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Author Notes: Links for this chapter: Abbey Road, Iain Macmillan and Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show on Wikipedia and YouTube. I never knew Johnny Cash had his own TV show until this either. Huh. Oh, and some of you are leaving extremely insightful comments that are such a pleasure for me to read, so thank you for those. <3 They make me smile like this: :DDDD Now, onwards to drama!



Chapter 3: One Ounce of Honesty

“Say one good thing about Texas. Go on, I dare you.” I lift an eyebrow at Brendon, who tucks hair behind his ear and smiles at me.

The makeup artist covers up an irritated sigh as I move against her will. “If you could just stay still for a while longer,” she begs, and I turn to the mirror reluctantly. Brent and Spencer are ready, but Joe is still getting his hair done in the chair next to mine. The girl goes back to applying foundation on my face.

“Cowboys are hot,” Brendon offers, causing me to snort and my makeup artist’s eyebrow twitch. In the mirror, Brent makes gagging gestures behind our backs. Brendon doesn’t notice as his eyes are fixed on me. I shift uncomfortably.

The photo shoot for new promotional pictures is taking place in downtown Dallas on top of a roof. For some reason, a roof says rock ‘n roll. Brendon didn’t lose a bet this time; I asked him to come along. He probably would have come without me having to ask.

“No eyeliner,” I tell the makeup artist fiercely when she picks up a pen.

“But it’d really make your eyes pop!”

“I think it’d suit you,” Brendon agrees.

I glare at the two. “No eyeliner.”

Both Brendon and the girl look disappointed.

When we get on the roof, the wind instantly ruins any attempts made on our hair. A girl calls us back inside and sprays more hairspray on us, like that could make a difference. The photographer is some Scottish guy who appears to be famous. Pete is excited, and he usually knows who is who in these circles, and he murmurs to my ear that it’s Iain Macmillan. When I keep staring, he says, “Abbey Road cover! Family friends with John and Yoko! John and Yoko, Ryan!”

“I’ve met John. I didn’t like him.”

Joe hears us speaking and joins in with, “I’d call him a right tosser!” His English accent is more than lacking. “If you asked me, someone should put a bullet or two in that guy.”

Pete stares at us in shock. “He is going to live forever! And don’t you dare say anything this radical in your interview this afternoon!”

Joe and I shrug simultaneously. John was an arrogant fucker, but then again, he probably is rich and famous enough to behave like one. Pete, who famously passed out at a Beatles concert back in ’65 from screaming too much, walks away from us angrily.

“Wanker,” Joe remarks, still with a weird accent that makes him sound more Mexican than English. I still manage to chuckle. At least Joe’s not fucking my girl or lying to my face. He’s got honest arrogance, and that’s something. He still has his moments.

The four of us stand in a group, waiting for Iain and his assistants to get ready. Pete and Brendon are standing by the door leading to the roof, Brendon nodding as Pete points at us, clearly sharing his vision of what the pictures should look like.

“Why’s the fag here?” Joe asks from beside me, trying to light a cigarette, but the wind keeps blowing out the flame of the lighter. Miraculously, Joe has lost his moment.

“Do you have to call him that?” Spencer asks tiredly. He has always been the open-minded one among us. I bet I’d win that competition now.

“I invited him,” I inform the rest, looking each of them in the eye, daring them to say something. It doesn’t take a scientist to notice that the only person I have been spending time with recently has been Brendon.

Joe mouths “oh” and curses as the wind blows out the flame again.

Brent hasn’t been paying attention as he says, “This one will be it. The Picture.”

Brent has always talked about an imaginary, legendary picture of the band, that one shot that will keep the spirit of us alive long after we’re gone, guaranteeing immortality.

“If so, I wish I could at least be wearing my own clothes,” I mutter. The clothes were waiting for us when we arrived, representing someone’s horrible vision of what incorporates our music. We’re all wearing flared black jeans that come up to our belly buttons with big buckled belts, white platform shoes visible at the bottom, adding two inches to my height. Our shirts are snugly fit button-downs with two breast pockets, all different colours, giving us at least a bit of individuality. Joe is keeping his shirt undone, the fabric flapping in the wind, his ribcage shining through the skin when he stretches. Girls will masturbate to this picture taken of him.

The necklace Jac gave me is around my neck. Brent’s words bore into me: The Picture. If this is our legacy, do I want to see it in thirty years’ time and see her lie on me? Iain is now telling us where to stand and how to face the camera, automatically placing me in front of the others. I hurriedly remove the necklace, trying to stuff it into a pocket.

“You want me to take it?” Brendon calls out, and I look up to see him staring at me questioningly. He jogs over as I nod, and I pass him the piece. I feel strangely naked without it. Brendon somehow reads my thoughts as he says, “Here.”

I look at his extended hand where he has a simple, thin silver chain. I’ve seen it around his neck a few times but have never paid attention to it. “Thanks.”

The chain feels warm against my skin when I put it on.

Brendon is back behind the set with Pete, and Iain says, “Alright, lads!”

It’s clear that Iain has not heard Joe’s undisputed fact of him being the most popular member now as he places me in front of my bandmates. Halfway through us shuffling, changing positions, lifting our chins and keeping our eyes open, Iain says, “Spencer! Your smile is stunning! You should all smile!”

I instantly turn to Brent, who clearly shares my opinion on smiling not being very rock ‘n roll.

“Um, I don’t smile. I just look cool,” Joe explains, hands on his hips.

“Indulge me,” Iain says impatiently, with the snappiness of an artist that I’m more than familiar with.

We try to smile, but Iain gets frustrated and Spencer’s genuine smile turns into a stressed, artificial one. When Iain pauses to change film, we take a break, the guys rolling their eyes at each other. It’s a few fucking pictures here and there. I don’t care how it turns out.

“Stay where you are,” Iain requests hurriedly.

The guys stand behind me, waiting, and my eyes find Brendon, who looks as bored as I feel. No one is paying attention to us: the guys are bickering and Pete is trying to chat up one of Iain’s assistants, and I let myself stare at Brendon from across the roof. He looks bored as he puts his fingers onto his temple, pulling an imaginary trigger. I break into a grin. He looks around quickly before mouthing ‘bus’, pointing at himself, then at me, and lifting a rather seductive eyebrow.

Now that I think about it, Brendon is actually a bit of a dork.

I grin even wider, unable to take my eyes off of him.

Flash.

I blink rapidly, staring at Iain in surprise. He lowers the camera and hums. “That was the shot. We’re done.”

“You did get the left side of my face, right?” Joe demands dramatically.

* * *

New plans have to wait for three hours as we get stuck in interviews. It’s the same questions on the song-writing process, what we’ve thought of this tour so far, what it feels like to gain sudden fame and recognition, who Jackie is, and so on. I sit on one of the thousands of seats in the oval shaped auditorium, watching the stage being built in one end. A cigarette hangs between my lips as a pretty reporter extends the microphone towards me to catch my mumbled words. She’s a philosopher, asking me what rock is, how I perceive it, how it can change the world.

She’s exactly my type: petite, blonde, full breasts. If I weren’t fucking Brendon, I’d probably be chatting her up right now.

Roadies and venue workers keep walking back and forth across the floor, creating a distracting background noise with bangs and shouts. I see Brendon and William walking from the direction of the stage to our stack of gear, deep in conversation. The photographer who is accompanying the blonde thing interrogating me is snapping photos for the article near the stage.

“Is it true you suffer from stage fright?” the interviewer asks with innocent eyes.

“Who told you that?” I ask, chuckling. Then I add, “I used to.” One ounce of honesty per day.

“But you don’t anymore?”

“No, I don’t.”

She waits. I blink. She tentatively asks, “Could you... elaborate? When did this start? What caused it? How did you overcome it?”

I think back to all the bathrooms I have locked myself into this summer, shaking, trembling and cursing, Spencer’s steady hands on my shoulders, murmuring encouragements into my ears. One night I was this close to throwing up from the nerves.

I haven’t done that on this leg. I suppose I’ve forgotten to be nervous. The crowds still terrify me, but I’ve been focused on other things. Right before going on stage, I’ve been disappearing with Brendon instead of obsessing about the audience.

I don’t want to elaborate because I can’t tell the truth.

I spot Joe walking up the stairs into our section of seats, and I ask, “Oh, you talked to Joe yet? He’s got very insightful views on the universal influence of music. Joe! Joe, she wants to interview you!”

I quickly stand up, finishing my cigarette as the flushed girl stutters that we only sat down three minutes ago. Joe, however, is hurrying over, a grin on his face. “You want to ask the Trohman a few questions? Sure thing, doll.”

Satisfied with myself, I leave the two behind and descend the stairs, entering the enormous floor where the crowd will be jumping and sweating. William and Brendon are next to the semi-finished stage, and I head over. “What’s up?” I ask them casually while letting my eyes roam over Brendon’s form quickly and discreetly. He looks good today. What a surprise.

My mind’s been playing a porno loop of me and him since the photo shoot. Fuck, my skin is crawling by now.

“The shape of the stage is not quite what we had in mind,” William explains, brows furrowing in deep concentration. “We’re wondering how we’ll position the monitors. One of them must have broken last night because it’s just not working. Zack tried fixing it, but no such luck.”

William goes on to share his concerns, but I’m not listening. Brendon is being attentive, though, nodding his head thoughtfully to his friend’s words. He’s been better these past few days, more social, definitely smiling. I’ve caught him lost in his thoughts a few times, a glassy expression in his brown eyes, but then I manage to pull him out of it with a casual note or a simple poke to his ribs.

There’s no use thinking about the dead. They’re dead.

“I’m sure you’ll manage, William,” I say impatiently and focus on the object of my current desires. “Brendon.”

“Yeah?” He looks at me with a blank expression. I try to signal him with my eyes. He looks confused.

“We should... go talk. Remember? We wanted to talk?” I ask hopefully.

“No,” he frowns, now facing the stage and adding, “If we put two monitors there, we’re taking a wedge from Brent,” pointing out the places for the monitors.

“Oh, yeah,” William says worriedly. “What if we put Brent closer to Ryan tonight, if they could share? Or place the sidefill closer to Brent?”

Fuck the monitors.

“Brendon,” I try again, surprised when there’s a slight whine to my voice. We could be on the bus by now, sinking into the couch as we tug our jeans down and out of the way. I could be getting head from the blonde interviewer right now too, but I’ve decided to go with him. He should be flattered.

“We need to finish this, Ry,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, and I just manage to catch the grin he is trying to hold back before his face is absolutely neutral again.

I stare in astonishment. He’s being a tease. He is intentionally cock-blocking me. He knows why I’m here, what I want, and he is making me work for it.

Doesn’t he know who I am? I don’t need to work for it. I don’t need to whine or wait around. I could get anyone in this damn auditorium. If Brendon thinks he can play with me, he can think again.

...

“Brendon?” I ask again, more demandingly and with just a bit of desperation now. William gives me a confused side-glance.

“Alright,” Brendon grants, flashing William a friendly smile as he follows me.

We walk side by side towards one of the exits. He doesn’t say anything, no tension in his shoulders. I chew on my lower lip worriedly, glancing over my shoulder once, but there is no one around who knows us.

“So,” he says casually, checking his wristwatch. “I think we’ve got fifteen minutes before someone comes looking for me.”

“Alright.”

We get to the bus in two minutes, just one of the roadies and the frontman getting on the bus they spend most of their time in anyway, probably to look for a missing shirt, take a nap, nothing out of the ordinary.

We land on the couch in the lounge, Brendon on top as I kiss him hungrily. My god, finally. He sucks on my lower lip, letting out a slutty moan as he grinds against me. “What was that about?” I ask hastily, but he hums in question. “Monitors?”

He pulls back, hair in disarray. His pupils are slightly blown, his mouth promisingly red. I brush some hair behind his ear, trying to catch my breath. It’s only been a few days since we agreed on casual sex, and sadly, we haven’t even had that much of it yet. It’s practically impossible to sneak away when there are no hotel nights and we’re constantly surrounded by the guys, but we fucked the other day and he blew me before our show last night, so it’s been an alright deal so far, even if I horrifyingly begin to feel like Joe, a self-proclaimed sex addict.

“Important stuff, monitors,” he argues before he cracks under pressure and grins. “You’re hot when you squirm.”

“I never squirm,” I state, instantly squirming as he grinds against me again.

I hook my calf over his left leg, keeping him close. The kisses are wet and deep, our hips working together to find friction. I don’t want a fifteen – twelve now – minute fuck when I could take all night with him. Can I get off in twelve minutes, though?

Absolutely.

I fight my shirt off me, dropping it onto the floor next to candy wrappers and beer cans. Brendon’s straddling me, his erection visible through his tight jeans. I pop the top button open, sliding the zipper down, eyes hungrily following the trail of body hair that starts at his belly button and disappears in his underwear. God.

“Lube,” he says hurriedly, leaning down to peck my lips before getting off me. He heads for the bunks, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes, and I groan, quickly unzipping myself.

Eleven minutes.

I go after him, finding him rummaging his small bunk that is full of clothes. I kiss the nape of his neck, moving onto his shoulders as my arms wrap around his bare torso. He lets out a sigh, turning around and attaching himself to my lips again wantonly and messily. I needily press him against the bunks, wondering if I could lift him and fuck him there, face to face, if that position would work.

His fingers slide from my chest up to my neck, over his chain I forgot to remove, to the back of my head, bringing me closer as the kiss deepens.

“Holy fuck!”

My heart jumps to my throat as I detach myself from Brendon instantly, slamming into the bunks behind my back. Someone is standing in the open doorway of the lounge. Spencer is standing in the open doorway of the lounge.

He saw.

“Sorry,” he manages, his face one of complete disbelief and shock with wide, wide eyes and his face as pale as snow. He swirls around, clearly unable to look at me.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck,” I groan in disbelief, feeling horror hit me like a speeding truck slamming into my body. “Wait! Spence, just wait!” I call out, panicking, wiping my mouth, eyes flying from my bare chest to Brendon’s unzipped jeans, mind flashing with the way I had him against the wall, our hands everywhere and our lips locked. And Spencer saw me. With him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chant, trying to zip myself.

Brendon’s eyes are wide and fearful. “I’m sure he’ll –”

“Don’t talk to me right now!” I snap. Spencer saw us. He knows. Someone knows what I’m doing with the queer roadie.

Brendon’s eyes widen even more. I can see a fresh bite mark on his neck. “God,” I spit, shaking my head.

I’m so fucked.

I pick up my shirt off the lounge floor on my way out, throwing it on me and buttoning it hastily. Brendon calls after me, but fuck him. This is his fault, seducing me on a daily basis, enticing me, making me fornicate with him. I played with fire, and I just got burned.

Spencer’s not outside the bus.

Where did he go? What if he tells the others? What if everyone finds out what I’ve been doing?

I wouldn’t survive it.

It’s Brendon’s fault. Fuck, it’s entirely his fault.

The first person I bump into inside the venue is Zack, who hasn’t seen Spencer. Andy knows that he went to the bus to get a book he’s reading. It’s relatively safe to say Spencer is not on the bus anymore. I look around the enormous venue, at the seats that surround us, hoping to spot him sitting remotely somewhere.

Neither can I find Joe anywhere.

A paralysing fear sets in my guts at the thought of Spencer telling Joe everything. Joe will eat me alive. The one thing I’ve got going for myself in his eyes is how I have not fucked up royally yet. I’ve just lost that.

I’m about to despair when my eyes land on a directions board, arrows pointing to different sections of the venue. The venue has conference rooms. None of us would go there as it only reminds us of record deal negotiations. I shudder at the thought.

That’s where Spencer’s hiding.

The conference rooms are on the second floor, and I go to the first two rooms without finding anything except enormous tables with a jug of water and glasses in the middle. I enter the third room, and Spencer, who is sitting at the far end of the table, flinches and stands up abruptly.

“Wait!” I tell him hurriedly, closing the door behind me. He is about to say something, but I hold up my hands, asking him to give me a chance. He remains silent, but he’s clearly upset. I have to force myself to look him in the eye. I cannot justify what I’m doing with Brendon. Half of the time, I tell myself to get the fuck over it and be normal again. “What you saw is –” I begin before remembering how I walked in on his family, how he said it wasn’t what I thought it was, lying like a coward. “It’s probably exactly what you think it is,” I admit, feeling ashamed.

Spencer’s eyes are angry and confused. “How can you – How long have you…?”

“I just- Look, it’s not that big of a deal. So yeah, I sleep with him sometimes,” I shrug. “That’s all.”

I try to sound casual, but I can barely breathe. My throat feels too tight. At least I gave him more honesty than he’s given me.

God, I’m going to be sick.

“That’s all?” Spencer repeats, letting out a short laugh. “That’s- that’s everything! The band and the reputation and if this got out, if this –”

“It will never get out.”

“I just walked in on you two! Are you stupid?!”

“And I’ve just been taught a lesson to be a lot more careful! Everyone who knows is in this room, so how could it get out?” I demand to know. He doesn’t say that he will leak the information or that he will blackmail me. He just looks lost and appalled. Appalled. That’s what I should be feeling whenever I touch Brendon, but I don’t. God, what is wrong with me? “It’s not like it’s a thing. It’s just sex.”

“With a man!” he snaps. “With another – Have you always been like that?” he asks desperately before he pales, eyes widening. He looks nauseous. “Fuck, you’ve seen me naked.”

“What?” I breathe out. “Dude, I’m not- I don’t look at you like that! Jesus Christ!”

He’s my best friend, I’ve known him forever, we’ve wrestled naked on a few occasions when alcohol has been involved. He sees me sucking one guy’s face and this is what he assumes? That I walk around undressing men with my eyes like I’m one of those promiscuous fags prowling up and down Castro Street in Brendon’s immoral San Francisco? “God, that’s sick,” I tell him angrily.

“Exactly! It’s sick!”

And therefore I’m sick.

“Have you not been the one telling us to accept Brendon’s sexuality?” I snap angrily. It’s fine if Brendon does it, but not okay if I do? What a two-faced asshole.

“My best friend wasn’t fucking him then!” he barks, yelling at me from across the room.

A surprised silence lands on us. He called me his best friend. He wouldn’t care about this if he didn’t care about me. Why do I feel this relieved? Spencer looks taken aback himself, but he shakes it off quickly. He eyes the wall, jaw clenching. “What were you thinking, Ryan?”

“Look, I’m not gay! One guy doesn’t make me a fag!” I defend myself. Eric said everyone’s trying god knows what, and we know a few guys who enjoy both men and women, but we also know that those guys are straight men who just occasionally fuck a guy. It’s a deviation and should never be talked of or publically supported. It’s a kink. People have kinks. And I’m nothing if not straight. “Spencer, come on. You’ve seen me with chicks. You, if anyone, know how much I dig chicks!”

“Which is exactly why I feel like someone’s just bashed me with a baseball bat!” he says in frustration, his arms crossing over his chest. He won’t look me in the eye. “Is this- Is this punishment?”

“What?” I ask quietly, completely baffled. I’ve never seen him look defeated like this.

He hesitates, a sorry look on his face. “I married Haley behind your back, so you decided to screw Brendon behind mine. Because if that’s what’s up, then I don’t even know. If you’re so angry with me that putting your dick up a guy’s ass is the only way you feel you’re getting even – Fuck, I don’t want to think about what you do,” he grimaces, face flashing with disgust.

I swallow hard, willing myself not to tremble. “It doesn’t make me gay.”

My words sound feeble to my own ears. Before this tour, I would have agreed with him wholeheartedly, that two men fucking is unnatural and disgusting. One cock too many in that equation. But now that I’ve done it, everything I’ve known about sex has completely transformed itself. It’s a whole new world of sexual interaction I didn’t know I’d enjoy. I’ve never been obsessed with sex, not the way Joe is. I can go without getting any for a long time. But now, with Brendon? It’s like being inside him is all I can think about. A constant yearning for his lips and skin and groans, and we’ve only managed to get together a few times, so I jerk off three times a day now when I can’t have him. I go to the bathroom, thinking about him, my hunger for him, and I’ve never been obsessed like this before. I’m not in complete control of my urges, and it’d be frightening if it weren’t so thrilling. Everything Brendon does feels like an invitation, and afterwards, I only want him more.

I’ve figured out that it must be lust. I’ve never experienced that until now.

After a long pause, Spencer heaves a sigh. “So what are you saying? That you’re bisexual?”

“Bisexual?” I echo.

“Yeah, you know, like David is. You swing both ways.”

“Maybe that kind of an explanation works in Europe,” I snort. You could never get away with that here. It doesn’t matter you do girls, they will only focus on you doing guys, and that will probably make you even worse than a gay man. You prey on the women too while still practising your twisted behaviour with men. No, being bisexual is completely out of the question. I am so not that. “I’m straight. I’m Ryan Ross, I fucking love girls and I love eating pussy, I’m just –” I swallow hard, mind racing, “getting off with Brendon. He’s on the bus with me. He wants me, so what the hell, you know? He knows what’s what. We’ve talked about it.”

“You’re not in love or anything?” Spencer asks tentatively.

“With another guy?” I ask, not able to stop the crooked smile from appearing on my lips. “With anyone?”

He has to know me better than that.

And he does. He laughs, shaking his head, but he’s smiling now. “You’re the most twisted fucker I know.”

Something stirs up in my chest, something I haven’t felt since Cincinnati. Some of the tension in Spencer’s shoulders is gone. He knows what I’m doing, and he’s still here.

“Just don’t make this more than it is,” I ask him quietly.

He finally approaches me, perhaps now convinced that I don’t want to have sex with him. I really don’t. Not with him, not with anyone else on our crew or in the venue. It’s all Brendon in my head.

“Maybe I should’ve known. I mean, you spend all your time with him. Joe and Brent are making fag jokes, but they’re just jokes. None of us actually think that you two… fuck. Literally.” He stops a bit further from me than perhaps he normally would. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he mumbles. “I just wish I didn’t know.”

That makes two of us. I wake up every damn day wanting to be oblivious to Haley and Suzie. If I didn’t know and he didn’t know, we could still be friends.

“I know your secret, you know mine,” I offer.

He nods solemnly. “Then I guess I have to keep it.” He looks restless as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Be careful what you’re doing. This is bad, I can feel it. You fucking that kid is not going to end up well.”

Brendon is probably as old as Spencer is, but we call everyone kids. This band has taken such a ride that we all have seen more than enough of the world. We’re older and, in comparison, most of the people our age are just kids. I don’t really see Brendon like that, though. He’s seen death and he’s seen loss. He’s seen more than most.

“It’s not going to end up in any way,” I assure him. Spencer’s predictions are true nine times out of ten, but not this time. “I told you it’s nothing.” Spencer’s lips turn into a crooked smile, and I look at him suspiciously. “What?”

“Nothing. If you say it’s nothing, then I believe you. Even if I cannot for the life of me wrap my head around you being intimate with men –”

“Not plural.”

“One is enough to throw me off balance,” he notes sourly. “I didn’t know you were inclined to even try. Do what you do, but I don’t want to know. I mean it. I don’t want to see as much as a look between you two.”

“If it took walking in on us to figure it out...” I note.

“But I know now,” he says worriedly, sounding slightly paranoid in my opinion. “Just keep it below the radar. Is that too much to ask?”

“No,” I assure him, even if some tiny part of me feels insulted for some strange reason. I wasn’t thinking. I haven’t been. The bus is too small and public for me and Brendon to do anything there. Brendon could be sensible and stop me when he must know that I don’t think straight when he’s around.

“Alright. Good.” Spencer clears his throat. “And if you say there’s nothing going between you and Brendon, apart from what I saw, then I’m –”

Spencer shuts up the instant the door to the conference room opens, and Pete walks in. “Hey, guys!” he smiles, looking at us curiously. “I thought I heard your voices! Bad timing?”

I sneak a glance at Spencer. “Not at all.”

“You guys sharing secrets?” he asks suspiciously before laughing. “Just kidding! Ryan, that blonde girl playing to be a reporter is refusing to leave until you give her a proper interview.”

“Not now,” I instantly refuse.

“Alrighty, I’ll have her thrown out,” our manager assures us, still smiling widely. He stares like he’s waiting for something, but when it doesn’t come, he adds, “You guys can confide in me, you know. You’d be surprised just how aware I am of everything that goes on around here. Leave it with me, boys. I’ve got you covered.” He winks and taps his nose.

My god. He’s looking at the drummer, who is secretly married and has a child, and the frontman, who is conducting an illicit homosexual affair. Pete has no fucking idea, has he?

“We were just... talking about our birthdays. Probably throwing a joint party when we get to LA,” I offer.

Pete’s eyes light up. “What a great idea! Oh, you can leave that with me, I’ll throw you two the best party!”

“Fantastic,” Spencer says, and we awkwardly follow Pete out of the room. Pete inquires what kind of a birthday bash we have in mind, informing us that when he called the label yesterday, they already had four boxes of presents fans have sent us.

Spencer looks at me wearily, and I try not to feel like his suspicion of me has wounded me deeper than I thought possible.

* * *

Andy is driving us to Oklahoma City, loudly lamenting how he can’t drink as he’s on duty and that he will pass out from withdrawal before we hit the state line. The rest of us are in the lounge, waiting to take off, except for our manager and Brent’s designated roadie. My attention is focused outside where Pete and Brendon are talking. Brendon’s got his back to the bus so I can’t see his expression, but Pete’s got his business face on. He uses it whenever he talks about the label to me.

What are they discussing that they couldn’t talk about as we’re driving?

Joe says a pondering, “When we tour Europe, we need to finish up in London so we can stay there for at least a week afterwards.” He keeps talking about the theoretical tour to annoy me, but right now, I’m distracted.

Pete offers Brendon a cigarette, and they begin to smoke. Andy is impatiently drumming the wheel and singing our Six in the Morning, waiting for the two missing crew members to get on the bus so we can go.

The couch dips next to me and Spencer’s voice mutters, “You know, staring isn’t particularly the best way to keep it under the radar.”

I glance at him briefly. “Words spoken by a professional.”

“Just giving tips on how to be non-conspicuous.”

I turn to face the lounge, heaving a sigh. Since when have I cared what orders Pete gives to one of our roadies? It’s not like I take special interest in Brendon. My only interest there is making sure that Pete doesn’t put too much pressure on him. His brother didn’t die too long ago, not that they know that. We don’t need Brendon to crack under pressure.

I glance at Spencer casually. “So what did you and Hales fight about?”

He flinches, and I try not to smirk. I can still read him as easily as ever. It’s not often a recent father volunteers to go to Europe and not spend his time gushing over his daughter, but even if he was against the tour, I could tell something’s wrong from the restless look in his eyes. His thoughts are probably repeatedly stuck on, ‘What did I do? Was it something I said? Is she still mad? Should I call her?’

“Everything,” he replies, and I quirk a surprised eyebrow. I was not expecting a straight answer. He lowers his voice as he leans over slightly, sneaking a glance around the lounge. “Truthfully... we’re kind of on a break. It just felt a bit too intense, you know? I mean, I adore her and Suzie, but it’s like she thought us getting married would mean all these changes, and I’m not ready to give up quite as much as she wants me to. So. Break.”

“Can married couples go on breaks?” I didn’t know they could.

“Sure. I think,” he frowns. He clearly doesn’t have anyone else to talk to if he’s telling me this. It’s not like anyone else knows his secret. “It’s 1974. I’m pretty sure married couples can take breaks,” he concludes thoughtfully.

The engine starts up, and I instantly turn to see Brendon and Pete enter the lounge. Brendon glances at me and Spencer before he mumbles, “I think I’ll just go to bed. Night, guys.” William asks him to stay, but Brendon shakes his head. Spencer is making a point of studying his nails, and I feel uncomfortable with the two of them in the room. Now that Spencer knows, he might catch the way I can’t help but look at Brendon, and Spencer specifically requested to be left in the dark and oblivious to me undressing Brendon with my eyes.

Pete looks disapproving when the roadie wants to go. I don’t care about the united team spirit like Pete does, but Brendon looks like he wants to go to his bunk to mope and ponder about death. I’ll let him. Rather that than freak Spencer out further. Brendon leaves without another look at me.

I indulge my bandmates, gracing them with my company until we hit the highway. Joe plays Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show on his acoustic as William does backup vocals for him and Brent and Zack clap the beat. I swear the air is misty from the cigarette and grass smoke. I’m getting a pleasant second-hand high.

“I’m exhausted,” I tell the guys, though I’m not. “I’ll try and get some sleep.”

“You should stay,” Spencer says, being the only one expressing their wish for me to grace them with my presence longer. When I shake my head, Spencer glances towards the bunks and mutters, “He’s probably asleep already, anyway.”

“Sorry?” I ask, gritting my teeth. So now he assumes that whenever I’m not in sight, I’m banging Brendon? Is that why he confided in me about his failing marriage? To pull me back in because we’re both epic fuck ups? “I manage my time the best way I see fit,” I point out. “And I said I’m going to bed.”

The guys call goodnights after me.

The lights aren’t on in the bunk area when I enter. I keep my fingers tracing the wall as the door closes behind me. I locate the switch, and the narrow corridor lights up. Most of the curtains are hanging open, revealing bundled up pillows, covers and dirty clothes, but Brendon’s curtain is closed. I stop outside his bunk.

“I know you’re not asleep,” I state firmly, lifting an eyebrow at the orange curtain. It opens after a few seconds, revealing Brendon lying on his back in the narrow space. He’s stripped down to grey briefs and a white t-shirt that’s ridden up his body slightly. He’s keeping his eyes on the ceiling, taking in a deep breath. I watch his chest rise. I get the insane urge to crawl into the bunk with him. “Avoiding me or everyone in general?” I ask quietly.

He stares at the bunk ceiling with a blank expression, one hand beneath his head, the other resting on his stomach. “Everyone, more or less.”

“You pissed off?” I ask. He avoided me the entire night. I was hoping to fool around before the show tonight, but he was nowhere to be found. We played a shit show. I was terrified of the audience again, and my flask was empty. Since when have I forgotten to keep it filled to the brim?

“Why would I be pissed off? Because you walked out on me when Spencer saw us and then avoided me?”

Alright, so maybe I avoided him too, initially. We had a pretty good cycle of avoidance going on until I felt like it had been too long since I had been inside him.

“Don’t give me shit about going after Spencer.” How did he expect me to react? Politely ask Spencer to drop by later? Brendon can’t expect me to defend my idiocy.

He sighs and rolls his head to the side. He’s got bed hair. I wonder what he looks like in the mornings when he first wakes up. I’ve never seen that. He says, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

Really, he’s not. He’s probably pleased that someone found out what I’m doing. He’s far too pushy with his promotion of gay lifestyle, and since I am, in theory, at least engaging in sex typical to said lifestyle, he probably thinks I should be telling everyone I know, calling my dad to inform him of this sudden development and then announce it on stage too.

“Spencer avoided me all night.”

“Well, he’s freaked the fuck out,” I note. “He saw me with my tongue down your throat.”

Brendon gives me a full blown grin. “A shame he walked in when he did.”

I snort and try to ignore how sexy he looks right now. “I talked to him, and he’s going to keep his mouth shut. It’s lucky it was him. Anyone else, and we’d be fucked.” Or, rather, I’d be fucked. Everyone expects him to do something irresponsible and faggot-like, anyway. “From now on, the key word is discretion.”

“You have none.”

“Then I’ll get some,” I grin, feeling my stomach flip when his eyes sparkle. When did flirting with him begin to feel so natural? I tear my eyes off of his fingers sliding an inch closer to the top of his briefs. I know how soft his skin is there. “So what did Pete want?” I ask to change the subject.

He shrugs. “Just some crew stuff. The broken monitor. He’s made some calls, the new one should be waiting for us at the next venue. He really takes his job seriously, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

I hear voices right behind the bunk doors and shift worriedly. I said I’d go to bed, not go talk to Brendon. He catches me looking towards the lounge, and I know he disapproves of me treating him like the dirtiest and nastiest secret I’ve ever had, but that’s because he is.

“Goodnight,” I tell him before I do something stupid like actually crawl into his bunk.

“Goodnight,” he returns, but it sounds like he is disappointed that I don’t plan to give him as much as he wants. Tough luck. I’m giving him one night to get over it because he’s in no position to give me an attitude.

For a second, I consider leaning in to capture his lips in a goodnight kiss, but then it occurs to me that casual sex whilst on tour excludes that.

Instead, I pull his curtain closed for him.


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