Brief a/n: Okay, so I messed up. Let's pretend for now that Blaine's dad has always been in Vegas just so this chapter can work. Once I finish the whole series, I'll go back and re-edit it so things make more sense.
Chapter 20: What Drugs Do
Las Vegas, the fictive city of flashing lights, of whores and gamblers and coin slot machines. Las Vegas, where Elvis used to shake his groovy thing but is now rotting away somewhere, rolling in layers of fat and reaching for the syringe with chubby fingers. Las Vegas, the glorious city of short-lived dreams.
The name means The Meadows, which is a laugh. I never saw anything green in the city at all. It's all desert sun and desert air and showgirls and mafia goons. It reminds me of a short stint I did in the city when I was younger and more illusioned, before Nick and I booked it to LA.
As the plane lands, it doesn't feel like a homecoming. We're staying in a luxury hotel on The Strip, far from the small suburban houses. I cannot relate to my adolescent self at all.
But it hardly brings me down. If we can slip away, I'll show him all the places and corners and nooks, and that worried smile of his will go away. It's not his fault that Dave got stone drunk that night, throwing Kurt a party in the tour bus, and that Kurt never got to dump him. And it's not his fault that when he tried to talk to Dave yesterday, Dave got upset before Kurt ever even got into the part of him and me.
Dave got riled up right about where he and Kurt cease to exist on record because of Kurt's record deal. Kurt doesn't want the label to know at all – Mike knows because Lauren told him, but apart from Kurt's manager, no one else should ever know that Kurt's gay. Even I thought that Dave would understand, shoving his relationship with Kurt aside to advance his career at every opportunity, but Dave didn't. Something about being cast aside or becoming a nasty secret. And then.
Kurt was leading it into dumping Dave, of course. This is self-evident. But he never got that far.
I love seeing that bruise on Kurt's neck. He can't hide it. He tried the popped collar approach, the scarf approach, pretty sure he put make up over it, but Dave saw it. He saw it, and it fills me with intense joy, even if Kurt claimed that Dave himself left it there – he was just so drunk that he doesn't remember. It was a semi-awkward situation, getting caught eavesdropping in the hotel corridor when Dave stormed out right after that. Dave's eyes met mine – hurt and confusion – and I just asked which floor I was on and walked away.
I don't think Kurt knows if Dave bought it or not. I don't think Dave knows if he bought it or not. And I just and just get that Kurt didn't want to tell Dave the truth of him and me right then and there – maybe that would have been too harsh. There are nicer ways of dumping a boyfriend.
As we get into the limos that are taking us from the airport to the hotel, fans gathered beyond a fence and yelling and waving at us, Dave makes a beeline for the first limo, leaving Kurt behind.
Kurt stops, staring after Dave with a hollow expression, like he's not sure where he's supposed to go.
I know that break-ups are unpleasant, but Kurt needs to make a clean break. It won't be as bad as he's thinking it'll be. He'll see.
Today is the day of all days.
The sun is high up over Vegas, barely noon, and we've arrived. I've come back.
Las Vegas, city of wonders, I'm pleased to meet you. Las Vegas, with your scattered wedding chapels, let me come in because I've got a lover to marry. Las Vegas, let me blind you this time around.
And I'll replace a dozen shitty memories with two good ones.
That's all it'll take.
Kurt looks after Dave's limo like a man watching the last ship to the New World departing. He needs to cheer up.
"Come on," I tell him, nudging him as I pass him. He jerks, looking at me with wide eyes like he didn't realize I was right behind him. He ducks his head, abashed, but follows.
We get in the last limo, Lauren and Jeff already seated on one side. Jeff's nodding off like he was on the plane, having partied all night again. Kurt seems tense, glancing around almost guiltily. I yearn for him.
The car takes off, and Lauren is looking at her diary and reading out my schedule for me, meetings and interviews. Fans bang the windows when we get to the gates, and lights flash even though they can't see us. I relax into the seat, listening to Lauren's monotonous voice absently. I place my hand on Kurt's knee.
Kurt's hand moves over mine, and warmth spreads in me. Small touches, small looks. He lifts my hand off, however, his shoulders tense. I don't let go of his hand, looking at him questioningly, and his eyes dart towards Lauren and Jeff in a 'people, Blaine' way, clearly alarmed.
But doesn't he know that we've moved beyond that now?
A strand of hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and I reach over to brush it aside. His eyes widen in almost horror. "Would you stop?" he asks so quietly that I can barely hear him. Lauren's still reading the timetable aloud.
"Why would I?" I counter, and when he tries to say something in return, I capture his lips in a kiss. He's not expecting it, and he stills perfectly. I kiss him softly, a hey and good morning and goodnight and god, I didn't get to kiss you yesterday. Our noses brush together when I pull back, contentment buzzing in me steadily, filling me with something I don't think I've ever felt: purpose. I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him slightly closer to me on the seat. He looks startled, and when I find the ability to not gaze at him dreamily, I notice that my manager and a suddenly awake looking Jeff are staring at us.
"What?" I ask. What? Come on, I dare you. What?
"Nothing," Lauren says, but her voice is shrill and her eyes are wide. It occurs to me that it's the first time she's seen Kurt and me actually act on our feelings.
"No, not nothing," Jeff now says, sounding irritated. He looks between us, his brown eyes brooding beneath knitted eyebrows. "I'm sorry, but didn't you guys break up?"
"And aren't you still dating Dave?" Lauren now adds, her disapproval aimed at Kurt.
"I mean, refresh my memory for me – wasn't it supposed to be over?" Jeff goes on, and Lauren nods like the two of them suddenly form a unified front.
Who remembers the past? It's all gone now. No, no, we're not remembering those things.
"Fuck," Kurt breathes out, barely audibly.
"We had a misunderstanding. Now back off," I bark, annoyed that they're getting to my boy, who's now as stiff as a board and is intently staring at his shoes with reddened cheeks. Lauren and Jeff exchange long looks, saying silent words I can't even begin to imagine. "Also, make Sam do the last of my interviews. I want to show Kurt around Vegas."
Lauren looks annoyed further, but I stare her down. She better do what I say if she knows what's good for her.
Kurt glances at me. "So Lauren knows too, huh?"
"Of course I know," Lauren cuts in. "I'm not fucking stupid."
"Hey, I told you to lay off," I tell my manager, who lifts her hands defensively and rolls her eyes. Kurt's worrying on his bottom lip. My gaze fixes on it for a second – god, his lips – but then I smile at him warmly. "Get used to it. Soon enough a handful of our friends will know."
"Oh," Lauren says. "Is it going to be official?" Something in her tone is mocking, and I shoot daggers at her. "Shouldn't someone, you know, tell Dave?"
"That'll be a fun rest of the tour," Jeff mutters, sinking into his seat lifelessly.
"Dave will probably quit," I say, which he probably will. I don't care. I really don't. "And this is where you two don't say another word. It only concerns us."
"But it affects all of us," Lauren says sternly, but she doesn't criticize further. I know Kurt and I have been a mess, I know that I've been a mess. But I'm still off codeine, still feeling like shit, but it's getting better all the time. It's worth it. It's really worth it.
Kurt's deadly silent, and fuck those two for being cunts to him.
"Well," Jeff says eventually. His smile looks forced. "Congratulations, Kurt. Looks like you've won the grand prize."
Kurt flinches and says nothing. Lauren drops her gaze and stares at her knees. Kurt is nervously picking on a loose thread on his pants.
I smile broadly. "Not like there was ever any competition, right?"
Kurt stills when I briefly brush his hair, and Lauren and Jeff both look away.
I order myself a black coffee and light a cigarette. I'm allowed to smoke here now. It's not called Eddie's anymore and it's no longer in the outskirts of Downtown, but rather it's become a part of it and is called Luck Café or something along the lines to fit the overall theme of gambling.
I'll show him Downtown first – the first bar I got into, the first alleyway I got a blowjob in when I was still a teenager. I don't know why this suddenly feels important, to show him these places that I haven't thought of since I left. I didn't feel this way in Ohio.
But that's why. If I pass them on, they won't haunt me anymore.
He's the only person who needs to understand where I'm coming from.
The girl brings me my cup of coffee. I look out of the window and impatiently wait for Kurt to show up, keeping my eye on the taxis. I was late coming here because of boring interviews, and he is even later. I haven't talked to him since this morning, but I assume that Lauren called the arena like I told her to. He and I have hardly had exclusive time since the second night in LA. I can't stop thinking about it. About him.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I smile into my cup of coffee. These are the days to be alive, my friend, my city, my life.
I keep smoking languidly, then a bit less languidly, then anxiously, then a bit more anxiously. I get the feeling I'm being stood up when my coffee's gone and my cigarette's a stub. Maybe Lauren messed it up somehow, gave the wrong address. Maybe she did it out of spite. I didn't know the café had changed its name. We used to come in here every Friday for a milkshake.
I look around the place in boredom and then stop. We used to sit over there, in that corner booth. Where that man is now sitting, reading a newspaper. He's wearing a yellow t-shirt and has hair that's this very, very specific brown color – not as light as Kurt's but clearly lighter than mine, this exact shade, and he's hunched over the paper in this specific way, and it's a dozen déjà vus in a single frame. He turns a page and looks up briefly. He stills.
We stare at each other from across the café. I don't know what to do. What do I do? Do I get up and leave? Do I pretend I haven't seen him? He might not recognize me – big sunglasses, always good to keep them on.
"Blaine?" he asks, voice sounding faint
Too late now. Too late to run for it. He's recognized me. Of course he has.
"Uh. Hey." I lift my hand and take my sunglasses off with the other. He looks surprised. I expect that I mirror him there.
"Hey."
I hesitate for a second, but having a conversation across the café seems like a stupid idea. I stand up and walk over to him, and he sits up straighter, eyes on me, and then he stands up when I get there. He's grown a moustache since the last time – when was the last time? The hospital? No. When he came to pick up some of his stuff from my place because Cincinnati was far away and he wouldn't be back anytime soon? I think so. There is something so familiar to his face and eyes and mouth, all belonging to some long forgotten world of small venues and small crowds and not getting recognized and drinking with my band – my best friends – until sunrise. He's an apparition of an old life in the city where I once lived.
"Hi," I repeat, stupidly.
He says, "Hey."
We stare, it's awkward, and then – then he breaks into a smile. And he's got these smiles, these icebreaking flashes of white teeth. And I smile back because fuck, fucking hell, and I laugh out of embarrassment, and he grins, and I grin, and then we hug. He pats my back and says, "Still a skinny fucking thing, aren't you?"
"One of us needs to be," I return because domestic life has seen him gaining on a bit. We let each other go, but he keeps a hand on my shoulder, looking pleasantly surprised. I try to get over how surreal this feels, but I'm not asleep and I'm not on drugs, so this is actually happening. "Fuck, what are you doing here?" I ask because I did not expect him to be in Las Vegas, let alone in our old café.
"Visiting Mom, she moved out here not too long ago," he says, now letting me go, and I follow his lead as he sits down.
"Yeah?" I ask eagerly, suddenly so interested in everything that he has been up to all this time. "Fuck. How is she? Haven't seen her in years."
He smiles. "She's good."
"Yeah? Good. That's good." I laugh nervously. "Still hates my guts?"
"You'd think that," he says, smirking, "but she gets excited whenever she hears your name on the radio. She's gotten kind of nostalgic with old age, even if she persists that you ruined me and, what is it... stole my youth, yeah. That's what she says."
"That's far out," I laugh. I then add, "I'm here to play a show," to explain my own presence.
"Yeah, I know. Got a ticket."
He does? "You don't need a ticket," I say, the thought of him acquiring one baffling me. "You could've just called me."
"I don't have your number," he says, and that's when the first layer of boyish excitement wears off. He doesn't sound accusatory, more factual, and that's worse because it's the truth. Of course he doesn't have my number. I don't have his either. He didn't even leave an address when he left for Cincinnati, and I didn't go to any particular lengths to give out my address to my former friends when I bought my SoHo apartment. We consciously disappeared from each other's lives. He said that he wasn't my friend anymore. His exact words. He seems to be remembering these unpleasantries too as he quickly says, "Well, you look good."
"You look old."
"Look who's talking," he smirks, but that's bullshit, I don't look a day over twenty-one. "I didn't think I'd see you here," he says, motioning around. "I thought you'd be hanging out at some private party with famous people."
"Maybe I am," I say, and I don't mean to be kissing his ass but he is one of the best drummers of our generation. What is he doing in this café? It's out of his way if he's staying with his mother. Nostalgia. Maybe. Nostalgia has brought us both down to this old damn place on the same day at the same time. Now that's not fate – it's pure chance. But it's very, very rare pure chance. "I could be at some party," I then amend. "You know how it is, constant invitations flowing in. Busy, busy. Life's great, really. Never been this rich or famous." I sound like an asshole, but I don't want him thinking I'm the mess that I was the last time he saw me. I survived, I prevailed, even without his help. He just gets this look on his face, and it's his 'those things don't measure up a good life' look, the one he gave Puck or Seb when they raved on about fame being happiness. But he should not for a second think that my life is anything but amazing.
"Were you going to tell me you'd be coming to the show?" I then ask.
"Probably not."
"Why not?"
He shrugs. "In case you'd tell me to fuck off. Who knows? Just wanted to check out the new band, you know? Didn't want it to be this thing."
The thought of him coming to the show and leaving just as silently hurts somehow. Like he's allowed to do that, check up on me, get glimpses of me, but I don't get to do that in return. That's not fair.
"I'm just curious, man," he then says like he needs to explain it. "Clearly it's going alright." He eyes the tour pass hanging around my neck.
"Yeah, sold out shows and all. Europe next month."
"And the band?"
"The band's superb."
"And the album's number one. Well done."
I cannot tell for sure if he's sincere or not.
"Thanks." I want to ask him if he liked it, but then don't. I wrote a few songs about him, and at least one made the album. Again I'm left wondering how obvious the lyrics were. The conversation seems to die a little then, and I have nothing to do with my hands so I keep them by the table, feeling too official. "You can come backstage tonight, meet the guys," I offer. "If you're not busy. I was planning to do a little Vegas tour with Kurt before heading to the venue, but I think I've been stood up."
His eyebrows lift in surprise. "Kurt as in Kurt?" he clarifies, and of course he wouldn't know about that or any of it. He didn't approve of it back then either.
"Yeah."
"Wow," he says, trying to take this in. I can tell that he's got so many questions running through his head, and I wonder where I'd even start. "So he's still around, huh?"
I don't mind telling it to Lauren or Jeff or any of those guys about Kurt and me – that's just how things are and they better deal with it or fuck off – but Nick. Nick, Nick, Nick. He's different. His condemnation bears weight. It always did. And I feel reluctant and nervous when I say, "Kurt is still around, yeah." And to throw in the ultimatum, "And he is going to be around."
He stares at the table hard. "Last I heard you were dating a dancer."
"She danced away."
A quick glance at me. "And you dance both ways?"
I try to keep my calm. What if he gets up and leaves? What if he...?
"These days, yeah."
"Huh."
"Yeah."
He taps the table without realizing it. A drummer's rhythm. "I gotta admit, that's still weird to me, man. We spent hours obsessing over chicks when we were kids, you know? Talk about the ideal girl and how we'd like to get some, and when we were getting some we'd talk about how we were getting it, girls in different shapes and sizes. I was so used to you being this certain way, you know? Still am. Thought maybe it was just a phase or just him."
"I thought the same thing about your wife," I counter, my eyes landing on the wedding band on his left ring finger. I wonder if he has more kids. What if he and Vicky have had more kids, and I haven't even known? I should know something like that. I should know if Nick Duval becomes a father, but I wouldn't have known these past few years, and that's his fault. That's my fault. I bet our younger selves wouldn't have seen that one coming. "How old is your kid now?"
"Suzie just turned three." He smiles a shy but proud smile. He doesn't mention any other kids. Good. Neither does he pull out a picture from his wallet or babble about how well she can speak these days. Also good. I thought he wouldn't shut up about Suzie once I mentioned her, but instead he asks, "So when did you get back in touch with Kurt, then?"
Clearly he thinks this takes priority.
"Late last year."
"And you guys...?" He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Yeah. We're kind of great, actually." And the second I say it, I realize it's true. We are. It's all lined up for the future – he'll tour with me, I'll tour with him, we'll figure it out. And I must get this stupid smile on my face because Nick looks slightly flabbergasted and then laughs disbelievingly. But not in a deprecating way.
"Well... that's. That's good. I guess." He smiles slightly. A ton of weight gets lifted off of me. I'm not sure if what he's showing is approval but it is acceptance, and I've been standing still for two years waiting for it. Ever since he had a go at me and told me it was sick. That I was sick because of it. But I could make a long list of all the shitty things I've said to him in return, and maybe that plus a long, long silence makes us roughly even. "Looks like you've got your life sorted out," he says before staring at me evenly. "So how long are you in town for?"
"Not long at all. We're leaving for Phoenix tomorrow morning."
He hums, nodding. He gets this serious look on his face, the one he always used for bad news. "So don't you think there's someone you should go see?"
Turns out that he's still not sick of playing my conscience.
"I don't want to do this," I tell him. "This is pointless. This is useless."
It is, too. What will this prove? That I'm the bigger person or that I'm a masochist?
He pushes me in further regardless, and I get swallowed up by the white walls and white floors. I feel sick. It's withdrawal, I tell myself, my good old friend withdrawal and nothing else.
"You can do it," he says, prepping me like a coach. The middle-aged woman behind the desk looks at me. I've stuffed my hands into my pockets and have my shoulders hunched. People are coughing in the corridors, sneezing and spreading germs.
"Can I help you?" she asks impatiently. Nick keeps hovering over my shoulder.
He's somewhere in this building. Somewhere above those floors. I wasn't supposed to be coming back. I did the walking away, remember? Not me. No, no, you wouldn't see me. My boots were made for walking.
Maybe it's time I show him just how far away I walked. Maybe Nick is right: this is something that's long overdue.
"I'm looking for Blaine Anderson Junior."
The receptionist opens up a thick book, finger pressed to the page, and starts going through a long list of names. She flips through a few pages and then comes to a stop. "Ah." She looks up. "And you are?"
"Blaine Anderson III."
She looks surprised, and I feel equally foreign and out of place.
When we get to the right floor, Nick points to a waiting area and says that he'll be there. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, but it's easy for him. It's not his father, it's not the life he refused to live.
The corridor feels like the longest one I have ever seen. An ache spreads from my chest to all of my bones, an uncomfortable, restless feeling. I haven't seen him in seven years now. I preferred it that way.
What do I say?
There is nothing I can say.
Some doors are open, showing patients lying in bed, some of them looking deader than others. There's a smell in the air – pills and urine and bleach – unpleasant and making me want to run the other way. When I get to the right door, it's closed. I stand outside it, looking around me. An empty gurney is standing not too far from me, pushed against the wall. A nurse is walking at the other end of the corridor in a white dress and a white hat, looking professional. I push my sunglasses into my breast pocket. Card my hair slightly. Check my breath out of habit – god forbid if I smoked or drank, god forbid. He gave me hell for that, confiscated my beer and helped himself to it.
I open the door to a small hospital room.
A man is lying on the bed. Not even a man but a body. A body with greying hair and puffy red cheeks. A tamed lion.
It's not what I expect. I was expecting something more... powerful. Something less pathetic. Something, someone, with a lot of guts.
Not an old man dying in a hospital bed.
I expect to be noticed, but I'm not. Nothing new there. I walk in, leaving the door ajar to have an escape plan if need be, if he's just pretending to be this frail thing and is about to launch on me. A steady beeping sounds from the machines around his bed. He's got his eyes closed. He's lying in an unnatural way, his arms straight on his sides on top of the covers. His chest rises and falls. A tube is going into his mouth.
He looks small. He's just vanished somehow. He's lost so much weight that it's hard to recognize him, hard to connect this feeble man with the towering presence of the father of my youth. There are no flowers in his room, the way there were in some of the other rooms. I expected his room to be bigger. I'm paying for him to have a room to himself, aren't I? I thought it'd be bigger. I thought he'd be smoking cigarettes and boozing it up and harassing the nurses and laughing on his way to hell.
I didn't realize. I didn't think.
Hey, what do you know? He's really dying.
A single chair is by his bed, and I sit down and exhale. The beeping continues. Every four seconds. Beep – two – three – four –
Beep – two – three – four –
Beep – two – three – four –
"Hey." No reaction. "Can you hear me?"
I watch his face intently. He's clean shaven, which is another first. I'm used to a bushy moustache on his upper lip. I guess they keep him shaved here. They bathe him and they dress him and they make sure he pisses and shits. All that wrath in him, all of it. He was just talk. All talk.
It's taken me nearly twenty-six years to realize this.
"I guess it's good someone's finally gagged you," I say, almost to test him because this is the point where he'd tell me to mind my words, boy. But he remains unmoving.
I lean back in the chair, keeping my eyes on him. "You're not so scary now, you know that? You're really not. You're just rotting away in here. Hardly recognize you." I look around the room for some sign of his belongings, for a fleeting second thinking that maybe I'll find a framed picture of him when he was younger, of him and a little boy. But it isn't there. Of course not. People like him don't change just because they're dying. "I'm on a world tour. Wasn't stupid after all, was it, my music obsession? I've seen so much more than you ever did. You're not even fifty-five and you're dying. How's that? Huh? How's that for you? What did you ever do?" I stop as if to wait for an answer that I'll never get. I laugh. "Fuck... What am I doing? You can't even hear me. This was Nick's idea. I wouldn't have come otherwise. I'm too busy for you, I don't –"
"Excuse me?" a curious female voice asks from behind me.
I twist my head around to see a young nurse by the door. "Yeah?"
She smiles nervously with a frown on her face. "Are you in the right room, sir?"
I blink. "Yes."
She's surprised, just like the woman downstairs was. "Oh. Right. He just – He just doesn't get many visitors. Or... any visitors." She looks at me with interest, and then her eyes widen slightly. I've been recognized. Great. Suppose she'll want me to sign something for her. "Are you his son?" she asks disbelievingly. Oh. Am I? My confusion seems to show because she says, "You've got the same eyes."
Oh.
"Yeah."
"He's never mentioned a son," she says and then looks embarrassed. Yeah, that's not something you should say to the only living relative, is it? That you've never even been mentioned. Doesn't matter how often my name spills from other people's lips, he'll be damned to utter my name. "I, uh. I'll let you be, then –"
"Hang on. Why does he..." I motion at Dad vaguely. "That tube down his mouth. What's that for? And can he hear me? I mean, is he aware at all?"
"I can ask the doctor to –"
"You tell me. I'm on a tight schedule here, I don't have time to wait for doctors."
She hesitates but then steps inside further. "He had another heart attack last week. He's been on life support ever since. The chemotherapy had left him weak so the heart attack had severe effects. He comes around sometimes. He can't communicate, but we try to make him as comfortable as we can." She has a sympathetic tone that seeks to comfort me.
"How long?"
Her brows knit together. "I'm sorry?"
"How long until he finally dies?" I clarify impatiently.
She pales slightly. "I really shouldn't –"
"In your professional opinion, how long until he's singing to the angels?" I then chuckle. "Although he'd be lucky to get there. I'd say he's going the other way."
She blinks. "Erm. I think... he might have two more weeks."
Two weeks. I'll be in England by then. I'll be on tour when he dies. Don't expect me to take time off, old man, or to come to your funeral. I have people who can arrange all of that.
It's a shame. I can admit that. It's a shame he and I never saw eye to eye on anything, that we couldn't be friends or even family. But then it's not. He's a cunt. He always was and always will be, and I will not turn him into some kind of misunderstood antihero in my head just because he's about to go. As far as I'm concerned, he's been dead for years. He left a bruise on my jaw. I left a bruise on his cheek.
What a wasted life it has been.
"Let me get the doctor for you," the nurse says.
I stand up and shake my head. "No. That's alright. I have somewhere to be. I –"
Dad opens his eyes. His gaze is out of focus at first, golden brown eyes – apparently the same color as mine – staring at the wall, then the window, blinking. Confused. Beep – two – three – four. He looks at me. He stops.
Beep – two – three – four.
I expect something to happen, for that machine showing his heart rate to suddenly beepbeepbeep, for him to reach out a shaking hand. But nothing happens.
I don't even know if he recognizes me, but his gaze focuses on me.
"I have to go," I tell him, the nurse, both of them. I tell him just in case he didn't know that already, but I think he has known it. When I left nearly a decade ago, we both knew it was inevitable, that it was something that the both of us needed. The only thing we ever agreed on was to keep away from each other. He blinks slowly. He doesn't look at her. He looks at me. And I swear that even with that tube down his throat, even when he's stuck in that bed, when he's been broken and humiliated, he looks disappointed. He manages to look at me with disappointment.
"I have to go," I repeat, and the nurse asks me to wait but I hurry out of the room, down the corridor, hurried steps to get away from his death.
Nick's in the waiting room, and he stands up when he sees me coming.
"What a fucking brilliant idea this was," I tell him, heading for the elevator and pressing and pressing and pressing the down button until the elevator arrives.
"Was he awake?" he asks, sounding concerned.
"I don't even know, man. I don't fucking care." The two of us get in. I press the ground floor button fervently. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I slump against the wall, my eyes closed, fuck fuck fuck – "Fuck!" I yell and slam the wall. My palm stings like a bitch and my eyes water – from the pain, that's it, and I wipe the corners of my eyes and feel stupid and like I'm twelve and what if he didn't even recognize me? What if he did, and I let him win by showing up? Was that his final disappointment, that I wasn't man enough to let him die without seeing him one more time?
I could never win with him.
I could fucking never.
"He couldn't speak. He had one of those tubes down his mouth." I laugh. "That's funny, right? The last chance for us to – to ever speak, and he's fucked himself up so bad that he can't even manage that. What a fuck up he is. What a mess." I hang my head. "He looked so old, Nick, he looked so fucking... human." I wipe my eyes quickly and pull in a rattled breath. "My album's number one. I get recognized in the streets all the time. I matter, you know? And he – That fucking..." I swallow hard. "No wonder I've been such a mess, you know? You get an upbringing like he offered, you end up kind of fucked up. Look at your mom, managing to raise you and the twins on her own even though she worked two jobs, and she loved you, she hates me because she loves you, and it shows. It shows.´"
He's remained quiet and has kept staring at the floor. Something's off.
"Nick?"
"Does it show? I mean... Yeah, your dad was an asshole, but you've turned out alright. You've got your band and your fame and your health and, hell, you've got a boyfriend or whatever he is. You're all settled. Whereas me? I'm still living off of Warblers royalties. I'm not visiting my Mom, I'm fucking living with her, have been for the past month since my wife kicked me out of our damn house, and I wasn't even there for my girl's third birthday." He shakes his head. "How does my decent life show there?"
I stare at him in utter confusion as his slice of domestic Cincinnati heaven, the one he's been living in my head, crumbles. "What?"
He looks up with sad brown eyes. "Vicky's filing for a divorce."
Oh.
"Oh." I try to calm down from my sudden breakdown. "I'm sorry."
"So am I," he says quietly, and I feel oddly numb. They're divorcing. I knew it'd never last, so why am I so surprised? "Christ," he swears. "I'm not a drummer, soon I won't be a husband, and truth be told I'm not that great of a father. I'm almost twenty-five, but feel like I'm forty, and I feel like a fuck up, regardless of my childhood. You've got it figured out, man. I haven't even started."
"Well," I say at length, trying to process all of this. "I got addicted to painkillers."
"Yeah?" he asks, tone almost hopeful.
"Yeah. And my band's great, but they don't – It's a job. You know? Whereas the four of us, even if it got shot to shit, we lived it. And Kurt, well – We had an affair, and technically he's still dating this guy who's doing a documentary on the band, so that's another mess in itself, and when he left me for a while, I instantly resorted to booze and drugs and not giving a crap about myself, just like my old man did back in the day. Blood. You can't fight blood. And I just saw my dad for the first time in seven years, and I hate him. I fucking despise the living shit out of him."
"Wow."
"Yeah," I say, taking a deep breath. "So I don't think I've got it figured out either, man. But maybe that's not a bad thing. If you and I had life figured out at this point in life, what would the next thirty, forty or even fifty years be for?"
He chuckles sadly just as the doors open to the ground floor. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right."
"Of course I'm right," I say with as much cockiness as I can muster, to try and heal up our bruised dreams. "I'm a prophet, or have you not been reading my reviews?"
We chuckle together, and we almost manage to hide the pain for a while. It's a talent, certainly, being on the top of the world and still feeling like a reject and a failure.
We were always made of the same spirit, Nick and me.
"So you want me to take you to a strip club or something?" I offer. He looks at me disbelievingly.
We're kind of drunk by the time we get to the venue, and we're also out of small bills. But those girls earned it – come on, they definitely earned it. And like I said, there's no harm in looking. Nick's going to be a free man, and I never thought that Vicky was that pretty, anyway, so he needs to know what kind of fish swim in the metaphorical sea.
He just needs to forget for one night. Have a good time. Marriages fail all the time. Especially if you only marry her because you knocked her up.
I just need to forget for one night. Have a good time. Families fail all the time. Especially if you only have a weak link of an ejaculation connecting you.
And so I put one family to die and make plans to create a whole new one. Nick can be in it. We're cackling over stupid shit when we get to the convention center, ten minutes before I'm due to go on. I did call from the club to let Lauren know that I was alive. I'm a good boy, aware of the leash on me.
Nick smooths the backstage sticker that's now stuck to his t-shirt. Someone's bringing me my stage jacket, someone's shoving the set list at me, and someone else is leading us to the stage. Nick keeps saying how it feels like the old days – well, the venue is bigger than what he's used to, but – and he looks at all the people running around us and shakes his head.
"Was it always this crazy?" he asks.
"Probably," I snicker, pleasantly stoned. "It's hard to judge when I'm a part of the circus."
The guys already are at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the stage. The crowd is chanting and cheering and whooping and stomping. I don't need to make any introductions because the second the guys see Nick, they all stand a bit straighter. Roderick calls him 'Mister Duval'.
"So you're my replacement, huh?" Nick asks Roderick, who blushes and stutters and takes the hand Nick offers.
"He is," I cut in.
He really actually is.
Nick glances at me like I'm being mean. I grin back.
"Hope you enjoy the show, man," I tell him, looking around impatiently to spot my manager, who I soon see talking into one of those modern walkie-talkies – only the size of a bulky book. Crazy shit. I excuse myself and head over quickly before we go on stage. I already told Lauren on the phone that Nick was with me, and that it was her job to make sure Nick gets anything and everything he wants: girls, drugs, girls. I never underestimate the therapeutic power of a rebound fuck.
Lauren sees me coming, and she tries to smile kindly but I can tell that she's furious that I disappeared for hours without telling her where I even went. "Nice of you to show up," she hisses.
"I'm on time," I say in my defense. It's been a rough day, an exhausting day – she would know, actually, the hospital bills go through her, but I don't want to talk about it with her. It's been a rough day but we're going to turn it around, so she could stop with the bitch act and smile already. "So what happened to Kurt?" I ask. "He never showed up at the café. I don't see him anywhere."
I miss him. It's stupid because I saw him this morning, and I briefly talked to him yesterday, and I've kept seeing him, but it's – God, it's not enough. It hasn't been enough. I come up with all kinds of little things to miss all the time, like that small mole on his lower back or the way he moves his fingers or his even breaths when he sleeps, it's stupid, so stupid and so consuming, and I love every second of it.
I've never felt this way about him before.
Well, I have. I probably have. But it was always confused and muddled, and people were in the way.
Not anymore.
Lauren clears her throat slightly. "Well. I called here earlier to pass on the message, but. There was some drama, so." She shrugs.
"Drama?"
She looks like she doesn't want to say but then concedes. "Kurt and Dave fighting. Apparently in front of everyone, I don't know, maybe they broke up or something. I guess that's your doing, huh?" I don't know if she tries to sound pissed off or supportive, but I hear 'they broke up', and I string those three words together, and my chest expands and light fills up the universe. I open my mouth, but she says, "I really don't know. Don't ask me, I wasn't here. Someone said that Dave went back to the hotel, and the film crew guys have gone out gambling until bus call. I don't know where Kurt is, and it doesn't matter right now because you need to get on stage."
"Sure thing," I say, winking at her. Sure, sure thing. Fuck.
Finally.
Dave, of course, objected to being dumped, and Kurt said quite firmly that no, no, it's over now, it's all over, in front of everyone, and they all know now.
Today's the day to make him mine.
Lauren has to push me to the stairs that lead up to the stage, and Nick's behind me. It's weird that he doesn't follow me on stage, confusing and unsettling, but he just smiles as he stays by the side, perhaps slightly subdued, and the lights are in my face and it's hard to see and the crowd screams and it's hard to hear.
I punch the air as a sign of my victory – and I'm pleasantly drunk, so – grab the microphone and say, "Hey Vegas, I used to live here." They cheer louder. The guitar tech hands me a guitar and rushes off stage. I look to the floor to the taped setlist, find out what we're doing, and the thousands cheer, and I laugh, feeling miles away from the boy at the hospital today.
That's not who I am anymore.
Behold, behold.
I press the right pedal on the floor, and all bets are off.
The ninety-minute set flies by, and I steadily drink beer. The alcohol hits me harder than it usually would, and maybe that's due to my body being tired from the codeine and the lack thereof. I keep looking to the side of the stage to Nick for validation, which he gives me, smiling, nodding to the beat; looking for Kurt, who isn't here so where is he? At the hotel, gathering his stuff from his and Dave's former hotel room? That. I like that. I've got a big bed, we can share it.
He must be fucking happy to be free of that old ball and chain.
God, I'll cover him in a thousand kisses when I see him.
When we leave the stage after the encore, Nick says, "You guys do a tight live set."
"Thanks, man, thanks. We try."
I'm surprised to realize that my left arm doesn't feel too sore. A bit tingly, but there is no actual pain like I thought there would be. Like maybe I made that bit up to justify the pills.
Well.
Well, well, well. Aren't we just learning so much about ourselves today?
"You enjoyed yourself out there," Nick adds in an oddly hollow voice. I did. Hell. I suppose I did. But it's a special night tonight.
"Come on, we'll drop by the hotel and grab Kurt, and we'll go out. Take Vegas by storm."
"I don't know if –"
"Nick, come on. I'll be gone tomorrow."
The second I say it, I realize it's true. I'm just passing through. But I don't mean this to be a one-night-stand, if he and I could have one platonically speaking. I'll give him my phone number. Fate didn't bring us together – we did. Yeah, I'll give him my number. Or have Lauren give it to him. He can come to New York and stay with Kurt and me while this divorce business of his is taking place.
Nick stays in the hotel reception to call his mother that he won't be coming home anytime soon while I quickly go up to my room. It's close to midnight, and I'm drenched from the show but have no time to shower. I change shirts in my hotel room, and then call reception to ask if any messages have been left for me. None have been. I ask for Kurt and Dave's room number, and they put me through but no one picks up, and I spray some cologne on, buzzed, and head out to their room in slight annoyance because Kurt and I should be celebrating by now.
A 'Do Not Disturb' sign hangs on the doorknob of their room, but I will disturb, thank you very much. And when I do, the door inches forwards, not even locked. Thanks for the invitation there, door.
"Hello?" I ask, walking in. The room is smaller and plainer than mine, so it's easy to spot Kurt sitting on the edge of the double bed. A fluttery sensation buzzes in my guts. Funny that the light isn't on, so I switch it on for him. "Hey. Hi." Hey, gorgeous. Hey, hey, hey. "I've been looking for you." The sudden overflow of love and affection and want would be sickening if I weren't the one feeling it. "Lauren gave me the news," I tell him with a big grin, slightly confused by him not moving or even acknowledging me, but sitting still like a statue. "We should go out to celebrate. You seen Nick yet? Nick's here, my Nick. We've been hanging out the entire day."
I sound happy but then it hasn't been that happy, and I've wanted to talk to him ever since the hospital. He understands these things, he is bound to have good advice. He'll understand what it felt like.
"God, it's been a fucked up day," I sigh. "So much I need to tell you. Nick's wife's left him for starters. We went to this strip club, I thought it'd cheer him up."
He finally looks up at me, and I laugh. "Don't you worry, hey, I've only got eyes for you." I sit down next to him on the bed. "There was this one girl with these hips like yours, though. God, it made me hard watching her. Just wanted to find you and fuck you," I purr, leaning in to bite his earlobe, nuzzle him, ravish him, laugh into his hair. But he pulls back in what is clearly rejection.
I frown, trying to comprehend this unexpected move. "Hey." I look at him – properly, at last.
The dozens of butterflies fluttering about get massacred in one short second.
He's been crying. His eyes are red and puffy, and his cheeks still look wet. He doesn't cry. I've never seen him cry fully, anyway, but he clearly has, big, fat, breath-rattling tears. He's been here, crying.
A sharp pain twists my insides. "Hey, hey, hey," I rush out soothingly, moving closer, a hand instantly moving to his hair as I feel too worried to breathe. He flinches at my touch, tensing up instead of relaxing into it. "Talk to me."
He takes in a sharp, uneven breath. He wipes his cheeks and blinks hard like he might start crying again. He's staring at his knees, apathetic. When he speaks, he becomes misery: "I think he's going to leave me."
I stare. "Dave?" I clarify, and he gives me the smallest of nods. Okay. Sure. "Well... yeah," I say, trying not to add 'are you stupid?' He's not stupid, of course not. "How did you think he'd react when you told him about us?"
"I didn't," he corrects, and suddenly I'm the one who's stupid. But Lauren said... I mean. "I told him about- about my childhood. I told him about my dad. I told him that nothing I ever told him was true," he says, letting out an anguished laugh. "He'd find that out, were I to get famous, and I wanted him to hear it from me, you know? I wanted to – be honest with him. But he got so mad, B. He got so mad." He shakes his head and looks around the room. "I didn't realize..."
I follow his gaze, and all of these obvious things are now coming into focus, things I somehow missed when I sauntered in. Like the fact that the room is a mess and that their shit is everywhere – not in that absent kind of careless way, but in a shit-has-been-thrown-around way. Like maybe Dave... I can't imagine him throwing shit around, let alone showing balls of any kind.
Maybe that's why Kurt's upset. He wasn't expecting Dave to blow up at him.
"So he left you," I say, trying to figure it out. Kurt told him about his lies, and Dave left him. "Well... that's good. You didn't even have to be the bad guy." It's actually kind of genius, but Kurt pulls in a rattled breath like he's about to burst into tears. My baby doesn't cry. "We can – We can lay low for a while and then, say, a month from now we can tell a select few that we're together," I say in confusion, trying to get him to cheer up already. "We don't have to tell him about us or our past. If you don't want to hurt him or something."
"But I have," he says instantly. "I already have." And he begins pulling in air sharply, almost hyperventilating.
"Hey, calm down." I try to hug him, but he doesn't want to be hugged, pulling away from me instead with a shake of the head. "Baby, what's the matter? This is what we wanted."
"No," he says sternly. "It's what you wanted. Not me. I didn't want this."
"I know it feels bad right now, but we can be together now, we can –"
"Stop," he says, shaking his head more vigorously.
"But –"
"Stop it!" He seems angry, dangerous flashes of hurt in his stormy blue eyes. "You think I can just do this to Dave and not look back? Lauren and Jeff were right, I've made such a fool out of him. I've humiliated him. And now it's all a mess, and you didn't see how hurt he got, how upset he was." He sounds angry at himself more than me. "God, everything's so wrong. I have to talk to him. I have to set things right." His tone sounds desperate and urgent.
"But they are right," I argue in utter confusion.
"They're not. They're really not." He stands up, wiping his cheeks once more, trying to pull himself together. His hands drop to his sides, and he breathes in deep, and he doesn't look at me but beyond me somehow, like he's seeing me in a different place than where I am. "I can't handle this. Every time you- you kiss me or touch me, or even look at me, I can't deal with it. I just can't do this. I'm sorry."
It's funny, what happens right then. Like the world just ceases to exist for a few seconds. Like there's nothing. Nothing but soaring black.
"...What?"
"And I'm sorry if I've led you on," he then adds, like he's listing things, things that have been on his mind while he was sitting here in the dark. He won't look at me. "But I can't." He looks pained.
"But why?" I ask, my voice trembling. His words make no sense to me.
"Because we'd…" He pauses. Yeah. Yeah, there is no adequate explanation. "We'd crash and burn, you know that we would. It's like a drug, what you and I are feeling. And yeah, it's powerful and all-consuming, and it's addictive. But it wears off. It'll stop getting us high, and it will tear us apart instead because that's what drugs do. It's not real."
That's not what he's supposed to say. That's not what he's supposed to even think. "We're not a... temporary high," I say in utter confusion. "We're real. We're –"
"There is no we!" he then barks, sounding frustrated, transforming from something to protect into something to protect myself from. "You keep doing these crazy things like sweet-talking to me in a cab or kissing me in front of your friends, and you just – don't get that people like us can't do those things! No matter how famous you are! And what do you think is going to happen next? I leave Dave, and we live happily ever after? Like it's that easy? You said it yourself, Dave will probably quit, so I break his heart and ruin his career, and just walk away?! This is killing me! I can't just not care for Dave anymore! You keep expecting things, you keep saying these things, but your idea of real is nobody else's idea of real, and you've never understood that!"
"I keep expecting things because you give me reason to," I say quietly, anger suddenly emerging at the pit of my stomach. Maybe I have gotten carried away with my feelings for him. Maybe. But I can't help it, god, when I see him, I just can't help touching him. And he thinks that's a bad thing.
"I know I've led you on," he says again, looking guilty. "But I make mistakes, Blaine. That's what I do. I make one mistake after another, and I didn't – I didn't mean to make you think that we... I just wasn't sure." He's trying so fucking hard not to look at me right now. "You were like my codeine, I just had to get more."
"You're comparing me to something that could've killed me. How is that fair?"
"Because everything I feel is amplified with you," he says, sounding like he's speaking from experience. He is. We both know that he is. The good is so fucking good, and the bad is... destructive. He whispers, "Dave's been the only good thing that's ever happened to me."
"That's not true," I say, standing up. "That's not how you feel," I insist stubbornly, desperately, trying to believe I'm even hearing this. And I can't. We've been through this already, we've walked away because it was wrong or something else as ridiculous, and where did we end up? Back in each other's arms, that's where. So we know now. We know that this is where we're meant to be, that it's not something we can fight. "You think you should feel like Dave's it because of what Mason said, but you know that's not true. Don't let other people make you feel guilty about us. About what you feel. I know how you feel. And the other day, in my hotel room in LA, when we – I could feel you shaking after we were done," I say quietly, the memory of it too intimate to even repeat to him, but I will if I have to. The sex was intense. God, it's never been that intense. He looks lost and embarrassed, but he doesn't have to be with me. If what we feel gets to him that hard, that it leaves him shaking, that it makes him cry, then that's fine, and I'll never tell anyone. If it cuts in too deep, then I'll be there to tell him how much it scares me, like it scares him. We're in it together.
"That –" he begins and stops, voice shaking. He doesn't have the words. I was there, he can't fool me. He wipes his cheeks quickly, still looking guilty, so damn guilty.
"You tell me that wasn't real, that what we felt is something that can just wear off." The thought is ridiculous and insulting. How dare he?
"Sex isn't love."
"Making love is love."
"Don't –"
"Don't what?! What?!" I interrupt him, staring him down. "How can you say we're a mistake? God, when I look at you, I can barely breathe!" I exclaim in desperation. "It's you. Kurt, it's you." It always has been, and I'm slowly realizing that. "And now you're backing out? And for what? Because it got too real for you, because you feel bad? Sometimes you have to trample on others to get what you want! Dave's fucking insignificant, he's –"
His expression changes from intimidated and confused to being very clearly defensive and foreboding. I'm not winning. I'm not –
I take a deep breath and try to keep myself together, trying not to panic and drown and burn and crash and bang and smoke. "You're scared. That's what it is, you're scared," I rush out, nodding too much. That has to be it. "Dave's left you, and so you feel guilty. You've been with him for so long, so I get that that change is scary for you, but you gotta trust me on this one. You have to." It sounds like a plea from a desperate man being dragged towards the guillotine.
"But you didn't see how hurt Dave was, you didn't –"
"I don't care how hurt he was!" I spit as the sickening truth slowly dawns on me, that he is not going to change his mind. That he wants to fix things with Dave. All of this, all this time, everything he and I have ever done, and when he's finally supposed to be mine, he pulls back from the ledge. And I just don't know why. "I've waited, so I get to be selfish now! Fuck Dave! Fuck him, and fuck you two, and fuck it all!"
"You have to understand –"
"You don't get to break my heart and expect me to take it fucking gracefully!" I yell, feeling the bloody pieces exploding inside my chest until nothing remains except a painful emptiness where something used to be.
My boy's so beautiful when he's drawn in on himself, his sorry, reddened eyes staring at me soulfully. He's so beautiful that it kills me.
"I'm sorry," he says, and then, "I'm so sorry." His eyes are full of remorse and pity, like that's supposed to make it better, like that fixes it somehow. "I wish things hadn't gone this far, I –"
"No, that's not good enough. You can't do this to me!"
I feel everything fall apart. He takes cautious steps back – I'm not the first man today to start having a go at him in this hotel room, but I just and just manage not to start throwing shit around in primitive rage. I pull on my hair and I swear and I clench my fists, but I don't do it out of hate. "Why are you doing this to us?!" I ask desperately. Every word and action seems to have the opposite effect of pushing him away from me rather than pulling him in. That's not what I –
I could never win with him either.
I could fucking never.
My hands are shaking, an adrenalin rush coursing through my veins. He looks alarmed. Scared. Reserved. Distant. Having made up his mind.
Now he's made it up.
"Things are never easy with us," he says slowly. "It'd blow up in our faces so quickly, B. And after the number I've pulled on Dave, I have to make that better. I'm too much of a mess to just jump from one bed to another, and –"
"Funny how being a slut has never stopped you before," I growl, thinking of the numerous times he's writhed beneath me, boyfriend or no boyfriend waiting. Excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses.
He stares at me for a second, and then laughs disbelievingly, but mostly he looks like I've just slapped him and the laugh is a poor attempt to hide the pain. "And yeah. Then we'd hurt each other because that's what we do best."
I bite on my tongue. God, I'm an idiot, and god no, baby, I would never hurt you, I wouldn't, I swear, I just fuck things up because I'm the product of fucked up people. You should've seen him today. This isn't my fault.
He and I could make each other better. I'm a better person with him around, can't he see that?
I say, "Hey, come on, I didn't mean that, I'm sorry, I –"
"No, you meant it." He wipes his cheeks again – and were those tears caused by me? Not Dave, but me? I don't want to – I just. It's not coming out right. "So maybe you can't... see it now," he says at length. He nods as if to convince us both. "But one day you'll see that I was right."
But there never will be such a day.
Because he walks out of the room, to find Dave, to break someone else's heart, to busy himself not choosing me, and he leaves me.
He leaves me.
And not like he did back in the day when he told me that I was vile and cruel, and not like he did when we told each other it was over earlier this year, making out in a hotel corridor, clutching onto each other too hard, trying to convince each other that we didn't feel what we obviously felt.
He just doesn't choose me. It's that simple.
He is just too good a person to love me.
