The bassist gazed at him when Chris spun around. The intensity between them sent blood rushing through his ears, deafening him with every beat of his heart. He wanted to remain indifferent, but he couldn’t. Marc and his suffocatingly imposing presence had rattled his inner world and transformed it into a total clusterfuck of anxiety and doubts.
“I… Yeah. You’re right. Sorry. I just wish you’d talk to me about—”
“Don’t fucking say it,” Chris warned, his body growing tense. He would not have this conversation. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
“Why?” Marc coaxed. “What is so damn wrong about what happened?”
“I saiddon’t!”
“Do you think that not talking about it is gonna solve it?”
“There’s nothing to solve,” he rumbled.
Marc’s jaw ticked. But he didn’t seem angry, more like wounded. He took a step closer, letting out a defeated sigh when Chris moved backwards. “You wanna pretend nothing happened? Okay. But can you stop pushing me away? Fuck, dude, we’ve been friends for a decade.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “All I want is for us to be good again and leave this misunderstanding behind.”
“I’m perfectly fine. Didn’t you see that chick walking out of the bathroom just now?” He gestured towards the door, feeling nowhere near calm with that pair of dark eyes pleading in silence to let him in. “And you seemed to be doing just great with Oli before, too.” Marc frowned as the words rolled off Chris’s tongue. “Just—I’m good, okay? Still the same arrogant and shallow manwhore I’ve always been.”
“Chris…”
“Are we done?” He puffed, feeling the emotional and physical exhaustion washing over him as his hand clutched the handle of the door. “I’m fucking tired and wanna go back to the concert field.”
“This awkwardness you’re forcing upon us and the band is absurd,” Marc said, his voice filled with so much pain it hurt.
“I just need some time alone. So give me a fucking break.”
“Okay…”
August2nd,2017
Atlanta, Georgia
Erik was angry. Chris had no doubts about it.
For the crowd at their feet, it was probably so subtle they didn’t even notice. He’d been there, surrounded by the masses, jumping, singing along, losing it in the mosh pit, so soaked up and haunted by the atmosphere, he rarely ever got caught up on the fuck-ups. Even when he’d been familiar with how a song should sound, he also knew that during live concerts some things didn’t sound exactly the same.
But here on the stage, where he was supposed to be giving his best, it was more than obvious to him that the extra violence with which Erik was hitting the drums was a warning. Or a death threat. He wasn’t sure. Couldn’t blame his friend, though.
Since what had happened three nights before, he was distracted, unable to focus on the chords he had to play. Not when the dynamics had abruptly changed between him and Marc.
Usually, when they were performing, they would interact with each other. Be playful, tease and hype the audience together. He didn’t even need to pay attention to the rhythm the drummer was marking on each part of the tracks of their setlist. Chris knew them by heart, and they were so synchronized it always naturally flowed. Right now, though, getting close to the bassist short-circuited his brain. He couldn’t even look at him without hearing the anthem preceding a worldwide catastrophe typical in the movies.
Maybe that sounded a little too overdramatic, but it was what it was. Awful. Crippling. Conflicting. The last couple of days he’d even forgotten how to walk, finding himself actually thinking of how to put one foot in front of the other so he didn’t stumble. He knew it was ridiculous, yet couldn’t help himself.
Leah growling as they slipped out of a calmer part of this song that didn’t have a classic structure—no verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, outro—snapped Chris back into the real world.
He hated this. Hated himself for feeling so unbalanced for something that shouldn’t be that big of a deal. As days passed, he’d been able to calm down a little and look at it from an objective lens; two people had given each other pleasure. That was all. Period. But no matter what, he couldn’t get rid of the uneasiness eating him from within. Why was he so keen on making a fuss out of it? It was just different human reproductive organs. Nothing more and nothing else. Both men and women were made from the same stuff—skin, flesh, and bones. So why had itreallyaffected him so badly that his friend, who was openly bisexual, touched him?
A few more notes were out of tempo.Shit.
Chris shook his head, his eyes landing on Erik, who was glaring at him.
Double shit.
Then, without realizing it, he glanced at Marc.
The bassist was staring at him, a mix of disappointment and hurt reflected in his face as he put on a perfect show.
Chris clenched his jaw and turned his gaze away. He didn’t know what bothered him the most, to have hurt one of his best friends, or that he was disappointed in him. Disappointed for what? It wasn’t as if he’d ever shown any interest in men.
