I'm homesick.
My skin crawls with the familiar feeling of wanting to be elsewhere; the sick desire that hangs in my stomach and makes me sink into loneliness like a rock in the ocean, the remembering of sickly-sweet lullabies from once before, hurtling me into the depths of remembering who I am and who I was.
It's before the show tonight that it returns again; Spencer's sitting in the back of the dressing room, legs resting on the table as Dallon adjusts his stage makeup, dusting the foundation across his cheekbones so the lights won't gleam off his face from sweat; I turn to him, and he gives me a shaky, sympathetic grin. He knows the look that I know transcends across my face, and I swallow as my eyes glide over the way Dallon busies his slender hands across his cheeks, holding his face up. I like Dallon - Dallon likes me too.. but he's not Ryan.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm really homesick for home; for Nevada sands and Mormon ties, for family smiles and the four walls of my family home. And then I remember - there's nothing left there. My family are gone and the home is in debris; the Mormon ties are burnt and the sands have all blown over - so what am so lonely for? What do I desire, what am I so desperate to return to?
Him.
He's my Nevada; my Summerlin, my Las Vegas, my Reno. He's the melodies that pound behind my forehead, the lyrics buzzing behind my lips. He's the flow of my hands against the instruments - he is every much a part of me as my fingertips and my vocal chords. He's my other half, my sun; I am his moon, and I would gladly, with him, eclipse.
But he's gone.
My fingertips linger against the carving in the dressing room table. "B + R Forever", it promises. It fucking lies; I blink three times, snapping back tears. My long eyelashes clump with shitty mascara that Dallon promises will make my eyes pop, but they just make my eyelashes stick, the treacle-thick black melding my lashes together.
We do okay, like usual; I've drunk three bottles of beer and I am still uncomfortably sober as the homesickness twines in my stomach, coling my belly uncomfortably with nerves. Like always, I belt out his lyrics; when Dallon quirks an eyebrow at me - bass slung from one bare shoulder, body soaked in sweat, dishevelled hair and a dopey grin from a high that's not from the stage - I gulp and nod. My throat constricts as I speak; my chest aches and I can hear that I'm panting a little. Fuck the fans for loving this song so much - I can't deal with the baggage later, the homesickness, the self-hatred for not being enough for the man I loved more than the stage, more than myself.
"This one's called Northern Downpour." I say, and it feels like my body isn't even mine; for a second I swear I'm dissociating, fleeing from my demons and my problems like always.
I adjust my knuckles around the mic stand, my fists white as I hear the opening strums, and my voice comes out as an embarrassing, pre-pubescent squeak. It quakes and shudders as I sing along, voice stumbling and slurring on words that I'll blame on the not-quite-strong-enough beer later. My fingertips shudder, and I feel my throat constricting as I remember him and his honey eyes and sharp fingers and silver tongue and it's all too much.
We finish with his song, before ducking out of the venue and melding with the shadows of the night like we're fucking Batman, Robin and Batgirl - I'd like to call myself Batman but lately I've been feeling far too much like the Joker, not quite in my own head, too much of me being blue to get over it.
We walk to the bus; as I clamber inside, they follow me. Dallon confronts me with fire in his icicle eyes and his mouth set into a scowl; I'm nursing Beer Number 5 - or maybe 6, I've lost count - and everything is tingled with little remorse and a lot of love. Maybe I do love him. Maybe I just love the thought of him.
