content warning: mentions/talk of death, homophobic slur, slut-shaming comment, little bit of spice at the end of this chapter (mild sexual content)
Chapter 7: Don't Follow Me
The diner is mostly empty apart from the crew this early in the morning. I enter the small establishment after everyone's already ordered and settled down. I took forever to wake up when the bus came to a stop. We've refueled the bus and now need to refuel ourselves, and I rub the residues of sleep out of my system as I head for the booth with Ryder.
I've told my bandmates that the thing with Kurt and me is over, but that doesn't mean Seb wants to be friends or that he isn't thinking I'm a fag. Puck still looks murderous at the sight of me, and Nick probably thinks he did the right thing and saved me from the perils of mind-blowing sex. Sure, because that's really what the problem was.
Ryder doesn't judge as he just wants things to work. He's pleased with me right now, so I end up sitting across my sworn nemesis since he's probably the only person who'll have me.
"We ordered for you already," Ryder says as he sips his coffee, reading a newspaper that's at least a week old. I nod tiredly and look around the diner, seeing Kurt and Mason in a booth by themselves across the room, talking and laughing as they smoke cigarettes. Nick's by the phones, receiver pressed to his ear.
"Who's he talking to?"
"Vicky," Ryder notes, voice professionally neutral. "Must be easier for him now that he doesn't have to sneak around so much."
"True."
"You've got four interviews before lunch today."
I instantly feel a headache coming on. "Great..."
"That's what I like to hear!" he says, completely ignoring my blatant sarcasm. He then looks around to make sure we are alone as he lowers his voice. "Listen, I was talking to Seb, and he seems to have calmed down a little. I don't think he thought you and Kurt had actually put a stop to that nonsense though you said you had, but then we all saw Kurt leaving with that kid last night, and that's not the first time recently, so..."
"Yeah, I saw them leave too," I say, which is true. I did. Not the blond kid; that was the night before. Last night it was a black-haired kid, devilishly handsome with broad shoulders. Not in a million years would I have guessed that he swung that way, but he did. It's funny, really. Before I met Kurt, I didn't know a single gay man. This summer, I've seen more than I fathomed there was in the country. Queers always find each other in crowds, exchange looks, signal each other somehow. When Kurt wants to fuck, he will find that one gay guy within a hundred miles and do him. "Whatever," I tell Ryder. "I really don't care what he does. I'm not fucking him anymore."
"I know you're not. But hey, I can still fire him if you want me to."
He means it, and the suggestion feels like a punch to my guts. "We're almost done with the tour so I don't see any need for that."
"Just saying," he replies and, after a pause, adds, "You did the right thing, you know." I hear the smile in his voice like he actually thinks everything's working out now.
"I know."
Nick joins us in the reject booth shortly after. "How are things back home?" I force myself to ask. He probably thinks it's sarcasm, me referring to his disaster of a union as 'home' and, really, it is sarcasm, but he seems touched that I asked in any case.
"Apparently Suzie's growing loads," he says, sounding proud again. Suzie's a baby. She cries, sleeps, sucks nipples and shits her pants. Is that anything to be proud of? "Vicky's coming to LA for the birthday party Ryder's been organizing. Her mother will look after Suzie. It'll be good for her, getting a break."
I don't ask if he and Vicky are still on a break and on the brink of divorce, even if Seb, Puck and Ryder would be delighted to hear that.
"Great. Look forward to seeing her," I lie. Nick knows I'm lying, but even that is making an effort and he knows that.
The food arrives, the waitress placing a cheeseburger and fries under my nose with a chocolate milkshake. Nick looks at me from across the table. "Is that okay?"
"Yeah."
"I was gonna get you scrambled eggs, but then Kurt said that's what you'd want," he mutters, maybe sounding slightly bitter. I glance to Kurt and Mason again. Mason is destroying a napkin and throwing bits of paper at Kurt, who is drinking coffee and giving Mason the middle finger.
"That's what I want," I say before digging into my food.
Ryder only gives us fifteen minutes to eat, then begins to usher us all back onto the bus for the drive to Phoenix. Seb, however, has disappeared with one of the waitresses, and Ryder curses everyone from Virgin Mary to Seb's mother as he realizes it. I drink half of my milkshake, add vodka, then drink some more as the crew leaves the diner and heads back for the bus.
Seb's still MIA when I step outside. The sun is coming up in the horizon. It might be a warm day coming ahead, but it doesn't feel warm yet. I get out a cigarette and walk to the side of the road. We're in the middle of nowhere, the land flat and stretching miles to all directions, rocky and dead. The road leads to nowhere and everywhere.
I smoke my morning cigarette languidly, watching the only vehicle I can see, a truck in the distance slowly coming our way. What if I waited here until it reached us, then stepped in front of it? What if I moved to lie on the road, waiting for it to get here? I doubt it'd hit me. I'd lie there forever, waiting, and it'd be coming towards me forever too, but we'd never make impact. Not in a hundred years.
I hear a click from my left and see Kurt lowering Mason's camera. "Hey," he says, not walking over but staying the short distance away. I look over my shoulder to the bus, but most of the crew is on the other side and out of sight. Still, I appreciate him taking precautions and not standing too close to me.
"Hi," I say, shielding my eyes against the sunlight and trying to focus on him. The breeze is ruffling his hair slightly.
"Gorgeous out here, right?"
"Dead."
"There's a lot of life out in deserts. You'd be surprised."
"I've been to Las Vegas. I'm not surprised." I lower my hand, still squinting.
He smiles slightly. "So Las Vegas is dead?"
I nod and tip my cigarette, ash falling to the ground. "It was alive and then died the day I left. Crawled into a corner and withered away..." I take in a deep breath. "Where are we, anyway?"
"Not too far away from Flagstaff, Arizona. I've lived there, you know."
"No shit." I'm not actually surprised. By now, I'll believe anything he says.
"That's where I ended up a few months after I took off. I wanted to get as far from home as possible so I hitch-hiked across the country. Had to settle down somewhere. Eat. Sleep. Make money to eat and sleep. Buy new clothes. Clothes would've been nice."
"I don't know. I think you hitch-hiking naked would have had every closet case in the country making U-turns," I note, and he breaks into a smile.
"That didn't occur to me. I'll have to keep it in mind."
He's joking about it with me. I'm pretty sure it's therapeutic to be able to openly talk about the most traumatic experience of his life. It had to be. At least I don't see him pulling anything out of his hat that would top it. He had no one and nothing. He was a kid. And from what I've seen, he still hasn't managed to get his life properly on track. He doesn't even have his own place in San Francisco right now. Years later, and he's still homeless. Still, he's getting there.
"How are things with the guys?" he now asks, and even though the roadies are around us most of the time, I can see why there'd be an information block. The guys aren't talking to him. Even Nick isn't. I've been too busy avoiding the stones being thrown at me to feel guilty about the treatment he's getting.
"Shit. What do you expect?" I ask, and he shrugs. "You? How are things with the guys?"
He frowns before his expression lightens up. "Oh. You mean those guys." He chuckles slightly. "Well, Mason thinks I've been acting like a slut to deal with... with, um. You. But it's not about that. I guess I just took your words to heart when you told me to have the gayest time ever." His voice took on a strange tone, like he was forcing those words to come out.
"And every time you come, it's a middle finger to those jocks," I note, letting a sardonic smile emerge on my lips. I decide not to comment on the change in his tone.
He laughs and it sounds a bit forced. "Maybe. I guess. Who knew revenge could be so pleasurable, right? Especially Catarina, the blond guy? He had a mouth on him, you would've been amazed."
I drop my cigarette and step on it. "Thought Catarina was a girl's name?"
"No, it –" he starts before realization seems to dawn on him. "Kitty. Or whatever she wants to be called. She told you."
"About what? Catholic haven? You vanishing? Caught me," I admit calmly, mostly expecting him to freak the fuck out because that's what he does whenever things hit too close to home.
This time, however, Kurt only lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. "Should've known, really. All this time I thought you were just... observant. Could read me somehow. It was unnerving, really. Turns out, Katrina still loves gossip. Or Kitty, whatever. Catarina's a girl's name traditionally, but the apparently the guy's parents were rebels or some shit. The groupie? Kitty? Her parents were radical and gave her a different version of the traditional name. Everyone else thought it was an abomination. They said they just thought she looked like a Katrina."
"Radical? She told me her dad thought Columbus was two steps away from hell. That's radical?"
"Oh yeah," Kurt says with a crooked smile. "Most people thought the next house over was two steps from hell."
I shake my head disbelievingly. How could someone as level-headed as Kurt come out of that mess? Well, not saying that he is. He mostly isn't. The more I get to know him, the more I realize he's trying not to drown. Still, he knows who he is. That's more than most people can say.
"Is that it? Any other secret of mine you don't want to share with its owner?" he asks, and I shake my head. "Alright. Just... remember what I asked. My history is private, so... Some things you just want to keep to yourself. It's like people asking you who Lucy is, you know?"
"I guess it's a bit like that," I agree quietly.
Yelling coming from the distance breaks our conversation. Sounds like Ryder and Seb. "That's our signal," I sigh. We both head back for the bus, keeping a distance between ourselves, Kurt fiddling with the camera. The gravel is loud as we walk on it. "Only Seb would pull a stunt like this," I grumble. "Fucking on the job. Unprofessional if you ask me."
"What on earth would possess anyone to do such a thing," he muses, and when our eyes meet, we both break into slightly twisted smiles.
"Would you say you're a poet or a lyricist?" the man interviewing Seb and I asks me thoughtfully.
"Um..." I start, trying to organize my thoughts. A poet would not say 'um' and a lyricist wouldn't say 'um' either. This is my third interview today, and I can't concentrate. "Pass?"
Seb, who is sharing the couch with me, huffs indignantly.
"Alright. How about... Well, the tour is named Lucy, Me –"
"Pass. God, pass," I nearly groan, and when the guy looks alarmed, I sigh. It's one minor thing, and somehow it's the one everyone asks. Why are they so hung up about it? Seb wanted the tour to be called the Sex and Rock tour. That had a nice ring to it. Should've gone with that. "Sorry, I'm a bit tired today. Ask Seb something."
Seb turns to look at me in surprise, but he clearly doesn't object.
"Alright," the interviewer mutters, giving me a disappointed look. He must have spent ages trying to come up with his ideal questions. The other half of the interview passes as I listen to Seb speaking about touring, the album, his musical vision and personal guitar idols.
Ryder comes into the dressing room being used as an interviewing venue just as the designated twenty minutes comes up. He ushers the interviewer out before taking out his notebook, nodding and scratching his head before asking what we want for lunch.
When the pizzas arrive an hour later, Nick and Puck are still doing their own interviews, apparently stuck answering questions that a radio station let fans call in with. They're in the building somewhere as the station just sent a guy over to record the interview, but apparently Ryder owes this guy a favor or two as he's letting the inexcusable overtime slide. Seb and I have been sitting in silence since the last interview. I know Ryder said that Seb seems to have calmed down a little, but I really don't see anything different about him.
I've had two slices of pizza when Seb says, "Nice of you."
I stop chewing and glance at him. "What is?"
"Just earlier, letting me handle the interview. I mean, we know I'm better at interview situations than you, but..."
"I just couldn't be bothered."
"You can never be bothered, but you still try to answer."
He's got a point.
It's all we say to each other before Puck and Nick arrive. It's a small exchange, a lot of nothing, but when it comes to Seb and me, it just might be everything. Maybe Ryder's talked him into this whole truce idea? I know that's far-fetched, but then again, Seb is kind of insane so who knows?
We soundcheck on time probably for the first time this summer. The crew is on stage with the gear ready, Beiste and Mason taping cables to the stage floor. Kurt's fiddling with Puck's pedals, only giving me a side glance when I walk on. He knows how to keep his distance when others are around. We're not fucking, but we can still chat like we did this morning. That only applies when we're in private, though.
His words keep swirling in my head. Some things are private, and some things you keep to yourself. And even if he didn't mean to tell me of his past, he did. He's dealing with it. I have a feeling even Mason doesn't know the story. And if he can let go of his ghosts by forcing them out into the open, then can the rest of us do the same?
We get soundcheck over and done with without any hassle. It's routine by now, automatic and boring. Once we're done, Ryder says, "Hey, you've got time! Why don't you play something?"
"We just did," I note.
"Yeah, but like... jam!" Ryder offers hopefully, and I exchange glances with my bandmates. We don't jam anymore. Nick and Puck there? Not talking to each other. Puck and I? Not talking. Seb and Nick? Yeah, no communication there either. And Ryder wants us to jam.
When the suggestion doesn't gain any support, Ryder's smile fades slightly. I hand my guitar over to Matt as I head off stage. "You're trying too hard," I tell Ryder as I pass him, and he looks like he's between disappointment and anger. "Anyone needs me, I'm taking a nap on the bus."
"Sure," he mutters. Well, what did he expect? That Vicky comes to LA for the birthday bash, I stop fucking Kurt, and magically it's all healed and forgotten? It's not that easy. The lies are only a sign of things not working, anyway, and everyone knowing the score doesn't change what was wrong in the first place.
The interviews combined with sleep deprivation aren't making me feel particularly shiny, so I practically dive back into my bed once I get on the bus. I don't even bother taking my shoes off. I close my eyes tiredly, and I see Kurt and that kid, whatever his name was. Catarina. I see the desert and the fans, the thousands of screaming kids in the audience every night. I see skin, perfect, pale skin, a pair of plump lips, guitar picks and strings and venues and cocaine lines and people people people –
I open my eyes, gulping air. The back lounge is empty except for me, but it doesn't feel that way. I suddenly feel too nervous to sleep.
I end up going through my notebook instead, tracing over different entries from this summer. I come across numbers I can't decipher at first, but then realize it's a tally of the shows. One down, fifty-four to go. I was so focused on that at first, but I stopped counting at some point. Got used to it. Stopped caring. Didn't mind being on tour. We've got less than fifteen shows to go now. Kurt isn't invited to Europe with us anymore, that's for certain. Less than fifteen shows, and it's all over and done with.
We'll be back in Los Angeles in two days. I'll be going back home. We're playing seven nights in a row, LA wanting to welcome back its golden boys. No hotels, no busses – I'll sleep in my own bed for a week. God, I can't wait. Quinn will be there, the people we know, our friends... Kurt has nothing to do with that world, and it's making me feel uneasy about how tour life will collide with my actual life. The mixing of the two will hopefully be minimal. I won't see Kurt apart from the shows, anyway.
I'm glad I put an end to my fling before LA. It could have gotten messy otherwise.
Someone knocks on the door of the nest, and I move to sit up on the bed as I tell them to come in. Kurt opens the door, a duffel bag in his grip. "You got any laundry?"
"What?"
He lifts the bag. "There's a laundromat down the street, and I'm stuck with this glorious chore. You got anything?"
"Sure." I get up and start going through the pile of clothes by the bed. He holds the bag open as I shove in stained shirts for him. "Thanks."
"It's my job," he mumbles, unimpressed with the task allocated to him. His eyes linger on me, and I try not to look at his mouth, the way he's got a few days' worth of stubble now. "Anyway, I'll catch you –"
"A dog."
He frowns. "Come again?"
"Lucy was a dog," I tell him, not knowing why I answer the question for him when it's been asked two hundred times before. It's not a time that I think about anymore, but I had to pay tribute somehow, like naming the tour after a life I once had. Kurt looks curious, so I go on to make him stay a while longer. "When I was a kid, this old woman lived next door to us, Mrs. Anders. Lucy was a mongrel. Shaggy, grey fur," I explain, seeing the silly thing right before my eyes like it was yesterday. "Lucy was old, just like Mrs. Anders. They had this ancient feel to them, and Lucy always understood what Mrs. Anders said. It was like Lucy wasn't a dog, but human. It was pretty creepy sometimes."
"So Lucy's the dog, the lady is Mrs. Anders, and then there's you," he lists slightly disbelievingly before his lips twist upwards at the corners. "God, I always... thought it was, like. A girl who'd given you good head or something." I scoff at his words because I'm not that shallow. When it comes to music, everything has meaning. "Why did you name the tour after them?"
"I don't know. Commemoration, maybe. Mrs. Anders let me come around after school, and I did my homework on her living room floor, eating homemade cookies while she played piano. I'd never really been exposed to music until her, so... I think I owe this to her. Lucy too. She used to bark and howl whenever Mrs. Anders played the piano. It was like she was singing along."
Kurt gives me a genuine, warm smile. "Sounds pretty great."
"It was," I admit. "The best... God, the best time of my life was when I was ten. How sad is that?"
"That's not sad," he says softly. "It's nice that the tour is named after something good like that, you know?"
"Yeah..." I nod, my voice fading out. I blink and see Lucy lying in the middle of the street.
Kurt looks hesitant. "It was... good. Wasn't it?"
"It wasn't real." Kurt's brow furrows, and I swallow hard and press on. If I told him half of it, I can't omit the rest. "I usually stayed with them until Dad came back from work. That's when I snuck back to our house. Dad didn't have a clue I went over there. He wouldn't have let me, anyway, thought Mrs. Anders was an old hag meddling in other people's lives. But it was like I had a family in the afternoons. Had my own dog. Had a grandmother. Mrs. Anders used to sing these old French songs from the twenties. I kept thinking that maybe she'd adopt me somehow. I mean we basically had the same last name, like it was somehow meant to be. Stupid, I know."
"That's not stupid," Kurt says quietly.
I glance at him briefly. "It was. Good things never happen. I know that."
His expression turns serious. "What happened?" His voice is careful, like he can somehow see it on my face.
I shrug, trying to fight off the sickening feeling in my guts. "Mrs. Anders always kept Lucy loose because it's not like she would've run away. And then Dad... He was drinking and driving. He always –" My voice dies in my throat, and my hands curl into fists. I saw it happen. "Lucy didn't die right away. She was lying in the middle of the street. I think her spine…" I try to explain, but only end up shaking my head because I still don't know. "She was trying to get up. There was blood, and. You think a dog that size wouldn't bleed much, but she... And she couldn't understand why she couldn't get up anymore. Her eyes. She was panicking. And I just had to keep soothing her, petting her, saying it was okay, and Dad was yelling at me to leave her be and come inside, but I- I couldn't leave her. She was my dog."
I stop, a shuddery breath leaving my lips. I blink more than necessary. I haven't talked about it since it happened. "It took her a few minutes to die."
Kurt remains perfectly silent. I clear my throat. "Mrs. Anders died a few weeks later. It was like… after Lucy was gone, she couldn't exist either. Like old couples, you know?"
"Yeah," he says quietly, tone cautious like he's talking to someone who's dying. But I'm not. Not yet.
"Anyway, it turned out that Mrs. Anders had put me in her will, wanted me to have the piano. But Dad wouldn't hear of it, said we had no room for a fucking piano," I say, quoting the man himself, the words as bitter on my tongue as they were when I was eleven. "So I didn't get it. And after that, when school finished, I just went straight home. I had nowhere else to go anymore. But I... I still remember when it was just Lucy, me and this lady."
"Hey," he whispers, and I realize I'm shivering. I quickly wipe my cheeks and try to smile as if to say it's nothing, no big deal. Kurt's eyes are full of sympathy and something deeper. His hand lands on my arm, squeezing gently. "I think Mrs. Anders and Lucy would be damn proud to see that you made it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he smiles. "Look at you. You're famous. Everyone knows you, and you're a damn talented musician."
"So I can write songs and get recognized on the street. Great. Where does that get me?" I ask angrily. My eyelashes are wet against my cheeks.
I think Kurt realizes that I've never talked about this to anyone before. I never even told Nick about them because I wanted to have something for myself. My own secret. Now I realize that 'secret' is just a word given for uncomfortable truths we don't want to share in fear of what they say about us.
"You've done more with your life than I have," he notes.
"But you've lived yours more."
"Measured by what?" he asks, and I'm not sure. Laughter. Courage.
His hand moves up my arm to my shoulder, fingers brushing against my neck. "If you honestly think you're not living, then it's not like you've run out of time yet," he whispers quietly.
Somehow, right then, he feels like the only thing in the world that's ever made any sense to me.
My hand curls into a fist in the back of his shirt when he moves in to hug me, and I cling to him, breathing him in. I can feel the tension draining out as I focus on how warm he feels, how solid, by now familiar too. He's tiny. He's just small, but somehow he has more in him than the rest of us combined. The hug leaves no space between us, and I don't want to let go. His fingers brush the nape of my neck, nose pressing to the crook. I can't remember the last time I got a hug.
When he pulls back, he brushes curls of hair behind my ear. "You okay?" he asks quietly, and I nod, trying to pull myself together. He reaches up to press a kiss on my forehead, short and warm. He could have gone for the lips. He didn't, but somehow the kiss is more intimate because of it.
"Laundry," he says, and I look to our feet where the duffel bag is. He must've dropped it.
"I should go argue about the setlist or something," I say hoarsely, fidgeting slightly. I hate how calm and composed he is, nothing from the angry man I saw a few days before in an alleyway, trying to pick a fight with the wall. He doesn't have to tell me that my old man was a drunken asshole. I know that, anyway. But he keeps smiling at me with his eyes, like he's seen something I missed.
"Guess we're even again. We know each other's secrets," he points out. "And I promise I will be a better secret keeper than Nick was."
"Yeah, me too," I manage to laugh.
He picks up the bag, but somehow his free hand brushes against mine, and my fingers loop around his wrist for no reason, and then our palms press together as our fingers entwine. His hand is soft and warm in mine, making my heart beat fast. He doesn't look at our hands, like he's not even aware, though I know he is. He is damn aware of it.
We walk through the bunk area and the lounge slowly, coming to a stop by the driver's seat. He presses the button on the dashboard that opens the doors, and only then do our hands separate.
It's a gorgeous night when we arrive to LA, mostly because the band has renewed energy. None of the roadies are local so they don't get to go home. Seb keeps talking about his purple one piece he forgot to pack and how he will totally wear it tomorrow, while Puck addresses me for the first time in days to inquire if Quinn will come to the LA shows, and Nick seems to look forward to not having to be around us.
It's also my birthday and has been for the past two hours. Twenty-four years old. The guys patted my shoulders when the clock turned to midnight, and there's a huge party that's being thrown for Nick and me in the evening since his birthday is just two days after mine. We haven't done presents in years, but Mason gave me a mini bottle of vodka that he probably stole from a hotel. I thought it was surprising coming from him. I'm relatively sure he should hate my guts.
Mason is now driving us through the night from San Diego to Los Angeles. Beiste's not with us since he's spending the night in San Diego at his own house, but he will be in LA by the afternoon. We're all exhausted but cramped in the lounge and impatiently waiting to get home. Ryder is looking at his papers, saying, "Right, Mason, Kurt and Matt will be staying in the hotel near the venue, and –"
"I don't need to stay there," Kurt intervenes. "I know a guy in LA that I'll be staying with."
"Oh. That's excellent! Good, we'll be saving some money with that!" Ryder says happily. I'm relatively sure we could be swimming in money, and Ryder would still be stingy.
The bus comes to a stop outside Capitol at three in the morning. Seb is the first to take his suitcases and one of his guitars and disappear into the night, and we disperse from there. Puck's got a ride waiting, some friend of his, maybe dropping him off at Quinn's apartment. He doesn't have to worry about beating me to it, and I don't have to worry about him telling Quinn about Kurt. Ryder's made it very clear that no one is to know about it except for those who already do. Puck will respect that because, no matter what he thinks is going on with him and Quinn, he knows he needs this band. Just like I do. But he's also said that if he catches me and Kurt at it, he will go straight to Quinn. Sure. It's over with us, so that's an idle threat. Nick says that he won't get any sleep because Vicky's flying in early, and he needs to clean up his house before she gets there. Mason and Kurt are smoking by the bus when my taxi arrives, and I wave goodbye before slumping in the backseat.
Even if we have to go back on the road for one last week after the LA shows, this feels like a homecoming in a lot of ways. We're an inch away from being done. The taxi driver recognizes me, and I sign the book he's reading as it's the only signable thing he has.
When I step into my apartment, I flick on the lights and stop to take in the view. The place is like I left it except dustier. I don't remember the last time I was here because I was on some heavy shit back then. The mess isn't too bad, but I've got four guitars lying around the living room and empty beer bottles in almost every corner. Usually I keep my instruments in place – it's the only thing I'm strict about.
I leave my two suitcases by the couch and go to the bedroom, turning the lights on. At least the bed is made, the sheets looking clean. When I go to the kitchen, I'm greeted by a pile of dishes in the sink. The fridge is empty like I knew it'd be, and I go through the cupboards to find something as a four AM snack. I'm halfway through a can of tuna when there's a knock on my door. Fuck. A bit of banging and walking around, and the damn lady next door has come to complain. Jesus fuck, I will kill her one of these days.
I go to open the door, angry that, after a summer of absence, that witch instantly wants to bitch about something. I probably give her a sense of purpose. God, that's just sad.
I wrench the door open angrily. "Look –" I stop dead when my eyes land on Kurt, who is standing in the quiet corridor with his bag dangling from his grip.
"Hi," he says. I only stare. "So... when I said I know a guy in LA? That's you."
I stare some more, having been rendered speechless. He looks a bit nervous, though he's smiling. "Can I come in then?"
I laugh disbelievingly, trying to get over the initial surprise. Him. In this world. "How do you know where I live?"
"Looked at Ryder's address book."
I quirk an eyebrow at him. Sneaky little thing. "And you're assuming that I will let you stay with me?"
"I'm hoping, yeah."
He gives me a mildly flirtatious smile, which instantly pulls and twists at my guts, making it hard to focus. "Kurt, you know that's not a good idea."
"I really don't," he counters and pushes past me into the living room. "So this is the eagle's nest, huh?" he asks as he shrugs off his jacket, placing it on the back of the couch. "I like that armchair. Love the orange." He puts his bag down next to my suitcases. "Wow, your guitars. I thought the eight you had on the road was all you got."
"No, I've got around twenty-five." I close the door and watch him look around the living room wonderingly. He seems curious and intrigued. "Kurt," I say again, trying to get through to him.
"What?" he asks, having picked up a stack of records off the coffee table, now flicking through them.
"There's only one bed."
He looks up at me, face perfectly neutral. "I'll take the couch."
"How do you –" I start before swallowing the rest of the question. How does he expect me to sleep when he's that close to me and there's no one else around?
He smirks at me. "Don't assume so much, Anderson. I want a place to sleep and, as much as I love Mason, I need a break from him or I'll go insane. That couch looks comfy enough. Just need to clear away the beer bottles." He starts cleaning like he's lived here forever, asking me if I've got extra pillows and going to my bedroom to get himself the extra duvet as he comments on the paintings I've got on my walls, the lamp and the curtains. "I really like your place."
"Quinn did most of the decorating."
He glances at me briefly. "She's got taste."
Miraculously, he's turned the filthy looking couch into a pretty inviting crash spot within five minutes.
"Just for tonight," I give in with a sigh. Can't send him out into the night, can I? "Quinn will be coming here and..."
"Just for tonight. I get it," he assures me.
When he pulls off his t-shirt, I make a quick exit to my bedroom before the mental image gets stuck with me. It's already stuck with me. Now I'm stuck wondering how to jerk off inconspicuously when he's just behind the door. This is not like the bus where everyone can hear, when the bunks have practically zero soundproofing, and we will get caught.
Now, he's here. In my home. The one place where I never really pictured him. And no one could find out what we do or don't do tonight, and he knew that walking in. He claims he's just taking over the couch, but he's taken over all of the rooms, every corner and crook, and I lie on my bed in the dark, listening to my breathing and trying to decide if knowing he is just on the other side of the door is comforting or terrifying.
In the morning, I slip back into the apartment to find Kurt like I left him: fast asleep on the couch, eyes shut and mouth parted as he breathes evenly. I stop by the couch to make sure he's still there, and if I stay watching him sleep just for a little while, it's because my thoughts strayed and I forgot I was even there.
I try to be quiet as I move around the kitchen, frying myself an egg and reading about the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in the paper, tracing the text with my forefinger as I alternate between smoking and egg-frying. I have no idea what's been happening in the world lately. Touring isn't in any way connected to other events, and it's nice to catch up even if I don't care about some island state across the world. It reminds me that there's more than this.
"Morning," Kurt's voice comes from behind me. I turn around, slightly nervous. He lifts a tired hand as he yawns, bed hair sticking all over and wearing nothing but a white tank top with grey briefs. He looks at the cooker behind me. "Shouldn't I be making you breakfast?"
"No," I say, confused. "The egg's for me. I got you Freakies and milk."
"I meant that it's your birthday. You should have birthday breakfast served to you in bed."
I don't want to think of Kurt serving me anything in bed. No. Not having that mental image.
"Can I grab a shower?" he asks, and my mind moves from birthday blowjobs to him naked with water rolling down his form, past his shoulders, down his back, over his ass.
"Sure. Was the couch alright?"
"Yeah, it was fine. Have you slept?"
No. I dozed off a few times, but I haven't actually slept in two or three days.
"Yeah, I –" A knock on the door interrupts my lying to him because if I tell him, he will get that half-worried look on his face that I don't like seeing. "Give me a sec."
I turn the cooker off, the fried egg frizzling on the pan as I head to the door, fully prepared to confront my neighbor and tell her that fucking talking before nine AM cannot be against the regulations because she does it all the damn time when she calls her sister in Florida at seven AM and complains loudly and wall-piercingly about her hip when I'm hungover.
But again it's not her. Maybe she died? Whatever her condition might be, I'm more concerned that I'm looking at my girlfriend. "Hey there, stranger," Quinn beams as she gets on her toes to place a hat on my head. "Happy birthday," she purrs and presses our lips together for a brief peck.
"I thought – You didn't say you were coming over," I manage when I let her in because I have to let her in. I take off the hat she put on my head, clearly a new design of hers: buttons on the crown. Interesting.
"Are you kidding? Of course I was coming!" she smiles brightly, then nods at the hat. "That's your birthday present. Do you like it? It's got your initials in the sweatband," she explains, passionate about her designs as she always is. She takes a long look at me. "God, you look like shit, baby."
"Touring, you know how –" I start, but Quinn's eyes are fixed behind me. I turn to see Kurt in the kitchen doorway. Right. Great. Fuck. "Quinn, you remember Kurt. He crashed on the couch." I motion at the pillow and covers on the couch, thankful for the evidence.
"You're the gay guy," Quinn says, and she's not trying to be rude – I wouldn't have considered the comment in any way rude at the start of the tour because Quinn is just stating a fact – but she comes across as rude, anyway.
"That's me," Kurt says slowly.
"I thought the roadies were staying in a hotel?" Quinn now asks me.
"They are. Mason and Kurt just had a disagreement, thought it was best to let things cool off," I explain before adding to Kurt, "If you want to take that shower, then go ahead. There should be a clean towel somewhere in there."
"Merci beaucoup," he says, his choice of words sarcastic. I'm pretty sure French is the official language of sarcasm, anyway, and I try to focus on my girlfriend as he crosses the living room and enters the bathroom.
"So much for loud reunion sex," Quinn pouts at me. Reunion sex. Right. Of course. How could I forget that tradition? "Can you throw him out?" she asks, looking at the closed bathroom door.
"He's taking a shower," I note as I move to put the hat on the coffee table.
"I don't remember you ever being charitable," she says sourly.
"Feel sorry for him, that's all. A homeless fag, fought with the only friend he has," I mutter angrily, which seems to throw Quinn off. Great. That's not what I want either. When did she and I stop getting along? We used to laugh at people together, relate to each other's chaos somehow. Now I just feel on edge and irritated.
"But he will be leaving soon, right? For the venue, I mean."
"Maybe. Yeah. I guess. I don't- I mean that I don't know. I don't keep track of his damn timetable," I snap, and Quinn frowns as she approaches me carefully.
"Baby, what's wrong?"
Everything. This whole scenario of Quinn and Kurt both here, sardonic and mocking. There isn't enough room in this building or block for both of them. "Nothing. I'm just stressed, the tour's been insane. I haven't slept in days, you know how I get. Kurt will probably fuck off in a minute, and then I'll just go to bed. Need some sleep. And that'll bore you, and I don't mean to bore you. You should go out, meet your friends and- and we'll see each other tonight at the venue. Alright?"
I know I rambled, but she looks sympathetic. She knows. She gets it. "Alright. But you better sleep and not just scribble lyrics or play around with guitars because I know you!" she says warningly, pointing a finger at me, and I break into a genuine smile. She tries to keep me on track sometimes. Most of the time not, but right now I appreciate her words.
"As you wish," I give in, walking over and pulling her into my arms habitually.
She smiles up at me. "Get some sleep." Her hands press against my chest. She's got such small hands. "Old man," she adds mischievously.
"Hey," I say warningly and slap her ass. She squeaks and bursts out laughing, her eyes shining. I grin at her and note, "I'm only twenty-fucking-four."
"So old," she says dramatically before she reaches up to kiss me again. It lasts longer than the first kiss, and I let our lips move over each other's, trying to remember how this works. And it works. For now.
When Quinn's at the door, she glances towards the bathroom where I can hear the shower running. "You should be careful with that. Sure you don't want anyone saying you hang out with homos," she points out before blowing me a kiss and leaving.
The second the door closes, I exhale shakily, the smile vanishing from my lips. Fuck. Fuck, that is not good. It's coming together, tour life and real life, mixing when it's the last thing I ever wanted. Maybe she's right and I am old. Too old for this mess, anyway.
The shower stops running, and I look to the closed door, trying not to picture what's behind it or who will walk out shortly. I lied. Kurt won't be needed at the venue until a few hours from now. I sent away my girlfriend, who I haven't seen in weeks, to enjoy a cold fried egg as Kurt munches on Freakies. Assuming we get back into the kitchen and don't end up in the bedroom, the couch, the floor, because I honestly don't know how much more restraint I can muster.
I walk towards the bathroom door without meaning to, like I'm hunting. My fingernails press into my palms as I chew on my bottom lip. Kurt knew what he was doing when he invited himself over. He knew.
The door opens suddenly, causing me to instantly back away, adrenaline rushing through my veins. Kurt steps out, a white towel wrapped around his waist, hair wet, droplets rolling down his neck. He stops at the sight of me, confusion on his face. "Where's Quinn?"
"Left," I manage, eyes roaming over his exposed form, and then I've walked up to him. I push him back and slam him against the wall, one of my hands moving to the back of his neck and pulling him closer, our lips instantly attaching. His skin is wet and slick, and he gasps against my mouth before his tongue meets mine hungrily. His hands land on my hips and he pulls me closer, pushing his crotch against mine, offering himself. The kiss is messy and full of saliva, and I'm going insane with how much I want him. He's soaking my shirt, Jesus Christ, he could have toweled off properly, but he didn't know that I'd – No. He knew. He responds without hesitation, and he knew.
I retreat as abruptly as I dove in. He is panting, lips reddened and pupils blown.
"Blaine," he breathes out huskily. It's a command and a plea and a question.
"I need a shower." A fucking cold one. "Don't... Don't follow me."
I push past him into the bathroom as he tries to catch his breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I'm not sure who he can taste.
It's the first time six thousand people wish me happy birthday. Seb informs the crowd that it's time to sing for me, and they all do. It's not that Seb wants to celebrate my birth – far from it – but the kids front row have been throwing gifts on stage throughout the show, Ryder's informed us of the wave of presents sent to the label, and the fans queuing outside before the opening of the doors spent an hour chanting birthday wishes.
It doesn't take the crowd long to sing the song, but it feels like torture, anyway. All of the focus is on me. I don't deserve it. I'm not doing this to be famous. I'd much rather play them a song I wrote than have them glorify me, but I have to grit my teeth and bear it.
Somehow it feels like I'm being canonized.
When their singing comes to an end, cheering and happy that they can share this with me, I say, "Thanks, you sound great," into the microphone, averting my gaze and stepping on the pedals nervously to get ready for Alienation. They recognize the riff and just about explode. Singles always get recognized more.
"Yeeeeeah!" Seb says into his microphone, probably to rally up the enthusiasm but ruining the start in my opinion. I turn my back to the crowd like I often do, seeking refuge by the drum kit. It used to be because of the soothing effect Nick has on me. Now it's just habit.
The show is intense. The crowd is crazier than usual, maybe because it's a home crowd and they perceive us as belonging to them somehow. Fans have tried to get on stage on four separate occasions, and now I see one girl actually managing it, catching her in my peripheral vision. She climbs on stage between Seb and me in the middle of the instrumental break, but before the security staff reaches her, Beiste's floored her, having dashed from the sidelines. I ignore the way my heart jumped for a second. She was coming right at me.
I focus on picking, trying to ignore the way she kicks and screams as Beiste and one of the security guys drag her away.
When we finish the show, everyone seems to be on a high. "That was good, right?" Nick asks when we get off stage, but I'm not sure if he's asking only in hopes of impressing Victoria, who got a cold and forced reception from the rest of us when Nick arrived with her. As far as she's concerned, we've stolen her husband. As far as we're concerned, she's a scheming bitch who probably got pregnant on purpose and then stole our drummer.
"I forgot how loud these concerts were," she says, covering her ears.
"I like 'em loud!" Quinn exclaims, and I smirk. Drunk already.
"That was a good show," Kurt says from behind the girls. Our eyes meet briefly. Must have been if he says so. He's seen them all.
The birthday party is bigger than I imagined. It's not just for me but Nick too. I figured Ryder would rent a club of some sort, but he seems to have gone all out and ignored the money factor. Then again, the house fit for a king amongst the other palaces in Beverly Hills was probably arranged through connections, and Ryder might not even be paying that much for it. The house is currently for sale, and I wonder who used to live in it.
It's a warm night and most of the guests are outside, in the pool, on deck chairs, drinking and dancing and getting fucked as heavy rock blares from the speakers. It seems like LA's entire music scene has showed up.
It's surreal to be back. Suddenly, I know everyone again. After a summer of not knowing what, who, when or why, it feels dreamlike to pass through a crowd, lifting my beer and saying forced niceties, a slur of, "Hey, Frank! Hi, Laurel, how you doing? Liam, good to see you!"
I don't mean any of it. Frank's a dick, Laurel's a slut and Liam's an asshole. But they all want to be friends with me eagerly, and it's one of the rare times I realize how huge the band has become or is becoming. There's cake too, one for me and one for Nick, and I end up licking whipped cream off my fingers before going back to the vodka.
It's not a birthday party if I don't vomit before two o'clock.
In a few hours I end up talking more than I have all summer, but it doesn't relax me. I see how they react differently to me now, having gone from "that musician" to "the musician". Nick would have the right to say that all of these people want something. Quinn's been by my side for most of the evening, but now I seem to have lost her. I see Puck, though, so it can't be that. Seb's over there, so she's not moved onto him yet either.
"Sorry, I need to get some air," I tell my audience that is insisting I tell tour stories. I keep talking about my arrest in Philly since it's the only remotely interesting thing I can come up with that I can share. The things I actually find interesting, like breakdowns in Salt Lake City alleyways, Kurt sinking to his knees and blowing me on the bus after yet another fight I had with Seb, the first time that he and I... The things that have actually stuck with me are all things I can't share.
I walk back outside and hear someone calling my name. To my surprise, it's Kurt, who is standing a bit further off with a guy I don't recognize. He motions me over, and I stop to see if there's any of the band or crew around. No. Good. I quirk an eyebrow as I approach them, convincing myself that I just mean to say hello. I haven't seen Kurt since we got here. The guy with him has dirty blond hair to his shoulders, framing a youngish and handsome face. He looks excited and star struck at the sight of me.
"I said I knew you, but he didn't believe me," Kurt explains with a smirk, and it's just a smirk but it's so much more than that.
"Blaine Anderson!" the kid says, grabbing my hand and shaking it energetically. He looks around eighteen or nineteen. "I'm such a big fan, so –"
"So's everyone," I note because I have heard that exact same phrase fifty times tonight. "What you up to?" I ask Kurt.
He shrugs. "Trying to find a place to crash."
"Ah." I take a look at the guy again before my eyes flicker back to Kurt. "And how's that working out for you?"
"It's working," he says slyly.
Clearly so.
The kid looks unnerved. Kurt's practically just outed him as gay in my presence. I can feel Kurt's eyes on me, the way they've been all day. I remember the first time he showed me The Look this summer, the way it made my guts twist. The effect doesn't wear off.
"Does anyone want something to drink?" the kid asks a bit nervously. "Beers?"
Kurt and I nod, and he sets out to find some. "Having a good birthday?" Kurt asks.
"Pretty good, yeah." For some reason, my words sound dark, like instead of what I said, I said something different, something that results in him spread out beneath me. "Seems like you're doing alright for yourself too. Keeping busy with..." I motion after the blond guy.
"Kenneth."
"Sure." I take another look around, but still don't spot anyone who knows of our affair. "Make sure someone sees you two leaving together. Preferably Puck."
Kurt snorts. "I don't fuck to fix your problems." It was just a suggestion. The more people see us not together, the better. Which, really, means I shouldn't be talking to him right now either. "You know Kenneth said he's always wanted to do you," he adds casually, not breaking the eye contact between us.
"Something you two have in common, then. Sure that'll keep you two talking for hours."
"I didn't always want you."
"But you do now."
Kurt smiles, and he somehow manages to make it look innocent though it's anything but. "You can't kiss a boy like you did this morning, Anderson, and not have him horny out of his mind for the rest of the day."
I've figured as much. Spent breakfast wanting to leap across the table, soundcheck trying not to fuck him in the middle of the stage, and the show willing myself not to ravish him whenever he hurried on stage to hand me or Puck the next instrument.
He's practically undressing me with his eyes. I force myself not to let it get to me. "We're still not fucking, you know."
He smirks. "Yeah, I'm working on that."
It sounds like a promise to my ears.
Kenneth comes back with beers, and I take the one he offers me before telling them to have a nice night. Kenneth looks severely disappointed, but I focus on walking away while I still can. Before I'm in too deep.
But there's a loophole. There is a huge, gaping loophole that enables me to pull Kenneth in for a dirty kiss. He tastes like cigarettes as he kisses me back wildly. My erection is killing me, and I need to fuck before I go insane, have this kid on my bed on all fours, gasping for breath when I push in without warning.
The loophole isn't the realization that I can fuck other men apart from Kurt while abiding the rules set out by my bandmates. It's not that I plan to bury my cock into the sweet, tight ass of this groupie – a male groupie, we get them sometimes but in the past we've laughed them out of the room and called them fags. I'd classify Kenneth as one, anyway.
No, the loophole is the second pair of lips pressing to the back of my neck. Kenneth is between me and the wall in my living room, my crotch pressing against his while another body presses itself to my back.
I drank too much, but I know what I'm doing. I know, I know...
I turn my head to meet the lips of the man behind me.
"Kurt," I manage, and Kurt responds with a groan as our mouths press together, one of his hands snaking to my front and firmly cupping my erection. Kenneth is sucking on my neck, unbuttoning my shirt.
That's the loophole. I'm not fucking Kurt – I'm fucking this kid, and if Kurt's here too, then okay. If Kurt's here for me to touch and kiss, then alright. That's a coincidence, really, and we're not fucking each other. We've stopped doing that. The last time I was inside him was states ago – I've been a good boy, it's my birthday, and I deserve this.
I don't deserve the thousand-headed sing-along, but I deserve two men in my bed.
I step back from between them, and they instantly move towards each other. Kurt kisses Kenneth hungrily.
I back further into the apartment, unbuttoning my shirt the rest of the way and keeping my eyes on them. Kenneth laughs against Kurt's mouth, and Kurt looks so good like that, smirking as he deepens the kiss. Their attention quickly moves back to me as I'm standing by the door of the bedroom, watching them, one hand inside my underwear and rubbing my aching cock.
"Fuck, Blaine Anderson," Kenneth practically whimpers. He makes his way over, dropping onto his knees in front of me, hands trembling as they land on my hips. He starts to lick the skin around my navel, heading south, moaning to himself.
My hands move to his long hair, trying not to grin at how fucking eager he is to have me. Kurt walks over to us, pulling his shirt over his head.
Deep down, I knew that it was a matter of time. We've spent days circling each other, doing anything but actually letting the situation turn into a fuck fest, and then all it takes is one party, one drink too many, an opportunity to take off without being noticed, and we end up here. But I am not breaking any rules. I'm not.
Kurt stares at me wantonly as Kenneth takes my cock into his mouth. I hiss at the sensation, and the kid groans, wanting more.
Kurt stops in front of us, and I reach for his arm, keeping my other hand firmly in Kenneth's messy, blond hair. Kurt lets me pull him in, our lips meeting again. The kiss is deep and passionate, his hand on my chin keeping me in place as he controls the kiss. Maybe this is his birthday present. Maybe he got Kenneth for me.
We pull back for air, and Kurt's teeth are scraping my earlobe, his breathing hot against my skin. Kenneth takes my cock in all the way, relaxing his jaw like a pro despite his age, and I groan as I slip into his throat. I fist his hair, turning my head to meet Kurt's gaze. He whispers, "What took you so long?" before leaning in for a dirty kiss.