Alexei swiveled his eyes as he sang, over to Ben’s to confirm. The alcohol was still strong enough in Alexei’s system—it had to be the alcohol—that he even managed to maintain eye contact for a line or two, singing about wanting to say something to a person but not knowing how, before he switched back to looking down at the guitar, at his fingers on the frets, remembering on instinct what to do.
At the break after the first chorus, when a moment of silence hung in the air before the second verse, one of the bros called out, “Fuck yeah, man!” and Alexei looked at the crowd, a bit surprised to find they were still there. Everyone was looking at him. Nodding their heads. Smiling.
Alexei had never felt gayer, singing this song to Ben. And at the same moment, he had somehow won the approval of bros.
What a weird, wild world.
He returned his gaze toward his fingers and the strings, focusing in on the line he always sang the hardest to himself as a lonely teenager, the one about realizing what you weren’t supposed to do.
Alexei, of course, had always realized.
And here he was, in a circle of wanderers in the middle of California, doing it anyway.
He strung the last chord. It warbled out through the parking lot as the sky darkened around them, hanging there, resonant and perfect, before the sound broke, and the crowd let out a respectable spattering of applause.
Alexei unwrapped the strap and handed the guitar back to its rightful owner, giving a nod of thanks.
“You guys want to stay and play awhile?” the owner asked with a smile.
“Nah, we’re good. Thanks again.” Alexei held up a hand in a short wave before turning to leave. He heard Ben follow.
The song had opened up a part of himself that was so easy to forget sometimes, when everything else felt too heavy. The part that loved music, strings and chords and keys. It was easy to show emotion in music. Acceptable. Admired. It was hard for Alexei to express things when they weren’t wrapped in melody, but at least he allowed himself that.
And he had always allowed himself that. He had learned “Wonderwall” as a kid, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to love “Wonderwall.”
He had kept his guitar, and then he had swiped right as an adult, even if it had been difficult. He had come out to his parents, and he had walked away instead of asking for forgiveness. He had tried a margarita tonight, not because Ben told him to, but because once he let himself, he wanted to.
They walked in silence back to the motel and Alexei grappled once more with the strange sensation of feeling proud of himself.
“I believed you, by the way,” Ben said.
“Huh?”
“You told that guy I didn’t believe you played.”
“Oh, right. Well, I needed to make up some reason for him to give me the guitar.”
“You are full of surprises, Lex.”
Alexei only smiled.
Ben entered their room first. He sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair.
Alexei plopped on the bed next to him, unthinking.
And then he huffed out a small laugh.
“Oh,” he said. “This isn’t my bed.”
Alexei was simply so used to always being next to Ben. Even when they slept, Alexei still felt Ben’s presence, mere feet away. Alexei knew he was supposed to say good-bye to him soon. But goodness, it felt hard to hide from the truth tonight. And the truth was Alexei was galaxies away from what it felt like to be without Ben Caravalho.
He didn’t move from Ben’s bed. He would, in a minute. But he was comfortable here, right now.
Ben turned his head toward him.
Alexei looked back and smiled at Ben’s face, still suffering slightly from “Wonderwall”-inspired elation.
“Hi,” Alexei said.
