1
BASTIAN
Post-gig chill is betterthan post-sex glow. I said what I said.
I’m sure I’d feel differently if I were getting sex on the regular, but I’m not. I can’t remember the last time someone else’s hands, mouth, or dick were anywhere near my body.
So watching my bandmates in the afterglow of a show, when the adrenaline has softened into something mellower but still electric? Pretty perfect.
There’s a special kind of magic in these hours, when we’re all sprawled around someone’s hotel room, or in this case, Mik’s living room, dissecting our favorite moments between bites of takeout.
We’re Hall of Fame: Mik, on the guitar, Fox on bass, Stone on drums, and me, the voice. Four kids scouted to be the best rock band in the country, and we actually made it. And then there’s Nikko, Fox’s younger brother and our tour manager. He’s as much a part of the band as we are.
I sit cross-legged, my back against Mik’s plush couch, watching Fox, the only one of us who put his food on a plate, as he meticulously separates his curry into neat sections. Somehabits never change, even after twenty-five years of touring together.
Stone sprawls across an armchair, his perfectly manicured hands gesturing as he recounts the night’s most memorable moment.
“I swear, who requests ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ at a Hall of Fame gig?” Stone’s laugh fills the room. “Like we’re some cover band at a county fair.”
On the floor beside me, Nikko scrolls through his phone, occasionally reading out social media reactions to our impromptu set at The Academy, an old school building turned into a restaurant in the small town of Stillwater, Connecticut, where Mik decided to settle down.
“‘The Hall of Fame secret gig waslife-changing,’” he quotes, then snorts. “It was a restaurant gig, not Madison Square Garden.”
“Hey, every show matters,” I say, though my words get partially lost in a mouthful of green curry.
Nikko doesn’t look up from his phone, his thumbs moving rapidly across the screen. “They’re loving the impromptu gig. Small venue performances always get the best reactions.”
The door swings open, and Mik enters with his boyfriend Tyler, their fingers loosely intertwined. Something in my chest tightens at the casual intimacy of the gesture. They look so right together, like a song finally finding its proper key. Mik’s smile is brighter than I’ve seen it in years.
“Room for two more?” Mik asks, though he’s already settling on the sofa with Tyler beside him.
Stone immediately sits up straighter, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, well. Look who’s back already.” He checks his watch with exaggerated concern. “What’s it been, two hours? Two and a half?”
Fox doesn’t look up from his meticulously organized plate, but I catch the slight smirk tugging at his lips. “Record time, really.”
“Hey now,” Nikko chimes in, setting his phone aside to join the assault, “we told you to take all the time you needed. All night, even. But here you are…”
“Missing us already?” Stone adds, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “That’s sweet, Thor. Really. But we thought you’d have better things to do than hang out with your bandmates tonight,” he says, using the nickname we came up with for Mik because of his Scandinavian heritage.
Tyler’s cheeks flush pink, but he’s laughing as he buries his face against Mik’s shoulder. Mik himself is turning an impressive shade of red, running his free hand through his hair in that nervous gesture we all know so well.
“Jesus Christ, you guys are worse than teenagers,” Mik mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.
“We’re just saying,” Fox adds mildly, finally looking up with those sharp amber eyes, “when a man gets the all-clear from his bandmates to celebrate properly with his guy, we expect a little more…commitment to the cause.”
From somewhere near the hallway, a young voice pipes up. “La la la la la!”
Kay, Mik’s teenage daughter, appears briefly in the doorway, hands clapped firmly over her ears, before dramatically spinning around and marching toward the kitchen. “I can’t hear you! I’m getting juice.”
The room erupts in laughter, and even I can’t help but grin. It feels good, this easy ribbing between brothers. Normal. Like maybe we can face whatever comes next without losing the connection we have. Our brotherhood.
We fall into easy conversation about the show, about the way the crowd’s energy filled that small space, about how different itfelt from our arena tours. It’s comfortable, familiar, until Stone suddenly tightens the lid on his container with a sharp snap. He sits up straighter, his usually playful demeanor replaced by something more serious.
“So,” he says, his dark eyes scanning the room, “are we officially on hiatus?”
The question lands like a stone in still water. Nikko’s thumb freezes mid-scroll, and Fox’s fork hovers above his plate, his rice dripping onto the curry sauce. My shoulders tense, the curry sitting heavy in my stomach. We’ve all known this conversation was coming—hell, I’ve talked to Mik about it and even welcome the change—but knowing doesn’t make it easier.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the soft hum of the heating system. I look around at these men who have been my family for more than two decades, reading the weight of the moment in their faces. Even Tyler, the newest addition to our circle, seems to hold his breath.
