content warning for this chapter: strong language, homophobia/homophobic language (f-slur included), alcohol consumption, mentions of rape, violence/harmful actions, brief mention of drugs

Chapter 4: Wild with Misdemeanor

I promise not to tell Canadian Experience's management that the band doesn't need to stay in the hotel. Sam's place is just a few streets down from the hotel, but he is abusing the privilege of being on the road with a band that demands four-star treatment. "And the breakfast is a lot nicer at the hotel. You crash on my couch, all you get is a kick in the ass to get out by noon," Sam grins. "Does your manager know you're here?"

"Ryder? Yeah, sure." I keep playing around with the guitar in my lap as one of Sam's cats purrs at my feet. He lives with Cedes, who is at work. The place looks like it has that feminine touch to it, something sweet and homelike that speaks a lot about their relationship.

Sam comes back from the kitchen with two beer bottles and passes me one. I lift it as a thank you, and we start working on the song we started at the hotel yesterday.

Ryder doesn't actually know where I am, but I have three hours until soundcheck. I can be wherever I want, and Ryder can run around in circles looking for me for all I care.

Canadian Experience's music is pretty heavy. It puts a lot of attention on their singer's vocals, letting it take attention away from the monotonous sound of the music. Sam should be in some other band that matches his talent. Sam, unlike the rest of his bandmates, isn't mediocre.

"I really like this song," I admit. It's not loud. Sam and I both play acoustics, and the song is melodic and nearly pretty. With the different sections and messed up time signatures, it's like a Warblers song unplugged, and I'm surprised that I like it. It doesn't need to be loud to hit home.

"What do you think of this at the end?" Sam asks, playing a little riff over and over.

"Go a bit higher. Yeah, like that. Yeah."

Cedes comes home in the afternoon, and she sits on the couch and watches us play. She sends Sam bright smiles that Sam returns with adoring looks. She doesn't smile all that much at me. Maybe I eye-fucked her a bit too much. Women always know when you want them, and she is doing nothing to let me even think I've got a shot. It's a shame for her. I bet I'd fuck her better than Sam.

"Is anyone else coming?" Cedes asks, and Sam explains that the two of us are just messing around with music. "Kurt's not coming?" Cedes asks disappointedly.

"Nah. Didn't ask but he would've had roadie duties anyway," Sam shrugs. Mercedes offers to make us something to eat before we head back for the venue. I haven't seen Sam around Kurt since I told him the news. I think Kurt liked Sam in a purely non-sexual way. Should I feel guilty that I'm ruining the kid's chances of making friends? Or should I be worried that I can't shake off this conscience I have developed?

"Remember a few nights ago when you walked me back to my hotel room?" I begin to ask, and Sam makes an agreeing sound. "Yeah, well, the thing I said about Kurt. He's told us since he's touring with us, but I don't think he wants everyone to know. So, like, I was just thinking if you could keep it to yourself unless he brings it up."

"Yeah, that's what I was gonna do," Sam shrugs like it was obvious. He had probably forgotten. It's not a big thing unless I make it seem like one.

I rub my nose. "Just no reason for everyone to know we're touring with one of those."

"I won't tell. No need to cause trouble," Sam promises. "Hey, what do you wanna do with these songs?"

I shrug in response. The songs are good, though. They ought to be shared. And within the past day, I've realized that writing music with Sam comes easier than it has with any of my bandmates, excluding Nick, maybe, were I to rewind a few years. But Nick's changed. He doesn't enjoy this anymore. He's here physically, but I have no idea where his thoughts are, where his heart is. And I've merely gotten sadder.

"We'll see what happens," I tell Sam. Maybe I could do a side project of sorts, sit down with Sam and write more songs. See what happens.

Cedes walks back in with one of the cats purring loudly in her arms. She's holding a record that turns out to be the first Warblers album, which we conveniently called The Warblers. "Since you're here," she says a bit disregardingly, and I sign the self-titled 1971 album. She's got that faux smile I see on fans sometimes, when they meet their idols only to be disappointed.

Cedes's put the casserole in the oven. Sam and I finish our second song before it's done.

I don't go directly to the venue like Sam does. He has soundcheck, and I have a lack of alcohol in my system. Ryder has started giving me long, disappointed looks when I drink up before going on stage, and it's bullshit, utter fucking bullshit because the rest of the guys are just as drunk as me. Almost. Kind of.

I find a café not too far from the venue. I get myself a glass of Coke, make sure the waitress is out of sight before getting out my flask and mixing vodka with the drink. The carved initials on the flask's front feel rough under my thumb. B.D.A. III. It belonged to my dad, but I carved one more line to change the II into a III. Nothing changes between generations except Roman numerals. I took the flask when I moved to LA. I doubt he's missed it.

I stand out in the café with my overgrown hair and week's stubble. It's a friendly looking place where picket fence America enjoys warm apple pies with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. And I'm at the back, internally mocking the unimaginative baby this, baby that pop song that's on the radio as smartly dressed adults and their mini-adult offspring prance around and ponder over inviting the Johnsons over for dinner. That will never be me. I take another sip of my vodka mix. God, that'll never be me.

I need to take a leak. I spot the toilet sign and head for it, letting my eyes wash over the other customers. That old lady over there, well fuck her. And that business man, fuck him too. And that rock guy speaking to the payphone next to the toilet doors, fuc – Nick? I stop in my tracks, frowning. It is Nick.

At first, I am unsure because Nick is actually smiling, a blinding smile full of white teeth. And the drummer of my band never smiles. Not in my presence. "You know you gotta call me when it goes down, right? Like, uh, you got all the hotels we'll be staying – Hey, let me triple check, would you?" he laughs.

I blink. "Nick?"

He almost jumps as he looks up and sees me. "I gotta go," he says simply and hangs up. We stare at each other for a second before he clears his throat. "Where you been? Ryder is furious."

"At Sam's writing music. Who were you talking to?"

"Sorry?"

"Just now. On the phone."

"That. Right." He looks back to the phone, mouth open, then rushes out, "Crystal. Just checking how everyone is back home."

"Oh. And how is your sister?"

"Fine. Both of them."

"Good. You heading back to the venue?" He nods and rubs his nose, eyes averting. "Sweet. Wait for me, alright? Need to take a leak."

"Uh huh."

I try to give Nick the best smile I can, the one that reminds him that I'm his best friend and I trust him completely. We don't need to know everything about each other's lives. I trust him, sure, but fuck me if I'm buying his bullshit.

Nick is waiting outside the café when I come out. The sunlight is too bright for me, and I get my oversized sunglasses from my pocket, the brown lenses helping to bring the world into focus. "So you and Sam, huh?" Nick asks, and okay, guess we're not talking about him or what the hell it is that Nick is waiting to go down.

"We've written two songs. Damn good."

"What you gonna do with them?" Nick asks, just like Sam did. I don't know yet. I'm not sure. Nick says, "We used to write on tour."

"I know."

Now, we only write when we have to, when the label tells us to pop out a new record. It's taken all the joy out of it. It's not like that with Sam.

We walk without saying anything, and the silence is not as comfortable as it used to be back when we were fourteen, seventeen, twenty-one. It's not as comfortable, but it's not awkward either. Not yet.

"Just be careful," Nick says eventually. I eye the venue we're closing in on, wondering how to get inside without any of the fans outside noticing. "Listen to me," Nick demands, and I grudgingly give him all of my attention. He always gives me advice, saying we should go talk to that Seb guy because he was damn good on that small bar stage, or he's telling me that it's probably for the best if I get rid of that blonde groupie Quinn before she becomes a permanent figure in my life. Half of the time I listen to Nick, half of the time I don't. "All I'm saying is that you don't know this Sam guy at all. You don't know what he wants. There's him, the guitarist of some Midwestern wonder only locals have heard of, and then there's you, an internationally acknowledged music genius. So you think about that, okay?"

"I will."

"Good," Nick nods and adds, "We miss you, you know. The rest of us." The way Nick says 'us' can only mean the four of us, the core of this mess. The guys miss me? Sebastian misses me? "You know you've shut us out," Nick says without any blame at all, and it makes it that much worse.

"I'll try harder," is my automatic response, and Nick smiles and doesn't mention Sam for the rest of the day, but he keeps giving me looks that make me feel like I have been cheating on the band with Sam Evans.

"Fifteen minutes to bus call!" Ryder calls out, and Mason and Beiste lift another amp box and carry it from the venue's backdoor to the bus that is being loaded. I light my cigarette, put the lighter back in my pocket, and check the cigarette packet. None left. The night clouds have overtaken the sky, the ground still wet from the rain that must have fallen during our show. St. Louis is pitch black and glistening, a chilly wind making its way under my jacket.

The support band has packed up already, but they haven't left yet. I see Finn and Sam kicking a beer can back and forth, laughing their heads off. I wonder what they are on and why Sam didn't offer me some. We're friends by now.

Kurt carries two guitars to our bus, the doors of the luggage space wide open on both sides, slowly getting refilled with expensive equipment.

Kurt and Mason put down an amplifier case, and Kurt stretches his arms and groans loudly. "My back is fucking killing me."

"You're a few years older than me, but what about my back?" Mason shoots.

"I'll rub yours if you rub mine."

"Deal," Mason beams. Puck sends me a 'dear fucking god' look that says if those two start rubbing each other in our presence, Puck will be the first one running to the door in order to save his straight life. I chuckle and wonder if there is any truth in Nick's words, if the guys miss me. It's hard to believe with the attitude I get from them.

"I'll be back in a minute," I tell Puck.

"Don't leave me," Puck says with complete sincerity matched with big, pleading eyes, and I shake my head in disbelief as I walk away. I spend my fifteen minutes walking up and down the nearest street, eventually managing to bum two cigarettes off a guy outside a bar. He is drunk as hell and asks me if I went to the Warblers show. I tell him I was there.

He asks, "Fucking overrated shit, don't you think?"

"I do."

"You're a good man. Here, here, take another!"

I smoke two of my three cigarettes on my way to the bus, but once I walk around the corner to the back, I hear yelling and see commotion by the buses. The guys are tiny figures in the distance, but it's clear that a fight has broken out. Someone yells, "You fucker!" loud enough for it to break the silence of the night. I break into a fast jog, partly dreading, partly hoping, that something major has happened that will cause the immediate cancellation of our tour.

I am left disappointed. The troublemakers are Kurt and Thad.

"I'm telling you, man!" the drummer is shouting in slight disorientation, eyes wild with anger. He is high as a fucking kite. "Don't come near me or –"

"Or what?!" Kurt shouts back. The rest of the guys are watching the show from a safe distance, most of them looking slightly embarrassed to even be there. "You think I'm gonna rape you? Or are you afraid that you might actually like it?"

"You sick pervert!" Thad yells.

He knows. How does he know, how did this get out? My eyes find Sam, who is looking at the ground, at anything except the display in front of us. I feel myself taking a blow. That fucker. He promised me.

Thad keeps swearing. "You motherfucking –"

"Hey!" I intervene loudly, surprising even myself that I don't just stand and watch, passive and indifferent like is the norm with me, and Kurt turns to look at me, and the clouds shift, the moonlight hits him, and he looks beautiful in that one moment before the fist flying at him makes contact. Kurt takes the punch, stumbling backwards before launching on the man, reminding me of a leopard leaping on its dinner. I run closer while chaos breaks out, the guys trying to tear them apart. Beiste easily picks Kurt up, who kicks air and swears as his nose bleeds, smearing his mouth and chin. Finn and Matt have Thad, who is struggling to get to Kurt. Nick stands in between the two parties, holding up his hands. "Whoa! Calm the fuck down!"

"You fucking faggot!" Thad yells.

Beiste lets go of Kurt, who doesn't stop to wipe his face as he tries to attack again. "I'm gonna kill –" Kurt starts yelling, and Beiste grabs the back of the roadie's shirt and pulls him, picking him up a second time and literally carrying Kurt away while he shouts angrily. Matt and Finn let go of Thad, who yells such a long list of vulgarities that I am almost impressed.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Finn says hurriedly. "Thad's on some acid, he's not himself. Really didn't mean to cause trouble –"

"I'm not sorry!" Thad declares loudly. Beiste comes back, and I see Kurt walking away from us, punching the air and yelling at no one in particular. Sam is talking to Thad, hands on the bassist's shoulders.

"One of these nights," Beiste says. It's really a surprise we managed this long without a fight. "Let's finish packing up."

"Shit," I mutter and look for a cigarette before remembering I only have one left. I'll have to save it.

"Is that all?!" Mason demands angrily.

"Mason, we need to get on the road. Do your job, then think about your personal life," Ryder commands. Mason is nearly seething as he flips his long hair and storms to put the drum kit on the bus. Nick walks to me, a solemn look on his face.

"Someone should go talk to him."

I follow his gaze and see that Kurt has crossed the street running next to the venue, pacing back and forth in front of a closed café. Nick's right. Someone probably should. Canadian Experience won't be touring with us much longer, so at least Thad won't be around. And maybe it's a good thing someone called Kurt a fag and punched him for his alternative lifestyle. Now it means Seb or Puck doesn't feel like they need to do it. That would have been worse.

"What happened?" I ask, and Nick shrugs. He looks tired, and we're only a week into the tour. Seb walks over to listen to the story.

"Kurt just went over to talk, and Thad told him to stay away. Thad made a nasty remark, and I gotta admit that Kurt went down fighting. He said, 'My kind? You mean fags?'" Nick chuckles almost fondly.

Seb interrupts with, "No, man, you're telling it all wrong. Listen, Kurt went over, right, and Thad was giving him an attitude. So Nate says he doesn't want to hang out with Kurt's kind, so Kurt says, 'My kind? You mean Gemini?' That's what he said. Fucking funny, man. Now Thad is being vague, so Kurt shouts at him until Thad calls him a cocksucker, and Kurt asks what business is it of his whose cock he sucks, and Thad insists that it's not but it's goddamn disgusting anyway, and Kurt says he's only so worried because he thinks he'd like a guy sucking his cock. That's when the guns started blazing." Seb smiles like it's a funny story.

"Someone should go talk to him," Nick repeats and gives me a long look with his brown eyes and then nods after Kurt. Why me? What could I possibly say that Nick couldn't?

I hear banging as the luggage compartment doors are shut. The tour bus is ready to go. All guys are still outside, though, restless, upset. Thad is muttering curses about his aching jaw, and Nick is telling me to play the doctor and feed us all medicine. But I'm not sick.

When I remain still, Nick says, "We can't just leave him here."

"God! Fine, I'll go," I hiss and start making my way over to Kurt, who is across the street from the Kiel Auditorium. I try to come up with something to say as I make my way over, mainly something about how he fought like a man, how his boxing coach would be proud of him for not passing out after a punch like that, provided that he has a coach, which he most likely doesn't, so it's a useless comfort, really. I stop at a safe distance and wait for Kurt to acknowledge my presence. He is holding his nose, fingers in blood, shaking his head and shivering with anger. "Is your nose...?" I ask, and Kurt shakes his head. It's not broken or he'd be in excruciating pain. "The bus is leaving soon," I offer. "We'll get you cleaned up."

Kurt lets go of his nose and rubs it gingerly. He gives me a dirty look. "You got a fucking cigarette?"

"No. Sorry."

Kurt wipes his nose to his sleeve and shakes his head in disbelief, kicking the asphalt beneath his feet. I give in.

"Okay, here. You can have my last one." I give him the cigarette I earned by dissing my own band. But at least it was on honest opinion unaffected by the appraisal of the press, though he could have hated us simply to be original. I light the cigarette for Kurt, and he inhales shakily. His eyes are watery, and I'm not sure if it's from the pain or something else. I longingly look back at our bus, wanting to abandon this sinking ship I so unwisely boarded. Goddamn Nick. I hope Seb isn't hanging around to watch this spectacle.

"I liked Thad. I thought he was a damn nice guy. Can you believe that?" Kurt vents.

"I thought he seemed like a suck up, really."

"Turns out that," Kurt says, faces the buses and yells, "he's a homophobic piece of shit!" The words echo along the empty street.

I can't believe Sam told his bandmates after I told him not to. He made it sound like it wasn't a big deal to him, but clearly, it was. Clearly, Sam thought the news was even harder to swallow than I did. It's not my fault Sam is a tell-tale. I gave Kurt my last cigarette, didn't I? This isn't my fault. I have been purified with a sprinkle of holy water.

"Thad shouldn't have called you those things," I say objectively. "And you should have just walked away."

Kurt's head snaps up, his eyes thinning. "Excuse me? You think I should have done nothing?"

"Sometimes, it's the braver thing to do." And the smart thing to do. Gays should get that they can't prance around wherever they want.

"It is not brave to be silent! It's cowardly! I have come out of the closet, and I'm not going back in for anyone! I fuck guys. I kiss them, I lick them, I suck them. I go to gay clubs and think my gay thoughts and I march in the GFMs, and I am not afraid to say it's who I am."

"GFMs?" I ask, anything to stop the mental images of Kurt fucking, kissing, licking and sucking from corrupting my brain.

"Gay Freedom Marches," he supplies, and well, I've never heard of those. Sounds a bit too ambitious. Kurt scoffs and looks at me down his nose. "I will not accommodate to other people's ideals, and I won't suppress a vital part of myself to help narrow-minded, oppressive heteros feel better! I am not trying to please Thad or you or any fucker. It's who I am and I don't hide it, but it still doesn't make it any of your goddamn business, and no one, no one has the right to physically or verbally assault me for it."

"I think you're contradicting yourself there. If you openly promote it, it is other people's business," I point out, and Kurt looks like he's about to hit me next, so I let it be and add, "Though I see your point, sure. You gotten punched for it before?"

"Three times, but who's counting?" he shoots back before sitting down and leaning against the café door, my cigarette shaking in his fingers. He has gotten blood on it. He looks small, lonely and miserable, full of contradictions and no solutions. Fucking great, now I feel sorry for him.

"I thought San Francisco was pretty accepting of gays. Or certain places at least."

"Never gotten punched back home. No, it was before, when I..." His voice fades away into a heavy sigh. I stare at him expectantly, but he shakes his head. "Never mind. Nothing." He takes a drag of the cigarette.

"I was brought up in Westerville," I offer. "It's very...bland. Lots of rich assholes. Some of my first times playing in public were when Nick and I went busking at one of the parks. The best place is outside The Mall. This one time a lady gave us a fifty dollar chip, she must've won big time. I bought an amp with it." By now I am fully aware that I am babbling, which only happens when I get nervous. Not the kind of nervous I get before interviews or performances, because that is always mixed with terror. This is the kind of nervousness that stems from feeling unsure and hoping I don't make an ass of myself, which is clearly what I'm doing.

"I've never been, but it sounds nice," he offers. Westerville really isn't all that nice. It's a fake city. Rewind seventy years, and it was a dozen houses in the middle of nothing.

"Look, I'm sorry about what happened," I say because it's probably what I am expected to say. Kurt looks like my words have hardly any impact on him, knowing as well as me that they are empty.

"Imagine if it were you. That someone wants you to die because you want to love women."

"I don't love them," I correct him. "Don't love anyone."

"Fuck them?"

"Plenty."

"Because you fuck them. Just pretend for one second what it's like, and even then, you won't come close to the shit I've put up with. And every time I think that it's done, that I won't have to put up with it anymore, something like this happens. Why does every straight guy think I want to fuck them or convert them? Do they want to fuck every woman they see? No. I'm picky just like the rest, and they already have one quality I don't want: straight. Thad's a paranoid piece of shit."

"They won't be playing with us much longer. Rest of the tour will be Thad free."

"It's not him, it's what he represents. The millions that are like him."

I sit down next to him, offering him my silence. The ground is wet, moisture coming through the backs of my jeans. Kurt's breathing is uneven. "Think it's gonna rain," I observe.

He says nothing for a long time, but I can feel him slowly relaxing. "Yeah. Yeah, looks like rain. You guys were pretty good tonight."

"Were we?" I ask, grateful for the change of subject. "Met a guy who said we were shit."

"You still look like you're about to pass out whenever you go on stage, but yeah. You were better. Maybe you're getting used to life on the road," he says like an expert, and I hate the fact that anyone who tours with us can see how terrified I am of the audiences. It's humiliating to say the least, but I won't feel sorry for myself. It must be hell to wake up every damn day to the same round of ridicule because there's something messed up in your brain that makes you want to fuck your own sex. Kurt is clearly the one who should and has the right to wallow in self-pity. Since we're competing...

Canadian Experience's bus starts up, and the sound of the engine screeching alerts me. "We gotta go," I say, and Kurt throws the rest of the cigarette away. I pick it up and take two quick drags since I don't want to waste it. Kurt gives me a slightly disgusted look, but the ground was clean. Pretty sure it was.

The crews have disappeared into their respective buses by the time we come back. Matt is driving ours. The lounge is nearly empty, the guys having decided to vanish for the evening. I can already hear Beiste's steady snore. Mason is still in the lounge and he rushes over, a furious look on his face. "How could he?! How could he?! I am enraged! We should call the police! We should –"

Mason goes off like a Roman candle, babbling on and on about the injustice, intolerance, having worked himself up to a nearly nonsensical state. I wonder what Mason will do on the day the world actually ends. Because it will, you know. It definitely will, and then taking a punch in St. Louis will be nothing more than an amiable memory.

"How's your nose?" Mason asks after giving Kurt several hugs.

"It'll be fine."

"Come on," I mumble, giving Mason a look that signals him to leave us be. He seems surprised and even more upset, but Nick gave me this task and I will see it through. I take Nick to my nest, motioning him to sit on the edge of my bed while I go get some toilet paper and a glass of water. He cleans himself up, and I sit next to him, keeping my eyes on the closed door. The blue sheets smell of the sex I've had, an unpleasant, sweaty smell that I hope Kurt won't notice because of the clotted blood in his nostrils. I need to tell Ryder to arrange for the sheets to be washed.

"We could sabotage the Canadian Experience set tomorrow," I offer half-heartedly.

"We could throw a bottle at Thad," Kurt suggests as he rubs the last bits of blood off of his face.

"Good idea. And then we'll feign ignorance."

"That'd be nice," he smiles, eyes cast downwards. I feel not-numb at the sight, trying not to frown at my sudden role as the protector of the innocent. "We'll do it then."

I nod. "Definitely."

He manages to grin. "You're alright. I thought you were a bit of a zombie, but you're alright when you do decide to talk."

"I didn't decide anything. I just feel sorry for you for getting punched."

He shrugs. "I'll take it. You're alright."

"Grazie," I mumble, and Kurt grins openly before wincing and going back to gently touching his nose. It's swollen, but at least now it matches his naturally rosy lips. The bus takes off, and we slowly sway left, right, left as Matt takes turns.

"It's a nice room you've got here," Kurt observes. "We do have reason to be jealous, I guess."

"Seb talking shit about it behind my back?"

"Seb and everyone else."

"Ah." So much for loyalty. I don't understand why Nick has to keep up appearances. The four of us will never be friends like we once were, and it will hurt less if we just admit it.

"The way you all speak of each other, I don't know, man. Sort of surprised you're bandmates, not enemies."

I get up and open the door for Kurt. "What's the difference?"

"Nothing, I suppose. Nothing," he concludes, taking the hint and walking out. There are four bunks on both walls, grouped into two and two. Kurt goes to his, right after my door on the upper left. "Spasiba for the cigarette," he whispers quietly and climbs in. I close the door and dive into the sea of dirty sheets.

I don't know how he talked me into this. I am not this kind of person, but I suppose he is. I take my rebellion onto paper, but books never started revolutions. People did. People still do. And Coke bottles apparently do.

I feel a mix of disbelief and giddy, boyish disobedience as I find Ryder and Beiste following Canadian Experience's set from the side of the stage. I tell Ryder that Seb is having a diva fit and that Beiste might have to detain him. The two hurry off, and I whistle casually though no one can hear me in the noise of the music. Canadian Experience's own roadies are on the other side of the stage. If I stand in the shadows here, no one will see me.

"Hey."

My eyes land on Kurt, who looks nervous but is almost jumping out of his skin with excitement. "You wanna throw it?" he asks and passes me the empty bottle. When we talked about this last night, I was just talking. I had no intention of going through with any of it.

I take the bottle, feel it heavy in my grip. Sam is not on our side of the stage, but Finn is. He is focused on the crowd though. I wouldn't mind having another bottle to throw at Sam with. He broke his promise to me and blabbed about Kurt. But Thad is the criminal, Sam a mere accomplice. I let out a deep breath and feel butterflies in my stomach. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I let my eyes rest on Thad's playing form.

"You throw it," I mumble and pass it back to Kurt.

"No, you throw it."

"You throw it."

"You sure?" he asks, licks his lips. His nose is not very swollen anymore, but bruises are developing on the skin surrounding the area of impact. I nod nervously, check there is no one in sight of us. This is insane. There is no real chance of killing Thad with a glass bottle to the head, is there?

Kurt tries to take even breaths. "Okay. Okay, here goes. Only one chance. Okay. Phew."

"You can do it."

"I can definitely do it. Yeah. Here goes." Kurt gives me one look, and for a second, I am convinced we are insane, the fag and I. But Kurt's face still bears the signs of the fight, and I focus on why I am doing this: my band, my crew, my tour. Just because I feel like it.

Kurt takes a few running steps before throwing the bottle across the air. I hold my breath as it hits the side of Thad's head. The bassist falls to the floor in front of seven thousand people. The band stops playing and their roadies come running, and Finn looks around, shocked and confused, and spurts of laughter are fighting their way up my throat. This has got to be the funniest shit I have seen in –

"Shit, come on!" Kurt urges, grabs my hand and pulls me after him, and we vanish from the side of the stage and enter the maze of the backstage area. I start laughing hysterically as I try not to hit his feet with mine, and he tightens his hold of my hand as he laughs with me, glancing over his shoulder with bright eyes wild with misdemeanor.

We find the doors that lead out of the building, and suddenly we are in the back of the venue, Kurt's overjoyed laughter bouncing from the walls back at us in the darkening evening. My own laughter mixes with his but is more monotonous and duller. "Holy shit, holy shit!" Kurt exclaims, jumps up into the air a few times. His eyebrows are high up, nearing his hair line. "Can you believe we just did that?!" His face and voice show more emotion than mine have in the past two years put together. I don't know how he does it, but it amazes me a little.

I can't help but feel his endless energy pour into me, making me almost happy. "I can't. We just gotta play it cool like we don't know anything."

"Yeah, agreed. Okay, here," Kurt hurries, going through his pockets to get out a pack of cigarettes. He puts one between his lips and passes me another. "We've been out here smoking the entire time. We know nothing."

"Right," I agree hurriedly, and we start smoking the cigarettes, inhaling fast to make it look like we've been there longer. And, sure enough, venue security rushes through the doors a minute later, looking around frantically.

"What's going on?" I ask casually. Kurt looks down, and I know he is hiding his face to try and not let them see he is about to crack up.

"Has anyone passed through here just now? Anyone in a hurry?"

"No. Don't think so. Kurt, have you seen anyone?"

Kurt clears his throat. "No. Just me and B, smoking our cigarettes, talking about... stuff."

"Yeah, lots of stuff."

They give us long looks but go back in. But it's not over yet, and five minutes later, Thad and Canadian Experience's manager Wes walk out. Thad has a wet, balled up towel to the side of his head. There might be a hint of red on it, and I realize we probably caused some proper damage. Thad looks as furious as he was yesterday, and he points at Kurt and says, "I know it was you!"

Kurt lifts his eyebrows, his face one of perfect innocence.

I frown and look at the manager. "What's going on?"

Wes clears his throat uncomfortably. "Thad just got hit by, uh... a bottle. During the set. It seemed to come from the side of the stage."

"No shit," I gasp. "Wow, are you okay?"

"Oh, come on!" Thad barks, eyes flashing dangerously.

"He's alright!" Wes hurries calmingly. "Puck was kind enough to fill in for the last two songs, which the crowd seemed to like. He's on stage right now. You know nothing about this?"

"No, man, Kurt and I have been back here for the past twenty minutes or something. We haven't seen anyone."

"You're lying for him?!" Thad barks at me. And yeah, I guess I am.

"I really had nothing to do with this, though I guess it could've been a sign from God," Kurt says icily. Thad takes two threatening steps towards Kurt, but I quickly step into the narrow space between the two men.

"Okay, seriously? You need to back the fuck off," I snap. I can feel Kurt's breath against my neck.

"This is not happening, this –" Thad vents, hands in fists.

His manager takes a hold of his arm, pulling him back, whispering, "That's Blaine fucking Anderson! The Blaine Anderson! You can't fuck with him, man. Are you insane?" Thad replies with a muffled murmur consisting of the words 'fuck' and 'faggots'. Wes starts leading him away, calling out, "Okay, you know nothing. We believe you! Have a good show tonight!"

"Thanks!" I say and wave. The door slams shut after them. I let out a breath and turn to Kurt, who is grinning wickedly. We totally got away with it.

"Thanks," Kurt says quietly with a warm smile that reaches his eyes and almost makes them sparkle.

"No pro – You just said thanks."

He smiles. "Okay, yeah. I can say thanks, but I only say it if I really, really mean it. Save it for special occasions."

I'm a special occasion. I lick my lips nervously and focus on a trash can in the distance. "So why the foreign bullshit?"

"Makes me more interesting. I think. I'm not very interesting, so a boy's gotta do something, right?"

He's interesting enough without it.

Ryder comes looking for us soon after. Kurt needs to go set up our gear. Ryder looks between us like he knows, but we just shrug. Ryder also notes that Seb wasn't having a diva fit although I claimed he was. "Technically, he is a constant diva act," I argue. Kurt winks at me as he leaves with Ryder at his trail. Luckily, Ryder doesn't notice.

The venue is surrounded by a tall metal fence, behind which is a street, and I watch people walking on the other side, living their lives, minding their own business. It's a dog-eat-dog world on this side, and tonight, I got to bite back. I chuckle as I replay the bottle hitting Thad again and again and again.

"Blaine?"

I snap out of my precious thoughts and see Sam. He is still sweaty from their set, shirt soaked. I drop my cigarette and step on it. "Sam, hey. Heard what happened. Sucks, man."

"Yeah, look, everyone's really upset, and I just – You really don't know anything about it?" His voice sounds slightly desperate. He looks at me like I would tell him the truth. He's got nerve. He's got some fucking nerve.

"I know nothing. But if I hear something, I'll tell you. I promise."

Like he promised not to share Kurt's fucking tendencies with the rest of the world. He stabs my back, I stab his. If only we had had two bottles and Sam had been on our side of the stage. I don't like being made fun of, and he lied to my face. He –

"Look, I gotta get going," I say harshly.

"Right, okay. Are we working on our music more tomorrow?"

His voice is perfectly sincere. Our music. The music Sam and I created. It was beautiful, but it doesn't mean we are something beautiful. Take Lennon-McCartney, Simon-Garfunkel. Beautiful music, mutually resenting musicians behind it.

"We'll see if I have the time," I inform him and leave Sam out in the cold.

I don't need to throw a bottle at Sam to know that I've hit him hard. I bump into a hurrying Kurt backstage, and he gives me the biggest smile. I instantly smile back, looking over my shoulder to where he disappears with a roll of duct tape.

You win some, you lose some. Right now, I mostly feel like I've won.