"I've forgotten my cigs!" I exclaimed, searching frantically through my pockets before looking up at Matt with a pleading expression.
"Know where they are?" he asked, shaking his head slightly.
"Dressing room," I answered, wrinkling up my eyebrows. "I think."
He sighed overdramatically and rolled his eyes before giving me a light push. "Go get 'em."
I smiled and turned around to start back towards the venue.
"You're paying for every extra minute the cab has to wait!" he yelled after me.
I flipped him off, laughing.
******
As I re-entered the building, a feeling of dread shot through me. You know the one where you're convinced something bad is happening, but have no clue why? I guess my 'female intuition' should've been my first clue to the fact that I wasn't completely straight.
Whatever it was, I started walking at a brisker pace, nearly running towards our dressing room.
Perhaps some asshole was stealing my cigs?!
I finally reached the door and wrenched it open, looking around frantically. I was out of breath. Funny, I'd have thought all the dancing I'd been doing lately would've gotten me into shape, but this was just another proof that while I was alright again, it was going to take a long time before I got over the pill-incident completely.
I kept looking around and my eyes fell on my cigarettes, but those weren't the focus of my attention anymore. I could hear sounds coming from the far corner, which was kind of covered by a makeshift dressing wall. Although I had no idea as to why anybody had put that there.
Some of them could be described as, well, for lack of better wording, horny, turned on, excited. Got it?
Some of them, which soudned like they had another originator, sounded frightened, desperate, painful.
And while I doubted I'd heard the first voice before, at least in more than passing, I recognized the second one.
I tore around the wall to be met by a view I'd never thought I'd see.
A man, who I thought I vaguely recognised as one of the roadies had Brendon against the wall. And it didn't look very consenting, may I add. One hand was holding Bren's arms tightly in place above his head, the other was struggling to get his boxers the rest of the way down.
But really, that part of the view wasn't what I took in. That would be Brendon's face, which looked like it was bruising and had a scratch from what looked like a ring. Tears were running down his face as he writhed and whimpered out pleas to stop.
Well, if you think I was the best person to have walked into something like this, then you are sadly mistaken. I'm lanky and while I hate to admit it, I'm about as weak as I look.
Still, nobody was doing that in front of me and getting away with it, especially when Brendon noticed me and his eyes met mine, widening in desperation.
And so, while I wasn't exactly strong, my father had still indirectly taught me where any sort of hit hurts the most.
I directed the hit at his temple, and if I'd been just a bit bigger, I knew it would've knocked him out.
I wasn't, though, so he turned around, letting go of Brendon in the process, and faced me, rage in his eyes and the distinct smell of alcohol on his breath.
I hate to go for the absolute weak point of any man, but he was still a lot bigger than me, he was fisting his hands and I was running out of options. So I brought my knee up as hard as I possibly could, slamming the kneecap against his exposed, naked, well, parts.
And he went down for the count.
Not that I was really focused on him anymore.
Brendon had fallen to the floor and was lying it pretty much a bundle, whimpering and crying. Looked like it was my turn to be the strong one again.
"Nothing happened, right?" I muttered, knowing I'd kill the man if anything had.
"No," he whispered. "But it was too close."
I nodded and pulled his boxers back up around his waist, careful not to touch anything. Then I found his pants a few feet away, somehow got him to his feet and helped him put them on, doing the zipper for him, buttoning and finally buckling his belt. Then I gathered him in my arms and held him close as sobs shook through his body.
I would've carried him back to the bus, but I knew very well that I wasn't strong enough to carry Brendon the way he did me. Especially since he had started gaining weight again, getting closer to his original, healthy weight. No, he was going to have to walk on his own.
My phone rang.
I picked it out of my pocket with a groan. "Yes?"
"Are you coming or what?" Matt asked aggravatedly from the other end of the connection.
I sighed. "No, I can't make it tonight, sorry."
"That's alright. Perhaps I'll get to talk with other guys aside from you for once," he replied. I could practically hear the smile in his voice.
I couldn't find it in myself to laugh. "Have fun," I said. "Talk to you tomorrow."
"Later," he answered and cut the connection.
I focused back on Brendon whose face was in my chest while his arms clutched my waist desperately. "We need to get out of here," I muttered, running a hand through his hair in what I believed was a soothing motion.
"Yeah," he agreed, making no move to get up.
I so should've asked Matt to come help. He'd have been able to carry Brendon with one fucking arm.
I slowly, gently eased his arms off me and got to my feet, holding a hand out for him to take.
He did, allowing me to pull him into a standing position, although it was with a struggle.
Perhaps I should start working out?
He never let go of my hand, intertwined our fingers instead as we headed out. And I allowed him the contact. He must've been needing it.
I narrowly managed to remember the cigarettes I'd come for as we passed them.
I got him dragged back onto our bus without much incident, but once there he broke down again, clutching me in a death-grip, his face in the crook of my neck.
I really have no idea how long we sat there, but when he finally let go, the shoulder of my hoodie was soaked and my left arm was asleep. I seriously couldn't feel it at all. Well, I guess 'let go' might be exaggerating. He let go of me with one arm, the other still around my neck just as mine was still around his middle. And his head was still resting against my shoulder. At least he wasn't really crying anymore, just sniffing a bit and occasionally expelling a few tears.
"I'm so stupid," he muttered.
"No you're not," I assured him.
"Then why is it that everyone can lie to me?"
I didn't answer. I'm pretty sure he wasn't accusing me of anything right at that moment, but my conscience was still acting up at it.
"I've been hanging out with him a lot the last week or so," he told me after a while. "He said he was into guys and asked if I wanted to you know, talk, hang out, all that. It's been fine, I just wanted to forget that I have any feelings for you that are more than friendly. And, you know, when he kissed me I came so close to being able to just shut you out of my mind. So I kept hanging around with him and kissing and making out, but I didn't want it to go any further." He paused a bit. "He did, though." With that a couple of new sobs racked through him and I cradled him close again.
"It doesn't matter," I muttered. "He didn't get what he wanted and we'll have him kicked off the tour by tomorrow, alright?"
He nodded against my shoulder, going back to the occasional sniff again.
We sat in silence for another while.
"Is fucking really all I'm good for?" he asked after a while.
"What?" I asked, surprised that he'd ever think such a thing. "No, Bren. You're a wonderful guy. You don't deserve what he did to you. You don't deserve any of the shit I'VE done to you."
He didn't answer, just clutched me even tighter.
I was getting uncomfortable. Being this close to Brendon had lately been doing things to my body that my mind had trouble appreciating, and at that moment, completely inappropriately, my jeans were getting tighter by the second.
I cleared my throat. "Would you like anything to drink?" I asked. "Your throat must be getting kind of dry by now."
He gave me a short laugh, but released me to my great relief. "You think we have any beer?" he asked. "I think I need something kind of strong now."
Brendon is the only guy I know who'd call beer a 'stronger drink'. But that's fine. That's how he never got hammered even when I spent my nights with the toilet bowl.
"I'll look," I promised him and moved to our mini kitchen. I opened the kitchen to find out that, yes, somebody had equipped us with a couple of sixpacks. I got a beer out for him and a habitual Pepsi for myself. Then I grabbed an ashtray off the counter, all the while feeling my lower bodyparts relax more and more.
I walked back to the couch in the lounge and sat down next to him again, putting a bit of distance between us this time, though. I handed him his beer and took out a cigarette. I lit it and leaned back. "You want me to call Pete and tell him what happened?" I asked after a moment.
He nodded, leaning back into the couch. "I'm a fucking mess," he then said, seemingly out of nowhere.
I looked over at him. He must've exchanged his lenses for glasses while I was in the kichenette and it's no secret that I think he looks adorable in his glasses. His cheeks were stained with slightly black tears, his nice, blue shirt was a mess. But only once before had I seen him this open and vulnerable. Only that time his face had been contorted in ecstasy and this time the handsome, strong features were wrenched by pain and fear. And somehow there was something incredibly beautiful to that, the vulnerability, the dependance. And somehow I should learn to shut up and keep my thoughts to my mind. But I didn't and the, "You've never been more beautiful," slipped out without my permission.
He looked at me in surprise, his eyebrows wrinkled as he seemed to try to find out whether I was kidding or playing with his head again or what.
I blushed a deep crimson and quickly got my Sidekick out of my pocket, dialled Pete's number and nervously waited for him to pick up to distract me, while taking another drag of the cig.
******
When Pete had assured me that the incident would be reported and that the guy was off the tour and wouldn't be able to roadie for any other band for the rest of his life, I quickly drank my Pepsi, excused myself with being tired and retired to my bunk, my face still hot with embarrassment.
I think I lay in the bunk for hours - probably not, but you know the feeling -thinking, mulling things over in my mind, although I didn't even know what conclusion I was looking for. I needed the patented Matt Good kick in my ass to get me to reach anything, so that night all I could do was settle on being confused.
Then the curtains of my bunk was pulled back and someone crawled into the small space next to me.
I recognized the scent easily and was grateful we were both so small-framed that we wouldn't get squished. And although Brendon sharing my bunk would make the night rather uncomfortable for me, he needed the closeness because, well, considering how safe he could always make me feel, I'd like to think that I could do just a fragment of that for him as well. And I wasn't about to deny him that, so I put my arms lightly around his waist, trying to give him the reassurance he needed.
He scooted closer and his head found its way onto my shoulder again. "I never got around to thanking you," he muttered.
"You don't have to," I answered. "After the eating-a-few-pills-too-many incident, I'd say we're just getting even."
He laughed a bit, sounding kind of nervous with his arm going around my waist as well. "You don't mind my being here, right?"
"Bren, it's alright," I muttered. "Now shut up and let's go to sleep." I quickly kissed his forehead, telling myself that this, too, was just to reassure him and make him feel safe.
"Night," he muttered, thankfully not snuggling any closer.