Ry ran his hands through Alex’s hair.“You are amazing.”
“Ha, my dad and sister don’t think so.You may convince Ella, though.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Ry said.He then leaned in more and kissed Alex.It felt natural now, like they belonged together.He entwined his fingers with Alex’s, squeezing his hand.
After a while they fell silent, wrapped in each other’s arms, their kisses punctuated by shifts in position.Ry eventually drifted off to sleep, nestled against Alex, a scenario he had only dreamed of.It was both unbelievable and amazing.
Ry was dating Alex, and he couldn’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER 3: PRESENT
Ry stared through the floor to ceiling windows, not quite seeing the city outside.Moonlight haloed the gray buildings in a silvery-azure nimbus.Clouds rippled like waves, as if the entire ocean rested above him.Vision blurred and his heart beat a sluggish rhythm to the pulsing of the waves outside.He stood, finding a bottle in his hand, and leaned against the glass.The pulsing grew, like the pressure of the sea could crush him at any moment.He raked his free hand through his hair to push it out of his face.
Ry wished it would vanish and he would fall through the molasses air to the watery ground below.But he didn’t deserve an easy way out.The pressure built, a vise tightening around his head.Every fiber in him frayed, ready to snap.
He tilted the bottle back, the empty glass clinking against his teeth.Ry yearned for the shared warmth with Brand, the camaraderie and brotherhood with Lon.The ghost of Alex’s hands tangling through his hair, the light brush across his cheek, his quiet strength.
Grunting, he spurned the tempting glass and tossed himself into a chair.The flashing lights and chatter of the news caught his eye for a moment.He raised the empty bottle, tilting it toward the light from the TV, the echo of a swish fractured inside.
Hundreds of Arends laughed at him, distorted sepia visions refracted from the local news.Arend, that vile snake, insisted on being called Uncle by all his “talent.”Unfortunately for Ry and Ghostfire, they were the only band he toured with.The one he’d sold out.
He threw the bottle against the wall, and it shattered into thousands of pieces, each with an Arend mocking his pain.Ry didn’t need to watch the show to know the host fawned over the charming manager, feasting on the lies he spread.Ry knew; he’d partaken himself.
Insistent hammering on his door broke the brooding spell.Ry stood, his clothes sweat-sticky, and answered the door.Brand stood there, face drawn and pale, mirroring Ry's own disheveled state.
Brand, usually so composed, had seemed the most unchanged of all, though he'd become more distant these past couple years.
Ry waved his friend in, backed up, and tripped himself into a chair.He gestured for Brand to sit down.Brand instead paced back and forth on the carpet.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”Ry slurred his words.
“Well, fuck.”Brand stopped.“You’re drunk again, aren’t you?Ry, can’t you see what’s going on around you?”
Ry looked around, but found no bottle.Instead, he gestured toward the shattered remnants.“That’s the point of the alcohol, my dear friend.Why?Did we screw something up on stage?”
“Alex is not doing well.”Brand started pacing again.
“What do you mean?He can handle himself.”Ry stared out at the undersea city.
“He’s in the emergency room.”
Blood drained from Ry’s face, leaving him pale and clammy.The words hammered through the fragile ice he had constructed.A burning spread through his chest.The accusatory tone, the sheer weight, threatened to drown him in truth he couldn’t face.His fingertips sizzled in the heat, and a rush of lava churned in his stomach.
“Is he okay?”Ry managed, gripping the chair for support.
“Obviously not,” Brand said, finally taking a seat.“But he’s still alive.”
“What happened?”
Brand gestured to the broken glass on the floor.“That and drugs.”
Ry’s lips twitched to the dull, hollow ache in his chest.“I need to see him.”
“Do you still care?”Brand asked, his voice loud in the room’s quiet.
“When did I stop caring?”Ry whispered.
Ry stared at the carpet.Across the world, the same worn-out carpet seemed to be in every hotel: swirling patterns, usually in muted reds, blues, or golds.Had Alex noticed this as well?How many hotels had they stayed in, blind to each other’s suffering?
