The crowd shrieked their enthusiasm. Winter closed his eyes and breathed deeply, soaking in the tide of love that enveloped him.Thiswas what he really craved, the only time he ever felt a true, fiery connection to the world, and it was never satiated.
He raised a hand to the sky.
“Are you ready?”he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The world roared back at him. He tilted his head up, his figure ghostly in the midst of the stage’s smoke and fog, and hurtled into his first routine.
As always, everything afterward felt like a blur.
A dozen people swarmed around him the instant he stepped back down beneath the stage. He smiled numbly as hands patted his shoulderin congratulations and he thanked the crewmen unhooking the harnesses from his body. The post-concert haze draped over him, covering him in its weight. He could feel the tremors in the ground as the arena continued to cheer long after his disappearance, clusters of fans still breaking into spontaneous song.
He’d done well. He was flush with the knowledge of it, even as he could already feel that rush seeping out of his limbs and giving way to bone-deep exhaustion. As he followed the crew through the same corridor from hours earlier, the roar of the stadium began to recede, until it sounded only like background noise against the echo of his shoes.
Claire was at his side now. He couldn’t remember when she’d popped up. She was smiling at him, but in her eyes, he could see her concern. She knew how he got right after concerts.
“That was legendary,” she said to him. Her cool fingers curled around one of his arms as she guided him down the hall.
“Did she come?” he asked.
Claire looked at him, then shook her head. She didn’t have to ask to know he meant his mother.
Winter nodded, his expression blank. “Can you send someone to make sure her car’s in her driveway, that she’s home safe and isn’t stuck at the airport?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Claire reassured him.
The dance crew streamed by around them, whooping at Winter when they saw him. He looked over as Dameon and Leo passed by, clapping their hands in the air.
“Dinner in your room!” Leo shouted. “We’re gonna buy out the hotel’s champagne!”
Dameon’s grin was more subdued. His eyes followed Winter, studying him in his quiet manner. He seemed to notice Winter’s expression, in the way that he always noticed everything about Winter, but didn’t comment on it.
“Take your time!” he called to Winter.
Winter’s eyes locked gratefully with his for an instant. Then Dameon and Leo were gone, moving with the tide of people down the hall toward the rear exit. Winter followed Claire to the greenroom.
“Take some time for yourself,” she told him. “But I want to get you out of here way before we open up the lots. Ten minutes, tops. Okay?”
He flashed her a grin as he wiped his forehead. He didn’t even know who’d put a towel in his hand. “Got it.”
She grasped his chin firmly and gave him a gentle shake. “And for chrissakes, eat something.”
“I promise,” he answered.
Then she released him and left him alone.
The greenroom was empty now. Winter found himself wandering around the space, past the tables and empty makeup chairs. The silence seemed overwhelming after the screams of tens of thousands of people.
In about an hour, the headlines would start all over again. How his new concert had been. How he’d looked and who he was wearing. Alongside news about war and protests would be how many thousands of dollars his upcoming tour’s tickets could fetch for resale. New rumors and gossip. He’d linger over a late dinner with Dameon and Leo, recounting the best parts of the night. Then he’d lie awake, alone and listless, and feel his soul beating weakly in time with his pulse.
He leaned against one of the tables and bowed his head. Sweaty strands of his hair hung across his vision. For some reason, he found his thoughts returning to the sight of the soaked fans who’d been standing outside the side entrance, waiting for him to emerge from the car. He thought of the little girl shivering in the rain just for the chance to get a piece of paper with his scrawl on it.
The last lyrics he’d written in his notebook echoed in his mind.
’Cause what am I doing here? What are we all doing here?
They all came to see him, gave him their hard-earned money, handedhim this magical life of his. What did he give them in return? Once, it felt like he offered them something substantial—his music, his performances, his heart. Something to help them forget about whatever worries might plague their lives. But now it felt less like that and more like… well, he didn’t know. Repetitive interviews and thick barricades. Meetings and attorneys. Fans who thought they loved him but didn’t get to know him at all. A never-ending cycle of rote actions: wake up, makeup, show up. Pose. Recite answers to the same questions. Rehearse smiles for the same photos. Eat and sleep in a hotel room.
And the love he needed to thrive, tosurvive, felt more and more distant every day. Were his creations still creations, an expression of love? Or had it all just become business? Was he worth the world’s adoration? Was he deserving of their love that he so desperately craved?
