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The nagging feeling of having lost something resurfaced once again. This time, it wasn’t Milo scratching at his walls, but a secret that Leaf held deep within himself. Tenderly and fearfully, Tristan placed a palm over Leaf’s hot forehead once more. Whatever this something was, it had the power to destroy everything, of that he was sure. But as long as he didn’t know what it was, he couldn’t do anything about it. Instead, he wanted to cherish every moment with his beloved—no matter how much it demanded of him.

He nestled back against him, holding on tight. Pressing his face into Leaf’s neck crease, he breathed in his earthy scent. He kissed him on the neck and combed his fingers through his hair until he drifted off himself.

It was the heat between them that woke Tristan from his sleep. Despite the fan, he felt like the air was stagnant.

Slowly, he slid off Leaf and sat back on the floor. Sweat dripped from every pore, and the little water he had left was nowhere near enough to quench his thirst.

He got up and went to the kitchen to refill his glass. Taking a few greedy sips, he strolled to the balcony. The wind had closed the door behind him, so he opened it and enjoyed the refreshing breeze flowing in.

He had always felt comfortable in Leaf’s cabin. It was his home, where he felt safe. There was always something new to discover here. Just like now, as Tristan admired the wall adorned with the framed insects and noticed a new butterfly.

Every time he saw someone in Venice selling such butterflies or beetles, he inwardly shook his head, feeling sorry for these insects. He didn’t understand the purpose of that. Yet, it fascinated him time and time again to stand here at Leaf’s home in front of this wall with all the dead insects and examine them more closely.

When Leaf first talked about the diversity of insects, Tristan was captivated. On the one hand, because he hadn’t thought there was anything else besides playing the guitar that could awaken Leaf’s passion, and on the other hand, he had never suspected that it was entomology, of all things, that interested Leaf. Tristan was sure that if the dice had fallen differently, Leaf would have studied biology and become an entomologist. Just the thought of that always brought a smile to his face.

Ever since they first met at the Amoeba Music Store, it was love at first sight. He adored Leaf, quirks and flaws included. When Leaf confessed about his long and close relationship with drugs, Tristan loved him even more for his honesty.

Leaf had gradually opened up to him, sharing stories from his childhood. These stories stirred feelings of helplessness in Tristan and ignited a strong desire to protect him.

When Leaf had a relapse toward the end of the last tour, Tristan quickly realized that this situation was beyond his control. The despair had been great, but he had also learned how to support Leaf.

But this time, it was different. Leaf didn’t allow him to offer support. Tristan knew it was his own fault; he had pushed Leaf away after Milo’s death. This relapse was far worse than the last one, where Leaf had used cocaine before every concert. Now, he was escaping reality entirely, making no attempt to hide it. The supplies—cocaine, opium, cigarettes, and alcohol—were openly scattered on the table.

Tristan wasn’t a stranger to drugs, but he had never considered trying heroin or cocaine. He avoided pills and was too afraid of needles—otherwise, he would have gotten the wolf tattoo long ago. Smoking was out of the question for him as well.

He enjoyed hallucinogens, though. If something fell into the category of mind-expanding substances, he could hardly resist.

In Vegas, they often drove out into the desert and embarked on trips with various substances. It was never about escaping reality for him. He wanted to dive into foreign worlds and bring back what he received there to this world, be inspired by it, and unite it with reality through his art and poetry. But now, after almost ten years of living in Los Angeles, he could count on two hands the trips he had made during this time. The last one was more than a year ago and had taken place before the first tour.

As he stared at the half-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table, he felt something tighten in his stomach. Of course, he enjoyed having a drink now and then, and when he drank alone, he often lost track of how much he drank. But he was far from having an alcohol problem.

In fact, he was still convinced he had a healthy relationship with drugs. Compared to Leaf, he’d even go so far as to call it absolutely problem-free.

Leaf’s consumption had crossed a threshold again, which was more than problematic. Seeing him zonked out on the couch was concerning because, as much as Tristan may have set his mind to fixing everything, he knew he couldn’t beat drugs.

By now, he was sitting on the wide wooden bench, which also served as the windowsill, with the fan directed straight at him, looking out. Lights were on in the surrounding cabins, and the neighbors sat on the balcony, enjoying the balmy summer evening.

Tristan finished his drink and leaned back against a wooden post, letting his gaze wander around the room. Next to him lay a stack of books that Leaf had bought from garage sales. As soon as he finished reading them, they seemed to disappear. Sometimes he would leave them in laundromats or cafes, while other times he threw them away. He only kept a few on a shelf in his bedroom.

Once, Tristan had seen him sitting under the lamp outside before sunrise while he got up to grab a drink. Leaf hadn’t noticed that Tristan was watching him for a while. Apparently, he only read at night when he couldn’t sleep.

Curiously, Tristan reached out and pulled the stack closer to examine the books. The top two appeared like crime novels, recognizable by their typical covers. The third book in the stack was Philip K. Dick’s A Scanner Darkly, a book Tristan had recommended to him.

It always pleased him when Leaf remembered his suggestions. The fourth book was one he had raved about a few months ago. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. It had surprised him that Leaf hadn’t known this classic, considering he had to read it twice during his entire school career.

When he turned over the fifth book, he looked into the sun-tanned face of a Native American woman. Feathers adorned her head, and thick black braids cascaded down to her chest.

As if the tranquility in the cabin had suddenly been swallowed by a black hole, all the blood drained from his face. Everything around him burst into flames. Like a wild ride on a roller coaster, Tristan was yanked away from the cozy home and plunged at high speed into the deep abyss. Back to the desert. Back home where he had grown up.

Artificial colors.

Artificial light.

And on the edge of this dream world, the great void.

Tristan tossed the book away and wiped his hand on his pants as if it were contaminated with a disease-causing germ. His heart was racing. Memories rolled in like a powerful storm, bringing tears to his eyes. There was nothing he could do about it. Anxiously, he wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his chin on his knees, and rocked back and forth.

“Leaf,” he whimpered softly. “Wake up.”