bus call. "Just pay a bit more attention, alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Come on, then. Don't wanna be late."

Kurt searches for his clothes, and I turn around as he gets dressed. He checks the dressing room one last time to make sure no one has forgotten anything, and a venue worker shows us to the back door. The place is too big for us to be able to figure it out for ourselves.

The fans are waiting outside, just like Ryder said they would be. I feel myself tensing up at the sight of them. There are far more than I had expected. I thought there'd be a couple like we had on our last tour, but there must be nearly twenty of them. Kurt and I both freeze, and my eyes frantically look around for an escape that isn't there.

"Blaine!"

I will never get used to random people knowing my name. Twenty people let out an excited squeal and rush over, a mob suddenly surrounding us. The one who gets to me first, the ginger haired one, says, "Can I shake your hand?"

"Sure."

"That was a beautiful show. That was –"

"The new album is amazing –"

"Your music is –"

"Thanks, that's nice. Thanks for coming out. Yeah." I speak to everyone and no one at all. They are all speaking at the same time. One girl stands in the back and stares at me with watery eyes. Someone touches my shoulder, someone my wrist, coming in closer and closer. I try to take steps back to no avail. Someone is snapping pictures of me.

"I'm coming to the next four shows! Would come to more, but I ran out of money."

I laugh uncomfortably and sign his copy of Boneless, where Puck, Seb and Nick's autographs already are, smearing the cover art of the LP. Quinn designed it. She's an artist and perfectly unknown, not counting the fame she gets for fucking me. She is an artist, and she has her privacy, and she wants to get rid of it so badly. Stupid woman.

I mutter, "It's gonna be the same show tomorrow night. You'll be wasting your time…"

"Hardly!" he enthuses.

I can't come up with anything to say. "What do you think of St. Paul?" someone shouts.

Nothing. I've seen the tour bus, one diner, one hotel room. I think nothing of it.

"It's, yeah…lovely place."

A girl smiles appreciatively, her eyes shining. They are pushing and shoving each other, and I feel more terrified by the second.

"Blaine, man, can I just ask –"

A hand lands on my shoulder, but it's not trying to devour me, it's trying to balance me. "I'm really sorry, but we have to get going now," Kurt says firmly in a 'don't mess with me' voice that sounds like it belongs to a man much taller and larger and more threatening than him. I didn't think his voice could go that low.

"What? No, wait –"

"Step back, please!" Kurt orders. I shrug as an apology without being sorry at all, and Kurt firmly pulls me with him. He starts to walk behind me, hand on my shoulder, leading me away. The fans follow us. "Bye, Blaine!" "See you tomorrow night!" "Love you, man!" "I love you!" Kurt has to ask them to step back a second time as we take hurried steps and I hang my head, clearly thinking with an ostrich's logic that hiding my head will make the rest of me vanish too. Kurt lets go when the distance is safe enough.

I mutter, "Thanks."

"No probs," Kurt says as we reach the bus. The thought of an actual bodyguard seems exaggerated, but with every day, I slowly realize how huge our band has become. I should let Beiste play the angry dog with a tendency to bite. "Shit, those guys were insane. Looked at you like God."

"I am God. To them," I amend.

Kurt shakes his head in disbelief, but I don't share his shock. I don't want him to see that, for a second there, I got damn scared.

"Are you always that awkward with your fans?"

"I wasn't awkward," I protest, now fumbling in my pockets for a cigarette. I offer him one, but he refuses. After one puff, I nod, "Yeah, I am."

Kurt laughs. "Figured."

We get on the bus, and I give St. Paul one last look over my shoulder. The fans are still lingering around, perhaps praying that I will come back to their temple to be worshipped.

"Another beer, come on!"

Matt pushes the fridge door shut with his leg, and the guys cheer as his arms are filled with more bottles. The entire front lounge smells of weed as we're crossing the state line between Minnesota and Wisconsin. I should be sleeping, but it's the first night. You always stay up on the first night of tour. It's essential for the crew to bond so that we can have a laugh for the three weeks. After that start the fights and the moans about missing everyone back home. Someone threatens to quit until Ryder manages to intervene. Maybe someone will actually quit this time.

Seb, the insane fucker, is driving. We don't have to drive when there are four roadies to take shifts for us, but he insisted on it. Something about him, night-time radio and the open road. I'm surprised by his act of his kindness. He firmly said that he was too big a star to drive the bus or van anymore, so I take his driving to mean he's fucking furious about something and thinks it's best not to be in the same room with anyone. The rest of us have crammed into the lounge area, which manages to seat the eight of us and even leaves the room for more. Ryder is going through paperwork by the table, having difficulty stepping out of his managerial role. He only looks up to make sure we're not making a mess.

Kurt has his Hemingway on his lap, but he's not reading it. Maybe he is waiting for the conversation to get boring.

"A toast!" Puck insists, and we all lift our drinks. "To the amazing, fabulous, fucking rocking Lucy, Me and This Lady '74 tour!" The guys cheer and drink up. I take a sip of my beer, feel the cool glass against my lips.

"B," Beiste asks, and I hum and stare at the mouth of my beer bottle. "Why didn't you bring Quinn on tour, man?"

I snort. "As if I would when I know you want to put it in her." The guys laugh, even Beiste. He knows how to laugh at the truth when I present it to him. "Quinn is coming to New York," add in.

Nick joins in with, "Quinn and Beiste, sitting in a tree…"

"Sounds cute," Matt grins. "Valerie was pissed as fuck that I'd be gone for most of the summer. She's convinced I'm gonna bang a groupie. What groupie? Where? I'm not even in the fucking band!"

Nick grins. "We were in Minnesota, man. The ladies will come a-rollin' when we find some that meet our standards." Nick speaks like an expert though he never fucks any of them. He stopped when he met that girl. Here's hoping he will start again. It'll do him good.

"Yeah, they'll all probably look like a lot like Quinn," Beiste retorts, and I give him the middle finger with a sweet smile as the guys laugh.

Puck, of all people, says, "Come on, don't talk about Quinn like that." I appreciate the support of not having my whatever-she-is labeled as cheap, even if Puck is the brightest chauvinist in the room, which is exactly what Quinn hates about most men, myself probably included. Puck asks, "What about you?" He is addressing Kurt. "You got a girl back home?"

"I'm single," Kurt says, speaking for the first time in a while.

Matt nods approvingly. "Good, that's –"

"And I'm gay."

Ryder's head lifts from the paperwork in the blink of an eye. The chattering dies.

Kurt's lips press together as he scratches the side of his head. "I don't think Mason told you guys about that."

Puck shakes his head a little. I turn to Mason, who, if someone had to be, should be the gay guy in the room. Mason wears his heart on his sleeve, is easy to get upset, is easy to forgive. He often acts like it's the end of the world when it's just a delay with our arrival to a venue, the drama swelling up to phenomenal levels. He talks with his hands, obsesses over his hair, and despite all this, he at least claims to be a straight man. And he never told us that the guy he recommended was gay. He never said a word of it.

"Well," Mason begins to fill the silence, "it's not like it makes a difference." Pause. "Right?"

I quickly try to figure out what the odds of getting sexually assaulted by Kurt are. I could take him on.

"No, yeah." "Of course not." "Right, sure." "Yeah." Our voices are mumbled, seeking to be more liberal than truly accepting. Mason is looking at us all with big eyes, and I can almost see his left eyebrow twitching as he slowly works himself up to a scene. So Kurt fucks guys. Some guys do.

Kurt looks me straight in the eye, and I look away.

Ryder can sense that Mason is about to freak out and asks, "So, Kurt. No boyfriend or…or anything or?"

I am relatively sure there are too many "or's" in the question. Mason leans back and lets out a breath. Thank god we managed to stop that one.

"I'm young, I'm cute, and I live in the Castro. I'm not looking for anything, definitely not to settle down."

"Very sensible," Matt grants him. It takes a group effort from Nick and Beiste to direct the conversation elsewhere. Kurt and Mason go to their bunks shortly after, Mason with the excuse that he needs to take a nap before he starts driving. He probably wants to calm down or vent to Kurt in private. Seb pulls up to a stop, and most of us scramble out of the bus and into the night air.

"You don't think he and Mason…?" Puck trails off as we sit in the all-night diner. I sit in my booth and scribble down in my notebook. The waitress comes around, but I decline the coffee with a shake of my head. I plan to retire to my glorious nest once we get back on the bus. Seb glances at me with a dirty look, and now I know it's me he is avoiding. Great, what did I do this time?

Beiste says, "I hope not."

I don't look up but listen in with a half-interested ear. I doubt they are fucking. I've seen Mason with women. They both live in San Francisco, and Kurt said something about having worked in a venue. Mason has worked at the Winterland Ballroom. It's the only connection I can come up with.

Seb asks, "So he actually said that he's cute? Jeez."

"I can see it," Nick says, and I look up to watch the back of his head. "I can see why gay guys would find him attractive. He's pretty feminine physically, his ass is like a girl's, then hips and all. And his voice."

Puck snorts. "Someone's been watching."

"I just made an observation," Nick says calmly, and I recognize the tone as one that leaves no room for suggestive remarks. It's not really fair to be talking about Kurt behind his back like this, but the news is far too juicy to pass.

"Shit," Seb gasps suddenly. "Does this mean I have to stop walking around the bus in my underwear?"

The guys start laughing, and I take my pen and notebook and head back out as my friends argue which one of them Kurt will try to molest.

"Yo, B," Seb calls out. "Is your highness going back to his exclusive tour bus boudoir?"

I fucking told Ryder it wouldn't go down well. I told him. But Seb doesn't understand.

"Yeah, I am."

"Well, have fun now," Seb says and sips his coffee, asking Nick something as they all proceed to ignore me.

The night is not as warm as it would be back home, but the stars seem much brighter. The June wind blows in the pine trees, and a car drives down the road, headlights appearing disappearing from sight. It's quiet and I'm alone, something I know won't happen a lot for the rest of the summer.

I make my way to back to the bus, and for a moment, I let myself be the random guy with a guitar who wrote a few songs. It's what I ultimately am.

Kurt emerges from the bus bathroom wearing a faded white t-shirt and grey boxers with a toothbrush in his mouth just as I head for the bunks. I say a simple, "Goodnight," and he waves his hand, hair sticking out in random places.

I get why he was flustered when I barged in while he was barely dressed. I thought nothing of it, but if he's a homosexual, he would perceive the situation entirely differently.

It's a strange thought.