“I think you’re right, I think I should bring him out here!” Joel shouted. He turned to look backstage, and his eyes locked on Quentin’s. “Hey, Hartley, how ’bout some water?”
Harlan pressed a water bottle into Quentin’s hands. “Go!” he hissed and shoved Quentin gently from behind.
Quentin stumbled onto the stage and was almost deafened by the roar of the crowd. They were cheering his name.
His legs moved automatically, carrying him down the long stage to where Joel was standing in a single spotlight, with his guitar and a microphone on a stand. The light made Joel look like he was almost glowing, and Quentin swallowed. He tried to ignore how good Joel looked, shirtless and sweaty and in those tight black pants.
“I tried to convince him to wear his hockey uniform,” Joel said sardonically, “but he wouldn’t do it.” He shook his head, as if disappointed.
Quentin had to step into the spotlight to hand Joel his water. Even with the noise in the stadium, he could hear Joel breathing. They were very close to each other, their shoulders almost touching. Joel looked so natural up here, and Quentin felt incredibly awkward.
Joel was shocked at how poised Quentin seemed. He’d had an easy swagger walking out onto the stage and seemed perfectly at ease standing next to Joel. Joel could see their image on the Jumbotrons, the light illuminating them. They made a good pair, he thought briefly.
He grinned at Quentin and lied through his teeth. “Quentin, my man, I’m so glad we met onFCL. I know that punching someone in the face isn’t how youusuallytell them you’re thankful for their friendship, so I’m sorry about that.”
He laughed and threw his arm around Quentin’s shoulders. It served two purposes: one, it looked great on the Jumbotron, and two, it meant that it would be harder for Quentin to escape.
“But,” Joel said, dropping his voice a little bit, “I’m glad that we’re friends, now. I thought that maybe, as my friend, you’d sing this song with me?”
This little shit, Quentin thought.
I’m the worst,Joel thought. He saw a flash of panic go through Quentin’s eyes, and he briefly regretted putting Quentin in this spot. It was cruel, he realized, and bullying, and he immediately tried to backpedal without making it obvious.
“Only if you want to,” he said into the mic.
Quentin swallowed and stared at Joel. Joel’s expression had been unreadable, but now he looked genuinely concerned. Was that somehumanitythat Quentin was seeing?
He made a decision.
A smile spread across Quentin’s face, showing his chipped incisor. Joel’s heartbeat quickened.
Quentin leaned closer to the microphone, and his shoulder pressed against Joel’s.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Joel?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Joel’s.
Joel’s pulse was beating like a bongo in his neck. “I absolutely am,” he said.
I’m absolutely not, he thought.
“I wouldn’t want to upstage you,” Quentin said. The crowd cheered.
Joel swallowed. He’d made this bed. It was time for them to lie in it. He reached into the tight back pocket of his pants and pulled out a Bluetooth earpiece, which he handed to Quentin.
Leaning away from the microphone, he whispered, “Put this in. It’ll help you keep time for the song.”
Quentin nodded. His hands were shaking as he took the earpiece.
Joel covered the microphone with one hand and hid his mouth from the cameras with the other.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he whispered. “You donothave to do this.”
Quentin whispered back without moving his lips. “What makes you think I can’t sing? What song are we even singing?”
“‘No One Like You,’” Joel said, panicking. What if Quentin didn’t know his new album?
“I know it,” Quentin said, surprising Joel.
“Okay,” Joel said. “Let’s do this. I’ll start, and you come in on the second verse.”
