With his heart in his throat and his lungs struggling to fill, Chris felt like crying, or screaming, or breaking something. Not even music would save him this time. Not when he couldn’t find solace in it. Not when he was circling down the drain. He needed to get out of there to grasp whatever allowed him to emotionally vent all the frustration piling up in his chest and making life so unbearable at the moment. Tearing the fibers of his muscles one by one seemed more alluring than staying in his head.
Luckily for him, there were only two minutes and thirty-five seconds left to end the last song of their repertoire.
Thirty-four, thirty-three…
Chris took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what he had in front of him right now. The festival. The people cheering. The sun shining high above. He was torn, sure, but there were still a lot of things worth smiling for.
As the last beat of the drums hit, closing the concert, the four musicians quickly walked to the edge of the stage, grinning—super fake in his case—and waved at their fans roaring with enthusiasm. They bowed several times and Chris tossed some guitar picks while Erik threw his drumsticks.
In a venue, after a normal performance where it was just you and maybe two other bands playing, there was more time to interact and fool around on the stage when you were done. But in festivals like this, where there was a schedule and a group had to play after the other, having to switch instruments, sound equipment, and all that jazz in barely fifteen minutes, everything felt a little colder, aseptic even. And while any other day this annoyed the guitarist, today he didn’t care.
Wanting to get out of there as fast as he could, Chris handed Colson his guitar, wireless pack, and in-ear monitors when he passed by him, and went straight to get the towels Eugene prepared for them at the end of every gig. However, before he could run away, Erik caught up with him at the bottom of the metal stairs.
“Schmidt,” he called, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to turn around. “What the fuck was that?”
“Nothing.” Chris tried freeing his arm, and for some reason, the clinking of the chain attached to his belt rose above every other noise around, stinging his ears. It felt like needles. Like the head of a lighter after letting the fire burn for a bit against his tongue. But no matter how much strength he put into it, the drummer’s grip only got tighter.
“Look, I don’t know what happened between you and Marc—”
“I don’t know why you’d say that.”
“You think I was born yesterday? That any of us are so stupid to not know something is going on between you two?” Erik motioned with his free hand towards the rest of the team behind him.
“There’s nothing going on between us,” Chris barked, mentally kicking himself for being so defensive about it.
The crew was busy putting the instruments in their cases and rolling the wires, and Leah was drying her face with a towel that was about to get stained with black eye makeup and lipstick. But he knew they were all just pretending they hadn’t heard anything. Besides, the conversations between him and Marc had been reduced to grunts;hm,yeah,nah,whatever. So, of course, they all were aware something was up.
“Even if it did, it’s not any of your business,” he added.
“It is when it affects our performance,” Erik retorted, his usual calmness transforming into exasperation. “Do you realize you’re playing with everyone’s career?”
“It’s not like one or two bad concerts are going to fuck up everything.” Chris scoffed.
Erik’s brow furrowed more than he’d ever seen in the decade they had known each other, the wrinkle between them getting incredibly deep as his usually kind expression turned into pure rage. “Fuck it. I’m done. Either you go punch something to let out whatever pent-up shit you have or talk to us, but I’m not gonna allow you to get off track like that again. It’s the third gig in a row you’ve messed up. And yes, it might not be that big of a deal, not for you. But it fucking is. It’s our reputation as musicians you’re playing with.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Chris mocked, putting a palm on his chest.
“This is all just a fucking joke to you, right?”
“What if it is?”
Yup, his mouth ran faster than his mind. And honestly, he didn’t care anymore. The discomfort of being in his skin right now overrode everything else.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Uwe intervened, planting his palms on their chests and pushing them in opposite directions. “We’re not having this conversation here.” He gestured, tipping his head back slightly. Several pairs of eyes were looking at them. “Erik, go help Noah with your kit, and you, Chris, just go to the bus. We’ll talk about this later.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” the guitarist countered.
“We’ll see about that,” the manager said, the deep, rumbling tone of his voice making him shiver.
Uwe didn’t get mad easily, but the way those words had just flown out of his mouth was scary. Chris was exhausted and emotionally stressed, but risking his life—this dude was twice his size and could rip him apart if he wanted—was not something he was willing to do. Not yet anyway.
“Yeah. Whatever.”Not happening.
He threw the towel he hadn’t really used into the basket and strode towards the bus.
Heloathedthe way he was feeling. Didn’t know why every time someone tried to get closer to him, he couldn’t take the help they were offering, no matter how much he yearned for a warm palm on his shoulder or some encouraging words to ease the heaviness in his chest. As far as his memory went, it had always been like this, getting worse with time. He didn’t know how to rely on others. And right now, he was crumbling.
It had been three days, three fucking days of back and forth in his head. Three days of confusion, sadness, anger, and a lot of other things he couldn’t decipher. Was he actually into Marc? Because if he had to be honest, he couldn’t say he hadn’t liked the things the bassist had done and made him feel when his cock was deep inside his mouth, or when they had kissed. Quite the opposite. But was it truly sexual desire, or had it just been a hiccup in the heat of the moment?
