content warning: weed, discussions of past trauma (non-graphic violence, child abuse), strong language
Chapter 6: Bad Business
When I was fourteen, I decided that I was going to be a musician. I had had my guitar for a bit over a year. I didn't think I was amazing with it, not yet anyway. I wasn't allowed to play when Dad was hungover, which in practice meant that I could only play when he was out. I went over to Nick's house to play sometimes, but not too often. They were a real family. I didn't want to intrude on that.
Nick and I started busking to work on our skills, but we rarely made money. My voice was untrained, my fingers clumsy. He had this red tenor drum that he dragged around. I didn't take our efforts seriously until one night when I realized that I had to get out. I sat next to my bed in the dark, guitar in my lap. My lower lip was busted. Dad had left for the bar since. It wasn't his fault, but my own. I tripped rushing upstairs.
I don't ever remember crying during those years, and I know I haven't cried since my departure – not out of sorrow, not out of happiness. It's all the same to me.
I thought back then that the only chance I had, the only one I was ever going to get, was music. That if I left, which I did, and if I got a band together, which I did, and if we became successful, which we did, I'd be happy.
But 'happy' is such a vague word, meaning something different to different people. I just wanted to play my music and hopefully some people would like it, and then I could make a living out of it. I could stomach the fame if the focus was right, but it's not. The girls come to the shows to stare at me or one of the others. They scream and scream, hands outstretched, and they have posters of me hanging in their bedrooms, and they bat their eyelashes at the paper version of me, use hairbrushes for microphones and sing my words at me, kiss me goodnight, and I could be singing about fucking daffodils or a pile of horse shit and it wouldn't matter. They want me. Music is just the excuse.
The boys who come to the shows aren't any better. Despite Kurt's preferences, I still think we live in a heterosexual world, so they're not there to fuck me. They want to be like me. I can't wrap my mind around it, what it is about this circus that they would want to get a piece of. It must be the girls that they want. The fame.
And both parties claim that it's the music. It's the mind-blowing music, the highs and the lows, the world I create, the crazy whirlwind of emotion that the instruments conjure around us. It's the change in time signature at the sixth minute or the explosion of drums when you least expect it.
I know they don't care about that. Critics do, giving me some gratification and some of that acknowledgement of musical integrity that the kids try to take away from me. Two out of every thousand fans come to the show for the right reason. I like those two kids.
I've known that my bandmates are in this for the wrong reasons. I've known that Seb, Puck and Ryder have all been chasing immortality, Seb probably wanting it with a side of sex icon status.
Nick's been in it for me.
So what do you do when you realize that the last pieces of string holding you together have dissolved?
I know what we did. Firstly, we went on stage twenty minutes late. It was the biggest fight we have ever had, and Nick got the same amount of shit I did. He's married and a father. Ryder didn't know. Goes to show how stealthy Nick has been about it all, how deep that deception goes.
I quit first, then Seb said that no, he was quitting, and then Puck said he had been meaning to quit for weeks now, and Nick said he couldn't be a one man band, so he quit too. Ryder only managed to get us on stage by blackmailing and reminding us of our contract, saying that no hasty decisions should be made and that without the band we were nothing. So we went on stage, and we played the show. Why? Because we're professionals. Seb now thinks I'm not, that having fucked another man has cancelled out the little I had going for me.
I think it equals out in their minds, my sex life and Nick's marital life, my few-weeks-old secret and his month-after-month-after-month deception. My affair with a member of my own sex has gone beyond any nasty thought they've ever had of me. They've thought I'm a cunt at one point or another, but even then, they didn't think I'd sink this low.
I've used up my voice saying that it's just sex. It's tour sex, which has even less meaning than normal sex. Compared to some of the shit Seb's done, my perversion shouldn't be that big of a deal. That's the thing, though. It is.
I haven't talked to Kurt since.
That's the second thing you need to do – alienate yourself from the source of disruption.
I've wanted to be a professional musician since I was fourteen. Now that I am, I realize that I should have been more specific. What kind of success? A van or an airplane? A full auditorium or a half-empty bar? I should have decided early on what exactly I was chasing. It hasn't been immortality. Maybe I've just wanted a break or to finally like myself or to find something stupid and childish like a home.
And Ryder was right. Without this band, no matter how much we loathe each other, what am I? Who am I? Am I anything at all?
Even if I've now realized that my existence is tied into this circus, it doesn't feel good that the truth is out. It doesn't feel good to stand on stage on our second and final night in Denver, when no one in the band is talking to anyone. It doesn't feel good when we finish a song and Kurt comes to give me the next guitar, and he looks at me, trying to get eye contact, but I don't return his gaze. Thousands are watching me, but they don't pay attention to the random guy who appears on stage momentarily. They only see me, and I need to learn how to do that too. Learn how to find myself in this chaos instead of only finding others.
I can't look at Kurt without someone thinking I'm a disgusting freak. I'm not trying to be like the world around me – I just want the guys to let me be. And that means that I have to choose something instead of flicker back and forth between right and wrong, normal and abnormal, heresy and orthodoxy.
After we wrap up the show, playing the final song, Seb thanks the audience, Puck and Nick waving to the crowd as we drag ourselves offstage. I never wave to the audience once we're done. Usually, the roadies and Ryder are standing in the sidelines, high-fiving us or patting our shoulders, telling us that we did alright, but this time, they let us pass in silence. Beiste and Matt are both trying very obviously not to look at me.
Ryder's organized a car to take the band back to the hotel while the crew are left to clean up. We sit in the back of the limo, the four of us, no one saying a single word.
A limo. I guess it's a sign of Ryder's utter desperation. Throw us into luxury, and we'll be too overwhelmed to remember that we're not even friends anymore.
It's raining in Denver, droplets rolling down the tinted windows. It takes ten minutes to get out of the venue because fans have flocked outside, and the car has to inch through the crowd, shouts and occasional flashes of cameras penetrating the silent, dead atmosphere inside the vehicle. Seb is looking out of the window at the fans we can see, though they can't see us. His hair is wet from a quick post-show shower, a beer bottle now firmly in his grip. Seb's the only one who's ever been honest, even if I've felt the furthest from him. Maybe it was the honesty I had trouble with. Puck is looking at me, malice in his gaze. Nick looks uncomfortable and shamed like he's let Puck and Seb down, staring at his shoes. Nick would think that. He's still been friends with them.
No one's shouting at anyone anymore. We already did that part.
When we get to the hotel, Seb and Puck march straight for the stairs, clearly having no desire sharing an elevator ride with me or Nick. At least we go down together, me and him. It's got symmetry in it.
The flustered woman at the reception tells me that I've received a message, giving me big eyes like she's staring at a superstar. It's no wonder because the hotel guards are holding back the eager fans outside even as we speak. I quickly take the paper slip from her, reading, 'Where are you? – Quinn' before folding and pocketing it. There's a reason I've practically hung up on Quinn the few times she's called.
Nick's got a message too. He reads it, then looks up and says, "Vicky."
"Figures," I reply, keeping my voice as neutral as I can.
I expect him to take the stairs too, but we end up in the same elevator. The confined space feels claustrophobic, too small for us to be in the same space after we've stabbed each other in the backs. I'm relatively sure I'm still bleeding all over the place.
I look at the lights above the door, seeing the number two light up, and god, this is slow, we'll never get to the fifth floor. Does he expect to say something? Or am I waiting for him to take a swing at me? Who'd be more justified? The number three illuminates, and I feel the tension between us, thick and murky, weighing me down. Four. Thank god, just a bit –
"You didn't have to tell them, you know."
I instantly press the stop button on the side panel, causing the elevator to come to an abrupt stop in between floors. Nick meets my angered gaze calmly. When Nick's pissed, I mean really pissed and not just shocked or upset, he doesn't yell. He talks to you, acknowledges you, but his eyes remain blank. It's the clarity he gets when he's furious.
"You didn't have to tell them either," I point out sharply.
"I didn't do it out of spite," he notes, then adding a muttered, "unlike some."
"You sold me out yesterday! Doesn't matter why you did it!"
He lets out an exaggerated sigh, and I avert my gaze, feeling anger boiling inside me. "Listen, Seb saw you. He wasn't going to believe any excuses, not when you had guilt all over your face. Come on, I only verified what everyone knew. Subconsciously, anyway."
"That's bullshit."
"Sometimes you don't want to believe what's right in front of your eyes," he says in this annoying holier-than-thou, I-understand-the-world voice.
"Fuck yo –"
"I was trying to protect you," he cuts me off.
"My god," I laugh bitterly, but he stares me down unblinkingly. I grit my teeth. "Since when have you had to protect me, huh? I've always taken care of myself, you know that. I've –"
"Do you even believe that?" he asks quietly.
"That's different," I argue. "The fans, the fame? Okay, maybe I don't know how to deal with that, maybe you've had to talk me into going on stage, like, once. But when it comes to who I take back to my room? I know you don't like Quinn but you're not going around sabotaging that, and Kurt's fucking harmless so –"
"It's not- It's not the sex," he says, clearly struggling to verbalize it, which means that it is the sex. I scoff and press the stop button again, the lift jerking as it kicks back into motion. "Listen," he demands as the doors open to our floor, and we step out together. "I like Kurt, it's not like I've got any beef with him, but... You've never – I know he's the only guy you've ever done those things with, and it's not like you, you're just acting out because –"
"Oh, this is your revenge theory again, is it?" I scoff. Maybe this isn't about any of them or what they do or don't do. Maybe this is about Kurt and me, and how we – "Seb fucks anything that moves, but no one cares because it's all pussy. I do one guy after dozens of women, and everyone thinks I need help. Such bullshit," I mutter under my breath as we head down the corridor.
"Seb fucks women we never see again! Kurt's around us all day and night! He's around you all the time, and –"
"So?"
"It – For god's sake!" He stops walking, causing me to mimic him. He looks troubled as he sighs. "He could go to the press with this or he could get clingy. I mean, the other day I realized that I know nothing about him."
"I know him," I object as I get out my room key.
"Yeah?" he asks, tone challenging. "How old is he?"
"What?"
"What year was he born?"
"Look, I don't – I don't need to answer tha –"
"You don't know."
"I don't care to know," I note. "Just because we're famous now doesn't mean that we have to do the third degree on everyone! Some people are for real."
"No one's real."
He looks dead serious, not trying to be sarcastic, not sounding sad. He's stating a fact he believes in. It's Ryder's fault. When Ryder tried to pay Vicky off, Nick lost trust in the business and anyone involved. He's convinced there are no genuine people around us and he's mostly right, but Kurt is different. He doesn't care how famous I am. Fuck, he'd leave me for Bowie in the blink of an eye if he could.
"Don't stand there and say you're fucking concerned because we don't know Kurt," I mutter angrily. "Just own up to it, alright? Be honest."
"Own up what?"
"That you're repulsed by it."
Nick looks at me for a long time before averting his gaze. It settles hard in my guts, and I can't push the feeling away. Instead I quickly go to my hotel door, and he follows me stubbornly.
"My point is," he says, not giving me an answer, "that I was trying to do what was the best for the band. That's all I've ever tried to do. It's bad business, this thing with you two. Saw it myself in Omaha, the second you had a fight with him you acted like the world had ended and he wasn't much better, and we can't have that in the band. There's too much at stake. Whereas you jeopardizing the welfare of my wife and daughter simply for payback?"
"Doing what's best for the band," I retort, pushing my door open.
"No. That was not for the best for anyone," he disagrees coldly. "I wanted to keep my girls away from this scene, and I thought you of all people would have understood that, that you- Now this band's fucked. Seb and Puck are fucking pissed off at us, and –"
"I haven't talked to Kurt since yesterday, alright?" I snap. "What more do you fucking want?"
He steps back. "More. If we plan to stick together as a band, a hell of a lot more."
But I feel like I've given all I can possibly give.
He turns around, stuffing hands into his jean pockets, shoulders slumped as he heads for his own room. I watch him go.
The Warblers has been the focal point of my life for the past five years. No matter what I say, I can't imagine my life without it, and now it's slipping away and fading out, leaving me with a lot of nothing.
If someone asks me what it feels like to live the dream, I'll tell them that my fourteen-year-old self knew fuck all. Distinguishing a dream from a nightmare is surprisingly hard.
Kurt is giving me space. Or he might be. All I know is that he hasn't come up to talk to me, and I haven't acknowledged him either, so I don't actually know what's going on. Maybe he's lost interest. Maybe he knows what I know – that it was fun while it lasted, but we got caught. It's easy for him because he's just some gay kid from San Francisco. What does he have to lose?
I've never really had to break up with people, not that we were together in any capacity – you can't have actual relationships with other men – but it's still been more than a fleeting backstage blowjob or two. I can't just walk away or ignore him forever. He'd think I'm an asshole.
I'll take responsibility of my actions this time around. If I do the right damn thing, no one should have anything to complain about.
So all I need to do is go up to Kurt and inform him that we're done fucking around. Then I will force myself to keep my hands to myself for the rest of this pathetic tour, not watch him when he crosses the room because there's just something irresistible in the way he walks, the way his jeans cup his ass, his t-shirt always an inch too short, the way a singular strand of hair falls over his face, the way his neck glistens with sweat during the shows even if he's not on stage himself. I won't pay attention to any of it. It's not like it's an addiction.
I had my insane homosexual affair. I've ticked that off on my 'Crazy shit to do before I die' list, right there between feeding a shark and mountaineering.
I wait until we get to Salt Lake City. Denver caught up with my lies, revealed my dirty secret to everyone, and I divided my time between the shows, the soundchecks, the interviews and then hiding in my room and not showing my face out of shame and anger.
It's not that I'm putting it off. I just had some crucial brooding to do in Denver. That's all.
Kurt's been driving, and I'm not sure if it was his turn or because he didn't want to get stuck in the lounge with me. Or with them. Both.
It's early afternoon, and a car is waiting behind the venue, ready to take Seb and Nick for an interview at a radio station. Ryder starts delegating who goes where and does what. Everyone knows the truth now, knows what's up and who's been lying, but we just ignore it. We've been ignoring it all along, first limping slightly, then an entire leg dropping off, but we've kept dragging ourselves, inching forwards with a mouth full of dirt. By now, we don't even have our head on, but we're too stupid to notice.
Ryder is eyeing his wristwatch worriedly as the crew starts leaving the lounge. "We're late, god, we're late, don't have time to go to the hotel until after the show. God. Nick, you've got three interviews before soundcheck," he calls after our drummer, who is getting off the bus.
"What about me?" I ask, unwilling to get up from the comfy lounge couch.
"Decided to give you a free pass today. Thought you might need it."
"Nick doesn't need it?"
"It seems like Nick's a master in juggling several things all at once," Ryder notes sourly. He's taking Nick's deception personally. All this time, Ryder thought that he had managed to get rid of Vicky. Being wrong must sting.
"What you gonna do about it?" I ask curiously, and he gives me a blank expression. "His family."
"What can I do about it?" he asks sharply. "Invent a time machine and make sure those two never cross paths? Nothing I can do about it. Hope that no one finds out until they have to. Keep the ball rolling. All I can fucking do."
For some fucked up reason, I feel vaguely guilty for keeping Nick's secret as long as I did. But what difference does it make? It could only end up like this. He can't have both. He told me that he knows he can't, and neither can I.
"Can I borrow Kurt for a bit?" I ask Ryder, who instantly looks both worried and angered. "Not to... do whatever you're thinking right now."
"Then what for?"
"To tell him I'm done with him."
"You are?" he asks skeptically. Skeptically. Does he think that he knows me? He eventually shrugs. "Sure. That's good. That's what the band needs."
It's that something more everyone's expecting from me right now. It'll show them that I'm not what they think I am, to show I am committed to the cause. Of course I am. Even in the sorriest state of this enterprise, I have nothing else worth fighting for.
Kurt's waiting for me outside the bus when I finally force my feet to move. The compartments on the bus's side are all open, Beiste, Mason, and Matt getting the gear out. The venue backdoors are wide open, venue workers helping the guys out as Ryder supervises everything. Kurt's smoking languidly in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of blue bell jeans, the most boring combination of clothing ever but he looks so fucking good.
"You wanted something?" he asks me.
"Yeah. We should go for a walk."
Ryder is not looking our way, Beiste and Matt following his example, but Mason stops to peer at us, eyes thinning curiously and pensively. I feel awkward around Kurt now, making sure to keep my hands by my sides, my gaze generally on his face, not fixed on any specific feature like his lips, with at least three feet between us.
"Sure," he shrugs.
We walk away silently, and I don't even know where the hell we are. The back of the venue is full of parked cars and we walk through them silently towards the street. There are no fans around, a rare exception these days.
"Are we just walking or going somewhere?" he asks when we get to the side of the road, lighting up a new cigarette. I look up and down the street, hoping maybe to spot a bar or someplace neutral. Not here where anyone could see or hear.
"Maybe there's a bar around the corner."
"There are no bars around and, even if there were, they wouldn't be open right now."
"How do you know? You lived here too?" I ask pointedly.
"Yes."
"Of course you did," I grumble, nodding to my left to keep us moving. Kurt knows this place. It's amazing how I've spent the last five years of my life travelling around this continent, but I don't know my country at all. Kurt, on the other hand, knows the gay bars in San Francisco, the diners in Omaha and the bars in Salt Lake City.
He seems closed off, but restless somehow. I don't know if it's because he knows what's coming or because he's back in Utah. He wasn't as restless in Omaha, but then again he did have explosive sex for over two hours.
I keep leading us aimlessly until I spot a park across the road. It looks tranquil, trees swaying in the summer wind as out in the distance beyond the city mountain ranges rise high up, breaking the skyline. I could pick a worse place to do this.
We walk into the park, and I eventually stop by a tennis court two men are playing on, the smacks of ball versus racket cutting through the air. Kurt's been smoking like a chimney the entire way, but he now looks into his cigarette pack and curses.
"You got any?" he asks, and I shake my head.
"We'll stop on the way back. I'll get you some."
He stares, like he might be offended. "You don't need to buy me smokes."
"I know, I just –"
"Look, what do you want?" he asks impatiently. "I should be working, but instead I'm here because you wanted to take a stroll, and you didn't drag me to the nearest hotel to fuck me, so –"
"Would you keep it down?" I hiss because there's a family on a picnic not too far away, the father looking at us with scandalized eyes. God, why did I decide to have this conversation with him at all?
I grab Kurt's arm and drag him further down the path and out of sight. Last thing we need is someone calling the cops on the two sodomites arguing in front of precious, innocent children, though they couldn't arrest us for talking. It's different in California, I don't think they have laws against what we've been doing there anymore, but in Utah? It has to be illegal here. Maybe they never implement it, but the law is there. They could put us behind bars for public disturbance if they wanted to. Getting arrested in Philadelphia showed that I really can't trust the authorities.
Kurt pulls himself free, taking in a deep breath as we're now more remote and by ourselves. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "God, I just- I haven't slept, I spent all morning driving, and you're –"
He stops, and I ask, "I'm what?"
"I don't know," he mutters, shrugging. "Scaring me." He keeps his eyes firmly on our shoes, his cheeks a slight tinge of pink. His hair is sticking out at the top a little bit, and I have to resist the urge to smooth it down.
"It's just a mess," I say quietly. "After they found out about Vicky and Suzie, and about what we're doing. The band's a mess."
"I know," he says in a slightly disbelieving tone, like witnessing the four of us strangle ourselves with our lies is like watching One Life to Live, only with less bad acting and more real emotion. "Mason's been such a drama queen about it, constantly yakking away at what a bad friend I am. Kinda been keeping my distance from you to let him calm down, you know?" he asks timidly. "Felt like you needed it too."
"I did."
He sighs restlessly and finally looks up at me. "So what do we do now that they know?"
"Now that –" I start, feeling a lump in my throat. "Now that they know we've fucked a few times, we have to stop. We can't do it anymore."
"We can't lie about it anymore? Because that –"
"We can't do this," I clarify, motioning between myself and him. "I can't do this. It's not good for the band, our reputation, when we're so close to really making it. I don't want to be a shooting star. I can't risk it for... whatever."
The band's all I've got. They're all I've fucking got, and I hate them for it. I've spent all summer biting the hand that feeds me.
He stares at me with expressionless eyes for what feels like forever before he says, "Oh." He looks over my shoulder. "Not like I expected anything else, anyway." I try to read him, if he's angry or sad. I get nothing. He clears his throat, a momentary pain flickering in his eyes before it vanishes. "It's not good to keep casual sex arrangements on for too long either. You lose the spark and then they become a drag."
"That's true," I agree. But there's just the slightest tension in his shoulders that I can detect if I focus on it hard enough.
"It's good," he adds, now beginning to walk back to where we came from, and I follow him. "Mason will get off my back, you know?"
"And they'll get off mine," I mutter, hoping to god they will. If it's in the past, they should just let it go. He's taking this well. Maybe he's taking this too well.
"Yeah, because Seb calling you what he did..."
"Exactly!" I agree instantly, the memory still pissing me off. "God, he should know me better than that."
"Right. Because you're totally not gay."
"You've met my girlfriend, right?" I ask, chuckling.
He lets out a short laugh. "Yeah. Definitely met her..." His voice fades as he sticks his hands into his pockets. The late August day doesn't feel so warm anymore. I look around as we walk, trying to think of things to talk about. If I'm not whispering dirty things in his ear, then what am I doing?
We take a different route back to the venue, and I thank my lucky stars when we pass a liquor store. "I'll wait here," he says, voice perfectly neutral. He's not looking at me. I try not to let it bother me. I mean, I didn't want him to get into bitch mode or to make a scene so I appreciate his tact, but it's like he doesn't even care.
He doesn't care, and all I want to do is get drunk to get rid of the sense of loss.
I end up buying him three packs of cigarettes, three for me, two bottles of vodka and a bottle of bourbon. The shopkeeper looks at me like I've walked out of a prison as he puts my purchases into paper bags. I plan to be drunk as hell within an hour, prowling backstage with a bottle, anything to forget how Kurt's there but not in the capacity I'd want him to be. Hell, maybe I'll even try and get Nick, Seb and Puck to have a drink with me, ask them how they're doing.
"Thanks," I tell the guy, my hands full as I leave the small, stuffy store, the bell ringing as I push the door open. I instantly bump into Kurt, nearly losing balance as we hit each other, me stepping out and him on his way in. I drop one of the bags, the sound of glass breaking as it meets the concrete, the brown bag instantly turning into a darker shade as the alcohol soaks into it.
Kurt looks at me, blurts out, "Sorry," but I stop entirely. His voice is rushed and panicked, his eyes wild with fear, and he glances over my shoulder as he pushes into the store, practically running in. I swirl around and see a big, middle-aged man rushing down the street towards us, face full of surprise. There's something eerily familiar about him.
Not knowing what else to do, I wrench the door open and step back inside, just catching a glimpse of Kurt disappearing into the backroom as the guy behind the counter yells, "I told you that you can't go in there! You –"
"Wait up!" I call after him, dumping the rest of my purchases onto the counter.
"I don't do refunds! Listen, you're not allowed to go back there, I'm going to call the –"
"Fuck off," I snap, rushing after Kurt.
Just as I get into the backroom, I hear the front door opening again, the bell ringing and a steady, firm male voice saying, "Excuse me, but did –" and the voice has got an echo to it that I recognize. I don't stop to listen as the backdoor of the shop slams shut across the small storage room, and I follow, exiting the shop and stepping onto a dirty back alley.
My eyes find Kurt who is far gone by now, running as fast as his feet let him. I'm completely bewildered, the shock in his eyes circling in my veins, an image I can't forget. I've never seen him scared.
I hear raised voices behind me, sounding like the shopkeeper and the other man arguing just behind the door, a "This is unacceptable, you can't come in here!" echoing through.
I break into a run, trying to catch up with Kurt. I know he's got excellent endurance – I know that first hand – but after two blocks, I think he's fucking overdoing it. He keeps pushing people out of the way, leaving pedestrians staring after him in astonishment, but it clears the path for me, enabling me to finally catch up with him.
"Kurt, fucking stop!" I yell, giving his back a shove. He stumbles right on his feet, crashing forwards and making friends with the ground. I come to an abrupt stop, completely out of breath. "Sorry, fuck –"
He only scrambles up to his feet, swirling around. His right cheek has now got a nasty, red scratch on it, but he doesn't seem to be aware as his eyes fly to where we came from.
"No, you don't!" I snap when he tries to break into a run again. I grab his arm and pull him off the street and in between buildings. I let him go, shoving him backwards until he hits the dirty brick wall in the dead end alleyway. He's as out of breath as I am. "No one's following us," I say, trying to get in some air as my right side prickles painfully. I wince and place my hand there. I don't need to do exercise – playing shows is enough and I'm naturally skinny. Now, however, I regret not being in better physical condition.
Kurt's chest is rising and falling rapidly, disbelief and anger on his features, clearly having gotten over the initial fear that I saw.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I snap. "Are we running a marathon here?"
"I need to go," he rushes out, moving to get past me, but I push him further into the alleyway and away from the street, the people, his only exit out. "Blaine, fucking let me –"
"No! You start talking!"
"It's none of your –"
"Most sons greet their fathers with hugs. Guess you're an exception to that rule too," I snarl, and when his eyes widen, I add, "I've got a father too. Trust me, I know that 'fuck me, it's my old man' look when I see it. I'm not stupid."
"You don't know the half of it."
"So tell me!" I yell out of frustration. The guy had Kurt's eyes, Kurt's charisma, his voice was somehow similar, not in the voice itself but the way they spoke, the way they punctuated words. Kurt saw the guy and ran for it. No, Kurt panicked and ran.
"Since when do you have the right to pry into –"
"Alright, I'll go back and ask him then! You ran like a coward when –"
"Screw you!" he snarls. "Last time I saw him was after I got jumped on my way home! The fucking jocks got to me, broke my arm, my ribs and would've broken my legs too if it weren't for him. He doesn't deserve to have a faggot for a son. I can't do that to him."
I take a step back. My eyes instantly run over his arms, as if one of them might still be broken, but he's intact even though he's not. Clearly, he is barely holding it together. He curses heavily, hands in fists as he aims a forceless kick against the wall.
I feel a sudden urge to protect Kurt come over me. Dad threw me around a few times, and I ended up with bruises, but I never –
"You didn't just vanish," I find myself saying, recalling Kitty's words of one day Kurt being there, the next not. "You ran. Just like you did now."
"Well, them beating the crap out of me hardly made me want to stay," he notes, voice dripping sarcasm. It's not enough to cover up the fear in his tone.
"Fuck, you were only fifteen," I breathe out. I think I've known for some time now that it was him who left, having put the pieces together from what Kitty told me and how Kurt knows this country, has lived all over. The way it's obvious that he takes care of himself and doesn't expect anyone to tuck him to bed at night. The way he won't talk about any of it. And now I know he had a good reason to leave. "You haven't seen your father since, have you?"
"No," he says, voice trembling slightly. "I don't know what he's doing here."
He's trying hard to act like he's not afraid, but he is. I stopped being scared when I was still living with my own father. You can only watch someone's self-inflicted messes, their pathetic struggles for so long before you realize how they don't deserve your concern, pity or fear. One punch to his jaw, and we knew the score. Dad never bothered me again.
Kurt's still scared.
"Did they do that a lot? Push you around?" I question. Fuck, all the pieces are slowly falling into place. The way he clams up when anyone even remotely mentions his past.
He shakes his head, and even though I've caught my breath, he is still breathing in and out hard. God, he's upset. I'd give a supportive shoulder squeeze if I didn't feel like he'd punch me for it.
"I kept to myself so they had no reason to."
"But why would –" I start before it comes back to me. "Oh."
The start of the tour, Thad starting shit with Kurt in St. Louis and Kurt's nose bleeding, him sitting on the ground outside of a café, and he told me back then, didn't he? I knew his story all along without knowing it. He said he's gotten punched for it before.
"You came out, and they beat you up."
To my surprise, Kurt laughs, shooting me a degrading glare. "You think I would've been that stupid? Telling them?"
"If not that –"
"Didn't have to tell them," he notes bitterly. "I kept these –" he starts before smiling to himself crookedly. "I'd ripped out pages from fashion catalogues at my friend's house... Men's underwear. Fucking lousy jerk off material, but it did the job. I hid them in my locker since I was so scared of my dad finding them at home, and then... I don't know who found them, but they didn't stop to ask questions. I was walking home from school and instead of a peaceful walk, I got beat to a pulp. And no one did anything. My dad had forgotten something at the shop and was returning home to find his son in the middle of a one-sided brawl. That's when I realized I couldn't do it. One look at his face and –"
He cuts himself off and attempts to hit the brick wall, deciding last second it's probably a stupid idea, his knuckles only briefly grazing the hard material.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. He was fifteen. He was a fucking kid. Maybe I was younger when Dad first took a swing at me, but I was never actually young, not in my heart or my mind, and my dad's swings at me mostly missed the target, anyway. He never really beat me up, not properly. I never ran away. I wanted to get out, but I wanted to be smart about it and make sure that when I did leave, I wouldn't come back.
"No one did anything?" I ask slowly. His neighbors, his friends from school, just letting some jocks beat the crap out of him?
"Yeah," he says. "There was a doctor we knew. He put my hand in a cast that night, bandaged my ribs, patched me up. The whole time they were beating me up, they just kept telling me that they were beating the gay out of me. Like throwing a few punches would make me stop being who I am."
"That's sick," I note quietly, mind flashing with Kurt on a sidewalk, maybe near an alleyway, a sharp kick to his stomach, blood and tears, and people just fucking stood there and watched as he got called a faggot and a sinner. Maybe for the first time in his life, too, but definitely not for the last time. Did he beg them to stop, for someone to intervene, or did he just lie there, accepting his fate?
Which approach has left him this angry?
"I knew it wasn't right," he says roughly. "But I also knew I'd die if I stayed there, I knew that, I - So when dad went to bed that night, I left. I didn't even pack, I just had to get out. Hitch-hiking with a broken arm and a black eye, looking like you should be in school? Fucking miracle I got a ride."
"Kurt."
He glances at me in surprise like he forgot I was here. I don't know what to say when I notice the moisture in his eyes. He blinks quickly and ducks his head, wiping his cheeks quickly. "Yeah, I know. Shit happens. It's just a story now."
"It's not," I tell him quietly. "They didn't have the right. None of them had the right to do what they did to you."
"But that doesn't make it easier, does it?"
I step closer to him, lifting my hand to his cheek. He flinches but stays where he is, eyes cast downwards. I carefully trace his cheek bone with my thumb where a red scratch now cuts across the pale skin slightly wet from the stray tears he let himself shed. I can pretend he didn't slip if he wants me to.
"Hey," I whisper, feeling the ache in my own chest ease as I have him closer. When my hand slides to the back of his neck and I lean in, eyes on his lips, he takes an abrupt step back.
"Don't. You're done with that, remember?"
Fuck, I already forgot.
"That was before –"
"You knowing doesn't change anything," he notes, the anger now back. "I don't want your pity. Don't need it either. You know what you want, and it's not this, so..." He stops to take in a quivery breath. "So let's get back to the venue. Before I..."
He pushes past me, and this time I don't stop him. His steps are hurried, something broken and hurt in the way he walks. Somehow similar to the way his father walked.
The club is smoky, sweaty and swarmed, an upbeat pop song belting loudly in the background. I've been talking to Beiste since we got here, grateful that he's not avoiding me despite him knowing about my extracurricular activities. I think he's decided that if he pretends it didn't happen, then it didn't happen. It might as well not have happened. Kurt's somewhere in the club, and I haven't been keeping an eye on him, even if I can't stop thinking about him for a second.
Girls come up to Beiste and me at regular intervals, but all I need to do is give Beiste a look and he turns them around. One time a blond boy walks over, handsome and looking like he might be too young to be there, giving me a long, awed and undoubtedly seductive look, and instead of waving him off, Beiste looks uncertain and lifts an eyebrow at me. "God, him too," I say restlessly and focus on my drink as Beiste tells him that Mr. Anderson wishes to be left alone.
"Sorry," Beiste mumbles once the kid is gone, and he leans against the bar table with me. "Just wasn't sure."
"Whatever. I don't swing that way, you know?" I ask pointedly and cling to my beer bottle. Salt Lake City got a shitty show, and it wasn't because I got wasted like I wanted to. I was sober, but I couldn't concentrate at all. After what happened with Kurt, it's been the only thing on my mind. And now he clearly expects me to act like nothing happened, but I can't do that.
Beiste shrugs beside me. "I don't really care what way you swing."
I quirk an eyebrow at him. "Really?"
He sips his beer, looking unusually thoughtful. "Yeah. I mean, I didn't know anything was up. If it was still going on but was, like, undetectable, then I don't see why I should care. Not my business what people do behind closed doors."
"You're the only one in this club, no, in this state who feels like that."
"That's because I'm amazing," he concludes casually, and I laugh as I take another sip. There's always someone who's the odd one out, but he just goes to prove that I can't anymore. Regardless of Kurt's past, the way I can't stop thinking about him and the way I feel hollow, I can't.
Even Beiste is giving consent on the condition that he doesn't know. But sometimes it's damn hard to hide something like that. You forget you can't do the same things out in the real world.
Beiste starts talking about the best new band he's discovered this year called Kiss and how they wear makeup and are totally rocking, but I don't pay attention. Sounds like the band's theatricality is trying to cover up the mediocrity of the music. We end up talking bullshit about music, anyway, with our backs to the bar, watching the people in the club, Beiste still turning down girls who approach me.
My eyes eventually find Kurt standing on the other side of the dance floor with the good-looking blond guy that tried to come up to me earlier. The red lights of the club land on them, and Kurt doesn't seem to be into the conversation. The guy, though, is leaning in to whisper into Kurt's ear, is laughing and flashing smiles, and you don't need to be gay to realize what the guy wants. Kurt doesn't even react. Eventually, Kurt seems to excuse himself, and I watch him head to the toilets. The blond kid looks after him, looking frustrated and disappointed.
"I'll be back in a bit," I inform Beiste. I get stopped four times crossing the room, but if I just ignore the 'oh my god, you're Blaine Anderson!'s, they are so star struck that I've passed them by the time they recover.
The men's restrooms are not overly busy; one guy in fashionable disco attire is washing his hands. I scoff. Disco. That's not music, that's just noise. Stupid fads...
Next to the guy is Kurt who is absently staring into the mirror and fixing his hair like he has no actual interest in it. I march over, snatching his wrist. "Come on," I say swiftly, not giving him time to argue as I pull him to the nearest vacant stall with me. I don't care what Disco Boy thinks about that.
I lock the door as Kurt stares at me, eyes thinning. "What are you –"
"Why'd you turn that guy down?"
He looks even more confused. "Who?"
"That incredibly good-looking blond kid who's spent the last half an hour chatting you up? What, you practicing celibacy now? Don't believe that for a second."
"Maybe I don't feel like sex tonight," he says angrily.
"Please," I snort. He's practically insatiable. He keeps glaring, and I add, "I think you stood there wondering if they were right. If you are a freak. If, now that you've run into your dad, they can just somehow sense your immoral thoughts, and maybe you did deserve what they did to you, maybe –"
"Shut up!" he orders, clearly distressed by my words. God, I was right. "You don't- Just because you know, it doesn't mean you get to talk about it! You don't get to talk about it. Not now, not ever."
I let out a sigh and lean against the stall wall. "Alright." After a pause, I shrug. "But you should still fuck that guy. You should go back to his place and have the gayest time you've had in your life." He laughs disbelievingly, looking at me like I'm deranged. I smirk at him as I get out a joint and light it up. "Really," I note as I inhale.
"And why would I do that?"
I stare at him intently, hearing the thud of the club outside. Sounds like they're playing Grand Funk's cover of The Locomotion. Screw me on the day I try to cover up my lack of originality by playing someone else's music. I offer Kurt the joint, but he doesn't take it. Instead he keeps his blue/gray eyes on me. "Because there's nothing wrong with the way you are," I tell him quietly, my voice sounding oddly soft to my ears.
Kurt breaks the eye contact by glancing down, and some of that anger that he's been carrying around all day seems to fade away a little. "I've been... been thinking that at least... at least he knows I'm alive, you know? I wouldn't- I wouldn't want him thinking I'm dead or anything."
"Yeah," I agree slowly. "At least he knows now. If you ask me, that's as much as you can give him." I offer him the joint again, holding it low for him to see. He clears his throat as he accepts it, lifting his head and taking a hit.
He holds in his breath, eyes closing as he passes the joint back. He eventually exhales, blinking as he opens his eyes. "Fuck, that's good shit."
"I'm too famous for bad drugs," I note, letting my eyes focus on his lips that twist into a smile. It's true, though. Magically, throughout this summer, the drugs we do have gotten better and better. No one even tries selling us B class products anymore, not when we're clearly above that.
"I should go back, then. Find the lucky guy," Kurt says quietly. His voice is a bit lower, the way it gets when he's thinking about sex. "Before someone thinks we're... Because we're not anymore."
"We're not," I confirm, more to remind myself, really. We're not. It's over now. I keep staring at his lips, joint forgotten between my fingers. God, I just... He licks his lips, and sudden want pools in my guts. The grass is affecting me now, blurring my senses slightly, and really, what harm could it do to say goodbye, to just... Kurt moves forward slightly, and I instantly step closer to him. His breathing is heavy as it washes over my lips, his hand resting on my hip. I close my eyes and let our foreheads press together. We stay like that for a while. He might be waiting for me to make the move. I'm not waiting for him. Really, I'm not.
"I should go," he whispers huskily. All I'd need to do is press forward just a little to press our lips together, and then again and again and again, undress him right here and –
"You should," I admit, my skin tingling. I let my free hand move to his hair, running through the soft, short strands before my hand settles firmly on the back of his neck. I press my nose against his cheek and breathe him in. He turns his head slightly, our mouths perfectly aligned and an inch apart. I pull back only slightly to let my eyes meet his.
He stares at me, gorgeous marble eyes pouring into me. "Goodnight, Blaine," he whispers. When I say nothing, he steps back, slipping from my grasp. He unlocks the door and walks out with one last look over his shoulder.
I exhale shakily, leaning against the stall wall and bring the joint to my lips again, feeling my body buzzing with excitement and anticipation. I need to tell it that, no, we're not going down that road anymore. I just resisted temptation for the first time in my life.
The joint dangles between my trembling fingers, the adrenaline rush far greater than the one I get from the shows.
God, he'll be the death of me.