Chapter 30 - Hideaways
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Hideaways
“Are you nervous?” Milo asked.
Tristan turned his head to look at his brother, who was relaxed behind the wheel, driving down Sunset Boulevard.
“I know the songs and have plenty of ideas.”
“Ha!” Milo laughed, flicking the ash off his cigarette by holding it out the window. “You do realize you have to stick to a strict schedule. The days when labels paid for unlimited studio time are long gone.”
“Yeah, unfortunately. But as long as we can’t record our songs ourselves, we have to rely on them. Maybe I can still convince Carol. After all, we proved with our first album that we have what it takes and are serious about our careers.”
“You’re really lucky with Carol,” Milo said. “Rick, the guy I’m playing for right now, knows her and said that Carol is very loyal. If she takes a band under her wing, she does it wholeheartedly.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Tristan drifted his gaze back to the road and smiled. “Hmm … I might be a little nervous,” he admitted.
“You don’t need to be. If the take sucks, you just record a new one.”
“Sure, because we have all the time in the world.”
Tristan glanced over at Milo, and they both burst out laughing.
“Why should I be nervous?” Tristan corrected himself. “I’m never nervous.”
“Of course. What’s there to be nervous about?”
“It’s not my fault you get a racing heart every time you record the drums.”
“I’m not nervous,” Milo defended himself, grinning. “I’m focused.”
“What else would it be,” Tristan teased.
“Oh, and you claim to always be cool? What about before gigs? Who can't go on stage without certain substances because he can’t face the audience otherwise?”
“Stop it.” Tristan chuckled and directed his attention back to the window again. “That was a long time ago.”
“Sure, now the audience doesn’t just see your back but also your face.”
“Still better than puking all over the front row,” Tristan sang back.
“I’m proud of you, little brother,” Milo said, stopping at a red light. “I think it’s great how far you’ve come.”
Tristan studied him from the side, noticing how he’d suddenly become so serious.
Something was up.
“What is it? I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The I’ve-messed-up look.”
Milo turned right, parked in front of the studio, and put on a fake smile. “I didn’t get the job,” he said with a shrug. “Bill didn’t want me.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Milo closely. He knew his brother too well to believe that this answer wasn’t the whole truth. It sounded rehearsed, in case he was asked what was wrong.
“And what else?” Tristan asked sternly.
Milo refused to look at him and stared at the steering wheel, then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He knew he couldn’t simply brush Tristan off with a casual remark.
“Have you been … gambling again?” Tristan asked warily. “Please, no.”
“I didn’t want to upset you,” Milo said remorsefully. “So please, don’t make a big deal out of it now.”
Tristan’s mouth fell open. “Not a big deal? Damn it, Milo!”
“It’s all good,” his older brother reassured him and finally looked at him again.
Indeed, there was great confidence in his expression, and his eyes seemed incredibly calm and composed, making Tristan hesitate. This was not like Milo. This time, it seemed like he actually had the situation under control.
In disbelief, Tristan shook his head. “I can’t believe it. So how are you gonna handle this now?”
“It’s almost done,” Milo said with a faint smile. “Leaf helped me out. He hooked me up with a job. It's enough to get by and sort out my mess.”
“What kind of job?”
“A good job.”
“But …”
“Now go in there and record your new songs!”
“You promised me,” Tristan muttered. “No more gambling. Why …?”
“Stop worrying about me. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
Tristan’s eyes flew open, fixating at the ceiling. He lay there in sweat-soaked clothes, his body feeling as heavy as a rock.
What had happened? How did he get to bed? And where did this sudden memory come from? How had he forgotten the conversation? And why had he never asked Leaf about it?
Exhausted, he placed an arm over his forehead. No way he was going to rehearsal today. He didn’t have the strength to play all the songs.
But what was he supposed to do then?
Lie here in bed and beat himself up?
After the last tour, they had barely taken a break—just the two weeks he spent with Leaf to help him get back on track. Then it was straight back to the rehearsal room.
I was way too wrapped up in my own stuff to worry about Milo. And he told me about that damn job. I should have listened more carefully.
Tristan continued staring at the ceiling, watching the sunlight move through the room, the time passing and the colors changing.
Better than sleeping and diving into times long gone.
Into memories that couldn’t be changed anymore and moments where he wished he could slap himself for not acting differently.
For giving in. For trusting. For taking on the role of the little brother, even though he knew Milo needed more help than he realized.
Tristan turned onto his side, hugging the pillow. He imagined walking by a lake in the morning mist, all alone, stepping into the deep water and letting himself float on the surface.
It was a refuge, far from here. No music and no conversations. Just a soft splashing. Absolute silence around him. Peace from all the secrets, from words that were nothing more than dark hiding places. Far from life and death.
He let himself drift toward the sun as a gentle breeze caressed him, carrying the sweet scent of awakening nature—meadows and forests. A soft tingling crept up at the nape of his neck—a shadow, a ghost, unseen and chilling.
Leaf.
Where are you?
Why isn’t he here?
Here with me.
Would they ever write songs together again?
No songs without him; just wasted words.
No stepping on stage without him; just wasted energy.
Since they first met, it was Leaf who drove him, who gave him purpose—the love of his life.
Was their relationship dependent on something?
Dependent on someone else?
On Milo?
Tristan rolled back onto his back. An invisible force pressed on his body and squeezed the air out of his lungs. Breathing was hard.
There was something else. Last night. A song.
Tired, Tristan rubbed his eyes.
Get up!
Work!
On unsteady legs, he wobbled into the living room.
Notes and scraps of paper adorned the walls above the couch, scattered across the floor and table. A guitar rested next to it.
Tristan shuffled into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and downed it. He stood there, staring at the sink, enjoying the peace atop the hill—far from the hustle and bustle of L.A.
Leaf had made it possible for Milo and him to get the apartment. They had endured too long in a shabby place near Hollywood Boulevard, sharing a large mattress and avoiding lingering there unnecessarily.
Since surviving that nightmare, Tristan’s trust had grown, believing they could get through anything; after all, the early days with Milo in Los Angeles had not been easy.
They were lucky to have had a good foster family, but perhaps their history never gave them a feeling of belonging over the years.
Tristan sat back down on the couch in a trance and picked up where he’d left off at four in the morning.
He immersed himself in the unfinished lyrics and poems, finding solace between the lines.
Strumming his guitar, he created music and let the melodies carry him on rolling waves until the silence ceased its deception, leaving him to drift weightlessly in indifference.
He dreamed of being on stage. Doing what he was good at. Doing what was expected of him. A sigh, a painful awakening. The crowd screamed.
Encore!
But he had discarded the songs, forgotten the lyrics, and given away the words. He left them behind, stumbling off the stage and into the darkness. Into the gloomy corridors of the mind. Haunted by the feeling of having failed, he followed Leaf into the dressing room, seeking refuge.
I’ll go to hell if I have to. Where it’s warm, the lights are on, and the pain is bearable. Jump into the pot and melt away. Dissolve and rise as smoke. And no one asks me where the laughter has gone.
Tristan sighed.
Just one day that changed everything. That day. How long would it take until the voices died, the whispering ceased, and the thoughts fell silent? Until the day suddenly passed? Past and destroyed? Until all that was left was a second, cherished like a treasure?
I don’t want to dream away and leave you behind.
Move on and forget us.
When do I finally wake from this dream?
A touch, so fine.
Is that you, Leaf?