and i can go anywhere i want
anywhere i want, just not home
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
Noah always lost his mind a little during tours, leaving pieces of his sanity trailing behind him as he travelled from city to city.
Noah was never fully aware of himself when he was manic. Technically, he knew when he was having an episode - could feel it in the thoughts racing through his mind, the blood rushing in his veins, the itch in his muscles to just get up and do something, anything - but he only realizes the full extent of it until it's over and he's coming crashing down again.
Being on tour was the closest thing Noah would experience to fully conscious mania. Private jets and champagne and way too much cocaine for his own good and hooking up with hot flight attendants in the bathroom. Flashing lights. Being chased by paparazzi. Screaming fans.
Noah knows people don't usually react like this to authors. Authors are boring. Books are boring. A promiscuous, mentally ill, junkie author, on the other hand, was something else - it bordered on the level of popularity celebrities had.
And Noah thrives under the spotlight.
His sunglasses rest low on his nose, barely doing anything to shield his dilated eyes from the flashing paparazzi at the entrance of the Four Seasons, and he pulls his leather jacket tighter around his body. With the beginning of October came the warning signs for a cold winter and after years in Europe, complaining about the dismal weather, Noah has forgotten that North American winters make UK winters seem like a warm spring day.
Noah checks into his suite, pushing his glasses onto his head to flash the receptionist a charming smile and a wink as he collects his key and walks away. His bags are already inside when he walks in, kicking his boots off and throwing his sunglasses somewhere. Immediately, he opens the wine fridge and retrieves a bottle of wine, not bothering to read the label. It's not about the quality; it just needs to get him drunk.
Noah drinks directly from the bottle as he walks around the suite, taking in the mahogany furniture and marble finishings. His fingertips brush against the keys of a grand piano in the corner of the room. There's an electric fireplace built into the wall that won't be used for another month or so. Noah peels back the large, cerulean curtains with his free hand and peers out at the view from his penthouse suite.
I could jump, he muses noncommittally, lifting the bottle of red wine to his lips again.
Noah steps back and throws himself down on the bed, happy to be off his feet after such a long day. He feels himself sink into the mattress, feels the tension in his muscles dissipate - though that could be the wine - and his eyes flutter shut as he sighs deeply.
Noah landed in New York City seven hours ago and went straight from the airport to Carnegie Hall for a book signing event that lasted three hours and left him with a scratchy throat and a sore wrist. It started with a reading of his new book, 'Fuel the Pyre', where Noah did nothing but cringe at every word choice and scrutinize every comma.
He answered some questions - some from the interviewer, some from the crowd - and as he gazed into the eyes of his fans, hands folded in his lap and legs crossed, giving them his undivided attention, Noah couldn't help but wonder why anyone on Earth would ever bother buying and reading his books, let alone come to a book signing. Nonetheless, he answered his questions to the best of his ability
'Yes, Casper's mother is a labour and delivery nurse.'
'Astoria's spirit animal would definitely be an otter.'
'I wish my love life was as dramatic as that of the characters I write, but no, I don't derive inspiration for my books from my personal life. I mostly just let my imagination run wild.'
Then, Noah signs books - his favourite part. He sits in his chair so long his behind goes numb and signs his name so many times he fears he may have strained a muscle in his forearm, but it's absolutely worth meeting his readers who jitter with excitement as they answer his polite questions.
'You gave me the courage to come out,' said one of the girls whose book he signed, a rainbow badge pinned to her overalls. Noah froze for a moment, not quite sure what to say to that. Eventually, he landed on, 'If you did it, that means you had the courage to do it in you all along.'
Some fans are... not as courteous. They ask invasive questions about his personal life, about his relationships and the men he's spotted entering hotels with and kissing in the back of taxis. Noah gently deflects, grateful for the Xanax he took before the event.
After that, he was driven to a warehouse where he signed a couple more hundred books before finally, finally, being taken to the Four Seasons. It was the same routine in every city so far - Orlando, New Orleans, Kansas City, Dallas, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Vancouver, Denver, Chicago and, now, New York.
Next stop: Toronto, Ontario.
Noah is snapped out of his thoughts by his phone vibrating in his pocket. With a groan, he sits up, taking another swig from the bottle before answering the call.
"Let me sleep, Lydia."
"Noah, it's four in the afternoon," she deadpans.
"Yes, and I'm tired and I'm learning to listen to my body, so I'm going to sleep."
"Do I need to remind you to not make any crazy plans with your crazy, celebrity friends because you'll be appearing on that talk show tonight?"
"No."
"Do I need to remind you of the consequences of the crazy plans you make with your crazy, celebrity friends?"
"Lydia, genuinely," Noah insists, "I just want to take a warm bath and go right the fuck to sleep."
"Can you blame me for not trusting you? After what happened in L.A?"
"L.A. was..." Noah struggles to find the right word. "Different,"
L.A. was wild, is what it was.
Noah was invited to a yacht party by one of his model friends where he drank too much alcohol, snorted too much of everything and slept with way too many people. Noah doesn't remember much of that night besides the constant weight of a drink in his hand and the ocean breeze in his long hair and a stranger's hands all over him. Was his name Leo? Logan? Noah vaguely remembered his face on the screen of some Hollywood blockbuster.
Thankfully, the next day's papers reminded him. Paparazzi - it's always the fucking paparazzi - loitered around the large boat, eagerly snapping pictures at the dozens of celebrities partying away obliviously. Naturally, his picture made the front cover of most tabloids - the media gets a kick out of dragging Noah's name through the mud whenever possible.
And if that wasn't bad enough, Leo - Logan? - must have asked for Noah's number and Noah must have given it to him, because the next day, he's invited to his mansion. Just the two of them. No cameras. No paparazzi.
Noah barely made it into the extravagant foyer before he had Logan - Leo? - pinned to the door with a knee pressed between his legs. They put his shower, tub, theatre room and bedroom to very good use for a few hours and Noah slipped away as the other man slept, blocking and deleting his number as soon as he got to his car. He didn't have time for desperate clinginess.
He never did learn the man's name.
Lydia sighs on the other end of the line. "Get some rest, Noah." She sounds tired - just knowing Noah is bothersome; it's a burden; it's work. "Actual sleep, like a proper nap. And if I find more photos of you half-naked in some actor's lap on a yacht, so help me God, Noah—"
"Yes, yes," he murmurs. "No half-naked lap dances in front of the cameras."
"No half-naked lap dances ever, how about? You realize the only reason you're not touring schools like most young adult authors do is because no school is willing to acquaint its students with a man with a reputation such as yours, right?"
Noah grimaces. "I hate kids, anyways."
"That's beside the point. Whatever," she gives in. "Go to sleep. Be up by three, taping starts at five. Set an alarm."
Noah hangs up with the honest intention of finishing his bottle of wine, taking a shower and having a brief nap, but then he does two lines of ketamine and suddenly, he's the most awake he's been since... his last hit, eight hours ago.
Noah doesn't go to sleep. Instead, he scrolls aimlessly on his phone.
He skims the articles written about him with an amused smirk, unable to hold back his laughter at some of the audacious takes about him. Then, it dawns on Noah that his mother has access to these articles, too - both his adopted and biological mother. John, too, he can assume. Ella, his niece, Joanna - who is now old enough to read - Coach Mike, Amelie, Elijah. Ian.
Noah shakes his head, mentally swatting the idea of Ian away. Dismissing the image of Ian in the bedroom doorway of his home in London, tears shimmering in his eyes, posture small and cowered. He hasn't spoken to Ian since. He can't go back on his words, that was the whole point of them. Ian was better off without him, anyways.
Noah is just about to put his phone away and go take a shower when a notification pops up on his screen.
Zach King
My favourite author is in New York and I had to hear it from the papers? You wound me, Noah.
Zack King was another rich, snobby model Noah became... acquainted with years ago during a manic episode that ended with Noah booking plane tickets to New York and partying for a week straight. Until his episode ended and Arlo had to fly over to collect him, like a child that got too excited and ran off and had to be dragged back home. They met a few more times over the years, whenever either visited the other's city for work. Once, Noah flew out to see Zach while he was taking part in Paris Fashion Week and fucked him backstage. Obviously, someone heard them and that made the papers, too.
There is something comforting about Zach's presence. He doesn't ask Noah any unnecessary questions and isn't too clingy. They have some form of a mutual agreement - they both lead very busy lives and are not looking for anything serious, so whatever they do is for fun and for fun only. Zach takes Noah out to the club, they get high, they fuck, Zach invites him out to lunch the next day and they part ways till whenever they see each other next.
Noah doesn't let his thoughts linger on the fact that Zach has those same green eyes, loose black curls, sharp features...
Favourite author? Is that all I am to you, Zach?
Are you at the Four Seasons?
Are you asking or are you confirming what the latest article about me already tells you?
You're so annoying.
You know that, right?
Come over.
Already on my way.
Noah calls the reception, asking them to please direct Mr. King to his suite and reminding them that his team made every member of staff at the hotel sign an NDA.
Five minutes later, the elevator leading to Noah's suite opens with a ding! followed by the sound of shoes on the smooth, wooden floor. Noah doesn't greet him at the entrance and instead waits for him on the bed, long, black hair splayed out underneath him on the silk sheets, cheeks tinted from the alcohol in his system and lips stained with wine.
"Took you long enough," he tells Zach as soon as he steps into the bedroom.
And not much talking happens after that.
✧✧✧
Noah doesn't mean for it to happen.
The questions he's asked on the talk show are respectful, mostly pertaining to his new novel and his career as a whole, but then Noah is asked that stupid, stupid question.
"A few weeks before you started your North American tour, as everyone knows," the interviewer said, "you made a donation to 'Shield the Youth', a non-profit organization that finds safe homes for homeless youth in London."
Noah cringes as the audience applauds, but plasters a smile on his face nonetheless.
"Can you tell us more about what the organization does?"
"Certainly," Noah smiles through the bile rising in his throat. "They operate around four key points: housing, health, work and prevention. I got to spend a day at their headquarters and watch them work and, honestly, they're saving lives. Did you know that more than 80% of homeless youth have a mental health problem? And I don't mean to be grim, but they're also three times more likely to attempt suicide than their housed equivalents."
He recites these facts just as Ian did that day in his office, before he asked him out for coffee and Noah politely declined. Noah should have never spoken to him again after that.
"Well, clearly, this is something you're very passionate about."
Noah nods. "It is."
"You became good friends with the founder of the organization after that, didn't you?" There's a sly smile tugging at the lips of the interviewer, like they were playing a game and he had won without Noah knowing he was playing in the first place, like he had backed Noah into a corner. "You two were spotted together around London quite frequently."
"Yes, we became good friends," Noah answers flatly, trying his best not to reveal anything.
The interviewer quirks an eyebrow, his small smile now a teasing smirk. He glances at the camera like everyone is in on an inside joke he is not aware of. Then, Noah realizes it's him. He's the butt of the joke. "Just friends? Mainstream media says otherwise."
"Mainstream media says a lot of things," Noah teases back, trying not to snap. Getting defensive will only make it worse.
"Yes, let's dive into some of the things Twitter has to say about you?" The interviewer turns to face the camera. "We're going to play a quick game where we show Noah here some tweets with some pretty insane rumours and speculations and he has to either confirm or deny them." He turns back to Noah with a patronizing look. "You have to be honest, though, okay? Otherwise, it's no fun."
"Well, you know me, Tom. I'm all about fun."
Naturally, the questions were disgustingly invasive and personal, but Noah sat on his hands to keep them from shaking and kept a smile on his face until his cheeks ached.
But he was mad. Oh, boy, was he mad.
How fucking dare they? Inviting him, one of England's most successful modern-day writers, the one-hundred-eleventh richest person in the UK, just to ridicule him on American national television.
Noah hates feeling weak. More than he hates being sober. More than he hates John and Oliver. The shame burns deep inside him, threatening to spill out and lay waste to everything in Noah's path. It's an ache in his chest and a tightness in his throat at the mere thought of being viewed as small, pathetic, powerless.
Obviously, Noah misdirects that anger. He's high on cocaine and adrenaline and the fucking anger coursing through his veins and he needs to retaliate. Hard. Right now. Hit where it hurts the most, with no thought of the consequences on himself or others. Noah has no control; with this level of rage, he could kill someone, both literally and figuratively.
He searches up the name of the Christian organization that funds 'Shield the Youth' and presses call with a vengeance.
"I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge," Noah says as soon as someone picks up on the other end. "I have urgent news about 'Shield the Youth', the non-profit organization you fund."
He is immediately connected with the president of the association.
"Good morning, my child, how may I help you?"
"Ian Solace, the founder of 'Shield the Youth' is an asexual, gay man." Noah's barely thinking. "He was recently in a relationship with Noah Simone, an author with a reputation for debauchery and depravity. And he doesn't tell you this, but he focuses mostly on housing queer youth and provides special resources such as gender therapists and raises funds for gender-affirming healthcare. I know that this absolutely does not align with your association's beliefs and I urge you to cease funding this corrupt organization."
All Noah hears is the sounds of his heavy panting for a few, long moments.
"Well," the president speaks, clearing his throat. "This comes as a surprise to me."
"I thought it would.'
"Thank you for bringing this to our attention. You're right; we are a Christian group and we don't want to be associated with such unscrupulous people or organizations."
Noah hums and nods firmly, his phone shaking against his ear.
"May I ask who you are, my child?"
"I don't think that's important."
"Interesting," he muses. "I'll consider it a sign from God. Thank you again, son."
"Of course."
Noah hangs up and stares at the wall for five minutes, trying and failing to run away from his own thoughts before his actions (and their consequences) catch up with him. He considers crying himself to sleep, but gets high and invites Zach out for a long night of clubbing instead.
✧✧✧
Mia is away and the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table wilt.
Elijah keeps reminding himself it's only a work trip, it's only for a few days, but things were already so tense between them and he isn't sure spending more time apart will be the solution. In fact, he fears it will only aggravate the situation.
The notification on his phone taunts him.
'Noah Simone Sells Out Massey Hall for His First-Ever Event in Toronto.'
Elijah should have turned off those notifications months ago, but he never did and now the consequences are beginning to appear in front of him.
It's one big, sick joke. It must be. To have his first event in Toronto today, on October eleventh, of all days. Noah is taunting him, playing with Elijah's heart even years after it stopped belonging to him. It's sick. It's cruel.
It works.
Elijah doesn't know why he finds himself fretting over his outfit in the bathroom mirror, trying to manipulate his curls so they sit just right, spraying the cologne he saves for the important events.
It's wrong. It's disgusting, even. Elijah is an engaged man. This is wrong. It's wrong. It's wrong it's wrong it's wrong it's wrong it's wrong it's wrong it's—
And yet he does it.
The guilt eats him alive as he drives to the venue, fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel.
He bought the ticket weeks ago but always expected to just forget about it and stay home at the last minute. He expected himself to be stronger than this. He expected himself to be better, to do the right thing.
Maybe Elijah isn't the person he thinks he is after all. Maybe this is who he truly is. A desperate, lying mess of a man still hung up on someone he dated for less than a year.
Elijah scoffs at the reminder and turns on his blinker. Less than a year. And Noah had his heart wrapped around his little finger.
Elijah keeps expecting himself to have a moment of clarity, turn around, and drive back home. He begs for it, but it never comes. He parks his car, steps out into the chilly air and heads for the venue's entrance.