Chapter 9: Mere Humans
"Fuck," I swear. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Unceremoniously and without warning, I grab the guitar with both hands and throw it onto the studio floor. It bangs loudly but doesn't break as it settles onto the ugly, striped rug. A string breaks, brushing against the others with a metallic sound. I put my hands on my hips and grit my teeth. The pain radiates up and down my arm, and I look through the glass to the control room where Sam, Brittany and Bob look at me like they're not impressed.
"It wasn't meant to sound like that!" I try to explain, stepping away from the fucking microphones that are probably no longer recording, anyway. I march to the other side of the studio and sit on a tall stool, furiously going through my pockets for cigarettes.
"That's alright," Bob's voice comes through the speaker. "We'll take a break."
"Damn right we will," I mutter.
Jeff's off fucking one of his sluts – male or female, who knows – while Roderick is sleeping in the lounge. It might be morning outside for all I know. I came to the studio after sunset last night, and it's been hours and hours, useless, all of them. I take deep drags of the cigarette, the headache killing me, my arm killing me, but I say nothing of the physical pain. The emotional pain is pain enough, and they don't – They don't need to know about it. About the bad elbow.
The door opens slowly, and neither Sam nor Bob is visible through the window anymore. Britt is walking in, a hint of hesitance in her step. The hem of her dress moves gracefully around her ankles, locks of her hair falling to her shoulders over the red flower patterns. She looks upset, like a kid does when she first realizes that his father or mother is drunk. It's a bad thing, being drunk. I'm not drunk. Had a few beers, sure, but not any more than Sam or Bob there, and were I inebriated, the pain wouldn't feel quite so bad.
Brittany sits down on the stool next to mine, eyeing the room peacefully. "You alright?" she asks eventually.
"Don't I seem alright?" I counter venomously, though it's not her fault. She did some of her vocals a few hours back, and right now she seems like the only person who has come into the studio and recorded what they were meant to.
"No. You don't seem alright." She reaches out to grab my hand and pulls it to her lap. Her nimble fingers lace with mine, her hand warm and soft, my own bony and hard. She holds my hand with both hands, examining it, almost. My elbow throbs with pain as I extend my arm, but I don't let it show.
It's nothing a few pain killers can't sort out.
Nick got a scar in the car crash. He hit his right temple when he fell out of his bunk, and that's why it seemed like his entire face was covered in blood. The cut wasn't deep or dangerous, but we didn't know that because he was unconscious. We just saw the blood. The other injuries were worse. They stitched him up and told him it'd leave a scar. I've never seen it because I haven't seen him, but when I close my eyes, it's there: a red line by his hairline, slowly fading year by year, but never vanishing completely. Those are the spoils he gained in the war. I got plenty of small cuts on my face: all the glass. Nothing permanent, though. And I thought I walked away with nothing to show for it, nothing but the cast and the physical therapy and then the physical therapist who quit when I told her to go fuck herself and threw the guitar at her after another failed attempt to barre a fucking fret.
Turns out I didn't get away with it that easy. My elbow showed no signs of protest during our practice sessions, not even after hours of messing around. Now, when it's every day, sometimes even for twenty straight hours that I'm locked in here, the pain's appeared. My fingers stumble. I make mistakes.
"Maybe you should take the day off. Tomorrow too," Brittany suggests, but I know that I can't. The entire album recording halts if I'm not here. She's cradling my hand with her own, and it's doing wonders to relax me. Let some of the frustration pour out. She starts explaining that she's giving me a hand massage that she learned from her spiritual guide and that it helps tune in with the universe.
"I can't take the day off," I sigh to stop her from talking utter bullshit, still persistently smoking with my free hand.
"It's an escape for you, being here." She looks around the room. "Then you don't have to think about it."
I unwillingly pull my hand back. "Think about what?"
She shrugs. "I can't read minds." She grabs my hand again like she has decided to ignore my body language. "You've been so happy," she says and sounds slightly sad.
"It's just this album."
She hums agreeingly. She probably knows I'm lying, but I'm not. It's this album too, and not just whatever pathetic little turmoil occurs outside the studio.
I've been avoiding Kurt, and I know that. I need to keep my questions to myself because I know him, and he doesn't like questions. It just throws me off. I mean, when did he decide that we were just mere humans? Because I swear that for a while there, we were gods. We were better than other people, we had an understanding. We spoke without words, and it was all crystal clear, perfect harmony. Me and him.
When he decided to lie, he should have done it like a god. Be smart enough for me to not find out. But he couldn't do it. He's just human. And if he's just human, then so am I.
It's disappointing beyond words.
"It's the fans outside, isn't it?" Brittany then suggests sympathetically, and I nod. Sure it is. It's not like it's a mob, but maybe ten or so lost souls. Not always the same ones because even they have work and sleep, but they wait there for any of us, me the most. They keep sending random gifts into the studio: cakes, flowers, cards... One card said, 'I knew you weren't dead, Blaine.', and I'm not sure what that meant, if they meant musically dead or emotionally dead or physically dead. I put that card in my wallet in any case. Folded it real nice. Take it out sometimes: a kid out there knows I'm not dead. That's something. That counts.
I'm not yet an endangered species, but I feel like one.
"Cheer up," Britt says with a warm smile. "They're only excited, that's why they camp out there. We're all really excited. Anything you do is going to be amazing."
I laugh emptily at that, and she frowns like that's not what she wanted. I don't want to make her feel like shit on top of everything else, so I say, "Thanks, Britt. Glad someone has faith in me." I tug her closer, and she smiles as she stands up and leans in for a hug. Maybe that hand massage wasn't weed induced mumbo jumbo after all – some of the stress has definitely left my system.
The studio door opens behind Brittany's back, and Bob steps in. It's only when Rachel follows that I detach myself from Brittany swiftly, and knowing that Brittany would remain in my space with no apprehension, I stand up, a hand on Brittany's hip guiding her further away from me. Rachel's smile has vanished, walking into the studio to find me cuddling with the guest star.
"She said it was urgent," Bob explains as an introduction and then leaves. He gives me an 'oh you rock stars' look, clearly thinking that I'm boning both of the women in the room. One for each finger. He flees as he thinks a shit storm is about to take place.
"Rach," I say with too big a smile. "What are you doing here?"
She looks like a mess, her usually neat appearance contrasted to her current look of a bomb having exploded on her. Her hair is a mess and she looks distressed, and it's only then I notice the huge bag she's carrying. "My apartment's flooded," she says, voice quivering. "I woke up this morning, and when I got out of bed, there was this- this splash and –" She cuts herself off like the memory of it will make her cry any second. "All my belongings, all my..." Her voice fades as she pales to a sickly white.
"Oh, that's horrible! You poor thing!" Brittany exclaims, clutching my arm for dramatic effect. "Sit down! Come on, I'll make you some tea!"
Rachel looks like she'd rather not have Brittany dote on her, but then she seems too tired to care. Rachel still doesn't seem to understand that Brittany is too nice to cheat on Santana (if she even knows they're together), even if I were willing, which I'm not, for the record, but Brittany's genuine worry isn't the reaction of a mistress, and even Rachel seems to get that in her anguished state.
"Shit, that's... shit," I say, taking Rachel's bag and escorting her to the control room. She plops down on the leather couch, a hand dramatically resting on her forehead as she closes her eyes. Brittany's vanished to the lounge, and I lean against the mixing desk and take in my worried girlfriend.
"I tried calling you," she says.
"You thought I'd be at home?"
"It's eleven o'clock, so yeah, I thought you'd be asleep."
I almost laugh before my eyes land on the clock on the wall: quarter past eleven. I thought it was seven in the morning, maybe, but no. I've been in the studio for fourteen hours. That explains at least some of the frustrated anger bubbling in my guts.
"Then I tried calling here to see if you were recording, but the receptionist said that she wasn't at liberty to say, and I told her who I was, but –" Her voice wavers threateningly, so I quickly cut her off.
"I'll make damn sure that any calls from you get noted in the future, alright? Come on, now, it's not too bad." I move to sit on the couch next to her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. "We'll find you a nice hotel. I'll pay for it. The nicest hotel in town, any place you want."
"But I –" She wipes her cheeks. "I thought I could stay with you."
"...And then there's always that option! Sure!" I kiss the side of her head, smell the rosy scent of her shampoo. Sure. Great. "How long did, um. When will your place be unflooded again, I mean?"
"I don't know. They said they weren't sure if it was just one pipe or if they all need to be redone. A few months, they said."
Oh. Okay.
"It'll all work out, baby. Don't you worry your pretty head with it." I keep up the monologue of assurances as she snuggles into me, soon sipping the tea that Brittany brings through for her. Rachel's shoes look drenched, like she waded in water on her way over here. I promise to make a call to Lauren. It's my solution to every problem: making it Lauren's problem. She'll have Rachel's belongings rescued and dried and replaced or whatever needs to be done. I don't like seeing Rachel this upset about anything. And Lauren will make damn sure that Rachel's apartment is as good as new in a matter of weeks – not months. Don't care how much that costs me.
Rachel provides me with a reason for a day off, however, without it looking like I'm abandoning the project. Bob and Sam both nod like my place is at Rachel's side right now, and Bob calls the receptionist, who calls for the security guy to clear the way and for the chauffeur to bring the car around. Maybe a day off isn't such a bad idea. God knows my arm needs it.
Rachel and I wait in the control room to be informed when the car's outside. She goes through her bag to find a hair brush and proceeds to straighten her blonde streaked locks while I sit on Bob's chair by the mixing desk. It's an awkward silence between us, and I'm not sure why. I wish the others had stayed.
"So what did I walk in on earlier?"
"Come again?" I ask, and Rachel sighs heavily and puts her hands into her lap, her shoulders slumped. She's usually full of a dancer's graceful poise.
"With Brittany."
"Rachel," I say warningly as I shake my head. "We've had this conversation." She remains silent because she knows that I already have heard whatever is going through her mind. "One of these days," I say, getting out a cigarette and lighting it, "you're gonna have to start trusting me."
"It's them I don't trust," she argues.
"Which would be inconsequential if you trusted me."
Her brown eyes focus on the cigarette. "You know you always smoke when you're nervous."
"No, I always smoke," I correct her, but then leave it be. Neither one of us wants a fight right now. We don't even fight, really – some arguments or disagreements, sure. I've made her cry, and she's made me feel like shit in return, but we've always been a rather harmonious couple. Her irrational fears and my affair aside, I think we're pretty alright.
"I'm gonna go clean myself up a little," Rachel says, getting up with a small mascara tube in her grip. I keep smoking – not nervously but languidly – as she exits the control room. I turn around in the chair and look at Bob's buttons and switches, and then over the desk and into the now empty studio. The room of disappointment. I wonder what it feels like, sitting here hours on end and getting a shit take after another. Me playing the first verse and then fucking up or stopping because it sounds wrong. Bob's demonstrating infinite patience. Inside he must be this close to offing himself.
The door opens behind me, and I ask, "Good to go?"
"You sure don't waste time," a voice says jocularly, and I'm only slightly startled that Kurt's in the studio. Not like the first time he's been here – maybe the third now, what with the crew documenting our epically proportioned failures.
I turn around in the chair, and he's smiling at me like you smile to someone you want to do dirty fucking things to and, what's more, know that you're full well allowed to, too. At least he thinks he is.
"Hey." I stub the rest of my cigarette to Bob's full ashtray. "What you doing here?" My eyes are focused somewhere on the floor between us.
"Coming to set up for later."
"Ah, no one's told you? We won't be recording later. A day off." He frowns because there are no days off, and I could tell him about Rachel's apartment or my veteran arm, but I do neither. I let my fingers run through my hair, getting the locks out of my face. He's got a bit of stubble on his chin. Looks fucking good on him. "I was just about to head home."
"Oh." He gets rid of the initial confusion quickly. "Well, in that case, I'm free as well." He smiles with the perfect amount of insinuation in it.
I stand up and stuff my hands in my pants pockets. "I'm going home with Rachel, actually. She's staying with me for a few weeks."
Something like a frown flickers on his face, but then it's gone. He can hide it well, whatever he's feeling. He can flick emotions on and off like a switch. Doesn't matter who he's with: a stranger or me. I, well, I can't do that. I didn't realize I was expected to do that. He doesn't need to worry. I'm catching up quickly: just an affair. An insignificant damn thing where we can lie to each other freely and without guilt.
"I'll catch you later then, yeah?" I offer, but as I try to get past him through the door, he steps in front of me, the frown now back. His lips part, but nothing comes out. It's not a good sign if he needs to carefully calculate his words. "Did you want something?"
"Well, I – What's going on?" His hand has settled on my hip, and it feels like it's all my body and brain can focus on: his fingers slide on the fabric, taking a firm hold.
"Rachel's apartment got flooded. Old pipes..." I shrug. It feels like my body is filled with a burn slowly scorching me from the inside.
"No, I mean – We've. We've seen each other once during the past two weeks, and even then it was... I mean, you were." He looks for the right word before he settles on, "A bit rough. Not that I – You know I love it when you are. But you were... distant."
"Well," I say, stepping away from his touch and feeling a pain much stronger than what my arm's been taunting me with. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm trying to record an album here."
"I know that," he says in a 'don't insult me' tone, his brows knitting closer together, and the fire in me mixes with a sickening sensation. And no, this isn't what I want either. I don't want to be going home with Rachel, but with him, and I'm tired, so fucking tired of this studio and these songs and these people and this invisible shard of glass sticking out of my chest. "If you're going to be like that, then fine," he says.
"Well, okay."
"Okay." He crosses his arms.
"Fine."
"Yeah."
"See you la –"
He pulls me in for a kiss out of nowhere, a dirty kiss where he pushes his body against mine, his hands on the sides of my face and moving into my hair, locking me in place. I kiss back automatically, my nostrils suddenly full of his scent. His lips move over mine, his tongue darting out to brush against my bottom lip, the signal for me to open up and deepen the kiss, but I don't obey. "Blaine." His voice sounds oddly choked. "Fuck, don't tell me you're done with me."
I pull back. "What?"
He looks perfectly serious. He thinks that I suddenly don't want him anymore? Well, that's just wrong. That's fucked up.
"Why would you –" Stupid. Stupid fucking boy. "Don't think shit like that."
"Well, what am I supposed to think?" he asks in a challenging tone, but I don't want to fight him. Fuck, we're not on the same page at all if he genuinely thinks that.
I still place a quick kiss on his lips but he clings onto me, pulling me in like he needs to feel me kiss him. His lips part, and I can't resist it, my tongue sliding into his mouth. He wraps his arms around my neck, constantly seeking more contact, coaxing my mouth open more until the lion in me roars, and I pull him in. He lets out a short moan at the back of his throat, kissing me fiercely, but I don't want us to be just this. And if this is all that this is...
I keep my hands on his narrow hips, pressing my fingers in as I break the kiss. My nose slides across his cheek, and I inhale deeply. "I just need a bit of time right now. There's stuff I need to figure out."
His arms have moved down to wrap around my waist, and it feels like we're standing a bit too close right now. He sighs. "You know you can talk to me. If you're not okay."
Sure. That'd be interesting.
"I'll see you later," I say, detaching myself. He looks lost, but I'm not much of an explorer right now. He'll have to figure it out for himself. Maybe we all just need to stick to helping ourselves.
"Okay then." He fidgets and tries to appear calm, but rejection is visible all over him. He looks over my shoulder at nothing at all. "I miss you. Just so you know."
Something in my chest expands so much and so quickly that I actually feel short of breath, but I push it out of my mind, my system. He misses the sex. Great.
I smile politely as if to say 'thanks, that's nice'.
The limousine waits outside when Rachel and I leave the building, and I don't think of how confused Kurt looked getting left behind in the studio. Rachel hunches down as I keep my arm around her shoulders, and the fans scream and jump, the handful of them, behind the security guy's outstretched arms, like he's an albatross about to take off.
I think nothing of anything until Rachel's holding the sheets in her hands. She's stripped down to a tank top and a pair of my boxers she found in the drawer. Quinn also used to do that: help herself to my clothes. I'd mention it if my ex-girlfriend didn't piss Rachel off. Look, it's simple: had Quinn been all that, we wouldn't have split up, would we? Still, it's never advisable to compare a past companion to a current one. We don't want to fear that the past is not so past perfect after all. Or, in my case, there is no past tense at all. A double present. Both the same. Nothing distinguishing between them.
I tug my tie off like I'm pissed off at it, getting ready to go to bed. I haven't slept properly in days: a few naps every now and then in the studio or in the limo.
"Have you gotten new cologne?" Rachel asks. She's sniffing my sheets.
"No."
"Your sheets smell like –"
"I mean yes. Yeah. Yes, I have."
She nods slowly, still frowning before it dissolves into a sunny smile. "I like it." She gets into the sex-stained sheets, and here's hoping she plans to sleep and not go through every inch square of bedding for come stains because she might be offended that I seem to jack off obscene amounts behind her back. We try not to be too messy, of course, but two guys and multiple rounds, and sometimes Kurt just comes a lot.
Now Rachel lies where Kurt did the last time we saw each other in the capacity in which we always see each other. Was I too rough on him? I don't remember. I took him hard. Wanted to fuck him through the mattress. He certainly didn't complain, just said 'Don't bruise' at some point, and I told him to shut up and fucked him twice as hard. After he came, it took him a long time to come down. He kept shivering.
I'm down to a pair of boxers when I join Rachel in bed. My muscles are aching, my body begging for a bit of rest. The painkillers will kick in soon – I went through Rachel's bag when she was in the bathroom, found those could-kill-a-horse painkillers that she got for her sprained ankle last fall. She's always worried that she will injure herself in a way that will ruin her career. She worries about a lot of things.
She presses into my side, her legs brushing mine. She's small. She's curved. Her breasts press against me, and god, she's so oddly shaped.
"Thanks for letting me stay here," she whispers.
"Of course, baby. Stay as long as you like."
Need to make that call to Lauren.
She shuffles, and I forgot how she radiates warmth, how soft she is all over. Her legs are smooth, freshly shaven. "How's the album going?"
"It's not."
"I'm sorry." She sounds sorry, too. "Maybe you need to... get out of the studio. Seems to me like you're all just driving yourselves insane in there."
"Maybe," I agree. She might be right. She often is, almost about everything. I let out a deep breath, my fingers absently moving in her hair. "That might be a good idea. I feel like I need to get out of the city for a while."
"You're finally taking me to Paris, then?"
"Smart ass," I say and gently poke her arm. She giggles, and I add, "The buildings are too... tall. You know? My music can't flow freely because there's no room. Everything is deluged by people and noise and –"
"Water."
"– and water, yeah! Just think about your place, ruined like that. That's shit, that is. There's just... too much of everything in this town. And I'm a seasoned musician, you know. If I find it suffocating, just imagine what it's doing to someone like Roderick," I reason, extending my anxiety onto our drummer who might not share my feelings at all. He probably doesn't. Even as I speak, I know my band shares none of my sentiments. I just miss going with the flow instead of analyzing every fucking thing, every chord change and time signature – I never had to do that before. But now it's an endless game of everything meaning something. Every word, every kiss, every touch. It's a competition of lies versus truths, lovers versus partners, wolves versus hearts.
It's not that he's fucking Dave. It's that he treats me like some toy he can put in the corner when he doesn't need it, and then take it back out again when he's bored. That he thinks I can be used like another Dave. And that's it? That's all?
"I need to get out of this place," I exhale. "And if the music doesn't work out, I guess I can always work for Will."
Rachel laughs. "Oh, yeah. How many hours have you still got?"
"Six. Thank god. The kids are catching on, you know. I spent half the time signing albums last time, and it's not like a concert, I can't just leave, and they take it as an invitation to stay indefinitely, hovering around me. Gives me fucking shivers. They're like leeches. Followed me for four blocks before I got into a taxi."
She laughs again, and I feel a smile appearing on my face. I don't remember the last time I did anything like this with her. She's wonderful because she's not playing anyone at all. That's why I liked her in the first place. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and I never have to second-guess a thing. I know what she's thinking and feeling, I know what she wants, how she feels about me... She loves me. She says it, but not too often. She doesn't like wearing it out. She'll just slide it in to the end of a phone conversation, an 'I love you' before the line dies, but not every single time.
I can be loved. The fans, well, they don't know me, do they? So sometimes I wonder about those closer to me, and Rachel is living proof that it can be done.
It's good to know because sometimes I wonder.
"I love you," she whispers, pressing a sleepy smile to my chest.
I wrap the covers tighter around us and finally let myself get some sleep.
"Bismarck."
"You mean old Otto?" Sam asks, and I shake my head, trying to conduct this band meeting with style. Out of the studio, just like Rachel said. It was a good idea.
"Not the German guy, I mean the capital of North Dakota." We're gathered in the bar closest to the studio, and my bandmates look confused. Dave is by the table with a heavily bearded teddy bear-like man whose name I didn't care to learn but whose title is the First Assistant Cameraman or something alike. It's good some of the film crew are present – this affects them too. "My old man's got a hunting cabin just an hour's drive from Bismarck. He used to go up there every winter when I was a kid, get some quality killing in. It was a shithole, but when he got hospitalized for good last year, I figured that he's never gonna see his old log cabin again, and so I had it done up. I haven't been there, but the contractors took some pictures for me. It's real nice now. Actually looks pleasant, and I- Well, I think us, the band, should go up to the cabin. Just us, the woods, the nature... There'll be snow this time of year. We take our guitars. We figure out these songs. If we don't, fuck 'em, we'll write new ones. We'll take the shitty radio from my kitchen and a handful of tapes, record the rough versions live right there. We stay there until the album is on tape. Then we fly back to New York and record the songs in a three takes max. It's that simple."
They look at me like I'm insane, but I don't think I am. New technology is spoiling us. Not too long ago everyone was stuck with four-tracks, but now we can add dozens and dozens of layers. It's too much fuss. Let's strip it down slightly, go back to basics. I know I've got a lot of acoustic songs in the works, but I'm not making a folk album. Folk is dead. I'm making a stripped down rock album. And I don't want to play the same songs dozens of times to make it perfect. Perfection is unattainable, so I'm giving us three takes to get it right. That's it. That's all.
"Well," Jeff says, "vamonos, eh?" He grins. He's always up for anything. Roderick just nods because it's not like he gets a say, really. He does as he's told. It's Sam that I need to convince, and he looks less than thrilled by my idea.
I say, "The music isn't working. We stay here, we'll end up killing each other."
Sam rubs his chin. "Well... when would we leave? And how long would we be away for?"
"We start getting this ready straight away, so I say... we should be able to leave town in a few weeks. And once there, I don't know. Two or three weeks."
Sam looks like spending three weeks away from Cedes is a bit too much. He's been domesticated. How does he expect to tour come summer if he can't take three weeks without his better half? Plans to take Mercedes on tour, probably.
"If you think that this is something we've got to do," Sam says, voice heavy like the words are unpleasant to utter. "If you think this is necessary, absolutely necessary, then... okay."
"That's settled then." To make it official, I lift my whisky glass and finish it off in one go, making a show of placing it back to the table.
We're going. Good. Finally. I've been in this city for too long. I can feel it in the way people look at me.
"Up until then, gentlemen, we're free men. Let's get trashed," I say, and Jeff instantly goes to the bar and soon returns with their most expensive spirits. All on me, of course. Dave keeps trying to engage me in conversation about what this means for the documentary, but I ignore his worried words. Let him sort it out with Lauren.
I don't intend to stay in the bar either – let the boys have some down time without the boss. I steal a cigarette from Sam and bid them goodnight. "I hope not to see you soon," I say, a captain abandoning his ship, but we all need a break from one another. We know that.
"I'll come out for a smoke with you," Jeff says, and I lift an eyebrow because he can smoke indoors where the booze and good company is, but I shrug. I leave my band plus director and cameraman person in a pleasant state of tipsiness, feeling like the weight of the world has been lifted off me. I don't need to go to the studio tomorrow. I can breathe more easily.
Jeff steals my lighter outside the bar, ignites the tip of his Marlboro and then pockets the lighter with no intention of giving it back. "So," he says, taking in a deep drag. "Heard Rachel's moved in with you."
"Temporarily, yeah."
"Well, that must complicate things a bit, am I right?" A smile flickers on his lips, but I don't return it. Instead I look over his shoulder like the facade of the building opposite is endlessly intriguing. He continues with, "What with her constantly breathing down your neck now, noting any mysterious absences..."
He wants me to say it. Not sure why my confirming any of his suspicions is so important to him. And if I said that yeah, oh boy, he sure is right, then what would I be agreeing to?
"Aw, come on. I give you all the details," he pouts. "I mean, all of them, from that girl who had never gotten head to that guy who was hung like a horse. And Kurt. God, Kurt." He lets out a low whistle, which I suppose indicates approval. "That mouth of his, and my god, that ass and those hips, I wouldn't mind slipping one in myself, let me tell –"
"Jeff. Be careful with what you say next."
He laughs good-naturedly, not taking me seriously. "Why? Come on, Blaine! I bet he can be so attentive in bed, he seems the type. Bet he's a good boy."
He is, Jeff's spot on, but that doesn't stop me from suddenly shoving him, my palms flat against his chest. He stumbles backwards a step or two from the sudden blow. His cigarette falls from his lips as he stares at me wide-eyed. I'm as surprised by my actions as he is, and I quickly drop my gaze, ashamed of myself.
He keeps staring at me. "Fuck... Sorry."
All of my muscles are tense, and it's not anger that bubbles within me, but frustration. What's he saying? That I'm lucky to have Kurt? That Kurt looks like he needs a handful of action from several men to be happy? That I'm not enough for him or that that's all I am for him?
"You just stay away from Kurt, alright?"
Jeff looks awkward. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't. I didn't get that it... I mean, I didn't mean to be disrespectful or –"
"It's just. It's not a conversation topic."
"Yeah. Got it." He looks like he really wants to go back inside now and keep drinking, but he doesn't want it to look like he's fleeing the scene. "I don't look at him like that, anyway," he laughs.
"Yeah, you do." Any bisexual or gay guy in the world would look at Kurt like that.
"I'll stop, then," he says, as if he now realizes that he's been out of line picturing Kurt with no clothes on, and his tone suggests that my fleeting use of physical force was more aggressive than I realized, that something in my eyes managed to place a seed of actual fear in Jeff.
"He just – Kurt doesn't need. I mean I'm not with him," I argue before Jeff thinks that I'm making statements here. There is nothing between us that could be labelled as anything. It's nothing concrete. It's constantly shifting, and I don't want Jeff thinking that I have Kurt if tomorrow Jeff sees Dave canoodling with him and me standing in the corner, head drooping, the idiot who thought he had more than he did. "Think whatever you want," I amend uneasily, "but don't say it to my face. He's a person, not a piece of meat."
"Sure. Alright. I didn't realize," he mumbles, and he's not referring to Kurt's sudden existence as a person of substance in addition to his sex on legs appeal, but that he didn't realize the other half of the deal. The part about me. I don't want to have that conversation.
"Don't worry about it. Look, it's nothing. I'm sorry I pushed you. C'mere, man." I pull him for a quick one-armed hug, patting his back a few times as he does the same. A quick apology without having to say that I'm sorry. "We alright?" I ask as I pull back.
"Top notch, B. Top notch." He smiles, but he has none of the cockiness in it. He looks at me in a way he has never looked at me before, and he doesn't seem to know what to make of it, but then the smile slowly reaches his eyes too. He likes being in on the joke.
A girl is going through the M's, and the vinyl I put on finished twenty minutes ago, but I can't be bothered changing it. "Do you have the Menace album?" she asks me after a while. She's the only customer in the shop.
"I don't know. Check?" I offer unhelpfully, not bothering looking up from the newspaper I found lying around. None of the current affairs interests me, but I am two hours away from freedom, from my temporary employment being over, which isn't close enough. That's two hours of another potential fan invasion if any of the loonies decide to drop by. The newspaper at least stops me from staring at the door like I'm waiting for a gunman to come in blasting. I hope no one wants to buy records on a Wednesday afternoon apart from this one miserable soul, and that the next person who walks through the door is Will, who's got a late afternoon shift. He's coming to release me from this prison. He'll be my messiah. That's probably what he wanted.
The girl eventually finds what she's looking for, and I sell the record to her, freezing halfway of stuffing the cover with Sebastian Smythe's face on it into a paper bag. Seb's cut his hair short and is posing in the center, equipped with an electric guitar hanging around his rock and roll posed body. He looks fierce in a red one-piece, and someone has finally convinced him to shave his chest hair. That person needs to be thanked.
"Um. Can I have the record?" the girl asks, lifting an eyebrow at me.
I blink. "Yeah. Sure."
Wherever I go, Seb will be there, haunting me. His album's been selling well. He gets airplay, interviews, European tours. He gets to be the star with his 'yeah, yeah, baby' songs of zero meaning or purpose. That's menace right there. He probably still thinks I'm a faggot, too. God, he'd die laughing if he knew.
The bell to Will's Record Store rings after the girl, and a minute later two guys walk in, and I draw my hat further over my eyes and try to not exist behind the counter. Will, come save me from this shithole...
I need to stop gambling. I need to not do a lot of things. I need to stop counting days.
Bismarck's getting sorted out now. Our retreat isn't as quick as I'd hoped, we're not going for a few weeks yet, but the tickets were purchased this morning and it's on. I haven't been in that cabin since I was thirteen. I don't even know why I had it renovated – I should've just bought myself a new place if I so desperately wanted a cabin of my own.
I haven't seen Kurt in nearly a week. He's clearly giving me time, even though it was obvious he couldn't understand why I needed it. Maybe it's not even hard for him to do – he gets to spend time with Dave without having to lie about it. I wouldn't even know if he did decide to call me. I'm not at home. Except for how he wouldn't call because Rachel conversely is there. He wouldn't want her picking up. I'm not calling him either or visiting his club or seeing him at the studio, and it's so easy to slip into this silence.
I've already done this once, but this time it's not because I have no other options. I could see him if I wanted to. And I want to, but I just can't see what we'd be doing, me being on page seventeen and him on page nine, and Dave, well, he's probably on page three or thirteen. I haven't made my mind up about it yet.
"Put some music on, man," one of the customers calls out.
"Not your servant," I call back, and they glare and mutter amongst themselves. They go back to flipping through records. They look at a Canadian Experience album for a long time and talk about Sam, and then about me a little, too, since rumor has it Sam is in my band now. They don't realize I'm in the room: a hat and sunglasses. It's all any refugee would ever need.
The guys keep browsing when the door opens again, that annoying goddamn bell ringing. I take in the new arrival, and then lean into the counter more, flipping onto a new page and focusing on the news. I don't think I'm ready for this. He stays by the door for a few seconds, looks at me, looks at the guys, before he goes to the 7" section to look at singles. I feel his eyes on me every now and then, and it's beyond distracting.
"Hey, what's that song they keep playing on the radio?" the other guy now asks me and starts humming and whistling out of tune. I vaguely make out a half-sensible melody.
"Fleetwood Mac. The F's." I point him to the right direction. "It's on the new album."
They make me put the record on, even, nodding by the counter as Lindsey starts singing that "loving you isn't the right thing to do –", guitar riff, "– how can I ever change things that I feel?" I nervously tap the counter, and he's by the S's now, pretending to be damn interested in Bookends. "If I could, maybe I'd give you my world –", more guitar, fucking predictable, "How can I when you won't take it from meee?"
"That's enough of his relationship problems," I decide, but the guys both buy their own copies of the album, one on vinyl and the other on tape, and they grudgingly thank me for what clearly was inadequate customer service in their humble opinions.
The bell rings as they exit the store, and I focus on my newspaper once more.
"Hey."
I look up to see a forced smile on his face, though he's trying hard to make it genuine. He looks well. I wanted him to look like shit. Been a week. He's not alright, I see that instantly, but he's not as bad as I wanted him to be. He scoffs, and I ask, "What?"
"Wearing sunglasses inside. Very Dylanesque of you."
"For your information, I'm in danger out here. Fans are nuts. Remember that stalker of Dylan's that stole his garbage and wrote a book about it?"
"Oh, yeah, I can see how an empty record store is equally dangerous."
It seems like he's trying to pick a fight, but at least he came all the way here to do it. He cracked before I did. Okay. That's already one victory.
I make a show of slowly removing my sunglasses. It's not like he doesn't know it's me. I place them carefully on the counter, already missing my shield. "So where should we go fuck?" I ask.
"Sorry?"
"Well, that's what you're here for, right? I mean, we've got some sleazy hotels around. My place is off limits now that Rachel's staying there, so... any bright ideas?"
"I didn't – That's not why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
He looks insulted, and his brows knit together. "Okay, what is – I mean. I've been... giving you time. Like you wanted. I thought that the recording and the stress were... But then Dave told me that you're leaving town, and you never told me, so I – I really don't know what's going on. With us."
His voice is uncharacteristically apologetic. His eyes are doleful as he looks at me, all confused innocence like that's meant to make my heart melt. Because that's what works on Dave. He thinks I'm him. That we're similar. That the same party tricks work on both of us.
He stares at me. "Did I do something?"
"No. Yes. I mean no."
"Okay, I don't understand what –"
"Yes! Yeah, actually. Yes. Because I thought we had an understanding. I thought you thought more of me than – than whatever you clearly think. And don't think your sad eyes work on me just because they work on your boyfriend. Because here's the newsflash, alright? You ready? I'm not Dave. I'm not – not this oblivious fucking guy who can't see what's right in front of his eyes! And I'm more than convenient sex. I'm not stupid, and I will know when I'm being lied to –"
"I haven't lied!" he objects, finally doing something other than trying to be sweet or disgruntled. Kurt is not sweet. He never was. "I don't – Convenient sex? Have I said that? God, where is this coming from?"
"You have lied. Fuck, just admit it. Or maybe it's such second nature with you that you don't even notice! What else can be expected from someone who's been making up pasts for himself since he was fifteen, huh?"
He grits his teeth like he can't believe I went there. "You always have to –" he snaps, cutting himself off, hands in fists. Oh, I know just what buttons to push. I know, I know. I'm talented that way. He takes in a calming breath like he refuses to come down to my level. He hasn't realized it yet: we're down in the gutter, him and I. We're not graceful. We're not beautiful. We're not even right: we're lying and sinning and loving it. "Right, so it's about Dave, is it?" he asks with finality like we've finally concluded what the problem is.
"No! God, no. It's not about Dave." I have to hold back a scoff. "Dave can fuck you every two hours for all I care! Because I don't. Care, that is." He doesn't reply, just looks at me the way he used to back on tour when I snapped at a fan or did something he generally thought was an asshole move on my part. All the others let me get away with it. He never did. But I can sense that somehow his thoughts right now are fuckshitfuck as he Poirots the situation and gets it, but I hope he knows that it's not Dave or what they did or any of that insignificant crap, but the bigger picture.
"You know you're not exactly the poster boy of honesty either!" he then barks, and I've got nothing. I have been straight with him, and I am clueless as to what he's on about. He lowers his voice a little. "Why didn't you tell me your dad's hospitalized? Huh? I mean, I had to hear it from Dave. Imagine how stupid I felt standing there. All this time, and you never said a word!"
"How is that at all related to anything?"
"It is! You always think that everyone's out to get you! You're telling me to be honest when you're not letting me in, and it should be a two-way street, Blaine!"
It should be? What should be? God, can he not just say it?
"Right, because my old man dying in a tiny hospital room is about you."
"That's not what I'm saying! I'm just – You just have never said a word of it when that must be..." He sighs heavily. "I mean, what's wrong with him?"
"What isn't?" I counter. "Fucked up his liver, hasn't he? No one's surprised. No one's calling the press. Don't go thinking for a second I want to talk about it. I pay the hospital bills. That's all I know, and that's all I care to know. Don't bring this up again, you hear me?"
"Because I take orders from you," he says sardonically, looking at me like I'm filth. "You know what, Blaine? It's time to grow the fuck up." He marches to the door, and there he is, my Kurt. That's the person that I know. This is what we are, hungry canines tearing each other apart.
"That's mature, Kurt! That's great! You walk away!" No response. "I'll send you a postcard from Bismarck, then! Signed by yours truly! Well, that's fine! That's just fine!" Everything inside me is spinning fast like a crazy whirlpool. He still doesn't react. "Have a nice life!"
He stops at the door, and the anger is practically glowing off of him, visible in the tensed muscles of his shoulders. He turns around slowly, fuming. "How about you give me a call when you decide to stop acting like a bitch, alright? And don't!" he adds, like he can sense my ingenious riposte about him being the bitch in this relationship. "Don't say anything. You just fuck off to Bismarck for a goddamn month! Maybe the fresh air will knock some sense into you."
"Oh, I need sense to be knocked into me, do I? That's news. Wow, that's a refreshing perspective, thanks for the input!"
"Fuck off," he barks. He swirls around, and I busy myself by murderously shoving Lindsey's new record back into its sleeve, rounding the counter to take it back to the F's. The bell doesn't ring, though – instead Kurt's steps are now incoming, and I slip the LP somewhere in the C's, ready for round two. "Why do you have to be such a cunt?" he hisses, and I turn to him with my eyebrows raised, the storm in me now at the point of heavy rain, furious lightning, perhaps a tornado in the works. "You bring out the worst in me, you know that?"
"It's not hard to do."
He lifts an accusing finger and points it at me. "I'm not coming back."
"That's probably for the best. I'm sure someone can fill my shoes easily enough."
He looks shocked that his threat had no affect on me. "Fuck, what are you –" He almost pulls his hair, fingers crooked, all anger and confusion. "Maybe we're in a need-to-know basis here! Did that occur to you?" he snaps. "Lies aren't – They're not about taking the piss out of people. Half the time they're about protecting people! Although for you they're clearly just about protecting yourself. And if I wanted convenient sex, I would not be coming to you. You're anything but convenient, so you think about that. You fucking hypocrite." He makes for the door, and I lean against the raised table behind me, my insides feeling weakened. I don't know, I just don't know anymore.
He slows down. He comes to a stop. He's not moving. He's standing there, not moving, and I dare a look at his back, the way he's hanging his head. Everything hurts, and I didn't want this, don't know what the hell I wanted or intended.
"You bring out the worst in me too," I say quietly. Also the best, I think, but I don't tell him that.
"Yeah, that's the most beautiful part," he laughs, sounding sad, and it pierces right through me. He might be wiping his cheeks. I can't tell for sure, but he wouldn't be here if it was insignificant to him. I just had to know. "Fuck..." he says so quietly I barely hear it. I've made my way over, my hands hovering an inch from his hips, unsure.
He breathes unsteadily. "I'm sorry. That I lied. I didn't mean to – But you're impossible, Blaine, you can't just not say anything and then attack me when I don't even know why we're fighting, and –"
I take the decisive step to hug him from behind, and he starts as I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him to my chest. My nose presses against the shell of his ear, and he relaxes against me, his hands moving down to rest over mine. Nuzzling him a little, I find my voice again. "I'm not very good at this."
He laughs. "Yeah. Clearly."
But he doesn't object. He doesn't object when I take us from an abstract level, a fleeting thought in my head, to a concrete level instead. He agrees. That it exists.
It's not just me.
"God, Blaine," he breathes out, still sounding hurt. I press a soft kiss right behind his ear. Don't want to talk. I press another, more lingering. His breathing quickens. I'm trying to apologize.
The bead curtain of the backroom rattles when we find our way across the store, and the floor is hard but it doesn't matter. He says, "I missed you," voice husky, strained, choked up, and I keep kissing his stomach, our clothes having disappeared fast. He moves like every second is a second too long. Our hands are urgent, our lips hungry, and I keep pressing my fingers hard against his skin, watching the whitened imprints fade when I move on to touch him somewhere else. My knees ache from the press of the floor, our limbs knocking together. The burning need helps us more than the messy saliva, but we get there, our swollen lips pressing together, and he's never felt this close before. He gasps, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when I'm buried in him all the way.
"God, I missed you," he mumbles, more to himself than me, but the difference is that this time I believe him.