Content warning for this chapter: strong language, weed and alcohol consumption, homophobia (including the f-slur), mentions of child/domestic abuse (nothing graphic)

Chapter 3: The Conscience

In Chicago, we are playing three sold out shows in a row, so we temporarily move into a hotel. I have an interview on our first day there, and Ryder barges into my room at eight-thirty, kicks me out of bed, and sends home one of the girls that was lingering outside the hotel last night, waiting for us to arrive. I head for a shower to save myself from having to say goodbye to her. I don't feel guilty, not exactly, but maybe I just expected myself to resist temptation for a week at least.

An hour later, and I am dressed and fed, and Pete is leading me down the hotel stairs. I say, "I don't want to."

"You have to," Ryder retorts. "They want to put you on the cover."

"See, we've already been on the cover of The Rolling Stone, so it all just feels pretty anticlimactic after that. Besides, I think Creem is a shit magazine for pretentious assholes."

"Right up your street then."

"Fuck you."

We walk down a hotel corridor to a small conference room or another. Ryder has a hand on my back, pushing. If you asked him, he'd say guiding.

"They gave the new record a fucking amazing review, so you better go in there and talk about your music. We've got a photo shoot at noon. A car is picking us up. Oh, and did I tell you Boneless is number one on Billboard's LPs and Tapes chart for the third week running?"

"Yay," I mutter unenthusiastically. It makes me uncomfortable to know that many people are now listening to my darkest secrets. I asked for it, didn't I?

The interviewer is a guy in his late thirties. He is wearing sunglasses inside. Idiot. He has a wooden necklace tied twice around his neck, undoubtedly a souvenir of his hippie times. What does a former tambourine banging hippie know about rock?

A lot, as it turns out.

"How do you perceive the accessibility of your music?" he asks three minutes in. The tape recorder is on the table between us, and I can see the two small reels beneath the see-through cover. He extends the tiny microphone towards me. I take a moment to pour myself a glass of water, take a sip, swallow it down. The interviewer keeps the bottom end of a pen between his lips, a curious look on his face.

"I don't think it's inaccessible if you look at the number of copies we've sold," I eventually say. He hums and looks at me, silently signaling for me to continue. I stare back.

He starts again. "The opening track of the new record is a ten-minute song that starts loudly and ends quietly, which is the reversal of the usual rock song. What motivated you toward this approach? Are you, perhaps, seeking to surprise the listener?"

"No. It just sounded good to me."

I lace my fingers together on the table. I can see the interviewer getting more and more frustrated by the second. They always hate me, squeeze me like a lemon to try and get every drop out, but I'm as dry as the desert. I already poured it all out. Listen to the damn music, will you?

"The lyrics, which you write, are often cryptic and obscure. For instance, the song Less Than Graceful –"

"That song is about a ten-year-old girl who sees her father get shot," I supply seamlessly before realizing I made a mistake by cutting short the interviewer. They hate that. Ryder will strangle me, and I will let him, happy that this is finally over. I take in a deep breath and decide to indulge this fucker. "I don't make music for it to be accessible, and neither do I think my song choices necessarily are something listeners can relate to. I've never been a ten-year-old girl, and my father has never been shot in front of me either. But listeners can sympathize with stories and allegories that, to me, say something about the world which I live in. The music is loud, angry, sad, and it's quiet too at times, and that's how it should be: alive. And I believe that our fans can feel that when they put on a Warblers record. They feel alive. And that's what makes the music accessible to anyone, regardless of age, sex, or gender."

The interviewer stares at me without blinking, then exhales a dreamy, "Exactly so."

I can hear bells ringing in my head. And the winner is –

The interviewer licks his lips. "You are currently on tour, yes? And the tour is called Lucy, Me and This Lady. Are these real people?" I nod. "Is Lucy referring to the sister of drummer Nick Duval?"

"No."

"Your long-term girlfriend whose name I believe is Lucy, but goes by Quinn?"

"Is eleven months long-term?" I ask tiredly, adding, "Don't put that in the interview, my private life is off-limits. But the answer is no, it is not named after her."

He nods slowly, eyes shining with interest. "Then who is Lucy?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," I inform him, falling from grace as quickly as I rose to it.

The photo shoot takes place in downtown Chicago. The interviewer tags along, asking the other band members questions, mainly about me. If it ends up being another Blaine Anderson article instead of a Warblers one, the dirty looks Seb will give me will most likely exceed all the resentment felt during the Hundred Years' War. The war, in reality, lasted a hundred and sixteen years, but fuck me if I know who fought it or when.

"It was between the English and the French from the fourteenth to the fifteenth centuries," Kurt informs the car. He lost the card game between the roadies last night and got assigned to be our slave during the photo shoot. He might know a bit of history, but he certainly can't play cards.

"You ever gone to college?" I ask him.

"Nah," he laughs, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment. "My mother was – I, uh," he stops to clear his throat. "I just know." He looks out of the window.

It's a dangerous thing to ask someone of their family because they just might tell you the truth, so I focus on staring out the window while the interviewer asks Nick what it's like to be the best drummer alive. Usually, it's relatively safe to ask someone to share, but what is that person decides to be honest? And there is certainly nothing more dangerous than honesty.

If I gave an honest answer about my family, it would go something like this: an alcoholic, asshole father who finally lost the last bit of his common sense in Vietnam. He was over there only for a few months back in '64 before getting wounded and shipped back. He beat me up a few times. One time, I punched back, and we haven't touched each other since. Not a hug, not a handshake. He still lives in Westerville, and he will die in Westerville. My mother left way before any of it happened. She must have seen what an asshole he was. Didn't care to take me with her. I met her on tour in support of our second album. She said she was proud; I told her she might as well be dead to me. I have half-siblings somewhere. She didn't abandon those.

I make a point of not asking Kurt about his background, though for some reason I'd like to know. But no, silence is better. I've known Beiste for years, and I don't know a damn thing about him either. Some of the best friendships are based on mutual indifference.

The photo shoot drags on painfully after way too much time was spent on the makeup artists doing our faces and hair.

"Blaine, can you move a bit to the left?" the photographer asks, positioning me in front of the other guys. I'm wearing another hat Quinn designed, and the tips of my hair curl around the side of my face. I need a haircut. Kurt is watching on, and he has been doing his job flawlessly since the first night. The guys avoid him, though. I try not to care. No one has appointed me defender of the underdog, as the conscience of homophobic musicians. I will stay clear of it, even if I don't quite share their fear of Kurt. He really seems harmless enough.

"Blaine, can you lift your head a bit? Puck, a bit more sideways. Good, good. Seb, your hair is – That's much better, thank you." Snap, snap. "Okay, Blaine you stay in the middle. Guys, if you just take two steps backwards…" Snap, snap. "Think rock 'n roll! Think attitude!" Snap. Flash. "We're done! Thank you!" The photographer and his assistants clap.

Kurt holds the towel as I wash my face. The makeup that hid the imperfections of my face comes off, revealing changes in tone, uneven skin. A few groupies have told me that I'm beautiful. I don't see it myself. A few curls hang in front of my face, and I prefer it like that, with just a bit of shelter. "Thanks," I mutter as I take the towel Kurt offers.

Kurt leans against the bathroom doorway, his tight t-shirt riding up slightly, exposing his left hip. If he hadn't told us he was gay, I would definitely be figuring it out by now.

"Is it gonna be like this the entire tour?" he asks, and I lift an eyebrow at him. "The media. That radio show you did in Milwaukee, now this, and I know you have some sort of a record shop appearance in Cleveland. I thought tours were about, you know. Playing shows."

"Gotta promote the new album," I say and straighten up. "I'd rather not, trust me. I think this is all bullshit. It's politics, sales, and profit. This is not goddamn music."

Kurt chuckles. "Lucky that all labels rejected me."

"You play?" I ask, mildly surprised. Of course he plays, but writing music is another thing entirely.

He shrugs. "Some. But I don't want a profession out of it. The only musicians in this world without complete artistic freedom are the ones with a record deal."

I lower the towel from my face, feeling a burning stone set in my stomach at his words.

"You missed some here," he helps, motioning at his left eyebrow. I wipe my face more and hope to god I come out clean. I feel like he is waiting for me to speak, but I'm not the most sociable person I know. It's not that I'm antisocial. It's just that I prefer silence to my own voice. Most of the time, I just cannot be bothered with people when my own thoughts entertain me more than the mindless nonsense of a fellow man.

"Look," I say anyway and against my better judgment. I was firmly planning to not get involved. "I'm sorry if the guys have been distant. Mason aside," I add. "We've just not toured with a…well, you know. Before."

"A fag?" he suggests.

"Yeah. A fag."

"I was expecting it. Hoping for something different, sure, but I had prepared myself. I know most musicians just think about pussy, anyway. Except you, of course. I think you think about other things too."

"I do, but I'm pretty sure pussy is in the top five."

Kurt laughs, revealing all of his white teeth as his lips stretch wide. I realize that I feel like I'm speaking as a hermit to another. "I'm just saying that we're in this for three months. So, you know. If you want to talk sometime." Emphasis on you because I don't plan to do much talking myself.

I pass him back the towel. He seems genuinely touched. "Gracias."

"You got some Latino blood in you?" I ask.

"French," he corrects, and that explains the hint of European in his appearance. "I just got this thing, uh. I never want to say, you know, gracias in English. It's not that I don't even want to, I just…don't? I know how to say it in a bunch of languages, so, yeah. I always say it in one of those. It's just a thing."

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

"That's fucked up."

"It's not that weird. Like, some people don't want to step on the cracks, you know? And fair enough, I'm one of those people, but I also have other things."

"Double fucked up."

"Danke."

I laugh as Ryder comes to the door, looking between Kurt and me. "Wow, B, you're smiling. First time this week, am I right? Come on, let's get going. Soundcheck in two hours, we need to get to the venue."

"Sure," I mutter, giving another suspicious look at Kurt, who only grins at me. I notice that his teeth don't show this time.

Fans are lining up outside the Arie Crown Theater when the car passes the main entrance. The venue's security men show us through the back door, and I feel myself relax. Here, I know what's expected of me, even if I still can't deal with the audiences. I was near a panic attack last night, Nick pulling me to a backstage toilet to tell me to relax. But I would have been happy with mediocre success. A record deal, small tours, a firm hold of myself. It's what I wanted, what I probably had somewhere between the first and second album, but I missed it. I didn't notice. So now I've got my face on magazine covers, fans screaming and passing out at the sight of me, and I want to put this car on reverse and go right back to that moment I missed, that moment in a club in Buffalo where I noticed a few guys of the three hundred headed audience singing along, and my heart stopped at the achievement. But it's too late for that, and I'm gone.

"Listen to them," Puck says when the four of us are in the dressing room, sitting around and prepping ourselves for our first Chicago show in two years. I lift my head and nod tiredly. The audience is chanting our name. We're not going on for another hour, so we're killing time drinking and trying to act professional.

Seb's not talking to me again. It's because of the photo shoot where they made it clear I'm the star. I'm sorry, but this band can't have two front men. I need friends right now, not enemies, and if he can't get over himself, then fuck him too.

Someone knocks on the door before opening it and a friendly looking man around my stage steps in. He's got a kind, readable face, and he looks like he just woke up with a sleepy grin on his big lips, his mouth surrounded my scratchy stubble that doesn't quite match the blond hair that frames his face. I think he works for the venue. "Hey," he states simply, and the guys lift their hands like they know the guy.

"Break a leg, man," Seb says. In his case, he probably means it literally.

"Thanks. We're going on in ten."

"You're in the support band?" I clarify.

"Yup, have been for the past two nights and will be for the next…five shows, I think?" he shrugs. "We met yesterday."

"Oh." I remember being introduced to the support, but I no longer remember faces or names. I don't even remember what they are called, I just remember not digging them that much. He just smiles like he doesn't mind that I have failed to acknowledge his existence. He's broad chested and shouldered with actual muscle.

"I was looking for Kurt," he explains. We shake our heads. I'm not sure where anyone is. The guy's smile falters. "Well, tell him that Sam came looking for him, yeah? And that Finn and I are staying in Room 317."

"You got it," Nick promises, and the guys, presumably Sam, leaves.

Puck snorts. "Well, I'd never believe it just looking at him."

"Believe what?" I ask distractedly, turning up the volume on the TV as I sip the vodka straight from the bottle. So far, not once have I been able to go on stage sober. The news is on, Nixon is giving a speech.

"That Sam prefers the back entrance."

I laugh along with Puck. Nick gets up and shakes his head, going to the dressing tables and wrapping a bandanna around his head, blue this time. "Earlier, I went for a cup of coffee with Sam's girlfriend because they were sound-checking, and we were both thirsty and idle. A nice place just two blocks from here. You don't have to be a homo to hang out with a homo."

"Sam is banging the queer roadie while Nick puts a move on his girlfriend," Seb grins. "Smooth."

"I can't believe I'm physically the youngest and mentally the oldest around here," Nick mutters as he flops back down on an armchair, taking drumsticks and twirling them in his fingers. I keep my eyes on him, and Nick shifts restlessly, giving me an uncomfortable look. I say nothing, though I could. The guys begin to argue about who has Sam's sexuality figured out, and fuck, it hasn't even been a week, but somehow, we've reached the point of useless bickering. I hear the support band start playing, the roar of the crowd as something finally happens on stage.

I get up and go looking for Matt because I want my Gibson restrung before we go on. I am greeted by people I don't recognize, strangers patting my shoulders with, "How's it going, man?" Fine. I'm always fine.

"Matt, hey," I say, having finally found our guitar and bass technician. He and Kurt are backstage, talking loudly over the music and nodding in agreement. After I've made my request, Matt goes hunting for my Gibson dutifully, and Kurt heads for the side of the stage. I follow and yell, "Sam says hi!"

"He does? Cool," Kurt smiles, now taking a spot where we can watch the band on stage. Sam appears to be a guitarist. He's been on for ten minutes, maximum, and he's already drenched in sweat. Perspiration is so distasteful. Kurt lifts his hand, and Sam manages to catch sight of us, giving us both a gigantic grin. Before him are four thousand and eight hundred people, most of whom have come to see me.

"He and Linn are –"

"Finn? You mean Finn?"

"Shit, yeah."

Kurt points at the drummer towards the back of the stage.

I try again. "He and Finn are staying in, um. Room 317. He asked to pass on the message."

"Far out," Kurt smiles, and I stand by him awkwardly. The noise of the music would suffice a normal guy with the perfect excuse not to speak, but I feel compelled to, then anguished when I cannot come up with anything. I say, "Yeah," and leave Kurt to it.

Ten minutes before we go on. It's time for me to break down inside. I lock the dressing room toilet, do vocal exercises, relax my jaw and sing, "Do, re, mi, do, re, mi." I take another sip of my vodka and sing, "Fuck this shi-ii-ii-it."

"Let me in, man," Nick's voice says with a gentle knock on the door. I exhale and consider my chances. The crowd is chanting louder than ever, and I can hear them. War-blers, War-blers –

I hide my face in my hands and will my body not to shake. It's too much. Every night is too fucking much, but somehow, I end up in the middle of the stage, Nick behind me, Seb to my right and Puck to my left, and we remain where we are for one and a half hours, and I sing, I sing, and play, and I will always walk out in one piece, but even closer to caving in than before. This moment right before we go on, I need Nick to talk me into it. He knows that.

I let Nick in, and he closes the door behind himself. I say, "You didn't tell me you had coffee with some chick."

"Jealous?" he smirks, though his face flashes with what I sensed earlier: guilt.

"Immensely jealous," I admit and pause. "Did you fuck her?" It's not an unreasonable question, and we both know that. My tone is, perhaps, a bit too hopeful. He shakes his head, and I am not sure if I am relieved or disappointed. To be honest, I was just curious. "Did you want to?" He shrugs. I try again. "Well, did you like her?"

"Yeah."

"That's good," I try to say cheerfully, but fail as my voice falters under my own nervous breakdown. Nick chews on his bottom lip worriedly. "You can fuck other chicks now. You can. You're not with that girl anymore, so –"

"She's got a name! Victoria! Don't 'that girl' her all the fucking time," Nick swears angrily.

"I just –"

"Fuck, Blaine!" he interrupts, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. "I mean, how am I supposed to move on if everyone tiptoes about it? Victoria. Just say it. Don't make it bigger than it is. I'm trying here, you know?"

"Sure," I agree. Love is not love if Ryder can offer your girlfriend enough money to disappear. It must sting. It mustn't have been enough for Nick to think she made the right choice.

"If something is going to destroy this band, it's not me or anything to do with me," Nick states firmly, looking over my shoulder at the dirty bathroom mirror where we are reflected. I turn to study the portrayal: Nick in his stage clothes, drumsticks ready, composed, determined, and then there's me, my tie badly done, shirt buttoned wrong, vodka bottle in hand, a silly, feathery hat on my head. This is not the pep talk Nick usually gives me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask skeptically. I have no skeletons in my closet – I've pulled them out, dressed them up, and put them in songs.

Nick lets out a breath. "Nothing. It's just that... It's an enthusiastic crowd out there tonight."

Now we're in the part where he talks me into going on stage.

I shake my head. "I shouldn't have agreed to this tour. It's too much, it –"

"No, it's not. A few thousand, one million. It doesn't matter how many people are out there because you will be perfect like you are every damn night." I scoff at his flattery, and Nick places a hand on my shoulder. "Remember back in '63 when we spent the summer as paper delivery boys?"

"Yeah," I admit, chuckling at the memory. I had my red bike. It was a good bike. "It was pretty bad ass, though nothing will ever get me out of bed before five in the morning again." Now five in the morning is when I go to bed. On tour it's all reversed: sleep during the day, stay up all night.

"It was the shittiest job ever, right?"

I nod in agreement and think back to the wet Ohio mornings, the dogs that chased me, the time I nearly drove my bike in front of a bus, leaving for my round before Dad had come back from the bar.

"But you did it anyway. You wanted to buy yourself a guitar, so you did the job, and you did it well. And I know this isn't what you had pictured back then, but this is what you've got. Most bands never get a record deal, and even if they do get one, they never make a living off of it. You did. Now this is your job, and you are going to go out there and play the best you can. Not because you have to but because you want to play your music for yourself and the half a dozen people in the audience that have you figured out. And that's all you have to do. Nothing else, nothing more."

"Yeah?" I ask, the hope so clear in my tone that I almost feel embarrassed. That sounds doable. I could do that.

A knock on the door. "Blaine!" Ryder's voice. "Blaine, you better come the fuck out of there and get on stage! Don't keep your admiring fans waiting!"

"His admiring fans?" Seb's voice asks.

"Come on! Or I'll have Beiste break this door! You're not a middle leaguer anymore, so stop acting like it! The label –"

"Shut up about the fucking label!" I nearly scream, and Nick puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a smile. I don't know who is telling me the truth, Nick or Ryder, and I don't know which will give me the strength to go on stage. The chanting is even louder now. War-blers! War-blers! They are stomping their feet. I bury my face in my hands.

"You can do it," Nick whispers.

"You have to do it, man!" Ryder shouts.

I unlock the door, high-five the crew, don't look any of them in the eye because they know that I was hiding, they know, so I hurry past them, and I go out to a roaring applause of thousands.

It's time to do my round.

I don't go to the club we're invited to, so my bandmates go without me. I know the party by heart: plenty of alcohol, excessive amounts of drugs, stunning women. Seb will smash a piece of furniture or another while Puck will fuck anything that moves, and Nick will get drunk beyond belief and smile this silly little smile as he thinks of some other life he is not living. It will be full of local people of interest, maybe someone I actually know, and everyone thinks I am so funny, so smart, so exciting.

It's a little after one in the morning that I come out of the shower and stretch my aching limbs on the hotel bed. Two more nights in Chicago. I get out a cigarette and light it, lying naked and letting my body dry as smoke swirls in the air in front of me. I'm wondering if the phone will ring, if Quinn will call. I know she won't, but there's no harm wondering.

Someone knocks on my door. The knock is cautious and hasty. I lift my head, cigarette between my lips. It's most likely some girl. They always find me, bribe someone, try their luck, find out my hotel room number. And they come in the middle of the night, eyes bright and lips sweet.

There are two kinds of groupies: those who want to fuck me because I'm famous and those who want to fuck me because of my music. I prefer the first group. It's not advisable to fuck girls who love the music – they take it too personally. You are the music. And it's true. I am the music. The fame seeking girls are far more sincere when it comes to pussy and dick.

They knock a second time. I wonder which type of girl is behind the door, but don't go find out. Eventually, I hear someone walking away.

After fifteen minutes of sleep not taking over, I start regretting my decision. I get dressed and decide to have a look in the hotel bar. Maybe the girl decided to hang around.

I walk down the hotel corridor, combing my slightly wet hair with my fingers. My belt hangs unbuckled. I head for the door that will lead me to the hotel stairs, but I come to a sudden stop outside a noisy room. 317. I stare at the golden plate that has been nailed to the door. Laughter pours through, someone is playing guitar, someone is singing. The hotel corridor is deserted.

The crew is getting along with the current support. That's good, really. I'm just amazed how easily some people friend others, how I, once again, missed out on it. I think I'm paying attention, but later I realize it was to the wrong things. I'm not jealous. I'm not envious. It's good that they get along. Really good.

I sigh restlessly and try to look away from the door. I have three options: sleep, groupie or this. I hear musical laughter, and I'm convinced it's Kurt.

I knock on the door.

I instantly regret it and stuff my hands in my jean pockets. Sam opens the door, and the smell of weed hits me like a wave. "Blaine! Hey! Come on in, dude, come in!" He grabs my arm and pulls.

"I was just wondering if –" any of my bandmates are there. A lame excuse, definitely, but it's all I can come up with on the spot. Sam doesn't wait for me to finish.

"Guys, look who's here!"

I scan the room, recognizing Finn and the bassist of their band sitting on the floor. A brown-haired girl is sitting on a bed, and Kurt is sitting in an armchair by the window, a joint between his index and middle finger, his other hand holding cards.

No one seems surprised by my presence. It's the pot. Sam guides me to sit down on the floor and join them, and I notice they are playing poker. The guitar I heard lies abandoned on the other bed. Finn passes me a joint, and I take a hit. Sam offers me a glass of whiskey, and I accept. I take a second glance at the girl. She's beautiful, not really my type, but beautiful nonetheless.

"Let me think!" Kurt insists and stares at his cards. "What was higher, straight or flush?"

"Flush," Finn says with impatience, his tone bearing repetition.

"We're teaching the man," Sam explains with a drunken smile. "Can't play cards for shit."

"That I can't," Kurt calls out and shakes with laughter as he finds this endlessly amusing.

"But he can play guitar," the girl says in a smooth voice that has me looking her way again. Our eyes meet, but she looks away. A bit of a chase, is that what she wants? Alright. I'll chase her.

Kurt gets dealt two cards, and his face lights up with boyish excitement.

"Kurt, dude!" Sam laughs.

"Shit, right," Kurt says and tries to look nonchalant

"Fold," Finn says instantly, and Kurt starts pouting, his lips jutting outwards. His expression is so sad that I forget the pretty girl, who also folds. Huh. I knew when I saw Kurt that he was beautiful, but somehow, I realize it all over again. A different kind of beautiful.

"Don't fold! Come on, you guys!" Kurt insists.

Sam hides his face in his hand. "You fucking suck at poker, you know that?"

Kurt notices me staring, and he lifts an eyebrow at me. I simply lift my bottle in greeting, feel stupid doing it, and stare at my shoes. The weed and booze are getting to me, but it's hardly a surprise when I have been drinking on and off for at least six hours.

Sam wins the game with a flush, and Kurt curses, throwing his cards into the air. The girl stands up, her orange dress belted with a big-buckled, green belt. She leans over the drummer to give Sam a loving kiss, and Sam's hand slides on her neck, his fingers touching the undoubtedly smooth skin. So that's why she's not already sitting in my lap. She thinks she's found love. And if that's Sam's girlfriend, then it's the girl Nick talked about. Well, Nick's got taste, and I fold my game for the night, though mine had nothing to do with cards.

I lean my back against the bed and take another hit, not really participating in the conversation. Sam tries to get a second game going, but it comes to nothing when Kurt takes the guitar and starts playing California Dreamin'. He starts singing in the chorus, and I sit up straighter. His voice. It's an acquired taste, a wobble that isn't there because of unprofessionalism. He is hitting every note he intends to, and the shake in his voice must be the way he prefers to sing. His voice is full and dark. Mine is raw and thin. We're both acquired tastes, but I like the way he sounds. Kurt goes an octave higher, demonstrating a range I can only dream of. He goes even higher than Sam's girlfriend.

"What are you guys called again?" I ask Sam.

"Canadian History."

"You're Canadian?"

"No."

"Ever been over there?"

"A few times."

"Know anything of its history?"

"No, just a band name. We were sort of drunk when we came up with it. Then it just stuck."

Sam has taken the guitar, softly playing as Finn sings. The bassist, whose name is Thad, has gathered courage to tell me how awesome he thinks it is that we're drinking together. They don't seem to mind that I have crashed their party. Why would they? They'll never get another chance to get wasted with someone as talented or famous as me.

Kurt takes back the guitar and changes to a country song, making Finn crack up. "This man!" he exclaims and motions at Kurt. "I love this man!"

Sam nods in agreement, and since no one seems to be listening, I ask him, "You don't mind that Kurt's... you know."

"He's what?" Sam asks, baffled.

"No, no, go to the minors!" Finn enthuses, and Kurt obeys, the two of them howling in laughter as Finn drums a hotel pillow with two empty beer bottles.

"That he's not playing for the same team as you?" I offer.

"Nah!" Sam exclaims. "You're here too, aren't you? We're excited about touring with you guys, thousands of new people have heard our music now. It's great!"

"B, you play something," Kurt says, passing me the guitar. I take it simply out of surprise that Kurt has decided to call me by my unofficial nickname. I stare at the instrument stupidly for a minute, too high and drunk to remember how Foxy Lady goes. As I play and the rest of the guys sing, I wonder if this is the type of touring I have always heard everyone talking about, but have never seen myself. Guys hanging out, getting shitfaced, sweat, saliva and music. Always music.

"We're out of beer!" Sam's girlfriend exclaims unhappily, and Thad stands up, slightly wobbly.

"I've got some in my room. Come on, let's get some. Come on! Cedes, stand up, I'll carry you. I'll carry you, for real. Like this and – " The girl squeals as Thad picks her up and puts her over his shoulder. She kicks the air and laughs, and Sam smacks her ass.

"Don't drop her now!" Sam warns before he flops down to sit next to me, and Thad carries the girl out of the room. I pass him the guitar, and he starts playing. It's nothing I recognize, but it's damn good. "I'm just improvising," he slurs and chuckles.

"Keep going," I say, suddenly very intrigued.

Sam has amazing taste. We start talking and seem unable to stop, passing the guitar back and forth and throwing ideas around just for the hell of it. He's a fucking talented guy. Brendon, Thad, Finn and the girl play more cards as we proceed to ignore them.

"If this band of yours fails," I say at one point, and he laughs. "Or you want to jam. Or hey, a side project. I think we should, yeah, I think it might be fun. Some time, maybe."

"Maybe," Sam grants, a pleased, eager smile on his face. "Yeah, man. That, uh, that'd be great. We could jam some more tomorrow."

"Yeah, definitely."

"Shit. Awesome." He sounds disbelieving and flattered. He beams at me.

Thad passes out before I finally leave. Sam and I talk about dogs. He knows a lot about them, can list fifty different breeds. Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retrievers make loyal pets. I don't know what they look like. He says orange and alert. Kurt stumbles down the hotel corridor with us, going through his pockets and trying to remember his room number. Kurt's fingers go down to brush the slice of skin showing at the top of his jeans. Sam has to steady him more than once, and I follow the way they move, reminding me of birds shooting down to a lake to take a sip of water in midflight.

I pay attention when Sam and Kurt hug goodnight. It's brief, one-armed, like I'd hug Puck or Nick. Kurt waves me a goodbye, and Sam is kind enough to take me to my door. He appears to be annoyingly clear-headed.

"So that was your girlfriend back there," I say suddenly.

"Yeah, Cedes. Mercedes. The love of my life." Sam grins brightly. "Two years and going strong."

I am pretty sure Nick could have fucked her if he had wanted to. Nick is a well-known rock star, and this Sam guy. Who the hell even is he? I could've fucked her. Sure I could've.

"Huh." We've reached my room, Sam is opening the door for me. I stop. "He's a fag, you know."

"Sorry?"

"Kurt," I clarify and motion back to where we came from. I see Kurt's face when I close my eyes, beautiful and laughing. "He fucks guys. Some guys do."

Sam seems surprised. Gotcha. Gotcha, you motherfucker. I only say it because it's true. For honesty. For virtue. Sam seems nice, he deserves to know.

"Yeah, some guys do," Sam agrees. "Does it bother you?"

"No," I reply instantly. It really doesn't bother me. I just can't stop thinking about it. "You got any in your band? Your crew?" I ask hopefully.

"We've got one Black guy?"

I shake my head in disappointment. Most people I know haven't cared about race since Marvin Gaye. And it's obvious Sam doesn't care either since his girlfriend is Black herself. My point is, and it's an important point, is that we've got a gay roadie, who seems nice, can sing and play guitar, considers himself cute and too precious to settle down, and clearly does not want to talk about his family. We've got this thing, this funny, odd thing that I don't know what to do with. It didn't come with a manual.

"Goodnight," Sam offers, and I stumble back into my room, get undressed, light a cigarette and stare at the smoke swirling higher and higher to the ceiling.