Canaries In The Mines

Chapter Four

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: So I'm not totally sure where I'm In The Band takes place. Like state wise? If anyone knows, fill me in!

-Tripp-

Being famous was fucking weird.

Like, it had always been the goal- and man, talk about fairytale endings. In retrospect, Tripp realized he'd had some friggin' balls, somehow transforming his childhood dream of playing for Iron Weasel into a reality. Who said persistence didn't pay off? Sometimes, he looked back and thanked his lucky stars he hadn't been served a restraining order instead of a job.

Anyway, it had all worked out. He'd put his life's blood into giving that band a comeback, and he'd struggled like hell to keep them together. They'd had a few good years.

But when he was offered the chance to go solo, well, maybe it was cowardly. Maybe he was a quitter. He'd chosen his own career over his friends. He became a household name, all by himself. Tripp Campbell, international sensation. Not Tripp Campbell, lead guitarist for Iron Weasel.

If asked, he wouldn't be able to say when the latter had stopped being enough.

Then again, he'd never been able to nail down when being known as Tripp Campbell, no suffix needed, had come up lacking. After all, he'd wanted nothing more than this; fame, and fortune, and knowing he was going to go down in musical history since he was old enough to form words.

Still, the shame of that decision stayed with him. He didn't like thinking that betrayal was something he was capable of.

It really bit him in the ass, too. Tripp had lived for Guns N' Roses, for Hendrix, for Metallica, but no one wanted a rock musician without a band. And no matter how many he auditioned, none of them were good enough to replace Derek, or Burger, or Ash. It was karma.

Still, he made do. He'd gone a little more pop than rock, he sang songs about girls instead of punching stuff, and he had to throw out his best pair of Levi's in favor of some couture brand that came pre-ripped, but it wasn't terrible. He was topping the charts, and that was all that mattered.

He could almost forget that once he'd been a part of a band that was more like a family.

Of course, it didn't help that he had a constant reminder.

Izzy never forgave him for dumping Iron Weasel. She kept harping that he'd ditched his dream, and did Tripp have any idea what she would give to be half so lucky, to have everything she'd ever wanted? And yeah, Tripp had a pretty good idea that Izzy Fuentes was the kind of girl who would give up all her classic rock LPs plus a piece of her soul just to record a single album. She would do anything.

Anything other than accept help from a dirty sellout traitor who forgot his roots.

Nothing he said or did would persuade Izzy that he could land her the hookups, the gigs, the recording deal she so fervently desired. When he sent an agent her way, she slammed the fucking door in his face. Tripp was lucky she didn't do the same to him, but out of stubbornness or charity, she allowed him to maintain their friendship. As long as he didn't broach the subject of her music career, she'd talk to him.

Barely.

There was nothing he could say that would change her mind. No magic spell that would move her.

And he was lucky, god, so lucky that she hadn't given up on him yet. Tripp didn't think he'd be able to take it if she did. She was everything.

It was cliché and lame and the stuff that inspired every one of his stupid love songs, and he could never say a word about it. It would be awkward, telling her he loved her, out of the blue. After so many years of treating her like the little sister he'd never wanted, finding out was like a bucket of freezing cold water to the face.

Which didn't change the fact that one day, she'd turned around and smiled at him, stealing his breath away. He wasn't sure if he'd ever gotten it back. At night he'd listen to his exhalations, air whooshing in and out of his lungs, and it would sound foreign. Unfamiliar. Like the rhythm had changed.

After high school graduation, Izzy had gotten accepted into Columbia's music program. She was the reason Tripp had moved to New York. Not that she could ever know.

The funny part was, it was easy to pretend none of it existed. To let himself fade into the alcohol, the glitz and glamour of being someone.

For a while, he milked it, doing ridiculous things for no good reason at all. He let himself be spotted and then ran away from the paparazzi for laughs, got in fistfights with aspiring actors at trendy restaurants, and swam in several hotel fountains because, hell, if Bruce Wayne could do it, so could Tripp Campbell. He made himself infamous.

Except acting like a douche pushed Izzy further away, until she was almost out of reach.

Okay, actually, it was only when she banned him from coming to her first gig at some ramshackle little bar in Alphabet City because he had a media circus for an entourage that he realized things had to change, but the point is, he got it. He straightened up his act real quick. Getting an apartment with a bunch of mopey musicians and one anal engineering major was the icing on the cake.

Sometimes though, he would let himself vanish beneath the mask of the old Tripp, the one who partied too hard and didn't give a shit about anybody.

Which brought him back to being famous, fading into the façade, and how it was all so fucking weird.

He was at a party. Well, party might be too strong a word. He was at a charity gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in that huge room that was part architectural marvel and part Frankensteined bits of some old Egyptian Temple.

These things were about as exciting as wakes.

He'd kind of conned his roommates into tagging along, and at first it hadn't been a total catastrophe. Well, alright, Kendall had looked like he'd rather skin a cat than make any more small talk, and Justin had been flapping around complaining about the total inaccuracy of the charity's aim to save the horned bullfrog or whatever because the animal wasn't even endangered to anyone who would listen, but none of that was bad. And yeah, maybe Oliver's smile looked so fake it might as well have been plastic, but the kid was a train wreck, and that was less Tripp's problem and more Oken's publicist's.

Joe, at least, had been doing great.

Then everything had gone to hell. The first surprise singer had to be James Diamond, with his dopey smile and his killer pipes and his bedroom eyes directed straight at Kendall. Man, were they ever directed at Kendall. The second the dude lasered in on the blond, it had been all smolder, all the time. Tripp's roommate had melted like a popsicle in the sun. Fuck, he'd been looking like James like he was the sun.

Tripp had done his best to avoid a confrontation. He'd maneuvered Justin, Joe, and Oliver into a protective ring around their friend, kicked Kendall when he began to sound like an acidic-tongued moron, and even made a mild attempt to stop James from following the blond out to the steps of the Met. But when it came down to it, man, he'd only known Kendall for six months. He didn't want to get involved in something with so much history. No matter how strongly he wanted his friend to be happy, it wasn't his business.

Things spiraled downhill from there.

Kendall didn't return to the gala. James did, looking like someone had jacked his maserati.

Part of Tripp, the part his mom had raised right, wanted to go over there and comfort the kid. They were roughly the same age, they'd met a few times on the circuit, and hell, they were roughly going through the same shit- because no matter what Kendall said, it was obvious that James only had eyes for him.

But Tripp didn't know the details, and he didn't want to pry. He wasn't looking to complicate his life any more than it already was.

So he sought out that leggy redhead who'd been flirting with him for the better half of the evening, the half that had occurred before things had gone to shit. She was still wearing this gold dress, spilling out in all the right places, and better yet, she was dotty off champagne. The old Tripp wouldn't have even hesitated to take advantage of the situation.

And he tried to be the old Tripp. He tried so damned hard, busting his ass to be charming and witty and seduce the girl every which way he could. Until he realized he was a megastar, no effort required, and this girl's eyes weren't the right shade of brown. The only shade he wanted to see.

He spent the next hour or so chatting with her about what it was like to be an aspiring talent agent instead of the color of her lingerie, his topic of choice when it came to females. And it was kind of refreshing to hold a conversation that wasn't about himself, his nonexistent love life, or his sad-ass roommates. He almost felt like a real person.

Right up until Oliver and Justin ganged up on him.

"We've had enough," Oliver muttered, still smiling out the corner of his mouth in case anyone from US Weekly decided they hadn't quite gotten their money shot earlier.

"This event is totally fraudulent," Justin intoned, crossing his arms and trying to look tough. As the shortest of all his roommates, Tripp looked easy to intimidate, but he really, really wasn't, "It's time to leave."

"What about Joe?"

Justin made a face, "Lucas is off talking to some PR lady about a photo shoot he's supposed to do. I don't know, I think he's planning to stay a while."

He said it like he couldn't imagine why on earth anyone would want to stay. Which was funny, considering that Justin lived for museums. He tried to stare Tripp down some more, but the smaller boy met his eyes defiantly and shrugged, "If you guys want to book it, that's fine with me."

"You drove," Oliver accused, his phony smile morphing into a gigantic scowl. Out of the corner of his eye, Tripp saw a camera flash.

"Yeah, man, if we go down in the subways looking like this, we're going to get mugged," Justin agreed with a bit of a squeak at the very concept, gesturing at his getup. He'd mentioned once that he'd worn a suit for most of his senior year of high school because his sister had told him it made him look professional, presidential, but it was hard tale to swallow. Maybe it was because the outfit belonged to Joe, who was about Russo's height, but more compact, or maybe it was because the duds were higher quality than anything Justin had ever worn in his life, but there was no mistaking the dark haired boy's discomfort.

"Take my keys," Tripp dug around in his pocket until he found 'em, offering them up on his index finger where they dangled, catching the moonlight.

"Are you sure?" Oliver frowned, dark eyes unreadable, "You don't let anyone drive your car. Ever."

"Yeah, well," Tripp shrugged. He didn't, normally, but he wasn't up to dealing with an argument that would indubitably end with his friends being whiney assholes and him caving anyway. This night had turned into disaster when all he'd wanted was a little fun. Why bother fighting, anymore?

Justin's expression mirrored Oliver's; a combination of confusion, concern, and slight annoyance, "How are you going to get home?"

"I'll walk. It's a nice night out."

And it was. Beyond the glass ceiling that housed the Temple of Dendur, Tripp could see the moon, full and bright like a guardian of the city, a small smattering of stars piercing the fog of light-pollution to hover cheerily over Central Park.

"You're- ridiculous," Oliver decided in this pseudo-serious voice that Tripp wasn't accustomed to. Oken had been playing it pretty close to the chest for most of the night, and it was really getting on his nerves. Oliver and Justin both, actually. He was used to their combination of neurotic and happy-go-lucky; to the air of sadness that surrounded them all. He didn't know what how to react when two of his friends had both resolved to clam up so tight it was hard to see past their curmudgeonly old-men acts. Like they were so world-weary that no one else could ever understand, and wasn't that the fucking reason they'd all moved in together? Because the five of them had an understanding.

Tripp shrugged again, not knowing what else to do. The leggy nymphet he'd been prying with champagne and laughter was still observing with studied interest, and it wasn't like Tripp could demand what their goddamned problem was in front of hundreds of industry bigwigs, rising starlets, movie producers, and Manhattan's most elite celebutantes.

Oliver and Justin exchanged a look that said too many things Tripp wasn't quite catching, and then fled the scene like a murder had just been committed. Good old solidarity.

He wanted to resent them for leaving him out of the loop, but he wasn't certain if he had the right to be judgmental when it came to things like friendship or loyalty. Derek, Ash, and Burger definitely wouldn't think so.

Tripp tried to get back into the conversation about networking and budding ambition, but the redhead was obviously so over small talk, and she kept trying to lure him into the roped off sections of the museum. Fine art and artifacts apparently made her hot.

Tripp, not so much.

Okay, he'd allowed himself a fleeting thought about fucking against the case holding the shriveled up mummies, because what a story, but it was quickly followed by a whole string of thoughts about what a sick bastard he was.

He politely declined the girl's invitation.

Actually, getting out of the museum altogether was beginning to sound like a fantastic idea. He felt like if he stayed there long enough, they'd stuff him behind glass with the rest of the relics. He'd even get his own sign, 'Here lies the two faced popstar. His music was irrelevant. His cowardice was legendary.'

People would come and laugh, marveling at the guy who couldn't translate his own feelings into something tangible. Something real.

Fuck, he'd had too much champagne.

Interviewers often asked why Tripp had chosen New York City as his home base instead of Hollywood, the go-to hotspot for the young and hip.

Usually he fed them some line about how the city had helped foster modern rock and roll, how influential places like CBGB were to the music scene.

But the truth was, he loved the city. He thrived off the vibrancy, the way he could walk the streets at any given hour wearing a fucking clown costume if he so chose, and no one would really even blink. He loved the tiny hole in the wall restaurants lit with fairy lights and pubs glowing neon, the way they beckoned with dark arms but were so easily overlooked. When Izzy had first come to New York, right before Tripp had left Iron Weasel, it had been good. It had been better than good. They'd go for late night falafels at Mamouns and sit for hours in hookah bars, breathing in smoke like dragons and philosophizing about the world. They'd partied it up at the bars on Macdougal and St. Marks, flitting between five star events Iron Weasel was required to attend and keggers in Izzy's dorms. LA was amazing, but he found it hard to take the grittiness and edge of an urban jungle seriously when it was littered with palm trees, like some kind of Corona ad. But here, man…here all the shadows glittered, and all the lights were grimy, and everyone was constantly exchanging ideas and information like it was real currency. He'd learned the streets of Manhattan, knew shortcuts and back alleys and ways to avoid being recognized, even while a billboard with his face decorated Times Square.

He used that exact knowledge to make his way to the Upper West Side undetected, to find himself standing in front of Izzy's apartment building long past midnight. He wasn't sure what he was doing. All he knew was that it had been over a month since he'd heard his best friend's voice outside of songs on her MySpace page and YouTube videos of gigs he hadn't been invited to.

There was no doorman, only filthy looking intercoms and buttons worn down from decades and decades of fingertips. Tripp stared at the buzzer for a long time, trying to make a decision. If he buzzed up, Izzy would have no choice but to answer. Only then, her roommates, two toxic sluts that Tripp couldn't stand, would give her a lot of grief if he woke them, or interrupted their bedroom liaisons or something. On the other hand, if Tripp called, there was every possibility Izzy wouldn't answer. He was faced with the coward's way out or the possibility of rejection.

Tripp had never handled rejection well.

Still…he was a man. Almost. Kind of. He could do this.

He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Small and sleek, it felt so fragile in his hand. His fingers trembled as he punched in the speed dial on the screen. For the longest time, it rang and rang. The sound was shrill, spotted with static. No answer came.

There was no question that Izzy was up; she'd always been a night owl. Which meant she was screening his call, just like he'd expected.

Sure, there were a myriad of other possibilities. She could have left it on vibrate in another room. It could have died. She could be in the shower. The variations were endless. Which didn't change the way Tripp knew, in this gut-clenching, throat-constricting way that she was avoiding him. He was about ready to surrender when the other line clicked, and Izzy's hesitant, scratchy voice murmured, "Tripp?"

"Uh-" he cleared something from his throat, something so large it felt like his heart had jumped up there, "Uh, hi."

Flatly, she stated, "It's late."

"Yeah. Guess so."

"I'm asking why you're calling, dude," her tone was light, but she didn't sound amused.

"I dunno. I'm- downstairs."

"What?"

"I'm standing in front of your door."

"Tripp, what do you think you're-"

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, like a collision on the interstate, "I miss you. All the time, I miss you."

Izzy had nothing to say to that. He could hear her breathing, slow and steady, on the other end of the line, but her lack of response was- mortifying. Crushing. Scary as fuck.

"Iz?"

"Are you- drunk?" Izzy abruptly demanded, her voice pitching higher at the last word. In the background, he could hear noises, sounds. Her roommates definitely weren't sleeping, and was that a guy? He felt jealousy spike through him, white hot and ugly.

"I'm a little tipsy," Tripp admitted, teeth clenched, unapologetic, "Charity gala."

See? He went places and knew people too.

In the old days, she would have said something like, 'And you didn't snag any champagne for me?' But that was then. This was now.

Izzy sighed and said gruffly, "Dude, I think you should leave."

"But-"

"Tripp. It's late. Go home."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to ask why he had to be forcibly ejected from her life when the mystery man upstairs was allowed to stay, cozy in her apartment. Had he been replaced?

But he couldn't bring himself to rage, to battle with his oldest, closest friend. Because she didn't sound like the Izzy Fuentes whose eyes sparkled, whose painted lips breathed mischief and mayhem. She didn't sound like the girl he'd fallen in love with, his best bud, his partner-in-crime.

She sounded tired, and she wanted him to leave.

So he did.

Despite Justin's warning, he took the subway home. The night that had seemed so clear and bright had turned overcast and depressing. Or maybe that was just his mood.

It didn't matter. None of it fucking mattered, not anymore. Tripp wrenched the door to their apartment open, fully intent on falling into his bed and sleeping for a millennia, until scientists solved problems like unrequited love and how painful it was.

Only, there was Kendall, slumped on the couch, eyes glazed over as he watched late night talk shows. He reeked of cigarettes and booze, the latter probably from the half empty six pack sitting in front of him.

Warm beer, yum. Not.

"Mindless TV," Tripp intoned, dropping down beside the blond and grabbing a can of PBR. Shit, either Kendall's bank account was dwindling and they couldn't afford the good stuff or he kept some of that Minnesota mountain man heritage even in the midst of the big city, "Just what I need."

Except it wasn't, actually. Not at all.

The one thing he needed was halfway across Manhattan, pretending he didn't even exist.

A/N: Oh god, angst angst angst. It fits my mood so perfectly, and if you didn't expect it- well, honestly, the past three chapters of this story have been angst-a-licious. So…although I'm not such a huge fan of this chapter, possibly because it's been a while since I saw I'm In The Band, and I was having trouble pinning Tripp down. Also, I know some of you are like Kendall's chapter moved faster than the others because he saw James in person. But did it? Did it really? Nothing changed. Nothing happened that didn't happen in any of the others; boy moped about unrequited love that he thinks will not be returned. It just happened to actually move the timeline forward a little. This isn't the kind of story that's real heavy with the plot (which makes it therapeutic and fun to write), but I couldn't have everything happen the same exact way.

Next chapter, Joe! Finally. And then after that, things might turn around for the boys? Maybe. I'm not making any promises. Please review!