content warning: homophobia/homophobic language, alcohol consumption, strong language, consideration of behaviors linked to eating disorders

Volume 1: II

Chapter 1: Him

I love Ryder. He is honestly the nicest, kindest and most unexploitive fucker around. His unhealthy obsession with the tour bus just goes to show what makes him such an amazing friend, that he cares that much about our environment and comfort. It is not at all a slightly sick and twisted fling with a vehicle. No, it's heart-warming how he always pats the side of the bus, like maybe he wishes he could fuck it. Even more than Ryder, though, I love Seb. God, Seb with his amazing green eyes and funny jokes. Seb, who always has my back. He is the most altruistic and sympathetic guy ever, never clouded by his ego or self-seeking. So down to earth. It's amazing.

Ryder and Seb. My best friends. I love those guys.

Seb holds my chin. "B?"

I smile at him. The club is full of people. I feel nothing. Finally, finally, I am numb.

"This is not groovy," Ryder says, snapping his fingers in front of me.

I mean to tell him not to do that, but the world slips into darkness.

I wake up with a hangover from hell, shielding my eyes and blinking at the room I'm in. I don't recognize it. Light is coming in from enormous windows, and I'm lying on a couch in someone's living room. Humming sounds from somewhere far away, a peaceful melody I don't think I've heard before. Most of the time these days, I wake up in unexpected places, so I'm not particularly worried. I groan and roll onto my side, the world spinning a little. Then everything just tips over, and I clutch the couch but end up on the floor anyway with a painful thud.

"Ow," I manage and remain where I am, blinking at the ceiling. I feel nauseous. Maybe I'm going to throw up. Would the owner of this place mind if I made a mess?

I hear someone approaching, and then Seb comes into view, but he's upside down with long locks all over his face. My insides are on fire, throat sore from singing and shouting and alcohol and weed and cigarettes and a long list of other things I no longer remember. It's like someone has taken a fork and scraped my throat raw with it.

Seb stares down at me. "Breakfast is ready. We need to leave for the airport in half an hour."

Then Seb is gone, and I am left blinking. Airport?

Standing up is surprisingly difficult. Gravity, damn gravity. Once up, I realize I'm in Seb's living room. He's got a nice house that he bought last year with band money. I haven't been here in a long while so I initially head the wrong way, stumbling into a music room with a dozen guitars on the walls. This could be my house, but I've stuck to the small apartment and the chaos. I'm not sure why I'm so reluctant to accept the changes brought on by the band's success. Having money is a welcomed change, and yet...

I stop by the kitchen doorway, seeing Ryder and Sebastian sitting by the table, talking to each other in hushed voices. I catch 'on a bender' before they spot me.

"Blaine," our manager says, motioning me to sit down. "You want some scrambled eggs?"

I gag involuntarily at the thought of gooey eggs on my plate, hand flying over my mouth. I close my eyes and wait for the nausea to pass, furiously shaking my head.

"No, then," Ryder says, trying to laugh it off though he sounds far from amused.

Breakfast is a mostly quiet affair. Seb gives me a glass of orange juice mixed with vodka, and it's exactly what I need. I'm glad he remembers that from the life before. It takes me forever to understand what Seb meant about us leaving for the airport, but then it hits me. Back on tour. We're flying to Tennessee.

I tighten my grip of the glass. Already? But I just- I just got back to LA yesterday. It feels like yesterday. Unpacking my things, finding a shirt in my bag that wasn't mine at all, but belonged to –

Already? No. I don't want to.

"What happened last night?" I ask eventually, my voice rough. I'm supposed to be singing to thousands tonight. My voice is shattered. The alcohol wells in my stomach, a constant churn reminding me that I've been doing things I can't actually recall.

"You can thank Ryder for that," Seb says calmly. "He spent two days tracking you down."

"Huh."

So I've definitely been on a bit of a bender. I didn't mean to, not exactly. There was always just another party to go to when the last one ended, someone wanting to give me a free ride. I never really understood how handy being famous was until now, how convenient it is to be at the top of the charts.

Fame is never overrated.

Quinn comes to Seb's house right before we have to leave, bringing two suitcases. She packed for me. I don't know whether to feel embarrassed, insulted or flattered, so I end up going with thinking that at least she's saved me the trouble. They clearly expect me to go through the bags to make sure it's all there, but I'm not bothered. What I don't have, I'll get on the road.

Quinn and I bid our longing goodbyes while the taxi waits outside and Ryder impatiently keeps looking at his wristwatch. Quinn and I haven't spent much time together, drifting apart for no obvious reason. We've still gotten together, laughed and fucked and fought, which surely is proof of our coupledom. But I've been busy partying with new friends, and she's been busy designing clothes and doing things I don't want to know about.

I'm pretty sure she's still fucking Puck on the side too.

"Rock them for me," she says as a goodbye.

I wink at her. "You got it, babe."

I wonder if I come across as smooth as I think. Probably not. I most likely look like an underweight, withdrawal-suffering, twenty-something rocker with a hint of self-destruction to perfect my image.

Puck is waiting for us at the airport. He eyes the parting gift Quinn gave me: a red and black bead necklace she herself has made. He probably recognizes it, but he doesn't say anything. She gave it to me. I hope that stings.

"Okay, you guys, let's talk," Ryder says when we've made it through security. We're all present except for Nick who is making his own way to Memphis, undoubtedly from Cincinnati where his wife and newborn baby are, but Puck, Seb and Ryder don't know that. No one knows except for me, and I have to carry that around with me, pretending nothing is wrong. I have to act like I don't know what Quinn and Puck are up to, I have to fake ignorance to the background of one of our roadies who vanished off the face of the earth, from his loving Catholic family. I know it all, too much, and I don't think anyone actually appreciates how much I do for this band.

They have no idea, and I accept my fate silently, bitterly, resenting it, the carrier of unwanted secrets.

"Who's excited about the second leg of the tour?" Ryder asks as we sit by Gate 14, waiting for our flight to be called. We stand out in the crowd: me with my long locks curling around my face, Seb with his long, semi-swept back hair, Puck with the sides of his head shaved and that ridiculous mohawk going down the middle. "We'll have so much fun!" Ryder enthuses, checking his papers as I contemplate if it'd work for my benefit to go to the toilet and stick my fingers down my throat, forcing myself to throw up before we board. "We've got a day off in Denver! Groovy, right? Oh, in Dallas we've got a photo shoot. Time for some fresh pictures! And I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to Salt Lake City!"

"What exactly is there in Salt Lake City?" I ask sharply.

Ryder's brows knit together. "Well, uh... I always thought there'd be a lake? With salty water?"

Seb and Ryder start discussing if there actually is such a thing, and Puck says, "There are just Mormons, man, banging away at their seven wives."

Is that supposed to be funny? It's not. Seb laughs, but of course he would with his horrible sense of humor. I'm sick of Puck and Seb. I've known them for too long. We've heard all the jokes and stories. There's nothing new to share, absolutely no innovation. We need new blood. New ideas. I need to regenerate myself somehow, and this is the wrong crowd for it. Going on tour will solve nothing.

And he will be there.

Fuck, I don't want to sober up.

"I'm just gonna go to the bathroom," I inform my companions and follow the toilet signs. My entire body feels weak, like I haven't gotten any rest since the last show. I'm not mentally or physically prepared to go on tour.

I'm still on my way to the toilet when I spot a familiar face in the crowd, among all the people coming and going, holidays, business trips, honeymoons. I stare, my brain trying to grasp the sudden appearance of someone I wasn't expecting to see.

The man doesn't notice me, but I hurry after him, hand landing on his shoulder, and he swirls around with a surprised expression. "Blaine."

"Sam."

We stare at each other.

"What you doing in LA?" I ask, knowing that the last time I saw him I told him to go fuck himself, but it's a small world. We can't bump into each other like this and not talk, can we? We were buds. For a few days. We clicked. Why did we stop clicking again?

Sam Evans remains an outsider in many ways, but I'd rather talk to a hateful stranger than a resentful friend.

"We were here. The band?" he clarifies, and I spot Finn in the distance, looking our way and then pretending he wasn't. Doesn't want to talk to me, obviously. "We're flying home now."

Summertime is always hectic for bands. Kids just want to get out, drink, fuck and listen to music, and we're flying and driving across the States to entertain them. It's not like Canadian Experience is incredibly famous, but they're somewhere in the 'oh yeah, I think I've heard of them' category, struggling to make it. Ten bucks says they won't.

"That's far out. We're heading to Tennessee, going back on tour after a break."

"Okay," Sam shrugs, and it kills the conversation. He looks at me like he is waiting for the punch line. I'm just being polite: we did tour together, after all. I wish I could pretend that I no longer remember why we fell out, but I do. I know he does too. Their bassist started shit with us, and then said bassist got bottled by us, and Sam lied to me and I hated him for letting me see light where there was none, and I don't know what to say to him now.

I'm not really angry anymore. Surely we can now take a step back and have a good chuckle about it all.

"So Canadian Experience is doing okay?" I ask when it's all I can come up with.

Sam opens his mouth, but then Cedes appears by his side, as beautiful as ever, giving me a cold look. "Blaine. What a coincidence," she says coolly, and Sam wraps an arm around her shoulders. They form a wall, making damn sure I'm not getting through.

"Yeah, small world. We're going on tour and stuff," I repeat.

"Oh!" she says and suddenly smiles genuinely. "Is Kurt here?"

I take a step back. There it is.

"No. He's not," I manage, and I dare a look at Sam, whose mouth is now a thin line. "Look, about that –"

"If you're gonna have another go at me for supposedly outing Kurt for being gay, then don't bother," Sam grunts. "Your band had more issues with it than we ever did, even if Thad lost control that night. I never told a soul, alright?" Sam says firmly and with slight anger. He looks up when a female voice crackles through the speakers. "And that's our flight being called. Have a good life, Blaine."

I stare after Sam and Mercedes silently, who walk to Finn, and then Finn shoots a dirty glance my way. I remember Kurt grabbing my hand and pulling me along after we bottled Thad, how Kurt laughed and how that made me feel, how it was soothing. That's before anything had even happened.

I scoff and look away. I didn't want to be Sam's friend, anyway. I'm the star here. He should be flattered I gave him the time of day in the first place.

I hear a soft melody echoing in my head, and I recognize it as one of the songs Sam and I wrote. It was a good song. We could have been something, me and him. The spark was there to make music. Amazing music. And Sam is stuck with mediocre musicians, and I'm stuck with three ungrateful assholes plus Ryder.

It's not right somehow.

Ryder comes to find me, clearly convinced I had taken off. We board the plane, and I try to sleep during the flight.

I'd call Sam and work things out if it weren't for the fact that he's a liar like the rest of them. I really wish he wasn't.

The bus doesn't have a name, though we keep debating about it. Ryder wants to call it Betty the Bus, which has got to be the gayest name of all time. Seb and Puck demand it be called The Love Wagon, and I personally just don't care. It's parked behind the venue, and I swear Ryder hurries his steps to get to it and pat its side lovingly. That month spent apart must have been really hard on our manager.

"Now she's been cleaned inside and out during the break, so please, please, don't make a mess," Ryder implores as the door opens, and the three of us ascend the steps, suitcases with us. The bus is exactly like I remember it, except it looks nearly as shiny as it did on the first day, the first time I got on it and met –

"A month on this thing," I say disdainfully, and the bunk door opens, revealing Matt and Beiste.

"Hey, you're here!" the guitar tech smiles, and we do one-armed hugs before my band settles down discussing the show tonight. I keep looking around for him, but he doesn't appear to be on the bus yet. Good. I don't want to see him, anyway.

Nick appears from the bunks. I flinch without meaning to, and he holds my gaze, trying to smile. "Hey, guys," he offers, but not very cheerfully. He doesn't want to be here. I don't look at him as I take my bags and head for the back lounge, which is also my nest. It's where I go hide, and it's the only decent thing Ryder Lynn has ever done for me.

I haven't seen my former best friend since Tampa. I've gone a month without talking to Nick. I haven't done that since I met him as a kid. Well, I'm fine. Surely everyone can see that I'm fine and don't miss him one bit.

I take my time in the nest, puffing pillows and sitting down, feeling the mattress under my ass, giving me some kind of ground. My hands shake slightly as I come down from whatever I've been taking. Right now, I want to sleep forever. I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling, hearing the guys talking. I try to pick out one voice, but either it's not there or I can't tell it apart. Then I hear Ryder's loud, "Okay, guys, let's start setting up the gear!"

I try to get some sleep before I get dragged to soundcheck, but my body is too wired, my skin anticipating something my mind refuses to think about. A touch. Hands. Hands that have haunted me for weeks now.

I've had time to think about Kurt. Too much time, maybe. But really, I don't want to be stuck on this bus with a lovesick fag for weeks on end. I shouldn't have fucked him. It just gave him the wrong impression and who knows what he thinks is going on with us. Nothing is. God, it's going to be such a bore having him swoon whenever I walk into the room.

A firm knock sounds on the door, followed by Seb's voice. "B, let's go! Soundcheck!"

The venue fits ten thousand people. It's sold out. Ryder says that all the shows for the rest of the tour are sold out now, and I try not to think about the implications of it, how this is only the start, how we're still on our way. I know kids have been queuing outside the venue since morning to be front row.

"Here you go," Ryder says as I walk on stage, and he hands me the tour pass. I reluctantly put it around my neck. Back to the chains I go, willingly too, and that makes me the fool.

The roadies are on stage, our gear ready. My palms are sweating, and I wipe them against my jeans. There's Mason, curly locks down to his shoulders, wearing light blue bell jeans that are too tight for him and a floral shirt that looks pretty fashionable. And if Mason is there, then Kurt must be – not here.

"Where's Kurt?" I ask spontaneously. He's nowhere to be seen. He wasn't on the bus, and he's not in the venue. Something hard settles in my stomach.

"He's not here," Ryder informs me. "But don't you worry about that. You just focus your energies on the show."

"What do you mean he's not here?" I persist. Is he out getting Puck some grass? Is he back on the tour bus after having seduced a venue worker? Where the hell is the fucker?

"We, um. Don't know where he is. He was supposed to fly in yesterday, but he didn't, and Mason called the motel he was staying at in San Francisco, but he's not there anymore, so we don't know. But I've got it covered, don't you worry. We can get someone to take his place if need be. I know you two were a bit friendly –"

"No. We weren't," I correct him, quite possibly snapping at our manager, and go get myself a guitar.

He's not here. He is nowhere to be found. Wouldn't be the first time he disappears, so really, this is not alarming. Whatever. Maybe he's gone again, moving onto a new city, doing something different, like a chameleon, and I will never see him again. Vanished. Just a random figure I knew for a handful of weeks.

Or maybe he got caught with his pants down in the wrong place. Maybe his body is in a dumpster somewhere, after being beaten up and raped –

"Did you hear about Kurt?" Nick asks me, swirling drumsticks in his hands.

"Sure. Whatever."

Nick doesn't have the right to talk to me.

"Well, who the hell is going to look after my gear now?" Puck demands loudly, eyeing the roadies angrily.

Mason pipes in with, "Look, I'm sure Kurt will show up! He wouldn't walk out on us, you know?"

"Like fags have morals," Seb points out.

"Kurt's love life has nothing to do with his morals!" Mason argues fiercely, and Seb snorts, probably at the mention of love. Yeah. Since when did a deviant lifestyle of sodomy equal love? Puck mouths 'closet case' to me, nodding at Mason, and I chuckle because he is so right. Then I realize Puck really doesn't have the right to talk to me either.

Ryder tells everyone to relax and smile, and his voice is more desperate than I've ever heard it. He clearly wasn't expecting this on the first day back. In a few weeks' time, maybe, but not yet.

"I will take care of it. You guys focus on the shows," Ryder says with surprising conviction. We all give Ryder a hard time, me more than anyone, but I know the rest of the guys trust him one hundred percent.

Against my better judgement, I decide to trust him too. Maybe he can revive Kurt, who is not mutilated in an alley somewhere because this is not the time or the place to be openly gay. kURT just missed his flight. That's all.

Ryder will take care of it.

The soundcheck is a lifeless affair where we try to remember how it all works after our break. We manage to keep it professional, deciding to introduce a few old songs to the setlist and discard a few others. Just so that we don't die of boredom.

Not all venues offer proper food, and mostly, we live off snacks like mini-sandwiches or candy and cookies. Mid-South Coliseum has a proper catering facility in the backstage area, reminiscent of my high school's cafeteria except with only a handful of small tables. I sit by myself and stuff mashed potatoes into my mouth, absently reading the Hemingway I found on the bus. The first page has got a wide scrawl of 'K.E.H. 1974' in the top corner. I keep wondering what the E stands for. Elliot. Ethan. Emerson. Emil.

I can't relax. I'm bracing myself for a, "So sorry I didn't get here until now!" from the direction of the door but it's not happening, and I get more restless.

I didn't want to see him, anyway. But point is that he's not here, and that annoys me more. Who does he think he is?

Nick, Seb, Puck and Matt occupy one table while Ryder, Mason and Beiste sit around another. The most worrying thing is that we probably didn't even think about where we'd go sit. We did it subconsciously, and I chose the table far away from the others. My three bandmates chose to join forces and leave me be.

I sigh and put the book down. Kurt will show up. I refuse to accept that all I have left of him is this stupid fucking book.

But then it's late in the day, and we walk on stage to the lights and screams, and Kurt isn't there. I haven't had a drop to drink since the orange juice and vodka mix in the morning, and it's horrifying to be this aware of the crowd. Seb is already screaming, "Good eeeeeeevening, Memphis!" into the microphone, making them cheer louder.

I strum a few chords, checking the sound, before walking to my own microphone, dead center, lights on me, them all watching me. It's like they are holding their breaths for me to address them: my followers.

I say, "The last time we played a show, Nixon was still president. We'll dedicate this one to Ford."

And just like that, I've spoken more on this leg than I did on the last one all put together. It's my conviction that, if I pretend everything's alright, everything really will be alright, and we're not a doomed army marching onto a battlefield inadequately equipped.

It's a hot day in Nashville, and we can't stay on the bus-turned-sauna even if we'd want to. I sit on a bench at the back of the venue, which is thankfully an enclosed area. The guys are messing around with a frisbee, and behind the fence, fans are watching them play. Nick, Puck and Seb already went over to sign the records the kids passed through the gaps, but they are still lingering around, cheering and chanting my name. They can see me, and I can see them.

A face off.

Puck jumps up to catch the frisbee, and he instantly throws it in Nick's direction before turning to me. "B, you don't want to play?" he asks me, slightly out of breath. Sex with my girlfriend not keeping him in shape? A shame, that. When I don't respond, he adds, "You should go sign records for those kids. Don't be an asshole, you know?"

"Thanks for the pointer," I note, standing up and stuffing my hands into my pockets. The kids cheer loudly, maybe thinking I'm finally going over. Sure thing I will.

I tell Ryder I'll be back in twenty, that I just need to stretch my legs. When I get to the guarded gate surrounding the venue, I flash my pass to the security guy and am faced with the kids who ran to the gate when they saw me on the move. There are seven of them, and they gush and stutter. I feel vile.

"Could you sign this?" one of the boys asks, handing me Boneless. We did decent music before this album, thanks.

"I'm not in the mood today. Just leave me be, alright?" I ask tiredly, turning my back on them.

"I just want you to sign it!" he calls after me desperately. "Blaine! Please? I love your music, man!"

I pretend not to hear.

They don't follow me.

Kurt didn't show up last night. We waited around after the show, but he never arrived. Mason is making excuses, and Ryder is stressing out, and I'm slowly realizing that he isn't coming back. I didn't want to see him, anyway, so that's good. But the question is why. Did he get bored of being this version of him? Is he going to try and be something else this time, a plumber in Santa Fe, perhaps? Maybe he does this every five years, reinventing himself, and he didn't even bother to give the friends he had made a warning.

Was it me?

Maybe he fell in love with me. I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe he is trying to punish me, but did he honestly think I'd get on my knees and declare my undying love? He's a man I fucked out of curiosity and boredom. I could never love a man. Maybe he thinks that this will make me repent, this will mess me up further. He can keep on wishing. I won't let the idle tantrums of some random one-night-stand get to me.

I realized something the past month, which is this: I don't need to give a shit about anyone anymore. I am beyond that. Fame gives me status I didn't realize I could exploit. They will let me do whatever I want: scold them, fuck them, laugh at them, and if at some point they disapprove, they roll their eyes and say, "He's Blaine Anderson." It's become an excuse.

All fucked up kids just need a bit of fame and a dash of good looks to make their shortcomings come across as accomplishments.

They think I'm charming. And now I can do just about anything, like screw a guy and never call. I won't feel guilty for him.

My eyes land on a street sign that tells me I'm on Gay Street. It feels like it's mocking me somehow. Thanks, Nashville.

I stop to light a cigarette, eyeing the street and wondering if there's a chance to get high before my return to the venue, and then I spot him.

Right on the other side of the street in brown corduroy pants and a cream button up neatly tucked inside, a matching brown jacket unbuttoned and huge sunglasses over his eyes. He's got a suitcase in his grip, and he's looking up and down the street. I stare with my hand cupped to protect the flame from the wind, and I don't flinch until the blaze starts prickling my skin.

Him.

I check the street for traffic, and deciding that they will most likely brake, I make a dash for it, crossing the street and earning angry honking from both directions. Kurt's already walked further, but I catch up with him easily.

"Hey!" I demand loudly, but he doesn't react. I follow two more steps in his wake before grabbing his shoulder and quickly forcing him to turn around. "I'm talking to you!" I snap, giving him a small shove backwards as I let go of him.

Kurt seems startled as he removes his oversized sunglasses. "Blaine!" He sounds relieved. He's relieved? "God, I've spent twenty minutes trying to find the venue! The locals keep pulling my leg. I know I'm close by now, but –"

"It's around the fucking corner."

"Oh."

I stare at him, waiting for him to tell me where he's been. He just looks confused and his eyes – there's something wrong with his eyes. They're red. He hasn't slept in a while, that's for sure. His chin is covered with at least a week's worth of stubble, not quite long enough to be a beard yet. He's not smiling. He's blank.

"Where the hell were you last night?" I snarl when he doesn't open his mouth. My heart is beating wildly in disbelief that he's here. And how dare he miss the start of the tour and have us all worrying? Have us going out of our minds? Didn't he realize I'd drive myself up the wall?

"I got held up. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? You think that's gonna be good enough?" I snap. What if something had happened to him? God, did he even not stop to think?

Turns out that 'sorry' is good enough. Mason instantly jumps on Kurt when we get back to the venue, asking the questions we all must be wondering: what happened, where he was, if he's okay. Mason notes Kurt doesn't look good (He doesn't, he looks tired and pale. His sunglasses now cover his red eyes). Kurt says the same thing: he got held up. I know my band is pissed off because it's unprofessional, but Ryder just says that at least now we don't need to train a new guy and that there's someone to look after Puck's instruments.

"We've got enough band members vanishing without having to worry about you," Seb snaps, and for once I agree with him, even if he took an indirect stab at me.

"We need you on stage in ten," Ryder informs the roadie, who nods in defeat. He looks like he could do with a nap, and I know I could easily tell Ryder to cut him some slack, let the kid rest, but I don't. He was late and is still employed. That's all the special treatment he is going to get.

Kurt gets on the bus, and I resume my seat on the bench, the kids on the other side of the fence now even more numerous. I start chain-smoking, eyes focused on the bus. Kurt comes back out shortly, now in fresh clothes. He's got his tour pass around his neck and a roll of duck tape in his grip, and he heads for the back door unseeingly, eyes nailed to the ground.

Look at me. Turn your head and look at me.

He doesn't.

White arrows have been painted onto the backstage floor, leading the way from the dressing room to the stage so that we don't get lost. Matt has started adding a taped note onto the monitor on my left with the name of the city we're in. I watch Kurt tear it off, crumbling 'Nashville' and throwing it offstage for the cleaners to deal with. The venue smells of sweat, the space where the crowd was half an hour ago now littered with cups.

All the band needs to do these days is get off the bus, hang out in the dressing room, do soundcheck, wait around, play the show, get back on the bus. We don't need to bother with how the gear gets on stage, how the guitars stay stringed and tuned. I don't need to watch the roadies clean up the mess when I could be getting high or banging a groupie somewhere.

I have no reason to be here, but I am.

I was right about the guilt-tripping thing. That's what Kurt is trying to do with his lifeless zombie act, make me feel like shit because I promptly put us fucking into a safe that I then threw overboard.

"Coming through," Beiste says, rolling an amp case off stage, the tiny wheels squeaking as he pushes it along. I step aside to give him space and keep the cigarette to my lips.

Mason is packing away the drum kit, but he keeps watching Kurt with concern. I was worried for a while, but only out of instinct. Someone around you is upset, of course you feel upset too. Now, though, I just think it's funny. It's like he's walking around with his heart hung around his neck for everyone to see, big puppy eyes with a naïve 'how could you do this to me?' on top. And he thinks that by ignoring me, I will feel so bad that I'll elope with him.

Jesus Christ, could he just get over it?

Maybe I just rocked his world so hard that he can't forget the most amazing orgasm of his life.

Matt hauls guitar case after guitar case off stage. We're travelling with, what? Ten, twelve guitars? "Kurt, I need the basses," Matt calls out, and Kurt nods hurriedly, slightly dirty hair flopping in front of his tired eyes as he kneels down next to a bass case, placing Puck's Fender in it carefully, stuffing the strap to the side. He pulls the lid down and clicks the several locks.

I stand up straighter when he heads over to me, a bass case in both hands. The muscles of his arms are tense, jutting veins visible under the pale, smooth skin. He glances at me as he passes, but he doesn't say anything.

I inhale deep, ignoring the dropping sensation in my guts. Ryder appears on stage from the other side, and he hurries over to me. "B, you go have a drink and rest. We've got this."

"I'm making the kids wait," I respond. A whole crowd of them is outside the venue gates, waiting for the band to emerge and sign something. I'm not a star if I go over without making them squirm, am I?

"We should talk about Europe soon," he says.

"Hmm, yeah. Well, you see it's a continent. Eurasia geographically, I think. The cradle of civilization. We owe it all to the Romans, if you ask me."

"I meant the European tour," he chuckles, but I freeze. What European tour?

Ryder doesn't clarify, he just walks on with a stupid, happy smile on his face.

No. Seriously.

What European tour?

Mason walks by, carrying the D-shaped case of Nick's bass drum. "You know anything about a European tour?" I ask him urgently, but he shakes his head.

I curse and stomp my cigarette to the stage floor, now heading to the dressing room to clear this up. The arrows point the way, and the note on the door still says 'THE WARBLERS'. My bandmates are no longer there, though, having migrated to the bus. I mutter curses as I pick up my brown leather jacket and pull it on, carding my hair and feeling every muscle in my body tense up. What fucking European tour?

I have managed to wrap my head around the dates we have left – twenty-three now – after which I plan to take a long, long break. We played the UK, Germany and France in '72, a very humble tour filled with 'what the fuck is up with this country?' wonder as none of us had been abroad before. I have heard nothing about us going back now that we're beyond famous. Another fifty shows? In varying countries with different languages and cultures and crowds?

No. Absolutely not.

The door to the dressing room opens, and Kurt walks in, acknowledging me silently as he goes to a couch with clothes on it and begins stuffing Puck's leftover stage clothes into a bag. For a second, I imagine my life as Puck's bitch, and I don't like what I see.

"You know something about a European tour?" I shoot at him angrily.

Kurt stops what he's doing and looks over at me. "No."

"Liar."

His brows furrow. "I really don't. I got back, like, four hours ago. Trust me, I don't know," he sighs, a hint of sadness in it, and looks away.

"For fuck's sake, stop moping around!" I bark. "You realize what a tour like that might mean? Two, maybe three months of more shows? I've got more shit to deal with than your martyrdom, so stop –"

"What?" he asks so, so quietly that I forget what I was going to say.

I don't like it when he's sad. When he is quiet and reserved like this, I feel anguished. He needs to stop and go back to the smiling and laughing roadie he was before.

"I said stop and get over it," I repeat. "It was one night."

His eyes flare up, and there's the Kurt I know. Not this subdued hermit who has completely closed in on himself.

He stuffs more clothes into the bag hurriedly. "You know, not everything is about you. Does that ever occur to you?"

Not really, no.

He flings the bag over his shoulder. "Someone close to me died, so I'm sorry if I don't give a crap about your petty tour worries, especially when you're just acting like a spoiled brat."

I flinch. "What?"

Kurt's jaw clenches tight. He shakes his head and leaves the room. I stare after him, feeling as if my insides have suddenly frozen.

I know people die. I know.